221B Baker St.

The Cost

A/N Just a warning, this chapter is a bit intense, probably considered mature. I tried not to get too graphic, but I can never hold back it seems when describing blood. You might find it upsetting, and it was certainly hard to write. That is my disclaimer. Enjoy, or don't. 

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When I opened my eyes, I immediately closed them again. A lamp was shining directly into my eyes, similar to interrogations done by cops on tv. My head ached, no, my whole body ached. There were thick, scratchy ropes binding me to the metal chair by my wrists and ankles. 

"Good, you're awake," a terrible Irish accent came from somewhere in front of me. A chair creaked and groaned somewhere in the vicinity. Heavy footsteps dragged across the floor to my right. I was unequivocally outnumbered. "Open those pretty eyes, sweet heart."

I stubbornly kept them shut, assuming an air of annoyance. "Tell me five good reasons why I should do that, Moriarty."

He snickered, and muttered to someone else, "Told you she was clever."

Someone stepped towards me. "Now, sweet heart, we can't have you disobeying plain directions." I heard metal click to my left, and felt the cold metal tip of a gun press against my temple. "Open your eyes."

I pressed my mouth into a thin line. He growled. "Do it!"

I couldn't help it, my mouth was curving into a steadfast smirk. "I will shoot!" He said it so close to my head, I could feel his breath irritating the hairs in and around my ear. 

"No, you won't," I stated, miraculously keeping my voice steady. 

"And why is that, sweet heart?" I could sense the frustration, but also the fear. My assumption was correct.

"Because, there are two probable reasons for my being tied up with you. You want information, or you want bait for Sherlock. And killing me would defeat the purpose of both," I ground my teeth together, expecting an answer.  

The response I received, however, was  more cold metal, this time sharp, being pressed against my throat. "True enough, but we can still put you through a whole world of pain."

-

It was too long before they left. Too long before they stopped yelling at me. Too long before they stopped cutting into my skin.

But finally they were done, or bored, I didn't care which. I listened to Moriarty's foot steps trail away; listened to the slow, forceful rhythm of my pulse. I felt the tantalizing lethargic trail of blood make its way down my arms, legs, and face. 

I inhaled sharply, blinked rapidly, and wiggled around in my hard metal chair. My wrists burned where the coarse rope cut into the newly raw skin. My legs were no longer bound; when I extended them my shoes brushed against wood, presumably a table.

As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I could see the illuminated outline of the room's singular door to my left. My mind went straight to escape. There was no way to use my hands, but maybe...

I planted my feet firmly on the ground, and leaned forward, trying to stand. To my great satisfaction, the chair was not secured to the ground. I stumbled to my feet, a shot of adrenaline coursing through me as I realize I hadn't regained full circulation in my lower appendages. The decision was too fast for my muddled brain to process, and before I knew it, I was crashing to the ground. 

I winced profoundly. My face was pressed into the ground, as well as my knees and chest. I had taken a hard fall right to the cranium. I stayed still for a moment, watching stars dance before my eyes. 

I could feel that some of my cuts had reopened, but I hoped that there were no new wounds. Considering that the chair was the light weight it was, I was able to roll onto my side. A sigh of relief shuddered through me as the weight was shifted off of me. An icy feeling spread through my hands, the numbness, and I tried to think. Someone surely heard the noise, so it would only be a matter of time until Moriarty was back. 

I wiggled around again. I still couldn't move, and my hands would become damaged by the restricted blood flow.  

Suddenly, the door flew open behind me, I could hear the foot steps. I could just barely register that the person was alone before a gloved hand was clamped over my mouth. I gasped, trying to get a look at the person. Then something clicked in my convoluted brain. I inhaled again. I knew that smell. It was just how Sherlock smelled. 

I couldn't think as my chair was righted, and Sherlock began untie my hands. "Ivy, I'm so sorry! It took me too long..." I felt the strain of tears, brought on my his heartbroken, soothing words. I had kept up an emotional barricade as long as they had been present, but as soon as I heard Sherlock's voice... something crumbled in my brain, and the tears poured out. As soon as my hands were free I brought them in front of me and began flexing my fingers, trying to bring some feeling into them as I sniffled. Sherlock stepped around the chair so that he was facing me, muttering his apologies all along the way. "I never should have left you alone..." his hand stilled against my cheek, only one finger wiping away the blood. His averted gaze raised to meet mine. "I am so sorry for all the harm I've caused you."

I stared into his dark brown eyes for a moment, relaxing in the familiarity of his face, and processing the evident grief upon those sharp, attractive features. With a gasp I started to lean in, but quickly caught myself and flinched away, mortified by my slip up. 

"Ivy," his voice was soft, yet thick with emotion. I cautiously brought my gaze back to him. Then he did a totally unexpected thing. 

Sherlock Holmes leaned in, bringing his face very close to my bloody one, and ever so gently brushed his lips against mine.