For the wrong Reason von HoneyPie ================================================================================ Kapitel 3: Trapped ------------------ Chapter 3 “Trapped” note: Things don’t go as smoothly as planned When they arrived in the storehouse area that Sherlock’s homeless network had informed them about, it was just after midnight. It was dreadfully cold, even for late January and John zipped his jacket while he took in their immediate surroundings. He was still feeling weird and oddly unstable due to their exchange before that he’d been nervously pondering throughout their whole cab ride. Sherlock had already taken off on his long legs, dark cloak billowing behind him. John cleared his throat and followed, feeling fatalistic all of a sudden. Sherlock’s head turned when he caught up with him, lips forming an expectant smile. Behind a clay-bricked storehouse, a dark figure beckoned to them. They followed it silently down a narrow alley, between two houses looming before a waxing moon. John felt an eerie shiver sliding down his back and took out his mobile to text Lestrade. But Sherlock stopped him by putting his hand over it, shaking his head and taking the phone out of his hands. John’s brow furrowed, his fingers tingling where Sherlock had touched them. They tiptoed to a staircase at the outer wall of the old building, and climbed the stairs silently. They reached a window which overlooked a small roof of a lower building, and had an equally small yard in between. The yard, moderately illuminated by street lamps, was closed on three sides by walls, a gateway leading off into the darkness of an alley. A transporter was parked in front of the open gateway, but no one was in sight. Sherlock silently opened the window and got up on the ledge to lower himself onto the roof, where he crouched onto his stomach to look down into the yard. John noticed that their guide had disappeared. This was weird and left him with another eerie shiver. He followed Sherlock down to the roof and lay next to him, bumping Sherlock’s elbow in the process. Both men looked at each other and John noticed with a pang that it felt highly inappropriate, considering their current location how close they suddenly where. “What are we doing now?” he whispered, crouching low to ensure that they couldn’t be seen from down in the yard. They heard rumbling noises from beneath them. “We wait until the dealers show up.” “How do you know they will? I haven’t seen anyone here so far.” “Don’t worry, they will. See that transporter there?” Sherlock motioned to the car standing in front of the open gateway. John nodded once. “My informant tells me they’re moving their equipment tonight, because Scotland Yard is too close. Finally Lestrade gets it right.” “Why can’t I text him and tell him where we are? He can get his team here in 20 minutes. Give me my phone.” The look Sherlock gave him was offended. “And spoil all the fun?” John didn’t get the chance at a reproach because he suddenly saw a movement from the corner of his eyes at the window which they had climbed out of a few minutes ago. A man appeared at the crossbar. He instantly reached for his gun… and found it wasn’t there. In an instant his world became mute and he felt his blood pressure rise. His soldier mode kicked in. “Sherlock, someone knows we’re here…” He saw Sherlock fidget next to him, saw how he instantly caught up, mouth drawn in a thin line. Their eyes met for the duration of a heartbeat and suddenly there was something in Sherlock’s eyes John had never seen before. Sherlock’s eyes were intense and glistening, his attention seemed to be focused entirely on him. John nervously licked his lips. Sherlock suddenly had his phone in his hand and John saw its bluish glow turn Sherlock’s features ghostlike. His brain clicked, coming to the right solution. Sherlock saw, and tilted his head once into a curt nod. They were still crouching on their stomachs, John lying behind Sherlock, the space between his back and his waistband terribly empty because his gun lay in the drawer at home. How could he have been so stupid to forget it? John knew he had to force all attention on himself now. He cleared his throat and, turning to the window, made a show of scrambling noisily to his knees. It worked, and he saw the man at the window raise his gun at him. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noticed Sherlock silently dumping his phone into the gutter. The man who had appeared at the window didn’t seem to notice. He was busy grinning viciously. “Boss won’t like that much,” the man said, motioning for them to rise. They did, slowly, hands raised and heads high. A second man appeared at the window, mirroring his companion in raising a gun. John swallowed heavily and found that he had positioned himself in front of Sherlock, semi-blocking him. His chest was heaving laboriously, his brain drowning out all the white noise around him as he tried to estimate their chances for escape, finding them rather limited. In just a few moments, their evening had turned from entertaining to life threatening. Great. Time was ticking by in slow motion. Or maybe John’s mental capabilities had accelerated. There was suddenly so much space in his head, and for a moment, he wondered if this was how Sherlock always felt. Maybe that was why the slender detective got bored so easily. He moved first, then he looked back at Sherlock who was clambering in behind him through the window again. His dark curls were wild, his hands clenched into fists, his graceful back was straight, and his face was drawn. One of the men held a gun to his head while the other was guarding John. No one said anything. John’s brain somehow felt unattached from his body and his anger evaporated. In stressful and threatening situations, he tended to go astonishingly focused - one of the advantages of a military schooling. Their eyes met. Sherlock’s eyes were a green sea, his face pale in the darkness. Their hands brushed when Sherlock walked past him, sending John’s skin tingling again. Somehow, the touch of Sherlock’s skin was the one thing that felt the most real in their situation. John’s throat felt very parched all of a sudden. They were searched for their phones and weapons before the men forcing them down the stairs at gunpoint. They walked through a door into the small building that they had been lying on top of before. John found his hands, which were raised above his head, were steady - the urge to protect Sherlock overwriting every nuance of fear he might have felt otherwise. When Sherlock suddenly stumbled on the last step of the staircase, John took a good look at their surroundings. The front door through which they had come in earlier was too far away to make a dash, even in the unlikely case that Sherlock could equally detach himself and follow. And with the guns that he felt at the moment pointed at the back of his head, that option was fairly out of reach. A third man stepped into his field of vision when they reached a low door under the stairs. The next moment, a fist connected with John’s jaw. His knees buckled and he fell to the floor, seeing stars. “Don’t even think about it, man,” a voice above him resounded. John felt strong hands grab his arms and jacket, hurling him back to his feet. The man guarding Sherlock had stepped closer to the tall detective, and pressed his gun onto his pale temple, forcing his head to tilt into an uncomfortable angle. John noticed that Sherlock’s hands were clenched into fists. “Don’t move, or I swear I’ll shoot you myself,” John heard the man say to Sherlock. Their eyes met again, Sherlock’s gaze flickering to his lips. Time was still going by in slow motion, and looking at Sherlock with a gun pressed to his head, John’s mind flew back to that dreadful day when Sherlock had jumped off the roof. There had been blood everywhere, staining the pavement. Sherlock hadn’t moved, his gaze congealed, his life had been smashed out of him… and John had felt so numb and helpless… His mind wrapped around Sherlock with a bullet in his clever brain, eyes extinguished. John’s nerves were raw. He couldn’t afford to lose Sherlock again, no matter the cost. He would do anything to keep him safe, and the inevitability of it crashed through him like lightening. He was determined, adrenaline punching through his veins. His fists clenched together, his heart went wild. No more death… The man laughed viciously, oblivious to John’s inner turmoil. “Lock them into the office and then see about storing the equipment,” he told the other two men before turning to Sherlock. “I don’t know if you told the police where you are, but considering the fact that the oh-so-famously clever Sherlock Holmes works alone, you probably haven’t told anyone. So no one will come looking for you yet, but when they do, we will be gone.” The man turned to his companions. “Don’t shoot them, we don’t wanna attract too much attention. But we’ll make sure they don’t run.” Having said these words, he opened the low door under the stairs, and John was shoved inside behind Sherlock. Then the door closed, plunging them into total darkness. Hosted by Animexx e.V. (http://www.animexx.de)