~Molly~

Sherlock was busy working on something involving a microscope. He looked lovely when he looked at microscopes. His hair curled about wildly, and his eyes shone manically. No matter what Molly said, brought to him, or dropped, he didn't look up or acknowledge her.

Then John walked in.

"Sherl, I couldn't find-"

"John! Come here." Sherlock looked up, eyes bright. John came over, and Sherlock moved into his personal space, pushing John to look in the microscope. The detective went on a long explanation that Molly didn't understand as he leaned over John as the doctor looked into the microscope. John straightened up, grinning.

"You've done it. That's it."

Sherlock grinned back and pulled his phone out.

"Let Lestrade know we're coming over." John instructed, then pulled Sherlock's coat onto the taller man's frame as Sherlock texted the DI. John and Sherlock fell into step as the reached the door, and Sherlock exited, John yelling a, "Thanks, Molly!" over his shoulder.

~Mrs. Hudson~

Her boys had been out all night. Well, Mrs. Hudson assumed they'd been out all night. They hadn't been home when she went to bed, and they were still wearing their clothes from yesterday when she went up to check on them. As she entered the upper flat, she saw Sherlock's curls peeping out from the arm of the couch. He was stretched out, clad in his blue silk dressing gown, still wearing his shoes. Then John entered.

"Ah, Mrs. Hudson! Could you possibly bring up some food? Sherlock needs to eat but somebody forgot to get anything while they were out." John sent a fond glare in Sherlock's direction. John still had on a slightly soiled jumper and his face was smudged in places. As Mrs. Hudson turned to leave she saw John bend down and gently dab Sherlock's forehead with the cloth he had brought from the kitchen.

"You feeling better, Sherl?" he asked gently.

"A bit." Sherlock groaned. John stroked a hand through his hair.

When Mrs. Hudson got back with food, John gave her a tired smile.

"You really should get some rest, dear."

John shook his head. "Not now, I have to help Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson made a sympathetic noise. "What did the poor sod get into this time?"

John shrugged. "Nothing much, he just needs some food and rest." John took the tray and thanked Mrs. Hudson. She stood at the door for a few minutes, fondly watching her boys. John propped Sherlock up and gently forced him to eat, fussing over him the whole while. Sherlock stopped once half-way through the soup and looked up at John earnestly. John gave him an inquisitive look.

"You'll stay, right?" Sherlock asked.

"Y-yeah..."

Sherlock nodded as if everything was settled.

"Always?" he double-checked.

John sat down next to Sherlock and rubbed a hand down his arm.

"Yeah." he whispered.

Mrs. Hudson smiled and left them to it.

~Lestrade~

Lestrade liked this Doctor John Watson Sherlock dragged about. He pitied him, but he liked him. And why not? Everybody liked John. He was sweet, funny, mild-tempered, well-mannered, and unassumingly smart. He was the perfect person to off-set Sherlock's snarky, bad-tempered, ill-mannered, overly genius personality.

So of course Lestrade was worried when he heard that John was missing. He rushed to the scene, even though Gregson had said he would cover it. From what Lestrade could gather from a hyperactive Sherlock who was insulting anyone and anything within twelve meters of him, Sherlock had dragged John along to chase a criminal. Sherlock had gotten ahead, and when he turned around, John was gone. Sherlock backtracked, but was only able to reach the street in time to see John being bundled, kicking and fighting, into a car.

That had been three hours ago.

Sherlock wouldn't stay still. He ran over to Donovan, ignoring her comments and taking her radio out of her hand. He yelled at whoever was on the other end, calling them names Lestrade doesn't want to think about. Then he rushed to the other car, searching the computer screen for any new data. Then he rushed over to Lestrade, an almost pleading look in his eyes.

~"Haven't you gotten anything yet? Everyone is useless, useless! Find John!" The last bit was bellowed at the top of his lungs, causing all movement to stop for a moment as everyone stared at the raving sociopath in their midst.

"Sherlock, Sherlock!" Lestrade got Sherlock's attention by grabbing his shoulders. Sherlock twisted out of his grip, curling in on himself. "Listen. We will find him. But you need to calm down and-"

"I will not calm down!" Sherlock bellowed again. "They have John. They are dangerous. Don't you understand?"

It was another long half-hour before they could locate John. Sherlock nearly had a nervous breakdown before they did, but Donovan went with a small squad to look in one quadrant while Lestrade, Sherlock and a squad looked in another. Sally radioed to Lestrade to tell him that they found John, and Sherlock bodily forced Lestrade back into the squad car.

"Take me to John." he said in a soft but commanding voice. Lestrade sighed, gave instructions to his team, and took Sherlock back.

The car hadn't even stopped when Sherlock opened the door and bounded out. His icy blue-grey-steel eyes scanned the crowd, looking for John. He found him, sitting on the back of the ambulance looking a bit roughed up, but none the worse for wear. It seemed the gang only took him because he saw them. They only took him back with them to secure him, gather their stuff, and leave.

Lestrade watched as Sherlock moved slowly forward, all his past hysterics forgotten. John glanced up as Sherlock approached and gave him a tired smile, which Sherlock surprisingly returned. When the ambulance attendant turned to find something, John levered himself to his feet. Sherlock was at his side in an instant, hands hovering in case John needed him.

"Hey." John said quietly.

"Hey." Sherlock returned, looking more meek and mild than Lestrade had ever seen him. Sherlock's eyes were roving over John, checking him for any signs of injuries.

"What's this?" Sherlock asked with venom in his voice, pointing to John's forehead. There was a bruise there, nicely cleaned, but painful looking.

"It's nothing. I'm fine." John assured him.

Sherlock's long, nervous fingers explored the area around the cut, gently patting and stroking John's forehead. When content that nothing was too far wrong, Sherlock pulled lightly on John's sleeve.

"Home?" he asked hopefully.

John found Lestrade's eyes and sent a questioning glance. Lestrade nodded, then watched as the sociopathic detective gently wrapped his hand around John's wrist and led him away from the scene of the crime.

~Mycroft~

Mycroft had never seen Sherlock like this. He wasn't raving, yelling, cursing, or breaking things. He was just sitting there, staring at the floor. Mycroft sniffed. Scotland Yard really did need to do a better job cleaning their floor. But back to his brother... Mycroft had gotten a text from Sherlock just a few hours ago, pleading for his help. John had been taken. Mycroft stepped in and forbade Sherlock to leave the small, white room in Scotland Yard, then started making phone calls. He was able to trace where John had been taken, and his car was in the process of bringing the doctor back to The Yard at the very moment. But Sherlock just sat there. Sure, he had been angry when Mycroft had told him to stay put, but as soon as he heard that John was on his way, he just sat, staring at the floor. The sound of people approaching caused both brother's heads to snap up. Sherlock half-rose from his seat before Mycroft waved him back down. Mycroft went to the door of the little office and saw John coming towards him. The man was bruised and a bit shaky, but seemed to be alright. John nodded his thanks as he came to a stop in front of the elder Holmes.

"I believe my brother wishes to see you." Mycroft intoned. John followed his nod and entered the small room. Sherlock looked up, freezing when he saw John. His eyes darted over his whole body, taking in everything and deducing all that had happened since he had last seen his blogger. Then he stood, looking more vulnerable than Mycroft had ever seen him.

"You alright?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, I'm fine." John answered, his voice husky. Sherlock nodded, looking awkward. He took a step forward, his hand coming up to gently run along the zipper of John's open jacket.

"Did they hurt you?" he asked, even though he knew the answer.

John opted for looking away. Sherlock spent a moment of terrible indecision before he reached out and pulled John into a ferocious embrace. Sherlock buried his face in John's hair, but not before Mycroft saw the tiny tear-tracks that traced his brother's cheeks. Sherlock held John for several minutes before he pulled back, pressing his forehead to John's.

"Don't scare me like that again." he pleaded.

Mycroft turned away, deciding that his brother might need some time to compose himself before John answered some questions.

It was queer: Sherlock claimed he didn't have emotions. Well, obviously he did. Mycroft couldn't explain why his chest hurt.

~Moriarty~

Moriarty loves these little games with Sherlock. They keep him from getting too bored. He likes the pool. It's atmospheric. But Moriarty does hate to repeat himself. So this time instead of the Semtex vest, (the snipers had been a nice touch, he had to admit), he straps John into a straight jacket and throws him into the pool. That way Sherlock will have to pay attention to him. Sherlock kept looking to his pet last time. Well, now he's out of the way.

But as soon as Sherlock enters and sees John, he runs to the pool. Without a glance at Moriarty he dives in (even if his suit isn't Westwood, it doesn't deserve that). Sherlock drags John out of the pool, his dark curls sopping wet and water flowing into his eyes. The straight jacket is cut off in a minute with a knife Moriarty didn't know Sherlock had and the detective is pressing his ear to John's chest.

"Look, can you leave your pet for one minute? I want to chat."

But Sherlock doesn't even look up. He's a man who hates to touch people but his hands are all over John: checking his pulse in several places, smoothing his hair, stroking his cheek.

"Please, John," he whispers and he's crying and Moriarty doesn't understand. Sherlock thrusts his clenched hands against John's chest, takes a deep breath, and covers John's mouth with his own. Moriarty wants to taunt Sherlock, but the words stick in his throat. Several desperate minutes later John coughs and sputters and starts to breath again. As soon as he stops coughing up water, Sherlock presses their foreheads together, his hands on either side of John's face. John's hands fist into the front of Sherlock's sopping suit.

"Can we talk now?" Moriarty drawls.

Sherlock gathers John up into his arms and stands. There are still tears on his cheeks. Then he walks past Moriarty without looking at him and leaves.

Moriarty feels enraged as an empty feeling gnaws at his thoracic cage: Sherlock Holmes knows something he doesn't.