Disclaimer:
Sherlock BBC is property of BBC, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.
My undying gratitude goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Beta-Reader:
The unrivalled don'tlikehugs18.
You did a great work here. :-)
Ex ante:
English isn't my original language. For me writing (and reading) fanfiction is a great way to improve my language skills.
So please: Reviews would be great. :-)
Trigger Warning:
This fic contains descriptions of violence and torture!
Once More, with Feeling II
Great Britain, London
N 55° 47' E 37° 39'
17. January 2010
"John? Captain Watson, Sir?" A tentative touch on his left shoulder brings John abruptly back into the present. He is on the brink of hyperventilation and his left hand has closed around Matt's wrist with so much force that he can feel the bones grind against each other under his grip.
He lets go immediately. "Sorry. I'm so sorry Matt." John closes his eyes and takes a few seconds to get his breathing back under his control. Matt watches him, his hands brushing restlessly over his bare forearms.
John catches his wrists with both hands; overtly careful this time. "No more of that, heh?"
The other man stills, looking at him with expectant eyes.
"How about you let me clean that up?" John gestures at the wounds that litter his friend's hand and arms. "Perhaps we can even get rid of those nasty little buggers in the process." He looks at Matt with a serious expression.
Whatever Matt reads in his face seems to convince him that John can indeed help. He nods and seems to uncurl a bit from his defensive huddle.
John smiles. "Good. I'm back in a minute. I won't leave the room, okay?"
When Matt nods a second time John stands up. His knees crack and his right thigh gives a protesting flare of pain after being forced into a crouched position for so long. He straitens and gives his leg a second to adjust. Matt still shows no intention to harm himself any further, so John takes the chance to walk over to one of the build in supply closets. He loads bandages, gauze, antiseptic, sterile compresses and tape on a small tray and grabs a handful of nitrile gloves for good measure before he returns to his friend.
John knows better than to try and convince Matt to sit on the bed or a chair. He just sits down in front of him; legs folded underneath his body Indian style and puts the tray between them, slightly to his left for easy access.
"All right. Matt, the antiseptic might sting a bit, but it is necessary to clean those injuries of yours to prevent infection", he explains while snapping on a pair of gloves with an ease born out of thorough practice.
"It's okay, Sir. I know."
"Good." John nods slowly and sprays the disinfectant on the first gauze pad before he cautiously takes Matt's left hand with his right. He starts to clean the wounds and the skin surrounding them with careful precise movements. The small stab wounds on the other man's palm start to bleed again during the procedure when the gauze removes the clotted blood. But John loses no time taping them shut and applying a firm bandage to restrict the movement of palm and fingers. Next he cleans and dresses the scratches on Matt's arms. Theoretically the bandages aren't necessary, but John doesn't want to give his friend further opportunity to hurt himself.
They don't speak during the whole process. John is focused on his task, his thoughts already processing the next steps he has to take. Matt's condition isn't static. Patients with mental illnesses often experience ups and downs. Less so when they are properly medicated, of course. And Matt hasn't had such a violent relapse in years. A part of John really wants to curse the staff of this clinic for not paying better attention. He has a pretty good idea how it was possible that Matt has worked himself into such a state.
The other man just sits in front of him; doesn't talk, doesn't move, doesn't flinch. He just lets himself be manipulated into the right positions for John to take care of his injuries and stares at the blonde doctor with brown unblinking eyes.
"Matt?" John collects the bloody gauze in his right hand while he waits for his friend to react. When he has everything together he makes a fist and pulls his glove off and inside out over the soiled gauze, then he takes the bundle in his left and repeats the process. Sealed off like this there is no possibility that someone might accidentally come in contact with possibly contaminated material. Not that John has such worries in regard to Matt, but this behaviour is so ingrained into his mind that he doesn't even think about it anymore.
"Hey, Matt", he repeats, when no reaction is forthcoming.
The other man blinks sluggishly. "Hmm?"
"You all right?"
"Yeah." A tentative grin steals onto Matt's face. "It doesn't itch anymore."
John sighs in relieve. "Good. So. No more ants then?"
"No more ants", confirms Matt.
"That's good." He smiles a sad little smile. "Matt, did you… did you take your medication in the last few days?" John's still sitting in front of his friend, gives him no room for evasion.
Matt's body has gone still, his eyes narrow with suspicion. "Of course not", he hisses under his breath. "I can't let them drug me before they take me to interrogation. That's not… No. No!"
ooOO0OOoo
North Korea, Kijŏngdong
N 37° 56' 43.9902" E 126° 39' 21.6072"
?. July 2005
"No!" The heavy black cloth over his eyes prevented John from seeing when and where the next punch was going to land. He panted against the pain that raked through his body. His chest, arms and legs throbbed because of the blows he'd received so far. The zip ties around his wrists and ankles and a rough hempen rope bound him tightly to the chair he was sitting on and barred him from curling into himself.
John closed his eyes and tried to withdraw into himself, to go away and 'hide' like they taught them during SERE training. His breathing pattern changed unconsciously.
"Oh no. None of that." A sharp cuff to his left ear brought John back into the rank smelling room. For a moment his world seemed to tilt around its axis. John was still dizzy from the blow to his head he'd received a few days (days?) ago and the blindfold over his eyes didn't allow him to find a fix point to orient himself. The overwhelming sense of vertigo transformed into aggressive nausea and John ended up choking back his own vomit. He's reeking already. What's left of his uniform smelled of unwashed body, sweat, blood and dirt. At one point he must have soiled himself, but he wasn't sure any more when that actually happened. For now he was determined not to add the meagre contents of his stomach to this heady mixture.
"Ya British folks are too stubborn for your own good. We could end this right now, Captain. Could give ya an opportunity to clean yourself up a bit, a hearty meal, medical treatment, even a way back home to good ol'England for ya and what's left of your little team. All ya have to do is to gimme a few answers."
John clenched his teeth to get his nausea under control. "I can't answer your questions." He gave the only answer he was allowed to give.
Strong blunt fingers clawed into his hair and pulled his head back with a brutal yank. The tendons in John's neck stretched painfully against the force. "Wa' was that?"
"I can't answer your questions, Sir!"
The other man let go of his head with a mocking chuckle and John took the opportunity to take a deep breath. He was well aware of the fact that it was only a matter of time until the first of them broke under the unrelenting pressure. But not yet. John could still feel a spark of stubborn defiance deep within himself. A grim smile stretched his cracked lips. Hell; he was probably going to regret this, but they were screwed anyway.
"What about you answering a few of my questions for a change?" he croaked. His only answer was silence. He couldn't even hear the bastard move. "What are a bunch of Yanks doing in North Korea, heh? Human trafficking? Smuggling? Weapons? Drugs perhaps?"
John's head snapped to the side under the brutal backhanded slap. The metallic tang of blood was rapidly filling his mouth.
"Ya think you're really funny, heh Watson?"
Oh… yeah. That was another thing he had to give up. Name, rank, identification number. All of it so called 'soft information'. No harm done with that, right? The problem with giving in was that every time you gave a piece of information away, the next step down that road was made with less and less reluctance.
A sharp whistle ripped John from his train of thoughts. "Let's see if ya can hold onto that funny streak of yours when we're through with ya."
John could hear steps and voices talking to each other in what he assumed must be Korean. He'd never had much love for the Asian languages, being more at home in Eastern Europe or the Middle East. He'd had a bad feeling about accepting this mission from the very beginning. Since their CO had collected their dog tags before they had headed out. It's bad luck to leave your tags behind; everyone knew that. John snorted in wry amusement. So much for gut feelings.
His bonds were cut away without much care. A sharp knife nicked the skin of his right wrist in the process, leaving a bleeding gash behind. Then he was manhandled to his feet. His captors didn't bother to remove the blindfold, but they did take the time to secure his hands behind his back (zip ties again), so John was forced to stumble along helpless and blind; chafing his bare feet on the uneven concrete floor.
John could feel a slight breeze of fresh air on his face when they left the room, but it didn't last long. Another room and another door that was shut behind him and the next thing he knew, he was forced on his back onto a slightly sloping surface. He didn't even try to resist when they bound him again - his hands still tied and uncomfortably squashed between his back and the hard wood he was lying on – knowing that it would only result in more brutal beatings and taunts without changing the outcome of his situation.
Someone pressed a cloth over John's face and then came the water…
ooOO0OOoo
Great Britain, London
N 55° 47' E 37° 39'
17. January 2010
"Shhh. Shh." John tries to soothe his agitated friend, taking hold of his hands again in an attempt to quiet and support him. His own hands are shaking badly, but John hopes that Matt is too out of it to notice. "Just breathe, mate. I'm here. I've got you."
It will do no good to tell Matt that nobody here is actually going to hurt him. That the nurses and doctors in this clinic were trying to help him improve. That the medication he has to take every day is supposed to control his anxiety states.
The next minutes creep by impossibly slow while John is muttering reassurances and after a while Matt does calm down again.
"Good lad", says John when his friend starts to use the breathing exercises his psychologists have taught him. When Matt looks up at him again, he continues: "Do you still have them?"
Matt nods. "Course." His right hand sneaks into the front pocket of his hoody and pulls out a crumbled piece of white fabric. He puts it into John's waiting hands.
Inside the blonde finds about five days' worth of antidepressants, mild sedatives and other pills. Their white and yellow coating has started to melt at one point, most likely due to contact with saliva. John is no psychiatrist himself but considering Matt's clinical symptoms he can see why this specific combination of drugs was chosen. The shape and colouring of some of those pills are achingly familiar to John. Cipram, Buspiron and Pregabalin. He had read up on those after they had been prescribed to him for the first time.
An uncomfortable chill settles in his stomach when he remembers the utter numbness that had suffocated his brain during what John privately calls his 'Dark Days'. Those weeks and months during his convalescence in hospital and the first bleak and empty days in London. Before Sherlock. Before he was sucked into this madly enlightening vortex that was the Consulting Detective. Thanks to that man he had lost his cane just to find himself again. And that is when John realizes that he probably owes Sherlock an apology. The two of them are still trying to find ways to handle each other, to find a common daily routine as flatmates and – he dares say - friends. And if John is honest with himself he has to admit that he has perhaps overreacted… a bit. Hell; he's told Sherlock to 'piss off' in everything but the actual words. Sherlock's acid reaction afterwards really shouldn't have come as a surprise. But there is nothing he can do about that right now.
John sights and stuffs the pills along with the cloth into his pocket.
"You kept them under your tongue, right?" John doesn't look up, but Matt's whole body signals the answer to his question. "That's actually pretty clever."
"I know." It's been years since he's last heard this level of steadfast defiance in Matt's voice and John isn't able to resist the small smile that steals onto his features.
The silence that descents between them, is a bit lighter this time. Not weighted down by mindless panic or bad memories. John is almost sorry that he has to break it.
"Do you trust me, Matt?"
The other man looks at him like he can't quite grasp why John would ask such a question in the first place. "Of course. You know that, Doc."
John nods slowly. "If I'd take a look at your medication, control it and approve of it, would you take it?" he asks, trying not to sound hesitating.
"What?" A new emotion emerges from the depths of Matt's brown eyes and the man seems to try and crawl into himself. It's not an expression of distrust, no. Matt does feel betrayed. And that's almost worse than the alternative. "Why?"
John has to swallow hard to get his vocal cords back into working condition. Matt's negative reaction stings. "Matt. Please, listen. You're not well. You know that you're not well, right?"
Davies nods haltingly. He's huddled back into his corner, arms slung around his raised knees in a defensive gesture. His gaze glides restless through the room, searching the shadows for invisible threats, unable to fix itself on anything for long. The only thing he doesn't look at is John.
"Hey. You've known me long enough to know that I'd never harm you. You've just said that you trust me. So please trust me with this." The blonde doctor doesn't say any more. He just sits there, watching and waiting for Matt to sort this dilemma out.
It isn't easy to stand by and watch his friend arguing with himself like this. Matt had always been straightforward and confident. A man so sure of himself and his abilities. But most of those traits had vanished bit by bit when Matt lost himself in that downward spiral the PTSD sent him into. What was left was a mere shadow of the man he had been before.
John berates himself for his thoughts as soon as they have passed through his head. It isn't as if Matt had chosen to end like this. No; in this case John puts the blame squarely on the shoulders of the army. They'd discharged him, because he had been psychologically unfit to serve, without providing sufficient social and psychological support to catch him after he had to leave the military. Left to his own devices Matt had gone down without so much as rising a white flag.
It had been a lucky coincidence that John had met Sherlock Holmes. He too had toed a narrow line after coming back to London and sometimes when he isn't able to sleep, lying awake in the middle of the night, John is able to admit that he had been on the verge of falling down on the wrong side of it. There had been days when the whole world had seemingly vanished under a choking black shroud and everything and everyone had seemed empty and meaningless. He himself most of all. So he can relate. He really can.
John blinks when Matt slowly starts to untangle his limbs. The man looks at him wearily. "I trust you." That's all he says, but for John the statement behind those words is loud and clear.
"Thank you."
The blonde doctor has to stretch a bit to be able to reach the calling button and not even five minutes later they can hear the sound of a soft knock on the door. A young nurse enters the room and blinks, surprised by the unexpected darkness.
"Mr. Davies? What can I do for you?" She smiles brightly when she recognizes John. "Oh. Good evening Doctor Watson." The expression on her face shows clearly that she is a bit confused by their choice to sit in the dark on the floor behind the bed. "Is everything all right?"
John nods politely and smiles at her in return while Matt does his best to disappear behind the nightstand. "Good evening to you, too. No problems here. But would you be so kind to bring me Mr. Davies' chart and his medication for tonight?" His request is a bit of a stretch. He isn't an employee here and John may be Matt's friend, but he isn't his acting physician. Officially and legally he isn't authorized to handle any of it.
The nurse hesitates visibly, but just a moment later a shy grin blooms on her face. "I think I can arrange that. But you have to promise not to give me away."
The mischievous twinkle in her eyes makes John grin in return. "Sure; why not? What do you say, Matt?"
The other man gives a nonverbal huff and John decides to interpret it in their favour. "Well, Matt says he is all right with that, so I guess we have a deal."
"Great." She winks at John. "Just give me a minute." The door closes behind her with a soft click.
"See", John turns back to his friend. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
Matt huffs again, looking at John with the most serious expression on his pale face. He doesn't answer, but the tips of his fingers skim lightly over the bandages on his forearms. John's gaze drops down for a second, before he snaps his eyes up to watch his friend's expression.
"Ants again?" he asks.
"No." Matt shakes his head. "No ants."
"Good." John's legs are slowly falling asleep, so he shifts slightly until he is able to rest his back against the wall, his legs stretched out in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles. He wiggles his toes inside his shoes to get rid of pins and needles feeling that comes with the returning blood flow. His new position is more comfortable and has the added benefit that he is now able to see the door.
He pats on the floor at his right side. "Want to join me? Turning yourself into a pretzel like this can't be very comfy."
Matt does indeed start to unfurl from his hiding place but that's the exact moment the door opens again and the young woman from before re-enters the room, a small white tray in one hand, the patients chart in the other. Davies freezes mid-move, his eyes following her as she crosses the room.
The nurse proves her understanding of the situation and keeps the bed between herself and the two men. She smiles at them when she puts the tray down on the soft quilt. "I'll need the chart back in a few minutes, so please don't take too long."
Then she sees the bandages around Matt's arms and her smile wavers a bit. "Ehm… is really everything all right?" she asks.
John nods in confirmation. "I took care of it."
She obviously waits for John to offer more information but when he doesn't she finally hands the chart over. "Okay. I'll leave you to your own devices then." She steps back and repeats: "Don't take too long." before she finally leaves again.
John places the chart on his lap and starts to read over the information recorded on the cover sheet. "Coast is clear, Matt." he states. "Now get your arse over here."
While Matt is busy with finally untangling himself, John grabs the tray from the bed, puts it on the linoleum to his left and examines the contents of the small plastic cup that's placed on it. He has promised his friend to control his medication, and John has no intention of breaking his word.
He skims over the documented numbers. The dosage is completely reasonable for a man of Matt's weight and age. The kind of drugs and number of pills correspond with the recent history of administration.
Finally he picks one of the pills from the cup and offers it to his friend together with a small bottle of water that came with the medication. Matt takes it carefully.
"That one's called Pregabalin…" The two men soon loose themselves in the lecture. John takes great care to explain the effect of every single drug in painstaking detail and Matt swallows them down one after another.
ooOO0OOoo
TBC