Sherlock left Gladstone keeping watch over John. She wasn't pleased about it, but she didn't have to be. Sherlock figured he'd be close enough to her that she'd still be able to sense if he was about to have a seizure, god forbid.
Apparently these men were even stupider than Sherlock had previously thought, if that was indeed possible. Because in the barn was an ancient truck, blue paint peeling off the side with rust everywhere, but still looked in decent enough shape.
And it wasn't even locked.
Sherlock smirked as he slid in the front seat, coughing on the dust that he could see in the streams of light coming through the many cracks in the walls.
And it still had some gas. What luck.
"Oh yes," Sherlock whispered to himself. "This will do nicely."
Sherlock hadn't had much experience hot-wiring cars before, but he understood the method behind it, and that was enough for him. Within ten minutes the old motor was not quite purring, but running nonetheless.
He didn't bother with opening the barn door, just drove right through it. It crumbled like the delicate wafers Mycroft was so fond of.
He pulled up slowly to the right of John and Gladstone, who barked at him as he came closer, warning him to keep back.
"Shh girl," he urged, parking the truck and stepping out.
He scratched her ears. "Let's get John in, shall we."
Sherlock stood over John for a moment before deciding how to move him. It wasn't like he had an awful lot of choices.
He tried lifting John in his arms, but he simply wasn't strong enough. (He blamed the recent seizure rather than an issue with his level of strength.)
"Fat lot of good you are," he informed Gladstone.
Gladstone cocked her head at him. Sherlock knew exactly what she was saying.
Oh, you silly man. I don't do lifting. Honestly, look at me. Do I look like I could lift him?
"You could at least help," he grumbled, picking up John's shoulders again and sliding him closer.
When John was at the foot of the door, still blissfully ignorant in his unconsciousness, Sherlock looked at him.
"I apologize in advance," he said, before picking John up and heaving him into the truck. He managed to get him on the floor, and from there he took a break, breathing heavily.
"You need to lose some weight," he informed John.
Gladstone sighed at him. Don't be ridiculous.
Sherlock scowled at her. "Unless you're helping, you don't get a say."
Gladstone wagged her tail obediently and hopped in the truck next to John, picking one of his arms up by the sleeve and practically beaming at him.
"Oh, aren't you clever," he growled.
Gladstone continued holding John's sleeve as Sherlock heaved John up into the seat and buckled him in.
"This is a bit ridiculous," he noted. "You can put his arm down now."
Sherlock slid into his seat and eyed John. Still unconscious and under the effects of whatever drug he'd been given. At least the bleeding on his head had slowed.
Pity. The truck might get some blood on it.
It was slow going. Sherlock still wasn't entirely sure where they were, and didn't want to risk heading in the wrong direction. There wasn't that much gas left. As long as he made it to somewhere more populated, he figured he'd be good. So he set off in the direction he deduced would be the best, Gladstone perched on the seat in between him and John, who was still slouched over, held up only by the seat belt.
He'd only been driving for ten minutes when Gladstone started signalling.
"I still have ten more," he told her.
She whined at him, indeed for the next ten minutes, before Sherlock pulled over and parked. He opened the door for Gladstone to hop out before him, intending to lay in the grass rather than flail around in the truck. But Gladstone was barking and the ground was rapidly approaching, and soon Sherlock found himself on the road before anything could be done about it.