A/N: OK, it's been about a month and I cannot apologise enough. If you follow me on Tumblr, you'll know it's been a pretty HELLISH month, so THANK YOU for sticking with me through it... SO this chapter, I don't like it so much, I hope you like it more than I do. Just a quick FYI - Part 2 after the cut is Sherlock POV... Plus, as usual, I have no BETA and I'm pretty sucky at editing my own works... Anyway, I'll stop rambling, hope this wasn't too much of a let down, I'm sorry it took so long, but I will finish it, I promise. ENJOY.

Half an hour, one long suffering cab driver and £100 later, Sherlock & John were diving out of a taxi outside Heathrow airport. They had no idea where they were going, what they were looking for, or what they were going to find but John had that flutter in his stomach he got whenever he ran into trouble with Sherlock, and tonight was no exception. In fact, it was even more fluttery than usual...

John followed close as Sherlock rushed into the building only to come to an abrupt stop, causing one army doctor to promptly run straight into the back of one disgruntled consulting detective. Sherlock threw him an indignant look that made him smile (just a little bit) before brushing down his coat and surveying his surroundings.

"The only obvious lead we have is Creber," he said, pulling off his gloves one finger at a time as he scanned the departures boards in front of him, "If we assume the finger was taken as collateral, he could be trying to make a run for it. There's a plane departing tonight at exactly 11 o'clock for Fiumicino Airport in Rome. I'd say whoever's after him knows he'll take the chance to run. Unless he was given the impression he was allowed to run. Either way, we need to stop him getting on that plane, he's the only lead we have. The only link between the clues in the safe and the finger. We find him, we find our answer."

"Right, we need to split up, we'll cover more ground," John said, the soldier-going-into-battle in him beaming out of him so much it was blinding, "I'll look around, see if I spot anything significant, speak to the staff, find out if Creber's boarded his flight yet. You should speak to security, see what you can pick up off the CCTV. We're still quite early, he might be milling around duty-free. You need me, you text me, got it?" And with that, John had turned and was ready to stalk off in the opposite direction, only to find himself caught on something...

"No," came the voice from behind him, "Besides, do you think they're just going to let me waltz in and do whatever I like?"

A look of bemusement danced across Johns face before he bit it down with a loud clearing of his throat, "Excuse me? Sorry, I thought I was talking to Sherlock bloody Holmes. Sherlock Holmes whose got about 30 police badges under his bed? Of course they'll bloody let you in, it's you! You could make them believe you're a sodding genie from a magic lamp if you wanted to."

"John, we don't have time for this, we have 30 minutes and it'll make no difference whether we split up or not. Come on, we need to speak to Security. We can check if Creber's boarded at the same time."

John stared up at the Consulting Detective in front of him. This wasn't right. This wasn't him at all. The Sherlock he knew regularly stalked off without a backwards glance at John, the most prominent examples that sprung to John's mind were the countless times he'd left a building only to find Sherlock had disappeared entirely, leaving him to find his own way to wherever they were going. There was definitely a lot John needed to address, but despite Sherlock's frankly awful arguments, the bloody great oaf was right and they were running out of time. This was going to have to wait.

"Alright, fine," he said with a shake of his head, "Let's go."

Sherlock looked him up and down, clearly deducing a relative Pandora's box of unspoken issues but visibly refusing to approach any of them at this moment in time. Instead he turned with a twirl of his coat and stalked off in the direction of the reception desk.

"D.I. Lestrade," Sherlock said to the brunette he was met with, flashing one of his many stolen police badges, "I need you to do two things. I need to know if one of your passengers has boarded yet and I need to see tonight's surveillance. Right now, if you wouldn't mind."

The woman behind the reception desk looked up at him confused, "That's weird, there was a Lestrade here earlier."

"What?"

The woman, however, was clearly not listening, "I didn't realise it was that common a name..."

"Hey!" Sherlock said sharply, snapping his fingers rudely in the girl's face, "Concentrate! I haven't got time for this. Why was he here and where did he go?"

The girl blinked crossly at him before drawing in and exhaling a very strained breath. She was obviously used to obnoxious customers, "He was here on a delicate matter. Word is one of the new boys in baggage handling called in regarding something very sensitive. He came alone and he's speaking to him now, I think."

"What delicate matter? What do you know?"

"Sherlock," uttered John, "Not good."

"Shush," he said with a roll of his eyes, "The man who called it in? Who is he? How long has he been here? What happened to him?"

"Nobody knows, we've never seen him before, it's like he just appeared here..."

John watched as Sherlock's eyes widened. He knew something and it wasn't good.

"Where are they?"

"Am I allowed to tell you? I mean, you're a police officer, so I can tell you, can't I?"

"Yes. Yes you can tell me. It is imperative, in fact, that you tell me right this second before I tell your boyfriend that you're sleeping with your boss."

John winced but the damage had already been done.

"I'm... How did you..? You could never..."

"Where are they?" Sherlock shouted, both palms on the desk, his ears practically steaming.

"Interview room in Security. Where they take people suspected of smuggling drugs into the country. Follow the corridor down until you get to the departure gates, turn right and it's the door marked 'Security'."

Sherlock nodded and took off towards their destination, soon followed by a very embarrassed and apologetic John Watson.

John knew it was pointless berating Sherlock over his attitude to other people, so he instead pressed on with more important matters.

"What do you know? What's happened?" Sherlock was already running down a seemingly never ending corridor as John spoke to him, looking at his watch as he did so, "We've got 20 minutes, why are we running after Lestrade? If this is a delicate matter, hadn't you better stay out of it? You're not exactly the sensitive sort."

"It's fake John," Sherlock shouted, picking up speed, "It's suspicious, not right, plot holes all over the place."

"What are you on about?" John shouted after the detective, but the man was already a considerable distance ahead of him, practically charging towards the Security office.

Sherlock practically threw himself at the door shoulder first, breaking it open to be met with darkness. The light from the airport dimly illuminated the first couple of feet of the room but no more as he stood in complete silence, simply observing for long moments.

"John," he murmured, "Lights if you would."

John, who had literally just made it in behind him, sighed and began fumbling around for a light switch, feeling terribly nostalgic as he did so.

The second his fingers came into contact with the switch the room flooded with light and revealed a man tied to a chair, hood up and head down in complete silence. John immediately pulled his gun from the back of his jeans (stowed away there before they swooped out of 221b) and aimed it at the mysterious figure. Slowly but surely, both John and Sherlock made their way around the figure, one on each side, until they met next to each other in the middle, staring down at the shrouded figure.

"On the count of 3?" John murmured.

"3," Sherlock said bluntly before grasping at the material behind the figure's head and pulling it back, "Hello, Greg," he greeted Lestrade with an almost-smile and a glimmer in his eyes that told John he'd somehow known all along.

"Who're you?" the D.I slurred. He looked disorientated and very much out of sorts.

"Greg?" John was unmoving as he surveyed the man slumped in front of them. He was about to squat down to examine him more carefully but Sherlock cut in.

"He's been drugged," he said quietly, waving a hand in front of Lestrade's eyes before slapping him not all that lightly across the face.

"Oi, stop that!" John glared daggers at Sherlock who simply shrugged and stalked away to examine the room. John shook his head, hoping to shake away the discontent that was held there, but it didn't quite work.

"WhereamI," Lestrade groaned as his head fell limply to the side, his eyes fluttering open and closed as he did so.

"Heathrow, can you remember anything?"

Lestrade simply grumbled in response as John freed his hands from their ties behind his back.

"So, what's the diagnosis, Doctor?" came a voice in his ear from over his shoulder, making him jump.

"I wish you wouldn't bloody do that," John snapped, muttering something about proximity alarms before shucking one of Lestrade's arms over his shoulder, ready to heave him to his feet, "A little help would be nice," he huffed, scrunching his fingers into the material of the hoodie that seemed to drown Greg.

"No," replied Sherlock, getting ready to leave the room.

"Sherlock! You can't just leave him here!"

"John, we haven't got a lot of time, we need to get Creber before he gets on that plane and find out what the hell is going on. Bringing him along will only slow us down."

"I don't care, he's coming. Besides, you know full well that plane won't be going anywhere for a good while yet, planes rarely leave on time."

Sherlock sighed dramatically, conceding to John's point before coming to crouch the other side of Greg, flinging his arm over his shoulder and not waiting for John to give any signal before standing to full height, dragging Greg up with him. The height difference between him and John made things particularly awkward as they struggled along with Lestrade, not to mention the fact that Sherlock insisted they practically drag him through Heathrow in order to get to the right place. John dreaded to think what they must have looked like at that moment in time, practically running through Heathrow with what could not have looked dissimilar to a semi-conscious drunk.

Upon reaching the information desk, confronted once more with the same bemused brunette, Sherlock promptly dropped Lestrade like dead weight, almost flooring John with the sudden extra burden. John simply huffed his disapproval as Sherlock quickly checked his watch before beginning a fresh attack of rude behaviour on the poor girl in front of him.

"11pm flight to Rome. Passenger name: Michael Creber. I want him hauling off that plane right now."

"That's the 'Lestrade' from earlier!" she exclaimed, "What happened?"

"Incompetence and lack of thorough research is what happened, now please stop dithering and get on with the job at hand. Michael Creber. 11pm. Flight to Rome. Now."

This time the girl just nodded and instantly began making phone calls and enquiries. Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently on the desk as they waited, earning him a disgruntled look from John has he struggled to hold Lestrade up alone.

John shifted awkwardly as Lestrade started to topple over in the opposite direction. He rearranged his hands, accidentally plunging one in Lestrade's pockets only for his fingers to brush against something very familiar. He felt his heart stop in his chest momentarily in his chest as his grip on Lestrade loosened in favour of the familiar cool metal chain and the disks attached to them. Eventually, Lestrade slipped away, falling to a slump on the desk, John's hands still entwined in the chain which revealed itself as Greg fell from his grip entirely.

Sherlock contemplated the groaning man next to him with a quirk of his eyebrow before turning towards the ashen doctor behind him, "John, what..."

But Sherlock froze too as his eyes fell upon what John was holding.

John's heart hammered in his chest as his eyes travelled over the dog tags in front of him, his dog tags. His army dog tags. In Lestrade's very un-Lestrade hoodie pocket. But it didn't end there. There was a note attached to the chain. It was curled inside a plastic cylinder attached to his tags by a shining silver clip. John immediately went to open it, but jumped as slender fingers obstructed his efforts. He raised his gaze only to be swallowed up by pained gray eyes that projected a mess of concerned emotions. John clenched set his jaw firmly before loosening his grip on the tags, allowing Sherlock to take them from him and drop them into one of his many pockets.

"Later," he breathed. John nodded up to him, running a hand through his hair as he did so. He didn't know what his dog tags were doing in Lestrade's pocket, but it did not bode well.

"Sir?" came a voice from behind them, bringing them crashing back down into the task at hand: Creber.

"Hmm? What? What is it?" Sherlock said, spinning away from John and wiping all previous expressions blank from his face. It was scary how easily he could do that as John remained still in a state of confused shock behind him.

"Mr Creber never made it to the flight. The captain was on a deadline, it left 2 minutes ago. No passenger by the name of Creber boarded as the ticket was cancelled last minute."

Sherlock banged his fist on the desk, causing all surrounding parties to jump (apart from Lestrade, who was still dazed and slowly sinking down onto the floor from the Reception desk). John sighed and came to stand beside him, one elbow on the desk as he turned to face the disgruntled man on his left.

"Now what?"

Sherlock sighed, leaning on both elbows, fingers pressed together under his chin in thought. Something told John he didn't really know.

This is quite the predicament, Sherlock thought to himself, knees pulled tightly into his chest as they sat in 221b. They had not long returned and John's dog tags were laid out on the coffee table in front of them, note untouched. Lestrade had been collected from Heathrow and the journey back had been in complete silence, for John at least. Sherlock was completely lost in a world of his own, deep in thought and staring blankly out the window, mind racing a mile a minute.

"Sherlock?" came an impatient voice to his left.

"Hmm?"

"I said are we going to look at it yet?" John was really quite good at hiding his emotions when he wanted to, but not from Sherlock. Never from Sherlock. He could still see the anxiety flicker behind his eyes as his gaze jumped back and forth between the tags and Sherlock.

Sherlock sat himself forward, letting long limbs relax into comfort as he leaned towards the tags and scooped them up.

"Don't you think I should be the one to read it?" John said, shuffling awkwardly in his seat, "They are my tags..."

"No," Sherlock murmured simply, "I'll read it first."

John scoffed, "Why? What for?"

"Because I don't know what it says. I want to read it first, then I'll decide whether you should read it."

John rose to his feet, coming to a halt in front of the detective before crossing his arms as he loomed over him, "You're not my keeper, Sherlock. I don't need protecting, never have done, never will do. Look, I don't know where all this sudden molly-coddling has come from but it stops. Right now."

Sherlock glared up at him for a moment with a look so fierce it caused John to lean back ever so slightly. John just didn't understand, maybe he never would, but as far as Sherlock was concerned, the less he knew the better. John might not know it but he meant an awful lot. He was Sherlock's calm in a storm and he needed him now more than ever to remain unaffected by anything that may or may not happen over the coming days. Sherlock had already decided that the fact it was John's tags meant that John was a target; the note was just a bonus to confirm his suspicions.

Sherlock watched as John dropped to his knees in front of him, placing himself just between his thighs with an elbow on each knee, eyes telling far more than his straight face ever could.

"Sherlock. I think I understand this, I do, but I won't let you wrap me in cotton wool. Nothing has changed here. I haven't changed, you haven't changed. The only thing that has is the dynamics of our relationship... Quite significantly, I'll admit, but that's the only thing, Sherlock, the only thing."

Sherlock considered him for a moment. His heart was thrumming an aching beat in his chest as he stared into familiar eyes.

"John..." he began, only to be cut off sharply as John snatched the tags from his grip. Sherlock sat open mouthed for the briefest off seconds before springing to his feet. "John!"

But John wasn't listening, he was too busy pulling the cap from the container and fishing the note out. Sherlock had already resigned himself as powerless to stop the situation, so instead flopped back onto the sofa, pinching the bridge between his eyes as he waited for the world to collapse around them.

He listened to the eerie silence in the room as John stood reading through the note he had now successfully retrieved.

"Right. Right, OK. OK," John turned himself around and sat down slowly in his usual spot, "Right..."

"John," Sherlock's voice was barely a whisper as he spoke, he could read everything that was in that note from John's expression alone.

"Right," John said once more, "I think I need a cup of tea," John hastily threw the note to one side before leaving the room and heading straight for the Kitchen.

Sherlock sighed before rising to his feet, scooping up the note and following John, reading it as he went.

John,

What a pity it's

you reading this. I should have known you'd wrestle it out of Sherlock's hands. So curious! But curiosity killed the cat, darling, and it will kill you, too.

You're next, Johnny-boy. This was never about Creber. Creber is just a desperate man living in desperate times, getting himself caught up playing with the big boys. The little man didn't even realise how perfectly I utilised him for my own gain. It all worked out so PERFECTLY, don't you think?

Oh, and Johnny? Don't bother hiding. I will find you and there will be nothing your little boyfriend can do about it.

J xxx

PS) Evening Sherlock, don't feel too sad, Daddy will see you soon, he hasn't forgotten about his little consulting detective.

Sherlock shivered as he read the last line. Moriarty.

He was violently thrown back to the night at the pool. The night less than a year ago that resulted in the disappearance of the psychopath now very much back in their lives. Since that night, not a trace of Jim Moriarty was found anywhere and as much as Sherlock, very convincingly, portrayed otherwise, Moriarty had always been lurking in the back of his head, smiling smugly at him from the place in his brain he had so lovingly burrowed himself into.

"John," Sherlock began.

"Look, Sherlock, it could have been a lot worse. That was nothing, really, barely even a threat, nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about? Don't be so obtuse, John. The man has made a threat against your life."

John turned around to face him, both palms on the counter behind him "People make threats against yours every day," his mouth was a wiry smirk that was convincing nobody, least of all Sherlock.

"I'll speak to Mycroft, see if we can get you into hiding somewhere..."

"What?" John practically spluttered on his own shock, "Are you serious? Right, this has gone far enough, what the bloody hell has gotten into you?"

Sherlock looked quite taken aback as he studied the angry doctor in front of him, "What do you mean?"

"You know full well, Sherlock. Ever since we started up this... this..." Sherlock watched in quiet bemusement as John struggled for a word, all the while waving a hand violently back and forth between the two of them, "Thing. You've just... Gone insane!"

Sherlock scoffed, "I'm not insane, John, I am trying to be practical. I'm worried for your safety and I'm..."

"Worried for my safety? You never worried much before!"

Sherlock actually felt something cold wrap itself around his heart for a moment as he considered what John had just said to him, "John," he began, but the words escaped him. He cursed inwardly at his own inability to let his heart do the talking when the situation called for it the most. Being so brain centred all these years had very unfortunate side effects, especially when being in a relationship revolved far more around the heart than the head.

John's expression softened slightly but he stayed exactly where he was, steadfast and waiting for an explanation that Sherlock was visibly struggling to give.

"John. You are very important to me. You have been from the start and you have to understand that I..." Sherlock couldn't hide the cringe. He wasn't good at this at all, "I can't lose you, John. I don't do this. I never do this. But I like it and I don't want it to be over before it's started. I know I'm probably being a little too custodial but... I'm selfish, John, and I'd much rather keep you to myself as you are then put you at risk and have you gone forever."

Sherlock stared hard at the floor. This was horrible. Absolutely horrible. He didn't ever do this, this was alien, this wasn't him. He deduced, he didn't explain. In a perfect world, he wouldn't have to say these things because John would already know them. John would understand perfectly and do exactly as he said because he would see plain and simple the fear that Sherlock could hide from everyone bar himself. So he stood, completely silent, repeating everything he just said over and over for posterity. There was no way he would ever be able to delete this conversation.

He was torn from his pained thoughts, however, by callused hands as they made their way up the column of his throat to cradle his face in their warmth.

"You're a bloody idiot, you do realise that, don't you?" John said into Sherlock's shoulder as he pulled him into him, "I think you forget sometimes that there are people in the world other than you."

Sherlock pulled back quickly, "No, John, didn't you-"

"I heard," John said, stroking at Sherlock's jaw with his fingers as his thumb found its way over his mouth, "What I mean is you're not the only one who-" he paused, choosing his words carefully, "Goes a little bit insane with worry sometimes."

Sherlock blinked at the sincerity in John's eyes as he continued.

"The amount of times I've had to watch you go racing off into God knows what is terrifying. And are you forgetting the very recent incident in which you were beaten to shit whilst tied to a chair?"

"John, that was entirely diff-"

"No it wasn't, and you know it wasn't," John said sternly, "You need to stop thinking that because it's you, it's different. It's not different. I want this to last, too. I don't want you to get hurt, I don't want to lose you, but I can't very well lock you in a room to protect you from the world because you'd bloody hate that, and I'd hate it too because then you'd be unhappy and you would drive me insane."

Sherlock smirked at the notion, but said nothing.

"All of this," John continued, "It's all quite normal... Well, OK, we're not normal. Abnormal, if anything, but we're normal in our abnormality."

"John, that sentence doesn't even-"

"Shush," John whispered, causing Sherlock's skin to dance under the words, "There will always be danger, love, we can't guard each other from it forever."

Sherlock blushed at the endearment as he thought these words over, but having John in such close proximity was very distracting.

"John," Sherlock began again. He knew he had words he needed to say, he just needed to figure out what they were.

John simply hushed him, dropping the lightest of kisses on his lips before continuing his oral descent over his neck, causing Sherlock's breath to hitch and his thoughts to derail entirely. He couldn't think straight when John was so close, his breath cascading over the junctures in his throat, tongue tasting him and teeth scraping gently across his skin. It was all really quite lovely and perfect and Yes, Yes, more of that, I love you, I love you, I love you. No. No. Not yet. Not until this was over. Not until he knew that...

A shrill noise filled the room, causing them both to spring apart like lovers caught behind the bike sheds. John was a delicious shade of pink and it was all Sherlock could do not to ignore the vibration in his pocket and snog John as thoroughly as he could, but he knew who would be on the other end of the line.

"What?" Sherlock reached out for John as he answered his phone. He wasn't quite ready to give up their clinch so pulled him in close, stroking the tip of his nose along John's and allowing his eyes to fall closed as he listened carefully to the calamity that was quietly exploding on the other end of the phone.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, is that you? Why did you ring me?"

"You rang me. Shouldn't you be sleeping this off?"

"Sleep what off? Oh, no, I'm fine. Look, we have informa... inform..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he heard a clattering of objects down the phone. Lestrade was quite clearly still suffering the effects of the drugs he was given, but being the awkward sod that he was, he had clearly decided he was fit to go back to work to try and get some work done. Idiot.

"Freak?" came a shrill voice suddenly.

"Donnovan. To what do I owe such displeasure?"

"Shut it. Look, I'm ringing with information and as you can see, the D.I's not in any fit state to be giving it to you."

"Obvious," Sherlock sighed, stroking circles into John's skin with his fingertips as he waited for useful information to present itself.

"I can't believe you're telling him this. We don't need him, Sally, we can do this ourselves," came a familiar voice in the background the other end.

"Ah, I see Anderson's there, too. Lovely," Sherlock drawled.

Sally sighed, "Look, do you want the information or not? I don't like having to come running to you, but we're at a dead end, and I'm thinking you probably know something we don't."

"What makes you say that?" Sherlock's voice was dripping with mock-innocence.

"Because it's you, do I really need to elaborate?"

"Well it might be nice if-"

"Look, just shut up and listen. Creber's turned up dead."

Sherlock snapped out of his moment with John almost instantly, his fingers freezing in their place on his skin. Bugger. Whatever information Creber had would have died with him... Unless...

"Where?"

"In his bloody house, of all places."

"Text me the address, I'll be there in 10 minutes," with that, Sherlock hung up the phone and turned on his heel to grab his coat.

"Development?"

Sherlock nodded curtly, pulling his scarf around his neck, "They've found Creber. He's dead. The body was found at his house."

John nodded, "You think maybe there's something significant there."

"It's Moriarty. Of course there is," Sherlock smirked, but the look in John's eyes was grave. He lost himself in his counterpart momentarily before crossing the room and taking his face in his hands, kissing him firmly on the forehead, "Ready to stare danger in the face and laugh?" he said suddenly.

John laughed, shaking his head as he spoke, "Always."