Warning: Mentioning of character death

When I wake up I am a bit surprised to wake up at all. Still exhausted, I try to lift my head to look around.

We are alone. John is tied to the chair again, his back facing towards me. (Clever. That way I can no longer communicate with him by facial expression.) His hands are slack. He is unconscious.

He has to be unconscious. He has to. The alternative is … He has to be unconscious.

Mary thinks she loves him, right? She wouldn't …

He is tied to the chair. She wouldn't do this if he was …

He has to be merely unconscious.

There is a little puddle of blood underneath the chair. Would fit a bleeding nose. Dried already. So I was out cold for more than four hours. She has beaten him, broken his nose and tied him to the chair again when he lost consciousness.

He has to be unconscious.

I contemplate calling him but that would only cause him more pain. Not an option. Can I make any other kind of noise to wake him? I am tied to the ground with mountaineering cords. When I move my feet they barely produce a soft sound. Stomping my heels or the back of my hand onto the ground is not loud enough. The only thing I can to is bang my head on the concrete floor.

Bit not good but loud enough. I manage to do so four times before the pain gets too intense.

John does not move.

There is nothing more I can do. John's fingers are still slack, his head still lolled to his chest. He is merely unconscious.

I am forced to stare at his back, wondering if he is … if he is still with me. For two hundred and eight minutes.

By the time his fingers start to twitch I am half-crazy with fear. He needs some time to come back to his senses, then moans a bit and starts looking around. Tries to look at me but cannot turn his head around far enough.

"Sherlock?" he asks, his voice suspiciously wavering.

I stomp my heel on the ground, hoping that the noise is loud enough for him to hear. (I would hate to bang my head again but am willing to do so if necessary.) His head snaps up. Good.

"Are you all right?" he asks. I stick to the simple one times means yes, two times means no code and tell him that yes, I am fine. (No need to let him know how scared I've been, right?)

"Me too" he offers. I stomp once more,only to let him know that I heard him. There is no way to say "I was scared for your life and love you more than you can ever know" by stomping your heels, so I let the change pass.

(Well, there is a way but would sending a message in Morse code equal speaking in Mary's little game? Again, I decide to err on the side of safety.)

"You don't want to risk using Morse code, right?" John asks then and I give him a single stomp.

"Can you also say "No" with your heels?" he goes on and I can hear a little smile in his voice. Against my will, I have to giggle a bit. And stomp my heels two times. John giggles in return and my heart feels about three pounds lighter.

Of course, that's exactly when Mary comes in once more. A dangerous smile is on her face. Not good.

At least she is alone.

Could I talk, I would point out that if she'd really loved John, she surely shouldn't have fast, rough sex with Big Boy less than twenty minutes ago but there is no way to stomp that message, too.

"Good morning, boys" she says cheerfully and goes on, "Still a bit early in the morning, but I had the most wonderful time at a lovely little night club in Romford just an hour ago."

Romford. That's were Harry lives now. I see John tensing. Mary ruffles his hair, her back turned towards me (so I can't read her).

"Met your sister there, love," she goes on. Her voice truly happy. "Killing her really cheered me up after the water-boarding disaster Sherlock caused."

Is she telling the truth? John will want to know. I need to deduce if she tells the truth. Can't see her face but her voice should be enough. I need to deduce her.

Liar.

The one thing I deduced when meeting her the first time. And she is a good one, it later turned out.

I have no idea if she is lying now or not.

"Oh, it was clever," she goes on. "There is this club she always goes to. Where people know she's having a teensy-weensy bit of a problem with alcohol."

John tenses further. He knew she had been drinking lately, but had been sure that she had stopped three month ago after seeing Emmi for the first time. No, need to stop deducing John. I try to blank out his emotions and concentrate on Mary.

"Funny thing is that she has really been nearly sober for a while now. Managed to have only one or two beers when going out. Yet, when she started feeling ill, everybody blamed her drinking habit."

Mary turns around now, faces me. What a sick move. She wants me to deduce her. She wants me to try deducing her and fail. Which I do.

"Poor girl," she goes on, smugness written all over her face, outshining every other emotion. "Realised she'd been poisoned. Begged the security guard to help her. Told him she was sober, that there must have been something in her drink. But with her voice slurring like that and her dizziness ..."

There is an unbearable triumph in Mary's voice now. It leaves me so sick that I want to puke. "He could have saved her life, you know? Had he called the ambulance, she would still be alive now. But instead, he brought her to the toilet. She nearly collapsed twice on the way there. Cried. Begged him to get help. But of course, he thought she had hit the bottom once more."

I ignore the choking sound John makes, concentrating fully on Mary. But I cannot tell …

"In the loo, he helped her into one of the stalls. She sank down next to the toilet seat, crying hard. Tried to stand up once more but couldn't. Must have been terribly scared. And in pain. And do you know the best part?"

Mary's eyes have a feverish gleam now. Regardless if she is telling the truth or not, she is having the time of her life. "I watched her the entire time. When she collapsed inside the loo, I volunteered to help her. The security guard let me in and I took my time and watched her without hurry. And she recognized me. Tried to talk. Probably even knew I poisoned her. God, she was so helpless."

Mary's cheeks are flushed, and I don't think I have ever felt that revolted.

"She tried to shake me off," she finishes her cruel tale. "But my face was the last thing she saw. Trying to get away from me the last thing she did. And when her body stilled underneath my touch … That was real power."

She smiles, honestly happy, and presses a kiss on John's head. "And all that simply because you loved her. I don't like to have rivals."

With that, she leaves us alone, John's face still turned away from me.

And I don't know if she said the truth or not.

For a while (six minutes) I only listen to John's breaths. He is fighting for his composure, trying not to despair. Then he speaks up again, his voice wavering again, "Did she say the truth?"

I don't know.

No way to stomp that, so I remain silent.

"Sherlock," John says again, pleads me to tell him. But I can't. I don't know, and that information is not worth causing him pain.

"Sherlock," he repeats, more urgent now.

It breaks my heart.

"Sherlock, tell me." He is nearly shouting now, his voice rising higher and higher while he goes on, "I need to know and I need you to tell me and I don't care that she will hurt me afterwards TELL ME SHERLOCK!"

"I DON'T KNOW," I shout back, wondering if I'm crying or not and once I started, I cannot stop again. "I don't know, John. I'm sorry. But I don't know. I couldn't deduce her. I don't know. I'm sorry, but I don't know."

Yes, definitely crying now. John on the other hand is completely silent now.

"I'm sorry, John." I try again but he doesn't react.

Of course not. I have completely disappointed him and deserve the agony I'm feeling now.

I know that it will get more agonising once Mary is back to hurt John for my talking. My ties are so short that I cannot even bring myself into a fetal curl and silently cry in peace.