Undiscovered

Chapter 9

A metal door creaked open and John flinched. The sudden loud noise broke the silence with a sharp note. John kept his eyes closed, willing for whoever it was to go away.
Footsteps.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
The worn out floor protested against the person's weight.

John's head stayed ducked, chin against chest. He steadied his breathing and waited quietly.

A sharp blow against his head forced him to look up as he grimaced in pain.
A tall young man stood in front of him - the waiter from Saint Laurants.
John spat blood out onto the floor and the man punched his gut.
Oxygen was forced out of his lungs as he gasped, willing for it to come back.
"Who are you working for?" He demanded, pacing in front of him, knuckles cracking with every step. A sneer was etched into his face and his cold eyes stared John down.

John glared at the waiter and pressed his mouth into a tight line. His lips tasted of metal - of blood.

"Fine," The dark haired man said. He walked behind John, out of his eyesight. The sound of a metal object scraping against anothe metallic object forced a shiver down John's aching spine.

The man appeared in front of John once again, blow torch in hand. He flicked the switch and a blue and yellow flame shot out of the nozzle. He inched closer to John, aiming the flame at his bare feet.

"Start off small, huh?" He sneered as white hot pain started to sear the side of John's foot.
A loud scream echoed through the room and John's eyes rolled into his head.

-------------

No. No. No. No.

His eyes scoured the room, searching, longing. It has to be somewhere.

Sherlock strode over to where he had seen John attacked. His jaw clenched at the thought of someone laying their filthy hands on his friend.

He shook his head. Focus. After a small moment, a tiny disruption is the scenery caught his eye. Sherlock bent down to the floor, taking a closer look at the object on the floor - a needle. The needle used to stab John.
He gingerly picked it up between his fingers and sniffed it - Knock Out Gas.

He headed towards the kitchen where he last saw John being dragged. On the white floor in front of him, Sherlock saw a speck of dirt.
Leaning down, he rubbed it between his fingers.

He knew where John was.

-------------

"Lestrade! I know where he is. Ramirez. 33 Roseland. Warehouse."

------------

Searing pain. His foot. His face. Blood staining his face. Taste of metal, sharp sting. Jaw swollen, tears lined his bruised cheeks.

Waves of unconsciousness overlapped John every few moments, drowning the pain blissfully.

Consciousness. Pain. Bright light bright light bright light.

"John. John.!"

Hands brushed his broken face.

"John, my John. Hear me. Come on, listen to my voice John."

Warmth. Footsteps.
Shouting.

"Excuse me, sir. We need to strap him. No, no don't touch him, sir."

Movement. Sharp pain in his ribs that forced a scream out of him.

"Stay with me, John."