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Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Sherlock characters (Wish John was mine though!) – Thanks to all the actors, writers, etc etc that make the original series so worth writing about!

Kallie realised that kicking the side of the van would do no good; that no one would take any notice – no one ever did. As she rocked around the empty vehicle as it sped round corners her sharp brain was working overtime, trying to work out what her best options were. The cut on her head from where the man she had nicknamed Brute had thrown her in was still bleeding, albeit sluggishly, and she wiped the blood away with her glove...she stared down at the gloves that she had been given, and realised that Doctor John would probably recognise them if he saw them. Taking them off she tucked them into the corner of the van and hoped that if they got rid of the vehicle it would not be by fire. Then, tired and cold, she wedged herself into the opposite corner, tried to prevent herself from being flung about like a rag doll and waited.

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Wearily John followed Sherlock up the stairs to the flat. It never ceased to amaze him how his friend could keep going without food or rest even when recovering from serious injury. The one night of sleep he knew the lanky genius had had before the case kicked off again would have barely recharged his batteries but here he was again – a living Duracell bunny who just kept on going and going. The thought made him grin slightly and wonder what Sherlock would think of that comparison.

"Something funny, John?"

Damn! He hadn't realised that the object of his thoughts had reached the door of the flat and turned to look at him. "Um… no, not really. Just thinking".

"It doesn't work you know."

"What doesn't?"

"Thinking happy thoughts. It won't magically make things happen."

"Really Sherlock? Peter Pan? From you?" John was beyond surprised, more so as he realised that as his flatmate stepped through the now open door he had a slight blush staining his cheeks. "What? Tell me!"

Shrugging his coat off the younger man threw himself into his chair. "Blame Mycroft. When I was seven I had diphtheria, caught it from another child at school. While I was recovering Mycroft would sit and read to me. We went through a number of books…" his voice seemed distant "but that one was particularly unforgettable. I so wanted to be anywhere other than stuck in bed and that was the story that took me to other, more interesting places."

"And the fact that it's full of pirates is simply by the by?"

Sherlock's blush deepened. "If for nothing else, Mycroft will suffer for telling you that!" he threatened half-heartedly, a smile twitching at his lips.

"Dinner?"

"I ordered take-out from Angelo's" Sherlock waggled his phone at John "it should be here anytime."

John nodded, turning away to the kitchen in search of clean plates and cutlery.

The meal when it came was excellent, as always, although Sherlock ate very little. He had retreated into himself, mentally sifting what meagre information he had, trying to find the connections. Knowing he lacked sufficient data wasn't helping; knowing also that John was watching him carefully was distracting. Stifling frustration he watched through half closed eyes as the doctor methodically cleared away the remnants of the meal, storing the left-overs carefully in the fridge.

"I'm turning in for the night," John's disembodied voice floated in from the kitchen. "Do you need anything, other than a good night's sleep yourself?"

"Don't need sleep John, I need to think."

Shaking his head John picked up his glass of water and headed towards the stairs. "Goodnight." There was no response. Sherlock had stretched out in his chair and was already lost in thought.

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At 3 a.m. Sherlock stretched his hand out and picked up his phone. He had turned it onto silent, and now it was flashing insistently. Glancing at the screen he saw the caller was none other than his elder brother. He touched the screen and held the phone to his ear. "What news?"

Mycroft was past being put off by his brother's lack of telephone manners. "My contact in Moscow has advised me that a certain Evgeny Demidov boarded a flight bound for London Heathrow airport some 30 minutes ago. The flight lands at 06.30."

"Katerinochkins fixer? And you are going to let him in?"

"It may surprise you to learn brother dear, that while I am as keen as ever I was to rid the world of these vermin I gave my word to your good doctor that I would keep an eye on the areas that your homeless friends inhabit, look out for anything suspicious."

"And…."

"And a figure in the background of the lady's operations, one Karel Karanov, has been seen hanging around the Charing Cross area trying to keep out of sight of the cameras." Mycroft smiled then, Sherlock could hear it in his voice as he continued "Not very successfully I may add! Karanov has a brother, and the two of them are usually Demidov's gofers, rounding up trouble for the man himself to….ah…'deal with'"

"Yes, I see…"

"Do you, brother?"

"You know already that I am missing one of my network, you believe Demidov's arrival may have something to do with that, more likely that he is here to complete the work Katerinochkin herself failed to complete."

"Please be careful. I have no intention of telling Mummy that you managed to get yourself killed despite my warnings!"

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The sky still dark when John woke with a start. Sitting up and rubbing his eyes, he glanced across at the clock. Five thirty. He could have wished for a few more hours, but habits ingrained during his army service had him up on his feet and reaching for his dressing gown. Something had woken him, he didn't know what, but he would not be able to go back to sleep until he discovered what it was that had caused the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end.

Allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness on the staircase he moved quietly down the stairs, his gun gripped tightly in his right hand. Avoiding the creaky second stair he pressed up against the wall, listening. Nothing. That in itself was strange. He should have heard Sherlock breathing at the very least, either from his chair in the living room or the deeper, heavier breathing of him sleeping (although he knew that was wishful thinking) coming from his bedroom, but there was nothing.

Cautiously he stepped down into the hallway and slipped eel-like into the living room. Nothing. Moving lightly forward he scanned the room for anything that looked out of place, suppressing the silent voice that told him that in this particular room nothing seemed ever to be in place, but the room was exactly as he had left it the night before, minus Sherlock of course.

The kitchen and bathroom were both empty. John tried to relax his tense muscles; this was playing havoc with his injured shoulder. Taking a deep breath he moved on to Sherlocks room, pressing his ear against the door he listened. Still nothing. Slowly turning the handle he cracked the door open and peered in. This room was slightly lighter; the curtains still open from the day before, the bed empty. So, Sherlock wasn't in the flat. Walking back through into the living room he noticed the fire was almost out. That meant Sherlock had been gone a while, so it hadn't been his departure that had disturbed him.

Deep down John knew it was more than just the silence that had woken him that morning. Heading through to the kitchen to put the kettle on he suddenly realised what exactly he had heard – it had been the sound of voices, whispering voices, outside the door of the flat, on the stairs. Carefully he opened the door and looked down, his brain barely having time to register the small box on the doorstep when there was a muted bang and a flash of fire as John was hurled backwards into the hall.