Chapter 3: The Punishment.
Have you ever wondered why do people fear? How could a person have a negative reaction towards something intangible? Something inexistent? How could a mind already reject an event which it has never known? The truth is not one soul has ever departed from this life without having experienced worry in some fashion. Nor has anyone ever been able to successfully avoid feeling it once it's made a home in their brains, no matter how illogical it may prove to be.
Could it have to do with our constant need to control our surroundings? Could it be a matter of hopelessness? Maybe some people could say they know the reason behind their own concerns, and this could be correct at some level, but never has one have an explanation as to why we prove to be completely ignorant at trying to locate the source of it.
People fear in many different ways, of many different things, but they all have an identical or similar origin. A sentiment of worry that then grows irrationally within one's being like a vine, tangling every other thought and infecting every cell until it has emptied the brain out of any hope to go back. But is it enough? Worry? Could it ever suffice at explaining that tugging inside your chest while you're afraid? To fear, is to admit something being superior enough to have the power of making you weak; therefore acknowledging it as a threat.
Could the reason be that we are unable to do anything about whatever is menacing us? Could it be that we put so much of ourselves to hope things will somehow look up just for those wishes to be crushed mercilessly in front of our own eyes? Falling at our feet? Is not hope, instead of despair, which makes us agonize? That makes us utterly miserable? Dealing with inevitable destination is easy; knowing that you won't make it out alive is somewhat bearable. But believing that you have a chance, a choice in the matter, makes failure more intense. It makes your mind tear at the seams and drive itself to pieces.
Isn't being handed something just for it to be taken away worse than never having it at all? Misery, a necessary evil in life, is painfully straightforward. Happiness is viciously dangerous. Can a heart die even when it was not beating in the first place? Are they not made to be broken by love? Shouldn't we instead fear bliss that makes us vulnerable? Weak? Is not this which makes us prone to thrive? Is not the fear of life what keeps you and me so alive?
After the fall, Sherlock had departed from life -as he knew it- and set off to unravel Moriarty's net. The task was not dull, nor was it as easy as the sleuth had anticipated. It was a greatly elaborated web. Tangled up confusing, and twirling from time to time. It had no loose ends, except for the fact that its creator was dead -or so Sherlock thought. It took months to finally get what he wanted, and at long last his friends were truly safe -or as safe as they could be living around Sherlock- but those days away from Baker Street were dark ones for the boffin. Never had he known times so miserable before, not even at what Mycroft liked to call "Sherlock Pre-detox".
The detective, more often than he would care to admit, thought about the night of the lady with the loaf of bread. Cursing himself under his breath for giving it such a name, it sounded as ridiculous as a title choice that John would have decided to thrust upon the event if he were to put it on his blog. Not that he had even told him about it, he had decidedly kept almost every occurrence between those years away from his friend's curious mind, choosing instead to carry the whole weight over his own shoulders. He refused to deliberately burden him with this too.
Of course, John will often inquire him, asking for at least a tiny detail to ease his own preoccupation, but Sherlock never answered what he wanted to know; he would tell basic information, smoothing away the jagged edges before brushing the matter off entirely. After a few months the blogger began to understand that whatever had happened when he was not around to have Sherlock's back, he wanted to keep it to himself, so he dropped it. The detective would speak when he was ready, and next to everything else that took place he was honestly just relieved to have him back. Although Sherlock could see the worry in his eyes on the occasion he would leave exposed the previously covered healing scar whenever he ran his hands through his own hair.
That night he was sitting in a dark alley, his back against the wall. He had managed to get away from his adversary just in time. His supposedly well thought out plan had failed miserably, and now he was left to hide in this foul-smelling passage for probably the rest of the night, having nowhere to sleep.
As he was waiting, he rested his head on the dump beside him, he had already gotten used to sleeping next to rubbish in the past few months, but it was all worth it; a woman ran into the alley, clearly running away from someone too, most likely the man from which she had stolen the loaf of bread she currently carried under her right arm. He kept gazing at the food, it had been more than four days since he had something to eat, and he was famished. He shoved the thought of hunger away and focussed on the lady.
He could see her life story upon seeing her, but he decided to refrain the urge of saying anything. The woman, in return tugged up a bit the corners of her lips in the form of a kind smile and sat in silence. Sherlock appreciated the tranquility more than he had the past days, he was covered in blood, although it was not his own. His insides were threatening to return anything that could be left in his empty stomach.
He had to kill another one of James' helpers. For a man who had never killed anyone before, he had done quite a lot of exactly that in recent times. Of course, they were never very nice men, but in the end who was he to decide that? He had taken another life in his own hands, albeit that this meant a lot of other people -actually nice people- would be safe, it still felt wrong, and his already fickle morals seemed tainted.
Sherlock realized that no matter how he always thrived at the prospect of being superior to almost anything around him, at the end of the day he was no better than any of the criminals he once chased, just the fact that he hadn't chosen that profession proved nothing. He dared a look at the other person in the dumpster, as she was still deadly quiet, but quite aware of him. He needed to express his thoughts to someone, something, otherwise his mind will probably crash and burn from despair. He was still mulling over the possibility of just calling Molly and caution be damned, when the woman across him looked at him intently. He had no skull, and John didn't even know he was still alive; she would never be as good as either of them -specially the latter- but the detective decided that for now, her inviting old face would have to do.
"I just feel like he's never going to stop haunting me." He said quickly, and instantly regretted having muttered a single word. But the lady didn't lecture him, didn't ask anything. She just cut off a piece of bread and brought it close to the detective. He was caught off guard by the gesture, but after seconds had worn away the shock, he accepted the offered nourishment thankfully.
After that, they stayed in the alley under the pouring rain in complete silence till dawn. She slept curled up in a ball a meter away from him, and he did what he does best: Think. By the time the sun was up, and the rain had calmed down, the detective got on his feet and walked away before she was up; but not before taking out a few pounds from his coat pocket and thrusting them inside her purse. That night proved a new low in the life of the detective, but it also marked a rising of his spirit. He was tired of living that way, he wanted to go home, and he would do whatever it took to get there as soon as possible.
When he finally was able to return he had to give a chance to everyone to adjust. Of course after many harsh words and a punch in the face, they were all glad and relived he was alive. They took time to get used to seeing their supposedly dead friend walk around town, and he had to acclimate to the fact that he had a home again.
Sometimes they would startle upon seeing him, and took a minute to remember that this was their life once more, and hence he would stall at the door as if he had forgotten he didn't need permission to enter his own kitchen; it was idiotic, but Sherlock considered that tiptoeing around their world would make way for them to get gradually accustomed to having him with them again instead of waltzing back full-force, he assumed it was the least he could do. But sooner than he had thought they were falling into routine again, Lestrade -after getting his job back- was calling him with a case; and Mrs. Hudson gave himself and John a kiss before they were off to chase a criminal. And just like that life was good again.
Then the visions started.
That teaches you to never turn your back on your enemy, not even after he was supposedly ripped away by death's greedy claws.
Sherlock was surprised, to say the least. A limb body of a young man collapsed until it made contact with the hard concrete. He was able to get an earful of desperate wails filling the room's air. The echo in the walls making the sickening occurrence seem somehow surreal but at the same time more genuine in existence than his very breathing -even though that had also ceased to work a few times in recent days- and his spirit was damped with liquid regret. He should have stopped this. He should have ruthlessly pushed his stout mind to try harder.
If John would have been there, Sherlock was sure he would not be as certain as he so fervently tends to be of him. The detective had always been lacking in all practice in social tendencies, and he had no care of such thing as manners, but his talent and intellect would always make up for it. He had a one track mind, and a one track heart -the latter recently found- but he had failed at the one thing in the world he knew exactly how to do. This fact dawned on him as he so seldom glanced around the room for some sort of confirmation that this was all some twisted lie, a charade so delicately carried out that it fooled even himself. He would intently follow any evidence, if there was only a single sign to prove the deceit.
He reluctantly let his gaze travel the lifeless being at the center of the gathering. The self-disgust written across the older man's face as he saw his eldest son sprawled murdered on the floor, seemed to darken something up inside the sleuth; The other son had to be dragged out, covered in his brother's crimson gore. The look he bore was one of hatred for his father, who probably thought he was doing the right thing at saving at least him; fact with which obviously the youngest son didn't agree. He most likely thought that it was better to face his own end alongside his brother, than to see the life being slit away from him by their progenitor. He had lost both, his dear brother and the man he once thought his father was.
"I believe you have chosen wisely, you both are to be released immediately." Moriarty spoke calmly, as two maids -more prisoners- cleaned away all the blood quickly. Sherlock let his mind think about how could they get the stain out so effectively for a second, the pool of the same substance after the event including a little boy was completely gone, almost like it never have been there in the first place; just like this one will soon follow to fool anyone who will happen to step a foot inside here in the future. This made him wonder how many of these sort of spills had taken place in the very place where he was sat. The thought made him shift uncomfortably.
"Thank you for your collaboration, you are free to go home now." Jim sing-songed the last words as if they were a nursery rhyme. He was smug, self-satisfied with the way things had turned up. He knew the man was not returning to a home, but a trial, where his own family would be his judge, his jury and his butcher. He was as dead as he could get: alive. Which came to make an impact on the boffin.
"You're enjoying yourself." He said, it was far from a question, it was meant to be an statement, Sherlock knew he was just playing games, and he wanted Moriarty to know also, that he was aware of that.
"As always your observational skills are spot on, my dear. I'm having the time of my life." He smirked as he dismissed the other people in the room, leaving him alone, with the detective at his mercy.
"What will you do when your games cease to be amusing? When you become fatigued of your toys?" Real curiosity shone throughout of him as he asked the most dangerous man in Britain this question; he really couldn't fathom the possible answer to it, there was no way that someday, when he became too old for criminal deeds, Moriarty would sat on a chair in the porch of a countryside chalet -considering he didn't murder the man first- reading the papers.
"I'll get new toys," The criminal stated, and began detaching himself off the conversation, the sharp gaze of the detective could see he was in a sort of absorption. "Of course, if everything else shall fail, I'll always have you." And he smiled the most terrifying grin one could only see coming from an abyss ripping open a hole in the ground, staring back at you.
"I'd rather die for real this time, than spend my life entertaining you." Sherlock suddenly spat venomously, turning the whole conversation around, losing the game was affecting him more than he knew it could.
"Have you ever heard what is the purpose of a puppeteer?" James inquired. "It's giving life to the puppet -or more like an illusion of life- but without its master to manipulate its every move, the puppet is already dead." Sherlock parted his lips to speak but he did not utter a word, he couldn't retaliate to such a true reality, fortune must have been laughing at his expense. "Sherlock, I hold all your strings. You already live to entertain me." The criminal graced the seemingly cold doubt behind his eyes staying for a minute or two in silence to cherish the sight of a slightly cracked Sherlock Holmes in front of him. Then he turned around and made for the door.
"I did solve it, you know?" Sherlock spoke suddenly, and Moriarty spun around slightly confused. "The riddle. I did solve it." The sleuth explained, not even knowing why he was eagerly attempting to prove himself.
"Oh you did, didn't you? Isn't it worse?" Mockery was not appreciated. He decided not to answer to the criminal. Leaving the question hang unresolved in the air above their heads instead. Was it worse knowing that he could've stopped it but was awfully late and that this possibility still hadn't changed the outcome?
The answer was Yes. Yes, it was.
The night dragged on for more than Sherlock knew it could, and he was left alone with his thoughts, fact that right then, wasn't the very best idea. How had he missed it before? How is it that he failed at detecting the nearly moronic pattern that tied everything up, with a big, giant, painfully obvious red bow. He was unsuccessful at noticing it, but once he did he couldn't fathom the way he gazed over it. "Dead of the first born. Of course! The ten plagues of Egypt, stupid." Rapidly had thought the detective, but albeit he knew the answer, he had come to -more accurately stumbled upon- it too late. And in two days come, a young man will be lowered six feet under the ground because of this. Sherlock was not in a good place.
The empty room was darkened at Moriarty's departure. Sherlock could deduce that them flicking off the sole lightbulb in the place was a somewhat indirect order for him to sleep. Action which the sleuth knew he won't be doing tonight. He would think, and even if the answer will never come, in vain he would still think. For thinking was all he could do at the time.
He positioned himself against the wall and drew his legs closer to his body. One of his bloodied hands came to scratch the pricking itch on his left forearm. It had been almost five years since he decidedly left his past obsessive deeds and stayed clean. But he could sometimes feel a nagging inside of him, just like a bell tolling him back from his renewed being to his old self. 'Tis true that our past can never be fully erased, and the person we once were will live within us, there in every move, and every breath, not ready to leave us quite yet.
He sometimes found himself staring at an opened little box, sheathed with black silk; but more importantly at the spotless syringe inside it, unused for almost half a decade and the close to five years old half stash abandoned to its doom. He would question without answer why using again would actually be such a bad thing, but not once he would concede to this idea; he remembered and despaired for hours on end, until keys shuffled on the front door and leaden feet stumbled upstairs, a voice would call his name inspecting and he would reply with a "coming.". He would then, resume closing the box and return it to its place underneath a loose floorboard below the carpet next to his bed -he still couldn't believe how John missed it every time he "secretly" searched for it when he believed it was a danger night- choosing to leave the other man in the dark about how he spent his morning and exiting the room to a kettle boiling and crap telly sounding in the background, to his real life. And as that the answer was reminded to him: because he could have this as long as he was away from that.
Still, his body sometimes forgot. And demanded the seven percent solution desperately. It craved the harmful substance, and it wouldn't go away. He had no way of giving to his body what it wanted, nor would that ever be an option even if he had a way. So Sherlock tried and scratched away the issue to ease his mind a bit, and instead concentrated in the problem at hand.
Anxiety running through his veins, he shuffled until getting comfortable enough and listened. He had been paying attention to patterns above his head, and had been able to pick up trajectories and entrances. If he listened for a few more hours maybe his plan could switch into action mode.
It was surprising how, no matter what ungodly hour of the night it was, there was always some sort of activity or fuss inhabiting within the walls of Moriarty's super secret hide-out. Sometimes it was simple quiet little pads that sounded too much like rain, and other times there was some running and screaming, but the beautiful patterns were always the same, and within the next six hours Sherlock would have drawn a perfectly accurate map of the construction.
Two whole days passed, and Sherlock remained undisturbed, they would just open the entrance, bring food and water, and leave again; but the light continued being off, so he sat in utter darkness. The night turned its head and prepared to leave the detective to sunshine and a brand new day, not minding the fact that he was in no way experiencing the rising of the sun -although he planned on being there to watch it go down this time. A mental blue print of the place had been assembled and the fastest and safest route to exit from it was determined. The next time they arrive with his nourishment he would flee this hell, and if his calculations were right -as usual- that was scheduled to happen in the next thirteen minutes.
It was a shame he would leave so abruptly that his jacket and coat had to be left behind. But considering the circumstances, those were the only things he could afford to forsake in those realms. He intended departing with both, his dignity and his piece of mind, intact. After all -no irrationally sentimental attachment considered- it was just clothes, and his bruises were already healing, leaving no trace of his injuries. His body was just transport, an appendix to what was important, it was weak and prone to damage, but his mind was something they would never break.
The minutes dragged on, and his stomach swirled in anticipation. He was really anxious to finally leave Moriarty frustrated, and pouting at the sight of the detective running away and slipping out of his grasp. Free and tipping the balance fair once more. He could fight the criminal on common ground, but refused to be held captive and at disadvantage.
Finally the hour arrived and he slowly stood up and paced to the door. Moriarty's helper thrusted himself inside the room without noticing the detective and placed the lousy food on the floor. His vacant brain took a second to figure out where Sherlock must be if he wasn't at his usual sitting place -just below the surveillance where the angle of the camera couldn't reach him- and turned around to search for him. Little did he know that the madman was already out of the room, bolting across the narrow hallways and taking down everything and everyone he encountered in his course.
He climbed up the stairs three at a time and ducked when a man tried to seize him. "Not a chance." He thought and passed by several guarded rooms. He quickly inferred that's where they kept all the other hostages. It wasn't very impressive, the number of accommodations; even more when he knew the criminal had prisoners to spare -quite literally-.
He had to keep track of where his minions were coming from, and how close they were at his feet. They were clearly more athletic than he ever was and were already gaining on him, although not alarmingly so. But if his legs would choose to fail now they would be hurling him back into the cell-like room in three seconds. Thankfully they worked just fine, and Sherlock knew the back entrance was not that far away from him anymore, just a few paces, punches and a dodge and he would be out of there for good.
He passed a sitting room and had a chance to see James sipping at his tea before instantly becoming aware of the situation. He grinned at him as if Sherlock running away was part of his scheme all along, and the detective wondered as he ran if he had just walked right into a trap the manipulative man had laid in front of him. The sleuth halted a bit his fleeing and quickly grabbed a decorative candle from an end table, the flame flickered incessantly. He figured the smoke alarm would at least disarm every lock in the mansion, giving the remaining hostages enough time to flee too. If they could walk away from the trap there was nothing now stopping Sherlock from dropping the flaming candle to the carpeted floor and burning the place down. With a deep breathe he did as he intended and the rug caught on fire actively.
He then resumed to his racing, his resolve stronger than ever. He was at last approaching the last hallway to the back exit. Just ten more strides and it was goodbye Moriarty and his brilliant, yet filthy lies. The heat was already wrapping the place up, and with it, giving Sherlock hope. Burning down the last bit of the place was not what he had planned on doing at first, but since the opportunity had presented itself, he was not going to disregard it. He, and the other hostages were leaving; If hell was what Moriarty desired, he could burn and rot in it for all he cared.
Sherlock imagined what it would look like on the outside. Moriarty's quarters with tongues of fire, flaming like a beacon of victory. He almost rejoiced at the thought that if Jim got trapped in there, he would at last leave the detective alone, let go of the hold he had. Stop haunting his every step.
With a few more paces he grabbed the doorknob and twisted it to open the last barrier between him and freedom. He rapidly stepped through it and what he found caught him completely off guard. It was not wilderness, nor was it outside as he had predicted. Instead it was another windowless room, very much like the one from where he had just departed, and he could hear his beliefs shatter down like a hundred pieces of glass. He turned around confused and in a daze. Had he just locked the prisoners and himself in a burning building without exit? Had he just doomed everyone inside it?
Sherlock started to run in the opposite direction, he had to find an escape from that soon to become inferno. The surprise of having his only hope of getting out crashed and stomped upon had left him quite shaken, and he didn't see nor hear the big bloke who approached him from behind and hauled the entirety of his being on his shoulder. "Where do you think you're going?" His scottish accent was thick and his arms would not give out. No matter how many punches and kicks the boffin gave he was still being carried back to the room where he had spent the last ten days.
Why wasn't this idiot running away from his imminent death? In fact, now that he gazed around, why wasn't anyone springing outside to save themselves from getting incinerated alive? He was shoved inside the chamber once more, and the freezing handcuffs were placed around his still cold wrists. "You're doomed, mate." He warned and Sherlock aloofly scoffed as if he didn't believe the king would harm him for trying to burn down his castle. Of course, within his indifferent exterior, his mind was convulsing. He mulled over the possibility of Jim going as far as letting his own lair blaze, just to leave the sleuth imprisoned inside it. If that was the case, then the detective had finally met his end at his own stupidity. "How ironic!" He mused. He had always been petulantly proud of his intelligence, and now Idiocy shall be what they write down as "Cause of death". He couldn't believe he had survived a near doom jumping off a five story building, yet he had set on fire a place from which he couldn't get out -not to mention the fact that he was probably the only miserable man who was going to die because of this-. Stupid.
Commotion stirred upstairs, clearly for the fact that there was a bloody fire in the sitting room. There was running and yelling but the detective couldn't make out whether if they were trying to leave, or to put out the flames. It went on for quite a while, a few hours actually, and then it slowed down to almost normal activity-like sounds. The heat decreased dramatically too, so that meant they had managed to put it out and were sorting every other deed out.
Now, certain that he wasn't about to be burned alive, Sherlock began to worry about what Moriarty might do to retaliate. Surely he wouldn't let such an act go unpunished, and the detective was already disturbed by the fact that he had really believed his escape plan would work, he had already thought about how it would be to be back at Baker Street, and leave this place that he had already come to hate not too long after he was placed inside it. He really had seen the light at the end of the tunnel, and had foolishly followed it believing it would lead him out, only to find out that the light didn't mean an exit but a train coming towards him, ready to crash his every bone. The rug under his feet had been pulled away and now the detective was left sprawled facing the floor after falling face-first unto it.
He was tired. Exhausted and fatigued. Sleep depravation was not what send him into an spiral of enervation, but fighting something which he couldn't control drained the thought and the will out of him. It had all been another trap, another way for Moriarty to tease him. A statement to make Sherlock squirm beneath his thumb, and the detective was soon finding himself with less cards to play. He knew he was coming for him, and if the criminal changed the rules once again, there was not telling if the sleuth would endure it this time.
When James finally entered the room, his demeanor was different from all the other times he had done so. The detective's confused mind saw him through some sort of imaginary swirling stained glass. With sick and nauseating bright colors which just seemed to mock him instead of brightening his spirit. Moriarty was surely the most hollow and empty man he had ever encountered; a black hole surrounded by a human carcass to give him structure, but nothing more than desolated darkness. The merry shades becoming a camouflage for the world to ignore its true nature, but now that Sherlock had seen it, it was infuriatingly cynic of him to present himself as an elated carnival. Deceiving bastard.
Just as any other black hole, he was not going to let anything -specially Sherlock- escape. The attempt the boffin had carried out was not at all effective, it had just effectively rattled his cage. Jim looked a bit stressed, but never less sharp, and as he made his way towards the handcuffed sleuth, his Westwood suit dissolved in one with the darkness. The detective could see behind his movements that he was trying a bit too hard not to let him know that he was actually quite angry, and instead decided to put on an amused grin. Sherlock felt a tiny satisfaction at this, feeling his attitude of "If I cannot get out, then I might as well piss the hell out of him" rise.
"What to do with you?" He said, taking the taser out of his trouser pocket. "First you attempt to flee, then you knock down all my friends," Sherlock scoffed at this statement, and Moriarty quickly comprehending what his mockery was about, smiled too. "They are complete idiots, I get it- but still;" He started pacing as if he was impatient, the detective realized the brown-eyed man was excited for what he knew was coming, which couldn't, by any means, indicate something good for himself. "And finally, you attempted to destroy my palace."
Sherlock thought about what his options were. Unfortunately the list was growing thin, he couldn't run since he didn't know where to go or where the door was supposed to be -he would only walk into another trick- and even though he and the criminal were alone, it didn't mean he wouldn't be sliced into tiny bits if he made a sign of attacking James. So, clever talk it was.
"Well, you are aware of how it is with fire, it just makes you desire to burn things." The retort came calmer than he expected, but the venom in its nature was highly present. Oh, how he hated this man, and all his ambition to destroy and shatter everything that the sleuth knew. How come if Sherlock had evaporated all his dynasty, Moriarty was still above all sense of eradication? Getting rid of his henchmen didn't even rise a stir in the criminal's world, however Sherlock was vulnerable and prone to lose something, anything. Maybe that was the cause, Moriarty had nothing he cared about, nothing to protect, and therefore nothing to lose, but the detective was just exposed and almost keen on giving his adversaries things to break him. Alone is what I have, alone protects me.
"Very well. Boys," Moriarty called to his assistants on the outside of the chamber. "Bring the board." The curly-haired man was dumbstruck, they were supposed to talk and power play for hours, yet Jim seemed to jump right into action. Plus, a board? Was that a joke? Was he now expected to be challenged into a game of checkers to the death? It all sounded just ridiculous.
However, the presumed board never appeared. Instead, when the device did come into view, Sherlock instantly understood how it was not at all ridiculous. The door opened and there came four men hauling a massive table-like piece of wood with wheels and straps on its corners. Upon gazing at it for more than two seconds, the detective could recognize an ill faith which he had only seen in Modern Torture books.
It was serious, seriously dangerous; shock got the best of him and resulted in him twisting around, desperately trying to get the handcuffs off so he could escape the imminent suffering. A sharp electric pinch came to rest on his forearm to get him to stop moving, and albeit it hurt like hell, he would not lay down his resolve. Another shock was gained, and with it, a snide remark from the criminal. "You didn't think I was going to let this slide, did you dear?" Said Moriarty using a combination of one of his many voices and pitches, as other five men entered and tried to un-cuff Sherlock without gaining a punch in the jaw in return.
Of course the boffin was not an easy target, and shook and fought while they were carrying him to the table, but the men were far much stronger than he was, and he was highly outnumbered. His four limbs were strapped to the corners of the wooden surface and they -with a lot of effort- were finally able to place a band around his waist to prevent him from moving about too much. Sherlock absolutely didn't like what was coming, for he knew it would only be suffering in its greatest fashion; and although he was sure Moriarty was not trying to kill him, there were so many ways this could go terribly wrong.
The damp cloth was placed upon his mouth, and despite all of his attempts to shake it off, he was never successful at getting the thing off his face. Two of the nine minions James had with them inside began to tilt the board until his feet were seventeen degrees higher off the ground than his head. The punishment had not even began and his lungs were already having trouble keeping the air inside; he had to calm down, hyperventilating would only worsen his situation.
All the other tortures he had seen the criminal impose were terrible, but the sleuth could clearly see how he had emulated those more vile and despicable forms of inflicting pain for him with this one. He wanted nothing more than to skip the experience, but begging would be futile. Not to mention he would never stoop so low as to beg Moriarty for something. If this was going to be his end, so be it.
Sherlock could see more men approaching, carrying what could only be buckets full of water being brought close to him. Five to be exact. The data coming to him faster than the speed of light, all at once. The torturer, the cheater, the burglar, the mindless follower, the bloke with power issues, the one scheming against his master -idiot-, the betrayer, the murderer, the one who forgets to pay the bills, the family man, the lonely man, the gay one, the one in love with a co-worker, the two jobs one. The madman. All of them were different types, even of different nations. And if you didn't already know which one was who, you would never figure out the one, out of the fifteen of them, that was bat-shit crazy.
But Sherlock knew, and it was fascinatingly unexpected, that the shorter and almost bubbly one chose to be the maniac. His intelligence made him be the only one of the lot who could be a criminal master mind, despite how innocent his appearance may seem. Still, all of this knowledge wasn't going to help him with his despair, nor was it going to give him a way out of this, so he laid there -he didn't exactly had a choice- and awaited his fate.
Water. Tiny beads started being dropped at his face. At first they were tedious, annoying even. Just a joke he wanted to end. But as time worn away, he began feeling impatient, if he couldn't flee the future, he wanted to just be done with it. The droplets increased in size gradually, and the tip of his nose no longer felt as cold as it had the first time.
The first bucket was empty, but they still had another four. And the water kept coming in greater dimensions, he could begin to feel the effects of the sanction. The stream was damping his whole face, and his mouth -covered with a rag- was the way he was getting the air he needed to subsist. He trashed and shifted, just trying to stop all of it from happening, his attempts were unsuccessful, of course, and he could hear in the faint distance James' laugh. He chuckled with such a mirth that the detective thought could only compare to one of a hyena; who mocks in the most morbid way at the dying thing it's about to eat. He could positively say he felt like the carrion.
It had been thirteen minutes and by then, he was finding it challenging to breathe. His nose and eyes, and mouth were being filled with liquid, and although he was aware of the fact it could not creep upwards to his lungs -thank you, gravity- he had the sensation of drowning.
He continued to remind himself that asphyxiation wasn't possible, or at least probable, but it didn't ease the fact that he was losing his mind over the sense of life leaving him. "It's just a trick, bear another three buckets and it'll all be over." He thought to himself, but it was obviously easier said than done; he knew that prisoners tortured with this particular technique only lasted an average of fourteen seconds of full-on waterboarding before caving in and he was in minute sixteen, but then again, he had yet to experience the most intense form of this torture.
When Mummy took them to the beach when they were younger, he wasn't happy at the least. It had seemed like a great idea at first, to take a seven year old and a teen to a weekend near the ocean, but of course those children being Sherlock and Mycroft, things didn't go as planned. The younger of the brothers had yet to swim -albeit he had lessons to learn how- and even though he loved the unruly, almost destructive nature of the sea, getting in it didn't look like a smart move on his part inside of his still-growing mind. But once his brother made him wear the ridiculous floaters, he decided it was better to do a brave, but stupid move rather than stand there looking like an idiot. So, he walked over to the line of sand in which the tides came crashing and just threw himself in the water.
Long story short, Mycroft got him out as soon as he realized his baby brother was near from drowning, for his little arms weren't able to keep up with the quickening of the waves. Sherlock was frightened, and vowed he would never again attempt to get into it, saying it was too boring to even consider. This exercise felt even worse than that time, simulated drowning was worse than being in the ocean where you at least had a chance to wave your limbs and try to stay on the surface. Not to mention this time not Mycroft, nor anyone was there to help him. He was alone.
"Look at you," the criminal came closer and watched him from above "You had to try to burn my beautiful mansion." Water was coming more aggressively and it was nearly impossible to keep the air in. "Are you that desperate to get away? Haven't I made you feel at home?" He said softly, and chuckled when the detective tried to spit out the water but was incapacitated by the damp cloth over it. He was sinking from the inside, loading his head with liquid despair. "Oh, how I love this! one of the best inventions of the twentieth century if you ask me."
The curly haired man was at last losing the battle, the water level was too high, and his body too trapped to keep it out. He now understood what Grover Flint meant: a man who was drowning but cannot drown, indeed.
The air was almost inexistent, and oxygen was needed. His head was spinning and if he couldn't manage to get out of it in the next two minutes, he would loose consciousness and die. Desperately he tried to get up, and all the other men -aside from the one pouring the water- were watching amused. He glared at the criminal, and put into his silver stare all the hate he was feeling. You won't break me, I won't let you, it seemed to say, and Moriarty just stared back with feign sympathy. What the detective saw in his brown eyes was pity, and if there was any sentiment which he could have hated more, he couldn't conjure it.
His chest was bouncing up and down, and his head rocking to get rid of the liquid. Shaking hands, blue feet from the lack of circulation and a traumatized mind are never a good combination, and he realized he would do almost anything to make it stop. Anything.
Finally, the five pots were out of water and he was pushed to the floor -after getting him out of the straps- wet and miserable. Once Sherlock felt that the liquid ceased coming he coughed and impatiently let inside all the air he could, making up for the fact that he had been deprived from it for too long. He must have looked beyond terrible; damped from head to toe, -there wasn't any blood in his hands anymore though- and almost doubling with mixed pain and mental turmoil. The detective could note how the consulting criminal enjoyed the show, and chastised himself for displaying such an amount of vulnerability in front of him.
"You loose." Smirking, the criminal lead his minions out the door, and closed it behind him. And Sherlock for once, agreed with him. He didn't died, but he almost caved. He was this close to pleading, he considered doing it, and if it weren't for the fact that he couldn't talk even if he tried, he would have done it. It was then that he realized that if it wasn't for just a little difficulty James would have been the first person in the world to hear Sherlock Holmes truly beg. Not actually doing it was just a tiny detail, for Jim had seen in the way he acted that he would have, and that's all he needed. The detective had brought on himself the instrument of damnation. He just deliberated gave Moriarty exactly what he wanted.
AN: Hope you liked it. Let me know if you spot any clues, or have any hypothesis.