Okay, next chapter, as promised! There is only one more to go after this, and yet again, I'm sorry if it feels rushed. (=
John woke suddenly, with a gasp of surprise. He tried to figure things out in his aching head, sorting the memories. Heathrow. Chasing Sherlock. The shot. The doorway. Giving up. Hailing a taxi. Going back to Baker Street. Relaxing. And the nothing.
He opened his eyes, and realised he was lying on the floor. A hard, concrete floor. Not in Baker Street then. A million billion possibilities flashed through his drugged brain.
He sat up, ignoring the sharp throb his head gave at this movement. He was in a room, which had no features whatsoever. Just hard stone walls. And a hard stone floor and ceiling. And a door, which was closed, and judging by the fact the place looked like a dungeon, it was locked. John's eyes flew to a crumpled figure which lay a few paces from him. Sherlock.
He scrambled over, his headache forgotten. He shook his friend's shoulders carefully, noting that the curly black hair was matted with drying blood.
He thanked his lucky stars, as well as Sherlock's, when he found that it was only a surface wound. Apart from that, he couldn't see anything wrong with his detective friend from a quick feel. Apart from that fact he was unconscious of course.
"Sherlock?" he whispered gently, shaking his shoulders.
"He'll come round soon." came a horribly familiar singsong Irish voice.
John spun round, effectively blocking Sherlock from Moriarty's view.
"Well isn't this merry?" asked the psychopath, clapping his hands.
"What exactly is merry about it?" snarled John.
"You. Me. Sherlock. This delightful little room. We're going to have so much fun!"
John had forgotten how scarily insane Moriarty could be.
"I've been planning this since you escaped me at the pool. That was just luck. This time you wont be so lucky. You were easy, as expected. Sherlock however, I love how much of challenge can be!" Moriarty said, smiling almost proudly at Sherlock.
John risked a glance at his friend. He wondered what on earth Moriarty had done to him.
"It was simpler than you'd think. I took him right off the street." the consulting criminal boasted.
John felt a glimmer of hope. Mycroft would find them. Lestrade would find them. Perhaps they wouldn't die.
"But don't get your hopes up. There was nothing suspicious about. Except his babbling." Moriarty cracked an evil smile.
Sherlock gave a whimpered moan, curling himself up slightly.
"There were hundreds of witnesses. Yet none of the well say a thing. You'd think in this day an age it would impossible to kidnap somebody under the noses of twenty people. But then, people can be so stupid."
John swallowed. Maybe nobody would find them. If anybody even cared enough to search. Lestrade might be put out a mild effort to find them, but why should he really care? And Mycroft... John could never tell with him. He said he cared for his brother, but John didn't really believe it.
"-And I just ran him over. Simple. And brilliant. I don't think anybody, not even Sherlock, could think a simpler or more brilliant plan. Sadly, my man didn't hit him hard enough, and he put up quite a fuss."
John glared at him, feeling hatred well up inside him.
"Well, I suppose I'll be seeing you boys later. Give Sherlock my love." Moriarty said, looking completely demented again.
He left as silently as he had arrived, and John buried his head in his knees, wondering what to do.
Sherlock awoke slowly, making no sign he was regaining consciousness. As he was in enemy hands, he didn't want anybody to know he was awake until he had assessed the situation. He was in a cellar of basement of some kind. Or maybe it was a real dungeon. That would be typical of Moriarty.
When his brain had stopped fuzzing, and he felt alert again, he opened his eyes. As he had thought, he was in a concrete room. He blinked a few times, his eyes travelling round the room, and finally landing on a dejected look John. Sherlock felt a spark of relief as his eyes swept over his friend. It seemed John was unhurt.
He was staring at the other wall, mouth pursed.
"John?" Sherlock said clearly to gain his attention.
The ex army doctor started, and looked over to Sherlock, a smile cracking his lips.
"How long have you been awake?"
"A short while." said Sherlock, sitting up and rubbing his head.
"And how's the head?"
"Painful. But nothing serious."
John nodded, and opened his mouth.
"Yes, I know that it's Moriarty that has caught us." said Sherlock a little more tersely than he intended.
He needed to think, now more than ever. And however worried he had been about John, that was all gone now. He was hoping against hope that somebody would tell Lestrade about the car scene. That was their only hope. Unless, a miracle happened and Moriarty made a mistake.
"Any ideas?" asked John hopefully after a full ten minutes of silence.
"None whatsoever." said Sherlock, though if he had any, he wouldn't have told John. The room was sure to be under surveillance.
"Moriarty said he took you away under the noses of loads of people. Maybe..." John trailed off shrugging.
"They were all complete idiots. Of course. I told them, but they didn't believe me." snapped Sherlock.
"Well, come on. It must have sounded like you were a lunatic or something." said John, actually having the nerve to snigger.
Sherlock huffed. Though he didn't want to say it, they now had to trust in Mycroft. Of all the people I have to rely of, of course it has to be Mycroft. Thought Sherlock grumpily. But Mycroft had a deadly advantage. Moriarty had no idea he even existed.
It was early morning, and Lestrade had just arrived at the yard. He'd just got settled behind his desk, ready for another day of annoyance, and Sherlock, when there was a knock, and a tall, rather aristocratic looking man entered.
He stared icily at Lestrade, and behind him, Lestrade could see a dark girl, texting on her phone. He was pretty sure he'd seen the pair before, put couldn't quite place the memory.
"Hello?" he asked cautiously.
"Greg Lestrade." said the man cordially, eyes travelling round the room with no interest whatsoever.
"What can I do for you?" asked Lestrade.
"I came to ask you when the last time you saw Sherlock Holmes and John Watson was." said the stranger.
Then Lestrade placed the vague feeling of having seen them before. It was Sherlock's brother. Mycroft or whatever his equally ridiculous name was.
"Erm... Yesterday, at noon. Why, what's happened?" asked Lestrade nervous.
"My brother and his flatmate have disappeared. And I suspect they have been kidnapped."
"Oh..." Lestrade wasn't quite sure how he felt. Sherlock was, as he had said to John, a great man. And he was becoming a good one. But that didn't mean he wasn't a right pain.
"Well... Is there anything I can do?" asked Lestrade uncomfortably.
Mycroft considered.
"Both Sherlock and Dr. Watson disappeared after causing a rather large commotion in Heathrow. Try and find out if anybody's got any information." said Mycroft. "My team a reviewing all surveillance."
"Okay. I'll get right on it. Tell me if there are any developments." said Lestrade.
Mycroft nodded, and left, leaving a slightly confused Lestrade in his wake.
That day, Mycroft worked his hardest to find out anything he could about where his baby brother had gone. Try as he might however, he found no information on where Sherlock had been abducted, or who by.
But he had found some footage of John getting into a cab, and never getting out of one at Baker Street. So that was probably how John was taken. But why Sherlock wasn't with him, Mycroft didn't know. By the only slightly worried look on John's face, he guessed that nothing bad had happened at that point.
That day, 'missing' posters appeared all over London thanks to Lestrade. And a several adverts in some newspapers. On the whole, Mycroft was fairly sure that they would be able to find out exactly where and how his brother was abducted.
Sure enough, the next day, he got a call from Lestrade, saying he had a witness who had seen the whole thing.
Mycroft rushed down. Despite Sherlock's total likeableness, he worried truly about his brother. Admittedly that was partly because of Mummy making him promise to look after the young detective.
He arrived at the yard, looking totally unconcerned about everything, Anthea by his side, tapping steadily away. A few minutes later, they were sitting in an interrogation room, though not a particularity uncomfortable one. A slightly shaken looking man was seated, looking extremely nervous.
"What did you see?" asked Mycroft patiently, preparing himself to deal with the idiocy of modern people.
"I was... It was... I-I didn't-" the man groaned burying his hands in his hair.
Definitely a first class idiot. Mycroft sighed, tapping his umbrella against the floor.
"Do you recognise this man?" he asked, pulling out one of his few photo's of Sherlock.
The man nodded.
"That's the one. T-the one that..." he trailed off, moaning in self pity again.
Carefully stowing the picture away, Mycroft huffed again.
"Start from the beginning. This could save two men's lives." he tutted.
The man nodded, pulling himself together with a deep breath.
"I was walking along the street with my girlfriend, just coming back from lunch, and I was roughly shoved by the man you just showed me. I was about to yell at him, but he dashed across the street, and got knocked down by a car."
Mycroft pursed his lips, hoping that his brother wasn't injured.
"Do you believe he was pursuing somebody?"
"Yes. There was another man, but he got away."
"Very well. Go on."
"Anyway, I rushed over. The man was mainly fine. He'd hit his head on the curb, and there was blood everywhere, and I think it messed up with his mind a bit."
Mycroft suppressed another sigh.
"What was he saying?"
"Well he said he was fine. Though he could barely sit up. And then he was going on about a man called John. And then the man who ran him over turned up, and offered to take him to hospital. But this man, he took a... Dislike to the man who knocked him down, which isn't really surprising, but then started babbling about how he was going to kill him. And then he went on about if this man had hurt the other man, John, he was going to kill him."
"So John wasn't with him?"
"No. I don't think so. Otherwise he'd have come over to help, right?"
"Indeed. Did my brother name the man that ran him over?"
"Brother? Oh... Erm, he did yes. Morarty, Marty or something like that."
Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed heavily through his nose. So his fears were true, Sherlock had been plucked off the street by Moriarty, and John had also been taken, unable to aid the detective.
"Do you think something bad has happened?" asked the man.
Mycroft groaned. Sometimes he saw where his brother was coming from.
"Yes. My brother has been kidnapped. You may go." he dismissed, his tone making it impossible to refuse.
The man left hastily, guilt plastered over his features.
Mycroft drew a calming breath, and drew out his phone.
John sighed, leaning back against the wall. By the cramps in his stomach, he guessed they had been imprisoned for quite some time. But time passed, and it was impossible to tell how much. Their cell was lit by a small bulb which hung forlornly from the ceiling, occasionally dimming down slightly.
Sherlock had said barely a word since their first exchange, and he was now curled on the floor like a cat, grey eyes staring at the door with such intensity that John was surprised they hadn't burnt a hole straight through the thing.
He had taken his coat of, and used it as a pillow for his damaged head. John had had another quick look, just to make sure, and he was certain that no harm would befall Sherlock from that particular wound. Apparently Sherlock's arm and leg were aching, but the detective refused to let him look at them.
So they sat in silence, Sherlock attempting to burn a hole through the door, and John trying not to worry about what Moriarty was going to do to them.
He was half asleep when Sherlock roused him with a sharp 'John'. John started awake, just in time to hear the door open. Sherlock was now sitting bolt upright, face betraying not a single sliver of emotion. In fact, from the amount he expressed, he could have been dead. Even his eyes, normally so bright and quick seemed to say nothing.
Moriarty appeared on the threshold, smiling like a loon.
"Sherlock, my dear. How nice to see you again. I don't count our last encounter, as you were clearly not in your right state of mind. Maybe my driver hit you harder than I thought." Moriarty drawled, a cocky smile twitching his lips.
"I don't think so."
"Aww , don't be like that. You'll regret it later." cooed Moriarty, taking a set forward. "Though of course, nothing you do or say will change the outcome of this afternoon."
We've been in here twenty four hours... Not even Mycroft can save us in that amount of time. Thought John gloomily.
"Get on with the theatrics, I've had enough of you." said Sherlock disdainfully.
"Have you really? Because when we started you seemed keen enough. What changed your mind, hmm?" Moriarty advanced a few more steps.
"You can't make me play. And I wont, so don't even try." said Sherlock, eyes flashing with hate and determination.
Moriarty considered him for a moment.
"I don't plan to make you join in Sherlock. You wont be playing any more games after this."
Sherlock betrayed no fear, instead he smiled softly, keeping every ounce of dignity.
"Do what you like. I don't care." he said steadily.
And Moriarty smiled.
"Ah, the forte of the great Sherlock Holmes. He doesn't care. He is more dead than alive, his heart buried forever. He never lets anybody in." Moriarty whispered, eyes full of pure venom.
And then Sherlock's self assurance faltered, and his eyes went blank.
And then John realised what Sherlock had worked out milliseconds before him. Moriarty was going to make good his promise. He was going to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes.
There we go. I just kinda decided to have fun with this chapter and do what I like (= I hope its okay. Please review (= Last chapter to be up this evening.