John stumbles as he gets off the couch, catches his shins on the coffee table, and almost blinds himself when opening the curtains. Of course, he thinks, that was why he was being so…so bloody human last night! Because he knew he was going to go off and do something stupid. He finds his phone, and with bleary eyes, finds Mycroft's number.
"Oi," he snaps as soon as the phone is answered. "Where the hell is Sherlock?" There's a pause, so minute that anyone who hadn't lived with a Holmes wouldn't catch it, and then. "I'll check."
"You didn't know he was gone, did you?"
"No, John, I didn't. I've been rather busy." There's an underlying hint of tension in Mycroft's voice, and John sits down, his leg threatening to crumple beneath him.
"Moran," he says simply, but there's no sound on the other end. He waits, and the phone is eventually picked up again. "Where the -"
"John?" says a woman's voice.
"Anthea?"
"Uh…yes."
"Where's Mycroft?"
"On his way."
"What?"
"Wait outside." There's a click, and then John's aware that she's disconnected. He fumbles for some fresh clothes and limps down the stairs, all too aware that he never did go back for his cane.

It seems like an eternity before a black car screeches to a halt and the door is thrown open. "In. Now." John obeys, unthinkingly, and grips the seat as the driver speeds away.
"What the hell is going on?"
"Mole," Mycroft says, and John gapes. "Any camera that would have been following Sherlock disconnected, various files deleted, and my office was ransacked."
"Who?"
"One of Moriarty's men, I'd assume. Grace is working through things as best she can."
"Grace?" There's a momentary frown, then a smile.
"Anthea."
"Oh."
"John, this is important." John goes to make a snide comment, but then he realises that Mycroft's tie is ever so slightly off-centre and the knot slightly too tight. By anyone else's standards, that's the equivalent of screaming in panic. "What do you know about Moran?"
"Ex-army, misses the war, Sherlock's first dealer, working with Moriarty, access to decent weaponry and probably has half of London fearing him," John reels off, all precision and efficiency.
"Do you think you could beat him?"
"Me?"
"Yes, John, you. Because I'm assuming he's got Sherlock, and you're our next best bet." John pauses, breathes deeply, and steadies himself.
"Get me to Lestrade."

The car pulls up outside Scotland Yard, and Mycroft goes to help John out of the car. To his own surprise, he manages it, and Mycroft's faint smile doesn't slip past him. "If this goes wrong, promise me Lestrade won't get into any trouble over it."
"It won't." John glares, and Mycroft nods slightly. "He won't." Lips set into a hard line, John enters the darkened building.
Lestrade is waiting for him in the hallway. "John?"
"Sherlock went to investigate and didn't come back." There's a moment of understanding between them, and Lestrade nods.
"Whatever you need."
"Sherlock picked three potential estates – Dockley Road, Creeksmouth and the Isleworth Clock Tower Estate. He'll have gone to Creeksmouth, it's near an estuary, the perfect place to stash weaponry and drugs."
"So we -"
"Moran will have taken him to Dockley."
"John, how can you -"
"Sherlock's been treating him like a criminal."
"He is?"
"But he's not thinking like one. He's thinking like a solider – you heard him, he's treating this like a war. Creeksmouth is too open – not enough cover. He'll be at Dockley, it's near enough to the river that he can use it, without the open spaces." Lestrade goes to question him, but John is no longer the quiet, ordinary man he's used to – his face is set, all hard edges and determination.
"What do you want me to do?"
"I'll need an armed team – anything you can get your hands on at short notice. They'll stage an attack on Creeksmouth, so clear the area as best you can. I'll head to Dockley Road."
"Alone?"
"Yes. If he thinks we've found him, he'll shoot Sherlock, no questions asked."
"But Moriarty - "
"Doesn't want him dead, I know. But Moran won't listen to orders if he thinks he's threatened. Trust me. He'll shoot, and run. I want you to have a team waiting at Isleworth, in case something goes wrong." Lestrade frowns, but agrees.
"John, are you -"
"Be ready to make a move in three hours."

John paces as Lestrade rings various stations, calling in favours he's been building up since he joined the Force.

"You owe me for that time I missed my holiday for you…"
"…that time I went to court for you…"
"…went against orders because I knew you were onto something…"
"…didn't fire you because I trusted it was an honest mistake…"
"…was late to my mate's funeral…"
"…put my job on the line for…"

He marvels at the depth of his influence, at the dedication he hears in the reasons he gives, and once again, makes note to buy the man as many drinks as he wants. "I've got them," Lestrade says when he finally hangs up. "Might not be the most efficient or well-prepared team I'll ever have, but they're willing, ready and if you're right – and you bloody well best be – it'll work."
"Thank you," John says, clapping a hand to Lestrade's shoulder. "You don't get nearly enough thanks for this job." Lestrade smiles wryly, and nods.
"Neither do you. John, what are you planning?"
"Me? I'm planning to break into an industrial estate, find Moran, shoot the bastard in the head, and get away with my flatmate. Nothing to it."
"You really think you can do it?"
"I think I have to try."
"You're…" Lestrade shakes his head. "He's lucky to have you."
"Try telling him that," John says. "The idiot shouldn't have left me behind, or I wouldn't have to break him out of there."
"Sherlock's not good at caring, John. He thought he'd be keeping you safe." John sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
"I know. Doesn't stop him being an idiot though." He looks at his watch, and frowns. "I best start making my way there." Lestrade mock-salutes and John can't help but grin. "Pub when this is all over?"
"Like there was another option."
"Good luck."
"You too."