How are you all my dears? Keeping busy? Just had 3 different shows in 4 weeks, so I have been working my proverbial off and must apologize (again) for the long gaps between updates. Now I just have to catch up on the massive amount of coursework set for me to do in between shows :)
I don't think my lecturer's were happy with me filling up my portfolio with Sherlock fanart * innocent whistling*
...
Sculptor inspected his nails dispassionatley, John Watson's blood caking the skin a dull reddish brown. Thank God he'd been payed in advance by Mr Markin, he wouldn't have liked to ask for an extended contract. The soldier was lasting longer than expected, resisting any attempts Sculptor had made to completely break him. He was actually pretty impressed with the fact Johnny hadn't died yet. Usually one of his projects wasted away from blood loss, John had even remained somewhat lucid through the drug treatment. Who would have known that a hardy and brave tough-guy was hiding beneath that dull, gentlemanly exterior?
Sculptor was an Expert. It was the pride he held in his work that cause him to christen it with the capital letter. He knew how deep to cut, how long scars would last and how bad they would look.
The scars on Johnny's back from the rolling pin would last several years, maybe even into middle age. However, the latest carving would be permanent, a lasting reminder should the man survive. It was a nice touch, he felt, that it personified little John Watson's fears and worries, and was now chiseled in his chest for all to see. He could have gone with something simpler, something vague and nasty. But this, he considered, really drove the point home.
A small whimper from the far side of the room alerted him to John's presence. The other man was curled up in a little ball, staring blankly at the floor. The big one was coming up, and Sculptor felt it only polite to allow the soldier a little time to recover before they started.
John pressed his palms to the cuts on his chest, feeling absoluetly rotten. He just wanted to sleep, hunger and thirst be damned. He just wanted to close his eyes, float away and never return.
He knew it hadn't been Sherlock, even whilst it was happening, he knew, deep down, this wasn't the man he knew, this wasn't Sherlock. Still, the utter, utter betrayal he still felt squashed any certainty left in him. Maybe Sherl-Sculptor was right, maybe that was what the detective thought of him. The gashes stood out scarlet against his white and bruised skin, spidery cuts written in a style usually seen on the cover of DVDs for horror films:
W O R T H L E S S
He was. He wasn't important, or even mediocre, he wasn't even worth the trouble these people had gone to.
Oh God LISTEN to yourself! You sound like a bloody emo teenager! Where's the John Watson Sherlock's searching for? Isn't he still inside me somewhere?
He pulled himself together, gritting his teeth. He no longer had the will nor the strength to satnd, or even sit up. It was taking all his self control- excercised by his years in the army- to keep his eyes open.
I just want to go home. I want to watch shitty telly with whilst Sherlock tells me how boring life is. I want Sherlock to steal my laptop and mess up the kitchen. I want Mrs Hudson to remind him she's not our housekeeper. I want to hear that damn violin playing at the small hours of the morning. I want to be out of milk and to moan at Sherlock for not looking after himself. I just want Sherlock to throw some stealthy insult at me and my stupidity. I just want Sherlock...
'Johnny?' came a silky voice behind him. For Pete's sake, why couldn't the bastard just leave him alone?
He would have dearly loved to tell Sculptor to piss off. But he found that he just couldn't even drag up enough energy to open his mouth much. He settled for a grunt instead, hopefully directing all his hatred and fear into the single guttural sound.
'Can you stand?' Sculptor asked. The apparently genuine concern and tenderness made John's skin crawl. Fuck off, leave me alone, just let me sleep. Please. If his fingers weren't so clawed and tense, balled into fists against his chest, he would have at least attempted to flick Sculptor the 'V' sign. Pathetically, he just lay there, allowing the other man to apporach softly and crouch down beside him. The gentle hands on his upper arms felt horribly welcome. John was sick to the stomach, craving such a touch. The last time someone had given a friendly touch was the other day when Sherlock had patted his shoulder saying 'good man John.' The memory made John's shoulder feel warm. Sculptor's hands were deftly stroking him, as a mother would check on a feverish toddler.
'Are you okay to stand?' came the question again, Sculptor's lips were inches from John's ears and the latter flinched, his personal space well and truly invaded. When John gave no answer, the man above him sighed.
'Oh well, we may as well do it the other way.' he called over his shoulder 'PETE!'
Less than a few minuets later, heavy footsteps thundered into the room and Pete's large hands grabbed him, considerably rougher and less tender than Sculptor's. Apparently Pete didn't give two hoots about John's comfort.
John experienced the sensation of being lifted, Pete put one hand under his legs and held him like a baby. Through his bleary eyes John saw the entrance to what he had dubbed 'The Main Chamber', it was of a Victorian flavour, heavy arched and cobblestones. In the distance he could hear traffic and the sounds of London passing by.
THAT'S how close I am? I could cry for help...oh don't be so ruddy stupid, no-one could hear you from in here.
He was dumped into a rickety chair, the force making his head loll backward. Terry Markin was stood, all nonchalance, beside him.
'Don't worry John. I've hurt Sherlock all I want now.'
John drew a breath and found his voice.
'If you've touched him-' he began to snarl, knowing how ineffectual his threat would be, what harm could he do know? Beaten and bleeding, a weak little victim who couldn't overpower a little girl at the moment, let alone a group of fully grown men.
'No need to panic, we didn't do anything physically.' Markin smiled coldly. His hand grasped John underneath the chin, forcing his face upwards. John threw the best 'I fart in your general direction' glare he could manage at him.
Sculptor trailed into the room behind everyone, eyes shining with unbridled glee. Suddenly John didn't feel as brave as he would have liked, and shrank back a little in the chair. Pathetic.
The two men, Markin and Sculptor, put John in mind of looking up at the dentist while he scraped away at your molars. The other gang members in the back were blurred, but all looked more menacing than an angry darts player loitering outside a pub during his fag break.
Markin redoubled his grip on John's face, and John sensed that he should twist his face away, especially since Sculptor looked as though Christmas came early this year. He tried to do so, but Markin just forced him back so hard John felt his neck crick.
'It's nothing personal you see, not for me anyway.' Sculptor told him casually, stroking John's face. 'But Mr Markin is very specific when it comes to this. Isn't it as Ghandi said? An eye for an eye-'
John knew. He'd seen it ever since Sculptor wlatzed into the room, and he had chosen to ignore it. He knew what was going to happen, and, in a blind panic, he began to beg.
'NO!' he pleaded desperatley, struggling against Markin, 'No please! I-I'll do anything! P-Please! Oh God. Please don't!...' He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing how pointless it was going to be.
'-And we'll all be blind.' Sculptor finished wickedly, grinning at John's impending pain. He fucking LOVED his job.
A vicious second later and John's screams tore his world apart.
...
Ruard was running. The motion was causing his glasses to slip down his nose and he was pushing them back up every few seconds. He knew he musn't delay even for a second, every moment was crucial. He didn't want to let Monsieur Holmes down.
...
Sherlock was pacing. It was getting very annoying for Lestrade and Anderson.
'Why can't he just stay the hell still?' Anderson fumed. Lestrade just told him to shut it.
'I'm getting impatient Lestrade.' Sherlock reported to the Inspector, it took every conceivable ounce of self-control for Lestrade not to tug at his hair in frustration.
'So am I Sherlock.' he snapped back. 'We're doing everything we possibly can.'
Sherlock repressed the urge to scoff with tremendous difficulty. For all their 'best', the best part of a week had flown by and still no sign of John. Sherlock had a sneaky suspicion his friend was closer than they thought, that he was still in this part of London.
Anderson shifted slightly in his seat, Sherlock's reserve snapped, and he wheeled round to face him.
'Don't you have some crime scene to lord over?' he demanded angrily. Anderson's face froze. For a moment nothing happened then the man stomped out the room, muttering something under his breath that sounded horribly like 'I just want to help.'
Sherlock blinked. He just left? Really? Not even so much as a fight?
'There was no need for that.' Lestrade chided him when Anderson had left. Sherlock glared, it was such an intense glare Lestrade was surprised he didn't burn to a crisp. The taller man then sighed and rubbed his forehead.
'I need some air.' He said, to no-one in particular. Lestrade didn't even try to stop him as he strode past.
...
'Watch it!' shouted the woman, holding her chubby arms aloft to keep herself from falling over. Ruard didn't notice, he raced down the street, weaving in and out of passers-by and knocking into a few. Sometimes he shouted an apology over his shoulder, but other times he just kept on running. Racing across a zebra crossing he nearly got bumped by a speeding youth in a mini. The lactic acid build-up in his legs made them stiff and painful but he kept running. A man's life hang in the balance.
...
The air, Sherlock decided, wasn't really worth the fuss. It wasn't doing anything particularly useful to lift his mood. Rather, feeling the cold air whip underneath his collar and penetrate the warm fibres of his coat, it was making him feel a tiny bit worse. Iron grey coulds were streaked acrodd the sky, heavy with unreleased rain. Sherlock gave it a few hours before it would start to drizzle. This was what John called 'muzzy' weather.
Sherlock took a deep breath, out of necessity rather than anything else. The sounds of London passed by before him, taxis and buses zipped past, their engine noises littering the hubbub of people sauntering by. He lookd at them; a teenager whom it was obvious was preoccupied about the possibility he'd gotten his girlfriend pregant, a young woman chatting away on her phone about something our Chanel said, a little old man- head bobbing with palsy- hobbling down to his nearest Ladbrokes. Sherlock wondered about the public going about their lives, did they have a John Watson to care about? Did they have a Sherlock Holmes to follow about?
God he needed a cigarette.
He closed his eyes. His mind raced through his predicament.
Problem: John
Details: John has been kidnapped. Thugs have hated me for a while. Revenge wanted.
Why John?
Theory: John is my only friend. I feel more for him than my own brother. I don't care for anyone else but John. Markin wants the person I am most attached to. They did this because I-
Oh.
Sherlock didn't have much time to ponder this strange conclusion thanks to the sudden arrival of an out of breath blonde Frenchman colliding somewhat heavily into his side.
'Monsieur Holmes!' Ruard gasped, grabbing Sherlock's sleeves eagerly. 'Your friend! Come right away! Your friend! Your Watson!'
'What?' Sherlock half-shouted, trying to calm the man down long enough to speak clearly. Not an easy task, Arthur Ruard was smiling like a lunatic.
'I know where he is!' came the excited and breathless reply.
Sherlock could have kissed him. He briefly considered a peck on the cheek, as was customary in Ruard's homeland. Instead, he opted for grasping the other's upper arms and matching the triumphant smile.
'Excellent!' he cried, turning back to shout for Lestrade. In a matter of seconds the grey-haired man rushed through thre door.
'What is it? Have they found him?' Lestrade practically absorbed the urgency in the air.
'Yes!' Sherlock brought his levity under control as the possibilities crashed upon him. 'Bring your best squad and bring an ambulance. I fear John's going to need one.'
Lestrade was already demanding a police quad, several cars were ready in minutes.
'Lead on.' Sherlock told Ruard, hoping with every scrap of his being that it wasn't too late.
...
You ask, I deliver, Sherlock's finally getting his arse in gear.
2 updates in 2 days? I must be getting creative :) I wrote this during a dress rehearsal in the dark, so apologies for any errors you may find, I couldn't see the keyboard very well XD
Next chapter: The group find John. What they see chills them all. Needless to say, Sherlock is NOT too happy.
See you soon :) x