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The first thing that John noticed when he opened the door to 221B Baker Street after an all-night shift was the unusual stillness of the room in front of him. Because even if Sherlock had been out for a case – without telling him again – it had never seemed quite this still and silent. Be it a leftover experiment or something equally annoying there had always been some sort of noise or at least sign of life inside the flat. But that morning there was none.
No, that wasn't quite right either.
Stepping into the room John closed the door behind himself and stared at the living-room trying to figure out just what felt so out of place. The room itself seemed to be the same as it always was – a mess but with some kind of chaotic order to it. At least that had been the explanation he'd gotten from Sherlock when he had dared to ask about it. Why should he keep the stuff organized in the flat when he had the most important information stored away in his mind palace?
An involuntary smile flashed over John's lips when he remembered the conversation about order and organisation. The honestly confused expression on the handsome face. It had made Sherlock look years younger, almost child-like in his confusion. The smile dropped from John's face when he made his way over into the kitchen and caught sight of the kitchen table. It had always been messy and covered in experiments or different substances that may or may not have caused some kind of corrosion on the table surface. But the sight that greeted John now wasn't something that had been left behind by the Consultant.
The kitchen was cleaned up and put into order. The table was free of any kind of experiment.
That was what had felt so wrong. Taking a look back into the living-room John noticed that while the room looked the usual – it certainly wasn't. Oh, there were paper strewn about and other bits and pieces had been moved but the whole mess looked forced. Like the person who had tried to make it seem believable would have loved nothing more than to make the mess disappear again.
You see, but you do not observe! Sherlock's words rang through his head and John's body moved without his conscious decision to do so. He practically flew up the stairs to his room, dropped to his knees in front of his bed and dove under it. It wasn't his gun he was aiming for though. That was safely hidden from Sherlock in one of the last places the Detective would look for it. No, this was much more dangerous for John should anyone ever find it in his possession.
The box was small and made of dark wood, without carvings or decorations. The only noticeable piece was the lock. The metal had darkened over the years but it wasn’t rusty. John had always made sure that the lock was cleaned properly, his stay with the army only helping with it.
Crawling back out from under the bed he left the floorboards lying where they were. If they had taken Sherlock then whoever had him knew who John was. And what his orders were or at least they could guess. His knees protested when John pushed himself back up to his feet. Placing the box on the bed he stared at it for a moment before setting about opening the complicated lock. The 'click' that indicated his success was quiet, almost silent - yet another sign of his good care.
John took a deep breath and opened the box. The insides were covered with deep-red silk that had been replaced many, many times over the years. Memories crept up when his fingers ran over the smooth fabric and for a few moments John was pulled back to the time where he had been given the box and it’s contents by his mentor. The man had been old but his will had been unbroken and even on his deathbed he had made sure to teach John what he had to know in order to fulfill his orders.
There, nestled inside the red silk and reflecting the dim light, were the hidden blades that were essential to his being. Their mechanics and looks had changed over time but they still worked the same as they had over 900 years ago.
Wrapping the bands around his wrists and forearms John relished in the smooth texture. He hadn’t known how much he had missed them and the feeling of security they gave him. And the hidden danger they posed. Even though the sharp blade was covered by the thin metal sheath he could feel the edge lying so close to his skin. It made him shiver slightly. Flexing the muscles in his arms he allowed the blades to emerge, staring at the shimmering metal where it rushed so close over this wrists. It was only partly a checkup to see if they still worked the way they were supposed to. A dark smile flashed over his lips even though he knew that he would have to keep his thoughts objective. He couldn’t just go in there, proverbial guns blazing. Or, he could but it was better to keep a low profile in order to stay safe.
Taking a deep breath John closed the box again and replaced it beneath his bed. Then he moved out of his bedroom and made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen where he reached beneath the sink and retrieved his gun from behind the dustpan. Sherlock had yet to find that spot. It seemed that a little reminder of cleaning up the flat was enough to scare the Detective away.
John put the gun into the back of his pants, where he had hidden it so many times already, before he turned around and left the flat again. He knew that Mycroft observed their home and had bugged it as well. Probably even his own room, which meant that Sherlock’s brother was aware of his association by now. But it didn’t matter. Not really. The man knew entirely too much but then again John wasn’t unaware himself. He had been debriefed before returning to London after all.
The second he stepped out onto the street John felt more than saw the black car pull up beside him. He barely managed not to roll his eyes. Of course, Mycroft would send for him when his brother had been taken hostage somewhere. Probably by his own brother - who knew what kind of plans the Templars had. He couldn’t be sure if Sherlock knew just what kind of power his brother had even though Mycroft himself wasn’t the head of the Order. What kind of plans did Mycroft have?
The opening of the car-door pulled John back from his thoughts. In his own head they always felt like minutes when in fact they flashed through his mind in mere seconds. His eyes focused on the open door and the woman sitting inside the car. Anthea - again. How classic.
Barely suppressing his growl John climbed into the car and closed the door.
“I seriously hope that Mycroft knows where Sherlock is,” he said and felt his muscles tense and relax with the rhythm of the motor. “Because if he doesn’t I’m not wasting my time meeting him.”
“Don’t worry,” Anthea said quietly and he gaze flew up to the separation behind which the driver was guiding the car through the London traffic. “I’ve contacted our leader. He agreed that under these circumstances I have to leave my post.”
John’s eyes flew up to her face and he saw her small smile. “You’re …”
“Yes,” she said carefully and her fingers flew over the keyboard of her Blackberry without her attention. “I’ve been part of the Brotherhood since I was twelve. They took care of my schooling and trained me in order to sent me undercover to retrieve information and to see if I could manage to convince Sherlock to join us. When you returned from Afghanistan and met Sherlock my orders changed. I was to keep an eye on you and Sherlock. Especially on your meetings with Mycroft Holmes.”
To say that John was shocked would have been a grave understatement.
“You were supposed to make sure that I didn’t switch sides,” he said flatly and sighed when Anthea only nodded. “Well, it’s to be expected. There’s too much at stake to be careless. I take it that the driver is one of us as well and that the car is bug-free?”
“Correct, and to take you out if you did,” she said, even though it had been more rhetoric. “But back to the point. Mycroft does know where Sherlock is. He’s the one who gave the order to take him. It seems that he wants to put Sherlock into the Animus. He thinks that his brother, clever boy that he is, will find out where the Artifacts are.”
“But why now? Why not the second I came into the picture? I know that he’s aware of what I am…or what I was,” John frowned and stared out of the tinted windows. It seemed that they were leaving the town. Anthea was still staring at her phone, typing away at whatever messages she needed to write.
“Because back then you didn’t pose a threat to his cause. You were just an old army doctor who had been wounded and honourably discharged. It was only after your meeting with him that he started to think you might be here on different orders.”
“Which I wasn’t,” he breathed softly.
“Which you weren’t but he didn’t know that,” Anthea continued as if he hadn’t talked. “Our leaders thought it best to not let you know that we were keeping an eye on you and Sherlock. Or that I was part of the Brotherhood. It would have put not only the whole operation at risk but you, me, and Sherlock as well. Additionally they thought that maybe you could counter the work Mycroft put on his brother. The cases he gave him were supposed to lure him out and to see if you would interfere. He was quite put out when Irene came into the picture and managed to sabotage the carefully crafted plan.”
John grinned and it wasn’t a nice grin.
“She was quite the character,” he agreed. “You two worked together as well. I seem to remember you abducting me in order to bring me to her.”
Now the smile on Anthea’s lips was clearly visible and she even left out a small chuckle.
“Well, we have a history together,” she admitted freely. “She’s currently in Rome, at the headquarters there. She has to stay out of the limelight for a while. Mycroft has no idea that Sherlock interfered with his plan.”
At this they both shared a rather amused smile.
“As he admitted, it takes a Sherlock to outmaneuver him and it seems that he managed it,” John said proudly. “What about Moriarty?”
“I’m not sure if you made the connection,” Anthea started and gazed out of the window, probably to check where they currently were. Just outside of London it seemed. “But he’s what you might call Mycroft’s right hand man. He learned under his wing and is mainly there to keep Sherlock interested. To keep him close to London and Mycroft’s - almost - all seeing eye.”
“Wait,” John interrupted her with an angry scowl, “so Mycroft is behind this. Behind the death of the old woman. The pool incident - my own abduction and the subsequent threat. God, I should have known.”
“You couldn’t have,” Anthea replied dryly. “But now you do know and the leaders are forced to change their plans. Before they would have given the order to take out Sherlock should he make moves to join Mycroft and the templars.”
“And now?” John asked, not liking the idea of someone killing Sherlock even though he understood their reasoning.
“Now they want you to explain everything to him and make him help us,” Anthea smirked and looked at him. John stared back and lifted an inquiring eyebrow.
“They don’t know Sherlock, do they?” he asked dryly.
“No, they certainly don’t know him, at least not like you do,” she replied and finally placed her Blackberry on her thigh. “But I don’t think it would be too hard for you. He trusts you, more than his brother at least. And it would be a rather interesting puzzle for him, I think.”
John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. This would certainly be a rather interesting conversation to have.
“Well, in order to convince him to help us I first have to get him out of wherever Mycroft is keeping him hidden,” John sighed and gazed at his blades again. It had been quite a while since he’d last used them, back in Afghanistan. But wearing them again felt natural, at home. Looking over at Anthea he noticed her eyes on him and the calculating glint that was at odds with the soft smile on her lips. He decided not to ask her what she was thinking. He got the feeling that he might not agree with her ideas of his and Sherlock’s relationship.
“Mycroft decided to take Sherlock to an old hotel,” Anthea explained, letting the moment pass. “It’s situated in a forest that has belonged to the Holmes family for years now. There’s a research facility below this hotel where they’re trying to perfect the Animus in order to figure out where the Artifacts are. From the information I have it seems that Mycroft isn’t planning on putting Sherlock into the machine right away. He wants to make him desperate for some information input. You know how Sherlock’s mind works. How he needs to have at least some kind of information to keep his mind from turning onto itself and making him mad. It’s a bit like he reacts when there’s too much information.”
The way she stressed the words made John pause. He remembered some comments he’d heard Sherlock make. Some things that were mentioned in passing were coming back to him. They connected and made him look up.
“The drugs,” he started and Anthea nodded once.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Another method in his quest to control Sherlock.” Her voice, though calm and steady, held something that made John shiver. It seemed that she came to care about Sherlock, almost as much as he did. She just had a different way to show it.
“So first he tries to control him through giving him drugs and then, when that backfires, he tries to indebt his brother by helping him get clean again,” John paused and clenched his hands. “The more information I get the more I wish to kill him.”
Anthea laughed lightly, her eyes oddly soft. “You may get your chance some day or you may not. You may get an opportunity to let some anger out, though it might take some time. For now we have to concentrate on getting Sherlock out of there. What happens later can’t be predicted now. But for all that it’s worth, I’ll try to help you out.” She paused. “By not killing him first, that is. It is my main order if he gets too close to the Artifacts. Which he isn’t by now but should that ever be the case, well, then I’m close enough to him. Took me ages to get that close. A lot of hard work, too. Fake backgrounds and everything. Mycroft Holmes is a hard man to delude. Just as Sherlock is. I’m still not sure how you managed to get around being found out by him.”
Before John could manage to make some kind of reply the car stopped and Anthea looked out of the window again. This time there was a frown on her face.
“We’re here,” she said and pointed to the forest that started just at the end of the street. “This is a far as we can drive before the cameras start. You will have to be really careful. About three miles into the area there is a small shed, an old tool shed or something that was used by the gardener at the time when the hotel was still in use. It’s in a blind spot, so obviously Mycroft doesn’t think it important seeing as the only way to reach it from here is a rather rocky way through the forest and brushwood that no-one in their right mind would use. Or across the treetops.”
John stared at the end of the street and his eyes narrowed almost immediately. The cameras weren’t visible at this point or else the car would have been spotted right away. He hadn’t climbed anything since he got shot in Afghanistan. His arm was as strong as ever but his shoulder was weaker than it used to be. Adding to that he hadn’t had much climbing to do while chasing after Sherlock. Running, yes; jumping, occasionally; climbing - very rarely. It would be quite a lot of work to get around the cameras in the beginning of the forest. But once he was out of their reach he would only have to be careful of wayward guards who might or might not be accompanied by dogs. If they weren’t he should be able to incapacitate them.
“Okay, so once you’re at the shed you will find some ammunition and other, more quiet weapons there. I was able to position it there before the cameras inside the hotel were installed. You can use them all if you need to. And I’m sure you will. He had the guards doubled when Sherlock arrived this morning. We can’t afford to let too many people notice, as I’m sure you know.”
“I do,” John answered absently. His mind was already running through different scenarios and situations. Possibilities, bad ends, good ends - all of them rushed through his mind at high-speed. A little like Sherlock’s deductions. His gaze turned back to Anthea. Their eyes met but not another word was spoken as John got out of the car and made his way into the woods. His mind was on Sherlock and how he was going to get his friend out of there.
*~*~*
John closed the old door behind him, wincing when the hinges gave another blood-chilling screech. But he had made it. More or less without any scratches but quite a bit out of breath. Closing his eyes for a few seconds John let the world fall away from around himself. He calmed his breathing and centred himself before opening his eyes again to look around. The shed wasn’t big; two paces in length and maybe four paces in width. The walls were covered in shelves that once might have been filled with tools and other bits and pieces. Now they were cleared off, but something was wrong. Again.
This time though John knew immediately what it was. The shed had looked bigger on the outside than it actually was on the inside; in fact, it had been double in length.
Stepping up to the shelves John ran his fingers over the surfaces, looking for indentions, cracks or other possible triggers. He found none. Dropping to his knees he looked beneath the shelves, where dust was settling on the floor, creating balls of quite the size. He was about to get back up when he noticed a small crack at the bottom of the wall, behind the last shelf. Pressing his fingertips against the crack he felt it give and suddenly the whole shelf started to turn sideways. John got up and watched the shelf shift back until it revealed a passage through which a man could go, provided he went sideways and wasn’t too broad.
Making his way through the gap John closed it behind himself again. The room he stood in now was only marginally bigger than the one he’d just left. But it wasn’t empty. There were metal boxes along two walls: four on the west side and three on the north. The east and south walls were clear of anything. John went over to one of the boxes and knelt down in front of it. His fingers ghosted over the lock, pressing and shifting it until it gave way. The lid was heavy; it’s purpose clear - to keep everything inside the box and unbidden treasure hunters from getting their fingers on the contents.
Leaning the lid against the back wall John focused on the different items inside. Another gun, along with a silencer and a couple of round of ammunition. The holster was tucked away between the wall of the box and a couple of magazine clips. He pulled it out and turned it over in his hands. It would keep the weapon close to his body and out of the way. Placing the holster on the floor outside of the box John counted the rounds and shook his head. He didn’t even want to know how Anthea had managed to smuggle so much ammunition into the little shed. And all that beneath Mycroft’s nose.
The second box was filled with blades of all kinds. Throwing knives, butterfly knives and exchange blades for his hidden weapons. John sighed and shook his head. This was becoming more and more like a weaponry, and once more he found himself intrigued by Anthea’s abilities. That woman was certainly something else.
John shook his head and pulled off his jacket, along with his jumper. Beneath it, he wore a simple black shirt with long sleeves and a high neck. It was different from the garments they used whenever there was a meeting. Clothes like that, uniforms if one wanted to call them that, only attracted attention where none was wanted. So over time their style developed, just like the weapons. Time refused to stand still and the Brotherhood had to change with it.
The holster fit quite good around his ankle. It wouldn’t hinder him in his movement, should he need to make a quick escape. The gun was a welcome weight on his body, along with the weight of the bullets. It reminded him of his time in Afghanistan. Not the death and fear and destruction; no, it was more the discipline and the knowledge of being able to overcome his body’s limits. The blades were situated in a belt that went crossways over his chest - this was a part of the old uniform.
Once he was as equipped as he could get - with a pair of tight fitting leather gloves to keep fingerprints from being left, and a thin but sturdy rope - John turned around and went back into the front room. There was a window pointing into the direction of the old hotel. The trees stood close together and would make a rather good highway towards the building. He might even be able to get onto the roof-top of the hotel. But there were cameras in that area and as good as John was, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to escape all of them.
“So, which way to go then,” he murmured to himself and returned to the back-room, trying to find an idea. His gaze travelled over the boxes, wondering at their odd placement. There were four on the west side and only three on the north side. If the boxes were placed closer together there would have been enough room to put a fourth there, too. Which meant that the boxes had a secondary purpose. Covering something up, perhaps?
Stepping up to the box in the middle, as cliched as it was, John grabbed it at the handles and pulled. The box was heavier than it looked but he managed to move it away from the wall. Beneath it, just as he had expected, was a ring embedded into the floor. It was connected to a square of the floor that fit seamlessly into the ground but was actually a trap-door. The little entrance wasn’t that big, just wide enough to let a rather slender man pass through it. John frowned and leaned down to pull the door open. It opened astoundingly easily, and thankfully soundlessly. Either Anthea had managed to keep it well oiled or someone else was aware of the entrance as well. If that was the case then it would prove to be a risk but one he had to take if he wanted to get his best friend back.
The tunnel that went from the shed was deeper in the ground than John would have expected. He had counted thirty steps which were dug into the wall and strengthened by wooden planks. The tunnel itself ended beneath the shed and only went into one direction - westward, towards the hotel. John turned on the flashlight he had found in one of the boxes and started to make his way down the tunnel. The floor was uneven but well used so he didn’t worry about stumbling over anything other than tree roots.
It felt like he had been walking for hours, even though he had been marched in a brisk pace, when the end of the tunnel finally came into view. Again, the steps had been dug into the wall and reinforced with wooden planks. John moved the flashlight up and down, taking a good look at the way he might have to take back. With Sherlock. He just hoped that his friend hadn’t been drugged; or if he had, then not too strongly. There was certainly no easy way to get them both out from under Mycroft’s nose.
Taking the flashlight between his teeth John started to make his way upwards. He moved carefully, and as quietly as possible; he had no idea where the end of the tunnel was, or how many guards or cameras were around that spot.
He counted the steps again and wondered slightly when he reached fifty and still wasn’t at the top. How many steps were left? The answer, as it turned out, was sixteen. John ran one hand over the ceiling and pushed slightly. Just like the trapdoor back in the shed this one opened soundlessly, though it felt a little heavier. Aware that any kind of movement or light could reveal him John didn’t push too hard. Just enough to get a feeling for it.
Letting the door sink back down John turned off the flashlight and forced himself to breathe calmly. He closed his eyes, even though it was already dark. But with his eyes closed like this John always felt that he heard much more than usual. It was the simple matter of disabling one sense to make the others become sharper.
His heartbeat slowed gradually until it became mere background noise.
John counted his heartbeats while his ears tried to pick up on any kind of noise that might have told him if there was someone walking around above him. Everything stayed silent. By the time he had counted three-hundred beats, he was relatively sure that the space above him was empty. At least of human or dogs. The need to move was strong in both parties and most movements made some sounds; especially when made subconsciously. But there were none above him.
That only left the risk of cameras.
Taking a deep breath John opened his eyes again and slowly moved upwards. Pressing his hand flat against the trap-door, he carefully climbed up until his whole underarm was pressed against the surface. This allowed him to stabilize it a bit more and somewhat reduced the risk of dropping it. Additionally, he had more control over the speed at which he lifted the door.
Slowly, very slowly, he raised the door until a small gap opened and allowed him to peek through it into the room before him. Turning his head from left to right John tried to figure out where exactly he was situated inside the room. It seemed that the trapdoor was close to a wall, just like it had been down in the shed. The room itself was small, not even two paces wide and narrow enough that there were only a couple of inches to each side before the walls started. There was only one way out and that was straight forward.
John wasn’t sure if he liked it.
Unfortunately no one asked if he liked it or not. And it wasn’t as if the situation would bend itself to his liking. If that was the case, he wouldn’t have been shot in Afghanistan and therefore he would never have met Sherlock Holmes.
Deciding that the room was clear for now John pushed the trap-door completely open and climbed out of it. Just as he had guessed the room was barely big enough to fit two fully grown men. Though if it truly was a secret escape route it couldn’t be any bigger or else someone with an eye for proportions might get suspicious. It made John wonder though; how could someone like Mycroft Holmes not know about a tunnel like this? Or maybe he did but thought it unimportant?
No, someone like the elder Holmes brother thought of everything and considering his plans he would certainly try to make this hotel impregnable. Which meant that for the moment John was in a safety zone.
He allowed himself a moment to enjoy the adrenaline that rushed through his veins and sharpened his senses. It dulled the fear that had previously settled into his bones. Because as much as he liked to think himself above those emotions when he was on a mission, John knew he wasn’t.
Moving to the other side of the room, John took a good look at it. He had no knowledge of the hotel’s layout, or anything else that might be of some help in his quest to find Sherlock. Anthea had given him what she could in the time they had. She had endangered her own life in the process as well. Now it was his turn.
Running his fingertips lightly over the smooth wall, John concentrated on the texture and hoped to find something irregular that might prove to be the trigger he needed. So far there was none. Crouching down he focused on the floor and bottom half of the wall. Resting his fingers where the floor met the wall John tried to find a way out. Because what good was a secret escape if it was unreachable?
It took him a few minutes but finally he found what he had been looking for. One of the wooden planks that covered the wall was slightly misaligned. It could have been a mere building mistake, but John knew better. Whoever had built this hotel - and the included escape route - had made sure that every piece of evidence was hidden and not visible at first glance, or to the unsuspecting eye of guests.
John carefully pressed the plank into it’s proper place and listened. There was a soft ‘click’ from somewhere to his left and the wall made a very small lurch forward. The gap was barely there and probably unnoticeable from the other side. Releasing the breath he had unconsciously been holding, John slowly pushed the door open. He heard nothing on the other side which hopefully meant that there weren’t any people around. Preferably no guards.
The gap slowly grew bigger until it was wide enough for him to carefully lean sideways through it. He had to get a clearer picture on where he was and what was waiting for him; just storming into the room was the worst thing he could have done in that moment.
But whoever had designed the hotel had been very, very clever.
John stepped out of the little room and took a good look at the other side of it before he pressed it closed. He needed to know exactly where the trigger on this side was, just in case he had to make a mad dash for it with a possibly-drugged Sherlock in tow. The entrance to the escape tunnel couldn’t have been hidden better. It was on the wall-facing side of a pillar and, from what he could see, there were four more pillars to the right side and four to the left as well. From the looks of it they continued to the floors below as well. The whole pillar had to be hollow in order to fit in the ladder dug into the wall of it. And nothing on the inside of the small room had left the impression of the outside being circular.
Closing the door slowly John made sure to watch where it snapped into place and then ran his fingers over one of the ornaments. Pressing it down carefully the door clicked open just like it had from the inside. Good. Now he only had to find Sherlock...without attracting attention.
*~*~*
Something had to be wrong. It couldn’t have been that easy. John was sure of it. There was still something big lurking around. A secret plan of Mycroft in order to lure John into thinking that it was easy only to have him turn around and come face-to-face with some kind of murderer. Or whomever else might work for him.
But the fact remained that it had only taken him about half an hour to find the security room and disable most of the cameras. During that time he'd also found out where they were keeping Sherlock. It was a good thing, and he should have been grateful, but...it just felt off. Over the years John had gone on different missions ranging from almost impossible to so terribly easy that it felt like taking sweets from a child. This was definitely not one of the latter cases since he was dealing with Mycroft Holmes along with James Moriarty. Both names sent a shiver down his spine.
And yet here he was pulling the blade of his hidden knife out of a guard’s body. The last of five who had been positioned in front of the room where they kept Sherlock. The men had looked like they were trained by the army but the fight they had put up seemed too easy. Like they had only put on the clothes of a soldier to look intimidating when in fact they were mere children playing dress-up with their father’s clothes. John almost felt sorry for them. But only almost.
Turning towards the door he crouched down and slowly ran his fingers over the lock before doing the same with the frame. There was nothing out of the ordinary and that alone made John even more cautious. Either the door was secured with an array of traps and alarms, or Sherlock was so drugged up that he wouldn’t put up much of a fight.
John liked neither option.
Deciding he’d have to just risk it, he bent down and pulled one of the throwing knives out of their holsters. Their tips were small enough to slip into the key-hole like a lock-pick. Carefully he turned the slender blade from side-to-side while keeping his concentration on the little bit of resistance the bolts put up. Finally he heard the lock disengage with a barely there ‘click’. Stepping back from the door, John drew his gun and disengaged the safety. Who knew if there were any guards inside the room with Sherlock.
He should have thought about it sooner but now it was too late. Pushing the door open John cocked the gun, ready to shoot on sight if he had to.
The light was out inside the room and what little illumination came from the hallway only reached the length of two small steps. John felt his heart-rate rise, his blood rushing through his veins, carrying adrenalin to every cell of his body. He was prepared to fight. He was also prepared to die.
He didn’t want to do either.
Turning on the flashlight, he allowed the light to travel into the room. At first he guided it along the walls, covering the floor while doing so, just to see if there was a pair of shoes or feet waiting in a corner, ready to jump into action. There were none.
Breathing a small sigh of relief, John inched his way into the room and felt along the wall for the switch. He found it after a few seconds and hit it, remembering too late that the light might be bright enough to blind him. Blinking away the spots dancing in his vision he shook his head once to clear his head. Then he took a better look at the room.
It was tiled from floor to ceiling with a bare bulb hanging from a white cable and nothing beyond that. No furniture or other items. Nothing but a lone, naked figure curled up in one of the corners. A very pale body with curly dark hair.
‘Sherlock!’
For a moment John forgot his training, both from the army and the Brotherhood, and dashed over to where the Detective was lying. Dropping to his knees besides the slender man he reached out with a hand intending to gently shake a bony shoulder. He’d almost reached it when pale eyes opened and stared at him.
Sherlock liked to call his mind his hard drive and in that moment John couldn’t deny that the comparison might be fitting. Those beautiful, all-seeing eyes looked vacant, as if the great mind had been put on stand by. He hadn’t known that seeing his friend - his best friend - like this could actually hurt this much. But right now John was willing to admit that he felt as if someone had wrapped a fist around his heart and squeezed.
Taking a deep breath he tried to remember what Anthea had said. Looking around the room John had to swallow in order to get rid of the bile that rose in his throat. The complete lack of information was clear even to him. In a room like this even a normal, dull mind would turn in on itself. Most likely even quicker than Sherlock’s would. How long had he been here to be in such a state? John wondered and carefully placed his hand on the cool skin.
“Sherlock?” he asked quietly, prepared to do so again should he get no reaction.
But something flickered in those pale, blue eyes - recognition most likely. Sherlock blinked; once, twice; before shuddering and curling up even tighter. His mental hard drive was slowly coming back online and John gave a tired chuckle. Thank God, he wasn’t so far gone yet, he thought and gently tightened his grip.
“You took your time,” came the mumbled reply from the Detective and John shook his head. He should have known.
“Just be glad that I came in time,” he replied and slowly helped the weakened man to his feet. Sherlock swayed a bit but remained standing. “I don’t suppose that your clothes will be close by, right?” He received no answer except the usual dark look that told just how dull Sherlock thought his words were.
“Right, I suspected as much,” he chuckled darkly and led his friend over to where he had left the guards’ bodies. “We’ll have to improvise then. And quickly, before someone notices that the men are not responding. I’m not keen on another run in. Though I have to admit it was too easy getting to you.”
Stripping the tallest of the men of his uniform, John helped Sherlock into it, all the while ignoring the disgusted look on the pale face. It was either those or walking around naked and while John knew that the Detective had no problem with the latter it was better to have at least a small amount of protection against whatever they would be facing on their way out.
“Alright,” he said and grabbed Sherlock’s hand again. “Let’s get out of here. There is much we have to talk about and I seriously don’t want to do it in here. Especially not when I can’t be sure that your brother hasn’t planned anything else.”
“What does Mycroft have to do with this?” Sherlock asked and his tone indicated that he wanted every detail. Possibly to wind his brother up the next time they met. Which would be never, if John had anything to say about it.
“Enough. Now come on. We have to get out of here. I’ll explain once we’re safe.” And with that John started walking, gun ready and his whole body focused on getting them both out alive.
FIN