And a new chapter for you. Thanks again for all of your support. As of now, I have three more chapters planned. Don't want to be repetitive. If you want this to continue, I need your ideas. :)
Disclaimer: see chapter one. Plus, title from this chapter is taken from The Other Side by the fanastic Bruno Mars, Cee Lo Green and B.O.B.
Warnings Wounds, blood, pain, humiliation.
Chapter Six: Many have tried to go into the night, cross over the line and come back alive
When Jim woke up, it was dark again, and he was still naked. It took him a while to remember what had happened, but as soon as he had recalled it, he had to smile. They were so easy to manipulate. He had wanted them to knock him out, he had made them. Thank God, because frankly, his broken rib ached like hell. He raised his hand and noticed that he wasn't tied up for once. Wow, that was a nice change. He brought his hand to his nose and inspected it. Dried, crusted blood under it, and if he touched it, it hurt slightly, but it wasn't broken. He then let his tongue wander through his mouth; all teeth still there. He had probably bitten his cheek at the latest punch, hence the blood in his mouth. He spat it out. Disgusting. He could do with a toothbrush. Hell, he could do with a shower. Judging by the state of his hair, he was here for at least… three days. He even noticed that he was by now smelling rather bad. Oh well, apart from the fact that he hated looking and smelling like a bum, it really wasn't his problem. And hell, he needed a toilet. Thank God they hadn't given him a lot to drink, because that would have really aggravated the whole situation. He sighed deeply; well, since he wasn't bound, he could as well try and take a nap before they would turn the light back on. He rolled on his back, only to scream out in pain and roll back on his front again, where his rib started protesting immediately. He hissed and waited till the pain had faded again, then tried to figure out what had just happened. Okay, he had rolled onto his back and the pain had immediately started. He moved his hand to touch his back; then he smiled. Oh, those bastards. So, they had used the whip on him. Quite a lot, judging by the feeling in his back. Of course. He had told them a whip wouldn't intimidate him. So they had done the next best thing; using it on him when he was out, so that, even if the look of it didn't shake him, he would at least feel the pain it could cause. They were brighter than he had expected. Oh, it had probably been Mycroft's idea. It sounded like something only the intelligent people would know. Sebastian too had often wondered what good it was to inflict pain on someone who wasn't conscious. Jim had known why. Two things actually: First, the pain would be there nevertheless: okay, the person might miss the whole fun, but waking up and be in pain really was just as bad. And of course, there was the second thing, which, under certain circumstances, could be much more frightening: the fact that somebody did something to your body while you couldn't defend yourself. The feeling of absolute powerlessness, of being at the mercy of your captor. They could have done everything with him while he was out, and they wanted him to know. And of course, in Jim's case now, there was the third thing: with his back on fire and his rib broken, there was no position where he could even get remotely comfortable for a little nap. He sighed deeply and got up into a sitting position. This was going to slow. He was actually getting bored. He knew that he would have to last a long time, and he was not very happy about the fact that he was injured so early in the game. He could handle being beaten, sure. But now he had a weakness, and he was sure they would use it. A broken finger, he could cope with, or a broken toe. But a rib was different. Talking would hurt, even breathing did hurt now. He was sure they would have a second session very soon, to take advantage of the situation. How long he could last he didn't know. The fact that he was screaming wasn't bad. It was a human reaction, and, as much as some people might doubt it, Jim was still a human being. The tears were a bit worse, but again, human. And they didn't show weakness as much as other people would think. Begging, that was the worst thing. Jim was determined not to beg, which would consequently lead to more pain, until he would spit out blood plus the information they wanted on this non-existing key code. But if they found out the key didn't exist, he couldn't follow his 'Let's destroy Sherlock" plan. So, he had to pretend the key existed, and take whatever they did to him, until they would be fed up and he would finally get a chance to speak to Mycroft. Easy peasy. He would have laughed if his rib didn't ache so much.
Suddenly, the lights were turned back on. Jim fought the urge to cover up his private parts. He needed them to think he was comfortable like this. He wasn't strictly uncomfortable; after all, he had nothing to hide. Still, it was just another measure they took to add to his vulnerability, so he had to make it clear to them he wasn't bothered.
When the door opened and the woman entered, again carrying a tray with the same king of stodge, in orange this time, Jim put on his most winning smile, "Oh, hello. How are you today? I didn't catch your name last time."
"It's Mrs York." Nancy replied.
"Mrs York. Sounds like you being a teacher and me your naughty student." Jim shifted in his position. "I'm sorry I'm not decent. I lost my clothes somewhere."
Nancy let her eyes wander over his body and made a grimace, "I'll send somebody to find them. This is really not a sight I want to put on people."
"Trying to make me feel bad again? I can assure you that, if we were outside, and you'd met me in a pub, I would have made you come at least five times by now. So hard that you would beg for more." He smiled at her, fully aware how that had to look, with blood all over his face.
She actually shivered a bit. "I told you last time. You're disgusting." Nevertheless, she walked over to him and placed the tray at his feet. "Eat." She wiggled her nose, "And then I'll see whether you can get a shower. You stink."
"Wow. You're being polite." Jim reached for the plate but she took it from his hands. "Oh, you're going to feed me this time?"
"Oh please." She took a look at the plate and then emptied over Jim's head. "It looks like we need to teach you some more manners." She also emptied the water bottle on the floor right before Jim's feet. "You can lick it of the floor of you're thirsty." She turned on her heel and left.
Jim swallowed down the sudden rage inside of him; who did this woman think she was? He made a mental note to deal with her when he was back on the streets again. He didn't know why suddenly he was so angry. Probably because he was now covered in food, and fucking hungry, and the water that could have help get rid of the coppery taste of his own blood which frankly disgusted him was now making a puddle on the concrete floor. He was actually close enough to really lick it off, but, no way. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction. They would have to give him water eventually if they didn't want him to die; he'd just have to wait. Be patient.
He got up and walked over to the mirror, inspecting the damage done. His nose was bruised, and there was blood crusted under it. There was also blood all over his chin, dried as well, that had originated from a cut in the corner of his mouth. He looked like a vampire after a particular big feast. He smiled at the mirror; there was a coating of blood over his teeth as well. Yeah, vampire, totally. He had to chuckle, clutching his aching rib. He remembered how he had smiled at Nancy. He must have looked like a psychopathic cannibal. He inspected his torso. Bruises, all over it. Aw well, nothing new there. He had seen that picture often enough. He then turned his back to the mirror and glanced over his shoulder to check it out. Oh, yeah, they had really made a good job. There wasn't a single part of his back that looked normal; dried blood everywhere, welts everywhere. Well, some new scars to go with his collection. Women would dig it.
He walked back to his corner and sat down again, hissing. His eyes lingered on the puddle on the floor. He slowly reached over and dipped his hand in. Oh, that felt good. So fresh… He would have given the world for a drink now. Even tap water would do. But, fuck it, he would not beg. Jim Moriarty had never begged for anything in his life. And he would not start in the most crucial moment of his career.
Mycroft shook his head. He had been watching Jim since the lights had been turned on, and right now, he was completely convinced that he was no step closer to what he wanted. This man was not human. Well, they could reduce him to it. He was here for three days now. Mycroft had hoped they would have broken him by now, but apparently, it needed even more than a beating session. So he picked up his telephone and called Joel, "It's Mycroft Holmes. I want you to transport him to the isolation cell. Plan for three weeks." He hung up again and watched Joel getting into the cell. Moriarty didn't even react properly; he just looked vacantly at Joel and even leaned forward when he saw the syringe in Joel's hand so that he had free access to Jim's neck. Mycroft felt a sudden satisfaction when Jim was out after a couple of seconds, only a limp body in Joel's arms. Limp. Defenceless. It was a special sight. Delicious, to say the very least. The man that posed a threat to the whole world, out cold. In his hands. He took a deep breath. It was tempting. Tempting to break him during the time he was out. But he wouldn't do it. That was not playing fair. And, in contrast to James Moriarty, Mycroft was fair. To some extent. Now. He was the Government, after all.
Poor Jim will be bored out of his mind in isolation. ^^ Again, a reminder, you can still bring in your ideas if you feel there's something you want to see/read.