The subtle wave of the roof and muffled whoosh gave evidence of the wind outside. In the dimly lit tent, the silhouette of a shape could be seen lying on a cot. Other furniture included a small wooden folding chair and table. The only sources of light were the hazy glow of a lantern and the glare from the screen of a laptop. The remaining areas were covered in shadows.
The shape on the cot was of a man, unconscious. He had been so for quite some time. He was alive and breathing deeply. A blanket had been tossed, with little care, over his body. In front of him, his hands were turned so the backs were touching and bound tightly with a heavy duty cable tie.
The snapping of twigs and crunching of leaves outside broke the silence. The man remained asleep and did not stir. A white mask pushed through the flap of the tent, seemingly floating. Immediately following was a slender shape, clad in all black clothes. The figure only required to bend slightly in order to enter. The unknown arrival approached the cot, hovering over the sleeping man. The head tilted as if observing for a few minutes.
"Dr. Watson," the kidnapper called out in a smooth New Orleans inflection.
As the figure squatted down, a beam from the lantern traced up the black clad body, which could easily blend in with the shadows. In contrast, the stark white mask, with a faint impression of unsmiling lips, seemed spectral amongst the darkness. Bright blue eyes peered out from behind.
A hand caressed the man's forehead. Brushing strands of hair back, the fingers traced down the side of his face and jaw line. With a firm pat on the cheek, the kidnapper slapped the sleeping figure and said in a soft syrupy tone, "Dr. Watson." When the man stirred, but did not wake, the kidnapper leaned in close and whispered, "John."
Opening his eyes, his vision was momentarily out of focus. He felt disoriented. Where am I? His mouth and nose felt sore, as if he had been burned. Suddenly, a searing pain shot through his head, followed by a brief bout of nausea. Closing his eyes, he tried to remember. I've been kidnapped! He recalled the attack, knew all of his symptoms were from the effects of the chloroform.
Remaining still, he tried to gather his thoughts and focus on his senses. Separate your emotion. Think! he commanded himself. He realised he was in a tent, dark most likely because it was night. He drew in a deep breath, taking in the scents of the wooded area and nearby campfire. There was another scent, vaguely familiar, yet he could not place it.
He moved to sit up, but the pain caused him to hold his head in his hands. That was when he noticed he had been bound. He felt fingers caress his face and jolted back violently. He was breathing hard.
"W-where's Emma?! What's going on?!" he spat out.
"Not. Here," came the matter-of-fact reply.
"What have you done with her?!" he shouted.
The mask hid any facial features of the kidnapper, but the sound of a soft sigh was clear.
"I've done nothing to her. I only wanted you," was the sinister reply.
The kidnapper remained at John's eye level, watching him with curiosity. Though John may have been fearful for his life, he appeared anything but afraid. His eyes showed defiance. The kidnapper found it fascinating. This was the same man under observation over the past several months. It was amazing to find how quickly a person might change, depending on the circumstances.
John was taken aback by the situation he now found himself in. Regaining composure, he sat up straight on the cot. Why is he staring at me like that? John was not entirely sure of who was in front of him. At the moment, he could not even tell whether the person was male or female.
"What do you want from me?!" he demanded.
With cat-like ease, the kidnapper began to rise, leaning towards him. John raised his eyes to follow, but cringed at the proximity.
"Holmes," was hissed near his ear.
John felt chills run down his spine. He swallowed hard.
"Well, obviously I'm not Sherlock," he said snidely. "Y-you must be aware of who I am, right?"
"Oh, I am well aware of who you are, Dr. Watson." A soft chuckle emanated from behind the mask.
"Then who the hell are you?!" he snapped.
The kidnapper paused. John could see a pair of familiar blue eyes, looking directly at him. Where have I seen those eyes before?
Finally, the answer came, "Careen."
Seconds passed as John stared at her. He blinked. He had not heard her. In actuality, it took some time for the name to sink in. Spinning from the effects of the drug, he felt a persistent fog that refused to lift from his mind. Careen? John frowned, a puzzled look coming over his face. He had never heard of her before. In the short time he had known Sherlock, that name was never mentioned. Suddenly, he felt fingers run through his hair. Shaking his head loose, he angrily looked at her.
"Stop it!" he snapped.
She slid up next to him on the cot. "John..." she whispered, in a tone not unlike a southern belle. "You are in no position to give orders."
John swallowed hard. There was something in her voice that warned him to tread carefully. Thus far, he had been rather brazen, considering his situation. He glanced down at the cable tie that was tightly around his wrists. If she restrained me, stands to reason she is armed.
"You, and your friends, have been playing so easily into my hands. Would you stop playing now?" She sounded as if she were feigning a pout.
"I? We played into your hands?" he was confused, partly from the chloroform still wearing off. "The blogger. You are the anonymous blogger?"
"My but aren't you the smart one. Sherlock chastises you for being led by your heart. I find that a rather attractive quality, considering how it has benefited me so." Her eyes looked hungrily at him. He recoiled from her stare.
"Brilliant. You find that attractive," John grumbled. He glanced around. From what he could see, there was only the one kidnapper, Careen, and one way out of the tent. Through the break in the flap, he could make out what looked like a flickering campfire.
Careen laughed softly, running her hand along the side of his face. He jerk away from her touch.
"Take heart, Dr. Watson. You've all 'played into my hands' as it were." She chuckled as she began to slip on a pair of latex gloves.
"W-what was that? All?" he stammered, believing he misheard. He was hoping he could keep her engaged while working on a plan of escape. The sight of the surgical gloves concerned him. At least she didn't bind my legs, he thought.
"Silly boys. You don't realise it, do you?" she said, the sound in her voice similar to the smug attitude Sherlock often showed when he had solved a case.
"Realise what now, exactly?" he asked as he cautiously tested the tie.
"All of you, as a whole, have been my target," she answered, placing a gloved hand on his thigh and giving it a squeeze. John felt revulsion at the touch.
He prodded her, "I-I don't understand. Target?"
"Oh, my, you really don't know, do you? Well, you'll have to speak with Sherlock as I'm sure he's figured it out by now." She stood up, pausing to look at him. Then, she turned to sit down in front of the laptop to begin typing. "Do not fret, dear Dr. Watson. Striking you down at the moment would merely serve to spur the others on. What would be the point? Unless..."
"Unless we were both out of the picture. So, that is the reason I'm here? To lure Sherlock to come rescue me?!"John deduced, sounding almost indignant at the last part. He needed to get out of there, to warn Sherlock. The cable tie was too tight to wiggle out. It was then that he recalled having a small knife in his pocket. Adjusting as he sat, he frowned. It was gone.
She did not reply, tapping on a few more keys. Video feed jumped onto the screen.
"Brilliant," she said in a hushed tone.
John paused for a moment, squinting his eyes to have a better look at the screen. Was that Sherlock?
"But what would you hope to gain?" Looking around for another means to escape, his eyes caught the familiar shape of an automatic. The gun was tucked inside the laptop case that was leaning against the back of her chair.
She glanced at him, then moved the laptop, giving John a better view of what appeared to be Sherlock in their flat. "Unimpeded experimentation."
John glanced at her, his lips twitching into a smile. Why on Earth am I smiling? he groaned to himself. He knew it was merely a nervous habit, but he still felt like an idiot for doing so. Once she looked away, his eyes fell on the automatic. Hoping to keep her distracted, he said, "I don't follow."
Careen remained engrossed in the video. "You started as a mere social experiment. Something to keep me occupied while watching Sherlock. Unfortunately, my employer had put limits on what I could do. I don't much care for limits," she ended in a faint hiss.
"Employer?" John slid quietly along the cot, closer to the gun. Careen remained fixated on the screen.
She ignored the question. "I could tell Sherlock was suspicious of me. In fact, since the first time we met, he tried to follow me. Each ended in failure."
The automatic was within reach. In one fluid motion, John raised his arms, moving them back down hard towards his abdomen. He pushed his shoulder blades back as if to touch. The restraints cut into his skin, causing a trickle of blood down his arm. Under the momentum and force, the cable tie snapped. Careen spun around at the sound of movement. It was too late. John had managed to grab the gun, chamber a round and raise it to her eye level.
Careen's eyes only briefly acknowledged the weapon between them. Though she seemed unphased, her body visibly tensed. After an awkward pause, she resumed speaking.
"Think of it...Sherlock and Mycroft, two of the most brilliant minds in England. I want to study both of them. But, I could be convinced to settle for one."
With bright mischievous eyes she asked in an excited whisper, "So tell me, John. If you could save one of the Holmes brothers, which one would it be?"
John stared at the white mask, not bothering to respond.
"Oh, come now, Dr. Watson. Surely you have an answer it out," she pushed.
John shook his head. "No. I won't help you. But you..." He shook the gun slightly at her. "You will help me. After you..." He nodded in the direction of the flap. This seems too easy. What's her game?
She continued to press him, ignoring his threat. "My guess? Sherlock. You two are very-"
"Stop!" he snapped at her. She was getting under his skin.
She laughed as she turned back to the laptop. Leaning back in her chair, she crossed one leg smoothly over the other. The movement caught John's attention. He narrowed his eyes. The same familiar feeling returned to vex him.
She noticed and asked dryly, "See anything you like?"
John barely shook his head and cleared his throat. "No," he replied tersely. Still pointing the weapon at her, he commanded, "Get up."
She turned back to the laptop, tapping the touchpad a few times. "I'm curious, Dr. Watson. Doesn't that nagging feeling at the back of your mind bother you?" she asked quietly, as she uncrossed her legs purposely, slipped out of her chair and stood facing John.
How could she possibly know? Though he could not read her face, her eyes held a cold, calculating look. He was amazed that, despite the presence of the weapon, she did not seem to be concerned. His finger tensed on the trigger. John then realised the opportunity to take the gun might very well have been a setup.
On guard for any sudden attack, he nodded towards the tent flap, ready to follow behind her. "Move," he said.
Raising her hands in surrender, Careen turned on her heels and left the tent. Her movements were so quick, the flap of the tent shut before John could follow behind. He cursed to himself and followed as fast as possible.
As he expected, Careen had crouched just outside. She spun on one leg, while the other stretched out and hit him, knocking him off his feet. John fell, the gun nearly tumbled out of his hand. The wind was pushed from his lungs. His mind was in a whirl and he felt lightheaded from the action. Still, he held tight to the weapon. On his back, he swung the gun towards Careen. He snap fired and barely missed. Careen grunted as she scrambled out of the line of fire. Vision still blurred, John fired again and missed. Careen had rolled away, then quickly lunged on top of him. Her hands gripped tightly around his wrists, preventing him from aiming. He strained to free himself, inadvertently firing another shot.
The two bodies rolled on the forest floor. Their clothes picking up twigs, leaves and mud as they struggled for power. Grunts and cries echoed on the wind and through the trees. John broke one hand free and punched his assailant hard in the abdomen. She cried out, followed by a growl of frustration.
With renewed vigor, Careen kicked John near the groin area. Stars exploded in his field of vision as the pain hit and he fell to the ground. She grasped the hand holding the gun and slammed it down against the ground. When he did not let go, she lifted again, this time hitting his wrist over a nearby broken branch. Searing pain caused him to release his grip. Within seconds, he felt the butt of the weapon slam against his temple. More stars and colors burst in front of his eyes. His ears pounded as blood pumped furiously through his body.
He rolled onto his hands and knees. He held his breath, trying to recover, his groin still throbbing. His field of vision was hazy as blood dripped from the fresh head wound. Impatiently he wiped away the fluid from his eyes and spun around, looking for Careen. She was moving to stand, the gun in her grasp. He stumbled onto his feet and unsteadily charged her, knocking her back down onto the ground. The gun slid from her hand.
Careen cursed and screamed. In a fit of rage, she gripped his hair, yanking hard. John cried out as hair was pulled from around the gash in his head. Furious at the turn of events, she began to wildly kick and punch him. He tried to fend her off and throw a few punches, but the added head injury, along with feeling weak, left him at a disadvantage. When his vision finally cleared enough, the last thing he saw was Careen swing a thick branch at his head. John felt it slam into the side of his head. Immediately, he was blinded. He began to panic. He had enraged the kidnapper. The weight of her body lifted, indicating she was either sitting next to him or standing over him.
As he lay on the forest floor, he tried to concentrate, but the severe pain made it difficult. He shivered as a light drizzle began to fall. He heard the hiss of the campfire as drops of water hit it. The crunch of leaves led him to believe that Careen was leaving, only to hear her return again.
Suddenly, a loud bang startled him. He cried out, pain burned like fire in his side. He tried to see the injury, but his sight had not returned. All he could do was feel the warmth of his blood spilling out. This can't be happening. The feeling of hopelessness began to take over him.
"Tsk, tsk," Careen said in syrupy sweetness, though slightly breathless. "That behavior was rather...unbecoming. We have underestimated each other. Kudos to you, Dr. Watson."
He heard her pass by his head and away from him. John rolled onto his uninjured side and tried to stand. After a few attempts, he fell onto his back. Heaving, he tried to calm his mind. I'll will get out of this. I will! he encouraged himself. As he was attempting to move again, Careen's footsteps sounded over the leaves.
"My, but aren't you a sad sight," she said, chuckling. "Allow me to put you somewhat at ease. I know exactly where to aim to ensure no fatality. I assure you, you'll live," she said sardonically. "Dr. Watson, I do believe we will have a great deal of fun. Good night." With those last words, he felt a needle prick in his arm, followed immediately by unconsciousness.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade called out.
Sherlock had been staring at the screen of the laptop. It had taken seconds to read the blog, yet his eyes remained on the last entry. His flatmate, John Watson, had been kidnapped. At that moment, he had no clues, nothing to follow in order to locate John.
"Sherlock, what now?" Lestrade asked, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Sherlock jerked at the touch. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts he had purposely blocked out Lestrade's annoying voice. He looked at the inspector, but said nothing.
No words were needed as far as Lestrade was concerned. He had never seen that look on Sherlock's face before and he hoped to never see it again. Sherlock was at a loss. The kidnapper that had taken Emma had been killed, so they were now at a dead end.
"Who would have kidnapped him? And why?" Lestrade said aloud.
"The anonymous blogger," Sherlock said.
"After the incident with your revolver and the blog, we tried to trace the source, but came up empty," Lestrade explained.
"Toll roads? Highways?" Sherlock asked with an air of impatience.
"I have a call out, but nothing yet," Lestrade said, embarrassed he had not done more.
Sherlock took out his cell phone and dialled.
"Mycroft!"
"Sherlock."
"I need video feeds of the tolls roads surrounding London within the last twenty-four hours," Sherlock said rapidly.
"Problem?" Mycroft asked, sounding as if he were bored.
"John has been kidnapped," Sherlock answered.
"Oh dear. Might I also recommend-," Mycroft said with considerably less energy than his brother.
"Satellite," Sherlock deduced.
"Precisely. Does John have his mobile?" Mycroft asked.
Sherlock glanced around. "Possibly. GPS."
"Of course. Give me ten minutes," Mycroft replied.
"Mycroft-" Sherlock began to argue.
"Sherlock, I cannot be at your beck and call every time you have a crisis. Ten minutes. You can wait," Mycroft stated.
"He may not have such luxury," Sherlock said seriously.
There was a sigh on the other end of the line. "Honestly, Sherlock. Must you be so dramatic. If my suspicions are correct, and they always are, he is fine for the moment."
"Suspicions?" Sherlock asked in annoyance.
"Later, dear brother," and he hung up.
Sherlock growled in frustration. Mycroft's smug attitude always irked him. As if he were trying to prove he was more intelligent. He paced wildly about the room. Lestrade grew tired of watching and sat down to wait. The ten minutes seemed to creep by.
At last Sherlock's mobile rang. "Yes," Sherlock answered.
"John's mobile is located in Epping Forest, twenty minutes North of you. Trees are obscuring the satellite view of the final location, but the car, a black Volvo S60, was spotted heading that direction."
"Thank you," Sherlock said and was about to hang up when Mycroft continued.
"Sherlock, if the kidnapper is who I suspect, be prepared for a highly skilled opponent," Mycroft warned.
"When I return, we need to talk," Sherlock answered back, his voice tense.
"Of course. I will be at your flat in the morning," Mycroft said nonchalantly.
Sherlock shoved his mobile in his pocket and raced out the door. Taking Lestrade's car, the two men drove as quickly as possible to the location where John Watson had been taken. Using coordinates from Mycroft, the Garmin unit estimated the ride at twenty two minutes. Lestrade got them there in eighteen.
When John came to, his head and side were both throbbing. He moaned from the pain, rolling onto his side. He could feel a new tie around his wrists. He opened his eyes. Relief partially washed over him. He could see. He quickly began to assess his current state. His shirt had been ripped open. The wound was on his side, but he could not make out the severity. Careen had bandaged him. Great. The psychopath wants me healthy.
He needed to escape, and soon. He tried to sit up. The movement caused the world around him to spin. He closed his eyes, trying to force his mind to clear and focus. When he turned, his hands stopped. The tie around his wrists was connected to a second tie that was around the metal frame of the cot. His mind immediately cleared.
He tried to break the tie like he had done previously. The muscles and tendons in his arms ached. His wrists raw from his recent attempt to leave. Though his pain was severe, his desire to escape gave him the motivation he needed. He pulled and tugged, but the tie would not break. He did not have the strength.
A snap of a twig caused him to freeze. Is she coming back? He held his breath, listening. No other sounds could be heard. Taking that as a sign, he looked back down at his dilemma. If the tie would not break, he would have to work on the cot.
Kneeling down next to the cot, the frame appeared to be made from a light aluminum that would most likely bend easily under pressure. Bracing the cot between his legs, he grunted softly as he pushed to bend the metal one way. At last, it gave way and began to bend. He pushed hard the opposite direction, his wrists aching and throbbing all the while. The metal slowly gave, a faint crease appearing across the bar. He winced, pushing back the other direction. He exhaled a breath. Taking another deep breath, he moved the bar. It was becoming easier as the metal folded and began to break. At last, the bar broke, allowing him to slip the one tie out.
The opening and shutting of a car door could be heard. His kidnapper was returning. Still bound at the wrists, he scanned the tent for a weapon. Seeing Carren's camp stool nearby, John gripped it tightly. Looking at the tent flap, a thin line of sunlight peeked in. How long have I been here? A few hours? A day? Standing up hastily, he immediately felt lightheaded and had to stop and steady himself. He knew she had given him an additional unknown drug.
Gingerly stepping towards the flap of the tent, he peered out. She was setting up the laptop in the car. He looked down. There were sticks and leaves everywhere. It would be impossible for him to leave undetected. With a sigh, he retreated back inside the tent. He spun around, looking for another solution. There has to be a way to get out of this!
The crunching and snapping signaled she might be returning. He glanced around. The only weapon he had was the stool. He shrugged. Better than nothing. He waited. When Careen opened the flap, John swung hard, hitting her square in the chest. As she doubled over, he moved the bar hard up, slamming into her neck. She gasped and coughed, stumbling back outside.
John followed quickly. Before she had time to recover, he swung again, smacking the back of her knee. Careen cried out in pain. Her leg gave way and she fell to the ground. John was feeling encouraged. He hit her over the back. Her body hit the dirt hard. She struggled to get up only to have John hit her again. Lying in the dirt, he could hear her groaning in pain, her arms and legs moving, though slowly. She was trying to crawl away.
John stepped on her fingers. "Stop," he commanded her, struggling to control his breathing.
Careen froze. Her body began to tremble and John could hear the faint sounds of sobbing, muffled by the mask. He had a momentary twinge of empathy for her, but quickly pushed it aside. This might be a trick.
"Remove the mask," he demanded, stepping off of her hand. She did not move. "Now!" he shouted at her. She jumped and her hands began to move slowly to the back of her head. John did his best to remain steady, through the pain throbbed in his head and side, and numerous other places on his body.
Careen's fingers visible shook as she struggled to remove the ties from the mask. After a few moment of failed attempts, she cried, "I can't!"
"Do it, or I motivate you to do it," John said as he stepped back to give some distance between them.
Careen struggled to her feet, her posture less confident than before. Her mask was facing towards the ground, her fingers fumbling at the straps. At that moment, John began to realise that the only weapon in his hand was the bar from the cot, and his wrists were still bound. He was still at a disadvantage. As if on the same wavelength, he could see Careen's head slowly raise to look at him. The white mask unnerved him. His eyes darted as he saw her hand slip behind her. The gun, he thought and quickly charged her, swinging the chair hard towards her head. Woosh! The stool scraped the top of her head as she ducked and rolled.
A feeling of dread hit the pit of his stomach. He heard rustling from behind and turned to be met with a sharp blow to the side of his face. The world temporarily spun as he staggered back, the camp chair falling from his grasp. Careen growled from behind the mask, advancing. She hit him in the solar plexus, causing him to double over, gasping for air.
"This will be the last time you catch me by surprise, John," she hissed. Pushing him hard, she caused John to fall at her feet. On all fours, he heaved. His muscles were sore from the blow. His gunshot wound was aching. His head felt on fire. He dared not look at her. She was angry. Maybe she doesn't have the gun, maybe it was lost in the struggle, he thought hopefully. Then he heard the familiar slide-click as a round was chambered. He closed his eyes and cursed.
"I would give you a fighting chance, allow you to escape and live, but what would be the point? No doubt someone will threaten your life and Sherlock will always come to save you. Why? Because poor Dr. John Watson is incapable of taking care of himself!" She laughed, but her tone sounded bitter.
John's hands clenched over dirt, sticks and leaves. He waited as Careen spoke to him. The more she complained of Sherlock, the lower she held the weapon, until it was finally pointing towards the ground. She had squatted down to have a better look at John and that was when he took his opportunity.
John lifted both hands, full of dirt and debris, and threw them squarely at the mask. Careen screamed in frustration, turning away. John took hold of a rock and hit her hard on the back of the head. She staggered, turning and wildly aiming the gun. Taking his chance, he ran into the heavily wooded area as fast as his wounds would allow him. She still could not see. Hearing him run, Careen held the gun in that direction. She fired, but missed. Tzing. She tried to shoot again, but her aim was still hindered. Tzing. The bullet hit the ground near him. Her eyesight was improving.
John wished for his mobile. He needed to phone Sherlock and the police. There was something unique in her movements. She was an experienced fighter. He knew he had a good chance of hiding within the cover of the forest, making his way back to the road and hopefully for help.
As John ran away, he did not look back. If he had, he would have seen the face of his kidnapper, Careen, as she ripped the mask from her face to clean off the dirt from her eyes. Her primal scream echoed in the woods, chilling him to the bone. He hoped to never run across her again, though he was certain he would.
"Stop!" Sherlock shouted.
Lestrade swerved. Tires squealed and gravel crunched as the car slid to a stop. "We still have another few miles," he protested.
Sherlock stepped out of the car, waiting. Crack. Another shot rang out, echoing across the forest. "There! Did you hear it?"
"Yeah. John?" Lestrade asked.
"More than likely. Drive slowly a few miles up, then turn and come back this way. Remain on this road and keep an eye out." Sherlock slammed the door shut and jogged around the car towards the wooded area.
"Where are you going?!" Lestrade shouted.
"To find our kidnapper!" Sherlock answered as he broke into a run. "Do not come looking for me. Keep John with you."
"No!" Lestrade followed behind Sherlock. Sherlock stopped and stared at the inspector. "Look, backup is coming. I'll radio for one of them to man the road. I'm coming with you."
Sherlock hesitated briefly, then gave a nod and the two set off to find the kidnapper. As they ran, Lestrade called in to have officers patrol the roads. He also asked for medics to station themselves near where he had left his car.
The Officer Davis drove down the road as instructed by Inspector Lestrade. He grumbled to himself, feeling he was on babysitting duty rather than actual work. He yawned. At least I'm getting paid for this.
The road was a long empty stretch. The officer rubbed his sore eyes and blinked a few times. He normally wore glasses, but on this particular day, he decided to try out his new contact lenses. The uncomfortable feeling of something in his eye was nearly driving him crazy. He applied and reapplied moisture drops, to no available. The foreign objects still bothered him.
Trying not to think of the little annoyances in his eyes, he looked down the road. In the distance, he thought he could make out someone on the side of the road. Blinking and squinting, he strained his eyes, but had no clue if it was really a person or an old tree stump.
Increasing the car's speed, the object grew larger as he approached. He realised it was a man walking, or rather limping, along the side of the road. He could only assume it was the man he was instructed to look for.
"Dr. Watson?!" he shouted.
Tenderly, John winced as he turned and managed a small wave. Once the officer pulled up next to him, John leaned against the car. He was obviously out of breath. Finally, he asked, "Where's Sherlock?"
The officer nodded towards the forest. "Gone to have a look at the kidnapper, along with Inspector Lestrade."
"What? No!" John groaned, his eyes closing and his head falling back in frustration.
"Why? What's wrong?" the man asked.
He looked back at the officer and sighed. "The kidnapper, she'll be waiting for him. She is waiting for him," he said as he turned back the way he had come.
"Wait! Dr. Watson!" The officer parked the car and rushed out, stopping John. "Mr. Holmes said-"
"I don't give a damn what he said. He has no idea what he's in for!" John shouted.
"Sir, my instructions were to keep you here, no matter what," he explained. "The medics are on their way."
John turned back the way he'd come. He needed to help his friend, to warn him.
"Dr. Watson, he said for you to stay here!" the officer shouted.
John stopped and glanced back at him.
"Besides..." the office continued, pointing at John's shirt. "...you are in no condition to help."
John clenched his teeth. He debated whether he should listen to his friend, or ignore him. He decided to ignore him. "Sorry," he said with a shrug and turned back in the direction of the kidnapper and Sherlock. At that moment, the medics arrived.
The man placed a firm hand on John's shoulder. "My orders were clear, sir. It will cost me my job," he explained.
The emergency team ran up, took hold of John's arms and led him to the ambulance. From there, the initial assessment had begun. John finally gave in to the toll on his body from the running, the anxiety and the injuries. He crumpled into a heap of exhaustion.
Lestrade had caught up to Sherlock. Looking into the woods ahead, the two could barely make out the outline of a tent and a car. They looked at each other.
"Where is the kidnapper?" Lestrade said in as quiet a whisper as possible.
Careen stepped from the tent and stretched. There was nothing evident in her posture or actions to indicate anything had occurred. If it had not been for the strange clothing and mask, she would have looked like a typical camper within Epping Forest. Strolling casually to her car, she opened the boot and placed a few items inside before returning to the tent.
"A woman," Sherlock deduced from the kidnapper's gait. "Stay here."
Lestrade was about to challenge him when Sherlock quickly stole away towards the tent. Lestrade remained a distance behind, providing backup. The inspector noticed that as Sherlock drew closer to the campsite, his steps became more slow and determined. When he reached the tent, Sherlock waved Lestrade to move towards the side, while he headed for the front.
When Sherlock entered, he saw a large empty space occupied only by a white masked figure dressed in black. She stood in the far corner, waiting. The tent was tall enough to allow him to stand up to his full height and face the kidnapper.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
"Dr. Watson hasn't told you?" she said in her New Orlean's accent. "Careen."
"American," Sherlock deduced.
She laughed. "Perhaps. But then, you've been wrong before."
Sherlock frowned.
"Aww, have I struck a nerve? Oh, that's right. Sherlock is never wrong. Because 'no one can compete with'...what was it?" she appeared to think for a moment. "Ah, I remember. 'No one can compete with my massive intellect.'"
Sherlock said nothing.
She stepped closer, her arms open in invitation. "Shall we dance?" she asked in a more sinister tone.
Suddenly, a loud noise came from the right, outside of the tent wall. Lestrade cried out in surprise. A flash grenade had detonated as his left foot caught and pulled a trip wire. Using the momentary distraction to his advantage, Sherlock charged her, but Careen was ready, hitting him hard in the chest. He coughed and gasped, stumbling out of the tent. Sherlock blocked her next strike and took hold of her arm. In a counterclockwise move, he pulled her onto his back, his right leg sweeping her feet off of the ground. Twisting his body, he threw her over his shoulder and slammed her down hard. She grunted as air was forced from her lungs.
Seeing the two struggling, Lestrade took a deep breath ignoring the ringing in his ears and shouted over the radio. "Attention all units. Man down. Back up needed, now!"
Careen swung her legs around, scrambling back to her feet. Sherlock rushed her, hitting the back of her neck with a hard chop of his hand. She staggered, then fell to the ground. In a modified scissor kick, she swung her body around, pushing against his legs. Sherlock was unbalanced and fell into the tent, causing it to crashed down around him. He failed urgently, trying to escape the entangling cloth. Pushing through the flap and finally free, he saw Careen in the car. He bolted forward, hoping to stop her, but she stomped on the accelerator, tearing off down the dirt road. Sherlock growled in frustration.
"She's headed to the main road! Stop her!" Lestrade instructed breathlessly over the radio. He looked over to find Sherlock, who was pacing madly like a tiger. Just beyond the perimeter, the inspector noticed what he should have before, booby-traps. "White mask, all black. She'll most likely take off the mask, but she will be in black. Look for a black Volvo S60."
A few minutes ticked by. Then the radioed response, "No sign of her, sir. Has she left your area? We haven't seen her."
"What?!" he sat up, shouting into the radio. "Repeat! Did you say you didn't see her?! Did you see anyone? Were you even looking?!" he snapped. There was a pause.
"No, sir. No sighting of a woman, no black Volvo," said the officer.
Lestrade screamed in frustration.
"Sir? Dr. Watson has been taken to the hospital," the officer finished.
Lestrade lifted the radio to his mouth, "We need a bomb squad, now. And bring the team up here. We will need to process the scene once it's clear." He placed the radio on his belt and glanced at the detective. "Need a lift?"
