Chapter Text
The frustration was real. Days were bleeding into one another and Sherlock’s once astute mind had become a foggy grey mulch – like the stale cold porridge he was being fed. It was a challenge to even stay conscious these days or keep track of how the hours passed. He had been keeping track, for as long as he could. The last known day was a Tuesday. He could see the marks on the wall, painfully etched into the stone with a fingernail – his finger, now bruised and stained with dried blood as proof that it really happened. But that had been hours, or even days ago and he had no idea now. He thought it wouldn’t matter, but it had started to mock him. The fact that he didn’t know what day it was had been like a blessing in the beginning – a relief from the constant cataloguing of days and injuries. Now it was insulting. The reality that his mind was slipping away had sent him into a more depressed state than he had ever known before. If he was going to die here, in this cell, he couldn’t bear the realisation that it was without his mind. It was slowly being lost to him.
He took in the cell, or what little he could see in the dim light. The walls were dark stone – some sort of ancient, hand-constructed dungeon, he imagined. The air was too damp; the walls were covered with moss and Sherlock’s lungs felt like they were growing it too. He had developed a cough which was unfortunate as he was pretty sure the most recent torture session had left him with broken ribs and the pain of coughing was unbearable. The cell had no windows, no way of keeping track of time, no light to dry out any of the moisture. He could hear dripping water echoing in the corridor nearby. It was possible they were under a river or lake, or near some sort of running waterway, but he had no way of confirming that. He assumed he was still in Serbia, based on the conversations he could hear as his captors argued over what to do with him. It was possible that these people were connected to Moriarty, although he assumed if that were so, he would have been killed by now. It was possible that this was an unfortunate misstep with no connection to his mission. Either way it was inconvenient. They had taken his coat away (thankfully not his beloved Belstaff, which he had left in his brother’s care), but he had otherwise not been well dressed for the weather. They had given him a very threadbare blanket which he had taken to resting his aching head on, instead of wrapping himself with it, but the chilled and dank air was taking its toll, and he shivered constantly. The cold reached deep into his bones; those that they hadn’t already broken, ached from it. He hugged his arms tightly around his torso to support his ribs, which helped lessen the pain, and warmed him a little in the process.
“This is it, John. This is where I die,” Sherlock said to the dark room.
“It’s not like you to talk like that,” John said from the corner, slightly concerned.
“Well I’m talking to you, so I’m clearly not in my right mind, considering you’ve begun to answer back now,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes in John’s direction. The movement of his head smarted from the pain and he moved it back again.
“Sherlock—”
“It’s okay, John. I know you’re not really here. I’m losing track of time, not my sanity… yet. The pain and the lack of light and food… it’s a completely normal human response.”
John scoffed in response, crossing his arms but staying silent.
Sherlock had found comfort in his new routine: the more confused and delirious he became, the more often John appeared. It was an interesting feature his mind palace had developed during this isolation, one he wasn’t entirely unhappy with. He preferred these awake hallucinations to the repeated nightmares of his sleeping hours, of that much he was certain. Staying awake and talking through his thoughts with John, as he suffered through the consequences of sleep deprivation was a much more pleasant way to pass the time. When he slept, the sound of John screaming his name would always wake him and would ring in his ears for hours after. Reliving the moment he had to say goodbye, and hearing what it did to John, was a torture all of its own.
My best friend, John.
Leaving John behind had been the hardest thing Sherlock had ever had to do. He had never expected to find someone like John: someone who calmly took on all his faults, all of his rudeness – so deliberately and acutely refined to keep people at a distance. But John was fascinating. Sherlock had been intrigued from the very first day. John had become invaluable to the cases: shining a light for Sherlock; always finding the important elements; teaching him to look at the human side of things. No-one had ever understood what Sherlock needed better than the army doctor. Sherlock hadn’t always been good to John, he knew that. But somehow the man didn’t mind. John was steadfast and faithful and the longer they had lived together, Sherlock had slowly begun to realise how much John really meant to him. Very few people had ever made an impact in his life. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, of course, had cared for him through some very dark times. Mycroft – while infuriating – had saved him from himself many times. He was smug about it too – annoyingly so. But he couldn’t fault how incredible his brother had been in taking care of all the details and making sure everything went smoothly in his demise. John was safe. Everyone was safe. And up to this point, Sherlock had been successful in his mission to destroy Moriarty’s network. Soon, he could go home. Home to John. He wasn’t completely finished yet, but this slight snag was, hopefully, only temporary. Surely. He knew Mycroft was monitoring him. This capture would not last long. But it was certainly lasting longer than he had expected it to. Or at least it certainly felt that way. If he could only keep his mind focussed on how long it had been. But John was here, keeping him company, and that was enough for now.
“You can’t keep me here with you, you know,” John said quietly from his corner. Sherlock was irritated that the room was too dark, and he could only see some of John’s face – a light from further down the corridor creating a small glow in his cell. He wondered briefly if it was a sign that his mind was also already forgetting John’s face. He didn’t think that would ever be possible though.
“Why not? It’s perfectly okay,” Sherlock responded stubbornly.
“It’s not a good sign, Sherlock. You’re malnourished, dehydrated. This is a sign you need help,” John said, with his ever-annoying realism.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Sherlock retorted, annoyed. “Mycroft will be here soon, John. Do keep up.”
“How? How is he going to be here?” John questioned.
“Tracker. Under my skin. Do relax. We thought of everything,” Sherlock tried to say, with arrogance, despite shivering and feeling slightly feverish.
“You didn’t think about me though, did you?” John said sadly. “How I would feel?”
That’s all I thought about, Sherlock mused quietly to himself. He couldn’t even say it aloud to imaginary John. He swallowed hard. He knew this was his own mind talking in John’s voice. But his biggest fear was that all the work they had done to push John away, to keep him safe, might mean that he would never see John again. Or if he did, that he may never be forgiven for it. He had made great progress until this ridiculous hiccup. This temporary setback. But Sherlock didn’t enjoy being stuck in one place, only his mind to occupy him. It was never healthy. John served nicely for some visual variety at least, but he was getting meaner, the longer Sherlock was stuck here.
“He’s not coming, you know,” John scoffed from the corner again.
“What makes you say that?”
“Well wouldn’t he be here by now?” John nagged.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock said with renewed confidence, trying to be charming, “he does like to be stubborn.”
“No, Sherlock, that’s you. You like to be stubborn. He would never leave you here this long if he could help it.”
“I can wait. I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not, you know. Fine. You’re not,” John pointed out.
“Shut up, who asked you?” Sherlock rebuffed.
“You did. I am you. Remember?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned himself over on his side, facing the wall, so he didn’t have to look at imaginary John. Gasping from the pain, he reminded himself that lying on his side was excruciating and rolled onto his back again. But when he glanced back over, imaginary John was gone. He was left in the dark, cold empty cell. Alone once again, with the pain coursing through him, and he shivered.