He remembered mostly fear. That he would always fail those he cared for. That whatever he would do, it would not be enough. He had failed Adrian, because he hadn´t told him that he had considered him a friend, one of the few people in this world worthy of his attention.
He had failed Sherlock, repeatedly. And now he had been afraid that there was no time to find him anymore, to help him, to apologise.
He had been scared of being a failure to his country, of spilling some vital information.
"I was interrogated," he continued his story. "They were not professionals. Which was a good thing, in the end. I was asked questions by a local low-level officer probably trying to get a promotion instead of being sent to an anti-espionage unit."
Lestrade flinched. He has seen too many amateur-tortured victims.
"By a stroke of fortune, I managed to escape." Yeah, Mycroft, you did. Running through the countryside like a terrified rabbit.
"I wasn´t very... well at that point," which of course explained why his recollection of the events was so hazy, "and while I was crossing the border, I got shot on top of that."
A shoulder wound. Manageable for a healthy individual. Not so much for a bleeding, feverish and starving one.
"But I ran away from the country in question. To end up in a little less hostile one. In the hands of a local gang." He chuckled darkly.
It is still raining. The drops are so big they hurt in contact with your skin, or maybe it is just that he is so sore himself. There is no point in trying to wring his clothes, but they are heavy with water and sticking to his skin unpleasantly.
And then there is the mud. The moment he scrambled to the slick riverside he swore he will never swim again, especially not in rivers you know nothing about. Hell, he almost drowned when the large piece of what seemed to be safe ground he was attempting to get on ripped of the rest of its parent daub. But right now, maybe it isn´t such a bad idea to dip in again. Perhaps he wouldn´t be so terribly cold.
He has found a road and started following it. Right now it was probably the only ground he could be sure of, and in the case he met someone in this horrible weather, he was so muddy and dirty he could probably pass as anyone. Not that he cared much.
The troubling thing was his left shoulder, which hurt as hell. It was also emanating warmth. "Stop," he said aloud, because there wasn´t anyone to hear and the silence was opressing, "I need the heat inside."
It didn´t obey, obviously. He knew somewhere deep down, of course, that the heat was blood. That the makeshift bandage must have gotten loose. But he doesn´t know what else to do, because he is quite sure his right shoulder was dislocated. He has put it back in place somehow (and it hurt like hell, but he needed the arm), but he didn´t dare doing any complicated movements in fear of worrying the joint further. Which stopped him from applying better bandages on his wounds.
Wounds. Plural. His chest was a mess of shallow cuts and bruises and burns. Same for the arms. He didn´t get a look at his face, but his nose hurt when he sniffed and his left eye was no doubt black. In other words, he probably looked a mess.
And the rain wouldn´t stop.
He has to keep going, every once in a while checking that the ring was still in his pocket. He promised.
He was pretty sure his beast took over for most of the journey, because in the few moments of lucidity he was so scared he had to start reciting his mantra: "Substance is by nature prior to its modifications. Two substances, whose attributes are different, have nothing in common. Things, which have nothing in common, cannot be one the cause of the other..."
How did he get on his knees? Then he falls with an awful splash to a puddle. There is mud on his face. There is water everywhere. He´s losing.
The intellect in function, whether finite or infinite, as will, desire, love etc., should be reffered to passive nature and not to active nature, he thought. And he fainted.
Is that the sound of a motor running? A car. Yes.
Fuck! It´s going to run me over!
He opens his eyes full of panic. He was not run over by a car. He is in a car.
Five pairs of asian eyes fix on him. The driver keeps his gaze on the muddy road.
One face is talking. In standard Chinese. Good. He can understand that, if he just focused a little more.
"Fever," says the talking Chinese. It´s a girl. Maybe ten years old, perhaps not even that. The rest of the men in the covered truck is armed to their teeth, but uniformless. Good. No police, no army, then.
Fever, Mycroft thinks. I have an infection. Great. And then he´s out again.
When he wakes up, he is in a room. It is not a very big or a very clean one, that is granted, but it is a part of a house nevertheless. If the sound of raindrops falling on tiles is anything to go on, it still didn´t stop raining.
It is also warmer here than outside. It is not heated, but the adjacent room probably is, and he was given a change of clothes and a blanket.
His right shoulder and arm are wrapped in very tight bandages, preventing any movement both to tie him and to lift some of the pressure off the joint. I certainly doesn´t hurt that much now. The bandage on the bulletwound is also professionally made.
His right wrist is binded by a rope, though, and the rope continues its way to his legs, tying them together and to one of the beams coming from the floor. He can move a little, even sit after a little bit of fumbling, which he does, but he is certainly a prisoner.
The door opened and the girl from before entered, bringing a bowl with her. She smiles when she sees he´s awake.
"Hungry?" He nods. "No stupidity please," she says in a matter-of-fact voice making her way closer to him. She takes a box from a corner and puts it near Mycroft, sitting on it with the bowl sitting in her lap.
"I was told to feed you," she announces. She meant it literally, Mycroft realised. No ridding of the ties, then.
It is messy, no doubt. She is holding a long string of noodles high above his head and he sucks them one piece at the time leaving a lot of gravy on his lips and shirt and generally everywhere. She finds it amusing.
"Hungry baby-swallow," she chimes. Which prompts Mycroft to be even messier, because there are little things so healing as a child laughing and it is never bad to make at least one ally while on an unknown place. Especially if one is a prisoner.
She gives him a lot of water after that, waiting for him to take small sips.
"The doctor said to give you a lot of drink," she announces. "He also gave you fever medicine."
"What... is your name?" Mycroft asks. His Chinese really needs improvement, he makes a mental note.
"What is yours?" she smiles wickedly and it is weirdly unchildlike and calculating. She is trying to get information out of me, he realises.
"William," he says. It is clear he is European anyway.
"Soo Lin, " says the girl and she is lying too.
Some two days ago it is clear that he has fallen into the hands of one of many Chinese gangs. His captors were waiting for someone important, called ´general Shan´, to arrive and decide what to do with him. They were probably either going to try to get a ransom for him or sell him to some secret service. Maybe even the Chinese authorities, totalitarian regimes are often in close contact with criminal elements.
The girl - he called her Soo Lin, it was a good enough nickname - was probably in charge of taking care of him. Apart from two bulky man designed to take him out in regular intervals to go to the toilet, she was the only one who had contact with him.
She was also the only one who talked to him. They must be very sure of her loyalty, he thought.
"Are you married?" she asked one day. It was clear she was really curious, especially as she added: "You had a marriage-ring."
He smiled. She was really endearing. "Are you asking to know whether you will get a ransom for me?"
"I think you are not. You came from behind the river. You wouldn´t go there if you had someone you care about. Too big risk." She shrugged with her little shoulders. "But you had a ring."
She´s clever. "It belonged to a friend."
"Oh. Do you want it back?" She moved her hand to her pocket and brought it to the light. "They would have taken it. But I took it first. It is nice, Swallow-man." And she handed it to him.
Later that night, most of the men residing in the next room moved away, making a lot of noise in the process. It didn´t take long and Soo Lin came to him.
"They went to catch swimmers," she announced. Mycroft decifred this statement as: Most of the men are out on a hunt for Korean refugees. "I was scared there alone."
She curled next to him. "You are nice, Swallow-man. It would be a shame if you had to die. Do you really have no one who would pay for you?"
It was dark and quiet and Mycroft was tired of dishonesty. "I have a brother, but I don´t know where."
"Was he with you, behind the river?"
"No. We argued - it was my fault. And he left."
"How long you didn´t see him?"
"A year and a half."
She turned her big eyes towards him. "Hmm. I didn´t see my little brother in five years. They said they would take care of him, but then they wouldn´t let me see him."
"I´m sure he´s OK."
She was teary-eyed all of a sudden. "I don´t think he is. I think he´s dead. Why else they wouldn´t let me visit him?"
The little girl curled against his chest and sobbed silently. Had he had a free arm, he would have hugged her.
Then she stiffened. "I have seen what they did to some of the women they caught. They are just waiting for me to be old enough." A little palm cleaned away the tears.
She met his eyes. "Can you get me out of here? Make sure I am safe? Hide me?"
"I will do anything in my power to do that," said Mycroft gravely.
"There are only two men outside," she stated, left the room and came back with a knife.
"Did you help her?" Lestrade asked.
"She was adopted by a Chinese family living in the U.S. uder assumed name. As far as I know, she is safe, though once we parted our paths we didn´t see each other ever again. She doesn´t even know my name."
Lestrade fell silent. After a minute, he asked again: "Why didn´t you deliver the ring?"
Mycroft chuckled mirthlessly. "There was no point in doing that. Adrian´s fiancée has found herself a new boyfriend two weeks after he left. She didn´t even inquire for his fate. Out of sight, out of mind. They looked happy enough with her new partner. There would be no use in guiltying her to leave him because of a dead man´s ghost."
The fire almost died out, even the last ambers were turning to ashes.
Mycroft got up and turned to leave. "Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Mycroft." And than the house was silent again.