For John, because he can never have too much love.

-Emrose

One

They had looked vaguely familiar when Mrs. Hudson had led them into the flat shortly after nine-thirty that evening, but it wasn't until he had stood, greeted them cordially, and was suddenly looking down the barrel of a gun that he recognized them completely.

"You're from the papers," he said, and it sounded stupid even to his own ears. The man holding the gun let out a stifled caw of laughter and shrugged widely.

"Almost as brilliant as your genius flatmate." He grinned, showing wide, even rows of teeth, and nodded at John. "Smart enough to do as you're told?"

"Sometimes," John said. "Depends on what that is."

"Don't be clever," one of the other men snarled—his face was red, his body trembling slightly as he supported the near dead-weight of the injured man. "Collins, we've gotta put him down."

John glanced at Mrs. Hudson here, whose arm was being held loosely by another man with several days' stubble on his face and a thick scarf wrapped around his neck. She made eye contact with him and swallowed, her mouth opening as if she were about to say his name but he shook his head slightly, sharply. The bile rose in his throat at the fear in her face, in her hands wringing, in the way she leaned slightly away from the man who held her as her eyes flickered back and forth from the gun to John to the doorway to the ceiling, as if silently praying for help.

He offered his own prayer: Help these men, because when I get my hands on them they'll need it more than she does.

And Heaven help Sherlock…because if he doesn't show up soon and get us out of this mess I might kill him myself.

"By all means," John said, as the two men supporting the half-unconscious man between them roughly lowered their burden to the floor. "Bleed all over the rug. Mrs. Hudson, you can take that out of Sherlock's rent, not mine."

Mrs. Hudson let out a whimpering sob of laughter, but the men did not look amused. They were all quiet, wary, calm, though the two who had carried their injured companion in were hovering concernedly over the still body. It was almost touching, the way they kept adjusting his head and touching his wrists and neck to feel that the heart was still beating. Almost touching, except that John found it hard to be touched by men pointing a gun at his head.

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" Collins asked, and his eyes flickered to the stairs and back to John's face. The hand holding the gun was steady, practiced, and it somehow made John more confident at the same time. Professionals he knew how to deal with. It was the antsy ones, the ones with trigger-finger and bad aim that unnerved him.

"Out," John said. "On a case. Your case, actually. Tracking you. Make you nervous?"

Collins' eyes narrowed. "Don't play with me."

"Wouldn't dream of it," John said, and he glanced over to the man lying dying on the floor in front of him and the doctor in him itched to examine. "And neither is your friend. Are you going to tell me what you want with Sherlock before he bleeds out all over my floor?"

"I do believe these fine gentlemen are here to see you, John, not me." The smooth, silky baritone swept into the room before the speaker, and John rolled his eyes to heaven as Sherlock stripped off his scarf, coat, and gloves fluidly, draping them casually across three different surfaces before arriving to stand a few feet from John, facing their five visitors with cool aplomb.

"Good of you to turn up," John muttered quietly. "And what you do you mean, they're here to see me?"

"Sherlock Holmes? Good. Hands behind your head, sit down, and shut up. You haven't called the police, have you?"

"No," Sherlock rumbled, and slowly did as he was told, albeit in a manner that said clearly I'm doing as I'm told because I'm intrigued by what you have to offer me tonight, not because you tell me to. Collins noticed, judging by the tightening of his jaw, but didn't comment.

"Didn't think so. Not like you to call until you've done some investigating yourself."

"Well, he's done his homework," John sighed.

"He could be lying," said one of the men standing protectively over the unconscious one.

"I could be," Sherlock agreed amiably, and Collins shot him a death glare, hand tightening on the gun.

"I thought I told you to shut up," he said. "Our business isn't with you. Connelly, watch the door."

The other man, his long, lanky form crouched down by the injured one's head, nodded and left the room. As his footsteps faded away down the stairs, Collins gestured at the injured man with the gun.

"Treat him, Watson. You're a doctor."

"Yes, I am," John said, and clenched his fists at his side. He wasn't used to being the center of attention, not with Sherlock in the room. Here, though, were five criminals from this morning's paper, convicted of a high-end burglary of one of the wealthier families in London that had ended in a vicious murder of the father and hospitalization of his wife and two of their three children, and all of their attention was focused on him. Sherlock sat silently in the background, hands now steepled in front of him, no doubt analyzing everything about each man as well as planning several different methods of escaping the situation and neatly landing each man behind bars before the hour was out.

John, however, didn't have time for Sherlock to start snarking at their guests, not when one man lay dying in front of him and Mrs. Hudson's face was starting to glaze over with a kind of numb shock. He moved carefully but quickly over to the man's side and knelt down next to him.

"Why me?" he asked curtly. The man's heartbeat was weak but regular, eyes rolled up in his head, concussion possibly, several broken ribs, gunshot through the shoulder. He rolled his own left shoulder reflexively. He knew how that one felt.

"No hospital would admit them," Sherlock said. "They'd be arrested immediately, no way out. Clever, bringing him here…the good doctor Watson living in a private flat, easy to threaten, and you're doing it right under the nose of the Yard itself. Who would think to look for you here? While they're out scouring the city you sit in relative safety in Sherlock Holmes' flat and get your man treated by an army doctor as you hold his landlady hostage."

There was a distinct edge to his voice by the time he finished the sentence, and John paused for a moment to glance behind him at the scene—Sherlock was still sitting placidly in the armchair, staring serenely up at Collins, who had moved a step closer with murder in his eyes.

"It would be appropriate," Collins said quietly, "to never speak to me like that again. Watson will save our man's life because Tomlinson has his hands on your landlady. You, however, are a wild card. You don't matter. I can shoot you as you sit in this chair and not feel a thing. You might be brilliant, Holmes, but you're no good to anyone dead."

"You kill him and I won't lift a finger to help this one," John said, standing and turning to face Collins.

"You will because if you don't save Banks, Mr. Holmes is dead anyway," Collins said without taking his eyes off Sherlock. "We walk out of here with him alive or we leave you here with your flatmate's blood on your hands. Convince him to keep his mouth shut as long as we're in this flat and your landlady will make it out too."

There was a pause, in which John observed the people in the room as if through a thick fog. Mrs. Hudson, shaking hands pressed to her mouth, terrified tears trailing down the grooves in her cheeks, Tomlinson with a hand on her shoulder, glancing out the window unconcernedly at the sunlight spilling through the thin panes. Sherlock's eyes were hard and metallic and, it seemed to John, piercing Collins through to his very soul. Collins, to his credit, didn't look away. John felt suddenly sick, and he had to fight the urge to start cursing and possibly tackle Collins to the ground and beat the living tar out of him. But then, Mrs. Hudson was in the room, and John remembered that he was a gentleman (when there were ladies present, that is), and obscenities and broken noses would do more harm than good at this point. The fog seemed to lift suddenly, and a stifled, faint moan from the unconscious man lit a cold fire in his chest and sent a rush of adrenalin lashing out to the tips of his fingers and toes.

"Sherlock," he said, and Sherlock's eyes flickered momentarily to his, an odd mixture of concern, trust, and the beginnings of an antsy frustration flashing across his face. "Shut up."

Sherlock's lips quirked up in an almost-smile, but John turned his back again and gestured at the body on the floor. "You, help me get him up."

The other man tucked his arms under his companion's armpits and John grabbed his legs—together they lifted him roughly onto the kitchen table, where he moaned and his hands spasmed but he remained unconscious. John looked across the table at the other man, who was looking a little wild-eyed, his breathing coming erratically as he glanced from his hands, covered in his companion's blood, to John, to the injured man's face, and back again.

"Hey," John said sharply, and the man focused on him. "What's your name?"

"Lindon."

"Lindon, I'm going to need an assistant. The wound's clean through but I've got to get it patched up and these ribs set, and he's got a slight concussion. You're going to do everything I tell you to do, and you're going to do it quickly and exactly if you want to save your friend here. Understand?"

Lindon gaped, and John marched around the table and grabbed him by shirt front. Lindon was taller than he was by several inches, but he shook the man roughly and ignored Collins' angry warning at him from the other room. Mrs. Hudson let out a loud sob, and John heard footsteps pound into the kitchen, heard ragged breathing that indicated that her guard was now standing right behind John, gun probably aimed at the back of his head. Background noise, unimportant. He didn't take his eyes of Lindon's face, shook the man again, and growled,

"Either you help me or he dies. Now, listen, I don't care if he does or not. I don't care about any of you. You've murdered an innocent man an destroyed his family, and I wouldn't care if the police barged in here right now and shot the lot of you, right in front of me. I don't care about your friend except that if he dies so do the people I do care about. So you're going to help me save this man's miserable life so that I can get you out of this flat, out of my life, and never have to see your ugly faces again unless I'm looking at them behind steel bars. Understand?"

He waited until Lindon's eyes focused again and he got a weak "of course," and then he turned on his heel and brushed roughly past the man who'd come in as backup, shoving the barrel down flatly with one palm as he passed.

"Upstairs, first bedroom on your right under the bed there's a kit with some needle, thread, antiseptic, bandages. Another black bag in the bottom dresser drawer with medications. Around the corner in the linens closet there's a stand-up light. Bring it all. Touch anything else and I promise you won't leave here with your nose unbroken."

Tomlinson scrubbed a hand across his dark, two-day beard and glanced through the kitchen doorway at Collins, who hesitated for a second and then nodded sharply. "Do as he says."

Tomlinson left the kitchen, and John shucked off his jumper and tossed it into the corner, rolling up his sleeves above his elbows as he crossed to the sink. He washed his hands thoroughly, wished desperately for a proper surgical table and team, and returned to the kitchen table, where the man's eyelids were beginning to flutter. He bent over the man and began to peel back the layers of rough, awkward bandages the men had wrapped around the injured shoulder.

It was bad, worse than he'd thought, and he scrubbed the back of his hand across his forehead, reached for the gloves Tomlinson was offering him, and looked his two pale, completely inexperienced assistants in the eyes.

"Scrub up, gents. We're in for a long one."

Sherlock watched John through the kitchen window with a curious kind of pride. He'd never seen John work as a doctor before, not for something so serious. A different mantle had settled about the man's shoulders. He was speaking authoritatively, briskly, ordering Tomlinson and Lindon about, gesturing, pointing, speaking in layman's terms, offering "good"s and "not there you idiot"s and "water, please", "scalpel", and "out of my light, for the last time"s in the same even tone.

He didn't have the best view from where he was sitting, but he was aching to get closer, to watch John at work. Collins seemed to be feeling the same way—he kept glancing through the kitchen door and blowing sharp burst of air through his nostrils as the minutes wore on.

"Clean water, I need clean water…Sherlock, get in here." John's voice filtered clearly through the open door, and Sherlock leapt to his feet. Collins straightened, flicking the gun in a gesture that told Sherlock to stay put.

"Why can't one of them get it?"

"Well, one of them is holding a compress against your friend's bullet hole here, and the other is injecting him full of painkillers so he'll stop jerking…hold him steady, there, hang on, don't let him…there, good…and won't tear these new stitches…there he goes, watch his head…Sherlock!"

"With your permission," Sherlock said blandly, and without permission swept into the kitchen, pausing by John's shoulder to peer at the twitching man on the table.

"And you get after me for my experiments," he said.

"Shut it and get me water," John said tersely. The back of his neck was dripping sweat under the heat of the lamp he'd positioned over Banks' shoulder; his fine, blonde hair was plastered to his head, but he didn't seem to notice his own discomfort. His face was pale, taut, the lines around his eyes grim and pronounced under the harsh light of the lamp as his hands worked smoothly, quickly, fluidly over the man's injuries. It was the face of a man in battle, the face of a man who had lost patients under better circumstances, who had lost even more under much worse, and the face of a man who would not lose this one. It was beautiful to watch, even with all the blood on John's hands and all over the table and the sweat and the moans of the injured…mesmerizing, really, and Sherlock felt that he could stand and watch John work for hours and not get bored…

"Sherlock!"

Ah, yes, the water.

A short minute later he was back in the chair under Collins' watchful, seething eye. Mrs. Hudson was sitting very still, watching the proceedings in the kitchen with a mixture of horror, disbelief, and curiosity.

"How does it look, Sherlock?" she whispered, and Collins made a move as if to hush her but decided he was interested in the answer too.

"Permission to speak?" Sherlock asked lazily. It was almost worth this charade to slide under the man's skin, but Collins only looked at him.

"Just answer her question."

"Most likely he'll pull through," Sherlock said. "John does good work. Too good, perhaps."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock looked coldly up at Collins again and felt only disgust. This common criminal was holding him hostage in his own home, holding him and the woman he felt more fondly towards than any he'd ever met except his own mother at gunpoint, and he hadn't even done it cleverly. Collins was an average mind, really, and he hadn't even been cautious in coming to 221B. It was his fault, really, Sherlock's fault—he'd walked straight into the flat with only a rough idea of why they'd chosen his flat to come to in the first place, and now his mobile was confiscated, John was working desperately to save the life of a murderer, Sherlock was sitting helplessly in an armchair, and he knew that not all of them were going to walk away from this unscathed, despite Collins' promises.

"It means that if life was just, your man in there would be dead already beside the corpse of Leland Broker and three of the four remaining of you would be in hospital in cots next to his wife and children. If life was just."

Something almost like guilt flashed across Collins' face, and then he shrugged. "It isn't, though, is it."

"No, it certainly is not," Sherlock said softly. And then he didn't say anything more for a long time.

Something in his brain reminded him every few minutes to look up at Mrs. Hudson and make eye contact, let her know that he was still aware of her. She appreciated that sort of thing, he knew, even though there was nothing he could do for her. Every last criminal in his flat would pay for putting her through another hostage situation, but it wouldn't do to let her see his anger. It wouldn't do for any of them to see just how angry he really was—it would only distract John, and it was vital that John not make any mistakes.

Mistakes could lead to Banks' death, and Banks' death, although justice would be pleased, would overthrow this fragile balance of freedom and death, of healing exchanged for lives, of trust and hatred.

Still, Sherlock had to admit that Collins didn't exude the stupid vibes that most petty criminals did. He was calm, collected, wasn't allowing himself to be distracted by the near-chaos in the kitchen, and he wasn't intimidated by Sherlock's very presence, which was uncommon enough with the everyday rabble Lestrade had him dealing with.

That wasn't to say that Collins wasn't still an idiot, but at least he'd brought excitement to an otherwise dull day, and that was saying something.

It was too bad that he'd had to threaten Mrs. Hudson to get there. Too bad that he'd placed John in the frankly alarming position of saving a dying man's life or watching his flatmate die instead. Too bad that he'd taken Sherlock's phone, that he was smart enough to post a guard, and that Sherlock knew that he had no intention of leaving the three of them unscathed at the end of all this.

Sherlock didn't take kindly to people threatening his landlady (as several unfortunate Americans had discovered not too far back). Sherlock didn't take kindly to people threatening his unassuming, not-stupid, unfailingly loyal, extraordinarily patient flatmate. And Sherlock definitely didn't take kindly to people threatening the world's only consulting detective.

He had only just started to formulate a thrilling, exciting, elaborate escape plan when his phone buzzed in Collins' pocket. From his perch in the window where he could keep both Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson in his sights, Collins' free hand moved slowly to pull it out.

"D. I. Lestrade," he said. "Call."

"He'll wonder why I don't pick up," Sherlock said. "I always answer Lestrade."

Collins hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then tossed the phone at Sherlock, who caught it in his right hand deftly.

"Answer it, then, but if you say anything that could tip him off she'll be dead. We might get caught, we might hang, but your landlady will be dead no matter what happens to us."

Mrs. Hudson whimpered. Sherlock wished a death wish upon the stony-faced man with brains and all the cards and answered the phone.

"Lestrade."

"Sherlock, where are you? We've got a lead on the murder, moving to Kensington now, we've had a witness who saw them heading down…"

"Busy, Lestrade. Can't come now."

"Busy…but…Sherlock, this is important, this is your case! We need you to interrogate…"

"Your men are more than capable, Lestrade. They can take care of this as well as I could."

"They're cap…Sherlock, are you feeling alright?" Lestrade chuckled, but it trailed off when Sherlock didn't respond. That's right, you idiot, piece it together. It's not alright. Come on, something's wrong, pick it up.

"Oh, I'm fine. Couldn't be better, but I'm busy. Mrs. Hudson's come round for tea and I really can't put her off again. You know how I hate it when she's upset."

"Sherlock…"

Oh, come ON! "That case was dull anyway, Lestrade. Idiots, the lot of them, and not worth my time. I'd much rather be home this afternoon."

"You're with them now, aren't you?"

You brilliant man. "Of course I think they're capable. Anderson's the best you've got, he can manage without me. Haven't got time to chat, Lestrade…"

"All right, all right, don't overdo it, I'll start wondering if you're actually serious. John with you?"

"Yes."

"Your flat?"

"He's in his element. Haven't seen him like this since that business with the Americans."

"Armed, dangerous, injuries, in your flat, got Mrs. Hudson? I hope I'm getting this right, Sherlock. We're on our way. Keep them occupied."

"Enough small talk," Collins growled, and Sherlock tossed him a withering glance but said into the phone, "Must be off, Lestrade. Best of luck."

"Hold on."

Collins took the phone back and stared momentarily at the screen before stowing it away in his pocket again. "I'm not stupid, you know," he said quietly. "You've tipped them off somehow. You think you're clever, you think we're all idiots, I get that...but even idiots know when something isn't quite right, even in a simple little conversation like the one you just had with your Yard friend."

Sherlock's heart thudded once, loudly, in his chest before resuming its normal pattern. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said softly, and even though he knew his poker face was flawless he knew it wouldn't matter. Knew in the way Collins' eyes had gone shadowed, the way his shoulders were tense, twisted slightly, the way his chest was rising and falling, the way the lines in his jaw were pulsing ever-so-gently, that it didn't matter what Sherlock said now, and it didn't matter what Sherlock had said on the phone.

Collins' lips tightened into a faint smile, and then he brought the gun up in one smooth arch and pointed it at Mrs. Hudson's chest.

Mrs. Hudson shrieked, and then her eyes rolled up in her head and she slumped back against the couch in a dead faint. Sherlock tensed. Every muscle in his body was on fire, every sense suddenly pulsing, his brain rushing, careening, barreling out of control, scenarios chasing themselves in an out of his head, possible outcomes, time ticking, ticking, ticking until the trigger was pulled and Mrs. Hudson paid for his underestimation…

"What…what is going…Sherlock, what's going on?"

John stood framed in the doorway, and the way the fading light from the setting sun hit him made him look like an avenging angel, his hair a blonde halo about his head, blood spattered across his shirt and arms.

"I spoke," Sherlock said. John's eyes darted to Mrs. Hudson, and a terrible anger settled deep into his tired features, followed by the beginnings of a disbelieving pain. He took a halting step into the room.

"And he shot…I'll kill him. I swear, I…"

"I haven't shot her. Not yet," Collins said. "Holmes has tipped off the Yard…"

"You did what?" John swung on Sherlock now, who rose with Collins, and now the three of them were standing in a rough triangle, furniture and books and pieces of Sherlock's experiment littering the floor space between them like the remnants of a battlefield. Tomlinson had followed John from the kitchen, and now his was gun trained on John's back. Collins swung his away from Mrs. Hudson's prone form to Sherlock's head.

"Lestrade called. I answered. This idiot here seems to think I tipped him off."

"And so he threatened to kill Mrs. Hudson."

"That sums it up."

John's fists clenched tight at his sides. "Banks will live. I've saved his bloody life, for whatever its worth. Does that mean anything to you?"

Collins shrugged. "I told you your flatmate would live if Banks did. I'll keep my word."

"And Mrs. Hudson? She's got no part in this, she's not part of it! Let her go, and I swear we'll head the Yard off. Sherlock, call Lestrade back, tell him not to come…"

"Tomlinson, you and Lindon get Banks out of here. Downstairs, through her flat, out the back." Collins glanced outside, where the sun had nearly set. "I'll follow."

The two men nodded and moved back into the kitchen, where they hauled Banks up, ignoring a groggy stream of curses as they shouldered him out. Collins waved at both John and Sherlock with the gun; they moved to stand together at one end of the room as he backed towards the door. Sherlock could feel the tension rolling off John in waves, could hear it in his harsh breathing, could see it out of the corner of his eyes in the set to John's jaw and the solid line of his shoulders.

"Breathe, John," he murmured. "They won't shoot her, not now."

"How can you possibly know…"

"Ah, good to see you're waking," Collins said smoothly as he reached the couch, and he pulled Sherlock's phone out of his pocket, tossed it on the couch, grasped a stirring Mrs. Hudson by the arm and swung her up in one fluid motion. She gasped and nearly fainted again, but he pinned her to his side with one arm and pointed the gun at her head with the other. "She comes with me. You send any of the Yard after us and she won't make it a minute. We get away, we release her, you come find her when we're gone. Understood?"

"Clearly," Sherlock said dryly, and he tried to send Mrs. Hudson a promise with his eyes, tried to communicate to her that he would come after her anyway, that he'd rip these men to shreds, that she'd be back home in no time at all, but her eyes were wide and terrified as Collins dragged her backwards out of the apartment. Her gaze flickered back and forth from John, who was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet with unsuppressed rage and muttering a string of curses under his breath, to Sherlock, who felt all the stress and tension of the last few hours settle into his bones like lead that kept him rooted to the carpet.

"See, John?" he said hoarsely. "Hostage situation. Keeps them safer longer. He wouldn't kill her, not now that they're on the run again. He needs her."

Their staggering footsteps faded down the stairs, and John swung on Sherlock.

"I hope you've got a plan," he hissed.

Sherlock was already reaching for his coat.

Review! Let me know if everything looks/feels/sounds right. The second (final) chapter is almost finished, and I'll post it soon.