The Adventure of the Civil Partnership Chapter 16 Captive Audience
Disclaimers: I certainly do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s amazing creation of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Hamish Watson. I also do not own Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and the BBC’s adaptations of those works.
Spoiler Warnings: Series 1 and 2 of Sherlock
Story Ratings: M Warning Pre-Slash/Slash.
Beta: Ivory Winter - All mistakes are mine.
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Chapter Trigger Warnings: Descriptions of strong violence against both of our heroes. NO RAPE, and nothing permanently debilitating. I tried to keep it within what you could see on television.
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Chapter 16 Captive Audience
John groaned, fighting his way back to consciousness. He felt like several small mariachi bands were playing inside of his skull, and he couldn’t seem to order his eyes open. The last time he had felt this bad the Chinese mafia had used him as a punching bag. He shook his head, attempting to clear his mind - a stupid mistake since the sudden increase of pain almost caused him to black out again. Scowling at the throbbing, John forced his eyelids up and proceeded to dry heave at the instant nausea the light mixed with the headache produced. Eventually he got his stomach back under control and began trying to assess himself. Hmm… nauseous… severe headache…difficulty thinking… Possible concussion, he finally concluded.
While he decided if he was ready to try opening his eyes again, the muzzy idea crossed his mind that it was good that he had missed breakfast; it wouldn’t have made whatever was happening any better if he was covered in vomit. John’s thoughts stuttered to a halt, a vague memory of rushing out of the flat floating to the surface of his mind. Followed by the remembered rush of adrenaline mixed with fear and the notion that Sherlock needed him. John knew something had gone wrong after leaving the flat with Mrs. Hudson, but he couldn’t seem to remember how he had ended up with the ringing in his skull. A small burning itch in his elbow caused him to wonder if perhaps he had been drugged again. That would certainly explain some of the confusion and the headache, so maybe he didn’t have a concussion? Or conceivably he had both?
That wouldn’t be good, he thought groggily when another worry crossed his pain-addled mind. Where was Sherlock? Was he injured? What couldn’t he remember? John’s anxiety level ratcheted up, helping to bring some focus and order to his mind. As his awareness improved, he realized he was sitting upright in a wooden chair, a chair to which he was rather tightly bound. John could feel plastic restraints, possibly zip-ties, holding his wrists to the arms of the chair and some sort of rope securing his waist and chest to back of the chair. John could also feel an extremely painful, festering wound on his right thigh. The cloth over the injury felt damp, which meant he was probably still bleeding slightly.
Once John was positive he wasn’t going to start heaving again, he forced his eyes open again slowly, cautiously, and this time the disorientation had decreased to a manageable level. Wincing a little at the ongoing pounding in his head, John looked around, forcing himself not to show the panic that shot through his system when he saw Sherlock, awake and aware, tied in a chair directly across from him. He took a deep breath to help him stay in control, and the memories came flooding back. Davis Reid had captured them. Sherlock had been attacked getting out of the shower, and John had lost a knife fight with the man.
John swept an intent look over Sherlock, trying to evaluate his condition. The consulting detective was still only in his trousers, his chest and feet bare. The cut on his temple had developed a vivid bruise surrounding the small and apparently superficial cut, with some dried blood running down the side of his face. Sherlock had new bruises on his ribs that hadn’t been present when John had examined him at the flat. The bastard had beaten him while John was unconscious. John had to fight down a sudden flare of rage at the thought and forced himself to remain calm and keep inspecting his friend. After a scrutinizing him a moment longer, John decided that overall Sherlock seemed okay given their circumstances. John relaxed slightly at this realization and finally noticed that the detective was fixedly staring at him, trying to get his attention. John nodded slightly, hoping that Sherlock would deduce that he knew what had happened and that John was alright, before tearing his gaze away from his flatmate to study the room around them.
He was surprised to see what looked like an A&E room vital signs monitor off to the side. John frowned, suddenly becoming aware that it didn’t look quite right. After staring at it for a few more beats he grasped that the machine wasn’t a vitals monitor but a lie detector, similar to the ones he had seen a few times at Scotland Yard. Looking around further, he noticed that there were digital camcorders pointed at the both of them and at the lie detector. John’s heart froze when he finally comprehended that the sick bastard was going to tape whatever was about to happen, just as he had done to the other couples. John decided that Reid must be pretty confident about not being caught if he was taking time to record them. Not at all a reassuring idea, he mused.
Finally, John took stock of himself again now that he could see. Given how quickly his head was clearing at the adrenaline spike, he considered it was more likely that his initial disorientation and light sensitivity was drug induced from the sedative that Reid had forced him to inject. His dry mouth told him he was a little dehydrated from being sedated for an extended period of time. His ribs hurt but it wasn’t overly painful to breathe, so although he had several bruises on his ribs from his fight with Reid, he hadn’t gotten any rib fractures or been beaten while he was unconscious. He absently noted that the ring he had become accustomed to was missing from his left hand. Predicable he supposed; Reid had taken the other victims’ rings.
More pressing was the knife wound to his right thigh. Since John hadn’t bled out while he was sedated, it had obviously missed all the major vasculature, but John had seen the filth that had coated the blade, and the makeshift bandage tied around the wound wasn’t exactly clean. Assuming Sherlock got them out of this situation (which John had to believe he would), John was very likely going to need treatment for septicemia. He couldn’t see his leg under the bandage and his clothes, but he could feel the line of fire running up his leg that indicated spreading infection. There wasn’t anything he could do about it right now with his hands tied, so he decided that it wasn’t worth wasting energy on worrying. Years of working on the front line doing triage had taught him he needed to focus on what he could control, on helping Sherlock to get them out of this mess before the infection progressed much further and made him a liability to the consulting detective.
John glanced at Sherlock again, opening his mouth to speak, only to swiftly shut it when Sherlock shook his head forbiddingly. John glared at him, before figuring out that Sherlock believed Reid was listening. John nodded again and kept looking at the consulting detective, taking in every movement, looking for any clue that would tell him what Sherlock might be thinking or planning. While he kept an eye on his genius, John tested the zip-ties binding his arms to the chair. They naturally turned out to be too tight to allow him to get out of them, and even placed so carefully that he couldn’t manage to break his wrist to aid his escape from the bindings. To his surprise, there were no ligatures around his ankles or legs, until he remembered the scuff marks on the floor of Reid’s basement. Reid liked to torture his victims, the bastard probably preferred them to struggle. The ropes around his abdomen and chest were slightly looser but placed so that if he stood, he would be carrying the chair with him. John frowned slightly at the chair. It didn’t seem as sturdy as the ones he had seen in the video yesterday. In fact, even with his leg injury he was fairly confident that he could probably carry this one for a respectable distance.
John decided that his best option was to see if the drug had worn off enough to allow him to walk the chair closer to Sherlock, wondering perhaps if they could untie each other somehow before the kidnapper reappeared. Although if he was listening, he was probably watching too. John was just about to try it anyway when he heard a door behind him open. His spine stiffened as he listened to Davis Reid announce, “Ah…, Dr. Watson, so glad you have finally rejoined us. I do apologize, after our altercation I decided that it might be safer to give you a little extra sedative, and it took you longer than I anticipated to burn it off. Your husband’s metabolism however is impressive, he recovered from his dosage much faster. I’m terribly sorry but his behavior upon awakening required me to begin teaching him a few manners while we waited for you,” Reid continued, indicating the new bruising John had seen on Sherlock’s ribs. “I’m afraid I’m a little disappointed myself. I usually do a much better job of controlling my initial meetings with my guests. I do hope it doesn’t impact on your feelings about the results of our upcoming conversation. I believe we will all find it very enlightening.”
“Now that you have finally recovered, I believe it’s time to begin,” Reid said, walking to stand between John and the lie detector, a frighteningly gleeful expression on the serial killer’s face as he leaned over and started attaching monitors to John’s arms, using the knife from the earlier fight to slice holes in his shirt to allow the leads to be attached to his chest. “Do excuse the personal touch. As a medical man, I’m sure you understand that the monitors need to be touching your skin in order to work properly,” Reid apologized conversationally, working steadily, and John nodded grimly in silent reply, unwilling to risk angering the man.
“Now, I’m certain you understand the function of this machine without me having to explain it. There is only one simple rule you will need to follow. You’ll have five seconds to respond truthfully to any question I ask. Before you decide that you can avoid the consequences of a lie by simply not answering, let me assure you that is not an option. If you lie or refuse to answer, your husband will be punished by progressively worsening electric shocks,” Reid stated, malice dripping from his voice. The killer walked over to Sherlock and started to attach electrodes to his chest legs and arms, from a machine John was unable to see positioned behind Sherlock. John watched horrified, unsure how or even if he was expected to reply.
“I realize that an ex-soldier such as yourself might be able to withstand a fair amount of pain but I expect you’re unwilling to stand pain inflicted on your husband.Therefore, in order to ensure that you understand just how serious I am about your answers, I thought you would enjoy a little demonstration of my sincerity.”
As Reid finished the sentence his hand came up so John could see a small controller in his palm. John watched in horror when the man pressed the button and Sherlock convulsed painfully in his chair. “Stop!! I understand! I’ll answer your questions!!” John yelled, heartbeat skipping, agonizing fear sweeping through his body. Sherlock had to survive this. John was expendable, Sherlock was not. John knew what the world was like without Sherlock and he would not live in that place again.
“Excellent,” Reid said, clearly enjoying Sherlock’s pain and John’s torment. “So, Dr. Watson, let's begin. Please answer no to the first three questions in order to calibrate the machine,” Reid detailed, sounding so similar to a constable from a television drama that John felt a hysterical laugh trying to escape his chest. "Are you thirty-one years old?”
"No."
"Do you live at 15 Charring Cross Road?"
"No."
"Are you a former member of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?"
"No,” John replied. Sherlock was convulsing from the electrical shock almost before John finished the word.
"What are you doing?" John screamed, “Stop!! I did what you said. I answered no." John froze when Reid chuckled, John’s panic increasing even while Sherlock's body relaxed, the electrical shock no longer coursing through the detective’s body.
"Ahh... but I also said that lying would result in your husband being shocked,” the killer replied, and John grimaced, furious that he had fallen for such an obvious trick. John looked at Sherlock, trying to apologize without speaking for not seeing the trap, absolutely certain that he didn’t want to know what Reid would do if he tried to talk to his flatmate. Sherlock just shook his head at John, obviously forgiving him.
"Now back to business, if you are quite done screaming, we have a lot of ground to cover if we’re to determine it you two are actually compatible,” Reid continued in an eerily calm voice. “I suspect Mr. Holmes has already deduced the reasons for these little sessions of mine. Has he filled you in, Dr. Watson?”
“Yes.”
“I had suspected as much,” Reid said, the beeping machine confirming the truth of John’s words. “That’s good, because then you’re entirely aware that this is a test, a test to determine if you and your husband are actually committed to each other and this relationship. If you pass, you were obviously meant to be together forever. If however you fail, well let’s just say that would be disappointing, although in this case not unexpected. It’s easily apparent that you married in a misguided attempt to hunt me.”
Reid suddenly bolted from behind the lie detector towards Sherlock, grabbing the detective by the chin and forcing Sherlock’s head back to look at his face. John pulled against the restraints, desperate to get across the room to where Reid was angrily growling in the detective’s face. “Be honest, Mr. Holmes, did you like my work? I know you found some of it at my home, which you have now made impossible for me to return to. Are you proud of forcing me to flee my homeland to continue my work?”
Sherlock voice was slow and cutting, a sharp contrast to the fury in Reid’s. “Although I found your method of stalking your victims to be ingenious, your detailed cover ups of the crimes well organized, and your efforts at hiding your actions from the police more than adequate, I must admit I find the justification for your crimes to be quite banal.”
“Banal. You find searching for proof of true love and commitment to be banal.”
“No, I find your justification of your crimes banal,” Sherlock coolly answered. John closed his eyes briefly, trying not to groan while Sherlock continued to bait a madman. Again. “You clearly have some form of anti-social personality disorder. You do not feel emotions like love, at least not as most people do. You do, however, have obsessions. Your fixation with Pamela Ashdown led you to stalk and eventually kill her and her husband for her perceived rejection of you. Of course, first you needed to gather the courage to do it by completing a dry run with the Turpins.
“Once you had killed both couples, you discovered that you enjoyed the power that the kidnappings and torture had provided. So you continued. Clearly, you couldn’t care less about other people’s petty emotions. You don’t care if the couples you take actually love each other or are faithful. This is entirely about fulfilling your pathetic need for power and control over life and death,” Sherlock finished scornfully.
Reid actually seemed to consider Sherlock’s words before the cruel smile warped his mouth. He struck Sherlock a heavy blow across his face that rocked him in the chair before gripping his chin again. “I’m sure your husband would disagree with you, Mr. Holmes. The search for love is one of the most meaningful parts of human existence. I fear you’re going to disappoint him greatly today, likely to both of your detriment.”
Reid backhanded Sherlock again, causing John’s heart to twist in his chest, anger and panic competing with each other as he was forced to sit and watch. After the second strike, Reid moved over once again to the lie detector and turned to address John. “I apologize for making you wait. It won’t happen again. Now then, my first question, Dr. Watson. Are you married to Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yes.”
“Do you love your husband?”
John stared at Sherlock, hoping beyond hope that if they survived this that he would be able to salvage their friendship. But it wasn’t even worth contemplating trying to protect himself by lying. “Yes. Yes I do.”
Sherlock’s expression unsurprisingly didn’t waver at John’s declaration. The man was a consummate actor, and had plenty of experience controlling his reactions. Davis Reid’s however might have been a study of shock. The man had obviously never considered that either of them might be in love and the truth had thrown him off his game. The killer’s façade quickly resorted itself into an inquiring look which might have looked friendly on another face, but on Reid’s it simply looked dangerous. “Surprising. I don’t think I would have believed you without the lie detector. Was you husband aware of these feelings?”
“No.”
“So you married him, but you didn’t bother to tell your husband that you love him. Must make for an interesting marriage.”
“Is there a question in there?” John demanded, screaming in rage as Sherlock convulsed again. “What are you doing?! I didn’t lie!”
“Of course you didn’t. But I didn’t appreciate your attitude. I thought you could use a reminder of who is in charge here,” Reid snapped, a small malicious grin on his face. John glared at him briefly before turning his attention back to Sherlock. The consulting detective was shaking his head and looking dazed. John feared what kind of damage Sherlock would sustain if he couldn’t control himself enough to protect the detective from any more shocks.
“Now, Dr. Watson, your focus back where it belongs please,” Reid demanded, irritation coloring his voice as he placed himself behind the lie detector again. John forced himself to switch his gaze away from Sherlock, not wanting to test Reid’s restraint. “Next question. You claim that your husband doesn’t know that you love him. So would it be fair to presume that you don’t believe that he loves you?”
“Yes,” John spat out quickly, taking the risk of flashing a quick glance at Sherlock, noting that he was still disoriented while Reid was focused on his machinery.
“Such honesty, Dr. Watson.” Reid commented, looking up with the smirk back on his face. “This must be painful for you. Did you intend to ever tell him of your feelings?”
“No.”
“Why, how self-sacrificing you are. Now given that you don’t believe that Mr. Holmes loves you and you weren’t going to tell him, why ever would you marry him?”
“To help catch you.”
“How flattering. How’s that working out for you?”
John ground his teeth, biting back the expletive he wanted to utter, and forcing out a tight lipped, “Not as well as I hoped.”
Reid barked out a laugh, turning to Sherlock who was once again watching the two of them intently. “Oh dear, Mr. Holmes, I fear that you have let down your poor loving husband. He must be so disappointed. Not only did he marry a man who didn’t love him, instead of catching me, you managed to place both of you under my control.”
“No,” John disagreed, trying to draw Reid’s attention away from Sherlock. “He didn’t disappoint me. He found you, a killer that no one knew existed. Then he not only figured out how you hunt them, he discovered exactly who you were, and where you lived. The Yarders are the ones who disappointed me, they’re the ones who let you get away. They didn’t even know you had hacked their system. Their mistake left you free and us at risk.”
“How wonderfully loyal you are to defend your husband so vigorously,” Reid growled, crossing the room to John, the man’s fingers wrapping tightly around his throat, restricting but not completely closing off his airway. Reid bent down to whisper in his ear, “but I didn’t ask you a question.”
John flinched, expecting to hear Sherlock screaming in pain again, and then relaxed slightly when it didn’t come. Reid chuckled. “No, John, this time I feel you should be punished for your failure to pay attention.”
Even as he finished speaking Reid’s left hand tightened again on John’s neck, while his right thumb suddenly dug hard into the knife wound on John’s thigh. John tried to scream but only produced a strangled rasp, a white flare of pain searing up and down his leg. The world started to go black as he struggled for air, when suddenly Reid let go and stepped back from John. He gasped and coughed, trying to drag air into his lungs, vaguely hearing Sherlock shouting and banging his chair across the room.
“John! John! Damn it, you son of a bitch, leave him alone. I’m the one who married him to hunt you!” Sherlock bellowed.
John wanted to tell him he was fine, to stop playing into Reid’s joy in their pain, but he couldn’t seem to get his breath back. He watched Reid stride quickly over to Sherlock, lean down and growl, “Yes, yes it is your fault, but I fear that is another thing about marriage that you apparently fail to understand. Not only do both partners get the benefits of each other’s successes, they get to deal with the fallout of the other’s failure.” Reid’s fist flashed out, striking Sherlock’s chest over his already bruised ribs, causing the detective to groan and try to fold over to protect his body, only to be stopped by his restraints.
John had finally gotten his breath back. He was going to attempt to draw Reid’s attention back to him when the killer strode away from Sherlock and back to the lie detector. John stared at Sherlock, wanting to ask how he was but afraid that it would cause Reid to hurt Sherlock again. Finally after what felt like ages, but could only have been a few seconds, Sherlock looked up and stared at John, giving a brief nod, which John desperately hoped meant that he was alright.
“Now, Dr. Watson, just a few more questions and then we will give your husband his turn to provide some information,” Reid stated, startling John with how quickly the killer had gone from furious to calm. “Why didn’t you intend to tell you husband your feelings? And remember to answer honestly.”
John sighed, quickly composing himself to answer before his time was up. “I’m a coward. I didn’t want to hurt myself by confirming what I already knew and forcing myself to leave. I also didn’t want to make Sherlock embarrassed and uncomfortable. He didn’t deserve that, he didn’t do anything to encourage my feelings.”
“I’ve read your blog, Dr. Watson. If your husband is as observant as you claim, did you honestly think you could hide it from him forever?”
“No, of course not. But I hoped that I could hide it from him long enough to force myself to move on and maybe even fall in love with someone else, though I doubted it would be anything like what I feel for him. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about him finding out and could stay his friend.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Falling in love with someone else when you’re married is a no-no,” Reid called, shaking a finger at him like he was a naughty school boy, his hand reaching out for the remote that would shock Sherlock.
“No, no. That’s not what I meant, you misunderstood,” John blurted out, frantic to stop another debilitating shock to the detective. “That was before we got married. Once we had the civil partnership ceremony I didn’t think that way.”
John tensed listening to the machine continued to beep softly, Reid’s hand continuing to hover over the trigger. Finally his hand moved away and he looked up at John, smiling. “You know what, Dr. Watson? I think I believe you. So one last question, how long have you been in love with your husband?”
“I don’t know! It’s not like I can pinpoint exactly when it happened! I was stupidly blind for a long time, but it finally hit me right around Jim Moriarty’s trial.”
“Ahhh… yes… the trial of the century that turned out to be yet another instance of your husband’s failure to control his wandering tongue,” Reid chuckled and John ground his teeth, holding in his reply. “You really think he would have learned by know. Well perhaps, another small lesson will help.”
“NO!” John screamed, as Sherlock once again shook from the electric current running through his body. Fortunately, this time it was over quickly, Reid letting up on the trigger within an instant of pressing.
“Well now, I think we’re ready to move onto the next stage of our little discussion,” Reid stated conversationally, watching the consulting detective’s head loll from side to side, as he seemed to fight to stay conscious. Smiling, Reid pressed a button on the lie detector and John heard it power down. He allowed his shoulders to sag and take a deep breath. His questioning was over. Hopefully, Sherlock would not be at risk of being electrocuted any more. He watched while Reid gathered up the print out the machine had produced and tucked it neatly into a file folder, before heading over to John, carrying the knife in his right hand once again.
Reid leaned over John’s chair, knife point resting just under the tip of John’s chin. “Now, Dr. Watson, I do ask that you behave for a moment.”
The killer quickly removed the leads coming from the lie detector. The blade nicked John’s chin when he flinched slightly when a lead was roughly removed along with some of his chest hair. Once done Reid moved back to the machine, he set down the knife and started untangling the wires and leads, his back to the room, looking completely unconcerned. John decided this was his last chance; he had to take advantage of this opportunity.
Without even bothering to glance at Sherlock, not wanting to see how badly injured his husband was, he leaned forward in the chair as far he could and planted his feet firmly on the ground and slightly under the seat. He took a deep breath to gather himself and then quickly stood and practically threw himself toward Reid. Moving forward, he desperately tried to keep himself upright, the extra weight of the chair sending fire down his injured leg as he rammed himself into Reid’s side. The combined weight allowed him to drive Reid into the lie detector, stunning the killer. John didn’t let Reid regain his balance, continuing to use the attached chair as a weapon. He slammed it and himself repeatedly into Davis Reid’s body, trying to knock him out or force him to the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sherlock shaking off the disorientation from the electrical shocks, standing up, and smashing his chair into the wall, before John’s attention was refocused onto Reid. The body slamming was fracturing the chair, loosening his bindings but causing him to be even more off balance as the chair weight was now distributed unevenly. Reid shoved hard and John, staggering backwards, frantically attempted to regain his footing, giving Reid a chance to get the lie detector between himself and John. John tried using his body weight to propel the lie detector into Reid and trap him against the wall but he couldn’t gather enough forward momentum. John resorted to reversing course and shifting away from Reid, attempting to lure him further from Sherlock, hopefully giving the consulting detective enough time to escape his bonds.
Reid had snatched up the knife from where it had fallen and advanced on John aggressively, even as John back peddled away from the killer, laboring to stay upright. “Army doctor or not, you will not win this fight. Why don’t you give up now and I won’t take too long over your death.”
John just laughed at the man, continuing to move around the room, dodging several knife strikes, and failing to dodge few more, which left him with superficial cuts across his ribs. At one point, he managed to slam his chair into Reid’s lower body, breaking several chair legs off in the process, the decreased weight making it easier to move. Then a moment later things went horribly wrong. John overbalanced, most of his weight landing on his injured leg. Pain seared through it and his knee folded under him, bringing him crashing to the ground, hard. John heard a snap when he landed; the arm of the chair had broken loose from the back, leaving John’s wrist attached to a small broken piece of the chair but with the ability to move freely.
John desperately tried to roll back on his feet, but Reid threw himself bodily on top of him, pinning him to the floor and swinging the knife toward John’s chest. John managed to grab the maniac’s wrist, forcing it away from his body. He brought his other arm around to swing his fist and the chair remnants into Reid’s side, making the man fall sideways off of him. This time unlike in the flat, John was able to keep a good grip on Reid’s wrist, slamming it repeatedly into the ground, eventually forcing Reid to drop the knife. John immediately shifted his grip slightly, allowing him to twist the joint so it broke with an audible crack as it hit the ground. Reid screamed in pain even as Reid’s other fist pummeled into the side of John’s face.
Reid’s fist was about to collide with John’s skull again when Sherlock came up from behind and swung a broken chair leg into the side of his head, the blow forcing Reid to roll away from John. Sherlock swung again, the chair leg connecting with the killer’s skull with a solid thud. Reid’s head lolled loosely to the side, clearly rendered senseless.
Sherlock raised his improvised weapon, obviously intending to hit the unconscious man again when John yelled out, “Sherlock! Stop! He’s unconscious.”
Faltering, Sherlock stood in place, arms frozen in a downswing, questioning eyes rising to look at John.
“He needs to pay for what he did to them Sherlock, and dying isn’t enough for the suffering he’s caused.”
Sherlock stared at John, his mind clearly considering all the possible outcomes of accepting John’s demand, trying to make a decision before he nodded stiffly. The detective tossed the chair leg to the side as he fell to his knees beside John, tugging ineffectively at the zip-ties holding John to the remains of the chair, hands shaking.
“John!” Sherlock breathed out raggedly, one hand scrambling to the side to grab the dagger, while John noticed his eyes intently taking in John’s appearance. “Christ. And the Yarders consider me the madman. You have multiple lacerations and contusions. Do you have any internal injuries I should be aware of? What about a concussion? Excessive blood loss?”
“No, Sherlock, no concussion, and none of the wounds are deep enough to cause too much bleeding,” John said shaking his head, attempting to breathe slowly, stay in battle mentality, rather than give into the pain and fear. “But after you tie up this wanker, we need to get out of this room. I need to examine you to make sure you’re stable and I need to find some water for myself. Hopefully you can find something so I can clean the leg wound and get to a hospital pretty quick. That knife is fifthly and the original wound has already gone septic. And it doesn’t take a consulting detective to know the other ones are sure to be infected,” John finished jokingly, giving Sherlock a half-smile hoping to calm Sherlock, as he fought to keep the army doctor in the forefront of his mind, rather than give into the pain and fear.
“I can’t prove it without a thermometer, but I suspect my temperature is approaching 39 degrees Celsius. Septic shock is shortly going to be a reality. I need fluids and antibiotics quickly to slow it down.” John paused, gathering his courage to admit, “It’s going to get ugly Sherlock. As my fever goes up I’m probably going to start hallucinating. If that happens before an ambulance gets here, you may have to restrain me.”
Sherlock looked up from where he was working to tie up Reid, his expression shocked and, John thought, possibly frightened. “Why would I restrain you?”
John shivered a little as a spike of pain ran through his body, ignoring it as he pushed himself upright. “Sherlock, if you think my nightmares about Afghanistan and your fall are bad, the fever dreams are guaranteed to be worse. And it’s possible that I may attack you thinking I’m defending myself. I struck an orderly when I was hallucinating after Afghanistan. Promise me you won’t let me hurt you,” John finished vehemently, the last sentence forcing itself out around the tremors starting to run up his body.
Sherlock huffed derisively as he stood finished tying up Reid. “John, you would never hurt me. But if you require my word, I promise not to let you injury me or anyone else, including yourself.”
John gave the consulting detective a hard look before deciding to accept his word. “Good. If I can’t ask I will also need you to make sure the police get the dagger to the hospital. The lab can culture it and my wound to check for resistant bacteria. The results won’t be in for a couple of days, so it won’t affect how they treat me initially, but it may affect my long term treatment regimen.”
“Of course. And as I have liberated Mr. Reid of his keys, I suggest we go determine our location,” Sherlock said, hand out to help John to his feet.
Fifteen minutes later Sherlock had led them from what turned out to be a reinforced bunker in the farmhouse basement, had retrieved their mobile phones from the outer room and had stood impatiently while John had done a quick exam determining that the detective had several cracked and possibly fractured ribs, a mild concussion, bruised kidneys, and needed at minimum a day of monitoring his heart on an EKG to make sure it hadn’t been damaged by the repeated electrical current. Sherlock was currently talking with Lestrade, demanding his presence and an ambulance. Finishing with a growled, “Now, Lestrade,” Sherlock tossed the mobile aside and came over to kneel next to the couch, watching John penetratingly. John had set himself up on it and was doing his best to clean his wounds using one of the ‘cleaner’ rags he had discovered, along with some water he had boiled on the fortunately working kitchen stove they found upstairs.
John turned to look at him, grinning tightly and trying to reassure an agitated Sherlock. “On their way then?” John said through the rapidly worsening tremors.
“Yes, Lestrade showed a practically astounding level of intelligence and was having our phones monitored. Once I turned them on they had our GPS location. Is there any manner in which I could assist you?”
“Talk to me,” John requested, “give me something to focus on.”
And Sherlock did, telling John about the room they were in, detailing how many couples Reid had held here, although fortunately not what they might have endured. When he finished the room, he went on with deductions about their location; explaining that they were on a farm at least twenty minutes from the nearest suburban region, perhaps an hour or more north of London, likely in the home of one of Reid’s deceased relatives. Sherlock’s unceasing talking and deducing kept John in the here and now until the first responders arrived. Then Sherlock barged his way into the ambulance with him, staying shockingly out of the way, watching the paramedics trying to stabilize him as they raced to the hospital, John’s shaking and fever slowly worsening the entire time.
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FanFiction Writer Notes: I have to apologize to my readers, once again I took a ridiculously long time to finish a chapter. I hope all of my amazing readers found this worth the wait and can forgive me. I make no promises about when the next chapter will be out, but I promise this story will be finished.
I want to thank all everyone who took the time to review, alert, and favorite. Everyone’s encourage me to do better and improve myself. The reviews also helped me keep going when I only had a minute or two a day to scratch out ideas. In addition want to thank all my reviewers for not leaving huge spoilers in the reviews. It is very kind of you.
Once again thanks to my wonderful Beta Ivory Winter, who had to deal with me falling off the map and the internet for a while as I dealt with the real world. Her support and understanding kept me going when I thought I couldn’t write this one and as always her excellent advice challenged me to make a better story.
Thanks,
Rairakku
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