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John draws a deep breath and gives the tied-up guard behind him one final look as he clicks on the gun's safety catch and tucks it into the waistband of his trousers. The cool metal presses into the small of his back, invisible under his black jacket. The guard is unconscious, and will certainly stay that way for quite some time. The cut at the back of his head, caused by the butt of John’s Sig, is still bleeding quite heavily, but that’s what lacerations do; they usually look worse than they really are. A concussion isn’t unlikely, though, so John has placed the man on his side with his hands and feet tightly bound together. A doctor’s instincts are hard to overcome after years and years of practice, and John won’t risk the man dying a painful death from asphyxiating on his own vomit.
In front of John, there’s a rusty metal door with a heavy, long lever: The entrance to a cold store. As far as John has been able to determine during his reconnaissance of the area, the building is abandoned and fit for demolition, but somebody has taken the time and trouble to supply it with a makeshift electrical system. The naked light-bulb above John’s head illuminates the door with its pale light, but behind the small inspection window, there’s nothing but inky darkness.
Slowly and carefully, John pulls the lever. It’s unlikely for the kidnapper to be waiting in the darkened room, but if John has learned one thing in the military, it’s that it’s better to be safe than sorry. The lever moves with surprising ease, and almost without a sound, John opens the door a crack. No cold draught – apparently the kidnapper hasn’t bothered to repair the air conditioning unit. John strains to listen, but all he can hear is his own breath and his pulse throbbing in his ears. No wait, there – wasn’t that a groan?
He reaches through the gap and feels along the wall for the light switch. Ha, there it is! With his own loaded gun in his other hand, John flips the switch and at the same time uses his shoulder to push open the door in one smooth motion. Neon lights on the ceiling flicker to life and paint the room in a cold light. John's gaze is immediately drawn to the eerily still form of a man who is lying on a metal table on the other side of the room. Black curls, sharp cheekbones – there's no doubt that it's Sherlock.
Throwing all caution to the wind, John runs over to the table while his thoughts are racing: God, please let him be alive! Sherlock can't be dead, he simply can't be, not after all they've been through. John saw him fall to his death once, mourned his dead body for two bloody years, and it simply cannot end like this.
As if someone had heard his prayer, he finally sees Sherlock's chest rise with a weak inhale. He heaves a sigh of relief – until he takes a closer look at the unconscious form as he steps closer to the table. Sherlock's bare upper body is covered with countless cuts, burns and bruises. That bastard tortured him, just like he did with his previous victims. Sherlock's hands and feet are pinned to the metal railing of the table with leather cuffs. The skin underneath the cuffs is chafed raw and bloody.
Sherlock's arms are also covered in wounds, but there's something else there as well: injection sites. This, too, fits the perpetrator's MO, but that doesn't make it any less worrying. Scotland Yard's toxicology lab had been unable to determine which substance the victim's were injected with, but that's not unsurprising since all of the victims had been held captive by the killer for at least a week before he finally got rid of them. Enough time for the body to metabolize and excrete most drugs. Sherlock has only been missing for three days. They've been the longest days of John's life, worse than anything he encountered in Afghanistan. Mere dumb luck and the attentive ears of a member of Sherlock's homeless network have brought him here.
John's eyes wander further up. Sherlock's face is in bad shape. He has a black left eye that is swollen shut, and the blood that dripped from his split lower lip has dried into a reddish-brown streak across his chin. John's index and middle finger find their way to Sherlock's carotid artery. His pulse is too fast – tachycardia, probably drug-induced.
John glances worriedly at the open door. There's neither sight nor sound of the guard, but suddenly his gaze sweeps over the barely illuminated right corner of the room. He catches a glimpse of another motionless figure, half sitting and half lying against the wall. Their hands are tied above the head and mounted on a hook in the wall. A second hostage!
John turns back to the man lying unconscious in front of him. “Sherlock!” John's voice is barely more than a whisper, but in the silent, bleak room, it seems surprisingly loud. Sherlock's eyelids flutter as he tries to surface from the hazy blackness surrounding his senses. “Sherlock, wake up! Come on, we need to leave. Now!” John doesn't dare to raise his voice, but he grips Sherlock's shoulder tightly with his free hand and shakes him sharply to give his words more weight. “Listen to me, Sherlock! Listen to my voice. Concentrate! I know you can hear me. You need to wake up now, Sherlock.”
With a pain-filled moan Sherlock finally opens his eyes, but his gaze is unfocussed and filled with fear. The first tendrils of panic coil in John's stomach. What on earth did the killer give Sherlock? He tamps down his fears with some effort and forces his voice to sound calm and steady. “Sherlock, it's me, John. Everything will be fine. I'm going to get you out of here, but for that I need your help. Trust me, okay?”
Sherlock's first attempt at answering John ends in a coughing fit, but when the spasms finally subside, his eyes are clear again. A sharp nod towards his bonds tells John that Sherlock wants him to untie the cuffs. After depositing his Sig on the table, John is only too happy to oblige. He carefully helps Sherlock to sit up and swing his legs from the table. When Sherlock is finally sitting upright, John's gaze falls on Sherlock's back: Even more fresh wounds, but that's not all. A web of white scars stretches all over the plane of pale skin in front of him. By the look of them, the scars are more than half a year old. John feels like he's been kicked in the stomach. Even more secrets from the time when all the world, including John, thought Sherlock was dead – he never told John what had happened to him during that time. That's no surprise, though. John has to admit that they have both been very successful at not dealing with the topic. Still, as Sherlock's friend and his doctor John can't help but think that he had a right to know.
Trying to stand up immediately is one of Sherlock's less clever ideas. The attempt ends – John is unsurprised – with Sherlock's knees giving way, but John is at his side instantly to support him. For a few long moments his whole weight rests on John, but then Sherlock manages to force his uncooperative body into obeying his will. Another glance at the door tells John that the coast is still clear, but it's high time that they get out of here. He'd love to be safely outside and a good long distance away when Lestrade and his team finally show up. He has to check on the other victim first, though. With a bit of luck, all three of them will be able to escape – well, if the other person is actually still alive, that is.
Sherlock's gaze follows John's as he hesitantly takes his first steps away from the table, but as soon as he spots the figure in the corner, Sherlock freezes. John has just about enough time to be surprised at Sherlock being worried about the other victim's wellbeing – something that's usually John's division – when Sherlock grabs his gun from the metal table and points it at the figure in the corner.
“What the fuck, Sherlock?” John takes a careful step towards his madman while silently cursing himself for his stupidity. His Sig never should have left his hand, obviously, especially not with a drugged Sherlock so close by.
“Stay away, John.” Sherlock's voice is rough like sandpaper, but no less commanding than usual. With a few long strides he quickly crosses the short distance to the figure and without hesitation points the gun at its head. His index finger is already on the trigger, and John is certain that Sherlock is determined to shoot. John has no other choice – if he doesn't act now, Sherlock is going to kill an innocent person. He can't let that happen. In a flash he has pulled the guard's gun from his waistband and released the safety catch. His aim is steady on Sherlock's shoulder.
“Sherlock, put the gun down – now!” Sherlock isn't the only one who knows how to issue a command. The tone of Captain John Watson's voice brooks no argument, and indeed Sherlock begins to lower the gun ever so slowly. But before John can breathe easily again, Sherlock turns around to fully face him, gun at the ready, and this time it's aimed straight at John.
“John, you have no idea what's going on here,” he says briskly. “Take the gun down and let me finish this.” There's a barely audible tremor in Sherlock's voice which lets John know that underneath the mask of cold detachment, his emotions are running high. So are John's, for that matter.
“You take the gun down,” John replies evenly, “and then you better tell me what the hell is going on here.”
The barrel of Sherlock's gun doesn't move an inch, but at least he removes his finger from the trigger, and John can see the wheels turning in Sherlock's head. “John, that man there is not a victim, as you seem to think. He's the one, the serial killer Lestrade is looking for! He abducted me and brought me here and he gladly watched as his henchmen interrogated and fucking tortured me, do you UNDERSTAND?!” His last words come out as a hoarse shout. Sherlock's eyes are wild and he looks like a cornered animal. John has seen Sherlock in all kinds of states, but never like this. Increased aggressiveness, impulsivity, heightened levels of arousal, irritability... possibly resulting from torture, sleep deprivation or post-traumatic stress – or maybe it's a paradoxical reaction to an administered benzodiazepine? John hopes it's not a withdrawal symptom.
A tremor in Sherlock's hand causes the gun to waver dangerously, but he quickly stabilizes his grip with his other hand, and his index finger returns to the trigger. “John, I'm going to do whatever is necessary. Don't try to stop me,” he says in an almost pleading voice.
Damn it, Sherlock seems dead certain that the man in the corner is the killer they've been looking for. They've had some strange cases over the years, but a killer appearing to be held captive in his own torture chamber? What would be the point of that? It doesn't make any sense – apparently the drugs have interfered with Sherlock's mind.
“I won't let you shoot an innocent man and get locked up in prison for the rest of your life. For God's sake, Sherlock, you've NEVER shot anybody, and whatever it takes, I'm going to keep it that way!” John has no qualms about using deadly force when an exceptional situation requires it – he was a soldier, after all. But for Sherlock to do the same? No, the man may insist on being called a sociopath, but he certainly isn't a stone-cold killer. He can't bear to have the weight of causing someone's death settle on Sherlock's conscience.
“How would you know?” Sherlock asks with a derisive sneer on his face.
John frowns in confusion. “How would I know what?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes in exasperation at the tediousness of having to explain himself. The sight would be reassuring in it's familiarity if it weren't for the blatant anger giving an unfamiliarly cutting edge to Sherlock's next words. “That I've never shot anybody! I was undercover for two years, John. You don't have the slightest idea what I had to do during that time or what I'm capable of.”
John knows that it's paramount to keep calm, but being reminded that Sherlock didn't even trust him enough to confide in him back then, much less let him join Sherlock on such a dangerous mission, still makes his blood boil. “And whose fault is that, hmm? I would have followed you to the ends of the bloody earth, you know, but no, you just ALWAYS have to decide everything by yourself! Tell me, genius, when exactly did you decide it would be a good idea to let yourself be abducted by a potential serial killer, hmm? Because you did do that, didn't you? Pretended to be an easy victim to lure him out?”
For the fraction of a second, Sherlock's gaze drops to the floor. “I... realize that I might have slightly misjudged the situation.” The flash of shame that crossed his face at this confession is gone as quickly as it appeared. His chin rises, and his voice takes on a tone of defiance. “Being abducted was certainly not a part of my plan.”
A weak moan from the figure in the corner makes them both turn their heads simultaneously. Not dead, then. Sherlock is the first to turn his gaze from the man and look back at John. He grips the gun tighter and visibly takes aim at John's left shoulder. Damn it, the bastard won't stop at anything to achieve his goal. John has no choice but to meet his forceful look and to keep the aim on his target in turn.
“Please, John, you have to understand! I KNOW who this man is! I need you to trust me, John!” Sherlock looks panicked, and beads of sweat have started to collect on his forehead. The tremor in his hands has intensified – if he fires now, there's no telling where the bullet will go... with a bit of bad luck, it might hit John's heart or lung. Not a pleasant prospect.
“Sherlock, I want to trust you, but what if you can't trust yourself? Your memories may not be what you think they are!” For the first time, Sherlock seems uncertain. John takes advantage of it and quickly keeps on talking. “Sherlock, look at your arms. Who knows what they gave you. Think of Baskerville! And it doesn't even have to be an experimental designer drug... there are enough conventional substances that can render a person extremely susceptible to suggestions.” Scopolamine, flunitrazepam, thiopental – the list in John's head is long, and without a blood test, it's impossible to tell which of the drugs is responsible for their current predicament. “I'm a doctor, Sherlock. This time you need to trust me. Please, put the gun down.”
“I... No, that can't be... That's not...” Shaking his head, Sherlock hesitantly lowers the gun. Then all the fight seems to go out of him at once, and he sinks to his knees. At once, John is at his side. Without any resistance Sherlock lets him remove the gun from his hands. After securing the safety catch and tucking both of the guns away, he seizes Sherlock's shoulders and pulls him up so that they're standing face to face. The man looks as if he might collapse again at any moment, and his eyes are staring straight ahead, empty. John's worried gaze takes in every detail of his best friend's pale face. He's the smartest man John knows, and he seemed so sure about this... His instinct tells him it could be a grave mistake to dismiss Sherlock's version of the events, however improbable it sounds... Better safe than sorry, right?
“Listen, Sherlock, I know you're convinced this is our serial killer. So, I suppose it can't hurt to leave him cuffed until Lestrade shows up. He should be here any minute now – I called him before I came in. He can keep the guy in custody for a while, and if there's any evidence to be found, I know you'll be the one to find it. Okay?”
Sherlock's eyes focus on John, and some of his old resolve returns to them. He nods sharply. “Okay.”
***
On a sunny Saturday morning three days later – Mary is at some brunch thing with the girls and John doesn't have a shift at the clinic – John opens the paper while having breakfast at the sitting room table in 221B. “CROYDON-KILLER CAUGHT” it says in big bold letters on the front page, and for a change, the paper gets most of the story right. Luckily Lestrade was able to give Sherlock enough time to find a safe concealed under a sliding floor containing trophies that the killer took from his victims. He could protest his innocence all he liked after that, but the evidence was damning.
John's glances over at Sherlock, who is peering through the microscope in the kitchen and ignoring the half-eaten piece of toast with honey that's lying on a plate next to him in favour of mounting another sample slide. With a few expert movements he adjusts the focus of the image, and a moment later his lips turn up in a pleased smile. John quickly washes down his last bite of toast with a sip of tea and gets up – he knows what comes next. The game is on again.