You left him. Again. Marys' words kept swashing through his mind like waves rolling towards the seashore and backwards again, just to return seconds later. He couldn't get rid of them, no matter how hard he tried. He never felt guilty about faking his own death. It had been necessary to save lives, John's, amongst other things. But this wasn't his friend's fight, it was Sherlock's. He was supposed to be the bait, he was supposed to be the one risking his life. Even so, it was John who ended up with a gun pointing at him. Sherlock ran down the stairs, accompanied by Mycrofts' men who were armed to the teeth, although they looked more like poster boys for the next James Bond movie.

The leader stopped, raising his fist, carefully opening the door to autopsy. He started moving again and the rest of the troop entered the long hall. Someone turned the corner and Mycrofts' men raised their guns, aiming at the target.

"This day keeps getting better all along", the man said, pressing a gun at a girl's right temple. "I capture Dr. Watson, trade him for Mycroft's daughter and finally run into the most wanted Sherlock Holmes. My is going to love this."

"Let my niece go", Sherlock said, facing the man. Nice touch, John, he thought and secretly eyed up the girl. She didn't cry or whine, actually, she stood there, with her head held high and pursed lips.

"I can't do that. If I let her go, they will empty their magazines shooting bullets in my body."

"They are going to drop their weapons and let you leave with me as your hostage", Sherlock replied. He needed to separate him from the girl. As long as she was his hostage, their hands were tied. Mycrofts' men were damn good shooters, but they wouldn't risk injuring the girl.

The man shook his had, broadly smiling. "Well, no. Here's the deal. Your escorts drop their weapons and you, Lucky Lucy and me leave all together."

"Where's John?", Sherlock asked, ignoring the proposal. Sherlock knew in which room his friend was. But the captor had a new hostage, he didn't need John any more.

"Whose more important to you – your niece or your buddy?"

"You won't harm her. Even you are not stupid enough to harm a daughter of his." According to the mess they left in the garage, he had at least three accomplices. Probably, they were still in the dissecting room, torturing John.

"Perhaps she's not a Holmes at all. Perhaps she's just a little girl being in the wrong place the wrong time and Mycroft won't care a shit about her."

"If you seriously believed that, you would have killed her to punish John." John wasn't their target, Sherlock was. John couldn't tell them anything they wanted to know. He was no use to them and therefore, they would kill him.

"They are right, you know. You are a clever boy."

"Where is John."

The man glanced at his wristwatch. "He's got 75 seconds left to live."

"Call it off."

"Why on earth should I?"

"Because if you are afraid of what Mycroft does to you if you harm his daughter, you should as well be afraid of what he does to you if you kill his husband."

"His what?" The man laughed. "Everyone I want to kill today seems to be somehow miraculously related to Mycroft Holmes."

Sherlock mildly smiled. "My brother is a man of many secrets. And so is my brother in law. Did you really think Mycroft would trade his own brother to free his brother's captured flat mate? That he would entrust Lucy to his brother's flat mate? I know to you it's unfamiliar, but use your brain, just for once. Call. It. Off."

The man hesitated, but then he nervously pulled his cell out of a pocket and speed dialed a number. "Stop it. Don't finish him. I know what I said. No, stay where you are. Wait for new orders." He glanced back at Sherlock. "Okay, so this is going to be a family trip. Drop your weapons and push them over the floor towards me. Then sit down, hands behind your heads. The three of us leave. If we reach the car safely, I'll call my associate to bring Dr. Watson. Now, move it, boys."

John attempted to protect his head and torso by crouching, but therefore had to take some kicks against his back, arms and legs. If he chanced his luck and failed, he would seal Phoebe's death. Joey would shoot her whether he believed her to be Mycroft's daughter or not. A cold shiver ran through John, his muscles trembling uncontrollably. He took another hit to his kidneys and groaned. Every single cell in his body was boiling over with anger for not getting permission to fight back. He clenched his fists when shoes hit his shoulder. Just leap on your feet and fight that damn bastard! Beat the crap out of him, then take his gun and put a bullet into Joey's head! John winced at the well known voice in his head, a voice he hadn't heard in decades; however much he hated the voice and the person it belonged to, he had to admit to at least wished he could follow this scenario through. Just when John was about to give up and leap on his feet, a phone rang and his attacker let up on him.

"What?"

John grit his teeth and tried to overhear the conversation which was kind of hard, because he fell into a fit of coughing.

"No, Joey, you told me to ...", Bobby replied, but apparently got interrupted. He didn't sound pleased, more like an ill-humoured brat not getting the toy it wanted.

Something had changed. But what? And why? By choosing to kill John and taking the girl instead, Joey acted on his own authority. Perhaps he informed the client about this change of plan and the client wasn't satisfied. If the client wanted him alive, perhaps they would take him to the van. But perhaps that meant, the client wasn't interested in keeping Phoebe alive. John silently swore and shifted his weight, rolling on his side. "Damn it", John hissed, crying out in pain. Tears blurred his visions, as gleaming pain shot trough his left leg. One of the kicks in the shin had fractured the bone and it definitely dislike John moving carelessly.

"Do you want me to take him to you?"

Nevertheless, his fibula and the surrounding muscles were able to stabilize the broken bone and carry some his weight. There was the chance of a brief attack. But what to use? There was nothing … Oh, crap, John thought, while he reached for the ball-pen in his pockets. He should have kept the Swiss army …

"Yeah, I'll wait." Bobby finished his call and turned back to John. He looked at him, disappointed. "Joey ran into someone who seems to be very interested in you staying alive. Consider this your lucky day, Dr. Watson."

Sherlock. Again, he coughed. It sounded rattling and painful and when John removed his hand from his mouth, there was fresh blood on it. John stared at his hand, frozen, as well as Bobby. Once more, he fell into a fit of coughing and suddenly John started to gasp for air. He seized, shook, cramped, groaning with pain and then he stopped moving all at once; his head sank on the ground, hos muscles relaxed, his chest motionless.

"Shitshitshit!" Bobby threw some object of a table and swore angrily while they shattered on the ground. He knelt down, his cell at his ear, searching for a pulse with his free hand. He looked at John wide-eyed, but couldn't stop John's hand ramming the ball-pen in his throat. Bobby choked, dropped his phone, his hands touching the writing utensil that protruded from his throat in frozen disbelieve.

John grabbed a piece of cloth to silence the shot and finished what he had started. He had no sympathy for dear Bobby, but suffocation was a cruel way to die. John stood up, most of his weight on his right foot, and leaned against the table. Dark spots blurred his vision, dancing and jumping in front of his eyes. He swallowed, trying to fight the upcoming nausea. He thought about the hospital beds only some floors upstairs and wished he already lied in one of them, painkillers running through his veins. He glanced at his arm. The bandage was bloated with blood, his hand felt numb. Perhaps the cut was deeper than he realized. And then there was the fact that he had coughed blood. Very effective, for sure, but yet a rather bad sign. Perhaps it was time to give up, sit down, rest and wait for Mycrofts' men to come rushing in. Damn it, perhaps it was time to just lie down and die. John sighed. Mary would kill him.

He straightened and started moving towards the door. For the first time in years, John deeply wished he still had his cane ...