A/N:
**Italics will be used to indicate flashbacks.**
Re-edited 10/07/17
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
- Chapter Eleven -
*- Lestrade -*
"John?" Greg whispered.
The last few minutes had without a doubt, been one of the most traumatic things Greg had ever experienced. The doctor's desperate struggles for air as the plastic clung to his face will be an image which will stay with him for years to come.
This wasn't how things were supposed to happen. John was a war hero; he didn't deserve to die like this. He didn't want to believe it; he must be having a nightmare. John couldn't really be dead, there was no way.
"John!" Lestrade repeated more forcibly this time, as if his tone alone could breathe new life into his friend. John however, remained completely still, his chest showed no signs of movement.
He turned to stare at Sherlock who appeared to have frozen, eyes focused intently on his friend's unmoving body.
"I hope you're happy" he growled viciously at him. "This is your fault!"
Sherlock glanced at him for a fraction of a second before turning his attention once more to the motionless figure and the men standing behind him.
Another couple of seconds passed before X spoke up.
"You are one… cold… human being, Mr Holmes" he said, taking a step forward.
Without warning, he grabbed hold of the plastic bag and ripped it free from John's head.
"See if you can get him breathing again." He ordered Rusty quietly with a flick of his hand.
Greg's heart caught in his chest as he peered into the peaceful face of John Watson. He could clearly see the small tears, which had fallen down the sickly pale cheeks and which were still pooled around his now closed eyes. The sight made him want to cry.
"… Put him in with the rest of the ice."
Greg only caught the end of X's instructions, too caught up in his own emotions, but it was clear that the instructions were not for him. He turned and watched as Frank untied the restraints on the detective's arms and guided the man out of the room. With a loud crash, they had disappeared through the heavy door. Sherlock had left without even looking back. It looked like he really didn't care after all.
"Take the Inspector down to the cells and put him in number one."
With that, he felt the restraints on his own arms being loosened and he was pulled to his feet by the youngest of the men.
"Wait please! Is he going to be okay?" He asked desperately.
X glanced towards Rusty, who now appeared to be giving John CPR.
"I don't know… either way he'll be down with you shortly." He replied with a fake smile as Greg was pulled from the room.
*- Sherlock -*
Sherlock remained quiet as he was marched away, not noticing where he going. His mind struggled to process what had just happened.
The smell of Lestrade's burning flesh…
The noise of the power drill as it dug into John's shoulder…
The blood…
The screams…
The silence…
"John?" Lestrade whispered.
He stared at the unmoving body of his best friend, his mind racing with calculations of how long the human body can go without oxygen.
How long would it take to get the man breathing again?
How long would it take for them to react, if and when he spoke?
How long before permanent damage was done?
And how long before it would all be too late?
He couldn't be certain of any of these things, he would have to estimate. It would be an educated guess, but still just a guess. Not a very comforting notion when someone's life was at stake.
"I hope you're happy" Lestrade growled viciously at him. "This is your fault!"
He still couldn't look at the Inspector; there was too much anger in his eyes.
Five seconds.
That's how long he had, five seconds. Five more seconds and he would talk…
Four seconds.
What if he was wrong? What if they didn't know first aid? It might take them longer...
Three seconds.
He was going to have to say something. He shouldn't have let it go this far, what was he thinking?!
Two seconds.
"You are one… cold… human being, Mr Holmes" X said, taking a step forward and ripping the bag from John's head.
It took all of his remaining will power not to react to the overwhelming sense of relief he now felt flood through his body.
"See if you can get him back" X continued. Rusty leant down to check for breathing, while he tried to appear uninterested. The truth was, he felt sick to the stomach and was on the verge of breaking. Just because they had removed the bag did not guarantee that John would be okay. His mind raced with new calculations.
How long had he already gone without oxygen?
How much time did they have to get him breathing again?
He stared into John's face and tried to ignore the numerous tear tracks and the blue tinge to his lips.
There was still time.
"Take him down to the freezer and put him in with the rest of the ice," X instructed.
Sherlock felt his heart start to race. He couldn't bear the thought of leaving; he had to know if John was going to be alright. He felt his arms come free of the restraints and for a second he entertained the thought of trying to fight his way out. One look at John however, took that option off the table. Rusty had him on his back and looked to be performing CPR. He couldn't jeopardise John's life any more than he already had.
He continued to stare, praying that he would see that spark of life return; to see John open his eyes and take a deep breath. Instead he saw X move into his line of sight, a cold look on his face. He leant in and quietly spoke in a deep and menacing voice.
"Let me make this perfectly clear. The ONLY reason I'm allowing this, is because as a doctor, he may still prove useful. Don't think for a second that I would feel even an ounce of remorse if he never wakes up. In fact, I'm really hoping he doesn't; that way I can sit him in your cell as he slowly decomposes. He'll be a constant reminder of how you failed him and of what happens to people who don't cooperate. Have a little think about that, when you're locked away in the cold."
Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts as he felt himself come to a halt. Frank opened the door to what looked like an industrial freezer and he felt himself being pushed towards it. Thankfully, it wasn't too cold; it must still be reaching its minimum temperature. That offered him little comfort though, when Frank slammed the door shut, throwing him into complete darkness. He listened to a bolt being locked in place and the footsteps disappear down the hall. He was once again alone, with only his thoughts for company, and the sounds of industrial fans blowing cold air on him.
For the first time since the whole ordeal started, Sherlock allowed the well constructed walls of his mind to collapse. The weight of what he had seen, of what he had allowed to transpire, came crashing down on top of him.
He punched and kicked at the door with unrestrained anger, yelling until his throat felt raw; lashing out, until he fell with exhaustion. Eventually, he found himself sitting on the cold floor with his head in his hands and tears streaming down his face. He kept picturing John lying on the ground, still tied to his chair. Blood pooling around his shoulder as Rusty pushed against his chest. What had he done?
If John wasn't alive, he would never forgive himself.
*- Lestrade -*
The walk to the cell block had been very quiet, with neither Greg nor his captor uttering a single word. When they arrived at their destination, Jatz opened the door and pushed him inside, locking it up behind him. He decided to take the opportunity to try to talk to the lad. He was clearly the weakest link in the group, perhaps he could talk him around.
"It's Jatz, isn't it?" The young man froze for a second and then looked up with a smile.
"Sure, why not."
"Listen mate, you don't have to do this. You're not like those other blokes, I can see you don't really want to be here. Let me help you. Just let me make a phone call, I'll put in a good word, get you a good deal."
"Nice try copper" he replied quietly as he turned to walk away.
"Wait! Please just… John… Doctor Watson… Is he going to be alright?"
Jatz paused for a second but did not turn around.
"Rusty's done this sort of thing before" he replied quietly; and with that the young man disappeared.
The first thing he thought of, when glancing around the room, was that it could have been an office in a former life. Unlike the previous areas he had been in, this one had painted walls and appeared to have had carpet in it at some point. The door had been replaced with a metal frame and a series of vertical rods, which made it look like a cell out of an old 70's movie. He could see a window and a doorway to the right, which lead to the room next door. The glass had been removed and a number of metal bars had been installed in both spaces, creating two separate cells. Looking around, Greg could see a single, moth eaten mattress which had been pushed into the back corner against the wall. To the left of this, lay a basic metal basin and a toilet. Looking through the gaps, he noticed that the neighbouring room looked almost identical, except for the extra barred window and doorway leading to what was no doubt a third cell. He couldn't help but wonder just how many cells there were down here.
With little else to do but wait and worry, Greg stumbled over and slumped down on the mattress, his back against the cool wall. He briefly entertained the notion of cleaning some of his wounds but found that he couldn't; not until he knew if John would be alright.
He tried not to think about where they had taken Sherlock; if he was honest he didn't really care that much anyway.
'He deserves everything he gets!' he thought bitterly to himself. In fact, if he could, he would take a drill to the man's shoulder himself, just to show him what it felt like.
He couldn't sit anymore; the waiting was killing him. He stood up and walked back over to the main door, trying to peer down the corridor with little success. He then started pacing. Five steps side to side and seven back to front. It was at this point, that the corridor door creaked open and Frank came storming in.
"Get back." The man growled in a threatening voice.
He took a couple of small steps backwards as Frank unlocked the door and walked straight up to him. Any thoughts of escape were instantly forgotten as John was then carried in, dangling between the arms of Rusty and Jatz. They deposited him roughly on the old mattress and then turned to leave. John was still not moving.
"Is he okay?"
"Shut up!" Rusty growled as the three men exited, slamming the door and locking them both in.
Greg rushed to his friend's side, one hand searched for a pulse while the other rested gently on his chest. He leaned his ear towards the doctor's face, looking for signs of life.
Tears rushed from his eyes as he felt his hand move up and down, in time with the weak breathes he felt, coming from John's mouth. He was alive.
Greg rolled on to his back and gazed up at the ceiling. He allowed himself 30 seconds to break down. He had been so focused on his anger that he had managed to suppress all of his other emotions. It was only now that he let them show. His fear, pain and relief came pouring out of him, and for once, he let it.
After his 30 seconds were up, Greg took a deep breath, wiped the tears from his eyes and turned his attention back to his unconscious friend. John may be alive for now, but if he didn't see to his shoulder and stop the bleeding, that may not be the case for much longer.
"John?" He wanted desperately to see the man's blue eyes again.
"John?" He said a little louder this time, shaking him gently.
"Mmmm" It wasn't much, but it was the greatest sound that he had ever heard.
"John?" He asked for the third time and the man's eyes slowly fluttered open. Greg couldn't help the ridiculous smile which passed over his face.
"Are you okay? Well obviously you're not, how could you be but… How bad is it?" Lestrade asked quietly, not really knowing if he wanted an honest answer or not.
"I… I think I'm gonna… pass out now…" John whispered, before his head rolled to the side and he went completely still. Greg didn't blame him. In many ways, he wished he could do the same. If for no other reason than to be oblivious of the situation for a little while.
*- Sherlock -*
He didn't say anything; he couldn't no matter what they were doing.
Frank lent down and grabbed the little finger on Lestrade's right hand and violently twisted…
He tried to concentrate on blocking out all incoming data, including the slight smell of burning flesh and the pained moans coming from Lestrade's general direction. He was determined not to say anything.
The memories swirled around his head like a whirlpool. He felt as if he were drowning.
"I did some research on you, Doctor Watson…"
"Have you ever been shot Mr Holmes?"
"I have always been curious as to what it would feel like to be shot in slow motion…"
X picking up the cordless drill. John's panic-stricken face.
"I always considered myself a handy man…"
The sound of the drill.
Sherlock felt sick. It was like being stuck a bad dream, only worse.
He could remember every detail with nauseating clarity.
The drill started and Sherlock could feel a huge lump form in his throat. He had been starting to second guess his course of action, but after the response to John's confession, he was even more determined to remain silent, no matter what happened. No matter how much it hurt him to do so, he would keep up the act.
"You don't need to do this! Put it down! He's told you everything he knows!" Lestrade screamed.
"Come on Mr Holmes, you know that I will follow through with this. Just tell me what I want to know and it can all stop..."
He rolled his eyes and thought carefully about how he should respond. He didn't want to say anything at all, but he had to keep up the act. If they thought for a second that he cared, it would all be in vain and they'd torture John anyway. He just hoped they would understand when the time came.
"I don't care what you do to them; I have said everything I intend to say on the matter."
The look he received from both John and Lestrade felt worse than anything Jatz had done to him. The
Look of hurt and betrayal cut deeper than any knife could.
"So be it."
The sounds of John's scream echoed around his head. He pulled at his hair, trying to distract himself from the memory, but he found that the more he tried to ignore the sound, the louder it got. The room was getting steadily colder and Sherlock found himself shaking, although he wasn't entirely convinced that it was from the drop of temperature anymore.
