Author notes: Guess who! This is the final instalment of the chapter, so... enjoy.

CHAPTER 6: THE CHASTISEMENT (Part 5)

It was ridiculous. How Moriarty paced and bounced around as if he were leading a parade. To the room there entered a flood of important subjects which demanded all attention at once. A psychopath's sort of carriage, the murdering analogy of balloons and the soldiers, all lined up to start their route. Obviously someone would have to be really daft if they were to believe the consulting criminal would actually decide to bring a real procession to this secluded room just for the boffin to gape at, the only way that would be possible is if said procession were carrying a casket, a very specific casket, for a very particular corpse.

But still, the joy and the merriment were shinning like fractured light-beams as they are seen when underwater. The surreal sort of hazed sight impending him to see some of the details, the picture lost something when experienced through tired spectacles. He could still discern a handful of thugs and barely noticed when two of them grabbed at his hands, and other two restrained his feet. The touch was ghosting above Sherlock's skin, and it felt as if they weren't actually having any real contact with his body. It made him remember something he had learned very young, his grasp for highly advanced science at full gear; the atoms never really touched. All the particles in his body had an empty space between him and this threat. Ironically enough, this nothing was the only thing onto which he could hold.

—"Sun, won't you hide me?"—

He saw the buckets being hauled into the chamber, and for a second he panicked. Thinking the board would follow them entering. It didn't. And a breath of relief floated across the narrow room, released from his own lungs. The alleviation of his worries didn't last long, though. As his lower extremities were sunk in a large container with frozen water and he was drenched from head to toe. Sleeping outside in the snow would have definitely been warmer than this.

His shirt clung to his body and made the heavy sensation impossible to escape. Lately he had been feeling as if he weighted a thousand pounds more, even if he probably was skinnier than he had ever been.

The most peculiar thing was that the criminal did not utter a word although this procedure. And it made the curly-haired man wonder why in the world would Jim choose to be silent when there was finally something to brag about. An agreement, an exchange of him for his friends. And it somehow was what kept him going, kept him a bit sane. Right from the start this was what the criminal had wanted. To take his world, his own sense of self and crumble them apart until every memory of them ever being something but ruined would be banished from all thought. Moriarty had planned to strip him of all dignity. Nobody had said it, it was ignored by most; but both, criminal and detective, knew he had already succeeded.

The boffin took the comeuppance as best as he was allowed. Bearing what he could and trying to discard all frosted sprites in-habituating his Mind Palace. His already pale skin turning an alarming shade of blue anyone would have probably be scared to watch. The Irish man's tyranny extending its way into even his deepest conceptual rooms. A cold and hypothermic body and brain are not the best equipped to fight against such ruthless and relentless force. And James was pushing in hard, along with all of his troops.

—"Sinnerman, sun'll be a-freezing."—

"I'm sorry it had to be like this." The lilting voice floated. He was standing straight ahead of him, clearly not at all regretful of his actions, that faked remorse was just another slap in the face.

"N-no." Sherlock stuttered out. "You ar-re not." He responded as he looked down at his fingernails, purple as the dusk. "Y-you are r-real-ly not." A fit of coughs stroke him and their little chat had to be paused briefly. The psychopath just smiled as if he had been caught. Clearly pleased that both consultants were on the same page about his humanity, at least they both knew he was a monster.

The liquid falling from above him triggered an unexpected memory. He recalled being out in the rain. Scarf gone and arms bloodied. He did not knew what had happened, but he just knew he had to get somewhere. Desperately. And he just couldn't. Then everything went black and the little touch of heavenly-brought gift was gone as fast as it came.

The lack of answers regarding his actions before all of this really started were limited to say the least, and he just wanted to know what the hell had happened. He knew this was not normal deleting, he did not choose to forget this things, apparently his brain just did, and he couldn't be angrier about it. He could deduce his mind was blocking something, something important. And if he had trained his consciousness well, it was for his own good.

But he just desired to know. That way he could maybe have a better notion of what his situation was, and what options were available. He decided that he would make sure to figure it out, no matter the consequences. He'll keep pushing the dam, even if that meant it would break, and the rushing water would come crashing down and flood each of his cavities. He didn't care, not even if he drowned. Because sometimes, something just has to give.

The boffin just wanted to scape, to run and keep running until not even his own shadow had a chance to catch him. To unpin and unglue all the angst and turmoil that had him chained to the ground like an iron ball. But the song just kept droning on and on and on and he couldn't stand it one more second. Still the water was making its way down, and it felt like lead.

"You must be quite cold by now." And with a gesture of his left hand he commanded his associates to stop torturing him for now. They put the buckets down and stepped back. Sherlock was expecting —hoping— they would let him out of the freezing container; however, they just chuckled and scrambled to the other side of the room.

The criminal walked across the floor and retrieved an item from a bag. "I'll let you out of the tub-" He said running the smooth fabric through his fingertips. "I'll even let you warm up," He stretched the clothing and displayed it for the detective, so his shivering senses could recognise what it was. "If you wear this."

"N-no." He tried for threatening, but his helpless stuttering made it impossible to deliver the word with the right intonation. His treacherous anatomy and low temperature brain making him sound like a wet and trembling fool, which he supposed was his default state this days.

"Come on." Moriarty whined. "It's your only hope now." The boffin refused to believe that. He'd rather turn into a human frozen pop-sickle than to let the psychopath put a straight jacket on him. He shook his head as best as he could, and prayed that someone will come and help him, he couldn't give up now, not when there were still so many things that depended on him.

—"Where were you when you ought-a been praying?"—

"J-john is goin-ng to find me-e." He pushed through lips that quivered with every intake of air. Making his deepest faith known. "A-and when he does, I-I wouldn't wan-nt to be y-you." He glared at James and his meant-for-the-flies lot.

"Oh, Johnny-boy! That's right." His body language turning into cheerful quickly as a switch, like he had just given him that for which he was waiting all of this time. "I'm surprised you —of all people— are blindly relying on him to save you." He took several steps closer till he was standing two feet away from him, and crouched down to eye-level. "You know he can't do that."

Sherlock couldn't believe that Jim still underestimated John this much. "H-he's perfectly capa-able of-"

"No, no, no, no, no. That's not what I mean." The consulting criminal interrupted hastily. "He's not going to, you see." He replied, talking slowly as if he were trying to make a child understand. "Don't tell me a great mind like yours doesn't remember. Sure you must."

What in the hell was the Irishman talking about. What was there to remember? "Remem-mber w-what?"

"Then again, I guess it was a bit traumatic for you." The madman just kept talking and ignored the younger man completely. The detective knew he had been heard, he just chose not to answer. "Maybe you just decided not to remember it. Oh! This is unexpected, and here I thought you knew."

Sherlock was positively and actively panicking, wondering what was James talking about. "Remember w-what!?" He screamed, his voice was cracking and it had nothing to do with the frost anymore. Confusion and fear painting every inch of his face. His gaze searching for the answer in Jim's eyes. He had to be lying. He had to.

"Has no one told you dear?" Moriarty asked tenderly, reaching out a hand and wiping away one alarmed tear from Sherlock's cheek. "John Watson is dead."

—"Sinnerman, you should've been a-praying. All on that day."—

Author notes:

For all those wondering, I do not enjoy torturing my characters. But it has a purpose.

On a brighter note: thank you for your reviews and appreciation.