John sighed in exasperation, shifting his weight off his aching right leg and trying to subtly pull his bad arm away from the nameless goon who was holding it far too tightly for comfort. Goon number two was holding his other arm, while number three was aiming John's own gun somewhere in the neighborhood of John's chest.
They had taken such a round-about route once they'd kidnapped him that John had absolutely no idea just where in London they were, though at least he did know they were still in the city. He supposed that if he were anyone else that thought might be somewhat frightening, but he knew Sherlock would have no problems finding him and was more than likely already on his trail.
All John would have to do was wait. Though if an opportunity to escape on his own presented itself he would certainly take advantage of it. He did always appreciate being able to rescue himself.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a man who was fairly obviously the one in charge of the kidnapping. Unlike the goons he was wearing a suit which gave him a much more polished look, until someone noticed his eyes. There was an almost giddy madness lurking there which reminded John painfully of Moriarty, and he couldn't help a slight shudder.
"Ah, Doctor Watson. I'm so pleased you could join us." The man smiled, head cocked slightly to one side as he studied John. "Now, since we're still waiting on your dear colleague Sherlock to arrive, I'm going to have to stash you somewhere you can't get into trouble."
John bit back a curse, managing to keep a slightly bored expression on his face. "Stash me somewhere?"
The man's smile widened. "Oh, yes. Wouldn't want anything to happen to you before Sherlock arrives, would we?" He gestured at the goons, who began marching John towards the back of the rather large room, where John could finally see a heavy door set into the wall.
While the third goon kept John covered with the gun, the man slowly pulled the door open, grinning as John flinched.
It wasn't a room on the other side of the door; it was a vault. The inner walls were all shiny metal, and so close together that any reasonably-sized man could stand in the middle and touch both walls with his fingertips. There was what looked like an air vent in the corner near the ceiling, and in the center of the vault was a large metal chair with cuffs on the arms and a thick collar attached to the back.
John wasn't even aware that he was frantically trying to shove himself backwards and away from the vault, feet skidding across the floor as he was dragged, nor of the sudden sharp pain in his bad shoulder as he tried to yank his arms away from the grip holding them. He wasn't aware of anything except for the voice in his head, not his and yet somehow it was, that was nearly screaming in pure terror.
'Not the box, not the box, not the box, don't put me back in the box.'
A very small, but still rational voice in the very back of his mind tried to reason with the other. John Watson had never been trapped in any sort of box before, hadn't felt this kind of terror when Moriarty had been strapping a bomb to his chest, hadn't even felt this afraid when he'd been shot in Afghanistan. But the sight of that chair inside the metal box was forcing every other thought out of his head.
As he was forced into the chair and goon three was locking his wrists into the cuffs, John suddenly became aware of the fact that he was muttering something frantically under his breath and he couldn't seem to stop himself. He didn't even know what the word he kept repeating meant. But he couldn't stop saying it, even when they forced his head back and locked the cold metal collar around his throat.
Once he was secured the goons stepped back, and the man began to push the vault door closed, the wide grin still on his face. And as the door clanged shut, all John could hear was a gratingly metallic voice echoing in his head.
'Seal the Pandorica.'
And then there was nothing but the terror.