Sherlock has always disliked social events, even less the formal ones.

Pfff...

There were people.

Superficial and snobbish small talk.

Fake smiles.

Boring!

No, Sherlock has never particularly sought any kind of association, not even as a child.

Why would he? "Holmes the Freak" had no friends, so where would he go if no one invited him?

And when he did attend a social gathering—purely out of obligation, of course—he had to put up with bland small talk and tedious anecdotes. If only someone would talk about anything intriguing! Chemical experiments could make an excellent topic for conversation, for example. Or the decomposition of the human body...

He had no right to complain this time. After all, it's a worldwide known fact that the dead don't speak...

Yes, Sherlock Holmes has just attended his own funeral. Not that he would be participating in person—that would probably cause quite a stir.

Hidden behind a group of bushes, keeping his distance, he was watching the rather large crowd that had come to honour his memory and bid him a final farewell. He had to admit that it's been a strange feeling to see a bunch of people carrying a coffin with a dead body so similar to his that you could only tell the difference if you placed them side by side.

Molly Hooper had done an outstanding job. She must have done so since no one could find out that the deceased they were about to bury wasn't the real famous Consulting Detective, Sherlock Holmes.

It astounded him how many "survivors" attended this event, though.

Sherlock never expected so many people to gather to pay their respects to his memory. He didn't know, or only vaguely recognised, the majority of the crowd, and... wait, wasn't that the prime minister?

And who exactly was the current prime minister?

Well, he supposed it didn't really matter. The detective has never cared about popularity or fame. He's never wanted people to worship him and sing the praises of his brilliance.

Sherlock glanced around, looking for familiar faces.

He spotted Mycroft representing their parents, who were, frankly speaking, terrible actors, particularly his mother. Sherlock had no idea where he inherited his acting talent, but it certainly wasn't from his mother's side...

Mrs Hudson kept blowing her nose and patting her teary eyes with a handkerchief.

Molly Hooper was standing next to the dishevelled and dejected inspector Lestrade, massaging his shoulder with a feigned expression of sorrow. Even Henry Knight has come to say his final farewell. To his great annoyance, he recognised Sebastian Wilkes, who had most likely come to entertain the bereaved with stories about what a freak Sherlock has always been and how much they've all despised him...

And was that Sally Donovan? Sherlock was surprised to see her make an effort to appear guilty, as she should have, given her role in this event.

Sherlock looked around again, yet still couldn't find the most important person. He scanned the crowd like a restless hawk, looking for a short man with a square face and sandy blond hair.

Why hadn't he shown up? Had Sherlock enraged him so much that morning that he could no longer see the better side of him? He didn't mean it when he snapped at him that Mrs Hudson was "only his housekeeper"; he was merely using her as a distraction to keep John away from the hospital. John had to know this, right?

Sherlock sighed and walked to the nearest exit, his shoulders slumping.

For the last time, his gaze drifted towards the black stone with his name, date of birth, and the day of his "suicide."

And there he was.

There, distant from the crowd, right at the grave where Sherlock's double was buried, stood the man Sherlock had been seeking since he arrived at the graveyard.

John Watson looked—well, he couldn't think of another word—horrible. If it wasn't "Sherlock's" funeral, someone might even think they had prepared it for John, who looked like a living corpse. The pale shade of his skin suggested that John hadn't left the flat since Sherlock's 'death,' and judging by his sunken, haunted eyes, he hadn't slept much either.

Sherlock had to turn away for a second as remorse swept over him like a raging tsunami.

He hadn't anticipated John's reaction. After all, it was John who had always been fussing about his flatmate's habits, telling him how difficult it was to live with him!

John had been complaining about Sherlock's lack of help with the household chores.

And yet, he'd been keeping an eye on him, ensuring he ate, drank, and slept.

Wasn't he delighted to get free of all the revolting experiments Sherlock kept in the fridge? Of everlasting chaos? Of insults and sarcastic remarks? Of that dead owl Sherlock had found and stashed beneath John's bed? Or could it be that he still missed the cheeky, annoying, and antisocial detective?

Because Sherlock already missed John like hell, and he hadn't even left London yet. He had a challenging mission to undertake before he could meet him again.

When he realised he wouldn't see him for months if not years, his chest clenched with a weird chilly feeling. And what will John do once he discovers the truth? Will he take him back? What if he moves on and realises he no longer wants him in his life? The mere thought of such a possibility tightened the thick knot in his stomach even more.

He determined not to give in to his curiosity because the prospect of John rejecting him made him feel sick. He focused his attention on his closest and only friend once more.

The scene in front of his eyes pulled the rug from under his feet.

John was kneeling in front of the tombstone with his palm over his face, and his shoulders were slightly shaking. Was he crying? Or was he just trembling that badly?

Was that even genuine? John didn't generally express his feelings; perhaps he just did so because it was expected of him at the funeral? But why would he make a play if no one was looking?

Oh...

So John wasn't acting at all.

Christ...

He did this. He never wanted to hurt John, but he did it nonetheless! All Sherlock wanted to do was protect John from those who meant to harm him, yet he was the one who caused him such psychological damage.

If only he could step out of the shadow, walk over to John's hunched figure, and kneel behind him.

At first, John would have no idea who approached him, but it would take a single inhale to smell Sherlock's cologne, and John would know. He would turn around in surprise, but before he could let out a startled scream, Sherlock would pull him close, wrap his arms around his waist, and tell him over and over that everything would be okay.

But Sherlock knew that if he did so, he wouldn't be able to leave.

Looking at his grief-stricken doctor, he could only imagine the warmth of John's embrace, the whiff of John's breath against his skin -

Suddenly, something cold and sharp jabbed into his neck.

Sherlock froze.

Oh no!

What was he going to do now?

He couldn't shout; that would only draw attention, and his entire plan would fail, putting all of his friends in danger!

So Sherlock did the only thing he could think of. He elbowed him in the nose and took off, running from the muffled screams and quiet but no less obscene curses that echoed behind him.

Unfortunately, he hadn't even run ten metres before dragging his legs behind him like they were made of lead. Nonetheless, Sherlock refused to succumb to the spreading numbness, breaking into a sluggish gallop, then a slower walk, and finally an unsteady stumble.

Oh God, what have they done to him? His vision was becoming hazy. His knees did not appear to be working correctly, as they buckled with each step before dumping him to the ground. Sherlock struggled to crawl away, grabbing every last ounce of his strength.

All of a sudden, he received a blunt blow to the back of his head, most likely with a shoe.

Sherlock groaned, a soft "John" escaping his lips almost spontaneously, and then he lost contact with the world.

»»──────　★　──────««

Silence.

Nothingness.

Pain.

He was aware he was lying on his stomach. On something hard. And cold. Very cold...

The coldness of the floor was seeping through the thin fabric of his clothing, spreading into his body. He must have been lying here for several hours (or maybe days???) because he could barely feel his fingers and joints.

Perhaps he had been better off unconscious, he reasoned. Had he known how many unpleasant sensations awaited him, along with a cruel migraine, he wouldn't have been in any hurry to wake up.

He opened his eyes, narrowing them instinctively to shield his vision from the light so as not to aggravate his throbbing headache.

To his surprise, he found out he didn't need to squint since there was nothing around him. Absolutely nothing. No windows, lights, or lamps—not even a hint of receding darkness.

Just coal-black darkness.

Sherlock's stomach clenched. What the...?!

His eyes widened, regardless of the pain, and he blinked several times in the hope he would finally understand where he was.

It was no use; he still saw nothing but the same intense tone of black. A shiver ran down his spine. This time, it wasn't only because of the cold.

What was going on here? Where was he? And how come he can't see anything? Was there something covering his eyes? Or was it just the darkness?

He raised his hand to trace his fingers over his face when he realised he couldn't, and it wasn't just because of his stiff elbows.

Something rough dug into his skin, and it was only now that his numb mind noticed a linen rope binding his hands behind his back. He experimentally jerked his left leg—the muscles in his calf clenched, but he didn't move an inch. The very same rope, wrapped around his ankles, had prevented him from doing so.

Quite unnecessarily, he clenched his muscles and attempted to extricate himself. Still, as he suspected, it was pointless, except for scratching his wrists and legs. He grunted in frustration, his first sound since waking up.

The only response he received was his own moan, which bounced off something and returned to him in the form of an echo. Judging by the acoustics, he was lying in a small room with massive walls that soundproofed the room from the outside.

All he could hear was his breath accelerating as everything began to make sense to him.

He sighed as he rested his brow on the cold floor. His temples were throbbing, and it seemed his skull might explode at any moment. Despite the agony coursing through his entire face, he compelled his most trusted instrument, his brain, to comply.

The last thing he remembered was attending his funeral and the sudden stab in the neck. Then his memories got cloudy. In retrospect, though, he didn't need to recall a plethora of details to know that he had been kidnapped. All he had to do now was figure out where and why they had taken him.

Now for the facts.

He was lying in a cramped room with no windows or lighting. With his hands bound behind his back, he could hardly move, let alone get up and walk away. He couldn't even see the tip of his own nose, and worse, he had no idea where he was or how he got here. He might be anywhere—in one of London's cellars, tunnels, or passageways, but also in another city or even on the other side of the world.

But why did they abduct him there and then? At a public event such as a funeral? In broad daylight?

Ah, stupid, stupid! It was obvious!

They knew where to look for him. That suggested someone skilled in surveillance and monitoring technologies had sent them. Someone who—oh, of course...

"Really funny, Mycroft. Ha, ha, ha... If this is your way of saying, 'You're reckless, Sherlock,' there's no need to waste your breath. I've got it... Or will you have me drugged and tied up every time I do something you don't particularly like?"

There was a long, drawn-out pause, and Sherlock felt uneasy that he had made a colossal mistake.

And suddenly...

"I guess you won't be laughing after we're done with you today..." a voice from the door said, and Sherlock paled.

Not Mycroft, then...

»»──────　★　──────««

Air.

He was running out of air.

His lungs were asking for air, demanding just a little breath, begging to be allowed to expand and draw in a life-giving gulp. His brain, on the other hand, was adamantly opposed, his cold logic reminding him that he couldn't breathe.

And the firm hand that seized the back of Sherlock's neck was reminding him of that as well, as it held his head submerged in a bucket of water. The chilly liquid was biting his cheeks and forcefully creeping into his nose and ears.

His head was throbbing painfully, and the denial of breathing only worsened each throb. He was afraid that his skull would explode if this torture didn't stop soon.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, half a minute...

Another lash landed on his back, the swift whip leaving a hot, red line on Sherlock's pale skin. A sharp impulse shot through his body, and Sherlock jerked, his fingers gripping the edges of the bucket so tightly they turned white. He squeezed his lips together so they wouldn't accidentally open and deplete his iron supply of breath.

Instead of counting the whips and welts and wallowing in his misery, he kept track of how long he had been underwater.

Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, for-

Smack.

The leather belt whipped him across his nape, and Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He gasped, inhaling a massive gulp from the bucket, and knew he was screwed.

Dozens of bubbles swirled around his head and floated to the surface, along with the last dose of Sherlock's breath. The cold liquid rushed into his nose and throat, irritating his sensitive mucous membranes and forcing him to cough.

Sherlock squirmed, trying not to think about how desperately he wanted to expel the water from his windpipe.

Resisting the temptation, however, became increasingly difficult with the burning sensation in his throat. His chest hurt from the lack of air, and his brain was screaming at him to stop holding his breath, reminding him he couldn't take this much longer! And Sherlock realised with horror that it was right.

They were going to drown him!

A wave of horror swept over him, and at that moment, he understood how powerful the fear could be. Using the power he didn't even realise he still possessed, Sherlock braced himself on his hands and emerged his head out of the water.

The nimble leather and metal buckle smacked him between his bare shoulder blades as soon as he straightened up, but Sherlock didn't care. With an overwhelming sense of delight, he gulped in as much oxygen as possible.

Water was dripping down his curly hair, drenching his burned back. He wasn't sure if it relieved the pain or not. The drips did soothe his punished skin, but the weals practically flared up at the merest lick of the water rivulet.

Sherlock let go of the bucket and dropped on all fours, arching his back like an irritated cat in a fit of frantic coughing. His abdominal muscles were contracting uncontrollably, and his lungs felt like they were about to burst.

"For the love of God, keep him quiet! I'm not going to listen to that!" yelled one of the men.

Before Sherlock could react, something slammed him hard in the back of the skull. He couldn't see what it was, but he assumed it was the one with the massive boots.

Staggering, he tumbled to the ground, half-stunned, half-conscious. He didn't make a sound, although everything hurt like pins in the flesh.

As he lay on the chilly floor, listening to the idiots' bickering, a plan developed in his head.

He's gotten himself into a mess... but these guys believed he was unconscious, right? Maybe things didn't look that horrible after all...

AN:

I apologise, the flashbacks will be a bit cruel with some violence in them. There will be more chapters describing Sherlock's days in Appledore. You can skip them if you find the topic too delicate.

Have a fantastic day,

PaulineHolmes02🖤