Warnings this chapter: whumpage; kidnapping; revenge; angst.

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CHAPTER 5

PAYBACK

Not realizing the danger behind him, John continued his conversation with Sherlock. He opened the right rear door and was half-in the back seat.

"Listen, Sherlock, we really should—."

Before he could reach to close the door, John sensed more than heard the movement behind him. He saw the shadow of an arm, heard the quick intake of breath from the man, and the cabbie's startled "Oi!" John reacted, dropping his mobile as he drove his right elbow up and back into the man's face and—

There was an unwritten law on the street that a real man never went for another man's groin. "Hell with that," John thought, as he struck out behind him with his left leg, hoping his foot hit its target. Judging from the man's grunt, John had only connected with his thigh. Damn! John pivoted on one knee on the rear seat to face the man and readied a second volley.

Sherlock had heard the thud of the mobile as it hit the floor and listened to the muffled noises in the background.

"John!"

He called out again, then quieted. If John could answer, he would. He strained to hear any sounds that would help him identify what was happening.

The cabbie yelled but John barely heard it, muffled as it was by his adrenalin surge, his body automatically going into combat "tunnel vision" mode. His attacker was well trained, taller, and had a two-stone weight advantage over the army doctor.

The man reacted quickly and blocked John's blow, landing a glancing open-handed thrust to John's head, simultaneously throwing a wicked back-fisted punch to the cabbie's head, effectively rendering him unconscious. The cabbie slumped over in the seat. Some part of John's brain registered that the man was wearing nitrile gloves.

John was staggered by the blow, but retaliated with a strike to the man's solar plexus. The burly man cried out.

John became aware of the other rear door opening and of the sudden weight on the seat behind him. "Oh, shit."

Nitrile-gloved hands pinned his arms from behind but John easily broke the hold and thrust back with his head against the second attacker, connecting with the man's forehead. The man cried out, fell backward, then fell to the floor.

In the cramped quarters, John was off-balance, with one foot on the floor and the other still kneeling on the seat. He almost lost his balance as his foot landed on his mobile.

Sherlock grimaced as the sound of grunting and body blows were silenced as the phone went dead.

The burley man recovered quickly and lunged, wrapping his hands around John's throat. John locked his hands together in preparation for an upward strike to break the grip.

"I want him alive!" came the voice from behind him, and he again felt the man's weight on the back seat. Nothing for it then, until John could take care of the more immediate threat to his trachea. He soldiered on, his hands whipping up and effectively breaking the man's hold. It was then that he felt the sting of a syringe in the back of his neck.

He made one listless attempt at a final hand-palm to the nose of the man before him but the man dodged it easily, and John pitched forward into darkness.

The first attacker moved quickly to the kerb, wrenched open the driver's door, and heaved the unconscious driver to the sidewalk before getting behind the wheel and speeding away.

The entire incident took twenty seconds.

Three miles away at Baker Street, Sherlock hurled his cup of tea across the room, shattering it against the wall.

oOo

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock's mobile rang.

"We've found the cab," Lestrade said into his mobile.

Sherlock's voice was fear surrounded by ice. "Abandoned?"

"Yeah."

"Any—?

"No, Sherlock. No body."

Lestrade could hear the relieved breath Sherlock released.

oOo

Sherlock hated police cars but he made a rare exception and agreed to ride with Lestrade to the scene where the abandoned cab had been found, but only because Lestrade had somehow arranged for him to download the raw CCTV footage onto Sherlock's laptop. The first footage was from a camera in front of St. Bart's. The angle was bad and the faces of the two men weren't identifiable, but it was clear that they both wore gloves. Sherlock swore silently—no prints then. Movement of the three men, the cabbie, and of the fight was all that was discernible. They could see the intensity of the struggle, but little else. Even so, Sherlock observed that one man was well trained in fighting and defensive strategies, while the other was not.

The footage of the cab which had been abandoned in an alley it was grainy, underexposed, and rife with shadows. The men watched in silence as they saw two men hauling the body of a third man from the rear seat of the cab and putting him in a rear seat of a car parked behind it. It was impossible to make out facial features, license plates, or anything, so far as Lestrade could see. As for the car, it was as nondescript as any of the tens of thousands of look-alike cars on London's street.

"It's John," Sherlock said with certainty.

"How—?"

"It's John."

"He's alive then," Lestrade said, hoping he was right.

Sherlock had gone cold and steely.

"Lestrade, you know as well as I that there is a high probability that they were simply… transporting him…to a more distant location to dispose…" He didn't finish the sentence. They fell into an uneasy silence until they arrived at the scene.

"The scene's secure, Sherlock. They're holding it for you," Lestrade said as they got out of the car.

Sherlock nodded grimly, as Lestrade escorted him past the police lines, the constables, past a silent Anderson, and to the abandoned taxi.

"We only opened the boot. To look, you know…to see if—. Knew you'd want to search the interior yourself," Donovan said.

Sherlock gave a passing glance in the boot, then at the front seat before directing his attention to the rear, where John had been. His eyes skimmed the area.

"The cabbie?" he asked.

Donovan gave a curt nod. "In hospital. Nothing serious, but worse than useless as a witness. Can't remember shite about the men, 'cept to say one was a big bloke, the other short and slim."

"Most witnesses are useless," he said as he craned his neck to see under the seat. Sherlock knelt and saw what had caught his eye: John's mobile. He stretched, picked up the smashed phone and stood up. He said nothing as he looked at the shattered screen.

If Lestrade had to characterize how Sherlock held the mobile in his gloved hands, he would have said reverently. He saw Sherlock's jaw clench, followed by a thick swallow. Sherlock remained silent.

Anderson approached, evidence bag in hand. Sherlock glared at him. "Go away."

Lestrade spoke gently. "It's evidence, Sherlock. We have to—."

"You don't get to have this. Not yet." Sherlock whispered with intensity, hating the way his throat tighten around the words. "Lestrade…" It was a plea.

Lestrade nodded an okay and waved Anderson away, but Sherlock held out his hand.

"Give me the bag."

Anderson did, and Sherlock put the mobile in, sealing it before putting it in his pocket.

Like throwing a switch, the emotion left Sherlock's face and he became the Consulting Detective again.

"I'll dust it for prints. Mine will already be on it, of course."

"'Course they will. You use John's mobile as much as you use your own," Lestrade said with a slight smile.

Sherlock circled the taxi, dropped to his knees again, and searched under the other side of the seat. Something cylindrical. Lestrade shone his torch on it. It was a marker. Black. Not just a marker. Sherlock inspected it further. It was a surgical marker.

"Not John's. He'd have no reason to carry one."

"Could have been a previous passenger's?" Lestrade offered.

"Could have. I don't like 'could haves.' 'Could haves' aren't facts. Prints, Anderson, if you think you can do it without mucking it up."

Anderson held his tongue and allowed Sherlock to drop the marker into an evidence bag.

Sherlock continued searching. "A few coins. A Tesco match book. Dry cleaner's receipt. The usual detritus left by humanity. Nothing useful," he said, although how he knew that was beyond Lestrade's comprehension. Still, Anderson put each item in an evidence bag.

As Sherlock continued his search, Donovan began to check the crease between the seat cushions and the seat back. Sherlock frowned, then considered her again and nodded his approval.

More coins, a comb, and then…her hand hit upon something.

"Oi, what's this?" She held up a small stainless steel tray, about 12cm x 6cm.

Sherlock went very still. "Oh, God," he whispered.

Lestrade looked blank.

"Lestrade, don't you recognize it? You just saw one like it a few hours ago. For God's sake, Lestrade! Dr Levine's office. We saw one on her table that was almost identical. She used it for holding used acupuncture needles!"

Lestrade paled, and there were murmurs of curses all around. Sherlock paced, hurling invectives and everyone and everything in his line of sight before quieting enough to continue.

"Trevor's murder and John's abduction are undeniably connected," Sherlock verbalized it in case the NSY police were so oblivious that they did not see the obvious. He steepled his fingers in what normally would have been a calm, thoughtful pose, but the look behind his eyes was frantic.

"I need to find out who is doing this before…"

No one needed him to finish the sentence.

oOo

"Captain-?"

The distant voice was more of a command than a question, and John Watson, decorated soldier that he was, struggled to answer the call. He tried to pull himself out of the darkness of the anaesthetic haze. Someone was calling him again. He had one bastard of a headache which surged like a tidal wave when rough hands shook him by the shoulders. Finally, John stirred, his mind fighting for consciousness. It was like slogging through treacle.

"Captain Watson! Time to wake up now!" The voice shouted insistently.

He was disoriented, and the use of his army rank confused him. How can it be? I thought I was home. I'm still in Afghanistan? He wondered who was calling him so urgently.

"Bill? Captain Murray?"

The man slapped him across his face.

"Guess again, Doctor."

John grunted in surprise and pain. Too much to make sense of. His mind grappled, desperate for grounding. He was untethered, not knowing where he was. He recognized the far-too-familiar sensation of coming out of anaesthesia, but why—? He scanned his shoulder for the telltale burn of the bullet wound, but found no pain, just a familiar dull ache. Something else, then? His hands? His wrists hurt.

"I'm in Kandahar?"

"You tell me."

He gulped in some deep breaths, leaving more of the darkness was behind. When he opened his eyes he looked down at himself, a frisson of fear rose along his spine when he saw that he was clothed only in his pants, with his hands, elbows, and hips bound by heavy tape to a chair, as were his thighs and feet. His decidedly unmilitary jumper, shirt, jacket and trousers were cast off on a chair across the room. Reflex took over and he pulled at his restraints, to no avail. He fought down a rising panic. London, then, he reasoned, only slightly relieved.

But who—? He looked at his captor. "I don't…"

The man before him chuckled. "Now you've gone and hurt my feelings. You don't recognize me?"

The veil was lifting now. John looked closely at the man. A tad taller than he, square jawed, pale, underweight, recently sick…

"I left that little impression on you?"

Oh, that voice! Awareness came back like a clap of thunder.

"Alec Loman?" John said, stiffening, a sickening feeling rising in his gut.

"You're not going to address me as 'Doctor'?

John's eyes narrowed. Dangerous territory, that. He wasn't going there.

John rolled his neck and shoulders, trying to make it look like he was working out the stiffness in his neck. It didn't fool Loman.

"Holmes isn't here." Loman's voice was ice.

John let out a slow a breath, clearly relieved. He'd gotten a decent look at the room, however. It was a small but completely outfitted surgery, with a small operating theatre. The faded corporate logos on the cabinets were beyond ironic.

"You look different," John said, trying to keep his voice steady. He noted with some satisfaction that Loman had a nasty bruise on his forehead from where John had head-butted him.

"Three years in an Afghan prison will do that to you."

John's chest tightened.

"But you? Got a nice cushy job. Though I never figured you for wanting the limelight. A blog? Really? And your address right there on the website. Shit, Watson, it was like an engraved invitation. Did you really think I wouldn't come after you?"

"Frankly, I didn't think you'd survive prison."

"I'm a survivor, John. That's what I do."

"You were sentenced to fifteen years. How the hell—?" He could feel his anger rising. The sight of this man, the memory of what he'd done, made John physically ill.

"Did you really think that hell-hole of a prison could hold me? I deal in currency, and there isn't anyplace on this planet that you can go without finding someone willing to take a bribe."

"You didn't deal in currency," John spat out, his contempt for this man unabated after three years. "You dealt in lives." He forced himself to calm: it would do him no good to induce more anger in the man. "So how many people—soldiers, civilians—do you think died because they couldn't get the meds they needed? The meds you stole?"

"Shit, Watson, you're still wearing your emotions on your sleeve… Black marketing of materiel has been around since the first cavemen went to war."

"Materiel?"

"Don't be naïve. Just because the trial was about medical supplies, surely you don't think I confined myself to just that? I never hid the fact that I became a doctor for the money. But I was good at it. I was a good surgeon."

"You had good technique, but you were never a good doctor. You never gave a damn about your patients."

"Never said I did... Speaking of surgical technique…"

Loman walked a few feet away to a nearby table. John turned his head to follow him. There was a short intake of breath as John saw the blue, sterile drapes covering the table.

Loman heard it and grinned.

"No fooling you, eh?"

Very slowly, like a magician about to perform a trick, he picked up the corner of one of the drapes. John swallowed hard but kept his face neutral. Loman whipped the drape away. John's worse fears were confirmed when he saw three surgical blades—a #10, #15, a monster #22, and one double-edged lancet. Loman deliberately blocked his line of site and when he turned, he had a #10 scalpel in his hand, and walked oh so slowly back toward John, deliberately turning his hand so the light would reflect off the blade.

John took a deep breath against the rising dread.

"Now if I wanted instant gratification, I would cut you starting here... " He held the knife over John's left upper arm. "Slowly. Starting with some veins, then—assuming you had any blood still left in you—the arteries."

The good doctor felt his heart rate climb.

"Lucky for you, I'm a patient man."

"Alec—."

There was a sudden movement of the blade as Loman expertly nicked the muscle a centimeter from the cephalic vein. John gasped in surprise. Blood seeped down John's arm. It was a precision cut, only five millimeters or so deep, intended to induce fear more than injury.

"Hmmm. Well, maybe patient isn't quite the right word. Let's see, what is? Vindictive?

Veins and arteries—you'd bleed out far too fast, Captain. We've just gotten back together. Can't have the reunion end that quickly… You took away my ability to work as a surgeon—at least in legitimate circles."

"Yeah, well, you're a bit late on that one. The war already made sure I would never be a surgeon again."

"Good. One thing to cross off the list. Three years of malnourishment, threats of execution, beatings. Pain for pain, loss for loss, Watson, starting with your freedom."

John took a shallow breath and said slowly, "You can't seriously think that you can hold me here for three years?"

"Hardly. It'll just seem like it."

oOo

Author's notes. In a tip of the hat to my friend and brilliant writer, the late Elleston Trevor: OC's (with the exception of Dr Levine) are named after him and the characters in his "Quiller" spy novels which he wrote under the pseudonym Adam Hall.