Gone

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Lestrade was sat in his office, going through a few case files, when his phone rang.

“Hello, Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking.”

“Lestrade,” came Sherlock’s familiar baritone. “I need to speak to you.” Lestrade was confused; whatever it was had a great importance to Sherlock because otherwise he would have just texted. Sherlock never called any one unless it was very important.

“Okay Sherlock, come up here. See you in 15 minutes.” Lestrade hung up and put away the cases, wondering about what could be so important to Sherlock. Then it hit him. Something had happened to John. Sherlock had been sent another video or photo and something bad had happened. About five minutes later, the door was flung open and Sherlock strode in. He looked wilder than ever; black hair mussed, pale grey eyes crazy and a slight twitch in his hands.

“Sherlock, what happened?”

“I got another video. It was short, no more than 30 seconds but it was dark and I couldn’t see anything, except John’s outline. There…” Here Sherlock faltered, breathing heavily.

“There was what, Sherlock?”

“A gun shot. And John’s scream.” Sherlock’s voice was barely above silent, his head turned away from Lestrade so that he couldn’t see his expression. This was the most emotion, true emotion that Lestrade had ever seen from the detective and he realised that he cared a lot about John; he just couldn’t show it.

Before he could question Sherlock, Sherlock’s phone went off. He pulled it out of his pocket and tapped the screen, presumably opening the message. Lestrade stared at him, waiting for the response to the text. It came sooner than expected. Yelling in anger, the dark-haired man restrained from crushing the phone in one grip. Then the anger abated and the shaking started and Lestrade knew that only one thing could make Sherlock act that way: a picture of John. He walked over to the detective and looked at the picture. It showed an unconscious John, still shirtless and bound, with a bullet-hole in his right shoulder weeping blood and another shot in his hip at the same side. His wounds were inflamed and worse than ever, showing clear signs of more sponge baths in bleach and saltwater. Lestrade looked at Sherlock, who seemed to be thinking. The detective’s eyes were shut tight and his breathing was shallow. Then he muttered something, almost silently, under his breath

“I said maybe, you’re gonna be the one that saves me. And after all, you’re my wonder wall.” Lestrade frowned realising that Sherlock had just sung the chorus of ‘Wonder wall’ by Oasis. He thought of the meaning of the song; John had saved Sherlock, saved him from himself and Lestrade owed John because of that. John was Sherlock’s wonder wall, the only person who could put up with him and the only person who could tell him things, the only person he listened to.

“We’ll find him, Sherlock. And we’ll get him back.”

……

John was unsure how long he had been there, bound and trapped. The hours all seemed to melt into one long pain-filled nightmare. Even his waking hours were fuzzy and grey, filled with torture. Blinking repetitively, he began to assess his current situation, despite the agony he was obviously in.  His right shoulder was badly wounded with a deep gun-shot. Well, now I’m symmetrical, John thought dryly. His left wrist seemed to be dislocated and his whole torso ached and stung with hundreds of lash wounds. To add to all that, he also had a gun shot to his hip. John knew that he would severely damaged for a long time after this. If there was an ‘after this’. John’s mind began to shut down once again as the captors gave him his hourly (at least John thought it was hourly) bleach and saltwater sponge bath. Just before he was about to give in to the agony, John heard the captors say Sherlock’s name.

“And Sherlock Holmes will come; he’d do anything for his Johnny boy. Then we can get rid of him and his meddling ways once and for all.” The captor seemed to notice John’s consciousness and hissed in his ear, “And there’s nothing you can do about it.” John felt the sharp sting of a needle and the drug flowed into his bloodstream, awakening him, paralysing him and setting his nerves on fire. After a few seconds, the pain in his nerves receded but John was still paralysed and unable to fall into the welcoming blackness. He saw a poker, tip white-hot, held by a hooded and masked figure. The figure approached and waved the poker in John’s face. John knew what was coming next but he couldn’t struggle; he could only watch, terrified, as the captor pressed the tip of the poker to the middle of John’s chest, just over his heart and begin to write. The pain was unimaginable, unbearable and almost the end of John’s sanity. Only Sherlock kept him from giving in to the madness because Sherlock needed him and John would always be there for him. Always. The smell of burnt flesh sent John’s mind flashing back to Afghanistan.

He ran, hands over his head to protect him from the bullets when the grenade went off. John ran to the nearest casualty, a child, a civilian caught up in the conflict. The boy couldn’t have been older than 10 and most of his body was burnt. He tried to speak but John shushed him, massaging cooling ointment into the third degree wounds on the boy’s legs.

“Why you do this?” he asked in small, slightly scared voice.

“I can’t leave you to die; you’re just a child and I’m a doctor.”

“You friends, die, yes?” John understood what the boy was saying even though his English was faulting.

“I don’t have any friends out here. Just comrades and your life is just as good as theirs.” The boy was silent for a moment, and then he said,

“Me Alec, you?”

“John. Doctor John Watson.” Alec smiled a truly peaceful smile.

“Thank you John. Thank you.” Alec’s eyes fluttered shut and he fell still. John had lost him.

John’s scream was not only of agony but now of loss. He should have been quicker, should have saved Alec but he didn’t and he would never be able to forgive himself for that. Finally, the darkness claimed him and John lost consciousness.