Filled: Best Laid Plans (9/14)
anonymous
May 14 2011, 03:44:33 UTC
Sherlock had a plan. It wasn’t, as his plans went, the most airtight concept, but after a week of observing his surroundings, sizing up the guards, and worrying to the point of incoherence about John, he concluded it was the best he was going to come up with. It was better than doing nothing, alone and twitching with boredom and uselessness. So he ate the dry toast and half rotted apples that passed for meals, and even managed to coax himself into a few hours of fitful sleep each night, building what strength he could.
On the third day after he settled on the idea, he knocked on the door of his cell - the sign that he wanted to use the toilet - and the right guard answered. He was a big man, wide and muscular, but half a head shorter than Sherlock. More importantly, the first time Sherlock met him he’d had a spit-up stain on the shoulder of his rumbled jumper. A baby at home meant sleepless nights and slower responses (and, Sherlock was willing to gamble, maybe even a sympathetic disposition). It was time.
The man’s grip was light as he led Sherlock down the hall to the toilet. It was the kind of communal room that had stalls, though Sherlock doubted there was anyone else on the floor to use it. He gestured at one of the stalls and the guard nodded, not protesting when Sherlock closed the door behind him (almost certainly against Moriarty’s orders, but all of the guards had allowed him that much privacy).
Next came the hard part. The toilet was old and porcelain, with a heavy seat cover that had been loose even before Sherlock purposefully wiggled and prodded it off its hinges over the last several days. He hefted the cover into his hands, firming his grip and ignoring the burning in his arms.
Then he started to groan. Loudly, absurdly loudly, loudly enough that anyone with half a brain and even a smidgen of compassion would be concerned. It only took twenty seconds for the guard to start banging on the door.
“Hey, you all right?”
“No.” Sherlock made his voice weak and shaky.
He groaned again, and then spun just as the door swung open, bringing down the seat on the man’s head with all his strength. The porcelain shattered, and a searing jab of pain shot through his right hand (John, he thought, and the pain receded behind his anger). The guard collapsed, gasping in shock. Sherlock jumped over the body and out the door, sprinting with a speed born of desperation towards the stairs he knew were twenty feet away.
Running hurt in every fiber, each breath harsh and burning in his lungs. But he couldn’t stop. (John.)
He made it to the stairwell, and began to descend, half running and half stumbling, bloody hand grabbing at the rail to keep upright. He only had five floors to make and then…
And then he had to hope he was lucky. He was confident the building wasn’t heavily guarded - too many guards meant too many people who might betray the location. But it wouldn’t take much to stop him. (Had the guard he left upstairs had a gun? Probably. He should have stopped to check.) (What had he been thinking, to not check for a gun?) (John.)
The thump of his uneven footsteps and his ragged breaths echoed off the walls as he pushed himself downwards. Past the fourth floor, past the third floor -
The sharp creak of a door slamming open. A high keening laugh from above.
He looked up long enough to see Moriarty raise a pistol, delighted smile playing across his face -
A BANG rang through the stairwell, knocking away all other sounds -
A shattering pain and Sherlock crumpled, flopping heels over head down the stairs.
Re: Filled: Best Laid Plans (9/14)
anonymous
May 14 2011, 04:43:40 UTC
OP!
Loved the latest posts! The conversation with John and Harry was great. I like how you gave a little look into their past to help show why Harry might think John was capable of it. John's really getting painted into a corner isn't he?
And Sherlock's escape attempt felt genuinely frantic. And now he's been shot?!! God, it's all going to hell for both of them!
On the third day after he settled on the idea, he knocked on the door of his cell - the sign that he wanted to use the toilet - and the right guard answered. He was a big man, wide and muscular, but half a head shorter than Sherlock. More importantly, the first time Sherlock met him he’d had a spit-up stain on the shoulder of his rumbled jumper. A baby at home meant sleepless nights and slower responses (and, Sherlock was willing to gamble, maybe even a sympathetic disposition). It was time.
The man’s grip was light as he led Sherlock down the hall to the toilet. It was the kind of communal room that had stalls, though Sherlock doubted there was anyone else on the floor to use it. He gestured at one of the stalls and the guard nodded, not protesting when Sherlock closed the door behind him (almost certainly against Moriarty’s orders, but all of the guards had allowed him that much privacy).
Next came the hard part. The toilet was old and porcelain, with a heavy seat cover that had been loose even before Sherlock purposefully wiggled and prodded it off its hinges over the last several days. He hefted the cover into his hands, firming his grip and ignoring the burning in his arms.
Then he started to groan. Loudly, absurdly loudly, loudly enough that anyone with half a brain and even a smidgen of compassion would be concerned. It only took twenty seconds for the guard to start banging on the door.
“Hey, you all right?”
“No.” Sherlock made his voice weak and shaky.
He groaned again, and then spun just as the door swung open, bringing down the seat on the man’s head with all his strength. The porcelain shattered, and a searing jab of pain shot through his right hand (John, he thought, and the pain receded behind his anger). The guard collapsed, gasping in shock. Sherlock jumped over the body and out the door, sprinting with a speed born of desperation towards the stairs he knew were twenty feet away.
Running hurt in every fiber, each breath harsh and burning in his lungs. But he couldn’t stop. (John.)
He made it to the stairwell, and began to descend, half running and half stumbling, bloody hand grabbing at the rail to keep upright. He only had five floors to make and then…
And then he had to hope he was lucky. He was confident the building wasn’t heavily guarded - too many guards meant too many people who might betray the location. But it wouldn’t take much to stop him. (Had the guard he left upstairs had a gun? Probably. He should have stopped to check.) (What had he been thinking, to not check for a gun?) (John.)
The thump of his uneven footsteps and his ragged breaths echoed off the walls as he pushed himself downwards. Past the fourth floor, past the third floor -
The sharp creak of a door slamming open. A high keening laugh from above.
He looked up long enough to see Moriarty raise a pistol, delighted smile playing across his face -
A BANG rang through the stairwell, knocking away all other sounds -
A shattering pain and Sherlock crumpled, flopping heels over head down the stairs.
Reply
Loved the latest posts! The conversation with John and Harry was great. I like how you gave a little look into their past to help show why Harry might think John was capable of it. John's really getting painted into a corner isn't he?
And Sherlock's escape attempt felt genuinely frantic. And now he's been shot?!! God, it's all going to hell for both of them!
Reply
Leave a comment