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He's feverish, and hot.
Odd visions dancing in and out of his blurred vision and then there's that face, leering at him and his voice but he doesn't understand, his brain slowed and dulled and stupid... but there's the primal instinct to get away, get away, he doesn't want to die like the nephew, like Carl, like John's child... suffocating and needing oxygen where there is none to be had. His eyes widen in fear and there's soothing murmuring but he's too out of it to recognize it.
You really are ill, aren't you...
It's not John, it's not, John would never come for me, John would never want -
- then he's being jostled and moved and he struggles and there's cursing (dammit, stop fighting me) and he still fights - though it's weak, why is he so weak?
there's water running and clothing being removed and he can't help whimpering in terror, there's a hand on his cheek that kind of feels soothing and he wants it to be John so badly but he knows ... better it's not John, it's never John...
There's a soft sound that he doesn't understand nor have the energy to perceive as he's lifted - ow, ow, his shoulder hurts, feels like it's on fire and being sliced open with hot, liquid knives, stop, stop, don't!
He's put into the tub gently and he shivers, it's cold, it's cold don't ... don't... he won't he won't tell... he won't tell you, he won't he's gritting his teeth, mumbling, half-understanding the insults falling from his mouth. He'll never tell you, pig-dogs...he'll never tell, he'll die before he tells...
There's the hand on his cheek again. Deceptively gentle.
He half-cries because he's cold and the hand is gentle and he can't see properly and it all hurts all around him, it's cold and burning hot all at once... scalding and chilling...
There's his name in there somewhere, isn't he still being waterboar-... there it is ... his name again, and that hand on his cheek that he's half-tempted to lean into and he squints, sure it's Culverton playing tricks on him... taking advantage of him being weak, or is he being asked why did you break in? why did you break in?
He's cold, it's not... this isn't ... this isn't a game anymore...
Coaxing, a note of guilt this time...
What.... what was that?
Was that?
Is that - current tense, you idiot. "J-john?" he can barely get it out, hasn't realized till now how thirsty he is, how dry his lips are, how hot he is how the water almost feels good, if it weren't so cold...
They're going to laugh aren't they, they always do when he wants John near him.
John isn't coming, John's ... busy.
But that's John's voice, always - soothing he's here, enough for Sherlock to imagine, enough for him to stay awake... barely.
Obviously they don't want him dead... yet.
There's water over his chest, and that hurts, and then it cools slightly and it doesn't feel so bad. He's watching the hands, tolerating the pain. Is he in agony? He doesn't know. He is having trouble breathing, he just can't seem to get a deep breath in...
Help me, John, help me...
For a brief imagined moment, he glimpses John's face - he's so tired...
"M'fphb... love you, J-john," he mumbles, not caring if they hear. Not caring if it's the last words he ever says.