Chapter Ten:

"Can't you go any faster?" Sherlock asked impatiently, leaning forwards on his seat to talk to the driver.

"Not without breaking the speed limit." The short stumpy man was quickly getting on Sherlock's nerves. This was a 40 street. He was going thirty. There was a whole 10mph extra he could have been going.

"I'm in a bit of hurry." "Oh yeah, life or death right?"

"Yes as a matter of fact." Sherlock's fingers began drumming on his knee; he tapped his foot against the floor, continuously glancing at his watch.

"That's what they all say.""I'm sure they don't all tell you that if you don't move any quicker, I'll knock you out and drive your cab for you." True, Sherlock couldn't drive. But he was a quick learner. He'd figure it out before he crashed.

The cabbie gave a short laugh. "You're a funny one aren't you?" He sighed, "Alright mister, I'll put my foot down. You're paying me an extra tenner if I get caught."

Sherlock smiled to himself. Am I?

They pulled up to 412 Brookside in twenty minutes. Sherlock threw a fifty onto his lap and walked away before he could get change.

The moment the cab was out of sight, Sherlock ran, full speed, round the back of the old house and kicked hard on the back door. The garden was over grown and filled with weeds. The fence was tall and thick, and since the door splintered almost instantly, Sherlock was sure no one had seen or heard him.

If the house itself was a mess, the inside was a pig sty. Outside hadn't looked too attractive, with its rat colored walls and boarded windows… He had to admit, he'd expected something a little less cliché. Sherlock suspected Moriarty had chosen practicality over anything else. The whole street had run down houses such as this. All abandoned, all old. No one would be hurt if anything went wrong. More importantly, no one would call the police if they saw a tall man dressed in black breaking in.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, pivoting on the spot. "John, where are you?"

Very faintly, he heard muffled yells coming from a room upstairs. A woman's, Molly's. Well if she was up there, John must be too. Without a regard for personal safety, Sherlock sprinted up the stairs and kicked open the door to the bedroom.

"John- John?" All he could see was Molly. Strapped harshly to a chair in the center of the room. No furniture, no lights, no John.

She was crying and bleeding where the rope had cut her wrists, Sherlock could see a pool of it gathered under her chair.

He quickly untied her and pulled the gag of her mouth. He spared no time.

"Where is he?"

"H…Who?" She gasped, massaging her throat. Thick bands of red and purple bruises circled her neck and both her eyes were black where she had been punched. Now Sherlock looked, it was obvious she had been beaten. Her clothes were torn and bloody, her hair tangled and messy, her face looked as though she'd just walked into a wall. But her arms. Cuts - both thick and thin - littered the skin like freckles, as if she had been pricked with pins of a various width and sharpness.

"Who did this?"

"I… I don't know." She coughed, "Not Jim, he… he just watched." She licked her lips hungrily, "I'm sorry, but he doesn't have John here. I didn't send that text. And now you're going to die." She burst into floods of tears and tried to stand, for she had fallen the first time Sherlock tried to help her stand.

"What? Explain, everything." His quick eyes searched her face, she was clearly trying to stay calm, but she was in the throes of a panic attack. Sherlock had little patience in general, even less now John was almost surely in mortal danger.

"Jim called. Said that he'd moved our date to this evening. He came to pick me up, but instead of Angelo's where he said he'd take me, he brought me here. And…" She coughed and gulped, Sherlock tried to hide his impatience behind a mask of almost sincere concern. "There was someone waiting, a tall man, built like a mountain. He hurt me, and Jim stood there and laughed." She wiped away her tears and remained quiet. "And John? Where's he?" Sherlock said after he couldn't sit waiting any longer.

"I don't know. But now you have me, you're not going to make it out."

"Why?"Molly shook her head, "I'm sorry."

"Why? Molly, what did you do?"

"He has my Mum and Dad. If I don't… If I don't kill you, he'll kill them." Just at that moment, as Sherlock stood up, ready to fight or run, the man that strangled John, that beat Molly, appeared in the doorway with a bat and an evil smirk. Sherlock rushed to the window but it was double glazed and bolted tight. Molly sniffed and shakily pulled out a gun from her waistband. "Sorry Sherlock." She aimed the gun at his head.

The punch came out of nowhere. One minute John was stood, staring into the eyes of one of Moriarty's tougher henchmen, the next, fist to the face. Another. Another. Another. Over and over again, until tears stung John's eyes and he spat out blood. He was dizzy and his vision was blurry, there was a ringing and a pounding in his head, it hurt, a lot.

"Take it easy. Don't want him dead just yet." Moriarty's voice drifted from the shadows. "You know it pains me to do this John-""No it doesn't." John breathed."Excuse me?""You love this. Watching pain, watching hurt and death. You're a sadist.""Why, that might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me. Although, it's been said before. Numerous amounts of times. Come up with something better and then we'll talk. Until then…"

The punches continued, hard and fast and brutally on target. His head, his chest, his bad shoulder, his legs, his crotch. Everywhere hurt and John didn't think he could stand any more without passing out. But he had to endure, he had to prove he was better than Moriarty thought. Not just a 'pet' of Sherlock's, but completely deserving of his place by his side. No matter how much pain he was in, he'd endure it for Sherlock.

"Molly, you can't be serious."

"Sorry.""So you keep saying. But isn't it obvious? He doesn't really have your parents. He's saying it to get you to do as he wants. It's part of his game, you know that surely." Sherlock hoped he was right. There were some things he couldn't deduce, and the mind of his favorite consulting criminal was one.

The man at the door was tapping the bat threateningly, edging slowly into the room, forcing Sherlock into a corner.

"And if you are going to kill me - which your clearly not - you would've already. And why is he here?"

"Because Jim knew I wouldn't be able to do it alone." She closed her eyes and the man moved out of her way. Sherlock's eyes widened in shock as she squeezed the trigger.

"Molly!" He cried, but she had shot. Blinding pain seared across his right leg, forcing him to the floor where he yelled and rocked, holding his wound. She had a bad aim, luckily. Instead of shooting out his knee cap like she'd intended, she had shot him mid-calf. There was a lot of blood, and a lot of pain, but he wouldn't bleed to death so long as he could stop the pressure. Just as his mind was focusing on getting to the rope Molly had been bound with, the bat swung down hard on the side of his head. And kept hitting. Sherlock raised his arms over his face and head and began an agonizing crawl. But each time he moved too close to the chair, a kick in his stomach would roll him over onto his back, where the torment with the bat would continue. He was losing consciousness and the man wasn't boring any time soon. He was too strong for Sherlock. Instead of a mental fight like Sherlock was used to, it was brute strength that was tearing him down. Disappointing really, Sherlock had hoped to be out smarted to death, not beaten to a bloody pulp like a common mugging victim. Beaten or not, he couldn't focus. He could hardly move. But he still formed a plan. Instead of crawling to the chair, he blocked yet another hit and turned his whole body so that he was facing the door. On his hands and knees, he tried to crawl towards it, but again was kicked in the stomach. He landed roughly on his back all air rushing out of him along with blood and bile. Whilst on his back, still guarding, he rolled over twice, grabbed a chair leg and threw it into his attackers face, ignoring the roar of protest from his probably fractured arm.

If he could have smirked he would have, because the wood from the chair had splintered on impact and knocked the brute out. It wasn't a pretty sight, watching an almost seven foot man collapse with splinters in his face, but hey. Sherlock had won - if you can count being beaten to half death winning.

Molly had fled, not wishing to see the carnage she had caused. It was a good thing really, as she wasn't there to stop him. Ignoring his concussion and internal bleeding, he grabbed a rope and tied it very tightly around his calf, almost stopping the bleeding completely. However there was no way he could stand. It was a chore just to stay awake. There was no longer a chair for him to support himself on, and even with the famous willpower he had, he yelled out in pain and did something a healthy Sherlock would never do. He called out for help.

Unaware that he had lost consciousness, John awoke with a killer pain in his leg. Great. he thought, Unconscious twice in twenty four hours. That's a record.

He noticed that his beating had stopped, no more punches. He knew he'd look a state, a mess, bloody and battered, but he doubted it mattered. It wasn't like anyone was ever going to see him again. "Where's the prick?" He coughed, hoping his course voice was clear enough to be understood.

"Language, John." Moriarty stepped smugly into the light. "He was needed somewhere else.""Where?""He had to take care of Sherlock. Whose dead!." He clapped and a wide grin broke out on his face. He rocked backwards and forwards gleefully on his heels, humming happily.

John made a noise then, in between human and animal. A growl, which held the promise of a thousand deaths. "He's not! Who told you? They're lying! It's a lie!"

"No it isn't. And that's what makes it wonderful. Miss Molly Hooper text me. She was the one that killed him. Well, helped." Moriarty came as close to John as he could, and crouched down in front of him, he reached up and stroked John's cheek. John, doing the only thing he could think of, bit Moriarty's finger. Hard. "Ouch, John. Naughty. Going to have to get you a muzzle…"

"It's not true!" John spat, "Molly wouldn't! She couldn't even if she wanted to!" John tried to rock his chair, struggle violently against his bonds, but it was making him dizzy. He had taken a rough beating, he couldn't escape this, he'd either have to die or be let go.

He couldn't believe that Sherlock was dead. Especially not if Molly had anything to do with it. Sherlock was a good fighter, amazing in fact… But up against a brute like the guy who'd beaten John… well he didn't stand a chance. He sobbed once and tried meekly to escape. "Not my Sherlock…"

"Your Sherlock?" He jumped up with a wide grin and took a shocked step back. "Oh now that's a lovely surprise! Finally together. I must admit, a tad predictable. It was too obvious you'd get together. Still, I'm so happy for you! Although now I suppose, you'll be forever alone. Dr Watson, no husband. No friends, doomed for an empty life in an empty flat with an empty fridge."

"I'll kill myself." he whispered.

"No you won't. You're not that type of person."

"Without Sherlock I'm no one."

"Don't get all mopey on me, please. I can't stand the tears. Who were you before him? An army doctor. A successful one at that." Moriarty walked over to Lestrade, who was still holding the gun. Looking pale, shaky and close to tears, but still completely under Moriarty's control.

"You can leave, Detective Inspector. I no longer have a need for you.""My children?" Lestrade croaked.

"Your… Oh. They're fine. At home with their mother. I didn't actually take them, I'm a lot of things but I don't mess with children. God, what do you take me for? No, you see, it was all to get you to come and play. I like a little family drama in my games."

For a moment, Lestrade looked like he was just going to run out, but the full impact of Moriarty's words hit him before he took a step. His light eyes took on an animalistic darkness, his face scrunched up and he tightened his grip around the rifle and took a stance John knew only too well; the pose of a soldier preparing for war.

"I was going to kill him for you!" He screamed, "My friend! I was going to shoot him!""I know. De-lightful wasn't it?"

Lestrade roared and attempted to hit Moriarty in the face with the butt of his rifle, but Moriarty's hand shot out of his pocket and he seemed to briefly touch Lestrade on the back. Lestrade stopped. It was sudden, as if someone had hit pause on the Sky remote. Lestrade gagged, and fell forward, revealing a small but sharp jackknife buried deep into his chest from behind. John shouted but Moriarty sighed.

"I hate getting my hands dirty." A pool of blood was beginning to seep under Lestrade, so close to death. His eyelids were closed but his fingers were twitching. John's breathing increased. He knew how to save people in this situation. He could help him! If he wasn't tied up. In a minute, Lestrade stopped moving completely. And John lost whatever hope he had left. Two people he cared about dead in less than an hour. First; his flat mate. His partner. His sociopath, the love of his life. Second, a potential friend, someone who understood the insane ways of Sherlock. He could have talked to Lestrade, gotten to know him, had a few drinks with him, but now he was alone.

"You didn't have to do that." John growled."I did." Moriarty sounded insulted, "He was going to kill me!""I'm going to kill you." John growled, "The moment I get out of here, I'm going to hunt you down, and tear out your throat. I promise you that."

A/N; Dun Dun Duh! I have no idea what I'm doing! Why am I hurting my characters like this? Why? It's a mystery that will baffle the greatest minds… Anyway, I hope you like it, and I hope that Lestrades death wasn't too sad. I don't want this to be a sob story. I'm writing one of those next. ;) At least I didn't kill Sherlock! That was my original plan btw. Yeah. I know. Idiot.

Next chapter: Sherlock comes to the rescue! Or does he… He has been shot in the leg after all. He couldn't even walk two meters on his own. And lestrade's dead now, so John's all alone, and still in Moriarty's clutches…

Reviews… please. Xx

Oh and I won't be uploading any more chapters until after the new year, I'm very busy over Christmas and won't have time to write and upload. But fear not, when I do next upload, I'll upload all the last chapters. xx