You worked for Jim Moriarty. An accomplice.

After one of your plans was sabotaged by Sherlock Holmes, you were the only one captured. The great detective had tracked you down, outwitted your team, and unraveled the entire scheme. Now, as he stood before you, he eagerly explained his deductions—how he uncovered the plan, where it would unfold, and every step that led to your capture. As if you cared.

Dr. John Watson, ever the moral authority, was already talking about how you’d be locked away in Scotland Yard for years. But Sherlock merely tutted, waving him off.

"I have something far worse… for the likes of you," he said with a smirk.

And that is how you found yourself cuffed to a gas pipe in 221B Baker Street, London.

At first, it didn’t seem like punishment. Then, you realized—Sherlock Holmes was insufferable. When he wasn’t working on a case, he had to do something else.

For hours, he played the violin, staring at you blankly. Sometimes, he’d switch to discordant, ear-piercing notes just to see if you’d flinch. The air reeked of formaldehyde and chemicals from his experiments. Gladstone, his dog, panted happily beside you—when he wasn’t humping your leg.

Sleep was impossible. Holmes fired his gun at the wall just because.

Now, Sherlock Holmes, with his dark curls, warm brown eyes, and infuriating smirk, was pacing the room in nothing but a robe, leaping from one subject to another. Most infuriatingly, he questioned you—not because he needed answers, but because he enjoyed irritating you.

“So what is it, then? Money? Power? Daddy issues?” He tilts his head, mocking. “Moriarty’s pension plan is rather generous, I hear.” He pulled his robe a little tighter, before looking at you.