The DI is Cast

1.

Gregory Lestrade woke with a start. Sitting up with almost the same speed his eyes had opened to complete darkness, was a foolish idea though. All he could do was turn sideways before he vomited violently. Eventually the retching subsided, and he fell back, only to end up hitting his already hurting head on concrete instead of landing on a pillow as expected.
"What the fuck!" he swore, sitting up again. At least he didn't get sick again right away. He fingered the back of his head, wincing when his fingers encountered a bleeding wound and a slight swelling. Shit! He remained sitting, elbows on his knees, head bend low, finally feeling his brain kicking into gear.
Lestrade took stock. He was cold. He sat on the concrete floor, wearing nothing but his boxers. His head hurt, and his stomach was churning. He had little idea where he was. Actually not even an idea when he was. He felt another wave of nausea sweep over him again, forcing his stomach to release the last ounce of whatever it still had housed, leaving him with a mouthful of bile.

Wrapping his arms around his shivering body, Lestrade tried to recall the last thing he remembered before waking up here. Wherever 'here' was.
There had been a party at the Yard after they had finally hunted down the murderer of six women; of course, with the help of Sherlock Holmes. The self-proclaimed consulting detective had been absent, and the party itself had been a short one. They all had been exhausted, wanting nothing more than to go home, hug their families, take a hot shower and sleep for at least twelve hours.
Sally had offered him a lift in her car but Lestrade had decided on walking. It wasn't far, and he was ashamed, didn't want her to see the house he had found a flat in after he finally had separated from his wife. He remembered he had waved goodbye, lit a cigarette, and that was it.
When he felt fairly certain that he wouldn't throw up again Lestrade struggled to his feet. He heard a click, and the room was flooded with bright white light, forcing him to squeeze his eyes tightly shut. He heard rather than saw a door opening. Two men entered, grabbing his arms, and dragging him out.
"Who are you?" Lestrade demanded. The man holding his right arm, used his free hand had to slap him firmly in the face.
"Shut up!"
His vision adjusted to the light while they walked him down a corridor into another room. A bathroom. Well, not really a bathroom. A room with a tiled floor and walls. He was shoved roughly into one corner.
"Stay there," the man who had slapped him ordered. The other grabbed a hose that hung on the wall. A jet of ice-cold water shot from the end, almost pinning Lestrade to the tiles.
"You're filthy. Ain't going to see the boss stinking of puke!"
They hosed Lestrade down until he collapsed into a shivering heap.
Not bothering that he was dripping wet, the grinning men grabbed his arms again. A fierce kick to his leg forced Lestrade to struggle up, before he was dragged rather than walked further down the corridor.

oOo

"No, he would never do that," John Watson said, shaking his head while smiling fondly at his wife. The newly wed couple sat at the breakfast table, discussing over tea and toast the benefits of vaccination in general and the necessity of flu shots in particular. Both of them already had had their shots. With plenty of Londoners suffering badly every autumn and winter Mary had enquired whether Sherlock too would get his flu shot.
"Absolutely not!" John had answered her question.
"Why not?"
"It's just something he wouldn't do." John shrugged.
"You could convince him," Mary suggested.
"Yeah, right. Sherlock isn't going to get vaccinated. Even if I went down on my knees and begged him. He just won't!"
"Come on, I bet he would." Mary took a sip of tea.
"Wouldn't!"
Mary paused and smiled. "If he does, what's in for me?" Her voice was as soft as honey.
John thought for a while. Mary seemed to have a deep understanding of his former flatmate and still best friend. That prickly man didn't make friends easily. Okay, delete 'easily' without replacement. Unsettle people, yes. But Sherlock didn't make friends. Exclamation mark.
With Mary, Sherlock had been amazingly friendly though.

They had met for lunch shortly after Sherlock's ... John momentarily thought 'resurrection' but replaced it with 'return'. John had greeted Greg Lestrade and gone for hanging up his and Mary's jackets. When he came back Sherlock had just arrived, and had been kissing Mary's cheek.
"You never did that to me," had spluttered out of him - obviously without thinking whatsoever. Sherlock's eyebrows had shot up, almost disappearing in his hairline, Mary's mouth hung open, and Greg had looked like he might have a seizure.
The doctor had flushed a deep scarlet, smiling bashfully.
"What I meant... I mean... I... That's fine." John had spread his hands, adding in an afterthought, "I'm not gay."
John had closed his eyes, wondering how he was supposed to extract his foot from his mouth when the detective approached him.
"You never said you wanted one," Sherlock growled before his long elegant hands had engulfed John's face, tilted it slightly and kissed him on his cheek.
"Better?" he had asked, eyes twinkling humorously, leaving John to blush to such an extent he wondered if every single ounce of blood had risen to his head.
"We'll talk about this when we get home," Mary had threatened, making everybody laugh.

"John?" Mary looked enquiringly at her husband's face. John grinned, feeling a bit silly at the memory and shook his head.
"What was your question, my love?"
"If he does, what's in for me?"
"How about a massage?" John offered.
"Deal!" Mary got up.
"But he has to take the vaccine willingly. Shooting him with a blowgun doesn't count."
"I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing," Mary said. "I need to do some shopping, and you have to go to work." She kissed John. "Would you mind inviting Sherlock for dinner tomorrow?"
John produced an 'I have no idea what you're up to' face but nodded.

OOo

Greg Lestrade was dragged into some sort of office and jostled into a chair. The office looked a lot like one in a GP surgery. A very old one that is. Considering looks, smell and sounds the building was most likely deserted, before his kidnappers had taken up residence here. A tall man entered the room. Angular features, crew cut hairstyle. He was dressed smartly, his attire almost as expensive as Mycroft Holmes'. Greg estimated that he was in his mid-fifties. Probably 'the boss'. Immediately the brutes who had dragged him here straightened up. Greg wouldn't have been surprised if an 'at ease!' had been uttered from the boss.
"My name is Milton Banks, Mr. Lestrade. I hope my colleagues have treated you well." The man had big brown eyes but his gaze held no warmth whatsoever.
"What do you want from me?" Greg asked, anger finally catching up with him in his half frozen, still drugged state.
"Okay, let's get straight to business. You have information I want, and there is only one possibility. You are going to give me that information. The question that remains is how much pain you will endure until I have my answer. Banks tilted his head slightly, studying his prisoner's face before shifting his gaze to his so called colleagues, nodding.
Greg's arms were gripped and pulled behind his back. He swallowed hard. He was no hero who would endure hours of torture before spilling his guts. From what he knew those people only existed in a movie.
"What I want to know are the security codes of New Scotland Yard's vault."
Greg tried to hide his surprise. The vault held mostly confiscated drugs and weapons. It was located deep the bowels of the Yard. Opening it wasn't the most difficult part. Getting there in the first place was. Apparently that wasn't Banks' concern.
As if reading Greg's mind he added, "No, I won't have problems getting as far as the vault, and I could blast it open but I don't want to damage the contents unintentionally.
Greg didn't even want to think how many officers might get killed if this Milton Banks - 'where the fuck had he heard that name before?' - and his companions came waltzing into Scotland Yard.
Suddenly his arms were pulled back with such ferocity that Greg feared his shoulders would be dislocated. He screamed in pain.
Still... "No," Greg said, shaking his head. Maybe he could endure what they had in store for him for some time. Maybe it was enough time that his own colleagues realised he had vanished. They would come looking for him.
Banks saw the feeble hope in the inspector's eyes, smiling cruelly.
"Actually I had hoped you'd say no." He looked at his watch. "We still have time. Let's start with stage one, shall we?"
He opened a cabinet, and within a small refrigerator, extracting a little glass tube that held a clear liquid. He showed it Greg.
"This is a venom produced in our laboratories. Homemade if you will." Banks' smile deepened. "You see we have some fascinating creatures down here. I don't know how interested you are in arachnids. This is the poison of Latrodectus tredecimguttatus probably better known as the Black Widow. Her venom doesn't really kill. It only makes every single muscle in the body of her victim convulse. You have six hundred and fifty six muscles in your body, Mr. Lestrade. All muscles convulsing at the same time makes the pain, shall we say, exquisite?"
Greg had forgotten how cold he was during Banks' little speech. When the man had finished he wasn't sure if the gooseflesh that covered his whole body came from being cold or the pure horror he felt.
"Wait...," he began but Banks was no longer listening.
With a quick move he pulled out a syringe, injecting the poison into Lestrade's neck.
"It's a weakened version of the real thing. It doesn't last as long as the pure poison, and gives us time to talk later."
He gave a dismissive wave with his hand, and Greg was walked back to his cell.
On his way he saw two other men, dragging a young woman into a room. Her uniform suggested she was a police constable fresh from the academy. He could hear her crying, kicking and screaming until the door of his cell was slammed shut, leaving him once more in utter darkness.