~Moscow~
"I'm hungry." Sherlock let the thought register in the back of his mind, he couldn't recall the last time he eaten let alone the last time he'd felt actual hunger and it made him laugh, which was a bad idea on several levels. First, it was excruciating, second it drew the attention of the men in the room, and if there were ever a group of men who's attention Sherlock didn't want it was these.
He hadn't been held captive long, but these men were skilled torturers (only the best for the best he supposed.) a lesser man, a lesser mind would have given them all that they'd asked for almost instantly. But for Sherlock the pain they inflicted was an excecercise in understanding. And although he didn't like pain he could at least gain information on how the body reacted and responses to the different torture methods. Date, date,date.
His captors had rested his feet in a pan of water and dropped in jumper cables. The result was not only painful and disorienting but exhausting as well. One of the men had hammered a nail into the soft flesh just above Sherlock's knee. Simple. Elegant. One of Sherlock's least favorite activities was the ice water. The first night he arrived the requisite rib shattering beating had been administered, following which he had been stripped naked and bound hands tied to a chair behind his back, ankles together and to the rung of the chair. Then a bucket of ice water was unceremoniously dumped over his head and he was left alone with the windows open in an abandon Russian warehouse. Sherlock hated all things Russian, vodka, Tchaikovsky and most especially their weather. The plan has been obvious enough with the fifty gallon barrels places at regular intervals around him, but that didn't make the process of freeze and thaw any better. Not close enough for any real warmth, but just close enough to stave off death. Once the barrels where lit and Sherlock could feel the ice crystals begin to break apart and melt in his vains, he knew to ready himself for a new wave of pain. Metal coat hanger were turned red hot in the barrels and then laid on the delicate skin of his thighs or along the sides of his rib cage. These men were inventive if nothing else. One of his captors enjoyed putting out his cigarettes on Sherlock's shoulder in the same spot over and over. They were nearing day three and although the methods hadn't varied much that made them no less terrifying or painful. It's was almost intimate. There was no yelling and screaming, no belligerent curses, just quite questions in thick Russian, and cold and pain.
"Nam nuzhny otvety g-n Kholms."
("We want answers Mr. Holmes.")
Mr. Ice Water, said as he gently moved a half frozen curl off Sherlock's face.
"Answers." Sherlock spoke through chattering teeth. "Well let's see; by definition an answer is a thing said, written, or done to deal with or as a reaction to a question, statement, or situation. We are lacking a question. You've made no statement, and this whole situation is of your doing not mine. Therefore I can not help you."
"No mister Kholms, vot i vse. Vy uzhe znayete vopros."
("But Mr. Holmes that's just it. You already know the question.") He dropped the cables back in the water without warning.
Saint Petersburg, Russia
"Hello J." The woman's voice was crisp and very British.
"Hello Mercy." John sat his drink back down and sighed. His time was very rarely his own and it looked like the green eyed brunette he'd been playing flirt tag with all evening would not be naked beneath him tonight after all.
"Her Majesty, needs an exfill. British citizen on Russian soil. Retrieve, relocate and secure until further notice."
"I serve at the pleasure of the Queen." Retrieve, relocate and secure. This was new. John was accustom to being the blunt instrument. When it was imperative that an asset by extracted John was the call you made. Having to secure said asset after relocation well that was...new.
"I'm sending you the dossier now. Good luck J."
"Thank you Mercy." John got up from his corner table and winked at the green eyed young man at the bar on his way out the door.