Old Wounds

There lay a cluster of hills spread out ahead of him, carpeted in pale grass and little pastel wildflowers, speckled with jagged rocks. The wind swept the foliage sideways, sending ripples to race across the terrain like waves on an ocean of lush. John recognized this place- he was in Baskerville. 

John's eyes fluttered open for half a second to find white light blinding him. 

He was off the moors now, standing in the woods and looking at a rock face. Irene, of all people, was there, her back to the fog that rolled out towards him. He couldn't move, and panic set in as he inhaled the fog. 

White fingers of light reached out at him, and the he managed to make out a row of black bars that organized it into beams. 

A hot brand tore a hole in his side, and he was back in Afghanistan. He wouldn't be coming back this time. Somebody had just unloaded an entire machine gun clip into his side. 

~

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he sat up, exhilaration firing him up out of sleep. 

How long had he been here, asleep on this particular couch in this particular living room? It was a quaint little place, tidy and homely with the sounds of a coffee pot gurgling in the background, but it stank of wine. 

Right. Of course. He had spent the night at Irene's extremely-temporary flat. He hadn't meant to, of course. He was new to this whole relationship thing that John had so easily lured him into, but he was certain that maintaining it meant exercising a little bit of self-control and, well. Not getting drunk and having sex with an old rendez-vous. 

He rubbed his forehead. It ached a little bit, but he remembered most of what had happened. He and Irene had been up into the late hours of the night, talking mostly. There was acknowledgement of what they had, and also acknowledgement that it was over. 

Unsurprisingly, Irene had taken on a string of lovers in Russia, where she had been camping until she decided Sherlock was due for a visit. Sherlock had raised an eyebrow, but he couldn't really say he was upset. It was to be expected from Irene of all people. 

Meanwhile, she hadn't even been a little bit surprised when he told her the change in him and John's relationship. 

"Oh, Mister Holmes, how sweet," she had teased, "You two finally worked that out."

He sniffed at her, and tipped back his glass. The wine was excellent, and just to his liking. That was definitely not just a guess on her part. He didn't dare ask how she knew how he liked his wine. The red was full-bodied, and the white was dark and well-aged. 

At some point in the night, they were too drunk and lazy to keep on the conversation, and Sherlock supposed he had passed out right there on the couch. None of his clothes were missing, so it had truly been a tame night. 

But where was Irene? He winced visibly and looked at the chair where she had sat. Her glass was over on a table by the hall, so she had probably gone to bed. 

He hauled himself off the couch and adjusted his scarf, glaring at the coffee pot. To drink or not to drink? On one hand, it was good for hangovers. But he hated the taste. He couldn't imagine needing to be active today, but as a consulting detective, that was never a promise. 

John had gone off to entertain himself last night, or something. Sherlock poured himself a cup despite his misgivings and sat back down, the scent at least pleasing his senses. 

John had been uncomfortable with him seeing Irene, likely because of her unpredictability and the fact that Sherlock had technically lied to him. Technically. It was of no consequence, really. John didn't go off alone in a pissy mood over Sherlock lying, though. Was he thinking of foul play? Did he think Sherlock was going to throw out their bond so quickly, just on a whim? 

No, John didn't think that lowly of him. 

Or did he? He had always been very unsure of Sherlock's moral steadfastness. Sherlock tensed at the thought of him having a night alone on the town in that kind of mood. 

The worst part was, Sherlock didn't even blame him. It sickened him that he was so sickened by his own sickening lack of consideration. 

Overall, he was thoroughly sickened. But he couldn't just ignore the facts. He swept himself up again to find Irene herself standing in the doorway in nothing but a white robe. 
"Going so soon?" she asked, that smooth, satin-like voice every kind of playful. 

"Mm. Yes, I'm afraid John may have gotten the wrong impression from me coming over here."

Irene raised her eyebrows at him, looking semi-amused. "What did you tell him?" 

"Nothing suspicious. The text came in, he asked if I was returning to you, I said yes, and then he left."

Irene pursed her lips at him. 

"You told him you were coming back to me?"

"It's not my fault he tried to talk to me while I was thinking."

They both knew that was an inadequate excuse. Irene sighed and twirled her hair, which was ironed into a cascade of brunette, striding towards her bedroom. 

"Wait for me," she ordered. "I owe Mister Watson a 'congratulations'." 

Sherlock stood near the door with his arms crossed behind his back, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly. The thought of Irene Adler genuinely congratulating John on their relationship, as if Sherlock were a trophy husband. He sniffed in laughter at the thought, marveling at the idea that John might think of him half as highly. 

Irene came back out in something practical and, of course, high-style: An elegant ebony sundress, shades, and blood red lips. 

"Alright," she announced, leading the way out of the building. "Let's go find your boyfriend." 

They weren't too far to walk to Baker's Street, but for the sake of time, they took Irene's car. John wasn't in 221B. Logically, if he thought Sherlock had immediately left him, he would be upset, and John wasn't the type of person to brood in the middle of a park when times got rough. He must have gone to a pub. The Packet was closest, but packed with people they knew, who had Sherlock's number. If John was too drunk to come home, Sherlock almost definitely would have gotten a call. Additionally, John valued his pride, and wouldn't be caught dead by any of the people at London Yard downing a bottle over Sherlock. Strangers, however, he liked. John enjoyed everything new and exciting in his own tame way, so he probably would have gone to that more modern nightclub just a block or two away. 

Sherlock thundered down the stairs and jumped back into the car. Irene drove without complaint or questions, pulling up to the little nightclub in her shiny silver car with a smirk on her face. This was her kind of scene. They both got out and made their way down the concrete steps and towards the door. The shades were drawn and the door was locked, so of course Sherlock jiggled it harder, then bobbed his head like he was looking for a flaw.

Irene covered her mouth, watching silently for a few moments before gently tapping his shoulder and handing him a bobby pin. 

"Ah, thank you," Sherlock said, and in a matter of seconds, the door was open. 

Apparently the club wasn't open on Thursday at ten in the morning. Luckily, they had made it there before the janitors got to the mess from the night before. Sherlock tried to treat it as if it were bustling with activity. 

Flashing light, new music, young adults dancing sexually. John probably would have stayed away from the middle, where all of the dancing was and gone immediately to a table. 

He looked left, spotting a collage of multicolored glasses and drinks on the table. Not that one. On the right, however, lay a tipped over bottle of fireball whiskey, an empty shot glass, and a chair scooted sloppily away from the table. 

Sloppy leftovers. He either left in a hurry, drunkenly, or by force. The bottle lacks fingerprints, which means it's newly opened, but the liquid level's low, so he drank his fair share before leaving. He was drunk, but something compelled him to leave in the middle of his buzz. What? 

The other seat at the table was dusted with glitter, probably from a night dress, so there was a girl sitting with him. Nothing was shattered or damaged, so no struggle. That meant he left in a hurry. He could have gone home with the girl. 

The thought made Sherlock's stomach drop. He hated emotions. Stupid things. 

... But if he were so interested, his shot glass would have been to his side, not directly in front of him. He was more focused on drinking than the girl. John wasn't one for making destructive decisions under stress, so he certainly wouldn't have gone home with her just for a thrill. 

Not unless he was drugged. 

Sherlock picked up the shot glass carefully and inhaled. It smelled like fire whiskey, but it was off. There was an odd, slimy, pale residue on the edge of the glass. Just as he felt his shoulder tense up, Irene called him back to the door. 

"Take a look at that," she said, dragging the tips of her fingers over a bloody spot on the door frame. 

Sherlock squinted at it, plucking his pocket magnifying glass out and extending it for a closer look. 

A single strand of hair- blondish, and very short. Could be John's. Sherlock leaned into the door frame and inhaled. 

Fire whiskey. 

"John was drugged," he declared, suddenly squatting down to look at the sidewalk," and... dragged off by someone. Certainly not the girl he was with, though she is a prime suspect for the drugging itself." 

"Dragged off where?" Irene asked, peering down at the road. 

Sherlock didn't answer, but began to pace. 

Who would want John so badly that they drugged him? He is not a high demand criminal target, unless somebody has something against me, in which case, surely they would want to be known. It could have just been a rape-

Aggression fumed through him at the very idea. 

-but there were many young people in there perfectly ripe for drugging if that was the intent. The aggressor needed an easy victim who would succumb quickly and quietly to their purposes. If they could manipulate people into coming with them, they wouldn't have to drug them to the point of passing out, so it must be a very blatantly sketchy business, and not all that picky. 

Results: 

Hostage

Blackmail

Rape

Mugging

... Human trafficking.

He opened his eyes again to see Irene also wearing a look of realization. 

"Medical black market!" she said at the same time that Sherlock said "Human trafficking." 

Sherlock blinked at her, looking briefly surprised. 

"You know about exposing secrets, I know about having secrets," she pointed out. 

Sherlock nodded, then looked into the road. "Where do you take a London Man to get his organs harvested?" he asked uneasily, heart pounding. It had been almost 24 hours. John could very well be dead already, lying in a German warehouse with missing kidneys, liver, and heart surgically removed. In fact, from an outside perspective, Sherlock would only take this case for the shits and giggles of busting a human trafficking ring. 

He felt his blood start to pick up, and his heartbeats became difficult to count. He felt like his brain was trying to move at hyperspeed. 

It has to be somewhere with few consequences, either a third world country or one with little crime control. 

Somalia, Hungary, Russia, anywhere in the desert or high north, international waters, Nepal...

"You said you know about these secrets?" he asked Irene, eyes wide. 

"Of course," she replied. 

"Can you tell me what human trafficking rings are run in London by the end of today?"

"I can tell you that right now," she said, looking less amused than usual. "You have the one running out of the back end of Saint Christoph's medical center, who call themselves Orphan as a code name, and two others that don't really have names, but operate separately in East London and South London. My first guess for this area is definitely Orphan."

"Where do they do their dirty work??" Sherlock pushed, urgency lining his tone. 

Irene looked at him, mouth agape as she turned to look away, suddenly upset like someone had told her something disturbing. 

"What?" Sherlock asked. "What?!"

"Belgrade," she answered, "Serbia."