Find Me (BBC Sherlock Fan Fiction)

Chapter 4

Karachi

She staggered to the right, a hand going automatically to the ground but she made it a few more paces before she fell face forward into the dirt. Sherlock shook his head, turned back to the matter at hand.

'It's all there? You're satisfied?'

The not so terrifying terrorist leader grunted assent.

'And you know what happens next?'

The man drew his attention away from the money with difficulty, an expression of unease crossing his features.

Sherlock sighed, drummed his fingers on the hood of the jeep. 'Let's go over it again. In two days' time, you claim to have beheaded this woman. You release a statement in the usual way, and a picture confirming death and you tell no one I was here. Understand? If you do that, you'll get another one of these.' He patted the case. And if you don't do it yourself I'll do it for you, he added silently. Withdrawing a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of the case - printed with a few short words in very simple writing - he waved it at the commander. 'Copy this, understand? Put it on the internet and tell no one I was here.'

There was a nod of acknowledgement and Sherlock held out a gloved hand. 'Phone?'

'What for?'

He had to restrain the shouting. 'You need a picture of her.' He jerked his head. 'Or no one will believe she's dead.'

Clearly preoccupied with several hundred thousand dollars the cell leader fumbled in his pocket and held out a camera phone so ancient it probably needed film, but Sherlock snatched it anyway and crossed to the sprawled figure on the ground. He flicked the fabric off her face to expose more of the grey skin, the glassy staring eyes and took a few extreme close up shots. She certainly looked dead, and looking dead was the effect he'd been trying for, having carefully selected an appropriate tranquilizer following a short period of trial and error with a very accommodating ferret. He left her lying where she'd fallen, returned to the 'terror' cell and handed back the phone to its commander.

'Remember, two days, and you can claim the kill. The infidel woman Irene Adler is dead and righteous brothers will line up to join your fight. I will send the money as soon as I see the announcement online. Good luck, my brothers.' He clapped the third guard on the shoulder just so he'd remember, 'Tell no one I was here.'

Then he retraced his steps, picked up a stray arm and hauled Irene through the dirt to the hulking, rust splattered Russian car he'd arrived in and dumped her unceremoniously in the trunk. Then he drove away. Twenty minutes further on, once he was sure he hadn't been followed he pulled over, stripped off the black costume and donned jeans and a tough leather jacket over the paper jumpsuit he'd stolen from Molly. He transferred his captive into the passenger seat and carried on his way. Her head lolled against the window for a few minutes and he took the opportunity to confirm his hypothesis about where she'd been for the last three months. Her eyes flickered, and he returned his attention to the road, calculating distances, triangulating vectors, generating supplementary fall back plans. Working out how to shave a few more minutes off the time he'd be forced to spend with her.

She only woke up when he'd withdrawn the needle and was busy staunching the flow of blood with a piece of cotton wool. She murmured, tossed her head, and he dropped her arm immediately, stepping back. Blinking, she attempted to move, sit up, and a frown crinkled that perfectly smooth forehead when she realised she couldn't.

She turned her head, 'Hello.'

Even in the dim light seeping in around the closed door he could discern that her eyes were moist. Damp. Wet, even.

He bent to retrieve a few more items from the bag on the floor, knowing that the most dangerous part of the plan was about to start. 'Try to get out,' he demanded.

'Why would I want to do that? We're alone, in a ...' she faltered momentarily. 'Shipping container on a boat and you have me strapped to a bed. Why would I want to get out?'