Heyas! How are you all? Good? That's good. :D Yes. Here we are. Another chapter...listen. Just do me a favour. Don't kill me at the end alright? I mean, with a dead author, you don't get any more chapters, now do you? :D

Carry on.

WARNING: Some foul language.

CHAPTER 27

Traralgon

Regional Victoria

Victoria

Australia

John shifted slightly and grimaced as he realised the skin of his right hand was turning red – obviously, he forgot to cover it with sunscreen.

With Mitch at the wheel, they had driven for half an hour, following the general direction they had seen Tim and Larry take, hoping they were right. They had reached a fork in the road and had taken the left fork, using the digital map James had pulled up from the AFP database. There was a farmhouse the would be perfect for holding a person – isolated and abandoned in the 1950's, it was thought to be haunted, so it would keep most locals out.

Cresting a hill slowly, the road almost covered by grass and therefore not kicking up a dust cloud behind them, they spotted the old house, and, more importantly, the car that Larry and Tim had driven away in. Reversing and driving just below the top of the hill Mitch took them another three kilometres away from the road, and they found a perfect indent in the hill. it hid them from view on both left and right sides, and meant they could safely park the car there. Climbing out of the car and bringing the sunscreen with them, they had settled on top of the hill, Lestrade grateful for Sally's idea of buying five binoculars before they left.

For three hours now they had baked under the harsh sun, and still, the only movement they had seen was one of the men coming out to dump something in the bin and going back inside. They had set up a makeshift tent, but it could only fit four of them in, so they set up a rotation system.

For twelve minutes each, they would go to the top and keep an eye and then swap over. James had insisted on the odd number because twelve times five is sixty.

Everyone had looked at him a little differently after that.

John sighed as he entered the shade and Sally went out,

"Where the bloody hell is this Moriarty?" asked James,

"He'll come soon," said John, "give it some time. The man just broke out of jail,"

"Are you sure that storming the building is a good idea?" asked Lestrade, looking doubtfully at the hill as if he could see through it.

"Of course it is," said John, "There's five of us and four of them,":

"How's it four?" Mitch asked,

"Moriarty, his driver, Tim and Larry,"

"What if he's bringing an army with him?" James asked,

'He won't" Lestrade said,

'He's an arrogant bastard, he doesn't believe that anyone will come after him," James moved slightly and accidentally shifted some of his weight onto Lestrade,

"What are you doing?" the DI asked, and James flushed as he realised he was leaning against him. Lestrade really wouldn't have minded back home, but in these temperatures being this close to them was uncomfortable, touching was damn near unbearable,

"Sorry," James said, moving again and Mitch and John chuckled,

'This is one fish you can't catch, my friend," the Aussie agent said and Lestrade felt himself go red as James chocked on the mouthful of water. John laughed as Sally made her way back,

"What are you laughing about?" The sergeant asked as she waited for Lestrade to move,

"Nothing," Lestrade said, getting up quickly and making his way to the crest. This brought a few more chuckles from the rest of the group leaving Sally to remind herself that men will never change.

The sun had disappeared over the hill, a beautiful sunset was casting a red glow on them, making them feel sleepy and warm and yet, there was still no sign of Moriarty below. "What's going on?" Mitch asked as James came back,

'Nothing. Same as last time you were up,"

'It's been four hours," said John, glad to escape the rather small confines of their tent and lie down, his back flat on the grass, staring up at the stars.

"I know," Sally said, lying next to him, enjoying the peaceful moment. Mitch and James stayed sitting, but they were outside the tent-of-sorts as well.

'Who's turn?" John asked,

"Mine," Mitch said, getting up and climbing to the top.

John smiled as the wind gently washed over him, soft and sweet, carrying the sounds of roosting birds and emerging wildlife. He was about to drift to sleep when a howl echoed through the evening and Sally jerked up straight, "Dingo?" she asked and John opened an eye to see the grin split James' face,

"No, no dingoes up here."

"Oh." Sally swallowed,

'Do you have any wild animals around here?" she asked Mitch, at the top of the hill had to stop himself from laughing as James responded,

"We have plenty of wild animals,"

Lestrade was curious as well – if not a little worried – sat up and looked at James,

"Do kangaroos attack people?" he asked, thinking about the descriptions he's heard.

"Sometimes," John closed his eyes again and settled down, trying not to smile. James was enjoying this a little too much,

"Will they be around here?" Sally asked, worry creeping back into her voice,

"Well they travel around in mobs. Probably," Sally and Lestrade exchanged a glance and were about to go on when Mitch's voice broke through,

'Oi! There are headlights! A car is pulling up!" John sat up and grabbed the binoculars, quickly followed by the others who lay down flat, with only their heads poking out. Thankfully, there was no light left to flash off the lens of the binoculars.

Johns' heart clenched painfully as the car door opened. Part of him wished it were Moriarty so they could get the bastard and lock him up for good, and part of him wished it weren't. Because then Sherlock would be safe. Because then he could yell at the detective for his stupidity and give him a bone crushing hug, and probably cry. If Sherlock ever brought that up, he would deny it vehemently.

It felt like John was shoved back in time as, out of the car stepped Jim Moriarty. Clad in a black suit only his face and hands were visible from this distance and he still walked with an arrogant step that made John's blood boil.

The five agents sat and watched as the Irish criminal walked into that house and all five got ready for an assault.

Inside the farmhouse

Traralgon

Regional Victoria, Victoria

Australia

Sherlock groaned as another stab of pain originating from his empty stomach hit him. This was obviously a new form of torture. Give him clean chambers, a lovely view, plenty of sunlight, then light as the sun set, oxygen, water – the door had opened at midday and before Sherlock could even get up and catch a glimpse it had shut, leaving a crate of bottles of the floor, filled with bottles of ice-cold water – but leave out the food.

He was starving. He supposed it didn't help that he didn't eat dinner because he had been sulking.

The detective cracked open an eyelid as the sound of engine cutting off reached his ears and voices, tones of welcome, reached his ears. "Must be the boss," he muttered to himself, wondering if they could hear him. Though, he doubted it, because he had yelled, an hour ago, that he was hungry and there was no response. He was seriously considering writing on the wall. A voice in his head told him that that was the hunger talking. Then it told him he was going crazy because hearing voices in your head was never a good thing. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes, for Christ's sake. He should, by now, be able to do something as simple as escape a prison.

If I could just think straight.

Whenever he tried, it was like trying to start the engine of a car with low petrol. It was slow and sluggish and came to an eventual stop. If he didn't know better he'd say he'd been drugged, but one would need food for that.

It's only been happening since this afternoon…but…I didn't eat. I just need to think.

Sherlock sat up and took another drink. Well. It could be worse. He wasn't sure how, but John always told him to think positive.

Just outside the room, in the antechamber, Jim stared at the detective, taking yet another drink from the bottle of water water.

"Has the depressant been inserted into the water?" Moriarty asked, not glancing back at Larry,

'Yes boss, that's his second bottle. I don't think he's been able to think very clearly. He lies there, then he sits up as if remembering something then lies back down again." Moriarty smiled.

"Both of you may leave," Larry glanced back at Tim,

"Sir?"

"Leave. Take Timothy and go into town. Stay at the hotel tonight,'

"Sir…we may have some important information," Tim started but Moriarty cut him off, his eyes never leaving the screen on which Sherlock was clearly visible in the bright lights.

"Leave. Now," The two men looked at each other and decided it may be easier if they just listened to him. Walking quietly out of the room, they reached the front door and left the house, never looking back.

Jim sighed, relaxing. He knew his driver would stay in the bedroom and not come out until he was asked to. That left him alone with Sherlock. The grin that had been suppressed was finally let out and it almost hid the fading scar across his right cheek.

He walked to the bag on the table and exposed the plate inside, filled with some of the best crab he had ever eaten, from a little French place he had found on the way here. He knew Sherlock was hungry, and he also knew that the drugged water dulled his incredibly sharp senses. It would not have any lasting effect. Sherlock would only be brought down to a human level for a little while. Long enough for Moriarty to capture John without the detective guessing what he was up to and then really making the detective's life hell. From then on, all of Sherlock's attention would be on him and him alone. No more little pet messing things up.

He opened the door to Sherlock's room and almost felt the detective sit up. There was a sharp intake of breath and Jim's eyes locked onto the consulting detective's.

There was silence in the room. The man dressed in black in one corner of the room and the detective, sitting on the bed, trying to get his mind to figure out how the bloody hell this happened.

"Hello Sherlock," Jim said, shutting the door behind him,

"Moriarty,"

"Really, Sherlock? Last names are so formal," He walked to the table and put the crab down, his back to Sherlock.

Just as he expected the detective leapt up and attempted a choke-hold on him, but he was a fraction slower than normal. Jim tuned as Sherlock came at him, and stopped him in his tracks, one pushing against the other. They were locked together before the lack of food and energy started to take its toll of Sherlock – and Jim Moriarty knew it.

It was a second more before Sherlock lost his footing and Jim pushed him back, causing him to back-peddle and fall onto the bed, panting, anger painting his usually pale skin a light pink colour, a lock of his usually unruly hair falling into his face. The psychopath cocked his head to the side,

"An entirely ravishing look, Sherlock," he said and turned his back again, breaking a piece of the crab off, as he heard what might have been 'fuck off' from the detective. He ignored it.

"But I think you might need to eat first," he turned around and looked at Sherlock, who stared back with those cold, cold grey eyes of his.

Ta-da. Right...is there an order in which you decide to kill or me, or have you all spared me my life?

Aza

xoxo