Raja Mosey Trim.
James Moriarty.
My mouth could not have been more agape than it already was. I must have remained in that compromising position for quite some time, considering that James's simper enhanced by the second.
"I surely disarmed you, didn't I?" He inquired, scratching his stubble in a pensive manner.
Besides Rhea, he was the only one who could climb the walls I have built so meticulously and trim them down to nothing. Of course, the degree of destruction was of another type: Rhea's was purely unintentional, gentle and understanding, whereas James's was the ultimate definition of evil.
Even though Rhea almost matched my intellect, Moriarty's capacity was identical. If we could only be described through algorithms, he and I would have appeared as one person.
There is an old saying that stresses upon the idea of opposite attraction – for example, those teenagers' stereotypes about the bad boy and the good girl. As odd as it may sound, identical individuals were magnets to one another as well. I always fancied being provoked by James, and he always enjoyed solving my riddles.
However, in that particular moment – when I collapsed in front of him due to my blood loss – that attraction ceased its development.
"I have never pictured you on your knees. It suits you better." His voice was laced with bitter mockery, while his body was circling mine like a predator's.
I gulped a few times, feeling my mouth rather dry – a physiological reaction which was more than obvious, but apparently in times of life and death, I found it quite amusing to state the evident.
If it wasn't for the pool of blood carelessly contemplated by James, I would have probably collated all variables for a solution. My mind was as blank as a conducting wire after a particle had vanished. No studies would have aided my situation.
A queer thought suddenly stroke my mind. During our conversations, Rhea mentioned that prayers, as abominable as they seemed for a rationalist like me, were helpful. In spite of that, she omitted the fact that a non-believer's prayers would most likely go unnoticed. Was I supposed to pray? How on bloody Earth would a prayer sound? Maybe like a letter, starting with Dear God?
While I was being dragged to the original torture room and my eyes were slowly, but steadily closing, I started a monologue in my head. I bore absolutely no idea about the entity to whom I was addressing, but let's assume that it was, in fact, God.
Dear God (indeed, a letter commencement sounded more plausible),
I have no evidence of Your existence, but if Rhea strongly believes in You, then You must be more than a simple product of imagination. I find myself on a plane with a single destination - death. There seems to be no way out of this impediment, and I could really use whatever power You own. If You can send the Holy Spirit or any other possessions to aid me, I promise that I will reconsider and reanalyze my beliefs.
As soon as I internally uttered the last word, I drifted into unconsciousness. A few hours later – or minutes, I could not possibly count time references while being inert – I woke up to the sound of Rhea's voice. I groaned ruthlessly as I realized that I still could not move. Did she come to rescue me? How could she manage to find out my whereabouts? Were her lips just as moist as I recollected?
Bloody hell, I was most likely raving.
"She has a sweet voice, hasn't she?" James inquired, holding a remote in his right hand. He was over-playing a part of a course where she had to verbally present her assignment.
I felt an uncanny nagging in the pit of my stomach. Was it rage? Was it a feeling of protection towards Rhea? Was it embarrassment because James had discovered my weakness?
For Pete's sake, never have I ever asked so many questions in such a short time line! I was turning into a mushy man.
"What is the purpose of revealing your surveillance of her?" I inquired, my tone as arid as a land bereft of water.
"Teasing is healthy once in a while, Sherlock. You must remember all those games we used to play." He grinned maliciously, licking his lips.
"I played games because you were an entertainment, James. But if you hurt the people I care about, all admiration I ever owned for you is no more than a waste disposal."
I could not believe I have just pronounced the word "care". Being a rationalist – it seemed that I found that adjective rather proper as an excuse – admitting the truth was optimizing. Therefore, indeed, I cared about Rhea. Of course, Mycroft was out of the picture, since being a brother automatically triggered some protective feelings.
"Caring about another person apart from you? I am adamant about this realization. We can do so much more together, Sherlock. Two brilliant minds combined into one will accomplish what the entire mankind failed for the past... actually, since the beginning of time."
I gazed at my wounds. They had been negligently cleaned, which was more than irritating, considering that a bloody antimicrobial cloth would not have been so difficult to procure.
"I shall do no evil things, James, as disappointing as it may seem for you. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe positive emotions could actually fuel our intelligence?" I had to plant the seed of doubt, for – yet again – it seemed like the most efficient solution.
Moriarty scoffed in disdain, the corners of his mouth dropping.
"Has she performed a lobotomy on you, my fellow genius? Feelings are pure poison. They make you lose focus and perspective upon your plans. They are evil, not rational people like you and I."
"I may be rational, but am smart enough to realize that you cannot fully extract emotions from an individual. Dissecting sense from sensibility is the most stupid purpose anyone could ever have. You, of all people, should have anticipated that, if you are, indeed, as brilliant as you assume to be."
He gritted his teeth and I could have sworn that he actually cracked one or two molars. I was finally grasping a valid outcome.
He mindlessly – alas, the irony of losing rationality – threw a chair across the room, tearing it to wooden pieces.
As I watched his tantrum, I had a reminiscence of our childhood. We used to be friends. He was aware of basically every element of my life – probably that was the reason behind his cognition of my judgment. But as we grew into teenagers, our link broke. It felt like a magnet losing one of its poles, which fundamentally meant the end of our friendship. He aspired to take over the world – as common as it may sound to initiate people. I aspired to mitigate my hunger for knowledge without doing harm. Our intents included one shared element – intelligence and its evolution – but divagated due to Moriarty's depravity.
"Were you thinking about us?" He asked. I must have imagined it, but I saw a flicker of regret in his eyes.
"There is no us. Stop referring to us like it is a bloody bromance!" I yelled, my fists clenching under the rope that held them immobile.
James heaved, brushing a hand in his perfectly-neat hair.
"I like chasing you, Sherlock. Therefore, I am going to release you and see who wins the victorious role of the cat."
He smirked and motioned one of his men – the same one who started crying because of my mental torture – to cut the rope, pick me up and throw me (it was the most accurate word for such a devious, completely unstylish action) back into the normal world, as relative as that adjective was.
I debated on whether or not I should inform Rhea and Mycroft about Moriarty's appearance. Unfortunately for my initial thought, but fortunately for my physical state, I dialed Rhea's number and asked her to get me medical care.
After some minutes – I would have counted them more precisely, if not for my obvious condition – I was at her house, with a bare torso and smelling like a bloody hospital.
I have not yet announced Mycroft, but I will definitely encounter him at some point in the near future.
Rhea nervously bit her lower lip and I could feel the growth of my bulge – imagine how inappropriate and completely absurd that involuntary reaction was. She wanted to ask what happened, but did not dare.
"You would like to know where I was." It was a statement, not a question. During times of crisis such as that particular one, she resembled an open book.
She lowered her head even more, focusing on cleaning my wounds. The motion of her hands was gentler than an experienced doctor's. It felt like she was playing the piano, and I was its keys. I extended my arm and placed my palms on her hand. She stopped and tried to dismiss my touch, but I had a sturdy grip. I could not stand conflicted emotions.
"Rhea, look at me." Four simple words, yet they acted like Ariadne's thread. She conformed.
"You need not tell me, Sherlock."
"But I want to." I inhaled deeply, preparing myself for telling half of the truth. "I met an old acquaintance and had a little fight with him. Apparently we did not see each other eye to eye anymore."
I managed to chuckle softly, even though I felt like sewing my mouth shut.
"You call that..." She pointed towards my cuts. "... a little fight? It was the bloody Third World War!" She screamed furiously, dropping the cleaning cloth on the floor.
Rhea had a valid rage. She was more than entitled to express such powerful emotions, yet I was still surprised by their force.
"You cannot be missing for two days and expect me to believe it was a simple misunderstanding! How fucking moron do you think I am?"
She was as British as her mother made her, yet she chose the word fucking instead of bloody. She must have been as mad as a bull.
"I have an idea about that old acquaintance's identity – remember that I am your brightest student – but I want you to tell me. Why is it so damn hard to confess?"
"Because I do not want to drag you into a battle that I have to fight on my own."
"So you think that gathering allies is pointless?" She asked, quirking her eyebrows.
"You are not exactly an ally, Rhea. You could not possibly help me at the caliber I need my aid to be. You are a teacher and a Psychology student, not Xena the warrior princess. You would get hurt as soon as I invite you into this sick game."
She rose from her seat and left the bathroom, cracking a part of the wall as she forcefully closed the door. Very smooth, Sherlock.
I cleaned the remaining wounds on my own. A normal person would have comforted her, but I was no normal man. I let her release all the turmoil alone. Probably not the wisest idea, but it was all I could manage to do.
I heard her screaming from across the bathroom. She was speaking on the phone with Mycroft, I presumed. I have analyzed thousands of voices in my career, and none of them matched Rhea's. No storm or hurricane would have been similar to her rage. Maybe Hades's fire was closer to her state than my other comparisons.
After uttering her "Goodbye!", she smashed the phone to the wall and cursed violently. My initial thought was to leave her alone, but I knew than no one besides me could have calmed her down. So I did what every rationalist – that excuse did not work anymore, permit me to rephrase – every sane human being would have done.
I left the bathroom and smashed my lips against her, meeting her rage with as much force as I was capable of. At first, she refused to respond, but as soon as I traced my tongue across the soft flesh of her bottom lip, she allowed me entrance.
That kiss was diametrically opposed to the previous one. The merging of our tongues was not a sign of reckless impulse anymore, but of desire to fade away her pain. The nibbling, the stroking, the flicking, the licking... they were neither sensual, nor lustful. They were simply meant to restore the broken pieces of her heart – the ones I have more or less purposely wrecked.
Most men would have extended the kiss to nipple-stroking and core-fingering, but again, I was not lust-driven in that moment. All I desired was to absorb her conflicted emotions and to render her a peace of mind. I broke the kiss as soon as I felt her shoulders lower and her throbbing heart balance its rhythm.
"Thank you." She whispered gratefully, clinging onto my shirt. "I needed consolation, but I am still mad at you." She half-smiled.
I caressed a rebel strand of hair and tucked it behind Rhea's ear. "I know, but it is a good kind of mad, isn't it?"
Now she fully smiled, her lips becoming plumper than before. Their flesh was a tad sore from the kissing, but still as beautiful. I could not possibly imagine anyone more enticing than her. She uttered, that smile never leaving her lips:
"Nullum magnum ingenium sine mixture dementiae."
🎓 🎓 🎓
"There is no great genius without a tint of madness."