Author Note: You all might notice that I took SH/JW out of the summary. Not that it's not going to be there any more, I'm just reconsidering how explicit I want it to be and I come to the conclusion that I should let it evolve on its own rather than trying to push the pair. You'll need to squint a little for now. :)

Okay, now let's see what happens to John.

Part 5: The Game is On!

The clock ticked seven when DI Lestrade finally put down his paper work. It was a long day, a long boring day, of nothing much but mundane cases of drug-dealer being stabbed or a guy mugged in a back street. His day-time had been only partially productive with Sherlock harassing him almost every other day. Sherlock was truly a child when it came to waiting; he just couldn't sit still, not even when there was nothing tempting him to move from his sofa.

It was likely because there was nothing at all for the past month: no case and no Moriarty. Sherlock had been obsessed with the man even when everyone around him seemed to have gone back to their normal lives. It might have been ignorant actually. Deep down he knew Moriarty could very well start the game again anytime, a fact Sherlock never forgot.

He was turning off his computer and packing up his things when he heard a faint chime coming from the top drawer of his desk, the place he kept many things except his mobile phone. The chime was from another phone he had kept there, always fully charged, for over an entire month with the hope that it would never ring again.

Tonight it did, and his blood ran cold instantly. He pulled the drawer open almost too slowly, every second praying that he was just hearing things and that he could still ignore the very fact sticking up from under his nose that the game had not yet ended.

And on the screen of the pink phone was a single line saying that 'the game is on'.

Getting a phone call late in the evening was not something profoundly new for Sebastian Michaelis; he had anticipated this particular call for some time now. That was why his mobile phone was placed conveniently on the console between the two front seats of his car with his Bluetooth set nearby. He reached for the set and put it on while his other hand held on to the wheel as he navigated through the busy street of London.

"Sebastian's speaking," was all he said before his lips pursed in to a grin, "I'll be there right away."

Sergeant Donovan arrived twenty minutes after she got the call from Lestrade looking exactly like when she had left except she was gasping, but she didn't stop to catch a breath. Didn't have time anymore, not with that message.

She threw all her things on her desk and walked into Lestrade's office. "So?" she asked, only sparing a glance at Sherlock's tall figure at one side of the desk. There was restlessness in the air. Something had happened; something's wrong.

"Where's John?" she asked immediately when she realized the doctor was not in the room with the Freak as he normally would, especially at this hour. She looked at Sherlock, but the detective only grimace. That was enough for her to know that something was utterly wrong; the Freak was glaring even. She turned to Lestrade for an answer, but instead the DI went on with his business.

"Moriarty has planted a bomb in a pub somewhere in London that would go off at midnight unless we can find where it is," Lestrade told her, "He has given us a clue."

"What's the clue then," she asked. Dear lord, the Freak was too quite he was really freaking her out.

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock before he proceeded, "Before I tell anything to you two, I would have Sherlock promises me that he would not go off on his own under any circumstances EVEN if John's life is at stake."

Sally turned sharply toward Sherlock to see him flinched at those words. So that was what the glare was; the Freak was distressed because John was again kidnapped and became a part of the game. For the first time, Sergeant Donovan noticed, Sherlock was not enjoying any aspect of this game at all.

"Would you promise me that, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked again, and Sherlock's breath caught. He was frustrated beyond belief that he had to, at least this once, play the game the Lestrade's way, a way too slow for his brilliant brain to not twitch in agony. But he knew he had no choice, for this once at least, because Moriarty was too dangerous for him alone.

"I agree," Sherlock replied at last, "but do try to keep up."

Lestrade sighed in relief. He had expected the worst, it seemed. "I can promise the trying part. Now, here is the message."

They flocked to the phone as Lestrade opened a video, apparently shot with a webcam. The quality was low, but just enough for them to make out a face of a woman sobbing but not the tears that could have been on her face. She was not strapped to any bomb, but she was grimacing nonetheless.

"Hi, Sherlock…" she said between ragged sobs and breaths. Again, the quality of the audio was not that high, but they could tell that she had a rather coarse voice. She looked tired and disturbed, but she continued. "How are you…baby? Surprised that I am alive?"

Sally grimaced as she watched the woman choking on her words. Still, she continued, "I'm… disappointed… that you don't like… the ending to my game…Let's play another one. This bitch… has the clue. Find her and you'll know where… the next boom-boom will be." She wiped her face, confirming the unseen tears then said, "You'll have till midnight or people… will go up…in smoke and flame… They might not mind though… since they'll die drunk and dancing…"

The message seemed to end there as she muttered 'I'm sorry' over and over and end the recording. Sally only stared in disbelief at now black screen. "She could be anybody," she said, "We only have a little short of four hours. How could-"

"I know her," muttered Sherlock who had been standing eerily quiet. His breath was hitching now. He looked torn and frustrated, "We go to the same uni. I used to buy stuffs from her."

"You mean drugs," Sally corrected and Sherlock let out a heavy sigh.

"Fine, yes, drugs, if that makes you happy," he snapped at her out of irritation and not even trying to hide it under his usual sarcasm anymore.

"Happy?," she retorted with a snort, "I don't even know what that Moriarty has done to her. She isn't tied up with Semtex or anything, but she's already a wreck."

"Withdrawal."

Sherlock replied was so simple she had to look at him again. Of course, that woman was a junkie. It would not take much to persuade an addict to do whatever you want.

"What's her name?" asked Lestrade very matter-of-factly, and Sally took the queue to drop the subject.

The reply from Sherlock was immediate, "Jane Jenkins. The last I heard from her, she was in Sutton, but she's clearly in around Central London at the moment."

"You don't have her contact?"

"Of course not," scowled Sherlock, "I'm clean."

"Well, thought you might still have it," replied the DI with a shrug, but Sherlock simply sighed and Lestrade took that as a no. "Well then, this could be as hard as finding a random girl."

"But we have the name. She might show up on the database," Sally suggested which earned her a you-imbecile look from Sherlock, but that did not stop Sally. Since when did she need the Freak's approval anyway? Sergeant Donovan turned to Lestrade, "I'll check her out," and she took his silence as a dismissal.

Sherlock hissed as she walked back to her desk to start the search. "That would take forever," Sherlock told him when he knew there was no way Sally would listen. The detective pulled out his phone and started typing away.

"Well, what do you suggest?" asked Lestrade.

For a moment Sherlock was silence, apparently looking up something on the phone before answering, "While not everyone would be on the police's database, pretty much everyone is on a social-network."

"So you're going to search Facebook?"

The DI earned a disapproving humph. He didn't miss the sarcastic comment that followed, "Yes, that might be helpful, but, no, we are looking for a place she might be in. Facebook won't tell you that, but there are other social-networking sites that allow you to publish where you are. Quite useless in most cases, but not for this one."

"How?"

Again Sherlock sighed. He was getting fed up with this really fast, "Do I really have to guide you through every step, detective inspector. I thought you got your job because of something. She is a drug-dealer, Greg, and she's doing rather well judging by her flat and its location even though she is clearly single. She's a college drop-off and an addict - been doing drug since her first year, not a good reputation - so she probably doesn't have a job that pays too well. Therefore, her regular incomes that top it up is from selling drugs. She did that in school and a couple of years after she dropped out. But she is too old now to hang out with college students and not being suspicious, so where else can she sells drugs regularly. Pubs and nightclubs, of course."

It was then that Sherlock smirked as his eyes spotted something on the screen. "Well, that's not as many as I expected." Lestrade leaned forward to see what was on the screen. It was the profile of Jane Jenkins on a social network site with lists of places she had been in. It was all he could see when Sherlock started walking towards the door. "We'll start with her regular top five. Ask them about Jane. Someone in there might know where she lives."

That was when Lestrade stopped him, "Sherlock, you do realize that I am a police officer, don't you?"

The man turned and glared, "Then go undercover!"

It actually took them less than an hour and a half to find someone they could talk to. A bartender at one of the pubs was actually her ex-boyfriend who was more than happy to tell them where she was as soon as Sherlock announced that he was Jane's friend who had come clean.

"I was never happy about her lifestyle," he said. Something similar to guilt was written on his face. "I do it sometimes too, you know, but I'm not like her. She totally cannot function without it. I thought I could change her."

Lestrade could tell that Sherlock was not in the mood to listen to all the melodrama albeit he had played a concerned old friend wanting to get in touch and did so convincingly. The DI had no idea how he could have done so, but that might as well fall apart if they stayed any longer. "Sorry about that mate," he said and gave the man a pat on the shoulder. "I hope Sherlock can persuade her otherwise. And thanks a mil for her address. We'll check on her for you."

The man gave them a nod and a smile as Sherlock went to pay for the drink he hadn't actually touched and dragged Lestrade out of the place. "The phone," he demanded under his breath and Lestrade took it out of his shirt pocket and handed it to Sherlock who sighed dramatically before entering the address into the map application. "I really don't understand why you have to make it so inconvenient. If you just let me have the-"

"Because you'll run off on your own as soon as you have it," replied Lestrade as they got into the taxi. The DI grabbed the phone back from Sherlock and directed the driver to the location. It would be just a few minutes drive at this hour. He checked his watch again. At this point he had no idea if they would make it on time. Moriarty sure had up his game by a lot.

But Lestrade knew it was not so much of a challenge to Sherlock. This was not a case for him to solve, not much information gathering needed to be done. He was slowed down because the Yard functioned at a much slower pace. Maybe this was it. Moriarty might be tempting Sherlock to go off on his own again.

He jolted as the phone in his trousers pocket rang. His first thought was Moriarty, but that was in his hand and this was HIS phone. He willed himself to relax and picked it up, "Yes, Sally. What is it?" he paused, "What!"

"What is it?" asked Sherlock rather sharply, but Lestrade shushed him.

"Alright, Sally. We'll find Jane and meet you back there," he hung up and said, "The bomb went off. No casualties. The pub happened to be closed today."

The consulting detective furrowed his brows in confusion. Lestrade couldn't believe it as well. They were still well before midnight, and the madman had not contact them if they had done anything to displease him.

"Something's not right," Sherlock muttered.

The commotion from outside the room woke John up. It took him some time to realize that it was not Sherlock doing an experiment that end up in a disaster and he was not in his bedroom sleeping. He was on a sofa and in an empty room with no light. John could barely make out the pattern of the wallpaper in front of him with the dim glow from a crack in the window. The heavy chain pulling his left wrist reminded him that he had been kidnapped, again.

He was not strapped with Semtex, though, which could be both good and bad news. Either he wouldn't be strapped with it yet, or the game had changed. John sighed in frustration as he got up and examine the cuff around his wrist. It's definitely custom-made as it was connected to a ridiculously long chain which disappeared under the sofa. He was able to move around quite a lot in this arrangement with one hand free, but, of course, could not get away from the hideous couch he was sitting on. He tried pulling on the chain a bit and realized something strange: the other end of the chain was not connected to anything solid.

John shook the chain violently and listened to where it might have gone. The jingle seemed to come up on the other end of the sofa, the end in which another body had been lying sound asleep. The shaking stirred the person up and John was able to make out the feature of a slender young man resting against the armrest. He instantly remembered the second spray. It was Ciel Phantomhive.

Suddenly, the young man bolted away until he was trapped in the corner. His hand darted about trying to find something John had no idea about. His eyes seemed to be fixed at John for a long moment but did not see him as if he was still trapped in a frightful nightmare. Although John could not see his face, he recognized the defensive posture he saw many times in war victims in Afghanistan. It seemed that he had been wrong about Ciel; the wound never actually healed.

"It's me," the doctor muttered without moving from his place. Stillness and distance were usually the best in such a case. It could end up really badly for both parties if he tried to get any closer right now.

There was a moment of dreadful silence before Ciel finally relaxed. "Dr. Watson?"

Somehow, that recognition made John smiled, "You all right?"

"Yes, quite," replied the young man as he sat upright and composed, "You?"

"Aside from being chained I'm rather fine." John didn't know why he smiled. None of them could see each other's face in the darkness of the room, but he did anyway. "We are chained together it seems," said the doctor.

The young man looked at his wrist and shook it a bit. The sound moving under the couch towards John confirmed the hypothesis. "Clever," Ciel muttered sarcastically as he bended over and peered under the couch, "So if we can flip this sofa, we'll be free. And this length of chain can even be used as a weapon, too. You would think a kidnapper would be more careful about this, wouldn't you?" The boy flopped to the floor at once and John stood up immediately. He doubted that it would work, but it never hurt to try.

It turned out pretty much as he expected; the sofa was attached to the floor and there was no way to get the chain out from between the sofa legs. They had no tool within the room to even start thinking of destroying the wooden board or the chain. They were pretty much stuck. "I thought so. Moriarty can't be that stupid," John muttered after his third attempt at lifting the thing and flumped back onto the sofa. Ciel followed suit with a sighed and buried his face in his palms. The formidable silence only enhanced the ragged breath from the young man despite him trying to keep it steady. "You all right?" the doctor asked again.

"Fine," Ciel replied but his voice was somewhat shaken, "I'm just… not good at being kidnapped."

"Neither of us is," said the doctor and the young man let out a giggle. The tension in the room seemed to ease a bit and John decided to strike up a conversation, "I looked you up on the internet the other day."

The doctor was glad that the boy did not tense up, but the disdain in his voice was unmistakable, "So you know about me. Is that why you are worried?"

"No, it's because I want to make sure you are alright."

There was a paused as the boy simply gazed at him in the dark. John couldn't see the young man's face, so he had no way to gauge what he was thinking. He could only sit there and anticipate in nervous silence until, at last, Ciel spoke, "Is it pity, doctor?"

"No," John shook his head, "I can assure you, no."

"Good," the boy replied softly, "because pity helps no one."

For a moment, the air around them became unbelievably heavy to the point that John thought he wouldn't be able to breathe. It was sadness, unimaginable amount of sadness, which suddenly swarmed the room and its inhabitants. John suddenly had the urge to fill in the silence just because he could not stand being in this sadness any longer, "You can call me John."

Ciel turned towards him immediately. For a moment, he seemed unsure like he didn't know what to reply. At last, he spoke, "I'm also Ciel to you."

Even though it was nothing much, a step that with someone else would have been just an ordinary step in becoming friends, John knew it was a big step for someone as hurt as the young man. Trust issue, the same thing his therapist labeled on him.

"May I ask how you got your name?" John asked, trying to keep the conversation going. He hoped that at least it would help distract Ciel from whatever dark thoughts were lingering in the back of his mind.

"It's unusual, isn't it?" the boy replied, "It was from my mother. She had a French tutor when she was little and was very fascinated by the language ever since. My aunt, her sister, told me that she wanted me to be Ciel – the sky- ever since she saw that my eyes are blue, and my father was too amused by the idea to oppose her." The longing in the boy's voice was almost heartbreaking for John as the young man seemed to sink back in time, remembering the little things with fondness. But it was just for a small while before he asked, "You mentioned Moriarty. Is that the name of our kidnapper?"

Now it's John whose heart sank. A part of him didn't want to think about it, not when there was a person in front of him he was worried about. But that might as well be denial on his part. "Yes," he replied.

"Is he also the bomber?"

Again, John's reply was "yes."

He could feel Ciel tensed. The young man's voice cracked, "then there has to be a bomb somewhere, isn't it?"

The realization struck John at that moment. Of course, there must be a bomb - wasn't it the man's way of having fun - if not on them, then probably on someone else. It was not just their lives that were threatened this time.

It was in that silence that they also realized something utterly wrong with the place; it was quiet. There was enough noise to wake him up merely half an hour ago, now it was just quietness that unnerved even the soldier in John. Something must have happened, or was going to happen, and knowing the lunatic who was Moriarty did not help him guess one tit bit. Instantly, John started looking around whether they had any option in escaping at all. That was pretty much the only choice he had left. He had no way of knowing what Moriarty might do to Ciel.

Then amid that quietness, he heard soft footsteps approaching the door. He grabbed Ciel's hand instantly and squeezed it in assurance although he doubted their situation was very assuring. He had no idea what was to come next, but he was resolute in keeping the young man safe at all cost.

The door swung open and a tall figure in long trench coat stepped into the room. Most of his features were masked by darkness, but not the elegance in his movement. He was not Moriarty, that John was sure of that just by the height, but that was actually worst than seeing the madman himself since he knew negotiation wouldn't work with any of Moriarty's agent.

Suddenly, the man stopped. John could hear a chuckle before the man spoke, "My, you really have a talent at getting kidnapped, don't you?"

Ciel immediately released his hand, and John heard the boy groaned, "You are late," with all the resentment in him.

"Now, finding this place is not easy, you know," the man replied with clear amusement. He walked to the window and opened the unusually thick blind to let the street light in. John was able to clearly see the man now as he removed the cuff off the young man's wrist. He was tall, lean, rather pale, and very good at lock-picking. He was able to free Ciel in matter of minutes before he came over to remove John's cuff. The doctor tensed up a bit when the man touched his hand, but fought against pulling it away.

He pulled back when his hand was free again but not without a thank you. The tension would have gone up if Ciel didn't introduce them. "John, this is my colleague, Sebastian Michealis. Sebastian, Dr. John Watson."

The man smirked a little as Ciel stressed the word colleague, "After ten years, I thought you would at least call me your flatmate," he muttered, and the young man rolled his eyes which earned a wide smirk in return. "Anyway, the house is practically empty right now, but we have to move fast. There's no telling when they'll come back," he said as he led them out of the room in to an empty common area, except for three guards lying unconscious on the floor. Sebastian took one of their guns, put in a cartridge he kept in his coat, and handed it to John who eyed him warily. "Do you know how to use this?" he asked.

John nodded and took it, "What about you?"

"I have my weapon of choice," the man replied as he led them quietly down the stairs. To John's surprise, there was no one, as if the captors had decided to disappear. They were out on the street before John could even say clear and he could hear Ciel sighed in relief as they moved in the shadow of the trees towards the main road.

"What happen to them?" John asked cautiously. "I'm sure there were more than three of them before."

"Gone," answered Sebastian, "A bomb went off barely half an hour ago. Most of them left this place as soon as they got the news. I don't know if they were going to do something about it, or they'd just ran away."

"Wait, you've been here all this time, but you didn't come in and get us?" Ciel interrupted.

"There were at least ten of them in the house, Ciel," replied the man with a smile, "I won't be able to reach you in that case, so I waited for an opportunity. And our escape mission turned out nicely, don't you think?"

The young man sighed grudgingly although he made no further turned the corner to the main road where a taxi was waiting for them, to Ciel's surprise. "You didn't bring your car?" he asked.

"They might be able to track us down that way," replied Sebastain as he knocked on the window. The cabbie woke up immediately and let them in. Sebastian opened the door and gestured for John to get in. "By the way, are you hurt anywhere, doctor? Do you want to go to a hospital first?"

"No, I think we're fine," said John as he made himself comfortable at one end of the seat while Ciel sat in the middle, followed by Sebastian who instructed the cabbie to just drive to central London. "Where are we?" John asked.

"Croydon," Sebastian replied, "And your address?"

"221B Baker Street," he paused, "No. Make it New Scotland Yard. I'm pretty sure my flatmate had gone to the police by now."

"Good for him," muttered Sebastian. John had never known that satire could sound so smooth. Then again, everything about Sebastian seemed smooth, elegant, perfect. Even this rescue mission was so well executed not a trace of them could have been found.

John couldn't help asking, "Ciel mentioned that you two are colleagues, but what do you do, actually?"

"I'm simply an assistant," replied Sebastian with a small smile, "Ciel needs some help running his little business since he'd gotten into college. The work load has been quite merciless."

"Business?"

"Game consulting," the man replied, "He has been doing that since he was a child. His father used to own a little game company. He has quite a talent in seeing what makes a game work and what not. So his uncle encouraged him to take that to a business level. It's good money and distraction."

"And you've been with him from the start, like for ten years?"

"Not for work. Not that long," Sebastian replied, "That is how long we have known each other. You can say I'm his babysitter. He does like to throw tantrums after all."

But there was no tantrum now, and John realized that Ciel had actually fallen asleep resting against Sebastian's shoulder.

The man sighed and shook his head, "He amazes me sometimes."

"I can see that," John replied as he eyed the sleeping boy. When did they get in the cab again? "Does that mean you're working for him now?"

"Yes," the man replied with a chuckle, "I know it's quite unusual to be employed by a person his age, but that's how it goes. What about you, Dr. Watson? I've read a couple of posts on your blog that Ciel showed me, but what do you actually do?"

John didn't know why being watched by Sebastian made him nervous. Maybe it was the calculating eyes that seemed to be assessing him from behind the friendly mannerism. He swallowed and answered, "I'm a doctor and I help my flatmate solve crimes."

"Sherlock Holmes, you mean. Is he a private detective?"

"A consulting detective, actually. He invented the job."

"A detective still. Isn't that dangerous?"

John couldn't really help smiling, "Yes, but that's the best part of it."

Anyone else would have scowled by now, but strangely Sebastian smiled despite his concern. It was as if the man was able to see John's craving for adrenaline, the need to put himself in the line of fire and felt his senses sharpened by the danger, the lovely feeling of the blood pumping through his veins, and the feeling of just being alive.

"Some people are born to be with danger, doctor," the man said. His smile did not fade. "It may be deemed unconventional by the majority, but, to be honest, it is because the majority is governed by cowardice. I'm glad you understand that calling in you and did not shy from it. I can see now why Ciel admires you so much."

John simply stared dumbfounded at the man for a good couple of seconds not knowing actually what to say. He was just praised - deeply, truly, sincerely praised - by a man he just met for the recklessness that had driven him thus far, the recklessness very few recognized. He had always been the timid John, the ordinary John even to himself...

…until he met Sherlock Holmes.

That reminded him that he should give his flatmate a call. He reached into his pocket and cursed quietly as he realized that his mobile phone was taken, again. He was less than pleased to have to get a new one in less than two months, but moreover was his frustration that he could not at least tell Sherlock he was safe. He had no idea what his madman of a flatmate would be doing right now.

John stole a glance at Sebastian while contemplating whether he should borrow his phone. They were heading to Scotland Yard anyway, so it would be a matter of thirty minutes difference, but thirty minutes could make a lot of difference. He didn't know if he should wait.

He was lost in his own thoughts when a mobile phone was handed to him. "Here, if you need it," said Sebastian without even looking at John. Most of the time, he was staring out the window or, if he turned this way at all, to Ciel who was still sleeping soundly. John had no idea what the man saw on his expression that led to him offering John the phone, but John took it with a thanks and dialed Sherlock's number out of memory.

A couple of rings passed before the familiar voice on the other end of the line came through, "Hello."

Somehow, the deep smooth voice made John stumble, "Sherlock?"

"John?" his pitch changed instantly although Sherlock was still keeping it down, "Where are you? Are you alright?"

"I'm on a cab heading for Scotland Yard. And I'm fine, thanks."

Sherlock was about to say something when he was cut off by another man, probably Lestrade. John couldn't make out what he was saying but he heard Sherlock groaned. "Okay, John. We'll meet at the Yard. You've eaten?"

"No. Why?"

"Never mind. They have some snacks. See you, John."

Before John could answer, the phone was cut off, and he found himself somewhat disappointed by the lack of concern from Sherlock. He was his bloody flatmate for goodness sake! But what reaction did he expect anyway. This was Sherlock Holmes after all.

He handed the phone back to Sebastian who quietly put it back into his pocket before letting his hand fell back to his knee and curled loosely against Ciel's. John couldn't help noticing how the man's gloved hand seemed to protectively engulf the young man's, and how Sebastian would shift to let Ciel leaned a bit more comfortably against him.

Before John was able to form any hypothesis, the taxi came to a stop and outside the window was the New Scotland Yard.

TBC.

Author Note: The bit about tracking people's movement with a social-networking site IS real. I came across a blog post showing the method using a mobile app while I was planning for this chapter. It freaked the hell out of me when I tried it on a friend whom I know was very active on a website for a time using my laptop, and it worked! (Oh, yes, I'm a privacy freak.) I didn't even have to register for an account or friended anybody! It was like, snap, I knew where she regularly hang out instantly.

Good thing is most people aren't active on those kind of website, yet. If you are, please make sure you have configured the site to show just as much as you want it to. If you have already done so, good for you.

This is a message from your privacy-freak friend. See you next chapter!