House flinched imperceptibly, then glanced toward his office. The doctor absently squared his shoulders as he mentally steeled himself. He knew whatever Molly would say next, he wasn't going to like it. House knew his cousin was virtually impossible to surprise let alone startle. So, for him to be genuinely frightened?

Fuck, House thought.

Greg knew Sherlock was only truly and unashamedly scared once before in his life. Surprisingly, it hadn't been when he was using in University, or getting clean in his late twenties. And no, not fighting Moriarty, either.

It was three years after the Reichenbach Fall.

Sherlock had been incomprehensibly petrified when he didn't know if John would forgive him for faking his suicide. He'd just found out the good doctor was dating a nice nurse named Mary, back then, was cozy and societally conventional just like he'd always dreamed. Ordinary girlfriend, stable job and quaint flat. House could only imagine how dreadful this prospect seemed for the genius.

Sherlock finally realized John might leave him behind, refuse to speak to him ever again.

After all Sherlock did to protect him and all the inconceivably dangerous and awful battles he fought- they would not keep John in his life. Thoughts of home were the only thing that kept Sherlock moving some days amidst those dark years. When the desire to use again diseased his body and mind like a plague.

Sherlock hadn't considered he might lose not only his reputation and career but also his home. Or that his act of true altruism would be perceived as the ultimate selfishness.

During the last stretch of his mission away, Sherlock visited House.

Actually, he showed up in the middle of the night lounging at the piano and nearly gave House a heart attack. The detective was barely alive, severely injured after an operation in New Mexico went south. House patched him up and listened to the normally stoic and aloof man rasp and sob into the air as he meticulously stitched skin back together.

House would never forget how Sherlock's lungs hitched, painful, and how he rambled aloud; thoughts of John. Always thoughts of John. It was the first time House fully comprehended how very much John meant to Sherlock.

If there was one fact which stood as law, constant and untouchable, it was that Sherlock Byron Holmes would damn near tear the world apart to save John Hamish Watson. Through any means at his disposal.

"Tell me what's happened before I wake John," House demanded gruffly after an unnaturally long pause. He propped his cane on the chair and crossed his arms with consternation.

Molly bit her lip, but answered seamlessly, "Like I said, Sherlock found the victim at the Estate. Naveen Davis, 22-years-old. It seems that the Estate was the base."

She scoffed indelicately, "I still maintain that was an utterly daft decision."

House huffed impatiently.

"The killer has relocated the host."

"Damn," House's expression dropped dramatically, his tone rising a notch in dismay. "How the hell could a body in that fragile condition be moved at all?"

Chase wasn't certain what his boss meant. He motioned toward the screen, a kind smile plastered between his cheeks, "Continue, Dr. Hooper."

"I'm not a doctor." Molly mentioned absently before she shook her head, "Sherlock thinks the killer left the country."

"How the hell did he deduce that?" House wasn't suspicious of the information, more anxious about the motive.

She motioned to respond but was swiftly interrupted. Lestrade spoke before his form appeared on camera.

"Molly, 'ere are the background files on Davis-" The DI noticed the Skype call after a moment.

Bending at his waist, he squinted until his vision adjusted to the glare. "Oh, Dr. House," he greeted half-heartedly with a thick London accent.

Lestrade appeared especially exhausted. He'd dropped a least a stone since House last saw him, chin and cheeks covered with rough stubble that mirrored his own. House noted Lestrade's hair was entirely grey now, also.

House purposefully dismissed the introductions with haste, "Doctors Chase, Thirteen, Masters- This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. He's with the Yard and in charge of this chaos."

"I thought Holmes was in charge of the investigation," Masters replied innocently.

Lestrade scoffed but his gaze turned mirthful, "He only wishes."

House ignored the niceties, instead gesturing towards the file, "What did you find out about her?"

"Same as the others." Lestrade shrugged, nodding at Molly when she handed him a steaming cup of coffee. He regarded the fellows before adding, "Ideal University student, excellent marks. Kidnapped. Drugged. Surgically lobotomized. The center chunk of her brain scooped out."

"The thalamus and hypothalamus," Molly confirmed, leafing through a clipboard as she paced in the background. "I don't imagine this autopsy will turn up anything new, the injection site, everything is the same-"

"So, what's got Sherlock freaked?" The diagnostician grunted curiously.

"Remember the barn to the north of the original crime scene? The one the cassettes were found during the second raid?" Lestrade didn't bother to clarify himself or wait for an answer. "Well, it was recently well used and effectively vacated. No prints, no fibers, niente. We had twenty of our best, including Sherlock, ruthlessly examine that crime scene. Besides the body, on a eight by nine sheet of plastic, we didn't learn anything useful. Filthy hovel this barn."

Lestrade made a face, the universal expression for sheer disgust, "That barn used to be the place they'd do blood sacrifices, rape virgins. Pedophiliac incest in two instances. Bloody Forest Hill Cult."

The DI shifted his tangent and continued, "Yet the crime scene was somehow pristine and clear in terms of useful evidence. Whatever this criminal was doing to keep the host alive, it must've required a phenomenal amount of expensive and delicate medical equipment. This barn possessed the space and electricity. A back-up generator was still warm to the touch when we arrived. Four hours tops since the guy left. Plane tracks on the Eastern field. Likely a modified military model. The kind a rich bloke uses for holiday. It's also the kind that can jump across the ocean in under ten hours. We-"

House flinched, holding up his hand to make Lestrade stop. He was now beginning to understand why Sherlock was so damn nervous.

"I'm not following." Thirteen admitted.

Lestrade gave a foreboding nod. He swallowed a gulp of scalding coffee and cleared his throat.

"It means the killer was prepared to move. He knew Sherlock would inevitably investigate the Estate, and was one step ahead of him the entire time. The murderer left this body as a warning of sorts."

Masters shivered, wrapping her hands around her stomach, as she inquired in a timid squeak, "What sort of warning?"

"For one thing, he already has the last girl. Most likely finished the host," Lestrade paused and glared down at his steaming coffee mug in concentration as he slowly parsed out the right string of words.

"For another, because Sherlock linked the cult with these murders just yesterday, that makes him three steps behind. The killer is clearly tracking Sherlock's movements, and is aware that-"

"John isn't in London." House finished for him, voice carefully steady and blank. "The killer has to be cognizant of the fact that I'm involved, then."

Lestrade set his mug down off screen, steadily regarding House before he reluctantly voiced his initial suspicion, "A grudge."

"For the deaths of Margery Elliott and Amery Kellen." House felt his stomach drop, he gulped and nearly shivered.

His fellows saw House's face morph into pallid dread. The assembled professionals all watched with something akin to unwilling sympathy as House's entire body shuddered. His lips thinned into a pursed line as he nodded tightly, too self-aware.

"I want to put you both under American police protection." The DI mentioned hesitantly.

"No fuckin' way." House shook his head fiercely, demeanor turning aggressive, "We'll never catch this sick bastard if you stick John and I in a goddamn detainment facility. Back off, Lestrade."

"I figured as much." The British police officer sighed in a resigned yet understanding manner. "You can bet Mycroft's watching, regardless."

House bit his lip, "Where's Sherlock?"

Molly popped back on screen, pacing as she stared at her mobile. She looked very nearly in tears, "Um- Well,"

Greg tore the phone out of Molly's hand, his face filling with shameless dismay as he read aloud:

Gone hunting. Complete autopsy & send to GH. Tell JW: Fra Mauro Highlands. SH.

"What the hell does that even mean?" Chase blurted, slamming his hands on the table. He wasn't used to this, didn't like it, not this scary serial killer shit. "This doesn't make any sense."

Thirteen and Masters nodded in unison. The palpable fear radiating off House did not help any of their unease.

House took a deep breath and turned, "I ought to wake up John. Molly, Lestrade, stay on the line for a minute."

House limped back to his office, and delicately kneeled beside his friend. Dammit, the man looked so tired even as he slept. Best make this quick, he figured.

"John," House roughly shook his shoulder, watching John swiftly regain consciousness.

"What happened?" John slurred, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand as he threw off the blanket and stood.

"Message from Sherlock," House whispered.

"What?" John's eyes crinkled.

"Lestrade and Molly are on Skype, better they fill you in," House informed him, standing with a flinch. He rubbed his aching limb, then slowly limped around his desk to rifle in a drawer. After pulling out a bottle of aspirin, he shook three into his palm and swallowed them dry.

The pair went back into the conference room, Lestrade was speaking with the fellows. When he caught sight of John, the detective inspector flinched. The couple hours John slept clearly hadn't done him much good.

"What's happened?" John repeated, resigned.

"Sherlock's gone AWOL." Lestrade informed him grimly.

John crumpled a little, wryly stating, "Surprise, surprise."

"He thinks the killer is going after you, John." House added, rueful. "'Fra Mouro Highlands.'"

John spun towards House, aghast and sputtering, "Is that what the message was?"

The doctor nodded in affirmation.

"What does it mean?" Thirteen was uncertain if she should've asked.

Dr. Watson sank into the nearest chair, his shoulders slumping as he cradled his head in his arms and mumbled, "Its code. It means that I'm in immediate danger, and should stay still."

Chase frowned, "Um, okay? Does this happen often to you then, Dr. Watson?"

"More than you can imagine." Lestrade humorlessly answered for him, "It's always been this way with the two of them."

"What way?" House hedged.

"Together you idiots are unstoppable." Lestrade told John affectionately. "Separated, you both tend to lash out. You're stupidly self-sacrificing when it comes to each other. Always have been."

Molly sighed audibly in the distance, "That is a rather accurate assessment, yes."

John croaked, nearly inaudible, "Where do'you reckon he's gone off to?"

Lestrade filled him in with a practiced no-nonsense manner. He added a few details about the state of the crime scene, then Molly began informing him of various facts pertaining to the most recent victim.

House added these notes on the white board list.

Lestrade finally inquired about what House and his team had learned. The diagnostician dutifully dumbed down his explanation on blood substitutes and biocides. Chase echoed in layman's terms other obscure medical practices that were relevant, including the process required to keep the host alive.

John didn't appear to be listening to any of this, he was staring intently at House's whiteboard, reading it over and over again.

'1.20172324,' John tapped the numbers out in morse code with his index finger on the glass table. '21.1822…. two more digits.'

House reached across the table to trap his hand, "John?"

John flinched, returning his attention to the screen, "Pardon?"

Lestrade gave him his best commiserating 'I know Sherlock is crazy' and 'things will be just fine' expression. It made John edgy, his temper nearly spiking.

"What?" John quietly tried not to snarl.

"I said," Lestrade soothed, "Sherlock is most likely heading to New Jersey. If you just sit tight, he'll be there in under eight hours."

House gaped at this information, "So by out of the country, you meant Sherlock thinks the killer is coming to America?"

The hardened officer nodded grimly in affirmation before speaking to John directly, "Sit tight, John. Stay at the hospital for a few hours until Sherlock arrives. I'll contact you if we learn anything else."

"In the mean time," House dismissively added with a posh fake British accent, "We have more important feats to accomplish."

He waved in a mock cheer at Molly and Lestrade, finger hovering above the keyboard of John's laptop.

"Ta, taaaa, mates."

TBC.