Author's Note: I am so sorry about the long wait for an update! I got really busy with work and getting ready for the holidays! Please don't hate me! Anyway, things are finally starting to heat up now, aren't they? This is going to be exciting (and possibly painful) stuff! Keep with me, I will try my best to make this story worthy of your reading! And as always, thank you all so much for sticking with me, even from the beginning. Your support really means the world to me. Now, on with the show! 3
The car ride seemed to drag on for centuries, and John fidgeted the entire trip. There was a part of his brain screaming at him that there was something wrong, and a couple of times he had the mind to call to the driver to stop and let him out. Every time he tried to do so however, a thought would always creep in the back of his mind, a dark and horrible truth that he decided he would rather not think too much about: that even if he did order the driver to stop, to let him go, he wouldn't. That he was more or less trapped in that car, going to see Ian Hatfield whether he liked it or not. Panic bubbled inside of him at the thought of such an idea being true, and in fear of finding out for sure he would clamp his mouth shut, letting the order fall away from his lips.
Then his heart would take over, constantly playing tug of war with his more logical brain. Ian was his friend. They were as close as brothers on the battlefield in Afghanistan, depending on each other and valuing every moment they got to spend together. In war, you were never sure when your last day would come. They helped each other through the bad times, and rejoiced together through the good. He couldn't possibly be working for Moriarty! He wouldn't betray John like this! That was before that day, however...the last day John was deployed. The day he got shot in the shoulder, when everything seemed to fall apart.
His brain took over again, thinking over every reason why Ian would betray him and work for the very man that wanted them dead. What happened that last day in Afghanistan played over and over again. The pure hatred and pain he saw in his best friend proved to be a very good motive for doing the unthinkable. He had practically destroyed the man, and Ian had every bit the right to want to return the favor.
I need to stop this! He wouldn't do this, not to me, no matter what happened back there. He isn't like that! He is good, and kind, and respectable. He would never!
He kept that thought ringing through his mind like a mantra as the car pulled up along side a dilapidated building in the middle of God only knew where. He played it over and over again as the driver opened his door and lead him inside. But another thought rang in his mind as he took in his surroundings, and the driver opened the only visible door just the tiniest bit and called.
Yes he would.
John knew he made a huge mistake the moment Ian walked out of that room and graced him with his presence. He could feel his panic rising like bile in his throat. There was no way out. He was alone with Ian Hatfield in the middle of nowhere, along with a couple of guards including the driver who no doubt would be armed, he had lied to Sherlock in the note about where he was, and there was no way out.
"Ah, John. I was beginning to be worried. I thought you wouldn't come." Ian greeted, shooting him his most charming smile, but it only made John want to vomit. He should have been more careful. He should have listened to his brain when it kept telling him something was wrong.
No, I had to listen to my bloody heart. I had to believe that even after all that we would still be friends. Stupid! Stupid, stupid, stupid!
"You know me. I don't like to dissapoint." he replied finally, hoping his voice sounded braver than he felt.
"And dissapoint you did not, Johnny Boy. You have done everything perfectly to plan. Boys, let's make sure our guest is comfortable, shall we? We might be a while."
Before he could even make proper sense of what was said, two sets of strong hands grabbed both of his arms and began to drag him to a chair that the third guard set out. The glint of metal caught his attention, and suddenly he knew. The third guard had hand cuffs to hold hin in the chair. They would probably torture him. A wave of nausea hit him at the horror of his realization. The whole time, his brain had been right. Ian had betrayed him, and he couldn't vouch for their friendship being real before, either. For all John knew and trusted, Ian could have been preparing for something like this since they first met. He could feel his legs begin to give out, his hands begin to tremble, but he pushed it all down and forced himself to keep collected. He had to soldier up now, worry about how events were unfolding later, if he managed to live that long.
With a deep, steadying, breath John let his soldier side take over. His trembling ceased. He stood straighter and more confident, his footsteps more purposeful as he was lead towards the chair. His survival instincts flared full strength, and he could feel his fist connect with a bald guard's face before he even realized what he was doing. The man fell back in surprise, letting go of John's arm and freeing it. He quickly turned to attack the second guard, but the man was ready for it. John let out a cry of pain as his fist was caught in front of his captor's face, and his bad arm quickly caught, his wrist twisting in a position it should not have been. Pain seemed to shoot up and down his entire being.
"Oh still a little tender in that arm, are we?" he sneered, face close enough for John to feel his hot breath on his skin. "My buddy got you good, didn't he?"
Recognition spread through his body with a sickening feeling of dread. This was one of the men who attacked them at their flat. His 'buddy' no doubt being the bald man who Sherlock killed. If that was the case then...John felt his body drain of every bit of courage and strength he had left, and not because of the physical pain in his arm, because a single thought was ringing in his mind. Screaming the horrific truth once again.
If that is the case, then that means Ian sent those thugs to attack you. He was planning this the whole time!
Without giving a second thought, he kicked out at his captor with all of his strength. Effectively, he let out a cry as he fell backwards, letting John go to catch himself as best as he could. The ex-army doctor took the opportunity to make a break for it, ready to call Sherlock the moment he got to safety to warn him. Fate however, seemed to be on a completely different plan as two of the guards ran up from behind. John could feel them both slam into his back with all their weight, throwing him down onto the concrete with a painful thud. His ribs and arm, still badly injured from his previous fight, screamed in protest with enough force to make John even want to cry out in anguish.
"Not so tough now, are you?" the man he kicked earlier snapped, still out of breath slightly from the shock of the fall he took. The other two men quickly jumped off of the fallen doctor and roughly dragged him to his feet and slammed him into the chair, binding his wrists to the armrests not with handcuffs as he originally believed, but with wire. It dug painfully into his skin as they tied it tighter, ever tighter.
Rage spread through him, quick and hot as he made eye contact with Ian standing nonchalantly at the other side of the room. He tricked him into believing they were friends, that he actually cared. He made him believe that he could protect Sherlock and himself from any danger. He made him believe that they could get past that God-awful day in Afghanistan. Now he was beat up from thugs, tied to a chair with wire and no means of escape, and most awful of all for him, the promise that he would go after Sherlock once he was finished with him. In normal circumstances, he would have been able to force himself to calm down and think things through rationally. But at that moment the rage was too great, the pain and betrayal too fresh of wounds to even bother thinking.
"Niether was your friend, after we were finished with him. He's dead now, still making a bloody mess of a stain on our carpet, if I'm not mistaken." he spat. As soon as the words left his mouth, he wished he could take them back. The thugs' triumphant and evil smiles faded, glares of horror and rage taking their place. With a horrific scream, the very man John had kicked to the ground before began to punch him across the face mercilessly in a barrage of stars and lights and pain. He could hear the other thug yelling something, but it sounded quite too far away to make out words.
"Enough." he could just make out Ian ordering, voice strong and authoritive. After a few more agonizing seconds, he spoke again, this time louder.
"I said enough!" the words came harshly, and finally the punches ceaced and John could take a moment to breathe and try to sort out the worst of the damage. Every part of his face screamed with pain, and he was fairly certain he looked like a sight. His nose didn't seem to be broken though. With a shaky breath he decided he would take what good news he could get at this point.
"There, now. I'm quite sorry about that, they are sometimes a bit of a handful. More brawn than brains, I'm afraid." Ian replied, kneeling in front of John's sitting form, hunched over slightly from the beating he was bestowed. "But all this can be avoided in the future, you know, if you cooperate from now on. I would certainly hate for this to happen again."
"You planned this, from the very beginning." John accused in reply, swollen eyes narrowed with hate.
"I told you there were bad people out there, John. Bad people that would do anything to get back at you and Sherlock Holmes. I just never told you that the real bad guy, the one you should have been watching out for the whole time was me. I must say I am very dissapointed in your abilities of deduction. I had hoped you would have been a bit less gullible."
"If you're going to kill me, you might as well just do it."
"Kill you? I never said anything about killing you. There's no fun in that, now is there? Oh no, I am going to do more than kill you. I am going to break you down, John Watson. I will make you pay for what you have done to me, and to my sister. You can say I am going to burn you." Ian came real close to John then, voice low and the most unsettling thing he had heard in a long time. A sickening smile spread across Ian's thin lips as he watched his captive's reaction. John's whole body went cold at his words. He had heard them used before, by Moriarty. It unnerved him then, and it certainly wasn't doing him any favors now. He didn't exactly relish that memory those words brought.
"That was an accident, Ian. I had no intention-"
"It doesn't matter. The event took place, and you are going to pay for it. Now listen closely, Johnny Boy. You are going to do exactly as I tell you to. Any deviation from my directions will result in...steps to be taken."
All pretense of kindness, of calmness in Ian's voice was gone. It was replaced with a harshness, a burning hatred that John had never heard before come from the man's lips. His eyes burned, and his breaths came heavy with rage.
"Steps?" he asked warily, not wanting to hear where this was going. He knew everything coming from Ian's mouth would be inexplicably bad from now on.
"Indeed. Every time you defy my orders, my friend, a step will be taken each being worse than the last. I know you don't value your life or well being above others, as cheesy as it sounds. So, I decided that they will be against the one thing you truly do care about. Each time you defy me John Watson, something very bad will happen to a certain consulting detective."
"Sherlock." John whispered, eyes going wide with panic. He was going to hurt Sherlock, possibly torture him, or something equally as horrible. "Don't you dare touch him! Leave him alone! I will do whatever you say, just leave him alone!"
"Oh John," Ian replied with a smirk. "I know you will."