A/N: The coordinates in this story don't match to a location in America. You'd actually end up in Ennedi, Africa, but whatever. I took artistic liberties. I also promise you that Sherlock will make an appearance in the very next chapter!

John grit his teeth, agitation morphing his normally passive face into a hideous scowl.

Sherlock was on his way. Probably freaking out. The detective thought that the murderer had been targeting John from the start, but hadn't wanted them to know it. Sherlock did not take threats to his safety lightly, and John knew just how far the detective would go to protect him. Not that he was the one who needed protection, he thought to himself grimly. John was the combat-hardened doctor who invaded Afghanistan, after all. He could protect himself, thank you very much.

Turning his mind back to the day he'd shot Margery and Amery, he didn't regret it for a moment. People like that were better off dead. Yet, Alec Pellisier was also dead.

So who is avenging them?

House spoke that exact thought aloud a moment later, "Who the hell could this killer be? I thought that entire family were dead and buried."

John pulled his laptop towards him, accessing Sherlock's original spreadsheet with cult member information. The British doctor masked his expression, trying not to let the younger doctors on to the fact that he was getting very, very nervous. John felt distinctly like a pawn in a game of chess; as if the killer was purposefully moving players square by square.

Until, checkmate. But what would that checkmate entail?

"So, the final girl has already been murdered?" Chase frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "Why the hell would the killer be coming all the way to America with the host, then? Just to get at Dr. Watson? Doesn't seem likely."

"Wouldn't he rather have Dr. Watson come to him?" Thirteen added.

John's smile was rueful, "You think that this person is doing things logically?"

House turned his chin towards the white board. "We need to-"

He was cut off when the computer chimed again. House snarled, "What, now?"

John glared balefully down towards the screen, "Got a new image from our murderer."

"Neuroimaging of the completed brain?" Masters asked, curious despite herself.

"No," The former solider shook his head in negation. "It's a American birth certificate."

John clicked to the email Lestrade sent, and pulled up the PDF to the telly screen. Emiko Takemoto. Quickly doing the maths he absently muttered, "Nineteen. That's it, then."

Masters was confused, "What?"

Dr. Watson launched to his feet and paced the length on the room. "I need to grab my computer charger, then-" he rambled and wandered back into House's office.

The office blinds were still closed. When he leaned down to grab his backpack, he noticed an white envelope perched beside House's computer. Walking over, he picked it up and stared at his friend's name. Turning it around, his stomach sank. It was sealed with wax, the stamp a long memorized insignia. It was the Pellisier emblem. A shiver ran down John's spine. Dear god.

Somebody had plainly placed this envelope on House's desk while John was still sleeping. Had to have. Otherwise the diagnostician would've noticed. The thought of a serial killer right beside him while he took a kip...

Letting out a shaky breath, he quickly tucked the envelope into his pocket and scurried back to the conference room.

"Look, Sherlock isn't going to be here for a few hours. I-" he made an aborted gesture as he dropped the charger on the desk, "I need to get some fresh air, clear my head. We are likely going after this guy as soon as he lands. I'm fairly certain Lestrade has already gotten in touch with the American police force and updated them with relevant details. He'll send whatever new information he receives to my laptop."

"Going after the killer?" Thirteen's tone was aghast. "How? You don't even know where he is."

"The murderer won't wait long to make his presence known once Sherlock's landed." John sounded certain.

"Oh?" House blinked, a little surprised, "You know it's exceptionally dim to go wandering off on your own when there is a serial killer targeting you, right? You better stay put."

"I'll be fine." John snorted in amusement, "This isn't exactly my first time chasing a violent manic of a criminal, Greg. Let me take your motorbike around the hospital a few times. With a helmet on no one will know it's me. I'll have my mobile."

Greg twiddled his fingers together. He trusted John not to do anything stupid. Fishing his keys from his back pocket, he held them aloft. "Alright, do what you need to do. Just be back before Sherlock gets here and has a panic attack."

Dr. Watson gave a wane smile, wandering back to the office to grab House's helmet and leather jacket. He felt a little guilty about lying to Greg.

But he knew what he needed to do to keep Greg safe.

He noticed House's spare cane sitting in the corner, and snagged it, hiding it underneath the bulky jacked before striding back into the conference room a second time.

"When I get back you can update me on all the riveting discoveries you find," John stated with false cheer.

Masters and Thirteen scowled in perfect unison but didn't look up at him. Chase was busy reading the spreadsheet on his computer.

House glared at the whiteboard, so John left without saying another word.

John walked down to the parking ramp, knowing that House coveted his handicap spot. He often said it was the only perk of being a cripple. Standing beside the bike, he glanced around to check if the coast was clear. Grabbing his mobile, he deftly removed the GPS tracking chip from the device. Dropping it behind the back tire of the motorbike, he zipped up the jacket and pulled the helmet on.

It wouldn't take long for House to realize the chip wasn't tracking him.

So, his first step was to distract the taciturn man. And he knew just the person who might be able to help.

Straddling the motorbike, he adjusted the cane into place. Putting it in reverse, he made sure that the GPS chip was crushed under the full weight, damaging it irreparably.

John tore out of the ramp and into the cool night. Autumn was his favorite season. Princeton was a beautiful city, he noted absently. He would've loved to have done just as he'd said; drive around to clear his head and take in the sights. But now was not the time.

John arrived at Baker Street fifteen minutes later, musing at how disgustingly ironic it was that Wilson and Greg had the same damn address as him and Sherlock. How was that even possible?

He knocked politely on Apartment 1B and waited patiently.

Wilson looked bleary and was wearing pajamas when he opened the door. No surprise, it was late at night. He stared blankly at John for a long moment before moving aside to let the doctor in. "Oh, hello again, Dr. Watson. House didn't give you a key?"

"Sorry to bother you, Dr. Wilson," John greeted, biting his lip anxiously he glanced away. "And, ah, I guess he did."

"Um, what's up?" The oncologist inquired, bringing his fingers through his sleep mused hair. "Come here to get a few hours of sleep or something?"

He was obviously commenting on the fact that John was wearing House's coat and holding his helmet.

"No," John murmured, cautious, "Actually, I was wondering if I could ask a favor?"

Wilson blinked, "Okay? Sure."

"Our case has taken a," he paused just inside the doorway, "turn. I'm not sure how much Greg's already told you."

"Okay…"

John hesitated again, not sure what to say next. Lie? Tell the truth? If Sherlock were here he'd already be expertly shamming this poor doctor. John wasn't like that, though. He'd tell it like it was. A dangerous situation which required immediate attention.

"Want some tea?" Wilson asked nonchalantly, already wandering into the kitchen. He could tell by the grim expression on Dr. Watson's face that he wasn't going to especially like whatever this favor was.

Placing the kettle on, he rummaged around the cabinet next to the sink as John perched on a stool.

Wilson cleared his throat, "Green Tea okay?"

"Yes, ta," John muttered, pulling out his cellphone when it buzzed from his pants pocket.

Sherlock's name lit up the screen, the photo beneath was supremely unflattering. John had taken it while Sherlock was pulling a face and yelling at Lestrade for something. Sherlock detested having his photo taken, and John enjoyed taking them mostly because it annoyed the detective.

Dammit, what awful timing. He'd been wanting to speak with the damn man for hours, and now he finally calls? Sherlock was going to read into him not answering, and that worried John. Sherlock would probably call House right after, so he might as well get straight to the point.

"You need to take that?"

John shook his head in negation, silencing his phone with a pinched expression. "No."

"So, what's this favor, then?" Wilson braced his elbows on the counter between them, staring at the British man thoughtfully. "Is House in trouble again?"

"I might as well be frank." John felt his phone vibrate in his pocket again. He ignored it and continued, "We're going after a serial killer. That's the current case, highly confidential, very hard to explain. The thing you need to know is that this killer is targeting Greg specifically."

Wilson's eyebrows shot up on his forehead and he managed a weak, "What?"

"The murderer has traveled to America, and is on the outskirts of Princeton as we speak, tracking Greg's movements."

"How do you know that? Shouldn't we call the cops?"

Dr. Watson signed, "I'm a military veteran, it's just something you pick up I suppose. You know how Greg writes info about patients on that whiteboard of his?"

Wilson sighed belatedly, motioning for him to continue.

"Well, I noticed that the murderer was leaving various clues behind. In this instance, with the victims age. Combine the numbers and you get a set of coordinates. 20.172324, 21.182219. It points to a location just outside of your city. Looks to be an old factory or something similar. And no, getting the police involved would either slow the investigation down or force the murderer to act."

"And House doesn't know?"

"No. If he did, he'd likely do something rash." The doctor grimaced, "Just like I'm about to. Anyway, I need your help."

He emphasized, "It's very urgent. I need you to distract House for at least two hours. Keep him away from his phone and email, at least."

Wilson snorted, "That's easy enough. Hold on a sec,"

He wandered into his bedroom, unplugging his phone from the charger. Wilson dialed Cuddy's number by memory.

"Wilson?" Cuddy had clearly been asleep.

"Hey, Lisa. I'm sorry to bother you so late, but I'm really worried about House."

John's jaw dropped as he hastily stood, but Wilson held one finger aloft to stop him.

"The idiot hasn't slept in over thirty hours, and he won't listen to me. I need you to convince him to get at least a nap in, you know how he is."

Cuddy spoke on the other end, Wilson smiled, "Thanks, Lisa, I really appreciate it. Yes, alright, yeah, you too."

He hung up. "Done."

John was baffled, "There is no way in hell Greg is going to sleep while a case is on!"

He was very much like Sherlock in that respect.

Wilson agreed, crossing his arms. "So what do you think he will do when Cuddy orders him to nap?"

John's eyes widened in stunned realization.

"He'll hide away in a office or patients room somewhere and frantically work on the case just to spite her and prove he can." Wilson confirmed. "His favorite hiddy-hole is in a longterm coma patients room. Because of the sensitive equipment, House knows better than to bring his cell phone. The fellows will track him down if anything happens but that should give you a few hours."

"Clever," Dr. Watson smiled genuinely.

Wilson nodded, "So, tell me why I did that?"

John grimaced, "Well."

The kettle whistled. Wilson got up and grabbed two mugs, pouring hot water in them and adding the tea bags. He set one in front of Dr. Watson, who stared down at it thoughtfully.

"With Greg distracted, he won't know that I'm going after this guy alone."

"Going after? Who?" Wilson's jawline tensed and he nearly dropped his tea, "The killer?"

John nodded with resignation.

"If I told Greg about the coordinates, he'd demand that he go with. He isn't very good at the chasing criminals part. Last time he tried he nearly got me and my partner killed. This guy has to be confronted as soon as possible, before dawn at least. With Greg distracted, and me wearing his jacket and carrying his cane-"

"The killer will think you're House. Well, except the height difference. Why would you want that?"

"He actually thinks I'm the one being targeted because of a past incident, but I don't believe that to be the case." John admitted.

Wilson held his hands up, "Hold on, hold on. Let me get this straight- House thinks crazy serial killer is going after you. You think he's going after him. So you left disguised as him, didn't tell him, and are going after this murderer without anyone knowing?"

John sighed, yeah, it did sound exceptionally foolish when he put it like that.

"That's so cool!" Wilson enthused with admiration, catching John off guard. "Awful plan, but very cool. Like a crime show."

"Er, thanks?"

"What are you going to do when you come face-to-face with the murderer?"

"Haven't gotten that far yet." John confessed, glumly adding that he didn't have his gun either.

Wilson thrummed with excitement, the expression making him look boyish. He walked towards the closet, "Oh, god, I'm about to do something stupid as well, I suppose."

"What?"

Pushing a few coats aside, Wilson got on his tip-toes and returned clutching a black case. "I'm not a hunter or anything, not really, but I do own a hunting rifle."

Wilson stared at the box in disbelief, it was nowhere nearly large enough to contain even a dismantled hunting rifle.

"House keeps a handgun, though it's not registered." Wilson pulled out a Glock and a few clips of ammo. "He thinks I don't know about it so I never mentioned that I did."

"You're going to help me?" John croaked, utterly floored. He was starting to understand why House clung to this bloke, he was obviously far different than his outward appearance painted.

"House will probably kill me if he finds out. And before I lend you this, I have a few more questions."

"Okay. But I haven't much time." John insisted.

"Well, why do you have to go after this guy, alone? Just because he's targeting House doesn't mean you need to go without backup."

John understood where this was going, "This murderer. He's not just targeting House. He's targeting my partner as well."

"Who is your partner?" Wilson asked innocently.

That's when John realized that Wilson had absolutely no idea who he was. He'd thought House would've told him by this point, about London and all that. Apparently not. When they'd met before, House had simply stated that John was a family friend, nothing more.

"Sherlock Holmes." John finally answered.

Wilson made a face, "You mean his cousin? That detective guy? Wait, but before you said you call him Greg because of blackmail from your fiancé…"

Wilson was obviously doing the mental leap.

"Honestly, this killer is probably going after all three of us. But House doesn't have any combat training whatsoever, and Sherlock…"

"Is still in London?" Wilson assumed, shaking his head and obviously trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

John let him think that. It was easier than explaining how he was simply protecting his mad genius.

"Well, there's that,"

Wilson watched as Dr. Watson pulled a folded note out of his pocket. It was in a folded envelope with House's name written in neat penmanship. "Got any plastic gloves?"

The other man quickly fetched some from the first aid in the bathroom, "What do you need these for?"

John snapped the gloves on and deftly sliced the envelope open. "This showed up for House on his desk at the hospital. It's from the killer."

Wilson flinched, seeming to realize that John hadn't been joking about how serious the situation was.

Unsheathing the paper, it read one line, which John spoke aloud, "Sed qui me defendet?"

Wilson frowned, "Latin?"

John glanced up at him, "You know Latin?"

"A little from when I was a kid," Wilson affirms, "Defendet means protect, but that's all I got. I still have a latin dictionary around here somewhere."

He goes into the living room, scanning one of the jam-packed bookshelves until he finds what he's looking for. Together they slowly decipher the message:

"However who protects me?" John translates aloud.

"Know what the means?"

He shook his head, "No, but Sherlock- never mind. Listen, did you have any other questions, because I should probably get going."

"If you're going, I'm joining you." Wilson stated.

John's gaze morphed into a glare, "No way."

"Listen," Wilson held a hand up, attempting to sound reasonable, "I know I don't have combat training or anything, but you can't go in alone. At least if we go together I can keep a watch on you."

John scowled, "And what good would that do?"

Dr. Wilson opined, "Well, for one thing, I won't let you take House's gun if you don't let me tag along. For another, you'll have a second firearm on your side. I can bring my gun, it's in good shape. I have a bullet proof vest you can use. Also, a look out. I'll stay out of the building and all that if you insist."

"House would fucking kill me if I let you do that." John stated flatly.

This seemed to only encourage the other man, "C'mon, Dr. Watson-"

"Just call me John,"

"Just call me James, then. If anything happens to you, you'll have a doctor on hand. If things go wrong, I can call in the cops. Think of it like a failsafe."

"You're awfully reckless," John pointed out as Wilson pulled the bullet-proof vest from the closet.

"You need to be a little reckless to be House's best friend."

John was going to regret this. "Okay, get changed, wear black. We need to get going as soon as possible."

Wilson's grin split across his face, already rushing to his room, "Roger that!"

He was really going to regret this.

TBC.