It was cold and rainy and the roof leaked. John's shoulder hurt, as it often did when it rained, and he would much rather be in his nice warm bed with his personal space heater, otherwise known and Sherlock Holmes, instead of at a fairly gruesome double homicide, but he had known what he was signing up for when he started sleeping with the detective, so he really couldn't complain too much. It had been a little over three months since the two had begun sharing a bed, and other than Mrs. Hudson (and Mycroft, the nosy bastard) no one knew about the change in their relationship; not that that had ever stopped them from talking.
The case, although gruesome, was relatively simple, at least for Sherlock, and within a few minutes he had declared it to be a "boring" gang killing and left it in Lestrade's "somewhat capable hands" before taking his leave of the crime scene. John would have been right behind him, except Lestrade had stopped him with an invitation to the pub. John was trying to turn him down as quickly and politely as possible - it had been a while since Sherlock had left him at a crime scene, but that was something that John never took for granted - when Sherlock yelled his name in that tone that told him something was definitely wrong.
John took off running and arrived just in time to see an unconscious Sherlock being bundled into the back of a van. John lunged forward and tried to pull him out. One of the masked men hit him over the head with something hard and everything went black.
When John came to, everything was in turmoil. Lestrade was issuing orders as fast as he could and everyone else was scrambling to obey them. Lestrade noticed that John was awake and stopped to answer his unvoiced question.
"John, I'm sorry," his voice sounded pained and uncomfortable, "but there's no sign of him. He's just gone." It was, quite frankly, the answer that John had been expecting, but hearing it said out loud was still something of a shock. He rolled over and emptied his stomach into the gutter.
When Sherlock woke up his first thought was of John. His head was pounding, it hurt to breathe, and he didn't even want to think about opening his eyes, but he didn't really care about any of that - all he really cared about was whether or not John was going to be there when he finally did open his eyes. He wasn't entirely sure which he preferred.
After a few moments he decided that he really did have to evaluate his injuries and situation. Ribs injured - bruised not broken. Head injured - likely not concussed. He had been injected with something unidentified, but it didn't seem to have any lasting side effects. He was tied to a wooden chair with thick, coarse ropes so tight that it was sure to bruise and chafe. His shirt and shoes had been removed. He could feel the almost frigid air around him and the freezing concrete beneath his feet. He gathered that they were in a deserted warehouse, probably on the outskirts of the city. He just wished he knew how long he had been unconscious. Finally, he opened his eyes. John wasn't there. A bald man with a gun was.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes, welcome back." Russian, Holmes identified. He had been in the UK long enough to almost entirely lose his accent, but nevertheless - Russian. Sherlock didn't say anything and the man kept talking, examining the butt of his gun, "It's a shame, really. Your little doctor got blood on my gun. You'd think that it'd be a bit more difficult to bash a soldier over the head. But then again, he's not a very good soldier, now is he?" Sherlock tensed, almost as much because of the insult as the idea of John being injured. If he noticed the Russian didn't show it, "No Mr. Holmes, I have heard that you're rather fond of riding crops."
Sherlock forced himself to relax as the man approached and brought the riding crop down on the side of his face, harder than Irene Adler had ever hit him. He forced himself not to make a sound. The Russian hit him again and again, covering his face, arms, torso, and legs with bruises. After twenty minutes the Russian tired and returned to his original position without a word. Sherlock was breathing heavily, but other than a bit of wheezing and panting, he remained silent.
"Mr. Holmes, I must say that I'm impressed by your silence. I was told that I wouldn't ever get you to shut up. Your soldier must be training you well," The Russian said, sounding slightly out of breath. I think that you deserve a reward for your silence 7% solution is what you prefer, correct?" Sherlock's eyes widened and his whole body tensed as the man approached with a syringe.
John's head was pounding. He had a concussion but had refused to stay in the hospital. And so he was sitting in Lestrade's office with a splitting headache and a growing sense of panic. Sherlock had been missing for six hours and they still had no idea who had taken him, let alone where he was. One of the worst parts for John was that no one knew that they were anything more than flatmates and colleagues, so he was unable to show how much his friend's disappearance affected him.
After seven hours they had still made no progress and John was no longer able to keep his eyes open. He lay down on the couch in Lestrade's office and quickly fell into a restless sleep. Twenty minutes later he woke to Lestrade shaking him by the shoulder.
"Dr. Watson," the DI said calmly, "a courier just brought a package for you. We think it might be from the kidnappers." John sat up straight and somehow managed to keep his hands from shaking as he was handed a small box wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside was a used syringe and a USB drive. John's heart was pounding as they gathered around Lestrade's computer to play the video file.
The video had no sound, and John couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not. The camera was focused on Sherlock, who was tied to a chair in the middle of a concrete room, and a rather large bald man with a riding crop. They watched for almost twenty minutes as the bald man very thoroughly whipped the detective. Despite the lack of sound, John was willing to bet that his friend had remained silent the entire time. When Baldy finally got tired of the riding crop he walked off camera for a few moment before returning with a syringe in his hand. As the needle went into his arm, John recognized the look of absolute terror in Sherlock's eyes. Then the screen went black.
After that John had to throw up and Lestrade sent him home, promising to call the moment they heard anything new. John had never felt so useless in his entire life. He took a cab back to Baker Street and told himself that he would only sleep for four hours before figuring out how to find Sherlock.
John walked into the sitting room and stopped short. There was a young man sitting quietly on the sofa, waiting. His clothes had once been nice, but were now threadbare and dirty. His hair was greasy, he hadn't shaved in several days and his beard was growing in scruffy, and he was filthy. When John walked in the man stood up but remained silent.
The soldier cleared his throat and squared his shoulders. "Well hello. Who are you?"
The man extended his hand for John to shake. "I'm Wiggins; Mr. Holmes uses me to communicate with his network. Are you Dr. Watson?"
John nodded, shaking his hand. "Yes, I'm John Watson. I'm sorry, but Holmes isn't here. I don't know when he'll be back."
Wiggins nodded. "I know. We've heard that he's missing, kidnapped. I was sent here to see if it's true."
John sighed. "It's true. He's been missing for eight hours now. The police have no leads."
"We want to help," Wiggins answered determinedly. "We often see things and hear things that the police don't."
"Of course," John agreed; "I wish I could give you some information to go on, but we don't really know much." He pulled out the print off of the bald abductor and handed it to Wiggins. "This is one of his kidnappers. I think he's being held in a warehouse of some sort. They've also been injecting him with some kind of drug. We're not sure what it is, but I'd be willing to bet that it's cocaine."
Wiggins nodded. "Thank you; this'll certainly help. And don't worry Dr. Watson, we'll bring him back to you." They shook hands again and then Wiggins was gone. John shuffled tiredly into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed he shared with Sherlock. He was asleep almost before he his head hit the pillow.
When Sherlock came down from his high he had been moved. He was still in the same room, but was no longer tied to the chair. He missed the chair. Now, he was bound by the wrists with his arms raised above his head. He was hanging from an exposed pipe, his feet dangling above the ground His shoulders were beginning to hurt and he was really starting to miss that chair. And John. He missed John far more than he had expected.
Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and tried to keep his thoughts focused on John. John who was calm and strong and who could suffer a ridiculous amount of pain without ever showing it; well, he showed it, but you'd have to be Sherlock to see it, and even then you'd never be quite sure. John, who Sherlock just knew was going to come for him - it might take him a while, but Sherlock never for a moment doubted that John would come for him. All he had to do was wait.
Sherlock's head was still pounding and he was so out of it that he didn't even realize that someone else was in the room until a fist collided with his side. Moments later the first pounded into his stomach, and had he eaten anything more than some toast in the past 24 hours he would have vomited. He prepared himself to accept another hit, but it never came. Instead a metal rod was placed gently on his back, administering an electric shock that shook his entire body. It wasn't strong enough to be fatal, or to have any lasting effects, but it was more than enough to hurt like hell. He tried to keep focused and managed to keep from screaming.
When the Russian finished with the electricity he prepared and administered another syringe.
Five days. It had been five days since Sherlock had been taken and John was well on his way to losing his mind. Lestrade and Scotland Yard had absolutely nothing, Sherlock's homeless network knew that there was a Russian Immigrant with gang ties purchasing cocaine not for personal use or distribution, but they didn't know where he was staying, and probably most frightening of all was the fact that even Mycroft was unable to locate his brother.
John was sitting in Lestrade's office when his phone finally range. His heart was pounding as he answered, putting it on speaker in hopes that it actually was the kidnappers.
"Hello Dr. Watson, would you like to hear from your detective?" A slightly accented voice drawled, obviously trying to sound bored and obviously the farthest thing from bored.
John grit his teeth. "Actually, I'd like to know where he is so that I can come and get him. I live with him; I know was a complete pain in the arse he can be. Let me take him off your hands for you."
The kidnapper laughed. "I've actually found him to be quite pliant and docile - like a kitten. I think that you just don't know how to handle him. I can make him do anything I want." John flexed and unflexed his left hand, imagining putting a bullet in the man's skull. He kept talking. "Now, I called so that you could hear from the detective himself." There was rustling and crackling as the phone was put on speaker. Then there was a flurry of movement and all of a sudden Sherlock was screaming. Loud, blood-curdling screams that made John's jaw clench and his insides twist into knots.
After a few minutes the screaming subsided into whimpers and John spoke, his voice loud and steady. "Sherlock Holmes, listen to me, I am going to find you. Do you hear me? I will find you and come and get you. I promise; I will find you."
"John?" Sherlock gasped. "John, please, John, John, John." The detective's voice was broken and pained, but he kept talking, "John, please John, please. Please. I want to go home. John, please don't leave me, John. I'm sorry John. John…" The phone went off speaker and John could no longer hear Sherlock's cries.
"What is it that you want?" John bit out through clenched teeth.
The man laughed. "What are you willing to give me?"
John took a deep breath to calm himself down before answering. "There's not a list of what I can and cannot give you. Tell me what you want and I'll do my best to give it to you. But you have to tell me what you want."
"Alright, I'll tell you what I want," he replied, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "I want to make him scream. I want to make him cry. I want to break him. And when I'm done with him he'll know better than to try and fight a dragon. What do you have to say about that Dr. Watson?"
Watson lowered his voice menacingly. "That was the wrong answer, because now it's really very personal. I will find you and I will make you pay for every scream. You will regret this very much; I promise you that."
"I wish you the best of luck with that Dr. Watson," the man answered smugly before the line went dead.
The room was silent for a few moments before Lestrade cleared his throat and asked, "John, are you okay?"
"I'm fine," he bit out through clenched teeth, "and I'll be a lot more fine when you find the bastard who's doing this. I think I need some air; call me if you hear anything new."
John replayed his exchange with the kidnapper over and over again. There was something he was missing, something important; he knew it was there, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. He walked for hours, that one awful conversation on repeat in his head, interrupted only by the memory of Sherlock's cries.
Several hours later John realized that he hadn't eaten in over twelve hours and that he was actually hungry. He went into a nearby Chinese restaurant and tried not to feel too guilty for being there without Sherlock. Half way through his meal he had an epiphany. He was staring at the dragon painting on the wall when he remembered something about a gang that was becoming prominent whose symbol was a dragon. He threw some money on the table and went to find Wiggins.
Sherlock had lied when he told The Woman that he never begged. There were two things that could always make him beg: John Watson, and Cocaine. Now he was begging for both. He had lost all track of how long he had been gone; all he knew was that it had been 30 hours since he had last been given a hit. He was starting to go through withdrawals, but his captors hadn't left him to do so in peace. Every hour on the hour he was drenched with buckets of cold water and when the Russian returned with the riding crop, he couldn't stop himself from screaming.
He was left twitching and shaking after one such session when he heard the sound of footsteps approaching. He flinched when the door banged open, afraid of what was coming next. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to focus his thoughts on John for comfort. He heard someone approach him, but was surprised when a hand was placed tenderly on his cheek. He slowly opened his eyes and found John kneeling in front of him, worry etched into his face.
John smiled when he opened his eyes. "Hey there Sherlock; it's good to see you. I'm going to untie you now, but I need you to stay sitting down. Do you understand me?" Sherlock nodded, unable to make his voice work. John moved carefully as he removed the detective's bonds, not wanting to cause his friend any additional pain. Sherlock couldn't keep from whimpering as the doctor's hands brushed against his raw skin.
Once he was free, Sherlock carefully rested his hands in his lap and tried not to wince as John began his gentle examination. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the feeling of John's calm, steady hands on his body. He thought about what a good doctor John was - able to keep his touches a perfectly comforting balance between tender and clinical; Sherlock relaxed in the knowledge that he was being cared for by someone so competent. It wasn't until John, looking for signs of infection, began examining his new track marks that Sherlock flinched.
"John, I'm sorry," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'm so sorry."
John shook his head. "Sherlock, you don't have anything to be sorry for. This isn't your fault. The paramedics will be here in a few minutes, and then we can get you out of here. Alright?" Sherlock nodded and then reached up and wrapped his hand around the back of John's neck.
"I missed you."
John smiled and turned his head to place a quick kiss on his friend's palm. "I missed you too." Sherlock pulled on his neck, tugging him closer; John hesitated for a moment before leaning in and letting the detective kiss him. The both closed their eyes and promptly forgot that anyone else even existed. Sherlock hesitantly pushed his tongue forward and John welcomed it with a contented sigh, despite the lack of recent dental hygiene. Neither man was fighting for dominance; instead, both were merely reacquainting themselves with the other's mouth. John reached up and ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark, soft curls, causing the detective to whimper and tighten his grip on the doctor. The two men didn't even consider separating until a paramedic approached and awkwardly cleared her throat, and even then their kiss didn't end abruptly. John finally took control and gradually slowed their pace until their lips were barely brushing; then the doctor sweetly kissed the corner of his love's mouth one last time before leaning back. Sherlock let his hand drop back into his lap and John stepped back to give the paramedics room to work. He turned and saw Lestrade and his entire team staring at them in silence ranging from shocked to horrified. He just sighed inwardly and turned back to watch Sherlock.