Sherlock Holmes sat tied to a chair: kidnapped, trussed up, locked in, and gagged.
For the third - no, fourth time in the past 6 months.
The gag was utterly superfluous. His windowless prison was well insulated against sound. /Self storage warehouse, defunct. Putney. How could anyone go out of business offering storage in Metropolitan London? Mismanagement by heirs? No. Peculation? Yes, that fit with the rest of the problem, / he mused between one breath and the next.
John had once suggested Sherlock's captors had motives for gagging him which were unrelated to the danger of calling for help. But John had been utterly, unjustifiably sarcastic that day.
John.
Among Sherlock's options for rescue, Dr. John Watson was always a promising one.
Then the door opened.
There were four guards: a phalanx of massive two-footed beef. Two in the front, two in the rear, and John Watson buried in their midst. Sherlock would recognise the top of that head anywhere.
The Asian in the rear went down first, quickly followed by his lantern jawed sideman. Kneecapped, from the looks of it. The young one in front on John's left lurched and kissed the floor next, propelled by an explosive kick to the small of his back. This sound and motion made the remaining ambulatory slab of muscle turn and face his prisoner. He was the largest; the oldest, the most experienced.
But clearly not the smartest.
It was merely Sherlock's surmise that when the gorilla turned he smiled at John; but given the evil smirk on the doctor's own face, a very likely one.
Then there was a blur of motion even Sherlock was hard pressed to analyse: kick to the knees; punch to the midsection; both doubling over the victim, who was then dispatched with locked fists to the base of the skull.
The floor juddered a bit as the last guard hit, out cold.
John reached into his trousers and produced his pocket knife. "Bloody amateurs. Didn't even search me." He cut Sherlock's bonds.
The detective spat out the foul gag, swallowed, then stood and massaged his wrists. "Perhaps they thought sheer size and numbers were in their favour."
"Hulks can get over confident. Maybe they were sharp once, but often they just get by on bulk. Never think a - "
"Man of comparatively tiny stature?" Sherlock suggested.
John shot him a slitted glare. " - bloke of average size," he continued, "can give them a spot of bother."
The lantern jawed mug stirred and moaned.
Sherlock kicked him in the face.
"Ouch." John winced. "That's going to hurt tomorrow."
"Are you sure they weren't too big for you to handle? Because, normally when you hit them, they stay down."
John shook his head. "The big ones are easy. Their kneecaps are closer."
###
On their way out of the building, John called Lestrade on his mobile and asked the D.I. to notify the local borough detachment, to come and "take out the rubbish".
A blueshift of approaching sirens already vibrated in the air.
John turned his keen diagnostic gaze on Sherlock. /Colour is better. Gag was making it hard for him to breathe. Eyes aren't as dilated, so pulse is probably down from 100. Glad I took it while cutting those ropes. Would have sneered if he'd known, the wanker. Still a bit wobbly. Legs need stretching to get them to firm up. Can I check where they thumped him on the head before he goes to sleep? Can I even get him to sleep? Neither is likely, but he doesn't seem concussed,/ he considered between one breath and the next.
John planted his right palm between his tall friend's shoulder blades, and pulled open the door with his left. "Sherlock: don't call me 'tiny'. Ever. Because you know what happens next, yeah?"
Sherlock turned slightly to face him. "Problem?"
The doctor's firm steadying touch guided the detective over the threshold. "Right," he huffed. "Another gap in your knowledge of popular culture. Seems I've got a couple films to show you tonight. "
END
Notes: Thanks to eagle eyed Miri for the beta. Any typos are due to my restless tweaking after she finished.
So: I saw the Star Trek Into Darkness photo of Benedict Cumberbatch surrounded by four red shirts.
As I told TSylvestrisA, "I'm not used to photos of BC which make him look like a junior miss in comparison to other actors. And if those red shirts dwarf BC, then MF would positively disappear. Actually be invisible behind that wall of brawn." Then I mused: "Ah, but if it was John Watson..." She told me to write it and post it. So I did. As for that gap in knowledge of popular culture: take a look at YouTube, "Don't Call me Tiny". こんにちは, 先生/kon'nichiwa, sensei