“Johnnnn,” Sherlock whined.
Looking over his paper, John said, “No.”
“I said no.”
“But I don’t want to go. I might have to talk to Anderson or Donavon.”
“For god sake Sherlock, this is my first day to relax in a month, and I’m going to enjoy it. Just go sign your statement for Lestrade and be done with it.” John snapped his paper, raised it in front of him and ignored Sherlock.
Stomping across the floor like a toddler who didn’t get his way, Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf. He shouted over his shoulder, “If something happens to me, it will be all your fault. Don’t let that concern you though enjoy your day.” Slamming the door, he stormed down the stairs.
John had read, napped and ate without Sherlock being around. After a few hours, he tried texting and then phone Sherlock with no answer. At first, he thought Sherlock was just blowing off stream or trying to teach him a lesson when he didn’t answer his texts or phone calls. When he had called Greg and discovered that Sherlock hadn’t shown up to sign his statement, he became a concern. Twelve hours later John was very worried. Although mad at John, Sherlock would have shown up and made everyone’s life miserable at NSY but still have signed it.
He was just about ready to call Mycroft when he heard Sherlock’s footsteps, not his normal rushing ones but slow and faulting ones.
“Where have you been and why didn’t you sign the statement?” John demanded as he turned around and gasped.
“What happened to you?” He stood up to check out his roommate.
Sherlock stood there soaked and dirty, face showing signs of pain and blooming bruises, and entering the room he was limping.
“Just stay where you are, I’m fine I just fell. And no I didn’t sign the bloody statement. So if you excuse me, I’d like to get clean up and go to bed.” Sherlock added sarcastically, “Hope your free day was enjoyable.”
“Sherlock, that’s not just from a fall, what happened?” John called after the retreating figure of his roommate.
Sherlock ignored him as he limped into the bathroom locking the door behind him. Once the tub filled with hot water and the Epson salt was dissolved, he stripped and laid back in the tub hoping it would ease the pain that was racking his body.
Once he began to relax, he recalled his day.
Walking down the block to catch a taxi, he was hit from behind. As darkness overtook him, he saw four men throwing him into the boot of the car and felt it taking off. His consciousness came back slowly. Freely moving his arms and legs, he worked on popping the lid.
Hearing the sound outside changing from city to country, he was able to pop the latch as the car slowed down to turn a corner. Still going forty mph, Sherlock pushed himself out of the car.
Unable to stop himself from rolling, he tumbled down a rocky hill landing in a full sewer ditch. He hit his head knocking him senseless. The sound of locking brakes and slamming doors brought him back around.
Incapable of fighting, he was grabbed by the four men and dragged up the hill when he couldn’t get to his feet. This caused more scratches and one large cut on his leg. After they had reached the top of the hill, they chucked him into the back seat with one of the men on each side of him.
Once they finally stopped, he was yanked from the car and pushed into an empty building that reminded him of the ones Mycroft used for his chats. In the middle of it, there was a chair that he was tossed into and tied to it.
Left alone in the darkened place, he began to work on his bindings. A man entered that he didn’t recognize but seemed to know him.
“Ah Mr. Homes it’s a pleasure to meet you finally,” he said cheerfully.
Bored-sounding, “Not a pleasure on my part, as I don’t know or care who you are. Just let me go, and we’ll forget about this little unpleasantness.”
“I didn’t know you had a sense of humor. But now down to business. My employer needs some information you have. Now we can do this the hard way or the easy way. What can you tell me about the Brewster affair?”
Sherlock laughed. “You didn’t do your research. I wasn’t involved in that one. It was only a three, and I don’t take threes.”
“The hard way then,” the man said. Signaling a man who built like a house, he nodded.
The next few hours for painful but even if he was willing to talk, Sherlock actually had turned down the case.
“You’re a very stubborn man, Mr. Homes. I’ll give you an hour or so to think it over before my associate here begins the questioning again. Think it over.”
After the two men had left, Sherlock took a few deep breaths to deal with the pain before he began to work on the knots again.
The ropes fell as they came undone, and Sherlock quietly stood and headed to the door when he heard the men coming back. Spotting a flight of stairs, he hurried as quickly as his injured body would let him climb them. Hearing the men racing after him, he pushed opened a door and found himself on the roof.
He looked around and saw a train heading toward the tracks on the side of the building. Jumping on the passing train, he managed to evade his capturers and grab on to rungs on the top of it. He adjusted his body to lie on top as it sped toward London. As the train turned on a sharply graded bridge to enter London, Sherlock’s hands slipped sending him flying into the river below a few feet from the shoreline.
Half-drowned, he pulled himself from the river with help from a stranger who was riding by on a motorcycle.
“You look duff up gov and knackered. Can I give you a lift someplace?” The man asked.
“I would appreciate it if you could.” Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock found his phone not working. His wallet was soaked but contained some money. “Look, I’ll give you all I have if you give me a lift home. I live on Baker Street.”
“No problem gov, I’m heading that way anyways. Just jump on the back.”
Looking the cycle over, Sherlock thought about his beaten body but knew this was the only way he’d get home now.”
After the bumps and a cold wind had increased the pain, he was suffering. They arrived at Baker Street. Offering the man the money, the cyclist shook his head no and took off with a ‘cheerio.'
Trying the knob, he found it locked. With trembling hands, he managed to put his key in the lock with difficulty. Looking at the seventeen steps before him, he sighed and slowly, painfully walked up them.
Johns banging on the bathroom door brought Sherlock back to the present. “Sherlock, I want to know what happened today? You were gone twelve hours without anyone knowing where you were.”
“I told you I fell,” Sherlock shouted back, then mumbled, “More than once. Now leave me alone.”
After he had dried off, Sherlock entered his bedroom to find John with his medical supplies laid out.
“Sit down,” John directed.
“I don’t need your help, I told you. Besides I don’t want to interfere with your free day.”
Clenching his teeth, John ordered in his Captain Watson voice. “William Sherlock Scott Homes sit down now so that I can take care of your injuries.”
Plopping down on his bed, Sherlock pouted as John removed his robe from his shoulders. The intake of breath told the detective the injuries were worse than he thought.
The doctor cleaned his cuts and scratches. The one on his leg needed stitches, and he wrapped Sherlock’s ribs that were bruised causing Sherlock to take small shallow breaths.
Handing Sherlock some pain medications, John asked. “Do you want to tell me what happened now?”
“No,” Sherlock scowled. He pulled an old tee shirt on and laid down facing away from John.
Quietly cleaning up his mess, John said. “Just call if you need anything,” Sherlock snorted. “I’m just in the other room,” another snort. “Let me know.”
“It’s your free day, don’t want to bother you with my troubles,” came a mumbled reply.
“Good night John,” came as the blankets pulled over the dark curls.
John knew he’d get no more out of his roommate until he was ready to speak.
One thing John was sure of was that Sherlock wasn’t going out alone for a long time even if it was only to sign his witness statement.