Authors' Note: There is bound to be considerably less parallelism here on in. We will continue to write together, and we will continue to post in tandem, though you will undoubtedly notice startlingly familiar ideas bouncing back and forth between the stories from chapter to chapter. Flatmates of more than fifteen years do grow to think somewhat alike. As always, reviews are love, so please let us know what you think.

Chapter 2

John woke up when he felt the IV tubes move. He glanced muzzily up at the tech who was injecting fluid into the port on the IV that was closest to his arm. He wondered what it was. In the usual way, all of the drugs he needed would be in the drips. "Hullo," he said. "What's that?"

The man ignored John, withdrew the syringe and began shifting the machine that controlled John's drips from the stand by the bed to one attached to a wheelchair. As he turned, John abruptly recognized him. Adrenaline surged, and, even knowing it almost had to be too late, he snatched at his IV. A hand from the other side of John's body seized his wrist in a bruising grip. He looked up and swallowed convulsively. Both of the men who had hustled him to a van for his visit to Moriarty. All things considered, he preferred Mycroft's method of abduction. Fewer bruises and a prettier guard.

"Can't let you hurt yourself, John." With what seemed to be an unusual amount of effort, John wrenched his head forward to stare at the man at the foot of the bed. Moriarty looked down at him from the spot Mycroft had occupied not long ago, hands in his pockets, a slight grin on his face. He was dressed as 'Jim from IT,' so evidently Sherlock had failed thus far to mention that Molly's pseudo-boyfriend and the mad bomber were one and the same. "I must have you in prime condition," he caroled with that peculiar lilting intonation he affected. His gaze raked across John's body, taking in the cast and other bandages. "Or at least as prime as it gets under the circumstances."

"What for?" Those were the words John intended to speak, but his mouth felt mushy and his tongue wouldn't work properly. They came out an incomprehensible mumble.

"Sorry, John, you won't be able to communicate until the paralytic has worn off," Moriarty said in mocking apology, and John stared at him in horror. "Don't worry, it shan't affect your diaphragm. Your death won't serve me." He smiled, his eyes coldly amused. "At least not yet."

The 'consulting criminal' nodded, which was apparently a signal. The two bullies scooped John out of the bed and deposited him in the wheelchair, careful of his tubes. John couldn't do a thing to stop them. Despite the apparent care with which they handled him, John felt the stitches on his leg pull and discovered others on his belly he'd been previously unaware of. His pain meds didn't seem to be up to movement. Laying about was fine, but the jostling awoke aches and pains.

With what amounted to artistic fussiness, Moriarty carefully arranged John in the chair, his chin resting on his chest, head tilted slightly, eyes downcast. Anyone seeing him would assume he was asleep. Whilst Moriarty did that, his associates moved rapidly about the room, doing God only knew what. Then one of the thugs pushed the chair out of the room, leaving their boss behind. John had the impression he was heading for the computer, with what intent, John couldn't guess. He could only hope that someone would question them on their way out. Unfortunately, the solitary person they passed by fell in behind them, or so John gathered when the girl hurried ahead to open the final door for them. She was dressed as a nursing assistant, but she accompanied them out of the hospital and helped the others get him shifted into a nearby van. The interior had clearly been custom fitted for the purpose of conveying a patient in need of medical care, and the installations looked long past new. The drips machine fit neatly into a bracket that jutted out over a bunk that was fixed along one side of the van. They transferred him from the chair to the bunk and strapped him in. The young woman made sure all his tubes were properly disposed and made a couple of changes to the computer controlling the drips. Once she was satisfied, she got out again and ran the door shut. John, perforce, stared at the unadorned metal ceiling, his field of view including the bracket with his IVs and not much else. He still didn't even know precisely what was wrong with him. He hadn't yet spoken to a doctor.

After a few moments, though, he thought he knew what at least one of the changes had been. He felt himself go a bit lightheaded, and the pains awakened by the handling receded into the background again.

He couldn't be sure how long a time had passed when both the front doors opened and the van shook. Someone slipped between the front two seats, and John was treated to a close-up view of Moriarty's face as the man bent over him. "Are we comfortable?" he asked, his voice shifting to falsetto on the last two syllables. "Blink once for yes and twice for no." John closed his eyes resolutely and didn't open them again. Moriarty let out a laugh when he realized that John was refusing to answer him, and then he settled onto the bunk just beyond John's feet, leaning against the side wall of the van as it started up and pulled away from the kerb. John couldn't actually see him, but he could deduce the man's position from the way his weight affected the surface of the bunk. A hand landed on his bare feet, and John felt a flutter of unease in his gut. Moriarty actually began to rub John's foot in a bizarre sort of massaging motion. "How do you suppose Sherlock is going to react when he realizes I've got you?" he asked.

John already had images in his head. Sherlock had seemed nearly hysterical during those last moments John could remember at the pool, right before the world turned to chaos, pain and darkness. In the months since he had met Sherlock, John had seen him manic, he'd seen him nearly immobile, but he'd never seen him giddy for any reason. Nevertheless, there was no other way to describe Sherlock's behavior after Moriarty had left, after he'd ripped the coat and vest off John and reassured himself that Moriarty had indeed gone. He'd also seen Sherlock face seemingly insurmountable problems with a laugh and a shrug that concealed a deeper obsession. Something like this . . . he'd follow like Gollum following the ring, not for John's sake, but for the sake of his pride. Not that he wouldn't be concerned about John on some level – it had been relief that had caused the giddiness, after all – but the pursuit of the problem always mattered more to him than the victim.

On the other hand, when he got that focused, he tended to be terribly reckless. John knew that he, himself, was dead, but the last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to die as well. There was no way Moriarty was expending this much energy without the intent to guarantee that when Sherlock finally found him, John would be thoroughly – and probably brutally – dead. What worried him was what Sherlock would then risk to bring Moriarty down.

"This game will be even better than the last," Moriarty said in his ridiculous singsong, squeezing John's foot a bit too hard. He felt fingernails digging into his flesh. "And you'll have a front row seat for it, Johnny boy." He loomed up over John again. "Aren't you excited?" he demanded, tweaking John's nose. Laughing with something that sounded like delight, he settled back down and continued petting John's feet. John's gut twisted at the loathsome touch. He stared at the ceiling, coping because he had no other choice.

Sherlock slammed the door to room 111 open and stared through it. Lestrade was faintly amused by the way the hospital robe flung out, mimicking that long coat that Sherlock always wore. It was fortunate he was wearing a robe, because Lestrade imagined that a number of things would be hanging out in the breeze otherwise.

"He's gone," Sherlock said, his voice low and harsh.

A muttered curse behind Lestrade drew his attention back to Dr. Sawyer, who had followed them out of Sherlock's room and was staring at them in consternation. "What's going on?" she demanded. "I just said he –"

Sherlock whirled and glared at her. "Someone's just walked into the hospital, snatched John up and carried him away." He looked back into John's room, his voice going low and angry. "How is that possible?" He backed out of the doorway and Lestrade took his place, glancing around at the empty room. This didn't look like he'd been taken for a procedure or some such. It looked as though the room was awaiting occupancy. "Where are Mycroft's idiots?" Sherlock demanded of the air, looking about.

"Who is Mycroft?" Dr. Sawyer asked behind him. "What the bloody hell has happened, Sherlock?" Predictably, Sherlock made no response. Lestrade walked over and, pulling a crime scene glove out of his pocket, pressed the call button on the bed.

A scream from the passage made him whirl and dash out of the room again. A middle-aged woman staggered backwards from a linen cupboard down the corridor, staring into it. Sherlock ran up to look in and his eyes narrowed in anger. "Damn them, and damn Mycroft for sending them!" He turned and strode away. "Where's my sodding phone?"

Lestrade already had his in his hand, calling DS Sally Donovan. He'd left her in the lobby so as to avoid her getting up the back of either John or Sherlock. The woman who'd screamed was talking hysterically to Dr. Sawyer, who appeared to be trying to soothe her. Lestrade strode over to look inside himself. At that moment, Sally answered. "Donovan," she announced, as always sounding as if she were challenging the world.

His voice failed him briefly, but then he cleared his throat. "Get a team out here immediately."

"What for?" she demanded, adding sarcastically, "Has Sherlock finally gone off his nob?"

"John Watson has been abducted and there are two women and one man dead in a linen cupboard," Lestrade said succinctly. "There may be others for all I know."

"I'll get them on their way," Donovan replied, abruptly all business. "Where's Sherlock?"

"Ten feet away from me, on the phone with his brother."

"Do you think it's the bomber?" she asked. "That Moriarty?"

"Who the hell else could it be?" Lestrade replied irritably and snapped his phone shut.

"They're dead," Sherlock said emphatically into his phone, enunciating very clearly. "Or at least three of them are. How many did you leave?" He listened, and his eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Very clever." He went silent again, but Lestrade could sense him seething. "No, Mycroft, it's not that. You won't tell me?" He ground his teeth audibly. "Very well. Now we won't know how many bodies to look for." He punched the key to end the call and glowered over at Lestrade. "My charming brother set guards to watch us, but he refuses to tell me how many. In fact, he's tried to convince me that those are not his people." He rolled his eyes.

"They could be staff, I suppose," Lestrade said.

"No," Sherlock said shortly. When Lestrade gave him a questioning look, he sighed deeply and strode over to the doorway once again. "Look at those shoes," he said, pointing at the woman on the bottom of the pile. "Hospital staff don't, as a rule, wear trainers. They wear ugly shoes designed for long term standing, not shoes meant to aid in running. Besides, I've seen them all a dozen times or more. Mycroft has a limited pool of people to choose from, and they're not very imaginative in terms of disguise." He turned abruptly away from the door, flinging his arms wide before beginning to pace in a manic circle. "This is a waste of time. They won't have left any evidence."

"There's almost certain to be something, Sherlock," Lestrade put in, but the younger man spoke over the top of him.

"Not useful evidence!" he retorted. "We need to locate Moriarty."

"I've told you, we're tracing every lead we can. Actually, if you could sit down with a sketch artist, it would be a great help."

Sherlock stopped dead and stared at him. "Why would you need a sketch? Just get a photo from the security cameras at Barts." He shook his head. "Good God, why hasn't that been done yet?"

"Sherlock, I don't know what you're talking about. You saw him at Barts?"

"He came in and played a game with us," Sherlock replied. His eyes widened. "Where are my clothes?" He nearly ran back into his room and began searching through cupboards.

"They're in evidence, Sherlock. You were blown up."

Sherlock whirled, his robe flaring out, gazing intently at Lestrade. "There might be a phone number in my coat pocket. I'm not actually sure what I did with it. At the time I thought he was just some gay computer technician playing around with Molly Hooper, so I mightn't have kept it."

"He fooled you?" Lestrade asked, a little startled.

"He built more than one layer of identity into his appearance. I saw past the top, but didn't look deeper. Damn it." He grabbed his phone again and made another call. "Mrs. Hudson. Bring me some clothes, would you? The police took mine." He paused for a moment. "I don't know. Evidence or something. It doesn't matter. I must be going, and I haven't any clothes." Whatever she said must have satisfied him, because he hung up.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"I don't know yet. I presume I'll be sent somewhere. That's his game, isn't it? Sending me on little quests?" He glanced around as though looking for something. "I need a list of the children in the school Carl Powers attended for the five years previous to his year and the five years after. We looked at the boys in his year, but there must be something there. He said that Carl laughed at him, that that's why he killed him, to stop him laughing."

"Younger makes more sense, I'd think, though how many kids of nine or ten are likely to know about clostridium botulinum?"

"Why younger?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head.

"An older boy would be more likely to ignore a younger boy laughing, but a younger boy might have to seek revenge in an indirect way." Lestrade noticed a thoughtful look on Sherlock's face, but he didn't ask. He didn't doubt that Sherlock's youth had been a difficult one. He made a call requesting the information and turned around to find Sgt. Donovan walking into the room.

"So, what's happened?"

"We don't know, precisely," Sherlock retorted. "Have you been in his room?"

"There's not the slightest bit of evidence in there, freak," she replied, and Lestrade rolled his eyes at her persistent name-calling. A detective of her stature should be above that, and shouldn't find the unpaid nature of Sherlock's help a detriment to the man's character.

"Is there a team working?" he asked, letting a bit of reproof creep into his voice.

"Yes, sir," she said, with a faint hint of resentment. He knew she believed that he was holding her back, but until she learned a little flexibility, her career would remain stalled. He knew that meant he was stuck with her for the long term, but for the life of him, he couldn't bring himself to give her better reviews to get her out of his hair sooner. "But the sheer number of fingerprints to be found in a hospital room guarantees that it will be hours before we have any useful results, assuming there are any to be found."

"There won't be," Sherlock replied. "They'll have worn gloves. It's not as if anyone would notice that in a hospital."

"Then they'll have smudged the other fingerprints," Donovan retorted. "There will be signs that someone was there."

"Half the people in hospital wear gloves," Sherlock snapped. "There will be far more smudges than fingerprints." His phone buzzed, and he yanked it out of the pocket of his robe with alacrity. His expression soured as he looked at the display. He silenced it and shoved it back in his pocket.

"Something wrong?" Lestrade asked.

"It's only my brother," Sherlock groused. He let out an explosive sigh. "What does he want?"

"You could answer it and find out," Donovan said sarcastically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't mean my brother, Sally," he said, a heavy shading of disdain on the sergeant's name. "I mean Moriarty." He paced over to the window and stared out. "I would have thought he'd have contacted me by now." Lestrade thought privately that it was likely the bastard was banking on this exact reaction. Sounding almost pathetic, Sherlock continued, "How can I do what he wants from me if I don't know what it is?"

"Maybe he just wanted to kill him," Donovan suggested.

Sherlock's shoulders went rigid, and Lestrade shot his colleague a dark look. Before he could speak, though, Sherlock whirled. "Completely illogical," he snapped. "If he'd wanted to kill him, he needn't have taken him out of the hospital. On what are you basing your deductions?"

Donovan shrugged. "He could want to pose him, do something brutal he wouldn't have time for here," she said. "Make it a 'special experience.'" Though he thought it could have been phrased a little less bluntly, Lestrade had to admit she had a point. He certainly hoped it wasn't that. Not only did he like Dr. Watson, but if his present reaction was anything to judge by, Sherlock would come unhinged if it came to that.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at Donovan. "And you call me 'freak,'" he said dryly.

Donovan glared at him. "It happens," she said. "You know it does."

Lestrade could see this devolving into a petty squabble, largely based on Sherlock's emotional denial. He cast about for a way to turn the subject and recalled something Sherlock had said earlier. "You told me you'd seen him in Barts. Can you give me the rough time?"

Sherlock whirled. "Ask Molly Hooper. He called himself Jim. From IT."

"Jim from IT?" Donovan repeated. "Molly Hooper? Are you talking about James Morrison?"

"Moriarty!" Sherlock corrected waspishly. "Get it right."

"No, Molly Hooper from Barts reported her boyfriend missing late last night, one James Morrison from the IT department there. She said she'd called you and John both, but that you weren't answering your phones."

"This Molly Hooper filed a missing person's report?" Lestrade shook his head. "Last night?"

"Just after midnight," Donovan said. "Dimmock is on it."

"Oh, good," Sherlock snarled. "The idiot is searching for the missing boyfriend." Donovan glowered at him, and Sherlock began speaking in a tone that suggested his listeners were retarded three-year-olds. "James Morrison is Jim Moriarty. One and the same. He was playing a game, getting information. He came to see me while I was looking over Carl Powers' shoes. Pretended to be a gay man using a straight girl to get him close to someone he really wanted. Left me his number." His voice sharpened as he turned to Lestrade. "Have they found it?"

"They haven't called, so I'm guessing the answer is no. Are you sure it was in your coat?"

"No," Sherlock growled. "I don't remember what I did with it. It didn't matter. I was focused on the shoes. It was only a moment later when I realized whose they were." He turned on Lestrade, gazing at him intently. "Where's the phone . . . the pink phone? Was it found in the rubble?"

"It was," Lestrade said. "Utterly destroyed. He won't be calling on that again."

"Damn!" Sherlock growled. He slammed a fist into the wall next to the window.

"What, upset because you don't have a puzzle to figure out?" Donovan asked, oozing with false sympathy.

Lestrade thought he really needed to have a word with her, but not here and not now. A man might get away with putting a word in someone's ear in front of John, but not in front of Sherlock. John would pretend not to have heard or seen, Sherlock would mention it with colour commentary at regular intervals.

He didn't expect Sherlock to respond to Donovan's rudeness, but, still facing the window, head lowered and body rigid with tension, Sherlock said, "Yes." Donovan half-grinned with uncertain triumph, but then Sherlock turned to her and spoke in a low intense voice that wiped the smile off her face. "If I had a puzzle to solve it would mean that I have a way to retrieve John." His gaze became more general. "I need Moriarty to be playing a game, because with no game, there can be no prize."

"Prize?" Sally repeated. "Charming way to describe your 'colleague.'"

Sherlock gave her a contemptuous look. "It's how Moriarty seems to think," he said with exaggerated patience. "He's already described John as my pet." He shook his head and started forward. "I need a look at the room." Lestrade backed out of the way, then followed him. Sherlock strode in and stopped at the foot of the bed. "All right, everybody out!"

Carl Anderson stood up from behind the head of the bed. "What? Get him out of here!"

"Carl –" Lestrade started, but the forensic tech cut him off.

"He's too close to this. He'll ruin the integrity of the evidence just by being here."

"He was in here earlier, Anderson," Lestrade said. "Both before and after Dr. Watson went missing."

"I don't care. He needs to go away."

"What do you think you're going to find?" Sherlock demanded. "I very much doubt anyone's left a handy monogrammed handkerchief, that would be far too Hercule Poirot."

Anderson turned towards Lestrade. "Get him out," he demanded.

"Anderson!" Lestrade growled. If only the idiot weren't so damned jealous of Sherlock's abilities, things would go a deal more smoothly. Sherlock's attitude didn't help matters any, and it was a bit difficult to take him seriously at the moment, what with his hairy legs visible beneath the hem of his hospital gown. Lestrade tried to convey his understanding of Anderson's issues with Sherlock in his tone. "Just let him have a go."

After a moment of irritated silence, Anderson waved his assistants out and left the room. Pulling on gloves, Sherlock began to examine the room minutely. Lestrade stood back and watched, not sure what Sherlock was seeing. He didn't have any of his usual tools, they'd been in his clothes and were therefore in evidence, but he made do, even if he did look faintly ridiculous in the hospital gown and robe. It wasn't until Lestrade saw Sherlock bending to look under the bed that he noticed a crimson trickle down the back of the younger man's leg. "Sherlock, you're bleeding."

"Don't be ridiculous."

Lestrade shook his head and dug in his pocket for a tissue, moving forward to catch the blood before it dripped to the floor. "You are bleeding, Sherlock," he said. "Come along out, we need to get your doctor."

"Lestrade." Sherlock's intent tone caught Lestrade's attention firmly, as did the sudden tension in the other man's spine. "I think you had best get all your people out of here."

Rolling his eyes, Lestrade said, "They're already out, Sherlock."

"No, I mean a bit farther. And you might want to send for the bomb squad."

Lestrade bent a bit more himself to peer under the bed. His heart skipped a beat when he saw the flashing lights and molded lumps of explosive. "Bloody hell." He rose and walked to the door. "Donovan?" She looked up. "Evacuate the hospital and get the bomb squad down here immediately."

"Bomb squad?" Anderson repeated. "What? There's no bomb in there."

"There is," Lestrade said. "I've seen it. Move!" Everyone got moving, and Lestrade turned back into the hospital room. Sherlock was off the floor and tapping away madly on the computer. "What are you doing? We need to go."

"There's something here," Sherlock said. "I know there is. John's records are gone, which means he messed about with the computer. There's got to be a message or some clue here, something I've got to find before the bomb goes off."

"Has it a timer?"

"I don't think it's going to be set off by a sniper," Sherlock retorted, gesturing around at the windowless nature of the room. "It could be on a remote, but there are far too many electrical signals in a hospital. He'd risk it being set off at the wrong time by somebody's pacemaker."

Lestrade went on his back and slid under the bed to get a better look at the device. There was a click when his face came level with it, and a flat screen lit up. 1:00:00 which immediately shifted to 59:59, 59:58 and Lestrade realized he was looking at a countdown.

"Hullo!" exclaimed a voice from the bomb. "How disappointing. You're not Sherlock. Is he there?"

"Sherlock's away from home at the moment," Lestrade said flatly. "What do you want?" Hands seized him by the legs and yanked him out from under the bed.

Before he could even sit up, Sherlock had gathered up his robe – and whatever dignity it left him – and had fallen flat on his back, shoving with his feet to get himself under the bomb. A pleased voice spoke from under the bed. "Ahh, Sherlock. How nice to see you again."

"Moriarty," Sherlock said, his voice wholly devoid of emotion. "Where is John?"

"Your pet is perfectly safe, Sherlock, and will remain so for as long as both you and he behave yourselves." Moriarty made a dissatisfied sound. "He doesn't seem to like stroking. How is it you reward him?"

Lestrade had turned on his side to peer across at Sherlock, so he saw the expression of helpless rage cross the other man's face. "What do you want of me?"

"Have you found the puzzle I left you?"

"I was looking."

"Well, then, go back to looking. If you find it before the timer finishes, the bomb won't go off. Otherwise . . . boom boom."

Sherlock instantly slid out from under the bed and returned to the computer. Lestrade shook his head. "Surely we can take that computer out of here for you to work on," he said, nodding towards the records machine Sherlock was working at. "We don't have to –"

"I don't think so," the voice from under the bed said, the pitch varying oddly from low to high in a singsong. "For every minute that I can't see or hear at least one of you, ten minutes will be shaved off the clock." Sherlock didn't even turn, but Lestrade rolled over onto his back and shoved his way back under the bed. "Good boy," Moriarty said in an approving tone that made Lestrade's skin crawl. "Sherlock, if you both live, be sure this one gets a biscuit. He's most obedient."

Lestrade wanted to talk back to the bastard, but he knew without being told that it would be unwise to the point of idiocy to do so.

Feet in the corridor made him stiffen. "Don't tell me," Moriarty said, "you've sent for the bomb squad."

"Of course I sent for the bomb squad."

"Send them away or they'll be trying to separate the bits of you from the bits of Sherlock, and I won't have any reason whatsoever to keep poor John alive."

"Lestrade?" Sherlock murmured, sounding alarmed and slightly pleading. His voice was very quiet, as if he were trying not to be heard by Moriarty.

"I'll have to get out from under here to give them instructions," Lestrade said to the bomb.

"I give you dispensation," Moriarty replied with an airy generosity that made Lestrade grind his teeth. "But one of you had better be back within ninety seconds."

"Right." Lestrade shimmied out from under and hurried to the door to greet the bomb squad. "The bomber can see and hear everything that goes on in this room, and he's said that if you all come in, he will immediately detonate the bomb. Evacuate the building."

"Then you and him had better come out, sir."

"He'll also detonate if either of us leaves," Lestrade said. "Go."

They backed out and Lestrade knew they'd have twenty minutes at most before they had guests again unless he could explain more clearly. Sliding back under the bed, he began to type quickly on his phone, texting Donovan because he knew she was present and that her connection to both Sherlock and Lestrade would get her instant attention from whomever they sent to overlook this fiasco. MORIARTY SET BOMB UNDER BED. PUZZLE FOR SH. He glanced at the timer in front of his eyes. 52 MINS LEFT. He sent the text and began typing again. IF SH OR I LEAVE, BOOM. IF SQUAD COMES IN, BOOM. IF SH FAILS PUZZLE, BOOM. EVACUATE. After sending that text, he flopped his head back on the floor.

Now he just had to count on Sherlock solving the puzzle in time because there was no way in hell he was going to be able to help him.