Vertigo

Chapter thirteen

When Paul switched on his kitchen light, he did not expect to see Sam silhouetted in its lurid yellow glow, his back to the darkened window and arms crossed threateningly. Paul drew his eyebrows together as he flung his keys down on the table, showing Sam he was not happy that he had just spent the last hour looking for him.

"What are you doing here?" He then sighed, dropping into a chair, while Sam stayed motionless at the window, his face as white and drawn as ever.

"You know why - I need the codeword," Sam barked in response, and Paul could make out the beads of sweat the nervous man's forehead.

"I can't give it to you." Paul hated the feeling of shame that weighed his body down, and this hatred intensified when he saw the glint of betrayal in Sam's eyes. But he was bound by government law; this went beyond his and Sam's friendship, and although Laurie was his stepsister, he wouldn't risk the details of such an important project being leaked.

But Sam wouldn't listen to any of this, obviously. Something had screwed up his mind, and it was no longer working rationally. He looked like a scared rabbit; the whites of his eyes clearing showing under the light by which he stood.

"Please," Sam changed his tone now, "You know why I need it."

Paul's expression softened and his eyebrows relaxed. He remembered that Sam was probably as worried about Laurie as anyone else, and just wanted the codeword for her safe-

"You know that money is like nothing I'll ever see again in my working life," Sam was rambling on, and Paul's blood ran cold.

The bastard. He didn't care about Laurie at all; all he cared about was the hundreds of thousands of pounds he could gain from this stupid venture. Seething, Paul stood up and flung his chair to the side, thoroughly startling Sam.

"You, Sam, are a waste of space," he said simply, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to calm himself down. However, Sam's next look of simple bewilderment was enough to set him off again.

"I need the money Paul," he was gabbling again, "I really do need it." He rushed at Paul and caught hold of his lapels, shaking him desperately.

He's out of his mind concluded Paul, trying to untangle himself. That has to be the only reason he doesn't seem to care about Laurie. He tried to tell himself that normal, sane Sam would never put anything before his family, despite his irrational decisions and selfish streak. But looking at the half-crazed, recklessly desperate man in front of him, he was forced to believe that this was a side of Sam that no one had ever seen before. He'd been driven over the edge.

"I can't give you the codeword," Paul kept on repeating, his own temper rising. Sam's eyes darkened and took on a nasty glint.

Before Paul could comprehend his next move, Sam had bunched up his fist and punched him in the face. Paul saw stars, but then red hot anger took hold of him, and he started punching Sam back. Fist after fist landed on the man he had once called his best friend, until Sam fell to the floor in a whimpering heap. Only then did Paul stop and let his arm fall dejectedly.

"блядь," her captor spat for the third or fourth time. Molly had lost count now, resorting to giving a well-aimed kick to any part she could reach of the tall, hooded figure in front of her. It had been bad luck for him when he had decided to remove her blindfold after half an hour of constant barging and pushing. She was not a happy captive.

She was in a darkened room, her back pushed up rigidly against the chair to which she was tied. A small window let in some light, but the face of the Russian who had kidnapped her was hardly visible. She didn't feel scared, strangely, only incredibly angry. It was boiling up inside her, and she knew that if the kidnapper came one step closer -

"блядь, блядь, блядь! Fucking bitch!" He cried out in Russian and then English, having received an almighty kick to the jaw. It sent him stumbling back, but he was quick to move towards Molly and yank her head back against the chair. She whimpered when cold metal hit the base of her skull, sending a shockwave of pain that reverberated down her spine and into her bruised ribs. The Russian threw her back, satisfied by her pain.

"I work with dead bodies," was what she decided to spit out, yet her voice didn't sound hers at all. It was very calm and precise. The Russian jerked his face in front of hers.

"You can join them if you want to," he sneered, and she replied,

"Not before you do." Then she brought her leg up and knocked his head back. He disappeared against the back wall, nursing his windpipe. He didn't bother her for a while then.

Just a little thing Sherlock had shown her in the days they had been holed up together in Sam's flat.

Sam. Paul. Dylan. John. Sherlock.

All the people she cared about, where were they all now? She didn't want to admit it, but she was in a bit of a predicament here. It would helpful if one of them could appear and help her free.

Molly amazed herself now. Why was she acting like she was so used to being trussed up and kidnapped by formidable Russian gang members? Maybe it was to do with the haphazard, tumultuous series of events that had been her life for the last couple months. She had gone from being a timid pathologist that knew a man who happened to be The World's Only Consulting Detective, to living with said detective and trying to fend off a bunch of Russians at every turn.

So she wasn't fazed now. Somehow, she knew it'd probably end up alright. Even if Sherlock didn't come for her immediately, she;d make a pretty good chance at escape herself, and at the very least, give her kidnappers a blow or two.

"What do you want, Mr. Holmes?"

"Plenty, Chakov."

"Don't play games with me, sir. I only ever have very limited patience."

"Admirable, I'm sure. You know why I'm here. Where is she?"

"Please, Mr. Holmes. Learn to be less direct with your questions."

"Getting to the point is far better than being unequivocal. Don't make me ask again."

"Mr. Holmes, I admire your brusqueness. Which one is that? The blonde or the mousy brown?"

"As you said only a moment ago, Chakov... Don't play games with me." Sherlock's voice deepened with a real threat then, and Chakov drew himself up unconsciously.

"Why is she of importance to you anyway?" Chakov inquired, "You have no need of the codeword."

Sherlock sneered. This man was clearly an idiot. He swooped close to Chakov's ear and before the Russian could respond, he whispered,

"I'm a high-functioning sociopath; it still entails emotions. I care."

Chakov was shocked by the flippancy with which Sherlock Holmes, a man infamous for his indifference towards the human condition, had confessed to caring about some woman who held a passcode. A passcode he himself wanted.

To Chakov's immediate surprise, Sherlock remained close to his ear. It unnerved the Russian to have such a man breathe down his neck. It unnerved him even more to have such a man reach down and slide his hand into the pocket inside Chakov's blazer. Instinctively, he froze, and his pulse began to race.

Sherlock noticed this with a dark twist of the mouth. Interesting.

"Why-" Chakov let out a strangled yelp when Sherlock shoved his face up close with a mocking grin.

"Do you think I'm coming onto you...?" Sherlock chuckled darkly, withdrawing his hand. He found himself now in the possession of a small Nokia phone.

"Don't flatter yourself, Mr. Chakov. You're not my type." Then Sherlock did something very unflattering to his own hand which involved it being bruised, and Chakov's nose possibly being broken.

He marvelled at how this apparently nefarious individual had been taken out with a single punch.

"Idiot."

Sherlock left Chakov's crumpled form in the dingy Brighton back alley.

Really, people should have learnt by now that Sherlock Holmes could not be played about with.

Back at Sam's flat, Sherlock was pacing through and through the rooms, trying to turn on the phone he had retrieved from Chakov's pocket.

"Bit early 2000s, don't you think?" John remarked dryly, indicating the early Nokia model. Sherlock's dark look was enough to shut him up. Dylan was clinging to John's leg. All in all, the poor man was not in a comfortable atmosphere.

"Now, why would he have the number for a brothel...?" Sherlock said with amusement, more to himself than to the frowning man seated in front of him.

"Well, Sherlock I know you're lacking in many aspects of societal knowledge, but I assumed you'd know that some men, um, seek pleasure from-"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock cut him off with ire, "I am perfectly aware of the illicit intercourse which goes on within those sorts of establishments. I was wondering why a man of his persuasion would frequent one."

"Persuasion?" John asked in confusion, covertly making sure Dylan was in the corner, watching TV, and not within earshot of this bizarre conversation.

Sherlock looked at John in obvious frustration, until John's eyes lit up.

"You mean he's gay?" he said plainly, nearly grinning at Sherlock's choice of words. The man had the weirdest tact John'd ever come across. He couldn't understand why Sherlock would go from being so blunt, to so ostentatious in his choice of language, and yet expect everyone to understand.

"Hm." Sherlock moved on, bored now by the conversation. "It's obvious this is where Molly is. And Laurie." He took out his own sleek iPhone and input the number from memory, discarding Chakov's phone into the dark recess of one of his Belstaff's pocket.

Once he had the location memorised, he strode towards John, who was holding Dylan by the hand. John was caught off guard by Sherlock kneeling down to Dylan's height.

"Due to the predictability and incompetence of these morons, it is extremely plausible that your mother is in the same place as your aunt Molly," he said to the young boy, who frowned.

"Are you getting her back?"

"Yes." Sherlock's hand strayed as if he wanted to pat Dylan's head, but something drew him back and he stiffly regarded John's confused stare. He remembered the look of hurt on Molly's face when the woman had barged into the room, and thought then that maybe his dismissal had hurt her more than she'd let on. Why were people never straightforward?

John told him off for being too straightforward when they continued into the hall.

"You can't talk to a five year old like that!" he chastised, "Molly was making an effort to hide what happened to his mother, in case it hurt him."

"He didn't seem to be hurt after I had told him," Sherlock pointed out.

John nearly growled.

"He probably didn't understand half of what you bloody said!"

Then his expression softened. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Get them back. Here's Paul's number; you're going to need help. I'll stay here and take care of Dylan." John sighed almost imperceptibly, but Sherlock immediately knew. He wanted to be apart of this; to be rushing off with Sherlock to the next dangerous situation. But Sherlock already had enough trouble with Molly being involved and he didn't need another person to worry about.

He took the scrap of paper, then touched John's hand for a millisecond; any longer and the increasing familiarity of all this human contact would surely kill him.

Molly had just received a much-needed toilet break. Her captor was hastily re-tying her to the chair, being extra sure to bang her shins against the chair legs in retaliation for the many kicks he had received earlier. Molly winced each time, but kept a stony expression pasted onto her face.

He stopped for a second as a faint call came from outside the room. Molly was given a final shove into the corner, next to the tiny window, before the man left the room.

She entertained herself by listening to the faint grunts and exclamations that echoed through from the thin walls of the room. No prizes for guessing what was going on next door. She didn't dare make a sound, having seen the flash of the Russian's gun one too many times. He thought she was intimidated. She was actually dreaming up 101 ways on how to castrate him once this ordeal was over.

When her captor returned, Molly turned her face to him. He left the door ajar, and so a thin band of light stretched across his oncoming ugly face, complete with leering expression. He advanced on her, and Molly felt a knot of dread form in her stomach.

She hated him so much then; a bastard who thought that a tied-up woman presented an opportunity to indulge himself.

She prepared herself to fight tooth and nail. But he didn't do anything lecherous, only grasping her left arm in an iron grip. He proceeded to tie a band around around the inside of her wrist, to which a syringe filled with clear liquid was attached. It was made to press against a delicate vein in her skin.

Molly's breathing hitched.

Her captor sensed her fear.

"It's cyanide," he rolled the word around on his tongue and winked horribly at her,

"If you don't tell me the codeword for the project, you will die."

"I don't know it," Molly said boldly, and hoped her horrendous lying abilities would not betray her.

"Well then, do svidaniya," he grinned.

Molly tried to ignore both her fear and the invasive pressing of the syringe against her skin.

Then she swore she heard a familiar voice shouting out,

"Stop it!"

The shock of hearing Laurie made her bite down on her lip.

"Hey!" Molly began to shout, through a mouthful of blood, startling her captor. This earned her a resounding slap across the face.

"So you knew these Russian hitmen guys already?" Paul's voice was somewhat incredulous. He couldn't believe that Sherlock Holmes had not had the sense to move Molly back to London as soon as he knew these men were after her. What level was this guy on?

"They are so lacking in brains it was better that I stay where I was. Their ineptitude would most likely trip them up sooner or later. As long as I kept Molly safe, I could keep an eye on the liability that is that branch of the Russian Mafia. I knew their stupidity would most likely put people at risk since they are after an extremely dangerous - your extremely dangerous - project."

Paul listened to Sherlock's long-winded explanation with a hint of annoyance. They were walking along Brighton seafront.

Sherlock wouldn't tell him where Molly and Laurie were, which annoyed him even more.

"Sure are a lot of 'I's where you're concerned," he remarked snidely, but Sherlock did not even flinch.

"I do what I have to do," he said simply, but added more gently, "I will get them back Paul."

It was the first time he had called the brown-haired man by his name. Paul felt the force of his conviction, and took time to study both his and Sherlock's bruised knuckles. Seems they had something in common at least.