Sore neck.
Sore body.
Everywhere felt agonizing.
Pounding head.
Pain.
Blinding pain.
His coat was gone, so was his phone and scarf. His neck ached from sleeping in a position for so long and the ground shook, from something… He couldn't really figure anything out right now, everything felt so cold and feverish. Sherlock let his hand wander up his neck and lightly grazed the skin. Dried blood, traveling up until… a wound.
A small gash, not large enough in the need for stitches, probably. In the position he is now, there's really no way to tell. He let out a silent groan then twisted around to get in a more comfortable position. Just that small movement caused spikes of fire to run up his body, crushing every cell in his body. Sherlock bit back another yell of pain as he was finally facing the ceiling. His hand was still perched lightly on his open wound, dried pieces of blood flaking off like paint as he brushed them away.
A sudden streak of light entered his vision. He tried to open them but they seemed to be nailed shut. Scrunching up his face again, he attempted to pivot around to get up. Using his body's momentum, he rolled to his side then planted his hands on either side of his body, starting to get up. But before he can get to his knees, a hard boot was slammed into his head and he was pushed back down again. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, hoping this was all a dream but it felt far too real. The rough rubber was pressed against his face as he struggled to get back up again.
"Your brother, he's a smart one ay?" A heavy accent drifted towards him. "Stuck a tracker in you, difficult one. Lucky we ran you through the metal detector. Or else, humph," the man didn't finish his sentence. Instead, he burst into laughter.
"Those polices, don't know what hit em," he laughed. Another voice joined him.
"Hey you," the leather boot nudged him in the head, multiplying his headache by tens. "you still there? Come on, say something eh? Say something,"
The group of men laughed. "Ha! Mute. Lucky Robinson stabbed him in the throat. Or else he's gonna start sprouting prophecies!" The man who was still nudging Sherlock exclaimed.
Another burst of laughter.
"Good one Whitney!" A man called. There were a few claps on the back and words of congratulation.
The man who stabbed him was here too. Sherlock felt a sudden rush of anger, and hopelessness and he was trapped there, face was still pressed between the boot and the metal floor, hands splayed out at his sides.
Cold ground, moving, probably on a moving van of some type. Around four people in the van so far, one driver. Whitney's the one who kicked him, Robinson's likely sitting in the front seat. The other two sitting behind, one to his right, one to his left.
Tracker…
Mycroft must have implanted a tracker during his surgery. Suddenly, he realized something. The thing that he felt like he was missing. It hit him like a brick in the head. Sherlock Holmes, walked into a trap, caged like an animal. The three murder case wasn't actually a case, case. It was just to lure him out. What a perfect timing. How was he so blind?
Mycroft left that morning to Korea, which was halfway across the world. Mrs. Hudson was still in Cardiff, and John was staying with his wife in the hospital. The killer didn't kill the victims with blood loss because he liked it. It was because it was the only way to find out where Moran was. The footprint was left there on purpose, coaxing him out of the crime scene, to go to Barts.
Lestrade will think he's in the morgue, analyzing the blood, and Molly would think he's still at the scene, investigating. No one will know, that he is already out of central London. The warnings were right there, flashing in his face. And yet he chose to ignore it.
Oh, stupid, stupid, stupid.
Another kick.
"Hey, down there, whatcha thinkin'?" The man said, cupping his hands around his mouth as if he was yelling. "Comeon, whatcha thinkin'?"
Sherlock didn't make any signs that he heard him. Whitney chuckled. "Comeon boy," he said, "speak."
Still no answer.
"Speak!" The man kicked him straight in the abdomen.
Sherlock clenched his teeth as he brought his knees up in attempt to block the attacks. The man kept on kicking him until he grew tried.
"Well, that's that," he said finally, out of breath. He let out a low chuckle. "No one needs you, you know. Mute." He sneered at him. He stomped off to the front of the car.
"We're almost there boys, come on let's prepare the offering!" He called, receiving a few sniggers.
Before Sherlock can register what's going on, someone pulled a sackcloth over his head.
—
He was pushed off the van, stumbling as he was suddenly walking again. His legs had grown sore and bruised from being curled up for so long, and his head felt like a bag of rocks as the small group of men lead him down the dingy corridor. His hands were tied behind him, with Whitney pushing him, and Robinson leading the way.
Dark, damp walls were on the either sides of him, perhaps a factory of some kind… obviously outside of London… water on the ground, abandoned water factory? No, only wet close to the doorways so area had just rained. The air smelled dusty so maybe a wood factory for furnitures. Abandoned for around… two years, judging by the strong smell of mold.
He sensed a metal door creak open before him and he was pushed in, hands still bind up behind him. Whitney pushed him down on a cold metal chair.
"Sit," he growled. He retied Sherlock's wrists so that he was stuck to the chair. Then, he pulled off the sackcloth.
Blinding white light meet him, replacing the empty darkness that once filled his vision. Sherlock blinked a few times, head spinning as his retinas struggled to adjust with the light. Slowly, the fuzzy imagine began to clear like the lenses on a camera.
"Master Moran will see you in a moment," Whitney said. And with that, he left the door, swinging the metal door shut with a clang.
Not the door that Moran will come in, Sherlock thought. He searched the room for any other openings. Sure enough, there was another door located to his right. Leaning back, he tested his restraints again. The rough cord cut into his wrists, providing his hands barely any movement.
What could Moran possibly want him? Conceivably for revenge, with the knife stab in the throat, the words Miss Me spelled out all over the bodies and a clip of Moriarty spread all around London. It was highly reasonable, to torture and kill him for outsmarting his master, however, Moran doesn't seem like the type. Moriarty doesn't usually have associates. He just uses them. So not revenge. That leaves money. Moran must be already mad enough when he found out that Whitney failed to kill him. Of course he fathomed that there was another better alternative.
Lust.
Wealth.
Gold.
Sebastian Moran, is holding Sherlock as a hostage, to receive money from the only man who has the value to pay for him.
Mycroft Holmes.
He was just trying to figure out how Moran is planning to do that until the door to his right opened with a click. There's no need to figure anything at all, actually. Because Moran is already going to tell him.
Hey guys, Izzy here. I just realized how short my chapters are, so I trying to write as long as possible. :)
One ring to rule them all…
One death, to bring revenge…
One code to win the war…
One phone call, to save everyone…
Six stones, to destroy the world…
One Jedi, to bring them together…
One tribute, to end the games…
One spell, to defeat the Dark Lord…
One fall, to owe to a man…
One Pokemon, to be the best…
One pirate, to drink all the rum…
One captain, to lead a crew…
One wardrobe, to bring the worlds together…
One cure, that leads to death…
And one freaking Tardis to ruin every single stupid thing.
(answers: LoTR, The Revenant, Imitation Game, Matrix, Marvel, Star Wars, Hunger Games, Harry Potter, Sherlock, Pokemon, Pirates of the Caribbean, Star Trek, Narnia, Maze Runner, Doctor Who)