Sherlock story
Deleted Memories, Chapter 58
Warning: post Reichenbach spoilers. Hope you enjoy
*As always thanks for reading, a special thanks to all of you who take the time to review, comment, and favorite
WARNING: This chapter contains scenes that have descriptions of captivity and, torture, and all things not nice. Thanks.
**Rating temporarily M**
"If you're going through hell, keep going." ~Winston Churchill
Deleted Memories of Abduction
Even if John got the message, and understood where the several buildings in the area were, he had to get out.
If Ayyad's men did decide to come back, it would not be hard to locate him, Sherlock thought bleakly.
As Sherlock walked, he left a trail on the floor as droplets of blood dripped slowly from his body. His fingers painted the wall red where he touched, and leaned for support.
Sherlock's mind cataloged his damage; he knew he most likely had internal injuries. Sherlock's mind tried to distract him from the pain. However, his body would not allow it.
Every step was torturous and he grunted with the effort. Sweat poured down his body and face. None of that mattered. Sherlock had to keep moving, it was a purely logical fact.
That logic however did nothing to comfort or encourage him.
Sherlock felt like he walked forever.
He cleared the narrow hall. He came to a more open area. As Sherlock continued, he passed his room. He did not look in.
He finally came to the open area of the factory. A mixture of petrol, oil, dirt, and mold filled his lungs.
A long metal rail, and cement staircases were in front of him.
His lower abdomen and legs burned. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest.
Sherlock, reaching the rail, stopped to lean on the rail and catch his breath before he attempted to walk down. However, his legs were jelly and his bloodied hands slippery.
He slid down several stairs crashing his hip into the concrete stairs. Sherlock slid and flipped slightly. He landed on his side. He thought he heard a crack. He laid there briefly concentrating on breathing as the world swam in and out of focus. The pain was blinding.
Sherlock attempted to get up but heard screaming. It was a long, deep, and broken animal like sound; which seemed to pierce the air and shake the silence.
It took Sherlock a few seconds before he realized it was coming from himself. Unlike when he was being tortured, he did not hold it back.
The world continued to go in and out.
Despair swallowed Sherlock up then. It held him tightly and would not let go.
Sherlock rested his head on his folded arms. "Get up, move," he whispered to himself breathlessly.
He raised himself to his feet, growling through the pain. His legs were shaking from the effort. They continued to shake once upright.
Sherlock blinked rapidly, waited a few seconds for his vision to clear, and slowly step by step made his way down the remainder of the stairs. A mixture of fear and hope was propelling him on.
"People will die if you die here; move." He took one-step at a time, whispering to himself, to encourage himself.
If someone told Sherlock two weeks ago that talking to yourself would encourage you, he would have thought it foolish; but now the foolish was all he had and he embraced it.
A tear rolled down his face; he wiped at it and stared at his wet fingers as though the wetness was some strange thing.
More tears joined. He ignored them and let them fall.
"You're almost there." He moved forward, favoring one leg now.
Breathing heavily, Sherlock said his brother's name, "Mycroft," he whispered moving forward.
"John," he whispered, one hand coming up to the door. He leaned heavily on it catching his breath. He saw the last rays of light disappearing as the sun set, through the dirty windows. Sherlock pushed using his full body weight on the door.
Sherlock stumbled outside as he almost lost his balance.
By the time he stumbled out the door, the sun was completely set. He had made it to the outside. He smelled the air, and the water. Sherlock half-sat, half fell; leaning heavily on one hand. His body met the ground as he collapsed.