Chapter Text
Storming away from the Holmes family had, in retrospect, probably been a bad idea.
James slapped away the punch aimed at his face and followed with a left hook. The man reeled away, which was lucky because it left James free to wrench at the arms wrapped around his neck.
He pretended to stumble backward, tripping the man who had him in a headlock. James fell with him and rolled away when the impact loosened his grip.
As he popped to his feet, something heavy hit his back. He stumbled forward and spun, just in time to see and dodge away from the man swinging a small sack at his head.
Someone else was rushing him from the side and James quickly twisted to pull the man into a spin that collided with the sack-swinger.
"Come on, gentlemen, four against one is a bit unsportsmanlike," James panted. The man he'd punched and the one who'd put him in the headlock had recovered and he was having trouble keeping both in view at once. "Why don't ya form a line, nice and orderly-"
A click behind him cut James off. He turned to see a fifth man aiming a gun at him.
He could see instantly that the man was too far away to counter, but close enough he wasn't likely to miss.
James smiled broadly at him and held his hands up open palmed. "Alright now, put that away, I'm sure we can talk this out like refined and reasonable-"
Something smashed into the side of James's head and the bright light of noon in Constantinople snapped to total darkness.
The first thing James noticed was the bump of rocks against his skull as he was dragged across natural ground. He shifted in an effort to keep his head up, and immediately found that he couldn't move his limbs.
His arms were tied behind his back and to his ankles, which were bound together. He pulled at the arrangement, trying to find a looser position he could work his way out of.
The men dragging him by an arm and a leg dropped him without ceremony and a heavy kick landed across his ribs, followed soon by a second and third. James cried out, unable to move to defend himself against the blows.
The last kick was accompanied by a cracking sound and a sharp burst of pain that left him struggling to draw breath. James could only pray that wasn't a broken rib as the men resumed dragging him.
He was going to kill them. If he could just see their faces, as soon as he could move he'd kill them.
He looked around as best he could. They were in some kind of cave, maybe an old mine? The ground sloped downward in the direction he was being taken. His view of the trail behind them left an impression of just how much he was bleeding after being scraped across rock for God only knows how far.
This situation was decidedly less than ideal. James didn't know about any cave systems around Constantinople. He'd have to find his way back to Sherlock somehow once he managed to get away.
Assuming Sherlock still wanted to see him. James winced at the thought and at a particularly sharp rock that his shoulder was being pulled over.
He'd regretted the argument almost as soon as he'd walked away, but he had been right and wouldn’t be the first to apologize.
It was dangerous to risk Xiao Wei, especially when they didn't know what Beatrice, at age 18, would look like. Silas could trick them, distract them while he dealt with their assassin ally, even if Sherlock meant to free her.
It would be easy with a woman who looked, in passing, like Beatrice. Even easier with Beatrice herself.
It was equally dangerous to risk Xiao Wei's trust, but Sherlock didn't want to tell her the plan. If she ran, they'd have no way to ensure Beatrice was returned. Even though Beatrice might not want to return. After all, Bea was no longer a child.
James should have gone along with it. He should have let the Holmes family play out their drama and then give her the gun. Or shoot Silas himself.
He should have done anything other than this.
The men pulled him into a room. There were books and papers in neat stacks on the floor near the doorless entryway. He was dropped like a sack of potatoes. James strained against the bindings for a moment, then worked to turn over and look into the room.
Its sole occupant was familiar. "Professor-"
"Do shut up," Professor Malik sighed. He didn't stand, merely waving a hand to dismiss the hired guns while he frowned down at something on his desk.
"Funny running into you so far from Oxford," James remarked cheerily, forcing out the greeting with his probably-broken ribs. Light caught in the professor's glasses briefly as he turned to level a glare at him.
"Don't play the fool now, Moriarty. You surely haven't forgetten that I've had you in class all year." He turned his attention back to whatever he was working on.
James struggled to free himself as subtly as he could manage. Since his hands were near to all the knots, he'd probably be able to work himself free with enough time. The underground room was filled only by the scratch of the nib of Professor Malik's pen on paper.
The ropes pinning his arms and legs behind him like a dead spider were tied tightly and he couldn't get the leverage he needed to wear at them properly. He tossed his head back on the rough stone ground in frustration, and hissed in instant regret.
"Is something the matter?" Professor Malik sounded bored, as though he were talking to a misbehaving student in class.
James stared at the rough hewn ceiling. "When are you going to kill me?" Malik wouldn't let him go, he was certain of that. What Malik would do before then was unknown. While James wasn't eager to learn what tortures the man could inflict, as long as he was alive he still had a chance to free himself.
Or to be rescued. Sherlock was good at finding people, after all. If he looked. If he wasn't still angry after their fight. If he didn't assume James really had left for London again.
Better not to count on a rescue.
Malik answered candidly. "I haven't decided. Assuming we can locate enough buyers quickly, perhaps not for a while. Though, with how disastrously the last demonstration went, perhaps soon."
He glanced in James's direction, then scribbled something onto a slip of paper. "You seem to be a fair bit stronger than Mr. Lang. I'll have to request the next demonstration chamber be built with thicker glass."
James's eyes widened in horror for a brief moment before he composed himself again. His mind was flooded with visions of the trapped man pounding against the glass before succumbing to the invisible killer he'd been trapped with.
There had to be a way out of this. He wouldn't let this man kill him as though he were a butterfly.
"You're going to use me to show off your weapon?" James's voice shook slightly with anger. He took a breath before finishing. "Why? Professor, you know I did well in your class, I could help-"
Malik rose from his seat and calmly kicked James hard in the face. James cut off midsentence. He turned his head as far down as he could and sent up a silent prayer that he wouldn't drown on the flow of blood from his nose he had little way to stem.
"Why?" Malik hissed. "You entitled little brat, you followed me all the way from Oxford to Constantinople expressly to get in my way."
James decided not to point out that he had been trying to get in Silas Holmes's way, and Malik had simply happened to be there.
"You and that Holmes brat are going to ruin everything," Malik went on. "Unless," he visibly steadied himself. "I can keep you here, under my control, and I can convince Sherlock that the only way to keep you alive is to stop sabotaging my business."
Oh, James was certain that Sherlock would be a model of civil cooperation, of course.
The thing about taking hostages is that someone has to care about the hostage. Otherwise, it's only a prisoner.
He was going to die. This man would put him in another of those terrariums and flood his lungs with nerve gas.
"Silas won't forgive you if you turn his son against him," James said coolly, emanating a calm and collected air that took every ounce of his considerable charm. It might have worked. He wasn't sure how much of his face Malik could see through his blood. "Listen, if you let me go now, I won't tell Sherlock you kidnapped me. Nobody has to know."
Malik shrugged. "Silas's son is already against him." He considered James for a few seconds. "I could find another business partner if I needed to. I can't come back from the dead. Sherlock's proven that he can keep the 'princess' in check, so for as long as she's alive, his cooperation is far more valuable to me than his father's."
James fought the urge to shiver, gritting his teeth and straightening his back as much as he could against the bindings. He couldn't show this man that he was afraid of him.
It felt like Professor Malik was hundreds of feet tall, staring down at him like that. He prodded James's ribs with the toe of his boot. James winced. Definitely broken.
He wished he'd had a knife on him. He could have cut himself free and slit Malik's throat.
"Besides," Malik said, drawing the word out. "The pair of you have been a lot of trouble for me. I think I rather need you separated. I'd prefer dead, of course." He nosed the toe of his boot against James's cheek, smearing the blood and making his scrapes sting. "Maybe if Sherlock doesn't care about you as much as he pretends to, I'll get to kill you, at least."
James gave the man his best grin. Malik meant to rattle him, and James refused to let him think he was winning.
Malik had left him on the floor for what felt like hours before someone came to handcuff him to a pipe. James was glad to be able to move his limbs more freely, but he was no less trapped.
He tugged on the handcuff, testing the length of pipe he could access for weak spots. For his troubles and the clattering of metal on metal, someone threw a wrench at him. It crashed into the wall, chipping bits of rock loose.
James turned to see who'd thrown it, but all of the workers seemed intent on their business, each hunched over a plate or bowl of chemical mixtures.
He wondered how far along the process the toxin was here. Maybe it was completely benign, or maybe breathing this air was taking years off his life.
Not that he'd live long enough for that to matter if he couldn't get the handcuffs off.
James stared at the points where sections of pipe met. They were joined by large hexagonal screws. If he could get one of those open he'd be able to slip the handcuff between the pipe sections. He glanced around for the wrench and found it a few feet away.
He could just barely hook his boot around it. James kicked the wrench towards him. It made noise skittering across the ground and James heard displeased hisses aimed in his direction.
He knelt on the wrench and looked around again. No one seemed to be watching him, but he was chained facing the wall and would have to have his back to at least some of them while he worked.
James reached down to pick up the wrench, only to find the length of chain between the handcuffs kept his hand over a foot off the ground.
He half-stood and draped himself over the pipe. The soft rumbling feeling told James the pipe had running water in it. He hoped it wasn't heated water. With both hands together, using his arms for reach instead of the chain, he was able to grab hold of the wrench. He swung himself down with another furtive glance around the room.
Nothing seemed to be amiss. James wondered if he should wait and hide the wrench until work stopped and he was left alone.
Then again, he had no way of knowing whether work ever stopped here. And anyways, the faster he could get away, the better. Sherlock would be worried about him.
At least, James hoped he would be.
Though maybe it was better if he wasn't. James had been alone for this long, getting attached to someone now was only inviting trouble.
His heart clenched at the thought of Sherlock and James deciding to stop thinking about him. He raised the wrench and began unscrewing the pipe, as nonchalantly as he could.
The screws were tight, and James struggled to keep quiet while working at them. He managed to get two screws out without incident, but the third made a horrible squeaking noise when he got it begin turning.
James tucked the wrench into the tattered remains of his waistcoat and looked around again. One of the workers was missing. He moved away from the junction he'd been working at and tried to look bored. He thought of Malik spread out on the ground, bleeding from a bullet James had put in him.
The junction was dripping. James felt his eyes drift back to the drip despite his best efforts to avoid it.
Indecision was a foreign feeling to James Moriarty. He found that he had the most success by selecting a course of action and sticking with it. But he'd never had such high stakes on such an uncertain outcome before.
If he was caught trying to break out, the least he could expect was being held with tighter security. He'd be even more helpless than before. If the missing worker wasn't going to get help to restrain him, then he was being foolish and needed to get back to work freeing himself.
If the missing worker came back with Malik or a mercenary, they might not notice anything amiss. Or they might notice the drip and the two dropped screws.
James heard footsteps from outside the room and kicked out to scatter the screws. He leaned on the pipe and tucked his head against his shoulder as though he had nodded off.
Someone was shaking him. James affected a sleepy air, trying to act as though he was being awoken. He looked up to see the man who'd pointed the gun at him standing over him with Malik a few paces behind. A second mercenary he didn't recognize stood beside him.
Malik's eyes darted between the pipe junction and James. James forced himself to breathe.
He gave the men his best smile, feeling scabs break across his cheek. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"
Malik's eyes bore into him for a long moment. James kept his eyes locked onto his, not on the pipe, don't even think about the pipe.
"Break his legs," Malik ordered before turning on his heel and leaving.
The man who'd held him at gunpoint bent down to pin him in place. James scrambled for the wrench under his clothes.
The handcuffs stopped him from doing more than grazing the man's cheek. He swore and wrestled the wrench away from James.
The wrench came down hard just above his ear and James cried out. The second swing came from the other side and hit just above his jaw. James tried to raise his hands to defend himself and the chain once again caught on the pipe.
The other mercenary grabbed him from behind and pushed him down, pinning his chest against the pipe. James pushed back as best he could, desperate not to let himself be trapped any further. An inhuman sounding gasp tore from his lips as his ribs shifted under the man's hands. He envisioned beating the man until his face was a bloody pulp.
He was still struggling when the wrench was brought down on his shin. James kicked blindly and felt his leg caught in a vicegrip.
Fear shattered his composure and pride. "No, no, please, you don't have to do this, please don't do this-"
The wrench came down again. James jerked in the grip of the two men. Neither let go. Again. Again. Again.
They hadn't even bothered to tie him to anything. When his thoughts became coherent through the pain, James was insulted by it. They'd left him with just his arms handcuffed behind his back.
He should have been able to get away. He was frustrated with himself that he couldn't.
James felt his legs go hot and swollen. If he lived, he probably wouldn't be able to walk again. He wondered if they would let a doctor see him if he got an infection. Probably not.
He didn't know how long he'd been here. It felt like he'd been here a very long time.
Sherlock had probably gone back to London.
It was a stupid thought. Sherlock wouldn't leave business unfinished. The fact that the factory was in working order was proof Sherlock was still in Constantinople.
Or dead. Malik could have killed Xiao Wei, and then he'd have no use for Sherlock.
But surely then he would have killed James too.
Maybe he was dead. Who was he to say?
James had heard that the dead feel no pain, but he'd also heard that the dead are tortured for an eternity in hell. If he ever made it back to Sherlock, he'd have to let him know he'd found the answer to that philosophical conundrum. He was definitely dead, and in hell.
Something was in front of his face but James couldn't make his eyes focus on it. There was a featherlight touch on his face. He flinched away from it, setting every nerve he had on fire.
The person crouched over him was still and quiet. James stopped trying to look at them. Either they would hurt him or they wouldn't, and he wasn’t capable of affecting that choice or resisting their violence.
"Shame your face got scratched up. You were quite handsome before." It was a woman's voice. Familiar, though James couldn't place it.
James tried again to focus his eyes on her face. It swam in and out of his vision. "That which we call…" No, that wasn't what he meant. Right scene, but he couldn't remember the lines. He let himself trail off.
He didn't realize he was scrunching his nose up until a scab broke and spilled a rivulet of blood into his eye.
"…arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon…"
She chuckled. "You were always too good for Oxford, James. It's a shame Malik couldn't get you on our side." She brushed her fingertips against his face again. "You would have been good at this."
He still couldn't see her, but her voice finally landed, butterfly-light, on a memory. "Edie," he breathed. "Bea."
"Very good," Beatrice said.
"For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright," James paused to catch his breath.
"Who art black as hell, and dark as night?" she asked sweetly.
James couldn't muster the strength to nod.