A Sign Of Two

12 - Release

(((SHERLOCKS POV)))

I arrived at the address that I had tracked the text messages to after a long and restless journey.

If she dies...

She's not going to die, Sherlock.

But if she does...

She's not going to die! You're going to save her, even if it kills you.

I was going to save her, even if it killed me.

I jumped out of the cab, paid the driver hastily and took in my surroundings. I was at an abandoned parking lot. It had obviously been there since the 80's, possibly longer, and it was practically falling apart. Chunks of mortar and brick were crumbling from the structure, and you could even see large metal poles where the stone had worn away.

I wasted no time running inside and scanning each corner of every floor.

After a while of finding nothing but empty space, I was beginning to lose hope. I climbed up to one of the top floors, by this point I was extremely out of breath from running up and down the abandoned building.

I burst through a pair of old double doors. I didn't know how to feel when I saw what I saw.

There she was, slouched over on the floor like a rag doll.

Eliza's whole body was sweaty and wet with her own blood and sweat. Her matted hair was plastered to her face and her ripped T-shirt was clinging to her bruised skin. She looked thinner than the last time I saw her, her face was pale and discolored. She was in a horrific state.

Anger blazed inside of me when I saw him standing next to her. The little man who I had encountered at Buckingham Palace. He spun around when he heard me burst in, and a sadistic grin spread across his puny face.

"Mr Holmes!" he said with sinister delight "We have been expecting you!"

(((ELIZAS POV)))

I heard a door burst open and footsteps echoing through the room. My eyes were too heavy and I felt too weak to raise my head and have a look at what was going on. All of this dissolved when I heard his name.

"Mr Holmes!" my kidnapper said "We have been expecting you!"

My heart rocketed.

I looked up, and beyond vision that was blurry with my own tears, I saw him.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, standing right there in front of me. He was wearing his usual slim suit that fit meticulously on his tall frame, with his black coat over the top, collar turned up. His hair was as shiny and gorgeous as ever, and his face was still just as radiant as I remembered it. I scanned his features thoroughly, savoring the moment, as five minutes prior I thought I was never going to see another human being, who wasn't my disgusting kidnapper, ever again.

As I was scanning him, I looked into his eyes and saw something that I had never seen in the detective before. I saw pain.

After noticing the hurt look in his eyes, I began to notice other little things about Sherlock that didn't fit his usual character. He had slight bags under his eyes, not from lack of sleep, because Sherlock didn't sleep much anyway, the dark circles must have been from stress. I noticed his hands and his forehead were sweating.

Yet in the face of all these unusual characteristics I couldn't stop myself from trailing back to his eyes.

His eyes, full of sadness and despair, he looked like he had been to hell and back.