Chapter 5 – Missing Sister Found
Summary: When Lubitsch comes to John with news about his sister, John is ready to leave in seconds. Sherlock, however, is more concerned with the case at hand.
Author's Notes: I spent a lot of time looking for brothel names... "The Quivering Hills" almost made the list ;)
The name "Yuri Kapov" taken from the movie 2012, fyi. I liked the name. And the film!
xXx
A newspaper slides across the table and comes to a halt at Mycroft's elbow. One look suffices to discern the front page is filled with yet another picture about his brother.
"Making quite a name for himself," Yuri Kapov comments. Kapov is in charge of Mycroft's prison block and thankfully a covert traditionalist. Mycroft would have had to endure real, menial labour instead of quiet work in the library if it weren't for this man.
"What did he do this time? Save another millionaire?" Mycroft asks, his voice deliberately bored. In reality he is glad Kapov decided to keep him informed. The career his brother manages to have with the help of John Watson is quite remarkable.
"No. Found some old painting. You should read it."
Mycroft scans the article, unfolding the newspaper, intrigued. Yuri usually never advises him to read anything.
He skims the article, noting how highly the press speaks of his brother (the "Rising Hero", they call him), and proceeds to page four where it continues. There, at the bottom of the page, is Yuri's cyrillic scrawl. Pencil, easily erased.
Mycroft reads the sentence and his heart rate increases. He hands Pakov the newspaper back with a smile who then leaves the library and allows Mycroft to go back to his work.
He can't fathom it is happening. Months of planning and finally a sign of hope.
I contacted my friend. He is willing to help.
xXx
Wednesday morning - alright, it's rather noonish - Lubitsch wakes up with one hell of a headache and hangover. He still has another day of leave before he needs to report back to the office and he knows just how to spend it.
He uses every database available to him at MI5, calls a few contacts and by the end of the day, has gathered enough intel so he can take the tip to his boss as a legit case.
Mr Mulcahy raises an eyebrow when he finds Lubitsch in his office, but doesn't say anything. Mulcahy led Reformist troops into battle in the civil war and fought side by side with Lubitsch on many occasions during Captain Watson's capture. Unlike the doctor, Mulcahy didn't turn down a promotion to an SIS operative, now commanding the MI5 - and Lubitsch.
"You look like a man with a mission, operative."
"Yes, sir. You'll find I make a compelling case." He explains as succinctly as possible about the tip he received and his research, demanding the institution of a task force under Captain Watson's command to retrieve his sister and free any other victim they manage to find.
Mulcahy knows just as well as Lubitsch that once John hears his sister's name, he will be on board, no matter what his mate and he are up to.
"If Watson agrees, the mission is a go. But one word to the press and you'll be manning a desk for a month, Lubitsch."
"Thank you, sir." He nods and hurries out of the office and goes looking for a cab to take him to Captain Watson.
xXx
"Sherlock, do you really think it's a good idea to hack SIS servers?"
"Please. We need information and we need it fast. Going through the channels is tedious."
John wants desperately to object but he knows his complaints will fall on deaf ears, so he puts down his half-raised hand and goes to make tea in the kitchen.
The doorbell rings as he pours the water and John hurries up since Sherlock can't even be bothered with opening the door when he is not hacking government sites.
The sight of one Richard Lubitsch, dressed in an immaculate suit and looking years younger than he had when they had fought side by side, is a complete surprise.
"John," he greets him, his lips not quite smiling. Something must be up or else Lubitsch wouldn't appear on his doorstep in the middle of the morning.
"Rick, this is unexpected. Come on in."
They mount the stairs and Sherlock turns around in his chair at the living room desk when they enter.
"Sherlock, you remember Sergeant Lubitsch. Although, it's agent now, isn't it?"
The former soldier nods and smiles pleasantly at Sherlock. "Nice to see you again, sir."
Sherlock merely narrows his eyes, ignoring the social nicety. "What happened?"
John sighs and shoots Lubitsch an apologetic look. "Can I offer you a cup of tea?"
"Thanks, but this is rather urgent."
John's muscles tense immediately and his right hand twitches even though his Sig is not at his back but safe on the mantelpiece of the fireplace.
John motions to the sofa and Lubitsch takes a seat, John claiming the armchair but staying on the edge of his seat, intrigued by the air of mystery Lubitsch projects.
"I received a tip about your sister's whereabouts, John."
His heart stops. It literally misses a beat for a second and then it jumps into his throat.
"Harry?"
It has been years, decades even, and a part of him has always feared she is long dead.
"Yes. The man told me she can be found in the Den Of Inequity in Peckham. But… That you might not recognise her anymore."
John takes a supposedly calming breath yet his heart rate doesn't falter. "I take it you did some research on the matter?" His voice is firm, of which John is strangely proud.
Lubitsch nods. "The Den of Inequity is the name of a ring of illegal brothels. As far as I could gather, they have emerged after the civil war led to a ban on prostitution and especially on a ban of turning Omegas into sex slaves."
John can feel his stomach drop. Harry. A sex slave.
He swallows hard. "Do we have confirmation of her whereabouts?"
"No, sir. The Dens are incredibly hard to find since they operate like a secret society. However, I have a contact who is positive he can get two agents in undercover to scout the location and find out if your sister is truly being kept in Peckham."
"You have clearance?"
"Yes. You are to head the task force which I will gather today. We can make contact as soon as tonight. Mulcahy signed off on the mission, provided you lead it."
John is on his feet within a second and has his gun in hand after another. "Alright. Give me a few minutes to pack and we can leave right now."
"What?" comes Sherlock's voice from the desk and John realises he almost forgot his partner is there. "You're leaving now?"
"Yes."
"But we have a case!" Sherlock sounds incredulous, genuinely appalled by this turn of events.
John can only stare at him, incomprehension clearly visible on his face.
"You can't leave now, we haven't found the murderer yet," Sherlock asserts, rising from his chair. Inconspicuously, Lubitsch takes a few steps back.
"Sherlock, it's my sister."
The detective shrugs. "If she is indeed a prostitute at the Den, then she will still be yours to rescue after we solved the Sterling case. The informant didn't deliver a deadline, did he?" He turns to Lubitsch who quickly shakes his head, but otherwise opts to stay out of the conversation.
John can feel anger rising inside his chest, a kind of anger he never felt, and it is directed at the Omega in front of him.
"Are you saying you expect me to keep you company while you hack into SIS servers to follow leads on some man who is already dead, instead of going after my sister whom I haven't seen for years?"
"There is no reason to get emotional, John-" Sherlock begins but John doesn't let him finish.
"Oh yes, it is! What the bloody hell are you thinking? This is about saving a life!"
"Yeah, yeah, establish contact, go in undercover, find out Harry is in there, storm the place and retrieve her; incredibly boring, don't you think? We have more pressing matters to focus on!"
"We don't, Sherlock! The investigation isn't even on the records, Christ!" John's voice rises unwillingly yet he can't find it in him to care.
Sherlock regards him for a moment. "You really are set on leaving now."
"Yes, brilliant deduction, detective, brilliant as ever. Now, you can either follow me upstairs and pack your bag or you can shut up and focus on more pressing matters." John spits out the last three words with enough venom to poison a snake.
Sherlock's eyes widen for a second but before John can see if he reacts in any other way, he is already through the door and on his way to their bedroom. Within minutes, he has a bag ready and re-enters the realm of awkward silence.
Sherlock hasn't moved and John can't believe his partner is so cold-hearted when it comes to John's family.
"You're being completely unreasonable, John," Sherlock says. "You can't leave in the middle of a case."
John glares at him. "Contrary to some people, I do have a heart." He grabs his coat, nods at Lubitsch and storms out, not sparing Sherlock another glance.
His heart clenches when he slides into the cab which Lubitsch has asked to wait. He never thought Sherlock would leave him to do something like this alone.
He thought Sherlock cared for him as deeply as John does for Sherlock.
Perhaps, he was a little too sure of himself after all.
xXx
John is still seething inside when they reach MI5 headquarters where the rest of their team has already gathered.
"Sergeant Wilder," John greets his former soldier with a smile. "Great to see you again."
"My pleasure, sir."
Two more agents will come with them, John remembers training them. Karl and Brady are young and fast, apt at hand-to-hand combat.
Lubitsch establishes contact with his informant and they decided that John and Wilder will stake out the brothel; John, since he is the only one who will be able to identify Harry and Wilder because he has most experience in undercover missions.
John colours his hair black and receives a truly awful moustache to conceal his identity while Wilder shaves his stubble off. They are both Alphas nearing forty, business partners looking for a blushing Omega to shag. They have the money necessary to be allowed into the Den and the money necessary to pay for their services.
The first meeting with new clients, according to Lubitsch's source, is always just a conversation where the brothel owner explains the procedures that have to be followed to assure privacy and prevent detection.
John and Wilder find the Den easily once they have been told where to look and are greeted by a man who looks more like an accountant than a criminal - short, dark hair which is conventionally cut, an average suit, non-descriptive features, Alpha, in his mid-thirties.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
The man, Sebastian Wilkes, leads them into the building, gesturing as he speaks. The rooms are bare, as if no one is living here, as if nothing conspicuous is going on.
"This is the place where all your dreams become true, gentlemen. These rooms are just for show; the real fun begins here."
Wilkes stops over a Persian rug which stands out against the otherwise Spartan decor and kicks it back, revealing a trap door. Wilkes lets them in first and after passing through another hall, they reach - well, a strip club.
The room is surprisingly large; two bars are on either side of the room, small tables are scattered throughout the club, scarcely clad women and men, all so obviously Omegas, are dancing on poles.
"Welcome, to the real Den of Inequity," Wilkes announces. "This is the main room; watching only. If you want a private lap dance, take one of our slaves to the private rooms over here." Wilkes points to a door on their right, manned by wall of a bloke. "You pay the bouncer for the Omega's service. Now," Wilkes leads them further along the right side until they reach stairs leading further down.
"This leads to our, well, special offers. If you want more than just a dance, find your way down here. You can view the slaves, chose and book a room for any amount of time you wish. No permanent marks or injuries; if you hurt a slave so much that it won't be able to service other customers, you're paying for the time it is absent."
John tries to keep his distance from what the man is telling them but he feels more nauseous by the minute. Additionally, the place reeks of pheromones, which is in no way helping.
"There is no chance we might get lucky tonight already?" John asks, aiming for eager.
Wilkes smiles with fake sweetness. "No, I'm sorry. But we have to take your contact information, run some background checks, see if you are indeed worthy of our service. I'm sure you understand."
"Of course, you've got to do what you've got to do," Wilder acquiesces and Wilkes invites them to a drink at the bar furthest away from the staircase that leads to where, presumably, Harry is being kept.
They provide the boss with their fake identities - both with bulletproof backstories that will convince Wilkes they are to be trusted - and Wilkes engages them in small talk, explaining how he is an accountant (John barely holds back his snort) in real life but that this is his passion.
When they leave and are a fair distance away, John vomits into a bush.
"Now there, sir, I'd have thought you've seen much worse."
John spits onto the ground, grimacing at the taste. "That was war. This is… To think that my sister… Christ!" He kicks the dustbin near him so hard that it crashes into the house wall.
"We're in now, sir. We'll find her and we'll safe her, and take these plonkers down while we're at it."
John forces a smile, then continues walking in the direction of their meeting point with Lubitsch and the others.
xXx
John crashes at Lubitsch's place for the duration of the mission. It has nothing to do with the fight Sherlock and he had, John tells himself, and everything to do with maintaining cover. They can't be sure if the Den's owner won't have them followed.
For good measure, John and Wilder meet for lunch that day, talking about their non-existent business. It's fun, John has to admit, even if the prospect of finding Harry leaves behind a bitter aftertaste.
All day, John glances at his mobile, hoping that maybe, Sherlock will call, either to inform him of his progress in the Sterling case or to… apologise? Even to John, the thought sounds ridiculous.
John's MI5 issued phone rings at seven that evening while their task force is gathered in Lubitsch's bachelor pad.
"Mr Cummings? You have been approved," Sebastian Wilkes' voice informs him.
"Thank you so much. I'm looking forward to tonight."
Wilder receives the same call a few minutes later and the jovial mood shifts to wired concentration as they prepare for the next phase of their operation.
xXx
It takes all of John's self-control to keep his features even as he passes through rows and rows of cages, each one basically too small to house a human but the brothel doesn't seem to care. The smell is incredible, enticing, so purely Omega that John would probably have problems if he weren't so used to Sherlock's scent.
"What if I wanted to fuck an Omega in heat?" Wilder asks as they slowly make their way through the rows.
"No problem, sir," Wilkes replies smoothly, "we have appropriate medication for that. Most of our slaves are constantly in heat."
John shudders involuntarily. The strain on an Omega's body alone will leave permanent damage if this treatment is kept up over a longer period of time. John has seen first hand how withdrawal goes, having freed more sex slaves than he would like to remember.
A particular smell hits John's nose and he sniffs unnoticeably, trying to pinpoint the location. He steps closer to the cage and Wilkes stops, noticing John's distraction.
"Oh yes, isn't it exquisite? According to our source, this Omega has been a trained sex slave since it was twelve. Can you imagine what it can do to please you?"
John growls, though not because he finds the thought particularly enticing - the naked woman smells like family. It's Harry, it's his sister.
"My, my, aren't we eager. She is 100 pounds the hours, and so worth it."
John schools his expression and turns to Wilkes. "I'm sold. I'll take an hour. I'm sure I can extend that period, if the slave pleases me?"
"Of course, Mr Cummings."
Wilkes calls a guard who drags the Omega - Harry - out of the cage roughly. As far as John can see, she follows willingly.
"Enjoy." Wilkes smiles maliciously and guides Wilder further down the hallway. Their eyes meet and John tries to look reassuring, then nods at the guard to lead the way to their room.
The chamber looks like a motel. It's scarcely decorated with just the basics; a bed, a small bathroom to the left, a chest, probably holding toys, restraints, and much more.
"I will knock when the hours is up," the guard informs him, then leaves John alone with the woman, who is sitting on the edge of the mattress.
John approaches her tentatively, taking in her scent and every cell in his body screams that this is her, this is his sister, this is Harry who he hasn't seen for twenty-two years, ever since she was taken from them when she was twelve and John was sixteen.
"What's your name?" he asks, voice trembling.
"Harriet, sir." She keeps her head bowed and doesn't look him in the eye.
"How long have you been here?"
"I don't know, sir. A year, perhaps. But before, I have served a lot of Alphas. I have training, sir. I will not disappoint you."
She shifts her legs, deliberatively letting them fall open. She is naked, like all the other slaves John saw in the cages, and her body is a little dirty.
"How do you want me, sir?"
The lack of defiance in Harry's voice breaks John's heart and he moves closer, sits down next to her but with enough space between their bodies. Harry doesn't touch - apparently she needs to be given permission.
"Can you look at me?" he asks and she instantly obeys, her dark-blue eyes dull, not shining with life like John remembers. He wishes the moustache was gone, so she could see his face more clearly, but he can't take it off.
Harry looks at him, though her eyes aren't focussing. Probably, she has been trained to keep her head out of the proceedings, or she has adapted like this for herself.
John tries again. "Please, look at me. Really look at me, Harry."
He nickname elicits a reaction - she blinks, her eyes suddenly sharper as they meet his own.
"John?"
"Yes, I've come-" But he stops when Harry starts shaking her head vehemently, suddenly trembling.
"No, no, you're not real, I'm dreaming again, I'm dreaming, don't be so stupid, Harry," she murmurs, over and over, her entire body shaking and John has no idea how to react, how to soothe her.
He reaches out, places his hand on her shoulder and she flinches violently.
"Sorry, master, sorry," she repeats, panic in her voice.
John knows he has to improvise, fast.
"Stand up, slave," he commands, without any idea how to snap Harry out of her episode otherwise. Her body goes rigid and after two seconds, she obeys.
"Sit down next to me. I want to hug you."
Harry follows his orders and lets him put his arms around her, pulling her close. He hopes his scent will tell her she isn't hallucinating, that he is real.
But why should she? She has been a slave longer than she was a child and never did John come to save her. Did she fantasise about it? Did she dream John would find her and rescue her?
John feels tears rise in his eyes. He did look for her. He was sixteen and clueless, hit dead end after dead end, was almost stabbed trying to get information on Harry, and when he was 18, he gave up. Mourned his sister and joined the military.
Now, he has a second chance and he will not waste it.
He spends the hour cuddling with Harry, tells her to relax, tells her he is not going to sleep with her tonight and like always, she obeys. She buries her face in the nape of his neck and it reminds him painfully of Sherlock.
Will John be allowed back into their flat? Or will John come home to packed bags and Mrs Hudson wanting back his key?
John hugs Harry closer, not wanting the hour to end.
xXx
"I hope the experience was satisfying?" Wilkes drawls as he slides into a seat next to John at the bar.
"Very. You've won yourself a new costumer, Mr Wilkes." John smiles. "My colleague is still enjoying himself?"
"He won't be long. Chose a beautiful slave a few minutes after you. Fresh meat, that one. Barely hit puberty."
John resists the urge to retch. Or punch Wilkes. He knows Wilder opted for the youngest because she might give him more information, but the image still sits uncomfortably in his mind.
Wilder joins them soon, smirking broadly. Wilkes buys them a celebratory drink but thereafter excuses himself to welcome a new customer.
The bar is too full for John and Wilder to engage in real conversation, so they empty their drinks quickly and head out, hail a cab and go back to their rendezvous point at Lubitsch's flat.
"It's Harry," is John's opening statement. "I doubt she will go willingly, though."
"Why?" Lubitsch looks up from the chessboard where Karl is apparently beating him epically.
"She thought I'm an hallucination. She's been trained too well. It won't be easy."
"Most of them will act like that," Wilder adds. "I got talking with a teenage girl - not even fourteen yet," he makes an angry noise, "and she told me that they're all trained when they get there. And who's not broken by that will yield to the mediations."
"What do they give them?" Karl asks, face contorted in disgust.
"Illegal stimuli, to keep them constantly in heat," Wilder explains, "and birth control. Some other drugs that make them pliant and willing."
"Our plan?" Brady rises from his chair. "Assuming we have one?"
John nods. "Wilder and I will go in tomorrow night. You all will be positioned outside and when you receive our signal, storm the Den. My priority will be to get Harry out of there; but we have to take down Wilkes and the employees as well to free the rest. It's going to be tricky and dangerous. I didn't see any guns but I doubt they're unarmed."
"Sounds good. Let's clarify the details." Lubitsch quickly puts the chessboard away, all too eager to destroy evidence of his failure to Karl's amusement, and they all sit down to devise a strategy.
xXx
Sherlock pours a single cup of tea and his body aches. The Omega in him yearns for his Alpha, for John, but he tries his best to ignore it. He needs to focus on the case; that's it. That's his priority.
The flat feels empty and Sherlock has spent the few hours of sleep his body claimed on the couch rather than the bedroom where everything smells even more of John.
He hears Greg's footsteps on the stairs and turns another page in the mission report.
"What's so important that it couldn't wait till tomorrow?" Greg asks, stepping closer.
"I have a suspect. I thought maybe you wanted to know. I remember you telling me to keep you informed."
Sherlock doesn't need to look up to know the DI is narrowing his eyes.
"I told John he should keep me informed. Where is John anyway?"
Sherlock opts for silence.
"Sherlock? Where is John?"
"On a mission."
"What mission?"
"To find his sister."
"Harry?" A surprised pause, then, "And why are you here and not with him?"
Finally, Sherlock decides to glance up, raising an eyebrow. "I have a case."
Greg stares, blinks once, twice. "You let John go looking for his sister alone, while you stayed here to solve the top secret case no one will know about once you've solved it?"
"Yes."
Forgoing to stay calm, the detective explodes. "Bloody hell, Sherlock! You're the daftest genius I've ever met! How could you stay here on a case when John could use your help to find the sister he hasn't seen in over twenty bloody years!"
Sherlock wants to give Greg the same answer he gave John, that he has a case and that he can't simply abandon everything, but this time, the reason sounds more like an excuse, lacking in cogency.
"That's what I thought," the DI comments, pacing now. "You know, Sherlock, when I first met John, I thought the two of you were only the result of your pheromones all over the place. But after everything, when he stayed - brilliant. A bloke who puts up with all your quirks, the body parts in the fridge, the experiments, your strange moods, who loves you so much he would die for you-" Greg points an accusing finger at Sherlock, "and you can't even say three little words to make him happy? And you can't abandon some puzzle that is of no consequence to national security or the likes of it, to be there for your mate when he needs you most?"
"We're not mated," Sherlock states. Being mates means forever, and Sherlock doesn't believe in forever. It's a completely illogical concept.
Greg merely snorts. "Keep telling yourself that, Sherlock. But not for too long - I doubt even John's patience is infinite. And you don't want to lose this bloke, believe me."
"Thank you for this passionate speech; now can we take a look at my prime suspect?" Sherlock deflects, fighting the urge to literally run far away from where the conversation has strayed.
Greg shakes his head. "Forget it. I'm not helping you in an investigation I have no clearance for anyway before you make things right with John."
The DI turns on his heels and is out of the door within the second, leaving Sherlock behind to contemplate.
John knows him, understands him; he is the only one who ever has. Sherlock doesn't need to say those three words Greg is apparently obsessed with (which is probably why he has one ex-wife and will be facing another divorce soon) because John knows how he feels. No words necessary.
John should have known Sherlock would want to finish the case. Perhaps they aren't as compatible as Sherlock thought.
The thought hurts and the Omega side of him protests, though Sherlock discards its protests as biologically conditioned responses to the absence of the Alpha whom he shared his heats with.
Bloody hell, he hasn't slept more than five hours these past two nights, he can't remember the last time he ate - he is in no condition to reflect on this.
With a groan, Sherlock runs his hands over his face and tries to focus on his prime suspect's file.
xXx
Yuri Kapov passes Mycrofts workplace slowly, at the same pace he usually watches over the inmates. Yet this time, when he come level with Mycroft's chair, he slips a key onto the table.
Ten minutes later, Mycroft punches out to take a cigarette break - well, in his case more of a cigar break - though instead of opening the door to the library break room, he skips it, aiming for the supply closet.
The lights of the surveillance cameras in the hallway are all blinking red - a coincidental malfunction.
Mycroft snorts mentally and unlocks the supply closet, slipping inside. He finds a guard uniform including an ID and quickly changes into the clothes.
He will walk out of Belmarsh prison without trouble and finally breathe the fresh air of freedom again.
xXx
The clock on the mantelpiece strikes ten in the morning when Sherlock has finally broken into SIS servers to retain the information on Freja Holgersson necessary to solve the case.
Yesterday, Sherlock came across one mission during which Richard Sterling was supposed to extract a corrupt Swedish general, Godmar Holgersson, whom Sterling shot after the mission went South, instead of saving him. Sherlock doesn't have all the information necessary to reconstruct what exactly happened in Sweden, though he is sure that Holgersson's daughter only needed the name of the man who shot her father.
Petty revenge. Freja might not be the only one with motive but she is the only suspect who is a trained surgeon and could have been able to torture and skin Sterling the way the Met found him.
Eager, Sherlock opens the file on Freja Holgersson and skims it until he reaches the very end.
Committed suicide after father's death in July 2011. Body found and identified by Swedish government.
Sherlock jumps up and kicks his chair in frustration. If Freja was killed in July 2011, she couldn't have skinned Richard Sterling in May 2012.
He grabs his violin, mind spinning. He has gone through every suspect, every angle, every possibility, however remote, and nothing - nothing - points to Sterling's killer.
Sherlock is halfway through Bach's Sonata No. 3 in C Major when realisation hits him like a bucket of ice water and his knees almost give out from under him.
It's a trap.
xXx
John and Wilder make their way downstairs without Wilkes' interference. The hallway holding the cages is U-shaped, manned by four guards. John proceeds to the far end of the floor, checks his watch.
Ten more seconds.
He considers the Omega in front of him, feigning interest.
Five.
The guard notices. Approaches.
Three.
Two.
One.
John moves with lightning speed, fuelled by pure adrenaline, snapping the guard's neck with a crack. John catches him and puts him down gently onto the floor.
He hears the second guard shout something, followed by rapidly nearing footsteps.
John draws his Sig and shoots with deadly precision, thankful for the silencer. The man drops to the ground and John rounds the corner, expecting to see Wilder and Harry in her cage.
Instead, there are five more guards blocking his way and John ducks back behind the wall as the first bullets fly past him, missing him by mere inches.
He produces a small-scale explosive, curtesy of MI5, and throws it as near to the wall opposite the cages as possible. The bang is loud and will have alerted the customers one floor above them but John hardly cares. MI5 has been notified; there is backup to catch anyone who tries to escape.
John flings himself around the corner, gun raised. He shoots one guard in the chest, ducks a bullet from the last one standing and is level with the man's feet. Two quick shots through his kneecaps hurl him to the ground, crying in agony. John kicks the gun away from his grasping hands and knocks him unconscious.
A glance at the other man shows he is already bleeding out. The three other guards fell victim to the explosive device and for a second, John's mind flickers back to Sherlock when he sees one man's intestines scattered on the floor.
John rounds the second corner carefully, gun raised.
What he sees forces the breath from his lungs. Wilkes is holding Harry tight, close to his body, a gun pointed at her head.
"Captain Watson, so nice of you to join us. I didn't expect five guards to be an obstacle for you."
"What do you want?" John grits out, gun still in hand.
"Give the gun to my accomplice, then follow me. You will be glad to know that none of your men were killed; merely injured."
John hesitates, thinking quickly, though it's no use. He can't attack without Wilkes shooting his sister.
So John relinquishes his Sig to the bloke John recognises as the one guarding the private rooms for the dancers and follows Wilkes up the stairs.
John takes his chance when he is on the last step. It may be an act of desperation but it's his only option.
With two quick blows he regains control of his gun and knocks the bloke out, then fires two more shots at the two men keeping watch over his bound colleagues and finally aims the gun at Wilkes, who looks stunned yet is still smiling faintly.
"You think that will change anything, Captain Watson?" He adjusts the grip on Harry, pulling her in front of his torso like a shield.
"What do you want?" John barks, feeling the panic rise in his chest. Harry looks so frightened and confused.
"Why don't you drop the moustache, eh? Show your sister who is responsible for her death."
John growls but rips off the fake beard, searching to catch Harry's eye and see her reaction. She stiffens suddenly in Wilkes' arms.
"That's right, pet. Your brother. The hero of the revolution; only he couldn't be bothered to safe you, could he?"
"What do you want?" John asks again, more urgent this time. "Don't you dare kill her."
Wilkes laughs out loud, an eerie sound in the empty bar. "Kill her? She's already dead inside. No, John, this isn't about her. This is about you."
"Then let her go!"
"You shouldn't be pointing weapons or my finger might just slip…"
With a feral growl, John throws the gun to the ground, glaring at Wilkes. The weapon slides across the floor a little, coming to a halt near Wilkes' feet. "Let her go."
"So you can charge at me and perhaps get away with nothing more than a scratch? I don't think so."
John remains silent, staring at Wilkes, waiting for him to go on, to shoot, anything.
"You see, John, I'm under orders. Moriarty says hi."
And before John can process the meaning of Wilkes' words, the Alpha points the gun at him and pulls the trigger.
xXx
End Notes: As an apology for the long wait (and because of the cliffhanger), I'll be uploading the next chapter right after this one :)