Gone

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

When John opened his eyes, he was shrouded in darkness and his head was throbbing intensely. His arms were tied above his head and his feet did not touch the ground. So, John thought, I’m in a darkened place, probably a disused warehouse, hanging by my arms from a beam most likely and I am shirtless. Well, this is a new experience. A small smile wriggled on John’s face but it quickly evaporated as his captors came into view. There were three of them, a tall blonde man with a thickset jaw and a broken nose, a black-haired woman who was wearing not a lot of clothes and another man, short, bald and stocky. They were all smirking. John put on a brave face and stuck out his chin without a word.

“Ooh, we’ve got ourselves a fighter, here, haven’t we?” The blonde man asked, roughly grabbing John’s chin. The other two laughed cruelly and John showed no fear. The bald man nodded to the woman and she pulled out a thick whip. John knew what was coming next and he braced himself for the impact. She disappeared out of his line of sight and the next thing he knew was pain. Without his shirt to soften the blow, the whip tore through John’s flesh, drawing blood. She struck again, this time to his side and then again and John realised that she was circling him, the same way a hawk would circle prey before lashing out and slapping him with the whip. He screwed his eyes shut, trying not to make a sound as lash after lash struck his body, leaving deep gashes. At around 20 lashes, John whimpered weakly. By 30 he was screaming and by 40, he was losing consciousness from blood-loss and pain. It was around then that they stopped and began to play the game.

……

Sherlock was sat in the flat when the phone rang. He picked it up.

“Hello, Sherlock Holmes speaking.”

“Hello, Mister Holmes,” came a rough voice from the other end of the telephone connection. “Someone wants to speak to you.” There was a pause as the phone changed callers and then a pain-cracked, raw voice gasped,

“Sher… Sherlock.” Sherlock almost dropped the phone in surprise.

“John? John, where are you?”

“Don’t know. Shwerlock, Sherllock, help.” John’s voice was slurred as he began to lose his already weak grip on consciousness.

“What have you done to John?” Sherlock asked the phone, his voice louder than intended.

“You’ll find out soon. Until the next time, Holmes. Until the next time.” There was a long beep as the connection broke and Sherlock took the phone away from his ear with shaking hands. John had been taken by someone and he sounded almost unconscious. His blogger. And the last conversation they had had was an argument. Sherlock ground his teeth together and looked at his phone. The number that had called him was blocked, making it impossible to track. Then his phone pinged, signalling that he had a new text, again from a blocked number. Frowning, Sherlock opened the text and almost dropped his phone. It was a picture message, showing a scarily high-quality photo of a short, blonde army doctor, hanging by his hands which were tied to a pole above his head. John’s blue-brown eyes were half open and his face was haggard and drawn. But that wasn’t the worst of it. His whole upper body was covered in long, bleeding gashes which could have only been caused by a whip. Sherlock’s free fist tightened and he hissed through his teeth. His first thought was to go to Lestrade but then what would John’s captors do? As if in answer, his phone rang.

“Sherllock? Don’t go to My, Mycroft. Or they’ll kkill me. And don’t go to the pl poli police but you can g go to Lestrade, ah as long as nobody else kno, knows. Don’t know why, gotta tell you this but… pointing gun at me, so I’m not arguing… Help. Me, Sherlock. Please?” John’s exhausted voice was cut off and Sherlock stayed stock still. Then he made up his mind and set off for Scotland Yard.