A/N – Re-edited – 19/07/17
Between a Rock and a Hard Place
- Chapter Twenty Nine –
*- Sherlock -*
He didn't know how long he had been hanging… all he did know, was that he was in a constant state of pain. His shredded back paled in comparison to his wrists and shoulders. The blood had stopped flowing, but the throbbing continued; as did the pull at his arms and he ache in his head. He had felt himself come close to sleep on a number of occasions but with little success. Some part of his body would always demand attention and drag him from its reaches.
It was just him and Lestrade now, John had gone back to sleep. Or more accurately, Lestrade had made him go to sleep. Not that it was hard. Even now, he could hear his friend's pained and laboured breathing from the other room, growing steadily worse as time went by. He could tell that the Inspector was worried about him, about both of them. Every few minutes the scrapping sound would stop and Lestrade would look in on him and then over to John. It wasn't particularly helpful in anyway, but it was nice to know that he cared.
Despite the Inspector's best efforts, the tool was just not working. Lestrade had spent hours trying to fix it up, only to have it break for a third time (or was it the forth? or fifth?)
He could tell that Lestrade had also come to the conclusion that their plan would not work. He could see it in the Inspector's body language; hear it in his frustrated voice. The plastic was just not strong enough to do what they wanted it to. Lestrade knew this but didn't say anything. Often he would hear a frustrated cry or a defeated moan. Once he had even heard the tool, crash against the far wall. Every time it sounded like Lestrade wanted to give up, he would look over at John or at him, and then silently get back to work. He didn't want to let them down, didn't want to have to break the news. He sighed, "take a break L'strade."
The Inspector looked up at him in surprise.
"It's fine…" he said after a short pause. "I've almost got it."
"No… y'don't."
Lestrade sighed in defeat, his head dropping sadly. "I'm sorry."
"Not your fault," he replied weakly, shaking his head from side to side before wincing in pain. "You did your best," he grinded out through clenched teeth.
Lestrade peered through the bars crest fallen, his eyes showed an overwhelming look of guilt and sorrow.
"We won't give up Sherlock, we'll find a way."
As much as he wanted to believe the Inspector, he couldn't. The pull on his arms reminded him every second, just how hopeless his situation was. There would be no escape, no rescue. They were trapped and completely at their captor's mercy. Worse of all, he knew exactly how it would all play out… Frank and Rusty would continue to inflict more and more pain until he cracked and told them everything. It was inevitable. Nobody can withstand torture for very long, everybody eventually breaks and he would not be the exception. As soon as that happens, they'll kill John and Lestrade. They might make it quick, they might not… either way, they'll make sure he's there to watch… and then after that, they'll kill him. The best he could hope for, is that they don't drag it out, and that he would have given the Home Office enough time to find their man. That would be the greatest tragedy... if he gave his life for nothing.
"You sho'd go t'sleep," he muttered quietly, glancing back at the Inspector. Lestrade shook his head.
"I'm fine, besides I wanted to keep you company," Sherlock sighed.
"You're yawning… I'm not goin' 'nywhere... I'll be fine."
"And so will I," he replied calmly.
"They'll be here soon 'nyway."
"Not going to work. Besides, what do you think John will do to me, if he finds out that I fell asleep, while I was supposed to be keeping an eye on you? You should know, it's not worth it."
Sherlock said no more, having neither the energy nor the will power to really care anymore.
"So, Sutton hey? Care to tell me what that's all about?" Lestrade asked, tossing the tool off to one side.
"Best you don't know."
"Yet you want those sicko's out there to know?"
"They need to... It's impor'nt."
"But why?"
He didn't reply, choosing to close his eyes instead. He didn't have the energy to explain.
"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked worryingly.
"Just… trust me… midday… not before…" He swallowed sharply, "need to… set it up first."
The Inspector continued to look through the bars at him but did not say another word on the subject. If had more questions, he didn't ask them. His face was a mixture of concern and curiosity, as he no doubt tried to piece together the information. It was no use of course; he had been cryptic for a reason. It was best if they didn't know all the details just yet.
*- Lestrade -*
He had so many questions but he knew it would only be a waste of time. This was still one secret that Sherlock was holding close to his chest. He had to keep reminding himself, that everything the man had done up until this point was to help. He had to trust him and go along with it, even though the idea made him physically ill. Each time he caught a glimpse of Sherlock's torn back, he was reminded of John's words.
"Oh my god… They escalated… We gave them information and they escalated. Oh my god Sherlock, your back."
Sherlock had left them yesterday afternoon in relatively good shape, but looking at him now… What would happen to him the next time they divulged information? What was Sherlock going to look like then? Was it really worth it? He couldn't help but remember Sherlock's reply, the one that had him in tears.
"I'd rather this than the alternative."
He didn't know if he could do it again, stand by and watch Sherlock take the hit. He didn't know if he would be able to live with the guilt. He knew that John felt the same way. Neither of them wanted to be responsible for Sherlock's pain. The fact that their unknown betrayal had granted a possible escape plan, had at first made him feel slightly better about the whole situation. At least Sherlock's sacrifice had not been for nothing, but now… He was certain that there would be no escape tonight. Dawn was growing closer and they had run out of time. He felt shattered, hopeless and more importantly, responsible; as if their failure was somehow his own.
He leaned back against the bars with a deep sigh and continued to keep an eye on his two friends. They both looked and sounded absolutely terrible and yet he found himself wishing that the night would never end; for as bad as it was for them now, it would only get worse...
*- Dimmock -*
A persistent buzzing sound slowly roused him from his sleep. Blurry eyed and somewhat confused, it took a moment for him to realise that the sound was coming from his phone.
"Dimmock here" he said casually, trying not to sound as though he had just woken up.
"Sir, we've received a couple of calls from John Watson's sister. She wants an update on how the case is going. Apparently Donovan has been keeping her updated but we can't get in contact with her."
"Yeah you won't be able to; she's working a case with the Home Office."
"Oh, well that solves that mystery. What would you like me to do? She's getting very agitated."
Peter reached for his watch, surprised to see 8:16 glowing on the small screen. He must have slept through his alarm.
"Give me her address, I'll call past and see her on my way in."
He stumbled to his feet and fumbled around for a pen, before writing the address on a small notepad. He enquired about the case but after being told that they had not made any further progress, Peter ended the call. Already he could feel a headache coming on. Despite the eight hours of sleep, he felt as though he had barely closed his eyes, the result of a restless night. As he made his way towards the bathroom, he was already starting to dread the conversation with Ms Watson. He just wished he had something positive to tell her. What was he going to say? 'I'm sorry Ms Watson but we still have no idea where your brother is or who took him; and no, we don't know if he's still alive.'
He inwardly cursed Donovan for leaving him in this position. What on Earth had those three managed to get themselves into? Agent Ward had said they were dangerous men, Donovan said they were taken for information… Just what condition were they likely to be in when they do find them? The thought was too much to bear and he pushed it aside. He wouldn't think about that now, he had work to do.
*- Sherlock -*
He had given up struggling a long time ago, had even given up talking. Both required energy, energy he didn't have. He hung in silence, trying not to dwell on the future that lay before him. Trying to ignore the growing sense of terror but failing miserably. What a ridiculous notion – terror. Such a childish reaction and well below him and yet, he couldn't help it. He knew the emotion was impractical and in no way helpfu,l and yet the closer it got to morning, the more trouble he had trying to contain it. Whenever he felt the panic start to rise, Lestrade would break the silence. He must have sensed it in his body language, heard it in his breathing. Either way, it was in these moments that Sherlock treasured the man's company above all else. Lestrade wouldn't talk about anything in particular, usually something pointless like football or cars; anything to help pass the time. As dull as those conversations were, he couldn't begin to express how grateful he was for the distraction and how much easier it was to cope.
When he did eventually hear the three sets of footsteps, he was surprised to find himself feeling an overwhelming sense of relief. As much as he dreaded the day ahead, he also knew that any minute now, the pull on his arms would finally cease and his torment would be over, no matter how temporary.
Frank was the first to pop into sight, a wide smile beamed across his face.
"Well look at you, hanging 'round like a bad smell" he said with a laugh.
The night guard came next, closely followed by Rusty, who moved past Frank to unlock the cell door.
"Looks like Humpty Dumpty fell from his wall," Rusty said bluntly, causing both Frank and the night guard to burst out laughing.
"You have a good night?" Frank said smugly, as he walked straight up to him and started slapping at his cheeks. He considered spitting in the man's face but decided against it. Although it would give him a great sense of satisfaction, he also knew that in the long run, it wouldn't worth it.
He could hear the sound of bricks being slid out from underneath him and the ladder being set up.
Not long now he thought tiredly, his heart racing with anticipation.
It wasn't long before he heard the rattle of chain and a second later, he felt himself fall. The plan was to land firmly on his feet, find his composure and then stare the three men down. The ground was, after all, only a few centimetres away. The reality however, was not as graceful, and his legs collapsed beneath him.
He fell in a heap on the ground, his arms dropping on top of him like dead weight. Pain instantly shot through his arms and hands as pressure was taken off his wrists. He slowly rolled to his side and brought his cuffed hands up to meet his eyes. He could tell instantly, that the damage wasn't as bad as he'd first thought. The metal cuffs had dislodged themselves from the skin and had fallen further down his arm, allowing him to see the deep gashes they had created. Fortunately, they were mainly isolated to the widest part of the wrist, the section just below the thumb and little finger; the majority of the flesh wasn't too bad. He held his breath, as he once again tried to move his fingers, sighing in relief as they all responded, some better than others.
He was just starting to feel pins and needles in the digits, when two sets of arms grabbed him by his shoulders and dragged him to his unsteady feet. His balance wavered but he managed to stay upright, as his left hand was released from the handcuffs. He was preparing himself for the walk to the interrogation room, when his arms were unexpectedly forced behind his back and re-cuffed. It was only then that he stared listening to what the three men were saying…
"Get the chain ready."
*- Lestrade -*
When they finally released the chain, Sherlock came crashing to the floor like a sack of potatoes, his body collapsing underneath him. The detective groaned loudly, pulling himself into the foetal position.
"I'm sick of this crap," Rusty growled, staring down at his prisoner. "You're going to start talking to us… right… now!" He continued, threateningly.
The room went silent as all eyes drifted to the moaning man, rocking ever so slightly against the concrete floor. Sherlock did not speak.
"Let's start with something simple," Rusty continued, crouching down to stare into the detective's face. "Was there someone else in that hotel room?"
Sherlock said nothing.
"Well? Shit for brains?" Frank chimed in mockingly.
Sherlock sighed deeply but still did not answer, his eyes staring intently at the inside of his hands. A moment passed in silence before Rusty's patience ran out.
"Right, get him up!" the older man ordered, angrily.
Frank and the night guard grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, hoisting him up onto his shaky feet. The atmosphere in the room had almost instantly changed. There was no longer any sense of amusement, only frustration and anger, as Rusty released the detective's left hand from the metal restraints. If it wasn't for the two men holding him, he had no doubt that his friend would have fallen.
"We'll try this again," Rusty said, as he pulled Sherlock's tormented arms behind his back, securing them once again in the metal handcuffs. "Get the chain ready."
He quickly shot John a questioning look but the doctor's attention was still on their friend. The night guard left Sherlock's side and picked up the heavy chain from the floor. After climbing the ladder, he threaded it through the large hook in the ceiling, so that it could be moved backwards and forwards and not just remain in a steady state as it had been before. As Rusty connected the other end of the chain back around the handcuffs, he saw the look of alarm on Sherlock's face as he suddenly lunged forward, trying to escape.
"Ah ah ah," Frank said gripping the detective tightly, pulling him backwards. "You're not getting away that easily".
Sherlock glanced over to where he and John were standing, an anguished look on his face. His eyes pleaded for their help but there was nothing they could do. Their friend turned away a second later, but Greg could still feel the ache in his chest. It occurred to him, rather belatedly, that this is what it must have felt like for Sherlock back in 'that' room. The thought made him feel even more terrible, just another thing he had to endure. When was this all going to end?
With the other end of the chain tightly secured around the handcuffs, Rusty motioned to the night guard to pull it tight. Sherlock's body slowly bent forward as his hands were pulled up behind his back.
"All right, that's enough," Rusty muttered just as Sherlock started to grunt in discomfort. "Frank, go give him a hand."
Frank released his hold of Sherlock's shoulder and the detective wobbled unsteadily. Rusty moved around to meet him, his hand lifting Sherlock's weak chin to stare directly into his eyes.
"Was there… another person… in the hotel room that night?"
Sherlock remained silent, his eyes narrowed defiantly.
"Have it your way", Rusty muttered, dropping Sherlock's head and motioning towards the others. A second later, both the night guard and Frank pulled tightly on the other end of the chain, causing Sherlock's arms to pull tight. It was bad enough, seeing Sherlock hang from the ceiling with his arms in front of him but this… this was like something out of the Middle Ages. Sherlock's face screwed up in pain, but still he did not answer, choosing instead to breathe through the ache.
"Was there another person, yes or no?"
Still no answer, and with a nod the two men pulled harder, forcing Sherlock up onto his toes. The detective grunted loudly but remained silent.
"Well?"
Again nothing. This time when they pulled, Sherlock's feet left the ground, causing the man to elicit a deep growl.
"We can do this all day," Rusty continued, signalling again for the chain to be tightened.
"Just one little word."
"Stop it!" John yelled from beside him. "We've already told you that there was! Just leave him alone!" This earned Sherlock another sharp pull at the chain.
Rusty looked over at them with a scowl. "That's enough out of you. Of course, we know the answer... I just want to hear him say it."
Rusty walked over to join the other two and together, the three of them heaved at the chain, causing Sherlock to jump up rather suddenly. The detective managed to muffle a cry, his breaths coming loud and sharp as he closed his eyes against the painful pull.
"Come on Holmes, yes or no?" The man asked, releasing the chain just a fraction, causing Sherlock to suddenly drop and bounce a number of times. This time, the detective did cry out, which only caused them to do it again for a second time.
"Yes or no?"
"Leave him alone!" John cried again as Sherlock screamed through clenched teeth.
He didn't know what to do, didn't even know where to look. His heart was racing, his mind slow with shock. He wanted to call out, but what good would it do? He wanted to tell the three men to go fuck themselves, but that too would just be a waste of time. He wanted so many things right now but most of all, he just wanted it to stop. Sherlock's cries and whimpering were getting louder and were now almost constant. The man's chest was heaving so much that, he was sure the detective would pass out.
"Come on Holmes, was there another person there or not? Yes or no?"
"Yes there was!" John cried
"Yes or no?" Rusty continued, ignoring him.
Sherlock tried to take a breath.
"Yes or no?"
"Y…yes," Sherlock gasped.
"I'm sorry?" Rusty asked, moving back into Sherlock's eye sight. The detective swallowed, still breathing hard and fast.
"Yes."
"Yes what?" Rusty asked dangerously, grabbing Sherlock's hair and twisting his head up to face him.
"Yes, there was… someone else there." Sherlock choked out.
"Good." Rusty smiled widely. "Glad to see you finally cooperating, looks like we're off to a good start."
With a flick of his finger, Sherlock came tumbling down, hitting the ground like a ton of bricks. His face hit the floor with a smack and when they dragged him back to his feet, he had a fresh trail of blood running from his nose - If it hadn't been broken before, it definitely was now.
With little else to be said or done, the three men proceeded to drag Sherlock from the room and he found himself able to do little but look on in shock, as the detective disappeared back down the hall.
