"Did you really get all that just from licking the doorframe?" John asked as he clambered out of the cab. He didn't trust cabbies enough to talk in front of them. Not anymore

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous, John. I also analyzed the mud and residues they'd left on the entrance mat. That added to the location Mrs Reed first sought them out, it was evident that this particular group operates around here. But we'll have to blunder around for a while until either Donovan or Dimmock find something, but we could get lucky. There aren't that many places where you can possibly keep kidnapped children. Those things are loud, right?"

John chuckled.

"Yes, Sherlock. Quite loud. You'd hate it. Shall we just walk around and keep an ear out for crying children then?"

Sherlock gave him that look that meant he was being particularly thick.

"There are exactly two abandoned factories, one bomb shelter, one abandoned construction site and a condemned underground parking lot in this area alone. I think those are our best bets for now. We'll check out if either of those show any sign of activity. And if there is a pond or deep puddles nearby."

John just nodded. He didn't dare ask about the pond. He didn't want to get that look again.

ooo

Surprisingly, it was Dimmock who got them on the right track. God knows how he did it so fast, but the young DI fished out the files of a group of childhood friends who'd first wreaked havoc on their neighbourhood: vandalism and petty theft mostly, things they could get away with under the guise of being turbulent children. Then, as they grew older, they started getting out of control, earning themselves sentence after sentence for violence, bar brawling, extortion, drugs and drug dealing. Nothing so noteworthy that they had gotten the attention of Scotland Yard, but they did fit Sherlock's requirements quite neatly. Unfortunately, this merry little band were known as The Rats.

"Charming," Sherlock commented, before they stared at each other and then at their feet, or rather at the manhole a couple of feet away.

"Surely not," John muttered, not relishing the thought of traipsing around the sewers at all.

"It's only logical," Sherlock replied while he wrote a text, his fingers gliding easily over the screen.

"Wait… did you just quote Star Trek to me?"

"What's Star Trek? It sounds stupid."

"Right, okay. We'll have to brush up on your pop culture when we get this case over with. Shall we then?" John asked, mock bowing towards the manhole as if he was inviting Sherlock to a fine restaurant.

"I'm not walking aimlessly around in the sewers. My dignity will never live it down, and neither will my coat. No, I'll ask my rats to sniff out those Rats."

"Try to be more cryptic why don't you, Sherlock?" John said fondly

Ten minutes later, John followed Sherlock down the street and wondered if they were now looking for a better sewer access, some rats or still looking for the children, when a figure appeared out of the gloomy shadows of the street. John squinted, but the figure was shrouded in a very large hoodie that hid its features completely. It could be anyone. It could be Moriarty for all he knew. It wasn't a chance encounter, that much, at least, was clear, because the figure headed straight for them even though they were standing right in the middle of the empty street instead of the pavement. John felt the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end and he stepped between the approaching figure and Sherlock without a second's hesitation, fingering his gun at the back of his waistband, until he felt Sherlock lean over him, his body flush against his and his lips brushing his ear.

"Your protectiveness is... enticing, John, but please don't shoot him. I do believe that is our guide," he murmured.

The figure was very close now and flipped off his hoodie, revealing a youngish but gaunt face. The ravages of drugs and hard living etched in every line of the stranger's face. He smiled at Sherlock, revealing his crooked teeth, before looking John up and down. John had the uncanny feeling he was reading every little detail on him like Sherlock did, his large eyes darting left and right, up and down, seeming to pick up and catalogue every one of his bruises and scrapes, his frayed coat, the scuffs and mud on his shoes. John scowled at the young man and he finally turned his gaze away.

"Hey boss, Rosie send me over, said you were looking for them big rats?" he asked, straight to the point.

"Wiggins," Sherlock replied with the barest hint of affection he'd only heard him direct at Mrs Hudson before. "Did you lose your phone, again?"

"I was mugged," Wiggins said, his hands gesturing wildly. "Honest."

Sherlock snorted and that was the end of what Sherlock would consider small talk, despite the rather dire topic. He then started interrogating the boy about the gang known as the Rats.

"Bunch of bloody lunatics if you ask me. They'd cut yer throat as soon as look at ye. Which is good news for you, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded as if that made perfect sense, but it really didn't. How could it be good that the people they were after were violent and ruthless thugs with a fondness for knives? Especially since they had children at their mercy. Sherlock gave him that look again and it was really starting to grate on his nerves.

"It means my homeless network always know exactly where they are so they can stay clear of them and avoid trouble," Sherlock explained, rather patiently than condescendingly, but still, John was rather irked that everything had to be explained to him, but he also knew that Sherlock wouldn't have bothered explaining or would have been much harsher if John had been one of Scotland Yard's inspectors, so he just nodded his understanding.

It did make sense, John had to admit, and more importantly, it meant they could find the children, and quickly, before the Rats realized they were onto them and decided to get rid of the 'evidence'.

"Let's go then," John said

Wiggins took them through passages and shortcuts you wouldn't even have guessed existed next to the well lit streets nearby. John was just glad Sherlock hadn't decided to get himself murdered in one of these places during one of his previous Dreams or he would never have found him… That was just too terrible to contemplate and he pushed the thought aside. There were more important things to consider now. Finally, Wiggins made them stop at the corner of a building and peeked around.

"'kay, this is the place. They've been there for longer than usual and someone's always makin' the rounds. Rosie's pretty pissed 'cause she left somethin' there last time around and can't get it back. She'll owe you if you flush'em out," Wiggins said pointing at a drab ground floor brick construction that might have been a home or a shop once but had been transformed into a nightclub at some time in the past, it's few windows walled in and a large washed-out sign indicating they had arrived at 'The Music Box'.

"Do we call Lestrade for back-up?" John asked. "I don't see how we can get into that place without getting caught."

"No," Sherlock answered. "Not until we know the children are there and are out of harm's way. We'll just end up with a hostage situation if the police shows up now, if even that."

He stared at the building for a while, using the fire escape of the building they were hiding behind to have a better view of the Music Box, and came back down with a grin that was not reassuring at all.

"We'll need a distraction," he declared. "Wiggins, can you lit a fire under the ventilation vent over on that side in fifteen minutes?"

"Sure," Wiggins replied with a shrug.

"Good, take cover after that, but hang around, if we're not back out after thirty minutes, call-" Sherlock interrupted himself to order John to give his phone to the homeless boy, which he did very, very reluctantly. "Call Lestrade. His number is in the contacts. Thirty minutes after you lit that fire. Got it?"

Wiggins nodded.

"Don't get mugged." John groused, following Sherlock out of their hiding place. "I happen to like that phone."

"Sure, chief," Wiggins said, but his wink did not reassure him.

Sherlock made them take a wide berth around the Music Box until they were at the back of it. He used a dumpster pushed against the wall to heave himself onto the roof and disappeared from view, before his head popped back over the edge.

"What are you waiting for, John?"

"Well, you may have noticed I'm just a tad bit shorter than you," John growled from atop the dumpster he had just managed to climb onto using a pile of old tires abandoned next to it to help him up.

But from there he was truly stuck. Unlike Sherlock with his unnaturally long legs and arms, he couldn't reach the ledge of the flat roof.

"Oh, I noticed," Sherlock replied with an unreadable face and extended a hand down to help boost John up the wall and onto the roof where he toppled atop Sherlock, straddling him.

John felt his heart beat faster as he looked down at Sherlock, his curls fanned out around him and his face flushed. All right, neither the right time nor the right place. John hurriedly picked himself up and looked around, finding a trap door set in the middle of the roof, obviously the point of entry Sherlock had found.

"Do you think they know about this?" John asked, worriedly.

If they were discovered too soon, the children would still be in danger but Sherlock didn't seem overly concerned.

"Let's find out, shall we?" he replied, pulling the thing open and peering in.

It was dark, they'd be groping their way around with no idea of the building's layout, of where the children were kept, and of how many or even where their captors were. Great. Just the worst case scenario, right? John pushed Sherlock back when it looked like he was going to just jump down the proverbial rabbit hole and pulled his gun out.

"You're going to have to give me a hand down anyway," John explained to stave off any protests and smirked when Sherlock found nothing to reply to that.

While Sherlock lowered him down the hole, John reflected he should always follow Sherlock around with a stepladder and some rope. The list would no doubt grow longer the more time he spent running after Sherlock and he added Mary Poppins' magical bag at the very top of his list. The room they landed in was just some kind of janitor's cupboard with empty shelves and a forlorn broom missing half its shaft. No wonder it had seemed so dark, it had probably not been used in years.

Sherlock appeared next to him in a woosh of air and clothes. The git had just jumped through the hole after all. He had absolutely no concept of self preservation. The corridor on the other side of their cupboard was empty but Sherlock made them wait until they heard a commotion: men running and shouting.

"Wiggins," Sherlock smirked and slipped out.

At least, they now knew where everyone was, minus the children, and approximately where they had been . Given they'd probably keep their hostages nearby, they quickly narrowed down the part of the building they'd need to search and diligently opened door after door until they arrived in a vast room where they got stuck behind some kind of booth while two men walked by.

"Just some kids setting fire to the trashcan," one said.

"Yeah and if I find 'em, I'll wring their scrawny little neck," the other said. "Go wake the brats, it's time for the call."

John looked at Sherlock and they smiled. They'd gotten the right place, the kids were still okay and these morons suspected nothing. John checked his watch. Twenty minutes until Wiggins called Lestrade. That gave them half an hour before the police showed up. The problem was that they still didn't know how many Rats there were. Two at least, probably a third, either taking care of the fire or doing his rounds. But he'd bet there were at least four, minimum.

The man giving orders walked to a back room while the first walked towards their booth and John held his breath, folding himself further into the small place, but the thug went by without a second glance and opened the door to the lady's bathroom. John and Sherlock exchanged a glance, not believing their luck and they followed suit, sticking to the shadows as much as possible while they crept silently towards the swinging door. They'd barred it with an old plank lying against the wall. John could have kicked himself free from there but not two young children.

"How do you want to do this?" John asked, because even if the thug was alone in there, he still had two kids with him and although hadn't seen a gun, he would most likely have a knife on him.

"Bluff?" Sherlock replied and pushed the door open.

They didn't have much time to make elaborate plans anyway. The man glanced around at the sound of the door opening and must have been expecting one of his friends because his expression turned from one of boredom to panicked surprise in the blink of an eye. He scrambled away to put his back to the wall, the two children behind him. They looked so dirty and tired, the youngest even looked sickly and was still sleeping despite the noise.

"Police," Sherlock drawled flashing a badge he knew to be Lestrade's while John pointed his gun at the man. "Move away from the children and put your hands in the air. You're surrounded."

John could easily shoot him, he was just a few feet away, but that was something he'd rather avoid doing in front of children, and he could see Sherlock was slowly but inexorably making his way closer to the man without giving any evidence that he was doing so.

The thug looked behind them, but he still hadn't raised his hands. He clearly didn't believe them and John saw his muscles tense, he was about to do something stupid. But before anyone could really act, the oldest boy kicked his captor in the crotch and he crumpled to the floor, whimpering and holding his privates with both hands. John immediately whacked him behind the head with the butt of his pistol, making sure the man was out like a light, then kneeled in front of the boy so he wouldn't look too scary.

"You're… Ned, right?" The boy nodded. "Your mom sent us." Blatant lie. "Are you okay?" Another nod.

"Rob is sick," Ned finally said, pointing at his little brother with a trembling finger. "He threw up and the bad men got mad."

Rob had a slight fever, maybe something he ate. Food poisoning wouldn't be surprising given the dump they'd been dragged to. John checked his watch: twenty minutes before the police showed up. He scooped Rob up in his arms. He made a grimace at his limp and clammy body and wished they could get him out sooner. He turned to see Sherlock taking Ned's hand, leading their group to the door and peering out. They didn't have much choice of an escape but back through the way they'd come and they managed to get back to the janitor's cupboard just in time: there were new shouts from behind them meaning they knew the children were missing.

Twelve minutes. It seemed much too long.

"How are we going to get back up there?" John asked, darting nervous glances at the door, the flimsy piece of wood the only protection against the gang of thugs. They might not think to look for them in the rather small space, but they'd get to it eventually.

"If we can get you up first, I can then hand you the children and you can pull them back up," Sherlock started and held up a hand when John was about to protest. "We get the children to safety first, Lestrade will come in time for me."

John scowled. He really hated that plan.

But you didn't dream of him dying here, so he'll be okay. Sherlock will be okay.

He kept repeating himself that as he climbed over Sherlock's body -not the way he'd imagined doing this- and heaved himself out through the hole. He was just glad he was still rather in good shape since his return to civilian life. Only his injuries were making him slow but adrenaline was dulling the pain rather efficiently.

"Okay, Ned first," John said.

He wanted to see how difficult it was going to be before he tried it with an unconscious kid. But he'd worried over nothing. The boy was ridiculously light and easy to pull up to the roof. Rob was trickier since he was so limp but still relatively easy. Sherlock on the other hand… than much strain on his bad shoulder… not to mention his still healing ribs...

Five minutes

"I don't know if I'll manage to pull you up, Sherlock," he admitted, biting his lip, as he extended his hand down. And then the door to the janitor's cupboard was kicked open.

John couldn't make out what was happening but he could hear the scuffle and imagined only too well what was going on down in the darkness below. He looked back at the children, Ned cradling his baby brother in his arms.

"Stay there, don't move from the roof. The police will be there in five minutes, you can wave at them when you see them."

And then he jumped down the rabbit hole. Alice never mentioned the landing hurt like a bitch, but she probably didn't get punched for her trouble either. John stumbled back, he hurt everywhere and his ribs were making breathing difficult.

Well, that had been a stupid decision.

He tried to make out where his attacker and Sherlock were. He was not risking a stray bullet in these conditions.

He'll be okay, no dream, he'll be okay.

It might even go through the roof of this dingy place and hit one of the kids. No gun, not now. But his attacker was approaching, looming over him as he was bent double and wheezing like an old man. John stepped back against the wall and his hand brushed against the broken broom he'd glimpsed earlier. He swung it at the man who had punched him and clearly hadn't expected any resistance, hitting him across the jaw. John whacked him once more over the head while he had the advantage and he went down.

"Sherlock?" he called and followed the sounds of fighting out in the hallway where there was more light.

Sherlock appeared around the corner. His hair was in disarray and he was bleeding from his cheekbone.

"Thought I heard you," he said, making his way back to him, and maybe it was relief, maybe it was just the way he casually said that, like they were back home and he'd called from the kitchen, but they started chuckling and before they knew it, they were both laughing uncontrollably, sitting in front of the janitor's cupboard.

"Are we interrupting? We can come back later," a voice said.

"Greg!" John exclaimed, high and giddy on adrenaline.

"About time," Sherlock said, but he was still smiling.

"Did you get the kids off the roof?" John asked, pointing upwards

"Yeah," Lestrade said with a frown, putting his gun away. "About that, remind me never to ask you to baby-sit."

ooo

"Ouch! That stings, you know?" Sherlock exclaimed when John dabbed the nasty cut on his cheekbone with a cotton.

"You're lucky you didn't lose an eye, you know," John muttered, prodding the cut more viciously. "You could have just let him run off, Lestrade and his men would have caught him on his way out. You knew there was only one exit. Now, stop being such a baby, I bet you didn't complain this much when you got stabbed."

Absolutely no sense of self-preservation. How did he even get to the ripe old age of thirty-four? Maybe he'd had other protectors without ever knowing about them and they'd died before their time out of sheer worry at his lack of common sense. On second thought, Mycroft and Lestrade had probably had their fare share of worrying about the tall git since both seemed to have respectively less hair and more grey hair than they should.

"I don't trust Scotland Yard to do their job," Sherlock muttered, then squirmed on the edge of the bath where he was sitting and threw a wary glance at the cotton.

John rolled his eyes. Scotland Yard might not have Sherlock's genius but they were perfectly capable of guarding a door.

"They couldn't even keep that small child from molesting me," Sherlock added as if to prove his point.

"It was a hug, Sherlock. It was cute."

"He slobbered all over my trousers. They're probably ruined now."

"It still counts as a hug. You know, I'm going to get a picture of that and put it on display in the living room. Greg promised to send me a copy."

"Ouch, John! I swear you're not even trying to be gentle with that thing," Sherlock growled again, trapping his hand in his larger one.

"Want me to kiss it and make it better?" John teased.

"I'm hurting all over, it might take a while," Sherlock replied, managing to keep a straight face somehow.

John chuckled, trying not to blush, and pecked his cheek, just below the nasty cut he'd received.

"Get in the shower, you cheeky bastard. I'll go make some tea."

Christ! Who knew Sherlock could flirt so outrageously?

To think John had been afraid of scaring him off by being too forward. he was now seeing the error of his way. At this rate, Sherlock would be the one jumping his bones.

ooo

John had to admit that he hadn't been agonizing over the Dream today like he had the last few days. Sherlock had successfully managed to keep him entertained since that morning by dragging him into a missing person case, turned murder and blackmail, turned kidnapping and infiltration mission. He hoped Sherlock never got too bored. God only knew what he'd get up to for the sake of entertainment.

But now that it was way past time to get some rest, uneasiness was washing over him once more and he was glancing warily up the staircase to his room. He wasn't even sure if he was more afraid of having his Dream finally return and seeing Sherlock die another horrible death, or that his Dreams would still show nothing useful, stay broken as he'd started to think of it. Today had proved, if nothing else, that they could very well get out of sticky situations without any supernatural means.

For God's sake, Watson, you're a veteran. You can't be afraid to go to bed at your age.

"Right, I'm off to bed then," he called over to Sherlock who was doing some new experiment with chalk, dust and other powder-like substances in the kitchen. For once it was just messy rather than disgusting, as far as his experiments went, but Sherlock was just as absorbed by it as he had been with the microwaved eyeballs, so John wasn't surprised when he didn't get an answer.

It was to be expected that Sherlock had never managed to sustain any kind of relationship before. John didn't mind his quirks, such as being too absorbed in his experiments to wish him goodnight or even take notice of his absence, but he had no doubt there were very few people in the world who'd be so accepting. It was part of who Sherlock was however, and John loved him just the way he was.

Loved him just the way he was? Loved him?

Oh. Well, that makes sense, I suppose.

John Watson never did things by halves after all, and even though he could not pinpoint the exact moment his loyalty, friendship, affection, attraction... Call it what you want because Sherlock just created such a turmoil of emotions in him, but the moment his feelings had turned into love of a deeper nature, he couldn't say. However, he was not that surprised it had happened.

John walked up the stairs with a small smile playing on his lips, wishing he could still dream like normal people did because he had no doubt they would have been pleasant that night.

A/N: Fair warning, the next chapter may take longer in coming but please be patient ;)