Thanks for sticking with me so far :)
Congrats to 'Sherlock' and Benedict Cumberbatch for being nominated at the National Television Award for Best Drama and Drama Performance! Unfortunately, neither won in their category (curse you 'Waterloo Road' and David Jason! * shakes fist angrily * )
Anyhoo, back to the story :) Sorry it's taken a while to upload this chapter, I've been helping out backstage at 'Nicholas Nickleby', a rather looooooong play :)
...
Moriarty waved the gun about with reckless abandon, yelling about choosing between Sherlock's life and his own. This was stupid, Moriarty was stupid, the entire fiasco was surface of the water glittered in a vaguely sinister manner, lapping over the concrete. John tried to explain that he was only there to appoint David Dickinson as the new leader of the Oompa Loompas, but Moriarty wasn't having any of it. He turned the gun on Sherlock...
John awoke with a start. Although the place was so dark he wasn't quite sure his eyes were open at all. He was lying on his side, on a concrete floor as far as he could tell. The side of his head ached where the large man had hit him. Goosebumps across his shoulders made him realise that, whilst he had been out of it, his shirt had been removed. Thankfully he wasn't stark naked, his jeans, shoes and socks were firmly in place. His limbs and head felt heavy, like they were made of stone.
Fuck. He'd been kidnapped. Again.
That's it, he was going to have to talk to Sherlock (if he ever saw Sherlock again, his brain interrupted). He was tired of being the bad guy's 'get out of jail free' card, he gave himself a little internal berating over how easy he must be to abduct. He'd faced down terrorists, under a hail of bullets and explosions, he'd always marched on. Now, all it took was a well judged swing and he'd be like a helpless little damsel in distress. This was all to do with Markin's son, it had to be.
He wasn't blindfolded, at least, as far as he knew. By now his pupils would have fully dilated, but John could percieve nothing in the sheer blackness.
John raised his head-his neck muscles groaned in protest- and tentitavely reached out a hand. After a while, having used his hands to find the edges of the walls, he jugded his dank cell to be the size of a small basement. There was a good two feet between him and the cieling, so he could stand up. How long had he been down here? An hour? A few hours? A day? His throat felt dry and raw, and his thoughts drifted back to the cup of tea he'd left on the table back at Baker Street. He could murder a bacon sandwich right now, maybe a few biscuits too...
Don't think about that his brain told him, thinking about it will only heighten the feelings, remember the rations in the army?
John focused on his shoulder instead. Since the bullet wound had healed it ached in cold weather, it would ache for the rest of his life, he rubbed his shoulder with his other hand, trying to loosen the tightly knotted muscles that had seized up whilst he was unconsious. He massaged the side of his head too, he could feel a bruise just above his ear, Jesus, what had been in that briefcase?
I must be underground he judged after a while it's cold, dark and damp, an underground cell?
John heard voices arriving from a distance, two voices, both male. They seemed to be having an arguement:
'Wait til the boss picks up the call. Then you can have as much fun as you want. Don't get too excited.' John recognised the voice as that of the little oily man he'd opened the door to, he was strongly reminded of some sort of greasy rat, a slimy arse-kisser.
A gruff, gravelly voice answered; 'He's only small, didn't take nuffink to knock him out.'
'I said no Pete.'
'Bugger what you say, what harm can he do?'
John realised too late that the voices were getting closer. A door burst open and light, though at a low level, practically blinded John. He slammed his eyes shut as heavy footsteps moved towards him. Opening them, he saw the large man who'd knocked him out leering at him, fists as large as dinner plates grabbed him roughly by the upper arms and hauled him upright. John's back smacked into a concrete wall and his feet were dangling a few inches off the ground as the guy named Pete held him up. The man's breath reeked of old alchohol and tobacco, John could see at least three rotten teeth. Whilst the man emitted a little cruel laugh, John brought his head back a little.
And slammed it down as hard as he possibly could.
Whilst not hard enough to break the guy's nose, it was effective enough to allow him to be dropped. John quickly blinked the pain away and sprinted out the door, past Pete the Brute and Oily the Rat. He ran into a bigger room, which in turn had many corridors and alcoves attached to it, a gloomy blueish sort of light filled the place, making it seem colder than it was.
John heared a shout from behind him, and before he had chance to move a further three men had tackled him to the ground. A brief scuffle ensued as John put up a bloody good fight to throw the men off him, however, he was overpowered and ended up lying on his stomach on the floor, arms pinioned behind his back.
'I see you've made yourself at home' came a voice, it had a light cockney accent. John lifted his eyes and saw Terry Markin looming over him. Smaller than his son, he had the squishy look of what was once hard muscle had turned to fat. Old tattoos stretche dover his forearms like green veins and balding grey hair lay unkempt on the top of a haggard face. His eyes were brown, but very, very cold. He smiled, and it made John uncomfortable to look at him.
'It's a pleasure to finally meet you Dr Watson' he said silkily, 'but, you kinda shat all over my hospitality there.'
A hand slammed into John's bad shoulder, causing the doctor to grunt in pain. Markin's smile broadened as John heard the unmistakable sound of tape being unwound.
'Your friend Sherlock's been calling' Markin told him, waving a battered mobile phone in front of his face, 'I haven't answered yet, any bets on how long it'll take for him to give up?'
'When you're IQ reaches 5, you overgrown weasel' John spat as his wrists were lashed together by duct tape, the hands released him, and he wriggled slightly, attempting unsuccessfully to loosen them.
Markin's smile disappeared and he leant into John's face, his eyes glinting threateningly.
'Don't insult me John, you're more expendable than you think you are.'
John's rather rude reply was cut off midstream as another length of tape was pressed over his mouth, gagging him. He felt a large pair of hands, possible Pete's, drag him backwards, despite his best efforts to struggle. He landed with a soft thump on the floor and the door shut behind him, leaving him lying prone in the darkness once more.
...
'Sherlock, if the guy doesn't pick up the phone after the first 29 times, he probably won't answer at all.' Lestrde said gently, watching the detective pace up and down frantically, running his fingers through his unruly hair.
'Nonsense, he'll answer eventually. He wants to drag it out, this is fun for him.' came the distracted reply.
Lestrade sighed, about five hours had passed since Watson's abduction, their landlady had been informed, as had John's family (namely his sister)and his friend Sarah. All had been upset and rightly so, but nothing had compared to the few seconds when Lestrade had seen just how deeply Sherlock cared for the veteran soilder. Though he'd never admit it, Lestrade thought Sherlock had looked like some wrathful diety, ready to destroy mercilessly in order to protect. If John Watson was in danger, God help the sorry son of a bitch responsible when Sherlock turned up.
'Sherlock,go home.' he ordered at last.
Sherlock stared, his hand hovering ridiculously between strokes, 'What?'
'You're going out of your bloody mind, John told me you hadn't slept for about two days, just...go get some sleep and come back when you're brain's working okay?'
Sherlock stashed the phone into his pocket and glared at Lestrade. Did the man really not comprehend the gravity of the situation? John was nowhere to be found, he could be badly hurt, or worse. Sherlock refused to think about the possibility John was dead, if he was, surely he would...you know, sense it or something?
'Alright' he answered, sweeping out the door before Lestrade could so much as speak.
...
Nothing in the room, broken window aside, showed any signs of John's kidnap. The television was still on, Sherlock turned it off.
On a table was a mug of tea; John's stupid, wonderful tea. It had turned stone cold hours ago and, although he scoffed at himself for being like a sentimental child, Sherlock couldn't bring himself to tip it down the sink just yet. Without bothering to remove his scarf or coat, he flopped on the sofa. He stared at the cieling, wishing his brain would cut him some slack and just think straight, all this thinking...it wasn't going to help John at all.
And yet, maybe it wasn't too late.
Sherlock pulled out the phone, redialled the number and held it to his ear, unconsiously holding his breath.
It picked up on the fifth ring; 'Hello Mr. Holmes. How can I help you?' Terry Markin's voice issued arrogantly out of the mouthpiece, making Sherlock grip the phone all the harder.
'Listen Markin, I know you're upset about your son, but it's me who's to blame. John's done nothing to you, he's innocent, let him go.'
'John? Joo-oohn?' came the sing-song reply, Sherlock could practically hear the snide smile.
'Oh yes, I seem to have someone of that name here.'
Sherlock heard a grunt and a soft thump, John had been thrown carelessly to the ground. A sharp tearing sound where tape was torn from skin.
'I must say I never figured you the gung-ho rotective type' Markin's tone was conversational, almost friendly. Sherlock resumed his pacing and wildly running his fingers through his curls.
'I want to speak to John.' he demanded 'let me speak to him.'
'Say please' Markin growled. Somewhere in the background, there was a sharp cry of surprise and pain. Sherlock had no trouble identifying John's voice, and felt his stomach drop as he overheard his friend obviously in pain.
'Please.' He obeyed softly. The sound of Markin's footsteps echoed eerily down the phone.
'It's for you.'
There was another yelp of pain, and Sherlock heard John's breathing, shallow and ragged.
'Sherlock?'
A wave of bittersweet relief flooded through Sherlock, tingling at his extremities. John was alive, hurt and quite obviously frightened, but alive.
'John listen to me,' he said, trying to be reassuring and urgent at the same time, whether he was successful or not remained to be seen 'I'm going to find you, understand? I'm coming to get you, just hold on. We're doing our best. Hold on ok?'
A few seconds passed, to Sherlock it seemed like a hour until finally...
'Ye-aaaaargh.' John's voice was cut off by yet another cry. Sherlock's fingers clenched involuntarily. What the hell were those bastards doing to him?
'Oh I'm sorry, but time's up.' Markin's voice interjected 'Good luck Sherlock, look out for another message...if your friend even lives that long.'
There was a click, and Sherlock could hear no more.
...
So, how's it going? Thanks so much for the great reviews so far, they keep me dancing ^^
Next chapter: Sherlock visits and old aquantaince and John sees what exactly is in store for him...