Chapter 6: Burn it to the Ground

The party was just beginning.

Sherlock was alerted from his half-awake state to the noises of human beings. He could pick out very few individual voices because of the noise, but none he recognized, though he knew there were enough to stuff the tiny basement to the brim.

Stuff. Oh God. How I'd love to—!

"Right this way, my beauties! That's right! Watch your step, my dear!" Lots of giggling, from one voice he could pick out miles underwater.

Moriarty.

Focus, Sherlock. And he did. The man straightened, strode to the center of the cell, hands behind his back, waiting. He wished the suit jacket fit him snugly again. He hated being weighed down by clothes. The looseness of the shirt was bad enough.

Moriarty, dressed more casually in a black tee shirt and dark blue jeans, hair combed and styled to perfection, a red and blue striped tie loose around his neck, led the procession. The men in attendance were all burly thugs, some of heavier build and others of leaner build. One looked very much like Moriarty's body type, if a few inches taller. He looked like a rock singer, Sherlock thought. He was thin and only lightly muscled, wearing some band's logo with a suit jacket overtop, black jeans and long blonde hair tied in a ponytail completing the look. By the way he clung to Moriarty, this must be Sebastian Moran. Sherlock also noticed that a group of "Black Widows" followed behind the men, giggling amongst themselves like women did. They were all dressed in black dresses of different styles, all wearing bright red lipstick and false lashes. Sherlock picked out Rose in the crowd of ladies, chatting with two blondes. He peered among the men and spotted Mic, dressed no differently than before.

Moriarty plugged an iPod into a small stereo system and the small basement flooded with music. "Enjoy yourselves!" Moriarty shouted over the music. "I'm going to let out my dolly!" He lifted a set of jailer's keys and jingled them, earning him a roar of laughter and applause from the thugs and soft clapping from the Widows. Sherlock only retreated further into his cell, preferring the coming darkness to any party of criminals thrown by Moriarty. Sherlock eyed Moran setting up a crude bar in the back of the basement towards the stereo.

Moriarty put the key into the lock and fidgeted with it a moment. "Dolly," he purred, lifting his dangerous dark eyes, his voice projected over the music. "Come."

Sherlock stood his ground, glaring daggers at Moriarty. It was one thing to be caged like an animal and starved like a war prisoner, but it was quite another to be called like a common housecat! Sherlock straightened his body out completely, making it a singular line, standing at his full height, using it to his advantage against the consulting criminal.

Moriarty pouted. "Aw, Dolly doesn't wanna come play?" He cooed, the tone very much like a pet owner to the domesticated animal. What was it called? "Baby talk," yes. Sherlock only scowled.

Jim Moriarty's lips parted, revealing a sadistic, demonic smile. "Oh, Seb?" He called lightly and with great affection. This puzzled Sherlock's overactive mind for a second: were they lovers?

Moran ghosted to stand beside Moriarty, his face blank, solemn, and silent. "Yes, Jim?"

Sherlock raised a very curious eyebrow. Oh. How many of Moriarty's subordinates got the pleasure of calling him by his first name? That meant little, of course, but one could always wonder.

"Turn down the music a little." Moriarty unlocked the cell with a flick of his wrist and pushed aside the cell door with the ease of a well-seasoned actor pushing aside the red curtain to take the stage. "I want to have a chat with my dolly."

"Yes, sir." Moran melted without expression into the crowd. A moment later, the music became nothing more than a dull background noise, about as loud as the muted sounds of the London nightlife outside.

Moriarty, however, was advancing towards Sherlock. The consulting detective forced himself to stand his ground, though he didn't like where this was going in the least. He liked being in control. He hated when people invaded his personal space. The party guests had stopped conversing amongst themselves and were all watching him.

"Well?" Moriarty began, his voice almost hysterical in its glee. "What are you waiting for? Aren't you going to—?" And he tilted his head slightly, stopping his sashaying about a foot from Sherlock.

"Aren't I going to what?" Sherlock snapped bitterly, undoing the buttons on his suit jacket casually.

"Try to run away, of course!" Moriarty cried, laughing as if someone had just told him a marvelous joke. "I won't try to stop you, you know. I won't follow you. You can run all the way back home, crying to your little pet," He smirked when Sherlock grit his teeth. "I won't bother you. I've got guests to entertain!" He spun around once, smiling like a dancer in the spotlight, arms outstretched, indicating his posse, which cheered at being recognized before falling back into silence. "You'll be free, Sherlock. My pretty, pretty doll," Moriarty dared to reach a hand out to touch Sherlock's cheek, but the taller man dodged the touch like a bullet. "If you can, that is." Moriarty cackled, stepped aside.

Sherlock stood puzzled. It had to be a trap. There had to be some catch, some show Moriarty was waiting for. Was it Sherlock's utter humiliation and being unable to move? Or something completely different?

What Sherlock liked—admired, in fact—about the consulting criminal was that he had the ability to surprise him. Sherlock had high respect for anyone who could knock him off his high horse and send him spiraling down into confusion. Of course, right now, that wasn't such a good thing.

Completely at the mercy of the consulting criminal, to the tune of what he thought might've been "tonight I'm loving you," Sherlock walked calmly out of his cell. As he crossed the threshold between his cell and the rest of the basement, though, the thugs flooded his personal space. Sherlock had been expecting the trap, so he remained calm, removed his jacket, tossed it behind him into the cell.

"I'd like you to meet the Meatheads!" Moriarty sang, dancing over to a towering man—bigger, more muscular, and about six inches taller than Sherlock—and patting his powerful arms. "I love my Meatheads!" Moriarty giggled, passing closer to Sherlock. "They'll outsmart you, Sherlock." Sherlock was getting sick of the criminal saying his name. It was like Moriarty tainted it somehow each time it passed his lips. "Just you wait. Oh, my doll" he poked at Sherlock's chest repeatedly, "you're a wee bit tired and a wee bit hungry, and honey, you're getting slow. Anyone with a primary school degree could get the best of you!"

Sherlock growled and took a swing at Moriarty. Instead, somehow, he connected with a thug's shoulder. The short, heavier man grinned lopsidedly and dealt him a severe blow to the stomach. Sherlock reeled, coughing weakly, his breathing harsh and ragged. Ow. Owowow fuck why did it hurt so much? Sherlock raised himself from his curled position, only to see another punch flying at him. Sherlock dodged this one, though, dancing away from it. But he couldn't see everywhere at once, and a kick connected with the back of his knees, buckling them and sending him flying forward. Another punch to the chin knocked him back like a punching bag. Sherlock ducked a high kick and threw a right jab at the face of one of the thugs. Another lunged at him, but Sherlock dodged, only to be kicked hard in the back. Sherlock groaned, but elbowed the man standing behind him, karate-chopping another in the neck.

All the while, the other thugs jeered and shouted encouragement and praise, urging their buddies on. The women could not be heard, but Moriarty was laughing loudly.

"Give 'im your left jab, Frank!"

"Atta boy, Smithers!"

"Make 'im bleed!"

"I got 'im!"

Sherlock tensed, realizing he was being held by the tall thug. He was strong, and Sherlock was too weak to get free. His arms were pulled painfully behind him, resting under the other man's arms, his legs flailing wildly, looking for purchase.

"Let me go, you uneducated piece of shit!" Sherlock shouted, turning his head to the side and biting down hard on the wrist that held him fast. It took a few minutes and all of Sherlock's jaw strength, but the man finally let him free, shaking his injured hand. Sherlock had no time to feel victorious, however, for another man tackled him to the ground, pinning him by the shoulders, throwing punches. Sherlock dodged some, but other connected. His head was beginning to spin from the confusion and his weak, malnourished, possibly sick body was not going to be able to take much more of this. He kicked the other man off him and was pulled to his feet by none other than a laughing Moriarty.

The consulting criminal pulled his arm back and punched Sherlock in the face. Sherlock reeled, his nose bleeding from the punch. He tried to punch Moriarty again, but something hit him like a truck and smashed him into the wall. Sherlock counted three thugs, including Mic, who were punching, kicking, screaming, spitting at anything they could reach while a forth held him against the wall.

By now, Sherlock was far too weak to fight. His body was limp and felt a lot like melted ice. It was all Sherlock could do to tilt his head from time to time to keep from getting a concussion from the repeated punishment. He had never been so tired or so completely exhausted in all his life. He could barely breathe from all the pain coursing through his body and his insides ached, his muscles screaming at him, his stomach nearly vibrating in his chest as it tried, in vain, to provide nutrients—energy—to his body so he could continue to fight like his brain was telling him to.

"That's enough." Moriarty commanded.

Sherlock was let free. The consulting detective fell to the cold, stone floor with a thud and a tired moan. He tried to make himself get up, to fight some more, but the soft pressure of a foot kept him lying there, facedown and beaten, on the ground. The foot was not exerting a lot of force, but Sherlock couldn't fight it. He had to come to terms with himself: he was just too feeble.

"Did you have fun, dolly?" Moriarty's face was in Sherlock's in half a second, grinning. In response, Sherlock spit in his face. Moriarty cried out in surprise and drew away. The foot on his back exerted more force now, enough to crack a rib or two, the ailing bones much too fragile, and Sherlock found himself sobbing from the pain.

Moriarty clicked his tongue. "Tsk, tsk! Naughty little dolly. I was going to let you rest before Round Two, but…" He chuckled, bending down by Sherlock's ear, his breath hot on the sensitive organ. "You're just not tender enough for my taste."