Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Spoilers: End of series 2, "The Reichenbach Fall"
Warnings: Spoilers, angst, some violence, mentions of drugs, swearing

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Seven percent solution


Awakening is not pleasant. I open my eyes, but my vision swims and I feel dizzy and nauseous. It is cold and I shiver. Only a T-shirt and my tatty jeans are protecting me from the chilly air. My mouth is dry and I long for water, but I can´t move.

Oh, how dull. Would Mycroft´s men tie me to a chair? Definitely not.

Time passes infuriatingly slow, and I am left to my deductions and assumptions, my mind racing with escape scenarios, not being able to come to a conclusion without any data.

My speculations on who has abducted me are confirmed when the door to my prison opens and a man steps in. He is in his fourties and bears the air of a person with a military background. His composed attitude reminds me of John, while his observant blue eyes bore into mine like those of a tiger contemplating his prey. He is muscular, his hair is cropped short and he bears a revolver. His steps are light and springy. His triumphant smile tells me that he knows everything.

"It´s good to know that you are actually not rotting away in your grave," he mocks. "It´s much more pleasurable to talk to the living than to ghosts. We´ve already had the pleasure, but not yet the opportunity to talk."

"Oh, I remember," I answer. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, released from action in Afghanistan by charge of dishonor, sidekick of the only consulting criminal the world has known so far. Even if we hadn´t met, your right forefinger would have done the introduction, as it is callused by the frequent shooting practice you are keen not to miss and which twitches in anticipation of shooting me."

He frowns at me. "Jim told me once you know everything because you are so observant. I see he was right." He waves at the room, a wolfish grin on his face. "Please tell me what you deduce from this. And please give me all the details, Holmes."

Breathing in, I take in my surroundings closer. It is abundantly clear that he wants me to estimate the amount of trouble I am in. His cruel, expectant smile is giving him away.

"This room is not very high and it is wet and cold. The air is stale, so there is either not much circulation in here or we are far from an entrance which would provide a draft. The walls are stone, showing traces of a black substance which resets there quite permanently, as it has nearly merged into the wall. The disused tools in the corner are quite clearly miner´s tools." I pause and frown, suddenly remembering coming round briefly during yesterday´s journey and regarding the evening sun falling onto the rear bench of the car before Moran´s men drugged me again.

"We are in a disused quarry. As our drive took us south-east and as I have passed out for about six hours, I am quite certain that we are not too far from London, possibly in Kent. You haven´t killed me yet but tied me to a chair, which is pretty much the common scenario for applying torture on a hostage," I elaborate, my voice cold and detached.

Surprisingly, he throws his head back and roars with laughter. The he looks me straight in the eye. "You are never wrong, do you? Tell you what – you are not. Tell you what: I do have a peculiar feeling that I will still be able to surprise you."

I can´t help myself. "What do you think would surprise me? Punching? Flogging? Water-boarding? By all I know your people and especially you, as I have been reliably informed, are more than apt on all methods known."

He advances on me, snarling, the knuckles of his right hand slamming my face, hard. "Discrediting your host is not very good manners, Sherlock. Show more respect."

I taste blood on my lip and swallow. "You are not my host, you abducted me."

"For your own good," he says and draws level with my face,. He grabs my chin, prodding it upwards until my eyes meet his. "You were really not doing well in your hunt for me. Now that I have found you, I would like you to have a little fun for a change."

He steps away, grabs an object from a nearby table and toys with it. "You just returned from Hades, Holmes. A very tedious expedition, as is reported. Those who are allowed to go back to the living are not allowed to turn their heads. But not only didn't you look back, you forgot to look to the left and right." He draws nearer. "You were far too occupied with playing the addict. It must have been taxing. Surely you are dying to recover, to relax?" He waves the object towards me. Dread floods me. It is a hypodermic needle.

He studies my expression and nods. "I guess it has been awfully frustrating for you to withstand the pull of the drug. To buy cocaine and dump it. To feel the slim steel of a needle enter your vein, only to pull out blood without shooting a substance in. To draw the needle in deep enough to create a convincing bruise. All for the single purpose of hunting me down. I am flattered by the amount of your efforts, Holmes."

He steps back one pace, regarding the tip of the needle as he removes the air. "You know, Jim told me a few things about you… I´m intrigued by the striking similarity between us. I prefer to go out and make good use of my masterly shooting skills when I´m under pressure. You, on the other hand, prefer to stay inside and shoot up."

I silently curse myself, for while I considered it a possibility that Moran would order his men to torture me, I haven´t taken into account that he might drug me. In fact, my inattentiveness has partly been due to the scrutiny with which I disguised as a junkie. All my willpower was needed to handle batches of cocaine three times a day without ever using them and to convince my companions of my habit with the help of needles and eye drops containing belladonna.

A spark of glee appears in his eyes. He is a keen observer and has noted the slight traces of fear in my otherwise unmoving features. He tuts. "I don´t intend to harm you. Not much, anyway. You are my guest, remember? Please allow me the pleasure of offering you a house-warming present. You just need to accept it gratefully and put it to good use. Surely you are not so impolite as to refuse?"

I stare at him, growing fear dimming my ability to be careful. "I don´t think your hospitality is of the kind which requires one to be grateful," I bite back.

He snarls and hits me again, slamming my cheek. "Manners, Sherlock," he growls and crouches down at my side. "Let´s get this clear. I want you to shoot this batch of cocaine into your posh veins immediately. And I want you to do this yourself. I am far too afraid to maim your marble skin, as I am only dexterous in my trigger finger. You, being a violinist and due to personal experience, are the expert here."

I shake my head, blood running from a split on my cheekbone. "I will not inject any drug," I reply firmly. "I am clean."

"Oh, modesty itself, all of a sudden?" Moran snorts. He retrieves his gun. "Just imagine the headlines after you´ve been found dead due to an overdose. The press will ring with theories on how the fraud detective faked his own death and, while trying to make his way back into the headlights, couldn´t cope with the fact that he´s a junkie."

"If you want to kill me, why not do it fast and swift?" I offer.

He laughs. "Let´s see how much you still cherish your life," he says, pointing the gun at my temple. "I´m sure I can convince you to live just that little bit longer."

He releases my right arm from its bonds and pushes the hypo into my hand, which starts to twitch as soon as it touches the object. I am shaking, all my limbs are tensing in a futile attempt to flee. Moran has found the surest way to fill my heart with sheer horror, for as much as I don´t want to poison my blood with any drug anymore, I remember the high far too well. A voice which has whispered to me annoyingly often in the past weeks beckons me to relent, assuring me that getting high will be far more agreeable than getting shot or being beaten up by Moran´s thugs.

I can´t command my hand to move, thus Moran steers it forcefully towards my left arm, where the vein stands out clearly. I register that the men who bound me have applied a tourniquet, which Moran has already yanked tight. I try to fight his hand, but to no avail.

When the tip of the needle rests in the crook of my elbow, piercing my skin ever so lightly, he cocks the gun and releases me. "Just. Do. It," he hisses into my ear. I hold my breath and close my eyes briefly as I press the needle into my skin.

"Now," he prods and grates the gun into my temple, for I am hesitating. Reason tells me there is no point in prolonging what is inevitably to come – my apparent suicide. Again. But my instinct tells me to grasp the tiny chance to prolong our game, to beat him as I beat Moriarty.

My breath comes in short gasps, as I finally, painfully slowly, obey his order. Feeling sick, I watch the blood streaming in, transporting the drug back down into the vein.

With a satisfied grin, Moran puts down his gun and strokes my hair lightly. "Good boy," he compliments me. "Don´t worry. I´ve chosen quality stuff – I do want you to enjoy, not suffer." With that, he leaves.

Alone is all I have now. Alone doesn´t protect me from the rush of the cocaine, my despair and self-hate. For the second time in nineteen months I feel tears of regret wetting my face.