Before I Began To Grow

Chapter Eight

Sherlock hailed a cab as soon as he stepped out of the station. He clamped his teeth together, in fear that he would throw up after seeing John like that. He wasn't able to stop himself from crying, though, and the cab driver shot him worried looks. Sherlock easily ignored him.

He glanced at his watch. It was nearly four. He knew John would be killed on the spot if he dared to go early. No, Sherlock would step through the doors of the gallery at exactly nine. Right now, he had to think of a plan. Think of a plan, and stop crying. This was no time to be crying. 

By the time the cab reached Baker Street, Sherlock had managed to stop the tears from flowing, though he couldn't knock off the feeling of nausea. He paid the cabbie and rushed over to the door, his legs shaking.

He nearly didn't make it to the bathroom. Sherlock collapsed onto the tiles and threw up into his toilet until he was left heaving, having nothing left in him. He let himself slump against the side of their bath, breathing deeply. He had no energy. The great, enigmatic, brilliant detective was so bloody tired. He just wanted to go back in time. Go all those years back. If he had told John he loved him on top of St.Bart's, would his life be much different? Or if he had even told him back when he first figured it out...what would've happened? Would John have been happy with this? Would Sherlock be celebrating his eighth year with John? There was no way of knowing. And...no point in even thinking about it, Sherlock realised as he forced himself to get up. His legs were still shaking, but he could try to keep going. He had to keep going.

Sherlock brushed his teeth two times before the taste was gone. He splashed his face with cold water and sighed at how puffed up his eyes looked. And then...all he had to do was wait. A lot of waiting. And, even though Sherlock felt he had grown up and moved away from all that childishness...He moped about like a child until it was time to leave.

.Once Sherlock's digital clock read '20:30', he decided it was time to go. He had been on the edge of his seat all afternoon, waiting for it to be the time to go to John's rescue. His heart had not calmed down through all the hours and he found himself back in the bathroom twice more. But, now his waiting was over. He pulled on his coat and scarf, moving as quickly as his body would allow him to. 

As soon as he was out on the street he hailed a cab, making certain no one would steal his ride. He nearly shouted the location to the driver, making the poor young lad jump. He drove quickly through the traffic, probably eager to rid himself of Sherlock's company. Sherlock couldn't have cared less if he scared the driver. If it meant he would pick up his speed, then all the judgment was well worth it. 

Once they were finally at the Gallery, Sherlock swung the door open and left some cash on his seat. He ran around to the back of the building, looking around for a door. He knew Sebastian would expect him to walk straight through the front doors of the gallery. So, obviously he went against it. He knew it would be hard to throw him off, since Sherlock was pretty sure this was a one man job...but, he had to try and trick him some way.

Sherlock hastily picked the lock of an old green door, the paint chipping. The moon was bright in the clear sky and gave Sherlock all the light he needed. Once inside, his hands moved blindly about the wall, searching for a light switch, but before Sherlock could reach it, he was hit over the head. He fell to the ground with a thud.

                                                                           *

Noise. That was the first thing he became aware of. A wispy, shallow noise. What was that? Breathing? Yes. It was his own breathing. Now, he became aware of the horrible throbbing at the back of his head. Maybe he had been too predictable with coming in the back door. He was stupid to have let it happen. 

''Stupid.'' Sherlock muttered under his breath, feeling the rough rope which kept his hands tide to this chair. 

''Sherlock, are you awake?''

John. It was John.

Sherlock snapped his eyes open, but was only greeted with more darkness. ''John, is that you?''

''Of course it's me. Did you seriously managed to kept yourself captured? You're supposed to be saving me for God's sake.''

Sherlock's eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He could see John's outline opposite him. He too was tied to chair. ''A little appreciation for trying wouldn't hurt, would it?'' Sherlock answered, his words slurred from the pain in his head.

There was a pause. ''Are you okay?'' John asked.

''Fine, fine. He hit me as I came in. I didn't see him. It was stupid of me to be so obvious...I'm sorry.''

Sherlock heard John sigh. ''It's fine, Sherlock. Now that you're here, you can think up some clever way to get us out of this place.''

''I'll try my best, John.''

Sherlock made out John's nod. 

''...How are you, John?'' Sherlock asked after a small, silent hesitation. ''Are you hurt bad?''

''Well, it hurt when it was happening...but, I'm alright now. I've got to get stitches in my arm and I'm covered in blood...but, I'll survive unless he has anything else up his sleeve.''

''John...''

''Yeah, Sherlock?''

''I'm sorry for leaving you alone.''

A pause.

''John?''

Another pause.

''I'm sorry for making you leave.'' John replied.

Sherlock nodded, a fluttery feeling erupting in his chest. ''How long was I out?''

''Not long. About twenty minutes.''

Sherlock nodded to himself. ''Which would mean he'll be back any min-''

The light flickered on above them, to reveal a large empty concrete room (apart from themselves, obviously and the boxes in the corners). Sebastian walked in from the corner of the room. He grinned at Sherlock and John, holding a poker in his left hand. 

''You ready, guys?''