Disclaimer: Sherlock & John etc….Don't own, never did – wish I could!
21.10hrs Friday 1st February 2013
Sherlock stared at the evidence in Sally Donovan's hand. John's keys. His eyes narrowed as his thoughts raced at lightning speed, considering all the possibilities. Had John been forced into taking part in the raid, could he have been threatened in any way?
"Have you checked the whereabouts of Harry Watson?" he barked the question at the Detective Inspector
"John's sister? No, why?"
"Oh for God's sake, Lestrade, isn't it obvious? If… IF...this is John, he may have been compelled to take part. There are very few people whose safety could be used against him – myself, Mrs Hudson, possibly even you, Lestrade…but the one person most likely to be used as a bargaining chip is his sister"
During this exchange Mycroft had walked through to the kitchen, his phone pressed to his ear, speaking quietly, his expression serious.
"I have people checking on Miss Watson now," he advised as he returned to the living room. "Meanwhile I suggest we adjourn to Scotland Yard to consider all the evidence we have. Dimmock and Penniston, my CCTV specialist, will meet us there"
Lestrade nodded, gathering up the photographs and heading for the door. Sally stared insolently at the Holmes brothers.
"Don't think you can talk your way out of this – your friend is a murderer, and as big a psychopath as you are….Freak!" with that she turned and followed her boss.
Ignoring the woman, Sherlock pulled on his coat, wrapping his scarf around his neck.
Mycroft raised a questioning eyebrow.
"Will you travel with me? Or will you insist on travelling by cab?" the last word was said with an edge of distaste, but the younger Holmes brother ignored the implication.
"I'll travel with you; this is really not the time for cheap-shot attempts at scoring off each other!"
Mycroft smiled, and wondered if his brother realised how much like the good doctor he had sounded.
xOx
10.30hrs Thursday 31st January 2013
It was three paces along the final wall that John found it – a door! Leaning against the wood he pressed an ear against it, listening, trying to pick up clues as to who had put him here, and why. There was nothing that could help him, only the residual rumblings that had been a constant since that last crash.
Not wasting any more time with that, he took half a step back and started a thorough examination of the door with his hands – despite the adjustment of his eyes to the dark, it was still impossible to see anything that was more than an inch from his nose. Starting at the top left hand side, his hands swept carefully across, feeling damp wood covered in peeling paint, the sharp edges of which scraped and cut at John's palms and fingers, but he carried on regardless, working his way steadily down.
John was so pre-occupied with the door that he was taken unawares by the next crashing explosion, and he pushed himself tight in against the wood, keeping his body in the shelter of the doorway, remembering instructions from his army training days; doorways had reinforced lintels, making them less likely to collapse.
As he stood waiting for the dust to settle, he realised something hard was pressing against his hip. Sliding a hand down, he encountered the cold metal of a door handle. Frantically John turned it, rattling at the door in an effort to get it open, but to no avail. Crouching down and letting his fingertips do the 'looking' for him, he explored the area around the handle and found the keyhole. Leaning forward, he pressed an eye against the cold metal escutcheon in the hopes of at least a chink of light in that eternal blackness, but there was nothing.
Forcing down his disappointment, the soldier in him made him stand easy for a moment, and analyse the information he had gathered. The way the hinges were set in the frame meant the door would open inwards – no point then in trying to open it by throwing himself at it. And even if he could find something to pick it with, he was no Sherlock Holmes (he grinned to himself at that thought), he had no experience of picking locks and now probably wasn't a good time to start. He turned and leaned back against the wood, thinking.
'The room is about fifteen by thirty feet, and obviously not in the best state of repair – flaking paint, crumbling brickwork, damp – always the possibility of finding something useful in the room….'
Sinking to a crouch, John considered the best, the safest way to handle this. On all fours then, no risk of tripping and falling, no risk of broken bones or head injury. Slowly, working from one side of the room to the other in a zigzagging movement, and sweeping his arm around at ground level, he searched.
xOx
14.00hrs Monday 14th January 2013 (17 days before the kidnap)
Two people sat in the lounge area of the hotel suite; one was a doctor, the other a 'fixer'. It was he who had arranged for the doctor to be present, brought them to this rendezvous. They were waiting for a third person, the mastermind behind the plan.
The bedroom door opened, and a tall, slim woman entered, walking with cat-like grace across the room and taking the only vacant seat. She nodded to the fixer, and then turned hard, obsidian eyes on the doctor.
Both men had risen to their feet as she entered the room, now only the doctor remained standing, waiting to be introduced. The newcomer held out a slender hand in greeting.
"Welcome Dr Simone, you may call me Madam Diane" the French accent gave a sensuous edge to her voice, an edge that was totally at odds with her cold gaze.
Simone shook the offered hand and returned to his seat, his gaze flicking between his two companions.
"How can I be of service, Madam?" he asked
"I need a man to be kept unconscious for a time, not hurt" she emphasised as a look of concern crossed the medical man's features "just enough to keep him quiet for, say, four or five hours."
"May I ask why?"
"That's not advisable, doctor"
"Your man here says I'll be well paid – how well paid?"
"Enough for you to change your identity and set up in practice, somewhere where they haven't heard of the disgraced Dr Simone"
The doctor hung his head, knowing this was an offer he would be foolish to refuse – he could return to general practice, try to forget about the ridiculous accusations of that hysterical teenager, accusations that led to him being struck off. Drawing in a deep breath, he looked back at his new employer.
"Yes, okay. When?"
The fixer gave him the time and place, emphasising the need for punctuality, and above all, discretion.
"You can supply the necessary drug?" Madam Diane's eyes narrowed as she watched for his reaction.
"Diprivan – a general anaesthetic. Do you have details of the man I am to anaesthetise? Height, weight etc?"
The woman picked up an envelope from the floor beside her chair, and removed from it a glossy photograph. The subject was Dr John Watson, the photograph having been taken as he was standing waiting to follow his friend into the back of a London Taxi.
"Approximately five feet seven inches" the fixer explained, "compact build, ex-army so you'd need to allow for muscle weight, the guy keeps himself fit"
Simone nodded.
"I will be there. And payment will be?"
"In cash, on the delivery of one unconscious man" The lady rose to her feet and held out her hand once more. "A pleasure doing business with you Dr Simone. I look forward to seeing again"
Dismissed, the doctor let himself out of the room, taking the lift and walking out through the foyer in a daze, thinking only of the money he would be paid.
As the suite door closed behind him, Madam Diane sat down and turned her attention to her fixer.
"It's all arranged, Madam," he smiled. "Four heavies, two grand each, no questions asked. They'd sell their grannies for less, each and every one of them. Then there are three lads to drive the decoy vehicles, hundred quid each. All trustworthy. The vans will be in place and ready to go by early evening."
"Good. And the trap? The set-up for Dr Watson?"
"A suitable candidate for blackmail has been found – he will be advised to suggest the good doctor as an ideal replacement."
"And finally – the place of….shall we say….execution?"
"An ideal place has been found and prepared. Nothing will happen until after he has been placed there. Two of the kidnap team have set it all up, for an extra couple of hundred each."
Madam Diane relaxed back in her chair, a smile of satisfaction spreading across her face.
"The Rostopchin Diamonds are worth tens of millions, even on the black market. In three weeks we will be rich!"
xOx
11.45hrs Thursday 31st January 2013
John had almost given up hope of finding anything useful in his prison when his hand knocked into a small pile of rubble, a collection of broken bricks and sharp stones. For ten minutes or more he sat, cross legged, sorting through the pile, feeling around each item he picked up, testing the strength of the sharper ones by tapping them quite hard against the concrete floor.
He finally chose three largish, sharp rocks. John cursed his missing jacket as he couldn't fit his crude tools into his trouser pockets, they were too large. A few more minutes thought, and the problem was solved. He undid a couple of buttons on his shirt and slid them inside, his shirt – once re-buttoned – acting as a giant pouch. He crawled to his left, to what he was sure was the nearest wall, and then slowly followed it round until he reached the door once more.
Despite its age, and the damp conditions, the wood held firm as for almost an hour John hammered at the door and the doorframe around the lock, trying to break through or at least weaken it enough to kick it in. His hands were cut and bleeding, his arms aching and his head pounding. Fortunately he was too busy to worry about his lack of food and water, despite it being almost twenty four hours since he last ate.
Pulling on reserves of strength he didn't know he had, John threw himself back into his work, ignoring the pain of his lacerations as he drove the sharp end of the rock time and again into the wood. Suddenly, with a loud crack the wood gave out, and throwing the rock down John scrabbled at the splintered wood with his fingernails, almost tearing them out in his desperation, finally getting a hold on either side of the lock. Standing up, he put his full weight into pulling at the door, one foot pushing against the wall to give him greater leverage.
When the door gave out, it flew open, and John lost his balance, falling hard onto his backside, but he didn't care – the door was open! He stood up and put his hand out, finding first the splintered door frame. With a smile he put his hand through the doorway and felt…more brickwork! The door had been bricked up! John turned and slid down the wall, oblivious to the scratches forming down his back and shoulders, until he sat on the floor, amid the shattered remains of his endeavours, and with his head in his hands he gave in to hot, angry tears.