John and Sherlock peered around the brick wall at the back door of the restaurant. It was empty except for a flickering yellow light and a couple of rubbish bins.
"We need to find that room to prove my hypothesis before they have a chance to dispose of the evidence."
"How do you dispose of that much Hydrogen Cyanide?" John asked, "Let's hope they don't just pour it down the drain."
Sherlock bent down and stood on his toes as he peered at the roof of the building. "This restaurant runs all along the side of the hotel. The room should be about fifteen meters from that wall."
"How do we get in?" John asked.
Sherlock grinned at John and then strode toward the door. "I guess I'll just have to use my charm," he said.
"What charm?" John replied running behind Sherlock. "So much for waiting for backup."
Sherlock rang the doorbell. A man's dark face appeared through the cracked door. "Yes?" he said.
"Hi!" Sherlock said grinning, "We are from just down the way, and we were wondering if we could borrow a cup of milk." John rolled his eyes.
"Go away!" the man said starting to close the door. John stepped forward then and kicked the door in sending the man sprawling to the floor. Sherlock and John rushed in. Sherlock reached for the man, but he scrambled up and ran into another room before Sherlock could catch him.
"My plan could have worked," Sherlock said peering after the man before taking another path toward where he imagined the room must be. Sherlock and John ran down a hallway and through a door. They disturbed a large group of women sitting at tables and drinking tea.
"Pardon me," John said as they passed through the surprised group only to turn and run when a group of men with guns came through a doorway.
"Run Sherlock!" John said as the men leveled their guns. The women screamed, rising from the tables and forming a distraction that allowed them to escape through a pair of swinging doors into the kitchen.
Sherlock reached up and slid a bolt across locking the door just as a body pounded against it. They ran past the surprised kitchen staff and rushed down a side hall. There were several rooms on either side. Most were pantries or storage closets. Sherlock took a moment to get his bearings, and then he turned off to the right going into a room. He passed several tall metal shelves and reached out to open a door. He shook the handle. "It should be in here, but the door is locked," Sherlock said "John, your gun."
"I didn't bring it."
"You didn't bring it? Why not!" Sherlock cried.
"I just got off of a charge of homicide, not to mention the jail time for fighting, do you think that I'd parade my gun in front of Lestrade after that? Why didn't you bring it?"
"You're the crack shot, not me," Sherlock said searching the room and finding that there was no exit other than the way that they had come.
There was the sound of a door slamming open and voice said, "You, search the rooms down there, they can't have gone far."
John and Sherlock crouched down behind a washing machine listening to the hallway, "Why didn't you close the door?" Sherlock whispered.
"There is no door!" John hissed back.
Footsteps ran down the hallway, and they pressed their backs up against the metal side of the washing machine. When the sounds faded Sherlock stood. "Sherlock!" John whispered, but he was back in a moment holding a bottle of champagne. He worked the foil wrapping and the metal cage off of the bottle with his long fingers. John glared at him. "Sherlock, do you seriously think that now is the time for celebrating?" John asked as he watched Sherlock toss away the metal wire.
"If we make a loud sound," Sherlock said, "They may think that we are armed."
"That's your plan?" John asked mockingly.
Sherlock glared back at him. "If you had brought your gun we wouldn't have had this problem. At least this will give me more time to come up with a way to get us out of here, unless you have a better plan."
John shook his head.
Just then they heard the sound of someone entering the room. Sherlock put his finger over his mouth, but John was already stock still, all of his senses concentrated on the footsteps that they heard approaching across the room.
Sherlock lined his thumbs up on either side of the champagne cork as a man with a gun turned to look at where the two of them were concealed. He pushed and the cork exploded out of the bottle hitting the man between the eyes. His mouth opened in shock and he fell back onto the ground. John rushed forward taking the gun from the floor where the man had dropped it. Then he put a pair of fingers on the man's neck.
"He's unconscious, let's pull him out of sight." Sherlock and John dragged the man into the corner and covered him with a tablecloth before resuming their place behind the washer.
John was peering out past the edge to get a good look at the door when he suddenly pushed to the side squeezing against Sherlock in the small space as a rain of bullets ricocheted off of the wall behind them.
John pressed his back against the machine holding the gun in both hands, "Now we're in trouble," he said. John slid out from behind his cover and shot once before hiding again as another few shots rained in.
"How many of them?" Sherlock asked careful to keep himself low.
"I only saw two," John said, "But I counted eight in the banquet hall. Seven if you don't count sleeping beauty there." John peered around the corner and took a shot. There was a cry. "Six now," he said.
John stepped out again only to throw himself back into the hiding space as gunshots whizzed past his head. He made a harsh grunt and fell against the side of the washer sliding to his knees and grabbing his right arm with his left hand. Sherlock could see blood spilling through his fingers.
"John!" Sherlock cried, "You've been shot!"
John laughed, "Get a grip, Sherlock, it's just a flesh wound," he said and pointed to a stack of cloth napkins. Sherlock reached out and grabbed some wadding a napkin up and pressing it against John's arm. It filled with blood too quickly. Sherlock looked around panicked. "John," he said again.
"Get another one to tie it," he said, and Sherlock did, wrapping the napkin around it on the diagonal and pulling tight, "Christ Sherlock, it's not a tourniquet," John said, and Sherlock loosened it as another few bullets bounced off of the back wall.
"You're going to have to take the gun, Sherlock," John said, "Pretty soon they'll notice that we aren't firing back and come in here.
Sherlock took the gun looking into John's eyes, "Are you alright?"
"Later." John said," We need to find better cover. Some place where we can see the door." John nodded to some metal shelves full of tins of olive oil. Sherlock jumped out and shot twice so that the attackers hid behind the door frame, as they ran across. In the new place, they were concealed but they could clearly see the door through the cracks.
"Get into a kneeling position pointed at that door," John said.
"A what?" Sherlock asked holding the gun in one hand.
John sighed and grabbed Sherlock's shoulders. "Here, come sit in front of me, I'll guide you," he said.
Sherlock knelt down in front of John, his gun arm extended in both hands as John looked over his shoulder. Sherlock aimed at the doorway, John's lips near his ear. "Lean forward Sherlock. Look down, you shouldn't see your toes."
"I'm not supposed to look down, I'm supposed to ..."
"Now!" John said and Sherlock pulled the trigger sending a shot through the open doorway. The man trying to enter jumped back into the hallway.
"What the hell were you aiming at?" John asked.
"You didn't tell me to aim," Sherlock said.
"Next time someone comes in, aim for their leg."
"Their leg?"
"I would say go for the shoulder, but with your bad aim, you'd hit them in the heart."
"Are you insulting my shooting ability?" Sherlock asked.
"Yes," John said. "Keep your arms up!"
"This gun is heavy," Sherlock whined.
"Don't be a wimp. Fire!" Sherlock shot twice, the second shot hitting the man in the leg. He fell and pulled himself out of the line of sight. Sherlock smiled turning his head toward John.
"Eyes forward, Sherlock," John ordered and Sherlock turned back around to face the door.
"You'll be more stable if you sit on your foot. Just lean back against me." Sherlock sat down on his foot, his arm still outstretched. "Place your elbow on your knee, yes. You'll be more stable now."
There was movement in the hallway as they readied themselves for another volley.
"Where's Lestrade?" Sherlock said. "He should be here by now."
John laughed again. "I guess we shouldn't have rushed ahead then."
"Don't blame me," Sherlock said, "You're the one who kicked the door in."
Another bullet whizzed by their head making them both jump. Sherlock let out another two rounds before John stopped him with a touch to his side. Sherlock sat on one foot with his arms outstretched. His right arm was balanced on his knee as he knelt pressed against John who sat behind him holding his bloody arm, a tight grin on his face.
"We'll run out of bullets soon," John said.
"John," Sherlock said, "On a scale of one to five, how would you rate your feelings of contentment right now?"
John widened his eyes, "Sherlock, we are stuck in a laundry with the only way out blocked. I'm bleeding, and we're being shot at."
"I know, but you like this, don't you?" Sherlock asked, "This is the thing that you were missing when I was away right, danger? Is that why you would get into so many fights? Because you missed this?"
"Can you focus, Sherlock. Someone is trying to kill us."
"Yes, and you are the happiest that I've seen you in weeks."
"This is the police!" A voice called out," Put down your weapons and come out with your hands in the air."
John smiled. "Now I'm happy," he said, "But don't drop your guard."
The sound of even more bullets flying by caused Sherlock and John to fall to the floor. They heard the sound of a tear gas grenade rolling down the hallway.
"Great, just great!" John said crawling on his hands and knees toward the stack of linens.
Screams echoed through the building as Sherlock and John cautiously crawled through the hallway dishtowels covering their mouths. They exited to bright lights and police in riot garb.
Sherlock put his hands up after tossing the gun to the ground, and John put up his hand. "It's me!" Sherlock yelled, "Don't shoot!"
Smoke was still billowing out from the doorway, so they didn't notice as a man rushed up behind Sherlock and put an arm around his neck pulling him back forcefully as he placed a gun to his temple.
"Guns down," the man said choking Sherlock a little to get him to stop struggling. John was about two meters away. He turned to face the gunman, and stood very still.
"I want a car with the keys in in parked right here in front of me in two minutes or I shoot!" The man said.
Sherlock caught John's eye. In the chaos of the lights and smoke and sirens, it seemed that everything became silent and faded away until there was only he and John. Sherlock nodded to John who nodded back at him and then he dropped buckling his knees so that he fell straight down toward the ground. The weight of his fall pulled the gunman forward so that he lost his balance. In that moment, John took three large steps forward and with his left arm struck the man's wrist so that the gun flew wide. It fired into the air. Sherlock was on the ground now. He kicked the man's legs out from under him holding on tight to the arm that had been around his throat and twisting it around the man's back.
John slammed the man's head against the concrete and put his knee between the man's shoulder blades pinning him to the ground as he wrestled the gun from his hand with his one good arm.
A few moments later, policemen rushed up and leveled the guns on the fallen man taking him away into custody. John and Sherlock smiled at each other and John was taken to an ambulance.
Later, after the building was cleared of assassins, Sherlock reentered the restaurant. An officer snapped off the lock with a cutter and they found in the room a water bucket full of hydrogen cyanide confirming Sherlock's hypothesis. As the detectives took samples and pictures, Sherlock excused himself. He walked across the alley to find John sitting in the back of an ambulance having his arm properly bandaged.
"That bullet tore a hole in my favorite coat," John said.
"I'll buy you another one," Sherlock replied hands in his pocket.
"Do you understand the concept, favorite?" John asked. Sherlock smiled, and then John did.
Lestrade walked up to them and berated them, "What in God's name did you think that you were doing storming that restaurant alone? I told you to wait for backup."
"Sorry," John said and the total inadequacy of the reply sent Sherlock and John into hysterics of laughter. Lestrade shook his head and walked off.
John jumped off the back of the van and the two of them walked off side by side.
"Dinner?" Sherlock asked.
"I just want to get home and get some rest before the pain medication wears off."
Sherlock hailed a taxi, and they rode home.