Last evening
Sherlock bent over the corpse of the man from the couple that had been executed, letting his eyes move over details left behind, minute as they may be. He knew it was Mary who killed this man and his pregnant wife, but he was looking for the where and any what he could find. It certainly didn't help that this man had a similar stature and look to John. The eyes were a different blue, but about the same shape, and staring glassily into nothing, which caused Sherlock's throat to clog with emotion. This won't do. Sentiment won't solve it. Get it together. Sherlock waved a hand in front of his face, and moved down to the pant legs, looking for any telling dust or debris. He was vaguely aware of John looking at him, but Sherlock daren't meet his eyes. Not with my sentiment on my sleeve.
He could hear Lestrade texting haltingly on his mobile, and rolled his eyes, while lifting the cuff of the corpse's shirt. No doubt giving an update to Mycroft. Nosy bastard, just let us work! You do have people hunting after you and John. Shut up. Sherlock waved his hand in front of his face again, huffing with irritation. He looked under the cuff once more, and using tweezers, plucked the single rope fiber he found there, and put it in a bag, offered in front of him. He looked up to see John holding it, a small smile on his face, and Sherlock tried to return it. He must not have succeeded, because John's smile faded from his face, and he peered back at him in concern. Sherlock shook his head, Please, not here. John nodded minutely and turned away, allowing Sherlock to gain some composure before standing tall.
Sherlock turned to Lestrade, who had hidden his mobile back in his pocket and was pulling out his notepad from his pocket. "Their fingerprints are not in the system, and no one around here recognize the victims. They were found with no belongings on them, except the clothes on their backs. Execution style murder, knees show wear and ground debris." Lestrade shot off notes from the worthless forensic team, all of these details he knew.
"May I see the pictures of the scene please?" Sherlock asked, already moving to the one table in the morgue, reserved for paper work and pictures. Lestrade shuffled through his folders, finally producing the right one, and spreading out a few photos. Damn. They were dumped. The photos showed a park with a small amount of blood, but hardly any other forensic evidence. Partial footprint, useless. Sherlock bent closer to one photo, staring directly next to the body of the woman, wondering if he was imagining it. Brother mine, trust what your eyes are seeing, trust the evidence for Christ's sake. Shut up! It looks like a landing… Almost as if they came out of the sky…
"Witness statements?" Sherlock asked, holding out his hand, as he looked at the other photographs closer, confirming his initial thought. Rather than placing the statements in his hand, Lestrade was reading one page, while John was reading the other, they both read out loud snippets that seemed odd.
"… No vehicles driving away after incident…" Lestrade murmured.
"…Sound of two gunshots at the scene." John read aloud, looking up to meet Sherlock's eyes. "But they weren't killed there! Why would there be gunshots?"
Sherlock blinked, then steepled his fingers below his chin. Escape? Is that the sound wizards make when they disappear into thin air? There was no powder residue or shell casings, so if a gun was shot into the air twice, which is unlikely, we would see traces of it. No notes of even an indentation from bullets, unless our person was extremely careful? It is Mary we're talking of, she's an assassin. Piss off.
Lestrade was asking about the rope fiber, which pulled Sherlock out of his own head. "I would need to run some tests to find if there are any prints, doubtful, or if there are any other debris or residue left, which is statistically likely." Lestrade nodded, flipping through his pad again. He sighed, and looked to the morgue doors, where the silhouette of their guard dogs stood.
"You'll be alright if I head back to the yard, yeah? We'll be working on the board of this mess, and I can forward you a picture of it. Text or call if you need me, or if you find something." He was starting towards the doors, as John got our testing equipment out of Molly's cupboards. Lestrade stopped before he exited, turning back around. "Sherlock, I mean it, call or text if you find something. Let us in on the chase too, so you have back up."
Sherlock waved in dismissal, showing he heard, but not giving a promise one way or another. Lestrade grunted as he left, and Sherlock heard a mumbled conversation outside the door. He will text locations to both Lestrade and Mycroft, but ultimately, it seemed this was a trap for John and himself. It will be likely that it will be much too late by the time they assembled any sort of back up.
It seemed John had the same idea, because as he was setting up their equipment, he was very quiet, and kept eyeing the doors. When John was still again, he sat across from Sherlock, staring him down. "Why would she leave us a clue?" He whispered, resigned.
Sherlock gave him the 'we-both-know-what's-going-on-here' look, and busied himself with the powder for fingerprints. John sighed and started to cut the rope fiber into smaller sections, so multiple tests may be ran. As they continued their work, they lapsed into a comfortable silence, only breaking it for instructions or findings.
Finally, after two hours, when the sun had fully set, Sherlock found two things that connected, giving them a lead. He hopped from his stool, starting to wrap his scarf back around his neck and pull his coat back on, when he looked to the morgue doors, reminding himself they were chaperoned. He gave a long suffering sigh, causing John to chuckle as he started cleaning up after themselves. "You might as well help me clean up, then we can give them the slip." John murmured, putting a microscope back in a cupboard. Sherlock quickly gathered up the remaining supplies, while John took care of the second microscope.
John looked to him and said in a louder voice, "Going to take a little longer, eh? Fancy some sandwiches? Yeah, alright." John went to the door, where Mycroft's drone stood by, and gave him some instructions for food, letting him know they'd be here a bit longer. "No rush! We'll be here when you're back, get yourself a cuppa, or take a smoke." John said with a grin in his voice. Sherlock heard the affirmative from the drone, and grinned. He's becoming as manipulative as you. Well done, John!
They waited an additional minute, while John fastened his jacket, and checked for his gun. Then they snuck out of the morgue, heading the opposite way of their guard, towards the side streets.
"Best hurry, Mycroft will have them turning around if he catches wind." John murmured.
Sherlock text in his pocket, and hit send, staring at the back of John's head, as he jogged up stairs leading Sherlock.
They snuck out the back of the hospital, past the ambulance bay, and into the night.
…
The last thing Sherlock remembers is the pair of them entering the abandoned butcher shop and thinking 'Why is the freezer humming?' before blackness. Sherlock kept his eyes closed, trying to gage what their situation was. It was cold, freezing in fact. Cliché, sticking us in the freezer. He felt binds around his feet and hands, knowing instantly that he was hanging upside down. He opened his eyes and saw a large drain right below him.
He bent his neck up, trying to find where John was. The doctor was hanging with his arms tied above him, with the rope upon a meat hook. He was awake, staring at the other side of the freezer, above Sherlock. His eyes flicked down to Sherlock, his jaw set in a hard line. He's in pain but trying not to show it… Waiting for something…Someone.Sherlock felt fear surge through him. They were very much incapacitated, and he had told his brother to give him six hours. How long had they been unconscious? Were they able to be tracked? Sherlock shook his head, remembering the torture he went through in his time taking down Moriarty's web. He couldn't bear if John was put through the same. How to escape?
His anxious thoughts went still when he heard the door slamming shut behind him and two sets of feet moving around him. He kept his eyes on John, registering the hatred that fell from his gaze.
"Hello Johnny Boy. Sherlock." The sing song Irish voice made Sherlock nauseous. He never gets his hands dirty. What the hell is he doing here? "I'm surprised you came after such an obvious trap. They were just nameless magical beings. People die. That's what they do." On the last syllable, Moriarty stepped around, turning his body so that his head was near the same angle as Sherlock's. He grinned manically and pulled out a wand. Sherlock's face must have betrayed his surprise. "Oh yes, hadn't you wondered how I'd survived a gunshot. To. The. Head?" He giggled. "You really are a stupid little boy." Jim stood up then and strode over to John, who looked back impassively.
"Crucio." He yelled, jabbing his wand at John. John's whole body writhed, as if on fire, and he let out a strangled scream, one that Sherlock echoed, his body responding, trying to get loose from the rope. He felt the other person bend down next to him, and metal come to his neck.
"Sherlock, dear, I really wouldn't." Mary spoke, and Sherlock felt all fight leave him. She'd failed to kill him once, she wouldn't again.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Moriarty released John from his torture, lifting his wand up sharply, and beginning to twirl it about his fingers. John was breathing heavily, looking pale and sick, but still glaring at their opponents.
"Where is the boy?" Moriarty asked, bending at his odd angle again. Sherlock stared at him, not answering. Moriarty growled, pointing his wand. "Answer me." Sherlock scoffed.
"What boy do you speak of? There are many." Sherlock tried to keep his voice from wavering, and partly succeeded. Moriarty grinned suddenly.
"With your brother, is he? Or could the boy be with the criminal?" Moriarty asked, straightening and pulling out his cell phone. He sent a few texts, ignoring Sherlock's stricken look, and John's glare giving way to fear.
Moriarty looked up, nodding to Mary, and walked past Sherlock again. "My strings haven't all severed, Sherlock. We're going to have some fun! Keep them alive, Mary." The door slammed behind him, and Mary walked to stand between Sherlock and John. Her belly was gone.
Mary's smile was wide, and she swung her gun in between the two of them. Sherlock realized she was waiting for either of them to ask the plot, or to ask about her, and so he stayed resolutely silent. John, bless him, seemed to understand as well, and glared at her for all he was worth, still shaking from the curse Moriarty cast. The puzzle had more pieces now, and Sherlock was trying to see how they all fit, as well as trying to ignore how he was losing feeling in his feet and hands.
A sharp clatter broke his thoughts, as Mary grew tired of swinging the gun and threw it to the ground. John gave a cry of indignation, probably at the lack of gun safety. Mary rolled her eyes, pulling a fixed blade knife from her belt. "Honestly John. Do you think gun safety is a high priority for you at this moment?" She asked, mocking.
John didn't reply, and she ran her finger along the blade, walking closer to him. There was a remote hanging a few meters away, controlling the hook that John was hanging on. Mary lowered it until John was almost able to touch the ground, but stopped it just before he could touch. Sherlock knew this was to show the power she held. John showed no sign of noticing the slight. And in a flash, Mary drove the knife into John's wounded shoulder. Both men gave a cry, John of agony, and Sherlock of horror.
"Stop this, Mary! I'm the one who will have the information. John knows nothing!" Sherlock struggled to keep his voice even. Mary smirked over her shoulder at him.
"Why do you think I am starting with John? I know your weakness." She smiled wide again, turning back to her husband. She twisted the blade slightly, causing John to grit his teeth and sweat to bead at his brow. He was using a lot of effort to keep his reactions minimal.
"Sherlock is still recovering from his near overdose. We weren't even supposed to be working with the yard, but his brother insisted. We've been in hiding, Mycroft has been running this whole scheme. We know nothing." John hissed out quickly. Mary laughed cruelly.
"Oh, John. I was married to you. I know you better than anyone. Don't." She twisted the blade, "Lie." Then pulled the blade down, widening the wound, "To." Another twist. "ME!" She screamed in his face, twisting again. All the while, John was grunting trying to keep from screaming again. Sherlock felt the tears spill from his eyes and run down his forehead. He thrashed, for all the good it did in his bound position. Mary continued, turning to Sherlock, "So sweet of the two of you, trying to protect each other. Sherlock, I hope you know that your pining wasn't one sided. Sweet, simple John. Married, screaming for the world to hear that he wasn't gay, yet he mourned you like a widow, called your name in his sleep, and I dare say, wanted to say your name more than once when he fucked me." She grinned wickedly, but Sherlock only looked at John. The doctor's eyes widened, but otherwise betrayed nothing. Sherlock tried to convey his thoughts through his look, It doesn't matter. It is what it is. I love you, no matter what. All the while, Mary had retrieved her gun, and was walking towards Sherlock. She bent down, bringing the gun to Sherlock's temple. "Are you going to tell me now, where the boy is? I won't miss this time." She whispered, tilting her head in the lizard like way she had while in Magnussen's office.
John gave a low moan, "Mary, please… Please don't. Kill me." He panted out, still in immense pain. Mary grinned at Sherlock.
She whipped up, pointing the gun at John's heart. "Gladly!"
The door to the freezer banged open, and Moriarty waltzed in, whistling. "Sorry." He sing songed, "Mary, we're needed. Not to worry, she'll be back gents." Mary gave a sigh of regret and dropped her arm, switching the safety on the gun. She gave a sharp nod to John and followed Moriarty out of the door. The door closed quietly, and John gave a heaving breath, almost giving way to a sob.
"Fuck." He swore, looking down at the knife still in his chest. Sherlock looked to his wrists and ankles, trying to see if there were any weaknesses. He could find none, and felt more tears fall from his eyes.
"John…" He murmured, trying to move again. John shook his head in response.
"How long have we been here?" The doctor asked, his breathing coming in gasps.
"I'm not sure." Sherlock replied in despair. John nodded, grimacing.
"Nothing for it then." John replied, and he stretched his legs out their full length, touching the ground, and using it as leverage got his wrists off the hook. He stumbled and fell, twisting his body so that he would land on his side. He gave a choked off cry, which Sherlock echoed.
"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, and John started shuffling towards him.
"No time. Who knows if they have people watching, or what time they'll return. You'll need to take the knife out and cut us free. First, I'm going to tear part of your shirt so we have something to staunch the bleeding." Sherlock had started to talk over him, saying how there was no way, and arguing that none of it would work. "Sherlock!" John said forcefully, finally making it underneath him, to where Sherlock could wrap his hands around the hilt of the blade. They met gazes, Sherlock noting John's pale face, and worried eyes. "There is no time. We have to try. You'll need to move quickly, so I don't loose too much blood. Take the knife then replace it with the cloth I take. Sherlock. Please." John stared through him, and Sherlock gave a sob and a trembling nod.
"I'm sorry." He murmured, as John lifted his head to clench teeth around Sherlock's dress shirt. It took some time, and Sherlock jerked his arms the best he could to help, and finally, they were rewarded with a ripping of the cloth. John kept it in his mouth, and Sherlock reached for it, so that he may make the transfer quickly.
His brain was quiet for once, so that he may grasp the knife and concentrate on the task. He locked eyes with John as he felt his hand tighten on the hilt. John grit his teeth and gave a small nod. Sherlock pulled up, taking care to keep the blade straight. John gave a strangled moan and Sherlock hastened with one hand to pack in the cloth in the small wound. John brought his arm over the wound as best as he could, while Sherlock started to saw through John's ropes at his wrists. It seemed an age, but finally John's wrists were free, and John took the knife from Sherlock's hands, starting to cut at the detective's ropes. John couldn't lift Sherlock off the hook, so he found a cart and wheeled it to Sherlock, helping the taller man to lay his torso upon it, and then was able to lower his legs from the hook. John gave him back the knife, so that Sherlock could cut through the ropes at his own ankles, pressing the cloth harder into his chest.
Finally, they were both free. They shakily walked to the freezer door, Sherlock with the knife in hand. John was still gasping, and he brought his free hand to Sherlock's arm. He was trembling.
"Sherlock." He seemed unable to voice what was on his mind, but suddenly, Sherlock's brain was making connections. He's worried about what waits on the other side of this door. He's scared about being injured and unable to help. He's remembering what Mary said, and is worried that may affect me.
Sherlock gave a short shake of his head and bent his body so that he may rest his forehead on John's. "Together. Us against the world." He assured him, not feeling very confident himself. To his credit, John pretended that Sherlock was confident, and gave a shaky nod.
Sherlock straightened, and pushed open the freezer door, both risking a look out into the butcher's shop. Sherlock could see through the dirty glass at the front of the store. It was dark and the street outside looked to be deserted. The front of the shop echoed the street, not a soul around.
Not looking back, they ran out onto the street.