Yes, hello. Right. Welcome to this story. If you don't like abuse of anything of that nature you should probably vacate the premises now. If you don't like Greg Lestrade you should also go. Or not. Stay, if you want to.
The worst kind of dark, thought Greg Lestrade as he hesitantly stretched out his aching limbs, is the warm kind of dark. He hummed softly under his breath.It was odd, really. Most people would assume the cold kind of dark would surpass the other kind. But that's because cold is less preferable to warmth, right? Warmth is comforting to a person. Then again, any person who suffers from nightmares will tell you that the darkness if often warm, and not cold. It often has you waking in a sweat. Whether that sweat is cold or warm really depends on the nightmare, not the darkness. He had had a lot of terrible nightmares of late.
Shaking his head- though not too roughly- Greg tried to piece together his thoughts and stop supposing about the darkness. What exactly had happened to him, he was unsure of. But he felt warm (it was the warm kind of darkness) and he felt comfortable- apart from the obvious bruising along his body- and that was enough to keep the detective inspector calm for the moment. Thoughts and feelings drifted past him like smoke, intangible to his foggy mind-set. I suppose I've been drugged, supposed Greg, and the thought was not surprising or alarming. It was there and he was here and he accepted it as a fact. In all honesty, Greg knew he should probably be worried but the darkness was warm and too comfortable to muster up the strength to move. A soft crackling had filled the background with noises that danced and pricked at his skull, irritating Greg to no end. But the sound was somehow soothing at the same time, so he didn't spend any time supposing over that either.
Using his numbed mind like an extra arm, Lestrade extended it down and through his body, poking around to see if he was still all there. Spots that felt as if invisible fingers were pressing down hard on his bare skin were bruises, he supposed. They ran up and down his body in random arrays. Probably been hit a few times with a blunt object. The invisible fingers turned to grabbing hands around his wrists and ankles, cutting off the circulation. Greg was indifferent to that fact. On one hand, he was probably tied up or bound to something, and on the other hand he couldn't bring himself to care. Letting a soft sigh escape his lips, Lestrade relaxed back into the pillow and began to suppose about all the things he had been trying not to suppose about for the last couple of weeks. He supposed about his job, about his unfaithful wife, his kids and Sherlock, and what he would one day have to do to Sherlock and how upset John would be. He let his mind drift and sift through his problems at will. It was a peaceful type of supposing, and he vaguely enjoyed it.
Then another sound started up from a distance, but headed closer gradually. Greg couldn't tell if it was quick or slow, because his drugged mind stretched time into infinite seconds and minutes that lasted a heartbeat, and every moment was the same. It was a knocking sort of noise, and it knocked on his skull and the edge of his consciousness like a hammer tapping a nail. Footsteps, he supposed. Someone's coming to see me. Greg didn't have time to suppose whether they were good or bad footsteps though, because suddenly he felt another- fresher- warm that wafted over his face and the tapping sound stopped. The new warm was slightly damp, and smelled strangely of garlic. Perhaps it was a person then, leaning over him and breathing in his face. Well what else could it be? Asked his mind wryly, because now it had apparently taken on a life of its own and chosen to talk to Greg separately from the rest of his thinking. Greg didn't like his thought's tone so he chose to ignore the question and instead half-heartedly wondered if he was blind.
Gentle pressing started up along his arms. Greg frowned at this, because the contact felt wrong. It was alien and he didn't like it. Where the person touched his bare skin they left patches that first glowed hot like burning lava but then dimmed to normal and left a ghost impression, so he could still feel them there. Greg wished he could tell the other person to get off him, but his mouth felt like it was lined with cotton wool- which, given the situation he seemed to be in, he supposed could have been true- and his tongue was a dead weight. I could be in a hospital. He said to himself quietly, in a reserved way. Wishful thinking. Chided the other-mind, the one that spoke separately to him now. Greg supposed it didn't really matter, because if this was the person that has bound and blinded him they probably weren't going to act on any of his wishes. The warm wet feeling coupled with the warm darkness was making him uncomfortable, so his foggy mind focused on that instead. Beads of sweat decided to pop up on his forehead, and they threatened to run down his face. Greg thought they tickled and he wanted to swipe them away, but his wrists were still being restrained by invisible hands.
As if the looming presence of the person could tell what Lestrade was thinking, it drew back suddenly and the probing fingers left his skin, making it feel blistered, but without the pain. Instead, the person's fingers moved up his body and started digging at something around his head. Perhaps I'm dead, wondered Greg because he couldn't for the life of him figure out what was happening. Perhaps Sherlock will save us, echoed the voice in his brain. Not us, Greg told himself, me. He could feel his mind becoming a little sharper, though not much. We're the same person. He tried to pull himself inward, so he could form into something that was whole, and not the shattered being he was now. I suppose... whispered the voice back, getting softer and softer until it died away and a roaring started up in Greg's ears. He grunted softly, tipping his head sideways. Then he stopped when he felt his brain hit the side of his skull, shooting pain all the way through his head and down the side of his neck. He wanted the warm, comfortable feeling to come back, because now everything was hurt and everything was on fire. The worst kind of dark, Greg told himself once again as the blindfold was lifted from his eyes, is the warm kind of dark.
