Concertos and Blackmail, part 8
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Part Eight
Sherlock swipes down with the card. There’s a faint, quick double-beep, and a low thunk, then the green light above the number pad blinks out. With his fingers on the door handle, Sherlock tucks the card into the inner pocket of his jacket and spares a final glance for John, catching his eye and breathing in sync with him just for a moment.
Then he pushes down, and slips inside.
John follows, hugging the violin case to his chest and pressing himself back into the walls as he shuts the door behind him as soundlessly as possible. A little red light comes on at his elbow, and he recognises another number pad.
It’s pitch black at first, but even as Sherlock drops to his knees and shuffles forward, pulling his tools from his pockets, John’s eyes adjust to the darkness and he notices a faint glow coming from the end of the short hallway and to the left - the entrance to the lobby. The light spills over the end of the hall, illuminating the lift corridor opposite the lobby but not quite reaching into the corner where they’re pressed.
At his right, Sherlock is unscrewing a small metal panel from the wall, the torch between his teeth. As John keeps watch, hardly daring to breathe, Sherlock lays aside the panel and pulls out the wire cutters. His gloved fingers extract three particular wires from the tangled skein within the wall.
From the lobby echoes the faint sound of murmuring voices. Someone laughs.
One by one, Sherlock snips through his chosen wires, pausing after each cut to check for repercussions and monitor the voices in the lobby. When the job is done, he prods the wires back into place and screws on the panel, loading his tools back into his pockets. He pushes himself into a crouch and presses down the handle of the emergency exit door. It clicks and clunks and groans a little, but there is no alarm, nor any outcry or suspicious murmuring from the lobby. Sherlock glances over his shoulder to John, beckoning him down and forward.
Bent double, they slide one after the other into the stark light and cold concrete of the emergency exit stairs, Sherlock holding the door open for John then easing it shut behind them. Their eyes meet over simultaneous sighs of relief, and neither man can help the exhilarated smiles that creep onto their lips. Sherlock cocks his head in the direction of the stairs and John nods, a silent reassurance and agreement.
They keep their feet as quiet as possible on the bare, grey steps until they reach a door with a large black ‘3’ painted on the wall beside it. Sherlock stops before it, motioning for the violin case, which John places on the ground. They crouch on either side, heads bent, as the detective opens up the compartment and replaces his tools with careful, quiet movements.
“There are three men stationed at the Security Desk,” he murmurs. “Do you remember the layout of the room?”
John nods, not making a sound unless absolutely necessary.
“There are two cameras,” Sherlock continues as he slowly zips up the violin case - “one in each corner of the room opposite this entrance. The hall outside this doorway is one big blind spot so long as you avoid the lift corridor and the hall into Security. You’ll have plenty of time to shoot out the first camera, but the moment you do, you’ll have only a few seconds to reposition, aim, and take out the other.” He pauses, meeting John’s eye. “Do you think you can do it?”
John’s mouth lifts in smug acceptance of the challenge. “Not a problem.”
Sherlock stands, taking the violin case with him. “Let the guards come to us,” he says as John untucks the gun from the back of his cummerbund, holding it out at his side. “We can use the hallway to our advantage; it’s not wide enough for all three of them to attack at once.” Sherlock rests his fingers on the door handle, turning one last time to John.
“Ready?” he asks.
The gun is a familiar weight at the end of John’s arm.
“Ready.”
Sherlock pulls open the door with smooth, soundless movements and leads the way out into the hall, leaving John to latch it as quietly as possible behind them. Outside, it looks much like the ground floor - a short hall, the end flanked by the lift corridor and another opening, through which spills a small amount of light and the occasional muffled voice. The only difference is that there’s no longer an exit at their backs - just a darkened window.
Sherlock darts across the hall and flattens himself against the wall opposite the lift corridor, blindly beckoning John forward. He directs him to stand beside him, at the very edge of the hall before the opening, and leans down to put his mouth by the doctor’s ear.
“You should have a clear shot from here,” he breathes; warmth trickles over the back of John’s neck and the shell of his ear - “and from there.” He points to the wall opposite. “An equal distance between both corridors to keep out of sight of the cameras.”
John nods in understanding and motions for Sherlock to stand back. He leans forward and peers around the corner, cheek pressed against the wall. Down the short corridor and across the open room, he can see he first target. The camera is angled down, like a half-lidded eye, the lens not quite pointed at John, though he knows it’ll catch him nonetheless.
He steps back from the wall and holds the gun up with both hands, his wrist brushing the wall. Sparing a final glance at Sherlock, he lets out a long, calm breath and steadies his aim. His finger moves smoothly to the trigger.
He shoots.
The gunshot rings out, deafening against the surrounding silence, followed immediately by the shattering crunch of the destroyed camera. Sherlock watches, eyes wide in his pale face, as John steps across the hall and repositions himself, back to the wall, lifting his arm.
“What the fuck?” sounds a voice from within the room, accompanied by the creaking of chairs.
“Was that -”
John fires again, with unerring accuracy, and a veritable clamour erupts from the other end of the corridor - voices and chairs and rapidly-approaching footsteps. With a menacing scowl, John lowers the gun and barrels down the hall to meet them.
“John!”
Sherlock’s hissed warning goes unheeded, and John leaps into the fray. He dispatches one man in the first few seconds, catching him on the temple with the butt of his gun and sending him, unconscious, to the floor. Dropping the violin, Sherlock scrambles to follow, but in between dodging blows and landing them, John spins around and forces him back into the hall, sending him tumbling onto his back as the doctor turns seamlessly back into the fray. Winded, Sherlock forces himself up onto his elbows and watches, feeling desperately helpless, as John trades blows with the guards, taking a punch to the gut one moment then catching one of them on the jaw with his elbow the next. It’s all over within a minute: John receives a kick to the ribs and staggers back a step, only to toss his weapon to his left hand - having long since switched on the safety - and leap forward, anticipating a wild blow at his side and deflecting it with his arm even as he uses that same momentum to send his attacker into the wall with an expertly-aimed fist, where he collapses with barely a grunt. Feet anchored firmly to the ground, John twists at the waist, switching his gun hand again and swinging back around, lifting the weapon and bringing the last man skidding to a halt.
They stand for a moment in tableau - John, stern-faced and upright, weapon raised in a silent threat; the guards, two unconscious and the last bent over at least a few cracked ribs; and Sherlock, still winded and sprawled on the floor, gaping and gasping for air. Only John isn’t panting ferociously.
There is a crackle of static from behind the desk, and a distorted voice echoes through the room.
“Hey, is everything all right down there? Thought I heard something.”
There is a pause - a moment in which both Sherlock and the remaining guard stare fearfully toward the source of the interruption. John, not taking his eyes off his captive, motions him toward the desk with his gun.
“Everything’s fine,” he says firmly, allowing for no misunderstanding. The guard glances for a moment between gunman and desk, then hurries to comply, backing up to round the end of the desk and picking up a walkie-talkie. John follows at a distance, leading with his gun, now clasped in both hands.
“No funny business,” he snaps, causing the guard to swallow, his breath quickening. He presses down a button with another hiss of static.
“No, mate,” he says into the receiver, impressively calm. “Everything’s fine down here. ’Spect it was something on the street.”
“Right then,” comes the casual reply. “Get in touch if you see anything.” A final click of static, and the connection is lost. The guard drops the walkie-talkie back to the desk.
“Back out here,” John orders, gesturing with his gun once more. “Hands where I can see them.” The guard obeys, holding his hands up by his ears and scurrying around into the open. “Face the desk,” says John when he reaches the middle of the room.
The man obeys, his chest heaving and his eyes scared and downturned. John steps up to him from behind and, with one, swift blow to the head, knocks him out. The man crumples to the floor, and John has just enough time to let out a slow, controlled exhalation and tuck the gun in his pocket before Sherlock is rushing into the room.
“You idiot!” he hisses, gripping John by the biceps and wrenching him around. “What were you thinking? The plan was to let them come to us! You could have been killed, there were three of them!”
“Sherlock -” John tries, startled, but the detective ignores him, his voice low and harsh.
“Do you have any idea what could’ve happened?” he growls, his eyes wild behind the mask and his grip unyielding. “What would I do if they’d overpowered you, if they’d killed you, John, what would I do -”
“Sherlock, calm down!” says John, bringing his hands up to both hold Sherlock at bay and pull him a little closer. “I wasn’t going to die, they weren’t even armed!”
But Sherlock’s voice is getting more and more breathless, and his fingers are starting to tremble where they’re clamped around John’s arms. “No!” he chokes out, shaking his friend. “You charged in here with no regard to your safety, completely ignoring the plan and barely knowing what you were facing, you wouldn’t even let me help -”
John snorts, and the laughter is so unexpected that it sends Sherlock’s litany to a grinding halt. “Sherlock, I’m a trained soldier,” he says, slow and clear and just a little bit amused. “And no offence, but hand-to-hand combat is hardly your forté. I was trying to protect you.”
Sherlock looks unreasonably upset, pride mingling with the shock and fear in his eyes. “I fight very well!” he snaps defensively. “And I don’t need protecting.”
John just laughs again, shaking his head, fond and long-suffering. “Can you fight off three trained security guards?” he asks; Sherlock doesn’t answer. “Exactly,” John continues. “But clearly, I can.” He looks at Sherlock - really looks - and suddenly all he sees is a brilliant, terrified young man with nothing but a fragile plan to keep himself afloat. “I know what I’m doing, Sherlock,” he says, sobering. “Trust me.”
Despite the reassurance, Sherlock hands barely loosen. John holds his gaze, his own grip on Sherlock’s arms firm and assured. After a moment, the detective’s expression shutters and fades, and he pulls back just a fraction. He looks away, focusing instead on where his long fingers are crushing John’s sleeve. When he tries once more to speak, his voice is low and restrained, calmer than before but still on the verge of shuddering.
“John -”
“I know,” says John, cutting him off. Sherlock glances up. “It’s all right. I’m fine.” A little smile worms its way into the corner of his mouth. “We’re fine.”
With a long, harsh sigh through his nose, Sherlock’s shoulders sag with relief. His hands slide from John arms as he steps back, glaring somewhere around John’s midsection. When his eyes next dart up to catch John’s, they’ve returned to their usual sharpness, dark and intelligent and biting.
“Don’t do anything that stupid again,” he snaps, turning on his heel and marching back out into the hall to retrieve the violin. “Or if you do, warn me.”
Chuckling, John shakes his head with just a hint of ruefulness. “What are we going to do with these three?” he asks as Sherlock re-enters the room, nodding at the unconscious guards.
“There are zip ties in there,” says Sherlock, tossing the case to John who catches it more with his chest than his arms. “I’ll deal with the cameras.”
John does as he’s told, binding the guards’ hands behind their backs and keeping one eye on Sherlock as he moves behind the desk. If he was expecting something technical and complicated, he’s disappointed - Sherlock simply seeks out the wall sockets and removes every plug he can find. One by one, the screens behind the desk wink out, and the computers hum down into silence. As John finishes up with the guards, deciding to tie their ankles together for good measure, Sherlock removes the batteries from the walkie-talkie, burying them in the bundles of wires under the desk.
Minutes later, they meet over the violin case, exchanging brief, exhilarated smiles.
“So,” says John, face straightening. “I think that went quite well, all things considered.”
Sherlock’s shoulders shake for a moment with low, quiet chuckles. “All things considered, yes,” he says. “You went out of your way to ruin my plans and almost got yourself killed…”
“Just an average day at the office, really,” John quips. He’s rewarded with a wide, beaming grin from the man crouched across from him, and returns it readily.
Sherlock presses his lips together, bringing the smile down to more manageable levels. “Shall we proceed, Doctor Watson?” he says, with an air of affected formality.
“Certainly, Mr Holmes,” John replies in turn, his expression turning sombre and reserved and deliciously mocking.
“Then let’s go.” Sherlock snaps shut the violin case and they stand, striding out of the room. Sherlock, all black tails and dark hair, is swallowed by the shadows of the corridor, even as the cut of John’s jacket shows up strikingly white against the darkness. They round the corner and ease their way back into the emergency stairwell, leaving the unconscious guards in a sprawl beneath the darkened screens of the erstwhile Security Desk.
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