John tries to sleep, but the cold pool of water and straw he calls a bed isn't exactly conductive to relaxation.
'Afghanistan or Iraq?' still turns over and over again in his mind. Thinking about it helps to distract him from other things, like the horrible stench of drying blood, and the searing pain in his shoulder, and the frigid pool of water he's sleeping in.
The worst part (he thinks), is that he doesn't fucking know what's going to happen. John Watson always knows what the future holds. John knew his sister was a lesbian in third grade when she kissed a poster of Cher, and he knew she'd become an alcoholic when she drank her first shot of tequila, and he knew he'd become a doctor one day when his father bought him a toy stethoscope.
What John certainly does not know is where he is, why he's there, how long he's going to be there, if he's going to survive, and who the stranger's voice is.
John is so, so surprised when his cell door opens, and Moran throws a microphone inside.
John scrambles towards the device, and stops it just before it rolls into the puddle of water. He sighs deeply, and tries to clear his rugged voice before speaking. "Hello? Anyone there."
"Yes." The stranger's voice answers, and John breathes a sigh of relief. "How're you doing, John?"
John suppresses a chuckle. "Terrible. Bloody awful." He's smiling. He feels as though he's a deflated balloon that's just been pumped full of helium. "Good to hear your voice."
"Good. That's good... Figure out where you are yet?"
"No..." John looks around his cell, as if there's going to be map hanging on the wall. "I just..." John sighs, and runs his hands wet hands through his hair. He suddenly feels like his skin is burning, and he wonders if he has a fever, or an infection, or something else awful along those lines.
"What can I do to help?" The voice, sounding genuinely concerned, asks.
"Just..." John feels as though an invisible hand is clenching around his throat, and the room seems to expand and contract with his breathing. "I think I'm..." John remembers his childhood, when his mother used to go into hysterics over something, and he would calm her - or try to - while she had a panic attack. "Having..." John gasps as the full weight of the situation crashes onto him like a meteor.
"I understand..." The voice sounds calmer, gentler now. "Just... Calm down."
John can feel his heartbeat echo throughout his entire body like an earthquake. Breathing seems like an dire necessity, and he finds that every quiet breath he attempts turning into a hoarding, gulping gasp, as though he'll never breath again.
"We're going to get you out of there."
"When?" John looks over at his shoulder, which plastered in brown, caked blood.
"Soon."
"How?
"Classified."
John tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a wheeze. "Dead or alive?"
"Safe."
John doesn't believe that for a second. "Safe dead or safe alive?"
The voice tuts, and John breathes a shaky sigh of relief. His body is settling down now, his mind thankful for the distraction. "Keep talking."
"About what?"
"Anything. You."
"What do you want to know about me?"
"You sound interesting."
"So do you. Doesn't mean I want to know your whole life story."
John sighs, and he wishes the handsome voice were a bit better at conversation. "Just say something, anything, that doesn't remind me of where I am."
"Fine." John hears the rustling of fabric and the flutter of paper as the voice pauses. "Serial suicides. Four of 'em, all around London. Each one found alone, in a place they shouldn't have been, and killed by the same poison. How did it happen?"
John thought for a moment. Serial suicides? Cult killings? Something crazy? John winced as he sat up, adjusting his position so he was more alert and focused. "No idea."
"Yup. Neither did half of Scotland Yard. That was, until I showed up..." John listens, fascinated, as the stranger recounts one of the most exciting story John's ever heard. The only thing it's missing is an ending.
"Wait, So how does it end?" John begs, desperate to hear more.
"No idea. I was hoping you could help me with that."
At that moment, the doors to his cell burst open and Moran stalks forward and pulls John off the floor with one arm.
"No!" John cries as he scrambles for the microphone, but it's too late. Moran has kicks it against the wall, and it shatters into a dozen pieces before John's eyes.
John doesn't think he's ever been so angry in his life. In a blind fury, he lunges at Moran, and wraps his arm around his torturer's neck, before pulls his arm back and snapping his neck. John feels the ultimate sensation of triumph before a club comes down across the back of his head.
