Two months had passed since John's release, and things had gradually changed for the better. John no longer woke up feeling lonely without anyone beside him in the morning. He and Sherlock had found even ground again, and crime scenes were no longer awkward to work. John started working part-time at the clinic once more, able to fill in whenever needed. After about a month, Molly stopped substituting John at certain cases, and John resumed taking time from work in order to work with Sherlock. Mycroft stopped asking questions. However, there remained an underlying tension between the two whenever he came over to visit. But all in all, John's life was slowly becoming normal again.

Well, as normal as it could possibly be, all things considered. Yet there was still something off. For the last week or so, John felt like he was being followed. It didn't feel like when Mycroft would be watching over him or Sherlock would be tailing him. No – it was different. It made John's hair stand on end and look around attentively. But there was nothing that stood out to him. At first, he just dispelled it as paranoia. When it continued to persist, he started listening to his instincts. After all, they had never led him astray before. So when he noticed a black van with tinted windows, he couldn't help himself. He reached into his pocket and dialled that number he had learned by heart.

"Moran," came a gruff voice on the other side.

John recognised it immediately, and he couldn't help but smile in relief. If there was anyone who would be able to help him work out what was going on, it would be Moran. Mycroft would be sworn to secrecy if it was the government, which was emphasized by the fact that he had yet to call John and speak to him about a tail. And if it was someone other than the government, no matter how improbable that was, Moran would have the best connections to figuring out who was behind it. Besides, having a bloke who's built like a brick shithouse standing next to John would always be a good deterrent for anyone following him. "John Watson here."

"What's wrong?" Moran sounded a bit on edge, which made John even more wary than before. It was as if Moran knew without John having to say a word.

"I know this sounds a bit strange, but I think I'm being followed," John informed him quietly as he continued to walk normally down the street.

After a moment's pause, Moran asked, "Where are you?"

"I'm heading back to 221B. Why?"

Moran pressed, "There's a deli right next to your flat, isn't there? I'll meet you there in twenty."

Before John could object, the call ended. He tried to call back only to receive a busy tone. This wasn't a good idea. The government had to know what Moran looked like – there was an army record for the man somewhere – and coming right next to 221B and meeting John was more than just a brazen move on Moran's part. Even so, John couldn't just outright stand him up. Moran was coming all this way because he called. With a sigh, John pocketed his phone. He headed into Speedy's once he got there, greeted Mrs Hudson with a nod, and sat down at a table towards the back. About ten minutes later, Moran came walking in. He spotted John almost immediately and sat down across from him.

"This is stupid and dangerous," John pointed out as soon as Moran was comfortable. "The government is bound to be looking for you, and we're right next to where I live."

Moran grinned. "I think you forget who my employer is. I can guarantee you that the government is currently unaware of our meeting." Blinking in surprise, John relaxed a bit as he heard this. Moriarty, of course, would make sure that Moran was safe. "Now, talk to me. You said you felt like you were being followed. By whom?"

"I don't know, to be honest. I just had a feeling, and then I saw a black vehicle with dark, tinted windows. I mean, the only people who have used that kind of car were Mycroft and Irene Adler. But Irene – well, she's dead – and Mycroft would have just flat out picked me up. He wouldn't have sent a car to follow me around London. So it can't be either of them." Moran made a strange face when John brought up Irene's death, and John realised that Moran probably didn't know Irene. "And I'm assuming that it's not Ja- Moriarty."

"No. It's most definitely not," Moran concurred. Both of them remained silent for a long moment. "You know who it has to be, don't you?"

Frowning, John glanced away. "Mycroft hasn't asked any questions in weeks. I thought all of that was dying down."

"Yes, but this is the British government we're talking about. I'm sure you've met some of the idiots they've hired. Had to have in the army at the very least," Moran pointed out, only half-joking. "There's no other logical explanation unless you have been offending cults with your blog or something."

John smiled as he heard this. "You can never tell with people nowadays. They get so upset over the most ridiculous things, you know?" Moran grinned in response for a moment. "But no, I highly doubt that I have offended anyone with my blog."

"Government it is then."

John shifted, unsettled by the confirmation of his fears. "But I don't know anything."

"Yes, we know that. But either they don't or it doesn't matter to them," Moran stated, leaning back in his seat.

"So what do we do then?"

Moran remained quiet for a long moment. "There's nothing that you can do about it, unfortunately. I'm assuming that you have been completely honest with Mycroft."

"In every regard. I apologise if it's caused you any issues," John murmured sincerely.

Moran shrugged. "I'm used to being on the run. It has yet to affect my work, as I have been getting shipped to other countries recently. It'll be like that until everything calms down a bit."

Nodding, John asked, "So what are you going to do about it? Or is there nothing anyone can do about it?" That terrified him most of all. After all, he was just getting his life back in order. The last thing he needed was the government coming in and flipping everything upside-down.

"We'll keep a closer eye on them. Try to distract them by getting them to look away from you. But if push comes to shove…" His voice trailed as he captured John's gaze. The serious atmosphere was almost stifling.

John nodded, understanding the implication. "I'll be fine. I was also trained in counter torture techniques. I know what I'll be facing, and I know that I'll be able to take it. Eventually, they'll realise that I don't know anything."

"I'll try to make sure it doesn't get that far," Moran responded, determination evident in his tone. John was grateful to hear it. "Just stay on your toes, John. And if you think they're going to make a move on you, call me. Do you understand?"

Nodding, John muttered, "Yeah."

He honestly hoped that it would never come to that. After all, what would Moran be able to do then? John would be at the mercy of the government and subjected to whatever they decided to put him through. He would be utterly helpless in their clutches, and that made him feel sick to his stomach. Standing up, Moran bade him farewell before leaving. A few minutes later, John rose to his feet and headed up to 221B. He wasn't sure how on Earth he was going to make it through something like that, especially if they just thought he wasn't breaking as opposed to the truth, which was he didn't know anything more than what he told them. He would just have to hope that Mycroft would keep them at bay until their attention was finally diverted. Taking in a deep breath, he greeted Sherlock before sitting down on the sofa and opening the paper. Sherlock muttered a half-hearted greeting as he read the victim's diary. Everything would be alright, or, at least, that's what John would try to convince himself. It would do him no good worrying over what might be.

Suddenly, he heard the clink of glass, and he looked up to find a mug of tea in front of him. Sherlock's eyes never strayed from the lines as he went back to sit down. Smiling softly, John picked up the tea and took a sip before repressing a grimace. It was too strong, and he quickly removed the bag. He would have to dilute it in order to drink it, but as he soon as he rose, Sherlock's eyes fastened on him. Picking up the tea, he made a point to drink some of it again as he headed into the kitchen. Sherlock was appeased enough to go back to his reading, and John couldn't help but chuckle under his breath. At least Sherlock had tried.

"Client. Let's go," Sherlock said eagerly as he grabbed his coat. The excitement was almost tangible. When John didn't automatically rise to his feet, Sherlock pressed, "Come on. Get a move on. We don't have all day, you know. They want to meet us as soon as possible."

Leaping to his feet, John snapped his laptop shut before grabbing his coat as well. "Where are we going?"

"They demanded to meet at Leicester Square. Just outside Hippodrome Casino," Sherlock responded as he put on his scarf.

So it was at least a seven on the interesting scale, and Leicester Square was only fifteen minutes away. Both of them headed down the stairs, John following close behind Sherlock. "So what do we know so far?"

"Our clients didn't want to reveal exactly who they were, but going off the secrecy of our meeting, I can say that they are the owners of the casino. Probably someone has swindled them out of millions of dollars, and they want to know how that person did it so they can prosecute them. Oh, I love these sorts of cases. The culprits are always so clever," Sherlock raved happily as he flagged down a cab. He slid in first, as always, and John couldn't help but admire how some things never changed. It gave him a sense of normality – as if he had never been away. "I wonder what it is this time. An individual or a team. Oh, I hope it's a team. Those are the best. They work together so perfectly in order to avoid being caught. Always in sync. Always on the move. Always aware of everything. It's like art, only much more interesting."

John smiled as he heard Sherlock rant. When Sherlock got so enthusiastic about something, he couldn't help but be enthusiastic as well. "Who knows? Maybe they killed someone in the process," he teased.

"Highly unlikely. Lestrade would have messaged me if that had been the case," Sherlock answered. After a moment's pause, he said, "Oh. You were joking, weren't you?"

"Very good. I was."

Nodding, Sherlock paused for a moment, marking when he was taking note of something. John waited only for nothing to be said. Their taxi stopped, and they emerged after Sherlock paid. Once they were both on the sidewalk, Sherlock glanced around and frowned slightly. "I was assuming that they would greet us outside the casino."

"Not every client rolls out the welcome mat for us, you know," John answered lightly. Even so, Sherlock's reaction to not being greeted made him a bit wary. Normally, Sherlock couldn't care less if someone was at the front door for them. In fact, he would just barge in half the time. So this reaction was more than strange. It was almost eerie.

Sherlock continued to look around, and John followed his gaze, trying to figure out what the Hell Sherlock was looking for. "John," he suddenly hissed. John turned at the sound of his name. Sherlock was rigid, his eyes wide and his face pale. "Run!" he shouted, grabbing John by the arm and dragging him with him. John staggered before immediately following. No questions – no explanations – just blind faith. Whatever Sherlock knew could be told to him later, but right now – for whatever reason – they needed to get out of there.

Turning sharply, Sherlock led them down an alleyway before bursting inside a building. They emerged on the other side before dashing into another one. John's adrenaline was pumping as he continued to follow Sherlock step-by-step. Reaching back, Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and yanked him forward, forcing John to kick up his speed a notch. Stumbling, John nearly crashed into someone as they abruptly burst onto the street and made a sharp right. He staggered and stumbled as he tried to get his feet back underneath him. Sherlock continued to pull him along, not allowing John to fall behind for even a second. Three buildings later, they emerged and snagged a taxi from another person after Sherlock flashed Lestrade's badge.

Once they were inside, John gasped, "What was that all about?"

"I never thought – they would be such – idiots," Sherlock panted out. "Mycroft warned me – that they were talking about – taking you in. But he said – he told me that he would – keep you safe. I should have known better than to trust him. He can't even keep true to his diet, why would I expect him to keep true to his promises?"

"I'm not following," John confessed breathlessly.

"There was no client," Sherlock stated, pulling out his mobile. "It was them. The government. Trying to get you in a vulnerable position. They want to take you in, John."

Trying desperately to catch his breath, John inquired, "Now what? We run from them? For how long?"

Sherlock's fingers were flying across the keyboard of his phone. "We're going back to 221B. There was a reason why they drew us out and onto the street, so we'll be safe there. I'm texting Mycroft right now. He'll get them to back off."

"How? He couldn't get them to leave me alone in the first place," John pressed.

"He'll figure something out," Sherlock answered. He sounded so sure of himself that John just wanted to blindly believe him. Even so, he knew better. There was a chance that Mycroft couldn't work it out. Or that his solution would be only temporary. Obviously, they needed a plan B, but just short of becoming a fugitive, John couldn't think of anything that would work out.

Softly, John inquired, "And if he doesn't? What then?"

Sherlock remained silent as he ticked away on his phone. The only thing that gave him away was the slight hesitation in his fingers. "It'll all be fine. I'll make sure of it," he stated matter-of-factly.

John pulled out his own phone anyway. As much as he wanted to believe Sherlock, he needed to act. His future was on the line, and he couldn't just leave it up to the Holmes brothers to make everything all better. John was a man of action, after all. Typing in Moran's number, he sent out a text. Government came for me today. Escaped. On the way back to 221B. Safe for now. –JW He wasn't entirely sure why he felt the need to tell Moran, but he felt better once it was sent.

"Sherlock, I think-" John started to say.

Everything that happened afterwards seemed to be a blur. Their cab suddenly jerked to the side, and John felt himself lurch into Sherlock's lap as Sherlock slammed into the door. John barely processed the sound of crunching metal and shattering glass over the sound of the blood rushing through his ears. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins as his brain activated his survival instincts. As the car came to a stop, John looked up to find Sherlock's arm had broken through the glass. Checking Sherlock's pulse, John called out his name and received a groan in response. It was enough for John to know that he was at least still alive. And John knew just how much he should appreciate that fact alone.

"Sh-Sherlock. Where does it hurt?" Groaning, Sherlock went to move his arm. Quickly, John stopped him. "No, no, no, Sherlock. Don't move. We have to make sure that nothing's broken first." When Sherlock didn't respond, John knew that he needed to get some help. After all, Sherlock might pretend that his body was above an average human being's, but John knew better. He could bleed. He could break. Whipping around, he turned just in time to see the door open. "We need an ambul-" he started to say when he was yanked out of the cab. At first, he thought that maybe something was wrong with the vehicle. Maybe it had caught fire, and they needed to get out. When he looked back, however, he could see nothing obviously wrong. He was about to object – to explain that his friend needed to get to a hospital – when he finally noticed the guns the men were carrying. Heart stopping, John quickly lashed out. He punched one man in the gut before spinning on his heels and striking out at another. Unlike his compatriot, however, he dodged and punched John in the face. Staggering, John fell into someone else and felt a sting in his neck. He slapped a hand against the spot to find nothing there before he was abruptly dragged into a vehicle. Roughly, he was shoved into the car and crammed between two men.

"We have him. Go, go, go, go!"

The car tore away from the street, and all John could think about for a moment was that he had to get back to Sherlock. He had to make sure Sherlock was okay. After all, he had been unable to give him coherent sentences when John last saw him. It was frightening to see his normally articulate friend unable to even say his name. And then John's brain processed who he was with, and his heart began to race. Maybe he could escape. If he got somewhere with enough people, they wouldn't be able to take him away without making a scene. Hell, he could probably get someone to help him back to St Bart's. Slamming his elbow into one of the men's sides, John lunged over him and clawed at the door. All of a sudden, he was yanked back into the seat and pinned there by a person who was much stronger than him.

"Didn't you drug him like I told you to?" the man said as he restrained him.

"Of course I did. This stuff takes time to kick in, though!" the other man snapped back as he clutched his side.

Without warning, John felt a bit woozy. He let out a groan as his body started to become heavy. Blinking several times, he fought the effects of the drug. He needed to stay awake. To remember every detail. Maybe he would be able to escape. He wanted to tell Mycroft when he saw him. If he saw him. John's heart was sinking with every passing metre. What if this was it? What if John never saw Sherlock or Mrs Hudson or Lestrade or Mycroft again? His heart ached. He had survived loss before, yes, but never so much at one time. And what would he have to live for? When he had left his parents, Harry, his friends, he could go off to war and save lives. When he lost James, he could go back to 221B and resume his old life. This had no reward in it, though. Nothing to negate the awful effects, and he cursed the government with every fibre of his being. He cursed them for being stupid enough to let Moriarty steal the plans. He cursed them for not finding a way around the negotiation. He cursed them for not trusting him after he emerged a month later with no information for them. Everything he had done had been for naught, and John wound up with more hurt than he should have after it was all said and done.

"Whoa!" the driver shouted, slamming on the brakes. John would have launched forward in his seat had he not been pinned down by the men next to him. "Did you see that? The bloody light went straight to red!"

"London, mate. As long as it partially works, they're not going to fix it," the man to John's left commented.

"I know, but it just makes no-" the driver started to say. Abruptly, John heard glass breaking and then the horn honking incessantly. He forced his eyes to focus and found the driver slumped onto the steering wheel. After a moment, he realised that the man was dead. His eyes locked onto the windshield, where he saw a bullet hole.

Shot. From a distance. Sniper. Moran.

With that, John started to laugh. Moran must have gotten his text, and he had managed to cut them off. How he knew where to be and when to be there was beyond John, although he suspected that James had something to do with it. But it hardly mattered, because he had come. He had John's back. That fact alone made John's heart swell. "Oh, you all are so fucked."