Chapter Text
The torture had seemingly lost any function but his captors pleasure weeks ago. Any information Sherlock could have given them would be months out of date by now. They had even ceased to ask him questions, having given up the pretense their torture was anything other than entertainment for them. Though he couldn’t understand how they could get any pleasure from whipping his near lifeless body or sticking their cock in it for that matter. He barely even reacted anymore at this point, his body too weak to do anything but groan in pain. He just laid there on the filthy floor, defenseless, waiting for death.
Both he and his captors were just awaiting the moment his body would give out. He had resigned himself to this fate. He was going to die, and he felt only relief at that thought. It was only a matter of time until one of the festering cuts on his body would turn septic, a few of his right toes had already blackened, necrosis slowly creeping up his leg, his body was already dying. It couldn't be long now until the end, surely this was nearly done. For the last few days he had been fading out of consciousness more and more. As his vision started to blacken again he prayed for this to be the last time.
It wasn’t. The next time he regained consciousness he was in a completely different location. The constant scurrying of rats and smells of sewage had been replaced by a constant beeping noise and the smell of antiseptic. He was likely in a hospital. Someone was holding his hand. He tried to open his eyes but the light burned his eyes. “John,” he croaked, opening his eyes, straining against the bright light. When his eyes finally adjusted to the light it was not John's face he was looking at, but Mycrofts.
“John isn’t aware of your survivall brother dear, and I did not think it wise to inform him until you have at least somewhat recovered from your injuries,” Mycroft said, trying to keep his composure. His ever formal mask was slightly cracked, betraying his exhaustion and worry.
All the information he could usually deduce in milliseconds only slowly trickled through, his brain felt foggy. Everything still felt slightly unreal, Mycroft's voice only processed a few seconds later. He nodded. It would be best if John didn’t see him like this, the amount of pain he was in could only mean that his body was in poor shape. He felt exhausted, but he tried desperately to stay awake, clinging to the small thread of consciousness. He needed to know he wasn't just hallucinating. That his brain wasn't just playing games with him in his final moments. He wanted to see John again if there was any chance to. But his foggy mind couldn’t push through the haze any longer so he felt his eyes closing again.
When he awoke again he felt like he was back in his cell, but the door was open this time, He felt his flight instinct starting to rise. They were gonna take him and kill him, he had to get away, but he was seemingly unable to stand, something was so very wrong with his leg, he needed to get away, he was nothing but instinct, a scared wounded animal, trying to flee. There were tubes all over him, but he needed to get away, he ripped everything out, half falling, half jumping out of the bed, and he crawled as fast as he could, his entire body aching. He needed to get away, this was his one chance to escape.
His body was in full on flight mode, only run by panic. Part of him knew his situation had changed, that he wasn’t in the cell anymore. But panic had overtaken him and left no room for conscious thoughts. He couldn’t feel safe until he was hidden where no one could find, so he crawled and dragged himself, through endless hallways, through a mixed reality, partly hospital partly dungeon, a strong feeling of unreality. While he was somewhat aware he was in a hospital he couldn’t escape the looming feeling his torturers would come back any second to take their sadistic urges out on him, so the only thing he could do was hide. He pulled himself into a janitor's closet and made himself as small as possible.
Once he had reached some sense of security, the adrenaline started to wear off and his panic lost all focus. He was not in control of his mind anymore. He always did well in action, he was good at putting all his focus, his panic, into escaping. Following his instincts he knew how to do, but once there was no immediate action to undertake he lost his control. It felt like he was dying anyway, his chest was exploding, there was no air going into his lungs, no matter how much he inhaled, everything felt tingly and numb and wrong.
He could not think anymore, he had seemingly lost complete grip of reality. He knew they were after him, he could feel it. But he was in a hospital, and that wasn’t possible. Perhaps this was death. Nothing felt real, there was a blackness enclosing him all around. He wondered if his injuries would be enough to kill him anyway, wondered if one of his ribs had punctured a lung. His entire body was on fire. He tried to be quiet, but his ragged breathing and the thumping of his heart had to be audible a mile away, they were gonna take him back. He could do nothing but curl himself into a tiny ball and pray to a god he didn’t believe in.