ironmonger | (no subject)

His front door opens.

Obadiah glances up at the sound. He can't see the door from where he is, but it doesn't take much guessing to figure out who could get past his alarm system without tripping it.

"- all right, Virginia, I'm gonna have to wrap this up. You know what to do."

"She generally does," Sherlock observes.

"I found them. How soon can you assemble your cavalry?"

Obadiah takes his cellphone out to send the text his people are waiting for.

"We can be on our way in half an hour. Maybe closer to twenty minutes without the daytime traffic to worry about."

"Right then," he says cheerfully. "I'll lead you there."

But before switching on the surveillance device hidden in the second button of his shirt, he kisses Obadiah on the cheek, grinning the grin of a Stark who is getting away with something.

Obadiah shoots him an annoyed look as the responses to the text start coming in.

"- right, that's everyone checked in. The van's all set up, we'll be meeting them there."

Sherlock doesn't pursue the point. Why would he? He never intended it to go anywhere in the first place.

"It will be faster if you meet them there and then follow me," he says instead.

"Humor me," Obadiah says. "We'll split up in plenty of time for you to ride in to the rescue, anyway, since we don't want them realizing you've got backup, but until then I'd just as soon keep an eye on you. Besides, you're the one who knows where we're going."

As Obadiah speaks, he gets ready to go, pulling a light jacket on over a holster he dons, then opening a small, almost-invisible door in the wall to extract the gun that goes with the holster. He doesn't expect to need it unless the whole thing goes badly wrong, but there's no guarantee it won't.

No matter what Sherlock seems to think.

"Fine."

The time gained by going ahead would be offset by the time lost in arguing Obadiah into it. He turns away; they both know where they are going for the moment, so there is no need to do any leading until everyone is assembled at the van.

No opinion on the gun, of course. Sherlock is not taking one himself, but that is because if everything goes as planned it would do more harm than good.

The van is already in place and set up to go, of course, as it has been since long before Obadiah got home yesterday. The half-dozen security staff members he recruited arrive on time, already familiar with the plan as Obadiah had outlined it, and it isn't long before they're heading out to get Tony back.

Another abandoned building, another office room. Sherlock leaves the van several streets away, well out of sight, and breaks into the building from the roof because it is less expected.

Knowing that there are seven people watching him work is an odd feeling, but he ignores it. Practical necessity. Not going away. Could turn out useful, if everything goes to hell.

The button camera shows him picking several locks and going down a few flights of stairs, so quietly that even the very sensitive microphone hardly hears a thing.

It's mostly Obadiah watching. The others are watching him, waiting for his signal.

The picture from the camera is good and clear; he turns the microphone feed up a little. Both signals are virtually undetectable. Just because Howard invented this bit of technology a long time ago doesn't mean anyone's figured out how to catch up with it.

Still nearly silent—although now every rustle of his clothing comes through loud and clear—he proceeds down a hallway until he reaches the corner, then waits.

Sherlock and the microphone hear the guard approaching at more or less the same time. The sound of footsteps approaches, turns the corner—

Thirty seconds later, Sherlock is hauling an unconscious guard into an empty room.

His people don't noticeably react - they wouldn't have been hired in the first place if they weren't professionals - but Obadiah can feel them assimilating the information into what they know about both Sherlock and the mission. It was one thing for Obadiah to tell them that Sherlock would be able to hold his own; seeing a demonstration of the fact is another thing altogether.

He is running on a schedule now, and the deadline is unknown. At some point someone will notice that missing guard and then it will all be over. The trick is find Tony and get out before that happens.

At least there is no trouble about searching the place. He found the appropriate room with a pair of binoculars, from the ninth floor of a building four blocks away, before he went to fetch Obadiah. (Oh, yes, he was tempted to go in by himself. But it would not have been worth the risk.) He proceeds directly there, opens the door, and slips inside.

Tony looks up.

He knew they would not have treated Tony like a precious treasure, he even joked about it with Obadiah for God's sake, and yet when he crosses the room and pulls the gag out of Tony's mouth it is all he can do not to kiss him.

And when he starts working at the knots in the rope around Tony's wrists it is all he can do not to cry.

Good. Because that would make two of them. With the crying. If he did.

Obadiah hasn't cried since he was a child, and nothing could induce him to break that streak now. He does, however, exhale in relief at the confirmation that Tony is still alive and in one piece. It would have been a bit early to kill him or start chopping things off, but - hey, you never know, do you?

Now if they'd just get a move on, he'd be very appreciative.

"Time to go," he whispers, offering Tony both hands to help him to his feet.

Not quite all the way there, Tony hears footsteps in the hall—and flinches with his whole body, because he recognizes that heavy tread.

The footsteps come through loud and clear over the microphone. They put Obadiah in mind of some of Milliways's larger, less humanlike patrons. He tenses a little, which puts his team on high alert, waiting for him to say the word.

As the door opens, Sherlock lets go of Tony and looks back over his shoulder.

He keys the panic signal on his tracking device before he even turns around, and when he does, it is obvious why.

. . . Jesus.

"Go!" Obadiah orders. It comes half a second after Sherlock's signal comes through, but he would have sent them even without it.

The van is empty of everyone save Obadiah within seconds. Hopefully Sherlock will be able to fend for himself until they arrive.

There is a moment when the three of them simply stand there: Sherlock frozen in calculation, the man at the door in surprise, Tony in terror.

Sherlock is the first to break free of it. He charges. Of all possible courses of action, it is the likeliest to end with Tony still living. And never mind what the six feet eleven inches of hired muscle standing in the doorway might do to him; it is immaterial so long as Tony gets out unharmed.

The van is substantially closer to the building in question than it was when Sherlock left it, though it's either not close enough to have caused anyone any concern or they simply felt that their behemoth of a trump card didn't need any backup, because there's no one else between Obadiah's team and the room where Tony's been.

Obadiah suspects the latter. That first guard was obviously meant to put intruders at their relative ease; he isn't the only one who can use complacence as a weapon.

One of the team stays outside to cover the front entrance. Two of them stay in the hallway outside of Tony's room to cover that. The other three run in to assist, with the idea being to keep the guard occupied so that Sherlock can get Tony out the door.

They have already broken both desks and a chair by the time reinforcements arrive. Sherlock is out of breath and bleeding from his left temple, because the bastard is wearing a ring, as though his fists alone were somehow not enough.

As the three of them enter the room, Sherlock ducks under its one remaining intact table—the giant smashes it with a kick—he grabs Tony's hand and pulls, making for the door.

No one wastes any time trying anything but their most advantageous moves - he may be a giant, but he's still slowed down considerably by being leapt upon by three people simultaneously. It buys some time.

The two out in the hall are poised to escort the boys through the rest of the building as soon as they're out the door.

As soon as Sherry slows down in the hall to catch his breath, Tony huddles close to him.

(He's never seen Sherry lose a fight before.)

He pauses for no more than four seconds before collecting their escort with a nod and heading for the stairs—still holding Tony's hand, leading the way and leaving the security personnel to bring up the rear.

The lone woman in the group is the member guarding the front entrance. She greets them with,

"No sign of movement. I'm guessing they shot their wad with Goliath up there and are either cutting their losses or haven't figured out Mr Holmes had backup yet."

"Let's hope that keeps up, shall we? Come along, Tony. Almost there."

He clings to Sherlock's hand as he follows.

Obadiah is intent on the video feed in the van; when they're close, he gets up and opens the back doors to let them in.

"Tony," he says, relief clear in his voice. "Are you all right?"

Does a sniffle count as an answer?

If it does, it is probably a no.

"More or less," Sherlock translates, smoothing a hand through Tony's hair.

(Comforting Tony is more important than what their escort might or might not see.)

"All right," Obadiah murmurs, reaching out to put his arms around Tony.

To the team members, he says,

"We'll give the others another two minutes."

Tony is entirely okay with transferring his clinging to Obie.

"I can go back for them," Sherlock offers.

He holds Tony close, stroking his hair the way Sherlock had done a moment ago. It's what he knows his team will expect to see. It's also the first time in a while now that he's had Tony this close without a single guardian-inappropriate thought crossing his mind.

"No," he says, almost before Sherlock is finished speaking. He watched the fight as it unfolded. "On the off chance you're not concussed, I'd like to keep it that way. They know they're on a deadline to get back."

"Your concern is appreciated. I am fine."

"Sherry," he says, somewhat muffled by Obadiah's shoulder, "you are not going back to let that guy beat you up again. You're just not."

"You heard him," Obadiah agrees. "They're professionals, Sherlock. They'll manage."

In fact, a few seconds later, they can be seen staggering out the front door, one of them propped up between the other two.

"All right," Obadiah says, "everyone be ready to go as soon as they're inside."

If being ready to go means letting go of Obadiah, they may have a problem.

"- Lewis, you drive," he adds after a few seconds. "We're going directly to Mercy."

"Yes, sir," she says, and gets into the front of the van.

There, that should no longer be a problem.

Good.

After a minute or so, he reaches for Sherlock's hand again.

Sherlock leans against Tony's other side, not bothered in the slightest by the proximity of Obadiah.

Tony is what matters. Tony is always what matters.