A/N: What can I say, just wow! That last chapter kind of exploded. Thanks to everyone who commented, fav'ed and followed. It blew me away this week, the huge response I got. I should put puzzles in all of my chapters! On that note, it seems like you all figured out the pattern - they could only take items starting with their initials – it's harder to figure out when it's done orally in Sherlock's defence.

Also, I received an awesome comment by a guest, who informed me of the teaser/trailer for "Little Favour". Now I can't stop watching it! It's like little snap shops straight out of this story (sort of) Go check it out and thanks for sharing!

*Re-edited – 14/07/17

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

- Chapter Twenty Five -

*- Dimmock -*

By the time Peter had arrived back at the Yard, he was well and truly pissed off. Three times he had tried to call Donovan and three times she had let her phone ring through to message bank. He walked through the building with barely controlled rage and barged his way into the tech lab, only to find that she wasn't there.

"Where's Donovan?" he asked loudly, startling the three men working there.

"Ahhh, I don't know sir. I haven't seen her since early this morning."

"Well, where is she? She was supposed to be getting the CCTV Footage brought in from Enfield!" he said angrily.

"Oh yes, we got that," the tech assistant replied quickly. "It arrived around 10am this morning. That's what we're going through now."

"And?" he asked impatiently. "Have you managed to track down where the vehicle came from?"

"Not yet sir. The coverage is not as wide spread in the suburbs as it is in the city."

He knew that of course and yet it was still disappointing to hear.

"You haven't spoken to Donovan at all?"

"Yeah, she rang around 1 o'clock asking for a progress report and asked us to leave a message if we found anything." Dimmock could feel his frustration growing.

"She didn't tell you where she was?"

"No sir, just that she was going to be away from her phone for most of the afternoon."

"Well that's perfect!" he said with a growl, before storming out to find Jenkins.

Twenty minutes later, he found himself slamming the door to his office and yelling obscenities at the computer screen. The whole case was an absolute friken disaster. Not only had they found next to nothing at either scene, but they also had no leads, no suspects and in general no idea as to what the hell happened. To top it all off, now he finds out that Home Office had been in and taken copies of all their files! Not only that, but it seems that Donovan has been taken away as well. Surely, she wouldn't have just left without contacting him first?

He picked up the phone and dialled the number to the Home Office intending to get some answers. After being passed on from one person to another for over half an hour, he eventually got hold of someone who told him that Sergeant Donovan was 'unavailable' and that any further information about where she was or what she was doing was simply 'classified'.

'Classified my ass!' He thought angrily to himself as he slammed the phone down, picking it back up almost immediately. For the fourth time, that day, he punched in her personal number, his heart sinking when he heard the familiar recorded message.

"Donovan, I don't know what you're up to, but you better ring me as soon as you get this and let me know what the hell is going on! Furthermore, you better have a bloody good reason why you've been dodging my calls all afternoon!"

He slammed the phone down yet again and rubbed his hands through his hair in frustration. He wanted answers and he wanted them now!

*- John -*

Removing the screws from the metal frame was turning out to be a long and arduous process. Although the tip of the tool stayed in place easily enough, it was the rest of the device that was proving problematic. With nothing substantial to grip, the plastic body twisted and turned in his hand. After spending close to ten minutes removing the first two screws, he and Greg had come across a much faster method of doing it. John would loosen the screws with the tool and Greg would finish the process with his good hand. It wasn't always fool proof - occasionally, John would not loosen them enough, or they would get in each other's way, but after working on it for another fifteen minutes, they had removed double what John had managed by himself.

It was just as he was loosening the ninth screw, that he heard the faint sound of footsteps headed in their direction. A quick look at Greg, confirmed that he wasn't imagining it, so he quickly hid the tool and screws in his pocket. A few moments later, a man appeared outside. It was the same one who had come in with Frank the night before. A wide grin crossed the man's face as he first caught sight of Sherlock hanging from the ceiling. "Comfortable?"

When no answer was forthcoming, the man turned and left with a slight chuckle, glancing in at their cell as he walked past. The whole thing wouldn't have taken more than a minute at max, but it had shaken him. If they were caught trying to escape… He didn't want to think about what might happen.

Several minutes after the man had left; Greg decided to ask Sherlock a few questions about him. The detective told them that he didn't know the man's name, but that he would come by to check on things every two hours throughout the night. When Greg had commented that he couldn't remember ever seeing the man the previous night, Sherlock had replied, rather bitterly "that's probably because you were asleep."

He felt horrible. Not just because of the guilt, but because they now had a new problem to factor into their escape. They would have to plan around these routine checks.

Another two hours to finish the screws on their window and two hours to work on Sherlock's window before having to return for the next check. From there, they would make their escape. If all went well, they would have almost a two-hour head start before anyone would even notice they were missing. The only downside to the plan, was that it would be a minimum of four hours before they could make their move, and that was only if they were able to stick to those time frames. That itself was going to be difficult, seeing as though they had only removed eight of the fourteen screws and their tool was starting to lose its effectiveness. The edges of the screwdriver head, had started showing signs of fatigue. He just hoped that, it would hold out long enough to see them safely out of there.

*- Donovan -*

Donovan was knee deep in classified papers when she heard her phone vibrate, indicating that she had missed yet another call. Strictly speaking she wasn't meant to have her phone on her at all whilst viewing the classified files, (something to do with security) so she wasn't going to risk pulling it out, not while they were still watching her.

Within twenty minutes of hanging up from Mycroft Holmes, she had been picked up in a black town car and driven to the Home Office Headquarters where she had been fully briefed on both the case and her responsibilities. It had been made perfectly clear since stepping foot inside the building, that they would be keeping an eye on her. Truth be told, they didn't want her there. She was nothing more than an obstacle to slow them down and take attention away from the real target. It was no real surprise then, when she found herself shut into a small room with a pile of files to read over. It didn't really bother her too much though, it gave her the opportunity to familiarise herself with the whole case, and not just the cliff notes they deemed necessary to share. It was with some surprise however, when she noticed the dates on some of the files, spanning back over the last six months. Files full of documents detailing the investigation into underground weapon sales and organised crime. At first it didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary, but as the hours ticked by, she started to grasp, just how big this case really was.

As she dug further into the files, she came across surveillance reports of several key figures, thought to have had links with terrorist organisations and training camps operating within the UK. Agent Williams had not been lying when he spoke about there being a bigger picture. As much as it pained her to do so, she had to finally accept that things would not change. The Home Office would not spare any resources to look for Lestrade. Their priority would always be to locate their informant, alive or dead. They could not afford to let this man disappear off the face of the planet, no matter what the consequences.

Despite all this, she promised herself not to leave the small room, until she had caught up on everything, and had something to offer the investigation back at Scotland Yard.

So far there seemed to be very little. A few key figures stood out amongst the 'Scarlet Rose' as potential suspects, however they were currently being investigated. The unfortunate truth of the whole matter, was that an organisation of that size, could have hired just about anyone to carry out the hit and abduction. The Home Office was currently on red alert, tracking everyone with possible links to the case, hoping they would lead them to potential hostages. So far, all they had really found was a trail of destruction. Former members and several homeless people had been hospitalised with serious injuries over the last 24 hours, and all were unwilling to talk. This just proved that whoever these people are, they were searching for this man (code name: Skittles) just as much as they were. It was clear from the evidence, that the informant was still on the run, but that information was completely useless to her. It had only just passed 7 o'clock, and there was still a nice stack of unread folders to go... It was going to be a long night.

*- Lestrade -*

Keeping Sherlock awake and lucid was becoming more difficult by the minute. After the detective had finished reciting a list of Mozart songs, Greg had stopped for a moment, glancing first at Sherlock and then back to John with concern. They could both see that Sherlock was fading fast. His voice came out thick and heavy, his words slurred. Even back in the dark days, when Sherlock was in the depths of a cocaine induced stupor, his words had never slurred like they were now. His head was still slumped, eyes barely open and he swayed badly on the pile of bricks. They needed to keep him awake and the best way to do that was to keep him talking, keep his mind working. It was painful for all three of them, but they couldn't just stand by and watch him fall. There would be plenty of time for him to sleep once they were all out of this mess.

"Sherlock, I've got a hypothetical question for you." He said quietly, trying to get their friend's attention.

"Mmmm?" Sherlock murmured weakly.

"A plane crashes in the middle of its journey between country A and B, and half the passengers are killed. Neither country claims the land in which the plane went down, so where would you bury the survivors?"

At first Sherlock didn't respond and he couldn't help but wonder if perhaps the man hadn't heard the question. He was just about to repeat it, when he heard the quiet reply.

"Wouldn't you just bury them back where they came from?

His voice was concerning him, but his answer had concerned him even more. He saw John stiffen and turn his head to look at the detective. The doctor's face was a mix of emotions: sadness, worry, hurt and panic. All the things, he himself was feeling.

"So you're saying A?" he asked after a little while.

"S'that where they all came from?"

"That's where the plane left."

"No, I mean… Is that where they lived?"

"Well, we don't know," he said slowly. "We weren't given that information. Look, do you want me to give you the scenario again?" He said, hoping that Sherlock had just not heard him properly.

"Kay."

"A plane crashes in the middle of its journey between country A and country B. Half the passengers are killed. Where would you bury the survivors?"

He said it slower and clearer this time, hoping that Sherlock would understand, but he didn't.

"I don't know," Sherlock sighed with annoyance. "I s'pose it'd be A… if that was where the flight… 'riginated from... The'd take the… wreckage… back for investigation."

He felt as though someone had punched him in the chest. John had momentarily stopped working and the two were staring up at the detective with concern.

"It was a trick question Sherlock…" he said sadly, "you don't bury survivors."

"Ohhh," came the defeated sigh as the detective's head dropped even further.

"Are you okay?" John asked quietly.

"I just need… some sleep."

"You can't go to sleep right now Sherlock or you'll fall off." John continued, turning back to resume his work. "Just a little bit longer okay? You're doing great."

"You said that… hour ago," the detective slurred.

"I know, we're working on it," he said quietly. "How about you tell us the twelve signs of the zodiac?"

"I don't know," the detective replied tiredly.

"Oh come on, just…"

"Ahhh no, he really wouldn't know any," John said quickly beside him, cutting him off.

"Okay… how about, you give me a list of the things you don't like about Anderson?"

He heard the detective give a slight huff of amusement before he muttered "be here all day."

"Good, it should keep you awake for a while then. Just start from the beginning."

"He's an idiot."

"Ok, what else?"

"He's annoying… got… bad hair… and his voice… is irritating." Sherlock continued weakly.

"That's good, just keep going."

As Sherlock continued his list, Greg turned back to John who was having a particularly challenging time trying to loosen the remaining three screws. They were firmly held in place, and John's inability to grip the gadget very well, meant that the task was becoming extremely difficult.

John's teeth clenched and his whole right arm shook with effort, as the tool suddenly turned, flicking out from the head of the screw.

"Shit!" the doctor hissed, as he quickly inspected the tip of the tool.

"What is it?" he asked quickly, taking a step closer to try and see what had happened. With a downcast face, John slowly handed him the makeshift tool. His heart sank as he saw the twisted plastic, the sides having all but disappeared as they curled around one another. He felt like swearing himself.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock mumbled quietly, his head upright, trying to see what had caused the sudden outburst.

"Not sure yet," he mumbled in reply, hoping the detective wouldn't be able to read him in his weakened state.

He gently pushed John aside and tried the instrument on one of the remaining screw heads, but it was no use. The tool was practically useless, unable to keep its grip on the metal lip. There was no way they could use it like this, and they still had three screws to go; not to mention the fourteen in the other cell.

"Shit," he said slowly in agreement, before ducking down to the floor and trying to reshape the twisted plastic into something usable.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked again, trying to get their attention, but neither he nor John were really listening, too focused on the problem at hand.

After a couple of minutes of furious filing, He stood back up and tried the tool again with similar results. The plastic twisted almost immediately, the sides of the point, folding in on one another. Both he and John could do nothing but sink their heads in quiet despair.

"Would someone tell me what's going on?" Sherlock called, sounding annoyed.

He and John looked at each other, neither one of them knowing what to say. Not knowing whether to lie, or tell the truth.

"Nothing to worry about yet, we're just having some… technical difficulties." John said quickly, trying to reassure the man, but even half asleep, Sherlock was not falling for the lie and he turned to stare at him intently.

"Lestrade, what's going on?"

He really didn't want to tell him. Sherlock needed something to hold onto, something to keep him going. John knew it too, it was why he had lied.

"The metal weakened the plastic and the tip has twisted out of shape… We won't be able to use it for a while, until I've had the chance to fix it."

"How long?" Sherlock muttered, sounding weak and defeated.

"I'm not sure. I'll work as fast as I can. Hopefully I can have it done before our new 'friend' comes back around."

Sherlock didn't reply, his eyes glancing over towards his mattress for a moment before focusing on the scraps of food below him. It was enough to make his heart clench painfully.

"Keep your head up Sherlock," he heard John say as he resumed his work. "We haven't given up, and neither should you. We're going to get out of here, I promise… It just may take a little longer."