DISCLAIMER: See Chapter One. Plus, the title from this chapter is from Alicia Keys's A woman's worth. No profit again.
Warnings: mild violence, humiliation, mentions of rape, some nasty words.

Chapter Three: A woman's worth

Jim had no idea how much time had passed until somebody came in again. Despite his awkward position, he had dozed off a few times. His dreams had been more than weird. When he woke up from the last one, his face was covered in sweat; a nightmare, obviously. He sighed deeply. He was bored, terribly bored. So, when he heard the door open, he was almost relieved; finally, something would happen again.

The hood was being pulled from his head again, and Jim closed his eyes at the bright lights. He took in a few deep breaths and waited for his eyes to adjust. When he could finally open them, he grinned, "Well, that's a sight for sore eyes. Hullo, Miss." The woman, early thirties, long black hair tied in a bun, slim, tall, dressed in a blouse and skirt, only gave him a cold glance. "Yeah, I don't look my best right now, but believe me, I'm pretty dashing when I wear a suit." Another cold glance. Jim shrugged, "Your loss, not mine." The woman shrugged as well and walked over to Jim. "Are you going to slap me now? I have to admit that would be a nice sort of torture. I like it rough... if you understand." No answer. Jim felt something cold against his arm, and a second later his hands were free. His elbows followed. The sudden freedom of his hands caused Jim to hiss when the blood circulated freely again. He slowly brought his hands in front of him and inspected the damage; his wrists were raw, though not bleeding yet. He rubbed them while watching the woman bow down in front of him to undo the zip ties on his ankles. That was too much of a temptation. He leaned forward and whispered into her ear, "Oh yeah, this is how I like my women. On their knees, at my feet. Doing anything for my pleasure. Don't worry though; I'll warn you when I come."

She raised her head and looked into his eyes, "You're being very cocky now. I would shut up if I were you. If you keep begging for sex, you might get it. Not from me, though. But there are some men here who would love a body like yours."

Jim grinned again, "Oh, this is good. You want me to be afraid. Oh well, I can pretend, if that's what you like." He faked a fearful face, "Oh please, please, don't let those scary man rape me." The smirk came back, "Good?"

The woman just shook her head and motioned to the corner of the cell, "Eat. At least you will shut up then."

Jim followed her motion: there was a tray with a bottle of water and a plate with some green stodge. No spoon. He looked back at the woman. "Are you going to spoon-feed me?"

She only smiled, a cold smile, "We have no spoons left. Guess you have to figure out how to eat that."

Jim rolled his eyes, but got up, only to tumble to the floor. Shite. He had forgotten. His feet of course couldn't carry him immediately, after having been bound to the chair for so long. Oh, they were good. The woman laughed. Jim ignored the prickling in his feet and tried to get up again. To no avail; his feet hurt too much, and he would only stumble again if he insisted to use them. He gritted his teeth a bit, but then crawled over to the tray, ignoring the woman's laugh. No, he had been right; there was no spoon or fork. Which left him with two possibilities to eat this; either eating it with his fingers, which hadn't been cleaned since he was here. Or lick it off the plate like a dog. Or, he could refuse to eat it all together. Didn't look tasty anyway. His thoughts raced; he was hungry. He needed food if he wanted to stand a chance in the long run. But humiliating himself so much and eat like a dog in front of this woman who was obviously here to make him feel bad? If he decided to not eat this, they would know that this was something they could use against him. He needed to eat it without showing them how much it actually got to him. So he shut down, dug his left hand into the food and started eating. Slowly, though. He wouldn't show them how starved he really was. Admit no weakness. Eat this crap like it's the most natural thing in the world. Humiliation didn't happen if the person subdued to it didn't show any signs of being humiliated; it was as easy as that. And oh so frustrating for the person in control.

The woman had in the meantime sat down on the chair and had lit up a cigarette, "Any good?"

"What, the food? Delicious." Nobody could ignore the sarcasm in his voice. But of course, there was no sense in pretending this was good food.

"Good. This is no vacation, after all. But I hear we have salmon downstairs. I could bring you some. In exchange for information, of course."

"Oh, please. You really think I would sell my soul for salmon?" Jim chuckled. "You still have no idea whom you're up against." Jim leaned against the wall and wiggled his toes, which by now felt quite okay again. "You know, I could just come over to you, overpower you, and stick my cock in between those delicate legs of yours before anybody outside could react. I could thrust at least…. four times before anybody would come in. Oh, I would probably get trashed for it, but that wouldn't make it any easier for you to get over it." It was a bluff, of course. Jim was a criminal mastermind, but he wasn't a bastard. He would never do such a thing to a woman. Blow them up, sure, but never hurt them in that way; that was for losers. But hell, if they could fuck with his mind, he could fuck with theirs.

And she reacted. He could see the hard glint in her eyes; she clearly felt insulted. "I have a brown belt."

Jim chuckled, "I have a black belt…. I win." He blew her a kiss. Then he took a sip of water. Oh God, that felt good. He forced himself to take only short sips. Then he glanced back at her. The look in her eyes was still hard, but she had shifted in the chair, had crossed her legs. Lord, Mycroft was surrounded by idiots. He put the water bottle down and got up, noticing how she cringed. "Oh, don't worry. Not today." He walked over to her, "I believe you are sitting on my chair."

She cleared her throat, "You don't need the chair. On your knees."

"Ah, sweetheart, I don't think so. See, I normally don't give head. Not with the way you've treated me so far." He didn't expect the punch. She drove her fist into his stomach so hard it knocked the wind out of him, and he doubled over, his knees making painful contact with the concrete floor.

She took the moment of defencelessness and in a swift movement handcuffed his hands to his ankles. As she tightened the cuffs to an almost unbearable level, she hissed into his ear, "I'd rather die than let such a sorry sod of a man touch me. You're disgusting." She punched him again. "Look at this, the greatest criminal of England, beaten up by a woman. Don't know why people think you're intimidating." She laughed. "I'll leave the hood off. Stay tight, sugar." With that, she left.

Jim shook his head; he had underestimated her. That would not happen again. He was glad that the mistake he had made had not led to worse consequences. Okay, this was an even worse position than the other one. The bitch had handcuffed his left wrist to his right ankle and vice versa, behind his back, forcing his body into an upright position if he didn't want too much damage from the handcuffs. Plus, his whole weight was on his shins, which were pressed onto the concrete floor. Every movement would break skin. This was bad enough, but, without the hood, the people who watched him- he was sure they did through the two-way-mirror – would see every expression on his face. Under no circumstances could he show any pain now. He raised his head and smiled at the mirror.

The woman entered Mycroft's room shortly after she left the cell. Mycroft smiled, "Nancy. Good job."

But she was dissatisfied, "I expected more. He's still very cheeky."

"It's still early. At least you delivered a nice blow to his manhood." Mycroft watched Jim through the mirror. His breathing was heavy, but his eyes were still widely open and sparkling. Three days, and still no signs of a crack in James Moriarty's hard shell. Mycroft hadn't expected anything else. You don't become the greatest criminal in the world just like that. Moriarty had, sort of, lived the American Dream in the middle of the United Kingdom. He had started out small, dealt with the scum on the streets, until he had reached the top. And now he was sitting here in the cell, smiling at Mycroft, despite that he should be in pain. Mycroft smiled back, even though he knew Jim couldn't see him. "James Moriarty… You wanted my attention. You have it now."

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