Chapter 5: My brother is really stupid.

The scene rapidly changed from what John hoped would be an easy feat into that of a hopeless battle, in which John was bound to be defeated. John swung the butt of his gun upwards and aimed the swing towards the first guard, the butt met with a sickening crunch and a soft thump as the unconscious body met the carpet. He bled on John's floor but John did not have time to congratulate himself or worry over the bloodstain. John turned to face the other guard and stopped. Molly breathed heavily and it was the only sound in the room. John hoped she would run, now that they both knew who would be the victor. John lunged and kicked forward, hoping to catch the large man in his shins. Molly gasped when John's foot missed and crashed downward. John had the breath taken out of him and he huffed. Suddenly a large foot crashed down on his chest, again knocking the air out of his lungs forcefully. John groaned and tried moving his legs but his back sent stinging waves of pain down his body.

"You will not move." The man above spat at John, a bitter accent licking his words. John attempted once more moving his legs to help himself up but he gave up. John turned his head and met Molly's eyes. They held for a moment and she seemed to understand, she turned to run but instantly slammed into the man whom had been bleeding from his head moments ago. John stared up at his bald red stained head and wondered how he could stand, it was only then that John realized how terrible he had underestimated these men.

"Bring her over here," One of the snipers stood and pulled out the chair at the desk. John watched the bleeding man stumble forward, holding Molly by her hair, and shove Molly into the wooden chair. "You are very pretty."

The sniper stroked Molly's cheek with his dirty fingers. Molly shook with fear and sobs she could not release.

"What do you want?" John croaked, his voice soft due to the pressure of the foot on his lungs.

"We are going to wait." The sniper sat back down and resumed watching the window, gun in his steady stiff hand. John knew not to ask any other questions, the time for talking had passed and he rested his head on the floor. Molly's eyes were violently closed, her breathing short and panicky. John wished she had run when he had wanted her to.

"In the apartment?" Mycroft asked again, he was indeed a genius but the irony of the situation caught him off guard. "Right where we can see them?" Mycroft smiled to himself.

"What are you smiling about? They've got Molly and John." Lestrade added bitterly. Mycroft looked up and shook his head.

"This will be easier than I had thought, Lestrade, you and your team will launch a rescue mission. I want at least 3 of them alive. Be careful," Mycroft folded his hands in his lap and looked towards the door, clearly signaling Lestrade's leave.

Lestrade turned to leave, but Mycroft interrupted. "And Gregory," Lestrade stiffened at the use of his real name. "Try not to let your emotions get in the way of your work, again." Mycroft watched Lestrade leave quickly, knowing that Mycroft had poked Lestrade in a sensitive spot. Mycroft did not apologize, he never apologized, for he was the head of the largest spy company in the world, he never had to apologize for anything to anyone.

3 DAYS LATER

"Agent Holmes is officially proclaimed dead. We have no evidence of his death, no corpse or trail, however, it has been over 48 hours of his missing Agent report, and I must follow the rules I have made myself. We will hold no ceremony for him, should he still be alive, but I have terminated his access to the CIA facility and the CIA computer base." There was a saddening loud silence in which Mycroft pursed his lips. No one had been quite that fond of Sherlock but now that he was gone there was guiltiness in the field of Agents before him for each and every one of them had given him an insult of some sort. Then, of course there was John. Mycroft had plans for John but even Mycroft took pity on John's terrible current state. Though Mycroft knew what he knew, he could not help but feel as though Sherlock was truly dead, in these times, when one was around John they could not focus mentally on anything but the terrible melancholy radiating off him.

2 DAYS EARLIER

The silence of the church made John all the more uneasy. He shifted his thoughts delicately from his despair at not finding Sherlock to his surroundings, John guessed there were about 2 entrances and exists. The main and, as most churches have, the back. There was most likely a basement as well as an attic, though neither would do any good. Getting trapped above or below ground was a surefire way of never make it out again. John listened to his captures carefully but they spoke deliberately soft, ensuring privacy. John looked towards Molly, whom shuffled forward, head down and all hope lost. John cursed himself again for letting her come with him, and then cursed her for agreeing. They were both at fault, but John should have been wiser. Molly was separated from John and taken into a separate room.

"They will not touch her, but if you prove to be a problem, we will see how fast that can change." The bald man sat across from John in a relaxed manner. Surely the 2 snipers would not simply leave Molly alone. She was an unprotected woman for gods sake and John had been captured enough to not believe the words of his captures.

"Why is she in another room, then?" John's back pressed against his hands and they slowly began to lose feeling, over the next 20 minutes they would become blue and John would loose the ability to strike with precision. He needed to find his way out before that. He heard sounds from where Molly was being held and straightened up. "What are we waiting for?" John attempted to hide the desperation in his voice but he could barely stomach the idea of Molly alone in there.

About 10 minutes passed and John could hear sudden loud sounds from where Molly was being held, John was certain they were doing their way with her. In an unpredicted, un-thought movement John lashed out with a sudden urgency, his legs flailing through the air. With ease the man sitting across from John lifted his hand and caught John's foot mid air, he twisted and shoved John back, with a startling speed and power John fell to the floor, his back hitting it harshly and he immediately regretted not thinking before striking. John landed on his hands and though they held no feeling, he arched his back upwards and groaned. A blow landed on his chest and he lay on the ground, struggling to regain his thinking process.

"One more time, and I'll give my command." The man growled, he had long run out of impatience. About 30 minutes later a loud crash sounded from the front of the church. There was a crippling moment of tension, in which John reasoned that there were 2 situations that could unfold, 1. John was going to be rescued or 2. John was being taken elsewhere, perhaps farther away from where he currently was. John looked up towards his captor and his heart dropped, he was not being rescued. His captor stood grinning towards the main doors of the church, which John could not see.

"Tooth, you're not supposed to hurt him," A seductive smooth voice swum through the air and licked John's ears tenderly. John held his breath. "John, wonderful to see you again," Irene's high heels clicked on the floor with loud chunks and John held his tongue, refusing to give into his urge of spitting profanities at Irene. "Where is the girl?" Irene's silky voice was laced delicately with the most subtle hints of impatience, but still she smiled beautifully at the guard and lazily winked. The guard stood straighter, which was seemingly impossible, and turned his head towards the set of doors leading to Molly.

Irene smiled mischievously and sauntered over, her hair up in an impossibly still bun. John lifted his head with the only strength he could muster and watched Irene push lightly on the doors, they creaked open slightly and Irene slipped inside, giving John no view of what the inside held. John rested his head on the floor again when the guard gave him a menacing look, almost daring John would say.

Sherlock groaned as he came back to his harsh reality and his head spun. His body ached so sorely Sherlock could not focus on a certain part of himself to soothe. Sherlock listened to the sounds, attempting to identify something. The pain of the torture, the deliberate physical pain, was a black thick cloud floating gingerly in Sherlock's head, and in a sudden wave of nausea and fear Sherlock realized he could not think properly, Sherlock began panting, his heart racing. It was simply the thought of losing himself mentally that terrified Sherlock's every ounce of being, it was the fear of never being able to separate reality with fantasy that struck Sherlock so painfully he could not breathe. Sherlock gasped and threw his head back. There were millions of noises in his mind now, so many Sherlock could not perceive which he must listen to, which he must leave be, for the first time Sherlock did not know what to make of himself, his situation, his state of mind. In thick drops Sherlock's eyes leaked tears as he concentrated. Then suddenly there was John's voice.

"Mind palace, he calls it, where he sorts out all his thoughts, organizes his brain."

Sherlock released a thick breath, for suddenly, Sherlock's mental pain eased, in the slightest, it released its terrible hold on him. Sherlock began breathing in a regular pattern. There were birds outside, the sun was in the angle of early morning, and there were no sounds from within the compound he was being held in.

Birds?

Sherlock thought back quickly. Yes, birds indeed. Sherlock listened closely. Woodchuckers to be precise, the brown kind, the one that feasted on only Oak. In a sudden wave of mental electriccity Sherlock knew where he was. South of Callbrigde park, across Westington museum. Sherlock swallowed thick saliva laced still with his previous panic. It was only the matter of either escaping or somehow contacting Mycroft or perhaps John, or anyone in the C.I.A. whom would help him. Sherlock's chest ached with an inner pain as well as outer pain and together both were equivalent to the pain radiating off his lower organs. Sherlock wondered what damage had been done to him.

It was a silent car ride, in which John was blindfolded and Molly whimpered silently. John had gotten to look at Molly before being blinded and John could tell she had not been molested sexually, though her cheeks were bruised slightly and her lips swollen red. John dreaded where they were being taken. Molly had never been captured, had never tried fieldwork, and John knew that she never would, not after this terrible incident. John counted the turns as the car drove through the pain plagued city of London but after 3 turns John could not make out where he was. He figured there was no point in attempting to keep track, what use would it be if he could not tell anyone? John's hand adjusted to the slightly looser plastic cuffs wrapped around his wrists, but his hands still ached dully, nothing of which compared to the pain in his still swelling back. He wondered what Molly was thinking, what she was feeling. John could feel her fear radiating in a gravity he did not want to think much about. Irene's foot rested with a slight pressure on John's, reminding him of where he was and who was in charge.

Eventually, they reached their destination, and after being unloaded from the large car, which John assumed was a van of some sort, they were shuffled in, still blinded, through a set of double doors. There was a certain scent in the air John found familiar, and the sounds that soothed him instantly were familiar as well. It seemed John did not need to follow the turns to know where he was, he knew already.

"Welcome, John, to my humble abode." Sherlock's deep voice croaked at John. When John was un-blindfolded, he struggled to hold back a cringe at Sherlock's current state. Dried blood stained in drops down Sherlock's chest, where an open wound lay unattended. Sherlock sat naked with only a small towel to cover his waist to his knees. John's eyes grew heavy at the sight of Sherlock so weak, but Sherlock's eyes glistened. Suddenly there was a hope for survival, there was an appreciative happiness at the companionship in the otherwise empty room. John coughed.

"Sherlock," John leaned forward. "Are you wearing any pants?"

There was a silence before Sherlock's face slipped into a smile, then Sherlock began to laugh, a sound that did not suit his physical state. John began laughing as well. Together they grinned foolishly, in spite of their terrible situation, at the sheer luck of ending up together.