The Hunt and the Hunted
In which there are plans, explosives and sad music
3 days, 20 hours, 35 minutes
The room was beautifully decorated. Classy, but modern. Nothing over the top, everything was neat and clean; there was no sign anyone had been in here. The room was warm, but not without the creepy hotel room feel. It was spacious and open, a wide, three-room suite with handsome furniture and its own kitchen.
If it weren't for the handcuffs, Lana would have felt fine.
Struggling to regain feeling in her fingers, Lana shifted her position in the chair and tried to find a way to look around. She couldn't see much from her position in the middle of the room; if she wanted to explore her situation further, she would have to get the cuffs off. They were tight, biting into her flesh as she strained and wiggled to no avail. There was just no changing the fact she would have to wait for someone to come and uncuff her.
She thought about Sherlock. God, she prayed he was ok. He had dropped so fast, there had been such a huge spray of red…
She was going to kill Jim. It didn't matter what else happened- she was going to kill him as many times as it took for him to be destroyed.
A door opening behind her pulled her from her murderous thoughts.
"Hello, Lana."
Lana gritted her teeth. "You bastard."
"Language, sweetie," Jim said snidely, taking hold of her clenched fists and working at the locks on the handcuffs. "I really don't want these to become necessary." With a soft click, the cuffs were removed from her wrists, and Lana rubbed them in an attempt to push the blood back into her fingers. She still didn't turn to face him.
"Why am I here?"
"You're here because Sherlock needed a little nudge in the right direction."
"Nudge?" Lana couldn't believe her ears. "You had him shot!"
"Nowhere vital, I assure you. And he needed to know I've had enough of his stalling and to get a move on with things." Lana heard Jim pocket the handcuffs behind her with a clink. "I assume you're wondering where you are?"
"And I'm assuming you're not going to tell me."
"Clever girl."
Lana kept her back firmly to him. "So your plan is to keep me here until Sherlock does what you want?"
Jim laughed. "Essentially. But you're missing the main point. I suppose that's to be expected, of course, but I really hoped you would have realized my plan already, after all that time we spent in conversation."
"What are you talking about?" she could feel him getting closer. "You've had me funnel information to you to keep track of his movements. That has nothing to do with a master plan except to make sure he's in the right position when you decide to strike. And I already know you don't need me to tell you where he is."
"But that's exactly my POINT!" Jim said with a cold snap. "The whole point of this little game, this pointless little drama of ours, was to make YOU do it for me. It was never about the information; it's about the control, the KNOWLEDGE that I have a weapon far better than anything Sherlock could create. And I intend to use it for as long as I can."
"What are you going to do to him." it wasn't a question.
"I feel like you should really be asking that about yourself. You're the one I'm holding hostage."
"I'm not important," Lana said with a deadpan look, trying to flush all emotion out of her system and leaving her with nothing but merciless rage. "If there's nothing for him to follow, and no puzzle for him to solve, then you've wasted your time; he'll lose interest."
"You give yourself such little credit," Jim replied, fingering her hair and staring her down with a freezing, cheerless grin. "Normally, I'd agree with you, but this is hardly normal circumstances."
"He's not some white knight if that's what you're getting at. A damsel in distress means nothing to him."
"Unless the damsel in question is someone he cares about," he said. "Someone he knows. Someone he loves, and will do anything in his power to protect."
"What makes you think he loves me? He doesn't like complications."
"He said so himself."
Lana felt the fight drain out of her.
He knew.
She had no idea how, but Jim had ripped down her last defense. And there was nothing she could do because he was right. They both knew that Sherlock was fiercely loyal to those he wanted to protect. Which meant that one way of another, he was going to come looking for her. And Lana was horrified at the thought of what might be waiting for him.
"Please," she breathed, turning her eyes to the floor. "Leave him alone. You can kill me, torture be; just don't make him come looking for me."
Jim smiled. "That's what I wanted to hear. Total surrender. But now, I'm going to push you to your limits, and then even farther. So," he grabbed her face and forced her to look at him. "Shall we begin?"
….
The maid was vacuuming the hallway outside, headphones in, volume up, chewing gum stuck in her molars. As she paused to adjust her hair and try without success to dislodge the gum, the song switched and she heard the screaming.
It was raw, dark, a bit like an animal. It came in bursts and waves, pitching from the other side of the wall.
The maid stuck her ear buds more firmly in her ears and turned the vacuum back on. Whoever lived in the apartment had left the TV on again; it was a bad habit of his.
Humming along to the new tune, the maid kept moving down the hallway.
….
3 days, 12 hours, 12 minutes
He was talking to himself again.
John never knew what to do when Sherlock started talking to the walls, or the chair, or to the air in front of him. He only did it when one of two things happened; either John wasn't home or a case was going nowhere fast.
Sherlock had been up now for 36 hours; his eyes were hollowed and red, his skin waxy and sallow. He had refused any help from anyone, and any mentions of sleep were met with an ice-cold glare.
The flat was a wreck; books and maps of London dominated the living room, fighting for space alongside the piles of sheet music and cigarette butts. Used-up pens were lying on the carpet like carcasses, sharing the floor with pillows, feathers and Sherlock's violin. The Sherlock in question was curled on the couch, pouring over a huge map of the London underground and writing frantically in a notebook perched on his knee. His bandages were falling off where he hadn't bothered to change them. There were feathers in his hair and ink stains all over his wrists; leftovers from writing up from his wrist to his elbow when he had run out of paper.
John couldn't hear what the conversation was about, but he could hear the faint undertones for Sherlock's muttering and the pregnant pauses he was taking, as though he was allowing his invisible partner to finish their thoughts before he continued.
At least Emily wasn't here to see him like this. He had sent her on a tour of the city, claiming Lana was still recovering from a cold and had been quarantined to the back room of the flat by Sherlock. She had been gone most of the day, but John wasn't sure what was going to happen when she got back.
No. he couldn't think about that. He had to stay occupied. Keep Emily away. Find Lana as fast as possible.
Stepping gingerly over two piles of maps and a singed dressing gown, John reached out to his best friend.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock jerked and fixed him with a look that would have sent anyone else into the corner in shame. John gazed steadily back.
"Do you have anything useful to say, John?"
"Yes, actually," John replied, pulling the notebook off his friend's knee and reaching to roll up the map. "You, of all should know what happens when the body doesn't get enough sleep. Staying up and not sleeping at all isn't going to help Lana and it's not going to help you find her faster.
"So, and I mean this as a friend, you are going to put the pen down and get your ass in bed, because if you don't do it willingly, Sherlock Holmes, I am going to sedate you and drag you in there."
Sherlock tried to pretend he wasn't listening. But after five minutes of trying to banish John away with his thoughts, Sherlock tossed his pen on the table and sat up, pulling feathers out of his hair.
"An hour. No more."
"Five." John said, snapping a rubber band around the map.
"Two."
"Three."
"Done." Sherlock turned on his heel and staggered into this room, white feathers still trailing after him like new fallen snow.
Once the door slammed shut, John turned back to the piles of information, the stacks of data and the columns of maps. It was a collection of anything and everything they could find in the flat that could possible help them find her. Moriarty hadn't made it easy for him, leaving behind nothing but the spray-painted message and a page of numbers that seemed to have no meaning. With a sigh and newfound determination, John took Sherlock's place on the couch.
Later, when John went to check on him, Sherlock had disappeared.
"Jesus," John raked his hands through his hair and stared out the open window into the cold night. He should have seen this coming; Sherlock would never have just lay down and listened to John when he had something he'd rather be doing. He could be halfway across London by now.
John turned on his heel and charged down the hallway. He grabbed his parka, his gloves, and slipped on his shoes, banging his way down the stairs and brushing past Missus Hudson on her way through the door.
The cold wind carried him through back alleys and broken-down bus stations, to old warehouses that smelled like river water and disappointment. John had left his watch at home, but the clock was chiming on the other side of the river; it was two o clock in the morning, and there was still no sign of his friend. John had lost hope of Sherlock responding to the wave of texts he sent him in the past hour as he sank onto a bench on charring cross road. The occasional taxi shot by, and pop music beat out the windows of a nearby pub. John buried his face in his hands, rubbing his temples, and tried to think.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and he looked up with a start.
WATERLOO BRIDGE. S
John started to his feet and hailed for a taxi.
….
2 days 23 hours, 13 minutes
The bridge was silent and shrouded in mist as the taxi pulled up alongside it. John thrust some bills into the cabbies hand and started walking.
He found him about a quarter of the way across the bridge. Sherlock was a dark figure in the mist, his head hanging down surrounded by curls. He seemed like a skeleton, weighed down by his coat and his general misery. He was shaking.
John took a deep breath and leaned alongside him. "How long have you been here?"
"Since I went through the city and ended up here." Sherlock didn't look up; he just kept staring at whatever he was turning over in his hands.
"What's that?" it looked a bit like a watch chain.
Sherlock held it up, catching it in the glow of a nearby street lamp. It was a silver necklace, long a simple, with a pendant of glass on the end in a perfect circle. Basic but beautiful, it sparkled in the solitary street lights. Sherlock dropped it back into his hands and closed his eyes. "I was going to give this to her. On Christmas. Now it's just sentiment and something else I don't need to hold on to."
"You can't give up on her now. Look, we're going to find her, Sherlock. You're brilliant and you're going to find her."
"And what if there's nothing left to find, John. We know how Moriarty plays this game. We know that he goes for the things we care about most and effectively destroys them. And we know that he does it whenever it suits him, whenever he wants an enjoyment, and right now his greatest joy is watching me stay trapped here, trapped in my own logic, tearing myself apart and unable to move, so that when I do find him, I am nothing and I have nothing left because he can take away what I love and he can watch me dance for something that no longer exists. Because I am compelled to, ruled by impulse, and I need to destroy that so that I can get back on track. Do you understand what's going to happen now, because she's dead and I'm falling into everything I swore I never would, for anyone?"
John punched him.
Sherlock staggered back, and for a moment he blurred behind the mist as John advanced on him. "For the love- WILL YOU CUT THE CRAP AND DEAL WITH THE PROBLEM?! You care about her, and that makes you strong, THAT should be what's keeping you fighting and wanting to help her and find her and save her. She made you decent, Sherlock, and I am NOT going to watch you toss this all away because you're afraid of a broken heart. It's part of being human! Now you go, and you find her NOW because so help me you actually love her, Sherlock, and I am not going to let you pass this up for anything!"
His words echoed across the silent bridge. Somewhere out in the night, a ship's foghorn moaned. Sherlock gripped the edge of the bridge, the necklace in daggling dangerously over the edge. He rubbed his reddening jaw and blinked to get the rushing river below him back into focus. There was a moment of silence, punctured by the two men's sharp, deep breaths. Then Sherlock finally stepped forward and pressed the necklace into John's hand.
"Make sure I don't lose this; I still need to give it to her."
He turned on his heel and walked away through the mist. John smiled after his retreating figure, then turned on his heel and headed back the way he came.
When he got home several minutes later, he found Sherlock, fast asleep on the couch, next to a list of hotels and rented apartment complex. On a small scrap of paper, he had written a word in untidy, half-asleep scrawl.
Lana
….
33 hours
Jim stood in front of the solitary window, looking out at city below him. Ordinary people, living their ordinary lives, so corruptible, so easily swayed, so very naïve… it was all so boring. Jim looked down at his hands. In the light, he could clearly see the blood under his nails starting to dry.
He turned away from the window to face the quivering mass on the floor. Lana was curled in a fetal position; her clothes ripped open in some places and her skin a spider web of red. Her hair was cut short; hacked away to right above her chin. And when she raised her head, Jim could see her bruised face and gaunt, pale look.
He grinned; not bad for a couple days of work.
Jim bent in close so Lana could hear, speaking softly, letting the joy of the words roll off his tongue. "He's coming to get you. You failed. You might have chosen to not cooperate, but you failed all the same."
Lana glared back at him defiantly, but said nothing. Jim stared back, and then reached out, catching Lana by the hair and yanking back her head as she bit back a scream.
"Listen up, you little bitch, did you hear me? Your boyfriend is still coming after all that. I guess he really does feel for you. But then, all ordinary people have to feel something once in a while. That's why I don't ever bother." Jim released her and Lana flopped back onto the carpet. "Now I really must be off; I have things to do, people to see, bombs to wire, your death to plan- I'm swamped."
Jim stepped over her and swept out of the hotel room, the bolt sliding into place with a defiant click.
At once, Lana was on her feet, swaying slightly from the head rush.
It had worked. All that taking the torture, letting him beat her with words, fists, any number of the many things he had done to her, all of it had been leading up to this moment; when he had left her alone.
Ignoring the door completely, Lana slid into the next room, searching everywhere large enough to hold a mobile phone. In dressers, drawers, in jacket pockets. Her search came up empty, and she was just about to lose all hope to frustration when she found it- a disused phone sitting on a rack high above in the closet. Lana pulled it down, flinching at the clatter of plastic as it fell into her hands. The wires were frayed, but usable, and she could barely control her bounding heart as she knelt down and plugged the phone into the outlet. She held the phone up to her ear, praying, blood beating in her ears.
A dial tone, faint and scratchy, sounded in the earpiece.
Lana was so relieved she started shaking so badly she could barely dial the number. Every pore of her body was alive with tension as she punched the buttons, listening as hard as she could for the sound of any approaching footsteps.
The phone started ringing.
….
Sherlock was examining various photos of abandoned warehouses and buildings for sale when his phone rang.
Without missing a beat, he dropped the photos into a neat pile and scooped up the phone, not even bothering to look at the number.
"Sherlock Holmes."
Ragged breathing was heard on the other end.
"Hello?"
A moment of silence, and then,
"Sherlock."
Sherlock pressed the phone so close to his ear it hurt. "Lana."
"I…I…" She fell silent.
"Is the line tapped?"
"I don't know. I found it in the closet. It wasn't connected but that doesn't mean much."
"Ok, I need you to talk fast then. Do you know where you are?"
"Not exactly. But I have a pretty good idea. Do you have a pen?"
"I'll remember." His breath was coming out fast now, chest tight and lungs contracted as Lana spoke as fast as she could, rattling off everything she could into the phone between terrified gasps of air.
"We're near the river, I can smell it and hear things…but I'm high up. Somewhere high up. Hotel. I don't know which one."
"What's defining about the room? Symbols, colors, anything, give me something to work with."
"It's all…blue with grey trim, there's paper with a symbol on it but no name-"
"Describe it."
"A silver lion, with, um, vines and a dagger underneath it. That's all, there isn't any more." Lana took a deep breath. "Sherlock please don't come get me, send officers or something but please don't come and get me, it's what he wants, he'll kill you-"
She heard the door slide open and broke off with a terrified gasp. "He's here, he's-"
Sherlock hung up.
….
"The Falling View Suites?" asked John.
"It fits her description; near the river, twenty three stories and the insignia has a lion and dagger on it. It's got to be it."
Sherlock had left John kneeling beside the coffee table, peering over a well-abused map of London. He was now rifling through his closet, pulling on his coat and snatching his scarf off the counter. Without even bothering to look back at John, he swept through the door and was halfway down the stairs before John grabbed his wrist, pulling Sherlock around and stopping him from reaching the landing.
"Do you have any idea what you're getting into?"
"John, I have to go get her." Sherlock's face was full of earnest pleading, begging John to understand.
John knew what his friend was capable of. He had seen this man perform nothing short of miracles, applying his knowledge and saving others. Sherlock had always been the cold, calculating figure, hiding in the shadows and trusting his head. This was someone else. Someone who was trusting his gut and living for what he cared about.
This man seemed very…human. Someone who was able perform so much more than he had before.
John released him and looked directly into his friend's eyes. "I'm coming with you."
Sherlock made no response, but turned and bolted down the stairs, John mere steps behind him and cramming a gun in his jacket.
The door swung shut on the empty landing as the two men ran into the night.
….
1 hour, 45 minutes
Hello everyone. Long pause. Much to do, everyone sends their love.
I've missed you guys. A lot has happened in not a lot of time, and it's made posting very difficult. Things haven't gone the best for me this winter, and I'm glad that I can get back on my laptop and writing again. On the other hand I've got some new stories that'll be published soon. Two one-shots and a potential new series! I hope you enjoy them as much as you've enjoyed the flat mates. Any thoughts on the ending? No? Well, don't worry, only two chapters to makes me sad to think about that, honestly. I hate to see these characters go away, even though they never listen.
It always seems to end the same way. I start out with a brilliant chapter idea, with a distinct plan of where my characters are going to go.
And then they disregard me completely and do whatever the hell they want. I guess it's better that way.
In other not so somber news, I bought a typewriter. Hooray
Love always, and still praying for your patience,
Jay