Chapter 4 Missing – Day 3

Sherlock looked over the vista before him. It had taken him an hour, deviating from the route he had set for himself. It was …empty. He had no other word for it. He turned full circle slowly. There were no signs of civilization. No highway. No village pub with a convenient phone. No farmhouses with sheep or cows or chickens.

Fog still covered lower lying areas, the mist thick. But he knew with certainty that even if there were no fog, there would still just be emptiness.

He sat down slowly.

Took his eyes from the landscape, eying the blood that was seeping through the handkerchief tied around his wrist. He had banged his hand against an outcropping of rock as he had ascended the hill. It had been painful but he had ignored it as not important for the moment. He grimaced as he peeled the makeshift bandage off. A yellow crust had formed on the bottom swirl of the circle, the rest were sluggishly weeping. He wiped his wrist as best he could with the soiled hanky. For a moment he wished John was here so he could fuss and sort out his wound.

Tea would be nice. And a biscuit or two.

He swallowed, his mouth watering at the thought of sustenance. Willed his thoughts away from his own discomfort. The men that had taken him had been professional. Had obviously done it more than once.

Not being tied up in a dark cellar somewhere – now that was new.

This was brilliant, he thought. If it hadn't been for his physical discomfort, he would've enjoyed the challenge. What a way to keep someone off balance. Leave them in the middle of nowhere and watch them struggle. He looked up at the sky but if there was surveillance on him in the form of drones, he couldn't see them. Unless they only occasionally checked up on him or had a GPS tracker on him.

This paused him for a while as he examined his clothes, shoes, and body. He couldn't find anything obvious. He found fibres on his jacket. He examined them as closely as he could and deduced that they were probably carpet fibres. He must've been in the boot of a car, an expensive car if he looked closely at the quality of the fibres. Probably the same car they had used to cut him off. He decided in the end that even if there was a tracker, it wouldn't matter. He was the only person for kilometres. It won't be that hard for the men who had dropped him off to find him again.

Deciding that he had rested long enough, he made his way down, earmarking his next marker.

The gnawing ache in his stomach didn't go away, which was annoying. It took him a while to realise that what he was feeling was hunger. But he had chosen to ignore it. To control his body and soldier on. John would be proud.

Thirst had been ever present, his only chance of water when it rained.

The cramps started around midday. He had been aware of a dull ache in his stomach, it was more than the bruising that was now mottled black and blue across his body or the hunger pangs he was feeling. He had doubled over when a particular sharp spasm had stabbed in his stomach. It had felt like he was being gutted and he had groaned, his arms clenched around himself. He had waited breathlessly until the cramp had released, straightening slowly, wearily. Stomach acid forced its way upward and he swallowed quickly, willing his body not to give in to the nausea.

He hadn't made it much further after that first episode. He had found the base of tor nearby, curling into a foetal position beneath it, out of the wind. He tried to reason his way past his every tightening stomach and feeling of nausea. Listed the bacteria he knew that caused his symptoms. But he was empty inside out and had nothing to give but bitter bile.

He wanted oblivion at that moment. Wished he had some way to make it all better and hated himself for his own weakness.

Feverish memories surfaced, dark images he wanted gone.

But they stayed. He had no choice then to relive them.

He was in the south of London, not too far from the Thames. She had been adamant to meet him there. To show him why she had sent for him. He had thought The Woman to be in the States, safely ensconced in the town he had left her. Obviously she had chosen to come back here. And needed him.

So, he had come as she had asked. The thought that the letter had not been sent by her had not come up. He had entered the small eatery, looking for her in the room. He saw the back of her, her hair lighter but he reasoned disguises can be worn by all but there had been no mistake in her measurements. He walked up to her table, eyes wide and then frowning when he realised his mistake. Mycroft would have something to say, he thought, if his brother found out about this.

It wasn't Irene Adler.

Intrigued, he sat down across from the woman.

"Mr Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," she said, rising abruptly. He rose with her but a man took her place. Blond hair, blue eyes. His suit was expensive. He had a red glove on his right hand. Sherlock noticed the way the man tucked at his glove while appraising him. He spotted the missing thumb.

The man smiled.

"You are the famous consulting detective, yes?"

"Do I know you?" Sherlock asked, sitting down with flourish. He could see that not having brought John might have been a mistake. He gave a quick glance around the eatery now. Realised for the first time how empty it was. Two men stood by the door. They clearly didn't want him to leave anytime soon.

"We haven't met." The man smiled. "Although I heard some stories. Quite colourful."

"All good things, I hope?" Sherlock wiped an imaginary lint from his trousers, feigning boredom. "Usually clients introduce themselves."

"I'm not a client."

"Oh," Sherlock said, scanning the man openly. A tactic that had previously worked to make people nervous who knew him. The man raised his eyebrows at his blatant attempt.

"Expensive suit. Clearly you must be doing well in your profession. What is that exactly? Thug for hire?"

The man laughed. "The stories are true then. Interesting."

"The missing thumb? You must've done something really bad to deserve that. The fact that you choose to wear it like a trophy. Now that is interesting. Yakuza?"

The man massaged his hand, looking down as he did so. "You win some, you lose some. This is a story for another time and place."

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"You're cooperation."

Sherlock gave a fake smile. "I don't think so."

"Then you won't like what comes next, Mr Holmes. Please don't make it hard on yourself."

Sherlock didn't give him a chance to call his men from the door. He stood up swiftly, upending the table into the man as he pushed his chair back. He made for the back door. There was one man guarding it. He barrelled into the man, forcing him sideways against the wall and he was through the back door before they could move.

He made it into the alley, kicking cans out of the way as he swiftly ran the other way. He could hear the two men shout, telling him to stop.

Fat lot he'll listen to them.

He rushed on, London in his mind as he mapped out a path for himself that would bring him closer to people and freedom. His phone was still in his pocket but he had no time to press numbers. They were too close.

He rushed down a street and then into a side alley, grabbing the fire escape and going up and over the roof. He rushed across, jumping over another alley, the gap not much wider than a metre. He made his way down another fire escape, momentarily alone. He grabbed his phone, looking up when he heard another shout and saw a man round the corner. Grabbing his notepad, he scribbled a number and John's name on it before taking off again, away from the man that was breathing down his neck. He heard the fire escape rattle. He turned left at the corner, saw the boy in the distance.

He increased his speed. Knew there would be no time to call. No time to wait for Lestrade to arrive with police before they took him.

He shoved the note and phone into the boy's hand, barely a second of breathless instructions before he continued his mad dash down the road, praying that the boy would understand enough to disappear.

He made it two more blocks when the car cut him off. The blond-haired man was there with three of his men. They waded in, fists and feet wild against his body. He went down, curled into himself as they continued their assault until he lost awareness.

The next time he came to he was in a warehouse. He had been thrown against the wall, left alone, and thought to be under their control. He had risen slowly and made it halfway over the empty space before they realised that he was awake and trying to escape.

One of them called to the others before telling Sherlock that he had to stay where he was.

He didn't listen, increased his speed and grunted when one of the men barged into him, taking him down in a rugby tackle that would have made any coach proud. He had tried to roll away but they had grabbed him, pulling his arms tight behind his back as they frogmarched him to another part of the warehouse. Light flickered from a forge and he baulked when he noticed the red glowing iron.

It didn't take a genius to know what would come next.

He fought them in desperation. Gave it all he had and then some. They didn't like it.

In the end they had managed to brand him, the blond-haired man supervising through it all. He didn't say another word. Didn't ask questions. Didn't explain. Didn't gloat.

Sherlock was just another job he was determined to get done.

He just watched through it all until Sherlock closed his eyes after the sedative took hold and pushed the consulting detective's thoughts and observations into oblivion.

Someone was groaning. It took Sherlock a while to realise that it was him. He opened his eyes to darkness, the heavens declaring all its glory – the stars especially bright. He tried to lick his lips, but his mouth was dry, and his lips cracked. He grimaced as felt one split, the pain immediate but bearable. He tasted blood, salty and tangy in his mouth. Patted at his lip with the back of his hand. The bleeding stopped, the tingling on his lip the only reminder.

He deduced himself.

He was shaking again. Cold had crept in while he had slept. His lips were cracked and dry. His eyes were burning. His skin felt tight.

He was most certainly dehydrated. And the clear skies meant no water either. But his stomach felt slightly better, less crampy. He frowned at the word. Not his usual style but then again, his body was not doing that well. And that affected his mind.

He thought about getting up. Walking by the stars. But he had no energy and frankly wasn't in the mood. His feet hurt. He knew he had blisters. He had sat down some time this morning, took his socks off and had looked at the mess that was his feet. There was nothing he could do so he had put his socks and shoes back on, ignoring the pain his actions created. And then had kept walking because sitting down and feeling sorry for himself felt too much like losing.

And he didn't like losing.

He reluctantly rose when John's voice became insistent that he was dangerously close to hypothermia. He stood, staring into the distance. There were no twinkling lights of windows lit by warmth. No sign of any other people. He wondered if he was still in England. If there were anyplace so remote in his country to be untouched by human hands.

Mycroft would probably have a file. A place to have people disappear, he thought morosely. John's voice became louder and he huffed, limping his way around a circle again. Swinging his arms seemed to help for some reason but it didn't take much for the effort involved to become too much. His arms crossed over his chest and he sat down, head pillowed on his knees as he scrunched up as best he could.

He closed his eyes then and fell asleep.

The dreams didn't go away.

Mycroft entered the hallway of the secure facility where his team had brought Moriarty. The hallway was coloured in steel. A depressing colour and one intended for psychological effect. The cell where the consultant criminal was kept was two doors down, a guard stationed before the door. Mycroft waited while the door was opened. The man had his back to him, seated on the only chair in the room.

The older Holmes entered the room, the door closing behind him. When he came into view of his prisoner he stopped.

"Who are you?" he asked, leaning in as he studied the man before him.

"Jim Moriarty." The man stated confidently, smiling a toothy smile up at Mycroft.

"You are not him. So, who are you?" he pressed. Looking at the camera, he made a movement with his hand. The door opened at his movement. The man looked behind him at the two men who entered. They were clear in their intentions and he could read behind the façade of hidden violence.

"Find out who he is," Mycroft said, his expression hardening to a chilling resolve to the two men as he left them to their sordid business.

Mycroft was waiting for him at the flat. He was seated in Sherlock's chair, umbrella twirling in his fingers. "I've been informed that you have been a busy little bee, Dr Watson. Any success?"

John stood in the doorway, deciding whether he wanted to indulge Mycroft on his fishing expedition. Clearly the older Holmes was no closer to finding his younger brother. John wondered for a moment why Mycroft was here, in this room, sitting in Sherlock's chair. Surely he could utilise his time better overseeing his raft of agents in looking for his brother.

"I'm uhm, waiting."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at this and stopped twirling the umbrella. "The homeless brigade." He sneered. "My brother's eyes and ears in London." Mycroft lifted his chin slightly. "They might have more luck than we do."

John removed his jacket. Seated himself across from Mycroft. Clearly he had something on his mind, otherwise he wouldn't be here.

"We have shifted through all the data. We can trace Sherlock's movements right up until he got put into the car and driven off to the car park. There were no cameras. We have combed through all the videos we could around the park, but no cars exited the area. The obvious route was the canal and then the river. We have no way to trace where they have taken my brother." He huffed in frustration, twirling the umbrella. "I'm afraid Sherlock has probably been taken out of England. Better to control him. Control his environment."

"But why? We weren't even on a case. Sherlock was bored." John stated, watching Mycroft cross his legs. He knew something more was going on. Sherlock had his own avoidance tactics off course. He had learned long ago to read them. Knew when his friend was trying to be sneaky. Mycroft was harder to read but still, John could read him.

"Have you received any texts in regard to my brother?"

John tilted his head, meeting the other man's gaze. "No. Obviously you have?"

Mycroft sighed. Pinched his nose. Shifted in Sherlock's chair. "Moriarty might be involved."

John felt his stomach lurch. He still remembers the moment the bomb was strapped on his body. The instructions the man had given him. The dead look in the criminal consultant's eyes while he calmly explained what he planned to do if John deviated from his instructions.

"How do you know?" he asked, dry mouthed.

"He sent me a text. A taunt, really. It strengthens the suspicion that he is involved." Mycroft murmured. "And when I had a team pick him up, it wasn't him."

"I don't understand. What do you mean it wasn't him."

"We keep an eye on people like him. I had a team at his house in Brussels. The man my team picked up was an imposter. Obviously Moriarty had anticipated all of this," he stated, pulling his mouth down in disgust. "I have people looking, of course but he has gone to ground, as the saying goes."

"Ok. But surely there must be a reason. People don't just get kidnapped for no reason. Ransom? Blackmail?"

"I'm afraid that you know as much as I do in that regard, John. If Moriarty has a plan, he has not shared it yet. If he is directly involved. His network is vast. This might be something more than just boredom in Moriarty's case. There might be other agents involved. A power play is possible."

"Bloody hell."

"Yes, exactly the sentiment I would express a little more eloquently," Mycroft smiled, looking at the mantle and the skull grinning back at him. He sighed. "Bloody hell indeed."

Pulling the door closed, the man entered the room and made his way to a chair that had been pulled close to the fireplace. His companion was seated across from the room, his attention on the two screens in front of him. One was coloured in night vision shades, the body of a man bright green against the backdrop of night. The other was a bookies screen, the numbers constantly changing as bets were made.

"He's still alive?"

"Yes. Fascinating."

"You shouldn't have involved him. He's smart. We can't afford to make mistakes."

"If you hadn't forced my hand we wouldn't be here. There is much more at stake here then you realise," the other man answered, shifting slightly as dark eyes met up with the blue eyes across him.

"So, what do we do now?"

"You go back to London and wait. I'll provide instructions when the detective has reached his first goal."

The blond man shook his head. "I don't do that very well. I suggest…"

"You are not in any position to suggest anything. The only reason you are involved in this project is because I thought you were useful. Don't cross me."

"The reason I'm involved is because you forced your hand, and you needed me." The man tucked at the glove on his right hand with jerky movements. "Might I remind you that the instructions were clear that Sherlock stays alive. This method," he states indicating the screen, "will backfire. You underestimate him."

"I know exactly whom I'm dealing with. I'll have full control when I'm done with my project." A small smile played on his lips. "I suggest you go back to London. Unless you want to explain to our sponsor why you chose to stay and endanger our mission."

The other man's jaw clenched but he thought better about responding. He took one last venomous glance at the screen before leaving the room.