Soooooo here's the next chapter, as promised! I am currently writing the next one, so I'm hoping for tomorrow or Wednesday :) Wish me luck and inspiration :D

I pick out a dark hoodie and comfortable, not too tight trousers, together with black sneakers, and a black scarf out of thin, almost see-through fabric and put everything on. Knwing my hair could betray me, I tie it together in a messy knot at the nape of my neck, hoping it won't come loose.

At last, I take out the thin black gloves, which Father gave me to my sixteenth birthday. It's strange how long ago that is, and I suddenly realise I never celebrated my seventeenth.

The gloves are almost a tiny bit small, but they still fit and are the best I have, so I put them in my pocket and go downstairs.

Mycroft and the three agents are waiting there, Sherlock stands close by and walks towards me as soon as he sees me.

"This is a camera with a microphone, we'll be able to see and hear the same you do. Don't crush it, okay?" I see the desperation in his eyes and nod, as he clips it to my hood.

The agents Mycroft picked are well-chosen, not too bulky, but rather lean and swift, dressed in dark clothes just as myself. They also seem to instantly recognize my authority – even though Mycroft probably briefed them seconds before I arrive.

"I want us to split up inside the house, securing everything and searching for Dr Watson. I don't need anyone of you to cuddle me, so do your job, you'll know when I need you.

As communication, we'll have three whistles.

There are three questions: Have we found Dr Watson? Do we need help? Do we need an ambulance?

One whistle means yes, two no – so if you have found Dr Watson, need help, but no ambulance, you'll whistle once, pause, once, pause, twice. Understood?"

Nobody says anything, so we take off. Sherlock and Mycroft will be waiting in a side-alley, watching the video from my camera, they drop me and the agents off before leaving, everything in almost complete silence, the quiet purr of the motor the only sound.

John's POV:

The fist hits him unexpectedly hard, his head whips to the side and John can't help but groan. It's been going on like this for hours, and he has no idea what's going on. His kidnappers hasn't asked any questions so far, just kept hitting him, and he's pretty sure he's got a broken nose and at least two bruised ribs.

"What to you want?" He slurs, spitting out blood, but he is only rewarded with another hit, like the last few times he asked.

It's so monotone, the feeling of blood running down his chin, running down his head from a wound which knocked him unconscious when he received it, it drying on his temple and cheeks and the dull throbbing of his nose, spiking whenever the fist hits him, makes the time go funny. He isn't actually sure how long he's been here, he's guessing about two days, but it could also have been a lot longer.

So when there are sounds of a fight outside the door to the room he is sitting in, and when the door bursts open and a person dressed in dark colours comes in, he is actually happy something is happening – even though he can't be sure the person means well for him.

The person who was in the room with him for the last few hours seems surprised, but then moves to attack.

Happy for the break, he quickly mentally checks himself over, and luckily, there are no life-threatening injuries – even if he hurts all over. Watching the fight, he can't help but silently cheer for the newcomer as he wrestles his opponent down, pinning him to the floor with a knife to his throat.

"Who are you? Who are you working for?" To John's surprise, the newcomer speaks with a low, but melodic voice of a woman.

"You have missed someone, you and your little friends," The man on the floor sneers, his face a victorious grimace.

"What do you mean? There's only Moran, no one else, we have insured that!"

"Have you though? Everyone had a deputy. What makes you think Moran doesn't?" John can see the triumphant smile of the man, and can imagine the face of the woman, even though her whole face is covered by a dark cloth.

"You made a mistake. And they know you're alive. All of you."

Kiara's POV:

"You made a mistake. And they know you're alive. All of you."

I stare at him for a moment, trying to process his words, then I act on instinct. The pommel of my knife is heavy enough to knock the man unconscious. Only then it really gets me and I throw my knife against the furthest wall.

"Shit!" I shout, not caring what Dr Watson might think of me. "Shit, shit, shit!"

I rip out the knife of my opponent and throw it as well, channeling my frustration into the throw. I must have been shouting for at least two minutes, until I somehow calm down and realise that I still need to free Dr Watson and tell the agents what's going on.

Jumping up and collecting my knife from the floor, I take deep breaths to calm to my normal level, and walk towards the chair Dr Watson is sitting in. He is watching me warily, obviously trying to figure out what is going on, but I decide to ignore it.

Putting the knife on the floor next to the chair, I reach out to touch his face, to check for injuries, but he moves away. Rolling my eyes, I reach out again and grip his chin carefully, hard enough to hold him steady but not so hard it would hurt.

He grimaces when I lightly touch his nose, and judging by the blood on his face and the swelling it looks broken, nothing I can help with, so I keep checking. There is blood coming from somewhere beneath his hair, it's sticky and red, but after a few seconds I see it's not bleeding anymore. His breathing is unsteady, by the way he avoids taking too deep breaths his ribs aren't okay, but otherwise he doesn't look too badly hurt.

Letting go of his face, I take a step back and start whistling: One, two, one – Found Dr Watson, don't need help, need ambulance.

Finally I kneel down and cut his ties with the knife, first freed are his wrists, then his ankles. He doesn't try to get up, rather rubs his wrists, and looks at me, obviously still wary.

But now, I have other concerns. The knife needs cleaning, but I put it away anyway, now I need to call Sherlock and Mycroft.

It rings only once until they pick up, and in that time I unclip the camera – no need to get a feedback effect.

"Yes?"

"Harrison, does he speak German?" I use the name Sherlock told me the night we met in Paris, hoping he'd understand not to call me Kiara.

"What?"

"Does Dr Watson speak German?" I repeat, and look around to the Doctor. He is still sitting there, watching me carefully, and I remember the first time we met in the museum – he had looked at me in the same way.

"He doesn't, no, not as far as I know."

"I hope you are right." I think for a moment before I switch into German, hoping Dr Watson does indeed not understand.

"Harrison, it seems Moran had a deputy as well."

"I know, I've heard. How is he?"

"I think broken nose, maybe concussion, some bruised ribs... He's fine, the ambulance should be here soon -" I interrupt myself as the agents come in, nodding at them once and then look towards Dr Watson, lightly touching my eyebrow in a mock salute.

As soon as I left the room, I continue.

"It's not only him, though. I think they took him because you broke your side of the deal – you didn't die when you commited suicide. You need to get agents to your friends, now – I fear they might be attacked as well."

"I'll see you when you reach the car."

"I'm ten minutes away. Don't mind me and help them, I'll catch a taxi home or walk – just hurry!"

Sherlock hangs up abruptly and I start walking. Only after a few minutes I realise I still have the scarf in front of my face and I push it down, together with my hood, enjoying the cold night-air on my skin.