John came to. At least, he thought he came to. Frankly, his actual consciousness was still somewhat in doubt. His head ached and his vision was fuzzy, but he was pretty sure he was tied to a chair and that there was a crossbow pointed at Sarah.
What the fuck?
A woman's voice brought his head around and he recognized her as a performer from the so-called circus. Was she the one who'd knocked him out with what felt like it must've been a 12-inch oak beam? What was she saying?
" Mr Holmes."
"I'm not Sherlock Holmes."
She didn't listen. Indeed, she offered evidence to support her argument that he was, in fact, his flatmate.
But she wouldn't shut up. The stupid cow was blathering on and his head ached abominably and there was still that crossbow... Seriously? A crossbow?
Her voice and her idiocy were both so irritating that his temper snapped. "If you would just shut your stinking gob for ten seconds and listen to me, you fucking twat, you'd know you've nabbed the wrong bloke." That got her attention. He plunged on. "Whoever your boss is, he's going to be spitting tacks when he finds out how badly you've cocked this up."
"Silence! I work for no one but myself."
"My arse! You're clearly not clever enough to out-smart a pot noodle. You never could've thought all this up. Except maybe the crossbow. I mean what the mother fuck is that about? A fucking crossbow? You've got to be shitting me! It's the twenty-first fucking century, you shit-witted moron. Get with the modern age, why don't you?"
His head throbbed and his vision greyed at the edges, but he'd clearly taken the woman off her guard. And the thug he could see from the corner of his eye either didn't speak English or only moved when ordered to move. Sarah was staring at him with an expression he didn't care to decipher. But there in the shadows he saw a familiar figure in a blue great coat.
John continued his diatribe, verbally ripping his captor a new asshole with the most colourful and obscene verbiage he could manage. And as a former army doctor, he could manage a great deal of both colour and obscenity.
What happened next was all too quick for his muddied mind and blurry eyes to follow, but when it was over, he was free, Sarah was safe, and the baddies were-- Well, some were in custody. He couldn't tell who or how many. Christ. How many had there actually been?
John wavered on his feet and Sherlock's strong hand on his arm went a good way towards keeping him upright.
"Well done! Your distraction was quite clever, if unconventional." Sherlock's smile was small, sly, and appreciative.
"Distraction?" echoed John. That hadn't really occurred to him. "I suppose so. Frankly, I was just fucking fed up. That thick-headed bitch just would not listen to sense. And by the way, I'm damned well posting pictures of both of us on my blog when we get home. The goddamned criminal underworld needs to know what the fuck we each look like, and that I am not you. You don't get a say in it."
If Sherlock had been about to protest, he stifled the urge immediately. "Let's go home before Lestrade tries to make us give him a report."
"Yeah. Right." John looked at Sarah who stood near by. "Rotten date."
"I'd say I've had worse, but I'd be lying," she replied with bit of a manic smile.
"You, uh, want to come back to the flat for a bit? Maybe have a cup of tea and wind down?"
She nodded and her smile turned cheeky. "Yes. Thank you. I would very much like a goddamned fucking cup of tea."