The black car drew up in front of the cafe. John watched as all the nervousness seemed to fall away from Sherlock. With John close behind, Sherlock pulled open the door of the car without hesitation and slid into the back seat as casually as if it were any one of the endless cabs he had summoned himself.
They sat next to each other, silent in the backseat, as the sedan slid through the early evening traffic. The driver made no effort to hide his face, or to obscure where they were headed. John couldn't help himself from cataloguing all the indications that they were not meant to survive this.
John hadn't thought that he could get tenser, but he felt the pressure building in his shoulders, inching up his spine. The soft graze of warmth against the back of his hand almost made him jump. Sherlock was still staring out his window, his face carefully neutral, but his hand had flopped over on the seat between them until the back of his hand was lightly touching the back of John's hand.
John took a deep breath in through his nose and let it out slowly. He tried to force his muscles to relax, focusing on that spot of warmth, the invisible sign of support Sherlock was sending them. This was going to be bad, they both knew it. They just had to get through it, somehow.
The traffic thinned as they drove further. Finally the car turned down a gravel path. A high wire fence surrounded a derelict-looking building with two giant smokestacks. As the driver got out of the car to roll back the wire gate, the smell of the Thames rushed in through his open door.
"Lots Road Power Station," Sherlock murmured to John. "Used to supply the Underground with electricity until it was decommissioned in 2002. They keep saying they are going to turn it into shops and flats, but planning permission keeps falling through."
John nodded. It was a good choice for Moran. Derelict, but with planned redevelopment no one would consider it unusual to see an occasional car about.
The driver pulled the car through the gate, and then closed it behind them. They bumped along an uneven path for awhile before pulling up beside a rusty side door.
The door had been cracked open a bit, and now it opened all the way. A man and a woman stepped out, both of them with guns at the ready, as the driver opened the back door for Sherlock and John.
Sherlock and John climbed out of the car, squinting to make out details in the gathering dusk The deep, pungent smell of the Thames and probably a fair amount of sewage hung heavy in the air.
John saw a flicker of recognition in Sherlock's eyes as he looked over Moran's two mercenaries, but he gave no other sign of having identified them. He stood calmly, arms at his sides and slightly away from his body, as the man held his weapon on them both. The woman began with John, holstering her gun and pulling John's jacket off his shoulders, tossing it on the ground. Without even looking she pulled the Browning from the back of his waistband, ejecting the clip and thumbing the rounds out efficiently before pulling back on the slide to check the chamber. She snapped the slide back and tucked the empty weapon into her own waistband before continuing John's pat-down briskly but meticulously.
John gritted his teeth, standing still under the invasive touch, feeling his defenses being slowly stripped away. She removed every item in his pockets, as well as his watch and belt, throwing them in a small heap on top of John's jacket. "Shoes," she said, in a curt accent John couldn't place but was sure Sherlock had pegged down to the village, and John obediently stepped on his heels, toeing off his shoes.
He stood, gravel biting through his socks, watching as Sherlock got the same treatment. When Sherlock's search was completed the woman stepped back, drawing her weapon again, and gave a low whistle.
John's attention jerked upwards as a window screeched open above them. The first thing he saw was the muzzle of a rifle, and then a moment later Moran looked down at them, his green eyes piercing. He nodded sharply and the woman opened the rusty metal side door. "Upstairs," she said.
John started toward the door, stopping only as Sherlock gripped his wrist tightly. After a wordless exchange John nodded, letting Sherlock precede him up the stairs as the door clanged shut behind them. The stairs were a crumbling amalgamation of concrete and rusty metal, and John had the stray thought that the whole structure might just collapse and do Moran's job for him. How disappointing that would be for everyone, John thought snidely, suppressing an inappropriate and probably borderline-hysterical giggle.
The door at the top of the stairs was open, half-hanging off its hinges. Sherlock stepped through and John saw the almost momentary hitch in his stride as he took in the scene. Sherlock walked further into the room, John following close behind.
He had expected an upper-level room, but instead the door opened up into a gallery of sorts, approximately three metres wide where they stood but running more narrowly along all four sides of the immense factory with only a metal rail dividing it from the cavernous interior. The gallery seemed to butt out onto the factory floor in wider sections at some points, and they were standing on one, the concrete space empty but for two metal chairs and Moran, standing casually by the rail with his rifle cradled in his hands. The far ends of the factory were lost in gloom, but a construction light illuminated this section, the harsh glare of the halogen bulbs adding an extra layer of eerieness to the surroundings.
"Come in, come in," Moran said with false affability, gesturing them forward with the muzzle of the rifle.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed on the weapon. "An L115A3 Long Range Rifle," he said in that crisp, over-enunciated voice he used under pressure. "A bit much for such close quarters, isn't it?"
"Not at all," Moran said evenly. "Come see."
Another glowing light from below drew Sherlock and John closer to the rail. Moran kept the rifle up and ready, stepping a careful distance back as John and Sherlock approached. Sherlock was able to see the factory floor below first, and John prepared himself as he heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath.
At the far end of the factory, another construction light cast a pool of illumination amid the strange hulking metal and concrete shapes of the abandoned power equipment. In that circle of light was Mycroft, his arms apparently secured behind him, his ankles bound to each leg of the metal chair in which he was sitting. As with John and Sherlock, he had been stripped down to his white button-down and trousers, his stockinged feet flat on the concrete floor. Spots of red showed bright against the pale fabric of his shirt under the merciless glare of the halogen bulbs.
Mycroft's face was pale and drawn. His eyes had been closed, but they blinked open as he was apparently roused by the voices. He squinted against the light and John could tell the moment he caught sight of them. A combination of rage and absolute fear shuddered over his face before he composed his features into blankness again. He deliberately shut his eyes, raising his chin defiantly.
"You see?" Moran said. "You've interrupted me at target practice. A man is only as good as his skills, is he not?"
John gripped Sherlock's wrist, feeling the tremor of aborted movement in his body as Moran raised the rifle, sighting carefully at Mycroft.
"Barely 120 metres," Moran sighed. "Hardly a challenge, but I make do." Only the slightest narrowing of his eyes betrayed his intention as he smoothly pulled the trigger.
A harsh, involuntary sound escaped Sherlock's throat, and within a millisecond Moran had swung the rifle around, muzzle pointed at Sherlock again. Moran gestured with his head and they all looked down at Mycroft. A new spot of red was blooming across the crest of his left shoulder, a perfect match to the one on the right. Moran had just grazed him, and John shuddered inwardly at the thought of that kind of accuracy from a shot taken so casually without even a mount.
"Now that you are here, the real fun can begin," Moran said. "What should I take next? An ear, perhaps? A toe? Maybe something a touch more vital...a kneecap?"
"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, his voice steady and cool. "Certainly not Mycroft, he was just to get us here. So, we're here now. What is going to satisfy you?"
"Don't be coy, Mr. Holmes. You know what I want."
"You want to hurt me," Sherlock asserted immediately, and even John could hear the thread of hope in his voice.
Moran merely shook his head, tut-tutting chidingly. "Try harder," he prompted.
Sherlock's fists clenched in rage, his voice growing low and hoarse. "You want to hurt John," he admitted.
"Better," Moran taunted. "Now take a few steps back, both of you. And Dr. Watson, if you would be so kind as to remove your shirt, as to improve the view."
They both stepped back, a muscle in Sherlock's jaw twitching as John set numb fingers to his buttons, pulling off his shirt, and at Moran's raised eyebrow his vest as well. John shuddered as Moran's eyes appeared to take in his bare torso avidly.
"Interesting," he murmured. "You are no stranger to pain, Dr. Watson. That should make this all the better." He licked his lips, the quick flicker of his tongue revealing his interest in a way that made John's stomach churn.
Moran straightened, his voice growing more businesslike. "There are some zip ties on that chair." He gestured with the rifle again. "Hands at your back where I can see, Dr. Watson, and Mr. Holmes please do the honors."
John turned his back on Moran, pressing his fists together at his back, thumb against thumb. Moran tutted chidingly again. "Wrists flat together, Doctor Watson, we both know better than that," he said, voice laced with sham good humour.
John shrugged. "Can't fault me for trying," he said evenly, pressing his inner wrists together. The posture pulled on his bad shoulder painfully, and when Sherlock looped the heavy plastic tie around his wrists there was no slack whatsoever.
"Tighter," Moran instructed, and John felt the tie begin to cut into his skin. His hands would be numb in a few hours at the most, assuming he lived that long.
At Moran's careful instruction Sherlock guided John into the metal chair, securing another tie between the one at his wrists and the rail on the chair's back.
Then Sherlock stepped back, his back to Moran, shoulders tipped back as he pressed his own wrists together behind his back. His head dipped, curls falling over his forehead, as he waited for Moran to secure him.
Moran merely laughed. "Such a pretty picture, Mr. Holmes, but there is no need."
Sherlock's head jerked up, every ounce of sham submission gone as he glared over his shoulder. "What do you mean?"
"An expert in martial arts, are you not, as well as a proficient boxer? Were you hoping I'd put my rifle down and come closer, Mr. Holmes, so you could overpower me?" Moran's voice dripped with mockery. "Do tell me that was not the full extent of your clever plan? I would be so disappointed."
Sherlock straightened slowly, turning back toward Moran, his eyes flicking between Moran and John. "You said you wanted to hurt John," he said, his voice faltering in uncertainty.
"You said that, Mr. Holmes. And I said better, but not correct," Moran retorted, enunciating every word carefully. With his right hand still carefully aiming the sniper rifle, he reached to the small of his back with the left, pulling out a wicked-looking hunting knife with a serrated tip.
A flick of the wrist and the knife spun across the concrete floor, ending its last lazy spin neatly at Sherlock's feet. "I'm not going to hurt your John, Mr. Holmes." Moran's light green eyes locked on Sherlock's face, as if drinking in his every reaction. "You are."
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