Defying his captors was in retrospect not the best course of action; though he had no choice in the matter – it was a matter of survival.
The force of his kick had thrown him off-balance, and aided by a sharp shove from the man holding him he collapsed into an awkward heap, unable to break the fall due to his manacled hands.
As if Luck decided suddenly to aid the enemy, the expulsion of air from his lungs was followed immediately by a horrible coughing that set his throat afire and his head to match. He barely saw the raised pistol.
Instinct screamed. He rolled just as the shot was fired, coming up into an awkward defensive crouch, and in a last desperate attempt tackled the gunman around the knees.
They crashed together to the floor. The gun fired somewhere away from them, deafening them both, and he lost no time in taking advantage of the surprise by bringing his clasped fists up under the thug's chin, knocking him senseless and leaving himself collapsed, gasping and straining for razor-sharp air.
He heard panicked shouting…pounding footsteps…authoritative bellowing…an order to "leave him, swing for it!"
His trembling hand closed around steel and he swiveled to one knee in classic firing position. "I don't think so, gentlemen!"
"Hullo, Doctor," Inspector Lestrade chuckled in bemusement.