A/N: Sorry I took a while to get this one out, I was just rather disappointed that almost a hundred people read my one-shot, Blood On the Pavement, but only one person deigned to review (and I'm rather shamelessly plugging it now, but oh well). I know this is story is on your alert list, so I'd like to say thank you to one Mojoflower for being that sole reviewer. This chapter's dedicated to you.
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Groaning quietly, John slowly became aware of his surroundings. The heels of his shoes were in the process of being destroyed as he was dragged backwards over rough gravel. He tried to look around, but when he opened his eyes, he was still blindfolded. Somewhere along the way, though, he'd lost the ball gag (at least that was one less discomfort to deal with).
The crunch of feet on gravel changed abruptly to the slap of shoes on concrete, and John swore as the backs of his feet were slammed into the kerbstone.
"He's awake," one of the Black Hair twins commented (rather unnecessarily, in John's opinion). They swiftly changed their grip on John's arms so that he was forced to walk between them. "Come on, we've wasted enough time. Let's get him inside."
A wall of heated air hit them as they entered an unassuming office building. John, wearing his favourite jacket (comfortable and very warm), soon began to sweat. He heard flashing pulses of sound, presumably due to passing doorways at some speed. It sounded so normal - rapidly clicking computer keys and mouses, the occasional landline call, low voices. Surely, if they just looked up, they'd notice John being dragged through the hallway and intervene somehow.
"Anyone, anyone at all in those rooms, could you please..." John's hesitant voice trailed off at the unpleasant sniggers of the men frogmarching him.
"There's no point in asking them for help, they're not going to be paying you any attention." The two men laughed as if at some private joke.
John stumbled suddenly, the fast pace and the blackened vision provided by his blindfold disrupting his usual balance. The twins just hauled him to his feet impatiently. Then, as he accidentally tripped again, they hoisted him up between them, his feet dangling several centimetres above the ground. No longer able to tell how far they were going, or even what turns they were taking, John felt very small.
Very small and very alone.
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"How close is he, Dr. Watson?" The suave male voice purred through the speakerphone hunched in one corner of the ceiling.
"I honestly don't know. Mycroft told me to keep out of this one. Sherlock almost wasn't allowed in on it either." A hint of hysteria crept into his voice. "Please, I don't know, I don't know anything." John blinked in an (unsuccessful) effort to clear the blood that was once again running into his eyes from the wide gash on his forehead. His left eye was really beginning to swell now, too, making vision even more of a problem.
Not that there was much to see in the blank room anyway. Just the two-way microphone squatting like a fat spider in its corner, and a few ventilation shafts that were both too high and too small for John to escape through, even if his hands hadn't been bound behind his back. As it was, he simply crouched on his knees, the same position he had been forced into when they had pushed him into the room. He still hadn't figured out how they'd gotten him in there - there were no doors that he could see, no seams to suggest a hidden entrance. His captors had been carrying him off the ground, then had shoved him roughly to his knees, torn off his blindfold and left so quickly that in the few seconds he'd taken to recover, John had no idea how they had left. All he'd heard was the grinding of gears, and he had been alone with the vents and the two-way microphone.
No, that wasn't quite right. Blonde Man was standing in the corner, face as impassive as the first time John had seen him. John resolutely turned around, staring straight at the wall in front of him.
"Dr Watson, we know of the... relationship between yourself and Mr Holmes. You can understand that we don't believe you when you say you know nothing."
John bit back a snort. He knew the urge to laugh was mostly due to the hysteria. "We're not a couple. But more importantly, he hasn't told me anything."
The voice sighed almost remorsefully. "Dr Watson, I regret to inform you we have alternative methods of gathering the information we require." John's gaze flickered involuntarily to Blonde Man's corner. The man on the microphone seemed to notice this (there must be a camera built into the speaker or something) and he added, with a slightly amused tone, "Quite. I heard you broke his nose, and I must say it does look quite discoloured, even from in here." Blonde Man scowled. "I'm sure he would just love to repay the favour. He has quite a temper, you know." Blonde Man sauntered forward now, a rather unpleasant smile tugging at his lips.
"No lasting damage," the speaker voice warned him. "You know how she is."
Despite himself, John felt his breath coming more quickly. He sucked in a lungful of air, forcing himself to sit up ramrod straight and facing directly forward, not giving Blonde Man the satisfaction of seeing the terror in his eyes.
When he heard Blonde Man move suddenly behind him, though, he couldn't help but flinch. A scant second later, John was sent sprawling, his cheek scraping along the floor. "Get up," Blonde Man spat. John struggled back onto his knees, his movements made awkward by his bound hands. Blonde Man waited with his arms crossed, face expressionless. Slowly, John put one foot on the floor, then levered himself up, almost overbalancing. "My nose hurts," he told John mildly. "I think I'd be justified in getting some payback, don't you?" Without waiting for an answer, he swung a right hook at John, hitting him squarely on the jaw. John reeled from the blow, twisting through almost one hundred and eighty degrees as he fell again. His whole jaw ached with the blow, compounded by its impact with the floor. Blonde Man hauled him to his feet and gave him a shove, forcing him to stumble forward a few steps. He turned warily to face his tormentor. "Now we're even." A nasty grin crept across his face. "And now, I'll have to owe you one. Or a lot."
With that, Blonde Man threw out a series of jabs at John's chest, hard enough to bruise the ribs beneath, but not enough to break them. John staggered back helplessly, unable to raise his arms to mount a defence. His only option was retreat. They were in a relatively small room, though, and he knew sooner rather than later, Blonde Man would have him backed into a corner. The assault was unrelenting, each blow designed to inflict the maximum amount of pain without leaving any lasting damage.
"Please, I don't..." John began, but trailed off at the other man's supercilious smirk.
"Oh no, Dr Watson! Don't even think for a second you can convince me that easily. We both know you know something you shouldn't. I'll even make you a deal - tell us everything you know about the progress of Mr Holmes' investigation, and we'll let you go right now. Though I hope that the loyalty you show towards him will make you refuse, because I'm really having a lot of fun."
"But I don't know anything!" The protest exploded out of him.
"Tsk, tsk," Blonde Man tutted at him, grinning wickedly. "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's not nice to tell lies?" He cocked his head, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Although, this way I do have more fun," he mused. "I suppose that's considerate enough, in its own way."
Breathing raggedly, John stared up at him. Like a small bird at a big snake. Not for the first time, John wished he wasn't so short - in situations like this, with the other man towering a good head above him, he felt incredibly insignificant and weak. "I don't know anything," he whispered brokenly.
"You keep telling yourself that," Blonde Man said, and threw him into the wall.
John's head connected with a solid crack, setting it roaring with agony. Groaning, he skidded slowly down the wall, a broad band of red in his wake. He slumped forward, doubting that he would have had the strength to stop himself hitting the ground even if his hands had been untied. His swollen eye blazed with pain as it was grated against the floor. Blood matted the back of his head, pain radiating from the point of impact.
"How much does Sherlock Holmes know?" he hissed.
"He hasn't told me anything," John muttered quietly. He grunted in pain as he was booted savagely in the stomach. Curling his legs into his chest in an instinctive motion, his head and upper back took the majority of the beating. The wound on the back of his head was attacked several times, and John doubted he'd have been able to see much if his eyes hadn't been scrunched closed in pain. Stars were dancing behind his eyelids, sending shafts of white hot agony through his battered skull. It was quite likely he had a concussion, as well as several bruised ribs. At this point, John only gave a weak moan when he was once again yanked to his feet.
Blonde Man seemed to be picking him up now for the express purpose of hurling him around. This time, he went with John, adding the weight of his forearm to John's neck as he hit the wall. John gasped desperately for air as his windpipe was crushed, stars flickering in his field of vision as a sheet of agony flared from the much-abused injury to the back of his head. He started to black out and he embraced the chance to sink into the blessed nothing of unconsciousness, but just then Blonde Man removed his arm from John's throat. Without his tormentor pressing him to the wall, John slid to the floor like a sack of bloodied potatoes. His chest heaved with breath after shuddering breath, and he ignored the ripping sensation of his bruised ribs grating against muscle in favour of restoring oxygen to his body.
"Time to get up, Dr Watson," he said cajolingly. John gave a slight whimper.
Blonde Man roughly rolled John onto his stomach. He set one foot firmly on John's lower back, grabbed his bound wrists and started to pull. "Now, Dr Watson, I'm sure I don't need to ask you again what we want from you. You can make this much easier on yourself if you just tell us."
"I don't know! I don't, I don't, I swear I don't! Please just stop it, stop, please, I don't know ANYTHING!" John screamed, the pain of his arms being slowly pulled from their sockets ricocheting through him. Blonde Man ignored him, steadily and inexorably increasing the tension on John's arms. John started sobbing. "Please, stop it, I honestly don't know what Sherlock's been doing..."
The speaker voice sighed in resignation. It was the most beautiful sound John had ever heard. "You can stop now. He's telling the truth - he really doesn't know anything." There was a brief pause. "How disappointing." Blonde Man stepped away from John, releasing the mounting pressure on his joints. John sighed blissfully, glad that he didn't have to add dislocation of limbs to the list of his numerous other injuries.
Gears squealed and protested as Blonde Man left the room. John just sagged with relief. He was in too much pain to roll over and see just how to get in and out of the room.
"Are you sure?" There was a pause, and a murmur of a voice standing too far from the microphone for John to be able to pick out any words. "Well, that simplifies matters." Another pause. "Are we set?" The speaker voice continued. There were a series of thumps, and then an affirmative sound. "Good. Releasing toxin in 3, 2, 1..."
John stared up at the microphone-speaker in horror. "What?"
"Goodbye, Dr. Watson."
The faint crackle of the speaker went dead. Although nothing changed visually, John heard the menacing hiss of some unknown gas being released into the room.
No.
Oh God no.
They were going to kill him. Just because he didn't have the information they wanted.
Dear
God
No.
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A/N: Found my brow actually creasing in concern for John when I was writing this one. Hopefully it's not just hubris and you guys are getting emotional too. :P Review and let me know!
-pixie.