I tried to get two chapters in but I just couldn't make it. I'll see if I can do it by Thursday.

Embark.

Before going to Afghanistan, I had recieved torture training, just like any soldier. I learned methods of physical preparation and mental separation techniques for different situations, both of which would do me plenty of good in my current predicament. However, those valuable memories were now faded and worthless. I had never been taken hostage or tortured while in Afghanistan, therefore I had no experience to speak of. My memory of the training itself wasn't superb in the first place. There had been little reason to refresh myself. Plus, my head was still muddled up from everything that'd happened within the last day. Bloody marvelous. I couldn't even think straight, much less recall my military training from nearly ten years ago.

Frustrated, I paced around the room and resigned to trying to keep myself occupied. I had a better recollection of the café scene now, so that was an option. I didn't want to work myself up, though, so I looked for something else. I tried to focus on thinking about you again, but I had remembered how much danger you would be in if you tried to find or rescue me. It made me slightly sick, so I gave up on that, too.

There was literally and absolutely nothing to do inside the room, either. The padding on the ceiling was large and square, so there were only eight little corners - not enough to constantly count. The whole room was white, save my jumper, trousers, and shoes. They hadn't changed my clothes, which I found odd, but they had snipped off the tags and clipped any loose seams, which I also found odd. Wasn't enough to hold my attention, though. I kept pacing.

My ankles and arms groaned with pain after a while, finally realizing what Argall had done to them. I sat down on my cot to stretch, and hesitated getting up.

Was I supposed to keep my self awake? or was I supposed to sleep? I was upset that even that I couldn't remember. It would be useful, I reminded myself begrudgingly. But regardless, I was still avoiding sleep. Earlier when I had tried, I had woken not too long afterward, shaken by vivid nightmares that had turned my stomach more than normal. I didn't really want to be sick in this tiny room. I stayed awake.

No one could stay awake forever, though, especially when locked away in a cage. My emotions began to bubble over, making me miserable. I was angry one moment, relaxed the next, and nearly in tears following. I ran out of acceptable topics of thought as time dragged on, and the cycle intensified. My senses were useless and my limbs were half-numb with pain. No noise came from anywhere. I felt dead.

Argall returned twice more within that time, with his stick at his side. He used the same approach each time, hovering over me for agonizing seconds while I braced myself for impact, finally crumbling to the floor as his club struck. The bruises that formed on my arms, legs, and chest only helped to heighten the excruciting pain rippling though me. He clipped his weapon too close to my shoulder and swept across my temple, knocking me out cold.

The same dream continued to replay, never truly reaching resolution any time. You and I, in the park, with Gladstone and the man in the long black coat. Sometimes I sat on the bench with you, and other times I stood some distance away, surveying and floating like some kind of ghost. The dog always noticed him first, the man. He sniffed the ankle of his trousers and bared his teeth.

You didn't suspect the man at all as you approached. You seemed annoyed with Gladdie, and I could almost hear you curse and call him a name. Sometimes you picked him up, sometimes you only put your hand on his back. But either way, the man wasn't at all happy with you. He always pulled the knife. Why? You hardly even noticed him. Why would he pull the knife?

I came to my conclusion while floating close to you, studying the precise moment of time when he reached for the knife. You had turned, unnaturally frozen, and I could see the small spark of horror in your eyes. Glancing then at the cloaked man, his face was hard to see, but the curve of his eyebrow told me anger. The anger of a man being yapped at by a dog? The anger of a man whose cover had been blown by this yapping dog?

But who was this man? Why did he pull the knife on you?

Stepping back, I let the rest of the dream roll on. He jumps on you, throws the dog off. Drives the knife into your stomach. You recoil, stepping back, hands to your abdomen. He grabs your hair, yanking your neck tight and slashing the knife. Blood spills out across the pavement and the grass. The dream-state me rushes over and throws myself into the man, but he's nearly twice my size, three times my strength. He continues to stab at your chest while I shriek, pounding on his back.

Pause again. I leaned over to look at the man's face. Now, he's distinctively Argall. That part made sense. But why would he so ruthlessly murder you? Maybe I had been right - you had seen his face, and therefore blown his cover.

I tried to channel my inner Sherlock, and soon enough, you were standing beside me, a ghost yourself, stepping around the three dream-states in your peculiar kind of way. "Five puncture wounds so far, one major cut to the throat. Already dead by now. Cause of death, blood loss." You pulled out your small magnifying glass, peering closely at the wound on your dream-state neck, then at Argall's knife. "He's had the same knife since Afghanistan. Look at the stains in the handle, the way his hand has rubbed such defined grooves into the leather."

"Why was he here? Why did he jump you?" I asked.

"I was hoping you would know the answer to that," You replied, straightening.

"Why am I here?" I continued.

"I'm pretty sure I had something to do with that," Anne said, stepping into view.

I was too tired to wonder where she had come from. "Anne."

"Hello, John," She said, her smile just as sweet.

"Why did you do that to me, Anne?" I asked, pleading.

"Maybe you didn't know me as well as you thought you did," She answered. Her green eyes glowed red, and a forked tongue shot out from between her teeth. "John."

I panicked, running from her and toward you. You spread your arms to catch me. But as I got closer, you disappeared into dust.

Suddenly, I was standing before Bart's, my cold mobile pressed against my ear. Your voice echoed. "It's a trick. Just a magic trick." I choked out words back to you, but I couldn't hear them. You fell, your legs and arms moving with the currents, air whipping through your dark curls. Blood across the pavement. The sharp collision of a bike with my side. Yelling, crying, screaming, cursing, reaching out to touch your hair one last time. I felt a slither, like the tail of a scaly beast running up my spine, escaping just beyond the edge of my vision.

The street melted away, reshaping to form the ugly walls of the suicide ward. They closed in around me like chains, immediately launching me into hysterics. I pressed myself into the corner, violently shaking, and screamed for someone, anyone, just to answer me. I yanked out clumps of my hair and scratched deep scars into my face with trembling hands. Invisible spiders ran underneath my skin, and my heart threatened to explode out of my chest. I kept screaming.

I woke on my cot in the bleach white room. The holding room. Not the ward. Not the ward. My stomach gave a lurch. I had been dreaming.

My eyes were dry, my face wet, my chest tight and sore. As I started to calm down, the muscles in my stomach relaxed, then sharply tightened again, spilling its contents across the floor. So much for not being sick. Dizziness and vertigo threatened to throw me down into the middle of it, but I gripped the edge of the bed and pushed myself back.

This wasn't poison. This couldn't have been poison. This was too real. This was too me.

What was happening to me?

I was being carved. I was a pumpkin on Halloween-eve, I decided. My insides were being cut out of me, my mind scooped out and thrown away with the rubbish, replaced with a tiny little candle, burning as much as it illuminated. I could no longer pace in a straight line. My legs and ankles stung with every step, the crusty blood in my socks stratching at my skin. My entire body shook with such ferocity that I was worried I would have a seizure.

Whenever I tried to eat, I ended up huddling under E's red bulb and vomitting it all up. I had earlier decided it wasn't worth it, and I stopped eating. But Argall had a field day and forced scalding soup down my throat until I coughed it back out all over him. I ate what they brought me after that, and dealt with the vomitting alone.

E never spoke to me again.

I had experienced hallucinations before, but never so intense as then. Sometimes the room would rise or drop suddenly and leave me disoriented. Other times I would feel as if I was spinning. Colors and dots swam along the walls. I was convinced I could hear the faint bass notes of a cello, even though I knew the walls were soundproof.

There was one hallucination, however, that was stranger than any of the others. In random instances, I would get a blood-curdling sensation of being in immediate danger, and I knew that a beast lay just beyond my sight. Behind me, beside me, above me, below me, somewhere it was hiding. I knew exactly what it looked like, even though I never saw it - its mouth, full of sharp teeth, and its long, snake-like body. I could feel it graze past my skin, coil around my chest, and squeeze.

It felt like all my fear, all my anxiety, and all my stress had been pressed into the scales of this huge creature, its slimy exterior rubbing against my heart and through my throat, its tongue just beginning to tease my eyes. I could smell its breath, twisting my stomach into knots. Its claws ripped into my chest, tearing open my lungs. It wasn't real, but it was dangerous.

I kept pacing, standing, or gently addressing my wounds, avoiding sleep and acute thought all the same. I would shout if I needed to, and I would cry if I needed to - I was past the point of keeping up a strong front. I was conscerned now with staying sane, not with keeping up appearances.

They were right. My mind was failing me. And it wasn't the room that made me think such - it just took the room for me to realize it. They had been right all along. I did need help. I couldn't handle myself, or my emotions; all I could do was look for distractions. All I could do was distract myself from the reality that I can't do it. All my life, all I had done was look for distractions. Distractions from my dull parents, distractions from my dull sister, distractions from my dull life, distractions from myself.

I hated myself. I hated my distractions. I hated that I couldn't handle myself like an adult. I hated that I didn't listen to you. I hated that I wasn't smart enough to recognize danger. I hated that I was idiotic enough to think that I was. I hated that I was helpless. I hated my every thought and word. I hated myself.

Argall watched me with a steel gaze, his brow drawn up tight. He rolled what looked like a wooden spear in his hand. It was shadowed, stained with a dark brown pigment, with a leather handle and wrist strap tightened around his muscled hand. Its edge was sharpened to a sickle-like point. I could only imagine what kind of damage it could have done.

"Up, Watson." He growled.

I sat on my cot with my back pressed against the wall, sleepy, all energy having been drained out of my by what seemed like days spent without sleep. He had no sympathy, and grabbed me by the sweaty collar of my jumper, yanking me off.

"Get up."

His upper lip curled in disgust as I groaned on the floor, cradling my head. Swiftly he grabbed me by the hair, causing me to shriek.

"On your feet."

I clenched my teeth and answered him, pushing myself up on shaking legs. My eyes wouldn't leave the point of his blade. Was he going to kill me?

Argall swung, connecting the blade to the flesh of my arm. This pain was different than the pain of the club - it was more distinct, and more terrifying, because I knew what a sharp edge could do to blood vessels, and just how quickly I could die. He continued to swing, cutting through my jumper, blood trickling through my clothes. I cried out, pushing my hands out to stop him with no success.

This time, though, after four or five blows, he straightened and let his blade fall to his side. "Up."

I sunk farther into the padding of the wall, now stained with blood.

"Get up. You're coming with me." He said, smoothing his hair back into place.

"What?" I croaked.

"You heard me. You're coming with me. And if I were you, I'd come easily."

I gathered up the remainder of my adrenaline-crazed strength and spat, "You're fucking not."

To this, he replied with a swift kick to the stomach. I coughed up vomit and blood, and he gripped another handful of my hair, pulling my eyes to meet his.

"You can walk," He purred, "or I can drag your limp corpse. Your choice."

The stink of blood and leather surrounded me as consciousness passed in and out of my reach. Argall had "escorted" me through a series of white halls and loaded me into the back seat of a small car (or, rather, the floor of the back seat). Everything was dark for a long time, the car windows having been blackened with paint. I laid with my head near Argall's feet. If I tried to make a sound, he would press his heel against my windpipe until I either stopped crying or passed out.

Just as my blood had started to dry and cake on the carpeting, the car stopped. It was only a brief stop, however. Argall kicked open the door and dragged me out by the arms. I was too dizzy and disoriented to wrestle with him. The ground was no comfort as it came, slamming against my chest and head, taking my breath away. Chilly wind hit the back of my neck, turning my sweat to ice. A distorted shadow of Argall climbed back into the vehicle and disappeared into the street.

Blaring horns and shouting people stirred me from my daze. I opened my eyes to the vast whiteness and looked around. A moderately sized crowd had already begun to enclose me. Their faces, twisted and pale, peered down at me from all sides. I pushed to my feet, ignoring the help of strangers, and stumbled through the crowd. People overwhelmed me. So much noise, so much color and movement.

Your voice shot out like a siren in the dark, one tiny whisper of familiarity in a swirling sea. You were calling my name, but I didn't know where you were. I kept pushing, kept trying to run, but I stumbled and fell back onto my bloodstained hands.

I could feel the dragon pursuing me, trodding just behind the footsteps of the crowd. I could see the flick of his tail, hear the soft prod of its paws on the pavement, taste its saliva mix in with the snow. The heat of its breath was sharp and terrifying against the back of my neck.

A firm set of hands found my shoulders, holding me still, patting down my arms and chest. I yelled and flung myself away from him, batting my arms wildly, but he caught me and eased me down to the ground. The man looked directly into my eyes. His mouth was moving, but I couldn't hear him. Lestrade? Was that Lestrade? It was like a lightswitch had gone off inside my head. London. London. Lestrade. Lestrade.

Tears poured down my face, but no sound came from my mouth. I sank to my knees, gripping Lestrade's shoulders as firmly as he held mine. I laid my head against his chest, shaking with cold and pain as my wounds began to sting.

Someone else came too, grabbing me away from Lestrade and holding my head against the collar of his coat. It was you. It was you. Your hair flushed with mine, and though I couldn't understand your words, I could hear your thick emotion, feel the vibrations in your chest, feel the panic in the tips of your fingers, the sway of your body as you rocked me back and forth. You. You. You.

The ambulance came minutes later, its sirens drilling nails into my head. A sedative was quickly administered.

They tried to keep me under while they stitched me up, but a few times I had fluttered back to life. Pain and panic dug their nails into me, and I clung tightly to you, weeping into the fabric of your shirt. You whispered to me, and played with my hair.

You never left. Even at night, even in the day, even when the nurses would change my bandages or check my temperature. You laid beside me, your hands brushing gently against the broken skin of my arm. Your warmth, surrounding me. The smell of your hair, the taste of your lips.

"I didn't do it because I was angry, John."

Slowly, I started to remember. The night that your violin lulled me to sleep. I hadn't remembered you moving me, but now I did. You had waited until the end of the stanza, then set your instrument down and slipped your arm under my legs, the other under my shoulders. I was only barely awake, but I could feel the soft texture of your shirt against my cheek, and the strong scent of your cologne in my mouth. You laid me down on our bed, taking the time to pull off my shoes and cardigan.

"I did it because I was exhausted." You were whispering, sitting by my leg. "I did it because I wanted to be able to help you, and I couldn't. You have to understand, John... I didn't do it to spite you, or to get back at you. I didn't do it because I was unhappy. It was because you were, and I, with all my talents, could do nothing for you."

You sighed, your voice wavering, head bent down. "I'm sorry I've caused you more grief. I'm trying, John. I'm honestly, honestly trying."

Your lips brushed against my forehead, and you fixed my hair back.

"I love you, John," You breathed.

Eyes on fire, your spine is ablaze. Felling any foe with my review.

Next update Thursday.