John woke up with his head pounding in pain and his arms pulled together behind him, his shoulders aching.
Right. Tied up, then.
Probably not Mycroft's doing , John thought, wincing. Contrary to the opinion of popular television, people didn't go unconscious easily and they didn't wake up easily, not from blows to the head or drugs anyway.
This could be bad, John thought, tugging at the bonds at his wrists, trying to move as little as possible. The bonds cut into his skin; plastic wire ties.
Shit.
He breathed in easily and released it softly, doing his best to keep his body relaxed, still sleeping. The longer they thought he was unconscious, the more time Lestrade would have to find him before the torture started; if that was what they were planning. He'd count himself damn lucky if he were just a hostage.
Who is 'they'?
He thought Taliban first, out of habit, but it was ridiculous. He was in London. Or at least, he had been. God knew, now.
His second thought was Moriarty, but that didn't make much sense. Moriarty was dead, wasn't he? John had to fight to keep his breathing calm. God, if Moriarty weren't dead either then Sherlock had jumped for nothing.
He was panicking, John acknowledged, forcing himself to calm down.
Just. Think, he ordered himself.
He couldn't feel any wind, but the air was too cool for June outside and his eyelids were dark in front of his eyes. No, he was inside. And something was dripping, somewhere to his right. His hands were tied down to something in front of him; his own chair, maybe?
"You're very good at faking sleep, you know," a voice mentioned blandly from in front of him. A man's voice; he sounded young and oddly...reasonable. John wasn't sure what he was expecting from his captor. Something similarly nuts as that 'Shun' woman who'd almost killed Sarah, sing-songing her words and talking to a non existent circus audience. That, at least, made a sick kind of sense. This man sounded like a bank teller.
Still, he kept up the sleeping act, praying the man was just trying to bluff him out of it.
Footsteps approached his chair softly. John kept up his act, trying desperately to keep his calm as he heard the footsteps settle next to him.
Pain slammed into the side of his face, blossoming over his cheek and eye. John's eyes flew open, only to clench shut against the pain.
John opened his eyes slowly, blinking away the tears that had burst into his eyes at the blow. He was in a parking garage; that was clear from the angled lines on either side of the floor and the numbered lots. It was a huge basement garage, lit up only by overhead lights.
How do you find a parking garage you know will be empty? Does he own it?
"Hey," the man greeted, walking away. He was a fairly short, blond man with a plaid blue jacket and jeans. Utterly ordinary.
Where is the draft coming from? John wondered, turning his head to see an upramp opening up behind him and to his right. He looked back at his captor who was sitting down on a chair in front of him. He had a trimmed mustache, green eyes, and an ugly piercing in his left ear.
"I'm supposed to torture you into insanity," the man mentioned, spinning a pen in his hands.
John felt fear spike through him.
"Why?" he asked. His voice came out steady. John pulled gently against the plastic holding his hands. Even by cutting himself he wasn't going to pull his hands free. The parking garage was musty, smelling like dust and dry dirt. Unused for a long time, then, maybe. A parking garage should smell like oil and there wasn't a trace of it.
The man leaned back slightly in his chair, considering.
"Don't really know, to the honest," he said, lifting himself up in the chair slightly to reach into his back pocket. He pulled out a folded slip of cream-colored paper and held his pen between his teeth for a moment, freeing his hands to unfold the thing. "Got a whole list here, very specific," he said, shaking the paper open and retrieving his pen.
American, apparently.
John felt his heart start to pound and dragged his eyes away from the list. First thing he'd learned about torture; using fear and anticipation. His C.O. had told him about this; told him not to look at what was going to happen, to allow his brain to predict the pain but not imagine it when it wasn't happening.
Good fucking luck, he thought, tugging slightly at the bonds around his feet. They cut against his ankles, feeling like ribbed plastic too. Fucking wire ties.
"I've never tortured anyone to a To-Do list before. Feels sort of -" the man paused, rubbing his two fingers together, "classless," he ended on.
"Well, god forbid it isn't classy," John commented, feeling himself blink rapidly, trying to catch up with this man who sat across from him.
The man chuckled and pulled a pair of glasses out of his shirt pocket to focus on the paper in his hands.
"Okay, so apparently this starts with a letter," the man said, glancing up at him as if to ask 'what the hell?' before refocusing on the paper in his hands. It was fine paper, made out as a handwritten note on stationary.
John had a feeling he knew exactly what was going on. Moriarty wouldn't just die and let all that building tension on him go.
Will this never be over?
"Hello pet," the man started, pushing his glasses up his nose with his index finger. "You know, when he was on his deathbed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end and Bach rose from his deathbed, just to get to the piano and finish it before he died," the man read, before glancing up from the letter, his mouth quirked up. "Is that true?" he asked.
John rolled his tongue around his mouth, pressing at the warm areas he could feel bruising. He needed to keep this man talking.
"Right. I haven't a notion. It sounds like bullshit," he replied honestly. "But Moriarty would not have stood for a false metaphor, I think," he said, glancing around the room for anything resembling help. His pockets were empty; he could feel that, so that was useless. "Assuming it is a metaphor," he added, to keep talking. He regretted it immediately, as it drew the torturer's gaze back to the note.
"It is, yeah. I've read this over before," the man clarified, scanning the note. "Anyway. Bach, bla bla, ah yeah, here, I'm just like Bach, see? A composer. I can't stand to see it incomplete. You probably don't understand. You're mostly very stupid, but that's okay. You're not the point. Were you sleeping with Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson? I always wondered that. Oh well, I'm dead now, so that's hardly important. Still, he was too good for you. You're so boring," the torturer looked up, stilling his pen where he was tracking the words, "that's in italics," he clarified.
Why would I care? John wondered, but he made himself nod quietly.
"Just the word boring or -"
"No, no, just the word," the man interrupted, glancing back down at the sheet.
"If Moriarty is dead, who is paying you?" John asked.
Maybe I can offer to pay him better? Mycroft owes me that much.
"Oh, it was paid in advance," the man answered.
What the devil?
"Then why torture me?" John asked, wondering if he' come upon yet another sadist criminal 'mastermind'. Apparently they were common as tourists in modern day London.
"I'm sort of a go-to guy, you know? I've done a lot of jobs and the people who work with me know I get my work done well so they ask to hire me again. I can't afford to just reneg on jobs, not in this economy," the man replied, grinning slightly to himself before refocusing on the paper. "Sorry buddy," he added, glancing up. "Anyway, back to this wackjob's note, shall we? Apparently you're boring enough to be italicized and..." the man's eyes flicked over the note. "I've always been one for contingency plans. Your lover never really got that, did he? That was his weakness, he always wanted it to be so damn complicated, such a good puzzle. Well, people aren't puzzles, Johnny Boy. They're boring, and really just not that hard to beat. All you need are contingency plans. See, I didn't have to wonder 'what if' – what if Sherlock didn't jump, what if it faked it, what if he killed me before I got to explain, because in the end I was always going to win. Do you see it now? I rather doubt it. Okay, okay, fine, I'll spell it out for you. It didn't matter what Sherlock did, I was always going to torture you. I gave him options to see what he'd do, see if he was interesting, see if he was like me. Between you and me, though, I hope he faked it. Then he gets to come home, not when he planned, but when I call him back to me, to find you so very gone. I'm not going to kill you, Johnny, I'm going to burn you. Did you see that coming? I kept repeating it, hoping one of you would understand. I'm going to burn you – to be precise, Mike is going to burn you -" the torturer looked up, waving a hand slightly before he went back to the note "until Sherlock comes for you. Or alternatively, that pet D.I of his or that angry black detective he has working for him, but I hope it's Sherlock, because by the time you're found and you will be found, you'll be utterly mad. Whatever it is that Sherlock finds so endearing about you burned away forever. Do you see the poetry in that? I will burn his heart, by burning out your mind."
Oh my god, John thought, feeling ill. The torturer – Mike – glanced over the letter, flipping it back and forth in his hands as if checking if it had a back.
"Oh, and it's signed, 'with love, Jim Moriarty," he said, flipping it back to show him the front. "You seriously pissed him off, huh?" he asked folding the paper away and shoving it into his back pocket. He pulled out a piece of folded up lined paper to replace it. "So I have this list I'm supposed to follow, times and all," he said, checking his watch – an old black plastic thing that glowed slightly. "Got a few minutes," he said.
"What time is it then?" John asked.
"8:27," the man replied and John blinked, realizing he had no idea if it was day or night.
"Be right back," Mike excused himself, getting out of the chair and walking around the corner. "It's probably charged up now."
John felt fear clench at his stomach again.
Oh god, Sherlock.
"So what was this Sherlock guy like, anyhow?" Mike asked, walking around the corner again, holding a blowtorch in a gloved hand.
Oh god. John felt himself pull at his bonds despite himself and felt them catch against his skin and start to cut. He forced himself still and tugged at the bonds, hoping he could get just the one hand out,something. Most of all, he knew he needed to stall. He wasn't likely getting out of this one alone.
Lestrade, you better fucking notice I'm gone. When had he last seen the man?
"Tall, dark hair, brilliant, funny," John answered. "Could tell where you'd been, what you'd eaten, just by looking at you."
Keep going, he thought desperately as the man strode toward him, checking his watch. His brain blanked with fear and he fought it, trying to think of anything to say about his friend. God, Sherlock Holmes.
"I can't believe you haven't heard of him. He was amazing," John stated. The man quirked a smile and opened his arms wide.
"American," he announced and John nodded. That at least, was obvious.
"Right. Yeah. He could be loud for hours, throwing a fit, and then just wouldn't speak for days. Wouldn't even really seem to realize I'm -"
Mike pulled the blowtorch's trigger, letting out a burst of blue flame. He nodded and cut the flame off, working a nail out of his pocket.
Keep talking, John told himself.
"He was uh – kind, sometimes, when he wasn't being an absolute prat. You know, could just really screw up and be actually sorry about it, which for him came as a bit of a -"
The man was heating up the nail head now, pinching it between two fingers.
I still talk about him in the past tense. Haven't gotten used to it yet – Sherlock's alive.
It was just as well, he thought belatedly. He had to hide that fact, through this. That helped, he thought.
"He really loved Mrs. Hudson, quite a bit. Not quite sure how he felt about Molly. He was always a cad to her, really," he babbled as the man stopped heating the nail up and approached him. John slammed his hands into the bonds, fighting like hell now. It was too late for subtlety. The bonds didn't give.
John woke, gasping for air, only to feel his body instinctively try to pull up as water flooded his mouth and nose. A hand kept him down and John's eyes flew open to see the bottom of a bucket, distorted through the water. His hands were still bound behind him, useless. He kicked out behind him but met nothing but air. He couldn't get enough purchase on the floor with his feet, couldn't force his way back up. He coughed out the last of his air and tried horribly, desperately not to inhale again. His lungs rebelled, wanting to cough again and John tried to stay calm, tried to remember what he'd learned about surviving longer under water if you stayed still and didn't fight it. Still, that could only last so long and heneeded air; god, he was dying and it hurt and he pulled at his hands, letting the plastic cut into him further, if it would help at all. He had no choice but to let the plastic rip at him.
"We're getting off our time table. Stop passing out," Mike complained as he dragged him back out of the water. John pulled in air desperately and his lungs rebelled again, coughing too much to breathe.
Breathe, just breathe, he told himself, trying to stay above the panic, trying to stay silent and sane.
"You know, this whole routine has been totally ridiculous, but at the end of the day I do appreciate the method," Mike commented.
John glanced down to see the metal hook attach to his bonds and tightened his arms. This, at least, the army had tried to prepare him for. If he could keep his arms strong and lift his own weight, he could avoid a good bit of the pain and permanent joint damage. So far, it hadn't seemed like Mike knew that – or hadn't particularly cared, as long as he followed the script.
Sherlock, you fucker. You better have left some way for people to contact you.
"Burning is just really damn efficient and people always underestimate it. If it helps at all, I'm only supposed to use other torture methods to wake you up," Mike commented, pulling on the rope set into the hook on the ceiling. John felt the rope jerk against his binds and set his jaw. Mike had wrapped rope around his arms – the only reason he was going to keep his hands, through this, but the man was smart about it; he'd yet to come close to John at all while he was awake.
The rope pulled at him, unyielding and John pulled back against it, letting his muscles engage and keep his shoulders firmly in their sockets as the rope lifted his arms above his head and steadily raised him up.
He heard the sound of the blowtorch again and felt his stomach roll. He pulled his tongue away from his teeth, afraid he'd bite it off in this next session. He was fairly sure Mike was writing something on his back.
~~/~~
"Well, apparently we're done," Mike said, suddenly shutting off the torch. "We're supposed to build up to it all, some today, more tomorrow, et cetera," he said. John tried to open his eyes and gave up, not caring. He was pinned down on his face, locked to two hooks drilled into the floor,. Mike unhooked the one at his feet, leaving John's hands chained to the wall ten feet in front of him. "So, you know, living arrangements wise, I'll grab you a water bottle and some food in the morning. There's a Brewers Fayre not far off. Feel free to pick a pee corner, try not to sleep in it and if you scream I will gag you with a rag soaked in comet cleanser, and trust me, I've gotten that shite on my hands and you don't want it in your mouth. Don't disturb my sleep. Nice day, yeah?"
John listened to Mike's footsteps trail off, trying to get himself to care which direction they went. Right, up that ramp probably, then too faint to tell. Other than that, there was nothing but the indistinct sound of water dripping. He'd heard it every time the blowtorch stopped or he'd stopped moaning.
One hour? How could that only have been one hour?
Dread poured through him, thinking about another day He wasn't sure how long he lay there until he pushed himself up, his arm muscles screaming at him, his back feeling like the hot nail was still on him. His vision swam when he stood and he quickly bent back down, deciding to hobble his way to the wall to sit down, keeping his back far away from it. He glanced over the room, desperately trying to find something helpful in it while he listened for Mike's footsteps. God, there was a lot of blood. Too much blood, for a burning.
John forced himself to swallow and figure it out, remembering the feint clicking sound every time the nail was pulled away. A pocket knife, then. Mike was cutting away the burned spots.
John swallowed bile down again and closed his eyes, just wanting to disappear but he had to force them open again. He had to wait to be found. There was almost nowhere in England where you could scream without being heard and he'd certainly done enough of that. Sherlock would use that, surely.
John brought his wrists to his teeth and started to chew on the plastic by his pinkies, where it couldn't be seen. He bent the plastic back and forth with his teeth, letting it pinch and cut into his wrists. He wouldn't last many more days before he lost the strength to get away.
~~/~~
:Lost contact. Standby. MH:
~~/~~
A/N: Coming soon - To Kill a Mockingbird will have a podfic, due to the wondrous efforts of This One Fool. I've listened to the first chapters and it's GREAT. We'll keep you updated on its progress. Thank you, This One Fool!