Not looking good for our heroes is it? This could be very bad... I should warn you that this story will get quite dark, but I will inject my own stupid brand of humour every so often :P

...

'What's with all the bloody fuss? I've been cut before Sherlock.'

John was really getting annoyed now. Every now and then Sherlock would ask him if he was alright, like he was on his death bed from some incurable disease. Granted, the scratch on his face stung a little, but after a few stitches, and a week or so, it would be absolutely fine, not even so much as a scar.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table. He hadn't told John about the rest of the message Markin had left for them last night, he had stashed it in his coat pocket whilst John had called Lestrade and clean up the broken glass. Mrs Hudson didn't blame them for the damage down to the window, if anything, she blamed them for not telling her sooner. Lestrade had been told about the note, and Sherlock had all but begged Mycroft to keep an eye on John through his surveillance until further notice. Both men had treated Sherlock's worry with sincereity, proving that John's safety was top prority now. He had a feeling he should inform John about the added threat, it would explain the extra tension after what must have appeared to be just another empty threat. But he couldn't bring himself to do it, not after what had happened with Moriarty...

'I know, but seeing as you nearly suffered death by brick last night, there may be lasting damage.'

'What damage?' John's temper was at boiling point now, he wasn't a bloody child. 'There is no bloody lasting damage! I'm going out.' He made to rise, causing Sherlock to practically jump to his feet too.

'NO!' Sherlock cried. John froze, staring at his friend. Sherlock's hand was shaking slightly. The consulting detective took several deep breaths, forced his hand still and scratched his head.

'No...I-I really think it best if you stay here today.' An edge of nervousness crept into his voice, and he prayed John didn't detect it.

John did. It was obvious by the way he sat back down; with a reassuring finality. John was beginning to suspect he wasn't being allowed to see the entire picture.

'Sherlock-'

Sherlock cut across him. 'John, I need to go see Lestrade. Last night was a message for me, it'll be easier if you just stay.'

John knew his friend meant well, but, frankly, he was a little insulted. Wasn't he wanted? Not smart enough to accompany the great Mr Sherlock Holmes on a case? He stared at his cup of tea, watching the steam rise up in curling wisps.

'Alright' he finally agreed. 'Mrs Hudson's arranged for someone to fix the window today anyway. I'll need to be here, sort everything out.'

Sherlock nodded ferverently, such trivial matters were John's area of expertise. He had a thug to catch.

...

John was bored. Exceedingly bored. All he needed was a gun and he'd be well into Sherlock territory, firing portraits into the wall. Sherlock had been gone for hours, not so much as a text had come through. This pissed John off, the least the guy could do could just let him know what was going on. So they had been thretend, so what? John had been threatened loads of time in the army, he hated the way the two of them were jumpy at tiny noises.

There was a knock at the door. John trudged down the stairs to answer it, the caller was a small, stringy fellow with well oiled hair. At least, he may have been, the proportions were a little off in the eyehole in the door. Next to him was a thick-set man carrying a rather heavy looking suitcase.

'Yes?' John asked.

The guy peered at the door 'Hey there, a Mrs Hudson called, me and my team are here to fix the window.'

Indeed, there was a white van behind him, John could see two men smoking outside it. A telephone number was printed in patchy green paint on it's side. Sighing, he opened the door, the little guy grinned.

'Alright.' John held the door a little wider for them to come in. The little stringy guy didn't move, just continued to smile broadly.

'John Watson?' He asked. John blinked in confusion.

'Yes?'

'Greetings from my boss Mr Markin.'

John didn't even have time to think. The heavy guy moved suddenly and something large, possibly the suitcase, collided with the side of his head. There was a blinding flash of pain and a brief sensation of falling...

Then there was nothing. Nothing at all.

...

Sherlock fiddled with his scarf as Lestrade scratched notes onto his notebook. It was now 12:30, and Lestrade desperately wanted to get away, he was starting to get hungry.

'Looks like you really pissed someone off here Sherlock. Enemies in high places and all that.'

'Yes,' Sherlock agreed, 'But enemies sometimes forget that I have friends in even higher places.'

Lestrade didn't have anything to add, he never considered Sherlock had been a religious man, if he thought God was going to protect his friend and him, Lestrade should sit him down and tell him criminals don't work that way.

Anderson slid round the door, all smug slime and insults.

'Hey Freak' he greeted Sherlock. 'I heard about the brick, shame that.' Every line of his face betrayed the fact that sympathy was nowhere to be found.

'Thank you Anderson, you're condolences are much appreciated.' Sherlock shot back, it was so much fun insulting Anderson, he really didn't know how he got by without it.

Anderson frowned a little before turning to Lestrade. 'There's a gentleman outside asking to see you and the Freak.'

Lestrade looked up, Sherlock's brow furrowed. 'Who?'
Anderson shrugged, 'Tall, rich, had an umbrella...said it was urgent.'

Sherlock was already out the door. If Mycroft had found him it must be important. Lestrade hurried after him, confusion personified.

'Sherlock! Who?...'

Sherlock stopped dead in the foyer, his elder brother's face seemed more grave than usual. Lestrade straightened his tie and held his hand out, 'Inspector Lestrade, how can I help you Mr-'

'Mycroft Holmes.' said the stranger. Lestrade blinked.

'Holmes?' He repeated, 'are you a relative?'

The elder man laughed coldly, Lestrade couldn't help but notice there was no mirth in the man's eyes. 'I see you are as observant as Sherlock describes you. My brother has an unusual knack in some respects.'

Brothers? That explained it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, this was not the time for small talk. He glared questioningly at Mycroft, who frowned.

'You know I wouldn't worry you unduly Sherlock.' He explained. A small young woman, one of his assistants, held open a laptop for both Lestrade and Sherlock to see.

'The time is now 12:31.' Mycroft narrated, 'We received the footage at 12:06, but according to the video the incident occurred at 12:01.'

'Incident?' Sherlock asked, as the footage loaded onto the screen. It was a slightly fuzzy balck and white image, but it was instantly recognisable as 221b Baker Street. A dirty white van pulled up outside it; the words TARQUIN MERRY DIY SERVICES along with a phone number were printed on the side.

'Tarquin Merry?' Lestrade asked. Sherlock didn't look up as he answered.

'Markin's not creative with his aliases apparently.'

Lestrade nodded and went back to the footage. He saw Dr Watson open the door and a few words were exchanged. Suddenly a large man swung a dark shape at Watson's head. Although the video was silent Lestrade could imagine it crunching as it hit him. The man crumpled like a ragdoll and was picked up by the fat guy. As if John Watson weighed no more than a feather the group bundled him into the back of the van. Static suffused the screen as the video reached it's end, just as the van started speeding off.

Lestrade stole a glance at Sherlock, and immediatley regretted it. The man's pale face was utterly blank, but rage and grief blazed in the normally cool eyes. It was as though Sherlock had eyes of fire.

'Wh-Where did the van go next?' Lestrade said at last, breaking a little of the palpable tension in the air.

Mycroft shook his head, 'My cameras were vandalised seconds before this footage came through. This was a planned attack, they demolished any possible surveillance.'

Sherlock nodded stiffly, then clicked his fangers at Lestrade. 'Give me your phone.'

Lestrade frowned. 'What?'

'Your. Phone. Lestrade.' Sherlock drawled, all traces of fear gone from his eyes.

Lestrade handed over his mobile, Sherlock asked his brother to rewind the tape, who obliged. A still image of the van took up the screen, it's telephone number printed in clear view.

'What are you doing Sherlock.'

A thin smile. 'I'm going to give our friend Markin a call.'

...

*cue the dramatic music * Oh dear. Don't worry, Sherlock's a hell of a lot more shaken than he's letting on, but Lestrade don't know that :P

Next chapter: Someone underestimates John, and Sherlock overhears something he really wishes he hadn't...