Oh god, I just realised I made John seem a bit pathetic... And now he's a bit of a "school girl"... Oh dear me.

If you're still with me (GAH! DELAYS DELAYS!), thank you lovelies! I'm really not sure how I'm going to resolve this yet, or if Moriarty's game even really makes sense, but I'm just gonna run with it. No turning back now.

Not quite sure (exactly) how long this is going to be either, or how I want it all to end (there will be several more chapters, however. I've yet to get to the point of this whole story). Suggestions are welcome. As always, thank you for everything, and let me know if you found something I did totally wrong. Mycroft joins in on this one. Oh dear, Holmes sibling rivalry imminent, or is big brother coming to save the day? Let's find out together, shall we, I know as much as you do. (Again, I don't sleep, so if it isn't the greatest, I do apologise.)

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Just the crack that flows from my brain.
Another note!: I enjoy being small enough to appreciate every email I get from this website (squee). You guys are amazing. Really. Let no one tell you different. And little shoutout to ArianaLangdon, please don't take my rainbows! Look, I updated! And thank you very much for your review (grin). The same goes to iccle fairy (two!), I'llbeyourPatronus, Olivia Solar, Silverstar to-Ennien, and Warm-Glow (thank you for the rainbows, love). Thank you for your lovely reviews. And thanks again to all who favorited and all that. I promise I'll shut up now. After I tell you it starts to get a bit Johnlock-y. Not your bag? Sorry dearest. Can't help it. When you get an itch, you gotta scratch it.


John forces himself to suck in a deep breath and hold it. He was in the military, God dammit, he's better than this. He needs to keep his head on straight. Think of how he's going to get out of here. The doctor begins to pace impatiently, hands clasped behind his back. How did he get here? Where was he now? Think John, think! He can hear Sherlock shouting at him, even though the detective isn't there.

"Shut up you bloody prat, I don't need your help all the time," he grumbles to the voice, mouth twitching slightly at the irony, because yes he does need Sherlock - not just now, but indeed all the time. John leans up against one cold wall and crosses his arms. Oh yes, how he's been spoiled. How many times has he heard that deep baritone and smiled; has he listened to deduction after deduction in awe; has he gazed into those bright, indescribable eyes and thought of how perfectly dangerous his life was now? A hell of a alot was how many bloody times. Nothing was boring. Nothing can ever be boring if Sherlock Holmes is involved. John has simply learned to live off of that, he almost needs it - like a drug.

John shakes his head vigorously, clearing his head. No. He was not going to do this again. He would not think of those grey (Blue? Green?) eyes and drift away, nor those cheekbones (and how right Irene had been when she said she could cut herself slapping them), nor that long, slender neck that was so ridiculous in those shirts he wore (God, what he wanted to do to that neck...). No. John was going to think about all the times he had the patience of a saint with the infuriating detective. He was not going to dwell any longer on the slim (wrong! try probable) possibility that he liked Sherlock a bit more than he would care to admit.


The man sighs heavily for what seems like the millionth time since he's tried calling his brother. Little Sherlock, who thinks himself so smart and above everyone else, so stoic and unable to be touched by emotion, is breaking at the seams because of this one humble doctor. The elder Holmes brother watches for roughly three hours as the detective runs about the city like a wild man, calling John every so often when he gets something right - all the while trying to get a hold of the little prat.

Mycroft is a smart man. He knew what was going on from the moment one of his men informed him that they had seen Doctor John Watson being shoved into the boot of an unassuming vehicle in the parking lot of an abandoned warehouse. He knew who was involved and had immediately tapped his brother's mobile line. He had heard the conversation, and had spent his time not only calling his brother to no avail, but setting up a bit of a plot to help him.

"Sir, we're ready," a boy in a brown suit finally tells him as he watches Sherlock's long coat disappear into an alley. The camera angle switches, and his brother is back in sight. A hand waves dismissively, while another reaches into his pocket.

Sherlock, for Christ's sake, answer your phone. This is ridiculous.

M

Of course, there's no reply back, and Mycroft's mouth stretches further into a well-used frown.

It's about John you prat. I can help you find him.

M

Almost immediately (despite all his insisting he prefers to text), Mycroft has an incoming call.

"It's about time, Little Brother," he answers tartly. Mycroft almost thinks he hears a low rumble coming from the other line for a moment, but dismisses it.

"My-!" Sherlock tries to snap, before he's interrupted. "The British Government" can clearly see the fire in his brother's eyes, even on the black and white camera footage.

"You can scream at me later, just get in the car," he says scathingly, his patience wearing thin as a plain black car pulls up in front of the detective. For a moment, it seems as if Sherlock is going to argue, but he quickly closes his mouth and climbs inside. Mycroft watches for a few moments before he rubs his eyes tiredly. What won't he do for his dearest brother?


The door crashes open with a bang, and for a moment Mycroft assumes it has been kicked in (it has). In moments, angry (green?) eyes are staring him in the face, speaking volumes. "Where. Is. He," Sherlock enunciates carefully, and it's not a question.

Mycroft gazes at the stiff-lipped detective, studying him. The younger Holmes seems to be struggling between hatred for his brother and worry for John. Satisfied, the older man stands. "I'm not a miracle worker, Sherlock," he warns, pacing to the row of computer screens against the opposite wall. "And this is Moriarty we're dealing with." Sherlock opens his mouth to utter some fiery retort when he's interrupted by a raised hand. "But," he continues, and Mycroft knows all (or at least enough) of his brother's attention is focused on him, "my men have narrowed it down to ten possible locations throughout London." Looks are exchanged between his employees briefly, their thoughts obvious (pain in the ass).

Sherlock glances at his watch. It's been roughly five hours and twenty-three minutes since John's disappearance. Moriarty's words echo through his mind (three strikes, John dies). He can't afford to check each one.

"Is there anyway to narrow it down?" he asks, an actual question this time. His older brother searches his face momentarily, as if perplexed by the action. Apparently, something in his look affirms the elder man's suspicions, and he waves a suit of roughly forty forward.

"Well," the man starts (a mixed accent with mild Scottish undertones, slightly wheezing, obviously a smoker, wife is cheating on him with his best friend), "our system seems to have been hacked into. The footage overlaps throughout the whole city for twenty minutes, made to look like nothing eventful was happening. There's no sign of Doctor Watson, or the car, anywhere."

The detective sighs heavily, quickly losing patience with this man. His eyes flick to Mycroft, irritation plain as day, and his brother takes the hint.

"But, we did some hacking of our own. It would appear that Moriarty has his own cameras set up around London," he says, and Sherlock scoffs.

"Obviously," he rumbles. "Get on with it. There's no time for this."

His brother simply obliges. "Not all of the cameras were facing where we needed them to, however, based on snip-its of the data we could collect, the doctor's location has been narrowed down to here, here, and here," Mycroft gestures towards the screen and a worker highlights the locations on screen with green dots. All are within a ten mile radius of the flat.

His mind racing, Sherlock meets his brother's eye. "I need an exact location." Then something clicks. Suddenly it all seems so obvious, with all of the evidence here in front of him, added with his conversations with John. He vaguely hears Mycroft shouting behind him (where are you going?) as he walks out the door, but the detective pays no attention. "I won't be needing you after all, Brother Dear," he mumbles simply, sprinting as he reaches the hall. A nagging voice is chastising him as he runs, saying this is much too easy, that there has to be a loop hole somewhere, but the prospect of finally having (his) John back is the only thing he can process at the moment. Oh, what that doctor does to him...


Mind blank, Watson just sits there, his legs crossed. How long as it been? It has to have been at least six hours by now, but it might as well have been an eternity in this light-less hell. He hasn't heard from Sherlock in a while, and something about that added with the heavy silence deeply troubles him. The vent still hasn't spit out any oxygen, and the air is becoming ungodly thick and heavy. All that carbon dioxide. More readily absorbed by the lungs than oxygen. In what universe does that make sense? A gas that can kill you takes priority over the one you need to survive. Absolutely perfect.

"Guess Moriarty got impatient," he murmurs to the empty space in front of him. The doctor stands and begins to pace the short way from one end of the room to another, thinking morbid thoughts.

What if he doesn't find me in time? What if I die here? (Oh God) What if I never see Sherlock again?

It's as if Sherlock read his mind; at that exact moment he hears intense banging on the other side of the door. More banging, and a rattle. Moments later, two gun shots are fired followed by one more massive blow, and the door swings open reluctantly, the sudden light blinding him. John soon recovers and squints at the detective, transfixed for a moment by those dark curls; the way he's holding that gun and breathing hard; the sheer determination in his features. But only a moment. Sherlock looks up at him, expression unchanging. "That was tedious."

The doctor stands frozen, mouth slightly agape, then faster than his mind can process he has his arms wrapped around that slim waist with a face full of Sherlock's pale skin. John buries his face there in the crook of his friend's neck, his eyes wide open at first, but then he clenches them shut.

Sherlock simply stands petrified, not knowing how to respond. The doctor waits, then starts to draw away, face slowly turning crimson, but before he can move an inch Sherlock wraps his arms tightly around the smaller man and lets out a slow, shuddering exhale.

"John," he whispers softly, before he rests his chin on his friend's sandy hair, thinking he's unheard. But he isn't. The doctor feels a corner of his mouth twitch. Sherlock, his thoughts reply.


Was that alright? Did I make up for those cliffhangers? More chapters to come! I hope you enjoyed! Might not post for a little bit, because my mum is starting to get pissy at me for staying up. ...Ah, hell. I won't be able to resist. Forget I mentioned it.

God, I need sleep. (laugh)