John
Our attackers quickly stood up straighter and attempted to smooth down all the creases in their clothes. Although there was blood running into Sherlock's eyes from a cut on his eyebrow and Lestrade and I were rather worse for were anyway, I couldn't supress a grin. Minions! Minions? Who the Hell said minions? Someone with narcissistic personality disorder, probably; I could tell Sherlock was going to get on very well with this invisible person.
My head was yanked back as someone grabbed the collar of my shirt. At the same time my arms were twisted behind my back and I couldn't stop a cry of pain burst out of my mouth as fingers dug into the gunshot wound in my arm.
"John?" I could see someone entwining their fingers with Sherlock's curls as I had what seemed so long ago and forcing his head forwards as he tried to turn to me.
"I'm fine." I reassured, feeling warm inside at his concern, "Don't worry Sherlock I'm- Fuck!" That was obviously not how I'd planned on ending that sentence but my other hand had been smashed against the concrete wall, causing me to drop the gun with a clatter. "No, really, I'm fine!"
We were dragged, Sherlock in the lead, then me, with Lestrade bringing up the rear back the way Sherlock and I had come and then down the spiral staircase. Each of us was being restrained by about three 'minions' as I couldn't resist thinking of them. I was worried though, more than worried. I felt like I was going to vomit but I didn't know whether that was through fear or loss of blood. Sherlock was in just as vulnerable situation as I, and I assumed Lestrade, was. He could do nothing to help us. I don't think he had a plan. Then again, I didn't know why I expected him to think something up any more than me or Lestrade. I did know actually. It was irrational but I wanted to believe that Sherlock could do anything; bring my sister back from the dead, love me like I loved him and achieve world peace single handedly in an afternoon, for instance.
Sherlock
I was worried about John but I wasn't about to let those irritating feeling cloud my professional observation. I noticed, remembered and stored every inch of our journey in my mind palace so we could find our way out if possible. We were marched diagonally across the ground floor of the warehouse, around the pile of alcohol, and into a small and disappointingly modest looking office you might have expected to find in a GP's practice. The carpet was cream, the walls were cream, and the vertical blinds badly concealing the view of a collection of bins were cream; a severe looking woman with badly dyed ginger hair and a too large for her skinny frame navy suit swivelled round in her chair to face us.
The suit was worn to be surprising. We were supposed to be put off the fact that she ran an illegal alcohol trading business; we were supposed to think she was harmless; we were supposed to think she was stupid. I knew all these things not be true. I did, however, realise that she and I both relied on the admiration of others to survive. She was showy, as people like us so often are. The floodlit warehouse, the finding the right door, the making us show our strengths and weaknesses in a fight situation. This was someone who appreciated the art of the game as much as I did. After surveying us with a thin-lipped smile for three seconds she made her move; this was a mistake as, in those three seconds, I had already ascertained all of the above information and the fact that she herself didn't drink because her husband became inebriated and hit her almost every night. She had hidden the bruises well with a thick layer of foundation, but not well enough.
"Gentleman," The woman began, "I don't much like people visiting my establishment without an appointment." She smiled, badly; I also have this ailment, I don't know how to smile properly. It's such an unnatural facial contortion.
"We don't much like people kidnapping our friends, beating them within an inch of their lives, murdering our sisters and other innocent members of the public." Said John's voice from behind me; this made the annoying unprofessional happy warmness tug at my insides like an irritating small and rather stupid child.
"Oh," The woman stood up and walked past me, I strained against the arms restraining me to try and turn to see what she was doing but one of my captors slapped me scrappily across the face so a dribble of blood ran down my chin from my lip which I had no means to wipe away.
"But this little rascal fought his way in here of his own accord." The bodiless voice of the woman continued.
My eyes caught a movement on the blank computer screen on the desk in front of me, and I realised I was able to see a grainy, dark reflection of what was happening behind me. The woman was millimetres away from Lestrade; she was clutching his chin in her hand, startlingly pale and pristine against his blood splashed face.
Lestrade managed a pained grunt of protest.
"Oh, shush, shush, shush!" The woman said in a patronizing voice you might use on a very small child or very big idiot.
"Get off!" John yelled. I could almost feel the panic rising inside him, "You're hurting him!"
The woman chuckled, "Oh, I know, you see, I can't have just anybody wandering in here and poking around in my business. I find this whippersnapper's intrusion extremely rude."