The Devil in Devon

Chapter Two

Despite the lateness of the hour, people were still strolling outside the hotel. Heads turned when Sherlock and John burst through the front doors and paused under the canopy to catch their breath. When John bent over and braced his hands against his knees, he realized that he still wore his pyjama bottoms.

"There," Sherlock exclaimed eagerly, pointing. "The pub at the end of that street."

"How do you know he's still there?"

"Because that's him standing outside, smoking."

John looked. A youngish man stood among the pub's empty outdoor tables, puffing on a cigarette and talking into a mobile. He glanced toward the hotel, saw his pursuers staring at him, and paused. After hurriedly concluding his conversation, the man disappeared into the building.

"That's odd. It's like he's expecting us to come after him," John mused.

"Then let's not keep him waiting." Sherlock sprinted down Cathedral Yard. John shook his head before following. People jumped aside to give him a wide berth: with his hair uncombed and coat flapping open over his T-shirt and pyjamas, he looked like an escaped mental patient. John hoped that he wouldn't be stopped by the local police; whenever he and Sherlock were separated during a chase, catastrophe usually resulted.

As they neared the pub, Sherlock said breathlessly, "There must be a side entrance in that alley. Go mind it. I'll go inside and keep him from escaping through the front door."

"Right." John figured that Sherlock should be safe enough in the pub, which still had customers. "I'll wait a few minutes, but if you don't come out, I'm going in."

The younger man grunted assent before charging through the pub's open door like a fox storming a henhouse. John rounded the corner of the building and entered the alley.

A dark, silent delivery van was parked in the narrow passage. John slid past it, wincing when his coat brushed against the filthy brick wall. He saw the side entrance just ahead, bathed in a dim glow from the grimy overhead light. As he crept toward it, he patted his coat pocket to confirm that he'd brought his phone. If he and Sherlock got in over their heads, he wanted to be able to call Mycroft and Lestrade.

When powerful fingers closed over his left arm, John cried out with surprise, but a cloth stuffed hastily into his gaping mouth silenced the sound. Strong arms encircled his middle, pinning his elbows to his sides. He saw two more shapes glide out of the shadows. One bent over to seize his legs while the other assailant tugged his coat off one shoulder. John saw the glint of a syringe in the man's hand.

"Calm down, Dr. Watson. We don't want to hurt you."

John had no idea how these people knew who he was, but curiosity and confusion took a back seat to dread. Their arrival in Exeter wasn't so covert after all. He –and probably Sherlock also- had been lured into a trap. What about Mycroft and Lestrade? They were probably safe in the hotel, but the moment they left to investigate his and Sherlock's disappearance…

No. He had to escape, and warn them. Capture was not an option.

John flung his head back, connecting with his captor's chin. The man hissed in pain and loosened his grip, enabling John to break free and fall to the filthy ground. The sudden, harsh drop winded him so severely that he couldn't jump up and run as intended, allowing them to seize him again. During the struggle that followed, he hurled his body sideways so violently that the men holding him stumbled and his left temple collided with the alley wall. Pain exploded behind his eye, followed by bright lights, nausea, and the sensation of sinking into quicksand.

As he lost consciousness, he had only two thoughts.

Is Sherlock safe?

Mycroft… help me.