JOHN WATSON
"Sher-lock. It's your turn."
John looked the detective in the eyes. He'd been expecting this, John realized. That was what his cryptic statement had meant - it was an explanation and acknowledgement that he intended to play along with Moriarty's demented games. Sherlock gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his head toward the door, mouthing "go".
The criminal mastermind was sending a text. "You're going to have to leave, Johnny-boy," he said. "Moran will escort you. Don't worry - Sherlock and I just need to have a little chat."
A key turned in the knob and on the other side of the room, Moran pushed open the door.
"Sir?"
Moriarty waved at John. "Find a suitable place to lock this one up for the next hour or so. Keep an eye on him; his escaping would be dreadfully inconvenient."
"Sir." Moran directed his rifle at John and gestured toward the door. "Out you come, then."
The doctor took a last look over his shoulder, attempting to convey in a glance to his friend the depth of his affection and his determination to break them out of there. How much of it registered on his face he had no idea, but hopefully Sherlock was using his frankly spooky deductive powers to figure it out.
At the door, Moran grabbed John by the shoulder. The blonde man shrugged him off. "I can walk by myself, thanks," he said. "Where are we going?"
"Down the stairs," the gunman said. "You can walk, but try running and it'll be the last thing you ever try."
"I'd sort of figured that out, actually," said John, mostly past caring what happened to him.
"Watch your mouth," the gunman said angrily. "Moriarty's gonna make you beg me to shoot you later, and I may just watch you suffer."
"Oh yeah?" the blond man asked casually. "I bet that's not what he makes you beg for, am I right?"
"Shut up," Moran hissed.
"Touched a nerve, have I?" The doctor knew Moran was a dangerous man to bait, but he was also feeling too reckless to care. Giving Sebastian Moran high blood pressure was the only mercy he'd been granted, and it was one he was determined to exploit. The sniper grabbed the doctor violently by the shoulders, and for a split second John was sure he was about to have the living daylights beat out of him, Moriarty's orders or no, when Moran shoved him through a side door into an empty storage room.
"Keep talking," Moran hissed through the crack in the door as he locked it from the outside. "You won't be so cocky later, I'll tell you that."
Alone in the small box of a room, John took stock of his surroundings: blank walls, a tiny barred window not two feet across, and a few metal pipes running the water and electricity. A single bald light bulb protruded from near the ceiling, enclosed by a steel cage. None of these offered very promising means of assistance. The metal cuffs around his wrists clinked; in theory, they weren't hard to get out of. Of course, for that, one generally needed a piece of wire. The room mocked him with it's emptiness.
John Watson was not the world's only consulting detective. He was an ex-army doctor for the British Armed Forces. Mentally clapping his hands together, a scrap of his training floated back to the surface of his memory.
The first prerogative of the prisoner is to escape.
He regarded the room solemnly as he worked out exactly how to do that.
Finally to himself he muttered, "I'm going to need a shim."
*****
SHERLOCK HOLMES
Black-brown eyes were gazing into my steel grey ones, though I made no effort to stop myself blinking. It always unnerved people, I mused, to find that I wasn't to be drawn into childish staring matches quite so easily as all that. To say that I was not worried would be untrue; there were undoubtedly elements of my current captivity that I found cause for concern. These were not, however, the elements that would have bothered most individuals (id est being chained to a pole in the same room with a brilliantly deranged psychopath), but rather the logistics of the escape I was planning.
It was not the difficulty of the idea so much as it was the misuse I would assuredly experience in its exercise. To put it simply, phase one was going to be painful. I could deal with pain, was dealing with it, as my leg reminded me, but there was a ratio of discomfort versus my physical capabilities, and if the former tipped too heavily on the scales, I could potentially be rendered physiologically incapable of completing the second phase of my escape.
On our first case together, I remarked to a perturbed John and exasperated detective inspector that the only trick to dealing with serial killers was waiting for them to make a mistake. In this respect, Moriarty was no different. He was simply smart enough to anticipate mistakes and stop himself from making them. Though the waiting had lasted weeks, the inevitable trip-up had finally reared its head.
Moriarty had shown me the key.
He'd let my one hand loose.
I'd watched him return the key to his pocket.
All there was left to do was slip it off his person.
Pickpocketing Jim Moriarty required a personal sacrifice; there was no help for it. I had to get him close enough to touch, and the only way to do that was -
"So, Sherlock," Moriarty began as the door snapped shut behind Moran, "how are you liking my hospitality so far? This is your last night, so you should enjoy it."
My eyes swept the room critically.
"The décor needs work."
Moriarty chuckled and took a step closer.
"Yes, it does," he agreed. "You would not believe how hard it is to find a good designer who will work illegally on an old military compound outside of London." The consulting criminal gave a long-suffering sigh. "But that's the business, I suppose. And speaking of business..." He closed the gap between us. "How's the leg holding up?"
He drove his knee into the side of my leg, pressing hard on the fracture, and for a second, white fire shot up my spine, blinding me with its cruel radiance.
I gasped, collapsing against the pole for support. It hurt too badly. Moriarty was close enough, but I couldn't force my fists to un-ball and reach for the key. Seeing my face, obviously in pain, beginning to perspire, Moriarty pressed harder. I could feel blood running down the inside of my trouser leg. The world tilted on its axis - I was going to pass out again. And then he backed off.
Straightening, the criminal mastermind gave a grotesque impersonation of a smile.
"I have been waiting for this," he said. "You have no idea how bored I was, waiting for you to come back from the dead. Now I'll put you back there. Permanently."
"Why?" My throat was tight with discomfort, but I got the word out evenly enough. "You'll just be bored again when you do."
Moriarty shook his head wryly. "But that's the point! I have to beat you! And after I do, who knows? Being the world's only consulting criminal does have its perks."
He stepped forward again, running a finger across my cheekbone. "You won't be around to see that, though."
"Don't be so sure," I said smugly.
"Are you going to try escaping?" he asked, faint interest flaring in his eyes. "That would be amusing. Fatal for you, but amusing."
"My understanding was that staying put would be fatal," I pointed out. "Was I wrong?"
Moriarty considered this. "No." He drew a silver razor blade from his pocket. "But it would be so predictable."
I eyed the old barber's tool in his hand. "Been watching Sweeney Todd, have we?"
Moriarty scoffed. "Don't pretend to understand cultural references. You'll only embarrass yourself."
"Who said I didn't understand the reference?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "John likes it."
Moriarty mirrored my expression. "Does he make you join him for movie nights? That's so quaint." He stepped forward, unfolding the blade so that it glinted in what few gasping rays of light remained. "I'm sure you're going to try wresting this out of my grip, so just know that if you succeed, I'll get the crowbar and break your other leg."
"Spoilsport."
In reality, I had no intention of fighting him for the razor. In fact, the closer he came with it, the better. Moriarty stopped right in front of me, so close that I could feel his warm breath on my face. I looked stolidly at him even as I felt the edge of the razor rest itself against my shoulder, and I didn't bat an eye as it parted first fabric and then flesh.
It did not hurt. Not at first. There was just a strange sort of pinch, and then cold metal dividing muscle. The pain came after, when the bleeding started. I could feel the dark liquid welling up from the incision, knew that it was pouring over and down my arm, but rather than look at the damage, I kept my eyes fixed on my opponent. Moriarty gave his handiwork due consideration before he cut the circle next to the line.
"I still owe you, you see?" he said quietly. "I.O.U. Now you have a little reminder of that fact." He cut the third grisly letter in his message, and I was unable to stop a groan escaping my lips as the nerves in my arm tritely informed my brain that they were under attack. I needed to staunch the bleeding - quickly - but to do that I had to escape my bonds. It was time to hurry phase one along.
Moriarty wiped the blood from his razor onto his hand before leaning over and smearing it on my lips.
"You should wear lipstick," he said approvingly. "The color suits you."
"Mmm," I murmured skeptically. "I would have said 'blood red' was more your color."
Smiling thinly, Moriarty took me by the shoulder, letting his fingers dig into the mutilated skin under my shirt. Red-brown liquid squelched from beneath his manicured nails, and suddenly it felt like my arm was on fire, that the fingers clutching my shoulder had transfigured into white-hot knives, but even as I was whimpering in agony my mind cleared, like a veil lifted itself from my vision. I was so close to achieving my goal, but if I moved too quickly, if Moriarty so much as suspected what I had in mind, I would lose. The only way forward was to make certain that Jim Moriarty was totally and completely distracted.
The hand which wasn't squeezing the lifeblood from my shoulder reached around behind my head to hang on to the post, and then he was pressed up against me and kissing me hard.
Moriarty was vicious. He was biting my lower lip, pressing his tongue to the inside of my cheek, and licking the sanguine liquid from the edges of my mouth. It wasn't long before all I could taste was salt and copper. I let him have at it, reciprocating enough to maintain his attention. Meanwhile, my hand inched toward his suit pocket.
When Moriarty pulled back, his grin was a bit too red-stained to look human.
"You like that, do you?" he asked. "Figures. I told you we were made for each other."
I began to snicker quietly to myself.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing," I sighed. "Only what you said earlier about me escaping."
Moriarty frowned. "What about it?"
"You were right. It is amusing."
"Why is that?"
"Because I found the key." I raised my right hand, completely free as it was of handcuffs or chains.
"How -?!"
I didn't let him finish the sentence. Instead, I grabbed him by the wrist and clapped the metal cuffs on him.
"It's been fun," I said, stepping back out of reach. "Let's not do it again sometime."
Waving jauntily, I hobbled across the expanse of the room, keeping weight off my leg. I picked up John's gun, and at the window dropped the key into the bushes. I needed to buy all the time I could.
*****
JOHN WATSON
The doctor had succeeded in knocking a hole in the wall, having kicked at a spot next to the door until he put his foot through it. A passing guard on the other side had jeered at his feeble attempts to "knock the door down", but John paid him no mind. Turning around backwards, he got his hand inside the hole and ripped away a strip of drywall. Then he crouched down and tried to remember how to open handcuffs with a shim.
He shoved the plaster piece in between the locking mechanism and the teeth, and then tightened the cuffs a notch. Drywall was an unideal implement for choreographing one's escape attempts. He could feel it starting to crack behind him and winced. If it broke now, he'd be stuck - his wrists were too wide to tighten the cuffs a second time. Exerting more pressure on the makeshift lever, the doctor at last heard the tell-tale click which meant he'd succeeded. The handcuffs clattered to the floor.
Rubbing some feeling back into his wrists, John stretched and stood. His arms were free, at least. Now he had to see about the rest of him. Striding to the window, John examined the narrow opening. The bars were rusting, but they seemed solid enough, and even had he managed to break them, he doubted he could squeeze his shoulders through the hole.
Even as he was considering this dim prospect, a light across the marsh caught his attention. There was, for the briefest of seconds, a flash in the dark near the bottom of a rise maybe three hundred feet from the compound. A moment later, it flashed again, and then a third time. After that, it stopped.
For what felt like a long time, John stood frozen and mulling over his best course of action. Was it Lestrade signaling him, or was it one of Moriarty's men, perhaps communicating with one of the rooftop guards? Finally, he decided that the situation couldn't get much worse, so he retrieved the handcuffs from the floor and held the metal where it caught the light of the cell's only bulb. Then he moved his hand back and forth in front of the window, flashing the reflected light out over the marsh. Hopefully someone of goodwill was watching.
... _ _ _ ...
Dot-dot-dot-dash-dash-dash-dot-dot-dot
SOS
A long minute passed. John felt his stomach sinking as the flashing light made no reply. He had all but given up hope when suddenly there it was again, like a white firefly over the marsh grass.
._ _ ... _ _ _
Who?
John translated the word with painstaking slowness, grimacing as he concentrated. Years ago, in the army, he had known a pilot by the name of George Ferny. They had been good friends, and the man had taught John the Morse signals aviators used over the airwaves. Before Ferny died (plane engine malfunction) he and John had messaged each other every day using the code, just for the fun of it. Now the doctor was aware that the skill could save his life, and just as aware that he hadn't bothered to practice in five years. Thinking to himself, John tapped out the answer on the window sill before he flashed it.
._ _ _ ._ _
JW
The reply was quicker in coming this time; presumably Lestrade now had a code chart pulled up on his smartphone to translate with.
_._. _ _ _ ._. _._ _
Copy.
... _ ._ _. _.. _... _._ _
Stand by.
John ground his teeth in frustration. The entire operation had gone downhill the minute he and Sherlock had split up that afternoon. Now the detective was in danger, John was powerless to stop it, and Lestrade's advice was to wait? The DI had had all afternoon to come up with something. The doctor spun around and glared again at the room ensconcing him. If Lestrade wasn't able to get him out, then he'd have to do it himself.
But how? Doubtless he could knock the door off its hinges if he ran at it hard enough, but that would not exactly be inconspicuous. If he could just pick the lock... And then John Watson was struck by an idea.
Turning back to the window, the doctor signaled a final message.
_... ._. _...
BRB
No sooner had he finished than he turned around and repurposed the handcuffs for the second time that evening, smashing at the lightbulb through its cage as hard as he could until the steel links broke the glass. Immediately, the room went dark.
Wrapping his jumper sleeve around his fingers for insulation, John ripped the filament out of the broken bulb, ignoring the broken glass until the fine wire was firmly in hand. Then he bent it into an L-shape and sat in front of the door. Inserting the wire carefully, he began to twist and tease it, listening hard as the tumblers inside clicked. The first was the most difficult; it didn't help that his hands were sweating, slipping on the minute wire, and he was beginning to regret his rash decision to smash the light. If he couldn't get the door to open, he would be trapped without even a means of communication.
Twisting the filament sharply in annoyance, John's mouth fell open as the first tumbler opened and the wire pushed further into the lock. The next pivot was easier to unlatch, and the third took nearly no time at all. As the bolt fell open inside the door, John could have shouted with jubilation, but he clapped a lid on his sense of triumph, instead pressing his face to the floor and peering out under the door for any sign of human presence.
There was a room across the hall from which voices were issuing, but its door was mostly closed, and the doctor saw no other indication of anyone within earshot, so he stood and carefully pushed open his cell door, peering around both corners before tiptoeing into the hall. Taking but a moment to steady his breathing, John shut the door carefully behind him and edged down the steps.
The next room he came to on his right was dark and empty. He sidled into it, looking around for a light switch. Finding one, he flipped the light on and off in pattern.
_. _ . _ .._ _ ._ ._
Got out. - JW
The reply was swift in coming.
_. . _ ._. _ _ .._. _. .._ ._ ._. _.. ...
Get roof guards.
John's eyes narrowed. If this was some sort of clever trap, he'd be playing right into Moriarty's hands to do as they asked. On the other hand, if it was Lestrade signaling him, it was important that he facilitate a police rescue to the best of his ability. There was no other option, he decided. Moriarty had to be stopped. Lestrade needed an in, and for that, the guards had to go. If it was a trap, then John Watson was going to make damn sure Moriarty rued the day he thought he could tear apart the doctor's life.
Slinking down the stairs, John made it to the front door of the tower without incident. Secure in the knowledge that the troublesome pair of flatmates had been captured, Moran's control over the gunmen had relaxed, and most of the mercenaries were sitting slack-jawed in their barracks poisoning their livers with alcohol, or else they were playing cards with their fellows. John had a moment of panic when a guard passed him in the hall, but he just grumbled something about needing the loo, too hammered to notice anything out of the ordinary. The doctor smirked to himself. Perhaps the day Moriarty was really going to rue was the one where he decided to stock beer for his employees.
At the base of the tower, John stole out into the night, letting the thick midnight-black atmosphere cloak his movements across the compound. This was something he knew how to do. A plan was working itself out in the doctor's mind, a very simple one. Undoubtedly, Sherlock would devise a far more intricate scheme, but it was Sherlock John was rescuing, so his own mundane stratagems would have to be sufficient. In this light, incapacitating the rooftop guardsmen would be child's play. After that, it was a simple matter of getting Lestrade's team inside and arresting everyone in the vacinity.
John's mouth tightened. Of course it wasn't that simple; there were still a dozen guards at least between the ground floor of the tower and Moriarty, plus Moran, and what was more, they had Sherlock as a bargaining chip.
Sherlock.
The blonde man felt his stomach clench, even as he came to the base of the first of the outer buildings. Who knew what the psychopath was doing to him? And moreover... John's cheeks burned as he remembered the detective kissing him. That might have a bit of an impact on their live-in relationship, provided they ever made it back to Baker Street.
On the back of the building was a ladder going up to the roof. Finding it, John began to climb, moving swiftly but silently, careful to let his feet make no noise on the metal rungs. Peering cautiously over the edge of the wall onto the gravel roof, the doctor could just make out a black figure standing on the other side, looking out across the marsh.
"- telling you," the gunman was saying into a small walkie-talkie, "there's something weird going on. There's some sort of light that keeps blinking way out in the grass."
The device crackled with static. "Don' w'rry 'bout 't," slurred the reply from the other side. Apparently, the beer had found its way onto the roof as well. "'S prob'ly - hic! - jus' ligh' on th' water 'r somethin'."
"No, really," the sober mercenary insisted. "We oughtta tell Moran -"
The end of his sentence petered out in a gurgle as John wrapped his arm firmly around the man's windpipe, cutting off his speech and breathing. With no shortage of strength, the guard struggled, elbowing John hard in the stomach, but the doctor was by no means a weak man, and the element of surprise was strongly in his favor. Within minutes, the gunman ran out of oxygen and blacked out. John dropped the body and scooped up the walkie, which was chattering away with, "Oi, you there, Rickie?" and the like.
John spoke softly into it, dropping his voice and hoping static would muffle the discrepancy in timbre. "I'm here," he said. "Sorry. Saw a fox or sum'mat, out in the grass."
The man on the other line cackled. "Damn, Rickie, jumpin' a' shad'ws?"
"Yeah, something like that," John replied, before ripping the batteries out of the communicator and dropping it to the ground.
*****
SHERLOCK HOLMES
The door to the top of the tower hadn't been latched again after Moran left, and it was with no minor degree of self-satisfaction that I shut it behind me. The next step couldn't have been clearer - find John.
Before me, stairs spiraled down the tower, interrupted at intervals by landings, at which point small rooms on both sides jutted off into the walls. The wooden steps were original-to-the-structure-judging-by-the-prevalence-of-green-mold-at-the-edges, and marsh soil, left-as-a-deposit-from-a-male-shoe, confirmed that John had walked this way, followed by Moran (knick-in-the-drywall-where-his-gun-hit-it).
I could track John. I could also save time and ask Moran where he was. The sniper and I had a little unfinished business to clear up. This felt like as good a time as any.
The door directly to my right was shut, but a single glance told me it was unfastened. Theoretically, the guard dog would be sitting outside the room of his master, blissfully unaware that dear Jim had gotten into a bit of a tight spot. Pressing my ear to the wood, I could hear deep-breathing-appropriate-for-a-man-of-Moran's-height-and-chest-cavity-size, tempered by the raspy-thrum-characteristic-of-a-man-who-smokes-cigars. The sniper was seated-facing-away-from-me, given the slight muffling of noise. A sneer settled itself comfortably on my features as I threw the door open.
Drama queen. I could just hear John saying as much as Moran leaped in shock from his chair, reaching for his rifle, but I raised John's pistol and he stopped short.
"Mustn't touch that," I growled, hiding my limp as best I could as I crossed the office to him. "You'll find I'm not a patient man on my best days, and this has not exactly one of my better ones."
Moran was fuming, but I could see the trace of fear in his eyes and scoffed inwardly. Men with big guns were all the same - they toted their scary toys around because everything frightened them.
I knocked the rifle to the side and pressed the barrel of the Browning up against the sniper's Adam's apple. John's pistol had no bullets in it. I knew that. Moriarty knew that. Moran was absolutely clueless. The irony was divinity itself.
"Where is he?" I demanded, "and I suggest you tell me quickly, because I can find him with or without your help, and no one will ask questions when I tell them I shot you in self-defense."
"Down the stairs. Third door on the right," Moran replied sullenly.
"Excellent," I purred. "I trust this room has a key?"
"In the drawer."
Keeping my appropriated weapon trained on the sniper, I picked up the rifle first and then fished through the drawer for the key, never taking my eyes off the other man.
"Right," I breathed. "Sit. Stay. Be good."
Then I slung the rifle over my shoulder and backed out of the room, locking it from outside. That was one pit bull declawed. Briefly, I wondered if the same room key would work on whatever cell they'd sealed John up in. The doorknobs were standard-issue, so it seemed probable.
I could see all the cracked-bowed-damaged parts of the steps that would creak should I tread on them, and thus picked out a zigzagging path to follow downwards. There was a great deal of animation from inside the guarded rooms I was passing, but I paid it no mind. The third door on the right was all dark inside. That was unexpected, but not enormously surprising, either. What was a surprise was laying my hand on the knob and feeling it turn beneath my fingers. There had been no trace of a lie in Moran's eyes - he knew I was too smart for that - so what was this?
Letting the door swing open on its hinges, I took in the details at a glance: handcuffs-discarded-on-the-windowsill-and-a-plaster-shim-on-the-floor, the shattered-lightbulb-missing-its-wiring, and the makeshift-picklock-lying-by-the-door.
Brilliant.
I shut the door again, feeling a surge of admiration course through my system. John did manage to shock me sometimes, and here was just another instance to pencil onto the scoreboard. I should have realized that Dr. Watson was a hard person to keep in handcuffs.
Where would he have gone? The most logical assumption would have been to rescue me, but I hadn't met him on the stairs, and hypothetically he was intelligent enough to not repeat my mistake of trying to climb up the outside of the tower. It was then that I recalled the handcuffs.
Oh. Obvious.
Left on the windowsill like that, he could only have been using the light reflecting off the metal to signal to somebody outside. Presumably, the doctor went to meet whoever he had contacted.
Kneeling down gingerly, I examined the scuff mark left in the wood mould; it fit John's shoe size exactly. As I knelt on the stair, it occurred to me that it had gotten very quiet - why was it quiet?
"Stupid," I muttered aloud. "That was stupid. Very, very obvious." I didn't flinch when I heard the gun cock just behind my head.
"You come to get your rifle back?" I asked, knowing perfectly well that Moran was standing in back of me with half a dozen guards. A muscular arm pulled me up by the collar and slammed my chest against the wall.
"I didn't see the walkie-talkie," I continued, though little black spots were dancing along the edge of my vision. "Where'd you hide it?"
"I don't know how you got out," Moran spat, "but I know someone who's going to be very happy to have you back."
"Oh, yes, I'm sure Moriarty will love to see me again," I said coolly. "Better take me back on up, then, before I get away."
Moran was apparently miffed about being locked in his office, and quite literally dragged me back up the stairs. Everything my foot caught on rubbed bone against bone in my thigh, and I was doing my utmost not to think about my shoulder, but I still had a slightly manic smile on my face when the sniper dumped me on my back in front of Moriarty. With all my diversionary chit-chat, none of the guards had even bothered checking John's door.
John was free, and no-one in the compound but me knew it yet.