Notes: I was looking online for Sherlock's coat because I wanted one and I found the actual thing on Belstaff and it's over 2,0000 dollars. This is why Sherlock Holmes doesn't have a car. And why I'll never have a Sherlock coat :(
Also sorry this update is a little shorter than normal, I wanted to get something up.
Dead Is the New Sexy
CHAPTER 4
The sharp shrilling sound of Lestrade's mobile filled his pitch black bedroom. It cut into his peaceful, sleeping brain like a bolt of lightning. He groaned, which intensified when his wife hit his arm.
"Greg, wake up," she commanded groggily.
"I am, I am," he grumbled, reaching for the loud device on the bedside table.
Incoming call from SHERLOCK HOLMES.
Shit.
Rising out of bed and leaving his disgruntled wife in the room behind him, he answered.
"Greg Lestrade."
"I'm heading to Scotland Yard right now, and to avoid your forensics team being idiotic twits, I need you to accompany me," Sherlock's voice was dead serious, maybe even stern.
"Is this about John?" Greg fumbled around for a pair of trousers and a decent shirt.
A slight hesitation, "Yes, I think so."
"You think?" Greg said, surprised. "Don't you know?"
"Not exactly. These are dangerous waters. And I don't have time to deal with your morons of a police station. Are you in your car yet?"
"Getting there. Look, Sherlock, this isn't a case yet. I can't guarantee-"
"You're concerned your chief won't let you help me. I know. But for just this once, I need this."
Was Sherlock begging?
"I'll be there. I'll try to get a case for John open today. I can't guarantee politeness from my officers, however," Greg stepped into his car and slammed the door.
"If they're polite, I would doubt they were your officers, Gerry," Sherlock hung up the phone.
It was then that Lestrade noticed the time. It was bordering on 3 in the morning. Sherlock had never cared or respected the time of day. This wasn't the first time a text or call from Sherlock had woken Lestrade up during the middle of the night. But for some reason, this one was different. What Lestrade couldn't identify in Sherlock's voice earlier was desperation.
The detective inspector spent the rest of the ride to SY pondering why Sherlock Holmes might require a forensics team at this hour.
/
The cabbie pulled up at the entrance of Scotland Yard. An officer greeted Sherlock as he headed towards the door.
"Is there a problem, sir?"
"Has detective inspector Lestrade arrived yet?"
"No...uh, I haven't seen him come in."
"Then yes."
"What?"
"Yes, there is a problem."
"Wait, aren't you Sherlock Holmes? Don't you wear a hat?"
"Oh for Christ's sake."
The sound of an approaching vehicle caused Sherlock to turn around and watch Lestrade pull into his designated parking space. It seemed the engine barely had time to die before Lestrade was jogging up beside him.
Sherlock and Lestrade entered the station without a word, ignoring the guard who was asking for ID.
"Show me," Lestrade commanded as they headed towards the elevator and the forensics lab.
"Elevator," Sherlock said quietly, and in one word explained that whatever he had was too private for the hallways of New Scotland Yard.
Once inside the elevator, he pulled an envelope from his breast pocket of the Belstaff and handed it to Lestrade.
Lestrade observed it, but only saw "Sherlock Holmes" in feminine manuscript on the front. Pulling out the contents, he looked at Sherlock for answers. The blood heart was enough to raise questions, let alone the words, "Dead is the new sexy."
"Am I supposed to know what this means?" Lestrade asked, sniffing the blood, just as Sherlock did.
"No, it's a specific message for me."
"Is this…" Lestrade hesitated, "...Jesus Sherlock, is this John's blood?"
Greg noticed Sherlock's jaw tighten. "I don't know. That's why I require the services of Scotland Yard. I could analyze the blood myself, but I don't have a DNA database to compare it to."
"I promise I'll try to get a missing person case open for John tomorrow, er, today," Lestrade said.
Sherlock didn't respond, and the elevator dinged.
/
Oxygen, please.
His lungs were screaming.
Little dots danced on the corners of his vision.
For the love of God, pass out.
John Watson's head was mercilessly dunked continually in the ice cold bucket of water. A burning sensation built in his chest; panic was rising. He knew Moriarty wouldn't kill him, he needed John as leverage whether he liked it or not.
A man twice the size of John grasped onto his hair, forcing him to obey the force of his movements. John was pushed underwater for about 30 seconds, brought above for 10, then the cycle repeated. This had been going on for maybe fifteen minutes, and John could feel his body fighting for consciousness and air. Water was already in his lungs.
He wanted to pass out.
He wanted to give up.
An image of Sheryl passed his mind and his soul lifted for a second. Moriarty was a sick, twisted SOB who was putting John through hell to get to Sherlock.
Speaking of Sherlock, he sure wished the detective would hurry the bloody hell up.
His senses blurred as he entered the water once more.
30… 29… 28… 27…
John almost screamed in surprise as he was pulled up early. To his dismay, the reason seemed to be that Moriarty returned.
"Miss me, Johnny-boy?"
John figured his best course of action was to keep his mouth shut.
"Someone else," he motioned to the bloke who tortured John, "someone more elegant, was supposed to do this. They backed out of my deal. In fact, Irene Adler sends her love."
How sweet, he mentally rolled his eyes.
"Which changes things," Moriarty said, invading John's personal space. A single finger stroked John's jawline. He didn't react. He didn't even blink. "I like people to do what I plan them to. Disobeying me does make it interesting for a little bit, then it just becomes annoying. Irene Adler has become annoying. My original plan was to break Sherlock. And that will happen, in time. But first, Adler will obey me. It seems your beloved detective will be arriving to the party sooner."
Don't react. Don't react. He wants a show. John remained stoic, keeping the fear locked inside.
"Hmm," Moriarty frowned. "No 'Oh no not Sherlock!' No begging? Well that won't do." Moriarty backhanded John across the face. It was harder than anything he expected from the consulting criminal. A sharp crack sounded as knuckles connected with cheekbones.
John spit, and met Moriarty's gaze with a fiery stare. "I was a soldier. That wasn't even a punch. You might want to try a little harder than that."
"Okay," Moriarty shrugged, then whistled. Two husky goons walked through the door.
This time John actually rolled his eyes. If Sherlock was a Drama Queen, his adversary was the Drama King.
"Let's see if we can get a scream out of you, soldier," Moriarty spat.
One of the men, Idiot A, picked up a heavy duty metal pipe from beside the door. He smacked it in his other hand, trying to look intimidating.
Moriarty backed away, leaving room for Idiot A to work his magic. The thick hands that had forced him into the water continued to hold him, clasping onto his biceps and forcing him to stay still. He thought about squirming but knew it was useless. The best defense he could act on right now would be a sickening kick to Idiot C's shins. Considering his situation: outnumbered, weakened, incapacitated, he knew a fight right now would be stupid. John may not have the same observational skills as Sherlock, but when it came to military strategies, he believed he had the upper-hand. Though he never experienced a hostage situation like this before, he knew when the odds were against him. A fight right now would waste energy and strength. Which he would need, judging by the threat Idiot A continued to impose.
Idiot A raises the pipe over his shoulder, and John braced himself for the blow. Nothing, not military training, not being shot, nothing could've prepared him for the white hot pain of his ribs shattering. He gasped, trying to regain some ounce of sanity. He didn't scream. Moriarty looked disappointed.
The pipe had collided with his left side. He knew ribs were broken. There wasn't a doubt in his mind.
Idiot A paused, scrutinizing him and looking for another angle.
Moriarty spoke up, "If he doesn't scream next time, you're fired."
John guessed that "fired" in Moriarty's network translated to "killed." Idiot A focused on John, a malicious smile on his face.
He nodded to Idiot C, whose grip tightened on John although John didn't think that was possible.
Idiot A brought the pipe down hard, right into John's right knee.
John screamed.
Moriarty smiled.
/
"We've got the DNA results," Lestrade walked back into his office where Sherlock sat waiting, typing into his iPhone.
"And?" Sherlock jumped up.
"I can barely believe it, Sherlock. It's um, its," Lestrade stuttered.
Ignoring him, Sherlock snatched the papers from Lestrade's hand.
Moriarty.
It's James Moriarty's blood.
He gently placed the file down, and placed his hands together in his default thinking position.
Lestrade watched him. This was way out of Scotland Yards league; he wasn't blind, even if Sherlock sometimes thought so. The last battle with Moriarty led to Sherlock Holmes' downfall and suicide. Of course, he wished to assist in finding John. Yet how much could he really accomplish?
A phone rang. At first, Lestrade checked his own pockets, thinking it was his. Realizing the noise came from one of the pockets of Sherlock's great, iconic coat he attempted to pull the detective out of his mind stupor.
"Sherlock.
"Sherlock.
"Sherlock!"
"What?" he hissed.
"Phone," Lestrade raised his eyebrows.
Annoyed, Sherlock pulled the Apple product from his pocket.
The caller ID read Irene Adler.
"The game, Detective Inspector, is on."