Silhouettes Chapter 20
Not much of a response on the last chapter, but I have been gone awhile.
Has anyone upgraded to app? Has anyone else had problem with it? I've lost everything, haha.
-XXX-
Grey.
That would probably be the best adjective to describe what I wake up to. Greyness. Shadows. There are loud creaks and rattles, too, noises that probably roused me. I am on my side, face against hard coldness. I struggle to sit up. It's a battle, especially considering my hands are bound very, very tightly.
Once upright, I take stock of my surrounding and myself. I can very vaguely make out the shape of pipes, running up and down the walls. A table. Some shelves. But little else. As for me, I'm entirely sore. Very, very cold. My head is the worst, though, I feel as though I've been hit with all of the textbooks I've owned over course of my college career, at once, repeatedly.
I am propped against a pillar-things of rough concrete brick. My shirt has ridden up in the back, caused by the friction against the wall. Cold from the floors has seeped into every bone in my body. I shiver relentlessly against the pillar. It's a wonder I've managed to sleep. Then again, I had some help getting there…..
A slam shocks me from my observation. There is a flicker of light ahead from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling Completely disoriented, I jerk at the invasion of brightness. I blink back the light to see the ginger man standing in the center of the room – a room I now note to some kind of utility closet – brows raised.
"Hello there," he says. "Have a nice sleep, Viola?"
I stare, silent.
"I can call you Viola, right?" He moves across the room to pull up a box so as to sit in front of me. "I think we're reached that point, eh?"
When I don't answer, he shakes his head, smiling. "I know, I know, this is all moving a little fast for you. But you must know, getting into a relationship with a guy like John Watson has its risks."
"What?"
"I wouldn't know what you see in him," the ginger man sighs, wrinkling his nose. "He's terribly…stiff, isn't he? Bit boring, in comparison to his flatmate." His eyes twinkle. "Have you met Mr. Holmes? I'd hope so, for your sake…after all, he is the reason you're here."
He doesn't know. He thinks that I'm dating John. What…what the hell is going on?
"What – what does John have to do with this?" I finally ask, croaking. Ah, my throat hurts so much.
He laughs. "Dr. Watson? Why, everything. Well, perhaps not as much as his friend. You see, Mr. Holmes and the good doctor are proving to be quite a threat to my clients…they're making things uncomfortable for them."
"What do you mean? John's a doctor, he's never hurt anyone," I say stupidly. The longer I keep this guy talking, the longer until – until – well, whatever this psycho has planned for me next. I figure at this point I'm alive and relatively unharmed. Distracting him will likely keep me in this state of being longer.
The man smiles pityingly. "You've not been keeping up with the news, have you? They're getting closer to figuring out the Underground Kidnapper. Thanks to your boyfriend and his pet detective, my clients might be encountering a few lawsuits, which we can't have. Not when I've been paid to prevent such things."
"They're just doing their jobs. And I don't know Sherlock," I whisper. "John's never brought me over. I don't – I don't –"
"Even so," the man continues, somewhat cheerily, "You're here, I may as well use you. They don't consider me a true threat, yet. Understandably. We've only just taken a few people, and returned all of them. I have a feeling that if they know the measures we are willing to take, we can ensure their cooperation. And that's why you're here. Sherlock would do anything for his little pet. Including saving his girlfriend from the brink of death."
Clearly this person – and his clients – don't have a very good grasp of the 221B dynamic. Sherlock is not at John's beck and call. With this knowledge resting at the forefront of my mind, I allow the realization that I might very well not make it out of this encounter sink in. All because of Sherlock.
"Damn him."
My fists ball up, tightening the zipties binding my wrists painfully. Seeing my wince, the man leans down.
"Does that hurt? Necessarily precautions," he says apologetically. "You know, can't have you running off before Mr. Holmes shows up. We're expecting his reply soon, you see, and in reply we'll need to send another picture of you." He produces his phone, scrolling through a few texts to show me the interactions.
"Is your John missing something?"
"Who is this?"
"Someone you're looking for…So, tell me. Is your housepet of a doctor missing anything?
Sherlock does not reply for ten minutes. In response, my captor sent him a photo of me curled on the floor, passed out. According to the time stamp, it took him another ten minutes to reply.
"Who are you?"
"I believe you already know, Mr. Holmes. I suppose the real question here is will your dear Dr. Watson be wanting his girlfriend back? Because her safety and her return is dependent on you now."
"What is it you want?"
"Safety, Mr. Holmes. My job is at risk at the moment, due to your prying. I demand you fix it."
"Ah. So Meyer Pharmaceuticals is feeling the heat, are they?"
"Very good, Mr. Holmes. I do hope you'll be as astute when considering the life of Dr. Watson's girlfriend. I would hate to waste such musical talent…have you seen her play? Quite proficient. It would be a waste…We'll be in touch."
That was the last text sent. Hours ago.
"Meyer Pharmaceuticals." They are a big company, known for their surgical plastics and other medical equipment. I recognize the name from the news. They've had a few lawsuits as of late for faulty equipment – bad steel in their screws, ill-fitting pieces, serious side effects to a few of their drugs, et cetera. "I don't understand."
"And you don't need to," my captor tells me smoothly. "Just know that if your boyfriend's flatmate fails to comply to our orders, well, it won't be a good ending for you. Now, with that melodrama in mind, I must leave you. Have a nice sleep, Viola."
He pushes the box back, then makes to leave. The light goes off before he opens the door. He looks back at me once before he leaves. Then the door is closed. And I am again left to the creaks, rattles, and greyness.
-XXX-
A few hours pass. I'm not sure how many. With nothing left to do, I fall in and out of fitful, cold sleep. The noises – coming from the variety of pipes running the length of the walls and ceiling – keep me only in a light doze.
I wake properly when the sound of a bang echoing through the building around me. I am jolted into a state of more-awake. Struggling to sit up, I prop myself against a pipe. It jabs me in the back. But at least now I have a better view of the door.
Another loud noise sounds, closer this time. My legs curl in closer. Is the ginger-man doing this to further intimidate me? This thought instantly makes me feel all the fiercer. I won't submit.
The sound comes again, still closer. It's like someone smacking he flat of their hand against a metal surface. Harsh. Unyielding. Simple, yet effective in making my blood run cold.
The bang hits right at the door to my prison. I have to bite back a small scream. Despite my attempts to muffle the cry, it bursts forth. There is a pause in the noise outside. I shift against the concrete floor. This cannot be good. Bile rises in my throat.
Did Sherlock not comply to their demands? Is this my end? "Oh God, of course it would be all his fault. Sherlock, the death of me." After all the precautions – dumping me without a word, Mycroft being generally creepy, the warnings, everything all for naught – and I am to still die. "This isn't fair." I can feel a sob welling up in my throat.
Another loud bang. It's upon the door to this room. I whimper, curling into the wall, shuddering.
I am lucky, I suppose, that my captors decided the threat of others hearing me is relatively low. Therefore I can cry without holding back when the time comes. The thought is pathetic in its hopefulness.
There is another pause. Then, with no warning, the door this violently shoved open. A weak light streams in. I shut my eyes, curling into myself further. The sound of heavy footsteps against concrete. "Oh…."
"Viola."
My eyes are forced open at the sound of my name. Standing before me, tall, heavily shadowed, is Sherlock.
I let out a half-gasp-half-cry. He immediately drops to crouch before me. His hands go to my face and neck, feeling for pulse, examining. Blue-grey eyes, the color of Arctic ice, examine me swiftly. His mouth is set in a hard line.
"Are you alright?"
I do not answer, simply shake against him. He's here. Here. I have not been abandoned. Briefly, he presses his forehead to mine. I close my eyes, grateful for the gentle contact. His breath is warm on my cheek. Relief swells within me. My resolve of holding back tears is threatening to break.
"Can you stand?" he whispers.
"I – I think so," I breathe back.
Sherlock stands, gently helping me rise with him. I manage to stay propped up well enough. Not having useable upper limbs is quite troublesome, however. From one of the pockets of the massive wool coat comes a knife. He unceremoniously slices through the zipties. Even in the dim light let in by the hall, I can see angry red indentions on my wrists. I rotate the joints for a few minutes, massaging the redness. Sherlock simply watches.
Once I am stable, he motions for me to follow. We leave the maintenance room at a breakneck pace. I'm struggling to keep up. I would demand that he slow for me, but he seems to have a task in mind. A purpose.
The hallway outside is dank tiled thing with lights running every few meters. It's like a tunnel, of sorts.
"Where are we?" I ask softly.
"Underground. Maintenance tunnel. He didn't take you far."
"We're near the subs?" My mind races. "But…you found him. The Underground Kidnapper. You and John."
"He had an associate," Sherlock says shortly. He's still striding just as fast, not pausing to look back or anything. "We were still looking for him. And then you disappeared."
"But you have him now. Right?"
I'm close enough to look up at him. Sherlock doesn't respond right away.
"We need to hurry. He'll be coming down now."
My eyes widen. "You haven't – he's –"
Sherlock rolls his eyes heavily. "No, of course not. Had to get you out first, didn't I? I wanted to see the look on his face when he realizes he's been beaten – thoroughly."
"Ah, thanks for thinking of me."
He doesn't answer.
-XXX-
We continue moving along for about a quarter of an hour. We round a corner to find a set to ascending stairs. A sound from above – footsteps – cause Sherlock to pause. He pushes me back round the corner, against the wall. His arm pins me to the tile. Expression drawn, he listens to the approach of my captor. Then, he abruptly 'rounds the corner. I creep after, staying fairly hidden, holding my breath.
The ginger man slows when he sees the intruder. Instead of cords, he's now dressed in coveralls, a uniform. Clever. He can probably pass through the entire system unnoticed.
"Mr. Holmes," he says in greeting. "I had hoped you'd come. Thank you, this saves me the trouble of disposing of your friend's girlfriend."
Sherlock says nothing. He merely stands his ground, observing silently. My captor nears equally silent.
"You know, I'd imagined you'd be taller," he muses. "Just a smidge. Well, Mr. Holmes, I suppose we ought to talk conditions. I am sure you have some idea of what I want."
"What any pharmaceutical company with impending lawsuits would want – you want my silence."
The ginger man sighs. "Mr. Holmes. We didn't want to go this route. Threats – they're just messy. You could've taken the money. The Yard wouldn't grief you. Unfortunately, you did not take advantage of our offer so we were driven to take more drastic action. So, I take it you're willing to…compromise?"
Sherlock folds his hands behind his back. "I wish to see her first."
"Viola?" the man asks delicately, making my name very pronounced. "I assure you, she is fine. Unharmed. Perhaps a little confused. And frightened, naturally." He smirks slightly. "She calls for you doctor, Holmes. Weeps his name. I am so glad you decided to take her off of my hands. Couldn't stand another day of it, myself."
He and Sherlock are very close now. Mere feet from one another. And when he says that, implies that I have been pleading for John, Sherlock steps just a bit closer.
"Oh, has she?" he asks, uninterestedly. "Yes, he's quite missed her."
They're circling one another now. A dance of wills.
"I am surprised Dr. Watson did not come with you," the man says conversationally. As though they're chatting over coffees. "I should think he would want to come."
"He doesn't know."
"You didn't tell him?" The brows rise. "You didn't tell him his girlfriend's life was on the line?"
That's when Sherlock strikes. Without warning, he hits the man squarely in the gut. The wind knocked out of him, he gasps, falling back. But Sherlock doesn't let him stay down for long. The man is picked up by his shirt. He struggles, slamming one fist into Sherlock's jaw. The resounding smack of fist-against-flesh makes me cringe. But Sherlock doesn't let go. He takes ahold of the offending limb and twists, following this with another jab in the man's stomach.
On the ground again, the ginger man knock's the consulting detective's feet from out under him. Sherlock stumbles. The Kidnapper takes this opportunity to loop an arm around his rival's neck, pulling back hard. Gagged, it takes Sherlock several minutes to reach behind for enough strength to twist in the Kidnappers arms. They knock skulls. The crack is shiver-worthy.
I think by now Sherlock is done. He's moved on. The fight is dull to him.
With a sharp motion against the neck of the ginger man, he is felled. Sherlock promptly takes advantage of the man's position to push the heel of his shoes into the man's throat. When he struggles against the foot, more pressure is applied. The gargling noise causes me to close my eyes. Eventually, the man learns to lie still.
Sherlock calls me. "Viola."
I slowly move around the corner. On the floor, the redheaded man's eyes bulge unpleasantly. When he spots me the gurgling grows louder, panicked.
"I found her in the maintenance closet," Sherlock informs him. "Rather uncomfortable. Tell me, were aware zipties can cut off circulation when applied too tightly? Too much pressure might very well damage vessels." His eyes flash. "But I'm sure you knew that…so…."
He swoops down, clasping the man's right wrist, delicately as you might lift a lover's. Except, after a moment of feeling for the joints, Sherlock twists the hand sharply. The crack of bones is audible. A shrill sobbing shriek follows. The other hand is taken up as well – the Kidnapper is in too much pain to struggle – and Sherlock quickly and effectively. Both wrists fall floppishly to the floor. Broken.
I muffle my own cry as Sherlock rounds on me. He pauses upon seeing my expression. As always, he's impassive.
One hand extends towards me. I would make to grab it, but my eyes have remained glued to the man withering on the floor, pathetically moaning.
"Viola," Sherlock repeats. Commanding. Beckoning.
I all but stumble forward. He claims my hand. I pull into him, pressing my face to his sternum. At first he's a little stiff. But slowly, he wraps arms around me.
It is all too brief.
"Come." He pulls back. "You need to go home."
He leads me up the stairs. We're sudden at the platform again. I blink, disoriented.
"How –"
But he pushes me along, not answering questions. We ascend up the stairs outside to the street. It's bright – grey, another overcast day in London, but bright nonetheless. I blink back the light, stumbling slightly. I did not expect it to be daytime. Sherlock, with his hand at the small of my back, moves me forward.
There is a black saloon car at the curb. I falter at the sight of it. Sherlock applies pressure to my back, guiding me forward.
The door opens, and I find myself in once again perched uneasily on those buttery leather seats of Mycroft's car. The rude assistant is gone. Instead, Mycroft sits in the front passenger seat. He glances back when Sherlock shuts the door.
"Ms. Carters. Sherlock." He nods. In response, his brother returns the inclination of the head curtly.
I lean into Sherlock heavily. "Why are we riding with Mycroft?" I murmur into his shoulder. He straightens his jacket with a sigh.
"No need to be shy, Ms. Carters. We're all friends. Family, in some cases."
"He's the one who lead me to you," the consulting detective tells me quietly, leaning in so that his breath brushes my forehead. "My homeless network only had a few leads towards you, all of them dead ends. After I received the text, he contacted me."
"Benefits of surveillance," Mycroft drawls. "We knew you were gone almost as soon as those zipties were around your wrists. Speaking of which," He nods to the stripes 'round my wrists. "I would suggest you massage those. You can't be getting much circulation at the moment."
I take up this suggestion. The car starts. A hand goes on my knees. My eyes are being to feel heavy.
"What happened to her captor?" Mycroft asks. He's facing the windshield now. It's undignified, I suppose, to be turned in a car seat.
Sherlock doesn't answer for almost a minute. "He's been taken care of."
Mycroft acknowledges this with a slow nod. He pulls out his cellphone. He dials, then puts the phone to his ear. After several seconds, he speaks lowly, reciting the location of the platform we have only just left, adding that the man the person on the other end of the line was looking for would have red hair. "Clean up my brother mess, please."
It's a menacing line.
No one speaks for the remainder of the ride.
As our journey progresses, my eye get heavier and heavier. I pull my legs up onto the upholstery (much to Mycroft's vexation). As the world outside passes at twenty miles an hour, I drift off into a dreamless sleep.
-XXX-
Super long chapter. Hope you guys liked it!
Questions, comments, concerns, I answer them eventually!