It was almost a week later the next time Sherlock bumped into the famous John Watson.

The detective's knees were hurting as he knelt on the cold concrete floor of the abandoned factory. The tight blindfold, made from his own scarf, was beginning to annoy the genius. Sherlock had both his arms held aloft next to his head of dark curls. Some of his front curls were matted with blood. His head had started bleeding when one of his captors punched Sherlock in the face. The man's ring had dug into the skin on the detective's forehead creating a large gash which was now bleeding profusely. The crimson liquid was beginning to trail down the tall man's sharp cheekbones when he heard a noise in the distance. He would have turned to see where the quite noise had come from but one of the thugs in the abandoned factory had the cold metal of a gun pressed hard against his ear. Sherlock's captors were too busy laughing and joking about catching the great Sherlock Holmes to have heard the noise.

The genius kept the 4 men who had him captive talking while he could hear the faint sound getting minutely louder. It sounded like gently foot fall on the concrete floor. It obviously wasn't Lestrade coming to save him because the incompetent fools at the Yard wouldn't be quiet. They would come barreling in, waving guns in the air while his captors shot them off one at a time like sitting ducks.

It wasn't Lestrade's team, even though it was their case, so who could it be. His rescuers steps were cautious and steady. He didn't know who this person was but he already felt slightly safer with them, seeing that they knew at least partly what to do which won't result in everyone being dead.

The sound of footsteps suddenly stopped and Sherlock panicked for a second. What if they've changed their mind? What if they are leaving? The genius tried to swallow around the lump in his throat. He hated to admit it but he didn't actually have a plan. He needed rescuing and preferably soon.

Suddenly, there was a louder noise which came from the direction of Sherlock's might-be rescuer. The sound echoed throughout the old building making his captors fall silent. In Sherlock's head he clapped sarcastically, well done, rescuer. Well done. He wished that he could see their faces but instead he had to make do with just their heavy accented voices.

"James! Go and see what the noise was." The Londoner ordered.

Sherlock was about to smirk when the gun was removed from his head and instead the heavy instrument hit him on the back of the head. Even though he couldn't see the room, due to the blindfold, he could feel it spinning. The genius began to fall. Just before the detective blacked out he heard the leader of the gang speaking, "Good. That's the detective sorted out for now. Quick, boys! This better not be the cops!"

A loud bang was the last thing he heard.

Sherlock cracked his eyes open. Thankfully, the scarf had been removed from around his eyes allowing him to properly see the abandoned factory for the first time. He almost huffed as a overweight paramedic with commitment issues blocked his view. The large man was crouching down to check the detective's head wound. It was then that the genius realised that he was lying on his side on the floor. A few seconds later, it suddenly came to him that he was lying in the recovery position. He cursed the unconsciousness for slowing his incredible intellect.

He blinked at the paramedic who hadn't yet noticed that Sherlock had regained consciousness. As the stranger moved to the side to look into his medical kit Sherlock took the opportunity to push himself up from the floor into a sitting position.

The paramedic started flapping his arms around and telling the detective to lay down. Unfortunately for the man, Sherlock was ignoring him. The genius cast his gaze over the large area which was mostly empty save for the group of police officers standing idle by the entrance. Sherlock felt like sighing at their idiocy and ridiculous amount of incompetence.

Unsteadily, he got to his feet ignoring the paramedic's protests. He stumbled across the large space and when he got closer he could see what the people were crowding around. All four of his captors were unconscious and handcuffed to an old pipe which looped out of the wall.

Lestrade was crouching in front of one of the men taking a note of the few injuries they had. It looked like a hard punch to the nose followed by a clean hit over the head, Sherlock noted quickly.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked Lestrade.

"Don't you remember?" Greg stood up to face the tall genius.

"Obviously not, Lestrade. If I did I wouldn't have asked." The consulting detective snapped.

"What happened when you blacked out?" The DI tried to stay patient with the detective.

"I blacked out when I blacked out! Think about how you word your questions,please!" Sarcasm dripped in his tone.

"What happen leading up to you falling unconscious?" Greg began to tap his foot. He wasn't in the mood for this. If Sherlock had just waited for back up he wouldn't have been held captive.

"They blindfolded me. Pushed a gun to my head then hit me with it causing me to fall unconscious." Sherlock spoke condescendingly.

The detective inspector nodded as he wrote notes in his little book. The genius stood in front of him waiting for an explanation.

"I'll tell you in a minute, Sherlock. Just give me a second to move them into a van." He gestured to the men slumped against the dark red brick.

The detective huffed but shuffled away from where the police officers were standing. He moved over to one of the large windows. The glass was dirty but Sherlock could see through a gap in the glass where it had been smashed and a shard had fallen out. Down on the street he could see a short man limping towards an awaiting taxi. As the man opened the door he looked up at the old building behind him with a fond smile on his face.

The man suddenly winced in pain as the smile opened the small cut on his lip making it bleed again. As he got into the cab he held a hand to his lip in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Sherlock had recognized the man immediately. John Watson.

The tall man watched as the taxi drove away from the abandoned factory. Sherlock jumped as Lestrade's voice reached him from across the room.

"Sherlock?" Greg called. "Oh for the love of God! Where has he got to?!" He muttered as his eyes searched the area for the tall man.

Sherlock didn't bother answering instead he just started walking back towards the DI.

"Oh! There you are." Greg said whilst looking up at the other detective.

Sherlock sighed. He was fed up with the niceties,"What happened? Why was John Watson here?"

"Umm, well. Basically, after you ran off we tried to follow you but you didn't tell us where you were going. We contacted your brother but he was in a meeting in Japan or something so couldn't help us. We then called John because he always seems to know where the trouble is." The detective inspector rubbed the back of his neck. "So he told us to come here. Once we had arrived he had them all unconscious and handcuffed to the wall."

The sociopath raised a sceptical eyebrow. Anyone would have problems disarming 4 large men let alone a invalid man. Greg noticed the detective's look of disbelief.

"I know it sounds unbelievable but there was nobody else here. We turned up and he was waiting outside the entrance with a bleeding lip. We didn't even think he had been inside yet. He told us that you were unconscious and he had left you in the recovery position up here. He's probably gone now. He was giving his statement to Donovan but said he was shooting off afterwards."

The annoying paramedic had approached Sherlock again and was trying to clean the wound on his head. The detective batted the obese man aside to continue his conversation with the DI.

"Where does he live?" The sociopath asked, planning a meeting in his head.

"I dunno." Lestrade answered plainly, shrugging. Sherlock frowned at the man. How didn't he know where this man lived? Greg saw the confusion on Sherlock's face. It was a look he rarely got to see. "Well, he keeps out of trouble so we haven't been called to his house or flat or whatever he lives in. I think he values his privacy. He hasn't told anyone on the force much about himself or where he lives. If we need him we have to call his mobile."

The genius frowned even more. So the Yard know nothing about this man yet trust him. They don't know his background, where he lives or anything. Also, he somehow knows we're the trouble is. Even with his homeless network Sherlock finds it hard to locate where the crimes are. How is it possible for a normal man to know where it would be?, Sherlock mused.

"Oi!" Greg's voiced pulled him from his ponderings. "And don't go snooping around! It's none of your business!"

Sherlock looked down at the DI. Of course he would obey his orders... Not