John's eyes cracked open at the sound of tires on gravel.

His first instinct was to reach over and cloy to the object at his side.

The second was to wrap his arms around himself at the overwhelming ache that wracked his body.

He instead went with his third instinct.

"Oh, bloody fucking hell. Sherlock, wake the fuck up and get me something. Jesus, this fucking hurts."

He felt the bed shake as deep, rumbling laughter echoed through the room.

A glass of water and an orange bottle of tablets appeared before his face. "Sit up."

The doctor shook his head, refusing to budge. "No. Sherlock, I will not move from this fucking spot until I can do it without screaming in fucking agony." The detective rolled his eyes, setting the pills and water aside to lean over the grumbling doctor, face mere inches away.

"Do I need to motivate you, Watson?"

John groaned, a hand covering his eyes. "I'm in too much pain for that, Sherlock. And for fuck's sake, don't call me Watson." Sherlock kissed him lightly before hooking his hands around the man's shoulders.

"Shit, would you stop that?" The detective simply ignored him, pulling and shifting him until he was sitting up. He then proceeded to hand the bottle and glass to the doctor, who snatched them out of his hands and downed the contents.

"There, are you better?"

John rolled his eyes. "They're drugs, Sherlock, not fucking magic. Give me ten minutes and I'll be fine." The detective sighed, his eyes turning to the laptop that he had abandoned when John had woken up.

For the first time, the doctor noticed the device, giving a quizzical look to his genius. "Sherlock, when did you get that?"

The detective sighed. "About the same time that I cleaned up the mess we made of ourselves from last night, wriggled you into a pair of pants to give you some of that modesty that you do seem so bent on pretending to have, corrected Lestrade's snoring, got you a glass of water and your medications, and hacked into the secure wireless connection so that I could do some research."

John nodded. "So about an hour ago."

The detective smirked, clicking out of the browser window that he was in and tossing the laptop haphazardly aside. "Basically." He ruffled his hair slightly, the already chaotic curls sticking out wildly. "So, you have questions."

John nodded, pushing himself up a little further on his pillow. "Yes, actually." He turned, propping his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "What the fuck is going on, Sherlock?"

Another sigh, this one accompanied by Sherlock resting his head on top of John's. "Victor. Do you want the long version or the short version?"

John rolled his eyes, nudging the detective playfully. "You're the genius, you tell me."

A deep breath. "It started with that case."

John snorted, giggling helplessly. "Christ, you know how to be dramatic."

The detective pulled his head back, glaring sideways at the doctor. "Do you want to know what's going on or not?"

John took a deep breath, his arm clutching his sides lightly. "Alright mate, Alright."

Sherlock sighed again. "Something was off with those bodies. They were all killed in a way that made it obvious they were not the original target."

He pulled away, spinning around to face John. "It didn't hit me until I was rudely removed from that cab—"

John rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. "Sherlock. You were kicked from a cab for offending the driver. If anything you were the rude—"

"It's not my fault that she was offended by my description of how I was going to debauch you on the couch."

The doctor paused, mouth hanging open. "You think that's what offended her? Sherlock, you said, and I quote, 'go back to your ruminations on how your poor life decisions have ruined your life and the lives of those around you.' "

The detective huffed. "She called me a pretentious little prick."

"Yeah, Afterward." The doctor stifled a giggle at the pout he was receiving. "Fine, you were kicked out of the cab, then what?"

Sherlock nodded, crossing his legs and folding his hands beneath his chin. "Two men charged me in the street."

"Seriously?"

A nod. "I never said that they were bright. Moving, they chased me, we fought, more chasing, they grabbed me, more struggling, I ran some more, hid in a skip—"

The doctor held up a hand. "Hang on, how did you get into a skip?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They chased me across the rooftops so I dove into a bin to hide. Really, John, keep up."

John closed his eyes. "You have, quite literately, mentioned none of that."

"Deduce, John."

The doctor sighed, running his hand over his face. "Fine, fine. A wheelie bin. I'm assuming that this is the point where you ended the phone call."

Sherlock smirked. "Very good, John. That's also when I deduced that they were attempting to capture me alive and—"

"Did you deduce it, or did they say something?" Sherlock frowned, confirming John's suspicions.

"Shut up."

The doctor held his hands up, inviting the detective to continue. "So when I evaded them, which was tedious work, I made my way to a meeting point where Mycroft's people picked me up. And brought me here to be held."

John sighed, running his hands over his face before propping his head on his hands.

"Sherlock, while I know you pride yourself in your story telling, I feel like I've missed a few things."

The detective sighed. "Like what?"

"Like what the fuck is actually going on. Yeah, I get that you were nearly abducted by Victor's goons. Yes, I understand that we're waiting for Mycroft to deal with the danger. But what does Felton's case have to do with any of this? And when can we go home?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I was the target, John. Those murders were a lure to expose me for capture."

John nodded. "The perfect case. What better way is there to get Sherlock Holmes out of hiding?"

Sherlock threw his hands up. "Exactly! But what I still don't understand is why? Why go through all of this trouble?"

The doctor shook his head, sitting up straighter while rubbing his hands on the sheets. "I have no clue. Pure revenge?"

The detective shook his head. "No. No, it has to be something else. Something more. Victor is a vile, filthy, sadistic bastard, but he's not petty. No, there's something else going on."

There was a knock at the door and both heads swiveled to see a rather disturbing sight.

Mycroft Holmes, his hair disheveled, face covered in scruff.

The most disturbing sight, however, was not the kiss-stained lips or blushing cheeks, but the fact that the posh politician was wearing a t-shirt and jeans.

John rubbed his eyes, blinking a few times before glancing at an equally as disbelieving Sherlock.

Mycroft rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame. "It appears that I've spent all night securing two statues."

John shook himself slightly. "Does that mean that we're alright to leave?"

Both Holmes sighed, fixing him with a disappointed scowl.

"No, Doctor Watson, it means that you're safe here. Victor Trevor has gone to ground, though local authorities apprehended two men that are believed to be in connection with him. One is in critical condition after being hit by a car."

Sherlock smirked, pleased with the summary. "So now you and Lestrade can sod off."

Mycroft smirked, quirking his eyebrow at his brother. "As much as we'd all prefer to leave you two here in a Honeymoon Cottage, we are all going to be staying here until the issue is resolved."

The detective glanced at a blushing John before standing next to the bed. "Well, then Mycroft, I'm glad that you've sought fit to inform of us this. Thank you for your input." He stepped forward, slamming the door in his brother's face.