Disclaimer: I still do not own a thing. A. N. I know, I know, a few days late, I'm so sorry – I'll try to manage two chapters in this month but I do not pledge on it.
Chapter 25: Rescued
Sherlock smiled to himself while ringing the bell. Maybe it was too soon to see John again, especially because he hasn't really come up with a sound excuse for it – no prospect of case, no need of the doctor's expertise for a new experiment…simply the wish to meet him (and maybe have a cup of his friend's perfect tea). The sleuth should be embarrassed to admit that, but hopefully he could get away without specifying his motives.
Oddly, he rang and rang – but nobody responded. Why would John ignore him? That had never happened before. Of course, his friend might merely be absent. But if that was the case, why wouldn't he warn the detective not to waste the trip? The doctor was considerate by nature – he would have. After all, his friend had always been notified in advance of his visits, no matter how extemporary, thanks to the blog.
True, John skimmed through it way more often than it was wise to, but Sherlock's name was peculiar enough to stand out even at a passing glance – and the capital initial helped. All it took was a text "Won't be at home. Busy. JW", with some ridiculous emoticon no doubt if the reason his friend hadn't been home was a romantic conquest. So why hadn't he?
…John was safe, wasn't he? He had to be. Still, the doubt and – unneeded, certainly unneeded – fear flared up in the detective's gut. He'd just…check on the doctor. Yeah, that. So he went to the hospital. Maybe John was just at work.
There was a blonde, frustrated-looking nurse answering his queries and dealing with a long number of waiting patients. "No, doctor Watson has not yet arrived," she grumbled.
Now, that wasn't like John at all. The man was responsible above all else. The sleuth decided to go in search of Jim. His blog would be the easiest way to reassure himself about their common friend's condition. Sadly, he discovered that the IT tech wasn't there, either.
This practically warranted blog trouble. Why hadn't John called the consulting detective, knowing of his abilities? This did not bode well. It did not bode well at all. Thank God for his hacking prowess – getting into the city's CCTV records was child's play. From that to seeing an unknown man getting a battered John into a cab – and following its tracks to what was, with a couple of clicks, identified as the house of one Jim Moriarty – it took only ten minutes. And it was easy to determine John had never left Moriarty's house.
Sherlock would have sworn that Jim was on John's side, if someone had asked him ten minutes earlier, but if the man's allegiance had switched – why, John could have been already dead. "Oh God, please no," the sleuth whispered, terrified.
Instinct said to run there immediately and storm in, but he was alone and Moriarty had at least one accomplice. He needed help. Of course, for a normal person that'd mean calling Lestrade (and he would, obviously he would), but being openly attacked by the police might push them to kill John – and make any evidence disappear that way – if they hadn't already. Instead, if they believed this to be a simple courtesy visit, Jim might lower his guard. And the presence of not-game related civilians, whose bodies wouldn't conveniently vanish, would hopefully curb his more murderous tendencies.
True, that'd mean risking innocent people's lives, but if he could save John, Sherlock didn't much care about anything else. He'd never felt anything for anyone else before, and he wasn't going to let compassion ruin his plans now.
First, the sleuth tracked down Stamford. "Mike, I need help," he said without preambles.
"With what?" the man replied, with an indulgent smile.
"John. And Moriarty. I think Jim might be holding him against his will," the detective admitted honestly.
"Oh come on, they're best friends!" Stamford laughed, rolling his eyes.
"Then bet me. One hundred pounds. You'll have to come with me to Moriarty's, though. you can't trust me not to cheat," the sleuth challenged earnestly. This would be the best invested money of his life.
"Gosh, you're really serious, are you?" Mike queried, looking worried – but for Sherlock's sanity.
"And you're so sure they're besties, so…do you want these hundred pounds or not?" the detective bit back sternly. They needed to go now!
"Jim would never hurt John. Fine, I'll come. But this feels like I'm robbing you," Stamford sighed.
"We're going to need a witness," the detective decided – the more civilians involved, the less probable any 'initiative' from Jim was. "Let's do things proper." He went back to John's office, Mike in tow.
"Doctor Watson has not yet arrived," the same blonde nurse informed them, with a glare.
"I know where he is…Mary," Sherlock replied, impervious to her nerves, reading her name tag.
"Well, tell him to hurry up, would you?" she asked – though it sounded more like an order.
"Wouldn't you prefer to tell him yourself? Come with us to get him," the detective proposed, with an inviting – if slightly eerie – smile.
"Do you think I can just up and leave?" the nurse hissed, gesturing to the number of increasingly frustrated and angry patients in the waiting room.
"I'm sure you'll find someone to hold the fort, if you explain that you're going to get the doctor and that you'll be back in fifteen minutes," the sleuth replied, grinning at her.
"Know what? I'm coming. I need to give him a piece of my mind. Just let me call Jordan to replace me," Mary agreed.
Two minutes later, they were all on the way to Moriarty's house and – hopefully – not too late. It was in the car that the consulting detective called himself stupid – mentally only, but very loudly. He had involved these people – but he'd assumed they were not taking part in the game themselves. He might be wrong. He might be exposing John to more danger. Certainly the contestants were different enough that deducing their implication in the game wasn't going to be easy. What did a serial killer, a professional dominatrix, a former army doctor, a stalkerish IT tech, a genetic modification researcher have in common? And these were only the ones he was aware of… "You don't happen to have a blog, do you?" Sherlock inquired airily.
Mary laughed warmly, forgetting her previous irritation. "Everyone has a blog in this day and age," she remarked, showing him a blog called arrogantly "I'm the best thing that could happen to you". it was full of entries like, "Today I had to take blood from a terrified five years old boy. He said it didn't hurt at all. I'm the best thing that could happen to him," or "Janine asked me to call her with a fake emergency to get her out of the blind date her parents arranged for her, and I did. I'm the best thing that could happen to her."
Thank God, it had very few readers…who would want to read trash like that anyway? And it decidedly showed no predictions of the future. Why, it wasn't even on its own site like the other future blogs Sherlock had seen but on a platform, a bit like lj…One he'd never heard of, but if the contents were all like these, he hadn't missed anything worthwhile.
"I got a blog there too! Though mine has fewer readers," Mike remarked good-naturedly, seeing it from his position in the backseat. Mercifully, he didn't show it, and Sherlock was certainly not going to enquire further. Neither of them played, which was all he needed to know to ensure they'd be useful to him.
In the meantime, in John's cell, Jim had come for his long-awaited answer. "So baby?" the stalker queried, with a feral smile.
"Yours. I want to be yours," his prisoner gritted out, caving in. He couldn't let himself be used by that stranger, Seb-whatever. Jim liked him, at least, and if he thought that John wanted him back he would free him – hopefully –and then he could do something.
"I knew you'd see reason!" his captor exclaimed, beaming at him and kissing the tip of his nose affectionately.
"Jim," the doctor croaked, "could you please take away the chains?"
"But Johnny-boy. I have to keep you safe. And you have zero self-preservation instincts! Remember Jeanette?" the madman replied, clucking his tongue in disapproval.
At that moment, someone knocked. "Boss?" Seb called.
"This better be good, kitten," Jim chided, allowing him in.
"The cavalry's here. I wondered how you wanted them dealt with," the sniper said, shrugging. He handed to Jim his phone, which – while he was unconscious – had been hooked into the security system the tech had (obviously) placed around his home. The screen showed the now parked car with the detective (whom Sebastian had been told to look out for) and his companions. It was a show of deep trust, giving his phone like that, and the sniper had shivered a bit handing it over. But anyway, his boss had already had many occasions to kill him – and he hadn't yet. Why would he do so now that he could need help?
Jim pressed a couple keys and activated a lip-reading program. John craned his neck to be able to watch, too.
"I'm going to see. Either I'm right, and John and I will come back in a mo, or you are right, in which case I am really not saviour material," a mechanical voice declared, reading Mike Stamford's lips.
"What?" Mary queried, the robotic voice without doubt failing to convey her shrill yelp.
Sherlock waved away her worries. "It'll all be fine," he assured.
John was tempted to roll his eyes at his friend's nonchalance. Or yell at him. What was he thinking, bringing Mike and Mary over to investigate? Because from what Mike said, this was no social call – the consulting detective had figured everything out.
"So, boss?" Seb queried, fingering his gun without even realising it.
"So, kitten, let it never be said that we're not gentlemen. Go open the door and bring dear old Mike here. He wants to see John, doesn't he?" Jim replied, smirking.
The sniper nodded and went to obey, but they heard him grumble about 'not being a bloody butler.'
"Please, Jim," John pleaded, "Mike shouldn't be involved".
"Tell that to Holmes," his captor snapped. "I'm not the one who invited him."
"Oh, I will," the doctor assured earnestly, "if you only let me see him – call him – text him – whatever."
"Nice try, Johnny. But I'm not such an idiot as to trust you yet around him. We'll handle things my way now, love," the madman replied sternly.
Mike raised an eyebrow to the grumpy looking tank-like man that welcomed him in Jim's house, but made himself smile and follow him. Maybe they were all having a…party, and this man just didn't want to get away from it to open the door for him? In the morning, it sounded a bit odd, but well, Jim was never one to follow the masses.
The man led him downstairs and still Mike didn't see anything wrong with that. Many people adapted their cellars for entirely innocent entertainment purposes. When the stranger quite rudely pushed Mike inside a room, and he saw John in chains…well, any pretence that everything was fine went down the drain. "What the fuck –" Stamford protested, taking a few quick steps toward John, but he never ended that sentence. A nod from Jim had Sebastian knocking him out. The sniper honestly thought it would be easier to just kill him, but he wasn't the one making the calls.
"Our next guests you won't lead here – but to the next room. I've taken great pains to adapt it," Jim announced, texting to Sherlock, "Why don't you all come and play instead of knocking one after another, waiting to see what happens? Isn't being so careful boring? JM".
"Please, Jim, don't – whatever it is," John begged, scared.
"You don't get a vote I'm afraid, Johnny-boy," his captor declared, shaking his head.
The sleuth accepted the invite – of course he did. There had never been another possibility. He dragged Mary with him, hoping to throw a spanner in Jim's plans. He shouldn't have underestimated the man's insanity. It seemed unnecessary to attack Jim's accomplice – he still hoped that they would be led to John, it would befit the stalker's arrogance. Instead, they were brought – and locked in, before he could protest – to an empty room, beside for a camera glinting in a corner. Strangely, the walls didn't touch the ceiling – there was a tiny sliver of space, enough for a person to slip through – but it was too high for them to reach, even climbing on one another. And there was no lock to pick. Not on their side of the door. As if that weren't enough, a steady stream of wet cement started to spew out of a pipe.
"I'm composing my last words," Mary announced, like a tragic heroine.
"We still have a chance," Sherlock stated. He put himself in front of the camera, and said calmly, "I still have my mobile phone, Moriarty. Maybe I don't play, but I can text. I can text detective inspector Lestrade and let him know some things. I investigated you, of course. Once it was clear that you were potentially dangerous and could betray John, I had to find ammunition to make you behave. So…well, I might not have had any authorisation for that, but I dug up your parents. They were clearly murdered – I don't even know how you ever obtained a natural death certificate. And what surprised me – there was an extra body with them. A young child's body. Just out of curiosity, I took some samples and ran a few tests…I told Molly it was for a case, which was true…and the child was their son. Now, since there's never been any record of a brother or sister of yours – I checked – what happened, uh? Who are you, Moriarty? Or why would your parents not register another son? Do you really want Lestrade investigating all this? We can let the dead lie…if you let us and John go."
The cement only seemed to flow quicker. The sleuth was ready to text Lestrade – at least John should be rescued, even if he'd failed miserably at that – when Mary repeated, "I'm going to post my last words."
The detective peaked – almost accidentally – and he barely contained a groan. How could one pass out with a lie at her fingertips? The last post read, "Mum, Daddy, everyone. I'm so sorry. I died because I cared so much. I would have been the best thing that could happen to him." She didn't die because she cared – she died because she'd wanted to yell at John firsthand, without waiting even a minute.
But then her mobile phone pinged. "You've gained ten new readers," it said. Wow, people were morbid, weren't they? And then…another message. "Your rank rose. You're now a future blog holder apprentice."
"What's that?" she queried. It didn't make any sense to her. And neither to Sherlock, honestly – he didn't know that the contestants could have ranks. Or be added mid-game. He was tempted to erase her immediately. But another message informed her of her new 'powers'. Which, apparently, included jumping high enough – if Sherlock helped her – to escape.
Well, he'd come here for a reason. "Please, save Doctor Watson," he beseeched. Nothing else mattered. Certainly not his own fate.
"Oh, I will," she assured him with a blinding smile, before jumping first on his shoulders and then away.
"I saved myself. I'm the best thing that could happen – to me," pinged her phone. Followed immediately by another text.
"Oh, what now? We can't even have breakfast in peace," Jim groaned. He'd been trying to give coffee to John mouth to mouth, mostly ignoring whatever came from the screen he'd made appear on the wall facing his prisoner, to follow whatever happened to that pesky detective – he sort of wanted to see the light go out in his eyes, but until then there were far more enjoyable things to do. True, John looked at the screen in ensnared horror, and tried to plead with him – which made Jim more than a bit jealous, but soon he wouldn't have to worry any longer. Kissing John under any pretext seemed like a good way to pass the time.
"You should just give up, you know," Mary declared, smirking. This blog tells the future, now, and it says I will free Holmes and bring doctor Watson back to his work. I'm the best thing that could happen to them."
"Oh well, if that's the future that's the future," Jim agreed, meekly. He held out two keys. "This one is to open a panel under the screen – you'll have to enter 0129010 to stop the concrete and unlock the nearby cell. As for the other, it opens John's chains." He threw the keys randomly in two directions, very far from each other.
"Why do that?" Mary inquired.
"To stall," the madman replied honestly. "I'd rather not be here when the police arrives."
A shiver went through John. Jim wasn't the type to concede and flee. He wasn't. But at least Mary was taking the key closer to her and saving Sherlock, and that was good. Very good.
While she was so busy, though, Jim took something from a shelf in the mostly-bare room. A gun. Specifically, John's gun, the one he'd gifted his friend. While Mary's back was turned, he smiled and shot her. He calmly walked towards her, and kicked her dying body. "Your blog had a serious flaw, baby. It only concerned one person – you. That gives you quite the blind spot," he hissed.
"You would know. That's the same flaw yours has," John spit out, taking his gun out of the shocked hands of his captors and slapping him so hard that his face turned – and then again on the other side, for good measure.
"How?" Jim croaked.
"The key to my chain – you threw it near Stamford," John explained, pointing the gun at Jim and taking a step backwards to put some space between them so it couldn't be wrestled out of his hands.
"I thought he was still out of commission!" Jim protested, almost offended.
"Well, I'm good at pretending to sleep," Mike said, smirking. He could have yelled at Jim, told him how insane he was – but instead he'd kept the tactical advantage (and made sure not to attract the man's attention – only God knew what he could do.)
Just then Sherlock stormed in, but grinned at seeing John free. "Oh – you saved yourself," he remarked.
"Not exactly," the doctor replied. "And you and I – we need to have WORDS, Sherlock Holmes," he added sternly. "As for you," he hissed, turning at Moriarty "we don't. I don't want to talk to you anymore – see you, text to you, anything. Are we clear, Jim?" He took his phone back from the shelf his gun had been. "I'll text DI Lestrade. You and your lackey might want to run." Lestrade played. He wouldn't tell him Jim played, too – he'd been friends with him and a death sentence wasn't in his chords, no matter how betrayed and mistreated – but if the inspector was any good at his work he might discover it by himself.
"But John – I did it all for you," Jim begged, tears in his eyes.
"Anymore, Jim," John repeated – and keeping him in his sight, left the room and then the house with his friends.
"Sebaaaastian!" Jim yelled, as soon as the others left the room. To no avail. Sebastian had received a warning about Lestrade's arrive as soon as that future had been in motion – which was not when John had decided to, but when Stamford's hand had closed around the key to his friend's chains (of course once free John would not have just forgiven Jim). And so, as any wanted man with any sense, he'd already fled. When Jim got him, he was going to give him a lesson his bad kitten wouldn't forget so soon.