"Days, weeks, months. It all blurs together in one boring haze of idiots and whips. My screams are ignored, but trust me, I notice them, the men that come. I memorised them my angel, and they will whimper before me."

The man in chains cackles but there is no joy. He is worn down, grime, blood and sweat cover his skin, darkening it to a grey crusty covering for his bones. He is jaunt and skinny, even when they force the tube down his nose he manages to throw it up over himself. His skin is torn around the mouth from various failed efforts to elongate his existance, he simply stops breathing if they push the oxegyen mask to his face, he tears the drip from his arm if they dare try insert it, ripping his veins. They will not sedate him, they need answers and the unconscious cannot talk, however nor do the dead.

She was appalled when she was first enlisted to the cause. A black sedan had pulled up outside her practice and a man had told her to get in. Mycroft Holmes. They would later become good friends but at that moment he had appeared terrifying. He had a unique job oppurtunity for her. Why the British Government needed a therapist was a mystery, but she had very little experience and very little money and so had accepted.

Mr Holmes had brought her to an abandoned warehouse, and chained to a chair in the dark was a madman. There were armed men guarding every door, clad in black, their guns never wavered from the centre of the room, never for a split second did they take their attention from him. She had not understood until he began to chatter. The man did not speak, he screeched, the sound was inhumane in its pain. None of the guards even blinked, they had heard worse in the time he had been there.

The dirty man locked eyes with her and whimpered.

He rocked against his chains, violent movements that drew blood on his chaffed wrists and ankles. He would cry out, wordlessly pleading, then suddenly laugh. It was a cruel, cold snort, followed by screaming. He jerked in the cheap plastic chair and began to froth at the mouth, blood swelled from his bruised throat and streamed over his purple lips. Mycroft motioned to a nearby guard who promptly strolled forward. He grinned at her as the man yanked open his mouth and produced a jaw clamp that kept it open. He screamed and the guard swiftly smacked the side of his face, the palm of his hand connecting with a sickening crunch. The room fell into vigilant silence again as the guard resumed his position.

She had wrenched her gaze from the forlorn man subjected to such cruelty and turned to the ever proper Mycroft Holmes. He had patted her shoulder in an offhand gesture and in five words he gave her the assignment.

"You need to fix him."

After that she had left the room and thrown up the contents of her stomach. Two days later she had requested a car pick her up and take her to do her job. She had vowed to help him.

Here she was, in the dank warehouse crouching opposite him, waiting. He stunk, having been left in his own faeces and urine for god knows how long. His hair was long and matted, a beard and moustache stuck to his broken face. His eyes were wide as he laughed in her face, he spat at her, called her every insulting derogatory statement to do with women or simply screamed at her. Her training did little to help so she went on gut instinct.

She couldn't get too close as he tried the head butt her, his restrained arms bent into wicked shapes and his fingernails scraped the plastic of the chair, reaching for her. Who was he? More importantly why had they done this to him? It was disgusting, she had never been much of a believer in the good of humanity but surely such open torture was beyond normal human comprehension. Then again Mr Holmes did seem rather detached. She sat back on her heels and crossed her legs, waiting.

Eventually he ran out of energy to scream, or to rattle his chains, or to cry. He just sat and stared at her, like she was water in a desert. She waited for him to realise she would not hurt him. He just stared. In his stillness she catalogued his injuries, extensive bruising to all visible skin, deep ligature marks to wrists and ankles, severe burn just above left eye, deep cuts to collar bone. Pools of dried blood had seeped through the front of his black overalls, she couldn't work out what had caused it from the sporadic patterns of red. He continued staring at her.

She would help him, and she would find out who he was.

"What's your name?" She tried sounding cheerful but it came out as a small whisper. For a rare moment he looked as though he would speak. Then he threw his head back and laughed, he laughed and spat at her until he went hoarse. She wiped the spit from her eyes and stood up.

She would try again tomorrow. She turned from him and he began to thrash against his chains. He screamed louder as she left, just as she reached the door he stopped his wailing. She waited for one of the unnerving guards to open the door.

He giggled hysterically and called to her.

"You can call me Jimmy."

Think I should continue?

Blackvelvet97

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