Greg woke up to find her cheek pressed into the conference table. He lifted his head up, his neck twinging badly, to see Sherlock tearing around the room, in and out of the conference room. John's screams were playing on repeat again – Greg was becoming disturbingly used to them - and John's pictures spun on the projector, one after another.
S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K -H-
The ninth day. And they'd gotten the H and a text.
:Are you angry at me, Sherlock? For breaking the rules of our little game? :
Oh, thank god. It was easy to ignore the taunt, when it meant they had five days more hope.
Still, no extra clues that he could see in the photograph. No great enlightenment, no saving grace of a madman's brilliant mind, nothing but concrete, dripping, echoes, straight walls and a white line. Not enough, for all of London and perhaps beyond it.
But they'd gotten the H, he reminded himself, forcing himself to look at John's torn back.
The police force trickled in slowly, no one talking to each other, and Sally stared at her map of blue and red marks spread over the conference table, saying nothing. Sherlock was staring at the photograph, his eyes bloodshot.
"Parking Garage," he declared finally.
"What?" Greg demanded, the words jolting him out of his daze.
God, let the man have figured something out.
"His hand, there," Sherlock answered, pointing. He didn't sound excited, but at least he sounded confident. Greg forced himself to focus on the mangled hand, held up from the ceiling by bloody rope. It held onto the rope in a stiff grip, keeping John's body from hanging limply. "It's morse code. He's had his fingers up or down differently for each picture. Nine photos, now. Up down up down down up down up down. Don't you see, it spells out car," Sherlock replied.
"Or maybe he's in driving distance?" Sally asked. Sherlock shook his head.
"How would he know? He was clearly dragged out of that alleyway, likely unconscious," Sherlock responded and Lestrade nodded though he had no idea what that meant.
"Hopefully you're right," Sally responded, glancing over the map and stripping everything but the red pins.
A parking garage. Sherlock swallowed heavily.
"You don't seem excited," Charles commented. Greg looked back and wondered how much the stress was getting to him, when he hadn't even noticed Sherlock's subdued tone.
"67 options," Sherlock replied. "How long do you expect him to live, with that much blood loss?"
The officers went quiet and Lestrade winced, picking up his phone to order another pile of pizza boxes.
"Let's go over what we know again, now that we know more," Donovan suggested, taking out the last of the blue pins. Greg felt his eyebrows rise as the officers started moving again.
She was a damn good cop.
~~/~~
John kept himself carefully wrapped up in the blanket Mike had thrown to him and ignored the tugging on his back when the fibers got stuck; heat was more important.
He was getting better at chewing through plastic. He spent his time chewing and memorizing everything he could; he knew how long it took the man to come around the corner from where he slept, how quickly he could move despite his injuries and the cough that wouldn't go away. His teeth hurt constantly.
He wouldn't stop to sleep, that night. Mike hadn't replaced the plastic the day before, such a small oversight, but he was faster at chewing now; he'd have to pray he'd gotten fast enough.
John heard Mike start to putter around behind the wall in the morning, but there was no turning back; the wire ties were hanging by a thread.
Christ. If this attempt failed, he'd be too damn sick to try anything again.
If I'm not already, he thought, sighing as he desperately pulled at the binds at his wrists, clenching his teeth as pain shot across his back and arms. It would be appropriately ironic, he thought, to live through all of his military career, Sherlock's faked death, a campaign against professional hit men, and an escape from Moriarty's torture, only to die of the subsequent pneumonia.
The plastic broke with a definitive snap.
Oh thank god, he thought, pulling his hands into his lap and rolling on the floor to keep his back to Mike's hidden sleeping area. He hadn't felt so naked in the whole bloody ordeal; he had nowhere to hide the broken plastic.
Fuck, he thought, unsure if he had the time to hide it behind one of the walls and get back. God forbid Mike heard him.
I can't waste the energy.
He wasn't going to get away from this one running. His feet were bound with no good way of freeing them and he was too damn sick. Sweat coated his body despite the cold; he didn't even want to think about moving. Which meant he needed to move fast and buy himself time.
Mike's footsteps padded closer and John felt the rush of adrenaline and fear press through him at the sound.
Use that, he ordered himself, allowing his shivers to intensify as he lay on the concrete, doing his very best to look as utterly depleted as he felt.
Just one burst of power, that's all I need, he told himself, desperately trying to push energy into his muscles, preparing to spring.
The footsteps stopped at his back and John prayed the man wouldn't kick him awake, wouldn't deviate from his routine.
Just reach down, grab my head to keep it still, shake me, John prayed, listening to the man's clothing rustle behind him. Come on.
The touch didn't come and John felt his eyes squeeze tight.
Hell.
John felt something brush against his hair and waited, concentrating on his breathing. He'd taught the man that he didn't wake up easily, that he didn't fight and the man always leaned down, shook him.
What type of soldier is hard to wake up? No one ever read his military file.
The grip tightened. John rolled, letting his back scream in pain and his hair snag against the man's grip. Mike was leaning down, one knee almost against the cement and John grabbed his elbow and yanked forward and to the side, away from the man's point of balance. Mike recovered in time, pulling his weight back into his knees to regain his balance and John threw his bound legs into the man's knee. The knee cracked backwards and John let himself exhale.
The man tipped again and John pulled him, letting the man land on him. He had no choice; he was too damn slow to risk getting out of the way and losing the upper hand. Once he lost this advantage the fight would be done without question. John shouted as the man's weight slammed into his chest but he kept his grip on the chain that had bound him. Mike attempted to roll away and John wrapped the chain around his neck, praying the man would be too slow to stop him. The chain synched down around Mike's throat and the man slammed himself backward. John's head cracked against the cement but he held on, glad he hadn't lost his breath. John coughed anyway, the man's weight too heavy for him; he was too sick, too weak for this. His arms were shaking, trying to keep his hold on the chain as Mike reached for him.
~~/~~
The women's bathroom in New Scotland Yard was one floor up, hidden on the opposite side of the building from the elevator. Usually, that fact could send Sally into a fury, spitting feminist arguments until an officer handed her a beer. Today, however, she was grateful for it. She at least didn't need to listen to Watson's screams while she peed.
Sally pushed open the swinging door and stopped short, her hand flying to her sidearm. There was a man leaning over the sink counter.
"Jesus, Sherlock." Sally relaxed her hand away from her gun, her heart beating wildly. Sherlock was peering into the long bathroom mirror, staring at his own bloodshot eyes. There were thirty two women on the London force and only Sally was in homicide, which made the New Scotland Yard women's bathroom the best place to escape from a homicide case. Sherlock blinked at her, cognition slowly returning to his gaze.
"Women's bathroom. Right," he said, pushing himself from the counter. Sally shifted to block his way out of the room.
She would have been so creeped out, once. Would have been furious to find him here.
I prosecuted you. Guilt weighed heavy in her stomach. Sherlock Holmes, once the most unapproachable man she'd known. Now hiding in a woman's bathroom while he slowly collapsed. His pale face was drawn, his eyes haunted. His hair was streaked with grease, his dirty clothing limp on his thin frame.
"What's going on, Sherlock?" she asked. Sherlock drew himself up and glared at her, his gray eyes flashing with life again.
"I'm fine. I'm not your mother," he declared. Sally swallowed. Of course he knew. An alcoholic mother - apparently that history showed in her somehow, in her controlling attitude or disgust of addicts or her choice of sweaters, it didn't matter. Of course he'd throw that at her now. He was such a prick.
"You're not fine. You need to eat. Shower. Change," Sally insisted. Sherlock pulled his ugly disguise around himself. A tight t-shirt, a battered leather coat, slacks that were stiff with filth.
"I'll shower after the case," he replied, starting forward.
"And if he's dead, what will you do?" Sally asked quietly. Sherlock stilled, his eyes widening.
"I'll be fine," he declared. Sally held her ground. She let the swinging door close behind her. Sherlock sneered. "Don't you see? Did you miss it all? I need him," he hissed, leaning forward like he was planning to rip her limbs off right there.
Psychopath, she thought, uncertain again and Sherlock pulled himself back.
"I don't know," he amended, his voice soft again, and Sally exhaled, unsure when she'd started holding her breath.
"Let's go eat," she ordered and Sherlock shook his head.
"Five days," he answered. "And John won't live to the end of them regardless. Moriarty's man for hire is inexperienced. It's obvious from the pictures, John is dying."
Sally winced.
"Then get clean. Wash yourself in the bloody sink, at least. You're shit for moral out there," she said. As if she personally wasn't affected by the miserable genius, brought so low. Sherlock glanced over her face, no doubt reading every secret there. Sally turned away, hating the feeling.
"Do you have a towel?" he asked. Sally sighed, rubbing a hand down her face.
"Use the paper," she said, gesturing at the roll of paper towels standing on top of the broken dispenser. Sherlock nodded and she left.
~~/~~
This wasn't going to work. The chain was tied around the man's neck like a single knot; it'd never get tight enough and he didn't have time.
John pulled the chain tighter and held it with one hand, throwing out the other to grab the shortened wiretie that had held him. He got it with his fingers and grabbed the chain again. His vision tunneled suddenly and John forced himself to suck in a deep breath despite the force of Mike slamming against his chest.
He didn't have the energy for this. He had to take a risk. John tried to prepare the wiretie as best he could but there was only so much he could do. He held the plastic strip, still connected to the chain and waited, holding on and pretending to weaken worse than he already was. Mike took his chance, raising his hand from grabbing at the chain around his neck to reach back, prepared to grab John's hair. John dropped the chain and clenched his grip around the man's wrist, fastening the wiretie around it as the man began to spin in his arms.
He got the wiretie tightened just as pain exploded across his face.
He backed up rapidly, praying he'd done the binding right and he wasn't about to get grabbed. He scrambled backward over the too-rough concrete, blood pouring down his nose and into his mouth.
He saw the moment when Mike realized. The wiretie was woven through the chain as always and now connected to him. Mike pulled on his fastened hand and the chain knot around his neck tightened again.
That'll do, John thought as he tried to push himself up. He needed to get to the concrete partition that separated him from Mike's belongings.
His vision narrowed and John sank back to the concrete, his body shaking sickly.
He'd crawl, John determined, glad he'd not overestimated himself and tried to escape on foot. He got to the partition, feeling scabs split open all the way down his back, to find his soiled and bloody clothing thrown in a pile in the corner. A bag sat open by Mike's cot, revealing clean and folded clothing and his gun, practically waiting for him.
It felt like a ridiculous waste of time to get dressed but John took it. Shivers were wracking his body; he needed whatever heat he could get. He dressed beside Mike's cot, letting the pain in his shoulders and back keep him awake, telling himself not to lie down in Mike's cot unless he wanted to die in it. Still, he figured, he'd won either way. He was most definitively not mad. No one ever read his military file. He found his wallet and phone in Mike's bag and grabbed his gun, starting back down the car ramp.
Mike was at the bottom, desperately trying to bite at the plastic around his hand.
John shot him through the chest, the sound echoing painfully off the hard walls. Blood sprayed back from the man's corpse and started to drip downhill. John crawled after it, following the sign for the elevator. He had to call an ambulance for himself but he had to do it where he hadn't just committed a homicide.
~~/~~
A/N: How do you feel about the fact that Sherlock wasn't the one to save him? BAMF!John, but how do you think that will affect them?