A/N: Are any of you still here?
I am so sorry for not updating this sooner… I just… yeah. I know it's been a while, but if you wouldn't mind popping a quick review my way so I know you're still interested in this. Thank you so much and sorry for the wait.
Warning: Dark (but if you made it this far, you should be fine)
Disclaimer: I won't even pretend to own Sherlock.
Chapter 12:
John raised his hands, his palms spread outwards in the universal sign of surrender. His shoulders were tense and his head was bowed towards the floor. He didn't even bother looking up, knowing that any form of movement now could result in his death.
He can't make a run for it. He is at least two blocks from home.
He can't fight back. Fists are useless against guns.
"You don't want to shoot me," he whispered, clearing his throat when his voice cracked. His eyes flicker upwards, but he can't see anyone coming down the street.
"Don't test me," the man growled from behind him.
John flinched when hands roughly grabbed his own, rope twisting around his wrists, his arms jerking downwards with the added pressure.
He was forced into a car, his head pressed down by a sweaty palm, the jab of something metal in the back of his spine making him comply without question.
The windows were too tinted to see where they were going so John took a moment to guess what kind of car he's in. He caught a gimps of black as he was pushed into the door, the metal shining and new.
So something new, he thought to himself. Or maybe just well taken care of. But based on the smooth leather seat he was resting on, he guessed that this was a newer model. Something small, not a van...
He grinned to himself. He was starting to turn into Sherlock.
Sherlock...
"Oh my god," he muttered to himself. He could feel his heart starting to race again, his palms feeling sweaty. "You have to let me go."
He pushed himself forwards, hands reaching up to the drivers seat.
"Get back!" the man from the front snarled, twisting in the seat and shoving the gun in John's face.
John wasted no time pressing himself to the back of the seat. "Now... Calm down... I'm not... You don't understand. You have to let me talk to my friend. You have to let me talk to Sherlock," John said, trying to keep his voice calm.
It was hard when there was a gun pressed into his face.
At the name Sherlock, the car jerked to a stop, the tires screeching against concrete.
"Sherlock Holmes," the man stated. It was not a question.
"Yes." John looked the man straight in they eye. "I need to talk to him. That's all. Just one little phone call will do. I don't even have to tell him anything is wrong... I just need to make sure he's alright."
The man laughed, something cold and sharp that made John's insides curdle. Nothing about this man was friendly.
"You will be getting to talk to Sherlock soon," the man said, turning forwards in his seat and beginning to drive again. John glanced at the door, wondering if it was worth it to try and unlock the door and throw himself out of the car.
"If you try to escape, I will shoot you," the man said.
"Can't blame me for thinking about it," John responded simply, letting his body relax into the seat and his eyes close.
There was nothing he could do now. No use in panicking.
Anyways, Mycroft would probably find out in no time and get him out of this stupid situation.
Right?
XXXXX
The car pulled to a stop and the man got out, slamming the door and leaving John sitting in the dark.
He waited for several minutes, twisting his wrists back and forth, feeling the bite of the rope against his skin. His fingers couldn't reach his phone, which he could feel digging into his leg, a constant reminder of how close he was to being able to talk to Sherlock.
Just a little more movement and he could get it out, he was certain.
Suddenly, the door flew open and he stopped moving. His kidnapper was finally fully illuminated, but John only had a second to study him before a blindfold was tied over his face.
"Come with me," the man said, pulling John roughly by the shoulder. John winced when his old war wound protested.
He tried to focus on his feet, tried to understand which way he was turning, but it wasn't long before he became completely lost.
So instead, he counted his footsteps, not that it would be useful for him to do so, but simply because he had nothing better to do.
He collided with something, his forehead hitting the edge of a wall, sending a spike of pain into his head. He heard a chuckle from his attacker and then heard the click of a lock.
"Come on."
He shuffled awkwardly through the doorway, his elbow clipping the doorframe. There was another click and his heart fell.
It was the sound of a key being turned in the lock, the sound
A hand came up to his eyes, ripping the blindfold away. John blinked at the sudden change in lighting, eyes traveling around the room hurriedly.
There was no furniture or decorations- it was simply a concrete prison with a little bare light bulb casting a flickering orange light.
"What do you want with me?" John asked, licking his dry lips and taking a few steps back away from his attacker. He tried not to think about the phone in his pocket, tried to act like he was helpless and clueless.
Maybe then he would have a chance at getting out of this alive.
"I want you to call Sherlock," the man said.
"I would love to do that," John said slowly. "With whose phone?" He held his breath.
"Don't you play games with me," the man snarled back, advancing to where he was towering over John. "Who do you think you're speaking to?"
The doctor didn't even flinch. "I don't know who I'm speaking to, you dunce. I've just been kidnapped and taken to a dark room and I have no idea where I am, so excuse me if I am a little turned around. Now, if you would please be so kind as to untie my arms, I will call Sherlock for you."
His tone was probably what got him in trouble. Or maybe it was the fact that he called this man a dunce. But John couldn't be sure.
All he knew was that, one moment he was standing and the next he was lying on the ground, pain slicing through his skull and an iron taste in his mouth.
He tried to sit up, pressing his back to the wall and spitting a glob of blood onto the floor.
"Call him," the man said, his voice solid. "If you make any move to tell him where you are or who you're with, I will not hesitate to shoot you."
John looked down at his wrists, deciding whether it was worth it to ask if he could be unbound. He let out a sigh, struggling to reach his phone, pulling the rectangular object out of his pocket with fumbling fingers. The glass was slippery under ins sweaty palms and the phone dropped to the floor, skidding across the concrete.
Great. His screen was probably scratched.
He looked down at the phone, reaching out his arms and using the side of his wrist to turn his phone over facing upright,
He had Sherlock on speed dial, so it only took a moment for him to press the number two on the screen and then hit talk.
Ring ring.
Ring ring.
Ring ring.
XXXXX
Sherlock pulled himself out of his mind palace quickly, his heart pounding and his hands reaching out as if to brace himself from a fall.
The room was pitch black and he panicked for a moment.
"John!" The word was choked and he pressed one hand to his skull, digging his fingers into his temple as if he were trying to gouge a hole into his brain.
No… that's right. John had left him, just like Sherlock knew he would.
He was alone.
Ring ring. The sound pulls him out of his panic.
He twists around, fingers fumbling at his cell phone for a moment, the screen blinding him with its brightness.
Ring ring.
Ring ring.
He couldn't find the talk button for a moment, but finally, the phone clicked on.
"John?" his voice cracked, merely a whisper in the silence.
"Sherlock?" John's voice made his heart stop, made his breath freeze in his lungs.
"John." He can't say anything else.
"Listen, Sherlock... I'm sorry, I..."
There was the sound of fist against flesh. Sherlock could recognize that sound anywhere. His mind was racing, was supplying him with everything that his eyes couldn't.
John, getting beat up in a dark alleyway.
John, alone in a dark, concrete cell- his dark concrete cell from Serbia.
John.
John...
He realized that he was repeating the man's name like a mantra, over and over again to himself.
"Sherlock, shhh... I'm alright," John's voice sounded tight with pain, but it was still there.
"John..."
"Sherlock, I need you to listen to me. I need you to take a deep breath and listen very closely," John said.
"I... I'm listening," Sherlock said. He closed his eyes, letting his breath come out of his nose slowly, clenching and relaxing his hands.
"Whatever they ask you to do, whatever they say. Do. Not. Do. It. I don't care what you hear Sherlock. I don't care what they threaten you with, please just don..."
John's voice was cut off with a pain filled moan, and Sherlock could hear the sound of a snap.
Rib breaking, his brain supplied to him.
He wished he could turn it off.
A new voice joined John's.
It was a voice Sherlock had been familiar with back in the year he was away. It was a voice he hoped he would never ever hear again.
It was the voice of his captor.
"Hello, Sherlock."
TBC
A/N: I hope that was okay…. seriously please review and let me know you're still there. Thank you for reading and sticking with me through my hiatus. (Hey we are the fandom that waited… XD)
-Dawn
