Onto another chapter. Feeling sorry for John.

CHAPTER 32

Presidential Suite

Sofitel Hotel

Melbourne, Victoria

Australia

John examined every crack in the wall and Sophie watched with much amusement from the couch.

"I told you, if you're being held captive here, there is no way out of,"

"How can you be so sure?" asked John, not looking away from what he was doing,

"I can," she said simply, shrugging her shoulders and turning her attention back to the drawing pad she had on her lap. John let his head fall forward on the wall of the sitting room and sighed.

He looked back to the beautiful woman sitting curled up on the sofa and caught her gaze before she dropped it to the pad again and started sketching. Curiosity raised, John went over to where she was and walked behind the couch, resting against the soft, velvety material. He had to stop himself from gasping out loud as an uncanny copy of himself stared back at him, a frustrated look on his face and both hands on the wall in front of him. John looked at Sophie who was blushing, obviously unused to sharing her work with too many people.

'That's amazing," John said, momentarily forgetting that she was the enemy and that paying her compliments was not entirely necessary.

"Thank you," she said softly,

"How many people have seen this?" John asked

"Not many," Sophie replied, the woman not entirely sure why she wasn't pushing John away and demanding her personal space back, because he was leaning over her. He turned those bright brown eyes on her and she found herself less than a foot away from him. He seemed to realise this at the same time and almost fell off the sofa as he pulled away.

'Ah," he said, standing up and straightening his shirt. Sophie laughed at the flush that spread across his face,

'Don't worry," she said, "I won't tell if you won't," John cocked his head to the side before smiling slightly,

What am I doing? He asked himself, walking away from Sophie and into the adjoining bedroom across the hall.

It had a little seat in front of the window and an hour after breakfast John had found it a very comfortable spot, with its brilliant view of Melbourne and comfy cushions.

The doctor walked into the second bedroom and dropped onto the seat, pushing away a feeling of claustrophobia as he realised that he was trapped in this apartment. He would rather be free and without food than up here, with everything he could possibly dream of at his fingertips and unable to escape, his fate still unknown.

Sophie seemed to feel what he was, because John was pretty sure that she wasn't exactly free as she seemed to be. That woman is a conundrum John thought as he watched the path of a seagull as it rode the currents.

When he got too close she would run like he was a crocodile behind her, yet back then, just for that moment she seemed to be something other than his captor's wife, tasked with babysitting him. She had maintained a cool mask of indifference that whole morning, yet when he had accidentally brushed past her arm she flinched like he was about to hit her then retreated to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

The doctor had been here for several hours now, and Howell had not put in an appearance. He was either too busy or was trying to keep John on edge for as long as possible. It was probably the latter, seeing as this was Moriarty they were dealing with.

John closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to Sherlock. There was no sign of anyone else in this apartment apart from him and Sophie, so John supposed that Moriarty would have the detective somewhere else.

With the warm sun on his face and the cool air blowing in from the vents, John let himself think that maybe Moriarty even let Sherlock go free and even now the consulting detective was looking for him, following clues to find him and bring him home. It was a peaceful thought.

Police HQ

St. Kilda

Melbourne, Victoria

Australia

Sherlock stared at the paper in front of him, as did everyone else in the room; not daring to believe that Moriarty was going to leave them clues to find John. It couldn't be possible.

They were sitting in the Chief's office at the headquarters and the envelope had just arrived as the clock struck eleven thirty. It was addressed to Sherlock, and Lestrade, Sally and the detective were reminded rather vividly of the study in pink.

"Are you going to open it?" James asked, looking at them, wondering why they were staring at it. It had been checked for any booby traps and was safe,

'Of course we are," Sherlock said, reaching for it. He picked up the penknife Mitch produced when the envelope arrived and he slit it open, up the top.

Lestrade watched, half expecting a phone to fall out and was almost relieved when it was just a piece of paper. Sherlock extracted it from the envelope and looked at it.

"It's him," he said, "This is quality envelope paper, and the writing on the front is definitely his,"

"Can we get fingerprints?' Mitch asked, watching Sherlock examine the envelope and the folded square,

'No," all three agents chorused, knowing Moriarty was entirely too professional for that.

'It's a photo," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the piece of paper and Sally flinched as she wondered what it could be.

Forcing himself to forget what could be happening to John right at this moment; Sherlock opened the paper and felt like he had been punched in the abdomen. There was a picture of John – two nails driven through his palms, straight into a piece of wood and his face was contorted in pain, those light brown eyes darkened in agony.

Sally felt vaguely sick as Sherlock passed the paper on, staring straight ahead, trying to erase it from his memory. The image was imprinted however, unmoving and permanent.

His John, tortured by this monster, because of John's connection to Sherlock.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, noticing the writing in the corner that Sherlock somehow missed. The detective turned his head towards him and Lestrade was, for a moment reminded of the man before John came into their lives.

Those grey eyes were so cold, so unnaturally cold; they had no depth, no life, no warmth.

"Yeah?" he asked his voice perfectly controlled

"There's a message," Sherlock looked at them a moment more,

'Read it out" he said, and Lestrade looked down.

"Dear Sherlock" the DI started, "Guess who! But you already know who this is. Who else would dare to touch your little Johnny? I must say this is quite the interesting picture. Don't worry, you'll be seeing plenty of your little John," Lestrade looked up,

'Signed Moriarty," Sherlock finished for him without having to look and the DI put the picture face down, not wanting to contemplate what that much blood could mean.

"He's alive," Sherlock said, looking at the DI and Sally, both of whom were looking a little paler than normal. "Moriarty will keep him alive for as long as possible,"

'Which means we have some time to catch him," James said, very aware that the three British agents were deeply unnerved by that picture. Sally took a deep breath,

'Yes," she said, trying to stay positive, "He's still alive and we need to remember that we can get him back," The DI nodded and looked to Sherlock,

'So, what's the plan?" he asked,

"We put the pieces together," the detective said, half of him talking to the DI and the other half ripping that picture to shreds in his mind then rebuilding it and looking for clues, for the smallest details that he could have missed,

"What do we have so far?" Mitch asked, watching the reflection on the polished table in front of them,

'We know who has him, and he's probably still in Australia because there has been no activity of any that fits their descriptions at the airports," Lestrade said,

'So we know a general location," the room fell quiet for a moment when something struck Sherlock. Something he had seen in that house. Back in his little room, when Moriarty was eating the lobster, there had been a card sticking out of his right hand pocket. Sherlock had ignored it then but now. Now it all made sense. It was a card from a casino – the Crown Casino. How very foolish of Moriarty.

'I know where we can start," Sherlock said, looking at the DI,

'Where?" Lestrade asked,

'Howell has him," the consulting detective said it without any doubt because he knew that if there was one place that Moriarty could safely keep John without arousing suspicion, it would in a hotel.

"What?" James exclaimed, "That's a little farfetched," the Aussie agent looked bemused,

'No, it isn't," said Sally, "We need to get into his building," she got to her feet. She didn't care, as she might once have, how Sherlock knew this. If it meant that they were going to get John back, she would go to any and all measures to ensure that he was safe.

"How do we know?" asked Mitch, but Sherlock didn't reply, staring instead at the back side of the paper, lost in thought,

'We don't need proof," said Lestrade, 'Sherlock's more than enough," he too got to his feet, "We need surveillance inside that building," Mitch nodded,

'We can do that," he said, "I'll get organised crime onto it right away," He pulled out his phone and James decided he should take the DI to the boss,

'Chief's going to want an update, we'll take it to him," James led the way out of the office and Lestrade followed. Sally realised she didn't actually have anywhere to go and sat back down to see Sherlock lift up the photo, staring at the back,

'Sherlock?" she asked, looking at him. He didn't reply but brought the paper closer to himself so that he could read whatever it was that he was seeing on the back.

Both Mitch and Sally watched as Sherlock brought it so close there was no space between him and the paper,

'No," he whispered quietly, "No," he said again.

'What is it?" Sally asked, more than a little curious now.

"Watermark," the consulting detective answered, 'watermark that belongs to Jim Moriarty," Sherlock placed the paper back on the desk very carefully and looked up at Sally his grey eyes seeming to lack colour,

"The last time he used it, his victims died within a week,"

Sally felt the pit of her stomach disappear as fear froze her to the spot.

A week. They had a week to find John. God help them.

Poor Sherlock.

Okay, yes. This was a little cruel. But…well…It's…

Okay, no excuses, I know. But I promise it gets better!

Love you guys :D

Aza

xoxo