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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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.

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