Chapter 2- where can I get some water please?
"Sherlock, I do hope you have a plan," Agent John Watson tugged at the ropes that bound his wrists. "Irene, are you okay?"
Irene glanced up, as though she had only just realized they were there. "Yes. I was expecting you to be getting me out of the cuffs not seeing you in them next to me." Irene sighed and let her head hang forward, as though she were dead. It made John's heart speed up slightly, his mind playing tricks on his emotions. Imagining Irene dead scared him. Their love had broken his heart; it would kill him if it stopped hers. He watched her closely until he finally paid attention to what she was doing.
"Are you coming loose?" John leaned back and glanced at her working hands. She picked up her head and grinned at him slightly, as she had done so hundreds of times before. John warmed immediately, almost as though it were instinct.
"Yes, just give me a few more minutes." Irene's hands ran in circles as she picked on the roughly done knots, no doubt they were tight on John and Sherlock, but the bodyguards had not tied it tightly enough on Irene, her slender wrists and hands were able to stretch and bend loosely enough.
"Well, I suggest you change that into seconds." Sherlock mused from beside John. Sherlock had his legs crossed before him and was examining the room.
"At least she's trying to do something to get us out of here." John turned his head sideways, glancing at Sherlock.
With a silent squeak the door opened, one shoe stepped out carefully and quietly then David entered. He smiled as he walked up to them, clearly enjoying their current state.
"Agent Watson, Agent Adler and the one and only Agent Holmes." David strolled casually towards the coffee table where David had kept a set of needles and knives sprawled out on a dirty napkin. John was the only one watching David as his fingers delicately traced the sharp edges of one of the knives.
"See how he said my name?" Sherlock leaned in towards John and smiled smugly. John turned and found Sherlock inches from his face.
"I did see how he said your name and it probably has something to do with Mycroft," John quickly turned away and looked at Irene. She had almost completely undone her knots.
"If you know who we are working for and where we work, why not kill us now?" John stalled for time; he had only just realized that if David stepped forward even once he would notice Irene's progress.
"Mycroft Holmes," David glanced up at the calm Sherlock and raised his thick eyebrows. "So many secrets that man has." David picked up the knife and carefully walked over to Sherlock. John swallowed tightly and glanced at Irene. Just about a minute left.
"So you want information on Mycroft?" John jumped in, David and his gleaming knife stood before Sherlock.
"Oh, do I?" David pulled a chair and sat it in front of Sherlock. "More than you could imagine," David looked up at Sherlock. "What I want to know is, where is Mycroft Holmes' office?" David put the knife gently to Sherlock's cheek and pressed it lightly. John's mouth had gone dry. He looked back at Irene, she had gotten a finger stuck in the rope.
"I know he was resituated and I know for a fact you, Sherlock Holmes had a lot to do with it." David pressed harder and John could see Sherlock whimper slightly.
"For gods sake would you leave him alone? He doesn't know anything anyways, he never went there, it was me who was." David glanced up at John as though he had only just noticed him.
"So he protects you?" David looked back at Sherlock and then laughed. "Are you a child? Look at you trembling," David placed a hand on Sherlock's knee. "Well, if he stands up for you, would you stand up for him?" David stood up and moved the chair in front of John. Panic engulfed Sherlock.
"So, Agent Holmes, any information?" David put the slightly blood stained knife on John's neck. "You know, the vitalities of life are right here in the neck, I wouldn't want to kill you so fast when I can have so much fun," He moved the knife to John's cheek, as he had done with Sherlock.
"Care to talk, Holmes?" David pressed the tip of the knife into John's skin and John flinched as subtly as he could.
"Stop." Sherlock whimpered in a barely audible voice. In the momentary lapse of silence that followed John had completely forgotten about Irene, he was focusing on Sherlock, locking eyes with him in a weak attempt to tell him he needs to shut up. Which would explain John's surprise when in a sudden un-follow-able movement Irene sprung from her seat and leaped at David.
"Hurry, he'll be out for only a moment." Irene rushed to John's aid and cut the rope tying his hands. Though this was not the time John could not help but notice Irene's soft skin holding down one of his coarse hands. When Irene had freed John she rushed to Sherlock. John retrieved his pistol, which David's bodyguards had stripped him of, from the table behind them. Sherlock stood and stumbled slightly as he walked forward. John grasped his elbow tightly and helped him stand straight.
"Now is defiantly not the time for panic," John let go of Sherlock and hurried forward. "Sherlock look for the papers, we'll deal with the bodyguards." John took the knife from the coffee table and so did Irene. They crept forward and stood beside the door.
"It's in here." Sherlock said surely as he pressed a hand against the table. Sherlock's hand slipped underneath the table and searched the surface for a keypad or lock. He found the key pad on the far right corner. Sherlock thought for a moment before entering the code.
Irene and John waited patiently as Sherlock put his hand inside the hole that had formed on the table and pull out the paper.
"No time to look it over," John said swiftly, then, in a sudden movement John pulled open the door and brought the butt of the knife heavily down on the body guard that stood in the door way. He jumped out and the second bodyguard pulled out a gun in preparation. He aimed and then Irene's hands wrapped around his eyes and he stumbled back wards. Irene put the knife to his throat and slit it open easily. John watched in horror as the man fell down, clutching his bleeding throat in pain. Irene dragged both the bodies into the room and Sherlock jumped over them.
"You didn't have to kill him," John reached forward and pressed the button on the elevator carefully. It opened almost instantly, and Sherlock entered first, cautiously silent.
Irene did not respond to John but it didn't matter, John knew the reason why she had killed. The reason had always been the same. As the elevator rode a jazzy song played on the speakers, Irene's fingertips were stained with blood and John removed his glove.
"Put this on." He handed it to her and she slipped it on. The glove was big on her but it did not matter. Before the elevator doors opened into the grand foyer of the hotel John reached up and wiped the blood on Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock had long since stopped trembling, but the memory was fresh in John's mind.
The calming chatter of the foyer greeted the three of them and they stepped out casually, John began talking to Sherlock about his so called "business" while Irene split from them. Together, however, they made their way to the exit.
When John stepped into the silent air outside he found the white van just before them, waiting for them to enter. John opened the door and they hurried in.
"Well, that went fantastic." Lestrade grinned. "Sherlock you did so well." Though John had nothing to do with the jokes Lestrade and Sherlock liked to play on each other, John knew when Sherlock was not to be meddled with. He silently met Lestrade's eyes and the word hungraine passed between them. Lestrade nodded and put his feet down. He kept silent for the rest of the ride and John sat opposite Irene. When he knew Irene was not looking he snuck glances at her.
"What have you brought back?" Mycroft's voice boomed through the speakers on the wall. Sherlock held up the paper. "Is it the list?"
"Yes it is." Sherlock placed it on the table.
"Good, you've done well, now Sherlock and Irene, please leave the room," Mycroft sat in an office, the large screen displaying his full face but only a section of his body. "I wanted to ask," Mycroft put his hands together and looked up. "How was Irene?"
John glanced at Lestrade and when Lestrade remained silent John cleared his throat.
"She did as well as she could have, considering the circumstances."
Mycroft was silent for a while before he spoke again. "I will want a full report on the mission, Lestrade."
"Of course Mycroft." Lestrade responded casually, then he glanced sheepishly at John and quickly corrected himself. "Captain."
"Where is Moriarty?" Mycroft picked up his can and turned it over in his hands.
"In the store." John replied. Mycroft nodded.
"Alright, I want the paper faxed to me instantly then filed away carefully with the rest of the sheets. For now, you are dismissed." The screen went blank and John turned to Lestrade.
"I'll fax it over to him." Lestrade picked up the paper and began reading it. Silently, John left the room and pressed his palm against the small screen in front of the doors. Last month they had upgraded the security system, there was no longer a code, only thumbprints and eye prints. John pushed his eye into the hole and a bright red light blinded him momentarily before it was gone.
The doors opened and John pulled back.
"I've hailed our cab," Sherlock stood before the black taxi and opened the door for John. "What took you so long?"
John climbed in and Sherlock followed.
"Just protocol." John looked out the window as he spoke.
"221B Baker Street," Sherlock said to the cab driver and the cab began to move. John did not notice, he was lost in thought. Sherlock watched John's serine face as the lights of London shone brilliantly on his wrinkles. Sherlock wondered why he had gone so limp when the knife had been raised to John's throat. He would not have uttered a word, Sherlock knew, if the man had slit his own face open, but John…well, John was another story. Sherlock remembered with an aching vividness the knife against John's throat, the gun against John's head, the noose around John's neck. So many times John had nearly died, so many times Sherlock had seen him come within an inch of his life and with every night Sherlock went to sleep he wondered if John would be alive, would be breathing, sleeping with restlessness, with his terrible dreams the next night. Sherlock turned away from John's illuminated face and immediately the anger hit him, hit him so hard he struggled to breath.
Suddenly Sherlock was taken away with the anger, his anger at himself, how could he let someone like John get in the way of his work? Sherlock had locked himself up for years, his agent life consuming him. Not one weakness, never one weakness, Mycroft had said, with such certainty Sherlock suffered jealousy unlike he had ever seen. Years Sherlock had perfected his circle, the dark lines he had drawn around himself. Sherlock clenched his fists and then John's eyes stared into his, such accusing eyes, Sherlock could not rid himself of them.
Sherlock pressed a hand to his head and furrowed his eyebrows, John noticed almost immediately, it was Sherlock's distress symptoms, when Sherlock was in terrible mental pain John had come to sense the symptoms, he didn't have to look at Sherlock to know how he felt. John watched people go by, hundreds of them stepping in the puddles of cold water, ducking beneath umbrellas and coats to avoid the slight drizzle. John looked at Sherlock and wanted to help him in some way but John could not, simply because it was Sherlock and Sherlock was untouchable.
The cab pulled to a halt and Sherlock stepped out before the tires had stopped moving. Sherlock stalked, head down, into the apartment, the door left unlocked. John paid the driver and with a painful sigh, he glanced around him before entering the apartment himself. It was warmer than he had thought it would be, but he had never underestimated Ms. Hudson when it came to hospitality. John pounded up the stairs and pushed open the slightly ajar door. Sherlock paced the messy living room with a startling speed. John shrugged off his jacket and hung it up.
"Want to talk about it?" John sat on the sofa, his black suit tugging itself up, the measurements had been done terribly. Sherlock stopped pacing and stroked his chin lightly.
"The writing was a woman's writing," Sherlock turned and put his hands in his pockets. "It was a cursive, ball point pen writing. The pen was bought in a 7/11 store. The suitcase by the cupboard was light pink, the lock broken, the bed was broken and all over the floor blonde hair. Blonde, John, blonde. Do you want to know why?"
John sighed. "Not right now, but go on."
"Because David was not the art thief, and neither was the blonde, it was all a trap. The whole thing was a set up; the art thief being at that hotel was not real. Initially it was set up for us, but word got around, suddenly you have agents from NSA, from CIA, from all types of spy agencies heading towards this hotel, but then you have the thieves looking to steal from another thief. David found the blonde snooping in the room, killed her and pushed her body under the bed. David looked around and couldn't find the paper, we came along, he found us and decided to make the most of what he could. We ran and took the paper with us but the paper is a scam. It's scam with a message for me." Sherlock turned enthusiastically and jumped over the coffee table to stand in front of John.
"Wow, well, any idea who it might be?" John sat back, with Sherlock so close he wasn't sure quite how to look at him.
"No, no idea." Sherlock paced in small circles in front of John. John could tell it was deteriorating Sherlock's mind and John could almost hear his head steaming. John stood up and held Sherlock's shoulders.
"Sherlock," John waited patiently for Sherlock to come back to reality and realize that John was trying to get his attention. "Sherlock, that's a problem for tomorrow," For a second they were silent, Sherlock's breathing so calming, so synchronized with John's. John dropped his hands, but their eyes still held. John put a hand to the cut on his cheek.
"You didn't get it bandaged?" John pushed it lightly and Sherlock had no reaction, he watched, as though in a daze. John turned and reached into the desk's first drawer. He pulled out a small bandage and a cotton soaked in a few drops of Dettol, he sat Sherlock down and wiped the dirt and blood away. John had not realized that the cut was deeper than it had looked. John carefully and gently pushed the bandage on Sherlock's cheek. He pressed it down till he had to pull his hand back. As John worked, Sherlock watched him, captivated.
"Thank you." Sherlock muttered. Then he stood and walked off into another room. John's hands dropped into his lap, still holding the dirty cotton. He looked down at it and rotated it in his fingers. Oh, the things Sherlock did to him.