"No. You are not going in there alone, Sherlock. You know it's a trap!"
Sherlock shrugged. "Of course it is, but it's also the only lead we have and I am going to follow up on it!"
Lestrade reached out and grabbed his shoulders. "Moran is a sniper, Sherlock. What makes you think he won't shoot you the minute you walk in there?"
"Because he wants revenge. At the very least, he'll want to torture me with whatever agony he's put John through these last six months." He shrugged off the other man's hands. "You know why I jumped, Lestrade. Do you really think I'm going to hesitate now to trade my life for his?"
"No, but that doesn't mean you have to be stupid about it. Do you know what John will do to me if I let you waltz in there and get yourself killed?"
Sherlock was already turning toward the door. "But he'll be alive, Lestrade. I can't … it's been six months of who knows what kind of torture. I can't let him suffer any more."
"I'm not saying we're not going in there to rescue him, Sherlock, and I'm damn well not saying we're letting him suffer a minute longer than we have to." Lestrade stepped right up to him and poked him in the chest, eyes burning. "I'm saying that neither of you is going to forgive ME if the other doesn't come out of this alive, and I'm not having John Watson furious at me the rest of my life, all right? You can afford to take a few minutes to plan an exit strategy that will get you both out of there, yeah?"
A smooth voice came from the shadows. "I'm forced to agree with the inspector, dear brother."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course Mycroft was here. "Come to redeem your failures, Mycroft?"
"Here to help, Sherlock, as I promised."
Sherlock glanced at his watch. "Fine. We've got an hour. What do you suggest?"
#
One hour later, he entered the warehouse.
He had expected aisles, mazes of shelves and containers. He had expected shadows and hiding places.
He hadn't expected this.
The outer door opened into a five foot long tunnel, which he traversed warily, aware of the possibilities for attack at the end of it. But, no.
He stepped out of the tunnel and frankly stared. The entire interior of the warehouse was bright and laboratory clean, lit by massive lights hanging from the ceiling. There was a wall built all the way around, effectively blocking any view from the outside. A metal catwalk circled the entire room—a perfect perch for a team of snipers.
The only other thing in the entire, massive space was a structure. Roughly twelve feet square, looking like solid cement, it sat solidly as the centerpiece of the room. There was a large pipe running from the ceiling into the corner of the building and ladder built into the side, but there were no other features. It was clearly the only purpose this space had.
Sherlock took a blind step toward the structure, but forced himself to stop. There was no guarantee that John was in there. The … cell … was clearly the bait to this trap. There was no way to approach it without leaving what little cover he had, and as Lestrade had pointed out, Moran was a sniper.
He started circling the room, staying under what cover the catwalk provided. He watched for signs of movement, but still couldn't keep his eyes away from that building in the center of the room.
The door had to be on the other side, he told himself. Directly opposite the entrance would make the most sense. A sniper could then position himself to guard the warehouse's entrance as well as the exit for anyone trapped inside that room. Assuming it was a room. Assuming there was someone trapped.
Warily, Sherlock edged along the wall, watching. He could see the third side of that central structure now, and still no door. It must be on the fourth side then … but when he had crept further, he could see there was none. The roof, then? Was that what the ladder was for?
What he did see, though, made the breath freeze in his lungs.
A flatscreen monitor hung on the wall, showing surveillance footage of the inside of a cell, and inside … was John.
Sherlock found himself crossing the open space without thought, eyes fixed on the screen. The image was grainy, with that green tinge that you got with night-vision goggles, but it was John. A John with a beard and unkempt hair curling to his shoulders. A John who had lost several stones' worth of weight but looked essentially unharmed.
He had been here all this time, waiting for a rescue that might never have come. Sherlock didn't want to think what that had done to John's mental state.
Sherlock's hand rose, fingertips stretching toward the screen, when a loud, mocking voice echoed through the room. "So sweet. It's so touching to see a master reunited with a long-lost pet. I'd begun to think you didn't care."
Sherlock swung around, eyes searching the room.
"You really shouldn't abandon your pets, Holmes. They're so bad at taking care of themselves. Luckily, I was able to give yours a home." The voice was mocking, enjoying itself. "I've tried to take proper care of it for you. Food, water, a safe place to sleep. Of course, I've always considered fresh air and exercise overrated."
Another laugh and then, "But then, I've never been very good at caring for pets."
There was a hiss, and the sound of water. A lot of water.
Sherlock looked around wildly, and then realized the sound came from the pipe overhead. He turned to the monitor in horror and saw John's head turn toward the corner and then give a small jump as water lapped over his foot.
There was nothing else to do. He knew this was a trap, knew he was probably about to be shot, but it didn't matter. He couldn't stand here and watch John drown.
He lunged for the ladder. With no door into the room, there had to be a hatch of some kind on the roof. Why else have the ladder?
But as soon as his hand reached for it, there was a clang as a bullet hit the ladder just above his fingers. "Now, Holmes, don't you trust me? I'm just giving your pet a bath so he'll be nice and clean when you bring him home."
Sherlock took another look at the monitor. The water was already over John's ankles. "What do you want, Moran?"
"I'm a simple man, Holmes. I just want you to suffer and die. You've killed enough of us these last few months." There was a bark of laughter. "I was starting to think I'd miscalculated, you know. I've had your pet for months and you never came looking. I was ready to cut my losses."
"Stop calling him my pet," Sherlock said hissing it through his clenched teeth. Another glance at the screen. The water was creeping up John's legs. Too fast.
"Well, he's more mine than yours now, anyway, isn't he?" Moran's voice was mocking. "He's rather sickly, too. I'm just doing the merciful thing, here. Euthanasia, isn't that what it's called?"
Sherlock flinched as another bullet flew by, ruffling his hair with its wind. Where the hell was Lestrade and the backup he swore Sherlock needed? "If you want me dead, fine, but let me save John. He doesn't deserve this."
"And Jim didn't deserve to have you trick him, did he? After he gave his life for you and your friends?"
Now it was Sherlock's turn to laugh. "He gave his life to risk their lives. And I did exactly what he wanted—I jumped. I jumped to save my friends—now let me save him."
The water was at John's hips now, and he was clearly having trouble standing. Sherlock didn't think he would be able to tread water for long. He lunged for the ladder again, and this time the bullet didn't miss.
It tore through his arm at the shoulder (the left one, just like John's, he thought), but he forced himself to climb. He just had to get the hatch open, so John could escape. Then it wouldn't matter if Moran killed him. At least John would be alive, would know that he hadn't been forgotten or abandoned.
He was almost surprised that there were no more shots until he reached the top of the ladder. Then he realized why.
Sherlock just stood and stared, mind a blank, drowning in dark horror just as surely as John was drowning beneath his feet.
There was no hatch. No door. No opening of any kind.
John was sealed into the room, and there was nothing Sherlock could do.
He just closed his eyes at the sound of Moran's laughter.
He had failed.
#
John started at the sound, mind reeling. What was …? His brain struggled to identify it, but was hampered, out of practice after an eternity in a dark room. The only sound he could recognize with any surety was that of running water.
His ears strained in the dark, but heard nothing else. Nothing unfamiliar. Just the water trickling, running down the wall. Familiar, filling in the emptiness. It was the only sound that mattered, the only one of importance. The gush as the water filled the basin and spilled to the floor.
Gush?
His head turned toward the sound. For the first time in months, it had changed. Instead of the light, soothing trickle of gently falling water, it was suddenly louder, fiercer.
He jumped as he felt the cool water drift across his foot.
Suddenly the familiar sound of water was anything but relaxing. His mind tried to spring to alert, the water already pooling around his ankles, but there was nothing he could do. He already knew there was no way out of this room—not unless there was some kind of trap door in the ceiling. His only hope would be to tread water until he could find it.
The water was rising rapidly enough that there was a current underfoot and he staggered, trying to keep his balance. He'd lost so much weight, so much muscle, he didn't know if he would even float any more, and he'd never been much of a swimmer.
He raised his hands, trying to keep them out of the water as hundreds of energy bar wrappers floated around him, clinging to his hands. That would be a choking hazard, he thought, once he was floating right along with them. But then he laughed. He'd been surrounded by the darkness for so long, what difference did any of this make? If The Black was going to rise up and swallow him, well … at least it would release him from this endless limbo of not-knowing and not-caring.
And as his feet were lifted from the floor, he leaned his head back and tried to remember what it had been like, when he'd had a reason to care. When there had been light, and hope, and friends. And Sherlock.
If he was going to be swallowed by the dark, he would cling to the most meaningful moments of his life. He was going to bring the bright, brilliant memory of Sherlock with him.
#