John was sitting rigid in his chair, gripping the metal arms with white knuckles. The man hadn't been lying; the burning seething just under his skin sure was keeping him awake, although the walls kept dripping away in front of him. He was fairly sure that wasn't normal. Moran considered John's grip on the chair, and hid a smile, walking over. "How are you feeling, Captain?" he asked, the question sterile, unconcerned, but not hostile. "Are you beginning to remember?"
"I- I remember being shot. That's not... not an issue. I just remember.. afterwards?" John frowned, gritting his teeth slightly as the burn started crawling up his neck.
"Do you? I'd be surprised, you were often heavily sedated," he said calmly. "Do you remember the Taliban finding you? Do you remember being here?" He walked forward, eyes on the soldier. "You dreamed a lot while you were under. We believe you constructed an artificial reality."
"No, it... it had to have been real," John resisted, struggling to get a clear hold on his memories, but each time he managed to get close to one it wriggled away again, leaving only faded hints as to what it had been. "I... what's the date?"
"October 4th, 2010," he returned without hesitation, recalling the year Watson had returned from Afghanistan easily. That had been the year things had gotten interesting with Holmes. "I can understand your confusion. Dreams while under sedation can seem incredibly realistic, especially since your mind incorporates elements from your actual surroundings into the dream."
John shook his head again stubbornly. He wanted it to be real. It had to be. But for Christ's sake, he couldn't make it come to him. But this simply couldn't be right. He blinked as the woman from earlier entered again, this time accompanied with two men garbed head to toe in the clothes he'd seen on enough enemies to recognize in his bloody sleep.
Moran turned to see those who entered, and spoke in quick Pashto, glad he'd picked the basics of the language up, at the very least. "Sirs. I'm still working with him. I can't guarantee his clarity, he's still unsure of his reality. But you're welcome to interrogate him. I can interpret."
Harrison made herself comfortable in the corner while Moran continued playing his game. She'd pulled Granger out of cleaning one of the other basement rooms, and O'Rourke from her own department. John looked on with renewed confusion, having just gotten to a point where he thought this might all be a scam, and struggled to keep up with the broken Pashto he knew.
O'Rourke was light on his feet, and responded easily in rapid-fire Pashto, almost losing Sebastian. He caught the jist of it, and translated carefully, unsure of how much of the language Watson knew. He turned to the doctor. "You will provide us with the name of your commanding officer, and you will provide us with location information for subversive bases within your area of operation. If you do not do this, you will be tortured."
If anything was going to make Watson freeze up, it was that. Giving up his superior officer, giving up secrets. He set his jaw, staring defiantly up at the man through the stinging in the back of his eyes. Harrison fiddled with a drawer in the corner, pawing through and picking out tools at random, intentionally in the doctor's line of sight. Granger folded his arms and looked imposing. This role did not require a lot of acting from him.
O'Rourke considered him, then turned to Sebastian, still speaking in Pashto. "I do not want him marked. He must be presentable if we need to take video. Be creative. The commander will be inspecting the situation shortly."
Sebastian nodded, and then turned to Lorna. "Anything else, sir?"
O'Rourke shook his head. "Inform me when he's ready to answer our questions." He turned and left, Granger on his heels. Moran turned to Harrison, translating for her sake, careful to keep his subtle accent.
"No marks," he said, shaking his head at the equipment she was accessing. "I'll get a drip line set up."
Lorna nodded, sliding shut the drawer and turning back to watch Watson, a little put off by the way this was going. Drugs made her leery at best, and it made her almost ill to see someone else under that sort of fog. But hell if she was going to let Moran see it. "Saline is in the upper leftmost cabinet, if you feel like diluting it."
He nodded, walking to a taller cabinet to grab an IV stand and carrying it over, setting it beside Watson, taking his time. He caught the man's gaze. "I don't want to have to do this to you, Captain," he lied easily. "But I won't regret it, either. You just let me know when you're ready to comply. I understand that your memory is a little hazy, so I've tried to clear that up for you a little, to help you, but you're going to have to work at it. They won't be pleased if your answers are muddled."
"You can tell them to fuck off," John managed through gritted teeth, a sallow pallor coloring his face. Lorna coughed across the room to stop herself from laughing and walked across the room to hold a hand out for the IV. She had more practice getting veins.
He smiled, round, white teeth hauntingly reminiscent of a military graveyard, rows of white stones meaning death. "I'll be sure to pass that along," he murmurs pleasantly, passing Harrison the needle and straightening, moving to open a drawer, within which were rows and rows of small bottles.
"Where in the UK are you from, Captain?" he asked calmly.
As Lorna re-tied the tourniquet around Watson's arm and deftly inserted the IV into place, John was internally debating with revealing information about himself. That was fine, wasn't it? At least a little. "England," he muttered, looking down at the needle in his arm with a clinical, if muddled eye.
"Ah, the motherland. Wherein? I miss home sometimes." He extracted a bottle from the carefully packed drawer and headed back over, shaking it back and forth to mix the liquid.
"London. What about you?" John tried, wetting his lips as he spotted the bottle the man was shaking. The woman untied his tourniquet, her face blank except for mild expectation as she looked up towards her colleague.
"You want me to give him the whole thing?"
"About half should be plenty," Moran returned, handing the bottle to Lorna and ignoring Watson's question. "Where did you think you were, when you came to? I'm curious. You'd been muttering for a while, nonsense mostly."
John shook his head, refraining from shrugging his shoulders as the woman added the drug to his IV stream. "Dunno. It's clean. Rich. Not... what I expected."
"We aren't the barbarians Western media makes us out to be, Captain," Sebastian said calmly. "We are intelligent, well-funded, well-informed." He walked to pull a chair out of the corner, setting it in front of John and sitting in it, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. "Now... That's going to feel cold going in, but don't worry. That part is over quickly."
"What is this?" Lorna asked in smooth Italian, betting that Watson was unlikely to know the language, and fairly certain that Sebastian knew enough to carry conversation.
He grinned, glancing over at her and returning with a stiff but passable tongue "Something which will make him very sensitive to touch, or pain. Needles feel like nails. Also causes an intense desire to move. I don't know the name in Italian, and I don't want to tip him off."
"I don't think medical terms change with language. But I see your point," she smiled, returning to her corner and making herself comfortable against the wall. John was waiting for the drugs to kick in, heart ticking a bit faster with trepidation.
"Do you remember the Commander, Captain? You two have met before, but only while you were rather... out of touch. I wouldn't be surprised if you had trouble remembering. Or, perhaps he showed up in your dreams. I am still curious about those."
"I haven't the faintest who you're talking about," John shook his head, shifting slightly in his seat until the movement sent a spike of pain up his arm from the needle, a hiss escaping him.
"Easy there," Moran soothed with the type of calming tones one might expect from a child molester. He reached out a hand, scratched a fingernail across the man's bare knee with an eyebrow lifted in curiosity.
Watson jerked away as well as he could strapped down, teeth clenched and bared. It didn't hurt, not really, but it felt a thousand times more intense than it had any right to. Lorna chuckled quietly across the room, but kept whatever thought had wandered through her head to herself.
"Good," he said softly, before his eyes flickered up to Watson's. His nail turned, met with his other finger, pinched down, hard and suddenly, nails biting until the skin turned white, before he twisted slowly. "Now, Captain," he said quietly. "Your commanding officer."
"Sholto!" He yelped, "James Sholto! W-What was that?" He snarled, the sallow tinge disappearing from his cheeks and red replacing it. Lorna snickered, making her way over rest her hand on the back of Watson's chair with the intention of making him feel oppressed.
He released his grip with a soft smile. He hadn't even pinched hard enough to leave a mark. "Something the dear old United Kingdom has outlawed, which is rather unfortunate for them. 3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate. Causes an intense desire to move, as well as heightened nerve response. Exceptionally useful."
"Try the inside of his forearm next time he's feeling quiet. More sensitive than a knee," Harrison suggested cheerily, grinning as Watson started fidgeting again - this time keeping his arm still so as not to rattle the needle.
Moran smiled, but his eyes didn't leave Watson's face. "Now... Captain, I don't suppose you could be persuaded to give us some information about those bases?" His voice was still friendly.
John cleared his throat, stalling for time. "I don't see what information you could possibly need. You're looking well-funded enough. Can't afford a satellite?"
"As I'm sure you know, Captain, there are submerged bases in several areas that are being very carefully concealed. Those are the ones I'm referring to. I honestly don't care in the slightest, but my superiors do. I care that you get out of this alive and well, after all my hard work. So in that sense, I do care that you cooperate."
"Sorry," he muttered, glaring down at his own knees. "Not going to happen."
Sebastian sighed quietly, glancing up at Harrison and nodding to Watson's arm. "That's a shame."
"It is, isn't - Jesus," Watson gasped as Lorna dug her nails into his arm - hers were longer than Moran's, and far more likely to leave bloody marks, so she simply dug in. Dragging or twisting would get messy very quickly. She hated having blood under her nails.
"Let's talk about something else, shall we?" he asked casually, making no indication for Lorna to let up. "Who or what is 'Morstan'?"
"She's my wife," John growled, half at the confusion mucking up his head and half because the pain lancing from the woman's nails was quickly becoming excruciating. "What's it matter to you?"
"It matters, Captain, because you are not married." His voice was calm. "It stands to reason that your dream world would have been constructed with subjects of importance placed in key roles. Think harder, please. Who, or what, is Morstan?"
"She's a woman, you bloody nut, I haven't been making up people!" He snarled, trying to move his arm away from Lorna now, enough so that she leaned down harder. "Let go!"
He allowed the calm to snap, exploding to his feet and slapping John across the face, chair toppling behind him, before he stormed away with a cry of frustration. "This is what they give me to work with! A broken toy with a monkey brain wired for imaginary bananas. Fix it, fix it! Fucking bastards!" He took a slow breath, running his hands through his hair and over his face, hiding a smirk. He allowed his body to relax, and he let out a quiet breath. "Okay, alright, fine. If all we have is bananas, we work with bananas." He turned back to Watson, calm once more. Harrison was still pinching him, and he motioned for her to let up. "Tell me about Morstan. She's your 'wife', how is it that she manifests in your dreams?"
Lorna had to congratulate his performance. He really did sell it. She wondered if he could lie as convincingly straight into somebody's face. The fact that she didn't know the answer didn't make her trust him any more. Watson was still recovering even after she'd let go of his arm, reeling from the slap. She'd been hit by Moran - it must have been incredibly painful with the added drugs. "She's... she's just a woman. Works as a secretary where I work. She's clever. That's why I was drawn to her at first," John choked out, red blossoming across his face. "She's real."
"Yes, yes," Moran muttered, waving away his protests. "She's real. Fine. We'll all say she's real. How long have you known her?"
"Two years," he breathed, finally settling back into his chair again. The woman behind him smoothed a hand over his head and he yanked his head away, defensive. She stifled a small laugh.
"Interesting..." he said, smiling slightly. "Tell me more about her. What are her interests? Her history?"
"She's an orphan. She.. she likes to read old war novels, mysteries, and the like," he murmured, frowning to himself and trailing off. He didn't think he should be telling these people about his wife.
"Strategy, maybe," Moran muttered quietly. "Or espionage... Tell me, John... Picture her face... does she remind you of anyone? Anyone from the army?"
"What? No, why would my wife be in the army?" John scoffed, punch-drunk from the hallucinogenic patch still stuck under his jaw. "She doesn't even like guns."
"Not your wife, Captain," though he had to hide a smirk at the 'doesn't even like guns'. "Does she remind you of anyone?" He reached out a hand to pin John's tapping fingers, the need to move setting in.
John shrugged, the movement welcome, even though it hurt. He was antsy as fucking hell. "A friend. A friend I once had, really."
"Who would that be?" he asked, though he really didn't care. But this line of investigation had to be pursued carefully, needed an excuse.
"Sherlock. A, uh, detective," John sighed, tapping both his hands against the armrests. Behind him, Lorna raised her eyebrows slightly. Like they needed another Holmes.
"Unusual name," Moran said, not blinking. "Tell me about them."
"He's brilliant. Bloody bastard, but..." John huffed, drumming his feet against the floor. It felt like the vibrations were going to shatter his spine. "Faked his death. Not friends anymore."
"And how is he taking that?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"It took several punches to the face to get him to figure it out," he snorted, shifting back and forth in his chair. There was a slight breeze in the room that blew on the back of his neck, and it was beginning to feel like a rash.
"Sounds self-abusive," Moran commented lazily, straightening. "This is getting us nowhere." He slipped a hand into his pocket, removing a knife. "You know, if we can hide it with a boot, it doesn't count as a mark." He bent to examine John's bound, bare foot.
Lorna cleared her throat, looking at him pointedly. If he had an unexplained mark later, things could go south later. There was always a possibility. Bad cop, pretty cop was probably out too, considering the doctor was married and wasn't going to be relieved of that fact any time soon. The drug drawer would be better. All of that didn't distract John from curling in his toes to stay away from the knife.
He glared at her, reminding her of her position on the totem pole. He looked back to Watson. "Out here, rough terrain as it is, no one would really question a missing toenail anyway, would they, Captain?" he inquired softly, eyes locked on John's.
Lorna submitted, bottling up a sigh and retreating back into a corner to avoid the potential disaster zone. John was staring down at Moran, mind racing, trying to sort out reality. "No... no.. don't."
"Can you imagine what it will feel like?" Sebastian breathed, a glint in his eye. "Can you feel that needle aching in your arm? Multiply that ten, a hundred, a thousand times..." He rested the cool of the metal against the man's foot. "Remember getting shot? Remember the white-hot agony of it... Oh you screamed when we had to clean it..."
John could feel his breathing pick up despite himself, his wavering memories easily spitting that one back out at him. The most pain he'd ever felt in his whole bloody life. And the limp that followed it... "Fuck you," he hissed, shuddering. He'd accept what punishment came. Nothing could equal being shot.
"You were so lost in it..." he breathed. "Walking around the halls dragging that damn weight so you wouldn't run. Not that you could anyway. You want to go back to faerie-land? Go see Morstan and- what the hell was it- Sherwood? I can send you there. Back down the fucking rabbit hole."
"It's real," John seethed, jerking at his hands like he was trying to bring them up to his face, "I- I don't know what this place is. It doesn't fit! You don't fit."
"It's Afghanistan, Captain. It doesn't fit anywhere. It's a hellhole in the middle of a happy little universe, and you can never get the sand off of you." He shifted his hand, as if considering, but then straightened. "No. I'm not going to undo my handiwork. You'll just have to wait." He turned for the door, tucking the knife away.
John remained shuddering in his chair, staring off into blank space. Lorna didn't look at him as she followed Moran out, shutting the door behind her and immediately yanking off her scarf. "Do you need me here or would someone else do just as well in my place?" She asked, looking up at him expressionlessly, although she made sure to keep her tone polite.
He considered her. "The boss will be here soon. Go," he said, waving her off. "Though we're going to address this discomfort later, Harrison."
"I'm sure it'll be fun, sir," she replied flatly, already turning to escape, to get the hell away from that room and the chills tip-toeing up her spine.
He watched her go, and almost jumped at the Irish lilt behind him. "Where's Harrison scampering off to?"
He turned around to see Moriarty gazing over his shoulder at Lorna's retreating back.
"I don't need her any longer, sir."
"Pity. I was looking forward to harassing you both in Pashto. What have you gotten from the good doctor so far?"
"He and Holmes are not on good terms," Moran said, straightening his suit slightly. "Watson said he'd punched Holmes in the face on multiple occasions in order to get the message across that he was no longer welcome. I've been telling him anything related to his current life is something he dreamed up in a coma. He's denying it, but his faith's failing."
"Good," Jim grinned, "Keep confusing him. I don't need any more information out of him than that - I've checked with Magnussen's people. We have all that we need. Right now it's just playtime."
He gave a broad grin. "I've introduced you as the 'Commander'... Do you want him to be able to see your face or not?"
"With this charade, it hardly matters. But I think being blinded would be fitting, don't you think?" Jim hummed, tipping his head to the side.
"Of course sir, one moment," he said with nod. He walked into the room, closing the door behind him briskly and walking over to open another cabinet, pulling out a fitted blindfold and approaching John.
John only made a token resistance against the man, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to truly pay attention. Too busy trying to figure out what was real.
He tied the blindfold firmly, amused at how the rough cloth would feel against the man's overly sensitive skin, and walked back to the door, opening it and nodding to his employer.
Jim entered the room grinning. This was much different from a few years ago, when he'd been similarly trussed and bound and had fed information to Mycroft Holmes for a taste of Sherlock's early life. He was completely in control here, and he knew all he cared to. This was only because he could. "Dr. Watson. How nice to see you awake. Well. If can call this awake. My man tells me you've been rambling about another life."
It was odd to hear his employer speaking, not with his standard Irish accent, but with a mild Pashto one. Watson turned his attention towards the voice, looking like he was trying to place it, but couldn't in his haze.
"So he says."
He smirked. It had been tempting to keep his own accent, just to see if it would trigger a fear response in the doctor, but alas, they'd put too much effort into keeping Watson in the dark that he couldn't bring himself to. "So he says? Why, are you implying my man is lying? I guarantee you're a better liar than him," Jim chuckled. Throwing Watson off their tracks would be easy.
Watson shook his head. "It's not right. Nothing's... right..." He closed his eyes tightly, despite the blindfold. Speaking of which, the cloth was starting to sting and itch terribly, which combined with the fact that his muscles were burning to move... he couldn't think clearly at all.
"You're in the custody of the Taliban, Doctor. That's bound to throw a wrench into your perception of things," he hummed, drumming his fingers on the man's shoulder for a moment. "But that's alright. I don't mind a little rambling right now. I do know some of the people in there, after all. Of them."
He jerked at the sudden touch, gritting his teeth as that yanked the needle in his arm. His whole body was covered in a sheen of sweat, and he could feel beads of it rolling down his back oh-so-clearly... He wore nothing but his pants, but the room was hot. Far, far too hot... He tapped his toes and fingers, trying desperately to gain movement. "Who do you know...?"
"Your good friend Sherlock. His last name was Holmes, wasn't it? Not that it matters - he's just a stain in the desert dirt now," Jim sighed wistfully, pressing down on John's hands to trap them, deny him movement. "I hear you dreamed he only faked his death."
He tilted his head back in the chair, trying to arch his spine slightly, anything, but the straps that held him in place denied him that, as well. He needed to move so badly he felt sick. "What... what are you talking about?"
Jim made a mockingly sympathetic noise, pressing down harder on the back of his hands. "You've been through quite the trauma. It only makes sense that this is the only way you could cope. You made up an entire life because a fellow soldier died and you couldn't do anything to stop it. I don't know if you're pathetic or cute. But I'm afraid that your friend is quite dead."
"Sherlock's alive," he panted, curling his toes again and tensing and relaxing his limbs. He grit his teeth at the pressure on his hands before taking a deep breath, trying to stay calm. The fabric of the blindfold itched, sweat dripped down his left bicep in a slow line towards the inside of his elbow, the chair stuck to his skin... "He lied to me. He's fine."
"Your mind lied to you, Dr. Watson. I do apologize, it must be quite the shock to have to remember this way. He died the day before you were shot. Stepped on a landmine, I believe?" Jim asked, pausing as if looking to Moran for confirmation.
"According to what we could find, sir," Moran responded with a nod. John swallowed, shook his head, curled his fingers as best he could under the man's grip. "No, no no no! That's wrong, that's- he jumped off of a building, St. Bart's, he jumped, he jumped..." He closed his eyes tightly again under the oppressive, itching heat of the blindfold, straining against the straps that held him for a moment. He was breathing too fast, his heart racing, and he tried to calm down. "He's fine..."
"He's not," he hummed, pressing down hard enough to hurt for a moment before drawing back up to full height and tucking his hands into his pockets. "One moment he was there, the next - poof. He made the evening news."
Poof. Poof was a terrible way to describe it. The concussive force of the blast as it seemed to shove your guts back against your spine, the way your eardrums rang and shrieked in protest to the noise, then a second later the uneven rain of what was left of your comrade-at-arms, accompanied by a mist of blood and God-knew-what-else... But it wasn't Sherlock. Sherlock hadn't been in the army... hadn't... had he?
He aimed a gun through the window of a London flat, hands steady as he prepared to kill the old man... But now it shifted, and it wasn't a flat but a bunker, and he was providing cover for Sherlock as he ran in... No! He shook his head and the vision shifted once more, flickering back and forth, and his lungs were being pressed again by the concussion of the mine, and Sherlock's face was so... so pale, and bloody...
Moran watched in amusement as Watson curled forward as much as the chair would allow, hyperventilating.
Jim took a few steps back, a self-satisfied smile present on his face. Sherlock had been the easier mark, here. He knew only the bare basics about Morstan, but John already had the memory of his detective dying in front of him. "Don't forget to breathe, Doctor. Hate to see you end up like your friend over something so trivial."
"Fuck. You." he managed, hands balled up into fists as he struggled against the restraints, damn the pain. He needed out of this thing so badly... "What do you want, anyway? You can't keep me here forever... they'll find me.."
"I don't want a thing from you," he laughed, shrugging his shoulders, "My superiors do, but that's for them to know and you to deal with." He took a step forward and pulled the restraints tighter, tight enough that it would feel like a boa constrictor was wrapped around his chest. "I'm afraid you're powerless to stop it."
He almost let out a scream of frustration. Instead he bit into his lip until it bled. He was a soldier. He wouldn't give into interrogation.
"Who else made it into your delusions? Anybody stand out that you want to talk about? I'm sure I could look them up," Jim offered, his amusement obvious.
"In case you missed it the first time," John growled through grit teeth, extending both middle fingers. "Fuck off."
Moran laughed.
"Must you be so utterly boring?" Jim sighed, raising his hand with the intention of slapping the doctor across the face before his phone buzzed in his pocket. He let out a long breath and then reached for it, unlocking it with clear irritation and scanning the message before looking up at Moran. "I'm afraid I'll need to call for a break. This simply cannot wait," he seethed, tucking the phone back into his pocket. Magnussen, showing up at this very building. He'd thought the man was smart.
"Yessir," he said immediately, moving to open the door for his employer. There was nothing wrong with letting Watson stew for a bit.
Jim immediately started back down the hall, fixing on a cold veneer as he headed for the elevator. "I have to deal with Magnussen. Your presence won't be necessary - his men aren't allowed in my building, filthy things that they are," he spat, expecting Moran to keep up. "I will give you a ten-minute warning when I'm coming back down. Do what you will until then."
He hesitated slightly. "Sir, I'd still recommend having me or someone else present. Magnussen may not like to get his hands dirty, but if he feels cornered he's been known to act aggressively."
"Exactly the reason why I'll be leaving my office door unlocked and my hand on the gun taped to my desk," Jim growled, reaching the elevator and jabbing at the open button. "He came without invitation. He is hardly the one being cornered." He glanced over at Moran once, then sighed, biting the inside of his cheek. "You may post someone outside my office, if you must. Someone unimportant. Magnussen doesn't need to know your face."
He nodded curtly, already reaching for his com. "Thank you, sir." He headed back down the hall, ordering someone who was monitoring the current staffing situation to send someone competent up to the Boss's office.
Jim disappeared into the elevator, leaving Sebastian to his own devices. He would deal with this as quickly as he could fucking manage.
Moran waited until he had confirmation that someone had been placed, before turning the com off and heading back inside. He paused as he opened the door, calling down the hallway in Pashto for the hell of it at some imagined subordinate, and then headed in, closing the door behind him.
John was slowly getting control over himself. Slowly gathering himself. That didn't stop himself from twitching slightly at the sound of the door opening, the draft on the back of his neck chilling him. "The Taliban get a lot of scheduling conflicts?"
"We had an unexpected visitor, it's being taken care of," Moran said smoothly, walking over and trailing a finger over Watson's ear.
He flinched away, setting his teeth. "Stop fucking touching me," he gritted out. Everything felt like too much. The light, even through the blindfold, was too bright. The air too cold. The seat too rigid. Touch was one more sense than he could handle.
"I'm sorry," he said, pushing his hand through the doctor's hair. "Am I making you uncomfortable, Captain?"
John sucked in a tense breath through his nose, hunching his shoulders as if it would help fend the other man off. "Go fuck yourself."
"My my my..." he sighed, shaking his head. "So tempting, but I think I'll pass... You know, I'm trying to help you, Captain. I'm trying to help you become yourself again. You and I, we have the same goals. We want to heal people. I just do it a little differently."
"I don't want your help, thanks. Fuck off," he growled, pulling at his restraints until his skin screamed and forced him to stop. "I fucking doubt you could help a child's scraped knee."
He laughed. "Perhaps not. Oh well." He reached to undo John's blindfold for the time being, wanting to look him in the eye. "How are you feeling?"
"I feel great," he lied, resisting the urge to spit in the other man's face, now that he had the vision to aim with. He was not in a position to do that right now, not with this IV in his damned arm. "What about you?"
He stretched idly, just showing off that he could, before walking over to examine the IV bag. "Oh, I feel excellent, thank you... We have a little more of this before it runs out... I think maybe it's time to reconsider those feet of yours, don't you?"
"Literally go fuck yourself," John said, a tone of antagonism riding along his words. "You and your commander and that woman and your superiors. All of you can go fuck yourselves." If the army had taught him anything, it was that excessive swearing at the enemy was just fine.
He laughed, pulling the knife out of his pocket again and crouching down to where the man's foot was strapped. "Did they teach you how to be tortured, Captain?" he asked quietly, pressing the knife against the man's pinky toe, hard, but not quite hard enough to break skin.
"Basic training," he gritted out, pain lancing up from his toe. This would be excruciating. "Not going to ask any questions this time?"
He shrugged. "You know the question," he retorted. "I want those base locations." He gave the man another moment of anticipation.
"You know my answer," he snapped. "Leave me alone, you sod."
"See? Did I really need to ask?" he asked softly, and clamped a hand down firmly on Watson's foot to keep him from moving it as he pushed the blade under the doctor's nail, smiling as blood welled up around the point.
He couldn't help but scream, something that would have really hurt under normal circumstances becoming unbearable under the drug. "Stop! STOP!"
"The bases, Captain," Moran returned evenly, just loud enough for Watson to hear over his own screams, slowly twisting the blade back and forth.
"I don't know!" He cried, gripping onto the arms of the chair with desperation. "For Christ's sake, I don't KNOW! I've never been to one! Please!"
"I'm afraid that isn't good enough, Captain," he said conversationally. "If you want me to help you, you have to help me first."
"Please! I only know that they'll be shut down within the year! They haven't even got any bloody missiles!" He groaned, tears pricking at his eyes as his body struggled to release any of the pain shooting through them.
He stopped moving the knife, but didn't remove it. "What are they for, then?"
"They were bases of operations, but they've been decommissioned! They've been shut down!" John gasped, trembling with the effort of staying still.
He considered, then removed the knife for the time being. "If they're so unimportant, why didn't you simply mention them immediately?" he asked coolly.
"There are still men there. I can't- I can't be reckless with their lives. I'm a bloody doctor," he breathed, panting for breath.
He laughed, considering the blood dripping onto the ground. "Literally."
"You're not funny," he snapped, letting his head roll back a bit. "Go the fuck away."
Sebastian tutted softly. "Do you always have such a dirty mouth? You should apologize..."
"You fucking bet I do," John muttered, gritting his teeth so hard they squeaked in his mouth. "Go. The fuck. Away."
"Now now, Captain, you should know better than to talk that way to your superiors," Sebastian sighed, standing and walking toward another cabinet, pulling out a cloth and a jug. "You know, I did that once or twice when I was in the army. Do they still make you stand in ice water? That was horrible... Toes going numb, skin aching... I won't be quite so cruel, I'll only get a little bit of you wet, alright?" he asked with the soothing tones of a bedside assistant asking if you were alright with a shot. It didn't matter if you were or weren't, you were still getting your flu vaccination, but it made you feel better. The mockery was threatening. He poured stale water from the jug over the cloth, saturating it, water hitting the floor. He turned his attention back to John, walking over.
John stared at the cloth in the man's hand, pretty sure he knew what was coming. And he did not want to add that to his already excruciating day if he could help it. "Stay away from me," he snapped, jaw clenching. He was prepared to bite the man's hand off if he bloody had to. "I mean it. I mean it."
He stayed about a foot back, considering the look in the other man's eyes, before he set the jug and cloth down. "Silly me, I forgot," he said, smiling slightly and walking around behind the chair. He slid a board on the back of the chair up behind Watson's head, locking it into place, and pulling the extra strap out and around John's forehead. "Cooperate, or I'll give you a paralytic, and this will be so much worse..."
His breath picked up, heart beating faster, sweat dripping down his back and making him want to arch away, claw his way out of this hell he'd woken up into. "What do you want from me?" he asked, voice giving out halfway through his sentence. "What do you want? Why are you doing this? Nothing about this place makes any sense.."
"It's my job to help you, Captain," he said easily, voice smooth. "To heal you. I'm trying different methods. But it's also my job to punish you for your sins against God, so that you will be ready to repent."
"Shut the fuck up, you nut - It's not your bloody job, Satan," he huffed, pressing his head back into the board. "Just leave me alone. Please."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," he said, tightening down the strap over Watson's forehead and locking it in place. "Tell me, do you remember now how your friend died?" He glanced towards the IV. Empty, or almost. What was in his bloodstream would last a few more minutes, but it would be better to get something else going as well. He stepped on a pedal, leaning the seat back and raising the feet slightly until the doctor was lying flat on his back. Then he headed for the medication drawer.
His lungs didn't feel like they were cooperating. They kept stuttering, one shaky breath cut short and puffed out again before he'd gotten his share of oxygen. The sweat cooling on his chest was making him feel like he was lying on an Arctic ice cap. And to top it all off, he couldn't quite see where the man had gone again."Yes. Of course I remember," he breathed. Both versions. Both equally as painful.
"And how was that? Tell me, Captain. Is reality returning to you?" He slid a bottle out of its slot, considering it, before returning it and picking up the one next to it, walking back over.
He knew what he had to do now. Resistance without cause was only going to put him in worse condition, and he had the tools to feed this man what he wanted to hear. It didn't matter that John himself didn't know which was real. "He stepped on a bomb," he choked out, swallowing hard.
"Yes, good," he said softly, pouring an ample dosage of the new, reddish liquid into the IV bag. "And tell me, where is he now?"
"He's dead," John whispered, unable to make himself say it louder. He only hoped it was a lie.
"I'm so glad that you're beginning to remember," he said soothingly. He stepped back into the doctor's line of sight. "I've just administered amphetamine," he said quietly, bending to pick up the dripping cloth. "That should begin to raise your heart and breathing rates... I'm sure you're well aware of the effects. They can be addictive, but for the time being I think they may be unpleasant. However..." He reached out with the damp cloth- but instead of covering John's face, he simply wiped it down with a mockingly tender touch. "You seem to be remembering, so I'll let you have a bit of a break instead of proceeding right now. How's that sound?" he asked with a smile.
John didn't think he could respond without saying something unspeakably explicit so he just stayed quiet, shuddering slightly despite himself, dreading the new drugs entering his system. A break wasn't enough. He wouldn't even begin to feel safe until the man was gone and had been gone for at least half an hour. This was nerve-wracking.
He started walking in slow circles around the chair, in and out of vision, keeping his steps as silent as possible and varying his pace so as to appear at different intervals.
Whatever the man was doing to freak him out was working. That, or the amphetamines were kicking in quicker than he'd expecting; his heart was beginning to race.
He continued walking in quiet circles, pausing just behind the man and walking up, reaching out to stroke his fingers through the doctor's hair again. "What's the date, Captain? Can you remember?"
John desperately wished he could move away from the man, but all he could do was clench his hands into fists. "No.. No, I've forgotten what you told me."
"All of what I told you?" he tsked. "What's the year?"
"2010," he supplied, beginning to try to even out his breathing. It failed.
"Good," he said softly, pulling his hand back and continuing his circling. "When was the last time you were in London?"
John stammered, completely unsure. They hadn't mentioned that, had they? "I- I don 't know."
He nodded slightly, giving no indication if he was pleased with the answer or not. "What was the last thing you were doing before you were captured?"
John let out a puff of air. "I don't remember," he sighed, trying and failing to shrug.
He nodded a little more. "We're going to make negotiations with you, Captain," he said, smiling quietly. "We're going to get weapons, and concessions, and it's going to be all thanks to you."
He grit his teeth, sucking in a harsh breath. "I'd prefer you didn't tell me what you'll get out of this, to be perfectly honest."
"I'm sure you would have also preferred I not shove a knife under your toenail," he returned with a hint of amusement. "But you're welcome to request a change of activities."
"I wouldn't say no to a nap," he ventured, knowing very well he was going to be shot down immediately. The blood dripping from his toe would have begun to tickle if it had been able to get over the pain.
He laughed. "I doubt you'd be able to if you tried, what with a stimulant drip feeding into you." He paused in front of Watson, considering him, and smirked, tilting his head in consideration. "I will leave you be, however," he said, walking over to a cabinet and grabbing a metal stand out of it. He walked over, sliding the legs of the stand to their full extension. It consisted of four metal legs supporting a bar between them, and jutting down from the bar, an adjustable arm, at the end of which was a razor sharp blade. "I'll just leave you something to keep you entertained." He set the stand straddling over the laid-back chair, a set of feet on either side, and moved the blade to sit over Watson's abdomen, starting to lower it with a small crank towards his skin.
John froze, going rigid as the blade was lowered over him, terrified suddenly of even taking in a deep breath. This was not his idea of entertainment, and he let the man know that with a fearful swear muttered under his breath.
He lowered the blade, pleased to see that the man's immediate reaction was to suck his gut in. He continued lowering it until the blade brushed against the doctor's clenched muscles, and then locked it into place. "There we are. Enjoy." He headed for the door.
"Yeah, I will," John said after him, his voice more strained than he wanted it to be. God, he hoped he wasn't left here long.
He smirked, stepping outside and closing the door behind him, taking a breath. Alright. He pulled out his com. "Someone get me O'Rourke and Granger, and three or four others in Taliban costuming. Three or four others do not need to speak Pashto." He started heading for a conference room down the hall used for business associates who wanted to see this particular side of things.
Harrison had been hanging around in one of the darker corners of the basement with her comm in her ear, specifically for the purpose of waiting for orders. The best way to dig herself out of this shit-hole she'd put herself in was to be extremely useful. So the second Moran was done she was up and hunting down the people he needed.
"And someone figure out a passable Taliban backdrop for a hostage video." He entered the conference room and walked to the closet, opening and pulling out a video camera and tripod which were sometimes used if the party didn't want to go to the room directly, or didn't want the prisoner they were checking up on to see them. Then he headed back for another one of the cells, and began setting up.
She spent a good five minutes rounding up decent candidates for whatever Moran needed and getting them properly outfitted in Costumes, even going so far as to save one of the men from being strangled by his robe. The backdrop she passed off to the Special Effects people, who spent more than enough time hand-crafting shit as it was and would probably resent her as a department for a week. When she'd completed that, she opened up the comm channel. "Where do you want all this sent?"
"Down to me, holding cell four," he said, adjusting the angle of the camera and the lighting on the lone chair in the center of the room.
"They will be down in two minutes," she replied, pushing one of her suited coworkers through the door. "If they don't trip and kill themselves first."
"Good," Sebastian said curtly. "Make sure they have weapons. And my backdrop?"
"I have someone on that. I don't know how long they'll take. I'll hover over them if you like. But your Taliban guards are armed."
"Good, get them down here. And yes, hover. I need it as immediately as possible. I don't care if it's stenciled and spray painted, I just need it to pass the bleary inspection of one drugged-up army doctor, for chrissakes."
"Understood, sir. I'll harass them until they get it done. I don't think they'll delay too much. Anything else you need me to send down?"
"That should be it, but be ready if I change my mind." He turned off the com, and looked around the room, inspecting for anything that might give the game away.
Lorna had the set sent down to Moran in thirty minutes, with a lot of grumbles and curses from the team. She wasn't going to be making a lot of friends in this department.
He was talking quickly with his 'Taliban' guards, giving them clear instructions and warning anyone who didn't speak Pashto not to speak, or he'd kill them himself. He looked up as the set was brought in, and immediately had them setting it up against the far wall, a backdrop for his camera recording. Perfect. Bright lights shining on the chair, the backdrop, the camera... all perfect. He took a breath, then motioned for O'Rourke and Granger to follow, heading for John's cell and entering.
John had lost his fight with the knife. He'd only been able to stay still, perfectly still, for so long - one inhale too big and he'd sliced himself. Now he had the added distraction of blood rolling down his abdomen, the added pain of trying to keep clenched. When the door open he startled and cut himself again, a ragged breath escaping him. His heart felt like it was going to jump right out of his chest, and it only sped up with fear.
Moran walked over casually, raising the knife and then walking to a cabinet, pulling out first aid supplies and then walking back over, beginning to bandage the wound on Watson's abdomen. He turned to Granger, and in Pashto said: "Bring me clothes for him." Granger nodded and exited.
John allowed himself a deep, painful breath as the man moved the knife away, trying to remove the air-starved feeling from his lungs. As hard and terrible being left with that thing hovering over him had been, the fact that they were back was worrisome. And it did not stop his heart from battering against the insides of his ribs.
He finished bandaging the wound just as Granger returned with a pair of the same issue pants all of the 'Taliban' soldiers were wearing, and a plain tee. Moran made a note to commend his thinking on the clothes issue later. O'Rourke raised his gun, leveling it at Watson and muttering something in Pashto as Sebastian started unlocking him. "He says don't try anything, or he'll shoot you," Moran translated.
"Thought that was implied," John rasped, feeling like the words were scraping at his throat. He just lay there while the man finished unlocking his restraints. Impatience would get him nowhere.
Granger came over and tossed the clothes onto John's lap. "Get dressed," Moran instructed calmly.
John just nodded, pushing himself up with shaking hands and sliding off the reclined chair to stand. He wasn't completely sure he was going to stay up for long: his knees felt unusually weak, and there was a rushing in his ears he couldn't shake out. After the second he allotted to get ahold of himself he turned and dragged on the clothes.
Sebastian took the opportunity to glance at the patch on the back of the man's neck. The indicator was a little over half red. Probably another couple of hours on it. He pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and locked John's wrists behind his back, before starting him towards the door, Granger behind and O'Rourke ahead, both guns trained on the doctor.
"You didn't dress me for a bathroom break, did you?" John sighed, lacking the will for sarcasm. He was already limping more than usual. Did he need to be hit, too?
Sebastian gave a long-suffering sigh. "No, Captain." Though he added that to his agenda after the video. They paused at the door, and Moran returned the blindfold, tying it firmly over Watson's eyes. Then the door opened and he guided the unsteady man down the hall towards the camera room.
If there was anything John was a tad sick of, it was being blindfolded. He tripped a few times on the way down the hall. He resented having to lean against the man.
Moran forced him through the door to the camera room, and into the chair. He locked the cuffs into a bracket in the back of the chair, and removed the blindfold, walking over to start preparing the camera. O'Rourke started speaking quickly to the rest of the soldiers in Pashto, and they nodded along, listening.
John blinked the light from his eyes, looking around blearily. His vision was still doing that thing where it dripped away like mercury in front of him, but from what he could make out, this looked very much like the videos he'd seen on the television. Were they making a hostage out of him, then?
"Camera's ready," Moran said in Pashto. O'Rourke nodded. "Start recording."
He did, and a moment later O'Rourke started into a half-prepared, half-improvised speech in Pashto about their possession of Captain John Watson, and their demands for his release, as well as what would be expected of him by way of repentance for his sins.
He did his best to pay attention to whatever the robed whack-job was going on about, but the most he got out of it was his own name and something about heresy. Whatever they'd given him was starting to combine in sluggishly surprising ways. The fogginess in his head felt weird paired with his hammering pulse.
O'Rourke came to his energetic conclusion, gripping his weapon tightly and nudging it against Watson's head. Moran paused the recording to translate. "You're to confess your sins," he said coolly.
John squinted, tilting his head away from the gun muzzle pressing into the side of his head and looking up at the blond man with a fogged weariness. "D'you want to tell me what those are, again?"
He gave him a long look. "Blasphemy, murder of God's people, accepting and promoting women in ungodly positions and places of power, as well as ungodly attire for women," he said, his voice calm.
John still managed to roll his eyes through all the shit in his system. "For fuck's sake, mate, really?" He groaned, letting his head roll back. "Fucking hell, fine. Whatever."
O'Rourke brought the butt of his gun down on John's good shoulder with a firm crack, before returning his aim to John's head, yelling angrily. Moran didn't flinch. "He'd like to remind you to be sincere."
John winced, gritting his teeth as new pain radiated heat through his body. That would bruise. "If he insists," he coughed, shooting a resentful, blurry look up at the one who'd hit him.
"He can insist again if it wasn't clear the first time," Moran suggested calmly, before starting the camera again. O'Rourke nudged John's temple with the barrel of his gun.
He grimaced, glancing up at the red recording light from the camera briefly before clearing his throat. "Uh. I'm, uh, guilty of blasphemy. And accepting and promoting, um, women in ungodly places of power, and their ungodly attire." He just managed not tacking on a question mark. "And the murder of God's people."
O'Rourke said something in Pashto, nudging his head. "You will repent," Moran translated.
"I'm, uh, really sorry," John coughed, glancing up at the gun unfortunately close to his person. "Really, really am."
"Heartfelt," Moran deadpanned, stopping the recording as O'Rourke started going off angrily at Moran about insincerity. He nodded, returning in Pashto that he'd work to improve the responses for next time, he was sorry. He came forward, blindfolding Watson again and unclipping his cuffs from the chair, forcing him to his feet. "Come on."
John stumbled into standing position, feeling like he was on a particularly violently rocking ship. It sounded like he was going to be visiting whatever this place was again.
Moran shoved him out of the room and down the hall to a prisoner bathroom, unlocking the cuffs and shoving him inside before he closed and locked the door, watching him through the bars. "Blindfold off, do your business, blindfold back on," he ordered lazily.
"Fantastic," John muttered, shoving at the blindfold and turning his back to the man to unzip his trousers and take a piss, incredibly relieved that he'd never had stage fright about this sort of thing, and then cleaned up and pulled his blindfold back on. "Thanks, I guess."
"Believe me, I could have been much less kind about the situation," he retorted factually. "Hands on the wall." Once Watson had obeyed he opened the door and pulled his hands down behind his back, recuffed him with no regard for his undoubtedly sore shoulder, and started walking him back towards the cell.
The doctor didn't bother paying any attention to his own aches - his captor sure wasn't going to, and if he agonized over every wound it was only going to hurt more.
He returned Watson to the cell, and to the chair, removing the cuffs only after he'd strapped the man's legs into place. He kept a knife in one hand as he redid the remaining straps, holding him in tightly. This time, however, he didn't lower the knife again. Instead, he reached for the chair controls. "Unfortunately, Captain, I can't devote all of my time to you, so for now I'm just going to make a few adjustments and let you rest," he said casually. He hit a button, the feet and head of the chair lowering past flat, until John was arched backwards by the chair, the straps holding him in place, his sliced abdomen pulled tight by the contortion.
John felt he was owed the hissed swear that he spat out, curling his fingers into fists to try and distract himself from some of the pain stabbing into his stomach. Fuck. Fuck. This was not going to be a fun amount of time, no matter how long it was.
He leaned down, brushing his fingers through John's hair, watching as his face reddened slightly as blood began to make its way towards his head. "I imagine this isn't entirely comfortable, but I hope you'll consider the comfort benefits that could be afforded with more sincerity in your next confession," he soothed.
"I'll make sure to think on that," John gritted out, trying to ignore the pain shooting through his abdomen and the heavy ache beginning to settle into his head.
"Good, I'm glad," he said, smiling and standing, heading for the door. The boss was taking longer than expected. He wanted to check in.
Playlist: My Chemical Romance - Thank You for The Venom