Disclaimer:
Sherlock BBC is property of BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
My undying gratitude goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Beta-Reader:
The unrivalled don'tlikehugs18.
You did a great work here. :-)
Ex ante:
English isn't my original language. For me writing (and reading) fanfiction is a great way to improve my language skills.
So please: leave me your honest criticism. :-)
Trigger Warning:
This fic contains descriptions of violence and torture!
Once More, with Feeling - I
Great Britain, London
N 55° 47' E 37° 39'
17. January 2010
The door to the laboratory at Bart's opens and bounces off the wall with a loud bang when John Watson barrels into the room. Dark blue eyes rake over the scientific equipment until they find the dark, gangly figure of a certain Consulting Detective. John grinds to a halt and looks at his flatmate with an air of urgency.
"What happened?" His rapid breath rasps loudly in the otherwise quiet lab.
Sherlock looks up from the electron microscope. "Ah, finally." A triumphant grin gleams on his angular face. "I found it, John."
"What?" John stares at the mobile phone in his left hand before his gaze returns to the other man; an incredulous expression on his lined face.
"The letter, John. I found it." The object in question is ripped from the optical device. Sherlock holds the rumpled piece of paper up like a trophy, his long nimble fingers pointing at the spidery script. "It's the unequivocal proof that Lady Ashley was murdered. The suicide was staged by her husband because she planned to divorce him."
"Unequivocal," mutters John dumbfounded.
Sherlock frowns at John's unenthusiastic behaviour. "Of course. You have to call Lestrade. Tell him to send a surveillance team to London City Airport. He'll try to leave the country soon." He starts to type away on his phone, muttering to himself like a mad scientist.
An angry flush colours John's face. "Emergency." His fingers close around his phone with a hard grip until the plastic casing cracks in protest.
The Consulting Detective sighs exasperated. "John; I know for a fact that you are capable of forming full sentences. So would you please stop those incoherent exclamations? They are irritating"
John breathes and counts silently to ten. Then he continues until he reaches twenty. "You texted me that this was an emergency," he says, every single word stressed carefully.
"Well, it certainly is urgent. If you don't call Lestrade soon, Ashley will be beyond British jurisdiction." Sherlock pockets his Blackberry and starts to flatten the letter against the surface of a nearby table. He fills a pipette with tracer liquid and presses a drop of it on the paper to test the quality of the ink.
"You know how important this was, Sherlock." John's voice carries a steely quality. Like a blade under a velvet cover. "The way I ran out of Matt's room he probably thinks we're on the brink of World War III."
Sherlock is watching the progression of his experiment with a magnifying glass and doesn't even look up when he answers: "Dull. We are on the brink of solving a murder. And in contrast to your psychologically challenged acquaintance, which is confined to the premises of the clinic, our murderer is able to move without restrictions."
John huffs exasperatedly. He knows on a purely intellectual level that Sherlock's bland dismissal of his friend's problems isn't borne of cruelty or a mean spirit. At best it's lost within the rush of the case, at worst it's simple disinterest, but it makes the doctors hackles rise none the less.
"Sherlock! Matt is a friend. And it doesn't matter that he isn't supposed to go anywhere. Damn it, I asked you not to text until it was really important." When he was still wearing uniform this tone of voice had made the lower ranks duck their heads and hope that the approaching storm wasn't intended for them, but John has learned early on that Sherlock possesses a profound immunity to anything remotely authoritarian.
That's why it doesn't really surprise him when his flatmate dismisses his words with an impatient snort. "Now that you're here, you can as well help me to bring this case to a conclusion. Call Lestrade and then fetch my coat. If we hurry we will be able to set the stage before Ashley reaches the airport."
"Screw you."
"Pardon me?" Sherlock looks up from his experiment; an expression of surprise on his aristocratic features.
"Screw you." With his fists clenched at his sides, his rigid posture and blazing eyes John is the very picture of defiance. "Screw you and screw this case. You can bloody well call Lestrade yourself Sherlock." He turns around with this military precision of his and stalks back to the door.
"Where are you going, John?" The posh voice stops the blonde doctor in his tracks.
"Where do you think I'm going? Back to the clinic of course." John doesn't turn around but the set of his shoulders betrays that he is prepared for a confrontation.
A dark chuckle rises from Sherlock's throat. "The human mind truly is a fickle thing. First you are angry because I don't include you in my work and now you're angry because I do. Make up your mind, John!"
At this John finally turns to face his flatmate: "You can't compare…"
"Oh, of course I can. But that's beside the point. I'm not willing to waste valuable time arguing with you or waiting for Lestrade. So; are you coming or not?" The implication that he is willing to pursue Ashley alone hangs in the room like a big dark cloud.
John grinds his teeth at this obvious attempt to blackmail him. Sherlock knows very well that John won't let him go all by himself.
"Fine", the doctor snarls grudgingly. He plucks Sherlock's coat off the chair standing at his right side and tosses it at the lanky detective. "Let's go then."
A superior smirk appears on Sherlock's face and John feels a thin ripple of anger in his chest. They will talk about this later. And if he has to cuff Sherlock to his chair to make him listen, so be it.
The Consulting Detective shrugs into his coat. "Don't dawdle, John. The game's afoot. We have a murderer to catch." Sherlock sweeps out of the room in a dramatic fashion, leaving a weary John in his wake.
The blonde man sighs and lifts his phone to call Lestrade. This is going to be a long, long day.
"John!" The impatient reminder halls hollowly through the empty hallway.
"On my way." And with this John hurries to catch up with Sherlock Holmes.
ooOO0OOoo
Great Britain, London
N 55° 47' E 37° 39'
17. January 2010
About eight hours later John steps into the Bethlem Royal Hospital for the second time this day. There is a different nurse on the front desk. They know each other fleetingly from his earlier visits so all she does to acknowledge his presence is a short nod in his direction. John follows the generic white corridors until he reaches room 027, currently occupied by a Matthew R. Davies. He knocks, but doesn't bother to wait for an answer before he opens the door and goes in.
The gloomy darkness that greets him in the small hospital room makes him hesitate for a moment. "Matt?"
"J… John?" The whispered answer comes from somewhere on his left side and John squints in an attempt to make out the form of his old friend. His left hand instinctively reaches for the light switch, but Matt's desperate whimper makes him freeze.
"Don't! I… I don't want them to find me."
John lets his hand fall back to his side. "It's all right Matt. I'm here. I've come back for you." He closes the door behind himself to keep the neon lights of the corridor out and slowly walks further into the room.
Matt sighs, followed by a dry, desperate chuckle. "I knew you wouldn't leave me behind, Doc."
"I wouldn't", confirms John softly.
He takes another step and is finally able to see the other man. Matt's huddled up on the far side of the bed, sitting on the floor and squeezed in the tight space between the nightstand and the wall. John crouches down in front of him, but the other man doesn't look up. His attention is currently on his hands. He holds a pencil in his right fist, using the pen's sharp end to drill little bloody holes in his left palm. Dark red dots adorn the grey linoleum in front of him.
John has been aware that today was one of the worst days, but Matt hadn't been that bad when he had left this morning. And it positively frightens him how fast his friend's mental state has deteriorated.
"Give me the pencil, Matty." John holds out his left hand in a demanding gesture, but the other man shakes his head frantically.
"I can't. I have to get them out." The sharp end of the pencil digs deeper into his flesh and another drop of blood drips onto the floor.
John straightens his posture. "Sergeant; you'll hand this damn pencil over right now!"
Matt flinches at John's commanding bark, but his reflexive "Yes, Sir!" carries at least some of the bite John remembers from their days in the service. He slaps the pencil on John's waiting hand and the doctor immediately stores it out of sight in the left rear pocket of his jeans.
Carefully he extends his hand a second time. "Show me?"
This time it is a question not a demand, but the other man doesn't hesitate to put his left hand palm up into John's steady grip. The blonde doctor pulls a small penlight from the breast pocket of his jacket and clicks it on to be able to asses the damage his friend has done to himself. Matt flinches violently when the small bundle of light knifes through the gloomy darkness, but John doesn't let go.
"Don't worry", he murmurs. "They won't find us back here."
Matt shakes his head and looks at John with something akin to pity. "They will. They always find me."
For a long moment both men look at each other, neither of them willing to break the eye contact. John's breath catches in his throat and he feels the sting of very real pain deep in his chest when he sees the naked desperation in his friend's brown eyes. He has lived and fought at Matt's side for more than six years and the knowledge that he isn't able to help his comrade out of this black abyss he created in his own mind hits him once again like the proverbial brick wall.
In the end it's Matt who averts his eyes fist. "You wanted to see." he whispers, resignation on the forefront of his voice.
"Yeah…" John directs his attention back to their joined hands. The blood on Matt's palm and fingers is already sticky with beginnings of coagulation and the stab wounds have stopped bleeding a few minutes ago. The injuries are small in diameter, but some of them are alarmingly deep. John is nevertheless positive that they won't need stitches. With the right dressing and a few days of immobilisation they will heal just fine.
John is suppressing a relieved sigh when a mark on Matt's wrist catches his attention. He catches the sleeve of the other man's hoody and starts to ease the grey fabric up to Matt's elbow. The man's arms are marred with long bloody furrows where he's dug his fingernails deep into his own skin. John has to close his eyes for a moment and he berates himself for his lack of attention. He knows that when he checks Matt's hands, he will find blood and skin under the nails of his fingers. You see, but you don't observe. Yes, indeed. Sherlock would have probably deduced this little fact within the first ten seconds after laying eyes on Matt. John swallows hard to get the taste of bitter disappointment off his tongue. He has expected more of himself. He should have been able to see this. It doesn't matter that those injuries have been hidden beneath Matt's clothing, but as a doctor John should have known that his friend's attempt with the pencil hadn't been the first act of today's drama.
His fingers ghost over Matt's bloody forearms without actually touching the skin. "What did you do that for?"
John looks up and finds himself confronted with his friend's intense stare. Matt makes a low keening sound before he answers John's question: "It's because I can't get them out, Sir. They're crawling everywhere under my skin and I can't get them out." He flexes his fingers unconsciously and the wounds in his left palm start to bleed again.
"They?" John's voice is no more than a whisper and he can feel how something dark uncoils deep within his mind.
Matt looks at him like he expects John to know what he is talking about. His eyes dart across the room in a restless frenzy. "The ants, John", he breathes shakily. "The ants…"
Ants.
John's breath hitches violently and he can feel cold sweat collecting along his spine.
Of course.
ooOO0OOoo
North Korea, Kijŏngdong
N 37° 56' 43.9902" E 126° 39' 21.6072"
09. July 2005
The hole in the ground wasn't even especially deep. Four feet, five at most. But it was still enough to submerge the wooden crate the men had unceremoniously dropped into it. Right now the men were busy filling it up and every hollow thump of dirt on wood made the muscles in John's arms flex in helpless fury. The zip ties that bound his hands behind his back, bit harshly into the sweaty skin of his wrists.
The air was hot and humid – typical for the Monsoon season in this part of the Asian continent – but the muffled, close-mouthed whimpers that came from the partially buried crate made gooseflesh ripple across John's body.
John, Ian and Rob had been forced to kneel beside each other on the dirt floor of the secluded courtyard, compelled to watch helplessly as their comrade was buried alive; crammed into a small wooden crate with nothing but a bag full of fire ants to keep him company.
It didn't take long for the first bloodcurdling screams to penetrate the fast growing layer of dirt. John started to struggle against his bindings, the muscles in his legs straining to get himself back into a standing position.
"Let him out of there you damn bastards. You'll gain nothing if you do this. Nothing…" A sharp pain exploded at the back of his head.
John must have blacked out for an instant because the next moment he was lying face down on the hard packed ground, dirt grinding between his teeth and a heavy boot between his shoulder blades, pinning him down. There were sounds of a struggle to his right, but it was hard to concentrate beyond the merciless ponding at the back of his skull. John shook his head in an attempt to clear his vision and he felt warm blood running down behind his ears. And then he became aware of the screams. Davies was still screaming. He tried to get back on his knees, but the cold kiss of an AK's muzzle at the back of his neck made him cease his efforts.
"Come on. Gimme a reason, soldier." The southern drawl reminded him of the old John Wayne movies he'd seen as a child. But unlike the western heroes of his childhood days, the voice of the man behind him was filled with a dark glee. That man would be absolutely happy to get an opportunity to rip John to pieces.
John took a deep breath and let the tension slowly leave his body. He stole a glance at his comrades. Ian was lying on the ground, unconscious or dead. Rob was sporting an impressive bruise on his left temple, but he seemed to be okay otherwise.
"We can't t'll you nuthing." The clinical part of John registered that his pronunciation had suffered significantly. Bleeding head wound, reduced sight, difficulties in pronunciation, nausea and vertigo. Commotio cerebri, first or second degree. Or in other words: a good old-fashioned concussion. Damn.
The man behind him chuckled darkly. "How about you let us be the judge of that?"
John tried to breathe through the dizzy spell that threatened to overwhelm him. Matt's screams were still ringing in his ears and John was dead sure that he would never forget this sound as long as he lived. The sound of naked desperation.
He was pretty sure that Matt wouldn't be the only one screaming before this day came to an end.
ooOO0OOoo
TBC