Ok, so, having read the lovely reviews I felt that maybe this wasn't as bad as I'd feared. So, this will be continued :)

Hope everyone's had a good week, keep being happy people!

...

John opened his eyes blearily. Making a noise like 'sngfl' he rolled over in his bed, the last dregs of sleep falling away. The pinkish dawn light filtered through the curtains and suffused the room with gentle sunrise. John glanced at the clock: 7:30. His mind slowly began to kick in motion; what had he been thinking about last night? the number 32 was bothering him.

The quiet mumble of television could be heard from downstairs, bloody hell, did Sherlock sleep at all? John raised a hand to rub the sleepy grit away from his eyes and pulled on his dressing gown.

Sherlock flipped the pages of the newspaper idly. Dull, dull, dull, nothing of interest here. Some woman was appealing for her lost husband. He was away with his mistress, most likely in France.

Footsteps alerted him to John's presence; the doctor entered the room with rumpled hair and bleary eyes, giving him a 'bed-head' look which made the jolt come back. He watched John do his automatic 'put the kettle on' routine. Sherlock guessed that this force of habit had been so ingrained into John's psyche that it was too strong to warrant consious thoughts.

'You want tea?' John asked. Sherlock declined and continued pretending to be interested in the paper.

John gestured at the tv, 'Why's that on?'

'I'm bored, there's nothing on.'

John sighed and switched it off. Lestrade had asked them to be with them for the arrest of Markin's son. Deep inside, John wanted to see the bastard brought down, secretly hoping that maybe he would break and tell them everything. It was a twisted, feral desire to see justice done, and John's moral compass told him to avoid it like a bad chinese takeaway.

'Beatify.' Said Sherlock suddenly, snapping John out of his reverie.

'Sorry?' He blinked. Sherlock glanced at him.

'32 Down, 'to canonise one of the holy order' your crossword. Beatify.'

John stared. 32 Down! A little knot in his head cleared, replaced by two simultaneous emotions; Triumph at defeating the devil's crossword, Annoyance that Sherlock had done it for him.

'Oh, right. Thanks.' He replied, pouring boiling water into his mug. The teabag swirled around aimlessly. 'Better get to Lestrade early, there may be trouble.'

Sherlock nodded but didn't say anything. John could see that, again, Sherlock had indeed not slept. His face, pale anyway, had a tired pallour to it and his eyes weren't as bright as yesterday. John wasn't worried, but it would be nice if Sherlock was at the top of his game today. Just in case.

For a while there was nothing for them to do except for Sherlock to ignore John pottering about the flat.

...

When 10 am came, both men made their way to a grimy backstreet. A seedy location that Sherlock observed with undisguided disdain.

John shifted his weight from one foot to another as he saw Donovan stormed towards them, police badge gleaming; I'm top dog here lads.

'What are you two doing here?' she demanded 'We can handle a simple arrest!'

Sherlock opened his mouth to disagree when Lestrade cut across him.

'I asked them to be here Donovan, Sherlock may be needed to d his...stuff.'

John mentally took a photo of Donovan's face. The maelstrom of anger, surprise and pent up authority issues made for a priceless expression.

Sherlock, too, looked a little put out. No doubt it was the fact he was denied belittling the police force, and that his method of deduction was boiled down to the term 'stuff'.

'George Markin is inside, according to Mycroft.' he explained, adjusting his scarf, 'went in last night, hasn't awoken yet.'

This was news to John. When had Mycroft visited?

'I got a call from him this morning.' Sherlock explained, seeing the puzzlement on his friend's face. He had asked his older brother to check his surveilance every so often to check if the Markin gang showed up anywhere. Good old Mycroft; he smiled, always coming up with the goods.

'What's the plan?'. John's voice snaps him back to reality. Sherlock scanned the entire police squad, 5 people in total, one looked like he was going to vomit. First Timer.

Lestrade made a funny little gesture over his shoulder. 'This is the plan.'

As if on cue, the squad began to break down the door. First Timer was shouting for Markin to open up. Within seconds, they were in. Sherlock practically ran into the establishment, forcing John to bring up the group's rear.

The interior was just as dingy as the outside, peeling wallpaper and a strong smell of tobacco made for a completely disgusting place.

John didn't manage to get a good look at his surroundings. Donovan and another officer were dragging George Markin out of the bathroom. First Timer stumbled out behind them.

John started forward, the man's nose obviously broken by Markin's fist. Before John could do anything remotely helpful, the guy grunted and bustled out the door.

Donovan tugged George Markin up to his full height. It was a wonder she had managed to do it, he was a giant of a man. Evidently the woman had more physical strenght than they gave her credit for.

Sherlock walked right up to George, both men stood at the same height, but the criminal was about 4 stone heavier.

'Steven Menzes. Dead.' Sherlock reported. Markin leered.

'I know you. You're that faggot the police bring in when they're scared.'

'Don't call him that.' Interjected John angrily, no-one paid him any attention.

Sherlock stared the man down. 'You're going to be put away for a long time George Markin. Maybe you're father will try to get you out. Maybe not. In any case, enjoy prison.'

Sherlock turned back to John, giving him a small smile. He had heard John's attempt to defend him, and deep down was grateful for it.

As Lestrade clapped the cuffs onto George Markin the man called out:

'You won't be smiling long Pretty Boy! My father can hurt you without even touchin' you! You'll see Mr. High and Mighty, he'll get you!'

Sherlock waved his hand airily 'Yes, yes. And my little dog too no doubt.' he dismissed the threat.

He wouldn't admit it, but John felt a little intimidated. The look of pure venom on George's face was enough to make him shiver slightly. He wasn't sorry when Markin was lead away.

...

'Do you think it will make any difference?'

Sherlock looked up from his book. John was stood by the window, watching him. He considered the question.

'What? You mean will I sleep well tonight knowing there's one less scumbag out there? No. There's always going to be criminals out there John. I just try to keep up.'

John looked at the tall man flopped on the sofa. It wasn't a particularly happy answer, but it made sense.

'Lestrade thinks George Markin'll be sent to prison, fair trial be damned.'

Sherlock smiled. 'Lestrade has such wonderful optimism don't you think?'

John's mouth curled in a grudging smile. Sherlock was right, there was nothing to do but wait and see.

Suddenly, without warning, an almighty crash rang through the air. A large red brick smashed through the window, missing John's head by mere inches. In one swift movement, Sherlock sprang to his feet.

'John! Are you hurt?'

John's cheek was burning, bringing up a shaky hand he felt blood trickle down his face. A shard of glass had cut his face.

'That's gonna need stitches...' he muttered, to no-one in particular. Craning his neck, he tried to see someone outside.

'Nobody there anymore.' Sherlock's voice came from the centre of the room. John turned back to see Sherlock pulling a small note off the brick. Shards of glass, of all sizes, had embedded themselves into the carpet nd John was careful to tiptoe round them, praying Mrs Hudson wasn't going to come running.

'It's a message. From Terry Markin.' Sherlock explained, showing John the note. It had been typed, in big bold letters, to make sure the message really stood out:

SEND DOWN ONE OF MINE, I'LL SEND DOWN ONE OF YOURS.

'We have to call the police.' John said immediatley. Sherlock shook his head.

'No. That'll show we're scared.'

John stood up and went back to the window. His cheek was beginning to stop bleeding, thankfully. Sherlock remained kneeling next to the brick.

The window was mostly intact, there was just a large 'let's nearly kill John with a large projectile' like hole in it. Dammit, now they had to buy new windows, another disastourous and expensive DIY thing he had to do. Because Sherlock was sure as hell not going to bother.

'I've changed my mind.' Came Sherlock's voice, little more than a whisper. John turned back to his roomate, who wasn't looking at him, just staring at the note.

'What sorry?' John asked.

'Go clean yourself up. Call Lestrade.'

John was confused now. 'Sherlock?'

'I won't be threatened in this manner John. Just do as I say.'

John sighed, knowing better than to argue.

Sherlock heard him walk to the bathroom and close the door. A low hiss informed him that John was now checking on his injury. Whereas normally he would search outside for their invisible assailant, he was too focused on the note, which he had now flipped over. Written on the other side were six words:

AND NEXT TIME I WON'T MISS

...

Thanks for reading so far, is it getting interesting yet?

Next chapter: Sherlock is worried. Very worried.