Promised the Dark, or Indestructible. Chapter Two
Title: Promised the Dark, or, Indestructible. Chapter Two
Author: ghislainem70
Word Count: 747
Rating: PG-13
Warning: depictions of violence (entire work), implied non-con scene last chapter.
Summary: Sherlock is dead, and Moriarty is holding John captive. BAMF! John
Disclaimers: I own nothing. All honors to Messrs. Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Promised the Dark, or, Indestructible. Chapter Two.
After the first few early hours in which John screamed like a madman at Moriarty, raging at him, begging him to come down and face him, John fell silent. He decided didn’t want to give anyone listening the satisfaction of hearing him talk to himself, and after his initial outburst, the few times he caught himself starting, he clamped down on his tongue.
John could endure the dark. The Taliban had vast cave networks. One of the things John had learned in Afghanistan was the art of spelunking. But the longest he had spent in a deep cave after he and his companion were temporarily lost, light sources exhausted, was 48 hours. For Sherlock, he could endure it for as long as it took.
There was only one way for John to affect his environment. The water spigot. When he pressed the button, the water flowed out onto the floor. When he stopped pressing the button, it stopped. There was a tiny, efficient drain, far too small to put an arm or leg in, let alone try to climb through. Whenever water pooled on the floor, it flowed down a slight slope and the drain had a sensor mechanism which swiftly and completely drained it away.
On what he thought was probably the second day, John formed a plan.
* * *
He continued shredding the drink pouches. He made a show of disposing of nearly all of the fragments down the drain. He hoped this activity looked to the watcher as either fastidiousness (he did his best to keep himself, and the cell, clean), or a little ritual to pass the time. If the watcher thought he would try to choke himself to death by swallowing the pouches, he imagined, then it was more likely than not that he would be expected to swallow them whole. The shredded bits looked even less of a risk than the useless pouches themselves.
The saved bits he scattered around the floor as though overlooked in the dark, and one set he blindly arranged as a makeshift chess set, spending several hours a day (as best he could tell) attempting to play
against himself. This recalled memories Afghanistan and playing chess at night in an ill-lit tent with Barton, the other surgeon.
While pretending to play chess, John practiced holding his breath.
* * *
On what John thought was perhaps the twenty-seventh day, he swiftly gathered up the all of the scraps. He crammed them down the tiny drain, adding a little leftover dried custard to make a sort of paste, praying that it was enough to hold. He pressed the button, then crammed more scraps tightly into the recessed space. He leaned on them with his now toughened, hardened thumbs, compacting the mixture. Water spurted from the spigot, the drain clogged, and the scraps held.
Water started pooling at the soles of his feet.
He now stopped up the spigot, holding his finger firmly against the opening with his whole weight, feeling the pressure instantly building, pushing against his finger till it burned.
If anyone was watching, any one of several things was likely to happen. One, they would assume John was trying to drown himself, and they would either let him, or not.
* * *
Trying to stop John could take several forms but the best option, the one he was praying for, was that they would send someone down to him, or somehow pull him back up, through the hypothetical opening in the ceiling.
If it was deemed acceptable for him to drown, they would let the water fill the chamber. That was also a desirable outcome.
Or, they could send down poison gas, or a live electrical wire.
Or, they could repair the drain, or turn off the water supply altogether. Then John would have to wait for whatever Moriarty had planned next. Maybe no one was watching at all, Moriarty barely curious enough to check in at the end, to see to whether John had found an amusing way to die alone in his cell.
The pipe to the water spigot burst through the wall from the pressure of the blockages, and water gushed into the chamber with the force of a broken fire hydrant.
It took at least an hour for the water to reach his chest. He was starting to shiver. But nothing else happened; the water rose steadily, the drain held.
There was no sign that anyone intended to change the course of events.
To be continued . . .
Listen to Left Me For Dead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tP2vyUKkB8k&feature=fvsr
Back to Chapter Two: ( Here ) Next Chapter (Three): ( Here )
Author: ghislainem70
Word Count: 747
Rating: PG-13
Warning: depictions of violence (entire work), implied non-con scene last chapter.
Summary: Sherlock is dead, and Moriarty is holding John captive. BAMF! John
Disclaimers: I own nothing. All honors to Messrs. Gatiss, Moffat, BBC et al.
Promised the Dark, or, Indestructible. Chapter Two.
After the first few early hours in which John screamed like a madman at Moriarty, raging at him, begging him to come down and face him, John fell silent. He decided didn’t want to give anyone listening the satisfaction of hearing him talk to himself, and after his initial outburst, the few times he caught himself starting, he clamped down on his tongue.
John could endure the dark. The Taliban had vast cave networks. One of the things John had learned in Afghanistan was the art of spelunking. But the longest he had spent in a deep cave after he and his companion were temporarily lost, light sources exhausted, was 48 hours. For Sherlock, he could endure it for as long as it took.
There was only one way for John to affect his environment. The water spigot. When he pressed the button, the water flowed out onto the floor. When he stopped pressing the button, it stopped. There was a tiny, efficient drain, far too small to put an arm or leg in, let alone try to climb through. Whenever water pooled on the floor, it flowed down a slight slope and the drain had a sensor mechanism which swiftly and completely drained it away.
On what he thought was probably the second day, John formed a plan.
* * *
He continued shredding the drink pouches. He made a show of disposing of nearly all of the fragments down the drain. He hoped this activity looked to the watcher as either fastidiousness (he did his best to keep himself, and the cell, clean), or a little ritual to pass the time. If the watcher thought he would try to choke himself to death by swallowing the pouches, he imagined, then it was more likely than not that he would be expected to swallow them whole. The shredded bits looked even less of a risk than the useless pouches themselves.
The saved bits he scattered around the floor as though overlooked in the dark, and one set he blindly arranged as a makeshift chess set, spending several hours a day (as best he could tell) attempting to play
against himself. This recalled memories Afghanistan and playing chess at night in an ill-lit tent with Barton, the other surgeon.
While pretending to play chess, John practiced holding his breath.
* * *
On what John thought was perhaps the twenty-seventh day, he swiftly gathered up the all of the scraps. He crammed them down the tiny drain, adding a little leftover dried custard to make a sort of paste, praying that it was enough to hold. He pressed the button, then crammed more scraps tightly into the recessed space. He leaned on them with his now toughened, hardened thumbs, compacting the mixture. Water spurted from the spigot, the drain clogged, and the scraps held.
Water started pooling at the soles of his feet.
He now stopped up the spigot, holding his finger firmly against the opening with his whole weight, feeling the pressure instantly building, pushing against his finger till it burned.
If anyone was watching, any one of several things was likely to happen. One, they would assume John was trying to drown himself, and they would either let him, or not.
* * *
Trying to stop John could take several forms but the best option, the one he was praying for, was that they would send someone down to him, or somehow pull him back up, through the hypothetical opening in the ceiling.
If it was deemed acceptable for him to drown, they would let the water fill the chamber. That was also a desirable outcome.
Or, they could send down poison gas, or a live electrical wire.
Or, they could repair the drain, or turn off the water supply altogether. Then John would have to wait for whatever Moriarty had planned next. Maybe no one was watching at all, Moriarty barely curious enough to check in at the end, to see to whether John had found an amusing way to die alone in his cell.
The pipe to the water spigot burst through the wall from the pressure of the blockages, and water gushed into the chamber with the force of a broken fire hydrant.
It took at least an hour for the water to reach his chest. He was starting to shiver. But nothing else happened; the water rose steadily, the drain held.
There was no sign that anyone intended to change the course of events.
To be continued . . .
Listen to Left Me For Dead: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tP2vyUKkB8k&feature=fvsr
Back to Chapter Two: ( Here ) Next Chapter (Three): ( Here )