Aaaaaand another chapter, ready for your reading pleasure. Kudos to Noms for the prompt.
Hopefully you enjoy this chapter! It was a bit rushed, I must admit. :/
John tugged at the tight bonds secured around his wrists, aggravating his already screwed up shoulder and causing abrasions on his wrists.
Leave it to me to get captured on a drug smuggling case. Bloody hell.
He looked down at the ties on his feet, trying to wiggle his ankles out of the tight grip they held. No such luck.
"Damn," he muttered.
He heard muffled conversation through the wooden door ahead of him.
In these situations, he always liked to think: What would Sherlock do?
Eavesdropping on the conversation seemed like a good idea at the moment, so he strained to listen.
"You did what?!" a gruff, but younger-sounding voice shouted. John winced a bit.
"You told me to send a letter, didn't you?" another voice said. An older man, from what John could hear, but not very bright.
"Not in your own fucking handwriting! You've really fucked us over this time, you have!" The younger one sounded cockney. Maybe from South East London?
"Why is it such a big problem?" the older one asked. He had a more pronounced cockney accent.
"'Cause you sent it to Sherlock bloody Holmes, the Yard's sniffer dog! He'll have us hunted down before it reaches bedtime. It don't help that we've got his little sidekick, either. We were gonna come out on the fucking top! We were gonna bribe him through anonymous letters, and we'd have stayed in business. But then you had to fuck it all up, didn't you?!"
"I'm sorry, alright?"
"Whatever. Well, we don't have any use for him anymore. Just do what I tell you and we'll still get out with our lives."
Shit.
John struggled a bit more, hoping that through some miraculous circumstances, he'd have enough of an adrenaline rush to break free of his bonds. He fought for about five minutes before the door in front of him was thrown open and the young cockney man was striding over to him, a needle in his hand. John tried pulling away, but the syringe found itself lodged in his neck. John tried not to panic.
"Sedative, mate. Nothing to worry about. Just close your little eyes, now. Sleep."
Who the hell was this man? And what was he going to do?
John felt his lids grow heavy.
"Let's get our asses in gear," John heard the man say.
Then everything went black.
Sherlock paced about the room.
John had been missing for exactly ten hours, twenty-three minutes, and thirty-eight seconds.
Was he dead? Injured? Currently being tortured?
Forty seconds.
Sherlock had already called Mycroft out of desperation. He needed to find John as quickly as possible.
What a fantastic job he was doing right now.
Forty-three seconds.
"Sherlock, dear?" Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"What is it, Mrs. Hudson? I'm rather busy at the moment!"
"A letter for you, dear! It hasn't got a return address on it!"
Sherlock's heart skipped a beat, and he bolted down the stairs, snatching the paper from the landlady's hand.
"Oh my!" she exclaimed.
"How long has this been here?" he asked, tracing the paper delicately with trembling hands.
"I'm not quite sure. Probably since this morning."
Sherlock growled.
"Out, Mrs. Hudson. Out," he said, shooing the old woman away with his hand.
With a huff, Mrs. Hudson retreated into her flat and shut the door, leaving Sherlock to deduce the letter.
Hastily folded, no envelope, old parchment paper.
He opened the letter and sniffed the contents.
Musty; it's been in storage for quite a long time. Ink smells quite strong. Letter recently written. Pen brand new?
He looked at the letter.
No. Old. Ink has been nearly used up. Breaks in letters, the pattern of which indicates that the tip of the pen ran dry on more than one occasion. The style of pen would make smudging rather difficult for those with small hands, however there are multiple smudges on the blank side of the letter from when it had been folded. Man. Older (judging by the few wrinkles evident in the fingerprints), buffer, and dimwitted. He obviously had no intention to deliberately lead me to his place of business. He obviously has a partner; otherwise, I would have found John much sooner.
Sherlock smirked inwardly.
"This has made things incredibly easy."
He lifted the letter to the light and squinted at it, taking in its texture, transparency, and wear.
Been in storage for quite a few years. Warehouse, then. Letter was hand-delivered. The man is nearby, but not within the city; his partner wouldn't risk that. The closest warehouse outside of London is about a forty minute drive.
Sherlock grinned.
There was no need to read the letter. He knew exactly where John was.
He immediately drew out his cell and phoned Lestrade.
"Sherlock? That you?"
Sherlock sighed. Lestrade was always wont to ask pointless questions.
"Yes, of course it's me. Shut up and stop talking for a moment. I know where John is.*
"Christ. Shit's all happening at once. Where, Sherlock?"
He sounded stressed.
"You are familiar with the old warehouse just outside of London, correct? Abandoned for about three years?"
Lestrade went dead silent.
"Well are you or aren't you? Time is of the essence!"
"Sherlock..."
The man's tone was quiet and dead serious, and Sherlock was immediately unnerved.
"We just got a call from residents who live not too far off from there. They told us it's been blown up."
Sherlock's already pale face turned even paler, and he felt his breathing stop altogether.
"Sherlock? Are you still there?"
"Drive me."
John slowly opened his eyes. His head was throbbing immensely, and he felt slightly nauseous.
He wiggled his wrists a bit, and found that the ropes binding them were a bit loose. Hope surged through his veins as he continued to wiggle a bit, feeling the ropes starting to loosen even more.
His eyelids still felt quite heavy and he blinked a few times, trying to get rid of the tired sensation.
He wiggled a bit more, when finally the ropes fell to the floor.
He wasted no time in bending down and untying the ropes holding his ankles in place. His fingers were still a bit clumsy from the sedative he had been given, but he managed to free himself. He immediately stood up, welcoming the warm feeling of circulation throughout his legs and arms and stretching out.
God he felt like hell.
But the first order of business was to get the fuck out of there.
Unsurprisingly, it seemed, the door was left unlocked, making that bit a hell of a lot easier than it might have been.
Okay. Step Two. Get home.
John heard a car revving and a loud 'Fuck' coming from outside.
He scanned the floor, looking desperately for a makeshift weapon. His eyes locked onto a jagged, rusty metal bar.
It'll have to do.
He carefully picked up the instrument and slowly made his way out to the front. Around the corner in the side lot, there were two men, one of which had been the one to give John the sedative, the other a burlier man sitting in the driver's seat, working quickly on trying to get an old, red car started.
"Fuck me!" the young man shouted. "Come on, Bernie, keep on it! Actually start up the fucker!"
Through the open window, the burly man, Bernie, responded:
"I'm trying! She won't! I'm turning the keys right!"
"Shit, Bernie, then fucking hot-wire the thing! We need to get the hell out of here!"
John, seeing an opening, charged towards the vulnerable younger man and pounced on him.
"You aren't going anywhere," he said, choking the man with one hand.
"Shit," the guy choked out. "Buildin's... gonna... ack!"
John loosened his grip.
"What? What are you saying to me?"
From inside the car, Bernie gasped and frantically opened the door,
"I left my gun!" he yelled, sprinting back into the building.
"No!" the man beneath John screeched. He threw John to the side and got back on his feet, starting to run after his comrade. "No, you idiot! What the fuck are you doing?! Leave it! This warehouse's gonna fucking blow!"
John's face drained of all colour.
Of course.
He was torn; the doctor and soldier in him knew he needed to save who could be saved, and that currently was the man running after his friend into a building that was going to explode at any second. Of course, said man wasn't a very good man, but he hadn't really done anything wrong. Well, in the case of homicide, at least.
Before John could even start running to the man, he heard a rumbling come from the building. And he immediately turned himself around and started to run away.
He couldn't get very far before a deafening explosion sounded behind him, jolting him forward as its flames licked at his back. John hit the ground with a thud, immediately losing consciousness.
Sherlock's foot tapped impatiently on the rubber floor mat in front of him.
Couldn't this car go any faster?
Lestrade was talking to whoever was currently on speaker phone. Sherlock knew it had something to do with the explosion, but all he could think was John, John, John.
A tap on his shoulder brought him to attention.
"Sherlock?"
He shook his head a bit.
"Yes? What? What is it?"
"Just letting you know they got the fires all put out. They're digging through the rubble, now. I've got a few of my officers specifically looking for John."
Sherlock nodded and looked out the window.
They have to find him. Alive.
Lestrade laid a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"It'll all be okay, mate. I pro-"
"How long until we arrive?"
Lestrade sighed.
"About fifteen minutes."
"Good. Drive faster."
The car barely had a chance to come to a complete stop before Sherlock hopped out and ran over to the scene.
"What have you found?" he asked, frantically, grabbing one of the officers by the shoulders.
The young officer looked taken aback, unsure of what to say.
"I- uh-"
"Sherlock, for Christ's sake, let her go!" Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by the arm and pulled him away.
"I need to know, Lestrade!"
"You will know, I'm sure. But don't go assaulting every officer you see just to get information they probably don't have!"
Sherlock wrenched his arm out of Lestrade's grip and sniffed.
Just then, Sergeant Donovan came running over to the pair of men.
"Sir!" she called out.
She came to a full stop in front of Lestrade and took a deep breath.
"Sir, they..." She looked over at Sherlock, but not with her usual bitter stare. Her eyes seemed almost... sad. She continued. "They've found two bodies. One of them we assume was a smuggler."
"And the other?" Sherlock asked.
Sally hesitated a bit.
"We have no clue. We found most of the other one kind of spread out around the place."
Sherlock could've vomited right then and there.
"But we found the head mostly intact. We waited to examine it so that way you could have a look."
Sherlock nodded, his stomach turning.
"Of course. Yes. Where is the, um... the, ah, head?"
"We've left it where it's at. Just throw on some gloves before you touch it."
"Thank you... Sally."
Donovan gave a slight nod and walked back over to where other officers were looking.
"Come on, mate. Let's go have a look," Lestrade said, taking Sherlock by the arm and leading him into what little was left of the warehouse.
"Is she one of the ones you've assigned to look for John?" Sherlock asked.
Lestrade nodded.
"Yep. She didn't try to get out of it, either. Despite what she says, I think she gives a shit about you."
The two men stopped beside the taped off area. Frustratedly, Sherlock tore away the blue tape and stepped through.
Laying on the ground, he saw a charred, human head, features completely unrecognisable.
Sherlock took a deep breath and snapped on the latex gloves in his pocket. He nudged the body part slightly, trying to get a better look.
Far too unrecognisable. Even for him.
"Is it him?" Lestrade asked.
"I can't tell, Lestrade. Dammit, I can't tell!" Sherlock ruffled his hair.
"It's okay, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "It'll be okay."
"No it's not! It is not okay!" Sherlock yelled, jumping to his feet. "This may or may not be my flatmate's head, and the high chances of it being so are far from 'okay'!"
"Sherlock, calm down," Lestrade said, quietly.
"I will not calm down, Lestrade! If this is John, then John is dead and it's my fault! If it isn't John, then John is missing somewhere, maybe whisked away to a new location, and that is also my fault! I've lost him either way!"
Lestrade rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"Sherlock..."
"Oi! Freak!"
Was that Donovan?
"Donovan, what the hell?!" Lestrade shouted at her.
"We've found Doctor Watson."
Sherlock could have cried. Lestrade nodded for him to go, and the detective was off and following Donovan who took him to an area at the far end of the side-lot of the warehouse, where Sherlock saw a group of officers working around a pile of rubble. He quickly jogged over to the group and helped them lift away the car door which he assumed was trapping his flatmate. There were a few stray wood pieces and some brick dust that remained after the door had been thrown to the side, but brushing it away revealed John Watson, laying unconscious on the ground.
"Help me move him," he commanded the officers behind him. "Now!"
Two others helped in lifting John out of the pile and onto the ground next to it. Sherlock then shooed them away, and was left to examine his friend.
The first thing that caught his eyes was the amount of exposed flesh on John's back.
Tried running away. Got blown a few feet. Head impacted with ground first. Burns look painful. Poor John. My poor blogger. Not dead, though. Focus on the not dead part.
He tentatively reached out a hand to touch John's burned back, the heat of the injuries radiating off of his flatmate like a heater.
Infected, probably. Upon closer inspection, there is a great amount of grit within the worser parts of the burns. Poor, poor John.
Without much thought, Sherlock then moved his fingers up to John's neck, feeling around for a pulse. Feeling the beat beneath his fingertips reminded Sherlock that John was not only in one piece but also alive.
"Shit," he heard Lestrade say behind him. "He looks awful."
"Helpful as usual, Lestrade," Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice from breaking.
"Move back, mate. The paramedics need some room."
Sherlock complied and stood up, letting the few EMTs move past him with a gurney and lift John onto it.
"I'll drive you to the hospital, alright?" Lestrade said.
Sherlock nodded.
John is alive. John is alive. John is alive.
"I must say, Doctor Watson, you got quite lucky."
John shifted in bed, trying to make himself a bit more comfortable.
"Yeah. I guess so."
"The only severe burns were on your back. The rest are relatively minor and should heal up on their own. You have got four cracked ribs, one broken one, and a concussion. But a few days in the hospital will have you as right as rain, right?"
John nodded.
"Good. Well, the call button's there if you need anything. Try to get some rest." The doctor smiled and walked out of the room.
"I thought he'd never leave," Sherlock said from his place next to John's bed.
"Am I seriously the only medical man you actually listen to?" John said, rolling his eyes.
"I listened to him. Partially."
"Well, in case you missed anything, I'll sum it up for you: I'm going to be here for another few days, and I'm gonna want to kill somebody afterwards. I added that part."
Sherlock sighed.
"Wonderful. I'll be bored senseless."
John raised an eyebrow.
"You can go home. I'll be fine on my own."
"No. I'd rather stay."
John noticed how distant Sherlock seemed. Even more distant than usual.
"Are you alright?" John asked.
At first, this elicited no response.
"Sherlock?" he asked again.
"No."
John knitted his brow.
"What? Why?"
Sherlock's stolid composure broke instantly, and he was trembling all over again.
"John, I thought that head that we found was you. I thought you were... God I didn't know what to do."
John reached out for the man, his hand outstretched.
Sherlock looked at the appendage confusedly.
"Christ, take my hand and make this a bit easier on me, will you?" John said, sounding a bit tired.
Sherlock grabbed his hand.
"I'm not dead. I'm quite alive and will be as good as new pretty soon. I'm fine," John reassured him.
Sherlock nodded and swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat.
"By the way," John said, "That head in the warehouse probably belonged to that other smuggler's friend. Bernie, I think his name was."
Sherlock had forgotten about the smugglers.
"Case closed, then."
"Yep."
Sherlock squeezed his friend's hand.
"I'm sorry I didn't reach you sooner."
John chuckled.
"The worse they did was blow up a perfectly good warehouse with some perfectly good drugs. They hardly touched me. All they really did to me was give me a bit of a sedative."
Sherlock sighed.
"Jesus."
"You know, I kind of feel bad for them. They weren't exactly the smartest men. Probably never hurt anyone."
"They had the intention of killing you."
"Yeah, okay; other than leaving me to die in there, they hadn't killed anyone yet."
"They did end up hurting you, though. And that is absolutely unacceptable."
"Too bad they died before you had a chance to kill them," John said, jokingly.
"I would have."
John laughed.
"No, you wouldn't have."
"Yes. I would have," Sherlock said, quite serious.
"Really?"
"No one lays a finger on my blogger."
John smiled and Sherlock smiled back.
"Sorry I gave you a scare," John said.
"You've done so on more than one occasion. I don't think I can take many more scares."
"Then I'll try to be more careful."
"You'd better."
The two men smiled at each other once more.
"I'll need a new jumper. That explosion really did mine in," John said with a pout.
"We'll pick up a new one. Maybe a nicer one."
"You didn't think my other one was nice?"
"Face it John; that one was hideous."
John frowned.
"You have a dreadful bedside manner, you know that?"
"What more did you expect from me?" Sherlock smirked.
John chuckled.
"You're an idiot."
"So are you."
"I guess we can both be idiots together, then."
Sherlock squeezed John's hand.
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
I do love reviews! I could also do with more suggestions, so keep them coming! :D