Down the Drain
Title: Down the Drain
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Word Count: 828
Rating: PG
Note: Amnesty prompt for watsons_woes - imprisonment.
Summary: John wakes up in a sewer. Now continued in Arising.
Down the Drain
John awoke to the sound of dripping - a constant, repetitive plunk, plunk, plunk that seemed to reach in and grab his consciousness, pulling it to the surface. As it did, the water droplets' song became the least of his worries.
First off, he was cold. He’d no sooner made the realization than the shivering started. That led to the second discovery - he was hurt. Every tremor than ran through him awoke a new source of pain. His head thudded miserably, making his eyes water; ribs complained with every breath; and… yep, he was pretty sure his leg was broken. On the up side, he didn’t think he’d been shot again.
Deciding things could only go up from here, John opened his eyes.
And was promptly proved wrong.
Looking around him (while making an effort to move as little as possible) it became clear that he was in a sewer tunnel. A sewer tunnel that was blocked on both ends by heavy barred grates that looked like they’d been built for one purpose - not to bloody move. The only other opening was far above him - a hole with a ladder that looked like it had rusted through and broken off years ago.
How in the world had he gotten here? And how was he going to get out?
His sluggish mind was attempting to answer these questions when he heard a faint bell-like chiming. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize it was his phone, which was in his pocket. By the time he figured it out and pulled it free it had stopped ringing, but that was alright, because now at least he could call for help. He was fumbling at it with shaking hands and trying to get his vision to focus (concussion, his inner-doctor whispered) enough to make a call when it started ringing again - Sherlock’s name across the screen.
Sherlock was… calling?
“Hello?” He answered warily, sure someone had either knocked Sherlock out and taken his phone or his concussed mind was playing tricks on him.
“John!” Sherlock’s voice yelled, making him cringe back as his head gave a particularly nasty throb.
“Sherlock? Why are you calling?”
“You’ve been missing for hours. Where-“ The rushed, dare he say panicked, voice abruptly stopped replaced by deep breaths.
“Hours? I don’t…” John’s voice drifted off and he rubbed his face wearily. Everything was so muddled.
He was only slightly surprised when he pulled his hand back to find it sticky with blood.
“John!”
“Stop yelling…”
“Then answer me!” Sherlock snarled, followed by the sound of that deep breathing again. When he continued, his voice was slow and lined with a kind of forced calm. “John, I need you to tell me where you are.”
“A sewer.”
“A- You’re in a sewer? Whatever for?” Sherlock asked, that calm slipping slightly.
“Don’t know,” John answered, resisting the urge to rub his face again - it felt itchy now that he knew there was drying blood there…
“What do you know?”
“Lots of things. I went to medical school,” John said, then paused, knowing something was wrong with this situation. “I… have a head injury.”
“Yes, I’d figured that out, thank you,” Sherlock snapped. “What I don’t know is where you are or how you got there.”
John giggled. “You’re in a right snit. I’m the one in the bloody sewer with a broken leg.”
“… your leg’s broken? I thought you said you had a head injury?”
“I have that, too.”
More controlled deep breathing.
“John, I need you to focus now, alright? What is the last thing you remember?”
“I… oh! I was chasing… I don’t remember his name. The one with the dodgy beard…”
“Williams, yes, yes. You were chasing Williams and then…”
“He… disappeared? No, that’s not right. He went around a corner… and he was gone… But I saw him again…”
“He must’ve ambushed you. If that’s when you sustained your head injury, it explains the confusion. Now, I need you to remember where you were when this happened, John.”
As John thought about it he heard Sherlock’s muffled voice yelling, “Find that moron Williams, Lestrade! He’s done something with John.”
“I was looking into that address you gave me…” John said slowly, digging for memories that kept slipping away like water.
“Yes, the one near Charing Cross.”
“Right, and… OH! Adam Street! I spotted Williams on the street before I got to the address and chased him - I remember turning onto Adam Street.”
“Good, that’s good, John,” Sherlock breathed in relief, the sound of running feet in the background.
John sighed and did a little careful shuffling so he could lean back against the wall behind him, feeling better knowing that Sherlock was on the case. At least he was feeling better - until the approaching sound of rushing water suddenly reached him.
“Sherlock…”
“It’s still raining, John,” came Sherlock’s tight answer, the sound of running kicking up a notch.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Word Count: 828
Rating: PG
Note: Amnesty prompt for watsons_woes - imprisonment.
Summary: John wakes up in a sewer. Now continued in Arising.
Down the Drain
John awoke to the sound of dripping - a constant, repetitive plunk, plunk, plunk that seemed to reach in and grab his consciousness, pulling it to the surface. As it did, the water droplets' song became the least of his worries.
First off, he was cold. He’d no sooner made the realization than the shivering started. That led to the second discovery - he was hurt. Every tremor than ran through him awoke a new source of pain. His head thudded miserably, making his eyes water; ribs complained with every breath; and… yep, he was pretty sure his leg was broken. On the up side, he didn’t think he’d been shot again.
Deciding things could only go up from here, John opened his eyes.
And was promptly proved wrong.
Looking around him (while making an effort to move as little as possible) it became clear that he was in a sewer tunnel. A sewer tunnel that was blocked on both ends by heavy barred grates that looked like they’d been built for one purpose - not to bloody move. The only other opening was far above him - a hole with a ladder that looked like it had rusted through and broken off years ago.
How in the world had he gotten here? And how was he going to get out?
His sluggish mind was attempting to answer these questions when he heard a faint bell-like chiming. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize it was his phone, which was in his pocket. By the time he figured it out and pulled it free it had stopped ringing, but that was alright, because now at least he could call for help. He was fumbling at it with shaking hands and trying to get his vision to focus (concussion, his inner-doctor whispered) enough to make a call when it started ringing again - Sherlock’s name across the screen.
Sherlock was… calling?
“Hello?” He answered warily, sure someone had either knocked Sherlock out and taken his phone or his concussed mind was playing tricks on him.
“John!” Sherlock’s voice yelled, making him cringe back as his head gave a particularly nasty throb.
“Sherlock? Why are you calling?”
“You’ve been missing for hours. Where-“ The rushed, dare he say panicked, voice abruptly stopped replaced by deep breaths.
“Hours? I don’t…” John’s voice drifted off and he rubbed his face wearily. Everything was so muddled.
He was only slightly surprised when he pulled his hand back to find it sticky with blood.
“John!”
“Stop yelling…”
“Then answer me!” Sherlock snarled, followed by the sound of that deep breathing again. When he continued, his voice was slow and lined with a kind of forced calm. “John, I need you to tell me where you are.”
“A sewer.”
“A- You’re in a sewer? Whatever for?” Sherlock asked, that calm slipping slightly.
“Don’t know,” John answered, resisting the urge to rub his face again - it felt itchy now that he knew there was drying blood there…
“What do you know?”
“Lots of things. I went to medical school,” John said, then paused, knowing something was wrong with this situation. “I… have a head injury.”
“Yes, I’d figured that out, thank you,” Sherlock snapped. “What I don’t know is where you are or how you got there.”
John giggled. “You’re in a right snit. I’m the one in the bloody sewer with a broken leg.”
“… your leg’s broken? I thought you said you had a head injury?”
“I have that, too.”
More controlled deep breathing.
“John, I need you to focus now, alright? What is the last thing you remember?”
“I… oh! I was chasing… I don’t remember his name. The one with the dodgy beard…”
“Williams, yes, yes. You were chasing Williams and then…”
“He… disappeared? No, that’s not right. He went around a corner… and he was gone… But I saw him again…”
“He must’ve ambushed you. If that’s when you sustained your head injury, it explains the confusion. Now, I need you to remember where you were when this happened, John.”
As John thought about it he heard Sherlock’s muffled voice yelling, “Find that moron Williams, Lestrade! He’s done something with John.”
“I was looking into that address you gave me…” John said slowly, digging for memories that kept slipping away like water.
“Yes, the one near Charing Cross.”
“Right, and… OH! Adam Street! I spotted Williams on the street before I got to the address and chased him - I remember turning onto Adam Street.”
“Good, that’s good, John,” Sherlock breathed in relief, the sound of running feet in the background.
John sighed and did a little careful shuffling so he could lean back against the wall behind him, feeling better knowing that Sherlock was on the case. At least he was feeling better - until the approaching sound of rushing water suddenly reached him.
“Sherlock…”
“It’s still raining, John,” came Sherlock’s tight answer, the sound of running kicking up a notch.