Sherlock struggled from beneath layers of sleep slowly. Instead of bursting into the waking world as a flame of energy, as usual, he heaved himself through swamps and fogs of shadowy slumber until his eyes opened and the outside world greeted him. It seemed too bright, too radiant for his befuddled mind, so he blocked it out for a while longer, allowing himself to drift on the soft eddies of near-unconsciousness.
After finally dragging himself from the sofa, Sherlock meandered into the kitchen in search of some form of caffeine. He was disappointed to find that, although they had plenty of tea, their milk had long since expired. He was only momentarily perturbed, deciding that the best course of action was to sit and yell until Mrs. Hudson came to investigate what was going on in the flat. He knew that he could've simply sent John out to the store, but he didn't think he could wait that long for relief from the weights that were once again trying to drag him back to sleep. He was just about to begin his shouting when he heard a thunk come from above. Concerned that John was having yet another nightmare, Sherlock frowned and rose from his seat on the sofa. It wasn't unusual for John to suffer from multiple such episodes, especially following a particularly gruesome case. Given the rather sizeable accumulation of bodies during this last case, Sherlock supposed that this one fell into the "gruesome" category, sub heading: "massacre." He really couldn't blame John for having such dreams, even if he did firmly believe that the doctor could try harder to prevent them.
He wandered up the stairs, contemplating the pros and cons of just curling into the bed with John once he got up there. On one hand, John seemed to sleep better when he had some company, and Sherlock found his room a pleasant alternative to the cluttered mess that was his own. On the other, Sherlock had woken up on multiple occasions by being struck by John, and he didn't particularly want to relive the experience for the dozenth time. There were only so many bloody noses a man could tolerate before realizing the limits of his welcome. He had the sinking feeling that he was decidedly un-welcome in John's bed.
He lightly tapped on the door, subconsciously rubbing his arm as he did so. When he didn't hear any response from within the room, he decided that he'd better check on John, just in case. He pushed the door open and was promptly struck on the shoulder, causing him to gasp and stumble. He was forced further onto the ground as more blows rained down from above, relentlessly striking Sherlock's unprotected back while the detective wrapped his arms around his head to protect it from being hit. Once Sherlock felt the tide of strikes slowing, he quickly rolled onto his back so he could get a good look at his opponent and fight back. He was shocked by what he saw when he did so.
"John! What in bloody hell are you doing?"
The doctor was looming overhead, prepared to deal another blow to Sherlock's person when the remark cut into his fury. He stood, looking utterly perplexed for a moment before hardening his lips into a grim line. "So you speak English. Good. It'll make the interrogation easier." With that, John grabbed a length of rope that had been laying on the floor and began trussing Sherlock up.
"What are you talking about? Of course I speak English! I'd be a damn fool not to, considering I live in England." Sherlock attempted to wriggle away from John and his rope, but the military man simply pressed his foot into Sherlock's sternum, effectively restricting the detective's ability to breathe or move. Unable to make further protests concern his abuse, Sherlock began to look John over closely in order to discern the cause of his irrational behavior. The mental catalog he created was very worrisome, indeed.
Eyes: Pupils blown wide, nearly obscuring the ring of blue surrounding them. Head: Oozing wound to the right temple, bloody mouth. Right arm: Multiple track marks, extensive bruising, swallow cuts. Right leg: Bound wound of some sort, likely a bullet wound, given the gun tucked into the waistband of John's pajamas. Torso and other extremities: Extensive bruising, scratch marks.
Summary: Severe concussion, drugged, possibly beaten, most likely unaware of his surroundings. In danger of bleeding out, suffering brain swelling, and/or experiencing seizures. Prognosis: Bleak.
By the time Sherlock had finished his preliminary once-over of John, the doctor had bound his hands together quite securely, and he was being hauled back down the stairs into the lounge. Sherlock turned his head to get a better look at John's leg, hoping to determine the exact location of the bullet wound by John's gait and weight distribution upon the injured limb. Obviously, it had not struck the femoral artery, or John would not be on his feet, much less breathing, at the moment. Sherlock was pleased to see that John had found his old cane and was using it to help himself walk; this meant that he was at least cognizant of the pain. He deduced that the bullet had gone through John's thigh slightly above the knee and exited at an upwards angle. This was a peculiar trajectory, to say the least, and Sherlock was becoming increasingly more frustrated at his lack of knowledge concerning the events leading up to his present situation.
He was plopped onto the ground in the center of the lounge. John quickly tied the loose end of the rope to the back of the chair in which he had sat Sherlock before he himself settled into his usual armchair with a stifled groan of pain. Sherlock hoped that the increasing pain would snap John out of whatever hallucination he was experiencing, but he had no such luck. In fact, John simply pulled out his gun and pointed it at Sherlock's chest.
"Why are you here, and to whom are you reporting?" John's eyes looked eerie, what with the dilated pupils and cold, hard stare he had fixed on Sherlock.
Sherlock sighed, trying to determine what the best approach to getting out of this situation un-riddled with holes would be. He suspected that protesting John's "reality" would not end well for either party, so he decided to try playing along with John's delusion. He always had enjoyed acting, and, if not for the fact that it required an inordinate amount of socializing with the dim-witted masses, he would have looked into it as a career choice. Of course, being the world's only consulting detective was far more stimulating, and it allowed him to do pretty well whatever he pleased.
"I was sent to infiltrate your encampment. My commander is...uh...General Mycroft." Really, as long as he played his cards carefully, this could turn out very interesting. He had never known John to take on a full military man persona, and he was eager to see how vastly his personality changed in a total-combat situation. He wondered if John would maintain the moral high ground which had come to define him so thoroughly during their service together.
John blinked at him, the gun dropping several inches such that it was pointed at the floor. He look thoroughly confused. "You're not very good at this, are you?"
"I'm bloody awful at it, really. The shoddiest spy you'll ever meet, I suspect." Sherlock threw John a disarming smile, hoping to encourage him to notice the absurdity of the situation. He thought that the easiest way to snap John out of it would be to challenge his perceptions in as many subtle ways as possible. "Say, can you tell me exactly where we are? General Mycroft wasn't very forthcoming with such information."
"Oh. Um...I dunno if I should...My commander might not approve..." John was suddenly looking very uneasy, his eyes darting all around the room as if he suspected an ambush at any moment.
"Ah. Well, by all means, you can ask your commander before telling me. Where is he? In fact, where is everyone else? Surely you're not here alone, are you?"
John's face paled and the gun was brought back up to point at Sherlock's chest once again. Apparently, pointing out that a soldier was all alone at his outpost was not the best tactic. Sherlock made himself visibly relax in his bonds, attempting to appear as non-threatening as possible."Hey, hey. It's not a problem if your general is too busy to talk to you right now. We can talk, just you and I. What else do you want to know?"
"Where are you from? You sound awfully...British." John's posture had relaxed a bit, but the gun still hadn't dropped to a non-menacing position.
"Yes. I was raised in London, but I defected to General Mycroft's side after he offered me a generous sum of money."
"He's paying you for this?" John appeared as if he might burst out laughing at the detective. Sherlock was rather put off by this; even when delusional, John should know that, if Sherlock wanted to be a good spy, he could very well do it.
"Well, he's not paying me for my espionage work, per se. I believe that he's paying me to not be near his camp. I might have been more bother than I'm worth." Sherlock gave John his sweet as honey smile once again, and he was gratified to note that it had the same effect as it had the last time he used it. John's pistol dropped so it was only loosely held in his grasp once again.
"What training do you have?"
"I am self-trained in advanced deduction making."
"What?"
"I observe people and make deductions concerning what I observe."
"Really? And they pay you to do that?"
"Of course. It comes in quite handy sometimes."
"Like when?"
"Like now. I can deduce that, if you do not receive medical attention soon, you are going to pass out from blood loss. Don't you think you ought to call the medics for that?" Sherlock gestured at John's leg, hoping that this wasn't one of those touchy subjects that would set John off again.
John simply looked down at himself with a grim clenching of his jaw. "I am the medic."
"Can't you call some one from another base?"
"On what phone? Even you should be able to see that the camp's been blown to pieces. I'll be lucky if I can find a functional hot plate!" John pushed himself up from his chair with an agitated huff and began pacing the length of the lounge, his limp significantly more severe now. Sherlock wished he could force John to sit once again, force him to see the reality of his situation. Sick of sitting still, Sherlock began writhing against his bonds in an attempt to find a weak spot in the knots. All the while, he kept his eyes on John.
He was quite the sight at the moment. Sherlock had never suspected that so much muscle lay beneath John's slightly absurd but endearing jumpers. He wasn't beefy, exactly, but there was tone to be seen. For once, Sherlock almost understood what a man like John had been doing in Afghanistan in the first place; he was currently exuding a calm confidence that showed he was perfectly accustomed to being in stressful situations. Sherlock supposed that was why John was so good at coping with his eccentricies. The only thing that belied John's internal tension was the way his tongue kept darting out of his mouth to lick his lips. Every few minutes, Sherlock could see the little pink tip protrude momentarily from his mouth, as it so often did when they were heading into danger together while on a case.
Suddenly, Sherlock couldn't hold back his frustration at the situation, at seeing John's energy and life waning before his very eyes and being completely unable to help, unable to stop the torment. Having found a weak point in his bonds, he began furiously tugging at it, exploiting its failing. He felt a cry of rage simmering in his chest, but he didn't dare make a sound for fear of setting John off. He hated this; he hated feeling helpless, out of control. He had no clue what had happened to John while he was unconscious, and the uncertainty was devouring him. He always had the answers, damn it! He was Sherlock Holmes, for chirst's sake! It was his job to look at people, to dissemble them with a glance, and yet he had no fathoming of what had left John so broken. It was possibly the most important mystery he had ever been given, but he couldn't even break loose to get a good look at the clues that had been left him.
Just as Sherlock felt the ropes breaking beneath his straining against them, a thunder-clap loud blast filled the apartment from the kitchen. John whirled around and began firing at the disturbance, effectively shattering a stack of dishes, blowing a hole the window, and destroying several cabinets. Sherlock counted eight gun shots.
Once things had quietened down, John's arm dropped to his side and a hollow look settled into his eyes. "What in bloody hell was that?"
Sherlock had to force himself to repress a groan. Of all the times for one of his experiments to finally react..."Would you believe me if I said that it was an experiment concerning the effects of introducing explosive agents into high-pressure environments, such as sealed glass jars?"
John blinked at him disbelievingly. "You know, at this point, I don't know what to think." John turned and limped back towards Sherlock, and the detective was glad to note that the dilation in his eyes seemed to have been reduced a bit. How strange that something such as an explosion could cause John to start to return to reality. Sherlock supposed that this was for the best, because he was sure that the explosion had finally alerted Mycroft to the fact that something wasn't right in the flat, and his brother's men would surely be coming in to check on them soon. Sherlock could feel relief begin to settle over him as he foresaw the end of the ordeal.
"John, I think you should sit down."
"Yes, that's probably for the best." For the best, indeed. John looked as if he was about to topple at any moment. He limped back towards his arm chair, and he was about to settle back in when the door abruptly burst open and a flood of officers poured into the flat. Sherlock groaned and slumped his head in frustration. Of course, the cavalry would arrive in the most disruptive manner possible. John reacted in a manner completely unexpected, actually. Instead of shooting at the coppers, he dragged Sherlock up from the chair and thrust him to his knees on the floor, pressing the gun directly to Sherlock's temple. He looked down at the detective with an expression that could only be described as utter terror. "You told them?"
"What? No! I didn't tell anyone anything. They're just...um...they're...What are you doing here, Lestrade?" Sherlock glared at the Detective Inspector and the two incompetents on each side of him. Of course Donovan would be involved in this.
"We received a tip from Mycroft. He said that his security detail had picked up some suspicious activity, and he wanted us to check it out." His eyes darted from where Sherlock was kneeling on the floor to where John was standing, gun still pointed firmly at the detective. John was tensed to the point of looking statuesque.
"Who are you?" John re-adjusted his grip on the pistol, fingers trembling against the cold metal.
"What are you talking about, John? It's Lestrade. Are you okay?" The detective inspector stepped forwards, arms reaching out to grasp John's trembling shoulders as he pitched sideways. John, however, simply cocked the gun and fired directly between Lestrade's legs, narrowly missing.
"Don't. Just, don't. Nobody comes closer or...Or..." John spun his attention back to Sherlock, pushing the gun back to his temple.
"John, let's be reasonable..." Lestrade looked completely lost. His eyes kept darting back to Sherlock as if looking for some sort of direction as to what he should do.
Sherlock shrugged and gave Lestrade a c'est la vie sort of glance. "I believe we should do as the man holding the gun says." He hoped that Lestrade would be able to control his army of idiots long enough for the situation to resolve itself.
Obviously, he could not. Sally stepped forward next to Lestrade, raising her own firearm. "John, that's enough. Put the gun down now." She cocked her weapon menacingly.
John was beginning to panic. Sherlock could see it in the way his eyes had widened and his breathing was coming out in sharp huffs. His hand had stopped trembling, which did not bode well for Sherlock, and was a sure sign that he was preparing to fire. "Step. Back. Now." John's voice held steady despite the pallor of his face and the terror obvious in the rest of his features.
Donovan ignored John's warning and stepped ever closer, her own fingers tightening around the trigger of her gun. "No. Drop your weapon, John. Be sensible."
"Sally..." Lestrade's warning was weak as he tried to halt a quickly escalating catastrophe. He knew that things had gotten out of his control long before John tightened his finger against the trigger of his pistol.
The familiar snap of a trigger being released filled the room.
Followed by sharp screams.
Followed by a resounding silence.
John blinked down at his gun, momentarily stunned by the waves of awareness crashing down on him, threatening to drag him into blackened waters.
"Sh-Sherlock?"
His eyes sought out those of the detective, desperately searching for the blue-grey orbs that would make everything okay.
He found them.
Sherlock looked up at John's paste-white face and couldn't help but let out a relieved laugh. "Are you back with us, John?"
John just stammered out an incomprehensible reply and stumbled towards Sherlock. Abruptly, his eyes grew wide and he gave a strangled cry as he pitched forwards. Despite still having his wrists awkwardly half-bound, Sherlock lunged out and cushioned John's fall before he struck the ground. The detective quickly rolled John into his lap, cradling his head in the crook of his own elbow. His eyes darted over the doctor, searching for the cause of his sudden decline. He found it in the form of Sally's taser. He glared daggers at the moron, guaranteeing her a thorough dressing-down later before he turned his attention back to John.
The doctor's eyes were rolling back in his head, but it was obvious that he was making a concerted effort to stay conscious. "Sherlock...You need...doctor..." His head lolled in Sherlock's arms, and Sherlock had to gently shake him to bring him back around.
"John, I need to know what happened. Did someone do this to you? What did they do?"
"Jim...Came here...You could be...hurt."
Sherlock scowled, frustrated at the way John's mind only seemed to have one track at the moment. "What about you, John? What did he do to you?"
"Shot me." John gave a low groan, his back stiffening as he rode out another current of torment. He gripped Sherlock's hand and dug his nails into the tender flesh as he fought against unconsciousness. Sherlock could see that it was a losing battle. John's eyes rolled closed and he collapsed against Sherlock's lap, his fingers still entangled in the detective's.
When he was certain that John was not going to be coming around again, Sherlock looked back up at the officers with a fierce gleam in his eyes. He turned his rage upon Donovan, spitting his wrath at her. "How dare you? You incompetent moron! You could've killed him. Oh sure, let's just shoot the drugged, concussed man with a bolt of electricity and have a good laugh while he seizes on the floor or goes into cardiac arrest! Why on earth they let dense fools such as yourself on the force, I have no clue."
Lestrade cleared his throat in an effort to stop the tirade. "Come on, Sherlock. She was just trying to help. He was going to shoot you, after all."
"No, he was not. If you took any time whatsoever to observe the clues that are obviously around you, you would've known that."
"Okay. Do tell, Sherlock. What genius bit of information were we not privy to this time? What, did the twitch in his left eye tell you that he didn't have proper motivation to blow your brains across the wall? Or was it the hole in the toe of his sock that told you?"
Sherlock scoffed at the detective inspector, his attention only partially on the man as he brushed his fingers through John's hair. "Of course not. I was a simple matter of counting. The clip in his gun only holds ten bullets. He fired eight in the kitchen, one between your legs, and, at some point, one in his own leg. Therefore, he didn't have any bullets left to fire at me."
Lestrade gaped at Sherlock, his mouth opening and closing in shock. "That didn't leave much room for error, Sherlock. What if you miscounted?"
Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked as if Lestrade had just uttered the most ridiculous stream of drivel to be spoken. "I didn't, obviously, and I'm quite capable of counting properly, Lestrade. Now would you please stop asking such inane questions? Is the ambulance on its way?"
"Yes," Lestrade sighed, knowing that arguing with Sherlock would be pointless at this moment. "I believe it will be pulling up any second now."
"Good. I'll ride with John to the hospital, and then I'll come back to help in the investigation when he is stable."
"I don't think that is necessary, Sherlock." Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. It was going to be awkward enough sifting through the detective's flat without him hanging over the entire operation. "John did mention that you would need to see the doctor, too."
Sherlock shrugged as if an irksome fly was buzzing around his ear. "That can wait."
"Sherlock..."
"It can wait!" Sherlock dropped his head, glaring into his lap. He took a few deep breaths before looking back up at Lestrade. "I need to know. I need to know what in the hell that bastard did, and I can't just sit in some hospital and wait for you fools to tell me. I just...I have to know."
Author: Thank you all for the ridiculously great reviews. I'm terribly sorry for all the torturous cliffies I've left leading up to now, but I hope this makes it all better.
