It was an ordinary day, or as ordinary you could get in 221B Baker Street. John and Sherlock were sitting across from each other respectively in their own chairs. They had just come home from a murder scene a few streets away but it had been tiring. The boys had been there since morning and the sun was currently crossing over the horizon, casting an orange glow in the sitting room of their flat. The mystery was simple, and Sherlock had solved it within an hour but there was evidence to clean up, people to arrest and news reporters to please.
It was all very exhausting, and the comfortable quiet in the room was welcome. The crackling fire provided a nice warmth and the setting was very relaxing. John had a book out and Sherlock sat in his usual position- hands in a steeple, hunched over a bit, straight face, the face of someone not present in the room currently.
Long after the sun had set, John finished his book and looked up for the first time to see Sherlock sleeping on the couch, his long lean form curled up, head tucked on his arm, the slow rise and fall of his chest. John smiled, Sherlock rarely slept, and it was comforting to John that Sherlock had been able to rest in his presence. Of course he knew that they had a tight friendship, it was still nice to know that the other still felt that way.
John set his book down quietly and snuck up to his room, slowly and carefully closed his door and crawled into bed. Looking at the clock, his blurry eyes could just make out that it was 2:30am. Dreary eyed, John closed his eyes and fell asleep instantly, ignoring the foreboding feeling in his stomach.
Sherlock enjoyed the presence of John, the smaller man had a comforting aura, and lit up the room when he smiled. Sherlock had been dreaming, quite nicely in fact, of one of his and John's cases, a 9, one that had excited them both and was not disappointing. It was a difficult mystery but of course Sherlock eventually deduced the answer. It was so worth the compliments and smiles and looks of amazement and disbelief from John. The dream ended abruptly. Sherlock frowned at the loss of a nice dream. Opening his eyes, soft from slumber he saw two muscular men entering the flat.
His eyes widened in alarm, but not panic. He had dealt with kidnappers, serial killers, psychopaths and pretty much anyone else, but usually he was prepared. At the moment he was dreary and disarmed and unprepared. Sherlock shut his eyes, hoping that the men didn't notice, or just ignored him. No such luck.
"Don't be an idiot, stand up." A gruff voice huffed. Sherlock rolled his eyes behind his closed lids and stood up, now wide awake, in nothing but a robe. Both men had a gun pointed in Sherlock's direction.
"Should we check for anyone else?" The obviously younger sidekick asked his boss. "There's no other shoes or coat present, plus this is a flat for one, the other bedroom's upstairs but it's 11 o'clock. Everyone here would be awake or out by now." Sherlock silently praised John for wearing his coat and shoes to bed, and for going to sleep late and sleeping in, because of course Sherlock knew John was still in his room.
The men with ski masks covering their faces tied Sherlock to his chair using biting metal wire. Then came the duct tape In his mouth and the blindfold. "No, I want him to see what we do and be useless to stop it." Said the gruffer voice. The blindfold was removed and Sherlock sat with placid eyes, staring straight ahead, not showing emotion. John would be up soon.
The men paced around the flat, taking anything of value. Then they picked up Sherlock's violin. "Pretty thing this is." Sherlock couldn't hold the façade, his eyes widened as his beautiful violin was stuffed (not gently) into the black sack. "Ah, pretty boy don't like us taking his instrument." He spat the last word like poison. Sherlock started to hyperventilate. He tried to calm himself down but that only made it worse. Then he heard the faint footsteps of John getting dressed, grabbing his gun and opening the door quietly. The men hadn't heard, caught up in their robbery.
John had noticed, smart John. John crept closer to the sitting room, gun poised, but not entering yet, he was outnumbered still. He wouldn't shoot unless necessary. As the men were finishing up, the younger spoke up. "Uh, sir, because he can see, isn't he a witness?" "You're catching on son, yes, witnesses, what should we do with him?"
The younger looked nervous, not very comfortable with this whole crime scheme yet. "Shoot 'em in the head? Quick death?" The older seemed to ponder this then said "Use your imagination, I'll leave this one to you." And dropped his own gun in the sack and set it by the door, bolting it in place then returning to stand beside his companion. Young straightened up and asked Sherlock "Do you love someone?" Sherlock's mind ran with reels of John. Is that love? Certainly he loves John as a friend, but is that what is kidnapper means? Sherlock nodded, eyes wide but controlled. He loved his parents, he loved Mycroft, in some way, he loved Molly as a friend, and Mrs. Hudson, and maybe Lestrade too.
The man pointed his gun at Sherlock's heart and said "then think of them in your last thought as I shoot your heart out." Hurry up John, Sherlock thought. Sherlock closed his eyes and counted to three. 1… 2…. 3…. Bang. Sherlock waited for the pain, death, but it didn't come. Thank you John, he thought before he opened his wincing eyes to just see the young kidnapper slump to the ground. Shot from the back, perfect shot to the heart. John walked into the room, gun aimed at the elder kidnapper.
Giving up, not even trying, the man surrendered, eyes solemnly glancing back at the dead body of his partner. He let himself be tied up, forced to his knees. John's mind was somewhere else as he called Lestrade, muttered something about threat removed, come quick, Baker Street, before dropping the phone and striding over to where Sherlock was still tied up. John untied the wire, Sherlock sighing with relief as the cold bite of the metal was taken away. Red lines circled his wrists but he was otherwise okay.
After Sherlock took the duct tape off his own mouth and wincing slightly, John unexpectedly cupped the taller man's chin. Heat rose to Sherlock's cheeks at the sudden contact, John's fingers lightly pressing on his chin, tilting his head side to side. His fingers were so warm, and Sherlock had to fight the urge to lean down and kiss the smaller man, his savior. His nice thoughts were interrupted by the door clambering open and the police barging in. John lowered his hand and pointed at the tied up man in the corner of the room.
Sherlock's face felt cold in the absence of John's warmth. Lestrade asked what had happened, and John calmly explained how he found Sherlock tied up after he overslept, some amateurs ransacking their apartment, about to blow up his chest before I stepped in. Lestrade nodded in sympathy and understanding and quickly removed both the dead and alive man. Soon enough the pair was alone in the flat again.
"Well that was a rather eventful morning, wasn't it?" Sherlock inquired, completely unfazed by the mornings activities.
"Indeed" John responded. "Hungry?"
"Starving."