God, I realised it's been so long. I have never struggled with a chapter so much in my life. It survived a very busy month, followed by a writer's block and delayed by plot decisions and story-weaving it's finally here, I finished it at last and I'm really happy with the result, hope you'll be too and it will at least be worth the wait.
CHAPTER 8: THE DECEASING (Part 2)
Sherlock could scarcely recall a vague memory of something about a four year-old corpse floating in a lake in America before everything became bright again. The dirty walls of the room becoming defined in front of his eyes. He ignored how much time he had been out, and couldn't even remember when was the time in which he lost consciousness. His head pounded when he moved it, and there was a shrilling noise resonating in his ears; no one else seemed to hear it, though. Once he took in his surroundings completely and assessed the situation, he groaned. Waking up to a captive life with Moriarty watching him from the door was not a fate the detective would wish upon anyone.
"You overdosed." The maniac stated simply, almost too mechanical to be him. Completely devoid of emotions, which couldn't, by any chance, mean something good for the man in the corner.
He remained quiet like a tomb. Trailing the dusting of small scars and scratches that now covered the white canvas of his arms skin. If John could be there to see them, he would be fuming with rage at the careless abuse. But then again, that was rather the point: John would never again be around to see them.
"I didn't expect such an idiotic behaviour from you, that's for sure." The fact that Jim was angry instead of delighted was not a good sign. He should be elated that the sleuth was so broken he didn't care enough to calculate his dose, he should be having a bloody parade completed with balloons. In its place, he was standing with his hands behind his back, looking for all the world like he was ready to evaporate the man in front of him with sheer crushing pressure by pure whimsical rage.
The detective couldn't really be bothered to answer the statement. Not because of its falseness, but rather the telling absence of it. He hadn't the mind or energy to try and find a flaw in such perfect veracity. Sherlock knew his behaviour was appalling, completely moronic and self-destructive; so much that had he been in his right mind, he would have been ashamed of his actions. But with a remorse-addled brain and heavy tiredness clinging to his body he found it difficult to care. Hard to actually spare a thought about numbers and dosage.
"You are lucky you're so much fun to play with." James said. Putting his hands inside his pockets in a manner the silver-gazed man hated with all his being. As he despised everything else about his situation. He hated the loss of control, the bright lights, the lilting voice, the damp smell, the hard floor, and the cold walls. The lonely days, the sleepless nights, the ache in his head, and the pain in his chest. The guilt, the silence, the hunger, and the sorrow. He hated Moriarty, too. And above all, he hated himself. But drugs. Drugs he did not hate.
Most of the day he felt so numb he couldn't even feel his own toes. His body almost an ever-lost memory of which he had let go long ago. His transport working as best as it could on its own while his mind tore holes at his soul. Turns out he had been wrong yet again on that first day; his spirit was proving to be infinitely weaker than his physique, which refused to succumb to its doom no matter how hard the madman wished for it.
"What do you want from me?" The little broken voice asked at last. The unhealthily slim body spasming, trying to work through his grief jag in order to appear a sliver of the man he used to be. "What could you possibly take now?" The prisoner sobbed. Moriarty seemed to notice the slight rock of the man's foot, and the compulsive biting of a thumb's nail. Watching the world's only consulting detective laying on the concrete utterly destroyed was a sight cruel to any eye. It also did manage to bring a small smile from the criminal. "You've taken everything from me!" And just like that, the boffin became angry, drunk in an instant wrath that would burn out soon enough.
"I don't want anything from you, sinner man." His forked tongue muttered out. Slithering, while its owner rejoiced in watching the flinch that went through the other man at the sound of those words. "All I ever wanted, you've already given me." And it was true to some extent, perhaps. At the very least that's what the psychopath believed, and what he had also ensnared the detective into believing. Moriarty had wanted to posses everything Sherlock was, with the addition of whatever could be left after that, and the curly-haired man had let him snatch it all away. Had permitted him to slip it through his fingers, until there was only a few unglued pieces that could never serve any purpose to anyone, and even those, James had collected in time. Not leaving anything of the person he once was. Rendering the detective confused and unidentified, as the kleptomaniac kept feeding from his tired, amorphous, open hands.
Sherlock eyed the maniac in front of him in all his control and confidence. He seemed so in charge with his surroundings, sort of what himself used to be before all hell rained down upon him, and the detective was way too smart, even in his compromised state, to believe that if he clung tightly to a version of his past, it would fix him. But he believed that there wasn't a single wandering soul in the universe that could.
The gravity of the situation was taking a very heavy toll on the boffin; whose limbs were barely able to bear the almost inexistent weight of his body anymore. He made a few attempts to support himself on his arms so he could sit up, but failed miserably time and time again. After a couple more tries, he gave up and drew his limbs towards his body in resignation.
Moriarty took a very throughout look to the crumbled ball of curled up detective on the floor and whispered. "I should let you die." The hushed words were more powerful than any other noise could ever hope to be. They banged at Sherlock's messily built walls, smashing them completely. The boffin had never really cared what other human beings said about him, let alone James-bloody-Moriarty. But hearing the last person he had in his life -albeit his greatest enemy- finally give up on him too, he realised he had never known himself capable of such pain.
The worthless feeling crept up from his feet to his face, and thick drops of water started leaking from his eyes with intensity again. However, his breathing was still restful, as if he had been sleeping. He failed to indicate if that was caused by his transport finally giving in, or from the deep violent horror said venomous words were giving him. He wondered: if the criminal was obviously so disappointed in him, why did he refused to kill him? In a bout of stubbornness, he voiced his query. "Why don't you?"
James looked at him as if he was the most stupid person to have ever walked this earth. Like he was missing something important; the detective couldn't even begin to understand what else he could have possibly looked past. "My poor, innocent Sherlock." He softly said as he took determined strides towards the shivering form. The monster reached out a hand and ran it through the other's curls. The sleuth hesitantly shook his head in an obvious plea for him to stop. However, prayers meant nothing to Jim. The silver-eyed man realised there was nothing else he could ever do against this man. Ever since he had arrived there, the strength that he always paraded so much had been slowly flaking, now replaced by a deep clinical abjection worthy only of a prescription. At first, the sleuth had been sure he would leave that place without a scratch. For a moment he really believed he would someday win, now he wasn't so sure.
"Pathetic, little, stupid man." He sighed. Still petting his captive's hair as in a sick caress. He stroked and fondle with a few locks while the detective mortifiedly wept from the floor, then he abruptly stopped and grabbed a fist of them roughly and pulled, saying: "Because killing you would be a kindness."