John squints. His eyesight still has not completely adjusted to the dark. He can smell chlorine but is too cold. Too cold, really, unnaturally cold. The cold permeated his soul and a deep melancholy took residence there. It is an odd sensation. He cannot remember feeling this hopeless ever. Not even in the moments that prefixed the bullet that lodged in his flesh. He twists his limbs, he realises he is tied with iron shackles. He blinks some more. He sees a faint light now. A pale figure shapes the light. He blinks, trying to erase the heavy hopelessness settled in his guts. He frowns when he realises it is in the shape of a leopard.
A leopard? Why is there an astral leopard crouching around him? He tries to drag out the last memory he had before waking up here. Okay, he starts, he was at the cemetery, Mary called, he had answered, their conversation was brief, and then he remembers nothing. A chill settles in that has nothing to do with the external temperature.
Moriarty. Chorine. No.
John knows this place. The sense of de ja vu lodges firmly in his gut. He shakes his head and blinks a few more times to figure out shapes in the darkness. He is strapped to a chair. Iron cuffs tying his limbs down to a heavy metal chair. Then, he realises the darkness is shifting. It is moving. He frowns. The darkness is moving as the leopard pads along an invisible circular path. He still feels amazingly cold. And the melancholic fear grips him without any rhyme or reason. He is very confused.
"Back to where we began?" Hermione asks as Sherlock hails down a cab.
"That is where the problem lies," Sherlock replies, "I don't know if he means the first time at St Barts or at the poolside where he first revealed himself."
"Okay, you take Harry and go to the pool. I will drop by at St Barts."
He whips his around, frowning. Before he can protest, she says, "Look I will be fine, but please, please take Harry with you."
Sherlock grumbles, "I am eighty percent sure they are at the pool. But to be super sure someone needs to check St Barts. We will just be wasting time if we run to both places."
Harry isn't too happy but he nods. He knows she can take care of herself, even though it does not make him happy. He says, "Yes, Sherlock, she is right."
"Yeah," she steps forward and places a hand one Sherlock's cheek, "We will save John. Text me the address, okay?" She removes her hand and turns around, looking for an isolated place to apparate.
Sherlock frowns at her receding figure hurrying down the pavement. He is torn between the urge to follow her and go ahead with his plan. Harry helps him in deciding as he hails down a cab and shouts at him, "Come on!"
Sherlock and Harry get into the cab. Sherlock gives the address of the pool as the driver takes off. He is engulfed in worry and he does not remember being this conflicted. His hands start shaking, so he jams it in his coat, lest Harry see him.
Harry did not see him but he could guess at his state. He says, "She will be okay. She is Hermione Granger, the bravest and wisest witch I ever had the fortune to befriend. I know she will be okay." He fists his hand and places it under his chin as he frowns. He cannot be sure about how will she fare. He is also not sure what awaits him—them.
Sherlock nods. He knows. But this feeling will not go away. He tucks his chin and falls into a spiral of swirling questions and doubt. He hopes he gets to John in time. He also sends a quick text to Hermione. And then sends another text.
Hermione apparates inside the hospital, Muggles be damned. Thankfully the lab she apparates into is empty. She runs towards the lab Sherlock liked to use. Before she pushes the door open she raises her wand aloft. She nudges the door and jumps in. Relief exhales her lung as she sees it is empty. As she lowers her wand, her eyes fall on a piece of paper propped against a test tube rack. She wonders if it is just there like that or else it is there with intentions.
She edges closer and as extra protection, uses magic to lift the note. The paper unfolds and there are only three words written on it. "Tick tock Granger."
She shakes her head. Sure enough, Moriarty knew they would split up. And sure he knew she would come here. She grabs the paper physically and crumples it. For self-satisfaction she sets it on fire. Grudgingly she admits to herself—yes, okay Jim Moriarty has to be the smartest arsehole she had to come across. Besides Sherlock Holmes of course.
At the last strain of thought, she is reminded to check her phone. Sure enough, he had sent her the address. And another message.
John tries very hard to fight it. It is weighing him down. No, no, no! He has a baby on the way, he has a wife he loves very much and he has a best friend who he cannot abandon. He cannot die. Not here. Not in this cold, suffocating darkness. He needs to stay awake and expel this sadness. He tugs at the cuffs. It does not work. Obviously magic.
Then the astral leopard vanishes. His head falls back. He hears a sucking noise. And then he feels as if all the happiness is being sucked out on him. And life too. Maybe he will die sitting in this cold, metal chair.
But then he hears a voice. It had been deadly quite till now. It is Moriarty. Shit.
Sherlock and Harry run in. The doors bang open. They both halt in their tracks. Harry, in fear of the known and Sherlock in the fear of the unknown, of the sight in front of him.
John is sitting on an iron chair of sorts, his limbs cuffed. His head is drooping, eyes blinking as if he is trying to see through fog. Surrounding him, from three directions, are floating tall, grey, skeletal, hooded figures. Each time they are moving, John is moving, as if pulled on by marionette strings and a weird, foggy strand is leaving John's body and being sucked in by those creatures.
A cold sweat breaks on Sherlock's forehead as the horror of the scene settles in his gut. Harry says, his voice shaking, "Those are dementors."
"Are they dangerous?" Sherlock asks, dreading the answer.
"We use them to sentence our prisoners to death."
A door opens behind John and Moriarty enters, followed by Blaise. Moriarty smiles and says, "Ahh, nostalgia is such a bitch. Is this not nice Sherly?"
"Very," Sherlock replies, with the confidence he needed. Where is Hermione? Did she get his other text?
"You bought Harry. Where is your girlfriend? Not at the hospital I suppose?"
Sherlock is a bit taken back but does not show it. He says, "So very clever of you. Great, really."
Moriarty dips his head. Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes, he says, "I am here, now let John go."
"Ohohoho, not so fast. Blaise? I think I have scared Sherly enough, let out the Patronus. We don't want Dr Watson dead. Yet."
Out of Blaise's wand shoots out a pale bluish light that swirls about till it takes the shape of a feline of some sorts. Sherlock squints his eyes. It is a leopard.
Harry explains, "That is a Patronus. It will keep away the dementors. Temporarily though."
"Blaise, please take out the spare. I got no business with him," Moriarty says with glee.
"Stupefy!" Blaise shouts, his wand pointing at Harry. Before he could raise his wand, Harry keels over.
Even if his mind was screaming danger, Sherlock stays put. He is arms-less, but he knows she will get here. But soon a bullet whizzes past him and sinks into the cement three inches from his shoes. Opposite him, Moriarty roars in laughter, "Did I say I have other help?"
"This is unfair!" Sherlock barks. Anger bubbles in him furiously. He ducks another bullet when the doors blast open with a loud crash. The hinges get blown off, a few bricks too and smokes fills the area. He spots a blur of curly hair fly past him. He smiles, his witch is here. And trust her to make an entrance.
Hermione had heard the first bullet. She decides to reject the stealth plan and opts to do it loud. So with a single Bombarda Maxima, she knows she created enough distraction. The first thing she spots is an unconscious Harry, who she realises is stupefied. She knows she has a small window, so she first renervates Harry and then rushes towards Sherlock. Saying nothing, besides a smile, she thrusts the gun in his hand. He returns the smile with another one. She got his other text.
He aims at the catwalk above. Before the hired gun can take aim, Sherlock shoots once. The bullet lodges in his right shoulder.
She says, "Good one."
He says, "Thank you. Great entrance though."
"Trust her to make one," Harry joins them with a grin, brushing the brick dust off his jacket and hair.
"Brilliant! A trio of sorts isn't it Blaise?"