CHAPTER 4: THE PROBATION (Part 5)
Crucible. It was crucible. He was expected to help with crucible because Moriarty's minions were apparently stupid enough not to know how to properly handle a container which shouldn't melt and could withstand high temperatures when put inside an oven or into the fire. Of course, he knew the criminal's helpers were more brawn than brain, and probably none of them had even finished school. But still, with a criminal master-mind like James, one would believe he would at least have someone, with whom talking was not akin to trying to rationalize with a lab monkey.
There was always the chance that the criminal and his men had lied about the mere purpose of the solving of this particular conundrum. Maybe melting people's bodies was more accurate than the need to just have a pot which you could use for experimental intentions; fact that was very possible. The detective casted those unsavory thoughts away from his present mind; ignorance in the real plans of the psychopath was the wiser path to tread, since he had no other choice -which he was willing to take- but to help.
After being asked for the materials which would be needed, Sherlock received everything he had written on the list. When told that he was to make the most tolerable to highest temperatures object he could with what was brought, he decided to go for zirconium, deeming it resistant enough to do the part, and easy enough to handle to end this quickly for him.
His hands were sort of bound. Loosely so he could move about and work, but nonetheless restrained, to prevent him from that attempt of escaping everyone knew would take place if he was to be let free with chemicals and only daft morons to defy him. Despite of being on a leash, Sherlock felt a sensation akin to freedom burning its way through him. The strangest type of liberty one could ever encounter when in a trying time; he found deliverance in the fact of not having any time to himself. Keeping his attention elsewhere, he could pretend as if it was all a ruse. An elaborated trick of the violent lights of a world in which he was not obliged to help built what could very possibly be a death-ray to destroy human kind, in order to steer his addicted mentality from an imminent relapse.
Jim was perched on a high chair next to the table where all the magic was happening. After his helpers readied the work space, he shoo'ed them away; the prisoner and his captor alone once again. If he was being completely honest with himself, the detective was actually grateful for that tiny fact. Not because he, in any way, enjoyed the company of the brown-haired man, but because the last thing he needed right now was a daft neanderthal pestering him while he was attempting to work.
His psyche was reveling at the mere thought of having something to achieve, in which he was able to channel his vast and immense intellect. Jim watched him twirl around looking for substances and just work with honest interest the first few minutes, but as anyone with half a brain would have been able to guess, the appeal didn't last long, and was soon exhausted with the passivity portrayed by the chemistry, which seemed to have deliberately chosen to react at snail's pace just to spite him. The tell-tale signs of boredom were already visible, clear as day to the detective -who was too accustomed to feeling that himself since he was no stranger to trying to cope with tedious endeavors- even before the criminal realized it himself. Rotating in his chair like some broken record which could not stop playing despite the fact of only producing a detrimental symphony.
The silver-gazed man smiled inside at the predicament into which the criminal had so foolishly put himself. Adamant, that he alone, was the only one who could successfully make the musician stay true to the plan and not scheme some sort of strategy. As if that would impede him of trying something if he had the means, unfortunately there was only so much he could do with the chemicals delivered.
Hours passed and wasted away, and for one of the men cloistered in that ex-wine cellar, they seem to turn into repeated solar cycles. As the other one set his keen eyes over a microscope, all he could do was observe, and truthfully, he felt like plucking his eyeballs out just to have something other to do than this. When he planned on Sherlock agreeing with helping him, he had anticipated it to be much more fun than this -not that it wasn't delicious, mind you- but the humiliation of getting him to do something for him just to maintain his sorry arse off the drugs, however satisfactory, wasn't going to prevent him from turning violently fatigued to death. That's why when the sleuth decided to speak, he embraced the conversation like a lifeline.
"How I have always found zirconium fascinating," Sherlock stated, not averting his eyes from the table for even a second. The criminal had the suspicion that he was talking more to himself than to him. The man was clearly having a secret monologue inside his Mind Palace, only for himself to hear. It would be totally rude to interrupt him now, except that he was Moriarty, and he never cared for such things as manners.
"How come?" He inquired.
Once the detective came to know what was really happening, he changed his answer. Metamorphosing its semantics and elaborating a more suitable one to reply to the psychopath, a more precisely tweezers-picked comment which would prove convenient in the never-ending game they always found themselves playing. "You see, the problem is they always try to destroy it," He explained, being aware that he was definitely throwing himself into the wolf's mouth. But he did not mind, not really. He always knew about the so-called East Wind, -thanks to Mycroft- that would someday rush its way into the Earth with invisible tails of air like whips, and pluck out every machiavellian sinner like bad weed being ripped out from the dirt. And he also knew that if the prophesy -metaphor- was to be true, he would not be spared of punishment once it came; taking both, him and Moriarty, in its greedy claws and smashing them against the mud in equal proportion.
But this was not a heavenly chastisement. That wasn't the sort of game they played, it wasn't a case of deserving fate, or "From above, the wicked shall receive their just reward". No, he had to make his own luck, and proving to the criminal he was still standing was the first step to gaining back the upper hand. "But they fail to realize this metal is extremely resistible, and far stronger than what they deem it to be."
Once the words all escaped out of his mouth, Moriarty recognized them for exactly what they were supposed to be: a battle cry. Just as he was about to answer in kind, someone opened up the heavy door and slipped inside, panting. Frightened and unwanted, and started talking of ill news and mistakes at light-speed, and it was all the consulting criminal could do not to throttle him right there. Infuriated, rolling his eyes at the missed opportunity of an entertaining confrontation. "What's happened now?" His tone exasperated, and Sherlock was glad he was present to watch this. It was always good fortune to see the brown-eyed man suffer on this situation like him, if only but a little.
"We can't smuggle the merchandise," The lad started nervously -who the sleuth knew had three brothers, a cancer-ill mother and an absent father, youngest sibling still a toddler and mother ex-secretary fired for having an affair with a married co-worker before she knew about her disease; if his left shoe and the button of his brown jacket were anything to go by- and shifted alternating feet. "The mafia won't let us."
"Oh they won't let you? Tell me something, Logan; is the mafia your boss?" Moriarty was using his faux-sweet voice, the one that signals when things are about to get really ugly. It was obvious the great consulting criminal would never allow someone to prevent him in getting exactly what he wanted, not even the great consulting detective; not if he could help it.
"N-no, sir." The young man, apparently called Logan, stuttered out. His eyes going wide with terror, clearly it was not the first time James chose to tell him off, and in his pupils and color-changing irises, the sleuth could tell the worker feared it may be the last time.
"Are their interest more important than mine?" The spider playing his favorite game. Ever laying down a trap for the sad fly to walk into. And if this bloke did not tread lightly, the psychopath would snare him and swallow him whole. Not that the detective cared one way or the other, this man was obviously a crook whom he would gladly put into a jail cell if given the chance; but he'd rather not see any more blood-spilling after the fiasco with the father and his firstborn.
"Of course not, sir." He answered, trying to assure the criminal that there was not a single bone of doubt within him, that there was no need of disappearing him.
"Good. Dispose of them all, then." The curly-haired man curled his lips in distaste at the nonchalance with which he talked about murdering people. Yes, mafia people were more than a bit not good, and yes, he did kill a few of Moriarty's minions -and his right hand- when he was dismantling his network, but at least the thought of taking another human being's life away stirred him and strained him just a tad.
"But sir, we're talking about at least 72 people, including lads." Logan made the mistake of talking back. When someone is that bat-shit crazy, you never talk back. Unless you have the same level of insanity, hence the clever battle of wits in which both consultants engaged more than quite often.
"I said: Dispose of them." James took a quick look to the detective, and as the detective raised both his eyebrows, Jim turned his heated glare to Logan once again, as if saying You're embarrassing me in front of my greatest nemesis. Shut. Up.
"But, sir..." Perseverance in this case would not aid the stout in anyway. Quite the contrary, if he managed to irritate him any more he would most certainly wake up underwater.
"Why do you keep defying me? Tell me, if I was to thrust you into the center of the mafia, would they hesitate in ending you?" Moriarty asked in his ever-changing voice, riding the pitch like a sick roller-coaster in which nobody felt even remotely comfortable. Sherlock hated that familiar lilt the most.
"No, sir" He answered realizing his mistake.
"Well then, maybe you should worry less about the mafia who've already made up their mind about killing you, and start worrying more about me who's still mulling it over." The smirk of amusement that had been painted in the detective's face was soon erased at the muttering of these words. He realized he was getting used to this life far too much. His captor, no matter how much history and moves played stored from previous altercations, was a total mad bastard who would not hesitate in killing even someone from his own team if he was exasperated enough. Just the fact that Sherlock could somehow and sometimes see himself in this man didn't mean he had not capture him for torture. Didn't mean he was not there to be played, not to play with.
"Yes, sir." If you could somehow re-arrange the syntax of the words "scared to death" into facial expressions, Logan's face would be its definition in the English Oxford Dictionary.
"Now, watch pretty-boy over here. I need to cut some heads." He rolled his eyes once again and gestured the detective as if he was a little kid who had annoyed too many nannies and whose parents were completely done in trying to find him anyone even remotely suitable for the job; he felt as if the criminal thought of Logan too little to -rather begrudgingly- leave him in the presence of his mighty greatest enemy.
As Jim was about to stomp out the door, probably to literally behead somebody, he stopped in his tracks, and turned to the detective once more. The smirk on his face reminded the boffin of one he had seen one day on a crime scene, with a body beaten to death and mouth lines prolonging to his cheeks in a morbid smile. He couldn't hate it more even if he tried. "You know, you're right about zirconium." The criminal started, and it took exactly .024 seconds for the musician to understand he was picking up the conversation they had earlier. "Fire will do very little to it." He halted faking a pensive face. "However, if you shred it into tiny pieces it will ignite and burn itself." Once the words were released and sent flying out of the criminal's lips, Sherlock interpreted exactly what they meant: he was fucked.
Author's note: Here's the final part for this chapter, I hope you all liked it. We have a lot in store for what's ahead. Things will start to get complicated.
I wanted to thank everyone who have reviewed and followed this story, I appreciate and value your support! Until next time.