You know, for a place that has outlawed handguns, Great Britain sure sees a lot of shooting (in Sherlock's universe, anyway).
Eventually, the shooting behind them ceased, and they moved back to each other's side. John sighed inwardly as most of the tension left his body. Safe. For the moment.
It was easier to grow curious about the cube bouncing in his pocket once that thought sank in. The doctor was glad that his thoughts were finally clearing. There was something uniquely disturbing to him about being on the wrong end of a gun. It put him more on edge than with any other weapon.
Bombs, knives—axes, even—those he could handle with only mild apprehension. But guns? Going up against those made him especially aware of what he was doing. He wasn't paralyzed by them or frightened by them, yet still they got to him in some subtle way. His shoulder gave a twinge at the thought, and John grimaced.
He really didn't like getting shot at.
A dark shape suddenly loomed in his vision; John threw his arms up, protecting his face from the branch swinging back at him from when Sherlock had pushed by it. Rolling his eyes, the blond fell back a few paces, allowing space for the underbrush to settle after his friend went through it the first time. The detective stayed in the lead as they progressed in silence, guiding them through the roaring, thrashing darkness of a forest fighting the sky's wrath.
Getting poetic, John observed dryly, vaulting a fallen log and skidding skillfully over the loam on the other side. Should probably sleep soon. He hadn't slept in more than two-hour stretches for three days. That meant Sherlock probably hadn't closed his eyes for at least four.
The hotel was a welcoming sight on the edge of town, a shuttered beacon that cast diffused light through the weather's melee. Before Sherlock could go around to the main door and destroy the proprietor's entryway with the gallons of water John suspected they were carrying, the doctor caught hold of his arm and dragged him around to the back entrance.
They were lucky he was so polite. As they slipped into the mudroom, it became clear that all was not right. John was battling the door closed against the hurricane trying to get past it when Sherlock went very still.
Silver eyes swept the small antechamber and the three entryways leading out of it, one on each wall. They alighted on the only door open, on their left. Partially ajar, it let light and sounds from the kitchen spill out, insulating the mudroom with the cheery essence of the hotel's main areas. Sherlock did not seem satisfied with the gentle pervasion of domesticity. He remained rigid for a few moments longer, a bird dog on point.
John didn't ask yet. Having gone on alert the moment he sensed his friend stiffening, he'd aborted his move to shed his dripping outer clothes and kept quiet, letting the detective work out whatever was bothering him.
A curly, wet head tilted, listening intently, and the doctor started wishing he had his gun all over again. Sherlock's shoulders read danger, but their room was through the door opposite the kitchen and down a long hallway. If expedience was important—who was he kidding, it was always important with Sherlock—he didn't like his odds of getting the weapon in time to do anything with it. Plus, he had no idea where the threat his friend perceived was coming from. If he went for it, he might walk right into an unwelcome surprise.
He decided to risk asking. "Should I—"
"No, I'd say that was out of the question," Sherlock murmured back, preempting him. "I'm sure they'll be waiting to shoot you there as well."
So the smugglers had come a-calling. It was an ambush. Instantly on high alert, John felt his body switch back into readiness, harnessing the adrenaline that had yet to leave his system.
"Where?" he whispered back to his friend, his thoughts flying to the elderly couple who owned the tiny hotel. "Are the owners still here?"
Immediately at the news, part of his mind had gone on autopilot, mapping the nearby terrain, planning possible escape routes and summoning up his mental notes on the easily defendable positions in the area. If the octogenarians were present, he'd have to adjust his priorities to getting them out.
Three exits around their living quarters, at least two inside of them, he remembered, adding that knowledge to his plans.
Noticing such things had become automatic to him while in Afghanistan, but the practice had come in handy quite a few times since his return to London. Sherlock's version of civilian life hadn't changed John's more cautious habits in the least—although his time as the man's flatmate had made him much better at holding conversations while he dealt with dangerous situations.
Sherlock shook his head in reply to the blond's question. "Bridge night at their club. Looks like the two other guests are out as well." He began to slink towards the door to their hallway. "The smugglers will be positioned throughout the house, most heavily near the entrances and our room. The back entrance was overlooked; they probably assumed it was locked. Or…"
He bent slightly, inspecting the handle of the door. John felt his stomach sink when those keen gray eyes widened. Drawing back towards the door, the doctor demanded, "What—"
"Camera." Sherlock said the word like a curse and blurred into motion, launching himself into John's midriff as the doors all around them exploded into shards of shredded wood and bullet holes.