Up to the double digits now! And here I am, with chapter ten. Do enjoy. ^^

Smith Tank - a shabby, unmonitored building on the north side of London. The building once operated very well until a different tank company took charge, making even more tanks at a cheaper price with half the time. Despite Smith Tank having higher quality tanks, they were forced to shut down. Competition deemed to be pointless.

Sherlock approached the building one evening, joined by John. They stared up at the largeness of the old building and the shattered windows from when children used to play games quite carelessly.

"The 'For Sale' sign has been here for quite some time," Sherlock observed. "It won't matter in the slightest if anyone comes here."

"Why would they, anyway? To throw a party?" John questioned.

"Or, perhaps, to plan something dangerous." John knew that Sherlock referred to Jim Moriarty. As they passed the sign, John turned around to check if anyone had followed them when he noticed the back of the "For Sale" sign, where a blue hand was painted on. It clearly pointed towards the abandoned building. Maybe someone has been here before.

Sherlock found that the best entrance was through one of the closed garages. With a grunt, he lifted his fingers underneath it and pulled it up, revealing a very large room.

The room... This is where I was when the flash forward happened. With a noticeable amount of concern, he side glanced at John. This is where his death was to happen. John remained oblivious to Sherlock's concern and whistled at the size of the room. "I'm guessing this is where the tanks were made," he commented. Only one small tank, unfinished, sat to their right. Again, a blue hand was painted on it, pointing to a nearby door. This time, Sherlock noticed it. "This was recently painted on," he deduced, kneeling by the tank and touching the paint. "Two months ago, at maximum. It must be a code, something that members from a certain group would understand." Sherlock approached the door and put his ear to it. Silence. He placed a pale white hand on the rusty doorknob and pushed the door open. Another small room remained inside, containing an old desk (clearly belonging to the company but abandoned, Sherlock observed), where a shallow girl sat, staring dully at the two men. She looked like she had been beaten.

Twenty-five years old, going on twenty-six in the next month, Sherlock deduced within two seconds. Clearly no parents, lost long before the blackout. Cheap makeup but quite an expensive hair style, so she does have a bit of money. Part of something that I would like to be made aware of. Sherlock gave John the "just go with my lead" look and approached the desk.

The girl raised an eyebrow at the men. "Welcome to the Blue Hand Club," she greeted. She continued to stare with such cold, empty eyes. Sherlock disguised his detective self and looked at her with a mildly dull expression as well. "I'm sorry, but could you tell me what you do here? A friend recommended this place to me."

The girl seemed suspicious at the man's question, but felt too lazy to explain or demand they leave. She pointed behind her, where another door loomed. "You just go in there," she answered. "You do whatever you want with whoever you want."

"In a sexual case?"

"If you want that, then yes." The girl scratched at her nails, looking away from Sherlock. "Mainly it's about pain and suicide."

"Right," Sherlock answered, sounding completely calm. "Why, though?"

"If you're a part of this group, then you'll understand why completely. You didn't have a flash forward, meaning you'll be dead fairly soon. It doesn't matter what anyone says because it's the truth. I had a friend who told me she didn't have a flash forward, and she went in that room." The girl looked back up, her expression having not changed. "Two weeks later and she still hasn't come out. I'm guessing it's because she died, because that's what will happen to anyone who didn't see anything in their future."

John bit his lip. So I will be dead, then. Lovely.

"Some people," the girl continued, "come here to torture others, to kill until they themselves get killed. Others come just for the torture. They want to feel everything, anything, even if it's pain, because one day soon, they'll feel nothing at all." She sighed and sat back in the chair, silently announcing the end of her speech.

"Could you tell me if you know that Jim Moriarty attends this club?" Sherlock asked.

"Sorry. I don't know. It's not like we have a list or anything, but you can try looking." She stood up from the desk and they followed her to the door, which she opened. As they stepped in, she declared, "If you plan on making it out of here in a fine condition, keep an eye out. Some people in there might grab you and do whatever they want to you." She closed the door with a sense of finality.

In the room, first, was a bar, run by a man just as sad-looking as the girl from the desk. After that, the scene horrified John all the way through. In some areas, people were in line to shoot themselves, just after sticking their shooting hand in a bucket of blue paint. In other places, whips cracked and victims screamed. All around them was death and pain, and John felt a sudden flashback of his days in the war. He swooned, and Sherlock held him up. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"I don't like this," John managed to stutter. The blood slowly drained from his face and he tugged on Sherlock's arm. "Please...let's just...let's go."

In two minutes, they were back outside, but John didn't feel any better. Tears rose in his eyes, and he couldn't blink them away. Sherlock faced him, dreadfully concerned. "John, are -"

"So that's me, is it?" John exclaimed, pointing to the building. "That's what I'm supposed to be doing? I'm going to die in only a matter of months and I should be doing that?" A tear escaped him, and he put his hands over his face. If he were calm, he would feel ashamed to cry in front of Sherlock Holmes. "Why...how could anybody do this? People fight for their survival, for their mere existence, every damn day, and because of the lack of a future, they go and destroy their lives? What happened to living the best of what you have until the end?" He moaned sadly, wiping the tears away. He glared at the blue hand painted on the sign. "I didn't go to war for this," he mumbled, barely over a whisper. "I didn't fight for people to kill themselves... I fought for life and hope. At least I know it's all gone now, and next time I make a decision to fight for someone, I can deny it and not get hurt in the end."

Sherlock felt his phone buzz in his jacket pocket, but he ignored it. "John, there are several people out there who didn't have a flash forward. Not all of them are a part of this group. You aren't," he encouraged. "You can always fight for someone you love. The caring ones will be considerate of this fact, and will keep fighting for life even without hope." He smiled weakly. He'd never seen John this way, and feared that he wasn't even helping. He patted his friend's shoulder. "Everything is going to be alright."

A car suddenly pulled up, clearly one of Mycroft's. John betted that he'd been kidnapped in that car before. Mycroft stepped out of the car, and approached the two. "Find anything useful?" he asked his brother.

"Not hardly," Sherlock muttered. "What do you want?"

"This isn't about you," Mycroft answered, and turned to John. The tiny smile on his face melted into a frown. "I'm sorry, John, but something's happened."

John sat upright, blinking the tears away quickly. "What? What happened?"

Mycroft leaned on his umbrella, facing the man at a more accurate level. "It's about your sister, Harriet."

John's eyes widened. "Tell me."

"I'm sorry, John." He sighed heavily. "She's gone missing."

Uh oh. :o I've been getting more ideas lately for the story. Thinking does help. :p Review and I'll see you soon. :D