The Most Inept Kidnappers in the History of Crime
For a wonderful, epic prompt on the kinkmeme. The anon who made this can have my first born child, and/or my dog (be warned: dog is severely obese). This was ridiculius fun to write. I had a bit of a fangasm every time I thought about it. I hoped you enjoy it as much as I theoretically enjoyed it :)
Sherlock admitted that he could occasionally become...absorbed in projects. The puzzle, the problem, simply took over his mind and sent him spiralling into tunnel vision. It was possible that things could pass him by unnoticed, such as lunchtime and midnight. And he did, perhaps, have difficulty comprehending some domestic nuances, like not leaving severed heads in the fridge.
But even he knew that it did not take an hour to pop to the shop and buy milk.
Sherlock punched buttons on his phone without lifting his eye from the microscope. He heard it ring, redial, ring, redial....and he lifted himself away from the squirming specimens under the lens. John always picked up, at the very least on the second call.
Something was wrong.
There was a jolt of fear and panic to his chest, and for a moment he paused, halfway out of his chair, to consider it. Intriguing. He’d never had such an unprecedented spike of emotion before. But no, he reminded himself. Focus.
He snatched up his phone and headed for the back of the door, where John had hung his coat and scarf an hour beforehand, muttering something about their flat being the easiest game of ‘The floor is made of lava’ ever. His fingers flew deftly across the keys as his other hand rummaged in the pocket of his coat. He knew he’d kept it somewhere...
Ah. Sherlock withdrew the slip of paper, the one marked ‘Jim from IT xoxo’ and with, he now knew, Moriarty’s phone number on it. He’d put it in his pocket without realising, instinctually putting everything he could get his hands on, anything related to anything, into his coat pocket.
He waited impatiently for the text to Mycroft to send. It was a long shot, but perhaps Mycroft needed John for something and had ‘forgotten’ to tell him.
‘Give John back. No patience for Orwell fantasies today. SH.’
The reply was quick, and for a moment it irritated Sherlock, because he’d quite like to call his new arch-nemesis now please, he hasn’t got time for his old one. But he checked the text quickly anyway.
‘Don’t have him. Don’t suppose you’ve seen Lestrade? MH.’
There was some sort of restrained urgency emanating from the words, so much so that Sherlock immediately dialled Moriarty’s number. He hoped the man knew what he’d done, fucking with Mycroft and what is Mycroft’s. Sherlock’s loathe to admit it, but Mycroft would have Moriarty deported to Siberia and kill him a few months later when the man is least expects him. Sherlock simply lacked the manpower for that.
The second the phone was picked up, Sherlock spoke. “Give him back.”
“What? Oh, hello Sherlock darling,” Despite the casual words, Moriarty’s voice sounded tight and distracted. Curioser and curioser.
“John. Give him back.”
“Excuse me? I’m sorry to say it honey, but I don’t have him. And I have my own, pressing problems to deal with...”
“Oh, don’t you dare hang up on me...” Sherlock muttered, thoroughly affronted. “Somebody wouldn’t happen to have gone missing, would they?”
“If you had anything to do with this,” Moriarty says cheerily, “I’ll rip you into little pieces.”
Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly. You are the criminal, lest we forget. So, my John is missing, my brother’s...boyfriend....is missing, and so I presume that yours is also unaccounted for?”
“None of the many and varied men in my life are with me at the moment, no,” Moriarty replied evasively.
“Right,” Sherlock said decisively, despite the loud and John-like voice in the back of his head telling him this was an absolutely awful idea, “Come to my address in ten minutes. There are things we must discuss.”
He didn’t bother asking if Moriarty knows the address. He blew it up, so surely he remembered. It would be awful to think that the bombing of Sherlock’s flat became insignificant among a plethora of other bombings. It would be, in fact, indescribably rude.
The text to Mycroft is done with a steady hand, despite the anger curling in his chest. Whoever has taken them has perhaps twelve hours to live.
‘Come to Baker Street in ten minutes. Do not shoot Moriarty on sight. There is scheming to be done. SH.’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“John! John!...Oh, for fuck’s sake...”
There was a dull pain in John’s side, and he rolled over lethargically, away from the source. He felt like there was a vice around his skull, and the kick in the ribs was hardly helpful.
“Fuck off,” he mumbled, slightly alarmed at the slur in his voice. He sits up quickly, and the pain in his head recedes slightly. Lestrade is standing over him, eyebrows raised.
“I would’ve thought you could hold your tranquilisers a bit better,” Lestrade grinned at his expense.
“Well excuse me for not being a big game animal,” John muttered mutinously, rubbing at his head. He didn’t know why he did that. As a doctor, he should know that there was no way rubbing his hand on his skull was going to cure the thumping headache. He wasn’t a bloody sorcerer.
He blinked hard, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness around him.
“Don’t know where we are, do you?” he asked without much hope.
“Not a clue,” Lestrade sighed, as a voice from a little further off said, “No, sorry.”
John craned his head around the standing Lestrade to get a look at this new man, but it felt a bit awkward, so he stood up as well, slight vertigo making him wobble. He brushed off a helping hand from the inspector with a wry grin, and addressed the stranger.
“Sorry, and you are...?”
The stranger ambled over to the pair of them, wearing a friendly grin and a bruised face.
“Sebastian,” he said amiably, “Sebastian Moran. John Watson, I presume?”
John frowned, and nodded, slowly. “How did you-“
“Oh,” Sebastian said, shrugging. “I’ve heard things.”
Slightly creepy as this is, John let it slide. His boyfriend’s brother stalked him on CCTV, so he was becoming worryingly used to his name being spouted by various criminals and government officials. In all honesty, it made him feel a bit like a vigilante crime fighter. Your friendly neighbourhood John Watson.
“You realise,” Lestrade said wearily, his lips twisting in a resigned smile, “that this is probably all to do with them.”
John sighed. “Of course it is.”
“Sherlock, obviously, and....” Sebastian prompted.
“Mycroft,” Lestrade answered absent mindedly, before seeming to snap back to himself. “Really, who are you? I know John and I are here because we shag two of the most powerful men in London...”
“Ah,” said Sebastian. “That’ll be it then.”
“Sorry, what?” John asked, thoroughly confused. His life just got more and more entangled with people who thought they were vague and mysterious, when really they were just annoying.
“My boyfriend,” said Sebastian, as if that ought to clarify something. “Jim. My boyfriend.”
John was too busy flopping to the floor and burying his head in his hands to realise that Sebastian said the words as if he couldn’t quite believe them.
“Moriarty...is your boyfriend. Moriarty. I hope you realise we’re all fucking doomed.” John moaned into his hands.
"What is this," Lestrade muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "The Problematic Boyfriends Support Group?"
“He’s really not all that bad. Once you get to know him.”
John glared up at Sebastian balefully. “He strapped me into an explosive vest.”
“Oh, I remember that,” Sebastian said, nodding, as if remembering a minor incident of little importance, like a family picnic by the seaside, not a fiendish trap consisting of a madman, a sniper and a parka.
“How?” John asked disbelievingly. “I think I would have remembered if somebody else was around.”
“The little red dot,” Sebastian said, making a gun shape with two hands and cocking it at John’s chest. He sighed dismissively. “Nobody ever remembers the sniper.”
“I should probably arrest you,” Lestrade interjected, collapsing onto the floorboards beside John. “But I haven’t got the energy. My head is pounding.”
John patted his shoulder in understanding, but Sebastian sat down more gracefully beside them so the three men formed an impromptu circle, and held out a familiar little sheet of plastic.
“Paracetamol?” he asked, sympathetically.
John and Lestrade both looked at the dark-haired sniper incredulously. “You carry painkillers around with you?” Lestrade asked curiously.
Sebastian smirked. “I live with Jim Moriarty,” he pointed out.
“Fair enough.”
“Good point.”
John and Lestrade agreed, taking two each and swallowing them.
Sherlock admitted that he could occasionally become...absorbed in projects. The puzzle, the problem, simply took over his mind and sent him spiralling into tunnel vision. It was possible that things could pass him by unnoticed, such as lunchtime and midnight. And he did, perhaps, have difficulty comprehending some domestic nuances, like not leaving severed heads in the fridge.
But even he knew that it did not take an hour to pop to the shop and buy milk.
Sherlock punched buttons on his phone without lifting his eye from the microscope. He heard it ring, redial, ring, redial....and he lifted himself away from the squirming specimens under the lens. John always picked up, at the very least on the second call.
Something was wrong.
There was a jolt of fear and panic to his chest, and for a moment he paused, halfway out of his chair, to consider it. Intriguing. He’d never had such an unprecedented spike of emotion before. But no, he reminded himself. Focus.
He snatched up his phone and headed for the back of the door, where John had hung his coat and scarf an hour beforehand, muttering something about their flat being the easiest game of ‘The floor is made of lava’ ever. His fingers flew deftly across the keys as his other hand rummaged in the pocket of his coat. He knew he’d kept it somewhere...
Ah. Sherlock withdrew the slip of paper, the one marked ‘Jim from IT xoxo’ and with, he now knew, Moriarty’s phone number on it. He’d put it in his pocket without realising, instinctually putting everything he could get his hands on, anything related to anything, into his coat pocket.
He waited impatiently for the text to Mycroft to send. It was a long shot, but perhaps Mycroft needed John for something and had ‘forgotten’ to tell him.
‘Give John back. No patience for Orwell fantasies today. SH.’
The reply was quick, and for a moment it irritated Sherlock, because he’d quite like to call his new arch-nemesis now please, he hasn’t got time for his old one. But he checked the text quickly anyway.
‘Don’t have him. Don’t suppose you’ve seen Lestrade? MH.’
There was some sort of restrained urgency emanating from the words, so much so that Sherlock immediately dialled Moriarty’s number. He hoped the man knew what he’d done, fucking with Mycroft and what is Mycroft’s. Sherlock’s loathe to admit it, but Mycroft would have Moriarty deported to Siberia and kill him a few months later when the man is least expects him. Sherlock simply lacked the manpower for that.
The second the phone was picked up, Sherlock spoke. “Give him back.”
“What? Oh, hello Sherlock darling,” Despite the casual words, Moriarty’s voice sounded tight and distracted. Curioser and curioser.
“John. Give him back.”
“Excuse me? I’m sorry to say it honey, but I don’t have him. And I have my own, pressing problems to deal with...”
“Oh, don’t you dare hang up on me...” Sherlock muttered, thoroughly affronted. “Somebody wouldn’t happen to have gone missing, would they?”
“If you had anything to do with this,” Moriarty says cheerily, “I’ll rip you into little pieces.”
Sherlock scoffed. “Hardly. You are the criminal, lest we forget. So, my John is missing, my brother’s...boyfriend....is missing, and so I presume that yours is also unaccounted for?”
“None of the many and varied men in my life are with me at the moment, no,” Moriarty replied evasively.
“Right,” Sherlock said decisively, despite the loud and John-like voice in the back of his head telling him this was an absolutely awful idea, “Come to my address in ten minutes. There are things we must discuss.”
He didn’t bother asking if Moriarty knows the address. He blew it up, so surely he remembered. It would be awful to think that the bombing of Sherlock’s flat became insignificant among a plethora of other bombings. It would be, in fact, indescribably rude.
The text to Mycroft is done with a steady hand, despite the anger curling in his chest. Whoever has taken them has perhaps twelve hours to live.
‘Come to Baker Street in ten minutes. Do not shoot Moriarty on sight. There is scheming to be done. SH.’
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“John! John!...Oh, for fuck’s sake...”
There was a dull pain in John’s side, and he rolled over lethargically, away from the source. He felt like there was a vice around his skull, and the kick in the ribs was hardly helpful.
“Fuck off,” he mumbled, slightly alarmed at the slur in his voice. He sits up quickly, and the pain in his head recedes slightly. Lestrade is standing over him, eyebrows raised.
“I would’ve thought you could hold your tranquilisers a bit better,” Lestrade grinned at his expense.
“Well excuse me for not being a big game animal,” John muttered mutinously, rubbing at his head. He didn’t know why he did that. As a doctor, he should know that there was no way rubbing his hand on his skull was going to cure the thumping headache. He wasn’t a bloody sorcerer.
He blinked hard, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness around him.
“Don’t know where we are, do you?” he asked without much hope.
“Not a clue,” Lestrade sighed, as a voice from a little further off said, “No, sorry.”
John craned his head around the standing Lestrade to get a look at this new man, but it felt a bit awkward, so he stood up as well, slight vertigo making him wobble. He brushed off a helping hand from the inspector with a wry grin, and addressed the stranger.
“Sorry, and you are...?”
The stranger ambled over to the pair of them, wearing a friendly grin and a bruised face.
“Sebastian,” he said amiably, “Sebastian Moran. John Watson, I presume?”
John frowned, and nodded, slowly. “How did you-“
“Oh,” Sebastian said, shrugging. “I’ve heard things.”
Slightly creepy as this is, John let it slide. His boyfriend’s brother stalked him on CCTV, so he was becoming worryingly used to his name being spouted by various criminals and government officials. In all honesty, it made him feel a bit like a vigilante crime fighter. Your friendly neighbourhood John Watson.
“You realise,” Lestrade said wearily, his lips twisting in a resigned smile, “that this is probably all to do with them.”
John sighed. “Of course it is.”
“Sherlock, obviously, and....” Sebastian prompted.
“Mycroft,” Lestrade answered absent mindedly, before seeming to snap back to himself. “Really, who are you? I know John and I are here because we shag two of the most powerful men in London...”
“Ah,” said Sebastian. “That’ll be it then.”
“Sorry, what?” John asked, thoroughly confused. His life just got more and more entangled with people who thought they were vague and mysterious, when really they were just annoying.
“My boyfriend,” said Sebastian, as if that ought to clarify something. “Jim. My boyfriend.”
John was too busy flopping to the floor and burying his head in his hands to realise that Sebastian said the words as if he couldn’t quite believe them.
“Moriarty...is your boyfriend. Moriarty. I hope you realise we’re all fucking doomed.” John moaned into his hands.
"What is this," Lestrade muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "The Problematic Boyfriends Support Group?"
“He’s really not all that bad. Once you get to know him.”
John glared up at Sebastian balefully. “He strapped me into an explosive vest.”
“Oh, I remember that,” Sebastian said, nodding, as if remembering a minor incident of little importance, like a family picnic by the seaside, not a fiendish trap consisting of a madman, a sniper and a parka.
“How?” John asked disbelievingly. “I think I would have remembered if somebody else was around.”
“The little red dot,” Sebastian said, making a gun shape with two hands and cocking it at John’s chest. He sighed dismissively. “Nobody ever remembers the sniper.”
“I should probably arrest you,” Lestrade interjected, collapsing onto the floorboards beside John. “But I haven’t got the energy. My head is pounding.”
John patted his shoulder in understanding, but Sebastian sat down more gracefully beside them so the three men formed an impromptu circle, and held out a familiar little sheet of plastic.
“Paracetamol?” he asked, sympathetically.
John and Lestrade both looked at the dark-haired sniper incredulously. “You carry painkillers around with you?” Lestrade asked curiously.
Sebastian smirked. “I live with Jim Moriarty,” he pointed out.
“Fair enough.”
“Good point.”
John and Lestrade agreed, taking two each and swallowing them.