Author notes: So sorry for the long delay. This one's a bit more extensive than the others.
CHAPTER 5: THE TRIAL (Part 5)
In short, it all could summarize with Sherlock needing to find a way to be able to get his whole of consulting detective being out of the mess he had created for himself. The faster, the better. Preferably before morning came, as then was the time in which the criminal had chosen for him to meet his punishment head-on. If he could only just think.
He closed his leaden eyelids and took a cleansing breath. His form went back to its previous position facing the wall, as he tried to ignore everything that was awaiting for him behind his back. And it really couldn't be more obvious, even if he had it written all over his forehead, that he was afraid. Afraid of what Moriarty was going to do to make sure he burned. Afraid to think he was semi-abandoned since someone had yet to show up; and afraid of the fact that he was near a tipping point in which the small plastic bag was starting to sound outstandingly appealing. The first two were easy to tune out. The latter, however, was a much greater threat; because when Sherlock so arrogantly and eloquently said it would be tremendously ambitious of someone to try to kill him, he was not lying. The self-same detective was one of the few who had that skill. And self-destructive behavior was not a concept unknown to him, nor was it unpracticed.
The day John; brave, sometimes stupid John, shoot the cabbie to save his life he never explained why he did it, and the boffin never asked, nor he ever really felt like he had to. In some way, somehow, John had seen the greatest threat and gotten rid of its cause before Sherlock could advance on his purposes. And as if it were already imprinted in his DNA, the blogger recognized danger when he saw it. The doctor was probably unaware of the real reasons for which he did what he did, and for which he sacrificed so much so quickly. But Sherlock, brilliant Sherlock, knew them, and had perused them over and over in his head like a learnt by heart poem. Because he was aware that John had unconsciously realized what the biggest menace had been. Not the dubious pill, nor the vigilant cabbie. And had, consequentially, proceeded to eliminate its nearest catalyst. He shoot the other man, yes; but he saved the boffin from someone far more dangerous: himself. "Because you're an idiot".
Staring at the wall in front, the detective just knew he needed to elaborate a plan which would stop Moriarty from proceeding with his plan, or at least stall him a bit. Maybe something inside his Mind Palace would help. He arranged his long limbs and took on his thinking posture. Hands coming to stipple under his chin and slowly closed his eyes at the outside reality to sink in the familiarity of his own universe.
He walked through a long corridor, which twisted left, then right, and then left again; until finally stopping at a Cul-de-sac like hall. Several rooms rowed rounding the circle. He ignored the first three, and went inside the one next to a door with "Tobacco ash" written in it. He knew he shouldn't really be there, he had avoided that chamber for a reason, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Once inside, he started rummaging all the boxes, and stacks of papers. Hoping to find anything useful amongst the chaos. Usually his mind was tidy and organized at the worst, but this was one of those three rooms he never allowed himself to explore, for they contained things he had tried to delete but couldn't. After all this was done, and he was safe and sound at Baker Street, he will have to put a new lock on the items inside these chambers, since they somehow seemed to be leaking out; like that horrid incident with Pandora's box.
He opened a cabinet and got a yellow file from it. He traced his fingers through the inscription, labeled "Bart's Roof". Even though these pages contained useful information about Moriarty and his battle tactics, they were written with what the boffin called "sentiment ink", every bit of data was dripping with it. And that was not only inconvenient, but difficult too. He skimmed through the words and recognized them instantly.
On the side of the angels...You always want everything to be clever...You think you can make me do that?...As long as I'm alive, you can save your friends...You're just getting that now?...All the king's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to...Good luck with that.
Remembering that conversation always left him with a void inside his chest. An empty tree of dread just growing and twisting its roots, and branches, and twigs completely tuning out anything else. In that rooftop was one of the first times he really doubted he would ever win. The plan was already set up, yes; and he had been confident it would work, certain nobody would know about his faked suicide. He would fool Moriarty, and he would fool his entire network. He would fool his acquaintances, his fans, the whole world, just as the great magician he always was. Because it was ever just that: a magic trick. A deceit, a ruse, a deception, a decoy, an illusion, a fraud. A deception so sophisticatedly foreseen which left no room for doubt, or suspicion. Not for anyone. And no-one would ever see through it, because he would be gone, and when he returned, anyone who would object wouldn't be able to know. But, by going, by hiding and running, he would desert a life, leave people behind with no guarantee of ever welcoming him back. And even though it was worth it, out-witting Moriarty, hardly felt like a victory at all.
Of course, now that he was back, now that the bastard had returned too, it seemed like it all had almost been in vain. He supposed he did weaken the criminal web Jim had woven, and shook up the spider a bit when he took down his next in command. But, up to now, he had no reliable data in whether that would have a positive or negative influence in the situation at which he found himself then, for the criminal was already dangerous before, God knows what he could do when feeling vengeful.
The file did not end there. It kept going, telling the story long after the criminal supposedly shot himself in the head, and he was "forced" to jump. The detective had stood there looking down. Keeping someone at a preferable area so his plan could work. Talking false words to a phone to have the person on the other line believe him. He had to have the precise distance in which he would have a witness without blowing his cover, the exact words so said observer would act accordingly with a role he wasn't even aware he was playing. And it really sickened Sherlock, having to do all those things, to calculate all those variables just so he could die. Because he shouldn't, he wasn't supposed to strive just so he could lie to John Watson.
The detective fell, and with it, whatever tiny belief he could ever have about miracles. It almost sort of felt like a relief, to come down rippling through the air. Because falling wasn't actually, in and of itself, awful. The pain would only come whenever he hit that air mattress, and harsh reality would let him crash against its hard self. Not physical pain, but one that he knew to be more deadly, not only for him, but for many a people more. His bones wouldn't break, and his heart wouldn't stop beating, however, he was not falling alone, he was dragging down someone with him. And he somehow knew, that his suicide would not just "end" him, but it would kill them both.
As he laid on the ground, and heard someone shout for him. A clever hand working its way towards his wrist searching for a pulse, for any indicator that his world wasn't crashing down right in front of his eyes, Sherlock felt the touch singe his skin with guilt and shame. Because they would never question it, never even conjure up the possibility of it probably being a ruse. Because he would never do that to them, would he? He would never be such an arsehole. The detective smiled grimly at the fact that he had managed to out-do himself once again.
Because he couldn't resist participating in the psychopath's games, after all it was child's play, right? He couldn't stop himself from fanning those flames with the incorrect belief that he wouldn't get burned. All because he chose to believe falling was just like flying.
He closed the folder, and shoved it across the room. Every action he decided to make was less favorable than the last. He had given everything he had, and he still have no answer as to how to defeat the horrible monster that would soon be striding in the room on the outside world beyond his mind palace. Many would open their stupid big mouths and comment that Sherlock had no direct obligation to stop him; he was not part of the army, ready to lay down their life for common good, neither was he the police, nor the government -even if he seemed to surround himself with their company- and he had no actual responsibility or duty to fulfill in taking him down.
But everyone seemed to fail at remembering that even though Moriarty had killed, and arranged crimes long before himself was in business, he was the one who released the beast. It was him who gave the maniac something to fight against. Something to defeat, and made the world interesting. The world could be so dull if you had no contender to leave in the dust. And a consulting detective was all it was needed for a consulting criminal to feel like he should raise up his game. Make it big, and monstrous, and elegant; just so his enemy would know with who he was messing. He couldn't deny it, the psychopath's schemes had, admittedly, been scrumptious for the detective at first, so delicious they made him want to lick his fingers. However, once he realized the hostages were not arbitrary anymore, reality hit him like a bullet through the head. The moment Jim had his sniper trained on a semtex-vest wearing John, the games ceased to be amusing.
The flying file crashed against the wall and landed on top of a small chest. And no matter how hard he tried to remember, Sherlock had never before seen that coffer, let alone he recalled putting something inside it. He strode over and slowly kneeled on the worn-out carpet in front of it. The wood was carved perfectly, and as he traced his fingertips through the surface the material felt smooth beneath them. A soft knock corroborated what the detective had already deduced. The Chest could be soft but it was in now way fragile or empty. Standing there, sturdy, menacing and unknown from its corner at the, otherwise familiar, chamber. The lock was efficiently closed and in its bottom there was a teeny-tiny hole in which a key would go and opened it easily. The only problem was that the musician did not have the key, and he doubted he would come across it easily inside his extensive space of information. Nevertheless, the case rumbled and vibrated when touched, and whatever it was that was inside there, it wanted out, and regrettably, the boffin couldn't even fathom why.
He took out his tools and began picking the lock. He had not even the slight idea if forcing an entry would even succeed inside his own brain, but it couldn't hurt to try. After a few minutes, the detective was actually taken aback to realize it was working, the tumblers already giving way to the cleverly handled tools.
He was not expecting it, it caught him unguarded. Not even the fact that he always left on eye open to reality when in a state of vulnerability, could make him anticipate what happened next. Just when Sherlock was about to unbolt it, a banging of a door on the outside stopped him in his tracks, clammed shut the lock, and violently dragged the detective out from his mind residence and back into the real world.
He felt as if he had been tossed from one dimension unto another. And the designer leather shoes he saw when he opened his eyes after having lost his balance and stumbled to the floor, made him curse at his luck that whichever demented parallel universe in which he found himself just had to have a consulting criminal waiting for him. "You can and have run from everything Sherlock." A voice coming from his own head whispered -sounding suspiciously like none other than his big brother- "But here's one thing you can't out-run." And it figures that even as a product of his own imagination, Mycroft was always right, the git. He had to face this head-on, and just hope that all his denied prayers wouldn't fall on deaf ears.
"Well, my dear. Daddy's home!" Jim shouted over-enthusiastically. Stuffing his hands on his pockets to appear calm in spite of the palpable giddiness on his speech. "I do believe is time for me to end what we started, don't you think?" He questioned, and everyone knew he wasn't expecting an answer. "It's your last chance to prove to me how not-boring you are, sinner man." he knelt and looked the detective straight in the eye. "And hope it is reason enough for me to spare you." A wicked lopsided grin already manically forming across his wicked face. He regarded him one last time, and then stood up. "It's time for you to show me your value, Sherlock" Then he shouted to thin air: "Turn the music up, boys!"
-"Oh, sinner man, where you gonna run to? All on that day?"-