Just a little plot bunny that made me giggle when I though about it. :)

John groaned, blinking his eyes open. He was laying on a hard floor, concrete by the look and feel of it, arms tied and mouth gagged for good measure. His shoulder ached, a consequence of his hands being tied behind his back for god knew how long. The side of his head throbbed in time with his pulse, letting him know that the kidnappers had struck him in the side of the head with a blunt object. To add insult to injury, he was pretty sure that they had used his own gun to do it. He wasn't a hundred percent positive, of course; he'd been rather busy trying to "persuade" Sherlock's attacker from using the detective's scarf as a garotte by knocking him round the head. His gun had been knocked out of his hand by another thug and he hadn't bothered to look for it, disposing of his own attacker in short order and focusing on the next threat. At least he thought that the man was down for the count. Apparently not.

The thought of Sherlock being strangled made John realize that there was a warm weight leaning against his back. A rush of relief surged through him at the realization that Sherlock was still alive - he hadn't been able to subdue the man's attacker before he'd been knocked out.

"Sherlock," he hissed, "are you all right?"

"I'm fine," the other man replied instantly, the thinnest line of relief threading through his otherwise sullen voice. John winced, both at the rasp and the audible sulkiness. His throat was definitely going to need tending to when they got out of this mess, and as for his mood...

"Now is not the time to be sulking," he snapped lowly. "You can sulk all you like when we get home, but not now!" He received no answer, not that he really expected one. Sighing exasperatedly, he sat up, wincing as the throb in his head worsened considerably. He ignored it as best he could, tensing his hands experimentally as he tried to wriggled them out of the rope tying them together. The knots were tied tightly, but his arms weren't tied back so far that he couldn't get them under his back end and in front of him. He did so quickly, setting to work on the knots with his teeth.

It always amazed John that the people they came across didn't think to do their homework on Sherlock Holmes' companion. If they had, they would realize that yes, he had been in Her Majesty's army, thankyouverymuch, and acted accordingly. Of course, then they would see "doctor" or "medic" and they would still underestimate him. After all, who expected a doctor to have any kind of special combat training?

The rope fell to the floor. John blinked in slight consternation at just how easy that had been before turning carefully to his companion, who still lay pouting on the floor, and beginning to unravel the knots that kept his own arms behind his back. These were much harder, of course, because people always expected Sherlock to escape.

"It happens to everybody, you know," he said conversationally as the first set of knots came undone. He squinted at the second set and shook his head in disbelief. Two different types of knots?

"It doesn't to me," Sherlock replied sullenly. "Or it didn't until you came along."

John thought he might have detected just a trace amount of irritation. He rolled his eyes.

"No, it happened to you before I showed up," the doctor returned blithely. "You just never noticed it, and it never happened right when we were hiding in an absolutely quiet room while a murderer searched for us. Borborygmus is a perfectly normal bodily function, Sherlock, even if it's not normally that loud." The ropes binding the detective's hands finally came undone and John threw them to the side before grabbing his arm and wrenching him upright. "Now, where are we?"

Sherlock remained on the floor and opened his mouth to make what would undoubtedly be a snide comment, but closed it again after seeing the look on his companion's face. It was the "So help me if you make one more Sherlock-y statement I will kill you" look that John only wore when he was well and truly fed up with the taller man's shite. There were few times that look appeared, but Sherlock knew better than to provoke him after that. A petulant sigh blew past his lips and he stood up, tucking his hands in his pockets. "A warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Idiots didn't try to avoid CCTV, so no doubt my darling brother's underlings are on their way."

"Well, I'd rather rescue ourselves than be rescued by your brother, myself," the older man told him. He rolled his shoulders, trying to get the soreness out, then strode to the door and turned the knob. He flung it open with an incredulous look. "Unbelievable," he muttered. "Worst kidnappers ever." He turned back to his friend, who merely looked bored. "Let's get out of here," he said, walking through the door. "Then we can get something for that ridiculously loud stomach of yours."

He was halfway down the hall by the time Sherlock came out of his shocked stupor and stomped after him.

Borborygmus, of course, is the scientific term for the noise the gases and fluids in your stomach (or more accurately, your intestines) make as the digestion process continues, with or without food.

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