HOLD ME

CHAPTER 4

Joan opened her eyes slowly, feeling disoriented. The first thing she registered was the darkness surrounding her. She felt her mouth dry and her lips chapped, she passed the tongue around them and felt the distinctive and disgusting after-taste of chloroform. She also registered a nagging headache she was feeling, and the fact that she was handcuffed.

Okay Joan, calm down. Think.

She started to remember what had happened before she lost consciousness. She had been to the shop she'd found and had spoken to the manager. It was a small shop run by a French expat, and he didn't know the name of the man who came to buy the semi-skimmed milk, but he did remember what the man looked like. Apparently, the shop didn't sell as much, so it wasn't too hard to remember the few customers of the place. He'd given a description of him which Joan had typed on her phone, and she was about to send the description to the captain for a sketch artist to draw when she'd received a blow to the head. Now I understand where my headache comes from she thought.

She took a deep breath and looked around, starting to observe and deduce everything she could, remembering how Sherlock had taught her to start by the most obvious senses and work from there. She couldn't see anything, but it was because the room she was in was dark, not because she was blindfolded. Okay, that was good. There was no light so she couldn't make out how big the room was or where the door was, she would have to wait until whoever that retained her came back.

Then, the sounds. She couldn't hear anything, it was dead silent, which meant that this was most likely a concrete structure. Maybe an old industrial unit? Next came touch. She could feel herself sitting on a chair, wooden by the sound of it when she moved, and both her legs were tied to it. Her hands were tied on her back, and she was lucky. They hadn't used handcuffs, but cable ties. It would be painful, but she could, with time, get rid of those; whereas with handcuffs, she would need a pin or something to pick the insides of the lock.

There was a scuffing, metal noise and suddenly the door opened. Joan had only mere moments to have a look at the room, and as she'd deduced, it was made of concrete. It wasn't particularly big, probably the same size as their library in the brownstone, and it was completely bare.

The brownstone. Sherlock. She felt a pang in her heart to know how frantic Sherlock must be feeling right now, and he hoped he had contacted Marcus and the Captain. She knew as well as he that he didn't deal well with emotions all by himself. She hoped he was doing okay, despite the circumstances, and for a fleeting moment, she wanted nothing more than to go back to last night, where she fell asleep with a sleepy little boy curled up against her. She smiled, feeling some warmth inside her despite the cold room and her surroundings.

"Comfy?" said the man that had entered the room. He was wearing a ski mask and gloves, but she fixed her gaze on him to try to take measurements. He must've been quite tall, around six foot, and was quite lean underneath his oversized jacket. His stance told her he was military or ex-military, probably trained in combat.

"Very" she answered, "where am I, if I may ask?"

"In a place that's going to break you," the man said confidently. He had a strong Spanish accent "now tell me, where is your friend Sherlock? I didn't finish with him, he left before I could..."

At the mention of Sherlock, Joan's blood boiled in her veins. Her jaw tightened so much her teeth hurt, and her hands clenched in fists behind her back.

"Don't you dare mention his name" she hissed through her teeth, her voice shaking slightly due to anger.

"Oh, are you threatening me? You're in no position to do that, dear" he mocked in a sing-song tone.