Into Darkness
Another assault. Really, was that necessary?
Dull. Sherlock tried to raise a brow in disdain but even this small movement seemed beyond him.
He wasn't able to defend himself anymore, his first two attempts had failed miserably, but he intended to put up a fight until his last breath, on principle.
Was that brave or ridiculous? More likely, just stubborn. Mycroft had once said he considered the signs of the zodiac complete nonsense, but if he were to believe in them, he was certain that Sherlock was born under the sign of a mule. A particularly stubborn mule.
Here we go – another punch to his aching chest, crunching the ribs, sending stabs of pain through his body, driving the air out of his lungs and leaving him gasping and retching. God, how undignified. He was probably writhing on the floor, in his own blood and vomit, and he knew they would push it much further, to breaking point, or rather pissing point, as he termed it. Really, the only advantage of starving was that your digestive system was mostly inactive and subsequently couldn't get rid of too much either.
Damn it, his brain was so fuzzy. Where was he? He couldn't recall anything, his mind was excruciatingly slow and confused, was he still in Russia? Think!
Apart from the blood, he could taste the river nearby in the damp air, and he felt the bone-chilling cold seeping into him from the hard floor. His whole body was a vessel of agony, his chest in particular; and they were still busy pummeling him, so Russia, probably. Though, hadn't the basement smelled more vile? More likely, his senses were impaired.
He couldn't see, couldn't hear anything apart from the white noise in his head and the echo of John's voice, and he knew John was not really there but he heard his soothing voice anyway since he always called it up from memory to give him strength when they tortured him, or comfort when he lay bleeding in an alley or simply to help him sleep and keep him sane and remind him of home, home. John. So far away.
He couldn't last much longer. If Mycroft didn't find a way to get him out soon, very soon, then that was it. Maybe it was too late already, it felt … Oh God, this time they had gone too far. There was some major damage, he could feel it on an instinctive level – his nerves screaming in panic at his brain – malfunction! This was beyond the usual beating and suffocating, this wasn't just broken ribs and horrible pain: he was bleeding out and the blood was slowly seeping into his chest cavity, creeping into his lungs, squashing them like an overripe fruit.
He was choking on his own blood in a dreary Russian basement. God, how pathetic.
The only comfort was John's voice, vaguely present, but in his battered state he wasn't able to recall it clearly and it remained strangely distant and slurred. That annoyed him. He was dying, and they were still torturing him and effectively bereaving him of his last solace, and he wouldn't have it. Enough now.
He was going to fight back.
First: hands up – ball them into fists and punch anyone within reach.
Nothing happened.
Okay, try stabbing with your fingers, aiming at your enemy's eyes.
Not working.
Oh, for God's sake, at least do some clawing!
Nope.
Slap someone? A bit?
… Mmmaybe.
He had made some sort of movement, he was sure – at least going by the suddenly increased pain in his chest and the rather chilling experience of his heart first forgetting to beat, and then launching into completely uncoordinated contractions, sending a fresh jolt of panic through his body.
It's your last chance – try again. You don't want to die a bleeding lump of flesh in the dirt without having told them how much you despise them. Show them that they may be able to kill you, but they cannot break you.
That did it. He lashed out and hit home, knuckles grazing – what? A nose? Yes … he smiled. Probably just in his mind. But he tried again.
His hands were caught.
Well, that was to be expected, but he had made his point. He braced himself for the inevitable: the breaking of his wrists as punishment, the snapping of the delicate bones, the searing pain adding to the discordant orchestra of agony in his body.
Only, it didn't happen.
Instead, warm hands firmly clasped his own – to yank him off the ground and slam him into the wall? No … strong fingers and fleshy palms enfolded his hands, squeezing them lightly; a thumb rubbing over his knuckles – what was that? Oh, Lord, it was … it was soothing.
Whoever was there did not mean harm – or was this a particularly insidious way of luring him back to consciousness, only to torture him some more – YES! No, in fact.
Memory hit him.
This wasn't Russia. Moriarty … the bridge … John. John! He was safe, wasn't he? He had taken the bullet for him – that was the reason he was in such a sorry state, Moriarty had gunned him down, hitting him … in the chest, presumably. Small gun, short distance. Bad. And the slurred voice his sluggish brain hadn't been able to decipher was really John's. John's voice, for real, not a memory.
Oh. That meant John was here, and those were his hands – yes, they were, strong, but less calloused than before, the fingers a bit leaner, like his whole body … stop: that's not important right now. You do understand, don't you? You're dying, this injury is most likely fatal – and you can't do that to John, you must at least hold out as long as he is with you. Remember, you left on bad terms – you must make it clear to him that he's … he's … what do I have to make clear? God, think! He's … vital … only friend … kept me alive. He's my heart. My heart. You must know you're my heart, John. But how can I tell you, I can't speak, can't see, transport's failing …
Acknowledge him. For God's sake, do something!
His eyes flew open.
It took a while until he saw anything beyond a blur of shapes – and then it hit him all at once: agony.
Lower part of his body numb, the rest ablaze with pain, pulsing, throbbing – his chest crushed, shattered bones stabbing, shredded tissue and gushing blood squeezing the breath out of the lungs, lungs collapsing, a sick sound, gurgling, horrible, his heart merely quivering, jolts of pain, fear, noise, too many voices, can't understand, head sizzling with overload and panic, nausea, stomach heaving, NAUSEA!
"Quick! Roll him over!" "Careful, I'll hold his head …" "…bloody ambulance…" "… I've got you, Sherlock, don't fight it, it's okay."
No, it's not okay! Obviously not, I'm throwing up and my body is wrecked by spasms and I'm writhing like a goddamn earthworm, this is a disgrace …
"Sherlock, it's OK, just let it happen, it's alright."
Retching, again, why does it hurt so much and please can't this be a bit more dignified and I'm really scared, John, I really am, and please don't let go because I don't want to die alone.
I know you won't, you've never let me down.
Your hand on my face.
"There you go, that's better, try to relax a bit."
You're stroking my cheek, that feels surprisingly nice, John. Please, turn me over, I don't want to pass out staring at the bloody flagstones, I want to see your face, please – why am I retching again and where does all this liquid come from if there's nothing in my stomach? Oh, it's blood. Blood.
"No, don't look, Sherlock, it's okay, it's actually good that you're getting rid of the blood, it'll make breathing easier. Try to take a deep breath, can you do that for me?"
I'll try, John, but there's too much liquid in my lungs, you know that, you're a doctor, you're just trying to make it less terrible for me, I know, and I can feel your hands on my face and it's wonderful and it doesn't hurt, but breathing does, it feels like sucking in acid, but not breathing is worse because the lack of oxygen sets off the mechanisms of panic, an instinctive reaction and a sensible precaution, but knowing doesn't help and it's very scary and I'm so scared it's a shame, I'm sorry -
"Sherlock, stay with me, keep breathing. Help is on the way, just hang on, you're gonna be okay."
Your voice, it's so calm, so reassuring, how do you do that? I know you're scared too, we're scared of the same thing, but I can't fend it off any longer, the darkness is creeping up again … please let me see your face, John.
"Sherlock, look."
Oh, you're moving, you're cradling my head, that's nice, I'll sleep …
"No, Sherlock, keep your eyes open and keep breathing. Look, right over there, across the river, is the London Bridge Hospital. The ambulance is almost here. You'll be over there in no time, just hang in there, do you hear me? Yeah? Okay, good, I know it hurts, come on – no, no, don't close your eyes, look at me, look at me!"
Your fingers dig into my skin, not too hard but insistent … Oh, finally! You're bending over me! I can see you, I can see all your wrinkles, your greying hair – why is it all wet? And why can't I tell which colour your eyes are? You're looking very focused, almost strict, that's the soldier's face, not the doctor's … but I can see the worry lines – no, don't move out of sight! John! Oh, wait, I'll get you back. I know how.
"No, stay with me, you can't sleep just yet, Sherlock!"
Worked, almost.
"You have to stay awake, come on, you can do this."
Ha, you can shake my shoulder as long as you like, I want to see your face, John. This is not good enough.
"Sherlock, listen to me, you have to focus on breathing. I know you're in a great deal of pain, but – hey, are you with me?"
I am, John, you can stop slapping my face, and now I can see you again, and it's good. This was the last prank I played, I promise.
"Sherlock, breathe with me, come on. Slowly, Sherlock, slowly, not so fast, try to make your breaths a bit slower and deeper, do it with me, come on –"
I'm sorry, John, I can't breathe anymore – lungs are failing. I'm gasping for air like a fish out of water and coughing feels as if someone's hacking into my chest with an axe. It's terrible John, I find myself wishing it was over, it's not only the agony and panic, I can feel my mind disintegrate … incoherent … failing … oh God, it hurts, it hurts – what's that disturbing sound? Lord, am I whining? Really? I'm going to die of embarrassment … and why are my eyes wet? Please tell me I'm not crying, have I no control over anything?
But that's dying for your, isn't it, you lose it all, everything becomes erratic and pointless and then dissolves …
"Shh, it's okay, calm down. I've got you."
You're holding my face in your hands and your voice is such a comfort – I can't understand your words anymore, John, too much noise in my head, I'm sorry – what's this?
Oh Lord, this is bad, no air, can't breathe, something's breaking inside me – John, I'm afraid, it really hurts now, JohnJohnJohn –
"I'm here, Sherlock, don't try to speak, you need to save your strength, please, stay with me …"
I want to John. I've never wanted anything else, but I cannot. Please don't hold it against me, but it hurts too much now and I am so exhausted, I don't want to fight anymore, I've been doing nothing else those last years. I'm tired. It's easier to let the darkness take me. It's a relief, actually. Just let me look at your face one more time. I want this to be the last image in my mind. Your face …
Thank you. The rest is just slipping away.
"Sherlock!"
It's dark now, John.
I failed you again.
I'm sorry.
Sorry.