A/N: I'm so, so sorry that it took me this long to update! Other projects and summer vacation have stolen my time. (winces)

THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for you absolutely amazing review! They're precious, all of them. (HUGS)

Awkay, because time's running out I'll have to cut this short and get going. I REALLY hope that you'll find the chapter worth the wait!

SONG RECOMMENDATION: '21 Guns'.

September – Lonely Hearts

The small apartment that'd been furnitured in a very simple way breathed the air of being nothing but a temporary hideout. It was the apartment of a person who was prepared to take off quickly at any time of the day and leave everything behind. It was dark, with only streetlights and a hint of moonlight helping cast chilling shadows to the walls. Aside the heavily falling rain the only sound heard was the constantly intensifying drumming of fingers. Sherlock sat on a uncomfortable chair in the middle of the apartment's only room, his posture straight and his whole being breathing feigned patience. Even in the dark his eyes gleamed like those of a beast that was waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The only reaction Sherlock gave was a sudden blink when Mycroft's voice came from his earpiece. "He's coming back home. Approximately fifty seconds until he reaches the door."

Sherlock didn't give even a hint that he would've heard. He used those precious seconds with recapping what he knew of this newest target. Pieced together all the facts before the inevitable meeting.

Matthias Hummel, forty-three. Moriarty's most important man in Germany. Someone who had contacts throughout Europe and thus a very important source of information. Highly likely the most valuable catch they'd had so far.

A key turned in the lock. Sherlock's eyes sharpened while his whole body tensed up in preparation. In a flash he moved, blending effortlessly into the shadows.

Matthias took three steps into the apartment until the man froze. Obviously seeing the misplaced chair even without switching on the lights. Probably sensing a foreign presence. A hand was quick to reach out towards a gun that was hidden carefully into the covers of the criminal's black leather jacket. "Who the hell is in here?" the man growled.

"A ghost", Sherlock replied half truthfully. And in that same instant he'd plunged a needle to Matthias' neck. He delivered the injection with well practised ease.

A mere flash after that needle was gone Matthias spun around, pointing a gun directly at his forehead. The palaness of the criminal's face had nothing to do with the drug. "You…!" the man spat. "You're dead!" Those pupils were already dilated. It was only a matter before consciousness would be lost.

Sherlock shrugged. "Perhaps. It's hard to know for sure, isn't it?" He tilted his head, feeling far more pleasure than he probably should've. "It's probably already getting hard to keep your eyes open."

True enough, Matthias' hold on the gun broke. It fell the floor incredibly loudly about three seconds before the criminal himself followed. Matthias stared at him with bright, dazed blue eyes, a manic grin taking over. "You… You slipped from us, you son of a bitch", the German slurred. Cold sweat was breaking through, plastering shortcut hay colored hair to the man's forehead. "But that doctor of yours… He won't be so lucky. You get me… and they'll get him."

Shrelock most definitely wasn't a man of sentiment. But at that very moment a ice cold, impossibly painful dagger went through him. Harsh and agonizing enough to take his breath away for a few seconds. He'd only experienced similar once before. "They?" It was the growl of a wounded, dangerous wild animal.

Matthias smirked even wider. Obviously enjoying the situation. "Sherlock, Sherlock… You miscalculated. The web… It's far bigger than you or your brother could even imagine." No matter how hazy those eyes were they seemed hazardous. "You think… that you saved them with your little fall? Saved John? Guess again."

At that moment a storm of rage, terror and helplessness took over Sherlock. "Sherlock, don't listen to him!" Mycroft's warning was hopelessly too late.

Without even the slightest bit of doubt Sherlock attacked the man on the floor. A sick wave of pleasure flowed through him when his fist connected with the criminal's cheeck, then all over again with the nose and he heard the nauseating sound of bone breaking. Seeing the blood that seeped only fueled his determination. Three more times Sherlock's fist pummeled Matthias' face, each new strike gaining a fresh load of determination and despair.

When Sherlock finally had to pause, panting heavily, Matthias snickered coldly and spat blood at his trademark long coat. One tooth flew as well. "John Watson is going to die", the killer hissed like a snake, those barely open eyes meeting his with firmness they shouldn't have been able to possess anymore.

For a while Sherlock stared at the man's face, took in the conviction. Remained paralyzed by the sheer ache surging everywhere inside of him. Then, his eyes growing dark with resolve, he took Matthias' gun and pressed it firmly against the man's head. In the heat of the moment he didn't even notice how blurred his own vision was, much less bothered to wonder the reason.

"Sherlock, stop!" Mycroft screamed at his ear. "We need him alive! Don't do this!"

And then the apartment's door was forced open. In a flash several sets of running steps entered. While four of Mycroft's employees worked on Matthias three more grabbed him, using all their force to tear him off of the criminal. He snarled protests and struggled with all his might but he'd used most of his strength on Matthias.

The last thing he saw before they took him away was that infuriating, bloodied grin.

Much to his own irritation Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how long passed. But eventually he was sitting in the back of a massive, black van. This time he didn't even notice the orange blanket that'd been thrown over his shoulders. His eyes were directed at the vehicle's floor. Still all that filled his vision was Matthias' smirking, blood stained face.

/ "John Watson is going to die." /

He shivered when the van's door opened. The tension in his muscles eased only slightly when he distinguished Mycroft while his brother climbed in and took a seat beside him, a grim look on his face. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock's response was a somewhat filthy, loudly speaking look.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. There was a minute or two of silence. "Sherlock… You need to remember that John is well protected. My men are keeping an eye on him at all times. There's no way any of Moriarty's men would get to him."

Sherlock's gaze blazed when he glared at his brother. It was the second time in a matter of hours he was oblivious to the hellish stinging in his eyes. "Do you really think that that's enough?" he spat, unleashing all his pain in that rare moment of lost control.

Mycroft's eyes were sad, or perhaps pitying, when the older Holmes looked at him. The government official sighed heavily. "For now it has to be." With those words the man left the vehicle, the door sliding closed leaving a hollow echo.

For a few endlessly long moments Sherlock sat completely still until he became aware of the item in his hold. He looked down to discover his new cell phone Mycroft got him a couple of months earlier. A familiar name flashed on screen. All it took to make a call was one press of a button.

'John' So deceitfully plain and simple.

Sherlock knew that it was idiotic. Dangerous. But his finger was faster than his brain.

His call met the voicemail. "You've been trying to reach Dr. John Watson. Unfortunately I'm not able to pick up right now but leave a message…"

Sherlock hung up as fast as humanly possible and threw the phone to the van's wall like the item had burned, watching it shatter to pieces. Then, with both hands free, he buried his face to them. It took all he had to keep the scream bottling up in the back of his throat from climbing out.

It wasn't until then Sherlock noticed the tears that'd rolled to his cheeks.

TBC

A/N: Okay, now that was emotional. (gulps) Poor Sherlock! His time away from John is really taking its toll.

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Ugh, I'm hopelessly late by now so I've really gotta go. (winces) I really hope that I'll see you all next time!

Take care!