CHAPTER 6: THE CHASTISEMENT (Part 2)

After a few hours, the brunette started noticing certain changes in the temperature on the room. He no longer felt that slight chill on his bare toes that had been present during his stay at Moriarty's quarters. One which he had already learned to ignore at the best of cases. There was a bit of a warmer atmosphere all around his being, and despite of liking the idea of not being constantly worrying at how cold it was —him being used to the warmth of his coat and the hearth at Baker Street— he didn't have a good feeling about it. Something seemed suspiciously off.

Surely Moriarty had heightened the temperature on his captive environment. Which was admittedly a remarkable job, since the boffin could not place a single air conditioning device inside the room. So the method should be something far cleverer than that. The reason was mysterious too. He clearly was going to use the heat to affect him. But it all seemed a bit too tedious, too predictable. Too so unlike Moriarty that he doubted that hot environment was the final goal.

The time crept by surprisingly quick. As the heat was slowly climbing, crawling its way up in the scale, Sherlock considered how much punishment would he be forced to endure at the criminal's hand, and whether he would be able to take it as far as it took for someone to find him, or another opportunity of escape to present itself —which he was near sure it never would—. However, if he was a genius, a master in themes of crime and deceit, and had learned anything he could from the corrupt, he was sure he could predict Jim's moves at least well enough to prepare himself for whatever was ahead. Moriarty was more likely to play mind games, and to try and tear the seams of his psyche to watch him squirm. If he could prepare his brain and body to what they would hurl at him, he could succeed in averting them from really harming his consciousness. If he stayed detached and distant, and introvert himself unto his Mind Palace he should be okay. Or so he believed.

—"So, I ran to the river. It was boiling."—

He positioned himself in a laying position. Placed his hands on his chest and crossed his legs. If he was to await chastisement, he might as well do it while on a comfortable posture. He considered for a moment taking his shirt off, to avoid storing heat inside it, but decided against since he knew the criminal would never let him live it down, and he really was in a dire enough situation that he couldn't afford to give the madman any ideas. He opted instead to just pop open a few buttons and rolling up his sleeves and trouser hems.

His clever eyes darted around the room, and there was utter silence, and complete lack of new data in which to bask his senses. The only shifting aspect was the climate condition. Growing warm and hot in seconds. He was exhausted, fatigued of being kept in the same place for so long. Stagnation was rendering him irritable, and he could feel the thick feverishness start to settle on his chest in response of his loathing at being trapped in there and longing to go home. Or maybe it was just the heat.

His psyche would be the perfect resort in these cases. Away from all the binds his body experienced. Physics and biology tying him down, telling him in hushed voices he needed to eat, and to think, and to cool down before he managed to scorch himself to death in that inferno. He refused to listen, for wishing, even needing, was of no use; Moriarty would make sure he burned until he ceased if he desired or until got bored. Whichever came first.

With a mild hyperthermical mind, he started to paw at the strings of the coherent thoughts he saw running around in his brain. The flashbacks had ceased their appearances, and even though they scared the wits out of him, Sherlock longed to have that information; the gap in the detective's memory from before he was abducted was a concern of highest priority. His mind had never failed him like that, and he felt that, in order to understand how this had really come to be, he needed to know when he was taken, and what was he doing prior. That soft but irritating itch in the back of his head was ever-consuming, ever-present, and you know how they say that all which worries you, masters you. He was rather intent on keeping his intellect about, in case he needed to choke a consulting criminal with it.

He was fairly certain he had not drunk a single drop of what they passed as water in that desolated place for a while. Nobody had bothered to come and force his jaw open in order for him to take down a few gulps since Jim walked out the door, and that had been approximately a complete two days in the past. So, at long last the plan was coming to light: Moriarty planned to heat him up and dehydrate him. His first opinion on the matter was "dull", but after a few hours of consideration and pondering the possibilities he realised how "not dull" it was. The risk of dying was really high, and the process was torturous, uncomfortable and terrible for trains of thought.

—"'Sea, won't you hide me?' I said."—

His head began to ache, and he felt like floating, but not in the good sort of sense as it was with drugs; but in a more distant way. His blood pressure was decreasing rapidly. His once non-existent heart already battling with the warmth to maintain normal circulation to all his limbs. But it probably wasn't working, since it was beating with a force he never experienced before, a staccato of pounding inside his chest, stoutly giving its all to keep his machine of a body going, forgoing his mind completely.

And that was the worst part. Having to leave your best weapon behind just so you could concentrate on the sole task of saying alive, no matter the cost. His thirst was quickly smoking up the hollows of his eyelids, feeling them with fog; blurring everything around him. He could barely distinguish the music anymore —which was the only upside in the situation—. Dazing his perception, and making his limbs sluggish, like quicksand adhering to his skin. As dehydration kicked in, there was no liquid left on his organism to cool his body temperature; He tried to place all his cognitive activity in the fact of sweating, as if he could manage to make it happen just by pure will. Which proved to be impossible.

Moriarty had one of his goons leave a bottle on the inside of the cellar. Tiny, and seemingly innocent; looking intimidating in its minuscule glass compartment. For it was the substance contained in it which made Sherlock's contracted-blood-vessel-blue skin crawl just by the sight of it. Made his nauseous metabolism want to return whatever little was inside it and push the repulsion past his swollen tongue and through his dry mouth. He stared at it in disbelief.

It seems the criminal was giving him an alternative. A way out of the utter suffering in which he now found his body. If he took a gulp out of that bottle surely the heat would stop. It would cease enveloping him immediately and leave him alone at once. He might even let him go, and get back to his old life; to cases and tea and John. And it was almost tempting, to have a guarantee that he would be able to piss off his brother once again, if only for a short while. But as everything with the consulting criminal it would come with a price. Laced with a clock glued to his back, ticking incessantly and tirelessly up to an —even if calculable— unknown deadline. Yet he could not give himself up the despair like that, just taking the easy route. It was not who he was, prepared to do anything; he would not conform with having it back for a few moments. He was aiming, fighting for full custody of the rains of his life, and he would be damned if he saw that sort of authority fall in the hands of the psychopath. He had something to live for, he would bear the "how".

He eyed the vial of methyl mercury with new resolve. He wouldn't give up. However, that didn't mean it wasn't still oh-so-tempting.

—"'Sinner man, sea'll be a-bleeding."—

Author's notes: The lyrics included in these parts are taken from the celtic song "Sinnerman". It is an ancient song used for many purposes and in different versions. Sometimes lyrics vary, I chose the ones which where more remarkable to me. That is supposed to be the song that is playing inside Sherlock's cell all throughout this days, non-stop.

Let me know what you think! and thank you to all my readers and reviewers.