Shatter the Darkness (Let the Light In)

by Mojoflower

Fairy tales are for those who remember how to dream; not John Watson, broken and hiding from his bleak future in a beige bedsit. But then he discovers a lamp and finds himself in the dangerous riptide of an enigmatic man whose very existence is unbelievable, murder charges against his sister, and the growing pains of feeling alive once more.

20. A Dire Situation

Thanks as always to my amazing betas SnogandaGrope and ScienceofObsession, who have to have a world-record turn-around time of mere HOURS, when I send them a draft. AND, I happen to know, they both have Real Life going on as well. Y'all are so amazing.

***Dear Reader: I made a few changes to the last chapter. You don't have to go back and reread, just know that Harry is safely on her way to Clara's, and the man Sherlock deduced as the murderer isn't a match for Sherlock's height and body-type anymore. Thanks, jcporter1, AriadneVenegas and Abacura for pointing that out to me! Also thanks to PenelopeWaits, Simply_Isnt_On and iseult1124 for catching other errors. I appreciate all y'all's sharp eyes.

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Chapter 20: A Dire Situation

John leaves the flat the following day around noon. They're out of milk, and even though there are boxes of tea in the cupboards, tea without milk is simply not on. Sherlock mutters at him, distracted, when he notifies him of his errand. It is odd to see Sherlock dressed as he is... formal and modern and more human in his sharp suit. John finds himself checking Sherlock's hands frequently, the elaborate henna designs, speckled and swirling and flaring across pale, narrow fingers and wrists, are comforting for some reason. Perhaps it is confirmation that he didn't dream the past week, and the shimmer in his blood reminds him that it was the genie version of Sherlock that he first fell in love with. Shit. Did he just use the "L" word? He shreds that thought, tramples it with little brainy feet, and sweeps it under the rug at the bottom of his mind.

Unlike the genie, Sherlock-in-a-suit isn't bound to him. Sherlock-in-a-suit can walk out the front door and have his own life, be successful in that endeavor, and won't need John, the broken soldier. His innate elegance and exotic appeal are highlighted by the Savile Row suit and John depressingly considers the competition he's likely to have once Sherlock is released into the world. Honestly, he doesn't see that ending well for himself, in spite of Sherlock's assurance in the cab on the way home from the Met. John is not petty or selfish enough to wish that such a brilliant person (brilliant in every way... he's clearly a literal genius, his skin is luminous, his mercuric eyes piercing, devouring, even; but also, he glows, he burns, the intensity and purity of his personality is diamond-bright and enough to incinerate innocent bystanders) shouldn't have a partner as scintillating and superior as himself.

So the henna that escapes the modern, vented cuffs of his suit seems like a timer, counting down until John loses him. As the ink fades, so too will Sherlock's dependence on John.

John hopes the rusty designs are permanent.

Of course, all these thoughts are based on the premise that John gets the lamp back and is able to find a wish that will free Sherlock. He likes to think on this path, because the other scenarios are too dire to contemplate.

John looks around and realizes with surprise that his musings have taken him several blocks away. Indeed, the Tesco Express is right there. He has hardly even registered the biting cold. The wind is kicking up into quite a storm and driving icy particles of snow into his skin and his eyes. It really is quite a miserable day.

Leaving Tesco soon after with his three shopping bags, John has a sudden, startled realization. He's not got his cane. He notices this when he finds he can carry more than his usual number of bags, doesn't have to do the shuffling dance that comes with arranging his cane on his weak side, keeping the groceries from tangling in his legs and cane and tripping him up.

When did this happen? He recounts the events of the days before, recalls bringing the cane to the club, but not having it at the fight (because that would certainly have been useful). He left it in the club? All the myriad events that happened since then have passed in adrenaline and fear and exhilaration... and his leg never even twinged.

It buckles a little, once his attention is focused on it, but John stubbornly ignores the pain, vehement in his denial, furious that it should hurt again. He walks straight, stomping extra hard on his capricious leg, challenging gods and heavens to strike him down again, because he won't go there.

He's so defiantly focused on his newly mobile leg that he doesn't really notice when a white van pulls around into the alley half a block in front of him. Looks like a typical delivery van, so it earns no more than a peripheral glance.

As he's crossing the alley, he hears a loud banging from the far side of a skip, and a voice cries, "Help! Help me-." It's choked off, and there is a crash, and a rippling, echoing metallic thud, as if a body were thrown into the side of the skip. John immediately ducks left, pressing himself up close against the building on the same side as the skip. He's not fool enough to yell confirmation and offer assistance: he doesn't want to give the unknown attacker warning of his presence.

"Help!" the voice calls out again. John lowers his groceries silently to the slick, snow-covered setts, rough-cut pavers uneven from centuries of use and weather. His body hums with potent anticipation as he cautiously, quickly side steps until he can edge around the corner of the skip. The alley seems painted on celluloid, flat in the queer way adrenaline sculpts surroundings during danger. There's a strangled sound, and John steps around-

BAM.

A bare-knuckled fist plows directly into his temple, he can feel each knobby little bone of it, from eyebrow to hairline. John pulls back, shaking his head, immediately lifting his right arm in a block and jabbing out with his left. He tags his assailant, not hard enough or direct enough to do any damage, but scores the opportunity to actually check out the scene. There are two men, as he'd surmised... but they are both facing off against him.

It is a setup.

John spares a fraction of a second to dwell on the wry humor that he's apparently being mugged. He has all of 4 pounds 50 in his wallet, and frankly, they'd have been welcome to it. Too late for such negotiations now.

The man who hit him first is a giant, towering over John by perhaps 10 inches, and built like a tank. His eyes are flat, an indeterminate shade in the snowy brume of the alley; but his deadly intent is communicated just fine. A fixed grin embellishes his otherwise inscrutable face, and John quails a little. He knows that expression: it's the face of a man who is willing to kill, who has committed himself, for whom remorse will never slow his hand.

It occurs to him, suddenly, that this isn't a mugging. Obviously not. How blind he is! This has to do with Sherlock and Moriarty. It must. He doesn't recognize Tank, but he matches Sherlock's deduction of Melissa's killer precisely. He looks again, and thinks the smaller guy might be the one from the club parking lot who had a gun, the Geordie called Lew. Suddenly the white delivery van nearby has new meaning, and John remembers the rope and fabric that had been visible through its open doors when Sherlock was fighting off the potential kidnappers. This situation has gone from pear-shaped to fully disastrous.

Shit.

Tank kicks, and John grabs at his boot, hoisting it higher and to the left, dumping him onto the pavers. The big man rolls with it, and his partner steps into the space he vacated. This smaller man brandishes a billystick, which he wields with professional economy, and the next few moments are filled with the muffled thwack thwack thwack of hard wood on layers of coat. John can do little more than block and dodge. He is grateful it's winter, and he is wearing layers enough to absorb the blows, because otherwise he is pretty sure he would have broken bones by now.

Eventually, John is able to grab the stick and twist it from the man's hands, but at the same time Tank kicks his compromised thigh. Although there was nothing wrong with the leg to begin with, it has undeniably been weakened through months of compensation, and the blow is brutal enough that John staggers, knee going weak and numb.

Lew dives in again, shouldering him in the gut, taking him down in his moment of weakness. He manages a good clout across the man's face and there's a satisfying hiss of pain; the red blooming under his beakish nose is the only bit of color in the grayscale backdrop where they fight.

John goes down hard. He tries to fall on his shoulder, absorb the blow, but his remaining foot slips on ice and snow, and he flies back instead, head cracking into the sharp corner of the skip.

It is the end, and he knows it. He should be shouting now, trying to rally help, but he doesn't: he is caught in the surreal world of battle, and it is hard to disengage. Also, there is nothing but civilians out in the street, totally unprepared to participate in a skirmish of this magnitude, against a likely killer. The men fighting John might be military, trained like him, and he wouldn't wish that on some poor housewife who might heed his call. He will not drag anyone else into this mess.

He doesn't yield, however. John hauls himself back to his knees and disregards the wet heat slicking sticky trails through his hair. He uses the skip as a brace, and punches out with his dearly acquired truncheon, giving the smaller attacker a wicked thrust behind the kneecap. The man grunts and goes down, but now Tank is up and kicking again, which means John, still kneeling, is at a disadvantage. Even with the baton, his range is shorter than the extended leg of the tall man. He gets a boot in the face, the brunt of which is thankfully caught on brow ridge and cheekbone, rather than a straight crunch to his nose... and smacks against the skip again.

He flails blindly with the billystick, vision temporarily disconnected, has a dizzy moment where he thinks the driving snow has become a blizzard, everything gray and white and meaningless. But no, that's just the blow to the head.

John throws himself to the side, pushing away with his toes and elbows, utilizing the slick surface of snow and ice to help him slide, and rolls over, lurching to his feet. The two men have moved apart, now they form a V with him at the point, and they are closing in. John sinks down, gripping the baton, and launches himself at Tank. They grapple, John trying to use the size discrepancy to his advantage, slithering down out of the man's arms, aiming a punch here at his kidney, there at his groin. It's not a winnable battle.

Lew closes in behind him, grabbing his face, forcing his eyes closed. John kicks backwards and Lew shouts Fuck into his ear. Large, frigid hands wrap around his neck, and Tank's thumbs dig inexorably into his throat. It only takes a few seconds before John is dizzy, going limp, dammit. The billystick is wrested from his fingers, whirled irritably around, and strikes him hard on the temple.

John's eyes roll back, and, briefly the hands wrapped around his neck are supportive rather than murderous before he is dropped unceremoniously in the snow and rolled onto his stomach. All his resources are diverted to his autonomic system, fighting for oxygen through a bruised trachea, but he does recognize the bright, narrow pain of a zip tie around his wrists as they're wrenched behind his back. There's the shreekk of tape, and a ripping sound, and duct tape is slapped over his mouth. After that it is a blur of breathing through his nose, runny from the cold, and John passes out before he is tossed into the back of the van and carted away.

Sherlock arches his neck against the stiffness that's settled there from so many hours hunched over the laptop. He rolls his head, rolls his shoulders, looks around the empty flat and rolls his eyes. Where is John? Surely he said he was just running out for a few things. The room is lit more by the lamps on the inside than sunlight; even at this hour, the skies are dark and threatening, and snow veils the view from the window.

Sherlock checks the time. 2:43. He is not certain when John left, but he is sure it has been well over an hour. He stands and stretches, a much less theatrical and sensuous effort now that John, with his oft-extruded tongue poking appealingly from between thin lips, is not around to appreciate it.

He wanders to the kitchen for tea, but is perversely disinclined to make any himself, feeling annoyed at John's continued absence. He checks his phone, a fumbling affair because he is still not really sure how to use it. Eventually he finds the 'phone' function and ascertains that he has not missed any calls. His eyebrows come down, and he pulls in one side of his mouth to chew on, wondering what's going on.

Could John have encountered an old friend? It happens, of course. That's how he came by Sherlock in the first place. Perhaps the queues at the market were quite long? Sherlock bites the corner of his thumbnail, gaze hazy and distant. What silly little theorems. John is responsible, he would have mentioned it if here were going to be gone for such a length of time. John likes Sherlock. Likes him so much, in fact (and this is so novel to Sherlock that he took note of it right away), that he very much arranges to not be separated from him for any length of time. Even to the point of settling in the same room, if they should happen to have an option, quietly reading his book or drinking his tea, simply enjoying their silent companionship.

Restless, Sherlock abandons the kitchen, not quite as cozy when John is not in it puttering around, and moves to the front window. Cold air falls through the glass in a steady flow, and he holds his hands out as if to catch it, feeling the chill sift through his fingers. He peers down at the street. The snow isn't falling so hard that everything is obscured, but it is certainly muted; the cars are going by more slowly, and there is no one on the pavement. Certainly no diminutive soldier, solid and reliable and reassuring, bearing food and comfort and stability.

Sherlock frowns at his sentimentality, and throws himself back on the sofa. John is a grown man. He's a soldier. He should be in no danger. It is foolish for Sherlock to worry. He opens the laptop again, and goes back to his search, trying to follow scientific breakthroughs on the extension of life, trying to trace the Moriarty genealogy, trying to find any trace he can of his psychopathic stalker through the centuries.

He finds nothing.

A more natural darkness begins to seep through the windows, and Sherlock sees that it's 4:30. He clenches his teeth. This can be nothing good.

It suddenly occurs to him that he can call John on his phone. Sherlock hasn't been in modern times long enough for that to be instinctive, when so many years of his life simply required that he wait, or go out searching, if he wanted something. He thumbs his phone on again, and this time he more quickly finds the correct menus, discovers that he is adapting to the interface, and can more intuitively navigate. He locates John's number, the first contact above Lestrade, Greg and Mycroft Holmes. John is only listed as John, and that makes Sherlock pleasantly warm. It seems like the approbation of the digital age that he doesn't have to distinguish his John from any others by attaching a last name. John is simply, and always will be, John. That is enough for Sherlock, and it is enough for his phone.

He grimaces at that romantic flight of fancy and connects to John's number. He presses the strange, flat rectangle to his ear as he has seen John do.

It rings three times.

"Hellooo, darling! What ever took you so long? Is your pet so trivial? Did you not notice that he was lost?"

Sherlock stifles the sharp gasp the voice on the other end inspires. He won't give Moriarty the satisfaction. The cooing menace raises the hairs on Sherlock's arms, the back of his neck, and a cold flash of fear thrums through him. His fingers clench on the phone, bony and bloodless. This is bad. Very bad. Bad on such a visceral level that for a moment, just a fraction of a second, Sherlock wants to fling the phone away and hide. That voice. Raking over his skin with false warmth, whispering horrible things, the words as painful and piercing as whatever instruments he would select to use on Sherlock's body. The reptilian chill of completely insane eyes, eagerly drinking up pain, panic, hopelessness.

"Moriarty," is all he says, pulling himself back together with brutal discipline. His tone is lazy and assured: he fights to make it so. "How very... unpleasant... to hear from you again. I'd hoped you long in the ground, at this point."

Moriarty giggles flirtatiously, and Sherlock feels the sharp jump of nausea, clawing up the back of his throat. "Oh, you," Moriarty trills. "You never had enough confidence in me, dear boy. You should have known," his voice goes suddenly manic and rough, "I will never let you go. Never. There isn't a rock far enough away in the world for you to hide under. You belong to me."

There is a prolonged silence, and Sherlock shuts his eyes and breathes slowly and silently through his mouth. Moriarty isn't so quiet, and Sherlock can hear lewd, ragged panting. A door slams in the background, and a male voice says something indistinct. Moriarty literally snarls, the sound moving as he must move the phone away from his face, and Sherlock hears the distinctive sound of an open-handed slap, likely across someone's face. Sherlock flinches, and Moriarty shrieks, "I told you not to bother me." Another slap. "Now get out of here before I throw you in there with him."

Moriarty puts the phone back up by his face, but takes a moment to control his rage. At last, he simpers, "So sorry for the interruption, my dear. So hard to find good help these days. As always."

"Where is John?"

"John? You mean, your broken toy soldier?"

Sherlock growls. He can't help himself. "What have you done with John?"

"Well. He's perfectly safe with me. Do you not trust me? After all these years, Sherlock. I'm so disappointed. Did I not take good care of you?" The saccharine, sing-song quality of his voice makes Sherlock's skin crawl.

Moriarty continues, apparently oblivious, "No, I haven't hurt him much. Yet. I was just hoping that I might hurry that wish along. You know. That way I get two for the price of one, don't I? And it will be so much more satisfying if he can be the cause of your return, won't it? You know, I was going to give you my address. Play a nice little game of hide and seek: I do so like to watch you dance.

"But I'm thinking I'll have some fun with your pet, first."

"Don't. Hurt him." Sherlock's chest is tight, his throat closed up, and it's an effort to say the words, an effort to infuse his voice with a growling challenge rather than a plea. The hatred, however, is easy enough to manage.

"Well now, Sherlock. You are powerless, you puling recreant. We both know that I can do whatever I want to do! Don't we? I'll just go get started now, shall I? Why don't you make yourself pretty? I'm sure you'll be popping by very soon. And Daddy does miss you so."

Sherlock has to swipe several times at the phone before he's sure the call is disconnected. He stares for a disjointed moment at his hands. They're shaking, the palms damp from fear. He lurches towards the bathroom and gets there barely in time to heave up his breakfast, clutching the cold porcelain of the bowl with desperation. Cold sweat prickles all over his body, and as he stands back up he sees himself in the mirror over the sink, sickly and pallid, with huge eyes.

Sherlock knows what Moriarty can do. He knows it. And the thought of John, helpless in his power, is as terrifying as if it were himself trapped there instead. However, he doesn't have the luxury, the capability, of wishing himself back to the lamp to save John.

Only John can wish him back.

He rinses his mouth and heads back for the living room. What shall he do? What can he do? He doesn't have the first idea where Moriarty could be.

After the first flood of panic, Sherlock remembers his newfound relative, and selects his number on the new phone. It is answered right away. "This is Mycroft."

"Mycroft." Sherlock's voice is hoarse and thin. "Moriarty has John. He has the lamp. And John."

John wakes up a bit, tossed from side to side in the van. He is disoriented, all he can discern is pain and darkness, and he has a very upsetting minute or two where he thinks he is back in Afghanistan, bleeding into the dirt, the heavy, arid dark of a moonless night blinding him. Eventually, the rattle of the van recalls him to the present, and he quits spasming against his bonds, swallows the saliva choking him, and takes personal inventory.

He's lying on a hard, cold surface, back uncomfortably arched over his aching arms. Tied hands, check. Bound feet, check. He sucks in a wheezy thread of air through his nose and regretfully notes that his mouth is still taped over. He's pretty sure there's a bag over his head, but it could just be that they've tossed him under a blanket. The hazy recollection of his fight in the alley becomes gradually more clear, and he can pinpoint the places on his head that have been struck. His stomach lurches with each sway of the van, and he is overcome with vertigo in spite of being prone. His ears buzz, and all he wants to do is go to sleep. Unfortunately, these are all signs of a robust concussion His leg throbs, but that's the only other damage.

They have pulled the zip cord on his wrists very tight, he deduces from the cold, swollen feeling of his fingers. Circulation is interrupted, which is a bad thing. His feet are not quite as critical. He listens hard, but can hear only the bump, rattle and scrape as they pass over the road. Otherwise it is quiet: not talking from the two men who attacked him, nor radio, nor any sounds of city or traffic. He surmises they have left London, which is not good news.

The passage of time is immeasurable. John manages to work the bag (or whatever) off his head and is irritated to realize that it is still dark in the van. In spite of having removed the fabric over his face, air doesn't get much fresher or easier to obtain, and he wonders glumly how likely it is that he will die from asphyxia before they ever get him to their destination. He rolls to the side to free his hands and tries to work the tie around his wrists loose, but finally stops on the judgement that he is doing more harm than good. He can't feel his hands at all, now. He optimistically gropes around, but doesn't find anything useful. Certainly not scissors or a knife. There must be a partition between him and the cab where the drivers are, as no one has commented on all his recent movement.

He slides in and out of consciousness, sluggishly grateful that the van seems to be heated. While he is noticeably cold, he comforts himself with the thought that it would be a damn sight worse in an unheated lorry or boot.

He wakes again when the vehicle jolts to a stop, skimming across the floor a foot or so to connect unpleasantly with a vertical surface. His head again, dammit. He tenses, listening hard. There is a sudden cessation of sound as the engine is turned off.

He hastily considers his options. He will kick out at whoever opens the door. If he can do that, bring them both down, (presuming one hasn't conveniently departed) then... well... He cannot run away, but he can flop around like a damn landed fish until he finds some kind of knife or blade or sharp-edged rock whereby he can cut through the ties on his hands and feet.

It is a wildly optimistic plan, and counts on so many unlikely scenarios to succeed that it amounts to little more than a wish on dandelion fluff. But it is all he's got. And now that his first burst of panic is over, he steels his resolve. He may die if he stays, so therefore it is fine if he dies trying to get away. He hears the mutter of voices outside, then the click and slide of the van door being opened.

Fucking hell, it's the door on the side behind his back: his feet are oriented in the wrong direction for kicking out. He stays limp instead, and when rough hands grab him, slams forward with all his strength, cracking his already abused head against the head of the man he privately designated Tank.

There's a muffled grunt. But John didn't have any leverage, and the blow wasn't enough to incapacitate. He is slapped, hard, on the face, wrenching his head to the side, and the night goes warm and red for a moment as his eyes spin in his head. He is dragged out of the van and slung over someone's shoulders while he's still trying to stabilize the world.

He struggles as much as he's able, but can do nothing to deter the man who carries him. He gets a gruff, "Oi! Stop it, or I'll drop you on your blooming skull, don't think I won't."

John actually doesn't think he won't, and subsides a bit, decides it wasn't helping anyway. He's brought across a wide, snowy sweep of stairs, with impressive stone columns at the top, and crosses a threshold which shows the delineation of slate flags and rich wooden floors. John cranes his neck to look around, but his view primarily consists of the thighs of the man carrying him. He sees a pie-shaped entry table set with an enormous floral arrangement, and the reflection of a chandelier in a grand mirror.

Hanging upside down makes breathing more arduous, and John dazedly watches little spatters of blood drip from the cut on the back of his head, blooming into grisly roses on wood parquet. His vision begins to darken as he struggles to breathe, air sucking with strained wet sounds through his nose. They go down a flight of stairs, through a darkened corridor, and eventually into a small room, like an emptied janitor's closet. John is dumped on the floor, and only just manages to twist to take the brunt of his weight on his hip rather than his head.

He immediately squirms to sitting, and glares up at Tank whose head is near the lintel of the door: several inches taller than Sherlock and would outweigh him by two stone, all solid muscle. He's about John's age, face rough and accustomed to presenting a blank affect. He has the posture, haircut and vigilance of a soldier.

John mumbles angrily behind the tape, telling him what a shit kidnapper he is, if he can't take care of his prisoner until he gets to his destination, and how badly he fumbled the gagging and hand-tying bits. Almost as if he understands, the man leans forward and ruthlessly snatches the tape off. John hisses involuntarily, and is fairly certain that more than one layer of skin came off with the tape. If he's lucky enough to escape, he'll be rewarded by not having to shave around his mouth for a month.

"Tired of listening to your snot," Tank says laconically. Before John can respond, he steps back and pulls the door shut; the unmistakable snick of a bolt lock echoes in the room.

John leans his head against the cold, concrete block wall and just breathes for a moment, blessed air, and with it comes awareness, and with that comes all the myriad aches and pains he's acquired since this morning. He wishes he knew what time it was. He wishes his hands were untied. He wishes he had three wishes from Sherlock, instead of just one, and could use the first to wish himself home right now. He would be an idiot if he weren't scared. John's impromptu analysis of the situation is that he's in deep shit.

He only gives himself a couple of minutes to stabilize, and then starts, painstakingly, trying to maneuver his bound hands under his arse, moving stiff legs through the small space between his elbows. He manages, finally, to bring his hands to the front, untangling them from clumsy feet, and swears to himself that if he survives this, he's going to start yoga, because a bit more flexibility would really do him good right now.

Tank left the light on, so John can see his hands just fine. They are a deep red, and numb. It will hurt like a bitch when blood starts flowing again, but no permanent damage yet. He pushes himself up against the wall and looks around.

The room is very small, perhaps one by two meters, and completely bare of furnishings; simply a floor, four walls, a door and a light switch. The ceiling overhead looks solid, so John assesses that the only egress will be the door. He eventually sits back down against the wall the door opens back to, thinking perhaps he can brace himself against the wall and slam the door on the next person to enter. It's a long shot, but he hasn't got anything else.

He waits.

And waits.

"Mycroft," Sherlock snaps into the phone, "Can you..." He chokes on his intentions for a moment, having never said these words on his own behalf, they are angular and unpleasant on his tongue: "Can you help me?"

Mycroft absorbs this with aplomb, perhaps he doesn't realize how monumental the request is. "I need more information, Sherlock. You're certain it's Moriarty? Did he contact you? How long has John been missing?"

Sherlock makes a frustrated noise and slams his hand on the back of the armchair before whirling away and stalking to the window. "I called John's phone, and Moriarty answered. We had an interesting conversation, during which he confirmed his identity and said he was holding John. He is threatening violence and refusing to give his location so that I can make a trade." His hands fist, one around the phone and the other digging crescents into his palm. "John left the house around noon."

Mycroft hums thoughtfully. "I'll get a team on it right way, Sherlock. We'll comb the CCTV footage to see where he disappeared and go from there. We did record the man who came to Baker Street last night, but he wore a cap and a heavy coat: there's not much to be learned there. I'll have screen shots delivered to you very soon."

Sherlock ends the call and slips the phone into an inner jacket pocket. Nervous energy has him pacing, he's been doing it for what seems like hours. Around the chairs. Over the coffee table. Looping into the kitchen; which makes him feel very stressed, because John isn't there making tea. Back to the windows to look outside and see if anything has changed.

He sits aggressively on the sofa and scrubs his hands through his hair, perhaps with the notion of brushing away the energy and tension. The low table in front of him holds both letters from Moriarty, the first one and the one from yesterday. He takes deep, meditative breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. He has to concentrate. He has to focus and defer his emotional response if he's going to help John. So Sherlock spends some time breathing, taking the feelings of fear, and anger, and hopelessness and folding them away, storing them in a closet in his head. They won't help.

When he's calm, he looks at the letters again. The first one is short and to the point.

"Dearest Sherlock,

It's been too, too long, don't you think? I've missed you so, my Fractious little Slave. One can only Hope that you've spent the Interim learning some Discipline. I had some things around that you Left behind all those Years ago, and I thought I'd trade them for something you have of Mine.

See you. Very Soon."

Moriarty was the only Master who'd specifically referred to him as Slave, and Sherlock grinds his teeth; his stomach roils with emotions until he carefully pushes the feelings away, divorces himself from them. This, he learned to do because of Moriarty, after all, and he doesn't overlook the irony that he needs that skill again now.

Suddenly Sherlock regrets his time with John, the cracks that have developed in the armor he had developed out of necessity in his life as a genie. Now is not the time to feel human, with soft, bruisable tissue and delicate feelings. He must be a machine. An automaton. He will survive, he will get vengeance, and he will. get. John. back.

There are no clues to be garnered from the letters. They are merely evidence that Moriarty is as unbalanced, vicious and obsessive as he ever was. Sherlock's fingers have knotted his hair, and he realizes that he's pulling on it frantically; perhaps the pain will distract him from his frustration.

Some time later, Sherlock scoops up his phone, wraps his scarf around his neck, pulls on soft leather gloves, and bundles up in his coat. He leaves the house in a swirl of determination, pausing to poke his head in Mrs. Hudson's door and tell her that John is missing and not to let anyone in nor answer the door. He shuts the door on her questions and pockets the key, heading for the Tesco John had mentioned. He'll go crazy waiting on Moriarty to call and taunt him, and Mycroft can surely contact him if he uncovers actionable information. Meanwhile, there may be some clues along John's last route.

The walk is calming, and he welcomes the stinging cold, the biting wind, the freezing dribble of melting snow on his forehead and down his neck: it allows him to externalize. His eyes dart around the street, cataloging everyone, everything, any possibilities, anything that stands out. This time, the changes in the modern world don't intrigue him, he merely notes them and moves on.

Sherlock catches a little flurry of excitement in a narrow alleyway near the Tesco Express, and heads immediately for it. There are three ratty, homeless children clustered against the wall several meters inside the darkened entrance. Sherlock notes with surprise that dusk has fallen, and he has to strain a bit to take in what light there is. The street lamps have been on all day, due to the snow, but don't penetrate too deeply into the narrow alleyway.

"Hello," he says, stalking over to the group. The tallest, a rather mangy boy dressed in little more than layers of hoodies, bolts immediately, but Sherlock is ready, and collars him neatly. He grabs the girl by her braids, and the youngest child stands nervously just out of reach, finger in its mouth. Sherlock eyes the spilled groceries from the Tesco bags. Milk, tea, biscuits, eggs. The kind of things John had headed out to get.

The boy is struggling against his grip, so Sherlock gives him a little shake. "I'm not going to hurt you, and I have no intention of getting you in trouble. If you will stay still long enough, I can give you some reparation for your time and information."

The boy stops and stares suspiciously up at him. His skin is bleached with cold, but freckles stand out clearly, and short pale lashes surround sharply clever eyes. "Wot information ye want, then?" he asks.

Sherlock nods and releases his grip on both the older children. They immediately step out of reach, which he cannot blame them for, and shows evidence of their intelligence indeed. He puts his hands in his pockets and stares levelly back at them, nodding his head towards the bags on the pavement. "A friend of mine," he begins, "left to go shopping earlier today, and he's since been kidnapped." He saw no reason to pull his punches or blunt the story, these were clearly street children, and he knew this would not be the worst tale of woe they'd come across. "You may take the shopping, of course, since you found it fairly. But I'd like to know if you've seen anything that could help me find my friend? Strangers? A fight? Unusual vehicles?"

While the children confer, Sherlock examines the alley. It's narrow enough that only one car at a time can fit through, and there's a skip inset only a few meters further down. The snow has lightened up since the afternoon, and Sherlock can discern tyre tracks. They are dusted with new snow, but still sunk at a lower level than the snow around them, and darker, because the tracks under them packed the snow into a clear ice, the blackened stone bleeding through. Sherlock brushes away the fresh snow with a delicate touch, but there's nothing he can learn from the tracks except that the vehicle pulled in past the skip, came to a stop, and then reversed back out. It hadn't been parked there too long, as both forward and reverse tracks have the same amount of snowfall in them.

There are faint marks leading from the tyre tracks to the skip, and Sherlock squints in the dim purple aura of twilight. The kids come up, holding the groceries, and Sherlock gestures them back, rising from his squat and turning around. "Anything?" he asks calmly.

The leader shakes his head. "Sorry, sir. The milk's mostly frozen, so they must've been 'ere for a while, yeah? We only got here 5 minutes agone."

Sherlock reaches into his pocket and pulls out a few pounds and a couple jewels. "What's your name?"

"Wiggins, sir."

Sherlock nods at him. "Wiggins. You've been helpful nonetheless. For your trouble," he hands over the notes and the stones.

Wiggins looks at the stones in his hands. "Cor, wot's this?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Jewels. You can pawn them, can you not?"

Wiggins grins, and his crooked teeth shine in the gloom. "Sure I can. Thank you sir. Can we do anything else for you?"

Sherlock looks at the three bright, interested faces, and schemes flow through his mind like a river. Having connections with the homeless underworld would not be a bad thing in the future, if he is able to track down Moriarty and subsequently begin on a real life. "I live at 221B Baker Street," he says. "If you remember something, learn any details about the kidnapping, or hear the name Moriarty, then please come around. Otherwise, stop by next week, I might have something else for you."

The kids grab their bags and scurry off, and Sherlock crouches again, tracing marks of a struggle to the back corner of the skip. Sifting through the snow, he finds evidence of blood, but has no way of discerning if it's John's or one of his assailants' (two, he can tell from the shuffling line heading for the vehicle marks). The volume is not significant, so he is not too worried, although it is not a good portent for the hours that have followed.

Having exhausted what he can learn from the alley, he hurries back to the flat. Time to see if Mycroft has found anything. Or if there has been another message from Moriarty.

His phone rings as he enters the sitting room, and he stares at the screen. Mycroft Holmes. He swipes cautiously, and holds it to his ear. "Yes," he says.

"Sherlock, we tried John's phone, but unfortunately, the GPS feature seems to have been disabled. We have been able to trace John's path to Tesco and back about half a block before we lost him."

"An alley with a skip, yes," Sherlock says curtly. "Likely some kind of van. Two assailants. John was lured in there: they must have called out, perhaps pretending a mugging or an altercation. Knowing John's morals, he would have responded to strangers in distress. He set the grocery bags down near the entrance of the alleyway and snuck along the wall until he rounded the skip. There he was attacked by two men. John was overpowered after a struggle and dragged between them and thrown in the vehicle, which then departed from the way it came, without turning around."

There is silence from the other end of the line. "Ahem. Perhaps," Mycroft sounds uncomfortable. "You ascertained these details in person, I assume?"

"Indeed. I retraced John's steps and found the abandoned groceries. The snow is not yet so deep that it covers all evidence of the scuffle. What do you have to add to it?"

"A white van, two men in the front, no windows, tag obscured with mud (deliberate). We're tracing its route now, and best guess is that it headed out of town. Isolating the van, however, will be a tedious process and will take another hour, at best."

Sherlock growls. "I fear we cannot take too many hours, Mycroft." The familiar name slips out and sounds odd, in this modern era. Sherlock is suddenly lost in a tangled web of past and present and all the miserable, blurred years in between. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and then lets it stream silently out. "I have every reason to believe that Moriarty's threats are genuine. He... is not patient."

Mycroft doesn't have anything very encouraging to say in response to this, and rings off with the promise to call back as soon as they have more information.

Sherlock sinks to the sofa and curls up, facing the cushions on the back. He closes his eyes and blanks his mind against the memories of what Moriarty could do. He won't think of it. Can't think of it.

There's a timid knock at the door, and Mrs. Hudson's thin voice carries through. "Sherlock? Dear? Have you found John yet?" The door opens, and Mrs. Hudson's sensible heels tap as she crosses the room. There's the thunk of a tray set on the coffee table, and the cushions dip when she sits near his knees. A wrinkled hand pats him sympathetically on the thigh, "Oh, dear, Sherlock. Try not to take on, so. I'm sure John will be back soon."

Sherlock is inclined to twitch himself free, but remains rigid instead. He says nothing.

"He seems like a very responsible and determined young man. Smart, too. He'll be fine, Sherlock. Home before you know it." The hand continues to pat.

Sherlock jets upright and swings around to face the gentle landlady. He brusquely indicates the bruising on his face from the club fight. "There were five of them then, Mrs. Hudson. One of whom you actually let into this flat! I would say they certainly have the advantage. I do not even know where they've taken him or what condition he is in." His voice rises unacceptably as he speaks, and he cuts himself off abruptly.

Mrs. Hudson cringes guiltily for a moment and stares at her hands. "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I feel simply dreadful over it." Sherlock dismisses her apology with a shrug of one shoulder that implies that he's not going to hold a grudge. Mrs. Hudson gives him a hesitant smile and delicately brushes the contusion on his temple. "He's a soldier, dear, don't forget." But she doesn't have anything else to add to that, so simply directs him to the tray. A mug of tea steams invitingly, but the plate of lasagna makes him feel queasy. He picks up the tea and holds it tightly between his hands. "Thank you," he says. It comes out sour and reluctant.

She leaves after that, quiet and unassuming, and he's relieved when the door clicks shut behind her. Clutching the tea, he drifts to the window, looking down on the darkened street. There is nothing he can do now except wait.

The tea is too sweet, and doesn't have enough milk, and Sherlock misses John fiercely.