Seven Days Earlier

John

3:45AM

John Watson had never been much of a deep sleeper, even before Afghanistan. After Sherlock was gone, it seemed he'd never sleep through a night again. He was in the sitting room at 221B, wearing pyjama bottoms and a tshirt, Sherlock's burgundy dressing gown wrapped tightly around him. Some nights it helped. Tonight wasn't one of those nights.

As he watched Shawn of The Dead for at least the 20th time on the sofa, he thought he heard the wonky stair step creak. He chalked it up to the movie and his persistent exhaustion. Their door was closed and locked, anyway. John noted wearily that he still thought of it as "their" door. If his friend was still living there, it would probably be open. John had always preferred the door closed, but didn't tell Sherlock – after all, when he was experimenting at the kitchen table, it was wiser to maintain maximum airflow in the flat.

So John was caught off-guard when the door was unlocked and opened in one swift motion. He had just enough time to wonder where someone would get a key before a balaclava-wearing brute of a man pointed a gun in his face.

"Quietly now," the man warned. "Wouldn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson, would we?"

John shook his head emphatically and raised his hands. A second thug entered, gun drawn, his face also masked. He motioned with the gun for John to stand up. The first man spun John around roughly and cuffed his hands behind him. A canvas sack was pulled over his head. One of them gathered the fabric tightly around his neck, and he felt it being secured with a zip tie before he was pushed toward the door. It wasn't enough to choke him, but the threat was clear. He was hustled down the stairs, then stopped at the front door. He heard it open, then after a moment, the first man said "Let's go." John was rushed out the door and shoved into the back of a van.

He tried to struggle into a sitting position, but was flipped roughly on his stomach for his troubles. With Mrs. Hudson presumably safe, John shouted, "What the bloody hell is going on? Where are you taking me?" There was no answer.

He felt the van make its way through London's streets for several minutes before getting on the motorway. John guessed they'd driven on it for about 20 minutes before turning off. The van made several more turns, and after a few minutes he felt the paved road change to gravel and the van soon stopped. The engine was turned off and the back door opened.

John was pulled out and his bare feet crunched on the gravel as he was led forward. He heard a key turning in a heavy lock, and a metal door slid open. His feet grew colder as he was marched forward again on a concrete floor. He couldn't hear well with the bag over his head, but he sensed it was a warehouse or a factory. After walking about fifty feet or so, he heard another door being unlocked and opened.

He was led into the room and his wrists were uncuffed briefly. His back was pushed against a metal pole, and the handcuffs were re-fastened behind him with his arms around the pole. "Is anyone going to tell me what's going on?"

He heard several individuals moving about the room, but no one answered him. "Right then. Cheers," he said, sliding down the pole and crossing his legs. Taunting his captors wasn't the wisest move, but he didn't have a clue what they wanted from him and it was making him even more tired and grumpy than he'd already been. The fact that the bag was stifling and his face was sweating profusely didn't help. Luckily for him, they continued to ignore his comments.

The men seemed to be settling in. He heard one of them sit, and then smelled the faint scent of cigarette smoke. John thought of Sherlock – these days, that aroma always brought him to mind. As clever as he was, John could tell when he'd slipped and smoked one. John would call Sherlock on it, and before long Sherlock's arm would be decorated with one (or three) nicotine patches. He'd quit for good before they went to Baskerville. At least, John thought he had, but he was fooled into thinking that more than once, until Sherlock came home, his coat reeking of smoke. He knew Sherlock could have hidden it, but either he didn't care enough to bother, or he secretly enjoyed John telling him off and generally acting like a mother hen.

It suddenly occurred to John that these men might have abducted him to get to Sherlock. They were going to be sorely disappointed if that were the case, he thought wistfully. The thought was immediately followed by a twinge of fear – what would they do with him when they figured it out?

He heard a mobile phone ring, but couldn't make out the conversation that followed. Soon, he heard footsteps heading towards the door, and the click of a light switch. "Hey!" He called out. "Could you at least take this bag off my head? I can't breathe properly like this."

The footsteps paused. "Please?" He asked.

He heard one of them approach him and cut the plastic tie from his neck. The canvas bag was removed, but before John could look up, a powerful torch was shined directly into his eyes. He squinted and turned away, temporarily blinded. John heard the footsteps quickly retreating before the door was closed and locked.

John noted the room smelled of dust and damp, now that his head was uncovered. There were either no windows in the room, or all the lights were out in the building, because he couldn't see a thing once his vision cleared of the white spots caused by the torch. There were no sounds to speak of, either.

He pulled experimentally at the cuffs, knowing it was no use. They were already tight enough to chafe his skin. He was going nowhere until someone came and released him. He sighed, leaning back against the cold metal, and stretched his legs in front of him.

...

John awoke with a start, sore and confused. How had he managed such an awkward position on the sofa? Then the events of the night returned. He pushed himself back against the pole and stretched his neck and back the best he could. He didn't know how long he'd slept, only that he was thirsty and needed to pee.

After what seemed like an eternity, the men returned. One of them shined a torch into his eyes again as another flicked on the light and closed the door. John's head was quickly covered.

Moments later, the door opened again. No one said a word.

"Now what?!" John cried out angrily.

One of the men walked out the door, and closed it behind him.

"Can you please tell me what the fuck is going on?!" John pulled at the handcuffs, only succeeding in making his swollen wrists more sore. One of the men chuckled under his breath, but said nothing.

John sighed and leaned back against the pole. Another eternity went by before he heard the door open again. Someone walked in and said "Moving." John was roughly pulled to his feet and was freed briefly from the handcuffs as two of the men pushed him away from the pole, then reattached them firmly to his wrists. They seemed to be waiting for a signal. He thought he heard footsteps outside the room, then a tap at the door. The door opened, and he was led out by the two men.

John sensed others waiting outside, but again no one spoke as he was walked by them. He jerked slightly, registering confusion at the sudden sensation that he knew one of them. He only had time enough to think Sherlock? as he was pulled forward across the warehouse.

Sherlock

6:30AM

Sherlock sat in a corner of the makeshift skate park, his red hooded sweatshirt zipped up, the hood drawn over his head. He wore dingy jeans and well-used black trainers. He'd traded his watch for the clothes he now wore, then left his coat, shoes and wallet in the darkest recess of the family crypt, safely behind great-great grandad Holmes' final resting place. Next to him sat a much older man smoking a joint.

"Ya, this'll do," the man said.

"So?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"So. I seen this bloke bugger off into a car with two others and take off after the deal got fucked-"

Sherlock interrupted him. "It wasn't a drug deal gone bad. It was an assassination meant to look like one. What did the man who shot Des look like?"

"Ahh, average I guess."

Sherlock pressed his palms against his eyelids. "Did you even see him, Marty?" He asked accusingly.

"Yeah, I seen 'im. He was just … I dunno …" the man said, waving the joint around in front of him.

Sherlock snatched it away. "Do you want the rest or don't you?" The man nodded. "Then think. Was he white? Black? Asian? What was he wearing? What color was his hair?"

"Jeez, alright. He ahhh … He's white. Wearin' … wearin' black trousers. Nice ones, like. White shirt. Long coat. It were gray, I think. His hair … well, it was brown. Brownish. Yeah. And he had a beard. No. No. He had a goatee. I think."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked pointedly. "Are you sure it was a goatee?"

"I told you I weren't sure. It was a beard or a goatee. Brownish … maybe ginger. Not too long. I'll tell you this – he was too posh to be here." The man reached for his joint, and Sherlock handed it back to him, then tossed a small paper bag in his lap.

He stood, and looked back at the man trying to relight the joint. "Thank you," Sherlock said. "You've been … marginally helpful." The man waved the joint in salute, and Sherlock stalked away from him, brow creased in concentration. He didn't hear the girl on a BMX bike behind him until she was next to him. She rolled up to his left side, pushed him and quickly rode off.

Sherlock stumbled slightly but regained his balance. He'd felt her put a hand in the pocket of his hoodie. – Pickpocket? No. Anyone who doesn't know me would guess I haven't got any money. – Walking quickly to a secluded spot, he reached into his pocket and felt a slip of paper that hadn't been there before. He checked to be sure no one was looking before he pulled out the paper. - Bohemian. Of course. -

...

Meet me at the witch's house. You have 4 hours until I take your pet to the vet to be put to sleep. Miss me? - JM

...

"Damn," Sherlock muttered under his breath. He suspected Moriarty was alive, but still hadn't worked out how he could've survived. – Probably not him. One of his itsy bitsy spiders. – Sherlock couldn't pay the cab fare to Addlestone, so public transit it would have to be. - It'll take me nearly that long to get there, but I'm sure whoever sent this message knows that. - He shoved his hands into his pockets, and with long strides he made his way towards the main road.

Just over three hours later, Sherlock was crunching along the gravel drive leading to the factory. He reached the main door and found it open. He stepped inside cautiously, clicking on his small torch as he did.

"Turn that off." - Definitely Moriarty. How the hell did he … - Sherlock did as he was told.

"Where's John?" He called into the darkness.

"All in good time," came the smug reply.

"Now is a good time."

"First we negotiate. Then you see him." Moriarty said.

"No." Sherlock said flatly.

There was a pause, then a sigh. "Fine," he said huffily. "Well ... follow me!"

Sherlock followed the sound of footsteps across the darkened warehouse. His eyes were beginning to adjust, and he could just make out a figure stopping in front of an office door.

"Not a sound," Moriarty whispered conspiratorially, "or his life is forfeit." He opened the door and flicked on the light.

Sherlock's mouth went dry. He hadn't seen John in so long. And he certainly didn't want to see him like this. There was a bag over John's head, but Sherlock knew instantly it was him. He was sitting bound to a metal pole, ancient paint flaking off it. John was in his nightclothes, shoeless, wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. Sherlock's guts twisted and his mouth opened, but no sound came out. He knew better than to disobey Moriarty. He wouldn't have come if he wasn't already willing to sacrifice everything for John, and he wasn't going to ruin his chances of getting him away from Moriarty now.

"Now what?!" John shouted. Moriarty motioned for one of the men to follow him, then casually turned and walked away, knowing Sherlock wouldn't be far behind.

He walked across the warehouse to an office in the opposite corner, turned on the light and entered. Sherlock soon came in behind him. There were already two chairs placed at the sides of a small table, a thin folder on the tabletop. Moriarty sat, and Sherlock warily did the same as Moriarty's man walked in and leaned against the wall nearest the door.

"I thought you didn't get your hands dirty," Sherlock began casually.

"This is a special occasion. By the way, you're looking well, for a dead man."

"I could say the same of you." Sherlock responded.

"Mmm." Moriarty nodded slightly in agreement. "Some day we'll have to share our little tales of daring-do."

Sherlock and Moriarty stared at one another across the table.

"What do you want in exchange for John's safety?" Sherlock said, abruptly breaking the silence.

"Testy!" Moriarty chided. "I hear frustration in your voice. You don't like giving up control, do you? And you're afraid for little Johnny."

"Yes, brilliant observations, all. What. Do. You. Want."

Moriarty grinned, a predatory gleam in his eye. "In a word: you. In many words, this," he said, moving the folder across the table to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened the folder and scanned the single sheet of paper inside. "No," he said.

"No? You came all this way, came out of hiding, just to tell me … No?"

"You knew I wouldn't go along with this. It's your opening offer. So here's my counteroffer. I'll agree to most of your demands-"

"Arrangements," Moriarty corrected.

Sherlock ignored him. "But I will not, under any circumstances, kill for you. I won't help you kill or injure anyone, either. And you must release John at once, and guarantee his safety for the duration of our agreement."

"Ooooh, look at the morals on this one!" Moriarty said to no one in particular. "And you're willing to let John die for them?"

Sherlock stared at Moriarty, but said nothing.

Moriarty finally broke the silence. "Final offer. Decision time." He smiled crookedly and reached for the paper, pulling a pen from his suit coat. He wrote a few lines on the paper and passed it back.

"Fine. Yes." Sherlock kept the tremor out of his voice, just barely. Rage and fear and relief were fighting for dominance, and the emotions were nearly overwhelming.

"Well, sign it! It's not legal if you don't." Moriarty could barely control his glee.

"It's not legal in any case," Sherlock growled, but signed at the bottom of the page.

"And I'll sign here," Jim said, taking the paper back. "Well, now that's settled, I think this calls for a celebration." He clicked his fingers at the man leaning back against the wall. He ambled to the corner of the room, returning with a bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape and two champagne flutes. Moriarty waved at him, and he turned back to the corner to open the bottle and pour two glasses. He returned and handed them both to Moriarty, then left the room. Moriarty passed a glass to Sherlock.

"I'd prefer that one, please," Sherlock said, gesturing to the one in Moriarty's hand.

"Of course," Moriarty replied easily, trading with Sherlock. "Since you asked so nicely."

"Both drugged, then?" Sherlock asked casually, taking a sip.

"Naturally. Don't worry, I won't be driving." Moriarty drained his glass. "Bottoms up, dearie. Places to go, things to do and all that."

Sherlock took a breath and downed his champagne. "Very nice," he commented drily. "You can barely taste the rohypnol."

"Too true. Well, now that's settled, I find myself in a rather generous mood. What do you say we go see your little friend one more time before we go." Moriarty gestured for Sherlock to precede him out the door, back to the office at the opposite side of the warehouse. "Remember," Moriarty cautioned as they approached, "Not a sound."

Jim rapped lightly at the door, and momentarily it opened. John was led out between two of Moriarty's men as they walked him towards the other office. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. Moriarty shrugged noncommittally. He crooked his finger at Sherlock, gesturing for him to follow to the warehouse door. Sherlock was already feeling a bit warm and woozy by the time he got into the back seat of Jim's town car. He heard the car make its way back onto the paved roadway, and faded into unconsciousness.

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AN: Sorry for the backtracking, but it had to be done. More slashy goodness (and badness) to come this weekend. Thanks again to all who've taken the time to stay with the story. I love you, kind reviewers, followers, favorite-ers, and all the Sherlock fanfic fiends out there! It's good to know I'm not alone in my obsession.

DFTBA