Jim sighed, flicking the knife over Sherlock’s chest again and making another shallow, but painful, cut.
“You know it was sweet at first, but your stubbornness is getting dull,” he muttered, making zigzag lacerations over the pale flesh. “I’m being nice, you know, giving you the personal treatment. I could always get Sebastian in here, he’s not as - how should I put it - gentle.”
Sherlock gritted his teeth. It had been two days, and by this point he was too weak to fight back with scathing remarks. He stayed silent.
“Perhaps I should try the doctor, or at least bring him in here. I bet it’d break his quaint little heart to see you all bloodied up,” Jim continued, rubbing his thumb over one of the cuts and looking at the blood. “He doesn’t understand how much better you look with a few marks.”
“Don’t,” Sherlock said hurriedly, his voice ragged from dehydration and pain.
“Oh, so you’ll talk for him! That’s sickeningly loyal,” he smirked, “And here I was thinking John Watson was the dog.” Another cut, this time over his stomach. Jim grinned at him maliciously, pushing a thumb into the wound and laughing aloud at Sherlock’s muffled sob of pain.
“Don’t cry, Sherly,” he cooed in a sing-song voice, “I won’t let you get really hurt. Well, that is, I won’t if you answer Daddy’s questions.”
Sherlock bit his lip, fighting back a scream at the next series of furious little cuts to his abdomen. As he felt himself blacking out, he looked up at the maniacal mirth in Jim’s expression and hoped that John, at least, was ok.
((Hope you liked it, feel free to send prompts, headcannon questions and general spam my way))