John woke up with a start. For a split-second he had neither idea where he was nor what had woken him. Quickly he realized that he had actually fallen asleep in the room he had declared his hiding-place and that he had been woken by the soft glow of green light that had sprung to life in this room and beyond.

The light reminded John of the illumination that was frequently used in hospitals, conceived for the personnel for orientation without being too stressful for the patient who woke up at night. He had always hated the greenish light for it made everybody look frightfully sick, but now there was a new aspect. The green light reminded him of Baskerville. The events in the facility had been a mere two weeks ago and the doctor was still painfully aware of the lump in his throat the memory of the events created. The lump in his throat as well as the nip of the sharp tooth of betrayal he had felt upon Sherlock's behaviour. When the consulting detective had told him he had no friends but one, him, John, the feeling had not been completely subsided but had been counterbalanced by the confession.

Now, triggered by the green light, the panic he had felt when trapped in the laboratory, thinking he was being hunted by a giant hound, came back. John closed is eyes to concentrate on his breathing. Inhale, one two, exhale, one two three. Inhale, one two, exhale, one two three four. He forced himself to exhale considerably slower than he inhaled until he felt that the panic had subsided.

Being able to think clearly once again, he considered the fact that he was capable of seeing his surroundings, albeit tinged green. Charlie was probably familiar with the bunker, having lived in its vicinity for an unknown amount of time. He had probably raided the facility of whatever he and his wife slash girlfriend needed; if there had been something to raid in the first place.

Looking around, John didn't detect any cameras or microphones that could be used to locate him. He knew from experience that both cameras and microphones could be very small. It had its advantages dealing with Mycroft Holmes and his spooks. John came to the conclusion that at the time this bunker had been built, there had been no need for equipment that needed to be concealed.

John, refreshed from his kip, wondered if he would be able to set up a trap for Charlie. Now that it was light in the facility the man should be able to follow the trail of blood, provided Charlie noticed the small red dots on the grey concrete floor.

But first he planned on trying to return to the entrance of the bunker. And maybe, just maybe he was lucky and he could slip out of the bunker unnoticed while his pursuer was looking for him in another corridor.

Very carefully he went about finding his way back. It was very possible that Charlie would be lurking somewhere, waiting for him but somehow he didn't seem to be the type who had the patience to lie in waiting to ambush somebody.

His own trail of blood came quite handy, enabling him to find the way back. He tried to remember everything he had learned about sneaking through a building unnoticed. Patience and absolute silence were the key-factors.

John reached the corridor that led straight to the door of the bunker without detecting any traces of Charlie. Could he have switched on the light from outside? He doubted it. Finally he was on the last stretch of the corridor where the door of the bunker was visible. From his position it looked closed and he saw no locking mechanism. But that shouldn't be possible. Bunker-doors were supposed to be opened from the inside. He felt panic rising in his chest. He couldn't be locked in, could he? As quietly as possible he hurried the last twenty meters to the door. On his way he passed an open shaft that lead down to some sort of sub-basement. The opening was in the middle of the floor and John considered himself lucky that he hadn't fallen down the shaft earlier on when he had walked along the corridor in the dark.

The bunker's door indeed was locked. A handlebar had obviously been removed and there was no other way to open the door. He needed to retreat and find another exit.

When John turned around though he saw that less than five meters from his position Charlie was standing in the middle of the corridor. His instincts and reflexes saved the ex-army doctor's life moments later. Before his brain comprehended what he was doing, John threw himself to the left. Despite moving out of the way, he felt the sharp blade of the knife Charlie had thrown, slicing through his right side. It was painful but better than having the knife buried in his stomach where the man probably had been aiming for. He wasn't out of danger yet, because Charlie lunged at him.

Unable to move with his normal speed because of the wound in his side, the man's full weight hit John square in the chest. They tumbled to the ground but even while falling, John swung his fist, landing a couple of punches that took the wind out of Charlie.

In return the man managed to land one knee in John's groin, eliciting a yelp of pain. Before Charlie could gain any ground, John rolled out of reach and landed a kick at the man's knee. Charlie screamed in anger and fell on his back, twisting around and getting a hold of the knife again. Before John could react, the light went out.

For a second both men were startled by the complete darkness but then John could hear Charlie jumping up, running away from him with a speed he was only capable of because he was familiar with the layout of the bunker.

"Fuck!" John cursed. He knew there was no sense following Charlie. He needed to find a hideout, take care of his wound and come up with a plan.

All John really wanted was to get out of that damn bunker. Checking his watch he was startled to see that it was close to midnight. He had left Baker Street more than six hours ago. Having sent his text to Sherlock shortly after five, the consulting detective might have begun to wonder why his flat-mate wasn't back and would come to investigate. Unless he was wrapped up in a case, which naturally, would draw his attention so completely, Sherlock probably wouldn't miss him before he ran out of milk for tea or was otherwise inconvenienced.

oOo

Once he had returned home, Sherlock had started a fire in the fireplace. He had used up all the hot water while taking a shower and once he had called out for somebody, anybody really to make tea, he had grudgingly made some himself. Both the hot shower and the tea had done wonders for him and the fire had heated up the flat rather nicely. Before long Sherlock was able to bask on the sofa in his usual pyjamas and dressing-gown, bare feet directed towards the warmth the fireplace was radiating. He had begun contemplating the events that had led to the impromptu bath and had fallen asleep while doing so.

He was still asleep when Greg Lestrade came barging into the flat shortly after eight. Disturbed from his slumber, Sherlock growled at the Inspector, who waved a piece of paper in front of his nose.

"I need to talk to John," the DI rasped in a voice rough from a cold.

"He's not home," Sherlock said. If Greg had bothered to ask him how he knew, which he didn't, Sherlock would have been hard pressed to explain how he knew that the doctor hadn't come home. The flat somehow felt different when his flatmate was in.

"Where is he?"

Sherlock sat up and shook his head. "The last time I saw him was yesterday when he left for work."

"Any idea on his whereabouts? New girlfriend he might have stayed with?"

"During the week John hardly goes on a date or to the pub. He had been out shopping for groceries but must have left again. Most likely to see a patient." Sherlock started worrying about the doctor while he was talking.

"We found this in the pocket of a man who has been murdered." Greg showed Sherlock the piece of paper he had brought in a plastic jacket and the Consulting Detective's alarm went off. "Of course, it could be coincidence that he was carrying it."

Inside the plastic jacket was a prescription in John's handwriting, unlike the prescriptions from the surgery, which were printed. So the Doctor must have completed and handed it to a patient later on.

Without offering an explanation, Sherlock left the sofa and he ran first upstairs into John's room and right afterwards he checked the bathroom. The backpack the Doctor took when he went to see one of the homeless patients wasn't there. Also John hadn't taken a shower before he had left, obviously he had expected he wouldn't be out very long. Now the question that remained was, where had he gone and whom had he planned to meet?

Inwardly Sherlock cursed the loss of his phone. Usually John sent him a text explaining where he went but with the untimely demise of his mobile, Sherlock had no means of retrieving the message. Unless he went and asked his brother. The detective gritted his teeth. The last thing he wanted to do was to grovel.

Sherlock hurried into his room, got dressed and shrugged into his ersatz coat. Pointedly ignoring the amused look Greg Lestrade gave him, when he slung a scarf around his neck that looked suspiciously like one of John's, Sherlock walked out of the flat, with the DI in tow.