Author's Note: Thanks to those of you who have followed/favorite-ed my story! I worked real hard on it! Again, chapters will be posted up much sooner if I have the proper motivation (reviews!). Enjoy and I hope to do the character's justice.

Chapter 2

Houdini Would Be Proud

"Come now, boys! I don't have all day!" the woman commanded, opening her sun umbrella and placing it over her head. She pushed her sunglasses up with her index and middle finger, looking very sophisticated and wealthy to be a slave trader.

While one man was undoing the cage, the other one was shoving Sherlock's shoulder, trying to get his attention. John almost yelled something in a blind fury at the way they treated his friend, but he kept his mouth shut in fear of what they might do afterwards and slunk back further into his cage.

"He ain't awake, boss!" the muscular, dumb-sounding one informed the woman. He then grabbed Sherlock head, which proved he had a very large hand, and lifted it up, pulling on his black, curly hair. "Is it dead?"

John bit his lip at what the different position of Sherlock's face revealed; he looked deathly pale and his mouth was slightly open. John wasn't able to see his eyes, but he saw some dried blood plastered to his right cheek. That was when John couldn't keep his mouth shut anymore.

"Please! He needs medical attention!" John kneeled to the edge of his cage, as he wasn't able to stand in the confined area. "I'm a doctor, please let me check him."

The woman flashed her eyes over to John and smiled. "Medical attention? What a time-consuming idea." She then looked over at the man who had opened the cage. "Turner." She gestured to the other side of the truck. John could nearly hear the thundering beats of his heart, echoing in his ears.

Turner left John's line of sight, but returned within moments with a bucket, looking to be rather heavy. With a grunt, Turner threw the contents within the bucket onto Sherlock's body, soaking him to the bone. John wasn't even sure if it was water, but it was certainly some liquid. John could hear a very faint cough and Sherlock's fingers twitched.

"Ah, he lives," the woman laughed in a thick, Scottish accent. "Just needed a little motivation, yeah?"

"Sherlock," John said quietly, though the people present would be able to hear.

"I suppose," Sherlock muttered, barely audible with a hoarse, pained voice, "I suppose this means you weren't able to retrieve your pistol in time?"

John almost smiled at Sherlock's ability to lighten the situation, but he held it back, knowing his friend was in an incredible amount of misery. "Sorry, Sherlock."

Turner and the remaining man walked away and the truck moved slightly, telling John that they had gotten into the truck.

"Now that I know the merchandise is in working condition, we'll be off," the woman informed us. "It'll be about another hour or two, so get comfortable."

She then disappeared and the truck had begun moving again. For the first few moments, everything was silent.

"Mr. Brooke, I presume?" Sherlock questioned, his voice slurring in more ways than one.

"Don't talk, Sherlock," John warned, knowing full-well that his friend would like to interview the man in the other cage. "You'll have plenty of time later. Right now, you need to tell me how you're feeling." John moved closer to the side of his cage that was closer to Sherlock's. His friend had already sat up and was leaning against the bars in a weak manner.

"I can't see very well and, oh yes, I have a headache that wishes to destroy me," Sherlock explained sarcastically. John took a mental note that he had blurry vision; one of the first signs of a concussion. Sherlock then added quickly, "I feel very dizzy and nauseas. I have a concussion, John."

"Yes, you do. Do you know what that means?" John used his doctor tone of voice.

"You'll be a pain in my arse?"

"You can't go to sleep. You have a very severe concussion, Sherlock. You may fall into a coma if you fall asleep again," John warned in an even tone. However, he narrowed his eyes through the bars once he realized Sherlock hadn't answered in a while.

He inhaled sharply and used a loud voice, "Bloody hell! What did I just say?"

Sherlock grunted and sat up straighter, blinking his eyes open. "Wha… What?"

"Don't fall asleep, you clot!"

"I wasn't sleeping."

"Yes, you were! I saw you!"

"No… No, I was… No, I wasn't," Sherlock was beginning to speak incoherently. John's eyebrows knitted together in worry. The consulting detective needed medical care. John was sure of it. Either for a bad concussion or something much worse that could only be detected through an MRI scan. John wanted to let Sherlock sleep, but if he wasn't able to get to him, then his friend may not wake up. John learned from medical school that if a patient has a concussion, you must wake them up every quarter hour and ask them easy questions to make sure they are aware. In John's position, that would be impossible.

"Sherlock?" John asked steadily and concerned.

"John, do be a friend and give me your jacket," Sherlock interrupted quickly. John, figuring he was giving his winter coat to Sherlock for a much-needed pillow, happily tossed his only item of warmth through the bars and into Sherlock's cage. John watched Sherlock closely; noticing how his friend was tugging and pulling things on his coat.

"Sherlock, what are you-?" he was interrupted by the horrible sound of cloth ripping. "What are you doing?"

"Do not take me for a fool, John," Sherlock nearly spat out, his words still slurring. "This is a very poor example of a confinement. For idiots, nothing more."

John scrutinized Sherlock's movements in the darkness of the truck, but couldn't make out what he was doing. Within moment, Sherlock's cage had been opened. Conspicuously proud, Sherlock walked out of his cage with ease. However, the truck's tires hit a bump in the rode and caused the now-standing-Sherlock to stumble backwards and tumble forwards, right next to John's cage. Having a concussion didn't help, as John noticed Sherlock was unable to stop his fall and simply hit the metal floor, grunting as his shoulder made contact. Once the rumbling had stopped, John expected to see the consulting detective get up and unlock his own cage, but nothing of the sort happened.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

"Just the… the nausea and dizzy spells," Sherlock answered weakly and John noticed his friend was covering his mouth tightly, as if to hold something in.

"Unlock mine, Sherlock. Then I'll take care of you, I promise," John reassured, certain that he would. Sherlock, shaking vigorously, managed to balance on his knees and unlock John's cage. Instantly, Sherlock collapsed, as if all his energy was put into freeing John.

John examined Sherlock like doctor he was and came to the following diagnosis: Grade III concussion; head trauma, continuous bleeding, loss of consciousness, unequal dilation of pupils, could be a result of lesions, but unlikely. John retrieved his jacket and placed Sherlock's head on top of it, trying to keep it still and comfortable. After making sure he was still breathing and simply unconscious, John elevated Sherlock's feet by putting them on a pile of empty boxes found around the cages.

"How is he?"

John nearly cried out and attacked the man in the remaining cage, but stopped it on instinct. Richard Brooke pressed his face in between the bars of his own cage, looking sincere to his words.

John was hesitant, but answered, "Not well. Bad hit to the head. He won't be much help to us now. I'm sure he'll be unconscious for a while."

"How can one man be much help, anyhow?" Brooke questioned.

John chuckled lightly as he bunched up his jacket for more cushion. "Oh, you'd be surprised."

A silence followed John's reply. Without the proper materials, John wasn't going to get anywhere with Sherlock's treatment. And it wasn't like he could just open up the back of the truck and hop out of a moving vehicle with Sherlock in his arms.

John suddenly remembered something. "This woman certainly gave you the slip. First two dates and she's already sending you to a human auction."

"Amelia Lockehart," Brooke said absent-mindedly.

"What?"

"Amelia Lockehart's her name. She fooled me, alright. I thought she loved me," Brooke explained solemnly and looked absolutely crestfallen. John couldn't help but understand. The doctor tried oh so many times to find the right woman, but they always left him when they met Sherlock. Sarah was the only one to stick around for longer than three weeks.

"I'll get us out of here." John was looking straight into Brooke's eyes. "But, I need to figure out how Sherlock got us out of the cage."

John carefully lifted his friends head to retrieve his jacket and examined it. "Good God. Where in the hell did he learn to do this?"

John nearly laughed at the monstrosity of a lock pick made out of the sewing's and metals made out of John's zipper. Sherlock was certainly quite the character. John grinned at Brooke, now that he knew how to open his cage. It was time to fight back.

O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0O

"Yoohoo! Boys!" Amelia called as Tucker opened the back. "We're here!"

The door to the back was not even half way open when a figure the size of a man dove out and tackled Tucker to the ground after a loud battle cry. Brooke hopped down from the truck, carrying Sherlock on his back.

"Stop! Stop!" Amelia cried, waving her arms around frantically, though helpless to do anything to two grown men. John delivered a short, stubborn, and powerful punch to Tucker's chin and the man was out cold.

"Go, Brooke!" John ordered in his commanding voice. He was almost taken back to his military days, but a quick look at the limp Sherlock slung around Richard's shoulders made him stay. Brooke sprinted across the highway and into the forest, much slower because of Sherlock's dead weight on his back. John scanned the area, looking for the other man that might come up behind him, but didn't come in time.

"Stop! Stop, you bastards!" Amelia hollered, running after John in her high heels. She ran and tripped miserably in vain.

John had disappeared into the forest.