CHAPTER 6: THE CHASTISEMENT. (Part 3)
In case it hadn't been clear. In case there was any doubt about it: James Moriarty is a very cruel man.
Of course, everyone already knew that; but never to that magnitude. Sherlock had never considered the height of ruthless and cold-blooded behaviour of which his captor was capable. He had an idea, an estimation; great enough to cause any lesser mortal to cringe, and still he somehow seemed to have underestimated the lengths the criminal was willing to walk to cause pain and misery unto another human being. Because being tortured, manipulated, and dried out was one thing; but to use hope against you, that signifies a deeper, more atrocious skill.
It had been a few moments after, that might as well been have been years, for the detective had an unrealistic sense of time since the heat had begun, when the criminal returned. The sound of the door opening rang loud across the room, dancing a delicate counter-point foxtrot with the celtic music already playing.
After being trapped for so long, the days started to blur together and the minutes felt as if to drag away slowly, a second felt like a terrible eternity, and a full day was done before he knew it; he was aware that this phenomenon was caused by his captive mind. It had un-learnt to measure the passing of events, and in his feverish state his life before this hell appeared to be un-glueing itself from reality, up to the point where he couldn't be sure if some tiny details had happened at all. It was terrifying.
When the criminal saw him on the floor, miserably delivering shallow breaths, his mouth broke into a genuine grin: he seemed to actually be glad of watching him almost squirm on the concrete trying to somehow find a way to cool down, which proved futile.
—"So I ran to the Lord: 'Please, hide me.'"—
"God, it's hot in here." Moriarty stated as he tucked one finger inside the collar of his own perfectly-tailored dress shirt as if to separate its warmth from his neck. "It feels like hell." The word play was deliberate, the detective could have bet his skull, —not just the one on the mantle— his flat, and his sticky right hand that it was thought throughoutly beforehand, and still not feel a bit anxious about the risk of losing. The psychopath knelt down and scooped the minuscule bottle at the centre of the room.
"I see you haven't taken up my offer." He said not at all surprised, like he already knew the boffin was going to decline. The detective suspected its only purpose was to give him a temptation, a token of a possibility of just giving up, of taking the easy route out. Even if he did not, in fact, accept it, it would be tormenting enough to put him on edge.
Beside the fact that he could not even fathom movement as a possibility thanks to his heat-ridden brain, being on the floor did bring a few advantages on its own, for example: it set him at just the right height to notice the mud on the criminal's sole. "And I see one of your men betrayed you yet again today," he said in the most petulant voice he could muster out of his dehydrated throat. "You should keep your pets on a tighter leash, or you'll run out eventually."
Moriarty, after regaining composure, twirled the flask in his fingers and raised a groomed eyebrow at him in curiosity. He was clearly amused the detective still kept trying to gain some delusion of control, no matter how far sunk in quicksand he was. "I shall take your advise into consideration, after all, you know a lot more about mindless loyal lapdogs than anyone." He smirked, showing Sherlock he had walked right into the trap again. He was beginning to seriously consider cutting off his tongue to prevent it from giving him away so easily. Treacherous muscular hydrostat.
"I should find myself one of those. Specially since you killed the last one." The detective allowed himself to squirm a bit at that. He would never regret what happened in those two years. Although they were things he had had to do, choices he had to make, decisions he had to take, that he didn't particularly want; he did, because they meant something so much better could stay in their stead. That doesn't mean he was any less ashamed of them. "One that caters at my every whim without asking too much questions."
And that's where everyone got it wrong. Even a criminal master mind genius like Moriarty had misunderstood it. They all believed John was some mindless creature following his every command and never giving it as much as a second thought. Not being able to function on his own, but what not one of them seemed to understand was that if John Watson was ever to assist him in anything it was because he wanted to. His friend was never shy of telling him off if he was doing something wrong, or if he believed his behaviour was beyond appalling. —"That's not fair, Sherlock. When have I ever failed at doing something you asked of me? I just want to know if you're bloody sure about this because you're acting like a fucking stubborn child and I can't take it anymore!"—.
Now, this time he knew exactly who was saying these words to him, even if he failed to reminisce why exactly they were delivered. He supposed it could have been one of the many times the detective had been unsuccessful at trying to keep up with the expectations of what a normal attitude would entail, but the clear distress in the blogger's voice let him know it was no random row, this one had deeper meaning and he still couldn't fathom why he would ever banned a conversation of such importance from his mind palace.
The memory left him a bit overwhelmed, and that coupled with the already settled hyperthermia was making it difficult for him to keep focused on the present. His eyelids felt heavy and his warmth-addled mind made him rather delirious. Up to the point where he couldn't actually recall when exactly did he change positions from the floor up to his knees, but there he was, sitting on his ankles and resting his two hands —which felt extraordinarily heavy— on his lap. Whatever the reason, Moriarty was never going to let him live this down.
—"But he said, 'Go to the devil.'"—
"Look at that! You got on your knees before I even had to ask, good boy." Jim said patting his shoulder, which the boffin quickly expunged from his reach in disgust. "I believe you have earned a bit of a reward." He exclaimed with mirth to one of his companions. For a second the musician thought it was going to be drugs again and panicked. He wasn't sure if he was going to be able to keep a strong will in the present situation, he felt as if his brain was being drained slowly and replaced with a slow and gooey substance that clogged out every synapse inside it.
However, when he saw that to which the criminal was referring his heart lift up a whole centimetre. Bouncing inside his ribcage ready to tear through flesh and splay itself out in front of them from hope. It was the best and most glorious sight the detective had seen in months: a bottle of water.
Certainly, the bottle was half empty, and it looked lukewarm, but after the scorching torture he had endured, the detective was ready to take whatever the criminal could give him now. One of Moriarty's assistants passed him the plastic container and the criminal took an almost painfully long time to unscrew the tap. Deliberately making Sherlock eye the object in his possession with longing, drawing out every reaction of vulnerability he could. The silver-gazed man knew exactly what the Irish man desired, and he was aware that, in silently pleading for a little mercy from his captor, he was relinquishing the precious control he had gripped so tightly before. But inside his slightly drugged perception caused by the suffocating heat, it did not seem like a bad bargain. He was of course, vaguely conscious in the back of his mind that he would come to regret said decision later.
He knew that as long as he could impede Jim's antics from permeating into his brain, he was still the master of his own life. His mind would be his own for as long as he could keep the criminal from snatching his free will of thought. And if showing a bit of susceptibility was what was needed for him to get through this dark waters in which he was swimming, he would do it; after all, it was really not that big of a deal, or so he kept telling himself.
The consulting criminal poured out a little water unto the cap, up to half of it and forcefully grabbed the kneeled man's jaw. He squeezed down until the mandible was separated from its upper partner as far as it could go and resumed to emptying the liquid from the small container unto the detective's dried and swelled tongue. The few drops that fell unto his mouth felt like the best thing he had ever experienced, and he realised he may never again be as grateful for a sip of water than he was in that moment.
The shorter man smiled wickedly at the ecstatic expression that painted the whole of the musician's face, as if he was waiting for the punchline of a secret joke to be delivered; and as the detective closed his eyes to savour this incredible bliss a second cap was being thrown into his pliant and expecting mouth. He was getting to drink the whole of the half-bottle worth of invigorating elixir and it truly felt like christmas!
Everything was as good as it could be for him, which was hence the ideal moment for things to turn stale. While the curly haired man waited for a third dose, the criminal withdrew the cap and shook it to get rid of the remaining wetness. It took an embarrassing long moment for Sherlock to realise what was happening and when he un-shut his eyes to try and analyse the situation, James was pouring the remaining water unto to over-heated floor. The liquid evaporated because of the temperature so quickly that it barely left a tiny and shallow pool of accumulation ready to turn into steam in a second's notice. Faith dematerialising before his eyes, and he raised his head to look at the man towering over him. A mixture of astonishment, plea and hatred crossing the boffin's expression as he scrutinised him.
He never should've let himself believe that something akin to good could ever happen to him in that place, not if Moriarty had any say in it. An specimen ready to deliver an innocent and false sip of water just so the boffin could really experience the full height of the chastisement after. Giving him a second to calm his thirst only to rid him of it all over again. Staring at the opportunity of relief already drying in the pavement and knowing it could have possibly be everything he needed, but forever denied of it. That is the reason Sherlock Holmes won't let himself hope, it was a useless, tedious thing to do which only ever amounted in even more misery. He wouldn't be making that mistake ever again.
—"I ran to the devil, he was waiting."—
Autor's notes: As always a million thanks to my readers and everyone who has dedicated this story some minutes. It means the world to me to have passed the 2000 views mark.