BBC's Sherlock, Standverse (John has a Stand)
Summary: John is kidnapped. (Behind the scenes of The Great Game in this world.)
Word Count: 760
Warnings: Um. Not strong, but Moriarty is genuinely creepy in this one, so head's up. (I think I managed to capture the creepy sing-songy voice. I'm not entire sure that's a good thing.) That, and John gets a little trigger happy in return, but he doesn't have his gun handy.
“Oh, Johhhhhnnyyy,” a voice sing-songs in John’s ear, and instantly he’s awake. It’s the soldier in him. When there’s danger, he doesn’t have time to be sleeping, induced unconsciousness or no.
It’s…It’s him, Jim from IT. He hadn’t been vigilant enough, and Sherlock’s failed to observe. That was a clever mistake, a nasty voice states in John’s head. It sounds a bit like Harry. Always, always trust your Stand. It’s a part of you after all. When someone makes Citizen/Soldier nervous, it’s not a good sign and you should pay attention. It’s clear he’s startled Moriarty (who else could he be, really), who takes a moment to regain his composure. “Are you comfortable, Doctor Watson?”
It’s an insult of some kind. John doesn’t expend the brainpower to find out what it means. “I’d like a cuppa, but I doubt you have a kettle handy.”
This earns a deranged laugh. “The unfazed soldier. They probably write poems about this, don’t they?”
They probably do. John doesn’t especially care who they are. “Well, I hate to give Mycroft any credit, but this isn’t the worst kidnapping I’ve ever had.”
“You’re not afraid of me. You should be, you know. You can’t even imagine some of the things that I could do to you.”
He’s pouting and angry. Like Sherlock when he’s being ignored, only damage control after might be a whole lot worse. Actually, I probably could. I could imagine things that you don’t even think are possible. Because they’re not within the realm of your science or physics. “You’re Moriarty, aren’t you? And…and ‘theimprobableone’, the one that keeps posting on my blog.”
Moriarty’s eyes really widen now. He wasn’t meant to work that out. After a moment, slow, melodramatic clapping. And Mycroft complains about his brother. “Well done, you.” The eyes are now alight with a burning, intense curiosity that John hasn’t seen from anyone but Sherlock. “I underestimated you. I see now why he keeps you around, a puzzle to distract him when he gets bored.” Moriarty leans closer, unbearably so, staring still with that same restless, unblinking curiosity. “I could carve you open. I could strip off your skin, but I won’t find the answers underneath, will I? Don’t worry, I have so much better planned.”
Sudden, unblinking hate. Of course, it’s all a trap for Sherlock. To find out how he works, possibly to kill him. It’s unnerving how easy it is to hate this man with every fibre of his being, to imagine just calling out his Stand and blowing them all to Kingdom Come. He’s seen what a man’s face looks like when a bomb has exploded nearby, and he imagines it now, not with the horror and dread of before, but with what’s almost a cruel glee, Moriarty’s face melting off under the seething temperatures. Surely his own death isn’t such a price to pay, not to rid the world of such a man. Citizen/Soldier stirs at the back of his mind, dark and eager.
He’s really worried Moriarty now. He feels like bearing his teeth in savage glee as the man, operating under primal fear, backs away for a few moments until he gets himself under control. And it’s quick. You could hardly be the mastermind of some vast criminal empire without having some nerves of steel. “Now there’s the man who shot a man in cold blood,” he singsongs, and instantly John’s blood drains, his skin freezing instantly.
His Stand is hardly a precise one. And if Moriarty, by some improbable chance, lives…if he’s given clues that could lead him to an Arrow…
The tables have turned. Now it’s the criminal mastermind with the upper hand, basking in some unholy amusement. There’s something else there, admiration and darker things spoken only of whispers. He’s caught the attention of someone really dangerous, now, too, not just his flatmate. His friend. “I’d offer you a spot in my organization. That bloodlust is simply breathtaking. But you’re just laying around, waiting for a certain someone to tug on your leash. Not long now, I promise you, Johnny boy. Not long until the call to arms. I’d love to find out exactly who and what you are, but we have a play to get you to, and you’re starring the lead role.”
Which means Sherlock’s not far behind. He could use his Stand anyway, desperately try to finish the man off, but…Sherlock. Even if he protects the man, he has no shelter himself, and if he dies, the detective is vulnerable once more. He’s missed his chance.