Author Note: I'm sorry for the delay, this one is a bit longer.
Chapter 1: The Preparation.
Those three little words seemed to jump out of the paper and dance before Sherlock's eyes. Yet he did not desire to give in to the fact that they made him anxious. The handwriting and strength of stroke showed they were clearly written by a man, reality which he had already stablished in his head. But who that man was? is the question he desperately needed to answer.
It was personal, and the note just displayed that he had already encountered his captor at least once. That was ill news, there were only so many dangerous criminals who had a reason to hate his guts, and try and narrowing it down to just one seemed impossible, or at best improbable, until he had more information. He looked down at his hands, and they were still painted in now dried blood. Why couldn't he remember its source? or the reason as to why it covered a part of his body? There were no signs that declared it to be his own. And he loathed not being able to just waltz in that specific chamber of his mind and pull out the file which contained the answers as he usually did.
Whatever they did to him to make him forget, and have the memory quality of an ape must have been extensively planned, for he could assume his brain had put on one hell of a fight. Sherlock could deduce they were trying to make him an idiot, so they could treat him as one. Intellect -at least in his own account- is his one and only quality, rid him of that and he is nothing. That sort of dedication and mastermind power to ruin him ruled out at least nine names of the suspect list, and no matter if his partially slowed down head wouldn't allow him to place the events of the day prior, there was one thing he will always remember how to do, and that is solving a difficult case.
He has always refused to be controlled by someone other than himself -not that Mycroft didn't tried- let alone not knowing by who he was being controlled. He rolled up his button down shirt sleeves and searched the almost empty room once more, surely there wouldn't be a thing he would have missed, but he did not have another choice. He turned his head and saw the small speakers hanged at the top of each wall. There was also a camera at the corner of the room, its previously red light now shining bright green, obviously transmitting everything that happened inside there. Great, so now he was also an entertainment.
Whoever was doing this sure went out of his way to make Sherlock become frustrated, any other criminal would flaunt his perfect crime in front of him just to prove him he could not stop them anymore. This one, however, did not seem to be taking revenge, instead it was as if wanting to see Sherlock dance, it was all just a game.
If Sherlock didn't know better, he would have said it was an old enemy of his. But that crazy bloke was now dead and that nightmare was over. But still, for a reason he did not know, he hadn't taken him off of the list. His captor knew Sherlock could not live without answers, and that is the reason he was providing him with less than few.
Just a single note, and he was expected to recognize his captor with only three words. Surely there have been times he could deduce the murderer just by one colour, but this was entirely different. The clues were delivered in a silver platter -quite literally actually- and he suspected he could be being dragged to a certain answer, a diversion. How was he going to work with fake evidence? But Sherlock refused to give up that easily, there was an answer to all of this and he had to find it.
He sat on the floor, the drugs finally taking their toll on his body, the high was gone at last. He needed to think, the fact that he was stuck angered him beyond compare. He did not even have nicotine patches or a violin to help him think, nor a skull to talk to -although John would have been better. He missed his one friend, he had a way of making him get to a brilliant epiphany. And of course appreciation was always welcomed. John had been a real help in all of his recent cases, not to mention he was the only one who seemed to understand -and put up with- Sherlock and still be able to contribute to society. A conductor of light indeed.
A light chuckle escaped from the detective's lips when he recalled the broken nose he had gotten after sneaking in on him at the restaurant. Maybe the whole "Hello, by the way I'm not dead." idea was a mistake, but John always managed to forgive him. And now Sherlock was trapped in this cellar with no clue of what he was up against to. But he knew John would come after him, he always did.
It was slightly hotter now, probably the sun had started to shine on the outside, although that seemed improbable for the city of London, it had just rained the day before. That's the first time he pondered the thought that maybe he was not even in London anymore. This was again all so interesting, and if he hadn't been the one captured this would have probably classify as a nine. The sort of case that was too good to pass. Amusingly enough, now he had to solve it whether he wanted to or not, to save his life.
He flexed his legs towards his body and was now sitting with the tip of his hands supporting his chin. He closed his eyelids and returned again to his Mind Palace, -but not before crossing off another three names from the list. They were just too stupid to know how to push his buttons down- remembering who he was chasing before he got caught was crucial. Once inside it, it felt smaller now, diminishing almost. That was not good, not good at all.
Since he was a little boy, he started building up this room, referencing every bit of it to something he must remember. Later, as he started to grow and became smarter, the walls began expanding until he was left with little more than a gigantic castle, full of information and important data ready to use. As an addition, he stored away memories he did not want forget, like the time he met Mrs. Hudson, or the only time his father told him he was proud of him -he outsmarted Mycroft in chess when he was six- he knew his brother had let him win, but still those things didn't happen very often -try never- and he was not about to let it go down the drain, he had always craved the attention, even though he will never admit it to anyone, himself included.
His head, contrary to popular believe, was not a maze, but a well-organized chamber. He had broken it down in wings, floors and rooms, and unlike his flat, it was always squeaky clean and not a single useless thing could be found in there, he never cared for filling his head with rubbish. Needless to say, there could also be found inside it a large area where he deposited everything related to his cabbie-shooter flatmate, and he used to enter there quite often to think. Not to try and solve a murder, but to calm down and just think.
Now seeing the place he created and perfected over the years change, was very unsettling. It had never happened to him. Trying to access one part of his brain but never succeeding. Everything else looked in place, yet he had locked out that information. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, just as any other blocked memory situation, it will eventually come to him, and right now no matter how hard he pushed there wouldn't be a difference.
He took another look at the note, not even knowing why he was doing it, everything there was to find out about it, already crossed his mind. He scanned it carefully, every bit of it for hours straight, until he saw it. It was a teensy black dot at the end of the letter E. Others would call it an ink excess, but to him it was a curse, for it fell upon him like a hundred pounds of red bricks. It showed the inclination of the pen used, and it indicated they were written by a left handed man. A bloody left handed man.
This was the moment his frustration started morphing into something similar to fear. The note hadn't changed at all, the paper was still white, the words were still three and the calligraphy was still flirty, even so it had taken a whole new meaning to him. It proved a reality that he did not yet understand. The note had transformed and with it Sherlock's state of mind. Once a threat, now a death sentence.
This could not be happening. Not again. His senses had never -except for that one time in Baskerville- failed before. And it made him highly uncomfortable not knowing what to believe in anymore. Although every clue kept reverting him back to the same place, he refused to consider it being authentic. Surely someone must have been playing some sort of sick twisted game, driving him into thinking it was not over. The thing that worried Sherlock the most was that the only one with the intention to do it was the very answer he was running from. This could not be happening.
He thought back to the last moment he saw him. They were having a game of wits at the rooftop of Bart's. Punchlines coming and going everywhere. The sleuth was sure he could get the data he needed from the criminal, and for a split second Sherlock thought he had him. But then Moriarty pulled out his gun. As soon as he realized what his opponent was about to do, he darted backwards, terrified at the action and a gun shot was all he could hear. Everything happened so quickly that when he wrapped his mind around what he had done a pool of blood was already oozing out of his body. His mind was in a haze, as he saw him there, lying cold and lifeless on the floor. Then he remembered the problem he was in and turned around, phone in hand, and focused his gaze on John.
There was no way he could have survived that shot. He had been there when he did it, at hands reach, and he sometimes -not that he cared to admit it- still had nightmares about it.
So how could this be truth? The only reasonable answer was: it wasn't. His mind was playing tricks on him, someone was just trying to scare him off. Sherlock decided that would not be happening anytime soon, at least not until he had actual proof to believe his worst enemy had escaped that deathtrap.
He took a moment to calm down, and got up from his sitting position. Slowly approaching the camera on the high corner of the wall. He examined it for a short amount of time before tugging at one of the cords. Hopefully not being able to see him through that, his captor would come out of their hideout. Once the wire was disconnected, he lowered his arm and waited. There was something similar to static coming from one of the speakers on the far end wall. Clearly they were preparing them to be used. Good.
Sherlock expected to hear something, someone -most likely- threatening him, but the sound never came. Instead he noticed something being slipped from under the door. "Another note." He thought, and quickly crouched down and grabbed it. This time the message was longer, but clearly written by the same person.
"Who would have guessed? Little Sherly is shy,
Do not fret though, I can still see you :)"
That was it, he did not care who the crazy bloke was, nor what sort of sick prank was he trying to pull, Sherlock was having none of it. With a frown, he crumbled the paper inside his hand. Frustration running its way through his body, rolling down his sleeves again did nothing to ease the fact of the utter discomfort he felt. It was as if he was trying to work out a puzzle but was afraid of whatever outcome it may have- actually, right now any outcome would be better than what his mind was throwing, and damn, he was getting warmer-.
Despite of not wanting to believe in what the clues were feeding him, it maybe was time to consider the situation. His mind already working through all the possible cases of surviving that shot, but he came off empty handed. Death could be faked, this much he knew -more than anyone- but he could not conceive how.
He resorted, instead to the other two names left on the list. Both dangerous, but nothing compared to the criminal at hand. One of them used to work for him though, that was a fact worth elaborating. Yet something did not seem to fit, none of this men could have known the effect, nor the memories the word "shy" had on Sherlock.
Once, when he was fifteen and Mycroft came to visit, he was forced to socialize with his brother's friends from uni. Mummy commanded the soon-to-be british government to at least introduce Sherlock to them. He was beyond annoyed and just wanted to get it over. He told each of their names to Sherlock -which he definitely deleted- and addressed him to them as his baby brother.
When the detective turned around with no more than a nod given, Mycroft said something he shouldn't have, and regretted it after the reaction it caused -Sherlock throwing a family relic to the wall and breaking it-. He added something at the end of the sentence whilst he was still in earshot. "I'm sorry, my brother's a little shy". Probably Sherlock should not have been so affected by this. But he was beyond fuming. He was not shy, he was actually bold, and even -as the ordinary people often put it- outrageously big-mouthed. He knew every sort of human interaction, just didn't care for any of them. Needless to say, he loathed the word even since, and now his captor was mocking him with something only his pastry-lover brother would have known. Aside the criminal to whom he gave his life story.
No chance the word was anything near a mere coincidence. So that too ruled out the other two men, the other options Sherlock would have preferred. Only one name left. He considered, for a split second, the probability of him becoming crazy, but shook it out of his mind as soon as it came. After all Sherlock Holmes is -almost- never wrong. Maybe a few teensy details off, but never something as big. Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth. This time, however, it may be working against him. For the first time in his life he did not want to be right, he wanted to realize he had missed something, something that would turn all of this in another direction. No such luck.
He started pacing around the empty room. His knuckles white from clenching fists, and he could feel a headache already starting to form. He thanked again for the fact that John was not with him, although he did miss him. This was clearly a war he had to fight on his own, and he did not want the blogger to see him do whatever it took to get out of there. Hopefully they would be looking for him and desperate measures would not be needed. At the end of the day Lestrade was a determined man, Mycroft was resourcefully nosy, and John cared.
"Who are you?" He said loudly, into the hushed night air, suspecting the answer, though a little bit of him just wished to be proven wrong, to be corrected. His baritone voice ringing, echoing all over the room, after hours of thinking and analyzing he decided to just ask. Not caring for being too bold.
"Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Holmes?" A loud voice came out of seemingly nowhere. Sherlock halted his pace the second he heard it. He took a split moment to close his eyes and breathe, before opening them up again and search the room. After checking on the source of the sound -the speakers- he finally had a chance to focus on the voice. He knew that voice, that accent, and specially he remembered to whom it belonged.
"You look surprised, weren't you expecting me? I got to say I am rather offended." He hated that tone, and he hated the fact that he had not seen this coming any sooner. "You... you are dead." He muttered, fret making its presence in his hoarse voice. A knot already forming in his stomach. This could not be happening.
"I guess that makes two of us, doesn't it?" He paused, acknowledging the fact that the detective despised the memories being brought to him and putting him on the spot. "You shot yourself, I saw you do it." Desperation ringed through his words, and he had to regain control quickly. Emotion could be the death of him, quite literally. "Oh, but did you?" Waiting for the sleuth to wrap his mind around the situation. The answer left Sherlock wondering its meaning. He had seen him do it, hadn't he? He had seen him pull out his gun, and shove it inside his mouth. Seen him shot himself, and a dead body bathed in crimson liquid spilled all over the floor. But then Sherlock began to worry, no matter how hard he closed his eyes and tossed all his mind palace around, he could not recall the sight.
It had happened to him before, just after the fall. At first he had thought he had repressed it, too traumatic to remember. But as days passed he could see it. He could see Moriarty shooting himself in the head, his humanity -if you can call it that- leave him. However, now the detective got it, he never remembered it, his own mind had constructed the whole ordeal, not handling the fact that even though he knew he was dead, he would never know for sure. He had seen him pull out his gun, and shove it inside his mouth. Seen a dead body and assumed he had shot himself. And now Sherlock could not feel more stupid at making such assumption.
This powerfully rattled his cage, how was he supposed to know what was real and what was not? How was he going to tear the two apart? His mind had betrayed him, and he just needed to think. Put aside all feelings and do what he had trained himself to do. Emotions were the reason his brain felt the need to build up a fantasy world where Moriarty did not exist, but he was never going to let that happen again. He needed both, his mind and body, at the same corner on this one.
"Got it yet?" The consulting criminal spoke once he saw the other man shift the way he was standing, reaching a suitable conclusion. "I'm glad to know you kept your promise of shaking hands with me here." He sing-songed cheerfully. Like a proud master. "Here where?" Sherlock asked, not even remembering the conversation they once had about this. "Hell." The criminal spoke, soft but firmly, and it was all it took for Sherlock to prove his fears, James surely knew how to make his life a living hell -he'd done it before- and he was not going to hold back. It was obviously him, every aspect and side of this spelled out his name. It had always been them, and no one else. Them in a fight to the death.
"Oh, that." He answered back, trying not to let the fact that he was actually shocked show. He relaxed his shoulders a bit, in an effort of letting the man behind the camera know he was not afraid of him, even if that was a complete bitter lie.
"It's funny how we remain on having the same ideas, isn't it?" The voice pausing and changing pitch all through the question. The detective took this as an attempt from his captor to diminish the fact that he had actually outsmarted him. That he had predicted his move and taken two steps ahead in the board instead. It was impressive that he got away with that, really, he had to give him that. But the brilliance behind the double cheat did not mean the man liked it one bit.
"Extremely amusing." It was a poor shot to avoid the conversation, but it was not entirely false. Although he loathed to admit it, they had already stablished they were two sides of the same coin, and Jim was certainly the only match for his massive intellect -as John often put it-. But the never-ending push and pull between them had died with him at the top of Bart's, and he had no desire on unburying that old bad habit.
"So here we are again Sherly, just you and me." He started and everyone knows once the consulting criminal has begun there's no stoping him, but that doesn't mean Sherlock wasn't going to try. He was going to say get me out of here, but he knew it was useless. There was no way he would let him juts walk away, and asking for it was plain moronic. "This security system is reeeally good, you should see how well I can watch you right now. You look good." Moriarty rolled out the last words with venom, knowing very well how much the sleuth was uncomfortable with them. Sherlock shifted weight and swallowed hard. "By they way, trying to unwire my toys was not cool." The madman smiled at this, at least he had managed to annoy him a bit, even for just a few seconds.
"Just thought it would make you come out and play." Sherlock said mirroring what Jim had told him the day they met. He wander about the room nonchalantly, trying to appear as collected as he could. Showing weakness would only make things worse for himself.
"I'm sorry our meeting has to be this way for now dear, I would very much love to be there in person." There it was, the characteristic menacingly charming sweet talk Sherlock couldn't say he had miss. It somehow added power to the man, although the detective couldn't quite understand how. "But you know how clients are, they just can't get enough of me." Sherlock just flickered his blue-gray eyes throughout the walls, there was nothing he could do for now other than to amuse the man with clever chat.
"Same as you with me." Sherlock mocked him. "Can we just get this game over with so I can go?" He urged, coming off as bored and uninterested. Tired of the repetition from the consulting criminal.
"Oh, you're no fun! I was hoping you stayed here a few days." He said resembling a whiny child. "Not that you have a say in it." He ended with a serious tone. Obviously the man was not letting Sherlock go any time soon, not before he got what he wanted from the him. "You are not allowed to know the game we're playing yet, my dear Sherlock. But for now I'll send you my friends to show you the rules."
"Are they the same that jumped on me at the alley?" Sherlock began. "I would very much enjoy seeing them again." He said cracking his knuckles, locating exactly where the other camera was. It was much smaller, and seemed sophisticated, clearly more expensive. Obviously Moriarty knew he was going to try and unplug the other one. And now that he thought about it, it probably was never working in the first place.
"Your wish is my command. Well, I better be off..." James took a chance to chuckle a bit at his own inventive entertainment. Sherlock, however didn't find it anywhere near amusing. "Why can't you just tell me what am I doing here? I just solved a case and I don't have the energy to play your games." The detective sighed, he wanted nothing more than to get out of there, but a ridiculing "See you later, Sherlock Holmes." is the only thing he got in response.
Silence filled the room once more, and the realization hit him, hard. His deductions had been right, yet he hadn't planned what he was going to do if they were. But now there he was, with his captor´s name circled and flaring bright red on his mental suspect list, and he didn't know what to do. Escape was always an option, but there was a high chance he would get caught again, Moriarty was clearly not working alone, and if his calculations were correct -they always were- there were about twenty seven men standing between him and freedom. You don't have to be a proper genius to figure out the odds didn't favour him.
Apparently -if Sherlock's internal clock was right- it was sometime around a quarter past midnight. Good thing the detective rarely sleeps, he had no intentions of closing his eyes and having any sort of vulnerability in that room. Anything, the slightest slip and he could be damned. This thought brought him back to that day at the top of Bart's again. How he didn't know if he was making it out alive. Three years is a long time, far too long to waste. Yet he was forced to spend them like he did in order to keep everything he -surprisingly- loves alright back at London. Although alright is far from being the world he would have used to describe them when he returned to what he left. It made him wonder what sort of thing he would have to lose to win the battle this time, and to what sort of home was he going to be arriving when he got out. If he ever got out.
But there was no time for worrying and over-analyzing that right now. He knew they were looking for him, and even thought the police -Lestrade included- was most likely out of its depth, he had taught John well. And surely he would be picking the pieces quite fast, at least for someone claimed to be ordinary. Statement which Sherlock could not disagree more with. He surely was going to be receiving visitors soon and maybe there would be something he could do to get out of this mess. The soles of his feet hitting the cold concrete as he walked. His long fingers roamed his messy hair and he let out a small sigh.
An uncommon rustle came to his ears several moments later. There was unusual activity at the other end of the door, and the sleuth figured it was time for Moriarty's pets to come for him. Smashing and clamping his thoughts away he paced to the entrance. If Jim was true to his word, and these were in fact the same men who brought him here, Sherlock already knew their weak points, and their best forts. He stood next to the door, and waited for a bit. The element of surprise would work at his advantage, and maybe rid him of the sensation of being outnumbered.
Seconds passed before the two men came storming into the room. Heavy steps and hurried bodies halted at the middle of the room, probably scanning it with their tired eyes and wondering with their small brains where the prisoner was. Sherlock came springing from behind them, long limbs stretching and grabbing one of them by the neck. Tightening the bloke's ability to breathe. The other one -taller with brown short hair, scarred right cheek, and grow-in bruises, clearly abused when younger, most likely by his mother and got trapped in this situation at early age. Bribed, probably now too greedy to leave- wrapped his arms around his waist and pulled him off his mate.
The madman was a resourceful man, the sort that makes more with less, and sneaking out of their arms was easy enough. He now remembered one of the perks of being almost thinner than a tooth-pick, it worked when he was nine to escape the other kids' bullying habits trying to rip him apart from his books, or punching him just because he was too much of a freak, and it thankfully still worked now.
Sherlock ran to the other side of the room, his long strides giving him a two seconds leverage. The two other men came rushing across -but not before one of them had to wait and catch his breath first- and tried to corner him. The detective was much quicker than them, and took him no effort to dodge and confuse them. If he made for the door now, he probably wouldn't get very far, but he was not about to let these idiots get him without a fight, not if he could hurt them first. Lower his own chances of the same happening to him.
However, one of them -the one with sandy blonde hair and a very much annoyed expression- grabbed his arm as he ran and twisted him around. The tight grip already giving the younger man a teensy shard of aching. "I got you." He'd said and Sherlock watched as the other man came tumbling his heavy body to him. He used his free hand to take a swing in his aggressor's nose direction, and missed just by a few centimeters, the punch landing on his cheek instead of the middle of his face. It was effective, but not enough. Still, it was painfully sufficient to make him withdraw his grasp and call him little shit.
The brunette got his revenge for his partly injured mate and thrusted his fist until it came colliding with Sherlock's stomach, quite badly. The detective backed away a bit, and received another blow, this time on his jaw. He ducked to the ground and crawled out of battle field, at least that would take them by surprise. When he was far enough to stand, he did as he could to not fall flat on his face. The blonde gazed at him for a second and then tackled him to the floor, the sleuth already trying to squirm his way out of his grasp. He was pinned down by one of them and tied by the other. This time it took no drugs to beat him, no cheating -if you consider being outnumbered, fair-. Great, another failure to add to the long lists of mistakes he had done lately.
Things in his life weren't going as he wanted them to some days before he was taken. Criminals seemed more vicious, and even if he loved the thrills, he couldn't deny the fact of being constantly dragged around threatened made him exhausted. The worst were the visions, as he liked to call them. A month before, he had started seeing strange things on the streets, men who seemed to be following him, strange looks from faces at the shop, one time he even thought he saw someone who was supposed to be dead. Supposed to not be around anymore.
At first he didn't say anything, waving it all off, he was probably just too observant. But as the stares became more intense, and the visions seemed to happen more frequently he had no option but to tell someone -John- about them. Big mistake. John had listened intently and had already worried himself out of his mind before Sherlock could even finish to tell him what he thought was happening. When the detective tried to calm him down, it only made him more preoccupied and by the end of the next day he had -after having an intense row with him and somehow winning- forbid Sherlock to walk out of Baker Street.
Sherlock then decided -more like absentmindedly ranted about it in front of him, and realized it when it was too late- to tell Mycroft all about it, in hopes he would help him convince the blogger to calm down a bit. Even bigger mistake. His brother took the doctor's side with a much worse reason, he got worried but not because he believed Sherlock, but because he thought his brother was paranoid, hallucinating even, and expressed his concern to the Yard.
Lestrade decided then that the detective was probably too unstable to do the job, probably had been working too hard, and demanded Sherlock to stay away and rest, at least until his mind was well enough to take cases again. So, to resume, it was already a week in which he was not allowed to work or to set a foot out of the flat, fact that ended in royal boredom; his nosy brother was constantly nagging him about his health and updated their surveillance status for the second time in one month -he was now a grade six- and his flatmate was a nervous wreck. Not to mention half the Yard had now, thanks to Mycroft, what they liked to call real proof that Sherlock was crazy. What a joy!
Moriarty had raised from the grave to haunt him again. Sherlock understood now that those weren't visions, he wasn't really going insane. Those were actual living things, waiting on the lines to attack him. Somehow this thought did nothing to calm him. He had no time for this now, he had more important things to worry about, like the two men handcuffing his both hands to a water pipe.
After they were done and Sherlock was surely not going to move from the spot he was, the other two men smiled to each other. They had him just the way they wanted him, and there was nothing he could do about it. "So, Derek, what do you think we should do to him first?" The man said to his brunette companion, turning around and rolling up his sleeves. They were probably going to beat him up, they had no torturing objects and the sleuth suspected they would get some sort of sick satisfaction doing it with their own hands. "Maybe we should start by showing him who's in charge." The other replied. Typical, Sherlock thought, stating authority was very commonly used by captors all over the world, and honestly it disappointed him a bit, he had expected a little more brains coming from Moriarty´s minions, not that it meant he was not most likely going to end up with his guts tied around him by these blokes.
The first thing he felt was a fist colliding with his already wounded jaw, blood dripping from his lip. Philip -the sandy blonde six-footed beast- took two more swings at him and he just tried to bear the ache. His legs were still free, and a kick to the other man's lower regions was effective enough to make him back away, only to be replaced by his mate. A very furious Derek took leaden-feet steps towards him and returned the favour. Sherlock almost doubled in pain, but decided against it. These bastards won't see him break, not now, nor ever.
He was pushed further to the ground until his back almost touched the floor and his arms were stretched up above his head. Then the brunette booted his side over and over again. The detective felt something crack inside him, sending a wave of pain unto the brim of his humanity. Two broken ribs he thought, and he spat out some of the blood from his mouth. He was already in desperate need of medical care. His eyes, however, still had that menacing glare, as if saying My body is just transport, you can't break me. This, obviously was not appealing to his butchers, they desired to see him want to crawl out of his skin just to ease the torture he was going through, and when no matter how much they hit him -by now he had three broken ribs, and a finger, a dislocated shoulder, bruises in his face and abdomen, and blood trickling down from several cuts all over his body- he was nowhere near as miserable as they wanted him to be, they got quite angry.
Philip stood above him, eyeing him down as a cat who's finally caught the mouse, and laughed a full-throated chuckle, deep and resonant, that made Sherlock try desperately to rid the handcuffs off his wrists, to get away from these bloody madness. This gave the attacker a motive, an opportunity and he pressed his foot into Sherlock's chest, the broken ribs crushing at his insides as his breath was completely lost.
For an split second the detective thought his heart was going to be squashed and he would be left there, lifeless and with a shattered chest. What an awful way to die, in the hands of these brutes, compressed to nothing by their brainless beating. Sherlock did not want to go like this, ´tis not that he had given his own death much thought when he was younger, but as of the second his feet left the edge of the Saint Bart's rooftop and his body was sent flying down rapidly to his possible end, the concept of ceasing to be stung him, and he realized if something was to go wrong with his plan and he was actually to die then, it would have been for the best of reasons. At least, even if his trick failed, he still was able to save the people he cared about. He knew he, whatever the outcome, had made the right decision and that alone was enough for Sherlock to close his eyes and just trust it.
"You thought you could beat us, you little shit. We may be done with you for now, but our master sure isn't." They had said when they decided the sleuth had had enough. Apparently, with the conversation he happened to overhear as he was being beaten ruthlessly, he managed to gather some data. Moriarty had told him to shake him up a bit, and that after he was done with his demanding projects he would be there in person to explain the game to Sherlock. A game he was most likely going to be forced to play by the criminal's rules. The devil always plays fair, just a bit fairer for himself.
In the time Derek and Philip were in the room with him, Sherlock had seen enough to deduce their whole dull lives, from their young years of school and braces to their training. They had been instructed for about two and a half years exactly for this task. Probably since the second Moriarty came to know he was, in fact, not dead, he had been planning this. A way to destroy him once and for all. This was serious business and despite the case of his body being badly injured, his mind was intact and running, and damn, he was going to use it.
A whole day seemed to pass, and Sherlock's insides hurt. Crushed bones are never good. He recognized the wounds and injures were made perfectly thought through. They all were painful, really painful, but -except for the broken ribs and finger- none of them were deep enough to cause any real damage. Agony without evidence. Brilliant.
It was all too careful, Moriarty was no doubt a clever man, perfectly delicate on how to handle a situation like this. The detective's body was betraying him yet again, he hadn't eaten anything in three days, nor slept in almost four, so it's an understatement to say his body needed maintenance. Sherlock had no desire on doing either of them, poison, ambush, torture, murder, these and more: were all a probability if he were to show any weakness in this place. He was not about to trust these people even in the slightness, not to not put something in his drink, or take him away when resting, but his stomach was too empty, and his head too drowsy.
He had to stay focused, he had to stay awake. Ignore the hunger and the tiredness. Those aspects that once made his body be on a state of hyperawareness, of super activity and energy, now where starting to weigh him down, he had put them off for too long and they had begun taking their toll on his mental abilities. Maybe a quick nap would get his brain running again.
He sat with his back to the wall, and positioned his arms as limply as he could being handcuffed to the pipe. He took, not three, not four, but five soothing breaths and closed his eyes. His body relaxed nearly instantly and he decided he was going to doze off for a few minutes. Not fully deep sleep, but mere drowsing. He didn't want to be unaware of what was around him, of what was happening to him, just rest his drained self and try to gain back control.
When he was about to loose consciousness the door opened swiftly, and like a storm there came steps. Sassy dress shoes clicking on the floor, approaching Sherlock by the second. The detective sighed and kept his eyes closed for a moment longer, already knowing what those steps meant.
"Wake up Sleeping Beauty, daddy's here!" He heard a high pitched voice taunt him, and lifted his eyelids. There he was. The vision of the supposedly dead man all dressed in Westwood and wearing a huge smile, staring back at him with those big brown eyes that seemed to suck Sherlock in and drag him to the bottom of an abyss inside his pitch dark soul. He looked just the same as he remembered him, an unfortunate turn of events. The sleuth wanted to believe that seeing him wouldn't affect him this much, that maybe his mind had extrapolated this man's vicious nature and that the actual criminal would appear as a watered-down version of the monster that often haunted his memories. He was wrong.
After him there came Derek, who placed a chair in front of Sherlock for the criminal to sit and headed off again. As soon as the door shut locking them both inside, and they were alone again, Jim started talking. This time much calmer, but no less secure. "So, do you like the place?" He asked, and the madman just glared at him. "I think it's rather fantastic, although it is in desperate need of some decoration. But who's got the time for that?"
"You did not come here to talk about which colour should the walls be painted, James." Sherlock said more of an statement. Completely aware of what his adversary was attempting on doing, he didn't have the strength nor the mind to engage in clever chit-chat.
"James? I think I like it when you call me that, it sounds machiavellian." He answered grinning. Flirting was surely something he knew how to do, how to make people feel he had them under his thumb. "Anyway, I'm here to talk about you." With this, the detective shifted his body a bit and sat up straighter, reaching a far more comfortable eye-level between the two.
"What about me?" Even though he hadn't ingested anything in days, they were forcing water down his throat every four or five hours since the day before, so his vocal chords were not dry. His intention, however, was to stay alive and he was not going to achieve it by yelling at the beast. So he just responded nonchalantly.
"What are we going to do with you, Sherly? Since the day I found out you were just playing dead, I sent one of my snipers to..." And the criminal trailed off, Sherlock was no longer listening or even looking at him. His eyes were fixed on something in sight above Jim's left shoulder. "What?" He had asked and turned around to see what in the world could possibly be more important than what was happening right then. When his body angled and his vision landed on the item of the detective's attention, the solution surprised him. He saw a plate of food.
"Oh, you're hungry." He remarked smirking, and the madman cursed under his breath, he should not have let this man witness a vulnerability on his part; but he was famished and there was nothing he could do about it now. "You haven't eaten a thing since we brought you here, have you?" The brown eyed kept staring at the hatred in the other man's ocean-like eyes. Hatred towards him, and hatred for the fact that he was actually spot on. The answer to his question already painting a picture on his face.
"Here," The criminal got up on his feet and strode to the meal plate, he picked it up and brought it close to the sleuth. "Eat, my dear. Do not let me stop you. I don't want you to starve and die on me." He placed the dish in Sherlock's hands and smiled saucily at him, as if trying to be charming.
The curly-haired man peered at the food. This was not good, Moriarty is only kind when he is about to crush you, the calm before the storm; and this could mean but one thing: he was damned. He decided then his appetite was officially gone, he casted the dish aside and returned his gaze to his nemesis. "Please do keep going."
"You've got questions. Of course you don't need me to tell you the reason why you're here." Jim stated, sitting back on his place. "I'm here so you can burn me." Sherlock replied honestly, there was no point in beating around the bush, there was only one way this conversation will end, and that was with him trapped there and the criminal walking out the door triumphantly.
"That's very true, I'm glad we didn't have to go through that conversation again. You see, I also like experiments very much. So we're going to do one together," He got up and paced around the room, casting glances now and again to Sherlock -who still laid seated on the floor, scowl on his face- and talking eagerly about his plans, like a boy with a new toy. "So you, as the subject, will perform some tasks, and we will monitor your efficiency. You are to do everything me or my little friends tell you to." These words were flying out of him like a waterfall, easily and strong, and there was no way of making them stop.
"What if I don't?" Sherlock asked playing strongly, he still had pride and he was not ready to succumb to whatever mean the bloke had in mind, no way was he going to become their test subject.
"Oh, you will. Trust me Sherly, you will." The criminal replied and his eyes turned a shade darker, Sherlock was sure he could see something breaking loose inside of the other man's glare, he had released the monsters. "I have my ways, but let's just hope we won't have to resort to them." The look was gone as soon as it came and the detective let out a mental breath.
"So what are the results you're hoping to obtain from this said experiment in which we are supposedly going to collaborate?" This question could only bring a foul answer, but the game was already being played and if Sherlock didn't move one of his pieces he would approach more promptly to his final destination. "I wish to know how many a time it would take for the world's only consulting detective to finally snap. How long for the madman to actually become... mad." He walked closer to Sherlock, his back arching a bit to face the sleuth. "I want to know what will it take to break you."
"Sorry the results are going to be disappointing. You'll find that you cannot, in fact, break me." Sherlock's chest bounced up and down more hastily, but he remained poised. The criminal knelt down and reduced the distance between them a bit, faces merely inches from one another and two set of eyes locked on what could be the destruction of either of them. Finally Jim said breathing the same air as the curl-headed man. "Then show me what you're made of."
Author note: I really hope you liked it, and review if you have the time. Points up for people who spots clues!