THE TRIAL (Part 3)
The crucible was finished; according to the mental schedule Sherlock had estimated it would take. And he found himself on a post-case-like sulk. Moriarty's attempts of controlling every aspect of his existence were proving to be terrifyingly effective. He was already getting used to the fact of having a routine, and felt hopelessly bored when his only distraction was stolen from him, if he didn't start tying a rope on his attitude he would soon find himself absentmindedly agreeing with everything the lunatic had to ask, just for the sake of stop being so bloody bored.
As if he wasn't already too strained, the taser made a comeback, with a vengeance. It was the criminal's favourite past-time. The musician was starting to understand how, even if it didn't leave a mark physically, and in consideration the pain was not something he couldn't handle, a consistent string of petty attacks to his skin was leaving the realm of simply "annoying" to become in "despair which only comes when one is pocked in the brain continuously". The spider's plan was starting to unravel its nature in front of his eyes. If no one came for him, soon enough the itch in his mind would turn into a severe case of cabin fever, and even an idiot like Anderson knows there's no coming back from that. At least not for a person like Sherlock.
Because, normally, a person like Sherlock means someone who will gather data, and discover all those pretty little secrets you try to keep tucked under your bed for no one else to see; all those flaws that spill from your skin like neon lights, and the weaknesses you don't even know you posses. Who collects all of them in a sick fashion of fascination and tugs at the strings to all of them just to know which of them will snap. Who will wait, and plan, and scheme, until you are convinced he's forgotten about your deeds; until "element of surprise" doesn't even begin to describe the lack of expectation the receiving party will have. And then, and only then, will he lay out his means and beat you. Clean, intelligently, elegantly, and you would never have a clue on exactly what hit you.
That was the usual -if not normal- stoic, cold, genius, sometimes sociopathic, Sherlock. Always having the intellectual high-ground. But once you have stripped him of that, once you have taken all sense of impersonal fighting from him; being like Sherlock could mean something completely different. Compulsive, and fiddle, and wild. A hound which will not hesitate to tear you apart until there's nothing left of you but ribbons of shredded flesh. All red-eyed and animalistic. A beast howling a guttural shriek; over-emotional and auto-destructive. And what could ever be more dangerous than a creature which doesn't really care if, while bringing down its pray, it destroys itself in the process? A man with nothing left but his own thirst of revenge would go to great lengths to achieve it, no matter the cost; because there really is nothing that life could hurl at him which he would consider worse than what he already has. And without taking in consideration the bitter success he would celebrate after, he would just be trying to hold tightly in his palms something he already lost, the empty matter of nothing that inhabits between his grasp. Forever reminding him of just how hollow he's become inside, and by then, a death in the hands of his enemy would be more welcome than the triumph of any battle, no matter the prize. Because in life, he only has his loathing; but while bringing down the curse of his blessings, in death, he would genuinely rise victorious.
That's why a man like Sherlock could never recover from something so utterly brain-consuming as an illness born out of isolation. Not without an specific sort of help, as for example: a miracle worker. Because losing control doesn't suit well with him, and depleting the only resource he had in his life, deeming it unsuitable and therefore, useless, would break him. In what does a man who all his life has only ever have his genius on which to rely, believe, if he cannot believe in his own mind?
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