What Lies Beneath

“This is your choice, Sherlock,” Moran sneered, kneeling beside the pool of blood as Oliver entangled his hands in Laicee’s matted hair. He pulled her head up, and Sherlock’s stomach twisted as he stared at her battered face. All that restrained her now was a single ankle cuff chained to the wall. They’d removed the others to better beat her. Donovan and Anderson had left the room, and Lestrade had turned away, face buried in the side of Mycroft’s jacket; the elder Holmes watched with a morose face.

It had only been three days, but it felt like years. Three days and nights of sitting by, helpless, as Laicee was beaten.

John’s body trembled as he held in the sickening fury; he’d been crying silently for some time now. Death would be too good for Moran and Oliver if he ever got ahold of them. But it was Sherlock that watched most fervently, Sherlock who studied every facet of the video feed. Because soon something would give him a hint. Soon he would be able to figure out where Laicee was being kept, and he could take out the last piece of the crime web he’d been dismantling.

But Sherlock didn’t know how much longer he could watch the torture. That was his Laicee, the woman who had stolen his heart and forced him to keep fighting. Three years he’d protected her, and now Moran and his goon were slowly pummeling the life from her beautiful eyes.

Finally, Oliver threw the last punch across her face and threw her to the ground. She lay on the stained cement, her back feebly shuddering as she drew in desperate breaths. Moran stood and gave her a kick as he passed, kneeling in front of the camera.

“Had enough? Ready to take me up on my offer?”

“We can get you money,” John snarled, his face twisting into a furious scowl. “Money, fame, freedom, whatever it is, we can get it-“

“The only thing I want is for Sherlock to lose what I lost that day,” Moran hissed. “And either way this ends, he’ll suffer.”

Sherlock kept his face a mask of calm as his mind desperately went to work.

How many buildings in London have cement rooms? Damn near most of them, and no telling what type of cement mixture it is without a sample… No windows for orientation, and for all I know they might not even be in London anymore. No way to tell without some type of landmark-

“So what’s next?” Moran mused, glancing at Oliver, and Sherlock tilted his head forward, listening. “We’ve beaten her, abused her, and driven her into the ground. So what’s left to do to our little Laicee-doll before we kill her?”

John made a noise of distress at the last sentence, but Sherlock tensed. His mind had worked out the answer before it slid from Moran’s mouth.

“Isn’t your pretty little doll a virgin?”

The entire room fell silent, and even Lestrade whipped around to stare in sickened disbelief at the psychopath on the screen. Moran laughed coolly, and shared a smile with Oliver.

“I think we’ll take care of that.”

Laicee, apparently, had not been as dormant as Sherlock believed. She’d heard Moran, and even though she was in pain, she didn’t hesitate in forcing herself up. She pushed herself onto her haunches and began to scramble away, pawing desperately at the cuff on her ankle. The sight of her trying to get away sent despair coursing through Sherlock.

He was supposed to protect her, and all he could do was watch as Oliver grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her to him. Moran laughed and gave Sherlock a wink.

“Ten minutes Sherlock. You have ten minutes to pick a side, or your little Laicee-doll gets made into a woman.”

The camera shut off, and the room was left in sickened silence. Killing all his friends in the room was not an option, but allowing his Laicee to be raped at the hands of the two most sickening men he’d ever encountered wasn’t either.

Moran had beat him. Any option he picked he lost. Either kill his friends, or watch Laicee be ruined and murdered. For the first time in a long, long time, Sherlock Holmes had no idea what to do. He was clueless. Absolutely, completely clueless.

***

“Kill me,” I panted, spitting out the blood that welled in my mouth. Even just the thought of Moran and Oliver raping me sent shudders of repulsion coursing through me. Oliver laughed and tilted my head back.

“I don’t think so, princess. We’re not done with you.”

Moran cackled as Oliver shoved his lips against mine, forcing his tongue into my mouth. I bit down as hard as I could; blood welled in my mouth as he screamed. Oliver hit me hard on the temple twice to force me to release my bite, and then shoved me to the ground, cursing and cupping his tongue.

“Fucking bitch!” he snarled, scrambling to his feet; blood splattered his t-shirt. I watched through blurry eyes as Moran grabbed Oliver and pulled his hands away to study my work.

“You’re fine,” he muttered, shoving Oliver towards the door. I let my eyes fall shut in a feeble attempt to stop the spinning in my head. “Grab some ice and go get our lunches from that shop.”

“Why do I hab oo ge’ um?” Oliver mumbled around his bleeding tongue.

“Because I’m the fuckin’ boss, and I gave you a fuckin’ order,” Moran snarled as he unlocked the door. “It’s a two minute walk, you can fuckin’ handle it.”

“Jus’ cause yoo in charge-“ Oliver started up as the door shut. I heard it click, and then heard the lock settle. I counted to ten before I risked opening my eyes again. The room held still this time, and I even managed to push myself into a sitting position.

I have to get out of here, I resolved, looking around the room. The problem was, I’d been trying for three days to get myself out, and all I’d done was lose at least half my bodyweight in blood. I was weak, in pain, and famished. I was no match for two strong, determined men.

There’s more on the line this time, I reminded myself, and my stomach churned when I remembered what was coming up for me. Again I squeezed my eyes shut, but this time I forced my mind to think. You lived with Sherlock. You worked with Sherlock. You know what he’d do. Think. Think like Sherlock.

Easier said than done. I sat in silence for close to five minutes, frantically remembering just how long I had until my attackers returned.

I can’t gain the upper hand the way I am, I sighed. Two of me, one of them. I already fought Moran once, and I wouldn’t count that a win. He’s strong and he’s a trained killer. If it were Oliver, then I’d be fine. So the key is to incapacitate Moran and then deal with Oliver… and then, of course, there’s the escaping, and getting the backup here… and how the hell am I even going to take out Moran-

“Look around you,” said a voice that felt right next to me, and I snapped open my eyes. That had been Sherlock. Three years had gone by but I still knew his voice. I did a complete circle twice, and even then I still wasn’t convinced I was alone in the room.

“What’s around me?” I murmured, closing my eyes again and waiting for him to speak. Again, the voice hissed at me.

“Look. Study. Think.”

I opened my eyes; Sherlock was in my mind. Just my imagination. Of course. But even in figment form I still listened to his advice. I looked around the room again, but this time I forced myself to take in the surroundings. Nothing on the walls, save my shackles and a single door off to the right. Just a few crates lined the walls, and about forty feet in front of me was the camera and a laptop.

“I can’t reach the laptop,” I sighed. “And the door’s out of the question-“

“Why?” Sherlock pressed, and I frowned.

“Because I’m chained up,” I told myself, frowning until I realized what I’d just said. “Chained up. It doesn’t matter if I take out Moran and Oliver if I’m still chained up. So, the keys…”

On Moran’s belt, right side, hooked on a carabineer.

“Don’t focus on Oliver,” Sherlock insisted. “If you take him out, you’re incapacitated to fight Moran. Get the keys, get free, and by then Moran is out of the picture and it leaves you and Oliver.”

“But how do I get Moran taken out?” I fretted, and I could almost feel Sherlock’s exasperation.

“You see, but you do not observe. What is within reaching distance that you can use as a weapon?”

I stared around me, my eyes searching out the one thing close to me.

“The… chain?” I asked, my fingers brushing across the ankle cuff. “But it’s attached to me-“

“You have slack. Get close to the wall and you have enough to work with.”

Oliver must be back; I could hear the two men in the hallway arguing, and panic began to overtake my mind.

“But then how do I fight Oliver? And I don’t even know where I am-”

“All I need is one clue,” Sherlock promised. “One simple, tiny landmark, and I’ll be able to find you.”

I heard shouting again, and footsteps coming down the hall. I was full on panicking. This was crazy. They’d just fight me back and kill me-

“They’ll kill you either way,” Sherlock reminded me. “Why not go without giving it your all?”

“Because I can’t fight them,” I whimpered, sounding like a little girl. “I tried the first night here, and they nearly killed me-“

“You’re scared, desperate, and stronger than they think. They underestimate you. You’re a fighter; you’ll summon all your strength if you need to. It’s how you are. Lying dormant until it counts.”

The lock jiggled, and I felt sick to my stomach. The voice issued one last order before it faded into the back of my mind.

“Get yourself to the wall, get yourself slack on the chain. The rest will come. Take a breath.”

So I did; I took a deep breath and scrambled across the floor. I curled up on my side, scooting forward until my knees pressed against the wall, and scooped the chain up to my chest. Curling a little tighter, I managed to give myself nearly all the chain as slack; as the door opened, I wrapped the chain tight around my hand.

“Get the camera on,” Moran ordered, wrinkling up a food wrapper and tossing it to the floor. Oliver muttered in agitation, but did as he was told. As the men set up the live feed, I risked lifting my head and taking a peek. I studied their backs only for a moment before I looked over at the food wrapper.

The paper was balled up, but the paper tray was still in tact, upside down and just close enough to read. O’Hara Gourmet. I nearly let out a squeak of excitement.

O’Hara Gourmet was an upscale deli that only had two locations: across from Bedford Square Garden, just ten minutes from Baker Street, and one just south of Baker street, across from the Picadilly Circus underground.

My heart was beating so hard I thought it would break my ribs. Moran had said it was a two-minute walk to get the lunches. Just two minutes from O’Hara Gourmet, which meant I was two minutes from one of two places.

I let out a shaky breath. This was it. I heard the beep of the camera, and Moran cleared his throat.

“I see the Doctor and company are still alive and well,” he mused.

“We’re willing to make a deal with you,” Lestrade started, and I heard Moran laugh.

“Offer me the world and all it’s riches, and you’ll be wasting your breath. Only thing I want, I’m about to get. And then some,” he added, and he and Oliver burst out laughing.

Balance of probability, I told myself as the panic doubled. He’ll want me first, because he’s the boss.

“Please,” Sherlock pleaded, and my stomach tightened. I’d never heard him grovel, and I’d never heard his voice waiver like it just had. “Please. Take me instead of her.”

Moran was silent, and I was too afraid to look back. Neither him or Oliver spoke for several seconds, and the scared little girl inside of me thought that maybe they’d take him up on his offer. But Moran laughed, and I heard him begin to walk towards me.

“Not a chance, Mr. Holmes. Now sit back, and enjoy your show.”

I felt Moran kneel down next to me, and a large, solid hand grabbed onto my hip to roll me over.

“Come on little Laice-doll, let’s have some fun,” he cooed, and I took a final deep breath. Moran straddled me as he settled me on my back, and I snapped open my eyes. My left chain-wrapped hand slammed into the side of Moran’s jaw hard enough to emit a satisfying crack, and the rest was instinct.

As Moran screamed in pain and reeled back, holding his face, I hit him again just a few inches higher and caught him in the temple. He slumped to the side, unpinning me, and I sat up instantaneously. Oliver let out a howl of anger and sprinted for me; I grabbed the keys and ripped them off the belt loop in one frantic yank.

Oliver reached me just as I went for the anklet, and I threw myself to the side. Oliver slammed into the wall and threw himself off balance, slumping awkwardly to the ground. I turned swiftly and leaned back on my arms, kicking out and catching Oliver in the throat. He let out a strangled, guttered cry and fell onto his back as he gasped for air.

Stronger than they think, I chanted to myself as the adrenaline shot through me. The keys shook in my hand as I frantically unchained myself. The cuff fell free, and I let out a cry of excitement. I didn’t hesitate, though; Oliver was getting back up, and I was nowhere near strong enough to take him on. I was quivering so bad I could barely stand. I stumbled towards the camera, and my face appeared on the bottom half of the screen.

And there, on the upper screen, were the faces of those I loved most. John, Lestrade, Mycroft, and hell, even Donovan and Anderson. All there. All okay. And Sherlock was in front of them all, his sea-green eyes shimmering as we met each others eyes for the first time in three years. But Oliver was getting to his feet, and Moran was coming back to consciousness. I let out a shaking breath.

No time to waste.

***

“Laicee,” Sherlock gasped, his heart constricting. Everyone in the room was on their feet, crowding around the crying detective as Laicee’s bruised and battered face filled up the screen. Yes, his Laicee was still alive and kicking. Her green eyes, dull from pain and fear, lit up as she studied her own laptop screen. Their eyes met, and Sherlock lost his breath.

“O’Hara Gourmet,” she panted, her voice scratching and weak, but filled with adrenaline and determination. “Two minutes from O’Hara Gourmet-“

She glanced over her shoulder, and then turned back hurriedly. Her eyes locked with Sherlock’s again, and she gave a brief, fleeting smile.

“I love you,” she promised, and then took off; a door flew open in the background. Oliver snarled as he staggered towards the laptop. He gave the group one furious glance, and then he reached out and slammed the laptop shut.

Sherlock was out of the room before the screen went blank.