"So what you're saying is that a raging bloody lunatic is going about London causing traffic pile ups and now he has my wife and son?"

Sherlock wondered if that was how John had felt, minus the "wife and son" bit, after the accident.

He left Donovan to sort out what to say to Merkley and pulled Lestrade out of the room, rounding up Anderson as well, not because he wanted to, but because they needed to get their facts straight.

"I don't think that Moriarty has them," Sherlock said without preamble. "It's too inelegant. If he had them, I think we'd still be waiting to find out that they were missing. But we've not got all the pieces. Someone wanted the boy, not the woman. Lestrade, can we get the medical records and find out who Nicholas' biological father is?"

"We can try," Lestrade answered. "But I don't think we have a lot to go on."

"Except that Nicholas was the target. Else why erase him from that room?"

"It could be anyone," Anderson sighed. "Baby snatchers, to sell on the black market. Paedophiles."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Too personal," he said. "If someone wanted only Nicholas, they could have stolen him and left Merkley, or killed her. Something else is going on here."

"Where does Moriarty fit in, though?" Lestrade demanded. "It's no bloody coincidence that Mike Merkley was at the accident and now he's sitting in here."

Sherlock nodded, tapping his thumb against his lips.

"No, it isn't," he agreed. "There's something about Mike Merkley he wants to use, but I don't know what."

Anderson pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Lord, you don't think that psychopath is the sperm donor, do you?"

Sherlock looked startled.

"No," he answered. "Moriarty would never let anything get away from him like that. Also, I'm sure they have standards for not accepting crazy people."

"Rules you out then," Anderson muttered. Lestrade shot him a warning look but Sherlock ignored the comment altogether.

"Merkley's going to work for the EU," Lestrade said. "This could be directed at him. Especially if anyone knows about Nicholas' history. This could be someone trying to get to him." He paused, and sighed. "We need to do some digging. Anderson, get some people and start looking into Holly's background, and Mike's. Whatever we can find. Run it down, no matter how obscure it seems. Find out why we haven't gotten ahold of that hotel clerk yet. Send someone to talk to the people at the Globe who were looking at her for their company. We need to get this kid back, and Holly, too."

Anderson nodded.

"Right, boss," he said grimly and left. Lestrade watched him go for a moment, then turned back to Sherlock.

"We could use your help on this. I know it's the boring stuff-"

Sherlock held up a hand.

"If Moriarty has anything to do with this, then you need me," he said quietly but firmly. "I'm not sure what he wants, not yet, but I'll find it."

Lestrade frowned, scrutinizing Sherlock's face.

"You sure you're up for this, Sherlock?" he asked, dropping his voice low.

"He thinks this is a game," Sherlock replied. "It isn't. Not this."

"None of it is," Lestrade said, his low voice intense for a moment. "Christ, Sherlock, the crash was not a game. I know you don't remember much from it, but I do. And we have a man in there who punched out a window to save someone, and now his life is upside down."

"I remember enough," Sherlock said.

"I know you do. Can you do this?"

Sherlock met his gaze levelly.

"Yes," he replied.

Lestrade looked relieved.

"Good. Get the CSU files from the crime scene, and see what you can spot that we haven't yet."

"And you?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm going to see what I can do about finding out about Nicholas' biological father. But don't hold your breath."


John was glad it was Friday. The clinic always closed earlier on Fridays and he had the following day off. They were open every other Saturday, but because the doctors rotated the Saturday shifts, he only had to work on weekend a month, which suited him fine. After Afghanistan, it seemed luxurious to not be on call all of the time, not be waiting for the other shoe to drop and a mess of casualties to be rushed in.

Not that he supposed it would be a restful weekend – John was long unfamiliar with that concept. He thought the last time he could count on down time at the end of the week had been shortly after he'd been shipped back to England, and had been in the hospital himself. Once he'd moved to London, into the Baker Street flat, he'd bidden adieu to any semblance of a normal life.

Not that he'd trade it for the world, he thought. Well, not most of it.

This weekend, he knew he would be doing what he could to help with the Merkley case, not that he suspected it would be very much on his part. But Sherlock seemed to like having him around nevertheless, and John thought he'd made a valuable contribution on occasion. He repressed a grimace; if they found Merkley and her son, they may be in need of a doctor, too.

John checked the front office and waiting room, but the receptionist and all the patients had gone, since it was now after three. He said good night to the other doctor, a Dutch transplant who had been working in the UK so long that she'd completely lost her accent and John had been surprised to find out she wasn't British. He had left his old clinic shortly after he and Sarah had split, and was glad, because neither of them needed to face each other with the knowledge that John was now married to Sherlock. He had been relieved when she'd ended things, although he hadn't said as much to her, and not because he had been giving any thought to falling in love with his flatmate at the time. More because he knew Sarah wanted security and he, John, wanted adventure. That was part of what was so appealing about Sherlock.

He made his way back to their storeroom and poked his head in. One of their nurses, a young man named Karl, was still there, clipboard in hand, eyeing the shelves critically. He looked up when John rapped lightly on the doorframe.

"Need a hand?" John asked.

"No, I've got it," Karl replied, nodding. "Just making sure we're okay for tomorrow. You should take off."

John nodded.

"Thanks. I will. Have a good weekend."

"And you," Karl replied. Privately John thought it was unlikely, but he kept that to himself. Walking back to his own office, he cast an eye out of the window in the corridor. They were on the second floor here, but he could see down to the street and expertly spotted the car parked across the way and the figures who had been loitering about most of the day.

It had not been pleasant to find out from Sherlock that Holly Merkley's husband had been at the scene of the accident and that he had seen Moriarty. John almost wished his husband had kept the news to himself until John had been finished with work – it had taken a considerable amount of effort, hard won through years of combat service, to keep focused after that. But he couldn't have explained that to Sherlock, who needed him to know, and Mycroft's people had shown up right around the time he'd gotten that call.

With a sigh, John stepped into his office and shut the door. He blinked in the sun that streamed through the window and started to shrug his lab coat off when someone grabbed him from behind.

Instinct kicked in and John fought back – he was no amateur when it came to this, but whoever had him was better. A hand over his mouth and nose cut off his air and John struggled not to panic. He tried to scream when a second hand dug into his left shoulder hard, fingertips pressing into the scar tissue. His vision swam and John felt the hand that was covering his mouth snap his head back, connecting it neatly with the doorframe. He heard a crack and his knees buckled. The person behind him caught him neatly, freeing his mouth, one arm wrapping across his chest, under his shoulders. He took John's weight, but kept his other hand pressed firmly on the doctor's old injury. John tried to yell, but it was a struggle just to breathe against the pain.

He was lowered to the floor, propped carelessly against the wall, and the hand was returned to his mouth. Fighting the black spots in his vision, John bit down, but instead of anger, he heard only laughter.

"A good try, Doctor," a smooth voice said. "But predictable, and not all that effective. Sorry about the head, but I can't have you fighting me."

John blinked, struggling to see Moriarty in front of him, trying to remember the car and agents downstairs on the sidewalk. Karl was in the storeroom – had he heard anything? He moved his right arm, but Moriarty was quickly, straddling his chest easily so that John was pinned, his right arm wedged under the other man's knee. In all that time, he hadn't let up his grip on John's shoulder. The doctor felt his body slipping toward unconsciousness and fought it hard, using all the strength he normally didn't have to call on anymore.

The pain in his shoulder was unbearable, though. He could feel Moriarty's fingers slipping around under his collarbone and he arched his head back, trying to hiss behind the hand covering his mouth.

"Focus, John," Moriarty said calmly, as if exerting no effort keeping John pinned. For a slight man, he was deceptively strong and quick. "I'm not happy with the way things are going. It's really been too long since we've seen each other, hasn't it? I'm terribly sorry I didn't come visit while Sherlock was in the hospital, but you know how it is. I had so little time to speak to him as it was."

John strained to make sense of the other man's words and to keep breathing properly. Moriarty dug his fingers in to the old wound deep and John arched, or tried to, but could not move under the other man's weight. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against tears and the threatening blackness.

"It's so inconvenient for me that Sherlock regained his sight, you know," Moriarty said, as if he was truly upset about this. "At the same time, I find myself almost glad to have him back. Life would have been so dull otherwise, yes? Such a strange sensation, having mixed feelings like this. But it keeps one on one's toes, and that shouldn't go unappreciated."

He grinned, his face swimming in John's vision. The knock on the head hadn't helped, but it was the incessant grip that was shredding any attempt he made at concentration. Moriarty leaned down, redoubling his grip, and John whimpered, hating himself for it.

"I knew he couldn't resist coming back to the game. Do tell him I said hello, will you? I so much look forward to seeing him again. And I apologize for this, really, it seems so crude, but one does what one must."

He snapped John's head against the wall again and the doctor grunted, his vision fading to black a moment before a new flare of white pain tore through his shoulder. A moment later, the pressure was gone and John was gasping. He tried to move and everything went dark for a moment. It took longer to pull himself back to awareness this time and when he came to, he was alone in his office, crumpled on the floor.

Gritting his teeth, John tried to push himself to sitting, but the movement caused his shoulder to spasm and he fell back, breathing hard. How long had he been out? No more than a minute, he estimated, because it was still broad daylight and he could still think. Somewhat.

Breathing hard against the pain and what he was certain was a new soft tissue injury, John cradled his left arm against his chest. White and black spots danced in front of his eyes and his consciousness threatened him again but he bit his lip and flattened his back against the wall. Slowly, he pushed himself up until he was level with the doorknob. Clenching his teeth, he reached over his chest with his right arm and pulled the door open, but didn't have the leverage to swing it wide.

Dammit! John thought. He let his arm drop back, taking a few deep breaths, trying to re-center himself through the haze of pain and dizziness from the concussions. Balancing carefully, he caught the door with his toe and kicked it with his remaining strength. It bounced against the wall, making a loud bang and a moment later, he heard his name being called from down the hallway. John could only nod, breathing hard, sliding back down to the floor.

He heard his name again, then running footsteps when he didn't answer. A moment later, Karl was crouched in front of him, brown eyes wide and panicked.

"Oh my god!" he exclaimed. "John, what the hell happened?"

John shook his head and Karl looked more alarmed, if that were possible. The nurse braced himself over the doctor and wrapped his arms around John, easing him up from the floor. John yelled and Karl nearly dropped him, managing to rest him more or less against the wall at the last second.

"Left shoulder," John hissed.

"Lord," Karl replied, glancing around.

"My phone," John managed. "On my desk. Call Mycroft."

To his credit, Karl didn't ask who Mycroft was, but eased John all the way to the floor so that he was lying on his back, his knees bent. Carefully, the nurse moved John's left arm back to his chest, the doctor hissing and groaning as he did so. Then the nurse moved away and John fought to keep himself awake, knowing that unconsciousness was a bad option with a head injury. Karl's voice helped give him something to ground him.

"Hello? This is Karl Schellenberg, I work with John Watson. I think he's been attacked. What? No, I don't know. Yes, he is. I need some help. What? What? Okay, good."

The conversation stopped abruptly and Karl reappeared in John's limited and hazy field of vision.

"I don't know who you know, John, but it's bloody creepy, let me tell you. He said someone is outside and will be up immediately. This is going to hurt, but I need to get your shirt off and have a look at your shoulder. Stay with me, right?"

John nodded, biting his lip. Efficiently and quickly, but with no small amount of pain for the doctor, Karl eased John out of his lab coat and then his dress shirt. The look on the younger man's face was enough for John to realize how bad it was and he felt his eyes flutter.

"No, no you don't," Karl said, smacking John's cheek. "Stay with me." Sounds from the hallway made him look up, startled and wary. John heard someone – more than one person by the sound of it – come in.

"Are you this Mycroft's people?" the nurse demanded and got an affirmative reply. "Good. Help me with him right now. I need to get him onto a bed so I can check him out. You. Grab his legs. No, at the knees. Right. You, his right shoulder, no, under the arm, carefully." John felt Karl lift his left shoulder carefully and groaned. "Sorry, John, but we have to do this. It'll be over quick. Stay with us, or I promise, I will kick your ass myself. Ready? One, two, lift."