Chapter 5: Weather the Storm
Fourteen days.
Fourteen long days without food. Oh, sure, the tally marks said thirteen. But then of course, Sherlock was an idiot, apparently, because he knew it had been fourteen days since he'd eaten. The tally marks said thirteen. Now, why was that?
It was how many days he'd been in captivity! Stupid, stupid! Sherlock pulled at his hair angrily and threw his discarded jacket across the room. He was slipping. He hated it when his brain was slow!
Sherlock knew he was irritable. He also knew that he was extremely tired, weak, and hungry. He hadn't even had the strength to move from his languid position on the floor since this morning, when he'd marked another tally. He'd been dizzy from the effort and had wound up on the floor, watching shadows play across the ceiling. His stomach had long since lost the ability to growl (since the stomach's growling is actually digestion of remaining food, and it takes eight days for reserve stores to be used up, Sherlock had nothing in his stomach to make it growl), but he found it still ached with emptiness, and chose to remind him with weak knees and trembling arms.
Sherlock unbuttoned two buttons on his shirt and then let his hands fall to rest by his side. He felt restless and exhausted all at once, and it annoyed him that his body seemed at war with itself. After all, the body was nothing but transport! He'd long ago discovered how to deal with it. He'd trimmed it down to a lithe, roughly 11 stone frame that was light enough to traipse through London and dash about catching criminals. He was an accomplished boxer, too, despite his weight, and could easily defeat people outside his own weight class. Of course, many a doctor had told him he was underweight, but he'd always brushed it off. He was only a stone from what was considered healthy. That gave him room to breathe if he wanted to treat himself (which, with Mrs. Hudson just downstairs, seemed to happen quite a bit). No, Sherlock didn't give a damn about his body. As long as his brain was in top form, that's all that mattered.
Of course, right now he could barely move. For six days, he'd been in a weakened state, always hiding in the shadows when Moriarty's men drifted in and out of the basement. Moriarty hadn't been down to dine in a while, which made Sherlock worry for London's safety. He needed to know what the consulting criminal was up to, even if that meant being tormented by food.
Thankfully, he got what he was wishing for.
Although Sherlock had been drifting in and out of consciousness, he guessed it was around teatime when he heard footsteps descending the stairs, humming coming with it. Sherlock immediately recognized Moriarty's voice and the smell of roast lamb. He sat up from his position on the floor and stood up. He was wobbly on his feet and could barely walk the few steps to the wall, which he used as a guide to walk to the front of the cell. Everything went black for a few seconds and Sherlock panicked before he realized he'd blacked out. He closed his eyes, bowing his head, and waited a bit. Upon testing his eyes again, he discovered he could see and gripped the bars at the front of the cell to pull himself into an upright standing position. Through blurred vision, he could see that Moriarty was watching him.
"Sherlock!" Moriarty purred, setting his dinner down on the table—an entire roast lamb! Oh! Sherlock's mouth began to water uncontrollably—and prancing over to the bars. "I haven't seen you in ages!" He smiled in that weird, serpentine way. "I didn't forget about you, don't worry. But I was just so preoccupied planning this party! It takes a lot to be a good host, but you wouldn't know that, would you, dear?" He crossed his arms over his chest, frowning. Sherlock watched him, his eyes hazy from starvation, hands gripping the bars firmly for support, his entire body trembling as if he was experiencing an earthquake. "I've barely had time to eat!" Moriarty exclaimed, pouting as he pressed a hand to his stomach dramatically. Sherlock heard the criminal's stomach give a faint grumble and bared his teeth, an animalistic sound passing his lips.
Moriarty laughed. "Well, well! Testy, are we? You simply must mind your manners, Sherlock, or mummy will take away your dessert!" He sat down before his roast lamb and cut into it with deliberate slowness, taking small bites, chewing and swallowing meditatively before beginning the ritual again. "I hope you don't mind if I eat, Sherlock," Moriarty went on between bites. "I simply haven't had time for a decent dinner of late and I'm starving!" And he made a somewhat orgasmic sound of pleasure as he bit into the tender meat.
Sherlock almost lost it at Moriarty's casual use of the word 'starving.' He wanted to tackle Moriarty to the ground, pin him by the shoulders, maybe dislocate one for good measure, press all his weight against the man, use him as a chair, and devour the meat. Sherlock pressed his forehead against one of the bars and closed his eyes as he imagined what the meat might taste like. Lamb meat was soft and tender and juicy. Gravy all over it would increase the flavor. Sherlock imagined it might be good alongside some delicious cooked pumpkin or sweet potatoes. He moaned, his empty stomach paining him so completely that he could barely breathe. He was finally forced to wrap his arms around his stomach, groaning, and fell to the floor painfully, almost hitting his head against the toilet.
Moriarty had jumped, startled at the noise his prisoner was making, but for his part, he recovered quickly, growling in disgust at the state his nemesis was in, all curled up on the floor, whimpering like a little baby. This wouldn't do! And the guests were due in two hours! Moriarty shrieked: "Get up! Get up at once, you bloody doll!" And he kicked him through the bars. "Get up! You're such a bloody drama queen, Sherlock!" When the kicking didn't seem to work, Moriarty turned to words instead. "My guests will arrive in two hours. I suggest you get some rest," Moriarty cackled, secretly delighted at the state of his worst enemy. "You'll need it to mingle with my friends!" And he went traipsing up the stairs, leaving the roast lamb within reach of his prisoner.
Sherlock groaned and sat up, the world spinning around him. Fourteen days was the limit for most human beings before the worst effects of starvation and eventually death set in, but Sherlock figured he had another few days. He was no normal human being, after all. His stomach hurt badly, the pain constantly shooting up his spine each time he moved. What was Moriarty planning?
Sherlock stood, raising himself to his feet in slow degrees. He sort of shuffled over to his coat and collapsed again, relishing in the smell of the wool. He rolled over onto his back and decided to assess the damage his imprisonment had done. It would at least allow him a moment's peace from the pains in his stomach.
He raised his dominant hand up and closed his eyes peacefully, almost at rest. He was ready to engage his brain at full capacity. He lightly touched his curls with his fingertips. His hair was starting to get greasy because he hadn't the chance to wash it in a while, and the curls were sticking together. He touched his forehead. Nothing much to say about this area, except that on occasion, he was sensitive to light. Sherlock touched his eyes and nose. He could smell the roast lamb, but kept his mind off his hunger for now. He knew his eyes had bags under them; he would've sworn on his mummy's grave that he could feel them, all purple and bruise-like under his eyes. He moved past his lips, trembling and moist, and traveled carefully down his neck, down to his chest.
His heart beat steadily, calm and quiet, if not maybe a little panicked. Why had he lost so much control? Was hunger really driving him to the insanity so many claimed he already had? He passed his chest and gasped when he touched his ribcage. Ouch. Breathing like that pained him, if only slightly. Hmn. Interesting. Sherlock traced the lines of his ribs with his fingers, closing his eyes and moaning softly. He could almost imagine the concerned look on John's face, which would be present when they found him. How it would destroy John to see Sherlock thin and weak and vulnerable. And hungry because yes, well, we can't leave that out, can we?
"John," Sherlock murmured, the name of his friend soft on his lips. And then, it became a mantra. "John." Sherlock sat up. He had to survive. "John." He stood, ignoring the pain in his legs and chest and stomach telling him he shouldn't do that. "John." He made a conscious effort to fix his appearance, clean his face, bring it slowly back from his suffering to the familiar mask of the consulting detective of 221B Baker Street. "John." Because John was waiting for him. And there was no way John needed to see him like this.
Sherlock stretched lazily, fixed his clothes, and stood elegantly before the thirteen tally marks on the wall, waiting eagerly for the coming storm.
Long time coming, wasn't it? My mind kept switching between fluff and angst, so that's where I was…My mind palace. Oh yes.
Do enjoy. There should be more well on the way!