Compazine and Crockery
Mycroft and Moriarty are displeased when plans go awry.
…
JM's men aren't cooperating. I'm paying them a visit.
...
John read Mycroft's text, wondering if he was at the dentist again. More likely he knows better than to call me without anything useful about Sherlock, John thought. Those bastards better start talking soon, or he was going to "pay them a visit" himself. With some satisfaction, John imagined it wouldn't be necessary. Mycroft had a way of getting to people. Except Moriarty, of course.
He wagered Moriarty's hired help would be another story. John's first encounter with Mycroft had left him shaking in his boots, and he later learned that his exchange with the man had actually been one Mycroft considered cordial. He could only imagine the terror one would feel if Mycroft were to direct the full force of his anger at them.
Tyson sat on the metal stool in his solitary confinement cell, looking towards the door. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone else came to try to knock the information out of him about his work for Moriarty. He wouldn't say anything, though, no matter what. Everyone who was in Moriarty's employ knew better than to cross him.
Finally, one of the prison officers opened the door. No suit with him this time, Tyson thought. "On your feet," the man ordered. He hadn't seen this one before, but stood anyway, remaining where he was.
The officer motioned for him to turn around and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Tyson didn't like the look in his eye one bit. "What now?" He asked angrily as he turned away from the officer.
He felt the garotte around his neck, pulled tight before he could react. The last thing Tyson heard was "Jim says 'Hi'."
Anthea looked up from her phone at Mycroft, seated next to her in the town car. "Sir, I've just had a text," she began. Mycroft turned to her and nodded for her to continue. She looked back at her phone. "It looks like Moriarty got to one of his men before we could."
Mycroft's face turned sour. "And how did that happen? I was assured they would be monitored at all times, and I took the precaution of stationing my people at the doors."
"The Prison Governor says that CCTV footage shows your man at the door having a coffee. Soon after, it appears a drug had been added to it that rendered him unconscious. Another man entered in prison officer gear, but the Governor swears he's not one of theirs." She grinned, just slightly. "It's odd. I can sense the Governor's nervousness, even in a text message from his assistant."
"Yes. Well. Perhaps he understands the gravity of the situation. And my intense displeasure," Mycroft commented darkly. He thought for a moment, then said to Anthea, "All might not be lost. I may be able to use this to my advantage. Have the video footage sent to my phone at once."
Anthea dutifully typed the reply, her fingers moving so smoothly over the keys it was doubtful anyone could communicate the information any faster with a phone call.
Mycroft sat back a bit in his seat, his palms pressed together under his chin, deep in thought.
Ten minutes later they drove through the gates of the secret High Value Prisoner Compound. The Prison Governor was outside to meet them as the car stopped in front of the imposing building, built to contain enemies of the State. The man's hair and suit were in disarray, and he was clearly sweating despite the chill in the air.
Mycroft stepped out of the car and began speaking before the Governor had a chance to make excuses or offer his apologies. "I see you realize the gravity of the situation. I expect your resignation immediately. If I am feeling very kind, I will not have charges brought against you for your blunder."
The man shrank in on himself, nodding quickly, opening his mouth to speak.
"Your input is neither necessary nor desired," Mycroft spat. "My kindness – or lack thereof – will be entirely dependent upon the outcome of my interview with the remaining prisoner." He swept past the Governor towards the main entrance. "And contain your copious sweating, man. It's exceedingly unprofessional."
The man hurried behind him, using his tie to mop at his brow. "Please God," he begged silently, "Please let that man tell Mr. Holmes anything he wants to know. Please."
Sherlock was pacing again – still? -
He didn't know how much time had passed, but he guessed at least three hours because the effects of the LSD were still "peaking." The hallucinations and synaesthesia rolled through him over and over. When it was at its lowest, he felt almost lucid. The agitation and obsession were still there, but it was more tolerable now. At least, he was aware of it as a symptom of the drugs he'd been given, even if he couldn't control it.
For some reason, the insides of his knees itched like mad. The feeling was familiar but he didn't know why. Sherlock couldn't stop walking, back and forth diagonally in the room, more now due to the itching, crawling sensations in his legs and arms. The feeling was pure torture when he stood still, only somewhat alleviated by pacing the room.
When he couldn't walk any more, he tried lying down. The twitching in his legs when he did so was maddening. He could only manage a few minutes' rest – if it could be called that – before he was up again, counting his steps, breathing in rapid gasps that whistled past his teeth. His hands were twitching as well, making him painfully aware of the leather that bound his wrists.
Moriarty had begun speaking to him some time earlier, making snide comments and gleeful little observations about his discomfort.
"Why don't you have a seat, Sherlock? You look tired," he said now, faux sympathy dripping from his voice.
- Clearly hoping for a reaction. Doesn't he know I can barely respond? -
"You know I can't," Sherlock ground out, his usually perfect enunciation lost behind his clenched teeth. His jaw was stiff, almost too sore for him to speak.
The room swirled about him brightly. He promised his tired legs that after walking just four more times across the room he would try to rest again. The LSD was reemerging with a vengeance, and he had to remind himself the floor was solid despite what he saw and smelled. He was sure the sealant they'd used on the wood floor had liquified and he was slipping in it, feeling the fluid ooze between his toes, then turn as sticky as liquid amber, threatening to freeze him in place.
- Can't let that happen. Have to keep walking. Can't lie down now, my hair will get stuck in it. -
"Sherlock, of course you can sit down if you like. Is it too hot in there for you?" Moriarty's voice was chiding but underneath the playfulness was real curiosity.
Sherlock growled under his breath. "Shit," he murmured. The LSD was still too potent in his system to resist Moriarty's suggestion of heat. He felt himself begin to sweat as the air in the room grew thick and humid. The leather restraints felt even more restrictive in the heat. He swore the leather was shrinking because of it.
- But no, nothing changed. It's Moriarty doing this, making you feel that you're burning up. - Sherlock realized then that the acid was retreating a bit from his brain once again, but still far from releasing him.
"Tell me truthfully, Darling. Are the hallucinations a bit much? Tell Daddy what's wrong." The curiosity in his voice now hinted at confusion.
Sherlock turned in a half-circle, staring up towards the ceiling. It felt as if he and Moriarty were having a normal conversation, but Sherlock began to suspect there were minutes of silence between each exchange. The drugs were fading – at least the acid was. He paused his restless movements. - Moriarty doesn't know why I have to keep pacing, keep counting my steps. Why not? -
"You should know," Sherlock said. "You had Kitty give me the drugs. Three and ten, don't you remember?" He asked accusingly.
"Well of course I re-mem-ber," He drawled. "But really, you should be feeling quite a bit more sedate … aww, you got me! You do know how to draw me out, don't you? Even now."
Sherlock shook his head. He resumed his pacing. "You gave me something, something to calm me, rein me in, but it didn't work. It did the opposite, and you weren't expecting that." His jaw was loosening a bit, though still sore. He paid it little heed. There was a puzzle to be solved now.
The starflakes were still all around, on the walls, floor, and ceiling, but they weren't as colorful or compelling. He could almost ignore them. - Probably more time has passed than I thought, then. Effects of the LSD are starting to level out, so four hours; five at the most. -
Sherlock heard Moriarty talking to someone quietly. "Go look in on him, will you?"
"You forgot to mute the microphone!" He shouted before discretion could keep him from speaking. - Knowledge is power, you moron. -
"Oooh! You're right, I am getting sloppy. Must be all the sloppy sex I had watching you squirm. Truly gorgeous. A masterpiece of movement. But I must say it was not the show I paid for, and I don't like when things don't go to plan. Just relax, Shirly, someone will come round to see to you."
Sherlock could almost hear the 'click' of the information he needed slotting into place. "You gave me an antipsychotic, a phenothiazine. I'm guessing compazine, am I right?"
"Mmm … could be," was the reply.
"Tell your little friend to bring Procyclidine."
"Ahh, I'm afraid we don't have that in stock," Jim said, sounding every bit the apologetic chemist.
"Clonazepam, then. Four milligrams, intramuscular injection," Sherlock said, feeling very odd telling Moriarty what to do for a change. "And Diphenhydramine."
"And why, pray tell, should I do that?"
"Oh for God's sake, don't be an idiot. It's called akathisia. Look it up!" He shouted in frustration, shaking his head to dislodge the damp curls that hung into his eyes. Sherlock hated that his hair was so long it was in his face, more so because he was unable to reach it to push it back off his forehead.
He kept walking, this time following the path of the walls. His foot knocked into something porcelain, and he kicked it in frustration. It crashed against the opposite wall. He heard it break, but his senses were still off. He couldn't tell how far away it was or how many pieces it broke into, and in his frazzled, agitated state he continued to walk forward. On the way, he knocked over the water bottle as well. He twisted his arms about angrily, but the restraints held firm. He kept moving his arms, though, because it seemed to help keep his fingers from twitching, a bit.
When Mummy told him she couldn't stay, he'd started to cry. He held her hand tighter and tighter until she said it hurt, but he couldn't let her go. He felt Mycroft pulling at his shoulders, gently at first, then strong enough to break his grip when he saw her wince.
"Not. Now." Sherlock said under his breath.
"Be careful, little one, be careful!" Moriarty exclaimed. There was – what sounds like – real concern in his voice now. "I told you not to damage the merchandise."
"I'm so very sorry I broke your crap crockery," Sherlock replied petulantly.
"No, sexy. I mean you. Sheesh, keep up." Jim teased.
Sherlock somehow found the self-control not to reply. He turned, crossed the room in the other direction, and found that if he leaned back against the corner, the pressure on his arms helped keep his hands from spasming. By locking his knees and tensing the muscles in his legs, he could make himself stand still – just. It would have to do while he waited.
AN: Agitation, anxiety, and muscle twitching (akathisia, or acathisia) are all symptoms of an adverse reaction to phenothiazines and derivatives, including compazine. I can assure you it's extremely unpleasant.
Again, my utmost gratitude to the readers, reviewers, followers, and favorite-ers!
DFTBA
