A/N: Hello again. Chapter 12, yay. :) Thanks, once again, to the reviewers and alerters and favoriters. I still haven't figured out if favoriters is a word but, for my purposes, it will be. Anyway, please enjoy.
I don't own Sherlock.
Sherlock stayed like that for far too long. He knew that time was of the essence, knew very well that things could get even worse than they were. But, for once in his life, he couldn't stop the raw emotions from hitting him. They ripped through him like bullets, tearing apart the not-so-bulletproof vest he'd thought he'd worn throughout his entire life. No, he was completely powerless to stop it all.
And he hated it.
He stayed there, fighting the urge to strike the wall again. His hand had already begun taking odd shades of purples and pinks, and it throbbed, but he forced himself to ignore it. Pain was just one of the body's indicators that he'd done something wrong. It didn't last forever, he could get past it. And he did. He breathed slowly, numbing the pain, but it hardly put a dent on the emotions that were flooding him. Panic. Defeat. Anxiety. All because of Moriarty, all for Mycroft and John.
Sherlock sat until the darkness enveloped him and he managed to push away the emotions. Just as he slowly staggered to his feet, a small beep sounded from his pocket. His eyes narrowed. Moriarty was just teasing him. But he forced the anger to the back of his mind, knowing full well that it would do nothing to help him. Instead, he focussed solely on the words scrolling across the tiny screen.
"I told you to look after your pets. Tsk, tsk, dear, now they've all run away… well, not willingly, but they did anyway. My detective, haven't you figured it out yet? I thought you'd know. Return, Sherlock, you've obviously already recharged.'
The message ended there. It took all of his strength to resist the urge to throw the pager across the room. This wasn't a clue at all, only a taunting message. But it did remind him of the task at hand. Return. Return. That's what he'd been thinking of. But where to?
Like he'd done earlier, Sherlock made his way down the stairs, but he paused again outside the other flat. There were no members of Scotland Yard here, and the police tape looked ripped. He frowned and leaned forward, staring intently at it. Surely they wouldn't leave it unguarded for so long? Curiosity drove him on and he ducked under the tape, slowly descending down the stairs into what had basically been Lestrade's torture room.
At the first glance around, nothing seemed out of ordinary. Well, out of ordinary for a room still covered in blood. He involuntarily shuddered at this. It hadn't even been cleaned up yet. Even the teeth still lay on the ground, here and there. Nothing really seemed off. It frustrated him. Sure, he'd returned to a place he'd been earlier, and a line of thought at the same time, but he couldn't see anything new here!
He turned around to leave when it caught his eye. He hadn't been facing it before, but, written across one of the floorboards, was a word. Black ink on blood, he noted, leaning forward to examine it. In morbid letters, it proclaimed "Lestrade."
Lestrade. Well, that was certainly morbid, considering exactly who had been tortured here. But what did it mean? Was he supposed to talk to the man? That seemed plausible, but he'd expected more than this. It did satisfy him to think that perhaps he'd actually been thinking right to come in here. Maybe this was return after all. Return to the torture room, to the original line of thought. Good, he was back on track.
Sherlock took off again, out of the building and onto the street, where he frantically tried to hail a taxi. Quite a few passed by before one finally stopped for him, and he spat out the hospital's name as fast as he possibly could. The cabbie nodded as he pulled out his phone, dialling the numbers for Scotland Yard again. In moments, the phone was answered by a voice distinctly female. Great, just what he needed. Donovan.
"Donovan, is Lestrade awake?" he demanded.
"Last time I checked he was… but you can't wake him up, if he's asleep. I don't care if you're saving the Queen, freak, he needs to rest," Donovan all but spat through the phone. Sherlock rolled his eyes and snapped the phone shut. In his mind, he urged the taxi on. If he had telepathy - or whatever it was called - he'd definitely be using it on the cabbie. Unfortunately, however, Sherlock definitely did not believe in that sort of thing.
The ride was surprisingly short, and this time he actually remembered to pay the cabbie right away. Forcing a smile for the man, Sherlock turned and raced off towards the hospital. His hand ached a bit as he pumped it through the air but he forced himself to ignore it. The knuckle could be broken, for all he knew, but it didn't matter. What mattered now was finding and talking to Lestrade.
He barely stopped long enough to ask the receptionist which room he'd find the DI in, and then was off again, completely ignoring her yell of "you can't wake him!" Sherlock slid to a stop outside the man's room, catching his breath before he would enter. He studied the glass door, finding nothing of particular interest. But, the moment his hand touched the doorknob, the pager beeped again.
'Let him sleep. This part's important, dear. We can't have you trying to wake him, or I'll be sure he'll never wake again.'
"Morbid message," he murmured, but decided to follow the advice anyway. The last thing he needed was a dead Lestrade, which would quickly by followed by a dead John and Mycroft. He forced back the panic at the thought of them dying. No, no… he wouldn't let that happen. They had to survive, at least for him.
When he entered the room, he wasn't at all surprised to find Lestrade sleeping peacefully. It frustrated him, but he sat down in the plush chair next to the bed anyway, choosing to study the man's face. His head was heavily bandaged, and other bandages of varying sizes could be seen on the exposed parts of him. Even the man's wrists bore signs of his ordeal. Sherlock sighed, silently glad that Lestrade was alive.
He sat in the darkened room for what must have been at least two hours, staring at the face of the man he'd come to know and not know at the same time. Despite the situation, there was a small part of him that didn't want the DI to wake. The scene reminded him so much of John and earlier that day, when he'd woken and decided to let the other man sleep peacefully and quietly. That had been a mistake…
Surely letting Lestrade sleep couldn't hurt anything.
Near the end of those two hours, Lestrade's eyes finally fluttered open. He looked confused for a few moments, eyes darting around the room before they settled on Sherlock and seemed to relax. In a raspy voice, he greeted, "Sherlock."
"Lestrade," the detective greeted in return. "Are you… better?"
"Better, yes. Alright, no."
"At least you're honest."
"Mm. I suppose there's that. But, if you haven't forgotten…"
"Forgotten what?"
"I spent a little time getting up close and personal with Moriarty, Sherlock. Of course I wouldn't be alright."
"True," Sherlock's intense gaze softened a bit. He coughed in attempt to regain his composure. "But you'll live, of course."
"Of course," Lestrade answered, rolling his eyes for good measure. "If it keeps you happy, sure."
