Umm…violence here…and death…and Sherlock being badass…
"John!" Too far, dammit, I'm too far away!
With a frustrated growl, Sherlock slowed, unable to follow the car on foot. For the moment at least. His mind immediately cast itself out, searching. Not more than a minute later he had located what he needed and was gone, vanishing like a breath on the wind.
Need to feed. Then I can catch them.
Fifteen minutes later found Sherlock outside a blood bank, waiting for someone to come out so he could convince them to let him in. As if he had called out loud, a security guard unlocked the door and opened it a crack. "Can I help you, sir?"
Sherlock smiled and it was not a friendly look. "I certainly hope so."
The guard's eyes lost focus, lids falling half closed as he stared at Sherlock. "Please, come on in sir," he said stepping back and holding the door open.
"Why thank you," Sherlock replied, sliding past him.
Ten minutes later, Sherlock was following John's scent across London. The buildings blurred past as he ran, flittering through cars at the intersections, neatly side-stepping anyone on the sidewalk. Anyone he passed would only feel a slight breeze he was moving so fast.
As light began to appear on the skyline, Sherlock finally located the car that had stolen his John from him. He glanced at his surroundings quickly, instantly knowing where they were. He slowed to a stop next to the door of the warehouse John was being held at and listened.
Past the sounds of rats and insects, Sherlock could hear the thump of flesh hitting flesh. He heard the sharp crack of a bone being broken, and from the sound it was a rib or two. He heard the muffled sound of a man in pain.
Sherlock felt an eerie sort of calm wash over him, cooling the rage that had been running through his veins. He could still feel his anger simmering under the surface, but now he could think through it. It took him less than thirty seconds to map the route he would take to get into the building and get to John as fast as possible.
One minute twenty-three seconds later, he was standing outside the room John was in. He slowly leaned his head in the door, left hand still pinning a guard to the wall. Oddly enough, it had been the only guard he had encountered. Almost casually, he snapped the guard's neck, lowering him carefully to the floor. That done, Sherlock looked around the corner, checking the positions of the men holding John.
Against the wall there was a long metal table holding various blades. In the center of the room, there was a metal stool that seemed to be bolted to the floor. It had been modified, metal loops welded to the legs. The use for the hoops was obvious, the handcuffs around John's wrists and ankles being held in place there. A corner of Sherlock's mind noted all visible injuries, while the rest focused on the three men standing around his flat mate.
None of them noticed Sherlock sneaking into the room, John being the only one able to see the door. Thankfully, John seemed to be able to control his facial expressions very well, his training from the Army allowing him to notice a friendly without giving them away.
One of the men lashed out suddenly, knife in his hand flashing as he brought it down, slicing across John's cheek. Sherlock let out an inhuman growl, the sound raising the hairs on the humans' arms, a chill crawling down their backs as they slowly turned toward the sound, expecting to see some kind of animal.
The last thing John saw before darkness claimed him was the three men charging Sherlock, who seemed to be unconcerned, the pale man spreading his arms as if to welcome them.
As soon as the first man charged Sherlock, he spread his arms, a razor sharp smile spreading across his face as his eyes darkened to a deep, burnished gold. The men coming at him hesitated, nervously glancing at their comrades. When they looked back, Sherlock was gone.
Spinning around, they found him kneeling at the prisoner's feet, pale hands running along the metal of the cuffs. Long fingers wrapped themselves around each end of a set of cuffs, giving a quick tug that snapped the chain, the action repeated three more times. John slumped forward slowly, unable to gain enough balance to stay upright as he drifted in and out of consciousness.
Sherlock lowered him to the floor carefully, as if afraid he would break. As soon as John's head was safely on the floor Sherlock was moving, his features a blur to the men trying to flee the room. A snarl tore through the room as a pale hand darted forward, burying itself in the first man's chest, blood dripping heavily as the hand retreated, the man falling to his knees, then to his back as he died. Sherlock didn't even slow, the next man's neck broken before he even felt the hand on it. The last man he pinned to the wall, his feet dangling a couple inches above the floor, the hand at his throat allowing him to breathe, but just barely.
"Why did you take him?" Sherlock hissed, his mouth against the man's neck as he fought with himself. He had gone 400 years without fresh blood, he could last another 400.
Plain brown eyes stared at him, horror and fear the only things present in them. Sherlock growled again, this time in frustration, the sound drawing a whimper from the other man.
"P-please! Don't kill me! I'll tell you anything!" The man was crying now, tears running down his face slowly.
Sherlock dropped him, turning to take a closer look at John, who was just starting to come around again, head shaking back and forth as he tried to get his bearings. He carefully rolled onto his stomach, forcing himself to his hands and knees, head dipping as he fights off the nausea. After a moment he raised his head, his hazel eyes shining with pain and resolve. He would fight his way out of here if he had to.
John saw Sherlock in front of him, crouching on the balls of his feet, head cocked to the side as he watched John struggle with his balance. John then saw the man in the corner behind Sherlock. He saw him rising to his feet quietly, saw the blade he picked up from the table. John saw the man's arm draw back then snap forward. He opened his mouth to warn Sherlock, but the man was already moving, a pale blur darting around the black- clad man. John watched as Sherlock's hands descended on shaking shoulders.
Sherlock dipped his head to speak to the guard, the man's face draining of all color as the taller man whispered in his ear, his spidery fingers stroking the frantic pulse in the man's neck. Sherlock slowly turned the shaking man around to face him. A slow, almost lazy, smile drifting across Sherlock's face. The man under his hands shuddered violently, his grip on the blade tightening. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow as if to dare him, releasing his grip on the torturers shoulders. He spread his arms wide and waited.
John tried to stand, tried to get to the knife before it got to Sherlock, but his legs wouldn't cooperate. He watched in horror as the man shoved his arm forward. Sherlock's body jerked as the blade slid home in between his ribs.
Sherlock slowly lowered his arms, the smile on his face gaining a razor edge. He took a step forward, and another, forcing the blade deeper and the man holding it backward. He leaned forward and whispered in the human's ear. "I forgot to mention one tiny little detail. Your blades won't hurt me."
The man released the knife and staggered backward, tripping over the stool and falling to the ground. Sherlock stalked after him, the blade still embedded in his chest.
John watched as Sherlock brought a hand up and carelessly jerked the knife out, the dripping blade held loosely in his hand. He watched Sherlock grab the other man and haul him to his feet, slamming him into the wall as he drove the blade into his chest. He stepped back, yanking the blade free.
John blinked and suddenly Sherlock was kneeling next to him, hands coming up to hold John's head in place as pale eyes assessed the damage. "John?" He asked quietly.
"Sherlock…What just happened?"
"Well, I'm rescuing you and when we get home I'll tell you the rest if you still need me to," Sherlock replied quietly as he found the key to the cuffs. Kneeling next to John again, he unlocked the cuffs and tossed them aside to examine the damage to John's skin. "We need to get you home so I can wrap these. And your ribs."
John looked at him, suspicion in his eyes. "How long were you standing out there before you came in?"
Sherlock smirked. "Not long."
"Then how do you know about the ribs?"
"I heard them break as I was making my way in."