Author's note: So, here's another part of this chapter. As always I hope you enjoy it.
CHAPTER 4: THE PROBATION. (Part 2)
A day more of the combat inside himself, and the door was flung open, a tray of food was thrown inside bearing in its top a white envelope. Once the detective saw it, he nearly ran to the item and tore the covering apart like a child at Christmas morning. He could deduce something from this, he could think about something other than those subjects that poked and mocked him, which he decided to ignore. He casted the rest of the tray away and began reading impatiently. Food could wait, he was in more need of his real nourishment.
The paper startled him more than anything. He would have imagined lots of things, from the most straightforward and business-like threatening, to the most raw and manic descriptions of violence. Even a romantic love letter seemed high likely compared to what it really was. When the boffin's zirconium eyes skimmed throughout the sheet he was rather surprised of what he found, or rather what he did not find.
The paper was clear as sunlight, not a single word written in it. No pictures, no marks, no signs of an invisible ink of any sort. The paper was empty. Moriarty clearly had been very careful not to leave any trace behind, no data, nothing. He was enraged, wrath seething through his pores. He kicked the food tray, all its contents were sent flying through the room and crushed the paper between his violinist fingers. He had expected Moriarty to ridicule him, but this was too much; now he was taunting his incapability to survive without a puzzle, a distraction.
Even when he was in Baker Street, where he had cold cases, and technology, and experiments, and John, all laying around somewhere in the flat waiting to entertain him, it wasn't enough to get rid of the nagging problem his personality had always had. Jim was pushing, and too much for that matter, up to a point where it was more of a shoving, a violent thrust to an abyss where Sherlock had no control whatsoever. He felt like falling all over again.
Oh! What he would give to have his Stradivarius with him. To relax him and help him think. Every movement of his fingers a delicious disease; every swing of the bow a subtle cure. Just the right combination of reckless and control. And as the hair touched the strings feel like a part of him coming undone and being built up again, leaving him wide-eyed and staring at a new world previously unknown to him. Threatening to make him go insane, and madly in love with the wrong darkness.
So familiar, yet so astonishingly new; every time it was a different sensation. Sometimes he was drowning in a hurricane, other times his body burned with the wind. Either way, breaking his bones and letting his spirit run free without moving from where he was standing. It was the one situation he never dared to let his brain analyze, partly because he knew his science-bound intellect would never accomplish at finding an explanation, and even if it did, it wouldn't make it justice. And partly because of the shaking fear of the magic losing its gift once he knew how it worked. He refused to spoil the only sense of freedom, and he would not break it open just to see what it was. Confusing and an even sum, it was madness. It was utter perfection.
He was impatient, he needed action. Something to silence the white noise inside his head. To kill all the choirs within him who all sang in different keys. He required focus. Ever since he was released from rehab, one of his inside strings always silently feared being left alone, to let all his thoughts run wild. When he had a purpose, a mission; not his carcass, nor his soul needed anything else.
He became accustomed, and immersed himself in The Work. His one-tracked intellect not being able to see past of what was important for the case, he was somewhat distracted. And then the whole flatmates thing happened and he didn't have to worry about loneliness anymore, there was always someone -John- there to keep him grounded. To keep his body from bursting, from tearing at the seams. To prevent his toxic thoughts from digging through his skull, to stop his pent up acid from harming its vessel.
But complicated as it may seem, it came natural sometimes. He absent-mindedly and gradually became more in control of his habits, up until they went off the rails only under duress or utter boredom. However, the situation in which he found himself right now warranted the losing of the hold he had on those reins. Normally, whenever that happened, all everyone could do was run fast, escape, and hide until the storm had passed. No use fighting against a hurricane which not even itself had the ability to control whatsoever.
Well, it was not as if he was in any position to decide, though. His brain would do as it pleased, and he might as well just go on with it. Plus, the fact of being caged and held hostage -with no chance of ransom, mind you- at this dull-looking chamber, was not actually helping the situation. Not only was he being controlled by his own rebelled mind, but also the consulting criminal had him at his mercy -more accurately at his lack of said.
He let his thoughts wander for a moment, pondering if James might leave him there undisturbed for the rest of eternity. If he had at long last tired of him and the game they played, and if he was ever going to have a chance of going back out there. Although he didn't fear death in the slight-less, he had no desire of passing away just yet. There were still so many things to find out, so many things to do and crimes to solve. Still, dying was never the worst of fates, and fading to white or black could possibly be more compelling than living in gray, as he was right now.
He found himself wondering, and for the first time in years he thought about death, and although he had already experienced -or rather watched as others experienced- his own end, there was no telling what would happen if they were left with something even more lethal to the human brain and its emotions than loss: uncertainty.
What would Lestrade do if himself was not there to solve the cases for him? If he couldn't work out what Moriarty had done with him? And with what might Mrs. Hudson occupy her afternoons if it wasn't in cleaning after the mess he always managed to make? Would she instead waste them wondering if he was lying lifeless in some gutter? He though about Mycroft and Molly too, would they mourn if they never got a chance to find him? If he stayed lost forever? Would Mycroft blame himself for not being able to locate him? Would Molly return to not being able to stand up for herself?
Albeit all of the loyalty he had received, and the affection he realized they had towards him after the fall, he didn't know how they would manage with a second round of it all, should the situation present itself. Would practice make it easier, or would repetition just end them once and for all? As darker thoughts started mingling inside, he thought of an improbable but very possible option, would they forget about him? Would they find it too much to bear at not knowing whether he was alive, and just bury an empty casket once more? Would they give up and tire of chasing invisible footsteps? Would they stop believing in him?
It was then when he contemplated about John. And even though all of the formerly presented doubts were if not but possible and honestly, quite terrifying with the others, he did know about his ever-loyal blogger. And that was probably -no, decidedly- worse. This time there wouldn't be any beating around the bush, this time the doctor would not absentmindedly carry on with his life half-empty, holding on to the past for dear life. No, this time Sherlock was sure the doctor would attempt, if not succeed, at following him, not even knowing if there was actually somewhere to follow. And the detective found out there was just so much damage and hurt that he could bring into a man who had saved his life in so many occasions.
He must find a way -no matter how ironic it seemed- to just stay alive, even if it just meant staying. Because he wouldn't be able to bear, for the short or long time that he was to spend there, the guilt if something were to happen to John or to any of them because of him, however indirect his part in it could be.
He pulled himself away from those ideas rather quickly. Deciding it would do him no good to dwell on things to come, which thankfully had the probability of never coming at all. Sherlock couldn't afford to lose any of them -no matter how many times he denied it- and the five of them were to keep intact whenever. They were constants to Sherlocks fickle variables. He was the reckless unpredictable one. The one who had been to hell and back too many times to count, with no one, himself included, certain that he would make it; and they were the ones always staying, always waiting. Always safe.
Author's note: I'm really not good with this "note" thing. I don't even know what else to say other than: I hope you all liked it.