Lestrade wasn't surprised when Donovan took the chance to corner him by the coffee maker at the back of the room. He filled his cup again to give her time to gather her thoughts and waited. His officers had slowly filed back into the room as their leads had come up dry. They brought chairs in from their desks and sat together, a quiet macabre audience.

"Sir? I agree with you that Sherlock didn't set up Richard Brook, that he was innocent of that whole affair and I'm glad that we've cleared his name, but please, I don't think we should trust him, sir," Donovan whispered finally. Greg couldn't help but understand; at that moment Sherlock was the most terrifying example of inhumanity he'd ever seen.

The man was examining the photo of his tortured best friend, apparently more interested in dissecting the order the horror had taken place in than mourning at all. Hell, the man had muttered 'good' when he'd seen the photos. Lestrade prayed he was the only one who'd heard it. Assuming he was still on Sherlock's side anyway.

So much time had passed since he'd begun working with the scrawny, drugged out man with a penchant for brilliant deductions. For the longest time, he'd thought he was working to catch a madman in the act, until he'd come to understand Sherlock's brilliance and from there, to trust in it. He'd put so much work into dragging Sherlock Holmes away from drugs, and he'd thought he'd found a friend in the man who'd emerged in John Watson's company.

It'd been a year. Greg inhaled slowly, remembering the time it'd taken to recover from his failed marriage and the split custody of his children. He'd been just getting back on his feet when he'd gotten the news that Sherlock Holmes had jumped to his death. His reputation on the job had been in tatters. He was only now getting it back, through old fashioned police work and the help of friends on the force.

A chime on the tech's laptop marked a new text coming in. Lestrade gulped down his coffee and tossed his cup away, preparing for the sight. Donovan crossed over to the table, quietly letting the conversation die.

"Show me the second picture," Sherlock ordered and Lestrade had to think for a moment before he nodded to his tech guy to project the text. He did not want Sherlock Holmes in his conference room, in Scotland Yard at all.

The second picture was almost the same; time signature thirty seconds later. Lestrade could barely make himself look at it but Sherlock flitted around the screen, blocking it with his body half the time, to peer closer at the damn thing.

Jesus, Watson.

"Brilliant," Sherlock muttered and Lestrade turned away to sit at the conference table, unable to watch the man anymore. He'd been so certain that Sherlock could feel; he would have sworn he's seen him hurt a few times, seen him peer at John with something like confusion in his eyes and something like want.

But he was muttering 'brilliant' now, asking the tech to zoom up on the concrete beneath John's bloody hands. Lestrade desperately wanted out of the room, just the image of Sherlock looking so pleased with whatever he'd found made Greg feel ill. Sherlock was making him doubt everything he remembered. Was this what time did, broke his friendship with the genius enough that he could see the sociopath behind it all again? How ironic, if after it all Sherlock Holmes was not the fraud Greg had jailed him as, but the sociopath he'd openly claimed to be so many times before.

"Are we sure we're not staring at the perpetrator now, sir?" Donovan asked him quietly. Lestrade couldn't answer her. For a moment, everything looked like it had a year before, when he'd stared at his friend and watched Donovan prosecute. Lestrade forced himself to look up at the pictures again and ignore his fear. Sherlock would not have tortured John, he knew that as well as he knew anything. "He was never cleared of charges," Sally reminded him.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked, finally turning away from the projected image. Greg met his eyes, feeling trapped. There was hurt clear in Sherlock's gaze and Greg cursed himself; how was it that they could go through this again, when for so long he'd thought the fragile genius had killed himself to escape it?

"You're not even calling him by his name," Sally accused. Sherlock blinked owlishly, like it hadn't occurred to him.

"Would that help him?" he asked, sounding actually curious.

Christ.

"God, no," Sally answered, turning away, looking similarly sick. Anderson was still leaning against the side of the wall, watching the whole thing, but Lestrade had a feeling he thought whatever Donovan did – and in three minutes Sherlock had summarily lost their trust again.

He lost their trust a year ago, Lestrade amended sadly. They were dealing with a man that faked his own death for christsake. And Sally was right; Sherlock had never gone through the court appeals that would have exonerated him. Sherlock turned back to the photograph, ignoring them again and Greg tried to ignore the doubt that kept licking at him, watching this man who had once been his friend. Donovan met his eyes, concerned, and he had nothing to say.

Sherlock went back to his work, explaining his great deductions and Lestrade tried desperately to keep his energy up, to consider every possibility. They still had a good man to save. John's eyes were open in this picture, staring openly across the room at something out of the camera's view.

"He's awake, rolling must have been painful but he did it between these two photos, see? He has moved his hands significantly, revealing this white line on the floor that is otherwise covered up by his body and the blood. He's smart; he thinks this would be helpful. Zoom up on his mouth. No, the edges of it. There, see? He still hasn't been gagged. He'd have upturned lesions on his mouth, from where it'd have been tied. His mouth has been punched, obviously, but not gagged. So if he's been tortured he's somewhere he can scream. That narrows the field down considerably; no one can avoid screaming during torture even under duress, so no, either he wasn't tortured or they let him scream. So it's vital, don't you see? Where did all the blood come from?" Sherlock explained.

God, back to that. Unfortunately Lestrade did understand, as did the other officers in the room and they all followed suit with Sherlock and peered at the revolting image.

"His back, maybe? He's asleep in the other photo; why isn't his back against the wall? Unless he's in pain," Donovan suggested and yet again Lestrade found himself impressed. She was such a good damn cop.

"Yes, added to the evidence that he usually sleeps on his back, it seems quite likely," Sherlock stated, sitting down at the head of the table and tenting his fingers in front of his face. He continued to stare at the photo, his blue eyes almost unblinking.

You know how he sleeps? Lestrade thought, frowning, and Donovan glanced at him, clearly confused. Greg could just imagine Sherlock sneaking in on John Watson to investigate, as well as he could imagine John turning his illegal gun on him before he'd fully woken up. He would never want to live with either of them.

"He's inside, that's clear from the lights, somewhere with concrete floors and walls, with a white line painted on the floor. An old factory, a parking garage, an airplane hanger, a traffic tunnel?" Sherlock demanded.

The room went quiet finally and Lestrade tried to think of anything the man hadn't already mentioned. Somehow in one sentence the man seemed to have exhausted all the possibilities he could think of at all.

"Bomb shelter?" Eugene suggested from his place by the water cooler and Sherlock didn't look up to mock him. So presumably a good idea – Lestrade had no idea.

"Uh, sir, we've got another text on that phone," the new tech guy – Darrell - interrupted.

Oh hell.

"Excellent, pull it up," Sherlock ordered, lifting his eyes away from the photograph for the first time in minutes.

Lestrade focused on Sherlock while the tech guy busied himself on his laptop doing god-knew-what. Sherlock's eyes were darting about the room but otherwise he was the picture of repose, relaxed against the back of the chair, his long legs stretched out and crossed beneath the table, kicking into Lestrade's space. It could be any other interesting case; Lestrade had seen that exact expression and pose on the consulting detective dozens of times.

Suddenly, though, Sherlock stilled, his whole body freezing though it'd seemed so still before. His face slowly lost its color, his eyes focusing on one point in the room and one point only.

The screen, Lestrade thought, turning his head.

Oh Jesus. John was hanging from the ceiling by his hands, his shirt off now. Just his back and blood-matted head of hair were clear in the photograph and his back – Lestrade had to look away to swallow rapidly. Oh hell; someone had been skinning him, writing 'She' – obviously they weren't done.

"That'd be where the blood came from," Anderson said quietly. Lestrade glanced at Sherlock but the man was still frozen, just staring.

"It looks like the beatings weren't only for display this time. They continue down his whole back," Donovan added and Lestrade forced himself to look at the picture again, where blood was seeping into John's jeans. He felt vastly unqualified for this type of investigation. The back of the photograph was nothing but a concrete wall, confirming nothing but that John Watson was inside.

"Sir, there's an audio file," Darrell mentioned quietly. Greg glanced at the consulting detective and sighed, unsure if he was seeing any emotion there or not. The man was just still, his eyes darting about the photograph for clues.

"Play it," Sherlock ordered numbly.

At first all they got was rough breathing and the heavy sound of dripping. Blood, Lestrade thought. Then the sound of a blow torch and very desperate moaning.

Hold on, Watson.

The sound of sizzling, like steak, before John screamed. And screamed. The sizzling stopped and the blowtorch started again –heating something up -behind the sounds of Watson gasping for air.

He was saying something, Greg realized belatedly, motioning for Darrell to turn it up.

"Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock," the man was begging. John thought that Sherlock was dead, and still he called for him. Jesus. Sherlock just stared at the picture on the screen, still not moving. The sizzling started again and John screamed Sherlock's name. The clip cut off.

Lestrade jerked back in his chair as Sherlock suddenly leaped away from the table, all motion again. He barreled about the room, talking under his breath, his hands up and ripping at his hair.

"Okay, allowed to scream, outskirts of London or rural basement somewhere. The building looked large, that concrete wall was thick enough for the fish eye hook that chained him and the ceiling could hold his weight. Big building also suggests outskirts of London. Somewhere abandoned, broken down and most likely nonresidential. The building's white line, that says something. Parking garage, factory, bomb shelter, traffic tunnel – not likely, the walls aren't curved and the white line is perpendicular to it," the man muttered, running his hands through his hair and ripping again. His eyes were wide, spinning about the room without seeing anything.

Oh, Sherlock.

The tension in the room dissipated. Lestrade swallowed and gazed around at his fellow officers. They were watching Sherlock's frantic pacing, sympathy slowly creeping in around their suspicion as they understood; Sherlock Holmes hid in his head with his facts and he was losing it. He wasn't a sociopath, he was a genius falling apart. Greg inhaled, relieved, and pulled his head back into the job.

"Parking garage, bomb shelter, factory, which? We need more information, more clues, where are they? Stupid, these are the clues, just not enough to solve it, only to keep me interested while we wait. Moriarty is still playing his fucking games."

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the room and closed his eyes, looking utterly defeated.

"Wait, Moriarty is alive too?" Donovan looked offended by the idea. Sherlock opened his eyes but did not turn to face her.

"No, he shot himself. He'd already set this up. Presumably because he knew I was going to fake it or couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't," Sherlock replied absently, still facing away from the pictures, staring into the mostly empty room. "There are 352 abandoned factories or parking garages in the city. I have no number for the bomb shelters and they may not be in London," Sherlock announced.

No one needed to say it. That was far too many options. Greg leaned against the conference table, feeling ill. They were going to watch John Watson die, image by image, and only Sherlock had any hope of stopping it.

Donovan walked over to the conference table and leaned beside Greg.

"So what now?" she asked quietly. "We can't just wait."

"Play the screams again. Determine as much as we can," Sherlock answered, roaming around the room with his hands clasped under his chin again. Donovan met Greg's eyes, looking concerned. But they had to find John.

"Play it again," Greg ordered.

"What's that dripping?" Anderson asked as the clip started.

"Blood," Sherlock and Greg answered together.

"Presumably," Sherlock added, tipping his head back on his neck. "So he's being burned, obviously. But there were no burn marks on his body. Is this an old photograph, then?" Sherlock asked aloud as the clip continued. "No, no, stupid, look at the edges, they're cut off," he said to himself, staring up at the photo.

"Edges?" Greg asked, hating himself but needing to keep up.

"The letters. There are burns around the edges of the cuts. The letters are burned in first, before he's skinned," Sherlock answered, before stopping. "Burn you, skin you, Moriarty used all these threats in front of John, just never said them to him...Irrelevant," Sherlock muttered to himself before the sound of the flame broke off – the tool was hot – and Sherlock stepped backwards suddenly, as if he could escape it. The screaming started again, John Watson's deep voice crying out for his 'dead' friend, and Sherlock walked calmly up to the side of the wall and started tapping against it lightly, walking down the room as if looking for a stud. Greg watched him, confused, and felt himself jerk back in surprise when Sherlock suddenly punched his hand through the drywall. The wall crunched in and Sherlock withdrew his fist slowly, staring at where he'd skinned his knuckles. For an insane moment Greg expected Sherlock to reveal some clue, some brilliance hidden in their conference room wall that he'd just exposed, but Sherlock just walked away from the hole, his fist bleeding.

"That chamber echoes. It's a big room," he commented, wiping his hand off on his fine pants. "The lighting in that photo confirms it. Play the clip again."

The officers left at nine o'clock, when Lestrade declared that after ten hours they weren't getting anything more off the ten seconds of audio. Sherlock stayed as they filed out and put the clip on repeat. Lestrade shuddered, thinking of a night spent in such company, and started down to the parking garage.

"I'll never get this out of my brain," Donovan muttered, catching up with him as he stepped into the parking garage. Greg sighed, frustrated and scared.

"None of us will," he replied. There were too many cases already burned into his brain, but he knew this one would always turn his stomach. Dr. John Watson. Such a good man.

Donovan didn't respond, but she stopped walking. Greg continued to his car, deciding not to comment. He shuddered again, thinking about John's wrists and back, and pulled himself into his car.

~~/~~

Sally stood in the parking garage, watching Greg go home. She knew why she felt guilty, now. Sherlock didn't look like a psychopath anymore. He'd paced around the room in circles, muttering to himself and punching the wall every hour, like clockwork. He didn't look guilty; he looked like was halfway through a damn breakdown.

Sally punched in the button to call the elevator, hating herself even more. Sherlock wasn't a sociopath and Moriarty was terrifyingly real. Or, at least, had been. She had been entirely mistaken, despite all the evidence on her side, through that entire trial, through Sherlock's suicide.

Then why had Sherlock jumped? It grated on her now. Such an illogical decision from such a man, to care about his reputation so much. She'd destroyed his good name; was that why he'd jumped? Was it her fault? But then, why fake it? He'd lost Watson for that. It was obvious his friend had not known; John Watson had been destroyed that day. The thought grated.

It didn't matter why he'd faked his suicide. She owed him horribly. Sally pushed in the button for the second floor of Scotland Yard and started back up. She pulled herself tiredly out of the elevator and back toward the conference room, her sore feet dragging against the carpet. Sleep would come when John Watson was back at Scotland Yard. Or, at least, safe in the hospital. The screaming, sobbing clip was playing in the conference room. Sally shuddered and headed to her desk to pull up a plan of the city and a list of the condemned buildings. This was going to take a long damn time.

~~/~~

Sherlock brought his head up, his eyes widening. The dripping wasn't just close by. There was some of it fainter, further off from the mic. There was too much blood in the pictures for John to have left enough to be dripping elsewhere and still be alive enough to scream. No, this was different dripping, which was almost irrelevant because everything dripped; it'd rained three times in the last six days and there was no guarantee when that clip was made. John Watson might still be dead. It would be a fitting conclusion to Moriarty's story, for Sherlock to chase after a friend and find a corpse to end it all.

Sherlock played the clip again. Useless. He slammed his hand into the wall again when he thought he might be panicking, cracking the stud he'd found. He'd have to find a different one, now.

He left the conference room, though he wasn't sure where he was going. He needed more evidence, that clip wasn't long enough; there wasn't enough there to work with.

God, John. His only friend. The doctor made him feel alive, like a man, more than a thinking thing. How many men could make him laugh, with such little effort? John was brilliant. Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, trying not to imagine what John would feel like, now, his swollen skin rough with cuts and scabbing marks. It made him remember how the man smelled and sounded, how he was supposed to be. That was a distraction he couldn't afford.

"There's coffee hot," a woman's voice sounded out in the empty central room. Sherlock started, whipping around to locate the noise. He was never startled; what was wrong with him?

Sentiment.

He spotted Donovan sitting on the floor outside her cubical surrounded by maps, watching him curiously.

"Maps?" he mused aloud, trying to come up with the possibilities, to narrow them down. She was sitting by a stack of papers she kept referencing as she placed little stickers on the map. It was dotted with hundreds of little blue and red markers, throughout the map of London, mostly on the outskirts.

Oh.

"I'm mapping out -"

"Obviously," Sherlock cut her off, approaching her slowly, yet another thing he should have thought of. Should already have been doing. Where was his brain, when John needed it most? He sat down on the floor on the other side of the map and grabbed the next sheet of the list of condemned buildings and infrastructures within the Scotland Yard jurisdiction lines.

He'd like to just read down the list, make the map in his head but he was too slow, too blinded by sentiment; he was going to need the collective powers of Scotland Yard to get through this, and they needed the map. And there was nothing else to do. Lestrade was right; there was nothing more to find in the ten second audio clip.

"Red is abandoned buildings, blue's tunnels and infrastructures," he confirmed. Donovan nodded quickly.

"There's no database on bomb shelters and no logged information on whether any of these have basements," she said. Sherlock read down the list, updating the map he already had in his head.

"Thank you," he answered absently, glancing over the rest of the list sheets.

"We're not going to be able to find him unless Moriarty wants him found," Donovan said quietly, glancing up at him. Sherlock wanted to gut her. Irrelevant and hopeless. Obvious. But there was nothing better to do than talk, it didn't matter. There was nothing else to be doing.

"Your point?" he asked, memorizing the rest of the sheet.

"That it's no one's fault that he's there but the men doing this to him," Donovan replied. Ah. She was trying to be comforting. It was not his fault that John had gone four days without being reported missing. He could not have known the man was so alone in life. But he had known. Of course he had known; that had been made obvious by an expensive cellular phone ten seconds into their acquaintance and he had lived with John Watson. Anyone would have known. It was not him torturing the man, that was true, but Sherlock would hardly have thought that. He'd been in America at the time.

"Man," Sherlock corrected, not bothering to reply to the rest of the statement, as equally false as it was. He'd never told John there were assassins after him, never suggested he run.

"What?" she asked, glancing up from pushing a pin in.

"There's only one set of footsteps in the clip," he said, closing his eyes and resting his head against the back of his forehead as he thought. Donovan went silent, continuing on her map, and Sherlock grabbed a handful of pins to help. Donovan worked beside him, plugging in addresses and narrowing the options and staying silent, thank god.

~~/~~

Damn, but it was impressive watching Sherlock Holmes stick in tack after tack, never hesitating, never referring to the sheet again. He must have memorized it all, so casually, while talking to her about the number of footsteps in an audio clip.

Just sitting next to that machine of a mind was intimidating. Donovan focused on her work, trying to ignore the guilt and embarrassment that bit at her every time she checked the sheet to place each pin.

She didn't know what time it was when they finally finished. Light was starting to flicker through the office windows again. Sally stared at the completed map, colored with hundreds of pins, a visual confirmation that they knew nothing at all that would save Dr. John Watson. She couldn't pick out anything else, not that she expected to come up with any patterns. There was one dot in these hundreds that marked where Dr. Watson was located, if they were lucky, and until another photograph came in, they both knew that was as close as they were going to get.

"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, his voice sincere in a way she'd never heard. Donovan turned to see him sitting on the carpet, leaning against her cubical wall, his long legs spread out before him. He hadn't moved during the course of their entire project.

"Just doing my job," Sally replied, not wanting to think about her guilt. Sherlock's mouth twitched in what looked like the start of a smile, but it faded quickly.

"Not this time," he replied, meeting her eyes, and Sally blinked, looking away to escape the striking blue gaze that always saw right through people. She'd always hated that.

"You're welcome," she said, so he would look away, and pushed herself up to reach her phone. She wasn't safe to drive, there was no doubt of that. She'd catch a cab. Hopefully she'd have a few hours to sleep before she'd have to come in to see the next gruesome photograph of a tortured colleague, but she doubted it.

"Goodnight," Sherlock said politely. Sally nodded vaguely, too exhausted to respond or ask if he was planning to spend the night awake. She knew the answer anyway.

~/~~

Author's Note: My book Spinster's Gambit has released, in kindle & print. It had 33 pre-orders at the time of its release, and has bumped up to 45 purchases so far today! It only needs two more purchases and it has paid for its printing!

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