TRIGGER WARNING – Torture scenes. Just letting you know, in case.
Chapter 4
Sherlock sat in his armchair with his hands together in a pyramid. The detective was lost in thought. His tea had long since gone cold, and he could hear the patter of rain on the windows. He shouted out in frustration. Launching himself out of the armchair, he walked over the coffee table and to the drawer where John put all of his confiscated guns. The drawer was locked, and Sherlock slumped down in front of it. No, he thought, John doesn't like it.
He heard footsteps rushing up the stairs, and wanted to just lock every door and hide away from the world. He knew he never could. John was counting on him.
Mrs Hudson opened the door and walked over to the man. "Are you all right dear? I heard your shouting. You can sure make an ungodly racket!" she said with a smile, "It's a wonder John hasn't said anything!"
Sherlock curled himself up tighter at the sound of the Doctor's name. "John's not here," he said quietly. Mrs Hudson shrugged. She didn't know any better.
A quiet beep made Sherlock jolt upright. He'd just received an email. "Out." He demanded, and rushed to his dented laptop. Mrs Hudson didn't know what was going on.
"Sherlock, What on earth?" was all she had time to say before the baritone voice cut her off.
"Mrs Hudson, you need to leave. Trust me. This is for your own good," he said. Deep down, he didn't want her to see any emails of John. He was concerned for her, and she could tell.
"Okay dear, but don't go running amuck!" she said, walking out of the flat, leaving the detective alone to read his emails.
He'd received two emails, one from Lestrade, which was a bore, and another from Sargent Donovan. It was some nonsense about apologising to Anderson. Boring.
He sighed heavily and punched the desk. A wave of emotion ran over him and he inhaled sharply. He wondered why he was having so many sentiments lately. It was not like him to become so attached to a case emotionally. Obviously he was angry; his only friend had just been taken from him. He remembered the first time it had happened. The stand-off with Jim Moriarty at the pool that had John strapped up to a bomb vest. The memory made his stomach lurch. This time, the chance of losing John was much greater. Sherlock wondered for a moment if Moriarty could be responsible. It was impossible though. The Consulting Criminal was much too clean. If he wanted Sherlock and John dead, he would have killed them already. A ringing noise interrupted his thought, and he found that he was being invited to a video call.
The video was rolling again. John's eyes were watering profusely. The pain of his leg was far too much to bear. He looked at the camera as best he could, and could see Sherlock's pale face through the small monitor. There was nobody in the room with him, his captors nowhere to be seen or heard.
"John!? Can you hear me?" the deep voice came through the speakers.
"Sherlock," John managed to get out painfully. He was parched, and his voice cracked when he spoke.
"John!" Sherlock shouted. He looked over the screen and his eyes widened at the gaping hole in John's leg. "Oh my god, are you okay? Listen to me; I'm going to find you!"
The words comforted the Doctor, and he could have sworn the Detective sounded a bit scared. It didn't matter. He kind of liked these video calls. He knew Sherlock didn't, but John liked to see the gorgeous pale face every once in a while. It gave him something to keep holding on for. He tried to smile, and a pain shot up through his jaw and made him shout. The metal doors opened, and the two men walked in, one carrying a plastic bottle and the other carrying a handful of cloths and a lighter. John watched the detective's face fall as he realised what was going to happen.
"John! John!" Sherlock yelled at the laptop. One of the men coated a cloth in the clear liquid and held it up. John could smell it and prepared himself mentally as best he could. One of the men left the room, and Sherlock watched as the second man lightly trailed the drenched cloth up John's arm. John shouted as the bleach wiped off into his cuts and gashes. He stopped, and held up the cloth, before pressing it to John's cheek on a particularly nasty laceration. The cries were so loud that Sherlock's speakers almost broke. John opened his tear filled eyes to find the Detective's own eyes were growing red with light tears.
There was laughter, and the cloth was pressed to another violent gouge. John screamed again, and his teeth ground together. Sherlock was shouting something, but the pain was so overwhelming that John could only pick up a muffled flurry of noise. His nerves felt like they were being torn out one by one, and he could hear a loud shout that he soon realised was his, as the cloth was held roughly against more wounds. Soon, the cloth ran dry, and John sobbed. It was painful to even breathe, and he just wanted to stop. Then he thought about Sherlock. He thought about the raven haired beauty who didn't even know that John had feelings for him.
The captor laughed, and held up a blanket needle and the lighter. Slowly, he began to heat up the needle to become red hot. Sherlock was shouting at the man. John was still thinking about Sherlock. He wanted to tell the detective, just in case he didn't make it.
"Sherlock… I… ," John's barely audible sound was cut off by a vicious pain. The hot needle pierced his cheek, charring flesh and muscle and burning his dry tongue. There was a flash of brightness behind John's eyes, and he screamed. The man, quite happy with his work, left the needle in its place and walked out of the room, leaving the great Sherlock Holmes screaming at the monitor. The camera cut off and a face appeared. Masked, the face of the man who had tortured John.
"Sherlock Holmes, a pleasure to meet you. Your friend makes a lovely pet, so much fun to cut up!" the maniacal voice laughed. Sherlock was silent. The man continued talking, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He was more focussed on screen capturing the masked face. He captured a separate image of only the eyes. Oh yes, he's made a mistake, Sherlock thought. The screen cut black, and Sherlock launched himself up and to his bedroom. Whilst trying to get changed, he picked up his phone and dialled Lestrade.
"Scotland Yard, Detective Inspector Lestrade," the voice said.
"Lestrade, I'm coming in," Sherlock said, his voice determined.
"What? Have you found something?" Lestrade asked.
"Eyes, Lestrade. Our kidnapper has very unique eyes," Sherlock informed, "Twenty minutes, your office".
"Sherlock! You can't! I have clients in right now!" Lestrade tried, but the detective had already hung up. There was a fierce determination in his blood, and the fresh images of John in his mind both driving him to solve his most important case yet.