A/N: Hello, people!

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-PROGRESS REPORT: Nana has agreed to go into hospice and has been given about
6 months left. At the most, her pain will be better managed and she can rest easier
now.

-Thank you for your support.

15 December 2015, Tuesday:

Of all the things Sherlock had done in his young life, this admittedly, had to be the most foolish! And he could willingly admit it because he wasn't an idiot and while he felt ashamed, he was willing to face his mistakes.

John had been taken.

Sherlock was about ready to lose his bloody mind. Everything has been going fine, nothing to really worry about in terms of the mission, and then suddenly the cell that John has been appointed to, was gone. Their receivers, their phones, every electronic device on them was gone.

Sherlock was not used to panicking. Before John came into his life he had never really experienced the emotion of panic. Except that one danger night he had where he ran out of nicotine patches and brandy but other than that, his life have been rather normal in terms of emotional display.

But now, the most important person and Sherlock's life was missing. Sherlock didn't really care about the four other people who are missing as well. They were Mycroft's people and they didn't really matter in the long run because they were expendable. What mattered was John Watson, who was not expendable. And no matter what Mycroft said, Sherlock could not calm down.

"Sherlock will you please just wait a moment?"

The consulting detective sent a fierce glare at his brother and sneered, "John is out there with your lackeys, possibly being tortured for information or even killed and you want me to sit by and 'wait a moment'?"

Mycroft didn't react to his sneer in the least. The man simply stared at him with a blank expression until Sherlock got so fed up with him that he sat down with an irritated huff.

"What do you want?" the man in the brunet.

"If I recall correctly, a few months ago you and Dr. Watson agreed to have small locating chips surgically implanted into your bodies."

The information brought Sherlock up short. Both of them had agreed to do so because they both always got into too many dangerous situations and it would just be easier to be able to find the other. How had Sherlock forgotten that?

With that revelation, Sherlock knew that they'd be able to find John.

"We have already located his chip," said Mycroft. "I had to stop you before you ran off to make a fool of yourself without knowing what you were doing. Now are you coming to find the good doctor or shall I go without you?"

Sherlock was already out the door, an assault rifle thrown over shoulder. While guns weren't usually his typical fare in terms of weaponry, Sherlock was prepared to shoot anyone if he found out that John had been hurt. There would be hell to pay.

Old warehouses weren't exactly an original concept when it came to gangs and wanted criminals. It seemed that nobody could find it in themselves to actually choose a hideout that wouldn't get them caught.

It was about a prime target for other criminal classes, so Sherlock did not know why they would subsist to such substandard living conditions. He was quite certain that Moriarty did not live in a shabby warehouse. Why couldn't the criminal classes just be smarter? Or at least have more imagination?

Mycroft's people were armed to the teeth and covered from head to toe in protective layering. Sherlock wore no other layers accept his own clothing and he started right into the warehouse, prepared to shoot people down. What he found however, was a large collection of people strapped to various chairs all around the room and separating all of them were lines and lines of barrels.

It was like something out of a shabby Hollywood film. One of those stories that had the usual cliche that was played upon too much and had as many loopholes as they could find that had thousands upon thousands of films created like it simply because nobody had a good enough imagination to think of anything better.

The barrels were loaded with gasoline and there was a bomb strapped to the barrel in the very center of the room. And it was counting down. Luckily for them they had about an hour of time left before the bomb would have to go off.

Sherlock, being the only person around with the experience in dealing with bombs, ended up having to be the one to disarm it. He had wanted to find John immediately but as the transportation of the hostages might take a while and they had to be careful of any wires and tripping them it was simply best if he went and did what he did and got out of it.

It took him about ten minutes.

Men, women, and children, whole families had been taken. There were tears, urine, blood, and a lot of hyperventilation.

Sherlock found John in the farthest corner of the room and the person nearest him was a little girl no more than 8 years old. She was crying and John was simply murmuring positive things and asking if she liked cats or dogs and what her favourite color was and what her favourite ice cream was.

As always, John's life was in danger but he was worrying about everybody else around him.

The moment that John had been liberated from his holdings, Sherlock roughly pulled his doctor into a kiss.

"I knew you'd find me, so I tried to calm them down," John admitted, smiling brightly for only Sherlock.

"I'll always come for you," promised the detective, tucking his best friend into his arms and simply standing there, letting his heartbeat return to a normal pace.

John was okay.

That was good.

A/N: Another is done!

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