^&^

They were taken out the next morning, separately, to Blackwood's 'interrogation' room. Watson felt tendrils of fear snake down his chest but he showed nothing, remembering his army training as to how to behave if captured by the enemy. He expected the worst but wasn't prepared for Blackwood's grim tableau by any stretch of the imagination.

Holmes was already there, his arms chained over his head from a fabricated pillar, the weight of his entire body dangling so he stood on the tips of his toes. His eyes were fixed on the ground but as always, he was completely aware of his surroundings as well as Watson's presence which he greeted with a pained wince.

Horrified, Watson examined Holmes closely. His face was a mass of shallow lacerations, scattered over his cheeks and forehead. A small razor? A whip? He had no idea. The uncovered forearms were tainted with bruises of various shades, the fresher ones bright shades of purple to the older, uglier ones, green and yellow at their edges. His wrists were raw red at the edges of his manacles and his arms ... God, his arms. So many needle marks, too many to have been administered by Holmes himself in the days before Blackwood's escape, too many of them fresh.

Watson's stomach turned. A monster. Blackwood was an utter monster, of this no one could have any doubt.

Watson felt himself shoved into a chair and tied there, cursing under his breath the entire time. With effort, he inhaled deeply and spoke to Holmes, as gently as possible. "I'm here, Holmes. You're not alone. We're here together."

"I wish to God you weren't," Holmes whispered, screwing his eyes shut. "I'm sorry, John."

"Hush. Don't apologize. Do whatever you must to ... to ..." Watson hesitated. To stay well? Obviously that was impossible. To stay alive? Was that all they could expect? "I am with you," he repeated, a bit desperately. "Always."

A door on the far side of the chamber creaked open. Blackwood strolled in, obviously as pleased as any triumphant madman could be, Watson thought bitterly. His hands unconsciously clenched and tugged at the ropes around his wrists which refused to budge. He turned away from Blackwood and kept his eyes focused on Holmes who, in turn, kept his gaze glued to the floor.

"Welcome, Doctor. I'm assuming you've had a happy reunion with your old friend," Blackwood asked, his polite tone belying the evil underneath. "So, again I ask - looking at the great detective now, what do you think of my work?"

Watson didn't reply. The response was a stinging crack across his face and Holmes jerked in his chains with distress. Taking a deep breath, Watson weighed his options even as he worked his jaw to relieve some of the pain. The army's regulations hadn't prepared him for this. Maybe in this particular situation, speaking was a better route.

"I think you're ridiculous, as usual," he said casually. "Surely you don't expect me to change my mind on that count."

Blackwood chuckled softly, his gloved finger tracing a line down Watson's jaw. "Breaking you will be one of the highlights of this entire experience."

Holmes made a soft noise, catching Blackwood's attention. Watson knew he'd done it on purpose and grimaced at Holmes protective instinct, still intact even while he was the one suffering a worse fate.

"I have to say, I expected more from this one," Blackwood said, grabbing Holmes' chin and twisting until he was looking up. "By the time we met again it was as if he'd given up all hope and zest for life, for some reason. I wonder why that was? You don't have any ideas regarding the strange apathy of our friend here, do you, Doctor?"

"Besides the fact that you are a murderer, a coward and a monster? No, none at all," Watson said. He swallowed past a tight throat, not wanting to think about Holmes' lonely apathy and what probably had caused it. "Why not come here and commence that breaking you're so boastful of. I actually feel quite good today," he said, hoping to incite Blackwood away from Holmes and back to him. "Surely that must bother you."

"Indeed it does," Blackwood replied and he motioned for his whip. Watson braced himself but the blow never came. Instead it was delivered against Holmes' chest, making a small cry sound out from between his tightly closed lips. Gaping, Watson shook his head instinctively, his mouth forming the word 'no' over and over again, but somehow he mastered control over his voice, knowing that screaming at Blackwood would only inspire him to further acts of cruelty.

The whipping continued for what felt like an eternity. Blackwood finally stopped, as Holmes' body dangled loosely; he was likely no longer conscious. The so-called Imperitius turned to Watson with a sweet smile. "How do you feel, Doctor?"

Filled with horror, Watson could only stare at Blackwood, his mouth open. "You son of a whore," he ground out, hardly knowing what he was saying. "You dripping bastard." The whip whistled and caught Watson in the face, cutting his cheek but he kept going. "I'm going to kill you!" he cried, nearly tipping the chair over in an effort to get to Blackwood. "You won't know what's hit you once I'm done dissecting you, piece by filthy piece. Have at it, have at it here and now, you coward!"

Blackwood laughed. It was a disturbingly kind sound. "I'd like to take you up on that offer, dear Doctor, but I have a world that needs ruling. Perhaps another day? In the meantime, you can perform the new duties I have lined up for you. I think you'll like them."

With a toss of the whip back to one of his men, Blackwood left, his black longcoat swirling out behind him. Watson was still cursing roundly, even as they untied him and hauled him off to another part of the prison, to what looked like a crude facsimile of a doctor's office, complete with an examining table and medical supplies.

He barely had time to take in the room completely when Holmes was brought in after him and dumped unceremoniously on the table, his battered body nearly sliding off until Watson caught him in his arms.

The guard motioned gruffly. "Fifteen minutes. Make good with it. It's the only treatment he'll get."

Watson stared at him in disbelief, even as the door slammed in his face, the lock turning from the outside. His attention turned directly to Holmes who was stirring awake, a groan humming deep in his throat. "There, there," Watson said shakily, pulling Holmes atop the table as gingerly as possible. "There you are, my Holmes."

He had to work fast, but it was hard to even think with his hands jittering, his mind twisting in horrified circles. Trembling, he pulled away the tattered shirt and nearly wept at the lash marks, criss-crosses of pain piled atop of older, deeper ones. Watson could tell that many of them would scar. He had to feel around for the supplies needed to help Holmes heal as much as might be possible, his eyes watering so badly, the tears having their way whether he wanted them to or not.

"Don't," came a soft voice and a touch to his arm. "Don't give way like this. It's not worth it."

"Please let me work," Watson begged, his hands shaking so badly he wasn't sure if he'd be able to apply the topical ointment needed without hurting Holmes further. "I can't think at the moment and I must concentrate."

Holmes' dry lips curled up into that little smile that Watson had always associated with the best of times they'd once shared, but now seemed so terribly out of place. Holmes submitted to the treatment without a sound, even though Watson was sure he must have been in terrible pain all throughout it. Sitting Holmes up, he bandaged him as best he could. When it was through, Holmes dropped his forehead onto Watson's shoulder, breathing heavily, not moving even when Watson wound his arms around him in as gentle an embrace as he could manage.

He nuzzled his cheek into Holmes' dark, wild hair. "Forgive me. I caused this. I was not thinking."

Holmes shook his head. "This is no one's fault but Blackwood's. Once you start blaming yourself, therein lies the way to madness. I'm only grateful they let you treat me, even though it was done to cause further grief." He sighed shakily. "You have to find a way of escape for yourself. It's imperative that you get out of here, by any means necessary."

"We need to get out of here. I'm not going anywhere without you," Watson growled, tucking his face against Holmes' neck. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he impulsively kissed the warm pulse there. "Never again."

"So we will just have a repeat of this scene or worse for the rest of our sorry lives, then?" Holmes replied, his voice breaking. He brought up his hands to stroke the short hair at the base of Watson's neck. "It will be easier if it's just you. I ... I don't have the strength anymore. I .. can't. He's not going to be stopped until someone like you stands up and stops him. And I don't mean for my sake alone."

"You are assuming I'll find a way to escape which doesn't seem very likely. It is a moot point as I will not leave without you," Watson stubbornly repeated as the door flew open. Reluctantly, he disentangled himself from Holmes and let them drag him back to his cell, straining to keep his eyes on Holmes for as long as possible.

For a moment he was afraid that they'd move Holmes somewhere else, but no, he heard the other cell door open as Holmes was led in. Watson lay down by the grate and Holmes did the same, but silently as Watson whispered what comfort he could, keeping his fingers pressed the cold steel weave. Sometimes Holmes' hand would slip up and touch his, but it would fall away just as quickly.

Eventually, Watson heard light, steady breathing that indicated Holmes had fallen asleep and it wasn't until then that he closed his eyes and tried to wipe away the remnants of the day, as terrible and terrifying as any he'd known.

^&^

to be continued ...

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