Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock is not mine. I wish it were. Constantly.

Warnings: Extreme violence (I'm not kidding on this one, I did not hold back this chapter). Homophobic insults and plenty of the stupids. Beware!

Hypothetically

Chapter Seven: The Confidence Game

Sherlock scowled at the steel manacles that restrained his wrist to an appalling, coffee-stained desk. He ardently wished for a world in which a withering glare could melt holes through metal, although he would have just as happily settled for human flesh as the security manager of the office building hovered over him to impede the more practical method of picking the lock of the handcuffs.

In retrospect, dashing back into the very same building where not only a minute ago an irate guard tased him was probably not the most logical course of action. After the panel van that carried John sped beyond his line of vision, he could think of nothing but storming back into the psychiatry office in search of a witness, a clue, anything that would lead him to where the Garrotter Street Rogues would have taken John. It irked him above all else that this had not proved to be a clever decision—not rational, just stupid, idiotic, simply John, John, John screaming in his head.

To his credit, Sherlock managed to make it to the stairwell before the security officer hammered a nightstick into his fresh taser wound and sent him sprawling against the floor. By the time they managed to cuff him to the lobby desk, however, the situation in the office had changed in his favour. The whole lot of security guards had assembled on the first floor lobby with a sobbing Ella Thompson, accompanied with the rest of the building personnel and doctors. After a nauseatingly long period of 5.6 minutes elapsed, the idiots wielding the electrically charged weapons were informed of John's kidnapping, and the security manager was now offering him a fumbling apology while he remained shackled.

"And so you understand, we didn't know you were with the man who was abducted—our boy thought you were dangerous and—"

Sherlock glowered. "As I understand it, the only thought your officer had was whether 29.99 quid was too much to watch a Uni drop-out take her clothes off behind a cheap webcam. It is." The manager frowned at his blanching subordinate, who immediately slammed his laptop shut. Sherlock could envision John wagging his head in disapproval mouthing the words not good. Nevertheless, he could not spare the effort to be agreeable, not when John was in danger; certainly John would understand that?

He tugged at his handcuffs to obtain a better view of a distraught Dr Thompson, who was seated several metres from him. She dejectedly held herself in her arms as a medic from a neighbouring suite in the building tended to a gash at her hairline. Her receptionist appeared to be in no better condition.

"Sarah!" he shouted to the frazzled doctor.

"E-Ella. My name is Ella," she choked out.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's irrelevant. Tell me now in this order: what did you see, what were their number, did they say anything, was John hurt, are you involved?"

Ella cried aloud at the last question. "W-What, no! I didn't! He's my patient!"

"You're not answering my questions in order!"

She shrunk away from Sherlock. "O-Order?" she wailed. "They just burst into the office. C-Came through the f-fire escape the staff pr-props open to have a smoke! John tried to fight them—he—he—"

"What the hell!" interrupted the security manager. Everyone focussed their attention back to Sherlock, who was now standing with an unlocked set of handcuffs dangling from his wrist.

"Oh, don't mind me, I was just leaving," Sherlock replied flatly to the perplexed guards and a terrified Dr Thompson.

Ella sputtered, "B-But my story—"

"—is horrendously dull and fraught with no detail whatsoever, yes. But somehow you did manage to draw attention to yourself, allowing me the eleven seconds necessary to pick the lock on these. Thank you for that."

"You—You can't just waltz out of here!" huffed the manager.

He sighed impatiently. "No, actually, I can. As Emma was likely to say, she was clobbered on the head—by the back of a revolver as it appears by the wound—just like the receptionist and every other person that had the pleasure of confronting a gang of well-armed thugs."

"My name is E-Ella," interjected Dr Thompson.

"It is all very unsurprising that she cannot remember anything of detail let alone her own name. Every second that I waste in this place rots my thinking process, and I really must apprehend the band of serial killers that have abducted my flatmate," he hurried to the double glass doors, and pulled them open before one of the befuddled guards could contemplate unsheathing his Taser. "It's been lovely."

As he jogged down the stairway leaving the morons in his wake, Sherlock mentally upbraided himself for his severe lapse in judgment. It was mistake to even consider entering that contemptible building. Why had he momentarily allowed his emotions to crack his veneer of logic? It could certainly do John no good; John, who not long ago was strapped to a block of Semtex in front of a glowing pool, terror emanating from his eyes, and a laser sight gleaming on his chest.

None of that! Emotions were of no use, and he learned long ago that his caring was meaningless towards his objectives. Sherlock wiped clean the churning maelstrom his mind had become and redoubled his efforts to pinpoint the gangsters. No doubt the panel van was well on its way to Islington. Would they be at that bar, the Savage Serpent? Improbable: too many witnesses. They would more likely hole up in an abandoned building, but even in a single borough, there were too many to search given the rate of foreclosure and crime in the city.

It was in these situations that Sherlock did not understand why John so pointedly refused to be injected with a GPS tracking device several months ago. He would have barely felt the implant, but John angrily quipped that he "wasn't a lost dog."

But John was lost. In grudging desperation, Sherlock flipped open his mobile. At finding that the signal had returned to his device, he quickly dialled the Met and the extension for Lestrade's office. Yet before he heard the first monotone ring he knew that this would be of no help to him. Not only would the Yard impede his search with all their questions and "rules", but what would the Rogues do to John if they heard obnoxious sirens approaching their hideaway?

Lestrade answered on the second stretch of ringing. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. Hello?"

"You're useless," he concluded.

"What? Sherlock, is that you?"

"Brilliant deduction. At your current rate you may well outpace the schizophrenic man who is shouting abuse at pigeons on the pavement corner. All the best with that."

"Sherlock! Is this your idea of a crank call? Don't you forget, Lad, that I can still—"

He disconnected the call, and in frustration, he turned his gaze to the corner where he last saw the panel van abscond with John. A harassed flock of pigeons briefly shrouded his vision, and Sherlock followed their path down to the wiry schizophrenic patient who he had previously sent spiralling into an episode. The man was now throwing poorly aimed kicks at the birds.

"Go, fly to your master, you spies of Belial!" he shrieked.

Ah good. So the man was recovering spectacularly.

Another harried bird squawked away. "Big Brother cannot bug our waffles! The syrup is too thick!"

"Big Brother," Sherlock hissed aloud. An unpleasant thought dawned on him. A covert device smuggled into London, most likely capable of annexing control of a wide range of electromagnetic frequencies: if such a thing existed, it would fall within the domain of a certain minor government official. It was in Mycroft's power to locate the building, certainly given the criteria Sherlock had already deduced. Asking Mycroft for help made his skin crawl, but he forcefully reminded himself that John was in danger, that time was slipping away. He pulled out his mobile and glanced at the now-functioning LED display across the street.

…GLOBAL SUMMIT ON ENERGY CONTINUES TODAY AT PARLIAMENT…

Sherlock's lips twitched upwards as he dialled the hated number. At least he would be interrupting something important.

He could almost see Mycroft's antagonising smirk as he rumbled into the phone, "Dear Brother."

Sherlock practically cringed into his mobile with a sarcastic smile. "Brother, Dear."

A jagged pain threaded its way up John's right arm as he was jostled in his car seat. At first he thought that he could hear the rough voices of several men growling at him like bears. Then there was that needle-sharp twinge in the crook of his elbow followed by a warm haze that kept his thoughts swimming for purchase. When he opened his eyes he saw dancing prisms of light, swirling shapes; he even swore that he could smell the colour red. It was better to keep his eyes shut, he realised, but not long after resolving this, the animalistic voices threatening to devour him grew quiet and were replaced with a singular, comforting tone.

"John."

He hesitantly blinked his eyes open into the silence, and found that the roiling soup of colours had disappeared. He was in the back seat of a military Land Rover aside Sherlock wearing his standard-issue uniform, down to his helmet. Sherlock, for his part, was perfectly tailored in a high-contrast combination of his typical black suit with a white, high-collared button-up.

"Wha-What…Sherl?" he mumbled in a weak voice.

"Ah, excellent. For a brief moment I thought you had exchanged minds with a goldfish, although it appears your memory is far worse. I'll repeat myself: the case John, I want your opinion on the case." Sherlock glanced out the Land Rover window as though he were being transported in an ordinary cab. Perhaps Land Rovers were cabs now, mused John. It made as much sense as anything else here.

"The…case? Those thugs are offing each other to obtain some kind of object for this Sebastian Moran bloke. Don't know why they're threatening you, though…don't they know that all you can do is identify which one of them—"

Sherlock honed his silver eyes on him. "What are you clamouring on about? The only case that I have been working is that of your murders."

John stiffened. "My, My what?"

"Murders. You have been murdered seven times, all in different fashions—quite invigorating." The Land Rover slowed in front of a familiar block of row houses. Sherlock thrummed to himself and began texting on his mobile. "Never mind your opinion now; it seems we're at the scene of the latest one. Go on up. I'll follow shortly."

Before he could protest, John found himself on the curb facing the stoop of 221 Baker Street. He glanced past his shoulder, but the consulting detective within the Land Rover did not even look up from his mobile.

Spirited away—it was the only phrase he thought appropriate enough to describe what was happening to his body. At one moment he was standing in front of the chipped door of their flat, and the next, he felt like he was being dragged up the stairway against his volition. The rough men's voices from the Land Rover violated his thoughts after his shin smashed against the splintery steps, but John could not identify what was spoken. It must have been after dozens of steps—far greater than the ordinary seventeen—that John felt his alien body catapult through the entrance of 221B.

"Back already? Have you done the shopping this time?" queried a low voice from the kitchen.

John froze. "Sherl—Sherlock? But how did you—you were just down—?"

Nevertheless, it was Sherlock who emerged around the corner wearing his plaid housecoat-turned-lab coat and a disappointed frown. "Is that a 'no'? Then perhaps you might make yourself useful and hand me that extension cord on the armchair. I'm terribly busy at the moment, John."

Before he could fumble out a response, Sherlock vanished back into the kitchen. In his cloud of confusion, John complied with the request, snatched the extension cord, wheeled around to the kitchen, and—

Dear God.

The walls were splattered with an abstract mosaic of crimson blood, some of it still freshly weeping downwards. Displayed like a freshly cut Christmas ham on the kitchen table were slices of bone and pink tissue, neatly encased in a gingerbread outline of flesh. With medical precision a man had been reduced to a stack of vertical thin sections. It was only when John saw tufts of a blood-soaked oatmeal corded sweater that he began to dry heave.

"Oh, John. Good, the cable." John whitened at the voice humming behind him. Sherlock now wore a scarlet-splattered face shield that was lifted above his forehead. In his right hand he wielded a dripping, circular bone saw.

"Sherlock, what the fuck!" Without the words to aid him, he gestured at the carnage. "WHAT the FUCK, SHERLOCK!"

"I was going to clean it up…" Sherlock began petulantly. He pulled a face of serious deliberation. "But I suppose you do have a point. It did not turn out how I had visualised." He pulled down the facemask. "Let's give it another try, shall we? This time, horizontal sections!"

John uselessly shielded himself with his hands. "Sherl! I don't know what this is—an experiment, a game or some kind of ploy for you to have a cigarette, but you just can't!"

Sherlock moved his hand off the switch to the bone saw with a rueful expression. "Do you really think so little of me, John?" he said quietly, and John could see his eyes beneath the facemask glowing nearly emerald at those words. "Why do you think I'm doing this? All this effort, only for you."

At once, he switched on the bone saw and plunged it into John's ribcage. "Hold still!" he exclaimed with a childish grin as John shrieked. "I want this to be perfect for us both!"

When John next opened his eyes, the room had grown dark. It was a thick, suffocating murk that impeded even the uncertain fluttering of his eyelashes and seized onto his thoughts like molten tar. Despite the stalling of his mind and body, he felt a persistent vibration in his trousers pocket. His mobile? What had happened, where was he? Before he could process the state of his intact body, a shadow loomed over him, and he felt a dull pain ringing across the side of his head.

"Shut up, faggot! Quit yer moanin'!" growled the shadow.

"Lee what's that noise? Is that a mobile? What the hell did I tell you about searchin' him?"

"He was out of it, Dawson, so I figured why bother?"

"Just take it from him, you fuckin' twat!"

John's shoulders jumped when the same rough pair of hands that had struck him suddenly dug into his trousers pocket for the mobile. He involuntarily attempted to wriggle away from the sour-breathed man, but realised that in addition to his inhibited state of mind, his hands were bound behind his chair with scratchy cords. As the full extent of the situation came floating through John's head, his captor robbed him of his mobile.

"Is there a text? What's it say?" demanded the voice belonging to Dawson.

The room illuminated with an electric glow as Lee switched on his mobile. John's eyes adjusted to the shadows, and he could make out the outlines of five men: the Garrotter Street Rogues, among them Dawson, Lee and the third man from the pub whose name John did not recall. His memory of the abduction at Ella's office flickered through his mind like a fragment of a day-old dream.

A disgusted yelp resonated in the room. "You—You sick, bender!"

"'Ey, Lee, arsehole, read it aloud!" growled another of the Rogues.

To John's surprise, the large thug's voice shook as he read from the mobile. "It-It says 'I will peel your face over your skull and downwards until your muscles are naked of their flesh. Then I will drain your blood and replace it with molten wax.'"

John brightened. Sherlock. Whether it was a bone saw-slashing sociopath or the enigmatic, emotionally stunted flatmate that drove him up the walls, John never wanted to see Sherlock Holmes more than in that singular moment.

A hopeful ache sprung from John's chest cavity just as an unsettled silence permeated the room. Dawson angrily paced in a circle. "What the fuck is that!"

"A warning."

In unison, the five men turned to the doorway with their weapons drawn. Sherlock's lanky outline framed the shadows, and as he stepped into the bare room, John could make out the forbidding glare burning out of his tungsten jade eyes. Despite the Rogues pointing their pistols and revolvers in his direction, the wooden floorboards continued to register Sherlock's footsteps into the room with a stubborn and steady creak.

"It is a taste of what I shall bring upon you should John Watson come to any harm." He glanced to where John was bound to the chair. "Hello, John."

John forced a wry smile. "What took so long? Couldn't get a cab for once?" It was the first time that he attempted to speak in his haze, and judging by the way Sherlock glared at the men, John realised the words had not come out well.

"What have you given him?" Sherlock inquired crisply.

By this time, the Rogues had regained much of their former bravado. Dawson stepped forward aiming his pistol between Sherlock's eyes. "We gave ya more than enough time, Mr Holmes, by the looks of how fast ya found yer poof. Where's the trigger?"

"What have you given him?"

"Only a case of the reds," hissed the gang leader impatiently. "Now the trigger—"

"Barbiturates," Sherlock growled in disgust. "Are you imbeciles? Of course you are. What good is it to ply a hostage with depressants? The only practical secret John keeps is how to make a decent cuppa, but in this state I doubt he can even speak the words 'Earl Grey.'"

"Sherlock," warned John. Perhaps the annoying git had a cataract preventing him from seeing the five guns aimed at his head.

"If you want any kind of information from your hostages, other than hours of drivel and sick over the floorboards, you might consider cutting off some fingers, plucking out molars—"

"SHERLOCK!" cried John.

"Enough of this!" hissed another Rogue. "Tell us where the trigger is or we'll do somethin' much worse, ya sick Freak!"

The right edge of Sherlock's lip curled. "And what would you do?"

Some of the gangsters were certainly not expecting this sort of swagger from a slender, unarmed man by the way they were exchanging glances. John was almost certain in the poor lighting that a vein was bulging in Dawson's neck. "Ya seem to be thinkin' this is a game," he hissed. He turned his pistol away from Sherlock's head and took aim at John. "The trigger. Who has it? Now."

John's heartbeat hammered against his eardrums. Sherlock ran a hand over his forehead. As one panicked thought raced through John's brain after another, he felt a fleeting sense of relief that Sherlock was finally recognising the grim reality of the situation, that was, until the consulting detective opened his mouth to speak.

"Amateurs," he murmured.

"What was that?" demanded Dawson.

"You're all amateurs! The barbiturates and now a shooting? How bloody unoriginal can you be! Are you going to give me the count of three next?" Sherlock threw up his arms in revulsion, and he crossed the room in John's direction.

"Sherlock, no!" John scolded. Two of the Rogues uncertainly raised their pistols on Sherlock with every intention to fire. John nearly passed out in relief when an extremely irritated Dawson waved them down.

"He won't feel a thing! He won't even know when he's shot in his state!" To make this point, the back of Sherlock's hand went flying, and before he knew it, John's head lolled back at the sound of a crisp slap. "Do you see now? It's a completely inadequate death!"

"God damn it, Sherlock!" he screamed, apathetic to whether or not he could be understood. "My death is hypothetical! Hypothetic—" John abruptly closed his mouth when he felt something cold and thin press between his knuckles while Sherlock steadied his chair. John stealthily explored the edges of the object with his fingers—it was a metal razor.

Oh, you mad, suicidal idiot. If Sherlock had walked into the room collected and cold, he would have gotten them both killed the moment he took a step in his direction. Instead the detective was able to blitz the gangsters with confusion by playing his own perverse game.

"That's it! I've had it of this fuckin' faggot!" shouted Lee. "Dawson, if you ain't shootin' the prick then I am!"

Whatever patience that had once defined Dawson as the leader of the Rogues vanished. "I think we'll shoot your boy between the eyes and then take turns blowing holes into that damned pleased face o' yours!"

John swallowed hard as he locked eyes with the barrel of one of the guns. He willed his hands to remain steady as he dragged the flimsy razor against the cords that held him captive. He could only hope that Sherlock had one final ploy that would give him the time he needed.

Instead he was alarmed to find the consulting detective pulling his mobile from his coat pocket. With grim flourish, Sherlock displayed the screen, which glowed with a dialled number. "It's for you."

The sound that followed was muted, and for a moment, John abandoned his struggle against his cords in an effort to hear it above the artificial tone emitted from Sherlock's own device. Nonetheless, the effect it had on the Garrotter Street Rogues was instantaneous. They lowered their weapons and stood frozen in wide-eyed terror as the persistent ringing grew louder.

…ding-ding…Ding-Ding…DING-DING!

Sherlock glared at them pitilessly. "You demanded the trigger of me, but I wonder that within all this stupid you really knew what that meant. You murdered two of your familiars, well, late-familiars, because you thought one of you smuggled it. Turns out you were correct on this point."

The ringing lingered amongst the gangsters, its echo only now impeded by the obvious fact that the object creating the noise was muffled by the soft tissues of a man's body. Sherlock let out a bored sigh that was betrayed by the childish manner in which he pointed at each of the hysterical men. He counted away, "Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich man, poor man, beggarman…"

He left the last word unsaid and outstretched his finger in Dawson's direction, where the sound was now undeniably resonating.

"Boss," whispered Lee. For a moment no one twitched a muscle. Even Sherlock Holmes remained silent. It was a prelude to the chaos about to unravel.

A gunshot hammered into the ceiling from Dawson's revolver. "Ya fuckers stay the hell away from me!"

The other four men descended over their leader. "Boss, ya know—we can't!"

"He'll be killin' us all if we don't!" exclaimed another Rogue as he unsheathed a knife.

"Sorry! We're sorry, Boss!"

John closed his eyes and heard a second gunshot pursued by an inhuman scream. When he reopened them, Sherlock's pale, determined expression was centimetres away. "John!"

Sherlock mercifully twisted his chair away from the direction of the hellish squealing, and swiftly pulled away at the frayed restraints holding him captive. If John had the strength, he would have stood to his full height, and punched Sherlock in the face for everything he had endured in the last ten minutes, effective or not. Unfortunately, the most his muscles would concede was a clumsy lurch forward.

One of Sherlock's palms prevented him from smacking into the floor. "Sherlock, that was by far the most idiotic thing you have done! You could have killed us both!" He heard himself slur.

"John," he repeated with a whisper. John quieted at finding Sherlock's frosted-green eyes flickering with all the emotion he had last seen at the swimming pool. Concern, fright, relief, devotion, and uncategorised depth swam in his eyes. "I would not abduct you and blunt your senses with barbiturates. I would not restrain you to a splintered chair with an atrocious nylon cord. I would never callously shoot you between the eyes with a pistol."

John gazed at him, momentarily at a loss for words. It did not take him long to find them once more. "Sherl…your forehead."

Sherlock placed a hand in front of his forehead and froze. A red dot glimmered against his fingertips on a direct path to his frontal lobe. He stiffened as he gazed over John's shoulder to the shadow aiming an HK417 sniper rifle from the doorway.

"Tinker-tailor. That's quality. That I'll have to use some time." The shadow chuckled and stepped forward. "Sebastian Moran. It's a true pleasure."

Dramatic music sting! And on to I Heart My Reviewers! Your reviews are tastier than human flesh!

peacepisces: Thank you thank you thank you for such an amazing review! It really made my day, especially since I'm trying hard to keep the characters IC :)! ThisIsNotReality: Sorry for the long updates, but I will not leave this story unfinished! And it feels absolutely wonderful to be called a good writer :)! meredithriddle: Thanks for another thoughtful review! I probably didn't make it clear enough, but Sherlock saw John through the window of the panel van speeding off, and it was implied he knew John was on the second floor when he heard noises there during the kidnapping. And your comment about the amygdala isn't idiotic; I was personally interested in it because there are studies linking it to PTSD and fear. It's very interesting to converse with someone about this stuff! Howlynn: Hahaha, Kuru, that's definitely something to watch out for. And I agree, I think Ella might be wasting her time and perhaps will need some counselling herself after this chapter. Cristalake: Thank you for your sweet and encouraging reviews! I actually haven't heard of podfics before you mentioned it, but I have no objections if you want to. Can you do a British accent ;)? Ju Lara: I can clearly visualise Mrs Hudson sipping a cuppa and revving up a chainsaw. And I like your idea about the kidnappers, but I had fun screwing with them in my own way in this chapter. Sweetness inna Lick: Awesome, when I've made someone laugh at loud, I know I'm doing something insane. Thank you for reviewing (and I love your name!).

And thank you to the four anonymous reviewers who left comments! You guys really made me happy!