Undiscovered

Chapter 8

A large building the colour of sand towered over lush, green grass. Fancy cars pulled up to the large entrance, framed with patterns much like that of fairytale doorways. Women in expensive dresses waltzed through the grand entryway with handsome men linked to their arms.
John whistled and looked at Sherlock.
"What kind of event is this again?"  John asked as he looked through the car window.
"A birthday. The owner, Sergio Laurant, his 40th," He said simply.
Gravel crunched under the tires as they pulled up to the drive, where they were greeted by a valet. They stepped out of the car and Sherlock stood beside the short man.
He held out his arm expectantly, gesturing for John to link arms. He did so and smiled.
They walked into the ballroom gracefully, arm in arm. They received subtle looks from few, but John was too happy to care.
He had kissed Sherlock Holmes and Sherlock Holmes had kissed him back.
Everybody could suck it.

Their footsteps echoed on the marble floors. Large tables gracefully ladened with paraphernalia sat in the corners of the large room. Golden designs framed the ceiling that was painted with Cherub angels.
Men strutted around the ballroom carrying trays of dainty foods and champagne.

This was not John's idea of comfortable. He lived a quiet life - well, he used to, before Sherlock came along. Parties and gatherings were not his idea of fun. Sure, he was a relatively friendly guy, though after Afghanistan he closed himself into a shell. A warm, cozy shell.

Sherlock, on the other hand seemed to fit in. His stature and confident nature made him blend in perfectly with the posh crowd. His personality was another story. He was definitely not one for crowds. Many people disliked him for his ability to read them as it put them at a disadvantage.

Sherlock's gripped tightened on John as they made their way to the side of the large ballroom.

"If this is a birthday, wouldn't there be a private guest list?" John questioned.
They had passed right through the doors without being asked their names.

"Usually, yes. That's the thing about narcissistic socialites. They'll get as much attention as they can, which means letting in as many people as possible. Press, journalists, the sort. Pathetic, really," he muttered in reply.
A young French woman smiled at him in a flirtatious manner. In reply, Sherlock kissed John's hand and pulled him onto the dance floor.
Sherlock's hand fit in John's and the contact sent butterflies in his stomach. Face flaming, he waltzed with the tall man.

"Where's Ramirez?" John asked, willing his voice to sound normal and not weak to Sherlock's touch.

He looked down at the man and replied softly, "To your right. He's dancing with the one in purple - violet, to be exact. Over there by the bar, the other one standing on the balcony and the tall waiter; they're bodyguards."

"How could you possibly tell?" John asked him as they stepped slowly to a Bach piece being played by the violinists.

"Watch carefully, John. Their eyes all keep diverting and looking at Ramirez. It's not as if everybody knows him. There's a slight discolouration by their ears - ear wigs, probably. And neither are dancing, all just... watching. Remember when I said you'd stand out if you didn't dance? See," he stated fast and simply, his words flowing out of his mouth without hesitation.

John nodded impressively. Rhey danced with one another for a few minutes longer only to be interrupted by a large man.

He said something in French, something John did not understand. Sherlock and John stopped dancing and stood next to one another facing the big man. Sherlock stood straight as a statue. John looked at him quizzically, willing to know what was going on.

Sherlock replied in fluent French and nodded at John. He paused for a moment and whispered in John's ear, "I'll be back. I'll explain it all later. Find a pretty lady and go dance," He instructed before rurning on his heel and walking away with the man.

John stared at the empty space beside him. Where could he have gone? He thought to himself. He made his way to a small table alongside the panelled wall and sipped a glass of golden champagne.
He was approached by a tall man - One of the men that Sherlock had pointed out as being one of Ramirez's bodyguards. He was dressed like one of the many men serving snacks.
John shifted uncomfortably and the velvet chair suddenly felt too hard.
"Excuse me, sir? Could you please come with me?" The tall man said, accent thick. John gulped. Sherlock, he thought. Where was his friend?
He got up and asked the man,"Where are we going?"
"Just come with me," he said whilst leading him away towards the kitchen. They made their way through the crowd, John's heart beating fast. He was worried.
A voice broke the silence in his own head.
"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted feom the small balcony on top - His eyes were wide, scared.
"Sher-" He started before being tackled by the man. He shoved his arm behind his back and people screamed at the commotion. John tried escaping the man's grip and failed; A sharp blow to his jaw sent spots in his vision. A sharp pain stabbed at his neck as he was injected with something.
John fell to the ground in a slump. His vision was blurred and he could hear muffled punches. Someone dragged him out of the room as he watched feet pass by.
"John," Sherlock's voice echoed through his temple as he lost consciousness.

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A light flickered overhead whilst a small buzzing noise tickled John's sore ears.
He forced his eyes open, each one sticking together in protest. He yawned and his jaw screamed with pain.
Just sensitive. Not broken, he informed himself.
He shifted uncomfortably. His hands were tied behind his back, rope cutting into his skin. The metal chair he was tied to was seated in the centre of a dull room. Walls the colour of old metal, flickering light and no windows.
John looked around, looking for a way to free himself. He turned his neck and winced.
Injection, he noted.
He jerked forward in the metal chair but his restrained ankles restricted most movement.

John groaned. His stomach dropped once he remembered Sherlock. All he knew was one minute they were dancing and the next, Sherlock was lead away and John attacked.
Why?
He had to get out.

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Sherlock

"No! This was not supposed to happen!" Sherlock yelled over the phone.
Nonononononononono
His brain would not function. Fear and worry, the two things that Sherlock had thought to be most pointless, wracked his brain. John was gone and he didn't know where.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry. I'm doing all I can, I've got the best trying to locate him. Ramirez is a ghost," Lestrade pleaded.

"Dammit, Lestrade! It's not enough! I'll find him myself!" He cut the call and threw his phone against the wall of the hotel room.
Sherlock stormed to the room and angrily sat down on his bed. He put his head in his hands and squeezed his eyes. He would not cry.
Thinkthinkthink
He drew out a deep breath and retrieved his phone from behind the coffee table in the sitting room.

I'm going back to Laurant's. Need to see.
SH

He sent the text and pulled on his jacket. He ruffled his hand through his curly hair and turned the golden doorknob. He walked down the hallway.
Carpets lined the narrow corridor and doors enclosed them. Brown mahogany doors lightly fitted with golden letters passed Sherlock as he made his way to the elevator.

He needed to find John.

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