The cool morning air outside Baker Street feels like breathing again after the swamp of the flat. I put my hands in my pockets. Head down, I start to walk to work-
And I am stopped: hands, all over me. There are too many to fight. My vision is gone - a cloth. When I open my mouth to make any noise (as long as it's loud) another piece of material is stuffed between my teeth so my jaw is wedged open until I strain. My arms are tied behind my back with rough rope; my neck is pulled taut as I'm dragged backwards, feet sliding beneath me, struggling as my shin hits something hard, a ridge of metal, and I topple, acting as my own lever, my feet leaving the ground so I fall forward in a surreal, blind airlessness until I bounce once –twice –, teeth clashing together, and yet more cloth near my face, pressed against my nose this time and I try one more futile struggle before, unable to hold my breath anymore, I inhale the chemical. Hot liquid flows from my scalp. Blood.
I wish I was Sherlock.
I wish I could know who these people were, from the sound of their voices and the squeeze of their hands. I wish I could know their exact intention, and what flaws in their lives I could manipulate them with. All I know is that there is the slam of a door; a few seconds of silence; a rumbling beneath me. I am carried away to the unknown.
Just observations, but no conclusions from them. I should be memorising each turn. I am not Sherlock though: Sherlock is oblivious at Baker Street, and I only have my brain to help me. My now drugged brain. I can predict one thing though: when I wake up again, there will only be terror, torture...
Images of Afghanistan, the open leering bloody crater of my mind, is suddenly burnt onto my retinas. Not again. I squeeze my eyes shut, almost in preparation for the pain, and my last thought (please, God let me live) teeters on the edge (please) of the darkness (live) before it falls and I am unconscious.
I hurt. That is my first thought, before I process anything else. The basic human feeling: pain. I can't lift my head, as if there is something physically holding me down, though I know it must just be drugs. I blink several times, but the blackness doesn't pass; the cloth must be still wrapped round my eyes. My breathing increases, and I end up groaning, despite knowing it's stupid and will bring me to the attention of my quite-obviously-dangerous captors; I can't help it, not due to pain, but due to this entrapment. Hot. Close. I need to get out.
There is the echo of footsteps before what must be a single finger running down my cheek. I don't have to stop myself from squirming, I am bound so tightly. One mercy. The finger slips under my blindfold and rests on my flickering eyelid. I bat it with my eyelashes; how pathetic, reduced to fighting back with mere hairs. The finger does not press down on my eyeball in revenge, simply continues to snake its trail round the side of my face, to the back of my head, and the cloth of the blindfold loosens. It falls with an audible whisper to the floor, everything else is so silent. The hand tenses behind my head, and begins to bend my neck forward, until it hurts. I sit up in a bout of dizziness, and the pressure stops; he has presumably achieved his goal. I am aware that my hands are still tied behind me; I grip the floor with them to stop me toppling backwards.
There is hot breath near my ear. "Hey Johnny Johnny Johnny, open your eyes."
Moriarty. My silent tormentor has finally spoken. Or whispered.
There is a harsh pain on my face and the noise of a slap. I have never been slapped with my eyes closed before. The suddenness, the fact that there was no prior knowledge to its coming, hurts more than the sting.
"Do as Daddy says, John."
He rests a hand on either side of my face, bracketing me; the gentleness of his touch after the slap, after everything he's done in the past, nearly makes me lash out. If I could.
"Oh! I can feel your pulse, Johnny, under these red cheeks. It's very fast. Passion? Perhaps. Fear? More likely." Both hands pat my face like I am a dog. "I find the two are interchangeable, better together in fact" His finger traces a spiral on my cheek. "Now aren't you going to open your eyes?" He must be speaking with his bottom lip jutted out; he sounds like a toddler pretending to cry. But as he speaks next, his voice has snapped back to its vicious norm:"I want to see their delicious blue".
I want to scream. Opening my eyes and seeing his face, the stretched smile of white skin, will make this a reality rather than a twisty, sweaty nightmare that I can wake up from, to see Sherlock playing the violin in the corner and turning to me, are you alright?
Fine. I am here with you, Sherlock. It was just a nightmare.
My heart beats; my fists tense behind me; I open my eyes.
Not a nightmare at all.
A/N: Sorry it's so short! I do intend to write longer chapters in the future; this just seemed like an appropriate break. Hope you enjoyed.