Chapter Text
Parking the car, John consulted Goggle Maps again. For the fifth time. It did not make a lot of sense, but this was definitely the place Sherlock had indicated. Or as near to it as he could drive. He stepped out of the car into the crisp evening gloom and surveyed the area. There was not much here. Just a deserted construction area. The only building was a portable one with a first aid symbol on it. The compound was surrounded by a high chain link fence displaying a sign with a hard hat, next to a sign saying No Entry.
Security was not high though. The chain link fence had a gate that was pulled shut but not locked. John shook his head; the thought of a kid wandering in bothered him. His own illegal entry not so much. He had one of Greg’s stolen police badges in his pocket. He’d either get off scot-free or be done for both breaking and entering and for imitating an officer of the law. In for a penny, in for a pound, he shrugged as he stepped inside the gate. He went to the building first. The door was locked but he could see inside by cupping his hands against his temples and leaning close enough to the window that his nose touched the glass. Nothing looked out of place; he could not see any signs of a box, metal or otherwise.
He wandered amongst the open area littered with pegs with fluttering plastic ribbons of different colours, mounds of dirt, construction equipment, and not much else. As John stepped deeper into the construction area. Looking down at his phone, navigating closer to the pin on the map that Sherlock had sent to him along with a message that said that he should look for a locked metal box. He turned the phone slightly, trying to orient himself to find the area Sherlock had suggested. It made no sense. Was the pin an accurate mark or could the box be anywhere in the general area? Could be either. Sherlock was incredibly specific or totally vague at any given moment. There was equal chance he knew exactly where this mystery box was or did not even know if it actually existed.
John stumbled on in the failing light. A bit to the left, a bit to the right. Closer to the point on the map. He was forced to turn on the torch feature to see where he was placing his feet. This was impossible. It had been hours since Sherlock has messaged him with the address and the vague instructions. Four and a half hours of ridiculous traffic featuring wrong turns and high petrol prices. None of this was working towards putting John in a good mood after a long day of coughs and colds.
“Just another wild goose chase brought to you by the madness of Sherlock Holmes.” John muttered as he bumped into a railing, blinded by the light from his phone screen; the weak torch was doing little to light his way. He blinked, gripping the scaffolding and pointed the torch down. The light shone deep into a large pit. Thank goodness for the railing, he might have stumbled straight into the hole while looking at his phone. He chuckled nervously at his good luck, imagining how long it would take Sherlock to find him at the bottom of a foundation pit.
Turning the phone again, the map orientation flipped back to straight. Sherlock owed him for this one. He walked another lap of the area. Then another. No box. The only spot that made sense was the pit dug for the foundations. Huffing warm air into his cold fists he decided that he might as well try there again. Failing that, he would ring Sherlock and find out what the hell this was all about.
He navigated back to the deep hole, thankful for the excavator that sat beside it, making it easier to spot in the deepening gloom. John crouched at the edge of the deep pit, holding the rail. The pit was too deep to see the bottom clearly by the weak light on his phone. Some dust crumbled down into the darkness, looking like glitter in the torchlight. He did not dare get closer. Not on his feet. Lying flat on his stomach, he reached down into the hole, arms outstretched. Grip tight on his phone. Do not drop the bloody thing, you’ll never get it back.
Nothing. Just a deep round hole with no discernible bottom. He signed as he stood to brush himself off. Just so he could say he’d tried everything he would take a look from the other side. There was no scaffolding on that side, but it was mostly blocked by the excavator that was parked in the opening. Kneeling down and leaning forwards, weight on one hand, the other holding the phone, John leaned towards the hole.
The edge under his hand crumpled pitching him forwards headfirst into the inky depths. There was nothing to arrest his fall. He swore as he flailed for something to save him, scrabbling to reach for the dirt wall. For anything to save him. Only moments after the earth under his hand had given way, he hit the bottom with a heavy crunch. The air was knocked out of him. Breathless, he struggled to his knees, forehead against the dirt. Agony delayed a moment by the panic of not being able to breathe.
A moment later the pain hit him. His bad shoulder. Always the bad one. No one ever bumped into him on the right. He never knocked the right one against a wall; always the left one. And now, again, he had landed heavily on the left one. Sitting back on his knees, he held his arm against his chest. John threw his head back, looking up at the circle of relative light above him. The pit was not as deep as he had though, but deep enough to have done some damage to his already ruined shoulder. He made a fist and relaxed it to ascertain how much it hurt. Enough that he did not want to do it again.
He did not move for a few long moments. Sucking in air as he waited for the pain to pass, waited for a solution to come to him. He knew he would have to check how much damage there was, but the thought of touching the injured area was not particularly appealing.
Slowly, he unbuttoned his collar. The top button. The button on his black jacket too. The next one on down on his shirt. He hesitated then, before he snaked his hand inside wincing as he touched along the collar bone towards the tender misshapen shoulder. Posterior dislocation. Fuck. Probably a broken acromion. Probably. Shit. He just hoped, without confidence, that his clavicle was still intact. The bloody thing was already plated together in two places. Another break might not heal to well. He could still move his hand, the pulse in his wrist was acceptable; no numbness, so hopefully there was no more nerve damage. Yet. Could be a while before he got out of this predicament. John buttoned his jacket against the cold. He sighed heavily in resignation of the pain and the undoubtedly long recovery ahead. He turned to the biggest problem at hand. He really needed to get out of here.
Looking for his phone, each turn of his head sent waves of pain down his arm, down his back, up his neck. Looking, looking for a glint of light. Feeling around with his right hand. He should have been able to see a light; the torch was on when he fell.
Broken. He knew before his searching hand met the sharp edges of glass and plastic. Shattered. Like his shoulder. Like his hope of getting out anytime soon. A ladder would be nice. An elevator would be better.
He got to his feet. Pointless but needing to feel like he could move. Turned in a hopeless trapped circle. Holding his damage arm close. His eyes adjusted to the light; he could make out the earth walls all around. The uneven dirt floor. The lump of rocks that he was lucky to have missed when he had fallen down the pit. They would have been enough to stove his head in. He stepped closer to them. Stepped to the side. Not rocks. Reaching down he felt the earth. It was built up but softer here than it was beneath his feet. Brushing away the dirt he could feel smooth cold metal beneath.
“The box.” He let out a hollow laugh. He dug into the dirt one handed and pulled at the box. It was stuck in the damp earth. He pulled again, wincing as the movement jostled his shoulder. It moved, half out of the ground now, but he gave up on the idea of removing the box and left it half exposed. He tried the lid instead. A fingernail ripped as the lid held fast. John cursed. Felt along the long edge to the middle. Down into the earth to the clasp. Down further to a lock. Damn it. Locked, just like Sherlock said it would be.
“There’s your stupid box, Sherlock. Happy? I found it.” He called up at the opening, up at nobody.
John went back to the far side. Leaned forward against the wall. Breathed through another wave of dizzying pain. He was disgusted with his situation. It would take Sherlock hours to realise he had not called. Longer, if he got himself distracted. Or maybe he would try to call any minute; if he was impatient to know about the box. John had no way of knowing. He did not know how far behind him Sherlock was. Whether he was even travelling towards Swaffham. John sat down on the cold earth. Every jerking movement grinding bones together. He settled against the wall, rested his hand in his lap. Let his head rest back.