Watson's lips were dry and chapped, and he knew, in a vague, detached, professional corner of this mind which was still working, that the breaths that passed through them were too short and too fast. He'd long ago lost the fight to keep control of his bladder and bowels, and was far past any feelings of humiliation about his situation; he was going to die and he knew it. There would only be shame in his death if he betrayed his country or, and this was foremost in his mind, either Holmes brother, especially, and this thought pained him, that friend he loved more than he loved himself rather than the other who was vital for the well-being of England herself.
His physical pain had subsided into a persistent aching, and his arms and legs had gone numb long ago. It wasn't comfortable, but it was bearable enough to let him get a few minutes of sleep when he was exhausted enough. He knew his captors were leaving him like this to wear him down, but it amused him, sometimes, to think they were simply ignorant instead, and that he'd die here without them ever coming back for him or laying a single finger on him again. He almost wished for it.
Above everything, though, was the thirst. It was overwhelming, and for long stretches of time it was all he could think of as he sat in the dark. His tongue was dry and thick in his mouth, a headache pounded persistently behind his eyes, his muscles cramped and spasmed, and his eyes were dry and twitching.
His captor knew it. After coming in once more and slapping him awake from one of the few bits of sleep he'd been able to get and blinding him with light from beyond the doorway just as before, his captor poured a glass of water, taking a long drink himself before filling it again and setting it in front of him. There were two others with him, standing silently in the shadows on either side. He didn't bother keeping track of them; there was no chance of escape at all in the condition he was in.
"You didn't think I was going to let you die before I got what I wanted from you, did you?" the man asked. "It hasn't been long, only two days. You were playing cricket before, though, so I can't imagine you were well hydrated. I suppose you'd like some of this," he said, and took another long drink, spitting into the glass afterwards before offering it by holding it up to Watson's lips.
He turned his face away, trying to think even as his head pounded harder and he squeezed his eyes shut. If it had really had been two days already then he would be dead within another day if he didn't drink anything. And then, when he was dead, his suffering would be over. If he drank water, however, he might linger for weeks being tortured before he finally died. He was desperate for some, which was, of course, why his captors had delayed their interview by two days, but he couldn't have any or he would only prolong his own torture.
His captor knew that, too, and he reached out, grasping his throat and squeezing until Watson had no choice but to gasp for breath, then forcing him to drink, and despite himself he did, the water just enough to clear his head a bit and make him desperate for more. He choked on what little he had been given, and his captor laughed at him cruelly as he pulled it away. Then, he did something Watson wasn't expecting and pulled out a knife, slicing through his restraints and kicking the chair out from under him. He fell to the ground groaning, his every limb aching from being constrained in the same position for so long. Blood sluggishly began flowing through his extremities, and it felt like all his muscles seized at once. He lay on the cold ground, groaning from the pain of it until the overwhelming aching once again dulled enough he could think.
"Now, Mr. Holmes, here is how this is going to work," his captor hissed, and Watson realized he was crouching near him. "You will answer my questions. If you do, this all ends, and you go free. Refuse, and I'll keep you as you are now: in agony, right on the edge of death, before you finally break, answer my questions despite all your wasted effort, and I kill you. You know I can; you've been here for two days already, and I can make it so much worse." He rose. "Do you understand?"
Watson turned his face down into the floor, gritting his teeth and waiting for the blow he knew he'd get for not answering. It came via his captor's boot right against his sternum, and he gasped in pain.
"Do you understand?" the man said again.
Watson grit his teeth again; if he said anything at all it might give him away, so he wasn't going to answer. Nothing at all: this man would never hear his voice before he died, nor did he deserve to.
"Say yes," his captor said, "and we'll take you out of here. You'll get water and food and a change of clothes, and you'll be let go with the assurance you will never be molested again. All you have to do is answer a few questions that I likely already know the answers to. Say yes."
Watson knew he was lying; he'd shown his face in the light and could be identified. There was no way in hell he was going to be spared, much less released. Still, the offer was tempting, and Watson focused on the pain in his body to distract him.
"Hang him," the man said casually, presumably speaking to Watson's other captors. His voice was monotone, almost bored or disappointed: totally incongruous with the order he'd just given.
Watson was almost relieved; they were going to kill him. They knew Mycroft was too strong, too determined. He, John Watson, might not have been, but that wasn't who he was right now. He was Mycroft Holmes, they thought he was Mycroft Holmes, and they'd decided it wasn't worth keeping him around. They weren't going to waste time questioning him, weren't going to drag this out for weeks until he died of his wounds. He didn't want to hang, didn't want to be dead, but he did want it to be over, and was confused and almost disappointed when they didn't put a rope around his neck.
Instead, he was stripped of his shirt and trousers and loops of rope were put around his wrists. He was yanked upwards by his arms being pulled outwards to his sides and upwards to the ceiling like he was nothing more than a sandbag, and he screamed like a wild man with every yank of his body upwards. It was almost immediately that the pain in his wounded shoulder was too much to bear, and he lost consciousness.
The next few minutes were a hellish cycle of being slapped and beaten awake, becoming overwhelmed by the pain, and falling unconscious again. Eventually, the pain in his shoulder faded into a dull throbbing; he knew that when it moved again he'd likely pass unconscious once more from the pain, but for the moment he was able to stay awake.
"What happened to you?" his captor mused, observing him critically. Watson shut his eyes as the man surveyed him like he was an animal being auctioned off, and he tried to ignore the snort of derision that clearly said he'd been judged and found lacking. It was the kind of judgment and disgust he'd always feared he'd receive; had Sherlock Holmes or anyone else he loved and admired ever shown that kind of disgust with him he knew full well the shame would crush him. This man, however, was no one: odious and immoral and his hate meant nothing. Watson told himself so several times, tried to convince himself he shouldn't be feeling like he was the one who was repulsive.
"It must have been the three years you spent in France: I think I would have known if you'd been shot while here in England."
Despite his pain, that piqued Watson's interest; he hadn't known Mycroft had spent three years in France. The man was so enigmatic and set in his ways that Watson found it hard to imagine him as an, energetic, ambitious adventurer. When he'd been young, however, he'd evidently been different. Watson wondered what his business had been in France, then remembered he was supposed to be Mycroft, so he tried to keep any surprise out of his eyes, a feat which was quite easy because of the pain he was in.
He tried to memorize the things the man asked him: what did he know about the sons of Apollo, what did his spies report to him about the activity surrounding the renovations being made to the national museum, another question about the sons of Apollo.
Most of the questions he was given were lost, however, erased by the pain of his captor's rod landing against his skin with every question he failed to answer. His wrists were held tightly in ropes sending burning pain through his arms, his back ached with every hit of the rod, and when he was hit on his ribs instead he swore he could feel his bones cracking.
There were names, too, but they soon blended together in his tortured mind until he couldn't quite recall them in any coherent order. There was one, however, that he did hang onto: Blackwell. That was the name his captor used for himself, and Watson etched it deep into the recesses of his brain.
Blackwell saying his name was, of course, another confirmation that he was never going to be released, but he hadn't given up hope of rescue yet, and he wanted to be able to give Holmes some information when he did come. Because surely Holmes was coming for him. Surely Holmes was fine; if he'd been killed, Blackwell would undoubtedly be saying so, showing some proof, using Sherlock's demise to mentally torture him. It would work, too, just not for the exact reasons Blackwell would be thinking it would work. He shoved all thoughts of Holmes away; he couldn't deal with that right now.
Sherlock Holmes was the smartest man he knew, so surely he could take care of himself. He'd have to, because Watson wasn't there to watch his back. Watson intentionally didn't think about the ramifications his own absence might have on his friend, didn't contemplate what Holmes' reaction would have been to seeing him kidnapped. He knew that in the despair he was feeling now he would convince himself that Holmes wasn't coming for him because he didn't care to and he'd never loved him at all and found him as repulsive as Blackwell did. As long as he didn't think about it too long he wouldn't fall into complete despair, and as long as he didn't fall into a complete despair he might be able to hold until help came. If it was coming.
When the pain became too much he bit his tongue and the inside of his cheeks until they bled, spitting his own blood down his skin and onto the floor, so that when he finally did try to say 'please stop,' it came out as nothing more than another garbled cry of pain.
He didn't know how long it was until they cut him down and he finally fell unconscious once more, nor did he know how long he stayed that way. When he woke he was lying on the cold floor, his arms tied roughly and cruelly behind him and his legs tied at the ankles as if they truly thought that he'd somehow be able to walk out and escape if he wanted after what they'd done to him. He thought of the long hours and days he'd spent waiting to die while held immobile in the chair, and he didn't want to face that again. He pressed his face into the cold ground, hoping that this time he'd be spared making it to the next session.