The whole of day was silent as Sherlock and John were sitting in the flat of 221B in utter silence as patience was wearing thin. The doctor would walk around the living room to the kitchen, then back just to get his mind off things as Sherlock was just playing the violin. The two friends were waiting for some form of contact from Molly, Mary, Mycroft, or the killer. Noon slowly rolled by as Mrs. Hudson dropped off some tea, but the doctor was too worried about his wife to drink it as the detective was too deep in thought over the sound of the violin.
The afternoon came by and the blogger began to crack.
"Shouldn't we be doing something?" He asked, trying to stay calm.
"Like what?" Sherlock coolly questioned, still playing a lovely ballad.
"Like I don't know… Saving our women?" The doctor shouted as he jumped off his chair, fidgeting with worry.
Sherlock sighed as he continued to play. "We are waiting for where to go. We can't blindly walk around London looking for them."
"They said today would be the day that we would be able to find them." He threw his arms out, and lifeless dropped them to his sides as if he was waiting for something to happen. "We are not going to hear from them, Sherlock!"
"Be patient. It's only four."
"Only- only four?" John repeated as if in disbelief. "Don't you even care about Molly?"
There was an abrupt screech on the violin's strings and the room grew eerily quiet as the tall man slowly lowered the instrument.
"Sherlock," his friend began cautiously. "I didn't mean- I'm just-"
"You're worried about Mary, I know," he darkly replied. His eyes were just locked on the window in front of him, but not paying attention to what he was looking at. "I am worried about Molly as much as you are about your wife." He looked at his worried friend over his lean shoulder. The ex-soldier's eyes were swirling with confusion, pain, and hidden anger. "We are going to find them. We just have to wait."
John nodded his head as he looked down, feeling helpless.
The flat returned to its silence.
At 8:55 p.m exactly, Sherlock got a text from his brother with directions of where to go and in caps was an order to not bring the police. "John," the detective said as he dashed to his scarf and coat with phone in hand. "The game is on!"
The doctor leapt to his feet and hurried to his black coat. "What did it say?" He quickly asked.
"You're going to love this one," the detective smirked as he shoved the phone into his pocket and tied the scarf around his neck. "We're going to the old building where we had to deal with the Study in Pink."
"Are you serious?" He smirked, finding the humor in it as he was placing his coat on. "Do you want me to shoot through another window?"
Sherlock chuckled. "You may have to." He then looked at his friend with wonder. "Did you bring your gun?"
John straightened his coat, then looked at him with sarcasm. "I actually was on planning punching my way through to save my wife. Of course I brought my bloody gun!"
The detective looked at him as if offended. "I was just making sure." He returned to the task at hand, threw the door open and dashed out the flat. "Let's move!"
John quickly followed him, closing the door from behind. When they got outside, the detective flagged down a taxi, telling the driver that he'll pay more if he got there faster than usual.
The driver obliged.
After the taxi drove away, the two friends stood in front of the two buildings that were very similar, remembering that they were each in a building during that time. Their women were either in one or the other. Possibly even in both. John's eyes were staring at the one in front of him on the left. "Who knows what we're expecting," he muttered.
"Shall we separate?"
"And risk getting killed without one of us knowing?" He glanced at his tall friend. "You don't even have a gun."
Sherlock gave a small shrug. "All to make things more exciting."
"I swear if the killer is another damned cabby…"
The detective chuckled. "That would be ironic."
"I take the one on the right, you take the left?"
"Sounds good."
"If we don't find anyone in any building?"
"Come into the other."
"Right."
"Ready?"
"Why not?"
"Good."
Without another word being said, the detective headed straight for the building catty-corner to him as John went for the other.
John was slowly walking around the halls, gun at the ready, listening for any movement or anything that caught his eyes. Checking unlocked doors and poking his head inside the empty rooms, he carried on his search, hoping to find at least one of the women. He carried on his way down the long halls like that and kept finding nothing. No sign of people anywhere. Starting to get uneasy, he continued his search, hoping for the best of results. Then he came to a door that was slightly ajar. Creeping over to it with cold curiosity, the doctor stood behind the door and listened, hearing some shuffling on the other side. He slowly pushed the door open and just as he caught a glimpse of two thugs, they opened fire, forcing him to slam the door closed and leapt against the wall as a couple of bullets penetrated through the door.
Damn that was close.
"Mr. Watson," a voice from the inside called. "It is safe for you to come in."
"If that is a lie, you better do better than that!" He called back, knowing better.
Then a pain-filled voice screamed, "John!"
His heart stopped with horror and eyes grew wide as his blood ran cold. He threw the door open and found Molly bound in a chair with her long hair in a stringy mess, leaning forward, staring at him with terror-filed eyes and looked as if she was starving for food and seemed to be ill. "What have you done to her?" He demanded as his blood began to boil with rage.
Sherlock would go mad if he saw her like this.
He stepped a couple of paces forward, but the two armed men aimed their guns at him. They both looked to be amateur, hired thugs.
"Nothing," the voice answered as a young man was walking through the long counters. His hair was chin-length and blonde. He seem abnormally thin and looked to live a rough life. That's all he could tell. "Absolutely nothing."
He knew what he meant by that. He didn't need to hurt her, but torture her like not feeding her or taking care of her as if he would. "Where's my wife?" He coldly demanded.
Sherlock was listening as carefully as he could, stealthily creeping down the halls, checking for any sign of people being nearby with his keen eyes. When he heard movement behind a nearby door, he approached it, ready for anything. Slowly turning the knob, he very cautiously opened the door, holding his breath, preparing for any form of action. He opened the door all the way to a large, empty room, only with chairs and tables like the one he dealt with the cabbie in. Glancing around from the corner of his eyes, he pressed forward inside, walking slowly as his senses were heightened as the edges of the room were dark.
Then movement caught the corner of his eye and quickly ducked down as a gun was fired. Twice. "Can we at least try to talk?" He hollered, wanting answers before he died, which he was not planning on doing.
There was silence.
He cautiously rose to his feet, facing the direction of the shot came from to find a young man no older than twenty-five, holding a gun at his side. The detective quickly deduced the man as a hired hit, not a good aim considering he didn't even feel a bullet fly pass him, or that was on purpose. He was living in a shabby place and by the worn look of his casual clothes, he hardly washed them and didn't have money to buy knew ones. He was more than likely a mugger than the killer he was after. "Thank you," he muttered after a second-long deduction.
"What do you want before you die, detective?" The man growled with a rough accent. His brown hair was pulled back in a lose pony tail and had hard, dark eyes.
"I want to know who hired you," he stated with coldness, wanting to get straight to the point.
"Larren. David Larren," came the strong reply.
"Who is he?"
The man gave a quick smirk. "The one who is going to kill Sherlock Holme's, but that pleasure will go to me."
"All this," he started, unamused. "All this just to kill me. Your boss must be truly desperate."
"We're just tired of you running on the streets! All of us are! We were on Moriarty's side!" There was anger and hate in his voice.
"So your just Moriarty's fan club?" He smirked with a amused snort. "Moriarty failed to kill me, so you want to do it for him?" This was like the start of a bad joke, but certainly a rare thing to run into.
The man growled, quickly aiming the gun back at the detective.
Sherlock returned to seriousness. "Next question: Where are the girls?"
"One is in the other building and the other is in this one." His eyes had death in them.
"What's the catch?"
He gestured with the gun. "Behind you."
Sherlock slowly turns around, fearing the worst, but instead, he spotted the silhouette of Mary bound to a chair and gagged at the far wall. He knew that he had to get to her. Taking a deep breath, he jumped over the table in front of and the thug began to open fire, but the detective was too fast at dodging. When he got to Mary, he knocked her over to her side, to keep her down. He quickly removed the gag.
"Gun. In my boot," she quickly hissed as she was shaking her right leg.
The detective grabbed the small gun from her boot and gave her a smirk of approval.
"There you are," a sneering voice stated behind him.
Knowing that he was about to fire, the detective quickly looked over his shoulder, aimed, and fire all in one motion.
The thug staggered, but gun still in handing, forcing the detective to fire again until the man dropped dead. He placed the gun down and turned his attention to the bound woman, quickly untying. "How long did you have that gun for?"
"I never left home without it. The idiots forgot to check my boots." He helped her to her feet, handing her back the weapon. "Where is John?" There was concern and fear in her eyes as dried blood was running down to her right eyebrow from a cut on her forehead.
"In the other building. I'm assuming still alive."
"Then let's go."
Before he was about to open his mouth, the former assassin already ran out the room, causing him to follow.