Chapter 31

A/N Story gets a bit darker for now. Also this is a short chapter and no fluff, which makes me a bit sad.:(

I refer to events from The Blind Banker but do not write about them in detail.

Warnings: violence, swearing

Cover art for this story can be found at the artist's Tumblr site by Googling anyrei/Tumblr.

Credit for quotes (and paraphrasing) from the BBC's The Blind Banker goes to Ariane DeVere.. Again, Google Ariane DeVere to read very accurate transcripts of all SHERLOCK BBC episodes. I enjoy the occasional transcriber comments as well.

Abbreviations

MET= The Metropolitan Police Force

Chapter 31

John woke up feeling rotten. Really, he just felt very, very bad. He had a headache. He was dizzy, and there was a bad taste in his mouth, like blood and maybe bile. Maybe he'd been sick? Yeah, he still felt sick to his stomach.

John tried to roll over but his hands weren't working right. He blinked a few times in the dark, trying to swallow despite his dry mouth. Christ, I must be hung-over, he thought. He brought his hand up to massage his throbbing temple and felt a painful swelling and dried, crusty blood. Bit not good, that.

But even worse, his hands weren't moving right for a reason. Handcuffs.

Oh God!

He shoved himself back against the wall, in an effort to sit up. The half-sitting position didn't really help him; it just made the dizziness worse. He began breathing heavily.

Oh, God, he couldn't breath.

He was running out of oxygen! He started gasping. It was dark, and he was suffocating. It was so quiet. The only thing he heard was someone moaning.

Oh for Christ's sake, I'm the one who's moaning, he thought. He bit his lip, to stop himself from whimpering, but panic had sunk its claws in deep.

His chest felt tight. His throat burned. He couldn't breathe! He was panting and getting more and more dizzy. But it was not completely dark, a thin crack of bright light shone from under the door. Ah...an opening. Right, so air was getting in too. He twisted his head to the side in relief and frustration. He wasn't suffocating, he was bloody-well hyperventilating. Christ!

Just stop, Watson, he thought. This… Stop this. He covered his mouth with his hand, stifling a moan. He scrambled over to the door on his knees. There was no knowing who or what waited on the other side of the door. So he marshaled his limited self-control and quietly tried turning the handle. It didn't budge. He tried again. No go.

The former soldier tried to master the fear and frustration which flooded through him. His face contorted with the effort of not screaming, the movement made the side of his head sting. He leaned against the door and felt moisture trickling down the side of his face. His hand came away wet with fresh blood. The wound was bleeding again.

John considered the locked door rationally, calmly. He probably didn't have the strength to break the door down, and banging on it would certainly attract the attention of whoever put him in here. So, still on his knees, he shuffled back over to the mat in the corner, and he curled up against the wall.

He forced himself to take more slow deep breaths.

Okay, now...what happened? John pursed his lips in concentration. Maybe, he thought, maybe the Taliban got me again. So probably, my unit is searching for me right now, and maybe…

Hold on, this is London. I'm in London not Afghanistan. I've been in London for a couple of months now, ever since my discharge. Stupid! Stupid! Try again. Try to think. What's going on here?

He was still afraid and very confused, but the mind numbing fear was gone. At least, it didn't feel like the Alien was trying to claw its way out of his chest any more. He remembered watching that Alien movie with Harry. She'd thought it was hilarious when her little brother cowered in fear as the baby alien burst out of the doomed astronaut. John had had nightmares for weeks. Harry was such a git sometimes; the former soldier snorted at the memory.

Somehow his childhood memory anchored his confusion. Things from his past seemed to fall into order, he could remember the army, his discharge, his dingy bed sit and meeting Sherlock and moving into Baker Street and...and Sherlock…

I bet Sherlock's looking for me, isn't he? 'Course he is, thought John, wrinkling his forehead, which made his wound hurt. Sherlock will try to find me…here, wherever this is.

But what if Sherlock can't find me? John rubbed over the tiny lump under his skin. The famous tracking device did not seem to be working. How in God's name will Sherlock find me if this thingy isn't working?

Right, well maybe Captain John H. Watson might have to get out of this on his own. I can do this. Remember your training, Doc. Step one is to assess the situation. Calmly.

John forced himself to sit up all the way, even though he suffered another bout of dizziness. He bit down on his lip and calmly assessed the situation. Well, he was mostly calm now.

The room was tiny, not much bigger than a closet. And now that he wasn't making so much noise, the quiet was overwhelming; the silence almost seemed alive. Right, step two is not thinking about Alien.

John smiled grimly in the dark. Finish the assessment, Captain Watson.

So I'm locked in a room or closet with no windows and one door. I'm handcuffed. He had a flash of inspiration and dug for his mobile phone. No go again. Well, he hadn't really expected to find his phone in his pocket, had he.

Physical assessment: I seem to be undamaged, aside from the head wound. Mentally, I've repeatedly lost consciousness, I have memory loss, vertigo, confusion and emotional lability. I also have a damn bad headache.

Diagnosis: you have a damn bad concussion.

You should order yourself a head scan, he told himself.

Yeah, a bit difficult to do that from a closet, he answered himself.

Treatment? Bedrest and careful observation. Yeah right...

Doctor Watson snorted to himself, but that only made the headache worse. Okay, hold off on your lame attempts at humor and sit quietly, until they (whoever they are) come to get you. Seem's like a plan, thought the blond doctor.

The assessment was complete and a complete waste of time. John pursed his dried, cracked lips, trying once more to remember how he got here. Careful not to move suddenly, (he did not want to bring back the dizziness), he slowly dropped his head backwards, resting it against the wall.

He remembered a strange, eerie jumble of dark tunnels and fires and Chinese acrobats. It was about as helpful as his site assessment.

He tried to remember futher back. Sherlock had come up with a new lead. Another locked room murder, wasn't it? Tied to the blind banker.

Yeah, Sherlock was working on that vandalism case for Wilkes and it had turned into a double-murder case, which led to a search for Chinese smugglers. And then it was a triple murder case. And John Watson was Sherlock's assistant, sort of, except Sherlock kept locking John out of crime scenes 'for John's own protection'. In the end, John didn't think that he'd been all that helpful; mostly he just stood in for the skull.

And today? Well, there was that meeting with the street artist and the ASBO. And tonight, he and Sherlock had gone on a date, to a Chinese circus. HA! Some date that was! John should have known all along that it wasn't really a date.

John had stupidly insisted on taking a break from the case. John had said he was going to the pub. Sherlock insisted that the two of them should go on date…and John had fallen for it.

The consulting genius had tricked John into looking for evidence at the Chinese Circus. Even in the short time that they'd been together, John should have known that Sherlock would get his own way. Even now, John grimaced at the thought of Sherlock out smarting him and dragging him to the damned circus. Then the ex-marksman smiled faintly.

Sherlock, John sighed.

After the fiasco at the circus, he and Sherlock had gone back to the flat. Of course, Sherlock had yet another flash of genius. Sherlock decided John would be safer at the flat, as long as the doctor stayed in and locked the doors, treating John like he was a child. Sherlock was a royal pain in the arse sometimes.

John would give a lot to see that pain in the arse right now.

And John had followed Sherlock's instructions. John had locked himself into the flat, while the consulting detective ran off to get a book from the museum. Then the doorbell buzzed.

And suddenly John remembered; that's when I got knocked on the head!

He gingerly fingered the cut on his forehead, which ran up into his hairline. The doorbell had buzzed, and then Mrs. Hudson had screamed. Of course I had to help her… and that was all she wrote.

The rest of John's memories were vague and cloudy, probably because of the concussion. He had brief, broken memories of dark, damp Alien-ish tunnels. He remembered nasty bits about General Shan, waving a gun around and threatening to shoot him. Then she threatened poor Mrs. Hudson. Shan had thought John was Sherlock and wanted some treasure. General Shan was almost cartoonish, and yet she was dangerous and stupid. She really was so very stupid! She was stupid for mistaking John for the great detective. She was an idiot who deserved to be...

Wait a minute…wait. Shan was already dead, wasn't she. Masked men had appeared and executed Shan and her henchmen one by one.

Mrs. Hudson had been amazingly brave and strangely calm in the face of all the threats and violence. The masked men hadn't hurt the elderly woman, but had left her tied up in front of the Chinese catapult thing (and wasn't that something out of comic book?) The masked men had dragged John through the tunnels, and then John woke up here.

John still didn't know where here was. But even he could deduce who had kidnapped him.

"Jim," muttered John aloud. "Jim 'the vampire-demon' Moriarty," John kicked the wall in frustration. Then he froze, hearing a noise outside the door. Shite, kicking the wall was stupid, really stupid, thought John. Now they know I'm awake.

Sure enough, John soon heard someone at the door. He pushed up against the wall, rising to an unsteady crouch. The door opened, and John charged forward, crashing shoulder first into someone's gut. The big man doubled over.

Unfortunately, John's dizziness forced him to lurch to the side, unable to continue his attack. His target stood back up, and grabbed John by the handcuffs. The blond marksman hung off the ground, half-blinded by sunlight streaming through a window, John looked up into Sebastian Moran's grinning face. The light stabbed his eyes; the room was spinning; Moran swung John back and forth, while the cuffs tore painfully at his wrists.

John threw up on the Colonel's legs and boots. The Colonel gaped in horror and revulsion, making an odd, high-pitched choking sound. He sounded like sick canary.

Point to team Watson.

Moran flung the ex-army doctor to the floor, cursing and giving the smaller blond a swift kick in the ribs. John huddled into himself, wishing the room would stop spinning.

At least I hit my target, even if it was sort of accidental, thought John. The look on Moran's face was almost worth the pain and dizziness. And that chirping sound? Maybe it was two points for team Watson.

Moran stormed out of the room. John thought about standing up and making a run for it. Instead, he closed his eyes for a second.

He must have passed out again.

When he woke up, he was sitting in an overstuffed chair, which was in an old-fashioned sitting room There were lacy curtains in the windows and doilies on the furniture. It reminded him a little of Mrs. Hudson's flat. Unfortunately, it was not Mrs. Hudson's flat, and John was still handcuffed.

Sitting in another chair, grinning maniacally at him was the devil himself.

Well, John knew where he was now. He was in hell.

John glared death, from under his lowered brow. Then, with a stiff half-grin, he said, "Hello, Jim."

A/N My Apologies for the delay in posting. This is a short chapter but figured I better get posting. It really is hard to write now because my head is filled with Season 3.

Yes, this is me trying to palm the blame off on someone else. Namely Moffat and Gatiss. How dare they envision Sherlock's Universe differently then me? (BTW That was sarcasm. Of course they can write any way that they like, even though they are wrong.) (LOLOLOLOL)

Thanks go out to anyone who still reads this. I'm sure you must get frustrated at the delays. I know that I do.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this story. Most recently that includes…107602, Erenem, silveryuki061, raspberriesandrum, C0ldSteel, G0dC0mplex, EJ 12212012, DrGregor, anyrei1, hamishismymiddlename, SamuelE8688, Snowphire, Quiet Time, Guest, Shan Akaila

Disclaimer Here is me, pointlessly pointing out that I do not own the rights to Sherlock. My characters are not meant to be real people. They are merely reflections of an imaginary world. It goes without saying that I make no profit out of this, other than a couple of virtual cookies now and then.

"Yes, cookies, not biscuits, because I am an American," I say.

"What!" you ask with a gasp.

"Yes, it's true," I answer. "I am an American. I'm sure nobody ever guessed that."

"I meant deduced, of course," I add sheepishly, as someone tall, dark and superior glares at me. He murmurs a question to his jumper-wearing best friend

"Yes, Sherlock, that was all sarcasm. Again." says the blue-eyed man, who is sipping tea and trying to read The Guardian.

Pity, he has some jam on his chin. Perhaps his friend will help remove the jam.

"Oh! Well! Take it into the other room, boys! Jeesh!"

:D