Apologies for the slightly longer wait on this one - real life got in the way for a bit. Next chapter should be up fairly quickly, particularly -cough- if reviews are left. Cheers!

Chapter Nine: Triggering A Wound

I can stop John Watson, too - stop his heart.

Sherlock, at that moment, was in fact back in brooding mode, having lost interest in his game with the rubber ball not long after John had left. He was not, however, returning to his attempts to figure out what had been going on regarding John's narrow escape from the unknown gunmen. Past events with no obvious follow-ups were considerably lower on his list of priorities than the possibility of all hell breaking loose, now that Moriarty was confirmed (by Sherlock) to be back on the streets and eager to play.

Sherlock's dark reverie was broken by the sound of his phone beeping at him from a nearby table. He gave it a hard look, considering if he should even expend the energy to go over and see who was interrupting his musings. But, in the absence of actually coming up with any viable theories regarding Moriarty, he gave in. Striding over, he lifted his phone to read the newest text.

Pets get lost so easily, don't they? Could cause trouble.
JM

Speak of the devil. Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat as he stared at the text - Moriarty wouldn't send something like that so idly. A series of rapid, horrible scenarios flashed through his mind like gunshots. He shook them away and sent off an angry reply.

What are you talking about?
SH

John Watson got into a taxi 17 minutes ago. It is not taking him where he expected.
JM

Something, perhaps the underlying tone of the message, if texts could ever be said to have one, made Sherlock suddenly feel extremely uneasy. His fingers rapidly typed back a reply as he tried to remain calm. The way Moriarty's text had been worded made it sound as though he was merely an observer - as though he didn't actually have a hand in what had happened to John. Was such wording deliberate, or was it showing a bit of truth? There was no real way to tell.

Where is it going?
SH

He was rather taken aback when he received a mildly informative response. The directions that came were specific, but not enough for him to be able to avoid a bit of guesswork. Moriarty was clearly not about to make things too easy, whatever his motivation might be for giving the warning in the first place. The location was a bad one, however, and almost frighteningly isolated - an abandoned warehouse, in an area of the city that very few respectable people had any business going to.

Sherlock paused only grab coat, scarf, and a useful sort of weapon that was easily concealed beneath his clothing. He didn't know why Moriarty was actually helping him - warning him - except that the other man enjoyed watching him scramble, and perhaps even panic. He was well aware that this might even be an elaborate hoax. But the danger John might be in rather outweighed the risk that Sherlock might be playing precisely into Moriarty's hands.

He rushed out of the flat as fast as he could, his breathing already unsteady, his mind already working to unravel the maze of London's streets. John had been right to worry, it seemed - everything was happening at once, and neither of them knew why. Except, of course - and the thought was an unpleasant one - for the fact that Sherlock had very recently emerged back into some semblance of a semi-public life. Was this all due to him, then? Was he somehow responsible for whatever danger John was in right now?

The driver of the cab went on ahead to pull open the long disused door of the warehouse, while the two other men grabbed John by his shoulders and propelled him forward, with the gun still held only inches from the back of his head. The atmosphere within was not at all welcoming - cold metal and only a few glimmers of daylight seeping in from the outside. Once all four men were inside, the phony cabby dragged the door closed again behind them with a steely grind, which faded into horrible silence.

John was furious to find himself shaking, though not surprised. Six months of almost nothing had caused him to forget exactly what it was like to be in imminent danger. He stumbled heavily forward, his head bent low with the threat of the gun so near; he could see only a foot or two in front of him, where his feet struggled to find a quick path without tripping him up. His breath was coming in short, sharp intervals, and no matter how hard he tried to control it, it seemed not to be working very well. The sounds that rang in his ears sent a fresh wave of panic surging through him.

The men holding him abruptly released their grip on him. The one not holding the gun to his head wrenched John's own weapon from the back of the doctor's belt, and then both backed away for several feet. John stumbled again as his captors abruptly let go, but not so much that he didn't feel his last chance of escape being pulled from his reach. He was left standing in the middle of emptiness.

And then the second man raised the confiscated weapon, leveling it skilfully in line with John's head.

"I suggest you don't move - let's just get this over with quietly."

John could feel sweat, damp and chilling, on his palms and forehead. He turned - and stopped short when he saw his own gun pointing at his head.

His mind was going numb; he was aware, far too aware, of the pounding of his heart and rushing of his blood in his ears, and the way each breath made him dizzy as it exploded from him. They were going to kill him. They were going to shoot him, point blank, in the head, in the middle of nowhere, and he would die. He knew he would die, because he knew his own weapon, had seen it aimed at others, had fired it at others, and they had died.

"I didn't - I didn't - see- anything -" The words were quick and yet heavy, ragged with desperation; he could only get them out with an effort. The cold-bloodedness of the situation made him want to scream. This wasn't a battlefield; it was an execution.

"For all we know, you're lying, and that's a risk we can't afford to take." There was a loud click as the man cocked the gun, reaching up to steady its aim with his other hand.

Helpless. If there was one thing John couldn't bear, it was a feeling of helplessness. Even if he moved, even if he threw himself to the side, ran forward, did something - it would make no difference, for the distance between himself and his kidnappers was too far, and the range of the handgun - his handgun - too close.

"I'm not - not lying." John turned his face to the ceiling, lost in shadow, and closed his eyes for a brief moment. The trembling was very difficult to control, but he clenched his hands into fists anyway, digging his nails into his palm. How could it all end like this? "I know you don't believe me - but - I'm not - and I don't even know -" He swallowed hard, looking toward the man again. " - who the hell you are."

Sherlock knew he had found the right place when he saw the empty cab parked in the cracked lot, and beyond, the looming structure of the warehouse. Caution struggled against urgency - for once, he didn't know whether to run forward or to make sure he wouldn't be charging straight into a trap. And every second that ticked by was wasted in his indecision.

He settled for a swift lope, and reached the door within moments. Sherlock pulled his handgun from beneath his coat, took a quick breath, then reached out and yanked open the heavy door. It had barely been pulled back before he was through and inside.

The first thing he saw was the figure of a man who looked vaguely familiar, and who whirled to face him even as he moved a quick step closer. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise - he recognised the other as one of Mycroft's underlings.

"Fisher, what the hell are -"

Then he froze as another voice came out of the gloom beyond the outlines of two more recognisable men.

"I don't even know - who the hell you are -"

Sherlock felt as though all strength had drained from his body, and the only sound he could hear was the horrible rhythm of his own pulse. His breathing was no longer rapid, but seemed to have ceased altogether. His eyes were bound to the invisible line between the gun held in one man's hands and the trembling form of John Watson.

John had nearly felt his heart stop with relief when he heard that voice - the loud, arrogant, and furious tones that could only belong to Sherlock Holmes. He didn't dare move, though, not even to turn to his head to make sure he wasn't imagining things, because however real Sherlock was, the gun was real too, and it was still pointed at him.

"Oh God - John - no, NO!"

Sherlock had seen the man holding the gun turn his head slightly in response to the intrusion, had seen the expression in the other's eyes upon realising that the private party was no longer private. But worst of all, he had seen what only he would notice - the nearly imperceptible tightening of the man's hands which said he was about to fire.

Shoving past Fisher, who looked astonished upon seeing his employer's younger brother appear out of nowhere, Sherlock threw himself forward. His hand reached out, grabbing the arm that was steadying the gun and wrenching it aside - just as the other man squeezed the trigger.

The sound of the handgun going off exploded in Sherlock's ears as he dropped to the ground, pulling the other man off balance. He scrambled up, regaining his footing, and whipped around to view John.

Something near Sherlock's heart twisted sickeningly, and then the organ seemed to stop beating altogether.

Ooooh, the suspense... Cliffhangers are so wonderfully rude, aren't they? May the Force be with you.