Warnings. Nothing significant.

Advisory Do watch out for sharp needles (not drug related), broken glass, at least one tantrum and inappropriate language for no real reason. Still rated M.

Precautionary Note I cannot guarantee your safety if, while reading this chapter, you chose to imbibe beverages while operating heavy machinery or climbing ladders of any color (but especially green).

A/N No mugs were smashed in the writing of this chapter. However, other glass objects may have been damaged. A bit.

Chapter 27

Thanks to his mild head cold, John had a bit of a headache. Of course his lack of sleep, due to two rounds of rather strenuous nocturnal activity, might have contributed to the slight pain located just between his eyes. Then too, John was just plain tired after scouring the kitchen (twice in two days). And who wouldn't be exhausted, after the Adventure of the Arabian Knight, as John now called Sherlock's most recent case. As opposed to The Case of the Jharia Diamond, as Sherlock insisted on calling it, which, if you asked John, sounded pretty dull.

So John rested in his favorite chair, while his manic flatmate sent texts to the diamond's owner and someone's wife's cousin (or was it the cousin's wife). The ex-army doctor had rallied after his third or fourth cup of tea and had gathered information on the adventure/case. Indeed, the former army doctor planned to write-up Sherlock's recent adventure/case in a blog, which would bear the titillating title, The Blog of John H. Watson. (Because Sherlock adamantly refused to allow his name to be used in the title of so pedestrian a venture...or something to that effect).

John yawned deeply, and blinked his tired eyes. He squinted as he reviewed his notes to see if it was the cousin's wife or the wife's cousin who had been so unexpectedly involved. Not surprisingly, his exhaustion coupled with the quiet of the room, soon lulled the former soldier into sleep.

John would later recall that he had been dreaming. In the dream, Sherlock wore a blue Nordic sweater…and nothing else. The blond's very enticing dream ended abruptly, when, for the second time that day, John woke to shouting and the sounds of splintering glass.

Pulling out his combat knife and leaping into a ready stance, John scanned the room for threats. He quickly ascertained that there were no assailants masquerading as Arabs or Sikhs.

Really, the only clear and present danger in 221b was the wild-haired Demon Detective of Baker Street himself, who seemed to seethe with white-hot anger. His black eye brows and stormy grey-blue eyes were the only spots of color in his incandescent face, and his chest rose and fell under the too tight shirt. John found this all rather alarming and just a little enticing.

John stared at the mad detective. Then he looked at the shattered mirror, and the probable cause of said shattering, a possibly new mobile phone which lay amid the glittering shards of glass. It was pretty clear to John that the consulting madman, for reasons unknown, had lobbed the mobile phone at the mirror.

"Sherlock? What the h…" began John, but without a word, the crazed consulting detective strode into his bedroom and slammed the door.

John pursed his lips and slowly rose from his crouch. "Right," sighed the blond, and he slipped the knife back into its sheath.

John chewed his lip, took a deep breath and tried to make sense of the situation. He was almost positive that he hadn't done anything to anger his flatmate. He briefly considered making more tea. Then he considered heading out to locate a slightly stronger restorative, like some Scotch perhaps.

John cleverly determined that the mobile was indeed new, because the packaging and instructions were strewn over the recently cleaned kitchen floor.

Must be a new phone for Sherlock, thought John cleaning up the rubbish. Although Sherlock was using his old mobile right before John fell asleep in the chair.

Maybe Sherlock always has two of everything…two computers, two mobiles, two boyfriends. Hopefully not two boyfriends. But then, thought the ex-soldier, that might explain why the detective had two mobiles-to juggle all his boyfriends, like the pink lady juggled her adulterous affairs.

Good Lord, a fight with a mysterious other man (or God, it could be another woman) would easily explain Sherlock's tantrum. John felt an uncomfortable pain settle in his chest. Perhaps it was the pneumonia setting in.

Feeling insecure and loath to start cleaning the broken glass on the settee, John was leaning towards the 'heading out to locate a pub' plan, when the mysterious and obviously very durable mobile began to ring. It rang several times.

The soldier looked to the Sherlock's closed bedroom door. Of course the consulting git was ignoring his own phone. It kept ringing and ringing. Which was annoying. Still, what if it was an important call? What if it was the other boyfriend?

John marched over to the phone and fumbled with it for several seconds, cursing technology, before he managed to answer it.

"Holmes," he said in a poor imitation of the detective's baritone, just in case.

"Hello, John," said the silky smooth voice of the evil Emperor Mycroft. John instantly concluded that he should have gone in search of a pub. "Your new phone is protected from hacking, but I would prefer that you do not speak my name, in case the cameras pick up your lip movements. Indeed, one should always be cautious with privileged information."

John's mouth opened and shut several times, no doubt in full view right of the cameras . When did his life become so bloody complicated, John wondered? And why on earth did the man talk in such a stilted fashion anyway? And now he's got me thinking in a stilted fashion.

And when exactly did I get a new phone?

After the long pause in which John did not respond verbally, the British Government said, "Yes…well. John…. Do you mind if I call you John?" asked the Emperor of the Known Universe.

"Would it matter if I did?" asked John, ruffling his hair in frustration.

"Charming," said the politician who sounded anything but charmed, "John, I'm afraid we have suffered a setback, and it may have disappointed my brother."

John looked at the shattered mirror. Then he looked for the hidden cameras as he said, "Yeah, I noticed that Sherlock seemed, um, a bit disappointed just now." While John waited in vain for further explanation, he pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Right," said John when this pause became too much for him. "You know what, maybe you should just fill me in? That was the purpose of this call, wasn't it?" asked John. glaring at the skull who was smirking at John. The bloody skull probably knew exactly where all the cameras were.

"Yes, precisely," said the oily voice. "That's what I like about you, John. You are not one to waste words. You are always ready to forge ahead."

Mycroft was complimenting him. This was not good. John had a sinking feeling that he was about to become real disappointed too.

"Would it kill you to just give me a straight answer? Just tell me. What's wrong?" growled John, rubbing his forehead and wishing he'd left for the pub.

"Yes, well… the Met and members of my élite team raided the presumed underground offices of James Moriarty. The team moved in, after a call came in reporting a fire at the address of the suspected lair," said the British Government/Emperor. "The offices were exactly as you described them. I must admit you have a surprising eye for detail considering that…you…ah..."

"Considering that I'm an idiot? Yes, yes. Carry on," ordered Captain Watson.

"It seems that the offices were abandoned prior to the mysterious fire…"

"Arson?" suggested John.

"There is in fact, very little useful evidence left," continued Mycroft, ignoring John's statement of the obvious.

"You mean no evidence?" guessed John with a sigh.

"In fact, no evidence, although Sherlock may wish to examine the scene himself. Unfortunately, the place burned for quite some time leaving very little…"

"So Moriarty's scarpered, then. And he knows you're looking for him?" asked John.

"We are, of course, uncertain as to how much he actually knows, John," said the politician, uncertainly.

"Because it depends on the source of your leak, yeah?" said John cutting to the chase admirably, in spite of his growing headache.

"If it's a leak at the Yard, then Jim may not know about you and your fake death," mumbled John from behind his fist, just in case someone tried to read his lips. "If it's one of your minions, then it's worse, 'cause then Jim knows you're still alive and calling the shots. And then, if you decide that I'm the source of the leak, you're going to kill me almost immediately in order to protect Sherlock. Christ, is there another bloody sniper out there?" asked John, rushing to the window and scanning the rooflines and windows opposite the flat for any gunmen.

"Don't be so melodramatic. John. It doesn't suit you," said Mycroft. "And if you were a suspect, you would not be killed. You would be brought in for questioning…"

"And then afterwards, you'd kill me," said John, beginning to sweat under the thick, blue woolen jumper.

"That's a nice jumper, John," said Mycroft, up to his old Jedi mind tricks.

"Yeah, so about this phone…" said John, trying to resist the dark side of the force.

"The phone is yours. Anthea mentioned that you needed a new one. It has all the latest apps and is very secure," said politician. "However, I'm not sure that the jumper really fits you, it seems a bit too long. Do you need assistance in acquiring a wardrobe…"

"Fuck the jumper. And fuck my wardrobe," snapped John. "There's entirely too many people trying to dress me already!" John bit his lip. He hadn't meant to give that to Mycroft. It would surely come back to bite John in the end.

"Yeah, so anyway," said John, quickly changing the subject. "Was Sherlock disappointed that you moved in too late or that you have a leak or that the raid was conducted without him?" asked John.

"Yes," replied Mycroft, drily. "To all three, especially the last one. I tried to explain that it..."

"And then he threw the phone at the mirror?" asked John.

"No. My brother gave vent to his disappointment after informing me about his concern for your safety, Doctor Watson," said Mycroft. John scowled at the way the British Government made it sound like all this was somehow John's fault. Well, maybe it was John's fault, the vertical lines between John's eyebrows deepened.

"Look, seriously," said the former army doctor. "Am I the suspected informant?"

"Nonsense," said Mycroft, chuckling very like Emperor Palpatine. "No, Doctor, the spy is either in my division or Lestrade's. To begin with, you were not privy to information considering the upcoming raid. And you have not had any opportunity to signal Moriarty since your rather damp arrival back at the flat last night. Allow me to apologize for that, by the way. Naturally, we had assumed that you would hail a taxi…"

"Oh bloody hell! Of course I tried to hail a taxi…y'know what? Nobody even cares about that now," said John.

The former soldier paced the room in imitation of his flatmate. John stopped at the window to visually sweep the rooftops, checking again for snipers.

Then the implications of the failed raid settled in. John dropped into his chair and held his head in his hand. Jim was not about to be captured. Which meant nothing would stop Jim from coming for John, either for their next 'date' or to kill him. John was pretty sure he'd prefer the latter.

"Dammit!" John spat out involuntarily. This was very disappointing. This was bloody fuckin' disappointing. The soldier was sorely tempted to pitch the phone at the mantle or even out the window to vent his disappointment.

John nodded to himself as he reigned in his temper. John H. Watson would just have to man up and deal with the situation even if it was FUBAR.

"...we are working on solutions, Doctor Watson," soothed the evil Emperor Mycroft, who must have been talking the whole time. "This might be a good time for me to to broach a sensitive topic," John couldn't stifle his groan. "When he's on a case, my brother… neglects himself, he exposes himself to danger."

John sighed deeply; John was doing that a lot lately. "Yeah, y' know, I figured that out all by myself. Maybe you'll remember that I rescued your brother from himself and that bloody, murdering cabbie!" said John, remembering to shout behind his hand. "If this is you, asking me to try to protect him, you're wasting your breath. I have his back, but not because you asked me to. I'm doing it 'cause I want to."

"In addition, my brother is unused to, ah…relationships," said Mycroft, admirably forging ahead. "He may not behave in an entirely rational manner. You may find yourself..."

"Yeah, you know what? I noticed all that, too," said John sarcastically. "You know what else, I'm not quite as stupid as you seem to think."

"Ah," said Mycroft mysteriously, "Well then, Doctor Watson, I shall keep you apprised of any new developments. And Doctor, I'm glad we've been able to forge this understanding." said Mycroft, his voice dripping with bonhomie. "I look forward to…,"

"Understanding? I don't think we have any understandings," interrupted John. "But, yeah, thanks for the update... and the phone. Look I gotta go. The doorbell's been ringing, and one thing we both understand is that Sherlock's not about to answer the door."

"Doctor Watson, we are not quite finished…"

"Yeah, we are." said the former army captain. "You're dismissed." He punched the END CALL button on his new phone.

The former soldier trudged over the door, but by the time John made it to the landing, Mrs. Hudson was already at the top of the steps.

"Whooo, whoo? Sherlock? John?" she called looking past John.

"Mrs. Hudson," said John. "You shouldn't have come all the way up here."

"These came for you, John," she said brushing past him and into the flat. She held out a bouquet of blood red roses. "Now don't go thinking that I'll be bringing up your deliveries all the time. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper," she continued. "But I was planning to come up anyway, to survey the damage. I heard all that noise coming from the flat today. Honestly, you boys really must learn to tone it down a bit." She smiled at him knowingly.

John blushed and hid his red face behind the red roses, as the older woman smirked.

"And aren't those flowers lovely, dear," she said, patting his hand. "I thought maybe Sherlock sent them," she added in a stage whisper, forcing John's blush into full bloom. "But then." she continued, "I wondered, why send all these lovely flowers and then put in that strange black one?"

"Um," said John.

"Because it's a message, Mrs. Hudson," said the deep voice of the consulting detective.

Sherlock snatched the little heart-studded, pink card out of John's hand. The only word on the card was, SOON.

Sherlock flipped the card back to John, who caught it awkwardly.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said the detective in his childish, sing-song voice as he tried to shoo her out of the room.

"Oh, but who are they from, if they're not from you, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson persisted, ignoring Sherlock's frown and John's scowl. "And what's the message mean, then?" asked their landlady, squinting at the little card which she had snatched out of John's fingers. John looked at his empty hands and wondered what the message was.

"It's a private message, Mrs. Hudson," said the tall brunet, attempting to quell any further discussion.

"Well…I'm not one to pry, I'm sure," sniffed Mrs. Hudson, dropping the card back in John's hand. "But before I go, let me tell you, young man," she said directly to Sherlock. "I plan to charge you for the cost of that mirror. It came with the flat, so I'm taking that out of your rent."

"John was here too…" began the tall detective, whining ever so slightly and pouting winsomely, like a six-foot child, who happened to wear a bespoke suit.

"Honestly, I suppose I know who to charge for damages, Sherlock Holmes," she retorted, immune to his pout and poking him in his chest.

When it was clear that his ploy wouldn't work on Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock's face resumed its typical impassive mask, and he began to pace.

Her sharp eyes scanned the rest of the flat, "And I'll expect you to pay for that table too!" she added turning to leave.

"No wait, Mrs. Hudson," said John, who had been trying to use his tiny brain. "Who delivered them? The flowers, I mean. Maybe…"

"John, the delivery boy for Giovanucchi's Floral Designs will certainly know nothing. This will have been just one of many routine deliveries from the florist. Indeed, I am sure that the shop will have no useful information either. There will be a record of a credit card transaction, and when that is traced, the card will undoubtedly prove to have been stolen. It is highly improbable that your suitor will have left any trail," stated Sherlock, glaring at the flowers in their expensive Waterford vase. "He is too smart for that. Nevertheless, to put your mind at ease, we will contact the florist. Later. Perhaps tomorrow. Or the next day."

"Oh," said John, wrinkling his forehead and reading the florist's address on the back of the card. "Thank you, again, Mrs. Hudson!" he called after his departing landlady.

"Just remember, dear, not your housekeeper," she called from the stairs.

"Sherlock you didn't have to be so rude to her, did you?" asked John.

"I assume that the annoying phone caller got you up to speed?" said Sherlock, ignoring John's irrelevant question and pretending to examine the flowers again.

"Should you be talking in front of the cameras?" asked John mumbling into his fist, as he sat at the table glaring at the flowers now too.

"I know exactly where the cameras are, John, and I constantly ensure that my mouth cannot be clearly seen by any of them," said the consulting detective. "Anyway, lip-reading is highly overrated. Not nearly foolproof, even when practiced by experts, such as myself. So, do stop muttering into your hand; it's annoying."

John scowled; he was only doing what spies did in the flicks. Then he looked to the flowers again. "Well, I wonder just how much Moriarty knows? I guess the stupid black rose is supposed to be a warning."

"Obviously," said the detective dismissively. "John, think, think! Use that tiny brain of yours."

John's scowl deepened, forming deep crevices across his forehead. He had been trying to use his tiny brain all along, hadn't he?

Sherlock turned to throw himself onto the glass littered settee, but stopped himself just in time and dropped into his chair with a huff.

"Well, maybe he suspects that I'm helping the police or even Mycroft?" said John, speaking into his hand, even if Sherlock thought it was annoying

"Oh John, what must it be like, to have such a small mind? Is it relaxing? Is it restful? At least try to use what grey matter you do have. If Moriarty thought that you had betrayed him, he'd send an assassin. But no, he sent you roses, John, which, everyone knows, symbolize romance," said the consulting detective, implying that John knew nothing about romance. "The red roses mean that he still plans to seduce you, the black rose indicates that he knows that our relationship is not strictly platonic. The black rose is a warning as much to me as it is to you. Together, the bouquet means that he accepts the challenge. The game is on."

"What game?" sputtered the blond, who felt he knew a damned sight more about romance than a certain consulting dick.

"Your suitors, John," said the detective enigmatically, his hands steepled in front of his lips.

"That hardly answers the question, Sherlock," said John with a little growl. "And I wish you'd stop saying that I have suitors. I'm a grown man, a man in my thirties, a soldier for fuck's sake…"

"Needless to say, I accept the challenge," said the brunet, responding to himself instead of his flatmate.

John huffed loudly.

"I see now that it was a waste of time trying to hide our relationship from Moriarty," continued the consulting detective. "No doubt, he has seen how you stare at me. Your attraction to me, while flattering, is rather blatant, John," said the detective sternly.

"So now it's all my fault," muttered John frowning. He was oblivious to the blatantly affectionate look he now received from the taller man. John was quite adorable when he sulked.

"No, John, I do not blame you," said Sherlock, with an indulgent smile at his disgruntled doctor, "Unlike me, you are a terrible actor."

"Bloody hell, this means you're at risk!" said John suddenly, jumping first to conclusions and then to his feet. "I should leave, before he comes after you."

"I'd like to see him try!" snapped Sherlock fiercely. "Sit down, John!"

John dropped back into his chair, and then checked to see if his combat knife was in place, just in case.

"I am not in any danger," continued the younger man, "If he wanted to hurt me, he would have sent that sniper, Moran, around. No, he wants to play a game, and you are the prize."

The former army doctor grimaced, as if he had bit into a lemon. He did not fancy himself as a modern-day damsel in distress.

"No don't let it bother you, John. Lovely as you are, especially in silk, you are no damsel in distress," said Sherlock.

Once again John was left astonished and speechless at Sherlock's seeming ability to read minds. And since when was he lovely, whether in silk or not? John blushed and pursed his lips, receiving another affectionate smile from the unfeeling sociopath.

Unable to use the settee, Sherlock perched on his chair with his knees pressed against his chest, rather like an ungainly stork. His hands assumed the thinking position, as he ran through all of the possible responses and resulting outcomes.

"I still say it's too dangerous, not just for you but for Mrs. Hudson too," said John. He stubbornly waited for a response, "I said, it's still too dangerous, Sherlock!"

"This flat is monitored," emphasized the detective, drawn out of his reverie by John's face glowering at him, just inches away from his own face. "There are armed security teams within 137 seconds of this address. It is as safe as can be managed. Now I suspect that your suitor..."

"Would you stop calling him that! He is not my suitor. I am not Elizabeth Bennett for God's sake!" snapped the former soldier.

"Fine. Who is Elizabeth Bennett? Never mind, no doubt she is another one of your pointless references to popular culture. From Doctor Whomever, I suppose," said Sherlock, cutting off the outraged doctor before he could protest. "Now your suitor, will no doubt make his move in about two days."

"How d'you figure that?" asked John, intrigued and outraged at the same time.

"You have a cold, John. And here, I thought you were a doctor?" said the detective with a superior smile. "Now assuming that you do not succumb to pneumonia, which is by no means certain, you should only be contagious for one to two more days. Given his extreme aversion to your illness yesterday, he will wait until he is confident that you will not contaminate him with virus. Ergo, minimum time to his next move, two days."

"That's really quite brilliant," said John, as the detective glanced sideways, smirking at his blond, jumper-wearing flatmate.

"In the meantime," Sherlock's voice deepened to a growl, and his face took on an evil, narrow-eyed cast, "since the police and others have bungled the raid on Moriarty's former lair, we must now rely on the more dangerous plan that uses you to attract him."

"You mean bait; we're relying on me as the bait," clarified John.

"Problem?"

"No, oh no. I am quite used to luring in psychopathic killers who want to get me alone and have their way with me." John paused, and vertical worry lines re-formed just above his nose. Maybe John was taking on the role of the damsel in distress. It was distinctly disturbing.

"Right. Anyway. Of course, there's a problem," muttered John. "In fact, there're lots of problems. Unfortunately, I don't have any better ideas. Still, I'd feel better if I had a decent weapon. Now, if I had my gun..."

"Oh! I have something better, John. This will undoubtedly give us the advantage," said Sherlock, springing out of his chair. "Come with me. I have something very special to show you."

Sherlock smiled disarmingly, striding through the lemon-scented kitchen, and the trusting blond followed.

"Are you out of your bloody mind!" yelled John, who had backed into the bathroom sink. "First, I have no intention of being tagged like some damned pet! Second, I have no intention of letting you near me with that damn scalpel or that bloody damned horse syringe. And thirdly, just no! No bloody way. No."

The doctor tried in vain to back up even more and desperately wished that he had left the flat and searched for that pub.

"We've been all through this, John. Moriarty is coming for you. He'll only be more determined now that he sees me as a potential rival! But he is clever and will be difficult to catch. The raid on his former headquarters will have made him suspicious, so he'll be even more cautious," said the detective, reasonably.

John continued on, as if Sherlock hadn't even spoken, "Fourthly, why is it always my fault. Why am I always the one with the obvious crush? Maybe he knows how you feel about me!" said John.

"John, you know I don't do feelings. And even if I did, I would disguise them perfectly," chided the consulting detective. "Now, EMIT will be able to track you in real-time anywhere in London."

"EMIT," spat John scornfully. "That's a stupid name. What good will it do anyway, even if it works which it probably doesn't?" finished John, his eyes fixed on the giant syringe. It belonged in a veterinary office and not in his bathroom. It sure as hell didn't belong anywhere near John Watson.

"John, I don't know how he'll manage it, but Moriarty will take you again. It will obviously be to our advantage, if we can track you. It's likely the only way to find him and the only way to ensure that you remain safe," said the detective forging ahead. "We shall arrange it so that he takes you at a time of our choosing; we can set it up so that it looks like you are vulnerable…perhaps while you are shopping for milk. Did you know that we are out of milk?" The blond blinked at that. "Regardless, when he does take you, I have to be able to track you. Then, as soon as he kidnaps you, I can follow the GPS…"

"And do what? Deduce him to death?" protested John. "He's a demon and a killer. Hell, he might even be a vampire. His right hand man is a soldier and the best damn marksman that I ever met and, and…and..."

Sherlock was pouting, his enormous eyes looked green in the sickly yellow light from the old overhead fixture. John wavered as he eyed the lower lip that stuck out temptingly.

Sherlock could see his little blond soldier wavering. John was clearly very susceptible to The Pout.

"John, don't you trust me?" asked Sherlock sadly. He allowed his lower lip to tremble, just a bit.

John thought that over, as he stared at the trembling lip, and perhaps surprisingly, the answer was yes. For no good reason, he trusted Sherlock Holmes, entirely. John's shoulders sagged. "Of course I do, but that's not the point."

Sherlock ruthlessly pressed home his advantage. "Of course it is. John, I would never let anything happen to you. I said I don't do feelings, but as you noted earlier, that is not strictly true. Surely you know how that I have feelings…about you." The long, elegant fingers of his empty hand caressed John's square jaw.

"Fourthly, Sherlock, it's too dangerous for you," began John sternly, but still leaning into the taller man's touch.

"Fifthly, John. You were on point number fiv…"

"Dammit and bloody hell, Sherlock! I don't care if it's fifth or..or…whatever! If I'm so bloody obvious, and you and everyone know how I feel, then you know I'm not going to allow you to expose yourself to danger!"

"Mycroft!" snarled Sherlock. "That is Mycroft talking! I will not tolerate his interference!"

"No. Don't change the subject Sherlock," said John . 'It's too dangerous for you to go it alone. Even if I did let you tag me with that stupid EMIT, you cannot come after me alone, and that's that!" The former captain tried to squeeze past the consulting barrier.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and also blocked the soldier's exit. John Watson was proving to be unusually stubborn. Perhaps sex would soften up his little soldier? John glared from under his lowered brows. Those blue eyes blazed with fierce determination.

No, sadly, sex might not be a good option just now, decided the detective. But he needed to be able to track the little blond at all times. He sucked his lip in and then sighed. He was going to have to compromise.

Sherlock hated compromise; especially if it also meant collaboration with incompetent Yarders and Mycroft's mindless minions. And that is what it meant. Sherlock's normally full lips flattened with dramatic distaste.

Fine, he'd have to compromise. John Watson was worth it.

"John, I never said that I was going to 'go it alone' to use your vernacular," reassured the taller man. He pushed the little blond back against the sink. "I could coördinate with Lestrade and possibly even with my brother. They will provide back up as necessary, hmm?"

John was trapped, well and truly trapped. "It has to be someone who will cover you like I would-at a moment's notice. Someone I can trust, like…Well, I suppose Lestrade would do, or maybe Donovan."

"Donovan? She hates me!" spat the tall brunet.

"She's a professional. She doesn't have to like you to do her job," insisted John who was now half into the sink. "Okay. Okay. Let's just let Lestrade in on this, right? And then he'll decide who's doing backup, right?"

"Fine!" The tall detective loomed over his prey.

"In fact, I have to arrange the coverage with Lestrade, personally," demanded John, his voice heading back into the higher registers. "I have to make sure that he's on board with all of this."

"Yes. Yes. I accede to your demands, John," said the brunet, who held the huge syringe like a dagger. "Now, if you are finished issuing pointless directives?"

John nodded, gritting his teeth. This shouldn't be too bad. It had just been the principle of the thing. After all, he'd been bitten by a snake before and once by a camel, and that hurt like a motherf…

"John! Pay attention," said the brunet interrupting John's internal pep talk. "I said, take your tops off. I shall place EMIT under your upper left arm. That way if your arm is a bit sore afterwards, anyone, meaning Moriarty, of course, will think it is due to your old shoulder injury."

The former army officer slowly removed his borrowed jumper and his dress shirt. He normally wasn't squeamish, but that was a very, large bore needle. And that EMITTER thing was huge; there was no way it would fit comfortably under John's skin.

John felt a head rush and abruptly sat on the toilet seat (Lucky the lid's closed, thought John.)

The consulting torture master cleaned John's skin with rubbing alcohol. Good. thought John, that will kill germs and make the procedure even more painful.

Then John decided to man up. He concentrated on his breathing exercises. Breathe in, as the scalpel nicked his skin. Breath out, and the truly gigantic needle was inserted under his skin. Breathe in, probing. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, and digging Breathe in and out and in and in and in and…

John did not technically pass out, though it was a very near thing. He found his damp forehead pressed up against the hip of a lean consulting detective who was still probing and pushing the nasty piece of work under some very sensitive skin. The sound of blood rushing in his ears deafened the ex-soldier to anything that his sadistic bastard of a boyfriend might have said. John closed his eyes and endured. Every once in a while, John even remembered to breathe…

A strong hand gripped his right shoulder; another hand was pressing bloodied gauze against his left arm and wide, concerned turquoise eyes blinked at him, just inches from his face.

John had not passed out. He knew this, because he was still upright It was just a momentary lapse. His hearing was still on the fritz though. The blue-green eyes drew back and a strong hand forced John's head down between his knees.

"…and once the bleeding stops…whooshing sound…surprising amount of blood, really…whoosh, whoosh…" it was like a bad connection, thought John. "I'd like to check the telemetry, but only if you…whoosh, whoosh…then you could attempt…whoosh…perhaps not. It can wait."

The whooshing sound gradually decreased, and John was aware of a warm arm loosely caged around him. John opened his eyes to see polished shoes and crouching knees and the base of the loo. He noticed a smudge, which he'd missed while cleaning yesterday. He also noticed a good bit of blood had dripped all over his clean floor. Fortunately, the tiles would be easy to clean, unlike carpeting. John sighed; he had no doubt that he'd be the one cleaning up the mess.

The ex-soldier also noticed that his shoulder and back were not very comfortable. However, a broad hand pressed him back down as soon as John tried to sit up.

"Um, Sherlock. I want to get up now," said John. His voice was perhaps a bit breathy, but at least it was not high-pitched. Well, not very. That was a point for team Watson, surely.

"John," said the baritone. The cruel, syringe-wielding detective planted a soft kiss on the back of John's neck.

The former army soldier sat up slowly, although Sherlock kept an arm protectively around his flatmate, while maintaining pressure on the still oozing wound.

The turquoise eyes were back in front of John's face, assessing him. A faint smile graced Sherlock's full lips. "Well, hello, John. I must say I've seen more color in many of the cadavers I have known." He placed a light kiss on John's clammy forehead.

John was too tired to growl, but he thought about it.

After the surprising amount of bleeding ceased and a pressure dressing was applied, the unsentimental sociopath washed his boyfriends face, neck and arm with a nice warm flanel. Once he dressed the little blond, who roused himself enough to growl in an endearing manner, the detective, who didn't do emotions, insisted on half-carrying his boyfriend back to the sitting room. He then presented his still pallid partner with a truly ghastly cup of tea, some burned toast and plenty of jam to aid in John's recovery.

A/N I am grateful to all who have heeded the DO NOT DRINK AND READ FANFIC rule. (Sam, Quiet Time, I do mean you). I was especially gratified that Sherlockian Goddess and anyrei1 both chose to heed the Green Ladder warning as well. Safety First!

Happy dancing is however, fully approved, so dance away DrGregor (on the floor and not the ladder, obviously).

John and Sherlock are a bit concerned because some of you have referred to them as adorable, ridiculous and sweet, when really they are stereotypically impassive, emotionally repressed, British men. (Just thought you'd want to know how the boys felt EJ, Shannon and dana-san). Obviously, you are right because the boys are, in fact, adorable, ridiculous and sweet.

Oops, they don't like being referred to as boys either. My bad.

However, Sherlock did like that 102602 said that living with him would not be dull. While, John fully agrees with 8of9 that it was time to stand up the great detective (said detective is rolling his eyes). John will try to stand up to him some more in later chapters, but Sherlock is a tough nut to crack and Rome wasn't built in a day…sorry, I just love pointless platitudes.

Incidentally, Erenem, I quite agree. Sherlock's first duty, upon his return from the LONG ABSENCE. should be to ensure the removal of John's mustache, by whatever means necessary. Sherlock, of course, fully agrees with this policy.

Many, many thanks to readers, followers and favoritors. (I know, I know-favoritors is NOT a real word. But it should be.)

BTW-I love reviews. I enjoy reading your comments, questions, con-crit, anything really (Well not anything. I don't relish name-calling slurs. I mean, I don't want any Anderson-like comments to lower the IQ of the entire fanfic site…but you know what I mean, right?)

So, send in some reviews, yeah?

My deepest thanks to everyone who has sent reviews, including those who reviewed Chapter 26: anyrei1, DrGregor, EJ 12212012, Shannon, dana-san, Erenem, 107602, TheSherlockianGoddess, 8of9, Quiet Time and SamuelE8688. You all rock. Thank you.

Disclaimer-I don't own Sherlock. Nope, no rights, not even any visitation rights, no nothing. Bummer.

Author's Rant-Please note, I will reference a Season 3 preview, which is a teaser but still could be seen as a spoiler. SO if you wish to avoid even the hint of spoilers, read no further. You have been warned.

Okay, so I just saw a new preview for Season 3. Mycroft was snide and lovely. But John was in bed with someone, Mary, I presume. ARGH! AND John had that ridiculous mustache in bed with him too. DOUBLE ARGH! Sherlock was unforgivably arrogant (Mycroft:It's been two years, John has got on with his life. Sherlock:What life? I've been away.) and is Sherlock with Molly now? And Molly looked smug about it!? NO! no, no. I mean I love Molly. I really do. But Sherlolly just isn't me. Just no. No. No. NO!

All my fanfic-ish fantasies will be crushed into the dirt and ground under Gatiss/Moffet's un-caring feet. They are dream smashers! Which, is much, much worse than a mug smasher; let me tell you! And will someone please remove that depressing lip growth on John's upper lip!

OKAY. Deep breaths. Less than 30 hours until I can see The Hobbit, The Desolation of Smaug. I'm fine. Still breathing. It's all good.

NO, it's NOT! You know what? I will just write more and more JOHNLOCK and live in my own little fantasy world where John and Sherlock end up together, forever. And I'll read lots and lots of JOHNLOCK fanfic from other people like me, who are too stubborn to give up their fanfic-ish fantasies. SO THERE! Okay. Rant over.

(ps I still love Gatiss and Moffet and will love Season 3. promise...but NOT that mustache!) :$

End Chapter 27