CHAPTER 5: THE TRIAL (Part 2)

One more day passed, but Sherlock's condition did not improve in the slight-less. He was becoming tired, significantly less efficient, and dangerously jumpy. The smallest of sounds would make him dart around as if searching and no resting until the source of the unannounced words was located, fearful of them coming from his own memory. He shouldn't be losing his mind right now, he had other more important matters to solve, and a mental breakdown would only make him lose precious time. But still, who would be able to stop it?

Because an idea like that one would not be easily swayed. How was he expected to deter it from slicing his skin with its sharp claws? From separating his epidermis apart, muscle, and veins, and ribs, and crawling its way into his lungs? Eating up alveoli and exchanging his oxygen for something toxic his body would not tolerate for much? A fight with Moriarty, or even the devil himself -not that there was any difference- was simple, easy when you locate your enemy, and it becomes "eat or be eaten". But one can only run from oneself so far. A battle with himself would end up in destruction, because no matter what strategy he chose to inflict. No matter which side won in the end; he would always end up losing in some way.

He must have been doing a quite disappointing job, considering Jim showed up that day to try and sort out what the hell was wrong with him. He was close to finishing up the crucible, but he clearly had decreased in speed and concentration. This, of course, did not happen to him commonly; but he was not exactly sane. The criminal must have sensed Sherlock's conundrum as his tone turned from scolding and exasperated to amused and pleased.

"Something the matter, Sherls?" He asked, as if he was concerned. Thankfully, the musician knew that ruse all too well, and would never believe it for one second. He was never one for sentimentalities -even if he did, sometimes, sympathized with the consulting criminal- but looking at the face of this monster, he couldn't help but wonder what had occurred to him that made him so, empty.

He decided that despite of everything he already knew about the Irish, he would cast it all aside and deduce him from scratch. It was the only way he was ever going to really know him, with an un-biased observation. Starting from his shoes. Then his Westwood attire. Next his hair, his posture, his hands, and finally, his face.

The man was lacking in information at all of the above, only a few little hints here and there. He was almost a clean slate. But, unlike Irene Adler, he did have one deadly give-away: the cool pools of cloggy tar he commonly passed off as eyes.

The detective bore his gaze into those dark orbs for a minute; which then turned into seemingly hours, and days, and years. And he had never before been able to so exquisitely deduce someone for such a little percentage of their body. It was fascinating to read everything inside those bottomless pits of destruction. He was sure he was watching Moriarty's thoughts dance around him a sick twisted waltz, and the criminal was letting him.

He began choosing those which seemed to bear more importance, and picked them apart like a little experiment. All of those tell-tale signs which were only begging to be unraveled, looked a lot clearer now. And Sherlock wondered about what he saw, for even he, who worked with criminals everyday, had never encountered something so devoid of meaning. He was sure Moriarty was biologically born a human, a man. But what could have ever happened to turn him so demonic, Sherlock could not guess.

When he was eight, unconsciously trying to solve his first murder case, he remembers he used to be so obsessed with the why's. The how and the who, he already knew, he could already see. But in his tiny young mind, the future detective could not conceive the reason why anyone would think doing that sort of endeavor would ever be necessary. Of course, as he grew up his understanding got broader, his brain started becoming less and less innocent, and all the beliefs for fairytales and magic -not that he ever truly believed them- got lost in the thrill of the chase. And what used to intrigue him, was soon left to rot in the far corners of his Mind Palace.

He got used to murderers always having a tale to tell. A reason why they believed the crime was somehow justified at some exceedingly tiny degree. Love, being almost always the main source of the real problem, the shadow behind the curtains of the wicked. The moment he saw James, he wrongly assumed the same thing about him. And suddenly the little boy was back again, wondering the cause of said darkness. What could Moriarty have possibly done to become the man he is now? Had he just dug his pointy knifes at his chest and ripped his heart out in a decidedly swift movement? And if he did, what had he done with the organ after?

Some men who live against the law never really regret what they've done, had grown immune to emotions, advocating for themselves with an elaborate line of lies to exonerate them from their own trial. Some men just become unapologetic. But the lack of remorse which the boffin found in the criminal's gaze was of a different nature. It was a violently empty sentiment, and Sherlock could not wrap his head around the paradox.

He understood at last, that Jim didn't tear his heart out, never really having one to begin with. He had no sob-stories like the rest of the lesser criminals. He was not some misunderstood child who just lashed out at another because of the turmoil inside of himself. Moriarty was born as that. That's what made him so good, so brilliant at his job. The corrupted asset already woven to his soul before he was even born. And he had never known any different. His eyes will always be dry, his hands will always be steady, and his conscience will always stay clear.

Which made the detective ponder which one was worse. Some of them chose to participate in the appalling things that happened daily. And all the fault was really theirs to answer for. But what happens with evil men as the consulting criminal, who are just born evil? Are they trapped, stuck inside a role they must play till their lungs finally decide to give out, just because the world needs darkness to appreciate light? Does this make them worthy of absolution?

As he watched the smile which was being handed to him so carelessly, the curly-hair man decided the answer to the previous question was "No, it doesn't". He had been born with the same set of specters within him. And the loud beings would never let a day pass by without reminding him about all the potential to accomplish what would be considered bad things that he carried with him all the time. Like a heavy burden which was thrusted upon him. But the detective struggles a lot to lock each and every one of the ghouls where they could never scape, and chose instead to drag the curse attached to his feet like a ball and chain, and carry it over his crumbling shoulders, rather than wearing it like an armor. Even so, he knew he hardly deserved to be at the receiving end of mercy. So what made Moriarty any better than him? and for that instance, what made Sherlock any better than Moriarty?

For the first time since they met, the detective found himself understanding the Irish man completely. Making him a lot more terrifying. Realizing all that mockery he bore inside his mind of anything resembling hope vanished with that attainment. He would be lucky, for lack of a better word, if he made it out alive. Because if Jim set out to cut the boffin down, to rip to shreds all his dignity, and put him back together again to please his will, there would be nothing akin to good left of him. "No." He answered.

Author's notes: Sorry for the delay, good news is that you can expect more updates in the next few days. Thank you so much for the reviews.