Sorry for the delay. I hope this chapter makes up for it.

For the first time, Sherlock had been stupefied, stunned into inactivity for a second as he watched the cab containing John drive away at top speed. He had followed John up to Baker Street. Everything had been according to the plan, except for the incident that had just occurred in front of his eyes. Then he realised why no one had followed him.

It was all John's fault. Why did he not listen to him? Idiot.

He instantly sprung into action, knowing that John was in very real danger now.

No. NO! There's no time for police. Cab no. 12708 is our man. The follower was the cabbie himself and the other one his accomplice from yesterday.

No, I need Lestrade. Can't do this alone. Lestrade!

"LESTRADE!" he bellowed out in the street, unable to contain his anxiety as he rushed towards 221B. He did not care who he bumped into as he checked the signal from the transmitters in the cash. They were pointing to an abandoned power station outside London.

He hopped into a cab waiting nearby, whose driver looked almost afraid to take the madman for a fare, "Drive like the devil behind that cab, 12708. Do it, man!" Fortunately, the cabbie understood his dilemma and drove the car into life. He wasn't going to go behind those shooters alone like a fool. They had already proven themselves to be possessing a very high degree of intellect. Sherlock would have admired their thoroughness had John not been kidnapped.

"Lestrade!" he almost yelled into the phone, "They've got John!"

"...Shit!" the DI's voice floated to him over the line, " You got anything?"

"Cabman and accomplice drove away in cab no. 12708..."

"There's no 12708 here, kid," the cabbie turned around to point at the street.

Surely they couldn't have driven that fast through the huge volume of traffic.

Sherlock was, for the lack of a better word, terrified. He tried to calm his breathing, bring down his pulse, make his brain wade in instead of his fiercely beating heart. He too was a sort of an adrenaline junkie. But he did not like the feeling this time. It was just the opposite how the adrenaline should made him feel; he felt helpless, powerless...

They must have changed license plates. He looked around at all the serenely moving cabs. They had camouflaged themselves within those slow moving vehicles. One of them stuck in the traffic caught Sherlock's attention.

A typical London cab has a five digit number, never starts with a zero. Got you! Perks of being a Londoner.

"Change that, Lestrade. 06972. Near Portland Street. HURRY UP! And track John mobile phone too... 7955905099. I'm texting you the location that I'm picking up from the transmitter."

Meanwhile, he discovered that the other cab had sped up, "Come on, man!" he growled at his cabbie, "There's my friend in there!"

He looked at his watch: it was almost two o' clock. Somehow, he had to find John before that. If he did not return to his house by four at most, his parents would start searching for him, and they would come to know that he hadn't been to the school and then all hell would break loose. He would not be able to take John with him on cases, and then John would hate him forever for landing him in trouble.

No. He could not have John hate him. He had to keep that from happening as well.

Mycroft! John was friends with Mycroft! He drew out his phone again and typed a quick text.

Text me John's landline number. SH

The reply came after ten seconds. Why? M

Just give me the number if you have it. SH God, Mycroft was such a pain in the behind!

The reply took some time, but it came nonetheless.

020 7946 0028 M

Sherlock swiftly dialled that number. A woman picked up the phone on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Watson? This is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a friend of John's."

There was no reply from the other side of the line.

"Hello?" he hoped that the line hadn't gone dead.

"Yes, sorry. Um... a school friend of John, right?"

Oh shoot! School gets over at two-thirty. Damn sentiment!

"Yes," he carried on confidently, "I wanted to inform you that he'll be coming over to my house to work on our... group assignment, directly after the school."

"Oh... he didn't tell me anything about that..."

"Well, we've been assigned it only today, and the deadline's within a week. I need to get it done fast so..."

"I understand completely, dear," she carried on sweetly, "let me speak with him."

Oh woman, you're good!

"Sorry... he's in other class and this is my free period," he knew better than to cut the phone abruptly and get it over with. He could not have her calling John continuously, "Don't worry, Mrs. Watson. My father is at home today..."

"Oh, no dear, it's completely okay... if you must complete the assignment-!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Watson. Good afternoon."

Phase one completed.

After fifteen minutes more, they started to leave the city behind. Lestrade called at that very moment.

"I'm following them. Your police force is useless, cannot even stop a stupid cab with a four digit code."

"...Alright Sherlock, stop panicking-!"

"PanickingI'mnotpanickingI'mcalmextremelycalm!"

There was a lengthy pause, after which the DI replied, sighing exasperatedly, "We're doing everything we can. The location you gave is somewhere halfway between Portsmouth and London. We're going there. Very hush-hush."

Sherlock froze. Portsmouth? "Hold on a second," he switched to the transmitter app. Lestrade was right.

"This isn't Portsmouth I'm being driven to. This is northwards. Wait, stop the car. Yes, thank you."

Sherlock changed his cab for the third time, "I'm in cab number 11789. Hurry up, Lestrade!"

"Where to, kid?"

"Follow 6972 over there."

"Hey, I ain't doing no coppers work-!"

"This isn't cops! I'm following my... " Sherlock seized the first idea that came to his head, keeping in mind the homophobic nature of some people, "... girlfriend!"

No risks when John was involved. He had begrudgingly accepted the Detective Inspector's help.

"I know exactly how you feel, son! My wife's a downright whore too!"

After some time, cab number 6972 stopped near an underground tunnel, Sherlock got off about fifty yards away from them as he watched the two men drag out a red haired boy.

John! His insides cried out as the taller one lifted him with ease and walked into the building. He kept telling himself that they wouldn't hurt John but he could not settle his mind. His very ill-timed and completely ridiculous (self-declared) protective instincts wanted to tear them apart for even touching John's unconscious body and for handling him with like he was a pathetic doll.

Somewhere in Addlestone. Underground tunnel sort of place. SH

He could see John put up a very futile struggle.

Drugged. They drugged him.

He held onto the last shreds of rational thought. He could not go in, not without jeopardising John's life. He was as safe as he could be. But after five minutes, when he decided that Lestrade wasn't going to show up and was going to be fashionably late like most police, he took the matters into his own hands.

"Such mismanagement of the case!" he growled angrily to himself.

He jumped headfirst into danger, like John had done. And it was a stupid thing to do, his brain kept on shouting but to no avail.

Every inch of John's body was screaming in pain and agony. He did not dare to stir or even peek through his half-opened eyelids. He kept his eyes inconveniently shut and tried to listen to any audio input that his ears were able to provide.

He could vaguely feel rough hands handling him, shoving him into a hard chair and tying him up. Rough hands that were nothing like Sherlock's careful and delicate ones. The ones which could strangle a man to death within seconds when they needed to.

He tried not to make noise as much as possible as he remained slumped against the back of the uncomfortable chair. Sherlock and God were all he could think of.

Oh god, Sherlock! Save me! His insides broke down, Take me away from here. I swear I'll be nice to my sister...

Finally, judging from the lack of movement, John opened one of his eyelids tentatively. There was no one around him, just blackness with some sunlight scattered at a distance. He looked down at the ropes binding him to the chair. They were strong enough.

Maybe I could move with the chair?

A slight disturbance eradicated any such thoughts from his head. He pretended to be passed out. Too late. They had already seen John very much awake and contemplating his escape routes.

"Oh, he's woken from his slumber at last," the man was distinctly Italian, the safecracker probably, "Hello, my friend, how're you feeling?"

As if a truck ran over me. Twice.

No reply.

"Ooh, not a talkative person, I gather," said the shorter man. He looked very much like the man who was known to the world was 'Leonard Hoffman' , "Let's see if pentagram and gold get you shooting off!"

The two men looked down upon him, while John struggled to focus on their faces. It was very difficult in that dark room.

... pentagram... gold... the bank... the heist!

Oh God, Sherlock, please...

"Looks like he needs some convenience. Get him some water."

... water, yes!

A second later, John's head was yanked back painfully. Pain shot in his scalp and the sudden force of a train collided with his face as he found himself completely drenched. His eyesight zoomed into focus and he tried to speak, but his mouth had gone dry...

"What is that?" this time it was the Italian man whose deep voice rumbled over him. Deep but gruff, nothing like the silky depth of Sherlock's voice. John muttered something incoherent and tried to sign off, but the shorter man grabbed his hair painfully...

No, wait. It was supposed to be painful. Why wasn't it painful?

John's eyes rolled upwards. Why's my hair red?

The shorter man broke into a stream of curses as the adhesive came off and the red wig transferred itself from John's head into his hands. His cheek stung as a hard something rammed into him. John caught a few English words like 'police', 'agent', 'gold' etc. Something made them turn in the opposite direction, some slight disturbance, some scuffling, though what it could be was beyond him at the moment.

"... mantenere una vigilanza su di lui, io torno subito," the taller man rushed away stealthily with a handgun, leaving John completely at the mercy at the shorter man. He knew. This was his time. He was going to die. They knew that they had been tricked and that their goods were being tracked...

"You know me, don't you?" that was the softest of voices, something which made the flutter of panic in the pit of his stomach rest for a moment, only to intensify when he noticed how thickly it was laced with fury. John craned up his neck to get a better view of the man. Tanned skin, dark hair peppered with grey, broken nose, glasses, the dead eyes. Mr. Leonard Hoffman. But John still shook his head.

"Then please accept my sincere apologies for not introducing myself. I'm Nicholas Oppenheimer from Warsaw, Teddy Monkford from Chicago, Angel Santos from Puerto Rico, Dr. Toshio Yates from Sumatra and more recently, Leonard Hoffman from Kimberley. Now, I shall consider it bad manners if I don't receive the same from you."

Soft voice, like that of Jim, soft and slimy. John knew that it was very naive of him to ask, "Let... me go... please..."

"Oh no, no. We, unfortunately, cannot allow that to happen. That would be a terrible blow to our... business and reputation for being infallible."

John had never felt so helpless, so trapped. Every noise seemed like a blow to his head, every word seemed like the last syllable he would get to hear. There was a sound of something metallic striking something heavy and hard, and sirens started to wail somewhere. DI Lestrade. Sherlock.

Now, John could only hope for rescue. That is, if the man near him did not shoot him first. Hoffman's nerves were pretty good, it seemed. He did not panic. He kept staring at John with his dead-eyed stare.

"Oh, so you're from the police. Police sending kids to do their thing now, how appropriate! I'll do a clean job of you there," he grabbed the gun and pointed it at John.

His time had come. He had always thought that he would die in Afghanistan, not in a stupid tunnel in a polluted city. But here he was. He closed his eyes. The sirens seemed to be coming closer.

"Boss!"

Hoffman stopped dead in his tracks and turned sharply to look at the tall man in front of him. He seemed familiar. John still did not open his eyes, did not want to look Death in the eye.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Mr. Rick and you, we met at a craps table yesterday, remember?"

Hoffman's face screwed and oscillated from John to him. "Shezza! Remember, boss?"

Sherlock! It took John every ounce of his self-control to look up at the newcomer with hope in his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. Why're you here? And where's Rick?"

"Mr. Rick called me here. He's getting the car around. We need to leave, boss. The coppers are aroun' here."

Sherlock did not even look at him. Well, thank God that he didn't, John looked absolutely pitiable. He will absolutely not have Sherlock looking at him in this state.

"Well, I can see that for myself, you idiot! I was just getting out of here," the gun was back on John's temple as he snarled at Shezza, "until you decided to interfere-"

"NO!" Sherlock almost cried out in panic, "Ahem-we need him alive."

"And who said that?"

"Mr. Rick."

"And since when does he call the shots around here?"

Think Sherlock, think! Make John indispensable. Invent something! Get closer to them, catch him unawares, and rescue John.

"He's got a tracker on him."

"Yeah I figured that as much, thanks genius."

"No, I mean he's got a tracker on you."

Hoffman was stunned into silence, "Say that again."

Sherlock took a step closer to them, with his eyes involuntarily fixed on the gun, "I just dropped in with news from the city. Your goods are being tracked."
Send him into panic... make rational thinking impossible for him and then rescue John.

"We need to move fast and keep him safe. He knows the locations, everything. He can disable them, and if we're caught, we can use him as leverage." Behind himself, Sherlock kept his own gun ready, the one he had nicked from the Mr. Rick, who was now trying to fix the tyres of the cab.

"Boss... you better get a grip on-"

Sherlock stopped abruptly as he found the gun pointed at himself instead, "You think you can fool me, huh?" the shorter man growled, "You think my hair's gotten grey in the sun?"

Oh shoot! Plan backfired!

"Boss?" he tried to win back the promise of his loyalty.

"Get on your knees. Quickly!"

Sherlock had a set of rules that he had made before he had jumped into this detective-for-free business.

i. Never give anyone your real name or even appearance.
ii. Never call the police; they always ruin your plans with their sirens
iii. Never be a hero

He had broken the first two, and it seemed a shame that the third one remained intact. Because, as he himself believed, rules were meant to be broken. And he did something only foolish people would do. He stole a glance at John and hurled himself on the man. Anger had never been prominent in his veins, but one look at the gash on John's right cheek, and another look at Hoffman's ring smudged with blood gave him all the inspiration in the world. He did not care that his gun had been clicked off the safety, that it could fire anytime, hit him, or John or ricochet off the walls and hit the man himself.

There was no police, John realised belatedly, it was all coming from a concentrated point away on the ground, from a black rectangular object. From Sherlock's phone. John ducked away from the fighting pair, trying to open his binds so that he could help his friend.

Hoffman proved to be surprisingly strong. In a second, Sherlock was on his back, struggling and writhing under the man. And there were more sirens, louder, less intense, spread over a wide area.

The police were here.

"You're... dead," he panted, pointing the gun at him, only to start the struggle once again. In a second of weakness, Sherlock overpowered him once again and flung the gun from his hands away and out of his reach. Leonard Hoffman did not look recognisable anymore. He did not feel the need to go and comfort John. He was as safe as he could be at the moment.

"Who's your guardian angel?" Sherlock growled.

"Fuck... off..."

Another blow to Hoffman's nose. "By the way, I'm not a cop. And neither is he. Give me a name! NOW!"

"BOYS!" a voice erupted from somewhere near the entrance. Sherlock turned in that direction which proved to be a mistake as Leonard Hoffman threw him off him and sprinted in another direction, out of the place, away from the police who were flooding the place. Didn't matter anymore. They already had a visual of him. He would be caught soon.

"John!" he rushed to his poor friend, untying him. His fingers were trembling as he fumbled around the ropes. He had never felt this panic before, and it was petrifying. John's breath came in gasps as Sherlock got to work with a pen knife.

"Sherlock, I'm fine... oh god... No seriously, I'm okay, just a little..." he stopped on spotting the urgency on his face.

"Okay. How're your injuries?" he panted.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine Sherlock," though the state of his pulse was suggesting otherwise, "Oh shit..."

"Don't worry," he was speaking very fast, "I've told your mum that you're at my place, doing an assignment with me. I've-"

"Sherlock! I'm okay! See?"

That was not a very good reassurance.

John fell out of the chair and dumped himself on the floor, breathing rapidly, almost passing out from the terror he had felt mere moments ago.

"BOYS! Are you okay?" the DI burst in on them, with the unpleasant sergeant following close behind, probably wondering what those two kids were doing in every single crime scene that they had found. Sherlock took a final breath of relief as he helped John up to his feet.

"We're fine, thanks to you!" he almost shouted. It was all Lestrade's fault. Idiot! It was all his fault because he could have refused John to go on this trip. He could have refused, but he didn't.

Then, remembering that John wasn't very good at understanding sarcasm, he muttered in his ear, "Sarcasm."

"I get it! I'm not stupid, you know!"

"I wonder who gave you that idea."
John looked almost shocked and then burst into silent laughter as the DI walked them out.

"You know that you two look like a couple of loonies, don't you, laughing away where you could've been dead a few minutes ago? You two are lucky birds, not to have gotten hurt-"

Somehow, that thought spurred more laughter from the two of them.

"Stop it! I'll have the paramedics tend to you and then I will drop you-"

That drew out very loud groans from both of them.

"NO! I WILL drop you both to your house! And don't you dare slink away, Sherlock! I know exactly what I will do if that happens!"

Sherlock stuck out his tongue at the DI like a petulant child and dragged John away to the paramedics.

"By the way," he put an arm around Sherlock's slender shoulders to support himself, as Sherlock helped him towards the paramedics van, "I lost that flaming red wig. Leo Hoffman took it away as a parting present."

"Good thinking, John! Now all we have to do is search for a man with a bright red wig in his hands!"

Again John missed the sarcasm, "Or on his head."

The two broke into raucous giggles once again, "Stop! We can't giggle like that in here!"

"Well, you're the one who was kidnapped, not me."

They stopped when they realised that they were being watched by the med guy near them. He cleared his throat and started dabbing John's cheek with antiseptic while shooting Sherlock a bizarre look.

Sherlock studied John's face for a second and then muttered, "Your mum will want to know whoever gave you that decorative gash on your cheek."

John winced at the tingling sensation, "Well, I can always count on you," he tries his best to copy the devilish smirk that was Sherlock's signature.

"How so?"

"I'll tell my mum that I got into a fight with you. You do boxing."

"And then she'll ask you to stay away from me, won't she?"

"Luckily, my father was a Lieutenant Commander."

Sherlock frowned, "Your point being?"

"You have no idea how proud he will be when he learns that I had a proper fight!"

Sherlock chuckled at that, and after the med guy went away, he shifted a little closer to him. The adrenaline had faded away, and his heart rate picked up at that.

"How do you know about my boxing?"

John wasn't going to answer straightaway. He was allowed a little flirting, wasn't he?

"I deduced it," was his almost confident reply.

"Oh, you deduced it?" Sherlock looked almost amused at that, "Pray tell me how."

"Well," it wasn't a very good time to be running brains, not with Sherlock Holmes' intoxicating presence just a feet away, "your nose... it's a little broken," he tried to weave an elaborate explanation, "almost invisible, but... when the light falls on it at a certain angle, it's visible and very distinctive-" he nodded like a know-it-all.

Sherlock snorted at that, clearly making fun of him, "Show-off," he mumbled, and straightened up, "the signature of a boxer is his ears."

"Look who's talking!" John countered back, "...Ears?"

"Yes, the boxing man has a peculiar flattening and thickening of ears. You can compare mine with the med people here and verify for yourself."

He was right. And there went his flirting down the drain.

"And... what else have you... deduced about me?"

Well, not really down the drain... He decided to take a more daring shot.

"You like men."

Sherlock smiled, "Not really. I had a girlfriend when I was twelve, although that was only an experiment and she ran away screaming after a few hours."

John laughed and nodded, "Yes, yes, but that must have been before you came out."

"Oh," Sherlock gave a soft chuckle, sending sparks running through his body, "This is all the rumours, isn't it? It's true that James and I were dating. Although I've observed that..."

John tried not to laugh out again. Great! He observes his feelings!

"... I don't prefer any particular gender, but for the most part, I've been with men. It may stem from the fact that women start crying every time you say something bad to them, and I find that very melodramatic. I usually find men more interesting... but if you're asking me about my sexuality, I don't know," he smiled earnestly, one of his quick, rare half-smiles.

John conjured up an image of Sherlock repeatedly calling a girl 'idiot' and dragging her to crime scenes with him.

"And... do you... find me... interesting?" John stammered it out before he realised what he meant.

John had seen colour on Sherlock's face before, but never had the reason in any way been related to him. "Are you... trying to ask me-?"

"No. No..!" John shook his head briskly, trying not to look spooked by Sherlock's uncomfortable scrutiny. He looked up to see Sherlock as red as beetroot, and a continuous twitch of muscle in his left cheek, "I... wasn't trying to ask you out - no!" Upon seeing a little amount of colour drain from Sherlock's face, he added hastily, "I'm just saying, it's all fine!"

"Yes," he nodded, messing up his curls, "Good, but-"

John never found out what Sherlock was further going to say as the Detective Inspector decided to return at that very moment, "Well boys, no mention of this in the report as usual. Let's get you home."

"What about Leo Hoffman?" he asked.

"Err... he got away. Vanished. But we have Rick Finotto in custody-"

"No, no. And the others?"

"Received news just now. Recovered most of the gold and all the cash. The gunman escaped. We have the safecracker in custody."

"Brilliant, Lestrade. You've screwed up magnificently, don't you see!? John and I already have smugglers on our track and now a gunman! And their guardian angel as well-"

"Sherlock!" the DI grabbed his shoulders and shook him, "Calm down!"

"I'm extremely calm, Lestrade-!"

"I'll walk him to the car, thank you Detective Inspector," John pushed him away from the exhausted DI. As soon as they were inside, Sherlock started to mumble to himself, forming the next part of the plan. John slumped back on his seat and closed his eyes, taking care not to touch the brainstorming young man beside him.

"You should call your mum," he suddenly blurted out, "It's almost six."

"Right."

The car stopped about hundred yards from Sherlock's house. John poked his head out of the window to catch a last glimpse of the man for the day, "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For... saving me today."

Sherlock gave him a smile, the sort that John had never imagined could possibly play across his face, "You're an idiot, John!"

The tone was fond and not sardonic, he noted absently. "Can't help it-"

"You two lovebirds done?" came DI Lestrade's sharp voice, "I've got loads and loads of paperwork and a wife and a son to go home to!"

John blushed violently as he watched Sherlock scowl at the DI, "See you tomorrow."

He merely smiled and walked away.

"We're not- we're..." John muttered an explanation to the DI.

"Yeah whatever," said he, grumpily.

NEXT CHAPTER: HALLOWEEN PARTY! YAY!
Thanks to Google translate for English to Italian. The phrase is: 'keep a watch over him, I'll be right back'. I don't know if it's accurate or not. I love writing case fic but I seriously need me some high school drama. It's what I live for!

Please please review. I desperately want to hear your thoughts on this.