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Description
“Aris Fletcher. Married. Two kids. And we were so close this time..” Lestrade mumbled, eyes locked on the body bag that was being escorted away from the scene.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, quietly scanning over the area where they found her. It was such a busy place he was surprised no one had seen a stabbed woman being dragged into a building and tucked away in one of the empty rooms.

Lestrade had received the note earlier that day. It said, “Cold and alone, far away from home. And yet, I like it here. My view is wonderful of the eye that goes round and round, that never stops until we're done.”

Even Lestrade knew the general area of which this woman was left. Everyone was sent off into groups, each taking a section of area to find the wounded female. But it was when Mycroft called Sherlock with his intel that the man yanked Lestrade by his shoulder and dragged him to commercial building that was being renovated.

She was found alive, but it only lasted long enough for her to say her peace.

Sherlock would not usually be bothered by the death of one from a case, but he knew that one of these times, it would not be a random (h/c) stranger. It would be you that died. And it would be his fault.

Mycroft would kill him for it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“It's your luck day!” His velvet voice called out into the small, damp room. The blindfolds were tugged down one by one, each woman recoiling from the sudden sight. As per usual, the unkempt man made his appearance in you vision.

“There are four of you left. Just four. But I have a surprise,” he spun on his heel away from you and pointed to the woman opposite of you. “You are next.” There was a small nagging in your chest, unable to relax, though he chose another woman. His words from his last visit were weighing heavily in your head, repeating over and over again.

”You're next, (F/M/L Name)”

“BUT!” The man laughed letting his index motion to the others. “There will be another.”

There it was.

The tears sprang to the corners of your eyes, head hanging low in defeat. Though you could not see it, the man was smirking and could not wait to throw you out on your butt with a few knife wounds. It would make his master proud.

His finger landed on you, no surprise there, and a smile formed on your lips. At the very least, there was a good chance Sherlock and Mycroft would get to you. And then the nightmare would be over.

“You, darling,” the captor purred, leaning in to tap the edge of your nose. “Let's go.” With a snap of his fingers, there were men at each side lifting you without much of a struggle. What would be the point?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“There's a new note. Let me see it.” Sherlock demanded as he barged into Lestrade's office with his phone in hand, having been in a heated discussion with his brother. Not questioning how he even knew, Greg handed the small paper over.

His eyes skimmed over the words and his heart slowed before beating a little faster than usual. Two people. There will be two women. Sherlock stuck his tongue in his cheek before growling and tossing the note back to Greg and stalking out of his office without a word.

His finger was instantly hovering over the call button. Sherlock made sure he was out of sight so no one might interrupt the conversation or the moment he took before he called his brother where he could hide his dismal expression and gloomy tone.

“Brother. What is it now?”

“It's going to be her this time.”

Silence.

“How do you know?”

“He will be sending out two women this time. He wouldn't do that unless he was planning on-”

“Say no more, Sherlock. But listen to me. For once, I am asking you to be selfish. If it comes down to choosing one or the other and there is a chance that your little police get it in their tiny minds that they can save both and there's a possibility she could die, save her. No one else.”

The elder Holmes ended the call before his younger sibling could speak and pinched the bridge of his nose.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You were strapped down and forced to watch the other woman get a knife plunged into her stomach. How did any of the other women survive? No. Did they actually survive like you had originally thought earlier?

Her screams were echoing in your ears, resulting in your lip quivering in silent fear. That would be you in less than five minutes. When your captor was satisfied with his work, he waved for his henchmen to take her off and handed them a small envelope. He whispered a few words to them and they were gone not soon after.

The dark haired man turned to you and smiled. “Just you and me.” Though the gag no longer made a home in your mouth, you considered silence to be a wise decision.

“Would you like to know my name? And why you? You're going to die anyway, so there's no harm. No harm at all.”

Your mind kick-started into high gear, a sense of hope rising in your chest. First mistake. Never assume death. One never knows what's going to happen when you have saviours like Sherlock and Mycroft.

You nodded, nibbling at the chapped skin your lower lip. “No,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Ask for it. I want to hear you talk.”

You weighed the choice in your head. Just say yes, be able to learn his name and the reason you were taken or don't say anything and not learn the information needed to put him behind bars if you survive..

“Tell me.”

The man grinned, tracing his thumb over your jawline. “What a pretty voice.. Alright. Since you asked so nicely. My name is Martin Parker. And my boss really likes you.”

His boss..? Your brows knitted together, your expression one of deep thought.

“He really likes you... and I can see why.”

He pressed his overly warm lips to your cheek causing an involuntary shiver to run down your spine. Martin pulled back and ran the blade of his knife over his glove before lifting your shirt up with the tip of it. “Now, it's unfortunate I have to scar and pretty thing like you, but it's part of the job. Job comes first.”

He pressed the tip into the skin, barely breaking the surface skin. Running the blade, now much deeper, across the base of your stomach resulted in a loud groan of protest. You tugged at the bonds, eyes shut to avoid looking down at the now bleeding cut.

“We're not done, yet.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Two notes. Read 'em.” Lestrade laid them both out on the edge of his desk for Sherlock to look at them.

The first one read as, “Unimportant and cast aside. Left to die, weep and sigh. You can find me locked away deep inside along with the quiet dead. But soon I will be joining them, so it won't make a difference, will it?”

And the second was much shorter, which caused Sherlock to twitch from nerves, “I'm under your nose. A place many do not visit. But is right in front of your eyes. I'm home.”

Both notes seemed to be blaring the obvious to Sherlock, but he dared not make the wrong move. The kidnapper was being so obvious as to where they were, but why? What's his move? And then, it hit him. Why else would you be you blatantly telling someone where they left bleeding women?

Because they're already teetering over the line of dead. This man only wants them to have one last word to their loved ones. And in this case, it was you, Mycroft, and Sherlock.

Sherlock was quick to pull his phone out and text his brother.

Get to our flat as soon as possible. NOW. SH

“One woman is at St. Bart's. Already in the morgue. Get to her. Fast.”

“And the other?”

Sherlock looked to Lestrade, a quick flash of despair before it disappeared. “Send the paramedics to my address. And if they are not there by the time I am and (Name) dies, it will be on your head.”

Greg already had his phone to his ear as the Holmes stormed out of his office. The DI was yelling orders, knowing the Sherlock was more than likely, not kidding.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dying at home. Isn't that what everyone wanted? Except it usually involved family or dying in their sleep peacefully. Not staining the love of their life's bed with blood.

Your body convulsed, the little amount of air that was filling your lungs nothing, but gags and gasps now. You attempted to write down the man's name. Martin Parker. To say he had a boss. His looks. Anything that could help Sherlock, but just lying in bed was a chore.

Turns out your captor wasn't so dumb for telling you after all. You never would get the chance to speak. Even if Mycroft or Sherlock walked through that door right now, you couldn't get your vocal cords to work. The only sound being your strangled breaths.

Speaking of doors, the one to the flat was opened and shut. Even through your tired and clouded mind, the sound registered as if angels just smiled upon you. One last time. One last look.

“(Name!)” Mycroft.

More foot steps. How many Mycrofts were there?

There were so many hands poking and prodding, lifting you up. Were they lifting you up? Or was that finally the acceptance of death?

“You're going to be fine, (Name).” Sherlock?

Your vision was blurry before your eyelids became too heavy and closed.

You were just about to die, but one last sentence bounced around in your ears.

“I love you..”

And then, black.

Description
“Aris Fletcher. Married. Two kids. And we were so close this time..” Lestrade mumbled, eyes locked on the body bag that was being escorted away from the scene.

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, quietly scanning over the area where they found her. It was such a busy place he was surprised no one had seen a stabbed woman being dragged into a building and tucked away in one of the empty rooms.

Lestrade had received the note earlier that day. It said, “Cold and alone, far away from home. And yet, I like it here. My view is wonderful of the eye that goes round and round, that never stops until we're done.”

Even Lestrade knew the general area of which this woman was left. Everyone was sent off into groups, each taking a section of area to find the wounded female. But it was when Mycroft called Sherlock with his intel that the man yanked Lestrade by his shoulder and dragged him to commercial building that was being renovated.

She was found alive, but it only lasted long enough for her to say her peace.

Sherlock would not usually be bothered by the death of one from a case, but he knew that one of these times, it would not be a random (h/c) stranger. It would be you that died. And it would be his fault.

Mycroft would kill him for it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“It's your luck day!” His velvet voice called out into the small, damp room. The blindfolds were tugged down one by one, each woman recoiling from the sudden sight. As per usual, the unkempt man made his appearance in you vision.

“There are four of you left. Just four. But I have a surprise,” he spun on his heel away from you and pointed to the woman opposite of you. “You are next.” There was a small nagging in your chest, unable to relax, though he chose another woman. His words from his last visit were weighing heavily in your head, repeating over and over again.

”You're next, (F/M/L Name)”

“BUT!” The man laughed letting his index motion to the others. “There will be another.”

There it was.

The tears sprang to the corners of your eyes, head hanging low in defeat. Though you could not see it, the man was smirking and could not wait to throw you out on your butt with a few knife wounds. It would make his master proud.

His finger landed on you, no surprise there, and a smile formed on your lips. At the very least, there was a good chance Sherlock and Mycroft would get to you. And then the nightmare would be over.

“You, darling,” the captor purred, leaning in to tap the edge of your nose. “Let's go.” With a snap of his fingers, there were men at each side lifting you without much of a struggle. What would be the point?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“There's a new note. Let me see it.” Sherlock demanded as he barged into Lestrade's office with his phone in hand, having been in a heated discussion with his brother. Not questioning how he even knew, Greg handed the small paper over.

His eyes skimmed over the words and his heart slowed before beating a little faster than usual. Two people. There will be two women. Sherlock stuck his tongue in his cheek before growling and tossing the note back to Greg and stalking out of his office without a word.

His finger was instantly hovering over the call button. Sherlock made sure he was out of sight so no one might interrupt the conversation or the moment he took before he called his brother where he could hide his dismal expression and gloomy tone.

“Brother. What is it now?”

“It's going to be her this time.”

Silence.

“How do you know?”

“He will be sending out two women this time. He wouldn't do that unless he was planning on-”

“Say no more, Sherlock. But listen to me. For once, I am asking you to be selfish. If it comes down to choosing one or the other and there is a chance that your little police get it in their tiny minds that they can save both and there's a possibility she could die, save her. No one else.”

The elder Holmes ended the call before his younger sibling could speak and pinched the bridge of his nose.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You were strapped down and forced to watch the other woman get a knife plunged into her stomach. How did any of the other women survive? No. Did they actually survive like you had originally thought earlier?

Her screams were echoing in your ears, resulting in your lip quivering in silent fear. That would be you in less than five minutes. When your captor was satisfied with his work, he waved for his henchmen to take her off and handed them a small envelope. He whispered a few words to them and they were gone not soon after.

The dark haired man turned to you and smiled. “Just you and me.” Though the gag no longer made a home in your mouth, you considered silence to be a wise decision.

“Would you like to know my name? And why you? You're going to die anyway, so there's no harm. No harm at all.”

Your mind kick-started into high gear, a sense of hope rising in your chest. First mistake. Never assume death. One never knows what's going to happen when you have saviours like Sherlock and Mycroft.

You nodded, nibbling at the chapped skin your lower lip. “No,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “Ask for it. I want to hear you talk.”

You weighed the choice in your head. Just say yes, be able to learn his name and the reason you were taken or don't say anything and not learn the information needed to put him behind bars if you survive..

“Tell me.”

The man grinned, tracing his thumb over your jawline. “What a pretty voice.. Alright. Since you asked so nicely. My name is Martin Parker. And my boss really likes you.”

His boss..? Your brows knitted together, your expression one of deep thought.

“He really likes you... and I can see why.”

He pressed his overly warm lips to your cheek causing an involuntary shiver to run down your spine. Martin pulled back and ran the blade of his knife over his glove before lifting your shirt up with the tip of it. “Now, it's unfortunate I have to scar and pretty thing like you, but it's part of the job. Job comes first.”

He pressed the tip into the skin, barely breaking the surface skin. Running the blade, now much deeper, across the base of your stomach resulted in a loud groan of protest. You tugged at the bonds, eyes shut to avoid looking down at the now bleeding cut.

“We're not done, yet.”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

“Two notes. Read 'em.” Lestrade laid them both out on the edge of his desk for Sherlock to look at them.

The first one read as, “Unimportant and cast aside. Left to die, weep and sigh. You can find me locked away deep inside along with the quiet dead. But soon I will be joining them, so it won't make a difference, will it?”

And the second was much shorter, which caused Sherlock to twitch from nerves, “I'm under your nose. A place many do not visit. But is right in front of your eyes. I'm home.”

Both notes seemed to be blaring the obvious to Sherlock, but he dared not make the wrong move. The kidnapper was being so obvious as to where they were, but why? What's his move? And then, it hit him. Why else would you be you blatantly telling someone where they left bleeding women?

Because they're already teetering over the line of dead. This man only wants them to have one last word to their loved ones. And in this case, it was you, Mycroft, and Sherlock.

Sherlock was quick to pull his phone out and text his brother.

Get to our flat as soon as possible. NOW. SH

“One woman is at St. Bart's. Already in the morgue. Get to her. Fast.”

“And the other?”

Sherlock looked to Lestrade, a quick flash of despair before it disappeared. “Send the paramedics to my address. And if they are not there by the time I am and (Name) dies, it will be on your head.”

Greg already had his phone to his ear as the Holmes stormed out of his office. The DI was yelling orders, knowing the Sherlock was more than likely, not kidding.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Dying at home. Isn't that what everyone wanted? Except it usually involved family or dying in their sleep peacefully. Not staining the love of their life's bed with blood.

Your body convulsed, the little amount of air that was filling your lungs nothing, but gags and gasps now. You attempted to write down the man's name. Martin Parker. To say he had a boss. His looks. Anything that could help Sherlock, but just lying in bed was a chore.

Turns out your captor wasn't so dumb for telling you after all. You never would get the chance to speak. Even if Mycroft or Sherlock walked through that door right now, you couldn't get your vocal cords to work. The only sound being your strangled breaths.

Speaking of doors, the one to the flat was opened and shut. Even through your tired and clouded mind, the sound registered as if angels just smiled upon you. One last time. One last look.

“(Name!)” Mycroft.

More foot steps. How many Mycrofts were there?

There were so many hands poking and prodding, lifting you up. Were they lifting you up? Or was that finally the acceptance of death?

“You're going to be fine, (Name).” Sherlock?

Your vision was blurry before your eyelids became too heavy and closed.

You were just about to die, but one last sentence bounced around in your ears.

“I love you..”

And then, black.