'Greg' [Sherlock Drabble]

Part 2

Naval soldiers perhaps? The thought seemed puerile. They had to be military-- that much he had deduced from the moment they scrambled into the room. Soldiers, not officers. Each had the posture of a man who once served though now there was a slight roundness to their shoulders, as though they carried a great weight. It had been a while since any of them had served. A disbanded gang of traitors?Neither solution was very likely, though one thing was overly obvious. The American wasn't their usual leader. The way the Germans eyed him and hesitated to carry out orders confirmed his suspicions. Especially the way they behaved at the hospital. Uncertain and disordered; it seemed they did not trust this American. 

"Mr. Holmes," he said, his accent slipping into a slight drawl. He came to a halt directly before him. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, though remained silent. He would have to play this carefully.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man repeated. "The infamous Consulting Detective, is that what they call you?" His taunting voice rang off the walls, recoiling like an echo. "Look at you sitting there like you own the world. They say you’re downright brilliant, but you know what I think?"

"Contrary to popular belief, I cannot actually read minds."

The American's brows knitted together dangerously and Sherlock instantly regretted his retort. Fierce anger lurked beneath the man's features though his lips curled in a lopsided grin. His expression reminded Sherlock of a cat; lazy and arrogant. 

"He's got a mouth, this one does." The American laughed then, a cold sound. The Germans followed his example, emitting nervous chuckles of their own. Sherlock forced himself to maintain an indifferent expression.

His interrogator leaned forward, bracing himself on the arms of the chair Sherlock to which he was bound. It was only then that Sherlock caught a full glimpse of his face. In the weak rays of the rising sun, the rough features of the man's face were thrown in deep shadows. His eyes seemed to shrink into his head, the dark rings under them forcing a skull-like appearance. Like two lifeless orbs they steadily challenged his own gaze. His jaw was firm yet almost too prominent and his nose positioned at an unnatural angle, as though it had once been broken. Strangest of all was the large scar that ragged the side of his cheek and trailed down his neck. His posture wasn't like that of the Germans. He was definitely not one of those who served in the military, though the way he held himself proved he was not a man who was used to having his authority challenged. He was a puzzle, Sherlock decided. He would eventually piece together this man's identity, he just needed more information. 

 "Where I come from, you're taught to hold your tongue."

Not once had Sherlock's face twitched even the slightest, though now his attention snapped back to reality at the man's words. A thousand quips flew through his mind though he knew to hold his silence. If he wanted to get out of here alive, he had to play along.

"I wouldn't want to damage that pretty face of yours, but don't think that I will hesitate to beat the living shit--"

There was a tumble of commotion from near the door.  

"Chief, we 'ave reports!" Another of the Germans tripped into the room, panting slightly. His cheeks burned red as if he had been outside in the cold. For the briefest moment Sherlock noticed a flash of irritation cross the American's features as he turned away.

"Give it here," he said. The Chief snatched the folder out of the man's hands before the German could respond, his eyes grazing the paper. Sherlock craned his neck though any glean he could have gained was lost as the Chief suddenly slammed the papers shut and hurled it at the ground.

“You fucking idiot,” he snarled. “How do you expect me to read a report that’s written in German?”

The German appeared taken aback. He stuttered an apology before retreating back a few paces. “But I didn’t—“

“I don’t give a damn who wrote the blasted thing just get out of my sight or I swear I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”  

“Yes Sir,” came the quick reply. He bent his neck stiffly and backed out of the room. The rest of the Germans shuffled nervously, throwing uneasy glances in their leader’s direction. The Chief himself stood silently his shoulders tensed in fury. This man was quick to anger and had the temper of an Italian housewife. Sherlock would need to tread carefully from this point on. Especially since the man was now brandishing a gun and curing colorfully. 

Sherlock watched him, unwavering. The Chief turned on the spot, his strangely hollow gaze as piercing as a knife. The Germans stood absolutely still as his eyes swept over them.

There was a lengthy pause before the Chief seemed to realize Sherlock was still in the room. Suddenly he bellowed a command and the Germans leapt to obey.

“OUT!” He roared “All of you, OUT!”  Every man scrambled in haste to escape his sight. Sherlock kept his eyes trained on the Chief and the handgun held in his shaking hand. He felt his heart pounding in his chest though he let nothing show on his face. Fear threatened to creep up his throat. It was only himself and the Chief now.

It was a moment for the man spoke and when he did, his voice was soft. Somehow it seemed more threatening than when he shouted.

“Here’s how this is going to go.” He hissed, walking briskly towards him. Sherlock fought the instinctive desire to recoil away from the man.

“I’m gonna ask you once and you better give me a straight answer.” Sherlock neither nodded nor showed any inclination that what he heard what the Chief had said.

“Why were you at the hospital?”

Sherlock remained stubbornly silent.

A dry laugh bubbled in the Chief’s throat. He seized a fistful of Sherlock’s hair and jerked his head back, the barrel of the gun coming to rest just below his chin. His voice came out in a low hiss. “I said, why were you at the hospital?”

“Where are we?” Sherlock’s voice held a tinge of anger and he quickly worked to school his ire.

“What?”

“Where are we,” Sherlock repeated this time his voice was devoid of emotion.

The gun was lowered from beneath his chin. Suddenly there was a stinging pain in his cheek as the grip panel of the pistol connected with his skin.

“I ask the questions around here buddy,” the Chief sneered. “Now for the last time what were you looking for?”

“I am looking for nothing. Where are we?”

Sherlock earned himself another few blows. Warm blood now trickled down the side of his face though he managed a smirk through the pain. The Chief was almost at the breaking point.

“How the fuck did you find us?” The man’s spittle speckled his nose. His face was mere inches from Sherlock’s. 

“Where are we?” 

“Fuck you.” The Chief snagged Sherlock’s hair, this time drawing a knife from his pocket.

“Where are we?”

Sherlock felt the world spin as the man’s knee came up to meet his skull. “You. Pretentious. Little. Shit.” Each word was accompanied by a clip to his jaw. Sherlock’s ears were ringing and it was hard to make out what the Chief was saying. He may have even blacked out for a moment for when he came to, the Chief was shouting how no one would ever find his corpse and how he would suffer greatly. Against his will, Sherlock’s lids began to drift close.