Captain of All These Men of Death

Chapter 15

2004

Choeras

"Sherlock, where have you been? You look a mess. No stop, don't go. God, you're so stubborn. What happened, brother? What happened to the little pirate I used to know?"

The first sense that Sherlock had that he may be in terrible danger was the uneven bounce of suspensions under his shoulder. The hard surface beneath him did nothing to cushion the impact as whatever vehicle he was locked inside sped over a bump in the road. His head bounced painfully and left a ringing in his ears. He could feel something wet near his face, but he couldn't be sure if it was blood or vomit. He wasn't sure he wanted to check.

Sherlock cracked open a sore eye and gingerly pushed himself into a sitting position, taking stock of his situation. He was traveling in the back of a van. It was gloomy, the only light seeping in from a small gap between the doors. Dragging himself across the gritty floor, he peered out only to see tarmac whizzing below him. 'We're travelling fast,' his groggy mind supplied him. Well, it didn't take a genius to work that out. The van was jerking and swaying, and the sound of car engines echoed around him. He was on the motorway. He slid himself to the wall and slumped against it. It vibrated under his back.

Sherlock studied his surroundings as his eyes got used to the dark. There was a grubby rug bunched up in one corner of the van. A bottle of water rolled around near his feet. The small puddle near where he'd woken up seemed to be a worrying mix of vomit and blood. His hand quickly found his temples, searching for the injury, but there was none. He gently slid his fingertips across his face, comprehension dawning when he found crusted blood on his nose. 'Ah. Nosebleed,' he mused as he snatched up the water bottle and took a sip. The water tasted stale and warm, but he didn't care. His body pitched forward as the van took a sharp turn, the sounds of other cars dimming somewhat as they continued on. They'd turned off the motorway. Sherlock had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, and so could do little to work out where he might be. He couldn't hear anything from the driver's compartment, and a quick check of his pockets told him his phone was gone. He could do little but wait, sip stale water and try to ignore the uncomfortable ache in his limbs, head and stomach.

—

Mycroft was beside himself. He hadn't seen Sherlock for two weeks, and apart from a couple of terse replies to texts, hadn't spoken to him either. He hadn't judged this as wholly unusual, until his brother had begged off last week's dinner to today, and then failed to turn up at all. Although Sherlock liked to express otherwise, Mycroft knew his little brother. Sherlock was unsociable, in denial and stubborn as a mule, but he was not unreliable. These weekly meetings were a mutual agreement of responsibility they both took: it allowed Mycroft to check up on Sherlock without crossing his boundaries, and made sure Sherlock cared for himself enough to be able to attend.

For Sherlock to abscond without any warning was deeply worrying. The last time this had happened, he'd found Sherlock face down on the floor of his flat, and Mycroft feared he'd find a similar situation this time. He watched the world speed past, the city lights blinking on and off as his car travelled towards his brother's home. He allowed himself to entertain the vain hope that Sherlock had simply overslept, and upon entering his flat he would find him in bed watching television. 'Oh, that was this evening?' He'd say, with a cheeky smile.

The car swung up to the terraced townhouse where Sherlock lived. Mycroft allowed his driver to open the door, his cane clacking against the pavement tiles as he stepped out and ascended the steps. By the front door was a line of doorbells next to names. Mycroft pressed the one labelled Holmes, and waited. He pressed again, his stomach sinking through he floor as it became apparent that Sherlock was not going to answer. Sighing, he dipped a hand into his suit pocket and pulled out a small key, pushing it into the front door and letting himself in. Sherlock was fully aware that his brother had a key to his flat, but Mycroft still preferred to allow him to answer the door. Mycroft didn't like using the key. Not that he felt bad about invading his brother's privacy; it was more the fact that whenever he had to let himself in, he was likely to find something unsavoury.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called as he opened the door to his flat. "Sherlock?"

The flat smelled dusty and slightly stale, as if the windows hadn't been opened in a while. As Mycroft stepped further into the little flat he tried to ignore the various drug related paraphernalia scattered around the flat. Needles, most (thankfully) still in their packets were dotted around the kitchen table among letters and newspapers, the open box on the kitchen side next to the dregs of a bowl of cereal and an empty mug. A yellow sharps box sat on the coffee table in the living room. Mycroft didn't miss the empty bottle of cocaine solution peeping out from under the sofa. "Sherlock?" Mycroft tried again, his voice slightly tinged with fear as he saw the bedroom door was closed. He gingerly knocked it, waiting for a reply. When none came, he cracked the door and poked his head around, surprised to find the curtains were open. It was empty.

Mycroft let out a shaky breath. The knowledge that he was entirely alone weighed heavy on his shoulders.

—

The van slowed down and stopped before the engine shuddered off. Sherlock felt a rush of anxiety as he heard the front doors of the van opening and two pairs of footsteps crunching towards the back doors. He pulled his knees towards him as they opened the doors, light flooding into the space and making him squint at the two silhouettes in the doorway. He wasn't given a chance to acclimatise. The taller one grabbed him roughly by the arm and puled him out of the van. Sherlock stumbled, his knees buckling slightly as his body dealt with the sudden change in position. The tight grip on his arm didn't lessen when he righted himself, instead dragging him forward into a brisk trot. He peered at the people frog-marching him. Two men glowered back. They were both muscular, with short hair and black t-shirts. 'Private security… but why?'

The surrounding area gave nothing away. Apart from the building they were marching towards, the area was an industrial wasteland. They were surrounded by empty warehouses and derelict factory buildings, but Sherlock couldn't distinguish any of the faded paintwork signs from the short look he had the opportunity of taking. The structure in front of him was a disused Victorian factory, the classic saw-tooth style roof piercing the grey skyline. At one time it was likely some sort of cotton mill. Now with all the machinery long gone, it could house anything at all.

The security men pulled Sherlock towards an unassuming blue door to the side of the building. The paint was chipped and peeling, the doorframe rusted with age. Not loosening his iron grip on Sherlock, one lifted up a beefy hand and knocked sharply. Seconds later, the door cracked open an inch, and Sherlock could see the glint of a beady eye before it was pulled fully back to reveal a heavy set woman with bushy red hair. "Phil, Amad!" She cried, her face breaking out into a grin. "You're just in time for tea. I've got scones and jam!"

"Thanks Mrs P. We'll just get rid of this," he jostled Sherlock, "and then we'll be right up."

Sherlock inhaled indignantly, readying to utter something rude, when a large hand was clamped over his mouth. "Not a word, now," the guard said, grinning. "I don't want to have to hurt that pretty face, but I will."

Sherlock for once did the wise thing, and clamped his mouth shut. He was frog-marched into a nearby room and roughly thrown to the ground, his face scraping across the filthy floor. He heard a loud clank as the door was shut behind him, and then the unmistakable sound of a heavy bolt sliding home. The sound of the men's voices echoed away as they left him. Sherlock sat up, peering around the tiny little room. It was bare apart from a wooden chair, a bucket, a dented litre bottle of water and a mattress on the floor. A tiny window near the ceiling dimly lit the space. He pulled himself gingerly onto the wooden chair and unscrewed the water bottle, taking a sip.
He had no idea where he was, or why he was there. He was hungry, tired, and scared. And god, did he need a hit.

The title of this chapter translates to King's Evil, or as you Historians may know it, Scrofula. There was a belief that the Kings and Queens of England had a divine power which enabled them to cure those with TB by touching them. (Hah, I'm imagining Queen Liz conking people on the head now.)

I am deeply sorry for the lack of updates. It turns out that dissertations and third year at university in general is much more time consuming than it looks, and I get burned out.

I promise with my whole body that this fic will be finished eventually. It's just gonna take a while. Bear with me.