Hey, lovely readers!

Thank you very much for the reviews and follows. I have to say that my bad mood is getting the better of me and I can't even write properly anymore. I rewrote this three times and ended up deleting a half of it that I will probably publish later today. I might actually change this chapter completely as well

I'm sorry about it being crap. *hides under the bed*

Waking up to find yourself tied to a chair was boring. In all honesty, those criminal minds of London should get slightly more creative, at least when trying to take up a fight with Sherlock Holmes.

It sounded as if he was on his own in the room, but still didn't dare open his eyes. He needed to think, in case he underestimated his opponent again. The place was damp but warm, and he could definitely identify the unmistakable stench of the sewers. He was somewhere by the river then, not far away from where he got knocked out. Amateurs, he mused to himself.

'Wakey, wakey you scumbag. I know you ain't asleep no more.'

Holmes silently refused to obey. Complying with their demands would be too boring, and without all the variables in the equation he needed to play for time. He changed his mind when the fist of his capturer connected with his already bruised cheek. His eyes flew open of their own accord, without waiting for a permission from Holmes's brain.

'When you are told to wake up, you wake up Mr. Holmes.' The second voice sounded different. The speaker took his time to articulate each word clearly, and Holmes knew that he wouldn't hear this kind of accent from a common thug.

'And why would that be Mr…?' Holmes retaliated questioningly.

This time the punch was aimed at his stomach and felt a thousand times worse than the first one. Holmes realised that he must have gotten sober by now, because the world was no longer spinning, he could feel every single nerve in his body and his senses were as sharp as ever.

'In answer to your first question. Because unless you do, I will personally make sure that you suffer. As to who I am, we will get to that later.' The tone of the man's voice betrayed uncontrolled anger. Holmes waited until he calmed down a bit, and tried to proceed with identifying who he was dealing with.

'May I ask you why you brought me to this…place?' This time the force of the punch he received was so great that Holmes's breath hitched in his throat. Although he tried to keep his calm, he ended up doubling over in the chair and then he was choking on something. He was yanked back up by his hair and finally managed to draw in a longed-for breath. He cursed himself mentally for being so curious when he felt warm, metallic liquid trailing down his chin. He couldn't tell whether he simply bit his tongue, or whether the beating was already starting to take more serious effects on his body.

'When you are not asked for it, you don't speak. You are an intelligent man Mr. Holmes. I am sure that you know that it would be best to comply, considering your current predicament.'

Well, I am certainly more intelligent than you. Holmes's mouth opened, but eventually he decided against retorting. First, he wanted to know what he has got himself into.

The man was accompanied by two other people. It was evident that the one who hit him was running this circus, and the other two were just his brainless flying monkeys. Holmes finally got the chance to look more closely at his captor. He was about the same age as the detective and Holmes had to admit that he had an intimidating feel to him. He was definitely tall, but the effect was magnified by the fact that he kept his back perfectly straight and held his head high. His moustache was trimmed perfectly, and it was evident that he made the effort to look neat and clean. His clothes were pressed immaculately; Holmes couldn't help but admire the way that he tied his cravat, making sure it was perfectly symmetrical. When the detective's eyes landed on a blade fastened to his belt he confirmed his hypothesis that he was dealing with a military man…apparently a veteran of the Afghan war, like Watson. Watson. No, don't think about him.

'Rupert Cavendish. 26 years old. Currently incarcerated in Belmarsh Prison. Awaiting execution. Unjustly. Are you familiar with this story Mr. Holmes?'

'Rupert Cavendish. The murderer and torturer of six children. He is going to hang in a weeks' time, to make London a safer place. Yes, I am familiar with this story. Unjustly? Not quite.' Apparently his capturer had a different opinion. This time the beating didn't stop with just one blow. Every single hit was carefully measured out and aimed. The soldier knew what he was doing in order to hurt, but not quite damage Holmes too much. The detective tried to shit in his chair, hoping he would be able to twist in a way that would earn him a hit on the head strong enough to knock him out. This only aggravated the opponent's anger and he caught Holmes by his throat, pulling him up together with the chair. He looked the detective in the eyes, communicating so much hatred that Holmes believed the look itself could kill. And for the love of God, or whatever mysterious power existed somewhere out there, he could not breathe. He somehow knew that it wasn't a good thing.

'You might think you're clever, Mr. Intelligent. Those idiots from Scotland Yard may be fooled, but I never will. My brother was a good man. Because of your mistake he is going to die.'

Holmes closed his eyes, feeling drowsy and fearing that his head might explode any moment now. He knew that it was just his brain playing tricks on him, but his capturer reminded him of Watson, with his military neatness and…and reminding him that all the evil in this world was his fault. Probably he wanted him dead as well. And the quip: Mr. Intelligent…that was exactly the same word that Watson used when reprimanding him…It didn't make any sense... Maybe the met each other in the army…?

'Mr. Holmes, we both want this to stop. Trust me. All you have to do, is let me take you to the police station, so that you can turn this thing around and fix the mess that you have created. You made a mistake, that's natural, now you need to face the facts.'

'Trust you?' Holmes's words were slurred together and he had difficulty keeping upright. He would probably have laid on the ground long ago, had the man's hand not been supporting him. 'I didn't make a mistake, your brother did. Now he needs to pay.'

The elder Cavendish shook his head, but a grin appeared on his face.

'Oh, John was so right about you…Anyway, you leave me no choice. It's a shame Rupert won't be able to see this…'

When the man was still talking, someone pulled a black bag over his head, and Holmes could definitely hear the sound of a knife being sharpened. But his mind was focused on something very different: what did Jon Watson had to do with all this?

XXXXXXX

'What do you mean he disappeared?' Mycroft Holmes frowned, without even looking up from the paper he was reading.

'I mean that he left the house, hasn't come back since and I've checked every single place in London, where he could possibly be without…'

'You know what he is like. I'm sure you are exaggerating good Doctor. Now if you would forgive me, I am quite busy. But thank you for informing me. If it bothers you so much I shall have someone sniff around and see what they can do.'

Watson gave up on trying to have a normal conversation with the elder Holmes when two bulky men entered the room, probably intending to escort him out. He wanted to scream, cry, and preferably disappear from the surface of the Earth. He had been looking for Holmes for hours with no result. There was an abundance of people who would be happy to use his vulnerability to hurt him, and Watson didn't even want to imagine what dangers were waiting out there for his friend.

However, what bothered him most was that his words were mightier than any sword could ever be. Bodies heal, souls not so much.

XXXXXXX

'You do realise that whatever you do to me, Scotland Yard has the evidence and nothing can save your brother?' Holmes tried to appear indifferent to the sounds in the background, but his heart was evidently speeding up.

'I don't really care that much about him. It just makes this whole ordeal look a whole lot nobler on my part. You are the criminal, Rupert was the victim. I am simply, executing the law, so to say.' The man laughed. It wasn't a happy sort of laugh. It was the kind that one would hear in a hospital full people who were not quite right in their heads. It was the kind of laugh that would turn heads in a tavern and terrify the poor customers.

Holmes tried not to think about the metallic sound of the knife being sharpened, and his mind always drifted off towards Watson. Towards his spiteful words that carved a wound into his soul, that would not heal like those that even the sharpest tools could inflict on his body. A wound that was deeper, that ripped out a part of him and would leave him scarred forever.

'I am doing a service to society, aren't I?' And to Watson, the detective thought.

'The society of thugs, certainly.'

'Oh, you really can't behave yourself, can you?' Seconds later a gag was tied tightly around his mouth. He could feel a sharp blade being pressed against his cheek, still covered by the black bag.

Is that supposed to scare me? Not a good idea, my dear…

Not even an hour later after Cavendish put the knife to use Holmes's opinion was different. He wasn't scared, he was screaming in terror.

Clearly boring crap. Do tell me if you want me to shut up, cause I don't really have motivation to write anymore unless you want me to…