Sherlock stood still and stared straight forward as police officers surrounded him, preparing him.
Lestrade had had to drag him back into the hotel room and confiscate his handgun. Once he'd calmed a bit, he was appreciative that Lestrade had forced him to continue with the plan. It would be cleaner this way. Mycroft would get the information he needed and Sherlock would get what he needed.
An officer placed a small microphone in his billfold then replaced it in Sherlock's pocket. They tested the sound; worked perfectly. A knife was strapped to each of his ankles, a gun placed in the waist of his trousers.
The room was abuzz with information and endless repetition of the plan to ensure everything was crystal clear. Thankfully, this was not Anderson's department. Well, it would have been if Sherlock hadn't put his foot down firmly at the beginning of the investigation.
Lestrade pat his back. It was time to go.
xXx
The street was visually empty but Sherlock could hear the scurries of the typical filth doing their own crimes in the alleyways and in parked vehicles. At this time of night, one could not even hail a cab. Sherlock's cabbie was an out-of-uniform officer who had been instructed to wait.
Sherlock approached The Nest and entered without knocking, as per usual.
Istvan stood with four other men in the main room. They passed around a glass pipe between them.
"Pearce," Istvan's eyes narrowed.
"I have a desperate buyer. Offered me an extra 75 pounds if I'd deliver to him tonight," Sherlock told him.
Istvan winked and stepped into the next room, where the drugs were weighed and bagged.
The remaining men continued their conversation. Sherlock listened for keywords, knowing the sort of activities that caught the interest of these men at an hour like this.
"Istvan told me if I could increase sales up north," he smoked from the pipe. "that he would let me have the new toy." He grinned, bragging, as he passed the pipe to short man on his right.
"Eh, who would want her anyway? She's been used up. I saw Conner shoot a wad all across her face at least three times. I couldn't get it up around her after that."
"Yeah, but she'll be all mine if these deals up north go through. No one else can use her."
"Her arse is gently used," the third man said in a thick Scottish accent and chuckled.
A fire burned slowly from the pit of Sherlock's stomach and rose through his chest and into his face. He took a deep breath and almost reached for the gun in his waistband but knew he could not be careless with this case. He nearly had all the information he would need.
"Where's this toy now?" Sherlock asked. "I haven't had a go at her yet."
"Oh, that filthy whore?" the short man asked. "We don't even pass her around anymore. CC tied her up at Conner's a few days ago."
"Conner, the assistant?"
The Scottish man nodded as he took a drag from the pipe.
"Who is CC?" Sherlock asked gently, as not to seem too prying.
"That crack bitch, the lesbian." The shorter man answered.
Istvan emerged from the other room with a small, black pouch. He approached Sherlock and handed it to him as if handing him a mug of tea. Sherlock took it, then shook Istvan's hand. As he lowered his hand, his fingertips brushed against the outside of Istvan's jacket. Sherlock pulled the exposed corner of Istvan's mobile phone and discretely tucked it behind the black bag and placed both in the left pocket of his trousers.
"Pearce, I'd better see you bright and early." He gave a lascivious wink.
"Of course."
As Sherlock left the flat and approached the cab, he nodded to the officers parked in the car on the corner.
He called Lestrade from the cab.
"I have the mobile." Sherlock read him the phone number listed under "Conner." From the station, they traced the mobile linked to the number, giving them it's current position. It was on a street four kilometres away.
Sherlock ended the call and immediately noticed he had another message on his phone.
John is in a panic. He called her. End this.- MH
Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back against the seat, imagining the officers that would be, at this very moment, arresting Istvan and his group of miscreants. Sherlock thought of the things he would like to do to Istvan himself, most scenarios ending in significant amounts of blood.
xXxX
The GPS on the mobile phone led them to a house on the dodgy end of a working-class street. Sherlock studied the home carefully as the cab pulled to a stop. One light on, second story, first room on the right. Curtains drawn, high level of activity indicated in silhouettes. Drugs would not require such movement. That's where she was. He was beating her. Sherlock needed to get to her.
Knowing the operation of this group, he knew the members of import were not often alone. The officer driving the cab handed him a silencer which he then screwed onto the tip of his handgun.
Before exiting the vehicle, Sherlock's fingers flew across his phone's keypad. Mycroft, have John brought to Scotland Yard. I will arrive shortly. -SH
xXx
Sherlock slowly opened the door and stepped silently within, leaving the door cracked open. A TV flickered in the sitting room. A man was sat silently, back to Sherlock. Sherlock stepped into the flickering shadow of the man.
Click.
The man jumped in surprise, but stilled when he felt Sherlock's gun against the back of his head.
"Where is she?"
"Upstairs! I swear! Please don't shoot-"
"- with Conner?"
"Yes! Yes! Pearce, is that you?"
"I want you to step outside onto the steps."
The man nodded, hands raised, and left without a single glance towards Sherlock. Sherlock heard the shuffle of police silently snapping cuffs around his wrists and pulling him into the darkness.
The flat was pungent with the smell of drugs, stale alcohol, and tobacco.
He made his way to the staircase and took each step slowly as to avoid the groaning of the floorboards.
Two men were in an adjacent room, speaking loudly about a computer program that, "Moriarty, that fucking genius" had made. That would be what Mycroft wanted.
Sherlock stared towards the door of the room where Conner would be. Closer to the room, Sherlock could hear the muffled cries. She was undoubtedly gagged- a mouth full of fabric, as well as a strip of fabric tied between her teeth and wrapped around the back of her head. He knew he could not yet enter there, he would be outnumbered when the other two men heard the struggle.
Hearing the muffled screams of agony from the other room made Sherlock's blood run hot through his veins. He could not show mercy to these men, as he had to the one downstairs. He pushed the door open and held his gun out before him. Two men were sat at a small table, playing a card game. They both looked up immediately. The blonde on the left began to stand up, a brave grin twisting his lips. He reached for his gun from the edge of the table. Sherlock shot him between the eyes. A small bit of blood ran down the bridge of his nose. He shrank to his knees and fell over onto the table, scattering the cards. The bald man on the right looked on in horror, gripping a knife, but too stunned to use it. Sherlock shot him in the neck and left him to gurgle against the blood pouring from his throat.
Sherlock left the room and pressed his back against the wall, readying himself for what he would soon be faced with. To steady his blood-pressure, Sherlock conjured the most calming image he could bring to mind. What had once consistently been an image of his violin, awaiting him in the cold windowsill, was now replaced by John's grey eyes; Fluttering closed with exhaustion and opening once more, happiness lighting them because Sherlock was home and now he could sleep easier, knowing he was safe. John.
Sherlock heard a slow, almost-inaudible, slide of trainers approaching. Sherlock's eyes flew open and he positioned himself for an assault. A man with a lion tattoed across the front of his neck reached the top of the stairs. Expressionless, the man approached Sherlock in one large stride. Sherlock aimed his gun but the man grabbed Sherlock's arm and twisted it, forcing Sherlock's grip to falter. The gun hit the ground. The house was suddenly too quiet. There was a hesitation in Conner's room but soon the abuse began again. The man forced Sherlock into the floor and kicked him in the stomach. Sherlock curled into the foetal position as if in excruciating pain, bring his ankles within reach to utilize the knife tied there. He straddled Sherlock and placed the gun against his temple. Sherlock stilled, thinking. The man looked towards Conner's room and opened his mouth to warn him but Sherlock grasped the knife and brought it upward, cutting the man's groin. The large man hit the ground and Sherlock cut his neck and stabbed his chest repeatedly, long after the man was dead. Sherlock regained his gun and left the knife in the man's sternum.
Sherlock took a deep breath and rushed the door, kicking it in.
"On the ground!" Sherlock shouted.
Istvan's assistant, Conner, was stood above her- his hand raised, ready to strike her with a leather belt. A knife was in his opposite hand. Conner's eyes widened in shock, but once his simple brain caught up with the scene around him, he slowly bent his knees and lied down onto his stomach.
"I fucking knew you were a goddamned traitor, Pearce. I told Istvan! I told him."
"Who is CC? Why did he bring her here?"
The man smirked at Sherlock, so he kicked him roughly in the ribs. Oopf! The man spluttered. Conner slowly pulled his hand from the floor and then jabbed a finger towards his hostage in the corner of the room, beneath the window. "Her fucking girlfriend," he growled.
"CC. Clara. Clara did this? She's the-?"
Sherlock handcuffed Conner, tightening the metal around his wrists until he was sure it would cut his skin. He grabbed the man roughly by his hair, pulling his head closer to Sherlock's lips.
"The only reason I will not be killing you tonight is because I'd rather see you rot." Sherlock stood and dug the heel of his shoe into Conner's back, between his shoulder blades.
The girl in the corner was hogtied, her hands and ankles bound by zip-ties, a small towel tied through her teeth and around her head. She was not blindfolded, but her eyes were so bruised and swollen that Sherlock could only guess at her eye color. Blood matted her sandy-colored hair. The same color as John's. He began to imagine John there- raped, beaten, starving- betrayed by someone he loved.
Sherlock felt nauseated.
He dropped to his knees and all but crawled to her, before calling Lestrade. As soon as he closed his mobile, he heard officers pouring in downstairs. Sherlock pulled Harry into his arms and untied her gag. He fought the urge to stoke her hair.
"Harry, I'm Sherlock. Help will be here in just a moment. I am so sorry." He began to rock her the way one would rock a small child. "I'm sorry, Harry. I am so sorry." Sherlock lost count of how many times he repeated himself. He was so sorry. Sorry it took him so long, sorry it happened, sorry that he could still only think about John. "I'm so sorry."
Harry didn't move, she barely blinked. Tears streamed down her filthy, broken face but she did not move. Pain and shock prevented her from speaking.
Sherlock supposed he was in shock too.
She smelled of cigarettes, drugs, blood, cum, urine.
The officers entered with two medical workers who removed her from Sherlock's stiff arms and placed her on the stretcher.
"John is waiting for you, Harriet," he told her gently as they pulled her from the room. Her eyes stayed on Sherlock until she was out of sight.
Sherlock stood to follow but two officers drug Conner to his feet, blocking the path. Sherlock cocked his fist back without thinking and let it fly into Conner's mouth, blood instantly pouring from his lips.
Sherlock's mobile buzzed.
John is waiting for you. - MH