Chapter 4 – Evil Has A Name
Warnings: rather graphic torture, unpleasant!Mycroft (I'm not sure I'd call him evil but usually he's always rather nice in fics… not in this one, though, sorry. Consider yourselves warned!)
Notes: You will recognize several quotes from all over both seasons.
Also, this is my favourite chapter... it's quite the ride, so you better hold onto something :)
xXx
They manage to hold the SAS at bay long enough to bolt a door and retreat. John would rather call it "fleeing", though, he muses as he and his men filter into the streets of London at dusk.
The Reformists regroup and for the first time John grasps how strong their forces truly are. He feels his hopes grow stronger but can't help thinking of blue eyes and wonder if they are still shining with life.
xXx
Reports fly in from all colonies: the people are taking up arms and rebelling against the status quo now that civil war is raging in the heart of the Empire.
They are not losing but they are not winning either, Bhabha and Thoreau and Adler keeping the spirits high along with the leader of the students' movement. The Thames is separating them from the Traditionalists in the South, but every day more omegas and Betas cross the river – if they survive the escape – and join their ranks.
The real war rages underground in the Tube tunnels.
It is there that John and his team are cornered, surrounded by the SAS. Their mission was top secret. This shouldn't be happening.
When John recognises their leader, a tall woman named Anthea, directly accountable to Mycroft Holmes himself, he knows they are in more trouble than he previously thought.
"No one needs to die here," she calls out. "We only want Captain Watson. The rest of you can leave their weapons behind and go."
John swallows, then glances at Lubitsch and Wilder.
"Go," he orders.
"But Captain -" Lubitsch starts but John doesn't let him finish.
"That's an order."
One by one, his men put their guns on the ground and are allowed to leave, undeterred. When every last one of them is gone, Anthea draws a different gun – tranquilliser, John's mind supplies – and takes aim.
John blacks out before he hits the floor.
xXx
When he wakes up, his neck is hurting. He moves to massage it but can't; his wrists and feet are bound to a chair. Whoever did it knew what they were doing; John quickly realises he has no chance to escape the ropes.
His surroundings tell him nothing more than what he already knew – he is somewhere underground, on the other side of the Thames.
A key rustles and the door swings open to reveal Anthea, flanked by two men, all three of them armed.
"Finally he's in the land of the living."
They cut his ropes but replace them with handcuffs and guide him out of the room. That they don't bother with a blindfold tells John enough about how tight their security is to not try anything right away. He simply follows, an eerie calm settling over him.
They ride an elevator to a higher floor. A hotel, John realises, as he follows Anthea into a foyer, the two men behind him.
The brightness of the room hurts his eyes at first, so it takes him a while to see Mycroft Holmes standing in front of an empty chair, umbrella in hand. Mycroft Holmes always carries an umbrella and no one knows why.
There are more people in the room - John recognises several high-ranking officials, a room so full of Alphas that their scent drowns out the odour of the hotel. Something pulls at the edges of John's mind while the goons push him onward and his eyes wander until they find piercing blue ones, staring at him.
Sherlock Holmes, inscrutable mask tightly in place, is standing behind the major group of people. John's heart clenches as his look falls on the bruise on Sherlock's cheek bone and the collar around his neck.
Anger boils hot inside him but there is nothing he can do, it isn't safe, so he schools his expression as he faces Mycroft, whose smirk is way beyond pleased.
"Have a seat, John."
"I'd rather stand," he counters but Mycroft merely chuckles and motions to the goons behind him. Gloved arms grab his shoulders and force him down onto the chair.
"You don't seem very afraid." Mycroft's eyes are a cold grey, John notices.
"You don't seem very frightening."
This time, Mycroft actually laughs.
"Ah, yes. The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"
John doesn't rise to the bait. He feels Sherlock's eyes on him and when he concentrates, he can smell a hint of his spicy-sweet scent underneath all the other sensations in the room.
"But let's not focus on simple semantics, John. You're surely wondering why you're here."
John cocks his head. "I'd guess you want information."
Mycroft gives him an appreciative smile.
"Indeed. What can you tell us about the new Reformist base of operation?"
This time, it is John's turn to laugh. "You honestly believe I will give you the blueprints and our whereabouts, just like that?"
"Sadly, no. But I can be very persuasive."
"I doubt that."
"Your loyalty is touching." Mycroft turns away after that and confers with Anthea, who leaves the room.
John isn't worried. He knows pain, has experienced too much of it to care. Pain passes, eventually. He glances across the room at Sherlock, takes in the collar and his daunt expression like he hasn't been sleeping well enough, and knows he has to protect his brothers in arms if he wants to see all collars banished from the face of the Empire.
Mycroft notices his glance, however brief it was.
"Yes, of course. You two met, I take it?"
"Briefly," John replies, not sure what Sherlock told his brother about his time with his captors.
"Sherlock, come here," Mycroft orders lazily. When his brother doesn't comply, he barks out, "Now!" and someone standing next to Sherlock pushes him forward.
The man looks completely out of place, stopping a few feet from Mycroft like a slave is taught to do. But there is still a fire in his eyes that soothes something in John, proof that Mycroft may have taught Sherlock new tricks but has in no way broken him.
"Sherlock here told me all about his time with you. I must say, letting Sherlock live through his first heat on his own is cruel even by Reformist standards, but then my brother can be quite stubborn and you probably didn't want to add rape to your kidnapping charges."
John isn't surprised that Sherlock failed to mention the details of their encounter and he replies without missing a beat. "Well, we respect every person's decisions, no matter their status."
"All this idealist talk is starting to bore me."
He waves dismissively at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes but does as he is told, and John could swear the corners of his mouth are curling up, as if to mock his brother for buying into Sherlock's obedience.
Anthea is back, a new soldier in tow with a brutal face and a sadistic grin in place.
John doesn't know how much time passes – everything is a blur of pain. They start with electroshocks but soon stop when they realise John isn't talking. They dip his chair back after that, pouring buckets of water onto his face and forcibly hold his mouth open. John never liked swimming and swears never to dive into a pool ever again while he is trying to catch his breath with Anthea firing questions at him.
Everyone else has gone; John didn't take Mycroft for a man to watch his minions torture people anyway.
"You ready to talk yet?" Anthea asks, sounding amused.
John shakes his head and they dip his chair back again.
The sun has gone down when they set the water buckets aside and go for his fingernails. They don't pull anything out – too barbaric for the civilised Empire, John muses – but the pain is worse than anything he ever imagined.
He shakes his head again and again until he feels hands rip open his shirt. Anthea pushes it back enough to expose his chest and stomach and suddenly John is fully aware of the small flame thrower in the new soldier's hands. They are heating a piece of iron which, John can only guess, bears the seal of the Empire.
As the hot iron burns his skin right above his heart, John screams for the first time that day.
xXx
They take him underground after that, bind his wrists and hang him up on them against the wall. Palestinian Crucifixion, his brain supplies belatedly. He is already exhausted, can hardly stand up, and when he falls asleep he will fall forward, putting all his weight on his shoulders.
He forces himself to stay awake but it is a lost battle. There is pain everywhere, each movement hurts and his body yearns to pass out until John can't hold his eyes open any longer.
Hands are on his shoulders, a voice whispers "John!" and he jolts awake, then cries out in pain as he feels the strain in his shoulders, the wound on his chest throbbing.
He blinks, can make out a man standing in front of him in the dark light of the cell. Blue eyes meet his and his heart leaps despite his confusion.
"Sherlock?"
"Keep quiet! I couldn't put too many sleeping pills in the guards' drinks."
"What?" he wants to ask but then he feels the rim of a bottle against his lips.
"Drink," Sherlock urges him and John does, small sips because his throat is hurting too much to swallow more. He drains the entire bottle anyway.
"Open your mouth," Sherlock murmurs and John obeys, tastes what appears to be a sandwich and bites down eagerly.
"Why are you doing this?" he rasps when half the sandwich is gone and his stomach starts to complain because of the strain.
"You have to stay quiet," is all he receives in answer and Sherlock holds the food up again.
John shakes his head. "I can't, no more."
Sherlock nods and puts the sandwich away, then turns and meets John's eyes. His look is still distant but the corners of his eyes are softer now and John wants to drown in the bright blue. He draws a deep breath and inhales Sherlock's scent, lets it fill him, soothe him.
"Sherlock," he begins, but a finger against his lips silences him.
"Shh. I'm working on a plan. Hold on a little longer – will you do this for me?"
John's thoughts are tripping over each other but he has enough presence of mind to nod. Sherlock withdraws his fingers and makes to leave, yet he pauses at the door. His feet carry him to John again, closer this time, incredibly close, before Sherlock places his lips above John's in a chaste kiss.
John's mouth parts and captures Sherlock's bottom lip between his before they draw apart again. He hears the door close silently behind him.
xXx
John loses all sense of time.
Only Sherlock's nightly visits hint at the hours that have passed, at how many days John has spent in that hotel, with barely enough food to keep him alive and the minimum of water. The food Sherlock sneaks in helps him hold onto his wits, so he still notices things.
Like Mycroft growing more and more impatient with him because he still hasn't talked.
It is day five when Mycroft enters the chamber, John shivering and wet from the water and the electroshocks that filled the hours of the day.
"John, John, John," he sighs and draws up a chair to sit down next to him. "I'm very disappointed in you. This amount of loyalty is not healthy."
John merely raises an eyebrow – not that he has the strength to do more than that anyway.
"I hate to say this but you leave me no other choice. We're going to execute you."
John's head snaps up, sending jolts of pain down his spine. He narrows his eyes at the man in disbelief. Executing an Alpha is a dramatic move, even for Mycroft.
"I know, I don't like it any more than you do. It will do wonders to break the rebels' spirit, though." Mycroft crosses his ankles leisurely. "So, what do you say? I'll give you another day and the day after that, we will take you outside where everyone can see and take a gun to your head."
John clenches his jaw and wishes looks could kill as he aims his most threatening glare at Mycroft. All the man does is chuckle.
xXx
"John." He wakes to Sherlock's hands on his shoulder. For the first time, John is allowed to lie down during the night, and he went out like a light the second he lay down on the floor.
"Sherlock." He smiles up at blue eyes, inhales deeply. The smell startles him. "Sherlock, you're -"
"I know."
Sherlock considers him with a grim expression. John hasn't realised that it has been that long already since they shared a bed, since Sherlock experienced his first heat. He doesn't dare imagine what will happen in a place like this when his body betrays him once again, without John there to make his mind stop.
"What are you going to -" he tries, but he is interrupted again.
"That isn't our highest priority right now, John. Drink."
John takes the bottle with shaking hands but manages to drink on his own without spilling too much and is ridiculously proud of it. He picks up the energy bar next, a highly nutritious substitute for the sandwich Sherlock brought him that first night.
When he is finished he looks up again, finding Sherlock deep in thought.
"Now might be a great time to fill me in on your plan," he rasps, voice hurting from lack of use.
Sherlock shakes himself out of his thoughts.
"It's quite simple, actually. Tomorrow night, when everyone is asleep. I've thought about every angle. Are you strong enough to fire a gun?"
"Yes." He isn't, not at the moment, but John knows what he is capable of it with enough adrenaline flooding his system.
Sherlock looks like he is reading his mind and a small smile tugs at his lips. John feels the sudden urge to kiss those lips, and he is finally in a position to actually do it, so he props himself up on one hand while the other cups Sherlock's face, thumb caressing his cheek, fingers winding their way into dark curls. Sherlock complies, follows the pull of his hand willingly and then they are kissing, soft and lazy, as if they have all the time in the world.
They don't, though. Sherlock pulls away far too quickly but it was enough to leave John dizzy and smiling.
"Sleep," Sherlock says and pushes him softly back down onto the floor.
xXx
They tune down the torture the following day, opting instead to leave John alone for long periods of time, presumably to consider if he would like to change his mind after all.
It never crosses his mind, not for one second, not even when they alternately hit him with burning hot and ice-cold water until his brain is about to shut down from sensory overload.
They throw him back into his cell at the end of the day, not bothering with food because he will be dead tomorrow anyway, but John wouldn't have had a chance to eat it for the moment he lies down, he passes out again.
He wakes up to lips on his, Sherlock's scent present in the room around him and John kisses back, enjoying the simple pleasure without reading too much into it.
Sherlock draws back and John opens his eyes. They fall on two guns on the floor, a bit of ammunition, two bottles of water and a few energy bars next to them. Sherlock is wearing a black coat, similar to the one they captured him in. He must have stolen it – he hasn't seen Sherlock wear it when he caught glimpses of him around the hotel.
"We have to hurry."
Sherlock extends a hand and helps him up, taking his weight when John's knees give out at first, not used to standing on their own for so long, but soon enough, his balance is back and he picks up the gun.
"I've planned a route and drugged the guards, yet the sooner we move the better."
He nods, then follows Sherlock out of the cell and through a maze of hallways that Sherlock deftly navigates. He probably has the layout memorised, John thinks in amazement as he follows, gun drawn, adrenaline pumping through his body, and he feels more alive than he has in the past week.
When Sherlock checks around a corner, his black coat shifts enough for John to see his neck.
"Sherlock, you still have the collar!" Collars have tracking devices, they need to take it off, now –
- but Sherlock holds up a key with a smirk. "We have to wait until we've escaped. It triggers an alarm when opened, even with the key."
John nods and they proceed. All guards on their way are fast asleep.
"I laced the canteen food," Sherlock explains curtly and picks the lock on a door, and another and another until they reach a deserted hallway. John has no idea how far below the surface they are.
Sherlock aims for a grating in the floor which he pulls out. John can see steps descending further underground.
"It leads into the sewers. It's not on the new schematics, though," Sherlock smirks, looking utterly pleased with himself.
"Amazing," is all John can breathe out.
He takes Sherlock's collar off a few doors down because the next door leads into the Tube tunnels and they want to leave a false trail. John resists the urge to stomp on the collar when he flings it to the ground. Sherlock's right hand is rubbing his neck.
"You okay?"
"Fine." The tone is nonchalant, yet John can see that Sherlock's eyes have gone softer and his spine isn't as tense as before.
The climb into the sewer canals is difficult since John keeps missing the steps or slips when his hands cramp up from the strain of holding on for dear life. When his feet hit solid ground, he sighs in relief and leans against the wall next to the steps, trying to catch his breath.
"Come on, we have to hurry," Sherlock says when he jumps down from the ladder and John has to bite back a comment about how he sounds like his brother when he uses that tone.
Instead, he follows Sherlock's lead.
"Where are we going?"
"I have an ally; we can hide at his place for a few hours before we try to get across the river."
"I thought you didn't have friends?"
"He is no friend." Sherlock's expression is unreadable. "But he is a sympathiser. He has helped me before."
Sherlock doesn't say anything else and keeps walking.
xXx
John has never been happier to be able to breathe fresh air. He gulps it down like he wants to drown himself in it as he runs after Sherlock through the night, stars shining above them.
Their destination is an apartment building, nestled between more apartment buildings in one of the nicer parts of town. Sherlock rings the doorbell next to a nameplate that reads "Lestrade".
"Yeah?" a voice asks through the intercom.
"Your pizza, sir," Sherlock replies and the sound of a buzzer signals that the door is open.
They climb up to the third floor where a door is slightly ajar and Sherlock slips in, John right behind him, gun at the ready because one can never be too careful.
The apartment is cramped but cosily so. Books, magazines, and newspapers fill the cupboards in the hallway, and the living room looks much the same. Sherlock's eyes take everything in and John can hear his mind working, deducing, drawing conclusions.
The man in the living room is in his early forties, hair already greying, but his face is honest and he holds his hands up calmly when he catches sight of John's gun.
"Lestrade, meet Captain John Watson, John, this is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade."
John lowers the gun slowly and meets Lestrade's hand when he extends it in greeting.
"Pleasure," the DI says and actually sounds like he means it.
"So you're the DI who -"
"Whose case you manipulated to kidnap Sherlock. Yes." It is said teasingly – clearly Lestrade doesn't hold too big a grudge.
"Well, I caught your serial killer," Sherlock drawls as he slips out of his coat, revealing he is wearing dress trousers, shirt and jacket. If it weren't for the marks the collar left where it rubbed against Sherlock's neck, one would never assume he had been a slave.
"You did," Lestrade concedes.
Sherlock sniffs the air. "I'll use the shower, I reek of the sewers. Lestrade, if you could hand John a first-aid kit, I'm sure he has some wounds to tend to."
They are both staring after Sherlock who disappears through a door – presumably into the bathroom.
John clears his throat. "He means thank you. For harbouring us."
The DI chuckles. "It's the least I can do, being on this side of the Thames and all."
He steps past John into another room and returns with a first-aid kit. "Take what you need."
"Thank you." John sets the box down on the living room table and gratefully sinks into an armchair while Lestrade takes the seat opposite him.
"Sherlock said you helped him before?" John asks, retrieving salve and bandages for the wound on his chest.
"He came to me after he escaped from you, said because I'd already figured out he was an omega anyway and never said anything, I could as well take him in for a night or two."
John looks up at that, giving the DI a questioning look.
"I've known Sherlock for a bit now," he explains, "and if you're a detective long enough you learn to read the signs. He's always been different, especially as an Alpha, but most guys just thought he's weird."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"‛cause it made no difference, really. Most of the time I really want to punch him but he's still the best detective I know, so…"
John can imagine that all too well - Sherlock's cocky attitude at a crime scene, flaunting in and out, one look enough to tell him who the murderer is.
He opens his shirt, for the first time really noticing how dirty it has become during his week in captivity.
"I'll give you some clothes," Lestrade says, then winces as he catches sight of the mark, standing out starkly against John's skin.
"You need help with that?"
"Actually, yes. My shoulders still aren't very useful."
"Do I want to know?"
John shakes his head, smiling despite himself, granting Lestrade access to the wound which he tends to with steady hands. During his time with the police he probably had to deal with his fair share of injuries, John muses.
"You can have the guest room for tonight. It's only got one bed and I don't have a spare mattress but I doubt that will be a problem?"
John splutters at Lestrade's raised eyebrow.
"I haven't made DI because of my looks, you know."
"What gave it away?" John can't help but ask.
"When Sherlock came here I asked him if he had gone into heat yet and he was really quiet about that. Then after he had gone and his brother found him, I read that you guys let him suffer through his heat alone. Doesn't add up in my books. And then he contacts me, says he might need refuge for a while for himself and another Alpha. Doesn't take a genius to figure that out."
Lestrade shrugs and applies the bandage over the wound carefully.
"So one bed okay?"
John doesn't really know what to say. It would mean actually thinking about what has been happening between him and Sherlock and he doesn't know if that is a good or just a really terrible idea. He settles for "I'm not sure… it's complicated."
Lestrade must have inferred his inner monologue – after all, he knows Sherlock "I don't have friends and my body is merely a vessel" Holmes, too.
"I'm sure there are enough blankets to make one of you comfortable on the floor, if not."
Sherlock returns quickly after that, fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, and John takes his turn, accepting what looks like old police trousers and a dark shirt as well as pyjama bottoms and a worn t-shirt from Lestrade. It takes a while but in the end, all the dirt of the past days has washed off, along with the scent of the sewers, and he slips into the sleep clothes.
Back in the living room, John accepts pizza and tea from their host – the pizza is reheated but the tea is hot, and at this point John hardly cares as long as it is food.
They develop a plan: rest tomorrow and move at nightfall, when the darkness serves as at least a bit of cover. Lestrade knows of certain Tube tunnels that are farther West but less dangerous to pass. The plan isn't bulletproof, but it is all they have.
Now that the adrenaline isn't coursing through his blood anymore, John can feel the exhaustion creep into his extremities, can feel his eyes droop.
"Well, I know who needs to go to bed right now." Lestrade rises, Sherlock and John mirroring him. The DI disappears into another room, returns with a pile of blankets which he deposits in the guest room and wishes them a good night.
John stops awkwardly at the foot of the bed, unsure whether he should offer to sleep on the floor or suggest they share.
Sherlock is already changing into another pair of worn trousers but ignores the t-shirt Lestrade gave him and throws back the covers.
"Come on," Sherlock beckons and it is really that easy – John slips in with Sherlock.
The mattress feels like heaven against his back after nights of sleeping with his hands tied to a wall or lying on the bare floor. He gives a contented sigh which Sherlock seems to think is amusing somehow, yet John doesn't find it in himself to care as the other man shuffles closer and buries his face in the crook of John's neck like he did those nights at HQ.
John presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, wrapping his arm around the other man and allows sleep to take him.
xXx
John spends most of the next day sleeping like a dead man. He makes out the tell-tale noises of Sherlock moving around the apartment, believes he hears newspapers rustle, wakes up once to find tea and a sandwich next to the bed and eats it, after which he promptly falls asleep once more.
He feels almost like himself again in the late afternoon hours when he takes another shower simply because he can and then goes looking for Sherlock. Lestrade is apparently out working, keeping an ear open in case he hears anything about John's escape.
"Lestrade said to help ourselves to the fridge," Sherlock says, not looking up from the newspaper in his hands.
John makes bacon and eggs, enough for the both of them because he sees no dirty plates lying around, which means Sherlock probably hasn't eaten.
Sherlock narrows his eyes when John pushes the plate towards him, as well as another mug of tea.
"Eat. We're planning to cross the Thames today, you need your strength."
"Yes, mummy," Sherlock shoots back with an eye-roll, but he eats the food anyway.
They are packed and ready at nightfall, not that they have much with them beyond water, energy bars, and ammunition, when they hear the key turn in the lock of the front door.
"Lestrade's early," Sherlock wonders. John tenses up immediately, hand darting to his gun.
He has it out the moment the door opens, but the newcomer merely smiles.
"Please, as if I don't have sharp shooters on that roof. I don't like to get my hands dirty." He brushes down the front of his suit as if to prove his point.
John glances at Sherlock and does a double take as he sees a distinctive red dot moving across his chest, hovering right above his heart.
"There's one on your back as well, John."
Recognition hits him like a bucket of cold water. "Richard Brook?"
The man's laugh is malicious and kind of insane. "Not really. Jim Moriarty. Hi!"
xXx
End Notes: I know, evil cliff hanger :) I'm decidedly not sorry!