tagged: consultingdetectivesherlock tea milk and jam pitofthependulum dialmformoriarty
Edmund was silent as the two groups argued over him. He was still on his back, laid out on the concrete floor of the basement holding his still bleeding nose. He had wiped the spit from his face from when the sniper spat on him and his side still hurt from his bruised ribs, leaving him to breathe in shallow breaths to keep the pulsing pain to a minimum.When the soldier stood up, protecting him, the brunette believe he might have a chance of getting out of this alive and away from the sniper and his boss, but once the gun was shot out of Watson’s hand, his heart jumped into his throat. He rolled onto his hands and knees and slowly started crawling away hoping the criminal and the detective along with the two veterans wouldn’t notice his slow movement as he attempted escape.
Sherlock stood his ground, not bothering to move even as the great Moriarty stepped towards him. He held an expression of irritation and sighed with an air of unimpressed. “He didn’t do you or I any harm. I think what you’ve done is enough, there’s no need to bother with further harm and frankly, I don’t care for it.” He leaned against a pillar and watched Moriarty with dull blue eyes. “I won’t be leaving just yet.”
A loud gunshot and a gun was dropped, leaving his blogger without a weapon. He let out a sighed, noticing the boy crawling off before any of the rest. “I don’t wish to play games with you Jim. Later maybe, but now is not the time. Leave the boy alone and go along.” His eyes bore into Moriarty.
Well, shit, that wasn’t good. John managed to keep himself from reacting other than the initial flinch when the gun was blown out of his hand, but still; that was very not good indeed, and certainly not the time to be realising that Sebastian was a good few inches taller than Sherlock, meaning that his desperate height justification earlier was just that, desperate, and Jesus he really was ridiculously short.
Earth to Captain Watson. Come in, Captain Watson, this is not the time for another height crisis.
He sighed and watched Sherlock speak to Moriarty and stare him down, wondering if the criminal would actually let the kid - who was now attempting to crawl away, not that John blamed him, as angry at him as he was - go. It was unlikely, of course, but John hoped they might be able to get out of here with little altercation and all persons intact.
He stared unblinkingly, perfectly aware of the pitiful escape currently being attempted by Byron. Fine. Let the little bastard limp into a corner somewhere. Let him lick his wounds. Let him cry his cries and stew in the midst of his thoughts.
He wouldn’t make it far.
Jim’s shoulders rolled up, then collapsed, and he slipped his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket, looking horribly annoyed as his upper lip curled, unveiling bright white teeth. “No harm? No harm? I was busy this afternoon. I don’t know what the fuck it is you do with your day, but I could have finished so many afghans and finally gotten to watch that programme on cannibalism, but no-ooooooooooo.”
He gauged Sherlock, as he always did. The room seemed to suck everything else in, and in the negative space remained Holmes and Moriarty, locked in a dance that no one would ever quite fathom the steps to, aside from the two masterminds. He weighed, and measured, and finally exhaled.
The snake finally turned away. “Come along, Colonel. So little to do, and so much time to do it in.”
Jim twirled and danced about the detective and something akin to impatience began to boil under his fingertips, forcing his hand to sprawl and readjust around the trigger. He needed a stiff drink. And maybe a few hits, because the amount of time he’d wasted on an insignificant boy and his delusions was about enough to force his finger tight against the trigger.
Flickering his eyes to the worm crawling at the belly of the beast, the sniper scoffed a sneer. What a fuckin disappointment.
Sebastian beckoned to Jim’s orders when he called, exasperated enough to lead his way back up the stairs and through the factory when he wasn’t fast enough.
“That was a great field trip. How about next time we follow my advice and not go running head first into lunatic’s houses?”
“What a novel idea.”
tagged: consultingdetectivesherlock tea milk and jam pitofthependulum dialmformoriarty
He turned and ran over to Sherlock. “Are you alright?” He asked quickly, checking the detective over for any possible injuries, moving his head manually to make sure there were no head injuries, pulling him forward slightly so he could check the side that was facing the wall. Sherlock seemed fine, of course, but John couldn’t help from checking. He ignored Moriarty resolutely, and looked briefly at the cuffs that was still restraining the both of them.
Sherlock shook his head as he saw the state of the boy once he was laid out on the floor. He watched John stop the sniper from doing anything more to the young man and then turn to take care of himself.
He nodded and said he was fine as the doctor checked him over. “He hardly did anything. Don’t worry.” He let out a sigh as John continued to double check.
The sniper dropped the lock pick and aimed his gun at the student. Sherlock snatched it up and began to unlock the hand cuffed to the pole. He quietly told John, “You have a gun. Use it to prevent them harming the boy.”
He stood once his left hand was free and began working on the right as John did his work. “You’ll leave the boy alone. I think you got enough revenge now.” He mentioned as he glanced at the groaning boy.
“Thought process already way ahead of you,” John muttered as he finished checking Sherlock over. “There was just a priority or two that needed taking care of, first.”
His inspection done, he straightened and stepped away, raising the hand with the gun in it to direct it in Sebastian’s direction. “Alright, now, step away from him, Moran,” he told the sniper calmly. “You’ve had your fun. You have your boss, I’ve got my flatmate. Leave the kid alone.” His eyes narrowed dangerously, daring Sebastian to test him - really, John had absolutely no qualms about shooting the man before him. He’d killed better people before, and none of those had been personal. This, though….
There was no doubt in John’s mind that this was the other man that Sherlock had described that night ages ago, the one who had helped Moriarty torture him. This was very, very personal.
Moriarty didn’t simply stand. He rose. He slithered to his feet, lifting and shifting weight from one weight to the other. The abyss of his gaze remained with the floor, and he eyed the fallen Byron with distaste and excitement all at once. The entirety of the energy that he contained within himself now drew tight into his fingertips and burned there, itched till he couldn’t stand it…
And then, John Watson had to play soldier. Jim’s head swiveled on his neck to face the doctor, to ‘tsk’ disappointedly at his gun. Sheer irritation was stirring somewhere betwixt his brows, and he was doing his best not to let it show.
“I think the sill thing’s flesh owes us both a bit of damage, don’t you, Sherly?” The query was soft. And Soft, with James Moriarty, equated to Dangerous. “He could have killed us!”
And here he took two, slow, calculated strides toward Holmes after shooting his sniper a strange look. Black on black found Sherlock once more, and he stood just inches away.
“I thought you were a fan of justice, snoogums. You really should take your spaniel and be off.”
Reading John’s self imposed gibberish spill from his mouth split approximately three grey hairs on Sebastian’s scalp. In junction with Sherlock’s sermon on sparing the mewling quim on the ground, the sniper found himself turning the dial from 5 to could you sod off you blithering piece a piss on the 1 to 10 scale of not giving a flying fuck. But watching Jim waltz his way to the detective’s face to indulge in the yet another catty battle of shakespearean rivalry broke Sebastian.
So it was with an overdue sigh that he lifted the rifle off his shoulder and aimed to shoot the gun from John’s grip. With a squeeze of the trigger, Sebastian let the whizz of the silenced bullet speak for itself.
“I do believe you were on your way out.”
(Source: pitofthependulum)
John grit his teeth when Sebastian broke the kid’s nose. Edmund deserved it, definitely; but there was no point to it. Still, he had to let the sniper have something. There wasn’t much he could do to keep him from roughing Edmund around a little bit. Dragging him down the stairs by his hair, however, kicking him in the ribs - that was way over the line.
John followed quickly and shoved Sebastian’s shoulder to get him away from Byron. “That’s enough,” he said sharply. No matter how much he wanted the boy taken down a few hundred pegs, this wasn’t okay. “He’s not a threat anymore, so cut it out.”
He turned and ran over to Sherlock. “Are you alright?” He asked quickly, checking the detective over for any possible injuries, moving his head manually to make sure there were no head injuries, pulling him forward slightly so he could check the side that was facing the wall. Sherlock seemed fine, of course, but John couldn’t help from checking. He ignored Moriarty resolutely, and looked briefly at the cuffs that was still restraining the both of them.
He looked back at Sebastian. “Still have that lock pick set?”
The rifle hit him and pain spread through his face as blood began to pour from his nose. Edmund groaned as dizziness claimed his mind and he felt slightly sick. A hand went to his nose and he moaned, sending waves of pain to his brain again. Blood dripped into his mouth and the sharp taste of iron caught him off guard.
A hand slid into his hair and grabbed it violently, dragging him towards the steps letting his ass hit each one as he winced each time. Thrown forward with an added forceful kick to his side, the brunette laid on the ground rolling over in pain. A boot fell onto his stomach exhaling air from his lungs and kept him pinned to the floor.
His head rolled to the side. The party had arrived, and, ding ding! Everyone was there, as promised.
Jim’s eyes rolled up to his sniper. He loathed having to rely on anyone’s help, but the answer was fairly obvious. Nonetheless, Moriarty chose to deviate to a different route, and he murmured, vague annoyance showing through rather than the true irritation he was feeling. “You’re late, Colonel.”
His eyes slowly tracked across the floor, and over to the crumpled pile below Sebastian’s foot that was Edmund. Yes. This little fucker first. Sebastian would pay dearly later, but Mr. Byron was going to be certain that he didn’t forget James Moriarty…not that anyone did.
Through the burning, hissing coils of anger that boiled beneath his cool exterior, a soothing flow of utter pleasure came from the font of sickness that was forever embedded in his twisted mind. A smile creased over his lips. Perhaps every game hadn’t been given up after all…he’d have to derive his satisfaction from scarring an imp—a whimpering, puny little excuse for a would-be accomplice. One that had run away, rather than face his darkness. He would be taught. By no means would the lesson be what the boy expected.
What Sebastian Moran dealt in violence he would season with fear.
Game back on.
Jim’s head rolled, as per his nature, and he gave John Watson a warm, winning smile, at last paying him any heed. “Well, aren’t you a sweet little spaniel.”
John’s hefty shove earned a snarl from Sebastian, a preemptive flash of eyes warning the doctor before he slid a set of locks from his breast pocket. Spitting down on the boy’s face, the sniper finally stepped on and over Edmund to kneel at Jim’s side.
“Don’t give me that fucking bullshit, ‘I’m late’. Shouldn’t have counted on me to come save your sorry ass,” Sebastian retorted, tugging Jim’s cuffs harder than necessary. Shoving the end of the lock into the hole, the hitman, much to his dismay, followed John’s mental checklist of possible injuries and abuse. Clicking one side of the cuffs free, he snorted. As if Jim would ever be on the receiving end of abuse. Not that it would have made a difference, but some things Sebastian was slightly more territorial with.
Sweeping his glance back towards Edmund, the sniper stretched his legs back up, picking his gun from the floor to rest it upon his shoulder. Curiously eyeing Jim, he could only guess as to what lay ahead of them, all of them. It became clear that having Sherlock and his companion in the same room was an awkward situation, being that business was business and their current foe was bleeding on the ground. It was also apparent that murder was perhaps not the best route this evening, and so all his efforts weighed heavy on the hitman’s limbs.
It was fun while it lasted.
“Do we leave or shall I put the pup out of it’s misery,” Sebastian spoke, cocking his head toward Edmund.
John was unaffected by the fear practically pouring out of this boy, but after a moment his humanity resurfaced. As angry as he was, this was completely unnecessary. He turned his hard gaze to Sebastian and batted the barrel of the large gun away from Byron.
“That’s enough,” he said bitingly, a very, very small part of him tempted to let Sebastian continue to scare Edmund a tiny bit longer. “You don’t need to keep that up, he’s already near pissing himself. He’ll tell us where they are.” At least, he’d better. He looked back to Byron and waited for an answer impatiently, ready to dash off at the first point from a finger.
A yelp came from the student as a bullet flew through his hair, close enough for him to feel it rustle in the brunette locks. As the gun was pressed under his chin, lifting his head up, a whimper came from the cowering form as he couldn’t find any words to speak.
Thankfully the doctor changed his own mind and pushed the gun away and after he gained a bit of his mind back, a shaky hand pointed to the stairwell he had just left not long ago. “There. They’re down there.”
“Good boy,” Sebastian teethed before jamming the butt of his rifle up Edmund’s nose. A sickening crack and the spurt of blood was quick, spilling from the boy’s nose like a faucet. “That’s for kicking me in the face, fucking cunt. Now get the fuck up.”
Kneeling down to grab fist-fulls of the boy’s hair, Sebastian knotted his grip to the roots of his scalp, dragging the boy behind him with pulsing tugs. Yanking the boy with sickening thumps down the stairs never felt quite so satisfying; the hunter locking it’s jaw on fresh meat.
Sebastian reached the bottom step and tossed Edmund forward, delivering a momentous kick to his ribs to roll him into the basement. With a foot pressed heavy on the boy’s hollowed stomach, the sniper leaned forward to claim his prize, gaze locking onto Jim with a roguish smirk.
“Boss,” he nodded, lifting the rifle to his shoulder, cuffs crisp and white against the dark of the rifle. “Need help?”
tagged: pitofthependulum
“Sebastian,” he hissed, irritated that the sniper was completely leaving him behind. He jogged after the longer-legged man as quietly as he could, and rounded the corner just in time to watch as Moran slammed the student into the wall with the silencer of that ridiculously overkill gun in his mouth.
John lowered his own gun very slightly, yet kept it very ready. “Take the damn gun out of his mouth, he can’t tell us where they are with a huge metal pipe gagging him,” he said. This was where, normally, John would roll his eyes. However, they didn’t want to get that message - they were too busy staring Edmund down, icy and angry in a way that John’s eyes rarely ever used. The last time his eyes had been like this…
Well, the last time had probably been when he went through the anger portion of his denial during that three years of Sherlock’s pretended death, seeing as he pretty went back and forth between that and depression the entire time. And before that, the last time his eyes had that hard look to them was during in Afghanistan. He had many one army buddy tell him that there was a time or two that he looked downright scary as he sewed someone back together, and that an army doctor had no right to look like that.
A soft noise echoed in the building and Edmund glanced up, but the knee colliding with his gut told him exactly what the origin of the sound was. He grimaced and air released from him in the form of a silent pained gasp. As soon as the sniper had appeared, he had a gun wedged in between the student’s lips and pushing deeper making the younger man gag as it reached the back of his throat.
With chartreuse eyes glaring into his own, a deep wave of fear rushed throughout his body, making his pupils dilate. A mewling whimper escaped around the gun as he gagged again, throat tightening to protect. He was frozen solid, not daring to make a move against the sniper knowing it would undoubtedly get him shot.
The doctor had followed up behind and Edmund thought it’d be best to look sorry at him to appeal to his mercy, but when his eyes locked onto John Watson the look he saw was no better than the look of the hunter. Edmund was only able to glance at John and look away.
“Tell you something Dr.Watson, the kid don’t need his mouth to point,” Sebastian jammed the barrel up his throat, watching the saliva trickle down his mouth. Tilting his head, the hitman soaked in Edmund’s fear, the slightest twitch of a smirk pulling his lips when the boy looked to John for sympathy. “‘Fact, I don’t think we need him at all.”
Whipping the rifle down, the hitman flung Edmund to the pavement in one violent jerk, dislodging the spittle coated barrel from his mouth with a scoff. The hitman aimed just slightly above the boy’s head, squeezing the trigger to whizz a silenced bullet through the fine hairs of his head.
“So don’t make me regret not giving you a silver crown,” he spoke, butting the gun to point his chin up. “Where are they.”
tagged: pitofthependulum consulting detective sherlock dialmformoriarty tea-milk-and-jam
“You’re also taking a bloody long time,” the doctor snarked back. “Hurry the hell up.”
He resisted letting out a loud ‘Jesus, finally,’ when Sebastian decided that he could take the damn cuffs off of John’s wrists at long last. There would be some nice light red chafing marks for people to wonder about for a little while.
He took a normal 9 mil from the back of the car, trying to figure out why the hell he had to use one of these admittedly nice but unfamiliar weapons when Sebastian could just give him his gun back and use one of his own damn guns. Because this 9mm was very nice indeed, but it felt unfamiliar in his hand. And perhaps it was sentiment, but he’d really rather have the gun that he’d used for years, the one that had never failed him; the one, he remembered, he’d shot that cabbie with so long ago.
He heaved another sigh and climbed into the car again. He didn’t even complain about the downright terrifying driving this time. In fact, the one time that Sebastian had deigned it appropriate to go the speed limit, John had snapped at him to go faster. His foot tapped impatiently the entire way, and he checked his hand habitually more than once. Rock steady. Not the slightest tremour.
He leapt out of the car as soon as they arrived, and after checking to make sure that Moran was right behind him, flicked the safety off of the gun and ran to the door. The bloody unlocked door. Jesus, this kid was ridiculous - he hadn’t even locked the door, probably thinking that no one would be able to find him. Alright, brilliant, all the better for him and the sniper. He turned his head a fraction to make sure that he was there, then opened the door and quickly stepped inside, gun cocked and ready, eyes squinting to adjust to the sudden darkness of the chocolate factory.
John’s impatience would have amused him if his own anticipation wasn’t about to spill over as well. Although, he noted, it was probably for different reasons. The worry that creased the doctor’s brows was sincere, yet he was certain there was hardly any room for revenge.
As they say, cold dish.
Fixing a suppressor onto his H&K UMP-9, Sebastian let John take the lead into the factory, squeezing the metal with a final, satisfying twist. He fed the pup a full magazine, clicking it into place before rolling his neck and flashing his eyes forward. Double the length of his arm, the gun weighed heavy and strong, firm. Comfortable.
Poor little rich boy.
Stepping soundlessly into the factory, the sniper all but abandoned John as he slid behind machinery, morphing as a shadow into the darkness. The itch that scratched at the back of his throat was aching, pulsing in his teeth and licking at his fingertips. A hunter’s instinct clicked in place as he caught the faintest of thumps, eyes dialating and head snapping to the source. Sebastian licked his lips to step past a glass corridor, closing in on the noise.
Then a laugh.
No, not just any laugh.
Crouching in the cover of darkness, the hitman slid down to lower level of the factory. Adrenaline pumped like an electric current through his limbs, blood thumping like drums in his ears. As he coasted and pressed his back to the wall of the basement, the hitman could begin to hear breathing around the bend. Frantic, agitated panting shifting to strained breathing through nostrils. Fingers readjusting to the trigger, Sebastian laid back and listened, devouring every single moment of calm like an intimacy. A muddied tiger frozen to devour a rabbit, nose twitching.
Twisting around the corner, Sebastian caught Edmund in his sights. Pupils narrowed. Trigger finger tightened. A knee struck out to gut it’s victim, the hunter using the breathless gasp to shove the barrel of the silencer into the boy’s mouth. Pinning him against the wall by his head, Sebastian crudely prodded the barrel in to touch the back of his throat, thrusting his skull back.
“Hi,” he clicked the safety off. “Did you miss me?”
(Source: pitofthependulum)
Tank! | Seatbelts
tagged: tea-milk-and-jam
John visibly twitched. It hadn’t been a mistake. They had let them track the phone. John had known that they had; it was so obvious, too big a mistake for the great Moriarty, but he had buried it down, not let himself think of it. He hadn’t wanted to believe it, so he literally didn’t let himself, and shoved it farther and farther down until he had believed that they’d just made a stupid mistake. He grit his teeth. He couldn’t think about this right now. He had to focus on the task at hand: finding Sherlock, making sure he was safe, getting him out of there.
His hands clenched briefly as Sebastian grabbed the laptop. Yes, alright, he typed slow, fine. That was something he wasn’t in denial in, unlike with his height. He put up with it, though. If Moran could find Sherlock, then John didn’t care that he refused to take the god damn cuffs off of John’s wrists, or that he drove like a sodding mad man, or what kind of sorcery he pulled.
John’s foot tapped impatiently, and he sat up stock straight once it was announced that they had the signal, the address. He lurched out of his seat before Sebastian even finished talking and spoke over the sniper’s last words, not particularly caring to hear another comment about the kid’s stupidity.- “Let’s go,” he said shortly. Yeah, Byron was stupid, he knew that, they didn’t have time for this. He walked towards the door brusquely, leaving the taller man to follow him.
“Where are you going,” Sebastian chided, twisting his neck back as he skidded his seat on the floor. “I’m the one with the bloody car.”
Scoffing to turn back to the laptop, the sniper tapped the address onto the mobile, closing the software before he followed John down the stairs. Out of all the places the boy could have taken his hostages, the factory, more less, a chocolate factory, was absolutely ridiculous. A smirk riddled his lips as he swung the door open, quickly recalling the inventory of rifles and pistols in the back seat of his hellcat. Heckler & Koch UMP-9, SIG-Sauer P226, Colt Double Eagle, Glock 18. Reaching the bottom of the flat, Sebastian lead the way to his car, getting a start on John before turning back.
“Stay still,” Sebastian circled the doctor, spinning a pick in his fingers before clicking the handcuffs from both his wrists. “So I have a few pups in the backseat, take your pick. I’m going to get dressed. Won’t take long.”
The sniper lifted the small trunk in the back of the Aventador, his ‘pups’ lined neatly and accordingly with an accommodating clip and/or box of bullets. Claiming a suit from one of the inner compartments, Sebastian nodded for John to wait in the car once he was done.
Fifteen minutes later, the hitman returned with a midnight blue suit pulled on his person, buttoning the front of his jacket before approaching the car. The hitman looked the part as he sauntered to the driver’s seat, cuffs crisp and neat as they peaked from his sleeves. Holding the steering wheel, Sebastian tipped his head back at John.
“Ready mate?”
(Source: pitofthependulum)
tagged: tea-milk-and-jam
He raised an eyebrow, but grabbed his laptop from off of the table anyway. “D’you really think he’d be stupid enough for that, though?” He asked. “I mean, it’s not that obscure of a secret anymore, it’s just that people don’t really think about it. And that would be a big slip-up, even for an amateur.” He paused a moment.
“But then, of course, your boss made the same mistake,” he remembered.
He turned on the machine and began waiting for it to boot up, and he scratched his head a moment, thinking. “On my first case with Sherlock,” he said, “He figured out that the cabbie accidentally took one of his victim’s phones. He had me text it pretending to be her, to draw him out.” The corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement at the memory. Damn, had he been annoyed.
He continued. “It worked, even if we hadn’t realised that it had. The cabbie was supposed to be a ‘proper genius’ as well, so if it worked on him, d’you think it’d work on Edmund, too?” He typed in his password slowly, using his index fingers and looking for each individual key to ensure no spelling mistakes. Because that, and not that he just typed really bloody slow, was the reason for how slow he typed.
“Mistake, oh that’s funny, I like your sense of humour,” Sebastian remarked before leaning onto the table to analyze the software. “Proper geniuses is just another word for walking dickhead. This kid is barely out of primary, I’d be impressed if he did.”
Licking his lips, the sniper suddenly darted his eyes over John’s bismal typing. His brows knit, fingers tapping before he spoke up.
“How about I take over the typing from now on. Think if I left you at it, they’ll both end up dead,” the sniper swerved the laptop toward his direction once John logged in. As Sebastian held John’s phone, he entered Sherlock’s number, scoffing to see a warning for the shut off phone.
“Here’s a magic trick,” he murmured, entering a series of digits into John’s phone, connecting to Sherlock’s number. “Phones will boot up for emergencies and manufactured resets. What I’m doing,” Sebastian held up the phone, John’s screen turning black, white text whizzing by. “Is a wireless reboot. Turn the phone on, and-“
Leaning into the laptop, the sniper watched the screen carefully, clenching his jaw to read for an impending dot. The map began to change, blurring before the coordinates began to focus on an address. A red dot popped up.
“We have a signal,” Sebastian teethed a terrible grin, turning the screen towards John. “A factory. A chocolate factory four miles west of here. Have to hand it to the kid for being an absolute idiot.”
(Source: pitofthependulum)
tagged: tea-milk-and-jam
John gave one of those woe-is-me sighs as Sebastian let himself into their flat, and took a small amount of pleasure at the slightly disgusted look on the sniper’s face due to the smell. No, the millions of experiments that Sherlock insisted had to be done with closed windows - “Contaminants in the air, John!” - did not make for very healthy breathing air, and John was, quite frankly, surprised that neither of them had grown a third eye yet.
“Help yourself to my mobile, you were probably going to anyway,” he said, following him into his own flat. “It should be on the kitchen table.” He was suddenly very, very glad that he’d left it at home this morning, actually; it would have been irritating to have to replace it, like they would probably have to replace Sherlock’s, because he doubted that Edmund would have let him keep it. He went into the sitting room and dropped himself into his chair, looking towards Sebastian expectantly, waiting for an explanation of who he was about to call and why.
Sliding against a table, Sebastian took a leaning seat against the edge, palming John’s mobile with a curious tilt of his head. Standard issued phone, similar to the type Sherlock most likely had, he noted, tapping the keys as he darted his eyes pass the listed contacts. Hovering over Sherlock’s name, the sniper licked his lips, an idea lifting his brows.
“Phones like yours and Sherlock’s,” Sebastian began, lifting himself off the table. “They send and receive signals at all times, even when turned off. It’s only when the battery has been removed that all connection is lost.”
He held the phone between his thumb and pointer finger, smirking as he approached John at his seat.
“Not many people know that, and if that kid was stupid enough to use cuffs instead of zipties…..” he tossed John’s phone up, eyes pale with a sense of mischief as he caught it. “I have a better idea Dr. Watson. Run up the software you used to track Sherlock’s phone.. I’ll tinker with it and we should have some place more solid to start.”
(Source: pitofthependulum)
