Umm, first Sherlock story. No ownership of BBC's property implied. Just needed to get this scene/small story out of my head. There will be more to this story, so hang in if it's what peaks your fancy. Any comments are genuinely accepted.
He must have missed some detail, some specific observation subtle enough to escape even his keen eye. But now, the vaguest of events flashed violently in front of his vision without clarity-albeit he exists at the moment in darkness. This recession into his Mind Palace, this specific recollection of events that accumulated in his current situation, was too disorganized, too sporadic to formulate a conclusion. Or perhaps it is your own mind, not The Palace, that is disheveled? But of course, the conclusion is event, as he is here to testify. How, though? How!? Again, he was at the blurry beginning.
Hanging his head against the pull of his restrained arms behind his back caused a severe pain, but it was a welcome distraction from the fog of his Palace. Was it maybe two hours ago?, three?, when the masked man at the doorstep of Backer Street crashed whatever blunt object he wielded against Sherlock's temple without warning. It was dark at the time of the attack, he had left Molly's lab at her insistence-"Sleep was an inconvenience" he told her-at 8:30, that was clear. It was her tired expression and the pleading, "Please," she let linger in her voice that caused him to concede… "Pleeassse, Sherlock," she had said softly with heavy lidded eyes. It just may now have occurred to him that she was learning his trick at playing on emotions, his emotions. Wait. Really? No. he has no emotions, no weaknesses for those games…right? Damn, this confusion!
This place, what was this place? Focus, center, gather information. He chided himself. Cold came first to his mind. Damp. Yes, the season was appropriate for the current observed climate-well spotted, Dilly-Dally. His small, moldy room dripped with the sound of old piping. Without being able to visualize the faulty plumbing, Sherlock was unable to ascertain the decade in which this structure was built. It smelled of salty air, soil, and iron, but that hardly narrowed down the specifics of his location. Waves? Maybe, wind? He would have to make a study of the aroma of the varieties of trees native to England, as he could certainly discern the general smell of forest. Would that he had that study completed now!?
What else, what else? Pain. The side of his head, certainly was sporting a contusion and a laceration. He could gather that it was no longer bleeding. The wound had no doubt bled sufficiently when the blow was struck, being a head wound. The dried blood itched annoyingly along the left side of his face and down his jaw line. Ah ha! The man was right handed! "And so is the majority of the planet! You've effectively made almost the whole world a suspect." Mycroft's voice chimed in. Sherlock hung is head further.
He was growing tired. His mouth was dry, his head was beginning to throb, and his body was aching due to the forced kneeling position in which his bindings obligated him. Cold, the trembling of his convulsing muscles reminded him. His jacket had been removed, and his shirt and slacks were thoroughly caked in the same mud that covered the ground . He could only guess that his unconscious form was roughly drug into this room. Pain. His weak strain of focus was fading, his body was relenting, his ears began to ring. Closing his eyes tightly, he searched for a comfortable thought...Tired brown eyes, and the echo of "Pleeeassse..." surprisingly welcomed his unconscious.