Here's the next chapter. Hope you like it.

Disclaimer: See chapter one. Additional, the title of this chapter is taken from Rihanna's song Rockstar 101. Enjoy.

Warnings: Torture, violence and humiliation.

Chapter Two: I'll never be a victim, I'd rather be a stalker

When Jim woke up, everything was dark. His head was aching. He had a strange taste in his mouth; vomit, maybe. He moaned and tried to get a grip on reality. The last thing he remembered was the hands of his captor. He tried to figure out what was going on. He was… sitting. On a… chair? Yes, definitely on a chair. He raised his head, but the darkness remained. Even after extensive blinking. Okay, so either the room was dark, or he was blindfolded, or both. He also noticed that he had trouble breathing. So, a hood more likely than a blindfold. He tried to move his legs, but to no avail. Bound, to either leg of the chair. And tightly. His feet were already numb to the point that even wiggling his toes was a great effort. His hands were bound too, just as tightly, to the back of the chair. No handcuffs though. Zip ties, by the feeling of it. He tried to move his hands and was rewarded with pain. Yes, zip ties. The position of his arms was awkward. They had bound his elbows together too, which caused his shoulders to ache. He actually had to lean forward to relieve the pressure at least a bit. Christ, it hurt. He wondered if there was anybody else with him in the room. Normally, there had to be, at least to see if he was okay. After all, nobody could know how he would react to the drug. He could choke on his own vomit here. So there had to be somebody. Either in the room, or watching him through a camera. More likely in the room though, so they could immediately react if something happened. Okay. So whoever was there must have noticed by now that he had woken up, but had apparently no intention of doing anything. Oh well. More time for Jim to figure out more details. His clothes, for instance. He was positive that this was no longer his suit; the material was much too rough. Prison clothing. Probably grey. No socks. The material was thin; he could feel the cold. It was actually very cold in here. He smirked; so, they already tried to get to him by putting him in this cold cell. Well, he had spent long hours of his childhood outside in the snow. Cold was nothing that mattered much to him. He shifted in his seat, trying to get a bit more comfortable. The pain in his shoulders was almost unbearable. He leaned a bit more forward, but it didn't change much. Gosh, this was awful. And to think this could go on for… days? Annoying.

Jim was so wrapped up in his thoughts he noticed too late somebody was approaching him; barefoot, but he should have noticed the change in temperature. Suddenly there was a loud splash, and his hood – now he was sure it was a hood- became glued to his face, making breathing much harder. Water came into his mouth and nose, making him cough. Somebody had apparently emptied a bottle of water – at least he hoped it was water – over his head. He could feel the liquid running over his back. It was cold. He breathed harder. He hadn't expected the water-boarding to come so soon, but it didn't matter to him. It wasn't comfortable, but he knew they wouldn't let him drown here, so…. He just had to keep calm, not panic, breathe calmly as well as he could. He had almost managed that when he felt another load of water in his face, this time coming from the front. He shied away, more out of instinct than actual shock. Immediately, a searing pain short through his left shoulder even before the soft pop reached his ear. He screamed out as the pain radiated through his arm down to his fingers. Whoever was in that room with him chuckled, close to his ear. He could hear a gulp, then the sound of gargling before another load of water hit his face from the front. And again. And again. Jim was much too preoccupied with the pain in his shoulder to even feel bad about this person spitting at him. The hood was by now soaked and stuck to his face, and every time he breathed in the hood would get caught in his mouth, and he would have to literally blow hard to get it out again. Oh, it was effective. He imagined his captor, and, for that matter, everyone who was watching him right now, beaming at how he struggled already in the beginning. But oh, they were wrong. It was only his body who craved air and struggled, but he wasn't the least bit intimidated.

He didn't know how much time had passed until he heard something again. Blimey, he was much too busy trying not to scream out from the pain that lingered in his arm, ready to hit him with every movement. But when suddenly the wet hood was pulled away from his head and he was blinded by the fluorescent lights, he couldn't help but turn his head away from it. Again, his shoulder protested, making him scream out. But the man landed a grip in his hair and pulled him back up. He screamed again.

"Mr Moriarty, glad you could join us." the man said. "Are you enjoying your stay so far?"

Jim mustered up enough strength so his voice wouldn't waver, "I am, thank you very much. I must have hurt my shoulder, though."

He man looked at it, "Yes, it is clearly dislocated." He pulled a chair and sat down opposite Jim. "Is there anything else you might want to tell me?"

Jim smirked, "I wouldn't know what. Apart from the fact that you bored me beyond belief with your little waterboarding session."

"You should enjoy it, Mr Moriarty. It might be the last shower you get for the time of your stay."

"That really isn't my problem as much as the problem of those people who have to be in the same room with me."

The man watched him for a while, then got up and walked behind him. Jim knew what would happen and mentally prepared himself. Two strong hands grabbed his injured shoulder and, with a deafening crack, relocated it. Again, Jim screamed out, but immediately felt relief when the first pain was gone and he could actually move his shoulder again.

The man sat down again, "Much better now, isn't it? Maybe, with that matter off your mind, you can focus on my questions. The Key Code. Tell me." Jim didn't answer. The man sighed, took another mouthful of water, gargled, and spat it in Jim's face.

Jim did not flinch, "Oh please, is that all you got? Spitting water in my face? Boooooring." Of course, he hated it. Spitting was amidst the lowest forms of humiliation, and even Jim never used it on other people. But he wouldn't let that get to him.

The man took another gulp, but this time, his hands moved to Jim's face, pinching his nose. Jim only grinned and opened his mouth up wide. He knew he didn't have much time. The man opposite him frowned, but then proceeded to spit the water into Jim's mouth. But he saw the dangerous glint in the criminal's eyes too late. Jim waited only a split-second before he spat it back, right into the other man's face.

The man jumped from his chair, wiped the water off his face and yelled, "You little shit!" before he raised his fist and hammered it into Jim's face so hard the chair tumbled over. Jim screamed out in pain when he landed on his injured shoulder again. The man pulled him up again, dealt a few hard slaps to Jim's face and then pulled the hood back over his head. A second later the door was opened and slammed shut again.

Jim, despite his burning cheeks, the pain in his arms and shoulder and the tears stinging in his eyes, smiled triumphantly. He had made a point, shown to his tormenter, and for that matter all the people that were watching him, that he wasn't a victim, that he would not cave in easily. He would force them to send Mycroft in. He knew they had much more in store for him, and yes, he could feel a twinge of fear when he thought of it; he was human after all. But as long as they didn't see it, everything would be fine.

Mycroft had watched the scene through the two-way mirror and couldn't help but be slightly amused. Okay, this man was threatening the whole world right now, but watching him, bound and beaten and still annoying his man Carter to the point that he stormed out of the room was plain amazing.

Now Carter opened the door to the room Mycroft was sitting in, "Did you see what the bastard did?"

"Yes, I did. Nice move, I have to admit."

"He spat at me!"

In her corner, Anthea chuckled, "To be fair, you started the spitting competition."

"That's not funny, Ms [beep]! I will kill him, I will go in there and snap his neck!"

"No, you won't, Carter. You will go home now and enjoy dinner with you family." Mycroft waved him out, not leaving Moriarty out of his eyes. By now, the man was rocking back and forth in his chair, as if dancing to a song only he could here.

Anthea had gotten up and placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder, "He's insane, isn't he?"

"I think so. But that only makes him more dangerous."

"Do you think we can break him?"

Mycroft smiled, "Of course. We've broken stronger men than him. We might have to cross a few lines more than usually, though."

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