I was being dragged across a gloomy corridor. The tibias of my feet earned burning scratches from the rugged surface of the floor. My upper region was bare, covered in excruciating scars that travelled from my collarbone down to the V line of my torso. My acoustic perception may have been helpful, but in those very moments, when I felt like my throat was being suffocated by piles of cat hair, I wished I was deaf.

I heard everything. From the thump of those men's army boots, to the hum of the light bulbs that intermittently flickered; from the irritating cough of a heavy smoker – one of the acolytes – to the subtle moans of terror coming from another dimly lit corridor.

I have not expected to end up in the dungeons of MI6. I always imagined myself to suffer because of Mafia leaders, independent criminals, or envious citizens. But at the same time, due to my almost fetishist tendency towards conspiracy theories, I was somehow certain that my mouth would eventually be sealed by authorities.

Authorities was a general term. I could have said MI6, Government, Parties, Kremlin, KGB (I may have upset Russians as well) and so on. Truthfully, they all fit a stereotype – that of lies, cover-ups, unorthodox customs, torture and practically every abhorrent aspect anyone could ever think of.

I was beginning to feel integrated into a human gathering, due to Rhea's effort and Mycroft's insistence. But as I was carelessly walking towards my next course – which, of course, included Rhea's presence – I found myself welcomed by three casually dressed (imagine the irony) men subtly pointing out the barrel of their guns. I might have fought, but those conmen were sly: they were aware of my lack of reaction when it came to public spaces. Attracting attention was never my forte, and news such as "Sherlock was kidnapped in front of Oxford University" would have ruined my brother's reputation. As much as I despised Mycroft's character, I was unable to inflict such dreadful consequences on him.

Therefore, I was politely directed towards a typical car. I adopted a submissive attitude, because even the most non-conformist man would have realized that unnerving dodgy individuals' patience was suicidal.

I was blindfolded and bruised so many times that before I fell unconscious, I lost track of both time and number of blows. When I eventually compiled the strength to wake up and face whatever bloody settlement I was in, I was welcomed by yet another kick. People may have assumed during the many years I have spent solving cases that I was immune to hits. They were right. But when an unshaved, herculean man picked up a Gerber Mark II knife and thrusted it in my right abdominals, that legend of my immunity crumbled to pieces.

I bit my lower lip to prevent any scream of pain from escaping my mouth. Due to the immense shock that voyaged through my body like a bloody SR-71 Blackbird, blood sprang from my mouth down to my pectorals. Internally, I cursed like the ultimate sinner.

The unshaved men kept on thrusting the knife over and over again until I released a final groan of agony. At the sound of my own affliction, three more men added themselves to the blissful scenery, revealing their beer-stained teeth in a simper of mockery.

"Sherlock Holmes isn't that bulgy as he want believe. Guess your mind won't help."

I refrained myself from correcting that tosser's grammar and focused on the only person that may have substituted a genuine pain-killer. Rhea. I have recounted the four moles on her right arm, those beautiful stretch marks on her upper thigh, and the two dimples of her mouth. I have re-envisioned the indistinct specks of gold that tainted her green orbs, the chiseled texture of her plump lips and their exquisite taste that still lingered in my mouth like the finest Mousse au Chocolat.

I needed to grasp her image in order to survive. I had so many things to teach her, so many unearthed territories to share with her. I could not leave that world just yet. I inhaled deeply, aspiring air with the meticulous care of a surgeon.

"What do you want from me?" I asked to no one in particular, my vocal chords burning from the pressure of my question.

My torturer approached me, cleaning the knife with the hem of his shirt. It was a miracle how none of his clothing items were splattered with blood, while I was standing there like a bloody Santa Claus.

"I wants to make suffer you."

"Of, for Pete's sake, how could MI6 fail to teach you proper grammar? It is <<I want to make you suffer>>, you ignorant maleficent pig!" I responded, feeling a tad dizzy because of the effort to speak.

That man quirked his eyebrows. He probably did not know the meaning of maleficent, which made me wonder if he was indeed a pawn of MI6. I had met several agents. They may have lacked the charisma of the renowned James Bond, but they definitely made good use of school courses on decent vocabulary.

"What makes you think we are from MI6? Boss hates it too."

"Well, then, enlighten me, please." I spit the words like venom.

"I can't do that. Boss forbids."

He raised his hand to scratch his stubble and I noticed a suggestive tattoo on his left wrist. I narrowed my eyes to picture the meaning better. All I could distinguish was a queer sequence of words.

Raja Mosey Trim.

I had a peculiarly-vast memory and that name did not ring a bell. Of course, it may have whisked a few bells, but my current state hindered my focus.

I was about to close my eyes when an altered voice echoed across the room. I despised modified sounds with all my heart. They played with my nerves like a bloody violin.

"Mr. Holmes, how fortunate of you to meet my fellow puppies. They are manly, aren't they?"

The voice was most likely lowered with a few octaves, but the frequency was still questionable.

"Although I am inclined to disclose my identity, I shall not. It is way too bloody intriguing to play games with you."

At least he is British.

"I need some information about your involvement with MI6."

MI6 again. Why would I fix a deal with an authority to which I expressed such a devoted hatred?

"Anything in particular?" I asked, a superior smirk curving my lips. I could not figure his – or her – game, but I might have played it nevertheless.

"June 2004. The 21st day of the month, to be precise. You delivered a file to MI6, containing data on Connor Aiden. I need that file."

"I am terribly sorry to inform you, but that file is already at the MI6 headquarters. Shall I break in just to hand it over to you?"

My question was more than rhetorical, that unidentified entity's laugh indicating that my mockery was intercepted.

"You have an outstanding memory, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You know its content by heart. Would you be so kind so as to spill it out?"

I scoffed and then cursed, a wave of pain locating itself in my lower region. The limited perimeter around myself was covered in blood, as if an inexperienced person dropped a bottle of crimson wine on the floor. I had no idea how I still managed to make comparisons during those moments of pure torment.

Giving information did not guarantee my safety. I was almost certainly positive that I would be killed the second I disclosed the contents of that file. Indeed, it was the most important file I have ever delivered. Some may wonder why I sent it to the very authority that I despised. Well, I breached into MI6's database and they confessed their grievance in three words. Law of retaliation. I stole information from them, they had to recover another information from me. Eye for an eye, as the folk voice would say.

Connor Aiden was just a minor element of a much larger scenery. It was exactly like a sequence of roots. The whole web of lies was a tree, a bronchial arbor, a circulatory system, whatever one may choose to call it. It started from a single leaf, a bronchus, or a vein – the primary individual that fixed the rules of the game. He or she gathered pawns to perform his or her dirty deeds. The line of vile descendants was so extensive that even the most performant algorithm would have failed to combine the smallest roots into their rightful origins.

Connor Aiden was a leaf, one insignificant leaf with the role of a scapegoat. He was imprisoned for God knows how many years – probably until the day he dies – and the original cell was never found. I had a hunch, but it was pointless unless I sustained it with radical proof. That proof was the most stereotypical, yet valid needle in a haystack. Twelve years have passed and no clue was added. I felt like a complete failure because of my incapacity to find evidence. I chased a ghost, which was all I managed to utter for the past 4380 days.

"I have nothing to say, dear bloke. You can torture me as long as your heart desires, but my mouth shall remain closed."

"Fine. Be careful, Mr. Holmes. Some statements may become true."

I heard a beep that indicated the end of the transmission.

"I always fancied sewing clothes. I don't see how a mouth can be any different." The unshaved man affirmed, putting a rubber thread in a needle.

Did he intend to stitch my mouth? Bloody hell. I needed to use my gift in order to disarm him. My gaze shifted from one inch of his body to the opposite one. I had to figure out vulnerabilities for using them against him may have been my last resort.

"Hold on a minute, fine gentleman. Can you render me a few moments of random talking before I shall speak no more?" I inquired, anxious to see if my plan worked.

He nodded. A simple movement, yet it meant everything to me.

"You have scars on your left wrist. That tattoo, Raja Mosey Trim, covers them. They are clean, regular, symmetrical cuts, probably made by a razor-blade. Did you self-harm?"

He flinched.

"I suppose you did. Given the degree of fading, I shall assume that it happened during your puberty. High-school years, maybe?"

He gritted his teeth.

"You have an inborn disfigurement of your face, which might have attracted a lot of mockery. You were most likely bullied. A lot. Your father considered you a disgrace. I know how a paternal figure can be. Always demanding, always expecting perfection. But you were not perfect. You were faulty, the machinery failed in your case. Your father lived with a monster under his roof."

He clenched his fists.

"He disowned you, didn't he? Awful parent, so to speak. You lost your purity of heart after that. You ended up drinking, randomly fucking and playing with guns. You had to recover your manhood, for your father had crushed it. You had nightmares. Every. Single. Night."

He squeezed his eyes shut. I was so close to demolishing his guard.

"And you..."

"Shut up!" He screamed, throwing himself over my frame, holding the needle close to my carotid. His hand was quivering. A steady tremor, a sign of weakness.

"... you just needed a little love."

He broke down. He dropped the needle, took a few steps back and pressed his trapeze muscles to the cold surface of the wall. His knees failed to sustain him. He collapsed, pushing his kneecaps to his chest.

I almost felt sorry for using his trauma against him. A few tears lingered on his cheeks, multiplying rapidly. He brushed his hand in his hair and stood up, punching the wall behind him. A deep, crater-like space was left in that spot. He left the room, almost breaking the door handle.

I was alone. Probably there were cameras following my every move, but at least I had some advantage. Then again, I was in serious disfavour. I was bruised to the point where not even a fictional time machine could have pointed out my original appearance. However, I needed to pull myself together.

I was tied with a double constrictor knot. Fortunately, I knew how to untie it, given that I had a peculiar satisfaction to prank my overly stupid colleagues in childhood. In a matter of second – alright, it may have been an entire minute – I succeeded.

I stood up and almost subsided due to the exaggerated use of knife. I somehow managed to balance myself and left the room. Those corridors were bloody Daedalus Labyrinths. I turned a few times, each turn earning muffled groans, until I reached a new door. That one was different. It had another structure and colour, which meant that it was majorly relevant to my escape. However, when that door opened, I realized that is was not my salvation, but an unfeigned Pandora Box.

He was there, standing in front of me, a malevolent smile playing on his chipped lips. I then discerned what Raja Mosey Trim meant.

"Hannibal ad portas." He uttered.

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"Hannibal at the gates."