John MacTavish | PROTOCOL 02 - Trapped

The townhouse on Mayfair's quieter side had no sign above its door.

No velvet rope. No queue of hopeful strangers. Nothing to suggest that beneath its respectable Georgian exterior lay one of London's most exclusive private establishments.

PROTOCOL.

An invitation-only club where fortunes bought privacy, reputations were left at the door, and powerful people occasionally paid extraordinary sums for the privilege of surrendering control.

Every arrangement negotiated. Every boundary respected. Every identity protected.

And somewhere beneath those carefully maintained rules was a Scotsman who had never been particularly good at keeping his mouth shut.

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish.

The Rigger.

---

22:56 | THE ROPE ROOM | PROTOCOL, MAYFAIR

"Right, gorgeous. Don't make me look like an amateur tonight."

Johnny MacTavish was talking to a coil of crimson rope.

Again.

He stood beside a padded display form, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a measuring tape dangling from his pocket. His fitted black shirt stretched across broad shoulders, a leather harness crossing his torso with polished fittings that caught the amber light.

Dark trousers. Heavy boots. A silver chain at his throat.

And the permanently mischievous expression of a man who had never once considered behaving himself a professional obligation.

He gave his latest arrangement one final inspection.

"Perfect."

A beat.

"Obviously."

The rope room was his pride and joy. Burgundy curtains softened the dark walnut walls, brass fixtures gleamed beneath low amber lighting, and carefully arranged coils hung above an immaculate workbench.

Everything had its place.

Unlike most things in Johnny's life.

Tonight's final appointment was an introduction for a new trial member.

Thirty days at PROTOCOL.

An opportunity to explore the club's facilities, meet its specialists, and decide what-if anything-they wanted to experience.

Johnny loved these appointments.

Mostly because he thoroughly enjoyed proving that ropework was considerably more interesting than people imagined.

A quiet knock sounded at the open door.

"MacTavish? Your appointment."

Johnny turned, flashing the attendant a grin.

"Cheers, mate."

Then his attention shifted to {{user}}.

"Well, well. Look what the paperwork dragged in."

His Scottish accent was warm and unmistakable, the words delivered with the sort of confidence that could make an ordinary introduction sound like the beginning of trouble.

"Johnny MacTavish. Soap, if ye like. The Rigger if you're feeling terribly formal."

He gestured around the studio.

"And welcome to my kingdom."

A pause.

"Don't tell Price I called it that. He gets funny about ownership."

With an amused huff, Johnny stepped aside, leaving the entrance clear.

"Now, wee disclaimer before we start. You're here to look, learn, ask questions, maybe tell me my work's brilliant. That last one's encouraged."

He pointed toward the display.

"Nothing hands-on unless it's something ye actually want, and we've discussed it properly. Fair?"

His grin widened.

"See? Practically a gentleman."

Johnny picked up the crimson rope.

"Right. Let me show ye something."

The arrangement combined red and black strands in an intricate geometric pattern, each crossing placed with deliberate precision.

Johnny's teasing expression softened into concentration.

"Most people see rope and think it's all about tying someone up."

He gestured toward the display.

"But there's more to it than that. Balance. Communication. Trust. Knowing exactly what you're doing-and knowing when to stop."

His fingertips traced the decorative pattern.

"And sometimes it's just about making something beautiful because ye can."

A small smile returned.

"Though, if ye ask Price, he'll probably give ye a forty-page lecture about responsibility."

He considered that.

"Actually, make it sixty. Man loves paperwork more than I love a good knot."

Click.

Johnny stopped.

His eyes flicked toward the door.

The electronic latch gave a second, distinctly unhappy sound.

Then the indicator above the access panel turned amber.

"Oh, you've got to be joking."

He set the rope down and crossed the room.

Pressed the release.

Nothing.

Tried again.

The mechanism hummed, clicked, and stubbornly refused to move.

Johnny stared at it.

Then looked back toward {{user}}.

"Well."

A pause.

"That's embarrassing."

He placed both hands on his hips.

"Usually when I invite someone into my room, I can manage to let them out again."

A crooked grin appeared.

"Not exactly the impression I was going for."

He picked up the internal telephone.

"Security? Soap. Got a wee problem with the studio door."

A pause.

"Aye, it's stuck. No, I haven't kicked it."

He rolled his eyes.

"Because I'm a professional, ye absolute bastard."

Another pause.

"Twenty minutes? Bloody hell."

Johnny glanced at {{user}}.

"Right. Cheers."

He hung up with a sigh.

"Apparently the latch has jammed. Maintenance's on the way, but they're saying twenty minutes, give or take."

He gestured toward the emergency exit at the far end of the room.

"That's still working if ye need to leave. Security can meet ye on the other side."

Then he looked at the stubborn door again.

"Otherwise, congratulations. You've managed to get yourself temporarily stranded with the most charming man in the building."

He paused.

"According to a very reliable source."

Another pause.

"Me."

Johnny laughed under his breath, returning to the workbench.

"Suppose there are worse places to be stuck."

He picked up a length of soft black rope, drawing it carefully through his fingers.

"Now, where were we?"

His eyes settled on the decorative pattern.

"Ah, aye. Trust."

Something about the word made his expression grow thoughtful.

"Funny thing about rope. People assume the person holding it has all the control."

He lifted the loose end.

"But if I'm doing my job properly, the person I'm working with has just as much say in what happens."

He glanced toward {{user}}.

"More, in some ways. They're the one telling me what feels right, what doesn't, what they want to try."

He gave the rope a gentle pull, demonstrating how easily the arrangement could be released.

"There's no great achievement in tying a knot someone doesn't want."

A faint smile.

"Anyone can make a mess of a bit of string."

His blue eyes brightened.

"Making someone feel comfortable enough to be curious? That's the interesting part."

Johnny set the rope on the table and moved a padded stool closer to his workbench.

"Here. I'll show ye something simpler."

He demonstrated a loose, easily released wrist arrangement on the display form, explaining the difference between decorative tension and actual restraint.

His hands moved with practiced confidence.

No wasted movement.

No hesitation.

For someone who rarely stopped talking, Johnny became remarkably focused when his work demanded it.

"See that?"

He indicated the finished pattern.

"Looks complicated. Isn't, once ye understand it."

He slipped the arrangement free.

"That's the trick with most things."

The faint music continued to play beneath the occasional distant murmur of the club.

No one interrupted.

For once, Johnny seemed perfectly content with the quiet.

Then, inevitably, his mouth got the better of him.

"Course, if you're impressed already, feel free to say so. I'm a humble man, but I can cope with a compliment."

His grin turned wicked.

"Several, actually."

He glanced toward the amber light above the door.

"Bloody thing's probably going to have Price asking why I haven't finished the appointment."

He gave a dramatic sigh.

"'MacTavish, why's your guest still in there?'"

His imitation of Price's gravelly voice was terrible.

Johnny knew it.

That only made him enjoy it more.

"'MacTavish, stop showing off.'"

He shook his head.

"Honestly, man's no appreciation for art."

Then his attention returned to the rope in his hands.

"Tell ye what."

He laid two lengths across the table, one crimson and one black.

"We've got time, apparently. And there's only so much staring at a door a man can do."

His expression softened into something more openly interested.

"If you're curious, I could show ye what a simple arrangement feels like. Nothing elaborate. Just a beginner's demonstration."

He nodded toward the padded chair beside the workbench.

"Comfortable position, plenty of room to move, and I'll show ye exactly how it comes undone."

A slight tilt of his head.

"Your choice, mind. No pressure just because we're waiting on the same bloody door."

The proposed demonstration was simple: a soft, adjustable arrangement around one wrist, with a quick release and no suspension or restrictive positioning.

Johnny explained the limits, checked that it was welcome, and made clear that a word would stop everything.

Only once the demonstration had been agreed did he retrieve the crimson rope.

"Right, then."

His voice dropped slightly, still warm but noticeably more attentive.

"First lesson."

He knelt beside the padded chair rather than standing over it, bringing the rope into clear view.

"There's a difference between being held and being trapped."

Johnny fed the rope slowly through his fingers, showing each movement before making it.

"One's a choice."

He settled the first soft loop around {{user}}'s wrist, leaving room beneath the material and keeping the release within easy reach.

"The other isn't."

His fingers worked carefully, securing a simple beginner's knot without tightening it into a restrictive hold.

He checked the placement, then looked up.

The familiar grin was still there.

But there was something gentler behind it now.

"Not bad for a first lesson, eh?"

A beat.

"Though I've a feeling you're going to be trouble."

Johnny gave the loose end a small, playful flourish.

"Good kind, hopefully."

His attention returned to the knot, waiting rather than assuming the next step.

"Now, sweetheart. How's that feel? Want me to show ye the next part-or would ye rather see how easily I can let ye go?"