Sherlock
It hurt less once my hands fell asleep. That’s one good thing. I’m trying to look on the bright side. It’s not my usual style. I wish they’d put me in a room with Watson. At least then, I could see with my own eyes that he was alright. Not like now, hands tied and hung above my head, stone cell empty and mind full of horror. They could be doing anything to him right now. It would be all my fault.
I want to burn out the last image I have of him. His black eyes slitted, telling me to go along with him. His hands bound behind him, his neck wound with iron. His knees in the dirt. All because of me. Because I brought him on another stupid errand, because I treated him like a coworker instead of a friend. I should have told him. I should have stayed.
He’d been so calm, so collected.
