A/N: When you don't know where to start, just kidnap John. It's always a plausible plotline. -csf


I.

.1 week before Christmas.

'It may sound weird, but I get kidnapped all the time', I comment, as politely as I can be. Nonchalant too, out of a kneejerk reaction to exaggerated criminals.

After all, these megalomaniac evil archetypes are usually sensitive and prefer a frail illusion of chivalry. A long conversation where they relay their disruptive plans and waste their advantage time, allowing for my rescue. I much prefer this to sneaky bullets from behind, and hot desert sands.

I really shouldn't be so used to being kidnapped and threatened, should I?

The anonymous criminal-dù-jour is a sleazy, suave, arrogant sod who pretends not to hear my comment. He presses on with his agenda:

'I want to give you a chance, John; a chance to see it my way. I am aware of your only too public infatuation with the Baker Street consultant, but I, John, I can love you back.'

I frown. Yeah, not actually gay. I could shout it the rooftops, but do they ever listen? Not that there's anything wrong with being gay, but this guy's chances are zero.

It makes for a change. Usually Sherlock's looks garner all the attention. If I try hard enough maybe I can almost feel flattered.

Still wouldn't fall for this creep; I suppose the general lack of cooperation in his attentions is exactly what first got him resorting to kidnapping. Gosh, I hope he never takes to writing dating advice blogs, he could do some serious damage.

'Just so you know, I'm not in love with Sherlock.'

Viciously, the slick dark haired man in the mobster's Italian suit suddenly turns - and slaps me.

The hollow sound fills the room much before the sting on my cheek.

Really, a slap?

'I don't want to hit you, John.'

'Good. You'd be surprised how many unhealthy relationships there are out there these days.'

'But I can torture you.'

Right. Mood swings much?

I look away, into the dingy office of an old, damp warehouse.

'Nah, been there, done that. No fun, I'll pass. The Taliban insurgents were quite thorough too, so I'm quite sure.'

He chuckles at that. My eyes stray to his face before I know it.

'John, you are hard to please.'

I nearly sigh, a genuine reaction to an old statement I hear from time to time.

'No, I'm really not', I say out loud, because someone's got to say it, set the record straight. I'm loyal and steady, with a hint of adventure. I don't care for public romantic gestures, I want a good hug at the end of a rough day. I don't want you to measure your efforts to my sudden whims of offering a gift, buying a thoughtful something you needed, or my mind reading abilities to be put into disrepute. It's not a competition, and we can take turns being on top. Is that too much to ask?

He interrupts my derailed train of thought:

'You're a war hero, John. I intend to lavish you with the attention you deserve.'

I nearly roll my eyes. Nearly. I'm still tied to a chair and he still holds the gun, so far held as a congruous prop. By the weight of it, the way he swings it along his speech patterns, I'd say fully loaded. My flatmate will be berserk when he finds out. He doesn't take kindly when I'm threatened by guns, for some reason.

And where's Sherlock, for that matter? We would have a great laugh at this, him and I. After I stopped my friend from murdering this vaudeville villain, of course.

Blimey, if Sherlock walks in right now he'll have a jealousy fit, won't he? His blogger, entertained by a criminal mastermind? There will be no convincing Sherlock he is just as kidnap-worthy, if not more. I just found my Jim Moriarty, that's all, and mine is a bit forward in his greasy charm. Particularly as he caresses my jawline with a fingertip. Disturbing. Unsettling. Ugh, unwanted attention, mate. Keep your hands to yourself.

'John', he calls my name. For extra incentive, he grabs my head by the hair, yanking it back until my eyes meet his dark pupils.

He's enjoying this too much. A sadist, then.

Suddenly I don't feel quite as confident that I have the upper hand. This lunatic is playing me, enjoying my banter as much as my fight. Escalating slowly to watch me squirm. What else can I do, though? Playing along is not a choice. I feel a lot more trapped now, than just by the silly handcuffs pinning my wrists to the chair behind my back.

He revels in the strained angle in my neck, exposing my jugular, a weak spot in the human body. He's using his imagination now, behind dead eyes, two pools of the darkest abyss.

'John', he says again. I never heard my name sound so slimy as he breathes it over my face. His eyes bore into my face as he studies my every wrinkle and frown line. 'You still harbour hopes with Holmes. I can read it in you. A little time apart is all you need to forget the hold that man has on you. I can provide you with that break... Boys', he calls out his henchmen, releasing his grip. 'Take John to the kiln room. Make sure his ropes are tight. This one is going to take a while to break. We start with total isolation. John, will you like that? Dark, cold, silent, no stimulus. I'll give you six days, and see if you reconsider.'

This one, he said? Who else have you got in there? Batman's Robin? Superman's Lois Lane? Spiderman's spider? No, wait. I'm panicking a little, aren't I? My mind is scattering. I must hold myself together.

'Let's save time. I won't break', I vow.

Wait, what? No, stop panicking! Stop saying whatever comes to your mind.

I rather wait for Sherlock away from this creepy guy. Lock me up until Sherlock gets here, suits me.

'I like to watch your bravery, John. But you mustn't be afraid of me.'

'I'm not afraid.' I'm disgusted.

'You are different from the others, aren't you?'

I keep silent. Must start getting used to silence. You get a couple of good days until it really gets to you. Auditory hallucinations as your brain produces echoes of the sounds it misses so sorely. Then there's the dark, no grown man is meant to be afraid of the dark, it's what lurches there that start becoming all you care to think about. As if your mind missed monsters too. I expect the old PTSD to flair up by day four, bringing back the worse times as my sole company. No distractions, no escape. The only spectator to what my distorted mind has to offer.

The villain still looking at me. Waiting for my retort.

I don't even know his name.

'Take me away', I challenge.

They oblige.

No, I mustn't worry, I decide as I'm being dragged away to my dungeon. Sherlock will find me soon anyway. He'll get me out.

He's much too jealous to leave me in this slimy man's hands.

.

.the first day of December.

The criminal intrigued Sherlock, haunting my rational friend with the unpredictability of his spontaneous murd—

'Is that the fastest you can type?' Sherlock comments abruptly, interrupting his consultation of my old medical journals, snuggled in his posh leather and exposed metal frame armchair.

Probably yes. Instead of an honest answer I hold myself back so not to flip him.

It was so nice and peaceful at 221B up until now. The fireplace is lit and the living room is filled by the fragrance of Mrs Hudson's mince pies baking downstairs. I've cleared some space off the living room's table to put my laptop down. Sherlock thinks I'm just answering mail. I'm also typing a case Sherlock solved out of pure dumb luck. My friend doesn't like me to publicise those. He feels they don't make him justice.

'Come on, John, our clients are eagerly waiting for our season greetings!' the edgy detective mocks me. He mustn't have found evidence to support his latest deduction, I notice, as he snaps my medical annals firmly shut.

I raise my brow. Slowly. Warningly.

He misses the cue as he rampages: 'Oh, what's the point, so it's grey and cold outside, and shops are bursting with nativity scenes and pictures of senior citizens in red suits designed to inspire commerce. Does it really make a difference if you too acknowledge Christmas, John? Did the clients write their good wishes in the hope of informing you over the upcoming calendar holiday? And do you reply in case they have already forgot?'

'I'm writing for both of us.' My voice is even.

'Not likely, John', he dismisses. 'Have you ever heard me speaking that sloooowly?'

I keep typing – slowly – with my dominant left hand. My right takes up my gun's aim to Sherlock.

He chuckles. He knows I don't mean it. The security latch is on.

'I guess it's alright, John. You have a different sort of eloquence, when holding a gun.'

'Hm-hm.' I put it away, at an arm's length anyway.

'Be sensitive of the readers who may have another religious affiliation, or none at all.'

'I will.'

'Don't send best wishes to them "and the family" if there's a high chance they'll spend the holiday alone, it's annoying.'

'I'll be careful.'

'Evade mentioning stereotypical references of two immigrants escaping from persecution and seeking refuge overnight in a barn, to proceed to go through childbirth unaided, under an unexplained astronomical event.'

'Sherlock, behave.'

'Also avoid unsubstantiated claims of "miracles" and "angels". John, did you know in the original text there are several classes of angels, most multi-winged?'

'Sherlock, stop being all rational.'

He chuckles.

'John, be sensible. I mean, really?'

I sigh.

'Yes, I'll avoid all angels.'

'Good. You can sign for me, then.'

'Already doing it, Sherlock. It says "Happy Holidays from Sherlock and John".'

'John, have you considered not all professions take the time off as holidays to celebrate—'

Heavy footsteps sound up our stairs, with the gait of our favourite detective inspector, interrupt us just in the nick of time. I glance at Sherlock, he seems just as surprised as I am. Unplanned, then. Good. This is just what my friend needed.

'Ha, splendid, John!' Sherlock hisses in joy, clasping his hands together and holding them in front of his chin in his rational pose.

'What about your current case?' I still ask, pointing at my medical tomes.

'Ah, never mind that, it was just another mental murder exercise, John! Turns out I couldn't bleed you to death, you'd have plenty of time to tourniquet your femoral artery.'

I blink. This time I gulp drily too.

Sherlock has the grace of looking abashed. 'You I always want to save, John. A perfect murder would be one in which I couldn't save you. By using you as my muse I ensure absolute commitment to the exercise. Is it really that hard to understand?'

I resume breathing. There's something oddly endearing in the most creepy declaration of care my best mate has ever given me.

We both turn to Greg, emerging at the top of the stairs.

'Inspector, it better be a good case', Sherlock precludes, arrogant and demanding. His hands unclasp and come rest regally in the arms of his chair.

.

I'm watching John Watson's art of making perfect tea from the corner of my eye, as DI Lestrade expounds on a new case that has baffled him. All cases baffle the inspector. This one he assumes will allure me.

The inspector flickers an annoyed glance at the doctor, who he blames for my lack of attention. Seriously, Lestrade, you have yet to hook me with your case. Rubbing the back of his head in apparent discomfort, the inspector jumps to unsubstantiated conclusions: 'Look, if I came at a bad time...'

John returns to us, handing one of those three perfect cuppas. I'm hyper-salivating already. It's bewildering. Automatic conditioning. And no one ever heard of Pavlov's dog salivating over tea.

The innocent doctor protests at once: 'Not a bad time at all, Greg. Sherlock's got no case.'

'London is disappointingly boring', I brand, at once. They don't give me enough attention. They don't understand the pain.

'Are you sure, John?' the inspector disingenuously insists. 'Our boy seems more interested in— Oi, Sherlock!'

Clumsily I've spilled his tea, by getting up from my chair and nudging the side table, next to the red armchair he occupies, with my shoe. Elementary, really.

'If you've come over to explore my assistant with requests for tea, I suggest you return to the Met, Lestrade.'

Brown eyes narrow dangerously, boring upwards to me. I keep standing over him, unmoved. 'The Yard, Sherlock, you very well know it.'

'Oh, is it?' I pretend to consider, walking away to the windows.

John affectionately rolls his eyes between us, then crosses his arms, indulgently leaning against the side of the sofa, and asks: 'Start over, Greg. Leg me hear it from the start.'

'Yes, do', I magnanimously offer. 'John will need to blog about it and he often forgets to mention the really important details.'

John chuckles, not taking me seriously in the slightest. He's sure I need to "show off" to the inspector, and he won't let it bother him.

'Well, like I said, it's like the song, innit?' Lestrade goes again, from the same starting point. It shows the flaw of the method right there. 'The partridge and the pear tree, Sherlock.'

I'm drawing a blank. I look at once for John's translation of the urban myth, pop culture reference, or sports metaphor. As usual, John won't disappoint.

'It's a traditional Christmas song, Sherlock, where you add the last rhyme whenever you start over. Can be a bit of fun, particularly if you're drunk in a Christmas office party.'

I blink. He sighs. Lestrade tries to sing it – and a partrIDGE in a pEAR TREE – and I want to groan and hide.

'The murderer took clues from a Christmas song?' I gather. Lestrade nods, John frowns deeper. 'Why haven't I thought of that?' I ask, glancing at John. So many new mental murder exercises...

This time John reads my mind. 'Oi, cut it out, that's enough now.' Lestrade frowns, puzzled.

'Yes, you see, there was enough cyanide in the crushed pear pips to poison the guy. My team almost missed the faint scent, for the windows were open. But with that, and the surname being Partridge...'

John completes easily. 'You think this is a serial killer, just starting his way through the lyrics of The Twelve Days Of Christmas.'

'Yeah. That's why I need Sherlock's help.'

I smile, a deep, dry smile. 'Yes, yes you do, inspector.'

And I glance John's way. I need his help, desperately. Hell be my cultural consultant. His vast knowledge of the obvious and the useless a worthy weapon against a debutant serial killer.

Can't quite be expected to solve this case without John.

.

TBC