John moved against the chair and rope tying him down. He was alone in the dark room underground now, and when he made sure that the last heavy footstep was out the door, he tried to make the littlest noise possible. He had a feeling he needed his gun today. John scoffed to himself, ignoring the heated pain on his wrists from struggling against the tightening rope. He has to get a pocket army-knife soon.
Of course it was a peaceful day in London. No particular deaths or other cases interested Sherlock enough to get up from the couch. He threw a rubber ball in the air and patiently waited for it to come back down with gravity and repeated. He was deathly bored now. Mrs. Hudson and John took away any patches, signs of drugs, even John's gun was in Mrs. Hudson's closet because they knew Sherlock respected her enough not to go through the landlady's clothes.
But this was really killing him. Sherlock would snap his head up at the slightest sound. John had been away for quite some time now. The detective thought that the doctor was just having another row with the machine at Tesco.
Sherlock stood up and walked towards John's laptop, entered the pass-code and proceeded to explore. These were the times when Sherlock was ultimately desperate to get rid of boredom by invading John's privacy (though there really wasn't much, John wasn't used to very modern technology like the current generation; Sherlock knew the software and hardware of John's laptop so much, he bet himself he could build exactly the same one from scratch. Of course, that would be done on another day). No new notes, no new comments, no new drafts for John's blog, no new forbidden website bookmarked for future interest, nothing. Sherlock closed the laptop and he was back to being bored. It was awful.
Watching the telly was worse than being bored. There was nothing interesting—all the movies they were showing had predictable endings, all the television shows had no interesting topic and they were all just dull. Sherlock was tempted to throw the remote at the telly, but he was sure John would scold him for doing so and Mrs. Hudson would pull that out of their rent. No, it wasn't worth it. Sherlock stood up and paced around the room and checked the clock. Hm...
Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door with two bags from Tesco and Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Mrs. Hudson caught her breath for a moment, nodded to Sherlock for acknowledgement (or lack thereof) and proceeded to the kitchen. Sherlock checked the clock again. It's been more than five hours since John had left, presumably for the grocery. Mrs. Hudson came inside with the bags, but John was nowhere to be found. Seeing as Mrs. Hudson is fixing the grocery food quite calmly (without her surprised squeaks and a bit of "Oh, Sherlock..." every now and then, she was calm), she neither knew John was getting the milk nor had she seen him out.
Sherlock quickly dressed and hurried to the door, sending various text messages to people without so much as looking at where he was going. Mrs. Hudson asked him if he was eating dinner at home. A door slam was her only reply.
John was starting to feel uncomfortable. His wrists grew red and he found out the hard way that struggling didn't help his situation. The ropes were thick and tied similarly to a Chinese finger trap. The harder he struggled, the tighter the rope got—and John felt uncomfortable.
He heard his stomach gurgle unpleasantly. He was hungry, that's for sure. He had lost track of time since he just sat there, but from the way his muscles (and arse) felt, five to six hours, give or take. John closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. He's going to have to figure out a way to escape Sherlock-style. As he closed his eyes, his sense of hearing, smell and touch grew more sensitive. John's head snapped slightly to the right when he hears a strong voice yelling a deep, "Hey!" and was followed by a small thud and a fall. John's eyebrows twitched. Someone else was there.
He heard another heavy thud onto the door. John assumed someone was fighting and was probably close to losing at the sound of it. John jumped in surprise when he heard a gunshot. Another heavy-sounding clank onto the door was made and John opened his eyes. This time, he wasn't that surprised at all.
Sherlock stood there, a little blood splattered onto his clothes and his face beginning to bruise a bit. John smiled at the detective and Sherlock smiled back. The detective walked towards John and proceeded to untie him. Once the rope was undone, John stood up and rubbed his aching wrists. Sherlock went to the door, eying any possible back-up. He motioned John that the close was clear and they left the room.
John looked at the corridor, just outside the door. One man was sprawled onto the floor, seemingly punched directly on vital muscles that rendered the big man temporarily paralyzed with a gun that looked unceremoniously thrown back beside him. John looked at his left and saw another man with his back onto the wall, but there was no sign of any punches on him. John's mouth shaped into a small oh when he saw a bullet near the poor bloke's head, just at the same level as his eyes.
Sherlock tugged John and they briskly walked their way out.
John wasn't surprised to see that it was evening. He wanted to ask Sherlock how he found him, how long was he gone. He had opened his mouth to do so, but was cut off with, "Dinner?" Sherlock turned to him with his hands into his pockets, much the same way he asked John during their first case together. John smiled, "Starving."
John reached out a cup to Sherlock and sat on the chair in front of the detective. The doctor eyed him for a while, waiting for an explanation. Sherlock caught John's eye and held their contact still for a few moments until Sherlock took a sip from his tea and laid it down to the table in front of him.
"There's really no deduction to this," Sherlock began and John raised an eyebrow at him. "Mycroft felt that I was getting too bored to the point of destruction." John waited patiently, though his eyes beginning to narrow as he's understanding where this was going. "He had a few men keep you for a moment while he tested how long I would have realized you were gone and proceeded to infiltrate London in search of you." John gulped the rest of his tea at once, his drink not being as relaxing as he had hoped. Once finished, John looked down onto the cup and exhaled. He blinked up to Sherlock in realization.
"We didn't get any milk." John stated and Sherlock looked back at him with a raised brow. "You're getting it tomorrow." Sherlock's brow reached higher. "The perfectly good reason is that I'm not going to get myself kidnapped again while walking outside. I didn't schedule abduction into my time tomorrow." They both giggled until it turned into a laughing fit and for once, Sherlock agreed.
John heard Sherlock's voice from the outside. His damn heart wouldn't stop beating. Feeling nervous now wouldn't solve anything. A voice whispered in his ear, telling him to step out.
"Evening... This is a turn up, isn't it, Sherlock?"
A/N: My first (technically second) JohnLock fic, and I haven't written anything in a really long time. Not too comfortable posting it in Tumblr and too lazy to fix it in LJ, so here… I need actual criticisms. Not beta-ed, edited or Brit-picked. I'll crawl into a corner now…
Have to mention: Inspired by textsfromjohnandsherlock . tumblr . com/post/14331871501
I neither own Sherlock Holmes and any of the characters nor am I making any money for writing this.