221 B Baker Street
"Ms. Hudson, you're sure they weren't planning on spending the night? Lissie used to live there, perhaps the visit lasted longer-"
The landlady wrung her hands. "No, John. I'm terribly worried. Lissie wanted to go, and so they just went. Sherlock said they'd be back by dark. He doesn't stay somewhere he doesn't like long."
Mary's eyes flicked to the clock as she laid a reassuring hand on the older woman's arm. "We'll find them, don't worry."
(John and Mary had come in answer to Ms. Hudson's worried call.)
John paced about. "He's not answering calls or texts."
"I have Lissie's number," Mary offered. "Have you tried it?"
"She isn't answering, either," he muttered, staring at his phone as if he could will them to answer.
"It's late. Should we contact his friend at Scotland Yard?" Ms. Hudson peered nervously out the window.
"Greg Lestrade? Not yet."' As John finished speaking, his phone rang.
"Hello? Mycroft, good! Listen, Sherlock's not-what? Oh. Lord help us. Yes. Yes, of course. See you soon."
"What happened," Mary and Ms. Hudson asked in one breath.
"Moriarty sent Mycroft a text saying he's broken Sherlock or some nonsense like that. Mycroft's afraid Moriarty might really have them, so he's getting Lestrade and Donovan to meet him here."
"Break Sherlock? How," Ms. Hudson wondered aloud.
"Moriarty could hurt Lissie," Mary said suddenly, and John realized with a sinking heart she could be right.
"But he did that before, and hurt her arm, poor love," Ms. Hudson put in.
Sgt. Donovan burst in then. "So, the freak's run off again. What else is new?"
"Sally," Lestrade said warningly as he entered, shaking hands with John and noddimg to Ms. Hudson and Mary.
Mycroft could be heard straightening the knocker, then treading upstairs. He looked surprisingly worried.
"More texts?" Lestrade queried, hand moving for a pack of cigarettes. Donovan slapped at his hand. "I only have one when I need to really think, "he grumbled.
Mycroft slid his phone over to the Detective Inspector. John and Mary leaned in to look.
Under the bit about 'breaking Sherlock' Moriarty had added:
"Don't worry. He's not the one dying. At least, not physically."
Then
"Fact of the day: Sherlock Holmes can show emotion."
John sucked in his breath. "Well, Greg, what do you think?"
"We can pinpoint the phone signal. It's as if Moriarty wants us to find Sherlock."
"So we can see the freak broken," suggested Sgt. Donovan. "Whatever he means my broken, anyway."
"I think so," Mary said.
Ms. Hudson brought in tea. "Anyone fancy a nice strong cuppa?"
They all partook while Lestrade traced the phone.
A new text flashed, and it was a picture of Lissie's face, ashen white. Streaks of dried blood streamed across.
For once Sgt. Donovan was not mocking as she said, "Is she, you know, uh..."
"I don't think she's dead - yet, anyway," John replied.
"Who would do that to a kid? I mean, that's pretty below the belt," Donovan replied. Mary nodded in silent agreement.
The phone rang, and Mycroft motioned for them to be quiet as he answered, pushing the speaker button. A too-cheerful voice filled the room.
"Jim Moriarty here! Listen, did you know Sherlock could cry? Because I sure didn't. I feel pretty honored. I think I may be the first person he's ever cried in front of. You really should see your baby brother."
"Moriarty, what do you want," Mycroft asked tiredly.
"Nothing! Simply to break Sherlock. Don't worry, I'll send him back once he's broken. Ohh, you should see him now. He's just sitting here, and all his veins are standing out. I really must go. Ta-ta."
There was a click.
Sherlock and Lissie
Sherlock pulled one way, then the other. He rubbed his wrists on the chair until the rope had left them raw and bleeding. He tried to break the chair with brute force, slamming it down then falling with it.
Moriarty came in, stood the chair up and laughed at him.
Every second counted. Eyes trained on the antidote, then Lissie, then back to the antidote, Sherlock tried desperately to cajole Moriarty, but he left the room after taking a photo of Lissie and teasing Sherlock about his tears at Elsie's grave.
One hour left. Sherlock could feel beads of sweat appearing on his brow. He had often wondered how it was possible to sweat drops of blood; now he thought he knew.
"Is this what it was like for you to see the cross?" he panted to the celling. It occurred to him that he was watching Lissie die.
Her chest seemed to rise and fall more slowly now, and her breathing labored. "I'm so sorry, Elsie, he thought. I couldn't protect the girl.
He began to pray bargains and promises he knew he couldn't keep until he realized the futility of it all. No more crackhouse. No more patches. Less Irene.
"You have to have some mercy." he said finally. "Help Lissie. I can't, You can."
Moriarty was taunting him now, calling him a little preacher-man, but all Sherlock cared about was Lissie. As soon as Moriarty left, Sherlock was pulling free again.
Each tug at the rope was something. I'll teach her to drive the roundabouts. I'll adopt her. I'll go to church with her and sing the fruity songs. Take her places. Buy sparkly things. We'll go on vacations. I'll come to her school events.
He felt the rope slack miraculously. Painfully, slowly, he pulled at them, agonizingly slow. If only Moriarty would not return!
Suddenly, his hands were free. Now for the legs. He focused his mind palace until he remembered how to undo the complicated knots.
Thirty minutes left. Come on, come on!