Chapter 3: Brevity is the Soul of Wit
Sherlock stood before the tally marks he'd made on the wall. Between listening to Big Ben chiming and the occasional use of his mobile, he'd been able to keep track of how long he'd been here. He heard the clock strike and dutifully made another chalk line. It had been three days since Moriarty had made an appearance, making it four days altogether. Sherlock wasn't wearing his coat or his scarf to avoid accidental force-feeding, but his formal jacket was not enough to guard him against the cold draft that snuck in through the crevices in the walls. Sherlock needed to know what Moriarty was up to. He was begging for a visit from the consulting criminal.
Yes, Sherlock was bored. He had no gun to shoot at the wall and no equipment to do experiments with. He'd been forced to use the dubious toilet over the past couple days, but he always felt dirty afterwards. The first thing he wanted when he managed to get out was a shower. A chemical shower, preferably, that would burn all the impurities from his skin.
Sherlock shivered and pulled his jacket around his body. Then, he sat patiently and waited.
Big Ben had chimed thrice since he'd marked a new day, and by the dim lighting outside, that made it about five o'clock. Sherlock only looked up because there was Moriarty prancing down the steps, a platter held high in one hand. Sherlock sniffed and knew what he was to be tempted with. Chicken, stuffing, gravy, and cranberry sauce. It smelled like the American holiday Thanksgiving. Sherlock thought a holiday celebrating stuffing your face was absurd, and he wasn't exactly a fan of the food he smelled. But, eager to get Moriarty talking, he walked steadily to the front of the cell and sat down on the cold stone floor, crossing his legs.
Moriarty noticed and gave a little feminine wave. "Hey, dear Sherlock! Did you miss me?" Sherlock made no response, except to press his hands together and bend his elbows so that the nails of his thumbs were pressed against his lips. It was his thinking pose, one he used when he was deep in thought, but maybe, Sherlock hoped, Moriarty identified it differently. The consulting criminal grinned and Sherlock cheered in his head. Yes! "Hungry, dear?" Moriarty teased. And then his face fell. "Well, TOO BAD!" He yelled. Sherlock didn't even flinch.
Moriarty walked once around the small table and then sat, removing the top from the platter. Sherlock had been correct, of course, even after only using his nose. He wasn't the world's only consulting detective for nothing, after all. But he needed to find out what Moriarty's plans for London (and possibly the world) were. "That looks good," he began in what he hoped was a soft, weak voice. He didn't have to try so hard—his voice was hoarse from disuse. He purposefully licked his lips slowly, sealing the flavor of the air inside his mouth. Of course, he didn't like the food. But Sherlock was good at disguises, and therefore a good actor.
"It is," Moriarty purred, already swallowing his first bite. "I feel like I'll gain weight, dear Sherlock. I simply must stop eating so richly." Sherlock let out a groan, which had the desired effect. Moriarty giggled. "Poor baby. I'll give you a little consolation prize," and he produced another small gift basket, wrapped in pink cellophane this time. Sherlock blinked, watching Moriarty place the basket before him. Sherlock gingerly accepted the basket and opened it. Inside were two large water bottles and several decent-sized bouncy balls—the ones that children begged their parents for, that were always displayed in vending machines. Sherlock lifted one in amusement before quenching his thirst.
"You should make your water last, dear," Moriarty sang, muffling a burp. "I won't be giving you more for quite some time!"
Sherlock put the bottle down and went back to staring at his nemesis' food. He made sure to follow every movement of the fork religiously, as if it were interesting, and remembered to lick his lips and sometimes moan softly when Moriarty bit into the turkey. He hoped that portraying weakness flawlessly would entice his nemesis to talk conversationally. Moriarty was noisy and loved to hear himself talk, similar to Sherlock's ego. He knew that Moriarty wasn't about to go spilling his plans to his nemesis. The consulting criminal was far too smart for that. But now a weak and hungry Sherlock…that was a different story. A Sherlock transfixed by food. Too transfixed to listen properly. Sherlock cheered inside his head when Moriarty took a long drink of wine and began to talk.
"I'll be hosting a party," he began, sickeningly happy. "All the criminals in my network are invited. Of course, only a few will show up, but those are the real V.I.P.s, Sherlock." Moriarty bent to Sherlock's level. The consulting detective had the good sense to jump, as if he was surprised that another person existed in the room. "Believe me. We're going to have a great time!" Moriarty cackled and left, the remains of his food sitting out, probably designed to force Sherlock to sit in front of the bars.
Sherlock remained where he was, eyeing the room for cameras or other surveillance equipment. Finding none, he rose to his feet and began absently bouncing one of the balls he'd been given. A party with the 'V.I.P.' criminals of London? Oooh, this he had to see!