It was cold, despite the summer. John was shocked that could bother him at all, with his back caked over with blood and wire ties cutting into his wrists and ankles, but the shivering hurt and time moved so slowly. He forced himself to stay awake against the freezing concrete as he ripped at the plastic on his hands. His teeth hurt but he had only this one chance.
He stopped chewing when he heard Mike walking back. Dread poured over him and John pushed back into the wall behind him, letting the skin on his back pull and scream. He doubled over to protect himself and his back ripped open. He gasped, trying to breathe.
Don't fight, he ordered himself when the footsteps stopped just out of reach. He'd need his hands; any move too soon would ruin his only chance and he'd die in this godforsaken parking garage.
Mike leaned down, grabbing him by the hair to keep his head still, and slipped something around his hands. John glanced down and fought, pressing backward, letting his hair rip while he watched a new wire tie wrap around the old. Mike pulled on the new plastic and it synched itself closed around him. Escape aborted, so very easily.
Mike cut the old one off and smiled grimly at the ripped up plastic.
"Good morning," he said simply. John did his best to breathe steadily, wishing he knew how to prepare his mind for what was coming. He wasn't getting himself out of here. "I've gotta beat the shit out of you today. Photoshoot coming up," Mike said, pulling the lined-paper list out of his pocket to gesture at it.
More today, John remembered, struggling to swallow.
~~/~~
Lestrade didn't know how to do the timing right. He took every opportunity he had to talk to Molly in person, pick up files and drop off forensic evidence, but he could be as friendly as he wanted; there was something about dropping off a desiccated disembodied foot for the morgue to identify that didn't set the mood for a dinner date. Apparently he was getting to test that one in person now.
Molly didn't seem to notice, though. She walked around the room, stuffing the evidence bag into one of the lab's refrigerators and typing it up a label, not even really appearing to notice if he was still there.
"So, Molly," he started, and she turned too quickly, her mouth already open to speak. "Go ahead," he offered.
"Oh! I -er -I was just wondering if you've seen John? Lately?" she asked, biting her lip.
Well. That killed that then, Lestrade figured, sighing.
"No, it's been a few days. Should I be worried?" he asked, feeling his eyebrows furrow. How long had it been since he'd last dropped in to sit across from the silent, desperate man? Three weeks?
"I don't know. He said months ago that he was going to join the army, I just thought – maybe – you know, he'd say goodbye?"
"I thought he couldn't, what with the bullet wound?" Lestrade asked, confused. Molly shrugged slightly.
"I don't now much about it. I guess he can. It might be good for him," she said.
"To get shot at? Afghanistan isn't good for anyone," Greg argued, thinking she might be a little naive at the end of the day. That could be a problem. He had two kids, for hell's sake; he needed a woman who could hold her own against them. Especially Jake. Strange concept; a naive mortician.
"He said otherwise he'd shoot himself," Molly replied quietly.
Ah. Not naive.
Greg glanced over her, starting to get concerned. She looked so diminished without the two of them running around the lab, pulling crazy theories out of nothing. It was all too quiet now. He knew the feeling; Scotland Yard was the same thing; all domestic abuse calls. He had three murders in, two almost certainly drug related and a new one, woman beaten in with an umbrella, that he knew they weren't going to get enough evidence for before the stepson fled the E.U.
It didn't matter what Sally and Philip pulled up on Richard Brook now; Sherlock was dead. He'd do his best to clear the man's name for John, and that was close to finished now, but John didn't seem to care much. About anything.
No, it was still too soon. Greg glanced around the room, looking for a good escape.
"Well. I'll – uh -visit him in a few days, see how he's holding up. I've got some questions about Sherlock's old cases," he said, turning for the door. "I never thought a blog was going to work so well as case files before," he joked quietly. Molly smiled but it slipped slightly at the edges of her mouth. Yeah, he knew that feeling too.
He left, deciding next time. Next time they'd be over it.
~~/~~
"So he really was your lover, huh?" Mike asked, when the torch stopped.
"What?" John groaned, pulling his head up. The words came out wrong, like he was talking around marbles. He had to keep the man talking. He'd do anything. His throat burned when he talked but it kept the torch off.
"Well, I wouldn't scream some random bloke's name, is all," the man replied conversationally, moving around to John's front and releasing the rope to lower him back to the floor. John heard the heavy crackas his knees hit the concrete but he didn't feel it at all.
"You scream Sherlock, when you scream," the man clarified, swinging his chain around to disconnect it from the hook on the ceiling. It fell onto John's back heavily and John cried out, falling forward. He sobbed, pushing his forehead into the concrete.
"Not intentional," the man said, as if it mattered. "My bad."
Yeah. God, John thought rolling heavily to his side. He still felt like himself. John Watson, only in too much pain to think. He was not mad yet, he thought.
"So, out of curiosity, is Sherlock really dead then?" the man asked, moving the chain around to lock John to the wall again. "I looked you two up last night. Great stuff."
Was this all leading up to that? So it sounded casual to ask if Sherlock is alive? John wondered, staring at the man. It would help, somehow, if this actually had a point.
"Why do you want to know?" John rasped out.
The man glanced over, looking surprised.
"You'd know, if you'd ever tortured anyone, that by day two they'll answer every question immediately, unless they've already decided to lie to you," he commented, reaching for the blowtorch from where it was cooling on the ground.
John scrambled back, letting his back scream and he rolled away.
"No, right, not a secret. He's dead. Been dead for a year," he promised.
"Do you really believe that?" the man asked, peering at him.
"Yes, please yes," John pleaded. God, he should have answered right away; if only he'd answered right away.
"Alright, then have fun biting at your leash," the man replied, picking up the blowtorch and striding away. They were done. John hung his head down, trying to get his muscles to relax. He'd be in less pain when he relaxed.
I need water, John remembered insanely, his body hot and sick with dehydration. He'd only make another couple days if he weren't bleeding buckets all over the concrete. He scooted back again and heard something tip. He looked back only to feel his heart jump as he scrambled forward, grabbing at the water bottle before it rolled out of his reach.
~~/~~
Captain John Hamish Watson had not returned to service. Greg put the phone down quietly, feeling dread wash over him. Something felt very, very wrong.
~~/~~
John tried to force his body backward, out of the water. He needed to breathe, but a hand was holding him down and panic was taking over. He kicked backwards but didn't land on anything, and he couldn't keep himself from inhaling, he needed air. He choked as he inhaled and tried to cough the water from his lungs even as it meant he choked further.
Oh god.
Heavy hands dragged him out of the water and John bent over, his stomach rolling up and he threw up over the ground, only to choke on it as he tried to inhale.
"Stop passing out," Mike ordered, dragging him back toward the hook.
~~/~~
"Hello?" Molly picked up the phone on the first ring. Greg was grateful.
"Hey Molly-" Crap. "Er- Ms. Hooper-"
"Molly's fine," she said cheerfully. That would have been so good to hear, once.
"Great. Molly, have you seen John lately?"
He heard the pause and knew the answer.
Shite.
"Not since he came for the postmortems, why?" she asked, sounding concerned.
"He's not enlisted in the army," he replied, swallowing heavily.
This could be bad. This could be really bad.
"Oh, god,' she said and he knew she was thinking the same.
"He's not picking up his phone," he added.
"I'll run by his place," she said quickly and he heard the noise of keys fumbling on the other side of the phone.
"I'm standing outside it," he answered, glancing around the empty, dank hallway. No one had answered.
"Oh, god."
"I'm going to swing by Baker Street. See if their landlady has seen him," he offered.
Not likely. Damn it John, don't do this to us.
"Oh, god," Molly repeated. Greg hung up.
~~/~~
John woke to a gentle shake of his shoulder.
"John?"
Oh, thank god, he thought, pulling himself from the dregs of his nightmare.
"Sherlo-" he started, but the name sounded strange on his lips and he opened his eyes. Mike was squatting in front of him, looking bemused. John shot forward, reaching his hands out for the blowtorch, ready to kill the man. His wrists caught against the plastic binds and he was rolled back by a blow to the teeth he couldn't dodge. He landed on his back and shouted before instinctively gulping down the blood that rushed from between his teeth.
"Good morning. Welcome to day two," the man said. John swallowed blood again and tried to pull away.
The man tugged him toward the hook with little trouble. John told himself not to fight but still his body lurched backward, desperately kicking at the man. Another fist slammed into his teeth and the man threw his chain over the hook on the ceiling again.
"Well, this is starting rapidly today," Mike commented, pulling his torch from his back pocket.
Oh god.
Still, the man hadn't replaced his wire ties, and as far as John could tell, hadn't noticed the small amount of damage he'd made to them. There was hope.
~~/~~
:J.W. location unknown. Suspected suicide. MH:
Sherlock reread the message and closed his eyes, feeling ill. He rarely hated his brain but right now, when it meant he didn't know his partner, didn't understand the emotions involved and couldn't hope to predict them, he loathed everything about it. He'd rather be dim than so ignorant.
What was the point? What could be gained in ending life? Sherlock's brain whispered at him and he pulled his hands through his hair, silencing it. He'd think about where John would have gone; every possibility and their associated probabilities dispassionately and he'd go down the list in order when he got back and he would find him.
"Sir, you have to put your phone away," the fight attended pestered him again.
"Fuck you, John is likely dead," Sherlock hissed at her, wanting to rip her limb from limb. How could she stand there like nothing in the world mattered but his bloody phone.
"I'm so sorry, sir, but you have to put your phone away," she repeated at him and he snarled but had to obey; they couldn't toss him off this plane. He needed to get back. She left him alone and Sherlock threw his head back on the seat behind him. He needed to think of all the places John could have gone. He'd have a 7 hour flight worth of options when he landed.
~~/~~
John woke up to a bright light flashing over his face. He blinked up at it, blinded for a moment, to see Mike holding a camera before the light flashed again. John tried desperately to think of any clue he could give and just rolled out of the way so the white line on the floor was exposed before Mike took another shot. He tried to think of some fancy clue, holding up four fingers to mean...something that Sherlock could use, but he still hadn't come up with anything when Mike stopped and walked away.
"Day three. You have forty minutes before we start," he said and John moaned and tried to press himself back away from the man, trying not to puke. Mike gave him the time just to make him dread it all, John knew, but he could not get his heart rate to slow.
Get angry, John told himself, but he could not hate this mysterious, cheerful man who treated torture like another day on the job.
Forty minutes, that wasn't long. John closed his eyes.
Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?
Sherlock planned to jump, designed every second of that experience so he'd believe, likely because he didn't trust John not to give away his trick. Fury rippled through him and John grabbed onto it, pouring his fear into the desire to rip someone's body apart. Mike walked into the room shortly later and John was coated in sweat, panting, but still he pretended to have fallen back asleep, pretended to be difficult to wake up, pretended to be docile.
~~/~~
:Lestrade has a warrant to search John's flat. It is empty. He will discover that in an hour. MH:
~~/~~
A/N: What do you think of Mike? I (not so secretly) love him...