Sherlock was awoken by John calling out to Mrs Hudson.
Tuesday. Gossip day, his brain reminded him. A brain that wasn't too happy to be woken up. John should know better.
But when Mrs Hudson didn't respond, and the only noise that greeted Sherlock was a thump, and then the sound of a body collapsing to the ground, his brain quickly forgot its irritation and skipped right over to concern and panic.
"John?" he called, practically throwing himself out of bed. It helped that he wasn't under the covers.
But his vision blurred at the edges, and he realized that to avoid passing out, it would help if he threw himself on the ground pre-emptively, rather than collapse there a moment later.
It hurt a bit.
Two sets of footsteps trampled their way towards him. Men, both heavyset, but muscular. Not overly tall if the echos were anything to go by, which they were of course.
Sherlock decided his best course of action was to remain on the floor like he'd passed out. Playing possum as it were.
The owners of the footsteps loomed over him.
"Is he dead?" one said finally. "Looks like crap."
The other made a grunting noise. "I dunno."
The first one shuffled closer to Sherlock and kicked him gently in the side. Sherlock tried not to stir. He's always been good at playing dead.
"He's still breathing," the first one noted.
The other one grunted. "Alright. Just throw him in as is. And bring the bloody dog. All we need is for it to make a ridiculous amount of noise cause his owner's gone."
Sherlock was lifted by a pair of strong arms that were used to physical labour. His neck was in an uncomfortable position, but he didn't dare shift. He smelled of smoke and sweat and something else Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on at the moment, but he'd had a seizure less than an hour ago, so cut him some slack.
The other man paused in the kitchen, probably to pick up John, before following the man who was carrying Sherlock down the stairs and into some sort of van. Sherlock couldn't be sure of the type without looking, but judging on the sound of the engine, and the space he was thrown in, it was s relatively big van. The perfect thing for kidnapping.
One of the men got in the front and began to drive away, while Sherlock could feel the other staring at him.
"You sure they're gonna stay like this?" he called to his partner.
The man grunted. (Sherlock was quickly growing appalled at his lack of vocabulary. Who were they dealing with here? Chimps?)
"Kick em again. See if they squirm. If they do, drug em."
Apparently the man thought it was a fantastic idea, because he kicked Sherlock, much more forcefully this time, and Sherlock couldn't help but let out a gasp.
He heard the contact of foot with flesh again, but not with his own. John groaned and stirred, probably trying to get away from the man despite his unconsciousness.
"This one's movin'!" he called.
"So drug him," the other yelled back.
Sherlock could feel the man moving around him, making noises and shuffling clothing.
He didn't grow concerned until he heard a belt buckle, and despite his best efforts, stiffened slightly. Was this man going to rape John in the back of a moving van?
But there was only a slight moan from John, and Sherlock heard the belt again.
Injected him in the leg probably, he told himself, forcing a deep breath.
The man finished with John, and likely stood over Sherlock examining him.
"He gasped when I kicked him," he called.
"So?"
"How do I know he's gonna stay like this?"
He sighed. "How should I know?"
The man kicked Sherlock again, and he did his best to not make a sound.
He crouched down, hopefully satisfied, but something must have caught his attention.
"Oh," he said. Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.
He felt a tug on his wrist, but not the one with the watch. A watch that was relatively valuable, if that's what the men were looking for. Money, ransom.
But no, it was the other wrist. The one with...
It came to Sherlock suddenly. He was wearing his bracelet, the one that John had gotten specially made for him and tried his damnedest to make sure he actually wore it. The one that identified him as having epilepsy.
"He's got epilepsy," the man called to the driver, tugging at Sherlock's wrist to read the bracelet before throwing his arm back down. "Maybe he had a... whatever, fit or something before we got there."
He climbed into the passenger seat, and Sherlock resisted the urge to find something to hold onto as they took a hard left.
"My sister's kid gets fits. He sleeps a lot after them. Can't wake him up for anything."
The other man hummed.
Sherlock couldn't remember the last time his epilepsy had worked in his favour.