Hearts beating fast, the group dashed down the road, into a small backyard. A woman in ragged clothes lay unconscious on the grass, the soil soaking with her blood. Behind her, a pub with it's freshly broken windows, the door half open, sounds of struggle coming from within. Greg was vaguely aware of a shadow moving in the corner of his eye, disappearing onto the streets, as he ran to help his friend. A thug in black hoodie was pushing Sherlock down on the debris, a gleaming blade in his hand, screaming with fury as he tried to shake the Detective's hand of his wrist. Behind them, a second attacker earned heavy blows from a dirty, bearded man – one of Sherlock's street agents - , who had disarmed the offender's gun and was now landing well-placed hits with a candlestick.

John launched himself into the fight, pulling the thug away from his partner, trying to kick the knife out of his hands. He wrapped his arm around the man's throat and aimed for his own gun with the other. Sherlock remained on the floor, curled up, motionless. The criminal rammed his elbow into his sides, knocking the air from his lungs. Gasping for breath, John kicked the other man's kneecaps skilfully, making him drop to his knees with a cry of agony. Rage filled the wounded's face as he threw the blade, but the army doctor was faster, dodging the missile and sending him crashing into the bar with a well-placed kick.

Meanwhile, Lestrade had aimed his gun at the second thug, declairing his position at the Yard, as he tried to get a clean shot without hurting Sherlock's agent. The thug skilfully hid behind the larger man, as she dodged the candlestick attacks, sliding behind a row of tables. Greg climbed on the bar, jumping on the next tables, aiming his revolver at the attacker, shouting again. The bearded man threw his improvised weapon at the criminal, causing a short distraction, and dived under the table. Without hesitation, Greg fired and hit the assassin's shoulder. The woman screamed in pain but took cover behind the furniture. He heard a loud crash behind him, as the second thug was thrown into the bar and John loudly declared his victory.

For a moment, an eerie silence fell over the lonely pub. John had tackled his attacker to the bar, his revolver pressed to his chest, Molly hovered over Sherlock and Greg had his gun fixed on the second criminal, as the homeless agent pulled her from behind the tables. Sherlock murmured something into Molly's ear, she nodded and left the building, checking on the unconscious woman before putting the battery back into her phone to make a phone call. Handcuffs snapped and both assassins where placed against the bar. John wrapped his arms around his partner. "Sherlock, are you okay? What happened?" The detective leaned against his shoulder weakly, pressing his hand to his stomach, eyes dull and exhausted. Blood ran down his forehead and from his nose. The criminals stared at him triumphantly. "He was giving us our orders when we were attacked." Said the bearded man. "One of 'em got poor Jess and knocked her out, then they went for Mr. Holmes and that bitch over there came for me. I'm an old veteran, I know how to defend myself but poor Holmes was overrun. Your arrival sent the third one flying, bloody coward." "What's your name, soldier?" John asked. The man chuckled. "I ain't now soldier no more, sir. My name's Jeff. I've been working for Mr. Holmes many years, he's a good man, Sir, gives us work, never jugdes." "I know." John smiled.

"Whatever it is that he was planning," Molly said. "It can wait. He's injured too badly, look at his head wound and there's probably severe internal injury. He needs rest and we need him!" Greg's eyes flashed with shock. "But we can't stop looking now! We have to find-" "It can wait!" Molly said sternly. "We can't risk losing anyone else."

John supported Sherlock, as he climbed into the ambulance and demanded to stay with him during the ride. The two criminals were pushed into a police car, the officer turned around to Lestrade, but the DI was discussing furiously with Molly, speaking in low voices. After making sure that both Sherlock and Jess were safe, Jeff quietly disappeared in the busy streets. The ambulance took off, Greg and Molly following with another officer, leaving the pub, now swarming with cops, behind them.

Inside the ambulance, John held Sherlock's hand tightly, his face dark with worry. The paramedic, a young, handsome man in his early thirties with a confident smile, checked the machinery, pushed some buttons and then nodded to himself. "All safe Mr. Holmes, no surveillance possible in here." He dropped on the free seat, crossing his arms, grinning proudly. To his John's surprise, the Detective sat up, his keen eyes filling with energy, smiling brightly. "Ah, thank you very much, Steve, your cooperation is very useful to us!" John stared at him in shock, then, realization slowly hit him. "Are you kidding me?" He growled through clenched jaws. Sherlock hesitated and bit his lip nervously. "What is this, Sherlock?"
"I'm sorry John, I really am, but I had to improvise quickly, there was no time to lose."
"But Molly said-? She examined you, she was worried!"
"Yes and she was perfectly sure I was alright when she leaned over me, so I told her to get someone from St. Bart's whom she trusts and ask them to make a big deal out of it, tell everyone my life it at stake."
"Why would you lie to so many people?" He sighed.
"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Those thugs were obviously sent by dear friend Moran to slow us down, which also tells me we're on the right track. I let them beat me up just enough to look wounded, but you know I am not that easy to break. We are going to the hospital, put on a little show and you will all make it look as if my situation is very critical. Hopefully, Moran falls for it and t will buy us some time. As soon as the colonel calls off his hounds we can continue our hunt. Molly and Lestrade are on their way to the Yard, they can start from there. Mrs. Hudson and Rosie will be safe at the Diogenes' Club and you and I will work from here until it's safe to leave. Which means absolute caution with any electric devices and with strangers. I need both you and Steve's help to keep other doctors from examining me too closely." The paramedic nodded. "You can rely on me, Mr. Holmes, whoever it is you're hiding from, they better watch out. No one hurts Molly Hooper's friends and get away with it, that woman is fierce."

"And you have no idea who could have sent those people after Mr. Holmes and why?" Inspector Gregson arched his brow doubtfully.
Molly shook her head. "No, Sir."
He flipped through his notes. "Ms. Hooper, you have been investigating the body of a certain Ms. Wilhelm, is that right?"
"Yes, Sir, I was in charge of the medical examination." Her voice was steady and clear, her eyes flashed with annoyance.
"But you did more than that, didn't you? You also asked to see all her records, any papers you could get your hands at, as well as those of a Reginald Musgrave, recently murdered at the same crime where Mr. Mycroft Holmes was abducted, a scene that they were not allowed to even be at. Breaking and entering is a serious crime. Mr. Sherlock Holmes said it was part of an investigation. Who was he investigating and why?"
Molly shot him an angry glance. "You know what he says about the Yard, don't you? That you're too narrow minded, lacking the imagination to see the full picture?" She crossed her arms. "Your colleague was injured, his friends attacked and his boyfriend is missing, you could at least show some sympathy."
Gregson's eyes opened in surprise. "Boyfriend? Since when's Greg gay?"
Slapping her hands to the desk angrily, Molly stood up and glared at the Inspector, eyes burning furiously. "Any further questions go to my lawyer." The door slammed shut behind her.

"I can't believe him." She hissed. Greg laid his arm around her soothingly. "He's just trying to do his job." The friends walked between the high metal shelves of the Scotland Yard's file storage. "And you could've been a bit nicer." Molly crossed her arms defiantly. "I only did what Sherlock asked me to do. I hope you did, too." He nodded. "Yeah, it's gonna cause me some trouble with my boss but people here have learned to trust Sherlock in his decisions." Pulling a cardboard box from the shelves. "This is going to take ages." He sighed, opening the file box, shuffling through the papers. "Aren't they going to find out we're down here?" Molly asked. Greg shook his head. "No one ever really checks the files in person when there's a computer system. And if they do, they send interns or secretaries to fetch them. Or Donovan in my case." Molly shot him an angry glance. "I really should apologize for that." He added quickly.

Mycroft couldn't fight his pride any longer. The instinct of survival was too strong. He had eagerly swallowed the stale porridge and water they had given him. Ashamed and empty, he cowered in his cell, face in hands, as muffled voices sounded from behind his door. He lifted his head and strained to listen.
"Pleasure to see you here so soon, love." Moran said sarcastically. A female voice answered him. "I came to report, as you asked me to." Mycroft recognized her, Irene Adler. Of course she'd be working for him. Anything for money.
"Your little troop of assassins took it a bit far, they almost killed him. Hospital records say he suffered severe internal injuries."
"Really? I would've thought better of him. The famous consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, defeated by a group of cheap thugs." He scoffed. "How can I be sure you're not lying to me?"
"I have hospital records, police reports and your filthy underworld scum who I just bought from prison." She hissed. "If you're not careful you'll get him killed before you get what you want."
"I know what I am doing!" Moran shouted. "I will have my revenge, exactly how I want it and a bitch like you can't stop me!"
"You are nothing on him, you know?" Irene said coldly. "Jim Moriarty was a criminal mastermind, you are whiny boy with a few boot-lickers to boss around. You can play your little game for now but sooner or later someone will bully you of that playground." Her statement was followed by the familiar echo of clicking heels, fading as she walked away. There was a banging against the cell door. "Hear that? Your little brother's good as dead. And so are you."

Icy fear spread through him, crawling under his skin, making his chest heavy and tight. Sherlock was a good fighter. What could possibly have happened that a group of ordinary thugs beat him?
His brother was injured, his friends in danger, the love of his life far away. No one would come for him. All was lost. He was alone.