John Watson sat, blindfolded and completely alone in this room full of murderers and cowards, wondering when or if he'd get the chance to make his escape attempt.
Upon entering the room he had attempted to calculate any escape pattern that would work, but apparently he had been too conspicuous with his observations. The blindfold had immediately followed the punch that seemed to jar his entire face, the attempt to obscure his senses a success. The hit had actually caused him to lose his balance, the chair falling backwards, and his head painfully bouncing off the back of it upon impact. He was fairly certain of a concussion, but he decided it was more important to focus on finding a way out than worrying about what the objective of his abduction had been, and whether or not this was a ploy to pull Sherlock into a trap. His arms had been wrenched backwards upon arrival at this hovel, tied together behind the chair uncomfortably, though not to the chair, thankfully. He knew that if he needed to get up he could accomplish this, but his arms were stuck behind him until he could untie the complex but unusually strong nylon knotted mess holding his hands together.
One thing he knew as of right now, the room he was in had one small window towards the top of the wall as well as one door in the opposite direction of that which he was facing. The room had clearly been made to detain something or someone, what with the window literally being only a very small vent, and the door locking from the outside. The window was practically unreachable, and not just due to John's height. As far as he could tell there were seven men in the room, so the door wasn't an option. Yet.
He was wrenched out of thought by a painful push on his scarred shoulder, and made a valiant effort not to wince at the pain.
"I can practically see the gears turning in your brain. Quit it."
John wished he could determine where his assailant had vanished to, wishing he had spit on the man's feet when he'd had the chance to, when the voice reappeared in his left ear. "Thomas over there has been arrested twice for rape. He's also a gay. Deduce," he said this with the most disdain available to the human voice, "what you will, assistant."
He didn't feel fear, only the adrenaline rushing to his extremities that had lost circulation a while ago, and rushing through his head were thoughts of escaping, returning home to 221B, but there would be time for fantasizing later. First he had to actually escape.
He worked on inconspicuously moving his chair, centimeter by centimeter, closer to the door. This seemed to be working until he felt something bang against his head, the sound reverberating sickeningly within, and then darkness.
oOo
He became aware slowly, and then all at once, realizing that he was being restrained in a way completely different than he had been before. He looked around, but his eyes didn't seem to be working. Either that or he was still blindfolded. He moved his head, which seemed to be functioning for the most part, then attempted moving his arms but that didn't seem to be working, as they were tied above his head. He felt as if he were being held vertically, but recognized that he may be too disoriented to tell. His legs were unmoving, as well. This was frightening in the aspect that he had no control.
"Awake yet?" A new voice, an eerily lilting voice fell upon his ears in a manner that made John's hair stand on end. "Thatta boy. Come on, then."
John lifted his head, and was promptly slapped across the face, and almost immediately punched in the stomach.
His military training ensured that the pain was intolerable, but it definitely wasn't fun. Add the fact that he was uncompromisingly restrained, and he was beginning to panic.
A kick to the knee that held a sickening thud.
There were no words to accompany the blows he was receiving from his attacker.
He felt something slice into his upper thigh, most likely a knife.
How far would this go before stopping?
A succession of punches, traveling up his side, from his hip to his armpit, all excruciatingly painful, but he attempted to make his face appear neutral, in spit of the growing urge to vomit.
John Watson was not afraid of death.
His vision was beginning to blur, a hazy border closing in around him.
Suddenly there was an agonizing burn he associated with his groin, but he was too disoriented to be sure.
Something was pushing it's way up his throat and out of his mouth.
Vomit?
He just hoped his time wasn't now.
His vision went black again.
oOo
He awakened again, but this time instead of just feeling tired, he felt disgusting, and everything hurt. His entire body felt like it had bee trampled by a herd of elephants. Then said elephants had gone and told the giraffes to follow them, and they all walked over him again. He could only smell the dank purification of vomit at this point, and he remembered the pain of the last time he had awoken, and decided to pretend to be unconscious, still.
"Ah, ah, ah, I know you're awake…" The same eerily lilting voice as yesterday.
"Do you know why you are here, John Watson?" The voice was distinctly male, despite the lilt. "Do you know why you're presence here has continued?"
John didn't move, barely even dared to breath, it hurt so much.
"You are here…" The voice trailed off, as if the obtain some amount of interest or suspense, "You are here because your great detective… Does. Not. Care."
This did not ring true to him, but then again…how long had he been here? Days? It felt like years.
"He's not coming, John. He's never coming. He doesn't care about you."
That thought hurt worse than any physical blow this person could give.
John kept this though to himself, though.
He knew Sherlock would make it here, eventually. John clearly had lost his control, his arms tied and his legs tied, his face blindfolded, and his mouth gagged. He believed in Sherlock, his friend would come.
"He. Is. Not. Coming." His guard seemed to revel in enunciating each word.
"Are you quite sure about that?" The smooth, deep voice flowed over his ears, his mind, his body in a manner that held more healing power than any medical tools.
He heard the gasp of his assailant and five gunshots.
He heard Sherlock's voice shout to Lestrade to call an ambulance before letting himself fall into an unaware darkness once again, this time comforted by the fact that someone had come for him, but not just anyone.
His best friend.