A/N: This is another chapter from Sherlock's POV.
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5. Games, games and no end in sight
Sherlock lay on the bed full-length, his arms crossed beneath his neck, and stared at the ceiling. He didn't even think of sleep. Anger and degradation were boiling inside him and he was grateful for the night's darkness that hid his embittered face from any prying eyes. At least he hoped that Moriarty's cameras weren't fitted with night-vision.
It had been a hell of a day. A dozen – oh what was he thinking – a hundred times he'd liked nothing better than taking on all twelve of Moriarty's henchmen for the ghost of a chance to get away from this place. And six more days to come before this was – hopefully! - over.
If only he wasn't that convinced that Moriarty would make good on his threat against John. Now, should Sherlock cross him. Later on, perhaps, no matter how much his 'guest' humoured him in the days to come.
There was nothing for it – something had to be found that would enable the police to take Moriarty and his organisation into custody for good. Otherwise neither Sherlock nor John would ever be safe. For that, the Detective had to search Moriarty's house, had to pry into the man's affairs. Why not do it now, as Moriarty himself had been careless enough to bring him into his den? Agreeing to stay for a week was just the corner stone of a spontaneously conjured up plan.
It was all well and sound enough in theory. To go through with it in practice was much harder.
Holmes rolled his eyes as he remembered the man's idea of a nice afternoon.
When he'd returned to torment his most unwilling visitor with a large bag in his hand, the criminal had radiated excitement and joyful expectation through every buttonhole. "Hi, Sherlock. Missed me? Had to do something in my library. May I introduce you to my most favourite book of all. Harry Potter!"
"Books" Sherlock had automatically corrected him. "These are seven paperbacks you're holding."
"How very clever you are. Yes, seven books, yet one hell of a story. But surely you know this, everyone knows Harry Potter."
"I'm not very well versed in the art of pottery" Sherlock replied and even to his own ears it sounded somewhat stiff and defiant. The last thing he felt up to in this moment was a debate about some ancient handicraft with a freaked out criminal who considered himself an expert. What Holmes really needed was some time off without being locked in and/or kept under surveillance.
"Pottery" 'Jim' said, obviously dumbfounded "What on earth has pottery to do with it?"
Sherlock resisted the urge to close his eyes in disgusted frustration. Instead he forced himself to keep calm and amiable with a will. "I'm sorry. Porcelain, if that is what you want to hear." His hands opened and closed, driven by some nasty thoughts. "If he asks me about the mark of the Haang-Wou or the blue line of the Cheng Dynasty or such nonsense I swear, madness or no, I'll strangle him!"
Moriarty's face worked visibly, although to what end, laugh or cry, had yet to be decided. "It's true, isn't it" he said disbelievingly. "What your Johnny-boy wrote in his blog. You really don't know that the earth goes round the sun."
Sherlock groaned inwardly. Not the solar system! Not again! Damn John Watson and his Study in Pink! And what the hell was the connection between a Potterer named Harry and the order of the universe? This was getting crazier by the second.
"How can anyone on this planet not know Harry Potter?" Moriarty squealed in the high pitched tone of utter desperation. I mean, he's... he's... Harry POTTER! The man who defeated the great Voldemort. Which was a horrible injustice, by the way. The stupid whelp is nothing compared to the Mastermind of the Dark Arts. Voldemort is THE BEST of the BEST!"
"Even better than you?" Sherlock asked haphazardly. He had no idea what the maniac was talking about and truth be told he didn't give a shit.
What now happened in Moriarty's face was aptly described only by the term 'the most radiant sunrise possible'. "Yes" he said, his voice still shrieking, only this time with enthusiasm. "Tell you what, I've just got the latest computer game from this 'verse, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallow. Naturally I've tampered with it a bit. All these stupid rules and restrictions, idiotic. Such a hindrance to true intelligence and creativity!"
"Yeah, sure" Sherlock tried another shot in the dark. As he still was absolutely clueless, agreeing seemed the best risk-reducing strategy. "And now this game is... better than before? You improved it?"
"Of course I've improved it. I'm 'Jim-from-IT', remember? Now Voldemort has got what was always denied to him – a fair chance to defeat this dwarfish stuffy babbitt Harry Potter." 'Jim' leaned back in the armchair he'd meanwhile settled in, just opposite a still standing Holmes. "I'm so glad you've finally figured out what I'm talking about. Better late than never. Come on, let's play."
"Play?" Sherlock felt his pulse getting faster. This was childish, ludicrous and an abominable waste of time. Was there no end to the other's idiocy? And this was the Criminal Mastermind who considered himself a befitting arch-enemy for Sherlock Holmes? It was disgraceful.
However, it was now apparently Moriarty's turn to close his eyes in frustration and, unlike his 'guest' earlier, he showed no restraint at all. "Yes, Sherlock, play. This is a computer game for two players, you are here, I am here, 1 + 1 makes 2. Got it or shall I explain it to you more slowly?" He looked at the Detective punitively. "You do know what a computer game is, Sherlock?"
For a second Holmes thought about telling the preposterous idiot that he could go to hell, but then he'd most probably end up in some dark cellar room with a chain around his neck. As this wouldn't be in the least helpful, Sherlock quelled his emotions at once. "I do have a computer, you know" was all he said.
"Great. Sit down." Quickly Moriarty handed his 'guest' a netbook. The display already sported the first page of the announced game, ready for one player to play Harry Potter,whilst the other player – naturally James himself – would play Voldemort. A happy jolt shot through Sherlock's mind when he saw that the netbook was actually online, using one of several WLan connections installed in the house. A quick, furtive glance at the tool bar confirmed that all functions were available. Not only e-mail but also access to a virtual server with more than 80 gigabyte of storage capacity, almost full.
And there was a whole internal network linked with this server.
"That's it" Sherlock thought excitedly. "Half an hour alone with this thing and I'm back in business." His fingers itched when he thought of what evidence he might find on that server. Murder, abductions, blackmails, a whole who-is-who of England's criminal classes. Crimes and illegal connections which, unlike the pool incident, could be proved beyond all reasonable doubt.
So what that he'd promised not to contact anyone whilst being here. He could always send what he found to himself, to make good use of it later on, when he was back home.
Holmes looked up and he quickly controlled his face when he met Moriarty's sly gaze.
"Look" James said with a smile that, to Sherlock, looked definitely wicked. "It's more fun if we play for a prize. Like poker. The winner takes it all."
"The winner takes what?" Holmes asked distractedly, too busy with thinking about how to gain access to the data treasure without his 'host' noticing it.
"Oh c'me on, it's easy enough, even for you Sherlock. If you win, you're free at once. Anyway, Harry Potter has no longer a part to play in Hogwarts once Voldemort is gone. But if I win, well..." he paused and his grin became positively devilish "Voldemort will claim Harry for himself to all eternity. Harry's powers will make a fine addition to Voldemort's gifts."
"Whatever you say" an unnerved Detective thought, who didn't understand one word of this weird talk. "Deal" he said quickly. "Let's play."
Unnecessary to say that Sherlock lost every game. Or as Moriarty put it, the Detective had been 'pwnd', whatever that meant. In the evening it was 3 : 0 for Voldemort; James was hilarious; Holmes mostly indifferent and trying to hide it. Not even as a child he'd cared much for sorcery or fairy tales. Where logic didn't count and every villain could fly away on a broomstick when the mood pleased him, little Sherlock had got bored. Every nanny as well as Mummy and elder brother had soon enough learned to fear that state of mind. So out the story books had went, never to return.
No, Sherlock couldn't have cared less about his defeat, had it not been for Moriarty's unendurable gloating.
The man went beside himself to ram his superior intellect and skill down his prisoner's throat which meant that Holmes didn't need much acting talent to show some aggravation about the constant bickering.
It had it's advantages, though.
Every once in a while Sherlock'd roamed some areas of the computer's hard disk and the network that had nothing whatsoever to do with warts, dog warts or hog warts or whatever skin anomalies it pleased the madman to toy around with. The yield had been satisfying, to say the very least, and all Sherlock needed now was another 15 minutes with the e-mail system to bring it home.
"All right... Jim" a seemingly crestfallen and deeply embarrassed Holmes therefore said. "You're too good for me. I admit it. Now can we talk about something else, please?"
Naturally, they could not. Moriarty was far too happy about his victory to let it go so easily. He droned on and on about it. In the end, it was him who actually suggested that Sherlock should keep the netbook for the night. As his generous 'host' had an early appointment tomorrow, Holmes would have all the time in the world to train for the next round of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallow, hopefully to become a more worthy opponent for a genius like James Moriarty. Pardon. Voldemort, of course.
This time Sherlock was flabbergasted. Was it possible that the criminal, mad but – unfortunately - not dumb, had forgotten what this netbook could do? That it could tap every shred of communication technology he had in the house?
By all appearances, this was the case, as James virtually forced the netbook on his seemingly most reluctant 'guest' before he, quite abruptly and unexpectedly, left Sherlock alone, wishing him, at nine o'clock in the evening, a very good night.
Belatedly Holmes remembered their earlier conversation and he called after James "by the way, what was this prize you were talking about?"
Moriarty smiled most fondly. "You'll see soon enough. I'll think of something. Again, have a good night."
After he'd left and Holmes had heard the determined turn of the key in the door he resisted the urge to bash the netbook to the nearest wall. After all he needed the damn thing.
To keep up appearances, he had to give the stupid game another try. During the first five minutes he'd noticed a record that registered all hits to the various pages of the game. No chance to 'do-as-if' without actually using the darn software.
For an hour or two Sherlock played around on the childish programme, then he thought he'd suffered more than enough and laid the netbook aside.
Now he was mercilessly confronted with the fact that it was way too early for a born night-owl like him to go to bed and yet he had nothing else to do. He couldn't possibly access the e-mail programme now, as the set of clicks and scrolling that went with it was very characteristic. By no chance the silent observers would mistake it for another attempt to win the battle against Voldemort.
Therefore Sherlock had lingered in the bathroom, dragging out his usual routine as long as he possibly could, put on another black-gold pyjama with a silent sigh of disgust, switched off the light and went to bed.
And there he still was now, waiting for the small hours, which should be the best time for his task.
He let another hour pass before he quietly pulled the netbook away from the night stand, dived under the bed covers with it, checked that the sound system was indeed switched off and accessed the e-mail programme. As quick as lightening he sent all the data he'd copied earlier to one of his secured accounts. He suppressed another sigh, this time one of heartfelt relief. Thank heaven. No warning flash light, no fault alarm, the message had gone through smoothly and undetected.
Sherlock had never considered himself an IT-expert but he had a lot of experience with blockages and all kinds of spy-software. Being a brother of Mycroft Holmes made that experience an asset for survival.
Now all that was left to do was to delete all obvious traces of his espionage. For sure, he could do nothing to hide his actions from an expert examination of the hard disk or the registries but hopefully, as Moriarty had no idea what he'd been doing, there wouldn't be such an examination in the first place.
Subsequently a very gratified Detective emerged from the bed covers and, again for appearances' sake, played another 30 minutes with the virtual wand and broomstick before he switched off the netbook for good.
Almost happy, his damaged self-confidence pretty much restored, Sherlock curled up under the admittedly very soft and comfortable bed covers and closed his eyes.
Slowly he drifted off to sleep.
For an hour or so nothing could be heard but his soft, steady breathing and occasional stirring.
When the door banged against the wall and some men stormed into the room, the sudden ruckus took Sherlock completely by surprise. Before he could think of, let alone do, something, the dirty squad had grabbed his arms and legs and pressed him to the mattress, forcing him to hold still. Shocked as he was Sherlock didn't think of turning his head away, so they had no trouble to stuff a wad of cloth into his mouth until he choked.
Now Holmes was truly scared, especially when he felt the pyjama jacket being ripped off his back. "Do not struggle and you won't feel a bit" one of the men said.
What a comforting thought!
Expertly they tied Sherlock's hands behind his back as well as his ankles to the bed before something cold and wet dabbed his shoulder blade, leaving the skin numb. Still, Sherlock felt the the prick of the needle and he yelped under the gag with angry surprise although it didn't hurt.
The numbness spread on his back until he could no longer identify what they were doing. He only felt them fumbling around on his back for what seemed an eternity. Finally he couldn't stand it any more and he began to struggle. Someone shouted some filthy abuse and the offensive hands pressed harder.
Sherlock tensed all muscles – he always had been much stronger than he looked – and tried to rear up.
"This won't do you any good, stupid" someone whispered into his ear.
The last thing Sherlock felt before darkness swallowed him was the stench of the chloroform pressed to his face.
Above him, directed at his shoulders, back and tied wrists, cameras and computers made a precise and pin-sharp recording of the events and their results.
James almost crawled into the view-screen of his surveillance system. "You're sure it won't hurt?"
Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's most trusted associate for many years, smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry. We'll keep the wound anaesthetized for a while. Once that wears off he might feel a sting or two, but nothing more."
"But the tatoo cannot be removed later on?"
"No. The ink is special." Moran's smile turned into a cheeky smirk when he patted his boss and life-long friend on the shoulder. "Our Mr. Holmes will either accept a lovely epigraph of the name 'Voldemort' on his shoulder or a very big and probably ugly scar."
Again, James scrutinized the image on the monitor. "Gosh, his back sure looks a mess. A hundred lashes with a riding crop couldn't look much worse."
"It's partly his own blood from some cuts around the tatoo but mostly pig's blood as well as red and black ink" Moran retorted. "But I agree. It looks most convincing."
"Convincing enough for someone who's most probably familiar with experts' work of more than one secret service?" James still sounded a bit doubtful.
However, Sebastian was as self-assured as ever. "If he was your baby brother, wouldn't it convince you?"
Now James grinned too. "It would" he said. "It sure would." He turned to face Moran. "It's safe to say that this was a fright night for my guest, don't you think? Which just gives me another idea..."