Panthera Pardus

Chapter 12: False Leads

John Watson had never been an extremely religious sort. Sure, he'd gone to church with his mother, father, and sister. That was until his father decided to leave, and his sister stopped caring, and he figured out that the preacher was talking about his sister when he talked about sinners going straight to hell. After that, the Catholic Church hadn't held much appeal. He'd even looked into alternative religions, trying to see if he fit in somewhere. However he'd never really found comfort in religion.

Every man has a breaking point though. And when that threshold his broken, and the wish for death is all one can think about as an alternative to what he's going through, a man finds out just what kind of person he is. For John, he found out that he was the sort to beg. He begged Moriarty to stop. He begged Sherlock to come. He begged God, Allah, Buddah, Yahweh, Zeus, Odin, Vishnu, Osiris to just let him die. He begged his mother to forgive him for running off to the army when he turned eighteen. He begged Moriarty to just be done with it. To which the response he received was just a low chuckle and, "Soon, Johnny boy, soon."

The burning intensity flowing through his veins kicked up a notch and John arched up against the bed. His hands and feet were shackled, but the rest of him was free to move about. He pulled and raged against the restraints to no effect. The thick leather cuffs held him immobile. Fire licked his skin and acid burned his veins. He couldn't breath properly and he felt his vision begin to tunnel. However at that moment sweet relief came. A calm hand pressed down on his shoulder and John could feel something flood his system through the IV. Another dose of morphine probably.

"The bonding agent has been deployed, sir," the owner of the calm hand said. "The blood transformation is almost finished."

"Good, now it'll only be a matter of time."

"Sir, if you don't mind my asking, how do you plan to force him to transform?"

A low chuckle filled the small room. "I have methods of persuasion."

"Yes, sir."

And that was all John heard before he drifted off, blackness swallowing him up and consuming him whole.

It took approximately eight hours before Irene Adler was safely on board a plane headed for Canada. Sherlock had to admit that she had played her hand well by calling on Mycroft before coming to meet with him. It forced Sherlock to do as she asked if he wanted her information. From what he'd learned since then, Irene Adler had actually only dealt with Jim Moriarty on a few occasions. He'd given her information on how to blackmail people, and she'd given him inside information once she was able to get close to her target.

However unlike, Moriarty, Irene seemed to have some sort of a moral compass. She wanted to be done with the man, and was willing to turn traitor against him. Fortunately for Sherlock, it benefited him and allowed him a chance to get his bondmate back. A surge of adrenaline shot through him at the thought being so close. As soon as Irene had given them her intel, Sherlock had boarded a private jet (provided by Mycroft, of course) and started making his way to Dublin. He'd suspected that Moriarty would return to his home base, so to speak. There hadn't been any definitive proof though, and Mycroft had held Sherlock back until there was some.

Now, the small plane was descending towards Dublin International Airport, and Sherlock was anxious to get moving. The small band of men that his brother had sent along with adjusted their gear and made ready to leave as soon as the plane came to a stop. Sherlock disliked planes; the small cramped spaces were noisy and not conducive to thinking. However necessity demanded he travel as quickly as possible and Mycroft Holmes' personal jet was the quickest way to get to John.

The plane landed smoothly and little preamble, made it's way to a private hanger where they were to unload. Despite how much Sherlock wanted to just run to Moriarty's safe house, he knew that things needed to be done a certain way so that John wouldn't be hurt any more than he already had been.

Soon enough, they were traveling through the congested city streets and parking a few blocks away from their target. Sherlock moved seamlessly with Mycroft's operatives, following their unspoken hand signals and making his way toward the back door of a two and a half story building that looked to have been abandoned except for the heavy locks and nearly invisible cameras positioned discreetly.

John was in here. Sherlock felt certain that somewhere in this house, his bondmate lay waiting for him. The cameras would surely be monitored, and they seemed to cover every inch of the house. A silent hand signal from the lead operative indicated for Sherlock to stay where he was. The detective nodded and watched as the man moved stealthily towards the house, using the brush for cover. Once he was close enough, he pointed a gun of some type towards the camera covering the back door. A low buzzing filled Sherlock's ears and sparks came from the camera as well as the one on the other side of the door. Quick hand signals and marching feet followed and Sherlock moved with the other four men as they broke down the door and spread out to cover the house. Sherlock waited for all of two minutes until the all clear was called out before running up the stairs towards the smell of John. He was here; he had to be! The dark haired detective burst into an upstairs bedroom and halted, his long dark coat swirling forward at the abrupt stop.

In the room, was John's sweater. Spots of blood spattered across the cable knit creamy wool, but there was no John. Instead, a video display playing in a loop had been set up showing John shackled to a bed. His trembling form was covered in sweat and his body was jerking and arching at painful angles. Sherlock didn't realize how tense he had become or that his nails were biting into his palms until one of Mycroft's operatives found him. "Sir?" he asked hesitantly.

Sherlock swirled away from the display. "He's not here. How could he not be here?" the dark haired detective growled, his eyes flashing.

The operative held out a folded over piece of parchment. "We found it in the front entry way," he said simply.

Sherlock took the parchment and unfolded it. Inside, Jim Moriarty's neat script flowed across the paper in dark loopy ink lines.

Tut tut, Sherlock. You should have know that I wouldn't keep him here. Yes I knew of Ms. Adler's plans to betray me. Rest assured that she will be dealt with. But really, I expected more of you. Now it is too late. Your bondmate is mine. He will make a fine addition to my collection.

I don't expect you'll stop looking, and I would be quite disappointed if you didn't find him eventually. Just know that he will never be yours again. I've found that I rather enjoy having him around as a pet. I suppose I see the appeal you saw in him. Having a pet can be great fun. Don't worry, I'll take good care of him.

Do take care,

JM

Sherlock's gloved hands were trembling. If it weren't for the fact that the parchment may hold clues on where Moriarty was keeping John, it would already be torn up and tossed to the ground. However, he instead passed it back to the lead operative who appeared to be considering whether he would have to defend himself from the younger Holmes. "Get this to my brother," Sherlock gritted out from clenched teeth.

A shiver stole through his frame as he then turned and bent to retrieve John's sweater. He held it close to his face, inhaling the smell of gunpowder, tea, and Old Spice body wash. The scent was fading, but still distinctly John. However there was a discrepancy. Sherlock frowned at the sweater for a moment before shoving his nose back in amongst the bloodstains. Right… THERE! There was a faint smell like that of crushed grain. It was earthy and reminded Sherlock of when the maid would bake bread on Saturday mornings.

He peered closely at the wool to see a fine tan powder blending in with the cream material. Carefully, he licked at it. He stood still for a few seconds before turning on his heel and marching out the door. "Quickly, I need a lab!" he called back to the lead operative.

Tests… he needed tests. This powder was crushed grain of some kind. Determining what kind it was and if there was any discrepancies in the coarseness or chemical make-up could lead them to where John was. However they would need to move quickly.

A/N: Another short chapter, but very enlightening. Hopefully I'll be able to update next weekend sometime as well. Will be going on a trip, but the hotel should have internet. Thanks for continuing to put up with me and my irregular updates! I love you guys!