(I wrote this as a drabble, but I’d be more than thrilled if someone wanted to continue this with me, with you playing Moriarty. <3 Just let me know.)
It was silent, in the room. Or not quite so; the constant soft crackling of a comforting fire laid in the grate lent a peaceful ambiance. The warm glow spread over a crimson carpet, so deep your feet sank into the plush; roundabout the walls were other tasteful decorations, all building on a crimson and mahogany theme. Nothing in the room was less than perfect, perfectly clean, and of the best quality imaginable.
Sitting on the couch, bathed in the firelight, sat an Irishman. He was wearing a dark crimson dressing-gown - almost matching the colour of the carpet - as well as slippers of the same colour. His right hand was moving in a petting motion, comforting and consistent; and from his lips he hummed a soft, half-remembered Irish lullaby. Back and forth moved his hand, soft humming from his lips, the crackling of the fire.
From his motions alone an unseen observer might think that he was gently petting a dog while gazing into the fire. But the object beneath his hand shifted slightly just then, and had there been an observer in the room, they might have leaned closer in confusion, for the shape that moved was much, much larger than a dog. Too large, in fact, and if the silent observer had leaned even closer they might have seen that the shape beneath the Irishman’s hand was human.
John Watson was not quite naked; he had on small black pants, tight-fitting, and like everything else in the room, made of the finest quality. Silk, in this case. But those were all the clothes he’d been allowed. His hands were bound in front of him with many lengths of expensive, but strong, silk rope; the rope was then criss-crossed over his chest in an intricate pattern, holding his arms and wrists tight and immobile to his chest, shimmering golden in the firelight.
His ankles and knees were similarly bound; criss-crossed with the same black silk rope, bound tightly together and then drawn up, attached to his elbows. The end result was that John had to lie on his side, scrunched up, unable to move at all, having to wait for someone to lift him, feed him, anything. His helplessness was utterly complete; the finishing touch was a length of the rope tied around his head, through his mouth, preventing intelligible speech.
The jarring reality of John’s bondage did not deter James Moriarty from humming him an Irish lullaby and softly petting through his golden hair, comforting, alluring, possessing.
