John swallowed. Desperately he looked around the room. Expecting an envelope or a phone. In his panic, John could only think of the last time Moriarty had send Sherlock a message. The case he had come to call The Great Game.

Lestrade's brow furrowed. He looked at Sherlock then at John. He seemed unsure whether to show it to them. But eventually he signalled to someone standing behind Sherlock and John. It was Donavon. As usual she did little to disguise her hatred for Sherlock, however she didn't say anything and the short glance toward John told Sherlock this wasn't going to be pleasant.

Donavon handed over a small plastic evidence bag. Lestrade took it and held it up so both John and Sherlock could see its contents. It was a small scalpel. Clean and shining, but all the more terrifying for it.

John felt trepidation building inside, but he couldn't understand why. And why had Lestrade thought this was a message for Sherlock from Moriarty? It was just a knife, a scalpel, it was supposed to be in a hospital, so why was it so threatening?

As if he had heard John thinking, Sherlock asked Lestrade, "and how is it connected to us?"

"When we found it we didn't think much of it, but shortly after that we discovered one of the other patients had been attacked as well."

John felt his heart sink. He knew, he knew why this was a message for them. Suddenly it was clear, even without being told so. Was this the way Sherlock felt when he made one of his leaps of deduction?

John abruptly turned to Sherlock as he realised, "You knew already! You knew already this had to do with Sarah and you didn't say a word!"

"She's alright. The wounds were superficial," Lestrade said, trying to defuse the situation.

"Wounds?" John stared angrily at Lestrade and then Sherlock. He left the room, almost running to the staircase to get to Sarah's floor.

When he finally got to the room, he couldn't get in. "Let me in!" John raged against the two officers standing outside Sarah's room. "Let me in, I'm her… doctor!" he said 'doctor' because he wasn't really sure what he was to Sarah. After this… nothing, probably.

Lestrade, Sherlock and Donavon reached the room as well. Lestrade gestured to the officers to let go of the still raging John, who almost fell into the room when the two officers simultaneously let go of his arms.

John rushed to the bed, but slowed down when he got close to it. There was a bandage on her left cheek. A white square with a faint red stain on it. John didn't get any closer. He felt himself become nauseous. They'd attacked her again! Why? Wasn't Moriarty supposed to be coming after Sherlock? After the incident with the dummies John had started to realise he was a target as well and that Moriarty could very well try to get to Sherlock through him. But why attack Sarah? It made no sense.

"We have no idea how he got in," Lestrade said. "No one saw anything."

"Then he was dressed as one of the staff," Sherlock said coldly.

"Why… never mind," Lestrade said.

Sherlock explained anyway, "The staff of a hospital has a far better chance of being invisible to the people here then someone from the outside. Basic human instinct. We distrust strangers so we pay more attention to them."

"How could this have happened?" John asked, his voice trembling. "She was in the hospital!"

"We don't…" Lestrade said.

"Where were those guards when she got attacked?" John gestured to the two men in uniform just visible through the small window in the door.

"They weren't here before," Sherlock concluded. John stared at him.

Sherlock sighed, it was the same aggravated sigh John had heard a dozen times before. It meant he - John - had missed something obvious. Well, something that was obvious to Sherlock Holmes. "You were surprised to find them here," Sherlock simply stated. "And you've been to this room quite a few times the past week, so if they had been here before, you wouldn't have been surprised."

"There was no reason to suspect she needed protection," Lestrade said to John. His voice was stern but you could hear he regretted the situation.

"And this is how you knew it was a message from Moriarty? They got to her to get to us," John said. No one responded because they could all see he was saying it just for himself.

"You really are a danger to everyone around you, aren't you," Donovan said to Sherlock. Her voice filled with the familiar venom.

But unlike what he normally did, Sherlock didn't reply. He only glanced at her and while to usual distain was there at first, it quickly disappeared. He turned his gaze to Sarah. John studied Sherlock's face but couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"I'll meet you back at the flat," Sherlock eventually said.

John looked at him surprised. "I have to look something up and I'm assuming you want to stay with Sarah for a while."

"Er…" John was still standing next to Sarah's bed. He wasn't sure of what he wanted to do.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said," text me when you know the man's identity. There must be a reason why Moriarty had that particular man put in that hospital bed." Sherlock turned around to leave, but paused at the door, "and text me when you've found the body."

"Body?" Lestrade asked surprised.

"Of the patient who was supposed to be in that hospital bed," Sherlock said.

"You're assuming he's dead?"

"Naturally," Sherlock said. "A dead man is much easier to hide then someone who's alive," Sherlock said.

"And," Lestrade said loudly to stop Sherlock from leaving, "should I call you when we find the killer," Lestrade said it slightly sarcastic, meaning he though Sherlock wasn't going to put any effort in the case, "and find out his identity?"

"Hers," Sherlock said very softly to himself. Her identity. He glanced at Sarah's arm. There was something there the police had missed. Something important.

Sherlock let his gaze move to Sarah's damaged face. Sherlock ignored Lestrade, he understood Lestrade wanted Sherlock to stay to help them find the killer, but he had no intention of staying. Sherlock looked at John, and then he left.

The Sherlock dummy was lying on the couch. Coincidentally in a way very similar to the way the real Sherlock would lie there. It was a coincidence because John had just tossed the dummy aside, while desperately looking for some kind of clue to where Sherlock could've gone.

About an hour after Sherlock had left the hospital John had gotten a text.

Off to find Moriarty. Don't wait up. SH

At first John had ignored the fear he felt in the pit of his stomach. And when he'd gotten to the flat, he even expected Sherlock to just be sitting in his chair. But the place was empty. And had remained empty the whole of the following day.

So now John was desperately trying to find a clue to where Sherlock would've gone. John hurled himself up on the couch, pushing Sherlock's legs aside to be able to sit down. Leaning back against those same legs, John felt his fear grow. Sherlock was in trouble. Or he would get himself into trouble very soon. He'd gone after Moriarty. Alone. Why alone? How could he believe to stand a chance against Moriarty alone?

John let out a deep breath. Then it suddenly dawned on him. Suddenly he realised who he could ask for help. Now he remembered something Sherlock had said. When they had first realised they had to fight Moriarty, Sherlock had mentioned the one person he had to go to for help… Mycroft.

This wasn't the same building John had been to before. Or the one Mycroft had taken him to when he basically kidnapped him during their first meeting. This building was modern and therefore incredibly ugly to John's eyes. He couldn't tell what the building housed, despite the fact that there was a sign above the main entrance. The sign had one of those especially designed fonts that was supposed to make it look expensive and impressive. The letters were highly stylised to make them look more modern. Unfortunately this also had the effect of rendering them completely illegible.

The young woman at reception was beautiful, almost as beautiful as Mycroft's PA. She let John through immediately. As John rode the elevator to the top floor he wondered if girlfriend's were Mycroft's area, or if he just collected pretty faces.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft said as John entered the room. It looked like a conference room and Mycroft gestured John could sit down anywhere he wanted. Once seated, John looked around the room for any clues about what kind of building he was in, but found none.

Mycroft walked over and sat on the table rather than one of the chairs. "You want help finding my brother?"

"Er… yes."

"And he left out of his own accord?"

"I'm not sure," John said honestly.

"Hmm," Mycroft frowned. "What makes you think I could find Sherlock?"

"Well… I thought he might have come here, for help."

Mycroft made a noise John was certain was meant as laughter, but it didn't work exactly. "Sherlock would never admit he needs my help."

"He said he would have to ask for your help to stop Moriarty."

Mycroft frowned. "Ah yes. He did ask for my help - albeit in a roundabout way. But I believed we had dealt with that situation," he paused and looked at John. That told him the situation wasn't resolved yet. "But you suspect Moriarty might have gotten to Sherlock?"

John shook his head. "I'm not sure."

"Dr. Watson, there are really only two reasons why people disappear," Mycroft said. "Because someone wants them to disappear. Or because they want to disappear."

Undoubtedly Moriarty's men knew what he looked like. But Sherlock trusted his skills in the art of disguise. Well, mainly he trusted in the stupidity of people. The way he looked now he felt more like a mountain climber during his spare time. Moriarty's men would walk past him without even looking at him to see if it was him they were looking for. Simply because he didn't wear the same clothes, didn't move in the same way.

The hope was that Moriarty would not go after John again, because there would be no point when he didn't have his intended audience, Sherlock. Then again, perhaps he would go after John to bring Sherlock out of hiding, presuming Sherlock would keep an eye on John. Sherlock wasn't, not really, he trusted his brother to do that. Sherlock knew his brother must have had surveillance on them, Mycroft was the overprotective brother and big brother all in one. Mycroft was lazy though, and would let others do his work for him, people who might miss things.

Sherlock passed a small supermarket, the kind that was open almost all night. He felt a craving for nicotine creep up on him. The patches on his arm must have worn out, he supposed. Sherlock turned his collar up against the wind. It was cold and he was grateful for the vest he had stolen from John's closet while preparing his disguise. His jeans were worn out but still resisted the cold much better than his usual suit pants and his heavy boots were a bit too small, but they kept his feet warm at least.

The reason he was creeping around in the middle of the night through London, was that he was looking for "the Barracuda". Europe's most infamous female assassin. Sherlock was certain the police had missed it, the fact that the small puncture wounds found on the victims were the Barracuda's trade mark. He was even certain they had missed the puncture wounds on Sarah's arm completely. Those wounds were merely a warning. After all, Sarah hadn't been injected with anything - they would've noticed that at the hospital. No, the two small puncture wounds had been a threat against her life. A threat no one had been able to decipher, except Sherlock. Normally he would've shared his deduction with John, but this time he had kept it to himself.

Soon the police would name the poison that had killed the man and perhaps then someone might make the link to the Barracuda. Maybe they would even discover the wounds on Sarah's body. But Sherlock doubted it. Most people's heads were filled with information like how much you could win with the lottery, or the names of their neighbour's pets. Information - Sherlock was sure - that was vital to the communication between social groups of people, but useless when it came to his line of business.

Sherlock left the ally and entered one of London's finer neighbourhoods. His eyes flashed between the expensive stores and the luxurious hotels. He knew the Barracuda would be staying at one of them. He had narrowed down the precise street based on information he'd bought off his eyes in the city: the homeless and runaways. However, no one seemed certain which hotel she was staying in. It was the Barracuda's most powerful tool: no one knew what she looked like. But judging by the fact that she had always managed to gain entry without violence, Sherlock deduced that either she was very attractive or she looked completely harmless, helpless even.

As Sherlock passed yet another expensive clothing store, he suddenly realised that in no way did he look like the type of clientele these hotels usually had. And though he had taken some money with him, he didn't have enough to make himself look like a convincing rich man. He couldn't go to a cash point either, because by now John must be looking for him and he didn't want to be traceable.

Across the street a man was staring at Sherlock. Immediately Sherlock's mind went through all the possible options. He's working for Moriarty, he followed me. He's working for Mycroft, it's my surveillance. He's working for Lestrade, John went to the police. But then Sherlock realised the solution was much simpler; the man was staring at Sherlock because Sherlock was dressed as a working man and had now slowed down in front of an expensive store, as if he were casing the place. Sherlock grinned at that, suspected of being a criminal yet again…

Sherlock resumed his quick pace down the street and didn't slow down until he reached the part of the street where the stores stopped and the houses became less and less expensive. Sherlock was near one of London's great parks now and wondered if he would sleep there tonight. He could hear a car approaching, a low and very loud rumble, coming towards him as rolling thunder.

There were too many people around London, even at this time of night, Sherlock couldn't possible hide. And he had no clue how he was going to identify the Barracuda. He needed more data, he needed more eyes. He might even need - and he swallowed hard before admitting this to himself - Mycroft… and - god help him - Lestrade.

The roaring car stopped just in front of Sherlock. It was a red sports car. Sleek, modern, and impossible to get into if you were a normal height. Sherlock was bad with recognising cars, he was much better at identifying a car by it's tire tracks.

Just after Sherlock passed the car, he felt something hit him against the back of the head. And again. Darkness crept in, but even with his brain slowly shutting down, Sherlock could deduce that whatever had hit him, had been a blunt instrument wielded by a woman. After all, he had no idea what she looked like, but that didn't mean the Barracuda didn't know what Sherlock Holmes looked like.