Holmes fic: Singular 1/7
I want to note right off the bat that this is based only on the 2009 movie. I haven't yet seen the new movie, so there are no spoilers (and the relationships are based solely on the characterizations from the 2009 movie). Just for the record. :)
Title: Singular 1/7
Rating: R overall
Characters: Holmes, Watson
Warnings: kidnapping, torture [this chapter only]
Wordcount: 3,117 [17,405 for the whole fic]
Story Summary: Holmes and Watson recuperate from separate ordeals while kidnapped and their relationship takes on a new aspect. [eventual Holmes/Watson/Mary]
A/N: The kidnap/torture portion of this story [i.e. this chapter] was actually a dream I had a while back. The rest just kind of meandered after that, though I think I had a threesome prompt from the kinkmeme in mind (if I can find it again, I'll link it, haha).
Fills my hc_bingo square, "broken bones".
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson were abducted in the center of London in the middle of the day, and no one on the busy street suspected there was anything amiss.
Neither did they, at first.
Watson paid little heed to the four-wheeler that pulled up in response to his signal for a cab, glancing at it only briefly before holding the door open for Holmes. Holmes continued animatedly explaining the revelation he'd had in connection with the string of kidnappings as he climbed inside. Watson had barely closed the door before the cab jerked abruptly into motion, and he stumbled, nearly falling atop Holmes, who stopped speaking long enough to help Watson settle onto the seat across from him.
"So I believe a cab was used to whisk away the victims," Holmes said, resuming his argument. "Very much like this one, in fact. Note the frosted windows so none can see in or out. And this particular vehicle, like several of this kind, boasts bolts on the outside of the doors for conveying unruly passengers on those occasions when such is warranted." Holmes frowned. "Watson, what is that smell?"
Watson had noticed the slightly sweet smell as soon as he closed the door. He recognized it, but could not remember why. Looking around for the source, he spied a towel beneath Holmes' seat. "Holmes," he said sharply, pointing.
Holmes retrieved the towel and was about to sniff it curiously when Watson finally made the connection that should have come much sooner. "Don't!" he cried, reaching for the door so they could cast it out. "It's chloroform."
Holmes immediately held the towel away from them, making ready to fling it out the door, but the door wouldn't budge. Watson, dread and a distinct light-headedness beginning to overwhelm him, tried the opposite door, with the same lack of effect. He exchanged a horrified look with Holmes, who took up Watson's cane and began pounding on the roof of the vehicle with it.
There was no response from the driver. Watson was startled from near-sleep by the clatter of his cane hitting the floor of the cab, and opened his eyes with difficulty to see Holmes slumping down onto the seat, looking as loose-limbed as Watson felt. Holmes' eyes remained open, however, and Watson marveled at that even as his own slid shut.
Holmes focused his attention on the route of the carriage and frowned--or attempted to, his muscles were not following his commands as readily as they ought--when they stopped near Pentonville prison, in a block containing several warehouses and other structures ideal for hiding illicit activities. The door was thrown open with a bang, and a waft of fresher air revived Holmes somewhat. Voices muttered in conference, debating about "the extra" until the man in charge concluded that the extra could be of some use and directed that they be removed from the carriage.
Hands reached in and grasped Watson by the ankles, yanking him unceremoniously from the seat and out the door. The hands returned for him a moment later, and he blinked at the change in light as he was pulled into a yard of some sort. There were dismayed exclamations at his awareness; he was held mostly upright for a moment, then something hard connected with the side of his head and he knew no more.
~~~
They awoke sharing a stone room, probably in a basement of some sort. The only light was cast by a slit at the base of the heavy wooden door. Within three hours of waking, Holmes had gone over every inch of the square stones of the walls, probing for weaknesses, thoroughly examined the door--the hinges were on the outside, and even their combined weight did not budge it--and convinced Watson to feel along the stones that Holmes couldn't reach.
After that, there was nothing to do but wait and speculate. Holmes paced restlessly around the room, neatly avoiding Watson's feet in his circuit, and considered this new information in light of what he already knew about the kidnappings.
At one point the light at the bottom of the door was interrupted and a plate was shoved in, followed by a shallow bowl of water. The hand belonged to a fairly burly man, but that was all Holmes could determine before it vanished. No steps were heard coming or going, which gave him considerable fuel for thought as he resumed pacing, rebuffing all of Watson's attempts to hand him some of the bread from the plate. "It might be drugged," he said. Watson ate it anyway.
The light winked out about an hour after the food was deposited. Watson took this as an obvious signal to sleep, but Holmes continued his pacing about the room, three strides down, one across (it had been two before Watson laid down on the unforgiving floor to sleep).
The lamp was re-lit approximately nine hours later; Holmes determined it must be a lamp by the way it flickered. The plate and bowl were removed and a new plate and bowl replaced them. When Watson woke, he tried to convince Holmes to partake of the bread and water, but Holmes continued to refuse.
The long hours dragged by. As an experiment, Holmes kept Watson from setting the empty plate and bowl near the door slot. When the hand reappeared and did not find the dishes within reach, it left without depositing any additional food or water. Watson sighed aggrievedly but didn't say anything.
Three days passed in similar monotony. Holmes finally relented and ate and drank with Watson, only for them both to discover that the water was laced with something the fourth morning.
Holmes returned to consciousness in a much larger, brighter room than their small cell. Multiple voices in conversation seemed so very loud after the silence of imprisonment and he tried to cover his ears but his hands were tied behind his back. His ankles were also tied together, and he had been tossed onto the floor in a corner. He was ignored for quite some time and he used it to listen in as he tested the bonds on his wrists and ankles and scanned what he could see of the rough, sparsely furnished room.
He gained no useful information from the trivial conversations and drew no conclusions from the room save that the building was equipped with gas and was probably located within a mile or so of where the cab had initially taken them, judging by the smell of the river (strong enough to detect even without windows in the room) and mud in the footprints on the floor. After that his captors took an interest in him, asking him rapid questions about his interest in the kidnappings and how much he had told the police.
Holmes refused to answer at first, and received several blows about the head for his trouble, one of which reopened the wound above his ear that had deprived him of consciousness several days earlier. The blood seeped down his neck and the sight seemed to encourage their viciousness, for the questions ceased and blows continued to rain down upon his body. Holmes curled up as well as he could and waited for the abuse to stop.
Eventually it did and all but one of the men left the room. Holmes did not move, knowing it would hurt if he did, and tried to focus on remembering the faces and identifying features of the men who had left. But his mind was spinning and he found he wasn't even certain how many there had been, much less what each one had looked like.
He got another chance a few hours later, as four men trooped back into the room and resumed right where they had left off. This time there were no questions--the pretense was no longer necessary, it would seem--just punches and kicks and being held aloft by one while the others struck him.
It was a relief when the blows ceased and the pain was replaced by the familiar scent of chloroform as a handkerchief was held over his mouth and nose. His bonds were cut when he was returned to his cell, and he woke sprawled on the floor next to a small plate of bread and bowl of water.
He was alone.
The beatings didn't occur every day, just most days. As time passed and his injuries grew more severe, it became more difficult to choke down the food he was given; opening his mouth was almost more than he could bear, and chewing was nearly out of the question. He was fairly certain his jaw was broken on one side, and he was certainly missing several teeth.
His hands, too, were less able to grasp as they should, his fingers twisted out of joint or broken, his wrists sprained or broken. The tally of injuries didn't stop there, of course, for pain flared and throbbed in every limb and what seemed like every joint and bone of his body. Somehow he wouldn't have been surprised if they were consciously trying to break every bone he possessed.
Holmes was almost grateful that he couldn't see what he looked like and that Watson wasn't there to witness the extent of his injuries. During the moments that the pain was more than he could stoically bear, Holmes wished they weren't so careful in their blows. They were careful to keep him from bleeding to death; he had noticed very early on that they didn't draw blood if it could be avoided. Careful to keep him conscious for as much as possible, careful to make him feel every bit of exquisite agony.
When he could withdraw from the pain, Holmes wondered what had become of Watson, what ordeal they might test him with. It seemed too much to hope that they would be merciful to him--Holmes being the one they had wanted, presumably for knowing and deducing too much about the kidnappings--but Holmes hoped anyway. Anything to save Watson from the torment he suffered.
Watson wasn't entirely surprised when he woke after their drugged breakfast to find himself alone in an even smaller room, though it was almost identical in every other respect. He was left entirely alone for two entire days, his stomach grumbling and his throat parched as he waited to discover his doom. He idly wondered where Holmes had been taken; after several hours of utter solitude, it almost seemed he could hear Holmes' voice, and he had to feel every inch of the room to convince himself it was only an illusion.
Two men burst into his seclusion during the third day, startling him so badly that he didn't put up a fight when they restrained him and injected something into his arm. He remained mostly aware, but his limbs were useless as he was hefted over a shoulder and carried to a new room that had an ominous-looking chair, leather straps hanging from it, set up in the middle of the room. He was dropped into it and buckled securely in, his head lolling.
His head was jerked up and a large pitcher of water appeared in his line of sight. "You drink all," was growled in his ear, and the water started pouring into his mouth.
At first he gulped the water thirstily, his dehydrated body rejoicing at the bounty, but all too soon his shrunken stomach began protesting the sudden influx, cramping and churning. He choked and gagged, but the water coursed inexorably down his throat. Any attempt to turn away was prevented by the hands holding his head in place.
Watson closed his mouth and was relieved when the flow of water stopped. He coughed and tried valiantly not to throw up, his stomach feeling stretched and tender. A fist suddenly buried itself in his swollen gut, quite effectively driving the contents back out again, and he retched onto his shirt and into his lap. For a while the vomiting seemed like it would never end. When it did he panted for breath, feeling utterly wrung out.
"You drink all," was growled at him again. "Refuse, we do again. Vomit, we do again."
The hands held his head and the re-filled pitcher tipped its burden into his mouth again. Watson held out a little longer this second time, but the nausea from so much water swirling in his otherwise empty stomach was too much and his body expelled it, staining his clothes still further.
He finally managed to swallow and keep down the water on the third try. Wet and humiliated and nearly ready to burst from the pressure, he was forced to walk, blindfolded, back to his solitary room.
He was afraid to sit or move for fear of losing some of the precious liquid--he could only guess how long he would be kept without food or water this time--and for fear of being discovered and dragged back out to endure that torture yet again.
It was several hours before he managed to lie down without anything threatening to come back up.
On average it was three days between water-pitchers and as he grew weaker from lack of food it became more and more difficult to maintain sufficient control to hold the water down. During the seemingly interminable days between waterings, his stomach growled relentlessly and he found it difficult to sleep, to think, to do anything but dwell on how long it had been since he'd had anything of substance pass between his lips. He was being starved and he knew it.
After about a week and a half of such treatment, Watson was fetched from his cell once again and carried to the usual room. He groaned in dread but didn't try to fight; he couldn't. But this time, instead of the pitcher of water, he was presented with a cup of soup and a piece of bread. These were fed to him, slowly and carefully, the bread dipped in the soup before being lifted to his lips. He ate eagerly, ravenously, and would have eaten ten times the amount offered if it had been given.
He was deposited back in his cell as soon as he was finished; he was so relieved at skipping the water-pitcher torment that he didn't question his good fortune. But as his stomach began to empty once again, he wondered what prompted the gentle treatment. He came up with two possibilities: first, they recognized that he would soon expire without some sort of nourishment and wished to prolong the torment; or second, rescue was near at hand and they wanted to make it appear that their captives were treated leniently. He rather hoped for the second option, but suspected the first was the truth.
His suspicions were borne out three days later when he was brought to the same chair and presented with the same pitcher of water as before. He sighed and resigned himself to his fate, hoping Holmes fared somewhat better.
Holmes no longer had any idea what day it was or how many days he had been beaten. He just wanted it to stop, would have given anything, everything, to make it stop. He even said as much to his abusers, but his pleading fell on deaf ears. Assuming, of course, his words were even understandable; with the pain and swelling in his jaw and the rest of his face, he would not be surprised if his words were unintelligible.
They had stopped drugging him for the trip back to his cell, having realized that the pain of being picked up and moved was more than sufficient to keep him from struggling or even observing anything of the route from one room to another. This particular day he managed not to pass out or throw up from the pain, so he was relatively aware when the door was thrown open and he was tossed onto the floor. As always, he looked for Watson before the the floor greeted him and removed him from consciousness for a while, and expected, as always, to see nothing but bare walls and hard floor.
This time, there was something huddled against the far wall. "Wa'son?" he murmured as soon as the pain abated enough for him to regain awareness. There was no response. He repeated the question often, still with no answer, and he decided to cross the distance between them, realizing as he began that he was nearly unable to move. The attempt to propel himself forward with his knees catapulted him back into oblivion for a period of time. Hands and knees wasn't even worth attempting.
Finally he settled on using his elbows, but even that was exceedingly painful and he blacked out briefly whenever he used his right arm. Slowly, excruciatingly, he dragged himself to the figure he'd seen in the brief light, hoping it was Watson and fearing he was much hurt from the way he didn't respond to Holmes' inquiries.
At last Holmes found him and collapsed partially atop him, his head pillowed on Watson's chest. He knew it was Watson from the smell of him, and Watson yet lived, for his heart beat steadily, if weakly, beneath Holmes' ear. "Wa'son," he said again.
This time he could feel Watson stir a little, and Watson's hand touched his hair, then patted its way to Holmes' face. "Holmes?" Watson slurred, his motions jerky and uncoordinated as he tried to feel Holmes' features.
Holmes couldn't help whimpering as the rough touch sparked bright flares of pain in his abused face. "Wa'son," he replied. Watson's hand ceased its exploration and slid down to his neck, feeling for his pulse. Holmes could feel his heart fluttering in his chest and could only wonder what Watson thought of it.
As much as he was relieved to have Watson returned to him and wanted to curl around him and never let him go again, Holmes' exertion was catching up to him and his consciousness was quickly ebbing away. With his last bit of strength, he moved his hand to rest on Watson's arm.
A flurry of activity. The sound of multiple footsteps echoing down hallways accustomed to utter silence, the movement causing the lamp flames to waver and flicker. Doors unbarred, thrown open. Tearful captives released, clinging to their rescuers as they blink owlishly in the sudden light.
A secluded room down a distant corridor. A single lamp guttering on the wall. A door opened, a gasp, a policeman darting forward with a lamp in hand. Running out again, shouting. "Someone fetch a doctor! I've found them!"
Continued
Title: Singular 1/7
Rating: R overall
Characters: Holmes, Watson
Warnings: kidnapping, torture [this chapter only]
Wordcount: 3,117 [17,405 for the whole fic]
Story Summary: Holmes and Watson recuperate from separate ordeals while kidnapped and their relationship takes on a new aspect. [eventual Holmes/Watson/Mary]
A/N: The kidnap/torture portion of this story [i.e. this chapter] was actually a dream I had a while back. The rest just kind of meandered after that, though I think I had a threesome prompt from the kinkmeme in mind (if I can find it again, I'll link it, haha).
Fills my hc_bingo square, "broken bones".
Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson were abducted in the center of London in the middle of the day, and no one on the busy street suspected there was anything amiss.
Neither did they, at first.
Watson paid little heed to the four-wheeler that pulled up in response to his signal for a cab, glancing at it only briefly before holding the door open for Holmes. Holmes continued animatedly explaining the revelation he'd had in connection with the string of kidnappings as he climbed inside. Watson had barely closed the door before the cab jerked abruptly into motion, and he stumbled, nearly falling atop Holmes, who stopped speaking long enough to help Watson settle onto the seat across from him.
"So I believe a cab was used to whisk away the victims," Holmes said, resuming his argument. "Very much like this one, in fact. Note the frosted windows so none can see in or out. And this particular vehicle, like several of this kind, boasts bolts on the outside of the doors for conveying unruly passengers on those occasions when such is warranted." Holmes frowned. "Watson, what is that smell?"
Watson had noticed the slightly sweet smell as soon as he closed the door. He recognized it, but could not remember why. Looking around for the source, he spied a towel beneath Holmes' seat. "Holmes," he said sharply, pointing.
Holmes retrieved the towel and was about to sniff it curiously when Watson finally made the connection that should have come much sooner. "Don't!" he cried, reaching for the door so they could cast it out. "It's chloroform."
Holmes immediately held the towel away from them, making ready to fling it out the door, but the door wouldn't budge. Watson, dread and a distinct light-headedness beginning to overwhelm him, tried the opposite door, with the same lack of effect. He exchanged a horrified look with Holmes, who took up Watson's cane and began pounding on the roof of the vehicle with it.
There was no response from the driver. Watson was startled from near-sleep by the clatter of his cane hitting the floor of the cab, and opened his eyes with difficulty to see Holmes slumping down onto the seat, looking as loose-limbed as Watson felt. Holmes' eyes remained open, however, and Watson marveled at that even as his own slid shut.
Holmes focused his attention on the route of the carriage and frowned--or attempted to, his muscles were not following his commands as readily as they ought--when they stopped near Pentonville prison, in a block containing several warehouses and other structures ideal for hiding illicit activities. The door was thrown open with a bang, and a waft of fresher air revived Holmes somewhat. Voices muttered in conference, debating about "the extra" until the man in charge concluded that the extra could be of some use and directed that they be removed from the carriage.
Hands reached in and grasped Watson by the ankles, yanking him unceremoniously from the seat and out the door. The hands returned for him a moment later, and he blinked at the change in light as he was pulled into a yard of some sort. There were dismayed exclamations at his awareness; he was held mostly upright for a moment, then something hard connected with the side of his head and he knew no more.
~~~
They awoke sharing a stone room, probably in a basement of some sort. The only light was cast by a slit at the base of the heavy wooden door. Within three hours of waking, Holmes had gone over every inch of the square stones of the walls, probing for weaknesses, thoroughly examined the door--the hinges were on the outside, and even their combined weight did not budge it--and convinced Watson to feel along the stones that Holmes couldn't reach.
After that, there was nothing to do but wait and speculate. Holmes paced restlessly around the room, neatly avoiding Watson's feet in his circuit, and considered this new information in light of what he already knew about the kidnappings.
At one point the light at the bottom of the door was interrupted and a plate was shoved in, followed by a shallow bowl of water. The hand belonged to a fairly burly man, but that was all Holmes could determine before it vanished. No steps were heard coming or going, which gave him considerable fuel for thought as he resumed pacing, rebuffing all of Watson's attempts to hand him some of the bread from the plate. "It might be drugged," he said. Watson ate it anyway.
The light winked out about an hour after the food was deposited. Watson took this as an obvious signal to sleep, but Holmes continued his pacing about the room, three strides down, one across (it had been two before Watson laid down on the unforgiving floor to sleep).
The lamp was re-lit approximately nine hours later; Holmes determined it must be a lamp by the way it flickered. The plate and bowl were removed and a new plate and bowl replaced them. When Watson woke, he tried to convince Holmes to partake of the bread and water, but Holmes continued to refuse.
The long hours dragged by. As an experiment, Holmes kept Watson from setting the empty plate and bowl near the door slot. When the hand reappeared and did not find the dishes within reach, it left without depositing any additional food or water. Watson sighed aggrievedly but didn't say anything.
Three days passed in similar monotony. Holmes finally relented and ate and drank with Watson, only for them both to discover that the water was laced with something the fourth morning.
Holmes returned to consciousness in a much larger, brighter room than their small cell. Multiple voices in conversation seemed so very loud after the silence of imprisonment and he tried to cover his ears but his hands were tied behind his back. His ankles were also tied together, and he had been tossed onto the floor in a corner. He was ignored for quite some time and he used it to listen in as he tested the bonds on his wrists and ankles and scanned what he could see of the rough, sparsely furnished room.
He gained no useful information from the trivial conversations and drew no conclusions from the room save that the building was equipped with gas and was probably located within a mile or so of where the cab had initially taken them, judging by the smell of the river (strong enough to detect even without windows in the room) and mud in the footprints on the floor. After that his captors took an interest in him, asking him rapid questions about his interest in the kidnappings and how much he had told the police.
Holmes refused to answer at first, and received several blows about the head for his trouble, one of which reopened the wound above his ear that had deprived him of consciousness several days earlier. The blood seeped down his neck and the sight seemed to encourage their viciousness, for the questions ceased and blows continued to rain down upon his body. Holmes curled up as well as he could and waited for the abuse to stop.
Eventually it did and all but one of the men left the room. Holmes did not move, knowing it would hurt if he did, and tried to focus on remembering the faces and identifying features of the men who had left. But his mind was spinning and he found he wasn't even certain how many there had been, much less what each one had looked like.
He got another chance a few hours later, as four men trooped back into the room and resumed right where they had left off. This time there were no questions--the pretense was no longer necessary, it would seem--just punches and kicks and being held aloft by one while the others struck him.
It was a relief when the blows ceased and the pain was replaced by the familiar scent of chloroform as a handkerchief was held over his mouth and nose. His bonds were cut when he was returned to his cell, and he woke sprawled on the floor next to a small plate of bread and bowl of water.
He was alone.
The beatings didn't occur every day, just most days. As time passed and his injuries grew more severe, it became more difficult to choke down the food he was given; opening his mouth was almost more than he could bear, and chewing was nearly out of the question. He was fairly certain his jaw was broken on one side, and he was certainly missing several teeth.
His hands, too, were less able to grasp as they should, his fingers twisted out of joint or broken, his wrists sprained or broken. The tally of injuries didn't stop there, of course, for pain flared and throbbed in every limb and what seemed like every joint and bone of his body. Somehow he wouldn't have been surprised if they were consciously trying to break every bone he possessed.
Holmes was almost grateful that he couldn't see what he looked like and that Watson wasn't there to witness the extent of his injuries. During the moments that the pain was more than he could stoically bear, Holmes wished they weren't so careful in their blows. They were careful to keep him from bleeding to death; he had noticed very early on that they didn't draw blood if it could be avoided. Careful to keep him conscious for as much as possible, careful to make him feel every bit of exquisite agony.
When he could withdraw from the pain, Holmes wondered what had become of Watson, what ordeal they might test him with. It seemed too much to hope that they would be merciful to him--Holmes being the one they had wanted, presumably for knowing and deducing too much about the kidnappings--but Holmes hoped anyway. Anything to save Watson from the torment he suffered.
Watson wasn't entirely surprised when he woke after their drugged breakfast to find himself alone in an even smaller room, though it was almost identical in every other respect. He was left entirely alone for two entire days, his stomach grumbling and his throat parched as he waited to discover his doom. He idly wondered where Holmes had been taken; after several hours of utter solitude, it almost seemed he could hear Holmes' voice, and he had to feel every inch of the room to convince himself it was only an illusion.
Two men burst into his seclusion during the third day, startling him so badly that he didn't put up a fight when they restrained him and injected something into his arm. He remained mostly aware, but his limbs were useless as he was hefted over a shoulder and carried to a new room that had an ominous-looking chair, leather straps hanging from it, set up in the middle of the room. He was dropped into it and buckled securely in, his head lolling.
His head was jerked up and a large pitcher of water appeared in his line of sight. "You drink all," was growled in his ear, and the water started pouring into his mouth.
At first he gulped the water thirstily, his dehydrated body rejoicing at the bounty, but all too soon his shrunken stomach began protesting the sudden influx, cramping and churning. He choked and gagged, but the water coursed inexorably down his throat. Any attempt to turn away was prevented by the hands holding his head in place.
Watson closed his mouth and was relieved when the flow of water stopped. He coughed and tried valiantly not to throw up, his stomach feeling stretched and tender. A fist suddenly buried itself in his swollen gut, quite effectively driving the contents back out again, and he retched onto his shirt and into his lap. For a while the vomiting seemed like it would never end. When it did he panted for breath, feeling utterly wrung out.
"You drink all," was growled at him again. "Refuse, we do again. Vomit, we do again."
The hands held his head and the re-filled pitcher tipped its burden into his mouth again. Watson held out a little longer this second time, but the nausea from so much water swirling in his otherwise empty stomach was too much and his body expelled it, staining his clothes still further.
He finally managed to swallow and keep down the water on the third try. Wet and humiliated and nearly ready to burst from the pressure, he was forced to walk, blindfolded, back to his solitary room.
He was afraid to sit or move for fear of losing some of the precious liquid--he could only guess how long he would be kept without food or water this time--and for fear of being discovered and dragged back out to endure that torture yet again.
It was several hours before he managed to lie down without anything threatening to come back up.
On average it was three days between water-pitchers and as he grew weaker from lack of food it became more and more difficult to maintain sufficient control to hold the water down. During the seemingly interminable days between waterings, his stomach growled relentlessly and he found it difficult to sleep, to think, to do anything but dwell on how long it had been since he'd had anything of substance pass between his lips. He was being starved and he knew it.
After about a week and a half of such treatment, Watson was fetched from his cell once again and carried to the usual room. He groaned in dread but didn't try to fight; he couldn't. But this time, instead of the pitcher of water, he was presented with a cup of soup and a piece of bread. These were fed to him, slowly and carefully, the bread dipped in the soup before being lifted to his lips. He ate eagerly, ravenously, and would have eaten ten times the amount offered if it had been given.
He was deposited back in his cell as soon as he was finished; he was so relieved at skipping the water-pitcher torment that he didn't question his good fortune. But as his stomach began to empty once again, he wondered what prompted the gentle treatment. He came up with two possibilities: first, they recognized that he would soon expire without some sort of nourishment and wished to prolong the torment; or second, rescue was near at hand and they wanted to make it appear that their captives were treated leniently. He rather hoped for the second option, but suspected the first was the truth.
His suspicions were borne out three days later when he was brought to the same chair and presented with the same pitcher of water as before. He sighed and resigned himself to his fate, hoping Holmes fared somewhat better.
Holmes no longer had any idea what day it was or how many days he had been beaten. He just wanted it to stop, would have given anything, everything, to make it stop. He even said as much to his abusers, but his pleading fell on deaf ears. Assuming, of course, his words were even understandable; with the pain and swelling in his jaw and the rest of his face, he would not be surprised if his words were unintelligible.
They had stopped drugging him for the trip back to his cell, having realized that the pain of being picked up and moved was more than sufficient to keep him from struggling or even observing anything of the route from one room to another. This particular day he managed not to pass out or throw up from the pain, so he was relatively aware when the door was thrown open and he was tossed onto the floor. As always, he looked for Watson before the the floor greeted him and removed him from consciousness for a while, and expected, as always, to see nothing but bare walls and hard floor.
This time, there was something huddled against the far wall. "Wa'son?" he murmured as soon as the pain abated enough for him to regain awareness. There was no response. He repeated the question often, still with no answer, and he decided to cross the distance between them, realizing as he began that he was nearly unable to move. The attempt to propel himself forward with his knees catapulted him back into oblivion for a period of time. Hands and knees wasn't even worth attempting.
Finally he settled on using his elbows, but even that was exceedingly painful and he blacked out briefly whenever he used his right arm. Slowly, excruciatingly, he dragged himself to the figure he'd seen in the brief light, hoping it was Watson and fearing he was much hurt from the way he didn't respond to Holmes' inquiries.
At last Holmes found him and collapsed partially atop him, his head pillowed on Watson's chest. He knew it was Watson from the smell of him, and Watson yet lived, for his heart beat steadily, if weakly, beneath Holmes' ear. "Wa'son," he said again.
This time he could feel Watson stir a little, and Watson's hand touched his hair, then patted its way to Holmes' face. "Holmes?" Watson slurred, his motions jerky and uncoordinated as he tried to feel Holmes' features.
Holmes couldn't help whimpering as the rough touch sparked bright flares of pain in his abused face. "Wa'son," he replied. Watson's hand ceased its exploration and slid down to his neck, feeling for his pulse. Holmes could feel his heart fluttering in his chest and could only wonder what Watson thought of it.
As much as he was relieved to have Watson returned to him and wanted to curl around him and never let him go again, Holmes' exertion was catching up to him and his consciousness was quickly ebbing away. With his last bit of strength, he moved his hand to rest on Watson's arm.
A flurry of activity. The sound of multiple footsteps echoing down hallways accustomed to utter silence, the movement causing the lamp flames to waver and flicker. Doors unbarred, thrown open. Tearful captives released, clinging to their rescuers as they blink owlishly in the sudden light.
A secluded room down a distant corridor. A single lamp guttering on the wall. A door opened, a gasp, a policeman darting forward with a lamp in hand. Running out again, shouting. "Someone fetch a doctor! I've found them!"
Continued