I know, I know; it's been a while. But here I am again! Hurray!
Watsonmybae gave me this prompt. :)
John's head throbbed as he slowly came to, and he groaned quite loudly.
"What the hell...?" he slurred, his tongue feeling quite thick and dry inside his mouth; it almost felt as if it wasn't his own.
He lazily propped himself up on one hand and brought a hand up to the back of his neck, rubbing at the soreness he felt there. He noticed that a small bump interrupted the usual smoothness of his skin.
"What the-?"
Though his mind was fuzzy, it still seemed to register the importance of trying to figure out what had happened.
And more importantly where in God's name he was; he was freezing.
"Jesus," he shivered, his chattering teeth making his head hurt even more.
He rapidly blinked away the fog that had clouded his vision and tried to take a good look around.
There was fluorescent lighting above him; obtrusive, oppressive, fluorescent lighting; that hurt his tired eyes. But through the white light, he managed to finally make out what looked like... was that meat?
Confused, he crawled forward on his hands and knees, not feeling very confident in his ability to stand up on his own two feet; not only was he incredibly dizzy, but his poor toes felt completely frozen. He reached out to touch the 'meat', confirming that it was such with his numb fingers.
"Christ," he groaned again, drawing back his hand to clutch his head.
Random thoughts swirled about in his dizzied brain, making his own process of deduction more difficult and tedious than usual.
Meat, cold "freezing", unconsciousness, bump on the neck "sore head; ow"... He knew where he was, but he didn't know where he was. It was something called a steak something-or-other "no, meat"; right, meat. Meat something... meat-
"Locker!" he exclaimed, feeling quite stupid for not having the answer right away. "So damn stupid."
So here he was; in a meat locker. But why? How? What in God's name was going on?
The bump on his neck had something to do with it, he figured.
A case? "No, that makes no sense." But what if it was? What if he'd slipped and fallen whilst snooping around inside? "No sense; not that."
What else?
His senses were gradually coming back to him, as was his ability to create a coherent thought.
The bump on the neck... bumps could be left by small puncture wounds; like when a mosquito bites a person. So a puncture wound, maybe? Maybe a-
"Syringe?"
That made sense. But why? Syringes were used for vaccinations a lot...
"Besides that; what else? What else?"
What else? Medicine? No... yes... morphine...? Drugs, he supposed...
Wait... drugs...
"Drugged!"
That was it. That had to be it; someone must have drugged him.
It was the most logical conclusion so far.
Drugged, thrown into a meat locker...
Well, being drugged at all wasn't really good. But to find himself inside a freezer after the fact could only mean that the person who'd drugged him had the intention of-
"Killing me."
That was rather alarming.
No; very alarming.
Of course, there was that possibility. But it was also quite possible that this was another game (likely one of Moriarty's) for Sherlock...
"Sherlock!"
John had completely forgotten!
Was he hurt? Had he been kidnapped as well?
"No... he couldn't have been."
If John's supposition that this was meant to be a game (a race against the clock, if you will) for his flatmate, then it would make no sense for the man to have been locked away as well... right?
John hoped so; he couldn't know for sure; he'd checked his pockets and his cell was missing. Even if he did have his phone, he probably wouldn't have a signal anyway.
"Damnit," he sighed through his chattering teeth.
He was stuck here. And trying the handle would do no good.
There was no handle for him to try.
He stood up and stumbled over to the freezer door, pounding on it with his fists.
"Hey!" he shouted. "Hey!"
He knew it was pointless.
With a frustrated sigh, he turned back to face the interior of the freezer, looking around in the hopes of finding some means of escape.
None.
He was stuck.
And all he could do was hope that Sherlock would find him.
'The Conundrum' had been the title this criminal chose.
Sherlock recalled how loudly he'd scoffed upon hearing the name, and still felt the same as he had those five days ago about it. Yet, despite the ridiculous self-bestowed nickname, he had to give the man credit; the puzzles so far had been rather difficult. There had been four up until just that morning; emails to him in all capital letters phrased in the style of a standard riddle that, if solved, would lead to the safety of the victim.
It wasn't as if this sort of thing was new to him, though. Puzzles? Bah! He'd "been there, done that", as the saying goes.
But when he awoke that morning, he found his flippancy was trumped by a sudden onslaught of alight panic when he found John missing and a new message in his inbox.
*WOOLLY MAMMOTHS; GOOD FOR MEAT. ONCE KILLED AND STORED TO LATER EAT.
NOW FUTURE'S HERE, THE PAST IS THROUGH; BUT I HAVE "KILLED" JOHN WATSON TOO.*
The first thought that had gone through Sherlock's head was:
"What sort of riddle is that?"
It seemed rather poorly worded, even for a riddle. Not to mention the fact that it rhymed.
Rhyming, Sherlock always thought, should only be left to those who knew how to properly and artfully execute it; Shakespeare, for example. Everyday criminals oughtn't be trusted with art.
His criticism was also due in part to the fact that he was confused by the riddle; he hated confusion.
"What is this supposed to mean?" he growled.
John was in trouble, and he only had what likely amounted to a few hours before...
Sherlock hated to think about that. He couldn't; he needed to think.
Right now he was sat at the kitchen table, glaring at the sheet of paper on which he had written down the contents of the email. As he desperately picked apart the elements of the riddle, madly scribbling on the paper as he did so, there was a knock at the door (or, more precisely, the door frame).
"Yes, Lestrade, come in," Sherlock called out impatiently.
"I came as soon as I got your text," the inspector informed him.
"Not soon enough."
"Do you really think now's the time to patronise me?
"Shut up," Sherlock snapped. "Give me a moment to think."
Lestrade placed his hands on his hips.
"You're the one who called me here."
"And with good reason." Sherlock gave the man a penetrating stare. "Now shut up."
Though slightly miffed, the inspector obediently shut his mouth and took a seat at the table, more worried about John than anything else.
Sherlock took a deep breath and honed in on the riddle, trying to calm himself down; worrying only made proper brain function more difficult. And right now, he desperately needed a functioning brain.
After all, if today were anything like previous days had been so far, John only had until that evening.
John rubbed his hands together, his skin stinging from the freezing temperature in the meat locker. But as unpleasant as the sensation was, he knew it was a good thing that he could feel anything at all. He had been a bit worried before, given that everything had been quite numb, but he attributed that to the drug in his system; he had obviously managed to partially restore feeling in his various body parts, so that was a sign that he hadn't been in there for long upon waking up. But then again, he was wearing a jumper, so that might have helped tremendously with the warming up process.
"Bastard didn't think of that, did he?"
It suddenly occurred to him, though:
Why was the locker so damn cold?
John knew that meat wasn't to be kept at such a cold temperature as this; it would dry out.
"Stupid question," he told himself.
Why would he even ask that? This was the work of a criminal; obviously whoever was behind this turned down the temperature.
Reason seemed to be failing him.
God, how cold was it in here?
John estimated it to be at least -12 degrees centigrade. But then again, he wasn't quite sure.
He had found a seat upon a box in the freezer, which, though cold, was better than the floor. It sounded silly, but hypothermia was a serious risk; and he refused to die in a meat locker of all places.
"It's fine," he said. "I'll be fine."
He vigorously rubbed his arms to keep warm, the jumper becoming more and more useless as time went by.
God, what time was it? At least an hour had to have passed by now. Maybe two. If only he had his damn phone with him.
As he sat and shivered, he still was struggling to pick through his tired brain and remember what exactly it was that had gotten him here in the first place. Obviously a drug, he knew, but the events leading up to the fact were what bothered him.
His mind was just a mass of muscle full of jumbled thoughts and memories right now, only able to really focus on the one thing that mattered to his primal instinct; surviving.
Someone having to do with riddles, wasn't it? "Emails, I think?" Sherlock was excited, things were busy, Lestrade was frustrated "Puzzles, puzzles, puzzles..." Rhyming... "Poems... rhyming. Shakespeare? No! Stop that!"
What the hell was happening to him.
"Hypothermia."
Goddamnit. He didn't need this right now.
Well, no one ever really needs hypothermia, but...
"Riddles and puzzles... Sherlock solving them."
No murders, he was sure. Not yet.
"Sherlock solved them all."
Not the murders; the riddles.
"Easy peasy, lemon-squeezy."
John hit his forehead with the heel of his hand.
"Shut up, shut up," he commanded himself.
He shouldn't already be losing his mind, right? That wasn't to come until later.
"Later."
He forgot there was a later.
Maybe it was colder in there than he originally thought.
He realised that his fingers were almost numb.
Lestrade poured himself a cup of coffee and poured a second one as well for the intensely focused detective at the table.
"Here," he said, offering the beverage to the man. "Take a cup; you look like you need it."
There was no response from Sherlock.
"Or don't," the inspector sighed.
He set the mug down on the table and sat back down with his own, taking a long sip and watching with piqued curiosity as the younger man worked meticulously. His own face writhed in empathic frustration at the sight of the struggling detective, and he wanted to offer his services in some other form than a simple cup of coffee.
"What if I take a look?" he proposed.
He was, unsurprisingly, ignored.
"I want to help," he explained. "I mean, I've been sitting here for a good twenty-five minutes watching you tear yourself apart over this thing and feeling pretty bloody useless. I mean, I don't have your brain, but it might help to have a..." he sighed, "...simpler mind take a look. You might be overthinking-"
"'KILLED' is in quotation marks," Sherlock observed, a slight tremor in his voice. "John isn't dead."
Lestrade paused.
"I... yeah. I mean, that's great, but... hasn't that been the case so far with the other victims?"
"I'm simply 'counting my blessings', Lestrade, as you so often enjoy saying," Sherlock said abrasively.
Lestrade licked his lips and drank some more coffee.
"Anything else?"
"I have a few theories," Sherlock said, handing the sheet of paper with the riddle to Lestrade.
The inspector took a moment to read it.
"What in the hell?" he questioned, holding the sheet away from him, seemingly in the hopes of making what was on it less confusing.
"Precisely," Sherlock muttered. "A museum was my first thought," Sherlock said, "But the idea is quite nonsensical."
"The zoo, maybe?" Lestrade said with a shrug.
Sherlock gave the man a withering look.
"Never mind. What else?" Lestrade said.
"Library," Sherlock said, "A university or secondary school, a cafeteria..." he scratched his head. "Again, theories. I do find many of them ridiculous, but not exactly improbable."
"A good place to start."
"But I'm working far to slowly; practically at a snail's pace."
"Sherlock..."
"'Woolly mammoth'; why that of all creatures?" Sherlock bit his lip. "Why their meat? What is the significance?" He rubbed his chin. "Ferrier? Butcher?"
Lestrade noticed that the detective's foot was rapidly tapping the floor.
"Settle down, Sherlock," he said.
"I'm settled."
"No, you're not; you're a panicked mess. Just sit down for a second and take a deep breath."
Sherlock was emphatic.
"No time, Lestrade, no time." He narrowed his eyes. "Museum of Natural History? That isn't right. Why does it feel correct?"
Lestrade took another look at the riddle.
"Maybe you're onto something," he said. "Maybe not a museum necessarily, but something like that?"
"Pertaining to history?" Sherlock shook his head. "As I said before, libraries and universities, but this man has already struck both areas; he wouldn't strike the same place twice; that would be poor showmanship." He stopped. "Unless..." He brought his hands together.
"Unless what?" Lestrade pressed.
"Unless that "something" pertaining to history is history itself!"
"I... what?"
"Not the venue, Lestrade; don't be absurd. A clue leading to the identification of the venue." Sherlock thought for a minute. "Woolly mammoths; pleistocene," he murmured. "The Pleistocene Epoch, Lestrade, what was its most notable attribute?" Sherlock questioned, looking excited.
The inspector looked completely lost.
"I don't know," he sighed. "Why don't you explain?"
"The Glacial Age, Lestrade; The Ice Age," Sherlock answered for him.
The detective's eyes lit up.
"Ice! Meat!" he exclaimed.
"Are you having a stroke?"
"Meat is stored away in a freezer, Lestrade! A meat locker! That must be where John is located!"
Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You got all of that given "woolly mammoth" and "meat"?"
Sherlock nodded enthusiastically.
"Yes!"
Lestrade grunted and stood up, having completely forgotten about his coffee at this point.
"Great," he said. "So we know where John is. Sort of. But we don't know exactly where."
Sherlock pushed past him into the sitting room to grab his coat from the coatrack.
"I say we start with the butcher shops," the detective said, shrugging on his Belstaff. "Obviously only those ones closed on Fridays."
"Are you sure?" Lestrade asked. "I mean, there are other possibilities..."
"This is the one possibility I feel remotely confident in," Sherlock knotted his scarf. "Closed butcher shops, Lestrade; research. Now."
Lestrade scratched the stubble on his chin.
"Hold on," he said. "I think I know one butcher shop that's closed today."
"Then tell me," Sherlock begged him. "What is it?"
"'Exoticuts', I pretty sure," Lestrade told him. "It's a small shop; no one's really heard of it except my wife, I guess. She used to go there all the time."
"I don't care!" Sherlock called behind him, already halfway down the stairs. "Drive me there! John hasn't much time!"
Lestrade was quick on his feet, bounding down the stairs at least two at a time in order to catch up with the detective.
Time was of the essence.
"Cold, cold, cold."
That had become John's mantra. It probably wasn't the best one for him to use, but at this point he was unable to come up with anything clever.
"Cold, snow, ice, angels."
Where was his mind going?
How long had it been now?
How cold was it in here?
He vaguely remembered asking those questions before, but they still bothered him.
Toes. Toes! Where were his toes? He couldn't feel his toes!
"Shoes..."
If he took off his shoes, he might be able to see where his toes had gone.
"In my socks."
Of course his toes were still there. They were only numb from cold.
He couldn't feel his fingers anymore, either, but it gave him some comfort to see them there in front of him, though they were clouded by his breath every time he exhaled.
"Finger tips and typing... blog...? Sherlock!"
Sherlock still hadn't come. Maybe Sherlock was in danger?
"Dead, dead, dead... like the bodies in the cemetery."
A stupid thought. Sherlock wasn't dead. Then why wasn't he here yet?
"Doesn't care."
No, he does. He does! John had to shake such thoughts from his head.
His confused, spinning, throbbing head.
He felt sick to his stomach.
"Sick... flu?"
No; hypothermia.
He was cracking up, made insane by the freezing cold temperature.
Cold? There was cold, wasn't there?
"Cold, cold, cold."
But no shivering, John realised.
He wasn't shivering anymore.
"Forty-five minutes to get to a butcher shop?!" Sherlock shouted in the car. "Was your wife's car a freezer?"
"I said that she used to go there," Lestrade told him. "We didn't always live where we do now."
"Are there any other routes you might take that would make the rips any shorter?"
"This is the only one I know of that's particularly quick," the inspector admitted.
"Turn on the sirens."
"Sherlock-"
"Turn them on."
"...they are on."
Sherlock looked confused.
"Oh."
"Sherlock, we have a bit before we get there. Get some rest."
"But-"
"I'm just as worried about John as you are, but it does us no good to panic to the point that we lack any and all situational awareness."
Sherlock tightened his lips and stared out of the passenger-side window, leaving both him and Lestrade in an almost palpable silence.
John's eyelids drooped.
"Sleeeeepyyyy... bedtiiiiime..."
The floor looked really comfortable right now. And warm...
"Feeling warm..."
God, when did it become so hot in here?
"S'really hot... really, reeeeeeeallyyyy hot... hot!"
John tugged at the collar of his jumper.
"Really warm, really hot!"
His brow suddenly felt as if it were on fire.
"Clothes!"
He needed to take these damned clothes off.
Starting with the jumper, maybe? Maybe that would help?
John clumsily pulled his jumper off over his head, tossing the garment to the side.
Oh, that felt good.
"Better."
Only slightly better.
He was still really hot.
And really tired.
"Nap..."
Just a quick one? The floor still looked really nice...
John basically fell off of the box he was seated on and onto the freezing cold floor.
It only stung slightly.
It felt good.
It felt really good.
"Sleep..."
John let his cheek rest on the floor, and he almost instantly let himself fall unconscious.
He missed the sound of approaching footsteps outside.
Sherlock had never picked a lock so quickly in his life.
He burst through the door and into the shop, practically hurdling the counter.
"Sherlock, hold on!" Lestrade called after him, frustrated by the fact that the man had disregarded all sorts of protocol.
And Lestrade was going to be the one to get in trouble.
"Damnit," he growled, jogging after Sherlock.
The detective was frantically tugging at the handle on the freezer door, struggling to open it.
"Lestrade, I need help!" he wheezed.
The inspector took hold of the handle and pulled along with Sherlock.
"If anyone asks..." he puffed, "...this was all you..."
"Fine!" Sherlock snapped. "Just pull!"
With one final pull, the door came open, and while Lestrade pushed it out the rest of the way, Sherlock rushed into the freezer.
"He's here!" the detective shouted.
Lestrade, red from the work that had gone into opening the door, followed the man in, immediately noticing the unconscious doctor in his arms.
"Jesus Christ," the inspector muttered.
"He's still breathing," Sherlock said, having pressed his ear to the doctor's chest. "John?" he called, tapping the older man's cheek. "Don't be an idiot; wake up."
John groaned, but he still remained unconscious.
Lestrade furrowed his brow.
"Why did he take his jumper off?"
"Paradoxical undressing," Sherlock said whilst monitoring John's pulse. "And it's no surprise either." Even he shivered. "It must be at least below zero degrees centigrade in here."
Lestrade went outside to check the temperature gauge.
"Jesus! It's -20 degrees in there!" he called.
Sherlock sighed out of frustration.
"Damn." He grabbed John's arm and wrapped it around his shoulders, lifting him up into a standing position. "I'm so sorry, John," he whispered to his friend. "Lestrade! Call an ambulance!"
The inspector came back in the freezer to help Sherlock drag the unconscious man out.
"I did while we were on our way here. They should be here soon."
Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief.
"Help me bring him outside."
Together, the two men dragged the doctor out of the shop and over to the car. They set him down in the back seat, and Sherlock tore off his coat and scarf, wrapping them both around his friend. He took John's hands in his own and rubbed them furiously to generate heat. Meanwhile, Lestrade was making a few calls to straighten out the issues associated with what had essentially been a break-in.
John groaned again when the motion of Sherlock's hands had finally generated some effective level of friction.
"It's alright," Sherlock assured him. "You're okay; you're warm."
"S'too hot..." John moaned, writhing in discomfort.
"I can imagine that that must seem to be the case right now, John, but you need to keep the coat and scarf on; your body temperature is dangerously low."
"I'm surprised he's made it this long," Lestrade admitted, throwing his phone in his pocket. "Is he awake?"
"Barely," Sherlock said. "Look for the ambulance."
"One step ahead of you," the inspector said, noticing the vehicle in question in the distance. He began to wave them down.
Sherlock buttoned the coat around John's torso, noting that the man had begun to shiver again; but only slightly.
He heard John giggle weakly.
"...okay..."
"What?"
"You're okay..."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow.
"Of course I'm okay."
"'Nd you came..."
"Why wouldn't I?"
John giggled again.
"Dunno... I..." he shivered violently. "...was w-waiting..."
"For quite a while; I know," Sherlock said apologetically. He began rubbing John's shoulders.
"Ow..." John moaned.
"I know," Sherlock hushed him.
Neither of them registered the fact that the ambulance had pulled up beside the car until paramedics were pushing Sherlock out of the way. Normally, Sherlock would have protested, but all that mattered was that John was receiving medical attention.
As John was aided into the back of the ambulance by EMTs, Lestrade placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"Want a ride to the hospital?" the inspector asked.
Sherlock nodded.
"I'll remain there while you return to the Yard."
"You sure you'll be alright?"
Again, Sherlock nodded.
"Devote your energy to finding this criminal. I'll be doing my own research as well whilst at the hospital."
"Right," Lestrade said. "Off we go, then."
And off they went, tailing the ambulance the entire way to the hospital.