Sherlock hesitated to follow John. There was something in his friend's eyes, something so sad and tired that he to swallow, a big lump in his throat. But then, Sherlock regretted his hesitation; he preferred to rather not run after someone. He left the treatment room and glanced at the security guard who talked to a nurse, and passed the tall. When he turned the corner, his cell rang and Sherlock answered, somehow hoping it to be John calling.

"Hello dear brother of mine, are you already on your way to the rendezvous-coordinates?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and calmly replied: "You certainly know that I'm not." He had to focus, had to find John. The parents, John went to talk to them. The detective quickened his pace and told himself to not get upset, no matter what Mycroft would say.

"Your partner in crime causes troubles, doesn't he? I told you to let me deal with him."

"To knock him out, put a sack over his head and shove him in some car? No, thanks", Sherlock talked back and raised an eyebrow, although his brother wasn't there to see it.

"We can't wait any longer. Go on a cab or I'll make you."

"I haven't had a chance to explain the situation to John."

"I don't care. Leave him at the hospital."

"He is not save."

"I'll send some of my men to watch over him. Now, get on that bloody cab." Mycroft finished the conversation without giving his brother a chance to disagree.

Sherlock silently swore and dialed a number while he paced towards the elevators. John didn't pick up, so he only reached voice mail. "John, listen to me carefully. Someone very persistently tries to abduct me. Perhaps he will change his strategy and try to get you so that he can arrange an exchange. I have to leave, but Mycroft's men are on their way to the hospital. Just wait for them, they will protect you. We already took care of Mrs. Hudson and Mary, so there's no reason for doing something stupid. See you soon." Sherlock put the cell back into the pocket of his coat and pushed a button to get to the ground floor. He sighed and shook his head. This day was a really mean one. At first Mrs. Hudson, standing in her kitchen, threatening to hit him with a rolled-up news paper, telling him what a bloody stupid boy he was to lie to her. After that, he had lured Mary to the flat in Baker Street with a fake text she thought came from John. Mary actually hit him, luckily, her weapon of choice was a pillow she grabbed passing the couch, calling him a selfish, cruel son of a bitch, treating his only friend like crap, lying to him, making John watch him jumping of that damn roof.

Truth be told, Sherlock had expected those two women to react by this manner and he hadn't been looking forward to that first meeting. He just wanted everything back to how it was b.M., before Moriarty. But they gave him a chance to explain, both of them. They understood his motives, the reason for him faking his death. And they calmed down, their anger faded.

Somehow, he thought John would be happy to see him. Grateful to have him back in his life. Because above all, John was loyal. Always was, always would be – at last, he had believed so. Why had John looked so damn disappointed? The doors opened and Sherlock paced towards the entrance. Mycroft was right, at least this time. He had to get to the rendezvous-coordinates. He had to play his part. He had to find out who was behind all of this, so that he was able to stop them.

Another button flashed, someone else wanted to join them on their way downwards. John didn't mind. There were security guards on every floor, he just needed to find one. He didn't plan on sharing the elevator with a civilian and his attacker, so he pulled the half-conscious man on his feet, his hands tied with his belt, to shove him outside and take him to one of the guards. The doors opened and John saw the light reflecting in a blade. Without thinking, he raised his arm to protect his face and throat and felt the cold steel slicing his lower arm. He instantly released the tied man as well as the gun. Damn it!, he nagged at himself, hot pain racing through his arm upwards to his shoulder, causing nausea and dizziness. Black spots blurred his vision and a hot wave swashed over his body.

The new enemy used John's confusion, entered the elevator and pressed him against the wall; he pushed a button, the knife carefully placed at John's throat. "If I was you, I wouldn't move", he warned John, not caring about his colleague who was lying on the floor once again, groaning and swearing. "Heard you had a bad day. Let's see if I can make it a little bit worse." He removed the blade for a second, punching his elbow into John's stomach. He grabbed John's shirt, holding him on his feet, and placed the blade back at his throat. "Let's go somewhere more private where we can get to know each other better. It's such a nice day for making new friends, isn't it?"

Stupid, stupid, stupid! How could he just let go of the gun? Fuck! John felt the warm blood streaming down his arm, his wrist, dropping off his fingers. He needed to take a look at the wound, needed to wrap something around it to stop the bleeding, but at the moment, moving wasn't actually an opportunity. He glanced at the buttons. They headed for the garage. Perhaps they planned taking him somewhere else – or just on a soundproof car where no one would hear him scream. No matter what their plan was, he needed to do something as long as they didn't outnumber him. The first attacker was still on the ground and wouldn't cause any troubles. But this knife at his throat wasn't exactly the best basis for starting a rebellion. "I'm bleeding", John said with lowered voice.

"No kidding."

John closed his eyes, swallowed. "If you need me alive, for, you know, us becoming friends, then me bleeding to death would be rather unfavourable, wouldn't it?" He wasn't injured that badly – at least, he hoped he wasn't – but it perhaps offered him a way to get rid of the knife.

A malicious smile seized his lips and the man nodded softly. "W don't want this to end in tragedy. But you will have to hold on for a couple of minutes. We'll make you comfortable as soon as we are in the car. A very good friend of mine will take care of your wound, don't worry."

Great. Complete failure. But what used his trainer to say? If you fail, try again. And again and again and again until you either win or die. And hell no, he wouldn't die today. Anyway, this was his territory and home-field advantage was a beautiful thing, wasn't it? John groaned and grimaced, started to breath heavily. "I'm not", he began as the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

"Move. Carefully."

The man pulled him outside and briefly stopped to get behind John, not letting of the knife. "See the green van? Go there."

John focused at the car, but walked patchy, groaning, breathing heavier with every single step. "Can't", he said and slumped. Risky, but his only chance, already being so damn close to the green van. He hit the ground, realizing that his captor had remove the blade fast enough to not slice his throat. John didn't move, held his eyes closed, waited, carefully listening to every single sound that reached his ears. Someone knelt down next to his side and the he felt two fingers, searching for a pulse. John suddenly turned around, smashing his fist against the man's knee, punching his elbow into his kidney, jumped up and ran towards Dr. Bresinsky's SUV to take shelter behind it ...