Sherlock let himself experience what he might have thought if he believed his apparent situation; it was this:
It was indefinable. The indefinable truth.
It was the indefinable truth, defined. By a moustachioed Man— an American, in his way of going about things, at least— and an almost seamless location, one concrete sleeve of a corridor down which Sherlock was now finding himself being escorted along.
I am not me: I am myself, but I lack in the areas I thought I had.
Sherlock jerked his wrists slightly. Bound, still. The tight metal of the weighty handcuffs disagreed with his skin and gnawed at it, like the jaws of an empty dog.
So, he felt pain. He could feel pain. Yet who designs a robot who can feel pain? Who troubles themselves with the science of artificial sensory cells, neurons— sensory, relay, pyramidal? Who chooses to weaken a brilliant mind with the ability to hurt? And his mind?— yet another figment of his 'imagination'?
How needlessly ironic this all was proving to be. Was he to believe that his brain was just a very clever example of instrumental design? A toy disguised as a 'consulting detective', a non-existence.
He was a toy.
He should love to meet his creator, his seller, his owner.
So much the better if all three were one.
And now, he thought, let me work my way out of this one.
On my left and right sides I am blocked by walls. In front and behind of me, I am blocked by men. Above me the ceiling is unbroken by ventilation openings. Below me is similar: the floor is as concrete as the walls and are implanted with no manholes, trapdoors, or other potential solutions to my problem. I have memorised every single turning and door since I was ordered from the white room by Man, and have even, at every point possible, taken the opportunity to estimate how far an adjoining corridor might extend away, what might lie behind a locked door, the pattern of the complex's routes. The design flaw of a high security building intended to keep things in will often be its predictability and will only help things out.
Sherlock thought, repetition and lack of imagination should be reconsidered in such places. The best place to hide treasure is in a labyrinth, and leave Theseus no string.
Now on either side of him were cells. Set back in the walls, they appeared two-dimensional. They owed it to the light delivered by stark strip-lamps overhead. They flickered and gave the impression of buzzing, though Sherlock could hear no sound; the cell's front walls were sheets of thick glass. Tinted. He judged it at three inches.
Each holding chamber contained a person.
Or only what looks like one, he presumed.
Some of them also didn't look like one. An unclothed male with only half of a face watched the space between his own feet. Did he hope for it to open up and swallow him? Despite his disfigurement— a bared, dense network of wires and cyber-structure from the top of his shaved skull to his left hand— the still-human part of his face looked calm.
In the neighbouring cell, a woman. Dark-skinned, wide-nosed and -lipped. She was a portrait of rage, painted into motion. Over and over she was butting her shoulder into the glass wall of her prison, slapping her hands against it, gnashing and pouring clear liquid from her eyes.
Is it salt water or petrol, he wonders wryly.
Beyond the sights of the corridor, at its end, stood a steel door. Vulgar, yellow lettering was stamped across it:
CAUTION: UNSTABLE SPECIMENS - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
Sherlock smiled.
Definitely Americans.
END PHASE: 2
AN/ Thanks for reading- reviews are always welcome!