Technically it could have been drugged, could have been laced with something to make them more compliant, could have caused more pain somehow.
But honestly, if they were going to control them, they would have done so already. Mycroft had considered not accepting any food, but the worse off his body was, the more compliant he would be to their demands, and he could not risk himself becoming like them, becoming a danger to Sherlock--the thought ate at him for what seemed like an eternity...he actively looked for a chance to just end it all--if he was dead, he could not be used to hurt Sherlock. But then again, if he was dead, he could not protect Sherlock, and his brother might get captured the same way anyway. It was a complex enough problem that it kept him fairly lucid. The issue with being fairly lucid was that he could not escape from the unending visual input and the crackling, painful sparks in his chest and throat.
It was going to be another long night.
Mycroft attempts to pull his cloak over his head and use the darkness within to at least try to get some sleep. Even if it's fitful at best, not being able to close his eyes was rather detrimental to that sort of thing. Perhaps he does pass out, perhaps it's only imagined. Either way, it's not restful.
[Midday 262]
How long had it been since...
...since...something or the other. Mycroft frowned, trying to place why he was so worried about how long it's been since...whatever it was that worried him. Probably should ask 'Anthea' about that, she had his schedule blocked off for the week. Perhaps it was that meeting with Lady Smallwood about that blasted German affair, she would not let that go--
--the sounds across the cell block brought him back for a moment.
--ugh. He leaned his head back against the wall, the pain returning along with the absolutely unbearable farce of a sense that was sight. If he went blind somehow, he'd be thankful. He wasn't sure he wasn't going to half-try if this kept it up--his mind was rebelling, twisting, shattering under it--he just wanted it to stop, he just wanted to shut his eyes for a moment, just a moment...he clutched his sore fingers over his face, but it was only a small solace because every few minutes he kept forgetting why he was doing that in the first place...and the constant sharp pain with every breath, with no relief was wearing thin on what little nerves he had left. He hadn't been so bad off as some of the others at the beginning, but enduring this for any length of time--
--of course, they were trying to break him. He had to hold on until the rescue. He could only hope Sherlock would be delayed so he would not have to come here, and the others would get here first--he wanted Sherlock to have no part of this place, and what would it matter, anyway? Despite professing the fact he was coming to save him, he still doubted he wanted much to do with him, after he'd told him about Eurus and Victor--
--it would really be better for everyone if he just died here. A hard reset and an escape, or perhaps actual death. Mycroft cared little for the distinction at that point, he just wanted this to stop.
...whatever it was he wanted to stop. Maybe it was Mrs. Hudson's nattering every time he stopped by for a chat with Sherlock.
Where was Sherlock, anyway?
"Sherlock!?" he called out, randomly. "You can't fool me, I know you're home. Mrs. Hudson? Unlock the bloody door!"
Night 261 - Midday 262 CW: Eye horror, nail gore, lung trauma/coughing, suicidal thoughts/ideation
Technically it could have been drugged, could have been laced with something to make them more compliant, could have caused more pain somehow.
But honestly, if they were going to control them, they would have done so already. Mycroft had considered not accepting any food, but the worse off his body was, the more compliant he would be to their demands, and he could not risk himself becoming like them, becoming a danger to Sherlock--the thought ate at him for what seemed like an eternity...he actively looked for a chance to just end it all--if he was dead, he could not be used to hurt Sherlock. But then again, if he was dead, he could not protect Sherlock, and his brother might get captured the same way anyway. It was a complex enough problem that it kept him fairly lucid. The issue with being fairly lucid was that he could not escape from the unending visual input and the crackling, painful sparks in his chest and throat.
It was going to be another long night.
Mycroft attempts to pull his cloak over his head and use the darkness within to at least try to get some sleep. Even if it's fitful at best, not being able to close his eyes was rather detrimental to that sort of thing. Perhaps he does pass out, perhaps it's only imagined. Either way, it's not restful.
[Midday 262]
How long had it been since...
...since...something or the other. Mycroft frowned, trying to place why he was so worried about how long it's been since...whatever it was that worried him. Probably should ask 'Anthea' about that, she had his schedule blocked off for the week. Perhaps it was that meeting with Lady Smallwood about that blasted German affair, she would not let that go--
--the sounds across the cell block brought him back for a moment.
--ugh. He leaned his head back against the wall, the pain returning along with the absolutely unbearable farce of a sense that was sight. If he went blind somehow, he'd be thankful. He wasn't sure he wasn't going to half-try if this kept it up--his mind was rebelling, twisting, shattering under it--he just wanted it to stop, he just wanted to shut his eyes for a moment, just a moment...he clutched his sore fingers over his face, but it was only a small solace because every few minutes he kept forgetting why he was doing that in the first place...and the constant sharp pain with every breath, with no relief was wearing thin on what little nerves he had left. He hadn't been so bad off as some of the others at the beginning, but enduring this for any length of time--
--of course, they were trying to break him. He had to hold on until the rescue. He could only hope Sherlock would be delayed so he would not have to come here, and the others would get here first--he wanted Sherlock to have no part of this place, and what would it matter, anyway? Despite professing the fact he was coming to save him, he still doubted he wanted much to do with him, after he'd told him about Eurus and Victor--
--it would really be better for everyone if he just died here. A hard reset and an escape, or perhaps actual death. Mycroft cared little for the distinction at that point, he just wanted this to stop.
...whatever it was he wanted to stop. Maybe it was Mrs. Hudson's nattering every time he stopped by for a chat with Sherlock.
Where was Sherlock, anyway?
"Sherlock!?" he called out, randomly. "You can't fool me, I know you're home. Mrs. Hudson? Unlock the bloody door!"