They weren't locking my door anymore. It was, I knew, another ploy in Moriarty's never ending chess game. He held a terrible threat over my head, and now he was trying to provoke me into doing something rash anyway. The door was unbolted; there was no guard outside my door. How easy it would be to walk out, to try and sneak away and reach Mary to take her to safety...
Your move, Watson.
There is a story about a prisoner held by the Spanish Inquisition. The man had been tortured, but he refused to break. One night the poor rabbi managed to escape his cell and, heart in throat, had begun the agonizing move toward freedom. He reached the gardens, the very threshold of freedom, and had just turned his face toward heaven to thank God for his escape when his captors emerged from where they had been waiting all along. They had turned that most noble of emotions, hope, into an instrument of torture. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that Moriarty had read that story.
I knew what he was doing, and I hated him for it. But if Moriarty thought he could goad me into something so rash as another escape attempt, then he had sorely underestimated John Watson. I would bide my time, hoping for an opportunity to get a message out, rather than try and escape. If I could find an ally of some kind, who could get word to Holmes, who would take all action necessary to make certain Mary was safe–if I could do that, and somehow make certain that poor child would be safe from Moriarty, I would then make another attempt. But until that chance arose...well, if Moriarty wanted to leave my cell door unlocked, then I would certainly take the opportunity to explore as much of my prison as I could. The more I knew, the better help I could be to Holmes and myself.
There was no guard outside my cell–but in stopping and listening very hard I could hear sounds of life at the far end of the hall. If I tried the stairs, which I was certain led out, my escape would no doubt be reported immediately. Well, no matter. The hall stretched out in the opposite direction, turning a corner several yards away from my position. I headed for the turn, every muscle tense, expecting at any moment to hear a shout of alarm.
Turning the corner, I saw another corridor, with a few doors on the eastern side and one at the very end of the hall. I strained my ears, and heard a faint, unfamiliar sound. It seemed to be coming from two doors up on my right. Curious, I began edging forward, and the low murmur of voices was added to the strange sound. Then, with a chill of horror, I heard footsteps from the hall I had just come from. I was possessed of the sudden certainty that, if I were caught here, there would be trouble. Stepping as lightly as possible, I sprinted for the door closest to me, opened the door, and flung myself inside, remaining pressed against the door, listening for signs that my hasty movement had been noticed.
They had not; the footsteps continued down the hall and, after a moment, I heard another door open and close with a squeal of rusty hinges. I sighed, relaxing a little, then turned to survey my surroundings. It would have served me right to be facing a roomful of startled, humorless guards–after all, I hadn't considered what might be in the room I'd sheltered in. There were no guards. But I was not alone.
The room was long and low, and very dim. The only light came from a barred window set high on the wall, from which emanated the sounds of flowing water and a distinctly nasty smell. That alone gave me more information than I'd had in days: the building in which I was being held was on the banks of the Thames. And since the odor was so unpleasant, it was a reasonable assumption that I was still in London. (Holmes, had he been here, probably could have told me precisely where we were, right down to the street name, from the smell alone. I missed him suddenly and fiercely.) Cots lined the walls on either side of me. Prone forms lay upon them, and beside each cot stood a tall, spindly contraption with a liquid filled bag suspended from its arms. I stepped closer to examine the one closest to me, and noticed a long, thin tube running from the bag, down to the arm of the cot's occupant. I caught my breath as I saw her face. It was Maeve Stonehaven, the blonde Jedi I had met that night they rescued us from Moriarty's ambush. A quick examination proved that each of the room's four occupants was a Jedi. They were all unconscious–drugged, probably. That brought me back to the strange device. It was really quite ingenious: the tube was plugged into the subject's veins by means of a needle, held in place by a loose bandage, and the liquid in the bag dripped slowly down the tube and was fed into the body. I had no idea what the clear, faintly greenish liquid was, but I could guess it was responsible for the Jedi's incapacitation.
Voices outside the room brought me back to myself with a start. I held my breath, but the men outside passed on. I dared not remain here much longer, though. However, remembering our experience with the rescue of Ben's master, I knew that the Jedi could purge themselves of drugs–if the source was removed. If I could manage it so that even one of the Jedi had a chance to regain consciousness, there was a good chance they could somehow alert those who were still free. But I had to do it so that the next person come to check on the prisoners–for I was certain that was what they were–would not notice something was wrong.
It proved a simple enough solution. Removing the bandage holding it stable, I pulled the needle from the woman's arm. It was quite thick–sensible, I supposed, since the liquid had to have room to pass into the veins at an appropriate rate. But it was still only a thin piece of steel when all was said and done. I placed it point down on the wooden edge of the cot and pressed hard. The needle bent and snapped. Liquid still seeped from the end, and I could only pray that whomever checked on the Jedi was very unobservant. I laid the broken syringe back along Maeve's arm and tied the bandage over it once more, arranging it so that it would appear that the needle had never been removed. The bandage and light blanket covering the woman's body would help absorb the now-leaking tube...for a time, at least.
It was a slim chance, but I could only pray that the Jedi would have enough time to pull herself out of the drug-induced stupor to help us all out. Patting her hand awkwardly, I said, "Good luck to you, lass." Then I rose and, after checking to be certain the hall was empty, made my way hastily back to my own cell.
All I could do now was wait.