Family Deductions

Sherlock dug out his tools and set to work on the lock. He was rather good at this type of thing, having had plenty of practice over the years. His best record was 4 seconds. This one took a little longer, but soon he heard the satisfying click and felt the turning of the lock. He turned round and gave John a grin, opening up the door and walking inside.

At first they were in a small dark corridor, no lights. There were three doors. Two on their right hand side and one directly ahead.
"That'll be the main room," he spoke in a whisper, pointing at the door immediately ahead of them. "The factory or warehouse or whatever it is. These two...one will be some kind of office or reception. The other, the garage lock up. Most probably this first one."

Sherlock reached out and took hold of the door handle. He was just about to turn it when his text alert sounded, loud and echoey, giving him quite a fright. He jumped and, with a grin, took it out of his pocket to check the message. He read it through then turned the phone round for John to see. It was sent by Hopkins and read:

Large red van just arrived. Driving up your way.

John followed Sherlock into the building into a small corridor and as his eyes adjusted to the relative darkness he could see there were two doors one each side and a third ahead. He nodded when Sherlock whispered to him and breathed a quiet “Yeah.” as his husband chose a room to look in. Before Sherlock could open the door his text alert went. It sounded very loud in the quietness of the corridor. John flinched and put his hand over his heart and smiled at Sherlock who was, typically, grinning. He wasn't sure who, out of the two of them, enjoyed or was more strung out, in situations like this.

The message was from Hopkins he could see when Sherlock twizzled the phone around for him to read it. “Oh.” he whispered. He wondered if Hopkins had been seen. “New van for the machine?” he fingered the cold metal stock of his gun thinking that he might need it soon an waited for Sherlock to decide where to hide or lay in wait.

Sherlock nodded, pleased that John was picking up on the situation quickly like he needed him to.

"I think so," he agreed. "Create the perfect distraction by sending you and I to the motorway and blowing something up, then whilst we're off investigating that, send another van here to pick up the machine and move it elsewhere, probably closer to Heathrow seeing as that's where they're flying it out from tomorrow."

Needing to think of something fast, he clasped his fingers round the handle he was about to try before and turned it. It was locked but he noticed the door rattling slightly. "Think I can shoulder this one," he muttered and without waiting for an answer, barged himself into it. The door collapsed open and Sherlock almost fell onto the floor with the force he'd used, staggering into the room.

"A-ha, I was right," he grinned. They were now in a large garage area, big enough to house two cars, although the roof clearly wasn't high enough for them to attempt to get the full van in there. But instead of two cars, or in fact, any vehicle at all, there, in the centre of the room, stood the printing machine.

Sherlock gave John a triumphant look, then darted off towards an old bookcase at the back of the room, that instead of holding books, housed a selection of various tools and odd bits and pieces. "Hide behind here," he muttered, ducking down at the side of the bookcase. They would be just about hidden from the front entrance, but still have a good view of the machine.

John, prepared to follow him anywhere as ever, returned the nod to Sherlock. Trying a door Sherlock found it was not very solidly locked because it rattled and rammed his full weight against it. The door nearly came off its hinges and John looked alarmed for a moment as Sherlock half fell into the room. “Steady.” John murmured hopping into the garage and flashing a smile back to his husband.

Sherlock had been right. “Oh, very sweet.” John exclaimed when he saw that in the middle of the garage stood the printing press. John closed the door so that it would look just as it been left. There wasn't much time to conceal themselves behind a solid, old wooden bookcase that was doing service as a place for storing tools. John followed Sherlock to duck down beside it and dragged his gun out ready for anyone coming.

The slight noise of tyres on the road made John's heart hammer. The vehicle stopped and one of its doors creaked open.

Sherlock saw John getting his gun out, and suddenly remembered he still had Winters' gun stowed away in the deep pockets of his coat. He smiled and quickly took it out. Now they were both armed, which was handy.

At the sound of wheels on gravel, the detective tensed slightly. A car door banged, then another one, and two men's voices could be heard talking to each other. Behind the thick garage door it was just a mumble, and he couldn't make out the words, but then there was a loud creaking sound as the door to the garage was slowly cranked open.

Sherlock peered round the edge of the bookcase as daylight flooded through into the darkened room, revealing the feet of the two men and the red van parked just behind them. Then a third man's footsteps came into view and Sherlock began to weigh up their odds, hoping none of them were armed, although they'd been in trickier situations in the past.

He squinted as his eyes got used to the light, and tried to make out the faces of the men as the doors were now fully open. The van was facing outwards and one of the men turned to open the back doors, ready to haul the printing machine inside.

Sherlock gave John a small tap on the knee as he suddenly recognised one of the men, the one apparently in charge.
"Quick as you can," he ordered to the other two and they hurried over to the machine, one of them getting on either side and beginning to drag it across the floor towards the van. It was the bookmakers - Milverton. The two men appeared to be struggling and he reluctantly went to lend them a hand with a roll of his eyes.

Sherlock turned round awkwardly and whispered into his husband's ear. "We have to stick with them, John. They'll know where Hamish is."

John was glad that he had forgotten to hand Winters' gun as he saw Sherlock fetch it out of his pocket. Hearing indistinct voices he stayed back in the shadow as far as he could especially as there was more light as the garage door was being rolled up. Sherlock peeked around the corner of their hiding place and communicated recognition of one of the men to him.

There was a short, barked order and a loud scraping noise at which point Sherlock had swivelled around and cupped his hand over John's ear to whisper to him. John nodded that he understood and gave him a smile then shrank back to sit tight wondering if the men would be so distracted with heaving the heavy machine into the van that they could make a dash for Stan's car. If so Stan had better have chucked the bloody dustbin back over the fence. He smiled wryly to himself ready to move fast whatever Sherlock proposed to do.

Sherlock was weighing up the odds. If the van set off, they'd never be able to make it back to Hopkins' car without losing them. That was no good. They'd have to get into the van itself somehow.

Milverton and the two men were now using a team effort to haul the thing into the back of the vehicle, and after several attempts with plenty of curses, grunts and groans, they finally managed it. The van looked weighted down slightly by the heaviness of the printing press as Milverton slammed the doors closed.

Two of them then walked back outside to the front of the van, opened the drivers side and passenger side door, jumping in ready to set off. The third man lingered behind so he could close the lock up after the van had driven out a little way, although currently he was standing near the passenger door taking some instructions from Milverton, and the detective realised it was probably the only chance they'd get.

"Now John!" Sherlock whispered, quickly darting towards the back doors of the van. In one swift move he swung them open and leapt silently inside with the printing machine, turning round to offer John his hand and make sure he was right behind.

John could see nothing of what was going off in front of Sherlock. Clearly there were three men heaving the printing press up into a van going by the chorus of pained swear words mixed with grunting and hissing. He hoped at least one of them collected a hernia for even thinking of taking Hamish. Sherlock might admire a brilliance of mind, and God knows it did things for him, but thank goodness the criminal's minions weren't that bright because it was a damned sight easier to catch dolts. Even an idiot would have used a bloody forklift truck.

He had thought he was ready to move on Sherlock's word but he was off at a speed that would have made John gasp if he had time. Jeeeeeeeeesus he knew it was a hell of a risk to attempt getting in the van. He belted after Sherlock and grabbed the outstretched hand then he was in the van and frantically pulling the door shut without it banging.

The van engine chugged into life and John held his breath and his gun in case it all suddenly went to hell in a hand-cart . He only breathed properly again when he was sure it was safe. He shuffled over to Sherlock and leaning over grasped his coat sleeve “You mad arse.” he whispered affectionately.

No sooner had John gently closed the doors than the van fired into life and Sherlock grinned at his husband's comment, quickly pulling him into a short but deeply passionate kiss, pushing his back against the walls of the vehicle and feeling momentarily quite turned on, before the van jerked and set off, causing the detective to stagger away and grab hold of the printing press to steady himself.

He made his way round to the back where they would be obscured by the machine should the doors be opened, and sat down. "Might as well relax for a bit," he muttered, resting the gun on his knees. There was a pause in movement whilst the third man of the group closed and locked up the garage door, then jumped into the front seats with the other two and they were setting off again.

Sherlock took out his phone and turned it to silent, remembering how it had gone off so loudly earlier, and Hopkins was liable to try and ring them at any minute. Anticipating the inspector's move, he sent out a quick text explaining the situation.

We are in the back of the van hopefully heading straight to the spider's lair. See you later. SH

He chuckled a little as he thought of the look on Hopkins face and supposed that John was right. He was something of a mad arse. Always got the results though. "Feeling OK?" He asked his husband quietly.

The mad arse of a husband grinned and thrust John against the van wall treated him to a very passionate little kiss. John throttled a groan in his throat and simmered clutching a handy metal protrusion with holes in it for ropes to secure small loads. As the van lurched away Sherlock grabbed the printing press and John smiled as his husband wobbled to the back of the van.

John threaded his way to join Sherlock in sitting behind the machine to be out of sight if anyone though to check the load before getting onto the M11. “Yup.” he agreed quietly making himself as comfortable as he could get for however long they would be travelling. His own phone was on silent and he watched Sherlock text Hopkins John assumed. Stan would no doubt hop up and down about this.

Sherlock chuckling quietly to himself was always a good sign. “Fine.” John grinned and rested his hand on his husband's knee. “You all right?” he whispered. Although he knew what the answer would be.

The back of the vehicle bounced when the van driver stood on the brakes and swore. John assumed the driver hadn't accounted for the added momentum of the heavy load. There was a pause before the passenger door opened with a screech. John mimed two gates swinging open. Someone had flashed a key card through the electronic reader as there was a metallic jingle as the gates opened and the van trundled through. Footsteps sounded along the side of the van and with his firearm ready John looked across to Sherlock.

Having sent the message, Sherlock put his phone away and settled down for the journey, wondering what they'd find at the other end. The van jerked to a halt and he nodded at John's miming of the gates. At the sudden footsteps, they both tensed and went for their guns, as the steps got closer and then stopped at the back doors.

Moments later, they were swung open and daylight streamed in.
"It's fine," came a man's voice. "Just be careful, for fuck's sake."
"Alright, get in!" Snapped another voice from the front, which Sherlock recognised as Milverton's.
The doors were closed again and they were back on their way. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and turned to John with an excited grin.

The van turned out of the industrial state but instead of heading towards the motorway, went the opposite direction, back towards town. "Left turn...right turn...half a mile..." Sherlock muttered under his breath, keeping track of the direction they were heading in and how many miles they had travelled.

Not for the first time today John was relieved that the printing press was so bulky as he and Sherlock crouched behind it when at least one of the back doors was suddenly pulled open and light poured in. When the moment of high tension had passed he let out a quiet sigh of pure relief just as Sherlock did and grinned back at him with great satisfaction.

John had been expecting the van to head onto the motorway but it swayed ponderously to the right before taking a left. He stayed silent as Sherlock memorised the route. His husband was amazingly good at committing things to memory and John couldn't think of a time that he hadn't had perfect recall. Many times the detective had figured out a mile crunching fast route through the streets he knew so well. He sometimes wondered what it must be like not being able to enjoy a book twice having forgotten half of the plot.

Sherlock closed his eyes, enabling him to concentrate further on the route, visualising the map of Greater London in his head, their van moving along it.

"My original thoughts were right," he murmured eventually. "We're heading towards Heathrow. Any minute now we'll be getting onto the M4...ahh, roundabout."
The detective grabbed hold of the sturdy printing machine as the vehicle went into the roundabout and their speed increased as they slipped onto the motorway.

"So...this is the plan," he whispered excitedly, wrapping his arm round John's shoulder and bringing him in close. "As soon as we get to wherever it is they're taking us, they'll open the doors to remove the printing machine. We leap out, brandishing the guns and demand to know where Hamish is. Opinions?"

John smiled when Sherlock correctly predicted the roundabout and the van slowed and swayed around a tight curve then gathered speed to join the M4. It wasn't a cuddle but John still enjoyed being pulled close to his husband as he listened to Sherlock's suggestion about what to do when the van stopped. It was less a suggestion maybe than an order he thought. Which was fine.

“I think just 'where's the kid' would do.” he whispered “Mm, watch out if there's a crowd of people we don't want panic or some guy jumping on us thinking we are the villains” he paused trying to contain himself “Otherwise leap, wave weapons and yell works for me.” he clapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from giggling.

This was the preamble when the all the adrenaline made him a little nervous. In an actual serious situation, unless he had to yell to be heard something clicked over in his head and he would go tight, controlled and Arctic cold. It worked even on 7 foot tall Hungarian stranglers.

For the remaining half hour journey on the motorway, they sat in a quiet, contemplative mood, each one lost in their own thoughts. Sherlock went through the riddles again, trying to see if there was anything he'd missed, then he imagined the scenario as they arrived and wondered what the chances were of finding Hamish there.

Eventually the van began to slow down as they trundled along at 30 miles an hour again. "Sticking to the speed limit, don't want to get pulled," Sherlock murmured with a wry smile. He closed his eyes again and tried to pick up on the route they were travelling.

"There's a set of industrial warehouses on Green Lane, near Heathrow," he leaned in and whispered to John. "There's always a couple of empty ones up for sale. Handy for Moriarty and his pals."

Ten minutes later, the van was pulled to a stop and the engine switched off. Sherlock grabbed John's arm, the atmosphere tense, as one of the front door was opened and someone got out. The detective strained to hear the muffled voices of two men speaking just outside the van.
"Everything go OK?" One asked.
"Yeah fine. It's in the back."
"Open her up then, let's have a look."

The journey was rather uncomfortable with more noise apparent from the road at the higher speed on the motorway. Both John and Sherlock remained thoughtful and quiet, John using the time to rest, half dozing and wondering how Hamish was coping. Sherlock had seemed hopeful that it wouldn't be too long before they found him and it kept him hopeful too. Eventually the van left the motorway and shortly afterwards pulled up. Sherlock had deduced that it would be warehouses to let near the airport.

John waited tensely as they heard voices and made himself ready for the doors to be opened. The left hand side door mechanism slid up as the handle was pressed and then the right hand door was pulled open. Light flooded into the van and two men grinning at each other were caught off guard as John stood up and stared hard-eyed down his gun sights at the man on his side.

“Don't.” John warned quietly and sternly which covered whatever thoughts the men might have whether it was about shouting or bringing a firearm out.

As the van flooded with light first from one side, then the other, Sherlock leapt to his feet, gun at the ready. With a smile he noticed John was already on top of things, having trained his firearm on the man on the right hand side. Sherlock took the man on the left, the one closest to him.

"Where's the kid?" He growled, his shoulders squared, glaring down the barrel like he meant business. The two men stared at each other and neither of them knew what to say.

"What's going on?" Came another voice, that Sherlock recognised as Milverton. Soon he was coming round the side of the van to check, along with the other man they had seen at the industrial estate. Milverton's mouth nearly dropped to the floor when he saw who was in the back of the van.

"Where's the kid?" Sherlock repeated. He hated repeating himself. It made his trigger finger itchy. For a moment he was frozen to the spot, they all were, each one waiting for the other to make the first move. Then Milverton's hand darted into his jacket.

John heard Sherlock move into position which, as far as the two men who were suddenly looking at the business end of a gun each, were concerned was a good reason to stand frozen to the spot. Both men waited for the other to say something when Sherlock demanded to know where Hamish was.

Seeing the bookmaker appear John transferred his aim to him “Don't.” John's voice was as steady as his gun as soon as Milverton put a hand into his jacket. Milverton's hand hovered where it was for a moment before he withdrew it slowly, empty handed, wearing an ingratiating smile.

Milverton put both his hands up in surrender. “Come now, no need for that. I can make you boys very rich.” he promised.
“I /will/ make you very dead if you move.” John warned and still pointing his gun at Milverton's heart got out of the van.

“You two, get down on the floor.” John ordered using his Captain's voice.

Eager to co-operate the two younger men managed to lay on the ground quickly. Being covered by Sherlock John quickly stuffed his gun into his pocket to search Milverton and brought a small handgun and a mobile phone out of the bookmaker's jacket. “You can get on the floor now.” John ordered as he stepped back drawing his gun again.

For a second Sherlock thought it was quite possible Milverton was going to get shot. His own finger was almost squeezing the trigger, but John switched his aim and stopped him drawing his weapon with a single threatening word. The detective smiled slightly. If it was left up to him Milverton would probably be lying on the floor with a bullet in him and all hell would have broken loose. As it happened, John had managed to gain control of the situaiton completely without firing a single shot. Incredible.

Sherlock jumped out of the van and glance quickly around them. It was as he had predicted. The warehouse hire facility just outside Heathrow, and the van itself was parked outside a particulaly large warehouse, the doors have which hadn't been opened yet. He assisted the men to the floor with a friendly shove in the chest, training his gun on them whilst John dealt with searching Milverton. Oh God, he was using his Captain's voice again, Sherlock thought, feeling a twinging between his thighs and trying to think of something else. Now was really not the time to be getting a hard on.

Once everyone was fully searched and on the floor, Sherlock approached Milverton and kicked him viciously in the stomach, rolling him over onto his back. Then he placed his foot in the other man's throat and applied some pressure.

"You know why we're here," he spat. "We want our boy. I couldn't care less about your stupid machine."
"Moran!" Milverton choked. "You need to speak to Moran."
"And where can I find Moran?"
Milverton shook his head. Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed the gun into his face.
"Inside!" The man relented, believing that the detective was actually mad enough to shoot him. "He's inside!"
Sherlock instantly let go and straightened himself up, looking at John.

Sherlock was covering the two younger men with his gun whilst John searched the three men. John stepped back with a nod when he was satisfied and ordered the criminals to get down on the ground. He kept an eye out for any further trouble whilst Sherlock questioned Milverton.

Milverton stubbornly refused to give Sherlock any useful information until the detective scared the daylights out of him. John breathed a small sigh of relief when the bookmaker told them where Hamish was and that Moran was holding him hostage. Having got the information Sherlock stood back and turned to John.

John nodded. “Lock them in the van.” he suggested. He motioned to the criminals with his gun. “In the van, on your knees. You first.” John demanded of Milverton.

Grudgingly the bookmaker glared at Sherlock then clambered into the van and, grunting with discomfort, knelt down at the back. John stood guard until the two younger men had joined Milverton.

Going to the drivers side door, leaving Sherlock in charge of the criminals, John pulled the keys out of the ignition and trotted back to close the back doors of the van and locked them. “Do you think Moran will have anyone in there with him?”

"Good idea," Sherlock nodded at John's suggestion of locking them in the van. It was the only way to be sure they wouldn't attempt to intervene in their rescue of Hamish. The detective had already considered the possibility that there might be more people waiting inside they would have to deal with. He hauled the young thugs to their feet and shoved them towards the van after Milverton, keeping his gun trained on them all whilst John fetched the keys.

Once they were safely locked inside, Sherlock took the keys from John and pocketed them, then checked his weapon before eyeing up the door to the warehouse ominously. "I think we have to entertain the possibility, yes," he reflected. "Nothing too serious though. A few idiots like that bunch. Nothing we can't handle."

He approached the door and placed his hand on it ready to open. "Similar MO," he suggested. "Burst in, wave the guns, demand Hamish."


((I've PM'd our Hamish to come in on this one now. XD ))