Chapter 11: Stiffen the Sinews
From his place on the floor, behind closed eyes, Sherlock calculated.
He calculated that, due to Moriarty's evident but not complete suffering from a hand-over, he'd now been in captivity fifteen days and starved for sixteen. He calculated that besides two broken ribs, the whip wounds on his chest and cheek, and the lasting fatigue from both blood loss and starvation, he was sound in body and mind. Naturally, that didn't leave him going anywhere fast because of the weight of the chains, but he let that small fact pass to keep his chin up.
And anyway, the chains were getting easier to manage. The problem was that, even on his six-foot-seven-inch frame, the chains dragged two feet behind him, like the train on a wedding dress. To amend the previous statement, the ones on his feet dragged two feet behind him. The annoying thing about the chains attached to his wrists was that the chain hung down to his knees, making it hard to maneuver his hands. He had to do an ungainly version of one-legged skip-rope to sort himself out properly. Then, the chains were easily managed.
He didn't walk much anymore, simply because it weakened him so much to do so. He spent the passing days (three more will pass before we move on) lying on his makeshift bed drifting in and out of consciousness, trying to think and failing. Sometimes, he could feel the dull ache of hunger prick him through like a dagger had stabbed his midsection, and sometimes everything in his body was numb and he felt nothing, so that he had to pinch himself to re-orient his body.
After three days of oblivion had passed (eighteen days in captivity, nineteen days starved), he retreated completely into his mind palace. He visualized the great library, where all his knowledge was stored like a computer's hard drive. He pulled out the John Watson file for a moment and let it lecture him on his failing health and the hallucinations that were going on behind his eyelids. (This is something a better-fed Sherlock would look back upon and feel mortified about.) Naturally, Sherlock didn't care he was going insane. Which should've sent off warning bells in his head, but whatever, right?
It was Jim Moriarty we have to thank for bringing our Sherlock back from the edge of a famine-induced permanent dream world. Well, Jim Moriarty…and Bakewell tarts.
Another day had passed. So, nineteen days in captivity, twenty days starved, then, for those of us keeping track. Sherlock had forced himself to sit up just moments ago and was now massaging his temples with his long, bony fingers, trying to dispel the headache that was now plaguing him, when his oversensitive ears heard a deafening noise.
Sherlock cried out in pain, for after days of being in relative silence, even the softest noise sounded like the front row of a rock concert. He covered his ears with his hands and shut his eyes tight, whimpering as he was reduced to a thin, bony bundle in the fetal position on the floor.
It didn't take long for Sherlock's ears to adjust, and he sat up sheepishly on the floor, his chains rattling as he fixed his hair and untucked his shirt from his pants. Of course, his pants weren't doing all that great of a job holding his shirt in place, not to mention the smallest loop on his belt was too big, and essentially, his hips held his pants in place, but still it was a small comfort. He paid no attention to Moriarty, who was humming, setting up a white lace tablecloth on the table for one and dusting off the chair with a handkerchief.
The consulting detective tried to walk tall and without any pain or suffering evident in his stride, but he looked a bit like a newborn foal as he navigated unsteadily towards where he'd put his toothbrush and toothpaste. He brushed his teeth (after admittedly neglecting his hygiene for four days) and combed his hair. He sighed, knowing he must stink to high heaven right about now. He wanted a shower. And deodorant would be nice, too. At least I could eat it if I got desperate, he thought. And then, he scolded himself: Stupid! Stupid! for even thinking about eating something that had no nutritional value whatsoever and would probably make him sick.
Now, he paid some attention to Moriarty. With a detached, selfish air not uncommon in Sherlock's repertoire but played up even more due to the carelessness of the starved, he watched his nemesis set up a small platter. The silver obscured it from view, and Sherlock could only distinguish jam as a smell and so had no clue what it was. Moriarty turned his chair around so he was facing Sherlock who, by now, was resting calmly against the bars, his chains clinking merrily against the iron bars.
"I realize we rushed things a bit," Moriarty said coolly, his fingers playing over the surface of the silver. "I asked you to join me, without even telling you how much fun it is to work against the law!" He giggled. "You'd never have to share credit, Sherlock. All your work would be your own. You could write about it any way you want." Moriarty combed a flyaway with his finger, using the unsteady reflective surface of the silver as a makeshift mirror.
Sherlock's guard went up so fast, the change in mannerism actually made him dizzy. He laughed to himself between his fingers as he realized that to be stroppy took energy—energy he didn't quite have but sort of made room for anyway—and then crossed one ankle over the other, rested his arms overtop one another, and leaned all his weight against the bars in this fashion, his back almost a ninety degree angle. He alternated between lifting his head and resting his chin upon his arms, and thought about Moriarty's words. He didn't consider the proposition, but he did note how tempting it would've sounded…had Moriarty got to him before John. Because John, his best friend, was worth any sacrifice. Now, the proposition sounded ridiculous, and his mental lingering upon the subject was only to form a smart-alec response. Which he voiced in a determined, commanding voice heavy with sarcasm and wit: "Tempting, really, Moriarty. Sounds wonderful, but I think I'll keep my cards."
"Oh, I'm far from done!" Moriarty folded his hands on his knee. "You see, Sherlock, you'd get your very own lab, complete with everything you'd need to do your experiments. You'd also get to be free,"
The words that came after this hit Sherlock home. He narrowed his eyes and listened intently.
"The first thing you'd get to do would be to choose your method of assassination for all those pretty little pets you keep. All those people you know you don't care for. Because, in the end, you're like me, Sherlock." He smiled. "You're like your brother, now he's got the right idea. The Ice Man." He leaned back, victorious like a well-fed snake, that reptilian face aflame. "Because there's something wrong, something weak about those who care too much, don't you think? It makes it hard to be logical, right? Can't you feel it, clouding your judgment?" He giggled, and Sherlock felt he had to snap.
"That's a lie!"
"Is it?" Moriarty asked, an amused, hysterical uptick in his voice. "Sherlock, we wouldn't be in this position if you didn't care so much about your little lapdog doctor, oh no. You'd be back home in your flat, sipping tea, eating dinner, which I can see you're in desperate need of, Sherlock. Dolly." Sherlock bared his teeth in a sneer. "You know it's true. Surely I don't have to spell it out for you. And, once we shake on this beautiful little deal," Moriarty removed the top from the platter, and Sherlock nearly melted at the sight. "You'll get these tasty little beauties. Then, we'll feed you up properly and you and I, Sherlock, will burn this city!"
A little known fact is that what clouds Sherlock Holmes' judgment more than the so-called "weak" care he has for his little "family," if you will, is his stomach. Oh, sure, when he's on the case, nothing will distract him. He can't count the number of times John has munched away on a full meal in front of him while his brain works hard and his body waits for a command and asks for nothing in return…!
But, enough is enough, says Sherlock Holmes' body. And when his body makes the stubborn decision to get fed, well, nothing short of being run over by a bus is going to stop it. For, let me assure you, the body of this genius is just as stubborn as his mind and his will. And it will get to the point that, if Sherlock doesn't eat or is prevented from eating and no case gets in the way, the beautiful mind palace will turn into thoughts of food. And Sherlock will dream of devouring an entire roast lamb or two, picking off the last of the meat from the bones and sucking out the marrow until there's nothing left, miles of pasta warm and buttery, swallowed whole by a too-thin, underweight man, sweet little Bakewell tarts made just right, through the teeth and far past the gums.
And our poor, famished, sick, delirious consulting detective will want to do nothing except eat and eat and eat until he is satisfied, sleep it off, and then awake refreshed and ready for the next case. And Sherlock's stomach, twenty days empty and far too hungry to bother telling Sherlock with noise, wanted food.
And Sherlock's mind agreed with Sherlock's stomach. In fact, every bit of Sherlock agreed with his stomach: eat, Sherlock, his body and mind told him. Eat and you'll feel so much better!
Twelve perfect little Bakewell tarts lay spread out before him on the platter. They were freshly-baked and so warm still that Sherlock saw the heat wafting off of them in the form of white-hot smoke. Each little cake was framed by a flaky crust, lightly browned from the oven. Twelve little tarts called to Sherlock's empty stomach: Eat me! Eat me!
Sherlock wet his thin, cupid's bow lips, betraying his immense hunger. Twenty days. It was the longest he'd ever been without so much as a crumb of food, not to mention that his last meal had not even been something marvelously filling like chicken or roast lamb, no, but toast. And half a slice, no less! He swallowed, faint and weak and famished and, oh, how he ached from head to toe! Pain burned like a fire through his weakened body, pain from his many wounds, pain from his hunger, his headaches, his muscles. It was almost too much to bear.
And then, Sherlock remembered John. And Mrs. Hudson. And Lestrade. And Molly. And remembered also that he was the only defense that any of them—hell, that all of London had—against the consulting criminal Jim Moriarty. And he felt a bit of responsibility on his shoulders. But it wasn't a crushing blow, one that he was unwilling to take, no. It felt like a feather had landed on his head.
So Sherlock stood up, stood tall, relaxed his arms by his side, clenched his bony fingers into fists, stretched his long neck up, and let his deep voice rumble out: "No. I will never join you. Not if you offered me the earth itself!"
Moriarty frowned, and then laughed a frustrated laugh. "Then Sherlock, honey," he began, his voice cruel and sadistic, "you will never taste food again. Understand that if you continue to refuse me, you will never again be full. Daddy's had enough now, Shirley." The dark, soulless eyes got a shade darker. Sherlock, who had not underestimated his opponent despite the man's innocent exterior, didn't even blink. "This is your last chance. Join me…or starve to death!"
There was a moment of silence between the two. Then, Sherlock laughed mirthlessly. "I would rather die than kill my friends."
"Caring only leads to suffering, Sherlock." Moriarty replied coldly. He took the platter away, eating a tart as he left and making orgasmic sounds.
Sherlock smiled, shook his head. After that confrontation, he felt that Moriarty was like a desperate child. Surely he knew that the consulting detective would be rescued, nursed back to health by a fantastic and caring doctor, and launched into battle twice as strong as before!
Sherlock sat heavily upon his bed and then lay defeated on the wooden plank. "Please, John," he whispered, closing his eyes, "please hurry. I've reached my limit."
And so he had. So he had.