A/N The setting here is really ambiguous, but I picture it as being sometime mid-season one. Also, apologies for the late update- I completely forgot to post yesterday *headdesk*
Thanks to BarbaraK1, AyaToshu, and Pyreflies Painter (you're very welcome, I'll continue to do so as long as you review!)
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
III. Light
Drip. Drip. Drip.
For the hundredth time, John shifts his position, trying to do so in such as way so as not to aggravate the shallow yet jagged wounds gouged into his bruised wrists. He gives his neck a twist in a wasted effort to keep it from cramping. How long has he been here? Three hours? Four? It feels like longer, but he's learned to measure time logically rather than emotionally. Yes, four hours seems about right. Four hours since he'd had a hand clamped over his mouth and a strong pair of arms force him into the backseat of a car with tinted windows. Four hours since he'd been roughly pulled out of it, found himself in a dank, pitch black underground tunnel, been tied to a chair with rope that seemed unnecessarily bristly and left to himself.
Four hours since the damn dripping started.
It's coming from somewhere above his head—thanks to the darkness, it's impossible to pinpoint the exact location. All he knows is that the water is cold, and that every drop of it is kind enough to land right on top of his head, never failing to send a chill through his scalp and down his spine. He's tried leaning left and right, but all that does is distribute the water more generously over his short blond hair, rendering the whole of it uncomfortably damp and—knowing its typical behavior—probably a bit spiky.
He doesn't even know where he is. It's far from the first time he's been kidnapped, but there seems to be virtually no imaginable reason for it this time around. Without any precedent or explanation, he was, quite simply, taken right off the streets. It would be comical if not for the fact that he's most certainly in severe danger.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Perhaps it's a bit ironic that he finds the sound of yells from farther up the tunnel reassuring.
But he does. The deep cries, echoing hollowly, ignite a spark of hope that flares inside of him. He knows what's coming next, and that's almost enough reason for him to relax in the straight-backed wooden chair. Not much longer, he silently assures the cuts on his wrists. They're now so bloody that the hot, slippery sensation is spreading down to his fingers, and their dull, aching throb, occasionally aggravated by a stray splinter, is growing unbearable.
The light makes him smile.
It's bright white, dancing in fast-moving dapples along the inky puddles that line the grime-coated floor. John squints as it illuminates his dingy prison, blinking rapidly so that he can focus on the tall, thin figure heading for him at an increasingly rapid pace.
They both exhale at the same time as they see each other clearly, the twin sounds of relief filling the small space. Sherlock sets his electric lantern down with a heavy clunk and gets to work freeing John's mangled hands, not bothering to be gentle as he rips off the rope.
"Late as usual," John criticizes half-jokingly as the bonds fall away. He rises, eager to escape the infernal dripping, but has to lean against the wall when a slight head-rush sets in, soaking his whole left sleeve and shoulder as they touch the damp stone.
"You okay?" Sherlock questions as he picks up the lantern again.
"'Course."
"I would have come sooner, but you were being guarded rather heavily. Not sure who's behind this one, though I can't wait to find out."
I'll bet you can't, John thinks, but this time he keeps his smile internal. Sherlock doesn't need to know how much excess giddiness his presence always delivers.