A/N: YOU PEOPLE ARE THE BEST. I honestly wasn't going to keep this up, but man, the reviews were inspiring! Also, it turns out that I love this story more than I thought.

Whatever! Sentiment aside, here's the next bit! Enjoy!

John wasn't coming out of his room today.

Sherlock knew this- not from the silence reverberating off the walls in the flat, not from the absence of tea, not even from the time 10:48, far too late for John to put off work if he intended to go despite the fact that the 'lovely' receptionist from Brussels works afternoons- for different reasons entirely.

Last night at around two or three in the morning, he and John had half-walked, half-dragged each other up to the flat. Using the last of his reserves, John somehow got upstairs to his room, where he slammed the door, sending a very clear message. He's running, Sherlock mused, but not from something he can effectively elude. No, this monster was swifter than either of them. Exhaustion, paranoia, and tension had been their constant companions for the past few days, heightened now by shocking developments in their case.

Sherlock couldn't bring himself to put his thoughts into words. He was absolutely not going to give his 'sentiments' any thought either. Tense as he was, Sherlock was reluctant to express any of these new ideas to anyone, even John. Especially not John. He is traumatized. Any sign of weakness on my part will unravel him entirely. John needs some semblance of normalcy to maintain balance, because of… some "normal" "human" thing, that I have expertise in that area. No, not at all. No no no no no

Sherlock needed something to distract his rapidly down-spiraling mind. He considered playing the violin, but if John was asleep, he would be angry. Might even shoot me, given his current state. No, the violin was a poor choice. There was really nothing in the sitting room to occupy his attention. So he did the next logical thing.

The refrigerator door slammed. It was a loud, satisfying noise, that made Sherlock feel weirdly better. He knew he shouldn't be so utterly disappointed, since he did none of the shopping, but he was bored. He gave the door a kick for good measure. There. That would teach it to defy him.

The couch made a squelchy sort of noise when Sherlock hit it face-first. He was terribly bored. There has to be something I can do. If I calculate any more places of pi, I might actually drive myself insane. Now there's an idea… Pushing this dangerous thought aside for the moment, he shot a text to Lestrade.

Bored. SH

He stared at his phone, willing it to respond. Lestrade always responded rather punctually. He should have some sort of case that was too far beyond the puny minds of New Scotland Yard. Yes, a master case! Jewel robbery turned murder; objective: catch the thief, recover the jewels? But the theft would be just a blind for the murder, leading to an entirely different case. The murder was committed violently, but not so violently as to be interpreted as a premeditated crime… No, better! The theft is a cover for the murder which is another blind- we're looking for a blackmailer! Distinctive footprints, shoes from a small Russian marketplace that could only-

He looked back down at his phone. Had it pinged while he was chasing the wily Soviet blackmailer through his thoughts?

No. It hadn't. Sherlock nearly threw the phone in frustration. It had been several minutes already! At least… three!, surely, by his count. This was unacceptable, so Sherlock tried again.

Lestrade. SH

Lestrade. SH

Lestrade do you have a case

You know who this is

You can't ignore me, I am the world's only consulting(1/3)

Detective and I can always just march right down the(2/3)

Re and take a case myself. Or light something on fire.(3/3)

I have worked arson cases before

I know how gasoline works, Lestrade

Lestrade

Lestrade

Eventually, he gave up. However, the Union Jack pillow did decide to take a long-distance flight before Sherlock finally settled back on the couch, phone balanced precariously on his forehead. If this went on for much longer, he would consider tearing the flat apart to find those cigarettes…

Footsteps on the stairs prevented arson, and Sherlock shot up off the couch. His hands flailed wildly for his falling phone, but he replaced the mask of cool composure just before the knock came.

"Enter!" He called, in his most dramatic and intimidating voice.

The knob turned. It was Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock nearly collapsed in disappointment.

"Hello dear. You boys had a late one last night, didn't you? How are you feeling? Is John up?"

"No. Haven't seen him since we got home."

Mrs. Hudson made a cooing noise and headed into the kitchen. "I've brought the mail, Sherlock, but I'm only offering it in exchange for my teapot. No where've you put it?"

From the sound of shuffling papers and clinking china, Sherlock deduced that she had found it. Mrs. Hudson shuffled back through to the sitting room, confirming. She was holding the spotless teapot, and for once Sherlock was glad he had managed to remove all the traces of petroleum.

"You've got a note dear. I put it on top of the stack. Looks lovely. Perhaps it's from an admirer…"

Mrs. Hudson smiled at Sherlock's noncommittal grunt. She knew he'd jump at the mail the minute her back was turned, bored as he was. She'd let him keep up the aloof act a little longer. It makes him feel very mysterious, she reflected, like that bit he does with his collars. I don't think the man owns a coat without them, bless his heart… With a final cheery wave, Mrs. Hudson exited 221 B and headed back to her own rooms. However, she did pause on the stairs in time to hear the scuffle of quick feet and moving furniture.

To his credit, Sherlock did not pounce at the stack of papers on the table. He did leap around John's armchair and shove a dining chair out of his way, but he picked through the mail -bottom items first, heavier items often hold more importance within their greater volume- calmly making his way to the little note. It was an envelope addressed to him in plain cursive. Well printed, signifies patience or studious practice: leaning towards the former, based upon the style of envelope. Flowery design- probably a younger woman, no one over thirty would use this style of envelope for real correspondence. He opened up the envelope- licked not taped, indicates attachment. More likely an admirer than a client- and pulled out the letter. Before checking out the actual contents, Sherlock's mind moved straight to an examination of the stationary. Pink. Actually, that's about it. No perfume, no special watermarks, just… pink… Oh well. Might as well give it a read.

The note was lined out in the same simple hand, and to Sherlock's surprise read:

Twinkle twinkle little Greg

Hope he likes his new goose-egg

Mobsters, fish, and boxes high

Can you find him, private eye?

Twinkle twinkle lovely view

Bet you sang this, didn't you?

Very much put out by that last line, Sherlock nearly crumpled the envelope in his left hand while studying the annoying nursery rhyme in his right. Stupid psychological games. Anyone who had heard the song as a child would subconsciously fit the tune to the words… He studied the message again. Starting with the information he knew, Sherlock began to work out the big picture. The first thing that popped out to him was the solution of the puzzle. How childish. 'Mobsters, fish and boxes'? Obvious. Coupled with the rhyme and the method of the message's delivery, it obviously refers to Ornithogalum Inc., Ornithogalum being the name of a flower- hence the floral design- and the implied 'star' referring to the Ornithogalum being colloquially known as the 'Star of Bethlehem'.Ornithogalum Inc has a warehouse that hasn't been in particularly active use for some time. Some of the flowers in the genus Ornithogalum are poisonous, indicating danger… That and the thinly veiled threat of the message… No matter! The sender intends for me to find them and this 'Greg' person at or near the warehouse.

Sherlock raced back into the sitting room and seized John's laptop. A thorough search for 'Greg' brought about no significant results. Not important, Sherlock reflected, whoever this person 'Greg' is, he obviously has some connection to fairy tales or nursery rhymes.. The 'goose egg' must refer to the Golden Goose or Mother Goose or some such nursery rhyme nonsense. The sender seems to have a theme… Perhaps it would be to my advantage…

Sherlock called up a long-unused domain in an incognito window. John must never know the extent to which he researched children's tales, or how much he thoroughly enjoyed it.

Several hours later, long after the lunch rush had come and gone, a man in a grey hoodie lounged outside of Speedy's Café. He sipped from a mug of coffee and turned casually through today's paper. There was a loud banging sound from somewhere above him. Seconds later, a man in a long overcoat and scarf rushed out of the neighboring flat and slammed the door behind him. By some magic, the man called a taxi out of thin air and was away in a matter of moments. The diner picked up his cell phone and hit speed-dial 2. Once the connection established, he didn't wait for the greeting he knew he wouldn't get.

"The chicken has flown the coop. He's headed your way."

"Excellent." The voice on the other end replied.

"If it's all the same to you, I'm going to order something while I wait for our other chickadee. I can't do this kind of work on an empty stomach."

An exasperated sigh.

"Whatever you need, so long as it comes out of your pocket and doesn't interfere with the job."

The man broke into a grin. "Gee, thanks, boss!" He said with enthusiasm. "I won't let you down. By the way… Any sign of my beloved? Has she made the connection, even without the clues? I'd just love to be able to see her you know…"

This louder, longer sigh was cut short when the boss hung up. The man chuckled. Boy, did he love this job.

When John Watson sprinted out of that same door in a wild panic an hour later, he was thinking not of fairy tales, but of a good friend. He took a cab in the exact opposite direction of his flatmate. The diner left the remains of his early dinner alongside a tip. The food had been excellent, and his day was only getting better. He pulled his hoodie up and got straight to work.

Sherlock practically flew out of the taxi once he hit the warehouse block. He located Ornithogalum's building almost immediately. Simple! Childishly simple. Oh well. It's something to do… Now! Back to those clever one-liners. Your goose is cooked? Too cliché, blast it all!

He arrived at the warehouse not at all out of breath, and stopped to lean on the wall only to survey possible entry points without raising suspicion. Several doors and windows presented themselves. Security seemed seriously lax at Ornithogalum… Recalling the afternoon's research binge, Sherlock remembered that Ornithogalum dealt primarily in glassware, plastics, and containers. Probably not high budget, top secret materials then. But, either way, there was surely an alarm system or something Sherlock would have to look out for. He began slinking along the side of the building, all the while keeping an eye out for security cameras or the arrival of the night watch. The sun was setting, and the diminishing light helped maintain his cover. Hopefully any cameras in the vicinity were only equipped with night vision. Infrared sensors would spot him for sure. Sherlock reached an inconspicuous looking side door and tried the knob. Locked. Thank goodness. For a moment there, I was worried the security team was comprised of idiots comparable to Anderson. At least they have some semblance of common sense. Unphased by the lock, Sherlock pulled out the burglary kit from an inner pocket of his coat. With practised skill, he worked the lock. Tumblers turned. Everything fit right into place. Eventually, the knob turned with ease. Just enough of a challenge, Sherlock speculated, if it was any easier, I would be very suspicious indeed. Hmm… Perhaps I need to be more careful than I first thought. This could be a very clever trap after all.

Once inside, Sherlock scanned the darkening building. The first room he encountered was huge. Boxes were piled high up against the walls. Panes of glass, crates marked 'fragile', and rolls of bubble wrap dominated the main floor. He made his way slowly around the storage space. A faint humming filled the air as the automatic night-lights came on. The sounds of whining and clicking fluorescent bulbs emanated from somewhere he could not see. Following a hunch,-No, a sound deduction. Probability, not instinct governs my actions. I should stop reading John's blog, lest I start picking up more worthless jargon like 'gut-feeling' or 'stealth mode'- he headed toward the noise. Several meters in, he saw a light spreading dimly on the floor. He continued. Sherlock rounded a tall stack of crates. In front of him, he found the source of both the light and the noise. Only the squat little offices of the day workers would require light at this time in the evening. The night watchmen are used to dark conditions. Day workers putting in overtime were the only ones who would need so much light. Day workers or criminal masterminds.

Wary of traps, Sherlock gave the offices a good once-over before moving forward. He avoided the direct light streaming from the half-closed blinds. He could not yet see inside the offices because of the opaque notices taped onto the windows by some lazy office manager. Unevenly hung missives covered much of the glass, but dropped off in frequency towards the top of the window. A short manager, then. One with a power complex too, or a micromanager, seeing as how he must alert the entire staff to every insignificant change, every regulation, every corporate picnic. How dull.

Sherlock arrived, at last, to the door. He heard no sound other than the bulbs, but as they warmed, even their noise began to diminish. He slid along the wall next to the door. Hinges on the inside, but the door opens inwardly. He came up the right side and flattened himself against the wall. Reaching over to the knob, Sherlock turned the handle and pushed. The door swung open without much ado. No shots were fired, curses spewed, or screams elicited. Must be empty, or I'm expected. Sherlock poked his head through the doorway. It was a disappointingly average office. Dull as it was, there was still an element of danger. He hadn't yet found his mysterious fairy-tale correspondent.

Sherlock picked his way through the cubicles. Keeping his eye out for any movement, he made sure to take stealthy steps of his own. The area was clear. He moved on to an adjoining door. This one was also unlocked, so he used the same entrance technique as before.

When he finally peeked through the door, he was met with a completely unexpected sight. The manager's office was normal in all respects, except for the enormous glass box in the middle of the floor. What surprised Sherlock more than the box itself was its contents. Inside, knotted securely to a chair, was a rather beat up Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Lestrade?!" Sherlock called, unable to mask his confusion.

Lestrade mouthed something back at him.

"Come again, Lestrade, I can't hear you." He held a condescending hand to his ear for emphasis.

The DI seemed to be shouting furiously, but for the life of him, Sherlock couldn't make out a word.

"It's just stunning, isn't it, sound proof glass?"

The office intercom cracked to life like the tension in the room. Sherlock recognized that voice at once, and looked to Lestrade. There must be another speaker in the box, for he was paying close attention to the voice. I'd know it anywhere. Sherlock realised as a peculiar feeling bloomed in the pit of his stomach. It would probably be in John's nightmares too, if he could actually fall asleep after all this…

"Molly."

Laughter buzzed over the little, tinny-sounding speaker. "Very good, Sherlock. And here I thought you might've forgotten all about me, seeing as it took you so very long to get here."

Sherlock swallowed his rising panic. How could I possibly forget that laugh? Repressing a shudder, Sherlock answered in his best scathing monotone.

"I have many more important things to do than play your little games. What have you done to Lestrade?"

"I've done exactly what I promised. I'm burning out your heart piece by piece. Let's have a little fun, starting with Greg here."

Sherlock scoffed. "Greg? I don't know any Gregs." The snarky expression was plain on his face as he turned. "And Lestrade here's hardly-"

He stopped short, seeing Lestrade, red in the face and yelling something Sherlock could not hear at all. After a moment, his lip-reading skills yielded one 'Greg is my name, you great bloody' and then whatever garbled nonsense followed. Sherlock felt himself getting just a touch warmer under the collar. When the speaker system came to life again, Molly had thankfully decided not to come anywhere near that debacle.

"Sherlock, I'm going to get straight to business. No wasting time or dragging your feet. Tonight, you're getting that heart burn we were discussing. Now, we're going to play this game out straight and simple. There's a bomb in the room. Greg darling knows where it is. But- oh… Looks like he can't tell you. You'll have to work it out yourself, I'm afraid. Good luck, honey. Give my regards to your cute little doctor if you make it out of here alive. Toodles!"

The speaker crackled off. Sherlock's lips tightened into a thin line. His eyes traveled back over to Lestrade, who was quietly fuming and struggling against his bonds. Sherlock took a moment to look closer at the DI. His face was bruised all over, with a little lump forming on his left temple… Oh! THAT kind of goose-egg. Hmm. The ropes were expertly tied, allowing for little or no significant movement. A few drops of blood were spattered on the floor, but whether they were from Lestrade's colorful lacerations or raw wrists, Sherlock couldn't tell. Either way, Lestrade was in a great deal of discomfort. Probably been here for hours. Since this morning at lea- Oh. The pieces all fell into place. Stupid, stupid! One thousand times an imbecile! Oh even Anderson would've figured it out an AGE ago! I've been a fool! With a rising lump in his throat, he turned back to Lestrade. The DI was talking, talking so fast that Sherlock couldn't make out a word. Lestrade's face was lined with stress, no doubt the stress of the last several yes several, my goodness, SEVERAL! hours spent in that cramped position. Sherlock found the Detective Inspector's eyes. When Lestrade met his gaze, Sherlock calmly held up a hand. It was a command, and a promise. Stop talking. I WILL get you out of this. He stepped up closer to the glass and examined it. It was very sound proof and fairly thick. He probably couldn't break it easily. Even if he could, it was a waste of valuable time. He rapped on the glass to get Lestrade's attention again. The DI looked up at him. Sherlock started gesticulating in an attempt to communicate, but Lestrade quickly shook his head. He understands me about as much as I understood him. This calls for another tactic…

Sherlock began miming. He held up two fingers. Lestrade nodded and mouthed 'two words'. Sherlock nodded once in affirmation. Thank the Lord for John's inane office parties. I will have to thank him later for not giving me the chance to delete the rules of 'Charades'. He then pulled off his scarf in one fluid motion and began fanning himself with an empty hand. After a moment, Sherlock saw it click with Lestrade. 'Hot!' Sherlock gave two thumbs up and continued. Next, he hunched his shoulders and rubbed his arms furiously. Lestrade caught onto this one much quicker. 'Cold! Hot and Cold!' Sherlock almost sighed with relief. This was the only way he could think of effectively communicating with Lestrade that would lead in a quick and efficient search for the bomb. Lestrade nodded vigorously, indicating he was ready to begin.

Sherlock started by taking several steps backward. Lestrade was still nodding. 'Warm…warmer' Sherlock watched the instructions play out on the DI's lips. 'STOP!' The order was plain and simple. Sherlock was halfway between the box and the door, lined up on either side with a water cooler to his left, or a filing cabinet and a shelf to his right. He made for his left.

'COLD!'

Pretty clear, then. He shifted directions and headed to the right.

Lestrade began nodding once more. 'Warmer.. warmer…'

Sherlock came right up to the filing cabinet and the shelf. Lestrade was bobbing his head, but not mouthing anything. Sherlock frowned. He took a tentative step backward. No, Lestrade's adamant 'COLD's were clue enough. He took a confident step forward, only to be met with more head shaking. His frown deepened. Pondering this development, Sherlock crouched to get a look at the floor. If there were any scrapes along-

A flurry of movement caused him to look up again. Lestrade appeared to be yelling.

'COLD! Colder! Cold, Sherlock, Cold!'

Down is… cold? Then that means…

Sherlock tilted his head upward and caught the massive approval on Lestrade's face. Sure enough, the tile directly above was 0.5 centimeters askew from its proper position. Sherlock mounted the cabinet, gangly limbs getting twisted and bent in an almost comical manner. He felt confident enough in his deduction to now ignore the increasingly animated Detective Inspector. But maybe… He looked over and saw only smiles and chants of 'HOT'. He quirked a corner of his mouth upward to reassure Lestrade.

Wobbling slightly on the cabinet, Sherlock ascended the next step up onto the wooden shelf. It creaked. Shifted. Quite a bit. For a tense moment, Sherlock didn't dare to breathe. He was perched a good seven feet off the floor. An awkward fall could do some serious damage, not to mention that if he broke the shelf, he'd have to resort to other methods of reaching the high ceiling. He didn't turn his attention to Lestrade again this time. The worry and fear would be plainly visible on his face, an agonized- NO! Concentrate! This is his only chance.

Thankfully, the shelf only shifted. Sherlock sighed with relief and after a moment of indecision, looked over his shoulder. Lestrade had relaxed visibly. Good, and Sherlock continued. He straightened up on top of the shelf and easily reached the ceiling. The next shock came when he shifted the tile and was met with a rapidly falling bomb. Eyes widened in terror, Sherlock grasped at the thing and managed to get ahold of it. He clutched it tightly to his chest before remembering his peril. Thrusting the device to arm's length, Sherlock backed his way off the shelf and down onto the floor. He examined the bomb.

The kitchen timer affixed to the front was ticking down from one minute.

Whatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhatwhat

He looked frantically towards Lestrade. The DI returned his panicked gaze and shrugged. Knowing no other course of action, Sherlock tucked the bomb under one arm and tore out for the door.

He sprinted out of the lit offices in to the blackness of the main floor. Recalling much of the warehouse's layout and bumbling through the rest, Sherlock found a familiar stack of crates.

'Bulletproofing' one of them read. He tossed the bomb haphazardly into the middle of the stack, letting it bounce down to the center of the wooden cube-pile. Then, Sherlock took off in a dead sprint. He had nearly made it to the offices again when there was a loud booming noise and a flash. Pieces of charred wood began to spear wildly down at his head. Sherlock lunged for the door. He flung it open, catching several projectiles with the motion. Once there was another barrier between him and the explosion's fury, Sherlock remembered Lestrade. He took off at a quick trot for the inner office. Lestrade was exactly where he had been left, no more surprises.

Now, he considered, the problem of the glass box… A cursory glance of the room left him shockingly little to deal with. There were the obligatory office supplies, a mug or two, the filing cabinet and shelf staircase, and plenty of paper. Staring this roadblock in the face, Sherlock elected to examine the box itself more carefully. The first thing he noticed was the back wall, and how it was starkly different from the other three. First off, it wasn't glass at all, but a plank of dense wood with some sort of fabric attached to the inside. This was the weak point. Sherlock peered inside at Lestrade. The DI was slumped a bit in his chair, looking very tired and very sore. Seeing how Lestrade would be little or no help in this, and how there was a pressing need for alacrity, Sherlock concentrated on the fourth wall. The statistical weak points are the corners and edges. If there were hinges, I would go for those first. Seeing as how there are none… Sherlock gripped the top edge of the wall and pulled. At first, he was met with solid resistance. After a moment of straining, however, something started to give. The top edge was sliding out. Slowly, Sherlock eased the fourth wall apart from the box ceiling. He readjusted his grip to the sides and began dragging the wall outwards. All at once, there was nothing holding the fourth wall on. Sherlock was promptly flattened.

He pushed and rolled. The wall returned gravity's embrace with a thud. Pausing only momentarily to dust himself off, Sherlock rushed over to Lestrade. From what he could tell, some of the blood on the floor had come from both the lacerations and raw wrists. Apart from that, Lestrade still looked really, really not good. He leaned weakly back in the chair as Sherlock took to unfastening rope. Uneasy breathing in sharp, unsteady bursts. Rib damage: likely. Throat damage? After being trapped in a sound proofed box for hours on end, I would say: definitely. He won't be barking orders much in the near future. Unfortunately, that mean no one will shut Anderson up either…

He finished the last of the bonds while half-contemplating the likelihood of England's fall in the next couple of days. To his astonishment, Sherlock watched as Lestrade took the opportunity to fall over onto the floor. No no no, this is NOT GOOD. Have to get him up… get him to hurry… but how?

"Really, that's hardly dignified, Lestrade. You're an officer of the law, not some drunkard."

He received a harsh grunt that was, in all probability, swearing, but the DI's hoarse throat kept him from cursing as eloquently as he might wish. Sherlock attempted to help him get to his feet. To his credit, Lestrade managed to get upright on his own power. The whole front half of the box had now become an obstacle, so Sherlock and the DI made their way out the back and into the offices. It was upon reaching the door that Sherlock remembered.

"Oh yes. The fire."

The warehouse was ablaze.

He chuckled, attempting to hide the full-throttle racing of his heart. "See, Lestrade? I told you I knew how to handle an arson."

Lestrade's eyes rolled back and it took all of his pride and dignity to keep him from giving up right then.

"Don't be so glum. We just have to pick our way around the smouldery bits and we should be just fine." Sherlock hitched Lestrade's arm over his own shoulders, ignoring the painful groan the action elicited. Now is NOT the time for sentiment! Get Lestrade to the hospital first, and 'sentiment' later! They made a hobbling mad-dash for the nearest uncharred exit.

Fortunately for the two men and the reputations of the night watchmen, the police had been quickly called and were already arriving on the scene. Thank heavens. An ambulance. If I would have had to carry him to the hospital, he might have-... I mean I wouldn't have bothered! Walking is… boring…!

Since the balancing force of goodness and crap luck in the universe was having a field day, it surprised Sherlock not at all to find himself face to face with Sally Donovan.

"Sally, are you having me tracked, or are you just accustomed to picking me out from a crowd?"

"I'd rather pick you out from a crowd than from under a charcoal heap, Freak."

"Fair enough."

Breaking into the social circle were paramedics, who carted off Lestrade with ceremony and insisted Sherlock stay after class to get his lungs checked. 'No-thank-yous' and 'get-your-bloody-hands-off-or-so-help-me's were exchanged, with the obligatory 'you're-not-my-mother-go-worry-over-Lestrade' and the 'see-you-in-the-hospital' parting sentiments at the end. Sherlock elbowed a man gracefully in the stomach and ran away. Have to get back to the flat. If Molly is really after my heart, then…

He was neatly interrupted by Donovan again, before sentiment had the chance to overwhelm him. She looked tired. Her eyes were rimmed with red, but not from the smoke. She just stood. Stood in front of him like a roadblock. Arms crossed over her chest combatively, but shoulders sagging in a way that lacked much fight, she looked him square in the eye. This was one roadblock Sherlock couldn't just brush past.

"Why?"

It was her only question. Emotions flicked across her face, dancing in the light of the nearby conflagration. Sherlock took a good look at her for the first time. Exhausted. Stressed. Been crying recently, no, she's been crying frequently over the course of the last several hours. This… incident… has seriously worried her.

"Why…" The word tumbled out while his brain was wrapping up the deductions. "Why… Because… because…" For once, his silver tongue was failing. The raw emotion on Sally's face was not reflected on Sherlock's countenance, but on his heart. With an encompassing feeling of dread, he realized just how devastating Molly's campaign could turn out to be. He shook the thought violently from his head. Right here, and right now, he needed to tell Donovan something. He was considering the dire consequences of being delayed here. Back to Baker Street, I must… Drawing the curtains of his mind tightly closed, Sherlock composed himself. All this took less time than it did to blink, but in the split second, Sally noticed. Something changed on her face. Confusion started mixing its way in among the worry. It will turn to suspicion, it always does. I have to end this.

"Because, Sally," he started, "I got him out."

It was not the answer she was looking for. Frankly, it didn't even make sense. He tried again.

"I got him out. And, I wouldn't have left that building alive if he couldn't."

Sally blinked. Understanding dawned. But she surprised him when she spoke.

"For… for the case."

"Yes… Of course it was for the case. I would never… never abandon a case. Not an important one."

Their eyes met again, and Sally understood. The meaning of her words did not escape him. The underlying message was plain.

"I see. I just figured you would get bored- Sorry. None of that is… You won't give up this case?"

Sherlock turned his gaze ice hard. "Never."

He walked away uninhibited.

"I'll take over this part of it… The case… I'll… keep watch." Sally's voice was quiet compared to the sirens, but Sherlock heard. He kept walking.

Halfway across town, John Watson found himself in a bit of a situation. It was getting late. The sun was setting. He had a general idea of where he was, along with the location of the nearest Police Constable. Everything had been going smoothly so far, except for the part about his best friend and equally-good-friend-who-he-didn't-live-with being missing, and all.

After the flat had been far too quiet for far too long, John had gotten up to make tea. What he had found on the kitchen table besides the usual experiments or appendages shocked him. Greg. Holy… It's talking about Greg! Whoever this is has Greg! Does Sherlock know? He figured Sherlock was probably already there, deducing it out. In a rush, John dressed, grabbed his coat, and dashed out the door. He hailed a cab and headed the only place he could think of. The open-air market at that… festival thing… has to be it. It's the only thing that even kind of makes sense.

Turns out, there was no sign of either Lestrade or Sherlock anywhere near there. Now, John Watson was strolling through a dimly lit back alley, pondering his predicament. Sherlock wasn't answering his phone, and neither was Greg Lestrade. I hope nothing serious happened. Who am I kidding. This is a disaster. John worked hard to calm his breathing. It wouldn't do Sherlock and Greg any good if he hyperventiliated in some back alley far away. Calm down. Calm down and think. What would Sherlock say?

He rounded a corner and ran right smack into someone. Staggering and apologizing, John looked up to see who he'd barreled into. Thankfully, it was a tall, friendly sort of fellow with sandy hair, kind eyes, and a chipper grin, not a shiv-toting Russian mobster. The man held out a hoodie-sleeved arm in a placating gesture, at the same time offering balance to John if he so needed it.

"Sorry! Gosh, I wasn't looking where I was going. Ha… Here I am, whistling a pretty tune and mowing down strangers. Sorry, again." The stranger apologized even more than John had. Surprised by the kindness, John extended his hand. The man gladly accepted the handshake.

"No hard feelings, mate. I wasn't exactly paying attention either."

"Good, because you'll never see this coming."

"Sorry, what?"

The man in the hoodie gripped John's wrist and hauled him forward, spinning the smaller man into a tight headlock. John fought the stranglehold with his other hand, but the stranger's grip was too strong. His other arm was being pulled up behind his back. John started seeing spots, so he lashed out backwards with his feet. Catching the trick before it panned out, the stranger leaned back and lifted. John felt his feet leave the ground. He flailed around for a foothold or contact point, but found none. In a fit of desperation, he slammed his head backwards and made contact with his assailant's nose. All that earned him was a wounded gasp and a sudden wrenching of his captured arm. John stiffened and gritted his teeth.

"Sorry mate, I really am, but it's got to be done, y'see. This is my job. Love it to death, I do, but sometimes it calls for a bit of rougher persuasion but- aw, you know 'xactly what I'm gettin' at here. See, I think you and I understand each other, I really think we do. It's all business, nothing personal."

If it hadn't been for his absorption in pain and slowly failing vision, John would have noticed the honestly sincere tone in his attacker's voice. Instead, he opted to get one final question out.

"Who… are you?" He croaked.

"Shoot! Here I am incapacitating a feller, and I haven't even introduced myself!" He let out an astonished laugh at his own lapse in etiquette and cleared his throat.

"The name's Sebastian Moran. Pleased to meet you!" John could almost hear the grin in his voice.

But, the last thing John recognized wasn't the name, but the military precision with which he was finally rendered unconscious. This guy is a pro… Heaven help Sherlock…

A/N: Gosh, that was long! I'm sorry for the 6k+ word count but... I just couldn't bear to leave it off anywhere else!

Oh no! Looks like Molly-arty is taking a different approach to burning Sherlock's heart. Will Lestrade recover? Has Mrs. Hudson been inadvertently poisoned by her careless lodger? Who is Sebastian Moran's beloved? All of these questions and more will be answered in the next installment!

Please, if you can, tell me any errors I have made. I'm not a terribly careful writer, and to add to the confusion, my computer doesn't have a spell-checker. I've scrutinized it pretty well before posting, but you, yes you, can nit-pick my grammar to your dictionary's content. I won't be offended. I will be overjoyed.