bakerstreet | Physical Torture Meme

[[ooc: I suppose you have permission to kill him in this one, or at least, make him wish you had.]]

[Oh hello there, pet. The Black Queen would very much like to break you. She has ever so many methods to do so. Name it and she has it.

You should have left the Hellfire Club alone, Detective.

How does that sound?]

[He expected to find trouble, he just hadn't expected to be caught.
His head hurts from the blows it had taken to knock him unconscious, but he's not able to judge every cut just yet. He's not easily broken, Queen. You'll have a fight ahead.

But if, you succeed - even though he's not considering himself broken as an option - it won't take much - he's already stretched thin. Deprive him of necessities, and continue the assault, and eventually - like everyone - he'll have to give in.]

[Selene strides into the room with regal confidence, befitting the Black Queen of the Hellfire Club. Alongside her was an ominous-looking man with a sewn-up mouth and a pair of nearly emaciated little girls, identical twins, with rather larger than normal heads.]

Your Majesty, this one thinks he can fight.

[The girls speak in unison, the mute giant simply goes up to bring Sherlock away from the wall, his arms and legs chained and spread apart, far too wide to be comfortable. It's the tensed strength of chains pulled taut that holds him in place.]

Hello Detective.

[Selene finally speaks, her voice dripping with false honey. She gestures slightly with her hand and a brilliant cloud of metal shards form around her. They fly towards Sherlock, making tiny, tiny cuts, forcing themselves into his nose, into his ears, into his mouth, against his skin.

Her control is exquisite. They're cutting out tiny swatches of skin- and cutting little slices into the mucuous membranes, making it an agony to breathe or swallow. After thirty or so seconds of doing their work, they drop to the ground, falling away and out of him like a gentle rain.

It's then, before he can steel himself again, that he feels the mental assault, the two girls telepaths and powerful ones.]

[While he's coughing from the shards - where had those come from? in his mouth and nose, and trying to maintain some sense of where he is - comes the mental assault. He's biting his cheek to keep from crying in pain - because, that's really not his style. Yet.
It feels like bees in his ears, stinging through his head, or - a more accurate illustration, hornets - burrowing, stinging, injecting poison. He tries to steel himself anyway, to stop them from going further that he was trying to keep safe a friend of his, that - he's looking for criminals, though he's not sure how deeply they've gotten. He's not sure how this works.]

Telepaths. Kinetic abilities, mm, how clever.

[But there's also pain, this particular sudden assault he's not accustomed to. He can fake that it doesn't hurt as much as it does though; in fact he's going to try.]

Edited (spacing, urgh) 2013-10-25 00:10 (UTC)

[Selene has a look of sadistic glee on her face as she watches the little shards doing their elegantly precise work. Her mute torturer awaits his command and the two girls look blankly forward, their minds assaulting his own. When they encounter resistance- how rare that a mere mortal can resist them at all, they turn slightly towards Selene.

She smiles cruelly. And that's when they start finding memories and rewriting them into harrowing experiences. Bending his preferences towards addictions and obsessions. They're literally breaking down his mind, one step at a time. They're not quite as elegant and skilled as the the White Queen or her Cuckoos, but they wouldn't likely have participated in something so sadistically cruel.

It's the enjoyment of the torture itself that is Selene's primary motivation.]

Make sure that he doesn't pass out, girls. I want him awake. Headsman, his fingernails, if you please.

[The headsman nods silently in assent as he goes to rip off Sherlock's fingernails, one at a time with pliers. One of the girls breaks off from her psionic efforts to ensure that he doesn't do anything ridiculous like pass out.]

[He attempts to retreat into his mind, but he can't. Instead he feels... alone. He wants to numb that, he wants a hit no he doesn't, not really, he doesn't want to be a slobbering over himself...

The nerves can be quite affected, and this time he does let out a low moan because - it really does hurt, and - he's not going unconscious, even though his mind tries - to protect itself.]

Why are you ... doing this...?

[It strikes him there might not be a reason. People are known for sadism.]

[Oh yes he does want a hit, and a drink. Those are the simple things. Just pulling all of his cravings into more and more terrible directions. The girl changes gear into a memory. His father. A darkened room. Being held down.

She's trying to convince him that his father molested him.]

Because you crossed our path. Because Sebastian's already had his telepaths pull what we needed out of your mind. Because it sends a message to others.

Because I enjoy it, pet.

[There's a malevolence in her gaze that transcends the ordinary. Even though in most respects she looks physically to be around thirty, Sherlock can tell somehow, that's she's been alive and tormenting people for centuries. Even her own pets, she's brutalized. Those girls have had the humanity leeched out of them, and the 'Headsman' has had his lips permanently sewn shut.

He turns towards her, waiting for his next order as the last of his fingernails drop to the floor.]

[He feels dirty, isolated, alone. Vile. It's foreign really because the memory is there, but he knows it isn't true. His father left the family when he was a child. His mother died when he was thirteen, and that's probably one of his worst memories, really - the thing that made him vulnerable and yet made him grow up and steel himself off from people. One of the things that haunted him as he injected cocaine...no, please - it hurts, he doesn't want to think about this now... He struggles, trying to steady his breathing, his fingers aching awfully, not fading to a throb, just sharp as though they were still being ripped off. They'll grow back. He has to use that to calm himself. When she says about enjoying it and he knows she's tortured people for a very long time, he feels cold and heated at once. Like shoving it back, like clenching his hands over her throat. But he's bound, and it's clear even if he weren't she'd probably cut him apart before he got to her. He won't give up the idea, but he's going to keep it in the back of his mind.

His eyes are bit dulled with pain. It really, really hurts, he's just trying to disconnect from it, so he doesn't give them the satisfaction.]

Such a brave little boy you are.

[Selene practically purrs at him. The one girl seems to pick up on the hint and starts to change his memories of her mother, making her into a cold alcoholic, trying to emphasize anything negative he feels about her. None of his memories are sacred.

Selene moves closer to him and runs her hand delicately across his bleeding face, almost soothingly, and then her hands turn into an iron grip on his jaw. It feels like she could tear it right off if she desired. But there's something else that happens now, an unmentionable coldness that tugs at something deep inside him.

She's draining his lifeforce, his will, sapping it directly. She doesn't give him the sweet gift of death, just weakens him, makes him less capable of resisting. The lifeforce transferred from him gives her eyes an unearthly glow, as she pulls away and summons up the close of tiny blades once more. These ones are even more precise, slicing away at his clothes until he is left completely naked in the cool room, exposed.

Then they begin their dance over his flesh, snipping off every trace of body hair he has, making a thousand tiny cuts on his flesh.]

[He's not sure quite how it works, it becomes a bit of a blur, until he can feel the curls falling off his head, down his back onto the floor. Things ache, but this feels a bit as though he is being stripped of whatever made him himself. He's bleeding from the cuts, nothing terrible - but still aching like there's glass or metal in them, something he's sure there is. He just - feels alone. Yes, he's not had a friend - must keep that safe, locked in the tightest iron box and the key thrown away.

It will be there when it's safe for him to look for it. He can't even think the name. No. He won't think it. Mummy drunk, Mycroft ignoring him even as he was bullied. Fine. He'll accept that. He is weak, after all - unsure of how that happened - but he's sagging a little on the chains, wishing he could curl up on the floor. He doesn't really want to speak. Afraid his mouth's going to betray him, more than his mind.]

He's hiding something, Mistress. He resists more than just about any other non-telepath we've come across.

[If Selene's main priority was information, she would likely have long ago swallowed her pride and summoned Emma. The White Queen's powers were such that his resistance, his will would have meant nothing. She would have peeled him like an orange. But she'd not have wanted to be here. Ruthless as she was, she was too afraid to get her dazzling white outfits bloodied.

But pain was her priority. She wanted to break this man, mentally and physically. She nods at the headsman, who grabs a bottle of high-proof alcohol and douses his bleeding wounds in it. The one girl keeps working to make sure that he remains conscious, the other girl continues to pick at his memories and sense of self.]

[His head lolls a bit, as he attempts to catch his breath. Sooner or later they're going to find it.] Wh-what do you want?

[He is tired, eventually the human body will do anything to just sleep.
As a last resort, he thinks of Victor. He hadn't really been close, they'd just experimented in college. And that's where it ends, and he's going to delete everything - well. Yes. Delete. Blank slate after that. Rehab, everything else. He wants a hit. He'd just been doing cases to fuel off boredom.]

I want to know all about your friend.

[She smirks coldly. It might even be true. His friend might just get their mind wiped, or Sebastian might decide that he needs a new target for his boundless strength. Shaw lacks what she feels is her refinement, but he has a real gift for pulverizing human bodies into unrecognizable lumps of flesh.

He won't sleep. He won't go unconscious, not until Selene tells the girls that they can stop keeping him awake. She knows she's close and her delight is becoming harder and harder to mask, her sadistic, satanic glee.]

You can only take so much.

[And the headsman picks up a blowtorch. And armed guards shuffle in a wide-eyed young girl, shaking in terror.]

I could keep you alive for a very long time, even ablaze. All I need to do is kill her and give you her life force.

Or you could give in, and maybe, just maybe I'll keep her alive.

I don't have friends.
[He spits blood out of his mouth and immediately regrets it, how dry his mouth is he really needs water. The statement is said as though it's fact.

Lestrade making sure he was arrested, his brother betraying him to Moriarty, his landlady saying she wouldn't rent unless he had a mate. The only thing he cares about is that box. And there is no key. He knows she wants that and he won't allow the one thing he believes in to be blackened and corrupted. He might smirk at the threat of the blowtorch though there's a spike of terror.

I will burn you.]
If you just want to keep me alive, then - fine. That's all I'll be - alive but practically ... useless...

[His body wants to go unconscious.]

So defiant to the last.

But you're a slave to reason. You cannot understand me fully while you cling to your precious modernism.

I am a witch and a goddess and I can keep you as alive and as useful as I desire.

[She laughs coldly and disdainfully and drains the girl utterly, to a fine cloud of dust. And then the mute man puts the blowtorch to his flesh. He doesn't put it to him for long. The alcohol ignites. He has a fire extinguisher at the ready.

The whole thing will be over in seconds, he'll extinguish the flames and she'll infuse him with the girl's life energy if needed.]

He screams as the alcohol sets alight, and then feels strange as he's infused with someone else's ... life. He might feel a bit like a murderer - someone he'd tried to keep locked away. The people he's killed in the last few months had mostly been in self-defense or the risk they might betray his location, which meant the Others weren't safe.

He tries to breathe, coughing a bit at the scent of burned flesh, both his own and the girl's and he's rather sick on the floor. She can kill him if she wants, obviously.

It's not defeatist, it's a realist. And he would rather die than give up whatever are the contents of that box. Which he will forget. If he can redirect.

Cocaine. Well, he could think about his addiction. More shameful that way, but a redirect.

John, his brain supplies, unhelpfully - trying to give him some sense to keep on. To not give in yet. But it hurts. His hands are shaking, as they throb and swell, and he feels a few symptoms of shock coming on.

Edited 2013-10-28 11:51 (UTC)

((anything in the "otherwise inflicted" category. because he is 100% likely to be inflicting the torture, and could certainly be on the receiving end.))

Edited 2013-10-24 17:02 (UTC)

[ ooc : okay with everything except -- nope, everything. ]

[ PLACEHOLDING don't you dare let me forget ]

[ Okay with everything here. Cheshire's more likely to be the torturer, but he could maybe be in a victim role if preferred. ]

[ Gotta say I like the sound of 3 and/or 1. ]

[Do your worst.]

The basics!

Seventeen year old Feda is a horrendous little shit that greatly enjoys torturing people he believes deserves it. Twenty eight year old Feda is much more chilled, and a great choice for a victim.

[ Up for all options other than 3. ]

[ Can be the unwilling tortured or the forced torturer. No 3. ]

[Open to all the options as the inflicter.]

[ Open to all options other than 3. Lemme know if you wanna skip spoilers. ]

[ Open to victim or aggressor roles, but there's bound to be spoilers if he's the aggressor. No 3s. ]

[Victim. More interested in 2 and 5, but up for anything except 8. Have at him.]

[Torturer. Especially either good ol' blunt trauma or possibly torture via one of his pet telepaths.]

(I have a feeling I'm going to have a pissed off peacock because of this... All I ask, no damaging the wings too much)

( Victim, unless we could come up with a reason why she'd suddenly decide to torture someone. Would rather avoid 2 and 8, but open to everything else. )

[open to anything.]

[Open to ANYTHING with him as the victim!]

You're a strong one, aren't you?

[sometimes she's a little girl and sometimes a giant tentacle monster and sometimes an unnerving combo of both. in the ~~fun~~dungeon she stays her little girl self and keeps all her prisoners chained up, dangling by their wrists while she decides what to do with them. this one though, this one has promise.]

Would you like to become even stronger?

[Ever since he'd been caught and brought here, chained up, Kain has been thinking of escape. There has to be something he can do. He stares warily now at his captor... It's surprising how unthreatening she looks.]

If it means I can be released from these bonds, of course I would. [But he doesn't stop the wary expression.] What do you intend?

[she smiles, very friendly, very smug]

Oh, wonderful. You see, I'm looking to make some new friends. But-- I'm looking for only the very strongest and the very best to Awaken.

[she needs to stand on her very tippy toes to be able to reach his head (and then could probably still use a stepladder). she gives him a fond little pat on the cheek, and her touch leaves ribbons of blood coursing down his face]

I think you are just the sort of strong warrior I've been looking for.

I doubt you'd find anyone stronger.

[Of course, Kain is completely taken with all of this talk of what a strong fighter he is. That's highly important to him, after all. He looks a bit unsure though, when he notices the blood.]

...What do you mean by "Awaken"?

Gosh, what are they teaching you children in school these days? [she huffs a little, looking disgruntled. riful likes her theatrics and an uncomprehending audience is a bad audience, even if she has to pause in her middle of her shpeal and explain.]

What I mean is that I don't want to deal with any of your pesky morals or loyalties or heroic nonsense. A proper Awakening will open your eyes and fix all of that right up for you, and you'll be all the stronger for it. The only problem is... [and here she smiles as if that's not really a problem at all] ...that it's really a terribly, excruciatingly painful process. Becoming a monster isn't an easy thing, you know.

[behind her head, her choppy hair is moving, thickening just past her shoulders, spreading out in dark, hard-edged tendrils like some kind of malevolent fan]

[Kain's expression changes from suspicion to hostility. He's known that his fate probably won't be a pleasant one- that's why he's been so desperate to get out of here before anything happens. He attempts to break free, but as happens every time he does that, all he manages is to shake the chains some.]

No! I don't want to become a monster. I refuse.

Is that the thanks you're going to give me? I'll have you know, this is a one-time opportunity.

[the hair tendrils uncoil, snakelike, stretching out across the space between them and sliding into the chinks of his armor to wrap around his limbs, leaving tiny shallow cuts wherever their edges touch.]

I would hardly call this an opportunity.

[He gasps at the sight of those tendrils and grimaces the moment they start touching him, feeling all of those little stabs of pain. It's a nuisance, especially since there are so many of them...]

...Stop that!

...No, maybe not. You seem just that sort of stoic, tiresome warrior who spends his whole life denying his own desires. I've seen that look before.

[the tendrils tighten, holding him securely in place. she can't have him wiggling around too much-- torture is a delicate sort of process, and it's all too easy to get carried away]

But I have high hopes for you, I really do! So, we'll start with just one for now.

[she raises a hand, and one of the hair...tacles ~~i can come up with stupid names for these all day~~ shoots out like a lance, piercing his armor and through his left shoulder]

[Kain winces and groans a little as that hair grips him harder. He makes a fair attempt to struggle anyway, even now not about to simply give up. But he's being held so tightly and- OW.]

[He screams, the sharp pain lancing through his shoulder.]

There's nothing wrong with how I am! Stop this at once!

That's exactly the problem I have with your sort-- and all those little girls before you. No vision at all.

[She sighs, very put-upon.]

Why would you be satisfied with what you have when you could be so much more?

[The blade of hair twists in his flesh as she speaks, and as she looks up at him again, several more have floated up into the air around her, waiting on her command.]

Now, let's see... arms or legs? I don't suppose you have a preference, do you?

But I am satisfied with what I have!

[It's actually a total, blatant lie- Kain isn't at all satisfied with his life, hence going off to seek some form of redemption. Unfortunately, his little personal quest has been interrupted.]

[He eyes that hair, entirely distrustful now.]

And you'll do nothing of the sort- you'll leave my limbs alone.

Is that right?

[she makes a bit of a disappointed face-- she'd had such high hopes, but perhaps this one is just as complacent and fearful as the rest.

well, only one way to see.]

Well, that's a pity, because you'll never be strong enough to stop me. Or this.

and of course she just goes right on ahead and impales him right through the left arm and thigh. she's careful, after her own fashion-- careful not to target major arteries, nothing vital or crippling yet.]

[Kain keeps on glaring harshly at her until-]

[Until there's a sudden, sharp stab of pain. Kain screams, in pain and horror at what she's just done. It's definitely enough to render them basically useless at the moment, not that he could do much as bound as he is.]

How dare you- Are you completely mad?

[What sort of insane person holds someone defenseless and then injures them so? Kain is really getting unsettled. He's used to injuries and so on, but in battle, in a fair fight.]

Are you paying attention yet?

[She peers up at him, frowning. She hadn't been too rough, had she? Humans are such fragile little creatures, and sometimes she forgets...]

How many more do you think it will take? The mind can only survive so much pain, after all.

How many more...? Until what, you've broken or killed me? I refuse to let that happen...!

[But the worry has already been creeping in, he feels it with each moment of throbbing pain from the two stabbed limbs.]

Yes, well you've been all talk and no action so far.

[she sniffs.]

Though I suppose I can't blame you too much. I've had those chains made special, you know. But it really does take some of the fun out of it...

I know! Shall we change things up a bit? [riful smiles, and the bands of hair that have wound themselves around his arms loosen, sliding away.]

I want to see that power of yours in action! If you do well, I'll even give you a prize.

[of course it won't be as easy as that. her games are always rigged. but even so, the chains restraining him fall away with a jingling sound of metal, and riful stands before him, watching expectantly.]

How could I do anything else, when you've kept me chained all this time!?

[In another circumstance, he'd be so glad at the prospect of being freed... not as much, right now. He winces and gasps in pain from the wounds in his limbs, trying to shift his weight as much as possible to the right.]

You couldn't have asked this of me before you stabbed me?

[But if he were too strong, he'd be more likely to escape, he's sure she's considered that.]

Anyway, I've no interest in prizes... I only want to leave this place.

[riful shrugs. this falls under the category of "things that aren't her problem"]

I'm sorry, but I have no intention of letting you go. I only want to see what you're made of-- and if you'll be worth anything, in the end.

[she watches him like one might study a pinned beetle, her coils of her hair rippling behind her. would he try to attack her? run away? either way, it would be interesting to see.]

I think... perhaps not.

[So then he'd have to escape... That option seems less and less likely the more time went by. Kain winces and stares at her, as harshly as he can manage through the pain. But the look in his eyes clearly betrays how much he's already hurting... he's just trying hard not to break apart mentally from this.]

There are far better ways to prove one's worth! A fair battle would be better- with my weapon and armor...

Is that what you'll need to give me a proper show?

[she scoffs a little-- humans and their toys, how they do like to rely on them. but it isn't an outrageous request, and she is feeling generous today.]

Oh, very well then. I don't have any use for these things myself. Let's make a game of it, shall we? I will give you until the count of thirty. In that time, you have my permission to go search for your things, and do as you wish.

Try to escape, and I will be very cross with you. [she smiles, and her eyes are bright and full of malice] Do you understand?

Of course.

[Not that Kain intends to obey, but he figures he's strong enough to face any consequences... or should be. There's part of him that's not so sure about this. He knows for certain that he can't trust her at all.]

[She smiles, pleased like a child, and closes her eyes. Even like this, she can sense his power, and will be able to follow it wherever it-- and he-- goes.]

One.... two....

[Kain is waiting, tense and eager to get free... of course, after she'd stabbed at him with that hair, he was a lot less strong than he normally might have been, but he hopes he can make up for that. The desperation of wanting to get away, he hopes, will be enough.]

[A ripple, shadows in the darkness, and the chains binding him shatter and fall tinkling to the side like scraps of metal snow. He's free... or something like that. Riful makes no visible move herself, eyes closed, counting up and up.]

[Something like that. Kain isn't in the best shape after what she's done to him, but he's almost going mad with determination. So, not really caring about consequences or threats, Kain does what he's been told not to do and begins hunting for a way out. He's determined to get out of here...]

[Well, it's unfortunate that Riful tends to pick her lairs by how inaccessible they are, and then fortify them to her exacting standards. Most of the few entrances and exits that remain are blocked off with rubble; only one or two remain open, tucked into difficult to find places. Hopefully, Kain has had a chance to pick up a weapon as well, whether his own, or the remnants of some other hapless "visitor" of hers.

...28....29....30. Riful opens her eyes with a smile of relish.]

Have you had any luck, warrior?

[Her voice is soft, but carries through the echoing chambers of her lair.]

[Kain does manage to find his weapon along the way, but that's about it. He's still much more determined and focused on finding a way out, desperately kicking at the blocked ways, trying to jump (hard to do effectively with his energy so deleted right now)... anything to get out.]

[When she speaks up, he turns to face her, terrified and on the defensive. He raises his spear.]

Stay back. I'm warning you...

[I feel like this should be a terrible thing somehow]

[They basically started this opera shit okay.]

Edited 2013-10-24 23:44 (UTC)

[AHAHA I CAN'T READ. UM. DO ANYTHING]

[Does Hoffman want to be the bad guy or the hero this time?]

[Hero could be fun. rarely.]

[Eliot bit his lip, unable to hold back a whimper. He doesn't want to give this sicko the pleasure. He pulls at the handcuffs as the man kept carving at his stomach. He'd already tried kicking at the guy. All it got him was a broken leg. And it's not like anyone'll miss him.]

[There's a loud cry - "Stop! Police!" before two bullets in the back of the man's neck.]

[He flinches as the man's blood sprays over him. The body falls on his lacerated torso, dragging quiet gasp from him.

Cops. The relief that his tormentor can't hurt him is overshadowed by fear. He's never had good dealings with cops.]

[and another originator.]

[The one unspoken rule of Los Angeles is this: do not cross Rotti Largo. No one is immune, from politicians to Zydrate junkies to the lowest scavenger on the streets. Repo Men are no exception.]

[Roger Guzman, former callsign Iceman, wakes up with his arms bound behind his back. His helmet is gone. The room is dark and almost unbearably cold. He struggles to get free briefly, but when it proves pointless, he merely sits there and glowers into the gloom like it's going to solve anything. It won't.]

[This won't end well.]

...Show yourself.

[You betrayed the family. You went outside the group ice man. Repo doesn't want to do this. Neither does Anubis but that's what Anubis does. The jobs for Rotti that need to be done.

There's a blade inches from his friend's mask. The dog's face inches from his own.]

[WHY.]

Why? You of all people should understand why, pup.

[Why he turned his back. Why he left. Why he stopped living in the shadows like some great big boogeyman. There's no fear when he looks into Anubis's eyes. He doesn't flinch away from the scalpel. But his voice stays firm. Like hell he'll show weakness even at the very end.]

Just you? That's almost insulting.

[ooc: She's probably the tortured. Do your worst.]

[probably doing the torturing for information. he'll stick with quick and brutal. knives, guns, and fists most likely.]

[lbr here tiny!girl tentacle monster doesn't really need a reason to torture anyone]

[Once upon a time, a monster appeared in the kingdom. The prince rode out valiantly to challenge the monster, and bested it, and the kingdom rejoiced...

Or it would have, but the prince has unfortunately wandered into the wrong genre. Some fairy tales can be quite horrifying, but the torment is not usually given to the hero at the end. Now it seems that the monster is about to vanquish the prince.

Down in the darkness, all he can do is wait and strain against his chains. The bite against his wrists is easy to ignore, for the hope of freedom, but past a certain point, he realizes that the iron is simply too deep in the stone, and his wrists certainly aren't coming loose. Instead, he does his best to compose himself, to bear himself regally against the darkness.

He will wait as long as he must. But that doesn't mean he'll do so quietly.]

What is the meaning of this? Come, or are you too cowardly to face a man in chains now?

[finally, footsteps in the darkness... and a little girl steps of the gloom, dressed in a bloodstained smock.

she blinks, looking a bit taken aback at the sight of him.]

My, you don't look like much of a warrior.

[riful had given specific orders for the prince to be captured, hadn't she? you can never really trust other people to get things right these days.]

[He can't keep the shock from his face at the sight of a child, however grisly her attire happens to be.]

And you do not look like you belong here at all -- Have you been captured? Please, free me, and I will show you what a warrior can do.

[Judging by the surprising lack of desperation, it's a promise rather than an attempt to bargain. However, his next words are more urgent.]

There may not be much time!

[on second glance, there's a sense of quiet strength about him that riful rather likes. she cocks her head to one side, studying him.]

You are the prince, aren't you? Worrying on my behalf-- that's very sweet.

[she smiles, all friendly cheer and condescension.]

But I'm afraid you've gotten it mixed up.

[Though he continues quite firmly, he doesn't miss her tone. There's something almost hopeful, however, in his response. As if trying to make her acknowledge what he believes, that she is worth worrying over. As if he genuinely believes that he might persuade her through his kindness.]

I am the prince, yes, though it would simply take a cruel person to not worry for another in this place.

[But he hesitates for a heartbeat too long.]

There... is not anything mixed up about that.

No?

[she smiles and smiles. oh, this is her favorite part.]

Even now, my armies are overrunning your country. For all their hard work capturing you, I've given them them free reign to eat as many as they like today.

[If he didn't know better, he would have been sure that his heart rammed right through his ribs. If he couldn't feel it hovering in his throat, as her words settled in.]

You can't mean-! Such vile...

[Finally, he manages a coherent demand.]

No! Who are you?

[she watches him take her words like a blow and leans back, enjoying the moment. all of that bright, bright hope, crushed in an instant. how positively wonderful~

there's a chair set nearby. riful settles herself into it, pulling her knees up to her chest and looking for all the world like the little girl she isn't.]

You may call me Riful. As for who I am, we'll have plenty of time to discuss that later, when we've become better friends.

That is, of course, assuming you survive.

[He stares at her blankly at first; it's almost dizzying how quickly she can go from such pronouncements to this innocent appearance.

However, it gives him a moment to think. It will take more than one blow to shatter his resolve.]

There will be no peace between us, if you mean what you said... There is nothing you could do worse than what you have done. I will survive to see justice.

Now, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Why don't you at least hear me out first?

[this is how the game goes: she tells them every piece of her plan, she offers them power, and she offers them their lives, and they struggle and spit defiance in her face. she breaks them to her liking, but they usually turn out to be too weak to be worth her time so then she breaks them again, this time for good.

it's predictable, and more than a little sad, but riful still holds out hope that somewhere, someday, there will be a person with high potential who sees how very nice and reasonable she's been all along and join up of their own free will.

today is probably not that day.]

After you Awaken, an alliance would only be to your benefit. This [little gesture indicating capturing him + conquering his country etc.] is only the opening play of a much larger game. You see, I don't have any intentions of ruling these lands myself. And there's no need for me to take that from you. All you have to do is Awaken, and see the world for what it really is.

No one would ever dare cross you again. [excepting her, of course.]

[In grudging silence, he listens, and his eyes narrow into slits of gold, just barely catching what light there is in the dungeon. What she is saying doesn't make much sense to him, but he has enough regal wisdom to know not to say as much. Not to mention enough common sense to know he wants nothing to do with it.]

Awaken? I am awake. I know this land, this world -

[This story, oh, what has become of his story? Even now, are his people suffering? His princess?

It isn't until he hears his own silence again that he realizes he has been moved to distraction, but he persists.]

It is my kingdom, by all rights, and this is not how alliances are forged. I keep a kingdom of peace, not a board to play on, and I will not tolerate this... this treatment! Release me at once!

[Again, that bearing. Such confident righteousness, he just knows what should be done, and intends to act on it. He acts as if the chains aren't there, because he believes they won't be for long. He has not seen tragedy averted for his life to end like this.]

[at that, she laughs and claps her hands together in delight.]

Such conviction! Such strength of heart! I think I like you even more now.

And that's why... [she stands up, stepping toward him as her smile widens, the monster peeking out of her eyes.] ...I am going to torture and break you and make you Awaken. Then you'll understand-- the truth of this world.

[her hair ripples out behind her, curling into long, dark tendrils.]

[He recoils as far as he can, throwing himself backward in a useless gesture.]

You will gain nothing by this! Whatever twisted meaning you think to expose... I won't be broken by falsehoods!

[Oh, but it's happened before. When he sought love that wasn't his, when he thirsted for it like water; already lies have been lodged in his heart. Nothing can be worse than that. That was torture, and it reached into his soul.]

Whatever you do to me, I will not change for you.

[But her threat hangs there, and squirms in front of him like the dungeon's darkness has come alive. He feels sweat on the back of his neck, because he isn't foolish, but he tries to bury the fear under his defiance. Glaring at the tendrils, he asks boldly.]

What is that?

Don't go making promises you can't keep. It's very rude.

[she laces her fingers together, clearly enjoying his discomfort as she approaches.]

Why, did you never go about wondering just what sort of monster I am? That's understandable. I don't usually reveal myself to just anyone.

I only say what I mean.

[He replies flatly, all his instinctive dramatics stripped away for an instant.

His eyes flick from side to side, trying to follow her shifting form. He thinks he can see something of what it is, and even less of it would make his stomach churn. That is her?

He sets his shoulders as much as he can, though his posture is strained. If nothing else, he'll face her without shaking.]

I did not know what was attacking my kingdom, only that something was. Even now, you see, it changes nothing about what needs to be done. If you call off your monsters, I... will give you a chance to retreat.

[He can only hope that she isn't able to scent desperation.]

[his words are enough to give her pause, blinking up at him before... her own shoulders begin to quiver, then shake-- she's laughing, trying to contain her laughter and not really succeeding.]

I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude. [riful wipes at her eyes, and when she turns her gaze back upon him they shine with a queer, dark light, fever-bright.] But now you've got me curious. What will you do then, if I refuse?

Will you slay me, o brave prince? Will you take my head and cut out my heart? Will you rip off my arms and legs, have my body torn to pieces... Come now-- I want to know.

[That laughter, whatever her intent, was enough to rally him for the moment. Though gracious to all appearances, swans can be prideful creatures. He even meets her eyes without flinching.]

For what you have done to my kingdom - [And even to himself, and he does not even wish to think about where Rue might be, but he can't help it.] - there will be justice. It is as I said, and I have faced monsters before.

I will not be needlessly brutal, but nor will I suffer you to hurt others.

[The "when I have my freedom back" remains unsaid, but perhaps that just makes it seem louder.]

[she tsks at him.] Justice. How utterly boring. You are going to have to do much better than that.

[pause for a moment, as she thinks. all that shining nobility is wonderful, really, but only if she can corrupt it into a more useful form. how can she make this more interesting.]

Why don't I give you a bit more incentive?

[and with that, she gives a little shake of her head and the long, snakey tendrils of her her whip forward, stabbing needle-like into his right shoulder.

in the end, causing pain is all she really knows.]

[His mouth drops open, and the wound hits him like its own blow, like a firebrand. That's when he cries out, when it lances through him, jolting away the shock. Heat rises there, blood gathering and preparing to stain him. Now the pain was evening out into a sharp sting, resounding through him like the ring of metal on metal.

He thrashes briefly, reflexively grabbing for the wound. He needs, so badly, to tear away the offending material and protect it, but the chains put a stop to that.]

Ghh- [Eyes wide, he spits.] You... you will receive no better and no worse than what you deserve. That is justice.

[Taut with tension, he focuses on holding himself still. And on the look on her face. Boredom. She dares to speak to him of that! And then to use him to cure it...]

Nothing more!

Edited (belatedly noticed a silly typo) 2013-10-31 09:13 (UTC)

[Now she likes the look on his face.]

Much better. I was beginning to lose hope there that you'd be like all the rest-- all talk and no drive.

[she reaches out to lay her hand very gently against the side of his cheek, and eyes are fond as she looks him over.]

I want to see this justice of yours, prince.

[shadows writhe in the darkness, and the chains binding him shatter, as if cut into a thousand fine fragments, falling like metal rain around them. clinkclinkclink]

Why don't you show me~

Is that so?

[He catches his balance with a calculated stillness. Wincing as his injured shoulder falls heavily, a mass of sharp pressure leaking blood that he can't completely banish. Though that arm hangs limply at his side, he settles into a delicate stance, almost hovering on the ground. This challenge is familiar territory, and though it has been a while, it lends him a peculiar serenity.]

Very well, then. You have had your chances. Now!

[Unarmed as he is, he has only a stranger choice open to him. Reluctantly inspired by Riful herself, in fact, though far less perverse. He moves, just so. He raises his good arm with a graceful flourish. From the simple gesture, a floral breeze fills the dank dungeon. It is the only warning before a stream of fluttering pink petals flies straight at her, thick enough to choke. Then he springs, and a similar pillar of flowers meets him in the air, allowing him to float atop them.]

[well, it certainly is.... very pretty. being the sort of beast that doesn't need to breathe, riful simply stands in place, watching the room fill with flowers with a bemused expression on her face.]

You may have the first strike, and the second. [because she is a very generous person, make no mistake about it. though seeing him, floating now, she purses her mouth with a considering expression on her face.]

But don't you try to escape. I won't like that at all.

How courteous of you.

[Not even a distraction, then? He stiffens at that warning; that was an easier prediction than he would have liked. Yet she didn't sound used to people challenging her, and even in blatantly ignoring her, he wasn't going to run the way she might expect. Just find a weapon fit for human hands, as quickly as possible.]

I have never fled a battle before, and I do not intend to start now. But if you think I'm going to let you do as you please, you are quite mistaken.

[Though the petals are settling, he raises a hopefully concealing wall between them, and veers off into the surrounding gloom. Anything, anything at all will do... Even an old, slightly chipped blade lying in a dark corridor, no doubt a remnant of some poor soul. He will put it to better use.

He lands softly, and this time, sets up a whirling barrier of flowers. She'll have to get through it to get to him. He won't hide, but he wants no more surprises.]

[she reaches out with her senses, searching for that bright, pure glimmer of his power, but his energy is all around her,and she can't find a thing. riful sighs a little, thwarted, but her interest is piqued all the same. she rises from her seat, feeling the petals buffet her skin as she steps forward, down the dark corridor.]

Hide and seek, is it? Hmm, I've never seen power like this before.

[but it really isn't in her nature to do the hunting-- whenever possible, she much prefers her prey to come to her.]

But while you dally, my creatures will be eating their fill tonight. I wonder... have they already made it to your castle?

[He has to bite his lip to keep from shouting to her, but the challenge has been declared well enough, and he doesn't want to completely ruin his position. Being on the offensive is how he prefers it, really; he isn't one for hiding away in corners. But for the same reason, he hates to for his hand to be forced.

Hefting the sword in his good arm, he tries to keep to the edge of the hallway. He hopes to sneak up on her, however distasteful that may be, and finish this quickly. For the sake of his people, and because he believes his second chance would be that much harder. Sustaining this much is tiring, and there's wooziness on the edge of his vision.

When he catches sight of her through a brief gap, he dashes the rest of the way and leaps, slashing down at her with all the strength that carried him up.]

[Riful turns, just in time to face him as his blade strikes true. The sword comes swishing down as, cleaving her skull nearly in half-- the blade lodged deep in her flesh, both halves of her face frozen in surprise.

...before the corners of her split mouth turn upward in a ghastly smile and she says, quite conversationally:]

I suppose I'll just count that as your first blow then. Will you take another? Or is it my turn now?

[The prince stands transfixed, breathless, clutching the sword buried deep in her head. He swallows heavily to counteract the sensation of rising bile, but he can't look away from that disgusting smile. Even as he pulls the sword away, wincing at the wet sound, he keeps staring as she smiles through the fatal damage.]

What are you?!

[Of course, the answer appears to him as his stare meets her divided, delighted gaze. He leaps forward again, wielding his sword one-handed with a fencer's sharpened grace. He cuts, slashes, jabs; aiming to wound or pierce. Aiming for her heart, in fact, hoping to end her there. He cannot fathom what she would do unchecked.]

...Vile beast! Take this!

[Her flesh parts easily beneath his sword, cuts opening up all over her body, and she laughs, a high and childish sound as the blade pierces her chest. This is much better than she'd expected.]

Such ferocity! Come then, show me what you can do!

[Riful can sense the bright glimmer of his energy all around her. She reaches out for it with her own power, trying to pin it down, to feed black corruption into it. She's not practiced at this by any means, and it's a crude and brutal form of transformation, but if there was any way she could-- encourage-- him into becoming a monster on his own, she would take it.]

[He obliges, though his intention is hardly to please her. That peculiar anger, absent of malice, guides his onslaught. The dulled blade pierces her again and again as he seeks whatever point of weakness she might have. There must be one, somewhere. He spins into one blow, glides into the next, using all the power in his body. His breath comes heavily, pulled from deep inside, but it comes.]

Why do you want this? Why-?

[Then, between beats of his heart, something gouges into him. A foreign feeling that digs in at the seams as if to pry them apart and make more spill from within. It washes through him, and suddenly his strikes are vicious and careless. He has to hurt her. To make her stop. To make her suffer. How much cleaner it is. He drops the sword with a jolt before he realizes what he's doing.]

No, no, no...

[Her pleased expression turns into a frown of dismay as he drops the sword.]

Now, don't be that way. And here you were doing so well!

[The cuts and slashes over her face and body writhe, shrinking and growing, opening long seams along her body that gap and close as she steps forward, reaching out to cup his cheek, gaze into his eyes. Whatever Riful finds there seems to disappoint her. Her brow furrows, and both halves of her mouth tighten into an unhappy line.]

For a moment there, I had such high hopes for you.

Let go!

[Shuddering at her touch, he tears away from her and ends up half-balanced on the wall. One hand is pressed tightly to his heart, acting as a guard as he tries to calm himself and settle the world in front of his eyes. There is a limit to how much blood a human can lose, after all.]

So well... Whatever you were trying to do, I won't be deceived. I won't.

[He seems to have lost momentum. Though he shifts upright, straightening as best he can, he still has to lean on the wall to keep himself there. His hand doesn't stop scrabbling at his chest, held there by an old reflex.]

If you want to fight, then fight! Don't... don't try to toy with me!

So you really are too weak after all.

[There's a curious soft quality to her voice and her eyes are distant as she looks him over. Humans are so fragile, even though now and again, she thinks she's found one worth her while. And then... she breaks them. She exhales, then allows herself to smile again. If nothing else, Riful is an optimist to her core.]

Well, that's fine. We'll make do with what we have. And you'll be all the stronger for it.

[She reaches out for him again, but this time she's done playing, directing the ribbons of her hair to wind around his arms and legs, binding him. She'll drag the monster out of him by force if she has to, bleed him dry to pour her power in.]

No! I am as strong as I have to be!

[Courage is strength for him. Honor is strength. When fleetness of foot and steadiness of limb would normally give out, true character can carry the day. Fragility, especially his, with his carefully crafted features, has always proven deceiving. Indeed, her words are enough to stir him now, as he pushes himself from the wall -- right into her bindings.]

A monster like you! What do you know of strength?

[He gasps, kicking and tugging at the ribbons that wind around him, but their grip only grows stronger. His face twists with pain, and he shouts out, before his breath fails:]

Nothing, understand this! I don't want this, this accursed thing you call power, and I won't take it!

[The truth of that statement is stronger than he means it to be; he doesn't want to be changed anymore. It's a strangely personal sentiment, coming from a once selfless soul, but he isn't thinking of his people. Enough, now that he is who he is. Maybe the plain and simple refusal is everything he has, but it's better than her offering. If what he felt before is her power, then he'll be sick if it touches him again.]

I'm afraid you really don't get a choice in the matter.

[She tightens her grip on him, bearing him back against the wall again. The sharp edges cut fine red lines into his white skin. Delicately, she draws a finger along his arm, licks the blood off with a smile.]

My, you do taste delicious. There really is something about desperation that enhances the flavor. It's too bad... I can't have just a bite.

[She is a little hungry, after all this play. But! Business first, snacking later. She has much greater plans for this one, after all. Reaching out again, she presses her hand into his injured shoulder, fingers elongating and threading into his body, sliding just beneath skin. There's a muted "crack" of something brittle snapping as she draws back, leading a long sliver of her own flesh embedded inside of him.]

I've never tried this before, you know. You should consider it an honor, to be the first.

[His breath leaves him with a short gasp as his chin drops. His struggling finally stops, as it was only growing the tracery of cuts over his arms and legs. He hangs stoically, instead, as much as he can muster while shaking. Though the sensation is practically mild compared to his shoulder, he only realizes just how much he was exerting himself as sweat makes its way into the thin wounds. He feels foul, as the blood trickles over him.

At her touch, he shudders from something more than reflex, but of course finds himself unable to recoil further now. He watches her from under his hair with undisguised disgust, at first just letting her words wash over him. It's the truth of what she says pricks at him more deeply than anything. He has no choice. No way to stop her as he is, it's not enough.

He cries out wordlessly when she stabs him again, where it was already throbbing, and he can only stare in helpless horror when she breaks off a piece of herself inside of him. The tendrils embed there, tangling into the muscle beyond any kind of simple removal. Perhaps beyond removal at all. At first, he feels lightheaded, barely coherent.]

Ah! Honored, but... What are you- What are you doing-?

[He draws in a deep breath, then another. The air is musty, unclean under the smell of blood. He makes use of it, though, to steady his speech. It still comes out half-gasped, but he throws himself upright, eyes blazing defiantly even as they burn with pain.]

If I can't stop what you'll do to me, then do as you will! Just spare the rest of my people... Enough...

[Oh, is he curious now? Well, Riful is always happy to explain her methods to anyone who will listen (and plenty who won't.)]

It's a trick I picked up from my enemies. You see... [She claps her hands together, very pleased with herself. ] The only way to fight a monster is to become one. And what better way to become a monster than to take some part of one into yourself?

This is only the first step, of course. It's not nearly as simple as running you through and letting time do its work. No... [If the prince had gotten a taste of Riful's dark energy earlier, it was barely anything compared to the torrent of vicious black power that washes through him now, focused and channeled through that piece of her in his flesh.]

I can't say you're in any position to bargain right now, prince. But I'll tell you what-- if you'll cooperate and Awaken without too much struggle, I'll save them for you to eat yourself.

Become... a monster?

[The color drains from his face, and his expression changes rapidly, flickering in shock and finally twisting something more than physical pain. He was just hurting before, hurting in many places and badly, but it was only touching the surface. This is dread, this pounding of the heart, this terrible need to make this stop. Because it's happening to him, and this is the one thing that he has sworn would never happen to him again.]

That is Awakening? Is... is that what you want of me?

[He repeats it as if he can ward it off that way. But then, he should be relieved, because why can't he? This is something he can control. He has a choice this time, a wholehearted choice, to not lose himself. He doesn't want to lose himself anymore, he truly doesn't. Blood or flesh, he is more than any single part.]

If you think that will be all it takes... you are mistaken...

[He remembers what he felt before, very clearly. That caught him by surprise, and this time, he's ready--

The strike against his willpower threatens to wipe him away in one brief instant. Savage impulse floods him; not merely content to assault his heart, it tears through, building up inside as it passes. The response to his offer sparks revulsion, to fuel his anger and his defense, and he snarls at her.]

No! Never! Stop... stop trying to-!

[His jaw clenches, and his shoulders hunch defensively, only to send him jerking backward with a spasm of what has become agony. It demands his focus for a split second, almost too long...]

Yes, that's exactly it! All I want is for you to see the truth, to accept the inevitable.

[The long ribbons of her hair loosen around his limbs, dropping him to the floor. There's no kindness in this-- she only wants to see what he'll do, if he'll try and try again to fight her or give in at last.]

I admire your strength, prince, I really do. So please, there's no need for you to struggle anymore. It doesn't have to hurt like this, you know...

[Her voice is high and sweet as she brushes his hair back, fingers gentle, even as she continues to pour power into his body, trying to drown out the pure glimmer of his own light.]

B-but I'm not a monster...!

[He lands on his feet, balance is almost a force of habit for him, but he sways over almost immediately, doubling in on himself with his hands pressed tightly to his heart.]

Someone like you... that's a monster... You don't care if it hurts, you hurt so many others without a thought...

[One hand claws at his chest desperately, nails digging in through the fabric of his shirt as he lifts himself upright. The other balls itself into a fist, and he uses it to punch her in the face with his free arm with a ragged cry.]

Every human possesses the potential to become a monster. That's what makes your kind so delightful. In fact, it's the only thing that distinguishes you from pigs or cattle, though... there really isn't that much difference in the end.

[She takes the blow without so much as a twitch, smiling even as she reaches out to wrap her hand around hims wrist, fingers digging into skin and tightening with bone-crushing force.]

Did you think I was always as I am now?

[The bone gives way with a sickening crunch, and he shouts the first thing that comes into his mind to stop himself from screaming again.]

If you were once human, how can you do this?!

[He swallows heavily, trembling and panting, as if that particular outburst took a great deal out of him. His eyes go wide, fixed on something distant. Uncertainly, he murmurs.]

Is there something... are you suffering, too? Isn't that right? Tell me what you need...

[That's enough to give Riful pause, drawing back a half step. In all her years, she has never had a prisoner speak to her like this, and it strikes a strange, bittersweet chord in her. Where had this man been when she'd been nothing but a little girl-turned-warrior with a sword, alone and afraid? Where had he been when she'd been forced to fight and bleed and spill out her life, all in the name of humanity?

But it's too late now-- far too late. No one had come to her aid, and Riful had made her choices. She had saved herself. And now, she would save him.]

Would you save me, prince? [Her tone is wistful, but something warm and trembling lies lurking just beneath, a barely contained smile of hot and vicious pleasure.] Ah, I don't think you quite understand.

[She pours her power into him, cruelty and darkness and an all-consuming hunger for hot, sweet flesh, even as the long ribbons of her flesh trail over the pale skin of his torso, cutting through cloth and skin to leave tiny bloody wounds all down the length of him.]

To be human is to suffer. I only wish to set you free.

[ooc: she'll probably try to transform him or uh, kill him trying to transform him o/ lemme know how you're like to wrap this up]

Of course, I would save you! If you are in pain, even you... To be human is... is...

[Well, to be a prince means to be many things, whatever your people need. Hoping for them, striving for them, a prince makes the world a greater place through his efforts, and his people receive the rewards. He had only just begun to discover what it meant to live for himself, and enjoy that effort personally. Small delights, things that he enjoyed for his own sake.

All shattered in a day, because he is human. A prince is a man underneath all the silk and gold. When you take the sword from a warrior's hand, he too becomes a man once more. A man has anger, but this is more than that. This is pure hatred, pouring into him, and it all gathers around his failure. Useless. Weak, like this. It makes him boil with rage, his skin shifting and bulging strangely.

He falls to his knees, but he snatches the collar of her dress from the floor.]

I'll save you, too! I have to, and then my kingdom! Only tell me what you need, please!

[He'll save her if he has to rip her heart out to do it. He'll be the one to end their suffering. He could laugh with joy, and in fact, he does. All he has to do is make people stop suffering, and there are so many ways to do that, here and now.]

[She lets himself be pulled forward, and when she reaches out her hands are human once again. Riful sets them gently on either side of his face as his flesh shifts, bubbling and blurring beneath her fingers.]

Then save me, prince. [She looks deeply into his eyes, waiting for it-- that precise moment of transformation, despair to joy, pain to pleasure, the remnants of his humanity stripping away to reveal truth. Riful is so, so very tired of weaklings, but that bright, sweet power of his has such promise, and this time, she won't be disappointed. She wants to mold him beneath her hands, turn him into her very own creature. She wants his heart between her teeth.]

I don't ask for much. Just your power, and your loyalty. [Her smile reaches all the way to her eyes] We could be such friends!

[Pain and pleasure are overwhelming, tearing him in every different direction. Limbs shift, talons sprout from fingers, skin gives way entirely as white feathers stab outwards. Bones twist inside of him, as his arms become something vaguely resembling wings, though there's no chance he could be capable of flight. Blood splashes on the stone as his body pulls itself apart, and he crumples to the ground like a smashed doll. The last glimpse of Siegfried's face has his eyes clenched shut, but Riful will have seen enough. He screams and releases her, his hands flexing as the power sinks in. He can do anything now. How could he have thought he would become a monster? This is simply better than being human. His scream stretches on into a cry of triumph.]

Ah! Yes, yes, everyone needs... needs someone, don't worry... I'll save you, be your friend!

[A warped swan's beak stretches from his face when he looks back up at her, the end unusually sharp. But the remnants of his mouth twist upwards at the edge. There's something almost feverish about his intent gaze. His heart is truly beating for the first time, and every inch of him is filled with raw strength. This is what he was missing. He could have torn this place to pieces long ago if he had this.]

That's my duty as a prince...

[He lifts his hands and returns her gesture from earlier, after a fashion, with the tips of his talons brushing her cheek.]

[She tilts her head up into his touch, feeling the light prick of his talons against her skin. So this is her prince's true form. She studies him for a long moment, reaching out with her senses, weighing, judging, and the corners of her mouth curl up and up.

At long last, here was one worth keeping. This one would be-- an asset to her war, a follower whose strength would allow her to crush Isley, and... a friend, a wonderful companion to entertain her when the winter days grow long and the humans retreat from the chill, and all their battles are put on hold. Riful has always wanted a friend. Tonight, all her dreams are coming true.]

Wonderful. Just wonderful. You have so much to learn-- but I will be here for you, and I promise, you won't regret it.

[She offers her hand up to him, and despite the difference in their sizes it's not a gesture between equals. (She always expects them to submit to her, won't accept anything else.)]

Tell me your name. [Someone must have told her before, but it's slipped her mind. Riful never does bother remember unless something extraordinary has happened-- like this.]

[He takes her hand as best as he can, though in order to cover his palm with hers, his talons now stretch up to her elbow. The finer point of that gesture doesn't escape him, but he hardly cares right now. She needs him, and now he has the power to save even her. No one is beyond him.]

Prince Siegfried.

[Pushing himself off the floor, he steadies himself properly for what feels like the first time. Not only have his wounds healed, but he's still filled with new strength. He can simply destroy anyone who tries to stop him now, and it's strange that he didn't realize that before. One strange wing flares behind him and the other sweeps across his chest, as he bows to her gratefully. He supposes he does owe her something, and he's never been one to neglect his debts.]

Oh, no, no... You needn't worry about me. I learn quickly, and perhaps you'll be surprised by what I already know.

Siegfried.

[She says his name like a caress, a promise, and then laughs, all pride and dark joy. Sharp claws and proud wings, a white prince at her beck and call, all that glorious bright power and strong heart under her command... Why, this sounds like a story straight out of some fairytale, and something about the whole notion of it rather appeals to Riful. Clothing and stories, loyalty and comrades... she had always been fascinated by the trappings of humanity. From time to time, she even adopts them as her own (only to shed them like so much cast off snakeskin, with hardly any thought at all.)]

Well then, my prince, why don't we test out your new power? As my gift to you, we'll retake your lands, and reshape them to your liking.

[That she's returning to him what was previously his is... just a technicality, really.]

Oh! Oh, yes.

[He straightens, shifting into a new pose almost at once. His hands lift to the ceiling, and his wings stretch to their fullest extent now. The posturing is an old habit that comes from years on the stage, but the new feathers make him seem so much bigger. Some protrude at odd angles, and he simply reaches over and grabs them by the roots to adjust them with thin cracks of bone. Even as takes care of this, he continues speaking with Riful. He feels like a ruler should, full of pride and vigor, and now he wants to hurry. He's getting hungry, after all.]

My kingdom, yes, must be dealt with. You were only trying to help, weren't you? But I know it best.

[He smiles so kindly. He understands why, now. Things should never have been allowed to grow so fragile, out of his protection.]

We shouldn't keep them waiting. I'm sure everyone will be so happy when I return!

[The Awakened beings she deals with are mostly fleshy creatures, skin and bone, coarse flesh and armored plate. This, this is something altogether different, twisted and lovely and sharp like a razor's edge. Riful reaches out, not bothering with permission as she rises to her tiptoes to run her hand along the curve of one wing. She'll touch ~~and take~~ what she pleases, make no mistake.]

Your kingdom. That's right~ [What she wants to see is the look on their faces as their beloved prince comes home-- all those wonderful human bonds of loyalty and trust, shattering under disbelief and betrayal. How tragic! How utterly lovely! She never had any doubt that her methods would work, only all those years of disappointment because nobody until now has quite been up to par.] I'll defer to your good judgement. [Indulgence aside, she adds matter-of-factly:] But don't go forgetting your place, prince. I am your elder, after all.

[Riful settles back town to her heels, flat-footed, then tilts her head to one side as if she's forgotten something. Perhaps she had. It has been so long since her own Awakening that... ah.]

Oh, I'm sure you're hungry by now. [With any new creature, the first instinct is survival, the second, hunger, all consuming and insatiable, as if the body is making up for all those years it had spent starved of power and truth. ] Why don't we begin with a snack?

Very well, very well.

[He holds the pose for a moment longer, closing his eyes contentedly. Her touch once made him recoil, but now he can detect the fondness in it, even appreciation. It's all that he deserves, though he misunderstands its true nature. He is, after all, a prince worth admiring. He can do anything! And he's never been so proud as to refuse instruction. He had to learn swordplay and dance from somewhere, and this is no different. Just another skill to master.]

You and I shall work together. No doubt you have much to teach me.

[The mention of food only serves to worsen his hunger, or at least his awareness of it, enough to burn. It's the only unpleasant sensation so far, and he'd rather be rid of it. Somehow, he seems to brighten that much more.]

After all, that's a wise suggestion. I do... ahhh... I do need something to eat.

[He lowers his wings, folding them as best he can, which is to say, not very well. The long feathers jut out directly behind him from his arms, twisting awkwardly under his shoulders, but now, he doesn't seem to mind the disorderly state. His gaze is fixed in the distance, still smiling.]

Shall we find some meat?

(ooc: I think this might about wrap it up here, if that's okay with you! \o/ You can do another if you'd like, but I think we know where it's going!)

There shouldn't have been... this much difficulty in tracking down and slaying the monster. Okay, sure, her life had never lived up to any sort of fairy tale, but she wasn't just a knight with magical equipment and powers - she was an experienced knight with magical equipment and powers. Most of the time she didn't have any trouble handling a minor disturbance on her own.

This wasn't minor. Monsters beneath Riful, the leader that Umi had yet to even find, were strong enough, that while Umi had sliced through them, pierced them with blades of ice, and crushed them with torrents of water, she'd been sliced, pierced, and crushed as well, cuts torn open across her body, her left arm almost unresponsive at her side, blood soaking her hair on the back of her head.

And she still had to fight the boss.

Umi didn't want to die, but she was thinking that she might not have any choice at this rate.

Riful hears the ring and cry of battle outside her castle doors-- and yawns. How dull they are, knight after knight after knight here to take her head, all dying at the hands of her minions. At this rate, she might have to start charging for admission. She turns her head toward the window, considering a nap.

Silence.

She sits up, frowning a little. Had they finally all died? Tch. Absolutely worthless-- all those weaklings she'd recruited to fill the ranks of her army, and there they would go, dying like flies on her.

Well, perhaps this might not be a complete waste of her time. At the very least, it might be worth having a look at the knight who'd finally defeated them all. With that in mind, she slips out of ruins of her stronghold, a little girl in a white dress coming up and over the hill.

Umi doesn't want to spend her allowance on being allowed to fight the monster come on Riful.

...not that she'll be alive to worry about it, but.

It's frustrating, feeling weak in the face of hordes of monsters, beaten down until her strength was sapped. As strong as she is, still able to fight more of the weaklings, all that she knows of Riful are the rumors of her power and how much of a monster she is.

Also, be on her guard no matter what, and just the fact that this is no place for a little girl puts her on edge. "Hey! What in the world are you doing here?!"

Hey, when you've got something everyone wants a piece of....

Riful isn't really sure what to expect... but of course it's one more courageous warrior girl, big sword and all. How terribly predictable. Not in a bad way-- why, Riful's met such a lot of those brave, brave girls over the years, and they're all very interesting, each and everyone of them. And this one must be the most worthy of them all, to have come so far and killed so many.

Oh yes, this one might very well be worth her time~ But the girl shouts at her, Riful is more than a little taken aback.

"Well, aren't you a rude one?" she complains. "Here I've come all the way out here to greet you, and that's the kind of attitude you have?

Something everyone wants to carve a piece off of...

Umi's probably a bit different from what Riful's used to, but really, she herself doesn't quite know how many have failed to strike her down, or how many have been stopped before ever reaching her. It hardly feels like she's really made it herself, as injured as she is, but Umi stands up straight, sword out, nervously ready for anything.

"...greet me?" she says slowly. "If you're Riful then you're even smaller than I expected."

Good enough. :|b

Also WOW RUDE.

"'Than you expected'? What are you trying to imply?" Riful scoffs. "Really now, all you girls are hopeless. Every generation with less manners than the last."

Well now she's annoyed, but she's already out here, and the girl must be strong, if nothing else. Riful makes a face, but shrugs a little, lifting her hands making a 'what can you do' gesture.

"So, why don't we get started? My man is away, so I'm afraid we'll have to keep each other company. You don't have any more ill mannered things to say, do you? 'Time to die, evil beast', that sort of thing? It's been some time since I've last heard that."

She doesn't like to strike first-- things end far too quickly that way.

"Who's going to remember my bad manners other than me when this is finished?" Riful. Riful who will probably cut her to ribbons will remember this - no, no, she needs to be confident after she's come this far. Size is definitely not everything right now, but she did just beat a lot of monsters. "Though I hope you don't expect me to keep the kind of company your 'man' might keep you."

Umi twirls her sword, pointing it at Riful. A quick dash, a sudden strike, and it could be over, but her enemy certainly expects that kind of attack. Maybe she'll have to rely on her magic, or baiting Riful into attacking first. She doesn't seem too happy with Umi's manners. "Do you really expect me to be so cliche? Unless you want that. I might be convinced to grant a last request."

"Rude and arrogant." Riful sighs. These are precisely the sort of encounters she usually leaves Dauf to weed out. Damn him! He had probably gotten lost on his way back from that eastside city, and now here she was, forced to deal with the pests herself. "My man does have his uses, sometimes. I think the two of your would be quite well suited for one another."

"I can only hope that a proper Awakening will improve your attitude," she tells Umi, and then makes a little beckoning motion. "Come along now, don't tell me you're too afraid to raise your sword." It's not in Riful's nature to take the first strike, but there's no point in sitting around waiting for someone else to get around to it either.

"Confident." Not. Good at putting on an arrogant act, though, is something Umi is well-practiced at, so she stubbornly refuses to let Riful see just how weary she is. More of the same weaklings she's fought so far would still be well within her grasp, for sure, and maybe this man of hers might be beatable, but if this girl is everything she's cracked up to be then this will go poorly.

But she won't die easily.

Sinking down, unable to hide her wounded arm, she holds her sword out defensively, focusing less on banter and more on her senses, paying attention to Riful's moves. "I'm not some hotheaded idiot who charges into every fight swinging. Why don't you show me this Awakening thing?"

"And impatient to boot," Riful says, like she is checking another box off some list of personal offenses. But she smiles when Umi raises her blade. This one, at least, has the potential to be a smart girl. If she survives long enough.

"You want to see a full Awakening already? Now, that would be getting ahead of ourselves." She shakes her head, makes a little considering face. "But I suppose there's really no point in dancing around the matter anymore. Come along now, little one-- Why don't you come at me with all your strength?" And with that, Riful extends an arm-- which breaks into dozens of writhing black tendrils, all armed toward Umi.

"It's not like I have time to mess around." She'll run out of strength first if she does, after all. Best to not be surprised by a trump card, and to do what she can like this.

"Hope you're ready for this!" Umi tenses, waiting, watching - and then Riful attacks, faster and, more importantly, with far more limbs than she'd expected. How is she supposed to beat just that many attacks?

Clenching her teeth, she focuses on dodging and parrying, slashing at the tendrils, dancing and spinning away from them as she takes them on, treating each one as its own enemy for the moment.

"Mm, not bad." But there's only so long she can parry and dodge, and Riful is already growing bored of this sport.

In one quick bound, she-- disappears, black tentacles and all-- only to reappear right behind Umi. The rippling tendrils of her hair surge forward, trying slam her into the ground.

Not bad, but she needed an opening - and she doesn't exactly expect Riful to just disappear like that. Acting on instinct and the fact that of course you'd want to get behind your opponent, she whirls around almost the moment Riful reappears, lunging with her sword.

She's a half step too slow to make the most of it, hampered by her existing injuries, and the massive strength of the tendrils slams into her, spinning her around and throwing her into the ground.

Even in a thwarted attack, the bite of that sword had stung. Riful makes a face, but is quick to follow up on her advantage, spreading her web of ribbons over Umi to pin her down to the ground.

A pause.

"Do you have anything else to show me? Or are we already done here?"

A hit! It didn't really matter in the grand scheme of things, what with being slammed into the ground, but she could take at least the tiniest bit of pride in actually hitting such an overwhelming opponent with just her sword.

Umi had more up her sleeves, though, and as she was thrown down, she got an arm free, raising it into the air. "Water... dragon!" There wasn't enough water around to say that she was even controlling or calling on it; it was simply a pure, magical summoning of her element, rushing into the shape of a serpentine dragon and then at Riful in a bone-crushing torrent.

"Gh-!" Riful has no bones to crush, or breath to drown, but it really is an unpleasant sensation all the same, strong enough to force her to release the girl, even as it knocks her back a few steps with its blinding rush of roaring water.

She's taken aback, but also intrigued. This isn't the sort of power she's used to seeing in these parts. As the flurry of water dies down, she squints into the open air, looking to see where Umi had gone.

"What interesting power you have, little one. It's a pity, you won't be able to hide from me--!" She lashes out-- a flurry of ribbons slicing into the air before her.

It would really be nice if she'd done that just a little sooner - the impact with the ground has her winded, even as she stands to face the next attack. This time, knowing that her sword isn't cutting it, she's darted away from Riful, hoping to buy enough time to focus on another spell, but the monster is quick, and far too tough to just lay there.

Gritting her teeth through the pain, Umi calls out another water dragon, just as the ribbons reach her, sword flashing about to try and deflect them as her spell is sent flying. This time, Riful gets through, if only enough to leave gashes on her arms and legs, staggering the knight.

Riful has a better measure of the girl's power now. She throws out an arm as the water dragon roars past, and the torrent rips away at the banded flesh but leaves her otherwise unscathed. Fresh blood has been spilled, she can scent it on the wind, and smell of it makes her mouth water. Some of her blows must have landed, and... just in time for dinner too.

Hmmm.

"Are you tired, warrior? Well, you've got to try harder than that." For all her light taunting, Riful's attacks are far from playful, snake-like tendrils snapping out with frightening speed, trying to impale Umi if she got caught in any one place for too long.

"I admit, I'm getting a little impatient. It must be the hour-- you understand, I don't usually go this long without some kind of snack to tide me over."

A snack? Oh just kill her now...

Not that Umi, y'know, wanted to die, at all, but she hoped that the final blow was a quick one; at this rate she was running out of options, and running out of the strength to try any other spells to begin with. "Just... give me a moment to... catch my breath?"

Probably no dice there, and Umi slashed and dodged, struggling mightily to avoid Riful's attacks. More broke through her defense, and more fully, though, gouging her leg and dropping her to a knee. There was a sinking feeling in her stomach, knowing that without her agility she was moments from death. "...no, really, take your time."

Well, there we go. Riful has dealt with enough warriors to recognize when a battle is winding down to its inevitable conclusion, and this one is on her last legs... quite literally. She draws the long ribbons of her arm back, returning to her little girl's form as she approaches Umi.

"Not bad, not bad at all. I don't suppose you'd like to join me, would you?"

The last part is said a bit wistfully. At this point, the offer is more a formality than anything, the same song and dance she does for every warrior who crosses her path. So few of them are amenable to being turned, and the few who do are too weak to be worth her while. It's disheartening, it really is, the way people have no appreciation of her generosity.

[ooc: riful will probably try to kill/nom her shortly, unless you'd like to draw it out for anything else? :O]

There wasn't much she could do if her last, desperate magical attacks were hardly effective, and she watched the deceptively childlike monster approach, every muscle in her body tensing.

Her eyes widened slightly at the offer. "Join you? Do you turn others into monsters like yourself?"

Just calling her a monster should make her opinion of the matter clear, if her narrowed eyes and almost growled tone of voice didn't. Umi didn't miss Riful's own tone, though; and it was just a little bit frustrating to hear a monster sound so human.

[ooc: go for it!]

Riful smiles, not offended in the slightest.

"Oh yes. All the time, in fact. But..." She's standing right before Umi now, casually nudging her with one bare foot, "It's always disappointing, how weak they turn out. You break them once, then break them again, and by then they're no good at all."

To eat, at least. And she is starting to feel it now, hunger like a ache in her bones, tight in her chest, how she'd really like to have a taste of something hot and sweet (guts, always guts). This warrior had arrived at such a convenient time, and she has none of the stink of tainted, monster-ridden flesh so common in today's girls. Perfect

"So maybe I'll just skip that first step altogether. What do you say?" But truth be told, she doesn't much care what Umi has to say about any of this, the flesh of her left arm peeling into ribbons as she reaches out to seize her by her throat, lifting her up in the air.

Survival was tempting, always tempting no matter what the cost to oneself, but it really wasn't much of an answer. If they were going to break anyways, what was the point?

No, she'd probably be stronger than some, at least.

Her whole body felt like lead, and it ached; just nudging her nearly toppled Umi, and lifting her head was a struggle. Unless there was a very timely intervention... this was it. Eyes closed, she tried to block out her friends and family - they'd all be so sad.

Held by her throat and lifted, Umi's eyes opened again, glaring at Riful as she dangled, her good hand reaching up to tug uselessly at the strange thing lifting her. "Just... eat me... already..." she choked out.

"All in good time, little one."

Now that she has her meal close at hand, Riful likes to take her time, savor the moment. She lays one small hand on Umi's stomach-- there's a sound of ripping cloth, metal shredding, and then she studies her bare abdomen like a diner contemplating a dinner menu. What to have a taste of first? Perhaps... a kidney.

Gently, she presses her fingers against her skin-- warm, soft, practically vibrating with tension, and then digs in, nails parting flesh like a blade beneath her hands, reaching right into her body to rummage around and take what she liked.

[Somewhere in the darkness of the deeps, there is a strange little girl.

Somehow, the normal Awakened just pass her by. Even if she bumps into them, they simply walk away, mildly confused. Rooms drift past. Chains and blood, chains and blood.

Excited emerald eyes seem to not-quite register the gruesome display. Perhaps it's because of the eye that drifts, at once separate from her body, yet connected by what could only be called veins. It's firmly shut, though you can see little shifting motions underneath...

All at once, the girl stops and looks around, seemingly confused. A faint smile drifts over her face.]

Oh! Where was I going? Oh, it's one of these things! Just like home!

[Giggling, she reaches over to a wall and jingles a chain playfully. A noise that might alert anyone, though for some reason nobody seems to be around.]

Edited 2013-11-13 06:47 (UTC)

[Well no, there's someone still around, stirring slightly from her slumber. Jingle jingle jingle.

Riful yawns, stretching. What's this now? A visitor? It's been so very long since her last meal, she's lost all track of time. Sleepily picking herself up, she rubs at her eyes, peering in the direction of the noise...

...where there's a girl, looking quite out of place. Riful looks at her, considering. Doesn't look like a warrior. So she puts on her most charming smile and calls out to her.]

Why hello there! Are you lost?

(( Maybe put some salt on her or something. ))

[Koishi blinks, then smiles. A little girl! She likes little girls. The only sad part is when they grow up and forget who she is.

Of course, someone with an adult mentality like Riful might encounter some trouble as well. It's the way you have to focus everything to realize she's there, almost as if your entire mind is denying her existence. Something is very off about her but it's hard to place what it is while keeping your eyes from skittering away and your ears from turning her voice into white noise.]

Oh! I don't know. Do you know if I am? This place seems familiar, but I don't know why.

[She doesn't see anything wrong with finding a little child in the same place as torture instruments. After all, she's here, isn't she? And she's like a child! Sort of.]

Edited 2013-11-14 07:21 (UTC)

[Riful frowns, squinting and rubbing at her eyes a bit more. It's strangely difficult for her to keep her gaze on the girl, and she wonders absently if she'd slept a bit too long this time around, or if perhaps she was dreaming. As an Awakened Being, Riful dreams very rarely, mostly dark undercurrents of hunger and red, red blood. But it's not out of the question, is it? This situation certainly holds potential to go that way as well. It really has been a while since she's had a proper meal.]

Well, I doubt you've been here before. This is my abode, and... [She shrugs a little, but her eyes are bright with hunger.] ...my visitors so rarely return.

Oh? Is that true? Well I'd like to come back soon! This place is so pretty!

[She gives an excited twirl, giggling loudly. The sound is almost as out of place as she is and the darkness seems to swallow it eagerly.

However even as you look at her, she's gone, though her laughter echoes. Or...is that right? No, it's so hard to tell. She's shifting, closer, closer, like someone blurred frame by frame.

Koishi blinks and her face is pressed inches from Riful's, eyes glowing an eerie green-white. She doesn't know how she got there. One moment she was just wondering who this fascinating person was and now she...

She really wants to know!]

Who are you? You're so pretty! Why do you own a place like this? Is this hell?

Edited 2013-11-17 07:24 (UTC)

[That.... was unexpected. Riful hides her surprise with a single slow blink, but her eyes narrow, mouth twisting into a slight frown. What is this, some new Awakened impudently intruding on her territory? No, she doesn't sense that kind of energy at all, but there's certainly something here, even if she can't quite put her finger on it.

What a pain it would be, if she ended up dealing with another mindless powerful thing like Isley's woman.]

What a lot of questions you have, little one. But shouldn't we be introducing ourselves first?

[The little youkai pauses. Now that she thinks of it...What is her name? Surely she has one. It's just that... for some reason or other, she can't seem to recall it.]

Um... It's... Something...?

[She pats herself down, searching for something. Eventually, she finds it in an upturned collar. A single word, stitched lovingly into the hem by hands unknown. She sticks her tongue out, angling her head to read it.]

Ko...Ko...Koi...Koi...shi? Koishi! Koishi! Right!

[She gives a little jump of joy, laughing. It wasn't that hard, was it?]

My name is Koishi Komeiji! Who are you?

Edited 2013-11-21 02:10 (UTC)

[OOC: Unless your character has in some way hurt/threatened to hurt/been hired to hurt John Watson, Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper, ~~or Mycroft~~, Sherlock will not be torturing anyone.

Feel free to torture Sherlock. I have a pretty strong stomach, so anything's good.]

It has been almost worryingly quiet since they caught Sherlock. Jim had popped in to taunt him about really believing in his own fake suicide, but after that, he'd been left pretty much alone, chained to the wall in what honestly could be best described as a dungeon--heavy iron door, couple of sets of cuffs for arms and legs set into the concrete of the wall, bit dampness and too cool to be really comfortable.

Jim always did have a weakness for melodrama, it must be admitted.

They've kicked a tray under the door once a day with some water and extremely dull thin porridge in soft plastic bowls, nothing he can use as a weapon, and then pull it back out later on, never actually entering the room. Apart from when the food is sent in and brought back out, it's pitch black in the room and near silent.

Suddenly, the door opens, light streaming in behind them, and two figures drag in a slumped man who seems half-drugged and roughed up. The clamp him in the other set of chains in the room and leave them both in the dark, the man's wheezing breath loud in the room.

Suddenly, there's a clanking of chains, and a slurred but familiar voice speaks. "Who's there?"

Sherlock's used to being imprisoned and interrogated by now. He's had several run ins with Moriarty's web and close calls are more frequent than not. But this. This is different. Imprisonment with no interrogation. At first, he believed that this was merely a way to put him out of the way. But killing him would have been so much easier.

He'd been well behaved and thoughtful. There was no light to see by, so he relied on his fingertips to tell him what he needed to know about his holding cell. How he could escape. That, and his Mind Palace, made the sensory deprivation tolerable.

At least that's until Moriarty himself paid him a visit.

He'd been almost feral by the end of that interview. Rage and the suppressed despair of his capture finally eating away a hole large enough to peek through. He'd fought so hard at his restraints that he drew blood. And ever since then, he'd lost something of himself. His composure, his tolerance of physical discomfort, and his focus.

Panic. Moriarty's alive. Sherlock hadn't killed himself and Moriarty knows. John, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade. Everyone. Moriarty hadn't mentioned calling the snipers back to their posts, but there was a threat in his tone when they'd spoken.

Days pass to weeks with no word. No external contact. No matter how much he calls out, none of the guards say a thing to him. Cut off entirely and he has no way out. Even the nails of both forefingers and thumbs are nothing but a bleeding mess from trying to use them to pick the locks of his cuffs.

He's curled over in the corner of his cell, trying to get what little warmth he can from his body when the doors open. He's blinded by the light, so he can't see who it is. He tries with rekindled violent effort to break free of his restraints and charge the door. Iron bites into already raw healing wounds and his feet and knees skid on the cement ground. He hisses with his pain and lies panting on his side when the door closes behind the guards.

A companion. He doesn't want someone else. No, he does. He's been so alone in here.

That voice.

Any sense of hope leeches out of him when he hears John's voice. No. No, no, no. Not John. Anyone but John.

His own voice is raw from disuse. Jagged where it had once been velvet smooth. "John," he croaks, trying once again to kick at his restraints to get closer to his friend. It hurts.

John's head is throbbing from whatever the hell they'd given him, and the rest of him aches from the brief fight. He'd seen what seemed to be a mugging in an alley and went to help...only it turned out to be a trap instead. Nothing broken yet, he thought, though he was sure he had some spectacular bruises.

And anyway, what the hell is this about? His life since Sherlock's death has been utterly boring--cloyingly boring, to the point where he has to admit that he almost was glad of the mugging because it'd give him a chance to do something again.

But what was the point? He didn't have any reason to be a target now, surely.

Except...that voice.

That...voice.

"No. That's--I'm--just the drugs. It'll be gone in a minute." But oh God he hopes it isn't. And hopes it is at the same time because he sure as hell wouldn't want Sherlock stuck here, and if the man faked his death, John's going to kill him.

The side of Sherlock's head finds the ground and he closes his eyes. Or he thinks he does. It's hard to tell when the surrounding area's pitch black. Hope somehow hasn't left him entirely, so he clings to that last bit of hope that his physical and mental states are giving him a hallucination.

This can't be John. Moriarty has used him against me before. But not like this. He wouldn't. He couldn't. Oh, but he would. This is exactly something he would do.

John's response confirms it. Hearing his voice, slurred as it is, makes everything fit into place. Acoustics, tone, accent. All pointing toward the one centre point of John Watson. That, and the choice of words and focus. He'd been drugged and thinks this is a hallucination.

"No," he mutters. No! He has to be careful. They could be listening in. He has to remain at least somewhat detached or Moriarty will know how strong his Ace of Spades really is against him. He already knows

"John, it's really me. You're not hurt?" Sherlock asks him, trying again to reach his hand toward his friend's voice. The sound of his chains clanking and then coming to a sudden, snapping halt that can be heard quite easily. This time Sherlock just grunts from the pain before futilely trying to pull his hand free.

A long hesitation, and then the rattling of chains on his own end. There's just enough length that if John pulls to the end of his, they can just touch a little. He grunts in irritation himself at the whole situation, reaching in the dark to find--an arm? Feels solid.

"Sherlock?" He's trying to focus, trying to wake up. God, this can't be real, it's all too much like a nightmare. He'll wake up in a bit, in his dingy bedsit, he'll go to work...

Except the bruises he can all too clearly feel are too vivid for any nightmare. "How the hell are you--?" Solid. This is solid, and God, he'd never forget that voice. Even if it sounds worryingly raspy. How long has he been here? Since the funeral?

"I'm just roughed up a bit. You--are you hurt? You sound like shite." Worry about the how and why later, they've got more immediate problems.

Physical touch has always been one of those things he'd been confused by. Sometimes he welcomes it, sometimes he's repelled by it. Right now, even this much, is heavenly. Tender, warm, and a physical reminder that John's alive. Even if he's in this Hell with him. It just means I need to start trying harder. Every cell is escapable. He just needs to find the right means.

"I'll explain later," Sherlock promises, as he leans toward the touch. His hands can't reach far enough, but in the way he's positioned, his shoulders and head can sit on John's side of the cage. If John's hands find Sherlock's face, he might be able to tell that Sherlock's hair is an inch and a half too long and his face is covered in a full beard of substantial length. He's been in here for months, but even Sherlock can't make a guess at an exact date. There's no sense of time in a place of darkness. He's counted hundreds of 'meals', but are they feeding him three times per day or once every three days?

"I'm fine." It's a lie, obviously. "Just a bit roughed up myself," he adds. If he doesn't admit to some of the pain, John's imagination will carry him away and make him worry more. Right now, they both need to focus on escape and not each other.

If only it were that easy.

"What did you see? When they were carrying you in here, what did you see outside this room?"

"Oh, God, Sherlock." Just three words, but there's so much in them. How much he'd missed Sherlock. The anger, the grief, the self doubt. The constant wondering--should he have seen it coming? The numbness and depression. Wondering if anything was ever, ever going to be anything like 'all right' again. The times he'd taken out his gun and just stared at it, even chambered a round, not sure he could go through this a second time. Coming back from Afghanistan all over again, only he'd had his miracle already, his one brilliant, shining detective who pulled him out of it, brought him back to life.

One more miracle.

So they're going to have to get out of this. They'll do it.

His voice is still slurred but coming back to normal, and he had been given...certain training that wasn't entirely normal for doctors. "Right. Um. I didn't wake up at all until we were part of the way inside. Think there was an elevator. Sort of a...mine shaft looking thing? That's the first thing I remember after the alley. And this level all looks concrete, sort of like a bunker. Underground, I think. There's other doors on this level, but I don't know how many or where they go."

He's not sure how helpful any of that is, and he can tell Sherlock's been here a while by that hair. God, has he got a beard?

"Bit dramatic, this. I mean, really, chains? Half expected there to be a bed of mouldy straw in here." It's gallows humor, but sometimes, you need a laugh at times like this.

Sherlock can hear something in John's voice. It's like a beaker of boiling solvent with a lid placed over it. Pressure keeping the gas in, but for how long? How much heat could it take? And what 'solvent' is he hearing? Emotional things have never been as easy for Sherlock to decipher, even when it comes to the one person he's bothered learning about more than just a simple fact sheet.

Unhappy. Discontent. Something else, but what?

He doesn't say anything. Comforting isn't his area and he doesn't have the energy to expend on trying just yet. Instead, he takes in all of what John tells him about the facility they're in. He'd guessed the underground part because of the temperature and humidity levels, and he hears the sound of an elevator around the area John explains it. It helps, but not enough.

And, at the comment about the mouldy straw bed, Sherlock snorts just a couple beats of exhausted chuckling. His heart isn't in it, but the physiological response of even that feels like a relief. "Think I'd rather like having a bed of any sort," he tells him as he starts to go through his mental list of things he's discovered since being in this cell. Everything is so disjointed. The lack of proper nutrition is finally having a toll on him and his mental functions. Oh fantastic, that.

"We're about 300 metres underground," Sherlock tells him. "Only prisoners currently, but I've heard a few dozen come and go since coming here. There's a room nearby where they do interrogations. Nasty, haven't been there myself. And, you've probably guessed that Moriarty is involved. He's running this place." Does John think Moriarty is dead?

"I'd point out that Moriarty is dead, but so are you, so..." He scrubs his hand over his face. Right, chains. Fairly secure, he'd say, tight enough that he's not sure he could get out of them even if he could dislocate his thumb. And even if he could, that door is bloody solid. Maybe if they could get free and then rush the guards...

But Sherlock's been here a long time, and clearly he hasn't been able to get out--

Suddenly, the previously blank ceiling lights up--florescents behind a screen of some kind. There's two cameras in the room, infrared as well as normal light cameras, so there's really nowhere they can hide in here.

The door swings open, and Jim Moriarty walks in, in his usual expensive suit and chewing spearmint gum. "Hello, boys~. I see you've been having a touching reunion. I must say I was hoping for tears, but you've been really disappointing so far." John nearly snarls and tries to place himself between Sherlock and Moriarty, though it's not terribly practical with the chains, and Jim is well out of both their reach.

If the sliver of light had blinded Sherlock before, the fluorescent shine from above is downright painful. He squeezes his eyes closed and curls to tuck his chin down toward his chest.

John will be able to see the bad state Sherlock's in as soon as his eyes recover. He's practically emaciated. Skin clinging to bones with most of the muscle mass already used up for fuel. His hair is filthy and matted and there's clear signs of infection in the cuts at his wrists and torn fingertips. His face is gaunt and the lack of sleep should be just as evident as the lack of proper food.

Sherlock tries to push himself up to his hands and knees but struggles to do it. His lips curl up in a snarl that's not far from that of a cornered animal.

"You," he spits and yanks against his restraints to throw himself at Moriarty. He doesn't have any success in the matter, but the rage he hasn't been able to forget resurfaces and doubles in intensity. He's brought John into this. He's brought John to this Hell.

Jim sighs as Sherlock throws himself against the chains like a common thug. So boring, he expected better than this. But, Sherlock has been so dull lately. He needs a little bit of a wakeup call.

Once Sherlock's worn himself out--and little Johnny's attempting to hold him back so he doesn't hurt his wrists any worse, he speaks again. "It's all your fault, you know, Johnny dear. Sherlock was so fascinating before you came along. So amusing watching him throw himself at cases. Brilliant! And then you came in and spoiled it all. The great Sherlock Holmes being ruined by sentiment. You've been such a naughty boy, spoiling other people's fun."

He grins at Sherlock before returning his snake's gaze to John. "Of course, I think we both know you'll do anything for your beloved master. So, you and I will play a little game. Whatever I do to you, I won't do to him. How does that sound?"

John rolled his eyes, though his shoulders were tense. "I think you're bloody barkers if you think I have any reason to trust you."

Jim chuckled and crouched down, getting just close enough that he was only barely outside their reach. "I think you don't have much choice. You don't want to see poor Sherly tortured, do you? Not when he's already in such nasty shape?"

It doesn't take long for Sherlock's minimal energy supply to deplete, leaving him panting and useless on his side. He doesn't even notice John holding his shoulder until he's settled with his cheek flat against the concrete. Sweat and blood cover his skin as he opens his eyes and takes in the light-burned humanoid shape of Jim Moriarty.

"No... No, John. You can't trust him," Sherlock says, grimacing at the desperate note in his voice. He knows that Moriarty is a man of games and when he lays down a rule, that rule is golden. Solid. And, the rule here is both explicit and implicit. Whatever Jim does to John, he won't do to Sherlock. So, the reverse will be true. Whatever Jim does to Sherlock, John will be safe from. It all comes down to a matter of sentiment. Putting your neck on the board to wait for the axe to spare each other. It's disgusting, undersided, and terribly clever. In any other circumstance, Sherlock would feel more openly impressed with the idea. Right now, his hazy brain has only one outcome in mind. John hurting for him.

"I'm fine," he repeats his lie as he pushes himself back up to his hands and knees and looks directly up toward Moriarty's face. "I can handle whatever you've got planned. He's boring, ordinary. Why waste your time with that?"

Obviously, it's because that is what will get the most reaction out of Sherlock.

"I may be an idiot, Sherlock, but I'm well enough aware that he's about as trustworthy as a snake. Moreover, we're both your prisoners, so what exactly is the point of making deals when you've got the power?" Placate, buy time.

Sherlock's in bad shape already, he couldn't take much. They need to hold out until they escape or until rescue comes for them. He's pretty sure Mycroft's people are still tailing him, maybe they can figure out what's happened.

Jim glares at Sherlock. "Why do you waste your time with him?" He levels a kick at John's chest, and John attempts to tackle him and pull him to the ground, but his reactions are still dulled with the drug, and Jim's able to dance back. "Naughty, naughty. Now, what's it to be? Should I take you, or Sherlock."

John had doubled over a bit at the kick, but straightens as much as he can. "You bloody well know my choice. Take me, you mad fucker."

Sherlock could answer John's question quite simply. Moriarty's giving him the choice because it's more fun for him that way. The man's motivation is nothing but to relieve his boredom, and this is the way he's chosen to do it. A sick and twisted game that puts the others to shame. Blowing up some civilians? Child's play. Poisoning a couple children and ripping Sherlock's life out from under his feet? About as fun as a game of Monopoly. This. This is new and clever. A play upon freshly emerging emotions while they're still raw and susceptible.

He jerks against his restraints once more when Moriarty kicks John. His actions are slower, more exhausted than before. It's true that he would probably pass out after just a half hour of torture, but that's a half hour of John being left relatively unharmed.

"John," Sherlock growls a warning as soon as Moriarty gives him the choice. Don't you dare take this on yourself. Why the Hell do you think I jumped?

"He's not involved," he says to Moriarty. Pleading now? My, how the mighty have fallen. "This is my fight and... and he's still drugged. Can't be that fun for you when he's like that." And, now he's grasping at straws.

Jim ignores him--he's always found that's the thing the brilliant can least stand, is being ignored. He hates it himself, Sherlock ignoring his game for tea and jumpers and a stupid, ordinary doctor.

He presses a button in his pocket, and two thugs come in, going to undo John's chains and walk him out of the room, locking the door behind them and leaving Sherlock once again in the darkness.

Jim's quite proud of his layout. The doors are just set up so that one can just barely hear screams from the interrogation room if they're very, very loud.

It takes about twenty minutes before they're audible.

Sherlock does hate being ignored and right now being ignored is putting John into danger. That makes no sense, Moriarty will do whatever he wants regardless, but his mind is addled enough for him to think that way. He screams at Moriarty, once again falling into the mindless, frightened rage that consumed him when Moriarty first entered.

He doesn't stop thrashing about until a few minutes after the lights are off and John's taken out of the room.

He's not going to do it in front of me, Sherlock decides about five minutes later than he should have. He's torn between training his ears to listen for any sound of John in the other room and to cover them up in fear of what he'll hear. Oh God, John...

His fingers prod uselessly against his restraints. His flesh is swollen, so the metal is laying into it even when he doesn't struggle. He tries to slide his fingers under to relieve some of the pain, but it only makes it hurt worse. He's probably got a fairly high fever, but no one's brought him any drugs for either the symptoms or the cause. He can't die, though. An hour ago, he would have gladly let death take him, but now...

Screams. Tortured screams. Those kinds of sounds can only be made under extreme pain conditions. "John," he mutters to himself. What are they doing to John? His imagination runs wild with his fear of what kinds of savage and brutal pain could cause his usually stoic friend to crack that easily. "S-Stop," he tries to call out, but all the screaming has left his voice so raw that it doesn't project much volume. Please...

It might be worse, in some ways, that it isn’t constant. The screams come and go, sometimes fading out for a while. And returning just as suddenly, sometimes laced with shock or fear as much as with pain. Impossible to tell exactly what’s happening or when they’ll stop.

When Jim finally sends him back after nearly two hours, the guards open the door, dragging a figure now naked and bleeding badly inside. He’s making huffing noises of pain that sound very much like he’s desperately trying to suppress them. It’s much more the guards carrying him than leading him, and his foot looks...very wrong if Sherlock gets much of a look.

They haul him to the wall and clamp his arm and legs back in the iron, dragging another agonized cry from him, though it sounds ripped from him. He slumps as they leave, sounding like he’s fighting to control himself.

There’s just enough slack that Sherlock can touch him if he wants.

Sherlock's nerves are on fire as he listens to John's torment. Maybe he's empathising in some strange way, because every time there's a scream it feels almost like he's the one being beaten or cut or electrocuted or whatever it is that they're doing down in the torture room. The same one he'd mentioned to John just before Moriarty graced them with his cursed presence.

One-hundred, seventy-one minutes, twenty-three seconds. That's how long it had been since John had been taken from him before they return him in the torn state he is.

As soon as they open the doors, Sherlock crawls toward the area. "John," he croaks, desperation quite evident in his own voice as he doesn't do a thing to try to hide it. He doesn't even flinch away from the light and allows it to overwhelm his senses and send a painful stab of pain directly into his head.

Blood. Fresh blood, not the stinking odour from his wounds. Sweat. He can't make out much of anything through the sharp lighting. And after just a few moments, it's gone and they're left in the blackness again.

"Oh God, John," Sherlock's brain can't catch up with what he's feeling in time to compartmentalise it. It's real. Everything is real and brutal. Pain, torture, and they don't have access to anything to help stop the bleeding or protect his friend from the deadly danger of infection.

He's scared to touch John. He's not stupid and knows he has open wounds infected with what's most likely Escherichia coli and Stpahylococcus aureus. If he touches one of the wounds, he'd be infecting John with the plague that may kill them both. It's a better death than being tortured more. Oh God, not that. They can't die in this place.

"John, can you hear me?" Sherlock asks after he's moved as close as his binds allow him. "What did they do to you?" Ignore the cracking sound of his voice, John. It's nothing.

He's silent at first, trying to gather himself in the darkness, the cool rough concrete under his throbbing cheek almost like an ice pack. Trying to focus, let the pain report in. Don't try to fight against it, just let it be what it is. Deep breaths.

Okay, that might be a mistake...

Slightly less shallow breaths. He's glad of the darkness, hiding the tears of pain he hadn't been able to stop; he doesn't want Sherlock to see. God, he hopes he couldn't hear that. God. His foot feels like it's on fire, and the smell of burnt hair is still acrid in his nose. God knows what Sherlock must be deducing, what his imagination's filling in.

He can't get up yet, his body refuses to obey. "S...fine, Sherlock. 'M all right." Blatant lie, but it's a start. And he's not sorry he did it. It could have killed Sherlock. And there's no way in hell that he'd let some monster take Sherlock and hurt him when he can do anything to stop it.

He finally manages to get his hands under him and pushes himself upright, biting off a moan of pain. Ribs are broken. And he's trying very, very hard not to think about his foot just now. He gingerly moves himself against the wall, trying to move his foot as carefully as he can.

The scent of burnt hair - burnt flesh? - finds Sherlock's nose after just a moment longer. He can't identify which part of John's body had been torched, but it explains some of the screams he'd heard. No one could suffer that without a moan, not even a soldier. How long had John fought against the instinct to cry out? How much did that encourage his tormentors to push further to get the response they wanted?

"Idiot," Sherlock mutters, starting to reach over to touch John. No, have to keep his wounds clean for as long as possible. No more comfort.

The way John moves tells Sherlock there's broken bones. Halted, uneven, and he can't get comfortable. Breathing hitched, possible lung or rib damage. Burned flesh, broken bones, and a sickening amount of blood. They haven't done anything to control the bleeding, otherwise the smell wouldn't have been strong enough to overpower singed flesh.

Is that all? He tries to smell for any number of acidic substances, phosphorus, mustard gas, anything else to let him know what his friend had gone through in his place.

"You're not all right, John," Sherlock snaps at him. He's frustrated, scared, and full of guilt. All of those things he's powerless against and it leaves him jagged and edgy. Right now, that means John has to take the brunt of it. He's been through Hell and I'm just giving him more.

"You've got God knows how many broken bones. Severe bleeding. They burned you, John. In what sense of the word is any of that 'fine'?" He spits out the words, keeping his distance. If John reaches for him, he might be able to touch him, but he won't be the one to breech that gap and he doubts John will be able to do much with it, either.

Edited (Lol, I said 'do do') 2013-10-28 00:03 (UTC)

There’s no chemical smell, at least. John reaches out to touch Sherlock’s upper arm, just brushing where he doesn’t think there were any cuts earlier. His fingers are damp with blood and clammy with sweat, trembling a little. Trying to keep as calm as possible, keep Sherlock calm. “They know--” He has to take a slow breath to steady himself. God, he’s scared. Needs to keep it under control though.

“Know what they’re doing. Bleeding like a stuck pig but nowhere that’s likely to bleed out fatally. Bones...two ribs, I think. And...left foot. First three phalanxes and metatarsals. Limit mobility.” Keep it clinical. Sherlock’s probably imagining worse than it is. And he needs to know John might not be much use if they had to run.

He inadvertently brushes a chain on his left foot and bites his lip hard enough to draw blood as he tries to stifle a cry of pain. The burns, he doesn’t much want to get into right now. Several of them are numb right now, which he knows is not at all a good thing. Means they’re deep enough to have damaged the nerves under the skin.

Sherlock hears the movements and the tell-tale sound of the chain clambering against the ground and the other rings. He knows John's reaching for him, so he's unsurprised when he feels his friend's hand touch him. Damp and cool and shaking. The effort just to do that much exerting on him.

His teeth clamp tightly shut as he listens to John's accounts of his injuries. John's bleeding a lot, not enough to bleed out and die. That's great for now, but water comes scarce in this place. With Sherlock's fever, he can't afford to not drink his share, but he'll refuse it so John drinks up, anyway. He's just as stubborn as he ever has been and this is something he won't back down from. He'll keep his mouth shut so their captor can't hear his thoughts on the matter and so John can't get ready to argue.

Whatever instrument they'd used on John's foot must have been a precise one. Metal and gauged in order to get at those smaller phalanx bones. And, John hadn't needed to tell him that it would limit his mobility for him to think of it.

"Careful," Sherlock tells John in a voice that's much softer than the abrasive tone he'd been using before. Thoughtful, yet still seething. Don't take it out on John. He doesn't deserve it. "Your cuts and burns. Where are they?" he asks, because it's something more to consider. It will make it less likely for him to accidentally infect his friend.

He nods, though it's sort of pointless in the dark. It's tiring even to do that much, and God, he wants to rest, though he's not sure he can do it with how tired he is right now. He seriously considers not telling Sherlock, but...might as well. His voice is getting a bit slurred with exhaustion. Not blood loss, he hopes, because if he's lost that much more blood than he thinks, than there's not much that can be done.

"Burns. Inside of the thigh. Inside of the right elbow. Chest. Left shoulder blade. Cuts...head. That's why it's bleeding. More on my...back...legs I think..." He's starting to lose focus, and the pain is throbbing, making it hard to think. God, he's cold too. The burns would do that, and the shock. All that adrenaline.

"Not--not your fault, Sherlock. This. Just. Don't be an idiot." He can tell that Sherlock is scared and worried. And possibly blaming himself.

The burns should hurt worse, shouldn't they? That's a bad sign. He's pretty sure that's...not a...good...his mind won't focus, eyes drifting closed. Probably. Hard to tell when it's this dark.

Sherlock marks all the injuries on an anatomical doll of John in his mind so he doesn't make make a mistake and touch the wrong area. He can tell that there's something off about John's voice. The longer he speaks, the more slurred he's starting to sound. At first, he hadn't noticed it. The drugs could have still been lingering in his system and his voice had a shaking resonant quality to it. Pain shakes. Maybe fear. Anyone would be scared after experiencing things this heinous.

"John, stay with me," Sherlock tells him. He's ignoring John's advice to him for two reasons. He doesn't want to shift the blame right now and also because he's worried about John. This isn't normal. He shouldn't be starting to fade like this.

Sherlock reaches up for John's forearm and he holds onto it lightly. He can't risk taking John's hand because he would use it to touch his wounds, so this will have to do. "Lower your head if you can. Even out your blood pressure..." God, what else. His medical know-how is far from perfect and he's at a loss for what to do to keep John from passing out when his position is hanging like this.

It is my fault. I was sloppy and I was captured. If I weren't you wouldn't be in this situation. If I had made sure Moriarty was dead. If I had jumped head first and ended it. All of those things would make this moment not exist for you and you'd be in your normal, boring life. But, you'd be safe.

His mental rambling goes on in the farthest background of his mind. In the foreground, he's too panicky. Frantic in his efforts to try and keep John with him. He even calculates where John's face is and pats at it with his knuckles. The smell from his wrists will be unpleasant to John's nose, but who has time for pleasant when they're stuck together in a place like this.

"M'tired." He hangs his head but sways as though it's hard for him to keep his balance. Right. Shouldn't sleep right now. Shouldn't be this tired, should still be--still be--

He shakes his head, trying to focus. "Burns...don't hurt. Should hurt...bad...might be--" He blinks, everything tilting, turning hazy and half unreal. "Missed you, idiot. So alone--it was--"

I was so alone, and I owe you so much. He missed it, the excitement, the danger. How could Sherlock ever blame himself for that? He was as much an addict as Sherlock, after all. Afghanistan, then throwing himself at the man crossing the deadliest criminal in England, maybe in the world. And he'd do it again. He'd do this again, offer his life for Sherlock's. Would have then too, jumped without a second thought...

He's dreaming. He's dreaming and he's going to wake up soon. And Sherlock will be dead. He shakes his head. No. Real. Right? Shock, this is shock. And he needs to stay awake right now.

"Keep talking. Awake. Need." God, he's tired, just a few minutes. "Burns. Body temperature can drop--hypothermia. Dangerous."

Sherlock tries to make sense of what John's telling him, but it's hard. His speech is slurring together and confused. He's obviously having thoughts and just spilling them out as soon as they reach his mouth and translating them can come later. That's Sherlock's job, isn't it?

John's burns aren't causing him pain. Possibly third degree burns. Nerve damage, he knows that much. So they're deep, which means they will cause some thermal problems. Fever, maybe? Or heat loss?

"John, you're not alone anymore. Just stay with me," Sherlock tells him as soon as there's a break in the rambling. It's not hard for him to associate the 'so alone' to the speech at his grave that he'd witnessed. He has it memorised. Stupid, sentimental reasons, but he's kept it in mind. A reminder of what he was supposed to be fighting for and the ability to grant John that one more miracle when everything was said and done.

"Yes, keep talking. You need to stay awake. If you pass out now..." There's a risk for coma. His body wouldn't be able to do anything to protect itself from the chill and the damp. Sherlock swats at John's arm, not enough to hurt him but enough to keep his brain working to notice the sensation. "Just, don't. Don't pass out."

Hypothermia. He can't reach John enough to do anything to prevent something like that. His feverish body would do well for providing warmth, but not if he can't reach.

If he shifts just a little, perhaps because of the angle or perhaps the chains are just a little longer, he can get closer to Sherlock, close enough to lean on each other at least some. "Too hot--you're. Fever?" He tries to touch Sherlock's head, trying to shake himself alert enough to figure it out.

"Infection?"

That needs treatment, and soon, but they took his clothes, so he can't even make makeshift bandages. Sherlock doesn't have anything that'd work for it either. His head slides a little, murmuring. "Easy, Frank. Helicopter's..." No, wait, that's not now, is it? It's too cold to be Afghanistan, even at night. Though it could get chilly in the winter, but it was dry, not damp. Right, yes, Sherlock. God, why can't he focus.

"Harry..." Why's he thinking of her now of all times?

Sherlock freezes in place when John leans on him. He goes through his memory of John's injuries and he tries to shift in a way that none of them will be coming in contact with his body. He's filthy. Hasn't been clean since he'd been thrown in here and he's long since gotten used to the smell. He's only aware of it now because of the new scents John's brought in with him.

"I thinks so," Sherlock admits, letting some of his weight back against John. It can support him in this position and take some of the pressure off of his cuffs. "Don't know how long. Skin's been swelling up for hours... or maybe a day. Not sure. And, my fingers." He sighs and holds his hands in front of him. He can't see them, but he can feel them. The throbbing ache following his heartbeat. It itches, too. And he feels like his fingers are puffing out like itchy balloons filled with pus.

"John, you're disoriented," he tells him. Well, that's an understatement. John's completely lost, not simply disoriented. "It's me, Sherlock, remember? We're... we're in Moriarty's holding cell."

He nods after a few minutes. "Tired." Some people can keep odd hours, but most human beings do work, you know...normal people...He slumps a little, breathing steady, though shallow with the damage to his ribs.

The lights flash on suddenly--which doesn't wake John. It does however, give a rather clear view of the injuries he's sustained, and the fact that he hadn't mentioned the bruises he'd been given, some when they kidnapped him, and quite a few fresh ones that look as though they'd started off by beating and kicking him.

The burns especially look appalling; several of them look like they were made with a blowtorch, and his ribs are a mass of bruises on the side where they're broken. It's pretty clear they kicked him extensively on the side and at least a few times in the face and head before he was able to cover his head with his hands. His foot makes it clear that they didn't just break the bones there, but that they were jamming them together manually to cause him further pain.

"Sleeping already? That's rude, isn't it?" Jim chirps smugly as he enters.

Sherlock feels the change when it happens. John's core muscles no longer rigidly holding him in a somewhat upright position. There's an added weight on his shoulder that he has to brace himself to be able to hold with his lack of muscle mass. "John," Sherlock murmurs, but listens to his breathing. He's still alive. He sighs out his relief at that. Thank God... just make sure you wake up later.

Sherlock wants to lean his head against John's. It feels more natural that way, but John mentioned injury to his head and he doesn't want to exacerbate it, so he leans his head back against the concrete wall behind instead.

Lights. Sherlock's eyes had been closed this time, so he lifts his arm (not the one John's leaning on) and shields his eyes from it so he can get used to it this time. So he can see something. Even if it's just Moriarty's demonic face grinning down at him while he savours his anguish.

Sherlock's eyes study Moriarty for only a second before he takes a cursory glance over John and his condition. "Patch him up," Sherlock tells Moriarty. A prisoner making demands? He knows that Moriarty is doing all of this for him in whatever sick way his mind turns things about. And, he knows that gives him a certain amount of edge in things... though, he's been disappointing his captor so far. Acting normal. Acting human. The way John's taught him.

Contusions. Incise wounds. Puncture wounds. Burn marks - blistering, scorched, wet from body fluids. He's losing too much water - Haemorrhaging. Lateral fractures. Impact fractures. All the comfort of John explaining the injuries to him vanishes when the reality of it hits him. He's pale, shaking. Weaker than he'd let on.

"If he dies, you'll get nothing from me," his eyes move back to Moriarty's. The light has an obscene halo effect around him and he wants to spit at it, but it's not worse the loss of fluids. "Do you hear me, Moriarty. If you kill him, you may as well kill me too, since I will give you nothing." There's a serious threat in his eyes and a sharpness to his words. Do what normal people wouldn't do, indeed. Do what normal people can't do, more like.

He'd give no response, at least not outwardly. He would simply lock himself away in his Mind Palace until death takes him in a stubborn refusal to give Moriarty an ounce of what he wants to see. He'll keep fighting, but only as long as he's got John to 'protect'.

He smirks, cleaning a bit of blood from under his nails. John's blood, some of it, though he let Moran do a great deal of the heavy lifting. One must let sadists get their fix regularly or they do get so surly, and Sebastian is irritable enough as it is. "You'd really just let me live? The man who murdered your 'friend'? Boring!"

He crouches, eyes dark as he eyes the unconscious man slumped against Sherlock. "Did you enjoy his screams? I know I did. I considered leaving that jumper on him, letting it melt into his skin. It'd be fitting, wouldn't it? Like a monster in a fairy tale, only made of ugly jumpers."

John's skin is really cooler than it should be against Sherlock's, and he's still bleeding a fair bit. And it's impossible to be sure whether he has internal injuries as well. At minimum, the cut on his forehead is probably soaking Sherlock's arm.

"You don't think you should let him die? Do you really think he won't make the same decision over and over again?"

Yes. Sherlock would let Moriarty live if he killed John, because he knows that's what would get under Moriarty's skin the most. He'd displayed it quite well earlier in the cell. Geniuses do hate to be ignored and he's as much of a showman as the psychopath before him.

His gaze at Moriarty is a calm hatred as the other man describes his enjoyment over John's torment. Coming from the insane brain of a man with a complete disregard for killing children, it's no surprise he gets his jollies from this sort of thing behind the scenes. And both of them are playing right into Moriarty's plans. Two flies caught in the web and being sucked dry to satisfy this spider's macabre appetite.

But, those words make Sherlock's eyes travel toward John's state once more. This time, he more fully takes in the dangers and the pains associated with John's condition. Two hours of torture. Two hours of the worst kinds of pain imaginable, and it doesn't end with that, because the pain continues through the 'resting' phases.

Letting John die would be mercy, but it would also be an insult. That's the kind of thing he doesn't have a say in. John's decision, ultimately, whether he lives or dies. He'll keep fighting. He'll live, if nothing else but to save me from the torture that may or may not ever come to pass.

Selfish. He's always been so selfish. The thought of life knowing John died in a place like this isn't something he's willing to face. As soon as John's life ends, so does his hope.

"If he dies before he asks to die, then I'll give you just what I said. Nothing. I won't lift a finger and you can go on doing what you do without me or anyone else noticing you." No credit. No antagonism. Just a heaping serving of nothing.

He grins at that, pleased. "Very good, Sherly! I knew he hadn't completely dulled your mind. So. You want your beloved soldier patched up. He snaps his fingers at the camera, and the door opens. A guard hands in a packet and Jim closes the door behind him, taking out a key.

"Now, you wouldn't do anything silly while I unlock him. You'd never get anywhere with your pet in this state, and he'll be the one I punish." If Sherlock doesn't intervene, Jim will unlock all of John's cuffs but the one on his good foot. Then, he'll kick the packet to Sherlock--a rough but serviceable blanket, a single water bottle, some ointment, a single row of bandages, and a bottle with four antibiotic pills.

"Have fun playing doctor, you two! Oh, and better hurry. You never know when it might be lights out~!"

Sherlock doesn't have any shame giving into what Moriarty obviously wants from him. Selfish. He watches the other man warily as he works to unlock John from his restraints. He sees where the key is, but it's very unlikely that the same key would be used for both sets of cuffs. Too easy.

The other key would be elsewhere. Moriarty could have brought it with him, but that would also be too easy. Somewhere on his person would probably be a pin of some sort. Make him work harder for his freedom. Watch him dance, if you will.

Risky. John will be the whipping boy.

Sherlock turns his attention onto John as soon as he has the packet. He has to use the meaty part of his thumbs and his ring fingers and pinky finger to open up the plastic. It's tedious work and it hurts the broken portions of his fingertips on the remaining digits.

Concentrate. Quickly. A race against time.

He sets it to the side and then lays the blanket across his lap before half-dragging John down to lie on it. Cleaner than the floor and a little blood can be ignored, all things considered. He opens the bottle of water with his teeth and uses a minimal amount to rinse some of the filth from the fingers he's using, then caps it back up so it doesn't spill. Next, he does the best he can do to clean the worst of cuts and burns. Ointment is used generously through the process and his bandage wrapping is left partially done because he can finish those in the dark. He also leaves the antibiotics to the side for now.

When the lights inevitably fade, Sherlock will first tighten the half-finished bandage job and then he'll take one of the antibiotic pills with the tiniest sip of water to get it down into his stomach.

John's pill will have to wait until he's conscious. Prophylactic antibiotic usage better than giving one after the fact.

The physical strain will leave his chest heaving and he'll struggle with the blanket to wrap it around John as best as he can. He won't take much of the blanket for himself and instead will settle for the warmth John radiates to keep himself from giving into his fever chills.

John starts clawing his way back to consciousness a long time later, perhaps a few hours, perhaps a couple of days. He slowly starts becoming aware that he's in a hell of a lot of pain. Breathing hurts and attempting to move hurts more. He moans as the pain from trying to move nearly makes him black back out.

Hurts. God, it hurts, his chest throbs and feels thick and heavy. Hot and cold too. What the hell happened? He half remembers a torch getting closer and closer--

He tries to open his eyes, but there's nothing there. Blind? He tries to jerk his head around, alarmed, but the movement sets off a coughing fit that leaves him wheezing and trying to clutch his chest.

As he coughs, memory comes crashing back in. Oh, God, he'd passed out. What if Sherlock--what if Moriarty had--

"Sher--Sherlock?"

Sherlock had tried his hardest to 'stand' sentinel. To watch over John and listen to his vital signs. To make sure his respiration was normal - broken ribs could lead to punctures lungs - and to frequently check his friend's pulse at his throat with a pinky finger and a ring finger since pressing a palm on his chest would be too cruel.

After only about an hour, the exhaustion catches up to him, and he slumps forward, over John. He'd used the leftover bandage strips and ointment to blindly cover his fingers and cushion his wrists.

Something moving in his lap. That starts to wake up, but the cough is what brings him to full alertness. (Well, a loose sense of alertness, anyway.)

"John," Sherlock croaks. His voice has gotten even worse since the day(?) before. Raw, barely anything to drink. "Hold still," he tells him and reaches around until he finds the bottle of antibiotics. How long as it been?

He touches one of the bandages over John's more superficial cuts. One that's bled a lot but hadn't been deep enough to cause damage to anything but the connective tissue. The blood's completely dry. It's been several hours, at least. He struggles to open the bottle and takes two of the precious pills out. One for John, one for himself. He swallows his dose dry.

"Here," he tells his friend, finding his hand and placing the pill against his palm. "It's medicine. Antibiotic... broad spectrum, I think. And, here's something to take it with." He won't say it's their only bottle of water for now. John's lost so much fluids and having burns means he's just going to keep losing them.

He takes the bottle, trying to control the pain, taking slow, deep breaths and trying not to get sick. That's the last thing he needs; he's probably dehydrated as it is. Moriarty. Right, yes, they're in Moriarty's dungeon, for lack of a better term. He'd like to laugh, but he's in too much pain to try it

"I'll take it after you drink some water. And don't bother arguing, we both know you're dehydrated too. It won't do any good for the more mobile of us to collapse from thirst."

He's going to be stubborn on this one. He's well aware there probably isn't enough to go around, but Sherlock sounds like shite, so he offers the bottle.

The movement leaves his hand trembling slightly, as it rubs the bandages a bit against his chest, leaving him biting his lip and controlling his breathing as best he can. Doesn't want Sherlock to know. Though, he probably already has a good guess; no use confirming it unnecessarily though.

Sherlock should have known John would act like the doctor he is and make him drink some of the water, too. He takes the bottle from him and takes a few small sips of the water. It tastes and feels very good to have the moisture in his mouth, but he restrains his urge to greedily drink down the whole thing. Another small sip and he hands finds John's hand and places the bottle back into it.

"You're being stubborn," he tells him, but he's being just as bad.

The truth of the matter is, he might be more mobile, but he doesn't have the strength to carry John out of this place. If they manage to get out of the cell, they might make it about 100 metres at most. That's if adrenaline keeps him moving that long. Leaving without John is not an option.

As for the tremor, Sherlock's noticed it. If it weren't for the shaking fingers, the altered breathing would have given it away.

"You calling me stubborn? Bit rich that." But it falls a bit flat; talking is a bit painful. He takes the pill and follows it with some sips of water, drinking about half before he hands it back. "Now, you're finishing the rest, and don't bother protesting."

He thinks a moment about how to phrase it. "You want to be in decent shape when you're presented to the Queen anyway." He's trying to communicate, without being too obvious, that he thinks Mycroft had been having him tailed, and perhaps he'll work out where they are. Because the truth is that he knows neither of them are in any shape to make an escape, especially if Sherlock's too stubborn to leave him.

Stubborn git. He would show up with a sense of morals at the worst bloody time.

He tries to shift a little, get comfortable, but his foot just brushes against the floor and he has to clap his hand over his mouth to try and muffle the noise, though he really isn't successful. Shite, fuck that hurts. He's pretty sure things are cut up in there from what they did; if they aren't out soon, he'll probably loose the foot.

Sherlock takes the bottle from John, but he doesn't open it to have a drink. He shakes it in his hand and estimates how much water is left in it. Not enough to live by with both of them in the states they were in.

"You're not hallucinating again, are you?" Sherlock asks John, making it a point to touch John's forehead and check for a fever. A moot point considering his own fever hasn't quite settled down to a normal temperature yet. He understands John's clue, but he doesn't want it to look or sound like he has. It's just a matter of angle to slip his finger into a blind spot from the cameras - John's neck, and John himself will be the cover - and he taps out Morse for 'i k n o w' while pretending to continue his fever check.

When he's done, Sherlock moves back and picks up the bottle. He'll savour another few sips, but leaves a quarter of the bottle left. He caps it and sets it to the side in case one or both of them need it more immediately later.

"Careful," Sherlock tells John, holding him steady so he doesn't do more damage to himself by the way his body contorts from the pain. It's his foot, obviously. That's where some of the worst damage is - besides the burns that John can't really feel. "I can't set bones with my hands like this," he explains, leaving the apology in his tone of voice rather than speaking it.

John rolls his eyes. "Only you could confuse sarcasm for hallucinations." Cover of his own, of course, he can read the Morse code but doesn't react.

He has to wait until the spasm of pain ebbs to respond, body going lax. "I know. Nothing to splint with anyway." He doesn't say that he'd do it again if he had to. Sherlock knows. He probably knows it will come to it again.

He grimaces slightly, his body reminding him that he needs to take care of business. There was a drain here, he felt it earlier. He shifts out of Sherlock's lap as gingerly as he can, dragging himself to the drain to relieve himself.

As he finishes, the lights flash on again, leaving John frozen a moment, before he pulls himself up into a sitting position, glaring at the door. God, if he could just get that fucker...

Sherlock smiles weakly when John teases him about the sarcasm. He hasn't had much to smile about since being capture, so he'll take what he can get. Even the act on his face gives him a slight biochemical reaction that doesn't actually help, but is slight relief. Much like trying to put out a house fire with a water pistol, really.

He can feel the shift when John starts to move off of his lap. He helps by removing the blanket and giving his friend some counterweight to balance against. It's a good sign that John still needs to urinate. He hasn't done that much since before John was brought into the cell. Dehydration. He'd inevitably pass a few kidney stones if they make it out of this alive.

A fairly full bladder. Part of it from before his kidnap, no doubt.

Sherlock's eyes are on John when the lights go on, simply because he'd been following the sound. He hadn't expected the sudden change, so once more it's an assault to his senses.

"Oh for God's sake, you could at least bring us breakfast first." He's being impertinent, but that's only because he knows these men will give John their worst whether or not he rebels. It's his way to 'laugh in the face of danger' and to put up a brave front when his mood stems closer to petrified. Not for himself, but because he doesn't think John's body can handle much more of this.

"You don't think you should let him die? Do you really think he won't make the same decision over and over again?"

Had he made a mistake in demanding John to be patched up?

John straightens as best he can, trying to keep upright despite the bandaged burns and cuts, the posture of a soldier snarling in the face of the enemy despite the fear. And he is afraid, he'd have to be an idiot not to. He's already seen what they can do, and he knows it'll only get worse from here.

"Don't bother with the preliminaries, you bastard, we both know what'll happen. Of course, I want you to take me instead of him." He'll go, but he doesn't have to let Moriarty have his 'fun'. And that's what they taught you about resisting interrogation--keep control at least symbolically.

He doesn't know how long his body will last, but he suspects longer than one would think. He's seen people who were alive far beyond the point when you'd think they'd have keeled over dead.

Jim giggles and tosses him the key, watching John fumble at the cuff on his ankle. "Better hurry then, Johnny dear. I'm sure your master will enjoy seeing you walk there under your own power." He grins at Sherlock, savoring his reaction.

Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed directly onto Moriarty. He doesn't trust him one bit and even though having his guard up means absolutely nothing. Not when he's chained to the wall and practically naked.

He's impressed with John's outward attitude, though he can see through it very easily. He knows that John's scared of the pain. Just transport. Not everyone sees their body in the same way Sherlock does, but as long as they don't do anything to John's mind, then recovery is more likely. Pain can do a lot to a mind.

'Walk there under your own power.'

That has Sherlock's façade faltering. His lip turns up on one side in repulsion. Disgust with how this man's twisted sense of fun comes at the expense of his friend's pain and humiliation. A true sadist, that. But he doesn't say anything, even has his hand curls into a shaking fist against the pain of his own (much milder) injuries.

He wants me to watch. If I don't watch, he'll punish John for it.

So, that's what he does. Powerless, he watches his only friend struggle onto his mangled foot.

He glares and finishes unlocking his ankle, pushing his good foot under him first and then using his knee to get upright. There's no way around this hurting like hell, but he tries to minimize the pressure he puts on it but putting his weight on that heal, fighting to keep from making any noise as he hobbles out of the room, shoulders tense. One thing you learn in Afghanistan--courage isn't about not being afraid. It's being scared shitless and doing what you have to do anyway.

As the doors slams shut behind him, the room's plunged into darkness again.

The screams start sooner this time; he's only able to last a quarter of an hour before they're audible. And it just keeps going, with few breaks this time. On and on. A break after a couple of hours, only to resume again. Over and over, and some of the screams are growing almost pleading, before they start fading, as if his voice is growing hoarse. Fading out for a while, and then starting again, as if wringing some new depth of pain out of him.

It's over two days when he's brought back this time, thrown into the cell without bothering to chain him up, whimpering in agony as his body hits the hard floor. The smell of fresh blood, vomit, and burned flesh are cloyingly strong in the room, the sound of his ragged breathing too fast and terrified.

He doesn't try to move, by the sound of it.

Sherlock watches John as he hobbles out of the cell. He expects to 'see' him again in another few hours with God knows what new injuries that will come of it. If he had any inclination it would be longer than that, maybe he would have said something. Maybe an encouraging phrase, or some riddle to keep his mind occupied even for a moment. But, he says nothing and lets the door close without protest.

He's expecting the screams this time. Again, he doesn't want to listen to them, but hearing the screams tell him that John is alive and conscious. Both good things in the big picture, but terrible things for John's senses.

Don't think about what they're doing. Don't think about the flames and the knives. Don't think about them breaking his bones into tiny splinters.

Of course, thinking about not thinking about things just makes him think about them even more.

During the first break (some 132 minutes after John's relocation), Sherlock sighs his relief and waits. It shouldn't be long until they bring John back to the cell with him. Maybe he'd be able to convince Moriarty to let him bandage his friend's wounds again. And, John can rest. He'll sleep through the entire time they're caged up together this time, but it would be for the best. The longer he sleeps, the longer it will be before the torture continues. Right?

But, John doesn't return to the cell. The screams start up again and the cold sense of dread climbs down his spine. This isn't right. He should be returned. Treated. He doesn't let himself think of the possibility of them pushing John so far that he loses himself from the pain or dies from the abuse.

Sherlock can't sleep. He passes out every few hours only to wake from the nightmares brought by his friend's anguished screams carrying on through the bunker. During the first day, he does little more than sit in the same place John had left him. He drinks the last forth of the water because if he doesn't, he risks dying before John can return to him. He takes the last dose of antibiotic, too.

On the second day, he changes his bandages and eats the 'meal' slipped under his door. He takes to yelling at the camera until his voice is raw. Everything and anything that comes to his mind. Some of it is demanding John's return. Some of it threatening to kill himself so Jim can't have his fun anymore. He raves about Baker Street, Scotland Yard, old cases, and pretty much anything else just to keep talking. When he's talking, he drowns out the sound of John's voice.

Eventually, his voice gets hoarse and he slumps against the wall. That's when it finally hits him. Despair like a knife through his abdomen. And, he cries then. The first time since his capture. It's a dry sort of cry with very few tears - his body is clinging too desperately to water to allow for much.

Shortly after (and long before he's finished), the door opens and John is dumped into the ground nearby. "John," his voice is strained from worry and emotion as he crawls toward his friend. His chains keep his hands from getting close enough to do more than brush his fingers over his friend's hair. "Oh God, John. Say something. Any... anything," the relief of his friend here and clearly alive (for now) isn't enough. He struggles, wanting to gather him up close and never let him go again. To protect him with his own body if he can, but he's too far. With that, his sobs pick up right where they'd left off.

Pain. White hot pain is all he's aware of, the echoing of screams he hardly recognizes as his own. Wanting desperately to sink into unconsciousness, but not quite able to do it, between the agony and--he thinks maybe they injected him with something, but he isn't sure anymore. Breathing hurts like he's breathing boiling water--maybe he is, he isn't sure. No, that'd kill him, and they won't...yet.

His hair is sticky with blood and he's not sure exactly what happened to cause it. It smells. Funny, being aware of smelling bad right now. So much blood.

Wonders if he's dying. Might be, and not sure he'd mind, only then Sherlock would get hurt, and he doesn't want that.

Sherlock? Is that Sherlock? Voice is--can't hear exactly. No, not can't hear, just...focus. Try and focus.

Crying? Him? No, that's--

Sherlock. Need. to get. to Sherlock.

Is he hurt? He drags himself slowly, grit from the floor scraping into him and he collapses with a cry after only a few inches. Hurts...

Sherlock.

He scrabbles, drags himself again, another few inches. Costing him dearly, and as he moves, he can't suppress the noises, horrific noises that sound more like a hurt animal than a person. But eventually he collapses again within arms reach. He can't move any farther under his own strength, he just can't.

I'm sorry, Sherlock...

Sherlock can't see the extent of damage this time. He knows it's bound to be much worse than before. Blood and charred flesh are once again the most potent smells on him, followed closely behind by sweat and some human waste. If there's any other odours, he can't make it out. His nose isn't as sensitive as it usually is with his mucous membranes dilated from crying.

Sherlock Holmes crying. Who would believe that?

"John," Sherlock says, a warning in his voice when his friend starts to move. He can hear it in the groaning sounds that it's hurting him terribly. "Don't... J-just rest. Please." But, it goes unheeded. John's determined and stubborn, which he should take as a blessing. It means his mind is still at least partially in tact through all of this.

He's out of water. The only thing he has left is a few strips of bandage and the ointment, but neither of those will do much good for his estimate of bodily damage. That, and the blanket.

He gropes for it and doesn't bother to hide the sound of him sniffing every few seconds as he sets it ready to cover his friend up. Just like before, he'll hold onto John while he rests. Moriarty waited until John got up before, so maybe he'll let them have that reprieve.

"Here," he says as he scoops his fingers under John's armpits to pull him into his lap. His body shakes with John's weight and he tries to ignore the slick feeling of sweat, blood, and maybe interstitial fluid from the injuries where he touches. Selfish. Should have just let him rest. But there's a chance for hypothermia. John's said it himself.

Once he manages to get John into his lap, he pulls the blanket over both of them. Until they get bandages and treatments - if they get those things - Sherlock will have to pray that John doesn't succumb to infection. "Oh God, John. I'm sorry... none of this was supposed to happen."

He can't help a small noise of pain as fingers poke into sensitive flesh, and again as the blanket wraps around him, the scratchy fibers irritating his injuries. But he rests his head against the chest--Sherlock's chest. He's shaking violently, and he can't seem to stop, and it hurts. He's cold too, and he knows he's losing too much blood.

Where his head is resting against Sherlock's chest especially is soaking the detective's chest, bordering on a dangerous amount. Talking's so hard. But it's the only thing he can think, sitting like a heavy lump in his chest, throbbing with loss. "Eyes...th-they..."

He turns, wanting to clutch at Sherlock, but his left arm doesn't want to move anyway and his right hurts too badly. He presses the side of his head into Sherlock's chest, sobbing. It hurts. It hurts, and he's scared and he wants to throw up, but there's nothing left in his stomach. He wants to pass out, but his heart is racing too hard. And he's terrified because he's not sure how much more of this he can take, even for Sherlock, but he has to because he will not let them hurt Sherlock as long as he can draw breath.

What they do to him, they won't do to Sherlock. He has to--Oh God. He's trying to calm, but he can't stop shaking, and he's cold, so cold, but his face feels on fire.

Sherlock notices everything. The shaking, the sobbing, the fluctuating body temperature, rapid pulse, rapid respiration, blood loss. John's terrified, hurting badly, and his body is at a high risk of going into shock and there's nothing he can do but cradle him close. He'll die. He's going to...

There's nothing he can do. Unless they get to a hospital, there's nothing he can do. Moriarty won't be kind enough to give them an IV catheter for fluids or proper treatment for the extent of injuries John's suffered. Anything he can try to do with the materials at hand would be useless and he'd cause more damage trying to patch him up than to simply hold him still.

"Shh," Sherlock tells him, pressing his face down into the bloody mess left of his friend's scalp. "I've got you," he whispers. What had they done to John's eyes? Just like last time, John's trying to tell him the extent of his injuries, only this time Sherlock thinks his imagination might be underestimating the damage.

He's losing it again. He tries to hold it in this time, not because he's ashamed of it. He's well past the point of caring about something like shame. He just doesn't think his body shaking under John's will do his friend any good.

I've got to keep him comfortable. For what? His last few minutes?

"I, uhm... I guess, I should thank you," He probably doesn't sound like he's making much sense. Or maybe John will realise why he's doing it. "You... you've proven me wrong, you know. I think... once I told you there wasn't a such thing as heroes. But, John, that's... that's what you are. A hero." He wouldn't be good at this under the best of circumstances, and right now his attempt just feels pathetic.

It's about then that the overhead light flashes on. Sherlock huddles around John protectively. If Moriarty wants him, he'll have to pry him out of Sherlock's grasp.

He shakes his head a little, coughing to clear the blood that keeps trickling into his throat. "You...always the...the hero, Sherlock. S-...saved so many--..." He coughs again, moaning as a spasm of pain shoots through his torso. "I'd--do...a hundred--if it'd save..."

He shivers and falls silent, more resting against Sherlock now, even though he's shaking. He can't die now. He needs to protect Sherlock. Always. Friends protect people. He never was worth much except when he was saving someone else. His fellow soldiers in Afghanistan. Sherlock. It meant something. Saving them meant something.

The lights flash on, but John doesn't react in the slightest, and it'll be apparent why as soon as Sherlock gets a good glimpse. His eyes are destroyed, slashed repeatedly with what looks like it was probably a hot knife, and it's bleeding profusely even now. It's difficult to deduce everything that happened, but from what's exposed above and below the blanket, it's likely clear that they cut and burned his scalp, broke his collarbone on the left side, and broke further bones in both his feet.

He cries out a little weakly as Sherlock pulls him close, jostling at the countless injuries; the blanket's already been soaked through with blood. "Sherlock...don't. Just--let him take--"

The door opens, and it's a man in a high-tech outfit, the kind worn by the SAS. He radios to his team. "Sir, we've found them. Medevac team to the basement level, room 15."

Sherlock doesn't think of himself as a hero. "I'm not... I'm just selfish," he admits. He believes it, too. Any time he's ever done anything 'heroic', it's all been for selfish reasons. Solving a case, beating the clock, proving he's clever. Even when he'd jumped from Bart's rooftop, his motivation had been entirely selfish. Winning Moriarty's game, keeping the handful of people he gives a damn about safe - no, not because their lives in and of themselves matter on an objective scale, but because he's too scared to lose the only people who'd ever treated him like a person.

But, he doesn't have time to continue. Not when Moriarty is sending another of his men their way.

The light is on for several minutes this time before the door opens, but Sherlock's grasp doesn't loosen any more than to allow him to move his head back and look his friend over. That's what you meant by eyes. A mess. Barely recognisable as John Watson with the disfiguring marks over his face, but Sherlock knows it's him.

"I won't John, I'd rather die than let him take you again," Sherlock tells him, meaning it. John deserves to die in peace, not at the hands of Moriarty and his sadistic executioners.

The door opens and Sherlock stares up at the man, probably giving more of an impression of a rabid dog than a human being. "Stay back," he snarls, even after the officer calls for medical back up. It's a trick. A false hope to make the pain all the more potent. He won't fall for it and he's going to fight them off with his nails and teeth if he has to.

It's only a short time before three medical professionals push their way into the door around the officer standing guard at the door. One of them glances at the two huddling in the corner and gives the orders to sedate Sherlock and take them both up to the helicopter on the roof.

John tries to fight Sherlock off a little, tries to interpose himself between the men and Sherlock, but it's unlikely he's able to get very far. A medical officer approaches with a sedative in a syringe, wary of the half-feral looking man. "We've got orders to extract you, sir. You both need immediate medical treatment. If you don't cooperate, we'll have to sedate you. Will you come quietly?"

He can see that the smaller man is in bad shape, and he needs medical attention immediately.

If he were thinking straight, Sherlock would be able to read the evidence of truth in the medical officer's disposition, clothes, and shoes. But, he's not. The only thing he's thinking about is John Watson in his arms and the (seemingly) inevitable truth of his dying in the next half hour.

"Stay. Back," Sherlock repeats, snarling so much that he bares his teeth. Rabid, indeed. "Why should I trust you. If you want him, you'll have to kill me first."

Sherlock's hold might be too tight around John. He might be hurting the person he's trying to protect, because that's what desperation does. It takes away all the grace and elegance and leaves nothing but the raw emotion. He tries to strike at the syringe, but his muscles are too weak and a second officer approaches from the other side to restrain his hand. He struggles, but the needle gets plunged into his arm with a double dose of sedative. (They'd been informed of his tolerance to such things.)

Once Sherlock is out of commission, the doctors are able to work quickly. "Please cooperate. Your condition is more severe and we'd like to avoid sedating you if at all possible," says the officer that restrained Sherlock for the injection.

He barely makes a sound as his broken ribs are squeezed and jostled, starting to slip into shock. The man's words don't really register, and he just nods. If they want to take him, he'll go quietly. Just leave Sherlock alone...

He slips gratefully into unconsciousness, welcoming the painless darkness.

==

John will likely still be in treatment when Sherlock wakes in the hospital, hooked up to IV lines to start getting him rehydrated, as well as to start getting nutrients back into him. They'd had some sense in terms of setting up the room, pulling the curtains and only leaving a dim lamp on. There's a second bed in the room, but currently unoccupied. There seems to be minimal noise outside, likely a private hospital in a quieter part of the country instead of a large public hospital.

Sherlock's mind is cloudy from the sedative as he starts to come to. Mechanical chirping alerts him to the sound of an EKG monitor somewhere behind him and to the right. The moisture in his mouth and throat tell him he's receiving fluids even before he registers the IV catheter in his arm. His fingers, wrists, and ankles are throbbing in pain - no pain killers, then. Who would advise something as stupid as that? Who else. It had to be Mycroft.

John was right, he thinks to himself. Their visit from the 'Queen' had come two days too late.

"John," Sherlock calls out, but it's not the volume he'd intended. Still under the effects of the sedative.

Did he make it? He had to have. He was still conscious when I...

He looks around the hospital room. A second bed, but no one in it. Could it be laid for John? Please God, let him live.

Sitting still in one place when he's not tethered to chains has never been a strength of his. It's only a few minutes since opening his eyes before he's trying to climb out of his bed. John will be in the operating theatre. That's usually on the ground floor either across the way from or adjacent to the Casualty. Can't go with the sound of traffic, since this is a small hospital. I'll try the southern wing, first and go anticlockwise from there.

The room sways with the mild vertigo caused by his sedative, but he ignores it. At least he has the sense to grab for the bag stand before trying to step away from the bed. Not such a good idea, but he manages to stay on his feet.

Fortunately for him, the operating theatre and waiting room for it isn't far from his room, only down a short hallway. As he enters the waiting area—plush chairs, there's a nurse in light green scrubs who stands when she sees him half-stumble inside. “Sir, you shouldn't be up yet!” She’ll start to go and try to lead him back to his room when a calm voice speaks from behind them.

“That won’t be necessary. I shall escourt him back to his room.” Mycroft looks impeccable as ever, though Sherlock might be able to deduce the telltale signs of a frantic last three days. He hadn’t known when Sherlock was captured, but John’s kidnapping had made it quite clear that something was amiss. In truth, after the first 24 hours had passed without news, he’d feared the worst. This hospital is highly discreet, and didn’t ask too many questions about a patient being admitted who ought to be dead.

He goes to offer Sherlock his arm to lead him back to his own room. “I can provide you with far more information, once you’re resting. I’m quite sure Dr. Watson would say the same.” He isn’t entirely sure what transpired; there were cameras monitoring the two, but the footage was cleared from the memory banks before Mycroft’s people could attempt to retrieve it. And more’s the pity, Moriarty himself escaped, though they have his second-in-command in custody.

“When Dr. Watson was captured, I took the precaution of having Mrs. Hudson and D.I. Lestrade moved to safe houses. They should be secure for the moment.”

Edited 2013-10-29 01:25 (UTC)

Being on his feet for so long is exhausting and the drug-induced vertigo makes his movement down the hallway very slow. He doesn't come across anyone other than a very confused and concerned looking janitor until he reaches the waiting room for the operating theatre. He's using the wall as support and the colour on his face is all but drained completely from the effort on his very insignificant amount of muscle mass.

"I'm fine," Sherlock says when the nurse starts coming toward him, but his eyes aren't on her at all. Mycroft. He's more grateful for his busybody brother than he's been since he was twelve-years-old. It's all thanks to Mycroft's efforts and resources that he's alive right now. That John's alive, if that bed is any indication. And, it's only because of that fact that Sherlock takes the offered arm without more complaint than an affronted look.

He doesn't mention the things he reads from his brother's state. The dark circles under his eyes, the way his hands shake from caffeine. A vague scent of coffee - Mycroft never drinks coffee unless he's trying to keep from sleeping. Even more telling, wafer crumbs on the inner sleeve at his left wrist. Quick snack food, completely lacking in nutrition and not within the limitations of Mycroft's 'diet'.

It's quiet work using Mycroft as support on one side and his IV stand on the other. He uses it like a crutch, because when Mycroft is concerned, he's got too much pride to admit to needing the wall as support.

Dr. Watson, sentence in the present tense. Mycroft will be able to see the sudden relief on Sherlock's face when he makes the connection that John is alive, and not just presumably. "I'd be resting a lot sooner if we were moving faster," Sherlock points out. The first word's he's spoken directly to his brother. A hair-width fraction of his tension's left his shoulders. John's alive. Mrs. Hudson's safe. Lestrade hasn't been dragged under the water for being in the wrong place at the wrong time in helping him.

When they reach his room, Sherlock lets his brother help him up and into the bed. He even mutters a 'thank you' under his breath as he covers up with the thin hospital blanket. "How long have we been here?" How long as John be in the operating theatre?

"You've been here just over four hours." Long enough to do the necessary tests on Sherlock, and get him bandaged and on IV fluids. Though he hides it well--it doesn't do to show such things of course--he was worried for his brother. He's frankly relieved that he wasn't in far worse shape, though it's not a difficult guess as to why Dr. Watson is so much more severely injured.

"Dr. Watson has been in surgery since just after arriving here. He's not expected out for several hours yet, and there has been no news since the initial admission. I do have the medical file if you wish to see it, though I would ask that you not overexert yourself, since if they have to sedate you again, I can't promise you'll be awake when he's moved out."

If Sherlock chooses to look through it, it's the full admission report (which Mycroft officially shouldn't have, naturally, but confidentiality has hardly stopped him before).

Admission Report: Patient Name: John H. Watson, MD Related Prior History: GSW to left shoulder, resulting in fractured clavicle and scapula Admission: 28-09-14, 08:43 Patient was admitted via emergency helicopter in a comatose state. Patient presented with severe burns and lacerations, and visibly displaced bones in both feet and right hand. Patient also had severe bruising. Pulse was 53bpm and respiration was 10. Blood pressure could not be taken due to burns on arms. X-Rays showed the following: Compound fractures of all five left metatarsals Compound fracture of the first and second left phalanges Compound fractures of the first three right metatarsals Simple fractures of the first two right phalanges Simple fractures of ribs 3, 4, 6 Compound fracture of rib 5 (punctured lung) Simple fracture of left radius and ulna Skull fracture, appears depressed Patient also presents with third degree burns over approximately 15% of body, skin grafts likely required MRI confirmed depressed skull fracture, punctured lung, and further internal bleeding in the abdomen: immediate surgery required Patient entered surgery 28-09-14, 09:37

Four hours. That gives Sherlock enough information to tell him travel time must have been somewhere between fifteen and twenty-five minutes. He's got a very high drug resistance and anything longer than five hours wouldn't have him feel so dizzy on his feet. If the travel time had been longer than half an hour, John probably wouldn't have survived it, anyway. No matter how strong he is.

"I'll behave," Sherlock tells his brother. The threat of more sedation is one he knows isn't empty and he understands the consequences. He feels the need to be awake when John gets moved to the room. As comfort? No, selfish through and through. It's for his own comfort. To know that John's alive and going to make it.

He can always get out of bed and be a nuisance after the fact.

He takes the file from his brother and opens it without hesitating. He's already got a fair idea of what kind of damage to expect based on what he's seen, and he wants to make sure that the doctors in this place know what they're doing. Of course, they do. Mycroft's involved and they've probably imported a few specialists.

He reads through the file quickly, then goes back to reread it three times after. Each time his eyes hover on the 'confirmed depressed skull fracture' more than any other writing. All that blood. I should have noticed it then.

A few minutes go by of him simply staring at those four words. Eyes unfocused, mind having retreated somewhere into his Mind Palace. First thing first, he updates his anatomical model of John for his new injuries. Compound skull fracture. His expression is fairly blank as he closes the file and holds it outward for Mycroft to take. He's not sure at the moment whether Mycroft's read it or not. If he has, Mycroft will be able to determine what's predominantly on his mind.

"It's incomplete," he states flatly.

Several more hours to go and knowing hospital staff, they won't get one word from it unless something goes very, very wrong. Because of that, he hopes they don't hear a thing.

He has read the file, but he did not see Dr. Watson when he was admitted, so he can't attempt to hazard a guess at what other injuries there may have been. "I imagine that they were primarily concerned with the most life-threatening injuries," he hedges, not certain where Sherlock's going.

"It's incomplete," Sherlock repeats, glancing at his brother. "Including a rather severe and traumatic injury involving the annihilation of both eyes using a heated knife-like instrument. If they've forgone mentioning something that extreme, then what else have they left out?"

If it's as Mycroft says and they only added the most severe injuries, that's one thing. It's quite another if the staff here is too blind (no pun intended) to see such extensive injuries.

He inclines his head. "I'll look into it--but I imagine it wasn't immediately life-threatening. They needed to assess the most urgent issues quickly to get him into surgery."

He hesitates for a few moments. "I think we both know that this is not our natural tendency. However--do you wish to say anything that you feel others might...misunderstand?"

Perhaps it's his way of saying do you want to talk about it.

Sherlock knows that if he can rely on Mycroft for one thing, it's getting information from people. He wouldn't be stupid enough to barge into the operating theatre to see for himself (much more Sherlock's style of things, when he's feeling particularly dramatic). But, whatever the extent of John's injury, the knowledge of them doesn't help as much as the treatment. He'll see more than a medical report can give him once John gets placed in this room.

He's trying to comfort me. Again. Only last time, his 'grief' hadn't been quite so... normal.

"You should have brought me a cigarette," Sherlock says simply. It should be more than enough for his brother to go by. A reference to Irene Adlers's untimely 'death' and his emotional state that evening. His fears that John might not make it through the night, and if he does, there's the chance that he might suffer irreparable brain damage. To Sherlock, that might be harder to handle than a clean, absolute death.

It also signifies the close of a conversation.

He's indifferent to whether Mycroft wants to sit quietly at his bedside like so many ODs before or if he wants to go and take care of his business by proxy. But, he's in no mood for conversation. He's got too much to sort out in his mind regarding everything that's happened over the last several months.

"Flame and oxygen make poor companions." A reference to the reason he couldn't bring a cigarette, but perhaps--something more. That which burns like they do are dangerous for other, more ordinary people to be around. There's a slight note of regret there, but he stands. He won't go far, but he does have a few things that need him to attend to them.

"I shall return later. Do try not to irritate the staff too much."

==

It's another four hours before there's any news. Mycroft had returned after an hour or so to keep vigil, and then left to make a meeting, though not without leaving someone to keep an eye on his brother. Around six, after Sherlock's been brought a light and easy to digest liquid meal, a nurse from the surgical wing comes. "Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson is out of surgery. He's still in the ICU for observation, but you can come see him, if you gown and are willing to go in a wheelchair." She'll be quite inflexible on that point, and he'll need to wear a gown, gloves, and a surgical mask. But at least it'll get him in to see his friend before John's ready to be moved into Sherlock's room.

In the ICU, John is still intubated, not yet breathing on his own. Monitors quietly beep out his pulse and respiration as IV lines keep antibiotics and fluids in him. What skin is visible is ashy pale, clear evidence of how much blood he'd lost. His eyes are very carefully covered in gauze and bandaged, and the rest of his injuries are bandaged or in casts. It'd be hard to recognize him, between the bruising and how little's visible under the bandages. But he's alive, at least for now.

By the time Mycroft makes his exit, Sherlock's more invested in his Mind Palace than reality. A defence mechanism. He's able to literally take his feelings, thoughts, and observations and distribute them accordingly and in a way that he can manage without much external struggle.

People come and go from his room as time passes by. He acknowledges them only when he needs to and comes out of his thoughts on two separate occasions. One being his liquid meal (a mild broth, jelly, and grape juice) and the other being the nurse who comes in and mentions John's name to him. Surgery's done. He's in the intensive care unit. They'll have me in disposable scrubs before they'll let me see him, he predicts what the nurse tells him before she has a chance to speak it herself.

He shakes his head when she's done with the introduction. "The wheelchair. Always something," he says out loud, though without the thought process leading up to it, it just sounds like a random comment.

In order to see John, he's willing to play by the rules without putting up a fight. He'll let the staff push him around in a wheelchair and he'll wear whatever protection is necessary to keep John from the heightened risk of infection.

As soon as he's in John's ICU room, he kicks the brake on the wheelchair and stands up. They had only told him that he had to travel in the wheelchair, not that he had to stay in it. His eyes scan over his friend's unconscious form, taking in any other injuries that the doctors failed to add into their report. Much of him is covered, so there's several things still missing.

"Leave us," he tells the nurse dismissively as he lowers himself back into his wheelchair. He'd only needed to see John from a higher angle for a moment.

If he chooses, John's chart is at the foot of the bed, and includes directions about changing the bandages on his eyes, as well as continued blood transfusions among other things. They'd found the broken collarbone too, so that's been placed in a cast as well as everything else. He'll be in the hospital for at least two months, with outpatient care needed longer.

He's fortunate in that it had been only a few days, so things hadn't had too long to fester. However, both his eyes and the foot they'd broken and manipulated to hurt him further are at high risk for infection. They've got the internal bleeding controlled for now, but there could still be further complications. And they aren't sure whether there was any brain damage from the skull fracture. They were able to treat it fairly quickly, but there was some swelling.

The stillness doesn't look like him, not really. The ventilator pushes air into and out of his lungs, but there's no other movement besides the rise and fall of his chest. It's odd for him, because John's always a fairly dynamic person. Even in his sleep, he turns even when he's actually sleeping soundly.

Sherlock will look at the chart, since he wants to make sure that the doctors have managed to be thorough this time. Two months in the hospital (an estimate) and then outpatient care. If Sherlock's got two months, he could learn the basics of giving outpatient care easily in that time. All it would take is Mycroft bringing him the appropriate studying materials. It's not that he's a nurturing person - he's anything but that - it's just that he doesn't want someone else in his home that often. Too many people, too much noise. It would be a bother.

The fracture would have caused intercranial pressure, which had been what Sherlock was worried most about before. This report brings a new concern: cerebral oedema. Temporary inflammation, he hopes. He can't test for any malfunction with John in the state he's in, so all he can do is wait. He hates waiting.

He sets the chart back where he'd found it, then sits back in his wheelchair and listens to the respirator and the EKG monitor. Looking at John does him no good. He's got his state and current appearance memorised well enough to see it in his head, even if there's too many differences from what he's used to seeing. He still accepts it as it is, even if he's unhappy with it, because that's what he does. He also doesn't allow himself to focus solely on a full recovery, but runs through various complications they could face: brain damage, systemic failure due to hypovolemic shock, infection; and even with a full recovery, psychological trauma, exacerbated PTSD, nightmares, depression. Unbiased observation, deduction, and prediction.

The mood's grim all around and it's left Sherlock in the rare condition of not having anything to say, so he'll sit quietly by the bedside. No touching even with sterile gloves (not sterile enough). If the nurses come round to bring him back to his room, he'll refuse and resist unless they take him out of the room manually. That is, unless there's an emergency or he feels that he's in the way of them treating John.

While they try to escort Sherlock back to his room after an hour or two, they don't fight too much when he balks at leaving, though they warn that they can't move John until he's breathing on his own, and Sherlock will not be sitting here all night, since he still needs rest himself.

After they leave, hours drag on with little change besides the regular coming and going of nurses--not entirely a bad sign under the circumstances. Later in the evening, a doctor comes in to see to the bandages on John's eyes, a rather unusual thing since that would normally be a nurse's job. Sherlock might be able to deduce that he's an ocular trauma specialist, not one who normally works at this hospital. He glances at the man in the room. "You want to stay for this? It won't be pleasant."

On the other hand, he won't object if the man does want to stay, long as he doesn't get sick. Either way, he'll get started, gently removing the top bandages, and then the gauze to see how things look underneath. The knife they used was heated--which is actually good, relatively speaking. Would have helped minimize the germs actually coming in on the surface. But the conditions were none too sanitary after that, and infection is a major danger with such severe and deep damage. He damn near bled out from it on the table before they managed to get the bleeders clamped.

"If you've got questions, I can answer 'em too."

After the first time the nurses try to convince him to go to his room, Sherlock lets up the wheelchair brakes and moves to the corner of the room where they will have to work harder if they decide to come and move him manually. He can still see John from here and he finds a strange sort of comfort in hearing the EKG monitor beep along to a steady pulse.

He takes in the appearance of the specialist and decides that he's been shipped over specifically to care for John. Mycroft's doing. He doubts there's much hope for John's eyesight returning, but the sentiment is a sweet one coming from a Holmes.

"I'm certain I've seen worse," Sherlock points out when the specialist speaks. The words make him remember the moment he'd seen the trauma first-hand in the cell when the lights had gone on. Partially cauterised wounds and a mess of flesh and torn ocular tissue. The smell of blood and burnt skin and hair. He's gotten a stronger stomach for that kind of thing over the last few years.

He watches the specialist work from his seated position. The angle is bad to see the full extent of damage, but he doesn't stand up to get a better look. He's feeling tired and he wants to conserve his energy, since he'll be moved to his room as soon as he falls asleep.

"I've got several," he admits when the doctor lets him know that he may have some answers. "What do you know about the condition of his brain?"

Pretty near no chance, in fact, at least with current technology. It's not just the physical eyes that were destroyed; both optic nerves were damaged both by the cuts themselves and the resulting swelling. Even with the best visual prosthesis technology available, there's nowhere to hook into. His job here is to minimize further damage and try to prevent infection.

There's some discharge that he really doesn't like the look of, and he takes out a swab, starting to clean the area carefully and taking a sample for culture. He doesn't answer for a few minutes, focusing on cleaning the area, checking to make sure that nothing's started bleeding again, and checking for signs of infection.

"Not much. I'm an ocular trauma specialist, not a brain surgeon. There was some swelling with the skull fracture and several pieces that needed to be placed back where they belong."

He pauses again, seeing a bit more of that discharge and cleaning it carefully. "The fracture was located more or less over the motor cortex, so it's possible there may be some mobility issues there, but hard to tell before he's awake. He was unconscious when he was brought in." And he'll need physical therapy if he lives anyway, with the shape his foot was in. "Good thing is that it was pretty fresh. 6-8 hours after injury when they started working on it. Best to get to that kind of thing as soon as possible."

He has a very pragmatic voice, neither pitying nor harsh, just very practical. He tells it as he sees it. "What else do you want to know?"

Sherlock isn't fond of being ignored, but he gets the impression that he's not entirely unheard. The specialist is focused on his duties - as he should be, considering the importance of his patient. In another circumstance where Sherlock had more energy and John's condition were less dire, he would have spoken up against being (apparently) disregarded.

The physician's face tells him all he needs to know about what he's finding through his cleaning, as does the culture swab. On the bright side of things, any infecting organisms are not likely to be antibiotic resistant considering the unsanitary conditions they'd been in. He'd be far more concerned over any hospital dwelling microbes.

Sherlock decides that he likes the feel of this specialist as soon as he hears the description of the injuries. Knowledgeable and emotionally detached. It's the kind of interaction Sherlock prefers and he trusts the man to focus on his duty.

Motor cortex. That should minimise the chance of personality change or defect in cognitive function. He can handle that, but he can't disregard the possibility of the swelling affecting surrounding brain tissue. 6-8 hours after the skull injury. Assuming one hour to get the bleeding under control, which means that bastard kept John in his interrogation room for at least four hours after cracking his skull.

"What's the extent of the ocular tissue damage, then?" Sherlock asks. He'd said it himself that it's what he's there to do. He can ask the physical therapist how long it will be until John can walk. He can ask the brain surgeon more about the skull fracture.

He’s impressed by the calmness with which the man handles watching his work, as well as by the practicality of the questions. Much more sensible than asking “Will he live,” which is impossible to quantify. Besides which, people who ask it don’t want to know the truth (“Maybe,” most of the time), and want a false promise that he can’t give.

“The ocular tissue was effectively destroyed. And there was significant damage to the nerves on both sides--deliberate, I think. With current technology, there’s nothing that can be done to restore his eyesight.” With future developments, who knows, of course, but he won’t hold out hope on speculation.

“At the moment, the primary concern in this area is infection. The injury was applied with a sharp heated tool--which probably saved his life by partially cauterizing the injury. There were a lot of particulates that got in there, however, which irritated the tissues a lot, as well as carrying in bacteria. It also bled very severely, so we’ll need to keep a very close eye on it for the next few days to be sure nothing opens back up.”

He finishes cleaning out the area and gently packs it with gauze before covering it with bandages again. “Loss of a sense can be a long adjustment. Keep getting kicked with things that you used to take for granted and are now a hell of a lot harder. But, when he’s ready, I know a doctor, GP who’s blind. Might be helpful to chat with him.” He’s not a touchy-feely person by nature, but he’s worked with a lot of patients who’ve lost part or all of their vision.

'Will he live' is a question that Sherlock isn't stupid enough to ask. He's clever enough to realise that there's a very large possibility that he won't make it through the night, let alone the two months the doctors have written on his chart. Even that estimate is completely bogus at this time, considering John's physical state right now is technically comatose. If he stays that way, he won't be allowed home until he's conscious and able to care for himself in some capacity. (Or, since Sherlock would agree to it, live by the care of someone else.)

His mood is a quiet one such that he doesn't interrupt the doctor as he explains things in more detail than he needs. For instance, Sherlock had been able to deduce quite accurately pretty much everything the doctor has spoken besides the damage directly applied to the ocular nerves.

Why would Moriarty be so thorough with ensuring John's vision would be lost irreparably when the other injuries should have left him dead in the matter of an hour? The colour drains from Sherlock's face and it has nothing to do with what the physician is saying or doing. He knew Mycroft was coming. That's why he kept John in there for two days. He understood the reference to the 'queen'. That means he must have escaped. He'll need to ask Mycroft for sure, but things are pointing to that.

The doctor's voice is drowned out by his thoughts, but he's physically heard the words. It takes him an extra few seconds to play the 'audio file' back through his mind so he can understand them.

"I'll forward that message to him," he says in flat sort of tone, still distracted by the numbing fear of the thought of Moriarty's (probable) escape. No wonder Mycroft had still been so shaken.

He still has his questions. The comment about the GP and helping John cope with the loss of sight has sparked new ones. He's not one to like asking for help in anything, at least not from a person. But, the doctor is here and of the sort of practical-mindedness that he can trust. "We've got a flat share, so I'll be his home caretaker. What sort of things should I anticipate?" Because these things can't simply be deduced from the physical evidence.

He's still finishing with his patient, so he misses Sherlock's face paling. He marks a few notes on the chart, and then strips and discards his gloves, changing them for new ones. He glances at the man with an assessing look. They don't quite seem like lovers, but flat-mates don't plan to be a caretaker. "Start by understanding that he might not need one in the long term, and if he does, he might not want you to be it. Some people do better with a stranger, and it's not about you. You try to push it, you're likely to drive him off."

He looks at the man in the bed, having read his file. Gunshot wound previously, military doctor. "He's independent and stubborn as a mule, I imagine--doctors usually are and military ones doubly so. He'll hate that. Probably swing between angry and depressed a lot. He probably won't want to hear about new treatments or possibilities at first. It's like losing a family member--you can't rush people past it. They've got to go at their own pace."

"When vision is lost in a traumatic incident, nightmares can be worse because it's harder to anchor when you wake up. Be particularly aware that waking someone up from a flashback-induced nightmare can be dangerous, and doubly so when they've recently lost a sense."

He thinks a few minutes. "There may be other adjustments, but you'll have to wait to see what his physical and mental condition is."

Good, for the first point. Sherlock would rather John not have need of a caretaker later on. But the doctor's language had been non-committal. There's a possibility that he will need someone for quite a while. Sherlock would prefer to be that person, for his own reasons. Part of them being the guilt he's trying to ignore over John being in danger in the first place. Other parts include the fact that he doesn't want someone interfering with his life, he doesn't particularly feel like he can trust just anyone in his home and around John (especially not someone who will come and go regularly), and also because he likes being the centre of attention. If someone else were to take care of John, that just means dragging a third person along on a case and it would not work well for anyone.

The advice is sound though and he needs to hear it, whether he wants to or not. 'You try to push it, you're likely to drive him off.' That's the last thing Sherlock wants. It's bad enough that there's some part of him in the darkest, farthest corner of his mind scared that John will take this as an excuse to wash his hands of their friendship.

Angry and depressed. He's known John to shift between the two at other times throughout their partnership. Usually it's involved Harry and her addiction. She's probably on the drink again. John won't like that, either.

Losing family members, Sherlock can relate to on a more personal level. Though, his emotional expression tends to be different than a normal person's. So, I should give him space and let him grieve his disabilities. Not just sight, but the possible loss of motor function from cranial damage as well as the mangled mess Moriarty's left of his foot.

He's also dealt with John's nightmares regularly during the time they'd lived together. He knows when to wake John with a strategically timed explosion or to soothe him with violin music. He's quite good at it, so much that he doubts John's even noticed he does it.

When the doctor's finished speaking, Sherlock doesn't say anything. He's tired and feeling reclusive. If he could use his fingers currently, he would have asked Mycroft to bring his violin by so he can compose a few things. Instead, he'll have to rely on his mind to imagine it and remember it for another time.

He accepts the silence and heads off to check on a few other patients while he's here, before heading back to his hotel for the night. He'll be on call if something urgent comes up, such as John's eyes worsening suddenly.

The nurses come and go, but about an hour later, John's temperature starts rising. Slowly for now, but it's concerning since it may be a sign of infection developing. After the second check, they go to call one of the doctors. Just then, John's heart rate starts spiking and one of the bandages where his eye was turns a sudden, shocking deep red.

The nurse pushes the emergency call button and several people scramble in. Another approaches Sherlock, meaning to remove his wheelchair. "Sir, we need you out of the way so we can treat him."

Sherlock closes his eyes after about half an hour. He doesn't completely doze off, remaining attentive to the sounds around him as he rests his eyes and his mind for a few moments. He's concerned immediately when the nurse mentions the temperature for the first time - he hears it in the hallway, since he hadn't addressed the issue to him personally.

Infection. That's Sherlock's first thought, anyway. A likely one, since they had come from a filthy environment and John was covered head to toe with breeches in his natural defence against those things.

He opens his eyes when the nurse makes the second temperature check. The look on his face is the only thing that keeps Sherlock from dressing him down with his deductions for being such an idiot with his friend's treatment. He's going to get a doctor. Finally.

"John?" Sherlock mumbles as soon as he hears the rapid increase in pulse through the EKG audio readout. He starts to stand, instinct telling him to do something other than just sit and stay out of the way. Red. His eye socket is haemorrhaging. One glance at the monitor tells him that John's blood pressure is decreasing at the same rate as his pulse is increasing.

"But, I'm his friend," he says uselessly as the nurse comes toward him. Out of the way. I'm in the way, then. Making things worse, I suppose.

Defeated, he sits back down. "I want to wait just outside."

He maneuvers the wheelchair outside the door, and then as a compromise, a couple of doors down outside a vacant room instead of all the way to the waiting area. "If they need to bring in equipment, you'll be underfoot right outside."

A nurse comes back out and pages the ocular specialist from the phone at the nurses' station, and then returns to the room. A few minutes later, a pair of orderlies bring in a gurney, and John's moved out on it, careful of the IV lines and respirator, and with one of the nurses keeping pressure on the bleeding socket. They take him back down the hall towards the operating theatre; they're going to need to get what's torn stitched back up.

The nurse who'd taken Sherlock out of the room returns with a firm, no-nonsense look. "Sir, it's going to be a while. We'll send news as we have it, but really, you need to rest. Frankly, you shouldn't really even be up yet to begin with."

Sherlock clenches his jaw, but he seems the logic in the nurse's comment about being underfoot. He cares too much about John getting the best treatment possible to argue with it, even though he wants very badly to argue. To do something. Anything. To get his mind off of focusing on John's condition.

Really, of all the times Sherlock's mind decides it likes the idea of focusing instead of letting the idleness keep him from doing just that. Why does it have to be now?

He watches the nurses and doctors come and go from John's room. It's not hard at all for him to deduce several details about John's current complications from the faces and items. They'll move him to the operating theatre soon. They should have already done it. Add another antibiotic to the regimen. Perhaps an adrenaline injection to decrease blood flow and minimise the risk of bleeding out. Probably flush and resuture that socket.

Sherlock's eyes are focused solely on John's stretcher from the moment it's visible until the second it's taken beyond the two heavy double-doors leading toward the operating theatre. He doesn't acknowledge the nurse at all until the door swings closed, then he turns his head downcast toward his lap.

"Fine. Make sure they understand to wake me immediately if there's any changes," Sherlock tells him with a too-quiet voice. The meaning should be clear:' Tell me if John dies, and I don't give a damn how peaceful I look when you come to do it'. Anyone who knows him would say he doesn't sound at all himself. That's fine, he doesn't much feel himself, either.

The nurse nods and takes him back to his room to wait, helping him into the bed. He suspects the man should fall asleep fairly quickly despite his worry; he isn't in good shape himself and he's been waiting in the ICU since he woke up, as far as he knows.

Perhaps an hour later, Mycroft slips quietly back into his brother's room, having finished the necessary meetings. He'd obtained an update on Dr. Watson's condition, and sighed a bit to himself. The man was nearly as stubborn as his brother, but any human body had limits. He wondered why Moriarty hadn't killed the doctor outright. There would have been time, if he'd been determined to do it, and Mycroft could think of several ways to do it despite Sherlock shielding him. Which meant that Moriarty would have been able to think of dozens. It needn't have compromised his escape either, as several of his guards already stayed behind. His second-in-command would undoubtedly have been more than eager.

So what had his game been? To delay Sherlock? But Sherlock's own injuries would have done that. Dr. Watson's condition was too much left to chance for it to be certain whether he'd live or die. Had Moriarty miscalculated perhaps? But if anyone could know the exact amount of damage a body could endure before death was certain, it was certainly Moriarty. The damage was critical, so it was clear enough he never expected to have Dr. Watson as his prisoner for long. If he had, he would have stretched out the torture more, inflicted injuries equally painful but not as dangerous.

So. Perhaps it was irrelevant to him whether Dr. Watson lived or died. Even if the man lived, he would be a long time in recovery. And Moriarty had such a fascination with Sherlock. Perhaps it was as simple as trying to drive him to revenge for the criminal's amusement? Yet that didn't seem to fit either, as Sherlock had already been chasing Moriarty.

There are games within games here, and that concerns him. Equally it concerns him that he captured Sebastian Moran far too easily. Why would Moriarty want his second-in-command in Mycroft's custody?

He sighs softly and goes to place his large, slightly moist hand over Sherlock's. Sentiment. Not even he is immune to it, no matter how hard he tries. Perhaps he too is to blame for this, for not simply executing Moriarty when he had the chance. For putting the good of the Commonwealth above the good of his brother.

I'm sorry, Lockie.

Sleep comes to Sherlock more quickly than he would have liked. He tries very stubbornly to stay awake so he can listen to the noises in the hallway. Hospitals and the staff that work in them take so much worry for patient confidentiality, yet they're always so bad at ensuring it. All it takes is a trained ear and a minor understand of the 'code' doctors and nurses use to communicate.

Critical condition. Blood transfusion. They could take my blood if they run low.

Worry for John and fear of Moriarty are Sherlock's only companions as he finally finds sleep. It makes for bad dreams.

Sherlock doesn't stir when his brother comes into the room, but Mycroft might see the distress on Sherlock's sleeping face. In his mind, he's back in the cell with John in his arms. Only this time, when the light comes on, John is still. Even his chest doesn't rise and fall with those rapid, shock-induced breaths.

When the door opens, in walks Mycroft Holmes himself. He's got that look on his face. The same look he'd had when he brought news to a twelve-year-old boy of the passing of their mother. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock. There's nothing they could do.' Sherlock yells and screams. Accuses Mycroft of lying to him. And when two of Mycroft's SAS officers approach from either side, he clings to the body of his friend and refuses to let go. They sedate him and he's powerless as they pry the corpse from his arms.

His face is on the cold cement floor again. When he looks up, it's not Mycroft that he sees. It's Moriarty and he's laughing. The two SAS workers are the goons that had carried John in before and they pull at him as they go separate directions. His limbs come off easily at the joints.

'Woopsie. So sad when toys break, isn't it?'

I'll kill you. I'll kill you myself.

'Don't worry, Shirley. We'll sew him back up for you.' Moriarty plucks the head off of John's shoulders and cups his hand under the jaw. 'I think he has a message for you.'

Everything you've done to him, I'll do to you. Bastard. Don't you dare touch him!

'It's your fault, Sherlock' Jim says as he flaps the jaw up and down. 'I could be at home with a cuppa right now. All your fault...'

The voice starts to swirl around and his vision goes black. The sedative. It has to be...

He frowns at the disturbed look on Sherlock’s face, but debates whether he should try to do anything. After all, he is resting, and from the reports, he hasn’t really slept since he first woke up in the hospital. Nightmares or not, his body requires rest, particularly in his current condition. He might not be in such a critical condition as Dr. Watson, but he was dehydrated and not given sufficient nutrition for a number of weeks.

He hesitates and goes to stroke his brother’s hair lightly as he did when Sherlock was very, very young. He clears his throat, feeling slightly foolish. And if anyone comes in, he will deny doing anything so silly. But he hums a bit of some of the pirate shanties Sherlock used to adore when he was a boy--bloodthirsty things most of them and few anything like historically accurate. But perhaps it’ll be something familiar, given that Mycroft doesn’t have anything better to anchor him.

There’s still no news, which concerns him a bit. It likely means they’re having trouble getting him stabilized and stopping the bleeding. But needless to say, he’ll do his best to at least mask his own worry for Sherlock’s sake. Although his tiredness might make him less effective than normal.

Whether it's the touch or the humming, Sherlock responds positively. His face relaxes into a more peaceful expression and some of the tension releases out of his shoulders. It's good for that, since he'd been pinching the IV line and if it had gone on any longer, the monitor might have given his brother a start.

The black visage turns to a night sky. Hundreds of stars and a full moon to see by. He's alone and sitting in a wooden structure he'd designed himself and had the help build for him. An arc of some sort that's got a likeness to a sea ship. Hoisted above him is a jolly roger flag.

"Our anchor's aweigh and our sails are all set
Bold Riley, oh, boom-a-lay"

He's standing on the quarter deck just above the captain's cabin (that's his special room that he doesn't let anyone in. In his hands, he's got a telescope that he's using to look up at the night sky while he sings one of his shanties along with his 'crew'.

"The folks we are leaving, we'll never forget
Bold Riley, oh, gone away"

He points the telescope over toward the large house across the way. Inside, he can see Admiral Mycroft sitting in his big, comfortable Admiral's chair in the Admiral's quarters. His arch nemesis and the man who comes and makes problems for this virtuous pirate's heart.

"Goodbye, me darling. Goodbye, me dear, oh
Bold Riley, oh, boom-a-lay
Goodbye, me darling. Goodbye, me dear, oh
Bold Riley, oh, gone away"

Admiral Mycroft looks over at him and he shrieks, ducking down and running to hide behind the mizzen's base. He peers around the cylinder of wood and uses the telescope to seek out the nasty Admiral and his fat old face.

It's good to see his brother relax slightly, under the circumstances. The humming fades after a few minutes, and he returns to his work, texting or e-mailing the necessary instructions and answers to the relevant parties. Of course, he'd much prefer to phone, but it's not practical right now.

It's another hour before they hear much, a nurse knocking quietly to bring the news that Anthea had already texted him. Of course, he can't explain how he knows, so he'll keep up the facade as he touches his brother's shoulder lightly. "Sherlock."

Sherlock's mind bounces from dream to dream, most of them involving strangely symbolic messages surrounding John or Moriarty. Unlike when Mycroft had first come into the room, none of the subsequent dreams are quite as grim as the first one.

It takes Sherlock several seconds to come to when Mycroft starts to try and rouse him. His body is clinging to sleep in a desperate need that he's got a mind to ignore. "John," he says in his half-sleeping state. He doesn't think that it's John waking him up. He's not that slow-minded or stuck in a dream, but he's aware that having someone wake him now must mean that there's news of John and his condition.

Bracing himself for the worst, he opens his eyes and doesn't give himself long enough before sitting up. "What's happened with John?"

"They've gotten the bleeding under control. However, he's in recovery right now and under monitoring; he lost a fair bit of blood again before they were able to get it stopped. He's also running a fever despite antibiotics, which appears to be due to some level of infection. They're not letting anyone see him right now since h needs to be under close observation."

He was told not to try and avoid giving too many details, as he usually would with a lot of patients' families. And it fits with what he saw of this man earlier. Frankly, he's not sure John Watson will live the night; he's just lost so much blood. And the injuries to his eyes especially are in places with so many blood vessels and that are very hard to suture well, even for an expert like Dr. Trempe.

Mycroft inclines his head slightly, hearing both the spoken and unspoken messages.

During the first few seconds of the message, Sherlock rubs the backs of his knuckles against his eyes, pressing against them because they're sore from interrupted sleep when he hasn't had enough. He lowers his hands around the same time as he's informed of the fever he already knows about.

He takes in the state of the nurse. The way his eyes can't stay in direct contact with either his or Mycroft's for very long. His left hand goes into a fist a few times as he speaks. Vasodilation, dry lips, itchy nose. It all points to withholding the truth, which is easy enough to gather. Also something he's very much aware of without needing to see it from the nurse.

John's condition hasn't changed much other than in the details and the chances of his survival going up from 5% to maybe 11%. He's not sure why they've bothered to wake him for this, but he'd asked to be informed if anything changes. This constitutes as a change.

"I see," Sherlock says after several seconds of silence. The nurse is starting to look awkward standing at the door. He lies back down on the hospital bed and looks toward the ceiling.

He retreats awkwardly, feeling a bit annoyed that the man had been so firm about wanting a report of any change and then seeming irritated when he got it. But, frustrating patients are a part of the job, he supposes, and it could be worse, God knows.

Mycroft chuckles softly. "I see your social skills are as shining as ever, Sherlock."

There's a vigilance to him, though, and he still looks far too tired. He's worried, and he's not ruling out the possibility that Moriarty will make a move here, despite his security. Is he deterring it by being here himself or inviting it? It worries him that he doesn't understand the game.

What is Moriarty's goal? What's the endgame here?

Sherlock listens to the sound of the nurse's footsteps retreating into the hallway. He can tell by the cadence and the way the outer soles click against the ground that he's gotten on the nurse's nerves by his response. He can't be bothered to care at the moment. Just like he can't be bothered to rise to his brother's playful provocations.

When he looks at Mycroft, his eyes are serious. He hasn't seen the other man since the idea of Moriarty's survival had crossed his mind.

Worried. Tired. He still hasn't slept. He's even had another cup of coffee, but Sherlock's 'safe' in the hospital and on the road to recovery. He wouldn't be sitting here simply because of John's condition. This has to do with him. Moriarty. There's really no other explanation.

"Is he alive?" Sherlock asks him, knowing Mycroft won't misunderstand the question. Not with all of the little signals he'll be sending off for his brother to read without even trying to hide them.

Edited 2013-10-31 03:38 (UTC)

The light smile fades and for a moment he allows his brother to see his weariness. It's not just this last week or so. Moriarty's network runs deeper than he'd realized and he's becoming increasingly concerned about how much of his own web may be compromised. Always a risk when you have something so ornate, but still.

He's worried about bugs, despite the thorough sweep he had done. He slips into sign, the variant they used as children for the most part, though using BSL when needed to supplement. {Yes. We have his second-in-command, but it was--considerably easier than it should have been to capture him.}

He runs his hand through his hair. {Too many things don't add up. I'm...worried. I don't suppose he dropped any clues about his goal?}

Sherlock's known his brother to be thorough and secretive, but he'd never known the older man to be paranoid. But, that's the impression he's getting now as he watches the stoicism falter. It only takes a second for Sherlock to see through it, even if he's not quite as quick on the uptake as Mycroft.

He recognises the brand of sign that his brother's using. They'd made it up when Sherlock was seven and Mycroft had been fourteen. It was a way to talk about things they hadn't wanted their mother to overhear - either because it would upset her or because one or both of them just felt it was better kept secret.

When Sherlock replies, he has to improvise a few of the signals due to the limited mobility of his front two fingers and thumbs. It will all come across in the same way as talking with someone just after dental surgery. {He's a dangerous man and was involved directly in Moriarty's plans before St. Bart's. A former armer colonel, a sadist, and very resistant to interrogation methods. Don't rely on getting answers from him.}

Sherlock pauses for a moment, thoughtful. He knows that Moran had a hand in John's torture, but the real man to blame is Moriarty himself. Torturing him would not make John healthy again, nor would it make him feel better. Best not to allow himself to consider it. {Killing him may make Moriarty angry, which might smoke him out, but it could also make him more dangerous than ever.}

{I didn't have much contact with Moriarty directly. He came in to boast about tricking me into thinking he was dead shortly after he captured me. I didn't see him again until after they brought John in. That was roughly three days before your team evacuated us. He seemed fixated on how boring he found me and blamed John for the change in my demeanour and motivations. As far as an overall plan, my only guess is that he wanted to break me away from what he perceived as boring.}

Sherlock thinks he knows what that would entail, but he doesn't 'say' as much. Moriarty wants him to become more savage and willing to do what other's won't. To give into a more sadistic nature. Unfortunately, he might have succeeded. At least, if Sherlock ever finds himself in the same room with Moriarty himself.

He can see Sherlock is unsure, and despite his own concerns, he must admit that staying awake any longer is unlikely to yield results. He stands up. "Perhaps I should rest. Do try not to drive too many of the staff to drink while I'm gone."

==

For the next few days, John hovers between life and death. The infection rages through his body, between the damage to his eyes, spiking a fever high enough that they're concerned whether there may be long-term effects. They managed to save his worse foot, though it was a very close thing, and there were several times the specter of systemic failure was all too close. But eventually, he pulled out of it, the fever breaking finally on the fifth day after he was admitted.

He hadn't started breathing on his own properly until today, eight days since they were admitted, so they'd finally moved him into Sherlock's room, likely to the relief of the staff as much as to Sherlock. When John was very ill, they hadn't been willing to let any non-medical professionals into the room, no matter how stubborn they were, so he wasn't allowed in at all until the third day. He still looks fairly awful, bruises now fading into mottled greens, yellows, and browns against skin that's still ashy pale, and there are casts and bandages everywhere.

He still hasn't regained consciousness, but at least he's stable enough to be in Sherlock's room now.

Sherlock hadn't tried to keep his brother's company as soon as the elder Holmes decided it was time for him to retire. He'd only managed a forced haughty look and some retort he didn't remember word for word as the other man left.

The next couple of days were very rough for Sherlock's mood. After just twelve more hours of ups and downs, he'd started considering how much easier it had been to handle sitting alone in Moriarty's dungeon than the frequent emergency scenarios revolving around John Watson and his touch and go condition. By the end of the second day, he managed to find a way to compartmentalise his feelings on the manner - it had taken him long enough - and turned his attention to a more stoic acceptance. Life or death. Wellness or tragedy. They switched so often it was hard to keep track and they bled together into one.

On the fourth day, Sherlock's infection had mostly cleared from his system and his dehydration was treated. His injuries were very minor compared to John's, but his brother had insisted that he'd be looked after (more like monitored) until his recovery was 100% complete. Without much in terms of distraction, Sherlock turned to old habits of dressing the staff down with various off-handed deductions into their personal lives. Biting words that were more of a way to get out aggravation than they were to show off or curry intellectual favour.

Whenever John was allowed to have visitors and Sherlock was awake, he'd gone to spend his time in the ICU at his friend's bedside. He was mostly quiet and contemplative during those long hours, but he had a few verbal sparring sessions with the ICU staff every now and again. At one point on the sixth day - when things were starting to look a bit upward - he admitted to John: 'You've been scaring me to death. To think that people say I'm the dramatic one' in regards to all of the medical emergencies stemming from the one patient.

Shortly after the admittance, Sherlock had done a fair amount of talking to the comatose John. It had been like a dam breaking. He'd apologised for not being able to play the violin and sang to him a few wordless songs that were similar in composition to the ones he'd written for the violin.

As soon as he'd heard that John was breathing on his own - which was about an hour before John was brought into his room - he'd had a message sent to Mycroft to send for his violin, a change of strings, new bow strings, and a few other items he needed to ensure the instrument would be properly maintained. The parcel had not yet been delivered to him when the nurses wheeled the stretcher holding his best friend into the room.

---

It's been a little over an hour since John's arrival and Sherlock is already growing tired of the frequent visits from nurses and orderlies. It seems like every time he opens his mouth to start talking, someone has to come in to interrupt him. To top it off, no one seems to be taking him seriously anymore since his condition is no longer worrisome. In another week, he may as well be staying at a ridiculously expensive hotel for all the good the hospital will be doing him.

"I don't see how you can stand being prodded at every five minutes," Sherlock complains to John as soon as they have a moment alone. He looks over toward the bed just a few metres away. He doesn't have to get out of bed to visit now, which is a plus for convenience, but not as much of a plus for his fidgety style of anxiety. "You're starting to look a bit better. And, no, I'm not just saying that. The bruising's looking less severe, but you still look like you could use a bit more blood. You know, they're refused me thrice now when I've offered to donate for you. I'm O-negative. They should be thrilled I'm willing to part with a pint or two to keep you stable."

No answer. But, that's not exactly news to him.

Heat and cold. That's what it's been for a long time. Trudging through snow and ice, and then suddenly through the desert under the blaring sun. Over and over, endlessly, and they keep giving him these damn heavy packs to carry. Sometimes the snow is burning hot and the sand is icy cold, and he can't work out why, and sometimes it rains or sprays and he wants to holler, to shout at someone to do that somewhere else, only he can't seem to talk properly. His nurse is there sometimes, and sometimes he's the one shot as John desperately tries to patch his shoulder and keep him alive until the helicopter gets here, and sometimes John's the one who's got injuries he can't remember getting, cuts and bones broken and burns that make him gasp with pain.

There are so many voices here--a lilting Irish one that makes him feel sick despite himself, a rough Ulster growl that laughs at him struggling on. Dozens of ones that he can't place at all, unfamiliar to him, all just out of hearing range. Words and cadences that seem familiar though, and he'd swear they're doctors. Trauma team, and he knows he should get there to help, but the damn sand keeps getting in the way.

He can't figure out why he doesn't just sit down for a minute and rest. God knows he's tired enough to drop. And five minutes wouldn't hurt anything, surely. He pauses a few times, but the voices keep getting louder, almost panicky, and God damn it, where are they anyway, do they keep moving on him? He's about ready to sit down right here and damn the cost if they keep moving the bloody base every time he gets close.

But there's another voice too. Not a doctor with the team, he doesn't think. But there's a voice, deep and smooth and familiar in ways he can't quite place. Important. And the voice sounds worried, but like it's trying to hide it, and that scares him. He wants to protect the voice, he knows that. It's someone who shouldn't even be here in the first place, and he needs to find them and get them out of here, or at least keep them safe until they can be properly evacuated.

He pauses for a few minutes, exhausted, and the voice fades out again, the others growing stronger once more, a bit more alarmed this time. Bloody hell.

Time passes, and he isn't sure how long. It's gotten dark, darker than it should. He thinks maybe he's lost his flashlight, but there aren't even any stars here. He thinks he might be in a cave of some kind; it'd explain why it's so damn dark. The voice is still there, a little louder now. God, he feels like shite too. All that walking maybe, and he feels like maybe something happened...he isn't sure what.

His chest and his foot hurt especially, but everything aches and throbs and it's just plain hard to move. Even breathing seems like it's way harder than it should be, like he's not used to it. Maybe there isn't enough oxygen in here. Or too much carbon dioxide. How did they used to test that? Not with a candle surely, that'd be dangerous if there was anything explosive. With a canary, wasn't it? Good for the miners, bad for the birds.

His back hurts too, like it's been peeled. And his head is killing him. What happened, anyway? Maybe if he sat down, he'd feel better...

It isn't at all like waking up. It was much slower, almost like a dream--the kind where you're aware you're lying in bed but nothing quite feels real or solid. But slowly, John's mind starts registering that he's definitely in a bed. He can feel the surface below him with a certain vagueness, but it's distant somehow. And lumpy, like the sheets are bunched up. Maybe he should change that, but it seems like way too much trouble to move.

Especially since he's slowly realizing that he's in a hell of a lot of pain. Everything hurts, including breathing. Maybe especially breathing. His head is absolutely pounding and his skin feels like he's recently been peeled, with throbbing sore spots in half a dozen places.

What happened?

His mind's still very blurry as he tries to work out where he is. At least it's dark in the room. Wait, there's a voice, isn't there?

Sherlock?

He tries to ask Sherlock, is that you? But what comes out is more of a groan followed by a series of coughs that send pain lancing through him, threatening to make him pass right back out.

Why is it so dark in here?

Sherlock continues speaking to John for a quarter of an hour, simply telling the other man everything that comes to his head. He'd had a chance to do some research into coma patients during the last week, so he's learned that sometimes they have a recollection of hearing their loved ones speaking to them. He doesn't know for sure whether he's still considered a 'loved one' of John's, or if he's ever been, but he's the closest one to it available. And, so he talks. He's always been gifted in the ability to go on and on about anything and everything.

He's in the process of explaining to John the process of changing violin strings when he hears the groaning response. He can't make out any words from the noise, but there's a consciousness there.

"John?" Sherlock asks, sitting up in his bed. It's the first time John's responded in any way to anything he's said. He doubts it has to do with the topic of conversation - admittedly not very interesting - but more the timing. The groan doesn't worry him, but the coughs after do.

Within seconds, Sherlock's out of his bed and pulling his IV stand along with him to John's side. "John, we're in the hospital now. Just hold still," he tells him, looking over the medicines being administered. He finds the one containing the pain medication and gives the valve a slight turn just to get a tiny bit more into John's system before putting it back the way it was. "That should be better in a moment. I'll have the nurses consider your dosage for the narcotics."

His voice may sound somewhat manic as he speaks to John. He'd been cooped up for too long and up until now, he'd been worried and locking away anything resembling hope. It takes a few seconds for him to find a spot of skin that's got no injuries other than mild bruising to stroke at.

He doesn't respond, but he doesn't seem to have passed back out, based on his pulse and respiration. He's trying to control his breathing, because God those coughs hurt like hell. Whatever Sherlock did makes him float and feel strange--painkillers, maybe oxycodone a distant part of his mind registers--but it still hurts.

Memory's slowly starting to return but there are still major gaps. Sherlock's fingers are gentle on his upper arm, though it's such a strange feeling. Sherlock's never been a very tactile person. Hospital--right. They were--Moriarty. He shudders almost violently, and then clenches his teeth as he has to ride out the resulting wave of pain.

He can't seem to remember much beyond the first few hours of the second time he was taken, hovering just outside of memory. Why's it so dark? It shouldn't be so dark in the hospital. He lifts his right arm to touch his face, or tries to, but it doesn't seem to want to work, and it only hurts more. He turns his head slightly, trying to figure out what's going on, heart rate starting to elevate.

Is this a trap of some sort? Are they faking Sherlock's voice somehow? Or forcing him to lie somehow? He tries to get up, tries to reach for Sherlock, but it comes out as more of odd twitches accompanied with alarmed groans.

What's going on? Where are we, and why is everything so dark? Need to find Sherlock, protect him. Whatever I do to you, I won't do to him.

The way he's clearly starting to panic, the nurses will be in soon

"John," Sherlock says, trying to sound soothing. He's never been good with soothing. It's obvious by the way John's hand twitches upward just a little that the other man is confused. Maybe he's trying to reach up to touch his face? In any case, it's not good for John to be moving this much when he's in this condition. The increase in heart rate is also a very bad sign. More beats per minute means more blood pumping. A risk of bleeding out again.

"Calm down, John. You're safe. I told you, we're in the hospital. A private one Mycroft's gotten for us," he explains, looking toward the EKG monitor like he will find some answers there.

"Damn it all," he gripes. Cursing is highly unusual for Sherlock, but he's starting to panic a bit, too. The incessant sound of the beeping getting faster and faster. He's got a mind to rip the machine right out of the wall, but it won't do any good. It's John's heart rate and he'd rather know it than not. But why is it racing?

Trauma. Yes, John's gone through quite a lot of trauma. He'll be confused. Maybe some of the memories blocked.

"Listen to me, John. You're fine. I'm fine, if only you'd just -"

Sherlock is interrupted when a nurse rushes into the room. "You shouldn't be out of bed," she fusses at Sherlock on her way to tend to John.

Sherlock can already see the bulge in her pocket - a sedative. He doesn't go back to his bed as he's told and instead starts to pace in the small area between their beds. His IV line gets tangled and stepped on, but he doesn't seem to care. "For God's sake, he just woke up! You don't need to sedate him!"

"Mr. Holmes," he nurse warns. "Lie back down. You're not helping."

It's the sharp snapping oddly that gets through the increasing panic, along with the nurse's belabored response. No one could fake that, and it's too natural to be under duress. His heart slowly starts calming a little bit, though he still can't figure out why it's so damn dark. A nurse wouldn't work in the dark, unless they're going through a power outage...

The nurse pauses when his heart rate starts calming, relenting on the sedative only at that point. Though she still glares at Sherlock, who's been a massive pain in the arse the whole time he's been here, and isn't helping his friend with the way he's swooping around like an overgrown bat. "Back to bed."

If Sherlock makes some semblance of cooperation, she'll wait to make sure John's heartbeat is really normalizing before leaving the room. After she's gone, there's the very faintest twitch of a smile on John's face at the entire thing. You know, they say doctors are supposed to be the worst patients...

God, though, he must be in terrible shape right now, with how hard it is to move and breathe. Why isn't he remembering much beyond the first bit? How...how bad did it get? And is Sherlock all right, that's the big thing, because if he wasn't there to stop Moriarty...

Clearly they're both in the hospital, so Sherlock's injured too, which leaves a frown on his face as he tries to turn his head at least a little towards the other man and reach for him, though it comes out as more of a twitch. That arm feels heavy and strange--cast? Broken arm?

God, his head feels like fire. He grunts with pain--smashing his head into the floor and screaming in agony--

For just a second, Sherlock feels a stab of discomfort because of the nurse's comment that he's not helping. Of course, he's not helping. He doesn't have a clue what to in a situation, so the reminder is both unnecessary and disheartening. But shortly after, John's heart rate lowers and he fixes the nurse with a very condescending look of victory.

"I've been in bed all morning," he complains to the nurse. He won't be lying down, but he does lean against the side of it while he watches her work. He's only seen this nurse a couple of times and he's wary of hospital staff regularly. Knowing Moriarty is still at large only makes him more concerned that he could have people within the hospital staff. Either to watch them or to do nefarious things to hinder their recovery. Either way, Sherlock is going to keep a careful eye on things now that John's in the room with him.

The nurse gives him a look, but she seems satisfied enough with his partial rest. As soon as she's leaving, Sherlock calls out to her to talk to the doctor about getting John's pain medication dose raised. He knows she hears him, but she doesn't acknowledge it outwardly.

When she's out of the room, Sherlock drags his IV stand back over to John's bedside. He'll move the chair that Mycroft had been sitting in later, but for now he wants to get look at him from a better angle. Even though he's not a doctor, Sherlock takes a good look at all of john's injuries and compares them to the 'file' of when he'd first hovered over him in the ICU. There's not much change between the two images, however.

"You've been in a coma for eight days," Sherlock explains. He seeks out John's left hand, the one he'd seen exhibit a small amount of movement before. He's too careful when he touches it, but that's because he doesn't want to give John another fright. "You've got some tubing in your throat, so you shouldn't try to speak. If you can managed to move your fingers, we can communicate that way."

They've pulled the blankets down a bit to the waist so he doesn't get overheated, and beneath the hospital gown, it looks like there's a lot of bandages, which would tally with what Sherlock might have seen when the lights went on. They'd kicked his chest a lot, as well as whipping him severely, burning, and cutting the front and back of his torso. If Sherlock could see under the gown, he'd see the bruising is fading a bit there too, but there are still quite a few livid cuts that'll probably scar badly. And they'll have to start doing skin grafts soon on some of the burns, which are going to be incredibly painful as they heal.

He shifts just slightly and moans a little--God, he hurts all over. But his shoulder especially, and it feels like it's elevated in an odd way to keep the pressure off the part that's healing. Burn? Did they burn--he shudders again, mind snapping pieces of memory back together, remembering a torch moving closer and closer.

He tries to distract himself by seeing if he can move his fingers around what he's sure is a cast now, managing after a few minutes to get a light twitch. Eight days? That's a hell of a long time, and he still feels unbelievably weak. How bad was he?

He can tell it's not a ventilator in his throat. Feeding tube? But he really wants to know...he can't remember and it frightens him, mind shying from the possibilities.

"D...d...rk...?" It's extremely muddied but it might be something Sherlock can work out. He twitches his arm towards his face again, confused. Are there bandages on his eyes? Is that why he can't see?

Sherlock can't see under the gown, but he can see the rises and falls just under the fabric that indicate bandages. He remembers vividly just what John had looked like when the lights had gone on in the cell, though he hadn't been quite in his own mind at that moment.

He quiets for a moment, watching the way John comes to terms with being conscious. Without much in terms of communication between them, there's an odd disconnect that Sherlock has to work around. His friend is in very bad shape and he's frustrated since he can't ask him all the questions he would like to. Well, he could ask, but he wouldn't get the answers he's looking for. Even if there's no permanent brain injury, the amount of medication running through John's body and the time it would take for his brain to recuperate from the coma would make it difficult for him to speak and think like himself regardless of the skull fracture.

When John starts to move his hand, Sherlock draws back and watches the movements. He has no qualms with restraining John if it looks like he might accidentally hurt himself, but he also doesn't want to keep his friend shying away from curiosity.

"Dark?" Sherlock asks, making sure that's what he's heard. He doesn't remember the eye trauma. That's a difficult thing, he thinks. Explaining to someone damage like this should be easy. Clinical detachment, just explain the injury and let the patient do the processing. So why is it so hard to say now?

"John," Sherlock starts, reaching up and touching his friend's forehead above the bandage. It's at the hairline, so he could brush his fingers over John's hair if he'd like to. "They, ah... they took your eyes. Severed and cauterised the optical nerve as well, so that's why things look so dark," he explains, keeping his voice calm and calculating like usual. John, being of a medical mind, should know the implications of the optical nerve being damaged. Irreparable blindness.

With the heavy cast, he can only manage a small twitch, not enough to get his hand up to his face. When Sherlock explains about his eyes he freezes for a moment, blank and uncomprehending.

Eyes. They took...they took his eyes.

"I think I'll blind him, you know, Johnny. See how he does with deducing in the dark. It'd be quite the challenge, wouldn't it?"

"Don't...don't you...don't touch...don't touch him, you bastard."

"Oh? You want to stop it? You know what you have to do."

He hung in the straps, not sure he could force it out. Even for Sherlock...his eyes. God...his eyes. Sherlock. Without his eyes... There are plenty of doctors. The only one in the world, I invented the job. "Please." He clears his throat, breath sharp and painful, head throbbing. "Take...blind me instead."

A sob wrenches out of him despite himself, memory crashing back. Mind fighting against it, wanting to reject it, and knowing it's true. Knowing there's no medicine on earth that could do anything to fix that. He turns his head away, trying to hide it, but his shoulders heave silently.

Sherlock watches as the emotion contorts his friend's face. With so many bandages over him, it feels like only seeing part of the full effect. His imagination fills in the rest. John's eyebrows swooping downward, crinkling the skin between them. His hairline appearing to move upward from the lack of tension in the muscles closer to it.

He really didn't remember. And, now I've made him...

He's not good with crying. He's never been. Usually he pretends to not notice or makes an excuse to remove himself from the situation. Sometimes, he says cruel things that barb into the emotions of who he's talking to since they have the nerve to start crying.

He doesn't want to leave John's side. He doesn't want to make him hurt, either. John will know he's not stupid enough to not notice, but he might appreciate him not saying as much.

"As far as your injuries and complications go, your eyes have been the most severe. You've also got several compound fractures in both feet and your right hand. Broken ribs, punctured lung, internal bleeding due to blunt force trauma (that's over with, in any case), several lacerations (from a whip, it looks like), incise wounds from a small knife, second and third degree burns, and a depressed skull fracture on the parietal lobe near the motor cortex," he explains methodically. If he were in John's situation, he would want to know every detail of his condition. Surely, John would want the same?

The details wash over him without really hearing them, but he's shuddering with emotion, trying to control himself. He's blind. The thought keeps pounding through his head, the flash of the white hot knife before it cut into him.

His eyes. His eyes. That explains the bandages, would have bled--oh God, the knife--he wants to be sick, but he can't, not with the damn tube down his throat. He's trembling without realizing it, and it hurts, moving hurts a lot even with the painkillers he can tell are coursing through him.

I'm never going to see again.

The thought crashed over him, crashed down on him. He's never going to see Sherlock's improbable, changeable eyes. Never going to watch the sun come up. Never going to get that feel of a perfect shot that you know is going to hit the target.

Never going to stitch up a patient. Never going to run through the streets of London chasing criminals.

He only half remembers after that, the pounding of his head and the searing pain of his eyes making thought almost impossible. But he remembers the hand running over his cuts, the voice in his ear.

"He won't need you now, Johnny. He'll be better off running on his own."

Sherlock doesn't see or hear any of the internal struggles that John's going through. From his perspective, his voice and words have a direct impact on John's mood. The description of the injuries alone seem to hurt John like he's the one standing over him with the whip or the knife. Or that God-forsaken blow torch.

"Sorry," Sherlock says, voice sounding distracted. John could probably imagine the distant look on his face as Sherlock tries to grasp for something by sorting through dusty old boxes in the farthest reaches of his Mind Palace.

Nothing.

He sighs and pets back John's hair. He's extremely careful of the bandage covering up the head wound, so much that he avoids the cloth wrap even when he knows the skull fracture isn't under that portion. That's the injury he's still scared most for. The eyes, though devastating and tragic, can be worked around.

"John, he won't hurt you again. I promise you that," he tells his friend, trying once more at consoling, and not knowing that he's completely off the target in his assumptions. He starts to say 'I'll kill him first,' but thinks twice. It's not that he is particularly private about his desire to torture the other man to death. He'd find that a perfectly reasonable thing and hopes John would agree. It's the thought of the fear of Moriarty's continued existence that stops him. It's bad enough the phantom in John's mind is hurting him this badly.

Continued here.

Physical Torture Meme

Sherlock Holmes | Sherlock BBC |

Re: Sherlock Holmes | Sherlock BBC |

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Manny Horvitz | Boardwalk Empire

Bucky Barnes | MCU

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The Cheshire Cat • Zenescope Comics

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Draco Malfoy | Harry Potter - Pre-Epilogue

Feda Gandamak | OC

Shi-Long Lang | Ace Attorney Investigations | m/m

Shizuo Heiwajima | Durarara!! (anime) | m/m

Kishin Asura ☫☫☫ Soul Eater

Kazuichi Souda | Super Dangan Ronpa 2 | M/M

Fuyuhiko Kuzuryuu | Super Dangan Ronpa 2 | M/M

Sam Winchester | Supernatural

Sebastian Shaw | Marvel Comics | OTA

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Nancy Holbrook | A Nightmare on Elm Street (2010)

jaмeѕ т. ĸιrĸ • ѕтar тreĸ

Crowley | Supernatural | OTA

Kain Highwind | Final Fantasy IV / Dissidia 012

probably 3+7 but honestly could go any direction really

Awesome, that works for me!!

o/

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Hisoka Kurosaki | Yami no Matsuei

mary mason | american mary

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MARK HOFFMAN | SAW

Got any preferences?

Re: Got any preferences?

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4, then

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STEVEN BAKER | REPO THE GENETIC OPERA ORIGINAL CHARACTER

...10.

scream. SCREAM

I am so sorry sob sob