FINALLY GOT MY SHERLOCK DVDS! You cannot comprehend the amount of pure fangirl glee I had :D Listening to the commentary for 'The Great Game', Mark Gatiss said that the climax scene at the swimming pool was filmed in Bedminster, Bristol. I live in the Knowle area...you know what this means? SHERLOCK WAS FILMED 5 MINUTES AWAY FROM MY HOUSE AND I NEVER KNEW!
*ahem * Sorry, back to the point:
...
John's neck muscles were really starting to ache now, he had also long lost feeling in both of his arms. The lack of circulation had made his elevated limbs milky pale, but the angry livid bruises made his broken arm seem to swell twice it's normal size. The crippling hunger had once again set into his system and dehydration made him dizzy.
Sculptor had left, at least for a little while, and John would never, ever admit the sheer relief he felt. It made him sick, that such a tiny man could fill him with such unadulterated terror, Moriarty had frightened him, sure, but Sculptor had firmly lodged the image in his head that he was, in fact, John's nightmare incarnate.
With absoluetly perfect timing, he felt Sculptor's hands touch a piece of cloth to John's bleeding back gently.
'What are you doing?' John croaked, the sharpness ruined by his parched vocal chords failing to sound commanding. Sculptor didn't answer immediately, but continued to mop at John's blood. The silence irritated John through the pain, the soldier part of him always answered questions when asked, discipline and suchlike. He tried a different approach:
'Why are you doing this?'
Sculptor then walked round in front of him. John saw the cloth dangling from his hand, with a slight frown he recognised it as his pale blue shirt. So that's where it went.
'I do this for pleasure, for money,' Sculptor mused, chewing the inside of his lip in concentration, 'I do it because they ask me. I like to think of it as dishing out punishment.'
'You're punishing Sherlock.' John had had an inkling that this was to do with Markin's son, of course, Daddy Markin didn't like Sherlock taking down his boy. He was Markin's compensation, being taken down for revenge.
Take down one of mine, I'll take down one of yours.
Sculptor shrugged, 'If that's they way you want to see it. Of course, I could be punishing you.'
John blinked, 'Me? Why?'
'Do you think you deserve to be punished? Have you sinned?'
Despite the urge to respond with a negative, John's mind quietly reminded him that he had been in the army, killed people...Great, that's all he needed. A sadist psychopath who was gonna spout religious damnation at him.
'Maybe I'm just punishing your stupidity,' Sculptor continued 'Did you really think hanging around with someone like Sherlock Holmes was a good idea?'
YES. John's mind readied a lot of responses to defend his friendship with Sherlock. It had been rocky sure, but John now had no doubt in his mind just how strong his loyalty to the consulting detective was. After all, he had killed a man in order to protect him less than 24 hours after first meeting him, he had followed him all over London at ungodly hours, even risked his own life to give Sherlock a chance to escape. He, John Watson, would gladly follow Sherlock Holmes to the depths of Hell and back.
But would Sherlock do the same?
John pondered this, he couldn't exactly imagine Sherlock being the selfless best pal. But he liked to think the man placed some value in him, he was out there right now looking for him wasn't he?
Ummmm...Probably.
He became aware of Sculptor looking at him intently. He pushed all Sherlock related thoughts to the back of his mind to focus on the matter at present. Sculptor was holding a hammer and a syringe under the cloth of his shirt. Oh no.
'I'm going to let your arms down John.' Sculptor told him 'But you won't try and run.'
'Oh won't I?' John shot back without thinking, he knew this was a huge bloody mistake, as a small smile spread over the other's face as the hammer was withdrawn.
'I'm certain of it.'
John saw the hammer connect with his right knee almost as if in slow motion, he heard the shattering kneecap. A raw scream ripped at his throat and he sagged in an attempt to lessen the pain in his leg. His handcuffs were removed and he crumpled into a heap on the floor landing on his injured knee, which only made things worse. John rolled on the floor like some twat of a footballer who went off injured for a kicked shin. The scream ceased and his breath pushed it's way from his lungs in short whimpers.
Sculptor was right. He wouldn't try and run.
...
Lestrade looked up from his morning coffee. Not even 10 am and already a small domestic disturbance, a burglary AND some guy arrested for tax evasion. God he hated days like this. Despite putting one of his better teams onto the Watson search, he'd had no information as to the poor bastard's whereabouts. He'd tried to call in on Sherlock, but found him unreachable, not even answering texts. This was odd in and on itself, Lestrade suspected Sherlock could be tied to a weight suspended above an acid tank (with sharks in it, he fancied, mechanical sharks) with a bladed pendulum swinging and his hands about to be cut off and still find a way to text someone.
Lestrade quickly found texts wouldn't be necessary, as he heard Sherlock's characteristically soft footsteps enter his office. He studied the younger man's impassive face, there were no subtle signs of distress or any indication that anything was out of the ordinary. It was just another day.
'Has your team found anything?' Sherlock asked, removing his gloves. Lestrade sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily.
'Not yet, but give them a chance.'
'Oh yes of course' Sherlock said, rolling his eyes ' As fine as your experts are, I've got a man on the search as well, maybe he'll get back to me quicker.'
'A ma-? For God's sake Sherlock! We're pretty capable of finding as missing person! It's our job! We're the fucking police!'
'And you're doing a fabulous job I must say.'
Lestrade opened his mouth to argue back but, in the back of his head he saw that there was no happy medium for Sherlock this time. He could understand the young man's anger at the police, although not completely excuse it. He had been through enough missing person cases to recognise the grief and fear that disguised itself as rage; looking for someone, something to blame for failing them. It was mildly unsettling to see such a flash of emotion from the office 'freak' then to have him revert straight back to the cold, impassive robot he'd always been.
Sherlock drummed his steepled fingers together underneath his chin. Annoying as Mycroft's call had been, it had helped enormously. Although he'd never admit it of course. It had taken Sherlock years to throw off the drugs, even thinking about his little slip-up made him shudder.
'But as I said, Ruard's put his best man onto it, I believe John may be being held underground, not a warehouse, Mycroft would have seen it on his cameras. Maybe an abandoned cellar. I need you to give me a list of any unused storage facilities, of the Victorian variety.'
Lestrade took all this in. He wasn't going to bother asking how Sherlock knew this; it was far too early to try and keep up with the man's 'deductions'.
'Er...would you like a coffee...or something?' He asked lamely, desperatley trying to fill the void of conversation usually filled by John. Sherlock glanced at him, wearing his 'don't be nice to me' expression.
'No thank you. Is it okay if I wait here for a few hours?'
'You never normally ask, but fine. Can I ask why?'
'Markin told me to wait for another message, so here I am.'
...
'Do you know what this is?' Sculptor hissed, grabbing a fistful of John's hair and yanking his face upwards. He was waving the syringe in front of his eyes, and John struggled to focus on the pale liqiud inside.
'This is a very special drug of my own concoction.' The man told him pleasantly. 'A little dream juice for you. The main ingredients are LSD and Rohypnol. You know the effects of both I'm sure.'
John did know, but something inside his head told him that he was about to find out first hand. Parts of his mind pleaded, panic-stricken, for him to try and avoid it. A tiny voice in his head had one brief, clear thought: This won't be fun.
'Thanks for the shirt Johnny.' Sculptor was saying 'I think Sherlock will find it quite interesting.'
The needle slid into the soft skin of his neck, releasing the drug into his system. The hand holding him let go, and John slumped onto the floor once again. In a matter of minutes the effects began to take place. As the world swam before him, John felt a bizarre sense of contentment; a cold knowledge that whatever he was going through, the drug would make sure it wouldn't last much longer. Shadows at the corner of his vision clenched and twisted, dancing and creeping before his eyes. It was almost a relief when he surrendered to darkness once more.
...
Anderson flicked through the newspaper, throwing Sherlock glares of dislike every now and again. The Freak was sat still and regal in the corner of the office. As much as he hated the man, Anderson couldn't help but notice how unhealthy Sherlock looked, and he was sorely tempted to shove a bacon sandwich down his throat. He couldn't find it in himself to deliver some sarcastic comment, in all truth, he felt a little sorry for the man. He and Donovan had a little agreement, made the day before after a particularly energetic session between the bedsheets; they wouldn't act on their dislike for a while, not with the man's only friend missing and probably hurt.
Not that he couldn't shoot non-verbal hatred at him of course.
Sherlock kept his eyes on the clock, determined not to look at Anderson or any other person in the building. He couldn't take it, the looks of sympathy and pointed silences which conveyed the 'I'm sorry for your loss' messages. John was not dead.
Don't pity me. Don't you dare pity me. I'm not the one that's been kidnapped.
At 1pm, a few hours after Sherlock entered the building, a young woman knocked softly on the door, Lestrade at her heels.
'Umm...there's a package for you Mr Holmes, um Sir.' she stammered, timidly holding out a clumsily wrapped parcel.
Sherlock stood up and Anderson put away his newspaper, clearly interested. Sherlock took the package and promptly turned his back on the girl, who hurried out. Lestrade and Anderson hovered behind his back, craning their necks to see.
'What is it?' Lestrade asked.
'Markin's second message.' Sherlock answered, talking more to himself than anyone else. It was a nondespcript bundle, nothing extraordinary about it, but a signature of sorts had been scrawled onto the brown paper in biro. It wasn't John's handwriting, Sherlock instantly recognised it as Markin's own.
TO SHERLOCK HOLMES. YOUR BOYFRIEND GIVES HIS REGARDS x.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Seriously, what was it about John and him that made people jump to the conclusion that they were together? If John never noticed the way he looked at him, or the way his breath caught when John brushed past him, then why could everyone else?
Pushing the thought away he tore open the parcel. A shirt tumbled onto the desk top.
A light blue shirt. The cuffs frayed slightly. John's shirt. There was still a faint trace of John's cologne on it, Sherlock noted, but the fact it was covered in dark red blood took control of his observations.
'It's not torn...the blood was added later.' He said haltingly. A muscle underneath his eye twitched and he blinked rapidly. He told himself not to cry, he didn't cry, not for anything. Sherlock heard Lestrade mutter 'Christ' behind him, and Anderson swallow rapidly. Sherlock felt his stomach tighten into a little knot of anger. How dare they? How DARE they make his John suffer like this?
Woah woah woah hang on. 'Your' John? What right do I have to consider him mine?
'Why would they do this?' Lestrade wondered aloud. Sherock faced him and stared, incredulous.
'Well, we arrested Markin's son. Less than 48 hours later John is kidnapped by his father's gang. Why do you think they're doing this?'
Lestrade gaped, and Anderson's eyes flitted uncomfortably between the two of them. Sherlock turned his back on them, his point made. A tiny tremor was going in his hand, he clenched the fabric of John's shirt tightly to settle it, anger and uselessness welled up inside him, and he slammed the cloth onto the desk's surface. Some of the blood was still damp on the shirt, added recently. Sherlock felt a queasy tint of relief. John was still alive...well, he was a while ago. Don't think about that, if John was dead I'd know. Isn't that what happens in those crappy films he watches? I'd know if he was dead...
...
The hands were everywhere. Clammy, scabbed and rotten hands were groping at his upper arms, legs and were clawing at his naked chest. A dark shape loomed over him menacingly and he could hear gunfire and screaming in the background.
John was not having a good time. He had tried to tell himself he was halluncinating, for indeed he was. But the Rohypol made his movement sluggish and slow, his mind was truly disorientated. The world was spinning horribly.
'Snot real...' he told himself 'Sa hallusnation...'
'Are you aware you're talking aloud?' said the dark shape above him, the voice soft and low. There was something familiar about it, John couldn't place it, no matter how hard he wracked his poor, drug-addled brains.
'M'not' John argued back, words slurring over each other 'Dreemin.'
The shape leant forward. The face shocked John. It was pale, aquiline and had the best damn cheekbones John had ever seen, the glacial eyes peered at him through the darkness.
Sherlock.
Sherlock knelt next to him, the lamplight shining through the ends of his curls, tinting them a deep brown.
'Wait...Shulluck's hair's nuh brown...' he mused groggily 'Sa navy cullor, bluey.'
'You dream of him?' Sherlock smiled like a knife. 'Interesting.'
The hands doubled their grip,which was bizarre, it wasn't like John had any strength to fight back.
Sherlock was directly above him now, one hand resting on John's bruised and battered chest. There was something...wrong with him. The face was wrong. The eyes were too narrow. But it was Sherlock, he'd come for him, just like he said.
'Do you know what you mean to Sherlock?' Sherlock asked, leaning close to John's ear, 'I think it, he thinks it, everyone you know thinks it, what do you mean?'
John's brain couldn't completely process this; all he cared about that Sherlock had returned to take him home.
'We nee' cheesecake.' he told him, Sherlock laughed coldly.
'I will tell you what you are.'
A sharp pain cut through John's messed up consious. More blood leaked out his torn skin over Sherlock's white hands. Sherlock grasped the scalpel like a pro. No, please no...not Sherlock. Why was Sherlock hurting him?
'Shulluk pleeze...' he whimpered 'Don't.'
The pain dulled after each stroke and pretty soon the Rohypnol took control of the LSD, John sank into the darkness, tears trickling down his face. The betrayal was worse than the pain or the dizziness. Why had Sherlock, the man he trusted above all else, whom he'd gladly sacrifice everything for...why had he hurt him.
The darkness enveloped him again. John was too hurt to care.
...
Why do I torture these characters so? I have no idea.
Sorry, I'm bad at writing halluncinations, but hopefully it came across okay :)
Next chapter: The violence comes to a head, Ruard returns and Sculptor decides to quote Ghandi.
See you soon x