The third installment in the "Of Texts" series written with TYRider, the John to my Sherlock :) Don't worry; reading order is not important. Read and review, etc. None of this belongs to me, blah, blah, blah... On with the show!
He practically fell into the cab. Instructing the driver on where to go, he pulled out his phone and texted his flat mate.
On my way to the flat. Need you to pay cab fare. - SH
a bit tied up. jw
Sherlock frowned at the reply. That wasn't to John's usual texting standard.
What's happened? - SH
The next text was even more garbled and strange.
nnot ure. jw
Sherlock frowned, worried. Something was definitely seriously wrong. He just hoped it wasn't Moriarty again. As much as he enjoyed the distraction James gave him, he didn't like it when the psychopath messed with John. Too close to home.
At the flat? - SH
If John had been moved, Sherlock would need to direct the cab driver in another direction. Either way, it was going to take way too long to reach him.
And there was another text.
im at bakr st. jw
Good. That was good. The flat wasn't far off; he could get there and... Sherlock growled. It was so frustrating not having all the facts.
Anything else? Mrs. H? - SH
What? A brolly? Who -? His phone chimed again.
mrs h out ov twn. jw
Oh. Did he know that? He couldn't remember anything about her leaving. Oh, well.
But a brolly? Why was he suddenly thinking of his brother? Of course, other people owned umbrellas, but John would have known that it was a characteristic specific to Mycroft Holmes.
Sherlock sent a short text.
Mycroft? - SH
hmm? what about him? jw
The reply was confused. Not Mycroft then.
The brolly. Thought it could be Mycroft. Anything else? - SH
He thought for a moment and then sent another text quickly.
Are you hurt? - SH
The reply took a few minutes, and when it came, it only caused to make Sherlock even more worried.
what about mycrofts bloody brolly? yes, im handcuffed to the oven and there's a man unconscious or dead in the bath room. i appear to be concussed. jw
Sherlock sighed in annoyance.
You mentioned the brolly, John. Do you have your gun? - SH
i did not. did i? hell. i cant remember. let me check. jw
Sherlock rolled his eyes. This was starting to get annoying, though he had decided to put up his confused and concussed friend.
You did. I'm almost there. - SH
The next two replies came quickly, in rapid succession as John kept him updated.
yes. ive got my gun. it was in the oven today. jw
unconscious. he was definitely unconscious. now semiconscious. jw
Sherlock cursed under his breath and told the cabbie to hurry in no uncertain terms. He was halfway through a threat when his phone chimed again, and he looked down to see yet another text from John.
now dead. quite. dead. jw
Sherlock smiled. That was probably inappropriate, and John probably wasn't happy right now, but he couldn't help being proud of his blogger.
Any others? Be there in five minutes. - SH
The cab was pulling up to 221B Baker Street when John's message arrived.
don't know. hurry up. be careful. jw
Sherlock jumped out of the taxi, instructing the driver to wait for his fare, and ran softly into the building. It was very quiet as began walking up the creaky stairs, pausing once to text John.
On the stairs. Try not to shoot me when I come in. - SH
no promises. jw
Sherlock could hear John laughing in the flat and cracked a smile. Mobile in hand, he climbed the last few steps and opened the door. He stood in the living room and scanned his flat. John in the kitchen, handcuffed to the oven, gun in hand. A dead man between the kitchen and bathroom, holding a knife. Not just a dead man though - the very assassin Sherlock had been tracking.
"Well, that wraps up my case quite nicely," Sherlock said, smiling. "All right, John?"
"Glad I could help," John replied, obviously suppressing giggles. "Yeah, I'm grand. I hope you nicked a set of cuff keys along with one of Lestrade's IDs."
Sherlock pulled a lockpick set from his coat pocket and grinned.
"Close enough," John said.