The sky over London was inivisible as usual, gaurded by an army of dull grey clouds, making the streets look as happy and grey as usual. Despite the rather drawl weather, John's morning inside 221-B Baker Street had been quite pleasant. Sherlock had left early in the morning, leaving John asleep in the apartment by himself. This gave John plenty of time to be able to make breakfast and browse the internet without being disturbed by his flat mate, who had been growing increasingly annoying after not having a case for a while. With only the sound of the traffic and the occasional police siren, 221-B was very calm with only half its occupants. No gunfire, no yelling, no playing of string instruments. This enabled John to get started on his next blog entry, which had been growing more and more attention each day.
It was only at 1:13 pm that John got any word from Sherlock. Of course, it being Sherlock the text was very straight to the point - not the usual "Hey" or "How are you?" That usual flatmates would send to each other, but of course Sherlock Holmes wasn't a usual flatmate.
John, are you busy? SH
John sighed, wondering what on Earth the high functioning sociopath was up to this time and what case John would be dragged through now, not that John overly minded. It was a day off from work today anyways.
Not overly, why? JW
He placed his mobile down on the table to get back to his blog but before the phone had even gotten a chance to kiss the wood, the message tone went off.
Good. I need your help. Come. SH
Sherlock needed John's help? It wasn't often John thought that the consulting detective actually needed his help, he seemed to do fine but of course he liked to think outloud and John didn't really mind being with him on cases.
Where are you at? JW
John shut down the laptop, not bothering to log out of his account. If Sherlock wanted to use it later, it wouldn't make much of a difference if he locked it or not, he'd still be able to get in. He slipped on his jacket and pulled on his shoes, locking the door and heading down the stairs. Mrs Hudson popped her head around the corner.
"John, popping out are you? You couldn't go and get some more milk while you're there could you?" The older woman requested with a smile.
"I'll see what I can do Mrs Hudson." He responded, checking his phone as he headed out of the door and down the steps to the street.
Adelphi. Haste would be most appriciated. SH
John wasn't exactly sure where that was, his knowledge of London wasn't exactly as good as Sherlock's but he knew the cabbie would be able to as he hailed one over, opening the door and bundling in.
On my way. JW
The Adelphi Theatre, WestEnd. It was closed to the public at the current time due to some referbishment but none of the staff or builders were currently present. Seemingly, the only life force in the theatre was stood on the mainstage in the dark, looking around the back.
Sherlock's eyes saw everything, and what he saw was nothing. Why had he even come here? This was clearly wasting his time. Supposidly, he had been asked to look at the suicide of one of the lead actresses for the west end preformance of The Wizard of Oz. He had recieved a text from Lestrade to go check it out, but so far he saw no one. No Lestrade, no Donovan, thankfully no Anderson but most importantly - no actress.
He paced around stage, trying to look for anything but saw only a half empty can of open red paint. Half empty? Sherlock went over to it. The paint was open and looked like it had been used in at least the past half hour, according to the wetness of the splatter of paint on the outside of the can. Caused by a brush, obviously. Medium sized brush, fine bristles. Not one you'd paint walls with, more likely ones you'd paint finer features like backdrops for sets. Red. Possibly for the production of Wizard of Oz but not likely. He lifted the can up, dust underneath it. It hadn't been there for long, possibly around the same time the paint had been used which was not long before he had arrived.
Sherlock got on his knees, looking more at the splaters of red paint, seeing more, very small drops, leading to the side of the stage. The curtains? He pulled the large, dusty, red curtains together and stepped back to see the paint dripping off them. Infront of him, a message lay drawn in blood red paint. Red paint on a red curtain? That didn't make much sense. The message simply read: "SHERLocK HolmEs. 1935."
It was a message, a message for him. Obvious. But why? What was the point? His mind raced for the significance of the numbers. 1935AD? £19.35? No no no. It didn't make sense. Red paint on a red curtain? If whoever wanted to leave him a message wanted him to see it, why not make it more obvious and why n-
Sherlock's trace of thought was broken by his alert tone. Quickly checking his messages, he decided it would be best to look at this alone. John would only be a distraction.
Actually it's fine. Just go ba-
Whilst Sherlock had been busy drumming into his phone, a man, who had been watching lept for him, grabbing Sherlock from behind. The man was muscular and broad, too strong for Sherlock to take on - especially a Sherlock who had been caught off-gaurd. The attacker quickly pulled out what looked to be a needle and stabbed it harshly into a tiny bit of exposed flesh on Sherlock's neck.
He let out an involuntary small grunt of pain and his facial feautures froze. Infact, the whole of Sherlock's body seemed to tense up as he began to get nausious and double visioned. Everything begun to spin and go fuzzy until it got to a point where Sherlock could no longer move or speak at all.
The broad man placed the statue-like Sherlock down on the centre of the stage, opening the curtains and turning the spotlight on so Sherlock was the centre of attention. The hooded man spread Sherlock's arms out uncomfortably, returning his phone to his left hand, with the neglected text message. Before the man walked away, he placd thr red-tipped paint brush in Sherlock's pale free hand, leaving Sherlock alone in a blurry and fuzzy spinning world, unable to move and constricted and confined by his own body.
His mind was still focussed on the numbers, 1935. Was it a code? A password? A sequence? A date? A time? Sherlock's chest felt like it was being compressed, like Mycroft had been sat on it. It was futile to attempt to move as his body was unresponsive. What had that bafoon injected him with? As far as Sherlock was aware, it wasn't any recreational drug.
Then, breaking the deafening silence that had been stalking the theatre, John walked into the room, seeing only the spotlight.
"Sherlock..? Are you up there?" Watson called, peering at the stage as he headed towards it.
The room itself was huge, he could imagine how daunting it could be to be up on stage with thousands of judgemental eyes piercing through you. Not getting a response, from anyone, John made his way up the side stairs and onto the stage when Sherlock lay still, unable to even acknowledge his blogger's presence in the room. John stood, at first a little annoyed at whatever game Sherlock was playing but froze slightly as he saw no response from the man at all.
"Sherlock? Sherlock!" His voice was full of worry, getting on his knees to the dusty wooden floor, next to Holmes. He shook Sherlock a little, getting even more panicked when the man didn't respond. John tried to calm himself down and took Sherlock's pulse, putting an ear above Sherlock's face. He was breathing, very lightly but still breathing, his lagato pulse very weak in his wrist. John frowned, rubbing his forehead in worry. The position Sherlock was lying in was unnatrual for a collapse, he had been.. paralysed? John looked at the consulting detective's hands. His eyes first glancing to the paintbrush. Red paint? The same as the splatters on Sherlock's cheek.. thankfully not blood. John looked at Sherlock's other hand. Sherlock's mobile..
John moved over to it immediatley, taking it from Sherlock's cold and pale unmoving hand. "Actually it's fine.. just go ba-?" John muttered outloud to himself. It was unsent. Sherlock hadn't sent it. He must have been sending it at the same time he collapsed. John moved over the body, pulling Sherlock's scarf out of the way and inspecting it. Puncture mark on his neck, still bleeding slightly. He had been injected. Possibly with a poison? He stood up quickly, looking around the room, trying to deduce anything he could. The other man had been rubbing off on him.
Sherlock lay still, unable to move and absolutley frustrated at John's abilities of deduction, yet grateful his friend had turned up at all. He could feel his conciousness gradually slipping from him, painfully slow as he tried to remain awake. The room had been gastly silent until John had walked in, still worrying and fussing over him.
The silence was broken by the phone's text tone going off. John quickly looked at the message.
I bet you weren't expecting this, Doctor Watson. ;)
John stared at the phone, slightly frustrated and began to type back. Sherlock lay listening. He had just recieved a message? Possibly from Lestrade? Who would text him at this time? Sherlock tried hard to fight and stay awake but eventually he was dragged into the dark realm of sleep, his vision going black. The paint on his cheek streeked down gently, leaving a small red trail and dripping off his jaw.
John finished with his reply of the obvious - Who is this?!
His gaze went back to the now unconcious Sherlock, he was begining to get scared. Taking his pulse again, just to be sure, his breath was shuddery. He would be fine.. for now. Just as John was about to call the police, the phone began to rang.
Echoing throughout the stage, ringing against the walls and filling the whole stage with music, the mobile's ringtone played.
The final Countdown by Europe.
The rather ironic but completley recognisable tune filled the whole theatre and John knelt motionless, his had completely still. Not knowing any other option, John put the phone to his ear, breaking the song off before the singing had begun.
"H-hullo?" He answered into the phone, his voice slightly hoarse but he quickly cleared his throat, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. "Who is this?"
"Hello there, Dr Watson! Oh. It's good to hear from you again. How've you been?" The eerily familiar voice chimed from the other end in his charming Irish accent.
John's grip on the phone tightened, standing up and looking around. "What do you want Moriarty!? What have you done to him?" That nutcase.. he had done this to Sherlock?
"Now, now. Please, call me Jim." He laughed, "Oh, I hear worry in your voice. That's so sweet. A dog, caring for his master. Well don't you worry boy. You've been a wery wery good boy haven't you? Haven't you? Haven't you, my snuggly wuggly puggly ugly fluffy little baby boy?" Jim's voice was sweet, cooing over him mockingly in a way which someone would to a puppy. "And guess what? Good boys get treats."
"What. Have. ..? " John's voice was angry now, pacing around the stage, his footsteps echoing.
"Temper temper. I've just given him so slow acting poison, nothing major. Execeeeept he's gonna die. Well, he will.. unless you do what I say. If you do what I say.. you get a treat." His voice had lost all its sweeteness, simply serious now.
John couldn't believe what was happening, he sighed and looked at the body of his friend. "What do you want me to do..?"
"Johnny boy, I've merely pressed the start button. It's a game. Surely you could have deduced that by now? Or have you learned nothing?" He paused for a moment. "You're going to play my game. Do what I say.. and I will watch. If you win, you save Sherlock. If you lose... Well you can most likely guess. "