Chapter 2 Missing – Day 2
Sherlock opened his eyes. He groaned, the sound filling the silence around him, fading away softly. The sun had just risen, the cirrus clouds flirting across the sky were coloured yellow, orange and red. He slowly rolled onto his side, ignoring the discomfort of protesting muscles. Undulating hills with grassland surrounded him. Brown and green competed with grey stone jutting out of the landscape. It was quite beautiful in its starkness.
He saw no road, no trail, and no signs of civilisation.
He frowned, bringing a hand to the side of his head. Long fingers inspected and he traced dried blood that had meandered down the side of his face from a cut just above his eyebrow. He sat up slowly, taking in measured breaths. The very act of rising hurt but he did it anyway.
He was dressed in his dark navy trousers, a white dress shirt and his Belstaff coat. Dew had settled on his coat, droplets small and white on the dark colour of the wool. His hair stuck at all angles, grass and what felt like grit stuck in there. Felt it when he ruffled his hair, trying to bring some semblance of order to his unruly locks. He unbuttoned his coat after, taking stock of his injuries. Lifting his shirt, he stared at the mottled bruises across his abdomen and chest. He vaguely recalled curling tight into a ball as feet had pummelled into his back and stomach.
Dammit. Hold him down.
We're trying.
Stop fighting, man. You're making it worse.
Grab his wrist. Keep it tight.
The voices were garbled in his head. There were three distinct voices he remembers now. His eyes widened when one memory came more forcefully to the fore.
"He's still fighting. How is he still fighting?"
"Grab his wrist and just hold it tight, dammit."
Sherlock grunted, rolling away and jerking his arm closer to his body. More hands on his body kept him immobile and his arm was pulled away. A knee landed sharply on the inside of his elbow, causing a scream to erupt from him as two others grabbed his hand, keeping his arm straight and immobile. He had no leverage at all. He bucked but his arm stayed where it was as the branding tool hovered over his wrist. He could feel the heat radiating from it. He panicked but couldn't do anything as the man lowered the metal down on his wrist with glee.
The memory was so vivid that he thought he could smell his flesh burning. He pulled his right sleeve up. The sleeve was stuck to his wrist, streaked with blood. He grimaced when he pulled the sleeve free slowly, trying and failing to stop the wound from opening again. His skin on the inside of his wrist were red and inflamed and bleeding freely again. He had been branded, the sign of a circle with a line through it bright against the white of his skin.
He patted his pockets, finding a handkerchief tucked away. He wrapped it around his wrist tightly, using his teeth and one hand to tie the knot. He wasn't sure it would hold but it was better than his sleeve continually rubbing against it.
More memories surfaced. He closed his eyes, sorting the data, focusing on half remembered images and feelings.
"Say night night, Sherlock." The man said, brandishing a syringe. Sherlock had his arm close to his body, still trying to process the pain radiating from it. He barely felt the prick before everything faded away.
He woke later to the loud clatter of the helicopter, his body swaying as the machine banked and turned. They had underestimated his tolerance for drugs but it didn't really matter as he was still too out of it to do anything, really. He had vague impressions of hands on his body, pulling and turning him, dropping him like a sack of potatoes on the grass. A last parting kick that his body absorbed.
His eyes opened. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. His hands had a fine tremor. He took a deep breath and almost regretted it instantaneously. His ribs protested, bruised flesh threatened spasm and he froze, waiting with bated breath as the spasm released. He realised that in the interim of his self-reflection time had passed. The sun had risen higher, the warm colours replaced by blue interjected with wite splotches from the high clouds. A soft breeze was blowing, bringing windchill.
"Well John, what do I do now?"
His voice sounded harsh in the surrounding stillness of the landscape. He pressed his lips together. Now was not the time to feel sorry for himself. It wasn't going to help him get anywhere either.
He contemplated his options.
One. He stayed where he was.
Two. He try and walk his way out.
Option two sounds better than one. At least he would have some control over what he was doing. One felt too much like giving in. Losing.
He didn't like losing.
He stood up carefully, aware of the stiffness of joints and muscles. He turned full circle; the compass changing in his head as he pictured England. Tried to place himself on the map but there was just too much missing data that he couldn't for the life of him think of where he would be on the map. Even in this day and age there were remote places in England where people rarely went.
Think logically, Sherlock. Map of England. Which direction would have a higher probability of meeting a road or house or people.
He orientated himself again, looking for landmarks and lining himself to his first marker.
He started walking, aware of the springiness of the grass and the sleekness of his shoes. His muscles protested but then warmed as the day dragged on.
Find marker.
Orientate.
Walk.
That was day one.
In the end it was Mycroft who found the videos. They had stood in Lestrade's office, watching the grainy black and white scene in front of them.
Sherlock was fighting four men. They were in suits and knew what they were doing. John turned away when the consulting detective, unconsciousness on the ground was still pummelled by feet. A man stood apart, watching the assault with a tilted head. There were no sound but there was no mistake in the authority he wielded over the group when the men stopped and turned to the man. A moment later two grabbed the detective and pushed him into the boot of a Mercedes that was parked close by. They watched as the car slowly drove off.
He cleared his throat.
"Can we trace the car?" John asked the two other men as he catalogued in his head Sherlocks potential injuries from what he had seen of the attack. Possible broken ribs. Bruised sternum. Bruised back and stomach. Potential for internal injuries high. Despite Sherlock's assertations he knew he was a bloody good doctor. He has been on the battlefield long enough to know how to gauge injuries. Sherlock would hurt tomorrow a lot more then today. Bleeding in the muscles would've settled, swelling in place. Discolouration worse on the third day. He came out of his thoughts, aware that Mycroft was talking.
"Yes. I've already provided the number plate to Lestrade. The police have software to track cars. If they stayed on the roads, we would be able to track where they went."
"You think they could be out of the country?"
Mycroft was quiet while he contemplated John's question. If it was up to him, he would've left the country the moment he had Sherlock. There were just too many people who could come looking, especially in London. Especially if they knew who Sherlock's brother was.
"Mycroft?"
"It's possible. It doesn't help to speculate until we have all the facts. They obviously don't want him dead," he said, indicating the screen that had paused the moment that the two men was busy manhandling his brother into the boot of the car.
John pursed his lips, staring at the screen, pushing his hands into his pockets. Turning to Mycroft he said, "The guy in charge, the one that took Sherlock. That's not Jim Moriarty."
"No, it's not." Mycroft squeezed the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming along.
"So, who the hell is that?"
"If I knew that, John, Sherlock would be here. That brother of mine has angered quite a number of people over the years. I have lost count of everyone he has managed to insult, alienate, or anger."
"Yeah, but the note…"
"The note is inconsequential. It was meant to get Sherlock out of the house. They succeeded."
John crossed his arms, held his chin up as he stared down Mycroft. He knew that older man was right. He gave a sigh, broke contact with the British Government as he stared at the frozen screen of an unconscious Sherlock.
"I have my best people on it, John. We'll find him. I have instructed a missing persons poster to be send out. It will air soon."
John nodded. What else could he do?
A shrill ring drowned out any thought and all eyes turned to Greg Lestrade as he answered his phone. The call was brief, and the DI hung up, grabbed his jacked as he motioned the other two men with him.
"They found the car down by the docks. Forensics are already on their way."
Mycroft had his phone out as they made their way out of the building. John couldn't quite catch the words but whatever was said, was terse and quick. The ride to the docks took an hour. London traffic at standstill after work and John fretted in his seat. He felt for a moment like a schoolboy found out when Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his inability to sit still. Looked away and stared out the window at the sea of cars that surrounded them.
The car had been abandoned. That much was pretty evident from the start. It had been a day since Sherlock had disappeared, long enough for the car to be tagged, the wheels stolen, and the windows broken. A lone tire iron laying on the tar evidence enough of the youthful destruction that had been wrought on it. The boot was open, and John could see some blood stains when he looked at the carpet that covered the back space.
"Forensics are getting a tow truck to get it back to the lab. They've dusted for prints but whoever it was that drove the car was professionals. It's clean inside and out," Lestrade stated.
The area they were in was pretty rundown. No nosy neighbours to report suspicious behaviour to the police. The parking lot had broken bottles, strewn garbage and cracked pavements. There was an old office building situation adjacent to the parking lot. Holes in the windows and boarded up doorways with graffiti scrawled everywhere.
There would be no cameras.
He half listened as Lestrade gave instructions to his men. Watched as they fanned out, checking the building and surrounds. Watched as Anthea arrived in the older brother's car, and Mycroft spoke to her, urgently and confidentially while she typed, her fingers blurring on her phone.
He turned away and made his way to the canal, the balustrade paint black and peeling. The water dark and chummed with debris and he blinked quickly, settling his own concern for his friend in his own way.
Watched a houseboat chug along slowly.
Pulled his jacket tighter around himself as he sniffed while behind him the engine that is police and Mycroft slowly got into gear.
Bloody hell, Sherlock. Who did you piss off this time?