THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON

by skyefullofstars

Summary:

While Sherlock grapples with his new-found feelings for John Watson, he faces a very real threat: John's kidnapping and shooting at the hands of James Moriarty. And the knowledge that the love of his life is being used to test an addictive drug - at the risk of John's sanity and life. Prequel to THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET. NOW COMPLETE.

Chapter 1

OooOooO

 John crouches over the latest victim, his hands in blue latex gloves poking at rapidly cooling flesh. Two med techs hover uncertainly in the background, mutually questioning their presence at what has clearly become amateur hour. They look from John Watson's absorbed form to D.I. Lestrade, back to Watson again. They look at each other, eyebrows raised. They are confused, impatient and not a little indignant. Who is this so-called – did Lestrade call him a Doctor?

By mutual agreement, they both avoid looking at his ridiculously tall companion, the one with the dark shock of untidy hair and the cold assessing gaze that seems to strip flesh from bones. Uncomfortable, they turn their backs, stamp their feet, blow on their fingers. Anything to keep warm in this sodding cold.

Lestrade lets them wait and wonder. They are new, just sent over, don't know their arses from a hole in the ground. God knows he needs expertise and so will take what he can get when it is offered. He is absurdly grateful to John Watson at times. His two new – puppies – have a lot to learn. This latest in a string of murders can bloody well serve as a primer course.

Christ, he thinks: Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson, 101.

“It's classroom time, lads,” Lestrade muses. “Do pay attention. You might learn something. There will be a test.”

Lestrade stands a small way off from the crime scene, in order to give the two men room to work. He watches Sherlock watch John. The detective is completely absorbed in his preoccupation with Watson. Lestrade smiles. He shoves both his hands in his pockets and rocks on his heels, trying to keep warm. It's beyond cold out here and he is literally freezing his bollocks off.

Sherlock stands over John, kitted out in what Lestrade calls his I am Sherlock Holmes and I am Amazing outfit: gloves, scarf, bloody dramatic coat, bloody black curls twisting slightly in the frigid breeze, beyond strange gray-green-blue eyes. He stares at John thoughtfully.

Lestrade glances at the detective, sees the near naked longing in his face, and feels his own cheeks burn over knowing this about Sherlock and John. He glances away. After all, he has no wish to intrude. Well, not much. But a tiny bit of him is just a little, envious. He looks back at Watson. John's hair, normally a light sandy shade, glows in the thin afternoon sunshine. 

“He looks ten years younger in this light,” Lestrade thinks.

Lestrade, a man totally comfortable with his sexuality and at home in his skin, can see these days just what he thinks Sherlock sees in this quiet ex-Army bloke. Besides the obvious, that is. Loyalty, intelligence, and a calm, steady presence notwithstanding, there is so much more to John Watson and it's not unpleasant to spend a little time listing his attributes.

Lestrade purses his lips, and begins to casually catalogue the good Doctor. Sherlock would be shocked out of his skin to discover he is not the only man who does this to John. And after being shocked, he would probably feel compelled to choke the living shite out of Lestrade for daring to think of Watson, his Watson.

Lestrade, of course, will never tell him.

"Doctor John Watson," Lestrade muses. “Soldier, doctor, loyal companion to the world's only consulting detective. Hell, he appears to have put himself completely at the disposal of said detective. And seems to be delighted with his decision."

Professionalism, dedication to his calling, the ability to become completely absorbed in the moment, an ex-soldier with a deadly trigger finger, crack shot.”

(Lestrade, only slightly at sea regarding that case with the two pills and the dead cabbie, had gone home afterwards, had a drink, pieced together the evening's events, remembered the odd way Sherlock had begun to deduce the shooter, then abruptly told Lestrade to "Just forget all that." Lestrade, mentally following the events to their logical conclusion, realized that the lone gunman they were looking for had assuredly been standing a few feet away the entire time, hands clasped behind his back at parade rest, watching the procedures, watching Sherlock.)

“John Watson,” thinks Lestrade, "is affable, attractive, 5' 7", with a firmly muscled, compact body, a flat stomach, slim profile. (Yes, Lestrade does notice these things.) John Watson has an open face with premature frown lines and dark blue eyes. John Watson has an endearing boyish grin and a warm, self-deprecating sunny smile. John Watson has a generous, friendly nature.”

Friday evenings, Lestrade meets his team at a local pub, where they are often joined by other Yarders. More often than not, John joins them. The doctor always buys a round, has a ready arsenal of frankly horrifyingly bawdy stories which he proceeds to tell with glee and to the utter enjoyment of those around.  Watson giggles -- giggles -- as the jokes fly fast and furious. Everyone likes John. Indeed, Lestrade cannot think of a single person who doesn't like John, once they meet him.

He can think of one person, at least, who appears to need John - the way you need oxygen or food.

John Watson has rapidly become the unknown, completely unexpected variable who never varies, in the universe known as Holmes.

Lestrade thinks Sherlock is a damn lucky man.

He thinks of what a good influence the Army doctor has been on Sherlock, how much more steady Sherlock is these days, often more approachable, more ready to listen to the viewpoint of others. Frequently calmer. Obviously saner.

Watching John, Lestrade can't help remembering a much younger Sherlock, over five years earlier, before he had yet to become himself, before John.

He sees a Sherlock painfully young, incredibly awkward, not at all comfortable in his skin, a heart-breaking man-child with a wild dizzying intellect, desperate to prove itself. He remembers a rawly beautiful Sherlock, all elbows and knees and wild hair and equally wild emotional upswings. An unstoppable mercurial force, relying on constant mental stimulation in order to be able to function, to interact with those who venture into his orbit.

A genius with a mind like quicksilver… who Lestrade finds one early morning lying curled up on the floor of his filthy flat, not moving, barely breathing, oh so nearly dead from a cocaine overdose.

His lungs had stopped functioning.

And his heart -

A frantic call for an ambulance and then Lestrade is straddling Sherlock, attempting to breathe life into his lungs, pound it into his chest. If Sherlock Holmes lives, Lestrade vows, hands pounding and pounding and pounding against the painfully thin chest, if he lives, he will take this marvel in hand, force him to give up the drug cocktails, the cocaine, the morphine and whatever else he is doing to destroy himself, and he will help him to develop those incredible deductive abilities he has demonstrated. And maybe, just maybe, Sherlock Holmes will live to amaze them all one day.

Sherlock lives.

He accepts Lestrade's challenge and makes a valiant effort to remain clean and drug-free. He accepts because Lestrade has promised him cases, real honest to God cases to work on, provided he stays clean. He accepts it and manages it – somehow – with only the occasional minor relapse, but Lestrade can tell that every week Sherlock doesn't drug himself into a coma is a week bought by the promise of the challenge, the puzzle, the mental stimulation that Lestrade provides. He knows that Sherlock is clean not because of anything Lestrade has done.

Lestrade is not, himself, the distraction.

And he can live with that, Lestrade told himself at the time. After all, the entire point of the exercise was to save Sherlock's life. Not become his bloody mentor.

But all of that was before John Watson.

Lestrade knows it doesn't take a genius to figure out that John is better for Sherlock than anything or anyone he could ever have imagined for the detective. Better for Sherlock than he, Lestrade, even was. John Watson is a calm, steadying influence, a solid, moral presence in Sherlock's mad world. He is strength and patience and a deadly trigger finger; he is cups of tea, midnight takeaway, warm jumpers. He provides the fulcrum, the pivot point that Sherlock Holmes uses to anchor himself so he does not go spinning off into the void.

Lestrade has not seen Sherlock lose himself once since John came into his life.

He is absurdly grateful to John for that.

The fact that John is obviously besotted with Sherlock, goes without saying. But now Lestrade is beginning to realize that the attraction appears to go both ways.

Lestrade feels not one moment of sorrow that Sherlock has become a better man because of John's influence and not necessarily because of Lestrade's. He is not a devious man, nor a vain one. Indeed, he has always had Sherlock's best interests at heart and is extremely satisfied that Sherlock has this good man in his life.

He is frankly delighted for Sherlock and sometimes can't help but wonder if the detective even knows what he has in John.

Somehow he doubts it. Sherlock can be remarkably dense about some things.

After a few words with John, Sherlock wanders over to stand next to Lestrade. Both men watch John work.

"Another overdose victim," Sherlock says quietly. "He was unconscious when the drug cocktail was administered. John took samples for a tox screen."

Lestrade nods. He suspected as much but it's comforting to have the Doctor confirm his initial suspicions.

Lestrade is never sure where what he says next comes from. Maybe he feels the need to fill the silence while they wait. Maybe it's just that some things need to be said and this one has waited long enough.

"He's good for you, ya know, your Army Doctor. You're – better - with John."

He wants to add "and not so daft." But he doesn't.

His breath huffs out in the frigid evening air. He glances at the tall man standing next to him.

Lestrade waits for Sherlock's snide reply, waits for Sherlock to tell him to "piss off" or to glance at him pityingly and pretend that he doesn't know what the DI is talking about.

Sherlock, who has not once taken his eyes off John's back, only sighs. His deep baritone voice is a quiet murmur in Lestrade's ear.

"Don't you think I know that? That I'm aware he - I owe him everything, Greg. Everything."

Lestrade is nearly shocked out of his socks. Sherlock's tone is one of resigned acceptance tinged with wonder. There is also a little amused exasperation in there, as well, Lestrade thinks.

He clears his throat.

"Uh, okay . That was unexpected. I didn't think you —"

"Greg, Donovan's observations aside, I am not patently stupid."

Sherlock glances at Greg Lestrade, raises one perfect eyebrow mockingly.

“Ah, there he is,” thinks Lestrade.)

Sherlock turns back to watch as John, his examination apparently complete, begins to peel off the latex gloves. He will try to stand in a moment and Sherlock knows his friend has been crouching over the body too long in the cold, that there is a good chance his leg will rebel and buckle under him.

"Excuse me," Sherlock murmurs quietly.

He quickly goes to stand by the doctor, extends a hand and gently pulls Watson to his feet. The detective looks down at the ex-Army doctor, that same miraculous eyebrow raised in inquiry. John Watson looks up at his friend and gives a quick nod.

Sherlock has a half foot on John but he automatically leans in and John, without thinking, tilts his head slightly in order to meet Sherlock's eyes. They have long ago figured out this height thing and do not let it faze them. John begins to talk quietly. Sherlock replies.

Both men turn to look at Lestrade, to pull him into their circle. As Lestrade walks toward them, they come over to meet him, still discussing the case. The two med techs, immediately crouch over the body to begin their proper examination. They just want to get on with it, get out of this freaking cold.

Lestrade writes down John's observations, his head nodding as he listens to the doctor's analysis of the body's condition.

Sherlock adds his observations of the crime scene and Lestrade thinks, not for the first time, “Brilliant.”

But Sherlock appears bored. Or thoughtful. Hard to figure which sometimes, the DI thinks.

The two men wish him a good afternoon and as they walk off, Lestrade watches them go. He sighs and turns back to the stiff and his two raw techs. He's going to be a stiff himself if he doesn't get out of this sodding cold.

In the taxi, on their way back to Baker Street, John attempts to get comfortable. His shoulder is aching abominably and his leg damned well hurts. He shifts around in his seat.

Sherlock adjusts his own position, puts his left arm around John and gently pulls the doctor against his side. John's muscles loosen and he leans against Sherlock, letting his head fall on the detectives shoulder. He sighs. Imperceptible, but Sherlock hears it.

"John?"

"Hmm?" John appears tired, more tired than he should be given that it's just early evening, not dark yet, and he didn't have a shift at the surgery that morning. Perhaps the intense cold is causing his shoulder to ache. Sherlock suspects this is the case but knows John will not complain.

"What is it?" Sherlock speaks quietly against John's dark blonde hair, his breath warm on John's neck.

John considers.

"It's just these cases. These overdoses. Each victim was injected after he was first rendered unconscious. I guess I just don't understand what kind of sick bastard –" He breaks off suddenly. "It's – disturbing."

He sighs again and shrugs. "I don't understand the motivation there but hopefully, you can sort it all out."

Silently, Sherlock agrees with him. But the detective can't help but think of another young man, one who frequently – deliberately, and with malice aforethought – did drug himself unconscious on a fairly regular basis. That he no longer feels the need for that sort of stimulus, well, that's something, isn't it?

The parallel between that young man and these cases does not escape him. He imagines it has not escaped Lestrade either.

He says none of these things to John.

John leans against the detective, inhaling Sherlock's particular scent: spicy aftershave, expensive wool, danger, and stares out of the taxi window. They are on the opposite side of London, at least an hour's drive from Baker Street and he should be horrified at the thought of the taxi fare but he cannot be bothered to think about it right now.

John is tired. He's been so damned tired for so long, he can't remember what it feels like not to be this way. He fights sleep, but it's a battle.

John is grateful for Sherlock's unnatural quiet. He can use the peace. The string of forced overdoses has his nerves on edge.

These cases. Drug overdoses. John muses on the few hints Lestrade has thrown out about a younger, drugged Sherlock, a drugged and nearly dead Sherlock, by the time Lestrade found him those years back. The similarity between that Sherlock and these murders does not escape him.

For his part, Sherlock frowns slightly and wonders, not for the first time that day, what has his friend so preoccupied and where the near constant exhaustion comes from.

Sherlock takes John's right hand in his left and intertwines their fingers. Neither one of them spares a thought for the cabbie. They have ceased caring about stupid things like that months ago. He remains silent, watching the scenery out the window, his quicksilver mind sorting through facts, sifting the data he has managed to glean, so far, about these murders.

Sherlock is achingly grateful for John Watson's presence. But he wishes John could sleep, if only for a little while. God knows he appears to need the rest.

John finally shuts his eyes. His fingers go slack in Sherlock's grip.

"Good," thinks Sherlock.

When they finally arrive at Baker Street, Sherlock murmurs to the cabbie to just keep driving for a while. He is determined to give John this much-needed rest and if it means taking it on the chin with an exorbitant taxi fare, then so be it.

He does not remove his arm from around John Watson's shoulder. Some things are just too good to stop doing.

OooOooO

 

Chapter 2

When they finally arrive at Baker Street, John disappears and Sherlock orders takeaway. He hears the taps running. John is showering and does this mean the evening might take on a more delightful aspect than he has anticipated?

The takeaway arrives and John wanders into their living area, his light hair still damp, barefoot, wearing flannels and a soft tee. He grins at Sherlock, who feels his stomach tighten.

He finds himself grinning back at John. "I'm an idiot," he thinks.

The two men sit at their much maligned kitchen table and discuss the case over kung pao chicken. Sherlock notes that John's appetite seems unaffected by his earlier mood. In fact, the short kip he has stolen in the taxi seems to have done wonders for him. He is his John, smiling at Sherlock, leaning over to stab a piece of spicy chicken with his fork off Sherlock's plate and of course, Sherlock lets him because he rarely eats during a case anyway.

Sherlock gives John his notes on all three victims and John appears thoughtful as he dutifully types the details into his laptop. God knows, there is very little that ties the three murder victims together. All young, all male, but no single characteristic that appears to link the three.

"Random killings? Sherlock doesn't think so. And Sherlock is inevitably right about these things."

The first two are still at Uni, but at different schools, one aged 18, the other aged 19. Both do have a history of minor prior drug use: mainly marijuana, nothing too harrowing.

"Typical experimentation that goes on in colleges around the world," thinks John. These two have been found in their respective rooms on campus by mates.

It would be easy enough, John supposes, to think that these two deaths are unrelated, the result of drug experiments gone awry.

Easy enough, except for the fact that John had discovered what appeared to be the signs of possible chloroform poisoning around the nose and mouths of the victims. Also, there is something odd about the bodies. He is not exactly certain about the nature of the drug cocktail and this bothers him. John has seen victims of drug overdoses before, both deliberate and accidental, during his service in Afghanistan. It was not unusual for young recruits, freshly deployed, to become rapidly overwhelmed by the constant stress, the danger, of military life, and to turn to drugs as an escape.

But these bodies do not resemble those and he wonders about it. As for the exact nature of the drugs involved, well he can't be 100% certain of anything, of course, until they get the lab results back. They will have to wait for Lestrade to text him those and it will take at least two days, John knows. And of course, Lestrade's team has first dibs on all info. He is just along for the ride.

He is willing to bet, however, that these overdoses do not consist of cocaine, heroine or any of the usual crutches addicts rely on. He mentioned as much to Lestrade and Sherlock.

John again thinks of a very young, very angry Sherlock – and his mind shies away from the picture Lestrade painted.

The third victim, in his early 20's, was discovered by the lakeside that morning by an early jogger. It is this victim that Sherlock is concentrating on as he appears to have no prior record of drug abuse, at least according to his flat mate, and he is the only one whose body has been removed from his home and dumped elsewhere.

"He's escalating. He took this one and dumped the body out in the open. I need to speak with the flat mate," Sherlock murmurs, watching as John finishes typing the last details into their database, glances at his watch, then purposefully shuts down his laptop.

"Looks like it," John says quietly.

He stands to gather up the leftovers of their meal, sliding the paper cartons into their fridge around various experiments in progress and what he knows for a fact is a small plastic container of human corneas, floating in solution.

He shuts the fridge door, then stands there for a moment, unmoving, his back to Sherlock, apparently deep in thought.

Sherlock comes up behind him, grips John's shoulders with those beautiful musician's hands, strokes the back of John's neck with one long finger.

He bends his head and murmurs into the doctor’s ear, "John?"

At Sherlock's touch, John shudders slightly, then turns readily into Sherlock's embrace and offers his face up for a kiss. Sherlock gives a little gasp and meets John's mouth with his own. He plants kisses along John's mouth, the corner of John's mouth, down John's throat.

John sighs and shuts his eyes, tilting his head, his throat into Sherlock's embrace.

Sherlock's lips work up along his ears, kiss both John's eyelids, then the corner of John's eyelids, then John's forehead, then along John's temple, finally working down his neck again, nipping the skin delicately with pointed teeth. He murmurs into John's collarbone.

"John. John. John."

As if John's name is his mantra and Sherlock is learning it by rote.

John smiles his sunny smile, the one Sherlock calls his Johnsmile, and takes Sherlock's hand.

Down the short hallway, past the kitchen, in Sherlock's bedroom –their bedroom now for many months - John tumbles Sherlock onto the bed. He makes short work of their clothes.

Sherlock finds himself beneath John, looking into his Army doctor's deep blue eyes.

John smiles at him, his gaze direct. Sherlock's heart tumbles.

Sherlock continues to stare back. Suddenly, his eyes narrow.

"John," he whispers in a ragged breath.

Hope. Want. Need.

John nips along Sherlock's ear lobes, down the white throat, sucks at one point of his collarbone. Sherlock shudders, his eyes close. He forces them open again.

"John," he breathes. He rubs his beautiful hands up and down John's spine, those gorgeous fingers splaying against the muscles in John's back.

"Tell me what you want, Sherlock," murmurs John.

He looks into Sherlock's eyes, all the while his fingers are flexing, kneading Sherlock's skin over his shoulders, down his arms, across his chest - and back up again. He repeats the movement, only this time using his fingernails, scraping gently over hypersensitive skin.

Sherlock feels as if every bit of his skin has become hot, needy. Every single inch of him aches to be touched, awaits its turn to arch upwards into John's hands, those capable doctor hands.

John's fingers move across Sherlock's skin, discovering, exploring, learning, memorizing.

Sherlock's eyes squeeze shut. He feels as if his mind is untethering, coming loose from its moorings.

John removes both hands from Sherlock's waist, where they have wandered, and digs them into Sherlock's dark curls, one hand on each side of his head, fingers curled into the untamed silken mass. He fists the gorgeous black curls, and not for the first time compares them to the color of the night sky over the Afghan desert. He tugs, sharply.

Sherlock's eyes fly open. His pale eyes stare into John's dark blue ones.

John's eyes darken. Narrow. He looks into Sherlock's face as if memorizing the detective's features. As if this is his last night on earth and he will never see Sherlock like this again.

Sherlock stares back.

Want. Need. Demand.

“His eyes are the color of fog,” thinks John, as he bends to kiss the detective's full soft lips.

Sherlock moans, kisses him back, frantic kisses that hold as much truth as anything John has ever known.

The moan, a tiny rumbling sound, travels through John's body, straight into his spine.

“Sherlock's eyes are the color of London,” thinks John, as he kisses his way down Sherlock's chin, to his white throat.

Need. Demand. Desire. Please.

Sherlock makes a humming sound. His fingers tighten on John's skin.

John's kisses become more demanding, frantic. He is losing himself in desire - and a tiny sense of despair.

“This is London, here, beneath me, in our bed,” thinks John. He trails a line of burning kisses along Sherlock's taught pectorals, circles one nipple with his tongue.

Under him, Sherlock arches, gasps.

Demand. Desire. Please. John.

“This is Mystery,”  thinks John as he kisses Sherlock's flat stomach, and as his needy lips go down, down. He feels Sherlock's hands grab his short sandy locks and tug sharply. John gasps.

“And THIS, this is Adventure, wild chases through the night.  This is what my life has become.

John. John. John. John .

John lowers his head and Sherlock comes undone.

OooOooO

Sherlock opens his eyes. He lies on their bed, next to John, who has fallen asleep, curled into the detective's side like a child, his breathing slow and even. Sherlock watches John breath for a very long time. He can feel cooled sweat along the length of him. They had long ago kicked off all the sheets and covers.

At last, Sherlock uncurls himself from John's side, pads down the short hallway, naked, into their sitting area. He is determined that John will have this night of peace and quiet and he decides the best way to accomplish this is to shut down all light, make the flat as dark as possible.

Snagging his blue robe off the sofa, he drapes it over his arm, as he makes his way around, closing windows, turning off lamps, shutting down his laptop and finally turning off the small light over their stove.

He makes certain their front door is locked - it is. Standing there, in near total darkness, he watches the distant flash of lightning through the darkened windows. A thunderstorm is coming their way and quickly.

Sherlock hears the new text chime and looks around for his mobile. He can now hear the sound of distant thunder.

Ah, kitchen table, of course. Sherlock thumbs the phone.  He raises one eyebrow at the text message.

We need to talk

MH

World domination becoming tedious?

SH

Pithy. It's important.

MH

Sod off. And why are you texting?

SH

JOHN

MH

Sherlock frowns, his heart suddenly hammering in his chest. He waits exactly eighteen seconds before responding, as at least a half dozen scenarios run through his mind, beginning with the fact that John might be actually physically ill and for some reason Mycroft knows this and ending with – but that wouldn't make sense, the being ill part. They had both had thorough physicals less than three months earlier. John had insisted after the Moriarty incident - after the Pool. And he had found a local doctor, also trained at Bart's, to do the actual examinations and tests.

Afterwards, they had exchanged reports and each had read the others. The copies had been filed in Sherlock's bank vault, because John had insisted again, that if they were to continue this dangerous partnership – and if each one was going to continue to rely on the other's being in top form, than of course, they had a right to see each other's yearly med report.

Sherlock had instantly, delightedly agreed. To John's utter astonishment.

Secretly, Sherlock knew this gave him access to even more data on John and this was one time that John could NOT get in a strop over it.

After thinking things over, John realized that he, too, benefited because now he could more or less insist that Sherlock take better care of himself – or at least allow John to do so without too much fuss.

As it turned out, both of them are in the very peak of health. Also, Sherlock would notice if there has been a change in John's health and aside from his obvious preoccupation and tiredness, he looks the same.

So, no. It can't be that.

So if not John's health, than what? The sex earlier had chased John's preoccupied mood from Sherlock's mind. Now it comes back with a vengeance. Sherlock stares at his brother's text, finds himself becoming more irritated, angry even, by the second.

All of this takes exactly eighteen seconds and then Sherlock texts Mycroft back.

Call me. Now.

SH

Unnecessary. I'll stop by in the morning.

After he's left for the clinic.

MH

NOW, Mycroft.

SH

Tomorrow. And do try to be quiet.

Let the man rest.

MH

I will murder you in your sleep.

SH

Tedious. Sleep well.

MH

S-O-D O-F-F

SH

Angrily, he clicks the phone to OFF, no more calls, no more texts, from anyone, even Lestrade, and most particularly Mycroft, and he tosses it onto their much abused sofa before padding back down the hallway to John.

In their bedroom, Sherlock makes certain their window is open by several inches because John loves thunderstorms and it would be – nice – if he should wake in the middle of this one. Because they most definitely need to have a talk.

If John were to wake up, then perhaps he'd look Sherlock in the eye and tell him, in that half drowsy, half joking manner he has when Sherlock has awakened him in the middle of the night for sex or just because he wants someone to bounce ideas off, just what the bloody hell is wrong, what has him in a strop. And he can then explain to Sherlock, in great fucking detail, exactly why Mycroft , the git, knows this thing about John while Sherlock is left guessing, with exactly zero clues to go on.

And if John will do that then perhaps, just perhaps, Sherlock will not be guilty of fratricide.

Yes. That will be very nice indeed.

Curled around John, carefully avoiding John's bad shoulder, Sherlock watches him sleep.

He has the sudden urge to fist his hands onto each side of John's head, curl his fingers into John's silky spikes, and tug – hard – until John opens his eyes and asks him what the hell he is doing….and then Sherlock will demand that John tell him, immediately, just why his brother has important information about him, about John, and Sherlock is left on the sidelines like a bloody street beggar, waiting for crumbs to fall and has, so far, come up with nine different ways to murder Mycroft and hide the body where no one -

Sherlock shudders.

"Not good," he thinks.

What he does instead is lie there while John sleeps and he watches the lightning flash outside their window. When the storm finally, finally hits, the sudden breeze rustles the curtain inward and the sweet smell of cool rain, of English rain, blows into their room.

John, it's raining and you are missing a very nice thunderstorm indeed. Wake up, John.

John does not wake. If anything, he seems to curl himself more around Sherlock, nuzzles into Sherlock's neck and sighs, his light snoring becoming less and less audible as he slips deeper and deeper into sleep.

Sherlock closes his eyes, bends his head slightly until his black curls lie against John's silky hair and his nose is resting against John's scalp. He inhales the smell of John's shampoo and the soap he used in the shower earlier that evening.

Sherlock lies there, his senses full of John, and waits for the inevitable.

John was very tired that day, very tired the last few days, seemingly exhausted the last few weeks and more than a little preoccupied and Sherlock knows that the nightmares cannot be far behind. The sex usually helps but since John spent time taking care of Sherlock's needs – and Sherlock selfishly let him – the detective feels instinctively that John's emotional maelstrom is still lurking there, just below the surface.

It will erupt soon. John will dream. Harshly.

Inevitably, in a few minutes, John will be back in uniform, under the merciless Afghan sun, fighting for his life or for the life of a fellow soldier, operating in the midst of a fire fight, attempting to keep some young soldier's guts from pouring out into the hot Afghan sand.

Trying – failing - to dodge a sniper's bullet.

Sherlock decides he will damn well stay right there, next to John, to fend off the demons.

He doesn't have long to wait.

While thunderclaps rock the roof of their flat, John begins to thrash in his sleep; he mutters quiet phrases in a foreign tongue that Sherlock cannot identify (Farsi? Pashto?)

Sherlock can see that John's eyes are moving rapidly behind their lids. Sweat pools against his brow. He moans softly once and the sound goes through Sherlock's guts like a blade.

Any minute now, Sherlock knows, John will turn onto his back and then the dreams will become exceptionally vivid, possibly violent.

Sherlock flashes back to the first time he ran up to John's old room, taking the steps two at a time, because the sound of an altercation had him convinced that someone had broken in on him and John was fighting for his very life – alone.

He wasn't far wrong.

Sherlock burst through the door, to be greeted by the sight of John, crouched on the floor, in the corner of the room, wearing only his boxer shorts, knees drawn up, eyes wide and staring, sweat pouring down his bare chest, with his Army issue Browning clutched in both hands. He was watching something far off that Sherlock could only guess at – and he did not waken or recognize Sherlock or anything for that matter.

After a moment's shocked silence, Sherlock began to talk soothingly to John, wary of approaching when he was holding the gun in rock steady hands…and slowly, slowly, John had lowered the Browning and finally slumped back against the wall, still curled up like a child in the throes of nightmare.

Sherlock carefully took the gun from John's hands, thumbed the safety back on, placed it on John's nightstand. Then he got an arm around John and lifted him to his feet. John had swayed drunkenly against Sherlock, his eyes beginning to droop and finally to close. Both men stood that way for a moment, the slighter one leaning against the taller, and Sherlock became very aware of the rhythm of John's heartbeat, pounding, pounding under his hands.

Sherlock's eyes widened in the dark room, and his heart began to race, his palms becoming damp, as he stood there, holding up the ex-Army doctor. No, he thinks. And then - This cannot be happening. I cannot - He isn't -.

He had finally manhandled John back onto bed and covered him with the sheet. After a moments' contemplation, Sherlock crawled into bed with John, stretched out alongside him, one hand on the ex-Army doctor's chest, watching it rise and fall, rise and fall. He lay there for hours, keeping watch during the remainder of the night, marveling at what his life had become.

Sometime in the early morning, Sherlock leaves John's bed, his heart stillthrumming in his chest and makes his way downstairs.

It is later that same morning, after John showered and came down to breakfast and tea, that Sherlock walked up to him, took the doctor’s face in his hands, stared searchingly into his eyes, all the while John flushed with embarrassment and yes, fascination.  Sherlock had gently, gently kissed John on the lips. Then he kissed his forehead, as if in blessing, and went to his room, leaving one confused flat mate sitting at their kitchen table, shocked beyond reason.

Dismissing the memory, Sherlock narrows his eyes at John. The dreams have begun and John is once again in the throes of nightmare. As the rain pours down and the lightning flashes, Sherlock raises a hand and begins to weave it through John's hair, sifting the silky spikes, letting them fall, then doing it again and again … concerned parent comforting fretful child. Slowly, slowly, John's face loses its contortions and he eventually lies still.

Because of the rain, the night air has become quite cool, and Sherlock reaches down to pull the sheet and coverlet back up over the two of them.

He settles down to watch John sleep.  Maybe if he is lucky, he will be able to sleep, as well. Perhaps this unreasoning anger will recede and he can finally rest for a few hours.

He highly doubts it. But he's willing to try.

Sherlock shuts his eyes; he decides that whatever Mycroft has to tell him can wait and he can wait, too. If it was life threatening, then Mycroft would have been waiting for the two of them when they arrived home earlier that evening. Comforting himself with this thought, Sherlock finally falls into sleep, with the cool, rain-washed air wafting over their bed.

Sherlock dreams.

In his dream, he is back at the Pool. It is a familiar landscape. Sherlock visits this place regularly now. For the life of him, he cannot stop dreaming of pools and snipers and a mocking, utterly cracked smile, underscored by a soft Irish accent.

He cannot stop dreaming of dancing pinpoints of light – red, hypnotic – flashing on John's chest- over his heart. On John's forehead- in front of his brain. In the crease of John's neck- against his carotid artery.

But this time something has changed. This time, John does not walk out dressed in the horrid green coat with the fur collar and the microphone behind his ear. This time, John is not standing in front of Sherlock, covered in enough Semtex to bring down a building – or a municipal pool - all the while being watched by Moriarty's snipers.

This time, when Sherlock walks through the door into the pool area, his hand clasped around the memory stick, his eyes widen, his heart skips a beat, two beats, three.

His blood freezes in his veins.

Sherlock's hands begin to shake.

There is a body floating, face down, in the pool. The body is male, compact, not much larger than a teen's really, slim, limbs splayed out in the water, arms and legs bobbing slightly with the lazy movement of the pool.

It is wearing jeans and a button-down plaid shirt, pedestrian, nothing special there. But the hair which is not quite blonde and not quite brown, floats on the surface of the pool, curling in short wet tendrils, as the face bobs from right to left and back again…the left hand curls and uncurls as the motion of the pool nudges the body and it begins to turn slowly round and round in circles…

"Sherlock."

…and now there is a great crimson stain…stretching outward from the side of the sandy hair and it is a very deep crimson color indeed, beyond red … as Sherlock watches in horror, it begins to stain the blue water … and now it has covered the surface of the pool immediately surrounding the body and it's absorbing the light, sucking in all of the ambient light, including the light in Sherlock's eyes, so deep a crimson it is nearly black…

"Sherlock."

… the crimson has spread to cover over half the pool now and the body, so small, so small, how could it house a heart so big and yet be so small?... has begun to spin in slow circles, coming closer…the deep dark color which now lies on the very top of the pool is nudging up against Sherlock's feet, lapping over his shoes, and he can see the eyes now, or rather one of them, as the head has turned on its side, the face toward him, one dark blue eye open, staring, as the stain continues to spread and to spread and to spread -

Sherlock opens his mouth to scream.

"Sherlock! What the fuck ! Wake up, for Gods sake! "

There is a click as the bedside lamp is turned on and warm yellow light flows over both their faces, over John's hands, his impossibly steady hands.

And John is there, in a crouch, kneeling over him in the bed, both hands on Sherlock's shoulders, shaking him.

John shakes him, tells him to wake up, to open his eyes.

Sherlock struggles for breath. Swallows.

He opens his pale eyes and stares into John's dark blue ones, lit now by the yellow light from the lamp and from the cool electric flashes of the lightning just outside their window.

His eyes widen and he reaches out to touch John's jaw with its faint dusting of stubble, run a hand down the side of his face, finally fists one shaking hand in John's hair and tugs sharply.

"Ow! Sherlock, Sherlock! It's okay now. Whatever you were – I'm here. I'm here now. It's okay. Just wake up, okay?"

Sherlock stares at the impossible sight of John, here, alive, and a deep shuddering sigh racks through his form. He tilts his head slightly down as he cannot bear to look at the other man right now. He is simultaneously angry, confused, wary, scared to death, desperately, achingly relieved he has been dreaming and - still angry. He decides to latch onto the one emotion he knows how to deal with.

Anger it is then.

OooOooO

Chapter 3

 

OooOooO

Awakened from nightmare, Sherlock stares up into John's face. The worry lines along John's brow are back with a vengeance. Did they ever really disappear?

Probably not.  John has had zero release, of any sort, this day and night.

“My fault,”  he thinks. “Selfish, selfish.” And again – “Selfish.”

"Sherlock – tell me what you were dreaming. What the hell's wrong."

John releases his grip on Sherlock's shoulders, but he still straddles Sherlock, his knees on each side of Sherlock's hips. He is, of course, totally nude. At any other time, the detective would find this incredibly erotic.

"Shut up," Sherlock pants. "Just - shut up, John."

John frowns, licks his dry lips. Stares back at Sherlock, as if seeing him for the first time in days. But he remains quiet.

"If that will help him," John thinks, "fine. I'll stay here, like this, naked, and not say a damned word."

John slowly becomes aware that lightning is flashing outside their window. He wonders how long the thunderstorm has been going on, and does it have anything to do with Sherlock's nightmare, with his strange mood. For the first time, he becomes aware of the cool breeze flowing into their room, the sound of rain pounding on their roof.

Sherlock reaches up and fists both hands on each side of John's head, grabs at the silky hair with all ten fingers. John does not pull away. He merely watches Sherlock and waits.

Looking at John, Sherlock questions how much longer he can hold in this pain, this frustration, this mounting anger, without doing harm to John - or himself.

"Same difference," he thinks. “Harm John, harm Sherlock. It's all the same now.

And he wonders when it all became the same. When the lines became so blurred that he could no longer distinguish between John's welfare and his own.

He's not certain when it happened. Just that it has.

He wants all of John. Needs all of John. Will kill with his bare hands anyone who touches John but him.

Sherlock is well aware that he still reacts badly when anyone shakes John's hand, claps him on the back, leans in to say something in John's ear. Each time, every time, he shudders, has to look away. Because he knows if he doesn't, he may hurt someone. Cause them real pain. And that is the last thing he –

Not good.

And the hell of it is that Sherlock knows it's not good. Not good for him and certainly not good for John. There is no way on earth that any of this can be considered good.

He tangles his fingers in John's dark blonde hair, frowns at him.

The doctor stares back at him, his dark blue eyes full of questions. He has gone completely, utterly still.

Sherlock recognizes this stillness. He has seen it before.

Sherlock can feel that John's hands are as wondrously steady as his body. Not a tremor betrays his inner emotion. He is on full Sherlock alert.

The detective's eyes narrow as he examines John. Not for the first time, Sherlock wonders, what John's psyche resembles after all these months of living with him.

Are those scars visible, can they be measured, quantified, catalogued, as the marks on John's body are oh so visible to anyone who cares to look? Can those scars – those injuries - be treated - Ever? And if so, what form would the treatment take?

And how many of them have the name Sherlock Holmes inscribed all over them?

John bends his head into Sherlock's chin, resting it just above the detective's heart.

"Tell me what's wrong. How can I help you if I don't know what's bothering you?" John murmurs.

Sherlock shudders. "Really, John? Like you tell me all the little things that are bothering you?"

He has never hated Mycroft more.

Sherlock feels as if his lungs are burning, collapsing.  

He is completely, irrationally angry with John Watson at that  moment. Unreasonable, but there it is.

He is angry with the other man's obvious exhaustion, with his pain. Angry at the things he says and the thousand things he's left unsaid.

Angry at the scars visible on John's body and the invisible ones on his soul.

And ultimately angry with himself - because he was unable to save John from those scars, unable to protect him from that pain, hidden and unhidden.

And this anger is strong enough to justify his immediate actions.

Sherlock tenses a leg muscle, lurches upward, and suddenly John is flipped over on his back in bed, both wrists held above his head in Sherlock's careful grasp. With his right hand, the detective reaches over the side of the bed, snags his blue robe where he tossed it on the floor, pulls it to him, yanks the robe tie loose from its loops.

All this without once removing his gaze from John Watson's face.

"What the fuck –"

Sherlock bends his face into John's, black curls against dark blonde spikes, breathes his demand into John's mouth.

"Say Yes, John." His voice is ragged, torn.

Sherlock has the robe tie in his right hand now and he gently but firmly begins to wind it around John's wrists.

John's eyes widen. His breath comes in gasps. His dark blue eyes stare straight into Sherlock's strange wild eyes, gone suddenly green.

How could he ever have compared Sherlock to one of the large cats? John wonders. This is the face of the wolf.

Sherlock reaches up to loop the end of the tie to their bed, wind it around a bed post. He begins to tighten it slowly, inexorably.

"Say Yes, John," demands Sherlock, his breath hot now on John's cheek.

He begins to kiss John's neck, to lick at the tense muscles in his throat, to work his lips against the skin of John's chest, gone sweaty now. He can feel John's heart beat as it accelerates.

John's heartbeat matches his own, which has begun to pound against his ribs.

It matches his own racing heart -

It matches -

"Say Yes." He no longer recognizes it his own voice. It has gone wild, feral.

He raises his head and kisses John's lips over and over and over. These are not nice kisses. They are pure filth.

And God help him, John loves it.

He continues his kisses along John's chest, using his tongue now, his left hand still grasping John's wrists, waiting for his answer.

John lifts his head, casts his gaze downward, to stare at Sherlock, at the black curls that lie along his sweaty scalp, at his hands on John's body and drops his head back.  He closes his eyes in surrender.

"Yes" – John murmurs. He is shaking now, with lust, with despair. "Sherlock - GOD!"

"Close,” growls Sherlock. "Very, very close."

He releases John's wrists to give the tie a final small yank, then reaches lower to grasp them both with those long, beautiful fingers.  He tugs.

John shudders, arches. He cries out. "Sherlock !"

"There will be … No. Further. Talking."

Sherlock lowers himself down John's body. The edges of their universe blur.

OooOooO

Mycroft sits in John's chair and stares into the fireplace. This is the third time that Sherlock has read John's letter and he wonders how many more times he will read it before the truth of it finally sinks in.

His brother has been incredibly blind. Curiously out of touch. But perhaps that is to be expected.

“Sherlock is often blind where John is concerned,” muses Mycroft.

Blind. Possessive. Jealous. Besotted. Gone round the twist.

He could make a game of this, Mycroft imagines. Decide how many nouns. adjectives, what types of unique phrasing he can come up with to describe Sherlock's fascination with the admittedly delightful little Army doctor.

Mycroft sighs. "Damage control. This is all a matter of damage control. How much of this can we salvage?"

And – is it already too late?

He thinks, not for the first time, nor for the last, what a royal git his brother can be at times.

At last, finally, Sherlock looks up at Mycroft, his eyes full of pain. He lets the sheets fall between his fingers onto their carpet. He cannot think. God, why can't he think?

"We really need to vacuum in here," Sherlock, thinks as he stares at the letter lying at his feet.

"Ah, I see you are back with us at last."

Mycroft stops his contemplation of the fireplace, of the skull, and adjusts a trouser leg.

He looks at his brother without pity. Sherlock has caused this mess. Sherlock is going to have to clean it up. He waits for his younger brother to say something, say anything.

Sherlock stands up, walks over to a window, and stares out at his city. He whirls to face Mycroft, his tone demanding, accusing.

"How can he think that? You knew this? You knew he had -? He can't think those things, Mycroft. He can't. How in bloody hell !" His voice breaks off.

Sherlock runs a hand through his curls despairingly. He finally sits back down on their tortured sofa, hands clasped in front of him, and stares at the sheets of paper on the floor.

Neither brother speaks.

Finally, Sherlock clears his throat. "How did you get a copy of this?"

Mycroft sighs the sigh he uses when Sherlock is being thick.

"Think, Sherlock. We have programs that automatically search the internet, emails, texts, whatever. Whenever they find certain names, phrases, such as Moriarty's, we are alerted, particularly when coupled with yours, John's, mine and, yes, Moran's. I believe they are called spiders."

He lifts his umbrella, inspects the tip, then sets it back down on the floor. Mycroft lances up at his brother, whose pain can now be read all over his face. Mycroft muses for a second on Sherlock's facial features, the carved cheekbones, arched brows, haughty expression.  Strange, otherworldly, but when put together, beautiful.

He decides to take pity on his brother, just this once.

"Obviously, John wrote most of that letter on the computer at his surgery.  Slow day I expect. He saved it to hard drive.—"

"- Sent it to his email as an attachment, pulled it up here at home on his laptop and finished it," says Sherlock automatically. "Your software program found and copied it. And of course, he erased it from his pc here at home when he was done with it as he would know that I would notice and read the final document. He sent it back to the computer at the surgery, finished the handwritten part, scanned it back in, and used the clinics printer. I use his pc so many times anyway-"

"Exactly."

Neither man mentions that John has had precious little privacy where his life with Sherlock is concerned. They both simply accept the fact that Sherlock would have read John's private correspondence. It is saying something that neither Holmes brother is particularly bothered by it.

The two men sit in quiet for a while. Sherlock finally looks up at Mycroft.

"We both rewrote our Wills months back, after Moriarty, after the Pool. When did John file this new Will?"

"Just last week," said Mycroft carefully. "The transcript of John's letter was given to me yesterday afternoon. "

"Why did you let me read the first pages? They were addressed to you. That was intensely personal."

And not a little shaming and yes, emotionally exhausting for Sherlock to read John's thoughts. John's thoughts.  Written to another, not to him.

None of John's words were meant for him. But every single one was about him, about Sherlock. He feels suddenly bereft, at sea. He goes back to his first assessment: shaming.

Sherlock drops his head into his hands, suddenly fearful that he has lost the capacity to feel John. He hears Mycroft move from John's chair, come to stand over him.

The older brother places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock does not flinch at the contact. 

“Progress. We are making progress in this regard at least,”  thinks Mycroft.

"Think, Sherlock. The entire letter was written to me. None of it was meant for your eyes. But it is obvious from John's words in the main body of the letter that he has written some sort of prologue, if you will. If I had withheld those pages – and believe me I considered it – I do respect John's privacy after all - you would have picked up on that and hacked into the same database . In a day, you would have had the entire missive."

He stands there and looks down at his brother and thinks, again, of the unholy shambles Sherlock has made of his life – and now of John's. He likes John. Likes John immensely

In fact, he thinks, not for the first time, if Sherlock had never met the doctor and if Mycroft had been lucky enough to — well, that thought was best left unfinished.

“There is enough angst in this room for one day,” muses Mycroft. “No need to add any more. The carpet probably couldn't handle it.”

Sherlock speaks into his hands, without looking up at his brother.

"How did I not know he had reduced his clinic schedule? How did he hide this from me?"

"Hide, Sherlock?"

Sighing the sigh of the much aggrieved, Mycroft crosses their sitting room into their small kitchen, comes back and stands in front of Sherlock.  He holds out his hand.

The detective looks up. Mycroft hands him their small calendar, the one that John tacked to the kitchen wall months ago, the one that John uses to record his clinic schedule.

He takes the calendar in his hands and frowns at it. With one beautifully manicured finger, Mycroft flips back a few of the pages, three months in fact. He points to a date.

Sherlock looks at the dates that John had written several months back. He sees John's regular weekly schedule, written in his precise handwriting. Slowly, Mycroft lifts the pages, coming forward this time. John's days and hours remained the same until one month back.

John had begun to reduce the hours he spent at the surgery less than one month ago. He had dutifully noted the days and hours on the calendar, in plain sight. He had not attempted to hide a thing from Sherlock. It was all there. Written in John's careful doctor's hand.

And Sherlock had never noticed. But Mycroft had.

He had never noticed.  Was he losing his mind? Was he so distracted by the chase that he could not see something so obvious, written down in plain sight for all the world to see?

“Or , more likely, Sherlock thinks savagely,” am I so fucking self-absorbed in being Sherlock-bloody-Holmes that I can’t see what is right in front of my bloody face?”

Apparently.

Suddenly angry, Sherlock looks up at Mycroft.  He stands and walks across the room to put some space between him and the man who is the British Government.

He stands in front of the fireplace and stares at the skull.

“How does he do that?” wonders Mycroft. “His very back looks aggrieved, put upon.”

Without turning around, Sherlock speaks and his voice is coolly calculating, dripping with arrogance, a tone that Mycroft recognizes and one that would cause John’s eyebrows to raise.

"He received threats – and he didn't come to me."

Mycroft is not sure if Sherlock is speaking to him or to the skull.

Sherlock turns around now and looks at Mycroft.

Right.  There he is. Well, I'm off in a moment.

"He was attacked, could have been killed – and he didn't come to me."

Mycroft purses his lips and stares back at his brother, noting the, in this instance, artificial coldness, the sham underneath the attempt at arrogance.

"Sherlock, what would you – could you have done? You read his words. They couldn't be traced. There were no clues, nothing to deduct. Nothing to follow. You would have tried and ended up in despair, just as John suggested you would."

"No, Mycroft! NO. He doesn't get to do this. He isn't allowed to do this!"

Sherlock begins to pace.

"Working himself up into a right proper strop," thinks Mycroft. "Well, my work here is done."

Mycroft looks at his brother dispassionately.  He walks over and sits down deliberately in John's chair. He crosses one leg over the other, smoothes out the crease in his pants leg, clasps his hands in his lap and begins to speak to his fingers.

He is beginning to become impatient with Sherlock, who is acting like a child. And he doesn't want to look at his brother just yet.

"Sherlock, consider John's words - No, you will listen to me and not interrupt," he says in his haughty elder Holmes voice.

Agitated, Sherlock just nods, his lips pursed in a straight line.

"First, you can never tell John you have read this letter. No, Sherlock. It just isn't done and you will not do it. Therefore, you cannot rebuke any of his arguments.

"Next, let's look at the facts, as John has laid them out. Yes, he might have been a little the worse for wine – it must have been a lovely Torquay - but that is not the point. John was verbally threatened. He thinks he knows by whom. John was pushed. He thinks he knows by whom. John is the one who had explosives strapped to his chest. John had snipers sights trained on him – and not for the first time, I might add."

Sherlock starts to speak and Mycroft holds up his hand. "I'm not finished, brother mine."

He clears his throat, addresses the tip of his five hundred quid shoes.

"John set out the points that he used to draw his conclusion. John's points are valid and in this instance, perfectly sound. Things are escalating and he appears to be in the exact center of it all. John is the one who expects to be - taken - for lack of a better word and soon. Again, his analysis of the situation is admirable."

Mycroft looks up at Sherlock. "And here lies the crux of the matter. I agree with John's analysis and his conclusions."

Sherlock winces, shuts his eyes. He takes a few deep breaths, attempting to get himself under control.

"But how can he think –"

"Sherlock," says Mycroft quietly. "Have you ever given him reason to think otherwise? Have you ever just come out and told the man?"

Sherlock crosses over to sit on the sofa again. He sits upright, like a child at school. He cannot look at Mycroft right now. He wants to see something in his brother's eyes. Some bit of understanding. But he doesn't dare look at Mycroft.

"Sherlock? I said, have you ever given John a reason to think other than what he does think?"

Sherlock shakes his head, miserable.

Mycroft leans forward to get a better look at his brother.

"Sherlock, look at me, please." He speaks as if to a child. 

Well, that is what I am doing.  Speaking to an overgrown child.

At the " please" Sherlock raises an eyebrow and finally lifts his head to glare at Mycroft.

Mycroft smiles gently, the same smile he used when Sherlock played his first long violin piece and played it perfectly.

"Tell the man, Sherlock. For Gods' sakes, tell him. Or be kind and cut him loose. But do something to fix this mess you have made, before it gets any worse."

Mycroft wants to add..."and if you do cut him loose, send him to me," but he doesn't. He doesn't.

Mycroft stands, picks up his umbrella. He walks over to stand over his brother. He looks down at the gorgeous ebony curls and sighs.

"Sherlock, as I see it, you have two problems. One is to immediately secure John's safety, if that is even possible. And the second – fix your family, Sherlock. Fix it now."

Sherlock half laughs, doesn't dare raise his eyes to Mycroft.

"You sound like Mummy," he mutters.

"Yes, well, insults won't get you anywhere."

Mycroft bends over to pick up the sheets of paper lying on the ground. Sherlock shakes his head. "Leave it please."

"Sherlock. You know you can't tell John or even intimate by word or deed that you know what he wrote in here. I'm not even meant to see it for some time to come."

"Mycroft – I know that. Just leave it. I promise to burn it. John will never see it." He looks up at Mycroft and grins that little boy grin that Mycroft used to love.

"Oh, you manipulative –" Mycroft lifts a hand to ruffle those gorgeous curls, but stops short. Things have been going too well in that department and he has no wish to have Sherlock bite his hand off. He lets his hand drop to his side.

"Fix this mess, Sherlock. As soon as John gets home. But do not refer to this," Mycroft indicates the letter in Sherlock's hands.

Mycroft walks out of the room, snagging his overcoat on his way out. He only hopes that his brother can repair his mistakes – before it is too late for all of them.

Sherlock looks again at the sheets in his hands. He has never felt so full of despair. He glances at his watch. Only two hours before John gets home.

How in hell is he supposed- he shakes his head and shuts his eyes.

Dear God what a mess he has made of his and John's lives…what a God awful, fucking mess.

"John, John."  He whispers into the room. No one answers. Not even the skull.

OooOooO

John Watson's Letter to Mycroft Holmes – to be delivered to Mycroft with a copy of John's Last Will and Testament – Upon his death.

Mycroft Holmes – London

I am leaving this letter, along with a copy of my updated will, with David Sanderson, Esq., London, my family's solicitor. He has instructions to transmit both documents to you in the event of my death – and not before.

Mycroft, I pray you never read this letter, that it lies in my lawyer's vault for years and never sees the light of day. That would be the best possible outcome.

I am pretty certain this will not be the case.

If you are reading this, then I am dead – or missing and presumed dead. It undoubtedly happened quickly, with no time for anyone to react, least of all me. So no worries there.

It's what I've expected to happen, after all.

TAKE CARE OF SHERLOCK.

I can't stress this enough, Mycroft. I know this request comes as a redundancy, but I have to know that I can entrust him back into your care. I am 100% certain that this is a correct assumption on my part but this is not the time to leave things unsaid.

He may lose himself a little when I am gone. He'll come out of it soon enough - I'm simply not that important to his work. But I know he does care about me on a personal level, at least he does as of the writing of this letter. I fear what he may do if I am suddenly removed from his life. This – relationship – we have can best be described as fragile. It can be shattered at any moment.

Mycroft, I'm not entirely certain what Sherlock is capable of should I just disappear. I pray that this was not the case. I hope my body was readily found and that it was a good death. I will be pissed as hell if I am run over by a cab, trailing along after your brother in another wild chase through London. (Smile, Mycroft.)

If I have disappeared and my body has not been found, it will not be pretty. Sherlock will be – distracted - looking for me and it will take him away from his work.

Sherlock's routine has become intensely important to him. I have realized that he has come to rely on a certain amount of daily routine in order to ground himself. Knowing that certain aspects of our lives remain constant seems tohelp. He would smile and say ‘boring,” but I know this to be the truth.

Our life here at Baker Street is good. Although probably strange by what passes as normal standards. But still good. He counts on that to keep him sane and I fear for him, and for others, if that life is suddenly disrupted.

See that he eats. If you have to, then by all means, kidnap the bastard and feed him intravenously. He simply cannot get any thinner.

WATCH SHERLOCK

For a while, he will not know what to do with himself. I have been a – distraction – I hope a welcome one. At least, I've tried to be. I don't know if I rate myself up there with the violin, but it's close. (Smile, Mycroft.)

BE VIGILANT.

During those first few months, I went through our flat on three separate occasions, found the drugs, flushed them, binned the needles and the rest of the paraphernalia. Actually, I made him do all that while I stood over him and watched. But drugs are easily come by, Mycroft, and Bart's isn't that far from Baker Street. There isn't a lock made that Sherlock can't pick in under a minute and that definitely includes the pharmacy at Bart's.

There are only the nicotine patches now and I can't bring myself to complain about those. His is an addictive personality. I recognized that the second day. His amazing brain has to have some stimulus, so I've let the patches slide. But watch him! Go through the flat regularly when he's away. You have the resources to do this.

PLEASE DO THIS. He'll hate you for this but you are far stronger than he is, stronger than both of us. You can deal with his hatred, his silences, his sulks. He can be an utter twerp, your brother.

If you will do these two things for me, Mycroft, I will be eternally grateful. I've never been one to believe in much of an after life, despite the Anglican upbringing. But I will be grateful, on some level, if you will do this for me.

And – Thank You.

Mycroft: Those were my sole requests. But it's quiet here now in 221 B Baker Street. Your brother is actually sleeping, for once. Doesn't happen very often, him sleeping, that is.

And this is a lovely wine that Lestrade sent over, as a thank you for our cracking that last kidnapping case. I'm not one to drink wine usually but this – Torquay – is quite nice.

So now that I am full of false courage - I want to let you know the main reason for this letter, other than those two requests of you. If reading certain private revelations either bores or affronts you, then please stop here and just burn the rest. Do those two things for me, Mycroft, and we're square.

If you decide to read on, Mycroft then know this: I am not apologizing for anything I write here. But sometimes I despair, more so these days, for reasons that will become obvious soon enough. I want – no, I need there to be a record somewhere of these events, in case.

If this letter is in your hands, well - moot point.

I do not have a death-wish, Mycroft, far from it; although Sherlock once commented my actions would belie those words. On the contrary, I want to live as long as possible. I want to have years and years with this man.

If you are reading this, then it's far too late for both of us.

I wanted to be there – for Sherlock – as long as I was spared. It would have been lovely to grow old together. Occasionally, I think about that life, usually when one or the other of us is in hospital and there's not much else to do but think.

I rather hoped that there would be a civil ceremony one day, perhaps even children. I can see us retired in a cottage somewhere in the countryside. Surrey is lovely. Or Cornwall. Sherlock might have enjoyed living by the sea. Sherlock could keep bees; he seems to have become obsessed with them lately. He could continue his research, publish his articles. We would stop chasing villains through the night. I might even be a real doctor again. It would be a blessing to this damned leg, at any rate.

Not going to happen. But it's been pleasant to think about.

It's our stupid dreams that keep us going, right?

There have been threats. Two phone calls to the surgery - both in one week – both from a male caller whose voice I could not identify (No, not Moriarty and not Moran either. I know both their voices.) No notes, never any notes, just the phone calls. Both times, the caller knew when I would be there and available to answer calls.

Wish I could say for certain that they came from Moriarty but I can't be 100% sure. I believe they were. The wording was certainly familiar – same old shite about cutting me open, leaving me to bleed out and binning the useless remains. Familiar drivel. Again, I would place odds that M. (I refuse to use the sod's full name again in this letter) was behind the calls. I can't think of anyone else that Sherlock has pissed off enough to cause them to make those calls, other than M. And M. has "borrowed" other voices before. So no surprise there.

No way to trace the callers. Caller ID was blocked and they were so short there was zero response time to try to put a trace on them. Sherlock would be angry as hell if he knew I had been directly threatened and did not come to him. But there wasn't a single bloody thing he could have done, Mycroft, except be irritated. Trying to trace those two calls would have taken away from his work.

Yet another reason that John Watson has become a liability to Sherlock Holmes.

There has been an incident. I take the tube home from the surgery these days – Sherlock objects and says I should always take cabs but good grief, does the man think we are made of money?

I was standing in the underground least week, and could have sworn someone passed behind me, said my name – just "Evening, Dr. Watson." And then a slight push. Just a nudge, really, but I felt myself stumble forward on my bad leg. Damned thing totally gave out on me; I fell but a young student grabbed me and pulled me back by my coat sleeve. I would have fallen onto the tracks, probably.

Left the underground; found my way back up and took a cab home. Thought about it for a while. Problem is, again, there was nothing to go on and no way to prove it. We were packed in like sheep down there. Could have been anyone. After going over it in my memory a few times, I have half convinced myself I imagined the entire thing. I'm beyond tired these days and it's entirely possible I nodded off while standing up and dreamt the whole thing. Wouldn't be the first time.

I've reduced my hours at the clinic, Mycroft, so I can spend more hours at the firing range, and at the gym pounding the punching bag. Any extra time left is spent with some former Army mates who have been helping me make sure my basic fighting skills are up to par. Well, you don't need to know all of that. It's no longer of any importance.

But these actions prove that I wanted to live – I have so much to live for these days.

One word: Sherlock. Always, always - Sherlock.

Mycroft, I'm not much of a writer, the stupid blog beside, but I'll do my best to give you certain facts. You judge for yourself if I was being paranoid – I'm beyond being able to critique my own actions these days.

In the relatively short time I've been with Sherlock, I have been kidnapped on three occasions, each time resulting in serious, sometimes rather alarming injuries. (No, I don't count that - I forgave you for that a long time ago. I would have called it 100% square if you had told me her real name. )

Each time Sherlock spent his precious resources finding me and getting me back. Twice, he was physically hurt doing so. I have no idea what the emotional hurt was. I have precious little data to go on to make any presumptions on that score, to paraphrase Sherlock.

Each kidnapping occurred because someone wanted to fuck with Sherlock – and they knew they could get to him through me.

Believe me, John Watson is not important enough a person to warrant the trouble of planning these actions without there being an ulterior motive.

So - three kidnappings.

Four broken and five cracked ribs. These have not completely healed and some days, it hurts to breathe.

Multiple contusions. Several pulled tendons and a gunshot wound to my damn leg.

Broken wrist. (Re-break, I should say. Originally broken when I was a boy.)

Bullet graze along my left temple. That one was a little too close.

Three concussions. In the last instance, I was in bad shape - they called in Harry. Guess I'm a stubborn bastard.

217 stitches total.

Five trips to hospital as an outpatient.

Do the maths.

I'm not stupid, Mycroft, no matter what you and your brother may think of my mental processes, and I can see that things are escalating at an alarming rate.

I know I have become a liability to Sherlock. Perhaps the ultimate liability.

Increasingly these days, I can see the despair in his eyes when he looks at me. It is impossible for him to keep me safe short of locking me away somewhere.

And - this must stop. I cannot be the reason he is unable to continue his work. But frankly, I cannot figure out how to make it stop, short of leaving him voluntarily. This I will never do.

As long as I am his – preoccupation - he will never tell me to go. But when the day comes that Sherlock does, in fact, ask me to leave, I will do so unhesitatingly. It won't matter because I will be dead soon after anyway.

Perhaps that is why you are now reading this letter – that day has come and gone and I took steps. I am a damned good doctor, Mycroft, and I will make that happen. I simply cannot – no, I WILL NOT go back to the way it was before Sherlock. I cannot live without him. Nor more than I could live without breathing. It's that simple. If that's wrong, on any level, I simply don't care. Past apologizing for it.

In medical school they taught us how much blood the body can lose before shutting down vital organs, before dying. We learned which organs could be amputated without fear of death. But to my knowledge, medicine has not come up with a way to help you live when your heart has been ripped open and you have been left to bleed out. Alone.

Your brother has ripped my heart out so many times, I am surprised that organ still beats. I cannot even count the times he has gone off on his own, - just fucking left me – without a word, without any clue as to his whereabouts.

(Case in point: our very first case together. Case in point: our next two cases together. Case in point: the last four – you get the idea.)

Each time, I had no idea where he was or what he was doing, if he was captured, injured, or what - until he came back on his own, usually with that idiot’s grin on his face, or we got the ransom note or some sick bastard sent me a video link so I could sit and watch while Sherlock had the living hell kicked out of him.

Why am I bothering you with this drivel? I have to talk to someone, Mycroft, and you are light years ahead of the skull. (You really do need to smile more, Mycroft.)

Sherlock's preoccupation with me will eventually change, of course and I am resigned to that fact. It's the most difficult thing I've ever had to come to grips with, but I think I've finally managed it.

These days, I take what I can get when I can get it. It does not matter how tired I am or how little sleep I have been getting lately, if he needs me – for ANY reason – then I am determined to be there for him.

I think it will kill me the day I look into Sherlock's eyes and no longer see that interest. On that day, I will quietly leave before the situation becomes intolerable for the both of us.

I've always said I'd stay on his terms and I intend to stick, until he changes his mind. I pray I don't live to see that day.

I'm not self-destructive. Truly. But there are things I will not attempt to live without.

I'd rather a bullet in the brain then to look in Sherlock's eyes, GOD those eyes, and see – nothing.

Well, that's - Enough of that.

Make certain he doesn't harm himself please, for his sake and for yours but mostly for mine. It's a selfish request but one I am making of you, nevertheless.

Sherlock MUST live, Mycroft. An intellect like his comes along once in a millennium. The world needs the Holmes brothers. Both of you have so much to do yet.

My best hope is that I have died at least attempting to save your brother.  And if in fact, I have taken a bullet for Sherlock, please know that I chose this.

I walked into this eyes wide open.

At the very least, John Watson's life will have counted for something in the end. (Unless it was a cab, in which case the joke's on all of us, I guess.)

You told me once, Mycroft, that when you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield.

Well I've seen the battlefield with Sherlock and I cannot imagine another way to live.

This is what I wanted. HE is ALL I have ever wanted.

Sherlock was right about me and so were you. The adrenaline rush brought me to Sherlock's side time and again in those first few weeks. I stayed for other reasons.

I believe he still wonders why I stay. No one has ever stayed, Mycroft. No one. He didn't expect me to stay either. In this, at least, I think I have surprised him. I hope I have. Your brother needs to be surprised upon occasion.

I stay because the alternative is unacceptable.

Neither one of us has ever said the words, Mycroft. I try to – with my actions, the late dinners, (anything to get him to eat) - with my body. I guess you can say that I do say the words all the time.

I think, on occasion, he tries to say them to me. He just doesn't know how. Perhaps he never will and if you are reading this now, it's too late anyway.

By now, you have the copy of my will I have left with my solicitor. There isn't much to bequest. The will states it all. A few items go to my sister, Harry, but most of them to Sherlock, if he wants them. If you see disinterest in his eyes, please quietly bin it all. Except for my dog tags. He should keep those, if even to irritate him whenever he opens his drawer and sees them lying there.

I am leaving my medals in your keeping, Mycroft. Kindly put them away, somewhere safe. They stood for something once. Harry would just end up pawning them one day to buy the next drink. No illusions on that score.

This really is a lovely wine. I must remember to thank Lestrade.

When I woke up in Afghanistan and they told me I would never be a surgeon again because of my blasted shoulder, the tremor in my hand, I thought my life had ended.

As I lay there, wracked with fever, I prayed I would die.

When I was invalided to the UK and I came to realize I had basically, been tossed aside, that nothing would ever again happen to me, I wanted to die all over again. One night, I tried to make that happen. You don't need to know the details. I was feverish at the time and obviously screwed up the dosage. Thank God, because otherwise I would never have met Sherlock.

It's funny how things happen sometimes, right?

I still don't know why Sherlock keeps me around. My shooting hand is still pretty steady but it will worsen. The shoulder is frequent agony. There are nights I can't get several of my fingers to work. And my damned leg has taken to giving out on me at the most inopportune times. Because of the chase, I no longer take the pain pills on a regular basis. I don't dare become addicted because I never know, from day to day, when he will need me to be there for him, clear-headed.

It's only a matter of time before Moriarty or Sebastian Moran or some other bastard puts a bullet in my brain – and not because John Watson was important enough to warrant the attention.

This will happen because it is yet another way to hurt Sherlock. I know this and it kills me to know that I have become this much of a liability. But God help me, Mycroft, I don't have the bollocks to leave.

Since you are reading this damned bit of nonsense, perhaps the bullet has found me at last.

I've said what I needed to say and hope to God that you never read this. But if you are reading and have stuck with me so far, then I want to tell you this: Thank You for being such a decent chap, Mycroft. I know you and Sherlock have your brotherly feud going but you have always been kind to me, for the most part.

Take care of Sherlock. Watch Sherlock. He can't be allowed to hurt himself.

For my part, as long as I am able, I will do the same.

Finally, Thank You for being such a good brother to Sherlock. I am telling you because he never will. You have committed the unpardonable sin of being smarter than he is and that fact alone can sometimes make him extremely difficult to live with.

(What has occurred in our bedroom remains private. But I will say this, Mycroft: THANKS EVER SO MUCH Mate for the irritability, the petty feuds, the arguments between the two of you. You have no idea how hot the sex was after every such run-in between the Holmes brothers! Oh, God, I wish I could see your face, Mycroft . You are so British – so very, very English - and I have probably horrified you on some deeply personal level but frankly, I can't find it in myself to care. (You do need to loosen up a little, mate!)

In John Watson's handwriting –

He HAS to live, Mycroft. If he doesn't, then my life with him has meant nothing. The Army cut me loose because I was of no further use to them and pretty soon, I expect Sherlock to cut me loose too. He has to - it just makes sense. If he and I are no longer – together - then I cease being the pain in the arse I have become to him. And he can stop worrying about my safety and just get on with it. If you no longer give a hostage to fortune, you no longer have to worry if that hostage is bleeding out in some alley way.

But until that day, I stick.

Know this: Because that bastard M. has put me in the position of being a liability to Sherlock, I will hunt him down myself and blow his fucking head clean off his fucking shoulders. I will. Watch me.

The difference between me and Sherlock in this regard is simple - I will tell Sherlock what I am planning to do before I do it. I will tell him where I am going and what I intend to accomplish when I get there. He will never wonder what happened to me. He will  know.

The damned heartbreak is, I know when he decides to go off on his own to do the same thing, he probably won't even bother to mention it. He'll lie. And I hope - I pray -that if he did this, if he HAS gone off on his own, again, without me, and if he has lived through it and came back to me, I hope I KICKED HIS BLOODY ARSE !

Watch him. Be Vigilant. Take care of him.

And take care of yourself, Mycroft. I would hate for the British Government to come to ruin.

Your friend,

Capt. John H. Watson, M.D.

Chapter 4

 OooOooO

There is a man, tall, graceful, with a shock of inky black hair and eyes the color of laser beams filtered through smoke. His mind is quicksilver, his actions precise, his hands, ah, those musician's hands, capable of poking at dead flesh or cradling his Stradivarius, all with the same grace, the same economy of movement. His body is beautiful; there is no part of him that is not beauty and grace and elegance – except, perhaps, for his soul.

Often mishandled, incredibly neglected for so long, that unquantifiable spark barely resembles what it once was when he was a small, tiny thing with wild curls and wilder imagination, happily trailing after his beloved older brother, like a dolphin trailing the Calypso at high tide.

He grows, matures, and his brain, that glorious amazing organ, grows along with his body by leaps and bounds. It objectifies, quantifies, measures every detail, each facet of his existence – and of the lives of those around him. He sees the beauty in connections, the same way he finds the beauty in music, in a violin solo expertly played, hauntingly sweet. He discovers, instantly, whole scenarios where others see the ordinary banality of existence.

His mind, blooming, ever blooming, craves detail, facts, input.

Inevitably, as the wild surmises he makes of the world around him begin to pale, as the cruel taunts begin, as others start to look at him and to wonder, to tear down what they do not understand, to label …to poke fun of.. (…" Freak's here"..."Yup, he's always like that.") … when the mental stimulus fades, as it must eventually do – life can't be exciting all the time – his soul begins to shrink, to wither. And his mind, that incredible, achingly beautiful instrument, turns to other forms of release, other forms of stimulus, all of them self-harming. None of them good.

He begins to hear the shrieking that has always lived at the bottom of his awareness – he knows the shrieking is there – how could he not? - but has tried valiantly to ignore it, or to placate it all these years with the newest puzzle, the next mystery. But it surfaces - as he has been afraid all along it will do - and threatens to drown out all sound and all imaginings.

If he ever thinks of his soul, that thing everyone speaks of but that he has no scientific way of measuring – or if he ever thinks of his heart as other than a beating organ in his chest - it is to consider that neither of those exists, not really, not in the way that people want them to exist. It is all an illusion, lies told to children by adults to control them, to make them toe the line.

It. Is. All. One. Massive. Falsehood.

The day he accepts this as his maxim, the day he embraces this as his truth, he drugs himself into a coma, hoping for an end to what has become an intolerable existence.

He is barely 24 years old.

He has been involved in a search for something or someone that he can no longer engage in. Perhaps, all along, all this time, he has been waiting … waiting for someone else to see the same beauty he sees … waiting for someone else to hear the same music … waiting, waiting … ever and always – waiting.

In the end, he gives up the waiting, as he has become tired, just completely and utterly exhausted with the very act of staying alive.  Tired of breathing, always breathing.

Breathing, after all, is boring.

So he prepares the final injection, overfills the syringe, slips the needle under his flesh and slowly, slowly pumps the poison into his veins. He dispassionately tosses the syringe aside, curls up on the floor of his freezing flat - and waits.

As his lungs begin to shut down and his heart begins to stutter, he experiences a tiny feeling, just a frisson actually, of blessed release. This is all good. Painful – but good. His lungs attempt to breathe in freezing, utterly Arctic cold air – God, how has the air become so cold? It matches the ineffable cold now coursing through his veins.

His heart begins to wind down, to slow. Just so many beats left, he thinks. He has nearly, so nearly used up all the beats that particular organ has been allotted.

He thinks, "Finally, finally, it will all be over. Quite soon now. Just a few more moments."

Time will just stop and so will he.

The shrieking in his mind will blow away, to terrify someone else. He will be done. There will be peace.

He tries to embrace this knowledge. He really does. But there is - something - in his psyche that just Won't. Let. Go. Not quite yet.

To his utter astonishment, he lives. His heart, stubborn, stubborn, refuses to stop beating and it is much later, years later, after the Army doctor enters his life, that he wonders if there wasn't some sort of master plan behind it all. He doesn't really believe in that sort of thing, never has, but now he begins to consider it at idle moments, simply because things are so much better than they used to be.

Above all else – the shrieking has faded away into nothingness.

Now there is only the doctor, and he feels that in many ways, he, the detective, is being healed on a daily basis, perhaps by sheer osmosis.

He suspects it is not possible to be around such a bright light, such extraordinary goodness, and not pull some of it into his own body.

He begins to rely on the doctor, a man outwardly seemingly ordinary, but inwardly - oh what a light is shining there in that compact form. He has come to depend on him just being there. And he knows that the act of being there … the act of staying when no one else has stayed ... has elevated this soul far above all the others he has ever known in his short existence.

But there is so much more to the doctor than that. He is kindness where others are taunts and jeers. He is intelligent, but astounded at the detective's way of seeing connections and doesn't hesitate to tell him how amazing he is, a fact which the detective is always astonished at, so few ever compliment him, his brother, yes, and Lestrade, upon occasion, but no one else that he can think of.

The doctor is weary, yes, but with a weariness born of seeing so much of the world that the detective has yet to see. And despite the weariness, he is careful, so careful and considerate of others, so compassionate, so good….the detective wonders that of all the people in the world, this man came to him. He is astoundingly grateful.

He eventually begins to suspect that somewhere along the line, gratitude has become love. He can't be certain, never having experienced it before.

But the detective never tells the doctor.

He thinks his doctor must know. Doesn't he know? How can he not know how the detective feels? Of course he knows, doesn't he?

Eventually he takes the doctor to his bed the way he has taken him to his soul. To own, to possess. And his doctor comes to him without hesitation and that aspect of his life never ceases to astonish him. He simply cannot get enough of this soldier, this healer with his warm sunny smiles - and his deadly trigger finger. It says something about the both of them that they both realize the detective's need to possess ... to own ... totally and irrevocably OWN the doctor - life, body and soul. And it seems to bother neither one of them a bit.

His brother easily sees that this is not good, the detective's attempt to own another's soul, to stamp his brand on another's very existence. To possess everything about this Army chap.

And his heart aches for his brother because he knows that this is the legacy their mother has left her youngest son. This is the warped type of love she taught; because this is how she quantified love, as possession. And the brother sees that the younger man, left in their mother's care when the older went off to university, knows no other way of showing love. There has been no one to teach him this aspect of human existence. So he does the best he can with it.

And, for his part, the detective is determined to take care of and to care for this soul … if the doctor will let him.

Oh, he never uses the words soul or love. His mind shies away from the words the way the fall leaves shy away from the cool breeze, driven now by the English rain outside their window.

And it won't be the first time that they have been ignored, that thing he once owned, that emotion he has held in disdain for so many years.

After all, they have time now, he thinks, the lovely Army doctor and him. Always, always they have time. Or so he believes.

His brother has come and gone, left certain truths in his hands. The detective sits now, his head in his hands, his fingers splayed through his wild curls and stares at the carpet. He hears the rain beating at their window, but cannot spare any thought to it.

He reads and rereads an amazing document, lets it fall to the floor, shuts his eyes and despairs of being able to ever do the right thing by this oh so good man. He thinks of and  rejects a half dozen scenarios. Tries to quantify, to diagram his actions, but is unable to do so.

Finally he picks up the letter, folds it very carefully and hides it away in the bottom of the tooled Moroccan chest his brother gave him for his last birthday. Even though he has memorized every word, he cannot bring himself to destroy these sheets of paper, to see them burn and curl into ash in the fireplace.

These are his words, those are his thoughts. And he must possess - own - everything that belongs to the doctor. These pages have fast become precious to him and he will not relinquish them, despite his promise to his brother.

He returns to their sitting room to curl up on the sofa, like a child, and stare at nothing in particular. He thinks of the good doctor and feels, inexplicably, like weeping.

He thinks of himself and despairs. He suspects that there is nothing good in him. He wonders if there was ever anything that was good in him.

He thinks not. He can be and frequently is amazing. But he cannot remember that he has ever done anything that can be described as good.

Nothing that anyone can point to with pride, or that anyone of worth would ever want. Certainly nothing that they would pursue.

But in the end he is a stubborn man, not quite willing to give up, not just yet, and he is left with one realization: he has to go to the doctor (up until that day he always referred to him as his doctor…his soldier…but no more…he has to earn that right all over again…he may never have that right again.) … he has to go to this good man who has become the most vital part of his being – the missing extension of his heart – and somehow, some way make this all come out Right.

He desperately wishes someone would tell him how.

OooOooO

There is a man, compact of stature, with eyes the color of the deepest part of the ocean, so dark a blue you have to see them in a strong light to discover their real tint. His skin carries a light tan from years spent under a constant sun in a merciless land. His hair lies in silky spikes along his forehead and is neither blonde nor brown but when captured and held by the morning light, becomes a heart rending, shimmering gold.

He stands proud and straight, this young man, more often than naught at parade rest, although he has since left his military service behind. He is not a tall man, but carries himself in such a way that he is a noted presence in any company he finds himself in.

It is one of the first things the great detective notices about him. His proud posture – and his unfathomably dark blue eyes.

He is a soldier, this man, a warrior, specially trained, but also a doctor, trained to heal. (Yes, he sees the opposition there, the paradox, of course he does, but he no longer frowns at it. This is, after all, the life he chose.) He chose to become a soldier and a doctor, like his grandfather before him. And because he loved and respected his grandfather, he attempts to follow in his wake, although that kind gentleman is long since gone.

He trains as a doctor and not just any doctor but an Army doctor. The Army becomes to him a means of escape, as it is to so many young men and women. In his case, it is escape from a life at home with a physically abusive father, an indifferent mother, a confused and absent older sister. A life that, at the best of times, can serve as an example to others, and at the worst of times, terrifies him, injures him, both physically and emotionally, and leaves him with scars so deep, that he knows there is no medicine he can ever learn, no healing arts he will ever possess, that can make those injuries disappear.

So he does the next best thing and he disappears.

He enlists in the Army and Her Majesty's service does not disappoint him. It sends the young doctor to the farthest reaches of a violent land, fighting an impossible-to-win war, and orders him to practice his craft. It orders him to heal.

And to fight.

He does not disappoint the Army in either endeavor.

He is an excellent doctor and quickly becomes more than a formidable fighter. He undergoes special training and soon has men and women under his command. He has vowed to protect them, these young doctors and soldiers, to fight alongside them, to die with them at a moment's notice, to die for them, if necessary.

He has never been happier, more content in his young life.

It is there, under a sky so blue it hurts to look at it, under stars of such a cutting intensity they shine like the tips of razor blades, it is there he is allowed at last, at lastto be of service.

There is a man whose hands comfort the sick, soothe the dying, fire a bullet into a murderer's heart. His hands, steady when most necessary, are a vital extension of his being. And he knows quite well, thank you, why the tremor that has plagued him for over a year is nowhere evident when he is involved in the very act of survival, but more often than not, returns when he is simply going about the daily act of living.

The great detective is saddened by this. The soldier never dwells on it.

The soldier never thinks of himself as a hero. He is a man who did his job, to the best of his ability, before the Army cut him loose. He in no way considers himself remarkable or courageous or special. In fact, he tries not to think about himself as much as possible. To his mind, he is, basically, a waste of flesh and bone and muscle. He does not see how anyone will ever want or need any part of him, now that he is damaged, he feels, beyond repair.

But under his bed there is a wooden box, a small object, beautifully carved of sandalwood, left to him by his beloved grandfather, also a doctor and a soldier. And if you open the box, you will see the medals – five of them – pieces of shiny silver, copper, laminate and gold, that speak of extraordinary actions under extraordinary circumstances.

You can look at the small commendations, hold one of them up to the light, brush its textured surface lightly with your fingers, but unless you hold it to your ear and listen, it won't tell you that its existence means a young American soldier went home to his high school sweetheart, alive, because the doctor ran into the middle of a fire fight, bodily picked him up and carried him out again, propped the young man up against the side of a Humvee, and proceeded to tear through cloth, wipe away blood, and disinfect and stitch up a gaping leg wound.

The doctor then sent him to safety, to home, all the while keeping his side arm at the ready, protecting them both with bullets while healing him with concern, compassion, and the special type of knowledge that can only be learned from operating while under immediate threat of death.

You can tilt this medal, this one, to the light and stare at the insignia, read the inscription, but never see that it represents two British soldiers, both wounded, both left for dead on the Afghan plain, who were slung over the doctor's shoulders, one at a time, carried some distance away, and hidden in the cool shadows of an armored carrier. And yes, both had their wounds treated and both lived to tell the tale – and one now has two young children, twin boys.

Nor will this tiny piece of enamel and aluminum and ribbon tell you that as the doctor finished tending their wounds, wrapped their skin in fresh bandages, injected them with antibiotics, thumbed his phone and called for help, and helped carry them to the helicopter, to freedom, to home…that is when the bullet found him, that is when it found its unerring path into his left shoulder, tearing through flesh and sinew, muscle and tendon, barely missing his heart, spinning him sideways in the dust, where he lay, panting, eyes wide in growing panic, while his red English blood spilled out into the dusty Afghan soil.

There are other medals and other tales in that small box, and if you hold them up to your ears and listen with your heart, you might hear them whispering.

He has ceased to do so. They represent a life he left behind, not by choice, but by cruel chance.

If he has his way, he will never look at them again.

He is a soldier, a healer, a man who never regrets one minute of his military service … only the pain that ended it. He never thinks of himself as a hero, only a man who did the best he could for those under his command, under his care. When the bullet finds him and the operations are over and he is, once again, back home in his beloved England– in physical, mental and emotional pain, he does not complain, he never complains, except for one particularly dark night, when he looks into his soul and finds it wanting and wishes that he had died back there, in that desert, in that far off land, before his ability to help, to be of service was so thoroughly and cruelly taken away.

That night, he takes steps to end an existence which has become intolerable. But he is feverish that night and when he attempts to mix up the correct dosage, he errs on the side of life.

When he wakes in the morning, he is thoroughly ashamed of his actions. He treated countless men and women who most desperately wanted to live.  Most did, some didn't. He is ashamed that he tried to take into his own hands something that he has always believed would, one day, take care of itself.

So he lives and goes about his business; he attends the therapy sessions, sessions which leave him with more questions than answers. And he has ceased to count the nights that he opens the drawer of his desk, there in his small, painfully lonely bedsit, to stare quietly, dispassionately, at his Army issue pistol.

He curls up on his bed, knees pulled up nearly to his chest, hands tucked between them, and sleeps like a child. He sleeps and dreams.

And when the dreams begin, when he is once again, operating under the most cruel conditions imaginable, attempting to keep those in his command alive, squinting against a merciless sun while sweat pours into his eyes, from under his helmet, down his arms and chest, soaking his uniform, he is always constantly, achingly aware of the gun, lying there in the desk drawer, whispering, whispering.

There is no one there to wake him from these dreams; he wakes himself eventually, and jerks up, heart racing, hair damp and clinging, chest heaving while the damned tears cloud his vision and he is, again, alone. Always alone.

He cannot see himself as others see him, this once proud man. If he could, this is what he would know: despite years of neglect and hurt, wounds and pain – his heart has become a shining thing, a thing of quiet beauty. It calls to those around him, particularly to the great detective. They are drawn to him, to his laughter, his warmth, his unconscious sense of self.

He, on the other hand, sees his heart as segmented – and when he thinks about his soul, which isn't often, he questions how many and which pieces have gone missing. He supposes, when he spares it any thought at all, that he will never, ever find those bits again. He will never be whole.

He is, of course, spectacularly, completely wrong in this respect.

OooOooO

Chapter 5

OooOooO

There is a man, tall, quietly attractive, of serious demeanor, who stands at the window of an expensive, yet severely-decorated office in London, not farfrom Whitehall Street, and watches the afternoon rain. His thoughts bring a slight frown to his forehead and force his mouth to tighten in a pensive line.

If you look at this man in passing, without spending a lot of time in observance, you will undoubtedly notice his near ridiculous height, his almost painfully perfect posture. You will see that he is immaculately dressed in a three-piece suit of beautifully-cut, expensive fabric, wears a white silk shirt, and hideously expensive Italian leather shoes. His dark hair is perfectly styled, his nails recently manicured. He carries the inevitable, ever-present umbrella, that perfectly furled, extremely British, symbol of authority (his is a dark grey), currently hanging on a rather ordinary-looking wooden coat rack in the corner of his office.

(The old style coat rack, made of intricately carved black walnut from the Carolinas in the States, was a gift from his nurse of many years, given upon the occasion of his graduation from Uni, and he would as soon part with his right arm as see it exchanged for something more expensive or more suited to his office décor.) This fact alone would astonish many who think they know this man and would also provide a clue to his emotional demeanor and personal values - if you cared about that sort of thing.

If you were to listen to this man speak, and not spend any more time in his company than you had to, you might note his dry, clipped, highly educated Oxford accent, listen to his intelligent but pithy comments, his weary world view, and undoubtedly dismiss him as yet another priggish, over-educated Uni-bred bore, turned out by the hundreds on an annual basis, to be foisted on an unsuspecting and unappreciative populace.

If you never take the time to really observe this man, you might consider him to be a rather self-important individual, perhaps with a minor position in government or politics, critical of the world and everyone in it. You might see him as just another unimportant, smug tosser, biding his time until evening, where he will take a cab to his boring club, sit with his equally boring pals, drink the inevitable gin and tonic, make highly sexist comments about his co-workers and idly, snobbishly tear the world apart.

In other words: A. Right. Proper. Git.

You would be wrong. Hideously, completely, TOTALLY wrong — (except for the Government and Politics bit.)

The tall man stands at the window and stares out at the rain, as the fat drops collide with the glass and stream downward, inevitably blurring his view of the city below. He rather enjoys watching the rain; couldn't care less about the view. There is a CD playing softly in the background and he is enjoying the music immensely.His mind, like his younger brother's, is a thing of beauty, calmer than the younger man's, obviously saner, more orderly, yet also highly analytical, beautifully precise, and always, ever and always, it finds the connections.

He listens to the beautiful music and idly watches musical notes float in front of his eyelids as the song plays, tiny drifting figures moving up and down on a near translucent scale. The notes slowly play in front of his eyelids as the music plays in his ears and sings to his spirit.

The music is Celtic-sounding, quite beautiful actually, the lyrics sung by a woman with an ethereal, haunting voice. It fits in perfectly with the weather and with his thoughts, and suits his current emotional state right down to the ground.

He listens, raises an eyebrow, smiles. Ah yes, Enya, of course. He smiles because she is one of his favorites and he has not heard this particular composition before. Therefore, his immensely valued assistant, the capable Anthea (or is it Calisto this week?) has purchased the CD on her own for his collection, unobtrusively slipping it into the player earlier, before she left to prepare the reports on the Korean delegation.

Like his brother, he can think along several tracks at one time and he is doing that now. He is thinking about his younger brother – and about the ex-Army doctor, the military man with the highly evolved conscience and the warm smile, who has so unexpectedly ventured within his brother's orbit – and who has, also unexpectedly, had such an immediate impact on both their lives.

Simultaneously, he is composing a report to his superiors on the Korean meeting he has just attended, and the follow-up meeting he will attend. He will add his thoughts to the report that Callisto-Anthea will bring him shortly.

He is also mentally reviewing three troubling Intel reports he received this morning from three of his agents around the globe, all of them in different hot spots, two of them in the Middle East. He makes the decision to bring two of those men home immediately – the risks they now face far outweighing any advantage in keeping them in their respective posts – besides, they both have families. Yes, after going over this morning's news and matching those facts up with his agents' respective positions, it is high time he pulls them home. He will tell her to make that happen as soon as she comes back in, any moment now.

He then dismisses those tracks, having made his decisions, and goes back to thinking of his brother -- and of the Army doctor. He turns from the window to go to his desk to work, and as he does so, he dismisses the musical notes. He does not know that his younger brother frequently has the same odd experience – at crime scenes. He would not care if he did know. What the detective does at crime scenes does not, usually, concern him.

He loves his brother. (The fact that he can and does love anyone would come as a surprise to many in his outer circle, who think him made of bronze – or ice. Those of his inner circle, his closest associates and employees, are not surprised one whit by his deep feelings.)

He worries about his brother. There was a time, he reflects, when the worry was near constant, but that has receded, largely due to the Army doctor's influence on his brother's life.

And because he not only loves his brother, but also worries about him, he finds himself currently wondering if the younger man will be able to correct a situation which has come to not only hurt his brother, but to greatly hurt and bewilder the doctor.

He hopes the younger man will be able to do the right thing. The correct thing. He has come to think of the rather charming Army doctor as part of his family – already considers him as his brother-in-law - and he would be – upset – if anything were to happen to either one of them.

He decides that the surveillance on his brother and the doctor and on their flat will be escalated.

This Moriarty character will be found – as quickly as possible – because now he has, once again, apparently threatened the doctor's life. He fears what will happen to his brother's universe, to his emotional well being, if something untoward should happen to the doctor.

He will not allow that to occur, if it is in his power to prevent it.

He makes a few notes on the pad in front of him, leans back, and closes his eyes for a moment.

He has a few more minutes before the world again intrudes and he indulges himself in memories that he usually keeps hidden, buried so deep it would take an act of Parliament to bring them to the surface.

This afternoon, while the rain pours against the window, and the lovely music sings to his soul, he sips the cup of hot tea she brought him earlier – Jasmine today – and, briefly, oh so briefly, allows certain past memories to intrude on present time. He allows them out of their pretty boxes where they usually reside to turn over and over in his mind, before he puts them all back again in their proper places. He does like to keep an orderly mind.

OooOooO

He hears a baby crying. He is seven, just barely, and he creeps down the hallway to the room next to his, now kitted out as the nursery, and pushes open the door. Nurse has gone somewhere then, as she is not in the chair next to the rather ornate crib. Being as quiet as possible, he goes up to the crib, grabs the rail with his hands, his fingers already long and tapered, and stands on tip toe to stare down at the thing which has startled him awake.

He is not used to the sound of crying and wonders if there is going to be a lot of it now that Mum and Dad have brought this nuisance home. The new acquisition stares back up at him, tears still wet on its chubby cheeks, waving arms and legs, demanding attention. There seems to be rather a lot of arms and legs to wave, he thinks. Without knowing what he is doing, he extends a fore finger, the baby grabs it and brings it to his mouth to suck on.

And, miraculously, stops crying.

Intrigued, he allows the baby to suck, chew and otherwise slobber on his finger, holding it with remarkably tight little chubby fingers. He hesitantly extends his other hand and runs it through the riotous curls that twist all over the tiny head. The curls were blonder a few weeks back but appear to be darkening. He runs his fingers through curl after curl, splaying his hands, smoothing the curls out, then crumbling them up again. The baby looks up at him and grins at being petted, and continues to chew on the finger his brother has so very nicely placed in his tiny mouth.

Some tiny thing , a string perhaps, wound too tight, breaks in his heart. It is a small, almost imperceptible pinging sound, nearly audible.

Even now, years and layers and events later, if he concentrates, he can still remember staring down at the baby and the baby staring back, his gaze bright, blue-eyed, inquisitive. And at that visual contact, at that exact moment, a spark, the smallest of shocks, goes through his being.

He holds his breath.

At that instant, he realizes he is no longer alone. And this feeling, more than any other, seems to swell and lodge somewhere in his chest, and behind his eyes, filling both his chest and his head with the most extraordinary sensations.

He has no way of knowing that the bonding mechanism that is supposed to take place between baby and parent – usually mother and child – has instead occurred at the wrong time at the wrong place with entirely the wrong person. But occurred nevertheless.

At that instant, he decides he owns this tiny life. This child is his.  His to play with, his to teach, his to help grow, his to educate, to train. And yes, his to protect, to keep from harm against any and all threats.

And protect he does. He watches and protects as both of them grow, as they climb trees, race around the huge estate, play in the stables and gardens; he watches as his brother clambers up on window seats with the books his older brother has procured for him from the library, just for the pleasure of seeing his baby brother eagerly pour over the contents, the diagrams, the pictures.

He protects him, all the while teaching him, leaving word puzzles, mathematical diagrams, intriguing toys all over the house, in their bedrooms, outside on the grounds, hidden in the stables and in their favorite trees. Always, always teaching, guiding, protecting.

He protects him from bullies at school, those who mock what they cannot understand – and more than one of his brother's classmates goes home with a black eye or a bloodied lip because someone dared to hurt his brother or to call him names.

When they both grow, become teens, and then young men, and he at last goes off to University, leaving the younger brother behind, he feels a sense of despair that his brother will be left alone, nearly exclusively, with their mother. He has no allusions as to her world view. She will ruin his younger brother, if she has a free hand, and she will warp him, if she isn't stopped.

That he feels incredible responsibility for his brother's development and life in general speaks something about this man. When he returns from University, he begins to look around and decide what he wants to do with his life. He realizes that his brother, too, has grown, matured, but not in quite the way he had hoped.

Yes, his brother sees the connections, as he has always done. And yes, he is brilliant, that light in his brother so incredibly bright. But the younger man is burning so brightly he fears the light may some day burn itself out.

One day, he receives a call from a local police officer. His brother has overdosed. Nearly died. Sitting there by the younger man's bedside in hospital, he listens to the beeps of the various machines working to keep his brother alive. And he makes a decision.

He will do whatever he has to, take whatever steps necessary to protect this life. He let his brother down once, he feels. He will not do so again.

He knows this decision will irritate his brother and possibly, eventually alienate them. He can't bring himself to care. In order to be able to do this, he must succeed at his chosen profession.

At all costs, this life will be cared for. He realizes he must have the resources in order to guard his brother from himself. This means he must become more than he is, more powerful, with more resources, the type of person who makes things happen.

So he throws himself into his work, all the while keeping tabs on his brother's whereabouts, visiting him at odd hours and odd days, watching him, listening to him, listening to what he says and to what he doesn't say, worrying, always worrying.

He rises through the ranks of his chosen profession, has men and women placed under his supervision – comes to care about and to protect those in his orbit in – nearly - the same way he cares about and protects his brother.

He puts their welfare above his own, takes extraordinary care of those people who work for and with him. He abhors that it is sometimes necessary to send those lives, those brave young men and women, into situations not healthy, not good. It damages him each time he puts one of them in harms' way. At the same time, he sees the necessity of his actions.

Occasionally, he loses one, and this death sends shockwaves through his soul.

His assistant comes in and he immediately dismisses the memories, puts them back in their little boxes. She hands him a folder, fatter now than it once was, and the label on it simply says JM. She goes out, comes back immediately with a fresh cup of hot tea, places it on his desk exactly to the left of the file and unobtrusively leaves.

The man who is the British Government, takes a sip of the tea, notes that it is made just the way he likes it, and opens the file on one James Moriarty.

No one and nobody is going to harm his younger brother, not again, there will be no repeats of the Pool incident, for want of a better term. And if he has anything to do with it, no one is going to have the opportunity to harm the Army doctor.

He sighs as he reads, realizing that the delightful doctor will never be his, not in the way he might have hoped, but he can and will do everything in his power to see that the doctor lives as long as possible, with an unbroken body , with that sunny smile. He will do this for his brother, the detective, because he loves his brother. The twerp.

He settles in to read.

OooOooO

There is a young woman, highly intelligent, and yes, stunningly beautiful, who works with this man and counts herself incredibly fortunate. Her name, age, antecedents do not come into this narrative as they have been most carefully erased in order to allow her to function at the fullest capacity in her chosen profession.

She does not give one whit that this information about her is no longer available in any database anywhere. She is totally, completely happy with the decision she has made regarding her life and occupation.

On this afternoon, she brings him the file he needs, brings him a cup of tea, finding nothing demeaning in the gesture. They do, after all, bring each other tea, meals, and little gifts constantly.

Her latest gift to him is the CD playing quietly in the background. She can tell the music has soothed him in some way, the set of his shoulders are not so tight, the tense lines in his forehead not so marked. She is pleased.

She goes back to her desk to comb through intelligent reports, emails, and texts and while doing so, idly fingers a gray pearl earring set in gold, twisting it round and round in her ear, smiling as she reads the latest Intel.

Last month, he brought her this pair of earrings, a perfectly matched set of tiny grey pearls, set in gold, left them on her desk in their little box, with a tiny silk bow perched on top. He obviously noted that her ears are pierced but that she was not wearing any earrings with the dark, severely cut, oh-so-slightly revealing suit she habitually wears on Tuesdays, their meetings day. The earrings will complement that suit, and he brings them to her with no ulterior motive.

In fact, it has not once occurred to either of them that he has any motive other than to please her.

When she finds the tiny box the next morning, she is perfectly delighted, takes the gift entirely the right way, and immediately puts on the earrings. Her smile is blinding. His lips curl in the slightest of smiles, as he notes her obvious pleasure, immensely pleased that he has been the one to bring about that smile .

Her glance lingers, ever so slightly, on his bent head as he settles himself in the leather chair, pulls the morning correspondence toward him.

They get on with their day.

She wears the earrings frequently now, particularly when she knows they will be spending a lot of time in each other's company. She loves the earrings because they were a gift from him but primarily loves to please him.

There are individuals who know this man only slightly, who pass him in the halls, in the elevators, wishing him a good morning or a good afternoon, not really knowing what he does and not really caring, but who would be surprised, shocked even, to discover that this man and his gorgeous assistance are not sleeping with each other. Never have done.

If they ever found out about the little gifts the two occasionally exchange - which will never happen - but if they did know, they would raise the inevitable eyebrow, glance at each other knowingly, the smug grins playing on their otherwise vacuous faces.

They would never know that these tiny offerings, one to the other, are mere tokens, outward signs of inward respect, given for no other reason than that they both immensely enjoy each other's company and highly value their working arrangement.

And for the rather charming reason that each of them loves to see the other smile.

Always, ever and always, she wishes to please this man, this slightly enigmatic puzzle, with the slightly mad younger brother. She offers him herself, her psyche, her soul, her entire being, without ever offering him her body because she knows what is of real worth to this man, what will mean the most to him. She also suspects his personal – inclinations – lie elsewhere, is not bothered by it, and counts this as yet another secret of his she will protect with her life from those who would tear him apart, given half the chance.

She sees the ridiculous, incredibly long hours he works, without complaint or censure; she knows because most nights, she works right there alongside him. More often than not, she wakes in the early hours of the morning, after such a marathon session, curled up on the expensive sofa, a blanket carefully tucked in around her, her shoes on the floor. She wakes – and there he is, still quietly working, working, typing away at his keyboard, or his Blackberry, making notes in countless folders, sending and receiving messages, emails, texts, updates from his agents around the globe – and doing it as quietly as possible, so she can catch a few precious moments of sleep.

She has, herself, never seen him sleep.

And because she respects this man, she strives to please him - with her hard work, her loyalty, her intelligence, her grasp of world politics, her determination to anticipate his every need, her willingness to take on the most difficult assignments.

She will die for him in a heartbeat but hopes it is not necessary as she rather likes her job, likes him immensely, and thinks they get along very nicely indeed.

She recognizes his worth in a world gone mad, a world full of hypocrites, of sybarites, of dull, plodding individuals who do not know – nor care – how their everyday freedoms are protected, how their safety is secured. Theirs are lives filled with petty occurrences, watching telly, arguing over football matches, marrying, cheating, divorcing, lying.

She is frequently pained how little people know or care to know how their continued safe existence is bought. They will never know how their little worlds remain safe, how dear the transactions are or with what coinage they are paid.

He would not want them to know anyway as it would be giving away his secrets, tearing open his psyche for the world to see, throwing his emotions out the window onto the street below for a largely unappreciative mob to trample under their feet.

So they continue to work together, these two, and to work with his entire team of agents, some in the same building, some scattered across London, across England, most of them in diverse positions strategically placed around the globe.

He does not know that his drivers draw lots to see who has the privilege of driving him that day to the next meeting; he is unaware that his personal bodyguards vie with each other to see who will be posted outside his home that night, and yes, who will guard his younger brother and the slightly enigmatic military man who has taken up residence with the detective and in whom their mentor seems to have taken an interest.

He probably is totally unaware that his people would sacrifice their very existence for him, this man who is England, that they would make that sacrifice in a heartbeat, and count it as the greatest honor life could possibly bestow.

This, then, is the type of respect he is afforded and this, the loyalty he has engendered.

His younger brother would be totally astonished.

The doctor would smile but not be astonished because once he got over his initial distrust of the older brother, he watches him, evaluates him. And one day comes to the realization that his man that the detective always teases, this man is everything that the detective jokingly says he is. This man is, in fact, the British Government, and the doctor begins to quietly treat him with respect and consideration, the same respect he showed his superior officers during his service in Afghanistan.

He would be a little shocked if he knew how the British Government actually feels about him, the doctor.

He might even blush.

OooOooO

There is a man, silver-haired, gruff of voice and of demeanor, who has been entrusted with a great responsibility, the responsibility of keeping the British public safe. He is the same age as the great detective's older brother, has had a hand in keeping the detective safe, sane – and on at least one occasion – alive.

He commands respect and consideration from those who work for him. This respect is totally earned by his actions, his years of service, by who he is and not by right.

Usually kind and attentive with those who work under him, he occasionally has to dress down an officer and when he raises that eyebrow, yes, that one there, stares down the subordinate in his eyesight and delivers a rather scathing review of his performance in a voice that can strip bark off trees or flesh off bones, then the unfortunate officer scrambles to correct his or her mistakes and counts themselves lucky to escape without their eyebrows being singed and with their jobs intact.

This man, widowed at an early age, has been left with two young daughters to raise, a task he takes on to the best of his ability. He sees to it that they are clean, well fed, dressed as well as he can afford, goes with them to Mass, delivers them to birthday parties and play dates. He corrects their homework, listens to their prayers at night, loves them, fusses over them in general. In short, he tries to raise two girls without the assistance of their mother – whom he dearly loved and sorely misses. His heart was broken at his wife's death and he strives to fill the gap with his young daughters and with his job.

He sincerely hopes and prays he is not screwing them up too much, as parents are wont to do.

Every Friday, whenever possible, he leaves his girls in the care of a good neighbor and joins his crew for a drink at a local pub. There he often meets the doctor, the detective's companion, and he suspects, lover.

He greatly enjoys the doctors' company and always leaves feeling better for the experience of having been there, of having shared a few jokes over a pint with his fellow Yarders and with the ex-military man. He likes the doctor immensely and always, always wishes the best for the great detective and for this ex-Army bloke.

He sits now at his desk at the Yard, mulling over a series of lab tests and frowns. It is exactly as the doctor has surmised. All three victims were undoubtedly first rendered unconscious - at least temporarily - through the use of chloroform - then injected. Death apparently occurred sometime after the injections, rather than immediately following. In other words, they might have been awake, aware and most probably suffered in some way, before they died in pain and confusion.

The tox screens do not show of any of the usual drugs he has seen in his life on the force. Not cocaine, nor heroine-based.

The mix is strange, exotic, and he calls for a lab tech to come explain this to him. He has an uneasy feeling now about these murders, three so far.

Before he saw these tests, he thought he knew what they were dealing with. Now, he is not so sure.

He hesitates before texting the information first to the detective, then to his doctor. As always in these cases, he wonders when he will make a serious error in judgment, and bring in the talented amateurs to help him out, possibly exposing them to a situation far more dangerous than any of them initially assumes.

He wonders, not for the first time, if he has the right to do this.

He wonders if he should continue to ask for assistance from the detective and his friend. But time and time again, the detective has solved his puzzles, pinpointed the murderer, saved lives. He hopes it is the case this time.

Still, he is uneasy about it as he picks up his mobile to text both men.

OooOooO

There is a man, for want of a better term, moving quite close to the other men, only a few miles away in fact, moving in the various circles of his own private hell – a hell that he has created and that he revels in.

He is human, barely. He has two arms, two legs, a torso, a head and a brain. In this respect he qualifies as a man.

In all other respects, he is a monster.

  OooOooO

Chapter 6: The Madness of James Moriarty

Jim Moriarty is angry. Livid, in fact.

None of his people want to be around Jim when he was in a good mood, let alone a foul one.

Things – happen.

And Jim's current mood is very foul indeed.

Jim sits in an ergonomic swivel chair, dividing his attention between five separate computer monitors –all of them casting their faint blue glow over the highly polished surface of the imported mahogany conference table. The room, usually brightly lit during meetings, is in near total darkness, primarily lit by the glow of the screens and a few scattered overhead spotlights.

Jim feels most comfortable working in semi-darkness, and loves sitting in this particular room. He works here often, sometimes far into the night, sending and receiving texts, intercepting military and government Intel reports, monitoring world situations and those closer to home, casting his net wide to pull in those people he most needs to bring about the necessary ends.

Cutting people loose from their petty problems.

He tends to keep this particular working area as dark as possible without sacrificing efficiency. To this end, he has had a series of recessed spotlights installed in the ceiling. The baby spots cast tiny cones of illumination on the surfaces – and people – underneath them.

During meetings, Jim sits at one end of the polished conference table, and watches his people squirm -- for want of a better word – under those spots. The downward cast of light highlights their eyes, the tips of their noses and cheeks, and throws their mouths into high relief, leaving the rest of their faces in shadow.

Jim loves nothing better than to watch those faces change, to see the sweat pool and then slowly drip downward as he makes his demands known. As he talks, he studies the way their eyes narrow and clench at the corners, how their upper lips bead with perspiration, notes the involuntary clenching and unclenching of their hands on the highly polished mahogany surface.

Through these telltale physical reactions, Jim knows which of his people he can trust – and which would betray him in a heartbeat.

It is the latter that most interest Jim.

Jim has made a study of nerves, of anxious posturing, of fear. Hell, he's caused most of those feelings just by being in the same room with these stupid thugs.

And he smiles when he sees those obvious signs of weakness, of those who would sell him out for a few stinking dollars more than he is paying them. He is very, very good indeed at weeding those people out.

And handing them over to Sebastian Moran.

Currently, Jim is the only person in the office. But that will only be the case for a few more moments.

Despite the technology available to Moriarty, and he has every conceivable technological marvel created for the dissemination and communication of information, Jim thinks there is still something to be said about written reports. About holding paper in your hands and reading words imprinted on its surface. He is in the habit of reading his Intel updates on multiple pc screens, then sending to printer those he most wants to pour over.

He is doing that now. He holds a thin report in his hands, printed out from the third pc over. He frowns at it sharply. It is only two pages thick but it speaks of possible far-reaching consequences to his plans.

"The fool," he thinks. "The utter, stupid, imbecilic motherless fool."

He tosses the report aside and stands to walk over to the map of London, pinned to the wall.

He studies the map dispassionately, then comes to a decision. He whirls and picks up one of five mobile phones lying on the table.

He asks that the new recruit – Johansen, God what an idiotic name, he thinks – is brought to him to report in person. The employee on the other end of the line recognizes Jim's tone of voice. And he closes his eyes and thanks whatever deities exist that his name is not the one Jim has just inquired about. He assures Jim he will find and bring the man to him immediately.

Jim sits back in his chair, thinking furiously.

If Seb were here, he would know how to deal with this idiot.

If Seb were here, he would stare down the imbecile, wait for Jim to spell out exactly why his pathetic excuse of an existence is about to end – and then go about bringing about that end in various, creative, incredibly painful ways.

“If Seb were here,” muses Jim.

Well, he isn't.

Not for the first time, Jim feels irritated with himself. He is the one who agreed to Sebastian taking a fortnight's leave so he could catch some much needed R&R on the continent.

The fact that Seb's little vacation coincides with the flight of a former associate of Jim's who has had the bollocks to abscond with certain information that Jim considers to be private and more or less vital to one of his current projects, means that the miscreant must be dealt with and quickly.

Delighted at the prospect of keeping his skills up to par, Sebastian tells Jim not to worry; the good Dr. Reese will be found. No worries. The information will not reach any other hands.

During the seven days that Seb is gone, Jim receives exactly two texts.

The first text is cryptic and to the point.

R. found.

SM

The second text comes less than twenty-four hours later.

R. sends regrets.

SM

Jim smiles at receiving the second text. He wonders how long Dr. Reese will last – or has lasted – under Sebastian Moran's ministrations before succumbing to the inevitable.

“There are so many scenario,” Jim muses.

Dr. Reese's heart gives out once his mind realizes that Seb's attentions are never, ever going to end.

Or perhaps he dies of organ failure – or more likely – strokes out from fear as Seb slowly, carefully applies his incredible knowledge of the causation of pain to bear upon the good doctor's body.

Sebastian is, after all, a genius in these matters.

Not for the first time, Jim wishes he had traipsed along with Seb.

Oh, Jim had no doubt that Sebastian would run him to ground. Dr. Reese is clever in his own way - look at what he had done with the little drug cocktail he had cooked up for Jim, after all.  But he was, in the end, a rather ordinary little man. Not used to going to ground. Nor good at hiding. Certainly not skilled in making himself disappear.

Jim knows that Seb will find the traitorous bastard, and then proceed to explain to him in great, exacting detail just why he is about to die – and take his own sweet time in making that happen.

When Sebastian's texts appear, Jim knows that this particular little problem is being efficiently dealt with. It frees him to handle the current situation at hand.

No, it wasn't the inevitable outcome that made Jim Moriarty – almost – wish he had gone along.

He just truly admires genius, in all its forms. He likes to see that genius in action.

And Sebastian Moran is a genius; Jim makes no mistake about that. Oh, Seb isn't quite on Jim Moriarty's intellectual level but then he doesn't need to be.

Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran get along beautifully because they complement each other.

Sebastian is a sadist with masochistic tendencies - one who truly enjoys his work. When Sebastian isn't bringing about other person's deaths, he likes to muse upon his own.

Jim has need for such an individual and not only sends Sebastian all the work he can handle but also rewards him handsomely for bringing certain tendencies to bear upon each situation.

Jim smiles in the dark now, thinking of Dr. Reese's inevitable end. There is always something new to learn from watching Sebastian in action. Oh well, Seb will give him a full report when he gets back.

Jim sighs and swivels around to face the door that the unfortunately Johansen will be coming through at any moment. It is at times like these that Jim truly appreciates Sebastian's techniques.

Sebastian has an entire arsenal of toys at his use: scalpels, forceps, wrenches, pliers with sharp twisting tips, diminutive blow torches, hypodermic syringes full of sodium pentothal and other rather nasty drugs, sharp, shining needles, long thin blades of foreign manufacture – Jim could go on and on. Yes, Sebastian is an artist in his own right.

Right now, Jim could use some of Seb's artistic techniques.

Not that Jim doesn't know how to handle the stupid, STUPID son of a bitch who has messed up the little problem Jim has set him. 

No, Jim has that part down all right.

It is just that Jim hates, truly despises, getting his hands dirty.

He takes a pen from his breast pocket, a shining thing of platinum and gold, and starts to idly toss it end over end, like a conjurer.

The door opens. Jim smiles, still tossing the pen, over and over. Flipping it neatly in his right hand, catching it almost immediately in the same hand. The tiny spotlights overhead play along the shining length of the writing instrument, and Jim idly watches the flash of silver, gleam of gold, flash of silver, gleam of gold.

He becomes aware of the man standing in front of him, nervously biting his lip.

Jim begins to speak, never stopping tossing the pen, never taking his eyes from the flash / gleam / flash /gleam.

"Johansen?" speaks Jim slowly, continuing to toss the pen and catch it, end over end.

The man lips his lips. "Yes sir?"

He stands as straight as possible in front of Jim in the darkness of the room. A tiny cone of light shines down on his head, highlighting his dark blonde hair and rather stupid features.

Dots of sweat have sprung out along his hair line.

Jim notices. Toss. Flash / gleam.

Really, who were these thugs they send his way these days? He hasn't said a thing to this cretin yet – knows that no one of his employees has either - on pain of their continued existence – yet already the man is ready to piss his pants.

"Can you tell me why you ignored my orders concerning a certain Dr. John Watson?"

Jim's voice is smooth, polished. His Irish accent barely noticeable.

He continues to flip the pen. Johansen is watching Jim's hands now. And watching the way his fingers are tossing and catching the shining cylinder of gold and silver.

Flash / Gleam / Flash.

"Er, Sir? I didn't ignore your orders. I followed Dr. Watson to the underground. Gave him a shove, as you requested. He did fall forward. But someone standing next to him pulled him back. It didn't make sense to try a second time. There were too many people present."

Johansen is really nervous now as Jim has not gotten up from the chair, nor has he stopped the constant tossing and catching of the pen in his hands. The man cannot take his eyes off the tiny bright cylinder.

Beads of sweat begin to drip down the side of his face.

Jim smiles.

"Johansen – excuse me, Eric, isn't it?"

"Yes sir. Eric Johansen. I've been with you for about five months now"

Toss. Flash / Gleam.

"Indeed," Jim says. "Well, Eric, I'm not really that happy with your failure. I thought I made it quite clear that Dr. Watson was not to reach his destination alive. Surely with that many people in the underground you could have made that happen. Accidents in the tubes are so common these days – and so very easily brought about."

"Sir – I. I'm truly sorry. I did push him. I saw him fall forward. His leg appeared to have buckled under him. There is no way I could have known that someone would pull him back."

Johansen is getting more and more nervous by the minute. There have been – rumors – about what happens to Moriarty's employees who fail to please him.

But for the life of him, he can't think why he is being singled out. He did everything Moriarty asked of him. It was just unfortunate that someone was there to save the doctor. He is more than willing to try again. As soon as Moriarty stops talking, he will tell him this.

He licks his lips again. Yes, that will work. He will try again. And he will not fail this time.

Dr. Watson will die, as Moriarty has requested. He opens his mouth to speak –

"Eric – excuse me, you don't mind if I call you Eric?" Jim stands, crosses the few feet to the man in front of him. He has the pen in his right hand now, lets his arm drop down to his side.

"No sir. I mean, that's fine."

Johansen shakes his head. A barely imperceptible tremor has taken hold of his hands. He rubs them up and down along his trousers, attempting to wipe his damp palms dry along on the fabric of his slacks.

Jim Moriarty is standing directly in front of him now, smiling.

It is not a nice smile.

John Watson would recognize that smile. He saw plenty of it several months back.

Johansen wishes desperately he could use the toilet. He thinks he is going to embarrass himself in a moment if he cannot get out of this room.

Moriarty is directly in front of him now, literally in his personal space. The two men are barely inches apart.

Jim leans. Whispers into Eric Johansen's ear.

"I wanted Watson dead. Your sole job was to make that happen. I regret Eric, truly regret, that your services are no longer needed in my organization."

Johansen is patently terrified now. Jim Moriarty's eyes are Two. Black. Pools. There are no shadings, no gradations of color. He has never seen anyone with totally black pupils before, entirely surrounded by white. He shudders uncontrollably.

"Sir? You're letting me go?"

Jim smiles. "You might say that, Eric."

His right hand comes up and with extreme precision and sheer brute force, Jim Moriarty drives the tiny hypodermic pen into the exact middle of Johansen's Adam's apple, crushing it utterly. He depresses the tiny plunger on the end. Johansen gasps. Or tries to.

Really, this gift of Moran's is a marvelous little toy.

Eric attempts to shout, but only a strangled sob emerges from his damaged throat. He staggers back, his hands scrabbling at his throat. His throat – no air is getting in. He. Cannot. Breathe.

Blood, augmented by a thin stream of what looks like greenish liquid is now pouring out in a tiny trickle from around the silver pen, obscenely sticking out of his larynx. His eyes widen, his hands, still trying to yank the thing out of his neck, lose their hold, falter.

He falls to his knees, choking on his own vomit as his heart labors. His body finally collapses on the carpet, all of his limbs twitching, spasming, before finally becoming utterly still.

Jim glances at his watch. Fifteen seconds, he thinks. Not bad. Not bad at all.

Jim bends down and with one swift yank, pulls the pen out of the man's ruined throat. He wipes it lovingly on Johansen's shirt and re-deposits it back into his jacket pocket.

He makes a mental note to let Sebastian know how well his little gift worked.

He crosses over to pick up the same  mobile phone he used earlier. Thumbs the button.

When the guard who has been standing outside the door comes, in, Jim indicates the body with a raised eyebrow and slight shift of his eyes.

"Clean this up. And send Rogers to me," Jim says, as if he were asking for a cup of coffee and the morning paper.

"Yes sir,"

The guard immediately maneuvers his hands under Johansen's knees and the back of his neck. He stands with the dead man in his hands and gets the hell out of there as quickly as possible.

Jim Moriarty crosses to his chair, sits and leans back slightly, thinking.

After the fairly successful trial of the new drug that Dr. Reese so cleverly developed, Moriarty had every intention of placing it into his arsenal to use when the need arose or to sell to the highest bidder. After all the drug had certain – properties - that were truly interesting if you varied the dosage, if you were trying to create, let us say an addict, and not trying to kill.

It is only after he is told that Scotland Yard has once again called in the meddler, Sherlock Holmes, to investigate his little stream of murders – of experiments – that Jim idly thinks about capturing Sherlock and using the drug on the detective himself, purely for kicks.

It would be so much fun to turn Sherlock into a fucking addict once again - to destroy that marvelous mind before he, inevitably, destroys his body.

Jim thinks along these lines for a few glorious moments, then shakes his head.

No.

He is not ready – yet – to let go of his favorite consulting detective and the only human being on earth Jim considers to be his intellectual equal. Besides, he is saving Sherlock for something big … and he already knows what that will be.

John Watson, on the other hand -

Jim grins, going over permutations in his mind. His security forces have reported back to him that the good doctor has been trailed lately by plain clothes men he can only assume are put onto the job by the elder Holmes.

Jim has yet to have the honor of meeting Sherlock's s elder brother.

And when he does - "No," Jim thinks.

Best not to get too excited too early. Those pleasures are yet to come.

However, a certain ex-Army doctor has made himself a right royal nuisance, trailing around after Sherlock, taking his little tests, coming to his tidy little medical conclusions. Reporting those conclusions to the Yard. Yes, John Watson has become an intolerable thorn in Jim Moriarty's side.

It would be a good thing, a tidy thing, to begin eliminating those close to the consulting detective. For one thing, it is just so enjoyable to fuck with Sherlock's head.

And what better place to start than with finally eliminating his useless pet?

Jim made the decision quite some time ago to kill the ex-military man, to erase his very existence on this stinking planet as if he had never been born in the first place, and now seems as good a time as any. Which is why Jim gave - certain - orders concerning the good doctor. Now it looks as if he is going to have to take a hand in Watson's demise himself.

Once Watson is out of the way, Jim muses, Sherlock will be more – accessible.

Jim grins.

 First things first. Get rid of the Pet. Kill it. Bin the remains. Then - what happens, happens.

Permutations done; plans at the ready, he reaches for one of his five mobile phones – the one that has John Watson's clinic on auto dial – the one with an easily traceable number. A number that will lead Sherlock – and his pet DI , Lestrade – clear across London in entirely the wrong direction.

Jim sits in the semi-dark of his office, waits for the dial tone, the connection – and grins at his reflection in the pale blue glow of the closest pc monitors.

This is going to be fun.

OooOooO

John sits at his desk and records his notes in the last patient's medical file. He is exhausted and his shift ends in exactly thirty minutes. Sherlock has already texted him that he wants to meet him and take him to an early dinner or late lunch. John looks forward to it. If the stupid phone will –

The phone rings, and John tiredly answers it. If this is yet another outbreak of chicken pox, he doesn't think he can bear it.

"Dr. John Watson here."

"Dr. Watson, good to hear your voice again. "

John's senses are on immediate alert. He recognizes the voice instantly.

And cannot actually believe the bastard has the unmitigated gall to call him at his own surgery.

The voice is as he remembers, varying between near casual conversation in that faint lilting Irish accent to a mad sing-song, the inflections rising and falling at the most inappropriate time.

In other words, James Moriarty's voice.

A rant enters John's mind …"Yes, this is John Watson, you sick bastard. And please, please keep talking because the longer you rave, the better the chance we can trace this call…and when I find you, and I will find you, make no mistake about that, you perverted sob of a bitch, there will be no mercy, and absolutely zero chance you will survive because, I, Capt. John H. Watson will put a bullet through your twisted brain…I will fire a half ounce of hot lead between your fucking black eyes, you sick, twisted FUCK!"

John shudders.

He says nothing. Nothing at all. He just waits.

"Johnny Boy, how marvelous! I was hoping I'd find you in and here we are, having such a lovely little chat. You do know who this is, right Johnny Boy?"

John is suddenly, achingly tired. "Yes, Moriarty, I know who this is."

"Good! I knew you were smart. Had to be. Otherwise it would mean that your – attraction - for our favorite Consulting Detective was just physical. And Johnny Boy, my dear, I have to tell you, cute as your bum is and darling as those dark blue eyes are and that golden hair, I just have to say, I don't quite see what Sherlock sees in you. But then, I'm hoping you'll agree to meet with me and perhaps you can explain the attraction to me in person. What do you say to that, Johnny Boy?"

"If he calls me Johnny Boy one more time, I am going to vomit right here on this desk," thinks John.

His hands grip the phone so hard, his knuckles turn white. At the same time, his left hand has never been steadier.

"Meet you, Moriarty? Yes, by all means. Let's meet up. The sooner the better. I've got a bullet with your name written on it. Been saving it up especially. Just tell me when and where."

Jim laughs. "Oh, Johnny, Johnny, may I call you John? John….you are priceless! Truly, I just love your sense of humor. I can almost see why Sherlock keeps you around, other than to bend you over and –"

"I am going to kill you, you know," John says tiredly. "And if you keep on that course, I am going to make it last a long, long time. "

"Oh, Johnny, John…what about your Hippocratic Oath? I'm pretty certain that nowhere in that delightful paean to the medical profession does it say that slow torture is sanctified under certain circumstances."

"Just get on with it," says John. "Tell me exactly what it is you want, Moriarty. Or stop wasting my time."

Jim laughs and the sound slithers up John's spine, like a live eel would feel if you tried to catch it with your bare hands, all slick and tenuous and so utterly completely cold.

"Glad to see you're a man who gets down to business, John."

Moriarty's voice has gone matter-of-fact, as if he and John were discussing the stock market – or the weather.

"Our favorite detective has concerned himself in something that is really none of his business. And I might say, John, that as his little companion, you, too, have become rather tiresome. But your interference I can deal with. It's Sherlock's involvement that I simply will not tolerate. So I need you to give him a message for me."

John is on full alert now. The minute that Sherlock's name is mentioned his entire body oes still. He grips the phone with an intensity that nearly cracks the cheap plastic housing.

Sherlock   – of course, this has to do with Sherlock and not with John Watson   at all.

John closes his eyes briefly. Then opens them to stare at the desktop in front of him, at the pile of medical charts, all in manila folders with neat little name tags, at the coffee cup that holds pens, highlighter, letter opener. He stares at these things but his mind sees only a pale face framed with inky black curls, dark ironic eyebrows, beautiful angular lips, and gray–green eyes the color of the sea seen through fog.

Sherlock. This is about Sherlock. Of course it is. It always has been. From the beginning, this has been about fucking with Sherlock's head, with his heart. This is about Jim owning a piece of Sherlock's soul.

Not for the first time, John wonders what would have happened to Sherlock if he, John, had fallen that day onto the tracks, fallen and died.

Would Sherlock be free now to act? Would he be free to go after this sick fuck, put a bullet in his brain, get on with his life if a certain washed up Army doctor wasn't around to hinder his efforts, someone who had to be protected, to act as the bloody liability that he has so obviously become?

A flame that has hitherto been kept banked down in John's soul, begins to burn with a sudden intensity. He feels an overwhelming sense of hatred for Moriarty so intense, it leaves him literally shaking.

John feels as if he cannot get enough air. As if there isn't enough air in the entire damned clinic, in the city of London, to support his lungs.

"What's the message, Jim?" John asks in the first truly dangerous tone Jim Moriarty has ever heard from the former Army doctor.

Jim laughs again. "Now listen carefully, Johnny boy, because I am only going to say this once."

OooOooO

 

 

Chapter 7: The Lennon Maxim

 OooOooO

In October of 1940, a baby boy was born in Liverpool, England, to Julia and Alfred Lennon, a merchant seaman. His parents named him John Winston Lennon. (At least one parent was an admirer of Winston Churchill.) Lennon, determined to become known as a famous musician one day, organized his first band, The Quarrymen, in September 1956. In 1960, The Quarrymen became the worldwide phenomenon known as The Beatles.

During his life, Lennon wrote dozens of songs, the lyrics of which have gone on to become legendary and was the author of books, poems, and yes, left numerous quotes, including the infamous …"We're more Popular than Jesus now," which did not rate much interest in the UK but caused an absolute furor in the States, ultimately leading to the band's decision to suspend their tours (due to threats of violence.)

Lennon was a songwriter, an artist, a writer, considered a genius by many, including himself, and was voted the 5th most influential musician who ever lived. On December 8, 1980, in New York City, he was shot four times in the back by a highly disturbed fan. He was declared dead on arrival at hospital a short while later.

One of Lennon's most famous songs was Imagine, an inspiringly beautiful song, the music and lyrics of which do not come into this narrative (although John Watson could probably pick them out on his guitar.)

However, despite his incredibly creative years with The Beatles, his songs, lyrics, poems, writings, autobiography, world-famous record albums, his marriages, world travels, his much advertised drug use, and the fact that he would forever be known as the man who married " the woman who broke up The Beatles, " John Lennon is quite often remembered for this quote:

"Life is What Happens to You While You're Busy Making Other Plans."

Sherlock, John, Lestrade, and Mycroft might have done very well to remember that one.

OooOooO

Sherlock is in a cab, on his way to John's surgery. He watches the scenery without really seeing it. Previously, Sherlock had asked Lestrade to set up a meeting for him with the flat mate of the last dead overdose victim, found by the lake.

But at this moment, on this afternoon, Sherlock's thoughts are all on a certain military doctor and what he plans on saying to him, as soon as he can get the two of them alone. To this end, he decides to text D.I. Lestrade to tell him that he will have to muddle through his overdose murders, just for today, as he, Sherlock, has had an extremely important affair come up. Sherlock smirks at that wording but never sends the text.

His text chime sounds. It is, in fact, from DI Lestrade, who has beat Sherlock to the punch.

Tox screens suggest possible new designer drug.

But there's a puzzle.

Can you come? Bring John ?

GL

Sherlock reads Lestrade's text, hesitates. The cab is nearly at John's surgery. Once they arrive, he will confer with John and together they can decide. Dinner might have to be postponed for a few hours. This is a case and John always understands about a case.

Besides, Lestrade used the word puzzle.

Damn it, the man knows how to push Sherlock's buttons.

And if this puzzle of Lestrade's slightly postpones a certain conversation Sherlock intends to have with the good doctor, then that just gives him more time to decide what he is going to say, correct?

And once this meeting at the Yard is over, it will be much, much later in the day, early evening in fact. Which will call for a nice dinner with John…much more romantic than sitting in a café somewhere, mid-afternoon, trying to convince John of – no, not convince. Show. Yes, that is right. Show and tell. 

Sherlock nearly smiles at that.

Yes, dinner will work out much, much better. John likes going out to dinner. He finds it romantic.

"And, afterward," Sherlock thinks smugly, "we can finish up at Baker Street."

Sherlock knows that if he cannot get his point across to John with words … well, words don't always work that well for him, anyway, not where John is concerned.

But he knows what does.

And once these incredible delusions that have John in a strop are dealt with, together they will decide what to do about the threat that may – or may not – have come from Moriarty. Since Sherlock is forbidden to bring the subject up in this fashion by Mycroft…and Sherlock knows that in this instance Mycroft is probably correct, the git…then he, Sherlock, will have to find a way to get John to tell him about those two phone calls and the incident in the underground.

"John will be protected, at any and all costs," thinks Sherlock, quietly furious at the thought of Moriarty – or anyone – daring to lay a hand on John Watson.

So the sooner this stupid cab gets to their destination, the better.

Sherlock's expression can best be described as a self-congratulatory smirk as he watches the scenery outside the window.

OooOooO

Dr. John H. Watson, M.D., Captain John Watson, is seriously pissed. In fact, John is so damned mad, he can hardly see straight. Often, when men get angry, they get sloppy. When John Watson gets angry, he goes still, his thoughts become quiet, and he allows his anger to sink below his consciousness where he can call it forth at will, when he most needs it to direct his actions.

But in this instance -

Sitting in his office, waiting for Sherlock to collect him, John stares at the landline phone on his desk.

His conversation with that snake Moriarty has left John literally vibrating in fury. He cannot remember being this angry, this coldly determined to murder another human being, during his short tenure on the planet.

John feels he could literally tear Moriarty apart, using his bare hands and nothing else, and bathe in the sick fuck's blood.

Yes, John is that angry.

"There is no way in hell," John thinks, "that I can give Sherlock the entire message Jim has just given me over the phone."

Besides, thinks John savagely, most of it was just staged bravado. The usual crap, but the words would most definitely infuriate and enrage Sherlock – and might just possibly cause him to take off after Moriarty without a thought to his own safety, with possible disastrous consequences for all of them.

John is very well aware that Sherlock is still convinced that his physical safety takes a back seat to his brain's activities.

Transport, remembers John. “Everything else is just transport.”  Sherlock's very words. And that was months and many layers of friendship ago. 

And now friendship has become – what?

They were friends. They are now lovers. But has anything else changed? He is not certain. Sherlock is still the same infuriating, incredible, and yes, unbelievably amazing human being John has ever known. And John would not want Sherlock to change anything about himself. What John does want, however, is to just – know - where he stands. Oh, he'll always stand right there, at Sherlock's side. But damn it, a man wants to hear … what he wants to hear. Is that too much to ask?

But when it comes to his personal safety, Sherlock has not, to John's mind, changed his mind about that. In fact, he has rather begun to rely on John taking care of that aspect of their working relationship. And that frequently terrifies John. He is not always with Sherlock. They spend many, many hours apart, in fact, while John is at the surgery and Sherlock is – wherever he is.

John runs over the conversation with Moriarty, wondering which bits, if any, he can safely repeat to Sherlock – without certain consequences.

"Here is the message, John. Make sure you get it right. Do you want to take notes?"

John can literally hear the vicious smirk in the weird sing song.

"Get on with it, you twisted fuck," growls John.

"Language, Johnny Boy," says Jim. John can sense him grinning that mad grin over the phone.

"Tell our boy wonder, in these exact words: I warned you once before what would happen if you interfere in my affairs. The deaths you and Johnny Boy have been investigating are nothing more than three of my – little - experiments. Successful ones, I might add. Got it so far, John Boy?"

"Moriarty – " warns John, his tone low and menacing.

"Very well. And – John? I know you are a fan of the James Bond genre, (“And just exactly how does the shit know that, thinks John), so you should be able to appreciate this: Mr. Fleming had it right all along. Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence.  And here's the sticking point, Johnny Dearest – The third time it's enemy action."

Now Moriarty's voice takes on the strange cadence that, despite his determination not to be affected by anything this arse says, still manages to scrape along John's spine.

"Give him that message from me, will you John? "

John's had enough and the anger that he has kept under control for the past few hours now erupts. His hands tighten on the phone. But before he can tell the sick son of a bitch just what he is going to do to him, in exact details, Jim adds one more thing. His voice suddenly gentles as if they were discussing what wine to have with dinner. It drops to a whisper, a sick caress in John's ear.

"Oh and John? See you quite, quite soon."

"Looking forward to it," John says with fierce hatred.

Moriarty hangs up.

John stands up abruptly, pacing around his small examining room. He is thinking back to the first two phone calls.

Not for the first time, John is very glad he did not mention those calls to Sherlock.

Sherlock would have been angry, incensed most probably.

And what good would it have done any of them? John muses. The calls couldn't be traced. He knows. He checked.

John frowns slightly, thinking.

There is no way in hell that Moriarty is getting sloppy, but that doesn't mean that John can just let things go either. To that end, John texts Sally Donovan to ask if she can arrange for a trace on the last call made to the surgery, on their landline. John checks his watch, then sends Sally the exact time of Moriarty's call, gives her the landline number.

His text bell chimes and he glances at his mobile, raises an eyebrow. The text is from Lestrade.

OooOooO

Sherlock frowns. They should be at John's surgery by now. It isn't that far from Baker Street.

There seems to be an inordinate amount of traffic that afternoon on this road. The cab has come to a stop. They are surrounded by vehicles on all sides.

"What's going on?" he murmurs to the cabby, his deep baritone causing the cabby to look up to meet his eyes on the rear view mirror.

"Looks like some commotion up ahead, sir."

Sherlock glances at the cabby's ID. Oddly enough, his first name is John. Sherlock frowns at the slight coincidence, not sure why it bothers him.

OooOooO

John picks up his phone to call Sherlock directly to see where he is, how close he is to the surgery, when Connie, the receptionist, knocks quickly, then opens the door to John's office.

"Dr. Watson, there's been a traffic accident quite close, with wounded. The police are asking if they can bring some of the wounded here until the ambulance can get through to collect them."

"Of course," says John unhesitatingly.

Damn it, thinks John. Of course, this had to happen now. He needs to see Sherlock. And he has to reply to Lestrade's text…no, better yet, Sherlock will be here any minute. He'll just tell him to go on to the yard to see if he can help Lestrade. John will meet him there later once he deals with these injuries. And if he can't make it, he'll meet Sherlock back at Baker Street later that evening.

Sherlock. He is determined to tell him about Moriarty's phone call…but he still doesn't know which bits, if any, he can or should edit out without Sherlock getting suspicious.

And in the end, what does it all matter anyway, thinks John. How are they to find the bastard?

The text chime sounds. It's from Sally Donovan.

Trace confirmed. Location follows.

Can you fill me in?

SD

Her second text lists a street so close to Whitehall Street that John is startled.

What the - That is damned close to Mycroft's office. There has to be a mistake somewhere. There is no way that James Moriarty is operating someplace so close to Mycroft, without Mycroft knowing it.  Not possible, is it?

Frowning, he picks up his mobile to call Sherlock. The accident obviously has him running late. John has no idea how much traffic is, or isn't, backed up due to the accident. Sherlock could be a few hundred yards away.

No. He'd just get out of the cab and walk. He must still be some distance away.

"Dr. Watson? We have three wounded and the police are bringing them in to the outer waiting area."

"Be right there." John stands, leaving his mobile phone temporarily forgotten behind him on the desk.

"Connie, see if an ambulance can get to us through all this traffic, all right?" John grabs his med kit and follows her out of the office.

Behind him, his mobile begins to ring.

OooOooO

Sherlock stares at John's surgery number, willing John to pick up. He's loath to leave a message as he doesn't know how busy John might be or how long it will take him to check his messages. It all depends on whether this accident has resulted in injuries. If so, then John is most probably dealing with some of the injured now.

"Or he is standing outside the surgery, watching for me. But if that's the case, why doesn't he answer his phone?"

OooOooO

As he enters the clinic’s main waiting area, John notices there are no more scheduled patients waiting to be seen, other than the wounded the police are currently bringing in from the accident. At least that will make it a little easier. He will be able to concentrate on the accident victims.

"Bring her through to the surgery, please." The young woman is at least able to walk in under her own steam, although a little unsteady. A young police officer is supporting her.

John bends over the first victim and checks her vitals, when Sherlock strides into the surgery, glances around, and deduces John must be in an examining room in the back. Sherlock is very familiar with the surgery and he soon finds the room John is using. He nods once at John.

John barely glances up at Sherlock, sees him standing there, gives a curt nod and goes back to his examination of the victim. Two medics have come into the surgery. Good, thinks John. At least one emergency vehicle has found its way to the accident. They can take her to hospital as soon as he completes his triageassessment.

This is one of the few times that Sherlock has had to actually observe Doctor John in action, and the new opportunity to collect data on John is not to be dismissed. Sherlock stands to the far side of the room, stays out of everyone's way, and just watches.

"Connie, where's Sarah?" asks John.

"Sarah's early day, remember?" Connie hold John's emergency med kit and hands him items as he asks for them.

"Right. Then it's just the two of us. Bloody hell."

At the young woman's silence, John glances up from the injured woman. He has temporarily had to push Sherlock away from his awareness so he can work. He knows that the detective stands to the far side of the room, watching, deducing, observing. It does not bother him. This is what Sherlock does, after all.

"Oh God, Connie. I forgot. You have to get to the nursery to pick up the baby."

"It's okay," the receptionist assures him. "I can call my sister. She can go get Jeremy."

John listens to the injured woman's heart while he carries on his conversation with the young receptionist.

"Actually, Connie, if you can give me a few more minutes, you might as well go. We'll be done here shortly. Surgery's officially closed and there are no patients waiting. We've worked through all the appointments for today. I can always close up. I know you are anxious to go collect your son."

"That would be great, Doctor Watson."

She smiles at John as she watches him work with the injured woman on the stretcher. She rather obviously ignores Mr. Holmes, who stands in the far corner. To tell the truth, the tall man rather intimidates Connie and she never knows what to say to him.

John straightens up; the woman has a broken collar bone but it hasn't broken the skin and she's in no immediate danger. Good . Painful though. He squeezes her hand, to reassure her and nods at the medics.

"Broken collar bone; no immediate danger. But she's in pain. I'm not allowed to give her anything but you—"

"We'll take care of it, Doctor Watson." One of the paramedics, Carl by his name tag, knows John from a previous run to the surgery. John smiles wearily at him.

"Good man. Okay, her vitals are strong. If the ambulance is outside, you can go ahead."

John bends over the woman one more time and carefully smoothes her sweaty hair back from her face. Sherlock watches, intrigued. And not a little proud of the incredible expertise, poise and calm professionalism that Dr. John Watson, M.D. shows under pressure.

Proud? That's odd. He had nothing to do with John becoming a doctor. Still. The feeling of pride remains. He is aware that, once more, his possessiveness of John…his ownership of John…has again come into play. He watches the young paramedic lean toward John to say something and Sherlock looks away suddenly as he swallows.

He will not obsess about this. He won't.

When Sherlock glances back, John still stoops over the woman on the stretcher. Automatically, Sherlock deduces: early 30's, married, two young children.

John whispers a reassuring word, "You'll be fine. I know it hurts, but you're going to be okay. These young men are taking you to hospital right now. It's a broken collar bone, but nothing else that I can find. They'll take x-rays at the hospital. Try not to worry."

The woman whispers her thanks to John as the medics help her off the exam table and onto the stretcher they have carried in with them to take her to the waiting ambulance. John is grateful that at least one ambulance has managed to make its way through the crowd.

The second victim sits in the outside waiting room, perched rather vicariously on one of the plastic waiting room chairs, having walked in under his own accord. John takes his stethoscope and followed by Connie, then Sherlock, he goes back to the waiting room to check on the young man. He treats his obvious scalp laceration, listens to his heart, checks his vitals, and calms his fears with a few quiet words.

"Lucky man. Nothing too bad. You'll be sore though. Go with these men and they'll take you to hospital." The young man (early 20's, unmarried, second-year art student,  scared to death, deduces Sherlock) thanks John and rises, a little unsteady on his feet. One of the medics comes back in to escort him out to the ambulance.

John straightens up. Looks around.

"Connie, I thought you said there were three?"

"I believe the third one was already treated by emergency services, Doctor."

The young woman is disinfecting and replacing items in John's med kit. She sets the kit on the counter and smiles at John tiredly.

"If you mean it about locking up, I really need –"

"Of course, I meant it. Go get your son. And thank you for staying, Connie."

"You're welcome, Doctor Watson. I'll see you tomorrow then?" She shrugs into her coat, picks up her purse and car keys. She nods in Sherlock's general direction. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. He stares back at her.

John smiles at the young woman, aware that Sherlock now stands just a few feet behind him.

"Yes, that's fine. See you tomorrow. Be careful. This traffic is a bear."

Connie waves at him, leaves through the front surgery door.

"Give me a minute, Sherlock," John murmurs.

He goes to the door and walks outside to stare in both directions. He is a little concerned that there might be more victims of the accident. He can – barely - see where two or three vehicles are jumbled together, about a quarter mile from the clinic. Traffic is horrid in all directions and he wonders if Connie will be able to get through it in time to pick up her son before the nursery begins to charge her extra.

John can't see any other policemen coming his way - they all appear to be working the accident. He decides it's safe to go back inside but will keep the surgery door open and unlocked for now, just in case. He decides to stick around for a while, in the event more victims show up.

John comes back inside and goes to the first examining room to wash his hands for the third time in a few minutes. Sherlock trails in after him, watching, deducing, observing.

"Stop that," John murmurs. Sherlock stands directly behind John now. John can feel Sherlock through his very bones.

"Stop what?" murmurs the detective.

He bends slightly over John, whispers into his left ear. Yes, that ear – the one that seems to be connected directly to John's groin. John shudders.

He finishes drying his hands – and turns directly into Sherlock's embrace.

"Stop this," whispers John, his voice coming in slightly throaty gasps. "It's very unprofessional. If someone else comes in for treatment –"

"If someone else comes in, they can bloody well wait a moment," murmurs Sherlock.

He bends over slightly, John automatically tilts his head up, and Sherlock kisses John fully on the lips, nibbling, tasting, all the while murmuring things, impossible things.

John shuts his eyes, feels his groin tighten and nearly groans aloud. Finally, he finds the strength to push Sherlock away slightly, get his breath.

He stares up at the strange pale gray eyes, gone nearly translucent now. Sherlock stands over John, possessively, right in his personal space, and stares back at the doctor.

"Sherlock, Lestrade is waiting for us at the Met."

Sherlock grins that grin that ever means only one thing. John swallows against the suffocating feeling in his chest.

It's want, sheer animal need for this man in front of him. Pure lust for Sherlock.

Sherlock murmurs, "Let him wait."

He reaches out to pull John to him and the two of them stand there for a moment, entwined in each other's arms. John can hear Sherlock's heart beat under his cheek, where it temporarily lies against the detective's chest.

"Okay. But Lestrade is still waiting. He has something to tell us about the drug found in those victim's. And I think you need to go see him. I'm staying here a bit to make certain there are no more victims from the accident. We were originally told there would be three."

Sherlock sighs, steps back from his lover a step.

"John –"

"No, Sherlock. I mean it. I'm staying here for a while. I have two reports I have to complete for NHS and I can finish those, while waiting to see if anyone else needs to be treated. I'll be right behind you. Go ahead. Lestrade did say puzzle, remember?"

John straightens his white coat, grins at Sherlock and the glance sends tiny frissons of pleasure through the detective's soul.

He studies the doctor for a few seconds, finally relents.

"All right. I'll take a cab to the Yard, see what this puzzle of Lestrade's entails and you'll be right behind me. "

He reaches out a hand and cups the side of John's face in those long beautiful fingers. John can't help himself. He leans slightly into the detective’s warm touch and closes his eyes briefly.

"And afterward, we are going out to dinner. I've let this mess out here rob us of our lunch. But we will be having dinner together later. Wherever you want, John."

John glances at Sherlock, slightly puzzled over this obvious attempt at romance on the detective's part.

He is delighted with the notion of having dinner with Sherlock but just a little confused at the detective's sudden romantic streak.

But not enough confused to do anything to spoil it either.

"All right. I'll take you up on that. Now go. Right now or I can't be responsible – no. No, Sherlock. Not here in my own surgery!"

"Why ever not?" murmurs the detective. He steps back into John's personal space and bends over the doctor protectively, while he caresses John's cheek with the back of his hand.

John sighs and pushes back against the detective’s chest. He is determined to get to those reports.

And a determined John Watson … Sherlock relents, at last. He straightens up and drops his hand from the perusal of John's face.

"Okay, I'm going. Right now. But the idea of being with you, here in the surgery, is intriguing."

He grins at the doctor, who grins back.

"We're idiots," thinks John Watson, not for the first time.

"Sherlock, just go, now, before I lose what's left of my resolve. I promise you, I'll be thirty minutes behind, an hour at the most. "

"I could wait here while you – "

"No, Sherlock! I mean it. I cannot concentrate when you are like this. It's just not possible. But keep the thought, okay?"

John turns away to pick up his med kit. Holding it in one hand, he strides back to the reception area to get two blank accident forms.

Sherlock walks behind John, watching the doctor move around the room, picking out forms from the cabinet behind the receptionist's desk, punching in a short sequence to switch the surgery's main line to the night recording, waiting to lock the door behind Sherlock.

"I don't see why I can't just wait for you."

"Well, I can. We'll end up on an exam table in a few moments, if we go on like this, and believe me, they aren't wide enough to accommodate two grown men."

John, forms clenched in one fist and med kit in the other grins at the detective and offers his face up for a quick buss on the lips.

Sherlock complies, grins into John's mouth, and straightens, trying to rearrange his clothing.

"All right. Thirty minutes to an hour. Right behind me. Get to those damned reports."

He goes to the front door, turns to say something to John. John stops on his way back to his office and sees Sherlock standing there. He raises one eyebrow inquisitively.

For a few fleeting seconds, Sherlock has the oddest feeling. He can see John, see him standing right there, outlined by the light from his office, he is real, tangible. At the same time, he feels as if he and John are standing on opposite sides of a quay, watching, watching, as one of them slips away from the other. It is a brief, fleeting whisper of vertigo, of longing.  And of loss.

He shakes his head. He realizes he is being ridiculous and puts down those few odd seconds to not having eaten that day. Well, he'll take care of that tonight. He intends to take care of a lot of things tonight.

"Right behind me, John," Sherlock says. He winds his scarf back around his neck and opens the surgery door, preparatory to hailing a cab.

"Right behind you, Sherlock," grins John. He watches as Sherlock leaves, then crosses to the front door and locks it. He goes into his office, leaves the door askew, to sit behind his desk and begins completing the accident reports.

The sooner he can get these blasted reports completed the better. He doesn't really expect any more victims from the accident, he would have heard by now, but he will feel better if he gives it another thirty minutes, just to be sure. He bends to his task.

OooOooO

"Right." John signs the second completed report, drops both of them in the Out box on the corner of the desk. He stands and removes his white doctor's coat and drops it in the laundry bin in the corner of the room. Back at his desk, he opens the bottom right drawer and takes out the Browning. He has taken to carrying the gun around with him since the first threat.

Threat. Threats. Moriarty.

"Shite!" breathes John. In the excitement of treating the accident victims, he has completely forgotten to give Sherlock Moriarty's message.

John slips the Browning into the waistband of his trousers, shakes his shirt and jumper down over to hide the gun, and reaches to pick up his phone. He can't let another minute go by without telling Sherlock.

The detective is going to be livid, thinks John. As he thumbs the speed dial to call Sherlock, John can't say he can blame him. He should have told him immediately but he let himself be – distracted – by the slight lovemaking.

"Sherlock Holmes. John?"

"Sherlock, listen. In all the excitement this afternoon, I forgot to - oh, bloody hell, Sherlock. I was going to tell you later tonight but I think it should be now. And I can tell you right now you're not going to like it."

"John? What is it?" Sherlock sits up straighter in the passenger seat of the cab. They are nearing the Yard. But all of his attention is on John Watson's voice. What the hell - ?

John sighs. He closes his eyes, as if this will make it easier to tell Sherlock about Moriarty.

"Sherlock – I got a call this afternoon, just before you arrived at the clinic, literally just before the accident victims came in the front door. And I have a message for you. From our good friend, Jim."

Sherlock's senses are on full alert now. Moriarty called John at the surgery – today? And John didn't even mention it to him?

His voice, when he can find it, comes lower and much more angry than he means it to be.

"John –"

"Sherlock, wait a minute."

John hears the slight sound and he wonders if this has to do with the accident. He lays the mobile phone on his desk and goes to the outer office, tugging the Browning from his waistband as he walks.

Sherlock sits in the cab and fumes. Fumes.

Once John comes back and tells him what he has to tell him, he intends to have a very long talk with the Army doctor. This casual attitude on his part to threats from a madman must – and will - stop. He must be kept in the loop.

He feels an unreasoning anger swell up and threaten to choke off his air supply.

Mycroft be arsed. He will say whatever he must to John Watson to make certain the ex-military man no longer thinks he has to take things into his own hands. Alone.

Damn it. They aren't alone. Not anymore. Neither one of them. They are together in this. And Sherlock will do whatever he must to impress that upon a certain doctor.

The fact that Sherlock now bears a rather unreasoning and unfair anger toward John for acting the same way that he, Sherlock, has acted for years totally escapes the detective.

More angry by the moment, Sherlock waits for John to pick up his damned mobile and talk to him.

In the outer waiting area, John stands, frowns at a stretcher in the middle of the room that was not there just a few minutes ago. That damn door was locked. He whirls around, the Browning now an extension of his right arm.

James Moriarty stands to John's far right, hands in the pockets of his suit trousers. He grins that cracked grin.

"Hello, Doctor Watson. It's going to be a nice evening, don't you think?"

"You sick twisted fuck," spits John. He now holds the Browning with both hands, the barrel aimed at Jim's head. His hands have never been steadier. "That door was locked. How the hell-"

"You know, Johnny Boy, I wonder if you kiss Sherlock with that dirty little mouth. Really, your language leaves so much to be desired these days. And, John, seriously, you don't really believe I've watched you at your little day job here for months and not availed myself of the opportunity to have extra keys made."  He raises an eyebrow.

John glances around the waiting area, as he carefully maneuvers Moriarty between himself and the front door.

It's obvious Moriarty is waiting for someone else or he wouldn't be standing there, calmly watching John. John assumes it is one of his men, probably whoever brought the stretcher into the outer office. He quickly gestures at Jim, forcing Moriarty to turn with him as he searches the outer office for the second man. And there is always a second man.

"Why so nervous, Johnny Boy? I just thought I'd stop by to say Hi and see if you want to come out and play."

"Mycroft's men," thinks John. "Where the bloody hell are Mycroft's men?"

"All right Jim, take them off." John gestures slightly with the Browning.

Jim frowns. "Not sure I follow you John Boy."

John gestures. "Your shoes, Jim. Take them off and sit down on the floor."

John holds the Browning steady in both hands. He stands well back of the door now, sideways, and makes far less of a target than earlier. He is still able to see the entire waiting room area. His office is to his right, the door still slightly ajar.

Office. Sherlock. Mobile.

Jim frowns at John as if he is truly seeing him for the first time. Then he shrugs, toes off one designer shoe, then the other. Gracefully, he lowers himself down until he sits on the floor.

"Cross your ankles, Jim and sit on your hands."

John's voice is raspy, his eyes tracing back and forth between the corners of the waiting room and Moriarty, who appears quietly amused now. It's still daylight outside and there are police vehicles just down the road, working the accident. And Mycroft ...

From where he stands, John glances sideways toward the front door and can see an ambulance directly outside, the driver nonchalantly leaning up against the passenger side door. The second man? He glances back at Moriarty, gives him his full attention.

Jim Moriarty is frowning at him now and actually sweating a little, John is happy to see.

Good. Sweat means the bastard's heart is racing and if his heart is racing, his blood will pour that much faster.

John has never shot a man in cold blood before, let alone one who is sitting on the ground in front of him.

He decides there is an exception to every rule.

John's finger tightens on the trigger.

"Say goodbye to it," John growls to Moriarty.

But Jim begins to smile that slow cold smile, the edges of his lips turning up in a familiar ironic tilt.

John frowns. He feels the slight disturbance, barely registered in the air.

The rear examination room.

"Aw fuck me," thinks John in those last two seconds.

On automatic pilot now, he swivels to his right, gun raised, and fires at the shadow figure that stands there. His optical pupils register a flash.

The twin explosions sound devastatingly loud in the enclosed space.

And of course, with the horrendous traffic outside the surgery, now being augmented by the early evening rush hour, no one hears the two shots.

No one save Sherlock.

The detective leans forward, snaps his words out at the cab driver in cold venom.

"Turn this bloody thing around and go back to the clinic – Now!" 

John's eyes widen, the blood drains from his face in one near instantaneous rush, like a tide going out in fast forward speed. He falls heavily to his knees, and the Browning slips crookedly from his fingers, tilting as the heavy muzzle falls forward, tilting as the trigger guard catches on his right forefinger, tilting as John's body tilts, and finally releases as his fingers spasms. The L9A1 hits the floor exactly three seconds before John does.

Jim stands up slowly, toes his shoes back on, then just stands there, his hands in his pockets, totally unconcerned that another 300 quid silk shirt has been forever ruined, covered with multiple sprays of crimson that fan out over his slim torso, sprays of John Watson's blood, which soak Jim's shirt, and soak the carpet at his feet.

He grins like an idiot.

Standing to his far left, legs splayed in a shooter's crouch, both hands lovingly wrapped around his Sig Sauer P226, is Sebastian Moran.

At their feet, John's breath comes in desperate gasps.

Seb grins at Jim.

"Miss me?" he asks.

OooOooO

Chapter 8: OPENING GAMBIT

OooOooO

Lestrade glances up as Sally Donovan pokes her head around the corner of his office door.

He looks at her inquiringly.

"Shots fired at the surgery where Doctor Watson works. We've already dispatched several cars."

"Doctor Watson?"

"Apparently missing. The call came from Sherlock's mobile a few moments ago."

Lestrade frowns and reaches for his phone.

OooOooO

Mycroft glances up at Anthea. She walks over to the coat rack, removes his rain coat and umbrella, and stands there.

"Shots fired at Doctor Watson's surgery. Doctor Watson is missing."

"Our men?" Mycroft does not waste words.

She shakes her head. "One dead. One alive - just."

Mycroft's eyes narrow as his mind races through the permutations.

She watches him and waits while he thinks. Anyone else observing him might not see that under his obvious displeasure at the news, he is incredibly, royally angry at losing an agent, possibly two other agents. But she is an expert in reading him. She feels the same anger herself.

He reaches for his phone. As he thumbs the speed dial for Sherlock, he asks, "Who?"

"Peters – dead at scene. McReedy taken to hospital in ambulance. Doesn't look good."

He frowns at his mobile phone. Sherlock is not answering.

Dropping the phone in his pocket, Mycroft stands, shrugs on his raincoat, and takes the umbrella she holds out.

"Your car and driver are ready. What do you need?"

He stares at the wall for a moment, then turns toward her.

"Please remain here and get D.I. Lestrade on the line. My brother is not answering his phone. He may be on his way to the Met. He might be—"

Mycroft does not finish that sentence.

He starts to leave, turns back. "Anthea?"

She waits, unspeaking. They know each other quite well and unnecessary words are never wasted between them.

"I will need recordings of all phone calls to the surgery in the last 24 hours."

"Already ordered; I should have them now. How do you want them?"

"Email – mine and Lestrade's. I'll call you. If I can't raise Sherlock, I –"

He clears his throat. "Please keep me informed of McReedy's condition. I need to speak with DI Lestrade in person and am going straight to the Yard."

He pauses again, does not turn. Just speaks to her over his shoulder.

"Peters – no family, right?"

"Both parents dead. One younger brother at Uni. No known regular partners."

"Send me the details via text. I'll read in the car."

He nods once curtly and leaves.

She stands there for a moment, to stare after him, then returns to her office to pull up the recorded calls and forward them to the two email addresses.

She wonders, briefly, if the disappearance of the Army doctor has anything to do with the file on a certain James Moriarty. She fears it probably does and allows herself one mental shudder at the thought of John Watson in the hands of the psychopath Moriarty. She has, after all, read the Moriarty file.

She sends the two emails, hesitates for a second, then pulls up the file on the younger Holmes brother and rereads it to familiarize herself with certain facts. It is not the first time she has read Sherlock's file.

From what Mycroft has intimated about the relationship between the younger Holmes and Doctor Watson, she fervently hopes Watson is alive and can be recovered in that condition – for all their sakes.

She has studied Sherlock's file before and after perusing it again, realizes that the "madness" - for want of a better term - that plagued Sherlock Holmes during his early years could easily resurface if he is deprived of the only human being who seems to have been able to curb certain – tendencies.

Best not to speculate though.

OooOooO

Sherlock stands in the middle of the surgery waiting room. He stares intently at the carpet.

He has called Lestrade and several police cars have already arrived. The place is swarming with officers, taking photographs, asking questions.

He has no answers to give them.

He is waiting for Lestrade himself to show up.

Or Mycroft.

It is a question as to whether Sherlock will kill his brother with his bare hands, on sight, or allow him to explain this cockup first. Either way – he shakes his head. Delete that. Anger won't help John.

Upon his arrival back at the surgery, he walked through to John's office, noted that it looked as it had earlier, with the exception of the two completed reports in the Out box on John's desk. After walking through all of the rooms, he can find nothing to explain what happened to John – nothing except the obvious blood stains … no, not just stains … make that a great fucking circle of blood that has already soaked into the carpet and spread out into a fantastic configuration.

The officers have taken samples but he does not need to read their eventual reports to know whose blood it is.

He already knows.

Sherlock has no data on which to base his knowledge. Just deductions based on the facts at hand. But he knows, nevertheless. And he raises an eyebrow at this assumption on his part. He is a man who relies on data, facts. Tests will have to be run and they better be completed pretty damn fast. Still -

He walks around the blood stain, and his mind shies away from the size of it. He moves toward the front door and kneels down next to small indentations in the carpet.

A stretcher sat here, he deduces. That might not mean much to anyone else; this is, after all a surgery.

But he was present when the one and only stretcher was brought in earlier that afternoon by the emergency team. That stretcher was taken straight through to the surgery and the accident victim was lifted directly onto it. He had watched as the paramedics carried it out of the surgery and out the front door to the waiting ambulance. At no time did they set it down, right here, in that exact spot. Therefore, these slight indentations represent another stretcher that was brought in some time after he left John Watson.

Sherlock, crouches next to the marks in the carpet, and puts out a hand.

He lets his fingers hover over, but does not touch, what appears to be a spray of blood that has soaked into the carpet in front of him. Whoever was lifted onto the stretcher was bleeding as he was carried out.  Sherlock nods marginally, satisfied.

Good. Dead men do not bleed.

At the sudden observation, Sherlock's stomach clenches and he feels, momentarily, as if he's going to vomit. He narrows his eyes and pushes the emotion and accompanying physical reaction away, furious with himself.

He straightens up and gestures to one of the police officers, who comes over to speak with him.

Sherlock indicates the marks, explains his supposition, and then dismisses it – and the officer – from his mind.

Sherlock walks back over to the large, impossible blood stain in the carpet. He stands more or less directly in front of it and stares at the wall in front of him, then turns slowly toward the door to his right, the door to the examination room. Finally, he pivots slowly once again so he can see directly into John's office, now to his far right.

The door was slightly askew when he had left and when he returned, it was still in the same position, more or less. John left his office – left Sherlock waiting on the phone – and came out here, to the outer waiting room because he heard or noticed something.

He did not return to his office or to pick up the phone and speak with Sherlock.

Mentally, he puts himself in what he believes to have been John Watson's position, he bends his knees slightly, to adjust for the difference in height, lifts his arm, and squints along the length of his arm and right hand, forefinger extended.

Two blasts. There were twin blasts. He distinctly heard them over his phone. Which means that John had begun to carry the Browning with him to the surgery.

Sherlock narrows his eyes, running through scenarios in his mind, fitting probable outcomes to the scant details he has there in front of him. He stares along his outstretched arm, then walks forward to the door of the examination room. Sherlock looks down at the carpet there. Finally, he puts out one elegant hand and runs a finger along a rather deep indentation, in the wood of the doorframe. The wood shows signs of recent splintering, not a lot, but it spreads out from the - hole - for want of a better word. He taps thoughtfully at the spot. Nods.

The room goes very quiet as the police officers milling around suddenly notice the consulting detective's actions. They watch him, frowning.

Two of them are more conversant with Sherlock Holmes and his methods and they shake their heads at the other three, more or less indicating that everyone should just stop talking and that no one should interfere with the detective.

Sherlock turns to the police officers, now gone quiet and watchful behind him, and seeks out one of the two officers he is familiar with from previous crime scenes. He gestures to the female officer by waving one languid hand toward the doorframe.

The officer comes forward. "Thompson," thinks Sherlock. "That's right, Rebecca Thompson."

Sherlock points. "You will find a bullet embedded here, fired from a Browning L9A1."

The police officer, Thompson, clears her throat. "How do you know, sir?"

Sherlock looks at her with derision, does not answer her obviously obtuse question. He looks at the carpet at his feet once again, then follows it back out in a line to the waiting area. The only blood stains he can find are the large one in the middle of the room and the much smaller spray in front of the door.

If it were the other man's blood (Moriarty? No, thinks Sherlock furiously. Moriarty does not like to get his hands dirty. One of his hired guns then …) then naturally, John Watson would be standing there, right there, in front of Sherlock, explaining himself and his stupid, stupid actions.

But John is missing. The only explanation is that the blood belongs to John Watson, that he is injured, possibly dying and – No. Delete that. Begin again.

Sherlock frowns and walks to the front door to glance out into the evening twilight. His hands are in the pockets of his coat and he appears strangely detached as he pushes through the front door of the surgery and walks out into what is a gorgeous evening, despite the incredible cold.

He does not acknowledge any of the officers behind him, nor does he wish them a good evening or leave them a message for whomever might follow.

Sherlock hails a cab.

"New Scotland Yard."

Sherlock's voice is terse. He does not waste time in inane conversation with the cabby but stares out at the scenery beyond the window.

OooOooO

Greg Lestrade tries not to fidget in his chair.

But it's damn difficult.  He's never been trapped between two Holmes before, particularly when each of them seems hell bent on killing the other.

He suspects his presence is the only thing that has kept that particular scenario from occurring.

Mycroft Holmes sits in one of the two chairs in front of Lestrade's desk. One elegant leg is crossed over the other and he is rather idly fiddling with that damn umbrella. Only someone intimately familiar with Mycroft Holmes would recognize the seething anger underneath the usually placid surface. He stares at his brother's back.

Sherlock Holmes stands at the window, looking out at nothing in particular. He has spoken only a few words since his arrival, nearly the same time his brother came striding in on his impossible long legs.

All three men listen to a phone conversation between John Watson and Jim Moriarty that Anthea forwarded to Lestrade's email. Mycroft is intent as he listens to Jim's rant – and John Watson's rather tired, but angry replies.

The door opens and Sally Donovan comes in, a report in her hands. She stands quietly, and waits for the recording to end. She raises an eyebrow at the weird cadence of Jim Moriarty's voice, which sends a cold skitter down her spine. She tries not to think of John Watson in this mans' hands. But it's damned difficult to do.

The recording is nearly over. This is the second time the three men have listened to this recording. Lestrade wonders what each Holmes brother is hearing that he, Lestrade, can't hear. Or deduce.

Not for the first time, he wonders what the inside of Sherlock and Mycroft's heads look like. He winces briefly at that thought.

"Very well. And John? I know you are a fan of the James Bond genre, so you should be able to appreciate this: Mr. Fleming had it right all along. Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. And here's the sticking point, Johnny Dearest – The third time, it's enemy action."

Give him that message from me, will you John? "

"Oh and John? See you quite, quite soon."

"Looking forward to it."

Everyone in the room can hear the quiet ferocity evident in John Watson's reply.

The recording ends for the second time.

Mycroft, who has never taken his eyes off his brother's back, is the only one who sees the slight shudder go through Sherlock's tall frame.

There is silence for a moment. Lestrade clears his throat but before he can speak –

"Goldfinger," says Sally Donovan.

Lestrade and Mycroft look at her. Sherlock turns slowly from the window to stare at her, as well.

Sally deliberately does not look back at Sherlock. She is afraid of what she will see. She keeps her attention on Lestrade.

"Goldfinger," she replies. "That's a direct quote from the James Bond book by Ian Fleming.

She looks thoughtful for a second. "Goldfinger … Gold. A man obsessed with gold."

She glances at the pages in her hand, looks back up excitedly.

"Gold. Man. Goldman. Goldman Street."

She hands the report to Lestrade who takes it, frowns.

Mycroft breaks the silence. "Ms –

"Sergeant Donovan," says DI Lestrade.

"Sergeant Donovan, can you expound?"

Sherlock looks at Sally as if he has a particularly interesting specimen of bug under his microscope.

Sally swallows and nods.

"Doctor Watson sent me a text earlier this afternoon, asking me to try to trace a phone call which came through on the landline in his office. I assume it is this phone call." She waves her hand at DI Lestrade's computer, still sitting open on the desk in front of him.

Lestrade says, "And?"

"Well, we did manage to trace it, unlike the two previous calls Doctor Watson asked about a week or so ago. We traced it to a building on Goldman Street, not far from Whitehall."

Sally indicates the report in Lestrade's hand.

"I've dispatched a car there now to see if it's an office building or what -"

Before she can finish, Lestrade nods. "Good work. As soon as they have any information, bring it here at once."

"Of course, sir."

Sally looks at all three men, this time stares straight back at Sherlock, then pivots and leaves the room.

Mycroft looks at Sherlock, raises an eyebrow. Neither brother speaks.

But if looks could annihilate, Mycroft would be a pile of smoldering ash.

Sherlock turns back to whatever has him enthralled outside the window.

Lestrade leans back and taps on his desk with a pen. He is worried that if he gets up to get that much-needed cup of tea, when he returns there will be at least one dead body on the floor of his office.

Therefore, he sits and waits, placing his body between the two Holmes brothers. It is the only way he knows to keep them apart.

They don't have long to wait.

Sally Donovan rings into Lestrade's office phone. He pushes the button so all of them can hear.

"Detective Inspector, our officers have arrived at that address. It is an abandoned building. But they found something at the scene."

Sherlock's back tenses. Mycroft has gone back to staring at him thoughtfully.

Lestrade sighs deeply. "Just what—"

"A small package sir, one of those padded brown envelopes. The officers are on their way back with it right now. Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade clears his throat. "Go on, Donovan."

"It has the name Sherlock Holmes written on it."

OooOooO

Still in Lestrade's office, Sherlock narrows his eyes at the small package. Without speaking, he puts on a pair of latex exam gloves Sally Donovan hands him. He takes the letter opener from Lestrade's hand and carefully slits the ends. Lestrade stares at him for a second, then looks away.

Mycroft watches all of them thoughtfully.

"It's been X-rayed. Safe to open," Lestrade tells Sherlock. Sherlock raises an eyebrow, never taking his attention off the envelope.

Lestrade, who has seen the x-rays and knows what is in the package, turns away to the window. He doesn't speak. But his throat muscles work against the obstruction that keeps him from breathing properly.

Sherlock finishes slitting the package ends, then tilts the contents out on the desk. Something slithers, falls in a small heap onto the desk top.

There's a small intake of breath and Sally Donovan's eyes widen.

No one speaks.

Sherlock reaches for a pen and uses it to carefully scoop up and raise the rather ordinary ball chain that lies there.  Something flat, disc-shaped and metallic dangles at the end of it.

They are John Watson's dog tags.

And they are covered in blood.

OooOooO

Chapter 9: QUEEN TAKES KNIGHT

Summary:

.

Notes:

I usually listen to music while I write. If you would like to watch and listen to the video that acted as the indirect inspiration for a portion of John's Dream, please go to You Tube and pull up the achingly sweet AU Sherlock video made by dodo00228, DAILY DAY, (BBC Sherlock AU Slash, John/ Sherlock.) Or type in BBC Sherlock Tamas Wells, at the You Tube prompt. Tamas Wells' amazing voice on Valder Fields breaks my heart each time I listen to it. I have come to think of it as Student John's theme. (Soldier John's theme would be much darker!)

Thanks to dodo00228 for an incredibly lovely video and for direct permission to reference it in this work

OooOooO

John is dreaming.

John is not dreaming of Afghanistan. No young soldier is dying under his hands, bleeding out under the brilliant aquamarine sky. There are no helicopters flying overhead, no Humvees roaring by him, no sounds of people shouting in Dari or Pashto. No women, children or old people are screaming in pain.

In John's dream, he is not wrist deep in a young soldier's intestines, desperately trying to find and pinch off the bleeder, watching her eyes widen, then cloud over as her beautiful, young, precious life dissipates into the dry heat of the afternoon air.

In his dream, John is not screaming at her as he pounds her chest, trying to force that spark to come back, please come back. "How can I tell your husband, your family … how can I possibly explain…"

He is not pleading with someone, the forever Unknown, Unseen…"Just give me THIS one… if you don't give me any others today, let me have THIS one ..."

He does not hear his own rage of anger, of pain, as he balls up his fist and slams it into her young chest, trying to jumpstart her stubborn heart…to restore what was Lost … all the while knowing it to be futile.

He is not saying, over and over and over again…."I'm sorry," his breath coming with jerks in his heaving chest. "I'm so very, very sorry … please forgive me … please forgive - …"

John is not dreaming of deserts, or of a blinding sun, the near suffocating heat of the day or the aching cold of the desert night. He is not dreaming of the night sky, so utterly beautiful, lit by the brilliance of so many stars he cannot fathom anyone ever being able to count them, let alone catalogue their beauty.

For once, his dream is not accompanied by the ever-present sound of battle, of the noise of rockets roaring in his ears, jarring his skeleton with the intensity of the blasts, shaking the ground under his feet, exploding in the dust so close to him that his face is hit with stinging pellets of dirt, of rock. He does not feel the overwhelming weight of his helmet or the suffocating weight of his uniform, so heavy now, soaked through with sweat, nor of the near constant scent of dust and blood, petroleum jelly and diesel fuel. He does not squint his eyes against the all-pervading sand that blasts his corneas, creeps into his clothing, nestling deep into the most sensitive spots of his anatomy, finding its way into his socks, his boots, down the back of his neck.

In John's dream, he is not lying in the dirt, while torn nerve endings scream, erupting into unimaginable sensations throughout his entire being, so far beyond what people refer to as pain that he has no frame of reference for the suffering he is enduring. He is not dreaming of his stomach clenching against the agony that trails along his entire left side, as he tries to roll to the side to retch – uncontrollably - praying he does not suffocate in his own vomit. For once, he is not lying on his side, knees drawn up nearly to his chest, shivering from cold, as his body spasms and goes into shock, while he watches, - almost idly now - as his life's blood erupts in great crimson spurts to mix with the dry desert soil.

In John's dream, he is not bleeding to death, alone and temporarily unnoticed, in the pale shadow of the armored carrier.

Nor does John dream that he is – once more – six years old, slight of frame, and his father is hitting him for the first time with a closed fist, nearly knocking him into the wall of their flat. He does not dream of being eight and his father is wrenching his small wrist so cruelly, with such intent, that he can actually feel the bone break under the relentless pressure. He does not dream of when he is eleven, and he is trying to shield his older sister from his father's rages – or from their mother's cold indifference.

John is not dreaming of Sally Donovan or Anderson or the young med techs, of Lestrade, of Mycroft or his gorgeous, enigmatic assistant. He is not dreaming of swimming pools, snipers, umbrellas, mobile phones, text messages or experiments in progress. He most definitely is not dreaming of crime scenes – or of Baker Street.

John is dreaming of Sherlock.

John rises early, showers, dresses in his lightest suit, as the days are a little warmer now. He puts on the new tie that Harry gave him for his last birthday, notes that his hands are slightly shaking as he knots it just so. Dressed now, heart thrumming in his chest, John checks himself in the mirror. His young reflection stares back, his hair, slightly shaggy, still damp, is a bright, bright gold, his face totally unlined with care, his eyes shine with promise and yes, with a steady, blinding-in-its-intensity, overwhelming JOY.

He is grinning uncontrollably.

"I'm an idiot" he thinks. But he still grins as he grabs his wallet, mobile phone, keys, and a few other more personal items, distributes them throughout his pockets, as he dashes from his flat.

They had agreed to meet at the coffee shop, the sight of their first real date, just the day before, the place where they had exchanged two oh so chaste kisses, hesitant, not quite certain yet of each other.

But Oh the aching need that was there in those kisses, thepromise held in that soft brush of mouth against mouth.

John grins as he runs, the café too close to take a cab. He will make certain their next kiss is anything but hesitant or chaste.

The other student - Sherlock, he has to remember to call him Sherlock now - seemed so – wonderful when they met yesterday in the auditorium, waiting for the phys chem class to begin. Just a trifle unsure of himself, but most definitely interested in him, in John Watson.

John first notices the tall, rather enigmatic man standing way up, at the top row of the auditorium, in the very back of the room.  He leans idly against the wall, his ankles and arms crossed, watching as the other students seated themselves, before finding a place of his own.

How could John not notice him? Everyone in the bloody class has noticed him.

That angular pale face – so strangely put together – so beautiful… those inky black curls, and God, the utterly gorgeous, pale eyes, that seemed to be watching them all at first, before John realizes he is the focus of that unerring gaze…he is the one being watched.

HE is watching John.

Several other students, some female, some male, also see the mysterious, beautiful figure who stands in the back of the auditorium. Several of them obviously preen for his benefit.

But he has eyes for no one but John. He stares at John and John stares back, swallowing hard against the rising, slightly suffocating feeling in his chest.

It has been so long since anyone noticed him…really saw John…and now the tallest, most beautiful, most obviously interesting student on campus is looking straight at him, at John Watson, second year med student.

John rather hesitantly smiles. The tall student's eyes widen, then ever so slowly, he grins back at John.

John's heart does a slow turn in his chest, as his stomach muscles tighten with desire -- a need so intense, so overwhelming, that he finds himself instantly hard – and he moves to sit down quickly before anyone else notices his rather obvious discomfort. He idly places his jacket over his lap and pretends to study his phys chem textbook.

His 22-year old heart pounds in his chest.

There is an open space next to John and he senses when the other has come up to him, then seats himself next to John. He sits so close to John's, that John can smell the slight spice of his aftershave.

Neither of them speak, not at first. But John is achingly aware of the other sitting next to him. He can hear the sound the student's trousers make as he shifts in his seat. John knows he is being stared at.

This is ridiculous. One of them must say something and soon. The pressure becomes relentless.

As John feels he has to say something, anything, even if it comes out sounding stupid, he feels the stranger's hand brush ever so slightly against his. He feels the folded bit of paper, being slipped into his palm, between his fingers.

John looks down at his hand, at the slip of paper. Then stares up at the other student, Up and up …God how tall is he, this gorgeous young man ?

John feels as if he can't properly breathe with the overwhelming intensity of his sudden inexplicable feelings for this young chemistry student. He looks down at the slight piece of paper, at the name and mobile phone number scrawled on it in a lazy meandering script. He glances up again.

The other raises one inquisitive eyebrow, staring, all the while staring.

"Sherlock," he says, nearly whispering, the whisper sounding almost defiant, as if he is waiting for John to laugh.

"That's utterly - that's brilliant," breathes John. "That's your name? I – I've never heard that before. It's brilliant." He stammers slightly, as the other's eyes widen in surprise, in shock at not – not what ?, thinks John. Not being laughed at? Ridiculed ?

Oh, Sherlock, has life done this to you so early ?

"I'm John." he says just as quietly.  “John Watson," he adds.

Not for the first time he realizes how plain, how pedestrian his name sounds. He glances at Sherlock now, waiting for him to say something.

"John," says Sherlock. He instills John's name with a deep intensity John has never heard before, as if John's name is already a lover's caress…something between them to be shared, a secret to be held in the palm of their hands. "John."

At the sound of the other's voice, so deep, so resonating, John eyes close, oh so briefly. He can't help it. The other's – Sherlock's -- voice seems to have activated a direct connection between John's hearing and his groin. John opens his eyes to look intensely up at the pale grey eyes in the hauntingly beautiful face.

"Hi, John," Sherlock repeats again.

“Third time's the charm,” thinks John. And for the first time in his young existence, John feels his name is not quite so – plain – as he has always thought.

Sherlock nods once. And smiles at John.

And John feels himself fall.

The class begins and they both take notes, both of them occasionally glancing at the other, finding little reasons to make certain their wrists, their sleeves, occasionally brush up against each other. By class end, as everyone is gathering textbooks and binders, notes and pens, they are both looking shyly at each other, hesitant.  Wondering.

John looks again at the slip of paper that he holds in his right hand. It is damp with sweat now but he can easily read the mobile phone number there. And the single word – Sherlock.

He attempts to clear his voice. "Do you – want to go for a coffee?"

Sherlock stands, looks at John. Then he nods.

"That would be – nice," he murmurs. His voice is an incredible baritone, deep, honey rich. It sends tiny shockwaves through John's soul.

Together they leave the class, and more than one fellow student, male and female, watch them go with wistful sighs.

In the coffee shop, not far from campus, they sit and talk and laugh and tell each other, hesitantly at first, then with more encouragement, their hopes and dreams, fears and wishes.

And as they rise to leave, Sherlock comes to an instant decision. He leans slightly forward. John does not misinterpret or misunderstand and he instantly rises to his feet, and ever so slightly, tilts his head up.

The first kiss is a caress really, the slightest brush of need.

John clears his throat. His heart is racing and he thinks he Might. Just. Faint.

He definitely feels his knees buckling.

Outside in the muted sun of the early afternoon, they stand close together. Sherlock extends his hand and John, no hesitation now, slips his into it.

They both stare down at their entwined fingers, palm to palm.

"Tomorrow, Here,10 am, that is if you don't have a class? I'm – free – on Fridays. Okay?" John hears himself ask.

The unspoken question lies between them, heavy in the clear air.

"I don't have any classes on Fridays either," says Sherlock. He stares at John thoughtfully, as if memorizing him.

John, finding himself the sole focus of the intense gaze, suddenly feels lightheaded. And oh so very special. Suddenly, Sherlock smiles. John swallows – and smiles back, blindingly.

The second kiss is more a promise, a harbinger of things to come.

They both grin at each other.

That was yesterday.

John sprints toward the coffee shop now, inhaling the cool morning air, the bright promise of an early spring morning.

As he runs, he loosens, then tugs off his tie. It's too warm a morning for such a thing. He takes it off and hurriedly stuffs it into his pocket.

As he runs, he wonders if Sherlock will be a considerate lover. (That they will, sometime that day, end up in bed he is totally certain. He – John - will make certain of it.) The thought makes him grin. For the life of him, John has been unable to stop grinning since the day before. To that end, John has tucked a small tube of lube and condoms in his trousers pockets, just in case Sherlock doesn't want to return to John's flat. After all, he might have a place of his own, and possibly no flat mates to get in their way. Either way, John is prepared.

There was something in the slight twist of Sherlock's lips, the almost hesitant, nearly fearful way he slipped his hand into John's, as if he was expecting to be rebuffed by the other student, something that tells John more than words can ever say.

Perhaps there have been no other lovers for him, for Sherlock.

"Not bloody likely," thinks John, thinking of that gorgeous face, the beautiful musician's hands.

He is more likely to have had to beat lovers off with a stick, both sexes, looking like that - all tall and dark and handsome in such a cliché way - although John has never known any clichés who had inky black curls swirling around an angular, slightly androgynous, pale face, eyes the color of sea foam … eyes that seem to peer into your very soul, and imprint themselves on your psyche.

More likely, thinks John, someone has hurt him, been needlessly cruel, used Sherlock for their own ends and ignored Sherlock's needs.

John wonders how experienced Sherlock is but doesn't spare much thought to it.

It's all fine, he thinks. It will all be quite, quite fine.

John has had two former lovers, one female, one male.  His experience is not vast; he is, after all, he estimates, only a year older than the other - than Sherlock - but he has enough confidence in his skills that he knows he will be able to guide Sherlock round the corners. The sex will be fun to work out between them.

“That's half the fun of it, anyway,” he thinks. “Making the sex work.”

He realises, as he runs, that they have much in common already. He is a second-year med student; Sherlock is studying chemistry, biology, criminal justice. So they already have that between them – the science.

As he runs toward their rendezvous, heart racing faster now, he thinks about the obvious difference in their heights but is not dismayed by it. Instinctively, John knows just how he and Sherlock will fit together, how they will make it work for them in bed.

John wonders if Sherlock will be a possessive lover.  There is something in the intensity of his gaze, as he stared back at John, even as a grin curved his lips upward. John finds himself intensely wishing that someone would show possessiveness where he is concerned.

John aches to be needed, to be owned, to be told that he belongs to someone – exclusively.

He has never felt that anyone needed him, wanted him, or ached to possess him in any way - not once in his entire life. And that most definitely includes his immediate family. He pushes away those memories as he sprints.

He wonders if Sherlock will be the first to show possession toward him.

"If he is," thinks John, his feet pounding along the pavement, "then he will be the first – and last. I'm not bloody well letting him go.  If this works out, he's mine. Now and forever. End of story."

John runs faster. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, acting as counterpoint to his feet as they pound the pavement.

"Those lips," thinks John. "What will he do with his mouth? And, oh God, his eyes!"

Yesterday they shared two kisses, born of need, one inside the shop and one outside in the afternoon sun. John can still feel the heat from those hesitant touches. The memory kindles along his spine, like a slow burn. John feels as if something within him is about to spontaneously combust.

John dashes down the street – and thinks about his two former lovers: Ronnie, of the long auburn hair, laughing green eyes, and trim dancer's body. And Drew, who kept a bottle of bubbles by his bed and would uncork the top, and lie back in bed, naked, blowing bubbles toward the ceiling.  He would laugh at the jokes John told him after they both finished, limp and satiated.

He never had any complaints from either of his former lovers, in fact, quite the opposite.

John silently vows to be a most considerate lover where Sherlock is concerned.

He promises himself that he will rid Sherlock of that tiny pain he sees in his eye. Life has not always been kind.  John is suddenly angry with the heavy-handed former lover, that stupid unimaginative twerp. John Watson vows to erase that lover from Sherlock's memory.

John will show the young chemistry student what kindness and consideration can do, both in and out of bed.

As he dashes toward Sherlock, John can smell flowers in the air. People are selling them in bunches on the street corner. The scent of iris and rose, carnations and verbena becomes nearly all pervasive.

A doorman, in uniform outside the local hotel, smiles at the young, golden-haired man, so obviously racing toward a lover's rendezvous. John smiles back and waves.

He sees Sherlock standing on the corner, next to the coffee shop. He watches for John and John waves now, so full of joy, of promise, that he feels it must be a tangible thing, pouring out of the very pores of his skin. Strangers smile at him as he dashes now - toward Sherlock.

In his dream, young John reaches Sherlock and as the two of them extend their hands, one toward the other and their fingers touch, intertwine, and they grin at each other, John knows this will be wonderful. This will be bright heaven, he thinks. Bright heaven – and fireworks.

This will be forever.

ONLY -

S – O – M – E – T – H – I – N – G –'s WRONG… very, very, Very WRONG.

IT ISN'T - REAL. NONE of it is Real. None of it is….None. not real….NOT REAL..

Still dreaming, John suddenly feels tears build up behind his closed eyes. He is a solder. Soldiers do not cry. But that is – just pure bullshit. He's seen plenty of soldiers break down. Still – John swallows, swallows against small rocks that seem to have embedded themselves in his throat.

His heart aches with the incredible sweetness of this vision, which he is beginning to suspect now is totally false – a thing of brief, shining beauty his mind has given him when he most needs it.

Not real. Never real. But oh GOD….it isn't fair ! Not fair …

He wants to hold on to this feeling forever. He wants to live here – yes, right here, forever and ever – where he and Sherlock are both so young and there is no pain to be endured, no battles to be fought, here where there is ONLY SHERLOCK, ever and always, SHERLOCK.

And he thinks, with only slight hesitance, if HE / SHE will grant this one wish … If he could just stay… please let him stay. So many things have been taken from him in his short life…please, whoever you are, if you are listening… I beg you not to not take this away from me, too.

If you do, I will hate you forever, thinks soldier John, adamant now in his determination.

He thrashes now, pushing against what is obviously restraints. He can't move - his hands and feet are bound and this terrifies him in his blindness. He begins to curse, to threaten.

John feels the sharp sting in his neck, a sensation of heat, of something stabbing him in the carotid artery and his mind shies away at the horror of a hypodermic injecting something under his skin, directly into his veins.

John can hear voices now…talking, laughing, clearly amused. Laughing at what? Laughing at him, John Watson ?

He holds his breath … and the universe dissolves into Flame.

Bright Fireworks. Fireworks …Bright… fire….F I R E… There is a fierce pounding in his skull, as if something huge and terribly, terribly bright is trying to force its way out of his head, push around his eyes. The pressure in his head becomes almost too much to bear. He is fearful now he will bite or swallow his tongue. Something is thrust into his mouth, against the top of his tongue. John gags against whatever it is, chokes.

And now Something is rushing toward him …Fire …FIRE ! He can feel the heat of it searing the upper layer of his skin.

SHERLOCK !

Searing.  Heat.  Flames.

John's nerve endings are on fire….Dear GOD, he is burning …. SHERLOCK!

His blood vessels are screaming now, pain messages jumping across the gaps from neuron cell to neuron cell, passing along their message of agony… something is tearing at his heart, invading his mind and scattering his thoughts…he can't think straight…why can't he Think? … a billion nerve endings are in flame … demanding his attention … he can't rest…Please, God, Sherlock !

Icy hot fingers of agony grab John, hold onto him with such intensity that the pain erases everything from his mind. Only once before has he felt this maelstrom in this intensity… once before … NO, he is wrong. It was NOT this bad. IT WAS NEVER THIS BAD.

And those days are behind him. He survived that hell – and came out the other side.

This is Not. Supposed. To Be. Happening.

There is no part of him, body or soul, that is not in torment.

He is, quite literally, being burnt alive from the inside out.

John sobs.

I cannot do this. Not again. Not now. Not ever again. I can't. I CANNOT DO THIS !

He begins to beg, to plead, with someone, with anyone who will listen. He will make a deal with the Devil himself if he will only make it all stop, Make. It. STOP.

He is not certain – but thinks he says this aloud. Someone touches his cheek, his hair.

Something sick and horrid brushes against his lips, tongues into the corners of his mouth.

He tries to twist his head away and new agony shoots along his jaw, streaming downward into his chest.

"Dear G - Please don't'…not again…please, if you're there…hear me…HEAR ME….PLEASE….Sherlock…SHERLOCK !"

John thrashes in his delirium, pushing his muscles against restraints, pushing back against the overwhelming sense of drowning … of not being able to pull in enough air to keep his lungs working…He cannot breathe, not properly. He tries, fails, tries again to take a deep breath. There are sharp ridges in his chest, icy cold 'somethings" that shouldn't be there, not in that space, not in those configurations… something like a blade presses inward … tries to shove its way into his lungs, cut off his air supply, rob him of his ability to breathe … Something is broke;, he can feel the bones crack and shift as he moves, he can feel as the brittle edges of bone come together, shift, move, scrape, jagged edge against jagged edge … things with tiny pointed serrated teeth, breaking apart one more time…raw edges trying to meld … as he tries to breathe - then pulling apart all over again, as he tries to expel used air… as he tries to MOVE.

So he stops moving. Tries to curl up into a ball…maybe if he’s successful, they can't find him…he is restrained and his spine protests once more as he pushes against whatever is holding him.

But the pain in his chest doesn't' even begin to match the fiery agony in his thigh, an agony born in hell that licks along the entire length of his leg. He can feel his thigh muscles clench, jerk. John's spine spasms and he feels his tortured muscles contract in a sudden movement that sends shockwaves through his skeleton.

His muscles and nerve endings, neurons - god how many? Millions? Billions, you idiot. You're a doctor. There are billions of the long nerve cells, the neurons …they begin to scream at him anew, demanding attention, threatening to drown him … to pull him down into some flaming hell he can only dimly guess at.

John feels sweat pool along his forehead, his hairline, his lower back, between his thighs. It drips down his face, pools against his neck, then down the length of his straining body, soaking his legs and whatever he sits on.

But that is not the worst of it. Some thing is here with him. Something - not nice.

He can feel now that he is not the only one here in this fiery agony.

And this knowledge terrifies him more than the agony in his body, in his skull.

John intuits he is not – quite - alone. Some - thing - is crawling around in the darkness with him. It is quite close now. He can almost smell its dark breath on the back of his neck…he can nearly hear the tiny sense whisper as it grins at him with wicked little teeth. He can almost feel the dragging sensation of an ice-tipped claw scraping against his cheek.

John shudders. Tries and fails to open his eyes.

He can't see. He has to be able to SEE.

Not now, his mind screams at him. You don't want to see THIS now. Keep them closed for a few moments longer, you fool.

You Utter, Utter Fool !

John is not – quite - alone in the dark and the dark is alive with fire. With flame. And now something is crawling around in the middle of it… and it's nearer to him now than it was a moment before.

Something John cannot see, but he knows, oh how he knows, it is there.

"Sherlock … SHERLOCK!"

John opens his mouth – and begins to scream.

OooOooO

 

Chapter 10: Adjust or j'adoube

Notes:

Touch-move rule

To adjust the position of a chess piece on its square without being required to move it.

OooOooO

Jim Moriarty stands in front of a large map of London pinned to the wall. His hands are in his pockets, as he rocks back on his heels. He frowns slightly at the map, then takes out a pen (which cost more than John Watson's monthly salary) and makes a circle around one particular spot.

Jim pockets the pen and goes to a keyboard in front of one of his multiple glowing monitors, types a rapid email, hits Send. Then he straightens up and begins to pace around the room again, thinking.

For once, the conference room lights are all on. Jim's features stand out in sharp relief.  As always, he is immaculately dressed. Sebastian Moran smiles.

Seb watches Jim pace; watches as he occasionally stops to look at another monitor, to read an email, study a report. But Jim is too restless to stand still for long and he immediately resumes his pacing.

“Nervous energy,” thinks Moran. “He's full to the top. Doesn't bode well for someone. Probably Watson. Well – “

Sebastian knows Jim is building up to one of his rages – or making a move in his current game. He doesn't know which.

After all this time working with Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran still cannot consistently read the man. He finds it intoxicating. Jim is his favorite pastime – next to finding new ways to inflict pain.

He and Jim have been having a conversation about a certain Army doctor and – really - Jim is being stubborn about Watson, Seb feels.

As he watches Jim, Seb idly plays with a mobile phone, flipping it end over end, catching it, occasionally staring at the screen. It is John Watson's mobile. Currently, there are 17 attempted calls. And three messages. Seb (and Jim) have read each of them. All 17 calls are from a certain consulting detective. The calls and messages ended a few hours back and there have been no others.

Seb watches Jim pace.

"Might want to reconsider that a bit." Moran murmurs. He leans back in one of Jim's swivel chairs, his legs stretched out in front of him.

Jim whirls. "When I want your advice, Seb, -"

Sebastian Moran holds up both hands. "Hey. I'm just sayiny, a live hostage is much more useful than a dead body. Dead – Watson is no good to us. You want Holmes, right? That's what this has all been about."

"Watson needs to fucking die! Slowly and with feeling!"

"Why?"

Jim whirls on him, his face livid.

Sebastian watches him calmly. He is probably the only man on the planet who can – occasionally – call Jim on his bullshit and not worry about the probable outcome.

"What do you mean – Why? That should be obvious!"

"Not to me," says Moran, unconsciously using one of John Watson's favorite phrases.

Seb thinks, "What did the bloody fool ever do to you?" but he does not say this aloud.

What he says is, "If you want to screw with Sherlock Holmes' head, isn't it better to do it with a messed up Watson, then a dead one?"

Seb flips John's mobile phone, idly wondering about Jim's determination about this.

He thinks, "Dead – he does you no good at all. You're just awakening a very determined maniac. And Sherlock Holmes pissed off – "

Well, Moran can only imagine that scenario.

He wonders if Jim has thought about this, really thought about this.

What he says aloud is, "Is this a game?"

Jim stops pacing in front of the map of London.

"I can bloody well take care of Holmes, Seb!"

Moran continues to play with John's mobile. "Right. And exactly how's that working out for you so far?"

Dead silence.

Moran raises an eyebrow and watches Jim's shoulder muscles straighten. Well, at least Jim is listening. He tries another tactic.

"Look, I shot low.  Figured you wanted him alive or you wouldn't have brought the damned stretcher, so I aimed for the leg. Got him nearly dead center over the previous injury too. Damned good shot. Nice and clean. Frankly, if I wanted to kill the son of a bitch –“

Jim says nothing. Seb raises an eyebrow.

"Which begs the question why you bothered to bring him back here, if killing him was the intention? Why not just let him bleed out …  there in his own surgery? But hey, if you want, I can go down right now and make that happen."

Jim whirls.

"When I need you to kill a half dead, restrained man for me, Sebastian, I'll be certain to let you bloody well know!"

He pushes a button on the console, demands Doctor Franks get his sorry arse in there now.

Jim goes back to studying the map of London.

Moran, watching Jim's body language, stops talking. His eyes narrow as he runs through a few scenarios in his mind, wondering what Jim has in store for the unfortunate doctor Watson.

That Watson's already been introduced to Reese's new drug is not a question.

Moran stood and watched while John Watson was injected in the neck, only a short while after his rushed surgery to close the bullet wound caused by a certain Sig Sauer.

Seb found Watson's hallucinations to be most interesting. Particularly when the screaming began. Jim left at that point, he never really did like loud noises, after making certain that every second of Watson's torment was being recorded.

Seb remained, fascinated by the drug's propensity to cause extreme pain, as well as the obvious hallucinations.

Watson's screams, rants, ravings were most informative.

And entertaining to boot.

Moran stood over Watson and watched him struggle in his restraints. He could only dimly guess at the pain the good doctor was in, with the bullet wound, recent surgery and yes, his own attentions to a certain part of the good doctor's anatomy.

“Bad trip, Doctor W?” He thought, standing there watching as John writhed in the chair. When Watson finally subsided into unconsciousness, Sebastian reluctantly left to follow Jim upstairs.

Seb looks up as the conference room door opens and Dr. Franks, successor to theunfortunate Dr. Reese, comes in to report. His face shows the strain of his current position and he sweats like a stuck pig.

Sebastian notices that Jim does not ask the doctor to take a seat.

Franks watches Jim, his eyes darting around the room. He does not look directly at Moriarty and Sebastian finds this vastly entertaining.

Jim sits back in his favorite chair, regards the doctor.

"Franks, you had the opportunity to work with our dear late Dr. Reese on his pet project."

Franks nods, says nothing. He does not trust himself to speak.

Jim raises one eyebrow.

"Yes sir, we worked closely on it. I – I have his notes and—"

"Yes, that's fine." Jim regards Franks as he thinks over his questions.

"We tested that drug three times. In each time, the experiment resulted in the eventual death of the test subject."

"Yes sir."

Franks gives Jim his total attention now, trying his level best to ignore Sebastian. He does not know Sebastian Moran but has heard of him. And of certain propensities.

"I can only assume that our current test subject is alive because of a smaller dosage?"

Franks nods. "Yes sir. You asked me to give him half the dosage we used on the other-"

"Exactly. The results were still rather spectacular, though, I must admit."

Jim leans forward, both hands clasped in front of him. He could be discussing a theme paper with a college student – or the weather.

"I'm curious, Dr. Franks. Reese's initial reports indicated that this drug had three rather interesting properties. All of them depending on two things: the dosage, of course, and the initial physical – and mental – state of the test subject at the time of injection."

Jim holds up an elegant hand, and begins to tick off points on beautifully manicured fingers.

"One:  at high dosage, the victim experiences pain, rather violent hallucinations, and eventual probable death. Two: at a lower dosage, such as was administered to our good doctor Watson, the subject experiences hallucinations, some violent in nature, pain of course and death may or may not follow – all things being equal."

Jim looks at Dr. Franks. "Right so far?"

Franks nods. 'Yes sir, skipping over the exact medical terminology, you are more or less correct."

"More or less –" Jim smiles at Dr. Franks. The smile does not reach his eyes.

Franks swallows. He thinks, "Just keep your stupid mouth shut, you idiot." He waits for Jim to ask him a direct question.

Jim holds up one finger. "And three, at much, much smaller doses – I believe Dr. Reese referred to them as micro doses, the drug causes much milder hallucinations, dreams if you will, either good or bad, no one can tell, some pain, and eventual near total dependence upon the drug. And once dependence is achieved, if the drug is then withheld, extreme pain, violent hallucinations, along the par of a bad trip, I believe they call it, and – have I got this correct, Dr. Franks, passing over the exact medical terminology used in Dr. Reese's – and your reports?"

Franks nods, his eyes never leaving Moriarty's face. He is grim faced now, sweating.

'Yes sir. You have it right."

Jim's eyes narrow as he stares at Franks.

"Yes sir. In the dosages the first three test subjects were given, the hallucinations appeared to be of an extremely violent nature. We have the tapes – er, discs. And of course, each of the three subjects died, after being injected and after experiencing the initial hallucinatory state of the drug – and the pain. Their central nervous systems just shut down."

Jim cocks his head to the side and looks at Franks as if he is seeing him for the first time.

Franks voice is a little more confident now and his eyes actually shift away from Jim Moriarty's face for a moment as he recalls his notes.

"In a smaller dosage, given the subjects physical condition, the hallucinations are not quite so violent – although the pain centers are certainly – "

"Yes, yes we've been over that."

Franks remains silent, wondering what this man wants from him. He has done nothing wrong – in fact, he is the one who first informed Moriarty that Dr. Reese had apparently absconded – and taken his notes with him. Of course, Franks had made copies of those notes as he and Reese worked together and hid them away for just such a contingency.

He could tell that Reese was beginning to regret the way his work was being used. Franks stopped wondering what happened to Reese. He has a pretty good idea of what happened.

And he can feel Sebastian Moran staring at him.

Jim considers his next words carefully. He needs this doctor. Reese is out of the picture and he needs Franks, at least for the moment. It will not be good to spook the man, not right now at any rate.

"Dr. Franks, what I need to know is this: we have a drug here that in micro doses causes the subject to become dependent upon certain properties of the drug. "

Franks listens. Does not respond yet. He is learning to keep his mouth shut until asked a direct question.

Jim watches him. "Here is my question: what cretin in their right mind would even consider purchasing and injecting a drug that, no matter its addictive qualities, causes some nerve pain and the equivalent of very bad dreams – nightmares in fact? What is the point?"

Dr. Franks is more in his element now and he thinks of his answer carefully.

"Sir, if we are speaking of the test subject in the lab below, the man was brought in experiencing considerable pain from a bullet wound. Our surgical team managed to stop the bleeding, it took several hours and rather extensive surgery. But the man remains in torment. The drug, in the dosage you initially requested, would have taken that pain, magnified it, spread the pain message to all the neuron centers – and as an added wallop, given him a very bad trip, to boot. In short, he was not an ideal test subject for the – dependency aspect of the drug."

Jim purses his lips. "But in other circumstances, all things being equal?"

Franks takes a breath. "In other circumstances, all things being equal…if it were injected in micro doses, over the course of say, five to seven days, and several times per each 24-hour period, it would cause a dependency – an addiction. The initial pain would be minimized as the subject became inured to it. And the subsequent high experienced would be enough of a pleasurable jolt to activate certain pain / pleasure circuits in the brain. At the very least, it would appeal to adrenalin junkies."

"Which is why cocaine remains so appealing to certain junkies. Cocaine acts by raising the levels of serotonin and dopamine in the nucleus – in the pleasure center of the brain, followed, of course—"

Jim interrupts, nearly bored now. "Dr. Franks, if I wanted a dissertation on the effects of cocaine, I'd ask Sherlock Holmes."

"Yes sir." Franks shuts up, tight-lipped.

Jim stares at him. "Well go on, all things being equal, why is Dr. Reese's little concoction any different from, say, a cocaine high?"

Franks swallows. " Sir, Dr. Reese's drug has similar tendencies – but it tosses in the hallucinatory properties, to boot. And there are always those who wish to experience rather vivid hallucinations. Hence the popularity of peyote, of LSD, of –“

He clears his throat as he sees Jim's eyes narrow.

"Again, it just depends on what you wish to do with the drug – and who you wish to use it on and to what purpose."

Jim rises to his feet and begins to pace the room, more slowly than last time, his hands in his pockets. He is thinking.

Seb remains silent. He finds all of this vastly entertaining.

Dr. Franks stands there, watching Jim pace, a slight frown between his eyes.

"Sir, may I ask what your intention is regarding the test subject currently under surveillance? "

Jim stops pacing and studies Franks curiously.

"If you refer to our good Doctor Watson, then my intent, Franks, is to get the bastard as healthy as possible in as short a time as possible – and then blow his fucking brains out – on camera, of course."

Jim smiles - Jim's smile does not reach his eyes - and looks at Franks. "And why are you asking?"

In his seat, Seb stirs, uncrosses his ankles, recrosses them and leans back again, hands in pockets. He can't remember when he last enjoyed a conversation so much – unless it was the very last one he had with the unfortunate Dr. Reese.

Franks clears his throat. In for a penny. "Sir, I was about to call you when you paged me. At your request, we have put out several – feelers – regarding this drug. We have received interest from several parties. The most lucrative offer comes with an immediate caveat, however. I have sent you all the details in an email, per your request."

Jim raises one eyebrow.  He waits for Franks to get to the point.

Franks says, "The – cartel - in question, requests proof of the addictive nature of this drug. They are willing to wait if necessary. The details are in the email I just sent –"

"Proof." Says Jim slowly.

Seb raises an eyebrow, glances at Jim Moriarty speculatively.

"Proof." Jim comes around the conference table and sits in his chair, hands clasped once more in front of him. He finally swivels around to look at Sebastian, who now grins full tilt at him.

He sighs. "All right Seb, no need to look smug about it."

Jim swivels back to Dr. Franks.

"Dr. Franks, what is the extent of the damage caused to Dr. Watson by the bullet wound?"

Franks considers. "Extremely painful as the bullet actually exacerbated a previous thigh wound. He initially lost a lot of blood. But our surgical team, at your request, was able to not only suspend the bleeding but stitch him –" his voice trails off as he realizes Moriarty has swiveled away from him to stare at one of his pc monitors.

Jim speaks slowly, over his shoulder. He is tired of this man and does not want to look at him again.

"Dr. Franks, I want you to give our guest whatever pain medications he requires, in addition to whatever immediate and sustained medical attention is absolutely necessary. I want Doctor John Watson to be brought to the best state of health in as short a time as possible. And then I want you to start administering micro dosages of this drug. I want everything documented on camera, of course, at all times."

Franks wets his lips, tries not to glance at Moran, who now watches him curiously as if he is something nasty he just discovered on the bottom of his shoe.

"Er, perhaps another test subject would be -  Doctor Watson has two broken and three cracked ribs. The broken ribs have caused rather extensive –"

Jim raises his voice in that weird sing song that Franks has only heard once or twice before. His blood runs cold in his veins. He nearly stops breathing.

"Dr. Franks, I don't give a damn about his broken ribs. Treat them. Make him as comfortable as possible over the next few days. Make certain the initial bullet wound is most carefully treated. I do not want our good doctor to suffer from so much as a hang nail from this point on. And I definitely do not want to hear he has become feverish from infection. Then begin the micro dose treatment, do you understand me?"

Franks nods. "Yes sir, I understand. I will send you regular reports."

"Yes, you will," says Jim Moriarty, rather dryly.

He still has not turned from his perusal of the pc monitor in front of him. He tosses his last order over his shoulder.

Seb watches all of this, utterly fascinated.

"Dr. Franks, I want an initial recording here in my office in one hour of Dr. Watson's initial – sufferings – including Mr. Moran's attentions – to the good Doctor – and of course, his subsequent surgery and initial injection of the drug in question. I want all of his reactions on that disc. Everything up to where he lost consciousness after the last injection. Have it prepared and deliver it here in one hour or less."

Jim begins to dismiss Dr. Franks, then thinks better of it.

"And Dr. Franks –"

The man turns and comes back to stand in front of Moriarty again. Sweat pools along his brow. Moriarty finally turns in his chair to face him.

"I find your performance, so far, satisfactory. You may go. I expect the recording in sixty minutes or less."

"Yes sir. Thank you, sir."

Franks turns again and makes good his escape this time. He deliberately avoids looking at Sebastian Moran. He can feel Moran's gaze upon him as he goes.

Without looking at Sebastian, Jim swivels back to peruse the screen in front of him. Reports are coming in from his various activities. He can feel Moran’s eyes on him.

"All right, Seb, you were right. A fucked-up Watson might be more use to us than a dead Watson, at least for the time being. And Dr. Watson is rather well known because of his association with Sherlock Holmes. He should make a very satisfactory test subject.  About those broken ribs, Seb  -- you could have killed the man. I would have been perturbed."

Moran finally stands, stretches.  He goes over to stand by Jim's side.

"I was careful. Besides, I owed him one for trying to drill me and from previous encounters. Actually, I kind of respect the bastard. He's a fighter, Watson. A bad ass if ever I met one. He just wasn't on his best game. Someone had to lose. Glad it was him."

Jim is thinking now, going over permutations in his head. Wondering just how to go about this new scenario.

Moran begins to muse aloud.

"You want to screw with Holmes' head, right? Send his pansy lover back to him, broken, addicted. At the very least, it will be an interesting project for a few weeks."

Jim's shoulders don't look quite so tight now. He is thinking over Sebastian's words, as well as those of Dr. Franks. Jim brings up the email Franks sent him and reads it.

Finished, he closes the email and brings up a blank screen, begins to type.

Standing beside him, Seb reads his words. And grins his widest grin yet.

OooOooO

Lestrade has finally gone for that cup of tea. And the Holmes brothers are alone for the first time since John's shooting and disappearance.

Sherlock turns from his perusal of the night sky outside Lestrade's window.  He looks at his brother as if seeing him for the first time.

"When did you start taping phone conversations coming into the surgery?"

"You know when," Mycroft responds.

His eyes narrow as if he attempts to stare through his brother. His right fist clenches and he takes a breath to calm himself, before he steps into Sherlock's personal space and lays him out, right there on the floor of Lestrade's office.

Sherlock walks forward, aware of Mycroft's body language. Frankly, he doesn't give a damn.

"Where were your men, Mycroft? All your fucking' words about protecting us, about protecting John. Where are the CCTV tapes? Your agents? How in the hell did that bastard just waltz in, shoot John and carry him out on a stretcher and nobody noticed a bloody thing!"

Sherlock stands near to Mycroft now and Mycroft's eyes narrow as he slings his words back at his brother, damn his eyes.

"You'd better be damned glad there was a stretcher, Sherlock. If Moriarty's intention was to kill John, he could have just left him there, dead, or to bleed out all over the damned carpet. He took him. That means the man is most probably still alive. Otherwise – "

"Oh spare me, your 'Otherwise.' Don't give me your bullshit, right now, Mycroft. I'm not listening to your pathetic excuses for –"

Furious, Mycroft has had enough of Sherlock.

"Pathetic, you arse hole?  I have a dead agent on my hands and another dying in hospital."

Mycroft deliberately steps into Sherlock's personal space, as if daring the younger man to knock him on his ass. He is itching for a fight and by God if Sherlock doesn't start it, Mycroft will. He leans into the younger man's face.

"Just how many of my people have to die for John Watson and where the hell were you, Sherlock, when your family was being taken?"

And that is when Sherlock throws the first punch. Mycroft blocks it almost leisurely and swings back – only to encounter Greg Lestrade's fist which he has pointedly swung to intercept Mycroft's blow.

It says something for Sherlock's and Mycroft's state of mind that neither one of them heard the door open or noticed when Lestrade came back into the room.

"Okay, stop it, you two. That's enough. Mycroft, sit down."

Mycroft stares at him, starts to protest –

Lestrade shouts. "NOW Mycroft." He indicates the chair at the end of the conference table.

Lestrade rounds on Sherlock.

"And you, Sherlock. Sit your arse down there right now or I swear to God, I will have you arrested and thrown into a holding cell until I deem you fit enough to be released."

Sherlock whirls, growls, "You wouldn't dare –"

"Watch me," says Lestrade. He stares back at Sherlock evenly. His demeanor brooks no refusal. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. So does Mycroft.

For a moment, both Holmes brothers see what Lestrade's team sees when a scenario goes pear-shaped.

Sherlock's voice is ragged, "John –"

"Is not being helped by anything happening in this room," says Lestrade evenly.

Sherlock stares at Lestrade, then yanks the chair out and sits. He does not look at his brother.

But he can feel Mycroft vibrating with rage across the room.

Lestrade looks at both men, takes a chair at the opposite end of the table from Mycroft. Sherlock is to his immediate right.

He clears his throat. "Right."

He tosses a file on the desk.

"We pulled surveillance tapes on John's surgery. We have you on the tape as you leave the surgery and hail a cab, Sherlock. About 30" after, CCTV shows an ambulance arrive outside the clinic."

Lestrade looks at both men, who have gone back to glaring at each other.

"Two men go in, both dressed as Emergency Services personnel. Between them, they are carrying a stretcher. One man has a bag slung over his shoulder."

Lestrade looks up at Sherlock. The younger man is listening at least. But his eyes –

Lestrade continues. "A third man remains with the ambulance. After about five minutes, the third man gets out of the ambulance, goes in to the surgery and after a few minutes, he and one of the first two men come out carrying the stretcher between them. The body on the stretcher is covered more or less. However, we can see enough of the head and hair to recognize that it is Doctor Watson's body being carried out. There is what appears to be a great deal of – blood – that has soaked into the sheet covering John's body."

There is dead silence in the conference room now.

Lestrade sighs. "The third man then comes out, this time dressed in a suit. We don't know what happened to the Emergency Services jacket. We did not find it at the scene. Nor did you, Sherlock. Most probably it was in the bag the other man carried."

Lestrade looks up from the report. Stares straight at the younger Holmes brother.

"That third man is James Moriarty."

Sherlock’s' voice, when it does come, is cold with fury.

"The entire traffic accident – staged –"

"Of course the bloody thing was staged, from beginning to end, Sherlock." Mycroft looks at his brother now, dispassionately.

Sherlock glares back at him.

"There were legitimate casualties and I know Lestrade has already verified it was a legitimate ambulance –"

Lestrade coughs. "Gentlemen, I believe I was filling you in? Kindly refrain from deducing facts before I give them to you."

Both brothers remain silent, but continue to stare at each other.

Lestrade is suddenly achingly tired. It has been a very long day and there is no end in sight yet. He must remember to call his long-suffering neighbor and thank her for watching his daughters while he deals with this situation.

He clears his throat again.

"Sherlock is correct. It is a bona fide ambulance with proper tags, everything checks out. The insignia on the jackets of the three – Emergency Services personnel – is also legitimate. As for the accident, it was most probably created, on purpose. The injuries Doctor Watson treated were real injuries. Those people could just as well have died in that accident or not been hurt at all. The idea was—"

"The idea, of course, was to snarl traffic in all directions. The injuries were just a bonus." Mycroft's voice comes dry now. It appears he is over his initial fury with his brother.

"Correct, Mycroft," says Lestrade. "The injuries were a bonus. As –"

"As no one would question an ambulance with attendants pulling up to a surgery, particularly after an accident that has traffic tied up in both directions for hours." Sherlock's voice is not as dry or resigned as Mycroft's.

Sherlock's voice is broken, ragged. And filled with cold fury.

Lestrade sighs. Caught between two Holmes. His life just can't get any better at the moment. Then he remembers John and winces.

Lestrade looks at the elder Holmes sitting at the far end of the table. "Mycroft, we have zero information on your men. How they were attacked, how Moriarty's man or men got the drop on them … we have nothing. I am truly sorry. There is nothing on the security tapes."

Mycroft stands.  He stares down the table at Lestrade.

"I assure you, Detective Inspector, my people will discover what happened to my men. No worries. And I thank you for your concern and for the attention you have given this matter."

Mycroft walks to the door. Tosses a statement over his shoulder.

"Sherlock, I am on my way to Bart's to see to the man who nearly died for John Watson. Care to come?"

Sherlock also stands. He looks at his brother's back.

"Yes, I'm coming."

"Good." Mycroft goes out. The door shuts behind him.

Sherlock looks at Lestrade, who has stood up to gather folders toward him.

"Greg—I need to –"

Lestrade cuts him off. "Sherlock, you can see all the tapes any time. Go with Mycroft, unless you want to view them right now. I was just filling you in to save time. But of course they are at your disposal any time. I am hoping you find something we haven't been able to see."

Sherlock starts to follow his brother out the door – when it opens and Mycroft walks back in. His expression can best be described as grim. He is immediately followed by Donovan and Anderson. Donovan carries a white envelope and what looks like a rather used shopping bag.

Mycroft looks at his brother tiredly. Sherlock looks back impassively.

"Sherlock, you have another package to open." Mycroft sits at the end of the table in the same chair as previous.

Sally Donovan hands the white envelope to Lestrade, who hands it to Sherlock. Sherlock stares at the envelope. It is one of those DVD holders with the clear plastic windows. There is a neatly printed label on it. The label simply reads Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock hands it back to Lestrade, who opens his laptop computer.

Sally goes around to the side of the table and sets the shopping bag down. She looks at Sherlock.

"Sherlock – I brought these in today to return to John. I – I thought you might want to take them home with you later."

Sherlock looks at her and then back at Lestrade, who is examines the disc in his hand. He glances back at Sally, while sitting back down to Lestrade's right.

She sighs. "It's the original James Bond paperbacks John leant me a few months back. We were going to meet for lunch this week and I was going to return them to him. After the incident today, well, I don't know if there is any information you can get from these? " She picks up the bag and sits it behind her on the credenza.

Sherlock frowns at the shopping bag, then turns back to Lestrade. Lestrade has opened his laptop and at a curt nod from Sherlock, slips the disc into the slot.  He clicks Play.

He turns the laptop around and Sherlock leans in. Mycroft stands to come around the side of the table where he, too, can view the recording.

The scene on the disc is achingly clear. Someone lies on an operating table. From the sandy, spiky hair, it is evident that it is John Watson lying there, unconscious.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. His eyes dart around the scene, looking for any clue, anything he can deduce as to John's location, his whereabouts. There is nothing. Nothing.

He sees three people in white surgical gowns who appear to be operating on John’s leg --  removing the bullet?

Sherlock shudders with relief.  John can survive a shot to the leg.  He's done it before. Unless - He is instantly furious with himself for being even halfway relieved about a leg wound...but still...he had been imagining a bullet in the chest or -

Thedoctor working on John keeps nervously looking up at the camera. His hands shake slightly as he stitches up the god-awful wound in John's thigh. Sherlock realizes it is the same leg that bears the scar from the firefight in Afghanistan. His stomach rebels at the thought of John's torment.

"John … John," he thinks. "Please..."

Sherlock winces at the blood on John's form, the blood on the sheet that partially covers him, the blood on the table and the hands of the doctors and nurses – and he uses the terms loosely. Sherlock cannot remember when he has seen so much blood in one place.

John's blood.

The small counter in the lower right-hand corner of the recording begins to fast forward. The medical personnel hover around John, doing things. Their forms speed up. Eventually, they are done with what they are doing and go out of frame. The counter slows, showing that over three hours have passed.

Sherlock's hands curl into fists. His entire attention is focused on the scene playing out in front of him. Mycroft watches him thoughtfully.

Despite the surgery, John's unconscious form is lifted from the table by two white-coated men, and then manhandled into a metal chair of some sort, the bandages on his thigh obvious through a surgical gown that is already soaked through with blood. His head lolls. His wrists and ankles are secured to the chair by what looks to be zip ties.

And then James Moriarty comes into view. He stands by while the ‘doctor’ prepares a syringe, and walks up to John Watson's limp form. Sherlock wills John to wake up, strike out. Anything but just hang there in his restraints, looking mostly dead.

Sherlock's eyes narrow when the needle enters John's neck. He literally shakes with fury.

Moriarty stands over John, reaches out a hand to brush John's sweaty hair back from his forehead. He leans over, whispers something into John's ear, glances up at the camera, then bends back down and actually kisses John on the lips, on the cheek and in the corners of his mouth.

Sherlock shudders and -almost - closes his eyes. He is going to kill that man and kill him slowly and make certain Moriarty is in great pain when it happens.

Moriarty pats John on the head one more time, then walks out of frame, hands in pockets of his immaculate suit.

And then the unthinkable happens. A man dressed in jeans, shirt and military style jacket comes to stand in front of John.

Sherlock's breathing becomes more shallow and he feels his stomach give a long, slow lurch. The man is holding something half hidden by his side. He glances up at the camera –  Sebastian Moran.

Sherlock rises from his chair. Lestrade turns to stare at him – and winces at what he sees in Sherlock's eyes.

On the video, Moran stands a moment in front of John's unconscious figure, then looks directly into the camera.

"Holmes, you probably know that John Boy and I here, go way back."

He stops talking, steps up to John and nudges him with one hand. John's head lolls to the side, then rolls back. Sherlock's eyes narrow.

Moran looks back at the camera again. "I said if I ever had Watson in my hands, I'd pay him back for a few things, including that time he damn near broke my jaw. No time like the present, hmm?"

Moran steps back, and swings what looks like a narrow rod of some sort against John's more or less exposed chest.

Sherlock's hands grip the table edge as he leans forward, and stares at the tiny figure of John…his John. He feels the blood rush into his head and has never wanted to kill anyone with his bare hands more than he wants to kill Sebastian Moran.

Moran swings the rod again -- this time over John's ribs, close to his heart.

There is a sickening sound on the video – and another one from the back of the room as Anderson is gloriously, enthusiastically sick into the waste bin.

Lestrade's eyes close in horror. Sally Donovan's eyes widen, and she goes rigid as her stomach lurches and her hands clench into claws at her side.

On his feet now, Sherlock shouts obscenities, as he literally screams at the video. He is totally unaware that Mycroft stands directly behind him.  Mycroft grips his brother’s shoulders with grim intensity.

Moran turns to stare directly into the camera. And winks. He tosses the rod to the floor where it bounces with a metallic clang.

"Paybacks are just plain hell, aren't they Holmes?"

Moran goes out of frame.

John's head begins to rock back and forth and his fists clench as he enters delirium, undoubtedly in pain from the broken ribs—and whatever was in the injection. Moriarty's new designer drug? He thrashes, shouts, as Sherlock vibrates with frustration.

Sherlock cannot make out what John is shouting at first, but then his voice rings out, gaining strength  - and Sherlock's eyes shut in horror and a sickness of the soul born in desperation.

John's voice is hoarse, ragged. Sherlock barely recognizes it.

"Dear G - Please don't'…not again…please, if you're there…hear me…HEAR ME….PLEASE….Sherlock…SHERLOCK !"

Everyone in the room can hear every word.

It is only Mycroft's grip on his brother's thin frame that keeps Sherlock from falling. Great shudders begin to rack the detective’s body. Slowly, slowly, Sherlock collapses into the chair and Mycroft allows it, but he keeps his hands on him still. Sherlock Holmes lowers his head into his hands as he listens to his partner's voice -- and silently prays for the cries to stop.

He has never felt more useless in his life, or more filled with desolation.

On the video, John Watson begins to scream.

The ragged cries go through Sherlock's system straight into his spine. He feels he is going to be sick right there on the desk. He no longer bothers to strain against Mycroft's rigid embrace. In fact, his brother's hands are the only thing keeping him from utter collapse.

All Lestrade can do is look on in sympathy and horror.

The video goes white…and James Moriarty's voice rings out.

Sherlock, who is half expecting it, keeps his eyes closed, wincing at the weird cadence. Mycroft, his hands still gripping Sherlock, listens with narrowed gaze. Sally has her hand over her mouth and Anderson, still in the back of the room, is so sick to his stomach he doesn't notice.

Lestrade looks bloodless.

Sherlock, you have done me a great favor. I could not have bought any better advertising for my new form of entertainment. Embarrassingly, I find myself indebted to you for making my marketing campaign for a certain new drug an extremely successful one.

And I always pay my debts.

Therefore, despite the fact that I have taken your favorite pet away from you and have every intention of taking him apart, atom by atom and fucking his brain stupid and despite the fact that ruining John Watson remains at the top of my TO DO list, I have decided to let Johnny Boy live…. with a broken body and a broken mind …and do you know why Sherlock, m’dear? Because I want you to have the evidence of your ultimate failure with you for the rest of your fucking' EXISTENCE!

I want you to look at your pathetic excuse for a lover every day for the remainder of your life … and know you are the reason this has happened to our Johnny Boy.

Therefore, I will return John to you quite, quite soon, I promise – although a little the worse for wear. Never fear, my dear, I promise to send you regular progress reports on our dear Doctor Watson.

Ciao, Sherlock !

OooOooO

Sherlock's hands clench into fists at his side and his slim body shakes with undisguised fury – and despair.

His brother is wired so tight, Mycroft wonders how Sherlock manages to remain upright.

After a few moments, Lestrade closes the lid on his laptop and sits heavily in his chair.

Sally and Anderson glance at Lestrade, then leave the room. Neither of them looks at Sherlock.

Mycroft finally releases his brother's form and straightens. Without looking at or speaking with Lestrade or Sherlock, Mycroft walks out of the room. He will wait for his brother in the outside hallway.

Sherlock Holmes lifts his head and stares around him.

There is a look on his face that Greg Lestrade hopes to never see on another human being in his entire life.

Sherlock does not speak but stands and walks around the conference table. He ignores Lestrade, ignores the bag with John's books that Sally has left there for him. Ignores his brother who stands in the outer hallway.

"Sherlock." Mycroft calls to his brother, who doesn't even flinch at his voice as he leaves New Scotland Yard and walks out into the frigid night air, his neck hunched down into his scarf and his hands buried in his coat pockets.

Mycroft takes out his mobile, sends a hurried text. His black limousine and driver are waiting for him outside NSY when he walks out the front door. He glances up and down the street. There is no sign of Sherlock.

After walking nearly a mile in the intense cold, Sherlock stops and buys several packs of cigarettes.

By the time he nears Baker Street, he has chain-smoked nearly half of them.

It is the first crack in his defenses.

OooOooO

 

Chapter 11: BIND

Notes:

To have such a vise-like grip on a position that useful moves are difficult for the opponent to find.

OooOooO

John wakes slowly. For some time, he has been aware that he is under the influence of some very good drugs as nothing much hurts.  Amend that. Many things seem to hurt a very great deal, as the doctor part of his brain tells him he has some rather serious injuries. But he is also aware that the pain is, for the moment, muted, which is nice. Very nice indeed. He must thank whoever gave him the lovely drugs, if only he can remember how to open his eyes or to speak.

For the time being, however, he keeps his eyes closed, as he is confused about where he is and what has happened to him.

He can remember talking to someone ... something about dinner later. Did they have dinner together? John thinks probably not. He would have remembered going out to dinner, he thinks, as he doesn't do it that very often as – someone who doesn't always like to eat, but makes certain that John eats.  And who is that exactly?

John's mind balks for a few moments but he is a doctor and well aware the brain can provide rather muddled memories following an injury, so he does not fixate on what he supposes to be a temporary mental confusion. He lets the idea of dinner go and attempts to concentrate on the physical.

He slowly shifts his awareness to his body and tries to ascertain what hurts and what doesn't. At the moment, there doesn't seem to be much that doesn't hurt, but again, really excellent drugs, so it's all fine.

John attempts to move around just a little and is pleasantly surprised to find he is not under restraint. Another plus, he thinks.

Why not being under restraint is a good thing, he is not entirely certain. A fellow doesn't really expect to wake up restrained but he seems to remember that this has often been the case – the waking up under restraint bit while at the same time being injured in some fashion. So being able to shift around a little is also very pleasant.

He can't move far as there seems to be bandages - rather tight ones - around his upper leg. He wonders if his old wound has been reopened somehow. And if so, how did it happen exactly?

John really wishes he could remember – anything at this point would be helpful. He tries to picture what led to him lying on a rather soft, comfortable surface – hospital bed? No, much more comfortable than that and besides, he doesn't hear the rather annoying whish of intubation or the steady beep beep of a heart monitor and other machinery.

And since when did "annoying whish" and "beep beep" become precise medical terms ... let that one go too.

The silence that surrounds him tells John he is alone. He wonders if something has happened to his hearing as the silence is quickly becoming oppressive.

He wants to say something – anything at this point would be a bonus - but he can't seem to get his vocal cords to work. His throat is extremely sore and he seems to remember shouting at someone.

John mentally sighs and tries to clear his memory a little faster; he begins to breath in and out, very slowly, to the count of three. He at first tries the count of five, then four, but due to some discomfort in his lungs, and yes, there is some pain there, thank you, he is unable to take very deep breaths, so to the count of three it is.

After a minute or two of IN…one, two, three and OUT, one, two three, his mind feels a little bit clearer. So next he tries wiggling his toes, moving his feet.

Yup, all ten toes appear to be there and he is able to wiggle them, and also move his feet and ankles. There is a familiar tightness around his lower legs – compression socks. Okay, hospital it is then but with none of the usual hospital sounds and background noises. He appears to be wearing a hospital gown but can't get too involved in that either.

He hates hospital gowns – would far rather be naked – or wearing his jim jams - and that little thought threatens to give him a case of the giggles, which he thinks would be a bit not good for his ribs.

John feels clean and - nearly - comfortable ...so close to comfortable that it's all fine ... and wonders if someone has given him a bath. He must remember to thank them for that, as well. He hates being sweaty – most of the time. Seems to remember that he was very sweaty and uncomfortable for a while but decides that thought is unimportant.

John wonders if he is in a private room.

If so, does he have Mycroft to thank for the expensive gift of blessed silence – no roommate to keep telly on all night when all you want to do is sleep or keep him awake shouting down the phone at – someone?

And who the hell is Mycroft?

Toes wiggle. Excellent. Feet and ankles move. Very good. Compression socks, irritating, but probably medically necessary. When he gets to his upper legs, though, he tries to move his legs - and stops.

Pain. Okay, left leg hurts and when the drugs wear off that is going to hurt alot.  Bandaging around his left thigh, accompanied by a horrid burning sensation. Okay, leave that. Try the other leg. So far, so good. Various muscle aches and pains but he seems to have some mobility.

Actually, it's all fine as I don't seem to have a cursed Foley in ...

… Oh ...

... Right ...

... Damn...

And -- DAMN all over again. And bloody stinking hell !

Eyes closed, John curses to the pits of Hades whoever put in the catheter, but he keeps up the deep breathing and moves his awareness up past his waist and  ever so slowly into his chest.

Bad idea. Really, truly terrible idea.

His breath catches momentarily, he gasps, then goes back to shallow breathing, and abandons the slow In and Out to a count of three.

Pain. Ribs broken…make that re-broken. He thinks maybe the C4 and C5…Hard to tell. Damn, same ones he broke last year. Another breath in.  Yup. At least two cracked. Shite. Are those ever going to heal? Did he and Sherlock have a run-in with— Sherlock .

Oh my God – Sherlock !

If this is hospital, then some elegant long fingers should be brushing through his hair just about now or some rather amazing lips kissing his forehead … unless Sherlock isn't there, in which case, where is he?

Could Sherlock be – was Sherlock injured too?

At that thought, John opens his eyes.

The light is subdued. However, what light there is seems to be trying to bore its way through his brain, so he blinks once or twice and quickly takes as much notice of his surroundings as he is able. He sees a ceiling above him, pale green, which seems to fit with a hospital.  And some light source to his left.

And – in the upper far corner – the distinct red eye of a surveillance camera.

He tries valiantly, but can not move his head in either direction. The attempt magnifies the growing pain in his head. He shuts his eyes quickly.

He is not in any type of hospital room he can think of. Private clinic? Somewhere with a very deep, comfortable mattress. So, no ordinary hospital as there is no soft adjustment under him as he shifts around, no slow movement of your typical hospital bed as it inflates, deflates. No inflation at all.

He is warm, clean, fairly comfortable, seems to have his ribs and thigh bandaged. He moves his neck experimentally – little pain there on the right side, nothing major. And the beginnings of a rather spectacular headache.

He is, inexplicably, hungry. 

So … Right. Obviously that dinner date with Sherlock did not happen. And just why didn't they go to dinner?

John tries to remember.  Sherlock, dinner, clinic. But it's all a blank.

The doctor part of his brain kicks in and tells him not to worry about it so much. He will get his short term memory back soon. Perhaps. Hopefully.

Highly probable, at any rate.

In the meanwhile, he is under the influence of some really good drugs and he thinks he might just go back to sleep for a while and let his subconscious work on those pesky problems.

I should be worried about Sherlock, but –

He feels himself being pulled back under before he can finish that thought.

John falls back to sleep as if he were falling off a cliff. And he doesn't much care either.

OooOooO

Greg Lestrade turns over in bed, grabs his mobile off the bedside table, glances at it and swears for the fifth time in a few minutes. Sherlock has sent him eight texts in less than two minutes, each one a request – no, make that a demand for information – but has not given him any time to respond.

Damn it all to hell. He is going to throw the bloody thing into the toilet if he can't get some much needed sleep.

Where was brown envl containing dog tags found?

Have address but need exact location of envl.

Lying on ground? Desk? Countertop in

Abandoned building? Exactly where?

SH

Who delivered disc? Courier Service? If so, was courier detained?

Who ordered courier – where did they pick up? Name? Contact?

Shouldn't you be asking these questions, Lestrade?

SH

Ask Donovan when John lent her James Bond novels.

Could be important. How did JM know John liked Bond books?

WHEN did he lend them and under WHAT circumstances?

Did they have lunch? If so, where? Café? Fast food?

Obviously somewhere that CCTV could record their meeting

and see John exchange books with Donovan.

WHEN / WHERE DAMNIT?

SH

Did ballistics confirm bullet in doorframe from John's gun?

Labs come back to confirm blood is Watson's?

NEVER assume.

SH

At what point did ambulance disappear from CCTV tapes?

What street, cross street? How fast was it traveling?

Am coming in later to view tapes you referenced.

SH

Who contacted ambulance co. to determine how JM

Obtained the uniforms? Jackets?

Damn it, WHY am I doing YOUR job?

SH

Need name, address of flat mate of third victim.

Please arrange meeting for later this morning. NOW, LESTRADE.

SH

WHY AM I DOING YOUR BLOODY JOB ?

SH

OooOooO

Sherlock lies on the sofa at 221B Baker street. He is smoking, lighting each new cigarette from the previous one. On the carpet beside him are two empty bean cans, both nearly fill to the brim with cigarette butts and ash. He doesn't know what Mrs. Hudson will think of him smoking in their flat and doesn't care.

He stares at the ceiling and waits for Lestrade to get off his arse to answer his texts.

Sherlock cannot believe that he let himself use nicotine patches for so long … let himself forget the incredible edge that cigarettes give him. He feels far more focused, more aware. More awake.

John would not approve of his smoking and would bin the whole lot. And of course, all those bloody stupid laws that keep a person from smoking in their own houses or flats!

He doesn't give a damn if John would approve or not. He's keeping the cigarettes. If a certain Army doctor gets in a strop about his smoking, he can bloody well bring his arse home to do something about it then. Now.

Sherlock is itching for a fight. Lestrade interfered earlier etween him and his brother.  Sherlock is full up now and would gladly deck Mycroft, Lestrade, anyone.  Hell, he'd have a go at Sally Donovan if he thought he could get away with it.

Bit not good. John would not approve of that thought, either.

Damn John Watson anyway. Delete that.

John – Please.

Sherlock pulls the blessed smoke into his lungs with a long, slow inhalation, then holds it before letting it go. He initially thought of reaching for something stronger but his mental image of John's face chases those thoughts out of his consciousness immediately. So that's something, he supposes. Still, the thought lingers. But he would not be any good to John in that condition, so he pushes it to the back of his mind. Until -

Sherlock raises up momentarily, lights another cigarette and lies back down, goes back to staring at the ceiling.

He thinks of the way John looked on the video -- as if his strings were all cut. As if he was nearly dead…before the screaming began. Delete that – No.  Do not delete that memory. Remember screaming. Use it to help you focus.

Something niggles at Sherlock's consciousness. He pulls in smoke from the very end of the cigarette, then reaches down to drop it on top of dozens of others. Hopefully, he will not set fire to the carpet this time.

He brings his hands together under his chin in his favorite thinking pose. He cannot remember a time, ever, when he has had zero clues to go on. The sheer magnitude of John's disappearance has him so on edge he basically vibrates with frustration.

Sherlock sits up abruptly, swings his legs to the ground and tears through his hair with both hands.

He needs to think. The cigarettes have helped. But now there is a buzzing sound which hovers around his head and ears. He cannot remember the last time he slept. Or ate. Sherlock realized his body is about to betray him.  Already he can feel the fuzziness around the edges, the slight lack of ability to concentrate – which speaks of too little food and not enough sleep – make that no sleep and no food at all since the day before John was taken.

And when was that exactly?

Idiot – two days ago, no, not quite two days. John was taken in the afternoon, this is the very early morning of the – second day after? Yes, that's right. So John Watson has been in Moriarty's hands for not quite two days. Been operated on. Had ribs deliberately broken, cracked. Been injected with Moriarty's drug. No – wait.  Never assume.  Still … all the evidence points that way. But the other three victims died from that drug.

The dose can be changed and it does not make any sense to kill John Watson when Moriarty has made it achingly clear that he has a game on, that he will hurt John and torture John and -  No. Stop thinking along those lines, you fool.

This is not helping John.

Sherlock wonders if John is alive – still - or if he's dead and if so, would Moriarty bother to gloat or would he just dump the body – JOHN'S BODY - in a skip and send a message – Delete.  Delete!

Wild-eyed, Sherlock stands to go to kitchen to find something to eat. Anything to stoke the furnace and to enable him to keep going. But the annoying dizziness assails him again and instead, he changes course for the bedroom down the hall. Once inside, he flops down on the bed - their bed - and closes his eyes.

“I will allow one hour. One hour. That's all I can spare if I am going to save John.”

Save? He doesn't even know how to find him – yet.

But he has a very good idea of how to ask Jim to come out and play. After all, it worked before. It should work again.

As soon as he sleeps these sixty minutes, clears his mind, rests his brain, gives his body some food, he will implement that plan. By that time, Lestrade should have all the answers to his questions, as well.

As he allows his consciousness to slowly recede, Sherlock ticks off items on a mental agenda, putting the X's in neat little boxes. It helps him focus.

Get answers to his questions from Lestrade. Tick.

Find Moriarty. Cause him as much pain as possible and kill him. Tick.

After all, he now has a badly wounded man on his hands. Someone has to take care of John, if only to keep him alive a bit longer. Jim does not like getting his hands dirty. And somehow, he cannot see Moran doing it. Therefore, Moriarty has people around him, people working for him.  Good. The more people the better. The more people means more chances for a slip-up, for mistakes. 

Find Sebastian Moran. Kill the sod. Tick.

Find John and bring John back home.  Tick.

Sherlock pulls up the memory of John, slumped in the hideous chair, his fists clenching and unclenching, even in his nightmare. His John was in there somewhere. His John was aware that something was happening to him, and was readying himself to fight.  Good. They are going to need all the help, provided he can convince Moriarty to come out and play.

Sherlock shuts his eyes to sleep.

As he goes under, he allows himself one sentimental thought – one thought not born of logic or cold deduction, one thought aimed straight at his chosen partner in life.

"God damn you, John Watson, you will not give up. Stay with me, John. I am coming for you.”

Five minutes later, his mobile begins to beep with answers to his texts.

Sherlock is finally sleep.

He lets it beep.

OooOooO

 

Chapter 12: ANALYSIS

Notes:

Calculation of possible moves and variations for a position.

OooOooO

Day 3 – 7:00 am

John has been awake for some time.

He remembers everything.

He sits on the bed, back against the wall, left leg extended outward, right leg pulled up. He stares at the door.  And waits.

John clenches and unclenches his fists, as he tries to keep circulation going in his hands and arms. He keeps his shoulders back against the wall in order to keep his lungs as open as possible, as frankly, it hurts to breathe past the pain of the broken ribs. He tries to ignore the burning pain in his leg, the bandages with their slight tint of red, which hide the horrid line of stitching along his thigh (yes, he looked.)  He tries to ignore the myriad, rather incredible aches and pains in his body, and the headache which has long since surpassed merely annoying and entered into the realm of migraine.

Despite the subdued lighting, he tries to keep his eyes narrowed against the light. It seems to help with the pain in his head.

John has had headaches before, nothing chronic. He is a damn good doctor, however, and he definitely recognizes headache brought on by the administering of drugs – and of something else.

He has been sitting there for some time, thinking over events, piecing together the timeline in his mind. After only a few minutes of this, he comes to the conclusion that Moriarty has used his new drug on him, with rather sickening and frankly terrifying results.

He wonders, not for the first time, why he is still alive.

Not only alive, but awake and aware and itching for a fight.

John looks at the door and wills it to open.  At the same time, he is pprehensive that it will open and that he will see … what he will see.

He has been sitting there, waiting, for quite a while, an hour at least. John cannot be certain but he believes it to be in the early evening. He has no way of verifying this. But it feels right.

They took his watch away so he does not know the date or time. John briefly mourns the loss of his watch as it was a gift from Sherlock on the anniversary of the first time they – well, best not to think about that too much.

He soon resents the loss of his watch for an entirely different reason. He does not know the time, the day, the date, hence he cannot even begin to guess how long he has been held in this room. There are no windows either, so he has no visual clues from the outside world.  There is absolutely nothing that will give him any indication how long he has been held captive.

All he can do is guess.

John woke to the same pale green ceiling he has seen before, the same pale green walls, the same rather strange lighting, which appears to be coming from behind the baseboards at floor level, as well as downward from the ceiling.

He lies in a rather comfortable bed. His captors have left him a pillow, sheets, a duvet, one small bedside table and that is it.

The table has a single drawer and it is empty. There is no bedside lamp; they have not made the mistake of leaving him a cord he can wrap around a certain madman's throat – wrap and pull until his beady eyes bulge out. Nope. No lamp. Pity, that.

There is a carafe of what looks to be water and a single cup sitting on the table. Nothing else.

At least the damned catheter is out. Apparently, someone realized he is coming out from under the influence of whatever they injected him with and deemed the usual accoutrements of a hospital stay no longer necessary. At this thought, John briefly presses his fingers over the pulse in his wrist and finds his heartbeat to be a bit too fast, but still strong.

The compression socks are also gone. But the marks from the too-tight tops are still visible around his knees. So they can't have been removed too long ago. When he shifts, in addition to the incredible burning pain in his thigh, and the increasing agony surrounding his rib cage, both of which are becoming more and more pronounced as the pain meds wear off, he feels the burning and itching where the catheter had been inserted.

Frankly, it hurts to pee.

That he can pee is a bonus, he supposes. There is a small loo to his left, and after two attempts to get on his feet, John finally manages to stand and limp in under his own steam. He leans against the doorway, keeping his right arm wrapped around his rib cage and stares. He is surprised to find a rather luxurious shower, outfitted with recesses which hold soap, shampoo and the usual bathing necessities. There are expensive towels – white – and flannels.

There is even a toothbrush and toothpaste.

John leans against the sink, panting against the pain in his leg, and tries to catch a deep breath. More and more it is becoming impossible. He stares at the toothpaste for some time before deciding against it. He is aware that all kinds of things can be mixed into toothpaste and he supposes he is being paranoid but his actions have been so – stupid – for so long, he is determined not to make another mistake. But he rather wishes he could brush his teeth.

Finally, he uses the toothbrush, bypasses the tube of paste, and uses the bath soap to clean his teeth. The taste is strange but at least he feels a little better. And he is able to rinse out his mouth with cup after cup of water so that is something, as well.

He has no idea what he looks like. He would like to get a look at the skin over the broken ribs (how did that happen? – he has no idea) and at his pupils to gauge the amount of drugs still left in his system but it is impossible to do so as there is no mirror on the wall.

John supposes his captors to imagine that he is desperate enough to smash the glass and use the bits to cut the throat of whoever eventually comes through the door.  Or possibly, cut his own throat, if it comes down to that.

They aren't far wrong either.

So – no mirror. He does have, however, a fully functioning toilet, a rather nice shower, working, as John tries the taps immediately.

He needs to know what he has to work with. And it isn't much. He is grateful for the gift of water, however.

Frankly, he will die and his bones will rot before he drinks whatever is in the carafe sitting to his left on the small bedside table.

He guesses it to be water. But it could also be any number of things or hold any number of drugs, so the first thing he does when he is able, is to rinse out the cup a half dozen times and uses it to drink water straight from the taps. He then pours whatever is in the carafe down the toilet and flushes it away. The carafe is cheap plastic, not glass, so no help there of obtaining a cutting edge.

He sits on the bed and thinks about what has happened to him and winces with the sheer stupidity of his actions. He wonders when he stopped being a soldier first and settled for being a doctor – and live-in companion to the world's only consulting detective.

John decides not to waste time on his past actions and instead concentrates on his actions to come.

He is achingly aware that he is at a total disadvantage and that he cannot expect to overpower anyone in his current physical condition. He tries not to think about his mental and emotional condition.

John knows he has been shot but has no clear idea of who shot him. He remembers seeing Moriarty sitting on the floor, grinning at him. And then the muzzle flash - an instant of incredible pain – the sensation of being lifted – and that is it.

Also, he does not know how his ribs were broken and wonders if this were deliberate. Did he struggle madly after being shot?  Did he manage to re-break them during the God-awful hallucinations he experienced?  He has treated patients before with injuries sustained during drug overdoses and is aware that such injuries can and do occur and that it is possible this has occurred in his case, since his ribs had not fully healed from the Pool incident months back.

Try as he might, he cannot remember what happened to him after he was shot. He thinks back and can remember hearing the blast – twin blasts, as he fired at nearly the exact same time – and again, he was dimly aware of his body being lifted. And that was it before the hallucinations, the nightmares and the excruciating pain pouring into every muscle and shredding every nerve-ending in his body.

Not for the first time, John is intensely grateful that the human body does not remember pain.

John knows he was burning from the inside out. He remembers shouting – at Moriarty, at everyone and anyone who would listen. He remembers, or seems to, that he was pleading with someone to make the agony disappear – to make it stop.

John is a doctor and he does not judge himself harshly for the pleading. He is well aware that the human body can only hold so much pain – the nerve endings can only endure so much for so long – before a person will do anything, say anything, promise anything just to make it all go away.

So he lets those memories go, for the time being, and prowls around his small prison, limping and holding onto his side, looking for anything that can help his situation.

There is absolutely nothing in the room he can use as a weapon against whoever eventually comes through the door, other than his bare hands and he knows that is ridiculous in his current condition. His leg hurts like hell; he is limping badly and the very act of breathing is becoming more and more difficult. He frankly can't imagine being able to stand again any time soon.

And his head -

He cannot fathom why Moriarty has kept him alive – let alone why he had his pet doctor operate on his leg. John cannot tell from the line of stitches if the bullet was lodged in his leg, but he rather thinks not. He shifts his leg slightly – again – and believes that the bullet passed through muscle, without striking the bone, for which he is incredibly grateful. He does not think he would have much mobility at all if the bullet had lodged in his upper leg. But the only frame of reference he has is the unbelievable pain and torment he experienced after he was shot in Afghanistan.

He is grateful to whoever stitched him up, nomatter what their intentions were. He cannot see any sign of infection along the stitching, so far, and believes he must have been given the usual antibiotics, in addition to pain medications and – eventually - Moriarty's filthy damned drug.

John simply cannot understand why James Moriarty would go to the trouble of having him shot, carry him out the door of the surgery literally under the nose of dozens and dozens of late afternoon commuters – and then go to the trouble of repairing his leg. None of this makes sense. Again, he wishes he knew how his ribs were re-broken.

Then he notes the bruising from an IV port in his left hand again and he dimly begins to understand.

He guesses he was not supposed to be shot but rendered unconscious in some fashion, taken out on the stretcher, and that the entire traffic accident was staged, resulting in real injuries, but staged nonetheless. Therefore, someone, at some point, shot him rather than follow the original plan.

For some reason, Moriarty wants him alive and in as good a condition as possible. It is the only explanation that appears to fit the facts at hand - the bandages around his thigh and ribs, the comfortable bed, and the attempt at keeping him immobilized while the drugs run their course through his system.

John thinks - no, he is certain - that this all has to do with Moriarty getting back at Sherlock in some fashion. This has all been staged and he is the sacrificial goat. He does not dwell on this for too long, however, as it just makes everything worse. He cannot possibly help Sherlock in his condition. He has no idea where his Browning is but dimly guesses it is in the hands of the shooter.

John supposes he should be grateful for little things. His captors have not denied him water or the basics of sanitation. He can lie down, sleep, use the loo, shower if he wishes.

At some time in the proceedings they have even fed him.

John knows this to be the case because once he is able to stand and walk, the dizziness and nausea overcome him and he finds himself bending over the toilet, vomiting his guts up. The uncontrolled retching further hurts his ribs and he gasps against the pain, trying to keep the bandages as tight as possible with his right arm wrapped around his middle.

He stares at the mess in the toilet and recognizes it for the remains of an intravenous feeding. The second time John throws up, he stares at green bile – tinged with red. He winces at the sight before flushing it away.

He immediately drinks more water from the taps, trying to stay hydrated. His stomach protests at it but he manages to keep the water down.

John sits on the bed now, watches the door, and tries not to think of the blood in the stomach contents that he has just flushed down the toilet.

He supposes his stomach aches but it is no worse than his other aches and pains so he tries to dismiss it. Right now, the agonizing thump in his head is occupying most of his attention. That and just trying to breathe properly.

As he sits there, he twists his left hand slightly and contemplates the bruising he noted before.  The port was still in his left hand, but taped down, when he awoke. After looking at it for some time, John calmly and dispassionately pulled the damned thing out from under his skin and tossed it into the bin by the bedside. He then used wadded up bath tissue to stem the bleeding from the IV, tossing that into the bin once the bleeding stopped.

He supposes if Moriarty wants the thing in, then someone will have to hold him down and re-insert it. Frankly, John intends on making things as difficult for them as possible.

That he can easily be subdued while someone reinserts the IV, he is very well aware. Still –

John explores every inch of his prison.  It takes him less than ten minutes. There isn't much to look at or examine. But – again – he needs to know what he has to work with. The bed is just that. A rather comfortable mattress, one of those that dip and conforms to his body weight as he shifts. One fitted and one flat sheet – white. One duvet – dark blue. Unremarkable but warm. One pillow and pillow casing.

He does try to pull the bed away from the wall but the frame appears to be bolted down. The condition of his leg and ribs should keep him from dropping to the floor to check under the bed, but he does it anyway. Nothing. Just more floor. But this simple action costs him and now his leg throbs horribly and has begun to bleed again, as well. And breathing has become an issue.

John woke to find the hated hospital gown gone. He is dressed in a simple white tee shirt and boxer shorts. There is a pair of plain grey flannel pajama bottoms draped over the end of the bed and a pair of slippers on the floor. He ignores the slippers and the pajamas as he pads around his prison, examining it from all angles, before realizing there is nothing more to be seen.

He can't even attempt to remove the hinges on the door as they are on the outside. The door knob is just that – an ordinary door knob. But since he has no Swiss army knife – no screwdriver, nothing with which to attempt to remove the screws that attach the knob, he gives it up as a lost cause and sits down on the bed, his back against the wall.

And waits.

It is obvious to him that he has been bathed sometime in the last few hours of his captivity. He supposes that is something. They could just as well have left him sweaty, covered in his own blood. Why "they" have chosen not to do so, escapes him. But he appreciates the gift of cleanliness as it means he does not use any of his precious time cleaning himself up.

Instead, he can now use his precious time sitting here, on this sodding bed, waiting for someone to come through the sodding door.

John looks around the room and again realizes there is something slightly – off – about it. For one thing, it is a little larger than an ordinary bedroom. More like a hotel room. No, that's not it. But something just doesn't feel right. It's almost as if the bed, the table, and the loo itself were installed after the room was put into place. As if the room was originally meant to serve another purpose entirely.

Also, there is the lighting. It is low and cool and comes upward from the baseboards and downward from the crown molding in the ceiling.

There is the total lack of a window. The door appears nearly to be an afterthought. And it is wider than the average doorway. He can see that from where he sits. He has already walked up to it, ran his fingers along the door cracks, then stood back, narrowing his eyes against the outline, in an attempt to gauge the width of the thing.

Something is definitely off. It niggles at his consciousness and he thinks he has been in a similar type of room before but he can't remember under what circumstances or when.

Finally, he pads back to the bed, as there is nothing else in the room to sit on.

John sits on the bed, eases his legs back up onto the mattress and leans back against the wall.  He tries not to notice how blood slowly seeps into the once white bandages around his upper thigh. And how it is becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.  The lack of oxygen begins to make him a bit dizzy.

Since he has nothing else to do, he goes over all of the events in his mind again. And again. And finally comes to a conclusion, the only one possible.

Therefore, John is not even surprised when the door finally opens – and Sebastian Moran walks into the room.

OooOooO

Chapter 13: BLOCKADE

Notes:

A strategic placement of a minor piece directly in front of an enemy pawn, where it restrains the pawn's advance and gains shelter from attack. Blockading pieces are often over-protected.

 

OooOooO

Sherlock stands in front of Lestrade's desk and looks at the D.I.

"You said puzzle."

Lestrade looks up from a report. "What?"

Sherlock leans over Lestrade's desk and looks the Detective Inspector in the eye.

"When you texted me – and John - you said "Possible new designer drug. But there's a puzzle. Can you come? Bring John?"

The detective looks at Lestrade, eyes narrowed. "What puzzle?"

Lestrade frowns slightly, remembering.

"Right. We need to get Perkins in here."

He pushes a button on his desk, asks that Dr. Perkins meet him in his office immediately.

At Sherlock's unspoken question, Lestrade shrugs.  "Chemist."

While they wait, Lestrade watches Sherlock as the detective begins to pace around the office, fiddling with something in his pocket. He finally brings his gloved hand out.  There is a pack of cigarettes in it.

Lestrade frowns, coughs slightly.

Sherlock snorts and drops the cigarettes back into his coat pocket. He resumes his pacing.

"This isn't just nervous energy," thinks Lestrade. This is something else.

Increasingly, Lestrade is seeing the Sherlock Holmes he knew before John Watson entered his life.

And he doesn't like what he sees.

If he didn't know better, he'd think Sherlock had already reached for something stronger. But Lestrade knows the signs and doesn't see them in the man pacing in front of him – yet.

Lestrade frowns. The last thing he wants to do is run Sherlock Holmes in for possession. He momentarily shuts his eyes to dispel that scenario.

Lestrade has no doubt Sherlock has thought about it. He can see it in his hunched shoulders, in the pent-up energy, in the distracted, heart-breaking way Sherlock constantly looks around, as if searching for someone who is normally found slightly behind him, to his immediate left.

God, when did everything get shot to hell?

But this near total exhaustion – he wonders when Sherlock last ate or slept more than an hour at a time. If John were here –

"Well, John is not here," thinks Lestrade.

Sherlock continues to pace and the D.I., concerned, watches him with narrowed eyes.

He only prays that Sherlock finds what he needs in cigarette smoke and doesn't reach for that something stronger.

“If that happens,” Lestrade thinks. “I might not be there this time to – “  He shakes his head angrily.

They have to find John Watson, alive, and they have to find him soon. More than one life is at stake here, Lestrade realizes.

When a rather nondescript man in a white lab coat comes through the door, Lestrade makes the introductions.  Sherlock just nods, impatient to get on with it.

"Dr. Perkins, can you please explain – in as few words as possible, please – the anomaly you discovered when you were attempting to analyze the drug traces found in the bloodstream of the latest victim?"

As he watches the chemist, Sherlock realizes it's been less than four days since he and John stood together over the third overdose victim by the lake. Make that three days and eleven hours.

John – Please.

Perkins clears his throat, glances from Lestrade to Sherlock and back to the D.I., not certain why he was summoned.

"Well, at first we thought we were dealing with a more or less typical overdose, heroin, or more likely, given the young age of the victims, cocaine."

"Yes, yes, get on with it," Sherlock murmurs.

Lestrade raises an eyebrow and silently commands Sherlock to pay attention. Honestly, remove Sherlock from John's influence and the man is starting to revert to his old tendencies, extreme rudeness being the first. Smoking the second.

And the third?

Perkins glances at the pages he has brought with him.

"But then we found out the drug was not one drug, but more of a cocktail of drugs. Basically, it's a hallucinogen, with two rather sinister properties."

He hands the report to Lestrade, who waves it away, indicating he should give it to Sherlock.

Frowning, Perkins hands the pages to Sherlock, who all but snatches them out of his hand.  He quickly peruses the report. Sherlock reads the lab analysis, raises an eyebrow, then reads it over again.

Perkins watches him, clearly puzzled.  He looks at Lestrade, who just shrugs and smiles tiredly.

"Mr. Holmes is a chemist, Dr. Perkins," he says dryly.

And Lestrade reminds himself that he needs to remember, upon occasion, that the brilliant young man in front of him holds not one but the equivalent of three University degrees and that Chemistry and Biology are just two of his fields of study.

Solar system be damned. Sherlock is right, some facts are more important than others.

Lestrade watches Sherlock read, suddenly fascinated with "his" prodigy all over again.

He wishes his realisation were under better circumstances and not for the first time, wonders if it's already too late for John Watson.

Sherlock looks up from reading. He glances around and latches onto Perkins, as if really seeing him for the first time.

"Am I reading this correctly? This – hallucinagen – is laced with different chemicals and one of those can – its major contribution is to exacerbate nerve endings – the pain / pleasure response, rather like a cocaine high. And the third, in regular doses, causes the addiction response?"

Perkins nods, impressed.

"And that's the puzzle?" demands Sherlock.

Perkins hesitates. "Well, not entirely. You see this is a highly expensive concoction. This is not something that your normal street junky, or in this instance, your typical Uni student, can afford. And it's definitely not something that your run of the mill dealer or chemist is going to be able to mix up in his kitchen or the room over his flat."

Sherlock stares at him and narrows his eyes.

"This is a very expensive combination of ingredients. I can only assume it would be marketed to a highly selective clientele. And that's the puzzle. How could three college students get hold of this? "

"Because they were experiments, unfortunately," murmurs Sherlock, glancing back down at the pages in his hand.

Just experiments.

"But all three of them died," protests Perkins. He runs a hand through his thinning hair, looking from the detective to Lestrade.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

He yearns to say, "Yes, and what part of murdering psychopath did you not understand?"

But he doesn't say it.

This young man in front of him comes from a different world than Sherlock and John Watson inhabit. A world of science, of precise data.  A world where things make sense.

He knows nothing of a world where monsters arbitrarily select you out of a crowd of people and end your life, in pain and agony, all for the sake of gathering additional data.

John – Please.

Doctor Perkins takes the report from Sherlock's hands and glances down at it again.

"Well, in small enough doses, this drug would not cause death. Rather spectacular dreams – hallucinations, if you will and yes, addiction – even small amounts of pain. But not death. If the victim is in relatively good health to begin with, that is."

He looks up at Sherlock then at Lestrade, frowns.

"I just don't understand. If you're right about this – "

Sherlock fidgets and nearly lashes out at the fool who is now wasting his time. But he senses Lestrade staring at him and restrains himself.

Sherlock's body language unnoticed, Perkins goes on. "If someone  were experimenting, testing the nature of this drug, then why kill all three victims? Wouldn't they want at least one of them to remain alive – in order to show the addictive nature of the drug – if that is what they were going for?"

Dead silence.

And that is when Sherlock raises his head and looks straight at Greg Lestrade.

Lestrade stares back at him, purses his lips.

Doctor Perkins looks from one man to the other, wondering what it is he's just said.

Lestrade motions that the man can go.

"Dr. Perkins, thank you and I think you've helped us a great deal, more than you know."

Perkins nods and leaves, still a little puzzled. But then he remembers, ah well, that is Sherlock Holmes standing there and if the rumors are true, everyone knows that Holmes is just a  bit cracked.

Sherlock begins to pace again and this time, Lestrade watches him, and remains silent.

"Moriarty had his pet doctor operate on John. They removed the bullet or if it was a clean shot, did repair work, stitched him up. Moriarty needs a test subject for the addictive nature of this drug. His other subjects died. Overdosed. Someone in his organization got careless."

Sherlock paces furiously now, thinking aloud, his hands tracing invisible patterns in the air.

And Lestrade, God help him, is fascinated.

"He needs to prove the – he needs John. Otherwise, why fix John's leg? Why not just let him lie there and bleed to death in the surgery, if the whole point was to just kill John – if the whole point was to get back at me? John would have died of blood loss soon enough. The surgery was closed. Doors locked. I'd already left."

Sherlock pauses, looks over Lestrade's shoulder out the window into the bright day.

He is musing aloud now, Lestrade recognizes. Making the connections.

I might as well not be here. Anyone would do. Even the skull.

"I thought John was right behind me, perhaps an hour at the most. By the time I realized how late he was –"

"John would have most probably bled out on the clinic floor," says Lestrade.

He looks at the detective, who, pointedly, does not look at him.

Sherlock stares out the window, lost now in his imaginings. Lestrade has to bring him back from those thoughts and quickly.

"You're right, Sherlock. Why operate on John? Unless the shooting was random, not meant to happen. But they brought a stretcher. So the intent was to kidnap John. Take him with them. But not to kill him."

Sherlock shudders slightly, so slightly someone else might have missed it. Lestrade however, is fully versed in Sherlock speak and sees the movement.

Sherlock looks down at Lestrade. "Sebastian Moran."

Lestrade’s raised eyebrow and silence begs the question.

Sherlock shrugs, near impatient now. His mind races.

"He and John have a history, if you will. Moran is Moriarty's Lieutenant.  His right-hand man."

As John is to me … but he does not say this out loud.

Not for the first time, Sherlock contemplates what he will do to Moran when – not if - he gets his hands on him.

"Yes, he intended to overpower John in some way – chloroform perhaps?  The other victims were overcome in that way. Overpower him, render him unconscious, and use him as a test subject, all to get back at me. To continue the game."

Sherlock looks off into space, once again perusing the sky outside Lestrade's window.

He says out loud, "And if John turns out to be a satisfactory subject, he can use his reactions to sell this drug to his highest bidder."

The thought makes Sherlock sick to his stomach. His vision suddenly spikes.

John.  Please.

Sherlock winces, but his back is to Lestrade now and Lestrade does not see.

The detective turns from the window toward Lestrade.

"Get Perkins back in here, Greg.”

When the young chemist returns, Sherlock rounds on him with a suddenness that takes Perkins aback.

"You said the ingredients for this cocktail, for want of a better word, are expensive."

Perkins faces the tall man in front of him and wonders where this is going.

"Yes, I did."

Sherlock stares at him if he is a particularly interesting specimen he has under his microscope.

"What if I wanted to purchase those ingredients, how would I go about it? Where would I obtain them? And don't tell me any fool can go on the internet and order this stuff? "

Doctor Perkins ponders. "Now that's an interesting question. You'd have to go through proper channels, be issued an ID at the very least, you'd have to have -" he muses. Glances from Sherlock to Lestrade.

"At the very least, there would be a shi— er, a boat-load of forms to complete."

Sherlock turns, singles out Lestrade. "But this is Moriarty we are talking about, Lestrade. He'd have to go through someone else. Or at the very least, a different persona. Still – “

Sherlock looks straight at Lestrade now, his gaze as piercing as a laser beam.

Lestrade is fascinated -can't look away from Sherlock Holmes being – who he is.

Not for the first time Lestrade wonders, Is this how John Watson feels every day of his life?

If so, it might be worth the aggravation of living with the sod, almost.

Silently he thinks that John Watson is an extraordinary individual. Sherlock Holmes can, at times, burn brighter than the universe – and John Watson is the only person on the planet who can rein in - tame - Sherlock Holmes.

Lestrade feels as if he has learned something incredibly important about both men this afternoon.

He asks Perkins, "Doctor, can you get a list of anyone who's requisitioned or purchased these drugs in these combinations lately?

"I can certainly try," says Perkins. "There have to be records –"

"Fine, fine,” says Lestrade. "Please start now."

Perkins nods and leaves. Frankly, he is happy to leave the office a second time. Something about the tall detective's demeanor makes him uncomfortable.

Lestrade picks up a sheet from his desk and glances at Sherlock.

"Here is the address you requested. His name is Robbie Jameson. Flat mate to the third victim. Per your request, I set up a meeting for the two of you at his flat in –" Lestrade consults his watch, "about an hour from now."

Sherlock nods absently, takes the address from Lestrade. His mind is running permutations and a growing fear for John's safety – mental and physical – is distracting him.

He needs to focus, damn it, but finds it increasingly hard to maintain a clear head for more than a few moments at a time.

As Sherlock winds his scarf around his neck, preparatory to going out into the horrid cold to get a cab, Anderson taps on Lestrade's door and sticks his head in.

"Moment?"

Lestrade waves him in. Not for the first time, Sherlock looks at Anderson with barely concealed derision. He has to remind himself that the man standing in front of him is also a Doctor.

Anderson clears his throat. He has a small envelope with him. He holds it out to Sherlock, who hesitantly takes it on his gloved palm.

"Thought you'd both want to know that the tests came back. The blood found on the surgery floor is the same type as Doctor Watson's. And ballistics confirms that the bullet removed from the door was from a er - Browning."

Sherlock looks him in the eye, still holding the envelope, untouched.

Anderson shakes his head slightly, says, "The blood on Doctor Watson's dog tags also match his blood type. They've been cleaned. We don't need them any longer and I thought the D.I. would not mind if they were returned to you."

Anderson's gaze meets Sherlock's, he nods once, and turns to leave.

Sherlock glances down at the envelope in his gloved hand, then looks back up. "Anderson –"

Anderson turns back slightly, waits for the next insult.

Sherlock clears his throat slightly, remembering John's face. He looks at the envelope in his hand, opens the flap and tilts the contents out into his gloved palm.

John's dog tags have been thoroughly cleaned, and polished as well. He runs his thumb over the inscribed words and numbers. He glances back up at the man in front of him.

"Doctor - Anderson, - er, thank you. I'll – return them to Doctor Watson in person."

Anderson's eyebrows try to crawl off his face. Stunned, he can only nod. "I hope you do."

He goes through the door and rushes to find Sally Donovan, to inquire of her if hell has finally frozen over.

Lestrade stands and walks around the desk to stand next to Sherlock. He places a hand on the detective's shoulder.

"Come on," he says in his gruff voice. "I'll walk you out."

He opens the door, pauses, then half turns. He pretends not to see Sherlock's reflection in the glass of his window, as the detective opens his scarf, drapes John Watson's dog tags around his neck – against his heart.

Silently, Sherlock rewinds the blue scarf over his throat and follows Lestrade out the door.

OooOooO

Moran is not alone.

One older man and one young woman precede him into John's room.

John notes the presence of the man, dressed in a doctor's white lab coat, and of the incredible youth of the young woman – also in a white lab coat (his nurse?...must be…too young to be a doctor – if the first is a doctor ). John notes the two people, then immediately dismisses them.

He only has eyes for Moran.

Sebastian Moran holds the door open – outward, John thinks, hinges on the outside, it opens outward – and waits for the other two to move into the room, before he closes the door with a decided click.

Moran glances around briefly, then leans back against the wall and stares right at John Watson.

He grins. "Johnny Boy, long time no see."

Moriarty's pet doctor looks everywhere but directly at John. The young woman stands behind him, nervously, her eyes wide and staring. She carries a small tray with a few items on it.

John's eyes narrow as he meets Moran’s gaze.

"Moran," he says.

John does not move from his position on the bed, because, really, what's the point? He looks into Moran's eyes, lets his gaze drop to the thin cruel lips, the lantern jaw with its frankly cliché dimple and then to Moran's hands.

Moran holds his weapon of choice, a Sig Sauer, in his right hand, almost idly resting it against his upper chest.

Moran's voice is as John remembers it. Gravelly, and with a hint of amused forbearance that makes John inwardly wince. For some reason, Moran's voice always reminds John, just a little bit, of Gregory Lestrade's voice.

He mentally frowns at the thought, then pushes it away from him. John respects Lestrade immensely, and hates to drag him into this situation, even if it's just for a mental comparison.

Really, the two men could not be more different.

The Sig is not currently aimed at John – or at anyone – but just held in Moran's grip almost as if it's an afterthought.  There if he needs it.

John knows he is at a total disadvantage in this situation. Every fiber of his being screams for him to get on his feet, confront Moran, have it out once and for all.

And he knows all it will take is one well-placed punch to finally drive the broken ribs into his lungs – and good night Vienna.

John wills his heart rate to slow and he takes in a few deep breaths, as deep as he is able.

He may not be in the position to fight this man, but neither will he show fear or weakness in front of him.

"What's the matter, Johnny Boy, ribs hurting? It's a damn shame what can happen to a man when he's unconscious.  Just heart breaking."

Oh .

John's eyes narrow in sudden fury.

Moran straightens slowly, then comes to stand at the end of John's bed. He smiles leisurely at John, daring him to make a move, any move. Frankly, he would welcome it.

“Get up you fool. Stand and face him.”

John shudders, wills his mind to be silent. He watches Moran and studies the other man's body language.

So he has Sebastian Moran to thank for the broken ribs. And the bullet wound too, of course.

John Watson stares back at Moran, memorizing every feature, every move the man makes, down to the clothes he wears.

Sherlock will want to know everything about this man when he comes for John.

And that Sherlock is coming for him, John has no doubt.

John knows Sherlock will find him. He only hopes Sherlock finds him in time.

Beside him, John is aware that Moriarty's doctor now stands to his left side, waiting for some signal from Moran. The young nurse remains silent, biting her lip. She does not meet John's gaze.

"You know, Johnny Boy, I would love nothing better than to stand here with you and catch up on old times."

Moran comes around the far side of the bed to stand to John's far right. John is now for all intents and purposes, surrounded.

John is not concerned about the doctor – he only has eyes for Moran. But some part of his mind wonders what is on the tray the young nurse carries.

Moran smiles slowly. "But John, this is not the time, I'm afraid, for old war stories. We have work to do, you and I."

He waves the hand not holding the Sig idly at the doctor to John's left, who clears his throat.

"He's removed the IV port," he says, refusing to meet either Moran’s or John’s eyes.

"So," says Moran. " You've got the needle. Inject him directly."

And at that point, John shifts his gaze to the young nurse – and to what is on the tray she is holding.

Right. A hypodermic.

Panic begins to well up in John's chest. No. Not again. No. He can’t!

He stares at the tray, wide-eyed, then turns his head back to look at Moran.

Moran smiles the slow smile that John already hates.

John feels his legs straighten, he winces at the growing pain in his thigh and the pain around his ribs, both of which are now a torment as the former pain medications have all but worn off.

He wonders if he can launch himself off the bed, struggle the doctor to the ground.

He wonders how far he will get before Moran ends it with a bullet to his brain.

Frankly, that might be preferable.

John has, momentarily, forgotten Sherlock.

He has forgotten nearly everything but the nearly uncontrollable desire to get the hell out of that room or die trying. He will not just sit there and let this – person (John refuses to grant him the title of Doctor) inject him with that damned drug.

He'd rather die first.

John feels his leg muscles begin to tighten. He places both palms flat on the bed by his side to help launch him to his feet – and at that moment, Moran crosses in front of his line of site, as if he knows exactly what John is thinking and planning and comes to stand directly behind the little nurse.

The doctor looks from John to Moran. Licks his lips. Nods at the young woman.

"All right, we can always replace it when he's unconscious."

The nurse holds the tray out to the doctor, her hands shaking. She cannot raise her head to look at the man on the bed. She just can't.

John stares at the tray, at the hypo, at the doctor and nurse, then at Moran, who stands directly behind her now.

Almost idly, Moran tightens his grip on the Sig Sauer and points it directly at the back of the young nurse's head.

He grins at John, his intention unmistakable.

John stares at Moran, thinking.

He cares nothing for the doctor to his left, who is pulling on a pair of latex gloves. But the little nurse cannot be more than in her mid-20's…she is truly shaking now, although doing her best to hold the tray steady. She obviously did not sign up for any of this.

John recognizes that she is, quite obviously, scared to death.

He looks from the young woman, to Moran  The Sig is now only inches away from the back of her skull.

John calculates the odds – and makes an instant decision. He slowly unclenches his hands, straightens both legs out on the bed - and lies down, his head on the pillow.

He stares at the ceiling.

Then John Watson takes a deep breath and turns his left arm over, so the doctor can find the vein.

Moran laughs softly. "Good lad, Johnny Boy. I knew you'd see reason."

John hears the doctor murmur to the young nurse. He feels the rubber tubing as it’s wrapped around his bicep and tightened.  He feels the needle slip under his skin in a sharp pinch.  And he feels the  cold drug begin its journey into his veins.

John closes his eyes and tries not to sob.

Sherlock !

At the end of the bed, Sebastian Moran laughs.

John feels his world dissolve into flame.

OooOooO

 

Chapter 14: CRAMPED

Notes:

A position with limited mobility.

OooOooO

John is lying on the floor, curled into a small ball, one arm bent protectively around his chest, and the other between his knees, like a child. His breath comes in slow careful wheezes. His eyes are open and he stares into the open door of the little loo.

His mind is growing numb.

He wishes his body was.

The floor is cool and feels good against his cheek. He rubs his head back and forth against the wood, like nuzzling a pillow. It's really nice wood, he thinks, smooth and cool. He did notice it earlier – that day? He can't remember. But it is very pretty wood – hardwood, he thinks. The floors are expensive, obviously.

He wonders if Sherlock would consider having the carpet in their living area ripped out and replaced with hardwood. Then they could just toss down pretty carpets here and there – Oriental carpets, of course.

Mycroft would know about that sort of thing. They could get Mycroft to recommend a color pattern.

Red would be nice. Red is the color of blood and since both of them – he and Sherlock – seem to get banged up so often and end up back at 221B Baker Street, sponging away blood, affixing bandages, splinting broken … well, some sort of red pattern is probably called for.

He is not certain but he thinks he likes Oriental rugs and would like having more of them around the flat. He wonders idly what Sherlock thinks of Oriental carpets.

He doesn't remember ever having any sort of conversation with Sherlock about carpets but there is a first time for everything, John supposes.

John's thoughts break off and he goes back to staring at the tiles in the bathroom.

John is lying on the floor, curled into a small ball, and is grateful for the quiet.

Someone was hollering earlier. There was a lot of hollering. He remembers trying to move ... trying to get to whoever was screaming. He wanted to help whoever it was, but someone was holding down his arms and legs.

John doesn't like his arms and legs to be held down and he wishes whoever had done it had left off. He can still feel the grip of fingers and the scrape of nails over his flesh … if he shuts his eyes and concentrates.

He just wants to help.

That is what he does, after all. Helps people. He is a doctor and he helps … right?

But then the screaming stopped. And John sighed and went back to dreaming.

He can't remember exactly what he was dreaming, but it involved running behind Someone … a lot of running and jumping … jumping and grabbing onto – things to swing himself up and over – other things. He knows whatever he was dreaming about seemed to involve physical effort.

They weren't bad dreams, per se, ... John giggles slightly - "per se"…He never uses that term. Sherlock would smile at him.

But he was dreaming and it seemed to be wearing him out.

The screaming came back for a little while then and John got really irritated at the noise. Eventually, it stopped - again. John relaxed when it stopped.

Things are nice and quiet now and John likes it when it's nice and quiet.

John is lying on the floor, curled up in a ball and he is very cold.

He remembers a feeling of ice streaming through his veins, pouring into his skin, filling him up to the brim with frost – and then a feeling of heat, spreading from his chest throughout his body, down through his stomach and eventually his groin … and that is when he thinks he became hard … he smiles, finding this funny … but then the heat stopped once it reached his lower legs. Now he is cold again.

He cannot be certain but he thinks – at some point – he was incredibly turned on more than once. He giggles at this thought, and he thinks of Sherlock, but leaves off when it jars his head and neck and sets the pain off again.

He still, occasionally, sees those small sparks behind his eyelids. They are multi-colored and John frowns because some of the colors aren't quite right. He cannot remember ever seeing those colors before and thinks that one or two of them are a bit strange. It's not every day that a chap sees brand new colors.  He wonders if he will be required to name them. He hopes not. John does not think he would be good at coming up with names for neverbeforeseen colors. Perhaps he won't be asked?

Christ, he's cold. His hands and legs and feet are so cold, they nearly feel numb. Except for the pain in his thigh. John can feel the bandage, tight around his thigh. It seems to be cutting into his flesh and he idly wonders if there is still blood seeping around the bandage. No. Wait. Didn't someone give him a new bandage? He can feel that his leg has swollen around the stitches.

His leg throbs with a deep ache and he is very glad he is lying on the floor. If he were on the bed, for example, he'd have to eventually get off the bed, and either try to stand or walk.

He's pretty sure his leg would give out on him at that point – and he'd end up on the floor anyway.

This would be embarrassing not only for John but for whoever is watching.

No, this way is so much better. Best to remain down here on the floor. He only has to crawl into the little bathroom when necessary and since he is already on the floor – well, you can see why he was so happy to already be down there. On the floor.

John is lying on the floor, curled into a small ball and his head hurts.

John's head hurts like a mother. The pain in his head has spread down to the back of his neck and from there to his shoulders … or maybe it is spreading upwards from his neck to his head. John can't be certain of facts, he cannot be certain of anything anymore. He thinks if someone were to come in and put their hands on each side of his head and give a tiny yank, then his head would just pop off his neck and they could set it aside and the pain would stop.

His stomach clenches – off and on – and he's grateful his stomach is empty. He thinks he must be hungry but doesn't care much for the thought of food. He stares into the little loo - at the porcelain toilet and the pretty gray tiles on the floor - and he thinks how good it would be to have a shower. He wishes someone would come to help him into the stall and turn on the warm water.

John wonders if he should be worried about lying on the floor like this, but he can't seem to get into a strop over it. It's just so cool and nice down here. He tries to straighten out his leg and stops when the deep-rooted agony shoots through his thigh.

John is lying on the floor, curled into a ball with his eyes shut and everything hurts -- most of all his soul.

He wonders what will kill him first:  the pain and growing pressure in his head or the compound agony of his ribs and thigh.  Or perhaps it will be the fact that he can barely take a deep breath.

Or maybe it will be the fact that Sherlock has not come for him.

It doesn't much matter to John - now - what eventually kills him. John just wishes something would.

Behind him, John hears the door open.

OooOooO

Chapter 15: CANDIDATE MOVE

Notes:

A move that seems good upon initial observation of the position, and that warrants further analysis.

OooOooO

John is not going to make it easy for them. He barely flinches when he hears the door open. And he makes no movement whatsoever as they come into the room. He is too comfortable, lying there on the floor. If they want him, they can bloody well come get him.

Besides, the pain in his head has reached a crescendo and he simply cannot be bothered to notice much about anything.

"Get him up and back on the bed."

John recognizes Moran's voice. But it's changed. It doesn't have the cocky bring it on tone it had last time – when was that ? Moran simply sounds bored, more than anything.

John feels himself lifted, not very elegantly either, and placed on the bed on his back. He opens his eyes briefly, sees the ceiling above him and winces at the dim lighting in the room. Any and all light hurts his eyes now and even this soft light seems to want to go racketing around in his tired brain.

He is aware that people are moving around him.

He shuts his eyes tiredly and wishes they'd just let him go back to sleep.

Or kill him.

Either way works for John.

He feels someone bend over him but he stubbornly does not re-open his eyes.

"It's show time, Johnny Boy." Moran's voice comes very close to his right ear and it is all John can do not to shudder from the feel of Moran's breath on his cheek, against his neck.

Moran straightens up, considers the man lying on the bed in front of him and shakes his head.

"Honestly, John, I gotta say, I expected just a bit more – resistance- from you. You're turning out to be a disappointment."

"That's me," thinks John. "Doctor Disappointment." 

He wants urgently to giggle but can't seem to take a deep breathe in order to do so. He decides not to waste his precious air on Sebastian Moran.

Suddenly, John's oxygen-starved and tortured body has had enough. John hears Moran's voice recede, as if it is coming from a very long way away. All the colors and sounds and yes, pain, at least most of it, goes temporarily away and a wall of black reaches up to slam into his exhausted brain.

Without making a sound or moving a muscle, John loses consciousness - and swims away in the darkness of his mind.

OooOooO

Moran glances at the others in the room. "Get him cleaned up, now. Our John has to look good for his next starring appearance. Once that's done, shoot him up again. I or Jim will be in shortly to check on him."

"Yes, sir." Doctor Franks coughs, nods at Moran. The young woman in nurse's scrubs stands behind Franks, trying more or less to look invisible. She nods once but says nothing. Moran stares at her briefly, his eyes narrowing. Then he shrugs and leaves the room. The door shuts with a solid click behind him.

There are two collective sighs in the room. Franks turns to the equipment he brought in.

He gestures to his nurse. "Clean him up and change his clothing."

She nods again and sets the small bag of items down on the end of the bed. She wipes her damp hands down the sides of her scrubs and attempts to steady her pulse rate. Her hands are shaking but not as bad as they were earlier, now that he is gone.

She walks around to the other side of the bed, to John's immediate right, where Moran had been standing. Reaching for the bag, she pulls it toward her and lays out a fresh tee, a pair of boxers, both of them a dark navy color, bathing wipes and a comb and shaving supplies. She notes the pajama bottoms are still laid out over the foot of the bed. It is obvious they have not been worn.

There is the quiet sound of a text chime and Dr. Franks pulls out his mobile  phone, frowns at it.

"Hansen, er, Lori? " She looks up, startled by the use of her first name by this man she despises.

"Jim wants to see me immediately. Will you be all right here for a moment?" He looks at her expectantly, impatiently.

She has zero respect for this person. But she is aware they are being recorded and she swallows once, nods. "Yes, of course, Doctor Franks."

"All right. "

Franks pivots and leaves the room, hurrying before Moran comes back – or Jim Moriarty. The door clicks shut behind him.

She stares at the door, then looks down at the man lying on the bed. That he is totally exhausted, and has been tortured, both in mind and body, she is very well aware.

Lori Hansen can take her time now. She pointedly does not glance at the red eye of the camera in the far right-hand corner of the room– nor at the one in the near left-hand corner, over the bed. She knows there is a third camera in the bathroom, as well.

She looks down at the man on the bed and tries not to wince. She must be careful not to show any outward emotional attachment she may feel for this man, this doctor. Every single movement is being recorded, evaluated. If she slips up, they will use her own actions against her. And him.

The first thing she does is lift John's right wrist in her hand, place her fingers on his pulse and twist her wrist so she can see her watch, count the beats, watch the seconds slip away.

She frowns. He is not doing well at all.

She desperately needs to give this young man a message and it appears that he has lost consciousness. She hesitates to wake him up in any fashion and sees that as an act of utter cruelty.

But isn't it more cruel not to tell him what she has learned that afternoon on her lunch break from the news feeds ?

She comes to a decision, then takes a deep breath.

She shaves him carefully and it helps that he never moves. She's done this twice so far this week and has the movements memorized. Down the cheeks, across the jaw line, under the chin. Careful now, don't cut him. She finishes up by wiping him clean with a damp towel. Now for his clothing.

Lori begins by gently pulling John Watson's filthy, sweat-soaked tee shirt up his stomach, then she carefully slides it up and off each arm and finally bunches the tee under his chin.

She uses the movement to hide her left hand as she slips it behind his ear, finds the pressure point and presses inward – hard – for the count of 10. He shifts slightly and moans softly.

Good. Hopefully, he is now a little more awake and aware, if even a little. All she needs is for him to hear what she has to tell him. She hopes it will be enough to keep him from slipping further away into depression.

Lori glances down at John's abused body again and inwardly shudders at the blackish greenish bruises visible around the tight bandages that encircle his chest. She knows he has at least two broken ribs and suspects he has a few more that are cracked. She must use extra caution that she does not push those ribs into his lungs.

She carefully bends over to slide her right hand under the back of his neck, in order to lift his tawny head so she can tug the shirt over it. Her dark hair falls forward over her face and as her mouth comes close to his mouth, to his dry chapped lips, Lori Hansen whispers, “They’re searching for you. He is looking for you. Please know this, Doctor Watson. Please don't give up."

Barely conscious, John's mind registers the hushed words and wonders if this, too, is part of his dream state.

He is cognizant, just, and his training kicks in, albeit on the slightest of levels, for he is just too exhausted to care that much.  But he knows enough not to react to her whispered words, just in case he is not dreaming this time. He hears her words of comfort and wants desperately to ask her "How do you know?" but he doesn't dare make a sound. He wants to open his eyes to look at her, as he realizes this must be the little nurse from -- where? He remembers her being there but cannot remember anything else.

When did they meet? How does he know her?

John frowns in his sleep, Why is she helping him? Is this another trick? He tries to stay conscious but it's damned difficult.

Sherlock!

The tee shirt is tugged gently over his head and his torso is now bare. She gently lowers his head back down on the pillow and turns to grab the first wipe. Carefully she wipes his forehead, around his neck and back of his head, turning his head gently as she does so.

Once again, she lets her hair fall forward as she tilts her own head to the side to better see the back of his neck. She doesn't dare let the camera pick up any of this or it will mean her life. But only after much screaming on her part.

She has no illusions about what would happen to her if Moran or Jim even begin to suspect she has sympathy for this man. But she can't do this anymore. She is a nurse, damn it, and that still has to stand for something. She thinks of her cousin who is currently serving in Afghanistan and knows he would be so ashamed of her actions so far. She squirms as she thinks of what this man under her hands, this Army doctor, also a veteran of the Afghanistan campaign, would think of her if he knew the things she has done … the things she has been forced to do.

She wipes determinedly at the back of his sweat-soaked neck, passing the cloth back around under his chin. She whispers in his right ear this time, as she bends over to get at a stubborn spot on his neck, her hair once again covering her mouth. She keeps the whisper as light as possible, well aware of the sensitive nature of the camera and recording devices in the room.

"He's looking for you. Sherlock Holmes is looking for you."

She hopes he is conscious enough to hear her hushed words. She also prays he does not react or otherwise show that he has heard her. It is all she dares to attempt at this time.

She takes another wipe and finishes cleaning up his chest, taking extra care of his poor broken ribs, begins to work on his arms and finally brings a third wipe down the backs and palms of both hands. They have told her to keep him as clean as possible but she knows if she pays undue attention to any part of this man, they will know it.

And they – Moriarty and Moran – have no mercy for personal weakness or caring. None.

She notes the goose bumps on his bare flesh and hurries to pull the clean cotton tee shirt over his head, then gently guides each limp hand and arm through the armholes and finally tugs it down over his abused rib cage, smoothing the soft cotton against his flat stomach.

She sees his stomach muscles clench, once twice, and suddenly it seems as if his entire spine spasms. It jerks his leg muscles, the spasm traveling downward from his spine, throughout his entire torso, into his legs, which stiffen nearly uncontrollably and then back up again before it's over. He groans and she ducks her head to busy herself with another wipe so they won't see her bite her lip at the sound. The spasm passes and leaves him more or less totally limp.

She studies him for a few seconds. She knows this is one of the side effects of the drug and realizes this is the first of the addiction response.

Lori Hansen has, unfortunately, seen this before.

Her heart breaks just a tiny bit for this man, this Doctor Watson. Yes, she knows his name.

She's seen the news feeds during her break. They took her mobile phone away, but curiously allow her, Dr. Franks and Stephan to watch the news during their meal breaks. She doesn't understand this at all but then she doesn't understand anything about how or why she came to be here, in this untenable position.

She balls up the last wipe and tosses it at the bag, then picks up the clean pair of dark blue boxers and lays them in front of her.

She knows she has just a minute or two more before Dr. Franks comes back through the door, possibly with Moran or the other in tow. If she has to look at either of those men, particularly the other – Jim – she thinks she might scream or break down and ruin everything.

She has no idea if Doctor Watson has heard anything she has said but prays he has. She also prays she has not further jeopardized her own position with her attempt to help.

She tugs off his boxers as quickly as possible, carefully sliding them down over the swollen thigh muscle and its line of stitching. She does her best with the wipe, being careful of his abused flesh. She is a nurse and has seen naked patients before. It does not faze her. She works her way down his legs, taking extra care around the incision and stares at it for a moment, realizing the skin has become puffy and slightly red and swollen around the dark stitches. She wonders if it would do any good to bring this to the attention of Dr. Franks.

"Doctor Franks – what a joke" she thinks.

Lori Hansen hates the very thought of the man she has been forced to work with. She is very well aware that she is working on a real doctor. Thinking of what he must have seen during his service in Afghanistan and of what her cousin is facing right now, she finds she has tremendous respect for this injured man under her hands.

She cannot free him and dares not send any word to the outside world, but perhaps she can help keep him alive until help does arrive.

For his sake, she hopes it is soon.

Lori tosses the last wipe at the bag and gently pulls up the clean boxer shorts, struggling a little bit as she gets them over his bum and up his lean hips. She straightens momentarily, one hand on her lower back to ease her back muscles from bending over him for so long. She wonders how she can manhandle him under the duvet. His skin is too cool and she realizes he is probably freezing, not only from the influence of Jim's horrid cocktail, but also from the overly cool room and also from plain shock and sheer physical exhaustion.

She passes a wipe over his dark blonde hair, and finally combs the sandy spikes as best as she is able.

His face does not move during any of her ministrations and by this, she realizes he has lost consciousness.

Good. It will make what comes next easier on all of them.

Standing back, she considers her patient, nods once. He looks as good as possible, given the horrendous circumstances.

She packs up the dirty clothes into the bag, tosses in the comb and shaving supplies, finally disposes of the wipes in the bin next to the bed. She walks around to the other side, to his left, and pulls down the duvet cover as far as it will go without hurting him. Bending over, she rolls his body gently toward her, manhandles the cover and sheet underneath him, and then rolls him back.

Lori covers the doctor as best she can, bringing both sheet and duvet up under his chin to help hold in his body heat. She hopes that Franks will allow him to remain like this, so his muscles can at least warm up some. She highly doubts it, though.

She gathers up her few supplies and stands back from the bed just as the door clicks back open and Franks comes in, his hands full. He nods once at her and hurries to place a few items on the little beside table to John Watson's left.

She turns to the tray she brought with her and the hypodermic that is already prepared for Doctor Watson. She has to go back to thinking of him as – well, anyone other than who he is. It's safer that way - for her and for him.

She knows of Doctor Watson and of Sherlock Holmes, of course. One cannot live in London for any length of time without learning something of the famous detective pair.

Franks busies himself, bends over Watson, listening to his heart with a stethoscope. She stands behind him quietly.

He makes a few notes on a chart he has with him, stands back and curtly nods at her.

"Okay, go ahead."

She bends over John, wraps his arm in the tubing, tightens it to bring up the vein and once again, injects the hated drug under his skin, at the bend of his elbow.

Lori hates herself as she performs these actions.  She is not used to this feeling of self-loathing and wonders if she will ever be rid of it.

Fear, she has learned, is a vicious motivator.

He doesn't even flinch this time. She pulls out the now empty hypo, watches him for a moment, then straightens, needle in hand, and stands back once more to place it on the tray.

"Okay, that's it," says Franks. He picks up Doctor Watson's left wrist, feels for the pulse, while watching the sweep second hand of his watch. Putting John's arm back down, he looks at her and she picks up the tray.

She glances at the few items he has brought into the room and here eyes widen. Lori recognizes the IV port, two of them, more tubing, of course, but doesn't know why the other items are there.

Tongue depressors? Restraints?

She feels a bit sick to her stomach but doesn't let it show on her face.

"Okay, Hansen, you can go. I'll take over from here."

Lori nods once and turns to leave as quickly as possible. She doesn't dare risk showing any concern for her patient.

That she now thinks of Doctor Watson as her patient, surprises her a little. As she steps out and closes the door behind her, she wonders if this is the effect the young, sandy-haired man has on the people around him. She wonders if others have been pulled in by his gentle demeanor and wide smile. Yes, she's seen all of that on the news.

As she walks to the tiny clinic that has been set up here in the basement of this place, she thinks back to the most vivid picture of the famous duo - months and months ago, after an incident having to do with an explosion in a public gym? A Pool?

She remembers seeing the short video … the reporters, cameras following the famous pair as they leave hospital, after weeks of recuperation, the tall, dark-haired Sherlock Holmes in the lead, studiously ignoring reporters' questions, and the quiet Doctor Watson following immediately behind, flashing a grin at the camera before ducking his tawny head. She remembers his slight limp and the white bandages both of them sported, bandages which looked shocking against the London paleness of their skin.

Her heart goes out to this Army doctor and Lori vows to herself that she will help him however she is able -- but despairs of it doing any good in the long run.

Jim has not been reticent concerning his plans for Doctor Watson. And those plans make her heart ache and her stomach churn.

OooOooO

John's entire body spasms, and he feels the spasm begin in his spine, spread through his aching stomach muscles and finally throughout his legs. His back straightens, actually lifting him off the bed or so it seems. He tries to catch his breath and stop the muscle spasm, but cannot do so. He has no idea what is happening to him.

He loses consciousness again - briefly - then swims slowly back to feel the whisper of the hated needle as it slides under his skin.

Sherlock !

John's mind screams in torment. But he notes that the screams are all internal now and not as loud as they once were. He feels the familiar cold, the utter outer space frigid chill of the drug as it courses through his arm, to spread out slowly from there to the rest of his aching body and tired brain.

He can't seem to bring himself to care about it anymore. He really can't.

Instead, John goes over and over her words in his mind, before he starts to slip his moorings, again wondering if they were part of his delirium. But she was real.She was. She cleaned him up and changed his clothes. He is now clean and was warm, if only for a little while. And he has the little nurse to thank for this.

John has to believe in her words as they are the only anchor he has left as he once more slips into unconsciousness and vivid dreams.

His thoughts are scattered now, wondering all over the place as the drug takes effect. He feels the onset of the – by now - all too familiar pain of shattered and shredded nerve endings. But it's not as bad as it was before and he is grateful for that.

John dimly realizes that he was ready to give up too soon. His medical training tells him that this, too, is a side effect of the injections. It's not like him to throw in the towel where Sherlock is concerned.

He just got a little tired, that’s all.

Sherlock is looking for him. And, just as the blessed blackness flows up to once again claim him, John reminds himself that Sherlock Holmes always gets his man.

Giggling a little at the thought, John is once again pulled under by the dark tide that has arrived to carry him away to unknown shores.

This time, he goes without a fight.

Sherlock is coming. He just has to hold on.

OooOooO

 

Chapter 16: KOTOV SYNDROME

Notes:

This phenomenon, first described by Alexander Kotov, can occur when a player does not find a good plan after thinking long and hard on a position. The player, under time pressure, then suddenly decides to make a move, often a terrible one which was not analysed properly.

OooOooO

"He was always one to go to the openings, art shows, you know?”

Robbie Jameson gulps his by now cold tea and sets the cup down on the table so hard, it bounces. His hand trembles.

Sherlock leans against the kitchen counter, eyes narrowed, as he watches the nervous young man. He wonders if Jameson is even aware that his entire body is shaking. He doubts it.

"You had a row," he murmurs. He deliberately keeps his voice low, tries to put Jameson at ease.

He sees the signs even as Jameson is speaking. Hands shaking, denoting extreme nervousness about the situation. But tone of voice and moisture in corner of both eyes and - yes – he looked Sherlock directly in the eyes at least twice and did not turn away – pupil reaction stayed same – he was telling the truth. He did not know what had happened to his flat mate. It was the way his eyes darted to the side, and he self-consciously swiped at them, then crossed his arms – trying to protect himself against attack – he's alone now, upset, doesn't know what to do.

Sherlock sees the tells … Robbie Jameson and Chris Madison were more than flat mates.

He wonders if they have even told their parents, their friends about their relationship. Or if Jameson is having to deal with the unspeakable entirely on his own.

Too young. The two of them entirely too young to have to bear this burden. Had they even come out to anyone?

Sherlock clears his throat and stands upright, puts his hands in his pockets and glances around the tiny flat. Has already seen what there is to be seen. He is trying to give this young man the chance to pull himself together. He pretends not to notice as Jameson swipes at his eyes again, then turns to the sink to pour cold water from the taps in his tea cup.

The cup of tea he had made for Sherlock sits untouched, on the table in front of them.

The little table is covered with the casual mess of two young males living together – papers, notes, unopened mail, adverts, receipts, tickets, college texts Madison had already graduated Uni and had studied art and architecture. Jameson still had 2 years to go before graduation. Sherlock doubts if he will make those two years now.

Robbie Jameson gulps the cold water, sets the cup in the sink, nearly filled now with unwashed dishes, sticky plates, cracked cups with the remains of cold tea. He turns back toward Sherlock. Nods once.

"We had a row," he says in a quiet, desperate tone of voice. His eyes darken,  unfocused, as if he is replaying the scene in his head.

"Oh hell," he sits down in one of the three mismatched chairs and puts his head in his hands.

Sherlock pulls out the opposite chair and sits as quietly as he can.  He folds his hands under his chin and watches the young man fall apart.

"I told him – told Chris that I'd go with him to that sodding opening a few weeks back. I didn't want to go, not really. But I wanted him to be happy. Chris was – "

Jameson lifts his head and stares at Sherlock, as if asking for more than understanding from the detective. "Chris was wild for art – anything new; the weirder the better."

He lowers his head again and uses one fingertip to trace patterns on the table cloth, a frankly revolting shade of deep orange.

"Jumble sale," thinks Sherlock. The tablecloth matches everything else in the flat in its utter shabbiness. They have no money and everything they do have was bought at jumble or scrounged from bins.

"Chris liked – loved making the rounds of the galleries and museums, the shops."

He raises his dark shaggy head and looks off, past Sherlock, not really seeing the detective at the moment.

"We, er, neither of us has any money, it all goes for rent and food, y'know? But he'd go to the shops to just get ideas on decorating, art, wall paper and paint that sort of thing. And I'd go along. Most of them are within walking distance or we'd take the tube."

Robbie Jameson runs a hand through his hair. "I just wanted to stay in for once We fought. Told him I was sick of art galleries and the like and couldn't we just stay here for once and have a cuddle or – just be together, be quiet for a day. Watch telly. He said that was rubbish and I just wanted to ruin his weekend."

Jameson focuses on Sherlock again as if he'd momentarily forgotten the man was sitting there. "Told him to sod off, din't I? He left, said he didn't need me to "do" art with. Said he was just fine on his own."

Jameson clasps his hands in front of him, stares at the ragged and torn fingernails, bitten to the quick.

"That was the last time I saw him. Until you lot called. And asked me to come down to –"

He breaks off and sobs. Bends his head over his crossed arms. Sherlock observes him dispassionately.

"They asked you to come down to ID the body.  You fought with your young lover; he left, and a few hours later you are standing over his naked body, stretched out on a cold metal table. There would have been a toe tag on one bare foot.”

Jameson wraps his arms around himself and starts to shake again.

"Hugging himself," thinks Sherlock ." No one else to do it for him now."

Sherlock frowns. This feeling of empathy for the young man is hindering his investigation. For John's sake, he has to put these emotions away.

Sherlock glances around again, at the haphazardly stacked mess of papers and mail at the corner of the table; a single bright circular catches his eye. He leans, pulls it toward him. It is an advertisement for a new art gallery opening, which apparently took place the preceding Saturday. He notes the address is not that far from where the – Chris Madison's - body was found, next to the lake. It is in a rather artsy part of town, filled to flowing with avant garde museums, galleries, interesting little shops that sell 28 different types of tea and 10 books, that sort of thing. He turns the circular over to see if there are any notes written on it, or anything highlighted or underscored in pen. Nothing.

Sherlock stands, holds the circular. "Is this the opening that Chris was going to attend?"

He turns the paper around so Jameson can see it. Jameson stares at it, frowns.

"I honestly don't remember. I think so. Can't be sure. He said there were two openings that day…Saturday…God, just five days ago? God!"

Jameson lifts both hands to his face and starts to shake all over again.

"His funerals tomorrow. Would have been sooner but your lot wouldn't release the – him."

He buries his head in his hands and sobs. He doesn't lift his head as he struggles to talk to Sherlock. His tone accusing now, angry.

"He didn't even smoke, let alone do drugs. I don't understand this. We were together – we were mates for two, nearly three years. He never did anything! Not even pot. I don't understand. Why would he lie to me? Why would he go off say he was going to shops and—and how…how did he…" His voice breaks off and he takes a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

Sherlock watches Robbie work through his chaotic thoughts.

There is near total silence in the small kitchen. Sherlock can hear the small wall clock ticking.

Suddenly, Robbie Jameson's body language calms. He- nearly - stops shaking. He raises his head and meets Sherlock's eyes straight on. Jameson takes a deep breath and sits straighter. He shoves a hand through his fringe again. His hair is wild now, standing on end.

"I don't know what I'm going to do now," he says quietly.

But Sherlock's eyes narrow and he sees that the young man's entire demeanor has changed in less than one minute.

"Oh," Sherlock thinks. "Right. He does know what he's going to do now. The decision has been made."

"You were more than flat mates," says Sherlock quietly.

Robbie bites his lip, nods.

"Does anyone know? Your family? His? Anyone you can call to come sit with you?"

Sherlock stands and walks around to where he now stands next to the distraught young man. His hands are in his coat pockets and he stares down at Jameson's dark shaggy head, thinking.

He honestly doesn't know what to do. John knows about these types of things – these emotional things. That this young man is thinking of ending his life is obvious. The decision has been made.

Who would John call?  Presumably there are agencies, hot lines? How does he report his suspicions and does he have the right to interfere with this distraught young man's life?

Sherlock thinks that patting Jameson's back is in order but he's loath to be misinterpreted. Instead he settles for saying, “I really believe you should not be alone right now. Do you have anyone you can call? Family? Friends? Anyone?"

Jameson raises his damp face and angrily swipes at his eyes with a dirty sweatshirt sleeve.

"Chris has a sister. We kind of hit it off."

"Why don't you call her now.  Can you do that while I'm here?" Sherlock drops his tone of voice in order to sound more sympathetic. John would approve, he thinks.

Robbie appears thoughtful. "Guess I could give her a call. She usually would come around on weekends and we'd all watch crap telly together."

"I'm sure she will welcome the company, as well as you will. I just don't think – I don't think you should be alone right now, er, Robbie. You've already spent far too many days by yourself, as it is, since it happened."

Sherlock makes his tone as agreeable as possible. He holds the art gallery opening ad in his hand and he glances down at it, thinking.

He has been through the pitiful little flat and has seen nothing to indicate where Chris Madison was going, other than his partner's testimony. This ad is the only link he now has to Madison's last moments.

He pockets the circular and waits for Robbie Jameson to make the phone call.

"Right. Thanks." Jameson’s' voice sounds a tad better. He tosses the mobile on the table cloth in front of him.

"She – Gail – she's coming round. Be here in a few."

"Excellent," says Sherlock. He clears his throat.

"I have to go. I really appreciate your talking with me. This cannot be easy on you. I hope you can talk to someone—"

"Sure—" says Robbie. "Thanks for looking into this. When the cops were here, I didn't think, well, they didn't seem to care much, right?"

His dark brown eyes stare up at Sherlock's light grey ones. "I know who you are, y'know. You're that bloke, that detective. You work with them, the Yard and all."

Sherlock waits. This is not news. Lestrade had told him as much when he set up the meeting at this flat.

"What I mean is – well, I've read that you're kind of, bloody marvelous and all."

He gulps in air, as if he's drowning. "I – we've seen you on telly once or twice. You and that Army bloke. Doctor, right?"

"Yes," says Sherlock quietly. "John is a doctor."

Robbie nods. "I just want to say Thanks and hope you find the bastards who did this. Find them and make them pay."

If Robbie is aware of the tired cliché, he shows no sign. And it doesn't sound so tired or so much of a cliché when uttered with sheer unwavering anger.

This emotion, Sherlock totally understands.

He thinks of John on the CD; John slumped in that god-awful chair, bandaged, white and bleeding, barely alive – and screaming.

John. John.

"Believe me, Mr. Jameson, that is my hope as well."

Sherlock leaves the young man sitting at the shabby kitchen table, surrounded by the wrecks of his dreams.

He goes out into the sharp air toward the waiting cab. He fingers the advertisement thoughtfully. As he gets in the cab and leans forward to give the cabby an address, he notes a young woman drive up in a Morris. She pulls into the gravel in front of the flats and hurries up to the door. Good. Robbie Jameson will have someone with him at least.  He wonders if it will be enough.

He wonders if he should tell someone that he believes Jameson will kill himself soon, given half the chance. He honestly is at sea here and realizes John would know what to do.

Well, John is not here.

He gives the driver the address of the ArtGallery, when the text chime sounds.

Envl just delivered by courier. Your name.

Courier being held for questioning.

Will you come?

GL

Sherlock's heart begins to beat faster.

On my way.

SH

He leans forward. "Change that. Take me to New Scotland Yard."

He sits back in the seat, thinking furiously.

OooOooO

John lies on his side and stares at nothing in particular. He keeps his back slightly arched to keep his lungs as open as possible so he can breathe more deeply. It does not appear to be working very well.

Finally, he manages to roll off the bed and after much deliberation, gets to his feet – make that one foot – his left leg will not bare much weight at all. Slowly, carefully, he makes his way into the loo and manages to balance there, still more or less on one leg, and pee. His urine appears to be a dark orange tinged now with pink and he stares at it.

John pours water from the taps and drinks as much as he is able to, until his stomach begins to spasm. He thinks it will help the pain in his head, which seems to have receded somewhat. Then he just stands there, and pants. He leans over the sink and tries to get his bearings. He has been aware for some time that he can feel a deep wheeze when he breathes. Both lungs. He shakes his head slightly and dismisses the thought. Best not to think about that right now.

He tries to brush his teeth but his hands are shaking so badly, he cannot hold the brush. He settles for squeezing toothpaste into his mouth, swishing it around with more water and spitting it out. It is the best he can do for now. He runs a hand through his choppy hair and wishes fervently he could shampoo it.

John straightens and turns slightly, one arm over his chest and looks into the room at the bed. He wants nothing more than to lie down and sleep. He thinks if he could sleep for a year, it might just be long enough. Balancing his hand against the wall of the tiny bathroom, he takes a step forward, then another one, and yes, loses his balance and goes down on his bad leg.

John gasps, but manages to pull himself more or less into a sitting position, and ends up propped against the wall, bad leg stretched out in front of him and good leg bent. He uses one hand splayed against the floor to help hold him up and wraps the other arm around his chest again. He leans over slightly, then straightens back up as he realizes his lungs are compressed in that position.

John sits like this for a long time, before he realizes his skin itches madly – from the inside out. John frowns. That should not be possible. But he is itching on the inside and the feeling becomes more and more insistent and eventually, nearly unbearable.

He has the most inexplicable inclination to laugh. He can't stand it. He just can't. The whole situation has just become so damned funny. He winces and breathes deeply through his nose to stave off the giggles. That is all his ribs would need.

John leans his head back against the wall and stares at the side of the bed. The itching is now the paramount sensation in his body but he has no way to scratch the inside of his veins, so he tries to ignore it.

It is harder to ignore the heat in his blood, however. His veins seem to have a slow stream of hot liquid coursing through them, as if his blood has passed through a steam bath at same point, and come out the other end in a superheated state. It is truly one of the most uncomfortable feelings he has ever experienced.

And it occurs to John, suddenly, that if someone were to come in with a hypo right now, the heat under his skin would be replaced with that delicious cold.  How wonderful that cool whisper would feel right now, sliding under his skin and slipping its way, slowly but inexorably, to all of his veins, caressing every capillary, rushing on to bathe every joint and muscle, and yes, finally invading his aching brain. The utter iciness of it will be delicious and probably the subcutaneous itching will stop, as well.

Once it reaches his brain, he can sleep and dream his life away. At least this part of it. Yes, that is the best scenario right now. All he needs to do is get back on the damned bed.

John falls forward slightly, rolls to one side and somehow gets his good leg under him to inch his way up, with his back against the wall, until he is more or less in a standing position. Then he moves very, very slowly until he is up against the bed and finally able to fall gracelessly on the mattress, on one side. He lies there for a moment, then pulls his legs up and somehow shifts around without causing too much damage to his ribs.

Finally John rests, one arm slung casually over his chest, and the other between his knees, his fist curled up into a ball. He stares at nothing, waiting for someone to come in and give him the blessed injection. The itching sensation – intolerable now – and the god awful heat will be gone and he will be able to concentrate. He just knows it. Everything will be much better if the bastards would just get a move on.

He hasn't long to wait. The door opens. John smiles and closes his eyes.

OooOooO

Lestrade opens his laptop, takes the dvd from Sherlock and pops it into the slot, closes it and pauses, his hand on the mouse.

He looks at Sherlock. "Are you sure you—"

"Yes, yes, get on with it." Sherlock waves his hand at him and leans back slightly in his chair.

The two of them are alone. The pale afternoon sun has given way to a grey overcast sky. Before night falls, there will be freezing rain, possibly snow. Sherlock could smell it in the air when he got out of the taxi to make his way to Lestrade’s office.

Lestrade hits the Play button. Sherlock watches the screen.

His stomach muscles clench, involuntarily, and he shuts his eyes briefly, as he orders his mind to remain calm and notice everything.

There has to be something. There have been no damned clues so far, nothing to lead him or the yard or even Mycroft's people, to John.

Every lead, every possible avenue of investigation has led nowhere. He knows this to be true at the same time his brain rejects the idea.

Sherlock thinks he should be able to feel his way to John, like a homing pigeon. That he cannot do this fills him with despair.

And that is the awful uncertainty of all this. He feels totally at sea. There is nothing. Nothing.

He fingers the circular advertising the Gallery opening, now crumpled in his pocket. Sherlock thinks of Robbie Jameson, alone now, and frowns.

The pc monitor goes white and the dvd begins to play. 

OooOooO

John hums softly to himself. They have restrained his arms and legs, for some reason, but he cannot bring himself to care.

Actually, he's probably safer this way. No chance of falling off the bed.

He clenches his fists in the sheets and wishes they had not taken his blanket and sheet away. He feels cold all over now and although the arctic blast inside him is most welcome, the room is far too cool and he can feel his muscles tremble. He wishes fervently they had left him the sheet at least.

Ah well, best not to worry about too many things right now. The horrid itching sensation is long gone and his veins feel wonderful. The hellish heat is gone as well.

John lies there, with his eyes closed against the pale light, and waits for the wash of coldness to reach his brain. He is looking forward to the dreams and wonders, idly, if he can control them. Can he dream of Sherlock, if he keeps the detective's face in his mind? Can he dream of Baker Street and cups of tea, late night takeaway?

John squirms against the restraints, shifting around to ease the aches in his leg. He wonders if he can order his mind to think about lying in bed with Sherlock, about what it feels like to wake in the middle of the night, to the realization that he is nearly covered over with six feet of lanky warm consulting detective, one long leg thrown over his, and Sherlock's arm around John's waist, his head resting at the top of John's, his warm breath in his hair.

Yes, that is what he will concentrate on. He will order himself to dream of Sherlock.

Alone in his room, John giggles softly. He ignores the spasm that begins in his spine, travels down through his legs and back up again. It passes away and John slips away into unconsciousness.

Eyes closed, John Watson lies on top of the bed, dreaming away, more happy then he has been for quite some time. He doesn't even mind the headache.

In the opposing corners of the room, the red eye of the surveillance cameras records every movement.

John, totally unconscious, could not care less.

OooOooO

Sherlock paces back and forth in the flat at 221B Baker Street. He has smoked his way through two packs of cigarettes that day, but the nicotine high has eluded him.

He stops in his pacing to stare at the wall where he has taped up sheets and sheets of paper. He stares at sketchy diagrams, surveillance photos from the CCTV Cameras, courtesy of Mycroft, pages and pages of notes written in Sherlock's own careful, spidery hand. And one photo of John.

The photo is from a newspaper article from a few months back, John walked behind Sherlock, who studiously ignored reporters and photographers alike. John had grinned full out at the camera and this is the photograph Sherlock has taped to the wall. He has precious few actual photos of John as the two of them usually snap pix on their mobiles. He thinks of the few digital photos he has taken of John with his camera phone, when the doctor isn't looking or paying attention.

If John is aware of the photographs Sherlock has kept on his mobile, he never mentions it. Sherlock is very well aware, however, that John has taken several of him at crime scenes or occasionally around the flat.

Sherlock has seen all of them as he uses John's phone frequently when he can't be arsed to get up to fetch his. Of course, he looked. John has precious privacy living with Sherlock Holmes but it does not seem to have bothered him overly much.

Sherlock shakes his head to dispel these unhelpful thoughts and stares at the surveillance photos taped on the wall. He has studied them a dozen times over and cannot find a single solitary clue that will point to John's current location.

He lights another cigarette and goes over the facts he does have in lightning speed. He ticks each one off in his head.

Blood on surgery floor matches John's blood type, but then they knew that. 

Bullet in frame of door is from a Browning.  In order to know for certain if it was from John's gun, they would have to have his gun for comparison. They do not.

Smaller blood stain in front of surgery door is John's blood type. Suspected as much but needed confirmation. 

Ambulance insignia and tag match an ambulance from a bona fide Emergency Response company. That ambulance was taken to the shop for routine maintenance. Reported missing 5 days ago. Surveillance cameras across street from shop recorded nothing as they were aiming in opposite direction, down the street. Ambulance found abandoned one day later, miles outside London.

Evidence of blood in ambulance; however, it had been in frequent use and the fact that John's blood type was found on floor means nothing. But tags check out.

Uniforms of Emergency Services team match those of bonafide emergency services company, which recently reported that their last uniform order came up short. No one knows how or when the three uniforms went missing, just that they weren't in the shipment when it arrived at the office. 

Mycroft's man – dead at scene – was shot in back of head with a high powered rifle. Angle of bullet of no help as he had fallen over in street and bullet could have come from basically anywhere, any of the empty buildings or flats behind John's surgery. Police searched anyway but found nothing.

Mycroft's man in hospital, still holding his own, also shot with high powered rifle, but bullet grazed side of head and second bullet embedded in upper left shoulder. He may or may not survive. 

No witnesses to either shooting. Both of them happened in early evening, after Sherlock left John at the surgery. Apparently, no one heard or saw a damned thing.

Sherlock frowns at this – he should never have left John - and lights another cigarette from the one burning in his hand. He tosses the butt at an empty can and hope he hits it. He doesn't need another visit from Mrs. Hudson right now about the smell of cigarette smoke or the state of the flat.

John's dog tags delivered to police by one of Sherlock's own homeless network, who was given a fiver by unknown male to stand in front of abandoned building and wait for police or Sherlock Holmes to show up. Once they did, homeless man to give them the brown envelope with the name Sherlock Holmes on front. No clue there. 

Envelope containing first dvd delivered to the Yard by courier. Courier service received phone call to come to a metro hotel, pick up package at front desk with directions to deliver and payment left in cash. When questioned, hotel front desk said gentleman by name of John Watson had left the package, said he was staying at the hotel, and could they please call a courier for him. Name checks out. There was a John Watson on reservation list for later that evening – but he never shows. Reservation canceled. 

Sherlock pauses in his pacing as this one fact leaves him absolutely livid with anger. How dare they – how dare he use John's name…reservation made in name of John Watson….

Sherlock gets angrier by the minute over this evidence of Moriarty's smug assurance that his plan would be perfectly executed…as it was..nearly, except: John was not supposed to be shot.

Second disc delivered to Yard by different courier company. Same scenario. Different metro hotel. 

Sherlock's mind shies away from the second disc for a moment. He honestly does not know if he can go over it again that soon. He parks it for now.

Three victims of drug overdose – all died with evidence of same drug in their veins. Two in their flats found by mates; one had been to a party earlier with over 100 other students in attendance. Drink and drugs galore. And of course, no one saw or noticed a bloody thing.  No hope there. 

Second victim found dead in his bed – also by flat mate. Known user of drugs, pot, crack, occasionally something stronger. No evidence he left flat and no evidence that anyone came to see him. Empty hypodermic found on floor, underneath dead student's hand. No fingerprints other than his and flat mates, found in the flat or on hypo. Flat mate out all day at classes and part time job so knew nothing until he returned late that night. No joy.

Third victim – Chris Madison. Found dead by lake. Only victim whose body was left out in open. Sherlock originally surmised the murderer was escalating … but that was before he knew who the murderer was. James Moriarty. Madison known to have left flat after row with lover early that morning. Found late that same afternoon by jogger. Body dumped. Ground slightly damp from rain that morning, dozens of footprints left in mud, including those of jogger who found body. Tire tracks indicate a van of some sort but there are two other sets of tires also matching larger vehicles leading up to and away from same general location as body.

Sherlock now in possession of circular advertising opening of new art gallery. Madison may or may not have attended. Needs to be investigated. TO DO: Police to interview Gallery attendant, see if anyone remembers Madison being there. He left the circular with Lestrade who promised to put a man on it immediately. However, it is now evening and gallery is closed to public. So no data until the next morning on that lead.

Still no report on individuals - pharmaceutical houses - who have purchased combination of drugs in recent months. Lestrade promises something by morning.

And finally, John had met Sally Donovan for a casual lunch – sandwiches and coffee – over four weeks ago. They ate at a small café and yes, there were surveillance cameras on both corners. Apparently John shares love of James Bond films and novels with Donovan, offers to lend his precious paperbacks of original novels to Donovan, who knows they were given to John by mate in Army. She promises to take great care of them. End of story. No clues. But obviously John was being watched, recorded, followed by as much as four weeks back, possibly longer.

Sherlock stops pacing and throws himself down on the leather sofa, still smoking. He stares at the stains on the ceiling. He inhales one more time, deeply pulling the smoke into his lungs, grinds the butt out in the can on the floor next to him. He steeples his fingers under his chin and - finally – allows his mind to replay the second dvd.

John, alone in what appears to be a simply furnished bedroom, much the same as a hotel room (possible fact?), thrashing on top of sheets, in delirium.

John bunching his hands into fists as his body arches and spasms, his eyes tightly closed.

John leaning over side of bed and vomiting until his stomach can't possibly contain any more fluids.

John, pouring sweat from every pore, attempting to sit on side of bed, instead falling over onto floor, his body wracked with shudders as he attempts to crawl into what looks to be a loo off to the side.

John, eyes tight shut, curled into ball, screaming … screaming … screaming…

Agitated, Sherlock sits up and clasps his hands under his chin. He stares at the carpet in front of him.

John. John. John .

He fists his hands into his curls and tugs sharply, wishing he could tug some sense into his brain. He looks up and around at their flat.

He stands and walks over to John's chair and looks down at it as if it holds a clue he has missed.

He frowns at John's book, lying on the table next to his chair. A half-drunk cup of tea, sits next to it. The cup has been there for days now. Sherlock remembers walking over to John's chair, grinning down at the doctor, who looked up at him and grinned right back. Sherlock extended a hand – and John took it and followed him into their bedroom, leaving his book unread and his tea to grow cold.

Sherlock Holmes stands in the middle of their living area, eyes closed, and thinks he is losing his mind.

He sits back down on the sofa, shoving the pillow and blanket out of the way.  He will no no longer sleep in the bed – their bed – until he brings John home and they sleep there together.

He lights another cigarette and deliberately calms his mind. 

Sherlock nods once.  He has come to a decision. He gets up and grabs John's laptop from where it sits on the kitchen table and brings it back to the sofa. He sits and thinks over what his next move.

Finally, he opens the laptop and types in the web address for The Science of Deduction. As he types and waits for the website to come up, he goes over what he will say to Moriarty. How he will get Jim to come out and play – and accept Sherlock Holmes as an immediate exchange for John Watson's safe return.

He stares at the screen, unbelieving.

His web site has been disabled.

Sherlock's eyes widen and he literally throws the laptop to the floor, not even wincing as he hears the case crack. He stands and screams at the room.

"Mycroft!"

He doesn't even have the chance to get to his feet to find his mobile phone before it rings.

"Mycroft – You are a dead man, unless –"

His brother's voice rings out in the silence, as if he stands there in front of Sherlock.

"Sherlock – did you really think I intended to sit idly by while you offeredyourself as hostage in exchange for John?"

"Mycroft –" Sherlock literally screams at his brother. His fingers tighten on his mobile and he fights the urge to hurl the damned thing against the wall, as if that could obliterate the memory of his brother's face from his mind.

"Sherlock – I have two brothers. One of them has been taken. I have absolutely no intention of losing the other. Find another way."

Sherlock takes a deep breath, tries to calm his immediate anger.

"Mycroft, every clue leads nowhere. I have to get to John. For gods' sake, what is the use of your position – what is the fucking use of You if you can't help me do this one thing."

Mycroft's voice is adamant and brooks absolutely no argument.

"No. Sherlock. Find. Another. Way."

He hangs up. Sherlock is left standing there, staring at the walls.

OooOooO

Sally Donovan taps on Lestrade's door, pokes her head around to look at the DI.

"Sherlock just called. He wants you to look at the second dvd again. He has a question. Says it's absolutely urgent and he needs a response now."

Lestrade frowns, nods for Sally to come on into his office. He picks up the disc that he and Sherlock had viewed just a few hours earlier and that Lestrade is trying to erase from his memory, it was that sickening.

He looks up at her.

"What's the question?"

Sally sighs. "He wants to know the color of the walls."

Lestrade raises one eyebrow. "What the hell –"

"The color of the walls. The paint color. Sherlock wants to know what color the walls are in the second disc. Says for you to text him when you get it."

Lestrade stares after her as she leaves. He finishes inserting the DVD and presses play.

OooOooO

Chapter 17: BERSERKER

Notes:

A Rash playing style characterized by frenzied attacking with one or two pieces, perhaps with little regard for strategy or danger.

OooOooO

Before Lestrade can replay the disc, Anderson sticks his head around the corner of his office door.

Lestrade stares at him, his hand hovering over the play button.

"Sherlock Holmes just called my mobile ? Said he had an urgent request for you, as you are going to be watching the second disc. "

Lestrade frowns. "Why doesn't the arse just text me?"

Anderson comes in to stand in front of Lestrade's desk. He runs his hand through his hair, which already sticks out at odd angles.

"I don't know. He said something about being too busy to text and he thought you were busy so –"

"All right. What's the request?"

Anderson clears his throat. "Floors."

Lestrade raises one eybrow. "Floors," he repeats slowly.

Anderson nods. "Yes. Floors. He wants to know what type of flooring you can see in the second video."

Lestrade sits back in his chair. "What the hell do you mean, what type of flooring?"

Anderson coughs. "Actually, maybe you'd better call him your-"

Sgt. Rodriquez sticks his head around the door. "Detective Inspector?"

He notes Anderson standing in front of Lestrade's desk and starts to back out. "Oh, sorry."

Lestrade sits up, drags one hand through his hair. "No, it's all right. We were nearly done. What do you need, Rodriquez?"

The sergeant comes into the room, stares at Anderson, and fidgets slightly.

"Well, sir, Sherlock Holmes just called my mobile and he has a request."

Lestrade, agitated now, stands up.

"Okay, that's it. Everybody out!"

Startled, Rodriguez leaves the office, followed closely by Anderson. Lestrade brings up the rear.

Lestrade stands at the front of the outer room, crosses his arms over his chest and says, in a very loud voice. "Right! I want everyone in this room to sit down – Now. I don't care if you sit on the bloody floor, just SIT!" he barks.

Eighteen pairs of eyes turn to the Detective Inspector, widen, realize he means business and eighteen bums hit chairs, desk edges and the corners of counter tops. There is utter silence.

Everyone stares at the D.I.

"Okay, listen up. If anyone – and I mean anyone – has had a phone call, a text message, an email or a ruddy smoke signal from Sherlock bloody Holmes in the past half hour, I want you to stand up."

Everyone looks around but no one says a word. There is one guffaw, immediately silenced, from the back of the room when Lestrade raises one eyebrow. Yes, that one.

Five people slowly get to their feet, including Anderson and Rodriguez.  Donovan, who is standing just back of Lestrade, sniggers. Lestrade turns slowly to stare at her, and she immediately  blushes and looks down at her feet.

He turns back to the room.

"All right. Everyone who is standing - my office – NOW!"

He stares down the rest of the room. "Everyone else – back to whatever you were doing. Move!"

There is a veritable storm of frantic activity.

The five people who stood up follow Lestrade into his office. He barks out, "Donovan! In here, now!"

"Yes sir." Donovan hurries to comply. She brings up the rear, and ends up standing by the door as there isn't much room left.

Lestrade crosses around his desk, stares at the five (six with Donovan) people in front of him, notes one of them is Perkins the chemist, (where'd he come from?) and finally sits down in his chair. He picks up a pen from the desk in front of him and starts to beat a small rhythm with it on the blotter pad.

"All right. Let's start with Donovan. Donovan."

"Yes sir."

"You said earlier that Sherlock – Mr. Holmes wants to know the color of the walls in this video."

He indicates the dvd lying on top of his pc.

Sally swallows. "Yes sir. He needs to know the color of—"

"Right."

Lestrade writes "wall color" on the pad in front of him. He turns his head slightly to the next person. "Rodriguez –"

Rodriguez comes more or less to attention. "Yes, Detective Inspector?"

"What request did Mr. Holmes make of you?"

Rodriguez clears his throat nervously, glances around the room at the others.

"Er, sir, I don't – well, he wanted to know – wants to know if you can see any windows in the room on the disk."

"Windows," repeats Lestrade slowly.

Rodriguez nods, eyes wide. It is the first time he has ever spoken with Sherlock Holmes and frankly doesn't know how the man even got his mobile phone number.

"Yes sir. Windows. As in, are there any?"

"Windows."  Lestrade makes a notation on a pad in front of him with the pen.  Glances at the next person.

"And sir?"

"Yes, Rodriguez?"

"He asks that if there aren't any windows, can you ascertain where the lighting is coming from?"

"Lighting," repeats Lestrade.

Rodriguez nods "Yes, sir," he squints, remembering. " Mr. Holmes said, 'Ask Lestrade if there are any windows and I believe there are not. But perhaps my eyes played tricks. If there are no windows, where is the light coming from? I did not see a ceiling fixture or a bedside lamp. Is the light coming from the ceiling downward or the floor upwards?' "

Rodriguez glances at Lestrade. "Or both, sir. I believe he used the term ambient lighting, sir."

"Ambient ruddy lighting?"

"Yes,Sir. Ambient lighting."

"Christ," mutters Lestrade. "Just - ." He makes a note on the pad. Looks up.

"That all, Rodriguez?"

"Er, no sir."

Lestrade sighs. "What else?

"Well sir," Rodriguez shifts around some. "Sir – how did —Mr. Holmes even get my mobile phone number? We've never spoken before."

"Rodriquez, if I knew how Mr. Holmes does half the things he does, I'd be a wiser man. Don't let it overly concern you."

"No sir. Sorry, sir." Rodriguez steps back slightly, tries to blend in with the walls.

"Anderson, you said something about floors."

Anderson crosses his arms over his chest, defensive where Sherlock bloody Holmes is concerned.

After all, one incident of observing social niceties does not make up for years of verbal abuse from the consulting detective – make that sociopath.

"Yes, floors, sir. More specifically, he – Holmes -- asked if we – if you could tell if the floors are hardwood, laminate or carpet. He believes he saw hardwood but wants to corroborate this with you."

If Lestrade raises his eyebrow at the word corroborate from Anderson's mouth, he suppresses it.

Lestrade writes two words on the pad. Hardwood Or?

He looks up at the third person in the room.

"Doctor Perkins. Did Sherlock Holmes call you too?"

The chemist, sweating at this close proximity to so many of Scotland Yard's finest and at the third time he has been in this office within 8 hours, nods.

"Yes sir. Er – yes Detective Inspector. He asked – that is, he wanted to know if I had the list of persons or companies who had ordered that combination of drugs yet."

"I told Mr. Holmes earlier today that you would have that list to him in the morning."

Perkins nods, jerkily. "Yes sir, I know you did. But he called my phone to tell me – Detective Inspector, may I be frank?"

Lestrade sits back in his chair tiredly and fixes the chemist with a piercing gaze. "I wish to God you would be, Perkins."

Perkins nods, bobbing his head. "Yes Sir. I find Mr. Holmes – er , decidedly off-putting. And I have no idea where he got my phone number, unless you gave it to him."

He takes out a handkerchief, wipes his face, sticks it back in his shirt pocket. "Sir."

Lestrades eyes widen, not because of the added "Sir" but because he did not know that anyone in this day and age still uses handkerchiefs, let alone chemists with Ph.D's. Some part of his brain wonders where you even buy the sodding things. Presumably there is a handkerchief store - somewhere. He mentally files this away with the eternal question of where Mycroft Holmes gets his umbrellas.

But all he does is reply dryly, "Yes, Perkins, we all do – find him off-putting, that is. Don't let his attitude concern you. And Perkins, I did not and have never shared the mobile phone numbers of anyone in this room with Mr. Holmes. We do not, frankly, know how he does it."

He taps thoughtfully on the pad in front of him with the pen. "Is that all?"

Perkins shakes his head. "No sir. He also told me that he needs me to cross reference the list of persons, er, individuals or companies who have purchased the drugs in question, with, well, what other industries they might own or be involved in. I'm probably not explaining this very well."

Lestrade leans forward, tents his hands in front of him, gives a sigh. God, he has the beginnings of a royal headache.

"Okay, Perkins, say that again."

Emboldened, Perkins steps forward. "Sherlock Holmes wants a list of individuals or companies who have purchased these drugs in the past six months. He then wants me to take that list and cross reference each name on it with any other businesses or industries those individuals – or companies – might own stock in or be involved in or – including galleries, museums, shops and – whatever."

Lestrade looks up sharply. "Museums?"

Perkins nods. "Yes sir, he mentioned museums, art galleries, and shops. I have no idea why."

"Sir," he adds as an afterthought. Perkins stands back from the desk.

Lestrade stares at him. He picks up the pen, beats a small staccato on the pad, and finally, writes two sentences on the pad in front of him. Tiredly, he swivels his head to the next to last person in line. He tries to remember this young woman's last name but can't even remember her face, for crying out loud.

The woman stands nervously, fingering the fringe on her pocketbook she has slung over her shoulder.

Lestrade says, "All right. You're next , er – "

"Cassie, sir. Sgt. Cassie Vernon."

"Sgt. Vernon," repeats Lestrade. His eyes widen. "Don't tell me Sherlock Holmes called you, too."

"Oh no, sir. Actually, he called Sgt. Patterson, Missing Persons, but she's out sick. And I was just transferred to Missing Persons and so, well - Anyway, Mr. Holmes had a request."

Lestrade sits back tiredly. "Sgt. Vernon if you are going to tell me Mr. Holmes wants to know what color boxers Doctor Watson is wearing in this video –"

He leaves off, as her face turns a deep crimson.

"Wouldn't mind knowing that myself," murmurs Donovan from his far left. She immediately shuts up when the D.I. turns his laser gaze upon her. "Sorry, Sir."

"Oh no, Detective Inspector. What Mr. Holmes wanted to know is – have there been any missing persons filed in the past month – of a medical nature."

"Medical?" Lestrade fixes her with his glare.

She nods enthusiastically, entirely tickled to be included in this investigation – in any investigation as a matter of fact. Heck to be included in anything that doesn't involve files and filing and more ruddy files and -

"Yes sir. He wants to know if anyone has reported a friend or relative missing, who is in the medical industry. Doctor or Nurse."

Lestrade's eyes narrow. "And?" He stands up to stretch his back muscles. Waits for her reply.

She nods again, entirely too happy for Lestrade's mood.

"Just like a damn bobble head," thinks Anderson. He risks a quick glance at Lestrade and can see that the same thought has crossed the D.I.’s mind. Anderson smirks.

"Yes sir. Do we have any missing nurses or doctors or other medical personnel in the past month."

"And you found some?"

"One, sir. I found one." She leans over his desk and hands him a thin file.

Lestrade takes it, glances at the typed label, looks back at her.

"L. Hansen?"

She smiles, happily. "Yes, Detective Inspector. Ms. Lori Hansen. An RN. Not assigned to any specific hospital or clinic. She works as a temp, filling in for nurses who are on maternity leave or vacation, that sort of thing."

Lestrade opens the file, glances at the photo and reads a few words of the report. He looks back at Cassie Vernon, who smiles happily back at him. Her world is rocked.

"And how is this supposed to help the investigation into Doctor Watson's disappearance?"

"I have no idea, Sir," she says breathlessly. "But not only her agency but her sister reported her as missing nearly a month ago. She was supposed to report for a temp job but never made it there. No one's seen her since. Everything is in that report. We've got bulletins out all over the metro –"

"Yes, all right. Thanks." He looks at her, lowers his voice to put her more at ease.

"Good work, er, Sgt. Vernon. Thank you for finding this. I'll make certain Mr. Holmes gets this information."

She nods happily, pleased as punch. "Yes sir. Anything I can do to help sir."

He looks her in the eyes. "Well, if this is the only missing medical person—"

In her eagerness, she interrupts him . "Yes sir, only one reported in the past month, that is. Actually in the past two months. I checked. Just in case"

He clears his throat. "All right. Thank you. You may go. And Sgt. - er Vernon?

She turns back at the door. "Yes, Detective Inspector?"

"Good work finding this. I'll note it in your file."

The smile she gives him is blazing. "Oh, Thank you, Sir!" She goes out, pulling the door nearly shut behind her.

Lestrade stares at the file, sits back down and looks at the last man standing in front of him.

He raises an eyebrow.

The man coughs, stands at attention. "Mike Youngchild, sir."

"Mike Youngchild," repeats Lestrade, now entirely at sea.

"Yes sir. I came in to make a missing person's report and well, they referred me to your office and when you asked if anyone had spoken with Sherlock Holmes, well—"

Lestrade stares at him as if he is staring at a particularly interesting specimen of bug.

"Mr. Youngchild? What do you do and why are you here and why did Mr. Holmes call you?"

"Actually, it was an email, DI Lestrade."

Of course it was.

Lestrade leans all the way back, the easier to narrow his eyes at this individual.

"You came in to file a missing person's report and you were referred to my office?"

Youngchild nods, soberly. He is uneasy and frankly, out of his depth.

"Yes sir. I work for Dr. Franks, Dr. Marcus Franks, the research - er, never mind. And well, he's gone missing."

"Sir." He adds.

Lestrade stares at him. "Gone missing. And why didn't Officer Vernon know this earlier?"

"Well, because I just filed the report today, Sir. I figured someone better - well, no one else was going to do it."

"And your relation to this missing Doctor is-?" Lestrade begs the question.

"I'm his accountant. Dr. Franks' accountant, that is. We had a firm appointment two weeks back to go over his tax situation and he never showed, never cancelled, never phoned. When I called at his clinic, his nurse told me she hadn't seen or heard from him in nearly two weeks. She hadn't filed a missing report either because –"

"Because why, Mr. Youngchild? Four weeks is a long time."

Youngchild nods. His adams apple bobs up and down.

"Yes, I thought so too. But she says he's done this before. Taken off, that is. No prior warning. For weeks at a time. Says she got worried the first time it happened, and she filed a missing person's report on him but eventually he called her to check in and – "

Lestrade raises on eyebrow.

Youngchild swallows, continue. "Well, she said he read her the riot act. Got all upset and antsy with her and told her that her job was in jeopardy if she ever made that type of decision again. But I felt, given that the nature of the business we had was important sir, as there are deadlines with the Inland Rev—"

"Yes, yes, thanks."

Lestrade sits back and stares at Youngchild. He repeats slowly, "You received an email from Sherlock Holmes, asking about the whereabouts of this Dr. Marcus Franks?"

Youngchild blushes. He is very fair and the red color spreads rapidly up his throat, spotting his cheeks.

"Sorry, DI Lestrade. No. I didn't make myself clear. I guess you could say that I was the one who contacted Sherlock Holmes and he was the one who replied to me. Actually over a week ago."

"A week ago," asks Donovan. She has echoed Lestrade's question so he remains quiet and waits for the man to answer. "An entire week. Seven days to be exact."

"Yes sir. Er, Ma'am. See, I – er, I like to follow police reports, I listen to a scanner and all and well, Sherlock Holmes, is simply – er." Clearly embarrassed now, he looks down at his feet.

One of Greg Lestrade's strengths is his patience. This has been honed to a fine art over five years of working with Sherlock Holmes. He merely raises one eyebrow. And waits.

Youngchild looks him in the eye. Nods once. "You see, I felt, since Dr. Franks had more or less disappeared and since his own nurse hadn't even bothered to call it in and since I had an appointment with him and since he has never, to my knowledge, missed one of our scheduled meetings, and since I knew Mr. Holmes had that web site – the one where you can send in questions and he answers them? Well, I just sort of…" his voice trails off.

"That's a lot of suppositions, Mr. Youngchild," says Lestrade. He narrows his eyes at the accountant. "And Mr. Holmes answered you – when?"

"Oh, almost immediately sir. That same day, I believe. Mr. Holmes' email said I should report Dr. Franks as missing if it had been more than 48 hours and I sort of, let it go for a few days, thinking he might turn up. When he didn't return my mobile call last night, or respond to my text about his – er – tax situation, I decided to come in and make the report. I was referred to you and that is what I am doing here now. Only I think Mr. Holmes recommended I make the report at a local precinct. Which is where I went.  But the minute I mentioned the name Sherlock Holmes, they recommended I come straight to you. And -- here I am."

Youngchild finally takes a breath.

Lestrade stares at him, thinking hard. "Okay. We have two missing persons, both in the medical field. One this nurse," he glances down at the folder on his desk. "This Lori Hansen. And the other is this Dr. Marcus Franks."

He stares past Youngchild, thinking.

"And just exactly when did this Doctor. 'disappear' again?"

"About four weeks back sir, give or take a few days."

"And his people say he's done this before?"

Youngchild clears his throat. "Yes. That is what they told me and that is why they haven't filed a missing person's report. Said he'd be very angry if they did so."

"Angry. A man, a Doctor, goes missing for nearly four weeks or more but no one bothers to call it in or make a report."

Youngchild shakes his head. "Apparently not."

Lestrade writes the words - Dr. Marcus Franks – four weeks, down on the pad in front of him. Sits back.

"Sodding hell."

No one dares answer him.

"All right then. If that is all, everyone please go back to your duties. Donovan and I will go over the video and send Mr. Holmes a text with this information."

Sally Donovan stands to the side so they can all file past her. Anderson raises an eyebrow at her, but she shakes her head at him as he walks past. She closes the door behind them.

"Donovan?"

She stands straighter.

"I'm sorry sir, I know that Doctor Watson is in a bad way and didn't mean to speak light of it. Frankly, the whole situation makes me sick to my stomach."

"You're not the only one, Sally. I want you to watch this with me, make certain I don't get anything wrong. It's er – rather disturbing."

She crosses in front of his desk to sit in the chair at his righthand side.

"It can't possibly be more disturbing than the first video, sir." she says quietly.

Lestrade looks at her, raises one eyebrow.

"Oh. " She looks down at her hands, then back up at the dvd, a slightly sick expression on her face. "Oh."

He nods, picks up the disc and pops it into his pc. He slides a notepad and pen across to her.

She takes the pen and pad and leans forward to watch.

Ten minutes later, Sally Donovan slides her notes to Lestrade, gets up, hurriedly leaves the room without asking permission and barely makes it to the ladies room before she loses her lunch in the toilet.

OooOooO

 

Chapter 18: STRATEGY

Notes:

Evaluation of game positions and setting up goals and longer-term plans for future play.

OooOooO

John Watson is naming the bones of the human foot. Every time his thoughts become muddled and he stumbles over a particular bone, he stops, frowns, then begins the process all over again.

He is currently on the groups of bones that collectively make up the Tarsus and finds his brain is becoming tired. Nevertheless, he persists.

Calcaneus, Talus, Navicular, Medial Cuneiform, Intermediate Cuneiform then the, yes, the Lateral Cuneiform… Right, he's forgotten one. John sighs and tries to collect his thoughts. It is increasingly harder to do.

Okay, back to the beginning. Oh, Cuboid, that's the one he left off. Okay then. Calcaneus, Talus, Navicular, Medial Cuneiform…

He has been lying there, eyes closed, nearly naked, shivering in the cold room and naming the bones of the human skeleton for over an hour, although John is no longer capable of judging time.

If you were to ask John how long he has been in that small room, lying on that bed or making his way to the small loo to heave into the toilet (when he isn't restrained and still able to move around) he would not be able to tell you. Weeks, maybe? Perhaps a month? No, definitely not a month but perhaps a week or more. Two weeks?

In reality, it has been a little over five days, nearly six. But John has no way of knowing this. His ability to judge time – amongst other things - has become steadily eroded along with his mental processes.

However, John is for these precious few minutes, awake and aware of his surroundings. He doesn't know how long this condition will last and he can't bring himself to really care.

All John does know is that his blood feels hot and sluggish, his skin itches uncontrollably, and the sensation is slowly driving him mad. He knows, too, that he feels anxious. And cold. His heart rate has increased and he is trying, harder than he has ever tried in his life, not to cough. Coughing has become bad, wayy bad.

His last coughing fit lasts for nearly a minute and leaves him shaking uncontrollably, gasping for air, one arm slung over his ribs in a vain attempt to protect them.

Yes, coughing is to be avoided at all costs.

He also realises that he has no compulsion to eat any of the food they have left for him. He does, occasionally, drink when he remembers to do so. A small part of John's mind, tucked away deeper and deeper, tells him this is not good. But he has no energy left to think about these things. All of his energy, all of the tiny spark that is still John Watson, goes into breathing. And trying to hold onto his mind.

He has to give Sherlock time.

John steadfastly refuses to listen to that terrified part of his brain that tells him to start screaming, keep on screaming, and never stop screaming until someone comes in and gives him another injection – or puts a bullet in his brain.

John goes back to naming the bones in the foot.

Sherlock ... Sherlock

OooOooO

Sherlock paces back and forth in front of the wall that has the sheets of paper, scribblings, his notes, Mycroft's surveillance photos and John's photo taped to the side of it all.

He stops pacing for a moment and stares at the photograph.

For days, Sherlock has felt as if he has been operating in a fog. As if the very fact of John's disappearance has rendered him incapable of sustained rational thought. This realization has at times threatened to fill him with despair.

This, he thinks, is why he has done his damnedest to avoid feelings, and all emotional entanglements. The fact that this has been incredibly easy for him his entire life, until John, does not escape him.

Sherlock feels that these emotions are – no, correct that - he knows these emotions, these overwhelming feelings he has for his Army doctor, are affecting his deduction skills to the point that they are going to get John killed if he cannot shake them and get back to that place his mind usually inhabits – where his thoughts are orderly, firing with laser-like precision, pinpointing every single bit of data available, deducing the obvious, making the connections between the not so obvious … finding John.

The video he and Lestrade watched is the only solid evidence they have concerning John's whereabouts. Lestrade and his team are working on getting him answers to every question he has asked.

Sherlock calls Lestrade directly three times in the past hour, demanding answers, asking where Dr. Perkins' list is. Twice Lestrade picks up the line to reassure him that they are doing everything they can to get him answers.

The third time, Lestrade is on the other line and refuses to take his call.

Sherlock glances at his watch and then back at John's photograph. If nothing has happened to interfere, then Lestrade is viewing the video again - now - and promises he will call or text Sherlock within the half hour.

But they still have to wait several more hours for Dr. Perkins' list as it has to be cross-referenced with available databases. And that takes time. Lestrade is putting a team on that and he, Lestrade, has promised Sherlock answers to his questions soon, in the morning.

But will that be soon enough to help John? Sherlock isn't certain about anything anymore.

He feels that he is so close to knowing where John is. But everything hinges on the answers Lestrade gives him and on that damned list. Everything.

He already has an idea – strange, yes, but the facts, so far, seem to fit. But he doesn't dare rush off to act on his instincts alone. If he is wrong, if he "guesses" incorrectly, if he acts without the data he so desperately needs, then he will get John Watson killed.

He wants to scream with impatience.

Instead he paces and smokes.

Finally, he slumps on the sofa, fists clenched in his dark curls, eyes closed. Thinking.

He is still not used to these feelings he has around John …  for John.

And he is afraid if he sits here and examines those feelings too closely, if he thinks about how perfect it is now with John, how brilliant and wonderful and very, very good John is, how John is everything that he, Sherlock can never hope to be, and how inexplicably this incredible person came into his life, then he will lose his train of thought altogether – and ultimately lose John.

And that scenario is 100% totally unacceptable to Sherlock Holmes.

As he sits there, eyes shut, waiting for Lestrade's text, he has a niggling thought. It persists. It's nearly as if John Watson sits next to him and whispers in his ear.

Sherlock opens his eyes and stares at John's chair, at his abandoned book and cup of tea. He reaches for his mobile phone and thumbs through the addresses.

If he can't help John for a few more hours, then by God there is someone he can help.

Sherlock types his text – hits Send.

OooOooO

Dr. Sarah Sawyer, preparing for bed, hears the text chime across the room. She retrieves her mobile phone from her purse, then sits on the edge of her bed and stares at the little screen.

It is from Sherlock Holmes. Sarah's heart begins to beat faster as she imagines that Sherlock has some word of John. It has been months since they dated and that is all over now, was all over, really, before it ever really began – once John realized it was not Sarah Sawyer that John wanted and needed to make him whole.

But she and John have remained good friends, make a good working team and she has been sick with worry over his disappearance, not made any easier by the overly large bloodstain left in the carpet at the clinic floor - the impossible stain she and her people have had to walk around for nearly a week now, while the police run their tests.

Earlier that day, she stood and watched as workmen came in to rip out the carpeting and replace it with new. And some small part of her died. It was as if all evidence of John's very existence was disappearing as easily as his blood, his DNA disappeared, ripped apart by the workmen's carpet knives and tack hammers. When she could no longer watch, she went into the office they shared and shut the door.

Staring at her phone screen, Sarah takes a breath as she taps the screen to read Sherlock Holme's text. She reads it twice, incredulous.

Then Sarah quickly dials a number on her mobile.

"Ann? Yes, it's Sarah. Listen, sweetie, can you make an emergency visit for me? Possible suicide. Tonight would be great.  Yeah, I know it's getting late. I'm so sorry. I'll email you the details. Check in a minute, okay?"

She listens to her friend's answer, hangs up the phone. Sarah then rereads the text from Sherlock, particularly, the last five words.

Still no word of John.

SH

Sarah acknowledges his text with as few words as possible, then tosses her phone onto the nightstand.

She stares in front of her. "Then what use are you, Sherlock Holmes? What possible fucking use are you?"

She lies back across her bed for a few moments and shades her eyes with her arm.

OooOooO

Lori Hansen, RN, stands at the small sink in the clinic. Her thoughts are in turmoil. On a tray beside her is a prepared injection. Sitting on the shelf over the sink, along with other bottles, jars and preparations, is a small jug of deionized water. She looks from the hypodermic to the deionized water and back again to the hated injection.

Staring at the injection prepared for Doctor Watson, she is sick to her very soul.

"What are the odds – could I?" she thinks. "The cameras … would they see?" She closes her eyes.

A small draft behind her tells her the door has opened.

"What are we waiting for?" Stephan comes in to flop down on the worn leather sofa.

"Aren't you or Franks going back to shoot up the guinea pig?"

She wants to round on him, to shout, "Don't ever refer to Doctor Watson that way again." But she doesn't. Instead, she shudders, takes a deep breath to get control of her thoughts.

All she says is, "I'm waiting for Dr. Franks."

Behind her, Stephan raises an eyebrow, frowns. "Lori, he's just another guy, you know? Franks has already tested this on three others. What's the big deal with one more?"

"No big deal," she says, keeping her voice low, quiet. "I just wish Franks would hurry up. I'm - tired – and need to get some sleep."

Lori washes her hands, yanks a couple of towels from the holder, using the motions to slow her thoughts and give her time to think. She bites her lip and  stares at her own reflection in the shiny aluminum paper towel holder in front of her.

Behind her, Stephan sighs and leans his yellow blonde head back on the cushions. He closes his startlingly blue eyes.

"Well, better hurry up, if they're still recording every move the poor sod makes. I don't think our good Doctor is long for this world, if you know what I mean."

Her eyes widen. "What do you mean," she tries to sound casual, disaffected.

Stephan does not bother opening his eyes. "I just mean he doesn't sound too good, you know? That wound is clearly infected, despite your best efforts, and his lungs sound wonky. Probably from the broken ribs. Wouldn't be surprised if the sob has pneumonia – or something. Add that to another couple injections, well…" his voice trails off.

Neither one of them speaks for a moment. Lori wonders if anyone can read the horror on her face. She forces herself to breathe deeply and relax her features.

His voice comes lazily, as if he is discussing weather patterns or what to have for dinner.

"Besides, when's the last time our good Doctor ate anything? Every tray I bring him is barely touched when I go get it. How much weight has he lost? Six, seven pounds or more? Do the maths."

Lori doesn't think it is possible for her to feel worse … but she is wrong.

Behind her, Stephan scrounges around on the sofa until his back is to the room and his face toward the cushions. He crosses his arms over his chest and sighs loudly. "Try not to wake me up when you get back, okay?"

"Yeah, okay."

Across the room, Lori stares at the injection on the tray and comes to a decision. Her hands begin to shake.

Slowly, she reaches up for the deionized water, but then stops mid-motion. The door behind her opens.

"Hansen? You ready?" Dr. Franks pokes his head in, then comes all the way into the room. "Got the injection prepared?"

She closes her eyes briefly, then re-opens them, her expression deadpan.

"Yes, Dr. Franks. Everything's ready."

She picks up the tray with the hypo and reaches for a box of gauze bandages, tape and a topical disinfectant.

Franks frowns at her. "What are those?"

Lori lifts her head and meets his gaze head on. She will not be cowed in front of this monster. She won't.

"Dr. Franks, his incision doesn't look good, nor do his ribs. I am going to change his bandages."

Franks stares at her, and a funny little smile plays around his bloodless lips.

"I don't much see the point, do you, Hansen? But if you want to play nurse, that's fine. Just get a move on."

He holds the door open and Lori walks past him, holding her breath as she does. She can't even stand to breathe the same air as this sorry bastard. She lets her breath go as she passes through the door, her hands full of bandages and the tray with the hypo.

She feels as if she were going to her own execution. Irrational, she knows, yet -

Try as Lori might, she can't shake the feeling that something is about to happen.

Something very, very bad.

OooOooO

Jim Moriarty looks up from one of his myriad computer screens as Sebastian comes into the room.

Sebastian grins. "Last injection."

Jim smiles, the smile that never reaches his eyes, the smile that any ocean-going predator would envy.

"Good," he nods. "Let the games begin."

He swivels back to the pc monitor, resumes typing.

Sebastian Moran, his hands in the pockets of his jeans, moves behind Jim, takes a seat, stretches his long legs out in front of him, and takes out a small Swiss Army Knife.

He begins to whistle as he trims his nails.

He says, casually, "Still sending Watson back to Holmes?"

Jim doesn't answer him. He just keeps on typing. And smiles.

OooOooO

Sherlock stops pacing when he hears the text chime. He digs the phone out of his pocket and reads Lestrade's text. Excellent.

Sherlock crosses to the notepad he has been using and writes down Lestrade's responses to his questions regarding the room that John Watson is being kept in.

He reads the text twice, nods. He knows – nearly -- what type of room John is being kept in and where you can find that type of room.

Everything hinges now on the information from the list that Dr. Perkins and his team is preparing.

Sherlock has already made the decision that he will send that list to Mycroft immediately and ask that his people cross reference it, as well. He has no problem using his brother's resources, particularly if it helps locate John Watson.

He is thinking along these lines when he receives another text from Lestrade.

3rd disc just delivered.

Donovan bringing to Baker St.

On her way now.

GL

Sherlock sends Lestrade his answer in the affirmative.

A large part of him wonders if Moriarty has changed his mind about returning John. The last thing Sherlock wants to do is view this disc.

And it is the one thing he must do. Besides, he can verify Lestrade's answers for himself - provided John is in the same room.

Sherlock tries to be brutally honest with himself.

A third video means more data, more input.

A third video means an improved chance at finding John.

A third video means that inevitably a small part of Sherlock's soul is about to be destroyed.

He goes back to pacing.

OooOooO

Chapter 19: BREAKTHROUGH

Notes:

Destruction of a seemingly strong defense, often by means of a Sacrifice.

OooOooO

The text chime sounds and Sherlock, who stands in front of the evidence wall, whips around to grab his mobile off the sofa.

Perkins group worked overtime. Initial list finished.

Follows. Not cross-referenced yet.

GL

He reads the text and smiles grimly. At last. Finally.

Thinking quickly, he texts Lestrade to please have his team look for the cross- references he outlined.

Once Lestrade texts him back in the affirmative, Sherlock immediately sends Dr. Perkins' list on to Mycroft, requesting the same cross-referencing information. He has no doubt that either Mycroft or Anthea will intercept it immediately and put someone on it.

He is right.

The answering text comes back almost immediately.

"Understood. Shouldn't take too long.

MH

Sherlock reads the words – and his heart hammers in his chest. He glances around the flat, and then hurries into his room to change clothes. A few minutes later, he emerges, dressed in black jeans (the ones that give John arrhythmia whenever Sherlock dons them – and always gets him laid) a dark blue shirt and black shoes. Forsaking his signature coat, he grabs a slim dark jacket out of their closet and tosses it onto the sofa. Upon second thought, he goes back into their bedroom, snags their thickest quilt off the bed, brings it to the living area and throws it on top of his jacket.

Then he hurries up the stairs to John's old room, taking the steps two at a time.

In John's former bedroom, Sherlock ignores the boxes and boxes of case files and opens the top drawer of John's bureau, to lift out the black box with the gold lettering.

He sits on the bed, takes a quick breath, then opens the box to stare at the gun that lays there, still nestled in its molded compartment. It's a beauty of a little weapon. Sherlock employed Mycroft's talents in finding it on time. He stares at it and his mind skitters away from what would happen to either John or himself if this weapon were ever discovered on their person -- or in their flat.

Sherlock gave the Makarov .380 to John a few months back on his birthday - along with a shoulder harness, an ankle holster and several clips of ammunition.

At first, Sherlock wondered if John liked his gift, as the doctor opened the box, then just stood there staring at the highly illegal weapon, his reactions not immediately evident to Sherlock.

But then Sherlock watched as John slowly, almost reverently lifted the gun out of its case, stared at it, then ran his hand over and around the finger guard, which was wide enough to fit over gloved fingers.  He rubbed his palm down the length of the barrel, and finally hefted it in his hand. Sherlock saw John's eyebrows raise and his mouth purse and heard the sharp intake of breath. John's respiration increased. Sherlock's eyes widened at the influx of new data.

For gods' sakes, the man's pupils were blown.

Sherlock wondered, at the time, if it were possible to be sexually jealous of a piece of weaponry. He is still wondering.

John obviously liked his gift very much indeed.

His flatmate then stood slightly on tiptoe to kiss Sherlock straight on the lips, look in his eyes, and say "Oh my god, I love it. Absolutely love it."

Sherlock felt warmth spread through his chest at John's obvious pleasure – and immediately recorded on his neural net that new firearms, the more exotic the better = John pleasure.

Sherlock grinned, always grateful for John data.

John immediately took the Makarov to the firing range employed by Mycroft's agents to break it in. To Sherlock's knowledge, John has carried it four times, when there was need, and always in its ankle holster.

Sherlock takes the gun out of the box, hefts it in his hand, and practices thumbing the safety catch off and on. John has kept it immaculately cleaned and oiled – as he does with all of his weapons. Sherlock can smell the faint trace of gun oil on it and his vision spikes – John, John.

Sherlock momentarily closes, then reopens his eyes, shaken to his very core with sudden want.

He feels no need to reread the slip of paper that is carefully folded up and tucked between the compartment and the box. He wrote the note to John, tucked it into the box before he wrapped it and he has every word committed to memory.

Sherlock stands and places the box back in John's bureau, then finds the ankle holster and the cartridges where John has placed them at the back of the drawer.

He turns to leave the room, hesitates, then turns back toward the bureau. He thinks of the second video, the one which showed John dressed only in a filthy tee shirt and boxers. Sherlock winces at the rest of the mental images and pushes them from his mind. He opens the second drawer and takes out John's favorite pair of pajamas, the extra warm ones with the tartan checks in the colors of the Watson clan.

He then goes back downstairs with his prizes to wait for Mycroft's – or Lestrade's – text.

And for Sally Donovan.

OooOooO

Greg Lestrade sits at his desk and frowns at a report on his pc screen, when Rodriguez sticks his head around the door.

"Now what?" demands Lestrade. Honest to God if Sherlock Holmes has –

Rodriguez, guessing what has made the DI's eyes narrow, shakes his head.

"Vernon, Missing Persons, just sent a follow-up to that file on that missing nurse – Hansen?"

Lestrade reaches for the file on the corner of his desk, then looks up at Rodriguez. "Well?"

Rodriguez tells him.

"Holy Buggering Hell!" the D.I. explodes.

Rodriguez's eyes widen and he beats a hasty retreat.

Lestrade picks up his phone and begins to type furiously. After a few words, he reconsiders, discards the text and dials Sherlock's mobile phone.

OooOooO

Sherlock answers his phone, wondering why Lestrade is calling instead of texting.

"Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade?"

"Sherlock, we just got new information on the missing nurse – Lori Hansen? "

Lestrade reads her name off the file in front of him. He flips open the file, glances at her picture and frowns. Pretty little thing with those huge brown eyes and dark hair, he thinks.

"Well?" demands Sherlock.

"That temp nursing job she was going to on the day she disappeared? Well, turns out it was at the medical clinic of one Dr. Marcus Franks, MD."

"Marcus Franks." says Sherlock slowly. He nudges his notepad closer and rereads the information there, although he has it all committed to memory.

"Yes, Franks. The one who currently has been "missing" for four weeks. Apparently, Ms. Hansen did make it to that appointment after all. I can send someone out there tomorrow to question whoever –"

"No, Greg. Please don't take any action until we get John away."

Sherlock hesitates, about to say something further to Lestrade, but thinks better of it.

There is silence from the other end of the line. Lestrade clears his throat. "Sherlock, this is a missing person’s case. It's not just John at stake here. I'll give you one hour tomorrow, after the clinic opens. Then we go in to look around and ask questions. We're – you're that close to finding John?"

"Yes, we're that close. Hours. I'll text you later. And Greg?  Thank you."

"No problem, Sherlock. I'll –" Lestrade hesitates, thinking of John. "I'll call you as soon as we have the cross-referenced list. Obviously, now, if we find Franks' name on any of those lists—"

"Obviously," says Sherlock dryly. He hangs up, thinking hard. He quickly texts the new data to Mycroft.

There is a hesitant tap at the door but he has already recognized Sally Donovan's footsteps.

Donovan hesitates at the open door, always a little surprised to find that Sherlock and John leave their flat door open so often. Presumably they close – and lock it – when they are home alone?

"Donovan. Thank you for coming."

Sherlock looks at her, but doesn't move from where he stands by their sofa. He raises an eyebrow at the shopping bag Sally carries, then sees the white envelope in her other hand.

Laptop. Where is his laptop? John's is currently lying in two pieces on the floor by his chair.

Right. He was reclining on the sofa, balancing his laptop on his stomach, the last time he used it.

Sherlock sits on the sofa, bends over to reach under and his fingertips come into contact with his laptop case. He hurriedly slides it out and sets it on the coffee table.

"Sherlock," Sally comes into the flat, hesitates, then crosses over to Sherlock and hands him the dvd in its white envelope.  She carefully watches his face as she hands over the disc. She cannot read his emotions at all. But that's par for Sherlock.

"I told Lestrade I wanted to bring this to you in person."

Sherlock accepts the disc, staring at it if it holds the meaning to life itself. His fingertips brush hers accidentally as she releases it.

Clearing her throat, Sally turns slightly and deposits the small shopping bag on the coffee table.

"Here are John's paperbacks – his James Bond books. Thought I'd return these, as well."

"Thank you," murmurs Sherlock, frowning at the bag. He glances up at Sally.

"Sally, thank you for making the trip."

"No problem. I want to help, any way I can." She glances around the flat, sees the evidence wall and stares at it, fascinated.

"Nothing yet?" she asks.

"Perkins list is done. They are cross-referencing," says Sherlock. He rises to his feet, towering a foot over Donovan. He has not removed his gaze from the disc in his hands.

"Okay." She is still hazy on the second set of parameters that Sherlock has asked for. She turns as if to go, hesitates. Turns back. Her gaze meets Sherlock's.

"Look, you're all alone here. If you want me to stay and watch the video with you, I - I'll do that."

Sherlock looks at her as if he's never seen her before.

"I wouldn't ask anyone else to do that," he says. His voice sounds slightly lost. He glances back at the disc in his hand.

"Okay. I just want you to know, I'll stay if you like." She glances over at the bag on top of the coffee table. "Sherlock, was there every any clue in those books?"

He shakes himself and follows her gaze to the rumpled bag that holds the old paperbacks so precious to John.

"Not in the way I believe you mean. Although they acted as a - timeline, if you will."

She turns fully around, stares at the detective. She frowns. "A timeline? How?"

"They tell me that John was being watched as long as four weeks ago. That's when the two of you met for lunch at that street café and John lent you his books. Moriarty hacked into the CCTV camera feeds, used the data to come up with that quote – the message he gave John to give to me."

Sherlock smiles grimly at her.

"It was Moriarty's way of letting me know that he'd been following John, stalking him for quite some time. Just another little twist of the knife."

"Oh." She pauses, thinking. Her head whips up, her eyes as wide as saucers. She stares at him.

Before she can speak, Sherlock shakes his head and assures her, "No need to be concerned, Sally. Moriarty isn't interested in you. And never was. It was John he was after. It's always been John. He could have had lunch with anyone. It just happened to be you."

"All right. Thanks." Sally takes a deep breath and looks from the books to Sherlock’s' face – and doesn't like what she sees there.

She takes a step forward. "Look, Sherlock. I know we've had our – differences – but this is John we're talking about. Please let me stay. I – I don't want you to see whatever's on that disc alone."

Sherlock stares at her in quiet amazement. Before he can answer, his mobile phone chirps.

He glances at it. It's from Mycroft.

Cross-references done.

Two hits. Franks is one of them.

Now what?

MH

Sherlock's eyes widen. Thinking furiously, he hesitates, then texts back.

Call me.

SH

OooOooO

Across town, Ann Edgars and Ron Weaver get out of Ann's car and knock on the door to Robbie Jameson’s' flat. They can hear hesitant footsteps crossing the floor. Finally, the door opens. A young man stands there, in flannel pajama bottoms and a dirty tee shirt. His eyes are red and swollen. It's obvious he's been crying. His hands are shaking and his shoulders are hunched in over himself, as if protecting himself from attack.

In her calmest voice, Ann introduces the two of them.

Robbie stares at her, not understanding. "Social Services? I don't know –"

"We visit the families of victims of – violence - and well, we wanted to come by this afternoon but we had two other stops to make. We are just checking up on you, seeing if you are all right, if there's anything in particular you might need?"

The lies flow easily off her lips and she smiles as gently as possible at the young man. Sarah called this one right. The signs are all here.

Without thinking about his actions, Robbie steps back and both Ann and Ron walk into the kitchen of the little flat. They both glance around. Ann looks at Robbie and keeps her voice and smile as pleasantly neutral as possible.

"I'm so sorry. I know it's getting late. We can come back tomorrow if it's a better time—"

"No, no. It's – I guess it's all right." He moves away so the two of them can come farther into the room. He goes to sit at the table and crosses his hands in front of him – and stares at the hideous orange table top.

Ann nods at Ron, who crosses to the stove, takes the kettle, fills it from the taps and places it back on the stove. He brings out some packets of tea and some biscuits from his coat pockets, finds a plate and busies himself washing out a few cups from the nearly overflowing sink of neglected dirty dishes.

While he works, Ann clears her throat once, puts her briefcase and purse on the floor beside her.

She studies the dark shaggy head for a moment. Pulling her chair closer to Robbie, she places two warm hands over his.

He doesn't flinch but raises bloodshot eyes to stare at her wonderingly. She looks directly into his eyes.

"Tell me about Chris Madison," she says quietly. "Tell me."

His eyes widen. Robbie gulps, lowers his head. His shoulders begin to shake.

Behind them, the kettle whistles and Ron makes them all tea.

OooOooO

John doesn't flinch when the door opens. Only one arm and one leg are restrained and he can curl in on himself if needed, but he is too tired to even attempt to move or to open his eyes. He lies on his back and concentrates on not coughing.

His mind registers the noise as people enter the room and there is a part of him that is happy that the drug will soon enter his system, happy that the terrible heat in his veins will leave and the itching will stop and the coolness will invade every molecule of his body and brain.

Happy for the dreams.

But the dreams have become chaotic with the last shot. And because of the chaos in his mind, he was unable to dream of those things he most wants - Sherlock, hot tea, warm baths, clean clothing, Home - Sherlock.

He tries not to think of the nightmare time.

But it's damned difficult.

Once, only once, in the delirium that precedes the dreaming, he idly wonders if Sherlock Holmes is, after all, a figment of his tired brain. Has he made him up? Is he, in fact, a real person?

That nightmare thought lasted only a few horrid moments before the tide washed over him and he blacked out again.

But the memory of the sickening thought remained and was with John when he finally awoke.

Sickened and appalled, John flinches from the horror of the thought that Sherlock is not real – has never been real.

And it is then, in those few moments of lucidity before they came in and gave him another injection, it is then that John realized the true nature of James Moriarty.

It is only then that he clearly sees that Moriarty's main cruelty lies not in physical torment, but rather in the slow, unremitting, relentless destruction of Hope.

Moriarty has taken that from him, from John – taken away all hope and twisted it until it is reduced to tiny shreds, to small gray bits of ash that scatter and blow away even as John's determination to remain awake and aware – and sane – scatters and blows away.

It is this realization that caused John, finally, to break down and sob just the one time, there in his hated prison, curled up on the bed where nobody witnessed it but the vigilant red eyes in the corners of the room.

Now he hears them enter the room. But he will not give them the pleasure of reaction. He remains limp, quiet, keeps his eyes shut and his muscles as relaxed as possible. Actually, it is not difficult to do at all now.

Almost idly, John wonders if the little nurse is in the room. She has been one of his two constants through this ordeal – her sporadic kindness – and his thoughts of Sherlock.

In some dim recess of his brain, John knows if Moriarty or Moran have the chance, they will twist and ruin that hope too – in the person of the young nurse – as they have twisted and ruined everything else.

He determines to do nothing that will harm her.

As he feels her cool hands on his thigh, changing the bandage, he wonders what her name is.

OooOooO

Franks enters the room, holds the door open for Lori Hansen. She deposits the things she is carrying on the foot of the bed and the tray on the little bedside table.

She wishes she has a change of clothing for Doctor Watson but they have not provided her with one this time. She wonders why they did not ask her to clean him up and change his clothing this time, as Jim has insisted, all along, that she keep the Doctor as clean as possible. She doesn't know what this means but has a dim idea and it sickens her.

"Okay, if you're going to change the bandages, go ahead."

She lays out the gauze pads, scissors, disinfectant and an antibiotic cream and begins to gently cut away the bandage around the incision on his thigh. Lori frowns as she works. Doctor Watson's skin is too warm and too dry to the touch. When she removes the bandage, she sees why.

"Hmmm. Bit of trouble there, " murmurs Franks. He stands to the side and watches her movements. She can tell from his tone of voice he really doesn't care about the obvious infection.

Carefully, Lori cleans and disinfects the incision, uses her cool fingers to spread the antibiotic ointment and proceeds to bandage John's thigh again. Once done, she gathers up the old bandage, tosses it into the bag she has brought with her and moves to the head of the bed to change the bandages around his ribs.

"Leave it," orders Franks tersely. He's had enough of her playing nurse and just wants to get on with it. It's late and he's tired.

She glances at him. "Why? Don't they want him to stay as healthy as possible, until –" she dares not voice the rest of that sentence. "I can finish up here if you like."

She holds her breath.

Franks stares at her, considering, then nods once.

"All right. Go ahead and change the bandage, give him the injection and report back to me in the clinic. We need to go over a few things tonight."

At the door, he turns. "But make it quick

He glances at John Watson and than smiles grimly. "Not that anything is going to help the poor sod. Die now - or die later. He's a dead man, either way."

She nods, pursing her lips. God she hates this man.

Franks shoots her a hard look, then turns and leaves the room.

Lori works quickly, removes the old bandages from John's ribs and replaces them with soft pads. She binds the pads with layers of gauze, gently working the cloth around and under him, moving her warm hands beneath his back to bring the bandaging up and around his chest. She repeats this several times until she feels his ribs are as protected as she can make them. She ends by taping the bandages off against his too hot skin.

Now for it.

She wads up the old bandages, leaves them lying next to him on the bed for a moment, then turns to get the hateful hypodermic. She wraps John’s arm in the rubber tubing and tightens it. Then she holds the hypo up so the camera can clearly see it, depresses the plunger just enough that a tiny stream is ejected and along with that, any air bubbles, and bends over to inject his arm, her dark hair falling across her shoulder and the crook of his elbow.

Lori Hansen quickly and expertly shoots the contents of the hypo into the discarded bandages. She straightens up, pulling the hypo across in her hand, clearly in the camera's line of sight, as if she has just injected it into John, nods once, and places the hypo on the small tray. She takes a cotton swab and wipes an imaginary spot of blood away from the crook of his elbow and finally pulls on the tubing to remove it.

Finally, Lori gathers up the old bandages and places them in the bag she has brought with her, picks up the remaining supplies, glances once around the room, then leaves John alone.

Tired beyond belief, skating along the very edge of consciousness, John is still aware enough to realize that she has prepped him for the hypo – but not injected him.

Part of him is furious. He can feel his blood moving slowly through his veins and the subcutaneous itching is driving him mad. He feels as if steaming heat is enveloping his brain cells and he wants to scream and go on screaming.

But part of him wonders if she is trying to help him. And it is that part, the part that is still John Watson, that makes the decision to go through the motions - for her sake, if not for his.

John arches his back, struggles briefly against his restraints and then allows himself to go limp.

He wonders how long he will be able to keep up the charade until the heat and itching and utter unfamiliar feeling of need and want overcome him and he begins to yell.

He wonders how long before he – finally, irrevocably – begins to lose his mind.

John is about to find out.

OooOooO

Mycroft's voice sounds tired. Sherlock wonders which world machinations are to blame for his brother's obvious exhaustion.

But he sets aside the snide remarks for once.

"Sherlock, walk me through this."

Sherlock gathers his thoughts. Sally Donovan sits in Johns' chair, unabashedly listening to Sherlock's side of the conversation. Her mind leaps to fill in what she is not hearing.

"We know that John is being kept somewhere close. The speed with which the videos reach us tells us that. Also, the ambulance was found abandoned outside London, but not far enough away to –"

"Sherlock, don't state the obvious. Focus. And get to the point. "

Five various snide remarks rise instantly to Sherlock's lips – but he voices none of them.

"You say Marcus Franks is on the list – the second list ?"

"Obviously. The first list is of individuals – or organizations – who have purchased that combination of drugs in the last six months. Dr. Marcus Franks, a research scientist, is on that first list, as well as several organizations, most often pharmaceutical houses and Research and Grants organizations. Actually, Franks' name pops up on the first list twice. Once in his own right and once as a member of the Board of a group of pharmaceutical houses that have offices throughout the UK and Europe.

"And you say he is on the second also?"

Mycroft's answers immediately.

"Yes, the second list cross references the first one – at your request – with industries, companies, and yes, museums, art galleries and the like that individuals or organizations on the first list have stock in or are involved with in some way. And Dr. Marcus Franks' name is prominent on the second list, as well. Again, twice. He is on the Board of Directors of the WellingtonMuseum, as well as serving on the Board of Directors for the ReynoldJenningsArtGallery. Apparently our doctor is quite the patron of the arts."

Sherlock sighs. "Mycroft, the room that John is being held in has hardwood floors, ambient lighting and no windows. We have not seen the door in that room – not yet – but I am willing to bet it is wider than the norm and that it was added as an after-thought. It is my belief that John is being held in the basement rooms somewhere in either the WellingtonMuseum or the JenningsArtGallery."

There is silence for a moment. "The circular that you took from the young man and gave to Lestrade's team –"

"Was for the opening of the ReynoldJenningsArtGallery last Saturday. The third victim, Chris Madison's flat mate, said he had plans to attend that opening – and one other – that day."

Sherlock can hear Mycroft talk to someone behind him. He can't quite make out the conversation or with whom his brother is speaking. Anthea, he supposes.

Mycroft comes back on the line. "In that instance, little brother, I imagine you have two more questions for me concerning these two establishments."

Sherlock nods, wondering if Mycroft can see the movement, if there are still any of his brother's totally inappropriate surveillance cameras left in the flat – or if he and John were finally successful in finding and binning them all.

He answers his brother's unspoken question tersely.

"Of course. First, I need to know if the WellingtonMuseum had some sort of opening or re-opening last Saturday. Next, I need to know if one – or both – of those places experienced extraordinarily long delays in their original construction or if either one has had their building permit revoked, temporarily, of course, for any significant duration of time."

"How long?" Mycroft demands.

"For the length of time it would take for James Moriarty, whose pet doctor Franks is, to build a tidy little office complex under the existing structure. " Sherlock considers for a moment. "Six months ought to just about do it."

"Very well,”  Mycroft says in a clipped voice. "I'll call you back in ten minutes or less."

He hangs up.

Sherlock tosses the mobile phone onto the sofa and turns his attention to the disc in his hand. None of the videos have lasted longer than ten minutes. He pops the dvd into his laptop which rests on their coffee table and presses play.

Sally Donovan rises to come stand behind Sherlock (at least he has not ordered her out of the flat) as he sits on the sofa, shoulders hunched over, watching the video play out on the screen in front of him.

There is a view of the hated room – and yes, Sherlock can see it is the same room. He lets out a breath he doesn't even realize he is holding. The same room. And the angle this time is slightly different.

This time John comes limping out of the bath, and the angle is obviously from above on his right, aiming downward. Sherlock can clearly see the hardwood floors.  But more importantly, as John loses his balance and falls on his right side (Sherlock's stomach clenches at the sight – Focus, he tells himself furiously. Focus!) the camera angle shifts slightly – and Sherlock can clearly see what looks to be the outline of a door, a door that appears to be overly wide, as if that room was not meant to hold a door, as if one were added as an afterthought.

A museum or gallery, he thinks, triumphantly. They are holding John in a room, probably in the basement of one of those on Mycroft's list, that was originally meant to hold and to display paintings, sculptures, art objects. The overly wide door and the loo were added later, perhaps to create a private bedroom for Moriarty or one of his team.

No windows; soft lighting that comes upward from recesses in the floorboards and downward from the crown molding. Pale paint on the walls to better showcase art without warring for attention. White is too light; grey or beige too dulling. Pale green it is then.

John falls and then sits there, hunched over his chest, one arm hugging his ribs tightly.

Sherlock sees the change in John evident from the last video. He frowns. John is obviously sick and getting sicker.

His partner leans back and the camera angle changes (two cameras in the room, thinks Sherlock – and another in the bathroom) and Sherlock – and Sally – can finally see his face.

Even on the video, Sherlock can see how drawn and tired John is. But it's his eyes –

On the video, John Watson manages to rise to his feet, stumble toward the bed and finally fall forward onto the mattress. He ends up on his side, curled into a ball, panting.

Sherlock frowns and shakes his head, his heart pounding n his chest. It's difficult enough for him to see John's face, but his eyes clearly show signs of – of what?

He continues to watch the video, a feeling of unreality, growing in his stomach and threatening to overwhelm his breathing.

The scene changes. More of the same. And in each subsequent scene, John is just a little more tired, his movements a little more erratic and he falls frequently, unable to stand on his feet for more than a few moments. The end scenes are all of John curled up on the bed, unmoving, thrashing around or lying so still; it's obvious he is unconscious.

One scene ends with John curled up on his side on the floor by the bed. He is shaking, with cold or reaction to the drug, Sherlock cannot tell.

But it is the last scene that leaves both Sherlock and Sally Donovan cold.

It's simple enough. John Watson sits on the bed, his bandaged leg stretched in front of him, his good leg pulled up slightly. He leans against the headboard.

A young woman dressed in nurse's scrubs enters the frame, her back to the camera. Lori Hansen, thinks Sherlock. Moriarty is getting sloppy in allowing the nurse to be recognized on the dvd. Unless he plans on -?

The nurse comes up to John, lays a tray on the bedside. John turns his head to look at her – and extends his left arm up and outward, waiting for the injection.

Sherlock's blood runs cold.

Afterwards, John curls up on his side, his eyes shut as the nurse leaves the room. His spine convulses once. And he goes limp, obviously unconscious.

But Sherlock saw John's eyes – much more clearly this time as the angle was straight on toward his partner's face.

Sherlock has seen that same look before, a  long time ago – in his bathroom mirror.

And it is a testament to the quality of not only Moriarty's surveillance cameras but of the video overall, that Sherlock realizes with a sinking heart that whatever they have been injecting into his partner's body has finally taken its toll.

John Watson's face is lined, aged. And his eyes are haunted, smudged.  Desperate.

The eyes of a sick man.

The eyes of an addict.

The fury that burns through Sherlock's brain momentarily eclipses rational thought.

He shudders and Sally Donovan hisses in her breath, not only at the sight of Doctor Watson in so obvious distress – but at the sight of Sherlock Holmes as he reacts to Watson's situation.

She bites her lip. Sally wishes she could press a hand to Sherlock's shoulder. She knows he would not allow or appreciate this so she remains silent, standing behind him.

Her heart aches for these men, for both of them.

She understands now the utter hatred that Sherlock Holmes has for this James Moriarty.

Holmes is still an arse.  But she vows to do anything and everything in her power to help the man sitting hunched over in front of her – if it will help John Watson.

The screen goes white and James Moriarty's voice rings out. Sherlock is momentarily startled. There had been zero commentary on the second disc and he was clearly not expecting any on the third one.

It is only on the first video that they heard Moriarty's voice, taunting Sherlock and telling him what he was going to do to John Watson - that he was going to send him back to Sherlock a man broken in both mind and body.

Sherlock shuts his eyes and listens to the madman's weird sing song. One part of his brain tells him that James Moriarty has succeeded in his initial threat. John's body is broken and his mind has clearly followed. Whether or not he can come back from that –

Sherlock, sweetness. As you know, I am so changeable. Again, I trust you will understand as I ask you to forgive this one – and only – weakness of mine. So I tell you what, my dear.

Rather than return a very broken man to you – and have you make the utterly hateful decision as to which institution you place your life partner in for the remainder of his pathetic days – I have decided to take this obviously wrenching scenario out of your hands.

Once our good Doctor Watson has served his purpose – and we are only a short while away from that, dear Sherlock - I promise to send you a message telling you the location of the bin we have used to house the good doctor's mortal remains.

Ciao, Sherlock Holmes.

The video ends.

There is dead silence in the flat. Sally stands behind Sherlock, stricken with horror.

Sherlock stands and stares in front of him. The he bends over, ejects the dvd and places it carefully back in its white envelope. She watches him with wide eyes.

He picks up his mobile phone, just as it rings. When he answers, his voice is remarkably calm.

Sally wonders if Sherlock has finally snapped – or if there is some other emotion at work.

"Tell me you've got something I can use, Mycroft."

"It's the WellingtonMuseum, Sherlock. They not only had a six-month delay in which their original building permit was temporarily revoked, but they recently added a wing showcasing Avant Garde art – and that opening was this past Saturday."

Sally sees the tension leave the detective's frame. He begins to stride slowly around the room, thinking, his eyes focused on everything and nothing. It's as if she can see his thought processes.

Sally can't help herself. She is fascinated. Sick to her stomach with dread over John's situation – but utterly fascinated.

"We can go get John, then," says Sherlock.

Sally shuts her eyes in relief.

"Sherlock, the museum does not open until 10 am. If we make a move before then, John Watson is a dead man. What is your plan?"

Sherlock tells him.

Sally hurries out of the flat, to use her own phone to call D.I. Lestrade.

OooOooO

Lori deposits the bag of soiled bandages in the chute in the clinic and washes her hands wearily.

She is bone tired. And she still has Dr. Franks to contend with. Speaking of which, she glances around the clinic. Stephan is no longer stretched out on the sofa. And Franks is nowhere to be seen.

She opens the small fridge to grab a bottle of water. She hears the door open behind her.

Thinking it must be Franks, she turns. Her eyes widen and her breath hitches.

Sebastian Moran stands in the doorway.

He comes into the room, letting the door close behind him.

Moran comes up to Lori, extends his hand and slowly, gently runs one calloused finger along her jaw, down her neck. He brings it back up and finally cups her chin in his palm.

"My dear, I think we need to have a talk. My place or yours?"

Lori's shaking hands drop the bottle of water. Unheeded, it rolls away under the table.

OooOooO

 

Chapter 20: BLINDFOLD CHESS

Notes:

A form of chess in which one or both players are not allowed to see the board.

OooOooO

The patrol car pulls up and Sally slides in to the passenger seat, tells Rodriguez thanks for coming to get her.

"Not a problem," he says. As they pull away from the curb, he glances at her.

"Donovan, you're off duty, what gives?"

She doesn't pretend to misunderstand him. "John Watson. Holmes knows where he's being kept. In a few hours—"

"Christ! A few hours! Why in bloody hell doesn't the DI send someone over there, wherever 'there' is right now – or better yet, ten 'someones'? Why in God's name—"

"Security cameras," Sally says, cutting him off. She looks in front of her at the late evening traffic, thinking.

"Security cameras?" Rodriguez drives like he does everything else – with intensity. His eyebrows climb his face while he drives.

She sighs. "You're going to know soon enough. John – Doctor Watson is being held somewhere in the lower levels of a museum – an underground office complex or something of the sort. The museum opens at 10. At that time, various cars, ordinary unmarked cars, not pandas, can drive up and park like all the other Saturday morning visitors – and they stand a good chance of being more or less invisible to the security cameras. Just more cars, more people, you know? Holmes – and whoever goes with him – has an excellent chance of not being noticed immediately. It gives him time to get in and find John."

She doesn't add "… and get back out with John," because she's still hazy on just how Sherlock intends to do that.

She turns to look at Rodriguez, who keeps his eyes on the road in front of him. He's frowning. "Not sure I follow," he says.

"If they were to go over there now," Sally explains, "even in an unmarked car and most particularly one with blue lights blazing, Doctor Watson's chances would not be good. Holmes has to wait for the place to open. The DI has been informed and I think – no, I know that there are several at the station who will want to be in on this one."

"Okay." Rodriguez thinks this over. "I don't' know this Doctor Watson chap, but I've seen him and Holmes in action at a crime scene. He must be something special. Ex-Army bloke, right?"

Sally nods, her eyes on the road in front of her. "Yup. Captain. Army Doctor, trained at Bart's. Wounded in action. Saved at least four soldiers and has medals to prove it. Although you'd never know it from John. He doesn't talk about that time much."

No. John talks about cups of tea and world soccer matches, James Bond novels, Star Wars movies and, once in a blue moon, about living with Sherlock Holmes.

Sally thinks about the Sherlock Holmes she just left – and compares him to the Sherlock Holmes they have all seen the past week since John was taken. If she hadn't gone back up the steps to tell Holmes she was leaving … well, if she hadn't done that, she would never have seen…

Thirty minutes earlier…

She stood at the bottom of the 17 steps, thinking. For so long, she has been ambivalent around Sherlock – and he around her. Frankly, she cannot remember when all of this started. Did she call him "Freak" first – or did he goad her about her personal life and she retaliated?

She feels no shame for her previous interactions with Sherlock Holmes, but decides here and now that she will not continue the verbal abuse. Frankly, if he'll stop, she'll stop.

And now there is John to be considered.

Sally likes John. She cannot think of a single person who doesn't like John. And she cannot help but notice the good effect he has had on Sherlock.

Once John is rescued – and Sally firmly tells herself he will be – she wonders if Holmes will revert to type – or act the changed man they have all seen this past week.

And maybe all of this is a bunch of crap and when this crisis is over, everyone will go back to being – who they are.

She decides – as a courtesy - to let him know she is leaving…and when did Sherlock Holmes earn courteous behavior from Sally Donovan? She shakes her head at the ludicrous turn her life has taken and walks back up the stairs, sighs when she hits the squeaky one. The Fre —Sherlock will realize it is her and she wonders if this time, he'll throw her out on her arse.

She stops in the doorway of the flat – and stares.

Sherlock is watching the third video again; rather, listening to it as he stands in front of the coffee table where the laptop sits, head back, eyes closed, arms crossed over his nearly too thin chest. He is utterly still.

Sally stares at the detective's tall figure, at the black jeans and pale marble skin, at the dark shirt and dark tumbled curls and inadvertently, an idiom her Mum (who was American by birth) used all the time comes back to her.

Yes, it fits. If ever anyone was "all dark and damn your eyes," it is Sherlock Holmes.

Sally thinks again about what an odd pairing the detective and the doctor make – odd, yet incredibly right somehow. She is not the first Yarder to comment on this.

She decides to leave quietly and go back downstairs to wait for the car Lestrade is sending for her. She turns to leave when Sherlock opens his eyes.

And Sally sees.

Until this exact moment, if you had asked her which of the pair – Holmes or Watson – was the most dangerous, she would have had no hesitation in saying – John Watson. He had been, after all, a Captain in the Army, he is an Army doctor, for heaven's sakes, had seen combat, been wounded in action - and Sally is not the only Yarder who has seen – firsthand – evidence of the doctor's deadly trigger finger.

On the other hand, she had once told - no, warned - John Watson that Sherlock was a psychopath - and inherently dangerous. She winces now at her words, words meant to wound, to hurt.

And now? Well now, she would have said that Sherlock was just an overgrown child in a man's body – all cynicism, and snide comments. Although she has to admit John has seemed to tame the child somewhat, to quiet him, if you will.

Until now.

Sherlock's face has gone – feral - it is the face of the predator. Sherlock's eyebrows arch in cynical intensity – and his eyes –

Sally has seen those eyes at crime scenes or in Lestrade's office, where they are most often a pale grey, or depending on the complexity of the crime, a more intense grayish-green, when the detective is in " fine form," exchanging scathing comments with – well everyone, to be honest, even the DI.

But she has never seen them – cold – until now. Sherlock's eyes have gone a brilliant frosty blue. Frankly, they blaze in his pale face. Sherlock's eyes are filled with an icy fire, and she can see on his face and in his body language, hell, in every atom that calls itself Sherlock Holmes, a cold unwavering determination that bodes ill for whoever has taken John Watson … taken him and hurt him.

Her eyes widen and she – nearly – takes a step back.

Sherlock's eyes adjust, and he looks right at her, one cynical eyebrow raised.

"Problem?" he asks with just a hint of the old cynicism.

Sally frowns. "I was just going. Wanted to give you some time after that –" she waves at the laptop on the coffee table.

"Thank you but everything's going to be all right now. In fact, it's going to be fine," says Sherlock. "Thank you, for bringing the disc – and John's books." Sherlock despises repeating himself but honestly cannot remember if he had thanked her before. Ah, well.

"No problem," she murmurs. Sally turns and leaves as quickly as possible.

Sitting in the police car, Sally wonders again if the Fre—if Sherlock will be able to rescue John Watson – and if John Watson will still be alive to be rescued.

She hopes to God he is. Or all of this will have been for nothing. Sally shudders when she thinks of Sherlock without John ... of what he may become … of what he is capable of becoming.

"Can you hurry this up just a bit," she asks. Rodriguez puts his foot down.

OooOooO

When Donovan leaves, Sherlock dismisses her instantly, then turns, bends over the laptop. He begins to play the third disc again. He does not watch it but stands over it, eyes closed, and as Moriarty's acid-filled words repeat over and over again, Sherlock's feels himself overcome with a keen sense of murderous intent.

Despite lack of sleep, food -and John Watson – Sherlock Holmes has never felt more alive, more focused on a single goal.

"A few more hours," he thinks. "Just a little longer, John. Hold on. That is an order."

Thinking of what has been done to John – to both of them, in fact – Sherlock's eyes narrow. And beside himself in the too quiet flat, Sherlock Holmes smiles a smile that would give James Moriarty a run for his money.

OooOooO

Sherlock steps out of 221 B into a clear frosty morning. The promised snow has not materialized but there is hoarfrost everywhere. He shuts the door behind him. Turns.

And stares.

Up and down Baker Street, in both directions from their front door, are various vehicles. Plain unmarked police cars. Ordinary vans; a Morris; a late model Honda; Fords; several obvious family vehicles, a little the worse for wear and paint – and one dark Grey SUV, parked directly in front of Speedy's.

Mycroft stands in front of the SUV, dressed in ordinary grey trousers and jumper – and a cashmere coat that cost more than John's monthly salary times three. No umbrella for once but Sherlock is certain, even from where he is standing, that his brother has something deadly concealed in the lapels of his overcoat. And then there is that slight bulge in the right pocket of his trousers.

Behind Mycroft, Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson lean up against the SUV, arms crossed, talking quietly. They turn when Sherlock comes out, stop leaning and all stand straight, staring at the detective.

"Hey Freak," says Anderson, more for attention than with any mean intent. He waves his hand to his left and then right. "Word on the street is that there's a rescue planned. A few of us wanted to get in on that."

Sherlock glances up the street to the right – and down the street to the left. Every vehicle has at least two persons, sometimes three, leaning up against them, waiting … waiting and watching. He recognizes most of them as Yarders he has seen at various crime scenes – some of the faces are new.

Sherlock's eyes widen.

Mycroft clears his throat and comes up to his brother, who is frankly, at a loss.

At any other time, this would tickle the older man immensely.

But this is not any other time.

The Holmes brothers stare at each other and not for the first time, Lestrade wonders what combination of circumstances, what cosmic forces had to be in perfect alignment to produce not one but these two absolutely extraordinary individuals. Maddening ... but completely extraordinary.

"Brother mine, you didn't really think we were going to let you do this alone, did you?" Mycroft says dryly.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

Lestrade comes up behind Mycroft and looks Sherlock in the eye.

"Sherlock, we have an ambulance standing by, about five minutes from the Wellington. They will wait for us to – for you to bring John out – and then get him to hospital in record time. "

Mycroft nods at Lestrade's words.

Sherlock turns to his brother, his crystalline eyes blazing. His dark curls dance in the frigid morning air.

"So - I take it that the cavalry is about to "come over the hill?" the detective says dryly. His voice – nearly – breaks and he clears his throat to hide it.

Mycroft smiles grimly. He places one hand on his brother's shoulder and gives it a quick squeeze, releases it.

"If you're ready, let's go get my brother-in-law," he says.

OooOooO

Chapter 21: ABSOLUTE PIN

Summary:

A pin against the king, called absolute because the pinned piece cannot legally move as it would expose the king to check.

OooOooO

The first time John Watson dies, he destroys an enemy, protects a friend - and saves the life of the One.

But he never remembers any of it.

This is how it happens.

OooOooO

It first comes to him when he is sleeping, nearly awake, in that lovely twilight where he hovers between what was a gentle dream of peace – of Baker Street – and the utter hatefulness of his surroundings.

They are using him to test the drug. And they have without a doubt, sent recordings of his sufferings to Sherlock. Perhaps others, as well.

At least, that is what he would do, John thinks, if he were James Moriarty.

And let's all stop for a second and visualize that scenario.

He – almost – giggles. But he doesn't. Instead, he lies there and concentrates on his breathing.

He craves their filthy drug…and he's weak and getting weaker from malnutrition and fever – and, yes, his lungs are definitely rasping now when he breathes.

He tries to remember his last meal – and seems to recall her spoon feeding him soup. He can't remember if he managed to keep it down. At the thought of food, his stomach muscles protest. But water would be nice right now.

All righty then. Now for it.

John Watson takes as deep a breath as possible – and opens his eyes to re-enter the utter bastard of a soap opera his life has become.

He lies there, stares at the ceiling, and thinks. Meanwhile the pieces slowly fall into place, locking in their slots like that addictive computer game with the tumbling blocks.

He lets the blocks fall and oh but they make a lovely pattern when they hit bottom, all neat and tidy and lined up in a row.

"At least some of Sherlock has rubbed off on me," thinks John tiredly.

Moran shot him. But they didn't leave him there to die. They came with the stretcher (yes, he remembers the clinic and Moriarty now – quite clearly) and they took him away, unconscious. Here is where his memory falters.

He presumes CCTV couldn't track him.

But Mycroft – and Lestrade – would have tried.

He winces at how Sherlock would have reacted when he realized that not only the trained professionals at the Met – but also he who is the British Government – couldn't give the detective the information he needed to track John.

Of course they couldn't track the ambulance; the snarled traffic would have ensured that. The accident – staged of course. Real injuries but staged nevertheless.

Some part of John is appalled that he isn't morally outraged at the thought of what would have occurred if the injuries had been fatal, instead of the non-life threatening ones he treated.

Moriarty, of course, wouldn't care one way or the other.

John can't care that much himself because – and he is willing to cut himself a little slack here – he's just so damned tired. And this tiredness goes bone deep.

He is a doctor and a soldier and he wonders what the videos showed while he was under the drug. He frowns at the thought but doesn't feel shame. He is well aware of the effect certain medications can have on the human body. He found out once, the hard way, of the effect of sodium pentothal on the human mind and psyche. And there was that other time, north of Kandahar, when he was captured along with some of his own and his captors shot them up with – No.

Now is not the time, John thinks. Pay attention.

Whatever he did – or said – or however he acted on those recordings, he was most definitely under the influence. Which he is not now.

Thanks to his little benefactor.

Again, he wonders what her name is and what has become of her.

John tugs gently on his left wrist, then harder and harder, gauging the strength of the restraint there. No joy. It doesn't give a centimeter.

He tries tugging on his left ankle but leaves off when his inflamed thigh muscles protest.

Okay then.

Dizzy, lightheaded, John goes back to staring at the pale ceiling and takes quick stock.

Yes, that is the same hateful ceiling of the same hateful room - here John thinks that if given the chance between this little room that has rapidly become his entire world – and accommodations in Hell, he'd choose the latter. Now, please. And oh, god, yes, bring on Satan, Beelzebub and all his minions. Just get him the hell out of here.

Water. Please let there be water.

John turns his head to stare at the carafe. It appears to be half full.

Gently, he twists around with his right arm and - barely - reaches the carafe with his right hand. Ignoring the cup, he tilts the water toward his mouth and manages to get at least most of it down his throat. What splashes on his neck and shirt merely feels refreshing.

When his stomach begins to protest, he looks at the carafe, and deliberately tilts the small remainder of the water out on the floor.

His arm and hand are shaking but he manages to bring the carafe back to his side and lay it there on the bed next to him.

It is heavy plastic. Not much of a weapon. But it's all he has at the moment.

He looks back at the clear plastic cup and reaches out again. Snagging it by the lip, he almost throws it against the wall, just to hear the cheap plastic crack and bounce. But he thinks better of it and deposits the cup on the bed next to him as well.

John rests for a moment and tries to catch his breath. It is so hard now – breathing. It takes up all of his flagging energy.

After a minute or two, he lifts himself as much as possible to stare at his left wrist. There is precious little slack in the restraint. It is apparently fastened extremely securely to the bed, probably the bed legs, and the rubbery restraint is fastened so tightly around his wrist, with its own cuff, that it makes it impossible for him to sit up or even scoot up on the bed. It is, literally, holding his body down. He has just enough wiggle room to curl in on himself – or reach the water.

John imagines that his captors will be extremely amused at any struggles caused by the partial restraints, particularly once the drug has been withheld.

And now it has.

John experiences the oddest feeling at this point.

It's a sense of renewed purpose born of an incredible feeling of urgency. As if he has to make the attempt now – or give it up forever. He doesn't understand where this feeling comes from or why but he is determined to act on it.

Balancing on his shaking elbow, he again inspects the band that is not only tied around his wrist but fastened with some sort of lock. It looks like stainless steel. Try as he might, he cannot get a finger of his right hand under the restraint.

John stares at the band and lock. Something about this stupid thing seems so familiar.

When it comes to him, he nearly gags. But then he appears thoughtful.

Afghanistan was a dangerous place. Dangerous – and lonely. People paired up quickly. And whatever helped the loneliness and sense of displacement, well - John remembers coming back from a night patrol, wearily making his way to his cot to undress and stumbling in the semi-dark over a rucksack one of the men had tossed down.

He bent over to pick up the few items that had fallen out – and came up with what for all the world looks like wrist or ankle restraints – with a fancy little steel lock that shines dully in the half light from the bedside lamp.

Oh, great. One of the newbies has bunked down in here and he's brought his charming little sex toys with him. Terrific. Now that's a scenario -

John's memories break off and he looks thoughtfully at the lock and restraint that holds his wrist. The lock is somewhat larger than the one he remembers and the restraint itself made of incredibly stronger stuff. But built along the same lines.

His mind shies away from where James Moriarty got this – if it came from Jim – or what he has done with it and with whom.

Instead, John concentrates on the lock. Locks mean keys. He stares at the lock, thinking.

He wonders whether he would be able to break this stupid restraint under ordinary circumstances – when he is not half starved, dehydrated, his lungs rapidly filling and an infected bullet wound in one leg – not to mention the effects of the hated drug.

His elbow, arm and shoulder are shaking uncontrollably now and he lies back to conserve his strength. His eyes close but he doesn't stop thinking.

That he can think more or less clearly now, he owes to the nurse. She put her life on the line by not injecting him with the hateful drug. And these precious few minutes of lucidity are the result.

He is determined not to waste a minute of her gift.

All right then. Locks imply keys.

He has been fully restrained before, both wrists and ankles – he remembers that. Again probably for the effect it has on whoever views the recordings of his struggles. It certainly wouldn't matter that much to John; he is securely locked in this room, so the restraints, full and partial, would have been for effect only.

The restraints have been special effects, he thinks. And nearly giggles again. Great. His life as movie. Starring the unflappable Doctor John Watson, formerly of Her Majesty's Army and…Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes and – stop it, you idiot. Just – stop.

Don't waste these minutes. You don't know when they will come back in and give you another shot.

OH PLEASE GOD YES!  JUST YES TO ANOTHER SHOT AND TO ALL OF IT. AND RIGHT NOW IF YOU DON'T MIND. JUST FUCKING YES!

And the cloying heat and absolutely maddening subcutaneous itching – the feeling that he could claw his own skin off given half the chance - and the terrible, utterly baneful feelings of WANT and NEED and horrid sense of RIGHT NOW and the violent feelings welling up in his soul will all be gone and he can dream again and sleep and if he is really, REALLY lucky…never wake up…

Stop. It. Right. Now.

Shaken by these utterly hateful thoughts, John opens his eyes, narrows them. He painfully brings his mind back to the moment at hand. He takes a breath.

Locks mean keys. And a small lock means a small key – or two.

Would Moriarty or Moran trust those who come in here NOT to lose a small key like that? What if they dropped it somewhere or forgot it and had to go back?

Moriarty's time schedule would be thrown off.

What if they plain lost the damned thing? Or things. He doubts if these things come with just the one key.

Okay then. If they lost it or dropped it or whatever, Jim would be entirely unhappy.

Wouldn't it make sense to keep the key or keys somewhere quite close, somewhere that any of his captors could find in an instant – and put back for the next time?

When the answer comes to him, John has to deliberately stop himself from turning his head to look at the small table next to his bed. The table with the one small drawer.

He shuts his eyes again and lies there for a minute, catching his breath.

Resting. Thinking. Planning.

He needs help. Quickly.

He wonders again what her name is – and if she's safe.

OooOooO

Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade and Donovan will take the SUV to the Wellington Museum of Art.

Several of the original blueprint copies of the WellingtonMuseum have been distributed to all those participating in the raid. Sherlock warns everyone who gets a copy that although the layout of the museum proper will adhere to the blueprints, undoubtedly sweeping changes have been made to the lower level – originally meant to store art not being currently displayed, as well as to provide a room for the repair and restoration of paintings, sculptures and the like. He tells everyone that either the lower level has been greatly expanded or another level has been added below that one. At this point, they cannot be certain of which.

Lestrade tells his people to expect a large crowd of art lovers – the Museum just opened a new wing - and that any unnecessary actions of a more or less "extreme" nature will not be tolerated. There are raised eyebrows at this, but everyone nods that they understand. Several officers are directed to enter the museum as art lovers, keep an eye on the Holmes brothers, as long as possible, and protect the civilians who are there to enjoy the museum.

A few more officers are to be stationed outside the museum, and are directed to be as inconspicuous and appear as harmless as possible. Unless something untoward happens.

The DI is not exactly clear, however, as to what comprises an untoward happening. He is relying on his people's training and professionalism to ensure that Doctor Watson is removed from the lower levels of the museum quickly, with the least disruption to the museum goers as is possible.

While Sherlock loads a blanket and John's things into the back of the SUV, Mycroft takes Lestrade aside.

"Detective Inspector, we are there to get John Watson out – alive. " Lestrade watches Mycroft watch his brother. "This may involve – certain acts of a violent nature. We will, of course, try at all costs to avoid such actions."

"Mycroft, if you're trying to stand there and tell me you intend to commit cold-blooded murder –" Lestrade breaks off, as he watches Sherlock slam the back door of the SUV and then stand next to the vehicle, gloved hands in the pockets of his slim jacket. He stares at both of them, his blue eyes cold as the frost on the ground around them.

Lestrade stares back at Sherlock – and his mind goes back to the two videos he watched and the extreme torment and horror that has been visited on John Watson, whom he counts as a good friend and professional colleague.

The DI looks from Sherlock back to Mycroft Holmes, who has been watching his face and has been cataloguing each expression that has crossed the DI's features in the past twenty seconds. Mycroft sees …determination to act in a professional manner; determination to uphold the law; concern for Sherlock's state of mind; extreme concern and worry for John Watson's physical and mental condition; horror and, yes, anger at what has been done to Watson; finally reaching the resigned expression the DI is wearing now.

"Just don't tell me," Lestrade says. "And confine your actions to the lower levels until you are ready to bring John up."

Mycroft nods dryly. "Understood."

As Lestrade walks to the car, he thinks, "What the hell. Mycroft and Sherlock will do what they want, when they want – and Mycroft will make it all go away before there are any official repercussions."

He frowns at these thoughts. Just let John be alive.

They walk to the SUV and Lestrade nods at his people, at Anderson and Rodriguez, who are in the unmarked police vehicle directly behind them. He slides into the driver's seat. Donovan gets into the passenger seat and the Holmes brothers sit in the rear seats, Sherlock on the right-hand passenger side.

It is 9:15 am. The Wellington opens at 10:00 am and they have – not quite – an hour's ride to get to the part of town that houses the WellingtonArt Museum. Make it 45" or less if the traffic is light.

Sherlock remains more or less silent during most of the trip. They have gone over the plan – twice – although Sherlock despises repetition. But it is necessary to impress the details onto Lestrade's people.

He is more grateful than they will ever know for the turnout to save John.

But he has not figured this into his plan and is now busily rethinking his parameters.

Mycroft, who can tell Sherlock's every passing thought just by the way he holds his shoulders or ever so slightly clenches his fists, studies his brother thoughtfully.

OooOooO

"Sweetheart, I don't think you're trying hard enough here, I really don't."

Sebastian Moran lounges back in the leather chair in his quarters, his legs propped up on the end of the bed. He plays with a small digital recorder in one hand; occasionally, he pushes the Play button on the side.

Each time, Lori Hansen's voice comes out as a tiny whisper, small, but still entirely legible on the recording.

"He is coming for you. Sherlock Holmes is coming for you."

He switches the button off and flips the recorder again in his hand, stares down at the pathetic excuse for a distraction currently lying on the floor at his feet.

"No, little girl, Holmes is not coming for anyone. The sod doesn't have a clue as to where we are. You can get that out of your head right now," he says dryly.

And God, the useless jobs that Jim has given him lately. He needs a better distraction.

She doesn't answer. She can't.

Lori Hansen lies in a huddled ball, curled in on herself. She is nude except for her bra and panties and there are bruises already forming along her back, shoulder and arms and the side of her head and cheek. And one really spectacular one on her thigh. The imprint of Moran's thumbs and fingers show up in purple marks on her skin.

She groans softly, once. Tries to clench at the floor with her fists, but there is no carpet there to clench. Her fingers scrabble over the hardwood floor.

She sobs, takes one shuddering breath, then goes limp.

Moran nudges the side of her head with one booted foot. The stupid girl's head lolls to one side, then rolls back. Her face is pasty, and cold sweat stands out on her forehead. Her eyes are closed and she does not react to his movements.

Moran sighs, clearly aggrieved. He is going to have to wait for her to come around, then start all over again.

He flips the little recorder again. Bored now.

The intercom on the bedside table buzzes.

Really, you'd think Jim could do something about the rotten mobile coverage down here in the sodding basement, for Christ's sakes.

"Sebastian, we might have a – situation – with our good Doctor Franks.

I need to see you. Leave your new distraction and get down here, all right?"

Moran grins. Reaches to depress a button on the intercom. "You know it, Jim."

At last. Something he can put his talents too.

The bitch is too ridiculous and there's absolutely no challenge in this. None whatsoever.

Still, she's something to come back to – later. Like dessert. After the main course.

Moran grins at the thought. He drops the mobile in his pocket, looks again at the recorder in his hands, and tosses it onto the bed.

He stands, opens the top drawer, retrieves the Sig Sauer, rams the clip home and thumbs the safety catch on. He slams the drawer shut and goes over to stand over Hansen again.

She hasn't moved and appears to be barely breathing. A stream of blood wells from the side of her head and is steadily dripping down her face and neck.

He nudges her still form again with one booted foot. No reaction.

"Bad news, Sweetheart, gotta go to work now. Hey, will you stay here and wait for me? When I get back, we can pick up where we left off."

He grins, shakes his head and leaves. Whistling cheerfully, Sebastian Moran strides down the corridor toward the lift.

OooOooO

Lori remains curled up on the floor, trying to regain consciousness. She thinks her mind must be drifting because she can clearly hear her father's voice in her head.

"Get up now, Baby. You have to move; that's an order, Little Soldier."

She sighs. She wants nothing more than to remain there on the floor but she will do anything for her Dad. He always called her his little soldier and would then swing her up in his arms so she could sit perched on the back of his neck, her hands dug into his dark hair, her little legs tucked under his strong arms, as he walked her around the garden or their house. He would tickle her legs behind the knees and she would giggle and laugh.

Her wonderful Dad - who went off to war in Iraq and never returned to her or her younger sister.

Her mind is going, she's sure of it. She can hear him again, feel his breath on her cheek.

"Lori, you have to get up now. Lori... Lori... Listen to me, for God's sakes, we don't have time. Get up, you stupid cow."

She frowns. Her Dad never called her a cow. The voice changes in timber … and she opens her eyes to stare dully into Stephan's brilliant blue ones.

Something warm and liquid is dripping into her own eyes. Her right arm, shoulder and back hurt like hell. Oh, right. Sebastian Moran. Lori's stomach clenches in fear.

She groans at the thought of moving. Why can't he just leave her alone?

"Lori. I swear to God if you don't wake up now, I'm leaving you here for Moran. Wake up."

Stephan shakes her and she hisses when his rough hands touch the tender spots.

"Okay," she mumbles. "Give us a sec."

"We don't have a second. We don't have a goddamned minute. Franks has been called to Jim. There's something wrong with the damned drug. "

She's aware that Stephan has moved from her side. She hears him moving around. Then he's back and tries to shove something at her hands.

"Here. Put these on. For Gods sakes, woman, move!"

She lifts her head at the urgency in his voice, manages to push herself almost to a sitting position. He shoves her scrubs at her.

"I … I don't think I can stand up." Her voice sounds strange to her ears, weak and strained, as if it's coming from a distance.

"Okay. I'll help you but we have got to get the hell out of here now. If Franks is in trouble and Moran is doing this to you -" He doesn't finish the obvious statement - what is going to happen to him and how soon.

He struggles to help her to a sitting position, then pulls her to her feet.

Lori finally stands, her legs wobbly and leans against Stephan for support.

He pushes her down on the bed, none too gently, and pulls the scrub bottoms up her legs. She stands again, leaning slightly, and he pulls them up around her waist.

"Okay, here." He yanks the top down over her head and she nearly cries out when the material comes into contact with her shoulders and back.

"I'm sorry, Lori, really I am. But we have got to get out of here."

She shakes her head slightly, makes a note not to repeat the movement. Her head is pounding. She brushes weakly at whatever is dripping in her eyes. Her left hand comes back and she stares dully at it. Blood. Her blood. Dripping in her eyes. She manages to focus on Stephan, whose blue eyes stare at her, wide with horror.

He puts his arm around her waist and tries to get her to take a few steps. She wobbles again and nearly falls.

He groans with despair and frustration.

"Listen to me. Are you awake? You have got to listen to me. WE. ARE. GOING. TO DIE. If we don't get out of here right now."

She snaps more awake at the tone of his voice and concentrates on standing upright.

Her legs feel a little stronger now and she finds she can manage it if she doesn't make too many movements too quickly.

"Cameras," she whispers into Stephan’s' ear. He is moving them both toward the door.

"No cameras here, Lori. These are Moran's quarters. We can get out of here – if you'll move your bloody arse!"

He tries to steer her toward the door again. Lori finally comes upright, manages to stand on her own.

She looks at him, awkwardly brushes the blood and hair out of her eyes.

"Keys. Watson."

"What the hell?" He stares back at her, lets his arm drop from around her waist.

"No way…no bloody way! Look, if you don't have any self-preservation instincts, I sure as hell do. And we are leaving. Now."

She stares at him, narrows her eyes. "Keys. Watson's room."

"Oh bloody HELL !" He takes a chain from around his neck with several keys on it, thrusts it at her. "I'm leaving. Going up the damned stairs and getting the hell out of this nightmare."

"You can't," she says shakily. She manages to pull the cord around her own neck. The small tangle of keys feel cool against her skin. "They're watching. We can't go upstairs." She struggles for a breath. "Not allowed."

"To hell with what we are or aren't allowed." He is at the door now, glances out at the corridor.

"He's up there, with Jim, right now and Franks too. Now's our chance." He turns back to her and she sees the wild-eyed desperation in his gaze.

"Look, I'm sorry to do this but you can stand now and well – just get a move on, okay?"

And he leaves her. Just like that.

Lori stands there, stares at the open door. She shakily puts a hand out to steady herself against the side of the dresser. Moran's dresser. Her quarters do not have a dresser. She and Stephan have each been allotted one small footlocker for their clothes and things.

She stares at the open door and moves slightly, bends over, retrieves one of her white shoes with the rubber soles – and places it on the floor between the door and frame.

She turns back slowly to look at the room. She wants nothing more than to go into the bathroom and wet a cloth, press it to her head and temples, wipe away the blood.

But a sense of urgency has been born in her – not only brought on by Stephan's frankly terrified voice – but by the small dream of her Father's voice, urging her to get up. Urging her to move.

She thinks back a few minutes, then puts out a hand and touches the side of the bureau.

There are a few things on top – a pack of cigarettes, no lighter though. A pair of sunglasses. A paperback novel with a lurid cover. And nothing else.

Lori looks toward the open door – toward freedom – and then makes a decision.

Using her left hand, she slowly pulls the top drawer open, stares at the contents, then begins to rummage around. Nothing. Underwear. Socks. Another paperback. What looks like the clip to a gun.

She picks this up and drops it in the pocket of her scrubs, not sure why. It's useless without a gun. And she knows next to nothing about guns. She assumes this clip goes to the gun that Moran carries. That he undoubtedly has in his possession right now.

Lori hesitates, then opens the second drawer. Jeans. Shirts. Nothing else.

The third drawer – more trousers and shirts. One jumper. A London A-Z guide, well thumbed. What looks like plane ticket stubs and various bits of paper, receipts, slips of this and that.

Lori shuts the drawer and turns slowly again to look around the room.

She glances toward the one indulgence that she assumes both Jim and Moran have – a full-length closet. Small but at least they can hang up their things. She crosses slowly to open the closet door, then stands back. Her vision follows the length of the closet up to the small shelf at the top. Her eyes widen.

She's short – but she can just see the edge of something lying on the shelf. It can't be. It just can't.

Lori looks around frantically for something to stand on. Anything. Finally, she tries moving the leather chair in the corner. It takes her an incredibly long time, she feels, to scoot it across the floor – and she expects that any second, Moran will come back and finish what he started.

She winces at the effort, her right arm and shoulder aflame, but finally has the chair in position.

She gasps, leaning over the chair. But then her father's voice comes again to her tired and terrified mind. Now, kiddo. Now or it will be too late.

She knows the voice isn't real. And she doesn't believe in ghosts. This, then is her mind picking up on Stephan's sense of urgency – and feeding her exactly what she needs to hear exactly when she needs to hear it. In the most beloved, most trusted voice she can recall.

"All right, Dad. I'm moving."

She pulls herself up on the chair, steadies herself, then reaches up with shaking fingertips.

Thirty seconds later, Lori Hansen hurries out of Moran's room and turns to the right, the exact opposite of the direction that Stephan took earlier.

She clutches the cord round her neck, the one holding the keys, in her right fist. Her right hand and arm are trembling – as is her entire body - but she ignores it and hurries as fast as she is able. She knows it's only a matter of time before someone sees her on the security cameras.

She stumbles once, but doesn't fall. She bites her lip and keeps going.

Lori is frankly terrified, but her fear urges her on. She knows what will happen if Moran comes back now. He'll catch her easily. And kill her. But not right away.

He hurt her almost casually, after making her remove her clothes. But it wasn't rape on his mind, just violence – and causing her as much pain and humiliation as possible before he finally killed her. He grabbed her wrist and swung her around, wrenching her shoulder, slamming her into the side of the bureau where she struck her head and fell, sobbing, at his feet.

And it all meant nothing to him. Nothing. She was just a distraction, something to pass the time until he felt like killing her outright. It was a wolf batting around a kitten until it becomes bored – and pounces.

Maybe, she thinks, just maybe…if Jim and Moran are busy with Franks… She doesn't allow herself to finish that thought. Hope is what got her into this mess and she can't stand the thought of it being snatched away from her again – or from the good man she wants so desperately to help.

She is bare foot and the polished wooden floors feel cool under her feet.

That's fine, she thinks. Less noise.

She passes Stephan's small room, her own, then stops at the door to John Watson's room, his small prison, and finds the right key first time.

Lori Hansen takes a quick breath, then opens the door to Doctor Watson's room, his Browning L9A1 clutched in her left hand, and the one clip she found lying next to it a small heavy weight in her scrubs pocket, against her left thigh.

OooOooO

The corner of a file folder is visible, sticking out of the back pocket of Lestrade's seat.

Mycroft reaches for the folder, opens it, extracts two photographs and hands them across to his brother.

Sherlock takes the photos, studies them, raises an eyebrow.

The first black and white glossy shows the back exit of a large building. Sherlock assumes it is the WellingtonArt Museum. The photo was obviously taken in late evening and from a distance, and a small figure can be seen standing just outside the door. No facial features are clearly visible, other than it seems to be the figure of a man. The next photo is a close-up that has obviously been enhanced and light-blasted. It is a man's face and he is holding a cigarette to his lips. It's just possible to make out the features. Sebastian Moran.

Sherlock hands the photos back to Mycroft who glances at them, then hands them over the seat to Donovan, along with the file folder.

"Yes, we knew. But it's always nice to have facts corroborated," Mycroft says quietly.

There is a ring and Lestrade pushes a button on the steering wheel.

Anderson's voice rings out from the car speakers.

"Inspector? We just got the results of the autopsy performed on Chris Madison, the third victim. Thought you and Sherlock better know."

Lestrade frowns. " We already know he died of an overdose from that damned drug. The tox screen showed that -"

Anderson cuts him off. "Yes sir, but Dr. Perkins requested it after your discussion with him."

In the rear view mirror, Lestrade meets Mycroft's eyes.

"Go ahead," Lestrade says.

"The autopsy confirmed that Madison died of sudden heart failure, consistent of the administered overdose." There is a moment's silence in the car. "But Inspector –"

"Still here," says Lestrade.

"Dr. Perkins thought you ought to know. The drug has certain – extreme – side effects. The drug doesn't work, at least, not in the way that Moriarty obviously intended."

Donovan leans slightly toward the car speakers. "What side effects?" she asks.

"Madison's autopsy shows evidence of massive internal bleeding."

Only Mycroft sees the nearly imperceptible tightening of Sherlock's shoulder and spine.

Lestrade clears his throat. "All right, Anderson. Thanks."

Sherlock's eyes meet his brother's.

Then he turns again to stare out the window.

OooOooO

James Moriarty sits in his favorite swivel chair and stares hard at Dr. Marcus Franks.

"Explain this to me again," he says, his voice oily, controlled.

Dr. Franks looks back at Jim and swallows. His eyes dart around the room like a small rodent, looking for a way out of the room, which seems to be closing in on him.

Jim holds a printed report in his hands but ignores it. He has read it – twice – and cannot believe what he has read.

Franks clears his throat and swallows again.

"The drug – Dr. Reese's drug – doesn't work exactly the way he intended. "

Jim stares at Franks. His eyes narrow. "And you know this how?"

Franks can't help but stare at Jim. Petrified mouse staring at cobra.

"Some of your pharmaceutical houses ran their own long-term tests. On various subjects. I received the results a little while ago."

Behind Franks, the door opens and Sebastian Moran enters the room. He flashes a quick grin at Jim, then crosses behind them both to take his usual seat. He stretches out his legs. Casually, he takes out his Swiss Army Knife, begins to clean his fingernails.

Franks stares at the knife. He looks back at Jim, whose eyes have narrowed.

"The drug can cause internal bleeding, after several doses." His voice comes almost as a squeak.

Jim studies him as if he were a puzzle to be deciphered. The slow smile sparks terror along Marcus Franks' spine.

"How many doses, Dr. Franks? And please take a seat and explain all of this to me. I need to understand what is going wrong with this project – and why 60 million quid is about to go up in smoke."

Moran grins and continues to clean his fingernails.

OooOooO

Lori unlocks the door to John's room, opens it, and barely misses being hit by the plastic carafe that John Watson lobs at her from the bed.

"Oh." He says. And again, "Oh."

He is propped on his left elbow, his arm shaking. They stare at each other, and then Lori hurries into the room, stumbling slightly.

She glances around for something to prop the door open with, nothing.

She crosses to his bed hurriedly and before John can say a word, she yanks open the small drawer and rips out the piece of duct tape which holds the small key.

"We have to get out of here, Doctor Watson," she says breathily. She bends over the lock on his wrist and manages – just – to twist the key in the lock. Then she yanks the restraint from his wrist and moves down the bed to his left ankle to do the same.

John stares at her and then stares at his wrist, free now of its restraint. He can't seem to form words.

She straightens and pulls on the restraint on his ankle. All the time aware that the red eyes in the corners of the room are recording every movement.

She looks around, finds the pajama bottoms she laid out on his bed – it seems months ago but it's really just been a few days. She grabs them and stops, stares at him, her eyes wide.

John frowns. His right arm hugs his rib cage and he tries to control his breathing.

He feels strangely light-headed. It must be the sight of the open door. He stares at it, disbelieving.

Suddenly, he jerks upright, winces at the pain in his chest and thigh.

She straightens her back and comes back to the head of the bed. She bites her lip at his appearance. His eyes are sunken, rimmed with smudged circles of blue and black. His skin is waxy and his breath comes in short gasps. She can't even begin to guess how much weight he has lost.

Quickly, Lori crosses into the small loo, grabs a cloth and wets it under the sink. She brings it back with her and bends down to wipe his forehead.

John shakes his head, puts out a shaking hand and takes the cloth from her – and then gently wipes it along the side of her face. It comes away with her blood on it. He looks at it, drops the cloth on the floor.

"Doctor Watson – John? We have to get out of here. If we can."

She indicates the pajama bottoms again to him, but he just shakes his head, swings his legs carefully over the side of the bed to sit up. He is dressed in the dark blue tee shirt and boxer shorts she put on him two days ago. They are, of course, filthy with sweat now.

She can't seem to care about stupid things like that if he doesn't, and lets the flannel pajamas fall to the floor.

John sits on the edge of the bed – and stares at her as if he can't quite bring her into focus.

Lori nearly sobs. She bends down as far as her aching limbs will allow her, so her face is more or less level with his.

"Please, Doctor Watson, please! I know you're sick," here she puts out a hand and brushes it over his forehead. His skin is blazing hot to the touch now and his pupil reaction - She winces at the mental rundown she does of his physical condition. She can only dimly guess at his mental condition.

He looks back at her, nearly uncomprehendingly. He finally nods, once.

"Okay, you'll have to help – help me stand," he says in a ragged voice. Lori flinches at the unfamiliar sound of his voice.

"I'll try." She struggles to help him rise to his feet. He nearly falls forward, then manages to steady himself and puts out one hand to her right shoulder.

She hisses, then shakes her head. "We make a great pair, Doctor Watson."

John realizes he is hurting her and takes his hand away. He glances around the room quickly, then looks back at her.

"What is your name?" John asks tiredly. He looks at her through a haze and cannot – quite – believe she is really there, standing in front of him.

She flashes him a quick grin. "Lori. And now we have to move. Cameras." She doesn't bother to glance at them in the corner of the room. There is no point. They've either been seen – or they haven't. At any rate, they have to get out of this room.

She puts an arm around his waist to help him, stops suddenly and withdraws her arm.

"Oh. Sorry. Here. I don't know how to use this thing." Her voice is unsteady and she winces as the pain of her injuries begin to throb with more consistency.

Almost as an afterthought, she brings her left hand up – and John Watson stares at her shaking palm, which holds his Browning. She hands him the gun and he takes it in his right hand, nearly drops it at the unexpected weight after so many days.

He shakes his head once to try to clear it. He can barely take a deep breath and his stomach muscles have been contracting and releasing, for some time. He assumes it is the result of the water he drank earlier.

"Clip?" he asks quietly.

And to John Watson's everlasting amazement, Lori Hansen's left hand goes into the pocket of her scrubs and comes out with the clip for his pistol.

OooOooO

Sherlock and Mycroft stride through the front door of the museum, Mycroft handing the attendant two tickets he has brought out of his pocket. They are waved through and enter the ArtGallery. Sherlock glances around once, then casually begins to move toward the far left of the main gallery, ostensibly to stare at the paintings exhibited on the walls.

His heart is pounding in his chest. At the same time, Sherlock feels utterly focused – and filled with an icy reserve. At that moment, he shares something in common with the marble statues he glimpses in one of the far galleries. Mycroft stands a few feet away, glancing around at paintings, idly walks up to one to bend over and peer at it.

Steadily the Holmes brothers make their way around the gallery to their left, occasionally stopping to stare a painting, then move on. At all times, they attempt to keep their backs to the obvious tiny cameras that live in the corners of the ceilings. It's only a matter of times before someone on security details recognizes Sherlock, but the do the best they can with it. In a few minutes, they are out of the watchful gaze of the main gallery attendant and approach the new wing at the far back.

Sherlock's stride has picked up, as has Mycroft's. Both brothers walk toward the new gallery, filled with purpose and but a single thought.

Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan come through the front doors next, and begin to look around, begin to act as typical art lovers. Sally is more practiced at it then Lestrade, who really wants nothing more than to stride down the far corridor, go to the door that leads to the lower level, hare down the steps and find John Watson.

Sherlock has told them under no circumstances to trust the elevators as Moriarty's people can probably incapacitate them at a moment's notice. So stairs it is.

Lestrade wants to go down those steps … but he does nothing of the sort. Instead he lets Donovan lead him around, occasionally glancing at artwork, once in a while bending over to read a description or card at the bottom of the displays.

A few moments later, Anderson and Rodriguez enter the Wellington, separately, a minute or so apart. They glance around and move away from each other, one on either side of the gallery. They are followed shortly by two more plain clothes officers, then two more.

By now, Lestrade and Sally are only about a hundred feet behind the Holmes brothers. They continue to play the part of museum goers, but both keep an eye on the tall backs of Sherlock and Mycroft as they enter the new wing added on to the back of the museum.

The Saturday crowd is impressive, even at such an early hour, and there are several obvious family groups milling around. Lestrade hears the voices of small children and he winces at the thought of what could occur in the next few moments.

Outside, several more cars arrive shortly, one after the other and the occupants get out of their respective vehicles, stretch, look around, some of them enter the museum casually, talking excitedly amongst themselves, a few of them remain with their vehicles, glance at their watches and at the road, as if waiting for tardy family members.

Lestrade glances down at the card on the bottom frame of a painting – looks back up at Sally's quick intake of breath. He stares quickly toward the new wing. Neither Sherlock or Mycroft are to be seen.

"Oh bloody hell," he murmurs. He and Donovan glance at each other, then move toward the far gallery.

OooOooO

Sherlock and Mycroft take the stairs down, moving quickly. Both of them have drawn their weapons but keep their hands to their sides.

The stairs wind down, one set of stairs, then another, then a third. At the bottom of the third set, another door beckons. At each bend of stairs, Mycroft reaches into his left pocket, pulls out a tiny metallic circle, and slaps it on the wall as they pass, several feet before the security cameras in the far corners. On the third level, he presses another one of the self-adhering disks into the wall, then both brothers move purposefully through the door.

OooOooO

Doctor Marcus Franks is not doing so well. His breathing has become labored as he sits and squirms under James Moriarty's gaze. He is aware when Moran stands, leisurely stretches, then comes around to stand almost behind his chair.

Moriarty glances from Franks' face to Moran's, shakes his head imperceptibly. Moran shrugs, walks around to the far side of the room, his hands in his pockets.

He wanders around, glances at the computer monitors, jingles coins in his pocket. All the while he keeps looking at Marcus Franks … at the sweat that is now pouring into his eyes and the nervous twitch of his fingers and the tiny tic that has appeared over his right eye.

Moran smiles to himself.

Jim leans forward slightly in his chair, continues to stare directly at Marcus Franks.

"Okay, Dr. Franks, you can go for the moment. I will talk with you later."

Franks rises to his feet, his eyes wide. "Yes sir."

He pauses at the door, looks back at Moriarty. Wets his lips. "I'm – sorry – about the results. But Dr. Reese is the one who—"

"Yes. Yes. Don't worry about it now," assures Jim.

Franks nods once, leaves through the door behind him.

James Moriarty swivels around to one of his pc monitors, thinking. Finally, he stands and crosses to the map of London on the wall. He does not turn around but says tiredly, "Sebastian, I think Dr. Franks has just about outlived his usefulness. Nearly. I still may need him to help with Watson."

Behind him, Sebastian grins. "You'll let me know when you have no further use for the good doctor? Things are getting a little boring around here right now."

Jim turns around to stare at Moran. Before he can speak, the intercom on his desk beeps at him.

OooOooO

John stumbles toward the door, the Browning a reassuring weight in his left hand. Frankly, he can barely stand. But he'll be god damned if he goes down for the count in that bloody room.

At the door, he leans against the frame, panting. He has his right arm over his chest again. But it's not helping. His vision is spiking and the contractions in his midsection have become more than a distraction. They are rapidly approaching agony. He feels as if his legs are made out of Jello.

"Dr. Watson?" Lori's voice is quiet by his side. She stares at him worriedly.

He rests his head for a second against the frame, then forces himself to straighten.

"Which way?" he gasps.

"Left" she says. "We have to go left – and then up to get out."

John makes it out the door, takes three steps, four, five, then watches himself from above, as if he is having an out of body experience, as he slowly sinks to the ground and sits there, his back against the wall, gasping. Lori bends over him; she looks as if she will burst into tears at any moment.

"I'm sorry," he gasps. "I'm so very sorry." His hand has a death grip on the Browning but he doesn't know if he can raise it now – even if he needs to. His eyes close and he tries, fails, to take a deep breath. His head drops forward.

She sinks down beside him and leans her head back against the wall. The pain in her head is now blinding and she blinks, tries to focus on his face.

"It's all right," she whispers. "I'm sorry too." She pulls her knees up and wraps her arms around them, finally sinking her head onto her arms.

It was a long shot anyway.

OooOooO

Marcus Franks hurries to the lift to take it up to the second level, to his quarters. He is shaking and sweat pools along his temple. He wipes it away with one hand before it can drip into his eyes again. His heart hammers in his chest.

He is going to collect his notes and leave by the front entrance. Cameras be damned. He cannot stay here a moment longer.

He steps off the lift – and stares.

Two very tall men stand there, by the stairway entrance, staring. They both stand in front of the door that leads down the corridor - to the sleeping areas. And his quarters.

The one in front, with the dark curls and cold blue stare, walks up to him. His companion hangs back, watching.

"Who – who the hell are you?" Franks asks, his voice wavering.

The ice blue eyes narrow. "Dr. Franks?" The man's voice is an impossible baritone, smooth as silk and darkly menacing.

"Yes. I'm Franks." His voice shakes now and he really needs to get away. If he can get around these two stupid intruders. They must have gotten away from a museum tour.

Franks stares at the pale blue eyes, mesmerized.

"Dr. Marcus Franks?" the man asks again in the impossibly deep voice. John would have warned Franks about the tone of that voice, if he were there.

Franks nods, impatient now. "Yes, yes. I'm Dr. Marcus Franks. Now who the hell are you and what the hell do you want?"

"Just corroboration," the man with the blue eyes and shaggy hair says.

Sherlock raises John's Makarov – and shoots Franks right between the eyes.

He and Mycroft turn away from the body and walk toward the door. At the door, Mycroft hesitates, looks at his brother, his eyes narrowed. Sherlock nods.

OooOooO

"Sherlock Holmes has entered the building, sir." The security guard's voice shakes as he gives Moriarty the news over the intercom.

"Bloody hell," says Moran. He swivels and turns toward the door.

"Where is he now?" Moriarty demands. His small black eyes narrow at the intercom.

"Sir – we lost him on the cameras. The last time we had him, he was in the new wing."

Jim swears quietly. He'll have every one of their heads on a pike after this.

"What the hell do you mean you lost him on the cameras!"

Moran raises an eyebrow at Jim. He stands there, one hand on the door handle.

"I mean, sir, that our security cameras no longer work on any of the lower levels. Except those leading to the living quarters. Oh."

Jim's voice is barely controlled rage. "Now what?"

"Oh. Sir – all the cameras on the second level just went dark, as well."

Moran turns and walks through the door.

OooOooO

"Doctor Watson?" Lori's voice is small, barely a whisper.

John's body has given out but he hears her and is able to – barely – raise his head.

She is kneeling in front of him now, her hands on his shoulders. She shakes him gently.

"Doctor Watson … how many bullets does that gun hold?"

Her voice is desperate and he can see her well enough to note the tears that well up in her brown eyes and track silently down her face. His body is failing but his mind is still clear, a little at least.

"How many bullets?" she repeats. Her eyes stare into his and he sees the terror in them.

She swipes her eyes with one shaking hand and puts the other one back on his shoulder.

"Please, Doctor Watson. Please…" her voice sinks to a whisper.

He doesn't even pretend to misunderstand her.

John's eyes widen, fill with horror.

"I – I can't do that," he croaks. "Please…I can't. I'm a doctor. I—"

He is becoming agitated and she lowers her head, bites her lip.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. She sinks back down now, her hands falling from his shoulders. "Sorry. I shouldn't' have –"

She raises her eyes to his again and John stares back at her, his dark blue eyes filled now with infinite sadness. "I can't," he repeats. "Please don't ask me."

She nods once. Sits on the ground, pulls her knees up again to rest her head on them.

"It's just – Moran – he—" Suddenly she shuts her eyes – and begins to softly cry.

He tries to raise his hand to pat her cheek or to put an arm around her. But he can't. His right arm won't obey his commands any longer.

He shuts his eyes for a second, listens to her quiet sobbing.

This is my fault, John thinks. When Moran comes – not if – when he comes, he'll take me out first. I'm an easy target. And she'll be left for that monster to face alone.

And John knows that Sebastian Moran can make the process of dying last a very, very long time indeed. She's risked everything for him, everything. The thought that soon he'll be dead and leave her to that ... NO. Not going to happen.

A quiet anger begins to fill John. By god, it’s not going to end like this. He opens his eyes. Stares at the dark head bowed in front of him.

"Lori?" he says, his voice a tad stronger now. "Lori, please…"

She raises her head to stare at him.

"Help me up, okay?" he asks her. He tries to grin at her. He doesn't think he succeeds. But at least he tries.

She swipes at her eyes with one shaking hand, nods. She stands, albeit unsteadily. Then reaches down to help John get to his feet. He pushes against the wall to use it as leverage and finally manages to stand. It's awkward, but at least he's back on his feet.

Hooray for me, he thinks.

He leans against the wall for a few seconds, breathing shallow, his right arm holds onto his ribs and the left has a death grip on the Browning. She moves around to his right side and puts one arm around his waist to help him walk.

John sighs. "Come on," he whispers. "I can manage a few more feet." She nods, her dark hair falling over her face.

They take a few steps together. Somewhere there is the sound of a shot. John's head jerks up and he stares down the long hallway.

Lori hesitates. "Do—do you think that's –"

John can literally hear her heartbeat as it pounds in her chest.

"Don't know," John says. His left hand tightens on the Browning. They look at each other and take another few hesitant steps down the hallway toward the far door. John's energy is nearly gone now. He is acting on sheer instinct. He stops again to lean briefly against the wall and catch his breath. He shuts his eyes.

"Just – give me a sec," he mumbles. She nods, holds on to his waist with a shaking arm.

And that is how Sherlock finds them as he comes down the corridor.

OooOooO

"Sir? It's been 15 minutes. Sherlock and Mycroft said 10, 15 at the most."

Sally Donovan stands in front of a sculpture, of what she could never say. It doesn't look like anything she's ever seen in this life. She bites her lip, glances around the gallery. People are walking all around the new wing, family groups, couples, and several plainclothes police. Once in a while, one of them glances at a watch, frowns, then stares shortly in their direction, hers and Lestrade's. Then looks away again.

Lestrade, who stands to her right, nods, glances at his watch. She's right. They've reached the 15 minute mark.

"We have to give them time," he says. "Five more minutes. Then we go down to find them."

Sally nods.

OooOooO

Moran strides to the lift, then stands in front of it, hesitates. Every security camera on the first and second levels has gone dark. Holmes is in the building and if he knows or has any idea where Watson is housed, then he will be on the second floor. Moran doesn't know if the lift will work or for how long. He turns to take the stairway up to the next level.

OooOooO

Jim Moriarty hits the intercom and waits for someone to answer. Meanwhile, he flips through photos on his computer, pauses at one in particular. Yes, he will do nicely.

"Sir?" The voice is hesitant, filled with dread.

"Send Phillips to me. Now," says Moriarty.

"Yes sir."

Jim glances around the room, moves to pick up a few objects from the desktop, slips them into his pockets. He checks for his wallet and one key in particular. Nods when he finds it.

Finally, he takes out the shiny pen that Sebastian Moran gave him and he starts to flip it, end over end.

He looks toward the door, and smiles.

OooOooO

"John!"

Sherlock strides up to them both, just in time to catch the doctor as his legs finally give out. He catches John by the shoulders, steadies him as he sinks slowly to the ground.

John's head bows, his eyes close. His breath comes in sharp little gasps. He wonders if this is the delirium that precedes death.

He can hear Sherlock's voice, feel his hands on his shoulders, hell he can smell his spicy aftershave. He manages to open his eyes and stares straight into those he most wants to see in the world. He wants to reach out and touch one of the dark curls. But he can't muster the energy. If this is death, he'll take it any day of the week.

He leans back in order to see the detective better and encounters those strong, lean fingers against the back of his head.

"John, John." Sherlock puts one hand behind John Watson's sandy head to keep John's skull from hitting the wall. He leans forward and looks into the dazed eyes of his partner.

John's eyes look back, out of focus. But he is trying. That's something anyway.

"Mr. – Holmes?" Lori's voice comes from Sherlock's left and he turns his head briefly to stare at the young woman.

His mind provides the data. Lori Hansen, RN, missing for nearly a month now. Called as a temp to fill in at the clinic of one Dr. Marcus Franks. He frowns at her, notes her obvious injuries.

Lori stares at him, her eyes wide. Blood is dripping through her dark hair again, and down into her eyes. She tries to clear her throat.

"He – Doctor Watson needs an ambulance," she whispers. "He's suffering from—"

"Well if this isn't old home week," comes the drawl behind them.

Sherlock straightens, his fingers tightening in John's sandy locks. John's eyes snap open and he manages, barely, to focus on Sherlock's' face. This isn't a dream then. It's real.

And it's just become a nightmare.

Because Sebastian Moran stands about 30 feet behind Sherlock, his Sig pointed in their direction.

OooOooO

Security Guard Billy Phillips stands in front of James Moriarty, and frowns. He has no idea why he was called on the carpet. But he's done nothing. In fact, he's been a damned reliable member of the team. So he's not overly worried.

Jim studies his face for a moment. He grins.

Phillips swallows at that smile. This is the first time he's been in front of – hell, seen, James Moriarty. When Jim grins, Billy decides he doesn't like this little man, not one little bit.

"Mr. Phillips," says Moriarty slowly, his eyes raking over the other man's face and figure. "Do you know why you were hired as a guard here?"

Phillips shakes his head. "I figured it was because of my experience, sir." He stares back at Jim.

Jim stands up, comes to stand directly in front of Phillips. He is tossing the little gold and silver pen, end over end over end.

It flashes in the overhead lights.

"Wrong," he says quietly. "You were hired because you resemble a certain member of this team."

Phillips swallows, his eyes following the pen. "I – I don't understand, sir. I resemble a member of your team? Who?"

His eyes can't leave the tiny flash / gleam of the pen as Jim tosses it end over end.

"Me," says Jim Moriarty. And he leans forward, pen in hand.

OooOooO

"Well, this is just fine," drawls Moran. "You can stand now, Sherlock," he adds dryly.

Sherlock releases John's head, comes slowly to his feet. From his left, Lori Hansen's breath hitches. She huddles in on herself, hides her head in her crossed arms at John's side. He can hear her quiet sobbing.

John's eyes are closed and his head leans back against the wall. He appears to be barely breathing. His skin is waxy, pale. His eyes sunken in his head. Dark purple bruises surround his eyes and Sherlock sees a spasm that shakes through John's form, from his spine upward – and back down again. John's breath hitches and he moans softly.

Sherlock frowns. His blood is pure ice water in his veins. But there's a roaring sound in his head, and it threatens to drown out all other sounds around him, including his own heartbeat.

"Gently now," says Moran.

Sherlock turns slowly. He keeps his body between John and Moran, screening the doctor from Moran's gaze, as much as possible. He holds his hands out to the side, palms out.

He stares back at Moran, considering.

From the intercom over their heads, a guard's voice rings out. "Sherlock Holmes has entered the building. All guards to their stations!" The voice breaks off – as if the talker has suddenly lost the capacity of speech. A slight choking sound comes from the speaker.

"I can bloody well take care of Holmes!" growls Moran in the general direction of the intercom. He raises the Sig. His fingers tighten.

Sherlock's eyes narrow.

"And exactly which Holmes would that be?" comes the quiet deadly voice behind him.

Moran freezes.

Mycroft steps up behind Moran, holds his Walther PPK steady against the back of Moran's head. He pushes inward with the barrel.

"Drop it, now," he growls. God, he's waited years to say that. He must remember every bit of this so he can tell Anthea. She'll love it.

"Hey, let's all keep our heads here, okay," says Moran. He opens his fingers, lets the Sig drop. His body tenses, as if to turn.

"None of that," says Mycroft. And he strikes Moran's temple a glancing blow with the Walther.

Moran drops to his knees, swearing.

Mycroft holds the Walther with both hands, steady as a rock. He glances at his brother.

"Sherlock."

Moran is on his knees, panting, but his eyes never leave Sherlock's.

Staring at him, Sherlock steps forward, reaches down for Moran's left hand.

He clamps his strong fingers around Moran's wrist, raises John's Makarov, Moran's eyes widen.

Sherlock hesitates, glances at Moran's face thoughtfully. He slowly slips the Makarov back into his right hand pocket.

Moran grins. "Knew you didn't have the guts, Holmes. At least your pansy lover over there, Watson, knows how to put up a fight."

Taunting words, but there is a fine sheen of sweat on his temple.

Ignoring him, Sherlock glances up at Mycroft, his hand still clamped around Moran's wrist.

"Mycroft."

Mycroft's eyes never leave Moran. "Right," he says.

He steps forward, reaches into the right breast pocket of his coat and draws out a murderously slim blade, at least 9" in length. He waits while Sherlock removes a glove from his jacket pocket, carefully pulls it over the fingers of his right hand.

Mycroft hands the knife over to Sherlock. "Japanese? German?" asks the detective, casually.

"American actually," says Mycroft. "Private knife maker in New Mexico." Sherlock nods, appreciatively.

Mycroft steps back, both hands again grasp the Walter, still aimed at Moran's chest.

The overhead lights flash off the tip. Moran stares at it, swallows.

"Thanks." Sherlock takes the blade, studies the tip for a second, turns it so the overhead lights dance along the surface, then he looks down at Moran.

In his mind's eye, Sherlock replays the first video – and relives again the memory of Sebastian Moran glancing at the camera, saying "Paybacks are hell, Sherlock," and - again - sees Moran swing the metal tube casually at John's ribs, breaking them. He hears, once more, the slight, sickening sound as the metal impacts against John's chest, over his heart.

Sherlock yanks Moran's wrist, forcing the sleeve of his jacket back, exposing the muscled wrist.

"I believe this was the hand?" he says casually.

OooOooO

Lestrade and Donovan stand next to the door in the far gallery, the door that the blueprints say leads down to the lower levels.

There is the sound of a strangled howl – cut off mid scream.

"Right," says Lestrade. He glances at Donovan. "Take charge up here. I'm going down to bring them up." Sally nods.

Lestrade goes through the door.

Sally’s mobile rings and she fishes it out of her purse. She listens, then frowns.

She glances at the door that the DI has gone through. Her news will have to wait. She thinks fast, makes a phone call.

"Right. Thanks," she says hurriedly.

Sally drops her mobile back into the corner pocket of her purse and glances around the gallery. Her eyes meet those of Rodriguez, who is standing guard at the far door. She nods in his direction. His eyes widen and he strolls over to where she is standing.

OooOooO

Moran crouches on the floor in a slowly spreading pool of his own blood. His breath comes in harsh gasps.

"You fucking whore!" he shouts at Sherlock's back. "I'll kill you all – I'll cut your throat, Holmes – you and your precious little pet." He huddles over his left arm and groans.

Sherlock ignores him. He bends over John, thumbs at John's eyebrow. John's head lolls to the side. Sherlock glances at Lori Hansen to his side. She looks back at him, her eyes filled with tears. He can see she's reached the end of her endurance. He tries to put a reassuring smile on his face.

"You're safe," Sherlock says. "You're both safe now. We'll get both of you to hospital shortly." She nods once, doesn't trust herself to speak.

And then everything happens at once.

Mycroft half bends over Moran as he gestures for him to get to his feet. Moran continues to hold his injured left hand and wrist - what is left of it - against himself – then in one smooth motion, yanks the small Beretta from his leg holster and fires upward at Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock hears his brother grunt, curse as he falls heavily to the side. He remains bent over, to protect John from whatever is happening behind his back. Lori raises her eyes and stares in horror as she sees Moran lunge for his Sig, forgotten on the floor at Mycroft's feet. Mycroft struggles to rise, his hand still grips the Walther.

Moran growls deep in his throat and aims a back-handed blow to Mycroft's right leg, right against the path his bullet has made. Mycroft's breath hitches and he falls backward, scrambling for purchase on the floor. The Walter falls from his grasp.

Moran rises to his feet, his right hand gripped around the Sig. He ignores the elder Holmes who is still struggling to rise but he moves to kick the Walther away from Mycroft's grasp. He takes three steps back so as to keep Mycroft in front of him, glances down at the fallen man with contempt.

Moran raises the Sig and points it straight at Sherlock's back. "Turn around, Holmes I want you fucking facing me. Turn around, goddamn it!"

If there is one thing on earth that can stir the dying embers of John Watson's heart – this is it - a direct threat against the man he loves. John's eyes open, his head tilts back and his gaze focuses upward at Sherlock. Sherlock looks down at John.

John's left hand moves forward slightly, still with its death grip on the Browning. He meets his partner's eyes, and Sherlock nods imperceptibly.

Something about this scene is incredibly familiar to Sherlock but he lets it go for now.

Moran growls again, "I said turn around, Sherlock fucking Holmes! I'm going to shoot you right between those pretty eyes – and then take a long, long time with the other two. And I'm not even going to tell you what's going to happen to your pansy lover."

Sherlock raises his hands, glances again at John, who nods once, then Sherlock Holmes turns toward Moran and pivots quickly to the side - out of John's line of fire.

John Watson raises the Browning in one smooth movement - and fires. Sherlock hears twin blasts – and smiles.

Lori's eyes widen. Her breath catches in her throat.

Sebastian Moran's body sways once, then falls heavily to the floor, with two bullets in him, one from John Watson's Browning more or less through his heart – and the other from Greg Lestrade's own Walther PPK, which neatly takes off the back of Moran's head.

Mycroft Holmes struggles to rise to his feet, he is spattered in Moran's blood and brains, stares across the floor at his brother in disgust. He raises one eyebrow. Finally takes out a handkerchief and presses it to his leg, which is streaming blood on the hardwood floor.

Honest to God, Anthea won't believe any of this. And now he has a wound too.

Lestrade raises an eyebrow, takes in the scene. He finally addresses Sherlock across Moran's body.

"Honestly, I can't take you guys anywhere," he says dryly. He fishes his mobile out of his pocket, frowns at the lack of bars. "Be right back," he mutters.

Lestrade goes back up the steps to the main gallery.

Mycroft struggles to his feet, hobbles over to Sherlock.

Sherlock bends over John, brushes his fingers through the sweaty, dark gold spikes. For a moment, he breathes in the sight of a living, breathing John Watson. His heart hammers in his chest.

John does not open his eyes.

Lestrade comes back through the door, the blanket from the SUV in his hands. Sally was coming down the steps with it as he was going up. He hands it to Sherlock, who nods his thanks.

Behind them, there is the sound of a half dozen pair of feet, thundering down the stairs to the lower level. Lestrade glances at Sherlock. "Arresting Moriarty."

Sherlock's eyes narrow, but he dismisses it and immediately turns back to John.

Lori Hansen struggles to her feet. She moves around Sherlock's back and goes to lean up against Mycroft Holmes' solid side. Even wounded, the man exudes safety. Mycroft puts one arm around the tiny nurse and hugs her to him. She shuts her eyes.

Sherlock bends over John, thumbs at an eyebrow.

"John, John," he murmurs. Then more loudly, "Come on, stay with me, okay? John! John Watson!"

At the same time, he gently pulls the Browning out of John's grasp. He has to tug twice before John relinquishes the weapon. Sherlock thumbs the safety on, hands it backward over his shoulder to Lestrade, who pretends not to see it. Lestrade hands it back to Mycroft – who takes it and drops it into a pocket of his coat.

John opens his eyes at the voice he loves above all others and manages to blink Sherlock into existence. He stares at the crystalline eyes. Smiles weakly.

"You're late," he whispers.

Sherlock flinches at the hoarse sound of his partner's voice. Then he raises an eyebrow when he is certain John can still see him. He tucks the blanket around John carefully. He leans over, runs his fingers through the dark blonde spikes, then kisses John on the forehead.

Sherlock whispers back, "Always the drama queen."

He smiles into John's eyes, and John tries to smile back but he can't, he really can't. The pain in his abdomen threatens to eclipse his entire universe - and he loses consciousness again before Sherlock can react.

Sherlock raises his head, finds his brother's eyes.

"Hurry," he says, his voice rough. "We have to hurry."

OooOooO

Lestrade's voice comes over the loudspeaker.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. Please stand back against the walls. There has been an accident. You are in no danger. But we ask you to stand back against the walls so Emergency Services personnel can get in and out. We only require your assistance for a few minutes. Again, you are in absolutely no danger. Thank you."

Kids, parents, various patrons of the arts, all move toward the walls. One little boy, eyes wide, points, "Look there."

His mother raises her head, frowns, just as several people come out of the back gallery, two of the men ridiculously tall, the dark one carrying another man in his arms, with what looks like a quilt tucked around him. The other carries a small woman, whose head lolls back, her eyes shut tight.

The mother's eyes widen as the unlikely duos cross in front of her and her son.

It has gone incredibly quiet in the main hall of the WellingtonArt Museum.

The men pass – and several other people hurry after them – one of them a woman with dark curly hair who, along with another man, holds the front doors open.

Once they are out the door, the gravelly voice comes over the speakers again.

"Thank you for your cooperation. Again, you were never in any danger. Enjoy the rest of your morning."

There is a brief silence. And everyone begins to talk at once.

OooOooO

Sherlock hurries to the SUV, his arms full of one unconscious Army doctor. He growls, literally growls at anyone who tries to take John from him to help him into the car.

At the door of the SUV, he glances around. He sees Rodriguez carry Lori Hansen to the unmarked police car. Anderson slides into the driver's seat while Rodriguez holds the little nurse in his arms.

"Where's your fucking ambulance, Lestrade?"

Greg Lestrade frowns, glances around the parking lot. Donovan hurries up.

She tries to catch her breath.

"There was a massive accident. Multiple wounded and possible fatalities. The ambulance we had standing by was dispatched to the scene immediately."

Mycroft begins to swear, takes out his Blackberry. Donovan holds up a hand. He stops, stares at her.

"We've called for another ambulance and they're on their way, but they're about twenty minutes out. They'll meet us."

Sherlock glances down at Johns' face, then up at his brother's eyes. "Mycroft."

Mycroft moves around to open the back door of the SUV. Then he hurries around to the other passenger side. He slides in and supports John's body as Sherlock hands him over to his brother, then climbs into the car.

Lestrade hurries to the driver's seat and Donovan gets into the front passenger seat, just as before. Lestrade starts the engine and the SUV roars out of the parking lot.

Sherlock pulls John's still body into his embrace.

He looks down at John's pale face, at the bluish purple smudges around his eyes, the extreme pallor. Under his shaking hands, he can feel the twin rasps as John attempts to breath. He raises his eyes, meets Mycroft's. The older man is tight-lipped, white around the eyes. Sherlock knows it's not his wound that causes his brother's utter paleness.

Sherlock looks back down at John…and brushes a kiss against Johns' lips, past caring who sees or hears.

"John, John," he whispers. "Please…"

He bends over John's body, seemingly impossibly small, holds it tightly against his chest. He shuts his eyes.

"John … Stay," he breathes into the sandy hair. His voice sounds ragged, fearful.

John's breath comes in tight little gasps. Everyone in the car can hear his labored breathing.

And everyone in the car can hear it when it stops.

OooOooO

Chapter 22

Lestrade has never seen the adult Sherlock Holmes cry, not real tears, (except Mycroft - once, and John – twice - and those incidents remain private.)

As far as Lestrade knows, Sherlock Holmes cannot cry.

"But oh my fucking God can he curse," thinks D.I. Lestrade.

OooOooO

There is not even a ten-second interval between the cessation of John Watson's heartbeat - and when Lestrade twists the wheel to the left so sharply that tires squeal, then slide in the near frozen grass.

And then Mycroft and Donovan are out and moving … Mycroft's three thousand quid coat is spread on the grass and Sherlock hands John out to his brother, probably the only human being he will allow to touch John at this moment and not try to murder them, and then Sherlock and then Lestrade are out and John's body is laid down on the coat, the blanket still swaddles his form to keep off the ungodly cold, except for his chest area which is left open, and Sherlock bends over John, his left hand splays on John's chest, between his ribs, and just one second's hesitation, as all Sherlock can think is, "what if I drive those ribs into his lungs?"

Behind him he hears Mycroft as he strides back and forth on the verge and screams, fucking' screams at Anthea over his Blackberry about Life Flights and Mother Loving ambulances and God damn portable defibrillators and where in the fucking hell is everyone anyway.

Lestrade puts his hand on Sherlock's shoulder and says, "He's not breathing, Sherlock. Anything you do now is a bonus."

And then Sherlock begins chest compressions followed by rescue breathing, remembers what John has taught him and John has insisted on regular updates every three months, just to keep his hand in - thank Christ because the movements are so familiar to him, and he sees himself lock his right fingers into his left, straighten his arms and press down from the shoulders, one, two, three ten, twelve, twenty-four, thirty then breathe for the man he loves and then another breath and he watches as John's chest rises, then falls, goes good, good, John does not fight him on this, he accepts Sherlock's breath in his lungs as being entirely right and natural…but neither does he begin to breath on his own either…and then the pounding and F'ngod something slips under his hands and he thinks he feels something move but he's not certain…and there's a roaring in his head and in his heart and in his ears…but he keeps on…and then the anger -

– the absolute goddamned furious overwhelming threatening to drown out all sight and sound and reason ANGER over what Moriarty and that bastard Moran and the SOB who called himself a Doctor, a motherless Doctor, for Christ's sakes, has put them through … has done to John … and by default to them both .. .and dear God if you exist bring the bastards back to life so we can kill them all over again…THAT ANGER overwhelms Sherlock to the point he is shaking, literally shaking – and the overwhelming sense of purpose – the certain knowledge and belief that nothing – NOTHING - in the entire bloody Universe from the beginning of time until this moment is as important as his two hands pressing down on this chest – these precious few cubic feet of flesh and bone and blood under his hands – and sod the Solar System anyway, THAT purpose pours into his own lungs and the florid curses he has learned from a certain Army doctor began to pour, fucking pour out of his mouth and Sally Donovan can stand there listening, fascinated, forever and a day, if it isn't for the fact that John Watson is dead and getting deader by the second.

"GOD DAMN YOU" … pound …. pound … "JOHN HAMISH FUCKING WATSON!" ... pound … pound … "AT ANY FUCKING TIME … pound … pound … DID I TELL YOU … pound…pound…THAT YOU COULD UP …pound…pound… pound … breathe once for him …watch chest rise …now another ... AND FREAKING DIE ON ME! ... pound … pound … JOHN WATSON! … pound … pound … "HELL NO, …. Pound … pound …YOUCOMPLETE SOD…pound…pound…BREATHE YOU SON OF A BITCH … .pound … breathe …watch chest rise … now another ... pound …YOU MOTHERLESS WANKER … pound … pound … HOLY SHITE JOHN … pound … breathe … watch chest rise … WHAT IN THE NAME OF HELL… pound … pound … DO YOU THINK … pound … pound …YOU ARE DOING - YOU ARSE HOLE ... pound … pound … breath … watch chest rise … I DID NOT GO THROUGH … pound … pound … ALL OF THIS ABSOLUTE SHITE … pound … breathe … watch chest rise ….JUST SO YOU CAN … pound … pound …GOD DAMNED DIE ON ME … pound … pound… breathe … watch chest rise … AND LEAVE ME ON THIS MOTHER LOVING ROCK … pound … pound … WITHOUT YOU – ... pound …YOU UTTER BASTARD …

And somewhere under all of it – deep down - is the one word repeated over and over and over again until it reverberates through his soul … … please … please… please … please …

And then he passes the one and a half minute mark and heads into two and his own heart pounds in his chest and his entire world narrows onto his two hands and this man's heart, so utterly still under his hands and not moving and then a second car squeals up, because of course Anderson has followed them to hospital, so of course they are right behind them and Rodriquez too and there is Lori Hansen, her right arm and shoulder screaming from Moran's mistreatment, but she runs, RUNS up to Sherlock and counts with him and after the next breath she literally knocks his hands off John Watson's chest, straddles John and begins rescue Compressions with her small strong hands, directly between his broken ribs…because of course she knows exactly where they are … she's bandaged them enough the past week.

And she yells, YELLS at Sherlock.."Get ready to breathe for him….okay….one…two…three…twenty-eight, twenty-nine … thirty … BREATHE…and Sherlock bends over John and breathes and they both watch his chest go up and down…and then she begins again and if Lestrade thinks Sherlock Holmes can curse, the D.I. (and Sally) are startled – and fascinated - to hear the absolute vitriol that erupts from the tiny nurse because after all, her Dad is a British soldier, a Lieutenant, missing in action in Iraq and her cousin is a Career Marine in Afghanistan and she grew up hearing the lingo her entire life….

"WE DID NOT SURVIVE THIS UTTER GODLESS SHITE, DOCTOR JOHN WATSON, SO YOU CAN UP AND DIE ON SHERLOCK HOLMES SO YOU'D BETTER: … breathe for him … "YOU'D BETTER UP AND START BREATHING ON YOUR OWN OR SO HELP ME MARY, MOTHER OF GOD, JOSEPH AND ALL THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN" … breathe for him … "I WILL BLOODY WELL KILL YOU MYSELF, YOU SON OF A BITCH, RATHER THAN LET THOSE BASTARDS HAVE THE LAST WORD" … BREATHE FOR HIM …

And Mycroft comes over, Blackberry in hand , hell's own avenging archangel, all dark and murderous, stares up the road, and finally, FINALLY, they hear the ambulance but now they hit and pass the three minute mark and someone jumps out of the ambulance, and Hansen exchanges seven words with the EMT and to his dying day Sherlock Holmes can never recall those seven words - and then he is back with a hypo and Lori Hansen tears open John's filthy tee shirt, then sits back on her heels, avoiding the bullet wound and swollen flesh - and the EMT stabs the goddamned mother loving' hypo with its murderous needle downward, straight into John Watson's heart and two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight ... nine. ... and then twelve ... and then eighteen seconds later, she prepares to start CPR again ... until …

John Watson takes a breath…

And starts to choke.

They turn him on his side,

And he vomits bile and yes, blood, and they clear his airway…

and John Watson breathes …

And Sherlock waits for them to load John into the ambulance and he jumps in after him and before the attendants can even think about protesting, Mycroft flashes an ID and says something about "Earl and cousin to the Queen" and "national war hero" and probably something about keeper of the god damn corgis too, but Sherlock can't recall it and the ambulance roars off and they are on the road, lights flash and sirens blare and nothing – nothing - in the world is ever as beautiful to Sherlock Holmes in his entire life as the sight of John Watson's chest as it rises and falls in that mother loving ambulance ...

OooOooO

FIVE DAYS AND SEVEN HOURS LATER -

Sherlock sits and watches John.

He sits in the chair, not the usual cheap plastic one, but a remarkably comfortable chair, that he suspects folds out into a chaise and he watches John Watson breathe.

Those who pass by the private room, glance in and see the enigmatic figure, long legs stretched out in front of him, hands clasped as if in prayer under his chin, eyes focused on the unmoving figure in the hospital bed, and note that he appears an island of calm in the storm that has been John Watson's life in St. Anne's for the past five long days.

Those in the know, shudder, and tip toe past the room - and past the supposed security guard who stands watch directly outside the door.

OooOooO

When the ambulance arrives at St. Anne's – closest hospital to the Wellington and secretly Mycroft is relieved it is not Bart's – less people know of his famous brother and his Army doctor companion here, so perhaps they will be left in relative peace and quiet – John is rushed into the hospital and Sherlock follows along, his gloved hands clenched tight in the pocket of his jacket.

He stares as John Watson disappears behind the double doors.

Mycroft puts a hand on his brother's arm to guide him to the waiting area for critical care patients. The tall men sit next to each other. Mycroft pulls out his Blackberry and Sherlock stretches out his long legs and proceeds to ignore his brother – and the rest of the world.

And Sherlock waits.

Sherlock waits while Mycroft's team of private doctors, nurses and two surgeons rush into the hospital - and disappear behind the double doors.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow, sickened, but waits when diagnoses begin to pour forth and one of the doctors, a Doctor Merit, comes out to speak with Mycroft. Sherlock sits, legs stretched out, eyes closed and listens as Merit discusses John's condition… a laundry list of physical ills that Sherlock will hence forth and forever file away as "Things That Have Been Done to John Watson."

"Probably Sepsis .. shock... we're still running tests ... definite malnutrition ... dehydration ... broken ribs … cracked ribs … exposure to unknown, possibly addictive substance … internal bleeding … internal bleeding … internal bleeding…"

Sherlock shuts his eyes and lets the flow of words wash over him.

Presumably Mycroft is paying attention.

Sherlock waits while Mycroft confers with this Dr. Merit, then two more, then a team of surgeons. He waits while Mycroft texts Anthea and talks to Anthea and answers calls on his Blackberry from Anthea …and while his brother seemingly speaks with or texts 98 various individuals in a couple of hours.

98. Sherlock counted.

He waits while Lori Hansen is rushed back to speak with the medical team assigned to John Watson's immediate care. He waits while she gives Lestrade's people instructions on where they can find samples of the drug that runs through John Watson's veins. She gives them directions to the underground clinic, hands them the keys and explains how many injections he had – nine total over four days – and what the immediate results were. And what they can expect the long term effects to be, as far as she knows.

He waits while Lestrade's team reports that the body they found in the conference room, while it matches one James Moriarty in description, is, in fact, not that of a "J. Moriarty" because someone finally thought to thumb open one of the dead eyelids – and notes that the eyes are a deep green. Moriarty's are, of course, nearly coal black.

He waits while Lestrade's people pull up the security tapes from the front lobby of the Wellington and discover that a person matching the description of Billy Phillips – the now defunct security guard – dressed in his guard uniform - walks calmly through the front gallery, then the front lobby, stops at the concession stand, buys an iced Coke and a bag of crisps, and walks out the front door under the eyes of the Met's finest. And then presumably drives away in Phillips' car.

He absorbs all of this information, nods once or twice, and re-crosses his long legs, shuts his eyes – and he waits.

Sherlock waits while Mycroft's "cleaners" make the mortal remains of one "Doctor" Marcus Franks (Sherlock refuses to give him that honorarium) and one soldier of fortune and all around bastard, Sebastian Moran go away.

He waits while DI Lestrade gathers reports from everyone involved in the rescue at the Wellington, those inside and those out. And despairs of the mountain of paperwork he now faces.

Sherlock waits while Lori Hansen's wounds are dressed and she is admitted to a semi-private room – and officer Rodriguez calls DI Lestrade to beg two days off from his duties "because her sister can't get down here from Edinburgh for another day and she is all alone." - and Lestrade says, “Of course."

Tackling the mountain of paperwork, Lestrade pauses to consider that at least one good thing might have come out of this mess. Rodriguez is, to all intents and purposes, smitten. And Hansen doesn't seem to mind.

Sherlock waits through all of this chaos, long legs stretched out in front of him, hands steepled under his chin, London-grey eyes never leaving the double doors behind which, John Watson is being cared for.

Sherlock waits exactly four hours, forty-five minutes and an odd number of seconds.

And then all Hell breaks loose.

When word goes out that John Watson needs a blood transfusion to combat the internal bleeding in his abdomen, officers from NSY who have his blood type rush to St. Anne's and line up to donate. Mycroft notes that those who participated in the rescue and those who missed out on it are both in attendance.

Of course, Sherlock Holmes, who has the same exact blood type as John Watson, is the first one who enters the small room and lies down on the table, preparatory to donating blood for John.

He is the first donor in line – and the first and only – donor denied the right to give blood to John Watson – or to anyone else for that matter.

Mycroft, who has expected this problem to arise for the past five years, and knows that now it has, follows Sherlock to the small room where donors line up outside the door.

The nurse in attendance glances at Sherlock's chart, but does not bother to look up at him – yet. Hence, she has no idea of the storm that is about to wash over her.

Mycroft, who sees his brother's eyes turn the color of a thundercloud, does realize what is about to occur – and steps back to watch the show.

He feels badly for Sherlock but really, what did his brother expect?

Sherlock's voice, when he recovers it, is calm – and smoothly menacing.

"What do you mean, I am locked out of the donor database?"

The nurse sighs and checks off a box on her chart. She finally glances up at the tall detective, who rises up off the table, swings his long legs over the side and stands to come tower over her.

For the first time she sees, really sees, his eyes.

Her eyes widen and she takes a step back.

"Good move," thinks Mycroft. He mentally sighs and crosses his arms. His Blackberry buzzes in his coat pocket. He ignores it.

The nurse swallows once.

"It means, Mr. Holmes," she says rather imperiously, "that you are registered in the NHS database as a former user. Hence, you are barred from donating blood."

And that is when Sherlock Holmes stops waiting.

"That was years ago; I am and have been clean and can mother loving' prove it if you idiots will just get off your lazy arses and test me for Gods' sakes and no body and no one is going to keep me from donating blood to my Life Partner!"

His eyes go the color of dark rain clouds, the nurse takes another step back, and Mycroft's hand goes out to his brother's wrist as a warning.

Sherlock shakes him off; raises one imperious eyebrow, steps up into the nurse's face – and begins to yell.

Mycroft believes the American term is: "going ballistic."

In less than ten minutes, Sherlock is escorted out of the hospital by security.

Mycroft sighs and makes two hurried phone calls.

In less than thirty minutes, Sherlock is escorted back into the hospital and allowed to go back to the critical care waiting room and wait.

Less than forty-five minutes later, Sherlock is escorted back out of St. Anne's and ordered never to return.

Mycroft makes another phone call. Anthea shows up, and Sherlock is escorted back into St. Anne's under the watchful eye of security, and allowed to go sit – and wait – in the private room that will eventually be John's, once he comes out of surgery.

By this time, Mycroft leaves the hospital's main room and goes outside to make a quick call to Mummy, to let her know that courtesy of the Holmes's, one half of the new wing of St. Anne's has just been funded.

Mummy is not pleased.

One hour and fifteen minutes later, Sherlock is escorted back out of the hospital, a cab is called, and he is manhandled into it and sent off to Baker Street. Sherlock orders the cab to circle the hospital complex, pays the cabby, and comes back into St. Anne's through the back doors reserved for uniform and laundry deliveries.

He makes his way back to what will be John's private room, sits in the plastic chair, legs stretched out in front of him, fingers folded under his chin, and mentally dares anyone to remove him from the premises again.

No one dares.

Primarily because security tapes have picked up his figure as he re-enters St. Anne's, Mycroft – and Anthea – are both called in to the security office; they speak to the Charge Nurse assigned to John's floor; they speak to the head of hospital security; they speak to the department head; and finally, they speak to one of the Deans on the Board of St. Anne's.

Mycroft makes another phone call to Mummy. Courtesy of the Holmes' family, the new wing is now fully funded.

Sherlock is allowed to remain in the hospital, provided that either Mycroft, Anthea or a member of Mycroft's team is in close attendance (here Anthea makes three hurried phone calls and lines up three agents to stand outside John's room, swapping shifts, with orders to guard not only John Watson but also Sherlock Holmes.)

And Sherlock is left in peace. To wait.

He sits and waits for John to be brought into his room. He sits and waits while John undergoes blood transfusions; surgery; MRI's; x-rays; EKG's and multiple blood tests.

That was five days ago.

And now Sherlock sits and watches John Watson.

He watches John's heart monitor. He watches the machines that dole out oxygen to John; He watches the machines that deliver round after round of antibiotics to John through the IV ports on the back of his hands. He watches as the blood pressure cuff inflates and deflates. He watches as nurses come in to empty the catheter bag and to take John's vital statistics and to take more of his blood ("Why in Gods' name do they need more? He has little enough left," Sherlock thinks murderously.)

He sleeps, occasionally, and even falls asleep in the chair. When Mycroft is in the room, Sherlock showers and changes clothes in the small loo, uses the suits and shirts and toiletries that Anthea has had picked up and delivered from Baker Street.

He even eats, on occasion, when a particularly stubborn nurse realizes she is going to have another patient on her hands if she cannot get him to eat or rest. So she makes it her mission in life to bring him food and hot tea and makes certain the long divan in the corner of the room, under the window, is made up with sheets and pillows and a blanket. She then orders Sherlock to sleep. He will be of no use to anyone if he up and dies on Doctor Watson. So he sleeps. Once in a while, for an hour at a time. And only when someone else is in the room with John.

Then he goes back to watching John. He watches the shudders that wrack John's frame. He frowns at the obvious signs of pain and stress on John's face. He rings for the nurse to bring pain killers every time John's body tenses up and his fists clench in the sheets.

The nurse comes in and explains that John cannot have pain killers every time Sherlock wants him to have them.

Sherlock hates them all.

The feeling is, more or less, mutual.

He sits and watches while machines and nurses and doctors and other medical personnel whose purposes he can only guess at record and quantify, measure and catalogue every single bloody bit of data they can possibly glean about Doctor John Watson's physical condition.

Sherlock thinks that presumably, when John wakes up, they will then begin to record and quantify, measure and catalogue every single bloody bit of data about Doctor John Watson's mental and emotional condition. And this is the thought that gives him pause.

He wants to go out and kill those murdering bastards all over again - and feels personally affronted that he cannot do so.

"Wake up, John," Sherlock orders the silent figure in the hospital bed. "Wake up now before I kill someone with my bare hands."

He leans forward, steeples his fingers, and goes back to watching John Watson breathe.

One day later - six days to the day that John was brought in to St. Anne's - John Watson wakes up.

OooOooO

Chapter 23

OooOooO

Day Five – St. Anne's Hospital – John Watson's hospital room.

Lori Hansen is the first – she comes by John's room three times in the five days he sleeps.

Sherlock is always there. He sits by John's bed, or stands by the window and watches John sleep or bends over John's quiet form, and bathes John's face with cool cloths.

Sherlock is always there.

Waiting.

Each time Lori stops by, Sherlock acknowledges her presence, sometimes with a small smile (it's very hard for him to smile now, with John sleeping, and not knowing when he's going to wake up, IF he's going to—Delete that) but he does try.

He realizes that John and Hansen have this little history between them and no, it's far from little, it's momentous, and he wants her to know he is grateful that she was there for John, there to help get him out of the hell hole he lived in while he, Sherlock, was looking for him.

He has read every word of the report she made to Lestrade. He has read every word of the report she made to John's doctors. Every word.

And because he is Sherlock Holmes, he has read not only the things she said. But has deduced some of the things she has left unsaid.

He watches her eyes tear up and at first, he wonders if she has not fallen a little in love with John Watson. If so, he thinks that it would be entirely understandable.

Sherlock finds it difficult to believe that everyone who knows John has not, in some way, fallen just a little in love with the man.

He tells himself not to be jealous of this – this being there – during the horror that has been John's life for this past week (only a week? It feels as if John Watson has been missing for months … as if Sherlock has been looking for him for years … decades … )

But – No. One week. Seven days. Not quite. Because most of the first day, John and he were happy. And most of the seventh day ... well --

He wants Hansen to know she can come in and see John and be with John and talk to John – and it's all fine. On so many different levels, he is so grateful for her actions. For what she did to save John – to save Sherlock. And if she does feel something for John - well, they have shared danger, fought a common enemy, barely escaped with their lives. Such things often lead to feelings of a romantic nature on the part of one or the other parties. Sherlock knows this.

But he doesn't say these things. He doesn't.

Instead, Sherlock remains more or less silent. And does what he always does. He observes.

Because she is so small and so obviously worried about John and because they knelt together on the frozen ground – Sherlock and Lori Hansen - protecting his body, pounding on his heart and breathing air into his lungs – because they have this shared history with John – he does not feel the familiar urge to cause her harm. To see her wrecked or damaged in some way.

Sherlock knows this is not good. He's always known.

And even when he thinks these things, he watches her little actions around John's bed and deduces what lies behind them – the way her eyes shift away from him, from Sherlock, the way she stares at the machines doing John's work for him, or at the floor or at the walls - and it finally comes to him why her eyes fill with tears and why she angrily wipes them away and then leaves, without once raising her eyes to Sherlock's, why she does not speak or acknowledge his gratitude to her for her help.

She is ashamed.

Sherlock understands the emotion well enough. He remembers feeling it when he read John's letter – and this, too, feels like a million years ago, but in reality, it has just been a handful of days.

Sherlock frowns when she leaves for the second time. And then examines his own emotions this past week.

Anger, he certainly understands. He's been choking on it for days on end. And his nights -

Revenge? Yup, he's down with that, as the young people say. And when Sherlock thinks of his actions there in the lower levels of the WellingtonMuseum, he is able to observe them coldly – dispassionately. He'd do it all again in a heart beat – given half the chance.

Remorse? If you were to ask Sherlock if he felt that particular emotion – remorse – he would raise one eyebrow and stare at you as if you were just a little insane. His actions were – expedient, to say the least. That is how he views them. Anything else is wasted opportunity.

And, yes, everything he does for John is justified in Sherlock's eyes. Everything.

Despair? GOD, YES.

He felt it when he viewed the first video, when John screamed and screamed and screamed. And there was not a damn thing on this earth that Sherlock could do about it.

He experienced it again when he viewed the second video, when he watched John, wracked with fever and shuddering from the effects of Moriarty's damned drug, struggling to retain his sanity, his identity.

He nearly drowned in it when he viewed the third video – and watched as John casually held his arm out for the hateful injection. He felt it when Moriarty's words filled his soul with poison, as Sherlock wrestled with the knowledge, the sheer horror, that Johns' body – JOHN'S BODY – could be tossed aside – left in a skip like so much garbage. That emotion threatened to drown out all control and reason Sherlock has ever possessed in his life.

It was then that Sherlock wondered if he had not slipped his moorings and gone - just a little – mad.

So - Yes. Go ahead. Ask Sherlock Holmes about DESPAIR.

But Shame – this appears to be what Lori Hansen is exhibiting – this is different. Lori Hansen exhibits shame.

He cocks his head at her, during the third visit, and finally tells her, "Stay. "

Lori gives a tug on the sheet that covers John's torso, the same sheet she has smoothed and straightened several times over. She stares down at her own hands. Officer Rodriguez is not in attendance this day, on her third visit. Presumably he has duties for Lestrade.

It is only Lori Hansen, R.N. and Sherlock. And John.

And one of them is sleeping.

So Sherlock asks this question for John. And for himself, too, because he needs to understand.

Lori Hansen is a small puzzle right here, in front of him, that he has not figured out yet.

He needs to give his brain something – or he will go mad.

"Stay for a while, if you like. I – it's fine."

Sherlock gets up from his seat, walks around John's bed and gets the small chair reserved for John's doctors. He folds it open and sits it down next to John and waits for her to sit. Which she does. Then he goes back to his side of the bed, steeples his hands under his chin, and stares at her.

She looks at John. At the machines, at the IV's, at her fingers as they pick a bit of fluff off John's blanket. Her eyes fill up – again. And this time, before she can escape and take her secrets with her, he asks her.

"What is it? Because it's more than what's going on in this hospital room."

She nods once, miserably. And finally, finally raises her eyes to meet Sherlock's.

"He's here because of me – because of my actions."

Tears spill out and run down her cheeks and she swipes at them angrily. She coughs to clear his throat then meets his steady gaze again.

"He's here because I was – weak. I gave him those damned shots, most of them. I bent over him and I prepped him and I—"

She breaks off and buries her face in her hands and sobs.

If Sherlock thought it would help, he would get up and come around and put his arms around her shoulders. And hope that Officer Rodriguez was not outside the door. He did not particularly feel like explaining why he was embracing his new girlfriend.

But Sherlock merely stares at her and frowns. "I do not understand your reasoning, Ms. Hansen. Not in this regard."

He looks at John's face, at the lines of pain and stress that are visible there. He sees John's hands clench, slightly, where they lie by his side. Pain, he thinks. John is in Pain.

Sherlock glances at his watch. Another bloody hour before they will come and give him something for it. Utterly hateful.

Sherlock leans over and traces his fingers over the back of John's hand, avoiding the IV. He runs his fingers through John's dark blonde spikes, over and over again. Slowly, gently, some of the lines leave John's face. He rests more comfortably.

Satisfied, Sherlock leans back in the chair again.

He looks at her. She has been watching his actions. She raises her head and seems to see him for the first time. To see what he and John are to each other.

"You helped saved him. You did not give him that last shot – although your actions might have resulted in your death at any time. You brought him a message of hope for no other reason than to give John something to cling to. You could have been killed outright for either of these actions and you were, in fact, tortured by Moran for what you did on John's behalf."

And on mine, he thinks. But he doesn't say this aloud either.

There is dead silence for a moment. Only the sound of Lori Hansen softly crying. And of the machines.

Sherlock reaches to hand her the box of tissues someone has placed on the table by John's bed. She grabs it and tugs out several, wipes her eyes and sits there, tissues balled up in her strong fingers.

Finally, finally she lifts her head and looks at Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, I don't think you understand what Doctor Watson is going to have to face when he wakes up. I don't think you – truly understand. And, yes, I was terrified. I was scared to death. I've never been so scared in my life and it never went away. It never stopped. All I could think about was ways to get out of there. And then they brought Doctor Wat – Watson in," her chest heaves and she finds it hard to form words, "…brought him in and I was ordered to take care of him, keep him clean and see that he had food and water and then – give him those damned shots. And the cameras. Always the cameras."

Her lip quivers and she stares at him, desperate now for something Sherlock is not certain he can give her.

But he is nothing if not a quick study and he rises in one fluid motion and is there so fast she gasps and then he pulls her up from the little wooden folding seat and pulls her to him, encircles him in his arms and pats her back.

Lori rests her head against him and closes her eyes. But this man is not his brother. He does not feel comforting the way that Mycroft Holmes does – but she recognizes he is trying and for that she is grateful. So she leans against him and lets him hold her.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. Her voice is wrecked. "I'm so sorry. Sorry I wasn't stronger – for his sake."

"I think you did remarkably well," Sherlock murmurs. Over her head, because of course she is only about five feet tall, maybe an inch or two more, he is able to see John. To watch the slow rise and fall of his chest.

He frowns at her words. "What he is going to have to face when he wakes up…"

She gently pulls away from Sherlock and grabs another handful of tissues.

Lori walks to the door. She pauses and turns. "His blood pressure is still low. It needs to come up if he— before he wakes up. Hopefully, soon."

Sherlock looks at her, so small, standing by the door. Her slight frame is shaking. She glances at John again, then back at Sherlock. "He – he doesn't need to see me when he wakes up. Not now. Not for a while. Not with what he's —" she breaks off and starts to sob again.

And then she's gone.

Sherlock stares after her. His own emotions have been all over the place this past week and the ones she leaves behind her leave an echo; they seem to reverberate in the air. He shakes his head to try to dispel them. He looks at John, then takes the small chair, folds it up and leans it back against the wall.

He reaches for the box of nicotine patches and as he peels away the backing, then places it next to the other three on his arm, he wonders how much longer he is going to be able to go on – for John's sake.

Presumably as long as it takes, comes the answer.

Sherlock is no good with emotions around others – other than with John. The maelstrom of feelings pouring off this young woman are disconcerting. He feels as if he is drowning in them. His own emotional upheavals are enough for him right now. And if he's going to be of any use to John Watson, he's going to have to work through them.

He goes back to his seat and sits down to watch John. He knows it's only a matter of time before the next visitor comes that day. Lestrade has kindly made phone calls for him – and then called Sherlock with the replies. Phone calls to Mrs. Hudson. To Harriet Watson. To Sarah Sawyer.

OooOooO

Sherlock does not have long to wait.

Harriet Watson is the next visitor.

Sherlock hears the sound of a slight altercation outside John's door, and then the door bursts inward, nearly slams into the wall. A small tornado with wavy, dirty blonde hair rushes to John's bedside. Sherlock, who stands by the window, turns at the intrusion and watches as a slightly smaller, softer version of John Watson bends over his still form, one small hand on his wrist. John is covered over in so many wires, tubes and bandages – so much white – that it is damned near impossible to find a square inch of skin to touch or hold.

He knows. He's tried.

Sherlock has met Harriet Watson twice before. Neither one of them was much impressed with the other, but they did try, for John's sake, to be civil.

Sherlock feels Harry – with her more or less failed attempts at sobriety, frantic late night calls to John and myriad personal relationship problems - puts her brother through unnecessary hell.

Harry feels that Sherlock is nothing more than an ego-centric smug bastard who – with the constant dangerous situations he seems to attract - puts her brother through unnecessary hell.

Perhaps they are both right, muses Sherlock.

Harriet Watson bends over John and kisses his forehead. She runs one hand through his dark spikes, then looks up at Sherlock with vitriol in her eyes.

"You were supposed to keep him safe." Her tone is accusing, angry.

She moves to come around the bed, toward Sherlock.

Sherlock, who is not so much of a sociopath that he cannot see where this is going, decides to make it easy on her. He sits down in the chair next to John's bed, leans forward slightly, in order to present an easier target. She is a little shorter than John and even sitting, he is only a few inches shorter than Harriet Watson.

"Assume the position, Sherlock," he thinks. He deliberately lowers his hands to appear harmless and tilts his head up slightly to meet her furious gaze.

Out loud all he says is, "He knows the risks. But yes, you are right, this went above and beyond the—"

The slap sounds incredibly loud in the room. Harriet apparently leads with her left ... Sherlock's right cheek stings. His ears ring. He does not move.

"You god damned bastard. You were too slow! Where the fuck were you, Sherlock Holmes?"

She spits his name out like a curse. His head is tilted back and he can see her eyes fill. He stares back at her, seemingly unperturbed.

"He trusts you. He'll follow you anywhere and you -," Harriet breaks off and she stares at him, stares through him, then seems to think better of any further words, as if there aren't enough words in the right configuration to make a difference, and she turns and rushes from the room.

At the doorway, she pauses, momentarily confused by Mycroft Holmes' appearance, by this tall stranger who stands there, there in the doorway of her brother's hospital room. She frowns, looks from him to Sherlock. Mycroft turns to the side so she can slip past. Her footsteps echo back at them – rapid, furious - as she nearly runs away from them, away from John.

Mycroft comes into John's room to stand at the foot of John's bed.

He looks at his brother. "Well, that went well," he says dryly.

Sherlock frowns at him.

Despite what others might think, Sherlock is really quite well read in the classics – and that includes the classic religions, too. You never know when some bit of information is helpful to a case, particular when so many murders are committed by so many people who seem to have some sort of religious reason for committing them or at least for justifying their actions.

A story flits into Sherlock's head while he stares at Mycroft. In some religious canon, in a sick room, the foot of the bed is reserved for the Archangel of Healing – Raphael? Right there, at the foot of John's bed - that is where the angel stands.

Raphael, the patron saint of Doctors.

Sherlock is not religious. But John was raised in the Anglican faith and Sherlock knows this.

Sherlock, inexplicably, wants to tell Mycroft to move away from the foot of John's bed. He frowns slightly and narrows his eyes, angry with himself for these asinine, illogical thoughts. He views it as proof that he has had too little sleep these past few days and should really take Mycroft's presence as an opportunity to rest. He certainly isn't going to ask his brother to move away from the end of the bed.

Still …

Mycroft snags the extra chair, opens it next to John's bed opposite Sherlock, and sits down, smoothing out the creases in his trousers. He crosses his hands on his lap and stares across John's body at his brother.

Sherlock stares back. There is a roaring sound in his ears. He can read his brother so well. Mycroft bears disturbing news.

"Sherlock, Dr. Merit cannot say whether or not John is going to come out of this."

He watches his brother's eyes, which flinch slightly.

"But we need to have a talk – one way or the other."

Mycroft proceeds to talk. Sherlock listens. And doesn't move a muscle.

OooOooO

"No, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, he has a Living Will. Technically, John's physical condition has already deteriorated – twice over the past five days - to the point he indicated –"

"No, Mycroft."

"Sherlock, I'm afraid this is not up to you. This is up to John's doctors doing what is best for John – and carrying out his wishes. He is holding his own now. But should his condition deteriorate further—"

"No, Mycroft."

Mycroft Holmes stares at his brother, gets up, crosses to quietly close the door. He then crosses the room to sit back in the chair next to John's quiet form. He leans forward, over John Watson's unconscious body.

"Sherlock – do I need to remind you that no Civil Ceremony has ever taken place?"

"I hold his Power of Attorney. And I said No."

Mycroft leans forward slightly. John is, seemingly, forgotten for the moment.

"Sherlock, it's not the same thing. You have to be prepared to carry out his wishes should the current course of treatment not —"

Sherlock finally moves. He quickly stands. And turns his back to his brother, to John, to the room that has become utterly hateful to him in just under five days.

He stares out the window. Sometime in the past few minutes, it has begun to snow.

Not for the first time, Sherlock wonders what John felt like, a prisoner, most of the time a restrained prisoner, in that hateful room in the basement of the WellingtonArt Museum.

He thinks he can guess.

Sherlock stares out at the snow. It is picking up now. By morning, London will be covered in white.

His heart pounds in his chest. The beat reverberates through his bones, drowning out his brother's words. He hears his brother shift his position, balance his umbrella against John's bedside.

"Sherlock—"

Sherlock's voice, when it comes, is utter ice, colder than the snow that blows against the hospital room window.

"No. Mycroft. Never. You will have to knock me out – or shoot me first. "

He turns around to stare at his brother. Sherlock's eyes are cold, crystalline. There is no warmth in them at all.

The last time Mycroft Holmes saw Sherlock's eyes like this – he was firing a bullet into Marcus Frank's brain.

Mycroft’s' voice is just as cold as Sherlock’s', although quieter, which seems to make it more deadly.

"Then let's hope it doesn't come to that, shall we?"

He picks up his overcoat and umbrella and leaves John Watson's hospital room.

OooOooO

Mycroft has come and gone. And Sherlock stands again at the window, stares out at a winter sky, tinged with dusky grey, he stares at blowing snow and ice.

When the next visitor comes in and he turns toward her, she momentarily cannot tell a difference between the color of the darkening sky outside that window – and Sherlock Holmes' eyes.

Dr. Sarah Sawyer taps on the door and at Sherlock's quiet "Come in," she enters John's room.

Sarah crosses to John's bed, stares at his quiet form. Her breath catches at the wires, tubes, machines, bags and bags of fluids dripping slowly into his veins.

She stands next to John, in the same exact spot that Harriet Watson stood earlier. And goes through the same exact motions.

Sherlock wonders if the females in John's life have some sort of handbook they all read and then pass amongst themselves.

She runs her fingers through John's dark spikes; kisses his forehead; places a few cool fingers against his pulse rate, then turns her watch over and counts the beats.

Finally, she places his hand back down, gently, by his side. And then looks up at Sherlock.

There is pure murder in her eyes.

Sherlock sighs and sits back down. He wonders how many more women in John's life are going to feel compelled to work him over this day.

But anything these women – or anyone for that matter – want to do to him, he counts as nothing.

Because it is all entirely deserved.

It is nothing … nothing at all to the pain in his soul, the near suffocating feeling of failure that has taken up residence in his guts and threatens to drown out his own heartbeat.

In fact, they are a distraction, so he doesn't really mind when Sarah Sawyer steps up to him and he slightly tilts his head back to make it easier on her. He meets her eyes defiantly, almost insolently, anything to help her vent some of the overwhelming anger she feels because of him.

She can't hit as hard as Harry does – or maybe she's aghast at her actions even as she makes them and pulls back a little. Sherlock is never sure.

"Where were you, Sherlock? Where were you when he was taken? Shot? Damn near murdered by those bastards? What the hell good are you, Sherlock Holmes, if you can't do this one thing – keep your partner safe?"

Her words go through Sherlock like that damned knife went through Sebastian Moran's wrist.

And do nearly as much damage.

Sarah strides to the door. And stops. She does not turn around but throws her next words over her shoulder, almost as an after-thought.

"We – got to Robbie Jameson before he did harm to himself. We have him in counseling. I think – we hope he's going to be okay. Thought you'd like to know."

And then she's gone.

Sherlock sighs and sits back. He rubs his left cheek absently, glad that Dr. Sawyer is right-handed. He doesn't think he could have taken another round house to the right cheek without protest.

OooOooO

Mrs. Hudson is next, later that evening. She brings homemade cake, homemade soup – and a tiny Christmas tree.

Sherlock is reasonably sure she does not intend to strike him.

But you never know.

He is also just a little astonished at the Christmas tree. After all, Christmas is still several weeks – he glances at the calendar on his watch.

Oh.

Right.

"Just a little something, dear, to brighten up his room." Mrs. Hudson places the tiny tree on the shelf under the window. She bends down to plug in a cord. The tree lights up. And suddenly John's cold hospital room isn't quite so barren.

Sherlock stares at the tree. He turns to say something to their landlady – and is nearly knocked off his feet when she throws her arms around him and holds on for dear life.

"Oh, Sherlock," she sobs. She turns her head to stare at John's form.

"John's sleeping," murmurs Sherlock. He puts his arms around Mrs. Hudson and hugs her.

"I brought you some soup. I know you haven't been eating. You'll have to microwave it. It got chilly in the cab on the way over here." She is still staring at John, her arms wrapped around the detective's middle.

"That's fine," Sherlock says back. He holds onto Mrs. Hudson's shaking form, as she cries.

He holds on to her. He inhales the smell of the lavender soap she always uses. The smell of the chamomile tea she always makes for John. The smell of Home.

He holds on to her. And shuts his eyes.

OooOooO

Lestrade comes by that evening. The snow is a minor blizzard by now and Sherlock wonders at the tenacity of the man that has him out on an evening like this.

Lestrade comes quietly into John's room. He stares at Sherlock, who raises his head to look at the DI.

Then Lestrade picks up the extra chair and sits down. He watches John for a few minutes.

Neither of them speak. Finally, Lestrade clears his throat.

"It's been five days, right?"

Sherlock nods. Both of the men watch John Watson breathe.

Sherlock knows they will not be interrupted for a while at least. A nurse has been in to draw the last of John's blood for that night – or so she promises. Another has been in to take his vital signs and inject more pain killers into his IV's. And a third has been in to change the dressing on John's thigh and around his ribs.

Through it all, Sherlock remains silent and watches.

Lestrade deliberately looks from John Watson's face with its unfamiliar lines of pain and grief – and stares at Sherlock Holmes.

"Any word on how much longer," he says quietly?

Sherlock drags his gaze from John and rubs his hand over his eyes. His hand shakes slightly and Lestrade notices it, of course he does, and frowns. He looks at the detective, at the signs of near physical exhaustion and emotional strain.

"Sherlock, if you want to lie down for a while – I'll stay as long as you like." Nothing will happen to John. No one will disturb him. Why don't you—"

"No. Greg." Sherlock shakes his head, smiles grimly at the DI, then goes back to watching John.

He turns his head toward Lestrade slightly. " But thank you."

Lestrade nods. "Okay then. I just came by because we want – I mean everyone at the station wants to know John's condition. They want to tell you that—" he breaks off and he realizes that Sherlock probably doesn't even hear him.

"Right. Okay."

Lestrade stands up, glances around the room, at John, the machines, at Sherlock, at the tiny Christmas tree with its fairy lights. He looks at the snow outside the window. Christ, it's going to be cold going back out in that.

"Sherlock – there are some facts I wanted to give you about Moriarty's operations there in the Wellington."

He looks at the detective's bent head, at the ebony curls and the long pale fingers, currently steepled under his chin. Sherlock does not acknowledge his words.

"All right. I think this can wait." Lestrade shrugs back into his coat.

He pauses at the door, looks at Sherlock and at the still, sleeping form of John Watson.

"Sherlock – call me if there is any change – if you need us for any reason."

Sherlock nods absently but does not look up from watching John.

Lestrade sighs. And leaves.

OooOooO

Day Six. 4 am.

Sherlock Holmes awakes with a start, there where he has been sleeping, head bent over, by the side of John Watson's bed. He could swear he heard someone call his name.

He glances at John. No change. John is sleeping, his chest rises and falls.

From time to time, as Sherlock keeps watch, he sees the shudders that seem to rack John's body.

He sees the spasm that seems to begin at John's spine and run up and down his legs, sometimes nearly arching the doctor's back.

And he sees the occasional faint tremor in John's left hand.

Yes. Ask Sherlock Holmes about despair.

Sherlock stands up, stretches his back and leg muscles and goes to stand by the window and stare out at the dark. Beside him, the tiny Christmas tree sparkles in the dark hospital room.

"John," he whispers to the window. "Please … Stay."

"Not going anywhere," comes the quiet ragged whisper.

Sherlock's eyes widen and his head whirls around.

John Watson's eyes are open - and his head is turned in Sherlock's direction.

OooOooO

Chapter 24: WILL I BE THIS WAY FOREVER ?

OooOooO

I'm not alone, I look right by my side I find you

You're not alone, you close your eyes and I'm beside you

And I know, there's so much light behind the shadows

Will I be this way forever?

You've changed, I see something new inside you

It's so strange, I no longer hear your echo

You leave me here

To watch you rise above the day and night and sun and sky

Will I be this way forever?

 Lyrics from THIS WAY FOREVER – jumeaux

( c ) Jumeaux

OooOooO

Sherlock can't stop kissing John.

He does stop, momentarily, when one of the nurses looks at him from where she is scanning information into the portable workstation she rolls into John's room, and says, "Mr. Holmes, please. If you could please STOP – just for a few minutes – you're skewing the blood pressure results."

So Sherlock reluctantly stops kissing John – and he and John watch the blood pressure cuff inflate, tighten, deflate. Once she records the readings into her computer, she nods, leaves the room, glances back over her shoulder, says, "Carry on, Gentlemen," - and Sherlock goes back to kissing John.

John just laughs.

But it's a small, tired laugh, tinged with something the detective can't quite identify, and Sherlock notes it.

OooOooO

John Watson's hospital room, St. Anne's

"John!"

Sherlock turns from the window and is at the doctor's side in an instant. He leans over to turn on the light behind John's bed, the muted one, then sits in the chair by John's bed and stares into his partner's dark blue eyes, smudged now with pain and exhaustion.

"John – you're awake." "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," he tells himself, as always, utterly ruthless with his own mental processes.

"Sherlock," John whispers, as if it hurts to use his voice. He blinks at the closeness of the detective's face, at his gray eyes, at the coolness of his fingers as they wrap around his wrist.

Sherlock locks his elegant fingers around John's left wrist, avoides the tangles of wire and tubing. He can feel John's pulse – rapid, so rapid. And he can feel the faint tremor that used to plague John's left hand. It's echo lives on now under Sherlock's fingertips.

He frowns at the tremors – and at the nearly overwhelming murderous impulses that burst forth and take up residence in his chest.

Sherlock rings for the nurse, bends over John to reach the call button. As he leans back, he brushes his lips across John's forehead.

At his touch, John shuts his eyes. And breathes.

That is enough for both of them until the nurse comes in. She is pleased that John is awake. She goes right back out again.

OooOooO

John is ordered to remain still for the day and he has no problem with this as he keeps falling asleep for an hour here, forty-five minutes there.

Each time that John sleeps, off and on, during those first eight hours, Sherlock locks his long fingers over John's wrist and holds on for dear life. He watches John sleep, as he has watched him sleep for the past five days, nearly six days. He watches John sleep as if he is afraid John will never wake up again.

He watches John sleep through his own reddened eyes tinged now with sheer fatigue.

Sherlock does not sleep. The one or two hours a day he gets when Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson are in the room fall by the wayside. He refuses to leave John's side now except for the basic necessities of daily living.

The detective is so exhausted, he's nearly hallucinating. But he doesn't sleep. He can't sleep.

A small niggling fear that lives in the back of his mind is steadily growing – fed each time he looks into his partner's haunted eyes. And this fear threatens to eclipse the happiness he feels when John opens his eyes for the first time, there in his room in St. Anne's.

And because Sherlock has not slept, he experiences the first eight hours of John's awakening as a series of vignettes. When he thinks back on this first day, he sees it as segmented, as if the day was a wash of unrelated events, tiny films that play out in his memory, tied together only by the swirling snow outside the window, by the tired, drawn look on John's face – and by the growing desperation and fear in John's eyes.

Echoed now by the same fear and desperation in Sherlock's.

Dr. Merit speaks with him and Mycroft privately while Mrs. Hudson sits with John.

Sherlock comes out of that meeting numb to the bone. Check.

Sherlock sits by John's side and wipes John's forehead with damp cloths and watches the shadows that have taken up residence in John's eyes. Check.

The detective looks at himself in the mirror in the tiny loo in John's room and doesn't recognize himself. He sees wild hair and even wilder eyes. It is as if John's emotional and mental discordance has become part and parcel of Sherlock's' internal hard drive. Check and double check.

And he knows as he looks into his own eyes that he will never – ever – be able to delete these hours or these fears. They have become part of his psyche now, something he will put on every day for the rest of his life, the same way he shrugs into his coat or winds his scarf around his neck.

Part of him. Forever.

OooOooO

But there are good things in those first eight hours. Wonderful things. Things Sherlock thought for a while that he would never, ever be able to do again with a certain Army doctor.

For one thing, Sherlock can't stop kissing John. Which isn't easy to do – the kissing, that is – as John is nearly covered, almost disappears – in a sea of tubes, IV's, bandages, a nasal cannula, an O2 sensor, a portable heart monitor – held on by Velcro straps – that Sherlock keeps accidentally dislodging, which causes a nurse to come in each time to reconnect the stupid thing to the sticky snaps stuck on to various parts of John's anatomy - a blood pressure cuff – you get the idea. There are two stanchions behind John and each one of them holds several bags of various fluids, antibiotics, saline drips, well, you get the idea there, as well.

But the detective does not let any of these hindrances deter him.

He kisses John's fingertips, and when he gets to his right index finger, he gently removes the O2 sensor, kisses the tip of that finger, replaces the O2 sensor, and goes on to the next finger, so as not to skip any.

He kisses John on both wrists, carefully slides John's plastic ID bracelets up so he can reach said wrist, then back down again.

Every time a nurse or doctor comes in to run a test or draw blood or give John medications, they ask John his name and birth date, as an ordinary hospital-dictated, security precaution. Each time, John screws up his eyes, as if he can't – quite – remember this information, which makes Sherlock anxious. But then he grins a tired grin at Sherlock, Sherlock grins back and John gives his name and birth date.

Each time this happens, and each time John can speak for himself, the detective tells John, "Very good. That deserves a reward."

And he finds some new place to kiss John Watson that he hasn't kissed before.

Like the tops of his feet or his elbows or the edge of a collarbone.

Those sorts of places.

But most of the time Sherlock answers for John, as it's difficult for John to speak above a whisper.

Or perhaps he doesn't want to speak.

Sherlock notes this, too.

Sherlock kisses John on the forehead every time he leans over to brush the hair out of John's eyes, on each eyelid when John tries to sleep, at the corners of John's eyes when he's awake, on the top of his dark blonde hair, just because he can, at the corners of his mouth so he can also inhale John, and on the outside shell of John's left ear .. Yes, that ear.

He never goes beyond kissing as John is quite ill, stuck in a hospital bed for God knows how long, and some things just aren't ON.

But this doesn't stop the kissing. Oh no.

OooOooO

John tires easily. Rather, sheer exhaustion covers his skin like a blanket. He listens to everything people say to him. And a short while later, wonders what the hell they said.

Dr. Merit comes in twice that first day to see John. The first time he speaks to them both about John's progress but his eyes don't quite meet the Army doctor's. Merit does, however, look over John's head to stare into Sherlock's eyes.

Merit tells John they will have him sitting up on the side of the bed in one day – but not today as it's the first day he's been awake. Today is for rest.

Merit tells John that the pockets of pneumonia in both lungs are responding to treatment and that, really, they caught it in time before it managed to develop into "a real problem." Sherlock is not certain what the Dr. means by a "real problem" since John is so obviously ill and what constitutes a "real problem" if internal bleeding, necessitating a blood transfusion (two transfusions, actually) isn't a problem?

Merit tells John that the infection in John's thigh is also responding to treatment and Merit is very relieved that he has not developed sepsis. But it was a near thing.

His ribs will heal in time and he is to avoid unnecessary movements for now.

John just nods tiredly. And shuts his eyes. Too tired to care.

The fever is finally gone and John's forehead feels cool to the touch – to test this, Sherlock kisses John frequently on the forehead, just to make sure his skin is cool, of course.

Merit assures both of them, they will soon have John sit up on the side of the bed. Then they will have him walking, little trips around the room to begin. They do not want a re-occurrence of the pneumonia and this is why they must get John up and on his feet. All this will occur the next day, Merit says.

But today – this day – the first day John wakes up there in his room at St. Anne's, this day is for rest, Merit tells John. He has given orders that he be bothered as little as possible. John is to rest.

John is to rest. Right.

Five minutes after Dr. Merit leaves, a nurse comes in to say John must have a chest x-ray. She is followed by the radiologist who wheels in the portable x-ray machine. They ask Sherlock to stand in the corner of the room, away from the machine.

Sherlock watches John's face during this procedure. He hears the quick intake of breath as they move him forward then back again in his bed. He sees John's face as he briefly closes his dark eyes, in pain. But John says nothing and the small ordeal is over relatively quickly.

John is again ordered to rest.

John is to rest.

Fine.

Ten minutes later, a nurse comes in to take yet more vials of his blood, check his temperature, and to change out bags of antibiotics and inject medication into his IV's.

Sherlock sits and watches her as she performs all of these maneuvers. John takes it all in stride as being part and parcel of being in hospital.

But the nurse does not quite meet John's eyes - or Sherlock's. And Sherlock notes it.

A few minutes after that, a food tray is delivered for John and Sherlock sees how John's eyes widen when he sees the food. He turns his face away.

When they come back to collect the tray, the food hasn't been touched.

John does manage to drink some water. And the first cup of hot tea he has had in nearly two weeks.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock holds John's head while he throws up the tea. And the water.

Sherlock rings for the nurse.

OooOooO

Dr. Merit comes by for the second time. He checks John's vitals, while the nurse stands there. His eyes again meet Sherlock's over John's head. He jerks his head toward the door.

Mrs. Hudson stands at the door and waits for Dr. Merit to finish. Sherlock leaves John with her while he goes out in the hallway to speak with Merit. When he comes back in, Sherlock's eyes are haunted – and he cannot meet John's eyes for at least thirty minutes.

John is too tired to notice.

OooOooO

During those first eight hours, Sherlock sits by John's side and answers texts, nixing any visitors who want to come by to see John, except for Mrs. Hudson. And Mycroft.

He texts Lestrade to tell him the good news that John is awake. Lestrade texts back that is wonderful news and he will spread the word.

He calls John's sister Harry – who refuses to take his call. He leaves a message.

Ditto for Sarah.

Sherlock has the phone to John's room muted. He turns off his own mobile. Their small world becomes smaller as Sherlock works to keep out all those who would come by to say hello, to sap John's fragile strength. To waste their time together.

For this, John is extremely grateful. He barely cognizes what has happened to him. He cannot even think about seeing other people now.

Sherlock is all he wants.

The feeling is entirely mutual.

OooOooO

Mycroft's text comes first – of course it does. Less than three minutes after John wakes up.

Excellent news.

Give him my best.

Will be by later.

MH

Sherlock's eyes narrow. How did he – of course, stupid. Stupid. The agent outside John's door. And of course, Sherlock knows the man is one of Mycroft's people.

He's always known. But he frankly, does not care. In fact, he's relieved that at last someone is taking the still real threat to John's life seriously.

Moriarty is, after all, still out there somewhere.

OooOooO

Each time that John wakes from the little naps he takes during those first eight hours, the first thing he does is open his tired eyes and stare at the ceiling. And flinches.

The first time this happens, Sherlock discounts it because John immediately knows where he is or seems to.

The second time it happens, Sherlock follows John's gaze. He glances up at the ceiling. And frowns. It doesn't take a consulting genius to deduce why John's eyes widen at the sight of the pale green paint.

He watches John's eyes. And when John opens his eyes from these frequent naps and sees the ceiling, his eyes widen, his pupils react, and his fists clench in the sheets.

Each time, Sherlock immediately says, "John," quietly, firmly.

And John's eyes turn to meet his and the desperation in them subsides. For a little while.

Until the next time he wakes up. Then the cycle is repeated. Over and over and over again.

OooOooO

When Sherlock takes his chair by John's side and looks into John's eyes – well, sometimes they hold a faraway look and John frowns, as if he doesn't quite remember what happened to him or why he is there, in St. Anne's hospital.

But most of the time, when John frowns like that, he is remembering most of the events leading up to his illness. He knows quite well, thank you, where he is and why he's there. And what went on to put him there.

It is these looks that cause Sherlock to despair.

This is when Sherlock stops kissing John and just sits and holds his hand.

OooOooO

"Retrograde amnesia, most probably caused by mild anoxia," says Dr. Merit.

Sherlock and Mycroft sit in his office. Mrs. Hudson sits with John and tells him about the tiny goings on in the world while John has been missing.

"But he'll most likely recover his memories soon. So let's stop beating around the bush and talk about what we're most concerned about."

Dr. Merit picks up a folder in front of him, hands it over to Mycroft. Sherlock, who stands directly behind his brother, hands in the pockets of his dark trousers, reads over Mycroft's shoulder. Both men raise an eyebrow. Mycroft closes the folder and hands it back to Dr. Merit.

"Prognosis? Course of treatment?" he asks quietly.

Dr. Merit shakes his head and begins to talk. Behind his brother, Sherlock stares at John's doctor; the muted roaring sound in his head becomes more strident and threatens to drown out Merit's words.

They leave. Mycroft goes home, white-faced. Sherlock goes back to John's room to sit with him and hold his hand.

OooOooO

Much later that night, actually very early the following morning, John Watson lies there in his hospital bed, holds Sherlock's hand and talks quietly with the detective. He tries to remember.

Sherlock lets him talk.

"Retrograde amnesia," Dr. Merit had said. Sherlock frowns.

All of which means that when John Watson finally tiredly blinks the world into existence again – and wonders what the hell he is doing in a hospital bed – and Sherlock proceeds to try to tell him what he is doing in a hospital bed – John cannot remember certain events.

He remembers confronting Moriarty in the clinic and that something happened.

He remembers the injections and some of the subsequent deliriums.

He remembers the pain and confusion – it is nearly the same pain and confusion he is currently experiencing. Except he is safe now. Safe with Sherlock. He tells himself this, over and over again. He is safe now. Safe with Sherlock.

He remembers sitting in the hallway outside that hateful room, leaning against the wall, knowing he was about to die.

He remembers Lori Hansen and her arm around his waist, helping keep him on his feet.

And when he really, really tries, he remembers the little nurse begging him with tears in her eyes, to kill her so that Sebastian Moran – at this point, John's memories break off.

And he deliberately stops remembering.

John's memories are scattered. Sherlock does not push him.

Sherlock has read Lori's report. She told Lestrade all about Moran's attentions to her, about her finding John's gun, about how she and John escaped into the outer hall, about the fact that she thought she and John Watson were about to die…but she never mentions the events that took place immediately after, just before Sherlock found them there.

She never tells a living soul that she asked John Watson to fire a bullet into her brain so she would not be captured and tortured again – and killed – by Sebastian Moran.

And although John Watson does remember this event, he never brings it up to anyone. Not even Sherlock.

Some things just aren't said. Or repeated.

John stops remembering and goes quiet, content to have his wrist held in Sherlock's strong fingers.

He concentrates on the feel of Sherlock's fingers against his wrist, on the soft brush of Sherlock's lips across his forehead. On Sherlock.

It's enough for him that he is no longer captive in that room. It's enough for him that he is back in the land of the living and back with Sherlock.

It's enough. Nearly.

He barely remembers some of the dreams he had while under the influence of Moriarty's drug. Those he does remember, he never repeats to a living soul. Not even to the detective. Especially not to the detective.

And eventually, they fade, as most dreams do. Except for one. The one.

John keeps this memory to himself. And when he lies there in that bed in the following days, in despair, eyes closed, but still wide awake, he allows the memories of that dream to play in his tired mind.

And for those few minutes, he allows himself to remember innocence.

Whenever he remembers that dream, after it plays out, he opens his eyes and blinks rapidly, his eyes full.

Each time, he looks away from Sherlock.

OooOooO

They talk on into the early morning hours. John is awake for longer periods of time now. And growing desperate.

"Moran," he says in that exhausted, croaking voice. Sherlock thinks of it now as John's default voice. He is asking the question. And this time, Sherlock can give him a satisfactory answer.

"Dead," he says to John. "Dead and buried by now. He can't hurt us again John."

And because the detective knows that soldier John will relish the information, he adds, "Brains blown to hell and back."

And grins at John.

John grins back tiredly. His eyes narrow and he stares at the ceiling. Sherlock sees the pupils react to the news.

"So … very, very dead," he says softly.

"Yes, John. Very, very dead. I promise you."

Sherlock does not tell John that he - John - is the one who killed Moran – with a little help from Lestrade. It's obvious that John does not remember his own actions there in the hallway in the Wellington Art Museum.

And Sherlock knows instinctively not to push him. Not on this memory. Not now.

John eventually turns his head to look at the detective.

"Moriarty? "

A moment's pause. The detective cannot lie to him. Not about this.

"Escaped," Sherlock says tiredly. "Lestrade's people are tracking him. And Mycroft's."

John absorbs this information and hardness narrows his eyes. Sherlock finally – oh God, finally – sees John Watson in those eyes. He shuts his own eyes, momentarily, in relief.

"All is not lost", he thinks. "John's still in there, somewhere."

"So," John says. 'One down –"

"And one to go," answers Sherlock. John nods thoughtfully.

Sherlock never mentions Marcus Franks to John. And John never brings him up. Sherlock is not even certain John remembers Franks.

He asks once about Lori Hansen. Sherlock assures him she is healing and has been by to see him several times. That she will return in a day or two.

John thinks about the things Sherlock tells him – about the fact that he was held prisoner in the lower levels of the Wellington – and this fact, nearly, makes him giggle.

"An art museum, Sherlock? Really?" His voice is a little stronger and Sherlock smiles at him.

"Yes, John, really. Took me a while to figure it out but—"

"You got there in the end, that's all that matters," says John.

Sherlock is quiet after this. He says nothing else about the Wellington. Not on this day.

OooOooO

John's first attack happens during the next eight hours. They are alone together. John sleeps. Sherlock keeps watch.

Mrs. Hudson has left, hours earlier. While she is there, Mycroft delivers two huge baskets from Fortnum and Masons, looks in on John and Sherlock, sits through the meeting with Dr. Merit and his brother, while Mrs. H sits with John, and leaves afterward, white-faced and visibly shaken by Dr. Merit's diagnosis of John Watson's condition.

Sherlock immediately gives the baskets to the head nurse and asks her to distribute them to all of John's nurses. This gesture goes a long way to alleviate some of the – irritation, for want of a better term – that Sherlock's previous behavior causes amongst the nursing staff.

They almost like him now.

Sherlock couldn't care less. He has other things to worry about.

The early morning hours are dark, although outside their window, snow swirls. John wakes up from another one of those small blessed naps. Sherlock, who has been keeping watch, checks the time. Another thirty minutes until John's next pain medication.

John turns his head to look at Sherlock, frowns, and then suddenly the doctor's body tenses, his grip on Sherlock's hand hardens – and he shuts his eyes and groans. The spasm grips his spine, bows his back. His breath comes in short gasps.

Sherlock's eyes widen. He releases John's hand and tears out of his room, past Mycroft's agent, who stares at him. He shouts down the hallway for a nurse, a fucking Doctor – anyone for Christ sakes!

He rushes back in to see John's eyes stare upward, wide in fear and panic.

Outside in the hall, Mycroft's man pulls out his phone and sends a text.

Sherlock leans over him, "It's all right, John. They're coming. It's going to be all right."

Nonsense words that the detective doesn't believe even as he is saying them. He runs his hand through the doctor's hair, over and over again.

John Watson gasps. Cold sweat dots his forehead, soaks into his hairline. He narrows his eyes and grits his teeth. He doesn't meet Sherlock's eyes at first. He can't.

"Sherlock – Sherlock!" He grips the detective's hand, turns his head to stare at him now, wide-eyed in panic. "I need – please, God, Please Sherlock! Tell them – tell them…I can't!"

John's eyes close and he groans.

And Sherlock Holmes is reintroduced to Hell. He recognizes it immediately. He used to live there himself.

OooOooO

When the nurse rushes in, Sherlock looks up at her, desperate.

"Something for pain – Now," he demands.

The nurse starts to argue. He cuts her off, furious.

"For Gods' sakes, Look at him! Will you just look at him!"

She hurries to John's side, her eyes widen and she turns and rushes from the room.

Sherlock holds John's hand. John's eyes are shut now. His breath comes in small gasps, as if he's just run a race – and lost.

"John, tell me," urges the detective.

John just shakes his head, -- and refuses to open his eyes. The small tremors run through his entire body now and he groans. Finally, he opens his eyes to look up at the ceiling.

"I can't…I just can't," he says desperately. He doesn't turn his head to look at the other man. But he doesn't let go of his hand either.

"Please, Sherlock, just ask them—" John's voice breaks off. His heart pounds in his chest. His stomach muscles cramp and he bends to the side, as if he's going to be sick. But there's nothing left in his stomach to come up.

When Sherlock realizes what John is asking, his eyes first widen, then narrow. He stares at John's face, at the lines of pain, at the cold sweat. He grabs the wet cloth from the small table where it rests and runs it over the doctor's forehead.

"No, John," he says firmly. "No. But they'll bring some pain medication shortly. Just hold on."

John shakes his head. "Please, Sherlock – ask them…just fucking ask them..…you have to ask them…" his voice fades and he shuts his eyes, in too much pain now to keep them open.

Sherlock looks at John. And wishes to God there was someone left he could kill.

OooOooO

The nurse comes back almost immediately with a hypo. Dr. Merit has left orders. She injects it directly into John's IV. Sherlock watches as the lines fade from John's face and his body finally slumps.

It takes a while, but eventually, John calms down.  And begins to relax. He rests for a while. When he awakes, he deliberately avoids Sherlock's gaze while he tries to remember more events from his week at the Wellington.

But it's all a blank now. He can't remember. He just can't.

Both of them are so nearly at the end of their rope, there's precious little left to cling to – except each other.

"How long?" asks John. He cannot - quite - meet the detective's eyes after the attack.

"A little more than six days with Moriarty; nearly seven days here, John. You slept for five of those," Sherlock answers tiredly. He gives John some water, which the doctor gratefully accepts.

John frowns as he tries to think. But he's so tired now. The medication Dr. Merit has prescribed for him doubles as a sleeping draught and he is nearly out.

Try as he may, he cannot add up the days.

"Date?" he asks tiredly.

Sherlock glances at his watch, slightly startled. He looks at John.

"Happy Christmas, John," he says with a little grin.

John's eyes widen and he looks at Sherlock. "Christmas," he says slowly.

With effort, he turns his head to look – again – at the tiny sparkling tree that Mrs. Hudson left in their window.

"Sherlock," John's voice is a tired, small whisper, rough and jagged, as if the very act of speaking somehow hurts.

When did John's voice become so small?

"Sherlock, I – I can't ... . " He sounds a little desperate now and Sherlock places one elegant, cool finger against the dry lips.

"Shh…it's okay, John. Really. You don't have to remember it all right now."

He brushes the dark blonde spikes back from John's forehead – still blessedly cool and fever-free - and smiles into his partner's troubled eyes.

"It's all right. Everything's all right – now. All you have to do now is rest. Just - rest."

John nods slightly, a movement so imperceptible Sherlock nearly misses it.

John wearily shuts his eyes and Sherlock feels a momentary pang when they close.

Afraid. Always afraid.

The detective studies the dark bruising around John Watson's eyes, the way his skin stretches tightly over his skull, the new lines of pain that have been etched into the beloved forehead.

John breathes slowly, quietly and Sherlock avidly watches the slow rise and fall of his friend's chest, as if by his looking away, the movement might somehow stop.

Sherlock pushes that thought away and settles back to watch John sleep, his long fingers leave cool tracings along the inside of John's wrist, one of the few places not covered or tracked by tubes, wires, bandages. He can feel John Watson's steady pulse now against his fingertips and he's loathe to move his hand.

Outside their window, just beyond Mrs. Hudson's tiny Christmas tree, the world rapidly turns to white. Sherlock can almost feel the silence of a snow-covered world settle in around the two of them…as if the snow has muted all the wild, discordant sounds of everyday life and replaced them with the softness of the cocoon, the gentle whisper of soft worn cotton against tired, aching skin.

He lowers his exhausted head onto the small pillow he places on John's bed – right up against John's hand – shuts his eyes - and sleeps at last.

Sometime later, John Watson's restless fingers find their way into the silken mass – and he falls asleep again stroking the untamed curls.

That is how Mycroft finds them, later that morning. Both of them drowned in sleep, John's steady hand resting on Sherlock's dark head.

A pang shoots through him and he stands quietly in the doorway and stares – his chest swelling with love for these two men. He blinks eyes that suddenly ache.

Mycroft silently pulls their door closed, nods at his agent outside their door, and leaves to go sit in the waiting room – and wait. He props his aching leg with its new line of stitches – itching madly now, which indicates it's healing nicely - up on a chair and settles in with his Blackberry and a novel he has been meaning to get to.

The British Government settles in and prepares to wait as long as it takes.

Outside, the snow deepens. London is having a white Christmas.

OooOooO

 

This work is a trilogy in progress.  GRACE is book one and now complete.  THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET is book two and is now being posted on AO3 (and complete on fan fiction dot net.) SHERLOCK and JOHN - REBELLION OF ANGELS, Parts one and two (Acclamations and Principalities) is book three and part one is in progress elsewhere.  It, too, will be brought over to AO3 in Nov. 2012.  Thank you again for your lovely comments / reviews / pm's / kudos and links.  

'sky'

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of the THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON series »