The 40th
Prologue: The Waiting.
Darkness.
That's all he could see when he stirred and at last opened his eyes. Deep and utter darkness. The kind of pitch black feeling you get when you can only manage to acknowledge your sight being used because your leaden eyelids don't hang shut before your eyes.
His cunning gaze tried to scan the room before him, but there was no data to collect, except the fact that he could not make out anything in that lightless world. He tried to shuffle and like a flick of a switch his mind wrapped up the fact that he was tied up in a chair. He could now feel the rope binding his feet and cold handcuffs on his wrists.
He blinked a few times waiting for his eyes to adjust, but the sight never came. He wondered if he had suddenly become blind, and with that he panicked -strategically worried, he doesn't panic- now was definitely not the time for his sight to falter. Maybe John could…John.
His train of thought was interrupted and with that his priorities changed. Since one of his other senses was compromised he called out quietly to John, it was never clever to make loud noises in these sort of situations -and they seemed to get caught up in them quite often- but when his doctor didn't answer he threw caution to the wind and yelled, "John! John!" Over and over again until his throat was dry enough to make him stop, but there was no sound to get back from the room.
He started questioning if John was even there with him, but it was uncommon for criminals to get only him. So there were two options -out of the six he conjured up at the beginning- left, either this was extremely personal, or they had John in some other room ready to use him as a hostage, and damn, he hoped it was the former rather than the latter.
Once that realization hit him, he stayed quiet. There was no one to call for, and there it was again, utter silence. He had nothing to go on or try and deduce where he was, or whether they had John or not. He was a man of answers, he could observe, muster up data and expose all of your darkest secrets within minutes. However this time he had no clue, and it frustrated him. Not a single thing to use, except that it was dark, it was silent, and he was alone.
It was only when he woke up that he realized he had dozed off. His mind barely grasping the fact that he was indeed still tied up in that chair and what happened was not just some vivid dream. He tried to remember when was the moment in which they -whoever they were- got him. When the answer didn't come naturally he reverted to his Mind Palace. He walked around, searching every hallway until he found the room where he kept all this sort of things. When he entered, it came to him.
He was walking through an alley. It was approximately 6 o´clock in the afternoon. Heavy rained poured down from the sky, so it had been raining for quite a bit. He reached for the inside of his coat sleeves and proved he had walked a short distance when he found them dry. He couldn't remember where had he been before or why was he walking on that part of town, he most likely deleted it, deeming it unimportant at the time, he definitely could see its importance now.
He turned around and saw that no John followed him, which was good. That meant he probably hadn't been there when he was ambushed. Hence he was not taken, therefore this ordeal was most likely to be personal and he was on his own. Good.
Having John on the outside world aided him in more ways than one. First, he would quickly realize he hadn't come home that night, and would probably set up Lestrade and his men looking for him right away. Then, for once John couldn't be used as blackmail, that allowed the young man more freedom to do things. And finally, John was safe. That gave him a sense of relief, like he had one less thing to worry about. But that didn't mean that, in his own selfish way, a tiny bit of him wouldn't have wanted it for him to be there too. At least to stop being so bloody alone.
He felt a cold breeze hit his neck and came to know his scarf was missing, and noticed for the first time his hands were covered in blood. That was interesting, he didn't recall being in a fight or getting hurt. This thought was cut sort when he halted and seemed to wait. When two men jumped on him and he did not appeared to be surprised. That was even more interesting, was he expecting them? There was no time to waste so he started punching and ducking -unfortunately taking blows too-. But despite the fact of being outnumbered, he was proving to be a good match to the other two contestants. until the assault turned unfair and one of the men cheated. He put a cloth on the detective's mouth and in a split second he deduced what was happening, and knew he had lost. A second later, everything went black.
It was obviously not what he had expected to do that night -not that he actually knew if it was still the same one- and his legs started to feel numb. So that proved he probably had been tied up there for several hours. He needed to remember who he was chasing. Was he even in a case? If he was, why wasn't John with him? and why did he had blood on his hands? These questions rounded his head, and he tried to go back to his Mind Palace, but it seemed impossible. Something had closed the door, and he did not have that key anymore.
He stayed still, for what seemed like days, but could've been mere minutes. By the amount of slight air he felt in his bare forearms he knew the room he was in was not that small, but a room nonetheless. Darkness filled every bit of it and it made him nervous, something could have been skulking around unseen and he wouldn't have had a clue about it.
He knew there had to be at least one way out, and he was determined to find it. He listed all the torture devices that could be stored in a place of that dimension. So far he could picture at least twenty one, and those were only the ones he was familiar with. You never know what kind of clever and twisted new toys could his captor had acquired for their meeting, this being obviously personal. There were sometimes fresh ones, always much sicker than the last and he could not picture the sort of tool they will most likely use on him, nor how much pain it would cause him, probably a lot. But in that room everything was possible. He needed to see, even if what he saw was worse than what he imagined. He needed to be sure.
He curled his toes at discomfort and moved his bare feet as much as he could. He felt his light shirt weight on his torso -that and his trousers being the only clothing he had on- and it somehow wasn't enough to keep the cool temperature away from his system, he missed his warm coat.
Suddenly a light bulb flicked on in the centre of the room, sending a wave of faint light all across it. His pupils slowly starting to reduce to their original size. He thanked that the light was not bright white, but soft yellow, and it didn't have the strength to ignite every detail between those walls, but it was enough.
His newly recovered gaze scanned his surroundings at the speed of light and he was surprised to find out there were no threats, at least not ones he could see. The space was medium size, and there was no sort of furniture, just the chair to where he was bound. The paint on the walls was scratching off, he calculated it had been for at least ten years, and it had low ceilings. This was probably used as an storage basement in its glory days, most likely a wine cellar. He could still smell the slight scent of fermenting grape. He searched for the most important thing, a door.
It wasn't easy to find it, but after looking as closely as he could with the movement restraint, he noticed an slim -almost unnoticeable- gape in the wall before him, forming a rectangle. It seemed to be heavy, and probably as thick as the concrete walls. It was modified so it could only be opened from the outside and that left him to grasp the fact that he was going to have to wait until he had a visit from whoever got him in this situation. Or for John to come to his rescue. Whatever the reason, all he could do now was wait.
After several minutes, he started realizing a weight on his shoulders, as if the life of him was beginning to drip away from his body, he recognized that feeling that tugged him downwards. He knew he had been drugged and it had, at last, started to work its magic through his body. He was almost sure he could see something come out from his fingers, like ghosts escaping, dancing and twisting, ready to get away from that body of his. He didn't believe it of course, he knew first hand all of the effects a drug could have in someone's system, but he couldn't help but gape at the sight. It was all so interesting.
Once he stirred again he felt different. He could sense something cold against his cheek and one of his legs felt sort of trapped. When he raised his head the room had been tilted sideways -he was the one who tilted- and he was now sprawled on the floor. The chair was nowhere to be found, and his now free wrists and ankles were showing a tinted red stripe. The rope must have burned the skin, but they didn't hurt. He was now unrestricted to roam around the small place, hopefully he would encounter something worth observing.
When he stood up his legs staggered a bit, not yet regaining their full strength, but alright enough to walk. He strode the confines of the area and found few things of importance. The most intriguing one being the fact that there was now a tray of food laying close to the -for now- unopenable door. The food on it wasn't a feast, but it was enough to grant a body with all the vitamins needed, to not cause -except of course, if you were Mycroft- starvation. If they were feeding him well it meant they needed him alive, to help them do something or to torture him as long as possible. He, once again, hoped for the former.
He kneeled to examine the food, smelling it and looking for any trace of poison in it -not that he was planning on eating it- he just wanted to measure what sort of nemesis he was facing up against. Know your enemy and you shall win. There was no sign of any inedible substance, and the vegetables smelled disinfected. There was, however, something off in the situation. He could feel the night coming to a dawn and usually the captor should've made an appearance by now. There was none of that this time.
He was now untied, well "fed" but still imprisoned. He felt like the lap dog his uncle Henry used to have when he and Mycroft were young. He would keep him in a large cage, and buy for him the best dog food he could find. But he never seemed to pet it, or even let him take a walk or two outside that quadrangular hell. Although Mycroft and him always looked past it, now that he thought back at the situation, he realized he sort of pitied that dog. His brother would probably scold him if he knew, tell him that caring is never an advantage, but that creature reminded him of a lonely, friendless life, like the one he used to have. Before he met John.
His uncle claimed to love it, yet it never meant anything more to him than a moving toy. Maybe that was what his captor thought of him -not the love part, but the concept of making him feel like the lesser being in their presence. This was beginning to feel all too familiar, he had been in that situation before, but the one who was behind it was long gone. He was glad he would never have to come down that road again, the last time he saw that man -if you can even call him that- it costed him all he had, even his life. Still it didn't shake the fact that whoever this person was, he was going to play him, maybe until he had nothing left again.
He felt frustrated, not knowing what this situation was about. So he looked, he looked for more things that could clue him in the plan he had to conjure up. The food tray stood there, untouched, taunting. He grabbed one of the chicken breasts from the plate and threw it across the room. His mind too caught up to do anything else. As he went to grab the second one he noticed something under the plate. A white flat object, creeping out from below. When he pulled at it he knew it being a note. Three words written out across it in a curly, almost mocking, handwriting. If the tray of food wasn't already an statement of the fate he was about to endure in its own, this made it crystal clear.
"Missed me, Sherlock?"
Author's note: So, this is the prologue, the chapters are much longer, and the should be coming up periodically, but I have school and work to think about so bear with me if I take a little longer than expected to update.
Hope you liked it!