A/N I hope you like John, because this chapter is 100% Watson! My goal of this chapter was to put you on the edge of your seat the entire time... So yeah!
Characters still aren't mine!
Fifty kilometres across London from St Bart's awakes John Watson, who is feeling particularly stiff this gloomy day.
As his eyes flutters open, the first thing he sees is the ground, illuminated by a very dim lamp. Using just his head to look around, he realizes that this lamp, along with one other, are the only light sources. The concussed part of his brain is extremely grateful for this. If only he wasn't still in this damned hospital gown.
He drops his head and closes his eyes again, so if someone were to walk in, he would still appear to be unconscious. Plus, closing his eyes makes his head feel much better. He doesn't remember feeling this concussed…
Right. When he limped out of the hospital room, clinging on the IV stand for dear life, the man hit him over the head.
The man…
In the back of John's mind he recognizes him…
Right! From the first thing that happened to him. The crash. So that means that this must finally be coming to an end - if the man behind all of this decided to show up.
Something else is still nagging at his brain though…
Why did he go out of the hospital room in the first place?
John's stomach does a flip flop when he remembers why. Because quite clearly he heard the unmistakable cries of his dear flatmate.
And not just cries of worry, no, that yell was of pain. John has heard plenty of those in his life. But Sherlock's? That was one too many.
When he finally got out of the room, it was not much better. Because then he saw Sherlock keeled over, looking a ghastly shade of white, weakly pushing his hands into his side.
And then, of course, everything went black.
Which brings him to here - to this strange room.
Even though he's no Sherlock Holmes, he can tell by the quick glance he stole earlier that he is in some sort of garage. It's awfully small, if two lamps can lightly fill up the place.
Trying not to visibly wince at the pain in his skull, he listens to the muted pitter patter of the London rain hitting the rafters, then sloshing down into the eaves.
Not to his surprise, when he ever so lightly moves his wrists, he finds them bound together behind him. With another experimental tug, he can say the same about his ankles.
Just bloody great. John thinks, rolling his eyes behind his closed lids. Trapped in a garage, tied to a chair. Head pounding, ribs aching from staying hunched over, and shoulder pinched from being pulled back. Bloody great.
Unable to hide the pain any longer, John lets out a stifled groan, hoping that no one noticed or heard that. If there even is anyone.
That'd be a rather dull way to die. Starved to death in a lonely garage, tied to a chair. No, I'd die from dehydration first. John reminds himself, which does little to calm his nerves.
John's next thoughts stray away from the hell hole and go over to Sherlock. At first he wants the great detective to find and save him, but then that seems too far fetched, due to the body composure he last saw him in.
So then the good doctor just thinks, Please God, let him live.
Although he didn't see much before he blacked out, he saw a sickening figure of Sherlock with a worrying amount of blood seeping from around his hands. No telling how bad that could be.
A shudder runs through John, and he really really hopes that if anyone was watching, they didn't see it. After around a minute he thinks that's the case, until a door opens. John doesn't bother holding up his act of unconsciousness any longer.
He pulls up his head - however painful it is - opens his eyes, and looks straight into the one's who is nearly going to kill him.
The man closes to door, then turns to the side to grab a chair that John didn't realize was in the room. The man swings it around, then sits in it backwards so his legs are off to the side of the back of the chair.
He leans his elbows on the on the top and says, "I've been waiting for this moment for, what seems like forever, so I'll make the whole 'speech thing' fast." John tries not to show any emotion at that, because he really wants more time so that Sherlock can find him. The man doesn't seem to notice, and continues right on, "I am Brenton Walker, former soldier of Her Majesty's Army. You are Captain John Watson, also formerly part of Her Majesty's Army. Honorably discharged, if I remember correctly."
He takes a breath and stands up. "Sorry about the restraints." Brenton says, motioning to John's chair. "Just a precaution. But now that I'm here, I'll go undo your hands. Nasty shoulder, no?" With a devilish chuckle he does indeed take off the restraints holding John's arms behind him.
Slowly pulling his left arm to his lap, John groans in pain, but flat out refuses to yell out in pain in front of this mad man.
"What?" Brenton asks, "No 'thank you'?"
In response, John spits out "Sod off," in his face, and then looks straight at him, not afraid. Which is really a lie, because the only thoughts in his mind are, Sherlock you prick, you better be alive. And if you are, you better be looking for me.
Brenton shrugs his shoulders in John's response and mutters, "Close enough." He throws the restraints to the corner of the room and sits back down in his chair.
"Now," He beings, "Let's get this straight. My best friend, the kid I look after, was injured, shot actually, in the War. His name was Tyson Bowers. I saw you. You took one damned look at him, and then gave up. You put some dressings around the wound - for what though? Just for fun? Because then you turned your back on him, and left him to die."
John looks down at his knees, not saying anything, knowing that this is the truth.
"So then I stayed with him. Until he closed his eyes for good. When the kid took his last breath. 'Least I could do. And then that IED went off. You know what? I saw you get hit by the shrapnel. And the thing is, I didn't even feel bad. Hell, I still don't. Instead I watched you lay on the ground, concussed and bleeding." Brenton humourlessly laughs, which quickly morphs into anger.
"Well?! The fuck do you have to say for yourself? Answer me you pathetic git!" He yells, suddenly standing up from where he was previously sitting.
John, unmoving says two words, "I'm sorry."
And ultimately, that's what really set the psychopath off. "You're sorry? You're fucking sorry?! That's all you have to say about it? About murdering my best fucking friend? I was supposed to take care of the kid, and I failed, because of you!" He knocks his chair down in anger. "Un-fucking-believable." He says under his breath.
Then, without saying another word, he opens the door, leaves, and then closes it. The simplicity of the action just worries John more.
With just the dim lighting to accompany him, he slowly cradles his injured shoulder, afraid to do too much with it. He eventually leaves it to rest in his lap.
He uses his right hand to rub his eyes, which doesn't really make his head feel that much better. The doctor then attempts to stretch out his back, which doesn't really work out, seeing as how he is forced to stay seated.
John glances down at his ankles, and sees that they are completely tied to the legs of the chair, and even if he could use both of his arms, at this angle there is no way that he could get his legs free.
Then he tries to scoot the chair closer to the door, but that doesn't work either, because as it turns out the chair is bolted to the floor. Great. Although perhaps that's not so much of a bad thing, because he doesn't know where he is, so once he got out of this garage, he'd have some problems. He would also still be tied to the chair.
Eventually he just makes peace with the idea that he is going to be stuck in here until someone finds him. Or until Brenton comes back.
Brenton.
That son of a bitch. Yes, John does feel extraordinarily bad for leaving Tyson to die, but he didn't have a choice. If he stayed and tried to save Tyson, then another - maybe even two others - would've died. John shakes his head at thinking about this. Since he moved in with Sherlock, he'd barely thought about the morals he used in Afghanistan.
The doctor continues to massage his shoulder, essentially waiting for his doom. I suppose this is really the case of my life. So many people were in on this case. But really, how many people actually knew the reason why they were going after John? Maybe Brenton told them that the doctor was a murderer. He seems to think that himself.
John closes his eyes again, not wanting to see the walls around him. He's never really been claustrophobic, but he isn't exactly a fan of tight spaces either.
Three minutes later Brenton comes back in, calmer than he was before. Lethargically, John opens his eyes back up. Neither he nor John say anything when he walks in, which suits both of them just fine. Surprising John, he doesn't pick the chair back up. Instead he just stands next to John, looking down to him, in a condescending type of way.
The good doctor forces himself to look right back up at him, without his breathing increasing. There's no way he's going to be a coward if this really is the end.
Then out of the blue, Brenton starts laughing. Not even a short shy laugh, but a full out hysterical laugh. He turns around and slaps the wall, still laughing. Then he turns back to John and says, "I'm quite sorry. It's just that- well- I've been waiting for this moment for years, and now that it's finally here, I just - I don't know what to say!"
Brenton then crouches down so he's at the level of John and gives him a pitying look. "I'm real sorry about your detective. He's probably not gonna be too happy 'bout this."
"You should be the sorry one." John mutters back to him. "If you end up killing me, which is what I assume you're gonna do, Sherlock is going to find you."
"Heh." Brenton says nodding, "I guess you're probably right. But then again. I know his habits. When I was 'researching' you, I came across the famous blog. So I learned a bit about Mr Holmes. He has quite the drug habit. I mean, could you imagine? If some, oh, I don't know, cocaine? Yes, if some cocaine just happened to show up in his flat right after his friend died…?" Brenton smiles at John's expression.
"No, don't." John says flatly, not wanting to think about his flatmate destroying himself due to the demise of himself. "I thought all you cared about is me?!" John shouts out.
"Yeah, that is true. But I also value my life, and, as you said, Sherlock Holmes will go after me. So I guess then it's just a bit of insurance. Oh," He says, his face quickly lighting up in a devilish smile, "You're landlady is quite nice."
"What did you do?" John asks, trying to keep his temper in check.
"Nothing to her. Just while I was giving Sherlock a little present, she saw me. She's awfully sweet. I don't know how she keeps up with you two."
John gives Brenton a look, but doesn't say anything.
"Oh," The mad man says sighing. "Looks like I totally disregarded my own rule. I was going to make this fast. I suppose my speech got a little longer than I wanted. Oh well. I guess I'll just do it now." He shrugs and then pulls out a hypodermic needle from the pocket of his jacket.
John can feel his breathing pick up when the man draws the needle closer to his arm. Without thinking about twice, Watson brings up his right arm and punches Brenton in the face.
Brenton, who is obviously affected by the punch takes a deep breath and takes a step back. "I'd apologize about this... But you really brought this upon yourself." And then before John can react to that statement, Brenton takes John's left arm, with his hand that doesn't have the needle, and sharply pulls it behind the doctor.
John screams out in pain, 'not showing pain in front of the mad man' be damned. His vision goes grey for a moment and his body goes limp against the chair.
Through the haze he still hears Brenton muttering something in his ear, still holding his arm behind him and the chair. "Again, I'd say sorry for this… But I really wasn't in the mood to be punched." He holds the doctor's arm back for a few more seconds, and then lets it go.
John doesn't bother bringing his arm back up, and stays still.
Satisfied, Brenton takes the hypodermic and puts it next to John's jugular again. Right before the needle goes in, John swings his head back, then collides it with Brenton's nose.
"God! You-" Brenton stops mid swear and holds his hand up to his bleeding nose. John does the same with his right hand to his head. May as well make his concussion worse. Better than dying, right?
Brenton throws the hypodermic into the corner of the room and leaves abruptly.
John lets a breath out that he didn't know he was holding in and lets a few tears slip from his eyes. "Damn!" He curses out, grabbing his shoulder. What he wouldn't do for some paracetamol. Or better yet, some morphine. He rests his head on the back of the chair, and tries to block out the pain. The worse part is that in the back of his mind, he knows that all he did was slightly lengthen the time that he stays alive. But really, all this earned him was more pain.
Not a minute later passed before Brenton came back through the dreaded door with a hammer in his grimy hands. John feels his entire body tense up when Brenton's mouth turned up in a grin. His other hand is holding a small bath towel to his nose, presumably to stop the blood flow.
"Oh Christ…" John mutters, closing his eyes and mentally preparing himself for what ever Brenton is going to do with that hammer.
"As I said before, John, I was going to make this quick for ya. But you don't seem to be cooperating. So, I may as well give you some pain before I kill you."
Wordlessly, he then walks calmly up to John, positions the hammer above his right knee cap, and then swings it, as hard as he can.
John screams out in pain, reflexively grasping his knee with his good arm, tears flowing down his cheek.
Brenton laughs at his pain and says, "Now, we're gonna try this again. I have a new needle, because, you know, I care so much about you, and I don't want it to be exposed for so long. If you try and stop me again, I will cause so much pain to you. Scream all you want, no one is going to come and help.
John, who doesn't even try to speak, understands that this man is not messing around, and that he has probably crossed a line. And there are more lines, all of them with pain in and around them.
Brenton pulls the new needle from his pocket, uncaps it, and then walks up to John. Since he is still in that sodding hospital gown, exposing his neck is not a problem. And John, who is in a large amount of pain, will not be a problem this time.
John feels the needle slip into his jugular. He tries to bring his right arm up to stop Brenton from pressing down, but his efforts are futile. His vision is already half blacked out, and his concussed brain is making everything seem dizzy. He lets out a short "N-no." but that doesn't change anything.
Soon Brenton is standing back in front of John, with a pitying look. He cupps John's face and forces his limp neck and head to look up. "This: is for Tyson Bowers." Then he unties John's legs, and leaves.
John, with nothing holding him up, falls to the ground.
His vision is still blurry, his right knee feels like it's been dunked in lava, and his left shoulder must definitely be in a fire. Not to mention the hammers in his pounding head.
He crawls to the door, which hasn't been locked, and leans against it. The knob seems like a million metres away. Slowly, John somehow pulls himself up using his left leg and right arm. He turns the knob, and then immediately falls forward into the opening door.
Step one: get out of the room. John finally pulls himself out of the garage and into the cool London rain and breeze.
While thinking of step two, the good doctor's body completely collapses from it's half-crawling, half-walking position.
Maybe just a quick nap…
Real quick.
He has time for it anyway… Right?
Just going to close his eyes…
It'll be all right when he wakes up.
With one last thought of, Sherlock, save me, John curls on himself and begins to sleep. Just simply sleep.
A/N Dun dun duuunn!
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