Here we are! Another chapter! I'm thinking this story will go up to 15 chapters in total, but we'll see! It's getting down to the nitty-gritty!

"Wake up, wake up!" Sherlock lifted his head abruptly as annoying voices reached his ears. He looked around and found himself in the hellish room where Holland Butler, the dear detective/kidnapper, was keeping them like meat put aside to roast for sacrifice.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"What?!" he hissed back, his head was pounding like it had never before and his entire body was beaten and exhausted.

"You've lost a lot of blood, sir," the man next to the consulting detective, the one choked earlier by their abductor, had purple bruises painting his neck, "if you sleep, you might die."

Sherlock shook his head in aggravation. Sleep was the only relief he could get from this horror and now he couldn't even do that. The man was right, of course, he could very well slip away in his sleep. But they were all going to die anyway, a peaceful passing was something he'd welcome over a satanic ritual.

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes," the other man on the opposite side of the room had his gag half on half off his mouth, "the paramedics will be here once they find us."

"Optimism will get you nowhere," Sherlock looked at him while slumped in his chair.

"I'm so very sorry, sir," the woman who tried to protect him had a shaky voice when she addressed him, "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, please forgive me."

He didn't really want to. After all, he was turned away from his friends, kidnapped, beaten bloody, and was about to be involved in black craft rituals because these people had gotten abducted. Essentially, all of this was their fault.

No, it wasn't.

"Quite alright," he flinched, his voice came out like a pained strain as he tried to sit upright, to get the remainder of his blood flowing.

"What hurts?" his neighbor asked him.

Sherlock shot him a glare but abided, "I was stabbed before taken, on my left side."

His eyes were downcast, "The medics will fix that up immediately…"

"Oh, quit it with the paramedics" Holmes bit back, "they aren't coming."

"H-how do you know?"

"You lot have been stuck here for a while, some over a week," he looked at each of them in turn, "what makes you think you'll be found now when-"

He cut off as he leaned forward, a painful moan escaping him as a fresh wave of pain erupted in his chest, blossoming like a new flower.

"Are you alright? Sir?!"

"Does it look like it?!" the woman snapped back, "We need to do something!"

"What can we do?!" the other bound female in the room shouted back, "we've been sitting like this for days!"

"No, we've been waiting around for someone to save us!" her hair fell in her face as she argued, "and now this gentleman here is going to die because we didn't do anything!"

"Shut up!" Sherlock yelled as he tried to push down the pain that was running through him like hot lava, the volcanos being his temple and abdomen, "I'm trying to think!"

They were all silent. The air was dead still as Sherlock squinted his eyes, trying to push past the enveloping pain clouding his mind, trying to formulate a plan. If this were anyone else, it couldn't be done, but this was Sherlock Holmes. It had to be done.

"Butler," he strained, "he dropped the crowbar on his way out, correct?"
"Yes," a deep voice responded to him, "I'm looking right at it."

"Good, how close?"
"It's in between us. But a little closer to you."

"Excellent."

"What are you planning?" the woman asked cautiously, careful to mind Sherlock's weakened state.

"Escape," he responded with heavy breaths and opened his eyes. Sherlock craned his neck back resulting in indignant protests from his bleeding temple, but he saw the crowbar sitting a little bit from him.

It was covered in blood-his blood. The haunting sight made him stop for a moment.

"You good, lad?"

"What else is around me? I can't move much."

"Trash, wrappers, all kinds of weird things like wood planks, rope, PVC pipes, glass shards-"

"Glass shards?"

"Yeah, what about them?"
"How far?"

"Farther behind you?"

"Still near?"

"A little."

"Good, I think I've found a way out, but it's not going to be pleasant."

"Okay, what do we got?" Donovan kept the door open to the office behind her as Phillip Anderson walked through behind her. He was wearing his blue scrubs after coming up from the Lab after an urgent call from Lestrade.

"Donovan, Anderson," Greg greeted them, "where's Butler?"

"He should be here," she looked around quizzically, "probably on his way up."

"Most likely," the DI began as he was leaning over a table with John Watson, "look, we've got our newest piece of evidence on the case."

"New evidence at a crime scene?" Anderson said hopefully as he slapped his latex gloves against his wrists,"Really?"
"Not exactly," John looked up from the map he was holding, "straight from the desk of Mycroft Holmes."

"Oh, great," Anderson rolled his eyes, "another one."

Donovan nudged him hard in the side.

"As I was saying," Lestrade's voice hardened, "Sherlock got this envelope from Mycroft during the case and later that day he was abducted. There is something in here that can lead us to our kidnapper, all we need to do is decipher it."

"What is it?" Donovan moved closer.

John turned the map around, "It's a map of Scotland."

"These brothers," Anderson muttered under his breath, "okay, I'll do a full lab work up, analysis, it'll probably take me a few days to-"

"No," John put his hand down, "no, we don't have that kind of time."

"I'm sorry, John," Sally sighed, "this is what we're going to have to work with. If we can catch this guy before he kidnaps others-"

"He's not planning to kidnap more people, he's planning to kill! Sacrifice! This man is a black magic psycho who is going to do his satanic rituals today, we cannot allow that to happen."

"Any ideas?" Greg raised his brows.

"Sherlock didn't do this whole lab work up, he gave it one glance for 15 seconds and figured it out."

"Watson, despite your incessant attempts to convince us otherwise, we are not Sherlock Holmes." Anderson's eyes narrowed.

"You don't think I know that," he snapped back, "but we have to try our best here, he deserves that much from us."

"John is right," Lestrade nodded, "Anderson, did Holmes run any unauthorized tests in the lab at all?"

"Not that I know of," he shook his head, "and if he did, I'll kill him."

"Okay, so there isn't anything in the map, it's a message."

"A message from the map of Scotland?"

"Sorry I'm late," they all looked up as Holland Butler came running in, a bandage wrapped around his upper forearm, "what do we got?"

"Nice of you to show up," Lestrade's tone was tart, "where've you been?"

"A little accident on my way over," he lifted his arm in the bandage, "rear-ended, glass shattered and cut my hand."

"You all right?" John called, happy to get some more help from Butler.

"Yeah, nothing that won't heal. It's not important, we need to find Sherlock and the Parliament members before anything drastic goes down at the meeting today."

"AKA, they're deaths," Anderson said blatantly, he got a death glare from Watson.

"Is this a map of Scotland?" Holland looked at it questioningly, "What's it for?"

"Recognize your home anywhere?" Sally quipped, smiling lightly.

Butler laughed, "We've been so neck deep in this case, I probably wouldn't recognize it."

"Sherlock left us another clue," Watson interrupted their little chat and pulled out another series of photographs, "at his abduction spot at Tate Gallery, he scooped a handful of dirt from the planter I assume and in it he drew this," John pointed to a star tracing in the dirt scattered on the floor, "a pentagram outline."

"Why would he do that? We know about the pentagrams," the DI narrowed his eyes.

"It's another clue," Holland was rubbing his chin with his hands, "Holmes was telling us something beside the facts we already know."

"He already showed us the pentagram on the London map where the abductions took place," Sally reminded the team, "he may be referring to that again."

Lestrade flipped open his cell, "Right, I'm going to need officers at all victim locations."

"Maybe it's not that," John shook his head, "it had to be something blatant, something we would see right off the bat."

"A marking," Butler narrowed his gaze, his eyes looked distant.

"Precisely, and this map of Scotland, it's coming from Mycroft so it's going to be in a riddle, but something doable at the same time. Sherlock was able to understand it clearly enough."

"Okay, so what significance do our victims, Scotland, and a star have in common?" Donovan had doubt in her voice even as she said it.

"This is impossible!" Butler threw his hands in the air, "we're running out of time!"

"So what do you suggest we do?" Anderson asked.

"Our forces should be targeted to protect the Palace of Westminster, we cannot delay."

"But there are multiple variables in the investigation now, Butler, we cannot ignore our evidence," Lestrade spoke up.

"Our evidence?! You mean a map of Scotland and a star traced in dirt?! What evidence is that?!"

"It's evidence left by our victim," Donovan stepped forward, "yes, Sherlock has become a victim now and he was trying to leave us these clues so you can be damn sure we aren't going to ignore them," she turned to Lestrade, "if you say Holmes gave it one glance and immediately knew then we have to think broader. Not a specific place in Scotland, but the country as a whole."

"Anderson, call up Research and have them bring me everything they can on the latest news in Scotland, all of it."

The analyst reached for the phone and made a call.

"You," Greg pointed to Holland who was standing and looking down at the map, "it's your hometown, tell us what you got."

Something clicked within John.

It's your hometown.

Not a specific place in Scotland, but the country as a whole.

What significance do our victims, Scotland, and a star have in common?

It's coming from Mycroft, so it's going to be a riddle.

A cold realization poured through John, dread filling his limbs and his mind like a freezing tidal wave. He had stumbled away from the table a little bit, thinking about what Lestrade had said, the world appearing to him in a whole new light. Holland Butler, the Scottish PI, was the killer?

No, it couldn't be true. It couldn't.

"John?" He heard a questioning reply from Greg.

"Yeah?" He cleared his throat, "Yes, yes, I'm here."

"Are you all right, Watson?" the concerned Butler came closer to him.

Watson took an instinctive step back. Those hands may have abducted Sherlock, may have placed that chloroform gag over his mouth and dragged and tied him to a chair doing God knows what with him.

"Just had a thought," he moved back to the table, standing by Lestrade pointedly, "continue."

"Butler was just telling me that there's some political turmoil in Scotland…" his voice faded away from John's ears. His vision was focused in on the bandage around Butler's wrist.

Sherlock left the pentagram tracing in the dirt. It was something that had to stand out to him in his last few moments of consciousness. Something his eyes must've caught during his kidnapping. If Holland Butler really was the abductor, then it would make sense.

When John was attacked by the kidnapper, the accent the man bore was English. But from what he could recall when Butler came into their flat with that fake murder case to test Sherlock, he adopted an English accent. It was doable for him, easy too, he was good at it. And the kidnapper was wearing black leather gloves and now conveniently there was a bandage around Butler's hands. If he was the kidnapper, that meant there was something to do with his hands.

"Butler," John interrupted, "what exactly happened to your wrist? I'm a doctor, I can give it a quick look if that's all right?"

John moved across the table, observing everything.

The Scottish PI had a look of question cross his face then a smile.

"That's so very kind of you, Mr. Watson," Holland answered, "but I'm fine, it's just a little scratch."

"Then that bandage is too big," John persisted casually, "I can give you a smaller one, I have it with me in my bag."

"Oh no," he was taken aback a little by my determination, "small but deep, I was able to handle it, John, thank you."

"Really, Butler," Lestrade shrugged, "save some money on medical bills, you got a doctor right here."

"Uh, fine," he nodded, "okay, John, here."

He walked over to John, holding out his right arm. Watson eagerly undid the bandage and pulled off the gauze completely."

"You see?"

John turned his wrist over and over, but no star tattoo. This didn't make sense, Butler was supposed to be the kidnapper! The pieces fit because he had knowledge that the police were giving him about their next raids and their suspicions on the kidnapper. That's why the bastard was so untouchable, he was keeping tabs on them all-Sherlock in particular.

"Is it bad, Dr. Watson?" he looked into Holland's eyes who was speaking to him.

He was right, there was a slim slice on his wrist that went deep. The blood was clotting already and John rewrapped the bandage.

"Um, all clear," he said quietly, putting it back on, "it's clean, no infection."

"Thank you, sir," Butler buttoned his sleeve once again.

"Where were we…" Lestrade continued as John's hopes dropped.

The clock ticked on. Parliament members gathered into the Palace of Westminster, ready to convene and begin their urgent meeting after their fellow abducted representatives went missing. The investigative team at Scotland Yard had no hope of deciphering the clues that Sherlock left for them. Their only hope was to wait for the kidnapper to do something at the meeting to track him down and find the victims. It was a nearly hopeless plan as their entire schedules and jobs revolved around the will of the kidnapper. Who knew what his plans were, when the sacrifices would commence, and when he had make a move on the Palace? It was a game of time, one they were on the losing side of.

"Okay," Lestrade heard the whisper of John as they stood at the closed doors along with a barricade of officers for protection, "it's now or never."

Lestrade didn't like the sound of that. He didn't want to believe that Sherlock's life was in danger, that he could be killed. The man was always untouchable.

"Are we ready to begin?" the booming voice of the head member echoed through the Parliament chambers. Men found their seats and looked warily at the officers lining the room like a cell membrane. There was babbling and yelling from the members like usual but not with as much enthusiasm with their members gone. It didn't fit, everyone was on edge, the officers surrounding the building were on high alert.

Watson kept his eyes glued to Butler; he was still precarious even after his allegations were proved otherwise. He looked under the bandage and the wound was there, like glass from his windshield cut right through it.

Except John Watson was a doctor and he'd seen his fair share of trauma. A wound like that would still be clotting, it was deep and small, but no blood stained the gauze resting upon it.

It had to be a staged injury with a fake wound.

Good make up and a little props would do the trick and the Scotchman was prepared, he even had a fake gash on his arm for the looks. That meant he was still a suspect for the kidnapping. John couldn't believe he didn't catch it before, he was probably so focused on Sherlock it didn't jump out at him. The blood was fake, the wound an obvious prosthetic.

"Lestrade," John nudged him, "come with me."

"John?" The DI narrowed his gaze, "Now?"

"I have an idea about the kidnapper," he ushered Greg over to the corner away from obvious ears, "you're going to think it's absurd, but I have reason to believe Holland Butler is the kidnapper."

"H-Holland Butler?!" Lestrade scoffed, "Watson, of all people?!"

"Listen to me!" he said in a harsh whisper as heads began to turn, "Were there any qualifications that Butler showed you upon arrival?"
"Well, he showed me his license and told me that DCI Carter called him in from-"

"But there was no direct message from DCI Carter?"

"Well…no."

"Exactly! He's been playing us all along, that gauze on his arm is fake. The star outline in the dirt was a clue from Sherlock that our kidnapper has a mark on him in the shape of a pentagram."

"But how do you know it's on his wrist?"

"Because the man always wears gloves! It's so he isn't distinct or anything to trace him by! Now that accident story he told us was fake. The wound I "examined" was a prosthetic and there's no blood on the bandage."

"O-Okay, but these are small details, I need hard evidence-"

"There isn't any, but notice how he was in a rush on his way in? And how Sherlock was coincidentally kidnapped at Tate Gallery when that information never left the office? Butler was there, he has been one-up on us this whole time!"

"Let's say you're right, Watson, what can we do?!" DI Lestrade paced, "I can't make an arrest right here, right now without solid hard evidence because say he isn't the kidnapper, I'll get fired for directing our resources to a fluke suspect."

"We can't just wait him out!"

"Yes, we can. If you are correct, John, Butler is right in our sights, now let's head back before anything happens," Greg brushed past John's shoulder and back in line.

John, on the other hand, walked outside to find someone.

"Three, two, one!"

Sherlock braced himself and fell backwards hard. His wooden, splintering chair collapsed against the cement floor as his plan worked. Holmes pushed himself backwards with his legs and his weight crushed his seat. On the downside, his skull cracked against the concrete, blood pooled around his fallen body, and a low groan escaped his lips.

"You're doing great!" came the encouraging reply of his fellow abductees, "the crowbar is right next to you, on the left!"

Holmes opened his blue eyes with effort and looked to the left with immense strain. Even his eye muscles protested in pain. He heaved himself, moving his arms around in their now loose ropes and pulled them apart, resting them upon his chest. They came away wet and sticky with his blood.

"Come on, Mr. Holmes!"

"Alright, alright," he growled and dragged his beaten, exhausted body closer to his weapon of escape. His wrists were still bound along with his ankles, but he was worming his way across the dingy floor.

"Got it!" he wheezed as the dirty metal lay wrapped in his cold fingers, "where's the glass!?"

"Farther down, keep moving!"

Sherlock gave up for a moment, his body resting against the floor in exhaustion as he felt fresh wet blood start to build up beneath his thick, sodden coat. He needed to keep going, to stop Butler. With a strained heave, Holmes pulled himself forward, his long, blood-stained fingers gripping the glass shards he found so hard, they cut his skin.

"What do you plan to do with that, sir?" a meek voice called from behind him.

Sherlock pushed himself up, his mind solely focused on getting himself out of the bonds that tied his ankles and wrists together. Pieces of the wood chair clung to his sleeves and legs as his head ached roughly from the deliberate fall he took. The ropes wavered and swam in front of his vision, and he knew that he would black out soon enough. The job needed to be done quick, he needed to free these people before something worse happened.

The glass shard in his hand sliced through the old ropes with ease and he doubled over in pain as he was forced to lean forward to free his ankles.

"He's done it!" one of the men cried, "He's free!"

"Please, me next, sir! I have a wife, a family!"

"No, no, me! I've been here longest, almost 2 weeks now!"

"Mr. Holmes, please-"

"Enough!" he shouted as he staggered to his legs, falling and catching himself against the wall, "it doesn't matter who gets out first, as long as the job is done," Holmes hissed under his breath in pain and frustration. He picked up his crowbar and made his way around to each chair, busting the old teetering legs and rusty screws as he did so to free his fellow captives.

They stretched their limbs, some had trouble standing as their swollen, tied down extremities hadn't moved for days now. Blood flowed back into them regularly, reviving the parched tissues. The woman who had protested his abuse came up to him, helping to put his shoulders straight as the folded position of his abdomen caused blood to flow more regularly into his aching limbs.

"All right, come on," she said, "off to the hospital."

"No," Sherlock shook his head resolutely and took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back, "John."

"John?" one of the freed men spoke up, "John Watson? I love his blog!"

"Is this really the time?!" she retorted as I walked forward, a new determination seeping into my bones to see John once more and see if he was okay.

"All of you," Holmes turned to face them, "If I could guess correctly-which I do for a living-we are beneath the Palace of Westminster at sewer level. It's like a boiler room which naval captains from the Thames used in the past," he wielded the crowbar in his pale palm and spoke fiercely, "you will leave here down the west tunnel once we escape, there should be a service ladder that'll lead you right to a drain pipe on street level. Be careful, police should have a perimeter set around the building."

"What about you?" his neighbor who was choked looked at me.

"I still have a job to do," Sherlock started towards the exit, "Butler is still on the loose."

"You're injured," another member protested, "you can't go on."

"You worry about your duties and I will about mine," Sherlock harshly turned around and rebuked, "I don't sit at a desk all day with tea served to my mouth. This is what my career entails."

"Wait! Before you go," the woman who had protested to his beating came forward, "my name is Claire if you ever need anything, just phone."

"Brighton," the member who was choked dipped his head, his voice raspy.

"Lilly."

"Daniel."

"Mitch."

"Very good," he hated delays, "off you go."

They all filed past him like little schoolchildren, some giving him solemn glances behind their shoulders as they shuffled past.

Chapter 13 will be released soon!