Thanks to zxully for the prompt! :)
"Sherlock..." a voice whispered.
Sherlock grimaced, determined to keep his eyes shut to try to block out the pain from his throbbing head.
"Sherlock, wake up."
Was that John?
With gritted teeth, the detective braced himself for the inevitable attack by an oppressive source of light. But when he opened his eyes, he found himself... well, unchanged, for the most part.
"Thank Christ. Are you alright?"
Sherlock felt a soft hand grip his shoulder.
"John...?" he asked, his voice a mere hoarse whisper.
His vision cleared, and he found himself staring up at the dark shadow that was his flatmate's face.
"How are you feeling?" John asked, keeping his own voice at a low whisper.
"Irrelevant," Sherlock said, propping himself up on his elbows. "Where are we?"
John sighed.
"I was hoping you could tell me that."
Sherlock furrowed his brow and looked around the room. It was dark and cold, and he felt a lot more sluggish than usual. Perhaps that was due to the bruise on his temple that had knocked him unconscious earlier. But that seemed unlikely. His muscles felt like jelly.
"They injected us with something," John said. "A paralytic. I checked; there is a puncture wound on both our necks."
Sherlock felt his neck, his fingers finding their way to the wound.
"Judging from the size, I'd say the needle they used was rather large."
John nodded.
"Yeah, but that doesn't really help us now. Are you okay to stand?"
Sherlock tried getting onto his feet, but immediately fell back onto his elbows.
"Unfortunately, no." He frowned. "You said 'they'. You saw our captors?"
John shrugged.
"They knocked you out first. I got a glimpse at two of them before they got me too. I'm not sure if there are any more."
Sherlock bit his lip.
"Did you notice anything else?"
"Not really, no. They were pretty quick."
The detective sighed.
"Damn."
"Sherlock, I don't know what the hell you've gotten us into, but I know it can't be good."
"How do you know this is my fault?"
"Because mysterious men don't kidnap and drug us just for kicks." He paused. "Well, aside from your brother."
Sherlock went to respond, but was stopped by the sound of footsteps approaching the room.
Judging by the sound of the way they brushed against the floor, the shoes were made of leather. Recently repaired. That most likely meant whoever donned them earned good pay. The sound of suit pant legs brushing up against one another was also a strong indication of wealth.
The door opened wide, immediately exposing John and Sherlock the bright light in the hallway. Sherlock shut his eyes, shielding them with the crook of his elbow.
"Let's go, boys," a young man in a suit, sunglasses, and posh leather shoes commanded.
John, after recovering from his headache, easily brought up the courage to snicker.
"You know, it's said that only dickheads wear sunglasses indoors."
The man frowned. Turning to another man opposite him, he jerked his head in John's direction. The other man came through the door and grabbed John by the collar of his jumper, lifted him onto his feet, and tightened his bad arm behind him.
"Hey, hey!" John cried out.
Sherlock obediently let the leader of the two lift him up, as his muscles were still lax. He wasn't too nervous. The GPS on his phone was turned on. And Mycroft always kept tabs on his phone. He and John would be rescued soon.
"I assume you're taking us to your leader?" he asked the man.
John smirked.
"Shut up," the man holding him growled.
None too gently, Sherlock and John were pushed through the brightly lit hallway. It appeared that they were located in a bunker of some sort. The walls were painted in an off-white colour, the floors were made of cement, and the doors were each made of metal.
Some expense was obviously spared.
"Sherlock, I will ask you again; what the hell is going on?" John whispered.
"Quiet!" the man holding John said as he tightened his grip.
"Ow! Fuck off!" John exclaimed through gritted teeth.
Sherlock continued to stare straight ahead as the two guards opened the door to a room at the end of a corridor. The inside was just as bland as the hallway, only it was decorated with a small, metal chair in the centre. To the side was a tray with a sheet draped over it. A lone light shined over the chair. Barely illuminated by the light was a woman in a black and white dress, the black fashioned in a way that it slimmed her hourglass figure.
"Ah, Mr. Holmes," she said, her lilt reverberating off the walls of the room.
Sherlock scoffed.
"Those words do get so tiresome to hear. Please do try practicing some originality."
The woman (who, Sherlock had to admit, was rather stunning) walked over to the detective in her black pumps, the heels loudly clacking on the floor.
"I had heard you were dangerously sarcastic," she said with a malicious smile. "Sit him down, Rosco."
The man holding Sherlock roughly pushed him over to another hidden chair seated in the corner of the room and pushed him into it.
"What are you doing?!" John yelled at the woman.
Her smile hardened.
"You know the drill, Jackson."
The man holding John nodded and shoved John into the chair beneath the light.
"Who are you?" John asked, grunting as he felt Jackson binding his wrists with a zip-tie.
The woman chuckled.
"I thought your boyfriend would have told you by now."
"He's not my- oh forget it," John sighed.
He looked over at Sherlock.
"I believe her that you know something," he said. "Now, what is it?"
The woman looked over at the detective with crossed arms.
"Answer him, Darling. I don't have all day."
Sherlock reddened.
"It's only a case, John. One I've been working without you."
"So? You do that a lot."
"Your boyfriend has been fooling around with things he shouldn't. Things including my love life. And my money," the woman said.
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"It's not my fault you're a materialistic whore."
The woman laughed.
"My, my. Did he get his mouth from you?" she said, looking back over at John. "Anyway, so sorry for being rude, my dear. My name is Annika. Pleased to finally meet you."
"Sure."
Annika walked back over to Sherlock.
"You have been a naughty, naughty boy, Mr. Holmes."
"What? For exploiting your affairs? And the murder of your husband?"
Annika laughed.
"Oh please. I don't care about that. I have enough ties within the legal system to rule my conviction null and void." She became serious. "My real concerns lie within my financial security. You ran off with my money."
"Seriously?" John said.
"Correction: I returned it to its rightful owner," Sherlock answered Annika.
"That's stealing, Sexy."
"You had someone alter the will. An expert at forgery. You stole someone's inheritance."
"Exactly. I stole it fair and square. You stole it back with the original copy of the will. Which you burned."
She lowered her eyelids and stroked Sherlock's cheek with her acrylic nail on her right index finger. Sherlock winced.
"Now, you're going to tell me exactly how you split my funds, and to whom they were given," she said.
"Am I supposed to believe you're a threat to me?"
She grinned.
"Sorry to interrupt... whatever sexual thing this is... but why the hell is this money such a big deal to you? I mean, you're already rich."
Annika looked over at John.
"I thrived off of my husband's preexisting funds. They were all that were keeping me afloat. After he found out about my affairs, he immediately took me out of his will. I couldn't have that."
"So you decided the best step to take was to have a professional redo his will and then murder him? After you screwed up?"
Annika frowned.
"I've made a lot of poor decisions."
"Yeah. This is one of them."
The woman sighed and turned her attention back to Sherlock.
"Anyway, Dear, where were we?"
"You were telling me how threatening you apparently are?"
"'Apparently'?"
"Honestly. If you've heard about my notorious sarcasm, you've surely heard about my stubborn nature. I'm not threatened by torture."
Annika chuckled.
"I know. I'm not an idiot."
"Beg to differ," John mumbled.
Annika growled.
"I do my research, Mr. Holmes. I've got lots of external sources."
"Congratulations," Sherlock said.
"I do adore that sarcasm," Annika smirked. "As I was saying: I know your weaknesses."
"Do you?"
"Rosco!" Annika called as she clapped her hands.
Rosco pulled back the sheet covering the tray, revealing a variety of... were those knives?
"Rosco is a passionate collector, as you can probably tell," Annika said.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"They're very sharp. What's your point?"
Jackson grabbed a bat from the far end of the room.
"And a blunt object. A beating followed by lacerating? Boring."
"No so much when the victim is your boyfriend."
Sherlock went silent.
"Excuse me?" John piped up.
Annika grinned.
"Surprise." She turned around to face her guards. "Rosco, darling, why don't you let Jackson have some fun for a while? I'll tell you when it's your turn."
Rosco smirked and went outside the room, shutting the door behind him, shrouding the room in even more darkness.
Sherlock struggled with the zip tie.
"Leave him out of this."
"Jackson," Annika commanded, "Have at it."
The man took a batting stance and swung the bat right into John's stomach. The doctor grunted as the wind was knocked out of him.
Again, the bat was swung, this time landing a hard hit on John's ribcage. A crack sounded through the room, along with a breathless cry from John. Sherlock pulled against the tie binding his wrists.
A few more times; hitting the knees, twice more in the stomach, and again in the ribs. John was left gasping.
"Thanks... a lot..." he said in between breaths.
Sherlock tightened his lips.
"M'fine..." John insisted.
The bat came cracking down on his left shoulder.
"Bloody hell!" John cried out.
"John!"
"Alright, Jackson, give the poor dear a minute to catch his breath," Annika said.
Jackson straightened up and brushed off his suit jacket.
"Care to give me a few names?" the woman looked over to Sherlock.
"Don't, Sherlock. I'll be fine," John said, still gasping.
There was no doubt in his head that things were broken.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Annika.
"Go. To. Hell."
"It's not difficult information to pass on to me," she said.
"If I give you names, people will die."
Annika shrugged.
"Maybe, maybe not. You don't know that."
Sherlock looked desperately at John who was shaking his head.
"It seems that John and I have both agreed that you're hardly worth our breath," he said.
Annika sighed.
"Very well. Jackson!"
Sherlock could hardly restrain himself as the bat hit John over and over again. He kept track; stomach, left shoulder (oh Christ!), legs (cracking; please stop!) ribs, stomach, shoulder...
Annika held out her hand to stop Jackson.
"Alright, Sexy. Your boyfriend isn't immortal. So I suggest you tell me what I want to hear."
Sherlock's eyes wildly darted over to John. He was looking pale and in a lot of pain, obviously struggling to take in deep breaths. Whoever this Jackson fellow was, he was certainly quite strong.
"Stop it. Let him go, please," Sherlock said.
"'Please'?" Annika said, looking amused. "That's so cute. Did you hear that, Dear? He's begging for you!"
John slowly lifted up his head to look at Annika.
"You're a bitch."
She walked over to John and subsequently slapped him, her nails leaving deep scratches along his cheek.
"Watch your tongue, Sailor."
Sherlock stomped his foot on the ground.
"Touch him again and I will assure that you and your entire web of henchmen are brought down with the heavy iron fist of my brother!" Sherlock yelled.
Annika smiled.
"Take a moment to assess your situation," she said. "I don't believe you're in any place to be making threats." She strutted back over to him. "Now, I'm only going to tell you once more before I start getting impatient: give me names."
Sherlock shook with anger, but didn't respond. He couldn't let himself break so easily. Not with Mycroft so close. Or at least he assumed he was close.
"No."
Annika's smile turned into a set resting face, one that looked displeased and genuinely menacing.
"Jackson, go fetch Rosco. It seems we need to raise the stakes."
Jackson nodded and went out the door, said a few hushed words, and was soon replaced by Rosco who shut the door as he walked in.
"Rosco likes to play with his knives, Mr. Holmes. He considers it an art."
Rosco picked up one of the knives from the tray next to John and gently drew the blade across his thumb.
"Of course, I dabble in it myself, but I hate to get my hands dirty. Especially in such dignified company."
She positioned herself in front of John and grabbed a pair of scissors next to the knives. With careful hands, she cut through the fabric of his jumper as if it were made of butter, starting from the bottom up. Sherlock could see the irritation in John's face at the prospect of having yet another jumper ruined on one of their cases. He owed John at least ten new ones. Soon, the jumper was peeled away, revealing John's bare flesh. With only bare skin, Sherlock could see how rapidly John's heart was beating. God he hated this. He hated that he had gotten John involved in this.
"I won't tell you how to do your job, Dear. Just don't kill him."
Rosco smiled at her as she kissed him on the cheek.
He sliced the knife through John's other undamaged cheek. Sherlock but his lip as John hissed in pain. Blood rolled down the doctor's face.
"Names, Mr. Holmes! I want names!" Annika said.
Sherlock remained as stoic as he possibly could.
"Absolutely not."
Rosco moved down to John's chest and started carving his stomach, the knife leaving heavy trails of blood. John was trying his best to not cry out. A soldier 'till the very end.
"Names!"
"No!"
That word hurt Sherlock more and more each time he said it, for it meant more pain for John.
The knife began to cut deeper. This time, John cried out, quickly biting his tongue to try to keep himself quiet.
"Mr. Holmes, this is getting excessively ridiculous! Just give me the information!"
Sherlock tightened his lips as the knife began cutting deeply into John's chest. He needed to say something. Anything that would make this all stop.
Rosco began to slice a long line across John's chest-
"Alright!" Sherlock screamed. "Alright."
Annika stopped Rosco.
"Go on."
Sherlock looked at John, the poor man looking horribly bruised and bloodied. That knife had really cut deep. And it looked like John was losing a considerable amount of blood.
"On the will, there were eight people..." Sherlock said.
"Rosco! Write this down!" Annika commanded the man behind her.
Obediently, he took out a pen and notepad from his pocket, not caring that he was staining the lining with blood.
John's blood.
"Eight people?" Annika said.
"Eight people, only two of them biologically related to your husband."
"Nieces? Nephews? I'm not familiar with Andrew's family. Be specific."
"One niece, one nephew," Sherlock said.
John was lazily shaking his head.
"Dn't..." he muttered.
Annika nodded.
"And the other six on the will?"
"Five were friends, one was an old employee."
"What's the name of the employee?"
Sherlock took a deep breath. He looked over at John who was still shaking his head.
"The name, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat.
Annika gestured to Rosco who threw down the notepad, picked up the knife, and plunged it into John's thigh. John howled in pain.
"Jessica!" Sherlock yelled. "Her name is Jessica!"
Annika pointed at Rosco. He wrote down the name.
"Of course it was her. The old dolt was always one of Andrew's favourites." After she had Rosco finish writing the name down, she looked to Sherlock again. "Which friends?"
John was nearly unconscious.
"I've told you enough for now."
"Hardly," Annika said. "Tell me more."
Sherlock looked at her with an icy stare. As Rosco picked up another knife, there came the sound of multiple voices and footsteps.
"What the hell-?" Annika exclaimed.
"That would be my brother," Sherlock said. "Now, I suggest that you put you hands up and surrender."
She glared at the detective as the door came crashing down. A group of armed men swarmed into the room, guns pointed at the woman and Rosco. Jackson stood at the front, his arms up behind his head. From behind the swarm came Mycroft. The elder Holmes looked alarmed at the sight of John in the chair, and his eyes made their way over to Sherlock.
"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled. "Stop gaping and undo these bonds!"
His brother furrowed his brow.
"You're most certainly welcome, brother dear."
He quickly got behind Sherlock and cut him free of the zip tie. Like a bolt of lighting, Sherlock darted over to John, slicing through the tie with the dropped knife. John began to fall forward, but Sherlock caught him on his uninjured shoulder, allowing him to come around to the front and help him to the ground. John yelped, the knife still lodged in his thigh.
"Let me take it out," Sherlock said as he held John in his arms.
John adamantly shook his head.
"No good. He hit the artery. Leave it."
John panted through bouts of pain.
"It's alright, John. It's alright."
"Sherlock..."
"Shh..."
Meanwhile, Mycroft circled Annika, his umbrella clacking on the floor in time with his footsteps.
"Dr. Wolf, if you wouldn't mind helping my brother and his friend to the helicopter," he called through the crowd of men.
A medic in a short, white coat pushed through and began to help Sherlock escort John from the room. Sherlock said some harsh words and lifted John up in his arms. Dr. Wolf sighed and led the detective out of the room. As soon as he was gone, Mycroft turned his attention back to Annika.
"Annika Alkaev," he said, his snobbish tone sounding incredibly threatening.
"And you are?"
Mycroft looked her in the eye.
"The British Government."
Sherlock paced beside John's bed, incessantly tapping his finger on the back of hand as he held his arms behind his back.
"Brother dear, would you cease that ridiculous pacing? Doctor Watson will be perfectly fine," Mycroft said from the door.
Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to face his brother.
"You," he hissed.
"Yes, me. Would you care to have a seat?"
"You were nearly too late! John could have been killed!"
Mycroft frowned.
"How on earth is that my fault? If I recall, Sherlock, you're the one who decided that taking this case on your own would be wise. I told you not to get involved."
"You know I never listen to you!"
"That much is evident."
Sherlock stood by John's side and placed a hand on the rail.
"He had relatively no clue as to what was going on. Yet he still was adamant that I not say a word."
"He is rather loyal," Mycroft said.
"Selfless."
"A danger to himself."
"Shut up," Sherlock growled.
"You have yet to thank me, brother."
"Why should I? You got there far too late."
"I'm not the one who got him kidnapped."
Sherlock tightened his lips and sat down next to John. Mycroft walked over to the opposite side of the bed.
"What have you done with Annika?"
"That's for me to know, Sherlock. Just trust that she's been properly taken care of."
Sherlock nodded.
"I do. You're always thorough."
"That's the first compliment you've handed me in years," Mycroft said, an air of amusement about him.
"Savour it," Sherlock said.
"Did you tell her anything?"
Sherlock closed his eyes.
"Of course I did. John was suffering."
"How much?"
"Does that really matter?" Sherlock said, raising his voice.
Mycroft inspected the heart monitor.
"She has connections, Sherlock. You know that. And until I've rooted out her allies, the people you've revealed to her will be in danger."
"Then I'd protect everyone who was written into Mr. Finch's will."
"You told her everything?"
"No. I only gave her one name. But I dropped hints that she could easily pass on to her henchmen."
Mycroft sighed.
"Sherlock..."
"What was I supposed to do? Her crazy henchman was going to kill him!"
"...I'm sorry."
Sherlock looked taken aback.
"What?"
"I'm sorry you and John went through such an ordeal."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"I don't think you've ever apologised. For anything."
Mycroft smirked.
"Savour it."
Sherlock frowned.
"If you're attempting to have a tender moment, this is perhaps the worst time to have it."
"I'm disgusted by the thought," Mycroft said, rather insincerely.
He went to exit the room.
"By the way, I've arranged it so that you may stay with Doctor Watson as long as you wish."
"Good," Sherlock said as he adjusted John's blanket.
"Don't aggravate the staff. They're still authorised to throw you out."
"Fine."
Mycroft cleared his throat.
"I'll be seeing you soon, brother?"
"I hope not."
The elder Holmes shook his head and stepped out of the room.
"Mycroft?"
He stopped.
"Yes?"
"...thank you."
Mycroft smiled to himself.
"Of course."
Sherlock crossed his arms.
"Never speak of this to anyone."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
John woke to the sound of Sherlock harping at one of the nurses. His head was pounding and he felt uncomfortably numb. But as he remembered the recent events that had occurred, he figured it was for the best.
"...need to leave!" he heard the nurse insist.
"I've been given special permission!" he heard Sherlock say.
"I don't care what you say you have, Sir. I need proper authorisation," the nurse said, getting impatient.
"And I told you; Mycroft Holmes instructed the doctors. Ask one of them!"
"That's not enough."
"Is this entire hospital populated by imbeciles?!"
John straightened up in bed, still a bit drowsy from the morphine in his system, but still managed to clear his throat to scold his flatmate.
"Sherlock, leave her alone!"
Sherlock turned around, his mouth slightly agape.
"You're awake!" he exclaimed with the giddiness of a child.
John crossed his arms.
"Yeah; and I'm also in pain and quite grouchy."
Sherlock frowned.
"I only caught a part of that exchange, but I assume it has to do with your brother. Just give the woman his number and stop acting live a bloody five year-old."
"It's funny how the unconscious patient is now the one talking sense," said the nurse as she placed her hands on her hips.
John clumsily reached out for the table next to him and grabbed his phone, tossing it at the nurse.
"Look up 'Mycroft Holmes' in my contacts. He'll give you the authorisation you need."
The nurse pursed her lips and spun on her heel to walk out of the room.
"What a bitch," John muttered.
"So you agree?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes, but I'm still unbelievably pissed at you right now. First, you go off on your own on an extremely dangerous case without telling me that involves a poor equivalent to Irene Adler, stolen inheritances, and fucking insane bodyguards that could have killed you if they hadn't decided I was a better punching bag. Which brings me to my second point; who the hell do you think you are, getting me involved in your messes? I was having a perfectly fine week without anything going wrong. And then you had to piss off what's-her-name and get us both captured, which resulted in broken ribs, a fractured leg, a re-fucked up shoulder, and not to mention numerous lacerations! All on me! At this point, I'm pretty much the equivalent of a human pin-cushion! And then, perhaps the most annoying thing of all, you and that bitch nurse had to wake me up from a perfectly nice medically-induced sleep with your bickering about Mycroft. I don't even know what the hell is happening with that! But this wouldn't be a first, would it?!"
Sherlock stood there, his face having blanched as John had ranted.
"Are you finished?" he asked, hardly having the courage to speak up.
"I wish I had the breath and lack of pain to say no!" John yelled.
Sherlock looked down at his shoes, trying to focus on the way in which they reflected the light; anything to avoid looking at John's furious expression.
John sighed and took a deep breath.
"Jesus Christ... I don't even know what to say anymore. You're just such an idiot sometimes."
Sherlock stifled a chuckle.
"Mycroft could tell you a number of stories."
John snorted.
"I'm sure."
Sherlock shifted a bit before speaking again.
"John... words cannot express how truly sorry I am. I... I never intended for any of this to happen."
"Intentions aren't exactly in your department."
Sherlock shrugged.
"I suppose not."
John reached out and grabbed the plastic cup of ice from the table, greedily taking some chunks and crunching on them.
"I hate hospitals," he said as he swallowed the ice.
"That's a bit concerning to hear from a doctor."
"Not working in them, you git. Being a patient. All of the nurses either treat you like a toddler or like you're a demon from the fifth layer of hell. Neither scenarios are fun."
Sherlock looked back up at him.
"You'd know, wouldn't you?"
John laughed again.
"Thanks to you."
Sherlock went silent again.
"Alright, fine," the nurse from earlier said as she returned. "You win. You can stay."
She threw the cell on John's lap, hitting him right on his wound.
"Ah! Shit!" he swore.
"Be careful!" Sherlock yelled at her. "How you managed to get a position as a health care professional is beyond even my reasoning."
The nurse rolled her eyes.
"Whatever. I'm taking a smoke break."
"So much for her so-called 'professionalism'," Sherlock scoffed.
"She pretty much embodies the environment at my work," John said with a smirk.
Sherlock shook his head.
"How unfortunate."
"You're telling me."
They smiled at each other.
"You know, this changes nothing. I'm still really mad at you."
Sherlock held his hands behind his back.
"Of that I have no doubt. But you don't seem cross at the moment. So I'll be taking advantage of that fact."
John chuckled.
"So... what about Annika?"
Sherlock tensed at the name.
"Taken care of."
"And by that you mean...?"
"Mycroft's taken care of her."
John bit his lip.
"Oh."
"Yes."
"Well."
"I doubt we'll be hearing from her again."
John nodded.
"Of course." He swallowed. "Did Mycroft stop by?"
Sherlock stayed silent.
"Well, did he?"
Sherlock's eyes shifted over to the bandages around John's chest.
"As shocking as your blood loss was, it reminded me that I've been meaning to perform a few tests involving your plasma."
John narrowed his eyes.
"I swear to God, this time I'm putting Nair in your shampoo."
Sherlock smirked.
"I'd love to see you try."