Chapter 6

JUMP

Sherlock and John where exhausted. Over the last few weeks they had been through countless excursions in attempts to gain an advantage in catching what John was now calling (the in the rough drafts of his blog), the Stop and Swap Mystery. Shipment trucks loaded with pharmaceutical drugs were being stopped for a mandatory weight checks and having their cargo covertly switched with boxes full of flour.

"Sherlock can you hear me?" John's voice was muffled. Sherlock smirked.

"I hear you."

"This is by far the worst lorry you've been given. I can't believe I'm back here. Pull your seat forward! It's gone over the latch again!"

"Sorry? Didn't catch that." He reached for the nob and shifted into fourth gear. Behind Sherlock hid John, buried in the cab's resting bunk. He swore loudly and Sherlock pulled his seat forward two inches.

"Can't you two just behave?" Mycroft's voice was loud and clear over their ear pieces.

John muttered something unintelligible and Sherlock laughed, guessing what he had said.

The two of them were rounding the bend at the bottom of a curvy mountain range bordering the ocean. After weeks of trying and failing, Sherlock was in place behind the wheel of a lorry again, piloting the step one of what would hopefully be the downfall of one of the largest drug lords in the world.

It was a single seat cab and John was hidden as Sherlock's back up in case anything went wrong. Mycroft was dependent on their success to proceed to step two of the operation. He had both of them wired to ensure that he could have consistent contact with them. The inside and outside of the shipment truck was bugged with tiny cameras that would record the interaction when they were stopped.

So far, every attempt had failed. Despite being given assurance that they had the correct location of the Stop and Swap Cop and his team, every time they arrived at the supposed checkpoint it would be empty. Now, Sherlock was behind the wheel.

In order to move forward with a warrant they were required to submit evidence that Saul Westrom was involved. Soon, the cameras would capture the quick criminal exchange completely.

Sherlock shifted gears as they proceeded up the mountain range. John was feeling some anxiety, being cooped up in the cab bunk and unable to watch Sherlock's driving. The sun was almost to the edge of the evening horizon and they'd been on the road for hours.

A bright red car zipped up behind them. Instead of waiting for a passing lane it cut to the right, the engine revved and within moments it had gone into the other lane and flown around them. Sherlock shook his head in annoyance.

"Officer Norman ought to be three miles out, waiting." Mycroft said wearily through some static. Sherlock nodded but did not respond. The crackling in his earpiece was getting louder.

"We have some interference." He said as the crackling flared up a minute later. "If I lose communication with you, do not abort. Let John text you if anything should happen to go wrong."

Sherlock noticed a sign on the side of the road. Mandatory Weighing - 1.5 Miles. Below that it read, 'Bypass Photo Enforced'. Sherlock's heart leaped. Sure enough, within minutes he saw the police car and a truck labeled Hemming's Produce in a gravel lot off to the left. It appeared that the produce truck was going through a mandatory weighing but Sherlock knew better. He began to slow, shifting his gears down.

Sherlock pulled in slowly. He saw where the portable scales were set up and steadily made for them. His earpiece was all static now. He took it out to avoid the distraction, wondering what was causing the interference. His seat jerked as he came to a full stop and it adjusted itself backwards a few inches, pressing up against where John hid. Sherlock was trying to adjust it when a tall police officer walked up, smiling.

From inside the storage part of the bunk, John heard Sherlock speaking but couldn't tell what was being said. He'd felt the seat slam against the top of the bunk and hoped that Sherlock would move it. The thought of being trapped inside worried him. There was a rumble that John suspected was the back of the truck being opened.

He heard Sherlock and what he suspected must be the voice of one of the corrupt police officers. The tone sounded pleasant. John was praying that all went well. A few more minutes and they would be on their way and Lestrade's team would be converging on the officer and the Hemming's produce truck. He took a deep breath. His earpiece had crackled with static and he'd removed it. Now he struggled to adjust and reach for his phone. It buzzed in his pocket.

All right? –SH

Fine. A bit cramped. What's going on? –JW

Waiting on them to inspect the cargo. They'll be swapping the faux pills with more flour boxes in a moment. Three men present that I'm aware of. There may be a fourth. –SH

Move the seat forward. –JW

Jammed. Hang on. –SH

Moments passed and John could hear Sherlock fiddling with the seat. He blinked tired eyes. He hoped Lestrade's team would be close when Mycroft gave the order. Suddenly, John heard a rough voice, followed by Sherlock's melodic baritone. There was a moment of silence and John frowned when he heard the door of the cab opening and slamming closed. Shouting ensued.

John swore quietly and tried to lift the bunk. With the seat smashed up against it the task was impossible and he lay still for a moment, wondering what to do. From outside he heard shouting. Now he slammed against the lid with all his might, praying that it would budge. It remained still. He dialed Mycroft, cursing all the while.

"Vatican Cameos!" He snapped. The phone was crackling out. "Damn! We need help, Mycroft please, immediately! Something's definitely wrong!"

Sherlock had been waiting on the officer to return and tell him he could go. However, he got a sour surprise when Ludoviko Benici stepped up to the window instead and there was a nine millimeter glock pointed directly at Sherlock's head.

"Fancy meeting you here."

"Get out of the car." Lodi snapped, reaching for the cab door.

"Certainly." Sherlock popped it open hard and Lodi was knocked over backwards. In an instant Sherlock was on him. As he attacked he glanced around, taking in as much as he could of his surroundings. On the flat edge of a looming cliff in a park and ride lot sat the two flatbed trucks, a police car and the same red sports car that had passed them earlier. When they had pulled up, the sports car had been concealed by the Hemming's Produce lorry.

There was a shadow coming up from behind. Sherlock reached for the gun. In one fluid movement Lodi was disarmed, the shadow was looming over them and all Sherlock had time to feel was a starburst of pain in the back of his head before everything went black.

John was trying not to panic. Trapped in the storage space of a truck cab's bunker he lay, helpless and terrified for Sherlock's safety. Mycroft had people on the way. In the meantime, John was using every ounce of strength that he could muster to pop the bunker open. He felt the cab move and heard the door slam. He lay still, praying that it was Sherlock. The truck's engine started. He waited. If it was Sherlock John would think that he'd have the decency to say something at this point. Though, it would be like him to leave John wondering.

John swore quietly when the truck started moving. He had a feeling that it wasn't Sherlock behind the wheel. He pushed carefully, quietly against the bunker lid, trying in vain to lift it. John could feel the truck steadily accelerating up hill. Long, tedious minutes passed and the truck came to a stop. If felt like it was facing downward now. His heart was pounding and he was struggling to keep his breathing slow and even. There was a thick pounding in his ears. Something had gone horribly wrong. The cab door opened and he heard a rough voice speaking.

"Sending it of the edge_" was all that John caught and another burst of adrenaline flooded his body. The door creaked and the truck lurched forward uncomfortably. John heard the slide of metal against metal, followed by a sharp click. He gasped in relief. The seat had unjammed and slid forward but the truck was moving, gaining speed. John slammed his hand against the bunker lid, popping it open. He scrambled from his hiding place in a panic. There was no room for thought. He fell over the seat, reached for the door, pushed it open and dove, hitting gravel hard.

He turned in time to see the lorry gaining speed on the long black road and his mouth dropped open as it flew downhill towards the safety barrier at the edge of a deathly steep bend. With a crash, it broke through the barrier and sailed off the cliff.

From behind him there was the noise of heavy boots sprinting across concrete and gravel. Letting instinct take over, John rolled left and sprang to his feet. Officer Norman stood in front of his, baton in hand. The man swore and swung on John again, missing his temple by inches.

John heard sirens in the distance. He blocked another blow, breathing heavily as the burly man attacked. The fear was intense and the darkness became overwhelming as the last bit of twilight light died from the sky. The burly man slipped on the unsteady gravel and John caught him on the jaw with a well-placed fist. Officer Norman grunted, ducked and grabbed John around the waist where they became a tangle of punching, clawing, aggravated flesh and sweat.

It hadn't taken more than a few seconds for Sherlock to wake and begin to assess the situation. He was being hauled to his feet, his head was pounding and the roar of the lorry's engine was raging in his ears.

John. He thought, remembering his companion hidden in the cab of it. His heart began racing with fear. He let his head stay down and peered through half closed eyelids. There was the sound of tires moving over gravel. His head was starting to clear. He was being dragged towards the stationary produce truck, which was wide open, waiting to swallow him up.

That meant that someone was driving his lorry, most likely with John still in it. As the man dragging him made to lift his curly haired, dead weighted self into the truck Sherlock came to life, twisting in his arms and unforgivingly jamming a thumb into what he recognized as Leather Jacket Man's eye.

The leather clad man roared, dropping Sherlock like a burning ember to cradle his bleeding face in both hands. Sherlock rolled to his feet, stepping back into a sideways fighting stance. The man with the camo beanie popped out from behind the steering wheel of the truck carrying a long, thin crowbar. Sherlock's head reeled as the man squared up, raising the bar.

He shook his head, trying to get his bearings as the camo man rushed him. He swung the bar down hard as Sherlock side stepped left. He caught the bar over the top where it was close to the man's hands, pulling it down hard. With all his might he reversed, sending the grip end of the bar straight up to hit Camo Man square in the throat. His grip loosened and Sherlock yanked the bar out of it before bashing him over the head. Fury pumped in his veins.

The man in the leather jacket was on his knees, blood dripping down his face and Sherlock ran to him, extended a steel toed foot and delivered a carnal, bone cracking sick square to the chest, sending him flying onto his back.

John and the lorry were out of sight and Sherlock ran to what he could now identify as a red Bentley, swung the door open and was relieved to see the keys still in the ignition. Odds were that upon recognizing him, Lodi planned to capture and subdue the detective. The most logical thing to do then would be to get rid of any evidence that he had been there. The evidence being the lorry, with John inside.

The Continental GT roared to life, growling with all the majestic prowess of a 6.0 litre twin-turbocharged W12 engine. Sherlock took off, maneuvering all forty two thousand kilograms of metric horsepower against the earth's gravitation force over the distance of one metre in one second with all of the fear and fury fueled adrenaline of a man whose only true friend was in immediate, imminent peril.

Hell had no wrath that could compare to the feelings overtaking Sherlock's heart as he sped through the deep, dusky mountain road. Rubber drifted dangerously around each sharp earthly curve. The canyon echoed and the Sherlock thought that he heard the faintest sound of sirens in the distance. He whipped downhill, taking a sharp corner far too quickly and nearly spun out in his attempt to halt at the sudden glimpse of two human figures locked together in battle on the treacherous mountain edge.

All sound disappeared. The darkness was overwhelming outside of the vehicle as Sherlock sprinted towards John and the man who threatened his life. "HELP!" John gasped when he saw Sherlock sprinting towards them. They stepped sideways and Sherlock called out. He panicked as one of the four tangled feet slid. Time stopped.

"JOHN!" Sherlock cried, reaching out helplessly as the two men fell backwards. There was no time to think, no time to hesitate, only time to act and Sherlock hurtled himself over the edge after them into the cold black night.