Sherlock fic - Safe House

[dimity_blue]

Title: Safe House
Author: Arnie
Rating: PG (swearing)
Genre: Gen, humour, a little bit of angst
Characters: John, Mycroft
Word count: 2,928 words
Spoilers: For A Study in Pink
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Summary: John really hates being kidnapped.

Notes: James Windibank is mentioned in the ACD story "A Case of Identity".
One line taken from A Study in Pink.


Safe House
by Arnie

John looked up as the door opened. To his surprise, the person entering was not the doctor but was, instead, a very familiar bureaucratic figure. "Mycroft!"

"Good evening, John." Typically, Mycroft seemed quite at ease.

"Have you seen Sherlock?" John hadn't - not since he'd been hauled off in a separate ambulance. The amount of EMTs surrounding Sherlock as he'd been shoved into the ambulance had been alarming though.

Mycroft smiled. "He's being transferred to a private room. His condition is stable; the doctors are keeping him in as a precaution." Mycroft regarded the tip of his umbrella. "He awoke briefly, partly to insult one of the doctors, but he also requested that I ensure your comfort. Not that there was any doubt as to that."

"So he's alright?" John slumped with relief.

"My brother is, fortunately for him, more resilient than he appears. Ah, Doctor Milton."

"Mr. Holmes." The doctor regarded John's file and then gave him a smile. "Well, Doctor Watson, you can go. I recommend you take things easy for the next few days." He held out a prescription, then diverted to hand it to Mycroft, rather to John's annoyance. "Just some painkillers; no more than eight in a day though. Keep the wrist brace on for at least the next week, and visit your GP to have those stitches removed in ten days' time. Any questions?"

John shook his head; he knew the routine just as well as the doctor did. He'd been far more concerned for Sherlock than he had been over his own sprained wrist and cuts and bruises.

"Well then..." Mycroft held out his hand. "Thank you, Doctor. I'll see to Doctor Watson from here."

John looked up at that. So far as he was concerned, there was no need to 'see to' him at all; he planned on spending the night sitting by Sherlock's bedside, ready to berate him (not that he'd listen) for shoving John out of the way of that speeding car.

The doctor left and John frowned at Mycroft. "I'll get a cab back to Baker Street," he lied.

"Nonsense; the car's outside." He smiled as his chauffeur appeared, pushing a wheelchair.

John gazed at them at they stood side by side; one, smiling benignly, the other looking carefully blank. Even without the brace on his left wrist, John was pretty sure he'd lose if he went up against Mycroft's chauffeur, plus he had a healthy suspicion that Mycroft didn't carry that umbrella just because it looked like rain. Therefore, for the moment, it seemed he was out of options, and John hated being out of options. "Fine. Baker Street it is, then."

Naturally, the car was outside, the lovely Anthea waiting for them. It wasn't until he was tucked into the back seat, with the chauffeur embarrassingly doing up his seatbelt for him, that John realised Mycroft wasn't going with them.

"I'll see you tomorrow, John. Sleep well." With that, he disappeared back inside the hospital, two dark-suited men beside him.

As the car set off, John glanced at Anthea, her gaze fixed on her ever-present Blackberry. John wondered what she did on it all the time. Perhaps she was sending mini-messages to Mycroft every step of the way: John in car; John looking peeved; John trying to chat me up. Given what he knew of Mycroft, he wouldn't put it past him.

He sighed and leaned his head against the headrest, letting his eyes slide shut, then they popped open again as the memory of Sherlock bouncing off the bonnet of that damned car replayed itself against his inner eyelids. At least Sherlock was okay, that was the main thing. Not that John had had an opportunity to see that for himself. Well, there was always tomorrow. He'd get a cab from Baker Street in the morning, assuming Lestrade didn't call in and offer him a lift. For all that Sherlock snapped at Lestrade, the detective inspector seemed to have a soft spot for him.

Distracted by thoughts of how much Lestrade was going to tease Sherlock over letting James Windibank escape, John's attention was drawn back to the car when he realised he had no idea where they were. He sat up and looked around. Nothing looked familiar at all. "Where are we going?"

Anthea looked up. "To a safe house."

"What about Baker Street?" John had planned on returning to Baker Street; he'd said so to Mycroft.

"I was told to take you to a safe house." Her fingers moved over the Blackberry and John could imagine the message: John's realised he's been kidnapped again.

God, this was annoying. John was beginning to suspect that Mycroft viewed him as an inanimate object to be moved at will - Mycroft's will, that was. Well, just because he'd been kidnapped, didn't mean he had to stay kidnapped. As soon as this damned car stopped at a red light, he was off.

Only...the car didn't stop at any red lights. Or rather, there were no red lights for the car to stop at. As every traffic light turned green at their approach, John's irritation deepened. He'd been kidnapped a number of times since moving in with Sherlock, he had experience at being kidnapped, and there was nothing quite so annoying as being kidnapped by someone who was so damned efficient at it. Mycroft could claim to hold a 'minor position in the British Government' all he wanted; John had met plenty of Government workers in his time, and none of them had appeared to have a university degree in kidnapping. Or if they did, they'd had the courtesy to keep it to themselves.

For a moment, his mind ran on, thinking about that curriculum. The first class would cover locating your target; the second, subduing your target; the third, kidnapping your target without him even realising -

And that was the most annoying thing about this time; John had got into the car voluntarily because he (stupidly) believed he was being driven home. Just let Mycroft offer him a lift next time. Oh no - if Mycroft wanted to kidnap him again, he was going to have to use brute force; John would insist upon it.

His gaze slid to one side as Anthea continued typing on her Blackberry. She was probably reading his mind and letting Mycroft know how many secret service men he'd need to get John into the car. One built-like-a-tank chauffeur wasn't going to do it; Mycroft was going to need an army to kidnap John in future.

John's anger kept him going all the way to the house. He had to admit it looked very nice; it was set far back from the road, there were leafy trees surrounding it, and it was definitely on the large side. However, he didn't want to be there. He considered making a break for it once the car had stopped, but since he'd have to outrun the built-like-a-tank chauffeur, and there was every chance Anthea would join in...corralling him, as it were, John really didn't need the extra humiliation. Therefore, he clamped down on his anger, and kept his mouth shut as he was escorted into the house.

"Good evening, miss. Doctor Watson." The authentic looking butler took John's coat.

Anthea smiled at John. "Just ask Jenkins if you need anything." Then she and the chauffeur left.

John eyed Jenkins. "Is that your real name then?" he asked.

Jenkins smiled. "No, sir. Please follow me, sir, and I'll show you to your room."

Following him up the wide staircase, John reflected that he wasn't surprised the man's name wasn't Jenkins; it seemed that none of Mycroft's staff went by their real names. He did wonder how they all coped at their Christmas office party though.

The room he was shown into was just as nice as the house. Jenkins pointed out the ensuite bathroom, which came complete with a plastic sleeve to protect John's wrist brace, then offered to fetch John some tea or some soup if he preferred.

"No, thanks. I think I'll turn in." John managed a half-smile, but, if he was honest, he just wanted to be left alone to have a hot shower then get some sleep. Maybe, in the morning, he'd feel better about Mycroft's high-handedness.

"Very well, sir. I'll bring you a glass of water so you may take your medication."

"My..." John stared at the small paper bag on the bedside table. He didn't believe it. Mycroft had his prescription, so how they'd managed to get it filled and sent here before John arrived was a mystery. Maybe they'd couriered it across via helicopter. Would they go that far? Actually, John believed they would.

By the time Jenkins returned, John had had his shower and was sitting on the bed, dressed in his most comfortable pyjamas while he struggled with a childproof top. He'd privately wondered if his old, comfy pyjamas had been couriered across London by helicopter as well but decided he didn't actually care if they had. Okay, maybe he cared if it had been Anthea rooting through his drawers, but otherwise not.

"May I, sir?"

John gladly handed over the childproof tub that had also proved to be Johnproof. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, sir. Will there be anything else?"

"Nope, that's it. Thanks."

"Good night, sir."

And finally, the door was shut and John was alone and, he hoped, not likely to be disturbed.

He sighed; it had been a long, long day. At least Sherlock was alright - though he might not be when John got hold of him. Honestly, sometimes John swore the man had a death wish. Yes, it had been very good of Sherlock to shove John out of the way of that speeding car, but it meant Sherlock was the one who was hit. He could have died, for God's sake, and what would John have done then? He didn't suppose that had occurred to Sherlock, the looming great pillock.

John took a deep breath. Okay, so, first, take some painkillers; second, get a good night's sleep; third, kick Sherlock's backside for him. John liked having a plan; he'd found it kept him sane.

He picked up the glass of water Jenkins had put on the bedside table, then it slipped out of his grasp when his damned hand began to tremble. The water sloshed over the floor and over John's feet, soaking into the undoubtedly-expensive carpet and John's not-expensive-at-all slippers. Damn it. John put the glass back, then grabbed a pile of tissues and used them to soak up the water. Shaking his head, he got up and walked barefoot into the bathroom, well aware that he was limping again. A gulp of water from the tap gave him enough to swallow his pills, then he limped his way back to the bed. What a day. What a long, frustrating, irritating, annoying day.

Well, it was over. He threw the tissues into the bin, and then crawled under the covers. He needed sleep.

~~~

The sound of voices woke him. That, and the feel of hands under his knees and shoulders. John opened his eyes. What the hell?

"I can't believe I'm blowing my cover for this." Jenkins no longer sounded like the perfect butler.

"You'll do what Moriarty tells you - just like me. Angle his knees; we've gotta get him into that laundry hamper."

John had heard enough. He angled his own knees and booted Jenkins in the face as hard as he could, then rolled to one side, jerked himself upright and hit the other guy over the head with his wrist brace. That turned out to be a bad idea, and John danced on the spot as agony flared up his arm. He spent a few seconds swearing, then realised Jenkins was trying to get up. Clutching his wrist close to his body, John fled.

Surely the house was being monitored...or something? Given Mycroft's fondness for spying on people with CCTV cameras, John couldn't believe he'd miss the opportunity to spy on a safe house. Maybe the former butler and his cohort had done something to the signal.

John ran down the stairs, going as quickly as he could, then raced to the front door. He really hoped there was no one else in the house - no one working with Jenkins and co, that was. He could hear footsteps running along the upper hallway, and yanked hurriedly at the bolts with his good hand before flipping the lock open. The door opened and John ran out. The wide, wide lawn was before him, leading to the road, but they'd expect him to go that way, wouldn't they? Turning, John fled along the side of the house and ducked around the corner. The road led to safety, yes, but it was too late at night to expect traffic, and that was even if a driver would stop for someone running along the road with bare feet and wearing tatty pyjamas. Therefore, hiding seemed the better option. If John could get back into the house, he could get his mobile phone, ring Mycroft - heck, ring the police. The only problem with that was that he had no address to give them. At least Mycroft would know the address...if John could get to a phone.

"I thought you said you gave him a sedative!" The pair of them were at the door, and the unknown one seemed less than impressed.

"I did! He mustn't have drunk the water," Jenkins said.

"We've got to get him back. Moriarty -"

"Moriarty can kiss my arse. I notice he isn't here doing his own dirty work!" He gave the other man a shove. "Go check the back of the house. I'll check the road."

John held his breath, then relaxed slightly as the other man headed off the other way. If he could get inside, lock the doors... He waited, his eyes fixed on Jenkins, waiting until the man reached the road. Almost there, almost...almost... He was there, and John set off, hurtling towards the front door, hoping and praying he could get there before either of the two men could stop him. He heard a shout, but he reached the front door and slammed it shut, throwing the lock and shoving the bolts in place with a sense of achievement.

Okay, the door was shut but it didn't mean they couldn't get back in. He was halfway up the stairs when the sound of breaking glass reached him, adding impetus to his running. He reached the hall, and then his room; he slammed the door shut and shoved a chair under the door handle. His phone was where he'd left it, and he snatched it up, his fingers dancing over the keys as he rang Mycroft.

Typically, Mycroft sounded calm and serene, as if middle of the night calls were to be expected. "John, if you're calling me -"

"Jenkins tried to kidnap me - he's working for Moriarty!" John snapped.

There was silence for a few seconds, broken only by the rattle of the door knob, and something heavy thudding against his bedroom door, then Mycroft said, a tone of command in his voice, "Lie down on the bed, John."

"What?! Mycroft, they're breaking down my door!"

"Yes, lie down. Now, please, John."

John stared at the phone, then the door, then lay down. Mycroft was, without a doubt, insane. John also suspected his own sanity was slipping as he was lying down instead of climbing out of the bathroom window.

"Are you lying down?"

"Yes."

"Just relax."

John rolled his eyes. Relax. Moriarty's henchmen were at his door and Mycroft was telling him to -

He stopped. What on earth was that hissing noise? John went to sit up as the noise grew louder, then his head swam and his eyelids slid shut.

~~~

"Good morning, John."

John blinked and gazed at the wall, his head feeling strangely heavy. That was Mycroft.

"How are you feeling now?"

"Confused." John pushed back the covers and managed to sit up, but his wrist was killing him. "What happened?"

Mycroft smiled. "Thanks to you, we've flushed out a mole. Jenkins, as it turned out, was working for Moriarty."

"Yeah, I got that bit last night when he tried to kidnap me." John glared at Mycroft. "You didn't do this on purpose, did you?"

Mycroft actually had the gall to look shocked. "Perish the thought. I actually believed you would be safe here." The shocked look was replaced with something that resembled embarrassment.

"Right." John still had no idea whether to believe him or not. "So, last night, when Jenkins was trying to break down my door..."

"Oh, yes, of course. I had the house flooded with anaesthetine gas." Mycroft smiled, looking ever so pleased with himself.

"Which was why you told me to lie down."

"Well, of course. I didn't want you to hurt yourself." Mycroft stood up while John was still battling his temper. "I must be going. The car will be at the door in an hour's time to drive you to the hospital."

"And then to Baker Street, right?"

"Well, if you insist. But you'll be quite safe here, I assure you. Jenkins will fetch anything you need."

Mycroft left, and John sat up straighter and clutched at the bedclothes as another butler came in.

"Good morning, sir."

John stared at him. "Is your name really Jenkins?"

"No, sir. So, what would you like for breakfast?"

The end.

~~~

That's it! Hope you liked it. Please let me know if you spot any mistakes.