|hemademebeg (hemademebeg) wrote in wariscoming,|
@ 2012-02-15 22:08:00
|Entry tags:||irene adler, jim moriarty, samantha winchester|
Who: Moriarty and Irene and OPEN to anyone who'd pass through the complex lobby
What: Reprecussions for betraying Moriarty in the future
When: Today 2015, moving to today, 2012
Where: A warehouse, moving to the complex
Warning: High - torture, skin removal, nastiness
It had stung, to warn Sherlock, to stop all she'd worked for with Jim. But she only wanted to see him lose. She wanted to know he felt as she had, defeated and deflated with tears on those perfect cheekbones. His death couldn't give her that, wouldn't make him feel as she had. It was too easy, and if she was honest with herself, she still carried a torch for the consulting detective, even after his cold reproaches and complete lack of attention over the last few years. So she had told him what she knew of Jim’s plan, and he had escaped. So far there was no sign that Jim had realised what she'd done, and she was praying it stayed that way. There was little hope however, and she knew it.
So when she'd felt the arm reach around her and the fabric covering her mouth she knew what was coming; even before she smelt the chloroform. He knew. He knew, and now he'd make good on those threats from so long ago. Her last thought as she sunk to the floor was to wonder what type of shoes he'd make.
She didn't how long she'd been in the warehouse, and it didn't matter anymore. She couldn't think straight, not with this level of pain, not after the lumps he'd removed from both her ego and her body. When she awoke at first she was tied to a makeshift A-frame, the rusted metal scraping her skin, the rope making it impossible to move.
It hadn’t taken long for him to work it out. Trace it back to the only person who knew those details and would be weak enough around the great detective to have told him. Idiot woman letting her feelings get the better of her. Oh he understood it, women did that, he’d done it to Emma after all. And she’d done so very well for herself. But Irene, he’d had hopes for her. So now he’d brought her here, and decided very quickly that this was a punishment he’d take the time to administer himself.
“I was going to kill you, you know that? It would have been over by now and the lesson would have been learned by him. But not by you. I expect you’d rather die at this point.” he began, his voice a slow calculated drawl as he held a mirror up to her face so she could see herself. Oh he wasn’t done yet. It was art, what he was doing to The Woman. And he was so far from finished. “You ruined something that could have been so beautiful. Do you see how this will go for you? Do you understand yet?”
It was all she could do not to scream when he started to talk, and when he held up the mirror she couldn’t contain herself. Her mouth was dry and her whole body ached but her scream was loud and the terror it contained was real. Her face...her face. Oh god her face...there were patches of skin missing from her cheek, forehead and chin, and her lips looked pink next to the bare tissue next to them, the blood running from each of the horrible raw wounds. After a few seconds her breath ran out and she just coughed instead, and suddenly the pain hit her properly. Sobbing, all she could do was nod in response to his question. She understood. Oh she understood.
He watched her critically, looking at the wounds on her face and tilting his head slightly to see how the one on her chest matched up. The knife slid expertly along her cheek deciding there was more he could do there, nothing too deep yet, but it would scar, and wasn’t that the point. “No one will want you. All that power, everything you have, everything you are. Its all gone because you decided to spit my generosity back in my face. Haven’t I been good to you? Haven’t I given you everything you wanted? I made you what you are here. I gave you all that and for him, for HIM you betray me.” His face had moved from critical to furious in the space of what could only have been a second and the knife moved to her arm, slicing the skin from her forearm like butter.
“Not talking?” he asked as he worked, “Not saying anything about your losses and your lies, no apologies. Not going to beg for me, woman.” Finally, perhaps mercifully, he lifted the knife. Eyes seeming to pierce her own. She still had beautiful eyes he had to admit. Maybe he’d leave her those. A mockery of her now hideous face. “You have to talk Irene, you have to have that much, you’re going to send a message for me. Or did I do too much work on your lips?” he wondered, running the blade of the knife across them as he spoke. “I left you your traitors tongue. Kind of me I thought, very kind.”
She yelped and whimpered as he took yet more of her skin from her. If she could have thought straight the sounds would interest her, noises that she normally only heard from another coming from her own mouth, but any mental capacity she had was blocked by the agony of his blade. Whatever he’d drugged her with had fully worn off, and it felt like her body was on fire, the bare flesh the vocal point of the flames.
She lifted her chin weakly, any pride, any defiance she once had gone. Swallowing thickly, spluttering at the taste of her own blood filling her mouth, she tried to speak and failed at first, coughing again. “Pl...please. Please....no...I’ll...” she stopped again, even the slightest movement of her lips causing her pain to become unbearable. Even more unbearable. “I’ll do anything, I’ll deliver your message, please..I beg you. Don’t take my tongue...” Not being able to talk would be worse than anything, worse than being disfigured and mutilated, worse than dying even.
He smiled thinly and patted her on the cheek, knowing how much pain it would cause. “Told you it’d happen some day. Told you, you’d say it, didn’t I? Fine. I’ll leave you your tongue because I’m just that nice. Because even though you betrayed me, I have a heart. Just like him.” he told her, more mockingly than anything else. “I have a letter for you to deliver. I was going to seal it in your blood. I was going to send it in a box all wrapped up with parts of you but...no, I think maybe I’ll send him you. I think that’d be best.”
She nodded vehemently and then whimpered, realising too late how stupid her movement was. She hadn’t known pain like this was possible, until now.
He smirked, “I don’t think you need to know the contents. So here’s what I’m going to do sweet Irene. I’ll be kind. Again. Put you under, finish my craftsmanship. And then send you to him. Since you seem to love him oh so much. Since you seem to care about him. Maybe he’ll care about you. What do you think?” Of course he didn’t give her a chance to take any other decision. The knife was replaced with a needle, and her veins were oh so easy to find when he needed one, she’d be asleep pretty soon.
“Goodnight.” he told her at a singsong lilt and bent down to kiss her hair, stroking it as he waited for her to slip into unconsciousness. The drugs at war with the pain. It was so very interesting to watch.
Her eyelashes were crusted with blood and every inch of her body stung, the parts where the skin was missing most of all. But she was alive and she was...in the complex? The lobby, it looked like, and even through the pain her relief was immense. He had sent her to Sherlock and that meant she got to live.
Trying to move was failing and she looked down, blinking furiously to get the dried blood from her vision and when she did she almost passed out again. Her body was a mess, covered in blood (which was the only thing covering her) and in what was typical Jim humour, she was perfectly restrained, shibari style, with a letter pinned to the ropes. Or she thought it was - when she looked again she saw it was simply stuck to her body with her own blood. Which was too much for even her, and between that, the pain and the blood loss, Irene was unconscious again.
As she sunk into oblivion the air around her seemed to blur, and the seal pulled her back to 2012, still in the lobby of the complex.
OOC: The letter is written on parchment paper, and sealed in red wax with Moriarty’s trademark magpie. If anyone opens it, it reads as follows:
I do so hate an unfinished symphony. Was all so perfect too, perfect as our pretty Miss Adler’s face. But what she took from us I took from her. And what I’ll take from anyone else who decides to help you. You have a heart, maybe you should take pity on the fallen Woman. She gave up so much for you in the end.
We’ll do this dance again my dear. Uninterrupted.