Sunshine Distilled

He woke, immediately noticing the sensation of perspiration in the palms of his hands and droplets at his temples. He'd dreamed of her again, her warm brown eyes, laughing up at him. from under her bright yellow sunhat. He must have said something witty, though in the dream he could hear only her voice, her words were the only ones that mattered. In dreams, she always seemed like sunshine distilled, pure and light and golden, the halo of her yellow bonnet, the windswept tendrils of her sun-warmed, honey-brown hair.
He recalled now her slender arms squeezing his midsection, the contact pressing the life out of him, he'd felt at the time. What he wouldn't give for her over-zealous embrace here, in this cell, thousands of miles from those who loved him. His wrists chafed in the chains as he stirred, stretching his arms above his head, imitating a contented feline in the late afternoon sun that streamed in through the grate in the stone wall at the far end of the cell. He tasted blood in his mouth, from the open sores festering on the insides of his cheeks, the alternative to screaming, chewing on his cheeks, biting down on his tongue. They hadn't brought him out in a few nights, so the sores in his mouth, the bruises and burns, and the scabs on his ankles and wrists from the cuffs had healed a bit, but he knew he'd have to be careful not to open them again. It was a miracle he hadn't contracted tetanus or sepsis yet. He closed his eyes, trying to conjure her face again, but she had taken flight, like a wood sprite, leaving only her laughter behind.
He felt the boots before he heard them, the wooden soles and creaking leather clattering against the floor. They'd finally come for him. He steeled himself for the agonizing night ahead. He'd fallen into a twisted routine, sleeping through the day, his body trying desperately to repair itself. Then the long hours of pain, through twilight, midnight, and morning. Not that it'd ever been his habit to sleep during the night much. He didn't know how long he'd been here, though it could have been three months, it felt like years. Two men, shorter than he was, but much less starved, hauled him up by his armpits to a standing position, cursing at him in German. They unlocked the chains around his ankles and wrists, roughly scrapping the skin, and causing him to wince. Dragging him through the wrought iron door, and down one after another grey stone corridor. The Second Reich needed some interior design assistance. The Room, was not any more remarkable than the dozens of other stone barracks in the Emperor's prisons, but for the scent of blood and raw terror that had seeped into the walls. A rack of tools along one wall, like those one would use in blacksmithing, chains suspended from the cedar rafters, and a wooden chair, leather straps for the confinement of the arms, legs, and chest of a sufferer. He didn't struggle, only hung limply from their arms as they cuffed him in the chains dangling from the ceiling, leaving his legs free. He stood shakily, weak from many days without food, and observed The Room more closely. The guards had finished their task and shuffled out quietly, as and as they did, the interrogator stepped in, and another man, his head down, so Sherlock couldn't quite see his face, somewhat heavyset, of middling height, followed close on his heels, both clad in the plain grey, cotton uniforms, standard issue, a row of black buttons down the left side. Sherlock didn't take much notice, since a few times before a superior officer had sat in on his "interrogations", and he didn't recognize the gait of the new man. The officer took a seat in the corner of the dim room.

"So, Mr. Holmes, will we get anything out of you tonight?" The interrogator asked in German. This was a new officer, and he suspected, had just transferred from Kiel, by the sand he'd forgotten on his boots.

Sherlock just laughed derisively, a low chuckle from his chest, and was quickly cut off by the first strike. The man's fist doubled him over, his laugh ending with a whoosh of air as it left his lungs, and he lost his footing, the chains at his wrists the only thing keeping him from collapsing.

"You think this is funny, Mr. Holmes? The Emperor does not find it so. Where is the Diamond Scroll Tiara? You claim to know who has it? A James Moriarty?"

"Go to hell." The response, was low and venom-filled, in fluent German.

Another blow, this time to his face, opened a gash left previously on his cheekbone, and he felt the hot, sticky blood flow.

"You will break someday, Mr. Holmes, no man can endure forever."

"Trust me, you don't want to meet James Moriarty, and if he has the tiara, you won't find it, until he wants you to. Fear that day, for you will never be the same man."

"You don't know what kind of man I am."

Sherlock responded, in barely a whisper, causing the interrogator to stoop to hear him. "I know that you served in the Navy, where you had an unhappy love affair, I know the electricity isn't working in your bathroom,"

"Well, what did he say?' The voice from the corner surprised Sherlock, fluent German but not quite the right accent. Sherlock grinned.

The interrogator repeated Sherlock's words, his tone of shock and disbelief evident.

"I know that your wife is having an affair with your next-door neighbor, the coffin maker, and that if you go home right now you can catch them at it."

The interrogator swore, and the man in the corner asked again "What?" and the interrogator hurriedly repeated what Sherlock had deduced.
He swore again and muttered, "I knew something was going on!"

The interrogator's hands dropped to his sides, and he rushed out of the room, banging the door behind him.

A few seconds, then the man in the shadows spoke, still in German.

"So, my friend. Now it's just you and me. You have no idea the trouble it took to find you." He stood slowly.

"Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear. Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes."

"Mycroft."

"You do look ghastly, brother. Such an untidy beard."

"Unfortunately, the German empire does not provide razors to their inmates, Mycroft. I will endeavor to correct my appearance once we are back in England. I assume you have a plan for our departure?"

"The guards outside have been paid off, several of the higher officers had to be drugged, unfortunately, unpleasant business indeed, and the prison warden is being, erm.. distracted."

Sherlock grinned. "Irene?"

"She has the chloroform when she wants it. Wiggins?"

Bill Wiggins, one of Sherlock's Irregulars off the London streets, poked his head in the door.

"Yes, boss?"

"Wiggins, what did I bring you here for? Come and assist Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, yes sir, sorry sir." Wiggins, a rather skinny, slippery man, with more than a five o'clock shadow on his jaw, and several teeth missing, stepped up to Sherlock.

"Here we are, sir, just going to get you out and get you home, sir," he muttered in Sherlock's ear, while producing a thin wire from his front shirt pocket. Wiggins was an excellent lockpick, and Sherlock had utilized his skills in a few of his tricker cases. Wiggins reached up for the cuff on Sherlock's right hand, fishing around in the keyhole.
"So good to see you, sir, thought you'd be dead for sure, sir."

"How long have I been gone, Wiggins?" Sherlock groaned as the cuff came off, scraping against the scabs on his wrists.

"Just about six months, sir. Dr. and Mrs. Watson are quite concerned. Miss Molly, as well."

"I thought they would be. Ugh, thank you, Wiggins," Sherlock's other wrist slipped out of the left chain, and he stood up straight, stumbling a bit as he did. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft stirred, as he had been leaning against the prison wall, and answered. "We have a cart waiting outside the barracks, which will take us to the next village, where we will flag a coach, then to the railway station."

"Excellent. Will Irene be joining us?" Sherlock was rather apprehensive about that outcome, the last time he had met with Irene Adler, nearly two years earlier, and shortly after her disappearance, he'd been hardly able to keep his wits. He wasn't sure if things had changed now, within himself, given his... thoughts...of Molly.

"No, Irene has secured an apartment here in Munich, and it would be unwise for her to return to England with Moriarty still at large," Mycroft replied. "Here is your uniform, brother dear, we best leave before the warden suspects anything."

Sherlock pulled the grey shirt over the rags he was wearing, shoving his legs into the trousers. The fabric was coarse, but thankfully clean. His hair had grown while he had been here, and the dirty mop fell over his eyes, but there was nothing he could do about that now. "How is the Dr. and Mrs. Watson, and Miss Hooper?"

"Quite well, apart from concern for you, and the youngest Watson is expected at any day now."

"And Molly, she is well?"

"Extremely well, looking very rosy, now that spring is upon us. But give me the courtesy of delaying the gossip till we get you home, brother mine."

"Of course, Mycroft, I had forgotten how immensely human and their trivial affairs bore you. I shall waste no more of your time. On to Baker Street!" And with that, the three men trooped out the door, leaving, he hoped forever, The Room.