Disclaimer: Rated T for drug reference. Prompt by Viv24, also a wonderful writer! I do not own BBC Sherlock, if I did, it would be 5,000,000 times more angsty than it is and you would all die from the feels every second ever. More chapters on the way, favorite to keep on track if you like. Will get better! Enjoy!
"Hello, Mr. Holmes." The American Sargent said in a frosty tone. "Let us not hang upon the formality of greetings, Richard. I know how you detest me." I snarled in a most civilized way, just as I would at anyone else. "You're right, Holmes. I detest you and your secretive brother. You no good Brits are always treading on our grounds, running about the world like you own the damned place!" Sargent Richard Brook hollered, kicking me smack in the shin. I winced in an almost unnoticeable pain, unable to hide my face from him due to the fact I was died down in metal fixings to a chair bolted to the floor. For what it was worth, the Americans had good resources for confinement.
To my misfortune, he did notice the falter in my face. "Why, Sherlock, did I give you a bruise? I'm so sorry!" He yelped in a dominant tone if there ever was one. Giving me one last superior glance, he turned and clomped messily out of the room, his laughter trailing him as the metal door shut and bolted behind him.
I did not know why I was there, but I remembered how I got there. It was almost comical how I had not seen the attack coming. Saying as I had been dipping my fingers into American crime and Mycroft into their government very recent to the time of attack, it was almost as if I was begging to be captured. In a way, I think I was.
One afternoon, I was making my way back to the flat when I heard police sirens. Murder being enticing and almost drug-like to me, I followed the sounds like a drug fiend to his dealer. The sounds grew further rather than closer to me as I ran toward them, caught up in a curiosity and need to know what was going on, who had been killed and how. I ran and ran and finally, I came to a halt in a dark alleyway, the one off of Jensen Ave. and Jared St. to be exact. I heard the sirens blaring, but there was no source to them. A trap. I thought. Just as I was about to turn around, I felt the course material of a burlap sack engulf my body and I paid no mind to screaming; I knew I was caught for whatever reason by whoever was planning on my grand presence. I sat cross-legged in the thick-woven sack, waiting for the impact of being thrown into a van. I was surprised when I was gently set in the backseat of a rather cramped vehicle.
"Why the good treatment?" I asked. A low voice responded casually, "You are precious cargo, Mr. Holmes." and that was that. Next thing I knew, a needle prodded through the sack into my side, rushing white hot liquid beyond the barrier of my skin. I groaned at the sudden relaxation of my muscles, falling limp into the car door in a most uncomfortable fashion, falling unconscious a few seconds later. When I awoke, I was in the chair, held tight in a way that only established fear. My bonds were made of various metals and made by various companies in diverse countries, meaning only one thing; the Americans had caught me. For once, I did not know exactly the reason why.
A few days passed up until the encounter with Sargent Brook. After he left the confinement in his fit of rightful laughter, The Mist, as they called it, fell before me and I was swept into a forced sleep as I was every time I woke. When it would stop and I would know the true intentions of the Americans, I did not know.