I know I haven't updated in ages and I am so sorry. I just hit a bit of a block. A reviewer mentioned that perhaps the cliff-hangers in this story in particular were a little over used but as this is a continuous story rather than a series of one-shots I often need to add cliff-hangers, otherwise my fic would be just one long chapter and I would find it impossible to break them up evenly. I am sorry but I am not going to change it this far in, but thanks for taking the time out to review, I really appreciate all your input. I would say that I would try to eradicate the cliffys in my next Sherlock fic but unless I decide differently when the new series begins, then I don't think I will be doing another...
Anyway enough of me rambling.
Apologies for not updating in a while, I just looked through all your lovely reviews for the last chapter to get back some inspiration. I just want to thank Rainsaber, EvilPurpleCookiePenkeyMonguin, Bec, irken777, starbrightnights, silvermoony77, lipsofanangel2015, Alice, XMillieX, kitsmits, Twilitefan, Vilentiel & rowellylovesgryffindor for the reviews.
Hope you enjoy...
The people of London always knew when a storm was brewing. They could feel it in the air...
That tingling electricity that seems to crackle in the atmosphere, causing them to pull up their collars and shield themselves from what was to come.
It was mid-afternoon when the first drops of rain began to fall...
Sherlock's patent shoes pounded the pavement as he ran, the sky above him growing darker and darker with every second that passed.
John Watson who was hurrying along behind him grasped at his own chest.
"Sherlock," he cried, trying hard to keep up. "You have to tell me what's going on!"
But Sherlock didn't answer, his eyes set determinedly on the path before him. He could have taken a cab but he knew all of the shortcuts across London and his internal GPS told him that running to Barts would be a quicker option with all the road works that were going currently underway around the city.
"Sherlock," yelled John, upping his pace a little and somehow managing to catch up with the detective. "Sherlock, you have to tell me? Is Rebecca in danger?"
Sherlock flashed him a sudden look and instantly screeched to a halt as John clumsily did the same.
"It s all my fault," the detective uttered in a deep voice, his eyes penetrating John's. "I was wrong to do it, but I needed to..."
"Needed to do what?" said John, running a hand through his windswept hair.
The Detective's eyes travelled down to the floor and the slightest hint of guilt passed across his features. "I've been meeting with Irene..."
It took John a moment to place the name. "Irene? As in that woman who almost got Rebecca killed?" said the doctor angrily. "What the hell have you been doing with her?"
Several long moments passed as John waited for a response that never came.
Suddenly John became wide-eyed. "Sherlock tell me you haven't-"
Sherlock glanced up. "We've been working together," he spat. "That is all John."
John still scrutinised the tall, dark detective with narrowed eyes. "But why? For god's sake Sherlock, Rebecca's eight months pregnant, what the hell were you thinking even going near her?"
"Like I said," uttered Sherlock taking deep breath. "I needed to-"
"Stop being so bloody cryptic Sherlock!" yelled John, seething.
Sherlock gazed into John's eyes and a sort of mutual understanding fell between them, both worried for a certain lawyer.
"Irene is still in contact with Moriarty," muttered Sherlock, his face dark. "I have been trying to attain information on his whereabouts, so I pandered to her invitations of meeting. It was the only way..."
"The only way!" said John wide eyed. "You could have just stayed away in the first place Sherlock, don't you realise how much of a risk you're taking, not just for yourself but for Rebecca and your baby too?"
"I have tried to keep them separate-" said Sherlock shaking his head.
"Yeah but now your two lives are colliding," said John pointing a finger. "And you had better be there to control the aftermath!"
With that both men gave a simultaneous nod and continued running at a fast pace towards Barts, both determined to get there and make sure their friend and lover were still okay.
So much so, that they didn't even notice it coming...
A large black van swerve around the corner...
Come to a screeching halt beside them...
Neither Sherlock nor John had even had time to turn around before bags were thrown over their heads, their arms tied and they were bundled swiftly into the van...
Rebecca Francis' head pounded. With great difficulty, the young lawyer blinked her eyes open, giving a pained groan and it was a moment before everything swam into focus, everything becoming clear to her once more.
Not just her vision but what had just happened to her.
The last thing she had remembered was talking heatedly to Irene before she had felt a sharp pain in her neck and everything had gone black.
And now she was here... In what looked like a cell.
She gazed around, her eyes becoming more and more accustomed to the gloom and found herself in the most awful of places.
She was in a dingy bare walled room, with thick green slime growing up the walls and the faintest smell of excrement which hung in the air. She raised her head and could see a door with large metal bars hanging across a window at the top. There were no other windows besides this, and the only other object in the room was a small, green toilet with sat in the corner emitting an odious stench.
Heaving herself up off the floor with great difficulty she placed a hand to her bump and moved towards the door swaying slightly.
"Hello?" she tried to cry, but her throat was dry and parched and barely any sound came out.
She banged a fist against the door, but all she could see through the slats between the bars was a dark dingy corridor, much like the room she was already in.
"Help me," she called again, but her voice was as raspy as ever.
She swung around and leant back against the door, panicked tears pricking against her eyes.
She didn't know what had happened... What she was doing here...
Her heart started to pound uncontrollably as every horror film she had ever seen suddenly crept into her mind. Were they just going to keep her down here? Torture her?
The worst part was no one ever knew where she was, she had told no-one where she was going. And even if somehow Sherlock had followed her to Barts, he would never know to come looking for her here. Even she didn't know where she was.
Suddenly a thought occurred to her and she dived into her pocket for her phone but found it wasn't there...
There person who must have put her here must have taken it.
Rebecca rested her head against the back of the door willing herself to calm down, to not get too panicked. It wasn't good for the baby.
She placed a hand to her stomach, stroking it gently. She needed to get out of here for her baby's sake, but she had no idea how to do it...
"Sherlock," cried John, over the loud sound of the engine, the bag still draped over his face. "Sherlock are you there?"
Sherlock who had managed to get himself into a comfortable sitting position, murmured a yes, as her struggled with attempting to get the bag that was on his head, off.
John who was still lying across the floor of the van, squirmed trying to lift himself up.
"What the hell is going on?" he cried loudly, as the van swerved around a corner and the two men skidded across the oily metal surface beneath them. "Who the hell is doing this?"
"I have my suspicions," said Sherlock giving up with removing the bag and slumping back against the side of van.
Beneath their cloak, John's eyes widened. "You think its Moriarty?" he asked in a sudden voice. "Well shouldn't we be trying to get out of here?"
John flopped like a fish as he tried to sit himself up.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You'll have to lean against the wall and then pull yourself up," he offered, as John raised his head.
"How the hell do you know what I'm doing? Have you got this thing off your head yet?" he asked.
Sherlock gave an annoyed sigh. "Not yet," he muttered, "but I can hear from all your struggling that you're still in a prone position."
John gave an angry hiss before doing as he was told and pulling himself up into an easy sitting position as the van turned yet another corner.
Suddenly there came a screech of brakes as the vehicle came to a sudden halt and both men held their breath.
They heard the van door's slam, footsteps walk around and heave open the doors.
Rebecca sat on the damp floor of her prison for what felt like hours, her head span from lack of food or water and her body began to tremble due to the cold.
She couldn't bear this any longer.
She knew why she had been taken here, kidnapped like this...
They wanted information on her parent's whereabouts.
That was what Moriarty had wanted before, what he had been paid to extract from either her or Sherlock by some rich government official with a grudge. That was no doubt the way of it.
But if that was the case, then where was everyone? Why hadn't they come to get her yet?
She gave a long sigh as just at that very moment, clacking footsteps could be heard down the corridor drawing nearer and nearer.
Rebecca got swiftly to her feet as the door got unlocked and slowly spun open.
The young lawyer took a step back as in walked Irene Adler her face set.
"Rebecca, we have to talk..."
Burly hands grabbed both Sherlock and John roughly, dragging them out of the van, their feet hitting what seemed like wood beneath them.
From what they could make out, the sky had become dark, and somewhere close by, the sound of lapping water could be heard.
"Get off me," cried John, attempting to struggle against his captor's grip.
"Told ya' we shoulda' gagged 'em too," cried a gruff, east-end voice, as hands shoved them forwards.
Their footsteps echoed beneath them and from what Sherlock could make out they were on a wooden pier, next to the river Thames, exactly 1.6 miles away from Barts.
Suddenly the pair were stopped, the loud sound of lapping water beside them, as something began to be strapped to their ankles.
As Sherlock tried to pull away he found that he could barely move his foot, something heavy attached to the end of a, long chinking chain.
"What the hell are you doing?" cried John beside the cool detective, as a chain also seemed to be attached to his leg. "Get this off me, you fu-"
"Now, now, now, Mr Watson," came a strangely familiar melodic voice. "I'm sure there's no need for that sort of language."
Both men froze as they heard it...
In a moment the bags were roughly torn from their heads and they stood staring into the face of someone they both recognised very well...
James Moriarty.
"Hello boys," he said, smiling wickedly.
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