A/N: Finally, the update! I've been super busy with getting the school year wrapped up and whatnot, but I've made time to go over this chapter again and again until I was sick of checking it!

Enjoy!

It was well into the night when the cab pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street. A slightly soot-covered Sherlock Holmes stepped out onto the sidewalk. He all but threw a wad of notes at the cabbie before taking off for his flat. The front door was locked. Key, key, keykeykey. Where did I put it? Unfortunately, it was nowhere to be found. He was too lazy to pull out his burglary kit. Sherlock pounded on the door.

"John! JOHN! Hmm. MRS. HUDSON! IT'S ME, LET ME IN." No answer. He gave the door a few more half-hearted slaps while he thought. Lock-picking it is, then. The kit unfurled in his hand and the door was open in a moment. Practices at his flat had been frequent. He climbed the front steps and-… abruptly stopped. He could go no further.

The entire foyer was covered in yarn. Strands stretched tightly from one wall to the other, zigzagging across the room. The staircase was blocked entirely. Yarn was so thickly layered about the side wall and staircase railing that he could not see to the next landing. Sherlock paused to examine a nearby strand more closely. Knitting yarn, medium brown, a fairly cheap brand sold commonly in knitting shops. He deduced right away that this must be some sort of trip-wire system. Not a prank. John hasn't the patience and Mrs. Hudson lacks the dexterity… On the subject of his landlady, where was she? There was no way she could have set this up, or gotten back through it for that matter. John must still be asleep upstairs. Very asleep. Someone would've made noise, certainly, setting this up. Sherlock's gaze drifted to the left. There was a somewhat navigable path from the front door to the door of Mrs. Hudson's rooms.

So that's how this is going to be.

Sherlock took a deep breath and began. The coat had to come off first; there's no way he was making it through with the extra weight and movement. He stepped up to the first strand and ducked. Threading his way through the yarn maze was trickier than he had thought. The strings were hung from what looked like tiny plastic hooks on the walls. If he disturbed a string too much, it would come loose from the tack, slacken the rest off significantly, and… what? What is waiting on the other side of that door?

Sherlock could hazard a guess that it was explosives, but there was no way to be sure. After ducking under another strand he eased his way up, only to feel the touch of a wire on his hair. He froze. Muscles tensed involuntarily and Sherlock barely dared to breathe. Ever so slowly he backed down, inching his head forward in order to avoid that particular trap. He was splayed a bit, at this point. One foot arched all the way up to the toes, balancing him in the center of this web. His other stood flat, but was cramping from the strain placed on his ankle, which tilted crazily to provide room for his knee. One hand rested on the wall, while the other supported his weight rather awkwardly. His right hand was pushed to the floor, directly under his hip. He had just the strength to keep it there. Not quite enough for a boost. His mobile started buzzing in his pocket, but he ignored it. Not that he could get to it anyway. He was effectively frozen in the web until the matter of his head could be sorted. This was a diabolical trap. A veritable dream catcher of horror.

Sherlock leaned his head forward. He craned his neck around until he was sure he was clear. Studying the terrain before him, he readied his backmost foot. Throwing all his energy against the ground, Sherlock sprung forward and executed a sharp somersault. Momentum spent, he pulled to a stop and flicked his head upwards. A shaky sigh of relief barely fluttered the strand brushing the tip of his nose. Sherlock reared back a bit. He was nearly to the door. He straightened up. There was available head room. He began picking his way through the rest. A hop, skip, and a jump later, he was standing free and clear in front of Mrs. Hudson's door. He brushed himself off, steeled his nerves, and turned the knob.

Greg Lestrade was at the hospital. He'd been properly wrapped, bandaged, and stitched by various medical personnel. He was due to be released pretty soon. A nurse had told him that all the final checks were nearly done. For now, Lestrade sat on the side of his hospital cot and sighed. He had been up for hours, received the business end of a baseball bat to the head and ribs- 'Yes!' he had assured the paramedics, 'It was a bloody BASEBALL bat' much to their confusion-and stuffed inside a soundproof box. A kindly nurse had given him throat spray and several over-the-counter recommendations. He was definitely going to be sore for days.

To his surprise, Sally Donovan chose this moment to enter. She leaned up against the outer wall of the room, checking him over.

"Don't- don't worry. They have me on the good drugs." Lestrade croaked out his joke and cracked a smile. Donovan didn't seem convinced. He sounded like a choking toad. The both of them were silent for a moment.

"You were gone for hours."

"It was hardly my fault."

"Of course not!" Sally almost shouted, sounding much more frustrated than defensive. "Of course it isn't your fault! You were kidnapped and beaten all because of that- that…" In the end, she couldn't bring herself to say it. Even after all he had put her through, after all the insults, crime scene dramas, embarrassing deductions, she couldn't say it. He'd shut that nonsense down when it had really counted. He had been the first responder, and unltimately saved the day. He'd come through for her boss when no one else could have. She couldn't fault him for this. But, that didn't mean she wasn't furious.

"Sorry…" Lestrade's raspy voice brought her out of her internal debate.

"Don't apologize." It wasn't a request, it was a command, and Lestrade took it. Shows just how exhausted he is. He's been working late, doing all the extra paperwork that was 'too boring' to be filled out by… by other parties. If there's anyone this shouldn't have happened to, it's Greg. Goodness knows he doesn't deserve it.

"So, Anderson's black eye…?" Lestrade looked up at her, both concern and confusion mixing in his eyes. "He dropped by a little while ago and I didn't get a chance to ask."

Sally sighed. "I punched him."

"You what?" The incredulous question was cut off by a short bout of coughing which turned to shallow laughter. Sally couldn't help but smile, despite her dark mood.

"Yeah, he was being a pest so I told him to take a hike. He didn't take the hint. I socked him."

Lestrade dropped his head into his hands, shaking with almost silent laughter.

Sally's smile widened. "Don't worry about the fallout. I've got several witnesses that'll swear it never happened." Her boss was gone now, completely lost in mirth. Violent giggles threatened to topple him. She remembered the other reason for her visit and held out the bag she'd carried in.

"One of the PCs dropped by your house for a change of clothes. I stuck your mobile in there- found it on your desk. A bunch of texts, a few missed calls. Figured you'd want to check in, just in case there was something important." Lestrade nodded and stood, going to meet her halfway for the bag. He swayed a bit, and Sally lunged forward, ready to catch her boss if he decided to make advances with the floor. Thankfully, he kept his balance.

"Sorry, sorry…" He made a gravelly apology and waved her off. "Just stood up too quickly. Give that here."

He went into the little restroom to change, and Sally waited outside impatiently. He can take his time; it's not that I'm worried about. If he's locked the door, there's no way to get to him quick if something happens. One of those doctors said he'd got a concussion, on top of everything else. If he-"

Sally's paranoid thoughts were thankfully interrupted when Lestrade walked back out in one piece. He had on a clean suit, which did wonders for his previously disheveled appearance. Of course, all of the bruises were still there, and livid too. Nothing much to do about that besides wait. Lestrade set the bag back on the cot and checked his mobile.

"24 new messages, 11 of which are from Sherlock. No news here. One from you, one from Gregson, four from- hang on…"

Four new messages from John Watson. Not extraordinary in itself, but their content…

Hey Greg, Sherlock got a weird note. Everything OK?

Haven't seen Sherlock. Are you on a case?

Greg is everything alright?

Greg, call me when you get this.

But, John hadn't been at the warehouse. 7 missed calls, 2 of which were also John. 4 new voicemails. One John's. Lestrade knew it probably contained much of the same, but a nagging feeling in his stomach made him press the call button anyhow.

John's voice crackled over the tiny speaker. Sounds of traffic could be faintly heard in the background. Maybe he's in a car then? A cab probably. John was short and to the point, but Lestrade didn't miss the note of worry in his voice.

"Greg? Hey, mate, it's John. Sherlock got a weird note in the mail- said something about you and fish… I think it's some kind of threat. Sherlock left without a word, so I don't know where he's gone off to. I'm heading down to the festival on the other side of town. I think the note had something to do with the fish market they've got going on over there… Greg, I think it's a mob threat, or something. Call me back when you get this, or if you get a hold of Sherlock. He's not answering his mobile either. I hope everything's alright. See you when I see you. Bye."

Lestrade paled. Sally must've noticed, because she took a step forward, ready to catch him again. He lowered his phone and took a shaky breath.

"Greg? What's wrong?"

The concern in her voice brought him back to attention.

"It's John… He wasn't with Sherlock at the warehouse… Went off on his own about some mob threat or something. I've got to get a hold of him… or Sherlock."

Lestrade punched in John's number. The call went straight through to an automated voicemail message. Phone's off then. Or… or disabled somehow…

He hit speed-dial 3 and waited. The call rang out, and he was left with Sherlock's voicemail greeting.

"You've reached the voicemail of Sherlock Holmes. If you found this number on the website, try commenting there or on John's blog. If this is Mycroft again, I will delete your message. Otherwise, please leave your name and number and I will ignore it as well. Good day."

He felt sick, and it wasn't just the repercussions of his violent evening.

"Greg. Greg, you OK? Look at me…"

He turned sharply to look at Sally and she leapt back in surprise.

"Sally… Sally I have to go. I've got to get out there as fast as possible." He shouldered the bag and made for the door. Sally, quicker than he, and unhindered by bruised ribs or a concussion, blocked the exit.

"No way, boss. You're not running around. Not so soon after you've been attacked."

"Sally, listen to me!" The rough half-shout stopped her in her tracks. "John's in big trouble, if my hunch is right-"

"Wait, you're running out of the hospital on a hun-"

"Donovan! Shut up, and listen for a second! Something big is going on here and John might be in trouble. I'm going to check on Sherlock. As far as I know, he's gone back to Baker Street without any kind of medical attention. I also need to see for myself if he's OK. If this voicemail's anything to go by, John is in real danger. I think he was led into a trap."

"Voicemail?" Sally's voice was much smaller, after listening to her boss' gruff tirade.

Greg played the message for her. Her eyes widened as she saw the significance of the calls.

"Now, I've got a job for you. It might just be the most important you've ever had, so listen close. There are lives in the balance on this. Goodness knows I almost died tonight. I don't want this bomber to get their hands on anybody else." He cleared his throat and took another breath. "Seargent Donovan, I need you to go find John Watson."

She blinked once in surprise, but nodded. "And where are you going?"

"Baker Street. I think there's more to this than meets the eye. Unfortunately, there's only one man in London who has the answers I need." He gave her a brief nod before making his way out the door. Sally exhaled deeply. Time to get back to work.

A jostling sensation welcomed John back to consciousness. He was lying almost face-down on a rough, lumpy cloth surface. He felt sore and stiff all over. One of the first sensations he was aware of was intense cold. The chill was concentrated on his neck and chin, which was highly unusual. John tried to reach his hand up and get a second feel at it, but was immobile. The surface he was laying on jolted. I'm in a car. I'm in someone's car. Swallowing his panic, John kept his eyes closed and started working out his predicament. He couldn't call out for the duct tape stuck firmly over his mouth. His hands were tied tightly behind his back with something like a scarf or a handkerchief. A quick test proved his feet were secured in the same fashion. As John squirmed, he felt a pressure across his chest and legs. I'm… I'm seat-belted in. What. And something else. He was covered by a blanket or towel. Everywhere except his face, he could feel the heavy fabric draped over him.

The low humming he had been aware of previously had picked up volume. That's not the engine. That's… the driver? The loud tenor voice picked up into full-out song, and John had to open his eyes. It was incredibly dark, save the dim light from the dashboard and displays. John could see the driver- a tall man with curly blond hair- much shorter than Sherlock's- and a dark hoodie. His face was turned toward the road, so John couldn't get a better look at him. His voice rang out over the rumbling of the engine. John had no trouble hearing every word.

Rocky Mountain, Rocky Mountain, Rocky Mountain high!

When you're on that Rocky Mountain, hang your head and cry.

Do, do, do, do! Do remember me.

Do, do, do, do! Do remember me.

He was a bit of a rubbish singer, this kidnapper, but loud enough to drown out any noise John would make, apart from opening the car door, or attacking this fellow from behind. He tried shifting his feet first, to get some room to work with. His shin connected with something hard, and there was a loud thump as the object hit the floor board. The singing immediately stopped, and the driver turned to look at him. John briefly thought about faking unconsciousness some more, but it wouldn't do any good now. The first thing John noticed was the purple splotch radiating out from a plaster on the man's nose. Oh. I did that. Oh boy. Am I in for it now. To his utter surprise, the man smiled at him.

"Good evening, Doc! How'ya holdin' up?" He drawled to the back seat. John's eyes widened in surprise and he shifted his shoulders to try and sit up.

"Hey hey now, none of that! You'll dislodge everything, and I can't hardly stop the car an' help you." The car swerved as a big hand settled on John's topmost shoulder and pushed him back into the seat. John felt the cold envelop his throat again, and he tried to struggle away.

"Cut that out. You're a doctor, Doc. You should know that the ice pack'll do you more good than harm. I hated to bruise you up so bad, but you weren't bein' anything else than ornery. This's the least I can do."

John stopped struggling. It certainly was cold. After shifting a bit, he heard the thing crinkle. It's a bag of frozen peas. But… it does feel good. I suppose it's alright. Not everybody who kidnaps me is ever so polite about it. This guy could give Mycroft lessons. He blinked up at this strange criminal… Moran, wasn' it? What kind of lunatic was he, and worse still, who was he working for?

Moran started whistling as he reached for the air conditioning knob. He stopped suddenly, and called back to John. "You too hot back there, Doc? I know you've got the blanket on you, but that's the boss' orders, not my call. If you're gettin' warm, I can crank up the air a bit? You good?"

As soon as Moran turned to look, John shook his head. The ice-pack-fleece-blanket combo wasn't bad. He was actually fairly comfortable, despite being tied down in the back of a smallish SUV driving off goodness-knows-where in the blackest hours of night no no this is bad. This is very, very bad. John drew in a deep breath through his nose. I have to get out of this. What to do, what to do… John got focused. He started looking around the interior of the SUV for anything useful within his reach. The vehicle smelled of frequent camp-outs and fishing trips. An empty sack of crisps was shoved under the passenger seat, next to a half-empty water bottle. A pair of rather large boots sat on the other side near John's feet. Nothing. Literally nothing useful here. Either Moran is a tidy camper, or an incredibly dangerous professional. For all I know, he could be driving me out into the country to kill me and quietly dispose of the body. Maybe we're headed to a rendezvous with a mob boss, or worse…

John didn't have much more time for contemplation. The SUV was beginning to slow. Moran turned the wheel, and the road changed. The smooth pavement was replaced by bumpy gravel. John tried to turn his head and get a look at the landscape, but the blanket prevented him from seeing anything. Moran noticed his movement. John took a look at his face for the first time since the alleyway. Disregarding the splotchy bruise on his nose, Moran had an honest look about him, like the kind of person you'd trust your kids with. Wasn't that one of the characteristics of psychopaths? They seem trustworthy at first, and then dismember you? But Moran seemed different. Wary of Stockholm syndrome and it's symptoms, bloody ice pack, John tried to get a good read on Moran's character. His jaw was set and determined. Possible moral conflict, but determination to follow through with his duty nonetheless. Duty. Loyalty… This man is an ex-soldier if I ever saw one. Hope the mirror hasn't been lying to me all this time…

As he watched, Moran's face changed. Some sudden thought brought his buoyant mood behind a mask of stone. This scared John more than anything he'd seen yet tonight. What could possibly chill this chipper sort of a kidnapper? If he's a psychopath, then he should be having a blast, right?

"You seem like an awfully nice feller, Doc. I hate to have to do this to you, but orders are orders." He didn't look up from what he was doing. John began to worry. Moran reached into the armrest compartment and retrieved a bottle and a washcloth. A cold fear gripped John's heart as he realized what was about to happen. No. Not again. I have to fight this. First rule- don't let them get you to a second , that's passed. Second rule- don't let them bloody knock you out again! I have to get out NOW! John struggled furiously in the backseat while Moran got to work. Whistling to the tune of that 'Rocky Mountain' song he'd been singing before, Moran poured a good amount of liquid from the bottle onto the cloth, measuring it out to some degree. Then, he replaced the bottle tidily and opened the driver's side door. It slammed shut with an awful finality. The whistling had taken on a terrifying tone, and John was glad to be rid of it, if only for a moment.

Last chance, soldier. It's now or never. Moran seemed to be taking his time getting around the car. John arched backward to try and undo the seatbelt. No dice. As he was about to give up, his fingers brushed across something small and hard. He grasped it, turning the thing over in his fingers. A pocket-knife! Oh, you're certainly a prepared camper, Sebastian Moran! But, he didn't have time to try and get loose. His best bet was to hide it. Somewhere Moran won't check… John brought up his arms and found the waistband of his jeans. He tucked the pocketknife on his right side, near his hip. If he even checks, an ex-soldier or security guard would check the left side out of habit, or the back of the waistband. Right hip is the last place anyone would … at least it's my best shot. John heard, rather than saw, the door next to his head open moments later. He could feel Moran's presence looming over him. The kidnapper spoke.

"This is going to be the awkward part. I'm sorry, Doc. Orders are orders."

Sherlock sucked in a breath through his teeth. He'd just done more acrobatics than he would on a case. What met him on the other side of the door, however, had more to do with his winded-ness than anything else. Mrs. Hudson's kitchen was a disaster. Yarn was strewn haphazardly across tables, chairs, even the refrigerator. Colors mixed and tangled at every intersection. Only one thread of the original sandy brown was visible in the mess. It zagged taut an inch above the linoleum, threading around a cabinet knob, and finally meeting the left-hand wall. The solitary strand multiplied to form a dense web of yarn effectively blocking off one empty corner of the kitchen. Well, almost empty. Inside the fuzzy tan cage stood one rather frightened landlady. She was leaning against the back wall of her prison, positioned as far away from the sensitive wiring as possible.

"Oh, Sherlock!" It was a plea, as well as a greeting and it wrenched Sherlock's heart. Stop it. Sentiment won't unweave this. I need to be in top form. The game demands it.

"Mrs. Hudson." It was a statement, and a question. He needed information.

"Sherlock, thank goodness you've come! I've been in here all afternoon. That terrible woman came in and made a mess of my kitchen! Oh, I'd just organized all my knitting supplies last weekend, dear, while you and John were chasing that awful arsonist all over the docks. You two worry me so much, getting into horrible-"

"Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock gave her a pointed look. She knew as well as he did that they could only fix this if Sherlock had all the information.

"Right, dear, I'll start from the beginning. I was making a pudding- you know how John likes a good pudding during a rough case- when I heard a knock on the door. I thought, 'Now who could that be, at this time in the afternoon?', because you boys both have keys, and no one usually calls after six unless it's a client, but I know you're not taking clients, not since this business with the bomber. Anywho, I go to answer the door, and it's this poor young thing, eyes all red from crying and such, asking if she could see you. Well, I told her you were gone, and I think John's sleeping upstairs, but I didn't tell her that- just something about him being occupied which she believed- but I offered her a cuppa while she waited. I figured John would need all his sleep since your rushing around never gives him a proper night's rest, so there would be no harm in having a chat with the young lady, seeing as how she was so distraught. I said-"

Sherlock's eyes glazed over as Mrs. Hudson rambled on about the visitor and the tea, and the little inanities of ordinary conversation. She's obviously in a state. Probably worried herself sick. At least she's rambling instead of crying. Now THAT would be tedious. I'll just wait until she gets to the good bit. Sherlock didn't have to wait long. It was soon revealed that the very same 'distraught young lady' was actually a 'no-good, wicked, hateful criminal' who had pulled a gun on poor Mrs. Hudson after not too long. Gotcha, Molly Hooper. His landlady described how Molly had her backed into the corner, while some men dressed all in black had come in and set up the yarn. For part of the setup, Molly had Mrs. Hudson turn her back while the men moved about the kitchen and laid more yarn.

"Bet she didn't think I'd notice, what with the guns and trespassing and all, but before she told me to turn 'round there wasn't a shred of yarn on my table, but now look at it! Absolutely covered!"

Now that she mentioned it, the table looked too bulky for the volume of visible yarn. Avoiding the tan strand and carefully testing the other pieces for connections, Sherlock began working his way through the tangle. Better yet, I'll call John. He can come sort this, with his surgeon's skills or steady hands or whatever. That will give me time to contemplate… Sherlock whipped out his phone and dialed John. Straight to voicemail. Hmm. Next best thing.

"JOHN! JOHN, GET DOWN HERE, THERE'S AN EMERGENCY. MRS. HUDSON'S HURT AND THERE WERE INTRUDERS. JOHN! JOHN HURRY!" No answer. No sound on the stairs. Not a peep.

"Maybe he's gone out. Before they all showed up, I mean." Sherlock nodded his acceptance of Mrs. Hudson's logic and went back to work. Halfway down the hole he'd made in the yarn pile, he caught a glimpse of something shiny resting under all that fuzz, and redoubled his efforts.

There was a knot in his way. The monster in question was a conglomeration of several strands wound about one another in the most illogical and frustrating manner. It was a delicate operation. Sherlock had to go string by string, extricating one from the next in a precise manner. Mrs. Hudson seemed to be holding her breath. He plucked a green thread from the mass. It started to give. Winding it slowly out, Sherlock separated a part of the knot. It would unwind. Another would follow. He dug his nails under the threads of a tight cluster. Purchase, at last, was gained. With two fingers, he pulled the strand. With painstaking precision, he coaxed the yarn out from its knot while-

There was a loud knock at the window. Sherlock jerked wildly back and tried desperately not to set off the whole lot. Mrs. Hudson, in the tension of the moment, shrieked. Sherlock nearly fell backwards onto the floor, but regained his balance in a very dignified manner. His knuckles were white. He pulled himself up from his half-leaning off-balance arc, shooting out from almost under the table. There was another knock. All Sherlock could see was a hand, balled up and rapping on the lower window pane. It's too high for him to reach. Perhaps it's one of the homeless network with information. Sherlock leapt over the jungle-y vines of yarn and thrust the glass pane above the sink upwards. Two hands gripped the sill from below, and he grabbed at the wrists like a maniac. There was a hoarse yelp from below as the owner of the hands was hauled into the little kitchen.

"Lestrade?!" Sherlock's befuddled exclamation was accompanied with a frown and another rapid-fire question. "Why aren't you in the hospital? Do they really have such low standards and incompetent staff as to let a patient with a damaging concussion and two- three bruised ribs out of their care within just a few hours?" He was still holding Lestrade's wrists as he scrutinized the Detective Inspector. To be honest, he looks much better than before. Much less ghost-like and more of a pinky color than a sickly green. At least the nurses had the wits to give him a throat spray- raspberry flavoured, by the smell- disgusting stuff. Note: Never let John touch it.

Mrs. Hudson was smiling at the DI from across the room. He gaped at her over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Oh! Hello, Inspector! Lovely to see you again."

He gave her a confused grin. What on earth is going on here? He looked over to see Sherlock was still lost in thought. The consulting detective still held the DI at about arms' length, but enough was enough. Lestrade painfully cleared his throat to make his point. Sherlock released him, stepping back.

"What've you done to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen?" Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock blinked. How to explain…

"Molly. Molly was here. She did it."

Lestrade paled. His eyes flew about the room, searching for explosives, dangling blades, or pits of lava. Sherlock thanked his lucky stars that he had not yet uncovered whatever it was on the table, or Lestrade would have likely pounced on it.

"Calm down Lestrade, and pay attention. The flat is rigged with this extensive trip-wire system. Avoid the tan thread at all costs. Lestrade. Lestrade…?"

The Detective Inspector was standing stock still. His eyes moved rapidly from string to string.

"Lestrade. What are you doing?"

"Where's the bomb, Sherlock?" He hissed.

"BOMB?" The shrill cry came from the closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"Mrs. Hudson, based on our bomber's modus operandi thus far, we can conclude that there is likely an explosive or incendiary device somewhere in the kitchen. I believe I can disarm it, once it is located."

"Oh, if that's all, then carry on dear. Inspector, would you like a cup of tea? You can help yourself. I would make you one myself, but, here I am." She gestured to the yarn screen in front of her. "Silly thing, this. I'd tear it down myself, but the wretched woman threatened me. Then threatened Sherlock, then the good doctor… Really, she was rather repetitive, if you ask me. 'Burn this, burn that, burn you'. She was full of it, if you ask me."

Sherlock held in a snort as Lestrade declined tea. The two men stood there a moment. Lestrade swiveled his head to get a look at the webby mess on the floor.

"What's the plan, then?"

Sherlock followed Lestrade's gaze and worked his way back to the table.

"I'm handling this." He gestured to the table. "Pretty sure it's the bomb. Can you, I don't know, stand absolutely still where you are? Don't move. I'll have this sorted in, oh, an hour or so."

Suddenly Lestrade rememebred why they might not have an hour or so.

"Sherlock…"

"Oh, no worries, Lestrade. I'll have this wrapped up soon. Well, when I say 'wrapped up'-"

"Sherlock. John's-"

"-Probably out. Be back soon. After last night, he won't linger at the shops too long. Pubs are also unlikely, but then there's always the human tendency to consume alcohol in the most ridiculous and illogical-"

"Sherlock! John is missing!"

Sherlock's hands froze mid-tangle. His mouth opened. Words started to form, but died in his throat. Lestrade watched the gears grind to a stop. Three words… Three words were all it took to shut him up. Well, in all fairness…

"Missing? How could he be missing? Evidence! Lestrade, produce the evidence that led you to this conclusion. John has not been unheard of for twenty-four hours as of yet, so I don't quite see how you can declare him properly 'missing'," he spat the last word, "until you have proof!"

Lestrade took a breath. "Is his phone on?"

"What?"

"Have you called him? Is his phone on?"

"I-… no. No it isn't. But that's hardly conclusive."

"Maybe this will convince you."

"Greg? Hey, mate, it's John. Sherlock got a weird note in the mail-"

Sherlock listened to the message. Each word another bullet hole in his leaking boat. John… John went looking for Lestrade at the festival? Hardly a logical choice, if one thinks things through… But, would John have made the Ornithogalum connection? Unlikely. Very unlikely. I suppose from an idiot's perspective, the fish market is a logical assumption. True, there are 'mobsters, fish, and boxes'. But, if John left before Molly visited at six, and after I left for the warehouse, then he should be back by now. He should be back by now, and his phone should be ON. John never turns his phone off without a reason. If Lestrade tried to call him when he received the message- approximately an hour ago, judging by the potency of the smell of throat spray and light buildup of dirt on his left shoe- then his phone should be back on now. Nothing John would be doing requires an inoperative phone for this long.

Sherlock took out his phone again and dialed. Straight to voicemail. No. Not now.

"Sherlock, I need some information. If we're going to find John…"

"No, Lestrade."

"What?"

"When we find John. But, we can't focus on that now. The more immediate concern…" He pulled a green string and the whole pile unraveled. As the yarn tumbled to the floor, a strange metal box was revealed. "The more immediate concern," Sherlock continued, "Is disarming Mrs. Hudson's kitchen table."

Lestrade started, and Mrs. Hudson gasped. The box was about standard shoebox size, with one tan and one red string running from a hole in the side. Sherlock made a thorough examination of the lid. After several minutes, he deemed it safe to open. As Sherlock lifted the lid, the room held its breath.

"KA-BOOM!"

Lestrade flinched violently and Mrs. Hudson screamed. Sherlock shrank back from the box, but when it didn't, in fact, explode he took a closer look.

"Scared you, didn't I, Sherly dear?"

A low growl reached Lestrade's ears. It surprised him to discover that its source was Sherlock.

"I have no time for your games, Molly. Oh, look at that! Now, I can see your little speaker. It will give me such pleasure to smash it and incinerate the pieces."

"I wouldn't touch it if I were you. One false tap and the whole room goes up. And your landlady works so hard keeping it all clean…"

Sherlock's lips pursed in a hard line. "What do you want?"

Ecstatic laughter cracked out across the room. "What do I want? People keep asking me, Sherlock, but they don't really mean it." The manic glee was slowly seeping out of her voice, being replaced with something more sinister. Greg was riveted to the spot as the madwoman continued. "They want to know what I intend to do. All these little squeaky questions, asking for favors, answers, mercy… Nobody cares what I want; they just fear what I will do to get it."

A heavy silence covered the room. Tension, like the yarn, clung to everything.

"But, I might as well humour you." The little speaker squeaked and set the room back on edge. "Sherlock, I already told you I'm going to burn you. But, as you can see, I'm trying to find more interesting ways to play with fire. What I want is to watch you dance- dance and dance until you drop. Until your legs turn to jelly and you collapse, the weight of your failure crushing you like an ant under my heel. I want to watch you fail, Sherlock. I want to watch you fail, and know you've been beaten."

Sherlock began his impression of a gasping fish, mouth opening and closing without sound. His Adam's apple bobbed. Still nothing.

"I won't give you the satisfaction." The grunted retort dropped out like a weight. Almost no emotion seemed to be attached besides irritation, but there was something else. Lestrade felt like an intruder. Here Sherlock was, fighting for their lives, going toe-to-toe with the single smartest criminal anyone had ever heard of. Said criminal had threatened his world, and Sherlock was taking shots in the dark. This was his soul. Slipping mask spotlighted, Sherlock was exposing himself by trying to remain hidden.

This was a stand-off between two of the scariest people he'd ever met. Each had the countenance of a genius, superiority plain as day. Both were manic in their own way. Sherlock could bounce about a crime scene like a jet-propelled slinky; blurring here and there and all the while spouting out deductions. This Moriarty, Molly, or whoever she was, radiated a different sort of mania. It was the feeling you get when you meet a sudden drop. The fall didn't kill you, only the ground lurking below, lying in wait and ready to spring its trap. Lestrade was on the narrow ledge between the cliff face and the drop-off.

"Suit yourself. Good luck with the knitting, Sherlock. I've got a date with the devil. Need to get my hair fixed and all. See you later, dear. Toodles!"

The call disconnected. Her driver dared not a glance at the back seat. He knew where he had to go. It was his only job, getting the lady from point A to point B without a hitch. He had to steady his breathing. Tonight, he was being paid, coerced, threatened to make sure there was a hitch. The next turn was unexpected for his passenger. She didn't even flinch, just kept glancing into her compact mirror, checking her lipstick. Blood red. Scary, that stuff. But then again, so's the lady. He pulled into the deserted parking garage and made his way to the upper levels. Three black SUVs appeared out of the aether and tailed him to the roof. The driver parked in the space he'd been instructed, and waited. It really wasn't pleasant waiting in a parked car with the scariest woman in the world.

She got out without skinning him first. That was a surprise. Unaware of what else he had to do, the driver unbuckled his seatbelt with a shaky hand. He slunk from his seat and out into the open air. The wind whipped the lady's pony-tail into the air. She stood, unfazed, and waited for the SUVs to hurry up and park. They were slow going, the driver noticed, but that was the intimidating part. One stopped, headlights trained right on the lady. The other two flanked the first. Men in suits and body armour poured out with mean efficiency. The driver wanted desperately to flee from the firing line, but his feet were frozen to the spot. After the suits with guns, another figure emerged from behind the blinding lights. To the driver, only a silhouette was visible.

The lady seemed to perk up at this new development. As the shadow paced forward, the lines of her jaw shifted. I know that smile. It's the one sharks give you before they bite you in half… Then, she spoke, her voice ringing through the empty air.

"Ah, Mister Holmes. I was wondering when you would crawl out from under your desk."

A/N: OOOOOH! Let's get ready to rumble! YEAH! I hope you guys liked this bit. I had a ton of fun getting Sherlock in and out of that yarn maze (which I've had to do before. It's much harder than it looks!) and getting Lestrade back into the thick of it!

Here's something relevant: I FIXED SPELL-CHECK. No more worries about horrendous misspellings! But, uh, if I did screw something up, please let me know... Thanks!