Crystal

Dr. Watson looked at the landlady and then at the DI. "What is it? Has he burnt the kitchen down?" John asked with a smirk. Not getting an answer, he shifted his weight from the doorknob to his luggage, "I was only away for two days. Rosie couldn't have got a fever; Sherlock would've..."
"John, they've been kidnapped..." The doctor's eyebrows were momentarily scrunched in confusion. Then the world came to a standstill as John processed the information.
"John..." Watson motioned to Mrs. Hudson and Greg to remain silent as he dialed a number. "John, I am currently on my way back from a meeting with..." the older Holmes drawled. "Mycroft, Sherlock and Rosie are missing. You better know when and where by the time I get to your office."
"Understood."

The detective heard a gurgling sound. Rosie.
Atop the table, Rosie was getting increasingly agitated and scared. Sherlock could sense her eyebrows crease and her lips tremble. He wished he was wrong, but that rarely happens and so it was that the two-year-old began to cry. Sherlock tried to stretch his arm and hold Rosie; the ropes cut into him, but he managed to bring the chair closer to the table. He bobbed his head, making his dark curls bounce much to Rosie's delight. "Papa...papa..." She crawled towards the sociopath and tumbled onto his lap. Sherlock raised his legs as much as he could to prevent her from falling off.
"Aw...isn't that sweet?" came a gruff voice. "The marble man 'as an 'art after all..."
Two men came into view, one in a worn-out black cardigan and the other in a faded navy-blue turtleneck. What struck Sherlock wasn't their physique or their weapons (a knife and a piece of wood), but their faces; the two men resembled Blunt-knife Joey, the killer John and he had caught a couple of months back.
"Lookie 'ere Jack..." the man in the cardigan spoke with a sneer "the lil detective looks confused, but I thought detectives solved things..." The man reached for Rosie.
"Don't touch..."
The man hit Sherlock square on the jaw and tossed Rosie onto the table. Removed from the only source of reassurance, she bawled. "Jimmy, shut that thing up, will ya?" the man in the turtleneck shouted as he walked over to Sherlock with the piece of wood.

John was dead silent as he watched the screen. Mycroft glanced between Watson and the screen. He'd seen John Watson serious before, but the doctor looked slightly unhinged and the British government didn't like it one bit; a man who'd lost his wife a year ago, whose daughter and friend had been kidnapped four hours ago, a man with the precision of a doctor and the aim and strength of a soldier was not something one would like to be next to, especially when they are 'angry'. John motioned with his fingers; the techie paused the footage.

Sherlock was walking with Rosie in one hand and a carton of milk in the other.

Mycroft saw John's eyes glisten. He nodded at the techie. The video resumed and a van appeared in the corner of the camera's view. The two men watched as Sherlock threw the carton of milk at one of the masked men, all the while clutching Rosie to his lean chest. He turned and yanked the mask off the other man, holding his head to the security camera. They watched in horror as the other thug hit the detective on the head and tossed a limp Sherlock and a crying Rosie into a white van. The techie paused the video and magnified the exposed face.

Captain John H. Watson gazed at the face. "Mycroft, I need everything you have on Blunt-knife Joey." Turning to Anthea, he muttered "magnifiy the van..." peering at the logo on the vehicle "Mycroft, what does that look like to you?"
"That, John, is a standard van earlier issued by the Orchid Corporation before they were shut down due to the building violations mounted against the company by a branch of the WHO situated in Kensington. They had a factory in Fulham, where Mr. Joey's brothers used to work." "Brothers?"
"Yes, two of them. I believe they are triplets; Joey, Jack and Jimmy."
The mobile rang. John answered it. Lestrade's voice came through in patches, "It's Blunt-knife Joey. His brothers! Triplets." John was about to cut the call when, "they aren't at their apartment. I just sent Wiggins. John, are you..." John cut the call and gazed at the older Holmes.
"They're at the factory. It's on Munster Road. It'll take about 35 minutes. Less, if you'd prefer the helicopter."
"That'd be too much of a bother..." John turned on his heels and marched out of the room, lips set in a thin line.

"I'll say this one more time." Jack gasped as he swayed the bloody piece of wood "you are going to tell your little DI friend to let our brother go." Sherlock peered at him through his bloodied eye. Waves of pain were coursing through his arms (a dislocated shoulder on the right and a fracture on the left arm). His leg was starting to go numb. He was probably bleeding internally as well considering the blows he'd been taking; then again, he wasn't the doctor.
"Oi, you better talk fast..." Jimmy taunted from behind. He circled up and held Rosie in front of Sherlock, "...or the kid gets it..."
There was a loud screech outside and in the next moment, a part of the wall to the far right burst open. A siren blared. The men looked temporarily alarmed, but realising it was just an ambulance and not the police, they relaxed. A man in a jumper got out of the health van.

"Let them go."

Sherlock stared at the soldier. Something was wrong. John was too calm.
"Who'a you?" Jack snapped at him. John looked at Rosie and then at Sherlock.
Sirens blared in the background. "Wha..." before the brothers could move a muscle, John had fired three rounds: two at Jack, hitting him on the knee and shoulder and one at Jimmy, square on the chest. A hand rested on the doctor's shoulder as if to restrain him and Watson turned, holding the pistol right between the eyes of an unsuspecting Gregory Lestrade. "Whoa, John just take it easy..." John didn't move a muscle, processing who was in front of him.

A feeble baritone carried across "John..." Donovan was untying Sherlock, trying to be as gentle as possible. John shifted the pistol from Lestrade and aimed it at Sally. Sherlock noticed the change and shielded Sergeant Donovan.
"John, listen to me..." Sherlock said, flinching as he took each step.
"Rosie's fine. I'm fine...in a manner of speaking." He came closer and knocked the gun out of the dazed soldier's hand. Sherlock leant forward. John snapped out of it and clutched Sherlock as the taller man's entire weight fell on him. "We're all fine."
"Dada..." Sally placed Rosie beside John. He took her in his arms and kissed the toddler. He looked at her carefully. Her arm had turned bluish from being thrown into the van and onto the table. John turned to look at the brothers, anger building up again. Rosie tugged at his face wanting her dada's complete attention. He kissed her hand and turned to Sherlock. He held the detective's hand to examine the injuries.
Sherlock groaned in pain. "Not that one."
John reached for the other arm.
Sherlock winced. "Not that one either."
John rolled his eyes, with the usual mix of irritation and concern. As the paramedics approached, Dr. Watson instinctively shouted out some orders, not bothered whether the two a******es got treated at all; if it weren't for the Scotland Yard, he would personally perform the brothers' surgery...without anaesthesia. "Two men, three GSWs. One to the chest, and two to the knee and shoulder." He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock "And here, dislocated right shoulder. Fractured left arm, the radius and the ulnar. Open leg wound, 10 inches." John grimaced as he registered Sherlock's pale lips and the bloodied piece of wood lying by the table, "...and internal bleeding. 3 litres, O+."
As the paramedics moved Sherlock and Rosie into the ambulance, John walked up to Sally and apologised. Turning to Lestrade, "Greg, I'm sorry about..."
"John. It's allright." He nodded in Sherlock's direction. The good doctor smiled and walked away. Greg gazed at the retreating figure; John was going to be okay.
Watson stepped into the ambulance and sat beside Sherlock. Rosie was playing with his hair. John turned to the 33-year-old toddler, "Stay with me, yeah?"
"John..." the baritone drawled.
"Yeah?"
"I think you should buy the milk next time." Sherlock managed to smirk, eyes fluttering shut.
The blogger smiled as the detective drifted off to sleep, the morphine finally kicking in.