Chapter 7
Sherlock ran down the stairs of 221b Baker Street, past a worrying Mrs Hudson, and out onto the busy street. He hailed a cab, and once inside, pulled out his phone. It didn't take long to open the GPS and see the flashing orange symbol on the screen. For a moment, he wondered if he should call Lestrade, but that thought escaped him as the cabbie pulled up a few streets from the destination. Just what Sherlock wanted.
He didn't expect there to be any surveillance cameras set up. The area was tucked behind the industrial estate, in a run-down few blocks of abandoned warehouses. Sherlock scoffed at how typical the setting was. It didn't take him very long at all to find the correct warehouse, a smaller building that quite obviously looked as if it were recently inhabited. The steel door handle was free of dust in areas that it may be touched, a trait not present on any of the other doors.
Sherlock took some time to prepare himself for what he would encounter. He planned his movements carefully, and made a mental list of priorities.
First, apprehend and immobilise captor. Find John next.
He briefly wondered what state John would be in. Shaking that thought, he quietly entered the building. The door was surprisingly smooth to open. He slipped into the shadows and rested his hand on his hip. Beneath his coat, he could feel the reassuring shape of John's military issue handgun. He pulled it from the holster and gripped it tightly. There was a light on that was shining a soft light under one of the doors, and Sherlock moved to get closer. Pressing his ear up to the steel, he could hear talking. It was muffled, and rather hard to piece into a coherent sentence.
His brain working in overdrive, Sherlock pushed through the door and raised the weapon. The room was filthy, and there was a large patch of dried blood on the floor under the thick wooden chair that sat in the centre. In that chair, sat one beaten and broken, Doctor John H Watson. Sherlock forced himself to look away in time to see the captor's knife forcing its way into his arm.
The detective drew in a quick breath as the smaller man dragged the knife across his skin, cutting a deep and messy gash into Sherlock's skin, through the coat. Sherlock kicked out and the man was sent flying to the ground.
A howl of pain escaped the grounded man, and he leapt for Sherlock, pulling the detective to the floor. The two men struggled, and Sherlock found his feet long enough to escape the man's grasp. He raised his hand to shoot, and was horrified to realise he had dropped it. The men both wrestled for it, and there was a loud bang. Sherlock leapt backwards, smiling. It wasn't until he felt the warm trickle of blood down his abdomen that he realised the bullet didn't hit his enemy. In a blind fury, he picked up a titanium pipe and lashed out violently. The criminal shot at Sherlock a few more times, hoping to finally be rid of the raging consulting detective. Two out of the five shots actually hit Sherlock, one lodging itself into his shoulder, and one into his hip.
There was a large crack as the bar hit the captor square on the jaw, sending him into a wall. Sherlock walked over to John and knelt down in front of him. The sight made his heart skip a few beats. Tears filled his eyes as John's opened. John was trying so hard to even breathe, and Sherlock reached out to touch John's tattered face. Sherlock suddenly became extremely angry, at himself, and also at the man lying against the wall. He limped over and pulled the bleeding man to his feet and dragged him in front of John. Dropping him down to the floor, Sherlock knelt down.
"Look at what you've done! You filthy bastard! Do you see that? That's the dying face of an innocent man! You pathetic bastard, are you fucking happy?!" Sherlock screamed, his baritone voice echoing through the room. He raised a fist and punched the man in the face. It was all so out of character for him to yell so ardently.
He continued punching and screaming until the adrenaline had worn off enough for the pain of his wounds to become apparent. Without a second thought, he stood agonizingly and limped towards John. Using the knife, he cut John free from his bonds and looked him in the eyes. There was one more thing he had to do. Pulling himself away from John, he found the live streaming program. He opened it up and sent a video link to Lestrade. The D.I. looked horrified when he opened the video.
"Sherlock! Jesus Christ!"
"Lestrade, I have John now. I'm sending you a text with the address. Send an ambulance for John. Do it QUICKLY. I have the captor in custody. It was the younger brother," Sherlock said. The adrenaline was still wearing off and he was feeling more and more pain.
"How on earth did you find him? And Jesus! Sherlock, you're hurt too!" Lestrade shouted.
Sherlock clenched his teeth. "It doesn't matter about me. John is priority. And I placed a chip on the brother as he was being led out. Put it in his coat pocket. It was small enough to go undetected. Just – AHH – hurry up and get here!"
Sherlock shut off the link and crawled over to John's chair. He leaned against in and breathed heavily. He heard John groan. Sherlock lightly touched the wounds, a total of four across his body if you don't count the obvious bruising. He'd never been hurt like this before, and the pain was overwhelming. He couldn't imagine how John was feeling. Closing his eyes, he wondered if John hurt this much when he was shot in Afghanistan. Probably not, John was strong.
Sherlock slipped in and out of consciousness for half an hour. Neither him nor John heard the loud sirens of both police cars and ambulances. He could feel himself being put on a stretcher. He groggily protested, saying something along the lines of "Get John first".
Sherlock was completely unconscious by the time he reached the Ambulance.