A/N- Thanks so much to those who have followed and are reading ect. I'm so glad you're having a read! It's also given me the chance to discover some new authors. Also, now that school is starting again, I'm sorry but I might upload quite slow. GCSE's you see. Slightly terrified...

If you've time, please drop me a quick little review :-)

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Chapter 4:

The Madman on the Plane

Things had gotten to be very bad, very quickly. The two men had been roughly and thoroughly frisked and their things- including mobile phones- confiscated, so that they were well and truly at the mercy of their captors. Then they'd been roughly bundled into a taxi, and had set off on their journey from which there seemed no turning back.

John hated the dangerously uncertain, awkward atmosphere that was so thick he could practically taste it; the feeling it gave him sent goose-bums flaming up his skin like a rash. But what John hated most about their situation, much more than the atmosphere and the not knowing, was Sherlock's condition. He didn't look awful, but he looked definitely in pain, and his forehead had swollen so that it looked as if his hair were strewn across a rotting apple. He'd begged the men to give him some ibuprofen, at which point one of the Serbians in the back of the taxi with them, who's eyes were hidden from John under thick, dark shades, produced some paracetamol.

"God no, not that! That's a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug, that'll make him bleed like hell on earth!" John had cried, whipping the evil pack away. He asked (or yelled) how they expected to walk him through an airport in the state he was in.

"We will use dis." Sunglasses pulled out a small piece of material from his jacket pocket. Sherlock's deerstalker hat.

Sherlock was roused from his plastic-like state for long enough to utter "Will I never be free of that bloody hat!"

John was still distressingly unknowing about why they were in this situation- but he bet Sherlock knew why. On the phone, Sherlock had frozen, seemingly forcibly lurched far back into this memory; further back than he'd ever let John. If Sherlock's mind was so messed up, John knew he had major reason to be paralysed in fear.

It was dark by the time their taxi (which John now supposed was stolen) drove up outside Heathrow. The colossal building was lit up, and the glass tower looked imposing to John, knowing that it would be the last familiar place they saw for the foreseeable future. Inside, John made out figures fleeting here and there, hurriedly going about their normal evening business. Oh how John envied them their human worries.

The Serbian by Sherlock set his eyes firmly on the two. "Okay, how it goes is: you two walk, we each have gun. We will use if you run. You be sneaky, our friend here send message to have your women shot. We on level?" After one look at his boulder arms, John nodded. Sherlock didn't seem to hear. Sunglasses opened the door. "Out."

John slid out, guiding Sherlock as he did so. As bleach head and the other one (he had no distinguishable features, and John didn't care in the slightest whether he had a name or not) hopped out, they all walked to the pavement and watched as the taxi was driven away by the fourth Serbian. Well, John thought, this is it. No turning back. Looks like we're really going on holiday.

"Uh, Bojan, here." Said Sunglasses to bleach-head. Sunglasses was cautiously pointing at Sherlock, whose eyes were rolling into the back of his head.

Before John could lurch forward and catch him, Sherlock, his knees giving way, crumpled into Sunglasses unprepared body; the two became entangled as they writhed around on the pavement.

Bojan- bleach head- whatever- frantically mimed a yell of fury, a vein popping out of his forehead, as he scanned his surroundings for people. Thankfully for him, they were scarce.

John ran forward, cursing indignantly as he grabbed into the tangle that Sherlock and Sunglasses had become. With his ridiculous strength, Sunglasses brushed off Sherlock like he was dust on his coat, sending the semi-conscious man sprawling to the floor. He lay there motionless, John hovering above him in disbelief.

"Oh God, Sherlock?" John said close to his friends ear. "I told you bunch of idiots that he needed attention!"

John placed a hand tentatively on Sherlock's face, careful to avoid the horrible looking bump. Then, he gasped. Sherlock's eyes were wide open. As soon as they made contact with John's, Sherlock gave an audacious wink. John recoiled, dumbfounded. He was alright? He'd faked it!

"Hurry hurry!" Bojan called impetuously, looking as if he were about to implode all over the glass of the airport. The man had the audacity to hand John Sherlock's deerstalker hat, which John took gradually. He felt as if he were floating; as if he were in a dream.

"Ugh... Yes, yes, we're coming." John said, hoisting Sherlock up by his arm. To John's surprise, although Sherlock seemed to tumble and struggle, really, he was making it easy for John, not giving him too much of his body weight. Acting. Brilliant! John had no idea why, but brilliant! It at least meant he had a plan. Additionally, it meant he was okay (or as okay as he could be with that lump on his head). He placed the deerstalker on Sherlock's head.

It was an odd sensation, to leave the dark and the cold and enter the extensive glaring light. Under it, a couple dozen people buzzed around, trailing along suitcases behind them. Around this time there were many individual businessmen and women racing around the floor; the rolling of the wheels of their suitcases sounded alien to John, as did most sounds. That was an effect of being in an alien situation. Everything else seemed distant and foreign: families bustled by John, and their tired whines and loud, theatrical cries of pain from the sudden English cold sounding faraway; the chiming, happy voice of a woman informing of flight dates went straight through Johns ears; even Sherlock, resting slightly against his shoulder, felt like air.

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped and wouldn't go any further. The Serbians halted too.

"I- I think I'm going to..." Sherlock's body convulsed as he choked and pressed a palm against his mouth, cheeks flushing red.

Their three escorts looked conflicted.

"Let me take him to the toilets." John said, motioning to the arrow pointing them out overhead. The Serbians were uncertain still. "For God's sakes, you took everything from us! I have to take him or we'll cause a scene!"

Bojan shuffled his massive, muscular body-weight, before giving a firm nod. Relieved, John took Sherlock and they raced to the toilets, Sherlock picking up speed as they ran further and further from the crazed, restricting eyes of their captors.

Stumbling into the men's room, John clutched his head into his hands and scrunched up his eyes, willing everything all away. His world was spinning. The plush bathroom with it's polished marble and sensory taps could have been the furnace of hell for all he knew; this was madness!

"Oh God Sherlock, oh God! What the hell do those men want with us!? Why are we in this situation?" John yelled at Sherlock, who was typing away at the phone that he'd pick-pocketed out of sunglasses jacket as he'd collapsed onto him. John had guessed as much. The fake faint and swipe. Classic.

"They are the Serbian strand of Moriarty's network. I thought I'd taken them down. It took me so long and... I sacrificed so much to take destroy them but..." Sherlock, still typing away, shook his head dismally. "They're obviously still up and running. And Baron Maupertuis must still have a bone to pick with me. Can't think why he'd bother, but we'll panic about that later."

"Sherlock, what exactly did you do in Serbia?" John asked, still hunched over, breathing deeply.

Sherlock groaned. "Why do we have to... Okay. I spent a considerable amount of time attempting to disassemble the remains of the network that, after Moriarty's death, was still functioning. It was hard work, but I did it. Or, at least, I thought I had. Clearly not. If they're organised to do this, sloppy as this pick-up is, they've recovered. Still, I've no idea what they want from me. Or why you're here. No offence."

"None taken whatsoever. To tell you the truth, I'd rather not be here. Urgh, Sherlock, sooner or later I'm going to get specific answers from you, even if I have to tourtière you for them!"

Sherlock flinched unconsciously. He closed his eyes and took a breath. John noticed, and thought it odd.

"Figur of speech." John explained. Oh, he was so confused... So much information was hitting him all at once, he couldn't process it!

He stretched up, rubbing his hands together to calm his nerves. He found that staring at Sherlock's fingers as the whizzed across the phone's keyboard was strangely therapeutic; the lean fingers flew in a way that was magnetic and calming. "What are you doing? Can't you just call the police?"

"Of course not. Definitely not. I call the police and they come in guns blazing, Mary is dead. If I tell anyone to come help us, they give word out to shoot her on sight. No, I'm sending Lestrade a long text detailing our predicament and giving him instructions as to how he can help."

"Oh." John breathed. Then, "Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked at John closely and intently as way of a reply, his deep-set eyes smouldering with severity. John wasn't sure what to say. He'd so many questions. He started with what he considers the most baffling.

"They are threatening two women. Mary and... your woman? Who is she and why do they think she is close to you. What... What makes them think you would die for her?"

John's words had affected Sherlock. As soon as John inquired, Sherlock's state drifted away, even though his eyes hadn't shifted a bit; he was zoning out again. Spontaneously drifting off to some dark recess of his memory, that place he wouldn't let John see.

Footsteps. The atmosphere shifted without warning. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes widened as if his body had been taken over. In that very second, Sherlock pounced onto John, encasing the doctors body in his. Before John could stutter a proclamation, he was bustled into a toilet cubicle and pressed hard against the wall, sandwiched between that and Sherlock's slight frame. Sherlock slammed a hand forcefully against Johns lips, stifling his cries, and pointed to the door. John, ignoring his lack of pride, listened.

"What takes you so long in there?"

Bojan. He'd come to check on them. Eyes darting around, John began to panic; he shot Sherlock a frantic look: what the hell do we do?!

In reply, Sherlock made some loud, harrowing puking noises. He choked, practically spitting on John who was inches away. Between coughs, he nodded at John. Play along!

"Oh... Oh dear Sherlock. Erm, let it all out mate. That's it buddy..." John encouraged awkwardly. Sherlock stared at him, eyebrow sky-high, unimpressed. John shrugged desperately.

"Hurry, hurry. We're waiting outside." A pause. He was probably checking for listeners. "You know what happens if you stray. Bloodshed."

Sherlock and John listened as the heavy, clattering footsteps faded around the corner. John let a shaky breath go.

"What now?" John hissed.

"Give Greg a few minutes." Sherlock said, pressing his temples. A killer of a headache was creeping up on him. "Let's pray he's got an idea. It better be a good one, too."

"I'm so glad you shaved. You looked like a bloody tramp!" Sally Donavan didn't beat around the bush to tell Anderson how much she preferred him clean-shaven. She giggled into her pint at the image of all that shaggy fur on his face.

"I do feel quite a bit freer. Greg, what's your opinion? Facial hair or no facial hair?" He asked, stroking his face thoughtfully.

The three were sharing a pint and a word or two in the pub while they had a quick break from work. Lestrade, upon being questioned by Anderson, loaded his ammo to tell the guy just how ghastly he had looked before. Like a madman! Which, to be honest, he had been. Sherlock's staged death had messed him up bad, like it had everyone else; he'd been plagued by guilt. Lestrade was thankful Anderson was back on his feet. Glad that Sherlock had resurfaced: it'd made everything better.

He was seconds away from proclaiming Anderson an ex-tramp, when his phone buzzed.

"Hang on, will you?" He said, reaching into his pocket.

"I already know what you're going to say. No-one liked my hair! I mean, I can see why, but you'd think one person, at least, would..."

"Shh! Shut up a minute!" Lestrade demanded, uncharacteristically harsh. Anderson pouted. Donavan shot Lestrade, who was engrossed in his phone with his brows knitted tightly, a look.

"What's up, grumpy?" She asked, frowning.

Lestrade's face slowly melted into an expression of disbelief. He shook his head slowly. "You're not going to believe this."

"What?" The two officers spoke at once.

"Guys... Do either of you have any influence- communications- at Heathrow airport?" He asked seriously. His companions looked baffled.

"Umm... I might do. Why" Donavan replied.

"And you fight alright?" He made sure to ask.

Anderson and Donavan were pretty interested now. Their eyes were locked, unflinchingly, on Lestrade.

"We'll pick up a thing or two from the lab, and then..." He looked at his companions with narrowed, serious eyes, "I need your help to pull off something pretty extreme."

John was beginning to be repulsed by Sherlock's head wound, which was disturbingly close to his face. The thing was no longer covers by the hat; John had insisted Sherlock get some air to it. He'd also insisted he sit down and take it easy, which was how Sherlock ended up sitting on the toilet seat, John knelt awkwardly beside him. He could think of a million ways he'd rather be spending his Sunday evening.

Seconds passed. Then, footsteps loomed. John braced himself, gathering his nerves. They would have to go now; there was no way they could possibly procrastinate any longer.

Before Bojan could begin yelling, John opened the cubical. He and Sherlock, deerstalker once again covering his unsightly head wound, came from the toilet. If looks could kill, the menacing glare that Bojan had on his face would have shot both men dead on the spot.

"We go. Now! No more of this..." He waved, as if swatting a fly, pressing his lips in annoyance.

Disdainfully, Sherlock and John followed the Serbian, who walked with a vengeance. As they passed his companions, Sunglasses walked alongside Bojan. Sherlock made a little show of stumbling and getting disorientated in order to slip back Sunglasses' phone (the battery of which Sherlock had spat on to break it). He didn't appreciate the attention; he shoved Sherlock away as if he were disease ridden. The other Serbian fell into step behind Sherlock and John, with distance enough between them for it to look natural. John scowled. This was absolutely sick.

It felt like sleepwalking, going through customs. John smiled and played his part, while Sherlock was silent and cold, his head kept low. No-one noticed anything strange about the duo; why would they? They were the perfect actors.

Soon, they were in the queue to board the plane. The Serbian men were no-where to be seen, stood in the line else-where, but John could feel their presence, feel the burning of their eyes on this skin.

"So, what exactly are we to expect from Greg here, Sherlock?" John asked subtly, careful to not look at his friend. Keep staring forward. Keep still.

"Not a clue." Sherlock replied breezily.

John could have punch his friend, battered as he already was. He never got the chance. The queue suddenly surged forward.

The plane entrance loomed. John nodded his thanks to the attendant with the bright red lips, who didn't notice the animal fear in his eye. The men were caught in the flow of the stream of people as they walked down the clinically white runway and stepped cautiously into the plane. John could hear the air outside whipping around his head for a second, until he was fully encased in the giant flung machine. Or cage.

Bodies bumped against bodies in the rush to get to your seat before you got his by a nonchalantly flung piece of luggage. John and Sherlock shuffled to their seats and fell back into them. The preposterously overweight man sat next to Sherlock gave the detectives deerstalker a weary look, probably wondering if the man were mad. Sherlock smiled devilishly, his cheekbones on top form.

"Cool, isn't it!" He said winningly. The man, giving a loathing look, shuffled his immense body weight to gave the other way.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. No-one had a taste for ironic humour these days.

This was it. Voices were calm and subdued on the plane. To John, who's hope of rescue had been well and truly stifled, everything seemed a little too calm; probably because his heart was racing, so it seemed odd that no-one else was in such a state of panic. John was staring at his ticket, but looking straight through it. Like it was his death sentence on paper. Hot tears pierced his eyes as he thought of his wife.

"Calm your nerves, John, we'll be alright. I trust Greg. He's an intelligent man; loyal, too. He won't let us down." Sherlock reassured. His words surprised John. He had no idea he held their friend in such high regard. "Anyway, I gave him clear, helpful information. And you- undoubtably- trust me, of course."

"Ha. Funny. I trust Greg! You, I'm not so sure about." John chuckled. Sherlock feigned taking offence, pouting his lips ever so slightly. But he seemed to take some pain from the movement. Noticing this, John asked: "How's your head?"

"Absolutely fine." Sherlock said, but the minor grimace that curled onto his face betrayed his discomfort.

"I would've put ice on it. We'll take you to A&E as soon as we get out of this mess. If we do."

Sherlock sighed loudly. "We already talked about this. We are getting out of this mess. Really, John, it's like you have no faith in me whatsoever."

"Mhhh... Well, I've got no reason to have faith in you. All these secrets you're hiding."

Oh damn. He shouldn't have said that. John could, once again, see the emotion dancing on Sherlock's face; no one else, not even someone staring right at him, would have noticed, but by now John had a trained eye. In a way, the emotions humanised Sherlock, but John didn't know if he liked this or not. Before, Sherlock was aloof and untouchable; the humans below him felt and agonised, they could be broken by the world a million times over, and still be pummeled as they attempted to stand back up. Somehow, Sherlock had lost that power that made him unfeeling and kept him emotionally aloft. Sherlock had become touchable- breakable. John worried for him.

The voice overhead told them that departure was in 10 minutes approximately. John caught sight of Bojan a few seats away. His eyes were closed and his head rested, lead back. The pure personification of serenity. Bastard.

Then, without warning, the plane doors opened. An enormous burst of air and buzzes from the machinery in the outside word loudly announced the arrival of three men dressed entirely in white uniforms. An atmosphere of uneasiness settled. One of the men, large and black, professional looking with a throaty voice stepped forwards.

"We've been informed that there..." He began, but a flight attendant interrupted.

"Yes yes, we were told," she hissed quietly. "But it's preposterous. It's been decided that we're continuing with the flight."

"Nuh ugh, no you're not. Not yet. We've been instructed to take action fast." He turned to the passengers and clapped his hands loudly. "Listen up everyone! We have reason to believe that there is a madman on this plane; a clinicall insane mass murderer. And we believe him to be armed. Everyone needs to stay calm..."

No chance. The crowd on the plane, who had settled into their quiet chit-chat, suddenly became riotous in their tone of voice. A cacophony of cries and panic stricken calls to companions suddenly stifled the already heated air of the plane.

"It's him. Sir, we need you to come with us calmly, without panicking anyone." The man was pointing straight at Sherlock.

"Me?" He said innocently.

John stifled a giggle. Then, an idea struck him: "by God, he is a madman... I- I see a gun! My lord above, he's got a gun!" John made a fuss of standing up and falling about in terror, stumbling into other passengers.

His words had the desired effect. All of a sudden, a full on riot had begun. People were lurching about the plane, regardless of who they crushed, to get to the isle, where, already, a tight crowd of people was wading through. The sea of calling, crying, screaming bodies was suffocating- and amazing! John grabbed the opportunity by the horns. There was no sign of the Serbians.

"Bojan, where are you!" John made sure to call out loudly. He didn't want him thinking he'd dare run. Mary's life depended on it. No, this was going to be a little accident.

John hurled himself bodily into the surging crowd, turning only to see if Sherlock was following; the skinnier man slunk smoothly between bodies, passing through the panic like a phantom. He'd soon overtaken John and was heaving him along at his own fast pace. John scrunched up his eyes as his face was pressed into a million-and-one heavily coated arms and even into some other faces. He got a few harrowing earfuls of high-pitched screams.

When he opened his eyes, they were outside, racing away from the plane as fast as the crowd would allow (which was pretty fast, as they were petrified). The only problem was, what to do now.

"Sherlock!" John cried, coming to a halt.

His friend turned sharply, questioning harshly with his eyes. John shook his head furiously, eyes crazily wide "Sherlock, we can't run. Mary!"

Sherlock's face dropped with realisation. Dozens of people rushed past them, whacking his shoulders. One hit particularly hard and Sherlock, to John's surprise, fell instantly to the ground. John waited for him to get to his feet, but he stayed ton his knees, swaying, allowing people to crush him as they ruthlessly billowed past. Sherlock collapsed further and further with the punches.

"Sherlock!" Above the ruckus, John yelled.

He fought through the bodies that whacked him to get to Sherlock's level. He was on his knees clutching his head, his lips pressed so tight they'd lost all colour. The stress to mind and body was having a hellish affect on his concussion. He was fading. John tried to shield Sherlock with his own body, but the crowds just kept on coming. Battering them like stones in a mercilessly powerful river.

That wasn't even the worst of it. John hazarded a look behind his shoulder and his throat immediately constricted. Bojan and Sunglasses. And the other one. Surging down the isle like freight trains.

John was suddenly aware of Sherlock's tightly straining body going limp. He'd passed out. John swore. His friend crumpled onto Johns lap, who tugged him tightly into a protective embrace.

John considered praying, but quickly disregarded the idea. Instead he muttered: "Oh crap."