Chapter 5 Missing – Day 4-5
John woke in the early morning in his own bed this time. Mycroft had left, leaving him alone with his thoughts and speculations. In the end he had made himself some tea and went to bed. There was nothing much else he could do but wait.
His screen slowly faded to black in the dark of his room. He switched on the bedside lamp and had a look at the text.
John stared at the phone, his mind racing, and his heart pounding with a similar rhythm as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. No matter what he did, he couldn't convince himself that what he was reading was true.
He remembered his conversation with Mycroft in the café around The Woman. Mycroft's words that he had made sure. That it would take Sherlock to fool him. He chuckled. Indeed. It had taken Sherlock Holmes.
He wondered about their relationship, if indeed there was one. Clearly his friend found something fascinating in Irene Adler. Whether that would go anywhere, that was anyone's guess.
He phoned Mycroft. The man had clearly not gone to bed, his voice gravely over the phone.
"Yes, John."
"I just got a text message from one of Sherlock's homeless brigade. Irene Adler will contact us."
Silence was met by his statement. John decided to scratch the sore point a little further. Sherlock would enjoy this, he thought when he told him after they found him.
"You told me she's dead."
"Clearly that is not the case," Mycroft stated soberly. "Sherlock?" he said quietly. "Obvious really. It seems the rumours of her death were greatly exaggerated. This does not bode well. We will look for her but unless you know of a way to get hold of her, I'm afraid we will have to wait until she contacts us."
"It's Sherlock. She'll know." He stated with greater confidence that he felt as he remembered the conversation he had with her not so long ago in a disused warehouse. "She'll know…" he muttered under his breath and hoped.
It rained just before morning. He woke to it, revelled in the feel of water on his face. The tor he was lying against was channelling the water over a lip just above him and he opened his mouth and drank straight from the stream. His headache lessened and he felt refreshed. It didn't do much for the gnawing emptiness in his stomach but that he could deal with. He used the opportunity to wash the wound on his wrist, cleaning it as best he could. He didn't like the heat that was starting to radiate from the lower part of the wound or the reddened skin around it. It hurt but he scrubbed it so it was bleeding freely. When he was done, he washed his hanky as best he could and then tied it around his wrist to try and stem the flow of blood. He was determined to wait until the bleeding settled and then remove the impromptu bandage. He didn't want his skin to stay moist. He knew that was a good way of breeding some nasty bugs. He waited until the sun was up before he started on his journey again. He was now limping badly, his feet in constant pain.
He tried to keep pace with Brahms in his head. It helped to almost zone out enough that he could ignore his body and focus on the next marker. He guessed it was around midday when he came upon a track meandering over the straight line he had set for himself. It wasn't much but he felt suddenly overwhelmed and sat down at the crossroads as it were. He put his hands together as he contemplated his next step.
There were no footprints on the rocky shale. The wind was as ever present, the grass undulating in its passing like waves on the sea. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, but he needed to decide whether he was going to go up or down the path.
"So, John, what would you do?" He heard his voice, spoken softly above the rustling of the grass.
"Just choose any direction. It's better than what you got now, ain't it."
Facts. He needed data. Felt more than a little disconcerted with the lack of it. Closed his eyes and went into his mind palace as he orientated a map of England. He didn't want to contemplate that he might be on the continent. Hidden from his brother and friend. Too far away for a quick rescue. He assigned weights to the directions and eliminated a few immediately. Visualised the maths as he worked out the probabilities, the numbers jumping up into his vision and dropping as he moved them, adding them until frustrated he wiped the board in his mind clean again. Opened his eyes to hear imaginary John say, "Just choose, Sherlock. Not that hard. Remember eeny, meeny, miny mo?"
"I won't dignify that with an answer. That is a ridiculous manner to choose, John. Probability can be worked out if there is enough data." And there he had the crux of it.
The lack of data.
"Choose, Sherlock."
He huffed. Rolled his eyes at his imaginary friend and slowly got up. Closed his eyes and turned his body into the wind.
Northeast it was then.
08:15 Where's Sherlock? IA
08:16 Homeless brigade says you know JW
08:25 I'll get back to you. IA
John was at the police station in Lestrade's office. Lestrade had chuckled at the thought that Sherlock had gotten the better of his brother. Had sobered up quickly after that when they realised that they were no closer to finding Sherlock.
"There's just nothing, John." He said, fingers playing with a pen on his desk, tapping it on a notepad. "Bloody nothing to go on."
"Mycroft said something about the canal. If they used a boat, surely there's cameras…" he trailed off, unsure. He had never thought to think about whether there were cameras on the Thames or any of the canals that crisscrossed the city.
"Not where we found the car. They could've used anything, really. Houseboat is inconspicuous. No one will know. They can transfer him anywhere. Another boat, car or helicopter, or airplane. There are loads of ways to disappear."
He had stayed at the police station with Lestrade. Didn't feel the need to go back to the empty flat and Sherlock's empty chair. At the end of the day, Lestrade had taken him for a beer. He had sat in the pub, watching as people went on with their lives, unaware that his best mate was missing. Lestrade had tried his best but he wasn't in the mood for company. He had said his goodbyes when it was appropriate, thanking the DI for his hospitality.
When he stepped outside the pub, a sleek black car stopped beside the pavement. John looked up and down the street. His phone buzzed.
Get in.
Mycroft and his bloody stupid power complex. He opened the back door, glancing in. He vaguely recalled having seen the driver once with Mycroft. Anthea was in the backseat, reading something on her phone. She smiled briefly as he settled himself. The car pulled away smoothly, the journey not too long. He tried again to make conversation with Anthea but she didn't reply so in the end, he stared out the window as they moved through the streets.
The car came to a stop outside the Diogenes club. He knew where to go. Mycroft was in his private room, a brandy tumbler in his hand seated on one of the chairs. He indicated for John to take a seat opposite him.
"I'm assuming Ms Adler has not yet come back to you?"
"No. I guess we just have to wait."
"Yes. It seems that may be the case."
John shifted. Stared at the bookcase, reading the titles. A few first editions were evident. He focused back on the older man, and said, "Why am I here, Mycroft?"
Mycroft grimaced. "Sentiment, my dear Watson. Because of sentiment."
John frowned. Mycroft looked perplexed. Uncertain.
"Are you worried about Sherlock?"
"My brother is always in my thoughts. There is not a moment that I do not worry about him. I'm afraid that he may be my undoing."
"What are you talking about Mycroft," John asked softly. The older Holmes seemed to come to a decision. He took his phone that had been lying on the side table by the chair, opened it and passed the phone to Sherlock's friend.
Sherlock is still alive. For now. I'll get back to you soon.
The number was withheld. John was certain that Mycroft's people would've tried everything to trace the text back to its origin. The fact that he was showing it to John meant they were unsuccessful.
"Ok. This is good, right." He said, giving the phone back to the other man. Watched as Mycroft placed the phone in his pocket and grimaced, lips tightening in a straight line.
"In a way, yes. The fact they contacted me, does not bode well. It means that what they want is something I might very well not be able to provide. I might be the reason my brother would die. I…I'm not sure if I can deliver on what they potentially want." Mycroft wiped his face with his hands, as if the act would wipe away his uncertainty. It ended with his hands juxtaposed beneath his chin, his gaze meeting John straight on.
"I have been thinking."
John had enough experience with Sherlock to know that this is the part where a plan starts to form. When Sherlock had put together all the information and knew what he would do next. He guessed from the position in government Mycroft held, that he was much more refined in this area of strategizing.
"There are five possibilities that lie before us. And you, John. Are the answers in most of them."
It was getting dark when Sherlock came upon the bothy. He stopped in the yard, examining the shelter before him as the sun was setting behind him, long streaks of colour painting the sky in reds. It was built of stone, cemented together with a tin roof. A chimney exited the roof at one wall, streaked dark with soot. The yard was clean and consisted of packed dirt. To the side of the bothy wood had been stacked neatly under a smaller structure. He found a well kitty-corner to the bothy. A rope was attached and when he pulled it up, a full pail of water came up. He gave it a good sniff but it smelled clean. He washed his face then. The water was cold but refreshing. He took the opportunity to drink deeply and then cleaned the wound on his wrist. The inflamed skin was still red and weepy but looked a bit better than it had this morning. He had removed the handkerchief earlier this morning, allowing the wound to breath and dry in the air while he walked. The one thing he feared was infection. Wasn't entirely convinced that those that had taken him would care if he got sick.
He entered the bothy. It was dark inside. He decided then to start a fire first. It would bring heat and light. He gathered wood, stacking it in the fireplace. His long fingers searched the mantle and he found a box of matches someone had left. He would never admit it to John but for a moment sentiment overwhelmed him and he was grateful. Once the fire was going, he searched the bothy. It wasn't very big, probably 3 by 5 metres. There wasn't much. There was an old tin of beans, empty. A rusty pan that he wouldn't trust to cook any food in. A broken chair, lying on its side. He dragged it closer to the fire to use as a makeshift coat hanger, hanging his Bellstaf over the back of the chair. An old mouldy mattress was stacked against one wall. He dragged it closer to the fire. It was then that he noticed the dark brown splotches on the mattress. He frowned and leaned closer, hand going to his pocket to remember that he didn't have his trusty magnifying glass. His fingers trace the outlines as he contemplates the meaning behind the dried blood.
He wasn't the first one.
The bothy is used by his kidnappers. As a …waystation? His lips thinned. He didn't like what he was seeing. He wondered momentarily, his thoughts going places he didn't like. He was more careful now in his scrutiny. He traced the walls, looked in corners, darkened spots on the wall the fire couldn't quite reach. In the end he found two cameras. He was certain there would be more to make sure there wasn't a blind spot. They were small, not dissimilar to ones he knew his brother would use in surveillance. He left them where they were. He didn't see the point at the moment to blind them. His kidnappers obviously knew where he was. Removing the cameras might bring retribution he wasn't willing to endure just yet.
He took off his shirt, socks, shoes and trousers and went outside. Using the bucket, he gave himself an impromptu shower, upending the bucket over his head. It was cold but it felt good to wash the sweat from his body. Ablutions finished; he used the old bean tin to bring more water inside the bothy. The room had warmed up comfortably as he sat in front of the fire, drying. He soaked his feet in the broken pan with heated water from tin.
The blisters were raw, red, and inflamed. His feet were puffy and slightly swollen. He knew that if wasn't careful he would get infected but if he could keep off his feet for a day or two, he should heal up. The question was whether his captors would allow him the rest. He washed his socks afterwards until they ran clean and hung them in front of the fire. He got dressed, feeling better for being clean. His cloak had dried sufficiently and he folded it and used it as a pillow as he settled down. The heat was bliss as he stacked more firewood.
He was not one for sentiment. Had said as much to John but this could almost be construed as one.
He was thankful.
He fell asleep a short while later in front of the fireplace.
Around midnight he woke to the slow creak of the door opening. He sat up, eyes bright against the fire light but there were three of them. He made it to his knees before they grabbed him, pushing him face down on the mattress. He grunted but a knee between his shoulder blades pinned him effectively. A moment later he felt a prick against his shoulder and then the world darkened.
Sherlock's kidnapper was in a car, outside the flat of his next target. Two men that had been with him in the eatery were in the backseat. He knew them well, and had worked with them on multiple operations. He glanced at his watch, noting the time. Getting his phone out, he made a call to a number he knew well, putting it in by memory.
"I'm in place. Are you sure you want to do this?"
He listened to the answer, glancing at his men, and giving them a brief nod when the affirmative came through. They exited the car. He closed his door, phone still stuck to his ear as he said, "Do you want the doctor too?"
Acknowledged the other man when he told him to wait. That there was still time.
"This one only." He told his men. They nodded.
They got on then with the business that had made them rich.