Felix Hutchinson, a random but not entirely unimportant pedestrian, was sitting on a bench in front of St. Bart's hospital, reading the paper, minding his own business, when a quiet 'clink' jerked him out of the Classifieds. Lowering his paper, he looked around for the source of the noise and found that a set of military style dog-tags were sitting on the sidewalk. He stared at them for a moment, briefly wondering if they'd been there before and he'd just missed them, or if some of the people passing by had dropped them. Frowning, he folded up his paper and stepped out onto the sidewalk, picking up the tags gingerly, nearly dropping them again when something that seemed horribly like blood came off onto his fingers.

He curled them into his fist, staring at the people around him, hoping to find where they'd come from, but no obvious source presented itself. No one was obviously bleeding, so where had they come from? The man walked into the hospital, turning the tags over to read the name. 'CHARLEY FREDERIC MULLER' stood out in harsh relief, along with the name of a regiment. Figuring that they had fallen from a patient coming in and he hadn't heard or noticed the tags until a passerby kicked them, Felix headed for the help-desk. Perhaps if he turned them into the lost and found the hospital could find who the dog tags belonged to. "Can I help you, sir?" The woman at the desk asked, looking away from a BBC news report that was playing about a missing girl, turning to face him.

"Yeah, I found these dog tags out on the sidewalk…do you have any patients here named 'Charley Frederic Muller'?" He asked, showing her the tags he'd picked up. The woman blinked at him, looking surprised.

"Muller?" She repeated finally, her voice slightly higher with surprise. She grabbed the TV remote and turned up the volume on the report she'd been watching. The screen switched from the picture of a sweet looking girl with fiery red hair to that of the news anchor.

"We repeat- a child named Felicity Watson-Holmes, formerly Felicity Muller, is missing. She is twelve years old, roughly five feet tall, with very vibrant red hair and dark brown eyes. If you have any information regarding her disappearance, please contact Scotland Yard immediately." The stony faced reporter on the television died off as the woman turned the volume back down, turning to face him.

"Uh, I guess you should, um, call them, then." Felix managed to stutter, utterly floored as he let the dog tags rest on the counter. His mind was spinning with questions, trying to remember the people he'd seen on the sidewalk. He knew for sure that the missing girl hadn't been around, but no one on the sidewalk had looked like kidnappers either. The receptionist stuttered for a moment before picking up her phone and calling the police. It didn't take long for them to respond and four people to make their way over. Two were obviously from the Yard: tired looks, badges, equipment. The other two were civilians that seemed oddly familiar to the man…perhaps he'd seen them in the papers somewhere…

"Right, you found the tags then?" The man in charge asked. He had a slowly fading tan and silver hair, and he seemed ready to throw his arm out to stop the two non-Yarders from running forward. The looks they were sending the poor man weren't helping either. Felix gathered his wits about him. He'd done nothing wrong- all he had to do was tell his story.

"Yeah. I was sitting on a bench outside and I heard someone kick them, I think. I picked them up and figured an incoming patient dropped them, so I brought them in here to the desk." He explained hastily, stepping aside to let the other man from the Yard through. He carried a box with him that had 'FORENSICS' stamped on the side. Pulling on gloves, he lifted the dog tags into his palm and showed it to the taller, darker-haired civilian.

"Those are hers," he responded instantly, his voice a quick, deep snap as his eyes whizzed over the fingerprints smeared in blood, the name, the chain. His gaze came up and swept briefly over Felix before losing interest. For some reason, that made him very relieved. He didn't like being the focus of the dark-haired man's stare; it made him uneasy.

"I'll test the blood sample right away." The man with the gloves said, pulling away and starting to run a test on the dog tags right in the lobby.

"We need to spread out and search for more clues." The dark-haired man continued, already turning on his heel and rushing out of the hospital, his companion right behind him.

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Felicity woke up gasping for air.

She was still on St. Bart's rooftop, and she was more than aware that her arm and shoulder were still burning with pain. It was the pain that had woken her up, its crippling force pressing onto her chest with enough force to make breathing a struggle. Her mind worked to set aside her agony to try and think, but she wasn't sure how long she'd been unconscious. What had changed? Had anything happened? Felicity forced her eyes open to take in her surroundings, trying to understand what was happening based on her available senses.

The first thing she noticed was the time of day. It was early in the morning; the sun was just rising. Traffic was getting started again below her on the street and among that traffic were the sounds of added sirens and shouts. The panic level was very different from the usual hubbub of a patient coming into the hospital, which piqued Felicity's hope. Maybe, just maybe- "Spread out! Check every alley, every inch of sidewalk you can find!" She suddenly heard a voice, a voice that stuck out so clearly that she gasped, trying to sit up straighter.

That was, without a doubt, Sherlock.

He sounded younger, more panicked than she'd ever heard him, but the determination in his deep tone was unmistakable. Somehow, her clue with the dog tags had worked- he was at Bart's. The only problem was that he was looking in all the wrong places! She was six stories up and he was searching in an outward radius, not up and through the hospital like she'd hoped he would. How could he not understand the irony of having her on-top of Bart's? Frustration and a bit of terror started to seep into Felicity as the police officers started to organize and spread out. She wasn't strong enough to shout for them and she was so weak that she couldn't create much of a distraction. If she didn't act soon they would never find her- and that spelled out her death. Her mind whizzed through possibilities as she studied her tools.

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"What, so he brought her through here, past here? Why? Why would he do that- this is such a busy road somebody would have noticed-!" John panted as he darted after Sherlock, into the nearest alley to the hospital, trying to get answers. His heart was pounding a mile a minute as he tried to search for clues instead of staring at Sherlock's face. He had been sure that no clues would turn up, despite Lestrade's reassurance, and now that Felicity's dog-tags had been found John was burning with adrenaline. This was the opportunity that wasn't supposed to have presented itself- it was a miracle. And miracles, as everyone knows, only happen once in a very long while. John wasn't about to miss this chance, not with so much at stake. Neither was Sherlock. The most beautiful part about Moran's game was that it wasn't a game. He'd asked for nothing and had given nothing for the detective to work over to get Felicity back. Now that he had a clue, Sherlock was going to go to the ends of the Earth to track Moran down.

"Or he came through this way after he already had Felicity," Sherlock muttered to himself, running a hand over the brick wall of the alley as he scanned the ground furiously, looking for any sort of clue.

Up on the rooftop, Felicity knew what she needed to do; she knew what would attract attention in an unmistakable way. She was going to get Moran's gun and empty the remaining five shots into the air. Her foggy mind asked her why she hadn't done that in the first place, but Felicity was in survival mode, she didn't have time to dwell on her mistakes. Leaning forward, she inched her foot out into the pool of blood to grab the gun, gasping in pain as she brought it up to her shaking fingers. Before pulling the trigger, she realized that the kickback from the gun would hurt her already damaged shoulder exponentially; she'd need to switch hands. Urging herself on, Felicity passed the gun up with a brief scream of pain as her shoulder turned and contracted in the gesture, but none of that mattered anymore. She had the gun, in hand, ready to fire. The pain was racing up her senses, threatening to push her into unconsciousness again, but Felicity's survival instincts were in full effect. Her finger curled around the trigger and she aimed the gun straight into the sky…

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"Wait, stop! Did you hear that?" Donovan, at the mouth of the alley, suddenly yelled, stopping everyone as she raised a hand as if to shush them. Her head was cocked half to the side, staring at the sidewalk in confusion as she listened closely. She looked a bit pale, as if she'd heard something that disturbed her.

"What? What did you hear?" Sherlock demanded, striding over to her. She stiffened visibly as Sherlock flew over, bearing down on her. Donovan tried to avoid his gaze as much as possible. She'd seen an entirely different man in Sherlock Holmes now that this brilliant young girl was in his life. The idea of him reverting back into who he was before frightened her a bit but made her sad at the same time. He may have been a complete arse, but she knew that he deserved better.

"It sounded like a scream," Sally admitted, not looking at the detective. Not even seconds later, Felicity pulled the trigger, gritting her teeth through the recoil as she fired again and again until the clip was spent into the open air over St. Bart's. Down on the ground, officers yelled and scuttled for cover, throwing their arms over their heads and faces for minimal but instinctive protection as the gunshots echoed loudly, the sound reverberations bouncing off of buildings with an eerie sound. The harsh, non-relenting pace of the shots, so deliberate, made every person in the vicinity uneasy.

"Five shots fired, on the rooftop of the hospital, requesting backup," Lestrade was the first to snap into action, gripping his radio with enough force to crush it. He turned to Sherlock and John, to see what they wanted to do next, but neither man was responding. They were still crouched on the filthy ground of the alley, arms half raised over their heads as they stared at each other, one thought passing through their minds at exactly the same time.

They got too close.

If Moran had been watching them, lying low, and they got too near his hideout, there was no doubt that he would murder Felicity right then and there. As soon as Donovan had reported a scream, someone fired a gun five times in a row, very near to them. The possibilities and the probability of Felicity still being alive ran through Sherlock's head, forcing him to face a grim conclusion. It was that number in his head that made him jerk to his feet and take off running, cursing his stupidity and trying not to completely panic. His mind had been numb with sentiment; he hadn't seen the obviousness of their location. This was St. Bart's, the hospital he had leapt off of three years ago. It was the place where Moriarty died, and now, most likely, the place where Felicity had died as well. No, no, no chanted through Sherlock's brain as he reached the service entrance and ducked inside, racing for the lift and jamming the button marked for the roof. He didn't care that Moran would be up there, armed, and Sherlock didn't care that he had no weapon to protect himself. All he wanted was to see, to confirm or deny, to see-

The lift cluttered to a stop and Sherlock forced his way through before the doors were fully open, racing down the small hallway before bursting out onto the rooftop. At first, he didn't notice anything particularly interesting. It was only after he'd stumbled forward a few steps that he saw a blond head lying on the ground, blood surrounding it. Sherlock jerked himself forward, jogging across the rooftop and turning the corner to try and understand.

Facts hit his brain all at once, struggling to be registered first. Moran was dead on the ground- he had been for almost 24 hours. The puddle of blood around him was frightfully big and led right up to…Felicity.

She was leaning against a pipe of natural gas, eyes closed, and her free arm drawn in close to her chest. Moran's gun was on the ground next to her. She looked so frail, so hurt that for a moment Sherlock's mind sputtered to a halt, unsure of what to do before his heart took over. He stepped around Moran and crouched in front of her, ignoring the fact that blood was getting on his coat. Instead, minding her obviously hurt arm and shoulder, he cupped her face gently, feeling for a pulse. "Felicity? Can you hear me?" The words rushed out without him realizing as he checked her over. She had a pulse and she was breathing, but those two signs of life were often times misleading. He wanted to see her functioning and alive with his own eyes, right then and there. "Felicity? Felicity-!" Sherlock barely resisted the urge to shake her, patting her face in an attempt to rouse her, trying to ignore how ashen her skin felt. After a moment, Felicity's eyes flickered open. The pain from switching the gun from one hand to the other had been so intense that she had almost blacked out before even firing a shot. She'd struggled to hold onto her consciousness even after she'd dropped the gun, her job at signaling the police and Sherlock over.

As Sherlock swam into view, she blinked a few times, trying to force her brain to rationalize. Her first thought was to dismiss his face, so desperate and alive, as a dream. She had to scrap that hypothesis, however, when she could feel his hand on her face, on her neck. When it became clear that he was real, relief washed over Felicity, making her close her eyes and smile, even if the effort was weak. If Sherlock was here, this nightmare was at an end. "Look at me, Felicity, open your eyes!" Sherlock ordered, slipping his free hand into his coat pocket to search for his lock-picking kit. She couldn't pass out yet, not until he knew that she was safe and taken care of. Panic and adrenaline were still snaking through the detective's veins, and he wanted Felicity to be conscious and responsive to soothe that worry.

"Sherlock!" John bellowed from across the roof, appearing in the doorway and looking around, Lestrade, Donovan and an EMT behind him.

"Over here!" Sherlock let himself be known as he started on picking the lock on the handcuffs, glancing down at Felicity to make sure that she'd opened her eyes. "Are you alright?" He asked her lowly, getting the cuff off her wrist and gently guiding her arm down to the ground. Felicity watched him work, still dazed from the pain she was in. Everything was moving so slowly, and Sherlock was starting to look hazy. She knew that if her vision was going she should be worried, but the deliciously numbing pain in her nerves destroyed any attempts at her using logic.

"My shoulder hurts…" she trailed off dreamily as John skidded around the corner, Lestrade, Donovan and the EMT not far behind.

"Holy-!" John gasped before he could stop himself, his eyes quickly taking in Moran's body, the blood, and Felicity slumped against the pipe, looking faint. He went to step forward, but Lestrade threw out an arm, stopping him.

"There's a bomb, Watson!" he barked as John seized his wrist, ready to shove the DI out of his way. The two men stared at each other for a moment, Lestrade forcibly calm and John just about ready to rage before he turned to look for himself, starting a bit when he noticed the large bomb sitting next to Felicity. Sherlock had heard Lestrade's cry, but a bomb was the least of his troubles at the moment; nothing could shift his focus with the state that Felicity was in.

"No, that's ok…I defused it…" Felicity said in a garbled sigh, leaning her head against the pipe and closing her eyes. She was tired, so tired, and her arm hurt. Felicity ignored the chorus of 'No!' and 'Look at me!' that erupted from Sherlock as the EMT ducked through and instantly monitored her pulse.

"I'll need backup, quickly." He fired off right away, feeling along her neck and the back of her head, noting how there was a slowly deflating bump from where Felicity's head had been slammed against the bookcase in Moran's attack. She probably had a concussion, and it was highly likely that she had been unconscious and drugged during that time, increasing the danger. Once he deemed her safe to move, he turned to the two men hovering behind him. While Lestrade and Donovan were calling for more help and getting the bomb squad, Sherlock and John were stuck to watch and wait, having nothing to do. "We'll need to move her out over there, away from the body, without jarring her shoulder. If one of you would carry her legs, the other can hold onto her waist, bracing her back on your front." The EMT instructed, quickly realizing that he needed to give some control to the two internally panicking men. He'd worked with Lestrade long enough to catch glimpses of both Sherlock and John and to know who they were and what they were capable of. The medic was also well aware that the two men were family to his patient, and that made everything much worse.

"I'll get her front," John offered automatically, and the EMT took a step back, going over to the bare expanse of space on the rooftop and spreading out a flatboard stretcher so that they could safely transfer Felicity down into the hospital. "Just relax, Felicty," John cautioned, situating her gently sideways, doing his best not to nick her arm. She blinked, still dazed, and tried to twist to see him, but John's hand on her good shoulder held her steady. Everything was blurring, and she couldn't register Sherlock and John moving until they were already someplace different, confusing her. All she wanted to do was close her eyes and sleep, but everyone yelled at her when she did that. "Ready, Sherlock?" John asked once he was in a good position, voice frightfully calm as he glanced up at the detective. Sherlock gave him a hasty nod. John made sure to be gentle as he picked Felicity up by the waist, keeping her back flush with his chest. With Sherlock lifting her legs- her torso and, most importantly, her shoulder and arm, stayed still.

"Why am I moving?" Felicity asked deliriously to nobody in particular, semi aware that she was confused but unable to do anything about it. John and Sherlock sat her down on the stretcher, John holding up her back when Felicity's weak body threatened to collapse, jerking at her shoulder.

"Now, slowly lay her down. It may hurt her a bit, so be steady," the medic cautioned, but John already started the action and was ignoring the EMT anyway. John knew what he was doing and was going to use his knowledge as a doctor in any way he could to make his daughter comfortable.

"Felicity, take your good hand and hold onto Sherlock for me, ok? And look at him, look right into his eyes." John told Felicity as she turned to look at him again, still confused. "He's over there," John directed, biting down worry as much as he could, for the sake of the situation. Felicity looked the other way, blinking a few times as Sherlock swam back into view. He extended his hand, his fingers trembling despite himself, and Felicity took it, letting his large hand still encase her smaller one in a firm grip. Without another word, John put pressure on her lower back; making Felicity lay down with a gasp and then a muffled groan of pain, her eyes rolling up into her head briefly. "Good, good job, Felicity." John said absentmindedly, looking up to field the questions coming in as a full team of EMT's crossed the rooftop.

"It hurts, Charley," Felicity groaned, her head rolling slightly as her body tried to process the pain and failed. Sherlock's heart clenched painfully at the mistake Felicity had made in her weakened state. He rubbed the top of her hand soothingly as an EMT flipped that arm over and briskly gave her an IV as two others fit a stretcher underneath the flatboard.

"I know, Fee. I know; it'll all be over soon." Sherlock told her, unable to keep his voice steady as the worker at her IV hooked her up to some general fluids before giving her two shots- one for pain and one as a sedative. It was a relief to see them taking affect right away (anything to ease Felicity's pain at that point was more than welcome to Sherlock), but seeing her relax all at once also terrified him, even though an EMT had hooked up a heart monitor and he could hear proof that she was alive. The way she went limp reminded him strongly of a corpse and he didn't like it.

Sherlock and John had to let the EMT's go first with Felicity to fit into the small hallway and lift to take them back down into the hospital so that she could be treated. By that time, the bomb squad had arrived and after meticulously documenting the state they found the bomb in, they safely disassembled it. Moran's body was also documented before taking it down to the morgue. Lestrade's officers searched the entire rooftop for clues and evidence Sherlock would want later as the man himself, along with John, waited impatiently for Felicity to have her shoulder x-rayed. It took almost an hour, making both men very jittery. While the film was being developed, both men sat silently in her room on either side of her bed, neither taking their eyes off of their daughter's drug induced sleep. For that one, terrifying moment in the alley, both men had thought that Felicity was dead. Both would remember the sound of those gunshots, one right after the other as their minds struggled between the natural inclination to find cover and the awful idea that Felicity was being shot. She'd pushed them to hunt down Moran, and because of their unwillingness to leave her they'd hurt her even more. That type of guilt isn't easily gotten rid of, if at all. "Mr. Holmes and Doctor Watson?" Another doctor stuck his head around the door, then his body as both detective and doctor stood, wanting to hear the news.

"What did the x-rays show?" John leapt right into it, wishing that he could see the actual film for himself, but doing so would mean that he'd have to leave Felicity and Sherlock, something he was not at all willing to do.

"Her arm was dislocated first, and with a lot of force. You can still see the bruising on her biceps and triceps. The way the shoulder dislocated had the head of her humerus lodged between her scapula and her clavicle bones." The doctor started, and John winced, furious and yet very much aware of how much pain that must have been causing Felicity. "It's my guess that as your daughter used that arm, it lodged her humerus deeper and deeper in between those bones, putting pressure on her clavicle until it broke. Unfortunately, the bone didn't break cleanly. We'll need to do surgery right away to make sure we get out all of the bone fragments. We'll also reset her clavicle and put her arm back in its socket." The doctor informed them, looking in between Sherlock and John.

"Jesus," John muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. The surgery was far from dangerous and was completely necessary, but the idea of Felicity going under the knife frightened him.

"Any other injuries?" Sherlock questioned, voice tense. If Moran wasn't dead, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to control himself from leaving and not coming back until the man responsible for his daughter's pain was dead. Without something to focus his emotions on, Sherlock was boiling in a sea of confusion, fear and anger.

"We can tell that she had quite the bump on the head, but there was no bleeding, internal or external and if she did have a concussion there's nothing we can do at this point. Her toxicology report showed a hefty dose of lorazepam in her system and she was most likely unconscious for a long time. Other than that, she had a multitude of defensive wounds, but nothing serious." The doctor summed up, flipping briefly through the chart he was carrying.

"How soon will she go into surgery?" John asked, checking his watch briefly.

"We're waiting for her sedative to wear off a bit more. Someone will come in about twenty minutes to have her prepped for surgery." The doctor flashed them both a brief smile before ducking out. It took John a moment to calm himself before heading back over to Felicity with a sigh, smoothing the hair from her face. Sherlock joined him a moment later, taking Felicity's hand gently and rubbing her tiny knuckles with his thumb.

"Never again, Sherlock. Never again." John swore quietly yet with a military style firmness that wasn't to be argued with. He sat slowly, pulling his hand away from Felicity's hair to rub his face tiredly. Seconds later, Sherlock's heart leapt into his throat as Felicity stirred from the loss of contact.

"Felicity? Can you hear me?"

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A/N: Drama drama drama! I am a drama llama! Who makes dioramas! Ok, but, in all seriousness, Felicity's safe. That's all you cared about, right? Things will start winding down now- but there are still plenty of loose ends to be tied up. What happened to John and Sherlock's relationship? What about Mummy Holmes? How will Felicity heal from her ordeal? What will they do with their lives now that their biggest threat is vanquished? ... All will be revealed, young grasshoppers.

Is it wrong that I giggled when reading your reviews? Cause I did. A lot.

louisuperwholocked is the best and most understanding beta I've ever had. Thank you, dearest.