John couldn't believe he'd been so stupid. It was an elegantly laid trap, he could admit, but that was no excuse for the fact that he'd stupidly walked right into it.
He looked over at the man who had let him from the house. "I don't suppose you'll tell me where we're going?"
The other man just shook his head and John just nodded and leaned his head back. Thirty-eight years old, heir to an Earl his whole life, and he'd never once been abducted until he'd met Sherlock Holmes. Bullet in his shoulder notwithstanding, he was convinced his life was more dangerous now than it had been when he was in the army.
There was only one reason he could think of for being here, and that was because there was a bomb jacket in his size waiting somewhere … and unlike the innocent civilians who had been used before, he was guessing that Sherlock's flatmate wouldn't be as lucky as they had been.
No, Moriarty was going to use him as an example, and had kidnapped him right out of his own house to make it happen.
He wondered if Moriarty knew it was his house. Because, seriously, there were only four people who would know enough to connect John Watson with the Earl of Undershaw—the two Holmes brothers, his solicitor and, apparently, his butler. He trusted them all implicitly. (Or, well, maybe he didn't exactly trust Mycroft Holmes, but he didn't believe he would have revealed his identity to a mad bomber.)
Had he been followed? He honestly couldn't remember seeing any tails but he hadn't really been looking, either. Stupid. Some soldier he was. No wonder Sherlock was finding him all but useless these days. If he survived this he would be better off slinking into his spacious townhouse and focusing on the plush and boring life of a 21st century Earl. If he was going to be this stupid, this blind, he had no business putting himself at risk—not when his efforts weren't being appreciated, anyway.
He was so lost in his thoughts, he hadn't even tried to pay attention to where they were going—and with the dark tinted windows, it would have been pointless anyway. He didn't carry a map of London in his head like Sherlock did.
He didn't miss the signal his two seatmates exchanged, though, and braced himself for whatever was going to come—and was only a little relieved when it was nothing worse than a bag being thrust over his head and a pair of cuffs being clamped on his wrists. "Just keeping you honest, doc," the man on his left said. "I know you fancy yourself a soldier, but you're no good to us hurt."
Fancy himself a soldier, indeed, thought John with a huff as he wondered at the smell. He was a soldier, thank you very much, and a damned good one, right up until that bullet had shattered his shoulder. He may have been attached to the medical corps, but that didn't mean he couldn't fight.
He was smart enough to recognize a disadvantage, though. Three against one, if you included the driver, with him blind in a moving car … No, he would be better off waiting until they arrived and making his move then, if possible. The mystery bomber playing with Sherlock had been remarkably thorough up until now, though. He rather suspected the possibility of his fighting had back had already been taken into consideration.
In fact, when the car pulled to a halt, there was no opportunity at all. He was pulled out of the car by the larger man and thrust forward, with one man gripping each of his arms as he was pushed along. Off balance, he could barely keep his footing, but the men were both taller than he and were almost carrying him since his feet only touched the ground about every third step. The angle was killing his shoulder, too, and for a brief moment, he could think of little else. In fact, he could barely think at all.
And then it was too late, of course. He was being pushed down into a metal chair and could feel his legs being cuffed (shackled?) to it and then a rope came down hard around his chest, securing him to the back of the chair. It was only then that the bag was removed from his head and he was able to identify the scent that had been plaguing him—an aerosol anaesthetic coating the inside of the bag—just enough to make him fuzzy and docile without knocking him out. It was clever, he thought grudgingly as the non-narcotic air cleared his head.
Which was when he realized he could smell chlorine. A pool? Like where Carl Powers died, bringing the five pips full circle?
God, he was so stupid for walking right into this! If he got Sherlock killed tonight, he would never forgive himself.
A door behind him opened and a light baritone asked, "So, what does Sherlock's little pet have to do with the Earl of Undershaw?"
Still feeling foggy, John blinked at the well-dressed man in front of him, trying to figure out the riddle, and then he realized. The man wasn't trying to make some clever comment about John's secret identity. He was asking a legitimate question, and so John said, "House call?"
"Without a bag, Dr Watson?" the first man asked after a while.
"I left it when your men came for me," John said. "I don't carry a medkit with me everywhere … though, really, I should maybe rethink that. Sharing a flat with Sherlock obviously isn't the safest place to be … I assume that's why I'm here?"
He tried not to grimace as the other man let an expression of surprise spread across his face. "Why, you are clever, aren't you, doctor? Yes, Sherlock has done so well, I thought he might like something special for the final pip. You don't mind, do you?"
John's mouth was dry as he replied, "Mind being turned into an IED? Why should I? It seems very fashionable these days; everyone's doing it."
"Is that why you were visiting the Earl of Undershaw's empty house? Trying to be fashionable? Come now, John, don't be shy. I know he's out of the country—I checked. So what were you doing there?"
"I've known the cook for years and just stopped by to visit. If I'd known I was going to be seeing you, I would have saved you some of her scones. They're excellent."
Moriarty was nodding, an exaggerated look of understanding on his face. "Of course, and Sherlock hasn't given you much chance to eat lately, has he? Two birds with one stone … or is it three birds? Is she pretty, Johnny boy? Will she last longer than your other girlfriends?"
Thinking of Mrs McTavish, John tried not to let himself get distracted by that image. He tried not to think about how this man knew about his pathetic dating history, either, though he supposed that would change once he fully stepped into his role as Earl. If nothing else, the possibility of a title would encourage women to stick around a little longer, wouldn't it? Not be scared off quite so easily as they had been?
"She knew my mother, Mr Moriarty. I can't say I've ever given her looks any consideration."
"Oh? Pity." Jim pouted a bit and then said, "But you don't know the Earl, then? It wasn't a secret meeting?"
"If it were, it certainly wasn't very secret," John said, "But no. He wasn't there before I arrived and didn't come in after me. It was just me, the cook, and the butler, and when they were kind enough to invite me to stay for dinner, I took them up on it. I'm sorry if it interfered with your schedule. Though I should thank you for the well-mannered abduction… I'm just as glad not to traumatize them just because this was the one day I stopped to visit."
Moriarty waved an airy hand. "Think nothing of it. It was your company we wanted, after all, though I confess I don't see what Sherlock sees in you."
John didn't have an answer for that and so he just sat quietly while the other man stared at him, wondering what he saw. He tried to look as harmless as possible (not hard while chained to a chair), but really, he was thinking about how—even though this situation was clearly outside his control—he was not, in fact, powerless. An Earl might not have the kind of chop-off-his-head power they had in the twelfth century, but still, there was no question that having a title made things move a little easier, a little more efficiently. John might not be the wealthiest peer, and he may be currently so out of touch as (luckily) to be actually obscure, but still, if he were to start throwing his weight around … well, his family and his title still had connections.
Not in crime-fighting, though, or in government administration. Not outside John's personal efforts in the army and with Sherlock Holmes, at least. He didn't have any infrastructure that could do anything about Jim Moriarty. Right now, that seemed like an egregious oversight. If only he had invested in special ops forces, or had a link to some kind of law enforcement group.
Well, it would give him something to do if he got out of here, at least. In the meantime, maybe Mycroft would alert Sherlock that there had been a change in his evening plans. At least Sherlock wouldn't walk in blind.
John just wished he didn't feel like a liability … again.
#
It got boring, after that.
Moriarty had wandered off at some point, hissing threats into his phone as John got stiffer and more tired the longer he sat bound to the chair. There wasn't much to look at. It was a standard changing cubicle with a curtain and basic seat. Someone was assembling a drying rack, though, just outside the door, a pile of wooden dowels and tools stashed under the bench. John tried not to look longingly at the screwdriver as the time dragged on.
Really, he wondered what kind of difference a really motivated Earl could do towards cracking down on criminal masterminds. Certainly, his ancient ancestor, the first Earl of Undershaw, wouldn't have put up with this nonsense. From the stories John had absorbed as a child, his boyhood hero would never have simply walked calmly away with an enemy. That Earl had fought alongside Richard Lionheart and was likely rolling over in his grave at how thin the blood had gotten over the centuries—John's army service or not.
Of course, the first Earl would have been armed with a wicked, 6-foot sword, too, while John had only had his mobile. He wondered if Mycroft had acted on the text he'd sent, if he would be advertent enough to intercept Sherlock before he walked into Moriarty's trap.
Maybe he should start carrying a sword. God knew he'd played at it enough as a child, pretending to be that long-gone John, fighting in battles for his country. If he had a sword, maybe he would be able to keep trouble away from Sherlock for five minutes. He still wouldn't be able to cut through these cuffs, though. He wondered if his ancestor had been taller than he was, strong enough to break out of regulation handcuffs, maybe? It was hard to tell from the one likeness back at Undershaw, since portraiture in the eleventh century wasn't quite up to modern standards of accuracy. And 5'7" was probably considered tall then.
Christ, what had that bag been dipped in? If he wanted to be of any use here at all, he needed to get this fog out of his head.
But he was out of time as his friends from the car were back, this time with a vest smelling of all-too-much of chemicals and death that brought him right back to Afghanistan. Leaving his feet cuffed to the chair, they untied and uncuffed him, pulling him to his feet and keeping him steady as they carefully threaded his arms through the vest. They checked the wires and then added a parka better suited for the arctic than a humid London swimming pool. When they were done, they sat him back down and then stepped back.
John looked down at the blinking lights on his chest and swallowed, trying not to think too much about the after-effects he'd seen to vests just like these. The smell in his nose was bad enough to send him spiralling toward an attack of PTSD from the weight of the memories alone.
But no. The first Earl of Undershaw would be appalled if his descendant let himself succumb to something as ephemeral as fears in his own brain. No. John would force himself to be alert and to watch for a chance, any chance, to bring this ridiculous game to an end. He had survived Afghanistan and being nearly killed on an all-too regular basis for years. He lived with Sherlock Holmes, damn it. He was not going to let himself get beaten by an Irish psychopath, no matter how well dressed. It simply wasn't going to happen.
And so John drew in a deep breath and forced himself to that quiet place that let him focus on whatever task was at hand, no matter how much gunfire or hell stood in his way.
#