BOYS OF BAKER STREET:
An A-Z Almanac of Hurt/Comfort
Secondary Genre: Drama/Angst
Rated: T/M for violent scenes of torture
Character/s: John Watson
A/N: Once again, I thank all those who have reviewed/favorited this story!
T is for Torture
Where John is captive in his own home and Sherlock is sent on a wild goose chase.
A sharp slap brought John back into awareness and he blinked rapidly to clear the black spots from his vision. His situation had not changed over the hours since he was accosted in his own home – The Doctor was still strapped to one of the dining chairs in the middle of the living room, still bleeding, still hurting.
His head was pounding so fiercely, it was nauseating – but the concussion was the least of his worries. Straightening with a grunt, John met the dark eyes of his captor and gave him a feral, bloodstained grin.
Another backhand nearly over balanced the chair and jostled the overlarge shears that were lodged in the flesh of his bad shoulder, eliciting a strangled cry.
The intruder mimicked his smile.
'What do you want?' John ground out through clenched teeth, almost choking when the man's reply was to twist the shears viciously until the blade scraped against the bone of his clavicle.
'Oh…nothing in particular – I just want Sherlock to be aware of my capabilities. So far, he's been so wrapped up in this case that he's failed to see the purpose of my breadcrumbs.' He sneered in response, before taking a fistful of John's hair and using it to lever the chair back until it rocked on two legs.
The free fist was driving into his stomach – three jabs in quick succession – forcing the air from the Doctor's lungs.
'Fuck you,' John growled once his breath returned.
The trespasser laughed coldly and smashed his elbow into the Doctor's face.
Pain splintered his consciousness momentarily, but once his vision cleared – John could feel the hot blood gushing from his nose. He could taste it dripping down the back of his throat.
A sudden flash disoriented him and he blinked rapidly – catching the moment the other man slipped the phone into his pocket.
'I've just sent our friend a little snapchat,' he explained nonchalantly, producing a clawed hammer from his tool belt. 'He'll be here soon, but I'll be long gone by then. I'm just going to have a bit of fun before I leave.'
'Go for it, mate,' John spat vehemently, catching his torturer in the face with a spray of crimson saliva.
Snarling, the man drew the tool back and swung hard, the blow landing squarely against his kneecap and John barely had time to cry out before the claw of the hammer dug into the tender skin on the underside of his knee.
The Doctor was panting now, exhausted from the pain and tuning out as the man continued his beating. He was on the verge of losing consciousness when he felt the prick and slide of a needle enter the skin at his jugular.
'This drug is highly experimental,' the invader explained casually. 'It is being developed by the Government as an interrogation technique. It affects the pain centre of the brain, increasing its sensitivity significantly, meaning…a paper cut would feel like a stab wound and so on. Give it a minute and I'll demonstrate.'
John clenched his teeth. He could already feel it – and he had been in agony before. It was overloading his brain, vision flickering – he hoped it would give out before the performance began.
'Another handy trait of this drug I'm sure you'll find fascinating – Doctor Watson – is that, while you feel like you're going to pass out from the pain; there is a compound that prevents it for quite some time. So I leave you with this.' He reached out and gripped the handles of the shears and drew them from his flesh, slowly.
Pain exploded like a supernova, flaying nerve endings and drawing a ragged scream from his throat – he longed for darkness to claim him, but the drug kept him agonisingly conscious.
When the shears were shoved violently back into the meat of his shoulder, he vomited in his lap from the pain.
His heart was slamming double time in his chest, and he could barely hear over the blood rushing in his ears.
'I'll be watching…if you or Mr. Holmes attempt to report this to the Police, in anyway – including, I'm afraid – any hospital visits, there will be consequences. I'll be sure to remind The Detective of this. Good day to you, Watson.'
Just before the man turned to leave, he kicked the chair over and John fell in slow motion, lights flashing in his vision as his head glanced the coffee table on the way down.
He spewed again, breathing raggedly and as he watched the intruder leave, hoped that Sherlock wasn't far away.
Sherlock had been at a Crime Scene on the outskirts of London when the picture came through. The image was taken in poor light, but the subject matter was unmistakable. John Watson – his friend – bound to one of their kitchen chairs and beaten until he was almost unrecognisable.
The Detective growled and swept away from the scene, reading the message and already thinking of a way to find and damage this person.
You will not call the Police.
No Hospitals.
Fix him yourself, or there will be consequences.
Anon.
Flagging a cab with ease, Sherlock left the Crime Scene without a word – silently hoping that John still kept his field kit correctly stocked. When he returned home, he would have his work cut out for him. Of course, he knew how to suture a wound and administer drugs, but he never had to do it on anyone but himself. He'd never cared for anybody enough to even consider it.
His knuckles were white as he gripped his phone tightly and with a snarl, ordered the cabbie to go faster.
'Alrigh' mate?' the driver attempted to engage in conversation as he frowned at his charge through the rear-view mirror.
'I'll throw in a hundred quid tip if you shut up and get me to Baker Street. On the double!'
The driver didn't need to be told twice.
As they pulled into Baker Street, Sherlock threw twenty pounds into the front seat and dove from the Taxi before it even stopped at the curb. Keys in hand, the Consulting Detective raced to the dark green door and opened it with shaking hands.
'John!' He called, bounding up the stairs two at a time. 'John!'
The landing door was open, and the coppery smell of blood mingled with bile invaded his senses before he even entered the living room.
He paused, for a moment – afraid of what he would find – until a groan of his name brought him to his senses.
Sherlock crossed the floor at speed, noting the abysmal state that John was in – bleeding, battered and obviously in agony – but somehow, conscious.
'Sh'lck…ughnnnnn…please,' he gasped brokenly, tears spilling from half lidded eyes.
The Detective crouched, his quicksilver gaze catching the shears first, before alighting on the puncture wound on the Doctor's throat.
'What did he give you?' Sherlock asked gently, surprising even himself by brushing John's hair back from his bloody brow.
'Dunno…makes it hurt…more. Can't…pass out. 'S keeping me 'wake.' He tried to explain and Sherlock growled.
'Is the field kit fully stocked?'
The Doctor gave a shaky nod.
Sherlock freed John from his bonds and eased him up, not at all expecting the shorter man to bury his face in fabric of his Belstaff to sob. Panic tugged at Sherlock's heart as he settled the ex-soldier onto the sofa. Despite the hesitation to leave his friend for even a moment, he jumped to his feet and tore about the flat in a state of manic fury.
He took thirty seconds in the bathroom to breathe deeply, to ease his heart into a steady rhythm – John required immediate treatment, and Sherlock needed to keep calm.
The Detective took a final, deep breath before snatching their extensive First Aid Kit from the cupboard and returning to the living room. The sight of John on the sofa, jaw clenched and shaking bodily from the pain, very near pulled the calm right back out of the younger man.
Focus.
Sherlock stood over the man that became his Best Friend and deduced.
Bleeding from the scalp; head wound – possible concussion.
Contusions and facial swelling; not immediately life threatening - next.
Medium sized standard garden shears, bad shoulder; deep enough to scrape bone and recently moved. Fairly dangerous - high priority.
Shattered patella and seeping gouges to the back of the knee – combination blunt/sharp object. Hammer?
The remainder of John's injuries looked extremely painful, but non-threatening. Sherlock eyed his shoulder, watching as the Doctor reached to ease the ache with trembling fingers.
The shears would have to go first, so with a deep breath and a warning to his friend, he readied a towel, gripped the handles and pulled.
John screamed.
It was animal, painful – and it tore at Sherlock, that it continued even as the blades slipped free and the towel was pressed against the wound.
'John, you must keep calm. Easy now, deep breaths,' Sherlock soothed, hissing angrily as the towel grew wetter faster than it should have.
'Sher-Sher-Sherl…s-sstopppppp.' John gasped, pressing his skull back into the arm of the lounge.
'John. John…I must maintain pressure, I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry.'
He pulled the towel away for a quick look and growled. It was a messy wound – very deep and too mangled to stitch.
The Doctor was choking on his breath now, fisting his hands so tightly they turned white. Sherlock swapped the towels out and laid his hand against John's brow.
The man was sweating profusely from the intensity of the pain, and as Sherlock returned the pressure to his shoulder, John retched and vomited spectacularly, covering himself in sick.
'John...shit…' Sherlock hissed, slipping an arm around his back and easing him forward. John shrieked at the touch, and the Detective continued to mutter soothingly to his friend as he eased the soiled clothes from the Doctor's trembling frame.
'Sh-Sherlock...drugs...now,' John managed through clenched teeth.
'We should really wait…we don't know how pain relief will react to-'
'I don't care. It fucking hurts…I c-can't…' He swallowed a sob and at Sherlock's coat. 'Please?'
It barely took 30 seconds for the Detective to make a decision, and against his better judgement, prepared a dose of the strongest painkiller they had stock of. John really was lucky Sherlock helped himself to a five-finger discount the last time he was hospitalised.
John whimpered as the needle slipped into his skin, filling his blood with blissful numbness almost immediately. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes, sighing with relief. Whatever Sherlock had given him was certainly working.
'That's the ticket…' he slurred quietly, blinking his tired eyes back open to peer at his friend. Sherlock was staring at him intently, his brow creased with worry even as the Doctor relaxed.
'John…' he breathed, reaching out with long fingers to brush his sodden hair from his brow.
'I'm okay, Sherlock…' John replied, his voice gravelly with exhaustion.
The younger man scoffed and rolled his eyes as he prepared the dressings for his wounds.
'I think you'll find that is most definitely not the case. As a doctor, I'm sure you're aware of the extent of your injuries.'
John gave a tired chuckle, reached out and gave Sherlock a friendly pat.
'Well, I'm okay at the moment – now that the pain is more manageable. I'll live, Sherlock – don't worry.'
Sherlock scowled. 'Once I find the person who did this to you and break his neck, you will be going to the hospital.'
John gaped at his friend for a moment, unsure as to how serious he was.
'I'm serious, John. No one touches you without consequences.'
His heart swelled at the admission, and all over again – he counted himself lucky to have such a friendship with Sherlock Holmes.
It would be a long road to recovery, but John was certain that Sherlock would be with him every step of the way…even if he was an insufferable git.
Sorry for the wait guys! It's been quite a hectic month. I hope it was worth it – not long to go!