There was definitely something going on, but Sherlock wasn't in the mood to tell him, so there was no point in trying to talk to him. He'd be better off at Sarah's, at least that would be interesting.
As soon as John got outside, he wished he'd worn a thicker coat or brought gloves. Oh well, he'd get there quickly and get into the warm.
Then he started as the cold barrel of a pistol touched the back of his neck.
He looked sideways. The man with the gun was dressed all in black and was also wearing a black balaclava. No way of identifying him later, then. The man jerked his head at a nondescript black car. Clearly John was supposed to get in. If this was Mycroft, he was going to kill him with his bare hands. But somehow John knew this wasn't Mycroft.
He got into the car. The gun didn't leave his neck even as a rough cloth covered his eyes. They drove for about twenty minutes before the car stopped, the cloth was removed and John was made to get out.
There were two other men there, dressed the same way as the first. They had a crate, which they opened as John was forced to approach.
From the crate was drawn a bulky vest.
No.
Nonononono.
The last pip.
He was the last one.
The two men worked quickly and quietly while the other man held the pistol to John. He tried as hard as he could not to show his fear, even though he had never been this scared in his life. This was a different type of battlefield to Afghanistan.
One of them connected the last wires. There. He was now wearing a fully armed bomb.
There was an earpiece in his ear. When had that been put there?
'Hello, Doctor Watson.'
He jumped a mile.
'I know you can hear me, don't worry. Now, you know how it works. When I tell you, you say what I tell you to say. Don't give me away. Now, you see that door there? In you go.'
As he walked, John tried to order his thoughts. The voice was Irish, and vaguely familiar. He couldn't place it, so, as he reached the door, he tried to work out where he was.
Chlorine. He could smell chlorine.
A swimming pool? Hadn't Carl Powers died in a swimming pool?
Please God, please, please God...
He was going to die. He was going to get blown up, not in a war-zone but in a swimming pool. And seeing as they'd chosen him, it probably meant Sherlock wouldn't be able to solve this one. It would suit Moriarty to let John died. He could have Sherlock all to himself then.
He followed the directions of the voice and stood in a cubical, hidden from the main pool. And waited.
After a lifetime, a door slammed and there were footsteps. Slow ones, someone was taking their sweet time.
'Here he comes. He'll get a nice little shock when he sees you, won't he?'
Who was it? Mycroft? Lestrade?
Then there was a voice.
'Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present.'
Sherlock.
'Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from this.'
'Step out, Johnny boy. Go on, now. Go out and face him. Let's see his face.'
John stepped out of the cubical and turned to face Sherlock.
'Whatever I say next, you say too.'
He had that bloody USB in his hand, as if it were some sort of offering. He turned as John entered, saw him and looked shocked.
'Evening.'
'Evening,' said John.