In many ways, Jim Moriarty was contrary, in all ways, he was an enigma, even to himself. That meant that he was a meticulous planner, master manipulator, keyed in on every detail of a plan and exact to the smallest minutiae. However, he was also mercurial, changeable with the moods and at times, he made things up as he went along.
He had planned the confrontation at the pool, naturally, but he had purposefully, even in his own mind, been vague about the ending. He didn't want to script things too much when Sherlock and him were together. So, in a way, it hadn't ended quite as planned, but at the same time? Didn't matter, he was not that particular about it, and the trade with the Woman had turned out satisfactory.
That meant there was time now to focus on so much else, with Sherlock only on the periphery of his awareness, as he had an empire to run and, therefore, a lot of business to attend to. But minds wandered, especially a mind that often had to reach up to the stars to calculate the universe, because the world wasn't big enough for it.
It wandered, he thought, and without that much of a plan - for the time being - he simply got the pawn.
Not personally, of course. But his people found it easy enough to drug John Watson and then transport him, to take him to one of his places, he had plenty in and around London, and to keep him the way he had specified.
By the time John came to, it had really only been a few minutes that he'd been in handcuffs, hanging from a hook that dangled from the ceiling. Jim was going for crude, for now, he liked to have an aesthetic.
Therefore, John also had a burlap sack over his head and his ankles ziplocked together. Finesse, Jim thought, could wait, if it was necessary at all.
He walked into the room only after he could be sure that John had been awake for a good ten minutes and, more importantly, after he had ensured all the camera feeds were set up the way he wanted them. More than one camera. He might not have one definite plan, but that never meant that he didn't have many plots.
His hands were in his pocket as he approached the man, looking him over. He really didn't look like much, but then, some would say that Jim didn't either. Deceptively strong, he knew that much already. And he liked the rage issues. Of course, John was nothing, no one, compared to Sherlock. But he was also a way to get to Sherlock. And wasn't that just the shiniest little spark he'd seen in weeks?
While John was usually a somewhat cautious person, no doubt in some small part to living with Sherlock Holmes, more than anything, he wanted a life. A normal life in a normal home doing normal things like normal people do. He had once said that people don't have arch-enemies, but getting caught up with the detective, he quickly learned that wasn't exactly true.
John's head ached. His arms, wrists, and shoulders ached. Everything ached and felt sluggish and distant. It didn't help that everything was quiet, save for the rustle of fabric against his ears whenever he moved his head. It took him a moment to realise he couldn't see. At least, not very well. There was a bit of light coming through the itchy, woven fabric about his head, but nothing that could right away give away where he was or even who had taken him. Even moving his head around to try to see something, anything made it swim. How had he gotten here?
He remembered... leaving the grocery and getting stuck with... something not too far out of the shop. And that was as far as his memory would take him. Everything else was a hazy, painful fog. His neck still hurt from where he was stabbed.
It was about ten minutes, or maybe an hour as far as John was concerned, when he heard a heavy door creak open and shut, and the subtle sound of leather meeting concrete as someone approached him. He could see little more than shapes and shadows, and with a weak sort of struggle at his wrists, the weight tugging painfully at the skin, and a mild effort to try to pull his ankles apart, he finally let himself sag and sigh.
"No one's going to pay a bounty on a retired soldier, you know," he mumbled.
"Ah, don't undersell yourself, John. You're worth more than you think." Jim considered the burlap for a moment, but then sighed, deciding it wasn't worth it to get one of his boys in here just to pull it off. Instead he reached out himself, grabbed one corner of the sack with two fingers and pulled it off, making a face as he let it fall down.
"Ugh. You got all sweaty." That was only logical, he supposed, but he still wasn't sure whether he approved or not. He started circling him, perhaps mostly to see how he'd react, perhaps to actually get a closer look at him. There really didn't seem to be that much to him, but he supposed that could be deceptive. Had to be something, to hold Sherlock's interest. "Why do you think you are here?"
He made sure to stop in front of John, to watch his face. It was always entertaining to watch them think. Took them so long.
That voice sounded familiar, and it didn't take him long to pinpoint it. After all, after the to-do at the pool, it was a voice that had haunted John in his dreams. He felt his blood run cold.
As soon as the bag was tugged off his head, he winced at the lights above, happy to have the cooler, fresher air outside the bag on his face. As soon as his eyes adjusted, he narrowed them at the nonchalant face that was watching him as if he was a mildly amusing zoo attraction.
"Because... you apparently didn't have any better decorations for your room?" He offered. He was in trouble, certainly, especially if this man was involved. But that didn't mean he had to play any of his games. This was not a man who did things himself, and so long as they were alone, he was.... probably safe.
"You do spruce up the room, don't you?" His voice came out in a drawl, about as performative as everything he said, impossible to tell how he truly felt. He did, however, use the tip of his foot to push against John's leg a little, in hopes of making him sway. His hands were in his pockets and he stepped a little to the side again, mostly just so that John would keep having to turn to look at him.
"What tricks do you do? You seem decently well trained." Not by him, obviously, although he was sure he could reconfigure that, should he really want to. People weren't difficult to break, they weren't difficult to rebuild either. "You have decent aim, you have the foolish loyalty, all that, anything else?"
He moved closer, sighing. "I like pets, but mine never last that long."
There was only a slight wince as his feet were pushed and he swayed and turned ever so slightly at the hook's whim. John hated how casually his captor looked about all of this, and there wasn't even anyone to blink a help signal to this time.
"Tricks?" He did his best to sound casual, but inside he felt repulsed by the way Moriarty spoke to him like some kind of show dog. "I can bite. Let me down and I'll show you." John did his best to keep a casual tone, but there was no hiding the low growl in the back of his throat. A bulldog indeed.
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He had planned the confrontation at the pool, naturally, but he had purposefully, even in his own mind, been vague about the ending. He didn't want to script things too much when Sherlock and him were together. So, in a way, it hadn't ended quite as planned, but at the same time? Didn't matter, he was not that particular about it, and the trade with the Woman had turned out satisfactory.
That meant there was time now to focus on so much else, with Sherlock only on the periphery of his awareness, as he had an empire to run and, therefore, a lot of business to attend to. But minds wandered, especially a mind that often had to reach up to the stars to calculate the universe, because the world wasn't big enough for it.
It wandered, he thought, and without that much of a plan - for the time being - he simply got the pawn.
Not personally, of course. But his people found it easy enough to drug John Watson and then transport him, to take him to one of his places, he had plenty in and around London, and to keep him the way he had specified.
By the time John came to, it had really only been a few minutes that he'd been in handcuffs, hanging from a hook that dangled from the ceiling. Jim was going for crude, for now, he liked to have an aesthetic.
Therefore, John also had a burlap sack over his head and his ankles ziplocked together. Finesse, Jim thought, could wait, if it was necessary at all.
He walked into the room only after he could be sure that John had been awake for a good ten minutes and, more importantly, after he had ensured all the camera feeds were set up the way he wanted them. More than one camera. He might not have one definite plan, but that never meant that he didn't have many plots.
His hands were in his pocket as he approached the man, looking him over. He really didn't look like much, but then, some would say that Jim didn't either. Deceptively strong, he knew that much already. And he liked the rage issues. Of course, John was nothing, no one, compared to Sherlock. But he was also a way to get to Sherlock. And wasn't that just the shiniest little spark he'd seen in weeks?
no subject
John's head ached. His arms, wrists, and shoulders ached. Everything ached and felt sluggish and distant. It didn't help that everything was quiet, save for the rustle of fabric against his ears whenever he moved his head. It took him a moment to realise he couldn't see. At least, not very well. There was a bit of light coming through the itchy, woven fabric about his head, but nothing that could right away give away where he was or even who had taken him. Even moving his head around to try to see something, anything made it swim. How had he gotten here?
He remembered... leaving the grocery and getting stuck with... something not too far out of the shop. And that was as far as his memory would take him. Everything else was a hazy, painful fog. His neck still hurt from where he was stabbed.
It was about ten minutes, or maybe an hour as far as John was concerned, when he heard a heavy door creak open and shut, and the subtle sound of leather meeting concrete as someone approached him. He could see little more than shapes and shadows, and with a weak sort of struggle at his wrists, the weight tugging painfully at the skin, and a mild effort to try to pull his ankles apart, he finally let himself sag and sigh.
"No one's going to pay a bounty on a retired soldier, you know," he mumbled.
no subject
"Ugh. You got all sweaty." That was only logical, he supposed, but he still wasn't sure whether he approved or not. He started circling him, perhaps mostly to see how he'd react, perhaps to actually get a closer look at him. There really didn't seem to be that much to him, but he supposed that could be deceptive. Had to be something, to hold Sherlock's interest. "Why do you think you are here?"
He made sure to stop in front of John, to watch his face. It was always entertaining to watch them think. Took them so long.
no subject
As soon as the bag was tugged off his head, he winced at the lights above, happy to have the cooler, fresher air outside the bag on his face. As soon as his eyes adjusted, he narrowed them at the nonchalant face that was watching him as if he was a mildly amusing zoo attraction.
"Because... you apparently didn't have any better decorations for your room?" He offered. He was in trouble, certainly, especially if this man was involved. But that didn't mean he had to play any of his games. This was not a man who did things himself, and so long as they were alone, he was.... probably safe.
no subject
"What tricks do you do? You seem decently well trained." Not by him, obviously, although he was sure he could reconfigure that, should he really want to. People weren't difficult to break, they weren't difficult to rebuild either. "You have decent aim, you have the foolish loyalty, all that, anything else?"
He moved closer, sighing. "I like pets, but mine never last that long."
no subject
"Tricks?" He did his best to sound casual, but inside he felt repulsed by the way Moriarty spoke to him like some kind of show dog. "I can bite. Let me down and I'll show you." John did his best to keep a casual tone, but there was no hiding the low growl in the back of his throat. A bulldog indeed.
"Then it must be good that I'm no pet."