Ransom

Lestrade pulled up to an abandoned warehouse, John and Mycroft getting out of the car as soon as he put it in park. They all looked at each other grimly as John pulled the ransom note out of his pocket, reading it over to make sure Mycroft had brought all the money they needed and that they were at the right place. Mycroft, skimming the note over John’s shoulder, nodding after double then triple counting the pile of cash in his hand. John, ever the soldier, straightened his spine and squared his shoulder before cautiously walking up the door of the warehouse. Mycroft and Lestrade followed close behind.

It wasn’t difficult to find who they were looking for. They were snickering loudly, slamming things around, and, by the sound of it, shattering glass bottles. John gritted his teeth and walked towards the noise, keeping his hands clenched into his fists and his gaze sharp, just in case a fight broke out.

The group of men in front of them made noises as the group of three approached, nearly cat calling them. John held back a biting remark, biting his tongue nearly hard enough to draw blood.

Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin it. This is about Sherlock, not your pride.

“Well, look what the cat dragged in!” A man, who seemed to be the leader, said, his voice low and grating. “It’s about time you got here, we were starting to get very bored.” His eyes glinted with something polluted and evil, and his growing grin was no better. “Thankfully, your little mouse helped us relieve some of that boredom. He really is amazing, isn’t he?” The rest of the group hooted and hollered loudly, throwing more empty bottles against the wall.

“Where is he?” John growled, moving to step slightly closer. He was stopped by Lestrade’s hand on his shoulder and Mycroft’s hand on his arm. John backed down with regret. The man just laughed and waved towards the group with one hand.

“First, I want to see proof of the cash,” the man said lightly, his voice gnawing on John’s nerves. When Mycroft held up the wad of cash, John could swear he saw the man’s eyes light up, his lips turning up into an ugly smile. “That’s what I like to see! Now, just let me send one of my buddies on over to make sure it’s real. No funny business, I promise,” he said in a very fake trusting tone. The hair on the back of John’s neck stood up when the man approached, but when he made sure the money was real, he just nodded to his boss and went back to perching on his crate, buffing his nails on his shirt.

“Alright boys, pull him out!” The man said happily, strutting closer to Mycroft, eyeing the money in his hand. The two others pulled out a crowbar and opened the crate that one of them had been sitting on just moments before, and John’s heart dropped from his chest into his toes when he saw Sherlock. His upper lip was split, nearly his entire face covered in purple and blue bruises, some of which were starting to yellow around the edges. His shoulder seemed to be wrenched in a slightly wrong way, and he was stumbling around unsteadily, unable to balance himself on anything.

The man turned to Sherlock, said, “I’ll miss you, detective,” and then suddenly he was behind Sherlock, forcing him down onto his knees before kicking him over, causing Sherlock to slam his nose and forehead against the floor. What worried John was that Sherlock barely seemed to notice. Mycroft, throwing the money to the ground at the cackling man’s feet, lunged towards Sherlock at the same time that John did.

“Sherlock? Sherlock!” John said worriedly, not even noticing the quick retreat of the men. “Sherlock, love, can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes for me, okay?” Sherlock groaned and wiped at the blood that was starting to stream from his nose, cracking his eyes open to look up at John, Mycroft, and Lestrade. His face cracked open into a grin, blood running into his mouth and over his teeth.

“Hellooooo,” Sherlock slurred, reaching up to cup John’s face. “I knew you guys would save me!” His voice was nasally and seemingly wrecked, and John started worrying even more. “Did they rough me up a bit, John? I can’t really what happened…” Sherlock said, all of his energy suddenly gone as his eyes started to drift closed. “Will you take me back to Baker Street? I miss it, and I’d like some takeaway, maybe… maybe some…” he drifted off.

John only held him tighter and waited for an ambulance to arrive.