A/N: Dear 'An interested reader' I am hoping you did catch up to this story as I just read your review of a habit and you didn't log in so I couldn't reply that way so I'm doing it here. Concerning 1) That was the point, the habit was his being kidnapped. It was supposed to happen at an irregular rate. And 2) they weren't in a hospital they were in a house owned by Radish and Sherlock mentioned that he had passed out and I thought I had made it clear John was wearing a walking cast and so would be able to drag the, let's face it featherweight, Sherlock out of the house. Hope that helped (:

Also thank you everyone for the reviews and the support! I'm sorry I have been struck with such terrible writers block recently but I'm working past it. I hate to beg and I hate long authors notes but I am going to be shameless so please please review and keep me going!

He woke early two days later, his lips were dry and when he opened his mouth to take a breath his throat stung, choking him, making him wheeze and he swung his legs over the edge of the sofa to rasp in the cold morning air. After a few minutes his coughing calmed and Sherlock got to his feet, stretching his arms and twisting his body to crack his back. His limbs were heavy with long overdue sleep, almost 4 hours spent in a single position on his leather sofa; just enough for the ache to dull and the nausea of sleep deprivation to be lifted. The sky was a dull grey, a soft sprinkling of rain was just beginning to fall and the snow across the street had all but gone leaving thin white puddles slipping and sliding down off the roof onto the unsuspecting heads of pedestrians far below.

He hadn't dreamt. He knew that, after all that time spent forcing his eyes open, forcing himself to stay awake he had not dreamt for 4 blissful hours. Sherlock smirked and scratched his chest through his thin white shirt as he kicked his way through the piles of papers, files, books and photographs that had accumulated around him as he lay on that sofa and thought. John had come and gone periodically, making sure Sherlock ate, making sure he had drunk something but otherwise not intruding into his bubble. The perfect partner.

For a moment Sherlock considered climbing the stairs to their bedroom, crawling into the covers and making John wake up but instead he headed for the kitchen, grabbing his coat and slipping shoes on as he went. He checked his phone was in his pocket before slipping out of the back window on to the fire escape. He was the only one who knew that this window even opened and yet he made sure to keep it locked, keep it safe unless he needed it and when he left he always made sure the window was secured behind him. His very own escape tunnel. He slowly lowered himself to the floor and paused, checking that Becker had not heard the commotion out back and would not come across the detective. After all he would only insist on coming along.

The streets were mostly deserted (Probably due to the now thickening drizzle.) and Sherlock strode down back alleys, cutting across roads and through markets to avoid other people as much as possible. Their incessant chatter and heavy breathing and the wet clip-clop of their heels on the pavement were driving him mad and so he walked and walked until he was back at that office block, stood across the street. It was empty, obviously closed for that night, and Sherlock stood hands in his pockets just watching the front of the building, staring in at the wide empty lobby and the elevator where he had lost the man. Sherlock swore under his breath as the rain began to pour, lightening crackling in the dawn sky and he turned on his heel striding away from the building and to a nearby park.

That man, so close and yet so far. Sherlock had many enemies and yet he was certain it could have been, must have been Moriarty, after all anybody else would have already given up on using other people to try and kill him, they would have gotten frustrated, already taken matters into their own hands and yet this man had patience like nothing Sherlock had ever seen. He had stayed away and Moriartys words that fateful night at the pool echoed in his head again and again.

'I don't like getting my hands dirty'

It all seemed to add up neatly (If not a little too neatly.) and Sherlock sighed, glancing across the park to watch a group of early dog walkers soldiering on in the growing wind, cagoules buttoned up to their noses as their dogs rolled and jumped and fought in the mud, splattering their long suffering owners in their playfulness. He had no leads on Moriarty other than the office building and he knew that if the man was smart he wouldn't be back there for a while and that anybody who had managed to evade him so easily for so long was definitely very very smart.

He continued to stare out at the lightening sky, barely visible above the dark thunderous clouds that rolled towards him. The oncoming storm. He laughed to himself.

"What's so funny?"

Sherlock twitched an eyebrow as John joined him on the bench, jacket pulled tightly around himself, umbrella held aloft.

"Not very safe that, an umbrella in a lightning storm."

John sniffed and shuffled a little bit, also staring out across the park at the rolling clouds. "To be honest the likelihood of the storm killing us before someone else does is pretty low. I'd rather take my chances with the weather."

Sherlock chuckled again and John turned to look at him. "You shouldn't leave like that. Becker is furious."

"He is not my mother."

"No but Mummy is."

His blood ran cold, Mummy knew he had escaped? Sherlock turned his head and saw John smirking, eyebrow raised. Oh, he was only joking. Thank god. The detective decided to change tack a little. "He was following me?"

"Since the office yeah, realised you were gone during his hourly checked and guessed where you would've gone."

"He woke you up?"

"No, I heard him swearing from upstairs and offered to come with. I didn't think you'd take kindly to Becker stopping you working."

Sherlock smiled. Yes, he was glad to have John. "I was thinking of our next step."

Johns smile brightened a little when he said 'our' and Sherlock looked away to fight the urge to grab him and kiss him brusquely. (After all, John was not a fan of big public displays of affection and jumping him in front of Becker was a big no no.) "Oh yeah?"

"You need to text Lestrade."

Sat in the back of Becker's car Sherlock was avoiding eye contact with the commander in the rear view mirror. John was right, he was not happy and so the detective had been bundled into the car and given a ten minute speech on why what he did was dangerous and how it was Beckers job to protect them and dammit his job was important to him and blah blah blah. Sherlock had gotten pretty angry at being treated like a child and when the commander had paused for a breath he simply raised an eyebrow coolly and murmured under his breath just enough that the other man could here.

"I take it your partner has disappeared again?"

Beckers anger had seemed to give way to a split second of defeated sadness before he seemed to struggle with calming himself down, finally turning away with a almost hurt expression on his face. He hadn't said a word since.

They pulled up outside the station and Sherlock moved to get out only to find the doors had been child locked. "I go first." Becker slipped from the driver's seat as John chuckled beside him and the detective narrowed his eyes. How dare they treat him like some infant. (In fact people seemed to be doing it a lot recently. He resigned that it should stop; after all he was infinitely wiser than all of them.) When he finally was allowed into the station, Lestrade was waiting for them. He was holding a thin manila folder and Sherlocks eyes connected with it, zeroing in until everything else was a blur because inside that file was all the known information about Sebastian and if Sherlocks theory was correct all he had to do was find the man and he would be one step ahead of Moriarty.

One step ahead of the game.

John was talking but it didn't seem to be words and Sherlock reached for DI's hands, wrenching the file from between his fingers before burying his head in the neatly typed (And disappointingly sparse.) information. He was absently aware of the other men moving away and followed blindly, trotting down corridors as he catalogued the information grasped between his fingers.

Sebastian Moran, an ex-soldier honourably discharged (Although Sherlock suspected there was more to this.) several medals for bravery, marksmanship and special commendations from several high ranking officials. Sherlock sniffed, a man like this would be extremely useful for na assassination. Sherlock glanced up to see the other three men staring at him, John with a familiar exasperated expression leaning a little closer to him.

"Lestrade was talking to you."

Sherlock looked to the DI and quirked an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"I just told you we have a possible lead on this Moran character, a contact number he left with the service. It's a long shot but there might be a chance his old war buddy knows something..."

He had to hide a smile, eyes catching Becker's rolling eyes. Well, he had been told it was going to be a difficult job keeping them safe. His eyes returned to the DI and he lifted his chin. Time to use his authority. "I will talk to him. No police."

"No Sherlock, this is still a criminal case and-"

He got up and walked out of the door knowing full well that it would be the end of the argument. After all Lestrade was bound to submit to his natural authority, not to mention the fact that this was not just a police case anymore. This was personal.

Calling the number only got them an answer machine message stating that the war buddy was going to be at a theatre production all day. Sherlock hung up straight away and tapped Commander Becker on the shoulder. "Change of plan..."

They had entered through the stage door, Becker and John following close behind Sherlock as he strode to the stage area spying two men talking loudly and gesturing at the lights above the performance area. One of the men was tall, muscular and stocky, bald head with a mean glare he looked every inch the ex war veteran. "Ah that must be the man..." He murmured to John and the doctor glanced between the two men.

"Which one?"

"The taller one obviously."

John paused for a second just as Sherlock was about to speak. "No, I think it's the other one..."

Sherlock looked again; the second man was shorter with flaxen blonde hair, full lips and shining blue eyes. He was thinner, leaner than his companion and was wearing a black glittering dress and dark tights. Sherlock frowned and looked closer spotting the thinnest sliver of a tattoo on the man's arm, just visible beneath the shawl he had wrapped around him. Oh. (He deftly ignored John smug grin, turning his head away so he wouldn't have to look. Anyway it wasn't like he was embarrassed, he kept John around because he could see what Sherlock didn't... and he had only glanced at the men, he couldn't be expected to notice something that had been hidden from view when he looked... or something.)

He considered what the correct approach would be and held up a hand to stop John and Becker from following him out of the wings, untying his scarf so it flapped around as he half ran half jogged across the stage, trying to hide his face a little and flittering his eyes nervously around. The men turned to look at him and the taller one crossed his arms raising an eyebrow as the shorter man turned one arm across his body holding his elbow as his finger dragged over his lips and he raised a sarcastic eyebrow.

"Uh mr...mr...mr oh god I..."

"What is it boy? Speak up!"

"The leading lady is stuck on her dressing room!"

The taller man rolled his eyes and began trotting past Sherlock muttering under his breath. "For god's sake, she could get stuck in a fucking empty field."

Sherlock leant down on his knees and panted slightly, the shorter mans eyes on him. "Well?"

He stood up and nervously made eye contact, scratching self consciously at is neck. "You used to be in the army didn't you..."

The man's eyebrow flickered and he tilted his head narrowing his eyes. "What is this?"

"I was just wondering if you had any...any old stories. I'm writing a play and I thought a actual real life hero's story would be useful..."

The man scoffed and lifted his chin proudly, preening. "Come and find me after the show. I have quite a few stories to tell you." He raised his eyebrow and glided off stage with a wink leaving Sherlock to return to his lover and the commander with a satisfied grin.

"Looks like we will be catching a show."

John certainly seemed to be enjoying the play and so did the commander, laughing at what Sherlock presumed were jokes and jumping in shock at perfectly obvious 'surprises' . In fact the two men seemed to be enjoying it a little too much, Becker dissolving into a giggling fit and leaning against Johns shoulder as they both seemed to be almost paralysed by their laughter. Sherlock frowned and reached out grabbing John's hand. (He didn't like being ignored after all.)

The doctor looked to him, tears in his eyes and raised an eyebrow but said nothing and Sherlock huffed, yanking his arm a little so Johns face was propelled towards him and he pressed a soft kiss to his fiancées lips pulling back and purposefully staring into his eyes, searching them for shame or embarrassment. John was frowning a little obviously confused but his cheeks were slightly flushed and he was still smiling so Sherlock concluded he was probably wrong about John having been flirting with Becker.

John didn't let go of his hand all the way through to the last scene of the first half and Sherlock tried to divert his attention back to the stage, to the man they had come here to talk to. Suddenly there was a small commotion in the curtain to the left of the stage, an almost inaudible clatter of metal on wood and he watched closely, the actors on stage seemed to panic, all eyes to the right for a second and he knew. Moran's friend hadn't made it on stage. One of the actors spoke the final line, stammering only slightly at the end and the curtains closed, John and Becker beginning to discuss the first half as Sherlock let go of the doctors hand, striding with determination down to the front and up onto the stage before they had a chance to register his movement.

He beat his way past the curtains into the wings and dropped onto his hands, chest brushing the floor as his eye searched under the nearby clothes racks and prop baskets and he spotted it, crawling across the floor to reach for it.

"What are you doing?"

Voices behind him but Sherlock didn't care because he pulled the sniper rifle from under the rack and held it in his hands, jumping to his feet and swinging around. Someone screamed and he pointed the gun at a nearby dummy, pulling the trigger. Huh, the gun had jammed. He dropped the weapon and turned on his heel, flying down corridors and around corners following the trail of people with papers scattered on the floor or grumbling under their breath at the rudeness of people until he reached the stage door and he burst out of it, gripping the doorframe as he watched that well turned heel lift up into the cab just as it pulled away.

He swore into the bitter cold air and turned around slamming the door behind himself. The detective made his way back to the wing area to find John helping Moran's friend to his feet and he could feel the ball of anger in his stomach and he couldn't' stop himself as he strode across the wooden boards to grab the man by the front of his costume, shaking him and pushing him up against the wall. "Where is he? Where is he going!"

The man let out a tiny whimper and Sherlock could vaguely hear John shouting something behind the pounding blood in his ears. "Sherlock! For god's sake put him down!"

He snarled under his breath and stared into the man's eyes. He seemed surprised, too surprised to be hiding something... perhaps he hadn't known about the attempt...perhaps he was not involved perhaps he was unimportant. Sherlock released the man watching him stumble and John grabbed him, steadying the blushing frightened man, his eyes darting from the frowning detective to Commander Becker and back. Becker put a hand on Sherlock should and pulled him back slightly murmuring in his ar.

"Whoever was back here knocked him out, that's why he couldn't deliver his line..."

The detective glanced back to the ex-soldier and sighed. He had a black eye and to their left was a fallen rack of clothing and crushed boxes. The sniper had clearly attacked Moran's friend to ensure he would be alone. Bugger.

"We weren't close, Moran wasn't close to anyone. Lone wolf type you know the sort."

"You still helped him though, didn't you..."

The man sighed and rolled his shoulders, using a tissue to wipe at the makeup on his face staring at Sherlock in the mirror. "How did you know?"

"There are no records for him, no financial papers at all since his return to Britain two years ago. Somebody must have helped him, fed him, housed him, and paid the bills."

The man looked to John; the doctor leaning up against the wall. John stared right back for a while in silence the two men sharing a silent conversation and the doctor lifted his chin as if he understood. "You weren't close but..."

"Look, I wouldn't consider the guy a friend but as cliché as it sounds he was a brother, he saved my life just as much as I saved his and back there you make a bond."

"A bond you couldn't refuse. So you helped him when he came to London...how long did he stay with you?"

"At first I thought it was just the war...you know what it does to people...going out every night not returning for days , couldn't hold down a job but then... then those people started turning up at the flat and he put a bolt on the spare room door..."

"You confronted him."

"He was normally alright with me but he lost it, flipped out and we fought... he locked himself in his room and two hours later some flashy bastard in an expensive suit rolled up outside and they left together. Haven't seen hide nor hair of him since."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was still hiding something; it was obvious by the nervous twitch of his fingers. The detective coughed and John looked up to him breaking his eye contact with the man. Sherlock twitched an eyebrow and the doctor licked his lips, eyes back on the man.

"How long ago was this?"

"Well that was almost a year ago now..."

Sherlock pushed away from where he had been leant and cocked one hip to the side tilting his head and using his best dominant voice. "Where is he now?"

"I don't know where he is."

Sherlock watched him mess with the wig he had been wearing. He was still lying. "That's not quite true is it..." The man blushed and his eyes flickered to the corner for a second before he looked down. Sherlock sighed and John glanced at him nodding and leaning forward, using that voice.

"There is something else isn't there...he sent you a message, you saw him in the street, something. What is it?"

The man blinked furiously at John and licked his lips nervously unable to look away from that demanding gaze. (Sherlock ignored the stab of jealousy deep in his gut. John was working; this was just the date with Claire all over again. That was all. Nothing to want to murder for...)

"Look I don't know where he is living but he did come see me last month, came to the play all dressed up with that man again. Brought me champagne but refused to stay for a drink."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and spun around striding across the room to pull at the cupboards, flinging the top one open he found it, the bottle was enormous, the label expensive. He grinned and yanked it from the cupboard, using his jacket sleeve to hold it in his hands. "Hey! What are you doing?"

"You didn't drink it?"

"I was saving it for the last night of the show!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and put the bottle on the unit, gesturing to John for rubber gloves. "We need to get this to Lestrade; Moriartys fingerprints could be on it."

"Sherlock we should try tracing the champagne, it looks pretty expensive and there can't be that many places that sell it..."

Sherlock grinned, finally they were getting ahead.

Lestrade had insisted that both John and Sherlock go home after seeing the state the detective was in, promising he would contact them the instant they got a whiff of Moran or anything on the lab results. Sherlock had tried to slip past the guards to get to the lab himself but Becker had wizened to his ways and had cut him off sneaking through the fire exit.

So now they were at home, Sherlock perched on his chair, fingers together as he focussed on the drizzle outside. He could feel his lack of sleep creeping up on him and only ate a small part of the meal John placed in front of him because he was sick of his eyes swimming and the dizziness wasn't helping him to stay on the chair. (He couldn't remember having suffered from any ill effects from his unusual diet or sleep schedule before John and yet now he would feel tired after a long and would feel weak and dizzy when he hadn't eaten for a few days. Then again, before John he didn't really notice anything other than his cases.)

John was sat up on his laptop, chuckling at things he read and clicking away quite happily. That is until his phone beeped and he read the text, shoulders slumping. "Bad news?" John lifted an eyebrow and shut the laptop screen, getting out of his chair to trot over and run his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"Harry is on her way around." He didn't comment and John sighed, lifting Sherlock's hand and examining the ring on his finger a small smile working its way onto his face. He waited but John didn't move and so he rolled his eyes tugging impatiently on Johns arms until the doctor leant down enough for him to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

"You do not want her to visit."

"Well no... the thing is Harry still doesn't know that we are engaged and she is as bad as you for knowing when something is up so it will be the first thing she notices."

"Is that a bad thing?" (He was honestly curious and still felt a weak stab of fear that John would be ashamed of him. Of telling his sister that they were engaged.)

"No not in itself, it's just...she is a bit of a control freak when it comes to planning things and-"

Sherlock had gotten bored of John's excuses as soon as he was reassured it was not shame that was the problem and instead stepped up from his chair, pressing his mouth to the doctors, careful not to push into him too much. The doctor let out a muffled yelp of surprise but allowed the contact, lazily sliding his hands up and down Sherlock's arms until he pulled back. John chuckled into his mouth as he was released and shook his head. "Fine I get it, I'm boring you." Sherlock smiled and his fingers smoothed down Johns front, feeling his stomach muscles jump as they brushed over his wound.

Sherlock twitched his lips and kept going until he could push John's sweater up and slip his hands inside, fingers dragging over the scar as he lifted the jumper up to watch their jagged tracing. John was staring at him with an odd expression and Sherlock kept moving his hand his mind absentmindedly coming across a thought that made his chest ache a tiny bit. "Does this hurt?"

John reached out and stopped Sherlock's hand moving but didn't force it away simply leaving his palm pressed against the slightly heated flesh; fingers encircling the detective wrist to keep the pressure of his palm even against the wound. "Yes, but not too much and not because of you." Sherlock sighed and looked up to John's face. It showed no sign of pain, no anger, no discomfort. Just calm considered love and trust and Sherlock forced himself to slow down as he reached out and pulled him in for a hug, pressing his face against the doctor's shoulders. He was comfortingly solid, damaged but not broken.

John sighed and ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He was tired, so very tired and he leant heavily on the doctor inhaling his scent and breathing deeply. His mind was still running furiously and although his eyelids were heavy and his limbs were sluggish he could not stop the chattering of his brain. John rocked him slightly and began walking towards the leather sofa, Sherlock back stepping until his knees hit the edge and he fell down leaving John still standing and smiling softly down at him.

"You are exhausted. Try having a nap." Sherlock sighed and opened his mouth to argue but John simply crossed his arms and raised an eyebrow. "Sleep."

The voice sent a shudder down his spine and Sherlock thought perhaps he could distract himself with John after all he did look indecently sexy in that jumper... the doctor took a step back and shook his head as Sherlock reached for him. "No, I know what you are thinking and my sister will be on her way right now. I am not having her walking in on us forgetting the fact that with these stitches I couldn't do anything vigorous anyway."

"It doesn't have to be vigorous!"

John laughed a slight flush on his cheeks. "No, now go to sleep."

He turned away and Sherlock sighed flipping himself around to lie across the sofa, his eyes closed. Mortifyingly John returned a minute later with a ridiculous patchwork blanket which he threw over the taller man and tucked into his side, pressing a dry kiss to the detectives forehead. He lay in silence for what seemed like an age until he couldn't bear it anymore his eyelids flying open.

The lamp on the desk was on and it was dark outside. Sherlock frowned and sat up instantly noticing the man in John's chair. He didn't look at the detective, legs crossed hands flickering through the dream diary. The detective tried to fight the sheer terror filling his chest and turned in his seat glancing around the living room, looking for a sign any sign. He didn't find one.

"Where is John, what have you done with him?"

Moriarty didn't speak he just turned his face, eyes glinting in the dim lighting, teeth almost fang like as his wild grin split his handsome face in two. Sherlock frowned as he fought with the urge to run and gripped the seat tightly as an all too familiar giggle filtered through the doors to the kitchen and they rolled open with a snap revealing the face that haunted his nightmares, a gaze that he couldn't shut out and he couldn't move. Paralysed by his fear as Moriarty watched the man dance across the floor towards him, needle thrust outwards and Sherlock screamed.

He awoke with a start, snorting and gripping the sofa his nails digging in. "Looks like it's awake."

Sherlock tore his gaze from the light dappled ceiling to find Harry curled up in his chair, regimental mug gripped in her hands along with a soft affectionate smile. John was stood by the fireplace also smiling; it dimmed a little when he saw Sherlock's expression but the detective made sure to wipe his face returning it to his usual cool indifference. He sat up swinging his legs over and John twitched his eyebrows. A question. Are you okay? Sherlock sniffed and glanced out of the window. John took a deep breath in acknowledgement and Sherlock looked back to see his back retreating towards the kitchen. Probably to make more tea. His sister looking at the detective oddly, almost as though she knew something he didn't. Ah of course.

"Harry, I see John told you about the engagement."

Harry's eyebrows shot towards the sky and Sherlock blinked. John appeared so suddenly it was almost as if he had teleported across the flat. "Engagement, what engagement?"

Oh, perhaps what he had seen was actually John telling her about his wound. A minor infraction. She turned to John and placed her mug down on the side unit crossing her arms. Her tone smacked of the voice and Sherlock looked helplessly to the doctor who was blushing a little. John took a moment before crossing the room and sitting down next to his fiancée reaching out to put his hand on Sherlock's knee.

"I asked Sherlock to marry me, he said yes."

Harry lanced between them without saying a word and Johns fingers tightened for a brief moment before she let out a squeal and jumped to her feet, a wide grin breaking out on her face as she rushed across the room pulling both men into a impromptu (and slightly too tight.) hug. She let them go turning to Sherlock and grabbing his head to press a wet kiss to his forehead and then doing the same to John .

"Ahaa! I knew it! Oh this is brilliant! Congratulations!"

John smiled and glanced to Sherlock who simply raised both eyebrows and twitched his lips. It had gone better than the doctor expected.

Harry grabbed John by the arms and pulled him up from the sofa, hugging him close and shaking her head. "So have you set a date? Where are you having the ceremony? Can I be best woman?"

John laughed and moved her over to sit back down in Sherlock's chair sitting down across from her. "We haven't set a date yet, we are probably having it at Sherlock's mother's house and actually I was going to ask Lestrade..."

"Twinkle toes? Oh my god that is brilliant he so so funny. He would have a way better speech anyway; I'm giving you away though right?"

Sherlock frowned and decided to speak up. He had researched marriage ceremonies and was somewhat confused at this request. "I thought it was tradition for the father or mother to give the person away?"

Both Watsons went silent and the smile dripped off of Harry's face. Oh wait...of course. John's parents.

"Sherlock we talked about this, they wouldn't want to be there."

Harry narrowed her eyes and there was a tense moment as she reached out and gripped her brother's hand, shaking it a little to force his gaze onto hers. "You don't need them to be there anyway, I have ten times as much right to give my brother away as they do." Her jaw jutted out and she lifted her head in an almost challenging manner. Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but John was giving him a stern look so instead he flipped his legs back up and lay down, eyes back on the ceiling.

His mind was reeling about the wedding, about his dream, about John.

It was obvious that the doctor desperately did want his parents to attend the wedding but he was never going to do anything about it. John wanted to enjoy the planning of the wedding he had said as much to Mummy, the last thing he would do would be to invite conflict by going through the process of confronting and inviting his parents.

He sniffed, well if the doctor wouldn't do what needed to be done then it was Sherlocks duty as his partner to do it for him.

Surely.