The room was cold and damp and dark, and John Watson groaned as he woke inside it. Pain flared through his middle, his wrists stung when he tried to move his arms, and his head pounded rhythmically, making him squeeze his eyes shut again and groan miserably until the sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes subsided into a dull throb, not caring who might be around to hear it. Something caught in his throat and he choked, spitting out a globule of blood. He was sitting tied to a chair, he surmised, but he didn't know where or why. The last thing he recalled was playing cricket for Mycroft Holmes' old team; he was still wearing the elder Holmes' old sweater. Then something had happened, something like an explosion or a gunshot. Had he been shot? That might explain the pain in his middle, but it didn't really feel like a gunshot.

He'd been shot before; he knew what that pain was like. It had been like a hot poker being pressed into his skin, piercing and pulsing and sending sharp, hot tendrils of pain crawling through his whole body. This felt more like a large, deep bruise, like a hoof-print after being kicked by a horse. Kind of like his own wounds had felt after the bullets in his skin had been removed, he mused. But if someone had shot him trying to kill him, they wouldn't have healed him. Except, he thought sluggishly, here he was, wherever here was, so they must not want him dead. Not yet, anyway.

He remembered it, then. He had been shot, but not badly. He'd hit the dirt hard, and he remembered that the cricket ball had been lodged awkwardly against his sternum. He'd grabbed his bleeding side, his instincts telling him the bullet had passed through his flesh. He'd closed his eyes, turned his head slightly, tried not to breathe in the dirt below him. Then he'd laid still like he was supposed to. That was instinct, too, in its own way: soldiers fall when they're shot. He'd known someone would come for him and they had, but what he hadn't known was the people who'd come would be his attackers, hadn't known he'd be kidnapped. He would have cooperated with them, would have let them take him, but instead they'd hit him viciously until he'd lost consciousness.

He had no choice but to wait in the darkness, unable to move and barely able to see. He guessed that he was in a small, disused storage room in an old building. The walls were close on either side of him, only a meter or two from what he could determine through the darkness. The space smelled stale and musty, like it was unused and rotten.

He'd been sitting for only a few minutes when the door opened. Light spilled through the doorway, shining in his eyes too brightly and blinding him. He turned his face away, but his head was immediately grabbed and twisted around so he was facing forward once more. The man who held his head stood at his side while another man stood over him, his face wreathed in shadows from the light at his back.

'That's two,' Watson thought to himself, counting his captors. He didn't quite know what he would do with that information as there was no way he could escape to fight them, but if he could and there were only the two of them he might have a chance. He knew it wasn't a very good chance, of course, but he'd never let that stop him from trying if he did find an escape.

"I was surprised, you know, that you actually responded to the invitation," the man in front of him said without preamble, and Watson tried to keep the confusion he felt out of his face. What invitation? Had he been somehow invited to his own kidnapping? He knew he might not be as bright as Sherlock Holmes, but he wasn't dense, and he especially wasn't that dense. And why was this man acting like he knew him and knew exactly what he was talking about? Watson figured that the perfect application of the science of deduction would probably have given him an answer by now, but, well, he wasn't as bright as Sherlock Holmes, and so he remained confused.

"You've shown to nothing else, and I was beginning to think it was because you realized there was a trap laid out for you," the man continued. "When I saw you out there and realized the reports of your sedentary lifestyle and inactivity were untrue I almost called the whole thing off, fearing the worst. But I could see no way you could defend against the attack, and I was right."

Watson said nothing, his brain sluggishly sorting through all the information he'd been presented with. Embarrassingly slowly, he realized this man wasn't talking about him at all. There was only one man he knew who was known for a sedentary lifestyle, reclusive habits, and had actually been invited to the cricket game: Mycroft Holmes.

He'd been on the field playing for Mycroft on his old team when he'd been shot. He'd been mistaken for Mycroft, and he'd been attacked in place of Mycroft. Apparently, whoever his captors were didn't actually know Mycroft Holmes, however, since they hadn't yet realized they'd make a mistake. Watson knew he had to keep it that way; if they realized he wasn't the elder Holmes, they might plan another attack on the real one.

"I apologize for the hit to your head," the man said, interrupting his thoughts. "I assure you I have no wish to destroy your excellent mental faculties. Not until I have extracted what I wish from you, I mean. Intelligence reports tell me you are well connected in many government circles and are privy to some important government secrets. Those, I assure you, will soon be mine."

Mycroft Holmes. The person he was describing could only be Mycroft Holmes. Watson's head was still pounding, but he was sure of it. He didn't have brain space for worrying about 'extract what I wish from you,' might mean.

His captor moved so his face was in the light. "Tell me, do you remember who I am?"

Watson felt fear grip him: this man did know Mycroft after all. He hadn't figured out that Watson wasn't him, though, so maybe he didn't actually know. Maybe they'd known each other years ago and was tricked. After all, Mycroft barely saw people anymore, and the two of them did share some features: they were both strongly built, shorter and stockier than the long, lean Sherlock Holmes. They both had broad shoulders, strong arms, and thick necks: the kind of physical build that did well for them in physical fights. If Mycroft wasn't so corpulent and inactive Watson always imagined he'd be stronger physically than Sherlock and more than capable of holding his own. He hadn't been surprised at all, therefore, to learn Mycroft had once been a skilled athlete, and he'd been happy to play on his old team.

Watson looked back at his captor impassively. Too quickly for his pounding head to even think to brace for it, the man lashed out, slapping him hard across his face. He tasted fresh blood in his mouth, but he said nothing. He didn't know how to be Mycroft Holmes, but he knew he didn't have to be. All he needed to do was not give away the truth, and not saying anything at all was the best way to accomplish that. He hoped it would work.

"I thought not," said the man, leaning back into the shadows, then forward again.

Watson spit some more blood out of his mouth, letting it coat his teeth and chin and hoping it would make him seem angry and dangerous rather than helpless and pathetic.

"You never did care about anyone other than yourself," his captor hissed, his face inches from Watson's. He tilted his head and studied Watson critically. "Well, well," he murmured, "maybe this will be penance for all those school day cruelties." He took a step back, then swung hard, landing his fist into Watson's middle, making him scream in pain despite himself: he'd definitely been shot somewhere on his side. The pain was so intense he barely registered the pain as the man punched him twice more on either side of his head before seeming to tire of it, leaning back with a sigh and wiping his bloody knuckles with a handkerchief.

"I don't suppose you'll be quite ready to tell me what I need to know just yet," he said. "I wouldn't expect a man of your caliber would be, so I will refrain from making demands of you until I am ready. Our real interrogation will take place in a few days, but let me give you a bit to think about in the meantime."

He took a long thin rod from somewhere behind him, and Watson, still breathing hard from the pain in his side, grit his teeth and steeled himself for what was coming. The man, together with the other, silent captor at his side, wrenched his arms around in their restraints and shoved away Mycroft's sweater so his bare palms and arms were exposed. His wrists were already raw from the restraints and burned from the pain, but that was quickly replaced by new pain as the rod came down hard on the inside of one arm, then the other.

Raised red welts immediately appeared on his pale skin, new ones soon joining them as he was struck again. Welts that were struck twice or thrice opened and began oozing blood, which splashed upwards with repeated blows. Watson's hands and palms were hit, too, and he heard rather than felt a few bones in his fingers breaking with some of the more forceful strikes. His vision blurred, he couldn't feel his hands anymore, and the pain traveling through his body seemed to turn into one stabbing pain right in the center of his chest; he knew he was going to pass unconscious soon, and he welcomed the oblivion closing in on the edges of his mind. He was no longer aware of the cries he was making, but he did feel it when the man slashed at his face a few times for good measure, then finally put the instrument away.

"Keep that in mind," the man hissed, once again leaning close to him and speaking right in his ear, else Watson wouldn't have heard him. "It's only a fraction of what I have in store for you if you choose not to comply. We'll talk again in a few days, mister Mycroft Holmes. That will give you some time to remember, hmm? And maybe by then I'll find you a bit more willing to comply." He left, then, and whoever else had been in the room left with him.

Very slowly, his face still a mask of pain and blood coating his teeth and chin, John Watson grinned through the darkness. He had little hope for his own situation, but he'd figured out vital information and he knew something his captor didn't: he was not Mycroft Holmes. That meant no matter what they did to him, no matter how much they beat him or threatened him, he could never betray his beloved England because he had no secrets to share. And, almost more importantly in his mind, it might mean that the real Holmes brothers, wherever they were, were safe.