Authors Note: Thankyou, Thankyou, Thankyou, for all of the feedback on the last chapter. I seriously love each and every one of you so much. Okay, so here's the next chapter and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter Six.

Calm Before The Storm.

Sherlock lay sprawled out across the sofa in the early hours of the next morning. The window outside revealed a grey cloudy sky and the sun shining weakly through the gaps, and yet another pile of papers sat before him on the coffee table. One slender finger easily glided across the one page he held as he read, occasionally moving to flick a rebellious curl out of his eyes. Picking up a piece of lightly buttered toast from the plate on the floor by his head, he munched on his breakfast as he soaked up the facts.

Only this time, the papers scattered across the table weren't concerning Moriarty. At least, not directly. Today, the subject of his investigation was the anonymous thug that had held John at gun-point. He needed something, anything, to take his mind off of the irritation Moriarty's text had prompted. And he'd decided on tracking down the man who'd brought the first message.

And so far he was getting...nowhere.

It had been simple to search for Moriarty. He only had to look for the gap in the information, the missing link, and that would be Moriarty. But with this unnamed, ordinary-looking man, it was much more difficult. He had no name, nothing to go on but the fact that he knew who the man worked for.

He scraped his pale hands through his hair, tousling it beyond all recognition, and placed his cheap pen between his lips. He stared at the information in front of him, his nose creasing as he scowled at it. There was absolutely no more progress to be made today, but he wished he had something more he could do, instead of coming up against unknown and unfamiliar walls in his thoughts.

A few minutes into his frustrated silent glaring at the papers, a small smile came to his face as he heard the muffled footsteps of his flatmate. Ever since John had become part of his life, a new pastime had opened up to him: John-Watching. Sherlock often found himself staring unabashedly at the other man, trying to take in every detail of the former-soldier with his curious eyes. Because John Watson was...fascinating. He was so deceptively ordinary, yet indefinable and endlessly intriguing. There were so many different facets to the man, yet they all bled together so seamlessly that even Sherlock was hard-pushed to figure out what the man would do next. Sometimes it was simple and John gave him everything he needed to know just by the simplest expression on his face, but at other times he found himself embarrassingly caught off guard by the other man's actions. So Sherlock did what Sherlock did best. He watched, he observed, and he learned.

Of course, he was getting to know John in the normal way – without all of his deductions, without poking his nose into every bit of John's privacy, and without any of his usually incessant prying. But it was such an ingrained habit, that sometimes he just couldn't stop himself. However, despite his automatic response, this had become more of a hobby than a way of deducing. In all honesty, he watched John more than would be healthy for a normal man.

But it was ever so slightly endearing, he mused, to see John stumble groggily around the flat first thing in the morning before his first cup of tea. And today was no different.

The shorter man carefully pushed open the door leading to the living room, his left hand shielding his eyes against the painful light streaming through the window. He mumbled something inarticulately about the sun, but continued blindly into the room. Due to his lack of sight, John immediately stubbed his bare foot on the edge of the door and captured his bottom lip between his teeth to restrain himself from shouting in pain.

Sherlock watched the action with a degree of fascination, trying to ignore the indefinable sensation his observation was inspiring inside his chest. John hopped the rest of the way into the kitchen, quite intelligently now keeping his eyes open as he leant against the kitchen counter and nursed his bared foot.

If it were at all possible for a man in plaid pajama bottoms and a beige, threadbare, woollen jumper to be dangerous, John managed it each and every morning due to his adamant refusal to be anywhere remotely near bright lights in the mornings. A yawn took over John's face as he flicked on the kettle and gingerly tested his foot back on the ground. The edges of his eyes crinkling ever so slightly as he winced.

"Tea, Sherlock?" John called, his voice croaky at this time in the morning after a few hours of deep sleep. He cleared his throat and tried again, his voice slightly more distinct this time.

Sherlock hummed in response, which he knew John would take as a Yes, and craned his neck as John moved out of sight. He frowned, silently chastising himself, but didn't bother moving his gaze as he stared at John – at the sleep-rumpled hair sticking up in tufts across his head, the stubble scattered across his chin, the button nose sprinkled with a few tiny freckles, and the easy way that smiles came to his lips. His chest tightened, the feeling not wholly unfamiliar, but definitely confusing.

Turning back around, he frowned, resting his chin in his hand, thoughts storming incoherently running through his head, each one as complex as the next. His stomach contorted, not in fright and not in ire, but in plain recognition of the fact that something was happening, something that evidently wasn't privy to even himself.

And it was dreadfully annoying!

"John, we're going out!" Sherlock called through the silence of the flat about a day later, around about nine o'clock. It was dark outside the window, the mist of the time of year making itself known with a vengeance, and John had been hearing numerous shouts and honking car-horns as a result of this obscurity.

John looked up from the book in his hands at the noise of his roommate's voice. The lights of the apartment were all but off, the only luminance coming from the muted T.V depicting an overly eager news-reader, Sherlock's open bedroom door, and the side-lamp that John was using to read by.

"Oh?" He yelled back through the rooms, seeing a shadow momentarily pass over the light from Sherlock's room as the other man moved about the place in his customary whirl-wind fashion. "Where?"

"Out!" Was the simple reply.

John rolled his eyes. "Of course, I don't know why I didn't think of there," He muttered, a wry smile crossing his face as he set aside his book and unfolded his legs. He extended them slowly – they were very unhappy with him. He sighed and stretched, feeling several joints in his back give satisfying cracks. He got to his feet, wincing a little as pins-and-needles rushed through them, and stomped his feet a few times to try and dispel the annoying tingling feeling.

"Hurry up," Sherlock scolded him, halting in wrapping his scarf around his neck to rush his roommate.

"Alright, alright," John sighed, pulling his jacket around him and following Sherlock out into the freezing cold night.

He'd only known the detective for a few weeks now, but the pair had had enough life-threatening experiences to last lesser men several lifetimes. But they weren't lesser men, far from it, and neither were giving up their chaotic lifestyle anytime soon. So, whenever Sherlock began rushing around, a gleam in his handsome face, and a flicker of brilliance in his eyes, John knew the other man well enough to know that something extraordinary was about to happen.

And there was no way he'd be staying at home while it did.

"Sherlock..." John started about half an hour later as the pair walked across a wide foot-bridge that John had never seen before, Sherlock pulling slightly ahead as he led the way. "Where are we?"

The consulting detective spared him a look. "Didn't I tell you?" The expression on his face showed John that Sherlock had intentionally not told him. The realisation made his stomach flip both with mingling dread and excited anticipation. "We're looking for the man who held you at gun-point,"

The matter-of-fact, easy way that Sherlock happily told him so made John's head spin. "Oh," Was all he could say into the silence that stretched between them. He blinked once or twice, almost tripping over the stones that were scattered across the ground. "So...why are we here. Why is he here?"

"No idea," Sherlock muttered absentmindedly, his eyes scanning their surroundings. He stopped, leaning against the stone wall of the bridge and looked down. "This way," He grinned, slapping the stone once and setting off at a jog to a small path that led down to the pathway beneath the bridge.

"How'd you find him?" John asked as they skittered down the dirt path, kicking up a small flurry of dust in their wake.

"I'm that clever," Sherlock smirked at him, before brushing a slender finger past his lips in the age-old symbol of Shhh. He led the way under the lip of the bridge, moving under the shadows that had increased due to the lateness of the hour, and John imitated him, knowing it usually ensured his survival when he copied the man.

A way ahead, just outside of the bridge's far edge, John could just about make out a slim figure walking smoothing across the darkened foot-path. This, he supposed, was the man who'd entered their flat not a few days previously. In fact, if he looked hard enough at the silhouette, he could just about make out the slightly elevated left shoulder that he had noticed during their previous encounter.

"Keep to the wall, John," Sherlock muttered, pulling John closer to him as they crept beneath the bridge into almost near-darkness, his hand tight on John's arm.

It was so dark under the long bridge that John couldn't even make out anything more than Sherlock's outline in the blackness, and the detective was only inches away from him. So close, in fact, that the warmth of the other man was enveloping his left side like comforting tendrils of heat.

"Dammit," Sherlock's voice, though barely louder than the quietest whisper, cut through the silence like a knife through water. He stopped, stiller than a marble statue, pulling John to a halt beside him.

Following his line of sight, John's heart jumped into his throat as the familiar and longed-for sensation of fear and adrenaline kicked into life. Their quarry was starting to turn back on himself. Back to the bridge. The bridge that they were nearly out of. They were going to be spotted...And there was nowhere to truly hide other than a few abandoned wheely bins stuffed to the brim with rubbish and scattered against the wall of the bridge.

In other words, they were screwed. Dammit, indeed.

Or, at least, that was what John thought until his back hit the wall by the bins with a muffled thump and Sherlock's body was suddenly pressed incredibly close up against him. The taller man placed his hands either side of John's head, braced against the wall, and remained perfectly still. His breath ghosted out across John's skin, making it difficult for him to think.

After a few seconds, though it felt like a muddled eternity, John managed to find his voice. "Sherlock, what are you doing? He's going to see us," He whispered frantically, as the crunching of stones underfoot announced the anonymous man's arrival.

He'd known the man had numerous eccentricities, but this was hardly a decent time or place to begin to display more of his bizarre oddities! Then, berating himself silently, he relaxed slightly; As odd as the other man was, Sherlock wouldn't do something if there wasn't a valid point to it.

And, sure enough, Sherlock's whispered reply soon breathed out across his ear. "Hiding in plain sight," He mumbled, John only just about to make out the outline of Sherlock's lips as they moved. "I can barely see you. I doubt our man is going to spot us,"

John nodded, finally seeing the logic in the actions. Such was the dark, that John could only make out a thin outline of the man pressed against him and little else. He couldn't see anything of their target, using only the sound of footsteps on stones to track the man's progress.

Sherlock leaned almost impossibly closer as the noise of the stones clattering passed right behind them. John's hand slipped to the gun concealed in his waistband, ensuing to keep his movements silent as sounds seemed to echo painfully through the tunnel. Both men tensed, muscles locking down and breath halting. John closed his eyes, counting silently...One, Two, Three, Four, Five...

Seconds felt like minutes, but the man passed by them without even suspecting that they could be there. John's lack of breathing caught up with him as he waited in silence, his head dropping forward from the effort and resting against Sherlock as he caught his breath.

"Why...did...we...hide?" He asked, each whispered word punctuated with a thankful breath. "We...were...following him," He lifted his head, allowing Sherlock to step back and put some space between them.

The consulting detective waited until the unnamed man was entirely out of the tunnel before answering. "I was hoping he would lead us to Moriarty," He admitted, kicking aimlessly at a gathering of pebbles by his right foot. "But, I guess not," John didn't have to see his face to know Sherlock was scowling.

"He could be going there now," John pointed out, his breath back where it belonged – in his lungs. They began walking back in the direction they'd come from, at a much more relaxed pace now than before.

"No," Sherlock's displeased face was thrown into slight relief as they stepped out into the night. While still dark, it was nothing compared to the pitch blackness of the middle of the tunnel. "He'd have gone straight there, not wandered around beforehand. And he would have been in a lot more of a hurry."

"Maybe he knew we were following and doubled back on himself,"

Sherlock threw him a look. "This is a man who pulled a gun on us for simple research. If he knew we were actively following-"

"But he only threatened us because Moriarty gave him orders to," John interjected, a furrow in his brow as he thought.

"John, we know he's capable of violence. And he wasn't forced to deliver that message to us. He works for Moriarty voluntarily. That's not a man who only uses violence when ordered. I doubt he'd need commands for aggression," Sherlock raised a single eyebrow, his point made.

John nodded, biting his lip as he frowned to himself, mentally trying to consider any reasons that a man could have for walking up and down an empty back-street. After a few minutes of silence as he and Sherlock moved out of the quieter neighbourhood to the busy main roads, he'd gotten nowhere. Deciding to leave the deducing to the man by his side, he dug his hands into his pockets and strolled quietly down the London streets alongside the thoughtful Sherlock, perfectly content just to listen to the man think.

Detective Inspector Lestrade was not, by nature, a very relaxed man. His job as Detective Inspector simply didn't allow it. But, every night for fifteen minutes before he left for home, he sat in his office in silence and allowed time to pass him by as his mind sorted itself out. It rarely took all that long, as Lestrade dealt with his thoughts much the same way as he did people – short and to the point. But tonight, however, his mind focused on something rather strange. Something he'd never given much thought to before, but the circumstances of the past few days had brought them to the front of his mind; Holmes and Watson.

Sitting back in his chair, he clasped his hands across his lap and closed his eyes, turning to face the window of his office so as to think in peace.

The moment that John Watson had appeared at Sherlock's side, it was almost as though they were always together. They spoke almost in tandem, Sherlock making some convoluted point with John rounding it off with blunt ending for the non-geniuses in the room to understand.

Anyone else would look out of place with Sherlock Holmes, Lestrade mused silently. Sherlock needed someone who could be as close to an equal to the man as they could be. Someone who he wouldn't have to constantly worry about, or hold him back when he did things others considered to be psychotic. And John Watson managed to fit that profile completely.

And Lestrade had to give credit where credit was due. John had done the one thing that no-one else either dared nor wanted to do; He had gotten to know Sherlock Holmes as the man he was, and not the arrogant genius who frequented Scotland Yard. Despite the fact that Lestrade had more patience with Sherlock than most, he knew he'd go mad if he had to deal with even half of Sherlock's crap. But John put up with them, even enjoyed them if his muttered words of praise were anything to go by.

Shaking his head, clearing his head of the strange thoughts crowding his mind. He stood, collected his coat and made his way out into the nearly dark offices.

"G'night, Donovan," He nodded to his sergeant, still sitting at her dimly lit desk.

"Night, Sir,"

He swung through the double-doors and headed for the exits, his stomach thinking ahead to the Shepherds Pie that he knew was waiting in his microwave at home. It was incredibly late, so late that it bordered on early, but he hadn't eaten since lunch which was nearly eleven hours ago. He was hungry.

He was nearly out of the building before a small thought dropped into his mind. "Shit!" He mumbled, turning back on himself and heading back for the offices.

"Actually, Sally, do you have that file on Ja..." His question trailed off into silence as he looked around the now empty offices. "Sally?"

As he approached her desk, his police mind kicked into gear. Despite Holmes' insinuations, Lestrade was no simpleton. And he hadn't become a D.I by sitting on his arse for seven years. Something wasn't right here.

"Sally?" He called out once more, not expecting anything as his eyes scanned across the woman's organised desk.

The screen of Sally's computer flickered once, then blinked into life. Lestrade turned his head to the words that were now scrolling slowly across the screen, the two words making his veins run cold.

Round Two.


And across the city, in Baker Street, in a living room strewn with papers and two sleeping men, a phone screen lit up as a text came in...