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Disclaimer: See Chapter One. Plus, the title of this chapter is from Rihanna'S Disturbia. No profit made.

Warnings: Mentions of violence. I'm being nice this time.

Chapter Eight: So if you must falter, be wise

They had to carry him back to his old cell as he wasn't able to walk. Joel just threw him on the floor and locked the door. Jim couldn't move. He just lay there in sheer agony, spitting out blood. They had dressed him again, in his old clothes, which by now where way too large for him. He tried to get up, but the pain made him almost collapse again. He proceeded to just lie there, shivering from pain and trying not to drown on his blood. But broken as his body was, his mind, though clouded, worked just fine. They had kept him in isolation for what he knew now had been three weeks, starved him for some time to weaken his body so he would be easier to break. Oh, but he hadn't broken. No no. He had screamed, he had cried, he was pretty sure he had passed out at least once and had been brought back with a bucket of water, but he hadn't begged, and he hadn't given them anything on the key code. In return he had gotten the worst beating he had ever received. And it had ended only because one of the guys had figured he couldn't take anymore. And Jim had actually been quite thankful. His body couldn't take much more. He was positive no bones were broken apart from the ring finger on his left hand. So that, if any woman ever wants you again, and you'll get married, you will always remember us. He chuckled; as if I would live long enough to get married. His finger was standing at a weird angle when he looked at it. He just closed his eyes again, trying not to pass out.

Mycroft had watched with keen interest the curled up figure of Jim Moriarty on the floor. Joel had already told him that they hadn't gotten anything out of him. Again. Even after three weeks of no human contact and one week of starvation, Jim was no closer to reveal his knowledge. And slowly, Mycroft ran out of ideas. He knew that Jim had to rest before they tried anything on him again. At least two days. He needed proper food, proper drink. Mycroft picked up the phone and gave the necessary instructions. Then he looked at the fragile frame again.

Jim slept for two hours. When he woke up, he was able to move again, and crawled into his favourite corner. He hadn't even properly reached it when the cell door opened and Nancy came in carrying another plate. She placed it at his feet and left again, not saying a word. Jim looked at his, and smiled; it was a stew, in a plate, with a spoon. Full of vegetables. So, they were trying to build him up again. Now, he was on the winning side. He just had to refuse this, waiting until they were so worried they would send Mycroft in. Then again, if he didn't eat this, he would probably die soon. And he had no intention of doing so. So he ignored the pain and sat up straight, or as straight as he could, took the spoon and ate the stew. It was delicious. Well, by this building's standards. He emptied the plate and felt much better already. His eyes wandered through the room and remained on the mirror. Thank God he couldn't see himself in it. He knew, eventually, when he was strong enough to stand again, he would be drawn to it, but right now, he was still too much in… yeah, shock about the man who had stared back at him from the mirror earlier. It was not that he didn't know what a man looked like after having gone through what he had gone through. He had seen it often enough, when Sebastian had been at work. A perfectly healthy man reduced to a walking dead. But he was mildly surprised it had happened to him. Jim had never been particularly strong, at least physically, but he had a high pain threshold, and they hadn't even come close to trespassing it. But it frustrated him to no end that his body couldn't handle as much as he wanted. The ghost that had looked back at him in the mirror had shown him that. And he knew that by now, he had to look even worse. He brought his hand slowly up to his face, touching the bruises. His left eye was swollen, and there was a bruise forming under the other one as well. They felt hot against his cold fingers, throbbing. A slap had caught his lip, which had split. One tooth had even loosened, thankfully one of the molars only. He didn't know where the blood he had spat out had come from, but his best bet was the lip. Adding this to the bad shape he had been in before the beating had started, and the result was… crushing. He closed his eyes, thinking about his chances. Mentally, he was slowly regaining his composure. He was quite proud of himself: despite having been quite anxious about the beating, he had not shown it. He didn't feel affected; it was fear that affected people, and Jim was not afraid. Anything that didn't hurt his mind…. But his body was another issue, and Jim, realistic as he was, knew that even if they started feeding him real stuff now, that would change again soon. As soon as they felt he was being strong enough again to survive another questioning, they would feed him the usual crap again, probably with a little extra sneer from Mrs York. And then, God knew what they would come up with next. No beatings, that much he was sure of. At least, no more beatings like this. He had shown them twice now that he wasn't impressed. They had to come up with something new. He raised his head slowly, and waved his hand at the mirror. He would be ready.

Mycroft was more than frustrated as he saw that. What on Earth did he have to do to finally make him give up? Mycroft was slowly nearing the end of his wits. Of course, there were many things that could be done, but he was the Government, and there were certain things he just didn't do to another human being. Even if this human being was as far from human as he could possibly imagine. Of course he knew Moriarty wanted to talk to him. The man had uttered that wish now a number of times, but Mycroft was still reluctant. He had heard of Sherlock's little pool adventure with Moriarty, and personally, he didn't like that his younger brother had caught this nutcase's attention. Adding to this the fact that Moriarty and his ominous Key Code were a danger for the whole world… Mycroft really didn't know what worried him the most. Of course, the world was important, but Sherlock was his brother whom he, despite all sibling rivalry, deeply loved. And the sole thought that Moriarty could hurt Sherlock… if Mycroft could have his way, Moriarty would have spilled the beans already and would be buried somewhere by now. But no. There were some boundaries he had to respect. Of course, he could tell his… old friends… that this man was a danger to the queen and country, and he would probably get the "Do whatever you deem necessary" line. But it was still too early. Or was it? As long as Jim Moriarty was in here, he couldn't do anything, but what if he had sold the Key Code already? Somebody out there could plan destruction of the world right now. They were wasting time. And if he wanted to talk to Mycroft… If he talked to Mycroft, and Mycroft could get the information they wanted, it would be all good. Just why was he then so reluctant to go in there and have a chat with Moriarty? It wasn't that much legwork, after all. But something, and Mycroft just couldn't put his finger on it, something put him off this man. And after all, he had people to take care of this. He had never talked to any prisoner before, he wouldn't start now. That was some attention he wasn't willing on giving Moriarty. So he called Joel. "Two days. Think of something. Till then, let him rest."

Told you I was being nice this time :) Even Jim needs a little rest.

I wanna take this moment to ask you to go and read Gryphon31's amazing fic Checkmate. It also deals with the time of Jim's captivity, it's amazing, and you need to read it. Leave her/him some lovely reviews. And me, if you like :)