CHAPTER 1

Sherlock Holmes waited until he was sure the man was gone, and then quickly went to break in to the house. It certainly wasn't his usual ingenious type of plan, but the situation didn't call for that type of thinking. Lock picking wasn't something he was very good at, or had to do often, but he was grateful now that he had taken the time to learn the skill. His friend's life depended on it.

John had been kidnapped by the man that was supposed to kill him if Sherlock didn't comply with Moriarty's demands. He was supposed to have committed suicide and claim to be a fraud, in exchange for three of his friends' lives. He had only followed half of the instructions, but it appeared to everyone as though he had done both. No one knew that he had been forced into a false confession, and no one knew that he hadn't really died. Sherlock didn't even tell John; he didn't dare take the chance.

But now it had possibly been in vain. The answer depended on what he found in the house...

The lock clicked open and the former detective cautiously stepped through the door, scanning the room for traps. Apparently the assassin was less careful than he had predicted. Or more confident. Sherlock was presumed dead, after all, and who else would come to save John? Nobody else had any idea where he was being held. In retrospect, Sherlock thought he should have left a note with the captor's address... But it was too late for such precautions. He needed to find John and get him out quickly. The assassin could be dealt with later.

It took some time of searching before he found the trapdoor and more before he could force it open. Every second that went past was a second lost, a second that might bring the assassin back to his house. If he was caught, the game was almost certainly up. Sherlock could defend himself, but not against a professional killer. And John was certainly not going to be in top condition after five days of captivity. If he was still alive. The man wasn't being paid for this: he was supposed to have quit following John once Sherlock committed suicide. Why he chose to follow John, of all people... But that didn't matter now. Speed was of the essence, and he couldn't afford to be distracted by theories.

Sherlock quietly descended the wooden stairs, and entered the basement. It would have been more accurate to call the place a dungeon. The walls and ceiling had been carefully soundproofed, and the large collection of ominous-looking equipment testified that Watson was not the first to be held prisoner here. He pulled out a pocket knife and began cutting the plastic bonds that held his friend on the cold steel of the table.

Sherlock had thought his friend was unconscious, but a small groan escaped his lips. "Not again..." John's voice was hoarse. Screaming, or lack of water? The wounds on his bare torso implied screaming. Damn.

"I'm here to get you out. You're going to be fine." The first statement was true, but the second was uncertain. He seemed to only be lying to John recently. Even though it was for his own good.

Recognition flashed in John's unfocused eyes. "Go away, Sherlock. You're dead."

"Oh, NOW you recognize me." Somehow, he identified Sherlock through his disguise, even though he had not when he was completely lucid. True, that was an entirely different setting, but it wasn't much of a disguise. John probably recognized my eyes, he thought. He hadn't bothered to get color contacts. In fact, the only physical part of his disguise was to cut off his hair. The rest was acting. Sherlock hadn't expected to meet anyone who could identify him outside of London. No one looked for a dead man. John wasn't even able to identify him. But maybe that was because he didn't want to. Sherlock thought that a haircut and a fake name—especially one that was so obviously false to those who knew him—wouldn't have fooled his friend before. "Come on, let's get you out of here." He had to carry John, who wasn't able to stand without help. It was easier than it should have been: his friend had lost a lot of weight in captivity. And after only five days...that means he probably wasn't given any food. Sherlock didn't often feel hate, but there were exceptions.

They left the house, and he carefully strapped John into the backseat of his own car. He had borrowed it without permission, but it wasn't as if John was around to say no. As they were driving, his friend seemed to awaken a little more.

"Are you real?" he asked blearily.

"Yes." Eyes on the road.

"I don't believe you..." John trailed off, trying to find the right words. "You're dead. If you weren't, you wouldn't leave me." He frowned, as if it wasn't quite what he had meant to say.

Sherlock winced. He had expected John to be angry when they were reunited. This was somehow much worse. "Thanks," he said, voice cold with sarcasm. "That was depressing as hell." John is right, though. This is my fault. He needed to keep a tighter hold on his emotions, but John was making that difficult.

"You're welcome," his passenger answered, confused.

He let out a small laugh. And I get sarcasm right back.

Once he had gotten John checked into the hospital, Sherlock left to take care of the assassin. He was going to get answers to some of his questions. And, if he was going to be honest with himself, a little bit of revenge.