Warnings: Descriptions of torture (mild descriptions, along with threats on John's physical health that are a bit... grim) including: sensory deprivation, electric shock, psychological torture (again, the threats on John's health); swearing/profanities, mentions of drugs, mentions of being held hostage, and the general however-you-take-it John and Sherlock's relationship.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"I remember everything."

"Yeah...?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock didn't look away from the ceiling. He did remember everything. Or rather, everything was there, just below the surface, and Sherlock was trying not to remember it, but it kept slipping into daily life and, even worse, his unconscious mind.

"They drugged me... Said that I was going to make up for having him held in jail for three days... And they kept me, tied up, for three days... An eye for an eye, John," he mumbled.

"Who, Sherlock?"

"I don't know... Reg... Someone I obviously put in jail."

Sherlock closed his eyes again, focussing on John's fingers drawing through his hair. He had survived like this, those three days: by envisioning that he was somewhere else and doing something entirely different. By focussing on anything else but the torture.

"Oh..."

"They drugged me somehow... and when I came to, I was tied up in this filthy abandoned warehouse. My wrists were bound with rope," Sherlock muttered, absently curling his fingers around his rope-burned wrists. He could still feel their presence. "And my ankle were bound with handcuffs... sometimes... Or, sometimes, I wasn't bound at all, but I couldn't move... The drug made me exhausted, I was already tired from the case, and they kept... hurting me."

John shifted uncomfortably.

Sherlock knew that John was terribly upset about all of this. He wouldn't have snapped at him if he wasn't upset- tired and upset. And Sherlock didn't blame him... He was being difficult, but his tongue felt heavy and his mouth felt filled with cotton every time that he tried to think about talking about it. That being said, he still felt like he could vomit even now.

"At first, it was alright... Being tied up hurts, but not as bad as the knife would, or the riding crop or whip, whatever it was, would, or the shock collar would-"

"Shock collar?" John gasped.

Sherlock opened his eyes to flicker his gaze towards John. "Yes. The sort of collars that are used to train dogs."

John looked pale. His lips were pressed together tightly and Sherlock could tell that he was struggling with nausea and he hoped that he wasn't going to puke on him. Sherlock couldn't handle that... right now or anytime.

"Okay," John said weakly.

"And they physically beat me up... with their fists and feet. I don't remember when, but... they untied me and I almost got away and... Reg tackled me and slammed my head against the concrete floor and I thought I was going to pass out... or vomit, which I did, but then I was choking and..." He frowned. "I don't remember much after that. I think I must have passed out... although I wonder how I didn't choke."

"And then there was the time when my arms were tied above my head... quite an uncomfortable situation, I must admit... and, I don't know, they were talking to me, I guess, I wasn't listening, and whenever I didn't answer, they'd... whip me. If it was a whip; like I said, I didn't really know what they were hitting me with. It sort of felt like a riding crop but it didn't seem like it had the flat surface like a riding crop should have, but it didn't entirely seem like a whip, either, although I suppose the gashes against my stomach and hips fit the profile of more of a whip rather than the crop-"

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock took a deep breath, closing his eyes again. "Yes. Whatever they hit me with. I was buried so deep in my mind palace that I lost the little details... Then there was the sensory deprivation..."

As much as Sherlock was trying not to struggle, his instincts were taking over. He couldn't help it. The pain and the torture were one thing; he could tune that out, forget about it, focus on anything else.

But this...

This was frightening.

He felt like he was choking. His scarf had been turned into a makeshift gag and was forced into his mouth, tied tightly around his head. He couldn't breathe through his mouth, which made breathing difficult at all- he was pretty sure his nose was broken and blood was clotted in his nostrils. All he could taste was the fabric of his scarf and dirt and blood. His mouth was dry and every time he swallowed, he felt like he was going to vomit. He couldn't vomit right now; it had nowhere to go.

He could hear nothing. He had no idea if his captors were around or if they weren't. He didn't feel like anyone was watching, but they could have been standing right next to him and talking and he couldn't have heard. Everything was just deathly silent and it was making Sherlock shiver uncontrollably.

He always relied on his senses.

Scarf for a gag and some sort of ear-plugs or something that blocked sound over his ears. And he was blindfolded.

That was by far the worst part. He couldn't talk and he couldn't hear and he could barely breathe, let alone smell anything... but now he couldn't see and it was terrifying.

When something brushed his arm, he lashed out at the bonds. He could feel blood welling up against the ropes on his wrists and his feet were numb from struggling with the handcuffs on his ankles. But what had touched his arm? What?

"I felt like screaming, except I couldn't..." Sherlock murmured, trailing off. "It was completely dark and cold and... so desolate." He shook himself mentally, uncurling his fingers from John's jumper even though he couldn't remember when he had grabbed ahold of it, anyway. "I always rely on my senses, so I hate sensory deprivation with a passion."

John wasn't watching him, staring off into space, but he was still combing his hands through Sherlock's hair absentmindedly. He was, Sherlock noted, tense, though. Which Sherlock tensed a second later when John's fingers accidentally brushed his neck.

"Always thought it was a bit inhumane," Reg muttered. "Those poor dogs."

Sherlock wanted so badly to retort, but he knew that if he so much as said a word, the shock collar around his neck was going to buzz up another notch. He'd already made the mistake once and he wasn't going to make it again.

Just then, a sharp pain tore through his side and he yelled in surprise and pain. The shock collar registered the noise and before his mind had time to clear from the pain of the knife slicing his side, the electric shock from the dog collar racing through his pain receptors.

He yelled again, struggling futilely, and the process started again with a higher voltage electric shock.

"Son of a fucking bitch!" John swore.

Sherlock jumped before looking up at John. He looked livid.

"How dare- oh, when we find these people, Sherlock, they're going to end up in jail for a hell of a lot longer than three days. I might put them in hospital for more than three days..." John muttered, mostly under his breath.

"Don't..." Sherlock mumbled, looking away again.

"Don't tell me that, Sherlock. I'm pissed."

"And if they got to me, they can get to you..." Sherlock muttered, feeling tired again.

"So? I want them to get to me. I want to show to them that they don't mess with a soldier's best friend," John muttered.

Sherlock grunted in annoyance, turning his gaze away.

"Sorry," John said after a moment. "Sorry, go ahead, continue."

"You don't want to hear it, John," Sherlock said in a monotone voice.

"I do. Please?"

Sherlock sighed. He didn't think John wanted to hear and Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted to relive it... but he figured that he may as well push ahead with it.

"And when we're done with you, Sherlock, we're going to find your little flatmate and do it all to him."

Sherlock's head snapped up, although the motion made his head reel. He was dizzy, so dizzy... He hadn't been allowed anything to drink and he was sweating a lot, even though it was cold (which means a fever, Sherlock), and... he was just so tired.

"But worse," Reg said absently. "We're going to torture him and break him, piece by piece. Maybe literally. We might send you his fingers, if you would like?"

Sherlock licked his lips. All he could taste was blood. He felt like he was going to vomit.

"We could gut him like a fish. Knife, straight up the stomach. Take his heart out and mail it to you, express. Perishable."

"Stop," Sherlock rasped, clearing his throat. "Stop it."

"What? Don't want his heart? What about his face? We could decapitate him. You could keep it in your fridge as a souvenir."

"Stop it," Sherlock repeated, closing his eyes.

"You can't be so picky, Sherlock. What do you want? His eyes? His ears? I could rip his fingernails out... while he's still alive. Send you the video of him screaming."

"Stop it!" Sherlock struggled against the bonds, his wrists burning with the motion. "Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it!"

"Put it into his mind that we killed you. That we cut you into little pieces and shipped you off to different parts of the world. That we burned you alive. That-"

"Leave him alone!"

"- we broke you down to a screaming, crying-"

"Stop!"

Pressure suddenly slammed against his neck, cutting off his shouting and his air supply, making him gasp and splutter and choke for breath. "Broke you down into a crying child before we silenced you forever."

Sherlock squirmed, trying to lean away or dislodge the pressure or- or something. But he couldn't move and he couldn't breathe and all he could think was John, John, John before he fell into a dark oblivion again.

This story may have another three to five more chapters... I know where it wants to go, but the muse is holding it back. So, if updates become slow, I apologise in advance. Anyway, more on what happened to Sherlock. I said it wasn't good. But, there's good, old J/S bonding in the next chapter, albeit if the circumstances make it a bit unhappy.

I do not own Sherlock. Thanks!