A/N: I love a story maker John and a mystery solver Sherlock, they go so well together.

Keep safe. -csf

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'In my pocket I have a gun, Sherlock. It is pointed at you. Follow me. And no funny business, or I'll shoot.'

'Of course. And for future reference; all you had to do was ask, John.'

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Sherlock can easily burn himself out with his beloved Work.

My best friend is an overachiever, a genius in his own right, stretched to the limits of his own endurance by a hint of vulnerability, a desire to impress others, to earn his belonging among the same humanity he both loathes and yearns for. For all of Sherlock's publicly proffered despise of idiots, I don't believe that my friend would not be tempted by a Mephistopheles type of soul selling contract which would allow him to be one of the masses. Be dull, average, live a simpler life. There were the druggie years, after all. And as such, I keep an eye on Sherlock not only on his moral choices, but also on the toll that his self-effacing rationality brings to his lithe frame.

I worry that Sherlock is not the best at taking care of himself, so I nudge him along in the right direction.

Today, to avoid the cliff edge burnout, I sort of kidnapped Sherlock from the crime scene, just as soon as the smoke-and-mirrors deductions were done. Didn't take much. A hint of danger and excitement and he was following me without having to show him the gun I in my coat's pocket. With Sherlock's incredible powers of deduction, it won't have escaped him that the sound of the gun's safety being released never took place. That would be an overkill – for the lack of a better word – for I knew that Sherlock would follow me, docile as a lamb. The promise of a further mystery too enticing to ignore.

I timed my kidnap just right. After a deduction whirlwind, Sherlock is on an endorphin high, he is bigger than the room (or the sleazy alley, for that matter) and he is ready to take on the world and a double meal from his favourite Chinese place.

It's the comedown I worry about. The vacant stares at the wall, followed by the impatience thrumming through his veins, fingers twitching, feet tapping on the rug, and a worrisome scratching of the crook of his elbow, where minute old silvery scars still shine in his pearly skin.

I told Sherlock to follow me, and he was more than ready, he was willing, and craving my directives. Suggestionable, if one could ever qualify that attribute to a man with the independence (and self-grooming) instincts of a feline.

We took off in a sort of clandestine brusque walk off the crime scene, barely a nod the DI Lestrade's way.

Lestrade is a worrier, I rather not have him lecture me after Sherlock and I will resurface days later, unscathed, but also likely unaware of a whole MI6 squad team mobilised to find us – but they won't, through the simple expedient that we are going offline from all our devices, and we'll be avoiding the CCTV cameras while in London.

'Where are you taking me?' Sherlock asked me indignantly, but I knew it was an act. His breathing was fast paced, his eyes were bright, his demeanour nearly vibrated with anticipation.

Not for the first time I wondered how this distant, celibate, contained man could, at times like these, look so full of life and light. So intoxicating and brilliant. So enticing and magnetic.

I have learnt to keep these considerations from my blog, Mrs Hudson keeps misinterpreting them and prompting me as if she knew a secret I do not possess.

To Sherlock's question about our itinerary, I gave no verbal answer; I just grinned and hoped that would be enough to stave off the questioning.

You see, I have learnt a thing or two from Sherlock's deduction delivery acts. An intoxicating mixture of magician, professor and vaudevillian actor, always just one step away from us, reachable yet besting us in a heroic fashion.

So I too kept secret, allowing only a small trickle of leads to feed the insatiable curiosity of the consulting detective.

Of course I feared my trick was about to backfire. "This is it, John? Is this all your tiny little brain could muster?" would not have been unheard of. Just the thing I heard at the beginning of our partnership, when I promised Sherlock a nice surprise and it turned out to be a complicated pea soup I had made. Complicated or not, a fasting consulting detective was less than impressed, and he returned to his case leads muttering improprieties.

After all, I am a human and Sherlock is… well, a genius. There's no two ways about it. It's hard enough to keep a secret from Sherlock without his giant brain deducing it from the creases in my shirt's cuffs, let alone actually selecting a suitable challenge to engage all that encephalic matter.

Sometimes I fail spectacularly. Like the time I took Sherlock to the Opera – was connected to a case, hear me out – and he spent the whole Aria looking at me sideways in the theatre box. Something or other about the theatre lights and how I responded to the music playing from the orchestra pit. While I watched an Opera that night, Sherlock watched me, and he didn't even seem to grow tired of it.

At times, Sherlock's only motivation is to mess with my mind. He does that a lot.

I guided Sherlock to our favourite Chinese – "Is this all, John?" He asked the question with a pointed expression, a knowledgeable wink that was full of affection, for I knew he must have been starving by now and conceded to pause my surprise for the benefit of his endurance through it.

"Only if you want it to be. You can put an end to this – us – before we even start."

His smile soured at that.

"Nonsense, John, not when you are being so delightfully artistic. I think I will fare better with giving you a chance."

"Okay. Good. We are hoping on a bus next. It's a half-hour ride."

Sherlock looked briefly disappointed at that. As a child promised a sweet in the morning rather than at bedtime.

I ignored it. I know I can gamble on Sherlock's interest a while longer. I know that because he cannot fully hide that smile that hasn't stop prying at the corner of his lips.

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Sherlock Holmes on a bus full of evening commuters is a striking sight. Most passengers are keeping a healthy space between the detective and themselves, creating a distance that reminds the doctor of antibiotics discs and cultured bacteria.

Only John can comfortably inhabit the kill zone, without as much as batting an eyelid. In fact, he is fairly happy to be sat by his mad friend in a bumpy road trip out of central London.

Removing Sherlock from his hunting ground is paramount in the doctor's technique to have Sherlock unwind and relax gradually, lulled by a homemade mystery. London is Sherlock's beloved home, constantly thrumming in activity much like the detective, yet it is an assault to the senses when exhaustion over-sensitises the genius. It's hard to unwind in a city full of crime, informants and coincidental chaos.

So John hopes he's timed this right, he picked the correct environment to place Sherlock once he's been plucked from London, and he hopes to keep the detective's mental cogs rolling along. He sincerely hopes he can play his hand right. Sherlock has more than earned this little getaway.

Sorry, kidnap. John meant kidnap. This is definitely a kidnap. Of course it is.

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John's shoes pat against the cobble stones from the Victorian side alley. Sherlock's steps are far more furtive, his senses still on high alert after a full week chasing a triple murderer and with little sustenance and rest.

John guides Sherlock without a word, as if the silence could add to the clandestine feeling of their expedition. They pass under leaky gutters from projecting roofs of buildings built roadside, electric LED lamplights bathing them with blue and red spectrum light combined to fake sterile white, the distant sound of train tracks chasing them as they walk the empty streets of parts of a city that are not all that welcoming. Finally, they stop by an old shop front, a bit like a curiosity shop, where the warm yellow glow of traditional electrical light combines with fire hazard candles lit and placed strategically around the small space.

Sherlock would have been disappointed if it weren't the place that John had chosen for them to enter. John always has such a flair for the dramatic.

'Good evening.' The disembodied voice is clearly projecting from a speaker in a corner. Sherlock's musician ears can detect the stripped layers so to make the voice more shrill and less recognisable. The accent is fake and inconsistent, even in the two short words. John has gone through quite a bit of trouble for him, Sherlock considers proudly.

John loiters by the door, looking all around – decidedly checking if everything is set up according to plan; Sherlock's network may have been involved in this travesty of a kidnap – while Sherlock steps forward in the improvised stage. He stops suddenly, freezing and tensing on the spot.

'John,' he warns.

The doctor blinks. 'No, carry on, don't give up now!'

'John.' Sherlock tries again. 'Drop it.'

The doctor sighs, perhaps precociously admitting defeat. 'What is it? Did you spot the trip wires? I bet you saw the wires, I told them to hide the wires under the rug…'

'Just drop it, John. Quick question, instead. Did you plan for a dead body in this pantomime of yours?'

'What? Uh-oh.' He sees it now. Not one of Sherlock's network either, too well dressed and well groomed.

'Hm. I suggest we investigate this fresh murder first, and solve your homemade mystery later.'

John sighs.

'If you insist,' he states, as he determinedly kneels besides the mangled corpse.

Sherlock takes this opportunity to hide a huge grin behind the doctor's back.

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DI Lestrade's pen is picking up a bit of muslin hanging from the ceiling in a crude attempt at some Halloween-style ghost. Clearly John's doing. The doctor seems to have boobytrapped the store with little amusements to anchor Sherlock's interest in an entirely made-up mystery. The whole thing is gaudy, boyish and frankly ridiculous. John is clearly still not past his 'Tuesday Mysteries' phase.

Interesting at first, the Yarders soon got a bit tired, particularly after that time with the dungeons theme. John had taken it a bit too far, creating a multi-week dragging mystery, and his only supportive voice was, amazingly, that of Sherlock Holmes.

Those two mad men are meant for each other…

Di Lestrade shakes his head and regrets the words he's about to say: 'Anderson, bag the ghost as evidence. There are blood splatters on it.'

'Am I checking for ectoplasm too?' Anderson retorts, from his position, scooting behind the counter, dismantling the trip wires. Of course he fails at it, and a fake thunder soundtrack rolls across the tiny murder scene.

Lestrade doesn't answer. Instead, he searches for the Baker Street duo, currently the closest thing he's got to witnesses.

He finds Sherlock completely knocked out across a couple of lined up chairs, the third chair containing John Watson. Sherlock's knees are bent to fit the narrow space and his head rests on John's lap. John seems to be absentmindedly combing the detective luscious dark locks with his fingers, his gaze lost in the bright glow of his phone screen.

Seriously, those two couldn't act more like an old couple if they tried.

'Looking for clues?' the inspector mocks.

John looks up, a funny look crossing his features.

'No. Reading up the solution to your murder and my mystery that Sherlock texted me while we waited for your arrival. He also said you'd make some joke about me playing detective; I'll tell him he got that one right.'

Greg rubs the stubble growing on his chin and reconsiders his life choices. As brilliant as Sherlock Holmes is, he can also be an annoying berk.

'Okay, gimme. Whodunnit?'

John just hands him his phone, no attempt to rouse the worn-out detective.

'Right. I'll radio a call out to get this guy. And John?'

'Yes?'

'Keep doing what you're doing. Sherlock is lucky to have you.'

John perks up. 'Does that mean that next Tuesday is on?'

'Not a chance, mate.'

John huffs. 'Sherlock texted you'd reply that too, by the way.'

The inspector grumbles something under his breath about child prodigies and showing off, as he walks away. Then he stops, seems to consider his next move, and finally turns and says: 'How about next Thursday? Make it at mine's. My turn to come up with some mystery for you guys.'

'It's not going to be one of your cold cases, is it? They don't count, Greg.'

'Make it a week on Tuesday, then. I need some time to think...'

John just beams widely.

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