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The Prey	By : amandalee Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 3756 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: The authors do not claim ownership to Sherlock or any of its characters, and we make no money from writing this.

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A/N: This chapter will end in a huge cliffhanger. Just thought we'd say that. :) Thanks for the reviews, it's much appreciated!

Chapter 21

John worked tirelessly for hours, scraping away hard-packed dirt with a measly little carving instrument whose intended use was probably something very different. Still so much better than doing it with his bare hands, though. John had to bite back a cry of triumph when he'd finally managed create a hole large enough for his arm. A few more hours of hard work, and he would have his freedom. He and Sherlock.

John was not particularly worried about the boarded space between their stalls; it was sloppy work and he was confident that he could clear a large enough space for Sherlock to crawl through in no time at all. Something that did concern him was Sherlock's state of health.

Would his friend be able to keep up the pace needed for a successful escape? Would he be able to run in the first place? Would running aggravate his injuries?

John only noticed dawn was approaching upon realizing that he could see things more clearly. He could hear Sherlock breathing in the stall next to his; it was a rhythmic even flow of inhales and exhales. He didn't sound like someone who was in terrible pain, but then again, John knew how masterful Sherlock was at hiding his true feelings.

In pausing to ascertain the state of his friend, John thought he might have heard the rumbling of an empty stomach. As though in agreement, his own stomach gurgled as well. He was a little surprised they had not felt the sensation sooner. As far as he could recall, neither he nor Sherlock had eaten since the previous morning, hours before they had decided to search for clues. And Mary.

John rested his head for a moment against the plywood, fighting the feelings of defeat that doggedly returned every so often.

"I don't suppose you thought to bring any spare food for our trip...?" he said, trying for more humor and failing. Both men had returned to that place in their hearts where nothing seemed very funny at all.

"I'm not in the mood to talk," Sherlock said, his tone unreadable. John was uncertain whether his partner was busy thinking of more ways to escape their dilemma, or if he was truly worse off than he seemed.

"Just keep digging," the detective said, his voice gentler this time. "Don't worry about me."

Hoping but still in doubt, John placed his fingers through the gap in the boards again. He began to think Sherlock would not do the same, either too weak or too dejected to bother, but the doctor felt thin fingers against his own.

Feeling resolute again, John returned to his digging. Though the sun was rising and giving him a better view of his progress, dawn was beginning to make him nervous. He had not heard their captors for quite some time, which meant they were possibly sleeping. What exactly was the cycle of their sleep? Would they be waking again soon?

What if they were listening now?

***

Three-finger rarely slept for more than an hour at a time. His overactive body and mind made him constantly wakeful and agitated, and the closeness to his younger brother's large, heavy frame made any kind of rest difficult to find in their shared bed. One-Eye had refused to move into a bed of his own. Despite having grown to a size twice that of his older sibling, One-Eye needed Three-finger, perhaps even more now than he did as a baby.

At first when he tried to rise, One-Eye's arm tightened around him and held him back; an unconscious response by the sleeping man-child. Three-finger murmured soothing nothings in his ear and scratched his sibling's flea-ridden scalp; two things he knew from experience would calm One-Eye. The arm around his waist quickly relaxed, and he was able to gingerly free himself from One-Eye's grasp while the youngest member of the clan remained asleep.

Three-finger thought about the two Outsiders they currently held captive. The plump one wasn't anything to worry about, but Three-finger had an uneasy feeling about the scrawny one. Why had Father insisted on keeping him alive? They rarely came across such willful and unruly prey. The wiry hunter could smell trouble a mile away, and his instincts had so far played a large part in the family's continued survival. Letting one's guard down was a fatal mistake which could cost the clan their home, or in worst case scenario, their lives, or at least their way of life.

The more he thought about it, the more agitated he became. A plan was beginning to form in Three-finger's brain, and as time passed, he grew more and more convinced of its validity.

The scrawny whore needed to die. He would sneak in whilst Father and One-Eye were still sleeping and slit the troublesome Outsider's throat. Bleed him out like a pig.

Despite knowing he would provoke Father's wrath for going against his wishes, Three-finger cared little. He could take whatever punishment Sawtooth choose to dish out for his disobedience. Be it a beating or a week of starving. He could take it. The safety of the clan mattered more.

Not only was this pale one smart, he was defiant too. Neither bode well whenever the clan held onto victims as sources of amusement. Even stupid prey could be difficult to control if they were rebellious. One-Eye had only been a few summers old when he happened into the path of a victim who was fighting back like a caged beast and had found an improvised weapon in the form of a barbecue fork. The event nearly cost the boy his life, but instead only robbed him of his left eye, and thus gained him his present name.

Defiance and cleverness were a dangerous combination. Three-finger did not care about wasting meat, or depriving Sawtooth of his new pretty little plaything. This was for the good of the family. He grabbed an ancient set of shears on his way to the holding pen. He was going to kill that little bitch.

***

The sun was shining brightly now in the sky, but the day was still early enough that the heat had not yet surrounded John and Sherlock in their tiny prison. Even so, John was sweating in tiny rivers. For the past hour and thirty minutes, he had been madly digging at the dirt like a mutt desperately trying to hide a recently acquired bone. Sherlock had been silent for the duration, but John could still hear him breathing evenly, or so the doctor persisted, desperate not to worry or think of anything which would slow down his digging.

Wiping perspiration from his dirtied brow, he sat back on his knees and breathed deeply, taking a look at his advancement thus far.

"Sherlock," he whispered. "We may have enough room to get out."

There was a pause before the detective gave any sort of response.

"Are you absolutely certain?" Sherlock asked, sounding just a little too doubtful for John's taste. Did his friend really have so little faith in him and his abilities? He might not be a genius, but he was well-aware of the consequences bound to follow an erroneous judgment. The mental image of getting stuck while trying to wriggle through the hole he had dug was, in a sense, comical, but the humorous aspect was quickly erased when he imagined one of their captors finding either him or Sherlock in such a helpless state.

John was fairly confident he could squeeze through despite his plumpness, and if he managed, Sherlock would not have any difficulties.

"Yes, it's enough," he said after another moment of internal deliberation. John did not want to waste any time digging unnecessarily, not when their captors could catch them red-handed any moment. So far he hadn't heard any sounds indicating the monstrous trio of mountain men were awake, but it was all prone to change in a heartbeat. He also still needed to remove the boards separating him from Sherlock.

John had planned to simply assault the dry, brittle plywood until it broke and allowed him to break the boards free, but before he could get started, Sherlock's fingers shot out through the crack to grasp at his hand.

"Try to be as quiet as you can," the detective advised. "The small one is a light sleeper. Even the smallest noise might rouse him."

John did not bother asking how Sherlock knew such a thing, not when his partner was the master of deducing the seemingly unknowable from people, and especially not when the hyperactive behavior of said freakish individual made the deduction so obvious. He nearly asked Sherlock how they might get the boards loose without making much noise, but he took a deep breath and examined the quandary himself. The wood gauge was still in his hand, and as he rolled it in his fingers, he happened to glance at the nails in the wood.

Plywood could give easily. His grip on the gauge tightened.

He set to work on the wood surrounding the nails. Some were easy, having been hammered more quickly and rather sloppily than others, and he easily pried them loose with very little digging. John chipped away quickly and nearly launched a splinter into his eye, but he remained resolute. He continued to tell himself that they would escape, that they were going to survive and return home.

"Almost there," he whispered, though he spoke not only for Sherlock but also himself. The last two nails had been the deepest, and he began to struggle with maintaining some level of patience. He could feel from the carving that the tool had dulled against the grain, but he persisted. Finally the last nails could be wrenched loose, and he carefully pried the boards away.

He was never so happy to see Sherlock's face. Sherlock allowed himself a smile, and though his expression was marred by discomfort and pain, his smile was genuine.

John tried not to look at the crusting of dried blood still clinging to the left side of Sherlock's face. It was but a minor scalp wound, and decidedly not the worst of his friend's injuries.

"Come on," he breathed, reaching out his hands, and Sherlock took them without hesitation, grimacing while twisting his long body to fit through the narrow opening John had created. It was obvious that the movement hurt him greatly, but not a sound escaped Sherlock's lips as he - gracefully, despite the state of him - slid over to the doctor's side of the pen.

John did not hesitate to envelop Sherlock in his arms as soon as it became physically possible. After last night's horrific turn of events he had not dared to hope he would ever be allowed to touch the other man again, to feel him, and if this was his last chance to do so, he intended to make the most of it. Sherlock accepted the embrace but hardly returned it. Leaning his head against John's neck for a moment, he then pried loose the arms desperately clutching him.

"You first," he said, glancing at the hole his friend has spent the better part of the night digging. They would fit. Maybe.

John immediately shook his head. "No way. My girth could get me stuck, and if that's the case, I want you to have a chance to escape first."

"You said you were sure, John!"

"I'd rather not risk it." This was really an exceptionally bad time to be arguing about anything. The longer they dallied, the more likely it was that their little stunt would become public knowledge.

Sherlock nervously glanced back toward the door, such a small thing to separate them from their captors. He seemed to remember too that they had no time to waste. His face pinched together as though he were swallowing down his physical pain, he silently leaned forward and entered the hole. He took a cautious look first in case of a welcoming party on the other side, but luckily for him and his assistant, no one awaited them.

The detective took care in negotiating his escape, not only to maintain silence, but to avoid exacerbating his wounds. Even so, his movements must have been felt through every frayed, battered inch of his assaulted form. A strained whisper of a groan escaped his lips as he pulled himself free from the hole.

"Hurry," Sherlock hissed, desperate to be rid of this place and these horrible bastards once and for all. John saw the willowy fingers outstretched beyond the hole and nearly took hold of them on the spot. Instead, he eased himself onto his stomach and crawled forward.

He had been right; it was a dangerous fit. He did not imagine being absolutely stuck like some amateur spelunker in an unfamiliar cave, but he would need to go very slowly and carefully, lest he catch himself and make enough noise to alert their loathsome keepers.

John was halfway through when Sherlock's outstretched hands took a loose hold of his own.

"Easy," he said, his tone encouraging. "Just a little more."

John tried to inch forward, pushing with legs already trembling from exhaustion, but he could move very little. Or not at all, in fact.

Damn it all to hell. He was stuck.

The boards constituting the wall above him cut painfully into his back, and the doctor felt his eyes tear up from the struggle to withstand the impulse of crying out. Sherlock's grip on John's hands became more forceful when he noticed the lack of progress by his friend, and he tugged with increased effort.

"Come on, John!" the detective ground out. "Move!"

"I can't… fucking move…" the now deeply distressed doctor panted back. A looming sense of hopelessness suddenly overcame him, and he ceased his squirming in an attempt to regain his breath and make his frantically beating heart slow down to a more manageable level.

"You CAN move!" Sherlock insisted and knelt down in the grass next to his struggling friend. He retained his hold on John's hands but did not pull. To have any chance of getting the older man loose, they needed to synchronize their efforts.

"Focus, John. Breathe. Mind over body, remember? Don't panic." Though slightly winded from the exertion, Sherlock sounded remarkably composed.

That's easy for you to say, John thought. You're not stuck and probably looking like some grotesque version of Winnie the Pooh clumsily grappling for a pot of honey.

"Focus," Sherlock repeated, his eye contact firm and unmoving. John nodded and shut his eyes, clearing his mind and attempting to regain a sense of calm.

"Latissimus dorsi... serratus anterior... external intercostal..."

"Internal abdominal oblique?" Sherlock offered.

John allowed himself a smile and began to wiggle along, slowly this time, sucking in his stomach when needed, and exhaling when appropriate. He was not going as quickly as either he or his partner would have liked, but at least he was making progress.

"Nearly there," Sherlock encouraged him. His grip on John's hands tightened for a moment and tugged as his friend squirmed past the wood.

"I am there," the older man corrected triumphantly.

Just as he was about to pull himself loose from the hole, both detective and assistant heard the sound of a door being unlocked behind them. John's eyes bugged and he hurried to escape, but before he was in the clear, a hand closed its spindly fingers around his ankle.

The realization of being found out and caught removed all sense of secrecy, and John screamed at sensation of being grabbed. Sherlock tightened his grip again, a lucky thing to do, as the skinny beast that had John in his clutches was surprisingly strong, yanking the doctor backwards against the hole. But, as he had been unfortunate to catch himself on the wooden boards moments ago, John was fortunate to not easily slide through towards the hunter. He hated to think how easily his skin would have been stripped away if one of the bigger mountain men had been the one to grab him.

"Sherlock, run!" he shouted over high-pitched yowls as his partner engaged in a tug of war with the lunatic. "Save yourself, damn you!"

Sherlock, however, did nothing of the sort. He stubbornly held on to his friend, determined not to give an inch, even though it was obvious he was running out of strength. If the struggle went on for any length of time, the duo were very unlikely to come out on top.

How long would it take for the skinny bastard's equally fucked-up relatives to notice what was going on? Were the two of them - the giant and the idiot - spurting around the lodge to intercept the runaways this very moment?

John doubled his efforts upon imagining the hare-lipped, hairy giant laying his hands on Sherlock again and forcing the young genius to do unspeakable acts in order to break down his spirit. He could not allow that to happen again. If Sherlock was foolish enough to stick by him no matter what, he at least owed his friend to put up one hell of a fight.

At the moment every single muscle in John's body was fighting just to keep his stance and prevent being pulled back through the hole in the ground. He was thus unable to retaliate in any way toward the hunter. Doing so would risk being uprooted, and John knew his only chance was to maintain a low centre of gravity by trying to make himself as heavy as possible.

Would the hunter tire before they did? Unlikely, since the little psychopath had demonstrated practically superhuman endurance and strength. Sherlock, while possessing a wiry strength deceptive of his slender frame, was simply too much of a lightweight.

The long, ropey muscles in Sherlock's arms were stretched to the breaking point as he fought to keep most of John's body outside the shed. The force he had exhibited thus far - an effective combo of adrenaline and willpower - was starting to wear thin. They had to do something. Quick.

"Kick him, John…" Sherlock ground out between breaths that sounded like a pair of bellows. "Kick him!"

"I… can't!" the doctor groaned back, wondering why Sherlock hadn't reached the same conclusion he had: doing anything that would upset the current equilibrium was equal to a death sentence.

"Listen to me, John… He had a knife in his hand when he came in. Or scissors… I can't be sure which. He's using both hands now, but when he lets go to pick up his weapon, he'll have to spare one. That's your chance. Kick him. And make it count."

John wanted to argue that it would do no good. These monsters did not seem to care about getting hurt. What if kicking made no difference whatsoever?

Wiry arms of steely muscle and sinew adjusted, and John realized no matter the odds, he had to take the chance as it came. One hand let go to reach for the shears, and John kicked as hard as he could.

The little beast did not cry out, not at first, but the grip of his remaining hand loosened. John took the moment to his advantage and jerked himself free. Sherlock had anticipated the moment of the mountain man losing his grip and after feeling the kick, he pulled hard. The remainder of John slipped through the hole and he was jumping to his feet instantly, though he swore he heard the sound of the shears being plunged into the dirt where his feet had been only a second before.

Sherlock all but dragged his assistant to his feet and shoved him forward.

"Run, run, run!" Sherlock cried. John did not even need to be asked. In fact, he was surprised that his friend could run at all, considering his injuries, but he did not linger on the thought for much longer than the time it took to enter his mind. Sherlock was running just like him, and they were finally escaping.

"We should head for the road," John shouted as they entered the woods, hearing the demented cries of outrage and bloodlust fill the cabin. "Back the way we came--"

"No." Sherlock tugged his arm and lead him behind a thicket, the scratching of twigs nothing compared to what their pursuers were capable of. "As stupid as they might seem, they'll assume we would retread familiar paths. We need to lose them, like you did when they first attacked."

The front door of the cabin swung open with a loud bang, and the smallest hunter was out like a shot, followed by the lumbering man-child and their leader, who carried not only a shotgun but a bow and quiver full of arrows. They carefully looked around, considering where their quarry had run off to, and it gave John an idea. He picked up a stone at his feet, but this time it would not be used as a weapon. Taking wary aim in the direction opposite to himself and Sherlock, he threw the stone.

All three ugly heads perked at the small crashing sounds in amidst the vegetation, and, thinking this to be their prey, ran straight for it.

Despite the surprising effectiveness of it, the simple diversion would not fool them forever. John grimaced as he and Sherlock ran through the underbrush and heard twigs snapping every time their feet came in contact with the ground.

The small one was their biggest concern. The giant, though vicious due to his size and brutality, was neither fast nor agile, and the idiot was simply too dumb to follow even a decent trail. As if on cue, he heard the little beast's manic giggle echoing between the trees, and it sounded as if the crazed psychopath was almost upon them.

Probably an auditory hallucination, he realized, and though he was hardly a whimsical person by any standards, it was easy to imagine being targeted from all directions in a situation as extreme as this.

For a split second John believed his mind had also conjured up the whistling sound of an arrow passing just above his right shoulder and embedding itself into a nearby tree. Seeing Sherlock's response quickly convinced him that the threat this time was far from imagined.

The big bastard was firing arrows at them, and judging from the accuracy of the shot, he had a very good aim. Excellent marksman skills had likely developed from the giant's shortcomings brought on by his size and bulk, which made him slow and clumsy when pursuing his targets on foot.

John hated to be reminded of his time serving in Afghanistan, of being in range of enemy fire. He had made it back home, physically in one piece, but with a psyche that was not only broken but shattered. Many of his comrades hadn't made it back at all. Some had vanished without a trace never to be heard from again, while others were shot down or blown up by strategically placed landmines. One of his duties as a doctor had been to collect body parts after an explosion and try to make a positive identification from what was left, which oftentimes was not much.

Now he was practically in a warzone again, only this time with a person he had sworn to protect, someone he could possibly not live without.

John felt as though his heart was quite literally ripped out from his chest by the smallest psycho's eight fingers when Sherlock suddenly went down followed immediately by a gut-wrenching cry of pure agony.

The older man spun on his heel and faced his fallen friend. Amidst the running and desperate attempts to ignore the pain and find a means of losing their attackers, Sherlock had not noticed a bear trap under the vegetation. Sherlock was desperate not to scream a second time, but the pain proved this to be impossible. Muffled cries escaped him as he struggled with the trap like an animal.

Strangely, John found himself getting angry at the sight. Whatever happened to Sherlock noticing everything? But the anger was gone as quickly as it had flared, replaced by the sick, sour feeling of fear that crawled throughout his body as he fell to his knees and inspected the wound. He tried to force the ancient looking atrocity open but found his fingers, as well as Sherlock's were sliding uselessly over the contraption from profuse bloodshed.

How ironic that John should think of landmines when their attackers used a similar method of preventing prey from escaping.

John felt himself fighting the urge to vomit, something he had never felt in the service, even when seeing comrades he thought of as friends gravely injured or even killed. Though the scenario felt so familiar, the victim was different. This was his best friend, and at times even more so.

"Please, please, please," he begged, forcing his grip into the trap's jaws and prying with all his might.

The trap, an archaic and heavy contraption but nonetheless very effective, did not yield to his desperate attempts. At most John figured he might be able to pry the rusty, serrated jaws open a few centimeters, but by doing so, he would cause his friend a new set of puncture wounds when the trap once again slammed shut. Because it would before Sherlock had any chance of freeing his trapped limb.

Sherlock had stopped his useless thrashing and lay unmoving on his side, shallow-breathing and covered in a layer of sweat emphasizing his already ashen complexion. How much more of this could his body take before it shut down?

John had no idea how much time had passed since Sherlock went down - the moment felt like it stretched on forever while in reality it could not have been more than thirty seconds - but he knew their pursuers drew closer by each passing second. Looking around in despair, John tried to see if there were any other options short of prying the trap open. His gaze fell on the chain attached to the hellish device, its metal as ancient and corroded as the jaws themselves, but without obviously faulty links. He tugged on it experimentally a few times to determine where it was fastened, but Sherlock's cries of anguish made him promptly cease. Every movement, no matter how small, caused the jagged edges to burrow just a fraction deeper into Sherlock's meager shin, and the pain had to be near unbearable.

Who was he kidding, anyway? Even if he found the stick and uprooted it, did he seriously expect Sherlock to run with THAT dangling off his leg? The blood trail alone would be a dead giveaway for the twisted pack of hunters.

The now despondent doctor sat down on the ground down next to his partner, and not knowing what else to do, he settled for what he was still capable of namely providing comfort.

"Sherl?" he whispered, laying his hand on a very sallow, clammy cheek.

Sherlock's eyes were closed but opened slowly when he heard John use the affectionate nickname for him. He hated it, of course, and John knew that, but it was needless to point out now.

"It would seem we've reached our journey's end," John said in a quiet voice reeking of resignation. At least we're together, he wordlessly added in his thoughts.

Sherlock's eyes shut again, and a tremor passed through him from the pain. Soon he would go into shock, not feeling anything and not even caring.

"I have."

John did not need further explanation. "No," he pleaded. "No, no, no! You refused to run without me, and now I'm doing the same."

"You were still capable of running on your own," Sherlock argued calmly, perhaps a little too calmly. "I'm useless now."

John felt his eyes sting with tears, and he blinked them back, only to have his vision blur into a haze of reds.

"No." He was angry again, furious that Sherlock was right. He would have to be left behind, and nothing could be done about it otherwise.

"I can't... I just can't." The tears fell freely this time, and he clasped his hands around his friend's waxen neck. The pulse there was so fast, so very fast.

"You have to," Sherlock argued, his voice nearly a frustrated growl. "I'm not about to have the both of us killed by these evil bastards."

John heard approaching footsteps snapping vegetation in the distance, as well as that sickeningly familiar cackle.

They'd been running side by side. Why couldn't he have been the one to step into the bear trap? Why did it have to be Sherlock? He would have gladly given his life to aid Sherlock's escape from this horrible place, and now fate was so cruel as to spit in his face by doing this instead?

Mycroft would kill him. John was sure of it. And even if he didn't, John would wish it.

"John, you have to go." Sherlock closed his bloody fingers around John's wrist in a surprisingly tight grip. He then pulled the older man down toward him to whisper in his ear.

"Your best chance is to head that way." The detective pointed in a direction approximately ten o'clock from where they now lay. "Try to run in a straight line. In no less than half a mile, you will get to a river. If you manage to cross it, they will likely not be able to pursue you At least not the giant or the idiot. I might be wrong about the small one, but I doubt any of them can swim. John, do you hear me?"

The doctor nodded. The high-pitched giggle sounded again, this time decidedly closer. If he was to have any chance of evading recapture, now was the time to run. The rational part of his mind tried to force his body into gear, but another part rebelled fiercely against it.

"I'll be back for you," John whispered, resting his own forehead against Sherlock's for the briefest of moment. "I'll bring back the whole cavalry. I swear it, Sherlock. I won't let either of us die."

And with those words, John sprang to his feet and ran.

TBC...
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The Prey