Leaving the bathroom with his refilled bottle of water, Sherlock cheerfully looked at his kidnappers. "So, what shall we play next?"
"Aren't we playing Pirate anymore?" asked Davy with a smirk.
Sherlock shook his head and considered scuffing his toe against the rug before deciding that would be too trite. "It's two against one and you're both bigger than me. It's not fair."
The kidnappers looked at each other with one of those "he has no idea" kind of adult smiles that he wasn't supposed to notice, but then Joe nodded. "I suppose you've got a point. What would you like to play instead?"
Sherlock shrugged again. "I don't know. What have you got?"
"Er … we don't really have any games handy." Joe was clearly taken by surprise by the question. "Didn't you have a deck of cards, Davy?"
"I am not playing Go Fish with the kid all night," the taller man said firmly.
"No, no, nothing like that," Joe said with a glance at Sherlock. "I bet the kid here is plenty bright and can learn some other game. You ever play poker, Sherlock?"
Sherlock tried to keep his face from lighting up. Oh, this evening could be so much fun.
#
"Full house," Sherlock said, laying down his cards and leaning forward to gather his winnings.
Joe threw down his cards in disgust. "I don't believe this! How is this possible? You're what, six years old? Is this really the first time you've played?"
"Seven years six months," Sherlock corrected him, admiring his pile of winnings. They didn't have proper poker chips, and so were using M&Ms. After an hour's play, without even really trying, 87% of them belonged to Sherlock. "And yes. I don't think any of my nannies knew how to play poker—not that they were much interested in playing games with me, anyway."
"What about your parents?"
Sherlock shrugged. "They're not home much, and when they are, they're busy. Mostly I just entertain myself, now my brother's at school."
He saw the two men exchange glances and paused. "Why? What's wrong with that?"
Joe just gave his own shrug. "Most families don't work that way, mate. Usually the parents raise the kids, and everybody's in each other's hair until they grow up and move out. In my house, there was barely room to breathe, we were all right on top of each other."
Sherlock looked around at the small caravan again, trying to picture actually living in such a tiny space. What could be fun for a holiday (or a friendly kidnapping) would be quite different on a regular basis. He thought about his set of rooms back home, with large expanses of floor to spread out his experiments or to throw things. He had a full-sized tent pitched in the middle of his sitting room right now. He thought about how the front hall echoed, and how he could count on one hand the number of weeks in a year when he, his parents, and Mycroft were all there at the same time.
He looked back down at his pile of winnings and, on impulse, took one and ate it.
"Oi! You're not supposed to eat the chips!" Davy protested.
"Why not? I won them. And I never get candy at home."
Another odd exchange of looks between the two men, and then Davy said, "Yeah, but … if you eat them, it doesn't give us a chance to win them back, does it?"
Sherlock ducked his head down, momentarily confused. Had his kidnappers just showed sympathy toward him? In a way that had nothing to do with their possible remuneration but stemmed directly from a conversation about how his family didn't play games?
Curious. Very curious, indeed.
#
It was later now. Sherlock was slumped sideways on the small couch, feigning sleep, listening to the two men whispering again. He wondered if they had any idea how their voices carried, even though they were trying to be quiet.
The topic seemed to be whether it was better to tie him up for the night or to just let him sleep. To his surprise, neither of them seemed to wantto restrain him, they just felt that they probably should.
Really, this entire experience was going quite differently than he had expected. When he had decided to allow himself to be kidnapped (because he still had no doubt he could have escaped), he had thought it would be a pleasant diversion for a few hours, and then he would go home. He hadn't expected to … well, not 'like' his kidnappers, but to be totally enthralled by them.
It wasn't Stockholm Syndrome, either. He had read about that when his parents had first told him about the possibility of being kidnapped. (He had almost been relieved to learn that his parents were both so important and so busy. It made him feel like less of a failure for being able to capture their interest.) He understood the dynamics of the relationship between abductor and abductee—how important it was for the victim to try to ingratiate themselves to their captors, to make them less willing to kill if things should go badly. He knew it was a victim's responsibility to try to get away.
So … why hadn't he?
He thought about how, ever since they had found him alongside the stream, he had been the focus of attention for both these men. They had talked to him, not just over him as adults were wont to do. They had played games and been more patient than his nanny was—and she was paid to spend time with him.
He was not deluding himself. He knew the reason they were here was to extort money from his parents. It wasn't that they liked him, or chose him of all possible children to spend time with.
It was just that … no matter what the reason … they were spending time with him. He could never remember being the focus of so much relatively benign adult attention before. Angry attention from an adult about to lay down a punishment or scolding, yes. Passing benevolent acts, like when the cook sent him up extra biscuits for tea on days when he'd been denied a meal for misbehaving, yes. Concentrated attention by so-called medical professionals seeking to figure out what made him 'abnormal,' god, yes. But an adult having an actual conversation? For no reason other than that they chose to?
This had not happened to him. Ever, that he could remember. Not for longer than a polite five minutes at school or outside church.
His kidnappers were under no obligation to speak with him or to treat him kindly. (And he was forced to admit that, other than the car ride here, they had been unexpectedly kind.)
So, why did they?
For that matter, why was he being so obliging? Other than that one, testing move up the tree—which since he had gone directly up, couldn't have been considered him being a flight risk—he had gone along with their suggestions and games and was being 'good.' Not because he was afraid of being harmed, but because he was fascinated.
It was true that he was lonely much of the time, but that didn't bother him, not really. He didn't find any of the house staff interesting enough to want to bother with them. His own company was better than listening to them wittering away, talking about football or makeup or whatever boring, mundane topic struck their fancy. He was well aware he was only seven years old, but he was intelligent enough to carry on a proper conversation. Why did they persist in talking to him as a child? An unliked one, at that.
Really, the only one whose time he had enjoyed, who had treated him as if conversation with him was a pleasure rather than a chore, had been Mycroft. He was older, but they shared much in common in terms of upbringing and intellect. His brother had recommended books and took time to discuss them. He had been there almost every time Sherlock had needed him—whether because he'd fallen and hurt himself, or just needed someone to talk to.
That had changed this year, though, when Mycroft left for school. It didn't matter that Sherlock understood school to be necessary and no reflection on him, but still, it felt like abandonment. Especially when he hadn't come home for the Summer holiday. Had he lost interest in spending time with Sherlock?
So … being kidnapped by these two men—men so different than the ones he knew, with such fascinating speech patterns and odd ways of thinking—was totally new.
His eyes were open again as the thoughts whirled through his head. He watched the way they moved, how their hands waved as they argued. He was fascinated by their clothing, wearing thin at knees and elbows. He found himself staring at the calluses on their hands, the lack of manicures, but also the absence of dirt. Their hands were rough, but not from working with the earth. Tools, then? But the marks were older, as if they hadn't worked recently. Short of money then, that could explain their willingness to kidnap ... because they did not seem like accustomed criminals to Sherlock (not that he had any experience with the criminal class).
It was fascinating.
"What are you looking at?"
Sherlock blinked. He'd gotten so lost in his observations, he'd forgotten to feign sleep. "I'm sorry," he said, stammering slightly, "I must have fallen asleep."
"How much did you hear, kid?"
"Hear?" Sherlock tried to look confused. If they realized that he knew this was a kidnapping, it would change everything. They would stop talking to him, wouldn't play with him anymore. He'd just become a thing to be moved around, to be paid for. Just like at home.
"Yes, hear," Davy said, stepping forward. "Did you hear what we were talking about just now?"
"Just a little," Sherlock said, a shy look on his face. "You were trying to figure out where I was going to sleep tonight, and that's my fault. I shouldn't have fallen asleep so that you couldn't bring me home. Because, it's too late now, right?"
"Right," Joe said, nudging Davy to the side so he could walk toward the couch. "It would be rude to take you home this late, but it's okay, Sherlock. It's not your fault. We were… er … having too much fun and lost track of the time. You won't mind staying here tonight, will you? It'll be fun, just the three of us. We could make it a game, even."
Sherlock let a little hope show on his face (and wondered at himself that it was real). "What kind of game?"
#
Sherlock laid perfectly still in the bed next to Joe. He had to admit that the man's idea of playing Fugitive was brilliant for a man trying not to appear like a kidnapper to his own captive. He had tied their wrists together ("Pretend they're handcuffs.") and they had sat in the dark and giggled while Davy made noises about hunting for a pair of wanted criminals out in the main room.
It had been surprisingly fun. And, of course, it left Sherlock tethered to his kidnapper while he was supposed to be asleep. Really, it had been a fairly brilliant ruse.
He had slept for a while, but now the moon was streaming in the window and he wasn't tired anymore, and so he considered the rope. It wasn't tied tightly, but the length was short enough that any movement would wake Joe.
Except, of course, that Sherlock was remarkably good at wriggling out of ropes. He doubted his parents would have approved, but one game he and his nannies had always agreed on was the Tie-Sherlock game where they would try to secure him with an assortment of silk scarves and soft rope and he would escape. He knew they liked it because it made him sit quietly for a time, but he loved it because it gave him experience. He wasn't the least interested in magic per se, but he devoured as many books on Harry Houdini and other escape artists as he could find. (It was only in the last year that he had convinced his nanny to try handcuffs (procuring those had been exceedingly difficult), but it was just as well Joe hadn't used those. Sherlock was confident he could pick them, but he didn't have anything handy to use without resorting to his hat, and that was just out of reach on the bedside table.
But a simple loop of rope? Child's play … literally, and with five minutes of careful work, Sherlock was free and sliding to his feet.
He picked up his boots and his hat and edged to the sliding door that divided the bedroom from the rest of the caravan. How light a sleeper was Davy? Did he dare sneak past him? Or was the window the better choice? He wasn't sure where he was going to go, or even if he wanted to escape, but he wanted to know if he could.
Quietly, he padded over to the window and tugged at it—too high and too hard to move. Not without at least another foot of height. So he crept back to the door, watching Joe carefully.
The man didn't move as Sherlock eased the door open (though he froze as the door squeaked in its track). He stepped through as silently as he could, peering through the darkness at Davy, stretched on the couch, his long legs dangling off the edge. It didn't look at all comfortable, and his breathing wasn't quite as regular as Sherlock could wish, but still, he walked as quietly as he could past the man to the front door. He turned the latch softly and slowly, carefully, within minutes, was outside.
He paused a moment to listen, but heard nothing from inside the trailer as he crept away, looking around with interest. The kidnapper's caravan was parked at the extreme edge of a campground (which explained the lights and water). It would need to be disconnected properly before it could be driven away, but the men's car was parked alongside—handy for a quick getaway.
He could see lights far off through the trees, and assumed that was where the main campground was. He wondered how many people were there. How many of them were families, if any of them has children his age. Not that he cared. In his experience, children his own age were exceedingly dull, but still. There were times he tired of adult companionship and wondered what it would be like to have an actual friend.
Quietly, he walked through the woods, trying to remember what he had read about navigating in the dark. It wouldn't do to get lost. He wasn't exactly sure what he owed Joe and Davy in this situation—it was true they had kidnapped him, but they had been quite decent about it. At the very least, he wanted to keep his options open.
But in the meantime—there was an entire campground full of people, of families, and he couldn't help himself as he drifted closer. He just wished some of them might be awake to talk to him.
He snapped a twig and froze, cursing himself, ears straining back toward the caravan in case Joe or Davy had heard the noise, but he'd been walking at least ten minutes—he had to be far enough away, right?
He wasn't expecting a voice from much closer, calling out, "Who's there?"
Sherlock froze. Was this a look-out he hadn't planned for?
Then in front of him, a light appeared, illuminating the rough shape of a small tent, ten yards in front of him. The voice called again, "Who's out there? Because if it's a wild animal, I'm not afraid."
It was a boy's voice, not an angry man. Sherlock only wished he knew if he should feel relieved—with boys his age, one never knew.
Still, he ghosted forward, placing his feet carefully until he was a few feet away. "Hello?"
There was a flurry of movement inside the tent and then the flap was pulled back and a torch was shining right in his face. "Who are you? What are you doing outside my tent at two in the morning?"
Sherlock held his hand up, trying to shield his eyes. "I'm sorry. I was just taking a walk. I didn't mean to wake you." He started to turn to walk away.
"You're out for a walk? Now?" The torch beam lowered and a boy's face appeared at the tent flap. "Why aren't you asleep?"
Sherlock shrugged. "You're not, either."
"That's because you woke me up."
Sherlock looked at him, taking note of the way the blond hair was rumpled, the white knuckles on the torch. "You were already awake, weren't you? Listening to every noise the woods made."
The boy tilted his head. "Yeah, okay, maybe I was. But I could have been asleep. What are you doing out this time of night?"
"Stretching my legs. Wanted to look around."
The boy ducked back in his tent abruptly and Sherlock stifled a sigh. Another person alienated. Good for him. He mumbled a "Sorry" and continued on, and then was completely surprised when the boy came running after him. "Why didn't you wait? I just needed to get my shoes."
With dawning delight, Sherlock looked at him again. The boy looked older than he was—ten, maybe?—but had a friendly, open expression with an edge of excitement at doing something illicit. (Though, really, he had no idea.) "You … want to walk with me?"
"Sure," the boy said. "Like you said, I wasn't really sleeping anyway. It's much better to have someone to talk to."
"You're here alone? Sherlock was surprised. He didn't think children were allowed to camp on their own.
The boy gave an expressive shrug. "Not really. My family's over there, but Dad said I could camp out in my own tent if I wanted to, so long as I checked in first thing in the morning and showed up for meals. It's a birthday treat—and believe me, not having to share with my sister isdefinitely a treat."
"It's your birthday?"
The boy nodded happily. "Eleven. The camping was my idea. My name's John, by the way."
"Sherlock."
He braced himself, waiting for the inevitable teasing at his name but the boy just shook his hand and said, "Pleased to meet you. You here with your family?"
Sherlock blinked. How was he supposed to answer that? "Not exactly…."
#
Note: Is anyone else surprised that Sherlock took this in a completely unexpected direction? Not only did I plan on this being a light, fluffy, humorous piece that wouldn't span more than a few hours, but I never planned on John showing up! What is he doing, camping within walking distance of Sherlock's kidnappers? And knowing John and his predilection for danger, he's going to get involved somehow, and … um … yeah. This is a new ballgame, folks! Jeez, doesn't Sherlock ever sleep like he's supposed to?
