Sherlock Fic: Broken beyond repair, Chapter Seven
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7. Self-built prison
„Sir, can you hear me? “
Carefully the paramedic rolls John over on his back, lights in his eyes with his torch, the pupils grow smaller, but there is no other reaction. Then he takes his pulse yet again, shakes his head and then finally turns around. Sherlock is standing in the shadows, his head lowered, beside him stands Lestrade, exhaustedly rubbing his eyes.
“I can’t do much from here. We should take him to a hospital first.”
Lestrade nods tiredly, his face is still grey, like it is covered in a layer of dust. Two other paramedics appear with a stretcher, together they lift John’s body. Sherlock looks up, sees the lifeless man, the eyes, if he hadn’t felt the pulse before, he would be convinced that John is dead. Dirt scrunches under the wheels when the men leave the hall. Sherlocks thoughts are blurry, confusing, there is a strange chaos in his head, he is unable to decide what to do next. Even the task to move seems to be too much for his body.
“What did they do to him?” Lestrades voice sounds hollow and devoid, the words little more than a whisper. For a while the question hovers between them, Sherlock knows many answers to it, but refuses to utter them.
“When we found him...” Lestrade starts, probably because he needs it. He can’t stand the silence, not like Sherlock who sees the darkness of the warehouse as a shelter, who clings to the mouldy air because it seals him off from the outside. Out there everything becomes real again, but inside, in the diffused light, it all seems to be a nightmare. Lestrade is not the kind of person who stays alone with his thoughts, he can’t exist in the quietness, for him it is more crushing than noise.
“At first I thought he’s dead. Really, I thought: That’s it.” He looks into the floodlight for some seconds before he blinks and goes on. “Then I saw him breathing and that his eyes were open. We tried to speak to him. Shook him carefully. I even slapped his face.” Lestrades laughs short and dry, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “No reaction, not even the slightest.” He turns around to Sherlock, his facial expression seems controlled, overconscientious, a mask he needs to put on a lot as a police man. “What did they do, Sherlock? What can break a person like that?”
Sherlock doesn’t want to think about it, but his brains switches to pictures and reports, about torture, mental and physical, about the war and known cases, about decease patterns and traumata. He lifts his hands to his head, runs his fingers through his hair where dust adheres. With all his left strength he pushes the information back, suppresses the flood of images; a twinge in his temples makes him sucking in the air through his gritted teeth.
Lestrade sighs, then he wordlessly decides that it’s time to leave this place. And even if Sherlock isn’t ready yet, he slowly follows the detective inspector, his hands still pressed against his skull. But suddenly a thought appears, it strikes his attention because it’s not bloodstained and blurry but clear and lucid and white, like his deductions used to be. Before he leaves the warehouse through the tall gate, he turns around yet again and looks up in one corner of the hall which lays in the dark, searches the invisible ceiling of the building. Finally he finds the spot where he suspects the camera. For some seconds he just stares up, his arms sunken. Then he mouths three words with his lips until someone shuts down the floodlight and everything becomes black.
You. Are. Dead.
***
Jim pushes him against the wall, one hand grabs his short hair, the other holds his lower jaw tight. Sebastian pulls him closer, their mouths meet, taking each other’s breathes. Jim is impatient, he presses his body yet closer against Moran, his hands tug on his shirt, pushing it upwards; cold fingers on warm skin. His mouth wanders along Sebastian’s jaw down to his neck, his teeth brush over the pulse point. Moran cocks his head when Moriarty bites him, not strong enough so that it bleeds, but all the same painful.
“Jim”. The name disappears into the wideness of the office. The screen is buzzing, the images are green and grainy, showing the empty hall and the front yard of the warehouse. Behind the desk still lies the young man, keeps silent, the wound on his forehead dried up long since, the carpet under him is soaked.
Moriarty laughs while his fingers play with Sebastian’s belt, tugging on it until it falls to the ground, clattering. Then he pushes the shirt further upwards, pulls it over his head, it ends up careless on one of the desks. Almost tenderly he skims his fingertips over the scars on Sebastian’s chest, he knows each one of them and their history. For some of them he is responsible himself. He reads him like a map, fingernails scratch over trembling skin, leaving red marks beside white lines. Finally his hand closes around the throat, he feels the pulse in it and how the blood is constantly pumped through the veins, under his fingertips vibrates life. Jim loves to play with breath like he loves playing with death. The thought of dominating someone completely arouses him even more. Sebastian feels his lungs being eager for oxygen, the urge to inhale air, but Jim just presses his mouth against his own yet again, he can feel his tongue against his lips, then inside his mouth. His head begins to spin.
There is no safeword in this relationship, no signal which signifies to stop. Each time Sebastian expects not to survive, and still there is the allure because not only Moriarty loves the proximity of death.
When his legs seem to give in, Jim retreats his hand from his neck, his body is shaking while he takes deep breathes, he coughs, Jim laughs.
“You’re in good mood today”, Sebastian hoarsely says while he watches Moriarty unbuttoning his shirt, slowly and calm, which doesn’t seem to fit his otherwise thrilled state. But suits were always a special something for Jim, an obsession. Not as much as Sherlock is, though. Sebastian’s head is still foggy because of the lack of oxygen, he leans against the wall, his sweaty back adheres to it, his hands seeking support, and then he speaks it out load, his thought, it escapes his head unintentionally.
“You’re obsessed with Sherlock,”
Jim pauses, his shirt between his hands, and looks up slowly. For a moment he seems to wonder if he misheard something, but then he smiles, willing to ignore the sentence, but too late, Sebastian can’t stop it, he speaks on.
“Did it never occur to you that your obsession is a weakness? He has a good grip on you, you can’t stop thinking of him.” Moran shortly laughs, he realises how childish that sentence sounds, his hands run through his face.
The belt hits his hot cheek, rips the skin open; he struggles sideward’s, lifts his arms protectively in front of his head. Jim stares at him, eyes wide open.
“You better shut up, Seb.” Despite his anger he looks irritated, he breaths heavily, his hand with the belt in it is trembling. Finally Jim approaches him, but no new strokes are coming, instead he pushes Seb’s hands aside, observes the wound on his face. He leans forward, his tongue touches the cut, licks up the blood which is seeping down his cheek.
Then he throws down the belt, turns away and leaves the room without another word.
***
“Catatonic stupor”, the doctor says whose name Sherlock has already forgotten. “A state of neurogenic motor immobility while being awake. He’s not sleeping, but isn’t noticing his surrounding, nor does he react to any stimuli, be it pain or people talking to him.”
Lestrade nods, just to do anything. Sherlock looks to John who lays breathing silently in a hospital bed and sleeps.
“Well, to get in such a state a healthy human must experience a heavy psychological trauma”, the doctor goes on and lifts his clipboard, his eyes behind the glasses wander over the piece of paper. “And when I take a look at the amount of his injuries... Over one hundred cuts, bruises and burns, especially on his back, neck and chest. Two broken ribs, not to forget the detached finger.” Sherlock swallows, he adverts his gaze from John. “The bullet wound on his shoulder was treated well though, and the finger was amputated cleanly. Therefore his physical state isn’t worrying much. But his psychological state is more than critical. Never before have I seen a patient as deep in catatonia as he is. You know, this state is, assuming that the stupor isn’t a result of failing cerebral metabolism, a kind of self-protection, caused by a traumatic experience. The conscious secludes itself into the back of the patients mind because he can’t bear the pain. It is very difficult to bring the conscious back because you’re almost unable to reach it in there, sometimes not even with strong stimuli like electroshocks.”
A nurse enters the room, leans to the doctor’s ear and whispers something whereat the doctor nods. He signs a document which is hold in front of him, then he turns around to Lestrade and Sherlock again.
“Well, he’s asleep for now. Maybe we can make him leave his self-built prison with the right medication, there are some encouraging successful cases. But at first you need to sign these papers which allow us to make an aids test. Beside his several injuries and the resulting haemorrhaging we have grounds to believe that he was also...”
Sherlock lifts his hand, the doctor swallows the last word, nods and holds the piece of paper out to him. For a while he wordlessly watches the document, then Sherlock shakes his head.
“I’m not allowed to sign these. In this case probably his sister is the one responsible for this”, he silently says. He realises that an unpleasant phone call lies ahead of him.
For some seconds the doctor doesn’t know what to say, the paper still hovers between them like a jeremiad.
“No reaction, you said?” Lestrade breaks through the awkward silence, and the doctor awakens from his confusion and nods frantically, wants to begin talking again when the detective inspector tilts his head towards John’s bed. The others turn their heads in surprise, they’re looking at John, and John looks back. His body seems as motionless as before, lifeless and limb, but his eyes are open and observing. He stays quiet, there are no facial expressions. But his gaze is locked on Sherlock and follows him even when he draws closer to the bed.
“Amazing”, the doctor whispers.
“He woke up when you started to talk, Sherlock. Since then he followed your every movement.”
Sherlock hearts is pounding in his throat, he looks down on his friend, sees the oppressed body, the smooth skin, the emotionless face, the hand with only four fingers, and the image of it will be stuck in his mind forever, he can’t do anything about it. John looks up at him, neutral, just observes him; Sherlock isn’t sure if he actually recognises him, impossible to interpret him, too empty and blank are face and body.
Slowly he sits down on a chair next to the bed. Reaches out his hand. Motionless he places it besides John’s upon the soft sheet.
They don’t touch.
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