Here is my first sherlock fic, yay! :)
This happens just after the events of episode 3...
Sherlock woke up with a headache. He cautiously opened his eyes, then squeezed them tightly shut, wincing at the too-bright light. He heard a vague and distant voice, and tried to remember who's it was.
"Sherlock? I saw that. You've woken up." He couldn't place the voice, the speaker sounded too far away. Sherlock exhaled sharply in frustration. His brain was being slow. He focused on more important things: where was he? He noted that he was in a bed, so he was probably in a hospital. Why was he in a hospital?
"You blew up a god-damn swimming pool, Sherlock. What were you thinking?" said the faint voice, which Sherlock recognised as Lestrade. Sherlock frowned. He remembered the swimming pool. He had gone there to see Moriarty, to give him the missile plans. Suddenly he heard a taunting voice, whispering into his ear. "I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you."
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." Muttered Sherlock quietly.
"But we both know that's not quite true," came the gleeful reply.
Sherlock opened his eyes. Lestrade was standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed. "Dont have what?" He asked.
Sherlock frowned. "What? Oh, I wasn't talking to you."
Lestrade glanced around the empty room. "Well then who-"
Sherlock cut him off. "Where's John?"
"John? I don't know. He isn't answering his mobile. He isn't at Baker street, but I left messages, so when he gets back he'll call." Lestrade shrugged.
Sherlock sat up. "He wasn't at the pool?"
Lestrade frowned. "Why would he be at the- wait, Sherlock, you don't mean he was with you at the bloody pool when you blew it up?"
"You didn't find him?
"We didn't look for him. I didn't think you would have taken him along with you." Lestrade frowned and rubbed his forehead. "I'll get some people onto it." He hurried out of the room.
Sherlock watched him walk down the corridor, and when he was sure the detective inspector was out of sight, he slid out of bed. He grabbed his coat, which was folded on a chair by the door and pulled it on, ignoring the pounding in his head. He had broken into a run before he was even out of the hospital, and he threw himself into a cab.
As the cab sped off, he ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
"Tough day, mate?" said the cabbie, glancing at Sherlock in the mirror.
"Something like that." said Sherlock absentmindedly. He pulled his phone from his pocket and called John's mobile. It didn't surprise him when it rang out, and Sherlock didn't bother to leave a message.
"Here we are, then." said the cab driver. Sherlock grabbed a handful of notes from his pocket and threw them at the man as he leapt out of the car.
The swimming pool was flattened, just a pile of rubble and splintered wood and plastic. "John!" called Sherlock as he picked his way over piles of bricks. There was no answer. Sherlock grabbed his phone again, and called John. He could hear it ringing, and made his way towards the sound. He soon determined that the ringing was coming from underneath a large pile of plastic chairs and concrete. He crouched next to the heap. "John!" he called, but there was no sound from inside. He started to dismantle the pile, hoping with every fibre if his being that his friend, his only friend, John Watson wasn't buried, dead, under a pile of rubble. He pulled aside a huge lump of concrete, and gasped at what he saw.
A hand, in a leather glove, hung limp and lifeless in the pile of debris. Sherlock's voice cracked as he called John's name, and he reached out to touch the hand. It didn't feel right, thought Sherlock. Of course. It wasn't a hand at all, it was just a glove. He picked up the glove, and the phone that was wrapped in it fell to the ground and bounced smugly onto the concrete. Sherlock threw the glove away and picked up the phone. There was no doubt about it, it was John's phone. But John would never have left his phone. Which could only mean... "No." breathed Sherlock. The phone rang.
Sherlock's hands trembled slightly as he answered the phone.
"Hi Sherlock. Did you miss me?" Sherlock recognised the voice. It was unmistakable.
"Where's John?" said Sherlock, his voice steeped in badly concealed anger.
Moriarty chuckled into the phone. "Like I am really gong to tell you that. But maybe John here will. Do you have anything to tell your dear Sherlock, John?" there was a pause, then Moriarty spoke again. "Sorry Sherlock, looks like poor John can't talk right now."
"What have you done to him?" growled Sherlock.
"Oh, nothing much... yet. But Sherlock my dear, I will kill him if you don't pay me a visit. I have sent a car.." Sherlock looked up and saw a dark red Mercedes pull around the corner and stop, engine rumbling quietly. "So, Sherlock. You can get into the car. Or you can... walk away. Your choice." The line went dead.
Sherlock looked at the phone, then at the Mercedes. He already knew what he was going to do. He breathed in deeply, and walked towards the car. He climbed into the back seat, and as he sat down he glanced up frustratedly at the windows. They were darkened, as was the sheet of glass separating him from the driver, which meant Sherlock couldn't see where they were going, or deduce anything from the driver. If sherlock had had full brain function, he would have been able to recognise the turns and bumps in the road and work out where he was being taken, but he couldn't concentrate. All he could think about was John.
Sherlock sighed. He knew that Moriarty would probably kill them both. Sherlock just hoped John would still be alive by the time he got there, and he would have enough time to formulate some sort of escape plan.
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