Arthur fights back.

Chapter Thirteen

When Arthur awoke for the third time, it was day time. The light from the window was diffuse, not direct. So this room must face South-West or West, he reasoned, since it surely must be morning, now. But it wasn't the light that had awoken him, it was the unmistakable aroma of frying bacon.

Arthur knew, all too well, that Reparation Therapists employed techniques of torture and aversion therapy in their nefarious practises but using the smell of bacon cooking was a new one on him. However, he had to admit it was rather effective. It was at least twenty-four hours since his last meal and his gastric juices and salivary glands were most definitely stimulated by the smell. His stomach growled.

An internal scan told Arthur that his body seemed to have dealt with the effects of the anaesthetic. His head felt clear and his muscle tone seemed back to normal – low, of course, since he had just woken up, but that was to be expected.

As he lay, on his back, looking up at the window, he found himself gauging the height of the aperture from the floor and wondering whether he could reach it, standing on the bed. Arthur was physically fit. He worked out on a regular basis – every day when he was at home, at Colbert House, in Mycroft's private gym. He had taken on the role of personal trainer to his partner, who previously had adopted something of a famine or feast approach to exercise.

Arthur was convinced that Mycroft was a little body dysmorphic. The man was stick thin, with barely an ounce of surplus fat anywhere. He was a little flabby around the middle, due to his somewhat sedentary lifestyle, but he certainly was not over-weight and yet he had a penchant for fad dieting. Arthur suspected that comments made in his youth, when he may have carried a bit of puppy fat, had scarred his self-image for life. Personally, Arthur absolutely adored Mycroft's body and, now that he was supervising the other man's fitness regime, his abs were beginning to look more like a six-pack and less like a meal sack.

Despite his dire circumstances, thinking about Mycroft and his private love-hate relationship with himself, made Arthur smile. No one knew the Iceman like he did, not even Sherlock – probably least of all, Sherlock. Molly had a good grasp of the older Holmes' insecurities but even she wasn't aware how deep those insecurities went.

When Mycroft came home from his emergency trip to Brazil, with the photographs and letter that his mother's friend, Caro, had kept secret for so long, he had opened up to Arthur about how his mother's sudden and inexplicable personality change had affected his six year old self. Mycroft had been the same age as William was now when that happened and he still bore the emotional scars.

Arthur was a modest, self-effacing man but even he had to acknowledge that he had brought a degree of happiness and contentment into his partner's life that not even the children had achieved. For this reason, if for no other, he was determined that he would do everything in his power to subvert the efforts of this so-called therapist to break his will. Never give up, never give in, and try to escape.

The window looked like his best bet for an escape attempt. If he could just get his fingers onto the window ledge, he might be able to haul himself up to the window and either open it or break the glass. At the very least, he may recognise the surrounding landscape, a familiar landmark that would give him clue as to his location and, if at some stage he did manage to escape, a visual reccie of the area might mean the difference between making it to freedom and being recaptured.

As a combatant in enemy hands, it was his duty to escape. And, as a prisoner under interrogation, it was his duty not to give away any information that might aid the enemy. As an abductee, it was essential that he resit all their efforts to subvert him. There could be no Stockholm Syndrome here. He was resolved to do all three.

ooOoo

'I will be working from home, today,' Mycroft informed his PA.

Anthea was relieved to hear that. It had been almost unbearable, the day before, to observe her boss fighting to maintain his usual calm and detached demeanour in the face of this intolerable personal crisis. Mycroft could perform his most valuable role – that of a master strategist – from anywhere, so he might as well be at home where the needs of his children and the demands of the estate would be both a distraction and a comfort.

'I will keep you fully informed of every aspect of the operation, sir,' the PA assured him.

'I know you will, my dear. I have complete confidence in your abilities as a field co-ordinator. I know of none better.'

Having the benefit of her conversation with Daddy, Katy had slept through the night. Charlie, in contrast, had been very restless and tearful through-out and, although he never actually awoke, his frequent bouts of crying gave Sara a very disturbed night. She was quite relieved when Michele took over childcare duties at seven-thirty the next morning.

The children were delighted when Mycroft joined them for breakfast in the Nursery. Mrs Orgreave prepared scrambled egg and smoked salmon, with tea and toast, in the small Nursery kitchen, by the expediency of the microwave, electric kettle and toaster. Charlie ran to his father, the moment he set eyes on him, through the Nursery doorway, and hugged him tight then looked, hopefully, over Mycroft's shoulder but to no avail.

'Where Poppah?' he asked, plaintively, and Mycroft repeated the deliberately vague explanation he had given to Katy, the night before.

'I Skype him, yes?' Charlie asked. He and Katy were well accustomed to Skyping Caro and Henrique, in Brazil. They were very techno-savvy.

'No, Charlie, I'm sorry, you can't Skype him. There's no Internet where he is.'

Charlie's lip quivered but he stoically resisted the urge to cry. He took his seat at the Nursery table and tucked into his breakfast, even managing a smile or two during the meal.

ooOoo

Sherlock had sat in his chair for half the night, moving things around in his head, trying to spot a clue or a link that he had previously over-looked. He repeatedly picked up Arthur's phone to read and re-read the text conversations he'd had with his sisters. He felt sure that there was some hidden message in those exchanges but, short of ringing the two women and asking them outright if there was some sort of code to these texts, he just had to hope that the penny would drop, sooner rather than later. Until Mycroft deemed it safe to speak to those women, his hands were tied.

Normally, he wouldn't let anything so trivial as Mycroft's instructions thwart him in his intentions but, on this occasion, it was Arthur's fate at stake. If the Press got wind that the loved one of a high ranking government official had been kidnapped, right here on home soil, it would go viral, giving the perpetrators more publicity than their wildest dreams could ever have predicted.

Until the kidnappers made their demands known or, at the very least, claimed responsibility, there was no opportunity for any negotiation. That was one of Mycroft's many special talents – brokering deals between sworn enemies. But who would negotiate when Mycroft himself was the perceived enemy?

At around four in the morning, Sherlock moved to the sofa and stretched out, with the intention of taking a sortie into his Mind Palace, but the next thing he knew, his ears were assaulted by a loud roar and he awoke with such a start that he rolled off the sofa and landed, face down, on the floor, between the sofa and the coffee table.

'Oh, sorry, dear! I didn't see you there. Are you alright?'

He pushed, slowly, to his knees and fixed his landlady with a disgruntled scowl.

'Is it entirely necessary to come barging in here, at this hour, and assault me with a vacuum cleaner?' he demanded, with vitriol.

'Well, I didn't know you were here, dear. I thought you went home, last night, when John left. And, in that dressing gown, you just blended in with the sofa, like camouflage.'

Sherlock eased his behind back onto the sofa, in a vain attempt to regain his dignity but Mrs Hudson, having established to her own satisfaction, at least, that he was unhurt by his untimely tumble, could not resist the powerful urge to laugh, even though she knew it was entirely inappropriate, especially under the current circumstances.

'Oh, Sherlock,' she chortled. 'That was so funny!'

'Not from my perspective,' he huffed, as he rose to his feet and stalked off, through the kitchen, into the bathroom.

Mrs H switched the Henry back on and continued to vacuum the rug, still emitting snorts of hilarity, at the recurring image of her tenant's unceremonious dismount.

ooOoo

Arthur was just about to stand up on the bed to see if he could reach the window ledge, when he heard the door being unlocked. It was opened by a man dressed all in black. He stepped into the room and did a quick visual check around, stared fixedly at Arthur for a moment, then held the door wide for the 'friend' to enter, carrying a tray. Once he was in the room, the man in black retreated and relocked the door from the outside.

He placed the tray on the medical trolley and turned, with a big smile, to his prisoner.

'Breakfast!' he announced, cheerfully.

Arthur returned a stony glare.

'It's perfectly good food, trust me,' the other man said.

'You had me kidnapped. You're keeping me here against my will and you assaulted me. That's not much of a basis for trust.'

'Arthur,' he began, in a placatory manner, 'as I've already said, I only want what's best for you. And, right now, you need to eat. We don't want you wasting away, do we?'

'I won't be here long enough to waste away.'

'Excellent! You're seeing sense already! I'm quite sure that you will soon see the error of your ways and we'll be able to return you to your family – to the people who really love you. Then you can begin your life again, free from this wicked abomination that has taken control of you.'

Arthur continued to stare and made no move to get out of bed to eat the breakfast, even though the smell emanating from under the food cover was making his mouth water, shamelessly.

The 'therapist' tutted and removed the cover from the plate of food – a full English breakfast – and said,

'Choose any item of food – any one you like – and I will eat it.' He gestured toward the plate.

Arthur was hungry. So much so, he was beginning to feel light-headed from low blood sugar. He considered the man's offer. Any item of his choice? That seemed fairly fool proof. He came to a decision and slid off the bed, crossing to the trolley. Picking up the plastic knife and fork, he cut one sausage in half and stabbed one half, offering it to the other man. He took it off the fork, with his finger and thumb, and popped it into his mouth, chewed and swallowed, then raised his eyebrows in Arthur's direction.

Arthur thought that perhaps the sausage was a bit of an obvious choice, so he cut a piece of the fried egg and offered it to his captor, who sighed and shook his head but still took the piece of egg and ate it.

'Would you like me to try anything else?' the man asked.

Arthur did not reply but pulled the trolley over to the bed, where he sat and began tucking into the meal and drinking from the bottle of water that was also on the tray – though not before first checking that the seal on the bottle had not been broken. The other man leant against the long work top and watched his captive consume his breakfast.

Arthur took his time over the meal, well aware that whatever was to follow would be, at the very least extremely unpleasant and, more than likely very painful. But the food couldn't last for ever and, eventually, he drained the water bottle and pushed the trolley away.

His new friend pulled the trolley over to the doorway and rapped sharply on the door. The man in black opened the door and pulled the trolley out of the room, closing the door again.

'Well, Arthur, how was your meal?'

'Where are my clothes?' Arthur asked.

'You don't need those clothes, Arthur. Those were the Devil's clothes, not yours. Those clothes were evil.'

Arthur was rather alarmed by this use of the past tense but pushed the implications of that to the back of his mind.

'How can clothes be evil? They're inanimate objects,' he said.

'Those clothes were a symbol of your sin, Arthur.'

'What, the sin of wearing Jack Wills and Levi 501's? Oh, not to mention Nike. I had no idea!'

'You were gulled into wearing those sinful clothes by that man who has corrupted you.'

Arthur gave a bark of laughter.

'Hello? Have you ever seen my partner's dress sense? Do you really think I would ever let him give me wardrobe advice? That's one subject on which we agree to disagree!'

The man stared hard at Arthur, lips pursed.

'You don't seem to be taking this very seriously, Arthur,' he said, at last.

Arthur's smile disappeared at once.

'How can I take this seriously? This is a farce. I am gay. That's just who I am. I'm not ill, I'm not defective and I'm not possessed by the Devil. I'm just gay.'

The other man frowned then turned, when he heard the door being unlocked and opened. The man in black came in, pushing the medical trolley which now had a TV on it. He pushed it to the wall opposite the bed, plugged it into a power socket and switched it on.

Ah, so the wall sockets work, even if the light socket doesn't, Arthur noted.

'What's this? Good Morning Britain?' Arthur drawled, though he was feeling a lot less amused than he sounded.

During the preceding verbal exchange, Arthur had become increasingly aware of a discomfort in his stomach. He'd had gastroenteritis, once, and this sensation was not dissimilar to that. His stomach began to roil and he felt the colour draining from his face, as the discomfort developed into a wave of intense nausea. As the saliva began to pool in his mouth, he pushed off the bed and lurched toward the sink, making it just in time, as his guts heaved and his breakfast made a dramatic reappearance.

He wretched and heaved and the contents of his stomach splatted into the sink, to join the remains of his nocturnal urination.

During a brief hiatus between expulsions, he rested his forehead on the cool, stainless steel rim of the sink, and gasped,

'You bastard…the water…'

'Well done, Arthur. A hypodermic through the neck is impossible to detect with the naked eye but an extraordinarily effective way to introduce foreign substances into a sealed bottle.'

Arthur didn't really hear most of that, since he was heaving and groaning, as his body broke out in a cold sweat.

ooOoo