Sherlock Holmes was in pain. He sagged against the restraints that held him upright, the chains stretching his shoulders and arms to impossibly painful lengths, his head limply lolled on his chest. He was done. It was over.
He could hardly believe that all the way across the continent, through the cold and the strangers and after two years, here he was in Serbia, unwraveling the last of Jim Moriarty's secret criminal empire.
He grunted as he felt another fist collide with his ribs, couldn't help the moan of pain that escaped his lips as the man pummeled him. The Serbian in the corner of the room was hidden in shadow. Sherlock seethed in anger at the nerve of that man, watching. He was surely Moriarty's last man standing…but then…something familiar about him…
No. Sherlock closed him mind to the thought. It was impossible that this man, this Serbian stranger was anyone he knew.
"You broke in here for a reason!" growled his interrogator. Sherlock's serbian was almost impeccable—he had overheard the men that had captured him discussing gleefully their planned methods of torture on the drive to the bunker.
Pain is a thing of the mind, he so often reminded himself. It can be conquered, and therefore eased and even ignored. And though his long, unkempt hair, damp from sweat and blood and time, fell loosely over his face, his entire body aching and screaming and broken, Sherlock felt free.
This torture was nothing more than an amusing sidegame fed by a group of bystanders who knew nothing of the true nature of their work. They understood little of the bigger picture. Only following orders. Like the young soldier Sherlock had glimpsed whilst being dragged down into this rank darkness. Sherlock could see fear in his eyes, an utter panic at what was surely blind ambition and egotism that had gotten the young Serbian involved in these schemes. And so that young man coped as best he could, enveloping himself in music, anything to try and tune out the atrocities which he must have known were being played out in the room behind him.
Sherlock inhaled sharply as he felt another punch, blood and saliva dripping from his mouth by the weight of the blow. His wrists bled from trying to hold his body up.
"Just tell us why and you can sleep." The Serbian sneered at Sherlock.
But the tortured Holmes genius smirked and remained quiet. Besides, it didn't matter now. He had beaten Moriarty.
The lone figure watching the bloody scenario unfurl shifted in the shadows. For a brief moment Sherlock glimpsed….Mycroft?
Impossible. Why would his brother be here, of all places? Mycroft's disdain for leaving the comfort of his own office was perhaps the second greatest emotion he dared possess—falling short only of the arrogance he liked to parade around by one-upping Sherlock every chance he got.
No. No, the younger Holmes bowed his head once more and waited for the next attack. Surely it was nothing more than his pain-addled brain drawing up images of family in a time of crisis.
What a pathetically human response, thought Sherlock.
If anything, science had proven that in times of dire circumstance, memories recalled only those of people whom one was closest to, friends, family….doctors, Sherlock thought wryly.
Thanks so much for reading! My first post-it was fun to write. More chapters to come in what I hope will be an intriguing new perspective on the episode. Can't wait until Sunday for the new one.