Hi! This is not my first fanfic, but it is my first Sherlock.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (So wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!

"John! What in God's name have you done?" Lestrade could hardly believe his eyes.

John Watson, ex-army doctor, sat hunched forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, a handgun hanging loosely from his right hand and a glazed expression in his eyes. On the floor in front of him lay Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective, unconscious and with an ominous red stain spreading around his body. Sally Donovan was kneeling beside him, her hands firmly pressing a towel onto the wound in his side.

Exasperated at the lack of response the Detective Inspector turned to bark an order at his subordinates but was interrupted by a young red headed police constable.

"Paramedics on the way Sir"

Lestrade nodded an acknowledgement and turned back to the sandy haired man. "John! What happened man? Did the gun go off accidentally?" As he said it he knew he was grasping at straws. John Watson was a soldier who, despite his propensity towards being an adrenaline junkie, was very careful about how he handled firearms. Besides, the gun in his hand wasn't his army issue Browning L9A1 (he really must give that in to the police) – it was a Russian MP 443 Gratch semi-automatic.

John was rocking slightly in his seat, his eyes fixed on his friend lying still on the floor, his lips moving silently, seemingly repeating the same word over and over…."Sherlock…..Sherlock"

Crouching down to bring himself level with the man on the couch, Lestrade spoke softly "Give me the gun, John." And he reached forward to put his hand on the weapon. John didn't even flinch as the gun was gently pulled from his lax fingers.

Keeping movement smooth in order not to spook the rocking man, the Detective then grasped John's wrist, pulled it behind him and clipped the handcuff on his wrist. Without pause he did the same to the other wrist, and in no time at all John was shackled. As he proceeded to caution the good doctor, there was a sudden flurry of activity as the paramedics crowded into the room. They made short work of triaging Sherlock and in no time at all had him on a stretcher and on his way down to the waiting ambulance. John's eyes followed his friends still pale form, but there was no light or life in them and his face was totally devoid of emotion. Even the soundless movement of his lips had stilled.

xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo xoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxoxo

45 minutes earlier…..

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John bounded up the stairs two at a time. "You were right, she….." the words died on his lips as he took in the tableau that confronted him in the living room. Sherlock was sitting on the chair by his desk, his arms fastened to the arms of the chair by a length of fabric – a method designed to hold him still without leaving any marks. Similarly his legs were secured in such a way as to prevent him from moving or getting up. A gag ensured his silence.

"What the hell….?"

"Ah! Doctor Watson! I'm so glad you could join us." The heavily accented voice came from the side of the room, and even as he turned towards the speaker part of John's mind was acknowledging the clichéd speech. Briefly he took in the slightly balding head, olive skin and overfed physique, and was weighing up the possibility of overpowering their visitor (after all, John had been a soldier, and the opposition was more like one of Mycroft's soft living Government cronies) when the sound of a safety catch removed from a gun, frighteningly close to the back of his head, changed any plans he may have been formulating.

"Don't be foolish," the balding head shook sadly "Surely you didn't think I would come here alone?"

John ignored him, and turned his attention back to his friend. "You alright?"

A ghost of a smile flashed in Sherlock's silver-grey eyes as both men recalled the same question being asked in a darkened swimming pool what seemed like a lifetime ago, and he nodded an affirmative.

John glanced again at Sherlock before addressing their visitor. "Take the gag off him. He's not stupid enough to try to call out."

After a moment's consideration the material was untied, and Sherlock spat it out with a look of disgust. "Thank you John." His soft baritone was calm.

"What do you want?"

"Mr Holmes here has been meddling in our business Doctor, and so we are going to teach him a lesson"

"Oh I don't think so" Sherlock drawled. John's lips twitched – Sherlock never changed no matter the odds were stacked against him!

"Oh yes," came a female voice – the armed companion. "We intend to make sure you both learn what it means to meddle in things which do not concern you."

"As far as I can see" Sherlock sounded bored, but John could almost see his mind working on an escape plan "you made it our concern when you broke into our flat!"

The man took two steps towards the captive, his hand raised as if to strike.

"No Fasse, no marks on his face!"

In that instant the dynamics of the situation changed, and John felt the muzzle of a gun pressed hard against the base of his skull.

"Sit down, Dr Watson." John started to move towards his chair. "No Doctor, the couch if you please".

As John stepped warily across to sit down Fasse pulled out a small but solid leather truncheon and brought it down hard across the back of Sherlock's head. Instinctively John moved as if to help his friend, only to be pushed down hard onto the couch, and he got his first real look at the lady holding the gun. She had a slightly Asiatic look about her, and her accent placed her origins as somewhere around Siberia. That would make sense given the case they had recently been involved in.

"Let me look at him" John ground out through clenched teeth.

"Oh I don't think so" came the smooth reply. "You'll spoil everything!"

"Spoil….? For God's sake…."

"No Dr Watson for your own sake I advise you, do not interfere" she leaned down until her face was level with his. "As it is, between you and your…" her eyes swivelled to Sherlock's unconscious form, now laying on the floor at Johns feet "friend here you have cost me time, money and reputation!" Too late John felt the prick of the hypodermic needle in his shoulder and the sting of the drug as it entered his body. He tried to get to his feet but whatever he had been given was fast acting and his legs refused to obey. The last thing he heard was the lady's voice, close to his ear, and very angry…"You WILL pay!"