W. Sherlock S. Holmes

The change was noted with a furrowing of David’s brows. Toys this strong didn’t break this easily. It simply didn’t happen. His cold gaze shifted up the man’s limp form to his face. He was distracted, perhaps by the pain, perhaps by substitution, perhaps by withdrawal. For now, he didn’t have time to deal with it. He would simply have to train it out later. For now, he needed to get the man out of here and into a more secure location. The phone in hand was put to use as his other began patting the lanky form down, emptying his pockets. Everything was put in a neat little pile to the side. “I need a car and situation… 12 at 221 Baker Street, London within the next five minutes… Good lad.”

When Sherlock felt his pockets being emptied, he was snapped out of his mind palace rather abruptly. He growled at the man, trying to reach for his phone, but to no prevail. Maybe Mycroft still had cameras in 221B? Hopefully, for once, he was being watched by his brother. A situation 12? What's a situation 12? He snarled once more, tugging at his bonds. "I'll have you killed."

David landed one final hit, hissing softly when a knuckle banged against Sherlock’s pelvis and shaking out his hand. “Again. Louder. More respect. I have a general rule, when you’re permitted to speak, it is to be respectful, articulate, and truthful. Not too much to ask.” As he instructed the man, a phone was pulled from his pocket and focused upon. “The sooner you learn your place, the easier things will be, understood?”

Sherlock held back a cry as he felt the man's knuckle hitting his pelvis. He was going to be strong. John would want him to be strong. Maybe, just maybe, if he focused out on what was actually happening, and imagined that he was somewhere else, it would help. So, Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut as he hopped from room to room of his mind palace, trying to find something that would help. He then happened upon John - one of the many times the man was part of his mind palace. Then, and only then, did the mind palace Sherlock drop to his knees, and the real Sherlock relax his position, speaking somewhat clearly, "I'm sorry, Master. I wronged."

He shrugged, smiling a little. “You might not care about it, but you’ve felt it. Unless you’re, for lack of a better word, numb.” Turning back to the loo, he frowned. How long does one need to take a piss? He realized that Sherlock had said something else, and he glanced at the other man in amusement. “You’re a stiff inside a bar. I think that counts as you letting loose, Sherlock. Or do you have a different definition for the word?”

"Numb is a good word to describe myself… I haven't thought of it before, though. Thank you," he nodded once, locking his hands behind his back as he, too, glanced in the same direction Sebastian had. Stupid case. I'd like to go home. "Well…" Sherlock started, and then, his brow crinkled. "Stiff? I am not a stiff…!" he huffed. "I'm here because of a - with a friend. I told you that already. I wouldn't be here if he didn't have to come here."

Defiant. Remier drew a sort of euphoria watching the defiance die within the most stubborn of his conquests. When thinking back upon what his pets once were, spitting and snarling, then looking at what they had become… The most hard-headed were the highest of conquests. However, he couldn’t show such euphoria to such a low being which had been chosen as his plaything. Instead, he sighed. “Sherlock, I’d really rather not be forced to keep you in constant pain, but if you continue insisting upon it I’ll have no choice but to oblige.” To prove his point, David curled a set of fingers into a tight fist and slammed it without warning into the man’s gut. “We’ll stop when you apologise properly.” Another hit. Another. Slowly but surely moving down a scrap at a time.

I'm already in constant pain, don't you see that? If you don't, you must be some sort of idiot... oh, wait, you are an idiot. Sherlock was doing his best to catch his breath, blue eyes slipping shut. And, then, as soon as he'd nearly returned his breathing pattern and heart rate to normal, a strong fist connected with his gut, pushing all of the air out of his lungs, and Sherlock to dive into a coughing fit. No. No, I won't. I've felt a gunshot. I've felt so much worse than your fists. But he couldn't think of the pain that his body would be in from a second hit to his crotch, as he was still throbbing from the first one. So, after what he counted as five hits, most likely more, he choked out. "I'm sorry... I'm sorry... Master."

"I’m not joking, sweetheart. Trust me, you’d be having a little more fun and there’d be a little more blood on the ground if I were joking.” The criminal’s eyes rolled, Sherlock certainly was testy today. It was almost adorable. “Yes, yes, I can see that. But it should be easier now that I’ve fixed that little mishap of yours.” Shrugging his shoulders, Moriarty stepped back, “I was only trying to help, darling. It’s not often I aid in solving a crime rather than causing one, but watching you flounder around a misplaced connection really wouldn’t be much fun.”

"Don't. Call me that," Sherlock nearly growled, his hands shaking somewhat. He was not about to allow himself to be pushed around by Moriarty. "Neither of those. Now, shut up, or leave. I'm trying to figure this out, if it wasn't obvious before," he spoke, pacing around the living room, muttering to himself. "How could he have thrown me off? There was an obvious point of murder, and that's not it."

For Elly, based on this ask

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Bill took a seat and laid out the pictures.  “In Ireland, 10 years ago, my best friend Theodore Durin and his two nephews took a work party to excavate an ancient site called Erebor. Ted’s father and grandfather had been excavating it when he was at uni and they were both murdered. Ted was obsessed with the site and returned there in 2004. He and his nephews were murdered as well. Some of the locals are fairly certain that a man named Sam Drake is somehow involved, but everyone that’s tried to investigate has been severely injured or run off the site.” His hazel eyes held Sherlock’s gaze, determinedly. “I want to catch the bastard who killed my friend, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock occasionally nodded to show Mr. Baggins that he was paying attention, although his eyes were completely out of focus. He was seeing the different options, different clues, different situations. "Has anyone seen this Mr. Drake? Or do they have some form of address?" he asked, gazing down at the smaller man. "Yes, I understand that. Though you're rather passionate about it."

"We only found out about each other recently. I was adopted as a baby and lived in New York until a couple years ago. My name is Bill Baggins." the professor replied as he reached into his coat pocket to produce some photographs. "Shall I tell you a bit about the case?"

"Well, pleasure to meet you, Mr. Baggins," Sherlock nodded, sitting down in his chair and crossing his legs. "Of course. Sit, if you'd like. It would be much more convenient, especially if your case is truly as interesting as it sounds."

"It is if you’d like to catch a murderer who’s gone free for 15 years." Bill replied, his arms folded over his chest. "My brother John said you could help me, provided the case is interesting enough for you."

"You've caught my attention..." Sherlock replied, looking over at the man, his brow crinkling. "You're John's brother? The resemblance is obvious, you look nearly identical, but... John never told me that he had a brother. Only a sister."