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. ♥

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

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.

Physical Torture Meme

no subject

no subject

Sorry for the delay - sudden company

NP work's been a zoo

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)