When Sherlock wakes again next, his hair is in his eyes. Being unwashed for what he assumes has been a few days by now would surely make his hair lose the natural bounce and the length of it flat would pass his eyes, but it seems a bit too long.
He doesn't have enough time to ponder his hair before the door opens slowly and Ben strolls in with a blindfold.
"We're taking a trip," he says, stretching the blindfold between his hands.
He instructs Sherlock to stand, and Sherlock gets up onto two shaky legs. He's both weak and scared, a combination making it nearly impossible for him to walk. But he finds the strength and does it.
Ben wraps the blindfold loosely around his eyes and ties it behind his head. "We're not leaving the building," Ben explains, "But I don't want you to see anything...anything that you might see."
Something close to sorrow or remorse plagues his voice, and Sherlock doesn't know what to make of a killer and his captor wanting to save him from potentially being scarred from a dead body lying in the hall. He's unable to forget the crack of the gun echoing through the concrete room he's been in, and the thought makes his stomach turn.
Ben pulls him out of the room and down a hallway, where Sherlock can of course not see anything, but he can also not smell anything. If the body was still there, it'd start to smell by now. If it wasn't and Ben cleaned it, he'd smell cleaning solution. If he hasn't cleaned it, Sherlock would smell blood. Confused, he can't figure out if the shooting was just a few hours ago, to which he might not smell a body but probably still the blood, or if it has been cleaned up and the cleaning smell has worn out, so it's been...
Sherlock's stomach turns again. Days? How long has he been here?
Ben stops and Sherlock hears the faint click of a lock. Ben lightly pushes him into the room and takes off his blindfold.
It's a tiny bathroom. It's a got a sink, a toilet, a shower stall that doesn't have a door or curtain, and it doesn't have a window or a mirror.
Ben cuts the ties off Sherlock's hands and waves him off. "There's a toothbrush there, a fresh towel and fresh clothes. I'll wait here."
Sherlock doesn't say anything; he doesn't want answers that have anything to do with the bathroom. He can smell himself and if this is a luxury he's allowed, he'll take it.
He cleans his teeth first, taking his time and using half of the tiny travel size tube of toothpaste, just because he doesn't at all feel clean. He repeatedly reapplies paste to the brush, scrubbing it roughly over each tooth individually until his mouth feels somewhat better.
"You haven't eaten much," Ben says.
Sherlock jumps; for a second he'd actually forgotten that he was there.
"Is there anything you wish? Any favorite foods? I've gotten you everything I've gathered that you like."
Sherlock doesn't say anything. He doesn't even spare ben a glance. A normal retort would be asking if it's a last meal, but he doesn't want to know the answer.
"Okay, suit yourself," Ben says.
He's silent the rest of the time Sherlock is brushing his teeth. He knows Ben is staring at him, but he doesn't care.
Next is a shower, to which he is thankful. He starts unbuttoning his shirt, then actually looks up at Ben. He's watching Sherlock intently, his eyebrows slanted down with thought. He's staring at Sherlock's chest, but when he finally seems to notice Sherlock has stopped, his eyes flick up to Sherlock's face.
Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, not wanting to speak to ask Ben to turn around, but still caring enough to not want ben to stare at him while he's naked.
"Oh," Ben sighs, then actually turns around in the doorway.
It's a small victory, and Sherlock takes it. He strips and uses the toilet before he switches the shower on freezing cold and steps under it.
The cold spray feels like it is washing everything away. Though hot would feel like it was burning his skin off, the cold feels like his pores are being attacked. He's been going for who knows how long without his expensive shampoo, body wash, and facial scrub, and his whole body just feels clogged. He feels disgusting.
Sherlock washes away the dry blood from his face, neck, and where it trickled down to his chest. He scrubs the needle marks on his arms, washes down his entire body,
and he realizes he feels terrible. His whole body hurts so bad. Sleeping on the cot is making his muscles ache, but he hurts and burns...everywhere. He wants to know what else ben is injecting him with...
"Take your time," Ben says. "But know that you can turn on the hot tap."
Sherlock doesn't say anything, of course.
He stays in the water for as long as Ben allows, which Sherlock estimates to be around half an hour. Ben tells him he's done, so he shuts the water off and towel dries as fast as he can before dressing in clothes that actually look like his.
Ben reapplies the blindfold. Sherlock rubs his wrists and is thankful that Ben didn't retie his hands together, but he assumes they'll come when he's back in the room.
The cell stinks like what Sherlock must have smelled like before his shower: stale sweat, sour vomit, the metallic tinge of blood that is stained all over his cot.
Ben silently reties his hands and reapplies the IV drip.
"Goodnight," he says, almost affectionately.
Sherlock just falls over onto his bed and starts to cry.
John can't wait for this all to be over. Only a few more hours and he can go home to sit and wait for Sherlock to return. Only a few more hours and Lestrade will tell him all the new developments that Mycroft had promised for "the end of the school year".
He just has to make it through the day.
It has been easier lately. The news of Sherlock's disappearance has died down and of course, after the lunch room incident, nobody dare says anything to John that would make him snap. Everyone's walking on eggshells around him. Even his own friends are too nervous to ask how he is.
Before third period, he's at Sherlock's locker, emptying the contents and stuffing them into a black rubbish sack the office gave him. It feels so final, and it hits him that Sherlock isn't even here to do it himself. Before he can stop himself, he lets tears fall.
Seconds later, long arms wrap around him and pull him into a tight hug. John tucks his face into the neck of the mystery hugger, smelling someone distinctly feminine.
"It's okay," she whispers, rubbing slow circles on John's back.
John catches his breath and pulls away from her, looking at her face. "Kennedy?" he confusedly asks. He glances around them, finding the hall empty and belatedly noticing that the bell rang.
"You okay?" she asks, wiping a tear from John's cheek.
He takes a deep breath. "Yeah, I...I just lost it there for a second."
"Understandable," Kennedy says. "Do you need me to get you anything?"
John shakes his head. "No, no. I'm fine."
Kennedy nods. "Hey, uhm..." She holds up a gift bag and pushes it towards John. "We got you something."
John confusedly stares at the bag. "We?"
"With the help of your lovely friend Declan, we managed to make a list of everyone Sherlock helped this year. So this is from me, Wyatt, Jenna, Taylor, Harvey, Lex, Ashley, Lily, Harvey, Dane, Cecil, and Ellery. And a few other people; Olive chipped in, as did Duke and Brady."
John can't help but laugh at the way she growls Ellery's name. "You and Dec did this?"
"It was my idea. He helped me make the list and I got ahold of everyone. They were more than happy to help."
John nods in understanding.
Kennedy thrusts the bag at him again. "Go on."
John tentatively takes it, noting that the bag crumples a bit but is solid. It feels like a blanket or something.
He opens the bag and sure enough, it's a blanket. "This is...great..." he mutters.
Kennedy laughs. "Unfold it."
"Oh," he sighs, then does as told. She helps him spread it and he soon sees that there's an image on it.
"Kennedy, this is...it's gorgeous."
The image on the blanket is one of him and Sherlock, age nine. They're both covered in paint from painting Sherlock's bedroom green (a month later he had it painted blue), sitting on the back steps at Sherlock's house eating ice cream cones. Their faces are squished together, because when Clement said "Smile!" John wrapped a tight arm around Sherlock's shoulders and pulled him close. The two little boys look incredibly happy, and it warms John's heart so much that tears sting his eyes again.
"Oh, John!" Kennedy cries, reaching for him again.
John let's Kennedy hug him while he clutches the blanket to his chest.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"
"No, no!" John stops her. "It's gorgeous, thank you so much. I can't believe you all did this for me."
"We miss him too," Kennedy says. "Looking through the photos to find one we could all agree on was fun. Jenna and Lily wanted one of you two from the past year, a couple-y photo. The boys wanted one that would embarrass Sherlock once he sees it. But Olive and I really liked the ones of you two as little guys. It's so sweet that you two have been together for so long. Even in those photos you guys look...terribly smitten."
"We do?"
Kennedy nods. "There was one where you guys are about twelve and the photo is focused on you, but Sherlock's in the background staring at you with figurative hearts in his eyes."
John blushes.
"It was so cute. Looking through the pictures was a blast. Do you like it?"
"I do, I really love it. Thank you so much."
"We also want to get together tomorrow night. If you're not up for it, we completely understand, but Declan really wants to get out of his house and I even invited his girlfriend."
John laughs. "What are you guys doing?"
"Dinner and movie night at my place. Please, if you're up for it, come."
"Alright," John says. "Sure."
Kennedy smiles widely. "Perfect. I'll see you then."
"Great. And Kennedy? Thanks again, really. I love it so much."
"You're welcome," she says, then leaves John at Sherlock's locker.