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“This isn’t the end, you know,” John says, and his smile is soft and knowing.
“It isn’t?”
“No. It’s only an end.” John sets the shard of glass against Sherlock’s wrist, eyes locked on his, and draws his hand in one swift, graceful arc from the heel of Sherlock’s palm to his elbow. The cut is painless, smooth, a whisper against his skin until the heat begins to well up from his veins.
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“It’s only a matter of time before they come back.”
Sherlock tries to breathe, but the pain from his broken ribs is keeping him from drawing a deep enough breath to be satisfying. It’s the least of his current worries, as John’s last two fingers are certainly broken and the cut over his eye is bleeding.
“They will,” he concedes, because comforting lies have no place here. “And I need the time to think, so if you can please be quiet until then I’ll sort out how best to escape.”
John looks at him with a confident smirk. They’ll get away because they always do, and Sherlock’s not yet found a situation he couldn’t think or charm or lie his way out of.
And even an hour later when their captors come back and it starts all over again, when John looks at him with a sparkle of mirth from the eye not swollen and blackened and covered in blood, he assumes he’ll manage it this time too.
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Their prison is exactly three-and-a-half meters by four meters of dank stone floor and chipped and peeling walls, and empty of everything except one small padded mat, two buckets (one half-filled with water) and a shard of glass Sherlock had found in a desperate, panicked search when he was alone on the first day. It’s sharp and potentially lethal enough that Sherlock is sure it would be confiscated if found, so he tucks it into a small gap between the floor and wall. All in all, the room is cool, damp, and boring, and Sherlock watches John peacefully trace his finger around a divot in the block next to his leg over, and over, and over again.
“I will find a way out of here,” he starts, and John’s eyes flash open. The wound over his eyebrow is almost completely healed, so Sherlock is gauging their time in this hellhole now as 13 days, give or take a day. “They’re clever enough to employ a random number generator for their checks on us, so it’s impossible to determine when we might have a stretch of time long enough to escape, but I think it’s worth attempting, even so.”
“Even if we did,” John says, “I don’t think I’d get far. Last session got my knee. Christ, it hurts.”
And it does hurt, Sherlock can see the pain in John’s creased brow, and the curl of the anger it brings flares deep, burns bright. He hates the men who have brought them here, who have stripped them of everything but their basic need to survive, and haven’t even given them the dignity of a cause to hate them for. Every question Sherlock has asked has been left unanswered, but even determining who their tormentors are may not give him the slightest indication of why.
The door clangs open and they both jerk reflexively, their bodies conditioned after all this time what’s to come. Pain without reason, without end in sight, without anything to fight against, and as Sherlock watches John straighten his shoulders and lift his chin, he only hopes his own face doesn’t betray the terror he feels when he’s hauled up by the arm and taken to the cold, dark room with the long, narrow table.
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“Jesus Christ if you don’t stop pacing I’m going to pin you to the floor.”
“As if you could.” Sherlock looks at John, lying across the mat with his knee slightly elevated, propped on the wadded up mass of his jacket. He’s beginning to weaken, thin and drawn and grey, and the collarbone revealed by the dip in his tee shirt looks fragile and easily broken.
Sherlock’s surprised it isn’t already.
He tries to focus, to organize the little bits of information he’s managed to glean so far into an unbroken line of cause and effect. But the walls are closing in around him, their tiny prison so cramped Sherlock can cross it in two full strides.
John snatches at the hem of Sherlock’s trousers, arresting his movement mid-step. He pulls his leg away before John can get a grip on his ankle.
John sighs, annoyed. “Sit down,” he says, and his voice, determined and commanding, stops Sherlock more effectively than his hands. Sherlock pauses a moment, then sinks down next to John on the mat.
“God, thank you. You’re driving me mad with that.”
Sherlock twitches his fingers on his knee, desperate for movement. “I can’t just sit. As long as I can walk I must. I can’t think, John. I’m just … I can’t.” Before he can start to pace again, the bare bulb that lights the room clicks off without warning, plunging the room into the absolute darkness that comes every twelve to twenty-four hours or so. In the dark, Sherlock can feel the frustration with himself, with John, with the crawling fear and pain build until it snaps his control. To his horror a sob forces its way out of his throat. He laces his fingers across the back of his neck and curls down against his knees, back shaking.
“Sherlock, Sherlock it’s okay. Jesus.” John’s voice sounds unsteady, and that is wrong, that is frightening, and Sherlock only shakes harder, lost.
“We’ll get out of here. I know we will.” John fumbles for Sherlock’s face, and the hand that curls around his jaw is icy cold. He lifts Sherlock’s chin from his chest and presses his cheek to Sherlock’s in the dark. In contrast to his hand, his scratchy, bearded face is warm, almost hot, and Sherlock sinks into the comfort of it, greedy for the first touch of pleasure he’s had in weeks. Once the dam breaks it’s as if they both can’t get enough, and John gropes for him, pulls him down until they settle into the mat, wrapped around each other. He quiets, feeling John’s breath on his ear, and calculates just how quickly a man could bleed out once his carotid artery is severed.
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Their one desperate attempt at escape is a miserable failure, doomed just as it starts even with Sherlock’s meticulous planning and constant rehearsals. The day they decide it’s time, Sherlock carefully wraps their little piece of glass in a bit of his sock and shuffles along with the door as it opens. The guard looks around for him, stiff with shock and alarm, and Sherlock jumps out from behind the door, wraps his arm around the guard’s neck and shoves the glass against him quickly as he can. The movement wrenches his broken ribs and he bites down on his lip to keep from crying out and raising the alarm. John makes a run for it in the sudden chaos, and Sherlock thinks he makes it as far as the connected hall outside their cell before he hears the sound of a taser firing.
He doesn’t have time to really analyse the complete disaster this is turning into, because, to his dismay, Sherlock finds the guard is wearing a few layers underneath his mask, and the glass simply isn’t strong or long enough to penetrate and cause any real damage. Just as Sherlock realizes how badly this could possibly go, the guard head-butts Sherlock then kicks him in the gut. Sherlock falls with a grunt, then, under cover of turning over to clutch his stomach, slips the glass into its little hiding spot under the edge of the wall.
The guard frisks him, tosses the room completely, and Sherlock earns a black eye for his refusal to say anything about his sharp little toy. John is shoved back into the room with burns from the taser scorched through his shirt and they’re left alone. Moments later, the bulb overhead goes dark.
“How many did you see?” Sherlock whispers in the blackness.
“At least a dozen. They’re spending a fortune keeping us here. It’s unbelievable.”
“At least five hundred quid a week each, plus overhead? Thirty thousand a week, maybe? That seems a bit steep.”
“Puts paid to any thoughts of escape, though. And God knows how long it’ll stay dark, now.”
“We’ve learned something though, John. It’ll be worth it.” And it is worth it, worth knowing the lengths to which their captors have gone to keep them here, even when days upon days of darkness drive them both to singing horrid pop tunes and Christmas carols—every song they’d ever learned, just to keep the madness at bay.
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“You know I only say this under the most dire of circumstances, but I have to tell you, this is getting dire. Um. Extremely dire.” John shifts and winces, and tries to suppress the full-body shudder that rolls down his spine. Sherlock, even weak with pain and fatigue and hunger, doesn’t miss a trick, and knows John is fighting a low-grade fever. Sherlock’s ribs aren’t getting any better without any strapping to hold them in place, and each breath is knives in his back, under his arm. He’s got a fresh crop of cigarette burns on his shoulders and his right wrist is swollen and turning an alarming shade of black.
John isn’t faring much better, the knee that was twisted still so swollen it makes it difficult for him to move, and his last two fingers on his left hand are broken, puffy and dark and likely becoming infected. Sherlock estimates they’ve been down here for almost two months. The rats are starting to have names.
“No one’s coming, are they?” John says, and Sherlock nods.
“I truly don’t think they can find us. Mycroft should have, by now.” Sherlock pushes the slop of what looks like oatmeal around on his plate and stares. When was the last time he’d had fruit, or meat? Or tea? It’s such a simple thing, but he wonders if he will ever taste the acrid, bitter heat of coffee against his tongue again, feel the rush of caffeine lighting his brain in a gentle wash, soft and comforting.
“I’d kill someone for a cup of tea,” John says, making Sherlock chuckle. John may not always have the gift of deduction, but he’s always been incredibly intuitive. It’s one of the many things Sherlock has always loved about him.
Such a loaded word, love.
It gives him something to think about when next they break every bone in both of his feet.
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“It’s okay, Sherlock, it will be okay, God, those fucking, fucking bastards.”
Sherlock can practically feel the boiling rage coming from John, the hands that gentle along the arch of his foot trembling with barely-restrained fury. He can’t open his eyes, the bare bulb above their heads too bright, too glaring, and he floats, the pain a fuzzy heat that edges his thoughts. If he keeps his eyes closed, he thinks, he won’t have to face it.
John shuffles around and Sherlock can feel that he’s situated himself with Sherlock’s feet in his lap. Then strong thumbs press into the top of his foot and he can’t hold it in. He moans, the pain flaring bright, and he tries to pull away.
“Shit, sorry, I know it hurts, but you have to let me, Sherlock, I have to set the bones or, Christ, you’ll never walk properly again, please, Sherlock.” There’s a tearing sound, rending fabric, and pressure against his instep that gains strength and momentum until Sherlock can actually feel the bones shift, crack and pop and grind and he heaves breath after breath, each exhale ending on a sob. He flails about blindly until his hand hits John’s solid shoulder and he latches on, digging his fingers in.
“That’s right, Sherlock, you just hang on. I’ll take care of you.” John’s voice is rough with tears, choked and awful and it hurts to hear it. “Just hold on to me.”
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“You ever see their faces?”
“Once. Caught the reflection of Thing One in a basin. He’s got a beard.”
“I’ve not. I wish I could, though. Just so I know who I’d be facing when I slit their throats.”
“You’d not ever slit anyone’s throat, John.”
“Try me.”
“No, you’d break their necks. Less messy, more hands-on, requiring strength, expertise and coordination. Generally what you have in abundance, though the strength is a bit on the downslide of late.”
“Thanks for the compliment. I think.”
“You’re welcome. And for what it’s worth, I’d slit their throats in a heartbeat.”
“I know you would. If we ever get out?” John holds out a hand, a pact. Sherlock takes it and they shake, once.
“If we ever get out.”
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Sherlock is contemplating their lone weapon, the wickedly curved shard of white opalescent glass (old, thin, likely from a lampshade, possibly old enough to be from a kerosene lamp or gas fixture), trying to tamp down the nervous jittering of his hands whenever John is gone. He never knows how he’ll come back, what fresh hell their captors will have invented this time. He presses the point against his thumb, notes how very little pressure is required to part the thin skin there when the door bangs open and John is thrown in.
He’s shirtless, sweaty, and when he stumbles forward and falls to his knees Sherlock leaps to help break his fall. What he sees when he looks over John’s shoulder makes him choke back vomit.
John’s back is a mass of livid red skin, blistered and bubbled from the heat of a clothes iron, the pointed end of the burns making a sunburst pattern, as if the bastard responsible was trying to be artistic with it.
Sherlock curses, helps John to lie on his front on the cot, then throws off his coat and strips off his filthy shirt to dip it in their meager supply of water in the bucket in the corner. He wrings it out carefully, and swings the shirt over his head a couple of times to cool it as much as possible before arranging it lightly on John’s damaged skin.
“Feels nice,” John slurs. “Christ, it fucking hurt this time.”
Sherlock snorts a laugh. “Like it didn’t hurt last time.”
“Not like this. I’m so fucking tired, Sherlock.”
John’s breathing is labored and painful, so Sherlock simply sits next to him, cools the wet shirt whenever it gets too warm and uncomfortable. John isn’t sleeping but he is resting, and when he reaches out for Sherlock’s hand Sherlock simply threads his fingers through John’s, careful to keep his grip light, and settles back against the wall, thinking.
John was right, those weeks ago. No one was coming for them. And the minimal care with which their tormentors have treated them—nothing that would kill them, nothing that would cause a quick death or internal injury, just enough to cause long and lingering pain—indicates they plan to continue for a very long time. Sherlock’s feet are barely functional, and only because John had sacrificed his own shirt to bind them up properly.
He looks to John, lying completely still under the cover of his shirt. His breathing has gone shallow and quick, and Sherlock pulls the glass from under the corner of their sleeping pad and turns it over in his hand.
It wouldn’t cause much pain, he knows. A single lance up the arm or across the throat and they’d be free of this place, of endless days and nights of pain and boredom and random darkness and the frighteningly-frayed edges of his mind, gossamer and unwound.
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“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Give it to me, or so help me I’ll take it.”
Sherlock stashes the glass in his pocket. “No. Please. I’m not … I’m not saying now. But consider it. We could be here for months, perhaps years more.”
“They’ll have to either stop or kill us, one day.”
“I very much doubt that, John. Very, very much.”
“Well, I’m not going to let them win. Christ, that’s like giving up.”
“It isn’t. It is winning. They’ll keep at it for as long as they choose. Years, John. Think of that. It’s already been months, I’m sure.” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “I’d rather take that decision out of their hands.”
“I just… I can’t imagine killing you. That’s what I’d be doing, you know. Killing you.”
“Helping. You’d be helping me. I need your expert hand. You’re better than I am.”
“Oh, ta. I’m thrilled to know it.”
They don’t talk about it any further, but Sherlock knows John is considering it with every furtive flick of his gaze over Sherlock’s arms; every time he turns and flinches with the constant, grinding, never ending pain; every time Sherlock comes back from a session with blood dripping down his fingers.
When he’s carted off to his next session the little glass burns bright in his memory, the sweet promise of quiet, of peace, of John’s smile and lovely voice holding him in numb non-reaction. A long, painful, shivering eternity later he’s dropped back into John’s lap, and as soon as he is, the horror of his now-twisted hands overwhelms him and he vomits. The pain is a dull throb over most of his body but sharp and agonizing where the jagged edges of broken bones press against his skin, the blood pooling in dark purple bruises and swelling his shattered knuckles.
“Jesus. Goddammit, your lovely hands, Sherlock. Oh god.” John takes each finger and tests it, gently tries to set any bones competent enough to hold, and binds them all with the strips he’d saved from wrapping Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock shivers, holds his hands curled against his chest, and lets John draw him to sit back between John’s legs with his still-strong arms wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock leans until his head is resting in the crook of John’s neck, belatedly realising the position puts John’s still healing back against the rough stone wall. He tries to pull away but John only sighs and hugs Sherlock closer, his lips coming to rest on Sherlock's temple.
“Oi, quiet down. You know it hurts less when you’re relaxed.” They sit together in silence a few moments, quiet and still under the glare of the overhead light. Sherlock starts to drift, the pain and fatigue pulling him down, until he hears John speaking again, quietly. “You’re right. I don’t know how much more I can take. I… don’t want to die, Sherlock. I don’t.”
“Neither do I. But is has to be better than this.” Sherlock turns in John’s arms, trying to look at him more fully, but John won’t let him go, won’t stop holding him. “Can you imagine the looks on their faces when they come to get us and we’re bled out on the floor?”
John chokes. “Sherlock!” he admonishes, and gives way to a fit of giggles for a few moments before he sobers. “I love you, you know,” he says quietly, and Sherlock startles. “I want to tell you before it gets to be too much, or I can’t say it, or we’re both dead. I have done a long time, and I can’t help but think we could have made a go of it if we’d not ended up here.”
Sherlock is so overwhelmed he pulls away from John’s hands, turns around completely, and stares. John’s face has gone a slightly mottled red, and Sherlock reaches out, longs to touch, but thinks better of doing so with his damaged hands and stops midway. Fortunately John correctly interprets what he’s trying to do and pulls Sherlock into his lap to straddle his hips, and brushes his cheek along Sherlock’s. Sherlock can’t speak, can’t say a word in response, but tilts his head and brushes his lips across John’s mouth once, twice, before pressing fully against him and kissing him slowly, gently, and tries to pour into that simple touch everything he wants, everything he feels, everything he wishes they’d had more time for.
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In the end it’s the constant, never-ending light that does it.
The bulb hasn’t been turned off for so long he and John have taken to taking turns sleeping with their faces buried in the other’s chest, the other with an arm over their eyes. He can’t think, he can barely concentrate, and when he realizes that he’s stopped solving math problems in his head to fight the boredom and cannot for the life of him recall even the most basic facts of chemistry, geology, or physics; when he finds his mind a grey, blank miasma shot through with white hot lances of fear and pain and bitter hallucinations, he gathers John up in his arms and presses his face between John’s shoulder blades.
“Please,” he whispers. “Please.”
John goes still, his breath pulling in deep and slow, before he turns over in the circle of Sherlock’s embrace and searches his eyes for a moment.
“It won’t take long.”
“I know. Together. I’m sorry I can’t for you, with my hands. Please don’t back out. Don’t let me go without you.”
“I promise. Together. Always. I’ll take care of you, and then me. It should be quick.”
And it is quick, John’s mind so beautifully straightforward when it’s sure of a course of action. He arranges himself straddling Sherlock’s lap, picks up Sherlock’s right wrist from where it lies between them. Sets the glass against the skin of his wrist. Kisses Sherlock once, hard.
“My only wish is that we had more time,” Sherlock replies. “I’m not ready for the end.”
“This isn’t the end, you know,” John says, and his smile is soft and knowing.
“It isn’t?”
“No. It’s only an end.”
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It takes only moments before Sherlock can feel his heart slowing, John’s head warm on his shoulder and blood pooling in the cradle of their bodies. He’s hazy, light and gloriously free, and as he feels himself slip under, he could swear he hears shouting.
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He blinks, and there’s light. Soft, dim, greenish light. He should know what that signifies, but he can’t seem to place it.
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“There you are, thank God.”
Lestrade’s face swims into view as Sherlock opens his eyes again, and as reality slams into him he can only think of one word.
“John?” He slurs.
“Next to you.” Lestrade nods, and John is there, in a hospital bed next to him, his entire arm wrapped in bandages from elbow to wrist and an IV drip attached to his hand. His eyes are closed and he looks pale, grey, the dark hollows under his eyes obvious. John shifts a little and his eyes flutter open, confusion coloring his features.
The bandages spark another memory, and Sherlock raises his own right arm experimentally. It’s also wrapped.
“You guys were lucky,” Lestrade continues. “They’d slit your arms and left you for dead not long before we got there. It’s been… Christ, Sherlock. I didn’t think we’d ever find you. It was your brother, in the end.”
Sherlock nods, slowly. He still feels so tired, and speaking is too much effort. Fortunately Lestrade seems to get the hint.
“I’ll just be going, let you rest up. Mycroft is coming by this afternoon. So glad to see you back.”
Sherlock nods and closes his eyes again as the door to his room shuts.
His bandages are neat, pristine white, and hide a multitude of sins. He studies his arm once again and hears a shift of sheets, and looks up to find John staring at him intently, his arm a mirror image of Sherlock’s own, his face still heavily bearded, hair shaggy and unkempt, but clean.
They think he and John had been murdered.
A smile tugs at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, and he can see the answering smile on John’s lips.
As far as they’re concerned, they had been.