He sensed things in shards and splinters. Bright lights, concentrated points of pain—blossoming quickly, the work of a professional—and fragments of words.

A language, if he focused. (German? Dutch?)

(Dutch, definitely. If only he could figure out what each voice was saying.)

"Tell us how you found us."

Ah, English. Finally.

More pain, straight down his arms, but he could feel no blood trickling down. Branches of pain, waves, lightning strikes.

(Poetic. Not the moment for it.)

"Mr. Holmes, you will tell us how you found this organization."

Sherlock would almost be glad to tell him—it was not as if it was tremendously difficult. Secret, expensive, illegal weapon manufacturing in Amsterdam, yet they'd left an extensive paper trail. But the ripping sensations made that a bit difficult.

He forced his eyes open against the blinding white and leveled his gaze against the speaker. It was a tall man, gruff voice, trimmed blond mustache (not unlike John's a few months ago), huge muscles—compensating for small reproductive organs, if his stance said anything about it. "I found you," he spit out, grinding his teeth against the shock he was prepared to receive, "because you were so bloody half-witted."

He instantly shut his eyes again, back to blackness illuminated only by the revelation that he was connected to some simple sort of shock machine. Chilean in origin—a picana. High voltage, low current. He groaned and pulled uselessly against the restraints, trying to shy away from the shock that was already swimming through him.

"We will kill you, Mr. Holmes. Make no mistake. You and your friend—you've stumbled upon something you were never meant to see."

Sherlock groaned again, refusing to make any noise that could be classified as pitiful, and forced his head to the right. Words, lights, pain—and John.

John—valiant, brave to the last—was biting his lip to the point of bleeding and sweating bullets, but not once had he made a sound. No, not stalwart and strong Captain John Hamish Watson. Sherlock couldn't imagine him screaming for a moment.

John kept his eyes on the ceiling, focused on some innocuous tile or light fixture instead of the professional torturer who kept the picana inches away from his forearm. The hairs on John's arm prickled and stood on end with the proximity of electricity.

"It was a mistake," Sherlock growled. "It was a simple mistake. We didn't realize what this was."

"We find that very hard to believe. A consulting detective and his famous friend, just happening to come across us? No, we think you were sent."

"No!" he gasped. "No, I was just—curious! I followed a few urban legends, I did all my own research—I wasn't sent by anyone."

The picana hit him again, this time on the right side of his collarbone, and he swallowed hard to keep the howl inside his throat. The effort made him buck and thrash against the table until he went still, gasping like a fish for air.

"It was just a fucking mistake! Don't you see that, can't you see?! We don't mean any harm," John insisted, voice cracking even as he tried to sound solemn and menacing. "We won't tell anyone what's here, we won't—"

Sherlock heard the buzz of the picana again and John's grunt of pain, evidence of his slipping control. "Stop it," he whispered. "Stop—STOP!" And even though he knew that he was giving up his ace, his weakness, he couldn't help himself from saying what he said next. "Me, kill me! Tortureme! It was me, I was the one who found it all, I was sent—John Watson has nothing to do with this!"

His own torturer prepared the picana again, and he screamed. "He doesn't know anything! Check his file, check any bloody file you have! John is not the detective, he is a normal, ordinary man—he has a wife—he's a doctor—please…"

The buzzing stopped, and Sherlock held his breath. Revealing his hand—stupid, rookie mistake. But he'd made a lot of mistakes today, and at least he'd made this one before.

Die before someone kills John. That is the pattern, Sherlock thought wryly, before glancing over to John. The light of the room bounced off John's silvery blond hair and the moisture in his eyes.

Oh, John. What did I let them do to you?

John looked over to Sherlock, expression betraying nothing, while the tall man laughed. "You've shown your hand there, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock didn't look at him. "Release him," he urged. And John just closed his eyes, eyebrows furrowed tightly, as if the mere idea that Sherlock wanted him alive had already killed them both.