He usually focused on Sherlock, during the pain. On his partner rushing in, like with the Shun case, all drama and fancy facts about the curvature of the walls. He tried to keep his mind on how he'd help the man, what he'd do in every scenario Mike put him in. He concentrated on the feeling of Sherlock breaking the plastic ties, giving him a gun so he could blow Mike's brain out. On the sound that would make, on Sherlock's hands and voice and chest he'd missed so damn much, his eyes bright with some far-fetched possibility. Today he focused on not dropping the note, even as he screamed.
~~/~~
Lestrade and the other useless officers wandered in sometime later and wandered about for hours with nothing useful to add; most of them carefully keeping their attention away from the painful images before them.
Sherlock sat at someone's computer, looking up each of the red dots on Google streetview, marking the ones built up with brick. It was possible John's prison had concrete internal or basement walls but it was less likely. Someone was screeching in his ear about their private desk space but Sherlock was finally able to concentrate again, away from that horrible clip.
The facts kept circling around in his head, still not narrowing anything down. Concrete, inside, internal lights – had a ceiling, power was on, no window light, ceiling strong enough to hold up John – that was a modern ceiling, not rotted out, not an abandoned residence, then, or not abandoned for long. Straight walls, probably not a tunnel. Abandoned concrete building then, most likely a factory or parking garage, given the concrete walls and white line on the floor. 112 options. Still far too many. Sherlock asked for John's possessions, out of wherever '72 Whitehall Lane, Apartment GH17' was. A bedsit, apparently. Presumably the same one John had moved out of, after they'd met.
The next morning they got another photo. One more letter. Sher, now. Sherlock, almost certainly. A letter a day, as expected. Four full days of captivity, then, definitely. And no way to find him.
He'd narrowed down buildings. 67 had concrete walls, implying a concrete floor and internal structure. Lestrade and the rest helped until the map was updated, and went home that night, saying there was nothing more they could do. The first was a valid statement but Sherlock couldn't get himself to leave, even with nothing more to get done. He set himself in the conference room with John's possessions, which Greg had wisely ordered no one but Sherlock to look through. Given the strong likelihood of evidence of illegal gun possession, Sherlock figured.
Everything in John's possession turned out to be very little. A change of sheets, two weeks' worth of clothing, an empty tupperware, a kit to clean his gun, and a banker's box of papers.
Sherlock recognized it immediately; everything he'd left behind concerning Moriarty's network. Only one folder stood out, something he had certainly seen John come home with but had never questioned. He pulled the file open and scanned the pages. The profile of an assassin, a bald man with large muscles he'd seen loitering around 221B - likely the man who targeted Mrs. Hudson. A confidential profile and he'd know its style anywhere. This came to John through Mycroft, before the fall. Anger stirred in his chest. Sherlock ignored it, thumbing through the file.
What was Mycroft planning for John to do with this? There weren't many options. And all of these assassins were dead. Each by a crackshot who'd never been investigated. Mycroft's doing, Sherlock had suspected. His 'ally' in London. Through John. Did John know that Mycroft had planned ahead for these homicides? What had driven John to do it? Paying him would not work, but Mycroft could be far more subtle when he wanted. Had Mycroft goaded him? Told him about the threat that followed Sherlock's suicide? Sherlock had his phone in his hand before he'd fully processed that.
"Yes?" Mycroft asked, picking up.
"Mrs. Hudson's hired help," he demanded. Mycroft paused, no doubt aware of the rest of the question.
"I gave your partner that file before any of this started. It was he alone who decided to use it afterwards. I'm afraid he refused all further business between us," Mycroft replied. There was someone else in the room with him, Sherlock deduced. Useless, he thought, deciding to believe Mycroft's answer. Mycroft would not stand in the way of this investigation; it would mean severing every connection they had and Sherlock was too valuable an asset. No, nothing on the dead assassins would help them find John Watson. He'd look anyway. At least he could be doing something while he sniffed around another dead end. Sherlock snarled his displeasure and threw the file back in the box. He looked up from the papers to see the image of John still projected on the far wall of the conference room, waiting his great deductions. Sherlock couldn't pull his eyes away from it.
He was trying not to think about what would happen when they finished carving his name on John's back. Did they only have three more days, then? Sentiment and foolishness, to be running the same unanswered questions through his mind with no hope of addressing them. Such little time. He prayed Moriarty had planned to torture John longer.
"You should eat," someone said by his ear.
"John?" He called, looking up from where he was staring at the picture, to see Donovan standing at the conference room doorway. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his lungs.
Stupid. Sentiment is clouding everything.
For a moment, her mouth softened, looking pityingly at him. Sherlock grimaced and glanced away, embarrassment swamping him. He felt his cheeks heat and snarled at her to leave him be.
"Watson tell you that a lot, then?" she asked quietly. Sherlock turned his head to scowl at her, trying to find some weakness to attack.
"It's fine," he said instead, turning away. He didn't want to think about anything else. John was going to die, at this rate.
"He took care of you, didn't he?" she asked and Sherlock focused on the screen. "And you're a right wreck now."
Past tense, Sherlock noted. Donovan did not expect that they would win. Likely thought John was already long since dead. A distinct possibility. She was searching for John anyway, likely saw him as her sole chance at atonement now.
"Go back to your maps, useless as they are," Sherlock snarled finally.
"There's nothing more to be done," she replied. Correct again. "Come on," she ordered and Sherlock turned, surprised out of his focus. He glanced her over. What was going - "Food, you need it. Let's go," she ordered.
"I never eat while on a case. Digestion interferes with my thinking," Sherlock replied, wincing as he remembered John scoffing at him. How many times had they sat at restaurants together, John so quiet across from him, a pleasant evening without artifice? He'd wanted to kiss John, then. He would do anything just to see him now.
20/6/2012 I loved you, you idiot. He'd lost such a friend to Jim Moriarty. Could he have won? Was there something different he could have done? Useless to think about, but tragically tempting.
"Then it's best to eat while there is no new information," Donovan replied.
Reasonable argument. Flawed, but reasonable.
"Or, better, simply not to," Sherlock countered, turning away.
"Not if this investigation lasts for another week," she replied. Sherlock glanced up, catching her meaning. -L.O.C.K. H.O.L.M.E.S.
"I'll eat after we get to the K," he said, "Then it's irrelevant. John would likely already be dead and we'd have no new information forthcoming."
Donovan was quiet for a while and Sherlock felt his brain flitting around, nothing new to study at all.
"Yeah," she said finally. Sherlock settled himself back into staring at John's picture and she closed the door. He wanted to run his hands over the image of John's battered back, but it would block the projector and he'd lose sight of it. He'd guessed about John's bulletwound, of course. Saw the way John covered it, guarded it. The same unassuming way John had hidden all of his secrets, and out of respect Sherlock hadn't asked. It'd been obvious, anyway.
"That's an entry wound in his back," Donovan commented. Sherlock turned back to see her leaning on the closed door. There was no use trying to keep John's secret now. He could see the conclusion haunting her. He hummed affirmation.
"Friendly fire," he confirmed and her eyes widened.
"That explains why he never talked about it. I asked him once how he'd been shot. He replied he 'got in the way of a bullet'," she related. Sherlock grinned despite himself. He'd not met many men who could make him laugh like John Watson. John was as unconcerned with propriety as he was, even if he didn't care to admit it. Sherlock sobered, missing the man and he turned back to face the photograph before them. John hung there limply, unresponsive, but for his fingers pointed toward the ceiling. Another message, but Sherlock couldn't decipher it.
"He never told anyone," Sherlock murmured.
"Does he know who shot him?" she asked, sitting down beside him. Waiting for the damn phone to give them more information, no doubt, though they both knew nothing would come until the morning. Sherlock frowned at her, realizing she'd misunderstood. Why would she think he had told him?
"I never asked, he never volunteered." he replied. John never said anything about himself, no more than Sherlock ever had. John seemed to think Sherlock could guess everything in his life but he had nothing if he had no evidence, and John had summarily left his past behind before he'd ever walked into Bart's laboratory. It had never grated, not knowing. It'd never been important. Now it bothered him, how little he knew of John Watson. Sentiment, clearly, now that he might no longer have the chance to ask.
~~/~~
John did his best to stay limp and compliant while Mike clipped the rope to his wireties again, though his body was screaming at him to fight or run. He had no chance, with Mike watching him so carefully; he needed his torturer to become complacent.
Still, a whimper escaped him when he heard the blowtorch heating up the nail once more, and his back arched away from it, his toes barely scraping the ground to support him.
Oh god.
His brain blanked on the pain, until Mike pulled the nail away again.
"Ugh, the smell is the worst," Mike complained, and the blowtorch sounded again. "You're starting to pus," he said.
John swallowed. That was not good. But he could hardly have hoped to fight off infection in such conditions.
"Sorry about that. Got a sanitary wipe?" he choked out. Mike laughed, sobered, and pressed the nail into him again. John choked on his own saliva and coughed, jerking against the nail like a dying fish.
"So, you were a soldier?" Mike asked when he'd stopped, flicking at the chain around John's neck that still held his dogtags. John nodded vaguely, feeling the metal plates scrape against his chest. "I always thought about doing that, but it never pays as much as contracting."
John felt exhaustion and dizziness drag at his mind and sunk into it, ignoring the conversation.
"So, really, just between us, why Sherlock Holmes?" Mike asked, when he pulled the nail away again. John inhaled slowly, trying to gather his thoughts about him. He could not let anyone know.
Mike pressed the nail to him again and John shouted out in pain. He couldn't keep himself from begging and wasn't going to try; he'd do almost anything to get the nail to stay away from him.
"He's brilliant," John rushed to say, when he felt the heat approach his wounds again. "Was brilliant," he corrected, and the nail touched him. John sobbed but it did not stop until Mike decided the metal was too cold and pulled it away again. John felt flesh tug and knew his skin had cauterized onto the metal.
"Were you a couple?" Mike asked idly, ripping the nail free.
"No, no," he answered, trying to remember he was replying to a question. Mike hummed to himself.
"Did you want to be?" he asked. John swallowed, wishing not to answer, though he didn't know why. "I'm starting to get less curious, really. Because to be perfectly honest, I'd never hesitate to answer that question about a buddy, don't really need to think about it. There is no way I want a man's penis touching mine. It's just a 'too many penises' problem right there," Mike rambled. John nodded weakly, understanding his point, though it was too late. He couldn't go back and not hesitate.
"Will you stop, if I tell you?" he choked out. Mike grunted, sounding disappointed and started the blowtorch again."No, can't do that," he answered. John coughed and tightened his grip on the rope holding him.
"Not much of a motivation system, there," he said, and Mike pushed the hot nail to him again.
John screamed, but did not answer. He did not know the answer. Did he love Sherlock Holmes?
He was furious with Sherlock Holmes. That's all he knew. John fought to keep his grip on the rope, his thoughts racing.
He couldn't lie, not with a nail so close to his skin. He couldn't get himself to risk this getting worse, couldn't let this man touch the nail to him again if he could avoid it. John closed his eyes, frustrated with himself.
We're not a couple.
Yes, you are.
How many times had he wanted Sherlock to make a move, only to walk out of the room to avoid the temptation? He'd thought it was because he'd wanted to disperse the tension between them, that he'd thought Sherlock might be interested in him and he simply wanted the answer. Now, he questioned that. How many times, after Sherlock's death, had he wished the man alive to hold him? Why hold him? He'd never wished that for any of his dead friends, before. He'd wanted Sherlock physically when they were friends, a few times when Sherlock was standing in the window, almost seeming to glow with beauty. He'd never had such a thought about a man before, or at least, not often enough to count as homosexual.
"Wait, hold on, I've got to send a text. I've got to say, this Moriarty guy was seriously disturbed. I mean 'little game'? What's with that?" the torturer rambled, pulling away. He came back slowly, checking his watch for the time again. John tried to see the watch hands, but the florescent lights reflected off the glass face and blocked his vision.
How long have I been here? It hadn't been long, he was sure of it. Mike shoved the watch back into his pocket, apparently not liking it on his wrist, and picked up the blow torch again.
"Yeah, well, I'm going back to the 'screaming his name' thing. That was weird, yeah? Why scream Sherlock?" Mike pressed, heating the nail again. John tried to climb up the rope, but his back raged against the movement, and he'd never be able to get high enough to get away.
"Because he'd always find me," John sobbed, only to close his eyes. He was breaking down, he knew it.
But I'm not mad, he reminded himself. That was all he needed. He'd limp out of this hellhole and he'd go back to his life as a soldier and a doctor.
"Huh," Mike grunted. "I guess that makes sense. Like screaming 'somebody, please' but a bit more sophisticated. Was he really that good?"
John nodded slowly, his teeth catching on his swollen cheek.
"Yes."
"Well, he's not going to find you this time," Mike commented, and John knew the nail was almost hot. John shook his head but kept his mouth shut. He'd gain nothing from antagonizing the man.
"What's with the faith? He killed himself. Don't you feel like he betrayed you? Left you here?"
Yes, yes to all of it, please yes.
"Well?" Mike asked, when he pulled the nail away. John gasped for breath and tensed, expecting the sound of the blow torch heating up the metal, but it didn't come. The silence stretched and John felt dread pooling in his stomach again at the changed routine.
John coughed out a breath, doing his best to concentrate on holding himself up by his hands and not giving in to the fear ratcheting through him the longer Mike hesitated.
"Holy shit, you really believe he is still coming for you," Mike continued. John closed his eyes, hearing Mike moving to walk in front of him. "He's alive," Mike concluded. John shook his head numbly. He couldn't fail with this, couldn't give it all away. "So all that mourning was an act? Wow, you get an Oscar, man, the newspapers ate it up."
John opened his eyes and continued shaking his head.
"You didn't know?" Mike concluded.
People don't like telling you things. They love to contradict you. He was already giving it all away.
"Wow, he really was a bastard," Mike commented.
He returned to his work on John's back in silence and John screamed, but it was worse with nothing to say to make it stop. He always knew when the burn was coming and he held his weight up on his arms, though he couldn't remember why. It'd had something to do with staying sane, he thought.
He emptied his bowels in his pants the first time, somewhere in that hour, and Mike stripped them off him. Mike threw water on him and took the pants away, cursing horribly and John came to want them back; he was too cold. It was September, and the concrete took everything from him. Still, Mike didn't ever make a call, and John began to suspect that it really was just the two of them stuck here, Mike fulfilling an old contract and John the victim of it; the questioning was for curiosity alone.
Mike started on pulling his fingernails, inexpertly.
~~/~~
They got another photograph, that day, and for a brief moment the officers seemed hopeful. Sherlock doubted anything would come of it, but his breath caught when he saw the photograph of John hanging up like hooked meat again.
"Zoom up on his hand," Sherlock ordered, his hope rising. The tech obeyed, revealing a crunched up label in John's hand.
Data.
"Brewer's Fayre," Anderson said quietly. Sherlock glanced up, praying it was something actually important.
"What?" he hissed. The man hesitated and Sherlock stalked toward him. "What do you know?"
"John's er-" Anderson blinked at him, looking concerned and started speaking faster. Good. "That's Brewer's Fayre packaging in his hands, right? The ...fast food chain?"
Sherlock glanced around. People stared at him, but they were nodding. Apparently that was common knowledge. John was still trying to give them hints.
Unless this was some ruse? If so, they'd never find the man and he was dead regardless. They had to trust this. John was near a Brewer's Fayre and an open one. He'd have to research how many existed in England.
"I'll make the calls," Lestrade said, walking out. Sherlock followed. He needed that information.
~~/~~
Mike left and John spent his time chewing through more of his plastic bindings. He stopped after very little time, knowing he was not prepared to make an escape when his captor would be the most on guard, returning from an absence. He needed to find a way to deescalate the quiet times between the torture sessions, find a way to become more approachable. Mike walked down the car ramp when he returned, confirming what John had already thought; they were below ground. He threw John water bottle and another sandwich from Brewer's Fayre, nothing John could use in the photographs, and sat down against the opposite wall.
"Have you ever wondered if you're gay?" John asked as casually as he could, biting into his food. Three of his fingers were bleeding steadily. He ignored them. He'd gotten food today; he planned on eating it. Mike glanced up at him, looking amused and bit into his own sandwich.
"Not a chance," he replied, smirking as if he knew the answer to John's secrets now. John nodded as thoughtfully as he could, though it made the muscles in his back pull against their wounds. Mike let out a loud laugh suddenly and uncrossed his legs. "I had a girlfriend ask me that once. Didn't learn until much later that she was looking for a threesome. Now, that, I might've done. You want me to be in bed with some bloke, hell, I don't care, if it means I can bring in another girl on my turn," he said, grinning. John nodded, doing his best to pretend he could relate to that.
"Unlucky," John said meaninglessly and Mike grunted.
"Worse than that, damned tragic," he replied, still chuckling, and pointed his sandwich at John's face. "So, maybe something more simple. Did you like it when he touched you?"
John blinked. Images flashed through his brain. Sherlock leaning over him at the computer, grabbing his hand while they raced away from the cops, touching his fingers while he took his cellphone.
"Hmm. I know a 'yes' when I see one," Mike grunted. John swallowed, wanting to explain.
"He wasn't a very affectionate man. It meant - he cared about me. More than the rest of humanity, probably," John replied. His torturer only smirked at him.
"Yeah, but why do you want him to care about you that much, eh?" he replied and John couldn't answer. Sherlock brought everything intriguing about the world right into focus and ignored the rest; he loved that. There was no doubt about that; but that didn't mean he wanted Sherlock to touch him.
"Well, then, Did you ever want him to touch you more?" Mike asked. John closed his eyes. He wanted to say no, but the word caught in his throat. He was terrified to say it. Why?
"You have career aspirations in relationship therapy?" John asked instead. Mike's eyebrows rose in surprise and John found himself pulling back as if from a blow.
Damn it. His back raged as if a nail was burning into him again and John had to struggle to keep his stomach, to keep his mind in the present where he wasn't currently being tortured.
Mike laughed easily.
"Maybe," he said and John suspected that he meant it. John took another bite of his sandwich, hiding his smile. Someday he would tell Sherlock Holmes that he'd been tortured by a budding psychiatrist, and they'd giggle their asses off. Someday, when Sherlock returned and John escaped from this hellhole, and his world was righted. It felt like an impossibility but John clung to it and ate his food. Mike's question resurfaced with his memories.
How many times had he wanted Sherlock to make a move, only to walk out of the room to avoid the temptation? He'd thought it was because of the tension between them, thought Sherlock might be interested in him and he simply wanted to know. Now, he questioned that. How many times, after Sherlock's death, had he wished the man alive to hold him? Why hold him? He'd never wished that for any of his dead friends before. Why did he scream for Sherlock, knowing the man was unlikely to come? Why not scream 'Lestrade'?
"Did you ever want him to touch you more?" Mike asked again, sounding more curious now. John let his head hang limply. "Have you ever heard of the works of Shan Yu?"
John blinked at the change of subject but didn't not answer. Mike grinned, looking suddenly energetic again.
"Never watched Firefly?"
A fan, John thought tiredly. He shook his head.
"It's something one of the characters said. Something I've been finding to be fairly accurate. He says, live with a man 40 years. Share his house, his meals. Speak on every subject. Then tie him up, and hold him over the volcano's edge. And on that day, you will finally meet the man."
John stayed silent for a moment, absorbing that.
"I'm not gay," he said finally, shaking his head, but his tone came out wrong.
You're lying to yourself.
Mike just grunted again and went back to his sandwich.
~~/~~