A/N:

This came from an Omegle RP I had with a lovely girl known as MTCrazy17 around here. She provided the dialect for both Mr. Watson and Mr. Moran. Much of the raw conversation is posted under her account if you want to look it up. But I decided to run with it and turn it to a multi-chapter story.

So sit back, grab a cup of tea, and enjoy. Reviews are welcomed and loved. Thank you very much!

It had been another late night at the lab. Sherlock shuffled to the door, putting on his coat as Molly bid him a good night. He reached into a pocket, pulling out his phone with no true rush. The screen display read "THREE MISSED CALLS" and "TEXT: JOHN WATSON (x2)." Sherlock shook his head, curls bouncing carelessly as he sifted through the messages. What now, John? Not the right kind of milk at Tesco? I'm not getting any; you should know that by now, the detective thought to himself.

The two messages from his companion were odd and piecemeal in nature. Sherlock wasn't sure what was going on, but something wasn't right.

… -JW

I wish it was… -JW

The detective hastily typed out a response as he ran through what the messages meant. Perhaps some sort of code? No. John wasn't that clever. Besides, why would he need code in a regular text message?

Everything alright, John?
–SH

John replied within seconds.

Sherlock! Finally, dammit!
I've been trying to reach
you for hours!
–JW

Apologies, I was in the lab
–SH

Right. Well while you were
at the lab, guess who popped
in the store with me?
–JW

While I was trying to get
the milk.
–JW

Sherlock was a bit confused, attempting to decipher the message to the best of his ability. He hated guessing games with John over texts – they were much harder to analyze and deduce.

Let me see. You expect me
to be surprised about it.
–SH

But it's not a huge surprise;
someone who also frequents
Tesco.
–SH

Someone I'm familiar with.
Who would be surprising to
hear about 'popping into
the store with you?'
–SH

Is this about Sarah? Are
you still with her? –SH

Sherlock racked his brain as he waited for a response. Perhaps John was shopping, ran into Sarah, took her for drinks, and now – drunk and bothered – had brought her back to the flat. This may be his way of saying 'stay out late unless you want to hear some of the most inhuman sounds coming from the upstairs bedroom.' John was usually good about frequenting his girlfriends' homes rather than 221B, though there were a couple of occasions which two drunken pairs of feet could be heard clambering recklessly up the stairs, followed closely by moaning and rhythmic thumping for a good ten minutes. Sherlock didn't mind, but it didn't make for the best background noise while eyeing specimens through his microscope.

This better not be about Sarah, he thought as the phone went off again. Highly unlikely, though, since he chose to start the conversation with 'finally!' Someone trying to have sex wouldn't be waiting for their friend's reply with baited breath; nor would they respond with such relieved language. What in the world is going on?

NO! I'm… It was Moran!
Sebastian Moran!
Moriarty's pet sniper.
–JW

Sherlock tensed at the mention of both names. John was in trouble. No more than five seconds later, the phone rang again.

He's got me locked up
somewhere right now,
Sherlock. Don't ask me
what I know.
-JW

He knocked me out before
I could yell for help;
next thing I know,
I'm waking up in a bloody
basement.
–JW

Sherlock's mind was racing. He dialed Lestrade as John's messages kept coming. The detective inspector answered with a sigh.

"What do you need now? I'm not giving you access to-"

"Don't need it. John's in trouble. Kidnapped by Moran; one of Moriarty's men. I need you to assemble a good section of the yard for a quick response. Make sure we've got someone with a good kill shot." Sherlock hung up the phone before Lestrade could answer, hoping to express to him the severity of the situation through his abruptness. The consulting detective looked back to his messages.

Thank god he's a git…
stupid enough to leave
my phone with me.
-JW

Really, John. Why would
you wait to tell me you're
in danger? You may as well
have tried to ask me for
a cuppa and a bite to eat.
Honestly.
-SH

He felt a slight pang of regret as he sent the snide remark to his friend. John is in trouble, this is not the time for sarcasm. Focus. This is no time to let your heart rule your head.

Well, YOU never texted
back. Too busy to notice
I'd been at the store for
over two hours!
-JW

No matter. Have you any
clue as to where he's taken
you?
-SH

I have no idea. My head stings.
He clocked me pretty well.
-JW

Tell me about the building,
John. We'll worry about your
head later.
-SH

Thanks. I'm probably concussed,
but oh well. This place is dank.
Shabby. Old building.
-JW

Good, John, good. Do you see
anything that could give you a
clue as to where you are? A smell?
Boxes? Signs?
-SH

Sherlock was already mapping out the city of London and its surrounding in his head, trying to think of specific decrepit buildings which Moran would take a victim. Isolated. Desolate. Blends into the surroundings. He had a few ideas by the time John's next message came.

Very ruddy builsin, Shelocj.
Shit. He's conmnig. Hurry.
No tlling wat he'll do.
–JW

John was obviously in a panic. That didn't excuse his blatant refusal to give the detective any hints to his whereabouts. Sure, there were hints of fear dancing in the back of Sherlock's skull, but he'd long since shut them off from the rest of his mind. The soldier should be able to do the same thing as far as he was concerned; John was acclimatized to violence, after all.

Listen closely, John.
Do everything he tells
you to do. Do NOT pull
the hero card here.
-SH

A few painstaking minutes passed before a response came back.

Smells wet.
-JW

Big elevator.
-JW

Wool which.
-JW

The line of texts sent Sherlock straight to his mind palace.

'Wool which': Which wool? Types of Wool? No, no. Delete. Woolwhich. Woolwich. Sherlock's mind raced, analyzing each of John's texts separately.

'Smells wet': Unkempt. Damage to exterior barriers evident. Obviously.

'Big elevator': Tall building, multiple floors. Cargo must be transported easily from floor to floor.

Abandoned buildings in Woolwich. Isolated, large enough to allow gunfire to go virtually unheard. Not a factory. Wonderful acoustics in a factory. Needs some sound absorption; carpet, fixtures, shelves. A store. Large store. Department store. Pull up a list of derelict department stores in Woolwich.
The Old Co-op Department Store. Powis Street.

Sherlock redialed Lestrade; the Yarder couldn't pick up quickly enough. "The Old Co-Op Department Store on Powis Street. Woolwich. Sweep the floors, set up a perimeter. Find a way into the basement other than the elevator. A window, perhaps. Set our gunman up there." With a click, Sherlock ended the call and hailed a taxi.

The ride cross town was unbearable. John was still texting, but the messages were becoming increasingly dismal. The two had been sending quick, one-word texts, ensuring they were both on either end of the line.

Just do what he says.
-SH

No way in bloody hell am
I selling you out for him.
I'm a soldier… I'll be… fine.
-JW

He's cleaning his gun,
Sherlock. Oh Jesus. Oh God.
-JW

I don't think I'm gonna make it,
mate. Best not rush in.
Not worth it.
–JW

What in the hell is he thinking? Sherlock angrily tapped out his response.

You really are stupid,
aren't you? Of course
I'm going to come for you.
It's not my life at stake here.
It's my heart. My FRIEND.
-SH

Do me a favor John, just
stop thinking and comply
with whatever he asks of you.
-SH

What an idiot. Giving up! How dare he. Not through the three years Sherlock had been gone had John given up hope. Why was he so weary of it now, when he knew the detective was going to save him? Sherlock chalked it up to a combination of a tired mind, concussion, and adrenaline that made John act so differently.

Please. I won't be able to
deal with losing you a second
time.
-JW

I can't do that, Sherlock.
I won't. You're my best mate,
I'd never let him get to you.
Even if it means…
-JW

If I don't text back, just forget it.
Turn the other way and don't
come for me. This way only
one of us dies.
-JW

NO JOHN. ABSOLUTELY NOT.
-SH

Sherlock shook with anger. He was angry with John for trying to give up. He was furious with Moran for having captured his friend without any known purpose. He cursed the fridge for not having kept the milk consumable longer. But most of all, he was completely disgusted with himself. If he'd been able to take out Moran when he'd had the chance, back in France. If only he'd answered his phone instead of observing fingernail specimens soaked in vinegar. If only he'd gotten the bloody milk. None of this would be happening if he'd taken a moment from his schedule to help with the damn groceries. He took a deep breath.

Wherever you go, I follow.
-SH

Sherlock. No. Please.
I can't let you die.
Shit Shit SHIT He's turned
to me. I've got to go.
Wish me luck, mate.
-JW

John. Stop this. NOW.
I will NOT let you leave me.
I promise you that. I promise
I will save you. Just hold him
off for a few minutes.
–SH

No response for a few minutes sent alarms running rampant throughout Sherlock's mind. He sent a couple more desperate texts, hoping John would be able to see them.

Hold on, John. Hold on.
-SH

For me.
-SH

A few more moments of silence passed as the cab came to a halt in front of a looming building. He tossed the cabbie a few bills and exited the car; Lestrade ran up to brief him on the situation, but Sherlock didn't hear a word over the deafening sound of panic ringing in his ears.

John? Are you still there?
-SH

No, sorry. The doctor isn't in
at the moment. Please try
again later or leave a message.
-SM

Sherlock glared at the screen, teeth grit tightly. "Moran," he growled.