A/N: Just a warning: This chapter gets a little nasty in a couple of parts, particularly the end, so just beware.

*Re-edited 23/07/17

Between a Rock and a Hard Pace

- Chapter Thirty Six -

*- John -*

"Woah, wait, wait, wait!" John yelled frantically, "What's going on? What's happening?"

He looked around wildly at the unnamed guard, who took a few steps towards him and pointed the gun directly at his chest. He felt his stomach drop; his heart was beating so fast, it felt like it would leap from his chest.

"Get up" the man barked, stopping just short of the mattress. It took him a few seconds to process the words.

"I said get up!" the man repeated a little more forcefully, taking another step forward.

"Wh… why?" he asked numbly, as he tried to scramble to his feet.

"Don't ask questions."

His legs were shaky and his nerves were failing as he was eventually pulled to his feet. Eyes wide, he scanned the room, taking no comfort in what he saw. All of the colour had drained from Greg's face, his breathing was fast and uneven. Frank pressed the gun further into the man's flesh… God he hoped this wasn't what it looked like. Sherlock had told him they were running out of time… Was that time now officially over? What had happened to his friend while he slept? Was he even still alive?

"Move," the night guard said forcefully, waving the gun towards the door.

"Why? Where are you taking me?"

"I said, don't ask questions!" the man replied, slapping him across the face. The blow came as a shock and it made his eyes water and his ears ring. He felt his composure start to slip.

"Hurry up!" Frank added angrily, turning towards him, his gun still held firmly against Greg's head. "Try anything, and I'll happily rid the world of another filthy pig."

Frank cocked the gun and pushed it deeper into his friend's skin. Greg whimpered slightly, his eyes still firmly closed.

"Okay, okay!" he said in a panic, forcing himself forward. He tried his best to ignore the powerful urge to vomit, as he made the final steps through the door.

"Looks like it's a stay of execution," Frank sneered at the cowering Inspector. "At least for now, anyway..."

The gun was pulled away and Greg's body slumped in relief. Frank turned with a smirk and made his way out of the small room, locking the barred door behind him.

Lestrade slowly opened his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths.

"Where are you taking him?"

The Inspector's voice sounded strained and full of emotion but it was enough to make Frank stop dead in his tracks. Greg looked shaken but he had put on a brave face, as he slowly got to his feet and took a few tentative steps forward. Frank clenched at the gun in his fist before turning back towards the occupied cell.

"I remember telling you not to move and to shut up!"

It was said so fiercely that it made a shiver run down his spine. Greg froze.

"I warned you."

*- Lestrade -*

In slow motion, he saw Frank lift the gun towards him, a murderous look on his face. His brain screamed frantically for him to move but his body wouldn't respond. In the end, he stood helpless as the gun went off. A burning fire tore through his upper leg, moments before he heard the sound. Within seconds he found himself on the ground, staring blankly at the concrete walls, his ears ringing.

"Greg!" He heard John yell, but it took him a second to register; his mind preoccupied by the sudden hole in his left leg.

"And stay down!" Frank yelled at him, giving a final threatening glare before he stormed off out of sight, dragging a screaming doctor behind him.

He instinctively curled in on himself and placed his hand against the entry wound. The action sent a sharp pain shooting up his leg and he quickly removed it. Raising his hand, he could see the warm, sticky liquid, slowly drop from his fingertips. He closed his eyes and groaned.

Eventually the sound of footsteps disappeared and Greg felt himself relax a little. He appeared to be out of danger for now, but who knew when they would be back.

Looking down at his trouser leg, Lestrade could instantly see a growing wet patch emanating from a spot just above his knee. Sitting up, he slid the scalpel out of his pocket and quickly cut at the fabric, trying to catch a glimpse of the damage underneath. When he finally saw what the bullet had done, he felt like crying in relief. A deep gash had been sliced into the side of his leg around 1o cm up from his left knee. It was a near miss, and not much worse than a bad cut. If the bullet had hit him slightly lower or further to the right, it would have been an entirely different story. He had never before, felt so lucky in his life.

Taking a couple of deep breathes; Greg slowly sat himself up, his head spinning. He rolled onto his knees and gradually crawled over to the toilet, pulling himself onto the seat. He quickly grabbed for their pile of homemade bandages, his hands shaking as he pressed them to the wound. Once the bleeding had stopped, he was able to tie the padding in place with the extra strips of material. Overall, he found the entire process incredibly difficult, knocking his broken fingers several times before he had finished. The whole procedure would have taken less than five minutes but by the end, he found himself staring into space; his mind lost in the memory of fear and panic. He desperately shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts, before lowering himself back to the floor.

He felt like he was balancing on the thinnest of high wires, with no safety harness. Any movement in any direction would likely push him over the edge into despair, where he would be of no use to anyone. It took all of his remaining will power to keep himself together.

He found the small scalpel and got back to work, dragging the metal instrument against the concrete floor. The whole encounter had left him very shaken and he could feel the slight tremor in his hands. The tool slipped from his grip and the sharp blade dug deep into the soft flesh above his left thumb. He stared at the red liquid without feeling it, before forcing himself to press on.

He needed to get out of there. He needed to get out of there right now!

*- John -*

John's heart was thumping as he was dragged down the passageway. He felt dizzy and nauseous at the thought of his two friends.

Was Lestrade okay? Where had he been hit? Was it a bad wound? Was he dead? He had no way of knowing until he was returned to the cell, if he was returned at all. What about Sherlock? Where was he? Why hadn't they returned him? Was he still alive?

The thoughts rained down on him with each step, filling him with a sense of dread. Why did they come for him? Where were they going?

He felt himself stumble, half falling into Frank. The man pulled him upright and shoved him forward with a growl. He felt completely numb; almost detached from the rest of his body. It was like he was walking through a dream; his mind struggled to make sense of what was happening.

Were they going to kill him now?

In the distance, he could hear a strangled cry, a deep groan which echoed down the hall. He tried to block out the familiar sound but it grew louder as they dragged him towards one of the open doors. Half of him wanted to struggle and resist, afraid of what awaited him on the other side. The other half of him however, refused to give them the satisfaction and he allowed himself to be escorted in.

The door slammed closed behind them and the moaning immediately stopped. His eyes darted around the room frantically; stopping short when he saw Sherlock's abused body.

"Oh, look Mr Holmes, it appears we have company." Mr X said cheerfully, grabbing Sherlock by the chin and turning his head to face him. Sherlock's face was pale and covered in a mixture of blood, sweat and tears. Without even realising it, he took a couple of steps forward but firm hands quickly held him in place.

"Ah ah ah doctor," X said, shaking his finger. "We're not quite ready for you yet. Craig, make sure he's comfortable."

He felt himself being tugged away and pushed into a fold out seat. His right arm was handcuffed to some kind of downpipe, before he was left alone. Both Frank and Craig took up positions by the detective's side, waiting for their next set of instructions. The room fell quiet.

Since entering the room, John's eyes had never once left that of his best friend. Sherlock had managed to pull himself together slightly but he still had a haunted look about him. The man looked broken. He could see a million emotions, read a million words on the man's face, and yet if he had to pick just one to describe that moment, it would have been total and utter despair.

"I'll ask you again Mr Holmes…" X started.

"Don't bother," Sherlock whispered miserably, their eyes still connected.

"Very well," the man said almost casually. "It's time to step things up a gear."

Sherlock's lips quivered slightly, before he closed his eyes and let his head roll sideways.

He felt completely sick. This was not going to be good.

*- Dimmock -*

"Sir?" Police Constable Charman called, poking her head through the door. "There's someone here to see you."

'Oh, please let it be the god damn lawyer', he thought bitterly to himself, as he followed the officer out into the main foyer. At a first glance, the man definitely looked the part. He was well dressed in an expensive designer suit and had that stench of self-important about him. But on the other hand, he lacked the usual hostility, one had come to expect from a defence attorney.

"Can I help you?" he asked suspiciously.

"Detective Inspector Dimmock I presume," the man said, tucking a small note pad into his jacket pocket.

"That's right," Peter replied, holding out his hand, "and you are?"

"I have heard a lot about you." The mystery man continued, ignoring his gesture. "Sergeant Donovan indicated that you could use an extra pair of hands on the Skyridge Kidnapping case. I am led to believe that you have apprehended two suspects. I would like to speak to them immediately."

Peter finally dropped his hand, his mouth slightly agape. "I'm sorry, who are you?" he asked again, more angry now than curious.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes."

"Holmes?" he said shocked, "as in..?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so. It would seem as though my brother can't go more than two days without getting himself into some kind of trouble." Peter's anger started to slip away, as he felt himself warming to the man.

"Listen… Mr Holmes…" he started. "I'm sorry about your brother, I truly am, but this is a current police investigation. I don't know why Sergeant Donovan sent you up here, but I can't just let you walk in there and talk to them, no matter how much I want to. I can fill you in on the investigation, let you know what's been going on, but I cannot permit you to see the suspects, I'm sorry."

Mycroft Holmes looked up at him slowly and gave him a small smile.

"Oh, on the contrary Detective Inspector; you can and you will."

That, he was not expecting.

"I'm sorry?"

"Let's just say, I work for the British Government and I have a lot of persuasive pull. You will either let me talk to your two suspects, or you'll be downgraded to Parking Inspector before the day is through."

Any warmth or pity he may have had for the man, instantly disappeared. He was feeling backed into a corner and he didn't like it.

"Don't tell me you work for the bloody Home Office as well?" he asked, both angry and annoyed. Mycroft Holmes simply laughed.

"I don't work for the Home Office Inspector; the Home Office works for me."

That statement caught him completely off guard and he stood silent for a moment. Was this guy for real?

Taking his silence as submission, the Holmes brother continued.

"I would appreciate you pointing me in the direction of the interview rooms, this shouldn't take too long."

Peter felt unsure of what to do. Looking around, he could see a number of equally confused faces, no doubt thanking their lucky stars that they weren't the one in charge. He cleared his throat, finally making a decision.

"I will have to check your credentials Mr Holme,s" he began, suddenly feeling quite nervous. "Make sure you really are who you claim to be."

"Of course; I would expect no less. Ring this number," Holmes said, passing him a small business card "just be quick about it. In the meantime, you can fill me in on what you have already learnt," Mycroft continued, as he stormed off through to the back of the station.

"Shit," he muttered to himself, running up to the desk sergeant and handing him the card. "Check him out will you? As soon as you have anything, let me know." The sergeant nodded and Peter quickly turned back to the suited man, chasing him down the hall.

*- Lestrade -*

After about twenty minutes of frantic scraping, Greg jumped to his feet and limped over to the window. He tried the tool for the thirteenth time, but it seemed that no matter how long he worked at it, the damn tip wasn't getting any thinner.

In his desperation, Greg collected the discarded toothbrush off the floor and started to cut away at the plastic, quickly shaping the end into something usable. Both annoyed that he hadn't thought of it sooner, and excited with his sudden stroke of genius, he quickly hurried back to the window. It took him a few seconds to adjust the shape before he had the plastic fitting perfectly. Only two screws to go.

Almost frantically, he began to turn the tool, growling in frustration as it twisted in his sweaty hands. He gripped a little harder and tried again, his heart racing at an alarming rate. His body was shaking, his injured fingers pulled and twisted but he couldn't feel the pain anymore. His mind was way too rattled with stress and too focused on the task at hand.

Eventually he thought he might have got a little movement, before the plastic bent, forcing him to stop and repeat the process again. After three more failed attempts, the whole thing became too much and he threw the offending items against the back wall, watching in satisfaction as they scattered across the floor.

He could feel his panic rising, his breathing rate increase. Not now! He thought angrily, trying desperately to remain calm. Greg could feel himself spiralling out of control, and this time he didn't think he would be able to stop it.

Where was John?

Where was Sherlock?

What was happening?

What were they doing to them?

Was he going to be next?

When were they coming back?

Would they be coming back at all?

Maybe they were just going to leave him there. Leave him trapped in that little cell, until he slowly starved to death. His body would get picked at by rats and bugs until he was nothing more than a pile of bones. A pile of bones, which would lie there undiscovered, for years and years, until they were stumbled across by a couple of drunken teenagers.

His heart thumped wildly, as he stormed over to the door and slammed his body against the metal. His actions became more erratic, as he ran head on into the second door and shook desperately at the window bars, hoping by some miracle that they would come loose and set him free.

He had no idea how long the panic attack lasted; only becoming aware of it, when his body collapsed in exhaustion. His chest heaved painfully; tears fell from his face, as he noticed fresh blood running down his leg. His hand was on fire, his broken fingers once again mangled, his body bruised and battered.

Greg choked back a sob.

"Okay, calm down" he told himself quietly, trying to concentrate on his breathing. "You need to pull your shit together. You don't have time for this right now."

Surprisingly, that seemed to help, and a few minutes later, Lestrade felt ready to start again. He collected the scalpel and took a couple of deep breaths before getting back to work. Only this time, his grip was slightly weaker and his hands shook a bit more.

*- Sherlock -*

Pain

Fear

Water

Panic

His whole world had been reduced to those four words.

Just as he would recover from one, another would begin; the constant rotation was getting harder to bear.

First, they would sit him up. His lungs screaming for air, his legs screaming for relief...

Every time they did it, the pain was worse. Frank would add a new plank with the start of each rotation. He would grunt or groan, Mr X would talk, John would yell and then the bench would be lowered again. This was when the fear took over…

A small towel would appear over his face, obscuring his vision with a deep sky blue. A number of hands would press down on his head, holding him steadily in place. His breathing would quicken and his body would tense in preparation of what was to come…

Water was then poured onto his head and into his mouth, forcing the sodden cloth down into his throat. Panic soon followed, as it stuck to his skin and sunk into his nose and mouth. His eyes would grow wide and his body contorted and thrashed, as he tried desperately to escape the constant downpour. The hands would grip harder, holding him in place while his chest burned and he felt himself drowning… That was when it usually stopped.

He would have a few seconds to catch his breath and cough up what little water he took in, before the cycle would start all over again… only this time it didn't.

He tried frantically to throw the men off but the water kept coming. It was all he could hear, all he could feel. It crashed into his head in a steady flow, constant and never-ending. He gasped desperately for breath, succeeding in sucking the cloth further down into his throat. Large droplets of water escaped down into his lungs, making him cough. His desperation grew and his logical mind disappeared into pure terror and instinct, as his whole body fought against the onslaught. More and more of the cold liquid poured down his throat, as black dots started to appear in his vision. With one final gasp, his world turned to black and he felt himself fall into blissful darkness.

Whoops! I honestly didn't mean to leave it on another cliff-hanger, I promise.