Work Text:
Sherlock waits in the chair, head bowed, and listens as he works fruitlessly on his restraints.
He’s been careful not to let on that he understands at least some Russian, staring blankly at the men who'd found him sneaking aboard for a look at their documents, waiting until they repeat their instructions in broken English before showing any comprehension or compliance. A couple of times it’s earned him the kind of casual blow to the head with the butt of a rifle that makes it clear how very little value they have currently invested in keeping him alive. What he overhears when the men speak freely in front of him is hardly a comfort, definitely contains no surprises, and clearly wasn’t worth the head injury.
The first man—tall, bulky, obviously the muscle of the trio—wants him killed straight away, body tossed overboard after the ship departs as a brutal warning to whoever was behind this that interference in the syndicate’s business (minor couriers, all of them here, even the leader, given the state of the desk and the labels on the filing cabinet) would not be tolerated.
The second man—smaller, wiry, not the brains of the outfit but thinks he could be one day—wants to find out, first, what Sherlock knew. How he’d found them. Who he’d told about them. Whether they were safe to pick up the two shipping containers currently at the docks (RQMU5735660 and RQMU5735675 at Dover, obvious from the glance he’d got at the manifests before they'd found him), or whether they would need to abandon them and the trafficked women within to their fate.
The third man hasn’t spoken. At all. He directs the other two with curt motions and fierce scowls, and Sherlock can tell (buttons on his shirt, time on his watch) that when he finally speaks, it will be the last words Sherlock hears.
He blinks again, trying to clear the stinging trickle of blood out of his eyes (130 millilitres so far, approximately, blood loss not a concern, the feeling of dull pressure and the halo of brightness more so). The cable-ties holding his wrists to the chair are tight and secure, and Sherlock finally desists. It had been a pointless exercise from the beginning; he wasn’t going anywhere under his own power, not when he’d be barely able to stand up from the dizziness and the nausea (potentially the head injury, or potentially the result of the faint but ceaseless rocking motion of the boat). Even if he’d managed to get a grip on the slick plastic, he wouldn’t have the strength to break it, not with his shoulder throbbing with an increasing agony (dislocated for one hour and thirty-seven minutes so far; pins and needles running down his arm to the thumb indicated the nerve was pinned, any attempt at reducing it on his own would result in disabling the arm further, probably permanently).
A hesitant knock on the outside of the cabin door results in one of the men cracking open the door, assault rifle at the ready. A brief harsh exchange of words later, he aims his gun through the widening gap and swings it open, holding a gun on—on John, who walks in slowly, his gait uncertain, his hands held above his head.
Sherlock’s heart catches in his throat—they have John!
No. Theorising ahead of fact. Top button: just visible above the collar of his cable-knit jumper, camera issued by Mycroft’s staff.
They do not have John; John has let them have him. Let them invite him in, on their terms. When he realised Sherlock had gone off by himself, he'd enlisted Mycroft, who'd followed the CCTV records to find Sherlock half an hour ago, but couldn’t be sure it was safe to breech the metal walls of the cabin.
Mycroft is using John as his Trojan Horse. Willingly, of course, but when wouldn't John be? Sherlock is going to kill his brother.
They force John to his knees in the centre of the cabin and, hands behind his head, he looks up at Sherlock. His eyebrows furrow with concern, eyes flicking back and forth the minute distance between Sherlock's to meet them each in turn. (He’s noticing uneven pupils, obvious from a distance of three meters, definitely concussion then.) Then John looks over the rest of him, the distressed eyes of a doctor and friend taking in the trickle of blood on his forehead, the awkward angle of his shoulder, the nauseous slump in his posture. Sherlock lets him see; lets Mycroft see, over the video feed. Mycroft will need to know the situation to plan how to proceed.
The second man shouts at John in Russian. (How did __ us? What __ you? Speak __ goat sex!) The first man is pointing the rifle at him, cold and efficient. (Practiced, but with a different weapon, bought this one for impressive size rather than familiarity.)
“How find?” the first man (the only English speaker, as far as Sherlock has seen) rephrases the second's questions. “Who sent?”
John doesn’t listen, doesn’t even turn his head. Eyes locked to Sherlock, he lets his lashes fall closed and his lips curve in a tight, secret smile. For a moment, he seems at peace—and not in the way of a Zen monk on a mountaintop, but the stillness of a predator awaiting his moment, situated at the perfect balance point between the shouting Russians on either side.
The roiling in Sherlock's stomach ratchets further. Mycroft will be on his way. He’ll need time, but he’ll be here. Mycroft will be watching through the camera on John’s button, and he’ll be able to see the urgency of the situation every bit as well as John. And Sherlock. But John isn’t going to wait. He’s about to do something stupid.
“Shon,” Sherlock tries, and knows it doesn’t sound right, but can’t seem to make his tongue work. He keeps trying, because John risking himself is not acceptable. “Shon, dough. Wafer Mycoff!”
John doesn’t listen, doesn’t even look at Sherlock. Instead, he opens his eyes, drops his gaze to the ground at his knees and breaths evenly, letting his peripheral vision take in the thugs on either side.
The first man roughly thrusts his gun in John’s ear, pushing him almost off balance sideways, but not looking at his target. He’s looking at Sherlock, yelling something fast and incomprehensible. (Not __ say __ you now!)
The third man steps closer, and speaks for the first time, a short sharp bark that needs little translation effort. (Stop!)
And then John explodes into motion. He grabs the barrel of the gun and forces it upwards. The first man pulls the trigger in his surprise and releases three bullets before he can help it. The second goes down, permanently. The third man takes a step forward, reaching for his gun, and Sherlock kicks one long leg out with all his strength to hook the other man’s ankle, then topples sideways in his chair, landing onto his shoulder and almost passing out from the white-hot pain as he throws up onto the ground, his head throbbing and spinning overwhelmingly.
By the time Sherlock’s got his stomach under control, John has the assault rifle free and clear, pointed at the third man. The first man is staggering backwards away, bleeding from the nose and mouth. (Of course: John feigned struggling for it until the other man pulled back hard, then abruptly reversed direction and forced it heavily into his face.) The third man’s gun is pointing back at John, and he stands well out of range of Sherlock’s legs now.
John smiles. Well, the expression on his face has teeth in it.
“What shall w—“ starts the man, and John shoots him, just like that, mid-sentence, while he’s distracted with the negotiation. The bullet explodes out of the back of his head just above the base of the skull, tearing out 'the apricot' and dropping him like a stringless puppet before he can twitch towards his own trigger.
John turns his gun on the first man—who’s gazing at John over his bloodied nose with terrified disbelief from out of weeping eyes. “Get the door,” says John, unquestioningly in command, and even though the man can’t have understood the words, he understands the motion of the gun and hurries to do as he’s bid.
Watching him with a wary eye, John heads over to Sherlock, and gently probes the tender spot on his head. “Did you pass out at all?” he asks, in lieu of hello. “Tell me about our current case.”
“Bweefy,” admits Sherlock, irritated by the inability of his mouth to form the words. “Sess twaffig. Sipping Condainers.”
John gives him a wry look, and accepts a knife from one of Mycroft’s minions who’d materialised behind him, to cut the tie holding Sherlock’s wrists. “Oriented in the present at least,” he says. “But you’re definitely concussed.”
He strips his jumper to tuck it between Sherlock’s bad arm and chest, then carefully bends his elbow around in front of him and uses his belt to support it. “We need to get you to hospital to get that assessed, and to reduce the shoulder. Anything we need to do here?”
“Manfess,” says Sherlock, waving his free arm towards the corner of the room with a particularly vague motion. “Condain idees.” He remembered them of course, but with his current speech impediment, it was easier this way.
“Oh!” agrees John, and turns to the minion to translate for Sherlock even as he catches Sherlock’s arm in mid motion and pulls it over his shoulders, hoisting him onto his feet. “Over there,” he points to the pile of papers, “there’ll be papers that Greg Lestrade needs to see straight away, shipping manifests to find the missing women.”
Sherlock nearly whites out from the pain as they walk, despite John taking nearly all his weight, but they make it across the deck, down the gangplank. He doesn’t even protest when he’s draped onto the stretcher that meets them on the wharf.
“Diden thin you fine me,” he manages, once he’s got his breath back, staring up at John as the man jogs alongside the stretcher.
“No,” says John, and Sherlock’s hazy vision takes in the lines of stress around his eyes, the bruised knuckles that predate the current conflict. “Well, leave me a note next time you’re going burgling, okay? I might—um—be banned from Scotland Yard at the moment.”
Sherlock smiles, staring up at John and wondering if the halo of light around him might just be real. “Wone las,” he says. “They ge despate. Call us baggin."
“Well, I hope it’s soon,” says John, and grins. “I don’t want to miss seeing how Anderson’s shiner turns out.”