A/N: Still trying to play catch-up. Oh dear! This week has been hectic, but hopefully the weekend will provide some reprieve to write and read more. :-) I am combining two prompts for this one. They seemed to fit nicely together.

Prompt 09: From BookRookie12 – On fire. Prompt 10: From Sirensbane – Captured.

This can be read as a standalone and/or a continuation of chapter six.


Captured


Lestrade was not altogether sure that meeting Sherlock Holmes had been a good idea.

Two months in the man's presence and he had been verbally abused, chased, attacked, shot at and, now, captured; a majority of which came with the job but being held captive was new. In all his years at Scotland Yard he had never been snatched so blatantly off the streets, a feat he wanted to berate Holmes for marking.

The Inspector prided himself that he knew London like the back of his hand, could tell what street or alleyway he was standing in at a glance, but he had no clue whatsoever as to where he was, old beams bowing above him like heavy industrial bunting, wood damp and smelling of decay. The one tiny window at the end of the room was coated in grime and jutting inwards, as though the glass was trying to join him by sheer will alone. At a guess, he reckoned he was in the roof of a house or an office building somewhere. In the distance, he fancied he could hear the clang of a bell, a familiar sound that he couldn't quite place. Perhaps he wasn't in the city at all.

There was a large hole in the floorboards near the window that Lestrade was staring at, wondering if he could fit through if he could loosen his bonds. To the far right a door was tucked away, hiding in the shadows, but it had been offensively locked. He had been striped to his shirtsleeves and bound to the chair in which he was seated, arms pulled taut behind him, muscles trembling with pain. His right leg was tingling, bleeding profusely from the wound on his thigh where a knife had sliced through.

He wanted to blame Holmes for his predicament, but knew he was doing the man a disservice if he did. They had gotten further into the Ruthford case than anyone else, and for the past three weeks had been chasing their man down dark lanes, through seedy pubs and between every secret place the city had to offer. Each time they got a little bit closer. Lestrade couldn't remember when he'd last slept more than five hours, but it had been worth it, worth every night young Jeremy Timpson's face had swam into view to disturb what little dreams he'd had.

There came the soft, dull thuds of footsteps, a key scraping inside a lock. The door opened and a man stepped into the room. He seemed almost too large for the space, back curved slightly, arms drooped at his sides like two fleshy anchors. He walked in front of Lestrade, a slight grin on his heavily-whiskered face.

"Well," he said in a low, gruff voice.

"Well," Lestrade intoned.

"I hear you've been asking about me, Inspector."

"No more than most, Mr Ruthford," Lestrade replied calmly.

The man frowned and his eyes glittered angrily. "How did you know that?"

"You'll find that everyone knows your name now."

He received a backhanded slap across the face for the comment, felt the sting long after Ruthford pulled back. A look of annoyance passed over Ruthford's face before it was cleaned away.

"Names can be changed," he sneered. He crouched low on his heels, elbows resting on his knees. "In fact, I've been thinking I might retire from the city."

Retire, not stop, Lestrade thought angrily. Ruthford had the crazed look of a man who had killed three children without any reason - just because - and was more than prepared to add a Detective Inspector to the quota. If Lestrade had his gun he knew he would have shot him on the spot, law-abiding rules be damned.

"You'll be followed," Lestrade told him.

Ruthford's lip curled. "That I do not doubt, but not by you."

Lestrade felt an icy hand close around his insides, kept his face neutral. "Probably not."

"Is that leg causing you trouble, Inspector?" Ruthford asked, his eyes glinting as Lestrade shifted in his seat.

Lestrade said nothing.

"I must apologise for my men's rough handling," Ruthford continued. "But you see, had you not been so ... uncooperative, you might have avoided the slight injury."

"Most unfortunate," Lestrade grumbled. His leg was starting to hurt intensely, a slow burn coiling around the flesh. He did his best not to let it show, didn't want this lunatic to know how much pain he was in.

There was a haunted pause, and then Ruthford asked, "Have you got children, Inspector?"

He wasn't expecting the question and couldn't stop the darted look of angered surprise that crossed his face.

"Ah, so you have."

Lestrade felt a snarl misshaping his mouth, the icy grip melting into boiling rage. "Now listen–"

Ruthford smacked him again, sent him reeling. One hand came out to clutch the back of the chair, tilting it close, Lestrade's foot catching on the floorboards and lancing his leg with hot-pointed agony. Ruthford leaned towards him, smiling with broken teeth, and Lestrade would have given worlds to be able to put his hands on him, snap the neck that held the leering face.

"Be nice, Inspector. I have been kind enough to let you live up to now." He released the chair and stood back slowly. "But now I must leave you. My train departs in half an hour and I hear your friend is looking for you."

It occurred to Lestrade that Ruthford was talking about Holmes, but Holmes did not know where he was; they had not spoken in nigh on thirty hours. Lestrade had not told him of his intentions, and he was thinking now that it hadn't been the wisest of choices.

The grin on Ruthford's face informed Lestrade that he already knew this, his fears confirmed when Ruthford pulled out a box of matches from his coat pocket.

"I'll not light these here, out of respect for your temerity these past few weeks," he said. "There is a nice substance outside which I think I'll part ways with. Until we meet again, Inspector."

"I look forward to it," Lestrade replied in a steely tone, his eyes narrowing, knowing full well that if anything happened to him, Holmes would at least ensure Ruthford's demise. Lestrade would happily greet him on the other side.

A brief look of unease settled about Ruthford's face, so quick that if Lestrade had blinked he would have missed it. It gave Lestrade a twisted satisfaction to see, comforted him in the smallest way.

The sneer slotted back into place and Ruthford left without comment. The door was shut, and Lestrade heard the key turn with a dull click, felt it like a bolt sliding home against his ribs.

/-/-/-/

Looking back, Lestrade knew he had remained in that room five, ten minutes at most, but at the time it had felt much longer.

His leg was starting to concern him, the pain shifting into an alarming numbness, only to return whenever he tried to move it. He had lost more blood than he was willing to admit, wondered fleetingly if the numbness was due to the shock settling deep in his bones. His head was pounding like a marching parade of drums with no particular beat.

He could hear Ruthford descending the stairs, two at a time, then the softer-sounding footfall as he descended another set. He heard the slam of a front door and waited, his breath sounding too loud and fast in the dark room.

He willed his heartbeat to slow, but even that was betraying him, rapid thuds in his ears as he tried to listen, his brain supplying him with snippets of information. The building he was in must have been old, because he could hear creaks and scrapes far below.

There was a soft hiss, a sudden spell of bone-chilling silence, and then something exploded.

The building groaned loudly, glass shattered and the floor shook beneath him. Lestrade thought for a horrifying moment he was going to fall through, and then the structure coughed and settled. Amidst it all, he fancied he heard voices, a harsh cry, but he had other things to worry about.

He knew immediately he wasn't safe, glimpsed flashes of light outside the broken window, tendrils of orange and grey licking across the frame, creeping higher, sneaking inside the room like a fiery serpent, spreading far too fast. The flames greedily ate the decaying floorboards and a thick, curling smoke began to fill the air, wispy hands reaching out to touch Lestrade's face and trickle into his throat. He struggled against his bonds, skin scratching raw, the chair wobbling furiously with his efforts. A curl of nausea settled in his stomach as he moved, the pain too much.

He realised hopelessly he was going to die here, wondered who would receive the unfortunate task of telling his wife. He hoped it wasn't Hopkins; he'd only been sixteen days on the job. Perhaps it would be Gregson; despite his faults the man knew how to handle sensitive situations. Or maybe Holmes would do the deed; tell his wife and child that Lestrade had died chasing a whim, an idiotic whim that led him into the arms of a psychotic serial killer.

He was working his way down a mental list of acquaintances, his chest pained by smoke inhalation, when there came the unmistakable crack of kicked-in wood and the door flew open and off. Through the smoke, Lestrade heard hurried footsteps, the snap and scrape of a penknife and then his arms were free, rope falling to the floor like coarse ribbons.

Holmes appeared in front of him, looking wholly made of coal, grey eyes wide and urgent as they ran over him, settling briefly on his leg.

"Can you stand?"

He could barely crawl, let alone stand, but desperation does inhuman things to a man, and Lestrade's will to live compelled him to his feet. Holmes was already pulling Lestrade's arm across his shoulders so he didn't think he would have been given the decision if he had replied in the negative. The fire was a roaring demon in his ears, howling in rage as Holmes led him to the burning doorway and down the worryingly-brittle stairs.

He didn't remember much after that apart from a heavy hand slung about his waist and a ripping pain in his leg, so intense he suspected he passed out.

When he came to Holmes was slapping his face, hard enough to hurt. He lifted a hand to grip the detective's wrist, grumbled at him between coughs to stop.

"I thought you were dead," Holmes breathed.

"Am I not?" Surely living wasn't supposed to hurt this much. His leg felt detached, the entire limb made of pain. He was lying in the snow, cold seeping into his back. The building behind Holmes was completely ablaze, flames reaching star-wards. He wondered how long he'd been unconscious. Black, dirty snow was falling between them, stark against their white surroundings. He wasn't sure how Holmes had found him, how he had managed to get them both out.

Holmes's face was caked in grime and something that Lestrade thought looked like relief, frown lines smoothing as he clutched Lestrade's shoulder. His clothes were torn and smelt like ash and smoke. The side of his face was darkly coloured and bespoke of bruising to follow.

"You look bloody awful," Lestrade told him.

He received a wry smile in return. "Kind of you to say so, Inspector."

"Where is Ruthford?"

Holmes's eyes shadowed, his lips tightening. He said nothing.

Duty compelled Lestrade to ask, but Holmes interrupted him with a small shake of his head.

"He is within. I could not get to you both. Given the choice again, my actions would be the same. I shall not lose sleep over it."

He suspected there was more to what Holmes was telling him, Ruthford most likely dead inside of the building and certainly not by natural causes, but Lestrade was too overcome with relief, his chest tight, that he didn't so much care. Jeremy Timpson's mother would be pleased, he thought, some small comfort that her child's killer was dead, a warped kind of closure. Lestrade did not think that the boy would haunt his dreams as much now; if he did perhaps he would be whole and alive, not frozen, wearing his knitted red hat with pride.

Holmes was watching him, an unreadable expression slipping into place. His hand was still against Lestrade's shoulder, fingers pressing tight, a slight tremble running beneath. It had been close, Lestrade could tell.

Lestrade swallowed, said with immeasurable sincerity, "I am in your debt, Mr Holmes." He felt drained, disintegrating like the blazing building, pieces of him falling away with exhaustion. In the distance, he could hear the unmistakable trill of a fire engine approaching.

Holmes smiled, moved away to sit on the cold ground. "Not at all, my dear fellow."

He had a new founded respect for Holmes that night. They were not the closest of friends after that first case, but the Inspector would have entrusted his life a thousand times over in Holmes's hands, knowing beyond belief that Holmes would not fail him.


End


A/N II: I'm growing rather fond of Lestrade … can you tell? :-)