"Rise and shine, sunshine."
The kidnapper was back, and Sherlock opened his eyes, blurred from hours of inward focus. He blinked and saw a hint of disappointment in the man's jaw that Sherlock didn't look like he was suffering. Being in his mind palace was almost meditative when he could focus solely on it. He supposed that was one advantage to being tied up in a featureless, boring room with nothing to do. No distractions—other than the pain from the lump on his head and not having been able to move in hours.
The man stepped around him and removed the gag. Sherlock tried not to show how relieved he was as he moved his tongue around, trying to find any moisture anywhere, easing the jaw muscles. He drank gratefully when another bottle of water was offered.
"There now. All refreshed?" The kidnapper pulled out a phone which Sherlock recognized as his own. The man turned it on (that explains how Mycroft hadn't tracked it), and looked up, fingers poised to dial. "Now, your Mr. Watson isn't going to pay me my money unless I can prove you're alive, so I'm going to let you talk to him. I'm warning you, though. If you say anything that makes me suspicious, I'm going to inject you with the contents of this syringe, walk out, lock that door, and leave. Full stop. And that will be the last of you. Are we clear?"
Sherlock was proud of himself, that he was able to keep his (dry, cracking) voice from breaking as he said, "Quite clear."
With a nod, the man placed the call on speaker, holding the phone in front of him. "Mr. Watson?" he asked when John picked up. "Do you have my money?"
"If you mean my money that you want, the bank assures me it will be ready by 11:00. Can you prove to me that Sherlock is alive?"
The kidnapper looked at Sherlock, who said, "J- John?" Damn, there was his voice creaking again. "I'm right here, John."
"Sherlock." He could hear the relief. "Are you all right? Not hurt?"
"Just a bump on the head and some bruises," he said, keeping his voice level this time. "Did you really get the money?"
"You know how good my accountant is, Sherlock. He's been working nonstop since I called him yesterday morning."
"It sounds like him. You're okay, though?"
"Me? I'm not the one who's been kidnapped, Sherlock." A pause, and a sound like John licking his lips. "You think your kidnapper's going to play fair? He going to give you back if he gets the money?"
Sherlock looked up at the kidnapper, reading what he could in the chin and bits of mouth he could see, the eyes staring at him through the mask. "I know what he wants me to say," he answered carefully. "My read is that he will be ruthless if double-crossed, but if he gets what he wants? I think he won't kill me outright, though judging by the supplies laid on, I doubt he's going to voluntarily let me out of this room. My hope is that he'll tell you where to find me when he's got the money. I can't say for sure if he will, though."
"He'd better." Now it was John's voice showing cracks from the strain. "I hope he knows what I'll do to him if he doesn't."
"Maybe I should remind him you're a doctor. People forget."
"It's not the doctor he needs to worry about if you get hurt, Sherlock. It's the soldier who'll be coming after him."
Sherlock was watching the kidnapper, standing a little too erect in front of him, and starting to make wind-it-up gestures. "People forget that, too. You're so mild-mannered, it's like your secret identity. Now, go pay the man his money so I can get out of here. This chair is getting exceedingly uncomfortable, but that's how kidnappings go, isn't it? They can't all be amusing."
"Don't do anything stupid, Sherlock."
"I could say the same, John."
The kidnapper pointed the syringe at Sherlock and raised the phone. "Right. Noon, Mr. Watson. I'll text you the details."
He disconnected and looked at Sherlock. "Soldier?"
Sherlock gave a brief nod. "And a doctor. It's always good to remember that he spent years in a war zone."
"I'll remember." He looked down at the gag in his hand, then shrugged. "Seems hardly worth it." And walking over to Sherlock, he plunged the syringe into his neck.
#
Back at Baker Street, John stared down at his phone, replaying the conversation with Sherlock in his head. Sherlock was always surprisingly sensitive when people forgot and called him "Mister" Watson rather than "Doctor," but it really didn't happen all that often. It was right there on his blog, after all, and that was usually the first thing people found on him, even before all the newspaper articles.
And, had Sherlock mentioned something about not all kidnappings being entertaining? He felt a memory stir, and fighting it, glanced around the room, remembering something…
Like that there was a camera pointed his way, and if he were going to have any revelations, he'd best do it out of sight. He looked at the clock and then went to the kitchen to find something for breakfast. It was going to be a busy day.
That fleeting memory taunted him while he brewed his tea, though. Mister, instead of doctor, an amusing kidnapping, not knowing he was a soldi… no. It couldn't be.
Leaving his tea cooling on the counter, he headed up to his bedroom. He wanted to be sure this was a secure.
Once there, he called Mycroft. "I just got a call," he said.
"Yes. We weren't able to trace it entirely, but the signal is definitely close to that parking garage. We're narrowing it down. What did the kidnapper say?"
"He let me speak to Sherlock, so he's at least alive." He recounted the conversation, including Sherlock's read on the kidnapper's state of mind and what John thought he was hinting at at the end. He was almost hoping Mycroft would tell him he was imagining things.
"I'm having Anthea run the names right now, John, but I think you're right. He's been very bitter since his father died, and he would be just stupid enough to come after you and Sherlock to get his own back."
"But … how? He's still in prison, isn't he?"
A rustle of paper from the other end. "He is, but apparently his former cell mate is cousin to the letter writer's husband. I'd wager that they set this up between them for shortly after the cell mate—the name is Sam Lester—was out. Presumably he was meant to gather a team and do the dirty work with no-one being the wiser about the prison connection."
"So my half-brother is still officially an idiot, then. Just smart enough to hire the professional the government was good enough to introduce him to." John sighed. "I'm not even going to ask how Sherlock figured this out."
"We were just about there from our end," Mycroft said. "Mrs. Raster—the letter writer—appears distraught and her husband didn't come home last night. We couldn't approach her, you understand, but we were watching. Running the list of known associates, we had connected him with Lester, but hadn't made the final connection to Andy Littleston until just after you called."
"At least that gives us something to go on."
"Indeed. I'm sending you the man's picture now, though I doubt he'll be within sight during the ransom drop."
"Right. I need to go get ready. You'll send a car? Or should I get a taxi?"
"I think a taxi, but with one of my drivers, don't you?"
John smiled. Working with the Holmes brothers was never boring.
#
