So many things are happening! So much action and so much more to come! I hope you like it.

Chapter 10

Both feet on the ground, he looks up, just at the outlines of Sherlock's great curls peeks outs of the bedroom window above him.

"Keep going, get a cab!" Sherlock whispers only loud enough for John to hear. Sherlock turns abruptly; John hears more shouts and both men know that the officers have made it to Sherlock's floor.

For a moment, John feels left behind, even though he was the one who made it out of the window first. If Sherlock is grabbed now, with no sound proof of his theory, John if left to walk around in his semi-darkness until someone spots him. He feels very, very exposed, and his fingers are twitching more than ever for that stupid gun. John is faintly aware of his mind melding the shouts with screams of agony and the darkness created by his loss of sight is turned into a cold, starry desert night. Please, Sherlock. For the love of god, don't get caught.

In a deserted village in a deserted dessert in Afghanistan, John had moved silently and painlessly through the cold starry night. His comrades were close by, a turn of his head and he saw their silhouettes clearly in the silver moonlight. There were no known enemy locations nearby, and everything seemed to be a comfortable quiet. The quiet meant safety and not death for once, and every soldier gliding through the village cherished it. Even so, they were all waiting for whatever would kill the silence this time. An unexpected gunshot perhaps? Hopefully not for another 20 miles or so. A loud crackling sound had everyone turning in John's direction. John felt the ground beneath him crack, like dried wood. He struggled to stay on his feet, and saw a fellow soldier drop his gun and run to him with an outstretched hand. He had barely stuck out his hand to grab onto his friend before a gaping hole opened beneath him. He had walked over the weak cover of an abandoned well, and was now hastily descending it. He expected to hear the cracking of bones when he hit the dry bottom, but instead his surprised scream was ended in the cold suffocating darkness of water. The glistering moon seemed to die out slowly as the dirty water snaked itself through every tough layer of body protection and clothing he had on him and effectively blinded him in the process. Somewhere in his brain he found the capacity to register that the dirty state of the well must have made the water undrinkable and that that must be the cause of the village being deserted. Only after making this discovery, he figured that the ridiculous amount of clothing and gear he had on him had gained him about thrice his body weight after being soaked. In short, he was sinking.

Suffocating, trapped and blind. And then the dull noise of something large being dumped in water, a strong grip over his shoulder and he was being pulled up. He gasped and blinked, confused and bruised. His comrades had fastened one of them to a rope and he had jumped to John's rescue, grabbed him and together his team managed to pull both men up by the rope. A second to recover, a few pats on the back and "Are you okay, doc?"

A second was all he got, a second of false safety and enemies were on them. Opening fire, screaming orders in the foreign language. They had heard first John, then his friends barking at each other to help him out.

Standing on the point between Baker Streets semi-secret back yard and the open street behind him, how could John not think of that Afghani desert night? When Sherlock emerges swiftly from the window, basically flies down the ladder and takes those confident strides towards him he knows they are both safe. For a second. Falsely. The ladder may be secret but Mrs. Hudson's back door leading to her flower pods just outside it was decidedly not. Three silhouettes are storming towards Sherlock before John can fully comprehend, or maybe accept, what is happening. "Go! John, go!" Is Sherlock last order, before he shifts his focus to the three approaching shadows. Run? John thinks. Alone? John's mind short-circuits for a moment, and everything goes black and freezes as he takes in Sherlock's words. Then everything bursts online once more and he registers the order. He complies without thought because it's all he can do.

Run? He thinks again. Where to? John turns on his heel and runs right across the street. His jacket has once again been lost, laying somewhere forgotten in the flat after his fight. His hands still both cold from the water and burning from the same thing screams at him when he clenches them in anger and, if he must be honest, in fear. Clotted blood begins running anew as he opens close to every scar he has managed to get himself the last couple of days. They burn at their center and has him freezing as the wet blood cools in the wind as he runs through the streets. He knows the roads well enough to know exactly where to put his feet. He knows full well he is running for his life, but Sherlock's might be on the line as well.

As he realizes that, as an officer, their madman could easily make Sherlock's death look like an accident- an act of self-defense maybe- and that he might be dead already, adrenalin manages to make him run twice his normal speed. Surprised yelps and gasps surround him as he runs, jumps and pushes his way through London's streets. So many dark evenings and nights spend with Sherlock running blindly after bad guys has him prepared to run for hours, and he is more than physically capable of doing so, but what for? He could easily outrun a car, disappearing into side streets and backyards, but where will he go? He must be half way across London when the headlights of every car seems to be pointed at him and paranoia is eating him up. A car honking at him has him spinning on his heel and run in the opposite direction but a familiar voice has him stop mid-stride and look over his shoulder.

"John! Doctor Watson!" Mycroft fucking Holmes, and about time. "Get in the car," he continues as he appeared soundlessly by John's side and John wills himself not to smack Mycroft away as he puts a helping hand on his elbow and leads him to his limousine. At least he had the decency not to take him by his hand like his brother seemed to have a habit of. John is breathing heavily, automatically putting his head between his knees to relax and control himself when safely seated in the fancy car.

Mycroft is rustling about as the limo sets into motion. Faster and faster, cars are honking around them as they drive through the remains of London. "I received a text message from Sherlock ordering me to find you. You're a hard man to find John Watson."

"That was the plan," John's voice was dry with heavy breathing but steady.

"Here, a little refresher," Mycroft said politely as he handed John a fancy crystal glass containing a clear liquid. He took it with a grateful nod and swallowed the content without question. It was neither alcohol nor water like he had expected. It was cool and slightly sweet but not sickening. He frowned at the empty glass and Mycroft explained at the sight, "Water for hydration, medicine for your wounds including your eyes, sugar for energy and a splash of vodka to keep it edible." Oh, so both alcohol and water then. His hands were shaking slightly.
"I would make a comment about mixing medicine and alcohol but I've given up on you two. Also is this something you make often?" he questioned. Mycroft smiled and took the glass from John, stashing it away in some secret compartment hidden neatly underneath one of the seats. "No, but quick thinking is one of my many skills." Mycroft slid back in his seat and turned to John. "Now, first things first. Where is Sherlock?"

Sherlock had, of course, not filled Mycroft in on anything. Mycroft only knew they had been working with bombings, and that John needed an eye specialist on hold. Since Mycroft was both overprotective of Sherlock and his beloved country he had been following them closely, but John had to repeat everything Sherlock had blurted out in their kitchen. He elaborated whenever Mycroft asked him to and eventually Mycroft was updated with their current situation.

"So what to you plan on doing now?" Mycroft questioned as he leaned back in his seat, a deep frown forming on his forehead as a long string of scenarios played through his head. Sherlock dead, hurt, captured, arrested… They were all different variations of unsettling and displeasing.

"All I can think of is to look for evidence that proofs one of our three suspects to be the orchestrator of this mess. If we don't, I don't know how else to get Sherlock back. I have no idea where he is or what is happening to him but my best guess is that he has been framed as the madman and is being held up at the yard."
"What do you propose? Do you have an address? I've got my driver driving us around the outskirts of London aimlessly for now, but as soon as we have a destination we'll be on our way." Mycroft explained calmly.

"Do you have a phone? Or a computer? Can you find the addresses on Officer Harrison, Dale and Yeux? Maybe they have something that could give them away in their homes?" John asked hopefully. Mycroft pulled out his phone and as he entered the code the screen lit up and John realized that the small rectangular light was the only thing he could make out in the dark. Turning his head, headlights and lampposts rushing by was once again all he could see.

"Is it getting dark already?"
"Cloudy, it's only noon," Mycroft answered automatically. His head snapped up when he realized why John had asked. "How is your sight?"
"It was getting better, but I can only tell thing apart in the light," he shook his head as if to brush it off and asked. "Got anything?"
Mycroft looked back at his results. "No. Let me try something else. Louis! I need you to find the addresses to a Monsieur Harrison, Dale and Yeux!" Mycroft ordered the driver.

"Oui, Monsieur 'olmes!" came the reply in a thick French accent. Mycroft turned back to John.

"Even if all three addresses turn out to be in close proximity to each other I highly doubt we will have time to look through all of them. If we don't work fast this might evolve into a hostage situation," Mycroft said his voice professional and calm yet still stern and serious. "How can we know where to go?" John asked, out of ideas. Mycroft doesn't answer.

"Monsieur, I have got the addresses!" Louis the driver blurts into the silence.

French.

"Holy shit," John breathes. "I know where to go!"

Mycroft allows himself to look confused, "How? You haven't heard the addresses yet."
"Yeux!" John almost yells, but not quite. Mycroft still jumps in his seat, and the driver eyes John in the rearview mirror.

"Yeux, monsieur?" Louis questions.

"Yes, Yeux! Take us to Officer Yeux's address, please!" he turns to Mycroft as the limousine takes a hard turn left and a long honk emits somewhere behind them.

"Cheshem means eyes, or eye, I told you that, didn't I? So does Yeux! It's French, but I'm sure you knew that already," John feels the adrenalin staring to pump again, slowly rebuilding his strength. He was getting ready to fight. Finally having a target was getting his very being combat-ready.

"I'm not entirely sure whether you informed me of this fact or not, but it seems you had it covered either way. I agree it seems like the most probable reality. Louis, get us there as fast as you can manage."
"Within the legal limitation, monsieur?" the dutiful driver asks.

"When is it ever?" Mycroft smirks. The driver nods and John is pushed back in his seat as the fancy car shows off its powers. John vaguely wonders how the hell it's possible to drive that fast in London. Then again, he doesn't know exactly where they are or what kind of driver Louis is exactly.

Just before their arrival, Mycroft unexpectedly pulls out a first aid kit from one of the hidden compartments and proceeds to redo John's bandages. His hands are burning painfully and John releases a relieved sigh when Mycroft applies a soothing creamy substance on the scorched skin before securing the coverings. John breathes his thanks and allows Mycroft to guide him out the car. "Do you have a gun?" John asked.

"Can you use it?" Mycroft questioned with a quirked eyebrow.

"Yes," John answers. He hoped for better lighting at some point doing their hunt for evidence. If not, he'd have no trust his remaining senses. Mycroft handed him a gun very similar to his own, and even with burned fingers John handled it expertly. He grit his teeth together when tightening his grip on its handle but said nothing. Mycroft looked him over once, either deciding John was fit enough to take on the task at hand or that he would not have the willpower to talk him out of it. Either way he nodded to his driver, the movement was returned and Louis drove away. Not far, but far enough not to be suspicious. "Give me a status report," John orders. Mycroft was not one to be ordered around, but he quickly deduces the cause of John's sudden change of character. He had become Captain Watson, gun at the ready, senses heightened, shoulders stiff and posture ready for battle. He gave in to John's request.

"This place is the perfect picture of a suspicious neighborhood. It seems to be a mostly abandoned residence complex. Not a place for an officer of the yard if you ask me," Mycroft moved closer to John, lowering his voice, "There are also two men guarding the front door, clearly armed. They have not yet spotted us. There seems to be a shattered window we might be able to enter further down this wall, but I wouldn't recommend it."
"How can this not be enough evidence? What am I supposed to find in there?" John whispered frustrated.

"Two thugs looming about his front door will not prove him guilty, John." Mycroft answered calmly. "I suggest we look for papers. Written permissions to speak to or interview your Afghani friend, the suicide bombers or permission to enter Afghani prisons is what we hope to find."

John nodded. "Wait, us? You're going with me?"
Mycroft scoffs. "Should I let you go alone? Blind and burned? Sherlock will have me hanged."

"Can you even fire a gun?" John whispers. He receives a smack over the head.

"Mind your manners, Doctor. I am, for your information, fully capable of firing and handling a firearm."

"Fine, sure, I you say so," John says with an eye roll.

"I am also more than capable of verifying documents such as papers used in both police and army forces-"

"Yes, Mycroft, I'm aware. Let's just be quick about this." John cut him off. Mycroft took the lead, John right at his heels. Up and through the window, feet firmly planted on a dusty carpet. John registered dim lights on either side of a short hallway. Mycroft lead the way up several stairs and stopped by the correct flat. "In here," he whispered. He wriggled the doorknob but found that it was locked. John took a step back. "We only have a few minutes."

He kicked with all his strength but the old door gave in easily. Later he might wonder if it had been foolish to believe no one to be home, but since there was no one in, probably not. He registered movement as the, most likely Afghani, men downstairs heard the disturbance John had made. Mycroft bolted inside, heading directly for a makeshift office. A mountain of papers messily placed on an unsteady wooden table became Mycroft's opponent. He sends the inadequate paperwork flying the room, hissing as time runs out.

John tries and fails not to think of all the missing data. How big is this complex? How long will it take to look through each floor looking for the cause of a suspicions noise? Will they be able to make it out undetected? Unlikely. Could the two of them win or even survive a firefight with the two guards? Are there more guards hiding somewhere in the complex? Is Sherlock alive?

"Quickly!" John hurried.

"I am trying! He is tactlessly unorganized for a man orchestrating a criminal scheme of this magnitude!" Mycroft hissed back. Footsteps nearby had John ready his gun. In the dim light of the hallways he would be able to make out the armed guards. "They're downstairs, Mycroft. We have to-"
"Got it. Let's go." Mycroft grabbed John by his shirt and dragged him along. John loses his sense of direction. All he can manage is to have his gun at the ready. "There are no other stairs," Mycroft said breathlessly.

"What?" John whirled and aimed the way the came from as Mycroft halted them.
"There are no other stairs!" he took a few breaths while collecting his thoughts. Mycroft sounds nothing like his usual collected self. They had been running for long enough to have both men breathing heavily. Angry voices were approaching.

"We have to jump!" John whispers.

"Jump?" Mycroft repeats incredulously. John grips his gun tightly and uses it to crash a window. In this brightly lit hallway the window seems to be nothing but a black square on the wall, but he hits his target nonetheless. "Do you even know what floor we are on?" Mycroft hisses. He refuses to believe that John could suggest such a thing and be in his right mind.

"Stick your head out and we'll know!" Mycroft reluctantly does as he is told, and only complies because his head is rushing with blood and adrenaline.

"This is madness, we're on the second floor, and there is a shed just below that reaches first floor that would cushion our fall but I don't- AH!" John knew he was going to pay for this.

He took a single breath and jumped after Mycroft who he had so easily pushed out the window. Several unsettling rumbles and cracks emitted beneath and around him as first Mycroft and then John himself crashed against the roof of the shed and tumbled to the ground. A string of both English and foreign curse words informed John that Mycroft's descent had not been entirely painless. John stumbled to Mycroft's side to help him stand. John gasps as he stands when his shoulder politely reminds him of its existence. "Argh!"

"- and that unthankful little- he has no idea what I put myself through for him! And you!" Mycroft pointed an accusing finger at John. John kept dragging Mycroft towards the road, where he hoped Louis would by some higher power know he had to be in a few moments for them to make a safe escape. "You are the one to constantly complain about Sherlock's recklessness and this is what you give me? No wonder the two of you fit together so perfectly! Argh- bloody- John! If I do not hear Sherlock thank me –out loud and very specifically- I will never forgive him for this!"

Mycroft's voice was hardly above a whisper, but hissed through clenched teeth and very un-gentleman like. He also had a limp and his body shook violently every time he put down his right foot. John felt cold mud on Mycroft's expensive suit as he had his arm around his waist to support the much taller man. The cold was nice against his burned skin. John was covered in mud himself as well, and though it felt soothing, though the dirt could lead to an infection both on John's hands and Mycroft's foot, ankle or leg. Whichever one he had bruised or broken.

"Mycroft, as far as I remember, you're the one constantly complaining about Sherlock's recklessness, and that is why we fit together! But I'm with you about the thanks, I'd like to hear him say that too."

Handguns being fired somewhere behind them was apparently Louis' queue to magically appearing around the nearest corner. The limo came to a screeching halt in front of the two muddied men and they tumbled in. "The yard, Louis, and for Gods sake hurry!"

"Oui, monsieur!" Louis says dutifully and steps on it. When the acceleration subsides John gets on his knees by Mycroft's right leg. "Can you turn up the lightning?"
Mycroft groans and stretches his arm out to press a button. The entire length of the car is covered in odd shaped of darkness and yellow light until John can focus. His sight has become better in the light, he concludes. He can make out the dark, almost black, fabric on Mycroft's leg. "I'm going to take a look at it," he says gently. His world changes again. His entire state of mind does a swift 360 and his entire being morphs into a gentler, calmer version of his former transformation. Captain Watson has become Doctor Watson once again. Mycroft would comment on the dramatic change in John's body language and facial expression, not to mention the tone of his voice but thinks better of it as John proceeds to do as he said he would. As he eases up the fabric around Mycroft's right leg, a thick string of very red blood has Mycroft lean his head back and groan in disapproval.

"I'm afraid this could be broken, Mycroft." John wisely decides not to bother asking for forgiveness at the current moment.

"As long as we get Sherlock back safe I'll be fine. I also happen to know a Doctor who is more than capable of stitching me back together," John looked up and saw Mycroft had somewhat paled but still managed to sport one of his trademark grins. John grinned back and grabbed what he needed from the cars first aid kit to hold Mycroft's leg in place until he could get further treatment. Mycroft's leg was in no condition to support his leg, but John wondered if he would be able to keep him from walking when they arrived at their destination.

"The yard is in sight, Monsieur." Speaking of the devil.

"Good work, let's go John," Mycroft flew out the car almost before it came to a halt. And that decided it, then. He would not be able to keep Mycroft off his feet. John couldn't help but notice the incredible similarities Sherlock shared with his brother. How they could be so different and so alike was a mystery to John. He was at Mycroft's heels as he stormed the Yard. With his vision getting better by the moment, John thankfully did not need Mycroft's hand to make his way to Lestrade's office.

They were covered in mud, Mycroft's once stunning suit was in shreds and he was limping heavily. John wore no jacket, was shivering from head to toe from the cold mud and had numerous stripes of partially dried blood decorating his entire body. His one shoulder was hunched over awkwardly and his hands were still bandaged, but the once sterile fabric was spotted with mud and blood. They looked like something straight out of an old fashioned war movie. It surprised neither of them when an officer stopped them before they made it to Greg's office. Luckily they were immediately recognized despite their current state.

"What the hell is going on? What are you doing?" he asked then, eyes wide.

"We have to speak to Greg, is he in?" John talked fast.

"What? No, he's at Baker Street. And so should you be! They're looking for you everywhere-" the officer, and elderly man John noted, which meant he was decidedly not the officer they were looking for, was interrupted by Mycroft.

"I will speak to whoever has the most authority here while John proceeds to get to Baker Street and talk to the Detective Inspector. We will have this sorted out soon," John understood that Mycroft was creating a distraction. They had no way of knowing what was mean by 'They're looking for you everywhere', but it sounded unquestionably not good. He turned and left the building in long confident strides as quickly he could manage without running. He knew Mycroft held all evidence, but he had enough information to get Lestrade to at least listen.

Thankfully Louis was waiting with the Limo right where they had left him, and John jumped in and ordered him to get him to Baker Street immediately. He complied, and once again John found himself tumble out a car in front of his flat.

"There he is!" someone yells.

Fight or flight? There is a perfect getaway car right behind him, but is he supposed to run?

"John!" another millisecond and; "Thank God, you're alive!" That made John frown in puzzlement.

"What?" Greg Lestrade comes through the front door with a wide-eyed expression. "Where the hell have you been? I've been calling you like a madman, for gods sake I though you were dead!"
"Dead? What are you talking about?" John questioned.

"Holy mother, you're in pieces! Medic! Can we get a darn medic over here?" Greg laid a supportive hand on John's elbow and led him through the front door.

"What? No, Greg I'm fine, I'm looking for Sherlock, did you arrest him?" total silence.

"Did you hit your head, John?"
"What?" John shook said head and continued more sternly, "Greg, this is serious, Sherlock could be in danger! Have you got him or not?"
"No!" Greg answered quickly. A pool of painfully cold water spread from his guts to his toes and he felt his face pale. "We thought the both of you had been kidnapped there for a second!"

Greg continues. "We received a anonymous call about screaming coming from your flat, and when we arrive we find and empty chair, rope and blood all over the place. I thought you'd been tortured by whoever the hell set off those bombs!"

John was silent as he took in the new information. The police was not after them; they did not believe them to be criminals. Good. It had not been police officers that had stormed through Mrs. Hudson's back door and attacked Sherlock. Sherlock had not been arrested and he did therefore not know of his location. Bad.

"John? Are you okay? Where you tortured? Did you escape? John?" Greg's voice was growing increasingly worried.
"Sherlock was kidnapped," he blurted. Greg stared at him. "But we weren't tortured. A man attacked me, Sherlock bound him to the chair and he hit him a couple of times, but he was not bleeding. And he was there when we left."

"And? Why did you leave?" Greg inquired.

"Sirens." John said. A grim picture was forming in his head. "Police sirens. Sherlock got caught. But they were not police officers." It was Yeux, he thought. Yeux has kidnapped Sherlock. He lured him out of his home and caught him defenseless. Sherlock would not fistfight an officer, he knew better, he would follow him willingly, and he had no other choice.

"John, if you do not explain what's going on to me right now I swear I'm knocking you out and bringing you to Bart's." Greg threatened half-heartedly.

"I need to find Sherlock," he whispered. "I need to find him right now."