Thank you so much to all of my lovely reviewers! You inspired me to finish this today, and while I almost decided to go ahead and make it a three-parter just because of your enthusiasm, the story really just ends here. So I let it end, and I'm pleased with the way it turned out. Please let me know if it was worth the wait!

-Emrose

Two

"Lestrade, pull your men back; they've got Mrs. Hudson. John and I will handle it. No…no, Lestrade, I've been clear. Keep your men away. We'll take care of it. I won't risk the situation to your idiots, they'll only bungle it and get her shot. I'll phone you when it's all over."

Sherlock swung down the stairs, issuing hasty instructions into his phone as John leapt after him, shoving his arms into his sleeves of his black bomber jacket, scrubbing hopelessly at the spots of dried blood on his hands. He could smell it all over himself and all he wanted was a long, cold shower to rinse it all away, to stand under the spray and close his eyes and forget the bloody wound dripping all over the table, spotting his hands despite his best efforts to keep them gloved and clean and sanitary. The groans and whimpers of the injured man hovering in and out of consciousness were still whispering in his head, and he was tired, his back aching, and oh, was he angry.

Angry at his flatmate, the idiot-genius, for calling off the police in favor of a suicidal death mission to rescue a landlady who shouldn't have been taken hostage in the first place. Angry that he was afraid, angry that he was practically helpless, angry that he had no idea how they were going to pull this one off, angry that he had done what they'd bloody asked of him (and it hadn't been easy, mind...he still wasn't quite sure how he'd made a handful of random surgical instruments, a kitchen table, and two escaped convicts stand in for a brilliant white hospital room full of all the necessary equipment with an experienced team of medical professionals) and still he was haring off after a group of five large, nervous confirmed murderers when he should be sitting in his front room with an arm around Mrs. Hudson, drinking tea and watching crap telly to help her forget the feeling of a gun pressed to her temple.

"Sherlock!"

He crashed through Mrs. Hudson's pristine kitchen and out the back door after Sherlock, put on an extra burst of speed, and snagged the man's coat sleeve. Sherlock spun around to face him, and the expression that flashed across his face was one of surprise, contempt, irritation, but John ignored it.

"We can't just go chasing them through the backstreets of London," he said. "They've got an old woman and an unconscious bloke they're carting, they can't have gone far…just hang on."

"There's no time, John! They could have getaway cars…"

"Do they?"

Sherlock hesitated for a fraction of a moment, and then shook his head. "Not close. A ways."

"Then you've got thirty seconds to spare, so shut up and listen."

John almost relished this second, more surprised look on Sherlock's face, but decided he'd gloat later. Now was not really the time.

"They're going to be jumpy," he said. "They're going to be scared. Running on their own is one thing, running with a hostage is another. Collins might have a good head on his shoulders but he's going to be trigger-happy, especially since he knows—thinks—the police are on their way. We've got to take this carefully. Barreling in on them when they're on the edge is about the stupidest thing you could do."

"Had some experience with high-pressure hostage situations, have you?" Sherlock asked dryly, and John nodded curtly but didn't elaborate. "You're right, John, of course, which is why you're going to be the distraction. I'll circle around, catch them from the back…you don't have your gun, do you?"

John stared. "What? No. No, Sherlock, absolutely not. I'm not…no. This time, you're the distraction."

A vicious smile tore across his face as Sherlock's eyebrows contracted, his mouth opening to protest, but Sherlock had been right…this was his area. Sherlock might have had experience with hostage situations, but they'd always been controlled, with police for back-up, or so shrouded in mystery that he'd been the only one able to unravel the pieces. This situation, this was cut and dry. This was black and white. This was war, and Sherlock was not the leading expert when it came to war.

John was.

"They'll be expecting you. Make up an excuse for me, make it a good one. I'm going around the back. Do what you do best—talk til you're blue in the face, give me as much time as you can. Don't let them make it to wherever they're going before I get there. I'll take care of the rest."

"John…"

"Don't argue with me."

Sherlock opened his mouth again, but John brushed past him roughly, breaking into a sprint. Sherlock's hand closed in a vice around his arm, and he jerked around with an angry grunt.

"What?"

"You're sure you know what you're doing?" Sherlock asked in rush, his voice low, and John was about to snap back a sharp retort when he saw what was in Sherlock's eyes. Open concern, lurking guilt, uncertainty.

"Yeah," was all he said instead. "Yeah, I do. Trust me on this one, Sherlock."

It looked like it took everything he had, but Sherlock let go of his arm and nodded once. "Head north, circle around at the second light. They'll be making their way northeast. Cut in two blocks from Murray's—I'll have them behind the shop."

"Right."

Sherlock took off without a backward glance, and John glanced around, took a breath, and dove for the street.

Incoming call.

When Gregory Lestrade's phone buzzed in his clenched fist, he answered it halfway through the first ring, before the ID had even popped up on the screen.

"Sherlock?"

"Greg, it's John."

"John? What's going on, where's Sherlock?"

John chuckled breathlessly—he was obviously on the move. But that was ok; Lestrade was fluent in Sherlock-and-John-on-the-run-speak. "He's the distraction. Murrays. Head to Murrays, but keep a low profile. Let us get through to them before you come in all-hell blazing. We've got to get Mrs. Hudson out of there."

"Sherlock doesn't know you're calling, does he?"

Again, John laughed mirthlessly. "He's not in charge of this particular operation anymore. I am. And I decided back up would be nice. I've done this enough without, and a change of scenery's always good, you know."

Lestrade forgot sometimes that John as a veteran, and a decorated one at that. He jerked a hand at his waiting officers. "Get ready to move out. Low profiles, we're only back-up! No sirens, no lights, keep your heads down!" Then back to John, "You know what you're doing, yeah?"
"Yeah. Look, gotta go. Wait for a signal."

The call disconnected. Lestrade wondered if Sherlock knew he'd been demoted, and then he realized that he'd been demoted himself and grinned. It would do Sherlock some good to have an expert other than himself in charge. And if there was one person Lestrade trusted to boss Sherlock around, it was John Watson.

He led the way in the first car with Sally Donovan sitting beside him, tapping her fingers on the armrest attached to the door. She only waited two blocks before she said, staring out the front window, "So we're taking orders from Watson now."

"Looks like it." He wasn't in the mood to spar with Donovan. "He's got the most experience with this sort of thing."

"Well, he's a bit out of practice, isn't he? He hasn't been in the war for years now. He's going to muck it up if you let him."

"I trust him," Lestrade said, and though her words sent a prickle of doubt down his spine he ignored it. "Sherlock trusts him. That means you've got to trust him too."

"Look, I like Watson," Donovan pressed. "Don't think I don't. But he's not a professional. He knows less of this sort of thing than the freak.."

"Sally…"

"…alright, than Holmes does, and he's not even a proper detective; he's just a civilian. And if he botches this we all get it. You can't afford more notes on your record. Letting Holmes have the run of the place is one thing, but letting an ex-army doctor take an operation is pushing it too far."

"Are you done?" Lestrade's fingers were white on the wheel, and he tossed a sideways glance at Donovan. She was staring at him, her brown eyes fierce.

"I just think you need to think about it," she said. "That's all I'm saying."

"I would, trust me, but I haven't got the time," Lestrade said. "This is John's game."

"It's not a game, sir. Not when there are civilian lives at stake."

"Aw, Sally…"

But then Murrays was looming out of the dusk at them, tucked partway down a one-way street with parallel parking lining one side, and Lestrade slammed the brakes and twisted into one of them, turning off the engine immediately and bursting out of the car. He held up a hand to keep his team inside their cars as Donovan joined him outside.

"We wait here for John's signal," Lestrade said, glancing around the dim street. "And I'll hear no more about it."

And he settled down, fingers drumming patterns on the top of the car, eyes roving from Murrays to the empty street to his team and back again, to wait.

Mrs. Hudson had been passed roughly to Connelly, and he gripped her upper arm firmly as she tripped and stumbled alongside him, breath coming in little whimpers. He didn't like having her with them, didn't that Collins had decided to take old woman as hostage instead of one of the men. It felt wrong, being rough with someone who could have been his grandmother, and so he tried to be gentle even though his anxiety was making him impatient.

"Keep up," he growled, and gave her a little tug, pushing away the faint guilt and shoving his free hand through his thick, unruly hair. The others were already several dozen yards ahead, even supporting Banks between two of them. She shot him a terrified look but picked up her pace infinitesimally; he noticed her effort and grudgingly gave her credit. He would have pegged her for fainting or sobbing or begging, but perhaps it was her sheer terror that was giving her both silence and the strength to keep slipping along in the dark beside him. They passed under a street lamp as the others rounded a corner, ducking into a wide alley lined with bins behind a row of shops.

Connelly swore as he and Mrs. Hudson rounded the corner too and found themselves up flat against the backs of his companions, who had stopped just a few feet into the mouth of the alley.

"What's the hold up?" he whispered loudly, and Tomlinson, one of Banks' arms wrapped around his shoulders, nodded forward. Connelly leaned around the taller man to see a long, lean, shadowy figure standing just in front of the far streetlight's glow at the opposite mouth of the alley, so that his face was cast into shadow.

"Holmes?"

Tomlinson nodded, face pinched and ugly, and Connelly dropped Mrs. Hudson's arm—she sagged, her breath coming hard, and he heard her whisper, "Sherlock" pitifully, but ignore her.

"Shoot him. Why doesn't Collins shoot…"

"I'd advise against shooting me," Holmes interrupted smoothly and though his voice was calm it was as cold and brittle as ice. Connelly saw that Collins' gun was already pointed directly at the shadowy man's heart, silencer protruding off the barrel and glinting in the distant streetlight. "It isn't in your best interests."

"I beg to differ," Collins said, and Holmes chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that echoed faintly in the alley and sent shivers up Connelly's spine. Mrs. Hudson's breath was coming in heated little sobs, and her fingers crept to her face again. He glanced sideways at her and saw that her gaze was riveted on Holmes, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes, lips moving in a silent prayer.

"But you would be wrong," he said, and began to walk languidly into the alley. "I am not your primary concern, but I can tell you what is. Not, however, if I am dead."

"Right now my primary concern is not hanging for murder," Collins said coolly, and he too began to move forward towards the advancing Holmes. "And you are nothing more than an obstacle. You've been nothing more than an obstacle all evening, and I don't know why I didn't shoot you in your own flat."

"The same reason you aren't going to shoot me now," Holmes said, a sardonic smile lighting his lips and making his odd, metallic eyes flash ice-gray. "Don't you want to know what that is?"

"I couldn't care less," Collins said, and Connelly thought, Shoot him now! Stop talking and shoot and run! But Collins apparently did care, because he still didn't squeeze the trigger, and now he and Holmes were just a few yards apart, staring at each other. Tomlinson shifted, grunted uncomfortably, shrugging Banks' arm higher up on his shoulder. Connelly exchanged a look with him. It was time to go.

Collins seemed to have reached the same conclusion, because he waved an arm behind him, signaling get ready, boys, and when he spoke again his voice was taut and final.

"I really, really couldn't care less."

"I'm going to tell you anyway," Holmes said, and his voice was as suddenly sharp as Collins' was firm, and it made the men pause with the words that had sounded like a command.

"What…"

"You didn't, and you won't, shoot me because of him."

"For the love of…who? What are you on about?"

And Holmes face lit again in a kind of manic smile, teeth flashing in the darkness, and his short laugh was savage and exhilarated.

"Why, John Watson, of course."

"Wat…" But Collins never finished the name, because before he could a small, compact juggernaut in a black bomber jacket and jeans flung itself over the wall of the alley and crashed into Collins, sending them both hard to the ground in a tangle of legs and breathless curses, and the gun went skittering away into the shadows. Tomlinson swore loudly and tugged Banks violently to one side; the wounded man screamed in pain, and Lindon, who was supporting him on the other side, almost tipped over with the force of Tomlinson's pull. Tomlinson dumped Banks roughly against the side of the alley behind a small, squat bin, shouting at Lindon to leave him, leave him, get Watson, move out before the coppers get here, and Connelly registered and obeyed too.

He grabbed Mrs. Hudson's arm again and dragged her over next to the semi-conscious Banks, shoving her down—she collapsed onto one hip and shrieked, clutching at her leg, shrieked again and again, and Connelly reached down and slapped her across the face desperately, fury and fear making his hands shake.

"Shut up!" he bellowed. "Shut up!"

Her eyes were huge in her face, her hair flying across her forehead in little wisps; she looked close to hysteria, but as Connelly straightened up something else flashed across her face—an odd, defiant, terrified sort of look, and her eyes focused on something behind his shoulder. He started to turn, but then a hand grasped his upper arm and he was flung around, shoulder wrenching nearly out of his socket, and slammed violently into the wall next to Mrs. Hudson and Banks, the breath exploding out of his lungs.

"Do not touch her. I swear to God I'll kill you before you touch her again."

He had never seen a face so contorted with righteous anger. The smooth, kind face that had looked more used to bemusement or humor was hot and tight with rage. The blue eyes were dark and hooded, the lips paper-thin, and the hands clenching Connelly's sweater front, up near his neck, felt like iron cuffs at his throat.

If Holmes was all ice, John Watson was fire.

He took all this in in a split second, and he couldn't draw breath, not with Watson's hands tight at his throat, but before he could struggle Watson had let go with his right hand, reared back, and then his fist had connected with Connelly's nose and he was sliding down the wall, back scraping against the rough stone, cradling his face and moaning in shock as blood began to pour from both nostrils in twin rivers down his chin.

"There. Justice," Watson said from above him, sounding a little breathless himself, and Connelly felt nothing but shock, his brain trying desperately to catch up, watching as Watson knelt down swiftly a few feet away, cupping Mrs. Hudson's face in gentle hands—hands that had only seconds before broken Connnelly's nose.

"There, are you alright? Okay?" he heard the doctor whisper, and at her slight nod a smile graced his features, crinkling the edges of his eyes. Watson glanced sideways at the again-unconscious Banks, then shot daggers at Connelly, and then looked over his shoulder at the dim alley behind him, where Lindon sat clutching his leg against the far wall and Sherlock was still brawling with Collins and Tomlinson.

"I'll be back. Sit tight," Watson said, and as he rose he pressed a soft, brief kiss to Mrs. Hudson's forehead. Then he straightened, tensed for flight. "You." He was looking at Connelly again, whose nose was beginning to throb. Through the pain he registered the fire returning to Watson's eyes and was almost grateful he was sitting here in a puddle of his own blood instead of facing a fist-fight in the alley with this man. "Remember what I said. Touch her and I promise you I will kill you."

Connelly didn't reply, but Watson didn't wait for one. Turning, he plunged into the fight. Sherlock had been steadily losing ground, though Connelly was grudgingly impressed that the pale, whip-thin man had held his own rather impressively against the two bulkier men for this long. Watson yanked Tomlinson off Sherlock, where had almost succeeded in placing the detective in a chokehold, whipped the man around, and easily ducked the heavy punch Tomlinson threw at his face.

Then, as Connelly watched, Watson methodically, carefully, professionally, tore Tomlinson apart.

It was over in less than a minute—Tomlinson lay in heap on the alley floor, curled in on himself, groaning. Watson stood over him, shaking out his right hand, hair mussed, the knees of his jeans dirty, jacket slightly askew on his broad shoulders, but otherwise unruffled. He focused on Tomlinson for a moment as if to make sure he didn't try to get up again, and then glanced at Sherlock, who was putting what looked like the final touches on his brawl with Collins.

Connelly shook his head, and then regretted it as lights popped in front of his eyes.

Within minutes, these two men had destroyed all five of them. Banks, granted, hadn't been much help, but Holmes and Watson should have posed no threat at all, shouldn't have been part of the equation, shouldn't have been an issue in their escape.

And as he watched them move towards each other in the alley, Sherlock's low, rumbling laughter reaching his ears, fury broke inside him like thunder, and he flung himself forward and grabbed Mrs. Hudson, who had been watching the whole scene with a glazed look in her eyes, mouth slightly open, one hand still pressed to her hip. She screamed, and both Watson and Holmes whipped around, poised, as Connelly dug in his pocket for his broad black switchblade, cracked it open, and pressed it to her neck.

"I'm not going to prison," he breathed—it hurt to talk, and blood still ran from his nose, drying on his chin and oozing sticky and warm down his neck. "I'm not going. I'm walking away. You boys stay back, or I'll slit her open. I swear to you I will."

It seemed ages ago now that he had thought of her almost as his grandmother—now she was a bargaining chip, a piece in the game, a ticket out, and he was taking it.

And neither the ice-cold, bleak fury in Holmes' gaze or the red-hot, blistering rage in Watson's was going to stop him.

Mrs. Hudson looked to have passed out again. The man with the broken face—Connelly, wasn't it?—was holding her upright with one arm, and the other hand was holding a long, glinting switchblade to her throat.

Sherlock felt something like fear constrict his chest uncomfortably, fluttering at the edges of his mind, and he pushed it away angrily. Now was not the time for passion, for emotion—it was best to leave all that to John.

"Now that," he said, "is not in your best interest either. Oh, no, you do not want to be doing that."

Connelly laughed, and it caught on the blood in his mouth and came out more of a wheeze. "I'll make that call. She's coming with me, and you're going to back away and go sit yourselves down behind Murrays around the corner." He jerked his head to the right to indicate the shop, but neither Sherlock or John turned to look. "Now."

"Careful, Sherlock," John muttered from Sherlock's right. "He's more dangerous now…"

"I know, I know," Sherlock snapped, but John ignored him.

"…than he was with the rest of his pals. He's in crisis, and he isn't going to hear anything you say. His brain is completely shutting down, and he's going to walk away with her no matter what you say so why don't you shut up and let me handle this."

He said this all very quickly, and Sherlock glanced down at John, surprised, wondering where this little man had come from, and then John had taken a small step back, out of his line of vision, and he thought no, can't retreat, John, it's Mrs. Hudson, but John was speaking again and Sherlock let him, curiosity only just stronger than his desire to lunge forward and break Connelly's nose for the second time.

"All right," John said, but as Sherlock started to move back too he felt John's hand press briefly into the small of his back and he understood that John wanted him to stay put, wanted to be shielded, and he straightened up and let John slide ever-so-slightly behind him so that his right side was in front of John's left just enough…John's hand slipped into the pocket of his bomber jacket, and Sherlock felt the movements and knew that John was sending a signal, knew that John must have contacted Lestrade, knew that he must have called for backup, and even as he felt a slight twinge of annoyance he grudgingly acknowledged that this time, just this time, John had been ahead of him.

"Talk," John hissed, and Sherlock complied. As Lestrade's phone rang, he covered the faint bells issuing from John's pocket with his own voice, hearing the sounds streaming off his tongue without being really sure what he was saying but supremely confident in his ability to keep a common criminal distracted with the perfect blend of insult and intrigue, keeping Connelly's eyes fixed on his face and away from Lestrade's tinny voice now issuing from John's pocket. Then it stopped and Sherlock knew that Lestrade was listening, so he tossed a few discreet clues in, one part of his brain reminiscing about Collins' annoying smarts at picking up on his last coded conversation with Lestrade even as he knew that Connelly wasn't bright enough to clue in so it really didn't matter.

John's hand moved again in his pocket and then withdrew, and immediately there were footsteps from the adjoining street and Connelly's eyes widened.

"Cops? You called for backup?"

"Now, hang on a minute," John said placatingly, holding up his hands in front of him and taking the half-step forward again so that he and Sherlock were shoulder-to-shoulder again. "Let her go and we'll give you a chance to run. You'll be caught anyway, but sentence might be more lenient if you let her go. Kill her or injure her in any way and I will keep my promise. Fair?"

"Bloody…" Connelly swore and flung Mrs. Hudson away from him, and she crumpled to the ground. Connelly bolted, and John turned, shouted "Gun!" at Lestrade, who was pounding towards him down the alley, and Sherlock saw Lestrade pitch his own handgun at John, shock at his own actions written cleanly across his face even as the gun left his hand.

Sherlock smiled. This was going to end nicely.

John caught the gun in one hand, spun, whipped it up, and fired, and the shot cracked through the air, clean and tight, and Connelly bucked to the ground just before he turned the corner.

"Clean through the shoulder. Get him patched up," John said. He flipped the gun around and offered it back to Lestrade, a ghostly smile on his lips. "Self-defense, right?"

"Right," Lestrade said, and he looked at Sherlock, who shrugged.

"Looked like self-defense to me. Sally?"

Sally Donovan, who had come up behind Lestrade (and judging by her slack mouth and wide-eyed ogling at John's face had seen the whole thing), glared at him, but she nodded.

"Self-defense." It sounded like it had cost her everything to agree with him, but Lestrade shot her a smile.

"Looks like he can take care of himself," he said. Sally huffed. Sherlock smirked. John rolled his eyes, and then together he and Sherlock turned to Mrs. Hudson, glanced at each other, and held an impromptu foot-race to her side.

John insisted on riding in the ambulance with Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock let him have the honors only reluctantly.

"Take good care of her," he said. "She's the only landlady we've got."

John's face was soft again and he took Mrs. Hudson's hand and squeezed it gently. "I know."

Sherlock reached inside the ambulance and patted her leg, which was the only part of her he could reach. "Faking unconscious was brilliant, Mrs. Hudson," he said. "If you'd been awake he would have tried to take you with him."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled weakly and leaned up shakily to crinkle a smile in his direction, her eyes bright and twinkling. "I learned from the best, Sherlock dear."

"Wait, you…you were faking…why, Mrs. Hudson," John said, and Sherlock laughed too, tossing a quick wink at John's wonder as he shut the doors in his flatmate's face. He rapped the back with his knuckles and it slowly pulled away. Through the back windows he caught a glimpse of John admonishing Mrs. Hudson. He slipped his hands into the pockets greatcoat, and amid the flashing lights of panda cars and chaos of radio static and Yard officers handling cuffed, worse-for-wear thugs into the backs of more ambulances he turned on his heel to find Lestrade.

Again, thank you so much for reading. This chapter has a lot of povs, and I apologize for that, but it just worked that way. I hope it wasn't distracting.

Review please!