Another one from Sigyn Holmes Laufeyson. (it's not favoritism or anything I swear, I just really liked these ideas)
Sigyn said: "Ooh! Here's another (much shorter) prompt suggestion: Remember your 200 special, where John was captured? Well what if John had stormed out of the flat angry after an argument with his arrogant boyfriend and after a couple hours he comes back but finds Sherlock's gone - kidnapped? And now it's John's turn to be deductive and try and find Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock has left some clues along the way to the best that he can? Hmm... :)"
Also thanks for all your kind reviews, I assure you whenever I post something I freak out for hours about how bad it seems until I see these reviews!
BTW the story Mycroft tells about the cymbals may or may not be based off something that actually happened during my brief stint in indoor percussion...
Enjoy!
"I swear to god, for a self proclaimed genius you can be a real idiot sometimes." John raged. Mrs. Hudson had been on her way out to greet the boys as they returned from another solved case, but as soon as she heard the beginnings of a lovers quarrel she quickly turned around and retreated.
"You have this irritating habit, John." Sherlock glared. "Called 'speaking your thoughts aloud.'"
"He had a gun on you, we could have let him get away for a bit with the blackmail files and then found a way to regroup and take him down. You didn't have to put yourself in harm's way!" John argued in return as the pair made their way up the stairs.
"Well I wasn't harmed, was I?" Sherlock pointed out, gesturing to his intact body.
"You could have been!" John replied with a look of pure disbelief.
"Please." Sherlock scoffed. "Me? Hardly."
"What, you think you're too good to get hurt?" John asked angrily. "That no one will ever catch you unawares?"
"I'm not saying it's impossible, I'm just saying it is highly unlikely." Sherlock sneered. John threw his hands in the air in defeat, there was no way he could stay here any longer. Not when Sherlock was acting so prideful.
"I'm going for a walk." He growled and Sherlock's brow furrowed.
"John...John come back! Don't be stupid!" He yelled after his boyfriend as the ex-soldier limped down the stairs. His leg always acted up when he was stressed whether he realized it or not.
"Bite me." John shot back, slamming the door on the way out.
Sherlock felt a twinge of regret, and allowed himself to consider if perhaps his actions had been unfair. He couldn't see anything wrong with what he'd done earlier that night, though he could see plenty wrong with how he'd handled John's mood. He knew better than to fight with him like that, but it didn't stop him from doing it.
Sighing, he unlocked the door and stepped inside. Instantly every warning and instinct in his brain began to roar like a fire alarm.
Something is wrong.
He was studying the room, trying to figure out what exactly was wrong when the source of his disquiet crept out of his hiding place next to the door and slammed a crowbar into the back of his head.
John was regretting his decision to take a walk to cool his head. He found the night far too cool for his liking and had begun shivering and zippering his coat up further. Finally he relented and began walking home. As he opened the door, Mrs. Hudson's head popped out of her door and she gave the doctor a curious look.
"John?" She asked. "You weren't upstairs?"
"No. I went for a walk." John tried to keep his tone civil but he really couldn't make small talk when he was angry. "Why?"
"It's just...I heard a bit of a commotion up there and I assumed that maybe you two were busy...ah...'forgiving' each other as it were." She hinted heavily and John understood the implication, making a note to invest in soundproofing.
"No..." He suddenly felt wary. "I haven't been home for half an hour or so..." Suddenly his stomach twisted itself into a knot with worry, surely Sherlock had just been doing something impulsive and angry, right? Something loud. It was likely, right?
He left Mrs. Hudson where she was and ran up the stairs, noticing with dismay that the door was hanging open. He rushed inside and that's when he saw the splatter of blood on the ground. For a moment he feared the worst and then he stopped to think.
Focus. Don't make assumptions, don't guess. Sherlock never guesses...what does he always say... I never guess: it is an appalling habit, destructive to the logical faculty...
John took a deep breath and then looked around the flat. No body, that was a good sign. There was blood on the wall nearest to the door and on the floor. He bent down to examine the door closer. Upon closer inspection he noticed scratch marks on the doorframe. Then he saw the dual black lines that led out the door.
"What does that mean...?" He asked himself, furrowing his brow. He'd found something but he couldn't connect it in anyway.
Think...what are you dealing with...possible kidnapping? So look for a signs of a kidnapping...oh! Scratch marks in the doorway where Sherlock tried to hang on. The black marks are from his shoes, someone dragged him out.
John bent even closer to the ground, looking for something else. Suddenly he noticed something odd about the blood that had pooled on the floor. It looked like someone had dragged their hand through it.
The picture was becoming clear, someone attacked Sherlock from behind and hit him in the head with something, blood sprayed against the wall and as he fell to the ground he bled out there for a moment before his attacker dragged him by his feet through the door. Sherlock grabbed the doorway and pulled himself out of his attackers hands...then what? How did they get from there to the kidnapper dragging Sherlock's unconscious body through the door, creating those black lines?
He needed more data, so he looked back to the blood and saw that the handprint there was not made by chance. What had appeared to be fingers pulled through the puddle of blood turned out to be a letter scrawled hastily.
"Is that a...M?" John asked himself. What did Sherlock mean by that?
John felt a wave of frustration wash over him. He was no detective, he had no idea what any of this meant except that someone had taken Sherlock and that his boyfriend wanted him to think of something with the letter "M". It couldn't be "Moriarty" or "Moran" as the former preferred a bit more flair and the latter was currently behind bars.
That seemed to be all the clues in the flat, but what else could he find to help lead him to Sherlock?
John exited the flat quickly, staring at the ground as he walked in case he missed something on the way up. He didn't see anything inside so he made his way outside and began examining the surrounding area.
"Come on..." He encouraged himself. "Think like that irritating twat."
He knelt down and started looking at the pavement, and passerbys gave him odd looks as they attempted to walk past him without being noticed by who they thought was no doubt some mental patient staring at something they couldn't see.
People try to ignore the bizarre. Sherlock had once said. It's amazing how well they succeed, they'll block out anything that differs from their boring pathetic schedules. They only see what they want to see.
John ignored his boyfriend's voice in his head and looked. He spotted a small amount of blood on the sidewalk but not much. It was right near the street, maybe they'd loaded their captive into a car?
"Damn...how am I supposed to find them now?" John growled. If they were in a car they could be miles away by now with no trail to follow. He had to get information some other way. How did Sherlock do it? If there were no clues...he found himself an informant, and John knew just who to go to.
First, he better run back upstairs and grab his gun. This night was shaping up to be pretty dangerous.
Jerry Kipling was an American who thrived off a small information business. He was no threat on his own but once he sold a secret to the highest bidder, anyone could be in danger. Sherlock and the Yard had put him behind bars more times than John could count, but he knew that he'd just gotten out recently and would no doubt be at his usual spot looking to start up business once again.
John figured he'd have more information than Sherlock's homeless network, because this operation had been carried out semi-covertly. There would be more information in the criminal underground than in civilian circles.
John knocked on the derelict door and waited patiently, his breath fogging in the cold. He could hear someone moving inside the old building, but they made no move to answer the door. He knocked again, but still whoever was inside refused to budge. So, John decided to send a message in a way any criminal would understand.
He pulled his gun out of his pocket and fired a warning shot through the nearby window, high enough that it would miss anyone that was inside unless they happened to be dangling from the ceiling.
"Jesus fuck...hold your horses I'm coming!" Someone yelled from inside. "You know you're supposed to use the code right? I don't answer unless you got the code, although I guess I can make an exception for a customer as impatient and rude as you!"
John heard the sound of multiple locks being disengaged, and then the door swung open to reveal a bedraggled man of about 25 with thick glasses, stylish hair and a bit of stubble that passed for a beard.
"Oh no, not you." The man groaned and tried to slam the door in John's face, but the doctor stuck his foot in the door.
"Open up, Kipling." He insisted. "I'll only ask once." He put the gun in view of the information broker, who gulped and opened the door.
"Fine, fine. Welcome to my humble abode. You want coffee or something? No wait, you guys drink tea. Ick." He babbled, a habit of his when he was nervous. "I don't keep any of that hot leaf juice shit around here. Sorry pal." The broker took a seat in a swivel chair that sat in front of a long line of computers. The computers were everywhere, on the tables and the floors. Aside from the one chair and the computer crowded tables there was no other furniture. The floor was falling apart and only the ceiling could make it look like it was holding together.
"I need information on a plot to kidnap Sherlock Holmes." John demanded, and the broker raised an eyebrow.
"Oho. Lost your civil partner, have we?" He chuckled. "Well how much are you willing to pay?" He asked slyly, and John sighed. He had to use intimidation here. He'd seen Sherlock do it a hundred times, knock a guy over and step on his arm, threaten to break it until he talked. He had to be scary.
So he leveled his gun at Kipling's eye. "How about your life? I'd pay that." He said calmly.
"Whoa, pal." Kipling smirked. "That's not how you law abiding citizens do things."
"Who says I'm a law abiding citizen?" John made his face look fierce. "I'm a soldier, I was in Afghanistan, I could snap any minute, haven't you ever heard of PTSD? Makes a man unstable. So talk."
The color drained from Kipling's face and he coughed. "Alright, I think we can make a deal." He smoothed his hair.
"What do you know?" John lowered his gun.
"Well, nothing yet." Kipling shrugged. "But it's sure to be in the database. My little rats scurry all over this city and collect information for me, then they send it to the database. If it's happening in London, the database knows about it. There's been a big upload of information tonight, hundreds of files at least so give me...half a minute." The man smiled cockily and kicked himself over to one of the computers, turning his chair to face it.
The computer asked for a password, and John made sure to peer over Kipling's shoulders to see what he was typing in.
He cracked his knuckles and began typing away, the computer screen showing file after file. John made a mental note of a few of the things he saw, reminding himself to tell Sherlock as soon as he could.
"Here we are...ah things are not looking good for you, Watson." Kipling whistled. "Someone's put a 20,000 dollar bounty on Sherlock's head. Some anonymous source is asking people to bring Sherlock to him alive before the end of the night to collect the reward."
"Who?" John asked. "And where is he?"
Kipling smirked and then pushed a button on his computer, causing all the screens to flash red. John's heart rate picked up and he grabbed the man by the collar.
"What did you just do?" He yelled.
"Deleted the database off my home computer, no big deal. It's all backed up in a secondary location. So basically...no big deal for anyone but you." Kipling's smile stretched sickeningly. "So, let's talk money again. How much are you willing to pay to save the life of the man you love?"
"You just lost this deal." John growled and pistol whipped the man out of his chair. Kipling tried to adjust his glasses but found they were smashed and bent beyond repair. By the time he'd tossed them aside, John was on him again. He grabbed the man's shirt front and slammed his head into the floor. Kipling groaned and slumped to the ground, unconscious.
John cursed, that had got him almost nowhere. All he knew is that Sherlock was surely doomed unless he got to him in time, and that all of London's criminal underground was probably looking for the detective. If he could just find the backup date from Kipling's database he could find Sherlock...but where was it?
"He mentioned data collectors..." John thought aloud. "If I can find one of them, they'll probably know where the backup data is being stored, but how do I find them...?"
There's probably something in this room that can help me. I just have to find it. John looked around the room and his eyes fell upon a phone sitting next to a dozen or so half filled and moldy coffee mugs on one of the tables. He picked it up.
It needed a password so John typed in what he'd seen Kipling type into the computer: Enigma.
The contacts lists didn't have names, just numbers. John picked one at random and texted him, trying to emulate Kipling's cocky attitude.
I have an assignment for you, sunshine. Get back to my place pronto. Don't make me wait.
Once the message had sent he got an almost instant reply.
Gotcha, boss. Five minutes away.
John turned his attention to tying up Kipling, and waited until he heard footsteps on the stairs outside.
"Hey, Mr. Kipling!" A man's gruff voice called out. "Oh wait...the password...uh...what was it...ding dong ditch, Lestrade is a bitch!"
John rolled his eyes at Kipling's theatrics and opened the door, with his gun pointed right at the thug. The man jumped back and then put his hands in the air.
"P-please, don't hurt me!" He yelled. "I'll tell you anything!"
"Damn right." John scoffed. "Where's the backup database?"
"I-I can't tell you that." The man shivered.
"I thought you'd tell me anything, are you saying you lied to me?" John growled, coming closer. The man whimpered.
"No...no...I'll talk...It's on the roof of the Diogenes Club building. Mr. Kipling was real pissed cause they never let him join, so he made sure he owned part of the building..."
"You've been very helpful. Now get lost, if you've lied to me you want to be far far away from me before I realize it." John lowered his gun and let the man make a break for it in the other direction.
Diogenes Club...why didn't I think of calling Mycroft in the first place? John pulled out his phone and dialed the number that he reserved for when Sherlock got completely out of hand. It only took a moment for Mycroft to pick up.
"Dr. Watson." He sighed lethargically, as though John's call had tired him considerably.
"Sherlock's been kidnapped." John informed him. "There's supposedly a database on the roof of the Diogenes Club that has information about his whereabouts. Can you access it?"
There was a brief pause as Mycroft took in the information then John heard him sigh again. "I do so hate it when you two involve me in all your running around. I'll go up to the roof and see what I can find. Meet me here, quickly."
It took a bit of work to find the staircase to the roof, considering you couldn't talk in half the building without being escorted out he couldn't really ask for directions. When he finally found it, he also found Mycroft crouched down next to what had appeared to be an air conditioning system. Mycroft had taken the front off of it and was currently hacking into the computer inside.
"I wish I could say it was good to see you, Dr. Watson." Mycroft addressed him without even turning around. He made for an odd sight, a man in a suit on his knees on a rooftop.
"Yeah, same to you." John crossed his arms over his chest, shivering. It looked like it was starting to snow.
"I should thank you for alerting me to this, I suppose." Mycroft began.
"Well he is your brothe-"
"I had no idea Mr. Kipling had a system set up right above my head."
John shook his head and rolled his eyes, the usual reaction to anything a Holmes said. "Oh, so that's what you're focused on."
"Sherlock gets himself into trouble all the time, it's none of my concern." Mycroft shrugged.
"Isn't it?" John asked, just a bit of anger in his voice. "He recklessly endangers himself for his cases and then something like this happens!"
"John, let me tell you a story." Mycroft sighed. "Once there was a cymbal player in a marching band. While he was marching one of his straps broke and the cymbal fell. Instead of letting it hit the ground and ruin their performance he caught it with his foot and caused severe damage to himself. He then proceeded to march with the rest of the band, further damaging his foot, now what would you call that? Idiocy or passion?"
"Idiocy." John scoffed. "He probably never walked the same again."
"And that is why you have so much trouble reigning my brother in." Mycroft replied. "Each person in this world sees something as the most important thing to them, the one thing they need to keep living. To my brother I assume it is his work, so if he must endanger himself in order to keep himself living who are we to argue? It's better than endangering himself due to a lack of living, we both know what happens when he doesn't have work to distract his 'tortured mind'."
John considered it briefly and felt his anger fade a bit. He wasn't sure Mycroft was right, but he wasn't sure he was wrong either.
"Found it. You're looking for a place not far from here." Mycroft gestured for John to come take a look at the address. John hastily copied the address into his phone.
"Thanks, Mycroft. I'll bring him home." John promised.
"I have no doubt of that." Mycroft brought himself back into a standing position with some effort and brushed the dirt off his knees. "Be quick, we have no idea how long they'll keep my brother alive."
John looked at the address on his phone and back to the building in front of him. It was a courthouse, no longer in use and falling apart. He was a good bit away from it, hiding behind a car, and for good reason. There were hundreds of known criminals filing their way through the door. Some of which John had tangled with personally before.
He had to find a way in, but how?
They only see what they want to see.
John took a deep breath and hoped this crazy plan would work. Then he pulled up his hood to partially cover his face and walked out into full view of the criminals. He walked up to the courthouse doors, and the people around him paid him no mind. They thought he was just one of them, they saw what they wanted to see.
Once inside the building John could hear a roar of noise. People were chanting, screaming, and shouting. In the courtroom he could see criminals everywhere. Up in the balconies and down near the bench. He took a seat of his own and pulled out his phone.
I have to call for backup, this is way above me.
He sent a quick text to Lestrade detailing the situation and his location and prayed that he got it in time. Otherwise he may have risked his life for Sherlock's for no reason at all.
Suddenly a man leapt up to the bench, and set the crowd to cheering. John took a closer look and recognized him.
"Joseph Markson." He muttered. Sherlock had scrawled an "M" hastily in the blood from his injuries, he must have meant Markson, but how did he know who'd set up his kidnapping?
"Order in the court!" Markson yelled and the criminals quieted down. Two people in masks approached Markson and held out their hands.
"We brought you the goods, how about that bounty?" The man in front asked. Markson clapped his hands.
"Yes, you did bring me the detective. Here you go, boys!" He pulled out his gun and put two slugs in their brains. "20,000 dollars, use it well to pay the ferryman!" He cackled, grabbing bags of money from his feet and tossing them at the corpses.
The room roared with laughter and cheers until Markson raised a hand to silence them.
"I promised you all a show, didn't I?" He asked and the room cheered. "I promised you revenge!" They cheered again.
"All of you have been wronged by this man, one Mr. Sherlock Holmes!" The room booed at the detective's name and Markson had to quiet them again. "So I brought him here to this place of justice, so you could have justice. Well, one of you at least. I'll give the detective up to the highest bidder!"
The room cheered and screamed and people began shouting figures immediately.
"Now hang on, hang on!" Markson laughed. "There's a catch. You'll have to do away with him right here in full view of everyone, it's only fair to share the revenge. That means all of you who are bidding so you can sleep with the pointy faced bastard may as well put away your wallets because that just isn't family friendly."
People kept shouting figures and Markson's smile grew. "Would you spend all your money without first seeing the merchandise?" He waved his hands to two goons over by the far door. They nodded and opened the door. Two other men dragged in a tall thin figure with a bag over his head and his hands and legs tied together. The figure was struggling weakly, and was clearly Sherlock.
John felt his breath catch in his throat as they dragged Sherlock in and ripped the bag off his head. The detective's head was bruised and beaten, his lip was split and he had a black eye. There was blood matted in his curly hair, no doubt from earlier when someone beat his head in to kidnap him.
The crowd roar and some of the more eager ones fired guns into the air. Markson quickly put an end to that by firing guns into their hearts.
"Now listen up, I want this to be fair and orderly so no killing those who bid higher than you!" He laughed. "May the richest man win! And remember I want that money up front!"
"34,000!"
"50,000!"
"65,000!"
The price rose higher and higher and Markson grinned manically.
Lestrade, where are you? John thought frantically.
"Sold! To the man with the enormous sniper rifle!" Markson pointed to a man on the other side of the room from John. The man grew closer, a tall and muscular figure with a sniper rifle strapped to his back. John's eyes widened at the sight of him.
Moran? But I thought he was in prison.
"I have orders to take this man to James Moriarty." Moran declared as he approached the bench. The audience booed and hissed, even Markson looked upset.
"That's not the deal." He said. "You finish him here or not at all." He grabbed Sherlock's hair and shook him about, the detective looked faint.
"Moriarty is willing to pay twice the price. If not, I have orders to kill you and take him anyway." Moran stated, his voice and expression bored.
"Tell your boss he can shove his money up his arse." Markson rolled his eyes. Right before Moran pulled a pistol and put a bullet between those rolling eyes. Sherlock fell to the ground, his only support had been Markson holding him up by his hair. Moran reached down and grabbed Sherlock, swinging him over his shoulder like a kill from a hunt.
That's when the Yard showed up.
"Freeze! Police!" Lestrade shouted, and dozens of officers poured into the building. The smarter criminals took off then, but a few chose to stay and fight. Soon a fray broke out, and John had to throw himself to the ground to avoid the crossfire. He saw Moran trying to make an escape.
"Not on my watch, bastard." He cursed under his breath and pulled out his gun, firing a shot into Moran's leg. The man cried out as blood spurted from the wound, and he dropped Sherlock. John tried not to wince at the sound of his boyfriend's body hitting the ground so hard. He ran towards Moran and used his momentum to bowl the man over, tackling him to the ground.
They fought for a bit until Moran kicked John in the stomach and sent him flying off. The assassin cursed and retreated, limping out towards the door. At the last second he turned to John and glared at him. "You haven't saved him. We'll be back for the detective. Moriarty will always win." He hissed before he made his escape.
John crawled over to Sherlock and began untying him. The detective moaned in pain and coughed.
"John..." He choked out.
"Stay low, the firefight should end soon but I rather not bring you home with a few extra holes in you." John instructed him. Sherlock nodded wearily.
"Did you go to Mycroft?"
"Yes...how did you know?"
"Well I did leave you a message. I do hate relying on my brother for help but only he could have found me in time."
John rolled his eyes. M for Mycroft. What a clue that was.
"Actually all he did was find the address. I did everything else myself. Interrogated Kipling and one of his informants, got into the building, called Lestrade, took down Moran..." Sherlock's eyes widened and then he smiled.
"I suppose I shouldn't have underestimated you, John." He winced and attempted to come closer to the doctor. John smirked and waited for the gunfire above their heads to cease so he could take the bruised detective home.
John watched from afar as the EMS workers bandaged Sherlock up and dosed him with painkillers. He was in a bad way, which meant forced vacation time prescription of Dr. John Watson.
"I think we bagged more lawbreakers tonight than any other night we had him working for us." Lestrade chuckled. "You sure you're not the detective?"
"When there's a murderer on the loose you call a detective." John shrugged. "When there's a war breaking out you call a soldier."
"Aren't you a poet." Lestrade scoffed and turned back to his officers to bark orders. John made his way over to the ambulance. They Sherlock under a blanket, for a moment it looked like the first time the two of them realized they were in love with each other. Right after John had shot a psychotic cabbie for him.
Sherlock looked dizzy, whether from the pain or the painkillers John didn't know. He just helped his boyfriend to his feet and steadied him.
"Let's go home. We'll take the shock blanket with us for future use. We might need it." John winked and Sherlock laughed quietly.
"Thank you." He murmured, leaning against John.
"What? For saving your life? I do that everyday." John joked, and Sherlock laughed again.
"Honestly, if I wasn't so tired and sore I'd make it quite worth your while tonight." Sherlock purred. "There's nothing sexier than a man fresh from a fight."
"Well then you have the right man." John flirted right back, and pulled himself under the shock blanket with Sherlock. Then he lifted it up to hide both of their faces and proceeded to kiss him long and hard. They might have stood there making out for hours if Lestrade hadn't suddenly spoken up.
"AHEM. Don't pretend we don't know what's going on under that blanket!" He shouted, and a few of the officers laughed. "Go get a room!"
"I think we might just!" John shot back. Then he wrapped an arm around Sherlock to walk him home. He wouldn't admit it, but it was going to be a long time before he left Sherlock on his own again. He'd almost lost him and he wasn't going through that again.
"Sherlock." He said, suddenly remembering the talk he'd had with Mycroft on the roof.
"Hm?" Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow.
"You can endanger yourself all you like." John sighed. "But never more than three feet away from me. Got it?"
Sherlock grinned and pressed a kiss to John's temple. "Got it."