Panthera Pardus

Chapter 11: A Little Help

"Grab the paddles!" John heard, but it sounded muffled, as though his head was wrapped in cotton balls. "You're not allowed to die, Johnny boy!"

John arched against the stiff bed as electricity slammed through his body, kick starting his heart and making sure he couldn't slip away from this torturous hell. Sweat dripped from his brow and his breaths came in sharp pants. His entire body ached. Moriarty's description of acid running through the veins wasn't that far off. John panted as he tried to control his body, but soon gave up. It was remarkable how dignity and integrity went out the window when one was in immense pain.

A smooth cool hand gripped John's arm tightly, though the pain lancing through his veins overrode everything else. "You're not getting out of this that easily," Moriarty's voice growled into his ear. "I will resurrect your dead body if necessary. However you will not like it if I do."

The tight grip left John's bicep and John sank back against the bed as he gasped for air. His heart rate was up and he couldn't escape the pain no matter which way he turned. "Sir," a second voice said from the other side of John's bed. "We need to lower his pain levels. It's disrupting the transfusion. He won't survive it if his heart gives out from the stress of the pain."

John could hear Moriarty let out an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, do it, but only just enough to lower his pain levels so that the transfusion won't be endangered."

A shuffling sound was heard and then silence as the attendant pushed the pain killer into John's IV. A minute later, John could feel it working. He recognized it as morphine from how it was working and how quickly it spread. Thankfully, the pain lessened. His body sank, sweat soaked, down onto the bed. His breathing slowed and he felt a lassitude sweep over him. While the pain hadn't disappeared completely, it was more tolerable now.

John let himself relax for a while. His muscles were stiff and aching, add that to the fire that raced through his veins, he'd had one hell of a day. Or at least he thought it had only been a day. He couldn't honestly say for sure. It could be longer or it could have only been a few hours. Pain did that to a person, warped their sense of time.

He rested while he could. He had no doubt that Moriarty would let the pain climb into intolerable levels again before allowing another dose of morphine. He only hoped that Sherlock would come before then. Please, Sherlock! Don't leave me here! he pleaded internally. The fear of being left, again, swelled over him, leaving him panting again. Flashbacks of coming home as a ten-year-old boy danced before him. He could still remember walking into the tiny kitchen, it's walls painted a pale yellow, to find his mother, face in her hands as she cried. Her completely desolate sobs made him want to cry as well, but he'd remained strong, going over to comfort her. When he'd asked what was wrong, she'd told him that his father had left. He'd asked when his dad was coming back, but she'd only sobbed harder. John had learned that day to guard his heart well, because even those you loved and who loved you, could still hurt you.

He felt a sense of dread sweep over him then, and he tried to fight it off, but couldn't. His chest felt constricted, and he clenched his hands in the sheet to give himself something to anchor him. Sherlock wouldn't leave him. The man was too possessive. But what if…? a small part of John's brain asked. No, Sherlock would come. He had to come.

"Sir," Anthea's calm voice addressed Mycroft Holmes as she proffered a manila envelope.

Mycroft reached across his desk and took the envelope, sending a thankful wave in his assistant's direction before she exited once more, her nose buried in her Blackberry. The soft sounds of paper flicking was all that could be heard for a few long minutes before Mycroft opened the envelope. He knew what was inside, but it was still nice to have the concrete proof in his hands. There, staring back at him, was a somewhat blurry set of photos taken at around half past two this morning. The black and white CCTV photos focused on a figure exiting a building through a side window. The figure was small and had a long bushy tail. A squirrel.

Normally, Mycroft wouldn't be bothered by a squirrel infiltrating a boarded up factory building. However, as was evident in the other photos, this was no ordinary squirrel. The next photo showed that the squirrel had stopped in the alleyway, and seemed to be larger than the previous picture. The next image showed a figure half morphed between human and squirrel, followed by a photo of a lean willowy woman with dark hair just past her shoulders. She was in profile to the camera though the slight blur in the photo helped to protect her modesty.

The next image showed the woman waving at the camera, before she morphed again, this time into a fox that scurried out of frame in the next few pictures. There was no doubt that the woman had deliberately revealed herself to the camera. The question was, why? Mycroft flipped back through the photos. The woman had a unique talent. She could shift between multiple forms. Most shifters he had heard of could only shift to one form. He'd heard of individuals, while he was in Afghanistan assisting his parents, who could shift to multiple forms, but had never found any proof. He'd thought the stories to be just myth.

However, here in his hands, he held definitive evidence that these individuals existed. He had so many questions for this woman. Were these her only forms? Or could she shift to more? Were there limitations? And then there was the big question, could she shift into other people? Mycroft sighed as he ran a hand through his thinning hair. This woman obviously wanted his attention; well she had it. He flipped to the last paper that came in the envelope. This one held text with a small picture of the same woman from the CCTV photos. His team had managed to find her information based on the grainy pictures. He would have to remember to give them a bonus in their next paycheck.

The woman's name was Irene Adler. She held a permanent address in Westminster, but hadn't returned there since her appearance on CCTV footage. Which begged the question, what did she want? Mycroft set the sheet of paper down and loosened his tie before picking up his short tumbler with two fingers of fourteen-year-old scotch on the rocks. He tipped back a mouthful, the ice clinking against the glass. Teams had already been assigned around the clock watches of CCTV cameras as well as a couple dozen pairs of his people patrolling the streets. There was little else to be done until either Ms. Adler was found or she made contact again.

Turning back to the front on John Watson, Sherlock had been in touch. Unusual for him, but shifters did weird things when their mates were in jeopardy. Mycroft could attest to this. A few weeks ago, Greg had been hit in the head with the butt of a gun by a perpetrator and ended up in the hospital for stitches. When Mycroft had heard, he'd dropped what he'd been holding (including a glass of brandy that he'd been sharing with the Prime Minister's wife) and charged out the door to make sure his mate was okay. Sherlock, in comparison, was actually doing a little better. Aside from driving Mrs. Hudson up the wall with his nocturnal pursuits, he hadn't really done anything different than if he working on a particularly vexing case.

Not to suggest John's disappearance wasn't more than just a case. Mycroft was merely commenting on the fact that his brother seemed to be holding it together rather well considering the circumstances. However he suspected that would not be the case should the situation last any longer than it already had. John Watson needed to be found, and fast.

Sherlock stared at the note for a long while before setting it back down on the table. The handwritten message had been delivered while he'd been out gathering information from his homeless network. It wasn't stamped or postmarked, meaning someone had dropped it off personally. Written on a heavy sheet of pale parchment, the note was written in neat tidy cursive that looked to be a woman's hand. The fierce way the T's were crossed and the I's dotted, made Sherlock think that this woman was a confident person and very much an A type personality.

Glancing back down at it, he let his eyes roam over the words again even though he'd memorized it after the first reading.

Quite a predicament you've gotten yourself into. Should you like some pointers, I'd be glad to oblige… for a nominal fee of course. Meet me at Queen Mary's Gardens in Regent's Park at dusk.

IA

Sherlock glanced up at the clock on the mantle once more, noting that it was getting on toward half past six. The sun would be setting any moment now. He wasn't quite ready to admit that he needed help, but then his mind shifted to John. A low inhuman growl slipped past his lips as he thought of what Moriarty could be doing to his bondmate and he rose from the kitchen chair with such force that it tipped over backwards with a clatter.

The detective didn't bother to pick it up before grabbing his coat and scarf from the rack beside the door and marching out the door. Regent's Park was only a ten-minute walk from the flat, and Queen Mary's Garden, near the center, only fifteen minutes more. When he arrived, there was no one insight. The garden was calm and still in the late evening shadows, almost ready to sleep for the night. An owl hooted from a nearby tree and Sherlock glanced up in time to see it take flight. The bird swooped down from its branch and landed on the seat of a bench not ten feet away.

He gave the owl a curious look. Usually birds didn't sit on benches. However his eyes widened as the bird quickly began to grow and morph into something else. Short scaly legs became long, slender, and smooth. Grey and white banded wings became willowy arms. A fierce raptor gaze became a calculating look from sly brown eyes. Before him, where an owl had stood, now sat a curvy beautiful brunette woman. A coquette smile graced her face as she crossed her legs and folded her arms over her bare chest. "A proper gentleman would offer a lady his coat," she remarked casually.

"A proper lady wouldn't be caught out in naught but what mother nature gave her," the dark haired detective retorted as he slipped off his heavy wool coat and handed it to the woman.

She stood and slid the warm coat on over her shoulders, wrapping it around her middle and seeming to enjoy the feel of the silk lining against her bare skin. Coy brown eyes looked up at Sherlock and her bright red lips grinned again. "I like you, Mr. Holmes," she began as she sat down again.

"It would seem you have the upper hand on me."

"Indeed," her eyes traveled down his lean form, exposed now that his coat wasn't blocking. "Irene Adler," she introduced herself finally. "We only have a few minutes, because I'm quite sure your brother has sent a patrol of his finest to obtain me."

"Then be quick," Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at her. A feeling of annoyance was quickly rising.

"If you wish," she nodded. "I can tell you where to find your bondmate. Or at least where James Moriarty would be most likely to hold him. He does have quite a few residences, you know, so one can never be certain."

"However?" Sherlock saw where this was going. She would want payment for her information.

"However, as I said in my note, I would charge a nominal fee for such information. After all, it could mean my skin should certain people find out that I've betrayed their confidence."

"Name your price."

"A new identity, and safe passage to Canada."

"You think Moriarty can't reach you there? I doubt it. And what makes you think I could grant you such things?"

"Your brother," she smiled. "As much as I know you loathe asking him for favors, I suspect that you'd do just about anything to get your bondmate back. As for Moriarty, his reach is quite long, I know. However it is not quite as strong where I plan on going."

"You may be the first person I've met who knows entirely too much for their own well-being, Ms. Adler."

The woman shrugged. "A hazard of who I am."

"And just who are you?"

"Someone who can help you, Mr. Holmes. I suggest you decide quickly, because your brother's men are walking up the path now," she nodded behind Sherlock.

"Fine, yes," he grumbled. "I will do my utmost to ensure Mycroft gives you what you want."

She smiled once again. "You will receive the information you need as soon as I am on my way across the ocean."

At that moment, a man in dark sunglasses and wearing a suite sidled up next to them and firmly grasped Irene's arm, pulling her up. "If you'll come with us, Ms. Adler."

Two other men closed ranks around her as well. Sherlock, a furious look on his face, stood his ground in front of them. "Tell me what I need to know," he said calmly, despite his appearance.

"Just as soon as I'm safe."

Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out his mobile, hitting the buttons viciously until he came to Mycroft's number. His brother answered on the second ring. "Brother, dear. What can I do for you?"

"Irene Adler. You will give her what she wants."

"That would depend on what she wants, Sherlock."

"She will tell us what we need to know to get John back."

Silence filled the line for a moment and Sherlock knew his brother was thinking of his own mate. "Yes, of course, Sherlock," Mycroft said quietly. "You will have your mate back."

"Thank you, Mycroft," Sherlock replied before ending the call. "You will have what you want," he addressed Irene Adler.

"And so shall you."

"If John is hurt when I find him, and if I find that it was your delay that caused him that pain, there will be no safe place for you," he growled as Mycroft's men started to move away.

"Just remember if that should happen, that you might not have found him at all without my help," she replied walking along to a black sedan parked on the edge of the park.

Sherlock merely glowered at her as she was led away. Soon, he would have John back soon.

A/N: My deepest apologies for how long it took to update. However I have had quite a bit going on during the past month. I finished and won Camp NaNoWriMo, I am waist deep in wedding plans for a friend, I got my wisdom teeth (yes all four) out, and I have two other weddings to help with, and I'm still getting over some kind of illness. Dunno what it was, but we're talking violently sick here. Kill me now…

But no really. I do enjoy writing this story and reading your reactions. I pretty much know how this is going to turn out, so hopefully it won't take so long for the next update.