Lestrade had left John his number in case Sherlock found something important or if he needed help, but he didn't really seem to expect John would use it, and with good reason: it felt too much like spying.

As he made his way back up to the main street, strange things started happening: public phones rang whenever he walked past them. It could have been a coincidence if it hadn't been every single bloody phone he came across. John dug his own phone out of his pocket, checking that it was on. It was. If someone was so desperate to reach him, why didn't they just call him on his bloody phone? It's not like his phone number was a state secret- Wait a minute… Was this Sherlock's brother doing this? The British Government? Sherlock had warned him he might try to get to him. Was this his way of showing off? A demonstration of his power?

John snorted, put his phone back in his pocket and ignored the next ringing phones, smirking as he did so. It probably wasn't a smart move, pissing off the British Government, especially if the other Holmes brother was anything like Sherlock, but he'd be damned if he just bowed to his almighty ringing power.

That's when he noticed the numerous CCTV cameras that swiveled around to follow his progress down the road, as well as a large black car dogging his steps. John rolled his eyes, debated whether to flip the bird at the cameras. How very inconspicuous. Sherlock's brother just wouldn't leave him alone until he met him, would he? So John walked over to the black car and knocked on the black tinted window. He'd expected to find a Sherlock look-alike but it was a pretty young woman who lowered the window instead.

"What do you want?" he asked her.

"You would know if you picked up a phone now and then, Dr Watson," she replied, never once stopping to type on her Blackberry after the first glance she had spared him, which annoyed John to no end. "Hop in."

"What if I don't want to?" John asked defiantly, crossing his arms as he glared down at her.

John got his answer when a bulky man in an impeccable suit stepped out of the front of the car and opened the other passenger door, his meaning quite clear: get in or I'll make you. John was half-tempted to make a scene, but he might as well get this over with so he could get back home. Apparently, Sherlock's brother always got what he wanted, one way or another.

Once in the car, John pointedly ignored the young woman and texted Sherlock.

On my way to meet your brother. Any advice?

John tried to see where they were heading. The car was moving fast and avoided all the red lights as if by magic, which made him chuckle. Being the British Government sure had its perks. The Blackberry woman shot him a questioning look but John ignored her and read the message he'd just received. It was Sherlock.

Tell him he could stand to lose a few pounds. He'll hate that.

John snorted. Sherlock got along with his brother as well as he did with Harry, apparently.

Any SERIOUS advice, then? Some that wouldn't get me locked up somewhere?

If he offers you money, take it.

John frowned. Why would Sherlock's brother offer him money? Unfortunately, the car was slowing down so John reluctantly put his phone away and climbed out. He was in a vast warehouse, clean but empty save for the sleek black car, a man leaning on an umbrella and a chair. As it turned out, Sherlock's brother looked nothing like him, except maybe for the eyes, just as sharp and calculating, taking in every little detail John's person had to offer.

"Mr Holmes, I suppose," John said and was glad to see the other man's smug smile slip the tiniest bit.

"Sherlock told you about me," he said, his face back under control, rigid and expressionless. "That's… unusual."

"He didn't say much," John lied. "You could have just phoned me, you know? On my phone. If you wanted to talk."

The man made a dismissive gesture, he looked very annoyed.

"What's your relationship with my brother? You seem to have forged a very unusual bond, very fast. He even went so far as to ask me to procure him military files, looking for yours, I suppose, and Sherlock loathes asking me for any favours."

John wondered if he knew about him having saved Sherlock's life three times. This Holmes had eyes all over London, probably ears too, and John hadn't thought at the time to be wary of CCTV cameras.

"We're flatmates, that's all." John lied again, surprised at how steady his voice was. He sounded convincing even to his own ears, but the other man narrowed his eyes at him, taking a couple of steps closer.

"I see you got over your psychosomatic limp, even the tremor in your hand. Yet, you haven't consulted your therapist for over a month, and you're still unemployed. Why is that, Dr Watson?"

"I'd say it's none of your business, Mr Holmes."

"It might be."

"No, I really don't think it is."

Sherlock's brother paused, studying John again.

"It's quite an extraordinary recovery in any case. Quite… uncanny. Unbelievable, some might say."

"Is that a threat?" John asked.

If Sherlock's brother was half as important as he seemed to be, he might very well ship him back off to Afghanistan, honourable discharge be damned. John gulped, panic setting in. He couldn't go back to Afghanistan, absolutely not. Not anywhere out of London, in fact. He needed to be right here by Sherlock's side, or he wouldn't be able to protect him. And he needed to protect him.

Holmes chuckled but it was a hollow sound, void of any real mirth.

"No, I don't want to upset my dear brother unnecessarily. But given your unemployment, I could offer you a significant amount of money on a regular basis if you decided to stay at 221B Baker Street."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information, of course. Nothing… personal. Nothing you'd feel uncomfortable sharing. Just tell me what he's up to, that sort of thing."

"Okay," John said flatly, amused when that simple word managed to trip up the other man's perfect composure once more.

"What? Just like that? I thought you'd put up more of a fight, be more… loyal."

"You're Sherlock's brother, you're just looking out for him, in your own twisted way. So we're on the same side, right? Besides, Sherlock told me to accept the money. I think he wants to buy a new fancy microscope with it."

Sherlock would want a detailed description of his brother's indignant reaction to that. It seemed he knew exactly which buttons to push to get a rise out of him. John was dismissed at that point, The elder Holmes grudgingly thanking him and the Blackberry woman calling him back to the car to take him back to 221B Baker Street.

Your first payment has been wired. Don't renege on our deal. MH

John went to save the number in his contacts, wondering what the M stood for. Not a 'Mike' surely. Matthew? Mark? Martin? No all of those were way too plebeian for someone who wore a three piece suit, a fob watch and carried such a sturdy umbrella even when it wasn't raining, and, given Sherlock's own name, he should look for something a lot more outlandish and posh.

"Maxwell?" he asked the Blackberry woman, who for once, gave a small smile and shook her head. "Milton? Murdock? Montgomery? It has to be Montgomery." But each were met in the negative. "Morpheus?" John asked with a grin and finally got the woman to laugh, but shake her head nonetheless. "All right, I'll just ask Sherlock. Can I have your name at least. We'll probably be seeing each other again."

"Err… Anthea?" she offered.

"And is that your real name?" John asked, having picked up on the hesitation.

She shook her head and smiled again before returning to her Blackberry. Bunch of weirdos. John thought he would fit right in.

At 221B Baker Street, John found Sherlock in what he'd come to learn was one of his thinking poses. John had counted three of them so far: one lying down, one slouching and one standing, but his hands would always form a steeple at chest or chin level and his eyes be either closed or unfocused. However, Sherlock always quickly snapped out of it whenever John approached, even when he tried to be quiet and not disturb him.

"How did it go?" Sherlock asked.

"As well as could be expected. I'm spying on you, by the way, and I think we don't have to worry about the rent anymore."

"Good. You pissed him off, didn't you?"

"Difficult not to, he's a bit full of himself. What's his first name by the way? His assistant wouldn't say."

"Uhm? Mycroft," Sherlock replied dismissively, clearly bored with the subject, and he slapped on a third nicotine patch.

John made a face. Mycroft? That was awful. He must have been picked on as a kid with a name like that. John was thinking he'd rather have a ridiculously common name like his own, when he noticed a pink suitcase lying open on the coffee table.

"So you found it. Anything interesting?"

"No, except for the lack of a phone. That makes no sense, she worked in the media, had a string of lovers… she must have had a phone. The killer must have it, it's the only logical explanation. Can I borrow yours?"

"Sure," John said, tossing it over to him. "What's the matter with your own phone?"

"Nothing, but he might recognize my number. It's up on my website."

"Wait! You're texting a serial killer with my phone?" John exclaimed, horrified.

He'd gotten used to the unusual, but Sherlock still managed to surprise him from time to time.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked with that warm smile that lit up and transformed his whole face. He was having way too much fun at his expense, the git.

"Anyone would say yes."

"But not you," Sherlock replied, sending the text off with a flourish. Such a drama queen.

"Yeah, well, I'm the exception to a lot of things now, aren't I?"

Sherlock approached, invading his personal space and making John's breath hitch at the unexpected closeness. Sherlock was always so distant, aloof. Even with John, whom he had no reason to be wary of, so John had just accepted that was the way he was. John held his gaze and gulped when Sherlock winked and dropped his phone back in his hand before stepping back, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Well, nothing had, really.

"So we just wait for the killer to contact us?" he asked after a beat.

"No, we're going out. Dinner?"

John huffed.

"You know, sometimes I just can't follow your train of thought. But sure, dinner sounds good, I'm starving," John said snatching his coat up again. "Did you text Lestrade about the suitcase?"

"No. Should I?" he asked, already out the door.

"It's evidence, Sherlock. Of course, you should. It could get you in trouble."

"Urgh, tedious."

"Fine, I'll do it. I'd better ingratiate myself with the Detective Inspector anyways, just in case he does recognize me."

"Yes. What was that all about? And you being a doctor?" Sherlock asked, spinning around unexpectedly so John almost walked into him. "You seem to be withholding an awful lot of information from me. Anything else you'd care to share?"

John's heart was leaping out of his chest. They were too close, and at eye level, for a change. Jesus Christ! What was Sherlock doing to him?

"I don't have a brother," John offered apologetically.

"You must have! I can't be this wrong! I'm never wrong."

"So modest of you," John scoffed but Sherlock looked really troubled by his mistakes. "Harry is short for Harriet. She's my sister, though, so you were right, in a way. Anyone would have been mistaken."

"But I'm not anyone," he whined.

"No. No, you're really not," John said, before clearing his throat when they'd been staring at each other for far too long. He pushed past Sherlock, breathing heavily. You could have cut the air between them with a knife it was so thick with tension. What was going on? He couldn't be… No. John Hamish Watson was not attracted to Sherlock bloody Holmes. That could not happen. John had forsaken all and any romantic entanglements in order to protect Sherlock. And Sherlock would never be attracted to him, or anyone else for that matter. He'd mentioned something of the sort, it "not being his area", whatever that meant. So they were both, in a way, married to their work. Maybe he just needed a good wank to get his pent-up sexual frustration out of the way. It had been a while, but he had been rather busy lately. John snorted at the thought: too busy to wank.

In the cab, John sent a first text to Lestrade:

The pink case is at 221B Baker Street. Sherlock found it in a bin. -John

Then, because he was still too embarrassed to look at Sherlock, and felt like his face was flushing like a beacon, John texted Mycroft so as to not "renege" on their agreement, as he had put it.

Sherlock texted a serial killer.

Then, he snickered when he an idea took form and continued:

Sherlock is going out for dinner.

Sherlock is sitting in a cab.

Sherlock looks bored.

His phone finally chortled back.

All right, you made your point, John. Congratulations for being as immature as Sherlock.

John chuckled.

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked.

"Mycroft."

Sherlock's face radiated understanding.

"Ah, yes. It is rather fun to push his buttons, isn't it?"

John smiled. Everything was back to normal.

One hour later and they were back at Baker Street. John was still famished, and now he was exhausted after pursuing a cab by foot, without even having the chance to taste any of the delicious smelling food from the italian restaurant where they'd had that stake-out. And all of that for nothing.

"Back at last?" Lestrade asked when they entered their flat.

The DI had made himself comfortable in what had come to be 'Sherlock's' armchair. He thanked John for texting him about the suitcase and accepted his offer of tea before he started stroking Sherlock's ego to learn every detail of how he had found the missing pink suitcase. Lestrade sure knew how to play Sherlock when he put his mind to it, or Sherlock just didn't care and wanted to get it out of the way.

By the time John had fixed himself a sandwich and made it back to the living-room, Lestrade was alone and looking put out as he stared out of the window.

"Where'd he go?" John asked him, looking around for Sherlock. He wasn't usually so hard to spot.

"God only knows. It's not like he bothers to explain his brilliant deductions to lesser minds. He just had an epiphany, looked up something on his laptop and ran off in a cab, the git. He didn't even finish explaining about the suitcase."

John looked around, searching for his laptop. Why would Sherlock just leave without a word? It didn't make any sense. He tried calling and texting him but Sherlock ignored him, which was very unlike him. However, his laptop had been left open, a gps tracking device belonging to the victim displayed in the browser. John cursed. That idiot had just left, alone, to face a serial killer? What was the use of having a protector if you just ran off blindly into danger? Or did he just assume he was safe because John had not dreamed of his imminent death? But what if John was to prevent that death without dreaming of it? Had that idiot not even considered that possibility?

Without another word, John ran out of the flat with the laptop and his gun, ignoring Lestrade's dismayed shouts and all but getting run over by a cab to get it to stop.

.

Sherlock had almost died. Almost killed himself by swallowing that damn pill. Voluntarily! John wasn't sure he could forgive him and he told him over and over again what an idiot he was. If John hadn't arrived in time to shoot the cabbie… John shuddered at the mere thought and called Sherlock an idiot again, hitting him in the chest to vent his frustration, although the tacky orange shock blanket absorbed most of the blow.

John stormed off, leaving Sherlock behind in the ambulance, only to run straight into Mycroft Holmes.

"Trouble in paradise?" Mycroft asked.

"Your brother's an idiot," John snarled, brushing past him.

"Don't I know it? Lucky you were there to save the day."

John froze, his whole body going rigid. He refused to turn around and face the other Holmes or he would read the truth on his face. How did Mycroft know? No one should know he had shot the cabbie. It had been a difficult shot, near impossible with a simple handgun, and John had been well hidden in the shadows of the unoccupied building.

"So I was right? Well, you're just full of surprises, Dr Watson."

John decided the best course of action was just to ignore him and go on his merry way. Mycroft had no proof. Unless he frisked him and tested his hands for powder residue right there and then, he had no proof. He'd just taken a shot in the dark, so to speak, or processed by elimination as to the most likely suspect and John was it. So John stormed off into the night, leaving the Holmes brothers behind and wondering how much more complicated his life would become.

He hadn't made it far into the main street, trying, and failing, to hail down a cab when a long sleek black car slowed down beside him. If this was Mycroft bloody Holmes again, John was going to punch that sickening, sugary smile right off his smug face. Wishful thinking, of course. John doubted he could get away with punching the British Government and Mycroft struck him as the prickly sort.

He decided his best course of action was just to ignore him, like he had with the blasted ringing phones parade but the car stopped ahead of him and a burly, bald man in black military fatigues stepped out, leaving the door open and blocking his way. He didn't look friendly, to say the least, so John stopped in his tracks. Mycroft wouldn't actually hurt him, would he? Unfortunately, he didn't know him all that well, but the one meeting he'd had with the man and the way Sherlock talked about him did nothing to reassure him. And this man - bodyguard, henchman, agent - whatever the hell he was, did not look like he wanted to play nice. He had that bored demeanour he'd seen often enough amongst soldiers, like he could break your arm without a second thought, but his eyes had that predatory glint that meant he would enjoy hearing you scream as he did so. Strong, self-confident and sadistic. It was usually a very bad combination, and John wasn't all that sure he was one of Mycroft's men. The elder Holmes was a bit more subtle. Besides, why wouldn't he sent Anthea, like he did last time.

Dodge. Tackle. Kick. Run. Take your gun out.

His fight or flight instinct was kicking in and John struggled to keep it under control. He had to be smart about this. John glanced around for an escape. His best chance was going back the way he'd come, the path was still clear, Sherlock and Lestrade weren't far, but that meant turning his back on this guy. An idea John was not comfortable with. He took a step backwards and was promptly flattened against the car. A few passersby looked on curiously while John sputtered indignantly and tried to fight back, but as he expected, he was overpowered by the man's sheer mass.

He was spun around again, the bald man showing him his phone and gun with a teasing grin, as if daring him to try and get them back. Pointless. John just glared back, still looking for a way to escape when he heard his name being shouted down the street.

Sherlock!

John used the other man's temporary distraction to hit his hands so he'd fumble to catch both his phone and the loaded gun, then he ducked under his other arm and sprinted towards Sherlock. Three steps. That's all he managed to take before he was tripped up, picked up like a sack of potatoes and thrown in the back of the car before it sped away in a screech of tires. John hadn't even had time to call for Sherlock, he hadn't even had the chance to see him.

He landed face first on the carpeted floor of the car and had no time to get his bearings or lash out at his kidnappers that a knee was pressed heavily to his spine, right between his shoulder blades, and his hands pulled back. Bastards. John couldn't even see who his kidnappers were in this position All he knew was that one wore expensive leather shoes and the other heavy reinforced boots. That might tell Sherlock a whole lot about them but it only informed John that one was a rich bastard with good taste in shoes.

"Oh! You should see his face, Johnny boy! It's faaaabulous!" the man who wasn't atop him singsonged.

Oh, great. So now John knew that this was about Sherlock, no real surprise there, and that his kidnapper sounded completely loopy. He felt his chances of survival had just plummeted into the negatives and he tried pushing the second man off of him.

"Poor Sherlock. So pissed off. And so desperate! He must really like you. Oh, this could be good. Better than what I'd planned." John heard him clapping his hands excitedly.

Completely off his rocker. He had to get out of here.

"Be a dear and blindfold our good doctor," the madman added.

To his credit, the other man wasn't rough about it, so John didn't fight it.

Pick your battles, Watson. My hands and legs are still free.

"And tie his hands. It looks like our guest is getting a little twitchy. We wouldn't want him to try anything stupid. What's the matter, Doc? You look a little angry."

"Damn right I am!" John growled, wincing when his bad shoulder was pulled back and his hands were tied tightly behind him. Plastic zip tie, John guessed, annoyed. They had no give. These guys knew what they were doing. He still hoped they'd leave his legs untied. If he had his legs free, he could still run, he still had hope. "Who the hell are you? What do you want?"

"Nuh, uh, uhhh," the madman tutted, wagging his finger, while John was abruptly pulled up and thrown onto the car seat next to him and he started whispering into his ear, making John shiver because it was such a creepy thing to do. "I caught you, so I get to ask the questions. If you want your answers, Johnny boy, you'll have to catch me. And wouldn't that be delicious," he finished, licking the side of John's face.

John recoiled, trying to scuttle away from the madman, but blindfolded in such a cramped space, there was no hope for even something as basic as personal space.

"You're mad. There's no point even talking to you," John muttered, trying to wipe his cheek on his shoulder..

"Maybe... Maybe noooot," the madman singsonged again. "But you, Johnny boy, have been a bad bad boy. So answer my questions and I might not punish you too severely. Why did you kill my cabbie?"

John scoffed, but was in truth rather worried that the madman claimed the cabbie as his own. Did that mean he had set the serial suicide-murderer on Sherlock?

"You expect me to be sorry?" John groused.

He wouldn't be giving this man any information if he could help it. Not if it could be used against Sherlock who was clearly his real target.

"HE WAS NOT YOURS TO PLAY WITH!" the madman suddenly shouted making John jump in his seat and the zip ties dig deeper into the soft flesh of his wrists at the sudden movement. He had probably cut them open judging by the wetness he could feel sliding down his wrists and into his hands.

John kept himself as far back in the seat as he could. He knew it wouldn't keep him much safer but he felt better for trying. If only he could see, maybe he'd have an idea of what his kidnappers were planning. Their intentions, their destination… anything! John didn't like feeling helpless, he was a soldier, a man of action.

"I don't care. He was going to kill Sherlock," John muttered, unsure how the madman would respond to defiance and steeling himself for a blow, at the very least, but all he got was another mad cackle.

"Sherlock was going to kill himself," the other corrected, his voice having resumed a semblance of normalcy. "Or not. What do you think, Johnny boy? Is dear old Sherly clever enough to have picked the right pill? Is he?"

John wanted to say that of course he was. Sherlock was a genius, by far the most intelligent man he'd ever met, but John had intervened anyway, maybe for nothing, too scared of losing his only friend and the person he was meant to protect. But he hadn't dreamed of Sherlock's death after all, so maybe… . John realized with dread that he'd over reacted by killing the cabbie, and by doing so, he was now at the mercy of this maniac.

So John only nodded. Yes, Sherlock had probably picked the right pill. The madman laughed.

"Oh, you've been a bad boy, Johnny. A very, very bad boy. Do you enjoy killing so much? Miss the war do you?"

John shook his head, and was promptly smacked on the side of his face. Damnit, that hurt even more when you didn't see it coming.

"Don't lie to yourself, Johnny boy. I know what a bad boy you've been, mucking up all my plans."

John stiffened. Surely he didn't mean him saving Sherlock those others times too. Nobody knew about those. Supposedly.

"Oh yes. I know. I've had my eye on Sherlock for a very long time, so I saw you, Johnny boy," the madman whispered so close to his skin, John could feel the warmth of his breath, and the faint smell of spearmint. He tried desperately to lean back even further. The door handle digging in the small of his back. If he twisted just a little, he should be able to reach it. Maybe the door was unlocked. Sometimes it was the little details that made a carefully laid out plan fall to pieces. He'd know, he'd seen it first hand in Afghanistan. Six dead because of a fucking overlooked detail.

John twisted in his seat, hoping the maniac would mistake it for fear, and managed to take hold of the handle. He'd need to twist forward to open it and then... They seemed to be driving pretty fast by the sound of it. This might be the end for him, either killed by a bad fall or run over by another car. But the alternative of staying with this lunatic didn't seem much better.

"The question is how you did it? But I have a feeling you won't be telling me without a little incentive. You're not very talkative, are you Johnny boy? I'm sooooo disappointed!"

This was it then, he had two choices right now: torture, or jumping out of a speeding car. John pulled the handle.