Chapter 10
DISCLAIMER: I still don't own Sherlock, I have sent in an application form though ;)
A/N: Hi guys! Thanks for your support! I know it's been a while but this chapter needed to be done right. I hope you understand. This one is a little longer than the normal ones, but I think that it is worth it. As always let me know if you like or hate it.
CAUTION: Mental torture.
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Lestrade's face was a picture of delightful confusion. John saw that the Detective Inspector's eyebrows had furrowed into each other as he walked towards him with the still ginger clad Sherlock. He smiled at Sherlock's ability to confuse the D.I. even when Greg knew that he was coming.
"John," Lestrade nodded in way of acknowledgement. He looked John's companion up and down for a few moments before comprehension dawned, Lestrade's face became lighter and he grinned up at Sherlock, "Nice to know that you haven't lost your touch."
Sherlock winked at the Detective Inspector before slinking into Lestrade's office. John watched as he settled himself down in the plush leather seat and put his feet up on the small space on Lestrade's desk. "Took you long enough, Lestrade. What's a man to do when the Detective Inspector can't see through a couple of ginger locks?"
Greg laughed at the consulting detective's words; his eyes twinkled whenever they looked upon Sherlock – who was now stripping himself of the wig. "You know, you kind of suit ginger hair, you have the complexion for it..."
"Shut up Lestrade, you have no idea what you're talking about."
John snorted at the derisive comment and sat in the chair opposite the detectives. He watched silently as they bantered back and forth about who had the better grasp on complexion and the genetics involved with having red hair. He had missed this, Lestrade played a big role in Sherlock's life and it had been hard for the two to be separated – loathe as they were to admit it out loud, John had seen both of them struggle not to be in contact. Mycroft had made sure that the D.I. was not allowed to enter 221B, no matter how hard the three protested. They had eventually conceded that it would be too suspicious. But that didn't mean that they liked it.
Sherlock was back down to his normal day wear. A sleek black suit combination, paired with a flaming red silk shirt, all tailored – of course. That red shirt does look good on him, but I think I prefer the purple one...
Wait... WHAT?
"So, John, what do you say?" Sherlock's voice pulled him from his sudden internal revelation. Both Lestrade and his flatmate were watching him with expectant expressions plastered across their faces. John saw that Sherlock was trying to see what had made the army doctor so inattentive, so John placed a well practised mask of indifference over his features.
"I... err... wasn't listening. I tuned out after you started debating recessive genes." The slightly sheepish tone crept in to John's words, much to his chagrin. Army training, they never let you forget it when your mind wanders.
Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's response, "I said, are you willing to come down and sit with me at the press conference?"
"Oh... Yeah sure, why not?"
John saw a slight relaxation in Sherlock's face, he was obviously dreading having to go down there by himself. Understandable, these people ripped him to shreds last time he was alive. He smiled at the consulting detective and stood, ready to leave with the two men.
"You do realise that Anderson is going to hate that you're back."
And with that, all three men broke down into completely inappropriate giggles as they left the D.I.'s office.
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"Well, that went better than expected," John said to Sherlock as they left the briefing room, smiling up at the consulting detective. Sherlock nodded his agreement with John's statement as they both strode down the corridor. Sherlock's stride was lengthening with each step and John had to struggle to keep up with him. He must be eager to get outside, minus the disguises this time.
They burst through the front of the Yard and were met with a wall of flashing cameras, thrusting microphones, and impertinent questions that were asked at an impressive volume. Sherlock stopped abruptly, and John – who wasn't expecting him to do so – careered into him. The doctor saw the tense set of Sherlock's shoulders and the clenched fists that still hung at his sides. He knew that if he looked into the consulting detective's eyes, John would see poorly hidden terror. Apparently, Sherlock and people still did not mix. The army doctor side stepped around the statue that was still blocking his path, and summoned all of his army training. He grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and tugged him closer to the crowd of reporters, who continued to hurl inane questions at them, the pair at had already answered the majority in the briefing room.
"MOVE!"
John's larger-than-life Captain's voice had the desired effect on the reporters. They parted like the Red Sea before Moses and John pulled Sherlock through the masses ahead of the press regaining control of their motor functions. Luckily, Lestrade had had the foresight to order the pair a taxi and it was idling by the curb, ready to take off as soon as they stepped inside.
John slammed the door to the cab shut and barked to the driver, "221B Baker Street, as quickly as possible." And with that command, John and Sherlock were whisked away from the horrendous crowd of journalists.
The army doctor took a deep breath, willing away the commanding attitude that his past training had given him. It was helpful to get them out of that situation, but it would not aid him in any way to use that tone on the shell-shocked consulting detective.
When he was sure that he would not bark demands at his friend, John turned towards Sherlock to find the consulting detectives eyes already upon him. They studied each other for a time before John broke the silence.
"Are you okay now?"
Sherlock cocked his head to the side, seriously considering the question – for which John was grateful for, he didn't like it when Sherlock brushed aside his emotional well-being. It was a time before the consulting detective answered John with a slight nod of his head.
"You sure? You kind of froze up on me there. Was it just shock at seeing all those people, because you know that you're still something of a legend around here Sherlock? They bring up your name whenever there is a difficult case or if a celebrity is seen wearing a deerstalker. They compare their photo with yours..." John was aware that he was babbling, but he had never seen Sherlock react like that. He'd always been slightly hesitant of the press, but he'd never fully shut down in front of them. It worried him how vulnerable Sherlock had looked.
"I'm fine, John." The baritone voice of the consulting detective soothed John's nerves slightly, it did not rid him of them entirely but it did take enough of the edge off so that the army doctor relinquished the line of questioning. He turned his head away from Sherlock and stared out into the grey miserable afternoon, watching the world whizz past.
They sat in silence for the rest of the cab drive, Sherlock's eyes did not move from John, and the doctor could feel his friends gaze boring into the back of his neck.
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The consulting detective was curled up in on himself; he had detached himself from an ever-present army doctor, and had retreated into his room to think things over. He needed the space from John, in order to get his mind straightened out. As much as John meant well, he couldn't involve the army doctor with this problem. It wouldn't be fair on him. Sherlock knew that John would only freak out and insist on hearing all the details, and then would drag him to a psychiatrist. That had happened more than enough for a lifetime. It had been a completely unexpected emotional response, and Sherlock wasn't quite sure how to deal with it.
After the incident outside Scotland Yard, Sherlock had tried to delete the panic that had flooded through his system when he was faced with the sea of people, but he was continually unsuccessful. It seemed that in this instance, his mind did not want to co-operate with his demands. Sherlock knew exactly what had triggered the response; his past was haunting him again. The inability to delete the most terrifying points in his life was becoming an increasingly big problem as the memories persisted on resurfacing at the most inopportune moments. John's concern for him had made Sherlock embarrassed at his failure to hide the fear. Though he had to admit that the doctor's display of dominance in front of the reporters had been delightfully intriguing, but unfortunately Sherlock had been otherwise incapacitated and thus unable to enjoy it as much as he would have liked.
Sherlock sighed at his failings, and flopped back on to his bed. The adrenaline that had been coursing through his system had begun to fade. And with the fading hormone rush, the memories of why he had frozen began to flood back into his mind.
Everything hurt. His entire body was aching uncontrollably. The throbbing in his head had reached a climax and it was pounding behind his closed eyelids. He attempted to push his fingertips into his eye sockets in an effort to ease the pain, but found that he could not move his arms. They had been restrained with some sort of handcuffs; but Sherlock wouldn't be able to tell what they were until he opened his eyes.
He attempted to make a mental list of all the parts of his anatomy that was in agony, prioritising by whatever body part hurt the most, but Sherlock didn't get much further than his cranium before giving up. Everything just hurt too bloody much.
He took a deep breath, wincing when the action disturbed a rib that protested loudly. Right, no deep breaths. He moved his head slowly, testing his neck. It was tight and stiff. I've been here a while then. And unconscious for the majority of it, I suppose. Sherlock independently wiggled each section of muscle that wasn't tied up, testing it all for other potentially hazardous injuries. Luckily nothing seemed to be broken, there were a few cuts and bruises, but nothing seriously life threatening.
The consulting detective then started to sort through his memories, searching for any clues to show him where he was and how he had got there. But Sherlock was drawing a blank. Never before had he experienced such a degree of amnesia due to a head injury. The last memory Sherlock had was of talking to a Doctor John Watson in St. Bart's hospital. He assumed that this must be an important memory, for it to have lingered in his mind, but he couldn't pin point the significance. Sherlock sighed, resigning himself to the memory loss. He knew that the only way to possibly gather any more information was to examine the current surroundings. However he was still reluctant to open his eyes to his current location. It would bring about a harsh reality that the consulting detective wasn't sure that he was ready to face.
Sherlock braced himself, and slowly opened his eyes.
He squinted against the harsh, artificial light that assaulted his eyes. The glaring light of the fluorescent bulb ebbed slightly as his pupils adjusted to the shine.
The information the room held came flooding in.
The door was obviously new, locked and bolted from the outside. The laminate flooring was also new, and it had tell-tale scratch marks that told Sherlock that he had been dragged in on this chair; inevitably meaning that there was more than one holding cell in this place. There were no windows, leading him to believe that he was in a basement. The walls had flaking green paint and extensive water stains. There was an open drain in the corner, which reeked of sewage and vomit. Sherlock didn't dwell on what purpose that would serve. In the top right corner of Sherlock's vision lay a small camera, the blinking red light let him know that he was being filmed. The camera was flanked by two speakers, obviously there to let Sherlock listen to whoever it was that brought him here, without the perpetrator having to be in the same room.
As Sherlock was staring at a tiny bloodstain on the edge of the door that had caught his eye, the speakers crackled to life. Sherlock flinched at the unexpected noise, having become too accustomed to the sound of his own breathing being the only filler in the void of silence. When the initial screech had subsided an indiscernible chatter came blaring out of the speakers.
It was a combination of lots of people speaking at the same time, all talking really loudly, over the top of one another. Hardly any words were distinguishable to the consulting detective's ears. It was a painful onslaught of unattainable information. The worst form of torture that could have been inflicted on Sherlock. Physical abuse was tolerable; he had felt enough of that before to be able to deal with it, but the mental deprivation of information was too much to bear, especially as the fight with Moriarty was still raw and difficult to deal with.
MORIARTY. That's why he was here. Sherlock could remember what he had been doing before the attack.
He had been out in Switzerland, searching for the remnants of Moriarty's web. He was hot on the trail of some more prominent assassins in the middle of Geneva when he was ambushed in his hotel room. This had been a surprise, as Sherlock wasn't aware that anyone had been following him, and if there was one thing that the detective hated, it was surprises.
The men, clad entirely in black, had burst through the door when Sherlock was reading up on a case file that Mycroft had sent him. No fewer than ten men had come into the suite, all packing severe looking rifles and handguns. The majority of which had been pointing in his direction.
If Sherlock hadn't been surprised, he doubted that the men would have been able to get the drop on him. But he was mortified to admit that he barely struggled in the initial seconds. He was grabbed by three of the ambushers, and forced on to the rough carpet.
When the shock of the attack had worn off, Sherlock began squirming beneath the men, but two of them were straddling his back, and two others were holding down his arms and legs. He was effectively trapped.
He turned his head to the side, trying to avoid getting his nose squished further into his face. Sherlock's muscles instantly tensed at the sight that greeted him.
A hypodermic needle was hovering inches from his face.
It was held by the one man that wasn't carrying a weapon, but in every other aspect was exactly the same as the other assailants. The leather gloved hand came closer. Sherlock could smell cigarette smoke that clung to the material.
That was the last thing that the consulting detective remembered before he woke up here.
Moriarty must be behind this then. Or at least, if it's not him, it'll be one of his minions... OH GOD THAT NOISE!
The horrid cacophony made the pounding in his head even worse. His concentration level slipped with every second his was subjected to the constant chatter.
In minutes Sherlock could feel warm rivulets of tears dripping down his face. He hated the display of weakness but they were unstoppable, they spilled over the edge of his eyes no matter how hard Sherlock attempted to stop them. The tears would have been bearable, if it weren't for the knowledge that he was being watched. Breaking down on your own was one thing, but having witnesses to his weakness was so much worse.
The noise continued for hours. And the hours stretched on for days. Sherlock slipped in and out of consciousness, never escaping the sounds that battered his ears.
Never escaping.
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A/N: Well, I hope you liked it. Please review, reviews will make me write faster, I promise ;)