For John Watson

[howdull]

[Sherlock is still finding pieces of the melted laptop in the carpet.

It had actually been quite an ingenious booby trap to be devised by a fourteen year old boy with only household chemicals to work with but, as Sherlock surmised, rather overkill to keep his mother from finding his extensive porn collection. Not one of their more illustrious cases, but it had been quite entertaining to watch both the boy and mother's faces as he revealed that he did know the how and why. He lost interest after the mother started shouting and John started shouting and the whole thing turned tedious.

He rather thinks John won't actually be doing a full write-up of this one on his blog.

It's been two days since their last case and he's beginning to get more than a little antsy. Lestrade has sent him nothing, just a boring hit and run that he refused to even leave the flat for, and nobody interesting has appeared through the blog. Said blog he is currently scrolling through on John's laptop, having borrowed it again.

He did ask, it's not his fault John hadn't been in the room at the time.]

Bored, John.

[He doesn't even know if his flatmate is even in, but that's hardly a necessity for him to actually speak to John. Frustrated, he throws the laptop across the room to hit the wall, where it summarily breaks. Which is where he can be found whenever John appears, sulking amidst pieces of laptop, both from the melted one of their last case and John's poor broken one.]

Comments

[howdull]

[He's worried as hell now, what if this old dude dies in his car?! Right, yeah, distractions can be good for people in pain, right?]

Just at London University, nothing special, second year of my degree. I do cello, kinda hoping to get into a conservatoire after. I know I don't look the part, right? My Mum's always telling me that cellists don't have piercings or have pink hair.

[He's babbling now, taking the streets as fast as he dares while not going too much over the speed limit.]

You'll tell me if you start to black out, right? I don't mean to be funny, but the hospital might be the best place.

[jumpthegun]

I'll tell you. It's fine. It's fine, Jake. [John offers Jake a wavering smile.] I'm pretty sure cellists can look however they want. You're playing an instrument, not putting in for a beauty pageant. [The military man in him tends to agree that pink hair and random piercings don't look very good, but he's going to play to Jake's preferences for the moment.]

Never had the courage to go all out when I was younger. Always thought having colored streaks'd be cool, though. Maybe pierce my ears.

[howdull]

[His lips twitch as if he's trying not to laugh at the image of this sad old man with coloured streaks in his hair, but he's trying to be nice.]

Yeah, well. You're never too old and all that shit, right? You wanna do it, you do it, and then--

[He pulls to a halt in front of some traffic lights and the back door opens, a woman sliding in. Jake's eyes open wide and he twists around.]

Oi! This isn't a taxi, you've got the wrong car, lady. This man is really sick and-- Holy fucking shit.

[That last bit comes when a gun is levelled at him. The woman in the back seat has platinum blonde hair done up in a ponytail. She looks to be in her early thirties, tanned skin, blue eyes. The hand not holding the gun is missing a finger, the index finger, which is why she's holding the gun left handed, marriage band glinting on that hand. She's also wearing large hoop earrings, a necklace with a crucifix, faded jeans, and a blue hooded sweatshirt with the logo of a cartoon panda on the front. She will not be at all familiar to John, nor will her voice which is accented from Somerset.]

Drive.

[jumpthegun]

[D is for Driver. Fuck. His tone is even.]

I'm really sorry about this, Jake.

[To the woman:]

He's just some kid. Let him go.

[howdull]

[He's shaking from head to foot, but he does drive off when the light turns green, barely even hearing what John says.]

Look-- look, lady, I'll drive you wherever you want to go. You're on the run from the police, right? I'll help you get away, but we're gonna have to make a stop. This guy is really sick, like... might die if he doesn't get his meds, and you don't want to add that to all this, right? Let me drop him off and I'll drive you.

[Her eyes are fixed on John, utter hatred written all over her face.]

Shut up, kid. Just drive, Captain Watson and I are going to have a nice civilised little talk on the move.

[jumpthegun]

[It's almost breathtaking, really. He has no idea who this woman is, but he's apparently destroyed her life.]

It's okay, Jake. I'm not dying. I'm just in pain. I've got a couple of cracked ribs. I needed to get to Oxford Street.

[And apparently put an innocent civilian in danger. It hurts, but John twists in his seat to face her, suddenly feeling a wash of calm at the confrontation. This? This is much easier for him to deal with. Put the gun to his head, and he can manage. Put it to a friend's and that's when he starts to panic. He raises his hand, as if to reach for her gun to get the woman's full attention on him.]

You have me at a disadvantage. You know me. I don't know you.

[howdull]

You-- you're not dying? You know-- Jesus.

[Jake looks floored, betrayed, scared as shit, and confused. But he does not want to die, so he keeps driving, just seemingly picking a random route.

As soon as he raises his hand, she jams the gun into the back of Jake's neck at the base of his skull.]

Hands on the dashboard, Captain, I'm not an idiot.

[jumpthegun]

[John's jaw tightens, and he turns back forward, placing his hands on the dash.]

Are you one of my men's wives?

[Because that's the most logical conclusion he can reach.]

[howdull]

[Her expression spasms into grief and rage, before she forces it back to simmering resentment.]

You think I'm just going to tell you who I am so you can go to the police all nice and neat and tidy? You can call me Harry.

[It's a stroke of cruelty that she knows full well will hurt, with the venomous way she spits the name out at him.]

[jumpthegun]

[So, that's a yes. John's expression only twitches. He's in the middle of battle. This is the place where he feels best, feels calm and collected and himself. Sherlock hadn't been wrong about the Alphabet Woman targeting him not being a sensible reason for John's panic attack. If she were just targeting him, that would be something to almost relish. His heart thrums in his chest, knowing he's one step away from a bullet in the back of his head.

Unfortunately, Jake is in danger here, too.]

Okay. Do you want to tell me what I have to do to get Sherlock back?

cw: homophobic slurs

[howdull]

You're really broken up over him, ain't you? Didn't peg you for a poofter, you're a fucking disgrace.

[The hand holding the gun relaxes just a little bit so that the barrel isn't pressed so close to Jake's head and her voice changes a little. More informal, like keeping herself to proper sentences is a lot of work. Sherlock would probably say this indicates a low level of education. Jake's eyes dart sideways, a silent plea for some explanation as to what the hell his life has become in the last hour.]

Simple. You find where he is within three days and you can have him back, at least for now. S'a... what d'they call it? A temporary reprieve, 'cos in the end you're gonna have nothing at all.

[jumpthegun]

[John's eyes harden on the woman as he looks at her in the rearview mirror. His tone is still neutral and he does pick up on the shift in wording.]

Is that what you called my sister while you strangled her?

[If it is, the Alphabet Woman is going to be pressing hard at John's general principle to never hit a woman in anger.]

[howdull]

[Jake blanches and has to jerk to correct the steering. What the hell is going on? This woman killed John's sister? He feels like he's in the Bourne Identity or something.

She smiles and there's something vicious and feral about it, like her sanity may not be completely all there. But it's clear Sherlock was right, she had enjoyed it.]

You think I said anything to her? I waited 'til she was asleep, didn't want her perving on me like a fucking sicko. Oi, kid, take a left, head down to the Thames. We're getting out soon.

[jumpthegun]

[On the dash, John's hands curl into fists. The urge to deck the Alphabet Woman is growing stronger.]

Do I get a clue for Sherlock? I'm not a detective like he is.

[howdull]

Alright.

[Her face has gone oddly blank, almost shell-shocked.]

I've got a question I need answerin'. You get it right, and I'll send you a clue tomorrow by post. Deal?

[The streets down towards the Thames are quieter. Warehouse district streets that usually only get busy from midnight onwards as traders prepare for the upcoming day.]

[jumpthegun]

[By post doesn't give him much time.]

A text would be faster. And I don't want a piece of his body you've cut off as a 'clue.'

cw: homophobic slurs

[howdull]

I said post, you want a fucking clue or not, faggot?

[It's a dead end now, too close to the Thames, so Jake pulls up and keeps his hands on the steering wheel.]

[jumpthegun]

[For a second or two, John considers the possibility of grabbing her gun and turning it around on her. The calculations come out with a very, very low chance of success given his injuries and Jake's presence. She'd probably just shoot the kid. She might still just shoot him. Time to play by her rules, play nice.]

I want a clue. Deal.

[howdull]

[She steps out of the car and slams the door behind her, gesturing for Jake to wind his window down, which he does. She leans in and looks over at John on the passenger seat.]

Okay. You've got eleven minutes and fifteen seconds to answer my question.

[She levels the gun into the car without preamble and pulls the trigger, firing directly into Jake's stomach. His eyes widen and he coughs, a splatter of blood hitting the wheel.]

Time starts now.

[jumpthegun]

Fuck!

[John jerks around, but his movements are halt and he gasps as the jostling of his broken ribs brings a prickle of hot tears to his eyes. He tries to ignore it, forcing himself through the pain.]

Chair back. Lower it as far as it'll go, Jake, and pull your knees up.

[He going to try to pull off his jacket if the Alphabet Woman will let him and get pressure on the young man's wound. It's excruciating, and John can't help a few pained noises that escape his lips. Is this the question? How does he deal with a bullet wound? There's cold fury in his tone and in his gaze as he grits his teeth and fights through.]

Ask your question or get the hell out of here so I can call an ambulance.

[howdull]

[She doesn't stop him trying to treat Jake at all, she just stands up so she's watching dispassionately from just outside the car. Only her grip on the gun, white knuckled with tension, shows that this is doing anything to her.]

If he's still alive at eleven minutes and fifteen seconds you can call an ambulance, I want to see what you can do, Captain.

[Jake lets out a low and shuddering moan as shaking fingers find the seat control and ratchet it backwards, though he can't quite get his knees up for the steering wheel.]

Feel-- feel really weird, John. S'that really your name? Jesus, feel like-- like m'in a Liam Neeson film. This... s'this a dream?

[jumpthegun]

[The look John casts at the woman is nothing short of murderous, but his attention is drawn back down to Jake. Fine. He has basically nothing to work with, but fine. What does he have?]

Yep. That's my name. Tell me about the cello, Jake. Why'd you choose it?

[He tries to keep his voice calm and soothing, but his breathing is harsh from his own pain. John first slides his hand under Jake, under his shirt, if he can, to feel for an exit wound. Things will be both more and less difficult if that bullet didn't come out the other side.]

[howdull]

[The car is full of the usual student crap, old junk food wrappers, some papers, and then things for the car. A sponge to wipe off the condensation, a couple of rags, some cans of anti-freeze, some maps.

Jake's back is already slippery with blood and the seat has a neat hole in it where the bullet exited and hit the dense material of the chair. Jake hisses when he feels fingers probing around the wound, but the full pain hasn't set in yet, he just feels weirdly numb and a bit cold.]

'Cause I was a dumb kid. [He fights to keep focus. He has no idea if John is even a good guy any more, but he's the best chance Jake has.] I thought it was just a really big guitar, same sort of shape, and I thought-- bigger's better, right? I was-- so disappointed when my teacher didn't show me any riffs. But then I heard-- fuck-- I heard Dvorak's Concerto in B minor and I fell in love. Kinda-- fucking dumb, right? Whoever heard of a cellist getting the chicks?

[jumpthegun]

[Fuck, fuck, fuck. John grunts as he pulls back and reaches for some of those rags. Jake is going to bleed out before anything else becomes a problem at this rate. Eleven minutes and fifteen second. That has to be significant. The amount of time he had when he was trying to treat the Alphabet Woman's husband? Or maybe how long it took him to die when John didn't get to him?]

Probably the cellists with wives, hmm?

[The rags are stuffed under Jake, and John folds his jacket a few times before placing it over Jake's wound. He grabs one of the young man's hands and places it on the jacket.]

This is gonna hurt, Jake. I'm sorry. [And he presses down flat with his own hand over Jake's before leaning down and over. His voice is low, insistent.] It's gonna be okay. We'll get you through this. [It drops to something even quieter as he gets down near Jake's cheek, as if to kiss him.]

I'm going to put the car in reverse. I want you to hit the accelerator with your foot in five seconds. I'll steer. [If Jake can't get his legs up, they might as well try it this way. John draws back, volume increasing once more.] I promise we'll get you out of this, Jake. You'll have a good story for the chicks, yeah?

[howdull]

[Jake lets out a horrible groan when John presses down against the wound, and his body starts trembling from head to foot as shock starts to set in. It's really hard to pay attention, like he's being spoken to from underwater, but he does his absolute best to focus.

He has no idea if he manages to actually reply (he doesn't, all that comes out is a harsh gasp), but he shifts his foot onto the accelerator to show that he's heard. Five seconds is really hard to count.

One... two... three... two?... two... three...

It's actually eight seconds later when Jake slams his foot down on the accelerator, placing what trust he has left in John.]