Chapter Text
Sherlock and John approached the block of offices quietly, guns drawn. It was midnight, the building and car park surrounding was abandoned, all they could hear was the gravel beneath their feet.
They pushed open the fire door at the side of the building and John pulled out a torch and flicked it on. His whole body was tense, but his hands were steady, one gripping the torch and one holding his gun.
He shined the light around the room; it was really quite plain, a reception area, lifts, stairways, nothing special.
“Are you sure this is where he hid all that money?” John asked.
“Yes, John, nobody would be so stupid as to take fifty thousand pounds to work and leave it there, that’s what they know. So it’s reverse psychology. He left it here, thinking we wouldn’t be so stupid as to consider this a hiding place.” Sherlock explained quietly.
“Right… okay.” John took it in “So where is it?” he asked.
“Let’s split up and-“John cut Sherlock off with a giggle and added “-look for clues? What is this, Scooby-Doo?”
Sherlock stared at John blankly.
“Oh for goodness… forget it.” John sighed and shook his head; of course Sherlock wouldn’t get the reference.
“You check the top fifteen floors, I’ll check the bottom.” Sherlock said as they ascended the stairs “And we’ll meet back in the reception area in… an hour?”
John nodded “Gotcha.”
They both pocketed their guns, seeing and hearing no threat, and Sherlock pulled out his torch from his own pocket and they both, along with their torches held in front of them, went their separate ways.
John searched through all of the draws and desks, all the nooks and crannies, but nothing, not one measly ten pound note. He was five floors from the top of the building when his torch flickered off.
“Shit.” He grumbled and tried tapping it and turning it off and on again to get it to work. He tried flicking the light switches in the building on but that was hopeless anyway, all the power was off.
He dragged his hand along the wall to find his way out of the office and to the stairs; he slowly made his way downstairs to find Sherlock. He heard some footsteps coming up the stairs.
He felt relief flood him, Sherlock must have finished early and he wouldn’t even have to look for the slinky detective.
“You won’t believe what happened to me, five floors from the top and my torch goes out. Typical!” John said as he heard the steps only a floor below where he stood waiting.
He frowned when he listened a little closer, Sherlock would normally have something to say, a little comment about his idiocy of not being able to judge battery-life or something. And the footsteps… Sherlock’s shoes didn’t sound like boots… come to think of it, they didn’t sound like two people…
He looked up the stairs and then down. He could only just see, but a small light was getting closer, whoever was coming had a torch, perhaps it was a security guard… but Sherlock had said this place would be empty.
John started walking back up the stairs. He’d just have to hide. His steps quickened as the steps behind him did and he felt his heart thudding faster. Where was the bloody door?
He put his hands out and pushed open the door and jogged into the office, he found a table and hid under it, trying to calm his breathing and not be heard.
“He definitely came in here, the door was swinging.” He heard a young man say.
“Come out, come out wherever you are.” Another, older and more patronising voice said, he saw the torchlight on the floor a few desks away. He curled up tight and practically held his breath. This wasn’t a security guard or anyone just here to check the building. They knew it was being searched for the money.
The light got closer and closer. John’s only thought was shit-shit-shit-shit-shit. Sherlock always complained that there was such a variety of vocabulary that one can use that is just replaced with over-used and over-all meaningless swear-words, but John couldn’t help it, shit-shit-shit-motherfucking-shit. He couldn’t get out and run, he could barely see and this was a maze of desks and chairs. He just had to stay curled up and hope to whatever higher power existed that they didn’t find him.
The light touched his shoes and he resisted the urge to screw up his eyes and grimace.
The light went away and then went back to his shoes, and kept searching for who it was looking for. And then it went to his knees and he heard an exclamation of happiness from whomever was looking for him. John made a decision on the spot, uncurled himself, jumped up-narrowly missing his head on the edge of the table-and he ran, trying to scoot around the tables. But the men with the torch were quicker, and they could see exactly where they were going, they caught up with John and both were bigger than him-though he knew that meant nothing. They grabbed a shoulder each and pulled him back, John spun around and started to hit out but they grabbed his arms and the elder of the two kicked the back of his knees and his legs buckled.
“Who… who are you?” John asked breathlessly as they shined a torch in his face and he squinted.
“Underdogs, Mr Holmes, don’t you worry about us. What you need to worry yourself about is who we’re working for.” Before John could correct them on his identity he had his nose and mouth covered by a foul-smelling cloth, and another hand was holding his head in place, he struggled but it was useless, he felt weaker and weaker and slowly he fell into blackness.
“Easier than I thought he’d be.” The elder man said and picked John up and the two made their way outside to the van and drove away, their kidnapped man lying across the back seats, his hands handcuffed around his back and his feet tied together with a shoe-lace. He was fast asleep but had a frown etched into his features.
Sherlock walked downstairs to the reception area, a little disgruntled that he hadn’t found the money, but he felt sure that John must have.
He sat on the receptionist’s chair and put his feet on the desk, reclining and relaxing, waiting for John.
After ten minutes he checked his watch and tutted, John should know he doesn’t like to be kept waiting. He got up and started climbing up the stairs, popping his head into every office and calling out for his friend.
“Come on, John, where are you?” he said to himself more than John.
He was at the top floor when he realised John wasn’t there. Maybe he’d taken the other flight of stairs down and they’d missed each other. Sherlock went down the stairs but halted when he saw a scuff mark on the door, fifth floor from the top. He knelt on the floor and brought his torch close, inspecting it. It was definitely John’s shoe that had made the mark. But John wasn’t normally one to use his feet to open a door. Sherlock frowned and opened the door, shone his torch around and he quickly spotted John’s small led torch lying in the middle of the floor, he went over and picked it up and quickly tried to turn it on but with no luck.
A sudden and quite abnormal sensation ran through the genius. He felt anxious and nervous, yet not for himself, for John.
“John?” he called out “John?” a little louder.
He ran through the offices on the floor then down the stairs and outside the building, quickly shining his torch to the floor, the first thing he saw were tire tracks, not tire tracks that had been there before, he recalled. And John and he had walked up to the office block.
“John.” Sherlock said and for the first time in a long time Sherlock Holmes felt quite lonely.