This wonderful prompt is courtesy of YYHfan-KB.
This has been adopted from Yamaanita and this first chapter rewritten.
John Watson
Sherlock wasn't in.
This wasn't a rarity; the genius detective always took off whenever he wanted to, wherever he wanted to, all the time. He'd disappear for a whole week and come back, with explanation what so ever.
However usually, he'd disappear with a curt, "Don't wait up, John." And if he didn't do that, if he was at work, he'd get a text saying when approximately Sherlock would be back.
But this, this was truly worrying. Sherlock had left with no text, and he hadn't spoken about going anywhere to him. It sounded rather possessive like that, but really, with Sherlock's track record with disappearing...
It made him feel better if he knew Sherlock wasn't being arrested for abducting old ladies, even if it was by accident-In Sherlock's defense, how was he to know Mrs Tibbot was catching a quick forty winks in the back of her caravan?
Or accidently blowing up a dry-cleaners, when a pimply faced teenager tried washing Sherlock's coat, only to cause a large explosion when a vial of something pink, sparkly and dangerous in Sherlock's coat pocket reacted vigourously with the warm water and soap suds.
Armed police had shown up and taken everyone at the scene into quarantine, until they could figure out what devious substance had caused the pink, glowing mushroom cloud that had formed over the laundrette.
Four months later, and apparently the lab of top research scientists still had figured out what exactly had been in the vial.
So, you could see why he was panicking. Just a little. After all, it wasn't like Sherlock couldn't take of himself... Right? A-and it wasn't as if EVERY TIME he left Sherlock's side he managed to piss someone off? Just that, what, four or five times Sherlock had annoyed someone enough to try and throttle him?
Four or five times? More like four hundred times. (And that was this month.)
At first, he thought that he was just over reacting, and didn't worry. Much.
But Sherlock had been gone 4 days now. Still no text. He'd been to all of Sherlock's favourite restaurants, pubs, libraries, theatres. He'd got so worried that-
-Hell, he'd even phoned Mycroft. Well, he'd tried to. It was a posh male voice that answered, but this posh male voice didn't have the quite the same snobbishness that came with those that were born into wealth and power. In this case, the wealth and power that allowed Mycroft to start small wars in between lunch and tea, with little interludes for polite insults and sarcastic quips.
Apparently Mycroft had gotten a new assistant. Upon answering the phone, Posh Male Dick the second had promptly informed him in harried tones that 'Mr Holmes' was in a very important meeting, and under no circumstances should he be disturbed.
He had insisted that this matter concerned Mr Holmes' younger brother and therefore was important- but as soon as he'd mentioned Sherlock, Posh Male Dick the second had gasped in horror and had promptly hung up with an aghast 'There's more of them?!'
He'd gone to check with Lestrade, but had been told by his secretary that Lestrade hadn't been in for days. He wanted to check with Anderson and Sally as well, (last resort, couldn't stand them) but they hadn't been in as well. It was all rather strange, and very, very worrying.
Resigned, John went to the surgery, hoping that work would keep his mind off Sherlock. Surely the world's greatest detective would be fine? It then occured to him that the 'World's Greatest Consulting Detective' got into heated arguements with trolls on YouTube frequently, and had the maturity of a small, angry toddler, not to mention the patience of a hyper Tasmanian Devil with toothache.
Lestrade, Sally, Anderson and Sherlock had all disappeared, all at roughly the same time, and all hadn't been seen since.
Maybe these disappearances were connected? He didn't know, but it seemed very likely.
In the end he couldn't stop thinking about it, and was sent home by Sarah because he was 'distracted' and it wouldn't be good for the patients if he accidently gave them the wrong prescriptions.
But when he got back to 221B, he saw something that confirmed his suspicions and made his blood run cold. Stuck to the fridge, was a piece of paper, on it scrawled;
'If you want your precious detective back in one piece, along with your cop friends, bring the blueprints and code to Queen's Park. Tell the cops and we'll shoot your friends.'
Below it was a blurred photo of 4 people handcuffed? Tied? To the wall? Even though it was blurry, he had no trouble distinguishing Sherlock from the picture.
Blueprints? What bloody blueprints? He hadn't a clue what they were talking about. How the heck was he supposed to find some blueprints and a... code? Oh dear. Oh dear.
A bit not good.
.oO0Oo.
Sherlock Holmes
This was a bit not good.
'This', was being handcuffed together with Anderson and chained to a chair, with only Lestrade, Donovan and a horde of mad kidnappers for company.
Anderson, he of the dismal IQ and poor posture, didn't count as company. Although if posture and IQ were the parameters for those that qualified as company, the others were barely qualifying.
Sighing, he rolled his shoulders back and tested the handcuffs. No, still holding firm. Unfortunate. The longer they stayed here, the worse Anderson's body odour was becoming. Truth betold it hadn't exactly been pleasant before, but a landfill site in July had nothing on Anderson particular brand of stomach turning stench.
''Why did he have to handcuff me to Anderson?''
"Because, Sherlock, our kidnapper was stupid enough to decide to handcuff you two together, despite the fact that you'd been sniping at each other the entire journey here." Lestrade replies exasperatedly, "Now, would you shut up for a while? Don't wake Anderson up, it took us ages to make him shut up."
I glare at Lestrade and lean back against the wall. If they'd only agreed to knock him out, we would've had hours of Anderson prattle-free time.
"John's taking his time." I remark drily. It shouldn't have taken this long for John to realise I'm gone, surely? He may not be the brightest of bulbs, but I trust him to figure it out and come and rescue us.
Lestrade looks up, worried, "You don't think they've kidnapped him too, do you?"
"Unlikely. They still need someone to give them the blueprints and computer code." Although seeing as John knew nothing about the case...
Lestrade looked a bit lost. Although that particular confused grimace was a common sight on his face, so it was difficult to discern what he was feeling, or thinking. Hm. Then again... Thinking was a rare occurence amongst this lot.
"Wait, Sherlock, what blueprints?" Lestrade asked in horror.
"Nothing of importance." I dismiss the question nonchalantly. It was hardly necessary to tell them everything, but maybe he should have told John before accepting this case. It had been so interesting, though. Codes, blueprints, spies, Americans, explosions...
"Nothing of importance?" Lestrade replied, incredulously. "Sherlock, this got us all kidnapped, for your 'nothing of importance' blueprints!"
"Lestrade, I thought you didn't want to wake Anderson up?" Lestrade glared at me, but stopped talking.
I hope John hurries up. I don't want to be chained to Anderson any longer than necessary.
oooOOOOooo
John Watson
He was a little annoyed. A week. A week since Sherlock had been kidnapped, a week of fretting- no, worrying- phoning, talking, querying and punching had come to nothing. He still had no idea where Sherlock was, where on earth the bloody blueprints and code were and whether or not this was all just Sherlock's idea of a practical joke.
Punching. His knuckles twinged a bit in response to that thought.
Yes well, he had attempted to ask several could be kidnappers if they had heard of or seen Sherlock. He had been very polite as well. But it couldn't be helped, his patience had been increasingly running out, and after being told by one of the could be kidnappers to 'F*** off and stop wasting our time about your missing boyfriend' , he may have lost control.
Just a little.
He'd punched him. To relieve stress, he told himself later. But the could be kidnapper's gang hadn't been too pleased about their boss being knocked out, and one guy had attempted to knock him out with a baseball bat in retaliation.
Attempted, was the keyword. He thought smugly. He was doctor after all, he used to be in the army.
And he hadn't lost his touch.
John looked up at the guy who had attempted to kill him. Really now, how stupid could people get?
Trying to bash an ex-soldier's brains in?
Moron.
Trying to bash an ex-army doctor's brains in? An army doctor that had made stubborn soldiers scamper into the medical tent, tails between their legs after refusing to get medical attention because it was 'just a little scratch'?
That was Anderson level stupidity.
John turned suddenly, and swung his fist making direct contact with the guy's head. Concussion. He then spun on one leg, neatly roundhouse kicking two more thugs into the garbage cans. Possible broken ribs, intensive bruising. He then neatly body-slammed the last thug into the concrete pavement. Definite broken ribs, extensive bruising.
John looked over the bodies of the gang members approvingly, and walked away with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
However, all the violence had come to nought. Sherlock had not been found, and as much as he had been appreciating to rare peace and quiet at 221B Baker's Street, he had to admit he missed Sherlock's company. He wasn't pining or anything, no. Of course not! That would be like a lost puppy, something he was not. Absolutely not. Um.
Anyway, as a result of the stress and annoyance, he wasn't in the best of moods when a assassin dressed tried to jump him in the park. So, he may have 'lost it'. Just slightly.
Half an hour later, the assassin was in hospital under emergency care and John was in a police cell.
"Now Mr Watson, I'm fully aware that you have been under a little stress lately…"
"A little?"
A lot of explanations, a few funny anecdotes, a fine and a signature later, he was free to go. Turns out the policeman was an avid reader of his blog and was all too understanding when he started talking about Sherlock's awful habits, (a head, a bloody head in the fridge! Oh my gosh, really?), and a very good audience for talking about the cases they'd been on, (it was all pink! And Rachel, she was the link! Amazing!).
So, he'd been free to go and the first thing he did was to visit the assassin in hospital. After, of course, he was removed from the ICU.
John walked into the hospital room and looked down at the bedridden assassin, who was now staring at him in bug-eyed horror. John gave him a smile. Well, a predatory, shit-eating smirk. John sat down beside him, delicately ignoring how the assassin was scrabbling at the walls to get as far away from John as possible, desperately trying to run away. (Which was useless really, as the assassin was bundled in more bandages than a mummy and connected to 3 or 4 IV drips, not to mention handcuffed to the hospital bed with a lot of broken bones.
'How are you, good sir?' John purred, trying not to let his annoyance take over, and once again pummel the assassin into a bloody mess. 'I trust you are well?'
The assassin's head quickly bobbed up and down.
'That's good to hear. Oh, I brought you some flowers as a, ah, apology…' John smiled at the assassin, who was trembling violently.
'But I have question for you, I trust you do not mind…?' John's smile did not waver, but his eyes had an added steely glint to them, as if warning the assassin, 'if you do not comply, I may be forced to make you in various 'painful' ways. Painful for you that is, not for me.'
The assassin shook his head violently, looking at John with eyes full of fear.
John smiled. 'Then, pray tell… Who sent you? And, did this have anything to do with the sudden disappearances of Sherlock Holmes, Gregory Lestrade, 'Sylvia' Anderson and Sally Donovan?'
The assassin froze.
Bull's Eye, thought John grimly.
'Then, as the answer is an apparent yes… I repeat, who sent you, and where are the kidnapped now?'
The assassin shook his head violently.
'Oh, I see. Not willing to say?"
The assassin nodded.
John sighed. 'Too bad… I guess we're just going to have to do this the hard way, right?'
A loud rapid beeping from the heart rate monitor filled the room as John got to his feet, advancing slowly towards the assassin.
In the end, he'd had gotten the information out of the assassin, a good thing. However, his hand really hurt.
He hailed a cab on the main street, and gave the directions to the cab driver. He was heading towards the warehouses in South London, intending to pay Sherlock's kidnappers an impromptu visit. He was feeling quite relieved to have Sherlock back soon. He'd never thought he'd say this, but 221B Baker's street had gotten quite boring without Sherlock. Lost in his thoughts, John didn't notice as the taxi driver stop in front of some warehouses, with truck lifts and lorries in front of them.
"Sir? We're here." He thanked the cabbie, as he clambered out. "Wait here, will you? I'm just off to visit some friends." He gave the cabbie a sinister smile. "Of c-course sir." The cabbie replied, stuttering.
As he walked towards the ware house doors, out of the corner of his eye he could see something moving. He turned his head just in time to see a truck lift being driven towards him at top speed.
He cursed, and flung himself aside just in time. The truck lift drove past, and he ran after it. As the truck lift slowed to turn, he pulled himself up by the left wing mirror and swiftly wrapped his free hand around the driver's neck. Of course, he did this after kicking in the window, effectively shattering it and showering glass all over the driver. After all, it made no sense to further injure his right hand. "Now…" he purred, "This isn't a very nice way to greet a guest now, is it?" The petrified driver could only shake his head in response.
Sherlock Holmes
"What's taking John so long?" He moaned, thumping his head against the stone wall of the warehouse.
"Shut up, freak. I bet the doctor is at home, drinking tea, warm and safe. Not chained to a psychopath in a cold freezing warehouse with loony kidnappers. Who'd come and rescue you?" Anderson spat at him.
"Deductions and facts show that John has an attachment to me as a colleague. Plus, he's an army doctor. Soldiers like things to be the same, disruption in John's life would make him uncomfortable. I being away for so long without explanation would have been noticed by anyone. Then again, maybe not everyone. After all, when asked for a country beginning with the letter Q, you did offer Cuba.''
He snorted.
''And for your information, I'm a sociopath, not a psychopath. Get your facts right." He smirked at the silently seething Anderson. What an idiot.
"Ladies, ladies… You're both pretty. Please, let's discuss this like adults." Lestrade said, attempting to smooth things over.
"Lestrade, if you find Anderson pretty, you're madder than Moriarty. If you think Anderson and I are ladies… I suggest you see some people wearing white lab coats. We're clearly men. Then again… Anderson…"
"Sherlock!" Lestrade sounded disapproving.
"What?"
"Well, that wasn't very nice, was it?"
"Nice is boring. And since when has being female been an insult?"
"You were being insulting to both Anderson and me."
He simply smirked in reply.
"Anderson is a guy, Sherlock…"
"No."
"What do you mean, no?"
"Deductions show that Anderson is a woman. Her first name is Sylvia."
"Where did you get Sylvia from?"
"Her driving license. Her name is S Anderson, and her gender states female." He declared.
"Sherlock that was just some lads from the Met messing around with a Sharpie."
"I'll prove it. Anderson, come here." He grabbed a fistful of Anderson's clothing and dragged him towards him. He put his hand on Anderson's chest.
"Flat chested… This proves nothing. I'll check underneath…"
Anderson fainted.
"Sherlock! What did you do?"
"Got Anderson to shut up."
"You brought this up just to make Anderson faint?" Lestrade gave him an incredulous look.
"Yes, I thought it might get him to shut up."
"Well, it worked." Lestrade sounded just a tad admiring.
"Yes… But I shan't be using this technique again."
"Why ever not?"
"It took too long. Much quicker just to hit him around the head."
-0-0-0-0-0-
John Watson
In the end, he supposed, it hadn't actually taken that long to find Sherlock. He punched a goon in the face and casually tripped up another one trying to take him by suprise, sending him sprawling on top of another one of the- Criminals? Goons? Morons? Idiots? Considering the distinctly amateur punches they were throwing, or trying to throw, he'd go with the latter.
Yes, it had taken him a week, and gods, that was embarassing considering just how badly the idiots were trying to fight back, a little pathetically actually, if he was honest, but he wasn't that late.
Sigh. Sherlock was going to mock him in that 'dignified gentlemen do not mock people, John. I'm not mocking, merely judging' manner of his that was so very irksome.
Sure, Sherlock wouldn't need to say anything, but he never did have to. It was subtext.
Now a little annoyed at both himself and Sherlock, he of course took it out on the idiots waving their arms about. Oh sorry, fighting. If it could be called that, even at a stretch.
(It couldn't.)
"For god's sake, you!," He snapped, glaring at Idiot No.1, who froze immediately and started shaking in fear.
"Put your back into it!" He snarled, shaking a fist in Idiot No.1's direction and feeling a surge of vindictive pleasure when all the idiots behind him immediately shrank back. "My great-aunt Tabitha could fight better than that and she's 84! Never punch with your thumb tucked inside your fist, you'll break it! Now let's try again!"
Idiot No.1 looked around pleadingly for help, but all the other idiots seemed to possess somewhat of a survival instinct and averted their eyes.
"Well? Are you deaf as well as stupid? Punch me! Go on, punch me!" He loomed threateningly towards Idiot No.1, which was quite a feat at 5 foot 6", if he said so himself.
Idiot No.1 visibly swallowed, and summoning all of his bravery, lifted his hand and attempted to punch him. Attempted, of course, once again being the keyword. Quick as a blur he neatly deflected Idiot No.1's clumsily thrown punch and grasping his arm twisted it behind his back. Yelping in pain and fear, Idiot No.1 lost his balance and smacked his face into the concrete floor. Quite hard.
He sighed. "That," he said, "If possible was worse than the first time. And that wasn't an easy feat." Scorn dripped from every syllable and urine, (oh ew), was dripping from Idiot No.1's trousers.
"We're going to have to try that again, and we will not stop until you," He looked at Idiot No.1 with derision, "Can throw a punch that a Boy Scout might not actually be able to deflect."
He looked over the rest of the idiots consideringly. "That'll go for the rest of you as well."
The idiots whimpered.
-=-0-=-000-
Sherlock Holmes
"What is John doing?" He tipped his head back against the warehouse wall, looking imploringly at the heavens. Or in this case, the corrugated iron roof of the warehouse. Which he had been stuck in. For a week. With only Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson for company. Not to mention that he was handcuffed, yes, handcuffed to Anderson. Of all people, it had to be Anderson. He could feel his brain cells dying and his IQ dropping with every second he spent handcuffed to Anderson. At least he was unconscious most of the time.
Lestrade gave a long suffering sigh. "I don't know, Sherlock, because I'm stuck in a warehouse with you! So is Sally and Anderson, the latter of which wouldn't know anyway, even if he was welded to John's side! So, you can stop. Asking." Lestrade hissed at him through gritted teeth.
Donovan rolled her eyes. She'd been doing that a lot. At least four times every hour. Or whenever he opened his mouth to speak. Hm. "Shush, both of you. Do you want Anderson to wake up?"
He and Lestrade glared at each other, then at Anderson prone, corpse-like body.
They sighed in unison and shut up. Anything not to have to listen to Anderson's whiny, nasal voice.
"That's what I thought."
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