Hey my dears, enjoying it so far? I do seem to be treating our favourite boys so badly don't I?
The next few chapters will take a little long to update, I'm Stage Manager for a production of the musical 'Bat Boy' and then backstage crew for 'The Villain's Opera'...it's gonna be a busy few weeks! Also, I have a crap ton of assessments and essays to do, so please bear with me...
I should point out 'Sculptor' is the English spelling, before I get comments of 'ZOMG U CAN'T SPELL!'.
...
Pain is only in the mind. Don't obsess over it and it won't obsess over you. Ignore the pain and like some sulky little kid it'll go away. At least, this is what John was trying to do., but his trouser leg was soaked in blood that was already beginning to dry and make the cloth stick to his skin. His shoulder ached because of his bound hands and hunger and thirst raged...his bladder was becoming annoyingly full too. He had once gone a full two days in Afghanistan without once using a loo, but, seeing as he wasn't in the army any more, it was something he could only ignore for so long.
It had been comforting when Sherlock had called, a warming sensation had tumbled into John's chest to know the detective was searching for him. When Markin had been talking to him Oily The Rat had sidled up to him and, after a non-verbal signal from his boss, had plunged a tiny switchblade knife into John's thigh. It hadn't gone very deep; not nearly deep enough to do any lasting damage-light scarring at worst- but it had bled a lot and stung like a bitch. He hadn't meant to cry out, but it was so unexpected, and the second time it hurt. When Sherlock had spoken to him on the phone, murmuring words of comfort and reassurance, John's reply had been cut off thanks to the little shit gripping the blade still in his flesh and twisting it. In hindsight, the pain wasn't nearly as bad as having a bullet crash into your shoulder, or the sheer force of an explosion making concrete nearly crush you and your sociopathic colleague, but when you're in the dark, alone and cold, it seemed so much more.
And he really wanted his shirt back.
John had no way of telling how much time was passing in the dark, but he was pretty certain he dozed off at one point. He had enjoyed a brief and not unpleasant dream about cheesecake, he internally reminded himself he and Sherlock should buy cheesecake by way of celebration when he got out of here. He knew he was only carrying on the mental ramblings to steel himself against the consuming darkness, but hell, it was working wasn't it?
A shaft of light and the sound of footsteps made John look up, Oily the Rat was creeping towards him, heavy briefcase in hand.
'Good morning Dr Watson.' He said cordially. Morning, he had been here for over 12 hours...
The little man crouched down in front of John's huddled form, 'Do you know who I am?'
'The Giant Rat of Sumatra?' John asked sarcastically, earning himself a punch in the mouth that made him catch the inside of his cheek between his teeth. The metallic taste of blood welled up in his mouth.
'You have a sense of humour Watson.' The man said 'It's going to get you killed one day.'
Up close, the man had a sallow tinge to him, a gaunt and pinched face with hollow cheeks. Up close, John saw how unhealthy he really was. Slowly, like a bad mime artist, he unclasped the locks on the briefcase.
'My name is Klause, known to my friends, and some of my enemies, as the Sculptor.'
It required no imagination for figure out the title's meaning; I carve people up. He began to extract items from the briefcase; a set of knives, a scalpel, a hammer, some syringes filled with...something, and what appeared to be a rolling pin.
Great, as if being kidnapped wasn't bad enough, John thought how highly embarrasing it was to survive a war and Moriarty only to be battered to death by a bloody rolling pin...
'So what are you? A torture guy for hire?' he spat, desperatley hoping he sounded braver than he felt. Sculptor grinned.
'I am an Artiste with pain my friend.' He said simply, 'Mr Markin felt my services would be apt here...'
John had no trouble deducing what he meant by 'services'. He forced himself to match the Sculptor's stare, pupil to pinhole pupil.
'But, before all that buisness,' the man said, producing a slice of bread, a small glass of water and a small bucket from behind him. 'Refresh yourself, I'd hate for you to starve before the fun begins.'
...
Although it hadn't been long, and it certainly hadn't been nice, Sherlock had slept, well, napped. Although he definitely felt a little better for it physically speaking, inside he felt terrible for sleeping whilst John was still out there somewhere. The one thing that bothered him the most was that John hadn't been targeted on a whim, he wasn't the original target...John had been taken because of him. If only he had let John accompay him to the Yard, maybe he would have been better prepared, better protected. Maybe if he had let Mrs Hudson know of the danger...all the niggling maybe's and what if's flooded his system, making him a little dizzy.
Sherlock recalled an old quarrel he and John had a while back, the details were a little hazy in his memory, something about caring, and how it was powerless to save a life. He remembered that John had been disappointed, maybe even a little disgusted by Sherlock's attitude, thinking that feeling made you great, made you human.
Well, look where 'humanity' landed John. Stuck with a high-functioning sociopath, a post traumatic stress disorder thanks to the army, solving crimes with aforementioned sociopath, and then strapped to bombs and kidnapped by crude scum because of it.
Sherlock felt a little sick, and he was 87% certain it had nothing to do with the fact he hadn't slept or eaten very well. He finally poured John's tea away, watching the brown liquid swirl down the drain. No word from either Mycroft or Lestrade, which meant neither had found John, or anything that could help. This was taking too long, 20 hours was too much.
A name drifted into his consiousness, floated for a few seconds in the forefront of his mind and then happily settled down near the proverbial lightbulb of good ideas.
Yes, why not him? He had connections, friends in low places, contacts in even lower levels. He'd be a good attempt to locate John. He owed Sherlock a favour anyway, why not now?
Sherlock texted Lestrade: Going to visit Ruard. Could be useful-SH.
...
John's hands had been untied for him to eat, drink and relieve himself. Now that he'd gotten rid of the bladder worry and the concern for nutrition, he set his mind on how to best escape. So far, the only plan he'd hatched was to strangle Sculptor with the sleeve of his shirt, nick the briefcase and whallop anyone who got in his way. It wasn't exactly a genius plan, but it was the best he could hope for.
He looked at Sculptor, who was smiling genially to his instruments.
'Can I have my shirt back? I'm cold.' John asked.
'Hmm? Oh, your shirt. No my boy, we're saving that for something else.'
John was puzzled, saving it? What the hell for? He found he didn't want to ponder it too deeply, he knew it would certainly be no picnic.
'Shall we get started John?' said Sculptor cheerfully. John's fleshed crawled at his name delivered in such familiar, friendly tones. They we're never going to be friends, so he could drop the 'lets be pals' act. John told him that he was in no mood to get started in a hurry, and politely told him where he could stick his instruments, which Sculptor didn't find amusing. Another right hook connected with John's face, a little burst of pain blossomed over his cheekbone.
'Maybe I can try this? I've been dying to try it out.'
John's stomach clenched when he saw what Sculptor had in his hands, it was the rolling pin, but wrapped around it was cruel, spiked, barbed wire.
...
Arthur Ruard owned a small bookstore on ththe outskirts of town, Sherlock had once helped him out on a case he like to remember as 'The Strange Affair of the Scottish Pumpkin'. As Sherlock travelled in a taxi, he recalled the handsome French youth who would have been dead if Sherlock had not conjured an ingeneous gadget using nothing but yoghurt, a digital watch and twine. If anyone was willing to help Sherlock, it would be him.
The car pulled up in front of a small establishment with the sign 'RUARD BOOKSTORE' fluttering beside green and white awning. The warm breeze played with Sherlock's hair as he got out and paid the driver, it would have been a pleasurable sensory experience if fear for John hadn't made everyhting harsh and cold.
The interior of the shop was dry and slightly gloomy, books were lined against the walls and a small desk leading to the backroom. It was empty.
Sherlock waited patiently, and sure enough, a tall, blonde young man entered, absorbed in a leather bound edition of 'Catcher in the Rye'.
He was a good looking boy, mid-twenties, soft blue eyes that peered from behind horn-rimmed glasses and gold hair that was lighter than John's.
'Bonjour Ruard' Sherlock said, the young man looked up.
'Monseiur Holmes!' he smiled, closing his book to hurry round the desk to shake Sherlock's hand vigourously 'Good to see you again!'
Despite the fear that still gnawed away at his insides, Sherlock forced himself to match the lad's smile. However, he sensed Ruard wasn't fooled, because he frowned slightly.
'This is not a social visit.' It was an observation, not a question.
'I'm afraid not Arthur,' Sherlock shrugged 'I'm in need of your help. A colleague of mine has run foul of Terry Markin's gang. It would be nice if he made it back in one piece.' This remark came out cold, even callous to his ears, but it was bloody better than to have his teeth chatter and to burst into soppy tears like he felt like doing.
Ruard nodded 'I see, you need a way in? I have a friend, he can find the hidey hole Markin's stashed in.'
It was moments like this when Sherlock wondered whether it was only people like John and Arthur Ruard, people with emotions big enough to bounce rocks off of, that had such brave spirits; or did everyone in the street have the hero gene?
'Thank you.' He said gratefully, 'His name's John Watson, he's-'
'An ex-soilder from Afghanistan, a doctor, dark blonde with brown eyes, cute in a kind of squidgy English way?'
Sherlock was a little taken back, but no surprised. After all, John's blog had a sizeable following, so Ruard must have got the ex-soldier and doctor informaation that way. Sherlock also deduced that Ruard had seen John's profile picture, although, when describing John, the word 'squidgy' had never crossed his mind.
'I am quite an avid follower of your adventures with John,' Ruard smiled 'although maybe you shouldn't be so hard on his storytelling, they'd make one hell of a novel.'
Sherlock secretly vowed that if John was found alive he'd never criticise his blog again, he'd hapilly sit through the trivial description and weak prose if it meant John was still writing it. Sherlock felt a little odd, he'd never realized before how attached to John he'd become, he'd never even been friendly with Mycroft or his parents. Sherlock Holmes wasn't popular, he'd never needed to be. As difficult as it was to admit to himself, he found he needed John near him, to keep him sane if nothing else.
'Right, helpful advice.' Sherlock drawled sarcastically 'Can you get me information.'
Ruard's playful smile faded, maybe he sensed the panic in Sherlock's eyes, the tiny tremor in his voice. 'I'll do what I can.'
...
It's nice to have contacts isn't it? I'm sorry, OC's aren't really my thing, and I seem to have included quite a few XD
Next chapter: Sculptor lives up to his namesake. Poor John.