Again, thank you so much for your reviews – I rewrote yesterday's chapter about a hundred times until I felt it worked, and I'm absolutely thrilled to see that most of you liked it and understood what I was trying to do! Oh, sweet success …
Today: torture ahead.
My only friend
John woke with a start only one hour later. Dawn was still far off, and at first he was too confused to realise what had interrupted his fitful sleep, but then it struck him: Sherlock had uttered a sound.
He was sitting upright again, lost in the same activity as before – shifting and sorting, and now, it seemed, uttering indiscernible sounds as well.
"Are you talking in your sleep now, Sherlock?" John tried to joke, for the sake of saying something. As before, Sherlock did not acknowledge him, but he winced in pain, obviously struggling to complete his imagined task despite being impaired by his injuries.
"Just another step up on the coma scale, I hope," John muttered and gave him another dose of the pain medication. He scrutinised him carefully as the analgesic entered his system, and he was glad to see that Sherlock's posture relaxed ever so slightly when the medication kicked in.
Sherlock kept muttering; his voice was rough from disuse, and a coughing fit lingered in his chest, but it was still good to hear that voice at all.
And then John's mouth dropped: he had picked out a word in the mumbled torrent. This was not the incomprehensible babble of a coma patient – Sherlock was speaking Russian. Bloody Russian.
John was so thunderstruck, he put the side rail down and plunked himself next to Sherlock. "Are you actually mulling over what I have read to you? Is that your way of processing the information?"
He received no answer, and Sherlock never so much as looked at him, apparently busy in his Mind Palace.
"Huh," John huffed, feeling crazy laughter bubbling up inside him. It was surreal – in the middle of the night, he sat next to his best friend, but could not get through to him. Sherlock was alive and breathing, even moving and speaking, but he was still unreachable, shrouded in the layers of the coma.
Might as well make conversation, John thought with an edge of hysteria. "You know, Sherlock, it would be nice if you acknowledged me. Just once, I mean. I feel like I'm becoming a peace of furniture in here, like the chair or the cot. Always there, taken for granted. You know, doctors usually don't do the whole bed bath and changing bandages thing, that's the nurses' job. But you get all worked up like a three-year-old throwing a tantrum when they touch you and I'm not there. And by the way, if you pull up your feeding tube one more time, Nurse June has sworn to hand in her notice, and then you get that dragon from the room opposite as your primary nurse. I'm sure she's going to shove the food down the tube without bothering to put it into the mixer first. So think about it."
John cleared his throat, fiddling with the bed covers for a while. "I guess they're going to pull out the chest tube today. There's almost nothing coming out of it anymore, so that's good. Great, actually. Will be a while, though, until you're really done with the pneumonia. Weeks, probably, need to make sure you don't develop anything chronic, so no running around in foggy London. Lots of sleep, regular meals, moderate physiotherapy. In other words: boring." He chuckled and felt the hysteria taking over: a tear escaped from the corner of his eye. He wiped it away.
"I think, while you're at it and I can't sleep anyway, I'll go on reading, Sherlock." He got off the bed, fetched the phone and returned to sit next to an oblivious Sherlock.
"Not much left before they caught you," he muttered. "Only one entry. The rest is from your new phone. Let's see." John stiffened. "Another audio file. So you weren't able to type." He clicked on it.
This time, he was prepared: he didn't drop the phone when earsplitting bangs erupted from the speaker. Gunshots, John realised, accompanied by static noise, feet hitting metal stairs, then a frenzied rush across concrete.
Sherlock, panting, "John, I'm on a rooftop –" his voice was drowned out by gusts of wind. "…'m running … been betrayed. They're close, it's Moriarty, I must hide the phone –" More gunshots, shouting in the distance. "Mycroft will protect you, if not, I'll haunt him in hell. If I don't make it-" he broke off, swallowing hard.
The shouting was drawing nearer.
"They've got me. There - I'm lost without my blogger. Lost without you. I-" a nervous chuckle. "See you in this life or the next. Forgive me."
The recording broke off.
John stared at the phone, his emotions in turmoil.
He was about to say something, when the recording suddenly resumed.
"What …?" John gasped in surprise. There were gunshots now, so loud John winced at the noise. Sherlock was chuckling – if not to say sniggering. "John, couldn't leave you like that," he scoffed. "Feel free to punch me when I come home – if I don't, get on with your life!" A crack, and the file closed.
John felt as if his throat were stuck in a vice. Twice, he tried to summon the strength to say something, and twice his voice failed. The third time, it broke on the first syllable. "Get on with my life," he stated, glaring at Sherlock. "Just like that. And how was I supposed to do that? Oh, and thanks for graciously allowing me to punch you. I'll get back to it in time." He looked at Sherlock, but he had turned his head away, snarling at some imagined opponent.
John cleared his throat and waited until he felt calmer. Then he giggled. "You had to end on a high note, didn't you?" He sighed and just sat there for a long time, musing about the madness of their situation.
Finally, he said, "So, that's the end of it, Sherlock. You hid your phone, got caught, were held captive until Mycroft rescued you, and then you came back." He looked at him – Sherlock had stilled in his movements, staring at the wall; suddenly, he gave an angry huff, then continued as before.
John chuckled. "This whole situation is so weird, I refuse to think about it any longer. I'll read the new entries, now, OK? The ones you made back here in London, after your return. Let's see … um, do you want me to read them aloud, too, or do you remember them?" He looked questioningly at Sherlock, who had tilted his head to the side as if listening to an inner voice, ignoring John.
"Never mind," John grumbled, "just listen, OK?"
He began reading Sherlock's account of their encounter in the MI6 building, but soon his voice faltered and his fingers trembled when he realised that Sherlock had written down all the words, all the apologies and explanations he had been unable to say at the time. It had all been there, the fear, the unfulfilled need, the cry for help that never left his lips, the distress at failing to express himself, even the death wish, and then the glimmer of hope.
He should have known, John thought, that Sherlock suffered inside like any other human being, but would rather push everyone away than admit his pain.
He reached the last chapter; it was written at 221B, he realised, while Sherlock was waiting to snap his final trap, meeting Moriarty at the Shard.
Dear John,
I was interrupted by Mycroft during my last entry, outside the hospital, when you were lying knocked out, victim of my ruse to catch Moran. I was just trying to protect you from Moriarty, you know that now. I'm about to head for the Shard, for the final confrontation with my nemesis. At least, I hope it's final. Either way.
I promised to tell you what fragments of memory I have – it is not hard to deduce what happened after they chased me across Moscow's rooftops where I planted the decoy and hid the real phone, only for Moriarty to find it anyway. Didn't do him much good, though, he couldn't break the code. But he handed me over to the Americans, along with the false phone. What a set-up: the Americans held me captive in Russia, trying to break into a phone that held only fabricated data, while Moriarty had the real thing, trying to break into it and failing just as well. However, he gave the Americans quite a few tips on how to break me.
Conventional torture was not effective – depriving me of sleep, food and water was more of a trial of their patience than mine, since I can go without quite a while. Being beaten up was certainly unpleasant, particularly given the unsanitary conditions in the basement, but with every day they wasted on these methods, chances increased that Mycroft would find me.
The waterboarding was a much greater challenge. I'm sure you have seen your share of torture during the war, and as a doctor you know the effects. I would have found the experience fascinating, had it not been – let's be frank: utterly horrible.
I think waterboarding is possibly the most efficient and unassuming way of torture, triggering every survival instinct there is and flooding the body with sheer terror. Knowing did not save me from the nerve-shredding panic, however. It is a physical, purely instinctive reaction, not controlled by the mind but triggered by the ancient parts of the brain we share with generations of mammal ancestors. Beyond my control. Still, you can resist as long as there is hope, and I knew with every day that passed, Mycroft was coming closer to finding me.
However, my captors must have realised this as well. Undoubtedly, it was Moriarty's counselling that made them change tactics. Since I proved useless, they decided to blackmail Mycroft instead; I guess Moriarty convinced them that Mycroft had the code to break into the phone or knew how to retrieve the information in some other way, and that he would exchange the data for his brother.
I suppose it was at this point that they refrained from any further conventional torture and resorted to regularly injecting me with cocaine, sending Mycroft a video of me in this drugged state. This was quite clever, actually, since it had two advantages: Mycroft feared my drug addiction much more than any torture, and they could easily dispose of my corpse after an overdose. It was much more psychological warfare than actual violence, and the Americans could never have played on my brother's fears so effectively without Moriarty's help.
Of course, Mycroft could do nothing but try to find me – he neither had the phone (Moriarty had it, of course) nor would he have been able to unlock it, and the same is true for the decoy: I never gave him the code. Why? In anticipation of precisely this situation.
When Moriarty realised Mycroft was making a deal with the Russians (kick the Americans out of the country, get the (false) phone and free time to play with it), he decided to put a stop to the game.
He took charge of the interrogations – or rather, he sent his experts to solve the problem for the Americans.
What do you think his solution was? My corpse riddled with track marks in a back alley? No, John, far too unsubtle for Moriarty. That's what the Americans would have done. Dull.
You know me, John. What is my greatest fear?
Moriarty knew. Oh, he knew.
I have seen you staring at me, John, at that tell-tale bruise under my left eye. You couldn't figure it out, you were racking your brain what could have caused the haemorrhage, since it was clearly not from a fist punching me. Well. It was Moriarty's punishment.
I have lost so many memories, but not this one. The fragments are there, and even an idiot can put the pieces together.
First, they gave me a round of electroshocks – probably the cause of the memory loss, but pretty excruciating in its own right. Naturally, they refrained from sedation, and I was lucky to not break any bones from the spasms. Frying my brain didn't seem particularly effective either (I guess I can spare a few brain cells), and they were running out of time: I remember someone shouting that the Russians were on their way before they tied me down again.
I knew what they intended to do.
John, I asked you once, 'If you were dying, in your very last few seconds, what would you say?' And you said, 'Please, God, let me live.'
Well, my thoughts were, 'Please, God, let me die.'
It took six of them to hold me down and then the ice pick still scraped along my forehead instead of going into my eye.
The next attempt was successful: the steel needle slid into my skull, bypassing the eye ball and hitting the bone that separates the eye socket from the brain. I remember someone fumbling for the hammer; I see the glint of steel as it rests on the ice pick, the man holding it; I hear the clinking sound as it hits on the metal, feel the sudden pressure in my skull, the thundering crack, the vibrations travelling through my brain – and then someone dropping something – a loud, metallic clatter – we both jerk, my torturer and I, and at that instant I decide that my only chance to resist is by struggling as much as possible, hoping to inflict a fatal injury.
He pulled the ice pick out before I could succeed.
Apparently, they realised that they had to knock me out or they would not be able to control the damage. Inserting the ice pick and breaking the bone that protects the brain by hitting it with a hammer with just the right amount of force requires practice, excellent fine motor skills, and diligence. Scraping away at the brain tissue to destroy the personality without killing the victim is even more difficult: cut too deep and you have a corpse instead of a vegetable. Mind you, they wanted to reduce me to a babbling idiot, not murder me.
John, as a doctor, you certainly know about the victims of lobotomy: I believe you understand now that death would have been preferable.
Looking back, the time it took them to knock me out with another round of electroshocks proved to be crucial. During those precious moments, the Russians stormed the building and put and end to the torture. I have no memory beyond being dragged towards a helicopter, surrounded by Mycroft's men. Apparently, when they found me, I was still convulsing from the electroshocks, yet not entirely unconscious, thus preventing my torturers from completing the procedure.
So, don't worry, they never got to my brain; the haemorrhage under my eye is from the soft tissue damage caused by the ice pick, not from a skull fracture. Well, maybe a slight fracture, certainly healed by now – I refused to submit to Mycroft's doctors, having had my fair share of poking and prodding. I'm fine. Not even much of a headache.
The electroshocks were worse, however: they destroyed my Mind Palace, John. A firestorm has raged through it, and now it's lying in ruins, burnt down, essential parts reduced to cinder and ashes. Rebuilding might be possible if I can fill in the gaps in my memory. It will never be the same again, but I believe it can be reconstructed to the degree that my mind can inhabit it.
I am now ready to go to the Shard to meet Moriarty.
Wish me luck. And forgive me, please.
You are my only friend.
S
John stared at the phone, his mind blank. For a while, he was too shocked to react in any way at all. He had known about the waterboarding, and the rest he had imagined – but this, destroying Sherlock's mind, his personality, his intellect, everything he was – this was beyond torture, even beyond murder. The sheer vindictiveness was staggering.
And his torturer, Moriarty, was still out there.
John cleared his throat and tried to overcome the nausea making his stomach heave. For a second, he really thought he'd have to reach for the sick bowl before he clamped down on the urge to vomit, swallowing compulsively.
Humming under his breath, he exhaled slowly and forced himself to calm down until he felt able to utter a comprehensible sound. Rubbing his tired eyes, he muttered, "I'm just glad they did all those scans and your brain turned out fine." He looked up. "Sherlock, I-"
Shocked, he dropped the phone. It cluttered to the ground noisily.
Sherlock was looking at him. Really looking. His face was only a few inches away, eyes focused, brow furrowed, hands resting on the blanket, perfectly still.
John felt his stomach drop: Sherlock was deducing him.
He was awake.
~ 0 ~
A few more chapters to go …