Chapter 4: Where the Bee Sucks

It was three more days before anything of interest happened. Three days that were long and tiresome and boring. These three days were not as easy for our consulting detective as the others before them because he was beginning to feel hunger pangs.

It was the middle of the third day, about. At the end of today, Sherlock would be in captivity seven days and would have been without food for eight. It would be nine, if not for the half a slice of toast he'd eaten at breakfast that day so long ago. Sherlock shook his head. If his mind was getting poetic, he knew he had a problem. He needed something to occupy his mind, to drive it firmly away from the uncomfortable feeling of emptiness and ache in his stomach.

He thought back to the first murder. A woman about thirty years of age was killed in a bakery. (Sherlock's mind filled with images of freshly baked bread—he pushed it away). Her husband owned a small delicatessen (Sherlock's brain gave him a beautiful image of a delicious-looking sandwich—and again, he pushed firmly past it), and he was the prime suspect. The woman's twin sister who owned a bakery was presumed a co-conspirator. Sherlock allowed himself to consider the bakery. It was a small place, family-owned until the deceased had married, well-known for their fabulous pastries, including Bakewell tarts.

Mmmm…Bakewell tarts. Sherlock groaned and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. This wasn't an act. He was sitting on what had become his bed, leaning against the chains that suspended it, his legs stretched out as far as they would go. His stomach was growling now, a sound that wasn't foreign to Sherlock, but often went ignored because of a case. Although never, never had Sherlock heard it at volume. Sherlock wet his lips, thinking of home sweet home in Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson was a good baker. She'd been an aunt to her sister's children, and thus had learned skills in the kitchen to entertain the little ones. But, with her nieces and nephews grown, John and Sherlock were the only ones left to appreciate her delicious works of art. Sherlock didn't know how John felt about Mrs. Hudson's pastries, but he couldn't resist them! Or, at least, half the time. The other half of the time, he was on a case.

Sherlock draped his long arms languidly across his midsection as he pictured his home. 221B Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson made the best Bakewell tarts in all of London! Sherlock's perfect photographic memory allowed him to visualize her small, white fridge. His mind indulged him by opening the door to see what was there. Some assorted juices in cartons and leftovers in neat little Tupperware containers, lots of baking supplies, some medicine for her hip chilling near the butter and eggs. But what caught the attention of his mind's eye was the perfect little assortment of homemade Bakewell tarts set out on a neat little platter, calling to him.

Sherlock unconsciously opened his mouth as his mind's eye, apparently as hungry as he was, reached out to grab one. Sherlock was so (delusional? Ecstatic? Dazed? Dreamy? Hungry?), he could feel the weight of the tart in his hand, the sharp coolness it had from being in the fridge. That didn't matter. The cold only improved the taste. He could almost feel it go into his mouth, could taste perfectly the flaky, golden crust, the sweet jam, the soft fondant spread over the top—! Sherlock closed his mouth and let out a sigh as he swallowed his imaginary meal, his stomach rumbling away like a motor.

All right, he admitted it. Sherlock readjusted himself against the chain and finally pressed both hands against his midsection. He was hungry. No, after that little mental exercise, he was starving. Having the ability to absorb facts, feelings, tastes, smells, all that was a curse in this situation. Sherlock's tongue slipped out of his mouth and slicked around his lips repeatedly, as if trying to lick away the crumbs from the tart. He'd never felt so hungry in all his life, and it was beginning to take a toll on him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pulled his knees towards his chest. A little sleep would do him some good, and probably take his mind off his stomach for a while. But Sherlock couldn't sleep. He didn't need sleep. No, food was what he needed. Sherlock pulled his thin hands up to his face and hid inside them, frustrated, his eyelashes tickling his palms as he blinked, surrounded by darkness. He realized faintly that another feeling had accompanied the thoughts of his home in 221B Baker Street.

Loneliness. Sherlock felt that a deep hole had opened in his chest and everything inside was seeping out. He was crushed by this feeling, which wet his eyes and churned his stomach and made his head throb painfully.

Homesickness. Yes, he missed the mundane activity of 221B. He missed John and Mrs. Hudson. He missed his soft, comfy bed. He missed the familiar wall and his armchair and his dressing gown and nicotine patches and the soft couch and his laptop and solving cases for Lestrade and his experiments. Everything. Sherlock wondered if Scotland Yard had learned anything useful about his whereabouts. They had to be looking—John saw him get captured, anyhow.

Sherlock forced himself to get up and walk around a bit. Cataloging the weakness in his legs was a good enough diversion and as he paced, he began to think freely. All the murders had happened in places where food was sold or made. The first murder had been in a bakery, the second in a rundown sandwich shop, the third in a fancy restaurant, and so on. Sherlock remembered the effect that the setting of the first murder had on him—he'd been able to imagine bread, and facts from the case led to his fantasy tart. Moriarty had committed these murders for a reason. So, he had planned to capture and starve Sherlock, and had thought (quite correctly, Sherlock was loathe to admit) that the settings would later drive Sherlock's hunger up the wall.

But Sherlock, starved as he was, was not about to be beaten so easily. He tightened his belt a notch and then sat down under his tally marks on the ground. He pulled a bouncy ball from his pocket and began absently playing catch with himself, thinking, with the soft sound of the ball bouncing as background noise. He began humming to himself, and realized with some amazement that it was a tune Mrs. Hudson hummed while she baked.

Sherlock caught the ball and his body became limp against the wall. A draft blew through him, and he shivered, hugging himself in an attempt to keep warm. His shirt, jacket, and pants had become loose during his time imprisoned, which didn't help matters. Sherlock grit his teeth. He was really trying to force himself to be battle-ready, to be the great consulting detective he was, to push past hunger as if it was nothing.

But even the great Sherlock Holmes, a master at starving himself, couldn't go hungry forever. Sherlock reached for one of the water bottles and took a long drink. The water sloshed uncomfortably in his stomach as he shifted, but it was better than being horribly empty. Feeling sleepy from boredom, Sherlock was about to doze off when footsteps alerted him.

Sherlock forced himself to his feet, dizzy from the swiftness of his movements, and listened hard, leaning against the prison wall until the shaking in his legs dissipated. There were two sets of footsteps, one belonging to a pair of ladies' heels. The other footsteps were thick and heavy. Neither of these were Moriarty, unless the consulting criminal had taken a liking to drag. Sherlock giggled into his hand, a little drunk from his hunger. It was an amusing mental image: Jim Moriarty with makeup, a dress, and heels.

What appeared from the stairs were two people who obviously worked for Moriarty. The woman looked like a prostitute: hair wild, face made-up so that she looked something like a clown, lipstick an appalling shade of red, barely wearing clothes, heels an uncomfortable height (how did women walk in those?). She was a brunette, but not a natural one. Sherlock thought that perhaps she had been a blonde once, but he couldn't be sure. He pushed himself away from the wall and gave a once-over of the man.

The thug who accompanied the woman was a hefty man with thick, muscular arms. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how the obviously obese man (about as tall as Moriarty, maybe a head shorter) kept the muscles he had on his arms. His clothes were sweaty and filthy, a tank top and jeans. The white shirt had sweat stains and grease from some recent meal. The man was balding, also, and had the general look of thugs in action movies: unintelligence and brute strength.

Sherlock felt smug in spite of himself. Weak as he was, his brain was obviously still in top-form. If all of Moriarty's thugs were all brawn and no brains, he would be a cinch to beat.

"Are you comin to the party, Rose?" The thug asked the woman.

"I'm not so sure. Jim invited me, but it all seems so violent," the woman called Rose purred, her voice soft and sexy.

The thug gently took her chin in his hands. "It'll be fun, baby," and he pressed his lips against hers. Sherlock felt the need to draw attention to his presence, but fought the urge incase the exchange could benefit him. "Mr. Moriarty's gonna let us play with his little doll."

"Oooh," Rose pulled away from the thug, much to his disgust. "Is the little doll here, Mic? I want to see him!" She giggled, looking into the cell. Sherlock sank soundlessly into the shadows to avoid being seen. "Jim's been talking volumes about the dark-haired dolly! I wonder if he's down here!"

"Stupid whore," the thug Mic punched the girl across the face. Sherlock frowned, for despite his disgust for whores and his general dislike of the so-called fairer sex, he believed women didn't deserve such harsh treatment. Again, he wanted to speak up, but kept his emotions in check. He was slipping by degrees, and had to focus on what was really important: information. "Of course he's here! You think Mr. Moriarty woulda let 'im out? He'da scaped for sure."

Rose rounded on him, scowling. "You're not supposed to hit me, Mic. One of these days, I'll tell Jim, and he'll have your head!" She ran a hand through her hair. "I wonder if the little doll could use some entertainment…"

Mic roughly grabbed Rose's arm. "You're mine, Rose! You hear me? Till I get tired a ya, you're mine and mine only! Don't get any ideas bout playing with Mr. Moriarty's doll. It aint worth it anyhows."

Rose looked hurt. "Jim said he was gonna let his doll out to play at the party."

"Probly just to show off his dolly. Don't get too attached, Rose, I warn ya."

"Oh, go fuck yourself, Mic." Rose replied affectionately. "I want to talk to the dolly alone. You're scaring him."

Mic growled. "Oh alright. Five minutes, Rose, five, then ya meet me and we get busy, eh?" He kissed her one last time and left, his feet heavy upon the stairs.

Once he was gone, Rose came towards the bars. "Are you in there, dolly? Don't be frightened, I won't hurt you."

Sherlock despised being talked to like a pet, but he wanted information and was going to have to deal with it. Apparently, Jim was calling him 'his doll.' Disgusting. The consulting detective flowed out of the shadows, all ten and a half stone of him a perfect lanky figure. He supposed that he looked even more imposing now that his cheeks were sunken and his eyes had bags under them from too many restless nights and poor nutrition. He glared at the prostitute with evident distaste as he walked closer to the edge of the cell. He waited until he was close enough to converse, but at a safe distance, before answering her. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he snapped bitterly, "and I am not a doll."

"Aww, certainly not," Rose's thin fingers with claw-like red nails reached through the bars and brushed against Sherlock's chest. "You look more like a zombie or vampire. Poor thing. He isn't feeding you, is he?" Sherlock didn't answer that, and let Rose's fingers close against his lapels, bringing him closer to the edge of the cell. "Poor, poor baby doll. You don't look well."

"You were talking about the party," Sherlock softened his voice, gently prying the girl's fingers from his jacket, feeling her jump at his cold, bony grip. He hoped that kindness would be met with kindness and, eventually, information. Sherlock was capable of being patient, and he was glad to employ his skills to pump this girl for information. "Are you going to come?"

Rose blushed, and Sherlock sensed an opening. "Well, I wasn't going to. I worry about treading water in Jim's business."

"Please come," Sherlock pulled out a high, desperate tick in his voice. More than capable of acting the victim, he hoped that he'd detected right and the girl was drawn to weaker men. "I don't know anyone in Moriarty's network and I'm tired. It would be nice to see at least one familiar face."

Rose smiled sweetly and Sherlock had to suppress a grin. She'd walked right into his trap. Said the spider to the fly... "I—I don't know if I can do anything for you, doll," she reached up to touch his face and he let her, even closing his eyes for a moment against her warmth. He parted his lips just so when her fingers fell down his cheek and brushed against his neck and when he opened his eyes, he caught a glimpse of dilated pupils. Great. Sherlock would play the victim forever to be able to use this girl all he wanted. "But if you really want me there, I will come."

"Please," Sherlock ventured to touch her back, his cold hand resting fleetingly on her cheek. She sighed longingly and this time, Sherlock couldn't suppress a grin of superiority. He'd won. He had her exactly where he wanted her. Oh, the spider would have a feast tonight! "I'd be happy if I saw you, even if you couldn't help me. But maybe you can tell me—you said Ji—Moriarty—was going to let me out. To what end?" He was careful to keep his voice innocent, throwing in a touch of sadness and defeat, lest she be smart enough to recognize his manipulation. Women of her particular line of work can almost always sense when they are being used.

Rose giggled, obviously flattered. How many girls had been chosen by 'Moriarty's doll?' It was something to be proud of, certainly. She could brag about it among her circle for weeks on end! (And yes, Sherlock read all that from a giggle). "Well, I'm sure I don't know. I'm sure Mic is right. He just wants to show you off. He's happy, you know. He's very intrigued by you."

Ready to tear me apart, I suspect. No, it can't be just to show me off. Moriarty's too clever for that. It has to be to make a point of some kind… Sherlock didn't realize he was biting his lower lip as he thought until Rose questioned it. "No, no, I'm fine," he reassured her, touching her cheek again with deliberate gentleness. "I'm not feeling too well, as you can imagine."

Rose clicked her tongue. "Poor, poor baby doll."

"Perhaps you can tell me," Sherlock leaned closer against the bars, in order to get closer to Rose, "what kind of criminals will be in attendance?"

"Jim invited all of the leaders of his network in London. Seb will probably be in attendance."

"Seb?"

"Sebastian Moran. Jim's right-hand man and the closest he's got to a best friend."

"Ah." Sherlock absorbed the information like a sponge. "One more question, dear, and then I'll let you go. I wouldn't want that pretty face of yours to be hurt by that ghastly man." Sentiment. The words choked him like a thick glob of honey had worked its way into his windpipe, but it was worth it to see Rose's face light up. Sherlock did feel a little better at her expression, because he really did believe that she deserved better than to be hit. After all, Sherlock was cold and oblivious…but he was not entirely incapable of caring and sympathy. "Are there more like you? Not that I'm interested," he added at her frown, "I'm simply curious."

Rose smiled, taking his hand a moment. "Yeah there are. Most of the bosses and some of the thugs employ Jim's girls. He calls us his 'Black Widows'."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Black Widows, huh? Interesting. "Thank you, Rose. You've been most helpful." He realized too late that his voice was thick velvet; a tone that sounded like the venomous Moriarty. But Rose didn't seem to catch it.

"You're welcome, doll." Rose blew him a kiss. "See you." And she walked up the stairs again.

Sherlock waited until she'd gone and then leaped into the air in triumph. He still didn't know much about this party of criminals, but with a friend on the inside, he had the upper hand already.

Exhausted from his performance, Sherlock laid his great coat on the cold ground and lay stretched out, staring at the ceiling. It didn't take long, however, for fatigue to drag him into the darkness of sleep.