#sherlockh

There was something about the common people that you worked with. You didn’t really consider yourself to be a snob but you always somehow believed that you were above them. You were certainly smarter than the whole lot of them put together but you weren’t ready to apply it because you didn’t want the attention of being the know-it-all geeky girl. It was bad enough people had already called you Hermione throughout University.

The office that you worked for had a shitty parking garage. There were always spraypainters down there, people hanging out and doing drugs. It wasn’t very well patrolled by the security guards either so you opted to just rent out a space in a public parking lot down the street. It was worth it, knowing your car was safe and being able to get a bit more fresh air in the process. As you went out into the late afternoon sun - weak, much like the tea that was left in your thermos - you eagerly planned out your night. A couple more chapters of your Clive Barker book, an episode or two of something on Netflix, your favorite TV dinner and then at last - your bed.

But your plans seemed to be foiled quickly. As you turned the corner to get to the block where your car was waiting for you, your work-required heels clicking against the sidewalk, you felt a sharp sting on your arm, and then things started to get blurry. It was like trying to look through binoculars that weren’t adjusted properly. Everything was moving, blurring together. The building next to you no longer seemed to be solid and the ground felt like you were walking on a pool cover while it was still on the water. This caused a major migraine and you closed your eyes instinctively to fight against it, but it would be a while before you opened them again. You remembered the sound of a bell as you were dragged through a door, you felt something bump into your leg - or maybe your leg bumped into it - and then nothing more.

The telephone in Mycroft Holmes’s office rang. And rang. And rang. Nobody was there to pick it up. The building was utterly silent, with only the sound of the London rain against the windows and the electronic buzz of the security system to break up the ringing. An automated voice asked the caller to leave a message or to call another number in case of emergencies, two beeps and then a hushed, mumbling sound from a female, calling out for help. It was cut off as the time limit for messages came to a close, and then it was only the buzzing and the rain once again.

Sherlock gets a call the next morning. He didn’t want to answer it but John had rudely shoved the telephone in his face. He had heard Mycroft say something about family, and John thought it was important enough to really require Sherlock’s attention, and broke his concentration from .. whatever it was that Sherlock was studying at that moment. Different fibers in brands of ribbons, it looked to be.

Sherlock did not give any of his sarcastic remarks, but rather looked confused, and then enlightened at something. “I knew it.” He said, standing up, phone clutched in his hand, held close to his ear. “We’ll meet you at the airport. John - we’re going to America.”

“What for? John asked, reaching for his cane. He knew that something was afoot, and he was going to need the damn thing to keep his body steady, since his mind was going to be racing at whatever it was that was making Sherlock leave not only the home, but the continent!

“You’ll learn - go and pack our bags. I have some thinking to do.” He disappeared into the kitchen, calling for Mrs. Hudson to make him a cup of tea, rather than do it himself.

An hour later, when Sherlock and John met Mycroft at Heathrow, Mycroft was not alone. Behind him, with their cases packed, were his parents. They both looked very nervous, which did not give any indication to John what was going on. And he continued to ask. He had his passport in hand, and they were being rushed off to one of Mycroft’s own private planes. Nothing about this was telling him where he was going on this plane. He couldn’t even guess.

Once they were all situated on the plane, Mycroft looked over at his parents. “Why don’t you explain to John what’s going on? I think I’d like to hear this story.” He adjusted his impeccable suit, and gave the impression that he was about to hear something that he had heard a hundred times before, like he would not be surprised by any line of it. John, as well as the three other people in the private plane, all looked towards Mr. Holmes with expectations. The well-dressed man adjusted his tie and started his tale nervously.

“I could never bear the thought of telling you all about this,” He said, holding onto his wife’s hand.

“I had an affair.” Mrs. Holmes said, surprising everyone. “I know, monstrous of me. I do love your father very much boys but it took some time. I had to do something to get out of the house with you playing your Detectives Sherlock, or you berating your brother Mike.”

“Mycroft.” The older brother said, sniffling distastefully. He always did hate that nickname.

Mrs Holmes refrained from rolling her eyes. “Another maths professor who helped me edit my book . I got pregnant and went on a vacation for a while, you’ll remember, I went and stayed with Aunt Jean-”

“We don’t have an Aunt Jean. I just thought you left dad.” Sherlock said, remembering the time apart from his mother now.

“Yes, well, I had the baby and we had decided it would be best if the father raised it, so he brought your half-sister to America.”

“Did something happen to her?” John asked, trying to figure out why he was being told this and why they were headed on a plane to America.

“I got a call from an old friend of yours. Sherlock. Moriarty. He’s found her and is asking for a trade. I’ve thought about it-” Mycroft started.

“Me for her?” Sherlock stated. “That’s preposterous. Why would I trade -”

“You’re not.” Mycroft said, leaning forward. “We’re going to get her back. I’ve done a bit of research on her. Quite smart, wasted talent, seems like a Holmes trait.” He looked over at his brother. “We could use her.”

“We are not using anyone.” Mr. Holmes said, getting attention again. “We are going to find her, and bring her home. With us or with her father. Any questions?”

The plane was silent as the information was processed. There was a long way to go, and plenty of time for questions later.

You woke up to complete darkness. You had to raise your fingers to your own eyes to feel that they were open, that’s how black the room was. You weren’t tied down, you could tell that much. You felt heavy but it was from the drugs that were in your system, not from restraints. You reached around you and felt nothing. You crawled a couple of feet and finally, your shoulder hit against bars. Hands grasping out to feel your surrounds, you could feel the metal rods now, jutting up. You got to your feet, holding onto them for support, and like you suspected they were buried both in floor and ceiling. Stepping to the side, you felt wall, and so you went the other way, and more wall. Some steps away from the bars made you come to the conclusion that you were in a cell of some sort. It felt like an old jail.

You didn’t make a sound. It might be beneficial if the kidnappers thought that you were still asleep. You could perhaps overhear them, but you heard no voices.

You sat down to conserve your strength. Your stomach growled and your mouth grew dry but you didn’t make a complaint or ask for anything. Someone out there was surely watching over you, and you did not want them to know that you were awake.

You got a little sleep - you thought. With the silence and the darkness, it was hard to tell whether you were conscious or not. You had no way to tell the time, your phone had been taken from you and there was no ticking clocks. Damn this digital age, at least it would have given you something to count.

Moriarty was nowhere to be seen but this was where all the tracks had lead Sherlock to. He was a detective, not a hound dog, so tracking wasn’t his specialty but he was able to figure out where Moriarty might go. Where Sherlock himself would go. He’d poked around your office, your apartment, gone through your things. He’d seen pictures of you, as had John. John saw the family resemblance in the eyes, the curly hair, the stiff posture.

With these few times, Sherlock started to feel like he was getting to know you. He understood your head. Your exasperation, your lack of meaningful friendships, he related to your self-isolation and did not see it as problematic as your father and his family had.

He really was determined to get you back to that life safe before this turned into a murder case.

The beams from flashlights caught your attention. It could easily be a trap. You’ve been in the dark for hours, holding in your bladder, feeling the pain of it but you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction of having to sit in a cell with your own urine drying in the corner, oh no.

But you hoped rescue would come soon so that you wouldn’t pee your pants either.

You sunk down lower to the ground, closing your eyes to pretend to sleep. There was nothing at all in here you could use as a weapon except for your very own fists. With at least twelve hours gone by without food, perhaps a day or more but twelves hours definitely, you weren’t at your strongest.

There were voices. British. That made you think that these men definitely with the kidnappers. No American cops that you knew of spoke in those accents.

The beam went over your cell and passed over your face. The brightness hurt your eyes, despite them being closed. You did your best to keep your face calm, like you were sleeping, and not show the anger that you were feeling at being kept here. Or the fear. If your eyes were open, they surely would see.

“She’s in here!” A loud, posh sounding voice said. There was scrambling of feet. More voices. Loud ones. You waited the sound of a key unlocking the door to this cell but it did not come. Just the sound of grunts as they tried to bend the metal. Guess there wasn’t a door.

You finally opened your eyes and risked looking. It was a mess with the flashlights pointing everywhere. Some had been set down on the ground to face the bars. You sat up and tried to make out the shapes. You doubted it would be anyone that you recognized, but you thought you saw some police hats on some of the heads. You covered your eyes against the light.

“We’re going to get you out, y/n.” An older voice said, sounding desperate as they tried to get at the bars.

“It’s no use.” One of the cops said. “They’re too strong. Won’t bend.”

“He got her in there somehow.” A calm, British voice said. “So there has to be a way out.”

A couple of the police looking ones disappeared. In their absence, a shorter man - you could still only see silhouettes, rolled a flashlight between the bars towards you. You took it and used it to look around the interior of the room, see where you had been sitting. There didn’t seem to be a way out, and there was no door in the bars. You had no idea how you had gotten in here.

“How’d you guys find me?” You inquired right away. “And who are you? Did I get flown into England without realizing it?”

“No,” The one with the curly hair said, as the police came back with the proper tools to cut the bars to finally get you out of this hell hole. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. I’m-”

Someone cleared their throat in the background, and a man came forward who was dressed in an impeccable suit. He looked more out of place than a sword at a gunshow.