A/N:

Inspired by the Sketches of Baker Street by Arisprite (thanks!), sentence 31:

31. Clutch

After the terror of the case, the narrow escapes from certain death for both of them, and worst of all, the capture and torture of his best friend, the final straw to his emotional control came when he felt Holmes' thin hands twisting desperately into the back of his jacket.

And by this quote, especially concerning the title:

You can chain me, you can torture me, you can even destroy this body, but you will never imprison my mind. - Mahatma Gandhi

Warning for violence, torture and drugs. Enjoy the read, and don't forget to review.

Watson

"Holmes!" I cleared my throat as my voice faltered and broke. My throat was long raspy and dry, and I had to face it: In the darkness, the fog, during the scuffle, I had lost sight of Holmes. Now, he was gone.

I knew well that he could not have run off by his own decision – he would never have left my back unguarded in a fight for life and death as this one. He would never have left me to my fate if he had somehow managed to shake off his attackers.

There remained only one possible conclusion, then. He had been overpowered, and taken away – which hopefully meant that he was still alive, though how long this state would last was beyond me to say.

We had not expected to be accosted in the warehouse we were investigating, there had been no sign at all of the presence of anyone. By a brilliant string of deduction, Holmes had been able to ascertain that this was the place where all previous victims of this vile group of criminals had died, not just the last, but there had been no signs of their presence at all. It was just possible that he had been mistaken. But then, we had been attacked.

They had come out of nowhere, four men, strong, violent, each of them armed with a penknife. The largest of them had taken it upon himself to crash me to a pulp between the wall and his massive body, but when I finally managed to place three strategic blows with my walking stick, he had scampered away, hunched and whimpering.

But by that time, Holmes was already gone. He had managed to knock out one of his attackers who was now loaded into the maria Gregson had arrived in. Too late to do anything to stop them from abducting Holmes.

My friend had wanted to be at the warehouse before the 'bumbling Yarders' arrived.

This was not the time to panic. I had to think, trying to figure out how we could possibly find Holmes in time. I had definitely no desire to see him again in this very warehouse – only by then, he would no longer be himself, even if he was still alive.

I recalled the last victim, the one we had found tied to the staircase just a few paces from were I stood, all too vividly. No wonder the young doctor the Yarders had called in turned sick in terror and was quite unable to examine her. We knew what they had done to her. Small doses of belladonna at first, not enough to be deathly, but enough to produce the sensation of chocking and delirium, until after several days, as I estimated, the final dose was injected and the victim left for death in this warehouse. The dying minutes of that poor girl had been horrific, her intoxicated brain conjuring up enraging images. She snarled at me as I finally arrived, even tried to bite me as we attempted to release her. Then, she slipped into a coma and never emerged.

I would not, could not, let this happen to my dear friend.

"Doctor?"

"Inspector Gregson?"

"We will interview the prisoner as soon as he regains consciousness. I assume you would like to be present."

"Indeed."

"Don't worry, Doctor. We will find him."

"We have to."

Gregson

Dr Watson was a frightening sight to behold. I was sure that if he could have killed our prisoner by his gaze alone, the man would long have dropped from his chair, stone dead. Oh, Watson constrained himself well.

We had bets at the Yard what could possibly irate Holmes, but so far, none of us has seen him slip. If his control was iron, the doctor's certainly was. And with Holmes, it was probably less control and more lack of emotions, but the doctor was very calm whilst I could see the anger and concern flaring in the depth of his eyes.

The interview dragged on for hours already. Each hour, as we both knew, could be the last for Mr Sherlock Holmes. But the doctor's determination never wavered.

"For the last time, you. Where have you taken him?"

The man inched back in his chair, his shackles clattering. "I tell ye, I don't know."

"Where is your gang lurking?"

"I won't tell ye!"

"Now, look here, Pearson," I intervened. "If you talk now, you might escape the gallows. Else, it is the rope for you and your friends."

"I don't care – without the detective, ye'll never find them."

Which was probably true. Without Holmes, we wouldn't have had as much as a thread to follow.

Dr Watson leaned in until his face hovered mere inches from Pearson's. "May I tell you something, Pearson? It is quite a pleasant tale. Do you see this syringe? I have here a sample of your drug, Pearson. I have but to pierce your skin and push the plunger, and your bloodstream will be flooded by the drug. At first, you mouth will feel dry. Then, your face will start swelling. You will get very thirsty, but there will be no water. Your throat will feel constricted. Your pupils will dilate until you will see nothing at all, but what your mind conjures up. The visions will be horrible. You will be driven into hysterics. You muscles, especially those of the face, will contract spasmodically. Your pulse will slow. And then, you'll die."

Even I was feeling uncomfortable by the coldness in the voice of the doctor, one I had known as gentle and friendly. I felt a shiver running down my spine as Watson retreated with a sickening smile, and Pearson stared at him, frozen, utter terror on his face.

"Trust me, Pearson, I will find a way. If you remain silent, and prefer to be hanged, I will find a way to slip belladonna in your next meal."

Pearson turned to face me. "Inspector!"
"I'm sure he would, Pearson. Now, talk!"

"All right, all right!"

TBC in chapter 2