Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.
THE DEVIL AND MR. HOLMES
Karachi
Something is licking his face.
Sherlock Holmes slowly cracks one eye open and blinks blearily. Stretches out his long, lank frame, registering how sore he is from sleeping on a wooden floor. He can feel a big, coarse tongue lapping at his nose and cheek- disgusting- the sound of early morning traffic deafening to his ears. Bright, annoying daylight is a hard and heavy as a hammer against his eyes. As his sight clears he sees two members of the Sindh police force staring down at him, a walkie-talkie held in one officer's hand, a hand-gun drawn in the other. Beside them a large German shepherd sits- it is this which was licking his face- the creature staring at him quizzically.
Sherlock frowns for a moment, his normally lightning-quick brain bogged down by tiredness. After all, he thinks, it's not like he got a lot of sleep last night- The Woman saw to that. At realising he's awake the two policemen start speaking to him slowly in Urdu, asking him (Sherlock suspects) whether he's alright. The one without the walkie-talkie is holding out a blanket, and it's then that Sherlock realises he's naked.
Well, he thinks, slightly groggily, how about that?
He shakes his head though, trying to summon what basic elements of the language he knows. Goes to rise, wondering where Adler is (since he suspects she'd have as much trouble charming Pakistani policemen as she did their British counterparts). She is nowhere in sight however, and Sherlock can't bring himself to believe that bodes well. Especially since everything he brought to the safe house last night, including his clothing, is missing.
As he comes to this (slightly disturbing) realisation he hears the walkie-talkie carrying policeman bark with laughter, pointing to his backside. The detective frowns, not really the sort for modesty but not happy about being pointed at and snickered about all the same. After all, hasn't the policeman ever seen a naked man before? But nevertheless he goes to turn around, trying to ascertain what the policeman is laughing at. As he does so he drops his sheet- he has nothing to worry about in that department- letting himself take in his bare feet, his bruised shins. His pale skin. All as expected and accounted for, not an unusual body part in sight. He really doesn't understand what all the fuss is about. So he frowns again, tries to demand- in Urdu- what's so damn funny-
And that's when he sees the hand-written note, sellotaped to the small of his back, just above his arse. It's clearly reflected in the lone window pane behind him which still holds glass. It says (in both English and Urdu): Property of Dr. John H. Watson, Esq.
If lost, please return to 221b Baker Street, London A.S.A.P. Caution: he bites.
For a moment he just stares at the note, unable to process just why it was put there. What on Earth could Adler be playing at, he thinks, leaving it like that? And then, as he stares, a small, brisk draft blows through the door to his right, shifting the note and revealing the fact that Adler has also placed two 20 pence stamps at exactly the centre of each of his arse-cheeks. The stamps slightly smudged from being slept on. The Queen's profile looking splendidly miffed at the disrespectful venue in which she's found herself. It comes together in Sherlock's head, the bloody cheek of The Woman, the jeering nature of the message-
And he thinks it, with a viciousness he hasn't felt in years:
When I get my hands on her again, I'm going to bloody murder Irene Adler.