A/N: Hey everyone! Back with another chapter, woot! Hopefully this makes up for the shortness of the last one. :) Enjoy!
DISCLAIMER: I know this might come as a shock to you, but... I don't own Sherlock. *gasp!*
CHAPTER NINE:
Fight and Flight
Sherlock woke up. It was dark, and somebody's very large hand pressed firmly over his nose and mouth, restricting his breathing. He'd only been out for a minute or two.
"Nice going, Clarice. You killed him," somebody whispered.
The owner of the hand replied, "Did not. He's awake. Keep quiet, you, understand?" Clarice addressed Sherlock now, his words barely audible. "Your pal's right out there and if you don't want him dead stay still until he moves on."
They were hiding behind a dumpster in the darkness of the alley. Sherlock could see John and Sheila standing on the sidewalk in the street light. John bent and picked up Sherlock's scarf. The thugs panicked.
"I told you to grab it when we heard him coming, stupid!" The boss hissed.
"I was dragging city boy outta sight, Jenner should have-"
"Shut up, he'll hear ya."
Sherlock's hand slowly moved under the dumpster he was pressed against, feeling for his gun. It had skittered across the alley when kicked away from him, and he'd noted it sliding under the dumpster for later retrieval.
John bent over and picked up Sherlock's scarf. He clenched it in his hand, concern welling up in his chest. He looked around the dark alley, looking for any sign of where he could have gone.
Sheila reached over and gripped his arm. He looked at her and she turned so she faced him and her back was to the rest of the alley. "Dumpster," she mouthed.
Sherlock's fingers just brushed the cold, hard grip of his gun under the edge of the dumpster. He strained his reach as far as he could without giving away what he was up to, but couldn't reach it enough to wrap his fingers around it. His head spun and he knew he had to get air soon or he would pass out again.
He suddenly bucked his head into the nose and mouth of Clarice. His captor squealed and his hand loosened enough for Sherlock to get a breath, but before he could yell the boss clamped his hand over his face.
"You'll pay for that in a few minutes," he hissed, "Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock beat his fist against the side of the dumpster, which made an extremely satisfying echoing bang. The boss let go of his face and slammed him hard into the dumpster, heedless of the noise in his rage. Through the haze from lack of air and a small fire that exploded in his lower chest as he was banged against the dumpster, Sherlock wondered how many times he was going to get smashed against things tonight. He twisted to get free but the three of them pinned him down.
Sheila reacted the same moment John did at the banging noise. They dashed the few feet into the alleyway, towards the dumpster. John raised his gun in the air and let off a warning shot, before bringing it down and pointing at the thugs holding Sherlock. "Let him go," he growled. "Or I'll shoot."
Sheila leveled her gun at the men as well, but let out a barely muffled gasp at the sight of the thug holding his hand over Sherlock's mouth. I know him. Why do I know him? I can't know him!
Jenner and Clarice didn't let go; if anything they squeezed tighter. The boss smiled at John, showing teeth ruined by years of smoking. Sherlock grasped at his wrist, trying to pull his hand away from his face to breathe, but the boss appeared to maintain his grip with no effort.
"What d'you know, it's the good doctor what runs around all the time with the detective. And the lovely little missy, too. You'll shoot, will you now? Might you just trouble to turn around and see what's behind you?"
Sherlock looked past John and froze. It had been a trap. Several men with guns now cut off the escape out of the alley.
The boss spoke again. "If you shoot, we shoot. No telling who dies."
John froze. He swallowed, then followed Sherlock's gaze to see several armed men at cutting off the chance of any escape. He tightened his grip on the gun, and clenched his jaw, then turned back to 'the boss'. "Perhaps," he said, his voice surprising him by the calmness it held. "But I can guarantee you that if I shoot you, you will die. And is that a risk you're willing to take?"
Sheila felt an inexplicable wall of panic shoving its way up her throat. Her hand trembled, and she struggled to keep her gun trained on the man. Scenes of a white room, painfully bright lights and pain flashed in front of her eyes. She gasped and took an involuntary step backwards, stumbling and bumping into the wall of the alley. The gun fell from her hand and she slid down the wall, her breath coming in rapid gasps.
Spots danced before Sherlock's eyes. He couldn't just stand here...his body began to sag and his clutching more feeble. His eyes rolled back in his head, but right before they closed he saw Sheila sink down against the wall, heard the determined bravery in John's voice. But if John shot the gun they wouldn't stand a chance. An attack from an unexpected quarter, then. They wouldn't kill him and Sheila. Not yet. They wanted something.
Of course, this would probably earn him a stiff beating if things went badly; but he didn't care. He couldn't let them hurt John.
He jerked his knee up and into the boss' stomach, letting out a slight hiss of pain that the movement brought.. Once. Twice. Three times. Clarice caught him by the throat but Sherlock drove his fingers into his eyes. Clarice yowled and stepped back, rubbing furiously at his eyes.
John heard Sheila's gasp from behind him and he turned his head in time to see her slump down against the wall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a blur of motion, and he whirled around to see Sherlock stabbing his fingers into one of the thug's eyes.
John hesitated a fraction of a second, trying to decide if he should shoot or dive in with his fists instead.
One of the thugs made his choice for him as he dove for him. John stumbled back out of the way, but lost his footing and fell to his back on the ground.
The adrenaline of the moment overpowered Sherlock's dizziness. Now that Clarice had left his hands free a moment, he grabbed the boss's wrist in both hands and twisted it in a judo hold. Air. Air was good. His gaze darted to John. Not good. On the ground. Sherlock twisted free of Jenner's grip, which was the last one still holding him, and scrambled to stand between the downed John and the thugs.
He reached over and lifted Sheila by the elbow, pulling her nearer and slightly behind him. The thugs were recovering from the surprise action and a moment of quiet followed.
"Alright? John, are you alright?" Sherlock breathed, his voice coming out croaky, speaking over his shoulder but not taking his eyes from the enemy.
John scrambled to his feet, standing next to Sherlock and slightly in front of Sheila. "Fine," John said, keeping his gun trained on the thugs. He glanced back at Sheila, whose face was still white in the faint light. She reached down and picked up her gun, hands still trembling.
The boss looked them up and down. "So? Where do you think you'll go from here? You're still stuck. Why don't you just-"
Somewhere surprisingly nearby Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov's "Flight of the Bumblebee" started playing, interrupting the boss. He looked around in confusion.
Sherlock glanced in several directions, but the music stopped. He turned back toward the boss. "I'm sorry, you were saying what?"
"Flight" began playing again. Sherlock looked both annoyed and bewildered.
John blinked, and his face flushed. "Uh... Sherlock..." He coughed awkwardly. "That's your, er, phone."
Sherlock cut a sidelong glance at John. "Nice. Thank you." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, which sure enough, was lit up.
John silently cursed the phone for going off at a really inopportune time. He bit back a half-smile of humor, though the moment was completely ruined by the armed men surrounding them.
Answer it," the boss said, "and sound normal about it."
Sherlock gave a curt nod. He selected "accept call" before the horrible "Flight" could play again. "Sherlock Holmes."
"Little brother, what on earth are you up to now? You left a message with Anthea an hour ago. You should be in Baskerville by now." Mycroft sounded bored and pestered.
"Our stay in Dartmoor is diverting, to say the least." Sherlock paused and then added, "Breathless? I don't sound breathless. Mycroft, when do I ever NOT sound intense? That's sort of what I am. No, we're fine. We were just… boxing." Sherlock looked meaningfully at the boss, who sneered. Good. He wasn't seeing through it.
Mycroft paused. "I see. The police in the area have been alerted. I trust your antics are of actual importance this time?"
"Yes."
"I will instruct the police not to ask questions. And brother dear?"
"What?"
"Do try and be careful."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Always, Mycroft." He hung up. "Really, John. 'Flight of the Bumblebee?' We'll talk about that later."
John coughed again awkwardly. He glanced at Sherlock, trying to figure it out... Sherlock's voice hadn't sounded any different, but would he have passed up the chance for help?
Then he realized he had been talking to Mycroft.
And he realized that Sherlock Holmes would most likely rather be caught dead than ask his brother for help. He groaned internally.
After an awkward moment, John shifted. "So, um..."
"Where were we then?" Sheila's voice came from behind him, it's strength regained. John glanced at her. Her face was still pale, but her eyes held a determined look.
Clarice tilted his head to one side, as if thinking. "Well, I think we were just getting to the part where you three got some sense knocked into your heads and gave up. After you realized how unpleasant you've already made things for yourselves," he nodded toward Sherlock, "And how much more unpleasantness you'd earn if you didn't cooperate."
Sherlock scoffed. "I wasn't under the impression we were coming to that point at all. Were you?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow and glanced at Sheila and John.
John smirked. "Any chance of me ever getting sense knocked into my head was destroyed when I met him." He nodded to Sherlock. "So, no, that wasn't my impression at all."
Sheila smirked, a little of her old smirk showing through. John felt relieved. "I wasn't getting that either," she said. "I was however under the impression that you are all going to regret messing with Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock smiled. "Precisely."
Suddenly a loudspeaker blared, "THIS IS THE POLICE. PLEASE LAY DOWN YOUR ARMS."
Sherlock made a face that looked like he'd just remembered something.. "Oh, I remember where we were. We were just coming to the part where you're all arrested. Come on," he added to a John and Sheila, "Now's the time to run." Desperate thugs were the most dangerous of all. If they were able to grab a hostage they might even be able to hold the police at bay.
John started running for the mouth of the alley. Sheila started after him, but Clarice got over his surprise quicker than the others. He reached out in a lightning-fast movement and grabbed her arm, twisting it behind her back. Sheila cried out. Clarice whipped a knife from his belt and held it against her throat. "I don't think I have to explain how this goes," he growled.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder at her shout and slowed when he saw her predicament. He glanced back toward John, uncertain, and then stopped. He turned to face Clarice and let his head fall back, closing his eyes briefly in disgust. "Really? Boring." He walked in a wide arc around the two of them, hands raised slightly palm outward. "So what exactly are you planning on doing now?"
He glanced at the dumpster. He could just see the handle of his gun underneath the front right corner. If he could reach it and Sheila didn't flinch, he was pretty sure he could drop Clarice without endangering herl.
"CEASE AND DESIST! CEASE AND DESIST!" The police blared uselessly. The rooftops on both sides were lined suddenly with police officers, but none shot for fear of hitting the wrong person.
John stopped as soon as he heard Sheila's cry, spinning around to see her and Clarice, his heart sinking.
Clarice kept his gaze on Sherlock. "Stop right there," he growled. "Make another move and she gets it." He pressed the knife against her throat tighter, drawing a small prick of blood.
Sheila winced at the prick, and suddenly another memory flashed in front of her. Prick. Needles. White. Pain. Prick. Again. Again. Why? Stop it. Why won't they stop?
She squeezed her eyes closed, struggling against the wall of dizziness slamming up against her. Had to... stay strong... She felt her limbs start to give out.
Clarice felt it as well. He grinned down at her. "Remembering, are we?"
