Chapter 10

One Day Earlier

John waited as patiently as he was able for Sherlock to open the online program that would allow him a secure line to his brother. He noticed than even when Sherlock got through, he was secretive - he must have deduced there was a security issue from what he subsequently discovered in the spreadsheet.

"Mycroft, Mum's ill. She's refusing to see her GP, but it sounds like pneumonia. Can you come home and speak to her? She really needs to see a doctor."

John listened to him make arrangements for Mycroft to return, and smiled to himself at the unsurprising revelation that the brothers, despite barely choosing to speak to each other most of the time, had a ready-made code for when they needed to communicate. He hung up and turned to his friend.

"He'll be back in 15-20 hours. We'll be in time."

"Good. You suspect someone might be listening on his secure line?"

"Can't be too careful with these shadowy government official types; they're so stereotypical, all spying on each other. I pity the idiot who spies on Mycroft, there'd be nothing to see except fussing and eating and fussing about eating."

Sherlock was being cagey; the doctor had known him long enough to recognise when the detective was holding some of his cards close to his chest and also knew better than to protest it. Now he rose to his full, lanky height, and began pacing.

"I need you to keep an eye on the house, John. If Aggie comes out, follow her. She may not be working for Whittard, but if she has other contacts, we should ensure we know about it. If you see her heading to Scotland Yard, let me know. I also need you to keep an eye on the study camera - see how Whittard reacts when he picks up the stick. Lastly, and most importantly, you have to find a really safe hiding place for the stick. If anyone realises it's gone and that I had anything to do with it, they'll come after me, and it's best if I don't know where it is. Don't leave it here; this bolt hole's no good in the daytime, too many people around, and I need you to get it back to Mycroft as soon as he's back. Leave a note here though, saying where it is, just in case you get hit by a bus and miss meeting him. He'll meet you at the Diogenes any time from quarter to eight in the evening onwards. Wait in the Strangers' room. Take a book."

As he was speaking, he was shrugging himself into his long coat.

"Wait a minute! What will you be doing?" asked John, confused and a little concerned.

"Plumbing!" replied Sherlock with a wide, satyr-like grin, and with this cryptic utterance, he nimbly leapt into the crawl space and vanished.

ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo

Sally Donovan crept out of the cupboard and over to Sherlock. Her knees were trembling so uncontrollably she could barely walk, and she found she was almost too frightened to look the usually suave, arrogant detective in the face and see the anguish in it. She could hear him crying, see the effort he was making to keep still and prevent any sobs from racking his body and jarring his wounds.

It seemed so wrong - Sherlock should be cold, calm, collected and annoying. Witnessing him break down almost jarred her intrinsic sense of reality, as if gravity was thrusting mass away from itself, or the wind had ceased to blow and started to suck.

That scream he'd given. It had hardly been human. She had hunched in terror in her cupboard, almost rocking with the horror of it, and hating herself as she prayed, desperately, that he didn't give her away.

Mentally giving herself a shake, she dropped to her knees in front of him, and started hacking at the bindings with all her strength. It obviously hurt him; he was horribly bruised and swollen where the tape had cut into him, but she pushed this thought away from her, along with all the other Bad Stuff in her head. There was no time to be gentle physically, but she kept up a soothing whispered litany as she worked, telling him he'd be all right, that she'd get him somewhere safe, that she had the car, that he'd heal. She kept coming back to sorry, I'm so sorry, although she couldn't possibly have done anything to prevent this happening, and although she tried to steer clear of commiserations whilst they were still in such a precarious position, she couldn't help herself.

Sherlock looked terrible. His face was as terrifying as she had expected; clammy, puffy, red swollen eyes staring frantically, all his features horribly distorted with fear and pain. His flesh trembled so violently, it was almost as if his edges had blurred.

Sherlock could hardly take in now what Sally was trying to do. The last round had left him feeling almost disembodied, occupying a distorted reality where the only constant was pain. He fought against himself to recall his wandering mind; a large part of him did not want to take up occupancy back in his beleaguered body again. Then, suddenly, a tiny victory, and he was able to look at Sally, to observe, to understand that she was hacking frenziedly through his bonds. She was clearly petrified, and for a moment, he felt sorry for her. This was not what she signed up for. His mind cleared a little more.

"Sally," he croaked, painfully; "Please don't hold back from hurting me, even if I'm screaming or begging you to stop; we don't have much time, it can't get much worse." He ignored the annoyingly persistent tears that continued to slide down his nose. She met his eyes - she doesn't want to look at me, it's all too uncomfortable, but she's making herself do it - and nodded, setting her jaw with determination.

The next few minutes were hellish as she yanked and wrenched to free him, sticky residue from the tape blunting the knife, but finally his head, both arms and one leg were free. Sherlock's stomach felt leaden as he was forced to acknowledge what would have to come next. Sally had frozen. She was staring at his leg. The one Taller had hit with a hammer before leaving the room. She looked green and faint. The leg was badly broken.

Tears started to slide down Sally's face, but she merely folded a discarded piece of tape several times over and gave it to him to bite upon, then began cutting.

The next few moments were beyond unbearable.

Then his leg was free.

Sally looked at him, deeply worried, as he tried to stand, one-legged, and dissolved almost instantly.

"I'm going to have to carry you. I think I can. I'm so sorry, it's going to be so painful,"

"You can't", whispered Sherlock. "I'm too heavy. I'm too heavy. It's too late for me. Too late. I can't... please... you'll have to kil..."

"Ssssh!" She was kind but firm. Quickly, she crossed to the cupboard where she had been hiding, and grabbed the hanging rail from it. She used it with discarded duct tape to make a makeshift splint for Sherlock's leg.

She then crouched on one knee on the floor on front of him, and drew him in a fireman's lift over her back.

It was unbearable, excruciating. Every wound stretched. He couldn't breath. He buried his face in the back of her coat.

She took some stuttering steps forward. She was actually quite strong, and managing him easily enough on the flat. She carried him out of the room, and braced herself at the bottom of the flight of stairs leading to safety. She began to climb.

From his ignominious position, Sherlock could see her knees threatening to buckle with each stair, but each time she forced through it. Nineteen steps. Seventeen to go. Fifteen. Twelve. Eight. Six. Five. Fou...five. Four. Three. Three. Two.

She dropped him on the last step, but managed to make the collapse a slow, silent one. She then gathered him up again and tottered towards the door. She was moving faster again now, with more assurance. There was a garage with a car and a people carrier - the same he had been bundled into initially - parked outside. Sally, gasping, laid Sherlock down behind it, concealed by a wheelie bin.

"I'm going to run and bring the car nearer, Sherlock. I'll be five or six minutes."

Sherlock lay slumped where he had been put, whimpering softly, black exhaustion blurring the edges of his vision. He closed his eyes.

He must have slept briefly, because it appeared Sally was back almost instantaneously, frantically tugging at him to get him back up.

She had parked the car just out of sight behind a row of Leyland conifers, and now she staggered with him the hundred metres or so to where she had left it.

Panting, she set him on his feet beside the rear door.

"Just - hold - tight - a sec, Sherlock, - and I'll get y..."

He felt her freeze next to him, and a little croak emerged from her throat.

Nonono it can't be it's not fair...

He opened his eyes, wincing at the bright light, then felt himself beginning to slide down the side of the car.

Taller and Shorter, masks in place, armed with evil looking knives, Taller with the hammer still in his belt, were walking towards them, and there was no way Sally could get to the car door in time.

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Once again, so sorry for the long gaps - and for ending on an evil cliffy! There's no way I can get this stuff out much faster at the moment, I'm afraid, but I'll do my best for the next chapter.

Still love your reviews - so please do review!