bigbadporkchop (bigbadporkchop) wrote,

Fic: Between the Lines

Title: Between the Lines
Characters: Mycroft, Moriarty, Sherlock, (John, Lestrade, Donovan)
Prompt: 047. Heart
Word Count: ~3000
Rating: R
Summary: From a prompt at the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme:
When Moriarty promised to 'burn the heart out' of Sherlock, every assumed that John would be the target.

They're wrong- Moriarty's after Mycroft.

Serious Mycroft whumpage (non-con, torture etc if you like) followed by brotherly h/c please

Spoilers: The Great Game
Warnings: Torture, abuse of sensitive bits, nudity
Author's Notes: Reposted and edited slightly. All mistakes are mine.

“I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

“Probably my answer has crossed yours.”

“Sherlock!” A new voice echoed through the pool.

Sherlock’s aim wavered slightly, but his eyes never strayed from Moriarty.

“It’s alright, Sherlock.” Footsteps reverberated off the tiled walls. “My people are in place by now.”

John squeezed his eyes shut and sank down even further, flopping to the floor and dropping his head back against the wall.

Sherlock exhaled slowly and de-cocked the gun.

Several men in black suits and ear-pieces flooded the pool, two of them grabbing Moriarty and leading him out one of the side doors.

“You have a remarkable ability to take the fun out of even the most exciting things.” Sherlock curled a lip up and turned to face his brother.

“And you have a very interesting idea of fun.” Mycroft flashed a tight smile.

“I suppose he’ll disappear off the face of the earth now.” Sherlock huffed, helping John up but still keeping his surly gaze on Mycroft.

“I really couldn’t say.” Mycroft replied, his voice curiously small.

“We should leave,” Sherlock brushed imaginary dust off of his tailored suit, “now that we’re no longer necessary. Let you get on with your cleanup operation.” He gestured to John that they were going and turned back to his brother. “Your missile plans are in the pool.” Sherlock indicated coldly and walked off.

John paused, eyeing the various blank-faced men in dark suits situated around the outside of the pool. Finally he turned to Mycroft and held his hand out. “Thank you.” He said, earnest gratitude in his voice.

Mycroft smiled softly and took John’s hand, holding it tightly. “Tell Sherlock-”

He was interrupted by an annoyed, “John” coming from beyond the double doors of the entrance.

Mycroft winced but held John’s hand fast. “Tell my brother I had no choice.”

John cocked his head, about to ask a question when his name echoed through the doors again. “Good bye.” He nodded and extracted his hand, jogging towards Sherlock’s voice. “I’ll keep an eye on him!” John called over his shoulder as he disappeared through the doors.

“Thank you.” Mycroft whispered to no one as the door swung closed behind John.

After a few moments of silence the sound of clapping filled the air. “Oh well played.” Moriarty grinned. “They’ll both feel exceptionally guilty once Sherlock figures it out.”

“I’m afraid you overestimate my place in Sherlock’s affections.” Mycroft, eyes dull, stood perfectly still as he was flanked by Moriarty’s men.

“Oh come now.” Moriarty tutted. “Don’t sell yourself short.”

“I never sell myself short.” Mycroft replied, allowing himself to be restrained by the men on either side of him.

Moriarty leaned forward, a gleeful sparkle in his eye. “Me either.”


The lane outside the school was empty and dead as John and Sherlock walked through the gate. “Odd.” John mentioned, looking around.

“What?” Sherlock asked without looking up from the ground at which he was brooding.

“No car.” John mused, “No secretary. I’ve never seen Mycroft without either nearby.”

Sherlock snapped his head up at that and scanned their surroundings. He turned on his heel and faced the direction of the pool. “Did he strike you as odd?”

“What, maybe… subdued a little, yeah. Why?”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared, his clenching jaw evident by the shift and play of muscles beneath the pale, taut skin of his face.

“What is it?”

“He lied to me.”

John twisted to face the building that housed the pool. The night was quiet and still for a few tense moments before the illusion of calm was destroyed by an explosion of noise and heat and a bright, bright light.

Sherlock was running before John had even pushed himself up from the ground.


The car was rocked by the explosion, which Moriarty watched through the tinted windows, excitement evident in his wide smile. “Oh I love this bit.” He bounced slightly in his seat and turned to Mycroft, who didn’t deign to ask what he’d be told anyway. Moriarty waited a moment just in case, though, the smile never really slipping from his features. “The part where he recognizes that if he hadn’t been so busy being simply awful to you he would have easily noticed your distress. John noticed it, didn’t he? Good old John. He’s good for your brother, mostly. But you’ve always been a blind spot for him, haven’t you? That’s probably why he hates you so often.”

Mycroft allowed his gaze to slip from Moriarty’s without any real recognition, turning instead to scan the interior of the car and then watch the passing traffic.

“Oh, don’t look so glum, Mycroft. You should be thanking me.” Moriarty kicked Mycroft’s polished shoes in a cajoling manner. “Sherlock’s finally comprehending just how much you really mean to him.” Moriarty turned towards the aftermath of the explosion once again, it was just visible in the distance. “He just realized he gave you to me.”

Mycroft made a slight mmm noise of placation but continued to ignore him otherwise.

“How long until he blames you, d’you think?” Moriarty asked with a conspiratorial grin. “Five seconds? Ten?”

“Probably it never crossed his mind that it wasn’t my fault.” Mycroft answered, turning to face Moriarty. He gave the man a once-over, taking in every detail from his dark hair to the toes of his overly-polished shoes. “Hmm.” Mycroft turned back to the window.

Moriarty’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but he kept the smile on his face. “Go on, Mr. Holmes. Tell me. What is it you’ve deduced?”

“Only the reason you decided on a life of crime.”

“Is that it?”


Moriarty chuckled and shook his head as the car rolled slowly through a dimly-lit car park and into a garage.


“Is he-” John huff, hands on his knees as he finally caught Sherlock up on the other side of the school grounds, “Do you think-”

“He wasn’t here.” Sherlock said, voice breathy with exertion, still spinning around, eyes catching on every little detail. “Three cars. There were three cars parked here and now they’re gone.” Sherlock indicated the disturbed ground, a trail of three-abreast footprints in particular. “Mycroft went in the second one. Under his own power. He didn’t.” Sherlock panted, “He didn’t struggle.” He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and bent over, sucking in breath after breath.

“So he’s fine for now?” John asked, trying to read what Sherlock did in the muddy, trampled grass.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Sherlock leaned back and planted his hands on his hips, gazing around at the streets now filling with people whose slumbers had been disturbed. A siren wailed in the distance.

“Did Moriarty take him for your benefit, or was he the target all along?” John asked, taking Sherlock by the elbow and leading him to the pavement.

“I can’t… I don’t know. I thought the pips were about the missile plans, I thought he was-”

John’s hand slipped up to Sherlock’s shoulder and gripped it tight. “Calm down.”

“I AM CALM!” Sherlock shouted, shaking John off and stalking off down the pavement. “Call Lestrade!” He barked over his shoulder.

“I haven’t got a phone!” John snapped back, “I lost it when your boyfriend kidnapped me earlier!” John sucked in a breath as he realized what he’d said.

Sherlock paused, spinning around and staring. After a beat he dug his own phone out of his pocket and tossed it to John. “Stay here, explain the matter to Lestrade. I’m going back to the flat.”

“Don’t go chasing after him without me!” John called after him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it!”


“Well?” Moriarty smiled and gestured around the dark, decaying room and the rusted surgical tray of sharp, glinting instruments. “What do you think?”

“I didn’t realize you watched so many American horror films.” Mycroft answered, rolling his wrists beneath the ageing leather straps that bound them to the reinforced chair.

“More evocative this way.” Moriarty replied with a shrug. “It’ll look better in the photos.”

“Of course.”

Moriarty stared at his prisoner, contemplating something. “I think you should be naked.” He finally said. “That’ll make you both more uncomfortable.”

Mycroft nodded, acquiescing. “I agree. Why don’t you fetch one of your minions?”

“What? I can’t do it myself?” Moriarty stepped closer and leaned into Mycroft’s personal space, settling his palms over the leather on Mycroft’s wrists. “Afraid to let me too close?”

“My dear boy, it is painfully obvious that you don’t do anything for yourself.”

Moriarty’s fingers tightened instinctively for a moment before he pushed himself up and tugged his sleeves straight. “Quite right. I don’t like to get my hands dirty. I hear you’re the same in that respect?”

“No.” Mycroft shook his head, “No, we’re quite different in that regard.” Moriarty raised his eyebrows. “I don’t like to get my hands dirty because I detest filth. You find yourself drawn to the filth, but you can’t allow yourself the freedom of it because you lack the ability to control yourself.”

“Is that so?” A glint sparked in Moriarty’s eye.

A small smirk slipped across Mycroft’s stoic features as he watched Moriarty curl his fingers around a scalpel.


Sherlock took the stairs three at a time and burst into the living room at a gallop, heading straight for John’s computer. He waited impatiently for the web page to load and even more impatiently for the GPS to locate the position of the phone.

He blinked at the screen once it had finally stopped.

He was roused from his daze by the dreadfully loud ringing of the pink phone in his breast pocket. He scrambled to get it out of his coat but calmed when the number on the screen was his own.

“John.” He answered, closing the laptop and making his way back down the stairs.

“Sherlock, Lestrade’s here. Did you find the phone?”

“Yes.” Sherlock slammed the door behind him and hailed a cab. He gave the address to both John and the cabbie as he slid into the back seat.

“We’ll meet you there.” John assured him.

Sherlock ended the call and sat back against the bench seat with a sigh, tapping his foot impatiently. He stared through the window and thought of his brother.


Moriarty stepped back, panting, and observed Mycroft’s clothes, which littered the floor in tatters. The most recent ragged strips were more often than not tinted red at the edges.

Mycroft was also breathing heavily, in an effort to keep from making any greater sounds, but he smiled nonetheless. “There, now.” He caught Moriarty’s attention. “Some of these will need stitches. Don’t you feel better?”

Moriarty frowned.

“But no.” Mycroft narrowed his eyes. “Of course you don’t. You’ve just demonstrated why you’re such a failure to begin with.”

“I am many disreputable things, Mr. Holmes.” Moriarty licked a smear of blood from his thumb. “But a failure is not one of them.”

“Are you very certain?” Mycroft asked, tilting his head to the side. “I think you started young.”

“I was nine.” Moriarty smirked.

Mycroft sighed, disappointed. “Not murdering. Failing. Or rather, recognizing your failures.” Mycroft peered closely at the streak of pink across Moriarty’s cheek. “Yes. Very young. Four, perhaps. Or five.”

“You reckon?” Moriarty asked, all trace of joviality gone from his young features. He dropped to his knees and slid his hands along Mycroft’s legs.

“Mmm.” Mycroft nodded, wincing only slightly as Moriarty dug a thumb nonchalantly into a particularly deep slice along the top of his thigh. “What were you doing, when they pointed it out? Colouring, most likely. Big fat crayons in your clumsy little fingers.”

Moriarty’s face screwed up into an hideous mask and he dug his knuckles into the soft skin of Mycroft’s belly, dragging them down until they rolled across a sparse thatch of dark brown pubic hair. He scratched his nails delicately into the pale skin of Mycroft’s heavy, flaccid cock.

“Poor little Jimmy.” Mycroft said through clenched teeth. “Too excitable, too strange.” He twitched as Moriarty brought the scalpel up to his throat and dragged it down to circle a nipple. “Too stupid to keep in the lines. Especially with the red crayon.”

“The lines are boring.” Moriarty spat, twisting his fingers around Mycroft’s cock in a brief, painful squeeze. He let go and shot to his feet, straightening his suit. The grime of the ancient floor had left uneven patches of dingy gray-brown on either knee. He sniffed and headed towards the door.

“That’s why Sherlock will always be better than you.” Mycroft said quietly, stopping him before he left the room. “The lines aren’t boring. They’re a challenge. One that he rises to and one that you continuously fail to meet. Rules make things more difficult.”

Moriarty spun around slowly.

Too difficult. For you.”

“I suppose that’s what makes you better than me as well?” Moriarty posited, returning once more to the surgical tray.

“No.” Mycroft disagreed, watching as Moriarty plucked a corkscrew from among the various implements. “When I don’t agree with the rules I change them. I have a steady enough hand to draw my own lines,” he continued, very carefully not looking at gleaming sharp tip of the tool in Moriarty’s hand, “and no one’s caught me yet. That's what makes me better than you. In that aspect, at least.”

“Well.” Moriarty huffed a laugh, “That was a very interesting speech, Mr. Holmes,” He flicked the bright metal as if displacing bubbles in a syringe, “but I think I’d rather listen to you scream.”

“Of course. But one last thing, Jim.” Mycroft whispered as the screw was settled past coarse hairs and into the flesh at the base of his cock.

“What’s that?” Moriarty murmured, not taking his eyes off the tense, quivering stretches of skin before his eyes.

“Haven’t you been wondering why I’ve kept you here for so long?” Mycroft shifted his ankles beneath the straps that held them to the legs of the chair.

“I figured you decided you preferred my inexact, amateurish torture to that of my more skilled hired-hands. And you think the longer you draw this out the more likely you are to be rescued before I send your cold, broken body to your brother in the post.” Jim smirked as he twisted once, the sharp, slanted edge of the point digging a millimeter past the surface of Mycroft’s skin.

“Actually,” Mycroft swallowed. “It’s because on the ride here I saw John Watson’s phone beneath the seat of your car.” He smiled as Moriarty snapped his head up. “I believe you sponsored a serial killer who made the same mistake once.”

The achingly loud cacophony of gunfire boomed into the small room.


“How many men did you say he had?” Lestrade asked, stepping over a body as he entered the garage cautiously, Donovan on his heels.

“Seven at the pool.” Sherlock responded, leaping over a large piece of machinery and shaking the locked handle of the door at the back of the large room.

“Plus the snipers.” John added, jumping over the same machine a tad less gracefully. “But I doubt they stuck around.”

“Okay.” Lestrade sighed and nodded at Sherlock. “I’ve already informed you that as a police officer I can’t allow you two to accompany me, haven’t I?”

“Of course.” Sherlock replied, face blank. “May I break the door down, now?” He asked impatiently.

“By all means.”


“Tell me,” Mycroft spoke as the corkscrew clattered to the ground, “what exactly did you think you’d accomplish?”

Another volley of gunfire shocked movement into the room. Moriarty scrambled backwards and grabbed frantically for the scalpel, flaying the thin skin of his wrist open on another instrument in the tray. He snatched the small, bloodied apparatus and threw himself behind the chair Mycroft was strapped to, panting as he pressed the blade to Mycroft’s carotid artery.

Mycroft swallowed and leaned away from the blade, pressing the back of his head into the mad man’s heaving stomach. He looked up and watched an ugly sneer curl itself into Moriarty’s mouth.

The door crashed open.


Sherlock was silent as he stepped into the room, his gaze taking in every piece of information available regarding his brother.

“Where are your friends, Sherlock, surely they've come to play, too?” Moriarty asked, his voice slipping heedlessly into falsetto.

“They’re searching the rooms on the other side of the building.” Sherlock replied, locking eyes not with Moriarty, but with Mycroft.

“I see.” Moriarty licked his lips and tightened his grip on the scalpel, sliding the blade across Mycroft’s neck.

“You said,” Sherlock began, eyeing the scalpel as its edge disappeared beneath Mycroft’s skin, “you’d burn the heart out of me.”

“I still can.” Moriarty tugged Mycroft’s upper body closer to him and leant down to press their cheeks together, smiling up at Sherlock. “I think he’d make an interesting conversation piece. Just his head, mounted on my wall.”

Sherlock curled his lip up.

“Although,” Moriarty continued, his free hand creeping down Mycroft’s chest, fingers curling towards his groin. “He has got some other interesting pieces I could cut o-”

The shot was agonizingly loud in the small space.

Moriarty’s face, caught forever in a blank parody of surprise, slid slowly against Mycroft’s cheek until his body crumpled altogether. The back of his head landed with a wet, thudding smack against the dingy floor. A small trickle of blood seeped out of the neat, round hole in his forehead.

“He talked too much.” Sherlock said, lowering the gun.

“Agreed.” Mycroft said, sitting up straight.

Sherlock immediately dropped to his knees and undid one the wrist restraints, leaving Mycroft to tend to the other one while he worked on the ankle straps.

After helping his brother to his feet, Sherlock grasped his elbows and held him still for a moment, locking eyes with him.

“I’m fine.” Mycroft insisted after a moment, gripping Sherlock’s upper arms tightly.

“Yes.” Sherlock said softly, stepping back and shrugging the coat from his shoulders, wrapping it around Mycroft and smoothing a hand down his brother’s back as John, Lestrade and Donovan barreled into the room. “Well it’s your own damn fault if you aren’t.” He finished, his voice returning to its normal bored timbre. He watched as Lestrade and Donovan took in the grisly scene, and allowed John to close in for a cursory examination of Mycroft’s mostly superficial wounds.

He kept his fingers splayed wide across the small of Mycroft’s back for some time after that.


The End


Tags: 100, fic, moriarty, mycroft, sherlock
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