Sorry for the delay. My friend jumped off of a bridge. And died. ...So yeah. I'm just gonna take this opprotunity to tell you that if you ever do anything stupid like that, I will personally hunt you down and destroy you with a fire axe. Pass that on to your friends too, and your friend's friends. Trust me, suicide isn't worth it, and it's not the way out. Plus, think of all those you've left behind. What are they going to do with themselves now? I love you my beautiful readers. Stay sane. And alive. For my sanity and others.

Also, somewhere below, I noticed the tense changed. I'm not pissing around with it at the moment, since it's kind of a gradual change, and it's easier for me not to. I do apologise, however.

Guest: Why thank you my lovely!

Sherlock makes a face as a pit opens up in his stomach. The Italian smirks.

"Don't be like that. There is a chance you can win this game." The detective is just about to ask how when the bastard speaks. "Here is how you play. Objective: Find Doctor Watson. Hint: He's somewhere in Winchester Cathedral. If you can find him, you keep him, and you both walk free. But," of course there's a 'but', there's always a 'but', "you have three minutes."

The detective feels a shock run through him, followed by hot fire. The nerve of this bastard! How dare he-!

"Now come. The game will start soon enough."

His heart hammers in his chest as his pulse throbs in his throat. Reluctantly, he follows the man to the approximate center of the cathedral. His thoughts are racing, and every little thing they pass prompts him to wonder if John is hidden somewhere. It doesn't even cross his mind why he cares. When it comes to John, he always has. There's nothing more to say on the matter.

The Italian - God, it really bothers him that he's remained nameless this entire time, God forbid he'd say his fucking name - adjusts the silver watch on his wrist, checks the time. His dark eyes track the second hand waiting. He glances up, then down, with a grin. "I hope you're ready, Signor Holmes. You may start... now."

Almost immediately, Sherlock is assaulted by the sound of screaming, coming from all directions. He jumps, then starts to panic, but he chokes it back. His brain tells him if he runs off in the wrong direction, there will be no way to make up that time. Running at his best would take more time than he has to get from one end to the other. But then which way was the right way? The hard stone of the cathedral caused the screams to bounce and echo around him, creating a whirlwind of sound and making it almost impossible to focus. He caught himself visibly shaking, then forced his eyes closed. The darkness seemed to help. It made his ears focus for once, instead of his eyes.

He stood for a moment, knees bent and tensing, feeling his ears prick and twitch with various tones and pitches. He recoiled slightly at the louder shrieks and panicked shouts. Think God damn it, think! Listen, deduce, something!

But wait. What was that?

"Two minutes, Signor Holmes."

Sherlock shook his head, wrinkling his nose. There was something he was missing. As he continued to focus on the world-shaking noise surrounding him, he nearly forgot to listen to what he didn't hear.

"Nearly un minuto, Signor Holmes..."

Fighting back distress, he honed in on something he hadn't heard before. Quite literally. On the other side of the cathedral, back from where they came, there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. It was completely silent. It wouldn't take him long to get there, but he had to be sure.

"You're a tad under the one minute mark, messere."

Sherlock ran. Whether or not it was towards a trap, he didn't care. He ran with Godspeed, from the far end of the nave, again past the Holy Sepulchre Chapel, the Reliquary Chapel, the High Altar, St Swithun's Shrine. He paused for a moment a few metres from the Lady Chapel, before deciding it was absolutely the Guardian Angels Chapel he wanted. Oh Christ, and with only seconds to spare.

When he found him, John was a heap under the vaulted ceiling. The detective didn't bother glancing up at the angels there - it was too dark and he had other things to see.

"John!"

To his utter delight, John looked up. His eyes were wide and his mouth was obstructed by duct tape. Typical, everything so typical, from the rope around his wrists, to the state he was in. How trite this game was, yet so... so... God!

"Sherlock!" the good doctor cried when his mouth was freed. Said detective didn't hesitate to leave a relieved and extremely short peck there before undoing his other bonds. Everything was fine, everything was all fine, this game was all over and John was safe and alive. It was only a few hours away from dawn.

Pulling him to his feet, Sherlock heard a chime from his pocket. John followed him easily on their way as he read.

Congratulazioni, gattino. My regards from Jim.
-N

Somewhere in the very pit of his stomach, Sherlock knew that this wasn't the end. Not really.

Outside, nearly off the church grounds, Sherlock patted down his doctor in the witness of the still disturbingly empty city. John tried to protest, but really, he was relieved to have the detective's hands on him, no matter how demanding and forceful and insistent. After the search bore satisfactory results, with only minor bruising and a small gash just shy of John's temple, Sherlock let him go. Their eyes connected for a long moment before the mutual, post-panicked silence was broken by shattering air and a loud crack. Sherlock instinctively raised his right arm and jumped to the right. He heard swearing behind him, and his eyes landed immediately back onto John. Nothing but a pale face and wide eyes all over again. There were flecks of blood near his neck, but not his own. Then he found it. A small bullet hole in his collar.

Sherlock, ignoring a distant numbing of his arm, whipped around to see none other than the nameless Italian.

"The regards were, of course, to you, after I kill your doctor despite your efforts to save him!" he shouted, reloading his weapon.

Sherlock smiled a dangerous smile, eyes burning, seeing red wherever he looked. "You should have tried harder." As the bastard raised his arm, the detective, using some quick thinking and complex calculations, swiftly pulled off his right shoe and hurled it precisely at the Italian. The gun, an ordinary pistol, Sherlock can barely notice in the blur, flew out of his hand. He dove for it afterwards in one fluid movement and grabbed it, firing twice. He hits his enemy square in the knees before anyone has any idea what happened. Oh no, Sherlock Holmes was not pissing around this time, Sherlock-fucking-Holmes was not leaving anything to chance this time.

"You damn bastard," he spat into the minion's face as he stood over the crumpled heap. John's voice floated somewhere to his left, and he ignored it. "You could have fucking killed him!"

He recieved a chuckle and a "That was the point," before the not-to-be-fucked-with detective fired another round into the Italian's shoulder, just to stomp his remaining shoe onto it. The bastard winced, but nothing more. More red sparks flashed in front of his eyes before, with his left hand, and brought the pistol down onto his face again and again, insane laughter mixing with the flying crimson. He very nearly bludgeoned the bastard to death, before a shout, then a firm hand grabbed his upper arm and pulled him away. The next thing he knew, dark brown eyes and peppered hair were reproaching him. The hand let him go then, and John was at his side.

"Lestrade. What are you doing here?"

A grim smirk. "Do you two honestly think I don't keep tabs on the both of you- You at the very least?" Sherlock nodded once in acknowledgement before voices called from across the grounds. The Italian laughed further.

When everything was well and quiet, and Moriarty's man was hauled away, John inspected Sherlock with worried eyes. It was just then that Sherlock actually paid any attention to the numb burning in his arm, spreading through his brachialis and into the surrounding muscles. The bone - the humerus - pained him quite a deal as well, but he found himself unable to focus on it. When the doctor inspected his coat sleeve, he was met with a good amount of blood and a wince. Thank God for adrenaline, at least.

Yeah, I'm about done for tonight. Proyecto de Espanol (fuck the tilde over the 'n') manana (fuck that tilde too), and I have to say everything in Spanish with no note cards or anything. Not even close to being done. Also calling hours for le friend tomorrow. Well, ciao, au revoir, adios and whathaveyou. Laters!

Hope you enjoyed. Since I'm a lying bitch, one more chapter. Not sure when it'll be up, though. Also, if any of you have read 'Out of my Element', my Mystrade story, I'll be updating...eventually. Yeah... love you guys! Until the next one!