He tried to map the turns they took, but between what had happened at the beginning of the journey and trying to keep himself awake, by the time they arrived, they could have been in any number of different places.
But they arrived, and Sherlock was unceremoniously dumped on the ground, John right next to him.
"Checked them for phones, gps or anything?"
"Yup," the other man confirmed. Sherlock could attest to that if he wanted. The man had groped around in his coat and trouser pockets, finding nothing, because he'd thrown his phone at John before heading into his bedroom to have his seizure.
Gladstone sighed beside them.
"Tie the dog to them," the one ordered, and shortly after, Sherlock felt a length of rope being tied around his ankle, and could only believe the same was happening to John.
Gladstone growled slightly, but curled up protectively in between her two men. She wasn't going anywhere without them both. It didn't matter if she was tied or not.
Sherlock wasn't sure what was going to happen next, if they were going to shoot them, or otherwise kill them, or perhaps leave them there while they called for ransom or something. Sherlock hadn't felt any guns on the man who'd carried him and leaned over him in the van, but they still could have them.
They stood over them for a few more minutes.
"We good to go?" the one asked.
The other hummed. "I dunno. Still don't like the looks of the one."
The first one thought for a second. "Drop his hand on his face," he suggested. He was obviously the brains of the operation. "They do that on telly."
Sherlock's hypothesis had been confirmed.
The man picked up Sherlock's arm and held it over his face, letting it go and watching it bounce off his cheek. He did it again, and then again before he seemed to tire of it. Each time he seemed satisfied. Sherlock had hoped for that response. He'd had a lot more practice with that than he'd care to admit. Another time perhaps.
"Yeah, that's good. Come on, let's go. We have to meet Carl."
They trudged off, and there was the double slam of car doors, and the sound of the van engine retreating into the distance. Sherlock waited an extra moment before peeking through his eyelashes to ensure they were gone. They were.
He and John were lying on the ground in (practically) the middle of nowhere. A dilapidated barn stood off to one side, but it hadn't been used in at least twenty years. There was a forest on one side, and a field on the other, a band of trees in the distance. The road that the men had driven up was dirt, overgrown with weeds.
Things weren't looking good.
"John," Sherlock called, scooping his friend's head into his hands. "John," he repeated, more loudly.
There was no response, but Sherlock hadn't expected one. Whatever they'd drugged him with was likely to last at least an hour, if not many more.
When he set John's head back down, his hand came away sticky.
Blood.
Sherlock rolled him over and examined the wound on the side of John's head. Blunt force trauma, probably from a baseball bat. Sherlock shook his head. Petty criminals. He could only imagine it had to do with their current case, which was so close to being done that Sherlock could taste it.
And now? Left for dead in the middle of nowhere, John drugged and concussed, Sherlock still recovering from a seizure, and their only asset being a barn and a dog.
What fun.