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Disclaimer: see Chapter One, plus, the title from this chapter is from Hush Hush from The Pussycat Dolls.

Warnings: starvation, beatings, other stuff.

Chapter Seven: But I am never beaten, broken, not defeated

When Jim woke up again, he was in a new cell. It took him a while to realize that, though. The dose must have been higher than last time. He was still naked. As quickly as he could with his clouded mind, he inspected his body. No new injuries. He propped himself up against the wall in a sitting position, finding it pretty difficult with a head that felt twice its size. Then he looked around. The cell was tiny, about 6 by 8 feet. There was a battered mattress in the corner, with a stained blanket and a smelly pillow. Next to the mattress was a hole in the ground, obviously for toilet issues. At the bottom of the door was a hole, probably to supply him with food without having to enter the cell. Isolation cell. Just great. He sighed deeply, knowing he was in for a boring time. He had feared this would happen. Not because he was afraid of the outcome, but because nothing would be happening now for… at least a week. Most probably more. Boring. Nothing here to entertain him. He checked the walls. No, nothing. He ran his fingers through his hair, flinching at how greasy it felt. He'd give the world to have a shower right now. Or food. Or water. But the only thing he could do was…

He raised his head when he heard a movement at the door. A plate was pushed through the hole, plus a bottle of water. Jim, too lazy to get up, crawled over to the plate. No spoon, again. However, there was a difference in the food. It was not the usual crap, but beans. Jim chuckled. He started having a bit of respect for them. His eyes went to the toilet hole. It was close enough to the mattress so that the smell would probably kill him in his sleep. First timer, probably. And the beans would make it only worse. So, the decision had to be made between starving a bit more, or feeling a bit dirtier and probably suffocate in here. He thought of Mycroft, of Sherlock, of how he wanted to destroy them both and pulled the tray towards himself. He had to stay strong.

Time passed by, although Jim had no idea how much. The lights stayed on the whole time, it was not possible to keep track of night and day, not even if you were Jim Moriarty. The food that was shoved in wasn't a help either. There was not real schedule they followed; once they had brought food three times in what Jim guessed was less than an hour, and he was sure the other time they hadn't brought some in at least 24 hours. But at least there was enough to drink now. Jim spent most of the time sleeping, revolting as it was. The pillow smelled like there had been at least fifty people sleeping on it and sweating into it, and the mattress was so used he could have slept on the concrete floor and he wouldn't have felt a difference.

But as time passed and nothing happened and Jim wasn't the least bit tired anymore, and they stopped giving him food altogether, he felt he was slowly losing his mind. The smell in this little cell almost killed him, and he felt terribly weak from just lying on this shitty mattress, and he was so bored he had actually started reciting poems. To any listener it must have sounded like he was now completely insane. Which, really, wasn't that far from the truth. Jim had been pretty mental when he had arrived here, but now he was reaching a whole new level. Some nights he just lay there, giggling about… hell, he didn't even know about what. Some nights he lay on his back singing to himself. Other nights he just rocked himself back and forth. He was so bored, so damned bored, and so starved, and there was nothing he could do to relieve himself from this boredom apart from trying to drown himself in the toilet, and he was positive that despite his lack in height that wouldn't work out. The bare fact that he even thought about it showed that his mental stability was slowly deteriorating. But lord, his mind, his brilliant mind had nothing to do; he was even trying to figure out how long he was down here from the sounds his stomach made. It was aching from the lack of food, and he was pretty sure that, had he a mirror, he would see that he had lost much weight. But then again, he didn't want a mirror because he was damn sure he looked like shit, judging by the smell and the stage of his hair. He needed to get out, out of this god damn cell.

And then, one night, finally his wish came true. When the door opened, and Joel stood in the doorframe, Jim was lying on his mattress, curled into a ball.

Joel looked down. Three weeks. Three weeks in isolation and the cheeky man he had knocked out and brought in here had turned into a wreck. They hadn't given him food for the last week, trying to weaken his body again so he would break at the next session they had planned for… well, as soon as Moriarty managed to get up and get to the interrogation room. So he leaned against the door and said, "Get up." Jim slowly raised his head. Joel involuntarily shivered. There was a look of pure… contempt in his eyes. Joel had expected fear, distress, anything, but not contempt. He made a few steps forwards and gave Jim a kick to the ribs. "I said: Get up!" Jim rolled on his back at the kick. Joel added another. "Come on, we don't have all day, and I really don't wanna stay in here any longer. Gosh, it smells terrible. Get your skinny ass up now or I'll rip it apart." Jim was not sure he could, but he tried propping himself up against the wall. But he couldn't. His legs gave in and he tumbled back on his mattress. Joel laughed, "Not so cocky anymore? Well, if you can't walk, I guess you'll have to crawl. Now hurry up before I put your head into your toilet hole. I might do it anyway, later. Now, crawl, little cur."

Jim hated it. He had tried, tried to put up a brave face, but his body just wouldn't play along this time. He tried again to get up, but his legs were too weak. After Joel dealt another kick to his side, Jim swallowed his pride and started crawling. It hurt him more than any beating could, to be on all four before this bastard.

Joel enjoyed the show, apparently. "I should have brought a leash. You'd make a fine dog. They have to be broken in, too. Guess we finally reached that part. Left next, please. Don't worry, it's not that far. Second door." When they arrived there, he opened the door. "To the chair, please."

Jim raised his head. The other four were there, too; Christian, Matthew, Joshua and Harry. Oh god, no, please, no beating now. But he didn't show it. He crept over to the chair and pulled himself up with what force he had left until he sat on it.

Harry rummaged through a bag at his feet, "We've got something for you." He pulled out something and held it in front of Jim's face. A mirror.

Jim looked up and almost got a shock. Nothing, nothing was left of the dashing man he once had been. He looked like he had lost at least twenty pounds. His face was covered in a thick layer of sweat, he was deadly pale, and his hair looked like he had accidently dipped it into a bucket full of Olive Oil. His once fiery brown eyes looked dull now, and there were heavy bags under them. God, how long had he been in there?

Joel chuckled, "Like what you see? I don't think you're gonna have much sex anytime soon. Now… you can have some food again, take a shower, lie in a proper bed…. Doesn't that sound just great? Of course, you have to give us a little something for it. The Key Code."

Jim still looked at the person staring back at him from the mirror. He refused this. He refused to look like this. Like a starved out bum. No. This couldn't be it. So he raised his head in a final attempt of bravery and said, with his voice barely audible, "I won't tell you lot about it. You can go to hell. I'll see you there once I am done with burning this island. Now, get me to Mycroft Holmes."

He felt two hands on both his shoulders, and the beating started.

Poor Jim.