Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed so far – your comments mean a lot!
MLC, I couldn't work it into this chapter – should be in the next (cryptic or what?)
Warning – violence.
Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, John et al – that privilege belongs to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss
The room was small, grubby, and dark. The underlying smell of stale sweat and leather caused one of the rooms' occupants to wrinkle his nose in distaste, and he sat – reluctantly – in the rickety old chair behind the equally elderly desk looking up at the ex-boxer.
"You're certain that nobody will associate you with this place? A boxing club would surely be the first place they'll look for you now that fool you took with you has blabbed." The speaker's face was in shadow, as it had been each time these two men had met.
"The filth have been here and searched the place. I've got friends though and secure hiding places, so as you see they didn't find me." Despite feeling a little uncomfortable under the other man's scrutiny Bill Phillips was sure that he was safe. "I've been living here for months and no one has known about it – call it hiding in plain sight."
The other man nodded. "What now?"
"I'll try the flat again – maybe I'll get hold of Holmes himself." A frown furrowed his already lined brow. "I should have finished that other bloke off while I had the chance though, it's thanks to him they found Arty an' me…"
"Maybe, but it's too late to worry about that now. How will you do it?"
"Like I said, I've got friends," confidence growing again Phillips leaned against the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets "I'm getting a team together – half a dozen or so good blokes – the police will get fed up with looking for me after a while, I'm small fry as far as they're concerned and a case of burglary and GBH is not worth their time."
"Just make sure they cannot be traced back to me – if you get caught you're on your own!" the man stood, straightening his suit and pushing his broad-brimmed straw Fedora more firmly onto his head he walked out of the office, speaking briefly to a young lad who had been watching the sparring match before the two left the building. Anyone watching would have taken them for father and son just leaving a training session – perfect cover.
xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo
Sherlock and John had split up, Sherlock traveling in a cab to the south bank of the Thames where the homeless population were scattered under bridges and archways, the morning still too early for many of them.
John, in deference to his sore but healing leg was in John-Joseph's café, drinking tea and persuading that staunch supporter to keep a copy of the artist's likeness behind the counter. To the average passing trade they were just owner and customer sharing a laugh and passing the time, but ever the man of conscience John was impressing upon the other man the need for caution if he should see this particular crook.
"Seriously JJ, he's an ex-boxer, he's fast and he's not afraid to use violence," he gestured to his leg "as I know to my cost!"
"And you should know us well enough now Doc, we look after our own." There was no mistaking that look that was saying 'and you are one of our own'. JJ smiled as John's face turned an interesting shade of pink. "Leave it with me."
John nodded once and pulled out his wallet to pay for his tea. "While you're at it JJ can I have a very sweet tea and a bacon baguette to take away please?" He grinned as the café owner frowned, "I've got a call to make and after the last time I'm hoping this will make my visit more welcome."
Five minute later the good doctor was making his way down Villiers Street at a steady pace. About two thirds of the way down the hill he turned into Hungerford Lane, at the end of which was a bland looking former shop unit, its windows blacked out, the door closed with buzzer entry and key code pad. Leaning against the wall he carefully entered the door code and it opened with an audible click.
Moving carefully in, he paused before opening an inner door and putting his head round. Holding the take-away cup and sandwich bag out he said softly "I come bearing gifts."
The blond girl who had at that moment been checking stock turned around, a wide smile already splitting her face. "Hi Doc. What ya got then?" Her eyes fell on the food and drink, and then on the stick and the way the man in the doorway was keeping the weight off his leg, and the smile faded.
"Shit Doc, what happened?" she grabbed a chair as she spoke and pushed it towards him. "Sit down."
"Thanks, Kallie. How's things? How do you like the job?"
Kallie looked down at him as she pulled the baguette out of its wrappings. After she had been released from hospital Doctor John had found her a place in a good, clean hostel and this job working at the needle exchange. She knew he felt guilty that she'd been injured.
"Come on Doc, what happened?"
John smiled. "Got on the wrong side of the bad guys again Kallie – you know what it's like working with Sherlock!"
She grinned back around a mouthful of bread and bacon. An almost companionable silence settled over them while Kallie finished her breakfast. At last she scrunched up the sandwich bag and thrust it into the empty cup, throwing both into the bin. When she looked again at John her expression was serious.
"Thank you for the breakfast. And I never got the chance to thank you for saving my life and setting me up with this," she gestured around the room "but you're not here just to ask how I am, are you?"
"No, but neither do I want you putting yourself in danger again Kallie." He pulled another copy of the picture out of an inner pocket and unrolled it. "This is the man responsible for me needing a stick to walk with, he's an ex-boxer and he's violent. Now I don't want you looking for him – we're not even sure where he's likely to be – but if you see him just let us know." He looked seriously into her eyes. "I meant what I said Kallie, don't do anything heroic – just ring us, or text."
"I can ask arou…."
"No Kallie! Please." Running a hand over his face he wondered if involving the girl again had been a wise decision. A hand resting on his shoulder brought his head up and he found himself looking into sharp blue eyes.
"Don't worry Doc, I'll stay clear."
Nodding John got to his feet. "Thanks Kallie, take care of yourself." He was treated to a brief warm hug, which he returned with a smile.
Leaving the premises John headed towards Northumberland Avenue, opting for a lesser hill to climb to find a cab. He shot a quick text to his flatmate arranging to meet back at Baker Street before mulling over the different cases he and Sherlock had worked on. He was so lost in thought that he almost missed the sound of footsteps coming up behind him and the unmistakable tingling sixth sense that told him these were not just ordinary commuters. Without wishing to appear as if he'd noticed he increased his pace, his eyes darting around for a place of safety to slip into, but there was no-where to go. Looking up he saw the CCTV cameras, but they were concentrated on other things.
Just as he pulled out his mobile to call for help he received a shove in the back which sent him sprawling into a narrow service alleyway between two buildings, his phone skittering off along the pavement. Biting back a cry of pain he tried to stand up, but now there were not only the two men who had followed him, but two more had been waiting in the alleyway, and one of them kicked his injured leg sending him crashing once more to the ground.
"Where's your mate? Where's Sherlock Holmes?" the voice was muffled as its owner had pulled a scarf up over his nose and mouth.
John gritted his teeth and looked up at them; they were all similarly covered with scarves and woollen beanie hats.
"Don't know." He ground out, his voice laced with pain.
"Don't mess us about!" said another voice, this time accompanied by a boot in the ribs, and John heard as well as felt a rib crack.
"He went off somewhere – didn't tell me where."
"Alright then –" another kick, this time in the back, " – what about your files? Where can we find the paperwork?"
Shaking his head, trying to clear it a little, John swallowed.
"Don't know what you're talking about…"
Another boot – another voice.
"It's taking too long! Just make sure he won't be talking to the police anytime soon."
Cold fear swept through the man on the floor, and he tried desperately to curl into a ball to protect himself from the swinging boots as all four men laid into him. After what seemed like hours a well-placed boot to the back of John's head ended the torture as he felt consciousness slip away.
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Sherlock strode away from Waterloo Bridge where his last copy of the picture had been left with a skinny red-headed boy, one of his best sources of information. It took him mere moments to hail a cab and soon he was en route to Baker Street.
Sitting back in his seat he stared out of the window but not at the passing scenery. His eyes were turned inward to his mind palace as he wandered through their most recent cases, trying to find a protagonist whose name began with K. It was giving him a headache, the frustration of not being able to identify this person. Names and cases flew through his mind, faces and places, results and arrests, none of them fitted.
Sherlock was still partly lost in his own mind when the cab pulled up outside 221B and he absently alighted and paid the driver, crossing the pavement and unlocking the front door. As he stepped through he was shoved violently and fell through into the hallway. It took only moments for the three men who had hurried through the door behind him to knock him to the floor and overpower him.
"Drag him upstairs!"
Sherlock tried to see who his attackers were, but he had blood streaming into one eye from a cut on his forehead, and the other eye was rapidly closing as a result of a fair right hook from one of his assailants. He let himself go limp – no point in making this easy for them – and had the pleasure of listening to them grumble about the dead weight in their hands.
Finally they reached the flat, and Sherlock was flung unceremoniously onto the couch. He pulled himself into a sitting position.
"What do you want?"
"Shut up" a backhander caught him squarely across the nose and blood spurted out, splattering across the coffee table. "You'll speak when you're spoken to."
"I said what do you want?" Sherlock was never one to do as he was told, and it resulted in his hair being grabbed in a meaty fist, and his head being dragged up so that the leader of this gang could lean down and sneer at him.
"And I said…"
"I know you." Sherlock interrupted him, "know your face."
"What?"
Sherlock smiled slightly despite the pain in his face. "Seen your picture, know your face – is that clear enough for you?"
"Will you shut up?"
"Oh, don't you want to know where my files are?" John had insisted on putting the files back into their box and stashing them under Sherlocks bed, meaning that the only papers the other two thugs could rifle through were the same pile of notes that Arthur Moody had looked through before. Sherlock hoped to keep them occupied in the living room until John came back.
Bill Phillips let go of Sherlocks hair and directed the two other men to leave the papers on the desk and to look in every cupboard in the living room and kitchen.
"Fridge."
"What?"
Sherlock dabbed at the blood running from his nose.
"I said don't go in the fridge, you'll spoil John's dinner."
Keeping one eye on the consulting detective he called through to the man currently going through the food cupboards "Look in the fridge, I think he's hiding something in there." As he said it Bill vaguely wondered why this didn't seem right, but he had no other time to consider what as a fearful scream rent the air and his subordinate ran from the kitchen, a look of horror on his face.
"Eyes!" he babbled, eyes wide with fear, saliva dribbling from his slack lips. "He's got eyes and tongues! Loads of them! In the fridge!"
Taking advantage of the confusion caused by the other man's words Sherlock flung himself upwards at the leader. Bill was ready for him though, and threw him across the room. Changing tack Sherlock clutched at, and caught hold of, the third man, pulling him down onto the floor.
The man from the kitchen was already on his way back down the stairs when the sound of the front door bursting open reached their ears. Bill had been about to punch Sherlock again, but changed his mind and just dragged him off of the man he was trying to pin to the carpet before kicking him in the stomach. Winded, Sherlock collapsed back against the empty fireplace and the last he saw of the remaining two men was their retreating backs as they climbed out of the kitchen window, dropping down into Mrs Hudson's back yard and making good their escape across the back yards of the adjoining properties.
There was a thunder of feet running up the stairs, and Lestrade burst through the flat door.
"Ah. Scotland Yard to the rescue." Sherlock picked himself up, still a little winded, and staggered to the kitchen to get a wet tea towel to clean himself up. "I half expected it to be John."
Greg looked around the room then back at Sherlocks face.
"Bloody hell mate, they've given you a right going over! Come on, I'll take you to the hospital, get that lot cleaned up."
The younger man waved him away "No, I'll get John to look at it when he gets home."
Lestrade went very still.
"You've not heard? John was found unconscious in an alley near the Embankment, he'd been beaten up."