Disclaimer: I do not own anything except my original story line!
Probably for the first time in his life, Sherlock was about to admit to himself that maybe, just maybe, he should have listened to his flatmate. Always trying to save him from the consequences of his own headstrong actions, John had asked him to wait – he was ten minutes from home, they could have gone together. Instead he had texted Lestrade details of where to find the kidnapped French millionaire, and chased after the gang alone.
When he had followed them into the building, with its boarded up windows and its air of derelict abandonment, he was certain this would be a simple case of confronting the kidnappers and holding them until John (or Lestrade) caught up with him. Sherlock cursed his misfortune. If they had been more mature – or less barbaric – this may still have worked.
He had captured one of the gang, and forced him to lead the way to where the rest were waiting for their leader to return. They were only children really; the eldest of the motley crew assembled in the chilly, stone built classroom was little more than eighteen, the one that Sherlock held was barely sixteen. When the ringleader reappeared with the money, he was also brandishing a gun. Without thought, Sherlock had spun round, putting his captive between himself and the gunman, never dreaming for one instant that the result would be so horrific. With a twisted smile the other man raised his arm, aimed the gun, and shot his associate clean through the heart.
It was pure instinct that saved Sherlock from becoming his next victim. He was too far away to tackle the man, so the consulting detective flung the corpse he had been holding at the remaining gang members, causing them to scatter, and he heard a shriek as the gun went off a second time, obviously hitting one of them. Not stopping to see what was happening, Sherlock sprinted for the stairs. Behind him he could hear the shouted instructions, the threats of dire retribution if the intruder was not stopped.
The old Victorian school was a maze of corridors and interlinking classrooms, and Sherlock, hearing the thunder of footsteps ahead of him as well as behind him, dived into the nearest room to gather his thoughts. Moments later he was grateful that he had chosen to drop into the shelter of a pile of old furniture, as the door opened, and from his hiding place he could see one of the unarmed kidnappers making a half-hearted search of the room. As the boy passed close to him he stepped out and slipped an arm around his neck, pulling him into a choke hold, letting him slip silently to the floor, unconscious. So now he sat, considering his options.
He was on the ground floor, so if he could get out he would be relatively safe. In the corridor outside his safe haven there were stairs to his right, those were the ones he had all but leapt down in his flight from the gun-wielding kidnapper. To his left another set of stairs, and past them, another corridor that led to the outside world. Creeping cautiously across the room, Sherlock listened. There were no sounds outside the room, so he quickly slipped through the door and headed left, towards freedom.
Pausing as he reached the stairwell he glanced towards it, and found himself staring into the pale green eyes of a killer. Instinct made Sherlock move before the gunman could fire and he fled around the corner, running for the exit, knowing he was unlikely to outrun the gun.
He heard the footsteps behind him slow, and knew the man was taking aim. Ahead he saw movement in the doorway. A voice shouted.
"Drop!"
And Sherlock flung himself to the floor as John stepped into view, and without hesitation, pulled the trigger.
The bullet hit the kidnapper in the centre of his forehead, killing him instantly. His gun skittered along the floor and stopped close to Sherlock's foot. Neither man took any notice, as they stared at one another.
"Thank you" The words were soft, heartfelt.
John just rolled his eyes.
"Prat!"