Characters: Jim Moriarty. Irene Adler. Sherlock. John Watson. My own Adriane. A rather nasty doctor.
Warnings: Restraint, torture, medical stuff, dub-con, coercion, punishment. Language throughout.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and never will, he belongs entirely to himself, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and those lovely people at the BBC, as do all the other Sherlock characters. I do not make any money from this. Adriane Woodford is a figment of my imagination and does not represent a real person, living or dead.
The two men inside the car are quick. Before I have time to think what is happening they have taken my bag, grabbed my arms and tied my hands behind my back. One of the men makes a show of turning off my telephone before the second one pulls a hood over my head and I feel my feet being tied. Neither of them speaks or responds to any of my questions as the car drives off, leaving me to sit in quiet dread.
I can't judge how long we drive for, as my fear is making every moment go on forever. Eventually the car comes to a halt, and I am dragged out and carried indoors. Without ceremony I am plonked onto a hard chair, and everything goes quiet.
The bright light is blinding as the hood is pulled from my head. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the glare so I can take stock of my surroundings. The light is making it hard, but I can just make out that I am sitting in a large and beautifully furnished room, in what seems like an old stately house. Heavy velvet curtains hang in front of the high windows, and the light that is still shining brightly into my eyes is coming from a bureau lamp that is standing on the heavy wooden desk in front of me and is pointing straight into my face. The rest of the room is dimly lit and I can't make out much in the deep shadows beyond my immediate field of view. Least of all can I see whether there is anyone across from me, behind the desk. I make to shield my eyes from the brightness but my hands are still tied, and I achieve nothing. Instead I end up squinting, which is not as effective as I hoped.
Suddenly, there is giggling across from me, and a male voice says, "Has anyone ever told you that you look like a hamster when you do that?"
I can't place the accent for a moment, thinking first of all American, and then quickly realising it is Irish. I try to see who is speaking, but getting nowhere.
"Who are you?" I say. When there is no answer I try again.
"Let me go."
The man behind the desk gets up and walks over, sitting down on a corner, smiling. I can have a look at him now. He's a pretty ordinary looking bloke, apart from the very sharp suit. Medium height, short dark hair, brown eyes with very heavy eyelids. There is something entirely disturbing about his eyes that I can't define, but that is setting off alarm bells in my head. Everything in his smile and his poise says dangerous. I swallow hard, wondering what is going to happen to me, what I am here for.
"Hi," the man says, "I'm Jim."
He gets up and walks over, leaning against the desk right in front of me, looking down, closely looking me over. He is only partially blocking the light from the desk lamp, and the high contrast means I can't make out his face.
He seems to be grinning when he says, "And what have we here? Adriane Woodford. Sherlock Holmes's girlfriend, would you believe. Now that's got to be pretty special."
He is savouring every word as the true horror of my situation is becoming apparent to me. I suddenly wonder how many enemies Sherlock has made over the years.
I shake my head vigorously, and say, "No, no, I'm not. You've got it wrong. I'm not his girlfriend. Let me go."
Suddenly, he is down very close to my face. "Well excuse me if I don't believe you, my dear, but that's not what it looked like this evening. Or were you getting all smoochy for scientific reasons?"
Jesus, I think, What have I done?
I am pleading now. "Please, you have to believe me. I'm not his girlfriend. I mean nothing to him."
Jim giggles as he stands up. "Oh really. Well then, explain what he's been doing over at your flat so often recently, love. And do tell me about those romantic dinners. Purely business? Talking chemistry?"
He laughs, savouring the moment, stopping to look at my reaction. I realise that to an outside observer that is exactly what it would look like, that it would be almost impossible to convince anyone otherwise. I just shake my head again, having nothing to say. After a while Jim carries on.
"I'm not stupid, you know. Although I'm not so sure about you. Did you really think I was going to believe that simplistic rubbish? I was expecting a bit more of you. I thought you'd be clever."
His whole manner is terrifying. I get the feeling he could turn violent any moment, that he is just on the edge of madness. I wonder if there is anyone else in the room, if anyone would stop him if he suddenly went for me. I just shake my head.
"You're wrong. I know what it looks like but you're wrong." I'm close to tears. All I can think is that nobody even knows that I am missing, that Sherlock has no idea, and that I may not get out of this alive.
Jim looks at me for a while longer, then walks off into the room. He is quiet for a while, pacing up and down. Then he says, "Let's just go on the assumption that I'm not, because, let's face it, I'm not. Then that means you must have some pretty interesting stories to tell. Things he's shared with you, life stories, childhood memories, that kind of thing? Maybe things he's never told anyone else. I mean, I could ask John, of course, but he's like married to Sherlock, he's as tight as a nut. But you, well, I reckon I have a chance with you. You're not quite as… indentured yet."
He turns and looks over to me, grinning. "Anything you would like to share?"
I shake my head and say, "I don't know anything about him. He hasn't told me anything. Please let me go."
Jim walks back over and stands right in front of me again, a dark shape against the bright light. He lets the silence hang for a moment, then bursts out, "Oh it's so boring, don't you think, hearing the same thing over and over and over again? I was hoping you were going to say something new." He throws his hands up into the air as if despairing, and walks off.
"But I guess it can't be helped, you being boring," he says. "Or then again, maybe it can. See, I have a few friends who are rather good at making people say things. I invited them along tonight. Would you like to meet them?"
He stops in the middle of the room, waiting for an answer.
I shake my head, mute with apprehension.
"Oh, that's a bit rude, isn't it?" he says, "I thought you might like to make some new friends. Let me try, anyway."
He gestures to a part of the room that I can't see. A man emerges from the shadows and stops beside me. He is middle-aged, neat looking, and dressed in a lab coat.
"This," Jim says, "Is the Surgeon. I believe you quite like doctors, with all the time you spend hanging around with John, so you should get along just fine. My friend is an experienced medical man, in his own way. And he's got a rather nice and specialised surgery set up in the cellars of this place. Especially for people like you. Aren't you privileged."
The man gives me a cursory bow. The thing that I notice about him most are his cold eyes. Where Jim is bordering on the maniacally insane, this man is as cold as ice. The hairs on the back of my neck are standing up just looking at him.
Jim gestures again, and from another part of the room steps an extraordinarily beautiful woman. She is in her thirties and is impeccably dressed in a cream skirted suit. Her hair is swept back in an elaborate arrangement, which a random part of my mind wonders how long it took her to do, or whether she has someone to do it for her. The things that catch my eye the most are her beautiful eyes and the spectacular shade of red on her full lips, not a colour many women could carry off, but which she seems to wear with ease. She oozes an easy, superior confidence.
Jim says, "And this is another friend of mine that you may address as Mistress. She has extensive skills in a different area, which you will no doubt find out all about."
The woman gives me a mocking smile, her large eyes fixed on me, and says, "Hello."
Her voice is husky, amused, and full of intent. She is looking at me as if I am a new toy she has been given to play with. I look to the floor, feeling small, and wishing for a miracle.
"Now, the question is," Jim continues, "which one of these lovely people I will send you to play with first. Would you like to choose?"
I shake my head, refusing to go along with his warped game. I may not know anything worth withholding, but I'll be damned if I am going to go down easily. I am now beginning to wonder not whether I will get out of this alive, but how long I will last. It is becoming clear to me that they have no interest in keeping me alive, that in fact I would be a liability if I survived this. Facing up to the inevitable brings some freedom with it, and I can feel the fear turn to anger. If I have nothing to lose, then I will try to do so with some style and not as a gibbering wreck.
I look up at Jim again, and say, "There is nothing I can tell you but this. Sherlock is the cleverest person I have ever met and he will find you and I hope he will kill you. For your sake I hope John will be there to stop him, but I wouldn't count on it. You will not get away with this."
Jim just laughs, and says, "Ooh. Really. Well let me tell you dear, the last time I saw John I had him all nicely dressed in semtex ready to explode, only I changed my mind. And Sherlock has spent months looking for me and he hasn't even got close. I think you may be a little over-optimistic. And anyway, I thought you said he didn't care."
He has ended up very close to my face again. In a moment of madness I spit at him. He straightens up and in the same movement slaps me hard across the face.
"ENOUGH ALREADY!" he shouts. His face is suddenly contorted with rage, and I shrink back as much as my position allows, fearful of what he might do next. I can taste blood in my mouth. However, just as quickly as he got angry, he regains his composure.
He stands up calmly, smiling at me again. Then he says, "Well. Time's ticking you know. I'll do the choosing." He takes a coin out of his pocket.
"Heads it's him, tails it's her."
He flicks the coin into the air. I watch with morbid fascination as it comes down and seals my fate. Jim grins. "Heads," he says. "Off to the doctor's."
-oooOOOooo-
My resolve to stay strong lasts as far as the door to the medical room in the cellars. The room is whitewashed and brightly lit, and it could be in any hospital but for the lack of windows and the chair that stands in the centre of the room. It's the kind of device only seen in horror movies and bad sci-fi films, with straps and restraints on all sides, and it is obvious that once in it there will be no getting out.
At the sight of it I panic and throw myself backwards against the man that is pushing me into the room. My head catches him on the chin, and he grunts and nearly lets go of me. My feet have been freed for walking down, so I turn around while he is off guard and try to duck past him. I get two steps away from the door before somebody tackles me from behind and throws me to the ground. I land heavily on my shoulder and face, unable to protect myself with my hands. My right arm is pinned to the floor and I can feel the pin prick of a needle before everything goes black.
When I wake up I am strapped in the chair. Whoever did it has been thorough as I can barely move. The only part of my body that has some free movement is my head, but even that is limited by the band that is loosely strapped over my throat. Enough to see what is going on, not enough to be able to headbutt anyone. I feel sick, both with fear and no doubt with the after-effects of whatever drug they have given me. The room is spinning a bit but it quickly comes into sharp focus when the Surgeon moves into my field of view, syringe in hand.
"So. You're awake," he says. His voice is measured and without any hint of feeling.
He sits down on a chair in front of me, and smiles a cold smile. Then he holds up the syringe. "Simple harmless chemical, but rather painful when injected into the body. Especially effective when applied to a slow bit of tissue, say in a joint," he says, taking my hand and turning it over so my wrist is exposed. He takes an antiseptic wipe and gives my skin a thorough clean. It seems a pointless gesture to me.
The Surgeon slowly moves the needle towards my wrist, and I struggle to get away, panic rising. I hate needles, but what he is threatening to do is so much worse than just giving me an injection. He is watching me as he moves the needle very close to my skin. Then suddenly he sits back again, and says, "Of course I wouldn't have to do this if you would like to talk to me."
I heave a shuddering sigh of relief, believing for a moment that it was just an empty threat. "Please believe me. I don't know anything. There's nothing I can tell you," I say.
He looks at me closely for a minute, then smiles and grabs my hand again so my wrist is facing him and puts the needle onto the skin. "Now you may want to sit still for this. You really don't want this thing to hit bone," he says, still smiling.
I sit rigid in an instant. The man's smile turns into a cold grin. I close my eyes as the needle enters my skin and I feel it go into the joint, and it is agony. I am trying to filter out the intense pain, to concentrate all my thoughts on sitting still. I feel dizzy and am letting out a stream of incoherent obscenities, channelling the pain that way. The growing agony in my wrist tells me that whatever he is injecting is doing its job, and after a short while he withdraws the needle. I feel no difference, in fact the pain is still increasing. Soon it becomes too much to deal with, I can't filter it out anymore. I am screaming by now, my breath coming in sobs, desperately trying to break free of the restraints.
The Surgeon is still sitting in front of me, coldly observing my pain. "Hmm, it hurts, doesn't it," he says. "I have a neutraliser, of course. All you need to do is talk to me."
I look at him, and scream, "I have nothing to tell you! I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING. Please make it stop." I am crying by now.
The man stands up, shrugging. He says, "I will see you again, later." He walks out of the room, switches off the light, and closes the door.
With that, I panic altogether. I can see nothing at all in the darkness, my left arm is in burning agony and I have no idea how long I am going to be left alone in this godawful place. I am screaming and fighting the bonds, pulling with all my might to get free. The pain in my wrist is slowly making its way up my arm and into my hand, until it feels as if that whole part of my body is on fire. I can feel the restraints cutting into my skin but I don't care, all I want is to break free, to get out.
I don't know how long I am fighting for, but in the end I have to give up, exhausted. The hopelessness of the situation overwhelms me and with it a wave of nausea washes over me. I throw up, vaguely wondering when I last had anything to eat, before blacking out.
I can't have been unconscious for very long, because I am still alone and in the dark when I come to. The pain in my arm has spread to the left side of my body, but it is slowly lessening with the dissipation of the drug. I stink of vomit. With nothing else to do, I sit and cry, until eventually even my tears run out. After that, I just stare at the darkness for what seems like an age, cataloguing all the sensations in my body, and wondering how long I am going to stay here.
I try to conjure up some happy memories to keep me from despairing, but any thought of Sherlock just makes me realise how little chance there is of him ever finding me alive, and that he probably isn't even aware that there is anything wrong, that he isn't looking. I try to picture him on the violin, but although I can see the image the memory of the music is gone, leaving me feeling empty. Thinking of Phil makes me smile a little, because he is so sweet and naïve and totally out of touch with all this. I wonder if he will ever find out what happened to me, and the thought sets me off crying again.
At that moment, the door of the room opens and the light is switched on. I can't see a thing in the glare, and I have to close my eyes. After a short while I reopen them to a squint. The Surgeon is standing in front of me.
"You stink," he says, and presses a buzzer on the wall.
Within seconds, two men arrive. I recognise one of them from the car journey. "Clean her up," the Surgeon says.
The men undo the restraints and pull me to my feet, each one holding onto one of my arms. Then they drag me off to a side room, which has a shower and a toilet in it. They strip me and make me visit the toilet, then watch me as I take a shower.
If they intended to humiliate me by watching it isn't working. I am past caring, just happy to be able to move freely for a moment and to get clean. I silently thank Sherlock for subjecting me to so much intense observation that I have become indifferent to what to me is just a bit of staring. That thought finally makes me smile. I wonder if Sherlock meant to harden me up a bit, or whether this is just a fortunate side-effect of being his study subject for nearly a year. I sneak a drink from the hot water. It's disgusting, but better than nothing.
The door of the cubicle opens and one of the men switches off the shower. He throws me a towel and says, "Get out."
When I am dried they hand me a hospital gown. It looks like my clothes have already gone into the bin, and it only serves to strengthen my belief that they do not intend to let me live. The dread that lifted briefly in the last few minutes settles back in the pit of my stomach. I try to hold back the tears.
The men lead me back into the main room and strap me back into the chair. I don't see the point in struggling anymore, as they are obviously quite capable of overpowering me. When they are finished they leave the room, leaving me alone with the Surgeon once more.
He has arranged a row of small vials on one of the benches while I was in the shower. Now he turns to me, and says, "I've a few things here that I have wanted to try out for some time now. It was just a question of waiting for the right opportunity, and here you are."
I'm just watching him with resignation, vaguely wondering what horror awaits me this time. "Was there anything you wanted to tell me?" he asks, not really appearing to be that interested in the answer.
I shake my head. "I know you won't believe me. I don't have anything to tell."
He looks up at me, and says, "Shame, isn't it."
For a while he seems to hesitate in front of the bottles. I try not to let it get at me, almost sure that he is doing it for dramatic effect. Even so, my feeling of dread heightens. Suddenly, he picks up a bottle and turns back to me.
"Now, all this panicking and struggling just takes away from the pure sensation of the pain, don't you think? I've something here that should help with that," he says, making a show of filling a syringe. I cringe unwillingly, trying not to show how much even such a simple gesture is unnerving me.
"Muscle relaxant," he says. "Well, actually, it's a paralytic. But I believe in this formulation, when applied to the correct point, it only serves to paralyse the subject's voluntary muscles, not interfering with heart and lung function. Best of all it doesn't take away their sensory experience." He pauses a moment and looks at me, then adds, "It means you should still be able to feel the pain."
I feel no urge to tell him that I understood him the first time.
The Surgeon stands up and walks behind me. He says, "You probably wondered why the back of the chair is not entirely solid. See, there is a nice opening here," he runs his hand down my back, "to allow access to the spine."
I make an incoherent noise of sheer terror when I realise where this is going.
"Now, you need to sit perfectly still for this. I think you understand the risks," he says.
Unfortunately I am shaking by now, and I am in tears pleading for him to stop. He is ignoring me, calmly carrying on with his preparations. I can feel him opening the tie on the gown so that he has access to my neck, and I shudder as he feels for the exact point of entry. He appears to be drawing a mark on my skin at that spot. Then he says, "Right. Sit perfectly still now."
I can't do it. By now I am shaking so badly that there is no controlling it. I try to push myself against the back of the chair so that at least that part of me is still, close my eyes and fear the worst. I do know what the risks are; if he gets this wrong I will be paralysed from the neck down, and not just until the drug wears off. I try to hold my breath, hoping that might help, but I am such a state that I can't do that either. The man behind me sighs.
"This is no good. You need to sit still."
He gets up and presses the buzzer again. Almost instantly the two men reappear.
"I only need one of you," the Surgeon says. "I need you to hold her still for me."
One of the men walks back out, the other comes over and puts his hands on my shoulders, pushing me hard against the back of the chair. His face is close to mine but I close my eyes again, blanking him out, trying to pretend this is not happening.
I don't feel the needle enter this time, but the effect of the drug is nearly instantaneous. I feel all control of the muscles below my neck disappearing, until I can only move my head and face. The Surgeon moves back into my field of vision, and pinches my arm, hard. I flinch with the pain, or at least my face does. The rest of my body stays completely still.
"Good," he says. "It seems to have worked."
He moves back to the workbench and gets another bottle, another syringe. "I think we will try the other wrist this time," he says.
There is nothing I can do but watch him inject another dose of the first drug into my wrist. The pain is much worse than the first time. I don't seem to be able to scream, although I manage to mutter a steady stream of curses. It is not enough. Without any distraction the effect of the injection is devastating. My whole arm is burning, and I can feel the room spinning. I am finding it hard to focus, panic overwhelming me, but then someone throws what feels like a glass full of cold water into my face and I come back to the room.
"No," the Surgeon says, "there is no point if you are going to drift off. For the full experience you need to stay here."
I am sobbing with the pain. He isn't walking off this time, but stays and observes me. It reminds me somewhat of Sherlock, but the contrast couldn't be greater. With everything that Sherlock has done, however callous he may have appeared, I have always felt looked after. Uncomfortable certainly, embarrassed on many occasions, pushed well over my limits and in more pain that I knew I could deal with a couple of times, but never abused, never made to suffer for the sake of it. This man is enjoying it, he is deriving pleasure from watching me in pain. There is no compassion, he is not doing this for any other reason than his own benefit, the satisfaction of his sick mind. I think he knows that I have nothing to tell, but he is just enjoying the torture.
I suddenly feel a huge wave of appreciation for Sherlock, understanding what he could have done had he been a different person. God knows he's had plenty of opportunity. For a moment, the thought blocks out everything else, and I smile without thinking. The man in front of me frowns, confused, clearly wondering why his methods don't seem to be working. It makes me even happier, and I grin through the pain, even if it is just for an instant. He stands up now, checking me over. He holds onto my other hand and pushes my fingers upwards, hard, until it feels something might break. I whimper with the pain, the moment gone, back in the horror of the here and now. The Surgeon gives a satisfied little nod.
At that moment, the door opens and Jim comes in. "How's it going, Doc?" he asks, sing-song, as he walks over to the chair.
"Hm," the Surgeon says, "This is a strange one. I am starting to believe she really doesn't know anything."
Jim comes over and stands close to me, studying my face, looking me in the eye. I return his gaze, too exhausted to fight him, still in too much pain to care very much. He stares at me for quite some time and then suddenly stands up and says, "Naah. Can't be."
He walks carelessly over to the row of bottles on the bench. He picks one up, and says, "Tried this one yet?"
The Surgeon walks over and looks at the bottle. He appears to hesitate. Then he says, "No. I'm not sure about that particular one. The side effects on the last one were severe. We didn't get much of a result."
Jim shrugs, and says, "Be brave. Try it on a half dose or something. Improvise."
The Surgeon seems to be nervous of him. He takes the bottle from his hand, and says, "Fine. We will have to wait until the other drugs wear off."
Jim twirls around on the spot and shouts, "But that's BORING. Can't you do something NOW?"
"Not without risking the sudden death of the subject," the Surgeon responds. He doesn't look at all convinced and it scares me. I wish I could do something, move, scream, but all I can produce at the moment is some muttering.
"Please. I don't know anything. Please," I manage.
It was probably the wrong thing to say. Jim lowers his face to mine, and says, "Well if you don't know anything, then it won't matter too much if you die, will it. And if you do happen to be holding something back, well lucky us." He gestures to the Surgeon.
"Dose her up, Doc."
The Surgeon pulls off my gown and hooks me up to what appears to be an ECG machine. Then he fills a syringe and injects it into my arm. For a while nothing happens, and I am wondering if he got the dose of whatever it is wrong. Then I start to feel very hot, and at the same time I get the most wonderful feeling of happy indifference. I really don't care at all what is happening to me anymore, or what they do and don't know. Jim is watching me, and he says, "So. How do you feel about me, love?"
I don't hesitate a moment before answering, "I think you are a dangerous psychotic twat and Sherlock is going to kill you. I hope it will be slow and painful."
Jim claps his hands in glee. "Wonderful!" he cries, "Oh that's just marvellous. Let's ask some more questions, Doc."
He sits down on the chair in front of me, and asks, "So. What's the deal with you and Sherlock then?"
I just laugh at him, "It's nothing really. I turn up and he does experiments on me. If he's in a good mood he lets me stay."
Jim frowns. "What. That's it? And you let him?"
I smile back at him. "Yup. He's lovely, really." I feel good about this, even though I am getting hotter and hotter. The thing showing my heart rate must be broken, because it is registering over 200 beats per minute and the pattern on the screen looks funny. The Surgeon has a comical worried look on his face.
"Sir," he says, "We should stop this before she goes into cardiac arrest."
Jim looks irritated. "One more," he says. He turns to me again, and asks, "And has he told you lots of things about himself while doing this?"
I am grinning by now. The pain in my arm seems to have disappeared completely, even though I still can't move my arms and legs. "Nope. Oh yes, he said he wasn't one of my homicidal boyfriends. He plays the violin beautifully though."
Jim rolls his eyes, and says to the Surgeon, "That stuff isn't working. It's just making her silly. You had better make sure she survives this and goes back to normal. God, this is taking forever." He gets up and storms out of the room, slamming the door behind him. I giggle.
It is taking an age for the paralysis drug to wear off, but the Surgeon blocks out the effect of the latest drug with another injection and it wears off nearly instantly. It leaves me feeling dreadful – drained, cold, sick and with a spectacular headache. Thankfully, he seems to have finished with me for the night and I am untied and dragged to a small room, not much more than a cell. The men carrying me put me down on the bed in the recovery position, still naked, and throw a blanket over me. One of them puts a plate and a mug down in the corner.
"There's some food there, if you can get to it."
They both laugh as they leave the room. It closes behind them with a definite click.
After what feels like hours I slowly regain control of my limbs. As soon as I am able I drag myself over to the corner and drink the water. The food which appears to be some kind of pie with chips looks like it was never any good and it is cold, but I eat it anyway. Then I make my way back to the bed slowly, lie down and fall almost immediately into a restless sleep.