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The room was dark and cold. At least, that’s all John could guess at the moment. He was tied up. He gathered that much, too, but that bit didn’t seem as important for some reason. Why he was tied up was beyond him. What happened?
‘Alright, Johnny... think about it.’ He thought to himself as he shuffled a bit to one side and realised that he was not alone. There was a large blob-like shape in the darkness that appeared to be breathing. John squinted into the near-pitch black in hopes of possibly making it out.
“Sherlock?” He called out into the darkness. No one responded. Maybe it wasn’t Sherlock. Maybe he was tied up with someone else. But why in the bloody fuck was he tied up? John shifted again, twisting his wrists so that he could see exactly how bound-up he was when a small moan caught his attention and a heavy weight pushed against his thigh.
“John?”
“Oh, thank Christ.” John breathed out, relieved to hear the slightly raspy baritone of his flatmate.
“I don’t think he’s here at the moment.” Sherlock replied, groaning softly and John could hear the man shift and move about. “Do you recall how we got to be in this state?”
“No.” John shook his head and then frowned once he’d realised that Sherlock most definitely could not see him, so why shake your head at him you stupid git. “No. I just woke up. You tied up, too?”
“It seems so.” Sherlock grumbled, obviously frustrated by that fact. There were more scrapings of movement in the dark and John felt that warmth press against his thigh again.
“What are you doing?” John asked, his voice a hushed whisper.
“Trying to get up.” Sherlock said, his voice growing more irritated. It wasn’t until after a few more attempts on Sherlock’s behalf that John figured out that the warmth on his thigh was Sherlock’s head.
“Well, you massive head is crushing my bad leg.” John grumbled, tensing the muscle to try and throw Sherlock off him.
“Will you just...” Sherlock shifted again. He must have managed to sit up because the warmth was gone and his voice was no longer coming from the floor. “How badly are you injured?”
“What? Injured?” John replied, trying his best to figure out if he was injured at all.
“Yes, John. How hard did they hit you? Are you nauseous?” Came Sherlock’s annoyed voice.
“No. I got hit? I don’t remember getting hit...” John replied. “My head doesn’t hurt.”
“Good. How did they take you down then?” Asked Sherlock. John was getting really sick of all the questions so he just huffed out a breath and repositioned himself in the darkness.
“John?”
“I don’t remember!” John finally shouted, just as irritated as Sherlock at this point. “All I remember is chasing that weirdo bloke into the alley after you took down his accomplice.”
“Ahh, so you didn’t see him deck me and slam my head into the pavement.” Sherlock commented. There was some more sounds of fabric rustling and there was suddenly a warm presence pressed against John’s shoulder. He could hear Sherlock breathing now and he unconsciously leaned against the weight of his friend.
“No. I didn’t. Are you feeling nauseous?” John asked, wondering just how hard Sherlock had hit his head.
“As a matter of fact, I am. Somewhat. I probably have a mild concussion.” Sherlock groaned. “But that is the least of our problems.”
“Right.” John nodded, even though they couldn’t see each other. “So, how do we get out of this? Any brilliant ideas?”
“Not just yet, but I know I’ll think of something.” John could hear the grin in Sherlock’s voice and he could honestly say that the detective’s overconfidence was moral-boosting.
“Are you tied up like me?” John asked, pulling at the restraints behind his back.
“I would assume so. My arms and legs are bound.” Sherlock confirmed, rubbing his shoulder against John’s. “Perhaps if we moved so that our back were against each other, we could do something about that?”
“Brilliant!” John chuckled, already beginning to move. It took a while and some rather awkward bouncing about, but Sherlock and John managed to get themselves positioned so that they could get their fingers on each other’s ropes.
John groped around and could feel Sherlock doing the same. Long, callused fingers traced over his wrists until they found the knot.
“What do you think?” John asked, trying to keep his voice from wavering at the ticklish feelings on his skin.
“I think I may be able to manage.” Sherlock said, his voice reflecting his concentration. John felt his friend flounder around a bit, poking and prodding the rope before he was able to get his nails into it. At one point, he’d scratched at John’s skin, causing the doctor to hiss.
“Sorry.” Sherlock mumbled before continuing. If they could get one pair of hands free, they would have a chance. Several minutes later, John found himself still bound and now pressed against a highly annoyed flatmate.
“Any luck?” He asked, tentatively.
“Shut up and let me focus.” Sherlock snapped, intentionally digging his nails into John’s flesh.
“Oi! You nutter!” John yelped, but Sherlock only continued to pick at the rope without comment.
What felt like hours later, John felt the tell-tale signs of the rope loosening. He breathed out a sigh of relief and the moment he knew he could slip them, John pulled away from Sherlock and slid the rope from his wrists.
“Thank God.” John whispered, wincing as his muscles protested and strained from having been in the same position for so long. He shoulder was killing him. But that wasn’t important. With his hands free, he was able to twist and begin pulling at Sherlock’s binding. He was far more efficient then the detective, but Sherlock noted that it was because John’s hands were no longer bound.
It only took a short while before both men had their hands and legs free and they were helping each other up in the pitch black.
“Okay, so how’s that brilliant escape plan coming?” John asked, groping around the walls of the dark room to at least try and find a bloody light switch.
“I was busy trying to free you. Working on it now.” Sherlock said, bumping into John more than once as he too groped around for something, anything, to help them out of this place.
The two men were in the middle of their search, when heavy footfalls could be heard coming from... the door! A light came on, indicating through the jam where the actual door to the room was. John was so elated that he didn’t think about the repercussions of their captors finding their prisoners walking about freely.
Luckily, Sherlock seemed to remain on the ball, even while mildly concussed. A hand reached out and yanked him back to the floor, tying up his legs quickly.
“Just take this rope and hold it behind your back. They’ll see your legs and think nothing is off.” Sherlock hissed into John’s ear, causing gooseflesh to rise up on the doctor’s neck.
“A-alright.” John breathed out and did as instructed. Sherlock must have done the same, but instead of remaining upright, he dove to the floor and buried his face in John’s thigh. There was a clicking noise and suddenly the room was filled with light, causing John to wince.
“I see you are awake.” Came a man’s voice with a thick Russian accent. “Mr. M will be pleased. We didn’t hurt you too much, did we?” John recognised the voice of the suspect they had been chasing earlier, the one that he’d thought Sherlock had taken care of. “And it seems the great Sherlock Holmes is still down for the count. Perhaps I was a little too rough on him?”
John didn’t like the way this man laughed.
“Am I to assume that Mr. M wants us alive?” John asked, terrified of what the ‘M’ stood for, even though he most likely already knew.
“You are to assume nothing!” The Russian shouted before turning on his heel and slamming the door shut, drenching the room in darkness once more.
John listened carefully as the footsteps faded and Sherlock shifted in his lap.
“He’s gone.” The detective whispered, bolting up off of John and moving away from him. John was pretty sure that Sherlock’s intention was to make it to where they had seen the door, but Sherlock stopped at some point and his voice came from the darkness.
“John?” He said and the doctor’s ears perked up. Something didn’t sound quite right. “John. I don’t think it’s just a mild concussion.”
Whether it was a soldier’s instinct or a doctor’s... or perhaps just a friend’s, John wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he needed to be up and at Sherlock’s side immediately. John scrambled away from the wall and was there just in time to catch the weight of a falling detective.
“Sherlock?” John whispered harshly, wrapping his arm around his friend’s waist and cradling Sherlock’s face in his hand. “Sherlock. Are you alright?”
“Dizzy.” Came Sherlock’s vacant voice. He sounded pretty out of it and that cause a shiver of worry to run up and down John’s spine.
“We don’t have time.” John said, feeling bad for saying such things, but knowing Sherlock well enough to motivate him. “It’s all just transport, remember? We have to get out of here and I can’t do this alone.”
The end of John’s statement came out sounding more like a desperate plea than an actual encouragement.
“C’mon.” John huffed, heaving Sherlock so that the brunette was somewhat upright. “Let’s get out of here.”
Now supporting Sherlock’s weight, John limped over to where he was sure the door had been.
“C’mon, you big, stupid git.” John heaved, trying his best to help Sherlock shuffle along, but failing miserably. Who knew getting a six-foot-tall detective to walk half a metre would be so achingly difficult?
“Um not a git...” Said Sherlock, his voice deep and still unfocussed. John was able to get Sherlock next to the door before the detective’s surprisingly heavy weight collapsed and dragged John down with him.
“Christ, Sherlock.” John hissed, landing somewhat half under the brunette. “For a bloke who never eats, you weigh a bloody ton...”
There was a clambering outside and John panicked. The bad guys were coming back and the last thing John and Sherlock needed was to found while trying to escape. Multiple footsteps were echoing on the other side of door and John could do little but try to frantically shift Sherlock off of him.
“Get up, you fool! They’re coming. If they find us free, we’re dead.” The doctor hissed harshly into Sherlock’s ear which made the detective let out a very undignified giggle.
“Shtop...” He lisped. “Tickles.” Sherlock laughed as he batted at John.
“God, you must be more concussed than I thought.” John groaned, pushing at Sherlock’s shoulders and only landing the brunette more on him than off.
The footsteps grew closer still and then there was a clatter behind the door.
“Oh god, we’re dead. We’re fucking dead.” John whispered, closing his eyes as he head the door handle jostle.
Sherlock, obviously a bit out of sorts, just buried his head against John’s collar, still giggling softly.
“Smell nice...” He whispered as the door opened.
There was a long silence where John had tensed up, waiting for the criminals to pounce upon them. He’d kept his eyes closed, figuring that it would be easier to die without actually having to see it coming. But after what seemed like forever, or at least certainly for too long for a supposed imminent death, John opened his eyes and was greeted by a beautifully, shockingly welcome sight.
“Having a bit of a cuddle in the dark, Doctor Watson.” Sally Donovan smiled, her voice dripping in sarcasm and John could only groan.
“John smells nice.” Came Sherlock’s muffled voice against John’s shoulder which made Donovan laugh out loud.
“Looks like you’ve been caught red handed. Finally gave in, huh John?” Laughed Lestrade, who was standing beside Sally, tucking away his gun with a grin. “Well,” He pointed to the two men, finding the compromising situation absolutely hysterical. “It’s about bloody time.”