A/N: Fret not, it's almost over! So I started writing the kidnapping as an exercise, but it turned into chapters and chapters and I apologize. But like it said, it's almost over.
Warning this chapter for a lot of violence.
Greg falls over on the plush sofa and lets out a sigh. He snuggles closer to Mycroft and relaxes for the first time since John and Mycroft explained the Chicago theory last night. It's four in the morning, only nine hours have passed since he called his team over to the house and started barking orders at them, but it feels like that was days ago.
"And now we wait," Mycroft mutters.
"And now we wait," Greg repeats.
Mycroft passes Greg the bottle of whiskey he'd been drinking straight out of.
"Tryin' to get me drunk?" Greg asks, sipping it gently.
"Trying to help you relax," Mycroft says. "I know you're just as wound up as I am, and that we won't be getting any sleep, so just relax."
"You can go to bed babe," Greg tries. "I'll stay up and wait for any calls—"
"No," Mycroft argues. "I'm not sleeping until he's found."
"Okay," Greg says, kissing Mycroft's shoulder. "I love you," he whispers, making sure only Mycroft hears and not the few members of his team still loitering the house.
Mycroft rubs his nose against Greg's. "I love you, too."
The door swings open and Sherlock jolts awake. Ben's been violent this entire time, but this time it's different.
Ben's got a gun.
Ben bends to cut the zipties from Sherlock's ankles that are tied to the chair that he was tied to a few hours ago. Hours, it could've been minutes. Sherlock has no idea. He feels the cool metal of the gun against his ankles.
"Up," Ben demands, pacing nervously in front of Sherlock again. "Get up!"
Sherlock still just stares at him.
Ben practically growls before grabbing Sherlock's arm and yanking him from the cot. Sherlock lets out a small sound of distress, knowing Ben's bruising his delicate arm.
"I'll let you stand," Ben Says. "Consider it a last wish. And honestly, I like watching bodies drop when I kill them."
Sherlock stares at him with wide, fearful eyes. He holds his own hands tightly, trying his hardest to make his last thought something good.
Ben looks at him for a second, then strikes, hitting Sherlock twice in the face. His previously broken nose throbs and gushes blood, his eye feels like it's falling out of the socket. He doubles over in pain, but Ben grabs his hair and yanks him back up.
"Your stupid boyfriend is smarter than I thought," Ben explains, yelling in Sherlock's face. "He figured out where we are and they're on their way."
Sherlock's heart jolts, then almost stops. John's alive, but he has immediate worry about Olive. Plus, he figures if John figured it out, he told Lestrade, and Lestrade told his team, so someone on his team is a mole, feeding Ben information. That's how Ben found out about Sherlock's tattling to Lestrade.
"Now I have no choice but to get rid of you. The city is being searched, I can get out of here while you're bleeding out on the floor."
Sherlock swallows down fear. He thought he was prepared for this, he really did. He thought he'd welcome his death with open arms, but now that he knows John is alive, he wants to get out.
Sherlock glances around and calculates as many ways as he can escape from here.
1. Headbutt Ben to (hopefully) knock him out.
2. Just run (and probably get shot trying).
3. Ram into Ben until Ben knocks into the wall and maybe he hits his head.
The first seems like the best option, so Sherlock takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, then smacks his head right against Ben's, instantly dropping the man with a thud. The loaded gun hits the ground with a pang, then fires, the bullet ricocheting and grazing Sherlock in the shin.
Sherlock cries out in pain, but it's not enough to stop him from moving. Ben is knocked out, Sherlock knows, and he quickly realizes he has two options now.
1. Run forever and hope Ben never finds him.
2. Pick up the gun and shoot Ben. Then run.
He's wanted to kill Ben this entire time, to stop Ben from killing him, but now that he has the gun in his bloody hand, he doesn't know if he can.
It'd be self-defense. Ben was going to kill him. He knows that. He won't get into trouble. It was self-defense.
But actually murdering someone.
Before he knows it though, the gun's pointed at Ben and he fires. The bullet hits Ben in the upper thigh and he won't die from it, but he will be down long enough for Sherlock to run away and get help.
Sherlock runs as fast as he can with his injured and weak leg.
Outside the door is a hallway that has no markings to anything, but he remembers Ben's minion telling him to go left, so he goes left. It leads down another hallway, where he continues to run as quietly as he can.
He hasn't seen or heard another person besides Ben and the guy he shot, but he that doesn't mean he's alone. He runs quietly, hoping to not find anyone.
At the end of the second hall, there's a door that leads to stairs, so Sherlock quickly runs to it and races up the stairs. There aren't any stairs leading down, so Sherlock knows he's in the basement or the first floor. He runs up until the next door, where he runs out to another series of hallways.
As he runs, he remembers that even though his hands are tied together, he can still remove the tape that Ben left on him all this time. He rips it off and wants to yelp in pain, but he doesn't. He pauses to pull his trouser leg up and sticks the tape over the bullet wound.
Sherlock continues through the halls until he finds a door that says 'exit', and he hopes it leads to the outside of the building instead of somehow back down to where he was. He rushes at the door as fast as he can and pushes it open, and thankfully he sees sunlight. Sherlock winces, his eyes impossibly sensitive to the sun, and he pauses to rub his eyes and check out his surroundings. He's wedged between rows of buildings, and he can hear cars, but he still has no idea where he is.
He runs through the alleys until he can get out onto the street, where he still doesn't feel safe. He glances behind him, making sure he's not being followed, and when he finds that he's free, he starts down the street. He has no idea where he is, and he wants to find a police station or hospital, so he takes a chance and starts running to his right.
People on the street stare at him as he goes, but nobody offers to help, not until he sees a young police officer on the street who reminds him enough of Lestrade to feel a little bit more safe.
"Officer!" Sherlock yells, getting his attention.
"Oh my god," the man mutters, taking in the sight of Sherlock.
Sherlock has no idea what he looks like, but by the look on the man's face he probably looks as good as dead. Blood's streaming out his nose still, his eye is swollen shit, there's blood dripping from his leg. The officer looks horrified.
"Please, sir—" is all he can get out before he suddenly can't go on any longer. He passes out right there on the street.
Ringing rips through the house, causing gently dozing Mycroft and Greg to hop off the sofa. They must have drifted off sometime after they had lunch, Mycroft figures, and he checks his watch to make sure. It's nearly four in the afternoon, they'd been asleep for not even twenty minutes.
Lestrade runs to the dining room where his office desk phone had been re-routed to the home phone. The line was to be clear for Detective Charleston of Chicago P.D. only, so everyone in the house gathers and nervously looks around at each other.
"Okay, ready?" Lestrade asks, and Mycroft places an encouraging hand on his shoulder.
Lestrade answers the phone privately first, a request from Clement that if Sherlock is dead, he wants to hear it straight from Lestrade. A promise Lestrade was reluctant to make, but he still answers the phone with a shaky hello.
Mycroft can't hear what's being said, he can't hear the detective on the other side, but Lestrade sighs in relief and his eyes close blissfully.
"They found him and he's alive," Lestrade relays, and Mycroft throws his arms around Lestrade. Lestrade talks over the phone and says he's putting it on speaker, then he does.
"Alright, go on," Lestrade says to the phone, then he lifts an arm to let Mycroft hug him appropriately. Mycroft feels his dad's hand on his back, but he doesn't let Lestrade go.
Detective Charleston tells them what's happening. "Sherlock managed to escape the building he was being held in, then he ran onto the street and found an officer of mine. We've yet to find witnesses, but we followed a trail of blood to the building."
"Blood?" Clement cries.
"Along with other wounds, Sherlock's suffered from a bullet grazing his left shin."
"There was a gun involved?" Lestrade asks.
"When we arrived at the scene and got into the room where Sherlock was being held, the body of Kieran Steele was…" Detective Charleston clears his throat. "Was found."
"Found?" Lestrade questions.
"You mean…" Clement adds. "My son shot him?"
"The GSW was in the thigh, so it doesn't really look like Sherlock meant to kill him. But he bled out and was dead before we arrived."
Clement rubs his face; Mycroft buries his face in Lestrade's neck. The realization that his brother, who isn't cruel or really as homicidal as everything thinks, shot someone means he's been going through horrific events. It pains Mycroft deeply.
"He's in shock," Detective Charleston continues. "Well, he's been asleep, but he's been thrashing about and, well, I don't think it's wise to tell the boy he's killed someone."
"Agreed," Clement answers fast. "Please, sir, don't tell him."
"Alright," the detective replies.
"How does he look?" Lestrade asks. "What's wrong with him?"
"Well, that's the odd thing. He's not as malnourished as he should be, and we found an IV drip in the room, so he's not dehydrated. Along with the IV, we found anesthesia, so it seems as though Sherlock has been asleep most of this time and woken up to eat, then put back to sleep. He might not have any idea how much time has passed.
"Other than that, he's got a broken nose but no other major broken bones. He's got cuts and bruises and the bullet wound."
Clement clears his throat, and Mycroft immediately knows what he's going to ask.
"Detective," Clement says, "Was he, uhm—"
"Sexually assaulted? No."
Clement just nods silently and Mycroft thanks all the higher beings he can think of.
"Sherlock will need to stay here for a few days to keep under observation. Mr. Holmes, can I expect you here by tonight?"
"Yes, of course. I'll be on the next flight."
"Wonderful," Detective Charleston says. "And congratulations."
"Thank you," Lestrade says. "Keep contact if anything develops. Let us know when he wakes up."
"Of course. Good morning."
"Evening," Lestrade mutters, then clicks to hang up the phone.
Mycroft is still draped around him, and Lestrade instructs his team to continue work at the office. Mycroft's thankful for the privacy, he has so much emotion that he needs to let out.
"I'm going to book a flight and to call John," Clement says before kissing Mycroft's head. "Well done, Gregory," he says, then Mycroft hears him leave the room.
Mycroft finally lets his tears fall. Greg holds him tighter and tells him to relax, but Mycroft can't control himself. He hasn't felt this much relief since his mother went to the hospital complaining of pains three months before Sherlock was due. They turned out to be nothing, but Mycroft made himself sick with worry that there was something wrong with his baby brother. When Mummy and Daddy returned home and explained to him that the baby was fine, seven-year-old Mycroft laid his little ginger head on Mummy's belly and rubbed until he felt calm. And now, thinking he'd lost Sherlock again, it was unbearable.
"Ssshh, baby, I know," Greg says softly. "He's okay."
Mycroft nods. "I know."