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It cannot be more than the fifth or sixth day in captivity, it really can't.
To John, though, it feels like it has been longer. Much longer. An eternity. An endless cycle of suffering, of being touched and prodded against his will, of being ridiculed and tortured and violated by none other than Jim Moriarty.
One of the worst things is how filthy and useless he's feeling by now. There's hardly any fight left in him, just the thought of getting through this, as much as he can. Waiting for something to happen. Sherlock to come and save the day.
John just wants this to stop.
"I'm back, pet."
He cannot suppress the shudder. Has long ceased to really try and hide his reactions. Moriarty will only be too happy to coax them out of him. He's an inventive one.
For some reason, John never hears the door or footsteps anymore. It's only ever silence or Moriarty's voice, or his own, pathetic whimpers. Maybe he's just too messed-up by now to pay much attention to anything unless Moriarty has decided it's time for another round. He's in a constant state of restless sleep or a semi-conscious daze, when he isn't made to swallow some food or water, or Moriarty is there to pay him a visit.
Cold fingertips press against John's cheek, just lightly, moving in what might have been a loving caress from another person. John wishes he could see, but he's wearing a blindfold. Moriarty is careful to always put it back in place when he leaves. Perhaps to make it hard to judge how much time passes. Or maybe, he just wants John to have eyes for him only.
Whatever the reason, not-seeing makes John more nervous and twitchy than he already is, given the circumstances.
The fingertips vanish and John swallows audibly, fighting an insane urge to wish those fingers back on his cheek, one of the few touches in the past days that haven't hurt.
"Have you missed me?"
Moriarty's voice is low and soothing at the moment. John is still amazed how different he can sound in only a second's time, how he can go from a pleasant baritone to a high-pitched screech in the matter of a moment.
Of course, the madman doesn't expect an answer to his question. Not with the ball gag in John's mouth, securely fastened around the back of his head.
"I'd stop by more often, pet, but I do have things to attend to. Crimes to plan. People to watch."
He snickers, sounding like a child plotting a prank on a friend. John knows that by people, Moriarty means Sherlock, most likely. Sherlock who should have figured out where John was by now, should have rescued him, should have-
But no. John has promised himself not to be angry with Sherlock, who's probably doing his best, who's most likely not eating or sleeping to solve this mystery.
This isn't Sherlock's fault.
"How are you, pet? Comfortable? You certainly do look rather relaxed."
Moriarty's voice is mocking now, jumping between glee and danger. John chokes around his gag as a heavy tremor runs through his body, making his throat feel tight, and a bit of saliva escapes his mouth, trickles past the gag and down his chin - a humiliation John is slowly becoming used to as time passes.
John isn't relaxed, of course. Not in his position.
He's naked, first of all, in a room barely warm enough to not send him into a state of hypothermia, but cool enough to make him shiver almost constantly. He's stretched out on a table, much like the examination bed at the surgery, with his arms bound together above his head and fastened to a ring at the wall. His legs are spread by a straight metal bar, fastened to his ankles with leather cuffs; the cuffs, in return, are securely tied to the end of the table. The bar device seems to have been made for just this very purpose: exposing another person, their genitals and inner thighs.
And John is feeling so very exposed, his cock and balls presented freely to Moriarty. Unprotected. Touchable.
John jumps in his restraints when Moriarty's hand comes to rest on his right knee, petting it lightly.
"You are such a lovely sight," he is saying, slowly moving his hand up John's inner thigh with the lightest of pressure. "Waiting for me to touch you again. Use you."
John lets out a chocked noise when Moriarty's hand slaps harshly against John's inner thigh to make his point, far to close to his most sensitive parts.
"You are mine to use, pet," Moriarty says, taunting and possessive, and maybe just because he can, he pinches one of John's testicles. Hard.
John's scream of pain is only partly muffled by his gag, but at least, the tight blindfold catches the tears welling up in his eyes. John's trembling and shaking in his restraints, the muscles cramping in his desperate but futile attempts to close his legs, to protect himself from further pain.
"Still so very responsive," Moriarty is saying and John has a hard time focusing on his words, even as the pain is subsiding. "Let's have some fun then!"
The hand between his legs is gone and only a moment later, John's blindfold is being removed. Through slightly blurry eyes, John can see Moriarty's face looming above him. He looks immaculate, of course. Groomed hair, even skin, white dress shirt. His grin is that of a maniac.
"Look at you, all tears and snot. What a filthy pet you are."
He uses the blindfold to wipe halfheartedly at John's face, movements rough and purposely uncoordinated, then sighs and drops the cloth somewhere on the floor.
"Oh well," he says with a shrug, "this is probably pointless. I'll have you back to crying in no time. Screams and tears come hand in hand..."
John is sure a person should not be able to say such a sentence in that horrifyingly careless tone of voice Moriarty has adapted for the moment. Like it's just something normal, harmless; not a big deal.
Moriarty has left John's side and while the blindfold makes him nervous, John has no desire to turn his head to know what the madman might be up to, now that he can see. He'll know soon enough. Right now, John focuses on even breaths, on calming his racing heart. They haven't even started yet and God, he's a mess already. Trembling arms, shaking legs, and while he's not crying anymore, he knows he could break into tears any moment again.
Rationally, he knows it's nothing to be ashamed of, that it's a stress reaction of his body, perfectly understandable in the circumstances. Trauma. Shock. Knowing that, though, doesn't help with the feeling that he's being a weakling, a pathetic excuse for an ex-army doctor.
John doesn't know how much longer he'll be able to stand this. How many more days until he breaks.
Moriarty moves back into John's field of vision, a grin on his face. For some reason, it looks especially insane today.
"I liked what we did last time," he says, looking down at John with clear amusement. "Very satisfying. But I do so like changing things up."
John tries to suppress the memories of scalding-hot wax on delicate skin, of screaming his own throat raw once Moriarty had removed the gag, of quietly whimpering and sobbing when the man had finally left, gloating and snickering - and fails. Promptly, he starts shaking as the pictures haunt him, thoughts of what might happen today echoing through his head. More torture. More pain. More screaming.
"I must actually thank your infamous flatmate for this idea," Moriarty continues and his grin, if possible, turns even madder. "He brought this up some time ago. Quite arousing, I must admit, Sherlock Holmes and this."
With that, Moriarty raises his arm, presenting a long, black riding crop as if it were some kind of award. His fingers look impossibly pale against the dark leather.
John's eyes widen involuntarily as he sees the crop. At first sight, it might not seem too bad, especially given what John has endured in the past days. But Moriarty is not one to be lenient, hasn't chosen this tool to be nice. He will make this worth his own while, live up to his own standards, will make this hurt.
And John can estimate what kind of injuries might occur, what might happen if they're not tended to right away, what lasting damage might be done.
"Oh, we're scared, aren't we?" Moriarty mocks in a high-pitched squeal. Then, his voice drops to a lower scale. "Good."
He steps closer, pressing the leather tongue of the crop against John's left temple, slowly sliding it down the side of John's face.
"You feel that?" Moriarty murmurs. "Expensive. I had this made, you know? Only the best for me - nothing else will do. You wouldn't even be able to afford the handle, pet."
John hears the cracking sound before he feels the stinging pain on his cheek, dangerously close to his eye and lips.
"Ah, how lucky," Moriarty says and traces the fresh welt with a cruel finger, making John groan lightly against his gag. He doesn't know if Moriarty is serious or planned it this way. "Didn't hit anything important."
He squeezes John's cheek harshly, his fingernails cutting into the abused skin, then lets go abruptly in favour of circling the table.
"I don't just want to whip you senseless, you know," Moriarty explains casually as he lets his eyes wander over every inch of John, as if he is seeing the naked flesh for the first time. "Don't get me wrong, I love to see you in pain, pet. But just that is no fun in the long-run."
He comes to stand at the end of the table and John has to lift his head and strain his neck to be able to look Moriarty into the eye.
"No, I am going to give you a choice. It's a bit of a game, so listen carefully to the rules. I will not administer more than one hundred strokes with this crop - that's a rule I bind myself to. Every twenty strokes, I will give you the option to have me stop and pay me off with a sexual favour of my choice instead. No more strokes after that."
John is listening carefully, trying to spot the trap, calculating what to do while ignoring the throbbing pain on his cheek.
"You can deny me anytime and instead, ask for another twenty. When you reach a hundred, I'll leave you in peace for two days, none of our special time." Moriarty bares his teeth in another terrifying grin. "The sexual favours will increase in naughtiness, though. The first one might just be me using your stubborn little mouth at my leisure... stop at eighty and you might wish you were never born."
He looks entirely serious for a moment, a glint of pure evil in his eyes. Then he's smiling again, idly twirling the crop with his hand as if it were a mere toy.
"If you fail to satisfy me, though, or I've got the feeling you haven't tried your best, we'll start back at zero. What do you think, pet?"
For a moment, John can do nothing but stare at the crop in question, still twirling in Moriarty's agile hands. Then, his brain catches up with him.
What to do? What to do? Which choice is the best? His first thought is, of course, to endure all one hundred strokes, if only it means not to be touched again. John doesn't think he can deal with being tortured and fucked for much longer. And two days might just be enough time for Sherlock to catch up, to get him out of here.
But what if he couldn't do it? What if the pain was too much? There were highly delicate places on the body. What if, at 60 strokes, John wouldn't be able to hold back, would beg Moriarty to stop and then, he'd make him do something horrible and revolting, more than just sucking him off, and John wouldn't fight because he'd be in pain and desperate and-
No. He couldn't risk that, could he?
Twenty strokes, then? Forcing himself to do whatever Moriarty might ask first? That would give him the least pain and least humiliating experience - but no break. Moriarty hadn't said he'd offer him any break once he'd chosen to pay him off. Moriarty planned on exchanging the favour for the strokes, but wouldn't offer the reward. What if he'd just get rid of the crop, then continued to torture John with something else?
"Done thinking about your best move, pet?" Moriarty asks, stepping around the table. "We won't need your gag for this, of course."
John is thinking frantically as Moriarty moves closer, placing the crop on John's bare stomach (intentionally, no doubt) as he moves to unfasten the gag. Hope to endure it? Beg out early? What was the right choice?
For a few seconds, he gets distracted as Moriarty presses the ball gag into John's mouth as much as it is possible before letting John push it out with his tongue, coughing and gagging as it falls to the floor.
"I'll love to hear your screams and pleads, pet", Moriarty whispers into his ear as John is taking huge breaths through his mouth, working his jaw freely for the first time in hours. The glee in the criminal's voice is nearly enough to make him choke again, this time on his own dread. "But the minute you start to insult me, our deal is off. I only want to hear three things out of your whore mouth: screaming, moaning and begging."
With that final rule established, Moriarty picks up the riding crop, idly letting it swish through the air a few times, getting used to its weight in his hand, making a show.
"Where to start?" he wonders aloud, looking up and down John's bare body, undoubtedly taking in the marks and scars from their previous sessions in satisfaction. Planning on where to put new ones.
Right then, John makes his choice. He'll have to try and make it through this. He'll have to. It's the only way he'll get a break, the only way he might survive this hell and have Sherlock come to his rescue on time.
He'll have to put up with one hundred strokes.
A last breath through his mouth, and John closes it tightly, sealing his lips. He won't beg, won't ask him to stop. He can do this.
Moriarty, of course, picks up on his decision, a grin on his face.
"You'll reconsider soon," he promises and lashes out.
The first few strokes are aimed at his lower stomach. It hurts, of course, Moriarty would never do things half-heartedly, but the first five, maybe even ten, John can certainly deal with by biting down on his lower lip and letting out harsh huffs of breath through his nose.
It gets worse, though, when Moriarty starts hitting certain spots over and over again, further bruising and cutting already abused skin. At twenty, John's already let out a few pained whimpers. Not a good sign for what he might be capable of dealing with. He's weak and worn-out from the past days - and this was only the beginning.
"Twenty," Moriarty says. He seems to be a bit out of breath and a light film of sweat has build up on his forehead. Other than that, though, he looks as collected as an insane mass-murderer can manage. "What a foolish pet I own. So determined to be brave."
He grins, petting John's side as if he were a particularly good dog. John has a hard time suppressing any kind of comment. He knows Moriarty isn't joking when he says he won't put up with insults. A lesson John has learned during their very first session.
"Why don't I tell you what you'll miss when you decide to keep going?" Moriarty continues when John just looks at him, not trusting himself to speak. "If you stop now, I'll put the crop down. Unbutton my trousers. Get out my cock."
He brushes his clothed crotch against John's side, a tell-tale hardness telling John all about how much the maniac is getting off on this already.
"At first, I'll rub off on your cheek, your chin, your forehead. Smear pre-cum everywhere, spread my scent, mark you as mine. You'll love it, pet. Of course, you'll have to beg for a lick, for a tiny taste. If you're very good, I'll fuck your mouth and let you swallow."
John is feeling sick, vivid images in his mind supporting Moriarty's filthy descriptions, but forces himself to listen. John need to hear his full option, even though he has no intention of choosing it. He knows he needs to keep up, or he'll make a mistake, show a weakness.
"If not, I'll come all over your face," Moriarty continues, voice husky with arousal. "Let it dry for a few hours. Maybe not let you wash it off at all. Keep you like that, like the filthy little slut that you are."
It takes a big effort not to tell Moriarty to fuck off, to tell him what a disgusting bastard he is. An even bigger one not to whimper at the descriptions. It's clear that Moriarty is winding himself up as much as he's trying to mess with John's head. It's even more scary to think that, if this is one of the more "harmless" options, what will anything past forty bring?
Moriarty lets out a little giggle, then straightens up, taking a step backwards.
"What do you say? Do you want my cock all over your face, pet?"
Bracing himself, John very clearly shakes his head.
In response, Moriarty pouts. John fights the insane urge to laugh at the childish expression and very nearly loses. Only the thought of what punishment that might earn him sobers him up enough to leave it at a rather quiet snort through the nose, nothing more than a harsh breath.
"Well then," Moriarty says eventually, actually sounding somewhat put-out. "Your choice."
The next couple of strokes end up on his upper arms, hurting even more on the stretched muscles and tight skin. John's arms haven't been untied in a long time and each stroke burns like fire on the tense muscles. As they near stroke fifteen, John is letting out a steady stream of groans and whimpers.
"That's only forty, darling," Moriarty says sweetly as he finishes round two, brushing up a stray tear from John's cheeks with his fingers. "Let me tell you what you can do to make this stop."
He leans towards John's ear, letting his free hand brush over the hot welts on John's stomach, making him squirm as much as he can in his restraints.
"If you tell me to stop now, I'll have you on your hands and knees, in front of me," Moriarty describes gleefully. John will bet anything that he's growing harder with every word. "You may lick my shoes, if you beg nicely for it. I might even let you thank me for it. And then, if you do a good job with that, pet, I'll get myself off with your hand, come all over it and let you lick that off as well. Maybe some of it will end up on the floor... we'll make you clean that up, too." He stops for effect, laughing for a bit. "How does that sound, pet? Would you enjoy that?"
Snickering, Moriarty presses his fingertips into John's abused stomach, fingernails cutting into fresh welts, and John whimpers as new pain flares up, adding to the burn on his arms. Sniffling pathetically, John harshly shakes his head. God, he needs to get through this. But if this is only forty strokes...
The pressure vanishes and John can breathe again, hadn't even realised he had stopped breathing at some point.
"Always so stubborn," Moriarty says, not angrily though. He's enjoying this, John knows. He gets a good deal, no matter which way this turns out, whereas John...
Shuddering, John watches his torturer raise the crop once more. There's no mistaking the bulge in his fine dress trousers for anything other than his straining cock. John tries very much not to think about what this'll mean for him should he fail.
The next twenty are placed on his inner right thigh, dangerously close to his cock and balls, and this time, John gives up on keeping quiet all together. The skin there is especially tender, given the activities of the previous days, and there isn't any chance John can choke down his screams. Instead, he sobs and moans his way through every single stroke, hoping to at least keep any thoughts of begging Moriarty to stop at the very back of his mind.
Nearly all of the strokes draw blood.
"Oh, pet," Moriarty sighs when another twenty are done with and John's inner right thigh feels like a rabid dog has taken a chunk right out of it. "Look at you. Delicious."
John swallows audibly, then has to open his mouth to breathe, his nose starting to clog up with snot. Tears are running freely down his face and though the crop is resting for now, the pain seems even worse once there's no new impacts coming. John can only imagine what he must look like, how much Moriarty must ache in his underwear to have put him in this state.
A tiny part of him very much wants to die. The bigger part is busy listening to Moriarty's next words.
"Only sixty and you're weeping," Moriarty observes, laughing in between his words. "Better consider my offer this time, hm? It's one of my favourites." Another giggle. "Well, all of them are, of course."
He refrains from touching the welts this time, going right for John's genitals instead, squeezing his limp cock as he leans towards John's ear again.
"Ask me to stop now," Moriarty says, slowly stroking John's cock, maybe hoping for a reaction. "Ask me to stop and I'll have you roll over, free your hands and give you two minutes to prepare yourself with nothing but your own spit. When your time is up, you may spread your arse cheeks for me, widely, expose yourself like the little slut you are. Then you'll beg me to fuck you. And you better be good because the longer you'll wait... well, spit dries quickly, pet."
He squeezes John's cock tightly, drawing a little scream from John as all it does is produce further pain, making new tears well up and fall.
God, he's pathetic. So, so pathetic.
"Once I'm satisfied, I'll fuck you senseless", Moriarty says, sounding a bit breathless. "I'll fuck you so hard you'll scream and cry and thank me for it. I'll come deep inside you, right into your tight hole. You may rub off on the table if I feel you deserve it."
A last squeeze and Moriarty lets go of John's cock, straightening up once more.
"Your choice, pet."
John blinks against the tears, trying to clear his vision. Forty more strokes. A whole forty. Just forty. That's less than half, isn't it? He can manage. He must manage. If he breaks down at eighty - John can't even think of what Moriarty might have come up for that.
Firmly, he reminds himself of the two-day break. Much can happen in two days. Sherlock has solved cases in much less than 48 hours.
Very, very slowly, John shakes his head.
"Oh really", Moriarty drawls, voice growing colder. John has the feeling his choice has surprised him, and not in a good way. "Well, I've never thought you particularly smart."
He raises the crop again, then walks until he reaches the end of the table once more, coming to stand at the very edge. His thighs must be brushing against it.
"I've been quite nice so far," Moriarty says, disdain in his voice. "I thought you'd try and play the brave soldier for a while and then beg for a fuck like the little slut you are. I quite liked that last fantasy of mine, you know? Not that I can't save it for another day..." He trails of, taking aim at-
And suddenly, John can't keep still anymore. He's thrashing, or trying to, muscles tensing and jumping at the sudden pressure. John is desperately trying to close his legs even though he knows it's impossible. It not that he hasn't thought of this, but seeing Moriarty prepare for hitting him there - all of John's instincts are telling him to fight, to flee at once, to do something.
Moriarty only narrows his eyes.
"Futile," he says and raises the crop.
The pain is like no other Moriarty has inflicted on him so far. Even the earlier pinch is nothing compared to this.
Moriarty's aim is flawless. Over and over again, the riding crop digs itself into the sensitive flesh of John's cock, his scrotum, sending waves of pain through his body, mingling with the steady pulsing of the other welts. John knows he's defeated before he can put voice to it.
"Stop," he screams rawly, all but convulsing on the table. "Please stop pleasepleaseplease..."
But Moriarty doesn't. Not until he's reached another full twenty.
When finally, he finishes, John is more than a mess. He's shaking, trembling, sobbing. His own fingernails have dug into his palms to the point of cutting the skin. His throat feels like he's swallowed pounds and pounds of sand.
"Shhh, pet," Moriarty says, moving around the table and towards John's face.
John wishes he could curl up. He wishes he could hide his face, even yearns for the hated blindfold, if only he doesn't have to face Moriarty's gloating. He presses his eyes closed, still crying as the pain does not subside, turns his head away as much as possible.
"Broken at last," Moriarty says, almost tenderly. His hands come down to cup John's cheeks, forcing his head back up, thumbs moving to brush his eyelids open. John feels like he might throw up when he has to meet Moriarty's eyes.
He looks - happy and triumphant and so very turned on that John can hardly stand it. He wants to bite off every single one of Moriarty's fingers. He wants to rip off his testicles, scratch out his eyes. Instead, he lets out another sob. He doesn't fight the gentle caress of cool thumbs on his cheeks once Moriarty is sure John will not close his eyes again, even leans into it after a few seconds, hardly feeling the pain of his injured cheek, where the first stroke had fallen.
His anger subsides so fast, John isn't sure it had even been there at all.
"Oh pet, you could have had it so much easier," Moriarty murmurs lowly. "Did you really think I'd give you a proper chance to reach a hundred?" John whimpers as the poisonous words penetrate his mind, exposing John's foolishness, his naive way of thinking. "Oh how sweet of you. You actually did."
One of the thumbs presses against John's lips - a hint if there's ever been one - and John opens his mouth, weakly sucking on the finger. Before the crop, he might have tried to bite it. Hell, even before the caresses started, before Moriarty's latest words. Now, he just wants not to be in pain, and if that means giving Moriarty what he wants, John is in no state to fight another fight.
"There we go, pet," Moriarty encourages him, replacing his thumb with his fore- and middle fingers. John is careful to swirl his tongue, sniffling as he tries to breathe through his nose.
"Let me tell you what I've planned for eighty strokes," Moriarty says, pushing his fingers in and out, probably enjoying the way John is complying so readily. "I didn't think you'd go there, but one is never unprepared. I'll turn you over. Use a few of my toys to prepare you. A bit of lube. Slowly stretch you out, careful to hit your prostate as much as possible. And pet, you'll get hard. Or at least, your body will try to. But with the welts down there, there'll be pain. Oh, lots and lots of pain, pet."
John whimpers around the fingers and gets another one for his efforts. He doesn't dare to protest.
"You'll be sobbing and begging me to stop, but I won't. I won't remove the toys until you've come, even through the pain and injuries. And then I will fuck you, pet. Maybe twice, if I'm up to it. And if you beg nicely, only if you do, I will give you something for the pain. Might even untie you for a bit, hm? Let you have a bath? Good pets deserve rewards, you know."
He's leaning towards John's ear again, breath hot against the shell. John is still lapping at Moriarty's fingers as the man whispers,
"Sherlock won't be coming for you. Not if I don't want it and you've been a fool to hope otherwise. You are mine, John Watson. Entirely mine. My pet."
And for the first time during his captivity, John believes it, too.