Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Timeset and spoilers: Post-Reichenbach, post-hiatus
Warnings: Spoilers, mentions of drugs, swearing, angst, some violence
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Dear readers, as quick as this update is please be warned the next might take some time since I´ll be on holiday and might not see much of my notebook in the next few days. Only letting you know :)
Ready to Burn
The moth don't care when he sees the flame
he might get burned but he's in the game
and once he's in he can't go back, and
beat his wings 'til he burns them black
Aimee Man, The Moth
Sherlock runs towards the crossroads to Marylebone Road. He´d better get a cab there, in case Robson has become suspicious and followed John. Besides, it´ll be easier to get a cab there than in Baker Street. He has already lost precious time by talking to John and only minutes left to appear at the meeting point where Moran´s men are waiting. The message was clear enough: if he is only one minute late, Mycroft will suffer. Moran left it to Sherlock´s imagination whether he intends to kill or torture his brother, and Sherlock wouldn´t put either past the colonel.
He has been ordered to come alone, and he is glad to have escaped 221B and John. John, who he has punched minutes ago. Fortunately, he knows enough about human anatomy that he was able to avoid inflicting serious damage on his friend. He mainly attempted to knock the wind out of John, to incapacitate the former army doctor enough to escape him.
Still, he feels shame burning in his chest. The only time he ever hit John was when he recovered from his last relapse, in a state of insanity, desperate for a hit. He had sworn afterwards he would never again raise a hand against his friend. But hasn´t he also recently promised to never again leave him without telling him? He smiles bitterly at the memory of their talk. That did work quite well, didn´t it, he asks himself sarcastically. What he learned from the Fall and its aftermath hasn´t changed what he ever was: a smug bastard who uses people, disregarding their feelings. A fraud. A failure.
At least his message must by now have alerted Robson of his absence and the state he left John in. Probably John will be able to forgive him once he is finished with Moran – or Moran with him. But if Mary is hurt…
He shakes his desolate thoughts off when a cab curves in on him, and quotes the cabbie an address which is only a five minute drive away – so very far already from being home, being safe. The cabbie, not pleased with the short ride, grunts and steers slowly into the early evening traffic. When he shows no inclination to hurry up, Sherlock barks an order at him and waves a fifty pound note in the general direction of the driver´s seat.
The cabbie´s eyes widen, and he revs the engine and attempts to start a conversation by commenting on the fine, dry April evening, but a steely ice-blue gaze from Sherlock stops him.
The detective leans back, trying to shake his thoughts off Mary´s picture and the enigmatic caption Moran provided. The short sentence read "the bishop is waiting." Sherlock only hopes the colonel hasn´t abducted her, too. Hope is all he is left with at the present. It threatens to replace his usual knowledge and control.
When he finally gets off the cab and runs up to the street corner in question, panting, he stops dead when he actually sees the men who are waiting for him. A familiar black car is parking inconspicuously at the kerb, which resembles one of Mycroft´s limousines. But the man who waits at one of the side doors is definitely not one of Mycroft´s. Sherlock knows him only too well, and at the sight of his tormentor his heart starts to beat a frantic rhythm, and his skin covers in cold sweat.
It takes him all his willpower to walk on and approach the stranger in competent, elegant strides. The brute is leaning casually on the opened door, exposing his teeth in a triumphant grin. Sherlock steps nearer and stops, keeping his distance and using his most arrogant gaze to stare his opponent down.
But the man only continues to smile and raises a hand to check his watch. "Just in time, Sleeping Beauty," he says, and advances on the detective. "You came voluntarily, just as the colonel expected," he hisses into Sherlock´s ear, his breath unpleasantly tickling the back of Sherlock´s neck. His gaze travels over the detective´s features, and his hand ghosts over his captive´s bandaged shoulder. "What a shame," he continues and smiles evilly. "I prefer a decent struggle, you know," he remarks casually, and digs his fingers roughly into the stab wound over Sherlock´s clavicle.
Black dots invade Sherlock´s visions. He feels the urge to shout and lash out at the man while pain sears through his arm, making him dizzy, but he stays quiet. Even when the criminal grabs his wrist and elbow, twisting his left arm onto his back to shove him onto the back seat, he manages to appear unaffected. He can taste blood though, trickling from where he has clamped his molars down on the inside of his cheek.
When he is pushed down hard, though, his mouth opens in an involuntary pained gasp, and his guard spots the tiny red traces on his lips.
He raises a finger and wipes away the blood, lingering a little longer and piercing Sherlock´s eyes with his gaze. "There, there. Not as insensitive as you wanted to let me think you are," he says. "We could have so much fun together, you know." He runs his free hand down Sherlock´s torso, and the detective freezes, the thrumming of his heartbeat blocking out the humming of the car and the noise of the traffic.
Snow crystals, unbearably tender. Cold, shivering. Punches to his ribs, to his chest. Mocking voices, laughter, the heat of the rush – his pulse is racing, and his legs start to tremble. Rough hands on his body. He needs to escape, he needs to get out of this surreal situation…
"Oh, no need to be afraid," the man´s ironic voice startles Sherlock out of his panic. His face is only inches away from the detective´s. "Just checking for weapons," the appalling individual breathes, and pats Sherlock´s thigh. "Nothing on you, hum? There´s a good boy." He pushes his unoccupied hand into Sherlock´s curls, when the driver impatiently turns his head to face him.
"What do you think you´re doing, Ronald?" he asks angrily. "The colonel is waiting."
Ronald lowers his hand, sliding it down Sherlock´s cheek. "Isn´t he beautiful?" he replies with a sneer. "A shame really, to have to hand him over so soon."
Sherlock, who has sat very stiffly, observing his opponent, doesn´t dare say anything. It´s not that he couldn´t think of a snide remark, he just can´t allow himself to talk for fear his voice will shake and betray his trepidation. He can´t let his abductors know how scared he is, and he can´t afford to aggravate them, either. He desperately hopes they won´t notice his rapid breathing and the fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. And he hopes he will be able to contain his fury at Ronald´s joy of toying with him. It would be a relief to wipe his tormentor´s smug smile from his face with a well-delivered deduction. Or, even better, with a gun.
But even if he were able to talk without betraying his fear, he would most certainly endanger Mycroft more by any imprudent action. Moran would definitely make them both pay dearly for any disturbance of his plans, be it only a snide remark to one of the colonel´s minions.
Ronald startles him out of his musings by lifting his hands. Sherlock flinches, but straightens again when he notices that his captor is holding a strip of black cloth. The man´s unbearable smirk draws nearer as he leans in closer to his victim.
"You know, I would have loved to see you with a needle," he remarks and runs a finger over Sherlock´s arm. "But the boss figured it would take you too long to recover from a sedative. Would ruin his timing, I suppose. Anyway, we can´t let you see where we are going."
He raises the cloth and blindfolds the detective with rough hands. Sherlock half expects the man to touch him again, and hesitates to sink back onto the backrest. The humming of the engine and the soft clicking noise of the indicator are the only sounds accompanying their journey, and Sherlock relaxes marginally.
After a while, the sound of the car changes as it leaves the small side street and speeds up. Sherlock busies his racing mind with deductions on where they might be going. Somehow the fact that he can´t see but can hear Ronald breathe heavily beside him tortures him more than any infliction of violence would. He wonders whether John was right in stating that he is not fit for meeting Moran. Were John to tell him his opinion on the matter right now, he would probably agree. He probably never was.
As with Moriarty, the graveness of the situation hits him flat in the stomach, turning his world to grey and his willpower into a blade of titanium steel. But the desperation he felt when he stood on the roof of St. Bart´s was nothing in comparison to the panic which threatens to shatter his determination now.
He is at a great disadvantage, frightened and caring, doubting himself.
Mary gets out of her cab at Paddington Station and grabs her duffle. She doesn´t really want to leave London when she knows Mycroft is in danger and both John and Sherlock are frantically investigating his abduction, but she has a meeting to attend. John was very firm that she´d better leave the city as long as they don´t know who is behind the kidnapping. So she packed her bag and left with a heavy heart.
She is prepared for the crowd and for a tedious wait at one of the ticket machines, but she is not prepared for the familiar black car waiting for her and a man in a suit waving at her to come nearer.
Curious, she walks up to the black Mercedes. She has had her fair share of drives in Mycroft´s government cars, and she knows when she is summoned for a discreet talk. So she advances towards the man, frowning.
"Is Mr. Holmes back?" she asks, but the man just stares at her. She notices the tattoos on his hands, and wonders when, if ever, Mycroft´s men were allowed to wear any.
"Listen, this had better be urgent. I need to catch a train."
Her counterpart smiles at her, clearly amused. "I am very sorry," he says in a mocking voice. "But you are expected."
Just when she attempts to ask why, a cotton ball is pressed into her face, and she inhales the heavy vapour of chloroform.
Her last lucid thought is how stupid she has been, and how much safer she was at Baker Street.