In front of the bathrooms near the East Entrance.
Hurry up.
SH
No new messages. But, John didn't always respond to his texts, like with the case with the taxi driver, when he had first met John. Ironically, he realized, that case also dealt with luggage. Suppressing a sigh, he stopped pacing and looked down at the bag. Nevermind, thought Sherlock, sitting down, this can't wait.
Sherlock unzipped the first pocket. He quickly glanced through a few toiletries and placed on the ground, beside him, ignoring the dirty stares he received as he methodically clogged the bathroom doorway. Nothing of interest in this pocket, he decided.
Sherlock unzipped the bags main pocket. Onto the floor went a weeks worth of maternal clothing, a Sudoku Book, a passport...Sherlock stared in disbelief. " that can't be right." He found reaching for the bag, checking to see if he overlooked something.
He suddenly became aware of the gaze penetrating the back of his head. "John, change of plans. I need you to-"
Sherlock's chattering ended abruptly as he stood facing the bystander, who was most certainly not John.
When Sherlock texted in front of the bathrooms he evidently meant in front of the bathrooms, John realized as he watched someone nugde to the side a mound of pastel color shirts as they passed through the doorway marked "Men."
John bent down. The bag was empty, save for some scraps at the bottom. Tossing the bag aside, John rummaged frantically through the pile of travel goods, hoping for some sign of Sherlock's whereabouts. Finding none he stood back up.
John looked through the glass entrance of the airport, He felt a bubble of relief form when he saw a pinprick in the distance, of tall, curly hairs across the runway. The bubble popped almost immediately when the full-effects of that statement appeared along with another man.
Bloody hell, Sherlock. Not again. You could have at least told me your plan first.
He could already tell it was going to be a long day.
Sherlock came to gradually, although he wasn't sure he was ever fully unconscious to begin- what was that state called? Hypnotic? Hypnagogia? His head pounded, shreading his thoughts incoherent. A voice, intent, it seemed, upon making his headache all the worse, chose that time to speak.
"I believe you would be anxious to know that, Mr. Holmes, that there is a gun, 5 centimeters from the back of your head, aimed to kill. I sincerely would suggest you give us the photo." The voice sounded almost as if it had come from Mycroft- the wording and inflections were certainly similar- but it was undershadowed with a lisp that, for some irrational reason, irritated Sherlock beyond description.
His assailant apparently took the precaution of blind folding Sherlock, although for what reason, Sherlock couldn't tell. He knew almost as much about the situation he was in as if he has been the man speaking. They were, on the side of the runway opposite to the building (Didn't his attacker have ears?), he could tell that it was not an attacker when there were three of them (as evident from their breathing), and that, from the very soft clinking, that there was indeed a gun being held at his head, by someone afraid of using it.
"I don't know what you are talking about," he said.