Chapter 2: Only Fools Run at Midnight
Sherlock sat up as if he'd had a nightmare, his heart pounding. He had, in fact, had a nightmare of sorts. Luckily, only part of it appeared to be true and the others were still alive.
The first thing Sherlock noticed was a gift basket in the front of the cell. It was wrapped in red cellophane, the contents thus obscured. Sherlock peered—he had to, for it was still dark, and he guessed it was about five in the morning—trying to see if Moriarty was here. No such luck. His nemesis apparently wasn't here. He couldn't keep so quiet for long, anyway, Sherlock thought, swinging his legs around and getting up. He brushed himself off and worked out kinks in his knees and back from the weird and frankly uncomfortable way he'd slept. Then, he walked cautiously towards the gift basket.
After deciding it was not a bomb, he knelt down and read the tag. My dear Sherlock, I left you some creature comforts. Feel free to use them. XOXO, JM. Sherlock discovered that there was a flap built into the bottom of his cell so he could get at the small basket and bring it through. Interesting. He made a mental note of that as he took the offered gift. He opened the cellophane, nearly going deaf from the sound (it was so quiet, Sherlock thought he could hear his own breath), and looked inside.
The contents included a brush (a woman's, but Sherlock needed that kind anyway because of his thick curls), a travel-size toothbrush and regular sized toothpaste (indicating that Moriarty intended to keep him longer than a week, which was about how long travel-sized toothpaste lasted), and a box of orange juice (a common feature at school lunches). Sherlock brushed his teeth and combed his hair, but not before checking for toxins, and then turned his attention to the juice. He shook it lightly and opened it to smell it. It looked, smelled, and tasted like real orange juice, if not horrid quality. Sherlock didn't really like orange juice, unless he was sick and John made him drink it, in which case, it reminded him of being sick, and even the little sip he'd taken of it made him feel queasy. The orange juice went ignored. Sherlock returned the gift basket and cellophane without thinking (actually, to be more precise, he shoved it out of the flap with his foot) and paced about his cell.
He counted three spider webs in different corners, small crevices where bugs came and went in the base of the walls, and a piece of chalk (education quality—thin and white, used by teachers, not street chalk and not a toy) which interested him most of all. He made a line on one of the dark bricks that made up the wall, deciding that the place was drafty but not damp, as a way of keeping track. In roughly half an hour, he'd have been here twenty-four hours.
Sherlock yawned, bored. He lay down on the makeshift bed and took out his mobile, studying it. The battery was at full strength and would probably last for about fifteen days if he didn't try to connect to the Internet or use his GPS. As Moriarty had told him, he had absolutely no service. Sherlock was tempted to access the Internet out of boredom, or check his GPS to see where he was. Wait…that was worth losing battery life for! Sherlock accessed his GPS…but he could get no satellite to connect to him, no matter how hard he tried. Sherlock shut off his phone in frustration and thrust it in his coat pocket. Damn.
Sherlock sat heavily on his rickety bed and put his head in his hands. He ruffled his long, pale fingers through his curls and tried to think. The murders seemed to have no connection or hints on the surface that could've led to this. James Moriarty (he preferred "Jim," which meant he loved the feel of familiarity though he commanded respect) had simply threatened him randomly. Was the randomness planned, or was it truly…random? Sherlock's head spun in dizzy circles and he couldn't quite concentrate. Just as he was about to turn around to sit upside down to make the blood flow better (perfect for retrieving information, horrible if you happen to have been eating very little for several days) when a siren startled him.
Curiosity killed the Sherlock. The consulting detective leapt agilely up onto the bed and stood on tiptoe, however painful it was on the balls of his feet (in dress shoes, the position pinches horribly), to see out. He saw an ambulance and several police cars go by. He identified London police cars, but didn't see the driver. Hm. So they were still in London, then. But where in London…?
"Sherlock!" The voice almost gave Sherlock enough of a fright to fall off the bed, but he managed to descend much like a graceful, thin black alley cat from a tree branch or windowsill or anywhere else that cats enjoyed perching. Sherlock relished the thought that he looked rather catlike, and had the sudden, unexplained urge to lick the back of his hand and blamed it instantly on lack of sleep.
But he certainly was baring claws, so to speak. It was Moriarty. Predictably. And something that smelled delicious. "Hope you don't mind my intrusion," Moriarty grinned, setting down the fancy tray down at the table (table? Since when was there a table? Sherlock took mental notes with frantic eyes: collapsible, easily hidden, picnic style; suggested convenience and familiarity both. What was he up to? Sherlock was back to staring down his nemesis by now) and turning back to Sherlock. "I was just going to have some lunch when I thought, 'oh'!" And he popped up on his toes like a child. " 'I must join Sherlock!' So," Moriarty sat down in the chair (chair? Since when was there a chair? Was he really slipping? Sherlock wanted to beat himself up and bite at his wrists—a habit he'd picked up as a frustrated teen in a big city and one which John hated immensely) and opened the platter. Sherlock understood the smell. Oh. Lunch.
And lunch it was. Hot, buttery pasta with little flecks of basil in it. Sherlock felt himself drawn to the dish—he loved, loved, adored pasta—but kept his hunger and his tongue (it was threatening to appear) in check. However, he did lift his wrist and bit at it angrily, trying to focus.
"Here I am," Moriarty continued, tucking a napkin at his neck (he was wearing a handsome business suit) and digging through the curly pasta with a fork.
Despite having an iron will during a case and a general ability to turn down food, Sherlock was mortal. Oh. Sherlock was saved from his (dangerous) thoughts and his mind turned from his (half-starved) stomach with whip-like speed. "Mortal" was the key word. Moriarty had misquoted him, but had said it correctly: he was not an angel. He was a mortal man who, though with iron will and extreme stubbornness (perhaps a hint of anorexia mixed in, no doctors were really sure and Sherlock himself didn't like to think so), could hunger. And would die of starvation eventually. Sherlock got it. And his eyebrows raised. "You're going to starve me," he mused.
Moriarty paused in his eating (he'd been eating the pasta slowly, almost sexually, if you wanted to think in those terms) to clap his hands gleefully and turn around in his chair so that he was facing Sherlock head-on. "Yes! You've figured it out! Oh good! Tell me, how am I doing so far?" He leaned forward in mock interest. Sherlock removed his gloves testily and pocketed his hands. "Did I hit a spot in you? Is pasta good? Do you like pasta?"
Sherlock did like pasta, as we have said. Although he preferred just a touch of Parmesan on top, Moriarty had got the recipe just right. And it was tempting our poor, hungry consulting detective. But Sherlock stilled himself against it and turned up his nose, biting his tongue to keep it inside his mouth where it belonged. Because for God's sake…he was practically on a case.
Moriarty chuckled, and for a second, Sherlock was afraid his ruse had been spotted. But his nemesis simply went back to eating happily. Sherlock stared at the disgusting toilet for a while, and that sort of put his appetite in its place. Then, he went back and lay down on his bed and curled up, facing the wall. His great coat flowed off the side of the board like a waterfall. He needed to get Moriarty talking, find out what other plans he had in store, because his hunger would get no easier to deal with. He'd been chasing murders since breakfast yesterday, and had been preoccupied, so in two days and a half, he'd eaten nothing but half a slice of toast, despite John's usual worrying. "Sherlock! You need to eat something more than half a slice of toast!" For once, Sherlock almost (hungrily) wished he'd listened. He could sense Moriarty watching him, so he rolled off the bed and went to the edge of the bars.
"I got your little care package," he said in a low voice that was neither hostile nor friendly.
"Oh good!" Moriarty tried to grasp the lapels of Sherlock's coat, but the detective pulled away sharply. "Did you like it?"
"Actually, yes," Sherlock purred, letting his voice go soft. He was testing his nemesis, trying to see if he'd fall into his trap. The consulting detective felt like a long legged, lanky spider, and indeed looked like one, ice blue eyes intent on the kill. "I do so love my appearance."
Moriarty laughed. "But, do you like the pasta, Sherlock?"
So they were back to that again. Sherlock figured that was probably the point, if Moriarty was intending to take him down by going through his stomach. But he feigned disgust and turned up his nose. "No, actually. I don't like pasta." Part of him was screaming: Lies! All lies! But he wasn't playing around with John in the flat anymore, and lie he had to.
Suddenly, before Sherlock could register, Moriarty grabbed Sherlock by the scarf and pulled him to the edge of the bars. While the detective was stunned, Moriarty shoved something slimy and warm into his mouth, following it with his fingers. As a reflex, Sherlock swallowed, and felt too late the warm slimy thing travelling down his throat. Moriarty let him free as he coughed, trying to bring whatever it was back up. "What did you feed me?" Sherlock snarled, his ice blue eyes as cold as they could ever get.
Moriarty giggled. "Don't worry, Shirley. It wasn't poisoned."
"What. Was. It?" Sherlock growled, baring his teeth.
Moriarty raised an eyebrow, clucking his tongue. "Testy, testy. It was just a noodle."
Noodle? Sherlock rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth. Besides the faint taste of Moriarty's fingers (all buttery from the pasta, don't make me gag), Sherlock could indeed taste noodle. While immediately he wanted more, as his body was sort of cued this way towards food, he turned away.
"Ahh," Moriarty smiled. "I knew you wouldn't be so easy! Well, we'll try again in a little while, and maybe I'll get to break you then. How does that sound?"
Sherlock tore off his scarf off and threw it aside in frustration. Moriarty left, taking the pasta with him. The detective heard his light footsteps ascending the stairs. Good.
The detective shrugged out of his coat and laid it flat on his bed. Then, he situated himself so that he could sit upside down. And then, he let the blood rush to his head as he did what he did best: let the facts add themselves up in his head.