Thank you so, so much for your support. You're my personal superheroes. I mean it!

I apologize for any misspelling etc.

Also I did the little picture that I finally added. I looked so sad without one.

Chapter 11

"Sirens." John said. A grim picture was forming in his head. "Police sirens. Sherlock got caught. But they were not police officers." It was Yeux, he thought. Yeux has kidnapped Sherlock. He lured him out of his home and caught him defenseless. Sherlock would not fistfight an officer, he knew better, he would follow him willingly, and he had no other choice.

"John, if you do not explain what's going on to me right now I swear I'm knocking you out and bringing you to Bart's." Greg threatened half-heartedly.

"I need to find Sherlock," he whispered. "I need to find him right now."

Why was it not yet possible to travel from one point to another with the speed of light? Point A being John and point B being Sherlock? Where ever Sherlock might be? Hastily and out of breath, John filled Greg in on the whole mess. Greg nods and hums when needed, and as the story progresses his eyes grow more and more wary. "Okay-" Greg said when John had to catch his breath, "Suicide bomber in public twice, then in your flat. You're hurt and Sherlock binds a man to a chair. You run from the police. You want to prove Sherlock's innocence so you team up with Mycroft, shoves him out a window and, after leaving him at the station, head back here? And now the police you ran from is, what, not the police?" Greg sounded more confused than convinced. He had also not listened to John's explanation of his growing concern for Sherlock possible being kidnapped.

"Well, was it your officers?" he snapped, very much not having the time for Greg's slow mind. God, he was beginning to understand Sherlock so well!
"Uh, no. My team has been with me since we got here. And when we got here no one was… here. Okay, so no. They were not policemen, but John-"

"Forget it Greg, I need to get inside. Get your men out, now." John demanded. Greg looked baffled, about to argue, but John gave him a deathly look and he complied. John climbed the ladder the police had brought and ran inside to inspect the room. The first thing John noted when he entered was the missing pieces of the wardrobe they kept in the sitting room, their coats to be precise. The one Sherlock had thrown over his shoulder was gone, Sherlock's elegant spare coat was not covering its usual spot behind the couch, and Sherlock's other nice jackets and coats he kept neatly stacked on a shelf was also nowhere to be seen. Odd. Other than John's blood-covered jacket, it was unlikely that it was the police that had removed the articles of clothes. John's eyes roamed the scenery. The nice wooden chair they had had the man bound to, was covered in clotting blood in nauseating amounts. It must have been from several donors.

Greg emerged moments later. "John. What are you planning? How are your eyes, even?" he began slowly, voice calm. "Greg, we have to find him."

"What?"
"Sherlock. Every second counts. You know this."
"John-" he sighed, "Okay, fine, just tell me what to do."
John did not answer at once. After a moment he said, "Someone took my coat."
"Excuse me?"
"They took my coat. My phone is in my coat." Greg just stared at him, waiting for further rambling. John ignored his look at jumped for his computer, flipping in open and typing at its keys as soon as it was on.

"O-kay?" Greg looked over John's shoulder as he fiddled with computer. "Why not track Sherlock's phone?"
"Untraceable," John said, "Don't ask me how, just is."

"Well, of course it is. Okay, so where do we go? Do we tell Mycroft?"
"One thing at a time, Greg," A loud 'Ping' had John turn his full attention to the screen. An address John was unfamiliar with popped up on the screen. "There. We go there."
"I know the area," John turned to him, "never been there though."

"That's good enough for me. Got a phone? We'll call Mycroft, he'll give us a ride."
"I've got like seven cars just outside-," Greg began.

"Which could all possibly be traced by your mad officer. It's too dangerous, he'd know our exact location."
"My-? Dangerous? He knows we're coming anyway, does he not?" Greg protested somewhat weakly, though he had already pulled out his phone to hand to John. John grabbed it, punched in Mycroft's number and headed for the ladder. The hidden one. "Where'ya going?"

"Just follow me," John grunted distractedly. He held the phone between his shoulder and ear as he swung his legs out Sherlock's' bedroom window. "John! What the bloody hell-!"

Greg ran to John, almost grabbing onto his wrists to haul him back inside as he notices the metal pipes. "That son of a-"
"Mycroft! We need a ride, can you-"John said loudly, silencing Greg.
"Way ahead of you good Doctor," Mycroft's voice resonated through phone. John turned his body on the ladder. He spotted the shiny black limousine on the street at the end of the backyard. John smiled crookedly. Of course the other Holmes would magically appear when he was needed. Again. "Greg, come on, Mycroft has got us a vehicle."

Gregory sputtered for a second, threw his hands up in surrender, and then followed with a frustrated sigh. He might have commended, 'When the hell did he become one of them?' under his breath, but John either didn't hear or didn't act on it. Down the ladder, crossing the grass, they hurried into the glamorous car. "Doctor, Detective Inspector," Mycroft greeted them. Mycroft nods at Louis, who starts driving immediately. "Address?" Mycroft inquires. Greg gives him the address and directions. It's not in London, somewhere just outside it. John is not interested. "Mycroft," he begins. Both men turn to him. "What did you find out? Anything?"

Greg turns to Mycroft. He'd like some answers as well, thank you very much.

"Yeux was seen accompanied by two unknown uniformed men. They took two police cars, Yeux in one by himself. No one stopped them, but it was considered out of place since no emergency calls had been made at the time. Essentially, Yeux tricked Sherlock, it seems, by luring him in a trap."
"I figured that out already," John said. "Don't police cars have GPS's in them? Can they not be traced?"
"Yes, but I had the police stalled, we'll have an advantage if we come unnoticed."

"You hope." Greg voiced. The two others stared at him. "What? It's true! How could you possibly know it's not an advantage to us to bring the police force into this? Or, you know, Mycroft could call the damn army?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the last comment, "I admit was do not know exactly what we are dealing with here, Detective Inspector, but should we be needing heavier guns, I have a team of very capable men at the ready."
John and Greg frowned. "And they'll what? Just drop out of the sky when we call them?" Greg said disbelievingly.

"Essentially, yes." Mycroft answered matter-of-factly.

John huffed at the two. "Okay, great, so, Greg. Are you armed?"
"I always am when visiting your flat, John." Greg deadpanned, looking annoyed. John just nodded. "Good. How long 'till we're there?"

"Un moment, monsieur!" Louis said, as he maneuvered the car elegantly around the corner of a gravely road. The vehicle came to a screeching halt outside what seemed to be an abandoned barn in the middle of a mile-wide grass field. "How fitting," Mycroft commented.

John, followed by Greg, Mycroft and Louis, got out the car whilst loading his gun. Luis stood by the opened driver's door. "Monsieur 'olmes?" he inquired. "Stay here for now, Louis; I'll call you if needed." Louis nods and proceeds to sit back in the car, watching the three men disappear in the dark. "I cannot describe how many reasons I have for us to NOT go in there." Greg said, gun in hand. "I have a reason for the opposite that trumps every single one of them, and that's Sherlock's life." John deadpans, not even looking him in the eye. Greg falls silent and Mycroft chuckles silently.

The door to the bar is unlocked, but a thick metal chain is attached to it. Had it been locked they would not have gotten in easily, though John likely would have kicked a hole in the rather ancient looking wooden wall. Greg handed John his fancy spare torchlight, and Mycroft sticks to John's side to see what he sees. Everything inside is surrounded by darkness and a thick layer of dust. There is no one to see. John spots a door, hidden behind a wall of hay. It's out of place, much newer than the rest of the interior, in shiny light steel. It's open, and as Greg and John point their torches at it, all they see is a long empty corridor. "Well, this isn't suspicions." Greg mumbles. Guns at the ready, they walk the corridor until they reach a room much larger than the barn. "Are we underground?" john asks quizzically. "There were hills on the field surrounding the barn. That might be our destination." Mycroft answers. Greg only hums in acknowledgement. Old chairs, planks, pieces of wood, an old worn axe and other odd things are piled up all around the room. It looks like a sort of storage, but its odd secret placement seems wasted on such poor items. Suddenly John spots the outlines of a long coat. "Sherlock!" he yells. He runs, gun pointed at the ground. He reaches out, gets a hold of his shoulder and-

White flashes before his eyes, and he is pushed back, but not quite knocked off his feet. He stumbles. He has rough fabric clutched in his hands. He blinks, gasping, opening his eyes. Greg and Mycroft have reached him, and are talking to him. He has warm wet fluid dripping from his chin. "Sherlock-"his eyes widen. "SHERL-"
"It's not him!" Greg assures him. It exploded. The coat exploded! The coat? But where is Sherlock? "Where-?" John seems out of breath, the world is spinning on him, he is panicking.

"It's just paint, see" Greg lifts the reddish paint into John's field of sight. "It's a dummy, a trick."

"It's trick." John repeats numbly, still struggling to catch his breath. Sherlock just died and came back alive in three seconds. He needed a minute. "Okay," he says finally, "there might be more of those. They kidnapped quite a few of those coats. Including one of mine."

They nod in acknowledgement and move on. Sherlock must be close now. John debated whether it would be wise to start frantically screaming his name and just hope he'd come running to them. He kept quiet. His heart was going crazy, the whiteness of the explosion still lingering in his eyes. It was warm, damn warm in there. He couldn't see a thing without his torchlight. He had sticky paint all over him, and his trigger finger was burning of lack of use. He realized the madman might have deliberately put him in an environment and situation that send him mentally right back to Afghanistan. Bastard. They were moving down another corridor, when a door burst open. All three men aimed their guns. "Don't shoot!" the wonderful baritone voice yelled. John gasped and lowered his gun immediately. Sherlock. Blood running from his nose and ear, hand bound behind his back, but alive. Very much alive. "Sherlock-"
"We have to go, he's on his way!" Sherlock's eyes looked wild. His skin was clammy, and his breathing was rapid. He had been drugged. Of course he had. "Sherlock are you all right?"

"Fine, let's go." He says quickly. A shot is fired and suddenly all hell is loose. Sherlock is running, Mycroft is freeing him, and everyone is dodging bullets. Then John feels something his leg, it's painful, but not like a bullet. He yelps, gaining his comrades' attention, and as he looks down he sees an odd shape sticking out of his thigh. It looks like an old fashioned poisonous dart. And then he loses his balance. And then his torchlight goes out. Or maybe he does. It's pitch black either way.

"John!"

Dun-dun-dunnnnn! My deepest apologies for the late, late, late update. It just so happened that life came knocking on my door, throwing school in my face. It's horrible, living in reality, it really is.

I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Mariam. When you read this, I hope it makes you smile. You deserve a smile for each day you live, just like everyone else! : )

Look forward to emotion-packed, fluffiness in the following chapter!