John H. Watson woke three mornings after his capture by the consulting criminal, Moriarty, in a peculiar room.
It was an open, bright room lit by fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. The ground was some kind of treated cement with metal floor drains. Judging by the faded black scorch marks on the walls, the sprinkler system had been used many times before. In each corner hung a black camera suspended in a waterproof glass bubble.
John hypothesized groggily that it was shatterproof glass, too.
Blinking to clear his mind of the unpleasant, drug-induced fog, John sat up with a low grumble of discomfort. He smelled terrible. It became immediately apparent why; he wore only loose-fitting trousers (not, the doctor noted with no small measure of alarm, the original pair he had been captured in) and the trousers were soaked with blood.
For a moment, John thought he had been stabbed in the femoral artery and he let out a horrified low noise of despair. But aside from his cramping stomach and throbbing head, he was physically unharmed. No, someone had soaked the trousers with blood after dressing him. It would be too difficult to pull wet clothing onto an unconscious body.
John thought that Sherlock's deductive powers must be rubbing off on him.
He missed Sherlock.
John was shirtless in the large, chilly cement room. He could see his reflection in the wall opposite him; a floor-to-ceiling black one-way mirror. John uncurled from his crumpled position on the floor to pad on bare feet over to the mirror.
His torso was much sleeker than the bulky jumpers made him look, and the bullet scar stood out as a startling spray of twisted white tissue on his left shoulder. His army tags gleamed dully on their chain around his neck – another thing that John had not been wearing when Moriarty's thugs had come for him.
His trousers squished wetly as he moved and John hoped the blood soaking them didn't belong to a human.
Re: Due to some absurd game of Moriarty's, John has to kill a tiger with his bare hands.
It was an open, bright room lit by fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. The ground was some kind of treated cement with metal floor drains. Judging by the faded black scorch marks on the walls, the sprinkler system had been used many times before. In each corner hung a black camera suspended in a waterproof glass bubble.
John hypothesized groggily that it was shatterproof glass, too.
Blinking to clear his mind of the unpleasant, drug-induced fog, John sat up with a low grumble of discomfort. He smelled terrible. It became immediately apparent why; he wore only loose-fitting trousers (not, the doctor noted with no small measure of alarm, the original pair he had been captured in) and the trousers were soaked with blood.
For a moment, John thought he had been stabbed in the femoral artery and he let out a horrified low noise of despair. But aside from his cramping stomach and throbbing head, he was physically unharmed. No, someone had soaked the trousers with blood after dressing him. It would be too difficult to pull wet clothing onto an unconscious body.
John thought that Sherlock's deductive powers must be rubbing off on him.
He missed Sherlock.
John was shirtless in the large, chilly cement room. He could see his reflection in the wall opposite him; a floor-to-ceiling black one-way mirror. John uncurled from his crumpled position on the floor to pad on bare feet over to the mirror.
His torso was much sleeker than the bulky jumpers made him look, and the bullet scar stood out as a startling spray of twisted white tissue on his left shoulder. His army tags gleamed dully on their chain around his neck – another thing that John had not been wearing when Moriarty's thugs had come for him.
His trousers squished wetly as he moved and John hoped the blood soaking them didn't belong to a human.