A/N: Hello! Long time no see. I haven't been writing anything lately (too much work is killing me and my muses) but I found this short piece on disc D: and thought I coud share. :) This was a part of a longer fic "3 battles John and Sherlock faced together, and one they fought alone", but I didn't write the rest, and it doesn't seem that I'll write it now. So, please enjoy. :D
"Sherlock, promise me something" said John while trying to regain his breath after the beating, still doubled over in pain. Or, rather, a little bent in pain, because being tied to a chair was hardly a comfortable position for spectacular displays of suffering. "Promise me that you will stop giving those damned thugs tips on how to proceed with kidnapping."
"But John!" whined Sherlock, who was desperately testing his bonds. "I am perfectionist; I refuse to being kidnapped in such amateurish fashion! It's disgraceful and humiliating and..."
John just rolled his eyes, slumping against the ropes in defeat. He should have known better.
The day started as ordinarily as it could when one was living in 221b Baker Street - there was a call from Lestrade at 4.45, that the gang DI's team was searching for managed to find them first and tries to kill one of the constables as a warning, but young Clarkie managed not only to escape, but also to recognise one of the gangmembers, so that Sherlock could finally put ito use his homeless network and fid the exact spot where the gang was hiding. After that there were, as usually, a lot of running, screaming, a bit of shooting on the rooftops, much yearning for a cup of black, bitter, wonderfully caffeinated coffee, and finally quite a bit of pain when the gang members (Death Angels, by the way; even John had to groan at the banality of the name) managed to run into them and then exploit their advance on brutal force. The kidnapping had been messy and both Consulting Detective and his only Blogger could have escaped easily, if it weren't for the Sherlock bloody Holmes and his bloody newly founded advice column. John still couldn't grasp the concept of yelling 'for the love of... surround us, you idiots' or 'you haven't even loaded this gun... now, that's better' to the people you tried to escape from, but the massive intellect and ego issues were explanation themselves.
It of course didn't change the fact, that if it weren't for the entire commotion of getting beaten and strapped to a chair, John would kill the only Consulting Detective in the most gory and painful way he could think of... and with each passing minute spent on this ridiculously uncomfortable chair he discovered new depths of his imagination and creativeness. He just moved from the knives, irons and nail clippers to such uses of pineapple that would sent Hannibal Lecter screaming like a five – year old girl, when the door creaked and several gang members entered in very intimidating fashion. Or at least they thought it was intimidating, as each of them held two guns and carried several grenades strapped on their belts; John snorted, and Sherlock just stared in hurt disbelief over the nerve of some people who could botch the simple kidnapping so much.
"We are negotiating with the Police now about your release" started nervously the tallest one with an ugly scar on his cheek, but got interrupted immediately by very impatient and very irritated Sherlock.
"I guess they are very willing to do everything in their power to set us free, so why don't you just..."
"Actually first thing they said was 'serves them right' and they assured us that if we wanted to kill you both slowly and painfully they wouldn't press charges" clarified the Scar, visibly distressed by entire situation. He was clearly not used to having victims that shouted good advice and policemen who incited to murder. John tilted his head to the right.
"Were you speaking with a policewoman?" he asked in resignation, already knowing the answer.
"Donovan can be such a faithful acquaintance" mused Sherlock, and at the same time John moaned in annoyance: "You had to deduce her favourite Kamasutra positions yesterday. You just had to. I knew it would end this way..."
"John, please refrain from those insinuations. I have never, never, suspected our Sally of having favourite Kamasutra position. That would imply she read it, and I would never..."
"She could have bought an illustrated edition, but that's not the point. Could you just listen for the while what..."
"Why should I listen, if I know exactly what he will say? It's a waste of my time."
"Waste of your time? Your time? I'm having a shift in two bloody hours and I'd better be there today, because I missed last one because someone decided to tie certain sleeping doctor to the bed while to check how fast could he free himself. And this someone conveniently left shortly after, forgetting about his tied up friend!"
The gang member were shuffling their feet, a bit taken aback with two bickering hostages. This wasn't what Boss told them about, with scared, crying people who begged for mercy, maniacal laughter, torture and being badass, cool kidnappers. There was something going very, very wrong right now, but the exchange was a little to interesting to pass up, especially with words like bondage and kamasutra thrown in. The hostages were still tied up, after all.
"And did you improve your time score since then?" asked Sherlock pointedly not looking at John. " Six hours were a bit of overkill even for you"
"Oh, I did improve. Fifteen minutes now." said John proudly waiting for a praise, but Sherlock only snorted 'Amateurs' in disgust. "So, we're off then?"
"Take left, I'll take right" said Sherlock calmly as he dropped the ropes that held him several minutes ago firmly strapped to the chair, and threw himself at the closest thug, who squeaked in surprise. John sighed, and in one swift and fluid motion stood up, grabbed a chair and swung it at two of the armed guys knocking them down and forcing them to drop their weapons, just before delivering a well placed kicks that took them out of commission for the time being. Before the rest of kidnappers managed to comprehend what exactly was happening, Sherlock made use of his (frequently underappreciated by his blogger) boxing skills and with admirable left hook made one of them a living bowling ball, toppling two others.
On his side, John was having as much fun, as he could, given the circumstances. When the Scar advanced, finally, with guns in both hands, the good doctor started fencing with the chair, while giggling in a fashion that could be mistaken for girly. Of course, thought Mike Jenkins, one of the very, very unfortunate gang members who were unlucky enough to be in the room, the giggle was in fact carefully camouflaged evil laughter (just like the beige jumper was hiding a black ninja suit, obviously) because it was impossible for anyone with anything girly, soft and cuddly to throw the chair in the air, deliver the roundhouse kick like the ones in "Texas Ranger", use some badass karate chops to disarm three stunned fellow gang members, and, finally, catch the chair millimetres above the ground with one hand while catching the gun that fell from Mike's hands.
The other side of the room didn't look much better, especially when the only thug who tried to make use of his gun was thrown a grenade with flippant "catch" from Sherlock. Of course gun was instantly dropped as the grenade made its way to thug's hand... and followed the gun with the shriek from poor gang member who scrambled back to the furthest corner. Then it went quiet, as the gangsters tried their best to play dead, and both Sherlock and John tried to catch their breaths while giggling furiously.
"What we're doing next?" asked Sherlock finally, removing the gun from the hands of frozen in fear young man with more tattoos than brain cells. "Their stupidity is personally offensive to me"
The doctor blinked.
"This is SPARTAAAAA" yelled John while advancing on the door.
"I find your concern touching, Sergeant" said Sherlock while eyeing suspiciously the orange blanket in Donovan's hands. "But I don't think this blanket would 'serve me right', so to quote."
They were standing outside the building, which was surrounded by police cars and ambulances, painting the dark street red and blue, what could be very metamorphic, poetic and perfect for John's blog, if the adrenaline high hadn't left him several minutes ago and the only thing his brain could really do was not work. And out of habit get irritated at Sherlock. Donovan, who tried her best to be as nice and helpful as possible, after learning that the prank call she received was, in fact, a real call from real kidnappers, just held out the blanket in silence, not really knowing how to say the apologies she obviously prepared.
John forced his hand to move, and grabbed the blanket just to throw it over Detective's shoulders, tucking him in orange cocoon which could hide soft tremors of Sherlock's body (adrenaline muted the pain before, now, back in safety, their bodies just remembered the blows and kicks) and, at the same time, serve as a sign of forgiveness to Sally. Young Holmes huffed impatiently, ready to say something sarcastic, witty and deeply hurtful for anyone in vicinity, when Lestrade walked up to them.
"I don't know how you do it, guys" he said in the tone that was as much annoyed as full of awe. "It was a regular battle, from what I saw."
"This is Spartaaaa..." giggled John wearily, and Sherlock nudged him impatiently, stifling a laugh.
"We can't giggle, it's a battlefield!"
The baffled look on Lestrade's face was the last straw that sent them into fit of almost hysterical laughter.
A/N: I know it was done 10000 times, but... Well. I could never resist BAMF!John. :)