Keeping the Strength to Fight

Chapter 12- John

Light.

Slicing through his vision like a white hot poker.

John gave time for his swollen eyes to adjust to the brightness of the room. It was morning. Which morning, he didn't know.

Looking around his trashed and bloodied apartment, he noticed he was alone. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he tried to stand; noticing immediately that he obviously had several broken bones, and a few fractured. Mainly the ribs, but he had extensive brusing everywhere else. Leaning against the punctured sofa for support, flinching at the memory of the knife, he steadied himself against the dizzying nausia. Slowly, painfully, he staggered across the room towards the kitchen. Narrowly avoiding the broken lamp on the floor.

He still had shards of glass from that in his hair.

He stumbled onto the kitchen counter, opened the draw and ripped out the board that disguised the hidden compartment. He pulled out the hand gun he had stashed there years ago along with the £100 cash - no time to go fishing for his wallet.

Pushing the pain to the back of his mind, he shuffled to the window and, using only one arm, lifted it up. He leaned out.

"Now how am I gonna do this..." he mumbled.

"I don't know" a voice blared from behind him "you tell me"

John spun round as fast as his injuries would allow. Which really wasn't that fast. It was a few tense seconds before he was able to face the man who rudely interrupted his escape.

John gaped.

"Lestrade?"

"Holy shit, John... I heard you were bad, but..."

"No! Lestrade you have to get be out of here! They kidnapped me, tortured me! Damn near killed me! For gods sake Lestrade listen to me!"

All the while, Greg Lestrade looked down on him with pity.

"Oh, John... these people are just tryna help you... Go and rest, ill get you a nice cuppa to calm your nerves, eh?"

John thrashed in frustration, bringing his fist onto his forhead to stop himself from doing something rash as Lestrade turned his back and walked slowly out the room, before turning back and giving John a sad, knowing smile.

The hell did he know?!

"Ok... so he's going to be no use..." John thought.

Hearing heavier footsteps, he knew the men from earlier would be making their way back to him.

He had to get out.

"Well, so much for not being rash..." he thought bluntly as he turned back to the window, and without a second thought for his well being, launched himself out of it onto the speedy's cafes parapet.

He landed on the parapet on his side. Feeling his already cracked ribs pop and snap in awkward directions. Their jagged tips almost visable beneath his torn shirt. He cried out in agony as they sliced away at his insides. Puncturing his lung and most probably nicking a few arteries. He rolled, tumbling off the parapet onto the cold tarmac below.

Angry yells could be heard from the window above, and desparate cries from the front door as Mrs Hudson and Lestrade ran out into the road.

John pushed himself up, intent on getting away before more trouble and confusion could be caused. But his escape was cut short as he realised there was no way he could stand, let alone run, after a fall like that.

Lestrade was at his side now, hysterical. Mrs Hudson was phoning an ambulance. The men stood behind her. Their blank faces not showing whether this had ruined their plans, or if he had simply done exactly as they hoped.

Pleading for it to be the first option, he leaned on Lestrade, incredibly surprised that he was still conscious, and let him lead him over to the steps.

"The ambulance will be here in a little bit" Mrs Hudson informed them in her usual frantic demeaner "oh my dear what have you done to yourself?!"

John cursed silently in his head. How could they believe this man and his not-so-merry band of goons? And why so easily?

It was in that moment that John realised he had seen this before. Certain hints, given at the right time, to paint the perfect picture. Create the perfect story.

Sherlock's death.

Moriarty.

They must have worked for Moriarty.

John silently congratulated himself. He figured that it was a very 'Sherlock' thing to do to link one small detail to that of a larger whole. And that Sherlock himself might have been proud of him for deducting that piece of information.

Although, Sherlock was hardly ever proud.

And he really had no evidence to prove it.

But it was his gut instinct, and he always trusted that.

"We'll go with him."

John shook himself, realising that he had missed a full conversation that had been going on around him.

"Oh that's so kind of you dear!"

"Yeh, thanks mate, I've gotta get back to work. I've already missed part of my shift..."

The ambulance pulled up, and before john could argue, he was being wheeled into the back of the truck, and laid down on a bed with a drip in his arm and doctors fussing all around him.

When the ruckus died down and the ambulance had set off, it was only then that he realised he was on a bed, locked in a confined space with a nurse and three murderous psycopaths.

Great.

Just great.