Chapter 1
"Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."
The words echoed in the dark, giving off the illusion of a cavernous setting – its wide space holding everything and nothing simultaneously. He shifted his gaze but no matter the direction, he found himself unable to pinpoint the source of the voice that sent his nerves on end.
"John…"
It was his voice, there was no mistaking it. But how? He hadn't spoken a word. Perhaps a recording from long ago; back when things were simpler, safer… duller. What was this place? He knew it contained an enormous amount of room, but where in London could such a site exist without the notice of anyone? Was he even in London?
"Not just John. Everyone… Everyone."
Sherlock's eyes snapped open, arms propelling him upwards as the sudden disturbance beside him simultaneously occurred upon his return to consciousness. A quick glance and he sneered at himself. It was only a leaking pipe, the droplets creating a painful rhythm on the metallic lamp beside him.
Rolling over so that he could lay on his back, the man ran a hand through his tangled mesh of hair. Time had taken its toll and the once kept, short locks lengthened to the natty snarls he now possessed. Additionally, his former lean, nimble physical condition withered, producing a more emaciated form. Even the style he donned altered - resembling that of a vagabond instead of the classy detective wear.
Opening his eyes to the smooth dusky room, Sherlock once again allowed the memories to flow back to him despite his heart's desperate plea to spare him the pain. Images of Moriarty on the top of St. Barts arrived first – fragments of the day it all went wrong. He was supposed to have jumped off the building in a superfluous performance to appease the manic foe's desires; to then work his way around the world, demolishing the remnants of his organization so that they could no longer hold his friends' lives over his head; to eventually return to London, to John, to his life…
But none of it came to pass. Instead, Moriarty desired not the termination of his life but the subjection of it for the purposes of a fledgling company by the name of the United Federation of Planets, which was forced into the black market to secure test subjects for its controversial genetic engineering program. His enemy remained true to his word, dismissing Sherlock's view that he desired death. Instead, they were 'two sides of the same coin'. One couldn't live without the other. And although he scrutinized such illogical thoughts, the detective found the statement to ring eerily true as neither of the men departed from the world that day.
The events that followed progressed in a hazy manner, frustrating him. He counted on his memory to serve as a time table so that his sanity would hold. Yet the beginning months frayed apart in his recollections due to the increased amount of blindfolds, traveling and sedatives administered to him in order to salvage the secrecy of the organization. After all, should someone as infamous as Sherlock Holmes escape and tell of the group's inhumane experiments, the organization would certainly collapse. Nevertheless, they did contain signed records of his – albeit forced – consent of the experimentation, so at least in that sector they could derive some false security.
The prospect of being on the other side of the lens unnerved him at first – consistent prodding, poking and pricks by the scientists to gather his genetics nearly pushing him to escape at any opportunity that presented itself to him. In spite of his desires, the chilling threat of Moriarty loomed over him, keeping him in the facility. So long as his companions were in peril of the man's dastardly tactics, Sherlock had no option other than to submissively act the part of an ideal lab rat.
Despite the distasteful conditions, the detective found the preliminary months almost pleasant. The engineers weren't prone to violent methods to extract him for samples, and one in fact shared his interest in chemistry – possessing knowledge nearly on par with his. The doctor, whom he later found out to be Ms. Jodie Bell, frequently escorted him between his simply furnished lodging to the examination room, conversing along the way about various topics. At first Sherlock disregarded the woman, dubbing her manipulative and prone to useless chatter, yet upon discovering their connection he gradually warmed up to her as much as he would allow without jeopardizing his chances of liberation. Although he found escape in their talks, his first priority never wavered from view: he must find a way to leave the place and return to London without the cost of the lives of those he cared for.
Things began to take a turn for the worse upon the commencement of the experiment in the sixth month of his residence at the organization. He remembered it clearly, and had the scars to prove of it.
"Sherlock? Come on, it's time to begin," Jodie's voice calmly beckoned him to follow her.
Abiding, he spoke, "Six months. It has taken nearly half a year to process my physiology, not the swiftest bunch are you? I suppose the repercussions of using illicit methods to obtain subjects holds some culpability in that respect."
"Of course, no need to rashly speed through a project of this magnitude," she responded, "If we were to pass over even the slightest blunder, than the entire company would collapse; our own lives soon after."
Sherlock let the routine journey through the now familiar maze of halls and checkpoints take over the conversation. He didn't blame Jodie for wanting to preserve her own well-being, such methods were simply human nature and thus unavoidable. Still, he wondered what possessed the young woman to keep her rooted in the underground organization rather than pursue a more beneficial role in society. Previously he confronted her about the nagging question and she plainly told of her lack of success in obtaining any position she deemed herself worthy of due to the invisible glass ceiling.
Had the circumstances of their meeting been different, the detective would've secured her a suitable place at Barts with no difficulty. Yet the reality prevented such acts of goodwill, and a piece of him felt sorrow on that note. It didn't last long though, since he always pushed the notions away with more imperative ones of returning, while reminding himself of the darkness she truly possessed to allow such experiments to persist – even if they proved beneficial to society in the long run.
They stepped into the room and instantly he caught sight of the new machinery present. It was hardly an effort, seeing as the mechanics filled a good portion of the room, giving him the opportunity to scan the object with intentions of deducing its purpose. His gaze only faltered upon Jodie gently pushing him down on the cot, allowing the other two men in the room to stick an IV in his arm and proceed with the typical medical procedures.
"Alright, we'll begin in a moment. Until then, I suggest you try to relax to the best of your ability. Once we start there'll be no stopping until it's done, so if you need anything say it now," she instructed.
"How about a ticket back to England?" he asked, knowing full well the vanity of his attempt.
She chuckled, "Sorry, can't do that. But maybe…"
"Dr. Bell, if the patient doesn't require any further attention then I recommend you return to your studies," the head engineer roughly interrupted.
"Of course," she acknowledged, giving one last squeeze of his hand, "Don't worry, I'll come back to pick you up."
He smiled, if only to reassure her and get the process over with, yet couldn't shake a tinge of apprehension that only intensified upon the doctor restraining his arms. This was new. Before, they always left him unrestrained upon acknowledging his cooperation. Obviously things had changed, and Sherlock could only assume the commencement of the experiment would prove agonizing to require bondage.
Despite having grown accustomed to needles piercing his forearm, Sherlock flinched at the injection of the needle, glancing over to see not the typical 20 gauge but about a 15. Following the connecting tubes, he watched as a vile of what he could only assume to be blood being inserted on the other end. What did they plan on injecting him with? He ground his teeth when the answer veiled itself from his view, snapping his eyes towards the doctor as he began:
"This won't hurt a bit."
Sherlock shuddered, knowing from experience the statement to be false. Those first few weeks of the trials nearly killed him; sending him into cardiac arrest twice and sequentially requiring him to endure the dolorous irritation of a breathing tube shoved down his throat at every session. After each five hour period he found himself paralyzed, having to be wheeled back into the room on multiple occasions. It was only until the middle of the second month of treatment that he found the strength to limp back with the support of Jodie.
The woman herself seemed greatly affected by the experimentation as time passed. It appeared to him that her resolve was wavering upon acknowledging the ramifications that the so-called 'noble' research had on him. Her concern progressed, manifesting formerly in the extra portions of food he received, and eventually evolving to an unexpected level as she absentmindedly considered sneaking him out. Yet before any such attempts could be made, Dr. Bell ceased coming to Sherlock's room. A week later he was informed of her dubious resignation by a new, more callous aid: Rick.
From then on, life transformed into the current state of limbo with him returning to the lab table every other day as opposed to maybe twice a week. The new assistance didn't cushion the matter either, instead intensifying the cruelty by roughly throwing the detective to the floor after each treatment and eventually reducing the room to the unsanitary condition it was now: with only a small mattress lying on the dusty floor beside a metal table holding a scrap of paper and rusted, flickering lamp.
Desperation at some point in the middle of the second year of his residence drove him to attempt escape. Unfortunately, the undertaking proved ineffective. Indeed, all he had to show of it were the lingering scars of where Rick furiously beat him for nearly costing him his job and a stain scratching at the thin tank covering his torso. Inattentively, Sherlock brushed his hand across the stain, allowing the ridges and contrasting textures to perk his senses as if anticipating the painful illumination of the room a moment later.
"Rise and shine, time for another day of fun!" Rick sneered as he watched the man pinch the bridge of his nose to buffer an oncoming headache.
Of all the employees in the facility, Rick definitely found refuge among the top of those the detective loathed the most. It wasn't solely due to the aid's inhumane treatment. No, Sherlock wasn't that petty. Rather, the most prominent annoyance spurred from the man's lack of intelligence. He was the poster child for an idiotic sycophant, speaking nothing of importance whatsoever. Sherlock himself feared not his physical damage – as the assistant would care to believe – but the mental deterioration caused by being in proximity of such a buffoon for a prolonged period of time.
Therefore, it wasn't difficult to detect the contempt in his voice as he replied, "Good morning to you as well Richard. Do tell, what does today's agenda entail? More injections? How lovely indeed."
Growling at the mention of his formal name, which took all of a second for Sherlock to deduce, he roughly hauled the detective up and shoved him out the door, snapping, "Shut your mouth and get moving rat."
Ignoring his attempt to rile him up, Sherlock proceeded down the halls that also succumbed to change. Following his attempt to flee, guards were positioned at every door, with routine patrols passing through each hallway. It had taken some time, but the detective eventually saw the pattern in the system. All that left was to find the opportune time to make his escape.
But that was for another day. Currently, he gave minimal resistance as the scientists strapped him to the cot, binding him tightly to the extent his hands felt the tingle of low circulation as he opened and closed them. A slight bout followed upon them forcing the breathing tube down his throat – a task Rick took pleasure in watching before being shoved out of the room by the medical staff. Once in place, the needle was inserted, now causing pain only on occasion when Sherlock aggravated the doctor enough to purposely make it so. But instead of one vile being pumped into his system, as was the case to start, there were now four.
"Let's get this over with," the doctor began, pressing the button to begin the process.
Sherlock steeled himself to the best of his abilities as the fluid creeped down the tube towards his arm, yet no matter how hard he tried the results always came out the same. A burning fire spread from the vein in his arm, circulating until his entire body felt as if it were transported to the surface of the sun, where imaginary residents began slowly carving into his skin. The only relief came as a strand of Chinese water torture, passingly allowing his mind temporary rest that lasted only a second of every minute.
Through the fight, he could hear the slightly hastened beat of his heart on the monitor beside him, proving his vitality in addition to his own improvement in adapting to the treatment. A terse look to the clock above showed that the fight lasted longer than he expected. Four hours had passed, giving him reason to believe he blacked out along the way. Just a quarter hour, then he would be able to return to the peaceful darkness and recover enough until a hole in the barrier presented itself.
However, the daily habitual schedule diverted from its course as muffled sounds breached the room. Hazily, Sherlock tried to catch the conversation taking place between the other occupants but ultimately fell short. He could discern by their apprehensive glances and posture that something had gone astray - and a moment later, the deduction proved correct.
Loud gunshots pierced the room, finding a home in two of the doctors' chests as they slumped to the ground, dead on impact. Hesitantly, the third snatched up a scalpel – his only weapon in the room he falsely assumed to be secure – and made to protect himself. Inwardly sneering at his attempt to defend himself with a knife against a gun, Sherlock barely flinched as he too was dispatched with a shot to the heart.
Instead, he cast his eyes on the man entering the room, wearily taking in all that he could manage. He was western European - by the noticeable tuffs of red peaking out of his cap and accompanying freckled face: Irish - probably of the secret service come to bust the black organization or perhaps even a higher up within the group. Sherlock's money was on the former.
The detective's eyes followed him as the young man noted the patient and rushed towards him to assess the situation. The way he rashly nudged his shoulder alerted that the man wasn't adept to medical procedures, therefore the current mission was to conclude without any loose ends – including the detective. However, the shock in the newcomer's eyes marred that conclusion. Somehow Sherlock's presence had changed things. Maybe he was there to take him to another secure facility… or perhaps save him?
"Oy! You alright?!" the soldier urgently asked, gripping his shoulder, "Oy! Hold on, I'm going to get you out…"
By his tone, the detective easily saw his motives. He was being saved. Finally, after what could only seem like an eternal limbo was coming to an end. Salvation had arrived. Even if it were not so, Sherlock allowed his exhausted mind to rest on the reassuring thought. His vision blurred in and out while the soldier attempted to free him from the multitude of wires and bonds securing him in place, all the while pleading for the victim to stay conscious. But it was a battle he simply didn't have the stamina to win.
Unable to combat the strain any further, Sherlock closed his heavy eyes and let the darkness take him once more.
Who's crazy? I'm crazy! Sheesh, I should have my hands cut off for introducing a new story when I've been neglecting my other two. But what the heck, I'm inspired and this one seems really fun to do~
As you can see, this is a crossoverish twist on the Reichenbach Fall (or rather Reichenbach Deal?) in which Sherlock is forced into the genetic program. I say 'crossoverish' mainly because I'm new to the realm and don't really know what truly qualifies as a crossover, and in this story the only reason it's in that general area is because of the 'Hyde' position being played by Khan. So I suppose it loosely qualifies right?
Anyway, review or favorite if you like c;
And I'll try not to neglect this one or my others to the best of my ability~
