I Don't Deserve You (A Johnlock Fic)

Chapter Ten

A/N
Sorry for yet another long wait. I really don't have a good excuse so just... Very sorry.

Sherlock gazed down at the busy street below, thinking over what the two disappearances had in common.

Lestrade and Mycroft had both disappeared without a trace, whoever took them clearly knew what they were doing.

They both worked for the government, but their jobs were so vastly different... Probably irrelevant.

What else connected them?

John had pointed out that they both knew Sherlock.... Who might have a grudge against him?

Well, lots of people have reason to dislike me, Sherlock thought to himself.

"I'm going to get more milk, need anything?" John asked, poking his head out of the kitchen.

Sherlock shook himself.

"No, that's fine."

He smiled contently as John came over and kissed his cheek in farewell, but the frown returned as soon as the door swung shut behind the blogger.

His eyes followed John as he hailed a cab, frowning slightly.

The image reminded him of one of his ideas about how Lestrade might have been taken, the cabbie might have done it.

With this in mind he carefully memorised the number plate of Johns cab.

Maybe he was been paranoid, but better safe then sorry.

DT24 AVM

There. Yet another useless piece of information stored in his memory palace.

Back on track, what had Mycroft been doing around the time he was taken?

They had searched his house for clues, but he might not have been home.

Then, Mycroft had private drivers. He wouldn't catch a cab even if he had gone somewhere.

Sherlock shook himself again. Great. Now he was going in circles.

There just wasn't enough connecting the two disappearances.

..........

John settled into the back seat of the car, staring out the window absently.

He was worried about Sherlock. He knew this case didn't have much to go off, and the detective did not handle failure well.

He turned his head slightly, smiling as he met the cabbies eye in the rear view mirror.

His smile fell when the man continued to stare weirdly at him, and a jolt of concern hit him when he realised they had passed his destination.

"Excuse me," he called, leaning forward. "I think we might be going the wrong way-"

The cabbie scowled and hit a button, causing a screen to come up between the front and back seats.

"What are you doing?" John called out sharply, panic rising.

Desperately he tried to open the door, but it was locked.

Smoke began drifting out of the air vent and he thrashed around, hammering the divider with his fists.

"What's going on?! Let me out!"

John felt his vision blur as he began inhaling the smoke, and within minutes he had collapsed.

..............

John awoke to darkness.

He squinted, trying to get a glimpse of his surroundings.

The room was cold and damp, and the musty smell of mold filled his nose.

He shifted on the stone floor, the ropes trying his wrist together making it difficult to sit up. Once he had managed to sit he leaned against the wall, sighing loudly.

"John? Is that you?" A voice called from the other side of the room.

John's head jerked up and he squinted again.

"Greg?" He replied uncertainly. It had sounded like him, but his eyes still hadn't adjusted to the darkness so he couldn't see the other man.

Lestrade let out a heavy sigh. "At least you're awake, you were out for a few hours."

"Is Mycroft here too?" John asked, finally getting his bearings.

"Yeah he's here, but I'm pretty sure he's still unconscious. Either that or he's dead. Or being an asshole and ignoring us. One of the three."

John let his head fall back against the wall with a dull thud. "Do you know why we're here?"

"Not really," Lestrade replied. "I saw the guy keeping us here but I don't know who he is. He just went on about getting revenge on Sherlock. God that man has a lot of enemies."

John hit his head against the wall again. So it was Sherlock they were after. He had been right.

A groan from John's left distracted him and he swung his head around, just able to make out the outline of another man in the dark.

"Well I guess he's still alive then," Lestrade joked weakly.

"Beginning to wish I wasn't," Mycroft grumbled, groaning again as he stretched as far as his restraints would allow.

"Let me guess," he drawled, sounding far to relaxed considering the position they were in.

"My little brother has pissed yet another psycho off, and now we're suffering because of it."

"This is hardly Sherlock's fault," John snapped.

Mycroft snorted. "Maybe not, bet he's having the time of his life with it though. This is the kind of thing that Sherlock lives for."

John twitched, fury rising at the condescending tone Mycroft used.

"How dare you say he's enjoying this! Sherlock has been worried sick about you, he's been trying to figure out who took you non-stop since he found out you were missing!"

Mycroft was silent for a while. "Perhaps, I suppose we should be thankful he is so good at what he does then."

"He'll find us," John promised, although as silence fell across the three men he started to wonder whether he was trying to convince them, or himself.