Organised Chaos - Sherlock x Reader

XCVII • 97

Your POV:

He didn't cry out, but the sharp intake of breath as his body registered what had happened and his eyes squeezed shut in pain were worse than the loudest scream, you were sure. He groaned as she pulled the knife back out, and found himself incapable of fulfilling his instinct to grip the wound. You could see the blood spreading around the tear in the leg of his trousers.
"Oh! I have an even better idea!" She smiled cruelly as she unbuttoned his shirt, then used the knife to tear through the fabric so she could remove it entirely without untying him.
Dread washed over you as she exposed all of his scars. He too swallowed hard, catching on to her thought process.
"I told you I've been watching you."

Sherlock's POV:

"How about here?" I clenched my jaw as she traced the scar on my arm from when I'd defended the school boy.
"Or here?" She prodded the nasty scar that Sebastian had gifted me.
She shoved me forward looking at all my scars from Germany. "Oh there's a gold mine back here." She said. I winced as I felt the prick of the knife tracing the long marks that the whip had left.
I looked to you, blinking in a series of dots and dashes. You'd told me once that you'd learned Morse code in high school, just for fun. Now I was desperately hoping you remembered it.

Your POV:

You were terrified for him, knowing that his wounds still hurt. You looked him in the eyes, seeing the fear in them, despite the fact that he was trying hard to stay calm. Only then did you notice his odd blinking pattern, and it only took you a moment to recognise the code. You wracked your brain, trying to remember how it worked.

- -   • • -   - -

M. You recognised an M. No, two M's. There was one letter between, and you tried so hard to remember... U. It was a U. Your eyes widened as you realised what he was telling you.
You began blinking back, hoping you were remembering the letters correctly.

- -   - • - -   - -   • • -   - -   • • - - • •

You tried not to hyperventilate as you asked this question. "My mum?"
He nodded once, a grave expression on his face.
You were thanking God that your captor didn't seem to notice. You watched helplessly as she picked a spot on his back and evidently began cutting him. The pain on his face was almost enough to make you cry. He involuntarily let out something like a whimper and she grinned. "Done being strong, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock's POV:

This question only gave me resolve, and I grit my teeth as I waited for the sting of the blade reopening my old wounds. My leg was bleeding a lot and I was beginning to feel faint, but I fought against the urge to black out. I couldn't let her hurt you, too.
She went around to my front again and pushed my back up against the chair. I tried not to wince.
"This is a nice one." She murmured, returning to the bullet scar.
"I should stab it." She spoke almost to herself, then I felt the knife sink into the same spot the bullet had just a few weeks earlier.
This time, I couldn't hold back the cry of pain. Leaning forward was involuntary, but this only made it worse. I squeezed my eyes shut as she pulled the knife back out and I felt the warmth of blood running down my side.
You struggled against your bonds, tears streaming down your face. "Mum! Stop!" You cried out.
Your mother spun around, the knife clattering to the ground. She walked over to you, her demeanour completely changed. She took your terrified face in both her hands, seemingly unaware of the blood that covered them.
"(F/N)." She whispered.
You swallowed hard. "Mum, what're you doing? Why are you hurting Sherlock?"
"Hurting? I didn't hurt anyone."

My brain was fuzzy and I knew I was beginning to black out, but I could still figure out what was going on. This was the photographer by the river. The completely innocent mother. This was a different person. It was her alter ego who was set on killing me. I'd never seen such a severe case of dissociative identity disorder. This was my last thought before I slipped into unconsciousness.

Your POV:

"Yes you did. Look at your hands mum."
She did and her face immediately filled with horror. "I didn't- I didn't do this."
"You can help, mum. You can fix it."
"I can?" She looked at you with despair.
"Yes. Untie me and I can help you fix it." You hoped this would work. You glanced at Sherlock's unconscious form. He was losing a lot of blood. Fast.
"You have to hurry, mum. My friend is dying."
"Dying? Please, don't let him die, nobody else can die." She sounded desperate, and you knew that the identity disorder wasn't her only mental failing.
"I can help, but you have to untie me first." You said, as calmly as you could. You glanced back over at Sherlock and swallowed hard, trying not to look at all the blood.
"Of course, of course. I'm sorry." Your mother spun in a frantic circle before her eyes landed on the knife. She picked it up and began sawing at the ropes that bound you to the chair.

You shot up like a bullet as soon as you were free and dropped to your knees next to Sherlock. You looked around, your mind a frenetic mess, but tried hard to keep calm. Finally, your eyes landed on his torn shirt lying on the ground and you picked it up, ripping it apart as quickly as you could. One half of it you wrapped tightly around his leg, trying to cut off the blood flow, if only a little. Balling up the rest of it, you pressed it against his stomach. His back was of little concern while these wounds continued to bleed.
You held the piece of shirt against his wound with one hand, wiping the other on your jeans and taking your phone from your pocket. The blood residue made it hard to type, but you managed, sending a text to John.

SOS

That was enough. He'd figure it out. You returned both hands to the task of keeping the blood flow at bay, but the cloth you were using was getting too soaked to do much good.
"Mum!" You called out frantically.
She scurried up, looking absolutely terrified.
"Get me a flannel or a towel or something. Hurry." You instructed her.
She came back a moment later with an arm full of flannels and small towels.
"Thank you." You said. You had to remind yourself that this was a completely different person from the one who'd done this.
You switched the shirt for a towel and held it there, pressing against the wound, doing your best to stop the bleeding.
John would be here soon.