It was one of those days when Sherlock had dressed and gone out early before John had even begun to wake up. It wasn't anything terribly unusual; Sherlock often woke before John to go run errands across London. Sometimes he went out to investigate potential cases. Sometimes he contacted members of the homeless network. Other times he would come home late in the afternoon, having spent the entire day in the morgue or library conducting research. So, when John walked into the common area to find it empty, he wasn't really all that surprised.

A basic explanation would be lovely, of course, he thought to himself. Normally, these disappearances weren't too great a concern. But Sherlock had been out most of yesterday, and even the day before that. When John had texted his friend to ask what he was doing, he had received terse replies.

Working on case. Undercover. Talk later. –SH

You'll find out later. Stop texting me. -SH

Busy. Shut up. –SH

John figured the man would show up eventually. Any concern for his friend was quickly turning to wearied annoyance.

He prepared a fresh cup of tea and set himself up for an afternoon of typing up cases. He figured he'd take advantage of Sherlock's absence to catch up on writing. He could do it without the detective hovering behind him and making snide remarks about his choice of words and slow typing speed.

It was an hour or two later when the morning took a turn. There was a thump from downstairs and a mad dash of footsteps in the hallway outside the room. John turned in time to see a lanky man burst through the door into the common area.

Sherlock had mentioned before that he sometimes used disguises. Until now, John hadn't really seen the man utilize one that went beyond changing his personality or voice. This time, however, it took John a second to realize that it was, actually, Sherlock.

In the days since he'd seen him, he'd let a bit of stubble grow on his chin and neglected his normally trim appearance. He was wearing a grimy tee-shirt with holes in it, and his jeans, faded and thin, were of a similar disrepair. His normal dark great-coat had been traded in favor of a shorter and much flimsier jacket, and his hair, now oily, had straightened some from their normal curls. The overall appearance made him look like one of the lazier and more disreputable young men found in the grungier corners of London.

John began to stutter something of a response to his friend's appearance but was instead cut off by hissed instructions.

"Not much time – your gun – hide it – under your shirt!"

Why did he always respond so quickly to Sherlock? The man could make absolutely no sense, but John would comply without a moment's hesitation. In a second John had rushed towards his desk and seized his pistol. No sooner had he shoved it into the inside pocket of a hastily thrown-on jacket than he was roughly seized by the shoulders. "I'm going to strike you against the head. You're going to pretend to be disoriented. Just trust me and go along with it."

There was an odd thumping and ringing noise in his left ear, but more distracting was the sudden pain through his jaw and neck as Sherlock had thwacked the side of his face. He hit the ground in a daze, and it took all of his restraint to not react to instinct and stand back up to punch the lanky asshole across the jaw. Oh, you're going to get one for that when this is all said and done, he thought bitterly.

From his spot on the floor, John saw three other men suddenly enter the common area. He watched in confusion as Sherlock's demeanor immediately changed. The detective's posture had deflated and his hands were trembling. John heard an insistent tenor voice, cracking slightly in nervousness, speaking to the men who had just entered the room. "Look, I-I told you. The doctor is no longer a threat. I told you I could do it. Easy enough." John felt hands seize him from the back of his neck and shoulder to pull him upwards. He realized that the grip was Sherlock's, and only just remembered his instructions in time. He stumbled slightly as he found his feet and did his best to keep his eyes unfocused and blinking. He was roughly moved towards a chair and deposited into it.

Sherlock was laughing now, high and nervous. "See? Push-over. Like I said. Not a spot of trouble." The voice Sherlock had adapted was grating. It didn't seem as if the men who had accompanied him appreciated the toadying attitude much themselves. John quickly categorized the men in his mind: one looked no older than 18 and seemed the least threatening of the group - physically speaking. He had walked forward and was tying John to the chair. Careful to maintain the ruse, John let his head roll dazedly in such a way as to get a good look at the other two men.

"Congratulations, sparky, you hit a guy across the back of the head and made him dizzy. Truly a feat among feats." The sarcastic voice was the tall one. He, like the teenager, didn't look terribly strong either. Was he the leader?

He considered the posture of the remaining thug, a stocky man with a confident face. "Come on, Dean, you said you'd been watching the house and had information. We're here. The landlady's off on an errand. The sidekick here," he gestured to John, "isn't going to give us trouble for a few minutes, so let's just get what we came for and be off." No, John decided, they both lead the team. The stocky one seems to have more control of the situation, however.

Sherlock, who had apparently become Dean in the last few days, stuttered in concern. "H-hold on a second. You said that if I-I got you in here, you'd tell me about the gang. I've kept my end of the bargain. Who do I go to if I w-w-wanna join up?"

The stocky one groaned again. "Oh come on, do we have to do this now?"

The tall one sighed. "Look, let's just tell the kid so we can get this done, alright?"

John was trying desperately to follow along. The teen, who had only just finished tying John up, had not done the job terribly well. John was playing "blearily incapacitated" well enough that apparently the thug didn't think tying his hands up would be necessary. John's upper torso was securely fastened to the chair, but his arms were free.

Stocky was rubbing his face, now. "Look, Dean, we can't trust you until you deliver the papers to us. Once you prove you can be a constructive part of the team, we'll tell you who to talk to. Deal?"

Sherlock was biting his lip. His hands were clenching and un-clenching, apparently fighting with adrenaline and indecision.

Tall crossed his arms. "Tick-tock, man, you gunna help or not?"

Sherlock made an odd hiccuping noise, closing his eyes and shaking a bit. "O-okay. Fine. Um. The Sherlock bloke keeps reports on the criminals in London, like I told you. I snuck up here when the doc an' him were out doing whatever. He's got some information on the gang over here." Sherlock strode towards the desk and made a show of trying to remember where the information was. Finally, he carefully withdrew a small folder from one of the nonsensical stacks that littered the work space. "T-this is the one." He held it out for Stocky to take.

Eagerly, the thug reached for it, but Sherlock made a protesting noise and moved it out of reach. "No! W-wait. Come on. You promised. Look, I can be a help to the gang. I wanna join up. I don't got no one else in this crappy city. I can be an asset to your boss. What's his name? Please, I wanna join up."

The teenager who tied John up had moved. He stood a little ways off, between John, in his restrained position near the door, and the thugs, who were near the fireplace. Sherlock was trembling in front of Tall and Stocky and didn't seem to be taking notice of The Teenager. John was beginning to get a feeling of how all of this was going to turn out. Taking in The Teenager's watchful gaze and taut posture, John thought to himself, most dangerous.

Stocky stared for a few seconds at Sherlock. He glanced around for a moment, trying to come to a decision. John caught the quick look between Stocky and Teen.

With a sigh, he appeared to relent. "Fine, I guess you've proven you deserve it. The boss is Calverton Smith."

Sherlock frowned. "Wait. But isn't that… Isn't he some posh scientist type? I-I've heard about him. In the news. You mean to say he's the murderer people have been talkin' about?" His trembling seemed to have worsened.

"Is that a problem or something," Tall asked lightly.

"No, it's just… I didn't think he was a criminal sort…"

Stocky grabbed the folder from Sherlock's hands. "Yeah, I imagine that it would come as a surprise to some. That's sort of the point," he sneered. "No one suspects him." He turned away and began to head towards the door. "Nice working with you, Dean. Good luck and all."

Sherlock was left stuttering in place. Teen hadn't made his move, yet. "Is - Is that all? Wait, guys! Wait!"

Sherlock suddenly bounded past the thugs and slammed the door shut.

Here we go, John thought a second before it all fell out.

The Teenager finally drew the pistol that had been hiding under his jacket. Luckily, John was clever and had suspected as much. Before Teen was able to completely draw the gun, John had his aimed.

The young man stopped abruptly in shock, staring at John in confusion. John's head had only moments before been lolling to the side, struggling to remain conscious. Now it was alert, and his eyes were angry. More importantly, the boy realized, the pistol was aimed at his head.

Sherlock, of course, had already incapacitated Tall. Stocky was taking more effort. Sherlock had him in a headlock, but it was taking precious seconds. Teenager's eyes flickered between Sherlock and John, and John could almost see the calculation: Can I get a shot off without getting hit myself? "Don't do it!" he warned tersely.

If Stocky hadn't suddenly given in and collapsed to the floor, the situation may have turned out poorly for the detective and the doctor. As it was, with both Stocky and Tall down, Teenager could see nothing more to do. He put the gun down on the floor carefully and lifted shaking arms over his head, glancing uncomfortably between John's gun and Sherlock, who was advancing upon him.

Officers had already come and removed the three hired thugs. There were still a few tasks being finished up in the flat, so Sherlock and John were giving their unofficial statements to Lestrade outside. Sherlock explained that, in order to get the trust of the hired hitters, he had played a desperate and twitchy London lay about. He had earned their attention when, trying to play his abilities up, the young man named Dean had boasted his break into 221B, the home of the famous detective. Furthermore, he claimed to have heard that Sherlock had gotten evidence against their boss.

Sherlock was trying to finish the explanation of his brilliant trickery and disguise, but was getting annoyed.

Lestrade seemed utterly distracted, not with the explanation, but with the stubble on Sherlock's chin.

Sherlock had noticed the attention and was beginning to furtively hide his face behind his hand with what he thought were random hand motions.

"I determined that I had gained their trust enough to lead them into the trap. I concealed the voice recorder in my jacket pocket, which I'm sure you'll find, when coupled with the scanty evidence the Yard's collected already, is enough proof to find Calverton guilty." He took a moment to watch his companions' faces.

Lestrade was still staring.

Sherlock sighed exasperatedly. "Are you even listening? I've just tidied up your case for you, and all you can do is stare at my bloody jaw."

John, who was preoccupied with another thought, shook his head in frustration. "Yes, good, fine, I follow all of that, but why the hell couldn't you have just clued me in to your grand scheme?"

Sherlock sighed tiredly. "John, I needed backup. Furthermore, I needed authentically confused back-up. I suspected that the gang members would try and off their snitch once they had gotten the information they needed, and so an armed accomplice waiting for the proper moment to strike was the most logical course of action. By incapacitating you—"

"Pretending to incapacitate me."

"Yes, whatever, pretending—"

"Acting, Sherlock, you do know what acting is don't you?"

"John, don't be ridiculous."

"It's this thing where people pretend to be one way but are actually just acting—"

"I don't think I've ever seen you with any bit of beard before," Lestrade commented absently.

"Oh, damn, will you two stop?!" Sherlock huffed angrily. "By incapacitating you John, I solidified my persona as an informant. The thugs wouldn't see the need to tie you up completely, and so you would still have ample access to your gun when the time came."

There was a beat of silence before John let out his exasperated reply. "But Sherlock, I could have just pretended that you had hit me!"

"John, among your skills, of which I would readily list the practice of medicine, flirting with women, fighting, and protecting others, I would not include acting."

"How do you know I can't act?"

"It was an assumption, alright?" Sherlock sighed between clenched teeth. "I apparently seem to have offended you, so let me now admit that my assumption appears to have been incorrect."

John stilled his retort and stared at his friend. "I… What?"

"You performed your role admirably."

John blinked for a moment in confusion. "I. Yes, yes I did. Glad you noticed."

Lestrade, momentarily forgotten from the conversation, groaned. "Listen, I'd love to stay and listen to the rest of this, but I would also like to return to my job, so if you'll excuse me? Sherlock, stop by in an hour so that I can get a proper statement from you." He turned to walk away, but stopped to add quickly, "Oh, but before you do, shave your face, will you?"

Sherlock threw his hands up in the air in frustration at Lestrade's retreating back. "Why is this such a bloody distraction to you," he demanded exasperatedly. It met no reply.

Sherlock returned his attention to John, who was staring at him. "What?"

John shrugged. "Nothing. Still can't believe that you punched me."

Sherlock began to swear in frustration before John cut him off. "Now wait, I do have to admit. I'm pleased you trust my abilities so much."

Sherlock frowned. "What do you mean?"

"You gave me absolutely nothing to go on. Really, nearly nothing. I had no idea what was happening. You've been gone from the flat for three days. And yet, you bargained the case and your personal safety on the fact that: one, I would get my gun in time; two, follow your instructions without question; three, successfully follow your instructions; and four, that I would know what to do, when the right moment came – in this instance, identifying the teenage hitter to be the threat I needed to worry about."

Sherlock took a moment to analyze everything John said. Eventually, he nodded. "Of course."

John blinked. "Seriously? You trusted me that much?"

Sherlock shuffled a bit uncomfortably underneath his jacket. "It was the logical conclusion, yes."

They stood in silence for a moment before John laughed a bit. Eventually, Sherlock eased up and smiled as well.

"Just do me a favor," John added.

"What?"

"Don't ever punch me again, or I'll break your nose."