Author's note: As always, I hope you like it.
CHAPTER 4: THE PROBATION (Part 3)
On day four of being completely ignored, if it wasn't for the occasional mocking at his needs, he sat cross-legged resting in one of the corners. He had chosen that particular place to avoid being seen by the surveillance. The camera just above him had a blind point, and if he was expected to keep just a little bit of sanity in that mausoleum, he had to make sure he didn't feel like a bloody animal in the zoo all the time. In times like this, where every thought counted, privacy was luxury.
He refused to let his uneasiness be an entertainment, if Moriarty wanted to flaunt his little victory and have a front row ticket in the sleuth's misery, he would have to come and confront him properly. Thankfully, the detective was a very resilient specimen, and it would take very little to get him back up on his own feet again. The torture he endured was cruel, and warranted nothing more than for him to go and cry on a corner, but albeit he had lost a petty battle, he would win the war, there was no doubt in his mind about it. No matter what he had to do, he would get out of there. He would come home again.
He recognized what the criminal was trying to do, and he couldn't say it was anything less than brilliant. The perfection in planing, and cunning nature of thought was just a piece of art. So cleverly played out that he admitted it was similar to what he would've done if he was an insane homicidal psychopath; almost as if someone had extracted that particular idea from his brain and inserted it in that of the criminal. He again pondered the similarities of his and Jim's method of thinking, and accepted that he would be James, if the situation would have been as such. Oddly enough the only thing separating them, differentiating them from one another was the most self-denied aspect of the detective's personality: the often scoffed and abhorred sentiment.
Every time he stupidly displayed any sort of emotion he was left wishing to just brush it off, scrub it out of his system. And tried he did, but it was not something he could command himself to stop doing. He would walk to that specific drawer of his mind palace, retrieve the awful folder which contained the idiotic and irrational behavior, and tossed it inside the trash bin. Sighed from relief thinking he'd successfully deleted it; but moments after he would find himself feeling those irritating reactions and encountered with the exact same file he believed to have disposed away. His mind half-rebelling had protected the folder with teeth and claws, and now the sleuth understood why. Because even if he positively hated feelings, and was galled whenever he experienced something akin to emotions, it was the only thing preventing him from becoming like the very man who had him trapped and was currently making sure he was going through hell. He decided he reluctantly would tolerate that ridiculous chemical defect if it meant he would never find himself at a situation with reversed roles. The only emotion Jim seemed capable of really having was a terrifying, yet flattering, committed fixation of playing Sherlock. And said detective hadn't decided what it meant for him, to be the only object of attention of such an unpredictable and crazy man.
As if speaking of the devil, said criminal came striding inside the room at last, door being tightly closed behind him, leaving the room devoid of the partly fresh breeze which entered when opened, snatching the air as soon as it arrived, and with it Sherlock's sole sensory satisfaction. The currently green eyes of the curly haired man set in the frightening dark ones of the consulting criminal. Smirking at the attention, Moriarty moved closer and sat in the floor next to him. Sherlock looked at him discombobulated, Jim drew his knees to his chest and rested his back casually in the wall. Noting he wasn't about to be attacked the boffin relaxed and closed his eyes.
"You know, Sherlock;" He muttered looking straight ahead. Surprisingly calm. "You really messed up when you tried to bite the hand that feeds you." He acted so different, so normal. So not like the maniac he always was. It left the sleuth with a sort of uneasy feeling at his gut. The man next of him had gotten so good at feigning human traits, that you almost would not believe he was a highly corrupted snake. It was as if he had sat down a row of people and practiced every expression until he had perfected it -and knowing the madman he may have just had- portraying ordinary aspects as a second nature, probably because the ghoul always needed a cover. Blending in with the common crowd, hiding in plain sight.
The faux concern he gave him was disconcerting, and for a moment he wondered where had he gather that particular emotion. Did he steal it from someone else? Did he snatched it away from somebody's face when they weren't looking? And, where did he keep all the other emotions masks when he wasn't using them in his fallacy? "You weren't actually expecting me to sit back and do nothing, were you?" Responded the detective, still quite immersed in his own self. Placing his chin on his clasped fingertips, they way he always did at home with John. Except he was not at home, and the terrible man next to him wasn't John, or anyone of whom he wanted to be in the company. Nonetheless, this was his luck. The only one available to listen to his ramblings was the very monster he is trying to overthrow.
"I suppose you're right." Said beast sighed. He seemed to have deflated completely, exasperated enough to ignore their usual positions. Characterizing the posture of an understanding bloke just comforting a friend. Sherlock, however, knew better than to swallow it whole.
"I'm always right." He said nonchalantly, acting as his typical self. Aside from the fact that it was highly uncommon and quite alarming, Moriarty was being refreshingly harmless, aware of the fact that they both knew the detective could never attack him if he expected to get out of there alive. Knowing he was currently out of threat, the musician decided to push it. Curious as to where the conversation could turn. Maybe James would reveal something of importance, maybe it would lead somewhere fascinating.
"Good God, that arrogance of yours!" He exclaimed back. As if he had never met him before. As if he didn't know that's what he always did. "I wonder how that stupid pet of yours put up with it all these years." If looks could kill, the glare the sleuth gave the criminal at the mention of that person would have chopped him into tiny bits and dunked the rest in sulphuric acid. It looked like the brown-eyed man had some investigation of his own going on. And for the intent present in that sentence, Sherlock felt a pang of possessiveness shot through him. Ready to defend his blogger from the incorrect accusation. He said nothing instead.
"Oh, hit a nerve there, didn't I?" Smugness and satisfaction flying through the air among them. Sherlock refused to go down that road. Bored of the idiocy and uselessness of the subject, this wouldn't give him anything more than he already knew. "Anyhow, that is not why I'm here." He said as soon as he realized the detective wouldn't speak a word about that. He could see him clam up at the very mention of his friend, clearly still a sore spot.
"Why indeed are you here, James?" The curly-haired man rolled the last word out of his tongue as if it was as sour, as it was disgusting. Urging the other man to just get it over with, so he could resume on worrying himself crazy. He had no intentions of wasting precious time with such trifles.
"I'm here because I feel particularly merciful today and I decided to offer you a deal." His business voice was back, and the detective felt his uneasiness somehow assuage at the familiarity of the tone. This was the Moriarty he knew and loathed, the unpredictably predictable criminal. He couldn't recognize the friend-like Jim, and it unnerved him to no end.
"Whatever is it, I'm not interested." He answered cooly and fastening up one of his opened buttons nonchalantly, he had no desires to sell his soul to this lesser devil. "So you may as well resume to your machinations of accessioning the world." The detective couldn't decide if the chill was caused by the foul weather, or by the demonic presence of the man sitting next to him. If he had to bet, his money would be on the latter.
"I'm sure they can manage it for a little while. You are my priority, Sherly." The sociopath eyed the psychopath bewildered. He had never before dealt with someone quite as crazy as what was before him, and it was dreadful and yet interesting to watch it happen; an experience of a lifetime -and he did hope it happened just once in his lifetime. However, he wasn't there to be fascinated; he wasn't supposed to be entertained, he should be fighting. Finding the way to return home. "You are going to help me with something."
"No." He said stoically. Straightforward. He didn't even feel the need to elaborate, he wasn't about to aid the criminal in his machiavellian affairs. That is the line he has never crossed, he was a consulting detective, not a criminal. He, albeit reluctantly, was on the side of the angels, if he allowed himself to take part in this he may as well loose everything he ever stood for.
"Oh, don't worry; it's nothing evil. And the reward is worth it." He said.
"And what the consulting criminal could possibly fail at doing that requires my assistance?" Sherlock had no intentions of actually agreeing, but he was so bored and the conversation was stimulating. Thirteen days locked up with nothing to deduce and no one to call stupid and he already could feel his brain rotting inside his skull.
"Just a chemistry impasse, it will provide you a distraction and if you do it right I'll reward you with something to calm your anxiety." This got the sleuth attention. Why could he mean with that? Moriarty was seriously not planning on having his violin delivered, it would be moronic just to think about it. Nicotine patches, however, were more probable, and the nature of the situation in which he found himself would warrant at least four of them. This was tempting, all the more reason to not accept. If he were to agree, he most likely would end up paying expensive wages for the rest of his life, just for a handful of nicotine patches. Although in his state it was starting to seem like a fair trade.
"Not even a whole pack of patches will make me agree." He decided. The only thing he really needed to smoke was the practical ghosts out of his mind. And getting his priorities straight. Self-preservation, then escape, and finally nicotine. In that order only.
"Oh, you're always so boring!" The criminal whined and pouted like a little child. "Who said anything about patches?" He smirked and reached for his blazer inside pocket. This caught the boffin's attention and he whirled his head to witness what the maniac was going to show him. What he did get out of his jacket, was exactly what the silver-gazed man never expected.
So, at last the criminal's true intentions were brought to surface. He couldn't possibly be offering Sherlock a deal in which the detective would both, have a distraction and a reward.
"No." He refused abruptly, as if he didn't avert his brain from pondering quickly enough it would no doubt change his answer. "No," He said again, trying to be as clear as possible. "I don't need them anymore." He mumbled to himself and by then he had already rolled the sleeves of his shirt down to his wrists. Withdrawing all the evidence that his body may differ with this statement.
The psychopath stared at him, scrutinizing his reaction. Despite the fact that he, himself, tends to do exactly that more than he eats, -actual true fact- now that he was the one being observed, for once the detective thought such an act to be greatly indignant. Moriarty, as if finding in Sherlock's face exactly what he was looking for, abruptly stood up.
"I guess we'll see about that." He said laconically, as he set the contents of his jacket on the floor next to the slumped detective. Leaving it at least two meters closer than to what the curly-haired man considered comfortable. Sherlock pushed them away with his foot quickly, as if just the bereft touch of them to his skin would burn him. He would not be tempted in this manner.
He couldn't, by any means, accept what was being offered to him. He had already made good progress, and had relapsed a few times too. But this time around, it was different, something had changed. Aside from the fact that he desperately needed a clear and keen mind in his state, there were other aspects that warranted consideration. All the other times when he had found himself at this position, helplessly thrusted into this crossroads, he had always been in control. He had utter and complete understanding of what he was doing, and of the reasons why he was doing it. If he had decided one way or the other, was a mere detail, it held no importance, no significance whatsoever. Still if he consented at this proposition, he would be foolishly handing Moriarty the power; and he had already one million and one problems to occupy his too busy mind to just give away his soul to the criminal too.
Yielding that level of control would no doubt leave him exposed and vulnerable. And he certainly couldn't afford to loose any of the unsusceptible leverage he had left. The criminal had somehow managed to crack his shield. He had made a clean and near perfect slit in the detective's armor, and if it was to be materialized he thought it would match the one in John's shoulder. It was impressive, he had to give the faux doe-eyed that. There was only so many things one could do to bring the great Sherlock Holmes into despondency. It positively had to had caused some challenge, if not trouble.
Many others before the consulting criminal had tried it, really harming him; and some of them actually succeeded, at some extent at least. Some made dents and scratches. Others simply helped building those very walls to begin with. But none of them had truly accomplish what Jim had. To attempt at creating a see-through aperture was just ambitious.
He was never a perfect man, and he had always been far from stable; his sheath was not shiny and new, it was worn-down to the very last finger. Too used to engaging in battle, and already accustomed to receiving all the blows aimed at him. It wasn't ideal, but it served its purpose well enough. He had learnt since a young age that he would never rid of the marks that were already on his skin from back when it was bare, when it had no protection; however, he could always avoid getting new ones. His sealed shield was impenetrable, and no matter how much damage they could achieve on the outside, the inside always remained the same. Not unscathed, not unharmed, but familiar. That being the very reason why he was never too preoccupied with battle, there was no way anyone could ever get past that barrier. His weak soul protected by hard steel just how it should be, for underneath that facade he was marred beyond repair, he was bruised.
That was exactly what Sherlock feared. By cutting open his shield not only did Moriarty had managed to have a real impact on him, but now it also allowed the criminal the possibility to overtake the obstruction. Venomously seeping through the cracks, the detective highly doubted he would hesitate but a little to seize the chance. Vulnerability brought on many a foul things in the silver-gazed man. He couldn't, by any circumstance, allow this psychopath to wander around his too-secured brain, there was so much darkness he could rendezvous. He would look for something to break him, and God knows he would find he had locked away a lot of specters which could do just that. If Moriarty set his mind to rattling things inside him there was no telling with what sort of demons he would encounter, or what they would do in their wake. But one thing was certain, if those devils were set loose not even holy water would be able to help them.