Disclaimer: all characters belong to their rightful owners.
First of all, I want to thank all those who read, favourited and reviewed my one-shot 'Are You Alright?' (not sure whether you pass by here, guys, but nevertheless, thank you so much for your support, it makes me super happy! *right now I'm grinning at the screen like an idiot*).
Back to C&M, this chapter is a sort of a loooong interlude. I borrowed the plot from Sir ACD, because it's one of my favorite stories (guess which one?).
Reviews and critics would be lovely =)
Thank you for reading and enjoy!
Chapter 10. Ryan Hatherley
"What are we supposed to do now?" Watson said, seriously worried about Rita… no, Victoria.
"I need to find her." Sherlock rushed to his book-shelves and took out a map. His mind was working at the usual extraordinary speed, analyzing the data Victoria brought from France, his own deductions about the case and recollections about Oliver Sorrel, searching for a pattern, a place or a hint.
John was about to put aside his frustration and to start helping his friend in this new and urgent task, when someone pressed the doorbell. Aware that Sherlock was way too much absorbed in his research, Watson silently went downstairs to open the front door.
It was pouring outside, and there was a tall skinny young man, almost a teenager, white as a sheet and trembling. As a doctor, John immediately noticed that this man suffered from anemia. "Jesus, what happened?!" he asked while making the visitor come in.
When he entered the poorly lit hallway, the youngster shivered and almost lost his balance. In order to remain standing, he grabbed John's shoulder with his right hand, wrapped in a handkerchief, which was drenched with blood. "I'm… I…" he tried to say something but ended up losing consciousness. Ultimately surprised but not losing his cool, Watson carried him to the small hall and shouted: "Sherlock! I need your help here!" The sound of hurried steps upstairs informed him that the message went through.
"What happened?" Sherlock sounded slightly worried. John answered while laying the young man on the lonely chair which he left there in the morning after changing the light bulb:
"Can you come down and help me out?"
He rubbed his shoulder, thinking about bringing the unconscious patient up to the apartment by himself, but that'd have been too much effort considering his old wound. "Who's that?" Holmes inquired after charging down the stairs.
"No idea. Let's move him to our flat."
Somehow they carried the young man in their apartment and set him carefully on the couch. John kneeled down in front of the youth, frowning at the red-stained makeshift dressing.
"Would you bring my medical bag from my room? Like, right now?"
Sherlock rushed out the living-room and soon came back with the demanded item.
"Ta." Watson said and took the medical bag, too focused on his patient to be polite.
He undid the bloody handkerchief, revealing an unsightly injury: the thumb on the right hand was missing, neatly cut. The wound was fresh and untreated, and the young man had already lost lots of blood. "Get him some water" the doctor ordered while cleaning the damaged hand and applying a disinfectant. Holmes sneered unwillingly – that was the first time ever he was playing the role of assistant. But his friend, as a medic, wouldn't suffer anyone to interfere in his legitimate 'case', and for the time being Sherlock obediently brought a glass filled with water from the kitchen. Meanwhile, John changed the dressing and carefully examined the young man. During his career, he saw injuries ten times worse than this one.
Forgetting for a moment about his family troubles, Sherlock felt curious about what his doctor could observe. "What are your conclusions?"
"He's in his twenties, probably a student, and not a diligent one judging by the smell of alcohol on his clothes." John was talking while taking the pulse. "But he's taking care of himself, so apart his hand he doesn't seem to have any health problems." He put an iron soluble tablet in the glass Sherlock brought and made his patient drink it. The young man choked, but colors returned to his cheeks and he opened his eyes, glancing with fear at his surroundings. John talked to him in a comforting manner: "It's okay now. You'll be alright."
"I… I'm… I was…" he mumbled again.
"Calm down. Tell me your name."
The young man seemed to regain composure: "Ryan… Ryan Hatherley, I'm finishing my engineering studies at the Imperial College… And… and…" He lifted his right hand to mop his brow and turned white by seeing bandages. John's prompt reaction caught by surprise even his best friend – after all, he was a very good doctor. He forced Ryan to look straight at him and talked to him calmly, explaining that even after suffering a severe blood loss and losing a thumb, people still live and live well, and that young as he is, Ryan shouldn't worry, nor panic, whatever happened, it was all over now. The young man listened to those words, slowly giving in. He stopped trembling, regained some colors.
"Can you answer some questions?"
"Y… yes, I think so" Ryan said hesitantly. Then John took a step back still watching closely his patient, and nodded at Sherlock, giving him permission to question the unexpected visitor. Holmes was already twitching impatiently; there was no need to implore.
Kneeling in front of the chair, looking at the student as if he was about to hypnotize the poor boy, Sherlock asked in an imposing manner he used from time to time: "Tell me what happened."
Hatherley stared at Holmes with a blank expression on his face. John was about to shake him when he started to talk: "I can't remember everything. It's so blurry…"
"Tell us what you recall."
"We made a bet with my friends… actually, no, it was a courage test. I went there…"
"Where?"
"This abandoned building… Abandoned house, not so far from Greenwich. It was just a joke, really, I had to spend two hours inside and take some photos as proof…"
"But something went wrong?"
"I roamed around, and it was creepy, but still it was just some garbage scattered everywhere… Then… I don't know, God, I don't know!" He cried, clasping his hands before his face.
John pushed Sherlock away and tried to calm down the young man: "Look at me. Breathe. Come on, like that. Breathe. You're safe now."
Sobbing, Ryan returned to his story: "Someone must have knocked me off. I can't remember a thing until there was a bright light…"
Ryan woke up lying on the cold floor. He was too confused to understand a thing. Someone stood up behind him and put an icy stick on his neck. A man, whose face he couldn't see, approached. That felt real bad. A child sobbed. A woman shouted from shadows: "Stop it! He has nothing to do with us!" – "He'll be the messenger" answered the scary man. He grabbed Ryan's hair and forced him to look up. The bright light blinded him. He just heard this cruel voice repeating three times "You will go to 221B Baker Street. You will give them twenty four hours." A rude hand grabbed his arm and it hurt so much he lost consciousness. He woke up again, dumped alongside the speedway. He managed to find a cab and could only give Holmes' address.
Both John and Sherlock listened to this rambling story, increasingly worried. When Hatherley stopped to take his breath, Holmes abruptly ordered: "Dig into your pockets." Startled but intimidated, Ryan obeyed, awkwardly moving his injured hand. John came to his rescue, and together they pulled out two keys, a lighter, a cellphone and some scattered paper.
"Is there something you do not own?" Sherlock asked, presenting this hodgepodge of items to Ryan.
The young man looked haunted, but honestly tried to inspect those objects. "That's not my writing" he finally said, picking a notepad page, neatly folded.
Sherlock examined the note first. The handwriting was neat and clean, easily read. The one who wrote it used a cheap blue pen, probably a new one. And the author was obviously a man. Then the detective gave attention to the text.
"My dear little Holmes, come if you dare. Bet you know where and when. There is room only for three people at my place. We'll be waiting."
Frowning, he passed the message to John.
"Is it what I think it is?" John said wavering.
"It is Oliver's doing. He is defying me… Or more likely my brother."
"Why Mycroft?"
"Rivalry turned to obsession. From his point of view, I am just a tool to make Mycroft react. Somehow, that's the reason he made Victoria disappear. He wants attention…" Sherlock started walking round and round, causing Ryan to nervously look at the door. Noticing that, John tried to appease his friend:
"Then should I call him?"
"Absolutely not! Call Lestrade. He'll be coming with us." After saying this, Sherlock rushed to his room.
"Who… Who are you, people?" Ryan asked faintly.
"Consulting detectives." John answered gently. "Ever heard about us?"
"You're the guy writing a blog, right?.."
"Exactly." The doctor smiled, as always when his blog was acknowledged. "Well, you should not worry about all this. I will contact my friend working at the hospital right away; he'll come to pick you up. You need more than a basic treatment." He took out his phone and composed Stamford's number.
"Thank you, sir…" Ryan mumbled before tiredly closing his eyes.