"Faster, faster!"
Sherlock obeyed the voice and forced his legs to move as fast as physically possible.
"Faster, Sherlock! Run!"
The voice was getting louder now, almost deafening. He couldn't hear anything else but the voice, not the approaching helicopter, not the crunching of dead leaves beneath his feet, not the shouts of the men chasing him, not even his own ragged breathing.
All he could think about was John.
John, John, John.
"Run Sherlock!"
He was beginning to stumble. He knew John's voice was only in his mind. He'd gotten used to it over the past couple of years, speaking to him in always the worst possible moments.
But the voice was stronger this time, more insistent. It was almost as if the John in his head knew Sherlock was in danger, which was logical because the voice was only a figment of his imagination… Right?
"Sherlock!"
The voice was disorienting him. His legs were beginning to fatigue and he was losing sense of direction. He needed to pull himself together or else-
And then he was on his knees, cowering like a lost child. Men with guns loomed over him. He couldn't tell how many. He only saw snapshots of their faces and guns pointed straight at his head. What were they shouting? He couldn't understand. His mind was too foggy to comprehend anything.
The voice said, softer this time, "Sherlock…"
He put his head between his knees in resignation, unable to withstand the overwhelming images.
And then everything went silent.
Sherlock's eyes opened slowly to complete darkness. He wondered for a split second if he was dead, but, upon moving his head, realized he wasn't.
The room felt hot and humid, which caused his bruised skin to perspire. It smelled musty, as if the room had been unused for a very long time. His bare feet could feel that the floor was made of deteriorating stones that were slicked with water.
His mind already sharpening again, he deduced after only a few moments he was in the room of the warehouse he had broken into just hours earlier.
Even though he wasn't being Sherlock Holmes, he was still doing detective work. He had completed cases all over Europe, and his newest one was in Serbia. He had gone into it thinking it would be an easy case that would take him barely any time to complete. Normally, he wouldn't take cases like this and go for the more difficult ones instead, but the Serbian government was offering him a hefty reward, which he desperately needed.
The case was a drugs bust. A group of former military men had stolen various pieces of Serbian military property, including guns and a helicopter. The government suspected they were using these to smuggle various drugs into Serbia, which was indeed the case. Most drugs busts only took Sherlock only an hour at most to solve, but the guns and helicopter would lengthen that time, and make things more interesting. He agreed to take the case.
It turned out that these drug smugglers were more clever than he had anticipated, using some military tactics he recognized from a few books, but failed to realize they were using them until they had already gotten away. The case ended up turning into a wild goose chase. Sherlock would uncover their plans, and, just as quickly, the smugglers would change their tactics.
After about a week of this, Sherlock had finally thought he'd found a solid lead. He discovered they were hiding in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of a deserted forest. It seemed almost too simple to be true. As always, he decided to go alone to investigate. He regretted that decision as soon as he stepped foot into the warehouse. When he opened the door, he discovered three men with rifles prepared to shoot, making Sherlock with his pistol look absolutely pathetic.
The rest was a blur. All he could remember was that he spent what he assumed was quite a long time running frantically through the forest. It could have been hours. He had lost his gun somewhere along the way.
And John… His fragmented memories were telling him John was there too, but he knew that couldn't be possible.
Sherlock snapped out of his reverie and found that his vision had become less blurry.
He began to test his aching joints to see if anything had been broken or injured more than slightly. Everything was functioning as properly as they could in the given circumstances, except for his arms. His shoulders were straining against something, and he could barely feel the rest of his arms at all.
With some effort, he lifted his head and shook his overgrown and matted curls out of his face. He looked to his right to see that his wrist was cuffed and attached to a chain that was anchored on the wall a few feet away. He looked to his left and saw the same thing.
He sighed and let his head drop down again. He should have assumed they would restrain him if they didn't kill him. They might kill him yet.
A light source above him flickered a few times before it remained lit. He looked up and saw a large floodlight just above his head. He winced from the shock of the light and looked away.
He blinked to clear his vision, and more accurately observed his surroundings. The room was at the end of an arched hallway, otherwise dimly lit. The whole building, as it seemed, was entirely made out of stone. It wasn't cluttered, but meaningless objects scattered the hallway as far down as he could see.
He turned around and observed a staircase leading up to a crude doorway. To the right was the only window in the room, and below it sat a table with more meaningless objects resting atop it.
A man with a shaved head came down the stairs. He was wearing simple black clothing and was carrying a rusty pipe that he probably removed from the disintegrating plumbing. He had an intimidating step and expression. An army man, obviously, but most likely the navy. He bore a wedding band on his finger, but it was not well maintained. An unhappy marriage, then.
Sherlock turned back around and put his head back down to hide his face with his hair.
The man jerked the chain on his right wrist up in order to pass under. When he was through, he jerked it back down again. Neither actions did his already aching shoulder any good.
The man asked a question in a different language… Most likely Serbian.
"What?" Sherlock breathed in Serbian to test his theory, and to hear the question again.
The man grabbed Sherlock by the hair and pulled his head up to look him in the eyes. "Who. Are. You?" he repeated in Serbian, annunciating each word.
Sherlock decided that no matter what this man did to him, he would put off revealing his identity for as long as possible. He could give him a fake name and story, but the man would still kill him, and even faster than if he had said nothing at all. He would put off confessing in hopes that some government officials could rescue him. Even if it was a bleak and futile hope, it was all he had.
Sherlock shook his head a microscopic amount, looking the man right in the eyes.
The man threw Sherlock's head down with a cry of exasperation, sending a wave of pain down Sherlock's spine. He groaned softly.
He could hear the man's footsteps had traveled a few feet away. He heard him turn around and say, "I guess we'll have to do this the hard way."
His face still concealed by his hair, Sherlock rolled his eyes. How very typical.
Sherlock's perception of time was warped, but he estimated he had been in captivity for about three days with no food or water. He wouldn't have minded, for he had gone days without food or drink simply because he had forgotten about it, but the room was so humid and hot that he was losing copious amounts of water due to profuse sweating. His skin practically dripped, and sometimes did. His days consisted of a twenty or thirty minute flogging session via the man's pipe, after which the man would disappear up the steps again for a few hours, only to return again for another ruthless beating. Sherlock had welts and cuts and bruises all over his body, but it was especially awful on his back and face. As a result of the frequent abuse, common shouting from upstairs, and the fact that the light was always left on, Sherlock had barely slept the entire time. The largest amount of sleep he managed to steal was only for about fifteen minutes, only to awaken to the man with the pipe flogging his back worse than ever before.
Sherlock was beginning to hear John's voice more frequently due to sleep deprivation, which was both a blessing and a curse. John would soothe him with things like "It's going to be alright," or "I'm right here. It's okay," which made Sherlock's predicament almost enjoyable. Then Sherlock would snap back to reality and feel a void opening up inside his chest, consuming all hope of ever being freed. The hole-in-his-chest feeling was something he had become accustomed to in his time away from John, but now it was eating him alive. Sometimes it felt like the despair was killing him, and he would shout John's name without thinking. Then the man would come down and beat him again, leaving him shaking with blood dripping from his skin and tears falling from his eyes.
One day, the man returned with his pipe in hand and someone else behind him. Sherlock could hear as they came down the stairs that there was not just one set of footsteps, but two. He flicked his eyes open in surprise when he heard this, and quickly closed them again.
He was too fatigued to keep his eyes open for any length of time or to maintain his posture. His back was completely arched over and the only thing supporting him were the chains that bound his wrists, putting even more stress on his sore bones. His legs were twisted together and completely useless.
The man yanked on the chain, a feeling that Sherlock had gotten used to, to let his guest pass beneath it before he proceeded. Once the new man passed through, Sherlock observed that the man was well dressed and obviously not a drug smuggler. There was a pistol on his belt that looked like it belonged to the government, but was different from the pistol the other man carried on his belt. The new man hadn't gotten it from the smugglers then, which increased the likelihood of him being a government official. Sherlock examined his walk and posture, which were professional as well as slightly intimidating. No doubt he worked in the government.
Sherlock smiled in spite of himself, and made sure to hide it from the man with that bloody pipe.
It was no use, since he began to beat him again and shout at him senselessly.
Through his shouts of agony and the sound of the metal on his bear flesh, he somehow heard the other man sit down in a nearby chair and prop his legs up on a stool. Well is the bastard going to help him or not?
After a few minutes, the flogging finally ceased. Sherlock took the opportunity and attempted to calm his breath.
"You broke in here for a reason," the man accused as he slowly paced towards the left hand wall. He set down his pipe and picked up much a larger one. He returned to his place in front of the bloodied man. "Just tell us why and you can sleep."
"Don't tell him," John's voice ordered. Sherlock inhaled sharply at the sound of his friend's voice.
"Remember sleep?" mocked the man with the pipe.
"Do something!" John shouted, blocking out all other noises.
The man raised the pipe over his head in preparation to strike.
"Sherlock!" John yelled.
"You were in the navy," Sherlock whispered.
The man lowered the pipe. "What?" He yanked Sherlock's head up by his curls. The man leaned his ear closer to hear what Sherlock had to say.
"You were in the navy," he said, a bit louder this time. "You had a love affair, not a happy one, at that."
He let go of Sherlock's head more gently than before.
"Well? What did he say?" The new man's accent seemed… forced.
"He said that I used to work in the navy," the abuser repeated incredulously, still staring down at Sherlock, "where I had an unhappy love affair."
"And?" the guest said. Sherlock realized the new man was testing him to see if it truly was him, or he had a sick sense of humor.
"I know the electricity in your bathroom needs repair," Sherlock continued. "Your wife is also sleeping with your neighbor, by the way"
The man with the pipe repeated in astonishment, "That the electricity isn't working in my bathroom and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbor."
He jerked Sherlock's head up again and demanded, "Who?"
"It's the coffin maker."
The man let go of Sherlock's hair. "The coffin maker… And? And?" he said bending down to hear Sherlock.
Sherlock thought for a moment, and smiled to himself as he said, "You can catch them at it if you go home right now."
Of course, there was no way he could have possibly have known that, but the man was obviously a compulsive person. Sherlock knew he would take the bait.
"If I go home now, I'll catch them at it." He turned towards the hallway and said, "I knew it. I knew there was something going on."
He started running. Sherlock heard him sliding something, probably a metal door, and close it, leaving Sherlock and the new man alone.
Calmly, the man said, "So, my friend. Now it's just you and me."
Sherlock wondered why the man wouldn't just get him out of there. Why wasn't he even the least bit alarmed?
He began to rise from his chair, "You have no idea the trouble it took to find you," he said slowly and cryptically as he made his way across the room. His footsteps rang in Sherlock's ears. He could hear the beating of his own heart.
"Sherlock!" John screamed again.
He pulled Sherlock's head up by his hair, just as the other man had done. "Now listen to me," he said in perfect English.
Mycroft.
Sherlock cursed himself. How could he have been so stupid?
Mycroft went on, "There's an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent."
Sherlock raised his brows.
"Sorry," Mycroft said sarcastically, "but the holiday is over, brother dear."
Mycroft dropped his head.
Sherlock sighed. There was nothing worse than seeing his brother for the first time in almost two years, only to be immediately outsmarted by him.
"Back to Baker Street," Mycroft barked.
"Come home," John pleaded.
"Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft added.
"I miss you, Sherlock," John said.
"I miss you, too," Sherlock replied inside his mind, smiling to himself.
He would finally get to see John again. This was the opportunity he had been hoping, praying for ever since he faked his death. Being without John was becoming almost unbearable, even before he was captured. John was like a drug. Sherlock couldn't get enough of his army doctor, couldn't even function properly without him, even if he wanted to try. Sherlock's mind was getting slower and slower the more time he spent away from John. He didn't know why. He had been fine before he met John. More than fine, absolutely brilliant. But then he got a taste of John Watson, who made him better than he was before, and there was no turning back.
Yes, back to Baker Street, then. Back to being Sherlock Holmes. Everything will be just as it was before. Perfect.
