Few things really surprised Jim anymore. Seemingly harmless doctors turning out to be deadly assassins? He could admit that had been a bit bigger of a surprise that even he might have expected when first realizing John wasn't quite the man he portrayed himself as. This was different. This was messy, and confusing, and utterly wrong. He felt like he wanted to scream in frustration and anger yet at the same time wanted to do nothing but stare in shock. Frozen. It wasn't like him true, and normally he'd have berated himself for such a blatantly obvious lack of self-control, but this was different. This was John Watson.

John Watson lying at his feet and bleeding onto the ground. The red, sticky blood staining the ground and making the earth damp. The man had taken a bullet intended to kill him. Without prompting or obligation. In fact, John really should have just sat still and laughed at his cooling corpse once it was all over with. That was expected. Assassin or no, the man had made it very clear that he was still the friend of Sherlock Holmes. The death of his friend's greatest enemy would have saved them both quite a bit of trouble. John Watson was not suppose to take a bullet for him.

"Oh Johnny, you're not going to be ordinary and die now are you?" Jim hissed as he moved his hands over the assassin's body. Searching for an exit wound he knew didn't exist because all the blood currently getting onto his Westwood was not his. When he confirmed it he was quick to find the entrance wound and get pressure on it. Startlingly unaffected by the blood everywhere, Jim watched John's vitals as his guards eliminated the last threat and called for assistance.

"That'd be boring," John replied, voice soft. Jim growled under his breath. The man was bleeding out. The bullet had likely hit several of John's more important bits and pieces in his midsection, and that called for a hospital. A hospital that would lead to Mycroft Holmes. That would lead to Sherlock Holmes. That would lead to several revelations about their 'good doctor' that he was sure John would not appreciate. He'd need to work quickly then because he was not going to let John die. The idiot of an assassin had just saved his own life, and he did hate being in someone's debt.

"Holmes! In here!"

Sherlock turned on his heel and raced after the sound of Lestrade's voice. They'd gotten a lead. They'd finally gotten a lead on their killer. It had been a kill, rushed and hurried with a witness. Everyone made a mistake at some point, and this time the mistake was rather debilitating. Sebastian Moran. Former colonel and an excellent sniper. The man fit with the picture Sherlock had been painting of his killer perfectly, and the man had left behind evidence to prove it on his disastrous last contract. Shells with his fingerprints and DNA. Shells that matched the dozens of cases left unsolved over the years along with the one's absent from the Markstein case. He and Lestrade were now chasing after the man in an attempt to apprehend him.

A gunshot spurred Sherlock on further as he picked up the pace and took the stairs leading up to the second floor of the abandoned building they were in two at a time. Long legs working to his advantage as he found Moran and Lestrade. The DI was breathing hard and a bit of blood colored his silver hair. Minor laceration. The man would be fine. The sniper, however, was pressing a hand to his shoulder and trying to stop the bleeding from the bullet wound he'd just been gifted.

"Complications, Inspector?" Sherlock questioned with a raised eyebrow, and Lestrade sent him an unamused look.

"Great bit of help you were," the DI shot back.

"I found him for you," Sherlock replied, moving forward to have a closer look at Moran. The former Colonel looked furious. He supposed being caught after so long would be cause for anger and frustration.

"Right then," Sherlock said, turning a bit to look back to Lestrade while still keeping the sniper in his sights. "Best get him to a hospital."

"You're gonna die, Holmes."

"Actually, I think he'll live long enough to wait for a prison doctor." Sherlock said.

"My Boss'll kill you."

"And who is your 'boss'?" Sherlock questioned, spinning around again to look at Moran. His coat twirling about his lithe frame as he did so. The sniper only sent him a grin, and before either detective could demand that he elaborate Sherlock's one was going off. The detective rolled his eyes as he dipped a hand into his pocket and dug the ringing device out. He answered without looking at the number as he assumed it was simply another person calling about a case, but the possibility of it being his friend was a bit too great to actually ignore the call. He was not expecting the voice that came through the speakers.

"Hiiiiii!" Moriarty sang, Irish lilt unmistakable and Sherlock actually froze. Rhythm of his pacing faltering.

"Jim," Sherlock replied, shooting a look to Lestrade who's expression hardened at the name.

"How are you, my dear? Busy? I'd say so." Moriarty mused, and the criminal followed up by tutting disapprovingly.

"What've you done now, Jim." Sherlock said, motioning for Lestrade to get Moran taken care of. The DI was reluctant, but in the end was grabbing hold of Sebastian Moran and hauling him out of the room and down the stairs. "I haven't seen many of your little games lately."

The laughter on the other end of the line was enough cause for concern. "Oh my dear Sherlock, you've no idea…How's your pet? You've been keeping him off his leash haven't you? Don't you know how dangerous it is to leave those things unattended, you never know where they'll wander off to…Or who'll pick them up."

Sherlock felt himself grow cold. He hadn't seen John in roughly twenty-four hours. It wasn't possible…but scenes from the Pool Incident were quick to flash through his mind. John had been taken by the insane criminal almost immediately after he'd left the flat, so it wasn't impossible after all. What was the advantage of having the British Government for a brother if the man couldn't keep track of one doctor?

"Where is he, Moriarty?" Sherlock demanded. "You're game isn't with him."

"I beg to differ, my dear. You really have to keep a closer eye on your pets." The line went dead, and Sherlock was almost immediately phoning his brother as he raced out after Lestrade. The DI was waiting for him, but Mycroft picked up before they could speak.

"You never call, brother mine. Has Mrs. Hudson finally left London?"

"Moriarty's kidnapped John," Sherlock replied, and Lestrade's eyes widened. The DI moved to one of the officer's he'd called as backup and spoke with them lowly. A few moments and Lestrade was all but hauling Sherlock into a squad car as Moran was taken off in a separate one.

"You really do have to be responsible about these-"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock warned, not amused.

"I'm having John Watson's last known whereabouts tracked, but I don't exactly have much to work with Sherlock."

"Maybe if you'd have been paying attention you would have noticed sooner," Sherlock spat.

"Careful, brother. I could say the same to you."

"It seems that one John Watson had been checked into a hospital…Dropped off and placed in an intensive care under an alias. It does appear like he's sustained numerous injuries."

"Where?"Sherlock demanded.

"I'm sending Gregory the details now."

Lestrade, as it were, was working on correcting their current course even as Sherlock looked over at him. He pulled a rather dangerous turn before heading in the correct direction. Hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. Knuckles threatening to go white from the effort.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, but the line had been disconnected already. The consulting detective pocketed it and tried not to burst out of his skin. The calm mask fractured even as he tried to piece it together again and hide his worry, his guilt, and his self-loathing.

When the two detectives pulled up to the hospital they abandoned the squad car and were quick to head inside. Sherlock demanded the receptionists tell him where John was, but they seemed reluctant. A few words from Lestrade and a flash of his ID and warrant card had them far more yielding. John Watson had never been checked into the hospital, but a few quick looks and they'd had a patient brought in without much information. Sherlock and Lestrade were adamant on knowing where the patient was. When they were informed that they were already undergoing surgery the breath was about knocked from Sherlock's body. Lestrade, keeping the best composure of the two, grabbed Sherlock and hauled him to the operation room.

St. Bart's, where John had been taken, was a teaching institute and had viewing decks for operations and surgeries. It wasn't hard for Lestrade to ensure that both men could get into the one overlooking John. It was unmistakable once they had entered. Sherlock knew almost immediately that the man laying on the operating table with surgeons working around him was John H. Watson. Looking very small as blood seemed to cover everything. Violence had never bothered Sherlock. Blood, gore, none of it ever affected him. This was different. This was his friend. His best friend. The one that complained about his experiments and heads in the spot they put milk. The one that nagged him constantly about his health. This was not a faceless victim who Sherlock's only concern with was finding their killer and putting them away. This was different. This was John Watson.

John didn't remember much. He knew that he'd jumped in front of a bullet for a psychopath. Obviously he hadn't been thinking about it because logic would state that he should have just let the man die…but John had never been one to follow the logical route. A life had been at stake and he'd acted. He supposed those morals he portrayed in his civilian life weren't all an act after all. Granted, he'd used them to save a man that would likely kill hundreds more people before the year was out but that was rather beside the point wasn't it?

After being shot was when everything got fuzzy and hard to focus on. He knew the bullet had nicked some important organs and he'd been bleeding out. Moriarty had started putting pressure on the wound in an attempt to stop the bleeding, but all John remembered from that moment was thinking about how the man's pristine Westwood was getting ruined and how much trouble it would be to replace it. He'd probably blacked out for a time after because he was next remembering being in a car. Moriarty still with him, and the man was on the phone. John decided that the worried glances down at him had just been his imagination. The man was a criminal mastermind, he wouldn't do something so mundane and 'boring' as worry about John. Next there were lights, and surgeons, and a mask being placed over his face as he was instructed to just breathe deep. Then this. Waking up in what looked like a hospital room.

Being an assassin instilled certain fears into one's mind. Waking up in a hospital, not entirely sure how he'd gotten there, and seeing what looked to be officers guarding the door was certainly not the way John would have preferred to wake up. He panicked for a moment or two as he assumed his secrets had finally been found out, but when he calmed an realized that he wasn't cuffed to the bed he knew the officers were suppose to be meant for his protection. Not to keep him contained. That gave John a bit of peace and allowed him to focus on other things. Like how Sherlock Holmes was now walking through the door and into his room looking like he'd seen someone die.

"Sherlock?" John questioned slowly, and the detective's attention snapped onto the assassin instantly. Moments and the taller man was at his bedside.

"John…Are you alright? What did he do to you?" Sherlock demanded, and John blinked in confusion. Mind not quite fired up enough to follow the man's rapid speech.

"What?"

"Moriarty? Do you remember what he did to you?" Sherlock repeated. John blinked at him with a blank expression and the detective sagged.

"No...Do you remember anything?" Sherlock questioned, but kept speaking without giving John a chance to answer. "Moriarty kidnapped you and apparently had you beaten and tortured to get to me…I'm so sorry, but I didn't even realize until the man called to gloat about it. Likely because you'd been given a near fatal wound." The detective grimaced.

"I…What?"

"I'm sorry, John. Lestrade and my brother are already trying to figure out how he managed to snatch you." Sherlock assured, and slowly John started to piece things together. He was in a hospital. That much had been obvious of course, but he'd been admitted under rather suspicious circumstances with wounds that were obviously from beatings. Then there was the bullet wound. Logically, someone who was suppose to be an otherwise boring army doctor shouldn't have been sporting those kinds of wounds without reason. Except he now had one, didn't he? Each of his wounds could now be explained and brushed off as part of his 'kidnapping'. He had an excuse for them, and they no longer were suspicious as he was now given the role of the victim. It was obvious who was to thank for that. Who had been the one to think ahead and protect the assassin's carefully maintained cover. He certainly hadn't been in the position to do so himself after all, and that left Moriarty as the only one who would have had the ability and opportunity. The criminal had framed himself to keep John's secrets safe, and his civilian life intact so he could go to a hospital. John wasn't entirely sure what to think about that.

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