Author's Note: Hi guys! Well, this is it. The last update for two weeks. Tomorrow, early in the morning, I'm hopping on a plane and "California dreamin' is becomin' a reality!" ;) I will be gone for four of my normal update days, two Mondays and two Fridays. So I put all the material I would have posted those days into this one update for you guys, since you can't bear to wait until my return. XD BUT, remember, this is all you get until then. Don't read it all at once, you've gotta make it last! Savor it. Naw, just kidding, you guys do what you want. I'll miss you while I'm gone, but I promise I'll start right back up where I left off when I get home. ;) Happy Friday!
Disclaimer: Manson and Chi-Sung belong to me. Everyone else is only borrowed. :P
"Have we got the equipment ready?"
Fred Manson addressed his question to someone standing outside of Sherlock's view.
"I'll see," came the reply. A woman's voice. Young. Sherlock could tell from the refinement and slight hint of vibrato in her voice that she sang for a hobby. There was a certain Eastern tang to her tone and pronunciation that suggested English was not her first language; she was probably Asian, then. He listened to her footsteps cross the floor. The sound of a door opening, muffled voices outside the room, and then a sound of one…no, three carts or trolleys being pushed into the room. The click of the woman's high-heels was heard again, accompanied by the heavier footsteps of…how many more people were coming in here, anyway? What was it, six? Six people.
Sherlock resisted the urge to lift his head for a look. Heavens forbid they should take it as him being nervous, or even interested. He didn't have to wait long, though; they soon descended on him.
The woman, (Sherlock saw now that she was a Japanese girl, -John would probably say a very pretty one- and deduced that she was Manson's personal assistant) gently rolled up Sherlock's sleeves to above the elbow, avoiding his scrutinizing gaze as she did so. A metal trolley was pushed up beside the table where he lay by a young man, and an older one began preparing needles on it and handing them to the young lady. Dr. Manson had stepped out of Sherlock's view to his left. He turned his head to see.
Dr. Manson was taking off his own white lab-coat, rolling up his own sleeves, and lying on a table similar to the one Sherlock was on. Sherlock noticed, however, that the restraints were left off him. He realized Sherlock was looking at him and grinned broadly.
"Curious yet, Mr. Holmes?"
"A bit," Sherlock admitted. He was staring at the various contents of the trolley they were now parking next to Fred Manson. The Doctor was only too eager to explain, elaborating on each step as it was performed.
"It's a complex concept in detail, but basically what we're attempting to perform is an intelligence transfer," he said. Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I've been working on the idea for years, despite the derision of my colleagues. But I was able to achieve consistent successes in lab animals and test subjects, so that now I am quite sure of the success of this attempt, as well."
"I am entirely capable of comprehending science, Fred. I've written several definitive papers myself, so please don't condescend. It increases your stupidity rating," Sherlock said, eyes back on the woman as she inserted an IV port into each arm. He noted the efficiency and ease with which she did this; these were obviously not mad scientists trying some insane experiment; they were practiced medical experts. She began to attach heart-rate and body temperature monitors to his finger on one hand and his neck on the right side.
"First we are both going to receive a dose of a powerful hallucinogenic. The sensors placed on our foreheads are connected to a central computer, and my assistant Chi-Sung can, to some extent, guide our states of mind through it."
As he spoke Chi-Sung gently smoothed Sherlock's curls back and stuck an adhesive sophisticated white strip onto his brow, letting his hair fall back down over it. The cord from it ran down onto the floor, connecting with first Manson's cord and then a larger one that ran behind an observation window at the end of the room.
"She will direct our hallucinations inward, into our own minds. Or rather, into your mind. For you see, Sherlock, my goal is to penetrate your mind, your consciousness, your intelligence. Our minds will merge; not our brains, but our minds. Once my mind has gotten into yours, so to speak, Chi-Sung has simply to direct your mind's extraordinary capabilities into mine as I withdraw! Isn't it brilliant!"
Manson didn't sound gloating or wicked; it actually sounded as if he was actually bursting with excitement and expected Sherlock to be so, too.
"What about my memories and experiences? What will happen when your mind is flooded with my past? Surely it won't be able to hold two lifetimes of information," Sherlock inquired. Chi-Sung was now checking all the needles over again, waiting for the moment when she should inject them.
"Excellent question. My mind couldn't cope with it, at least not all at once. Thankfully most, if not all, of your memories will be destroyed in the process."
"What will I be left with, then? When it's over, I mean?" He really was curious.
"Nothing, unfortunately. You will, in the most literal sense of the expression, loose your mind. All your memories destroyed, all your potential and intelligence now mine, there will be nothing left of you but disconnected shreds of thought, or perhaps nothing at all."
"Lovely," Sherlock said drily. Dr. Manson laughed.
"Don't worry. It's not completely intolerable in terms of distress levels, I'm told. But I should warn you; resisting during the transfer can be very unpleasant and drawn out. If you just give up in the beginning things go much smoother generally."
"I'll keep that in mind," Sherlock sniffed.
"Begin," Manson commanded. Three assistants took their places around Manson's table and three around Sherlock, watching attentively. Chi-Sung hooked up the IVs to the drug, and then did the same for Manson before retreating behind the observation wall. A white glow lit her face. She must be looking at the computer monitor.
"Here we go, Mr. Holmes. To brilliance and to science!" Manson shouted, gleefully.
Sherlock's vision grew blurry; he could feel the hallucinogen pulsing into him. The sensor on his forehead warmed pleasantly; his whole body felt warm. It was starting.
"Not on your life," he said, coolly.
Sherlock stood in the center of the great, airy space. He knew this place. He'd been here countless times before, but never had it seemed so present, so real. Curiously, he looked around him, noting with interest the detail which his subconscious had created for every doorway, staircase, and window in the enormous atrium. It truly was magnificent. It was a palace. His palace, the one which had taken years to build and to which he was still ever adding onto with new information.
A muffled voice spoke from behind him, causing Sherlock to jump and whirl about, trying to pinpoint the source.
"Knock, knock, Sherlock," Manson intoned. Sherlock's eyes rested on the place the voice came from, and he felt a wave of loathing wash over him.
Manson's words issued from behind a heavy, neglected door, covered in rusty padlocks, hidden away in a dark, dusty corner of the atrium beneath a staircase. A door purposefully placed where it could easily be overlooked, and that is exactly what Sherlock had chosen to do. But he couldn't now.
Cautiously, he stepped toward the door. The last time he'd been near it, he had almost been lost out of it forever. The last time he'd been here, was when he'd…he stepped on something in the twilight beneath the stairs and looked down. A syringe. Horrible confused memories surged up…his jaw hardened and he kicked it away into some darker crevice before continuing toward the door.
"Don't put me off, Sherlock," Manson advised, from the other side, "It can only be unpleasant. And I will still force my way in in the end, you know."
"If it's just a matter of wills, I rather think mine will be stronger than yours," Sherlock said. Manson tittered in amusement.
"I have all the odds on my side, Sherlock. My will, my hallucinogenic compound, and my refined electrical impulse technology, controlled by my assistant. Do you really think you, alone, can stand for very long?"
"Let him in," a cool, female mechanized voice echoed through the palace, seeming to send a slight vibration through everything and giving Sherlock a strange buzzing feeling. He shook his head as if to loose the unsettling effects. Obviously, that was Chi-Sung with the electrical impulses.
His eyes narrowed on the handle of the door. It was slowly turning. Manson was trying to take advantage of his momentary distraction. He sprang forward and held it still, throwing his weight against the door to brace it against the blows Manson was now raining against it.
"Not quite good enough, Dr. Manson," Sherlock said, smirking a little.
"Let him in, now," the cool, unemotional female voice said again. It was stronger, louder this time. Sherlock felt confused and dizzy for a moment, and in that second the door received such a shuddering blow that one of the padlocks burst.
"No!" Sherlock said. It wasn't enough. He couldn't do it.
"Just let me in, my boy," Manson called, cheerfully. "It can all be over in a few minutes."
But Sherlock wasn't ready to give up. He let go of the door, turned, and ran back out into the atrium. He needed something, anything, to block the door with. He sprang up the stairs and into the first door he came to.
It was full of filing cabinets, each drawer stuffed with files of past cases Sherlock had hidden away up here for future reference. Without thinking he ripped out three drawers…they were light. Too light. They wouldn't do any good against the door and Manson. Surely they couldn't all be this light? He ripped out every drawer in the room, only to throw them on the floor, one after the other. They were all so light it almost felt like he wasn't holding anything.
He could hear the beating of the door downstairs echoing through the palace like a death-knell… "Let him in," Chi-Sung said again. Sherlock spun in a circle, hands to his head.
"Think. Think! Come-on-come-on-come-on…" The sound of another blow, accompanied by a sickening pop of another lock breaking off, met his ears. He didn't have time. He ran out of the room and flew by the doors, muttering under his breath.
"Okay, so case files don't work. Maybe because there's not substance enough to them? Let's try a different kind of memory."
"Let him in."
Sherlock felt a brief unpleasantness bordering on pain seize him for a moment, causing him to falter in his run.
"SHUT UP!" he yelled.
Almost all of the rooms held case files, facts, or other information. Finally he came to the one he was looking for and skidded to a stop. The plate on the door said Lestrade. He wrenched open the door and entered the first doorway along the short corridor.
There were files in here, too, but there were other things. Among them was an orange blanket folded in the corner. Sherlock reached out to touch it. A memory flashed before his mind.
"It's for shock."
"I'm not IN shock!"
"I know, but some of the fellas want to get photographs."
Sherlock picked it up. It was heavy, far heavier than it should be. It wasn't just a blanket, he realized; it was just a symbol of his memory, and carried all of it's weight. He grinned, and hurried back down to the door.
Only a few locks remained, the rest lay scattered around the floor, broken. He piled the blanket against the door, forcing it partway into the crack underneath it with his foot as a brace.
"Sherlock," Manson said in a warning tone.
"Shut up," Sherlock said, his spirits definitely risen. He dashed back to retrieve some more things. In a short time he had emptied most of the meaningful memories concerning Greg out of their room and had them piled against the door. The ear-hat sat lopsidedly on top of the pile.
He was just observing his work with some satisfaction, taking a moment to catch his breath before resuming his work, when the female voice blared through the palace, shaking it and throwing Sherlock to the ground.
"LET HIM IN." The tone had not changed, but the volume was greatly increased. And the pain that accompanied it took Sherlock's breath away. He gasped and struggled up, staggering a little.
"Told you," Manson said, through the door. It shuddered again as something struck it.
"Isn't that dangerous?" Sherlock asked, wheezing a little, though the pain had passed.
"Not in the slightest," Manson said, "We know what levels of stimulation are effective without being destructive to the mind."
The last lock burst. The only thing stopping the door being forced open now were the memories heaped against it. Sherlock whirled and ran back to find more. Now for Mycroft's room.
John sent a few last-minute texts before turning the phone off for the flight.
J-Sorry Greg; unexpected circumstance. Going to Honduras to get Sherlock's tracking info. Can't explain. Call you when I get there.
J-Okay, Mycroft, I'm boarding. Where do I find her when I get there?
The phone blipped.
G-Right. Good luck. And hurry up. I'm thinking if someone had the nerve to kidnap Sherlock they won't be treating him too nicely.
John waited a moment for Mycroft's text, but the phone rang instead.
"John. She's staying in Parque La Leona, in the capital city of Tegucigalpa where you'll be landing. Her rooms overlook the park. She'll recognize you. Just show her the clearance card I gave you. Good luck and keep me posted." Mycroft hung up.
John shook his head, remembering Sherlock's statement that Mycroft always preferred to talk rather than text. He turned the phone off, shoved it in his pocket, and took the steps onto the elder Holmes' private jet two at a time. He should be in Honduras in a little over 11 hours. He could only hope Sherlock would be alright during that time.
John stepped off the plane into the Honduran sunset and the muggy air. He immediately shrugged off his woolen sweater, as the moist heat had him sweating already. Taking into account the 11 hour flight and the 7 hour time difference, it was about 7:30 in the evening.
The airport was bustling with tourists, and John was hindered in getting out of the airport as quickly as he'd like. Finally, after going through security and hailing a taxi outside, he was headed to Parque La Leona.
On the ride he pulled out his phone and turned it back on. He hesitated a moment, and then checked his texts, half hoping there'd be another one from Sherlock. No. He selected "send message" and began to type, but stopped himself. Would Sherlock want him to text? Probably not. If Sherlock wanted him to track the phone, that meant he still had it. And if he still had it, that meant the kidnappers probably didn't know he did. John couldn't risk the text-tone alerting the kidnappers to the phone's presence. He sighed, and called Lestrade instead. He picked up after the first ring.
"Greg Lestrade, DI."
"Hey Greg."
"Hey. Have you got Sherlock's information yet?"
"No. On my way. It's in Mycroft's phone, which he apparently lent to Anthea while she traveled half-way round the world. I just landed in Tegucigalpa. Anything happening on your end?"
"Not yet. We're still working, though. We've questioned every person in that high-rise." Greg sounded exhausted. "The office Sherlock asked to visit when he came to the building was rented out for a single day by someone called Jerry Temsk. Probably a fake name. After Sherlock disappeared, so did the office. Temsk, his secretary, the desks, everything."
"What was Sherlock doing there?" John asked. "Had you given him a new case he didn't tell me about?"
"No. He was still working on the Frederick Manson disappearance. For all we know Manson is Temsk. Sherlock said it was Manson that was kidnapping him, right?"
"Yeah. Sherlock asked to go to his office?"
"That's what the security officer said. Sherlock had to leave his pistol with him when he entered the building and asked for directions to Temsk's office."
"Okay Greg. Thanks. I'll call you as soon as I have the passwords."
"Okay."
John hung up. He stared out the window at the exotic city going by, but didn't see it. Why would Sherlock have gone to meet Manson and not taken John with him? Probably to protect him. As if John couldn't take care of himself. Oh, who was he kidding? This was Sherlock. He probably just figured John would be a drag. Why didn't he at least say where he was going?
John thought back to…was it just that morning? Yesterday morning. He was working on his blog, watching telly, and reading the paper alternately. Sherlock was feverishly pecking away at his own computer most of the morning. Suddenly, around twelve, Sherlock jumped up, slapped the laptop closed and grabbed his coat.
"Where you going?" John looked up, ready to accompany him if required.
"Just running out for a bit. Shouldn't be long. No need to come."
John raised his eyebrows.
"O-okay. I won't come if you don't want me to." He noticed Sherlock slipping a pistol into his pocket. "Are you…are you sure you don't think-"
"Yes. Relax, John. I always carry one." Sherlock's back was to John as he took down his scarf from the back of the door, but he'd apparently guessed what John was thinking.
"Right then. We could use the shopping, if you'd bother."
Sherlock gave a little half-laugh, but when he turned back around, his smile was gone. In it's place was a tense, eager look. His voice was serious.
"John. Don't ignore any texts while I'm out."
"Why?"
"I might need to know what kind of orange juice you want." And Sherlock had swept out of the flat.
Now he was gone. No one knew where. Or why they had taken him. Or even what the kidnappers might be doing to him at that very moment. John kicked himself. He should have caught on that something was up. He didn't have much time to brood though, because the taxi had just pulled to a stop outside of a beautiful posh neighborhood with old Spanish-style houses lining the street.
"Tienes dinero?" the driver asked.
"Um. Yeah. Hang on," John dug into his pocket for his wallet. "How much? Uh…Cuanto?"
"Sies dolares."
"I only have…Yo solo tengo libras britanicas."
"Cuatro libras britanicas."
John shelled out four pounds.
"You talk good, for a British," The driver said, grinning to show gold teeth, before driving off. John rolled his eyes and turned to face the street, leading uphill. Nice. The park was supposed to cover the crown of the hill; he had a bit of a ways to go. He trotted up the street, keeping a lookout for any hotels or apartment buildings that might overlook the park.
"Come on…come on, Anthea. Go ahead and materialize out of nowhere, would you?" he muttered.
"Hello, John. What did you want me to materialize for?"
Anthea stood behind him in the doorway of a building, holding Mycroft's phone.
Sherlock slowly opened his eyes. He was exhausted, shaking with fatigue and panting, as if he'd run a long way. He was still strapped to the table, but the IVs connecting him to the drug had been removed and the apparatus on his forehead was apparently no longer on. He was so cold. In the chilly climate of the room the sweat that dampened his shirt only made it worse. His head felt hot and sore though, like it did when he had a fever, and his stomach turned uncomfortably.
"What's wrong? Why did we stop?" Manson was demanding, sitting up. Chi-Sung appeared from behind the wall.
"Mr. Holmes was overheating. We couldn't proceed without a break or we would risk brain damage."
"I…ah…" Sherlock swallowed, "am going to be sick."
"It's not unlikely, given the exertion you've put forth combined with the side effects of the hallucinogen. The electrical impulses might have something to do with it as well," Manson observed, cheerfully. He rose from the table and stepped over to look down at Sherlock, observing Sherlock's chest as it rose and fell heavily with each breath. He looked far better than Sherlock felt.
"Ah, you see, that's because you are the resisting one. I am only attempting to enter with all the help of my apparatus. You have a much harder job; to withstand," Manson said, guessing Sherock's thoughts. Chi-Sung made notes on a clipboard of Sherlock's physical condition.
Ugh. Sherlock closed his eyes again. He felt terrible. He concentrated on taking deep, steady breaths to fight the nausea. A second later his eyes flicked open.
"Nope," he said, in a strangled voice, and began to heave, desperately gulping air in an attempt to keep it down as long as he could.
"Take him out," Manson told a gangly young man standing near. The other lab assistants were already unfastening the restraints rather frantically. "And bring him back here as soon as possible. We must get on with the work."
The young man nodded, distaste evident on his features, slipping an arm around Sherlock –his knees had buckled almost as soon as he'd tried to stand—and dragged him hastily out of the room.
Sherlock didn't waste his opportunity. He was recording, observing. Outside the room he'd woken in was a hallway. An empty hallway with florescent lighting and white paint. A hideous pattern of linoleum tiles on the floor; Sherlock briefly wondered what on earth the designer was thinking when they chose those colors. Could be a laboratory building; it looked more like a hospital or something.
He didn't have long to think about it though. The young man thrust him into the first door they came to and slammed the door behind him. It was a restroom. Sherlock gratefully fell onto his knees and was violently sick.
Oh, please, John, he thought, leaning back a few minutes later and resting his head against the cool tiles of the wall. The one time you manage to make me eat a proper meal, I get sick. Bravo.
He glanced at the door. It was still closed, but Sherlock made sure it was locked from the inside before he sat back down on the floor and attempted to catch his breath and rest a minute. He was so exhausted, and his head hurt. He got his phone out, and looked at it a moment. It would make a clicking sound when he tried to unlock it…and the guard outside might hear. Sherlock shakily stood up and looked around.
On the sink was a container of liquid hand soap. He unscrewed the lid and poured it down the drain. Then he filled it up with water from the sink, making it silent by running the water down the side instead of letting it splash strait down.
A knock sounded on the door.
"Feeling better yet, Mr. Holmes?"
In answer, Sherlock made a terrible gagging noise and dumped the water noisily into the toilet, grinning a little at the realistic sound he'd been able to create.
"Uh…okay then," the young man's voice said. Sherlock noted with satisfaction that he sounded more than a little grossed-out. "We'll give it a bit longer."
Sherlock continued to make one horrible noise after another, accentuated appropriately with heavy breathing and an occasional miserable groan that was half real, as he filled the soap container again in the sink with one hand and unlocked his phone with the other. He was surprised at the time that displayed on the phone's clock. He'd been kidnapped for over twelve hours. They must not have tracked his phone, or they would most likely have arrived by now. Mycroft. What was he doing?
He couldn't text anyone. It would be unwise to do so. If they texted back at the wrong moment the phone would be discovered. But he had a different idea. Mycroft had started a site for their own little circle. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, John, everybody was on there. He pulled up CSI Baker Street, and went to Mycroft's page.
Mycroft. Track my phone. Just do it.
He left a few other comments on other pages declaring his kidnapping, and then turned off the phone. He didn't include the fact that he was now acting as a subject in a science experiment attempting to drive him out of his mind. No need to pressure them; inferior minds often worked less efficiently under pressure. John would get to him in time, anyway. He could always rely on John.
Sherlock slid the phone back in its hiding place and began to cycle down with the vomiting noises. He couldn't stay in here too long and wear his ploy out. The guard would suspect, would force the door, (which would be easy enough simply with a good jolt) and the game would be up.
Reluctantly, he reached up to unlock the door.
Author's Note: Ta-da! That was a long one, huh? And yeah, I know it was kind of wacky. The whole intelligence transfer premise of this story is a little sci-fi or out-there seeming, but seriously, I wrote it when I was spending much of my time in a doctor's office or hospital. I was bored, and surrounded by medical stuff and medical people and medical procedures, so ha. That explains why the villain is a deranged neurosurgeon. XD All that to say, I realize something like this would probably never happen in an episode, but I wrote it just for fun and it's to be read for the same reason. Fun. :D As always, LEMME KNOW WHATCHA THINK! What you liked, or what you didn't like, I'm open! And I love you hear from you guys. Bye!
P.S. Oh, I got a cover photo for the story! What do you think? :-D