A.N: I'm so sorry this took so long! It's exam time again at school, and I've had not time to write. I've written a pretty long chapter to make up for it. More suspense too!
Chapter 6
The first thing Sherlock could register was a dull ache that throbbed in his back and limbs. Opening his eyes, he realised he was lying on his bedroom floor. He figured he must have rolled off the bed during the high. It didn't worry him though. A few bruises on his back were nothing compared to how he felt mentally.
He decided to sit up onto his bed and try to challenge himself, just to warm up his mind. A loud ringing snapped him out of his mind palace. Sherlock dragged himself up off the bed and over to where he'd thrown his coat down. The display flashed with the words Incoming Call – Lestrade. With a sigh, he pressed the receive button and held the small device up to his ear. "Yes?" the detective growled.
"Sherlock, you need to come down here. An officer brought in a set of twins," Greg Lestrade informed.
"Why would that interest me in the slightest right now? You of all people know I have more important things to be dealing with!" Sherlock snapped.
"I vaguely remember you were investigating a specific lead, were you not?"Lestrade said almost sarcastically.
Sherlock's eyes widened and his heart skipped a beat. "Twenty minutes".
The detective hung up the phone and rushed to dress. As soon as he was finished, he pulled on his coat and hurried down the stairs. He had to stop at the bottom to regain his balance, the drugs not entirely out of his system just yet.
It seemed like forever before he could finally hail a cab. When one finally pulled over, Sherlock tumbled in before it even stopped. Within twenty minutes he was standing in Lestrade's office waiting for the all clear to question the suspects.
"So apparently, the two were seen shoplifting a pub downtown. They're identical twins, and they've got that weird eye thing," Lestrade explained.
"Sectoral Heterochromia," Sherlock corrected as a young man poked his head in the door to tell them that the suspects were ready. The pair made their way down to the interrogation room, Lestrade leading the way. They reached the doors and walked inside. He stood at the other side of the table, across from the two men. Within fifteen seconds he had deduced everything he needed to know from them.
"Both males of approximately twenty nine years of age, though you on the left appear to be older," he looked at the man sitting to the left of him.
"John Watson," Sherlock cut straight to the information he wanted to know the most.
Both men looked at him with confused expressions. "What," the younger one spat, his voice sounding rather soft for such a hard looking and foul tempered man. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Your names," he demanded. The older man looked up.
"Chace and Zack Stensten. I'm Chace, and he's Zack," The older one stammered. The older of the men seemed to have a soft temper.
Sherlock studied the two carefully. He focussed heavily on the eyes, trying to pinpoint any differences. Astoundingly, there was none. Both sets were exactly the same, and any difference certainly didn't show on the screen captures. Suddenly, the older man looked up at Sherlock, his face looking worried.
"Look, I don't know who you're looking for; all we did was nick some spirits from the pub. We can pay you back, I can right now," Chace stammered.
Lestrade leaned on the table. "Two hundred pounds worth? If you have the money, why go to the trouble of taking it?" he questioned.
Zach looked at the Detective Inspector. "Because I didn't want to pay for it, what do you think?" he said sarcastically. Sherlock stepped forward.
"I couldn't care less about the alcohol. I want to know why your names aren't on any of our systems," the Consulting Detective said firmly, his eyes locking on the younger man.
"Because we've just come over from Arabath, so of course we're not on your system," Zack rolled his eyes. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the man.
"Yet only your brother has an accent. You however have a Northern English accent. I assume you originated in Northern England, or at least you did. Your brother has a thicker accent of a Scottish origin. So, you have grown up separately, but as of late, you have wanted to go back to your brother for some reason. My guess is that you were kicked out of home because of your anger i. Father, most likely. Upon moving back to Scotland, you had your records wiped, which is a suspicious act. Therefore, neither of you have records in England. Recently, you have both come to London," Sherlock was cut off by Chace, who was shocked.
"How did he know all of that? There's no way!" he exclaimed, visibly in awe.
Lestrade rolled his eyes, "Don't ask, it makes life so much easier".
Sherlock paced the room for a moment. His superior mind was working on full power, and he needed to make a decision. He had one plan, but it would require the possibility that it would put John in more danger. His heart hurt just thinking about that possibility, and for the first time he found himself scared of his deductions, although he knew it was the best thing to do. His face remained blank, even though he was going through an internal battle between his mind and his heart.
"Let the younger one go," he said, trying his hardest not to let his voice show the intense emotions he was feeling. Greg looked at him with a questioning expression.
"Let the younger one go, I said. In case you didn't hear me. It is obvious he was acting under his brother's influence. Fine him, though." Sherlock requested.
They got the men sorted out and Sherlock was waiting in Lestrade's office. Greg rubbed his temples and looked at Holmes.
"What have you got planned?" he asked.
"It's complicated. I need you to ensure it goes properly. One of those men has John. I can't tell which though, so I have had to let one go to see. If I receive another video, I will know that is was the older man. If I don't, then we already have our man in custody," Sherlock informed.
Lestrade blinked a few times, looking directly at Sherlock. "Are you kidding? If we did let the real bastard go, then he'll probably kill John!"
Sherlock looked up. "I realise this. You don't think I haven't prepared for all outcomes?"
"Even if he's killed?" Lestrade said spitefully.
The detective stood up and walked out of the office, leaving Greg Lestrade to glare at him through the glass walls as he walked away.
Sherlock waited at his laptop for three hours. Beside him were a small stack of filled envelopes and some writing utensils. He had handwritten the messages for distribution in the event of John's death. He was waiting for a final video call to confirm his theory. He wholeheartedly hoped there wasn't another video, but it couldn't be certain.
Usually, suspense was something Sherlock was accustomed to, and admittedly sometimes rather enjoyed. This time however, the suspense felt foreign and extremely unpleasant. Perhaps it was the possibility of his best friend being murdered. The thought made him shudder.
The Consulting Detective had since given up on trying to understand the recent intake of emotions he had been experiencing. It had altered his thought process, and quite frankly, caused him to doubt himself. He certainly did not need any form of self- doubt with the current case at hand. After John was safe he would take a long trip into his mind palace to work out what was causing it.
If John is safe,the thought crept into his head. He sighed and shook it from his mind.
Looking beside him, he sighed at the empty syringes and one remaining vial. When he got home, he had injected himself with a small amount of the drug. Enough to make him think, he would have explained to John, if the doctor was there in the room. Though, if the Doctor was in the room with him, he wouldn't be using the drugs. He promised himself that he wouldn't overdose again. Not like he did last time anyway.
A sharp tone woke him from his thoughts. Another video call filled the laptop screen. John looked absolutely horrific. His tanned body was covered in deep lacerations, his face having copped the worst of them all. There was dried blood all over him, and it was obvious he had been shot again. His grey and red checked shirt had been removed to reveal more angry welts and slices. Sherlock looked closely and saw that John was only barely breathing. The sight made his gut wrench. The two kidnappers looked at him from behind John's chair. The smaller man looked at his assistant and patted John on the shoulder.
"He's been such a big help, hasn't he Doctor Watson? It's a shame we have to let him go!" the mechanical voice said into John's ear. He then pulled out a dirty revolver and shot the assistant square in the forehead. Blood and skull fragments flew everywhere, some landing on John, who didn't even flinch.
John Watson had resigned himself to the definite reality that he was going to die. He was going to die in a dark and filthy room without even telling Sherlock he loved him. What a way to go, he thought. It took a tremendous effort to even think. His torturer had put him through more than he'd even experienced in the army. If you asked him, he'd tell you that it was his faith in Sherlock Holmes that kept him fighting back the bright light at the end of the tunnel.
"You've been a real trooper, Mister Holmes. Unfortunately, you still haven't figured it out. Tsk tsk! I'm afraid I'm getting a little bored just experimenting on your good doctor. He just doesn't respond. Now, I'm going to give you twenty four hours to find us. If you can't, I'm afraid I'll have to let Doctor Watson go, just like our old friend here! Good luck Mister Holmes,"
The captor cut a new gash deep into John's chest before shutting off the video feed. Sherlock stood and closed his laptop carefully. His face pulled back into an involuntary grin.
Bingo.