SHERLOCK I, II, III & IV • #wattys2016

The French Prison

White. That was all John Watson saw surrounding him.

Black. That was all Sherlock Holmes saw surrounding him.

Both friends entered two different worlds. One in hopes to be saved, the other meant for death. Neither could escape, and even if they could, they knew trying to find one another would only increase their chances of survival. While lying on the bed, tubes and electronic devices having their way with him, all John could think about was if he would ever see Sherlock again. Did his poor friend meet his end?

“Mr. Watson, count down to ten, please,” a nurse asked as she fitted circular piece of equipment over his nose.

John felt his breathing become deep and short and his arm twitched at the feeling of an IV being inserted in the crook of his elbow. Looking around him, he saw the blurred figures of nurses in scrubs and monitors crowding his bed. He began to count, but before he could even reach, ‘three’, he was shut off from the world.

Sherlock, gowned in a charcoal gray prison suit and no shoes, was escorted down the darkened halls to his prison cell. He heard the shouting and wailing of the adjacent inmates, but they didn’t scare him. The shackles clanking around his wrists didn’t faze him at all and the warden and officers certainly didn’t threaten him. What worried the detective more than his own life was the life of his friend. He knew where he had accidently shot John had missed the heart, but it skimmed the lungs and that was enough to trouble him throughout his stay in the penitentiary.

The warden sized Sherlock up before motioning the guard to throw him into his cell. “Nice to finally see you, Mr. Mitchell,” the warden teased.

As his cuffs were being removed, Sherlock stared back at the warden coldly. He didn’t say a word, only stared at him.

Feeling uneasy, the warden addressed him in profanity and signaled the doors to be closed on him.

The guards heaved the iron door shut, closing the detective from the world. All went quiet. All went dark. The world was now on the opposite side of him, and all he had to himself was a memory reel of the many days prior to John Watson being shot. Sitting on the concrete floor, Sherlock said to himself, “Talk to yourself, Sherlock Holmes, before you go mad.” He clutched the sides of his head with his fists, and rocked back and forth slowly.

He tried to think of any possible away he could free himself, but he knew his hopes relived on his friends on the outside. He knew for sure John would get him out somehow, but he also knew Evangeline could very well be one step ahead of the doctor.

~ A week later~

When John had recovered from his surgery, for he had to have the side of his right lung replaced, he returned to Baker Street. He didn’t allow any visitors to come while he was in the hospital, for the separation from Sherlock put him in a miserable mood that he insisted that he didn’t want to affect others with. But, now that he was better and was returning to the familiar flat, he felt happier about things.

Mrs. Hudson and, to his surprise, Mycroft were the first to welcome him.

“Hello, John dear,” Mrs. Hudson greeted, kissing John lightly on both sides of the face. “I do hope you’re going to be all right.”

“Certainly,” John assured. “As long as I can breathe, that’s all I care about!” John tried to make a laugh out of the situation, but he found it rather disappointing that his chuckle ended in just one note.  

“You have a visitor,” Mycroft informed, tightening his suit with quick jerks about the collar. “Sherlock had phoned me awhile back, telling me in his distress to rescue her after Rawlings was killed.”

Stopping himself from going any further up the stairs, John turned to Mycroft. A glint of hope and anxiety settled on his face. “She?”

“Yes, Alana,” Mycroft said stiffly through his usual pinched lips.

Even though it was rude, John fled from Mycroft’s side, even though the older Holmes was still talking, and ran to the flat he and Alana had rented. He grabbed the door knob and twisted it, but finding it locked, he knocked doggedly on the door. “Alana? Alana, if you’re really there, please, open the door. It’s me—,”

The door was unlocked and it flew open by the woman John had missed terribly and longed to see since they had parted in cabin.

With tears streaking down her fair cheeks, Alana said breathlessly as she took his face into her hands, “I know your voice. I know it’s you.” She gave him a joyful smile and kissed him hard on the lips. Not breaking the kiss, she guided him inside and John kicked the door shut behind them.

“I missed you,” John said through their kisses. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I wouldn’t have let that happen. I stayed with Rawlings, and only a matter of time, he was killed. I managed to escape out the back and take his car. I knew Mycroft could help me since he’s part of the British government and all. I guess the Russians—or Americans—didn’t think I was that important to follow!”

Looking at her with the possession of a deprived husband, John said in lowered voice, “Stop talking and kiss me again.”

Laughing, Alana threw her arms around his neck and pulled him close. Her hands went straight to his clothing and she began undressing him.

“Careful,” John warned, reminding her of the surgery that had been performed.

Smiling softly, she kissed the area and whispered in his ear, “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.” She slipped off his shirt and the two sunk to the floor where they spent the next long hours in each other’s arms.

When the evening hours came upon the two united lovers, John snuggled up beside Alana and embraced her heartily. “What should we do now?”

Sighing, Alana turned her face to John and traced the side of his face with her finger. “Well, we shouldn’t lie here on the floor, someone might come in.”

“The door’s locked.”

“How thoughtful of you. Actually, what I think we should do is figure out a way to rescue your friend, Sherlock. But I don’t know how.”

John let out a frustrated sigh and turned over onto his back. Pulling the quilt they had nabbed from their bed about his neck, John thought. “I know Sherlock had told me that Rawlings had mentioned someone called ‘The Axis.’ Perhaps I can talk to Mycroft and see if he has ears in that area. Or, Lestrade. Bloody, I haven’t talked to Lestrade yet. Wonder if he knows he put the real Sherlock Holmes in prison.”

Propping herself onto her elbow, Alana gazed at John. “You should see if they’d let you do a ‘conjugal visit.’”

“A what?” John repeated with a scoff.

“You know, a visit from a loved one or spouse. I mean, it’s a bit risky on your reputation, and I know how you feel about it. But saying you’re a friend won’t let you inside a French Prison.”

John placed a hand over his eyes. “Alana, I am not going to pretend I’m Sherlock’s partner in that manner. Maybe you should go? No, no, I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

“Listen, I know it’s taking a risk, and they may not let you know, especially with all this security nonsense and all, but if you can, you can get information on whoever Sherlock was spending his time with while you two were separated.”

“And what do you think that information would serve?” John asked.

“Well, maybe, whoever put Sherlock in prison can get him out? It’ll be worth the try.”

Smiling, John sat up and rested his forehead against hers. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Don’t worry, darling, you’ve got Mycroft.” The two broke out in giggles, which ended in another kiss.

“I’ll see what I can do, love,” John promised. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock’s already found a way out before we even start our master plan.”