Chapter 8: As Cold as Stone
Moriarty cackled and looked gleefully upon his prisoner. He cracked his neck and beckoned his meatheads forward. "Bind him, gentlemen, but don't be gentle!" He giggled. Sherlock's eyes, the color of the frozen north of the planet, were colder still than that, narrow beneath the dark, beautiful lashes. Moriarty watched two of his boys lift him, then reached a hand out to smooth it through the dark curly hair he so envied. "Aww," he purred, lightly ghosting his lips against Sherlock's cheek, his forehead, his ear. Sherlock tried to bite, to tear flesh away like a starving animal, but at a signal, one of the meatheads punched him in the stomach.
Sherlock strained in the grasp of the other men, his neck thrust back, eyes tightly shut against the immense pain. From his lips came the most strangled, feral, human cry Moriarty had ever heard from the consulting detective. The criminal grinned.
"You're weak, Sherlock," he went on, looking at his nails. Seb ghosted to stand behind him, a beautiful, deadly cobra: Moriarty's own sweet pet. "You can't stand any more pain, can you?"
Sherlock's eyes rolled back into his head, his mouth gaping like a fish's. Still, he spoke in a small but still so powerful voice: "I can stand…anything you…can throw at me." He coughed. The action wracked his body and he writhed from the pain in his broken ribs.
Moriarty grinned his favorite, most malicious grin. He was sadistic, although Sherlock probably already knew that. The criminal snapped his fingers twice.
Long, iron chains were brought forward reverently, as if they were holy relics. Two of the meatheads pinned Sherlock to the wall without much effort—Moriarty had been right; Sherlock was really too weak to fight—and the chains were held up to his nose for his viewing pleasure. Seb held the back end of the chains, giving Moriarty the front. Moriarty danced forward.
"Do you know what these are, Sherlock?"
Sherlock coughed, groaned, and winced in that order. "Chains…" he breathed, "metal…alloy…"
"Wrong, but oh so right, Shirley," purred Moriarty, kissing the chains as he lovingly closed the cuffs around Sherlock's ankles and wrists, caressing each before he locked it into place. "Tungsten carbide. It's military-grade—the hardest metal in the world!" The criminal screeched, and the men around him laughed, raising their glasses, spilling beer and hard liquor over the ground and other patrons. One of the meatheads made Sherlock drink a little convulsively, but Moriarty angrily pulled with away, hitting him.
"No, no, no NO! He's got no tolerance! He'll throw up!" Moriarty bared his teeth, hissing. "Seb!"
Sebastian Moran appeared at his elbow, like the most perfect little lapdog in all the world. "Yes, sir?"
Moriarty smiled, giving Seb's ponytail an affectionate tug. "Go take care of Flanders, will you?" He inclined his head towards the meathead who had given Sherlock the beer, who was now looking sorrowful and sullen.
"Of course, Jim," Seb smiled, which was a rare sight, and pulled a pistol from his belt. The room seemed to go quiet, only the music playing in the background, as Moran shot Flanders twice in the eyes.
The man Flanders screamed, and Moriarty noted Sherlock's eyes glued to the scene, a man possessed, entranced—if unwillingly. He looked sick. As Moran finished the job, Moriarty went to soothe his doll.
"There, there, dolly," Moriarty petted Sherlock's head, all the way to his neck. "I'm sorry he hurt you. But look what I've done! My hands didn't even get dirty!" And he pulled Sherlock's head to his breast and laughed.
Over the ruckus that resumed after the shock of Flanders' death, the consulting criminal barely heard the wounded angel: "You…monster…" he wheezed.
"I know! Isn't it wonderful?" The consulting criminal praised.
"Certainly not." Sherlock lifted his head and pressed his forehead to Moriarty's. "You're a hated creature. Everyone…" he gasped, his ribs preventing proper breathing, "…they hate you, they fear you. How…is that any good?"
"It's not good," Moriarty kissed Sherlock's forehead. "Dolly, it's not good!" He reached his hand back, stepping back as if doing a Latin dance step. Moran placed a riding crop in his hand and he looked at his prize.
There was Sherlock, in an 'x' shape, chained to the wall, that delicious look of hatred and a new look of surprisingly immense pain coloring that dirty, thin face. Moriarty cracked the whip at Sherlock's chest. The consulting detective arched his back and cried out in pain. Moriarty cried out in much the same way, only gleefully and with an insane malice. He struck again, the same ritual repeated. And again. And again. And again.
Moriarty could see that pain blinded Sherlock. The great detective was as weak as a baby, putty in his hands. "Let's let everyone have a go!" He roared, raising his arms up and turning to his patrons. The men and women cheered. "Let my deadly Black Widows come forth! I know some of you can do greater harm to a man than any of us!"
Some of the men cheered as the Black Widows advanced. Moriarty looked deliciously from end to end; his beautiful little clutch of ten deadly, beautiful women, paid for sex and pain and all that is false and carnal about love and passion. Seven were trained assassins, two were young rebels, and one was an outcast. Moriarty narrowed his eyes at the one called Rose, who seemed shy about the prospect. This was the one that Mic had called his own.
Moriarty returned from the inner confines of his mind castle and raised his entire body up into the crowd. "Who shall strike while the iron is hot?" He yelled.
The meatheads all began shouting names of the girls, the assassins generally among the names.
"Let Acid have a go!"
"Shale! She'll murder him!"
"Tequila!" Shouted Mic. This started a general consensus.
"Tequila! Tequila! Tequila!" The room chanted. A bronzed, dark-haired beauty, blushing in her dark red lipstick and sleeveless dress and eagerly stepped forward. Moriarty presented her with the whip.
Tequila drew the whip up the length of Sherlock's upper body, from the groin to the mouth. Then, she whipped him across the face. There was a satisfied, maybe sympathetic 'oooooo' from the crowd. Moriarty frowned.
"Tequila!" He snapped. The woman turned, a devilish smile on her otherwise innocent face. One would not believe how many of her husbands this innocent woman had strangled—seven; she always wore their wedding rings around her neck as a necklace to prove it. Many of the girls looked up to her; she was by far the deadliest Widow—before Moriarty had found her. Regardless of her history, or perhaps because of it, Moriarty kept this deadly dancer on a tight leash. "Not the face," his voice became softer, deadlier. Even Sherlock's eyes widened; but that could be from the drink or the pain at this point. "Not the face of my poor little dolly. He scars easily—look at that skin!"
Tequila bowed low, her head to her chest. "Apologies, master." She rose to full height. "May I continue?"
"By all means, honey," Moriarty waved his hand in a gesture of reckless abandon. Seb brought him rum and he drank it down, dancing around with those who danced, laughing with those who laughed.
One by one, the Widows had a go at him. Purr and Sparkle, the young rebels, had gone. Rose was busy with Mic. Moriarty scowled. He had a feeling she felt for his dolly. There was really no harm in the stupid feelings of a woman—sometimes, they could lead to the beautiful sight of the detective torn apart (a description we will revisit later)—but the emotional ones had to be watched. Moriarty had learned of the dangers of the loose cannons Tequila and Pug—the latter though small and heavier than his other Widows had killed for the CIA before turning traitor—and did not want another…incident.
But, he was satisfied. Moriarty pulled out his mobile and snapped pics.
Sherlock was, literally, torn apart. Blood seeped from multiple wounds in great blossoming ruby pearls, spreading eagerly around every edge of his white shirt. Tears in the fabric from where the whip had torn it showed the white skin pink with wounds and bleeding all the more. Moriarty finished his pictures and called Moran to his side.
Seb came. "Yes, sir?"
"Cut him loose," Moriarty was smiling, his fingers twitching at his mouth as if looking for something to do. "Those chains weigh twice his stone. He won't be going anywhere."
"Yes, sir."
Indeed.
For when Seb cut him loose, Sherlock sank to the floor like a ragdoll, moaning softly, his chin bobbing on his chest. Moriarty cocked his head, wondering if now would be the time to offer him something to eat, to ease the ache in his (surely) starved stomach.
But then, shivering, he erased the thought of compassion and sympathy for his doll from his mind, promising never to revisit such useless emotions. He took Seb's hand. "Shall we dance?" And was soon lost in the rhythm of the song.
It is still not slash! I promise! I just thought the whole "kiss the doll" thing was so very much Moriarty.
Actually, I think he's using Seb…but I dunno. Thoughts? Feel free to take their relationship as you see fit.
Sorry for the wait! Vacation is exhausting me. Hopefully, I'll feel better again tomorrow, enough to write some more of this beautiful tragedy.-SH