bakerstreet | Physical Torture Meme

Physical Torture Meme

TRIGGER WARNING: this meme contains extremely graphic content.
if you are not comfortable with drastic violence, please don't proceed.

i. self-mutilation. for whatever reason, you're your own worst enemy. can another character save your from themselves, or are they in the same boat? maybe it's neither and they just like to watch.
ii. otherwise inflicted. one character is the torturer, one character is the tortured. state your preference or assume the top commenter is in the tortured position.

1. DISMEMBERMENT/AMPUTATION: You should never get too attached to your limbs. Who knows when you'll lose one? Or have it taken from you. Hands, feet, arms, elbows, if it sticks out, it can be snapped, sawed, crushed or pulled off. Better staunch that stump quick, unless life isn't worth living without your favourite foot.
2. IRREVERSIBLE SENSORY DEPRIVATION: See, speak, and hear no nothing. While temporarily muting a sense can heighten the others and make for a fun time in the short term, it's probably not an adjustment you'd want to make permanently. Too bad. Perforated eardrums, plucked eyes, and cut tongues fall under this category -- and don't forget those other senses you could always do without, like touch and smell.
3. FLAYING/SKINNING/SCALPING: People are layered. Time to find out exactly how much. Peel, shave, or pull the flesh off yourself or others and maybe you'll expose their true nature. Or organs. Probably that second thing.
4. SCARIFICATION/TATTOOING/BRANDING: Make your mark. Ritualism, boredom, or for any number of reasons, it's time to claim what's yours. Brand it with red-hot iron, slice it with a scalpel, write it in permanent ink -- make sure you're never forgotten.
5. BLUNT TRAUMA: Stop the blood flowing and keep the fun going. Blunt trauma involves any painful force that doesn't break the skin. Hitting, kicking, beating with brass knuckles or bats, and breaking bones. Nobody said anything about internal bleeding, did they?
6. TRAPS: From medieval torture devices such as iron maidens to the infamous reverse beartrap of the Saw series, isn't technology fascinating? Push your face through knives to activate the switch that releases your bonds, or stretch yourself thinner on a rack. For more implements, check the instruments of torture page.
7. PERFORATION/LACERATION: The opposite of blunt force trauma, this option is for those that prefer to dig a little deeper. Cut the skin with knives, suspend it with hooks, lash it with whips. Shallow or mortal wounds, see red red red!
8. EATEN ALIVE: A body is a terrible thing to waste. Perhaps you're the guest of honor at a cannibal's feast, you've been thrown to the dogs, or zombies, or there's always the good old brown rats ready to burrow through your bowels with a little incentive.
9. TEMPERATURE: Burned, boiled, frozen, drenched in wax, it's uncomfortably hot or cold in here and taking off all your clothes probably won't do the trick this time.
10. PHARMACOLOGICAL: You're the guinea pig in this ethics-committee-bypassing experiment, lucky you! Injections are the name of the game. Induce pain, pleasure, hallucinations, sleep, sleep deprivation, the sky's the limit. Or just toss them into a pit of hypodermic needles. Cause you know. That's cool. Oh and don't forget about withdrawal!
11. FREAK-FOR-ALL: Don't see it above? Don't worry about it. If it hurts, it belongs in here, so let your imagination run free, you twisted wild thing, and wreak a little misery. ♥

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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.

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