Nail Polish

~Chapter Two~

Unravel the Threads

A dreadful taste in his mouth was the first thing Sherlock became aware of when he came to. His tongue was a useless slab of meat glued to his palate by congealed saliva. Rather like that severed head John hated so much, he mused distantly. John. Was John here?

No, his brain chided, but someone else is.

Woodward. The name brought back a deluge of memories. Questions, a pale green drink, an expensive jacket, strange feelings, and Jim Moriarty. Then everything dissolved into nothing. Drugs. Moriarty.

Quickly Sherlock's flinty eyes snapped open. Too quickly he realized when the water stained ceiling above whirled dizzyingly. A miserable groan slithered past his clenched teeth before he could gather the presence of mind to stifle it. Inwardly he cringed. Such stupidity would-

"So, you're finally awake." – alert Woodward. His voice reverberated through Sherlock's head, and the detective whimpered and clapped his hands over his ears. Stan laughed at the display, perhaps a little louder than necessary as Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the awful pounding in his temples. "Can't hold your liquor, eh?"

"Rather difficult when it's drugged," Sherlock murmured, easing his eyes open again. They were in a small dimly-lit room that was filthier than the bar itself and sparsely furnished with only a sofa over which Sherlock was sprawled, and a wooden chair. No carpet covered the bare concrete floor, and the walls were painted an unappealing shade of beige. A few cleaning supplies sat mournfully by the door looking sad and unused. "Where are we?"

"Janitor's lounge. He quit a while ago as you might've noticed - the place is a pig sty - so no one will come in here. Too bad…" Stan smirked wickedly, showing a glint of his white teeth, "For you. Jim will be pleased."

But he's not here," remarked Sherlock. "If he was, I would know… he so enjoys dramatic entrances. Speaking of which…" The detective paused to glance back at the jacket, "He bought you that. Couldn't have afforded it yourself." Stan smiled wider.

"So you are clever… just like he says. Suppose that's why he likes you so much… but," he sing-songed, "He likes me more!" Another dazzling starburst of clarity hit Sherlock with the force of a speeding bus. Everything had come together, including Moriarty and Woodward.

"Picking up his habits already?" he inquired, "Well, that is what lovers tend to do. What other habits have you picked up Stan? Speaking in falsetto? Killing old women? Kidnapping?" Sherlock had propped himself up on one elbow and was staring straight into Woodward's eyes. With simmering intensity, Woodward stared back. Tension swelled to a crescendo for an edgy moment until Stan glanced away, defeated.

"You got me. I did the kidnapping. It wasn't that hard, I just rang the bell and invited her out for tea. Took her away and kept her hidden. Jim sent people to trash the flat." He ducked his head and ran a hand through his close-cropped red hair. "She won't be hurt though, that's what he told me. She's a good girl. The only one who stood up for me when I… when my parents found out."

Good to know," Sherlock replied breezily as if Stan had just asked him what he wanted to eat for lunch. "Now let's talk about you and Jim. When's the happy announcement going to be?" When or if there was to be a happy announcement would never be found out. From Sherlock's pocket his mobile rang, smothering Stan's indignant spluttering. The detective pried it from his uncomfortably tight trousers and glanced at the screen. He rolled his eyes and sighed vexedly, but pressed the answer button nonetheless.

Before he could speak a word however, Stan's fist connected with his jaw, turning his reluctant greeting into a pained yelp. His phone dropped from his astonished hand and clattered to the floor, skittering under the sofa like an offended crab. Massaging his aching jaw, the detective snapped,

"So, Moriarty has you kidnap your own sister, drug me senseless, and drag me into the janitor's lounge of some seedy bar just to beat me up like an undersized university student? Honestly, you could've just saved me the trouble and just done it at the crime scene!"

~SH~

On the other side of the call connection, Mycroft's heart gave a stutter. Sherlock had been drugged and now lay in a janitor's lounge at the mercy of one of Moriarty's thugs.

"So when will he be here?" asked his brother's disembodied voice, "I bet he won't be pleased that you hit me." He was probably Moriarty himself. And someone had hit Sherlock? Mycroft's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. Even though he himself had wanted to hit his brother (and allow others to hit his brother) on numerous occasions it simply wasn't done. He had promised to protect him after all.

"Anthea," he called sedately, his calm tone masking the worry roiling in his gut. "Get John. Tell him it is a matter of utmost urgency. Sherlock is in danger." Her heavily lidded eyes widened and she opened her mouth, but Mycroft cut her off. "I'll explain on the way. Go now. I'm tracking his phone's signal. Anthea nodded and trotted from the room.

Stay put Sherlock, he thought, we'll find you. Just please don't do anything foolish…

~SH~

"What do you mean 'he won't be pleased'?" mimicked Stan, "He told me to have some fun with you. That I'd earned it. I suppose it's my reward… and I intend to collect." To this chilling statement Sherlock barely reacted. Only one eyebrow rose incredulously as he quipped,

"Reward? Is your relationship really so shallow that he needs to hand out treats to you like a master to his dog?" Stan reddened furiously as Sherlock continued. "Can he make you do tricks? Sit Stan! Roll over Stan! Go fetch Sherlock, Stan! And you enjoy it!" he spat disgustedly. "Love turns perfectly sane people into crazed lunatics!" Before another word could escape his contemptuous lips, Stan's tightly coiled fist lashed out and smashed into them, flinging the detective's head back. His body followed and he slid off the couch, landing with a thud on his back. Winded, he gasped for breath, eyes wide, fearful.

The athletic Woodward prowled calmly to where he lay.

"Love may turn people into fools, but what does this drug turn you into? Nothing but a…" Slowly, maliciously, he raised one of his heavy sandal-covered feet next to Sherlock's heaving torso. "Helpless…" He drew it back, and then kicked. "Useless…" he struck again. "Child!" And again. And again and again and again.

With every brutal blow Sherlock's body convulsed, and a sharp cry was jerked from his lips. He squeezed his eyes shut against both the pain and the uninvited tears that arrived in its wake. This was wrong. He was better at this. No one saw him this way. He never let them. But this time it was worse; his battered ribs burned white-hot and every breath pricked like needles at his lungs.

"See?" Stan said, "The drug makes you weak. You feel pain more freely now. You can't even stand!" he chortled as Sherlock struggled to get to his feet, failing miserably, never making it past a shaky kneeling position. "All the better for me though. Jim doesn't want you to get away." Again Stan advanced, and an icy dagger of fear drove itself unbidden into the detective's heart. Up to the very hilt.

~SH~

Absentmindedly, John hummed along to a jingle playing distantly on the telly as he flitted about the kitchen putting away groceries. The cabinets and fridge were full again (with food, not body parts) and would hopefully stay that way for a while. Emergency grocery shopping was a bit of a drag, but his time at least he was able to avoid the chip and pin machines!

The doorbell buzzed and the doctor sighed, set down the loaf of bread he was about to put away, then ran a hand through his graying hair. He hoped it wasn't another door-to-door salesperson. The chances of that were slim however, considering Sherlock's hatred of them. He came up with creative, if somewhat cruel ways of deterring them, and oh how they worked!

John lollopped down the stars and opened the door. When he saw who stood before him, salespeople fled from his mind.

It was Anthea in her usual stylish clothing and skillful makeup. Her face was drawn and when john glanced down at her hands, he saw that her phone that she was perpetually fiddling with was nowhere in sight. This, to John, was more alarming than anything. If Anthea was upset, then Mycroft must be upset as well. What could make Mycroft-?

Suddenly the puzzle pieces fell into place. As Anthea opened her mouth to speak, she was interrupted when John demanded,

"What has Sherlock gotten into this time?"

"Get in the car. I'll explain on the way." It was the fact that she offered to explain that frightened John the most. Normally when Mycroft's people showed up, they simply whisked him away without a word. If Anthea had to explain, then the situation must be an extremely grim one.

Silently he clambered into the car, and Anthea entered behind him. She gave a nod to the driver, and they sped off down the street. As John buckled his seatbelt, he pleaded mentally, Sherlock, don't you dare be dead when I get to you. Lestrade will have all sorts of questions about your clothes that I'll have to answer. Besides, I don't think I can accept that my last moment with you was spent trying to ignore your toenails. So please, please, don't do anything stupid…

~SH~

Stupidity was the last thing on Sherlock's mind at present. The only thought pulsing through his drug-addled brain was get out, get out, get out! But his ribs ached, and his head throbbed, and his extremities felt nothing at all. He couldn't have left if he tried.

Although that didn't mean he wasn't going to.

With a grunt of discomfort and exertion the detective heaved himself up on one knee, then staggered gracelessly to his feet. Just this simple action left him dazed with exhaustion. His legs shook from the strain and sweat dampened his brow, smearing his eyeliner as it trickled down his face.

Slowly, deliberately, he clenched his trembling hands into fists and raised them like a weary, yet determined boxer. He then slipped into a loose fighting stance, fists shoulder-high, legs slightly bent, weight evenly balanced. The way he was weaving back and forth however, had nothing to do with his meager strategy. His strength was nearly sapped.

Stan's broad form swam before Sherlock's eyes as he continued his advance. A smirk twisted his boyishly freckled face at the detective's pitiful display of resistance.

"So it's a fight you fancy? Alright, if it's a fight you want, then a fight you'll get!" He too adopted a boxer's pose.

They circled, Stan with poise and confidence, and Sherlock with a significant lack of both. While his opponent prowled, he shambled, disgusted by his lack of control.

Without warning, one of Sherlock's knees buckled, and he lurched alarmingly forward. Taking advantage of this weakness, Stan swooped in with a blow aimed at the detective's nose. It connected with a nauseating crunch. Blood coursed down Sherlock's face and neck to stain his black shirt even darker. As he reeled, Stan lunged forth again.

Sherlock raised his arms to soften the inevitable strike, and reflected perhaps trying to fight my way out wasn't the brightest thing to do… But it wasn't my fault! It was the drug! Now, under normal circumstances- Stan's next punch struck, reducing the detective's carefully ordered thoughts to a shower of multi-colored stars. Drugged or otherwise, he needed a method of escape or else things could only get worse.

~SH~

"So… Sherlock is being held my one of Moriarty's men in the janitor's lounge of a gay bar?" John said incredulously. Out of all the bizarre predicaments Sherlock had been stranded in, this was at least in the top twenty.

"And he's been drugged," added Anthea. Plus he's slathered with hair gel and makeup, John supplied mentally. Perhaps this one was deserving of a place in the top ten… If there were any more situations to follow.

He could be too late. It might be Sherlock's mangled corpse that would greet him when he arrived. Or maybe there wouldn't be a corpse. Maybe they had abducted him. An image of a bruised and defeated Sherlock bound to a chair in some deserted warehouse sprang unbidden to his mind. Startled, he wrenched his thoughts away, but the disturbing picture remained.

The magnitude of worry John experienced for his friend increased ten-fold. Life without Sherlock was simply no longer an option for him. That avenue of possibility had been shut off. His mind, like a circuit-breaker, just directed his thoughts in another direction. That wouldn't happen. He wouldn't let it happen. And heaven help anyone who dared to get in his way.

Anthea's phone chirped, rousing him from his vengeful thoughts. As her eyes swept the message typed upon its glowing screen, her face brightened somewhat, and her gleaming lips bowed into a smile.

"That was Mycroft. He's requested Lestrade and some medical personnel. We don't know what condition Sherlock will be in when we arrive, so he ordered the best." John's worry-taut shoulders loosened slightly under his jumper. Familiar faces would be a huge relief for both him and Sherlock. Mostly him though.

The car purred to a stop in front of Club Pizzazz, and John leapt out in a flurry of nervous vindictive energy.

"Wait!" blustered Anthea, "Mycroft told me not to let you in until the police arrive to back you up! This is one of Moriarty's men we're dealing with!"

"Sod Mycroft and Moriarty both!" John snapped, already at the scratched and peeling door. "I'm going in, and no one, not even the Queen is going to stop me." With that, he rushed inside, not even bothering to shut the door behind him.

Back in the car, Anthea shook her head, dazed, yet enlightened. No wonder Dr. Watson and the younger Holmes brother had gotten so close. Both were impetuously brave and extremely determined, but most similarly of all, these virtues could easily lure them into situations of terrifying gravity. Now, would they be able to find their way out? Hopefully so… her job probably depended on it.

~SH~

As Stan's coiled fist connected with his already aching temple, Sherlock decided that his best course of action was to simply bow out now and form a better plan. He allowed the strength of the punch to drive him back, following the ark of motion until he overbalanced. Forcing himself to remain limp, he tipped backwards, toppling bonelessly to the ground. His back hit the floor with a resounding smack, jarring his throbbing ribs, and nearly wresting a shout of agony from his mouth. A split second later, his head followed. Glittering fireworks flashed behind his eyes, yellow, pink, and green. As the fireworks faded, so did everything else. Sherlock's eyes flickered closed, and the black he saw began to melt into white.

His vision drifting away into nothingness, the detective mentally cursed himself. What he had intended to do was pretend to pass out, not actually pass out! To truly faint invited nothing but confusion and trouble. He could not let that happen!

As luck would have it, while Sherlock battled for control over the all-encompassing white haze, the door rattled on its hinges.

Someone was trying to force their way in.

~SH~

A/N: Here's chapter two! You would not believe how nice reviews and epic music speed along the process of typing! Speaking of which, I thank all who have reviewed, favorited, or watched this story. I am eternally grateful for your kindness. My ego loves a little boosting now and then! ;)