As John walked out, it crossed Sherlock's mind to ignore his orders, to simply walk out of that tent and back to his own, but another wave of pain hit him and Sherlock groaned, closing his eyes. There was little point in stirring up trouble, so he decided to simply obey. Instead, he took the time to looked around at the sparse belongings in Watson's tent, spotting an old photograph on the little table beside the cot. Sherlock picked it up, staring at the young woman that smiled back. "You must be Mary," he thought dryly. Even from the photo he could tell she was a governess, and modest, though not at all weak as many women in our day and age are.
John finally made it to his last stop, the medical tent, telling a lesser doctor that if he was needed by any of the men they could find John in his tent. When he was done talking to the doctor John made his way back to his tent. When he walked in he saw Holmes holding a picture, "That's Mary, if you were wondering." John told Sherlock.
"Yes, I figured as much," Sherlock answered, looking up at John. "She is lovely. You must be proud." They were empty comments, those Sherlock know that others would make, that he cared little about.
John laughed, "You don't have to act for me. I can tell that your not the type of man that cares for that type of thing. It doesn't bother me, think what you wish to think, just don't always tell me what it is."
Sherlock couldn't resist smiling slightly, Watson surprising him again. "I appreciate that, Watson. Social niceties can be quite trying."
John smiled looking at him, "Sadly I couldn't agree any more, but I just deal with it. I only have to deal with it when I'm around Mary, but I love her so I deal with it."
Sherlock grimaced at his words. Always love with the doctor. John was so taken with this girl, and he could not understand it in the least. "So sentimental, Watson. Do be careful, or your romanticism will be the death of you."
John sat down in his chair looking at Holmes trying not to smile, "Why Holmes, what is that tone I detect? Is it jealousy or something else?" He joked, "Are you sad you don't have someone in your life?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's joking, trying to ignore the part of his mind that pointed out that he had been acting like a jealous teenager. "Do keep your tasteless jokes to yourself, Watson. Love is only a motive, I've no intention of ever letting it into my life. You'd be amazed the amount of crimes committed due to love."
John nodded turning to his desk, signing the papers that were just laying there, "I am sorry if I have offended you Holmes, please do forgive me, I will not make jokes like that again if it pleases you."
Sherlock frowned, shaking his head. "I am merely not fond of the subject of love. There are much more interesting things to discuss." He peered around, his frown deepening. "Although none of which are here, I am afraid."
John then added sarcastily, "Of course, what could be more exciting then almost dying just about every single day?" He shook his head, "But enough of my talk, what about you Holmes? What are the dirty little secrets of your life?"
Sherlock smiled wryly at John's words, shaking his head. "There is nothing more exciting than a puzzle, Watson. I am a detective. Or at least, I was, until I ran out of funds."
"A detective eh? Solve any good cases?" John asked partly out of boredom and partly out of the reason that he actually wanted to get to know this man, get closer to him.
Sherlock pursed his lips at the question, furrowing his brows. "I believe our definition of 'good' differs in that aspect. I've solved many intriguing little problems, but the police are unwilling to admit when they need help, and so unwilling to take my advice, leaving a great deal of more public cases - those YOU would likely describe as 'good' - unsolved."
John nodded, "Well I think I am going to go and get me some food, and while I am eating I will think about letting you do another experiment." He then stood up and started to walk towards the entrance of the tent, "Do you want anything," he asked before leaving.
Well, at least John was considering allowing Sherlock to experiment again. "No, thank you, I am not hungry," he answered, despite having only had a bit of toast for breakfast. He could get like this when his moods overtook him, not eating for days at a time, but he always kept his self sharp. "Although if you could find a cigarette or a pipe, I would be extremely grateful."
John turned around to face Sherlock, "I will get a pipe for you, but if you don't eat then I won't let you experiment, simple as that. You have to have something in your system, even if it is a roll or something, then I would feel better."
Sherlock immediately sat up, though he regretted the action when a shudder passed through him "You cannot be serious!" Sherlock protested, ignoring the fact that he sounded like a child. "Commanding officer or not, Doctor, I do not need to be mothered - I will eat when I am ready!"
John hid the growing smirk on his face, "Alright then your not going to experiment tonight, you can wait until tomorrow." John then walked out of his tent and started on his way to the mess tent.
John could not mean it. Surely, he was bluffing. Yet, when he walked out of the tent, Sherlock knew he was not. Biting back a grown, Sherlock fell back down onto the cot, glaring at the canvas ceiling. No one had ever treated him in this manner, not even his own parents. Why should John care if he ate or not? Sherlock knew his limits, and he knew just how much he needed to stay strong enough in battle; he had made it this far, hadn't he?
When John was well enough away from the tent he let the smirk onto his face, but then it dropped as he thought to his self, 'Why should I care if this man eats or not? As he said, I am not his mother.' John shook his head, he feels like he is treating Sherlock as John treats Mary, well no more. John quickly grabbed a plate, sat down and ate it, listening to the men talk, not taking part in any of the conservations, letting his thoughts and emotions run over him, which many of the men found strange since he was always active in the conservations. When John finished he took his plate up and grabbed an apple and went back to his tent. He reached his tent and just stood there for a moment gathering his self.
Sherlock knew Watson would be gone for a little while, so he looked around for something to entertain his self with. He eyed the revolver sitting nearby, but decided against practicing his aim, as these walls were not thick enough to stop the bullets, and he did not want to injure someone. Finding nothing of real interest - at least, nothing that wouldn't make him extremely nosy - he pulled the blanket over his head like a sulking child.
Finally John walked into his tent quietly, in case Holmes was sleeping and sure enough he was laying on the cot with the blanket pulled over his head like a sulking child. John just shook his head and quietly laughed as he sat the apple down and gathered a few things for him to do tomorrow when one of the soldiers would take the mail into town if we wanted to send any letters. John filled out the envelopes for Mary and one for his parents. Before sealing them and setting them down, he then sat down at my desk enjoying the silence of camp.
Sherlock listened closely as Watson entered, counting his steps and able to track where he was by ear alone. "You intent to hold to your words?" Sherlock asked. "I can go for two more days without food before it begins to affect my strength and judgment."
John looked over to Holmes, "Yes I do intend to hold true to my words, but if you eat then you can experiment all you want. I am a doctor, and right now you would be my patient."
Sherlock poked his head out from under the blanket, watching John, before reluctantly reaching out for the apple he'd set aside. If eating the thing would allow Sherlock his experiments, then he would eat it. It was a small price to pay to alleviate his boredom.
John smirked as Sherlock grabbed the apple and reluctantly started eating it. He nodded his head towards Sherlock and the apple, "When your done eating that you can have your fun, just let me know when you need me." John then leaned back in his chair hoping to take a little nap before Sherlock needed him.
Sherlock waved John off, still irritated, but he would doubtlessly take John up on that offer later. Sherlock finished the apple off quickly enough before moving from the cot, making sure he was steady on his feet. He moved back to the makeshift chemistry set, setting back to work while Watson napped.
John smiled, glad that he could take a quick nap while Sherlock worked, and thankfully he was asleep with in seconds.
Sherlock carefully mixed ingredients, watching the chemicals with a precise eye. Knowing his mixture, he did not take as long this time. Sherlock eyed the substance in the little glass tube, deciding that he must have it right this time. Filling the syringe, he stood, crossing to Watson to shake him awake. "Watson," Sherlock urged, "I have the next mixture."
"Watson," John heard Holmes say, urging him awake, "I have the next mixture." John opened his eyes to see Sherlock standing above him holding a syringe. John sat up and nodded, "Alright, sit on the bed and you can start." He then grabbed his pencil and pad of paper so could watch and observe.
John's response caused Sherlock to smile slightly, and he nodded, moving to sit at the edge of the cot. Once again he rolled up his sleeve, using his opposite arm this time, so that my other one would not be too tender, having already received injections of cocaine and one of his experimental drugs. "Let us see if I got it right this time..." Once again, Sherlock slid the needle under the skin and pushed. The flow of drugs was easy, offering a cool rush to my blood, and not long afterward, he felt the lull of the sedative taking over, easing his muscles.
John watched as Holmes slid the needle into his opposite arm and injected this experiment into him. John smiled as the flow of sedates washed over Sherlock, any moron could tell he's been sedated, John wrote all of this down and continued to watch.
In the back of Sherlock's mind, he counted, but even now, he could feel the mixture taking over, threatening to send him to sleep, though he'd made sure the dose was not enough to actually do so. He tested the movements of my hands, each a little sluggish as the calm settled over him. After the first half hour, the effects remained the same, and he smiled in triumph. Still, "Get a knife, Watson," Sherlock ordered somewhat distantly. "The drug's useless if I can still feel pain."
John watched for a half of an hour as Holmes moved his hands sluggishly every so often, then out of nowhere Sherlock ordered John to get a knife. Telling John that this drug was useless unless he could feel pain, sadly John knew he was right. So he got up and pulled a small blade out of his boot, holding it in his hand John asked, "Do you want to do it or me to do it?"
"My movements are too inhibited, you must do it" Sherlock answered, offering a hand to him, as they were the most sensitive, and would offer the best indication as to whether or not my body had been numbed against the pain.
John sighed, "That's what I figured." He grabbed the hand that Sherlock held out for him and slowly cut the palm of it, looking to him John asked, "Do you feel any pain at all?"
Sherlock watched the blood rise to the surface, his mind noting that he SHOULD be in pain, but the nerves not sending the signal to the rest of his body. Sherlock flexed his fingers and, with his thoughts still muddled with the sedative, he could not fight back a grin. "I believe we can call this one a success, Doctor. I feel nothing at all."
John smiled slightly, "Wonderful, now I'm cleaning it." He put down his blade and put down Sherlock's hand so he could grab the things to clean it with. Taking a rag John wiped off what blood he could before pouring some of the rubbing alcohol on it, wiping more blood off he then started to bandage it, being careful, and gentle even though Sherlock was sedated.
Sherlock could not rightly protest that John leave the wound, so he simply nodded. Besides, the last thing he wanted to die of out there was an infection, shuddering at the thought. "I dare say we might want to try this out on a patient. I know sedatives are scarce in a time of war. If we could simply mix it, your soldiers will have a much easier time, Watson."
John nodded, trying not to laugh because you could tell that Sherlock wanted to protest, but was in no right mind to do so. Replying, "Well I will check later on to see if there is a patient that needs it. Does that satisfy you?"
Sherlock had not expected John to agree, and smiled widely when he did. He was truly beginning to take a liking to John Watson, despite his mothering and his sentimentalism. It was rare to meet a man that showed intelligence, and even more so to meet one that showed his compassion. Flexing his bandaged hand, Sherlock nodded. "Very much so, Watson." He moved to lie down, knowing it was not his cot, but not caring. "Now if you've no protests, these drugs are making me extremely tired."
John shook his head, "None at all, now get some rest, I will check up on you in a few, to make sure you haven't died or anything." He then walked out of the tent smiling ready for anything that came his way.
Smiling at his words, Sherlock curled up on his side, pulling the blankets up around him. Only officers were given cots, as it was too expensive to supply each soldier with one, and it was much more comfortable than the thin pad on the ground he had become accustomed to since leaving London. It was too bad he would likely not be able to do this often because he fell asleep in only minutes, content in that narrow bed.
John went on another thing of rounds before finally stopping at the medical tent after everything else turned out fine. He relieved the doctor there and sat down in a chair watching all of the patients sleep. John got up and grabbed a book and started to read it out of complete and udder boredom.
Sherlock slept for longer than he had intended, though that is to be expected with sedatives running through the body. When he did wake up, it was to the sound of gunfire. Immediately, he shot up from the cot, dropping down onto the ground to take cover. Another attack? So soon. Frustrated, he reached for his pistol. At least there was no cannon this time.
All of a sudden all John could hear gunfire, sitting up in the chair rubbing sleep out of his eye. "Shit," he mumbled grabbing his gun he ran outside the tent into a lesser, much lesser doctor, "Stay with these men, and protect them!" was all John yelled at him before running off to tell the orders. Before he could get far though he was hit upside the head making him fall into darkness.
Sherlock scrambled out of the tent in time to see Watson hit over the head. Immediately, anger flared up inside of him and Sherlock pointed his pistol at John's attacker, about to pull the trigger when he detected a movement beside him. Sherlock tried to step away, but was too late, a sharp pain in his head the only indication that he'd been hit before Sherlock too blacked out.
Sherlock's head was pounding when he first began to stir again, though he didn't open my eyes. Instead, he expanded his other senses, knowing that if he could observe without being observed, he would have the upper hand. Strangely enough, it was not the first time he had been knocked out, and he recognized the signs, his hands bound behind his back with rope. The room was cold and a little damp, scents of mud and mold in the air. Sherlock was on the ground, his face pressed against room was small, he would guess, but he could hear the muffled sound of footsteps just outside of it. Listening carefully for breathing, he found only one other body in the room, and after managing to sort out his thoughts, he realized it must be Watson. Slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking blearily and sitting up. Indeed, the room was small, about nine feet by ten, and another ten in height - his throbbing head quickly calculated 900 cubic feet of air, minus the room that the sparse bits of furniture: a cot, a desk, and an old chair - with a few gas lamps bolted to the walls. There was one small, barred window letting light into the concrete prison, and a solid door connecting us to what was likely the rest of the shabby old building. Attempting to straighten his vision, he scooted closer to Watson, nudging him with his knee, though trying to be quiet, so as not to draw attention to ourselves. "Watson," Sherlock whispered. "Wake up."
"Watson, wake up," John heard Holmes say making his head throb even more then it already was. John slowly opened one eye, then the other taking in his surroundings, he saw a cot, desk, and an old chair, and only one window, tiny and barred along with a solid door. He looked to Holmes and whispered so he wouldn't draw attention to ourselves, "What happened? Do you know anything?"
Licking his dry lips, Sherlock peered around again, working his hands inside the rope and feeling it rub against his wrists. Upon first waking up, he knew nothing, but with some time to observe, he was able to make deductions. "When we were attacked, we were knocked out, likely by the butt of a gun, and taken here. There are three men outside, presumably our captors." Sherlock managed to get to his feet without the use of his hands, peering out the barred window, surprised to see the sun was rising, not setting. We'd been out through the night. "We are not in a town. More likely a camp."
John nodded listening to every little thing that Holmes just said, he struggled to get up, but eventually made it up with no help. John looked out the window, "Wonderful, we've been out all night." He looked over to Holmes, "So, do you have a plan, because you always seem to surprise me."
As John asked Sherlock for a plan, he smiled wryly, wondering when John had grown to trust him so much. "Perhaps," Sherlock answered, peering out the window still. There were no signs of a guard out there, but he knew better than to believe we were not being watched. He turned, sliding down the wall onto his back and closing his eyes. "Our captors have likely been checking every hour or so to see if we are conscious." With a deep sigh, Sherlock looked at Watson gravely. "How do you believe you would fare against torture?" Prisoners of war were often subjected to it for information.
John stayed standing up at the window for a few moments longer before facing Holmes nodding his head, "I know all to well about torture Holmes."
Sherlock nodded, glad that he was at least aware of what may or may not happen. He strained his wrists against the ropes, but it didn't seem like he would be escaping them any time soon. "I do not know how long it was since they last checked on us... but I need at least half an hour to think. Do not speak to me during that time, and I will have an escape plan."
John nodded sitting back down on the ground, "Take all the bloody time you need." He then tried to get out of his ropes, but they were bound far to tightly for him to get out of.
Sherlock closed his eyes, tilting his head back so that it rested against the concrete wall. He wished he had a pipe to smoke, to help him think, but Sherlock knew he would have no such luck here. Still, he set his mind to work. Unfortunately, he did not get my half hour, as ten minutes in, a loud click signified that the door had been open, and a dark-skinned soldier, dressed in an enemy uniform, stepped inside with a pair of."Ah, you are awake," he hummed, accent thick. "How did you gentlemen sleep?"
A/N:
YES CLIFFHANGER :D muhahahahahahaha lol enjoy lots of those babies coming up ;D
Here is chapter four my darlings….and just so you all know I REALLY want to kill my keyboard…the spacebar is all messed up -.- oh well! Please review :D Happy New Year! Sorry its taken longer then I thought…please don't hate meLots of love,
Savannah