Chapter 25

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Part 4 - Chapter 3

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Date: Unknown.

Position: Unknown (?° ? ′ ? ″ N, ?° ? ′ ? ″ E ) .

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When John came to, he instantly knew that something was dangerously off. Without opening his eyes he could only glean so much but there were some facts he was quite sure about: Sherlock wasn't with him, at least not close by. He was restrained by something metallic with his hands on his back and probably a rope around his ankles. He was lying on the floor- sandy or dusty, dry, hard and freaking cold. His back hurt like hell, his shoulder tense as a spring and burning up, but he had feeling in all his extremities and could formulate fairly clear thoughts, so it was possibly safe to assume he wasn't bleeding or otherwise critically injured. He was shivering, though. Most likely due to the cold. The air temperature wasn't exactly freezing but couldn't be much more than 10°C. There was no wind whatsoever so he had to be somewhere indoors. He could hear voices- male, muffled, outside. His throat felt dry and the side of his body he was lying on hurt significantly more than the rest; signs that he might have been here a while already, unconscious. John focussed on the room around him once more. Listening. Waiting. There didn't seem to be another pair of lungs doing their job in here except his own- he was alone.

He opened his eyes.

The first thing he saw was a raw, unplastered stone wall with a heavy, solid looking metal door in the grey-blue light of the late or early hours of the day. The concrete floor was indeed dusted with sand but otherwise completely bare. Grunting against the pain, John pushed himself into a sitting position, his shoulder and leg throbbing upon being eased off the constant pressure. His uniform was still mostly intact, but caked in dry mud as if he'd been dragged across some patch of wet soil. His feet were indeed bound, though sadly not by a rope. Instead, they had used cable tie.

Great.

That would be difficult and most likely painful to get off. His wrists were handcuffed. John winced. His shoulder would probably never forgive him when he wanted to get out of here. But he had to find Sherlock and make sure he was okay. He had to be okay.

John turned and found the source of the weak light inside his prison: A small window positioned directly under the ceiling on the wall behind him. It was hardly more than a fanlight but he assumed that the door was bolted so the window was most likely his best chance of escape. He would have to fit through somehow, but first things first. He had to get rid of his restraints.

Obviously, he had been relieved of his weapons and the room was completely empty. He sighed. The nearest wall would have to do then. Jesus, that wasn't going to be funny.

Pushing himself backwards with his feet, he shifted until he could lean his back against the nearest wall. He was just about to take a deep steadying breath before his next move towards freedom-

When he heard footsteps outside the door, coming closer.

John waited, bracing himself for what was to come. Would he be beaten up and dragged in front of a camera? Tortured for information? Not his best memories, of course, but manageable to endure to a certain extent. Far worse was the third option- sack pulled over his head and then stood up against a wall for the young terrorist trainees to do their first execution. There was simply no time for escaping that. He would have to hope that they needed him alive for now.

There was the sound of a metallic sliding bolt pulled back and then the door was pushed open- Perfect, John thought sarcastically: No key, no use of trying to kick the door in, definitely no route of escape there-

And then a young woman entered.

John could barely suppress gaping at her- she was beautiful, she was young, long hair pulled back into a pony tail that reminded him a bit of Lara Croft. She was wearing the camouflage of the British Army. And John had seen her before on a couple of occasions back home.

She had been the second victim that had survived being kidnapped by Moran.

The victim who had refused to flee their prisoner. She was Millie LeBark's girlfriend, Liz Renoir.

Shit.

"Hello, John."

"Liz," he commented dryly. He didn't know where this was going yet, so he needed to keep his poker face for as long as possible. Build up your walls. Don't give her access. Weather this out. Well, at least she wouldn't be able to manhandle him out of the room on her own and there was no sack or cloth in sight. That was as good as it could get for now.

"So nice of you to finally wake up from your little nap. I don't have the whole week to wait for you to tell me what I need to know."

A week. Oh, shit. Don't let it be a week that I've been gone. She could be bluffing. She had to be. Sherlock's alright, surely. He's alright.

"You should have just asked me last time I phoned," John stated, for now completely calm on the surface.

"Oh, well. You know how these things work, John. Sometimes you just have to have a proper chat in person."

'Well, so nice to have had a proper chat.'

"So? What is it, then, that you want me to tell you?"

"Ah, John. Come on. It's obvious, isn't it- I want Sherlock Holmes on a silver platter and I want you to tell me how."

"That's non-negotiable," John replied coldly, shaking his head slowly.

"See, I thought you might say that." She took a step closer, pulling a dagger free from her boot. John swallowed a moan at the thought of what was to come, letting his head drop to his chest for a second to mentally collect what he could gather of his stamina.

Liz leaned down, already cutting his trouser leg open in a long straight line. John forced himself to keep looking at her instead of following the knife's path. To his left, the sun was starting to rise, sending the first weak rays through the small window.

"What was it like for him to kill my father Sebastian, hm?"

Her what?

Blimey.

Mycroft's agents could have mentioned that. Might have been a nice bit of information to have before going on a hunt after the man in a foreign warzone.

"Oh, you didn't know that one, did you?" Liz cooed. "Reasonable, really," she said in mock understanding. "I don't bear Sebastian's last name- never have, actually. Mum raised me on her own, but dad came home to play now and then. Taught me a few of his tricks." The blade of the dagger drew upwards and sliced along the buttons of his uniform shirt, leaving it hanging loosely off his shoulders, revealing the thermo-vest underneath. "... Told me about his adventures. The men he hunted. The villages he wiped out." She fixated him with a cold stare. "Told me about this young soldier with perfect sight and aim. His trainee, the big hope for future wars." She shrugged. "I was a girl so I couldn't be his favourite, of course. He needed a proper man at his side, his wingman."

She lifted the dagger, angling the blade.

And then she sliced it in an awfully slow way down the side of his exposed leg, cutting a deep red line into his flesh. John gritted his teeth against the burning pain, making no sound but a short grunt in the back of his throat.

The cut filled with blood, spilling over and running down his shin.

"Tell me, John: What was he like, when you were marching through the desert, side by side? My father. Before you betrayed him?" The point of the knife was pressing into the open wound. Piercing deeper and deeper. Centimetre by centimetre.

John pressed his lips together, sucking in panting breaths through his nose, but managed to stay silent.

"And then you refused to die." Another centimetre of stainless steel was pressed into his muscles. "When he heard about it he was furious. ... Then Magnussen came by for a visit to our house. I never saw my mum again." Her voice took on a slightly manic touch as she pulled the blade out again.

Slowly. Agonisingly so.

"James found us, told us all about his plan, his game. He wanted Sherlock Holmes to go up in flames, Magnussen wanted his sick breeding program, and we wanted you to suffer. What a happy coincidence, n'est-ce pas?"

Another long line was cut into the side of his chest now, slicing through the fabric of the vest and the skin underneath, grazing his ribs. John pressed his eyes shut and couldn't quite suppress the moan that bubbled up in the back of his throat. God, that hurt.

"Does he talk to you like this when you fuck him? I bet he does. Begging you 'prenez-moi... plus fort, Jean, plus fort'!" She moaned in a vulgar fashion, slicing a new line into the skin next to the first one. John felt bile rise up his gullet. "Oh, look at me!" She exclaimed in a scandalised high pitched voice. "- Now I've made you feel sick. I always thought it quite low for an interviewer to drag bedroom stories in to an interrogation, by the way. But I just couldn't resist, now could I. Your man killed my dad, after all. That's a bit low as well, hm? Do you think you'll need your balls?" she asked all of a sudden. "Personally, I've never seen the appeal in those thingies you men insist on carrying around. I could help you to get rid of them."

Jesus Christ, she was mad. And John was in trouble; he doubted that he could hold his ground through being castrated while fully awake. He'd fall unconscious. If he fainted he probably wouldn't wake up anymore by this point- She would most likely cut his throat in despair before that. Shit fucking, fuck, fuck.

"It won't take much time, I promise. I learned a little trick from Irene. Nice and neat. There's no need to spill too much blood."

Jesus. He had had a feeling that The Woman hadn't been merely a victim in this. She didn't match the profile after all.

"James brought her along, actually," Liz answered to his unasked question. "Well, obvious. He wanted to play and playing was her job. She got us everything we needed about Holmes back then. Information. Material." The dagger's point stabbed into the open cut on his leg again. John gritted his teeth, swallowing down a scream. "And you."

He'd known that Irene had played him, them. Just not to which degree, apparently. God, he'd been so stupid. He never should have left her alone with Sherlock. Should have thrown her out the moment they'd come home to find that she'd been going through John's toiletries.

What else had she been rifling through?

"But then that bitch wanted out. Tried to trick Sebastian after James had died. Tried to get Holmes back onto the plan by involving you. She tried turning the tables and leaking information to our enemies."

The dagger dug in deeper, barely missing the artery. Shhhhhh... Fuck, fuck, godfuckingdamnit! Blinding pain made him lose his focus for a moment, but he forced himself to stay awake and alert.

"She had to go." Liz shrugged her shoulders as if she'd simply shaken off a nasty fly. "But she'd already managed to get some of our files and researched data. So we needed to improvise." She looked at John expectantly. "You didn't really think Millie met your team here, escaped Sebastian and then happened to cross your path just like that, do you? All coincidence?" She laughed madly at him.

'There's no such thing as coincidence.'

John winced.

Memo to self: Stop fighting your trust issues.

"Tell me where Sherlock is."

Short-lived relief flooded him as he realised that they apparently hadn't yet found out about Sherlock being part of his current team. Thank God for helmets and camouflage in rainy weather. Must be why they hadn't captured them both at once in the first place.

Liz let the dagger slice through the flesh on the inside of his thigh, "Tell me."

John let out a long, agonised groan. The sweat gathering on his forehead was starting to run into his eyes. He blinked but held her gaze. "No."

Another cut, closer to his balls. "Tell me his habits since he got back. The important secrets. His way of thinking. How to get him now."

His heart was rampaging in his chest but for now his vision stayed relatively clear and his breathing was okay. The PTSD was growling in the back of his mind but at the moment he was still functioning. Good thing he wasn't tied to a chair, though. That might have gone terribly wrong. "No."

"Tell me and I'll leave your manhood alone and you can go and fuck someone else. Last offer."

John felt the dagger's point being held to the soft skin of his right ball, not yet slicing it open, but far, far too close. John's breathing jumped and his chest started to cramp. He could feel panic rising in earnest now. Damn it, Sherlock. You really need to get me out of here soon.

Trying to stay in control of his growing fear, he lifted his gaze once more, staring right into her eyes. "Piss. Off."

"Gentleman!" she cried, throwing her arms into the air. "I think we'll start with slicing off a nipple first, yes? Leave the good stuff for the finale! Left? Right? Any preferences? No? Well, I choose, then. Here we go..."

John watched in horror as the knife was set to his right nipple, the point starting to slide into his skin, applying more and more pressure. He was panting now, pained noises bubbling up his throat. A scream caught behind his lips and he bit down on them hard enough to taste blood, as the skin on his naked chest broke and the knife started eating its way through the flesh.

- And then it paused.

John forced his senses back online and realised the dagger had stopped moving. There was a quiet ringing noise nearby that John couldn't quite identify at first and the next moment the knife was gone and Liz was stomping out of the room, swearing into the phone held to her ear.

"Damn it, you daft arses, why wasn't I told?! Where are they now? ... Seriously? Did you see him- no, no, like actually see him? ... Yes. ... Yes, you fool. Of course I'm coming, get my tranquiliser gun and meet me at the rear gate."

And finally the door to his prison slammed shut behind her and a muffled sing-song barely reached him as she retreated down the corridor, "Stay there, Johnny Boy! When I come back, your man can continue the slicing and dicing for me. I'm sure we'll have some fun before the end..."

John closed his eyes and released the breath he'd caged inside his lungs, slumping down the wall in relief.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that was close.

He'd almost thought he wouldn't get a chance to actually try and escape, simply being too weak by the time she'd let him go for a break. They always took a time out in between torturing- well, almost always. The question usually was if one would still able to move when they did.

There was no time to spare now, as John already felt the adrenaline leaving his body through the numerous bleeding wounds all over his leg and torso and he needed enough of the hormone in his system to push through the next part.

John could only guess that the call just now had been about Sherlock being close by, probably even accompanied by the guys from 97 Delta infiltrating the back. It was a possibility. No more. He was still on his own for this. If anything, he had to help them by getting out of his prison on his own and ASAP- hopefully meeting them at the halfway mark.

He carefully stood and took a deep breath.

And then, with all the force he could muster, he threw himself against the solid wall, smashing his bad shoulder into it as hard as he could. He almost didn't manage to stifle the scream that followed as his shoulder jumped out of its socket.

He sat down and used the extra centimetres of his arm to pull them over his arse and bent legs to the front side of his body. Then he used the spilled sweat and blood to lubricate the skin on his wrists underneath the cuffs' steel and began pulling with his uninjured right hand. It was painfully slow and he could already feel the skin breaking under the strain but he did make progress and he had to get out of here, damn it. With one last tug, his wrist slipped free and he immediately got rid of his boots and repeated the last bit on his feet.

When he was finally free of his restraints, he wrapped his boots in the damaged uniform shirt (not without saving the photo first, mind) and pulled himself up to the sill of the small window, urging his body to bring up all the strength it had left to hold him there. He pressed the heavy bundle against the thin glass and pushed. The first attempt was a fail, but on the second one the glass cracked and only slightly chinked as the shards rained down to the ground outside.

After clearing the frame of all the sharp edges he let the bundle fall and somehow managed to pull himself up completely, risking a look out to the area on the other side of the wall. He was at the back of a wide complex of small buildings, it seemed. Directly opposite his window was the wall of some kind of stone shed, hardly two metres away. Perfect! This would make it less likely he'd be discovered and therefore hopefully gave him enough time to wriggle through the small opening unseen.

Pushing his arms through first, John pulled himself forward, exhaled and pressed onwards. With his bad shoulder he couldn't grab the sill outside and flip his body to land on his feet, so he had to slide down head first as far as possible and then let go.

He hit the ground with his right shoulder and rolled to lessen the impact. He got to his feet and pressed his back against the wall of the shed, carefully starting to creep forward.

At the opening of the next row of buildings stood the first guard, armed, but with his back towards the small alley in which John was currently kneeling in the shadows. His bare feet made no sound whatsoever as he sneaked closer, and closer, and closer—coming up behind the target in one second and pressing his hand over nose and mouth in the next and a sharp pull-

Job done, John dragged the body back into the shadows, stripping it of the handgun, knife, shoes and jacket- because, blimey, was it cold outside today, even though the sun was now shining from a clear sky, lighting up the last few metres between John and the front gate.

He kept moving forward, slowly, trying to take calm, regular breaths against the pain in his arm and leg. He couldn't handle a rifle with the state his shoulder was in right now, but he had his finger on the trigger of the handgun while he got closer to the exit of the complex. There was no one in sight when he approached the gate carefully, metre by metre-

"Stop right there, Johnny Boy! I have no idea how you did this but here it ends," came Liz' manic voice as she stepped around a corner, pointing a gun at his head. She stood between him and his escape. Damnit.

There was no choice whatsoever, really. If he surrendered he would most likely be tortured to death. Wait too long, just standing where they were, then she might be fast enough to pull first and shoot him here and now. He was a good shot but his body wasn't at its best right now. And when it came down to it, shooting her and catching a bullet in the process was definitely preferable to-

"Vatican Cameos!"

His body reacted faster than his mind could and so he was crouching on the ground before his thoughts had caught up with Sherlock's voice and the next second Liz's forehead exploded.

John watched on as her lifeless body slumped to the ground.

And about ten metres behind her stood Sherlock- his uniform dusty and caked with mud, his wild curls sweaty as if he'd marched all night, following John's traces.

"John..." Sherlock was breathing heavily, but a relieved grin was now spreading across his face as he gently pulled John to his feet. And then they were in each other's arms and held on tight (and damn the extra pain this caused) because- fucking hell- that definitely had been close.

XXX