Nineteen: Repeatedly Passing Out
A/N: Set between 'King Ottokar's Sceptre' and 'The Crab with the Golden Claws'.
This was definitely a new experience.
He'd been drugged more times than he could count during his career, but this was taking it to a new level.
It had meant to be a simple undercover operation. The Thompsons had contacted him a few weeks ago about a suspicious death at the docks, where the victim had been discovered with a collection of syringes in his pockets. Further analysis revealed the syringes had once been filled with morphine, yet the autopsy revealed the deceased man had no traces of the drug in his body.
Two weeks into the case and Tintin had already begun to go crazy. Every time the trail seemed to come alive with a potential lead, it fizzled out and died just as quickly. He'd beaten himself up furiously when he learned of the second murder, telling himself that he needed to work just a bit harder, if only to prevent anyone else from going to the morgue.
He hadn't slept a wink that night. The next night was no better either.
It had begun to turn into one of the most frustrating cases he'd ever agreed to research. As each day passed without any developments, he began to regret his decision to become involved.
On the evening of the twenty-second day, the break finally came, and he made his move.
He'd managed to uncover the location of a warehouse that he believed was involved in what the police had dubbed 'The Morphine Murders'. What he hadn't been able to uncover, however, was any evidence of whether any activity was actually occurring at the warehouse.
It had been an excruciatingly long day of scouting, mostly spent inside an old crate filled with splinters while poking his head out from underneath the lid. He'd been about to call it a night and make his way home when the first two men emerged from the warehouse. They seemed to be engaged in a heated conversation, though it wasn't long before their gaze quickly turned towards his crate.
He felt his heart skip a beat. Merde! How the hell did they know I was here?!
Tintin had almost dropped the lid on his fingers in his haste to take cover, but it was to no avail. He cursed silently as the footsteps of the criminals quickly grew louder, and he found himself trying to shrink into the corner. He had to bit his lip to hide a yelp of surprise as the lid was ruthlessly torn from its hinges and thrown aside, crashing onto the ground as it splintered into multiple pieces. A muscular pair of arms grabbed him by the collar and heaved him up and out onto the ground.
He wasn't sure if they had meant to slam his head into the concrete, but he was pretty sure they saw it as being beneficial. A few seconds of disorientation was all the time the men needed to drag him into the depths of the warehouse, with his full sense of awareness not returning until the musty and stale smell of the building assaulted his nostrils. Mon Dieu, they desperately need some air freshener in here…actually, any air in here would be an improvement.
The grip on his torso released and he tumbled to the ground, using his elbows to support himself. He gazed up to find himself surrounded by three burly men, all of whom were glaring at him with the utmost disgust. The man who Tintin assumed was the leader stared down at him, with most of his face being obscured by his enormous brown beard.
"How much does he know?" The boss pulled a cigarette from his pocket, producing a matchbox from the other.
"Enough to know the whereabouts of this place!" The first henchman snapped, running a hand over his bald head in a panic. "W-we have to do something, boss, h-he's a journalist-"
"Relax, my friend, relax" The boss took a long drag from his cigarette. "We have gotten rid of…'obstacles' before. There is no reason we can't do it again."
Tintin's eyes widened. "…People will come looking for me-"
"Shut up, kid," The third man gave a sharp kick to Tintin's back, winding the young man. "How do you want us to do this?"
The boss shook the ashes from his cigarette into Tintin's hair, ignoring the reporter's frantic attempts to brush it away from his scalp. "…Get me the syringes."
It had turned into a blurry and disorienting world once the first injection was administered.
All three of the criminals had to pin the young man down so as to not stab a nerve. He'd asked repeatedly what they were giving him, and no one would indulge him with an answer.
As soon as he'd seen the colour of the syringe, he'd begun to thrash violently as his panic doubled. "You can't do this!" They're going to give me an overdose! I'll die the same way those other men did!
A kick to the groin quickly silenced any further protests. He wheezed for air as despite the pain currently overwhelming his private regions, he felt the syringe's scratch as it pierced his skin. An unnatural chill began to spread through the injection site; the morphine rapidly emptied from the syringe barrel, beginning its invasion through his veins.
He began to struggle once more, though it was pointless now that the drug was in his system.
No no no no no got to get away got to…no…run…no…no…
The effect was almost instantaneous; his head slumped back onto the ground, consciousness fleeing from him within seconds.
He hadn't expected to regain consciousness while he was still pinned to the ground by his captors.
Everything was fuzzy. His brain didn't seem to be processing what information it received.
"Dammit! Why's he awake again?"
"I definitely gave the right dose!"
The blackness took him again.
"…Just leave him, he'll die soon enough."
"At least we know it's a dodgy batch. Make sure we destroy that stock."
He tried to roll his head to the side, but his muscles wouldn't obey. His chest felt heavy, his breathing slow and laboured.
Despite knowing he was in grave danger, he somehow felt oddly euphoric.
This is some good morphine…why doesn't it feel this good when I'm in hospital?
He stared at the warehouse ceiling until it faded into nothing.
I hope the Thompsons took my message seriously…where the hell are they?
Hang on, I thought morphine was supposed to knock you out? Why am I awake…
His deltoids throbbed, protesting with the amount of fluid they'd been forced to absorb.
The world seemed foggy and distant; each coherent thought seemed to slip through his grasp and into the abyss of his mind.
Snowy…
"There he is! Tintin!"
Ah. Thompson and Thomson…they must've gotten my message.
About bloody time, too.
He wanted to greet the detectives, but his mouth simply wouldn't cooperate.
Someone was placing something under his head, and he instantly relaxed into its softness. Jacket?…
Content that he was safe, his eyes fluttered closed, catching a glimpse of the two bowler hats making their way into his line of vision. I hope it's a comfortable hospital bed this time.
A/N: Merde = shit