"Now we decide who get's the milk," Sherlock says, pulling out two long… are these sabers?
"Are these sabers?"
Sherlock takes a look at the long fencing swords in his hands. Then he looks innocently at the other man. "Are you blind?" He asks kindly.
Holmes glowers. "A bit," he sniffs.
"Well, that's too bad," Sherlock tosses the sword over and Holmes catches it mid-air. "Rules are simple, whoever loses goes buy the milk."
Holmes examine the saber in his hand. He sucks at fencing and sword fights. He sucks at it ever since he was born. Now stuck in this position, he rather jump out the window than stand here with a sword in his hand.
Too bad he's actually standing here with a sword.
"God dammi-" He didn't even get to finish his sentence when the younger man suddenly lunge at him, sword raised.
He was just in time to raise his sword and block the attack but Sherlock seems to predict it. In one fluid movement, he step-sides and slid his sword up, twisting Holmes and stopping just with the edge of the saber dangerously close to Holmes' neck.
"Damn," he swears. "Not bad," he smiles. "But not good enough." And with all his strength, the older Holmes stomps down on the younger man's foot. Pain lit up on the young man's face and he lets out a hiss of pain before backing off, sword slashing to block off the stab his opponent attempts.
Sherlock cocks his head. "Not bad," he smirks.
Holmes grins back. "I know right."
He lunges and Holmes backtrack. Swords clash against swords. Their sabers interlock. And then…
With a simple flick of his wrist, Holmes' saber shoots up it the air impaling itself on the ceiling.
"I believe I win," Sherlock says, pointing the blade right at Holmes' throat. The older man only smiles cheekily at him.
"That doesn't mean I have to get the milk, does it?"
Sherlock is smiling too but his eyes remained cold. "Yes,"
Holmes sours. "Bullshit," he spits. He moves out the way. "I don't even know where to get the milk! Find a cow?"
Sherlock moves to the window and brushes the curtains back. He frowns. "Something's not right," he murmurs.
Holmes twists to face him. "What?"
The young man ignores him and makes for the door. He tosses his Belstaff coat over him and grabs his scarf, going down the stairs two by two.
"Wait, whoa, what?" Holmes tries to follow him.
"You stay here. I got this covered." Sherlock says.
Holmes frown. "You can't just leave like that."
"Yes I can and I will." Sherlock calls, his voice fading. The sound of a door closing follows his words.
At this, Holmes frown deepens. "No, no, no, you aren't leaving me here kid." Holmes shrug on his own coat jacket. Yet instead of going to the stairs, he turns to the opposite way. Unlatching the windows, he pulls it up and peers down at the ground below.
Not bad, a few trash bags to break his fall would do. And without a second thought, he jumps.
"Bloody-" Sherlock whips around and glares at him with piercing blue eyes. "What in the world is wrong with you?" The younger Holmes has barely made six feet from his door when this mad man appeared in front of him.
"Nothing's wrong with me, bitch please, I'm Sherlock Holmes." The man exclaims, wiggling his eyebrows.
Sherlock shots him a fierce glare and turns to walk away. He stops mid-way and a strange expression crossed the young man's face as he flinches. He reaches for the feathery needle buried in his neck and pulls it out. A look of confusion clouded his features but quickly slackens as he stumbles and falls into the arms of another man. At the same time, Holmes felt the same prick in his own neck.
"What the…" it is a feathered needle. He laughs. Out of all the things-
He didn't even have time to finish his thought when the world darkens.
—
He wakes up in a brightly lit warehouse. Who the hell has the right mind to light up a room?
"This chair sucks!" Holmes yell at his kidnapper passing by. "Who made this thing? Some moron on drugs?"
"Maybe it's uncomfortable because your hands are tied behind you." The kidnapper replies, calmly picking out a gleaming knife.
"Bullsh-" In a blink, his kidnapper has his hand over his mouth and the knife he was polishing is pushed against his neck.
"I would love for a chat but now is really not the time," he whispers. Holmes draws away at the touch of the man.
"Who are you?"
"Someone unimportant,"
"Oh, that's nice. Then stop pointing your knife at me."
His kidnapper smiles then lifts his knife. Holmes checks his restraints. His fingers brush against something cold.
"Holy sh-" the thing he touched jerks awake. Their restraints pull. Chair legs scuffle along with dress shoes scraping the ground.
"Jesus!" The man breathes heavily on the other side. "You're here too?"
It took Sherlock several breaths to right himself. "F*ck," he swears. Like him, the younger man tests his restraints. Their hands brush against each other again.
"Um, knife guy?" Holmes call. Knife guy turns around. "The restraints are a bit too tight."
His shark grin returns. "Good,"
"Damn!" Holmes grumbles.
There is a moment of silence where the man has his back faced to his hostages, organizing some needles and knives on the table along with many other unrecognizable objects from Holmes' point of view. Nobody said anything for an agonizing five minutes and Holmes itched to get the restraints off his wrists. Two minutes later, the door at the far end clicks open. A man in a neat, ironed-down suit walks in.
"Which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?"
Both men glance at the man in bewilderment. For the first time, Holmes has nothing to say. "I…um, Scott?"
Sherlock is silent.
"Well, I'm sorry but none of us is this Sherlock Holmes you talk about," Holmes say. "I'm William and this is Scott. Right?"
Sherlock hums.
The man looks from Holmes to the younger man. "Okay, well, that's not a problem." He gets out a roll of duct tape. "Here's something to get you talking."
Holmes' eyes widen at the sudden appearance and braced himself for his mouth to be taped. However, instead of coming to tape his mouth, the man picks up a sphere with blinking lights on it from the table his associate was organizing.
"What is that? Your Christmas ornament?"
The man said nothing. "Open up." The man grasps Sherlock's neck, forcing him to open his mouth. "There you go," without warning, he stuffs the ball in Sherlock's mouth and wounds the tape around his mouth. He checks his watch.
"You have two minutes," he says. "Now speak."
Holmes looks frantically from Sherlock to the man. "What the hell?"
That man just stuffed a ball into the man's mouth. Everything in his mind clicked to place.
Shit. The ornament is a bomb.
"Shit!" Holmes glance at Sherlock. He knows what's going on. Sweat has already gathered at his forehead and he's leaning forward trying to control his breathing. He must be hearing the bomb ticking in his mouth.
"Now tell me, which one of you is Sherlock Holmes?"
我忘记说了，这是在夏洛克第一季的时候。I forgot to mention this is taken place somewhere in Season 1.