Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. This is really just the first half of this portion of the story, the rest shall come soon. Here is the villainy I promised, hopefully it will be worthy of our Great Detective. Please, enjoy! And review!

Chapter Fifteen

"No morning quite like it"

Detective Inspector Lestrade was surrounded by a war zone. Not that he'd actually been to one, but he'd seen enough on TV to know that if he was ever to call a crime scene a war zone, it was here and now.

They were in an abandoned warehouse district on the shore of the Thames, the buildings around them decrepit and crumbling. The buildings were really just shells, some with roofs and walls, others with just the bare support structures on cracked foundations. It looked like a dead forest of concrete trees, with alleys and streets littered by rubble and debris. Having been abandoned for the better part of twenty years, the degenerates of the city had spread through the area like a plague, destroying anything that remained. And even they had eventually moved on, as the buildings and walls around them became condemned death traps, too dangerous to provide shelter during the harsh, wet winters. This area was so off the beaten path, forgotten by the world, that it had literally taken it exploding in the middle of the night for people to remember it was there.

There was a faint stink of gunpowder and sulfur hanging on the cold autumn air, and the wind howling through the walls of the warehouses moved the spent shells that littered the ground. There were so many of them the ground seemed to glow a weird bronze color in the sunlight. Bullet holes by the thousands decorated the remaining walls, scorch marks from explosions running over the ground, up walls, concrete dust blowing in the cold winds. The neighboring areas had reported hearing what sounded like thunder coming from the abandoned properties, that went on for the better part of two hours. It wasn't until the orange glow of fires were spotted by a patrol car sent to investigate that anyone even took the reports seriously. That officer had called it in, saying it sounded like a massive gunfight was raging inside the grounds, and that he needed immediate backup.. mainly because he had no idea how to get into the gated off area. The grounds had been overgrown by trees and bushes, the one remaining road reduced to a gravel memory twisting through the wild growth. So that one officer was forced to stand and watch as the horizon lit up again and again from the fiery shockwaves that shook the trees, and made the earth tremble beneath his feet. He had reported it all back over the radio, and Scotland Yard had emptied as fast as possible. By the time reinforcements had arrived, it was well past four in the morning, and it then took another hour to get all the emergency vehicles into the complex. Even then, the responders had to go on foot, as there was no place left in the massive complex that a vehicle could drive over.

The commotion had stopped as the dozens of armed officers had finally breached the outer buildings, dying away impossibly fast, smoke still blowing in the wind that came off the river. They had seen no one, heard no signs of people - there had been nothing to explain the craters in the ground, the spent shell casings. And once the sun rose, there was nothing to explain the blood.

Great pools of it congealed in the morning sunlight, the stink of wet blood inescapable. It was everywhere. The smell was almost as bad as the prevalent, disturbing realization that there were no bodies. Blood ran as rivers into the low-lying areas, and there were no bodies. The blood seemed to be centered mostly in the middle of the complex, with officers reporting smaller pools and puddles found in out lying areas. The search dogs had found no bodies, and no explosives left in the area. As each tactical team cleared a zone, the forensic teams swept in, only to be confounded by what they were seeing, and on such a large scale. They had no place of origin, nothing to start from. The chaos had appeared out of nowhere, and they had no idea what caused any of it.

Lestrade was at a loss, standing at the outskirts of the main portion of the complex, next to the command tent. People were rushing everywhere. He was just staring at the chaos around him, when he noticed a young forensic tech standing at his elbow, trying to get his attention. He had to report soon to his superiors, and he had no clue what he was going to say.

"Sir? We... we... we found something." He looked pale, and visibly shaken, though that could just be because everyone else was too. But there was something in his eyes, something that said that what they'd found scared him at a new level.

"Show me." Lestrade snapped out of his haze, and followed on the heels of the tech as he scurried through the rubble. He led Lestrade to where about a dozen other people were standing, staring at a wall that had miraculously survived relatively intact. It was facing away from most of the destruction, which would explain why whatever it was had only been found now. Lestrade forced his way through the crowd, and what he saw stopped him cold.

Words written in what looked like blood, by means that bore no relation to human hands. They stood almost two meters tall, the letters swooping and diving among the cracks and bullet holes. How they looked was creepy enough, but the phrase itself is what made Lestrade swear out loud, his hand reaching for his mobile. They practically screamed out from the wall:

WE WILL BURN THE HEART OUT OF HIM

Sunrise breaking across his eyes was what woke him at first, followed by the realization that there was a person in his bed. Having never had another person sleep next to him before in his life, it was John's leg thrown over his hip that wakened him all the way.

Sherlock was flat on his back, the warm morning sunlight annoying. Turning his head from the window, Sherlock was able to see John deeply asleep next to him, his head close to Sherlock's on the pillow. His breath was coming out in little puffs across Sherlock's neck, and John had his arms wrapped tightly around his arm and shoulder. It was if he had grabbed onto Sherlock in the middle of a dream, and refused to let go. Sherlock was highly surprised that John laying on him hadn't woken him up sooner. He had known sleeping with someone in his bed was going to be a new experience, and he had figured it was best to get it over with quickly, so as to get used to it faster. Sound logic, if it wasn't for the fact he had wanted him there with him, too.

Sherlock thought about it, and realised that it was actually fairly pleasant. The morning air was cold, and the heat coming off of John was welcome. Somehow the blankets had worked down around their hips, and it didn't look like he could pull them up without dislodging John. He couldn't tell what time it was, but from the angle of the sun, it was obviously very early in the morning still. Far earlier than he usually got up.

Sherlock looked at John's face, relaxed in sleep. He looked younger, his worries gone while he slept. Sherlock knew that some of the new lines around John's eyes were because of him, and what he'd put his doctor through the last two years. Sherlock closed his eyes against the thought, regret grabbing ahold of his heart before he could banish it. He had listened to Mycroft, and not gone back for John. Moriarty's network had people watching him, and seeing John's behavior change, no matter how subtle he might have played his reaction to knowing Sherlock was indeed alive, would have been enough to endanger them all. He knew that, but a part of him had screamed at him to go to John that day in the graveyard. He had been so broken, and John's grief had called to him.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock banished his pain, and let himself feel content in the moment. So very rarely was he allowed to feel anything close to contentment, and this feeling John was generating inside of him was the closest he had ever gotten. Sherlock smiled, and opened his eyes. John was awake, and blinking slowly at him, smiling at him sleepily.

"Hi." John murmured, still tired and sounding like it. One of his hands lost the grip it had on Sherlock's arm, and swept across his bare chest to catch him in a half hug. John snuggled closer, half awake and clearly happy to be where he was. Sherlock marveled again at the wonder that was John Watson; as soon as he had confronted the fact that he loved Sherlock, and that he was attracted to him, his reticence and disbelief faded away hour by hour until they got to the point they did last night. Sherlock had never identified himself as anything; gay, straight, bisexual, asexual. Nothing. It hadn't been important, so he hadn't really thought about it. The chances of him getting involved with another human being to the degree he had with John had always seemed like an impossibility. Yet for all that, Sherlock knew that this shift in John's self-identity couldn't be easy, and he made himself a promise to be diligent with his doctor. Sherlock may never have had sexual orientation issues, but from what he knew of the world, it wouldn't be seamless for John.

Sherlock tipped his head to John, and kissed him on the forehead. Sherlock felt the little tingle of excitement that jumped from his lips to his bloodstream, traveling through his body to all sorts of new places. He had never been this attuned to his body before, it had always been transport, and therefore maintained enough to support his brain. He found that stimulating the body was in turn quieting the storm of thoughts and theories that usually drove him to distraction when he didn't have a case. He knew intuitively that it was a natural progression of the centering affect John already had on him; it seemed that John Watson was destined to be a part of Sherlock forever.

That buzzing little current of excitement was stirring things up inside of him, and he reached down for another kiss before he realized that the buzzing he was hearing wasn't actually coming from inside, but from the nightstand. Sherlock turned is head, and saw his mobile lighting up with numerous text messages, and the screen clearly said he had several missed calls. He'd thrown it on vibrate after John's predawn call, and hadn't changed it back. Sherlock reached out and snagged it off the nightstand. Just as he went to open the screen, another call came through. Seeing that it was Lestrade, Sherlock sighed and answered.

"What?" He growled, annoyed. He had been about to do something interesting, and he didn't need Scotland Yard interrupting.

"Oh thank God! You weren't answering, I was about to send patrol cars out to find you!" Lestrade's voice was angry, and even frightened. He was obviously in an area with a lot of people, but the sound of the wind made it clear he was outside somewhere. He could hear vehicles moving, but it wasn't the sound of London traffic, and it wasn't the garage at the Yard. "Where are you?"

"I'm relaxing in bed, trying to have a good morning. How are you, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock wasn't in the mood to deal with other people now, unless it was John. The anger is his voice made John stir, having fallen back asleep on Sherlock's chest.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" He murmured, lifting his head. "Is that Greg on the phone?"

Silence was on the other end of the line, and Sherlock knew Lestrade had recognized John's voice. Sherlock sighed, and said sarcastically, "Yes, that was John, yes I'm in bed, and yes it's what you're thinking. WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

A pause, then Lestrade seemed to pull himself out of his shock. "We need you. Now. I'm sending some patrol cars for you. Be ready in twenty minutes. Bring John." Lestrade hung up, not giving Sherlock a chance to say no thank you. Sherlock tossed his mobile back to the nightstand, and heaved a big sigh. He hugged John to him for a moment, regretfully. He had been looking forward to finding out what his morning in bed would have been like today.

"Wake up, Dr Watson. Be thankful it's the weekend, your schedule just filled up. Lestrade has an emergency on his hands, and as usual needs me. Whatever it is big enough for him to send a multiple car police escort. Twenty minutes... you'll probably need your gun."

"What? My gun... yeah I've got it somewhere? In my bag, wherever that went... Twenty minutes! Ugh it isn't even time for breakfast yet!" John was not happy, and Sherlock grinned, his own bad mood evaporating. John sat up in bed, and was struggling to free his legs from the blankets. Totally naked. Except for his socks. Sherlock just propped himself up on his elbows, and watched. He couldn't help himself, and started chuckling. He rolled off his side of the bed, and tugged the blankets off of John. John noticed he was naked at the same time he also noticed that Sherlock was wearing very thin white cotton pajama pants that clung to everything. His eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, and he stared. Hard. Sherlock grinned at him, and said one word that got his attention quickly.

"Shower."

It was a race into the bathroom after that, which ended up being a draw as the bedroom door wouldn't open at first for some reason. Sherlock yanked on the doorknob, and the door gave a screech as it opened.

Sherlock had been busy while John slept at the kitchen table the night before. He had emptied John's go bag, putting his toiletries back where they had once been, before the Fall. His clothes had gone into the dresser Sherlock had pulled from his closet, John's gun nestled in with his socks. John blinked at his stuff arranged neatly on the shelves.

Sherlock opened the water in the shower on high, dropped his pajama pants, and hopped in, uncaring that the water was alternately hot and freezing cold. John grinned, and peeled his socks off before joining his detective. There was enough room for both of them under the spray, and Sherlock watched warily as John reached for the soap and came at him with it. John made a little motion with his hand, and Sherlock turned around. He washed his hair while John made very extra special attention to his back with that soap. Sherlock felt conflicted; he was so unused to anyone touching him, especially in such a personal way, that he felt unnerved. But this was John, the one person in all the world Sherlock trusted beyond measure. And John's hands were getting a reaction from him, a very prompt and independent reaction. Sherlock grinned, and tried to settle the current of unease he felt. Embarrassment? People have seen me naked before... Never aroused, certainly. The body is much the same, isn't it? Why do I not want to turn around?

Sherlock turned anyway, once John put his hands on his shoulders, and found himself fully under the spray, pressed to the wall. He felt his blood burning, and John took full notice of the state Sherlock was in. His hands followed the musculature of Sherlock's chest, across his smooth stomach, and lower. John stopped though, as he had felt Sherlock tense up slightly, his stomach muscles sucking in. Sherlock cursed himself for showing any reaction. No one, in the entirety of the world, had ever touched him there, where John was going. Am I afraid? What the hell is wrong with me? I want him to touch me, my body wants it, but I can't seem to let him get there...

John stopped, and he put the soap back on the little alcove in the stall. He reached up, adjusted the spray, and let the water wash over them both, rinsing the soap away. He didn't avoid Sherlock's eyes, but he made no move to touch him where he had been going earlier. John seemed to know, he just knew somehow, what was going through Sherlock's head. And he wasn't upset at all. Sherlock eyed John, slightly disbelieving that anyone could be so understanding, and be so politely subtle about it too. Sherlock relaxed, the tension melting away, and he reached a hand out, and stroked John's cheek lightly with his thumb. John gave him a sweet smile, and they both finished washing off in silence.

They shared sink space, both finishing up at the same time. Sherlock walked back into his room, calling to John, "Your clothes are in here, the dresser there. Your gun's in there too, under the green socks."

"You just moved me right in, didn't you? " John said, smiling to take away any offense. Sherlock winked at him, pulling a suit from his wardrobe.

"No point in pretending you were going to end up anywhere else. My room's next to the bathroom." And I can't seem to stop wanting you with me...

Sherlock was in a particular mood, and he dressed himself in blacks slacks, a shirt so white it looked like snow on Christmas morning, and a very form-fitting black jacket. Same leather shoes. Some things never change. He felt more in control in those clothes, more like the old Sherlock. Closing the door, he ran his fingers through his rioting curls, deliberating making it look like he never bothered with product.

Sherlock saw John laughing at him quietly in the mirror's refection, having caught him preening like a teen. Sherlock ignored him, and sauntered out of the bedroom to the front room. He grabbed his kit from the desk, making sure it was fully stocked. His coat was hanging from the door still, and he thoroughly checked to make sure all of his pockets had his additional tools, his knife, and that the items in the hidden pockets were still present. He heard John loading his gun as he came down the hall, coming into the room as he tucked it into his back waistband, under his jumper.

"Just in time; our escort has arrived." Outside the sound of several cars screeching to a halt could be heard, brakes complaining. The lights from the patrol cars could be seen reflecting through the windows. Sherlock twirled on his coat, and draped his scarf around his neck as he took the stairs two at a time out of the flat. John was right behind him on his heels.

They burst out of the front door just as a very startled Sally Donovan was raising her fist to bang on it. Her face went pale, and her eyes slid past Sherlock to land on John.

"Donovan, how lovely to see you after all this time. I see you've been handling my demise better than Anderson." Though if she doesn't stop drinking herself to sleep every night she won't for long.

Her typical snark wasn't present, as she was still staring at John. Sherlock turned to his doctor, raised a brow at the utter rage and disgust pouring off him, his eyes screaming bloody murder. John looked quite capable of shooting Donovan where she stood. Sherlock wrapped his fingers tightly around John's elbow, and very carefully pulled him past the unmoving Donovan towards the cars pulled up to the curb. Five patrol cars and a personal vehicle had come for them. Lestrade's silver BMW was the one closest, though the Inspector wasn't present. A uniform was behind the wheel, talking to someone on a radio. Sherlock popped the rear door, shoved the livid doctor in the backseat, and said over his shoulder before hopping in himself, "I believe we've been summoned, do stop dawdling." He slammed the door shut, and looked at John.

The shorter man was a bundle of rage and rigid control - the set of his shoulders and the fierce glint of his eyes bespoke the fury that built up in him at the sight of the very irrelevant policewoman. John was trying to calm himself, his fists clenched on his thighs, breathing through his teeth. Sherlock looked back at Donovan, who was slowly coming to the car, and seemed indecisive about getting in the front passenger seat. Sherlock dismissed her, and turned back to John. Touched in no small way by John's obvious distaste at her presence, Sherlock reached out and wrapped his gloved fingers around the clenched fist closest to him. As soon as he took John's hand, John stopped staring at Donovan, and looked at Sherlock. He seemed to remember where he was, and his doctor steadily relaxed. He eased his fingers enough to intertwine his fingers with Sherlock's. Donovan chose that moment to get in to the car, and as soon as she settled in, the patrol cars lit up, and the convoy pulled away from the curb, tearing out of Baker Street far faster than was wise.

Donovan kept herself looking forward, and dialed Lestrade. "Yeah Boss it's me, I've got them both, ETA twenty minutes." She paused, listening, "Yes sir, I'll fill him in."

She hung up the phone, and without daring to turn around, began talking.

"Sometime between midnight and two AM this morning, dispatch received several complaints about disturbances from an abandoned warehouse complex on the south bank of the river, just outside city limits. When a patrol car was eventually sent to the area to investigate, he radioed for backup immediately. He reported seeing what he thought were explosions, heard gunfire, and several other sounds he was unable to identify. By the time reinforcements arrived, and were able to get through to the site, whatever it was, was over. We have confirmed two dozen plus explosions, potentially thousands of rounds fired, and ... well, you'll see when we get there, Lestrade said he'll fill in the rest."

"Where, exactly? You said abandoned warehouses?" Sherlock asked, settling back into the seat, his side along John's, no space between them.

"Yes, south bank, the northern property line on the river..." Sherlock phased out her voice, and he looked in the direction they were heading. The patrol cars in front of them were clearing traffic, and they were making good time through the city. She had told Lestrade their ETA was twenty minutes; and with that Sherlock had a fairly clear idea of where they were heading. And the comment about the police backup finally making it through to the site narrowed it down. Sherlock closed his eyes, and sank deep inside of his mind, and conjured up the maps of London before him, looking down at the city in a bird's-eye view. He flew over the streets of London, swooping and diving towards the river, intuition and memory leading him to his target.

The place they were going was along the south bank of the river, a large multi-building compound once used for storing hazardous materials. Closed over twenty years ago, and left to rot for just as long. The government had eventually stepped in and condemned the property, letting the wildlife along the river reclaim it. The northernmost edge of the property was literally on the river's edge - a twenty-foot concrete and rock wall rose out of the river, the walls of the buildings a dozen feet from the waters of the Thames. The complex spread south away from the river, towards the old access roads, which had been overrun by plant growth, making passage almost impossible by vehicle. I know this place!

Sherlock snapped back to reality, aware that John had known he'd "stepped away." He talked over Donovan, who was in the process of saying that the police had no idea what the place had once been, let alone who owned it. Idiots.

"Blackwood Chemical Storage and Treatment Facility, abandoned twenty years ago after the death of the principle owner. Condemned by the government fifteen years ago." Sherlock said calmly, like he was commenting on the weather.

The car went quiet, even the driver casting glances in the rear view mirror at him, like he couldn't believe his ears. Sherlock kept his face innocently serene as Donovan looked over her shoulder at him in shock. John had a huge grin on his face, and started laughing quietly behind his free hand. Sherlock expected a "freak" comment from Donovan, but she cast a wary glance at John and just texted Lestrade, presumably telling him Sherlock's information. John squeezed his hand, and Sherlock turned to his doctor. The look in his eyes warmed Sherlock to his core, and he felt like his was back in that bedroom, holding John.

"I've missed watching you do that," John said softly, voice intimate in the quiet car.

"Don't worry my dear doctor, you'll never have to miss it again." Sherlock's attention was only for the man beside him. He knew Donovan had turned completely around at this point, her face a mask of pure disbelief, but neither man cared.