Author's Note: My apology to those who have been waiting; it has been over two months, I realized. I am trying to get the next part of the story going, but it's going so, so slow.

Anyway, please enjoy.:)

Special Thanks to the lovely CrazyCousinEiko who beta-read this chapter for me. XD It couldn't have been better.

Part 6: Machinated Secrecy

John was reaching for his wallet, one thing his captors didn't bother to take, when Sebastian stopped him. "I'll take care of that. Don't worry," said the man. His smile rendered John speechless and he accepted the offer rather easily.

"And by the way, if I may ask for a favour, can you please refrain from mentioning us to the police? I am not fond of the idea of having Ciel involved in this."

John pondered over the request. It was unusual, but he could see the reason. He looked at the sleeping figure again and eventually nodded.

"I can do that much."

"Thank you," the man replied with an appreciative nod; "and good night, Dr. Watson."

John slid out of the car and started towards the Yard as the taxi drove off and away into the night. To where? John had no idea. He realized then how little he knew about the young man – only a fraction of his childhood. Nothing of his person, really, aside from what they exchanged in their pleasantries. He started to understand then why Ciel harboured an obvious disdain towards his past and not just because of the sheer terror of it. It might be that he hated how it had defined him. His unique name did not help to conceal it. People would always recognize him as Ciel Phantomhive the boy who survived two horrific murders.

John could understand that. He had been at the point where the people he knew would give him a reassuring yet sympathetic look every time even the slightest mention about war came up. It was hard with those constant reminders to move on and just forget the pain. In a way, he and Ciel were in the same position. The difference was he did not have anything that tagged him as an invalid soldier from Afghanistan for everyone to see.

"John!"

John nearly jumped at the call. He barely had a chance to see who it was before he found himself pinned to the glass corridor in front of the New Scotland Yard. It took him a couple of seconds to realize that it was Sherlock Holmes hovering over him with an unfamiliar expression on his face.

"You're alright," the detective said, deadpanned. It was not a question. It was strange, though, for Sherlock to be stating the obvious. John already told him he was alright, so why was Sherlock looking a bit…frightened?

"I'm fine," John replied, confused. "Bit tired, but… yeah, I'm fine."

"Where were you? What has he done to you?"

"Moriarty?"

"You didn't come home on time and Lestrade phoned me that he received a message on the pink phone. My only conclusion was that he got you. He took it from where he left off. But if it's Moriarty, how could you-"

"A bomb went off unexpectedly, and the kidnappers just… disappeared. I could have walked out the front door for all I know."

There was a pause, and John soon found himself in a staring contest with Sherlock.

"You haven't met him," the detective concluded.

"No, I haven't," confirmed John. "I don't imagine I would be able to walk away like this if I had."

Sherlock didn't nod, but his silence was more than an affirmation to John. He slowly let John go and gestured him inside. "Lestrade's waiting," he said before taking off, leaving John to catch up like always.

They were in Lestrade's office in matter of minutes, and John felt more welcomed than usual with Sally handing him a mug of warm tea and a plate of biscuits. He, however, did not miss the resentment she sent Sherlock's way as the detective allowed himself onto a chair beside John. Lestrade also had his own cup of tea and biscuits, but he was more focused on John at the moment.

"Okay, can you tell me what happened?" he asked. It sounded like a professional inquisition, but it was more of Lestrade's own curiosity than anything else.

"I was on my way home from the surgery in West End when I noticed a van following me," John began; "I wasn't sure at first because it was a simple white van with a logo of a pastry shop on it, so, just to be safe, I took a detour to Regent Park. But before I ever got there, an old lady pretended to bump into me and she sprayed something in my face. Next thing I knew I was in an empty house in Croydon. They locked me in a room on the second floor. I could barely see anything at first, but there were lot of noises from outside. Many people, I don't know how many because after a while it went silent. Seems like they heard about the bomb going off unexpectedly, and they fled… or something. I don't really know. By the time I got myself out of the room, the house was barely occupied save for three guards whom I knocked down. I ran outside, took the first cab that passed by, and came here."

John could hardly believe how easy it was to tell it this way, not having to mention a word of Ciel or Sebastian. It felt so natural that John was terrified of himself for a good few minutes. It wasn't actually lying, but it was as bad as doing so. Lestrade was taken in as John expected. It was Sherlock who pointed out a hole in his story.

"How did you get out of your cuff?"

They both stared back at him. "Cuff?" asked Lestrade.

"There's a red line around your left wrist suggesting that you were constrained. Since it's just on one wrist, you were definitely tied to something that would keep you in place. You can't walk around being cuff like that. How did you get out then?"

"I know lock-picking," said John. He was telling the truth. He did learn the basics some years ago in case it might come in handy. It never did, actually. But Sherlock's eyes still narrowed on him. The detective was not buying it, not in full. Trust Sherlock to ruin his attempt at omitting detail.

"And I got you this," the doctor turned to the DI and placed the gun on his desk, "I took it from one of the guards in the house. Thought it might be useful."

"It sure will," the DI replied. He pulled out a latex glove and an evidence bag and put the gun inside. "Do you know where specifically you were held?"

"No idea," said John, "It was dark out. I was only thinking of getting here as fast as I could."

Lestrade nodded. A smile crept onto his face as he said, "I'm glad you're safe."

John muttered a thank you, when Sherlock sighed- obviously unimpressed with something- and Sally walked in.

"We can talk to Ms. Jenkins now if you want to."

"Yes, of course," replied Lestrade as he got up, "You can go home and rest now, John. Finish your tea if you like."

"Well, thanks," said John. The DI gave him a nod as he went out after Sally to another room down the hall. At that point John couldn't care less who was Ms. Jenkins. He just wanted to fuel and head home.

Of course, he was too optimistic to think that Sherlock would not notice. "Why did you lie?" asked the detective.

The doctor almost choked on his tea. "I didn't lie!"

"But you intentionally avoided mentioning that there was another person with you, am I right?"

John didn't know how Sherlock figured that out but trusted Sherlock to do it anytime. And John knew that, unlike with Lestrade, he could not keep this from his flatmate for long.

"Alright, yes, there was another person with me. He warned me about the van and ended up getting caught in it, too."

"Why didn't you mention him?"

"Because it won't help anything. There's nothing he knows that I don't know."

"You avoid saying his name."

The doctor paused for a good few seconds. "Is that a question?"

"It's a fact. You mentioned there were guards, three of them; you couldn't possibly knock them out without a fair bit of fight, but there isn't a sign of compulsion on you. So, you didn't have to struggle. How so? You had someone to help you, possibly another captive. He warned you of the van, so obviously someone you know, but you are reluctant to get him involved. My question, John, is why?"

John sat there stunned and staring at his flatmate for a moment, a moment that was usually longer than Sherlock could bear, but he bore it surprisingly well this time. He was determined to know, John realized, so determined that he might be willing to continue this staring contest all night if need be to make John talk.

So talk John must. "Ciel Phantomhive."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose to his hairline.

"But please, Sherlock, don't tell Lestrade about him. That boy- I mean, the chap had a rough time with this kind of thing before. I really don't want him to relive it again, not the kidnapping, and not with the police. I know as much as he knows, so there really isn't any need."

"You know that withholding information from an officer of the law can get you into trouble," said Sherlock, holding John's gaze thoughtfully.

"Of course, I know," replied John.

"I might tell Lestrade."

"No, you won't." The confidence John showed must have been immense because Sherlock was taken aback. A moment of silence went by as John nipped at the biscuit and Sherlock simply stared at him.

That moment ended when the door of office swung open, and a woman came stumbling in. John, as a doctor, was shocked by how pale and disarrayed she looked, and how she launched on Sherlock as soon as she saw him.

"I'm sorry, Sherly. I'm so sorry," she muttered between sobs as soon as she locked her arms around his neck and basically occupied his lap.

Sherlock himself did not know how to react either. He seemed annoyed, but tried his best to hide it, which was odd for John knowing that his flatmate had no restrain in showing his disdain whatsoever. He patted the woman's shoulder before pushing her gently away.

"It's alright, Jane," he said with a failed attempt at smiling. It looked like a sneer, which scared the woman, Jane. Even so, he carried on. "You just need to tell the police everything you know about the man that gave you the clue. Everything. And it'll be fine."

"Oh, as if the police can do anything," she muttered under her breaths, "No one has been able to touch him. He's after you, Sherly. When I first met him I thought he was your friend. He knew so much about you. So I told him what I knew about you back in uni. I didn't know he was going to turn it into… this." She waved around and Sherlock nodded.

"What do you know about him?"

"His name, mostly. I buy things from a dealer who knows him. Such a generous guy, but we never met. We just leave each other messages on websites, and we chat on Skype and the like. Yesterday, the dealer came to me with his people and told me that Jim wanted my help setting up a game for his friend. I just thought it's going to be fun, so I agreed. I didn't know. God. I tried to back out, but they…they hold me in my flat and…"

"…made you participate anyway," finished Sherlock with much disinterest. "So you know next to nothing about him."

Jane looked like she was about to cry. "I'm so sorry, Sherly," she said with a sob. The detective simply sighed and pushed her a bit forcefully off him. Jane didn't resist, although she looked rather hurt.

"If you are sorry, tell me one thing," Sherlock paused. "Why do you do Heroin?"

Jane's lips quivered in the brief moment Sherlock locked his piercing blue eyes with hers. She was about to burst into tears when Sherlock turned away and headed for the door.

"Let's go, John," he muttered under his breath and the doctor followed him with a nod of sympathy towards Jane.

If Sherlock was walking fast on the way in, he was striding even faster on the way out. John had to run at one point to catch up with him. He can tell that Sherlock was upset, very upset, not because Jane Jenkins can give them no leads to Moriarty, but because…

"Heroin?"

"You saw that, don't you? Heroin withdrawal. It would have been less obvious and less devastating if it had been other opiates."

"No, what I'm asking is why are you so upset over her using Heroin?"

"I'm not upset."

"Come on, Sherlock, that's not convincing."

They came to a stop as the pavement as the detective darted his eyes looking for a cab. Few minutes passed and John knew he would never have the answer because Sherlock would never admit of being upset about such a trivial matter as one of the people in his drug circle using Heroin. Come to think of it, all John knew about his flatmate unflattering side was that once Sherlock was an addict. To what was something he never asked because it seemed irrelevant to their friendship. Sherlock was clean now – well, maybe except for the nicotine – and John never found an occasion to bring it up. But it would be awkward to strike up a conversation like that public even with his relentless curiosity, so John waited until they were again in the privacy of their flat. Sherlock landed on the sofa, peeled off two patches from his left arm, and slapped new ones on.

John's eyes grew twice the size. "Sherlock, what are you- "

"I've used three patches before, John. This is nothing new."

"I know, but you didn't use as much the last time," John paused, "Is the problem much harder?"

"Not actually," replied Sherlock as he lied down on the couch, "Now, I have to think of what he intends to do. You should take a shower and get some sleep, John. Good night."

John just stood there as Sherlock rolled over facing the back of the couch and completely dismissed him. The doctor then dropped his intention for a friendly chat, bade his flatmate goodnight, and climbed the stairs to his room.

The next morning was like any other morning. John woke up at his usual time and padded down stairs in his pajamas and slippers through the haze in his head for a wake-up cuppa. That morning, however, John found Sherlock with the kettle already boiling the water for the morning tea. In front of him were two mugs with tea bags waiting for the kettle to whistle.

John stood in the doorway for a good few seconds just blinking. Sherlock was already fully dressed with fresh clothes. The detective turned to him as soon as he finished pouring the water into the mug. John spied a grin twitch the corner of his flatmate's lips.

"Good morning, John."

"Morning," replied the doctor as he took the mug from his flatmate and sat down at the kitchen table. "You made tea."

"Yes, fairly obvious," replied Sherlock when the toaster sounded, and the detective turned his attention to the machine. John, again, stared at Sherlock as he put the toast on a plate and handed it to John with a jar of jam in his other hand.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked after seeing his flatmate at a loss.

"Huh? Me? No, just- I'm just really surprised. What's the occasion?"

"For what?"

"You being nice."

Sherlock chuckled. "I just figure that while I wait for you to finish your morning routine, I could be of some help to quicken the process. Preparing breakfast is the most logical choice since it's time-consuming, and not too personal a task."

"Yeah, I can see that," John muttered, "But why are you waiting for me?"

"To walk you to the surgery, of course."

Whatever haze was in John's head that morning had been swept out as if hit by tornado that very moment. "What?"

Sherlock sighed heavily then said, "I know you're not fully awake but honestly, John, any five-year-old can understand what I'm saying."

"Bloody hell. It's because their moms walk them to school. I'm not a five-year-old, Sherlock. I have no problem going to work by myself."

"You got kidnapped."

"That's not a normal occurrence."

His flatmate gave him a huff and tipped his head to the side, "I would beg you to consult with the Missing Person Unit about that."

"I'm NOT a bloody five-year-old, Sherlock. I'll be fine. Really," John protested. "And what on earth makes you think Moriarty will try to kidnap me again so soon? Won't it be stupid of him to repeat himself for the third time while pretty much the entire metropolitan police force is hunting him down?"

"I think he's brilliant enough to make it happen. The police are no match to him, John. You know that."

"Then why me?" John asked, locking his furious eyes with his flatmate's, "You seemed very convinced that he had a fixation on me, while I think he obviously has a fixation on you. Tell me why I'm wrong."

There was a moment of silence as Sherlock regarded him cautiously. John had no idea what the man was trying to gauge, but he seemed to know that John was waiting for an honest-to-god answer. He waited until Sherlock decided to speak; "You remember what he threatened me when he told me to back off."

Of course, John remembered, because it was the most ambiguous yet ominous thing he ever heard. "Burn the heart out of you," John quoted. Again, there was a pause in which John didn't know what to make of. Sherlock avoided his gaze in an almost sheepish manner, a manner never before associated with Sherlock Holmes. Then suddenly, something dawned on John, "He meant- you mean-"

"You're my friend, John. My best friend," his flatmate said solemnly, "What else would he mean?"

The doctor buried his face into his palm instantly, "Okay, let me get this straight. He's after me because I am your best friend… your heart?"

"Yes."

"What about Jane? She's your friend, too."

"We got together on business terms. Moreover, we haven't been in contact since I've been sober. Her influence on me can be considered null."

"But I have influence on you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Two people living together definitely have influence on each other, John," the detective replied with a strange mixture of fondness and contempt.

"With flatmates, that isn't always good."

Sherlock tipped his head and frowned, "Are you implying something?"

"Oh god, Sherlock, not you," John answered with a smirk. He took another bit of his toast before continuing, "You can be a prick, but I don't think you're a bad influence no matter what others might think."

Sherlock stared at him for a good couple of seconds then quickly diverted his eyes down to John's plate. "You should eat now, John, or you'll be late for your work."

John frowned. He was expecting a sharp retort about people from Sherlock, not Sherlock changing the subject, and definitely not Sherlock avoiding John's gaze. It was done so deliberately yet neatly that other people might not notice. But John was not just anybody. He felt instantly that something was off.

"What's wrong?" asked John.

Sherlock's reply was, "It's almost half past seven, John."

John turned to the clock, grunted, shoved the rest of the toast down his throat, and ran upstairs.

Lestrade came to work that day to find a nasty surprise in his office.

It was Commissioner Arthur Randall in the flesh sitting on his chair and stared at his subordinate like he was a big disappointment. To him, the DI might actually be one big disappointment considering what had gone on last night.

"I have heard the bomber has struck again," said the commissioner, barely moving the thin pale lips beneath his moustache.

"Yes, sir," Lestrade replied.

"And you have taken the case knowing it is against my order to do so."

"If I have known the inspector who has been assigned to the case, I would have informed him, sir. But I do not. I would think the most logical thing to do is to take care of the situation myself."

"And how, if I might ask, did you know of his movement?" asked Randall briskly, dismissing whatever Lestrade had said.

"You might know already that this man Moriarty has set up this serial bombing as a game to one Mr. Sherlock Holmes who is a very capable private detective. The man is an acquaintance of mine, so he came to me for help in the matter as soon as the man contacted him."

"Why did he not contact an officer-"

"I am an officer, sir. And to put it frankly, this gargantuan beast of system would have gotten people blown to Kingdom Come before we even get started. You must understand, sir, that my priority is the safety of the people and I must do what I can to prevent any possible harm, especially from a dangerous madman."

Randall stared at him for a good few seconds before he sneered, "You are one of my best men, Lestrade, if not the best. It would sadden me greatly if I have to penalize you for any misconduct on your part. Hand in all the evidence and reports, and I'll see to it that the person has them."

The detective inspector raised his brows in a subtly taunting manner before he nodded. "If I may suggest, sir, it would be best to let if not me then Mr. Holmes know who is in charge of the case. Going through the system would take too much time."

The commissioner, however, only replied, "I'll think about it," as he walked out of the room.

It was only then that Lestrade really let his frustration kick in. He wanted so badly to throw a good tantrum in front of the commissioner for his irrational, illogical, frustratingly apathetic approach to the whole situation. Did he realize how many lives were at stake as long as this sickeningly mad game continued? Did he know how fast, how effective, how clever they had to be just to keep up with clues and riddles? Did he even know what needed to be done? Lestrade could not bring that up because he knew that it would not sit well with the commissioner, and the same man might pull a drastic move and shut him out before he even had a clue as to why. He still needed to be in the game, personally and professionally, for Sherlock at least. A lot of people might know Sherlock but very few would tolerate him or really listen to him, and this was a far too serious a matter to let those child-play of dispute get in the way.

What he did not know was Sally Donovan had exactly the same thoughts as she stood in front of his door. She had overheard everything – the door wasn't that soundproof, really – and she knew that their positions were at risk because Randall would lash out at them the next time he as much as suspected that they were still involved in the case. She also knew that they needed to be in it; people lives depended on this. They had to work something out to secure their position in this game.

But how? They could not call the bomb squad in without the commissioner knowing. They could not let the Freak play this game on his own either. To Sally, it seemed more pressing now to figure out who might have taken the case. They needed his cooperation.

Lestrade's calling was on cue, and Sergeant Donovan walked in while feigning disinterest in whatsoever had gone on in this room just minutes ago. The DI was looking very stressed now, but he ordered her to take whatever evidence they had and hand it in regardless of his obvious disapproval. Sally nodded and frowned, showing both her disfavour in backing off this case and in the Commissioner. Lestrade smiled but did not comment on anything. Neither did she comment on the pink phone in his pocket.

TBC.