Work Text:
At this point in his life, John had come into the habit of expecting the unexpected. Going on a shopping run? Could be kidnapped at any moment. Leaving the surgery late? Don’t be surprised if you get shot in the foot. Waiting in a cafe across the street from a serial killer? Maybe he hits on you, who even knew at this point.
Joining the armed forces had already created a stronger than average fortitude for strange and life threatening events in John, but truly; it was being Sherlock Holmes’ best friend that made him disconcertingly unflappable.
Which is why; when strapped to a chair with a liberally applied roll of duct tape, an array of blunt instruments of opportunistic torture strewn across a bench, and grainy camera taking note, John was not surprised to feel, more than anything, annoyed .
Sure, fear was in there alright, the steady pressure of uncertainty, of danger, running through his veins- but annoyance was far too easy to rise to the surface of it, to push out in front of anything else. He’d hesitate to say that being flatmates with Sherlock Holmes had changed anything about him as a person, but it certainly did bring out the worst in him sometimes.
“And as you see here,” his kidnapper continued to rant into the camera like a deranged video blogger, “I have something you may want to get back.”
John looked away from the scene so he could sigh in peace. There was zero doubt in his mind that Mycroft, at the very least, knew exactly where he was. Sherlock might not have noticed he was missing, but if he was in any real danger, he’s pretty sure the eldest Holmes would deem it fit to mention it to him. Probably in the form of a riddle of some sort. Like- uhhh- putting a box of John’s favourite tea on the counter? Then Sherlock would make some insane leap in logic ( deduction , the voice of Sherlock corrected in his head) to conclude, somehow rightly, that John had been kidnapped. Then when they were walking back to the flat after he’d rescued him (like a fucking damsel, dear god would kidnappers please just leave him his dignity), he would say it was obvious because of some brilliant, crazed collection of other facts and data he’d somehow picked up on.
And Sherlock could do all that but not notice when John was gone for five hours. An enigma, that man was.
The kidnapper continued to rant in the background, “So if you don’t pay me ten thousand quid-“
“Excuse me, what?” John couldn’t help but interrupt. Then he realised what a supremely stupid decision that was, and bowed his head slightly, hoping the guy would just forget it.
He didn’t. Bugger it all.
“What you mean, excuse me?” the man demanded.
Oh well, fuck it. He didn’t really have a way out of that one. John was having a shitty day and Sherlock was truly rubbing off on him.
“Is that seriously all I’m worth?” John asked, more than a little offended, honestly. “Best friend of Sherlock Holmes, famous detective, and you’re asking for ten thousand quid?”
The man’s mouth flapped open in silence, like a gate half-off it’s hinges in the wind.
Remembering his first kidnapping in London, John went on.
“Look, up it to one hundred thousand, we can split it, yeah?”
The kidnapper narrowed his eyes, “What?”
“If you,” John said slowly, like speaking to a child, “raise the ransom to a hundred thousand quid, I’ll play nice and pathetic prisoner for your recording, then when you get the money, we can split it.”
What was John even saying ?! Watson what has gotten into you?
It is funny though , the traitorous part of his brain that sounded suspiciously like Sherlock, said.
The kidnapper menacingly picked up a rusted pipe and stalked over.
“And why would I do that when I can just beat you pathetic instead?”
John actually snorted in amusement. God, that was the stupidest thing he could have done, but come on . At a certain point you had to start ranking this sort of thing, and this guy wasn’t even a level 3 kidnapper. And he was only level 3 because he seemed peeved enough to hit John around a bit if it served him. He was menacing, sure, and every part of John that was rational , and sane , said Do Not Provoke !
But there was another part of John that was just annoyed that he was missing a date with Lindsey From The Cafe, and kind of bored just sitting in anticipation while his kidnapper tried to find the best angle to sinisterly declare his intentions. He’d been a good prisoner for about three hours now, alternating between being quiet and trying to negotiate his release.
Loath he was to admit it, but Sherlock may have had the tinniest point in purposely aggravating dangerous criminals… Occasionally, when it wasn’t life threatening, as a treat, that is.
“Because I’m ex-military and that rusty little pipe is more likely to give me tetanus than tears,” John said.
The kidnapper looked thoughtfully at him, “You really think he’d pay a hundred thousand quid?”
Truthfully? Absolutely not. Sherlock would either solve it far before he’d need to pay, or temporarily wire the money as part of a ruse or otherwise time buffer. The kidnapper didn’t really need to know that though, did he?
“His brother occupies a minor position in the British government,” John said (oh irony, you do sweeten amusement), “I think he can afford it.”
The man nodded contemplatively, weighting up the pros and cons of betting lower for a higher likely chance of return, raising the price but taking a gamble at whether John really was as tough as he claimed (John didn’t even know the answer to that one himself anymore, and he wasn’t eager to find out), or take his captive on his deal.
Before he had a chance to choose, the roller doors of the dingy garage flew upwards, plunging the dark room into blinding light.
John squinted against it and saw the dark outlines of 3 familiar silhouettes.
“Evening John,” Sherlock greeted mildly.
“Took you long enough,” John unwittingly relaxed against the bindings, only now noticing the extent of the tension he’d been keeping his muscles in.
“Yes, well, I did mistake the skull for you for about an hour, so that did slow down progress a tad,” a rush of amusement flooded John at the sight of Sherlock’s witty, satisfied little smile. He didn’t even have it in him to be all that annoyed about the careless admittance.
Sally scoffed at Sherlock’s blasé attitude and said, to the kidnapper, “Alright, show’s over, out we go.”
The man, rather surprisingly, took his immanent arrest well; only struggling mildly as Sergeant Thomson cuffed him and Sally read him his rights.
While the two were busy with the criminal, Sherlock whipped a pocket knife out of his coat (inscribed on it said Lestrade , so the question of where he’d gotten it was quickly answered) and began slicing off the binding.
“Wish you’d waited a little longer,” John said conversationally, “my host over there was about to offer to split an a hundred thousand pound ransom with me.”
“Oh really?” Sherlock remarked, but somewhere in there John thought he detected a true flicker of surprise, perhaps even delight, at John’s wit.
“Could certainly do with the extra cash,” John said.
Sherlock made a non-commital noise. As usual, he pretended to be above such concerns as money… at least, John was pretty sure he wasn’t above it- just ignored such things and miraculously it all turned out fine anyway.
Once the tape binding his wrists to the chair arms was gone, Sherlock offered John the knife and stood by as the military man made quick work of his legs. In order to avoid aggravating old wounds, John stretched his arm out while rising, hoping the awkward position wouldn’t mean extra aching for the next week.
“You’re fine,” Sherlock said. A statement, because of course Sherlock could see he was fine. It was still a form of confirmation anyway, because he knew John appreciated it.
“Yeah,” John grimaced slightly, rolling his arm only to find himself predicting unfortunate discomfort in his future, “you?”
“As always,” his friend replied, and started walking out.
So John followed, much like he always did.