Chapter Text
His face is flushed red and his expression is pure panic. He may be physically fit but his heart pounds, beat after beat, bursting in his chest, blood sailing to his muscles. His long, pale fingers are curled into sweaty fists, swinging forward as if their momentum will make him faster, make him safe. His lungs are screaming, knees are aching, shins are stabbing with pain.
If I stop all is lost. If I run the damage is limited to my shins and knees. Must keep going.
His body and brain are in full survival mode and it is nothing but pain.
Scraping his way through the bramble, he hears them. They’re close. The whirling sound of the helicopter is no longer in the distance. The beam of light it projects bounces around him, teasing, close. So close. Too close. He’s too slow.
The voices behind him approach, speaking a language he only understands in bits and pieces. The spotlight falls on him.
He stops, falls to his knees, and raises his arms.
John. I’m sorry.
They grab him, frisk him, strip him of his clothes, tearing them off him with knives. He is blindfolded, hands bound behind his back.
Mycroft. Please.
Rather than being transported in the helicopter, he is forced to walk for what seems like miles, his body already cumbersome from running, until he finally approaches a large, stone building, and is taken to a dark room.
A man in uniform is there waiting for him.
“What is your name?”
No answer.
“If you don’t tell me, my guards will take you out and shoot you. What’s your name?”
Silence.
The man nods at his associates holding their captor. They tighten the ropes so tightly around his arms that they felt like barbed wire cutting to the bone. His arms turn purple.
“If you do not talk, you will lose both your arms.”
Nothing.
His arms are released from their current binds, shoulders crying with relief. But this lasts only moments. They are soon taken, pulled to either side of him, and tied up, supporting his body weight.
There were more interrogations in the days and weeks to come.
Eventually, Mycroft arrives.
He is dragged out, shuffling through the halls being dragged by his brother, praying no one suspects they are not supposed to be here. They make it out.
Sherlock sees the sun.
The heat of its rays envelops him as he runs again, this time not alone. They hop into a vehicle stationed nearby and make their escape.
The car ride is smoother than one would expect, peaceful, freeing. Sherlock is stiff. His joints ache. He scoots to the right side of the car and leans against the window for support.
“Sherlock,” Mycroft starts. “I’m...sorry. I’m sorry it took me this long.”
Sherlock remains still.
“You will be home soon, brother dearest. Back to London where you belong. I will have my people tie up these last few loose ends, then you will be free to pick up where you left off. Baker Street.”
Nothing.
“Maybe pop by and see that blogger of yours.”
No response.
Christ, he’s worse off than I thought.
When they reach their destination, doctors poke and prod at Sherlock. Cleaning the large, gaping wounds on his back, assessing his burns, checking his temperature, giving him fluids. It feels weird, being touched this way. Gently, with the intent to heal. It feels… wrong.
After being deemed stable, he is flown back to London and set up in a room at Barts under a fake name, not that anyone would recognize the dead detective, especially not in this state.
Mycroft comes with him, watches.
“You will be staying here until you recuperate. This is not a suggestion. You need to let your body heal,” he gives Sherlock a stern look, though it seems unnecessary given the state he is in. “I put this together for you,” Mycroft states, dropping a manilla folder on his brother’s bedside. “I have to go now. Despite what you may believe, I truly do wish I could stay, but work calls. There’s plenty of paperwork to fill and reporting to do, especially with all you’ve been up to.”
“Goodbye, Sherlock.” And with that he picks up his umbrella, straightens his suit, and leaves.
Sherlock is alone.
He looks around his room. White. Sterile. Empty. No signs of threat. Except there’s movement outside his door. Carts and trolleys pushed around. Nurses conversing with their colleagues. What are they talking about? Are they coming in here? Beeping from within his own room.
He lasts long enough to shower, request a shave and haircut from Mycroft’s lingering men, and eat half a piece of toast. He tries to sleep. Tries to stop flinching whenever the nurses open the door. Whenever they touch him. The beeping never stops. The chatter, the noise, the smell, the white walls. Christ the beeping . He turns on a lamp, snatches the envelope off his bedside table and reads only the first page. New address. Interesting. He looks at the monitors he is hooked up to. Approximately 30-73 second period before someone comes. He tears out his IV, rips the chords around him, and jumps out the window.