A/N: Thanks for the reviews, alerts, and favorites, guys. Chapter 11 for you. Now we're exactly halfway through the story. Excited? You should be. :) Please enjoy this chapter!

I don't own Sherlock.

He didn't sleep long at all this time, but when he awoke, he did feel a little bit better. A glance at the clock told him it was just after five. Funny, he thought with a twisted smile, that all this had started only early yesterday. It couldn't have been more than 35 hours ago that this had all started. In a way, he was proud of this fact. It could have taken any ordinary person much longer to track down the DI. He'd managed it in such a short time!

John stirred in his chair and Sherlock couldn't help but smile. The man looked just so peaceful, he didn't have the heart to wake him up. Instead, he paced as silently as he possibly could. His gaze occasionally flickered to his sleeping friend but he fought the urge to wake him. It would be useful to have someone to talk to… but John needed sleep. It was hard to stop himself from talking out loud, though, and it was becoming a pain to do so.

After a while of dead ends in his own head, Sherlock abruptly stopped pacing and grabbed his jacket. He put it on quickly, debating on the scarf. Another twisted smile ghosted his face. Would it be worth the risk? It wasn't as if he enjoyed being choked… But, if worse came to worse, at least he'd die warm. He wrapped the navy blue scarf around his neck and exited the flat as quietly as he could, only pausing once to notice the absence of police downstairs. Odd. The police tape was still there, blocking off the other flat… he shook his head. The police would need to sleep, too, of course.

He took to pacing outside, or, more accurately, walking along the street and turning around when he reached an end. It must have looked odd, surely, but he needed fresh air and to think. Sitting in the flat wasn't going to help that. After a few frustrated minutes, he decided to expand his range and began to walk aimlessly, taking turns and corners he only vaguely recognized. Of course, he knew each street in London, but that didn't mean he'd have to actually notice his location.

By the time he stopped walking, he was in a small park. Few children ran about, and even fewer adults walked by. It was getting late, he reminded himself, there was nothing suspicious about this. The tranquility allowed him to think more easily, and, though he'd never admit it, the lack of movement also helped as well. He collapsed to the damp ground and tugged at the grass absentmindedly.

Return. What did return mean? They'd figured out recharge, hadn't they? Sleep seemed plausible for recharge, unless Moriarty had meant recharge the pager, but it didn't seem to be low on battery. Then again, he didn't know how to check. But he allowed himself to liken recharge to sleep and still pondered over the other word. What could return possibly mean?

Return to sender, or return to a place? Return to a line of thought, or return something stolen? He shook his head in frustration. Really, it could be any of those. Return to sender could be the envelope, he'd be expected to give it and the pager back, but that really didn't make much sense. Return to a place could be any place of thousands, and he couldn't imagine it being the flat, what with the police tape and constant police walking in and out of where Lestrade had been held. Return to a line of thought could be anything, from the idea that Lestrade had been at 22 Northumberland Street to a suggestion of muffins for breakfast. And… well, as far as he knew, he hadn't stolen anything.

Sherlock was vaguely wondering if he really should return to the flat when his cellphone vibrated in his pocket. Confused, he drew it out and searched through the three new text messages he'd gotten. Two from Donovan, unimportant, asking him to come into the Yard to answer questions. And then… one that caught his attention. He nearly dropped the phone at the realization of what it said, and what it implied.

'Lestrade is stable

JW'

It was the same message Moriarty had sent, posing as Mycroft, sent from John. It could easily be harmless, he knew, but something told him otherwise. Eyes wide, he quickly dialled Scotland Yard, not even bothering to be annoyed when it was Anderson who answered. "Is Lestrade stable?" he demanded.

"Yes, but-" Anderson started.

"How long?"

"How long what?"

"How long has he been stable? Damnit, Anderson, I need to know this! Now!"

"Since eleven this morning." With that answer in mind, Sherlock snapped the phone shut, breathing rapidly. This could mean one of two things. Either John had just received the news and was safe, or Moriarty was purposelessly playing with him and he wasn't safe. Stupid! How could he have been so stupid as to leave John alone in the flat?

Without a second thought, he took off, coat fluttering behind him as he ran. There was a panicked buzz in the back of his mind, urging him to go faster, faster, he had to go faster, or he wasn't going to get there in time… but no matter how fast he ran, he wasn't going to get there in time anyway… The panic increased as he turned down the road towards their flat, forcing himself to sprint even faster. He slammed the door open, not even bothering with the look of surprised earned by Mrs. Hudson, and took the stairs three at a time, all the while yelling, "John! John!"

He slid to a stop just inside the flat, eyes scanning everything. John wasn't where he'd been before. The peaceful man he'd left before was missing from his spot, and, as it seemed, really and truly gone. Sherlock fought the urge to scream, instead raising his hand and smashing it into the wall. He hadn't gotten this upset in ages. The anger and panic coursed through his veins, fuelling him as he drew his arm back and smashed his fist into the wall once again.

"Damn him!" he gave into the urge and yelled it as loud as he could. "Damn him! He can't do this!"

Another punch to the wall, and he slid down, all energy gone in that moment. Sherlock rested his head against the wall, fighting the same emotions he'd fought all his life. This was why he never attached himself to anyone. They were always taken away from him.

And this time, it wasn't just one life at stake to be lost.

It was two.

A/N: Uh oh spaghetti-o! ...okay, just had to say that. Anyway, moving on.