Work Text:
Ding!
John froze in the motion of his hands, all attention abruptly narrowed on the desk at the other side of the dingy little office, where his phone sat alongside with his keys, the scattered contents of his wallet, and his gun. Hoping… hoping… in vain.
Because the muscular, stubble-headed man standing at the desk was looking at it, too.
He’d been rummaging through John’s possessions with the kind of intense competence—discarding the money and honing in on the identification and receipts—that made John fairly sure that questions would be forthcoming very soon. Pointed questions.
Of course, the man would have to take the gag off first. Or maybe he wouldn't. He looked like the kind that might take a while before he started listening to the answers.
The man picked up John’s phone and read out, “All clear here. Any luck on your end? –SH,” the first time he’d spoken since John had woken up. Then swiped his finger on the screen, obviously scrolling back through the message history. “Interesting," he said darkly. "You’ve been following me. I don’t like people knowing my business.”
“Mmmm!” protested John, struggling against the cable-ties holding him to the chair in earnest again. The skin on his left wrist was definitely cut through, now; it was getting harder to brace and pull against it.
He and Sherlock had been chasing the perpetrators of a series of neat, efficient jewellery robberies for three days. Two sales clerks had been shot dead, along with an unfortunate customer who’d succumbed to hysterics at the wrong moment. And then, in the first hideout Sherlock had identified, they’d found two of the three robbers shot dead and no sign of the stolen goods.
After examining that scene, Sherlock had finally drawn two potential boltholes seemingly out of thin air—something about dirt composition, soil contaminants, and an ex-military owner—and they’d split up to check them both for the lone remaining man. John had barely got inside the one he’d been assigned before he’d been abruptly grabbed from behind and locked in a professional-seeming chokehold.
“Looks abandoned,” quoted the man as he typed. “But there is something you should see.” He paused, rereading the message. “Anything you wanted to add?” he asked John. “No? Lovely.”
“MMMM!”
The phone chirped its little sent signal, and the man went back to browsing John and Sherlock’s conversation history until, a moment later, John’s phone dinged again.
The man smiled. “I’ll be there in ten minutes –SH,” he read.
Damnit, swore John internally. That wasn’t one of their code phrases; Sherlock had obviously taken the message at face value. Damn the man for never ringing, and damn them both for getting out of the habit of verifying identity!
The man smiled, put the phone back on the table, and picked up John’s gun instead. He unloaded it and checked it over quickly and efficiently, before sliding the magazine back into place.
“I’ll just go and watch for your friend, shall I?” he said, and chambered a round. “There’s a window with a great view of the entrance.” He grabbed the phone off the desk and slipped it into his pocket. “Just in case he texts for directions.” He winked, and then walked out.
“Mmmph-mm!” John sent after him helplessly.
He slumped in his bonds, for only a moment, feeling blood drip from the end of his little finger onto the floor. Then he began the laborious process of sliding and hopping the chair over towards the table, where at least the man had left John’s keys.
He had ten minutes to get loose.
And once he did, John wasn’t going to be the one taken by surprise.