Two Hours Earlier…
Somewhere far away, Sherlock is watching the Yard burn. Somewhere far away, he sees Moran walk out of the ashes.
In another place, somewhere away below the ashes, John wakes with a start as the heavy door closes, jolting the open water bottle precariously placed in his lap between his knees and spilling water on himself.
"Jesus, you sleep a lot, don't you?" A voice, the same gruff, deep voice from before, growls in the darkness.
John opens his eyes to look at him, only to find that he can't see anything.
For one wrenching, heart-stopping moment, he believes that he's been blinded. He believes that he will never see again, never see his hands or Sherlock's expressions or what clothes he will wear for the day as he picks them out. For one moment, he is afraid that such a life changing event has happened so suddenly and irrevocably without him noticing, without him witnessing the significance of the act itself.
Then, somewhere, a light is turned on and weakly filters through what he realises is a thick burlap sack that's been tied around his head.
"Morning, sunshine."
"It'd be nice if I could see it." John croaks, his voice hoarse from sleep.
The man scoffs.
"And I could have just carved your eyeballs right out of your skull, but I did you a favour now, didn't I?"
"If you want to call it that—"
A large, calloused hand grabs him under the arm and hauls him to his feet, but something's wrong. He feels as if he's standing on a wave, the ground churning beneath him like he will never have steady footing, like he is constantly in a state of losing his balance, stepping down on that imagined stair into nothingness.
"We drugged your water. Hope you don't mind."
Shit.
Hot nausea rises in John's throat, burning and acidic, but he forces it down. He does not want to be stuck in a sack full of sick for God knows how long. This wasn't even the torture yet. Not really. Already he began to scramble for memories, for something, anything, if it meant he wouldn't be present for what was about to happen, whatever that may be.
The den in 221B. A cup of tea when it's raining outside and Sherlock is playing the violin. Mrs Hudson's scones after it's been snowing. Reading on a Sunday night before Sherlock works on his experiments and inevitably destroys something. Rare, clear, sunny days. I'm drinking tea and Sherlock is playing violin. There's a plate of scones, hot and fresh, but we've had takeout so neither of us are hungry. I'm happy. I'm happy and nothing can touch us. I am happy, and nothing can touch us.
He stumbles out of the room, flailing feet dragging against the rough stone as his captor hauls him down a hall. He can hear laughter somewhere. He can hear screaming somewhere else.
"In you go." The man says as he pushes John down. John collapses to the floor, unable to break his fall, and feels the burlap scrape against his chin. A soft grunt slips from his lips as he works himself into a kneeling position. His core muscles aren't what they used to be. Tea and violins and domestic happiness can do that.
Arms haul him up before he can get his balance and he's thrown bodily into a chair, padded in so familiar a pattern that he recognizes it nearly instantly as a medical chair. Hands pin his arms down and buckle restraining straps around his wrists and ankles before he hears the whir of a rusty machine and he's being tilted backwards. His gut clenches as his feet pass above his head.
Shit. Inversion.
He hopes it won't be long, but then again, he doesn't have much say in the matter. At least he's tilted and not fully inverted, or he'd be fucked in a matter of hours.
He's been left in total darkness, wholly complete and solid and impenetrable. Darkness, like sleep, like blindness. Upside down and trapped in darkness. What a start.
All he can hear is his breathing. It's heavy and wet and not as brave as he wants to sound. In and out. Through your nose and out your mouth. That's it. Nice and calm. Tea and violin. Tea…and violin. Easy. You will be fine. You will survive this.
He settles into his persona like shrugging on an old, comfy jumper. He straightens his posture and quiets his mind. He is Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers and he knows nothing about anything and he is willing to die for it. He's never heard the name Sherlock Holmes, never met him or talked to him or loathed him or loved him. He doesn't even know who he is. Just a stranger, that's all. No one he believes in. No one he's heard of.
Breathe in…
Exhale.
And again. In, and out.
You will be fine. I am happy, and nothing can touch us.
Someone speaks there, suddenly in that quiet darkness.
"Very good Captain." A voice says in the dark, gently, softly. "A soldier, through and through."
Sensory deprivation. They're trying to scare you. You're above them, and this. You're stronger than they are.
A chair scrapes against the silence. Footsteps, softly. A presence nearby, softly, in front of him. He didn't hear the door open, which means they were here the whole time. Watching him. Waiting.
"I won't hurt you, Captain Watson. That's not my job."
"Yes you will." John replies, and his voice is hoarse, raw from cottonmouth and dry spit. He can feel the blood trickling towards his brain, pooling in the crevices.
"No. I just want to ask you some questions."
The voice is German, maybe, or somewhere thereabouts; Dutch, perhaps, or Belgian. Average tone, slightly higher than the normal male's, and it's not impossible for a woman to have a lower-ranging pitch. Inconclusive identity then. He won't know who they are until or unless they want him to.
Of course, Sherlock would know who they were, what their name was, how many sugars they take by now, and what their dog's name is.
John stays silent. The knives will come soon, or something painful, or some other hurt. He just has to wait them out. He knows it's inevitable. War is never happy, or clean. War is pain. And he's chosen his battles, hasn't he? It was worth it—Sherlock was worth many things. He was worth it all, for that look John saw in his face that day in the street, when he thought he'd died. For that palpitating moment when he saw Sherlock on the news, right there in front of him—unmistakably, remarkably the same. For that day on the Thames, in the sand and the mud and dirty water, when Sherlock said I love you. It was worth many things. Worth this, worth what was to come, and worth everything else.
"How old are you, Captain?"
He doesn't answer.
"I won't hurt you." The voice promises. "I know it's hard for you to think that now. No one has laid a hand on you here, and no one will."
"That's different. You don't have to touch me to hurt me."
"How old are you, John?"
He sighs. What are they going to do with that information, taunt him about his crow's feet? He's been past all the hangups on growing older for years. They must already know it anyways, it's not like he hid it well, or didn't look his age.
"39."
"39." The voice repeats. "And a handsome man like you, a doctor, unmarried, and a confirmed bachelor frequently seen in the company of the great Sherlock Holmes. Well. One has to wonder."
"Family's never been much of a priority for me."
"Really? Your sister might have some qualms with that, and your father too. You are his only son after all and, let's face it, your sister was never much of a prize, was she? You're the golden boy, apple of Mummy's eye—well, while she was alive…top percentile in your class at Bart's, a decorated army Captain, now a confirmed bachelor with and a bad leg and a flighty, unreliable flatmate. Quite the life, eh?"
Just start the torture already, Jesus.
"How many more things are you going to ask me?"
"Why, do you have somewhere else to be?"
"No, but usually the point of keeping me in an isolated dark cell is to torture me, so...let's have it, then. Do your worst."
Silence swells inside the room, cresting against the ceiling before settling back to the floor.
"I'm sorry to disappoint you and your archaic notions of torture, but as I said before, no one will touch you here. We don't believe in that sort of thing."
"Mind telling me a bit about what you do believe in, then?"
"I hardly think you'll become a devout acolyte, Captain."
"What, don't think I've got the right mind?"
"No." The voice replies solemnly. "You've got the wrong heart for it."
The voice leaves John in silence and he wonders if they're staring at him. Probably. Not much to see, though. His head is starting to ache.
"Do you know," The voice starts again, "that there is a special room in an American university, in Minnesota I believe. It's an anechoic chamber. You know this word? Anechoic?"
"No, but…well, meaning's right on the tin, isn't it? No echoes, I'm guessing?"
"Correct, Captain John Watson. No echoes. The walls are made from tiles that absorb the vibrations that sound makes. It's been called the quietest room in the world. Of everyone that enters, no one lasts more than 45 minutes. Do you know why this is?"
"They didn't use the bathroom when they were told to, did they?"
The voice makes a hum of amusement. "I will allow you to keep your jokes, John, for now. No one lasted an hour in that room because where there is silence, there is nothingness, and it's the kind you notice sooner rather than later. You were in this cell for ten minutes before I spoke. Ten minutes of quiet. Your hearing adapted in that time, did it not? Your breathing sounded louder to you because it was the only thing you heard. When it's quiet, you notice the finer things. The more silence, the more nothingness to pad your ears, the more you notice. In this room, there is one chair that you've convinced yourself you'd never sit in; it's a sign of weakness; if you sit in it, you're weaker than everybody that's come before you. And so, you stand in the quiet, alone.
You hear your breathing at first—it's louder than you thought, isn't it?—and then you hear your heart beating like a war drum. You hear your stomach gurgling as it turns over the digestive acid in your gut. You hear your bowels shift in and out of place. Your heart's sounding quite loud, you think. Sound and balance, it's all to do with the ears, and you sit down in that chair, the one you said you were better than, When was the last time you had some peace and quiet, you think. Quietest room in the world, ha! You can hear everything, right up until the moment you think you hear your brain working its way through these little alcoves of silence, trying to find a pocket of quiet, but your heart is beating, your stomach is churning, you can hear your lungs move in and out, back and forth, your breathing gets heavier and heavier, louder, louder, until—"
Here, a gasp, and then silence.
"Nothing." He hears the voice huff out a laugh and they poke his nose. "Ta-da! You leave the room, thinking you must have made some kind of admirable record. Surely, you were in there for at least thirty minutes, yes? The scientists in charge tell you your time: 11 minutes."
More quiet is added to the room, like pine needles to fire.
"These people," The voice says softly, "they went into that room thinking like you do. They thought they were better, stronger, than whatever was behind this door. They thought their predecessors weak. 'I will show them,' they thought, 'I will be better. I will last longer. No one is as strong as I am.' What then, I ask you now, did they think when they were begging to be let out after ten minutes, or thirty? When they broke no records, and tasted madness?"
Footsteps circle around him. He feels his shoes become unlaced before they're taken off.
"You are not special, Captain Watson. You are weak, like the rest of them."
"We'll see about that." John rasps. "Worse people have tried to break me before."
"Nor do I intend to." The voice says lightly, taking off his socks. "You are already shattered, and I am going to show you just how broken you really are. Would you like to know what I am going to do? I understand if you want it to be a surprise. Most of them don't want the knowledge. Ignorance is bliss, as they say."
"Beat me bloody, take my nails out with pliers, break my bones, that kind of thing?"
The voice laughs, and it bounces off the walls.
"No. No, Captain Watson. That's barbarous, and we are in the first world now, not the desert. I'm just going to talk to you. Much more civilized, yes?"
"If you say so."
"I do. I hope you're one for conversation, John."
"Pity. You'll be passing out soon from the rush of blood. Would you like to know how long you lasted in our little chamber? It's not quite anechoic yet, but it will do."
John can only grunt. His head hurts so much. His feet are numb to the bone. He can feel his eyes flicker. Optokinetic nystagmus; his eyes are trying to focus on some starting point, but were unable to find one in the darkness.
"You lasted one hour and twenty-three minutes. Congratulations, Captain. I wasn't going to tell you what we were going to cut off before you passed out, but since you've exceeded expectations, I do hope you won't miss your little finger too much."
John can't answer, the sound is lodged in his throat, dry and tightening. Fear bangs around in his bones, trickling through the marrow and seeping in like cold water.
It could be worse. They could have slit your throat. They could have done worse. You've been through worse…but…those nails grew back. Bones don't do that.
He feels lips at the cloth of the bag, right beside his ear. A hand softly touches his head at the back, cradling his skull.
"Just lie back and think of England."
As his mind recedes into the darkness, indistinguishable from the one that surrounds him, he thinks of Sherlock. Of course he does. It's safe now.
I'm happy and nothing can touch us. He smells the tea he's lifting to his lips, and Sherlock is right there in front of him, plucking the violin softly in the quiet night, dark against the window. A warm breeze brushes through the living room, and the street sounds as cars pass by drift in and mingle with the violin. John feels a smile come to his face.
I'm happy, and nothing can touch us.
As he drops into unconsciousness he hears a drill whir to life, and all he has are the ghosts of what once were, and might never be again.
A Few Explications:
The Voice cannot be trusted. If they tell you one thing, you must expect that they always mean something else.
John is never alone.
Remember, there are 37 minutes left before Sherlock gets his phone call. At the moment John passes out, Sherlock and Lestrade are watching Moran's shoulder be dislocated in front of their eyes. It would be wise to ask yourself which torture is more acceptable, John's because he hasn't been hurt physically, or Moran's because he's supposed to be the bad guy.