Nine: The Phoenix (Fall Out Boy)
Wearing our vintage misery
No, I think it looked a little better on me
I'm gonna change you, like a remix,
And I'll raise you, like a phoenix.
Sally Donovan slowly cracked open her eyes and blinked a couple of times, allowing her pupils to react to the dim light. She tried to take a couple of deep breaths, hissing softly when her ribs spasmed in protest and began to throb painfully. Okay, couple ribs busted in some manner, then. Her tongue felt thick and coated with sawdust and she swallowed a couple of times to try to force saliva down her dry throat.
She was lying on her back, staring at a dirty stone ceiling. The floor under her back felt like packed earth. She allowed her eyes to travel left and right, and she appraised the dimensions of the room by doing so. The air was stagnant and smelled of damp soil and mildew. There was no natural lighting, but there was a small, old-fashioned oil lamp in the far corner of the room. Okay. So she was in a tiny room underground somewhere with only an oil-lamp and…
A small sound to her left interrupted her appraisal. She turned her head in the direction of the noise and saw a lump of dark matter lying there. The light from the lamp only gave her the impression of a dark coat and dark trousers. The other human groaned slightly and Sally froze. That low baritone voice could only belong to one person.
Fantastic.
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Sherlock Holmes was first aware of an intense throbbing in the back of his head. He shifted slightly, trying to find a better spot for his head. But the movement only served to intensify the pain, causing a groan to escape his lips before he could stop it. He blinked open his eyes and looked around.
He was lying on his left side and facing a blank stone wall. The stones were crumbly and old and covered with little patches of mold. The floor under him felt like compacted earth and smelled as such. There was a tiny flickering of dark yellow light that seemed to be coming from the opposite corner of the room. He could smell the oil from the lamp mixed in with the scent of the earth around him. He could see a small wooden door to his right.
Sherlock stretched his hands out in front of him and was going to attempt to right himself when he heard a familiar voice echo over his right shoulder. It almost made him groan again.
"Well, freak, what have you gotten us into this time?"
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"John, you have to calm down, we've got-'''
"Calm down?! You can't bloody well expect me to just calm down, Lestrade! Sherlock is-'''
"I'm well aware of where Sherlock bloody Holmes is, Doctor Watson. In case you've forgotten, he's in the same mess that Donovan's in."
"… … Jesus. I'm sorry, Greg. I'm just worried."
"Yeah, well that makes two of us, John."
"Have we got anything to go on?"
"Anderson managed to read the number plate before he passed out. Whoever took Holmes and Donovan also dropped one of the syringes they used. It's in the lab now being tested."
"Okay. I've put in a call to Mycroft; he's got his people sniffing around. He should be here any minute, actually."
"Okay, I'm going to-'''
"John, would you care to tell me what's going on?"
"Ah, Mycroft. Greg, you remember Mycroft Holmes?"
"How could I forget."
"Detective Inspector, is there any new information that's come to light?"
"We've got the van on CCTV at 22:31, but that's the last we've-'''
"That was over three hours ago, Detective Inspector."
"We're working on it Mycroft…Greg's been doing everything he can. One of his people was taken too."
"… Well then what are we all standing around for?"
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Sherlock rolled over to face Sally Donovan, ignoring the pain in his head and the slight nausea that had arisen with his movement. She was on the ground as well, but she had propped herself up on one elbow. Her face was dirty and there was a long cut under her eye, but other than that, she seemed to be intact. She was giving him a dirty look. He ignored it.
"Donovan. Are you okay?"
"Since when do you care?" The words were thrown with haughty nonchalance, but Sherlock could hear the exhaustion and pain in her voice.
"Since now. Are you injured?"
There was a pause. "I think I've broken a few ribs. It hurts to breathe." Her voice was tinier and less rude. "What about you?"
"I'm fine." Sherlock tried to believe his own statement as he ignored the dull roar coming from the back of his head.
"Liar," she said. "I heard you groaning."
He sighed. "I believe someone hit me on the back of the head with something very hard… more likely kicked me, I suppose. Feels like a steel-toed boot."
Sally sniffed and tried to sit up. She hissed again as her ribs protested. Sherlock sighed again and scooted closer to her, forcing himself up on his knees. He hunched his shoulders slightly as the sand in his head shifted, the nausea threatening to overwhelm him. He put a hand on Sally's shoulder and tried to push her back down. She flinched.
"Don't," she muttered.
"Donovan, as much as I abhor the thought, I do believe I should take a look at your ribs. If we don't set them, they might poke at something important. And I cannot help internal bleeding in a cottage basement." He shuffled over to grab the oil lamp. It felt heavy, so there was still some oil in it yet. He brought the lamp back over and set it down beside them.
"I don't think so, freak," she spat, wrapping her arms a little tighter around her frame.
"Donovan." His voice was ice. "We really don't have time for this."
Sally glared at him, but then rolled her eyes and let out a heavy sigh under his unblinking gaze and raised eyebrow. She lay back down and lifted the hem of her shirt to expose her ribcage. She blushed a violent shade of magenta, but thankfully it was dark and Sherlock missed it.
"I swear, if you tell anyo-oww, ow!" She cursed as his cold fingers gently prodded at her ribs. She whimpered slightly and she watched the great Sherlock Holmes flash her a look of…was that concern she saw? There was no way this freak was actually concerned about her well-being. She blinked back tears as the sharp stabs of pain receded.
"My apologies," he murmured. "I believe you have fractured at least two ribs…possibly more, but I can't tell." He muttered a few things under his breath as he unwound the blue scarf from around his neck. He held the fabric aloft. "Donovan, I need to tie this around your abdomen. I am going to need you to stand for me."
She sighed again, throwing another glare at him, but she gripped the forearm he offered her and together they made the painful attempt to stand. They both slumped against the far wall, breathing heavily. Sally's ribs were aching and Sherlock's head was pulsating in time with his heartbeat.
"Right," Sherlock said after a moment. "Let's get this over with, shall we?" Sally had no biting retort to offer him. She merely lifted the hem of her shirt once more, exposing the bruised façade to the detective. He wrapped the scarf around her as tightly as he could manage. He knotted the ends of the cloth and she lowered her shirt, wincing as it went. They sat back down, their backs pressed against the wall.
A few minutes passed in silence before Sally muttered, "Thank you…Sherlock."
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"Anything?"
"We found the van, it was abandoned just off the motorway."
"No signs of them?"
"We found Sally's mobile…must have fallen out of her pocket. Other than that…it was clean. They must have transferred them…"
"Yes, into a white sedan, we've got it on tape."
"How'd you manage that?"
"Lestrade, the man could probably get surveillance on Father Christmas, if you wanted."
"We tried once, he got away."
"…"
"…"
"Mycroft, did you just make a joke?"
"I hardly think this is a time for jokes, John."
"Yeah but… oh never mind."
"I'm going to send some of my people back to the scene of the crime once more, just in case we missed something."
"I will send mine to the point of transference and see if yours missed anything."
"Now wait just a-'''
"That's it."
"What? What do you mean, John?"
"Scene of the crime! Lestrade, we just busted a sex trafficking operation, which-'''
"-leaves several sodding criminals without a source of income, meaning they would be seeking-'''
"-revenge. You don't think…"
"I do think. We've got to get back to that cottage, Lestrade."
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The silence in the darkened room had stretched for what seemed like hours. Both of their mobiles were missing, although Sherlock doubted they'd have gotten a signal down here anyway. They were sitting against the back wall, a good four feet apart from one another, lost in their thoughts.
"Where are we, then?" Sally asked, breaking the stillness around them. It was beginning to drive her mad.
"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock queried.
"No…" Sally replied. "I know we're underground, but that's about all I can tell you."
Sherlock sighed. "We're in the basement of the cottage we recently raided."
"What, for the sex trafficking thing? That cottage?"
"Of course, don't you recognize the soil composition and the texture of the stone around us? It's completely unique to this area."
Sally scoffed. "Of course it is." They lapsed into a lengthy silence once more.
"Donovan," Sherlock said, his voice quiet, "how long were you abused as a child?"
Sally spluttered in the low light, her face blushing crimson again. Sherlock bloody Holmes! "Why would you ask me something like that?!"
"I believe the phrase is…just trying to pass the time."
"Yeah, well, that's when you ask about the weather or a football match."
Sherlock frowned. "I hardly see how I could do that since I am unable to observe the weather and I do not care about football matches."
"Yes, well, you don't just go off deducing people's lives and then asking them personal questions like that!" She made to cross her arms angrily, but the motion jostled her bruised torso, making her hiss in pain.
Sherlock considered for a moment. "I'm sorry, Donovan. I just thought…"
She laughed darkly. "Thought I might enjoy spilling my dark childhood secrets while I'm trapped in a basement with Sherlock Holmes? No thank you."
Sherlock surprised her when he took off his jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his white shirt. He twisted his arm a little so that she could see it in the yellow lamplight. There was a jagged white scar on the underside of his right arm. It was thin, but ran almost the whole way from wrist to elbow. She looked from it and raised her eyes to meet his, a questioning eyebrow raised in the air.
"My father threw a knife at my head when I was ten," he said coolly. "This happened as I attempted to shield my face." He rolled the sleeve back down and put his coat back on. Sally was confused.
"Why are you telling me these things? And asking me these things? I don't understand."
Sherlock's mouth quirked into a half-smile. "John Watson has taught me a great many things, Donovan. You are an insufferable idiot, like most of your compatriots at the Yard, but as I foresee that we will be working together for quite some time, I believe that we should attempt to…what is that phrase? Let bygones be bygones."
Sally snorted in disbelief. "I don't buy it, Holmes."
He sniffed. "Whether or not you 'buy' it is irrelevant. I think it is foolish that we continue to fight like schoolchildren in the sandbox." He paused a second before adding in an undertone, "I may have also lost a bet with John."
Sally sat in silence, trying to process what was going on. God help her she thoroughly disliked this man, disliked his haughtiness and his arrogance, not to mention his insufferable rudeness and his enormous superiority complex. But not even Sally Donovan could deny the changes that had been made over the past few years thanks to John Watson. She didn't understand how the man did it, but Sherlock's overall demeanor had…softened somehow. He was still an arrogant sod, but he was less so than he had been before John.
The silence had stretched on for a time before Sally Donovan finally said, "It started for me when I was eleven…"
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Sherlock and Sally had been sitting in total darkness for about 20 minutes. The lamp had finally given out and plunged them into the utter inky blackness. The two had shuffled to sit closer together out of a silent but mutual need for reassurance that one often finds themselves in need of in the dark. Sally was attempting to lower her heart rate when she heard a faint scratching sound coming from the door.
"Sherlock?" she whispered. He laid a gentle hand on her arm and then tugged insistently. They both stood.
The door swung open to reveal a tall, thin man with sallow skin and a hooked nose. He had long, greasy blonde hair and he was carrying a shovel and a length of rope. He leered at them with crooked, yellow teeth. He moved aside to allow four more men to enter the room, effectively crowding the space. Two of them lunged forward at a motion from the blonde man and grabbed Sally. She tried to fight them off, but the motions hurt her more than them. She doubled over in pain as the two minions caught her arms and forced them behind her back. She looked over and saw that Sherlock had likewise been restrained, but the blonde man's focus was on Sally.
The man pulled a lethal looking knife out of a sheath at his waist. It gleamed dully in the light of the men's lanterns. With one clean motion, he used the knife to effectively slice the buttons off of Sally's shirt. He pulled the fabric back off her chest and sneered in lecherous appreciation. Sally was struggling to maintain her composure, but she couldn't stop the tears from leaking from her eyes. Her gaze traveled over to where Sherlock Holmes was kneeling. She read several things in his hard stare, but she tried to leech some strength from the cold determination she saw there.
Sherlock Holmes spat at the blonde man's feet. The man looked up from Sally and took a few slow steps towards him. The blonde man swung his fist, connecting solidly with Sherlock's cheekbone, the signet ring on his finger leaving a bloody gash. Sherlock's head slumped, but the blonde man forced it up again, playing the tip of the sharp knife teasingly over the skin on Sherlock's face.
"I wouldn't do that, if I were you."
Sherlock's heart leaped in his chest as he heard John Watson's voice ring out in the small basement room.
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As they loaded Sally Donovan into the back of the ambulance, no one witnessed the look that she shared with Sherlock Holmes from across the way. For once, it was not a look filled with hostility, resentment, or anger. It was instead a look of mutual understanding and just a touch…a touch, mind you, of genuine gratitude.