A/N: Greetings, fellow Sherlockians! This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so here's hoping all goes well and everyone enjoys it! Sherlock is a far different character than any I've written for before, and I've tried really hard to get him right. I hope that effort is reflected in my writing - if not, let me know via review and I'll try even harder!
Anyway (and again), hope you all enjoy.
-pixie.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
John sighed, signalling to the bartender to give him another round. It seemed weird now, not being on case with Sherlock. Mycroft had all but forced Sherlock into compliance, which naturally was a source of annoyance to the world's only consulting detective. John wasn't allowed to know anything about Sherlock's current investigation, despite Sherlock's protests.
"Sherlock, it's been difficult enough convincing my client to allow you to assist him in rectifying his... situation. There's simply no way that I can let John get involved this time." He smiled thinly. "Apologies."
"I need an assistant," Sherlock persisted.
"I can provide you with the best-"
Sherlock snorted. "They're not John. John's a good conductor of brilliance, despite not being brilliant himself." John rolled his eyes. He had grown fairly immune to Sherlock's insults, knowing by now that most were unintended.
"Sherlock, there will be no further discussion on this matter. You will take this case, and you will not tell John a thing about it."
"Can you please stop talking like I'm not here?"
They both ignored him. "Make me," Sherlock retorted, seeming close to sticking out his tongue.
"I assure you, I will. Sherlock, if you don't comply, I will have you arrested." The thin smile returned. "And believe me, you would not do well in prison."
Sulkily, Sherlock crossed his arms. "Well, I have no pressing cases at the moment. I guess I can lower myself to accepting a handout, even if it's from you."
Mycroft nodded, steeping his fingers. "How gracious of you," he replied, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. He glanced briefly in John's direction, almost as if he'd forgotten he was there. "Leave us now, John."
John glanced at Sherlock, who shrugged and nodded. With a nod of his own, John stood abruptly and left the room.
"Now, Sherlock, I know how difficult you like to be, but just this once, would it be too painful for you to act civilised? My client only needs..." The rest of the conversation became muffled as John closed the door.
He stared morosely at the dregs in the bottom of his glass. Strange, how quickly he had grown used to being a crime-solving genius' sidekick. It really did feel odd being kept out of the loop.
"Bad day at work?" A pretty brunette with dancing chocolate eyes leaned her elbows on the bar, very close to John. She was dressed in a modest white waistcoat top and dark jeans, but both were so form-fitting that it was sexier than any of the low-cut, thigh-high dresses that draped many other girls in the bar.
"In a manner of speaking, yes," he replied, eying her appreciatively.
She cocked her head. "How so?"
"Well... I'm sort of an assistant consulting detective in my spare time. I've just been barred from assisting in an investigation."
"Consulting detective? I know I've heard that term before..." She grinned suddenly, perfect white teeth flashing between a set of full lips. "Of course, Sherlock Holmes! You must be Dr. Watson."
"John, please."
Hands cupping her heart-shaped face, she stared at him intently, eyes wide. "Lydia. What's solving crimes like, John? It sounds really romantic."
"We're not a couple."
Sudden laughter pealed out, surprisingly deep and hearty. "I didn't mean like that! Oh, you poor thing, you must get that a lot." She patted his hand sympathetically, leaving hers resting on top of his. John grinned a little to himself, the alcohol in his system making him more loose-tongued than he'd normally be.
"It's alright, I've pretty much gotten used to it."
`"...So, how is it, working with someone like him?"
"Hard." He grinned ruefully. "He's a very difficult person to be around. But his mind is brilliant, and he's fiercely loyal, even if he acts like a robot sometimes. The way he can just glance at a crime scene and solve a case everyone else is stumped on. And it's exciting. The rush you get... I used to be a soldier, you know. I couldn't adjust to civilian life - I missed the war, so I joined Sherlock fighting the war in the streets." He glanced down and murmured quietly, "You never feel more alive than when you're risking death."
Her eyes were wide as saucers by this point, obviously impressed. "What sort of cases have you worked on?"
"Well, I can't really tell you..." Her beautiful face crumpled into heartbreaking pout. "...At least not in a public place like this," he quickly amended, not wanting to see her so sad.
"What if we head back to my place?" she suggested, looking at him from under her lashes and grinning wickedly.
John raised his eyebrows with a surprised smile. "I'm sure that'll do just fine." He stood up, wobbling a little (he hadn't drunk that much, surely), and offered his hand.
Lydia giggled. "Quite the gentleman."
Quickly, he wrapped an arm around her waist. She laughed again as they left the bar, John (rather happily) feeling the burn of the jealous glares of several men in the bar.
"Here's my car," Lydia told him, fishing for her keys in the elegant red purse that matched the sleek vehicle before them (sans the artistic brown designs).
"Nice."
"Birthday present," she told him flippantly. "Daddy's little girl."
Finally locating her keys, she hopped into the front seat and strapped herself in. Shaking his head and grinning, John clambered in the passenger side. She barely waited for him to put his seatbelt on before she roared away from the curb.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
"Why are we stopping?" John twisted in his seat. They were in the middle of a towering shopping district, no apartments or hotels to be seen.
"Just picking something up. You coming with?"
He nodded, unbuckling and stepping out of the car, following the clack of her silver heels on the pavement as she turned a corner, not even waiting for him. Her laughter echoed back to him. "Come on, John!"
Breaking into a light jog, he rounded the corner, but Lydia had disappeared. Her laughter echoed through the alley again. "Come on, John. Don't you want to go home with me?" He shook his head groggily, alcohol still fogging his senses, and increased his pace to a slightly stumbling run.
"Lydia?" he called as he rounded the corner. Sudden pain flared in his head, blood running from a gash in his forehead into his eyes. "What...?" He cast a bewildered glance at Lydia, who had rounded on him. Her purse was clutched in her right hand, blood (his blood) dripping along its sharp silver edge, staining the fabric a darker red. With a sickening lurch, he realised the random brown pattern he had noticed on the purse before was dried blood.
"Sorry, John. You're a good guy, really, but orders are orders." Lydia pulled a stained cloth from inside the purse and wiped the blood from the wicked silver edge of the clasp. He wondered absently how long it had taken her to hone it to the point that it could be used as a weapon. The blood dripping into his eyes was making it hard to see, and he was still too shocked to react, or even strike back at her (though he doubted he'd be able to bring himself to hit a woman). "It was nice meeting you, and I wish the circumstances were different.
"Bye, John." She melted into the shadows.
Now he was more confused than ever. Why had she flirted with him, then led him into an alley, attacked him and left?
What the hell was going on?
John pushed himself off the wall that he'd fallen against, wiping the worst of the blood away with his sleeve and then pressing it against the gash. It stung, but at least he could see. He staggered towards the alley entrance, not even sure where he'd go once he reached it. He had no clue where he was.
As it turned out, he never made it back to the street.
A tall man with short, dusty blonde hair in a crisp black suit seemed to materialise in front of him. "Dr. Watson. You're coming with us." The man's voice was low and modulated, his eyes unfathomable behind dark shades. His nose was slightly skewed about halfway down, like it had been broken, and his thin lips were set in a hard line.
"You're being a little cliché, you know," John informed him, forearm still pressed to the gash.
"We will use force if necessary to subdue you, though we hope it doesn't come to that," the man continued in that same calm voice.
"Who's 'we'?"
Two more men appeared silently, both black-haired, flanking the first man. They looked like twins. Both had the same straight nose, almond-shaped eyes and smooth olive skin. John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. This really was like a scene from a B-grade action movie.
Well, time to be the hero, he thought, and swung a punch.
It was a good swing, despite John being somewhat drunk. It connected solidly and the dusty blonde man fell back, clutching a (re)broken nose. John instinctively ducked, barely missing the hook thrown by the second man. John stepped to the side, head whipping around, searching for the other black-haired twin. The breath was suddenly forced from his body.
Found him.
John choked and wheezed, struggling to draw oxygen into his lungs. The second man had straightened up from his initial overreach, and now swung at John again. John threw his arm up, but there were too many of them for his alcohol-addled senses to keep track of all at once and he was too late - the first man clocked him in the eye, knocking him to the ground. John's body twisted as he fell, landing heavily on his side. The three men crowded around him, but they didn't start beating him senseless like he'd expected. Rather, they pulled him to his knees, forced his hands behind his back and swiftly tied them. Blood began dripping into his eyes again.
They dragged him off the ground, one black-haired twin on each arm and the dusty blonde trailing behind. John kicked out desperately at the two black-haired men, but they easily avoided him. The blonde man cuffed him sharply on the back of the head, simultaneously sweeping John's legs out from under him. The motion jerked cruelly on John's arms, making him cry out. The dusty blonde hit him again, this time following up by forcing a ball gag into his mouth.
Inexorably, they dragged him towards the alley entrance, where Lydia's car was still waiting. The blonde got in the front seat, leaning forward for a kiss from her, but she rolled her eyes and pushed him away, frowning at John instead. "Did you have to give him a black eye?" she asked irritably, not taking her eyes off John.
"He broke my nose," he grumbled as they forced John into the car. "Besides, isn't that bloody gash on his forehead your handiwork?"
Lydia shrugged. "Yeah, but black eyes are unattractive. A cut like that is kinda sexy. Badass bad-boy style." Her brown eyes twinkled almost sadly at John, who was now wedged between Black Hair Twins Number One and Two. His hands were still tied behind his back, forcing him to lean forward against the seatbelt Number Two had been thoughtful enough to clip up for him.
"Not this again," Blonde Man muttered, sounding, more than anything, annoyed that Lydia was ignoring him in favour of John. "Just drive, you stupid woman."
She glared at him. "You sexist pig. And you wonder why I don't like you." Regardless, she started the car and it roared off down the road, a panel sliding up between the front seats and the back.
Adrenaline was coursing through John's system. Why had he been abducted like this? He almost snorted. Well, that was obvious enough. This clearly had something to do with Sherlock's top secret new case. But what? John cursed Mycroft for not telling him anything - he had no clue what these people wanted from him or even what he was up against.
John tried to peer covertly out the window, hoping to see some landmarks that would give him an indication where he was. The windows were heavily tinted, though, not even giving him as much as a vague change in blurred colour to separate the buildings from the sky. Black Hair One had noticed John's furtive glance, however, and despite none of them being able to see anything outside the car anyway, he pulled out a roll of cloth and a pistol. John's eyes were glued to the gun, straining against the seatbelt and his bonds. Black Hair Two nodded and shoved the bound doctor back towards One. The cloth strip was wound around his eyes, causing the tender flesh of his black eye to flare with pain. John whimpered into his ball gag. He flinched as the cold metal of the barrel rested against his forehead, his breath coming harshly and rapidly.
They aren't going to shoot me, surely? That doesn't make any sense, why would they go to the trouble of putting me in the car if they were just going to kill me outright? It would've made more sense to kill me in the alley and make it look like a mugging gone wrong-
The trigger clicked and released, displacing only air (and, thankfully, not John's brain). He sagged in his seat, weak with relief. He could almost sense them smirking. But he didn't really care. They hadn't killed him.
At least, not yet.
Being blindfolded as he was, John had absolutely no warning when Black Hair One hit him with the butt of the pistol, sending him into a roaring black unconsciousness.
.:':. .:':. .:':.
A/N: D: John! What're you doing, getting beat up by a girl!
I'm so mean.
So, that's the first chapter, hope you enjoyed it (let me know via review, or by adding it to your favourites or your alerts). More shall be on its way very soon!