On their last night together as a family, Felicity insisted on sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock and John. She took a lot of comfort from being close to them, and wasn't about to pass up her last opportunity to be near her loved ones. They followed their same nightly routine in a kind of pained silence before all crawling into Sherlock's big bed, Felicity in the middle. In the quiet of the night the three of them stayed close, Sherlock lying behind Felicity, one of his long arms extended over her waist to hold hands with John. There was nothing further that needed to be said- it was just a matter of burning the few precious hours they had left before Sherlock and John were to leave. For Sherlock and John, the weight of their mission lay heavy upon them; their mission with Moran was do or die. For Felicity, the worries and calculations of failure raced through her mind, unable to be quieted no matter how hard she tried. She wished terribly that she could go with Sherlock and John, but for obvious reasons she had to stay behind. Also, in the back of her mind, the idea of meeting the famous Mummy Holmes stirred. She was excited to meet Sherlock's mother and terrified at the same time. Felicity wanted to make a good impression and she wanted to be friends with this mysterious woman. She had never had any problems charming anyone before, but Felicity didn't want to charm Sherlock's mother, she wanted to be loved by her the same way Sherlock and John loved her. She was terrified that their connection would be fragile and fake at best, despite Sherlock's constant reassurance that Felicity would do very well. Only when it was very early in the morning did the three of them finally drift off, their anxious minds winding down and allowing them to rest.

In the morning, their little family was reluctant to let business start to take over their need to spend time together. The idea of getting up and separating from their last warm, comfortable moment that they would have in a long time was cruel. Eventually, however, more pressing needs came down upon them, forcing the three of them to get up and face the day. Breakfast was a quiet affair, and the flat stayed quiet as Sherlock and John started gathering up and packing rucksacks. Mycroft was coming to pick Felicity up later in the afternoon to take her to the Holmes estate, so Felicity had to pack as well. Unfortunately, Felicity was very quick and she was soon left with nothing to do but try not to listen to the sounds of Sherlock and John talking quietly about things they'd need as they scourged the flat, looking for anything useful. She played the piano for a bit, but her heart really wasn't in it.

Out of the blue, halfway through her reprise of one of Rachmaninoff's many piano concertos, she heard a loud thump, a crash, and then someone gave a yell before another loud crash. Her fingers clashed on the keys, ending the music as she listened to the suddenly eerie silence of the flat.

Felicity froze at her piano, unsure of what to think. Her mind had already rationalized that whatever had happened out there wasn't an accident and if she couldn't hear voices and if Sherlock and John weren't coming around the corner apologizing about the scare, then something was wrong. Her mind instantly ran through every possible way of getting out of the flat. Only the windows that faced the street could reach the roof, and both were only accessible through the sitting room, where the sounds had come from. Hiding would make obvious noise and Felicity was not about to hide underneath a bed like a child. Seeing that her only option had come down to arming herself and trying to get out of 221B to find help, Felicity got up from her piano and found the heaviest book she could find. With that in hand, she inched out into the hallway and down the stairs, sticking to the shadows.

She could hear a man walking around the sitting room, pushing piles of papers aside, as if searching for something. His tread suggested that he was a tall man, heavy, but with muscle, not with fat. As Felicity inched further forward, her breath caught in her chest and she nearly dropped her book. She could see where John was sprawled in the doorway to the kitchen, unmoving, a lump starting to rise on the back of his head. Felicity didn't note any blood from the hit to the back of John's head, but sometimes that only made the wound worse. He was breathing, which was the most important thing. Fighting to keep her cool focus, Felicity considered running for the door. It would be awful to leave John and Sherlock (especially because she had no idea where the detective was), but if it meant that she escaped to get help then she was more than willing to take a risk. Felicity kept the book firmly in her grip and inched to the other side of the hallway to see the door better, wincing when Sherlock came into view. He was also on the floor, his limbs every which way from his fall. She couldn't see the back of his head, but she could infer that he'd been bludgeoned with something heavy too.

A sudden snicker made her head shoot up. The man, who had been poking around by the windows, was suddenly striding over towards her, a very dangerous look on his face. Her mind flashed back to the brief lessons Charley had taught her on self-defense and she faked throwing the book to throw this man off and then threw it as hard as she could, clipping him in the temple. He let out a bellow as she ducked forward, heading for the door. "Oh no you don't," he growled, grabbing her by the back of the shirt and, spinning with his weight, he threw Felicity into the nearest bookshelf. All the air in her lungs left with a whoosh as her spine collided painfully with the shelves, her head following a second later. Sherlock's books tumbled down out of the shelf from the force of the man's throw, littering the floor.

Determined to fight him, even through the hazy pain in her brain, Felicity ducked when he went to grab the front of her shirt and kneed him as hard as she could in the groin. It was a worthwhile effort, but it was like David versus Goliath. He let out a snarl, grabbing her by the throat and shoving her at Sherlock's desk. She fell across the top of it and to the floor, scattering books and papers everywhere. Gasping for breath, her ribs on fire, Felicity forced herself to get up again, crawling under the desk as the man came around. He lunged for her, sending the coffee table skittering by several feet as he finally caught onto her arm and yanked her back to him. His arm was tight around her bicep, his fingers digging into her skin as he gave her a vicious, second yank. With a crack and a scream from Felicity, her arm dislocated out of its socket, spreading burning pain from her shoulder until Felicity thought she would pass out. "Gotcha," he growled under his breath, wrapping one arm around Felicity's waist as he suddenly jabbed his thumb onto the pressure point on her neck with the other.

Felicity struggled uselessly (the man already had her off the ground and he was much stronger, not to mention the pain radiating through her body at her dislocated arm), trying to fight him off as well as the darkness starting to grow in her brain. He was knocking her out and once she was unconscious, she was most likely dead. She couldn't let him win, couldn't let him kill her and possibly Sherlock and John too. As the last standing defense of the Watson-Holmes family, she was doing a poor job of protecting them. Odd feelings spread through her panicked mind; guilt, sadness, fear. Before she completely went under, a deduction slammed into her brain, making her panic flare with new force.

He was tall, with muscle, military stature and past experience. The marks on the back of the fingers on his left hand showed that he gripped something often, most likely a trigger judging by the size and depth of the callouses. One shoulder seemed stronger than the other, probably from absorbing the kickback from a sniper's rifle. He was a strange man intent on hurting them in their flat. How many enemies did they currently have that were ex-military snipers? Just one.

The man abducting her was Sebastian Moran.

With that one last panicked thought in mind, Felicity sank into unconsciousness. Satisfied that the heart of Sherlock Holmes was thoroughly knocked out, Sebastian Moran let her drop ungracefully to the floor. Pulling a rolled up duffle bag out of the pocket of his military cargo pants, he unrolled it and unzipped it, stuffing the girl he was kidnapping inside. Once she was out of sight, he hoisted the bag onto his shoulder with ease. After taking a brief moment to smirk down at the knocked out detective, Moran pulled a note out of his pocket and left it on their coffee table, taking the knife from the mantle to pin the paper to the polished wood.

Sebastian was going to make Sherlock Holmes pay; make him feel the loss that he had carried for the past three years. Once he'd made the detective suffer, he'd kill his sidekick, the doctor, next. Then, when it came down to it and Sherlock Holmes was nothing but a man who had lost everything, Moran was going to torture the detective until all the blood ran dry in his veins.

Only then would he be satisfied that he'd avenged Jim's death. Then, once Sebastian felt that his debt had been repaid, maybe, just maybe, he could join Jim, his lover, in death. At that moment, nothing would make the ex-sniper happier than to join his own consulting criminal, but he had work to do, people to torture, and crimes to commit.

With that thought in mind, Moran pulled the strap of the duffle bag across his shoulder in a nonchalant way, rubbing the spot on his temple where the little bitch had hit him with a book. It didn't hurt so much as it was irritating. Relishing the moment that he could pull the trigger and end her life, he straightened his appearance and strode out of 221B, vanishing into the city of London.

OoOoOoO

"Sherlock, Sherlock, get up! Sherlock!" A voice was yelling at the detective, bringing him back up from the darkest corner of his mind. How did he get there? His head was pounding and nothing was making much sense. Brief flashes of memory struggled to be processed- stacking papers with his back to the door, a sudden searing pain to the back of his head…"For the love of- Sherlock, wake up!" He finally realized that it was John yelling at him and he finally processed the urgent, almost panicked tone to John's voice. He forced his eyes open, blinking a few times against the harshness of the light. John was leaning over him, his face just as panicked as his tone. "Sherlock- thank god," John blurted quickly, helping him sit up. Sherlock's ears rang as he closed his eyes and explored a rather large bump on the back of his head. He'd been bludgeoned with something heavy, knocked out in his own flat. Why?

Sherlock opened his eyes to investigate, not bothering to waste precious time asking John what had happened; he could figure it out much more quickly. If he and John were still in their flat, unharmed, then whoever knocked them out wasn't interested in them at all. As he scanned the living room, a pang of fear shot through Sherlock's gut. There were obvious signs of a struggle- the coffee table had moved by several feet, everything on his desk was now on the floor, and one of the bookshelves had been hit with such force that half of the books had tumbled out and onto the floor. If he and John were alright but there were signs of a fight…Felicity. "Where is she, John?" Sherlock croaked, struggling to his feet. John grasped his arm and helped him up, his face pale as he automatically understood how Sherlock had come to that conclusion.

"There's a note," John said tonelessly, passing Sherlock a sheet of paper. Sherlock scrubbed at the grit in his eyes briefly before accepting the sheet, his heart stopping as he read over the words.

Sherlock Holmes,

Only one man was supposed to die at St. Bartholomew's Hospital that day. For the longest time the world has thought that two men died when in reality, only the wrong man died. You murdered him, you murdered Jim. Now that I'm the next in line, I'm carrying on his work. Do you want to know what his last mission was? It was to burn the heart out of you, and I intend to finish the job.

At first I thought it would be easy; I would kill you myself- but that's what I would do, not Jim. Jim would draw it out, make you scream and beg and cry for mercy. He would destroy you, rip you to shreds and only then give you the pleasure of death. While I find all that very admirable, I decided to put my own spin on things. Attacking you personally would burn out your heart…but there's something else…someone else…that means much more to you than just your reputation and even your life.

I'm talking about your recently adopted daughter. (By the way, did I offer my congratulations? You and John must be so proud.) She means more to you than the world; how unfortunate for her.

If I were to follow Jim's idiom, I would give you a puzzle, a timeline, a threat. I would torture your precious little girl while I gave you time to save her. The emotional pain it would cause you would be satisfying, I admit, but I'm not Jim. I'm Sebastian Moran, the man you took everything away from. You took everything from me so I'll take everything from you.

There is no puzzle, no test, and no clue. There is no chance of retrieving your daughter. I have her and I will kill her. There is nothing you can do to change that. You are helpless. WEAK.

How does it feel?

Sebastian Moran

OoOoOoO

A/N: Tee hee! Teehehehehehee! I'm evil and I know it. I'd apologize, but I'm not that sorry. SO! More drama! It's very short drama, cue the quick update, but know that there is much more left to come!

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louisuperwholocked is the best beta and friend I could ask for.