All is Fair in Love and War

An Abundance of Keys

JOHN WATSON

"Sher-lock. It's your turn."

John looked the detective in the eyes. He'd been expecting this, John realized. That was what his cryptic statement had meant - it was an explanation and acknowledgement that he intended to play along with Moriarty's demented games. Sherlock gave a nearly imperceptible nod of his head toward the door, mouthing "go".

The criminal mastermind was sending a text. "You're going to have to leave, Johnny-boy," he said. "Moran will escort you. Don't worry - Sherlock and I just need to have a little chat."

A key turned in the knob and on the other side of the room, Moran pushed open the door.

"Sir?"

Moriarty waved at John. "Find a suitable place to lock this one up for the next hour or so. Keep an eye on him; his escaping would be dreadfully inconvenient."

"Sir." Moran directed his rifle at John and gestured toward the door. "Out you come, then."

The doctor took a last look over his shoulder, attempting to convey in a glance to his friend the depth of his affection and his determination to break them out of there. How much of it registered on his face he had no idea, but hopefully Sherlock was using his frankly spooky deductive powers to figure it out.

At the door, Moran grabbed John by the shoulder. The blonde man shrugged him off. "I can walk by myself, thanks," he said. "Where are we going?"

"Down the stairs," the gunman said. "You can walk, but try running and it'll be the last thing you ever try."

"I'd sort of figured that out, actually," said John, mostly past caring what happened to him.

"Watch your mouth," the gunman said angrily. "Moriarty's gonna make you beg me to shoot you later, and I may just watch you suffer."

"Oh yeah?" the blond man asked casually. "I bet that's not what he makes you beg for, am I right?"

"Shut up," Moran hissed.

"Touched a nerve, have I?" The doctor knew Moran was a dangerous man to bait, but he was also feeling too reckless to care. Giving Sebastian Moran high blood pressure was the only mercy he'd been granted, and it was one he was determined to exploit. The sniper grabbed the doctor violently by the shoulders, and for a split second John was sure he was about to have the living daylights beat out of him, Moriarty's orders or no, when Moran shoved him through a side door into an empty storage room.

"Keep talking," Moran hissed through the crack in the door as he locked it from the outside. "You won't be so cocky later, I'll tell you that."

Alone in the small box of a room, John took stock of his surroundings: blank walls, a tiny barred window not two feet across, and a few metal pipes running the water and electricity. A single bald light bulb protruded from near the ceiling, enclosed by a steel cage. None of these offered very promising means of assistance. The metal cuffs around his wrists clinked; in theory, they weren't hard to get out of. Of course, for that, one generally needed a piece of wire. The room mocked him with it's emptiness.

John Watson was not the world's only consulting detective. He was an ex-army doctor for the British Armed Forces. Mentally clapping his hands together, a scrap of his training floated back to the surface of his memory.

The first prerogative of the prisoner is to escape.

He regarded the room solemnly as he worked out exactly how to do that.

Finally to himself he muttered, "I'm going to need a shim."

*****

SHERLOCK HOLMES