A/N ;; so this is my, what, third fic? and um yeah I'm sorry about abandoning my other fic; i really don't know what happened to it. I just lost interest. but i'm going to be re-writing it soon? so that's cool and stuff. this fic has some warnings like major character death, noncon stuff, and other dark, dark themes. like torture and whatever.
he may contain the urge to runaway
but hold him down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks
germolene disinfect the scene my love, my love, love, love
but please don't go; i love you so, my lovely
Underneath the flat rested a small, narrow room. A bed, a fridge, a closet. In the centre of the ceiling hung a bare bulb; harsh light blanketed the room in a dirty yellow. The walls were concrete, as was the floor. The room mimicked the mental state of the man held captive here. John Watson wanted to die.
He was lying on the bed. Not content, no, never. But breathing. His eyes were barely open, swollen from the slaps, the beatings. His lower lip was split. John had a fever, medically induced. He had been tired out from bashing his head against the concrete wall. Tears stained his bruised cheeks. Crusted blood clung to his hair and forehead in large patches.
John turned his head slowly, almost as though he was dead already. "Let me go," he whispered to the baby monitor that sat on a shelf in the corner of the room. John knew he could hear him, but he would never let him go. Not alive, anyway. John choked back a sob.
"Please," he repeated over and over until John fell into unconsciousness. He dreamt of Sherlock, solving a case, John ecstatic. He dreamt of an empty field of tall sunflowers; John ran through them, searching for someone. Couldn't find them. John dreamt of darkness, the shadows licking at his arms and legs and face. John dreamt of nothing.
He awoke to the crackling sound of the monitor. At first, he thought the little room was on fire. Thank God, John thought quickly, privately. When he realized what it was, he sat up and groaned from the sudden rush his head endured.
"John," he whispered. "John, are you awake?" More static. John groaned, but more for himself. His head was still on fire from the night before. He shouldn't have hit his head so hard in an attempt to kill himself. Because it hadn't worked. "Good, you're awake." There was a smile in the voice; John hated him.
The only light source was the bulb from the ceiling. It hung on a cord, but it wasn't long enough to hang from. John suspected it wouldn't even hold his weight. He had tried in a daze once, but barely remembered it. John tilted his head to the side when he thought he heard an orchestra playing. But that was impossible. How could an orchestra be playing in this little room?
When John heard the room's door unlock, he stood. Wearily, yes, but still stood. He held his stance as the door opened to reveal his captor. He had a small radio that was playing the same orchestrated song John had heard seconds prior. Okay.
"John, John, John, you should be lying down. After your little…episode, you don't want to get a headache, do you? Poor dear," John's captor said in a slimy tone. John knew he was displeased, and this would mean another beating. John flinched when the man arched out to touch his cheek.
"Come now, John, you don't want to haemorrhage. Lay down, my love."
John pulled his face from the man's touch and glared with as much venom as he could. The man only gave a quiet smile. "So be it," the man said.
John felt suddenly very sick, and thought he would vomit. He sat on the edge of the dirty, bloodied mattress, face in both calloused hands. He took deep breaths, making sure not to pass out. The other man sat down beside him, the mattress sinking towards him. "Oh, John, dear. Do you still have the fever I gave you? Isn't it nice to be warm?"
John looked up at his captor slowly, and gave him a look of utter annoyance. "It's not 'nice' to have an internal temperature of one hundred and two, no. Not really. Bastard," he spat.
The captor gave John's upper thigh a quick pat. He kept his hand there, thumb rubbing over his outer thigh lightly. "Now, now. No name calling. Do you want me to lay with you?"
"John." It was said sternly, a warning. If John didn't play along, he would be tortured. Like many a time before. John had gone through worse, but didn't necessarily want to go through this. Not again. John sighed through his nose, trying his hardest to stay awake. He laid down on the bed, curling into a small ball. His captor followed, wrapping a soft arm across John's side. John shuddered.
It took some time, but eventually his captor had fallen asleep. John was just barely awake himself, trying his hardest to stay conscious. He eased his way out from under the other man's arm and straddled him. He gripped the base of his throat and pressed down as hard as he could. His captor's eyes popped open in utter shock.
"John—" he croaked through the pressure. "John, stop—"
John continued to press down on the man's throat. He didn't stop until he realized that if he did kill him, John would be stuck in here until he died of starvation. With a dead body. That would begin to smell and rot and decompose. John ripped his hands from the man's throat and stared wildly into his eyes.
The captor touched his throat softly, trying to comprehend what had just happened. He shoved John off of himself and went towards the door.
"Please don't go," John shot, desperate for his captor to release him. "I—I'll do anything, please, just, just don't go!"
His captor paused, head slowly turning to the left. "No." Simple. John almost threw up right then and there. He swallowed several times, mouth dry.
The other man left the room without another word. John heard the locks all click in place, and his hopes were dashed completely. He knew tonight would be another night in which he would lay silently in bed, face in his paper thin pillow.
John Watson wanted to die.