Kudos to Anon for this prompt.
"Well, well, Mr. Holmes. Things have gotten quite interesting, now, haven't they?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the brute before him.
"I suppose if you're definition of 'interesting' is synonymous with my definition of 'dull', then yes."
The larger man laughed.
"I'm sure things won't be so dull once I get started with you."
"There's really no need to try to impress me. I promise your idiocy is torture enough," Sherlock said with a snarky smile.
The man remained stoic.
"Throwing insults round won't be much good for stalling, Holmes. I'll have each one of your fingers broken before you even begin to speak."
"You work quickly, then."
"That's what I'm known for. Quick, but quite painful."
Sherlock fearlessly looked him in the eye and sneered.
"Impress me."
The man nodded.
"Happy to oblige." And he picked up a wrench from out of his grey duffel bag.
"I must ask you before you begin: why a warehouse?" Sherlock asked, hardly able to help the glance he gave the menacing wrench. "The location is, dare I say, unoriginal? Not that you seem a very particular man, of course, but I'm simply curious."
The man shrugged.
"I guess I'm just one of those old-fashioned kind of blokes. You can't go wrong with a nice, abandoned warehouse."
"I'm inclined to feel offended."
"Oh?"
Sherlock nodded and sniffed.
"A man such as myself hardly deserves to die in such a boring place. There are plenty of warehouses in London, each one similar to the next. Why not somewhere more exciting?"
"What would you propose?"
"Perhaps a bomb shelter would be suitable. I don't see enough of those. Or the sewers." Sherlock smiled at the thought. "Now there's an idea!"
The criminal looked up at the ceiling as if he were pondering the idea.
"Not a bad suggestion. I'll keep that in mind," he grinned. "Now, why don't you hold still?"
He walked over until he was standing on Sherlock's left, wrench firmly gripped in his hand.
"If I were you," Sherlock said, his frame tensing up, "I would start with the right side. That's my dominant hand."
The man narrowed his eyes and promptly switched sides.
"But then again, I am a bit ambidextrous. Perhaps the left side would suffice."
Again, the criminal switched sides.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"However, I am far more dexterous with my right-"
"Enough!" the man shouted. "I'm sticking with your left hand!"
Sherlock swallowed.
"Are you sure that's the best idea? Because I assure you that the right is definitely the side to start with."
The man snarled and threw down the wrench.
"I've had about enough of your bullshit!" He grinned. "I think we'll start with the eyes first."
Before he could go back to his duffel bag, a loud crash could be heard echoing throughout the old building, along with the sound of splintering wood.
"Ah. Here he is. A bit late, but here," Sherlock said with a smile.
The criminal looked a bit confused at first, still trying to comprehend what the hell was happening.
And that's when a bullet connected with his arm.
"Argh! Fuck!" he cried, clutching the profusely bleeding wound as he stumbled backward.
John appeared from behind a large stack of boxes, his gun still held in a defensive position.
"Sherlock!" he cried out, rushing over to his friend and quickly checking him over. "Are you alright?"
"Impeccable timing, John, really," Sherlock said, barely making an effort to hide his sarcasm.
"Yeah, thank me later," John told him. "Let's just focus on getting you untied."
Sherlock looked over John's shoulder.
"Hand me your pocket knife. I'll do it myself. You have bigger problems at present."
John craned his neck to see the criminal he had just shot fuming and looking ready to fight.
"Right," he nodded, quickly shoving the handle of his pocket knife into Sherlock's hands. "Work quickly."
"You shot me, you cock!" the criminal shouted.
"Yeah, well you weren't being very nice," John said with a shrug. "You're lucky I haven't put a bullet through your brain."
"Why don't you go ahead and do it then, doctor?"
John stepped closer to him.
"You see, I would do that, except I would rather not have to answer for your execution. Too much work."
"I don't have a problem answering for yours, mate," the criminal growled.
He lurched toward John and went to grab the gun, but found himself instead locked in a very effective chokehold, the gun having been thrown to the floor.
He scratched at the ex-army doctor's surprisingly strong arms, flailing about as he tried to escape the death-grip. When that didn't work, he settled instead for grabbing at John's hair and forcefully pulling, causing the doctor to grunt in pain and slightly loosen his hold, allowing the criminal to slide out and get into a fighting stance.
Sherlock, meanwhile, grunted and cursed as he fumbled with the annoyingly dull knife, the blade barely cutting through the restraints.
John felt a fiery pain erupt throughout his jaw as the criminal's large fist connected with it, sending him back a few feet. John recovered just in time to dodge another attack from the man, stepping out of the way and allowing the brunt of the angry Goliath's force to plow into the boxes behind him. The brute, dazed from the collision, turned around to throw another punch, but was instead pinned to the wall of boxes by John. He went to push him off, but was stopped when the doctor's knee swiftly connected with his groin. He howled in pain and dropped to the floor, clutching his beaten testicles.
Taking this opportunity, John grabbed the gun from the floor and brought the butt of it down hard against the man's temple.
And then all was quiet.
He let the gun drop from his hand and clatter to the floor as he took a few deep breaths.
"John?" he heard Sherlock call.
John looked over his shoulder at the detective who was currently squirming around in his chair.
"I am in need of some assistance."
John smiled and walked over to Sherlock, taking the knife from his hands and cutting the rest of the way through the ropes. He then proceeded to untie the ropes around Sherlock's right ankle as Sherlock untied the ones binding his left. Once The detective was unrestrained, he stretched and stood up.
Sherlock gave John an acknowledging nod and walked over to the unconscious criminal, cocking his head at his lifeless appearance.
"Good work, John," he remarked. "I do forget how useful your army training can be."
John laughed a bit.
"Yeah. The bastard can sure throw a punch, though."
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, turning his back to the criminal and scrutinising John.
John nodded.
"Yeah. It'll hurt to move my jaw, but it's not broken." He rubbed at where the criminal's fist had met. "Did he hurt you while you were in here?"
Sherlock shook his head.
"The only wrong he's done unto me was forcing me to listen to him brag about his so-called "reputation"."
John chuckled.
"People like him tend to have big mouths, don't they?"
"Unfortunately." Sherlock cleared his throat. "There are handcuffs in my coat pocket, John. I would appreciate it if you would fetch them for me."
The doctor nodded.
"Yeah, sure. Your coat is..."
"On that box right behind you," Sherlock pointed over to a lower stack of crates.
John turned around and spotted the Belstaff, promptly walking over to the garment and rifling through the pockets, frustrated at finding them both empty.
"Sherlock?" he called.
The detective, caught up in examining the criminal's body, didn't notice the call at first.
"Sherlock?" John called again, this time earning a 'Hmm?' from the man in question. "They aren't in here."
Sherlock furrowed his brow and pivoted on his heel.
"What?"
"They aren't here."
Sherlock strode over to John.
"You've checked both pockets?"
The doctor rolled his eyes.
"No, I just thought I'd check the one to make our lives a bit more complicated."
"There really is no need for sarcasm, John," Sherlock said. "You've called Lestrade, have you not?"
John nodded.
"Yeah, 'course I have."
"Good. As long as we keep a close eye on the man, we ought to be fi-"
"Sherlock!" John screamed suddenly at him.
The detective barely had enough time to register what was happening before he was violently thrown to the side by his companion, running into the chair and crashing to the floor, the sound of the collision overlapping with the sound of a gunshot.
He looked over at the criminal at first, finding him to be quite conscious with John's browning in his hand. Sherlock then turned his head to John, fearing the worst, his face paling when he saw red blossoming across the doctor's jumper.
"John?" his said, his voice barely a whisper.
John fell back against the wall of boxes, sliding down until he hit the floor.
Furious, Sherlock stood up and grabbed the metal chair, menacingly approaching the criminal. The man wasted no time in pointing the gun at the detective and pulling the trigger, but was horrified when only an empty click could be heard.
Sherlock forcefully stepped on the criminal's wrist, causing the gun to drop back to the floor. He was granted satisfaction at the sound of bone crunching beneath his foot along with the pained cries of the man. The detective then swung the chair over his head and down upon the criminal's once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four, five, six...
"Sherlock, stop," John moaned from behind him. "You'll kill him."
Sherlock, taking a moment to admire the blood pooling around the criminal's head, dropped the chair and rushed over to John.
"Where is the wound?" he asked, scanning John's torso.
A stupid question. The bullet had obviously punctured a lung. The right one, to be exact. John didn't have long, but with Lestrade on the way, most likely with an ambulance intended for Sherlock, there was a good chance he would survive.
Small, but good.
John's head lolled a bit.
"No. Stay with me, John, stay with me. Don't be an idiot," Sherlock muttered as he lightly tapped his friend's cheek. "You need to lie down right now so that I may effectively stem the blood flow."
Sherlock placed a hand behind John's back and one on the hole in his chest as he slowly guided him to the floor, flinching as the doctor cried out in pain. As soon as John's head hit the floor, he brought his other hand to the wound and pressed down, causing John to yelp.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, trying to keep himself under control. "But you know just as well as I that this is a necessary course of action to take if you want to survive."
John nodded and took a deep breath.
"S-sorry."
Sherlock glared at him.
"Now, while we are awaiting help, would you mind explaining to me what the hell you were thinking?"
John smiled tiredly.
"Couldn't let that bullet hit you."
"And apparently you couldn't save yourself?"
John shrugged.
"Was either me or you. Sorry."
"Apologies are pointless right now. If you hadn't left your gun unattended, this wouldn't have happened in the first place."
"You were t-" John coughed, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth as he did so. "Tied up."
"And you were that caught up in ensuring my own safety that you neglected to pick up your own gun?"
"'m only human."
"A human who might die purely because of negligence! You truly are an idiot, John Watson. An absolute imbecile."
John heaved.
"S-says the man who got k-kidnapped."
Sherlock's hard gaze softened slightly.
"I haven't thanked you, have I?"
John smirked.
"You never really do."
"Then if it's worth anything right now: thank you. Now, don't die."
John laughed, once again sending himself into a coughing fit.
Sherlock gently wiped flecks of blood from John's chin with his thumb and looked down at him, his face riddled with worry.
As John's eyes began to close, the detective heard the sound of sirens pulling up to the warehouse, quickly followed by Lestrade and a few other officers bursting through the door.
"Sherlock!" the D.I. called. "Where are you?"
"Lestrade, the paramedics please!" Sherlock shouted at him.
Lestrade rounded the corner, immediately taking in the scene before him.
"What the hell?!" he exclaimed. "Sherlock, what happened?!"
"Paramedics, Lestrade. Now."
The D.I. gave the detective a slightly dubious look before calling for a group of EMTs. He then ran over to the two flatmates.
"How's he doing?" he asked, looking at the doctor's pale form.
"Dying. Where are the paramedics?"
"They're coming, Sherlock, don't worry. What happened after John found you?"
"Why does it matter, Lestrade?"
"Because I need to get both of your statements."
"Get them later."
"But-"
Lestrade was interrupted by a group of EMTs working hurriedly to get John loaded onto a gurney. Sherlock followed them as they started to wheel him away.
"Sherlock!" Lestrade called after him.
But all efforts to summon the detective were in vain. He sighed as he watched him run off with John, keeping close by his side.
"Sir?" Donovan said as she walked up beside the inspector. "Myers is still alive."
Leatrade nodded.
"Right. Good for questioning, then?"
Sally shrugged.
"Hard to say. Someone had some fun bashing the guy's brains in with a metal chair."
Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You don't think...?"
"Is it even a question anymore?"
Greg ruffled his hair a bit.
"Well, as long as he'll pull through, there's no reason to make a huge fuss over it."
Donovan crossed her arms.
"Why shouldn't we?"
"Sherlock's already been through enough tonight."
Sally scoffed at this.
"It's not like kidnapping is anything new to him."
"No, but it's not every day that his best friend bleeds out beneath him after saving his arse. So leave the man be."
The lieutenant bit her lip in order to refrain from arguing with her superior and nodded, walking over to the small group of officers handling Myers.
"Bloody selfless bastard," Lestrade muttered, looking distastefully at the pool of blood John had left behind.
(Before you get cross with me (hopefully you don't) I know John already got shot. But this prompt was slightly different, so I went with it.)
Like I said in the last chapter, I have seen all of your recommendations. There's just a lot of brainstorming happening right now, so there's no telling how long it will take me to get some of these prompts written. Plus, school is starting back up, so... yeah. I love writing this story, but the hiatus between chapters might become increasingly longer and longer just because of homework, extracurriculars, etc. But I shall continue to write as long as I can. I shall carry on...
My wayward son.
*high-fives Hunters*