Fic: Surprise
Title: Surprise
Writer: thexphial
Status of work: complete
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG-13 (for violence)
Warnings, kinks & contents: Moderate violence
Length: 2000ish words
Author's note: Written in response to a prompt by sheffsfic, who wanted a BAMF!Watson rescuing Sherlock from being kidnapped. This is as close as I could get.
Summary: John and Sherlock save each other.
John was trying to concentrate, and it wasn't easy. Of course, he often found it difficult to concentrate when Sherlock was around, but this was a whole new level of distracting behavior. For one thing, they were both tied to chairs and bound back to back, their hands caught between them. For another, the man would not shut up.
"It's cheating, you know."
John shook his head to bring his thoughts back to whatever conversation Sherlock was having with him.
"What?"
"Using a stun gun. It's cheating. And unfair."
"Kidnappers aren't really known for being fair, Sherlock."
"We should have been able to take them."
"They had surprise on their side."
"I am never surprised."
John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up."
"Well, hardly ever."
"Shut. Up."
He waited, but this time his companion had fallen silent. It was a very communicative silence. Sherlock was pouting.
Well, that was fine with him. He needed the time to assess the situation. The kidnappers had bound them well and tightly. That was no surprise given that they were running a human trafficking ring and would have had a lot of experience keeping people tied up. They'd used thin, but very strong, plastic to tie them at ankles, waist, and torso to the chairs. The same ties kept their chairs together, back to back, and there was duct tape on their hands.
John had long since tested each tie for weaknesses, and he did so again now, even though he knew it was fruitless. Sometimes you just had to keep yourself busy to keep from panicking.
He knew that Sherlock's mind must have come up with a dozen different ways to get them out of the situation. That he hadn't said anything was a bad sign. John was sure that if he'd had a brilliant idea, he'd have shared it, which meant they only had bad options left. Still, a bad option was better than no option at all, so he took a deep breath and took on the palpable silence behind him.
"So, what's your plan?"
"Oh, I can speak now, can I?"
John decided to ignore the tone. "Yes. We need a plan."
"There are no good plans, at least not until we have more data."
"What data?"
"How many guards there are. What weapons they have. Critical information."
"Well what's your best plan under the circumstances?"
"No." He shook his head. "It's twenty to one odds against us escaping, and a nearly one hundred percent likelihood one or both of us would be seriously hurt."
John sighed. "Just tell me."
There was silence for ten seconds or so, and then Sherlock's natural need to explain the puzzle won out.
"The chairs are the weak point. If we could knock ourselves over, especially to the right where those steps are, and do it quickly and hard enough, it's possible we could break one of the chairs and perhaps get free."
"But you don’t want to?"
"No, because it will almost certainly bring in our captors, and the fall could injure one or both of us."
"So you think it's better to sit here and wait?"
"At least until we have more data."
"Sherlock, they could come in any minute and shoot us."
"Oh, I don't think that's likely."
"Why not?"
Sherlock sighed as if this was simplicity itself.
"They don't know how we found them and they don't know who we've told about their operation. If they were going to shoot us, it would have been smarter to do it at once. These men are idiots, but they have some cunning to have lasted as criminals, so they have a healthy appreciation for their own well being. We'll be tortured for information before they kill us."
John didn't derive any comfort from that thought.
"Right, we're going to do it."
"Do what?"
"The chair thing. I can't just sit here waiting to be tortured, or waiting to watch you get tortured. I won't. We're going to get out of this. I don't care if I have to take on an army."
"John..."
He waited for Sherlock to raise his objections, but to his surprise, they didn't come.
"Fine. I'm bored anyway."
John smiled in spite of the situation. He felt Sherlock's fingers brush against his in what he supposed was a gesture of solidarity.
"Good. We'll have to move together to get to the stop of the steps, and as quietly as possible."
He could feel Sherlock's nod.
"On three then."
He counted and they strained together against their ties, shifting the chairs an inch to John's left. Again they moved, and again; so many times that John lost count. From time to time they would have to stop and rest, or Sherlock would freeze, presumably from hearing a sound, and John would do the same; but eventually they made it to the top of the steps. There were only three, but they were fairly steep, and made of concrete. John could see that they led down to a tiled area with shower heads along the walls and drains set into the floor. He didn't want to know what that space was usually used for.
They stopped at the top and John took a moment to calm his breathing from the effort of moving his muscles in difficult new ways. When he'd caught his breath, he checked with Sherlock.
"Ready?"
"This is a bad plan."
"I know, but it's the only one we have."
"Then I'm ready."
John smiled to himself again, and then gritted his teeth. "One, two... three."
They threw themselves down the steps with as much strength as they could. John felt his shoulder jam against the concrete and bit back a shout of pain. And then they were sliding, head first, toward the tile. Sherlock did something, pushed off with his toes perhaps, and they landed more or less horizontally.
The fall had been noisy, and John’s shoulder was throbbing where the old bullet wound had been, but he felt pretty good considering. He tried his ankles and the left chair leg gave when he pulled. Triumphantly, he kicked his left leg free and then pushed with his foot on the right side, sliding the tie down and off of his ankle. Legs free, he started to try to right them when he heard a sound of pain coming from Sherlock.
Oh shit.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine."
The tone of his reply told John that Sherlock was not fine, but before he could inquire further, the door to their dungeon opened and he froze.
This was a critical moment. With Sherlock injured, possibly seriously, John knew he would have to fight to protect them both. He prayed with all the fervor of a soldier that there wouldn't be more than two of them. It was almost a relief when a single thug, thick-bodied and short, came down the steps toward them. He had a gun in his hand, though, which was less comforting. Still, he seemed to be alone.
"What the hell is this?" their jailer muttered to himself as he approached. He stood for a moment on the step above them, and John kept his legs as still as possible, hoping that his freedom would go unnoticed. Sherlock’s breathing was heavy behind him, but he had no idea what his friend's injuries might be and that scared him more than anything. He knew he would have to act quickly.
"Help us, please," he whimpered in his most pathetic voice. "We fell."
The stocky man came around to gaze down at John and gave him a quick kick in the stomach. John felt the air leave his lungs as his captor laughed and fought the urge to kick him back. He wheezed instead, thrilled when his body let him get a real lungful of air again.
The man bent down to pull the chair back up and John allowed his combat training to take over. He kicked his leg out while the man was off balance and swept him off his feet. The gun went sliding off across the tile as the thick man fell to his knees. He cursed and turned to grab John, but John kicked again, savagely, and the man fell to his face, hard.
With a squeal that would have sounded at home on a pig, the jailer brought his hands to his nose. John could see that it was bleeding heavily. Now he had to keep him engaged and away from the gun.
"Come on you bastard! Come get me!"
And he did. The captor's hands wrapped around John's throat and John kicked at him vainly. His head lolled to the side as he choked and gasped and hoped that Sherlock would somehow get to the gun, get out of this alive. Then, against all hope, the man bent down to say something nasty in his ear, hot blood from his nose dripping on John's cheek, and John brought his head up with every ounce of his strength. Their heads collided with a nasty thunk, and John lost consciousness.
~~~
"John, John, wake up. John."
Sherlock's voice sounded very far away.
"John, you have to wake up."
Something was tugging at his hands insistently. It was the pain in his shoulder that eventually goaded him awake. He coughed and sighed, relieved to be able to breath freely, if not painlessly.
"'M 'wake."
"Good."
"How long?"
"How long were you out? A few minutes, maybe five. I can’t see my watch or my phone. Enough time for me to work this screw loose anyway."
John felt something sharp and metal press against his fingers.
"The seat of my chair came away from the back in the fall, and some of the wood splintered. If we work together, we can cut through this tape."
John didn't know if he could help very much, but he tried. Together they caught the side of the tape with the edge of the screw and sawed through it as well as they could. It seemed to take a long time. Sherlock pulled his hands free first and then used the screw to cut through the plastic ties, a task that took longer still.
John, for his part, tried to stay conscious. His head, throat, and stomach were throbbing painfully, while his shoulder felt like someone was stabbing him with hot needles. He was in better shape that his opponent, though. John could see that he was sprawled out beside them, a puddle of blood forming under his cheek from his nose. He was unconscious, not asleep. John hoped they would have enough time.
Just as he was thinking this, Sherlock slid from his chair and crawled over to check on John and their kidnapper. John could tell from his expression that he must look pretty bad, but he raised his uninjured shoulder in a shrug. Sherlock shook his head slightly and then searched the unconscious man, coming away with a sharp knife, which he used to free John from the rest of his bonds.
John brought his hands to the front and then stretched painfully. He touched his face and winced.
"Oh God, this is going to take forever to heal."
"You look like hell."
"Thank you," he said as he got to his feet slowly. "Why can’t you walk?"
"I hurt my leg when we fell."
Of course, John thought, Sherlock’s taller frame would have been more exposed, taking more of the initial fall. He reached down to examine the wound, but his friend stopped him.
"Get the gun first."
Right, the gun. John retrieved it, checked that the safety was on, and then went back to help Sherlock. Silently he felt the bone and decided that it wasn't broken.
"Just a bad bruise, I think," He told Sherlock as he helped him to his feet.
"You know," he said after a moment, "this was a terrible plan."
"I said it was."
"A million things could have gone wrong."
"Worst plan in history."
"But we did it."
They hobbled painfully up the steps, leaning on each other, hurting too much to talk. John was glad of the gun, its solid weight was very reassuring. Who knew what they might find behind the door. Whatever it was, they’d get through it together.
"I was wrong," Sherlock mumbled as they staggered toward the door.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Yes, but I want to hear it again."
"..."
"Well?"
"I was wrong."
"About what?"
"Sometimes, you surprise me."
Writer: thexphial
Status of work: complete
Characters and/or pairings: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
Rating: PG-13 (for violence)
Warnings, kinks & contents: Moderate violence
Length: 2000ish words
Author's note: Written in response to a prompt by sheffsfic, who wanted a BAMF!Watson rescuing Sherlock from being kidnapped. This is as close as I could get.
Summary: John and Sherlock save each other.
John was trying to concentrate, and it wasn't easy. Of course, he often found it difficult to concentrate when Sherlock was around, but this was a whole new level of distracting behavior. For one thing, they were both tied to chairs and bound back to back, their hands caught between them. For another, the man would not shut up.
"It's cheating, you know."
John shook his head to bring his thoughts back to whatever conversation Sherlock was having with him.
"What?"
"Using a stun gun. It's cheating. And unfair."
"Kidnappers aren't really known for being fair, Sherlock."
"We should have been able to take them."
"They had surprise on their side."
"I am never surprised."
John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up."
"Well, hardly ever."
"Shut. Up."
He waited, but this time his companion had fallen silent. It was a very communicative silence. Sherlock was pouting.
Well, that was fine with him. He needed the time to assess the situation. The kidnappers had bound them well and tightly. That was no surprise given that they were running a human trafficking ring and would have had a lot of experience keeping people tied up. They'd used thin, but very strong, plastic to tie them at ankles, waist, and torso to the chairs. The same ties kept their chairs together, back to back, and there was duct tape on their hands.
John had long since tested each tie for weaknesses, and he did so again now, even though he knew it was fruitless. Sometimes you just had to keep yourself busy to keep from panicking.
He knew that Sherlock's mind must have come up with a dozen different ways to get them out of the situation. That he hadn't said anything was a bad sign. John was sure that if he'd had a brilliant idea, he'd have shared it, which meant they only had bad options left. Still, a bad option was better than no option at all, so he took a deep breath and took on the palpable silence behind him.
"So, what's your plan?"
"Oh, I can speak now, can I?"
John decided to ignore the tone. "Yes. We need a plan."
"There are no good plans, at least not until we have more data."
"What data?"
"How many guards there are. What weapons they have. Critical information."
"Well what's your best plan under the circumstances?"
"No." He shook his head. "It's twenty to one odds against us escaping, and a nearly one hundred percent likelihood one or both of us would be seriously hurt."
John sighed. "Just tell me."
There was silence for ten seconds or so, and then Sherlock's natural need to explain the puzzle won out.
"The chairs are the weak point. If we could knock ourselves over, especially to the right where those steps are, and do it quickly and hard enough, it's possible we could break one of the chairs and perhaps get free."
"But you don’t want to?"
"No, because it will almost certainly bring in our captors, and the fall could injure one or both of us."
"So you think it's better to sit here and wait?"
"At least until we have more data."
"Sherlock, they could come in any minute and shoot us."
"Oh, I don't think that's likely."
"Why not?"
Sherlock sighed as if this was simplicity itself.
"They don't know how we found them and they don't know who we've told about their operation. If they were going to shoot us, it would have been smarter to do it at once. These men are idiots, but they have some cunning to have lasted as criminals, so they have a healthy appreciation for their own well being. We'll be tortured for information before they kill us."
John didn't derive any comfort from that thought.
"Right, we're going to do it."
"Do what?"
"The chair thing. I can't just sit here waiting to be tortured, or waiting to watch you get tortured. I won't. We're going to get out of this. I don't care if I have to take on an army."
"John..."
He waited for Sherlock to raise his objections, but to his surprise, they didn't come.
"Fine. I'm bored anyway."
John smiled in spite of the situation. He felt Sherlock's fingers brush against his in what he supposed was a gesture of solidarity.
"Good. We'll have to move together to get to the stop of the steps, and as quietly as possible."
He could feel Sherlock's nod.
"On three then."
He counted and they strained together against their ties, shifting the chairs an inch to John's left. Again they moved, and again; so many times that John lost count. From time to time they would have to stop and rest, or Sherlock would freeze, presumably from hearing a sound, and John would do the same; but eventually they made it to the top of the steps. There were only three, but they were fairly steep, and made of concrete. John could see that they led down to a tiled area with shower heads along the walls and drains set into the floor. He didn't want to know what that space was usually used for.
They stopped at the top and John took a moment to calm his breathing from the effort of moving his muscles in difficult new ways. When he'd caught his breath, he checked with Sherlock.
"Ready?"
"This is a bad plan."
"I know, but it's the only one we have."
"Then I'm ready."
John smiled to himself again, and then gritted his teeth. "One, two... three."
They threw themselves down the steps with as much strength as they could. John felt his shoulder jam against the concrete and bit back a shout of pain. And then they were sliding, head first, toward the tile. Sherlock did something, pushed off with his toes perhaps, and they landed more or less horizontally.
The fall had been noisy, and John’s shoulder was throbbing where the old bullet wound had been, but he felt pretty good considering. He tried his ankles and the left chair leg gave when he pulled. Triumphantly, he kicked his left leg free and then pushed with his foot on the right side, sliding the tie down and off of his ankle. Legs free, he started to try to right them when he heard a sound of pain coming from Sherlock.
Oh shit.
"Are you okay?"
"Fine."
The tone of his reply told John that Sherlock was not fine, but before he could inquire further, the door to their dungeon opened and he froze.
This was a critical moment. With Sherlock injured, possibly seriously, John knew he would have to fight to protect them both. He prayed with all the fervor of a soldier that there wouldn't be more than two of them. It was almost a relief when a single thug, thick-bodied and short, came down the steps toward them. He had a gun in his hand, though, which was less comforting. Still, he seemed to be alone.
"What the hell is this?" their jailer muttered to himself as he approached. He stood for a moment on the step above them, and John kept his legs as still as possible, hoping that his freedom would go unnoticed. Sherlock’s breathing was heavy behind him, but he had no idea what his friend's injuries might be and that scared him more than anything. He knew he would have to act quickly.
"Help us, please," he whimpered in his most pathetic voice. "We fell."
The stocky man came around to gaze down at John and gave him a quick kick in the stomach. John felt the air leave his lungs as his captor laughed and fought the urge to kick him back. He wheezed instead, thrilled when his body let him get a real lungful of air again.
The man bent down to pull the chair back up and John allowed his combat training to take over. He kicked his leg out while the man was off balance and swept him off his feet. The gun went sliding off across the tile as the thick man fell to his knees. He cursed and turned to grab John, but John kicked again, savagely, and the man fell to his face, hard.
With a squeal that would have sounded at home on a pig, the jailer brought his hands to his nose. John could see that it was bleeding heavily. Now he had to keep him engaged and away from the gun.
"Come on you bastard! Come get me!"
And he did. The captor's hands wrapped around John's throat and John kicked at him vainly. His head lolled to the side as he choked and gasped and hoped that Sherlock would somehow get to the gun, get out of this alive. Then, against all hope, the man bent down to say something nasty in his ear, hot blood from his nose dripping on John's cheek, and John brought his head up with every ounce of his strength. Their heads collided with a nasty thunk, and John lost consciousness.
~~~
"John, John, wake up. John."
Sherlock's voice sounded very far away.
"John, you have to wake up."
Something was tugging at his hands insistently. It was the pain in his shoulder that eventually goaded him awake. He coughed and sighed, relieved to be able to breath freely, if not painlessly.
"'M 'wake."
"Good."
"How long?"
"How long were you out? A few minutes, maybe five. I can’t see my watch or my phone. Enough time for me to work this screw loose anyway."
John felt something sharp and metal press against his fingers.
"The seat of my chair came away from the back in the fall, and some of the wood splintered. If we work together, we can cut through this tape."
John didn't know if he could help very much, but he tried. Together they caught the side of the tape with the edge of the screw and sawed through it as well as they could. It seemed to take a long time. Sherlock pulled his hands free first and then used the screw to cut through the plastic ties, a task that took longer still.
John, for his part, tried to stay conscious. His head, throat, and stomach were throbbing painfully, while his shoulder felt like someone was stabbing him with hot needles. He was in better shape that his opponent, though. John could see that he was sprawled out beside them, a puddle of blood forming under his cheek from his nose. He was unconscious, not asleep. John hoped they would have enough time.
Just as he was thinking this, Sherlock slid from his chair and crawled over to check on John and their kidnapper. John could tell from his expression that he must look pretty bad, but he raised his uninjured shoulder in a shrug. Sherlock shook his head slightly and then searched the unconscious man, coming away with a sharp knife, which he used to free John from the rest of his bonds.
John brought his hands to the front and then stretched painfully. He touched his face and winced.
"Oh God, this is going to take forever to heal."
"You look like hell."
"Thank you," he said as he got to his feet slowly. "Why can’t you walk?"
"I hurt my leg when we fell."
Of course, John thought, Sherlock’s taller frame would have been more exposed, taking more of the initial fall. He reached down to examine the wound, but his friend stopped him.
"Get the gun first."
Right, the gun. John retrieved it, checked that the safety was on, and then went back to help Sherlock. Silently he felt the bone and decided that it wasn't broken.
"Just a bad bruise, I think," He told Sherlock as he helped him to his feet.
"You know," he said after a moment, "this was a terrible plan."
"I said it was."
"A million things could have gone wrong."
"Worst plan in history."
"But we did it."
They hobbled painfully up the steps, leaning on each other, hurting too much to talk. John was glad of the gun, its solid weight was very reassuring. Who knew what they might find behind the door. Whatever it was, they’d get through it together.
"I was wrong," Sherlock mumbled as they staggered toward the door.
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Yes, but I want to hear it again."
"..."
"Well?"
"I was wrong."
"About what?"
"Sometimes, you surprise me."