The address was in a newer, but poorer part of the city, full of three and four story tenements built in the late 80's. Drab brick mostly, though here and there an attempt had been to brighten them up with coats of now-peeling paint. John found the correct building without too much trouble, a slightly decrepit piece of real estate, but scrupulously clean outside. There was a sign in the street level window that said "Room to Let" in several languages.
He knocked on the door, pulling his coat tightly around him. It was starting to shade towards evening and the wind was picking up. A middle aged woman dressed in a leopard print track-suit, wearing far too much make-up and costume jewelry, answered after a short wait. She said nothing, just gave him a suspicious look and took a drag on her cigarette.
"Um, good evening," John began. "I'm here about the room?"
She rolled her eyes, as if annoyed by his mere presence. "You want see room? Upstairs. No English," she said, grabbing a key off a hook by the door.
John followed her up three flights of crumbling cement stairs and she unlocked a door leading to a dingy attic studio. It was freezing up there, and completely empty except for a single bed and mattress, and a chair. His heart sank, but he made himself inspect every corner. There was no trace of its previous occupant. He turned to the woman.
"Was there a man here, a few weeks ago? Tall, dark hair, very quiet?"
She stared at him blankly, irritated.
"Right, no English," he muttered. He racked his brain. "Italiano? Deutsch?"
"Deutsch," she said grudgingly. "Etwas."
A bit, great. John's German was terrible but hopefully it was better than her English. "Gab es einen Mann in diesem Raum? Vor zwei Wochen?" he tried. Was there a man here, two weeks ago?
She nodded warily.
But how to be sure it was Sherlock? John certainly didn't have enough German to describe him. Suddenly he remembered, he had a picture of him on his phone from their Christmas party. He brought it up – him, and Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock was even almost smiling there. He showed it to her, pointing to the man in the middle. "Diese?"
Her face lit up with recognition. "Ja! Er verließ die Dinge für Sie, you come!"
Left things? For John? He could hardly believe his luck. Then again, was it luck if Sherlock was behind it? He followed her gladly back down the stairs and into the basement of the house. It was filled with cardboard boxes, in various stages of decay. Apparently Sherlock wasn't the only tenant to leave things behind. She rummaged for a few minutes and then turned up a small box and handed it to John.
He opened it. It contained a pair of gloves, a sock, a battered Croatian phrasebook, a mostly empty tin of English tea, and an envelope labeled "Mycroft". John felt a faint moment of disappointment that Sherlock had not expected John to be the one to come and find him, but he pushed it aside. Don't be petty, he told himself.
He realized the woman was staring at him expectantly. "Er sagte, Sie zahlen."
Of course Sherlock had told her Mycroft would pay her. John sighed, and slipped her the equivalent of fifty quid. She appeared mollified, though not thrilled. He pocketed the gloves, phrasebook, and letter, and asked her to toss the rest, and headed back for his lodgings.
As he exited the building onto the deserted street, he saw a stout figure turn a corner a block down, just a little too quickly. John's instincts kicked in and he took off running in that direction, turning the corner just in time to see the man disappear again. He swore. He must have been followed – that or the house had been watched. He was guessing both at this point. He kicked it into high gear and managed to gain ground on the man.
"Stop!" He shouted. "I'm armed!"
Two shots from the other man answered him and he swerved and drew his own weapon in response. The other man had the advantage of knowing the city, but John could see immediately he wasn't used to chases on foot. He was slowing. John silently blessed Sherlock for keeping him in shape on that count.
They turned down what looked like a street but quickly turned into the barest of alleys. There was a short wire fence half way down the length. John grinned. No sooner had the stranger halted to climb over it, a height John could have easily leapt over these days, than John was upon him. He wrested the gun out of his hand and punched him in the face with it.
"Who are you?" He demanded, as blood sprang up over the man's eye. "Why are you following me?"
The burly man struggled, but John had him pinned tightly against the fence. "I'm no one," he said in a London accent, grimacing.
"You work for Moran? Don't you?! How did you find me?" The man didn't answer. John punched him again, this time with his fist, square in the nose. "I'm not playing around. I have no problem with killing you right now if you don't tell me what's going on," he said, his voice going from loud and angry to low and calm with a frightening speed.
The man spat blood and laughed. "You are a formidable man, Dr. Watson, but there are many things more scary than you out there."
John hit him again, then raised the gun to the man's temple. "Do you really want to test that theory?"
He shrugged. "At least it will be quick."
"Don't bet on it." John moved the gun to the right, against the man's collarbone. "Do you want to find out how many bullets it takes to not kill you?"
Fear crossed the man's face, and he opened his mouth as if he was about to offer information. Before he could speak, John heard a soft sound and two darts zipped past him, one embedding itself in the wall inches from his head, and the other finding his opponent's throat.
John ducked and rolled himself and the man behind a small dumpster a few feet away that offered reasonable cover. He guessed he had about a minute before the sniper could make it down from his vantage point and to their location.
"Poison," the man croaked. "He hates poison but it's quieter."
"Tell me what I need to know," John pleaded. "Why keep loyalty to a man who just killed you? I can get revenge for you. Just tell me where to find him."
The man's eyes rolled up in head and he coughed, flecks of foam and blood splattering John's jacket. "Jyivsinkää." He managed. "Finland, far north, near Ivalo. There's a big estate. Find him before he finds you."
He's already found me, John thought. The man said no more and went limp. He wasn't dead yet but John knew he couldn't have much more than a few minutes. Now that the initial rush of rage and adrenaline was fading, he felt guilty about leaving him to die alone in a dirty alleyway, but knew it couldn't be helped. Dying with him wouldn't do anything for him. He listened for footsteps and heard nothing. Taking a deep breath, he darted out from behind the dumpster, vaulted over the fence and ran blindly, turning at random down unfamiliar streets. It would be harder to follow him if he didn't have a destination in mind, and he had no idea where he was in any case.
He must have run for thirty minutes, twisting and turning, always listening and watching for any sign that he had been tracked. Finally he was satisfied that he had escaped, at least for the moment. It was dark now, and freezing. He was exhausted. He ducked into the first cheap-looking restaurant he saw and ordered hot coffee and soup. He needed to decide his next move. He obviously couldn't go back to his room – the man hadn't just been watching the house for anybody, he had known John's name. It would be ransacked by now, and all the stolen goods retrieved. It was even possible they would call the police on him and he would be wanted as a smuggler himself, though he guessed Moran would prefer to keep his activities off the radar altogether.
He was grateful his own paranoia had caused him to keep virtually all his things in his bag with him when he had left – he still had most of his clothes, his phone, his laptop, and his money. Assuming he could get out of the city without being detected, his next stop had to be Finland; if that really was where Moran was based, then Sherlock would likely be there. Suddenly, he remembered the letter in his pocket. He fumbled for it and ripped it open.
M,
I am close on Moran's trail, but I am being followed. I have taken all reasonable precautions, but if you are reading this they have likely failed. I have not been able to deduce his whereabouts yet, but you may be able to follow the shipments to find out. The key to defeating him is in a safety deposit box at the Österreichische Postsparkasse in Vienna – there were no leads in Austria, but it was expedient to leave it there as I knew I might be captured in Zagreb. You will need the box number (six digits) and a password of ten letters to access it. John will know both, but will not realise it. You must get it out of him without his knowledge.
Do not tell John what has happened. If I do not return, it is best if he continues to think my death was some months ago. Please make sure Molly agrees to this as well.
SH.
"You fucking asshole," John muttered when he finished the letter. He knew Sherlock thought he was being kind to him, but it was still infuriating. And Molly knew he was alive? Of course she did – can't fake a proper death without help from someone in the morgue. And she wouldn't tell John if Sherlock asked her not to; she loved Sherlock, not John.
Looked like he was going to Vienna after all, assuming he could figure out what the hell Sherlock meant about him knowing the codes. How exactly had he expected Mycroft to extract information from John that John didn't even know he had? And without tipping him off as to why? The man was insane. Of course he had known that from the day they met and he had never stopped him from following Sherlock into hell before.
John drained his too-strong coffee. Best get out of town as soon as possible. There'd be plenty of time to mull over Sherlock's puzzle on the train. Then, once he had whatever blasted thing was in the deposit box, on to Finland to find Moran and hopefully Sherlock. He shivered. He was going to need some warmer clothes.
Sherlock awoke slowly, to darkness. He was stationary now. The last few times he had woken there had been motion – a train, a ship, then a truck of some kind. Each time he'd only had a few moments to gauge his whereabouts before being drugged again. He had no idea how much time had passed, but knew it must have been days at least. He knew they had been heading north, and must be quite a ways away from Croatia now, possibly in Scandinavia?
He couldn't think well. His brain was still fuzzy. He waited the length of a few breaths for the prick of the needle, but it didn't come. Wherever they had wanted to take him, he must be there. His head pounded, but he tried to assess his situation. From the air he could tell he was underground, but not far. Some kind of basement. He was sitting on something hard and cold, off of the floor, with his back to a wall of concrete. His hands were chained behind him and his feet were manacled together. He didn't think he could stand at the moment anyway – he was too weak.
He hoped Mycroft had gotten his message, and had been able to figure out where he was. If not, then no one was coming from him. He assumed Moran or one of his men needed to talk to him, otherwise he'd be dead already. But whatever they wanted, he didn't plan on giving it to them, so his life expectancy in captivity was likely limited.
For a moment, Sherlock had wished he had left something for John. He knew it was silly – John had been through enough, he didn't need to have to bury Sherlock twice. But for his own vanity, Sherlock wished there had been a chance to say something more to him, when their last conversation had been mostly lies. But this was better, for both of them, he told himself. And he wasn't done yet. He still might be able to return from the grave, go back to John and Mrs. Hudson and home.
Right. The first thing to do was get the blindfold off, then he could start on the chains.