"He should be here by now", Mary said, wrinkles of concern and anger covering her forehead. Sherlock left more than an hour ago. Fifteen minutes to the clinic, ten minutes to talk to John, fifteen minutes back. She looked at the old clock on the ledge, sighed. "And Sherlock doesn't answer his phone." She marched to the door, turned around, marched back to the windows, turned around again. "Something went wrong." Once again, she dialed John's number. Pick up! Pick up! Pick up! "What is it with men and bloody phones? Can't they just answer a call? Is it that complicated to push a single button and to put the bloody phone to their ears?" She snorted angrily and stared at the guard who stood watch at the door. The man didn't even blink. Mary sighed, frustrated and impatient, and left another message for John. With every message she had left, her tone had gotten a touch more impolite, had processed from different softly versions of love you, be careful and I'm worried, John to a very harsh where the bloody hell are you!

"I'm sure the boys are fine. Perhaps they just had to sort out some things", Mrs. Hudson replied and rearranged the pillows on the couch.

"I'm afraid in this Sherlock won't be fine", Mary retorted and stopped at the windows, arms-crossed.

"Black eye?"

"Broken nose."

"Justified. We've let him get away far too easily with this story."

"I concur."

Mrs. Hudson silently nodded, clasped her hands and said: "Why don't I fetch us a plateful of cookies? We have to wait for the boys to come home either way."

"Agreed. What about a drink? There's some marvelous Scotch hidden behind those books."

"Sounds like a plan."

A nice, little shower.

A couple of hours of undisturbed sleep.

Another shower.

Lunch with Mary.

Was that too much to ask?

No, he had to stay at the clinic instead, taking over Roger's shift who caught himself a nasty bug. Three patients puked on him, particularly on his shoes, so he swapped them – but who the hell had three spare pairs of shoes in his locker? He borrowed the third pair from Roger, guessing his colleague wouldn't miss them today. They didn't exactly perfectly fit, but at least they didn't stink. A four-year old socked him on the jaw, rebelling against the inoculation John was about to administer him. No lunch with Mary, in fact, no lunch at all. Instead, a kid with alcohol intoxication dying on his table. A wonderful day, wasn't it?

Gunshots echoed through the garage.

John focused on steady, even breathing. The fingers of his right hand started to feel numb and the nausea had gotten worse, but due to the adrenalin streaming through his veins, John felt awake enough to go one. He glanced at his injured arm. It was very unpleasant and he needed some stitches, but he wouldn't bleed to death. The gunshots stopped, the sound of approaching paces and quietly whispers. He searched his pockets for his cell. The security cameras hadn't been working in months and there was no chance that anyone outside the garage had heard the shots. John searched his pockets for his cell and swore when he remembered leaving the cell on his desk. Marvelous. He sneaked from the SUV to a smaller car, watching out for his haunters. They were only a couple of feet away and he couldn't outrun them.

Think, John, and think fast!

"Dr. Watson, don't do this. Just stand up, raise your hands and walk towards the van."

John picked some stones out of the car tire he was sitting next to, threw them across the garage behind another car and move two cars forwards. He knew his haunters wouldn't buy the illusion, but they couldn't resist the reflex to look in the direction the noise came from. If he could distract them for one more time, he could make it to the stairs. Two floors downstairs, there was the pathology. Far less staff then in the hospital above and no civilians – well, no alive one's. There were no guards down there, but phones, first aid kits and lots of sharp objects he could easily turn into weapons. And Ed, if he was lucky. Ed, the wannabe Texan who never ever went anywhere without his gun.

"I guess that wound of yours must burn like hell. Why don't you join us so that we can take care of it?"

Distraction. John searched his pockets for something useful and found a ball pen, a rubber, two stripes of bubblegum and – ok, that was weird. A Swiss army? Where did that come from? He was quite sure that he didn't even own one, much less that he put one in his pockets. Sherlock. He must have slipped it in his pocket. Who did Sherlock think John was? MacGyver? The A-Team? Was he supposed to build a bloody bomb with all that stuff in his pockets? Not with this stuff, he suddenly thought and smiled. Chemicals. He really needed to get to the pathology.

"Oh, come on, stop fooling around!"

Okay, so, what to use as distraction? The rubber would perhaps not make enough noise. The bubblegum was definitely not to be at issue. The ball-pen would do the job – but if he didn't make it to the door, if they captured and searched him, the Swiss army would be gone anyway. They wouldn't have let him keep the weapon, but perhaps they wouldn't care about the ball-pen. Not his first choice when it came to objects used as weapons and in most cases non-lethal, still, being stabbed with a ball-pen was unpleasant. Damn it, did he really decide to sacrifice the Swiss army in order to keep the pen? John sighed, took a deep breath, put the rest of the objects back in his pockets and at the pocket knife for one last time, before he threw it across the garage.

It hit the roof of a car, slid down the front shield and fell down in the ground, making satisfyingly much noise. John leaped on his feet and ran towards the door as fast as he possibly could, counting 21, 22, 23, his hand on the door knob when the gunshots started again. John entered the stairway, briefly looked around for something to block the door, unsuccessful, so he ran downstairs, his heart racing, his wound burning and blood all over his clothes – and yet, a thin smile appeared on his lips, because, hell, he hadn't felt that much alive for far too long!

Sherlock glanced at the display of his phone and sighed in relieve. Not Mary. But then, was talking with his older brother seriously better? Well, at least he could tell Mycroft that he was on his way and therefore put a soon end the conversation. If he was stupid enough to pick up when Mary called, he would have to tell her that he left her going-to-be husband at the clinic, non-informed and without protection. "I'm on my way", Sherlock quietly said, trying not to sound annoyed or angry.

"Did John call you?"

Sherlock knit his brows and stared at the back of the seat in front of him. "Your men haven't found him at the clinic", he replied and glanced at the cab driver. "Mr. Ihati, please take the next possible turn and drive back to the clinic. It's an emergency, so speed up, but try to not get us killed."

"There's no reason for you to ..."

"You quite well know that there is", Sherlock disagreed and watched the driver indicating and turning the car around. He ended the conversation and dialed John's number, waited, his lips pursed, his mind racing. They haven't got him yet, he thought, if they had captured him, they would have called me, told me they were willing to let him go in exchange for myself. Perhaps John was in the restroom. Or he had left the clinic after talking to the parents. No, he had not. None of his colleagues at the clinic knew where John was. Mycrofts' men were quite talented when it came to being a real pain in the ass, but they were thorough. Sherlock closed is eyes to rest for a moment. To let emotions blurry his mind wasn't any good for John.

He dialed Mycroft's number. "He must have escaped in the garage", Sherlock said and added, "John would never risk all those civilians getting harmed, so he won't go back to the clinic. There's the pathology beneath the hospital. Lots of sharp objects, rare staff and he knows the terrain."

"You gave him your Swiss army."

"Is there any blood on it?"

"No, but they found blood in the elevator and on the ground close to some cars."

"Find him", Sherlock said and dialed another number. "Mary, I know you are angry at me and yes, something happened to John, but he is still alive and I'll make sure that he stays that way. There's the possibility of someone calling you, giving you orders and talking about killing John if you don't follow their orders. That's going to be a lie. The moment you leave the flat, both of you are dead. So I need you to stay with Mrs. Hudson and the guards."

"You are not with him, are you."

"No, but I'm going to be any minute."

"You left him. Again."

Her icy words hit Sherlock unprepared. He had to clear his throat, before he answered:" Don't leave the flat. Under no circumstances." He put the cell back into one of his pockets and pursed his lips. "Please drive to the emergency entrance, Mr. Ihati."

"But ..."

"This is an emergency, remember?"