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It's not really a surprise to Sherlock when the hoods are thrown over their heads that day, at least, not to him. Given the circumstances, investigating a case against him, a run in with the boss was sure to happen at some point. Moriarty always had a flair for dramatics, and this kidnapping wasn't going to throw him off. Of course, Sherlock didn't know where they were or where they were going due to the hood, but he did know some other things. They were, of course, in a car. It was going thirty-nine miles per hour, and it was a nicer car, possibly a Mercedes due to the feel of the leather seats. He had no doubt that the car had tinted windows. There were two men at the front of the car, and one of them held the gun. Sherlock could be arrogant, defying death, reckless, but he was no fool. He couldn't try anything to take control of the car, seeing as the owner of the gun could easily shoot him in the blink of an eye. If he managed to get the gun and try to take the car, he would no doubt be caught in some horrible accident. There was also the problem of the hood around his head, and his hands were tied behind his back. The seatbelt was lashed tightly around him. John was not in the car with him. He was lead into another car, that much he could tell. He supposed it was a security measure, but also a ploy to isolate them both from each other. A flash of a memory came in the musty darkness. The flat. Sherlock's head against John's leg, humming when John would run his fingers through his hair as he worked on his blog. Contentment. Peace. And while their lives were anything but peaceful, those small moments, dispersed between the fights and the cases and the crimes, had become something Sherlock found himself craving. Would they ever make it back to the flat? Back to their lives again? No, he couldn't have those thoughts, not now, stupid sentimentalities that got in the way of what he needed to do. Focus, Sherlock, focus. You'll see him soon. One of the lackeys up front decided he wanted to speak. " Ey, would you look at that, eh, Freddy?" "What, Ern?" The one who must be Freddy said. "We've caught ourselves a Sherlock, eh, Freddy. Hey, Sherly! What's nine times ten?" Freddy jeered. From the direction of his voice he was the one driving. "Ninety, as your teachers never saw fit to mention to you. Really, is that the best thing that could go through your head, or are you just that stupid?" "You had better watch it now, Sherly," Freddy growled. "I have a gun in my pocket.""Boss wants him alive, Fred. You had better not do that." Ern said. Ah, so Moriarty did want him for something. And now he knew that, but there was still some information to wrest out of these two imbecciles. Guessing from how quickly Ern had corrected the other man, Sherlock guessed that he would hate to be wrong. Now, time to prove it that theory. "Terribly sorry, if I ask, where are we going?" Sherlock asked. "I'd like to be home, see, I'm expecting someone at my flat today, I'd really rather not keep them waiting." "And what makes you think I'd tell you, asshole? Our orders are to be silent and bring you to the house, then we get our money." Freddy said eagerly. "Pounds and pounds." Ah, so this was a paid job. "Freddy!" Ern warned. "He's more likely to shoot you than pay you, you know," Sherlock pointed out. "Terrible health insurance." "No, he promised me my money. Showed me it all before I went to take you. Now, I've said enough, you stay quiet." Freddy growled. So that tactic wouldn't last much longer. "Could you pull over, please? Please, sir, I really must go." Sherlock tried. This was embarrassing. But outside, he could make a distraction, maybe get the other car pulled over, make a scene. But where did that leave John? "And what makes you think I'll do that?" "Well, I'm sure these are very, very nice seats here. And I must really go. I'm sure your boss would take away some of your pay to replace them." Sherlock said. He had to make a gamble. Maybe he could get them both out before Moriarty could do anyrhing. He was sure they would have to stop both cars in order to stay in line with each other. Possibly.He could practically feel the cogs turning in the man's head. Both of them. Thinking for them must be such hard work. "Pull over." Freddy said into what seemed to be a radio. "What?" A staticky voice said. Sherlock could hear the sounds of muffled struggling in the background. John! What had they done to him? He fought to keep his temper down as he listened. "Pull over, I said. Man has to relieve himself. I say let the other one out too, why not? Not like they're going anywhere but the house." "Understood. Pulling over now." Sherlock felt the car slowing down beneath him. He wondered if they were still on the highway or in the country now. Being in the country would certainly give them more room to run, but also more room to be shot at. Being on the highway would be embarrassing, but the more people, the more likely they would be heard, or at least reported. Also the less chance they would have at being shot. The car stopped. Sherlock heard the car door open, then the hood was roughly pulled from his face and hands untied. He blinked rapidly in the bright sunlight, partially blinded. A doughy man's face peered up at him. "Don't you try any funny business with us." He sneered. "We have the guns." He laughed and threw the rope away. "Now be quick about it." He spotted John close by, standing behind a tree. He took note of four men, two armed with small handguns. The road was busy but not crowded. Through the trees he could see the faint outline of a cow pasture. He took a place beside John, pretending to be doing his business. John wasn't doing anything, just standing with his hands clasped in front of him. As if he was waiting. "So," said John out of the corner of his mouth. "Please tell me you have a plan." "No, I don't have a plan. Not yet." He glanced over at John, who was sporting a fresh black eye on the right side of his face. "What's that about?" Sherlock asked. "Resisted. Seriously, we don't have much time, what is your plan here?" John asked in a panicked whisper. "What's taking so long over there?" One of the men called. Sherlock poked his head put from behind the tree."Terribly sorry, sirs, just a few more moments, please." Sherlock called. "You get one more minute!" The man called. "Of course, of course!" He called. "Wouldn't want to waste your time." He muttered under his breath. He shot a look at John. "Okay, the plan is run. We could get over that fence there," He pointed. A cow mooed mournfully towards them. "And keep moving. They're slow, they're stupid. No ideas in their tiny little brains." "And what if we don't get out?" John asked. "Thirty seconds!" Freddy called. Twenty nine. Twenty eight. "They can't fire at us, he wants us alive. Alive so we can do whatever he wants. But today we aren't giving him that satisfaction. On the county of five, John." John caught him in the eyes, expression lined with trust. "Ten! Nine! Eight ---" Sherlock mouthed the number five. "Seven! Six!" Four. Three. Two. "One!" And they're off, feet digging into the ground as they take off, shouts of alarm sounding behind them. He is flying, panic digging into his chest as his feet pound the dirt, cracking sticks and leaves so loudly he can hear it ringing in his ears. He is so used to being the predator, stalking out a mastermind with finesse and ease. Now he truly knows what it is like to be the prey.There are footsteps behind him. John is a little ahead, but he can see a pursuer close behind, and he can see him loading his gun. No. They weren't supposed to shoot. Almost in slow motion, he watched as the man fit his fingers around the trigger. Saw John running like his life depended on it, which it did and no amount of running could stop the lead from biting. He could almost see it. The blood blooming on John's shirt, the fall, the color leaching out of his body, and Sherlock would be alone. And he knew now that he could never be alone. He lunged towards the gunman, knocking him to the ground, miraculously. Unaware, John kept running. But the gunman still had the gun in his hand. Sherlock scrabbled for it, but he already had the hand on the trigger. He's almost surprised when the shot fires off.