'Greg' [Sherlock Drabble]

Part 2

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It was dark though Sherlock could detect a faint trace of gasoline on the air. Silence filled his ears and his stomach fluttered uneasily. 

As memory rushed to the forefront of his mind, he awoke with a jerk. His heart set itself aflutter and he worked to keep his lids drawn shut and his chin from lifting from where it rested on his chest. There was no need to alert the enemy he had awaken.

The pain in his abdomen had subsided for the most part, though it still stung where he had nearly clawed himself. As quietly as he could he pulled at the bindings on his wrists. A tingle shot up his hands as pins and needles swarmed through his fingers. There was no use trying to free himself now.

The chair beneath him was hard and unyielding. He shifted slightly though the bonds on his feet held him in place. He strained to listen for any sounds of life but his ears were met only with ringing silence. It was a few minutes before he dared open his eyes fully and only after careful consideration did he allow himself to blink.

A haze of metal machinery and high walls were the only things his brief glimpse allowed. There were no sign of the Germans. Holding his breath, Sherlock lifted his gaze from the floor and took in every inch of his surroundings. A rusted door stood at the far end of the room, propped open with a three-legged stool. Barred windows loomed high above him, their panes shattered and coated with layer upon layer of grime and filth. Dead factory machines stood idle directly in front of him though it seemed years since they had last been used.

Sherlock fidgeted in his seat. The bindings were becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Fear gripped his heart and he felt panic rise in his throat.

No. His mind commanded. He must not let it get the better of him. His head whipped back and forth in desperate attempt to locate an escape route though his scan picked up nothing. He knew there was only one way out.

Sherlock straightened as best he could, raising his head in air of authority. On instinct, his eyelids lowered slightly and he schooled his features into the haughty look that he had grown so accustomed to over the years. Every trace of distress disappeared from his face. He was ready.

Sherlock's quick, seemingly impatient cough brought half a dozen Germans nearly running into the room. Sherlock didn't bother to hide the smile that curled the corners of his mouth. These men were nothing. He had them right where he wanted them.

"Nice of you to join me," he said smoothly. His throat was raw from disuse though he allowed no growl to interrupt the smooth flow of his words. The Germans glared in return, one hacking spittle at his feet. They eyed him defiantly though Sherlock could sense an undertone of agitation, as though he were a predator they had the misfortune of crossing. Sherlock met their stony gaze coldly, hoping his cool indifference would shrivel their confidence. For the most part, the Germans merely stood there; though some lowered their eyes with a scowl. One stepped a pace forward, he was smaller than the rest though stockier in build.

“Hast du meinen witz gefallen? Did you like our little trick?” he snickered.

Sherlock was a tad rusty on his German but this much he understood. He kept his face straight, eyes focused and mouth wisely shut. He knew exactly what the German was talking about. The chemical gas had been a nice touch indeed.

Sherlock turned his attention instead to the far entryway, and worked to keep his lips from curling. He was already one step closer to freedom.

It was only a few minutes later that the metal door rattled open. Every head swiveled to face the sound though Sherlock merely smiled as the American strode into the room. All around him he noticed the Germans bending their necks as their leader approached, though some a little stiffly. This surprised him slightly.