Sherlock Holmes and The Star of the East (4 of 8)
Author: 
capt_facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sarah Sawyer, others
Summary: Christmas time brings a new case for the world's only consulting detective.
Warnings: (cave canem)
Word Count: 10 000+ (This chapter 1500)
Author's Notes: For Challenge 002 at
violinandwatch
Previous Chapters
December 23rd
December 24th
December 25th (part one)
.oOOo.
December 25th (part two)
After hours of scraping against the seam in the metal floor, John had finally dislodged the gag from his mouth. He called to Gus.
"Here Gus! Here Gus! Good doggie! Chew the ropes! The ropes! OWW! No, that's okay, it's not your fault. Stop licking my face! Stop it! (sigh) Yes, I love you too...’
Borzoi are not known for their escapological instincts. They have been known to leap high fences, but not to chew through polypropylene rope, so Gus settled once again to watch John’s contortions to free himself.
Some time later, Gus alerted to some sound outside and stood in expectation. The door was once again opened and Gus was led away. John could sense a change in their captors’ demeanour. They were more impatient and Father Christmas was unnecessarily cruel in his handling. They’ve made up their minds. They’re going to kill us. John was untied and pushed out the door. He was weaker than he hoped and his balance was off, but this was going to be his best time to escape.
When John did not move when he was told, Father Christmas shoved he stun gun into his neck and pulled the trigger. John collapsed but the charge was less than debilitating. Don’t make your move until you’re ready. Father Christmas hauled him up closer to the van and called to his partner for assistance.
‘What did you do that for?’ he got in reply.
‘What does it matter. Cops found the gem. Catherine is going to let us take the blame for all of this. We can’t even ransom the mutt, and this guy knows too much.’
‘Nobody was supposed to get hurt...’
‘...yeah, well... things change’
Hands freed, John lay in the snow and slowly removed the tape from his eyes. It was a moonlit night and they were somewhere in the countryside. John’s hand found a small twig among the rocks on the ground and moved his head slightly to see more. He was within reach of the rear tyre. Perfect. The two thugs argued until Gus distracted them with a brilliant manoeuvre: she squatted and ‘dumped a load’.
‘Now she does it!’
‘Do you suppose...?’
‘Catherine said the cops found it...’
‘She could be lying. There was nothing in the news. Or, even the cops...’
While both men knelt to examine Gus’s leavings, John removed the rear tyre’s valve cap and inserted the twig. The tyre began deflating with a low hissing sound. With an awkward lurch, John regained his feet and simultaneously hurled a cricket ball-sized rock at man with Father Christmas’s voice. It hit him hard in the neck, stunning him and knocking him to the ground. John had aimed for his head. Oh well, rugby wasn’t my game for nothing! John launched himself at the other man and his surprise tackle carried them both down an embankment.
With Father Christmas recovering there were no time for fond farewells. John gathered himself, sloshed his way through a shallow creek, and sprinted towards the woods on the other side. With a long bouncing stride Gus followed, her lead trailing behind her. This would be a desperate flight: John would be at a distinct disadvantage. Outnumbered, he did not know where he was or where he was going, and he was leaving a very clear trail in the snow. John removed Gus’s lead and stuffed in his coat pocket.
Only the dark of night allowed the woods to afford sufficient cover for their escape. Trees were sparse and followed the course of the creek. Often there were long gaps between the copses which John and Gus crossed in reckless sprints. At first, John thought to obscure their passage by walking in the creek, but the water was icy cold and Gus could neither be convinced nor coerced to follow suit.
The night clouded over and a light rain began to fall. John needed to find a telephone. A house or a commercial building would suffice. If nobody was around he had no qualms about breaking in. If an alarm was set off, all the better; he could wait for the police. They had been on the run for over an hour when. in the distance, John saw a single security light illuminating the space between three low, metal buildings. He changed course.
The compound proved to be Eddsom’s Farm Machinery Sales and Service. The business was closed for the holidays and was surrounded by a three metre high security fence topped with razor-wire. Even the gate was similarly equipped. John walked the perimeter, looking for a way in. He found instead, a rock to smash the gate’s padlock and set to work. Half a dozen solid strikes mashed the lock but failed to disengage the mechanism. He would have to climb.
The rain made everything slippery. John rubbed his hands to warm them and grabbed hold of the fence. His feet were clumsy with cold and could not find purchase in the chain links. Just out of reach of the top horizontal pipe, John’s feet slipped and he was left dangling. Unable to recover his footing, his arms wrenched catching his weight. He had to let go and try again. His second attempt also failed, leaving him shaking with cold and exertion. There would be no third attempt. His weak shoulder would not bear the strain. Gus commiserated while he slumped against the fence and perked her head just as headlamps could be seen along the road.
Before John could stagger to his feet Gus began to whine and cower. Damn. It was Father Christmas’s panel van. She must have recognised the sound it made. John hauled her to the ground and held her still, hoping that her white fur would be mistaken for a clump of snow. They lay in the shallow ditch water while the van stopped at the foot of the lane and torchlight swept the gate area. John closed his eyes, held his breath, and willed their pursuers away. These are not the droids you’re looking for. An eternity later, he heard the van pull away, which left John to wonder if what had just happened really had just happened.
Muddy and soaked to the skin, man and dog left the farm machinery shop and resumed following the creek. Eventually it emptied into a rain-swollen river. Copses of trees were fewer in number but there was no more sprinting for cover. John and Gus were both exhausted. Keep moving... keep warm. While they had slaked their thirst with water from the creek and river, neither had eaten in the past two days.
With no other signs of habitation, John followed the river for a couple of kilometres until their path was thwarted by a motorway bridge. The swollen water surged past the bridge footings, leaving no place to walk. The river was too wide, too deep, and too fast-flowing to be forded. There was also a stand of trees for better cover on the other bank, but they would have to use the bridge to get to it. At least the rain had moved on and the moon could be seen slinking in and out of the clouds.
John crept up the bank, looking and listening for any signs of pursuit. There were tyre treads in the slushy snow but he could not tell how recent they were. All was dark and quiet. He called for Gus. Half of the narrow bridge had been cordoned off with pylons to ward drivers from a section where the concrete wall had given way. Reconstruction efforts had been put on hold for the holidays and warning signs had been left in place. John was halfway across the bridge when Gus caught up with him, limping. There was not enough light to see what was wrong but John could feel her flinch when he examined her front paw.
‘Hang in there, Princess. We’ll stop again once we’re in those woods. Just a few...’
Gus let out a yelp as a motor thundered to life and high-powered headlamps suddenly blinded them. The van had been lying in wait at the other side of the bridge. Now, it was speeding toward them to run them down.
‘Jump, Gus!’
Man and dog both leapt, their trajectory carrying them past the river's course and onto the riverbank. While both jumped, only one of them was a graceful sighthound with a long, springy stride. The other was John Watson and his string of luck had just run out. Gus landed on the soft, muddy bank and dashed for the woods. John landed amongst the concrete rubble and construction detritus strewn along the base and screamed in agony as his ankle turned. The bones in his leg splintered and snapped. Gus scampered back to his side just as the two men slid down the embankment.
John managed only two faltering steps before he was set upon. He sat huddled against the rubble trying to stifle his cries but the pain was too much. The thugs picked up short lengths of reinforcing bar from the rubble and circled their prey in anticipation. Gus whined and cringed, and danced out of range. John caught the first blow on his wrist, the second on his back. He didn’t feel any of the subsequent ones.
.oOOo.
Next Chapter: December 26th
Please sign the guestbook
capt_facepalm
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Sarah Sawyer, others
Summary: Christmas time brings a new case for the world's only consulting detective.
Warnings: (cave canem)
Word Count: 10 000+ (This chapter 1500)
Author's Notes: For Challenge 002 at
violinandwatch
Previous Chapters
December 23rd
December 24th
December 25th (part one)
.oOOo.
December 25th (part two)
After hours of scraping against the seam in the metal floor, John had finally dislodged the gag from his mouth. He called to Gus.
"Here Gus! Here Gus! Good doggie! Chew the ropes! The ropes! OWW! No, that's okay, it's not your fault. Stop licking my face! Stop it! (sigh) Yes, I love you too...’
Borzoi are not known for their escapological instincts. They have been known to leap high fences, but not to chew through polypropylene rope, so Gus settled once again to watch John’s contortions to free himself.
Some time later, Gus alerted to some sound outside and stood in expectation. The door was once again opened and Gus was led away. John could sense a change in their captors’ demeanour. They were more impatient and Father Christmas was unnecessarily cruel in his handling. They’ve made up their minds. They’re going to kill us. John was untied and pushed out the door. He was weaker than he hoped and his balance was off, but this was going to be his best time to escape.
When John did not move when he was told, Father Christmas shoved he stun gun into his neck and pulled the trigger. John collapsed but the charge was less than debilitating. Don’t make your move until you’re ready. Father Christmas hauled him up closer to the van and called to his partner for assistance.
‘What did you do that for?’ he got in reply.
‘What does it matter. Cops found the gem. Catherine is going to let us take the blame for all of this. We can’t even ransom the mutt, and this guy knows too much.’
‘Nobody was supposed to get hurt...’
‘...yeah, well... things change’
Hands freed, John lay in the snow and slowly removed the tape from his eyes. It was a moonlit night and they were somewhere in the countryside. John’s hand found a small twig among the rocks on the ground and moved his head slightly to see more. He was within reach of the rear tyre. Perfect. The two thugs argued until Gus distracted them with a brilliant manoeuvre: she squatted and ‘dumped a load’.
‘Now she does it!’
‘Do you suppose...?’
‘Catherine said the cops found it...’
‘She could be lying. There was nothing in the news. Or, even the cops...’
While both men knelt to examine Gus’s leavings, John removed the rear tyre’s valve cap and inserted the twig. The tyre began deflating with a low hissing sound. With an awkward lurch, John regained his feet and simultaneously hurled a cricket ball-sized rock at man with Father Christmas’s voice. It hit him hard in the neck, stunning him and knocking him to the ground. John had aimed for his head. Oh well, rugby wasn’t my game for nothing! John launched himself at the other man and his surprise tackle carried them both down an embankment.
With Father Christmas recovering there were no time for fond farewells. John gathered himself, sloshed his way through a shallow creek, and sprinted towards the woods on the other side. With a long bouncing stride Gus followed, her lead trailing behind her. This would be a desperate flight: John would be at a distinct disadvantage. Outnumbered, he did not know where he was or where he was going, and he was leaving a very clear trail in the snow. John removed Gus’s lead and stuffed in his coat pocket.
Only the dark of night allowed the woods to afford sufficient cover for their escape. Trees were sparse and followed the course of the creek. Often there were long gaps between the copses which John and Gus crossed in reckless sprints. At first, John thought to obscure their passage by walking in the creek, but the water was icy cold and Gus could neither be convinced nor coerced to follow suit.
The night clouded over and a light rain began to fall. John needed to find a telephone. A house or a commercial building would suffice. If nobody was around he had no qualms about breaking in. If an alarm was set off, all the better; he could wait for the police. They had been on the run for over an hour when. in the distance, John saw a single security light illuminating the space between three low, metal buildings. He changed course.
The compound proved to be Eddsom’s Farm Machinery Sales and Service. The business was closed for the holidays and was surrounded by a three metre high security fence topped with razor-wire. Even the gate was similarly equipped. John walked the perimeter, looking for a way in. He found instead, a rock to smash the gate’s padlock and set to work. Half a dozen solid strikes mashed the lock but failed to disengage the mechanism. He would have to climb.
The rain made everything slippery. John rubbed his hands to warm them and grabbed hold of the fence. His feet were clumsy with cold and could not find purchase in the chain links. Just out of reach of the top horizontal pipe, John’s feet slipped and he was left dangling. Unable to recover his footing, his arms wrenched catching his weight. He had to let go and try again. His second attempt also failed, leaving him shaking with cold and exertion. There would be no third attempt. His weak shoulder would not bear the strain. Gus commiserated while he slumped against the fence and perked her head just as headlamps could be seen along the road.
Before John could stagger to his feet Gus began to whine and cower. Damn. It was Father Christmas’s panel van. She must have recognised the sound it made. John hauled her to the ground and held her still, hoping that her white fur would be mistaken for a clump of snow. They lay in the shallow ditch water while the van stopped at the foot of the lane and torchlight swept the gate area. John closed his eyes, held his breath, and willed their pursuers away. These are not the droids you’re looking for. An eternity later, he heard the van pull away, which left John to wonder if what had just happened really had just happened.
Muddy and soaked to the skin, man and dog left the farm machinery shop and resumed following the creek. Eventually it emptied into a rain-swollen river. Copses of trees were fewer in number but there was no more sprinting for cover. John and Gus were both exhausted. Keep moving... keep warm. While they had slaked their thirst with water from the creek and river, neither had eaten in the past two days.
With no other signs of habitation, John followed the river for a couple of kilometres until their path was thwarted by a motorway bridge. The swollen water surged past the bridge footings, leaving no place to walk. The river was too wide, too deep, and too fast-flowing to be forded. There was also a stand of trees for better cover on the other bank, but they would have to use the bridge to get to it. At least the rain had moved on and the moon could be seen slinking in and out of the clouds.
John crept up the bank, looking and listening for any signs of pursuit. There were tyre treads in the slushy snow but he could not tell how recent they were. All was dark and quiet. He called for Gus. Half of the narrow bridge had been cordoned off with pylons to ward drivers from a section where the concrete wall had given way. Reconstruction efforts had been put on hold for the holidays and warning signs had been left in place. John was halfway across the bridge when Gus caught up with him, limping. There was not enough light to see what was wrong but John could feel her flinch when he examined her front paw.
‘Hang in there, Princess. We’ll stop again once we’re in those woods. Just a few...’
Gus let out a yelp as a motor thundered to life and high-powered headlamps suddenly blinded them. The van had been lying in wait at the other side of the bridge. Now, it was speeding toward them to run them down.
‘Jump, Gus!’
Man and dog both leapt, their trajectory carrying them past the river's course and onto the riverbank. While both jumped, only one of them was a graceful sighthound with a long, springy stride. The other was John Watson and his string of luck had just run out. Gus landed on the soft, muddy bank and dashed for the woods. John landed amongst the concrete rubble and construction detritus strewn along the base and screamed in agony as his ankle turned. The bones in his leg splintered and snapped. Gus scampered back to his side just as the two men slid down the embankment.
John managed only two faltering steps before he was set upon. He sat huddled against the rubble trying to stifle his cries but the pain was too much. The thugs picked up short lengths of reinforcing bar from the rubble and circled their prey in anticipation. Gus whined and cringed, and danced out of range. John caught the first blow on his wrist, the second on his back. He didn’t feel any of the subsequent ones.
.oOOo.
Next Chapter: December 26th
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