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"Anderson, I am never letting you drive again," Lestrade managed through clenched teeth as the young man whipped in and out of the hectic London traffic.
John, seated in the backseat, was scrolling through his phone. "Left here," he called, pointing.
Anderson swung accordingly, and looked back expectantly.
"Just a moment, Mycroft' s calling," John said, answering his phone.
"Again?" Lestrade sighed, thinking of their wild plan. They were currently hunting down every possible rental car place in the general vicinity - Anderson's idea. The young man was acting as driver while John navigated and answered Mycroft' s calls.
Two days with no word from Sherlock, two whole days in which anything could've happened.
Sgt. Donovan had led the rest of the elite force on her own personal search, and while her job might be easier, Lestrade was glad to be here with his group. He knew they all truly cared about Sherlock - and the girl.
"Yes, Mycroft," John was saying. "We'll call you when we have any news. Yes. Yes. Goodbye."
He hung up. "Sorry. He's a bit anxious. Take a right, now, and we should be there."
Sherlock had retreated farther into his mind palace. He was trying to focus on a violin sonata, but Lissie's worried face kept slipping in, juxtaposed with his own pain.
He hated feeling so utterly helpless. And bored. There had to be something he could do to help Lissie. Think, Sherlock.
He could not think of a single thing. And his body hurt from the most recent torture.
Hmm, what would Lissie suggest?
"Pray," he could hear her saying clearly in his mind.
He forced himself up on an elbow. Well, he'd give it a try. A little overwhelmed, he began,quietly, "Dear..."
All his emotions came rushing back; how he'd turned after Elsie's death, how he'd blamed God.
"I'm sorry. I'm angry with You... could You just...save my daughter. Your daughter. She doesn't deserve to die like this..."
He hadn't realized he was this upset until a tear dripped off his nose. All the things he'd wished he could say to Lissie but hadn't. Had he been too cold? At the flat, when she'd tried to talk, to get to know him, had he ignored it? He hadn't ever even said "I love you."
Was Lissie in pain? She had to be, with her back. Without proper treatment, that could get dangerously infected. Had they continued hurting her with him gone?
Moriarty had left a sheet of paper in his cell, telling him that if he wrote the formula to a certain question, he could see Lissie.
Initially, Sherlock had refused, but now...He snatched up the paper and scribbled, yelling for Moriarty at the same time.
Sherlock saw Lissie curled around his coat, one arm jutting out. There was a makeshift splint around it. Broken? What had happened?
Moriarty pushed Sherlock in. "Visitor," he chuckled dryly. Surprisingly, he left after that.
Lissie had somehow slept through it all. Remembering how easily she usually woke, he knew she must be exhausted.
He sank down near her, inspecting her arm. She'd used a rolled up newspaper and a hair tie to splint it. He arched his eyebrows. Rather ingenious of her. Gingerly, he pressed the arm.
She stirred and gave a little gasp. It was swollen and most certainly broken. What could he do for her? How could he help? He looked about. He saw a pile of old newspapers - that must be how she'd made her splint.
She was waking, slowly. "Sherlock?"
"I'm here," he said reassuringly, still looking about for an escape route.
"I knew you'd come," she cried, rapturous.
He turned around and took her slim hand. It was burning with fever; probably an infection in the sores on her back. Was she delirious?
Again forgetting his own pain, he thought only of Lissie. He must get her out of here.
Looking up, he saw the single bulb, and an idea came to him. He stretched one long arm up and unscrewed it. Flinging it to the floor in one corner, he heard it shatter.
Now the shapes were dim and it was hard to see. He crouched by Lissie, took her hand again, and waited.
Soon he heard Moriarty order someone to check on the shattering noise. Sherlock said another quick prayer and waited.
Mutt arrived, cursing. He shook the cell door. "Are you asleep?"
Sherlock tensed silently. Mutt was not the brightest, with a little luck Sherlock's plan would work perfectly...
"Fine," Mutt continued to himself, flicking the light switch.
He cursed again as the light didn't come on. "Bulb must have burnt out."
Mutt dwadled, moving the key agonizingly slow. Sherlock watched his dim shadow unlock the cell door and move slowly in.
Now Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting. Mutt came a little closer and...Sherlock sprang.
Mashing his hand into Mutt's mouth to silence him, he pulled at Mutt's throat till he stopped struggling. Was he dead or unconscious? Sherlock didn't know or care.
He pulled the gun out of the limp man's pocket, feeling satisfied with its weight in his hand. A little digging produced the key. Then Sherlock lifted Lissie up, onto his shoulder in a sort of fireman's carry.
The pain that shot through him was enormous, but he pushed it away almost angrily. Unlocking the door with his free hand, he shut the cell door quietly.
"I can try to walk," Lissie said feebly.
"Says the girl blacking in and out. I don't think that's your best idea," he hissed.
Shifting her back on his shoulder, he crept through the hall, hoping to go out the way he came.
Up the steps and ... Moriarty! Eyes closed, the man was listening to music on his iPhone, earbuds in.
Turning around, Sherlock searched for an exit. Finally, he found one, intending to head outside and to the car. How he wished he had his phone! He had left it at 221B so Lestrade wouldn't track it.
Staggering out, he took a few halting steps.
An alarm screeched, and he saw people flooding the yard. They'd have to run for it. A stretch of woods looked promising. He sat Lissie down and they began to run.
She tried; but a few steps in she fell, grasping her arm and crying. He scooped her up again and set off, desperately. Every step hurt from his own share of torture.