Author's Note: This story will be full of Sherlock!Whump and Caring!Badass!John, guys! I'm excited to write it! Reviews push me along, so please review and enjoy. As always, I hope to do the character's justice.
Chapter 1
A Troublesome Ride-Along
A low groan escaped John's throat and the faint feeling of nausea washed over him, but disappeared as soon as it came. For a few moments, everything was black and fuzzy, but he blinked away the blurred spots in his vision and John's thought process began working. The first thing he realized was that he was in a cage. Frantic and confused, John scrambled to the dark metal bars and gripped them, inhaling sharply at the chill that immediately attacked his spine.
Suddenly, the ground shook before he had a chance to observe the rest of his surroundings and he fell backwards on his bum. His first thought was an earthquake, but he was certainly not in an immobile vehicle. That was it. He was in a truck. In the back of a truck! In a cage, no less.
Taking advantage of the stillness of the vehicle, John went back to the edge of the cage and tried his best to peer through the bars. He scanned the rest of the huge moving tin to find that there were three other cages. Only one, John was able to tell, was empty. The cage next to his had a boy, no older than eighteen, and John felt a pang of anger to their captors. From the boy's position in the cage, John was certain he was asleep, possibly drugged. John crawled over to the other side of his cage to examine the remaining cage.
John's heart nearly jumped into his throat and he held his breath with wide eyes. The lifeless, limp body in the other cage was wearing the familiar coat and dark blue scarf; Sherlock. His friend was lying, stomach on the ground, with head turned away from John.
"Sher-!" John choked out in a breathless, quiet voice. "Sherlock!"
No answer. Not even a twitch. It was impossible to determine the consulting detective's condition from John's position. So that's why John thought back. He thought back to how this all happened and why exactly Sherlock looked injured to a fatal extent…
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John treaded up the stairs into 221B, dragging a large bin behind him.
"Sherlock!" John's voice was angry, nearly frightening. "Sherlock!"
The doctor rolled the bin to the side of their couch and rubbed his eyes in a disapproving way. Within the bin was many different things; a towel, a small coffee table, a stool, and the wooden part of a chair.
"What is it, John?" the consulting detective answered absent-mindedly.
"What is it?" John repeated in disbelief. "Why the hell is all my stuff in the waste bucket?"
Sherlock replied in a truthful way. "That's hardly all your things. I left your mouse alone. Alive and well."
John raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "Mouse? I didn't have a mouse, Sherlock."
His friend replied quickly without much emotion at all. "Well, that's good, because I fed him to the stray cat outside."
John didn't even bother asking Sherlock if there were mice running throughout their flat, but he certainly did wonder why his things were tossed into the trash, so he asked, hoping to sound as patient as possible so that the detective would answer truthfully.
"I had to make room for my fort. I made it out of the cushions," Sherlock replied and slumped into the couch with the cushions still intact, right underneath the painted on smiley face. John took notice to the disarray of pillows scattered on the floor.
"Are you, perhaps, a five year old, Sherlock?" When John realized he wasn't going to get an answer, he added, "So, then, where's the fort?"
Sherlock glanced out the window. "Got bored with it."
"Don't you have a missing person's case to work on?" John suggested hopefully, busying himself with the newspaper and eyed the article of the young man that had disappeared nearly three days ago. His girlfriend had visited 221B Baker Street for some desperate help. John frowned at the black and white picture of the boy and a twang of concern spiked his heart.
"Boring." Sherlock hopped back to his feet and strutted around the flat.
"How can you say that?" John sounded sincere and he tried his best to get his friend to understand. "A man's life may be hanging in the balance of your boredom capacity."
"A man disappears off the streets in a crowded area," Sherlock explained quickly, "I've done this before. 'A Study in Pink', remember? Just phone Lestrade and tell him to interview all the taxi drivers."
John formed his mouth into a straight line, trying not to say anything he might regret. "Sherlock, you've interviewed the man's girlfriend already, right?"
"Yes, and she's not-" Sherlock was interrupted by the doorbell ringing not once, but twice. John released a heavy sigh and folded the newspaper and set it down on the replaced coffee table.
"We're not done here," John warned as he left their flat, much like how a mother would scorn her child. He trotted down the stairs faster as the bell continued to ring.
"Hold on, hold on!" John called to the person who seemed all too eager to visit 221B. John reached out, grabbed the doorknob and turned it open. That was when Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs, his eyes in opened wide in a frantic manner and his long legs were nearly sprinting down the stairs after the doctor.
"John! Don't!" Sherlock cried, but the door was already opened and the sound of a gunshot rung and echoed in the small flat. John could've sworn he heard the bullet whizz by his ear. An arm had stuck through the small opening of the door with an automatic pistol in hand. Sherlock leapt from the fourth step and slammed the door shut, closing it on the arm with the weapon and a scream of pure pain ripped through the shocked, quiet scenery.
John was too surprised and slow to move how a soldier should, so Sherlock had to take control. He grabbed John's wrist and they both darted upstairs.
"What the hell is going on?" John asked, composing himself as Sherlock shut and locked the door to their flat up the stairs.
"Richard Brooke's girlfriend," Sherlock explained between breaths. "She's behind this. John, their-"
Sherlock was, again, interrupted by crashes against their door. John sprinted into his bedroom before Sherlock had a chance to continue his explanation. Truthfully, John didn't care much. All he knew was that someone was trying to kill them, so he retrieved his gun and loaded it with a fresh magazine.
He returned to the living room to find their door had been broken down and Sherlock was lying on the ground with a bloodied head. Three men were standing above his body, all three holding guns. From John's personal experience, he knew Sherlock hadn't been shot through the head. There was too much blood to conclude to that. He must've been knocked unconscious by a strike with the gun. John nearly winced at the thought of the headache Sherlock would have to wake up to.
"Come quietly and we won't kill you," one man said with a light chuckle and took a step forward. John immediately raised his pistol and trained it at the man's heart.
"Why not kill us in the first place?" John asked, his voice steady and convincing. John wasn't scared. He was an army soldier. He lived for moments like these. He was focused on getting him and Sherlock out of there and treating Sherlock's wounds.
The man answered and gestured behind John. "Boss doesn't like broken merchandise."
John spun around at the sound of a rifle being cocked and before he had a chance to react, a dart shot out of the barrel and his world faded to black.
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The truck abruptly stopped and John, having had his face pressed up against the bars to come into contact with Sherlock, tumbled backwards, hitting his own head on a loose bar. He winced at the pain and inhaled sharply through his nose.
The doctor, through the metal that separated him and the outside world, heard muffled voices of a few men and one woman. His eyes darted around, desperately looking for something that would get him out. However, his eyes made contact with the young man in one of the remaining two cages. That was him! Richard Brooke! The missing person. John recalled Sherlock telling him that Brooke's girlfriend was the puppet master. John was certain the female voice he heard was hers.
Suddenly, a bright light ripped apart the dimly lit tin cage. John had to squint and use his hand as an umbrella as to not become blinded. Obviously, it was day time. It was nighttime when they were captured, meaning it was most likely the early morning of the next day. John soon realized that the back of the truck was opening and it revealed one woman and two men. One man was missing from the lot.
"Wake-y, wake-y, boys!" the woman called out. However, only John and the young man responded. Sherlock was still very much unconscious. John took notice to the woman's nice clothes and jewelry. "Are you awake, Richie?"
John turned his head to find that Brooke was awake and nodded in reply. He seemed all too frightened to form words.
"Why are you doing this?" John asked, unafraid, as usual. He took great pride in that fact. The times on the battlefield and in Sherlock's company had hardened the army doctor and he wasn't going to squeal because a few tough looking men and one, prissy woman had taken Sherlock and him hostage.
"Your friend was onto us. I'm surprised you still don't know," the woman giggled and lightly bit her index finger, almost as a mocking gesture.
"Don't know what?" John asked steadily and gripped the cage's bars. As the woman ordered one of the men to unlock Sherlock's cage, she looked over at the doctor with liquid, silky blue eyes; taunting and menacing.
"Why, we're slave traders, of course," she answered with a smile.