Author's Note: The first photograph in the grisly series arrives...can John and Lestrade squeeze some kind of clue out of it?
John shakingly put his phone back in his pocket and breathed deeply, calming himself. The cabby had gathered from what he had heard that something was wrong.
"Everything alright?" he asked, with a heavy Cornish accent.
"Take me to Scotland Yard, now. Step on it, man!" John said, urgent though collected. It was common sense not to let the criminal set the terms, and Inspector Lestrade would be more than willing to help since Sherlock had gotten him out of several scrapes before.
An excruciatingly slow ten minutes later, John leapt out of the cab and hurried into the building and made his way to Lestrade's office. He knew the way well. A surprised Lestrade looked up from his desk as he saw John enter. He was on the phone and motioned for John to sit down, but John, with his fists shoved deep in his jacket pockets, paced until Lestrade got off the phone.
"What brings you here?" Lestrade asked, curiously.
"Sherlock's been kidnapped."
"What? You're joking. How do you know?"
"I got a phone call from the kidnapper. I don't know if it's just one man or a lot of them, but he told me if I didn't come up with five hundred thousand pounds I'd find Sherlock's dead body on my doorstep."
Lestrade leaned back in his chair in shock, but still eager not to believe it he asked, "How do you know they really have Sherlock and they're not just bluffing?"
"I heard him. They let him talk to me for just a minute."
"Do you know who the caller was?"
"I think so. The last three cases Sherlock's done all were linked somehow to Moriarty, and in the last case Sherlock, like the idiot he can sometimes be, arranged to meet him. I know you know the rest of the story, but there was something funny about his voice. It was weird and high. The guy on the phone; I couldn't be sure, but I'm pretty sure it was him."
"Moriarty. So what did he tell you to do, exactly?"
"He wants me to somehow get my hands on the money, and he's going to call me tomorrow night to see if I have it and give further instructions. Now the question is, what are we going to do about it?"
John's cell phone rang again. He checked it. The number was withheld. He answered, dreading what he might hear.
It was the voice.
"Why are you in the police building? I warned you not to do that, didn't I? I'm positive that I did."
"How do you know where I am?" John swallowed.
"Oh, don't insult me. Do you think I'd be stupid enough to let you do your own thing without somebody watching you?"
"Look, you know if you kill him you won't get the money. There'll be no reason for me to give it to you any more. And why should you be afraid of cops? You're a mastermind, and you have hostage the only one that could keep up with you."
"It's not the cops that worry me. You have until tomorrow night. Don't break any more rules, or he really dies. I know where I can find another person you're somewhat attached to, so he is expendable." The beeping told John and Lestrade that the voice had hung up.
"Bloody heck," John said, resting his forehead on both hands with his elbows supported on Lestrade's desk, "He's serious. So what do you think we should do? Do you think we should try to find him and do a sort of raid to rescue Sherlock, or should we give him what he wants?"
Lestrade leaned back in his chair and tapped a pencil against his desk.
"Normally, I'd say never let the criminal run the show. But it's too risky. The moment we busted in the door, Sherlock would have a bullet through his head. No, I think we should try to meet his demands, and after we have Sherlock safe and sound we can try to bring the kidnappers down. But where on earth are we going to get the money?"
"I have no idea. I don't have much; can't even afford my own place. Sherlock and I have to share. I don't know."
They spent all night and the next day trying to think of some way they could get the money. But they weren't even close to finding an answer when John's phone rang about five o' clock the next evening. He answered anxiously.
"Do you have the money?" the voice asked. John looked at Lestrade, and Lestrade nodded his head.
"Yes. Yes, we do."
"You're not a very good liar, John. I know you don't have it." John could hear the smile in Moriarty's voice.
"Fine, okay, you're right. We don't have it."
"I'm going to send you something, John." This time he did not sound pleased. John's phone blipped to inform him he had a new text. "Did you get it?"
John said that he did. He opened the text and saw a picture that sent chills to his heart. Lestrade peered over John's shoulder to see, too. It was Sherlock in a small, white, brightly lit room. A huge mug had his hand tightly clamped over Sherlock's mouth and nose to keep him still, and he was holding with his other hand a pistol against Sherlock's head. Sherlock's strange, steel-grey eyes looked right into the camera.
John held the phone back up and spoke into it.
"Stop it right now. Just…stop it! We're working on it, but five hundred thousand dollars isn't the easiest thing to get your hands on. Since you know everything, you know that we're trying, it's not that we're just sitting around doing nothing! Do not have that trigger pulled."
"I know. I know you're working on it, but you're not working hard enough. Criminals work on schedule, you know, and I need that five hundred thousand. Alright. You have more time. But every day you don't come up with the money, I'll send you another photograph. And believe me, I don't think you'll like them."
And Moriarty hung up.
"Let's see that picture again," Lestrade said, quickly. John pulled it up. He had the same idea. Lestrade called out to one of the men working at Scotland Yard, "Hey, let's get a print out of this, and hurry up!"
Soon they had an enhanced and enlarged print-out of the image that had only been viewable on John's phone. Lestrade laid it on his desk and he and John bent over it.
"Let's take a look at this then," Lestrade muttered, "and see if we can't find out where they are by the background."
"Well," John said, squinting at the picture and trying to shut out the image of Sherlock and the thug so he could focus on the details of the room behind them, "There's what looks like a dentist's or doctor's examination chair in behind them…"
"And there's a clock on the wall, showing 6:43. That was ten minutes ago," Lestrade added, "It also looks like there's a counter and sink in the background…looks like some sort of medical place. But there's nothing to give us a clue which one."
"Well I can't imagine them holding him in a medical exam room that's still in use. We need a list of doctor, optical doctor, and dentist offices; or anything medical really, that are closed. One more thing. It looks…it looks like there might be…yes, that looks like a sort of plaque. On the wall, in the background."
He leaned in, studying it closely.
"Hey, can we zoom in on this right here?" he asked, growing excited. The image was scanned into one of the computers and they focused on the plaque and moved in. Their hope was that if they could read the name or names on the plaque, they could discover which office was being used. Their hopes were dashed, however, when the picture only became a blur at that close of a range.
John threw up his hands, and Lestrade sighed.
"Tell you what we'll do," Lestrade said, "Notify the press."
"The press? Why do you want them getting involved?" John asked, raising one eyebrow.
"We'll tell 'em what's happened, and get them to tell everyone for us that we can't do it by ourselves and we're counting on the city to help us raise the money."
"You mean take donations," John said, the realization dawning on his face, "Got it. I'll start calling all the TV stations."
"And I'll get the men working on contacting every newspaper, radio station, and bulletin board in London. We'll do this thing.
Author's Note: Okay, so getting in touch with the press isn't exactly the brightest option they could have gone with. *shrug* Not to mention it would kind of make Scotland Yard look totally inept if they were asking the public to help raise a ransom for a kidnap victim, instead of just handling it and busting the bad-guys. I guess we'll put it down to desperation and lack of ideas. 'Cause that's how it felt like in the dream.