This is meant to tease you, you naughty people. It's very Moriarty of me, but hell, I'm not ashamed. Chapters will be much longer after this one. Please enjoy this lovely prolouge.

Disclaimer: Not mine.

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When Sherlock awoke, he realized a few things.

One; he was tied to a cushioned chair with thin but sturdy hemp rope, arms behind his back, ankles bound to either of the front legs. Two, his right eye was swollen shut and his bottom lip was split. And Three, Jim Moriarty was responsible for this. The last was not too hard to figure, nor were the first two. The scent of blood, the pain, the distinct texture of the rope that was chafing his wrists and ankles.

Simple.

Childs play.

But, Moriarty, sitting composed on a chair opposite him, well that took nothing but the opening of one's good eye.

" Moriarty," rumbled the consulting detective, his throat thick with sleep and bile.

"Sher-lock." Moriarty replied, his voice not so deep, nor so thick. He winced at the way Moriarty broke his name into two, lilting syllables filled with condescension. Sherlock Holmes swallowed hard enough to clear his throat and he disliked the sickly feeling he felt as the seemingly undetectable mass in his throat slithered down his esophagus. Moriarty watched his Adam's apple bob as this occurred, enjoying it thoroughly.

"I don't want to say I took joy in capturing you- but-." Sherlock's upper lip twitched into a sneer before returning back to his usual expression of analytical non-caring. Jim Moriarty considered this natural reaction and nodded with a noise that rose as he stood, then fell abruptly. Hands in his pockets, Moriarty took the 10 paces that were needed to reach Sherlock. He stared down at him, waiting for the detective to angle his head upwards and glare defiantly at him.

But, no satisfaction came to Jim. Instead, Sherlock Holmes stared into his abdomen, or rather through it, as he didn't wish to engage his captor. He puffed air through his slightly parted lips, miffed but not thoroughly.

"Come along, Sherlock. Look up as ol' Jim." Sherlock, blood congealing on his face, received a backhand that reopened his lip. He fretted the wound, applying pressure with the backside of his tongue. He was breathing a little harder than he would have liked, but it took far too much effort to remain so still and not rub his bound limbs raw on the rope.

"Don't be a bore, Sherlock. I don't like things that bore me." Moriarty, whose patience had great bounds, was staring, calculating and waiting.

"To avoid being base, I'll skip the stereotypical question of what you want with me. Instead"," Sherlock paused then, his lip dripping onto his mid-thigh a single droplet of blood, "I'd like to know what you plan to do now that you have me." Moriarty grasped a handful of Sherlock's hair and made him stare into his eyes.

"All in good time, Mr. Holmes. All in good time." He pulled Sherlock's head back, stared at his neck for a good moment, and then let him go. One more backhand to the formerly uninflected cheek and Jim sauntered from the room, his suit just as impeccable as the moment Sherlock woke up.

Sherlock knew he'd be there for a long while. He knew not how long, nor how long it had been since he'd been tied to the chair. He let his head hang as he thought. Fixated on the blood soaking into his trousers, Sherlock pushed the pain in his face to the back of his mind to think. He could usually get over anything in order to think. But, this moment, bound to a chair and freshly abused: All Sherlock wanted was to sleep. He was stuck, it was a fact. There was no way of escaping at this point in time. He would not give up. He would outsmart Moriarty and get out of this mess. But, one couldn't blame him for a tiny….little…catnap.

Moriarty watched his favorite toy fall asleep from above, smiling. This was by far his favorite possession. He would keep Sherlock Holmes safe and sound, guaranteed. Because when Jim Moriarty wanted something, he got it.

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I tease you, I know. It's with love at the core of it, I assure you.

-Arsenic