The dull thumping at the rear of Mary's head pulled her slowly into consciousness. A roaring tore through her ears and she tasted dried blood on her lip. Her whole body ached as if she'd been hit by a bus, and the simple task of opening her eyes seemed too much for her. She couldn't remember what had happened or where she was, but the hard, cold surface beneath her back screamed "not good".
Mary cracked her eyes open to squint up at the dusty ceiling above her, the only light source she could see was a bare bulb hanging from it. She groaned and tried to roll her aching body over but was met with a restricting tug from one of her wrists. She looked down in confusion and saw her left hand harshly zip-tied to the piping of a well-used toilet. Panic begin to slush through her tired thoughts, realizing that she probably hadn't voluntarily gotten herself into this situation. Thinking hard she began to remember going out with John, searching for something. That was about all she could piece together. She pulled violently against the hard plastic around her wrists but to no avail, she was very much stuck.
Gathering herself into the most comfortable seated position possible, she peered around the room. It was an average-sized bathroom looking as if a lazy maid had attempted to clean the faded tiles at one point, but wasn't very skilled at her trade. Her eyes continued to scan, looking for something sharp to remove herself from her bondage. She took in the door on her far right, the sink adjacent to the wall she was propped up against, and then there was a chipped bathtub to her left-
Her eyes found him and she froze.
John sat unmoving in the tub, hands zip-tied tightly to a pipe running into the wall behind him. His eyes were bruised shut, and dried blood splattered down his upper-lip, chin and shirt. She feared the worst when she couldn't tell in the dim lighting whether or not his chest was moving up and down.
"John!" She whispered hoarsely and tried to move as close as possible to him. She could barely brush the outer fuzz of a sleeve with the tips of her fingers, no matter how hard she pulled.
"John! John Watson, please. For the love of God, wake up!" Her fear pulsed behind her words yet he didn't stir.
She was too afraid to call out to him, not knowing what or rather who prowled on the other side of the closed door. She looked around for something to throw at him and upon finding nothing squirmed out of her shoe and chucked it at his chest. He didn't move. She pulled off the other one and repeated the action, to get the same non-reaction out of him. His stillness heightened her anxiety but she pushed back the storm of tears threatening to free themselves. This was no time to pay mind to the whims of her inner child.
She leaned her head against the wall and tried to think of a plan of escape. There was no way of knowing what time of day it was, or where they were. She desperately wanted John to wake up and reassure her in the way he always seemed able to. Mary sat on the floor of the bathroom for what seemed like hours without hearing anything. She attempted to break loose a few more times, as well as wake the unmoving John. Each time no luck. No one came into the bathroom. After so much time she closed her eyes and unwillingly drifted into a slight doze, still attempting to plot an escape.
Hours later a loud laugh startled her into consciousness. She strained her ears but could only hear a muffled man's voice, no solid words. He seemed to be in a good enough mood, the jolly mumbles floating into her plumbed prison. No other voice accompanied his, and she couldn't tell if she was thankful or not that nature hadn't called the whole time. After a short while his voice settled down without her hearing anything useful from it and she was surrounded by silence once more.
Unwilling to admit it to himself, Sherlock Holmes was nervous. Desperately-trying-to-ignore-the-pangs-of-anxiety- stabbing through-his-chest-nervous as his made his way through the night. He wasn't anxious about facing a group of criminals, no that was nothing to worry over. He's faced much larger threats, plus physical danger has never been something that concerned him. No, this was about the text he just sent, more over what it implied. He was going to be somewhere where a handful of people from his distant past will be. Mycroft had cleared up any pesky legal issues that would arise from his return to the living, but that didn't make returning any easier. He would have to see Lestrade's face, all his emotions easier to read than a child's book. Although he couldn't say he wasn't looking forward to Anderson's face.
But Sherlock already knew what everyone's reactions would be and he wasn't in the mood to deal with them. Well, almost everyone's. There was only one person he was concerned with dealing with, and it was someone who has surprised him too many times in the past to feel comfortable with assuming his soon to be reaction. Yes, John was a push over in more ways than one, and he was obviously not taking Sherlock's death very well, but that doesn't mean he wont be angry. He wont freak out and tell him to fuck off. That thought, the thought of rejection from the only person he craved acceptance from, scared him more than any gang could. His heart, his very psyche had always been a calm lake, untouched by the flowing unpredictable currents of the rest of mankind. Allowing a new flow of water into his isolated paradise from a man he'd pushed out of his life sent a storm into the peace he once found comfort in.
Sherlock pushed those thoughts away with practiced grace as he made his way down the ally adjacent to Mumford Hall. This was it. It was show time.
He stood outside the hidden door, the one concealed behind an old broken down Buick. Honestly they could have thought of something a little more clever to hide their entrance. Anyone with half a brain would be able to see it. The other entrance, the one he'd sent Lestrade to, was through the basement door of a locked government building. Which didn't have the resources nor the patience to break into. Better to attack from multiple fronts anyway.
It was later in the evening, the sun sinking behind long gray clouds. There were broken bits of wood, old bricks, and rubbish littering up and down the walls on either side of the door. Armed with only a tiny knife tucked into the folds of his sleeve, he wrapped on the shambled door. Four sturdy thumps then one light one, exactly as he used to in a much distant life time. It was a rather obvious secret message to get in, but the leader was never the brightest of bulbs.
The door creaked open and a voice speaking in a weak and shaky facade called to him, "I'm just a poor squatter, please leave."
Ah yes the code didn't change. How trivial.
"And I'm just a lonely man looking for a friend."
With that the door swung open and a small man holding a large gun looked him up and down.
"Business hours are over." His weak voice gone, replaced with a voice too deep for his face. "If you want to place a bet you gotta wait til tomorrow."
Sherlock had to question the gruff voice the little man put on, was he trying to intimidate him? It was very tiresome, fooling the simpler minded. The man's gun was still locked, his shoes untied, and obviously had just been sleeping off a large amount of alcohol. Not exactly a formidable opponent.
"I'm an old friend of Ralph's. I'm here to see him." Sherlock explained and the littler man's face hardened, trying to cover the fear in his eyes at the name.
"How dare you use the boss's name." he growled. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Look I just got off the phone with him, would you like me to call him back, then? Tell him you were too busy nodding off to follow orders? I'll bet you have a missed message from him that you slept through," Sherlock scolded, nodding towards the man's cell sitting on the folding chair behind them.
The man's face fell, he hesitated, then turned to go check. Sherlock took this opportunity to grab a decaying 2x4 and slam it into the back of the thug's head, knocking him unconscious on the floor. Honestly, the gullibility of these lower level gang members was astounding.
He shut the door behind them, coating the darkened hall in a moth infested light from an old lamp. Sherlock dropped his beloved long black coat on the ground and removed the unconscious man's tattered parka. He also snagged his ridiculous flat brimmed cap and gun. Better to blend in.
He made his way to an elevator where a young woman stood waiting for the lift to arrive. She looked wildly out of place in a form fitting dress and too high of heals. He walked to stand next to her and put on his best scowl. He could tell she was a higher end night-escort, the kind only wealthy drug lords could afford. He couldn't believe his luck. She looked unamused to be there, but not unused to being in the gruff company of petty thugs. A man stood on the other side of her, obviously escorting her to her client. This man gave Sherlock a once over, but saw the gun in his hand and decided not to question what ever it was he was doing. There was enough men in this organization to not recognize someone.
Sherlock followed them onto the lift and watched the thug press for two floors below. As the doors shut, the other man turned and asked him what floor he wanted. When Sherlock told him the same, the other man looked confused.
"You ain't allowed on dat floor, mate. You fuckin' kiddin'? That's the boss's-"
With that information Sherlock shot a fist into the other man's windpipe, and he fell instantly to the ground. Another easy knock out. The prostitute stifled a scream and slammed against the corner.
"L-Listen, sir, are you a cop? Cause I ain't-"
"Shut up," Sherlock calmly ordered, and she shut her mouth in frozen fear as the doors slide open to what was apparently the boss's floor. This was just too easy. He stepped out and turned to the woman.
"I'd suggest not sticking around." He offered as the doors shut between them.
He turned back around to see two men a the end of a short hall guarding a door. They held the same confused look as the others had, and he looked down at the gun as he approached them. He generally wasn't one for killing - too messy- plus a shot would alert anyone in the room beyond of his less than friendly presence. But the gun was heavy enough to use as a blunt object. Once he stood before them he took no preamble and knocked one of the guards out with the butt of his weapon. The man fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes. The other one went to grab his gun from his belt but was too slow, and like his colleges, was easily dispatched.
Sherlock inwardly noted the ineptitude of the guards in this place, and opened the door and passed through it. A large room spread out in front of him, obviously used at one point for storage. However now it was made to look like a lavished bedroom of some sorts. An expensive looking satin-red carpet stretched out over the stained concrete floor, running under a massive four poster bed. Gold decorative curtains hung from the walls as well as an oversized oil painting of the big man himself. As Sherlock's eyes scanned the room he noted the only other doorway on the far side of the room, although its smaller frame and lack of lock lead him to believe it was just to an office or closet. The room itself only had two visible occupants; Sherlock remembered how much the leader enjoyed his well-guarded privacy. A woman laid on the bed, tied to one of the dark mahogany posts. She was naked, covered in tattoos, and unconscious . Leaning against the headboard next to her on the bed, sat a sweaty, shirtless, overweight man reading a book. He looked up at the sound of Sherlock arriving, a mixture of shock and fear growing on his face as he realized who had joined him.
"Sherlock Holmes?" He asked, a look of sheer surprise struck his features dumb.
"Evening, Ralphy," Sherlock retorted, pointing the gun at the other man as he crossed the room, "been a long time, hasn't it?"
"But...wha..." Ralph struggled for words, "I wasn't expecting you." He began to recover.
He pushed back a lock of greasy blond hair from forehead and began to stand up but stopped when Sherlock held up a hand against it.
"Oh don't bother. This will only take a second," Sherlock responded casually as he approached the bed.
"Are you...do you need any supplies? You know I can get you the best-" Ralph began, ready to bargain the way they used to. Well not totally the same as before, Sherlock never had a gun.
"I'll make this quick as to not disturb your sleeping partner," Sherlock cut him off, looking over to the woman once he was arms length away from the bed. He could tell by the cuts left around the ropes that the bondage wasn't recreational. Bruises covered her body, her muscles seems sunken and weak. The catching of her breathe escaping her bruised throat let Sherlock know there was something seriously wrong with her lungs. Possibly punctured by a broken rib. His eyes traced down to an enormous engagement ring on her finger, banded to a wedding ring.
"Your wife?" he asked, conversationally, not lifting his eyes to the other man.
Ralph shifted his wide eyes down to her then back at Sherlock. "Y-yes." After a moment of silence Sherlock looked away from her.
"How revolting," he commented quietly. With that he put his gun to the man's head, met his frantic eyes, and pulled the trigger.
Sherlock had expected the deafening bang which generally follows the firing of a weapon, even one with a silencer (as this one had). He had expected the blood and brain splatter which splashed his sharp features. He even expected a startled scream from the woman on the bed. What he hadn't expected to hear was the yelp from a different woman, coming from the shut door on the opposite side of the room.
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit! Was that a gun? That was definitely a gun. Fuck. Fuck! I screamed didn't I? Shitty fucking fuck. John, now would be a great time to wake up, you fucking bastard. Fuck shit damn it. Wait…those are fucking footsteps. The shooter heard me. Shit. Shit. He's coming closer. He's going to kill us.