Warning: This chapter contains depictions of graphic violence/torture which could be a trigger for some people. Please be safe. Also please remember that I believe in happy endings.
Thank you so much SalconeDestrivina, The Lord Writer, Sherlock'sLisbeth, Nimirie Eryn Lasgaleneo, faultierqueen, ENTWolf, snapletonius, 8of9, Agar Loki, JGHB, ticklethedragon1, theivydaggers, BenedictedCumberbabe221, YoungCaterpillar, Drunken Strawberries, oatniel, EJ 12212012, TakingItOutOnTheWall, chris, Guest, and all those who followed/favorited this story! You guys are awesome, and your support is very motivating! ^_^
Many thanks also go to my Beta, Helena Chauby, for all of your help with editing.
And, of course, I cannot forget to thank my flat mate, sounding board, and own person Sherlock, Geoff.
It sounds like many of you were excited, or at least compelled, by the cliff hanger last chapter ended on. I'm glad to have you at the edge of your seats. This chapter, I hope, will be equally dramatic. I hope you enjoy the ride; buckle up. :)
Chapter 22: The Fall
His head hurt. A lot. In fact his head, shoulders, and arms ached with a burning, pounding ache that was insistently ripping him from the black oblivion he had been drifting in. John sucked in a quick breath and lifted his head from his chest as he jolted back into wakefulness.
He blinked, rolling his head on his shoulders, still foggy. Large, grime covered windows and support beams swam senseless before his eyes. A long expanse of pale color broke up the stained, aging wood of the walls. John's eyes traveled up the thin shape until they caught and held a familiar blue/gray gaze.
Sherlock!
John jolted trying to move towards his husband only to find that he was suspended from hands tied tightly above his head, just as Sherlock was. A deep baritone rolled over his ears and John knew Sherlock was speaking to him. The fog was starting to lift from John's mind, replaced by the icy sharp fingers of panic.
They were both suspended, naked, twenty yards apart in some sort of expansive warehouse. John jerked his head around, trying to make sense of things. He remembered the sudden pain in his head...but nothing afterwards... They were a good three feet off the floor. The floor was cement. Towers of boxes and crates filled the space around them, preventing John from getting any real sense of how big the building was. A quick glance out of one of the windows showed they were about five stories up.
"John!" Sherlock's voice was quiet, but insistent. As John turned his head back to face the consulting detective he realized Sherlock must have been talking to him since he woke, trying to get his attention. "How badly are you injured?"
John did a quick mental scan of his body. "Definitely a concussion." He winced, "and this position isn't doing my shoulder any good. What about you?"
Sherlock's muscles bunched at his neck as he tried to shrug, his current suspension making the gesture impossible. "I've had worse."
John let out a dark, strangled chuckle, and tugged at his restraints again.
"Don't strain yourself," Sherlock admonished, "I'll have you out in a minute."
John's brows knit together as he lifted his head to look at Sherlock. "How?"
"Haven't you learned by now that my family is adept at hiding weapons?" Sherlock asked, jerking his chin up towards the ceiling.
John trailed his eyes up Sherlock's arms to his hands, which squirmed furiously in their bindings. John squinted, tilted his head and caught a glint of light off of something in Sherlock's hands. John's eyes widened in realization. Sherlock had a blade or sharp edge of some sort and was using it to cut his bindings.
"Where did you get that from?" John asked, swiveling his head about the room again, then back at Sherlock.
Sherlock's lip quirked up in his trademark smirk. "I secured it in my hair before we left the hotel room."
"Brilliant!" John grinned, and watched Sherlock's smirk shift into a warm smile that few others were privy to. "Let's get out of here."
Sherlock nodded, his face tense with concentration as he worked the blade into the rope at his wrists. "Frank must feel secure in his capture of us. I haven't seen or heard from him, or his young accomplice, since I regained consciousness. However, I'm not about to push our luck."
John gave a small snort of amusement trying to concentrate on Sherlock instead of the growing pain in his shoulders. "That'd be a first."
There was something soft and strange in Sherlock's tone as he said, "Not when you're in danger, it wouldn't be."
"hmm. Simply wouldn't do to have your little husband in danger, now would it?" a new, cold voice broke in, the word 'husband' dripping with condescension.
John's head snapped to the left, following the sound as a well built man with a buzz cut strolled out from the shadows. Frigid gray eyes swept down Sherlock's form and up John's. He was older than the picture Sherlock had found on that database, but John knew he was looking down on their captor, and the serial killer they'd hunted for so long. Frank Walker.
"I've come to rather enjoy these moments," Frank drawled, completely at ease. "These few minutes after consciousness returns, when sinners who have trespassed against God's Holy word believe they have escaped his fury yet again." Frank's expression hardened to stone. "Divine retribution came for my son, and now," Frank paused, pulling a long cord of leather, a whip from his belt, "I will bring it to you."
John heard the whip snap before he registered Frank's movement. A red line bloomed open across Sherlock's chest, trailing thin fingers of blood down towards his hip. John's hands clenched into vain fists as Sherlock grimaced, but did not cry out.
"Drop it!" Frank bellowed, striking Sherlock twice in rapid succession, crisscrossing the red on his lean chest.
Sherlock sucked in a slow, shaky breath through his nose before he murmured, "No."
"Drop it now!" Frank demanded, punctuating each word with a harsh lash across Sherlock's legs.
Sherlock jerked reflexively, but remained stubbornly silent.
John clenched his jaw tight to prevent himself from shouting useless protests. Those would only fuel Frank's twisted hatred. Still, he couldn't stop himself from pulling futilely at his restraints, desperate to get to Sherlock.
Frank cocked his head to the side, studying Sherlock, and chuckled. "You're a real piece of work aren't you?" Frank jerked his head back to indicate John. "And your little boy toy's blog said you were smart." Frank shook his head face full of mock disappointment.
Sherlock arched a defiant eyebrow. "I take it you find something lacking?"
Frank snorted in sick amusement. "You could say that. Why the hell did you start trying to cut yourself down when you hadn't established my location?" Frank held up a single index finger and gestured to emphasize his point. "Always know where your enemy is."
"It seemed foolish to waste the opportunity," Sherlock explained, his hand's completing swift, small movements as he started to work on the rope again without being obvious about it. "Also, most people get cocky when they've had as much success as you've had."
Franks mouth twisted into an evil smile. "Well, I'm not most people, now am I?"
"No," Sherlock drawled, looking bored. Only the slight tension by the corners of his eyes and mouth betrayed his pain. "You are just dull enough to make yourself difficult to pick out. Tedious."
Sherlock silently braced himself, anticipating Frank would lash out the whip in retaliation for Sherlock's rudeness. When Frank broke out in mad laughter, he still expected the whip, and remained braced, indifferent mask coolly in place. It was that mask, which conformed to his will, that had broken so many cases, and almost never slipped out of place.
The whip whistled in the air and cracked violently against John's left cheek, sending him reeling as far as his rope tether would allow.
Sherlock sucked in a violent breath, choking on a cry of protest he couldn't quite stop, his mask all but forgotten. Even when Moriarty had threatened John at the pool, or before Sherlock's fall, Sherlock had never had to sit through John sustaining any kind of significant harm. That was why Sherlock had jumped off of St. Barts in the first place; anything that threatened John's life was not an option.
John held his head still, and grimaced as his body swayed. Blood slid down his neck from the open wound on his cheek, mixing with sweat and pooling slightly at his collar bone. His breathing was measured, short. He was riding out the pain.
Sherlock wrenched forcefully in his bonds, seething and silently swearing vengeance.
Frank held the whip casually in one hand, sneering at Sherlock over his shoulder. "And now? Does the world's only consulting detective still find me...tedious?"
The whip flung out again, snapping a tight loop around John's neck, strangling him. John made choked gurgling sounds while Sherlock's mind raced, looking for the way out. There was always a way out. There had to be.
"You are quite stubborn, Mr. Holmes," a new, younger voice rang out.
Sherlock stiffened as Franks young accomplice, his son, Luke walked into view. He had the same dark hair as his father; the same cold gray eyes. But he wasn't as hardened, Sherlock could see it in the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head. He was putting on a good show for his father, it might have even been fueled by religiousness fanaticism, but he was not as pitiless as his father. Luke was a liability to Frank, one Frank was unaware of, one Sherlock could exploit.
Sherlock's gaze jumped from Frank, to Luke, and back again, with a few furtive glances aimed at John, as he tried to work out how to use this situation to his advantage. What would set Luke off kilter? What would grow the doubt and uncertainty? Should he question Luke's loyalty to his father? To the church? Which loose thread would unravel him the fastest?
"I do suggest you drop the blade, Mr. Holmes," Luke said coolly reaching into a nearby crate and pulling out a taser. A high powered taser. Luke deftly switched it on, his face illuminated in the bright electrical current that surged between the two prongs.
Luke sent Sherlock a sly sideways look through his lashes before turning and walking slowly towards John, who was still being strangled. God, the edges of his lips were blue now. "The choice," Luke continued serenely, "is, of course, yours to make." Luke fired up the taser once more, stretching it out towards John's chest.
No...
The blade fell from Sherlock's fingers, clattering uselessly on the floor.
"Where are they?!" Mycroft hissed moving from screen to screen in the lab as his team typed furiously on their computers. Almost as soon as they had returned from the cabin they had been alerted about Sherlock and John's abduction by those who had stayed behind.
They had not been idle. Mycroft's team tracked the white van Sherlock and John had been tossed in, to New York City, where it had parked close to a nightclub that was swarming with people.
The killer and his accomplice had each thrown an arm of an unconscious victim around their shoulders, secured their other arm around their victims waist, and walked into the bar. To simple minds it would look like two friends helping two other, very drunk friends. They passed into the masses without a single protest being raised.
That was where things had gotten tricky. Both the killer and his accomplice had done a good job of shielding their faces. The shorter, stockier man had worn a long trench with a popped collar, and broad brimmed hat. The other man, who was taller and thinner, had a gray hoodie, that was two sizes too large for him, pulled low over his eyes.
They tried every camera angle that existed on the systems they were using, but they could never get enough for facial recognition. The line of a chin, the curve of a cheek, just enough to be utterly useless.
The team had lost visual, and was still unable to re-establish it.
When Mycroft and Greg first entered the lab, Sherlock, John, the killer, and his accomplice had just vanished into the crowd. At first Mycroft had remained calm. Focused, driven, but still collected. Immediately he'd ordered a vanguard team into the club to help re-establish visual. They failed. Sherlock, John, the killer, and his accomplice were nowhere to be seen.
Camera footage was reviewed, people were questioned, the local authorities were called...still nothing. Anthea and several others were reviewing Frank's military history with a fine toothed comb to get a sense of his skills, how he might think, in case that gave them an idea or a clue about where Frank may take Sherlock and John... he'd never taken his victims to a second location before...It was well into the morning now, and they didn't know any more than they had five hours ago.
Mycroft wasn't what anyone would call hysterical, but Greg could see the familiar lines of stress in his face and the way he held himself. He needed a break. After all his years working cases at the Yard, Greg had learned, the hard way, that, sometimes, the best thing you can do for a case was to take a step back, take a breather, and regroup. That was hard enough on a good day, almost impossible when you became emotionally involved. As much as Mycroft rallied against emotions, Greg knew he was emotionally compromised. This was his little brother he'd had to watch being beaten into unconsciousness and spirited away to almost certain torture, and very likely death, without being able to do anything to stop it.
Greg was affected too, John and Sherlock were dear friends, however annoying the former could sometimes be, but he retained enough detachment to know that Mycroft wasn't helping anyone like this. Greg didn't blame him; he knew he would be a wreck if this had been his sister, Sarah. Still, Mycroft needed a breather...they both did.
If this had been the Yard Greg could have pulled rank, or at least outright questioned someone he felt was compromised. But this wasn't the yard, and there were higher stakes. Moving slowly, Greg pulled out his phone and tapped a few buttons, casually opening and closing apps. After a moment Greg looked up and gestured with his phone as he said, "Mycroft? Could I have a word in private?"
Mycroft's head snapped up, his eyes quickly zeroing in on Greg's phone. He strode quickly, almost too quickly, towards Greg, taking the detective inspectors arm and steering them both into a nearby conference room. Greg was shoved into the room as Mycroft shut the door. Mycroft turned to face him, mouth open as if to ask a question, when he paused. Mycroft was distressed, but he was still one of the most observant people Greg had ever met. He must have read some of Greg's true motivation on his face because he stiffened and drew himself up. "Gregory?" Mycroft asked, part question, part accusation.
Greg let his face soften, and his sympathy show through. "I'm sorry, Mycroft," he murmured. Sorry that Sherlock had been captured, sorry that Mycroft was in pain, but, most of all, Greg was sorry that he was smart enough not to offer any meaningless platitudes like 'We'll find them.' or 'It will all be okay.' Sherlock could die horribly today, John along with him, and Greg respected Mycroft too much to lie to him like that.
Mycroft thrust his hands forwards, snatching fistfuls of Greg's suit and pushing him backwards into the conference table. Greg went willingly. He wasn't hurt, and if this helped Mycroft get it out, so much the better. Mycroft glowered down at Greg, and gave him one more, violent, shove into the table before stalking off towards the floor to ceiling windows on the other side of the room.
Greg followed him with his eyes, reading the anger, the tension, and the worry for his brother in every feature. Pushing himself off the table Greg made his way to Mycroft. As Greg neared his left side Mycroft did not acknowledge him, staring resolutely out the window. Greg stood silently for a moment watching the small movements of Mycroft's eyes as they flickered over the cityscape. Greg doubted Mycroft was feeling it now, but he had to be exhausted. Greg had at least managed to kip for a few hours in the car; Mycroft had been awake for over thirty hours.
There really was nothing to say. The team was working every possible angle in the other room. If they were going to catch a lead it would have to be soon. Inching closer to Mycroft, Greg slid his hand over Mycroft's wrist and palm until their fingers interlocked. Greg half expected to be hit, and for a long moment Mycroft only passively allowed the gesture. "I'm sorry, Mycroft," Greg repeated softly, giving Mycroft's hand a squeeze.
I'm here.
Mycroft's eyes flittered briefly to Greg's before the detective inspector felt Mycroft's fingers clasp over his hand, returning his grip. Greg let out a slow breath and pressed his side into Mycroft's. In a few minutes they would return to the lab and try to brainstorm, but , for right now, it was more important for Greg to let Mycroft know he was not alone.
"They were all like you, you know," Frank said, slowly circling Sherlock with the end of the whip trailing after him like a serpent's tail. "So proud, even when they appeared to surrender."
Sherlock was listening, but only to watch for an opening, one that would allow him to manipulate the situation to his advantage. Frank seemed to want him fully aware of torture for as long as possible, because there had not been many more injuries to John or himself, but there had been pain. When Sherlock had dropped the blade he'd been using to cut his rope, Frank had released John from the whips strangle hold, and Luke had turned off the taser. Sherlock had closed his eyes for a moment in relief when he heard John gasping for air, so, while he heard Luke approaching him, he had not realized Luke had picked up the blade until the young killer had driven it into his calf. Sherlock had winced and jerked in his restraints but he'd kept his eyes trained on John, beyond relieved to see color returning to his face.
The relief, however, was short lived; the whip had cracked up once more, marking John's chest as it had Sherlock's. Sherlock clenched his jaw, forcing him mind away from John and onto Luke. Luke was still a weak link, and Sherlock would have to utilize that advantage to the fullest to get John and himself out alive.
Sherlock looked down at Luke sardonically as the young man watched his father. "Your father has become skilled with that whip. After all these murders are you still only watching?"
"Luke had turned his head slowly and looked up at Sherlock with calm, dead eyes, before jerking the taser against Sherlock's thigh and turning it on at full power.
When Sherlock was sensible again, he was gratified to see John had only sustained two more lashes, none of the marks on his chest being as deep as the one on his face...that one would leave a permanent scar...
Luke, who was, perhaps, more vicious than Sherlock had originally speculated, tossed the taser onto the top of a box before bending down to retrieve two long, wooden bo staffs. He tossed one to his father, which Frank caught while setting down his whip, barely looking. The first jab Luke delivered into his ribs informed Sherlock that Frank and Luke had studied pressure points; they knew how to exploit them in combat. This allowed for a lengthy beating that would leave superficial bruises while inflicting a great deal of pain. Luke and Frank traded places every so often so that neither Sherlock nor John would get too 'comfortable' with their particular style of beating. Together father and son brought their victims to the edge of senselessness, before easing off. That was when Frank had begun his 'holier than thou' speech, and Sherlock had marshaled his wits to find an opening, any opening he could use to change the tide.
"You still think what you're doing is right, don't you?" Frank continued. "That your love is somehow sanctified because you were married in that pathetic excuse for a church?!"
"I don't love John," Sherlock stated calmly. It was a lie, but he'd made a career out of lying convincingly, and it came easier than he had expected. There had been strong religious undertones in the murders Frank had committed from the beginning. There was, roughly a seventy-two percent chance that if he was able to convince Frank he was heterosexual, or, at least, not gay, that Frank would falter, and give Sherlock the opening he needed. That was good. Anything that increased John's chances of survival was good.
"You don't honestly expect me to believe that you've had a sudden change of heart, do you?!" Frank asked, incredulous.
"No, you misunderstand me. I have never loved John," Sherlock continued, "At least, not in the way you are implying. John is my flat mate, my friend, my associate. Nothing more."
Frank blinked a few times, squinting up at Sherlock, who fought the urge to roll his eyes. Really, how much easier could he make it for the man? He was practically spelling it out. "You cooked this whole thing up then? What, for your little case?"
Sherlock nodded. Finally. "Yes. We would be convincing targets given the past killings. The 'arrest' we staged back in London would lend credence to the fact that this was just a honeymoon, and give us a convenient excuse to tail Albert and Trevor, whom we believed to be your next victims."
Frank was silent for a long moment, staring at Sherlock, running his thumb back and forth over his chin as he thought. A slow grin spread across his face and he said, "Well, you certainly did get my attention. In fact, you may serve my purposes better than that 'royal' couple. You, Sherlock Holmes, may be as iconic of England as the crown. Even better, you've a long history of defending it against very unlikely odds." Frank paused for a moment, nodding to himself. "Yes, I will have to take my time with you, to send a message the world will never forget."
"Changing your focus?" Sherlock asked coolly, arching a defiant eyebrow. I thought you were only targeting married gay couples. My marriage to John is a sham. It doesn't fit. I thought you were a man of conviction."
A slow, assured smile slid onto Franks face as he said, "Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires, and greed, which is idolatry. Because of these, the wrath of God is coming. Colossians book three, verses five through six."
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the idiocy of it all, and Frank lashed the whip sharply across his feet. While he'd been unskilled with a whip at the start of this case, Frank had clearly improved...or he was very lucky.
"You have sanctioned the desecration of the Church in your deceit, Mr. Holmes!" Frank spat, "Despite the truth of who you take to your bed, you have sinned, just like all the rest."
"I was trying to stop a murderer," Sherlock replied, irritation showing in his voice. "'Thou shalt not kill' is one of the ten commandments, is it not?"
Frank appeared unmoved. "I do exactly what my Father has commanded me, so that the world may know that I love the Father. John, chapter fourteen, verse thirty one."
Sherlock took an even breath, fighting the urge to scoff at the fanatical idiocy of Frank's argument. "You believe that God has commanded you to do this?"
"I know he has," Frank countered, striding confidently around the room. "My son betrayed me when he left England with Patrick. I disowned him, washed my hands of him, and was not surprised to find out he had died." Franks lip curled with disgust, while Luke shifted slowly from foot to foot. Perhaps he still felt some familial affection for his 'sinning' brother. Sherlock stored that observation away as Frank continued.
"I left the sinners Matthew had thrown his lot in with to bury him, while Luke and I remained devout. I prayed, sought guidance for a way to remove this stain from my family." Frank was pacing leisurely now, dragging the whip behind him once more. "I felt called to action, but what action, I did not know. So, I made preparations and waited for a sign."
"That was when you began hoarding cash," John said, speaking up for the first time in a long time. His voice was gravely and strained. The left side of his face was so swollen he couldn't open one eye, but Sherlock saw determination glittering in his right eye. He was trying to keep Frank talking. Sherlock shot him a quick, small smile, gratified by John's willingness to help, even now.
Frank nodded. "Exactly. I stored money, I read my bible, and I waited." Frank turned to pace the length of their little area again, still talking. "I was horrified beyond belief when I learned that the nation I had fought so hard to defend would now allow homosexuals to marry. It is an abomination!"
Frank's voice had raised to the point of yelling, and he paused to collect himself. When he spoke again it was with the cool calmness of a blind fanatic. "I turned to my bible immediately, and the first page I land upon is the story of Abraham and Isaac." Frank closed his eyes for a moment and lowered his head, as if in prayer. "I knew then my mission was to seek out those like my son and show them the righteous fury of God as Matthew had seen it."
Frank circled back on himself, looking up at Sherlock's prone form. "So you see, Mr. Holmes, you still fit the bill. You have still sinned against God with your mockery of a marriage. Even worse, you have tried to interfere with my mission. Let Albert and Trevor return to England, by the time they get there your body will have been discovered, and they will know that no one else stands in my way."
Frank took a step closer to Sherlock, boring into him with piercing gray eyes. "Yes, you are still proud; still defiant. However," a cruel smirk twisted Frank's lips as he reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out Sherlock and John's wedding rings, "I will see you fall Mr. Holmes." Frank dropped the rings and they rolled on the floor in the smears and trails of blood their injuries had created.
"You wouldn't be the first," Sherlock murmured calmly.
John winced at the reminder of his worst memory. He knew Sherlock would have to die someday, as he would, but John swore to himself that it would not be today, not if he could help it.
Frank circled Sherlock slowly, studying him with a self satisfied smirk, confident in his impending victory. As Frank approached his son, Luke, he thrust the handle of the whip in his face. Luke took it quickly and obediently.
"Work them over good," Frank ordered, "I want them both sufficiently warmed up when I get back." Luke nodded and Frank strode away, getting lost amongst the boxes and crates of the warehouse. As he went his gate telegraphed his need to relieve himself, at least it did to Sherlock, and he almost smiled. Can't stage a holy war on an empty stomach. This was likely the best chance Sherlock was going to get to work on Luke; he wasn't going to waste it.
Luke glanced at Sherlock before making his way towards John. "Matthew was your brother," Sherlock began, willing his voice to be steady as Luke raised the whip. "Did you love him?"
The whip flew out, but faltered landing a stinging blow on Johns legs without breaking the skin. "He was my brother," Luke deadpanned without looking back to Sherlock.
That non-answer told Sherlock everything he needs to know. "You miss him," Sherlock pressed on as Luke raised the whip again.
"He sinned," Luke replied, cracking the whip more forcefully over John's legs, bringing blood to the surface this time.
"All have sinned and fall short of the glory of God, Romans chapter three, verse twenty three," Sherlock said in a thoughtful voice.
Luke hesitated, stilling the whip, but still refused to turn. That hesitance was the key. Luke was young, and passionately committed to his faith. He'd probably heard the bible recited by his father every day. However, given that Luke was the older brother, he and Matthew must have spent nearly every day of their childhood together.
Sherlock knew from his own experience how deeply entrenched that bond could be, despite what one thought of one's brother. If Sherlock could use Luke's bond with Matthew, his faith, and his doubt about the rightness of his actions, John and he would be able to get away. At least, far enough away to call Mycroft and Lestrade, who must have lost their trail if they hadn't come by now. Sherlock knew he was still strong enough to run...barely. He would run naked through every street in New York if he had to, to keep tabs on Frank and Luke, to help bring them down.
"I can see that you are faithful, Luke," Sherlock pressed on, bringing warmth and compassion to his voice. "You know this isn't right. Proverbs chapter twenty, verse twenty two. 'Say not thou, I will recompense evil; but wait on the Lord, and he shall save thee."
Luke turned his head slightly and Sherlock could see his profile. "You're father was right, you know. It was a sin for me to act as I did," Sherlock's voice wavered with fake guilt, "And it is a sin for you to act in God's stead with your father. God said 'Vengeance is mine.'" Luke turned a little more, almost looking Sherlock in the eyes. "We can still repent Luke. We can all still repent."
Luke's gaze fell to the whip in his hand, which had begun to shake "Let me down, Luke," Sherlock murmured in the same calm voice one might use to persuade someone else to 'hand me the gun'.
Luke's eyes glistened with unshed tears, despite his attempts to blink them away. He shot furtive glances at both Sherlock and John, teetering just on the edge of action. "I know you have mercy in you, Luke...Perhaps if your brother had seen more mercy from your father he would have felt the need to repent, to come home. Show your mercy, Luke. It isn't too late."
Luke's eyes shot up to Sherlock's and held his gaze for tremulous moment, tears creeping down his cheeks, before he dashed to the ropes holding Sherlock up. Luke furiously tugged at the knots, bracing himself against the wall as he lowered Sherlock slowly to the ground.
Sherlock found himself unable to bear weight at first, and allowed himself to sink to his knees. This would allow his limbs time to restore proper blood flow and limit the chances that Luke would see him as a threat. Getting down wouldn't do him any good if Luke strung him right back up again. But Luke wasn't stringing him up again, he was kneeling in front of Sherlock, cutting through the ropes at his hands.
Sherlock was just able to separate his hands when the scrape of a boot on the floor announced Frank's return. Luke jerked back and frozen in fear. He probably had never betrayed his father's orders a day in his life, or was beaten for it if he had.
Sherlock jerked his gaze up to John and realized with a stab of pain that he was not strong enough or fast enough, in his current state, to let John down in time.
John swallowed and worked his lips to mouth the word, "Run."
Sherlock's eyes cast about as he pushed to his feet, still unsteady. Damn. He'd be easy prey for Frank if he tried to search for an exit while dashing over the warehouse floor. He had to get out. He hadto save John.
Frank's footsteps were dangerously close when Sherlock's eyes landed on the window. It was his best option. With a speed he wasn't sure he'd had, Sherlock rushed to the window and pushed it open with his shoulder.
"No, Sherlock.." John's voice was low, but loud enough that Frank may have heard it. That, and the sound of the window opening caused Frank's steps to quicken. Sherlock glanced out the window confirming that they were, indeed, five stories up.
"No, Sherlock, No!" John insisted, voice growing louder and higher pitched as panic set in.
Frank was running now, and he'd just broken out from behind the boxes when Sherlock turned to look at John. John looked twice as pale as he had moments ago, and he was shaking in his restraints, desperate in his pleas that Sherlock reconsider. Sherlock held his bloggers gaze for a moment knowing that nothing and no one came before John's safety in his eyes...even if it meant breaking his promise to John that he wouldn't fall again...
"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock murmured, pitching himself over the edge moments before Frank could pull him back.
John watched with wide, disbelieving eyes as Sherlock tumbled over the edge and fell. Again. An anguished cry that was hauntingly familiar rose up in his chest as tears blurred his vision. "SHERLOCK!"