Sherlock was returning to Baker Street the following morning after a brisk walk. Mrs Hudson was visiting some friends for the day and John had remained behind in their flat, claiming he didn't feel like going out. Which was just as well, all things considered. Who knew what would have happened if they had been alone together.
He reached 221B, stepped inside and immediately felt something was wrong. He stealthily climbed the stairs, avoiding all the areas that creaked, and discovered that the door to his flat had been kicked open. Sherlock rushed inside and found two menacing-looking men that he had never seen before standing in the sitting room. Between them, sitting tied to a chair, was John. Sherlock noticed with horror that his friend was not moving.
"Sherlock Holmes, I presume?" the bulkier of the two said.
The words almost didn't register with the consulting detective but he still gave the two men his iciest, most threatening glare. Despite his fury, Sherlock noted with some satisfaction that bruises were blossoming on both men's faces, meaning that John had put up quite a fight before being overpowered.
"That's me," Sherlock said frostily. "Who the hell are you?"
"Your brother Mycroft would know who we are," the slimmer man replied. "Why don't you ask him?"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. What top secret government matter did Mycroft get involved in this time? And why did it include him? Leave it to Mycroft to make his younger brother's life a misery.
"We're just here to send your dear brother a message. We want to tell him to keep out of our affairs or we will make him mind his own business," the first man said, cracking his knuckles.
"So you decided to threaten the welfare of one of his relatives? How dull," Sherlock said. "Why not just attack his government facility?"
"Too much security. Besides, wouldn't it send a stronger message to come after someone he cares about?"
"I hate to break it to you imbeciles, but Mycroft and I aren't that close. Oh, and just a small warning: it would be easier to move Big Ben than to do away with me."
"Ha! Do you honestly think I believe that? Your boyfriend here has more bulk than you and I took care of him!"
Thank you for telling me which one of you did it, Sherlock thought, his fury reaching new heights. To prove his earlier point he approached the fireplace, grabbed the fire poker and with some effort bent it in half. The two men stared at him in amazement.
"Now do you believe me?" Sherlock asked, waving the poker in front of them.
"Why, you –!" the second man snarled angrily. He lunged at Sherlock, who gracefully moved out of the way and shoved him hard with his foot. The man lost his footing and crashed head first into the fireplace. He went limp, indicating that the impact had knocked him out, and the consulting detective rounded on his other opponent.
"Foolishness gets you nowhere," Sherlock said in a dangerously calm voice.
"He always was a hothead," his enemy acknowledged casually, shrugging. "If you want something done right you've got to do it yourself."
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right here, right now," Sherlock said as the man took a step towards him.
"A life sentence in prison?" the man laughed.
"Not good enough," Sherlock replied and he lunged forward, gathering all the strength he could muster.
The ambulances and police cruisers finally left Baker Street by noon. Mrs Turner, the next door neighbor, had heard the racket and called Scotland Yard. Lestrade arrived with his men and saw one man lying unconscious in the fireplace and the other being thrown out of a window by Sherlock. Lestrade restrained the consulting detective while he ordered half his men to deal with the man in the fireplace and the rest to take care of the now very broken accomplice. The detective inspector, once he felt it was safe to release his charge, asked the consulting detective what had triggered this bout of madness. Sherlock refused to answer, but Lestrade saw John sitting senseless and bound to a chair and understood everything. The detective inspector patted his friend on the shoulder and assured him that those men weren't going to go unpunished, and also reminded him that he was always available to talk. Sherlock hadn't fully comprehended what he meant by that but he didn't care; John needed him.
Sherlock undid John's bonds and caught him as he limply slid off the chair. The consulting detective half-carried, half-dragged his friend to the couch and gently laid him on it. What was he supposed to do now? John was the doctor: he knew about these sorts of things better than he did. Sherlock assumed all he could do was wait for him to wake up.
Two hours passed and John still lay motionlessly on the couch. Sherlock had cleaned his wounds (damn bastard had left a couple of scratches on his face) and simply sat in front of his friend, waiting for the slightest movements to occur. But they weren't happening. John was breathing, Sherlock could see that, but his breaths were shallow. The consulting detective was fighting off the panic that was trying to gnaw at his insides. What if John didn't come back around? Sherlock didn't know what he would do without his blogger.
His vision suddenly blurred and Sherlock blinked in confusion, feeling something roll down his cheeks. He reached a hand to his face and felt moisture underneath his fingertips. The consulting detective widened his eyes: he was crying? When was the last time he had done that? He glanced at John. He was the one causing these tears, Sherlock was certain. There was just something about the doctor that brought out sides the consulting detective never knew he possessed. These sides weren't bad, but Sherlock wasn't ready to call them good either.
He extended a nervous hand and took hold of John's. It was a bit of an awkward gesture in Sherlock's opinion but he had seen other people do this and figured it was the right thing to do. John's hand was warm and a comfort to the consulting detective: it soothed the panic and slowed down his thoughts. Sherlock stared out the window and kept his hand over John's, trying to deduce what his brother could have possibly done that had led to this. One thing was for certain: Mycroft was going to pay for what happened.
Something tightened around his hand and the consulting detective sharply turned his head towards it. John had laced his fingers around his and held a firm grip on Sherlock's hand. Hope flared within the consulting detective as he watched attentively for any more signs of life from his friend. His patience was rewarded: John slowly opened his eyes and gave Sherlock a weak smile.
"Sherlock…" John whispered.
"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, relieved. "Are you all right?"
"I will be." John carefully looked around. "What happened to those thugs?"
"Lestrade took them away."
"You gave them a thrashing, didn't you? Just like when Mrs Hudson got attacked?"
"Of course I did. Well, the first idiot practically knocked himself out; I only helped a little." John chuckled softly and Sherlock smiled. "As for the other, I beat him to a pulp and threw him out the window."
"You didn't throw him on our landlady's bins, did you?" John said mockingly, feigning horror.
"I didn't see where he landed. Judging by the noises he made, it sounded like he fell on something other than the pavement," Sherlock replied carelessly, shrugging.
"Why did they come here? Did we even know them?"
"They came after me."
"I remember that they asked for you. But why?"
"Mycroft has been meddling in their affairs and they wanted to deliver a message by disfiguring me."
"They clearly haven't been reading my blog. If they had, they would have known you wouldn't tolerate their intrusion."
"They also would've known that I don't take harming my friends very lightly either."
John smiled warmly at him. "I know," he said appreciatively, squeezing Sherlock's hand affectionately. "Thank you for defending me."
Sherlock felt his eyes sting a little and he hastily stood up, freeing his hand from John's. The doctor looked at him in mild surprise.
"I'll go make you some tea," Sherlock mumbled.
"Do you even know how?" John asked as Sherlock made his way to the kitchen. The consulting detective couldn't tell if his friend was joking or not.
"Really, John?"
"I've never seen you work a kettle before. You can't blame me for asking."
Sherlock wordlessly continued his way into the small kitchen. He pressed his hands against the counter and hung his head. He had been close to crying again when John had thanked him. The relief of seeing his friend alive and well (albeit weak) was overwhelming. John's life had been endangered before but Sherlock noticed a different reaction on his part: the previous times he had just been happy that his friend was all right; now, he could have almost cried tears of happiness – almost. The singularity of today's reaction was unlike anything he had experienced.
Sherlock hated to admit to it, but he needed help. He was clearly dealing with something that was beyond his knowledge, and whatever that something was it was winning (he had shed tears, thank you very much). But who could Sherlock turn to? Who would know what was happening to him, and would be willing to help him? John, under normal circumstances, would have been the main choice but since he was the cause of all this, Sherlock had no intention in sharing anything with him. Mrs Hudson? She would fuss over this too much: she'd take out the tea and the scones and ask for all the details. No, Sherlock needed someone who wouldn't ask too many questions.
It's none of my business unless you choose to include me, which you can if you want to.
Lestrade's words rang in the consulting detective's mind like an echo. So that was what Lestrade had meant when he had said he was still available to talk; maybe he knew what was going on. Sherlock didn't like the idea of going to a Scotland Yarder for help – or just the idea of asking for help in general – but he was slowly becoming desperate. He was finding no solutions: he had spent all of last night looking up illnesses and mental disorders, both on the Internet and in his library, but nothing matched the mysterious symptoms he had been experiencing. Sherlock doubted Lestrade out of all people could help him, but, since he had nothing to lose, it might be worth a shot.
As he placed the kettle on the stove, the consulting detective made up his mind: he was going to ask Lestrade for a private word after the press conference. It was taking place the day after tomorrow, so it would give the consulting detective enough time to formulate his questions (and to give Mycroft a piece of his mind). If no enlightenment came out of this, Sherlock might have to leave the country just to get these feelings to stop. It was a last resort, but he was willing to try anything at this point.