Nutrisco et exstinguo - Chapter XIX: O et præsidium et dulce decus meum !

[zoffoli]

Nutrisco et exstinguo: "I feed from it and extinguish it"

O et præsidium et dulce decus meum ! : literally, 'O thou who art both my protection and my scherished pride' ; from Horatio's Odes.

Warnings: Rating for this chapter is T for violence

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Chapter XIX: O et præsidium et dulce decus meum !

song: Overboard, by Ingrid Michaelson

oOo

I could write my name by the age of three
and I don't need anyone to cut my meat for me.
I'm a big girl now, see my big girl shoes.
It'll take more than just a breeze to make me

Fall over, fall over, fall overboard, overboard.
Fall overboard just so you can catch me.

Moscow, February 11, 2013

Russia in winter was cold, you thought. How surprising. Siberia had been worst, though, and so you didn't complain - mentally, that is. You could no longer complain a lot to... well, anyone, really.

Your hair was black again and you were glad - you had missed it. You also found it suited you better, no matter what women said - and you'd met quite a lot recently. Women, that is.

The one you were currently waltzing with at a high-class ball in the honour of the French ambassador - a ball to which only government officials were invited - was quite lovely. Older, too. Very proud, you could tell. Well, not for long.

As you were swirling around, your eye caught a familiar hair colour and a captain's uniform. You averted your gaze and ignored the twinge. Soon the musicians finished the piece and the dance ended. Your partner led you to the buffet. You hadn't even spoken to her yet - the dance had, after all, been purely accidental.

"So... Sherlock Holmes," she smiled.

"... is dead, I'm afraid. Pleasure to meet you, Barbara."

"The pleasure is mine, Mr... ?"

"You can call me Kasimir," you indicated, tilting your head to the side in a way you thought sweet and friendly, and which had the opposite effect.

"I've heard of your fall. That was quite something! How did you weasel out of it?"

Your eyebrow arched a little at the word 'weasel', but you smiled smoothly at her.

"I've discovered I have wings," you retorted with a grin.

"Have you now?" she replied, uncertainty in her voice.

Taking two glasses of Champagne from the tray of a waiter passing by, you offered her one. She accepted gracefully.

"So, how did you meet Jim?"

"I believe I caught his eye," you admitted playfully with a smirk.

She frowned slightly. You took a sip of Champagne and grimaced a little, your upper lip curling in disdain, and went on.

"And so he attempted to catch mine - quite successfully I must say."

"Oh, he always got what he wanted, dear Jim."

"Did he?"

The woman's face darkened and something like fear flashed in her eyes.

"Why do you do this? You're not one of us."

The scorn in her voice barely concealed her obvious nervousness.

"Of course not, Barbara. I'm much above."

A shiver ran down her spine as you leant in and whispered in her ear, your voice a deep baritone:

"Or have you forgotten already? You. Owe. Me."

She gulped and flinched a little, but soon caught herself and glared daggers at you.

"I owe you nothing," she spat, "the only man I ever owed anything is dead."

"I'm afraid you're wrong here, Barbara."

She furrowed her brow tensely. You smirked and raised his glass to her. At this very moment, someone cried out and soon several screams were heard.

"Oh my God!"

"Mr. Ambassador!"

"What happened!"

"His glass..."

"He was poisoned!"

Barbara turned white and looked up at you in astonishment. You smiled patronizingly, but your gaze was icy.

"I believe your debts just increased, my dear. But don't worry: Daddy only wants the best for you."

As you stepped closer her grip tightened on her glass, hand shaking slightly .

"Now, won't you be a good girl and listen to me?"

But as strong as I seem to think I am my distressing damsel,
She comes out at night when the moon's filled up and your eyes are
bright, then I think I simply ought to

Fall over, fall over, fall overboard, overboard.
Fall overboard just so you can catch me.
You can catch me.

Saint-Petersburg, February 14, 2012

"Cheers!"

"Budem zdorovy!"

Glasses clinked and hands touched. Why hadn't you realized meeting in a BDSM brothel on Valentine's Day would be positively dreadful? You groaned, trying to block out the leather-clad strippers and dominatrix. They do not have her elegance, you thought absent-mindedly.

"Whose elegance?" Moran said as he stepped out of nowhere and sat across from you.

Had you said that out loud? It took you all you'd got not to wince at the sight of his military stance.

"Nobody," you replied curtly.

"Irene Adler, perhaps?"

This was no time to lose your self-control. You smirked.

"Indeed. Did you have the pleasure to meet her?"

"Unfortunately not. I don't think she would've been my type, though."

"She wasn't mine either."

Leaning back into the velvety coach, he continued in a more serious tone:

"Did it go well?"

"Is asking useless questions a habit of yours, Seb?"

Moran glanced at you with surprise, startled by how similar your tone was to Jim Moriarty's - the little nickname, too. He shrugged.

"I was just wondering."

"Well, that's not what I'm paying you for, now, is it?"

Someone screamed in the next room, from pain or pleasure, you weren't sure.

"Talking about what I'm paying you for... You're not in the Himalayas anymore, you've got to have more... precision in your work."

He paled, obviously offended by the reference to his book.

"I wrote Heavy Game of the Western Himalayas years ago, Sherlock."

"A youthful indiscretion, then."

"What did I do that didn't satisfy you?"

"I would have expected more skill and delicacy in the way you handled the Snow White serial-killing."

"I got rid of the killer, though."

"Yes, which is not what I asked you to do."

"What..."

"I asked you to find the true killer and make him stop."

"Which I did! I don't see the problem."

"Well. I. Do." you told him icily. He fell quiet.

"Why are there still murders if you got rid of the killers, pray tell?"

"They're different killers..." he said, fidgeting a bit.

"Exactly. Next time, make sure you know who you're dealing with first. I cannot believe old Jim would have trained you to be so useless."

His eyes darkened and something like sheer hatred flashed in them.

"Speaking of Jim, I've been wanting to ask you... "red-de-cielo"?" [1]

Moran shrugged - that was definitely a habit of his, you thought. Not a pleasant one either.

"I didn't choose the name. It was just one of Jim's little puns."

Four assassins had moved in the neighbourhood of Baker Street, you thought, only half paying attention to your hitman.

"He didn't like Mycroft very much, did he..."

Sulejmani from Albania (dead) ; Ludmila Dyachenkofrom Russia ; Sebastian Moran, also one of the three snipers ; Jaagup Lepp, from Estonia (dead).

"Oh yes he did."

You arched an eyebrow and he smirked.

"The Iceman, remember?"

But: there had been five wireless networks when you'd checked: one with an Albanian name, one with a Russian name, an Estonian name, a Czech name and a Spanish name.

"Precisely. I always thought he'd be more of the fiery type."

Four assassins, three gunmen... A hitman under cover as a policeman for Lestrade, a fake repair worker for dear, unsuspecting Mrs. Hudson, one who could easily sneak into their flat to put a camera... and for John... Of course, the irony. "A pet for a pet", Jim would have said.

"Like Ms. Adler perhaps?"

You smirk back. If Sebastian Moran was indeed the one behind the Spanish network, then the remaining one on the list must have been that of the repair man. And that only leaves us with...

"You tell me."

… Czech.

I watch the ships go sailing by
I play the girl will you play the guy.
And I never thought I'd be the type
to fall,

to fall,

to fall,

to fall,

to fall.

You woke up with a start to the sound of thunder, breathless. The room in which you were staying was cramped and squalid - an old family manor.

Sitting up, you looked out of the window on your right. Outside, the rain was pouring and the sky shattered by lightning. You were alone in bed, and the mattress felt cold under your body.

"What are you talking about, Sexy? You're dead, remember?"

You jumped at the obnoxious singsong voice. Walking out from the shadows in a corner of the room, Moriarty grinned at you wildly.

"Hello, my dear. Have you missed me?"

Instinctively, you went for the gun that lay under your pillow, and aimed it at your nemesis.

"Tut tut, that won't do at all! Have you forgotten already? I'M DEAD TOO!"

He swirled around and suddenly the wall facing your bed faded away. Your vision was blurred for a moment but when the fog broke you made out the contours of another room. You shivered. A torture room - something you'd been quite accustomed to theses past few months. Well, when you say accustomed... you'd seen enough. Enough for a lifetime.

This time you couldn't ignore the twinge in your chest as the memory flashed before your eyes. John.

"Exactly! You're so clever, that's why I love you dear!"

You jumped at his words and suddenly a sense of dread fell over you. Oh no.

"Oh yes."

In the middle of the room that had just appeared stood a wheel, and a man strapped on it.

"He's not dead, you see. So we can have some fun."

"No!"

Moriarty turned to you, arching an eyebrow.

"No? But I'm sure you're going to enjoy this. Come on, sit back and watch. I'll handle it."

He blinked and suddenly chains were growing from the darkness surrounding your bed, curling up around your limbs, pinning you securely to the springer. Your voice failed you.

John's didn't. His first scream ripped through the oppressive air of the bedroom and through you very soul.

"Soul? You think you still have one?" Moriarty mused as he cracked a long black whip onto the creaking floorboard.

And then onto John's torso.

You didn't know whether the scream burst out from your chest or John's - what you knew was that you were transfixed by the sight off him being tortured. You were absolutely incapable of averting your eyes, and were even watching hungrily.

"Please... Please stop..." John begged.

It didn't cross your mind that this was quite uncharacteristic behaviour on his part. He was whipped again, repeatedly, his body contorting in pain, getting redder and bloodier with each strike. His screams echoed in your ears like the most beautiful music you'd ever heard - his voice.

Moriarty walked up to him and winded the whip round his neck twice before squeezing deliberately. John's cry soon turned into a moan, then a hiss and finally barely a whimper, and you felt your own body being ripped apart as the air was squeezed out of your lungs. It sent a jolt straight to your groin.

John gasped for air desperately as he was released, panting heavily, trying to catch his breath.

"Oh, being enthusiastic, aren't you?" Moriarty inquired with a devilish grin, tilting his head to the side.

Somewhere in your mind you thought you might have looked exactly like that to Barbara today. But soon you were brought back to the present as your archenemy started running a scalpel over John's chin. Tears filled his eyes as he began trembling, hovering in fear. He pleaded:

"No... please... stop this... please... AAAAAAAAAAAH!"

Another lightning to accompany his screams. He looked up, bloody and exhausted, and caught your eye. A flash of hope and recognition.

"Sherlock..."

His voice was hoarse from the shrieks and supplications. You loved his voice. You'd given anything to hear it again.

"Should I make him scream for you again, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked.

Yes. Yes, please.

He smirked.

"No... please... Sherlock... Sherlock! AAAAAAAAAAAAH!"

His howling filled the room again and you were drinking his every yelp and wail and moan, his every tear and drop of blood, taking in every inch of his tanned and now torn skin, engraving his every gesture and facial expression into your very soul...

"You don't have one, remember?" Moriarty chimed in, happily titillating the sensitive flesh around the nipples with his scalpels. John was now writhing helplessly on the wheel, sending desperate glances in you direction, calling your name over and over again.

"Sherlock... Sherlock! Aaah! Please, Sherlock... Sherlock!"

You wished he'd never stop.

As if reading your thoughts, Moriarty suddenly stuck the scalper in John's left hand, eliciting the loudest and most horrifying howl to this point.

"Oh God... Sherlock, please... please, Sherlock... Sherlock, Sherlock... God, let me live..."

Another feral shriek was ripped from his throat as Moriarty kept going at him, stabbing his palm over and over again until he was so dazed from the pain he could no longer beg, and only screamed. Your breath caught in your throat as he arched his back, thrashing wildly, tossing back and forth in a frantic attempt to escape, and you observed the sweat and blood and tears mingle and running down his bare body.

"Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock SHERLOCK!"

You woke up with a start to the sound of thunder, breathless. The sheets of your bed were damp with sweat and your hotel room was colder than you recalled. John. You retched and jolted to your feet, getting to the bathroom just on time to empty your stomach in the lavatory bowl.

Once you had nothing left to throw up, you realized you were shaking uncontrollably, and that you were still hard. It made you so sick you thought you'd pass out from the sheer intensity of the nausea, but you managed to crawl into the shower and turn the cold water on, letting it pour over you.

Disgusting... I'm disgusting... despicable..

You didn't realize you were crying, yours tears washed away by the icy water.

You tried to get a grip, praying to a God you never believed in that the water would wash your erection away too, because you didn't think you could live with it, you knew you just wouldn't, and you'd be ready to use the knife hidden in your suitcase if it didn't stop right now.

Calm down...

This was just a dream and a physiological reaction. Torture rooms and brothels really weren't your cup of tea, and you'd had quite enough of those recently. Of course that must be the only reason your brain was so messed up. You would never find such a scene arousing in real life… right?

… right?

Jolting up with something like panic in your chest, you concentrated on the nightmare. Delete. Delete. DELETE. The room was erased and the whip and Moriarty's laughter, but John's screams still echoed in your mind.

Fine.

The Thieving Magpie. Such an unbelievable story, really. The girl, Ninetta, is accused of having stolen a silver spoon from her employer, Fabrizio Vingradito, and her whole life is upended on this false assumption made by his wife Lucia. Poor Ninetta is sentenced to death and is about to lose the love of her life as the one she supposedly stole from is the father of the man she was to marry, Giannetto, but luckily he and her father Fernando Villabella come back from the war and find out in time that the spoon was in fact stolen by... a magpie. Such a ridiculous plot, if there ever was one. Completely improbable. Not impossible, though.

That was why it was the symbol of IOU. All indebted to Moriarty, but no Devils at all: they used the Devils to their advantage and for their own purpose, never getting caught, never really dirtying their hands. Devils in a metaphorical sense perhaps, Angels from the government, police, secret services, etc., but whose wings were actually black. Like the graffiti. Little Ninetta and Lucia and Fabrizio were all fooled, and by a silly bird to boot. But a bird had wings, and could get into the room without anyone noticing...

You laughed brokenly, voice coated in bitter irony.

How cynical. A Fallen Angel, indeed. You spent another hour under the frosting water pouring on top of you.

By the end of the shower, you were no longer shivering. Only cold and flaccid.

To fall over, fall over, fall overboard, overboard.
Fall overboard just so you can catch me.
You can catch me, you can catch me, you can catch-

I watch the ships go sailing by I be your girl will you be my guy.
And I never thought I'd be the type to fall, to fall.

The trip from Vienna to Innsbruck wasn't as long as the one you took on the Trans-Siberian Railway, but you still hated to remain sitting for hours. You missed London. You missed Baker Street. You missed...

I'm not far from Bach's land, now, you mused.

It still puzzled you that Moriarty would have liked Bach's pieces enough to use gemmatria to communicate with the I.O.U. People - and with Moran, too. Seb. You snorted. Moriarty had been so condescending to.. to John, and yet his henchman (for lack of a better word) was such an idiot. Is he really? And was John a genius?

I.O.U. They were quite powerful indeed. You could see why Mycroft would want their names on a platter. They acted like Angels and played the Devils... Government officials or not, all of them had key positions in their respective countries. Most of all, they had a most respectable façade - and everything a man could wish for. Money, contacts, power.

You smirk to yourself. That's why they bored old Jim in the end. Quite ordinary indeed, even if they were smart enough to get away with their deeds. They were on the side of the Angels, the side of the Law. Envied, even admired, they were apparently above suspicion - except that no one was, really. They'd been clever, and they'd met Moriarty. Or Moriarty had met them, either way. You suspected he was rather the one to have spotted their use, and orchestrated the 'chance encounters'.

Fallen angels, then, like Lucifer. God's most favoured archangel, who was cast to Hell... but became the King, there. I owe you a Fall, he'd said. Were you Lucifer then, now? The one wearing the crown...

Your expression clouded. You never wanted to be a king. You wanted to be a pirate.

I owe you a Fall. I. O. U. You have to see that, you've got to see the big bad world out there for yourself, Sherlock. See and make up your mind. Is it really worth it? Being the King is the most fun you can have in this world, and yet... it's boring. Everyone is ordinary in the end. Everything is so dull. I'm out of here. BANG.

You wished you could be out of here too.

To fall...

To fall...

To fall...

To fall over, fall over, fall overboard, overboard.
Fall overboard just so you can catch me.
You can catch me.

You got off the train a little before Innsbruck and watched the train leave you behind. Walking into the small station, you spotted a phone booth and considered it for a while. Making up your man, you went up to it, put in some coins and dialled a series of numbers. It rang twice before someone picked up on the other end.

"Hello, brother. You should warn Lestrade that the policeman who started working at the Met in April 2012 and who's of German descent is a hitman."

You hung up. If he really did manage to track your call (which you highly doubted), by the time he arrived you'd be long gone. As you walked away smirking, you relished in the warm weather, finally starting to feel your limbs again after a winter spent in Russia.

But no matter what, your left hand remained as cold as ice.

You can catch me.

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[1] red-de-cielo : one of the networks that appear on the screen when Sherlock checks on John's laptop in Season 3, Episode 3, after he's found the hidden camera on the bookcase. It's Spanish for "Network of the Sky" or "of the Heaven".

Overboard, by Ingrid Michaelson

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