Warning: Mentions of numerous sharp objects with the intent to torture. Brief mention of the torture itself, nothing graphic.

Ch. 10: Fish

Oliver Ashburne was first aware of his tongue. It felt like someone had wrapped the organ in Velcro…it felt slow and sticky. He rolled his tongue around, trying to find saliva to wet it down, but he seemed to be out of that. He slowly blinked open his eyes, wincing as the movement seemed to send a shock of pain into his head. Oh. His head. Oliver blinked back tears as a dull roar came into his ears and the full thudding pain settled in his head. He forced his eyes open again and tried to look at where he was.

The room around him was dim and the walls made out of coarse stone. A bare bulb swung from the high ceiling. Oliver glanced down and realized that he was strapped to a table that was tilted up at an angle. He tried to move his hands and legs, but all of his appendages seemed to be tied down. His olfactory senses came back to him and he smelled…fish and mold, among other things. There was a faint sound like trickling water coming into his right ear. Turning his head gingerly, he noticed two things. First, there was a steady stream of water flowing from ceiling to floor on the wall to his right. Second, there was another man beside him, strapped to a table in the very same manner that he was.

Oliver swallowed as recognition slapped him in the face. It was Henry…Henry Newton. They worked together. Oliver tried to say Henry's name, but his tongue refused to cooperate. He coughed weakly, trying to get his vocal cords to start up. That's when he heard a groan…but it was coming from his left. He turned his head in the other direction and saw another person on his left, but this time a woman. Oh gods… Juliana. Oliver's heart sank.

Juliana groaned as she felt a throbbing pain erupt in the middle of her skull. There were twinkling little black stars in her vision and she closed her eyes to try to steady them and get the sand out of her head. Her tongue felt thick and fuzzy and she found it hard to swallow. She felt like she could just go back to sleep when she heard a strangled voice say, "Juliana?"

She looked to her right to find Oliver Ashburne there, strapped to a table much in the same way that she seemed to be. "Oliver?" she called, her voice dull and raspy. Before Oliver or Juliana could say anymore, the door at the far end of the cold, stone room creaked open and a tall, broad man walked in. There was a lighted cigar in his mouth, the sickly sweet scent of the tobacco filling the room quickly. He was carrying a large, black duffel bag in his hand.

The man crossed the room and set the bag on a silver rolling cart that was placed directly in front of Oliver's table. The man opened it unhurriedly, taking out several items and humming an aria from "Le nozze de Figaro" all the while. Oliver didn't really panic until he saw the surgical tools unroll from a small kit.

"What do you want with us?" he asked, fighting to make his voice less wispy. The man didn't answer, but instead unrolled a white towel and proceeded to unpack a number of things that made Oliver's head swim and his stomach to drop like a rock. The blades ranged in length from the size of a man's palm to one unearthly cruel-looking machete. Next came a set of jumper cables, followed by a coiled length of rope. The razor blades followed and the row of surgical tools were accompanied by gleaming dental picks. Juliana whimpered and Oliver saw the tears rolling down her face.

"What are you going to do to us?" Oliver asked again. His voice was a mere whisper, but he didn't care. He only saw what he knew to be the end of his life.

The man smiled and walked over to Oliver's table. He removed the cigar from his mouth and leaned over to talk directly in Oliver's ear. "I'm going to have some fun." The man smiled again, but Oliver was only aware of the sound of sizzling flesh and the burning pain of the man's cigar being thrust into the center of his bare chest.

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"John!"

John jerked back into awareness as Sherlock's sharp voice cut through his train of thought like a knife. He looked over at the thin man who was currently bent like a question mark over the microscope. John stood from his chair and walked over to Sherlock's side.

"You rang?" John teased. Sherlock looked up and shot him a look of disdain. He then backed away from the device and nodded his head at it.

"Look at this and tell me what you see."

John frowned, but obliged his partner and stared into the eyepiece. The magnified object that looked back at him was papery thin, iridescent, and shot through with tiny, vein-like filaments. As he looked harder at the…thing, he was conscious of Sherlock's voice in his ear.

"It resembles the anatomy of a butterfly's wing, but the texture is all wrong. Nor does it fit in with any mineral composition that matches the others I've found in the sample. There's sand, a tiny bit of gravel, a chalky-clay, and some sort of vegetation."

John backed away from the microscope while shrugging his shoulders. "I'm not sure what it is either, Sherlock. I would have guessed an insect's wing as well, but if you say that's not what it is…"

"It's not," Sherlock said, thumping his fists together. He dragged his fingers through his unruly curls and exhaled loudly. "But what is it, John! The answer is right there, it has to be! It's looking us in the face but I can't see it."

John was prevented from answering when Molly walked in with a white paper bag in her hands.

"Hello!" she called. "I was, uh, just out getting some lunch and I thought you might enjoy something to eat. I hope fish and chips are okay…"

The lightning bolt hit John and Sherlock at the same time. They stared at Molly, who almost began to back away slowly, and then turned to stare at each other. There was 6.4 seconds of silence and stillness before both men erupted into movement. John grabbed both of their coats and Sherlock grabbed the bag from Molly's hands. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek with a loud smack and then ran out the door with John, who was shouting "Thank you, Molly!" Molly stood in the middle of the lab for another 8.7 seconds with a completely flabbergasted look on her face.

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Lestrade started as a greasy bag of what smelled like fish and chips landed on the desk right in front of his face. He looked up, one eyebrow quirked in question. Sherlock was standing in the doorway with a triumphant grin on his face. John was behind him and there was a determined look in his eye that gave Lestrade a little hope.

"Well?" Lestrade asked.

"Summon the king's horses, Lestrade. I know where to go." Sherlock's confidence was brimming over and leaking into the nooks of the room.

Lestrade stood and grabbed his coat. "Where are we going?"

"Warehouse district by the Thames," John said. He gave Lestrade an address and Lestrade sent it off in a text to his sergeants.

As they bundled into the car, Lestrade asked, "How'd you find it?"

Sherlock's grin in the rearview mirror was victorious. "Where else in London will you find a mud composed of sand, gravel, chalky-clay, algae, and fish scales?"

Lestrade shook his head. "But how'd you narrow it down to the specific location? The warehouse district isn't exactly small you know."

"My sources tell me that an unregistered black van came to that address around 3:30 this morning. One of them saw a man matching Frederickson's description."

"Your sources?" Lestrade asked.

"Homeless network," John clarified.

Lestrade shook his head but pressed the accelerator harder with his foot.