Chapter 2: The test
He was running. Running as he had never run in his entire life. Springing and dashing around through the streets. His legs were striding hastily on the pavement. He tried to coordinate his breathing with his movement pace, but it was too ragged. He had to get there in time, before something bad happened. Before it was too late.
His chest was beginning to burn with exhaustion and he could swear he felt a tug of despair inside it too. He shoved the thought down and kept running for dear life. He could hear the sky stirring, a storm was drawing near, and somehow a shadow could be felt growing in the distant horizon. He had to beat the odds, if he arrived but a minute after he should his whole world would crumble and shatter apart. If you had told him, he would never have believed someday he would be this stupid.
He took a left turn and then a right one, his feet were starting to sense that crushing feeling one gets after having walked all day and his leg was not alright yet. But he could not stop now, it would only mean giving up on the one real thing he has ever had. He had to keep going, no matter how much it hurt; because if he didn't, it would hurt all the more.
Just as he was about to reach his destination, he heard a heart-wrenching scream. An acute cry that sent all his body in shivers, and as he rounded that last corner, what he saw, almost made him stumble over. He was late.
Sherlock awoke abruptly. Sweat dripping on his forehead, and his lungs were trying hard to keep up. His stout brain quickly reckoned his situation, and he looked around to determine if there was any threat in there with him. When he was sure there wasn't, he relaxed and sank back into the floor. It most have been a nightmare.
Two hours. He had slept for two hours, and even thought they weren't nearly enough, they helped. He felt renewed, like he could think again. Now, if there were only something inside his stomach.
After his conversation with the consulting criminal, he kept nodding until tiredness finally got the best of him. It was an unintended rest, but as soon as it hit him, it was more than welcomed. He had to think of a way to get out of there, as he was sure he would not hold out another complete day without sleeping again, and the idea of being attacked that way wasn't a pleasant one.
He roamed across the room, for his hands were untied now. Moriarty had said he couldn't see the point in the handcuffs if he was already sure the detective was not going to attack him. He was right, Sherlock —even though he had every desire to place his hands around the criminal's neck and squeeze until his whole body went limp— wasn't going to try and harm Moriarty. Not because he didn't deserved it —because he bloody well did— but because it would only mean bad news for him too. He knew they were looking for him, and he was going to do whatever it took to be alive when they arrived. Killing Jim would only result in his own destruction.
He bent down and lifted the plate of food from the floor. After a few minutes of analysing it and searching for any traces of a substance that may harm him, he took a bite of whatever was in the dish. He honestly couldn't care less exactly what it was he was eating, he just needed something to keep going. As soon as he deemed it enough, he stopped and tossed the dish aside.
Sherlock has never been sure in whether or not he believes in higher power, but there have been some occasions where he could as well imagine someone was somehow watching over him. Certain moments where he couldn't believe he was that lucky. When he solved his first case, when he met John, when he didn't die at the fall, all of these and more the detective had listed and painted across a mirror in a chamber inside his mind palace. Where he could look at them continuously and remind himself that whoever God was, he thought he deserved all the things he had laid out in front of him; things that would appear mere chance but were actually the reasons he was still alive, all that he lived for. It was not logical for him to accept it, for there was not physical proof whatsoever; but something inside the sleuth always wondered if things happened without a purpose, without someone or something planning them.
However, he had proof about the devil. Moriarty has stood in front of him a million times before, and he is one of the devil's servants. A demon —if not the devil himself— and wherever there's darkness, there must have been light to compare. Silence the absence of noise, and evil the lack of goodness. So if the devil exists, someone who is his rightful adversary should too. Sure, the boffin was decidedly not an angel, and will never be, but he liked their side better; and the fact that this snake was winning over him, over them, made him feel outraged. This man shouldn't have the possibility to control lives like this, to break souls like he enjoys to do; he should be nothing, and nothing he would be, Sherlock realised, had he not let him had that sort of power. He should have stopped him at Bart's, he should have stopped him after Carl Powers.
The detective loathed the idea to think himself and Moriarty were not so different. That's why he was so afraid of him, not because of his twisted mind or his love for crimes —Sherlock had those too— but it was the fact that they were so alike that made his stomach curl, to think that somewhere deep inside him there's the potential of him to become exactly what the criminal is, he just had but to cross that line and all would be doomed. He is a smart man, and not the local nor the international police could do anything about it. He'd be worst than the consulting criminal, and his crimes would be so neatly and brilliantly sealed that no one would ever have the ability to get to him, except perhaps himself.
So he sat down, at the middle of the room, four walls pinning down on him, crossing his legs and joining his hands under his chin as a child would when praying and he began to think; because that's how Sherlock prays, and he has never known how to do so in any other way.
Whatever experiment the criminal must be planning it could not be good, or lacking in painful aspects for the sleuth. Waiting for the inevitable was unbearable, so his Mind Place was probably the place where his brain could find some peace at last. He opened the main doors and took a left turn, passing a few halls and chambers. A few locked doors being left behind, which contain so many secrets the detective would never be able to confess to anyone, not even as much as think about them, just guarding them there, inside his mind where they could not scape nor disappear.
When he found the room he was looking, he entered and closed the doors behind him. He had missed the smell of dusty books and wood. It was amazing, really, how he could create an alternate universe and live within it when he needed it. When reality was too much to bear, he could always resort to his own mind and calm down. Intensely shutting the outside world had always done the trick and this time was no exception.
He set to relax his body a little and took one of the books from the bookshelf. Placed himself on a comfortable sofa and opened it. He traced the pages with his fingers, there were no words in it; weird as it may be, none of the books in his Mind Palace had any form of writing, just pictures, and Sherlock liked that for a change. Images of things he enjoys doing were making their way through his thoughts. All those experiments with fascinating results, all those cases solved. Everything in his life had a purpose and a sense, and the sole event of something changing its harmony was not acceptable in the slight-less.
After what could have been possibly hours Sherlock opened his eyes once again. Just in time to hear steps outside the door. And in came the consulting criminal, and Philip, along with a red-haired little boy who had been tied up and muted by a cloth tightly wrapped around his mouth. The sight made him sober up from his almost peaceful thinking, this was no way near good.
The little child was placed just in front of the brunette, and he looked terrified. Jim stood behind him, he had yet to speak a word, but the smirk in his face grew bigger as he noticed the concern run through the sleuth. Sherlock watched as the boy cried scared to death and felt a brief tug inside himself. This boy shouldn't be here, there was nothing this child could have done to even deserve to be in this psychopath and his minion's presence, they probably got him with scarce effort.
How did this criminal had managed to have an empire this big was beyond him. He had invested two of his precious years chasing about each and every member of Moriarty's organisation until he was able to dismantle everything up until his right hand. Now he was back and as the clever man he was, he built an entire new corporation within months. That was the problem, Sherlock thought, he got rid of the web but failed at killing the spider, needless to say, a new web it weaved and weaved until no thought of it ever been destroyed remained.
The detective fought the urge to deduce anything from this little defenceless creature before him. Knowing the outcome this encounter was likely to provide, he couldn't be as cruel with him or as foolish with himself to find out more about him, it would soon prove useless and counterproductive. So the madman decided to focus all his scrutiny to the criminal's figure. Triumphant already with his shoulders back and hands over his hips.
He was staring back at him, a silent conversation going on between the pair and muffled sobs in the background were all they could hear. The exchange consisted in Jim smiling "I've won", and Sherlock glaring "How can you do this?". Then, their discussion was interrupted when Moriarty called Philip. "Hand me the gun." He said to him and the other man quickly complied. Sherlock reluctantly averted his gaze from him and took a turn to watch the boy, between six or seven years old, full of youth and potential, all of that now probably gone from the future.
"You are not doing this." He warned the criminal, he was not going to let him get away with this. Sherlock was bound to endure this hell, this child wasn't. Maybe the detective had brought his own fate on himself but he certainly wouldn't allow the man to hurt such a small individual so brutally just out of power. Moriarty was not playing fair. Three other men Sherlock didn't recognise entered the room while he spoke and went to stand behind him, he was already feeling crowded.
"You're right, I'm not." Jim was tracing his palm and fingers through the soft surface of the gun slowly, examining it. When suddenly he came to a stop and turned his head towards him. "You are." He said handing him the revolver. The expression in the sleuth quickly paled as he refused to take the gun from his hands. "If you don't do it, the four men behind you will aim at you head and are not going to miss, dear. I advise you to take the logical decision."
Sherlock scoffed at this. "As if," He thought. "Let them shoot me; as much as I value my own life very highly there's nothing you can say to make me change my mind." There were no words in the english language —or any other language for that matter— to ever convince him of such atrocity.
"That's it? You're just going to let me shoot you to save a child?" He tucked his hands inside his trousers pockets, with an exasperated look. "You really are boring." His tone lowered two octaves.
"And you really must be insane if you thought I would even consider it." Sherlock spoke up bravely, he was not going to play this sort of games, even if that meant losing them. Moriarty handed the gun back and crouched before the boy. After inspecting him for a little while, he stood up again and turned to the boffin. "I guess it was too soon." He said and gave him a disappointed grimace. "I'll have to plan something different." And made for the door, but not before giving Sherlock a small smile that would have almost looked innocent if he hadn't seen the face it belonged to.
This made the detective wonder for a moment what had just happened. Usually this wasn't the way things went, usually evil didn't just go away. He never expected Jim to just pout and take it; he was expecting some torture, maybe blackmail, but nothing. Sherlock just passed the test, or he failed it depending on the point of view, even though he felt like he hadn't done anything, and that's exactly what he did: nothing.
Just as the criminal was about to get out of sight he called out "Oh I almost forgot, Philip dear, shoot him anyway." And wide-eyed Sherlock turned and spoke as quickly as he could "Don't!" It was not enough though.
It all happened too fast, he tried to shove the child away as the other was aiming the gun, but everything was so hazy and a loud bang was heard. The body of the little boy fell limply unto the ground and before the sleuth could do anything, he was being almost carried to the water pipe, where he was handcuffed again.
A pool of red was already forming, racing through the extension of the floor at light speed —or at least that's how Sherlock saw it— and his stomach made a turn; the detective regretted having eaten anything, he was close to returning whatever it was he ingested. A few more men came in and removed the little body; others cleaned the blood away and the detective just watched them numbly. Realisation catching on to him. He truly was powerless, and was not a player in the chess, but a pawn; and as soon as Moriarty got enough he would dispose of him, that was for sure.
After what Sherlock decided to call "the boy incident", he was left more or less alone for two days. They would seldom come, dropping a food tray to the floor next to him and forcefully making him drink whatever it was they brought when they entered —for it certainly didn't taste like water to him— sometimes going as far as physically opening his jaw with strong hands and forcing it down his throat when he was being extra-feisty. Still, Sherlock knew better than to believe they were going to leave him be for good.
On day number six since he was taken, sounds started coming from outside the commonly quiet door. They were coming again, most likely to run another one of their tests on him. Until then, Sherlock had never loathed experiments before, guess now being in the petri dish for a change made him exponentially develop a disgust towards the idea. He liked observing, not being the object of observation; it made him feel helpless.
A hoard of men came through the door, following the consulting criminal, like some sort of twisted parade just to show off their power. After the main event and the crew of servants, entered eleven more individuals; a company of all sorts. Men, women, children of different ages, and Sherlock's insides began to rumble with the anticipation of what was more likely to come. This was going to be a bad night.
The one-person-short dozen of them were lined up against the far end wall, with bags over their heads. He heard some muted crying and sobs, and something that in other circumstances he would classify as laughter; though now it creeped him out a bit. "I've got good news, Sherly." Moriarty paced about and approached him. He was clutching in his hand an item Sherlock could not identify, yet he seemed to hold it with such a delight that the detective could only deduce it was used for inflicting pain.
"You are not going to need these anymore," He had said as he wrapped his hands around the handcuffs and turned a key to open them. Sherlock slid his hands out and rubbed one of his wrists with his palm, they were sore. James strode back and began to speak again. "I got myself a new toy, I was going to tell you what it does, but I thought it would be much more amusing to watch you deduce its purpose." He said as he brought the plastic item closer to the detective's face, as if putting it on display.
Sherlock glared at it and then at Jim for quite a moment before sighing and gazing over the piece. He was not going anywhere, he might as well humour the bastard. It took him less than a minute to realise something, and when he did he could only say he was no surprised. "You are not going to shock me in order to make me comply with everything you say."
"Oh, always so serious." He smirked and forwarded his left hand to press the device against Sherlock's arm. It stung a bit and sent bolts of lighting running and twisting through his insides. It hurt and Sherlock let out a small groan of pain and quickly flinched his limb away from the consulting criminal. When his eyes ghosted downwards he still could feel pain, but there was no physical sign of it. "My russian technology associate designed it. It doesn't leave a mark on your skin, nor does it provokes permanent damage to the nervous system." He explained while twirling the plastic gadget around his fingers.
Sherlock regained composure physically, but was startled on the inside. The shock not quite yet wearing down. "It was quite expensive," the consulting criminal began, "but I am too much fond of you to cheapen this experience." He said softly, almost trying to be soothing; and it sent shivers down the boffin's spine. He sat up and gazed around a bit, piercing eyes throughout the line of people. "It is really unique, reminds me of you."
"Whatever you have in mind, I won't go through with it. No matter how many times you decide to shock me." The madman spoke, confident and sure. There was a particular girl in line who gasped quietly at everything the criminal said, and Sherlock saw her clutch a toy between her fingers every time. His statement, however, seemed to calm her and the corners of his mouth tugged up a bit. He always thought children to be annoying, but he sometimes preferred them over boring adults; they were unpredictable, curious and more often than not, they hadn't developed any vicious nature yet —except for James who committed his first murder at age eleven— unlike perverse grown-ups.
"See, this is a game we're going to play," he paused and glanced at the girl. "And you are going to play Sherlock." He said toying with the shocker nearly as cheery as a christmas day. "It goes like this: Each and every one of this individuals will die," His finger signalled the eleven hostages against the wall as he spoke sing-songed words like velvet out of his mouth. Sherlock could almost see them depart from him and disappear into thin air, leaving behind only their meaning and cruel significance; the sleuth wanted nothing more than to capture them and shove them back into Moriarty's evil throat, he wanted him to taste what they felt like to himself, for to him they sounded only of despair.
"Unless you solve each riddle and pass each challenge; you'll be given one test per individual, if you fail I'll let my pets have some fun." This was the real test, this was where he was expected to prove himself, this was where he was most likely set up to fail.
The first riddle was easy, to such a great extent that the detective kept wondering if it was a trick. Fortunately it wasn't, and a middle aged woman was carried outside and —supposedly— released. The chalice filled with what quite looked like blood was emptied to the drain and false praise was given for such an intelligent man.
Sherlock didn't like it one bit; he craved recognition, that was true, and appreciated it when John would do it, but coming from behind the teeth of the consulting criminal the words "amazing" or "brilliant" just felt wrong, tainted. Patronising somehow, and humiliating even.
The next four were a bit more difficult, he solved the two riddles and completed all the challenges nonetheless, which were not as bad as one may think. Sure, they were no picnic, but the detective handled them well enough and four more where let go. The torture devices intended for them were casted aside; Still, Sherlock could not figure out how they were planning on tormenting someone with a box of frogs or gnats; and even thought the curiosity was ripping at the seams of his mind, he did not want to find out, and was glad he didn't have to.
By the time of the sixth one a day had already passed, he had been put to sleep —almost forcibly but necessarily— and had been shocked at least three times an hour to make him obey when he was misbehaving, and suddenly Sherlock felt like a dog for the second time in a week.
"Now, you know what's inside this, Sherly?" Moriarty said holding up a syringe. Judging by the colour and consistency of the substance in it, the detective could tell some details, but not enough to form a suitable deduction, so he just waited for the other man to elaborate instead. "This right here, is a bacteria, Staphylococcus aureus. I'm sure that rings a bell, doesn't it?"
It did ring a bell. "Boils." Sherlock muttered and Jim gleamed. Oh, what the grown-child would give to have the pleasure of ripping that taunting smirk off the criminal's face. His tests were becoming more vicious and honestly, rather tedious, but the detective couldn't deny that he had been interested more than one time. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, but this had always been how he entertained himself, solving brilliant crimes.
Still, the word "boils" was not something to play with. Sherlock knew about this disease, and of its imminent side effects: Painful death. He turned his head around and realised the girl was next. "What's the riddle this time?" He asked hastily, the puzzles were ranking up higher each time and Sherlock's impatience had nothing to do with the fact that they were oh! so fascinating.
"I have a feeling you'll enjoy this one. Two men," Moriarty commenced. "Long time friends, are reunited at a high class restaurant." This was all it took for the detective to become aware of this one's importance and the self-proclaimed sociopath already hated where it was headed. "They both order their meals and one of them orders seagull soup as a celebration of his friend saving his life." The criminal continued. "Once it arrives, he takes a spoonful to his lips and tastes the soup. He stands up and excuses himself from the table." Seagull soup? So, this wasn't about John and himself after all. Sherlock felt close to relieved.
"The man heads to the stairs and climbs them all the way to the top of the restaurant building. He gets to the rooftop, walks to the edge and —oh! you'll love this— steps off committing suicide." Those phrases were pressing on his chest like a hammer; no matter if he'd survived and his life was back to normal, to that day Sherlock still couldn't hear the words "rooftop" or "suicide" without mentally wincing. "Before you go there, he was not threatened, or manipulated. He had no illness and wasn't drugged or poisoned." He said with a grim smile, how he loved to watch the brunette squirm against his undeniable victory.
"His wife had died at a tragic accident three months prior, the three of them were shipwrecked, and she was the only one who didn't make it, the poor. Ending a loving and perfect marriage of years." The boffin was still dumbfounded when it came to Moriarty portraying human emotions, his skill ranked quite far above his own. "So riddle me this Sherlock..." By then, Jim was sitting in a chair a feet away from Sherlock and kept casting glances at his hostages before turning to the detective once again. "Why did one taste of the seagull soup caused this man to end his life?"
This was where Sherlock's mind began to roam. Floating through the never-ending possibilities, stars passing by and theories exploding like supernovas. Thousand miles an hour, collecting all the data and picking apart the details. The answer of the riddle was hidden somewhere deep inside. It could have been sentiment, the man, somehow, remembered his wife thanks to the soup and was overwhelmed by the memory. Sherlock disposed of this idea rather quickly, if it was his wife's death what got him upset he would have killed himself before then, somewhere between the second and fifth stage of grief —he was clearly over with the seven stages, otherwise he wouldn't have agreed to go to a restaurant, let alone order something to "celebrate". No, this was something new, something he didn't know but only realised at that moment. Still, the revelation, however surprising, had to be unbearable enough to lead this man to think he had no other option but to throw himself off the building.
Sherlock was familiar with that feeling. Sure, his reasons were probably nowhere near resembling the seagull soup man, but they were there, there was always a reason. The detective had never in his life felt a despair that strong before. A feeling of hopelessness that dictated only one way out of this. It's true a thing such as "not having a choice" is nothing but an illusion. There is always a choice to make; the problem is whether you're willing to live with the consequences. Death, is, and will always be, in and of itself, an alternative; although not one most people will take.
For example; right now, the detective didn't have to solve the riddle. He could stop trying if he wanted to, and the child would be dead in less than two days by a vicious sickness. However, after seeing the little girl, and hearing that persistent, sometimes annoying voice —which for whatever reason sounded too much like John's— inside of him telling him to do the right thing, he decided he would not let that happen. Hence he would solve the riddle.
Standing at the rooftop of Bart's, he was offered a choice. And even though the action was difficult, making the decision wasn't. He had to choose between dying —faking his death— and let the criminal shoot his friends —not exactly a brain teaser. Losing the few people in his life who actually cared about him and he cared about was not an option.
He felt a bolt of lighting riding through his veins, startling him out of his train of thought. Jerking his shoulder away he glared at the criminal. "Don't stall." He said, and his voice sounded more deep and thick that he had ever heard before. "Then let me think." He spat back and the criminal raised his hands in a defensive manner, "Oh, how innocent." Sherlock thought as he tried to revert his mind to the issue at hand. His thoughts returned with a vengeance.
He thought about the little girl, and how his time was probably growing thin now; it would be minutes, if not seconds before Moriarty would call up victory and the tiny human would be damned. Sherlock needed to think rapidly, get the answer, figure out the motive, solve the riddle. But his brain couldn't help but to wander, some of the facts hit too close to home for him. Rooftop, restaurant, suicide, friend, reunion; they all made the detective feel the slight guilt that he hated but had already become accustomed of, despite himself. He couldn't deny —at least not to himself— that even though John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had forgiven him already, he still felt he was never going to be able to repair the damaged he'd done.
His decision had worked though, his friends were safe, but they hadn't been alright. There always was something he'd missed. But it was definitely worth it. Sherlock realised if your friend's life were at danger, you would do anything to prevent the situation. Do whatever it took to help, no matter how despicably unthinkable the thing was. Even though if it meant you had to lie to said friend. The truth would be out eventually, obviously, either by something uncovering it or you telling them out of guilt. But it is always meant to come out, and once it does there's no going back. John had punched him in the face, but the sour taste in his mouth was nothing compared to what— oh. Oh.
Death was sometimes the answer, when things were too much to bear, and apparently the man of the riddle agreed with this too. "He fed her to him." He spoke up, leaving James shocked by the answer to the riddle that he thought would never come.
He had actually planned for this one to surpass Sherlock's intellect; of course he would get it eventually, but he never imagined it would take less than two minutes for him to arrive to a correct conclusion. "Care to elaborate?" He said not ready to admit defeat yet.
The detective took a deep breath and started. "A couple and their long time childhood friend take some time away and go sailing in the ocean. An unexpected storm hits them and they are shipwrecked, the wife dies tragically after this. When the two men —and the corpse of the woman— washed ashore on a deserted island the husband is deadly sick and in need of some medical attention. Starved, weakened and on the brink of death, the friend becomes desperate so he chops off the wife and cooks her. While feeding the husband he lies, and tells him it's seagull soup knowing he would refuse if he knew the truth. After a few days they are rescued, and when they meet again at the restaurant the man orders the seagull soup as a celebration. When he sips it, he becomes aware of the difference between the tastes and realises the only food available in the island was his wife. Not being able to cope with the thought of having eaten his own wife, he sees no choice but to kill himself." He said hastily and the row of hostages were amazed of the man's ability to talk on end without breathing.
"Amazing." Moriarty replied sarcastically. The curly-haired man knew he was right but waited anxiously to receive affirmation. James turned on his heels and stared at the girl. "You should really thank him, he just saved you from being slowly murdered." The child sobbed uncontrollably; the detective couldn't resolve whether to be angry or relieved. The criminal shook Sherlock's hair in a sense of faux endearment. "Isn't he a good boy?" He questioned more towards Sherlock himself than the others in the room. The boffin decided he was angry, definitely angry. "Stop it." He hissed back and Jim smirked exiting the room along with the remaining hostages.
Three people, three tests left, and Sherlock was already feeling exhausted. He averted a death by electrocution with ice, and one with locusts. Even thought it took solving a difficult problem and bearing four hours tied to a spinning wheel. Needless to say, his mouth still tasted of returned food and the room was still turning. Sitting on the floor, he took a look at Derek. He seemed smug and Sherlock had the hypothesis it was as a chain reaction of his own torment. He felt miserable, therefore Derek was gleaming. Bastard.
The dizzy detective pondered which situation could be worse. Being the object of torture under the criminal's games, or actually being as stupid as to agree with this sort of life. The grown-child concluded it was probably the latter rather than the former. He now, felt like hell beyond compare, he thought; but he believed his mind —unlike his physical being— was free. Free of Moriarty and the turmoil he could cause within him. He would live to stand corrected.
Derek talked about something that looked important to James, but the detective felt far too dazed to be bothered and try to listen. His currently gray eyes glanced and roved over the room lazily. He was taking in the information, of the now opened door, clearly forgotten to be locked by disregard of one of James' nameless pets. He could see a tiny hallway and some stairs up, the echoes of the voices in it suggested they weren't a lot. His, was apparently the one and only door. He wondered briefly where did they keep the other prisoners. He had, until then, counted a certain amount of minions and was already planning the most efficient way of escaping. He was sick of being played at, and it seemed better to wait for John to find him in the wilderness that was probably outside the house, than to stay one more moment with this beast.
Attempting to flee now, however, wouldn't deliver the desired result, it was stupid to think it would. So, he'd work up a scheme, and wait a bit longer, if by then Lestrade, John, or Mycroft —or the three of them— hadn't arrived, he would make a run for it.
As if on cue, Moriarty turned his attention to the detective at this reflexion, and Derek looked a bit offended with the sudden lack of interest he got from the criminal. Jim half-closed his eyes and scrutinised him, then he smiled. "He is aware of my thoughts," thought Sherlock. His eyes were calm, frighteningly calm; and they did nothing to soothe the already racing mind. That must be what James Moriarty was really like inside. Without the games and the charades. Just calm Jim; not dangerous Jim or wild Jim. No, there was no passion in his stare, only cold cruelty; just dead Jim.
The look lasted a bit longer and it gradually became a nonchalant shrug. And as the eyes of the criminal left him, Sherlock could breathe a bit lighter. He could do this, he would do this. He would get out of this and make Moriarty pay for what he has done.
He tried to stand up but staggered and fell flat on his face. He wondered when the room would cease to twist sideways whenever he moved his head. Twenty minutes after he was released from the tight-gripping straps wherewith he was bound to that spinning death trap, and he still felt nauseous, he would definitely think twice before eating again in that place. Not that he would stay much longer.
"Darkness." That word was repeated several times to him while the boffin was trying to work out the answer to the ninth riddle. "What's the only question in life which can never be truly proven nor answered?" Moriarty had asked and it sent Sherlock flying inwards, searching inside his mind palace for he knew he had heard that before. Maybe in a case someone had uttered a similar statement, although right now he couldn't remember the reason behind the familiarity.
Strangely, after a few seconds it became crystal clear to him, and it was easy enough for him to not stress about the dire consequences. Painful deaths had been the threat before, but he couldn't imagine a crueler one than utter darkness. "What is like to be dead?" He answered correctly, again. When he put some thought into it, all of the riddles and challenges had had something to do with the detective's life indirectly; of course he couldn't respond it literally, but they both had been "dead" in the past, and here they were again, playing in hell. Once he came to know this he chuckled slightly to himself, Moriarty really had planned every detail. Perfected and predicted every move, so much that it would almost be amazing if it weren't for the fact that he was not expected to come out of it alive.
"Isn't it funny? I like it better when you appreciate the effort I have put into this." Jim smiled friendly, and it sent the boffin right down from his light-headedness. No, no, he was laughing at himself, at how he got into this ridiculous situation, not with him. Never with him. He would rather take a needle and effectively sew his own mouth shut without any sedative whatsoever, than to appear to be enjoying himself at the expense of this criminal.
"I solved it, now let the man go." He swallowed hard and kept a straight face once again. "Oh, not so fast. We are going to need all three of them for the last test." The two young men were asked to kneel in front of the older one, the resemblance between them was outstanding. "If you can tell me which punishment am I to enforce here, they can walk free of it." Jim stated.
Punishment, how was he expected to know which, out of all the ninety one known to him —not to mention the ones he was yet to be familiar with—, Moriarty was planing on using? One could only imagine it was not a traditional one, but damn could this man turn almost anything into a torture instrument, including —especially— the ones you hold most dear.
Jim was a cruel man, but Sherlock knew he would never deliberately give him a riddle he couldn't possibly answer. So the solution must be hidden somewhere inside the whole ordeal. It was a rather broad field of options, but it somehow was narrower than the previous, so that was a start. Surely there had to be some sort of pattern that Sherlock failed to detect in the past, but the other punishments seemed to have been chosen randomly to him, he couldn't conjure up the thought of the relation between such un-wired situations.
How could anyone ever think blood, ice and frogs —among others— to be anywhere near linkable? It probably was some social general culture he hadn't heard or hadn't cared for before. It was the sort of situation in which John's ordinariness would come rather useful, but he was not there to help nor to enlighten Sherlock.
To be honest, the detective had already decided it was better that way; after all, every time he ranked the criminal or situation at hand too dangerous he'd always leave John behind and go by himself. The blogger had made it an habit to severely scold him afterwards —especially since his return from the grave— saying he simply couldn't do that, that it was not fair for him to be left in the dark, but at the end he would always forgive him and go buy more milk, as he knew that Sherlock didn't do it because he didn't care, it was the exact opposite. —"If I'm about to go out there and do some bat-shit crazy stunt I want you to at least tell me the fucking truth behind why I am doing it!"— A flash memory came crashing unto his skull, previously unremembered and uninvited, and it left the detective in a haze, for he could not place where had that come from. This had never happened before, the voice sounded angry, fuming even, and he couldn't imagine an scenario in which he would have deleted something like that by choice, so why couldn't he reminisce this? It certainly costed him more than he bargained for though, as a voice cried out from the outside of his mind palace that his time was over.
"Give me one more moment and surely I'll figure it out." He attempted to gain time. How could he have wasted five minutes effectively not solving the puzzle was beyond him. "I gave you plenty of time Sherly. Either you give me your answer now, or I'll take it as losing by default." Sherlock thought for a second and then said "Flaying." It was a shot in the dark and by the look Moriarty was giving him a it was an ineffective one.
"Very well," He said. "The tide was meant to turn someday." And it was all the affirmation he needed to know he had failed. "It's rather disappointing though," Jim shrugged disillusioned. "That you would believe me so obvious as to peel their skin off as the consequence. You already heard me threaten someone with that before." Bummer, Sherlock thought, as if letting the psychopath down was the greatest of his worries.
"So will you do it, or shall I?" Moriarty said, and it took a second for the madman to realise he wasn't talking to him, but to the older man standing in front of the other two hostages. The man he thought he had let off the hook when he solved the last question. "You know what happens if you don't, at least this way you get to keep one." Jim said, using his softest voice, and if trying to persuade this man. Sherlock came to know that they must have talked while he was in his mind palace trying to win this round —and experiencing the strangest of flashbacks—, Moriarty was attempting to make this man kill one of his sons, with the extra incentive of ending them both himself if he refused.
"This was not the deal," The detective spoke, maybe there was a way of righting his wrong, although he doubted it would be because of a technicality. "You said one hostage per riddle." And Moriarty actually laughed at this. "Oh! Sherly aren't you smart?" The mock was not appreciated. "Whether it's just one or the two of them is entirely for this man to decide. If he would just stop being so boring." James and him were really kindred spirits, and he could not loathe himself more for it. The criminal looked at the older man and waited for the answer to his previous question. He was actually going to make that bloke shoot one of his children just to spare the other.
After a few minutes a shaking voice finally responded. "I'll do it." And the consulting criminal handed him the gun. The man took it, and pointed it to one of his sons; The sleuth brace himself for the shot.
"Do it!" Moriarty cheered, and it somehow reminded Sherlock of when he was little and his teacher unfairly coaxed him to participate in a tedious sport match. The man put his finger on the trigger. The detective wondered if he had chosen one himself or if Moriarty had suggested the eldest. If so, why would the Irish man care which one he decided to pick to fulfil the criminal's punishment? Unless it was the whole point of this torture, for the man to kill his eldest son.
"Wait!" Sherlock cried, he could stop this. "Do it!" Jim snarled in return. "Don't!" And the curly haired man felt all too much as the angel who stands in one's shoulder as an ingenious visual metaphor which represents the abstract concept of conscience in cartoons. "Don't!" He said again despite this, there would be other times to remind the criminal that he was not, in any way, a winged being. "Do it now or I'll kill this one too!" Moriarty yelled, and quickly after that Sherlock heard a bang.