'Sherlock!'

Hampstead. Hampstead residences. NW3, Kidderpore Avenue. What was close? It was a residential area—standard fare. Shops. People. Busy—too busy for hiding for very long. Except on streets that were almost exclusively residential. Can't be the residences, nowhere to disappear. Somewhere nearby. Tube? Hampstead, to the southeast, twelve minutes, Northern line. West Hampstead was the next closest, but more awkward—Overground. Train? West Hampstead, again, or Cricklewood. Bus routes 46, 210, 268, 603. One night bus, N5. Perhaps a car? No license, but when did anyone need one? No, too problematic. Too high a chance of someone noticing. Where would he have kept it? Nowhere to hide it. On foot, then. Cabs more likely than any other public transport. Risk recognition by one for the chance that the police would never find the right cabbie to ask. They wouldn't.

'Sherlock?'

Hampstead. Anglo-saxon. Ham, stede, homestead. Wright had gone back home, in his own way. In his head. Freud—Freud Museum? St Luke's Church, Kidderpore Avenue. The heath, not just around the corner but close enough. Could have thought it useful. Kentwood House? Cruising? No, not interested, not related. Too much going on on the Heath. Somewhere much quieter, secluded, somewhere where no one would ask questions. One too many chances for someone to happen upon something on the Heath. Pubs—too many to reasonably narrow the list down without more to go on. Not quiet, but loud enough so he could hide in commotion. Not reliable. Something else. Something else…

'Sherlock!'

'What is it, Mrs Hudson?'

Sherlock snapped around, tearing himself away from the inside of his own skull in order to give Mrs Hudson the attention she was so obtrusively demanding. He frowned at her, and she smiled back. She was annoyed with him, yes, he could tell from the way she stood against the doorway, but it wouldn't stay that way. She was half on her way to bed, too, judging by the fluffy dressing gown and mug of tea in her hand. There were telltale crumbs on her sleeve, as well, so there was a new packet of biscuits in the mix somewhere. Had she been to bed yet or just not bothered? Not been to bed. A late night, filled with pottering about and a cheeky biscuit or two. What day was it? Thursday, just crossed into Friday? Or Friday into Saturday? Did it matter?

Once she'd won his attention from the makeshift caseboard on the opposite wall, she walked into the sitting room—with less effort than usual. The milder weather was doing her hip some good, then. For some reason, Sherlock found that he was glad.

'You've got a visitor at the front door. Poor thing was ringing the bell for ages before I managed to get to the door. I thought you were doing some odd experimentation that involved the microwave timer again.'

Sherlock ignored her, and settled his chin on his steepled hands as he propped his elbows on his knees. She stepped through the pile of books and group of file storage boxes peeking out from under the coffee table, and recoiled as a piece of cold toast fell out of the magazine she dared to lift from the pile on the sofa's armrest. Mrs Hudson glared at Sherlock, but he just shrugged and remained perched on the back of the leather furniture, looking at the pictures and the documents and the bits and pieces they had managed to find out. Where, where—?

'He says he's got information,' Mrs Hudson continued as she picked up the discarded bread between her thumb and forefinger and dropped it in the nearest bin. 'Reporting a sighting, apparently.'

His line of vision shifted from the opposite wall and towards the back of Mrs Hudson's head. He really should have been bothered by the fact she was sorting out their post, but he wasn't. What was it John had said? Priorities. Right, well, priorities it would be. Cases first, post second. Actually, post was boring. Put that at the bottom of the list.

Sherlock braced himself against the spine of the sofa and pushed himself upwards, somehow finding himself on his feet with a thud that made his landlady jump. She turned around to look at him with a hand over her chest, and she shook her head with a mildly amused smile.

'Why they're coming to you and not the relevant authorities, I don't know…'

Eyebrows raised, mouth twitching into a short smile. Sherlock knew she didn't see the change in his expression; if she had, she'd be telling him off. She caught the eyebrows though, the crafted air of disdain. Doesn't matter; she didn't mind. Never has. In any case, she was more preoccupied with turning around with her hands on her hips now that she'd deposited her tea on the last free corner of the table.

'Really, Sherlock, why don't you tidy up once in a while? I don't know how you manage to think straight in this tip.'

Sherlock ignored her, and pointed down the stairs leading to the front door. His voice sounded oddly disembodied. 'I'll just pop down, shall I?'

'Hmm. Best do,' Mrs Hudson said absent-mindedly as she slid her fingers through the handle of her mug. Just as Sherlock was walking towards the doorway, she added: 'Oh, keep your voice down, dear. John's just about nodded off.'

Oh, she was right. He must have. He'd gone up thirty-seven minutes before; if he wasn't at least half asleep by now, he'd have been back down. He was like that. The one thing he gave up on. Sleep. Unless that wasn't really giving up, that was just saving time, and Sherlock was always in favour of efficiency. Why be lying awake in bed thinking about every embarrassing experience in one's life (apparently, that's what popped into the heads of idiots when they were failing to drop off, of all things) when you could be thinking about any one of a hundred things that were more interesting? Why waste the brainpower?

Brainpower could have been put to a more specific use, though. The case. Nathalie Briggs, Benjamin Wright, Colin Morrisson, London, Waterloo, Lambeth, Piccadilly, Royal Academy—Royal Academy. That's what John had been doing. The files, all the Royal Academy files with Briggs' name on them. Anything she'd touched, anything she'd edited, anything she'd worked on. Probably nothing, it was a bit of a long shot but something, something, there might have been something. Sherlock glanced down at the cases at his feet; a quick calculation, and he reckoned John had got through half of them. Maybe two-thirds. Not three-quarters, not close enough. The newest ones, the ones more likely to have come into contact with Wright's visit. Why would they be connected?

Why not?

John had chucked the last few he'd been balancing on his lap onto the table. They perched on top of a pile of police files, quiet and unassuming in their labeling. Sherlock hadn't noticed. Why would he? John would have said if anything was worth looking at. John knew what was worth looking at. Most of the time.

'Right,' he'd said as he stretched his arms out behind him. 'You might be able to keep doing this for days but I go useless without at least an hour's kip. I'll be upstairs if you need me.'

Sherlock hadn't responded—Why would I need you? didn't even come to mind as he thought, thought of everything he could fit in his head at one time—but he'd received the kiss to the side of his head with a slight return pressure. John had understood. He always understood that bit of them—even understood it when Sherlock didn't.

Sherlock wouldn't have minded kissing him back, either. Odd, that. Out of place.

He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head briskly. No matter. Irrelevant. Should be filed for investigation at a later date. Not too much later, though. It could affect the data if he left it too long.

'Weren't you going down, dear?' came Mrs Hudson's voice from somewhere to his left.

He grunted. Yes. Right. Downstairs. Door. Information. Sherlock spun on his heel and bounded down the stairs, taking the last three all together and landing in front of the doormat with yet another thud. His ankle might have protested, a bit, but not enough to distract his hand from reaching out to the door handle and unhooking the door chain with the other. It wouldn't matter later, so why should it matter then?

Mrs Hudson called down the stairs, from somewhere that Sherlock placed as most likely being the kitchen. 'Oh, Sherlock, do tell him to come in for a cup of tea if he fancies. It'll be pouring out there soon!'

The door creaked under Sherlock's hand, but he pulled it open nonetheless to reveal a suggestive drizzle and a bedraggled young man sat on the doorstep. He looked about as pleased about the moisture in the air as a cat that had just slipped into a pond, and he scowled as he nursed the very end of a home-rolled cigarette. Even so, when Sherlock cleared his throat the boy jumped to his feet, scrambling to keep himself steady and almost poised to run. He'd had to do that a lot, apparently. Might be jumpy. Probably skittish. Bit like a cat, really.

Sherlock crossed his arms as he fixed a keen eye on the youth. Early-to-mid twenties most likely, could be late teens at an unlikely push. Been on the streets for a while, quite a while; he knew his way around then, knew some places like the back of his hand and others like the front. Familiar with a lot, expert in more than most. Knew how to keep his nose down, how to dodge, how to hide. Hiding what? No matter, irrelevant.

'What have you got, then?' Sherlock prompted as the man took another long drag on what was left of his cigarette. The nicotine patches on his forearm under the layers of Sherlock's shirt and blazer had never felt so heavy as they did when the man exhaled.

'The guy,' was the only reply he got, and it just had to be accompanied by another cloud of smoke, didn't it?

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and fought the urge to curl his lip. 'Care to elaborate?'

'I've seen the guy.'

'Benjamin Wright?'

'How the hell am I supposed to know what 'is bloody name is?' Another puff of smoke, another deep breath he really shouldn't be taking. The excuse of fresh air wouldn't even work with the London smog; it was a shame, really, that you couldn't smoke that. 'Nah, I've just seen 'im. Recognized 'im, haven't I? From the picture you flashed to Fiona.'

Sherlock had no idea who Fiona was, either, but he never made a point of learning any of their names. They were all irrelevant in the end, and as long as he got his information there was really no reason to get to know any of them personally.

'Where?'

The man pushed his dark, wet hair out of his eyes as the rain started falling that bit heavier. He pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head as well, glancing up and down the road as he did so. The cigarette was almost burning his fingers, so little of it was left, but Sherlock would have still taken it from him if he had half the chance. 'There's a… house, up north. Posh, innit, but empty. Has been for months.' Another drag. 'Half full with floorboards and paint cans and shit, and everything's covered in dust and plastic sheeting but it's a roof over our 'eads.'

Sherlock frowned. 'How long has it been empty?'

'Properly empty? Maybe four months, give or take a few weeks. No one's lived there for a year or so, and by the looks of it whoever owns it gutted the place. Used to be swarming with builders, but it's calmed down recently. No one notices if we pop in now and then.'

He needn't ask who we was. He financed them, after all. 'You've seen him using it, then?'

The visitor nodded. 'I'm sure it was 'im, unless he's got some odd twin brother who's the spittin' image. Nah, definitely. Didn't see the girl though, sorry 'bout that but I don't hang 'round too long. I like to stay on the move when it suits me.'

'When?'

'Late yesterday morning. I was going to pop in meself for a quick kip, but I spotted 'im on my way in and I reckoned it'd be best to leave it be. Plenty of other places if you know where to look, after all.'

Sherlock ignored him; too much information, only half of it relevant. Oh, but what was relevant— 'I'm going to need an address.'

The man took the pen and paper that Sherlock offered him, and scribbled a number and street name in capitals. Raindrops plopped from the adjacent awning onto the thin paper, and by the time Sherlock got it back, it looked as if it'd been through a standard wash cycle. Thankfully the letters were still legible, and he committed the address to memory from a single glance as he closed the notebook and slotted it into his jacket pocket. There. Now there was something—something he could use.

He fished around in another pocket and retrieved a few folded notes, holding them out to the young man as compensation. He took it, the bills rustling as he put them in his jean pocket, and he kept his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt as the rain continued to drop onto the fleece surrounding his head.

Sherlock remembered Mrs Hudson's offer. 'My landlady,' he began, and the dark eyes of the man flitted back to him as he took another hard drag on his cigarette. Sherlock swallowed around nothing, almost angry at his body's failings when his mind was positively surging foward without him, and continued. 'The woman who opened the door when you rang? She's offered you a cup of tea, if you need it.' He did curl his lip as he said it—why did everything go back to being so damn domestic all the time—but the young man smiled, the first time he'd done it properly since they'd laid eyes on each other. Oh, wouldn't John have been proud of him?

'Cheers, mate,' he said as he dropped the glowing cigarette and crushed it with his toe. Sherlock didn't know whether to mourn or to feel relieved—or, if he thought about it, make some snide comment about not being his 'mate.' Instead, he turned and called up to Mrs Hudson as he closed the door behind them both and dashed up the stairs.

They almost collided on the landing, but Sherlock managed to skirt around her and reach to the back of the door to unhook his coat. The air wasn't particularly chilled anymore, not like it had been when he'd waited for John in Victoria Tower Gardens, but the wetness was enough to transmogrify a light wind to a bone chill. A coat never went amiss in London.

'What's happened?' Mrs Hudson asked as he reached over her to retrieve his scarf. Her face was more resigned than worried, although it still puzzled him when there was worry there.

Why? Anxiety over what? No matter. More important things to do—to see—to find out.

'We have reached, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock said, the creeping smile still playing across his features in the warm light of the sitting room, 'what I believe is referred to as the climax.'

She looked unconvinced. Slight disapproval. Maybe ten percent, fifteen. 'At this time of night?'

Sherlock cocked a brow at her as he adjusted the tightness of his scarf. 'Is there any better time?' He didn't wait for an answer, and instead spun around and laid a hand on the edge of the railing that separated up from down. 'John!' he called, shouting with an exhilaration that only ever accompanied a breakthrough. 'John!'

Still, he didn't wait. Much to Mrs Hudson's chagrin, Sherlock spun around and surged towards the door, more concerned with what came next than what lay behind.

He made it halfway down the stairs before he turned back, only saved from slipping from one step to another by his sudden grip on the railing, and said, 'Oh, and you've got a visitor,' before clattering down what was left of the staircase and charging through the front door.

John woke with a snort, and found himself face down on his pillow. He hadn't even managed to get undressed properly; he'd pulled off his jeans and removed his jumper, but he'd collapsed on top of the covers in just his boxers and t-shirt. Well, he'd also managed to shove his face so far into his pillow he'd had difficulty breathing, and that arm pinned under his chest was tingling in a way that suggested it'd not feel right for hours. John rolled onto his back with a groan and flung an arm over his eyes to protect them from the light that shone up from the hallway. Sherlock was still up, then (and why wouldn't he be?), probably staring straight into the offending lightbulb.

'Sherlock?' John called, his voice subdued. The movement of his jaw carried the weight of his arm up and down as he spoke. His other hand lay dangling off the edge of the bed, the leather of his watch digging into his wrist.

There was no reply, and John grumbled in frustration. Sherlock's responses to someone calling his name were about as reliable as an Alfa Romeo. John stirred, shifting his heavy muscles in a feeble attempt to rouse himself properly. His shins ached, as they always did when he overtired himself. Having a nap had probably been a bad idea; he'd feel like shit for ages before perking up. His bones felt too heavy—too weary—as he rolled to the opposite side of the bed and scrambled off, sending one of Sherlock's discarded dressing gowns tumbling to the floor. John reckoned that if he was going to be conscious, he was going to have to have a bloody good cup of tea.

John's belief that he required tea to function properly was only reinforced by his journey downstairs, in which he'd managed to stub his toe before he'd even left the bedroom and almost tripped as he misjudged the final step on the stairs. He blinked against the bright yellow light as he entered its kingdom, blinding following the same steps he followed every morning towards where the kettle should be. John reached for its handle and grasped without thinking; he was more concerned with thinking that it would have been better if he'd just taken a nap sitting up at the table rather than in his bed. He wouldn't have fallen into such a deep sleep that way.

It was when he turned around, opening the top of kettle so he could fill it, that John realised that Sherlock wasn't sat at the kitchen table. A quick glance told him he wasn't in the sitting room, either. Something twinged low in John's stomach at the familiar emptiness than lay before him, but he shook it off and held the kettle under the tap as he turned it on. He'd just have to go and find the sneaky bugger when the kettle was boiling. It was better than standing around, waiting, after all.

The water sloshed around in the clear body of the appliance as John shoved it back onto the cluttered countertop, and he hit its battered 'on' button before leaving the kitchen to investigate the rest of the flat. Before long, the silence was replaced with an angry crescendo, but John found no signs of life apart from himself in either the room that used to be Sherlock's bedroom (it was more of a laboratory storage room, now) or in their bathroom.

John stood in the kitchen until there was a click and the rolling boil died away. He'd suddenly gone off the idea of a cuppa—or, more precisely, the idea of relaxing and having a good sit down white he drunk it. Sherlock… well, it never used to be unusual for Sherlock just to tear off at any given moment. For complex cases like this one he would have generally drug John with him, even if the doctor was half asleep, but going off alone should have felt like an everyday occurrence. Then, though… then, it had been different. The last time John had been left, he though he'd been left for good. He'd managed to avoid this situation, keeping Sherlock quiet and flat-bound while his rib healed, then spent more time doing legwork with Sherlock than he had receiving a paycheck. John had left plenty a time, but only because Sherlock didn't care. He knew John would come back.

John… well, John didn't. He'd worried, up until then; he'd never let himself make it to panic.

Except it wasn't panic, what was coursing around his veins and quivering in every muscle. Not really… but it was definitely its embryonic form. John's itching fingers pulled at the elastic at his thighs as he tried to think what the hell he should—could—do. He'd already taken in the breath needed to call down to Mrs Hudson, just in case Sherlock had wheedled his way in there to get her to fill in for that bloody skull, but then he realised the time. The electronically illuminated numbers that sat above the handle of the oven door caught John's eye as he scanned the flat for Sherlock, one last (desperate) time.

Twenty past two—shit. He'd been asleep much longer than he'd thought. How long had Sherlock been gone?

John went from sleepy and sluggish to clumsy and hurried far faster than he'd have thought was humanly possible. He had a reason to panic, now, if the situation warranted it. Sherlock wasn't about to only be at the closest twenty-four hour corner shop getting an emergency pack of Hobnobs. He had to have streaked off for something to do with the case, or a suspect. You could get killed just doing Lestrade's job, even with all the politeness in the world, and Sherlock galumphed around every crime scene and feeble criminal mind he encountered. He pissed people off for the sake of brevity. If John had to put money on someone getting hurt on the job, it'd be Sherlock—the smarmy, idiotic, dickish genius.

He could feel his heart hammering against the bone and cartilage of his chest as he took the stairs leading to the bedroom two at a time. The organ felt too large and too heavy and too absent all at once; John had to stop and take a series of short breaths just to collect himself enough to pick out the clothes he'd discarded hours before. It shouldn't have taken him as long as it did, for what would usually have been knots of trouser legs and shirtsleeves were folded neatly in a borrowed laundry basket. It'd been sitting there, untouched, for a few days, but John could still catch the scent of their detergent as he leant over to retrieve his jumper. He recoiled from it, although the aroma itself was familiar, as he wheeled around and caught sight of the rough cotton of his jeans. Too familiar—everything felt too familiar, too close, too small—

John jumped as the shrill ringing of his mobile cut cleanly through his clouded mind. He was halfway through pulling on his trousers, and it required a bit of contortion, but he managed to fish out the phone from the back pocket; Mycroft's name and number flashed at him form the screen. At any other time he'd have moaned and groaned or tried to see how long he could put Mycroft off, but John didn't have time for that. Not this time. Instead, he accepted the call and propped the device to his ear with a raised shoulder.

The rustling of him continuing to dress was enough of a prompt for Mycroft. 'John?'

'Mycroft.' John's voice was much steadier than he felt, bearing in mind that the man he was talking to was generally the barer of bad news.

Whatever he may have noticed, Mycroft carried on nontheless. 'Ah, good. I have some news to report.'

'Hmm?' John added as he zipped and buttoned before patting his pockets. What was he likely to need…?

'My brother,' continued Mycroft, pausing for emphasis, 'has managed to give our surveillance the slip.'

John's mind went blank, reset without warning. 'Shit.'

'Yes, that was my thoughts exactly.'

How could he stay so coolly calm? Well, they both should have been used to it by then, but—getting away from Mycroft's surveillance was basically disappearing off the face of Britain. That required skill, and effort… two things Sherlock had in abundance. If anyone could do it, it would be Sherlock. John moved like a struck match, invigorated by the news after his initial shock.

'Where?' he asked as he jogged downstairs. At least this gave him a bit of an idea of what to do. It was something, and he'd just been prepared to run out into the night with nothing.

There was rustling on Mycroft's end, and then: 'Euston Station, half an hour ago.'

'Shit. And that long? Half an hour, to Euston?'

John could almost feel Mycroft's frown through the line. 'You didn't see him leave?'

'No, I nodded off,' John muttered as he shoved his eyes into a front pocket. 'Shit, shit…'

'John, are you—'

'Yes, fine,' John snapped. 'Fine.'

'You're getting repetitive.'

'Fine,' John said, cringing as he pinched the bridge of his nose to the point of pain. 'Sorry.'

Mycroft made a noise low in his throat, through whether it was disbelief or disapproval, John couldn't tell. 'Sherlock was heading north,' he continued as John stood in the doorway between the sitting room and kitchen, trying his best to put his shoes on properly with only one free hand. 'He spent a while speaking to a group of rough sleepers.'

'Homeless Network.'

'Ah, yes.' Mycroft cleared his throat. 'That.'

John wasn't paying attention to Mycroft's subtitles any more—there was a time and a place for that sort of thing, and the current moment was neither. 'North, you said?'

'Yes.'

'Right.' John strode towards the landing. 'I'll go. Keep looking.'

He didn't wait for an answer; the phone was back in his pocket before he'd had a chance to really think about the fact he'd given Mycroft an order. Not really, anyway, but it didn't matter. The situation had warranted it. Now, John was taking the stairs two at a time, not bothering to stay quiet as he was quite sure Mrs Hudson was more than used to clattering and charging about in the wee hours. The outside air cooled his face, and the door that slammed behind him was just another addition to the noise of human history that flooded in his ears. It must have started raining while he was asleep, splattering the ground with puddles and damp before petering out into a thin drizzle that stung John's face as he turned into its slant. The lights of the main street were fuzzy though the layer of liquid, splayed out into indistinct stars, and cars kept their wipers on as they made their last dashes home. It may have been two in the morning, but London wouldn't have been London without traffic and honking and sirens in the distance.

John turned towards where the bulk of the closest noise was coming from, and decided in an instant to make his way to the busier road at the end of Baker Street—he'd get a taxi far quicker, there, and as long as he was going something or going somewhere he could keep the coiling of his insides to a minimum. Nobody knew what madness Sherlock could get himself into, if he was feeling reckless. And hell, when wasn't Sherlock feeling restless?

John stopped in his tracks when his phone vibrated in his pack pocket. He couldn't remember turning it to vibrate—in fact, he probably didn't want it doing anything except squealing to announce calls until he got to wherever it was he was going. In any case, John wasn't about to ignore a telephone call from Lestrade, of all people, at that time of night, so he raised the mobile to his ear as he craned his neck to watch the oncoming traffic.

Lestrade didn't give him much of a chance to utter a greeting. 'John! What the hell's going on? Sherlock's texted me an address in Hampstead—'

'Hampstead?' John said, half gasping as his stomach did more than a few somersaults. 'He's in Hampstead?'

'You're not?'

'Pardon?' John asked, although he could read the pause in Lestrade's train of thought. It was a dissociative thought, that Sherlock had just rushed off to a possible hostage situation (or crime scene, depending on how well the situation was handled) without John.

'You're not with him?'

'No, I'm just as clueless as you are,' John replied as he took a few more steps towards the road in front of him. He grunted in frustration when there were no taxis in sight. 'Last I heard, Sherlock's managed to lose the surveillance Mycroft has on him.'

'Shit.'

'Yeah,' John said, commiserating as he began walking, giving each approaching car a beady-eyed stare before the glare of its headlights revealed the colour of the bodywork. Lestrade had paused, through over the separation of the line John could hear him shouting orders to his team.

'Why?' asked the detective inspector as soon as he returned his full attention to the phone.

John shrugged even though Lestrade couldn't see him, and almost didn't manage to dodged the spray of puddle water sent in his direction from a speeding car. 'I think he's had a tip-off. It was explain the secrecy.'

'What, that network of his?'

'That's the one,' John said, heart jumping as he caught sight of an on-duty cab and flung out his arm. 'Squatter, most probably. Send me that address.'

'You're going?'

Something about Lestrade's surprise told John that he really wasn't surprised at all.

'Of course.'

'Of course you are.' Lestrade huffed good-naturedly; not for the first time, John was glad to count the detective inspector as a friend. 'Look, I'm trying to get a team out, but it's difficult. The higher-ups aren't big on paying overtime on the basis of an unexplained text from a madman.'

John removed the phone from his ear to give the cabbie vague directions, and replaced it as he climbed inside the vehicle. 'Just—just keep at it. We might need it. I'll go now.'

'Good luck, John.'

John sighed, and rubbed at his closed eyes as the cab pulled away from the curb. 'God, I hope so.'

Lestrade muttered his brief goodbyes as a voice that sounded suspiciously like Sally came closer and closer to the phone with news from the chief super. John ended the call and let the hand holding his mobile fall into his lap. He didn't want to hear them deciding whether or not to help Sherlock. When had he ever given them a failure? Sure, he was unkind and brash and manipulative, but he was on their side. At least, he was when he wanted to be. Why hadn't they got that through their thick skulls yet?

A muffled beeping sound announced the arrival of a text from Lestrade, and John relayed the exact location to the cabbie. He may have had an address, a street name and a number that would have told Sherlock everything he needed to know, but he didn't recognize it. He might as well have been given directions to Timbuktu. But, even as John didn't know where he was going, he didn't need to. He'd drive all over London trying to find Sherlock if he had to. He was going to kill him, if he got there before the other guy did. He didn't care if he had to jump to do it—the tall bastard.

So, without knowing where he was going, John went.

He wasn't quite fully operational when the cab arrived at the address and slowed to a stop at the curb. Even when John clambered out and slammed the door behind him, he was distracted enough by the darkness around him that he had to be prompted to pay the rest of his fare when he miscounted. The cabbie gave him such a disgusted look that at any other time John would have flashed him a two-fingered salute as he drove away, but he settled for shaking his head at the cab as it disappeared around the corner before turning to the house in front of him. Time and place, after all.

Instead, John let his eyes play on the building that had previously only been a jumble of letters and numbers to him. It was grand—or, at least, had been. Like the rest of the houses on the street, the brick walls were shrouded by large trees, and it wasn't sat too far back from the street. The pointed roof shot straight into the dark blue sky as if pointing out constellations. Still, John was more drawn to the condition of the place, the bits that were more than the wear and tear that all old houses bore. He couldn't quite describe it; there, in the cool night air and with ghosts of rain dusting his nose, he couldn't find the words.

Not old, not neglected, just… haphazard. Left alone to weather a storm no one had expected was coming. The garden said enough; there were more weeds and planks of wood than there was grass, and the flowers in the beds looked more than a little worse for wear. The building didn't stand out on the street, not exactly; it just seemed wilder, less human. It looked like what would happen when humans just upped and left, leaving both everything and nothing in their wake. Just the thing some wanted to cultivate, actually. Still, something about the crisp packets and Yorkie wrappers in the flowerbeds hidden by the fence said that no one had cultivated this place, not in a while.

A quiet gust of wind blew the metal gate open, and John took his chance to slip through without disturbing anything, without making any sort of fuss. It clanged behind him, but somehow he doubted that was unusual. It would be more unusual if it was locked, when he thought about it properly. Except he didn't even do that for very long, as when he toed his way along the chipped and cracked front path, John noticed a flickering light at the side of the building. It wasn't enough to illuminate the garden, but it was just enough to tell anyone who was looking close enough that someone was in there. For how long, though? Not just that night—no, longer than that, longer than that if they were making themselves that much at home.

John lingered near one of the bushes that flanked the steps leading to the front door, and when the light disappeared for a moment before reappearing he clambered up them. The door was shut but open, and a gentle twist of the knob released the closing mechanism without so much as a squeak. The ground floor was dark except from the light spilling out from around a closed door to one side of the staircase; inside, the place was more decrepit than John had expected. Well, not decrepit, exactly, but halfway there. Everything seemed to be covered in a generous layer of dust and residue. White sheets had obviously once been thrown over what was left of the furniture, but wind and time and passers-through had pulled them out of place. No one cared enough to put them back.

Funnily enough, the most disconcerting thing was that all of the windows were bare. John could look straight through them into patches of star-studded sky and, for some reason, it just highlighted that there was nothing but glass and brick inbetween inside and out. Not much, really. Not much at all.

Voices from behind the closest closed door made John's ears prick, and although he knew that there was a tense conversation there he couldn't identify any specific words. It was probably for the best—he didn't need to hear whatever it was that Sherlock was using to bait Ben. If it was even them—if it wasn't, he was in much more trouble than he already was. Still, something about the rumbling of one half of the voices told him it was Sherlock. He'd know him from the way he breathed, let alone from hearing his voice. And who else would Sherlock give the time of day at this stage, if not Benjamin Wright himself?

John did not, however, immediately turn to enter the door that separated them. Instead he turned to the grand, dusty staircase—Sherlock had bought him time to have a careful nose around, if nothing else. He could start upstairs and come back down, working his way to that one lit room. The first stair creaked a bit under his weight, but when he got two feet on it the protestation feel away. The railing was wobbly enough to be more of a hindrance than a help, and so John made his careful way up the stairs one foot at a time, testing each level as he went. The landing itself seemed innocuous, but then again, it was dark and there wasn't much that John could see clearly through the murky nighttime. He kept looking, though. If he'd learnt anything from Sherlock, it was that it was always worth looking.

A glimpse of blonde hair caught his eye, and there she was, sat under an undressed window in a bathroom off the upstairs landing. Well, 'sat' could have been construed as a bit of an overstatement; crouched was more accurate, and she had clasped her knees to her chest. She hadn't been roughed up, as far as John could tell from the distance between them, but she looked… tired. Not just like she'd lost a few hours sleep, not like she'd had a late-nighter with a particularly difficult bit of her dissertation. She looked exhausted with the toll of it all, the fear and the insecurity and the unknown. Her ponytail had slipped, and the chunks of blonde hair fell over her cheek, her ears, her chin instead of through the black elastic band. Her left side was covered in dust, with one or two streaks where she'd made the effort to try and brush it off before packing the entire thing in.

John padded up the last few steps and tested the landing with a gentle prodding foot to make sure it would bear his weight without squeaking. Nathalie started as he approached, keeping his steps light as he made his way towards the doorway. After the first involuntary jump she stilled, even as John held his palm out, open, in front of him, and her wide, dark eyes flickered between his hand and his face. He crept towards her, keeping his distance until she relaxed, unfolded, and dragged a hand over her smudged mascara. Her heavy, rattling sigh was the loudest thing that passed between them as John came to rest at the open doorway.

'It's all right—you're all right. My name is John Watson. I'm a doctor. Are you hurt?' he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear him even if they remained on opposite sides of the room.

She shook her head, still glancing over his shoulder at the open doorway. He half turned to follow her gaze, just in case someone had just as much of a talent for moving silently as Sherlock did, and had followed him upstairs. There was nothing behind him, nothing but the soft glow of diffuse light. Emptiness, however, wasn't empty; it felt more full than if there had been a crowd standing out there, looking in, and the soft rumble of voices from the ground floor filled John's ears. Nathalie must have heard them too, as when there was an echo of a man shouting, she flinched.

John laid a hand on her shoulder, pushing away what was left of her ponytail. 'The police are on their way.'

She nodded, her mouth a thin line as she stared at the chipped tile floor, and John gave her joint a gentle squeeze before he let his hand fall away. They sat there, both of them just thinking—wondering what came next—when Nathalie reached out a hand and gripped John's forearm.

'He's just—' she started, her voice as much hushed as it was croaky, 'just—gone mental.'

'Shh, shh,' John said as her face crumpled, eyes filling with tears. He must have been the catalyst, the culmination of everything that had happened. His arrival was the first thing that said it was okay to feel, to show what she felt. He heaved himself beside her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She let out a smothered sob, one that she managed to muffle with the shoulder of her fleece. John squeezed her tighter, and murmured, 'It's all right. We know.'

She might have nodded—but then again, she might have not. They just sat there for a moment, and John fished his phone out of his jacket pocket to send a quick text to Lestrade. Nathalie—she's here. She's okay, I think. Get your arses here soon. He flicked the volume control to silent as the device sent the message, preventing the whooshing sound from revealing they were there. Nathalie hiccuped as he replaced it in his pocket, obviously trying desperately to stay quieter than anyone in tears should be, but they both stiffened as there came the sounds of shouting from downstairs. From both male voices, this time. Not just one. Escalation, after all, was inevitable.

'I have to—' John said as they disentangled themselves. Nathalie rubbed at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve, and set a steely look on her face that John wasn't entirely unfamiliar with; Harry did the same thing, when the time called for it. 'Look, I have to go and help him.'

'The other man? He's with you?' she asked, the blotchiness around her nose and cheeks subsiding.

'You've seen him?'

She shook her head, rubbing her calf with her palm. 'No. No, I haven't, but I heard him come in.'

'Could you say when?' John asked, glancing around behind him as the voices subsided once again. Nothing in the house seemed to be stable—not its foundations or its walls, and especially not the people inside.

'I've stopped trying to tell time.'

John sighed, and rose to his full height. He offered Nathalie his hand and helped pull her to her feet as well. 'I don't blame you.'

'It wasn't long, though. Not long before you arrived.'

'Oh, good. That's a good sign,' John said as he glanced around the room. 'I'm going to go down. Can you lock yourself in here?'

Nathalie let out a snort of air through her nose, the closest that either of them could come to laughter. 'I'm lucky that door's even on its hinges. No lock in sight.'

'Right.' John sighed, then gestured to the construction paraphernalia that lay propped against every wall. 'Shut the door, barricade yourself in. He shouldn't notice a bit of quiet shuffling up here, not while he's down there dealing with whatever Sherlock's chucking at him. I'll go down.'

She rubbed at her eyes with the cuff of her fleece again, and nodded as she swallowed. She'd already turned to pick up an abandoned box of slate tile when she glanced back and caught John's eye. 'He's armed.'

'We suspected that much,' John said, nodding as he took careful steps through the doorway and onto the landing. 'We'll be all right.'

'Thank you,' Nathalie said as she followed him, pausing to hook her hand around the open door.

John felt his brow furrow, even though it wouldn't be encouraging. She was safer, now, yes, but they weren't safe on the whole. They had the most difficult part of the operation in front of them, and they had run out of time to prepare. Somehow John doubted that they could have prepared, really, but he still felt more anxious now there was nothing between them and the end of the case. The problem was that even at that point, when they'd found Nathalie and knew who took her, they didn't know what was going to happen. Anything could happen.

'Don't thank us yet.'

The way her face fell made him feel a surging temptation to apologise, but the way Nathalie's features set as she nudged the door shut and closed it without as much as a squeak, John reckoned she could hold her own. Now she knew she wasn't on her own, she could do it. They could try, at least, and be a little bit ahead of the game with her on their side.

There was no need for him to look around the rest of the upper floor now that he'd found Nathalie, so John took the quickest and quietest way back down to where he;d heard Sherlock's voice. One or two of the steps creaked, and John froze when he accidentally nudged a key ring of paint samples off the edge of the banister. Still, there was no hitch in the conversation behind the door, so John wasted no time fretting about soft thumps and began his careful approach to the door he'd hoped to keep shut for a little longer.

Well, they'd best just get on with it, shouldn't they?

His heart beat harder and harder against the inside of his chest as John got closer. It almost crashed its way out when he got near enough to pick out distinct words and phrases instead of just hear the distinctive murmur of conversation.

'What're you on about?'

That must have been Wright, judging by the panic in his voice and the fact he was attempting to mask it with anger. There was something reckless, something unhinged, something manic about his indignation, though, that made John grasp at his lower back, where he normally concealed his handgun. His fingers didn't met metal, though, and he could virtually feel the shot of dread coursing around his body as he laid his hand against nothing more than skin-warmed cotton. A heavy swallow and a few deep breaths later, John returned his attention to the words hidden from him. He didn't need a firearm to defend them, after all.

'Never mind, obviously you become grammatically detached when you're overexcited.'

John flexed his fingers; he could have punched Sherlock for being such a smartarse. Was he trying to get himself killed? John was sure that he couldn't possibly be the only persona in the world to occasionally want to sock Sherlock one, and he was entirely calm and rational. There was every chance that someone as worked up as Wright wouldn't stop at one well-aimed punch.

There were one or two heavy steps, then the clatter of some empty mental being kicked, and Wright's raised voice pierced the tinny reverberations. 'And what if I killed you?'

John took two quick steps closer, sidestepping a paint tray filled with dried builder's white, but halted as Sherlock's calm reply sounded through the silence and the pounding of his heart.

'Trust me, it won't help.'

Sherlock had just told him the police knew, though John couldn't really tell if Wright had twigged that. He wouldn't have been surprised if he hadn't. John knew from personal experience that sometimes the most obvious things eluded you in the sort of state the young man was in. He'd probably not notice if Sherlock implied he'd triggered a silent alarm and notified MI-5, either.

Wright's terse, clipped response didn't inspire confidence in the idea that he'd come quietly. After glancing up to the empty landing and out to the quiet street, John picked up his feet and began to creep closer. He wasn't about to be stuck too far away to help if he was needed—if Sherlock needed him.

Then, mid-creep, his toe clipped something and John was horizontal. He tried in vain to think what it could have been, but whether or not he'd tripped over the leg of a discarded rocking chair or a new and ready-to-be installed toilet seat was irrelevant. The end result was the same. He flew into the door he had been creeping towards, and it fell open with a clatter as he managed to keep himself relatively upright by catching, and latching onto, its rusted door handle.

It was surprising, really, how the first thing John noticed when he opened his eyes was that he had to close them again. Damn, that was bright. It shouldn't have been, no, but he'd been crouched in the darkness for long enough to make any sort of light burn. He remained where he was, prostrate except for one hand on the door and another resting on a pile of floorboards, and blinked. His uncouth arrival seemed to have surprised not only him, stunned them all into what felt like an hour of silence. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds, though, when time caught up with them.

There was horror in Sherlock's eyes, in that moment, though John couldn't tell if it was horror at him being there or horror at the fact he'd just fucked everything up in the most catastrophic way possible. The expression was removed almost immediately, however, and the blank look left on his face was enough to make John turn away and settle on the only other face in the room.

Wright didn't look especially pleased, either. He was smaller than John had expected. Moriarty had been, too, but then wasn't the moment to be pondering that particular fact.

'Who the fuck is this?' said Wright with a snarl. The metallic glint of the barrel of the gun in his hand shone in the artificial light as he jerked it in John's direction. 'Is he with you?'

'You don't want to know the half of it,' muttered John as he scrambled to his feet. It was just as good a time as any to be flippant, even if Sherlock did shoot him an odd look. They were in the thick of it now, no point glossing over that.

Wright ignored him. 'You said you were alone!'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I believed that I was.'

Ah, throwing the truth at lies. That always worked.

John wanted to move from where he stood, covered in dust and paint flecks, and hover closer to Sherlock's shoulder, but the curl in the young man's lip kept him where he was. The flailing of the firearm was a decent deterrent as well; John could have disarmed him, maybe, if he had more time to think.

'Well, we're done here, now, aren't we?'

There was something in Wright's tone that heavily suggested he wasn't looking for answers. His light eyes were panicked, manic, desperate. He knew he was cornered—he was more dangerous, then, more dangerous than he would have been otherwise. God, Sherlock—no, it wasn't just his fault, his baiting. This would have happened if anyone had stumbled upon him. It was probably a good thing it was them, then.

'I wouldn't say so,' Sherlock replied, calm as ever, as he pulled his leather gloves from his pocket and shoved them on his pale hands. 'I know a few people who'd appreciate a word with you.'

Wright's brow furrowed so deeply John wondered if it would ever go back to normal.

Sherlock continued. 'Your friend Colin, for one.'

The young man flinched away from Sherlock's smooth voice and raised his hoarse one in response. 'Don't you dare!'

Low, dark, threatening. Wright should have seemed like a petulant child—he was one, really—but there was an element of his voice and the snarl on his face that reminded John that they were dealing with someone who was unhinged. Well, unhinged might be a bit far… compromised. Emotionally compromised, and already likely to be violent without the extra incentive. He was already moving closer to Sherlock, flexing his fingers around the grip of the handgun, hackles raised. Even in the ratty sweatshirt, he was a force to be reckoned with, a loose cannon.

One wrong move, and bang—you're dead.

Even so, John thought it couldn't hurt to try a different approach. One that didn't involve slinging insults.

'Why, Ben?' he asked, voice as steady and gentle as he could make it. 'Why did you do it?'

Wright looked at him then, properly, for the first time. John could see he was all blond hair and blue eyes and youth and terror, really, and it was disconcerting to see all that mangled with the seething rage that had always hidden somewhere before then. But he looked at him, held his gaze, until Wright couldn't do it anymore.

He teetered on the edge of the story, where the lies stopped and the fairy tales began. And yet he didn't fall, and instead stood with mustered resolve and raised his shaking hands. This was his way out, or at least that's what he must have thought. The way the gun rested in his hands was incorrect, John could see that from the other side of the room, but his index finger was hovering over the trigger and the barrel was pointed straight at him. Even a bad shot could get lucky once in a while.

'No!' barked Sherlock, and his reward for showing his cards was Wright redirecting his quivering aim at Sherlock's torso.

John took a heavy step towards the detective. 'Don't—'

That earned him another threat on his life.

Sherlock snapped his unflinching attention from Wright to where John stood, frozen. 'John—'

The gun returned its unsteady gaze to Sherlock's chest, and Wright shut one eye.

John dove towards Sherlock.

There was the crack of a gunshot, and he crumpled.

John could hear himself hit the floor before he felt it; the metallic rattle of the gun as it hit the floor and running feet registered just before the pain did. White—white noise. He might have yelled. Then again, he might have not. In any case, the a distant door slammed just as Sherlock—it must have been Sherlock, who else could it be?—slammed into his legs, knees on either side of John's hips. He pushed his hands against John's side—that's where it was, was it? The pain was everywhere, everywhere—and then someone hissed. Him, or Sherlock? Either was possible, he couldn't tell.

A muffled scream made its way downstairs.

He scrabbled for purchase against Sherlock's upper arm. 'Nathalie—'

'John.'

'Go and get Nathalie—'

His arm fell away.

'John.'

There was a please hidden in there somewhere. John was surprised he could tell, then, when they were on the floor and close to the edge. He stopped asking, stopped trying to get Sherlock to do something he wouldn't. He wanted… what did he want? Did it matter, now, when there was the warm stickiness of blood on his shirt and his side and Sherlock's hand?

Then there was a thump, a distant one, and someone was breathing quickly. Too quickly. Was it him? Maybe. Too difficult to tell. Gasps falling away to nothing. Clutching at something that wasn't there. It was cold, so cold, yet there he was, sweating like he was on some sun-plastered beach.

The tone of the same number blared through the blood rushing past his ears, three depressions of the keyboard.

'Ambulance,' Sherlock barked, and that sound must have been him swallowing heavily before he rattled off their location and the situation. John felt oddly out of place, like he was cluttering up the scene, like he was more trouble than he was worth, but the choking sound that came from above him as the phone was discarded against the unfinished floor said otherwise. The plastic and glass scraped across the surface, rattling as Sherlock fought with his unruly hands to apply the right amount of pressure. John wanted to help, wished he could help, but could only arch his neck back as the sweat dried, cooled, replaced on his clammy skin.

He was shaking. It took John a moment to realise it, but he was shaking. That was the bit he hated most, about this. The first concrete sign you were losing control, losing the battle. The first bits, the clamminess, the sweating, the thready pulse—you could argue all of those were psychological, you could convince yourself you'd worked yourself into a tizzy after a graze. The shaking? No, John had never managed to panic himself into a shake. That was when he knew. When he started to clench his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut. When he could see how it was going to end. Just another event to tag on to his list of times he wished he didn't know what would happen to him—he wished he hadn't seen men, friends, colleagues wheeled in and fade and fade fast.

John might have cried out when Sherlock got up, his weight disappearing from either side of his legs. He might have groaned, or gritted his teeth, but there was no way of telling when he was gulping down air like a fish would gulp water. There was a rustling—he was noticing those sounds now, quiet ones he'd ignore at any other time that were suddenly roaring through the silence—and then Sherlock's coat was on him, draped over him like some heavy, expensive shock blanket, and all John took from it was Sherlock. It smelled like him, like his soap and his cologne and them.

It was stupid, really, that that—of all things—would make him smile an odd sort of grimace as Sherlock slipped a hand under the side of the material to reapply pressure. This, this, was how John had expected it to happen.

Still, it didn't quite feel like how it was supposed to happen.

Leather slipped against leather as John slipped his gloved hand into Sherlock's, and he used what felt like the last remnants of his adrenaline to give it a comforting squeeze. It'd be okay. Everything would be okay, even if he ended up dead. Everything would be okay—

There was a certain appeal to dying.

At least, dying before Sherlock got a chance to.