John followed Trevor back out to the courtyard only to be greeted by a few of the crew from yesterday lounging on the rough wooded chairs. Walt languished heavily across the table looking like death warmed over. Apparently someone had managed to bribe a guard to smuggle in two bottles of cheap whisky and most of Trevor's crew had spent the evening parting after John had drug their fearless leader off to his cell. Walt looked up blearily and dropped his head solidly back down on the table. "Nobody make noise," he mumbled menacingly. John felt decidedly better knowing Australian would be nursing a substantial hangover for most of the day. He'd be in no mood to bother John, he hoped.
"Sorry we didn't cut you in on the bottle, Doc," Trevor said looking a bit contrite. "But like the man said yesterday, you wanna drink, you gotta pay. You don't drink for free." Trevor called over his shoulder as he walked over to Walt's slouched form and shouted, "Get your ass over to McGowan's cell and check to see if he's still alive."
"Aww boss, get the Doc to do it. I'm dyyyy-ing," Walt said petulantly and John found he disliked the sound of a whining Australian even more than a lustful one.
Trevor grabbed a handful of his short, sandy tresses and pulled his head up. Walt's mouth just hung open in a slack-jawed stupor and Trevor let him drop back to the table top. "Useless git," he grumbled.
"Can you check on McGowan?" Trevor said turning back to John. "I'd rather not lose 'im to something stupid like a broken nose," John noticed that Trevor's demeanor changed subtly when he spoke to him. He asked rather than ordered him around like one of his men, interesting difference John thought.
"You patch him up and I'll think about your offer a little quicker, eh Doc?"
"Point the way," John said wearily. "But, I need an answer soon, Trev."
He nodded at John and gave him rather shaky directions to McGowan's cell. "I'll catch up with you tonight right here. I need to sort some things first," he said waving his hand vaguely in the air.
"Tonight," John said more forcefully than he intended stepping into the man's personal space and grabbing the front of Trevor's dust and grime covered shirt. "Don't let me down or the deal's off," John said with far more bravado than he felt.
Trevor's eyes widened a bit at John's intensity then he smiled blearily.
"All right, mate," he said plucking John's hands off his lapels and blinking slowly. Christ, the man was still pissed, John thought.
Trevor turned and meandered off in the direction of John and Walt's cell. He let out several barking coughs as he shambled away.
He sincerely hoped the idiot didn't disappear down some horrible prison rabbit hole, but he needed Trevor's goodwill and had to give the man some breathing room. If he followed too closely, Trevor would simply vanish and John knew he could hide a long time if he wanted to. Trevor had the home court advantage here and John was a stranger in a strange land.
The other men in the group seemed too absorbed in their own hangover pain to pay much attention to him. John's stomach growled loudly. "Know where I can score some grub? He asked the small gaggle of men who'd gathered around the table. One man grinned at him and said, "See Suzy," he pointed to one of the dark haired women sitting cross-legged in a patch of shade across the courtyard. "She'll set you up, but you.."
"Gotta pay, yeah I gathered that," John finished trying to keep the frustration out of his voice. "What does she want?"
"Suzy? She'll let you know what she'll take for food. She makes the best damn tortillas I've ever tasted, and she sometimes has fresh fruit, mangos and bananas.
John's mouth watered at the idea of real food. Christ, he felt like a mewling child after missing only a few meals. He eyed the woman covertly trying to gauge how difficult she might be and tried to rack his brains for something of value he could offer in trade. Other than his doctoring abilities, he didn't really have anything of value. Maybe his unused toothbrush or blanket might buy him a meal. He had no idea what might be a hot commodity in this place.
Before he tried that negotiation process, he decided to check on McGowan's broken nose. He decided to follow the directions he'd been given, and it lead him further down the same hallway where Trevor's cell had been. He heard a persistent moaning ahead that made him swallow in fear. Someone groaned in disconsolate pain with an abandon that only those mired deep in agony could manage. John hadn't heard moans like that in a long time, not since his tour in Afghanistan, and it sent a shiver down him. Enemy territory lay ahead and John had to be vigilant in this place and not get complacent. No one survived here unless they fought and came out on top.
But, despite the danger, his instinct to help kicked in and he wanted to follow the moaning. It didn't sound like McGowan, it sounded deeper. It sounded vaguely familiar. He couldn't exactly place why. Then the sound stopped almost as if someone had simply shut off the pain switch or…John didn't want to think of the many reasons why the man had stopped moaning…the man had passed out. He scurried forward trying to count the number of cell doors he passed. Trevor had said McGowan's cell was five down from his and to the left. There was no light in the dark hallway and every shadow hid possible danger.
He found the cell he wanted when he skidded to a stop (when had he started to run?) a little out of breath, heart beating fast. The door, closed but not locked, opened when John pushed on it. He saw a lump under some blankets and heard the distorted breathing of someone with a deviated septum. McGowan had slept fitfully under his single, scratchy blanket. He'd bled onto his covers during the night but not enough to cause alarm. John felt terrible waking him up but he couldn't check him out otherwise.
After examining McGowan, John reset his nose eliciting a horrible yelp from him in the process. He tried to compare it to the moaning he'd heard a moment ago. It didn't sound the same at all and he'd been asleep anyway.
The man needed an ice pack and painkillers, but he had neither to give so he offered some words of comfort and left poor ex solider to try to get back to sleep. What a nightmare world these men lived in where they drank to forget their misery that only lead to more misery. If this wasn't a version of actual hell on Earth, John didn't know what else it could be.
His stomach growled again and he decided to brave speaking to "Suzy." He had nothing better to do to keep himself occupied until sundown so he made his way back down the hallway. He stopped suddenly. The moaning had started up again softer and John could swear it sounded so familiar. The sound broke his heart and called to his inner healer. Who could be in such pain and where was it coming from? One of the closed cell doors he'd passed earlier now stood open and the noise that send a flood of compassion through him seemed to originate from the cell. One barred window had been taped over with yellowed newspapers keeping the cell dark, and cooler. John hesitated, hovered near the doorway and softly called, "Do you need help?"
A grunt answered him. "Do you need help?" he asked again a little louder. He wracked his brain trying to find the words in Spanish for "I'm trying to help" and could only remember a few from his secondary school, language classes. He whispered the words ayuda and sucorro hoping he made some kind of sense. The moaning had stopped and John could hear measured breathing, even and unlabored. Something felt off about this situation and John's senses told him the man in the room didn't sound injured or sick. He'd made a mistake stopping here. He should get back to the courtyard and leave this alone. His pulse throbbed in his head, his gut yammered at him to flee, but he held still and murmured, "lo siento," and tried to back away from the door when a long, dark arm shot out and grabbed his wrist.
"John" a voice said. "Don't go. I need to speak with you, please."
Oh that voice, he'd recognized it even in the dark and it sent a thrill through him. That voice offered a lifeline in this miserable place, and John grasped on with both hands. He let out an half sob of relief, "Sherlock," he hissed trying to stay quiet even though his heart felt a rush of sudden gladness from hearing the voice of his former friend, his partner and smartest man he knew. Sherlock had used John's need to ease pain to lure him right where he wanted him.
Sherlock let go of John's wrist and stepped forward into the dim light of the hallway. John recognized the dark hoodie and quicksilver eyes gleaming from underneath it. Here stood the mysterious man from last night. Well, that explained the feeling of looking foul but feeling fair, he thought ruefully. His unresolved feelings for his former flat mate and best friend aside, he understood that Sherlock only wanted to be his ally in this moment.
"Come in," Sherlock said "We have much to discuss."
"Yeah," John said the unreality of having Sherlock here washing over him. His mind yammering one thought over and over, "He didn't have to do this alone! Sherlock would help him." It didn't occur to him to question Sherlock's presence. Of course the detective had tracked him here, knew what Mycroft's mission had been and involved himself in the whole thing, of course he had. But, for the first time in a long time, John felt only thankfulness for Sherlock's unwavering interest in his life. It just didn't matter anymore. He couldn't do this alone; he needed Sherlock's help. He nodded once, and pushed open the cell door entering the darkened room.