#C's thinks he's real slick giving people chores

[ajokeformur-ray]

"Shamrock Holmes": Sherlock x Moriarty x Reader

TRIGGER WARNING FOR MORIARTY’S DD/LG KINK

You awoke with a heavy chest, like someone had rested a cement block on you.  Even moving your neck felt like a chore, especially after you felt a sharp pain in your shoulder blade, causing you to hiss.  When you finally managed to force your eyes open, it took a couple moments for the blurriness to go away before you realized that, nothing was wrong.  You recognized your own ceiling, your kitchen in the other room across from you, fully visible because of the open windows and partly cloudy afternoon.  Because of this, you were aware now that you are indeed in your own apartment; the feeling of your rather comfortable couch underneath you was one of the only things you felt besides your paralysis and pain.  But what the bloody hell was on your chest?!

Propping yourself up on your elbows, you tried to push yourself up, somehow being able to successfully.  It had only caused your shoulder to throb more, making you choke out a cry as your torso plopped on the back of the couch.  Well, at least you made it into a sitting position now rather than being confined on your back.  Now, you could see much clearer.              You swallowed down the taste of bile and tried to fight off the feeling of sudden dizziness and minor nausea.  Even though you were in your own home, something felt horribly wrong.  It didn’t make sense, but the last thing you remember was walking in the door and hanging your jacket up, so you had no proof that something was definitely off its rocker.  You had just stepped inside after a hard day’s work as a *insert dream career*, and next thing you knew, you were laying on your couch with a feeling similar to that of sleep paralysis.  No memories, no proof.  But there was still that feeling of suspicion in the pit of your belly, huddling down like a puma preparing to pounce. 

Tick, tick, tick…

You groaned.  Even the ticking of your wall clock made your head pound.  With as much strength as you could muster, you turned your head to at least check and see what time it was.  You normally got off work at around 1:00 in the afternoon (you worked nights), so if you had been out for a day or two, you’d definitely want to know.

Tick, tick, tick…

How odd.  The clock ticked yet didn’t move.  It was stuck in place, the time reading 12:23.  The battery must have stopped while at work.  Did it stop almost a half hour past noon, or midnight?  God, you didn’t want to think about it.  You reached up and rubbed your eyes, once again staring at the clock.  You still heard the ticking.  Why wasn’t the minute hand moving?  Perhaps it was a hallucination.  Yes, that had to be it.

Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick…

No, that ticking was too real, and it wasn’t coming from the clock.  It was coming from ON TOP of you, on your poor weighed-down chest.  Suddenly more alert, your senses sharpened, you dared to look down and let your vision clear once again.  When it did, you wished you were still blind, or still unconscious.  Either would have been fine with you at this point.  Memories of an intruder and a sudden fist to the back of your skull after securing the door caused a mental supernova, giving you a rush of adrenaline.  Cases of this happening were a danger in London now; you knew this because you were on good terms with Sherlock Holmes, who often talked to you when he had nothing else to do.  Of course, he was always busy, so you got to converse with him maybe once every other month if you were lucky.  Sometimes you even assisted him with cases.  Some people swore you two were dating, but others doubted that Sherlock was capable of falling in love.  You didn’t have a crush on the detective, and you were sure he didn’t have a crush on you.  You two were hardly even friends, just acquaintances.  If even that.  Sometimes that moody man liked to push you away.  It hurt you when he did, but not too much.  Sherlock’s assistant, John Watson always reassured you that it was normal, and that he [Sherlock] was hard to get along with.             “It’s okay,” you would always say, “I just wish he wouldn’t work himself so hard.”             So you had always promised yourself to never get in any sort of trouble, to never make Sherlock have to save you.  Well somehow, your private promised had been broken on this day.  Because strapped securely to your chest was a bomb, ready to detonate if Sherlock couldn’t solve the puzzle in time.  The offender would have a script ready for you, force you to call the pink phone in Sherlock’s possession, and kill you if you dared to plead for help.  But Sherlock would recognize you, you knew it.  That could either be a good thing or a bad thing.  You didn’t know whether to hope for death or salvation in case he did recognize your voice.

(E/c) eyes widened, and you writhed in shock and terror, whimpers passing your parted lips before turning into a scream that could come straight from a horror film.  Your heart jackhammered on your ribcage, for you haven’t felt fear this real or raw for countless days.  Never in a million years, would you have been worried about becoming a victim of a crime as gruesome as this.

“Don’t scream, sweetheart!  It would be a shame to have to kill you now~.”

A taunting voice, followed by an even more taunting laugh made you shut your mouth and freeze.  The speaker leaned in the kitchen doorway, dressed like he was attending a formal party.  His dark hair was slicked back, and his matching eyes glittered in the natural light from the window in the kitchen.  Your apartment was on the top floor of the complex, so it was often much brighter inside than others.  This brightness also allowed you a good look at his face.  Unfortunately, he didn’t look the slightest bit familiar.

“Good girl/boy,” he grinned in a way that sent chills up your spine.            The man started towards you, making you instinctively gasp and attempt to squirm away from him.  That was difficult to do under the weight of the bomb on your tiny body.  Your reaction and failed attempt made him laugh.             “Sugar, there’s no need to be that afraid,” he said, “I don’t have any desire to hurt you, believe me.”             He paused in front of you, kneeling down to look up at you.  You leveled a glare at him.             “You’re such a pretty/handsome little thing,” the man awed, a hand resting softly on your (s/c) cheek.  The featherlight touches made you whimper and bite your lip to keep from crying.  You were too afraid to scream again, or to make any noise at all.  Your eyes watered up, so you squeezed them shut.  The man was wearing a wider grin than he was a couple moments again.  You could practically hear it.             “Yes, cry if you need to, Sweetie,” he mused, “It wouldn’t be any fun if you kept your cool all day.”             “Burn in hell!” you shouted, a couple tears wetting your cheeks, “Just burn in hell, you wanker!”             There was a brief silence as the man gasped in mock offense.  Your glare never left his face.             “Now, that’s no way to talk to Daddy, is it?” he questioned, making you cringe, “Bad girls/boys get punished, you know.”             “Dare I ask who you are and why you’re doing this?” your voice was low and monotone, only slightly shaky.  You always thought of yourself as a scaredy-cat, so the sound of your leveled talking shocked you.             The man hummed, “You sound too calm, still.  We can’t have Sherlock recognizing you now, can we?  I mean, he already knows who you are, and it’s not like it’d be hard for him to trace your location if he realizes it’s his precious little toy in need of her/his life saved.”             He said the last part in a cynical fashion, turning his back to you on his heel as he stood up, seemingly taking something out of his breast pocket.  You gulped.             “How do you know I’m acquainted with Sherlock?” you demanded more strongly, “Have you been watching him?  Do you want to get caught?!”             When he didn’t answer, you felt a surge of triumph.  Perhaps you unveiled what he was really after…something as simple as attention.  It was strange, but people had strange motives sometimes.  However, your feeling of ascendancy was quickly replaced with terror yet again when you saw the man turn to you with a grim expression.  In his hand, a butterfly knife.

            “Not exactly.  It would be quite thrilling, though.”

            His next move was fast.  Before you could blink, he was on one knee, his hand gripping yours to keep your leg in place.  You opened your mouth to demand what the bloody hell he was doing, but you were cut off by a yell of pain, and then you were silenced again when he clamped the hand that was on your knee over your mouth.  One of his legs pinned yours to the couch.  He had slit your thigh twice with his blade, leaving behind two large rips in your (f/c) jeans and of course, two deep lacerations that would definitely need stitches.  You shouted again and then sobbed into his hand, shaking all over despite the bomb on your chest.  You hardly felt that anymore.

            “How I wish we were in a more isolated area,” he teased, examining the blade that was now tinted with crimson, “I’d love to hear your scream once more.  You’re so, innocent, my dear.  The innocent ones always have the very best screams, no?”             He kept his hand over your mouth for a couple seconds longer before removing it, allowing you to freely bawl in agony, so that’s just what you did.  Hanging your head to hide your face, you cried as softly as you could, hands moving to grip your wounds.  Blood seeped through the cracks between your fingers.  The warm liquid dripped down the backs of your hands and gathered at the base of your wrist like a large raindrop.  You didn’t notice your attacker biting his lip.

            “Now, this is much more stimulating, isn’t it?” he asked, running the bloodied knife across your collarbones and then up the side of your neck.  Panicking, you grabbed his arm, trying to push him away with minimal effort.  You were too weak with fear and hatred to do much as he teased your skin with the weapon like one would tease with a feather.             “Now you sound just like the other bastards,” he continued murmuring to you.  You were starting to wonder if this was his way or flirting, or if he was just trying to scare you.  Either way, your stomach turned green.              “You won’t stand out like a sore thumb now.  That Sherlock will think nothing of you but a helpless, crying victim.  You’ll end up just like the others, princess/prince…a splatter of burned blood and guts on the wall!”             Knowing he would hurt you now, you continued to cry at the pain in your thigh and of the bomb crushing your chest.  You were starting to wonder how much time you had left.             As if reading your thoughts, the man once again gave you a sinister smile, pulling away but keeping the knife pressed firmly on your jaw to let you know you weren’t off the hook yet.  Your tears stopped falling and your breathing started to slow down.  This almost had you wishing you were a sobbing, shivering mess again.  This man clearly wanted you stuttering and pitiful on the phone, either for the hell of the aesthetic or to keep you anonymous.  If you got yourself together again, he might cut you again.  This time, not even on your thigh.  Is this how he got his other victims to weep?  You thought otherwise.  You weren’t just any regular girl/boy to him.  He knew Sherlock cared about you…at least somewhat.  And if he wanted attention from him [Sherlock], he would of course inflict more torture on you. 

            “Now, do you see this?” he showed you an old-fashioned cell phone screen.  There, was what he planned to have you say to Sherlock.  Shyly, you took the phone in your hands, the other moving away from the wound.  They were streaked red with drying blood.  The thought of having to lure Sherlock and Watson into danger was enough to get a couple more tears out of you.  This dreaded phone call…it was finally going to happen.             “Awww, are you afraid of talking on the phone?” he teased, “I don’t blame you.  I’m not fond of it, either.  But look at it this way: all you have to do is read exactly what’s on that screen.  I have it all written out for you.  Wasn’t that nice of me?”             “Go fuck yourself,” you sneered.             The intruder arched an eyebrow, slowly removing the knife from your jaw, to your surprise.             “You’re very brave, talking to Daddy like that,” he remarked, “but you’re also very stupid.”             Just as you were about to request that he stopped referring to himself as ‘Daddy’, you were halted by another wail of pain as he slashed the knife not across your clothed skin, but in the two wounds.  He applied such force like he was ripping open the toughest stitches, and it made your vision go red as you screamed at the top of your lungs into his hand (he had covered your mouth again).  This hurt much worse than the skin being torn, for he had broken open bare muscle, fresh vessels, and what felt like a couple nerves.  Fresh blood once again gushed from the two injuries.  They had to be at least a good inch deep.  Again, you were sobbing, much to his satisfaction. 

            “Now, I’ll give you a moment to read through the script, love,” he snapped, once again holding the blade to your neck, “and do be quiet about it.  We don’t want this party crashed so soon, do we?  We haven’t even gotten to the best part.”             This time, you opted not to say anything, but instead let your eyes land on the script as he got out the telephone he would be using to contact Sherlock.  He started dialing the number for the pink phone with one hand, never letting the blade down from your neck.              “I’m positive he’ll answer right away,” the man commented more to himself than you, “He’s always very good about that.”             You hardly heard him.  Not only were you still crying too hard, but you were too engulfed in those dreadful words, too paranoid about what Sherlock would think about you, allowing yourself to end up like this.  In the iron grip of a masochistic killer.  Would he choose not to like you anymore because of your weakness?  Would he be angry?              You continued to read, hardly understanding the meaning of any of it, but one particular word caught your attention.  Was it a typo?  It had to be, because in the place of where Sherlock’s name should have been, was the word ‘Shamrock’.  Puzzled, you scanned the sentence again.  Yes, it was definitely a mistake on this bastard’s part.  If the situation didn’t mean life or death, you would have laughed out loud.  In fact, the corners of your lips did turn up a bit amidst your tears.  Your brain was shouting at you for being so ridiculous, but you couldn’t help it.  The simple little typo was a spark of light in the darkness.

            “Do I see you smiling?”

            You jumped and frowned, startled as you looked up at the amused/frustrated sadist like he’d just asked what 2+2 is.              “Smiling, you say?  You accuse me of expressing joy with a bloody bomb strapped to my chest?!  You accuse me of grinning like a schoolgirl when Death himself is standing in the far corner of this room?!  You are insane!”             He shrugged innocently, “I’m willing to bet my life that I saw your pretty little lips turn up.  Is there a problem?”             You hesitated, about to show him the screen, “Well…there’s a-“             “Oh, don’t question anything!” he pressed the green call button and shoved the phone in your free hand.  You almost dropped it.  With blood on your palms, holding things was rather difficult.              “Read exactly what’s on the screen, little girl/boy,” he repeated, pressing the blade to your neck almost hard enough to draw blood.  You winced and squeaked.  “Just because you’re young doesn’t mean I won’t tie you down and set the bomb to go off in a couple minutes.  Long enough for me to get out clean and you to become spoiled stew.”             You inhaled sharply, hardly having room under the weight of the ticking bomb.  If you lived through this, you’d hear that ticking while trying to sleep at night.

            “Hello?”

            Oh God, you gulped at the sound of Sherlock’s voice.  He sounded as if he’s been expecting a call like this.  Not an ounce of question or surprise in his baritone voice.  You sunk your teeth into your lip and took a few deep breaths.  The captor smirked.              What the hell could you do about that fricken typo?!  This man had told you to read EXACTLY what was on the screen, didn’t he?  He hadn’t mentioned if that meant calling Sherlock ‘Shamrock’ or not, but you didn’t want to take the risk, especially since he was holding a knife to your neck.  You supposed you’d be calling Sherlock a new nickname now.  Perhaps humoring this killer wouldn’t be so bad…it would also give the detective on the other end of the line a little clue that it was you.  Your sense of humor was incredible, and could often drive people insane.  You used to be told that if you were ever kidnapped, the kidnapper would return you because of your knack for pissing people off.  But you never would have guessed that you’d actually need this humor one day.

            When you hesitated to speak at first, you felt the blade press further into your skin.  This time, blood was drawn.  You gasped and whimpered, your voice three octaves higher than it normally would be. 

            “Is there anyone there?  Tell us where you are.”

This is a Sherlock collab so here’s my addition to it:

“Hello,” You glanced at Moriarty, who was now smirking, “Shamrock.” You got through the typo flawlessly, though your heart was pounding in your chest. 

There was silence for a split second and then you heard Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath and a muttered, “He’s got her, John.” You heard a low groan of frustration, muted because John was away from the speakers, and you knew that they were coming for you.

Your code word had gotten through - Shamrock. After annoying Sherlock several weeks ago, this had become a word that would signal that you were in trouble. The fact that Moriarty knew this suggested that the flat had been bugged, and you felt a wave of anger course through your system at the invasion of privacy.

You could only hope that they would make it to you in time as you read through the rest of the script. As you did, Sherlock listened intently, unable to ask you questions or even reassure you. He wasn’t Sherlock right now, he was Detective Holmes and he would find you. 

Moriarty snagged the phone off you and snapped it shut, returning it to his pocket without looking away from you. “Very good, sweetheart. Poor Sherlock…” he cocked his head at you and smirked and stood there, watching you as your vision began to blur and fade at the edges. You felt like you were being squeezed through a too-small tunnel, your breaths coming in hard pants… you were falling, fading…

You were unconscious before you hit the floor.

You were being rocked gently from side to side, a low rumble coming from just under your head. You were being moved at a fast pace, and you realised upon opening your eyes that you were in a taxi, your head on Sherlock’s shoulder. John’s hand was on the crook of your elbow, holding you steady.

If either of the men had noticed that you were awake, neither of them addressed it, so you closed your eyes and mumbled “I love you, Shamrock,” a gentle smile coming to your lips as you felt Sherlock’s head crane to drop a kiss on the top of your head.

When you woke up again, you recognised your surroundings almost instantly after opening your eyes. You were at home in 221b. Sherlock’s Belstaff coat was draped over you, and there was a lukewarm cup of tea on the table opposite you.

Sherlock was pottering around in the kitchen with his latest experiment, and John was on his laptop, no doubt typing up the latest case on his blog. 

You stretched luxuriously, your muscles groaning in protest as the last few days caught up with you, and you gasped, jolting upright.

John put his laptop down somewhat haphazardly and stood up, coming over to you. He checked your pulse and gave you his Doctor smile, which didn’t help to put you at ease.

“What happened?” Your voice was hoarse from disuse, and you only just noticed Sherlock’s had whipped up at the sound of your voice. 

“Moriarty got away. But, you’re safe now. Just rest up. Doctor’s orders.” John gave you a tense smile and turned to Sherlock, who was now at his side.

“How do you feel, Y/N?”

“Exhausted. Achey. Bit tense.”

Sherlock nodded, his jaw flexing as he looked off to the side, his hands coming up to steeple beneath his chin.

You grinned. “Oh, he’s got his thinking cap on again. Poor Sherlick… can’t let the case go.”

John grinned, pleased to see you feeling well enough to joke around. 

Sherlock huffed, “Oh for goodness’ sake.”

Your greatest triumph came from the fact that Sherlock was too used to his poor name being abused that he didn’t retaliate anymore - he simply suffered through it so long as it only happened within the four walls that you all called home.

@deanssweetheart23

#Collab #Sherlock #submission #Moriarty #John