Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Timeset and spoilers: Post-Reichenbach, post-hiatus
Warnings: Spoilers, mentions of drugs, swearing, angst, some violence
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Heartfelt thanks to all my lovely reviewers so far: SusanneHolmes (finally a flashback), Zacha (Moran deserves a bullet...), Impractical Beekeeping, hjohn302, Howlynn, papergirl101 (hihi, ich hoffe, es ist wieder spannend), Skyfullofstars, Tetriano, Jenna Yemowa, Nos, Erindors, Maddi Paige, ShiverandShamy, Queen Morgan la Fay, Eldar-Melda, Puky2012, House Calls, eight of hearts and bringloid fiodior and to the anonymous ones.
I´ve reached review No. 100 - heartfelt thankyous to all of you! (I´ve raised a red wine on you, though unfortunately not a Barolo ;)
Disturbing Memories
"Sir? Robson reports that your brother refused to go back to Baker Street by car. He said he preferred to walk."
Antheas soft voice interrupts Mycroft´s musings. He frowns slightly at the image of his still recovering sibling walking the streets of London on his own in the middle of the night, but refuses to consider possible consequences. He has more important matters to attend to.
"Thank you, Anthea. Could you please call Robert Mulech for me and put him through?"
"Of course, sir. His private extension?"
"Yes, please. Oh, and Anthea?"
She hesitates and looks back at him with her most charming smile.
"Get me the files on the latest media scandal concerning his trust and Scotland Yard."
The shortest way back home leads over the vast, grassy plain of Hampstead Heath. It is not a route any sensible London citizen would prefer to take this late in the evening, but Sherlock is armed and has never been worried about walking the capital´s streets in the night anyway.
He keeps on walking, the image of the signet ring still puzzling him, when he notices movement beneath one of the street lamps.
He knows what kind of person he will meet there, and he finds himself drawn towards the spot as if an irrestistable magnetic force was pulling at him.
When he retreats into the shadows of the park, he is holding a small, rustling package tightly in his hand.
He strides through the dark with his usual long, elegant steps, fingering the bag, when suddenly, overwhelmingly, everything falls into place.
He´s drifting through snow. The small crystals enwrap him with unbearable softness, but they don´t provide warmth but ensheath him with tiny pricks of cold and he shivers, the hard, unfriendly ground providing no solace from the neverceasing downpour of ice. His eyes are closed, but he is no longer sleeping, only trying to shield himself from reality and to block out fear and desperation. Mycroft would have found him already after so long a time, had he any clue on where to search, and Sherlock senses that his time in Moran´s hands is limited. The shudders intensify and he groans as he shifts and touches the concrete floor with a heavily bruised part of his torso.
He barely hears the door open, but he can´t possibly miss the heavy footsteps of two men approaching.
There are no words, no warning, no preamble. Only a vicious kick to his abdomen. A heavy blow to his chest, close to the solarplexus, follows and his breath catches while he is struggling to get up and tense his muscles to diminish the damage. His body is wracked by heavy coughing and he can´t react fast enough to fend off the man who slings his arm around his throat, cutting off his windpipe. He soon looses all strength to lash out on his attackers and avoid the following blows. His vision is slowly fading but he is still not willing to give in to the fatigue which threatens to engulf him.
Finally, the two brutes release him and he crumbles down onto the floor, rolling to his side, his knees drawn up, his arms wrapped protectively around his gaunt frame. But there is no escape from his tormentors. A strong hand grips his dark locks, pulling his head back, and gruff fingers trace his cheekbones, his adam´s apple, his clavicles.
"Oh, you really are a piece of art," the man whispers. "I wish we had more time together – would be so much fun."
"Come on, leave him," the other man says. "You know what the boss said."
A last touch of fingers on his lips and his tormentor releases his grip on his hair. "Goodbye then, Sleeping Beauty," he says. "Perhaps if you behave yourself we might be allowed some time together."
He desperately tries to appear calm, but his shaking limbs give him away, and the men leave the room, laughing.
He listens to their retreating footsteps and finally dares to open his eyes. Time passes as pain is flowing in waves over his battered body. He should probably better move, but he can´t order his arms and legs to obey. So he just curls up, the cold floor a dire and far less reassuring presence as the sofa at Baker Street. He idly wonders what his former home might look like after his two-year absence and slowly drifts back into a state of semi-consciousness.
When the door opens again, he nearly fails to notice the man who approaches and hovers over him. When he eventually pries his eyes open, he meets his enemy´s gaze with his most intimidating stare.
The man just laughs. "A very convincing performance, Holmes. I bet you could kill me by shooting daggers at me like that." He languidly plays with a small object, and Sherlock feels shudders of anticipation run over his spine as he realizes it is a syringe – ready for injection as all others before were. If only Moran would hand it to him and he could soothe his pain with the anaestesizing effect of the cocaine. But the Colonel just continues to watch him, his face unreadable.
"You know I do wonder to what extremes you would go to get another hit," Moran offers. "One of my men considers you a piece of art. He is dying to touch you, you know. It´s not really too much to ask, a kiss for a hit, is it? I´d imagine you did stupid things to get your stuff when you ran out of money."
"I didn´t. Wealthy family, remember?"
Moran smirks. "With a not very patient patriarch. I bet he cut your allowance at some point to chase you back into the arms of your loved ones, to force you to crawl back to his doorstep."
Sherlock closes his eyes, briefly. He remembers his father´s fury when he found out about the drugs and Mycroft´s smugness and diverse futile attempts to help him.
"What do you really want?" he asks Moran through clenched teeth.
Moran crouches next to him and grabs some curls of his unruly dark hair. "An apology. You are responsible for Jim´s death. Apologise."
Sherlock snorts. "He shot himself, not I."
A sharp tug at his hair, and Sherlock´s head is flying back, pain clawing at his skin.
"Do. Apologize," Moran orders, hissing. "Or I´ll let you rot – without another hit."
Sherlock pants. His whole body is aching and he longs desperately for the soothing sensation of the drug, for being transported out of his dungeon, if only for minutes. Withdrawal makes him weak and vulnerable, and complying to Moran´s order seems the logical thing to do.
The colonel yanks at his curls once more and Sherlock nearly cries out in pain. Teeth clenched, he mutters an apology he doesn't feel in the slightest. But the grip on his hair doesn´t soften.
"Not like this," Moran orders. "On your knees. Say: I am very sorry, dear Jim. Clearly."
White-hot rage washes over Sherlock´s whole being, and makes it nearly impossible for him to push himself to his knees and speak Moran´s words out audibly. A third and fourth time the Colonel forces him to repeat the phrase, each time demanding him to speak up, before he finally releases him and hands him the needle together with a rag.
Sherlock is too busy fighting tears of humiliation to notice that the liquid is neither the same amount nor the same colour it has been in the past days of his captivity. His sole desire is to shoot the substance into his veins and escape, to transport himself to a place where the cruelty of his captor can´t reach him.
It is only when he pulls the needle out that he realizes the rush is different this time. Instead of brimming energy and a rapidly increasing heartbeat he feels as if he were falling into a bed of soft cloth while his thoughts start to drift and his muscles relax. Tiredness washes over his body, as the pain of his injuries is finally blocked out.
Fuck, he thinks, and his gaze falls on Moran, who fidgets with a large signet ring he wears on his left hand. The Colonel watches him closely, finally nods with a vile smile and gets up.
"I thought you might cherish a change. Captivity is so boring, after all."
Moran leaves and Sherlock drifts away. Although he has long passed the point to care what drugs the criminal hands him, he has no intent to get high on Heroin. Withdrawal will be so much worse than from cocaine and will make it so much easier for Moran and his thugs to get to him.
He knows that he is finally loosing all sense of resistance and that means he is starting to give up hope.
John quietly opens the door to 221B. He has returned late from the hospital and has spent the past hour with Mary, who has warmed up a piece of lasagna for him. The doctor feels a bit guilty about the fact that his and Sherlock´s fridge is devoid of any edible substances, and he wonders whether his flatmate has ordered takeaway or if he hasn´t eaten at all, as he has done frequently in the past days.
The flat appears empty, the rain pouring down outside the windows, drawing vertical lines into the glow of the street lamps outside.
John sighs, shrugs out of his coat and turns the kitchen light on. Starled by a familiar sound, he stops and walks back into the living room. Heavy breathing emerges from the corner where their sofa sits and he makes out Sherlock´s distinctive features in the semi-darkness. The detective is perching there, not stirring, his breath coming in ragged gasps. There is a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead and he clutches something tightly in his trembling right hand.
"Sherlock?"
The younger man startles and looks up. "John," he answers quietly, his gaze vacant.
The doctor crouches down and traces Sherlock´s wrist gingerly, feeling his pulse. It is far too rapid for his friend´s unmoving posture.
"What happened?" the former army doctor asks.
Sherlock heaves another heavy breath, shuddering and involuntarily gripping John´s wrist. He can´t remember how he finally ended up back in their flat, he only knows that he knocked on Mary´s door earlier but got no reply. As much as it is a relief to him that John is back, he feels no desire to discuss his panic attack with the doctor.
"Nothing. Just a bad memory," he brushes John off, turns and looks at the window. "I can´t afford these disturbances, John."
The doctor frowns. "What disturbances, Sherlock?"
The younger man releases the dead grip on his friend´s wrist and gets up, swaying slightly, his fist still clenched around the tiny, unknown object. "I need to go to sleep. Goodnight, John."
But John is fast enough to hold him back by gripping his elbow. "Sherlock. You are showing symptoms of severe stress if not PTSD. Tell me what happened."
The detective looks down on him, frowning.
"Let me help you," the doctor pleads, desperately hoping that he will get through to his disturbed friend.
Sherlock finally sighs and rakes his left hand through his dark curls, too weak to shake John off or to deliver one of his usual scathing remarks.
"It would help most if you would come with me tomorrow," he states.
"Where to?" John asks, slightly confused by Sherlock´s direct request.
"I need to get back to Milverton´s house tomorrow night," Sherlock replies. "It would be a great... relief to have your company."
John shifts, pouting, and straightens his back. How could he possibly let his friend face danger on his own in the state he´s in, he thinks. Obviously, he is in dire need of a companion.
"Well. Right. Of course I will come with you," he promises, feeling a little bit uneasy about the slight feeling of reluctance which accompanies his decision.
Sherlock exhales heavily, swallows and looks down at his friend. "Thank you, John," he says quietly.
The doctor gets up and approaches him, touching him lightly at the shoulder. "Under one condition," he replies, which earns him a sceptical frown from Sherlock. "Only if you allow me to apply a sedative for tonight," John states with a soothing smile.
Sherlock doesn´t smile back, hesitating, before he shrugs wearily, signing defeat. "Guess I could need one. These - images are getting tedious, actually."
Feelings again, John thinks. If only Sherlock could for once admit that he is not an unfeeling alien.
Mycroft holds the newly filled glass of brandy in his hand and stares into space, thinking. Anthea has provided him with enough ammunition for his forthcoming meeting with Robert Mulech, owner of a trust which assembles several influential newspapers and broadcasting stations.
The man is a force in himself and the good thing is that he is far from being flawless. Which should work as a great advantage to his cause, Mycroft muses. A great advantage indeed.