Against The Most Feared - Johnlock Fanfiction (1 of 3)

Chapter Four - Kidnapped

(A/N: This chapter and the next is inspired by a series of comic strip fan art done by an individual called "reapersun". I unfortunately didn't tag them in this when I wrote it back in 2015 because I'm a stupid idiot and forgot to, and haven't touched this fic since three years ago. I apologise for the confusion and for not giving credit to the original artist who had spent such painstaking hours on their beautiful pieces of art. Sincerely, 2018 Phoenix Alchemist.)

Sherlock jogged down the alleyway just as it started to rain heavily. He could feel the soft patter of the raindrops flatten his hair and wet his coat. But the raindrops didn't hit Sherlock's face. He had his head down, facing his feet as they carried him away from the hospital. Away from John. Slowly, his feet went into a walk, then to a complete stop. Sherlock's face was wet, but not with the rain. With his tears of sadness. Of complete disloyalty to his friend, and of anguish over what he had just done.

Sherlock's legs could no longer hold him up. He fell to the ground, sobbing. He felt the rain seep through his clothes, chilling him to the bone, but he barely noticed.

He looked at the puddle that he fell into. He could just barely see his reflection from the raindrops impacting into the water's surface. Then he looked at the grey sky. Rain hit Sherlock's face as he surveyed the dark clouds that mimicked his emotions. Sadness. Despair. The feeling of falling into nothingness. Then his thoughts were interrupted by the vibration of his phone. Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to savour the taste of the rain on his lips as he grabbed his phone from his coat pocket and looked at the screen. A text from Lestrade:

Need to talk. Meet at the station?

Sherlock sighed and let his phone screen get covered with raindrops. He didn't need this. Not now. He stayed in the puddle with his phone in his hand as the puddle gradually grew larger from the rain.

He was now completely soaked through. Sherlock started shivering. He knew that he should go to meet Lestrade. Sherlock rose to his feet slowly, his legs wobbling dangerously under him, threatening to collapse from under him again. He wrapped his arms around his torso, trying to conserve any scrap of warmth that remained.

Just as Sherlock took a small step towards the end of the alleyway, a white van screeched and abruptly stopped right at the end of the alley. Sherlock frowned as men with shotguns climbed out the back and pointed the guns at him. Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock thought. Another thing to ruin my day.

A man climbed out last and walked slowly towards Sherlock. He had two semi-automatics in his hands and obviously was dressed for rain, with a big coat and hoodie, making all attempts at trying to identify him no longer possible.

'Well, well, Mr Holmes, we meet at last.' The man snickered.

Sherlock's teeth started chattering. 'And who are you?'

'Oh, you know who I am, Mr Holmes.' The man raised the semi-automatic in his left hand over his right shoulder. 'I am The Most Feared.' Then he striked Sherlock across the face with the butt of the gun and Sherlock blacked out.

Sherlock moaned and opened his eyes slowly. It was dark and cold where he was. Wait...where am I? Suddenly, sharp pain pierced his head. Then he remembered the man who claimed to be The Most Feared.

Sherlock tried to move his hands, but there were somewhat handcuffed behind him. He could hear the metal cuffs clink against the pipe that he was leaning against.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness. Sherlock could just make out the basic square perimeter of the cold room. He could hear the constant patter of rain overhead on the roof, and the occasional splashing of a single drop of water falling from the leaking roof and hitting the floor not far away from him, forming a puddle. He had no idea how long he had been cuffed here. Judging from the rain, if it was the same rain, Sherlock may have been here a few hours. If this wasn't that same rain, it may have been a day. But he doubted that a single hit to the forehead could keep him unconscious for a full twenty four hours.