[Anyone wants to continue this with me as Jim - or Seb - or both - let me know.]
“Shh, baby, I know it hurts.”
Jim stroked gently over John’s trembling cheek as the small blogger stared up at him with hateful, fearful eyes. He had been tied here for two days now, leather cuffs around his wrists, almost tight enough (but not quite) to stop the blood flow, keeping him bound to a metal table. His ankles, as well, and his throat, his forehead, his hips, all were strapped down quite securely. They’d left him his pants, which was, John supposed, a small thing to be grateful for.
Sebastian, meanwhile, was carving some new shape into his legs. Digging the blade nice and far into the muscle of his calf as John refused to scream, clenching his teeth so hard they were squeaking with the pressure, and as Jim Moriarty held his hand, and stroked his cheek, and brushed back his hair.
“This can all go away, you know,” he whispered softly. “All of this, he’ll stop at just a word from me.” Sebastian started a new cut and John’s face went white; Jim clucked and brushed a gentle, manicured hand along his hairline. “Shh, pet, I know, I know, it hurts so. Just tell me where our dear Sherlock is, my little blogger, and I’ll let you go free.”