Hello again. This chapter was very difficult to write, as it is all from Sherlock's perspective, and from his perspective nothing much is happening. I'm still not 100% satisfied with it, but I didn't want to keep you waiting much longer.
As always, constructive criticism and any corrections on my British English are greatly appreciated.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Does it look like I make money off of this?
Inky blackness swirled around him. He seemed to be floating in a pitch black void of nothingness.
It was not the kind of nothingness that one gets from dreamless sleep. No. He was fully aware and lost in a darkness one can only experience if completely blind and deaf.
And paralyzed. For Sherlock realized that in a disconnected way, he could feel his body. It was faint, and he could tell nothing more than a deep coldness that seemed to settle into his bones.
Am I dead? No. Poisoned.
Sherlock recalled the events leading up to this darkness.
Tetrodotoxin. TTX. Molecular formula: C11H17N3O8. Deadly neurotoxin produced by bacteria and found in various species of pufferfish.
Moriarty had poisoned him. Just enough to mimic death without actually killing him. A highly calculated move. Just a drop more and he'd be dead by now. A drop less and he'd be visibly breathing.
In same amount, tetrodotoxin is approximately 100 times more deadly than potassium cyanide. The average lethal dose for a human is 1/2 milligrams.
The darkness was suffocating. The lack of sensory input was maddening and so he held tight to the facts that he did know.
TTX works by inhibiting the passage of sodium ion signals through nerves, cutting off communication between the brain and muscles. This causes paralysis of the body, including the diaphragm, causing death by asphyxiation.
Obviously he wasn't dead yet, so his lungs had to be at least somewhat functioning.
If a victim survives 24 hours, with proper care they will usually recover without lasting damage.
How long had it been? Though he was slowly becoming more conscious and aware of his predicament, he still had no way of how long he had been unconscious.
Most victims remain conscious and even lucid, though paralyzed, up until death.
That didn't seem right. His slowly regaining consciousness didn't fit with the symptoms. Then again, Moriarty had mentioned changing something.
"This isn't regular tetrodotoxin. No, I've made a few adjustments of my own. This can mimic death closer than any other poison out there. They won't even be able to feel a pulse."
He had fallen unconscious almost immediately. Moriarty must have added a fast acting sedative to keep him quiet while the tetrodotoxin took effect. However, Moriarty would have wanted him to suffer as much as possible.
Victims remain fully conscious, aware of everything going on around them.
Moriarty would want him conscious and aware when they did the autopsy.
At the current rate, my senses should grow in strength over the next few...minutes?...hours?
With a start, Sherlock realized that even since he had become aware of his thoughts, he still had no idea how long he had been lying there.
Lying? Yes, I'm lying down somewhere. I can feel the pressure on my back. But where?
Before he had been poisoned, he had been sitting in a chair. Now he was lying down. Conclusion: someone had moved him.
I don't remember being moved, but anything could have happened when I was unconscious.
Had Moriarty moved him? No, that didn't make sense. He had wanted John to find him, why not just leave him where he sat? It would have been easier to leave him there, where he had struggled before being drugged instead of attempting to reposition him realistically somewhere else. Not that Moriarty couldn't have done that... It just wasn't like the criminal.
If it wasn't Moriarty, them someone must have found me. But who? John would have found me eventually, but had someone else gotten to me first? I need more data!
Concentrating, he reached out as far as he could, the way he would if he had been in his mind palace and wanted to return to his body.
Come on... Come oooonnnn- Yes!
He was laying on icy metal, it pressed into his skin and the cold seeped into his bones. Everything remained dark and silent, but now he could actually feel that his eyes were closed. He was laying perfectly still and-
Oh god- I'm not breathing. Why am I not breathing? I'm supposed to be breathing!
The mental panic attack was the strangest panic attack he had ever experienced. Despite the huge amount of panicked chemical signals his brain was sending out, his body did not react in the slightest, and where he should have been hyperventilating, his chest remained annoyingly still.
Calm down. I've survived this long, so I'm not about to die of asphyxiation any time soon.
It was a weird feeling. He couldn't feel himself breathing breathing, yet his head remained clear, and after the initial panic, he realized he didn't feel the need to get more oxygen anyway. Though a curious sensation, he decided to push the issue to the back of his mind and focus on the problem at hand.
Now then, to address the issue of where I am. I'm laying down on a flat piece of metal. It's cold, very cold. I can feel the metal all across my back. Am I naked? Yes. Naked, metal, cold. Conclusion: In the refrigerator of a morgue.
Before he had time to process the information more or come up with a plan, he heard a noise. It was faint, a squeaking thud like someone opening a door, but after so much silence, it was unmistakable.
Someone's coming. I've got to try and move or make a noise, something to let them know I'm not dead.
He struggled, attempting to open his mouth to make a noise. His body remained still.
There was another noise, louder this time, and he felt a rush of warm air over his body. He felt himself be moved, rolled outward.
They're taking me out. I don't have much time!
He could hear a muffled voice, talking near him, though he couldn't understand any words.
He concentrated on the voice, trying to hear what they were saying.
"This is...autopsy...Sherlock Holmes..."
No. I'm not dead! You idiot! Can't you see that I'm not dead?
Of course they had no way of knowing. He knew from the start that no one would realize the truth, but that didn't stop him from mentally screaming at the idiocy of the people around him.
"Outward appearance... needle marks..." The voice was familiar, hovering just on the edge of his mind. "I... for signs... poison... first incision..."
He focused his mind. All of his energy went towards his hand, willing it to twitch.
He felt something sharp rest against his sternum. His panic passed the point of logic.
No! No! John! Help me! Please! Anyone! Please help me! Don't! You can't! Molly don't!
The scalpel cut into his skin.
Please don't hate me. This story isn't over yet, I promise. And the cliffhanger was necessary.
See that review box down there? If you type something in it, it may motivate me to update sooner.