Chapter Text
The pain was getting to be monotonous. James spent a while contemplating smashing his skull into the hard ground just for a change of sensation. Eventually he decided against it and instead twisted his wrists in the handcuffs.
It was something different than the overwhelming dull ache that had settled across every inch of his being. Sharp, bright pain, more like spicy food and less like blood pooling under the skin around broken bones he couldn't set.
Also, the blood his destruction drew might help him to get his hands free. He could have dislocated a thumb to do so, but with his legs smashed James decided he would probably have to be able to use his hands to escape. It would be difficult to hold a gun with a dislocated thumb.
James cursed himself for not feeling desperate enough to break his hand earlier, when he'd still been able to walk.
The noises of the factory shifted, a break in the pattern James had gotten familiar with. He paused stripping the skin from his wrists to listen more intently.
Aside from an occasional snippet of French he didn't understand much of what the workers and mercenaries were saying, but it was clear something unexpected had happened. There wasn't panic, like a genuine emergency, but there was a nervous energy, a calm before a storm.
James tried slipping out of the handcuffs. They were still stuck, but he got them further than the last time he tried.
The footsteps behind him were angled differently than the ones he'd gotten used to hearing. James dropped his arms limply behind him. Malik would know he'd been trying to get free again, but there was no point in being caught in the act.
Someone picked him up by his elbows and hauled him backwards. James yelled in protest, but the person didn't stop pulling him along.
He twisted around and managed to sink his teeth into a forearm. The maneuver left one of his feet at an impossible angle but James was too preoccupied by the rush of blood in his mouth to pay much heed to anything else. At last, he'd made at least one of them bleed for doing this to him.
Something solid and sharp hit him where the back of his skull met his neck. James gasped involuntarily, momentarily stunned.
The forearm was torn out of his mouth and quickly replaced with a rag. James snapped at the fingers shoving the rag in his mouth but couldn't close his jaw around the cloth fast enough to grab them. While was trying to spit out the first rag, a second one was tied around his head to hold the first in place.
Momentarily subdued, James looked around so he would have a face to imagine shooting between the eyes. Malik stood over him holding his bird-claw cane, almost certainly what he'd been hit by a second ago. When he tried to look over his shoulder at the mercenary who'd started dragging him again, Malik swung the cane at his shoulder.
James's cry was muffled by the gag. His attention snapped back to Malik. The man looked far too smug for his liking.
"Mr. Moriarty, genius you may be, but your refusal to work with others is the reason my men were able to overpower you so easily." Malik took on a professorial tone. James desperately wanted to kick his teeth in. "Wit is not always a match for sheer numerical advantage."
Kick his teeth in and make him swallow them.
The mercenary lifted him up into some kind of box. James barely had time to register the leather exterior, the polished brass lock, and the fabric lining before the lid of the suitcase shut and left him in the dark.
James was not claustrophobic, but he was in a lot of danger and a lot of pain and having his knees pinned against his chest without being able to anticipate the turns the carriage was taking was certainly not helping things.
He felt like he hadn't gotten a full breath of air since the rag had been shoved in his mouth. He hoped that the gag meant they'd be bringing him somewhere public, and not throwing the suitcase over a cliff or dropping it in a lake.
On the other hand, a suitcase in public would likely be going on a train. A train would take him away from Constantinople. Away from Sherlock.
Not that it mattered.
He'd walked out on Sherlock in the middle of an argument, shouting over his shoulder that he might as well go back to London. If Sherlock had noticed he hadn't come back yet, the most reasonable thing to think was that he'd actually done it.
He'd have to get out of this himself.
Somehow.
One benefit of the suitcase was that no one could see that he was afraid. James allowed himself a few rattling sobs before forcing himself to focus on the problem at hand.
Once the suitcase was opened, the only direction he could be grabbed from would be from above. If he could get his hands in front of him and lay on his back, he'd be in a better position to fend them off.
James grabbed at the chain stretching between his hands and pulled it taunt. He angled his shoulders back and pressed his hands against the far wall of the suitcase, then slowly pulled them forward.
The chain caught on the heel of his boot. Light exploded through the suitcase and James froze, thinking someone had opened the lid. That wasn't possible, the carriage was still moving, still jostling him around.
The brightness dimmed somewhat and James realized it wasn't light after all. There was nothing he could see by the brightness. It was just some kind of reaction to prolonged pain he hadn't experienced before.
His leg wouldn't obey his orders to correct itself. James corrected the position of the chain and continued dragging his hands forward. His surroundings alternated between darkness and equally unhelpful brightness that James did his best to ignore.
He came to the heel of his other boot before fully passing the first. He pressed the chain into the lower corner of the suitcase, giving himself as much room as he could before yanking his arms forward.
When his head cleared next, James felt the toe of his boot. He pulled his arms up, feeling blessed relief flood through his shoulders. He breathed hard. He was still in trouble, but at least he was a bit better off.
Finally able to wipe away his tears, James let himself cry.
The train rattled less than the carriage had, which was a small relief. James tried not to think about how many boxes were currently stacked on top of him, of which city he was being taken to, of why he was being taken there.
He especially tried not to think of Sherlock and how unlikely it was that he'd see him again.
There wasn't anything to do except think.
James tried to focus on happier thoughts, like beating Malik to death with his own cane, all his mighty Oxford professor brains spilling out uselessly on the ground. Pushing the man who'd broken his legs under the train.
The French solider, the light fading from his eyes.
The man in the butterfly jar, on a stage for an eager audience to watch his death throes.
Malik's plan for him.
He wondered if he'd told Sherlock. A messenger, or a note slipped under a door. A threat wasn't any good unless it was delivered.
However long Malik had kept him for, he hadn't fed him. He was hungry, but it wasn't the worst he'd experienced. It have to have been a day, two at most. He doubted he'd get a last meal.
He tried to remember the last thing he ate, and only surfaced memories of sitting around a dinner table next to Sherlock, Cordelia laughing at something Xiao Wei had said, Sherlock smothering a smile.
He thought about what Malik would do with his body. Probably leave him, a gory trophy for someone to uncover.
"Someone" was probably Sherlock.
And what would Sherlock do? Would he bury him? Try to find his parents?
James thought of Sherlock relentlessly chasing after the murderer- Xiao Wei- at Oxford. Would he hunt Malik down that way?
Silas?
He'd do it anyways, to stop them from distributing the weapon. James's death wouldn't change what Sherlock already felt he had to do.
How long would it take them to forget him? Sherlock, with his eidetic memory, wouldn't. But Cordelia? Mycroft?
How long would it take before Sherlock Holmes was the only person in the world who remembered that James Moriarty had ever existed?
Maybe he'd be able to visit Sherlock, in that strange place he slipped off to. Mind palace, he'd called it. That would be alright.
If Sherlock wanted him there.
James wished he at least had some way to keep track of the time. It felt like he'd spent an eternity in the suitcase, alone with his Charybdis thoughts dragging him down into the depths.
Something shifted outside. James opened his eyes instinctively, but could see nothing.
He could hear something, though. A high squealing noise. Brakes.
The train was slowing. Wherever they were, they'd arrived.
James tensed. They'd have to take him away from the station before they let him out, but it would be soon.
He listened to the scrape of luggage being shifted, offloaded from the train to its unknown destination. He couldn't distinctly make out the voices of the workers, but he recognized the general shape of the English words and the lilt of the British accent.
He was probably back in London.
James wondered if this was just a stop or if Malik's buyers were here. If it was only a stop he likely wouldn't be let out at all.
If this was the end of the journey, he'd only have one chance at it.
He stayed alert as the suitcase was moved, down off the train, up onto a carriage. James tried to work out where they were. Overlapping possibilities filed his mind, where the turns would put them from each of the stations.
Barnet, maybe? Or Camden. Westminster was a possibility if they didn't stop soon.
James flexed his fingers slowly. Whenever they stopped, wherever they stopped, he had to be ready.
The suitcase hit the ground hard. James wanted to curse the porters who couldn't be bothered not to kick things off carriages.
The suitcase jolted forward, and then again. And again.
Stairs. Stairs going down. Underground again, it would make sense. If not tunnels like in Paris, a basement. Somewhere private.
James didn't bother to muffle his whines of pain. The gag did that for him.
He had to stay conscious. Stay focused. One chance.
The lid opened.
James lurched forward, his hands finding and grasping the neck of the man bent above him with a hand on the lid. Someone else shouted.
No. No.
James didn't take his attention off the man he was strangling, his face rapidly turning red.
Someone pressed a damp cloth to his nose. James shook his head. The cloth moved with him.
He released the man and clawed at the hand pressing the cloth to his face. Darkness crowded the edges of his vision. He felt his nails sink into flesh, drawing some small amount of blood from the man who was trying to knock him out.
The red-faced man took hold of the chain between his handcuffs and yanked his arms forward, leaving him defenseless again.
James's lungs finally gave out and he drew in a breath.
James felt weightless. That probably meant he was dead. Just to test it, he tried to lift a leg. It swung forward easily, and sent spikes of pain all the way from his toes to the tips of his fingers suspended above his head.
That was an interesting development. He opened his eyes. His feet were dangling above a glossy surface. He tried to pull his head up and discovered that he was, in fact, rather heavy.
He took a breath. He was able to breath in fully. Someone had taken out the gag.
The walls around him were made of glass. He hung suspended in a glass cage from a pair of thick manacles dangling from the ceiling.
James felt like there wasn't any air. He gasped for it but it just wasn't there. He kicked out, his foot bouncing uselessly off the glass. There wasn't any air to carry his scream.
Someone was standing on the other side of the glass.
He stared blankly at the figure as it drew closer and took shape. Beatrice Holmes smiled at him.
James gasped for air again and drew himself back from the edge of panic. "Bea."
She slid something on the outside of the chamber and pulled one of glass panels open like a door. She stood at the opening, like a vampire waiting to be invited in.
He had to try something. "Beatrice. Bea, can you get me out of here?"
She drew closer wordlessly, fingertips ghosting across his chest. James fought the urge to recoil.
"Beatrice?" Still, he couldn't provoke a response from her. She brushed away the tears stinging his cheeks as if she hadn't heard him. "Can you tell Sherlock where I am? How to find me?"
Bea wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed a deep kiss to his lips.
The contact hurt, the light force of it traveling through his suspended form and making every injury light with renewed fury. He turned his head away from her.
She reached up to pick at the buttons of his ruined waistcoat. Her hands felt like lead weights on his chest.
"You're hurting me, Beatrice."
She smiled at him as she gripped his jaw and turned him back to face her. "Then ask me to stop," she cooed.
When she tried to kiss him again, he smacked his forehead into hers. "Stop," he hissed, gritting his teeth against the pounding ache in his head.
Beatrice rubbed her head where he'd hit her and frowned at him. "You wouldn't ask Sherlock to stop," she pouted.
"I wouldn't have to," James spat back.
Sherlock would care that he was in danger, would care that he was in pain. He wouldn't waste time on something frivolous like… this.
Sherlock wouldn't want to hurt him. Wouldn't think to kiss him. Not ever, but especially not while he was trapped and injured.
He wouldn’t have to tell Sherlock not to do something he'd never even consider.
And if he ever did consider it, well. Beatrice was right.
She stared at him a moment before stepping backward through the opening. James felt the air fleeing again.
"Beatrice, Bea, wait," he called after her. She paused and he continued on hurriedly. "I didn't mean that, come back, please."
She was gradually inching away. He spoke quicker.
"I only meant stop for now. Doubt thou the stars are fire; doubt the sun doth move-"
She was leaving him.
"Bea, stop, come back! Whatever you want, Bea, if you get me out of here I'll fuck you however you want, whenever you want, Beatrice, please, don't leave me here."
Beatrice smiled beautifully and pushed the door shut. James heard something on the other side click into place.