Okay, so it's been a looooooong time since my last update. And by long I mean like a year. Or more. Yeouch.
I've had a lot of work with school since I'm in my final year of college and we're all preparing for university. That's taken up a lot of my time, it took up so much that when I finally got back to this fiction I had a complete writers block.
If I can't keep writing and make it flow I get really stuck really easy, so it's taken a bit to get this chapter out.
On top of that I keep getting ill, not sure why but I've had intermittent illnesses for a little while now, so that's also been getting in the way. Anyway, I hope this satisfies!

(Originally this was a 5,500 word chapter (holy crap) so I split it into two.)

The Return of Sherlock Holmes 11; Negotiations

Sherlock was running out of time that was certain. He nodded slightly to the young boy in front of him to show his appreciation. Jamie was small, no older than thirteen years. He was blonde, much like John, with wide green eyes and a layer of street-grime so ingrained that the detective doubted any amount of scrubbing would truly remove it.
"Make sure it gets to its destination." He instructed, holding out a mobile phone. Jamie smiled and ran off without a word.

Now it was time for the real fight to begin. The brunette turned his collar up against the wind and made his way towards the destination of their 'trade off' with a sense of divine purpose. No-one would dare stop a man walking as he did.

The next time John's brain mustered enough strength to pull his consciousness back from the shores of limbo he was greeted with an empty room. No longer was he bound to a seat – in its place was an armchair - it was significantly more comfortable.
Nikolay was stood across the room; he paced back and forth waiting for John to come to. As he noticed movement he spun around to face him grinning wide. His golden fillings glinted in the light.
"Ah good, you are up, I will tell mistress."

And just like that, he was left alone with his thoughts again. A quick look at his watch told him that it was 3pm. He hoped to God he hadn't been moved far away while he'd been passed out. He could move around the room but there was little point. Instead he sat down in his seat again and rested his head in his hands. He could feel the headache beginning already.
Sherlock, I'm sorry.

The warehouse was as Sherlock remembered it to be from his time dealing in the black market. The only difference here was he was acutely aware of the dangers to everyone involved. It was like having John here made him hypersensitive to any amount of hazard or risk, and he didn't like it. So he walked inside with a confident air, for the first time in his life praying to a God he didn't believe in that his brain had worked everything out as well as he wanted it to.

He was greeted by an Indian man, tall in stature and very lanky. He smiled, bowing his head slightly.
"Good afternoon Mr Holmes! We have been expecting you. Shall I take your coat?"
His grin was not unlike that of the Cheshire cat, self-serving and cocky. Sherlock offered no reply, simply drawing his trench around himself in response.

"I see, well then, I'm sure you'd like to see Dr Watson, yes?" asked the man again, gesturing for the youngest Holmes to follow him. The walls of the warehouse were all painted a very stark white, and here and there stains were beginning to form where the water from outside leaked in and allowed mould to grow. Like an unclean version of every hospital Sherlock had ever been in.

He hoped his eagerness to follow this man didn't betray him, of course he wanted to see John, but he knew that once he was in that room they were both trapped until whoever ran this operation had Irene in their grasp.
Sherlock did not have Irene to offer them at this present moment.

The man spoke, snapping the detective out of his thoughts back to the reality that surrounded him.
"Down this corridor, final room." He told him, still wearing that know-it-all expression. Sherlock nodded, and made his way past, turning at the final moment to pinch a nerve in his pied piper's neck.
The ensuing pain caused him to cry out, and the detective used the small window of opportunity where he was incapable of lashing out to knock him clean out.
Making his way down the corridor as fast as his legs would carry him, all he could think about was John.

Was he okay, would he be injured, would he not trust him to keep him safe anymore? If that happened maybe he wouldn't want to be associated with him any more – and the detective certainly wouldn't blame him for that.
Closer, closer came the door until the handle was practically wrenched from its housing and the metal obstruction was flung wide open as he propelled himself through it.

The sounds of Aadesh's screams echoed around the corridor outside of John's room. He wondered if perhaps Nikolay had suddenly decided he wanted the lion's share of whatever they were getting out of this.
Footsteps quickly advanced on his little room, and he tensed up, making his way over to the door and listening for his presumed assailant's approach.
The door swung open, and he readied himself for a fight – but the sight that greeted him was not one that he expected.
Sherlock's eyes grew wide and he found himself barrelling forwards at such a pace that he could not stop, and instead collided with John with so much force that they both ended up spread-eagled on the floor.
"John!" he exclaimed, taking the other man's face in his hands and turning it every which way. "You're not hurt?"

The aforementioned doctor Watson smiled a little, he would have shaken his head but Sherlock had it in a vice-like grip.
"No," he mumbled though his cheeks were a little squished up by his partner's hands. "I'm a bit dizzy, but otherwise fine. Nothing a good night's sleep won't fix." He noticed the concern that the other's uncharacteristically animated face showed and added; "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

As though someone had flipped a switch, Sherlock nodded, standing up and offering a hand to help his friend back to his feet. The sound of many footsteps filled their ears with urgency.
"Who was in here with you?" the detective probed, hurriedly.

"A man named Nikolay."

"Any defining features?"

"A mouth full of gold with a foul smell to match."

Thinking for a moment, John watched in awe as Sherlock's mind processed a thousand scenarios and questions all at once.

"When he comes in here, do your best to knock a few of his fillings loose." He eyed his friend apologetically. "You might not get out unscathed, but trust me it will help."

With that he was gone, taking his leave before the advancing 'cavalry' could catch up with him.

Around ten minutes after Sherlock's departure, John was visited again by Nikolay who smiled at him as though he knew it grated on his nerves.

"Your friend is tricky little rat. But we will catch."

"Your friend is a tricky little rat. But we will catch him." Doctor Watson corrected, praying for all his worth that the Russian had a complex about his sentence structure inadequacy.

"You leave my words out of this, they are good to understand!" he spat, accent heavier with his building rage.

Bingo.

"They are good enough to understand. Please try harder." John grinned, but Nikolay had swiftly crossed the room and landed a punch on his jaw. He was sure he felt something crack.

Groaning and squinting through the searing pain, he threw a punch back at the now laughing Nikolay, who screeched and held his mouth. Something definitely cracked that time.

"You, you broke other tooth!" he hissed, groaning again at the pain of talking. Taking his time to think about it, the Russian seemed to decide that getting his mouth seen to was more important than going another round with John. "I will be back for you."

The warehouse was a complex maze of thin corridors and plasterboard rooms – sort of a prefab hideout with an 80s budget to match.
Sherlock didn't take long to find the room he was looking for though – they had passed it on the way to John's sort of 'confinement'. It was a medical room, and he swiftly changed into a lab coat, banking on the fact that this Nikolay was unfamiliar with his appearance.
Right on cue, the Russian waltzed into the room, holding his jaw in a giant ham-fisted palm.
"Little idiot broke tooth, you can fix doctor?" he asked, Sherlock smiled at him.

"Of course, take a seat."

Nikolay returned around an hour later, the pain in the doctor's jaw had turned into a dull ache, and he thought he'd probably gotten away without breaking it.
The Russian however, seemed to be in considerable pain.

He went about his usual business, checking John for any bugs or communication devices, giving him a glass of water and a good smack on the head for fun, before leaving.
This time, he forgot to lock the door.

John wasn't sure why his keeper would miss out something so important – but he wasn't one to complain. Taking his chance, he made his way out quickly – allowing a little leeway so that he wouldn't run into the disgruntled dentist's nightmare – and turned in what he assumed would be the direction of the exit.

Quickly and quietly were the key words in this situation, he felt each footstep and could hear the pounding of his blood in his ears. It had been so long, and as much as he hated to admit it moments like this made him feel truly alive.

His journey took him westward, into an area of the warehouse unlike the rest. It was less 'prettied up', with more raw metals and wires everywhere. There were hardly any guards here and no sound save for muffled arguing coming from the room at the end of this final hallway.

So he hadn't gone in the direction he wanted to, but this seemed like it could get interesting.

Creeping up – or as much as someone of his stocky stature could muster – he shimmied himself along the wall, taking deep shaky breaths he tried to steady himself to avoid detection. He recognised one of the voices; it was the young woman who had him brought here. The other voice was a little too distorted by the walls for him to recognise though he could make out what they were saying.

"You idiot, I gave you one job and you messed up!" screeched the woman's voice, like a harpy who lost her meal.

"But Emma, I cannot do any better than this. Holmes caught me off guard I –

John thought the voice might have belonged to the Indian man.

"Off guard!?" the distaste in Emily's voice was evident as her pitch registered even higher than the doctor thought was possible. "You're supposed to be on guard at all times! Are you a complete imbecile!?"

There was a crash, and their debate was interrupted.

"Sorry to intrude but it seemed like this may take some time and I don't have any to waste."

Now that was someone John recognised, and the sound made his blood run cold.

After dealing with Nikolay sufficiently to incapacitate him (or at least somewhat) Sherlock busied himself with finding the now free John so that they could plan their route out of here.

The corridors were long and vast and even though this was just a warehouse in an old trade centre, it really did make for some tricky navigation and mind mapping. He was so lost in his recollections that he didn't feel a hand rest on his shoulder – when he eventually realised someone was there, he turned around quickly and took up a defensive stance.

The person stood in front of him was not what he had expected. There, in all her glory was Irene Addler.

"You." He breathed, not entirely sure how he had been so lucky as to have this version of his plan come to pass.

"Well now, that's not very nice." She smiled coyly, red velvet curving upwards and showing off the harsh look of dark hair on white, satin skin. "After all, you called for me."

He nodded, taking in the woman before him, the woman. She was tall enough, beautifully so, and everything about her screamed dangerous. Just the kind of person Sherlock would love to figure out and lay bare for the whole world to see; but somehow she managed to hide herself from him for a long time.

Once he had figured her out, however, she became somewhat of a bore to him. At least he knew he could count on her in a pinch to not let herself get caught – which by extension meant they would probably all make it out of here today.

There was no time for a reunion, the sound of running filled their ears and it seemed to be coming from all directions – another advantage to this layout it seemed was the scrambling of the acoustics. Sherlock whipped around to try and pinpoint the location of the sound based on the angles of the walls – but when he turned back Irene was nowhere to be seen. She was gone again, leaving him alone to his fate.

He didn't resist when his face was pushed into the concrete, or when the ropes were tied around his hands. He knew she would come back for him.

It wasn't faith, or hope, or something as similarly unlikely; he knew she would come back.