A/N: Here it is. This is the fifth and final chapter. I hope everyone has enjoyed it so far. I did my best, and I'm fairly happy with it! :)

For several terrifying seconds, John couldn't get air. He was gasping with all of his might, but nothing would come. Maybe! A small voice interjected into his panic you should GET YOUR FACE OUT OF THE BLOODY MATTRESS.

Well, then.

John pushed himself up. He had been lying facedown on what looked like an ancient and slightly damp mattress stacked at the bottom of an enlarged laundry chute. The bottom of the chute was almost pitch dark, so he couldn't see far enough to find a door. He got to his knees and tried to dust off his face and shirt. I'm already pretty covered in grime from the abduction, beating, and panicked sweating, so why bother? John was about to try and feel around for a wall or something, when there was a sudden commotion from off to his left. It sounded muffled, like the noise was coming from another room, but John could make out one word amongst the screaming:

"MORAN!"

Well, it's been fun. Time to go. John crawled as quickly as he could to the edge of his mattress, only to discover that it was actually about five mattresses and the floor was made of concrete. John groaned, reaching around to rub his hip with one hand and attempting to dislodge his face from the wall with the other. He was the perfect sardine. A serious amount of writhing did little good. Flailing was even worse, because the wall then took its opportunity to aggravate his head.

John lay still. His ears were ringing. There was another sound in the room, but he really didn't care just then. Well, not until it said his name.

"John Watson is the key to this whole affair, and you let him slip away!" John heard something that sounded like a slap, but it could have easily been a slice of ham hitting a second slice of ham. He found himself craving sandwiches, but he knew they would go to waste because he had just eaten.

"I don't know how he did it, Boss! I checked him for weapons before I even loaded him inta the car! There's no way he got hold of a knife or anythin' like that!"

Another slap. Sherlock needs to stop experimenting on the groceries.

"It doesn't matter! Just go through the traps and find him! I'd hate to miss such a good opportunity! Oh well. I could always just lie to Sherlock. It's never been a problem before."

"I'll get right on it, Boss."

"Good boy. Oh, and if you end up having to kill the little doctor, be sure to hide his body somewhere convenient."

John suddenly snapped out of his groggy state. My what? He realized that Moriarty and Moran were in the room with him. Somewhere, on the other side of the mattresses, they were there. John held his breath.

"About the Doc, Boss, I-"

"I really hope you're not going to tell me a sad little tale about how he was no nice and kind and not at all like other prisoners and how you'd just hate to kill him… Because then I would have to kill you."

There was a crushing silence. John fully understood the expression at that moment.

"I'd have to shoot you where you stand. For treason. You understand treason pretty well, don't you, Moran? Mhmm. I thought so. He's playing you, you know."

A sinking feeling gripped John's stomach. He knew this was going to go downhill faster than a rocket-propelled cheese wheel. Moriarty had her claws in. Now, she was going for the kill.

"What?" Moran sounded genuinely surprised.

"Oh yes. Absolutely. You think that John Watson, a man who's killed outside the line of duty, would give you an inch if he escaped? No. He'd have you hunted down like a fox. He'd get out his guns and call up his friends for a grand-old fox hunt. Across countries. Across continents, Moran. He would never stop hunting you. Not until you died at his hand. That is the kind of man John Watson is. You remember Hope?"

"The nice old guy who was always talkin' 'bout his kids?" There was moisture in Moran's voice.

"John Watson shot him through the heart."

There was a long pause. "Which way d'ya think he went?"

John shut his eyes. She's got him. She's got him, and nothing I can do or say will make this right. But, at least I have this thick wall of saturated box-springs between me and my executioners. What a comfort.

He counted to a thousand before attempting to move from his hiding place. John scooted upwards and peeked out from over the top of the mattresses. The coast was clear. He squeezed out of the dark space and quietly made his way to the door. John crouched down just inside the frame. He stuck his head out about a foot off of the ground and glanced around. All clear. If anyone was on patrol, they'd be looking at their eye levels for any activity. Maybe this will work out in my favor, since Moran is six-foot-plus already… John shuffled out into the hallway, still low, and took off to his left. By his estimate, though the sounds were muffled by the cushioning, Moriarty had come and gone from the right side. Logically, she'd be holed up somewhere in the heart of the building. Moran would be sent to search in the direction of the exits: where escaping prisoners are wont to drift.

John figured he was smarter than this little scheme. Definitely smarter than they give me credit for, he fumed, I was a doctor AND a soldier! I survived medical school, two tours in Afghanistan, and flat-sharing with Sherlock Holmes! I've thwarted serial killers and stood my ground against trained assassins! It's high time Moriarty and Moran got a taste of their own medicine, He told himself. If they're going to play with fire, they should know how easy it is to get burned.

He rounded the far corner of the hall. Up ahead, John could see uneven wood paneling. The floor was slanted towards the center with a narrow ledge at each wall. Bulbs were situated in the slopes, painfully bright in the comparative darkness. It was slightly disorienting. But, John was on his guard. John quickly analyzed the setup and mentally catalogued the safe and unsafe regions. This must be another of Moriarty's traps. Seems simple enough. I'd just need to avoid the middle piece, looks like. I bet that's where the trap part is. It's the only place where any pressure plates could be concealed. The ledges are too narrow to house anything particularly effective, and walking the slopes is nigh-on impossible at that angle.

As steadily as he could manage, John climbed up to balance on one of the ledges. It was tricky. The ledge was only about the width of his palm. Based on the width of the hallway, he supposed Sherlock would be able to straddle the gap and walk on both sides. Guess I'll just have to do everything the hard way, He supposed. At the same time, something else tickled his memory. The metal bar in the pseudo-hallway would be at about eye-level on Sherlock, whereas on John, it came just over his head. These traps are all designed with Sherlock specifically in mind. So far, they've been easy to avoid, or would be in theory if one wasn't concussed and disoriented… The realization was an uncomfortable one. The traps might become harder to avoid as he moved towards the exit. Not only was he navigating backwards through them, though there must be a way if Moran had come through and was now not presently dead, but they were meant for someone admittedly bigger and cleverer than himself. Pull it together, John. Remember, Moriarty said that none of these things were fatal. Maybe I can make it out and find Sherlock in time, or surprise Moran and learn a shortcut out of here.

John's wall-hugging adventure came to an abrupt end. He had reached the other side of the crooked hallway. Hopping down, John took this chance to stretch his legs some. Balancing acts are notoriously hard on the legs, and as much of a hurry as he was in, he didn't want to risk getting spectacularly injured and becoming unable to continue. Safety first. You're escaping. Don't be an idiot. Satisfied with his condition, John continued. The hallways were becoming slightly brighter as he went, probably mood lighting going on further in, so it was easier to avoid: an open pit of spikes, a room full of swinging clubs, and quite a few obstacles oriented around the ceiling. Take that, Moriarty. Whoever said height was an absolute advantage can go jump in a lake! In fact, John was moving along with such ease, that he almost didn't notice the sound coming from the room up ahead. Footsteps. Proceed with caution.

Whoever it was, they weren't heavy enough to be Moran. John thought he heard the click of heels, but it seemed different from what he'd heard of Moriarty so far. John pushed himself up against the darker wall and slid forward. He forced his breath to come shallowly. Step by step, he inched closer to the doorway. There was a dull orange light coming from the other room. John ducked down and poked his head out into what looked like an old-style gymnasium. It had been repurposed recently for storing a variety of spare parts, gymnastic mats, broken generators, more piping than anyone could possibly need, and lumber. It looked like, at some point, there had been plans to renovate the building. I guess the installment of a psychopath really ruins the neighborhood.

The footsteps seemed to be coming from John's left. He quickly rushed forward and got into cover behind a stack of planks. The footsteps stopped. John held his breath in earnest. Click. Clack. Click. Almost imperceptibly, the footsteps began again. They moved forward, towards John's position. He tensed, ready to spring on whoever it was as soon as they came into view. Clack. Click. John inhaled quietly through his nose and began a countdown.

Three. Two. One…

John jumped. He sprang around the corner of the stack, coming face to face with the barrel of a gun. It was either by pure luck, iron will, or the good grace of God that Sally Donovan hadn't started violently and pulled the trigger. John held up his hands and stood frozen before the adrenaline faded and unclouded his vision.

"Sergeant Donovan?"

"Doctor Watson?"

John breathed a huge sigh of relief. Sally lowered her gun, surprised yet pleased that she had found the doctor so quickly.

"What are you doing here, Donovan? Where's Greg? Is he ok?" At the sight of the Sergeant, the events of the afternoon flooded back into John's mind. The note! I forgot all about Greg!

"Yeah, he's fine. Sherlock got to him in time to get him out of that warehouse. What are you doing here? Greg sent me to come after you, but I got a text from a blocked number saying you were here."

"Sherlock found him?" John started to breathe easier. All of this excitement might be a little more than he was prepared for. Well, if he's only good for one thing, Moran makes an excellent smoothie. I feel like I could take on the whole complex and then run a marathon. John looked back at the sergeant. "I was kidnapped. Tall fellow, over six-foot, with blond hair. He's friendly, in a slightly unsettling way. Goes by the name of Sebastian-"

"Moran?" Donovan's voice rose in surprise.

"Yeah. Exactly. How do you know about Moran? Is he wanted by New Scotland Yard? Interpol? MI6?"

"He's my stalker." Donovan almost growled.

Oh. OH! Moran has been following… Donovan?

"You mean... you're the one he's been following around like a lovesick puppy?" John had to try and control himself. It was almost too funny to express in words. "You pepper-sprayed him?"

Sally grimaced. "Yeah. Of course! He's a creep. I think I've seen him at several crime scenes. I wonder if he's the one behind a few of them… Engineering 'em just so I'd show."

John couldn't help but chuckle at the development. Here was Sally Donovan- the no-nonsense Yarder with a bone to pick- and she was the answer to all of John's escape-plan-prayers.

"Donovan… Donovan, it's perfect!" He almost laughed. "We just need to find him! You distract him- I'll sneak around and get the drop on him."

Sally made a face. "You? Get the drop on him? Have you found a mirror in here? You don't look like you could take anyone on right now." In the dim lighting, John did look pretty beat-up. He had rope burns from his most recent imprisonment, ugly bruises across his neck and collarbone, and a darkening lump on one side of his face. In all honesty, Sally was concerned for the doctor. If he's been abducted by the same people who got Greg… She recalled the terrifying moment when Sherlock had all but carried her boss out of the burning warehouse. The tense moments following the ambulance ride were burned into her mind. And these are just his visible injuries… Who knows what other treatment he's been subjected to?

"I don't think you're in a fit state to take on anybody, especially Moran. After what he did to Greg… And I'm surprised you've made it this far without-"

"Greg? What did Moran do to Greg?"

Sally started at the demand. John's voice became harsh. His whole face darkened. This is- was- a soldier. She remembered. In all honesty, he's going to go after Moran whether or not I give it the official OK. He'd probably hurt himself if he goes off on his own… Better tell him what he wants to know. It'll be easier than knocking him out and dragging him to a hospital.

"Greg's fine, really, just beat up a bit." John nodded expectantly and Sally continued. "Somebody, I'm thinking Moran, grabbed him this morning. At the hospital, the doctors said he had a couple of bruised ribs and a concussion. That and your typical earmarks of a rough kidnapping." Sally was glad to see that John's scowl deepened to match her own. As a doctor, he knew, and possibly firsthand, what that meant.

"I can't wait to get my hands on Moran."

Sally nodded. "Me too. Do you know where he is? I haven't seen a soul since I walked in, but the place is a safety hazard. There are a lot of loose floorboards, exposed wiring, and collapsed ceilings. I mean, it's an abandoned school sure, but it's almost as if somebody tore it up on purpose."

John chuckled mirthlessly. "They did. It's all been booby-trapped. Moriarty- the bomber- has had getting Sherlock in mind for a good while. I'm surprised you made it through all of that... Oh! No, no! I don't mean anything by it!" John hurried at Donovan's sour expression. "I mean, I fell into the first trap I came across. Literally. Two stories, I think." Her expression relaxed and John went on. "Moriarty's had this whole place retrofitted for intentional injury. And worse still, Moran's hyped up on revenge and running around here with a grudge against me. I tried to get him to go against Moriarty, but she's too clever. Turned the tables on me and has Moran out for my blood."

There was a loud CLANG! from across the gymnasium. John hadn't been speaking too loudly, but there was definitely a chance they had been heard. He and Sally froze. They exchanged a glance and John mouthed 'Moran'. He grabbed the sergeant's arm and pulled her alongside him until they reached cover behind the wood stack. John listened carefully. He could hear faint footfalls from the far corner of the gym. There's not too much a six-footer with a boxer's build and hiking boots can do to hide his footsteps. He turned to Sally, who had her gun at the ready. Quickly getting her attention, he outlined a plan.

'You go that way,' he mouthed and signaled, 'and I'll come around the other side.'

Sally nodded. She started to move, gun up, towards the footfalls. John had taken off. Sally took a deep breath. Moran was getting closer. She was not looking forward to this encounter, but she trusted John Watson enough to go with his plan. Sally stood behind an old boiler and its piled accessories. Moran was just around the corner. At the last second, she realized John hadn't told her if he was armed. Oh well. There's nothing to do about it now. Let's get it over with.

Sally leapt out from behind the boiler, gun leveled. Moran was standing a few feet off with his back to her, fists clenched and in a fighting stance. She adjusted her grip on the gun.

"Hey, Freak!" She called. Moran's head whipped around. He stared. There was an agonizing pause.

"It's you…" Something changed in Moran's posture. Obviously, from the taut posture and flushed complexion, Moran was angry. Doctor Watson did say he was out for blood. He's probably more dangerous now than he was before. If Moran did all that damage to Greg without murder on his mind, who knows what he's capable of now?

"Yeah. So what? You've got a restraining order you seem to be paying no attention to at the moment." Sally tried to sound as cold and menacing as she could. Moran was a good deal taller than her, and she knew she couldn't take him in a hand-to-hand fight. She was terribly glad for her gun.

"Restraining orders… Pesky lil' things. Y'know, I was brought up on the notion that true love could conquer all." He smiled like a love-drunk teenager and took a step forward. Sally kept her gun raised.

"True love? Give me a break. You're a stalker and a creep, Moran. You assaulted my boss, aided a murderer, abducted John Watson-"

Moran flinched. Then, to Sally's surprise, he actually growled. She knew the expression. It was the same one she'd seen on many a chase: Murder, getting ready to charge. Something in him had snapped. Donovan didn't know what it was she had said, but it was definitely the wrong thing.

"The Doc? He told you all this didn't he! He's not only a killer, but now he's turned you against me! I knew I couldn't trust him… Sneaky guy, escaped right out from under my nose… Speaking of my nose, who d'ya think did this, huh?" He pointed at his face. Sally could see the giant purple bruise underneath a bandage. A killer? That's a stretch, even for him. I'd heard John was a soldier, got his records to prove it. I bet Moran found it out while he was doing some "interrogating", the creep! At least John got some good hits in. Gave as good as he got, I'd wager.

"John hasn't done anything wrong! You! You're the one killing people! You work with the bomber- I know! You can't deny it, Moran."

Moran was breathing harder, but thankfully not advancing on her. He looked conflicted, like he was angry, but unsure of what to do. Fortunately for Sally, she didn't have to wait for a decision. From on top of a plywood heap leapt John Watson. He landed hard on Moran's back, but the sniper barely stumbled. John wrapped his arms around Moran's neck in an effort to subdue him. Moran seemed to be ready for the trick. He immediately backed up into the wall, slamming John hard behind him. The doctor's arms slipped on impact and Moran found his opening. He grabbed John's wrists and leaned forward, pulling John over his shoulders. Moran used this forward momentum to throw John back at the piled plywood. There was a huge thud and clatter and the pile was upset over the doctor. Sally had lowered her gun, thinking John had everything handled, and was taken by surprise when Moran sprinted over, grabbed her by the elbows, and lifted. She was in the air in an instant, eyes leveled with the sniper's.

"He ain't gonna hurt anybody anymore. I know you don't believe me, so you're just gonna have to sit this one out!" Moran said with hurried sincerity. "I'm gonna go stop him. Sorry 'bout this, darlin'." He lifted again and Sally went sailing into the scattered mats. Fortunately, Moran had picked a soft target for the landing. It didn't mean that Sally escaped completely. Her gun was thrown from her grip on impact. Dazed but determined, Donovan got back up as quickly as she could. Across the darkened gymnasium, John was grappling with a revenge-crazed Moran. The sniper had the upper hand, and swung a fist into John's stomach the first chance he got. Sally searched for her gun, but it was lost under the gymnastic equipment.

There's got to be something… John took another hit, but managed to land a kick on Moran's knee. It was a solid blow, but that didn't slow the sniper down much. Sally had to hurry. She spied the mass of piping near the boiler that she'd hid behind earlier. That just might do it. She picked up a sturdy looking hunk of metal and turned back toward the fray. John was being hoisted into the air, Moran grasping the doctor's neck with only one hand. The other was pulling back, getting ready to do some serious harm. John kicked at the air, desperately trying to get free. Moran chuckled something at John. The doctor's eyes went wide. Moran's fist clenched. Sally rushed him. She swung the pipe around and hit the back of Moran's head. Not a fatal blow- Sally didn't really want to kill the guy- but it was enough to bring the giant down. John hit the floor just after Moran.

Sally rushed to the doctor's side. John was gasping for air. The bruising around his neck was tinged red with new agitation. His face was splotched similarly, and Sally thought she saw blood on the floor beneath him. John's eyes found her in the semi-darkness.

"Nice swing, Sergeant." He made an effort to grin, and despite the dire situation, Sally smiled back.

"Are you OK, John?" The use of his first name and not some derogatory reference was a pleasant surprise. John tried to sit up and winced. Maybe just a bit longer on the floor. No, no! That's the head injury talking. Get up soldier, Get UP!

"Help me up…" Sally aided John to a sitting position and confirmed her suspicions about the blood.

"Your head's bleeding, John."

"What, really?" He reached a hand back around and winced. Well, at least I stretched before. It's just a little shoulder twinge, that's all. Not anything too serious. Now, about this head wound… John hissed through his teeth as he felt around the back of his head. There was a tender spot, of course, but also an evil-dent-of-fire-pain to the left, so he was careful.

"Yeah. OK. It's not so bad. I didn't lose consciousness at least. That's a good sign. Are you alright? Moran threw you…"

"It's ok. I landed in the mats. I don't think he was pitching to kill, anyhow."

"That's a relief. Oof." John tried to take a deep breath but was forced to stop. "He got me pretty good. Do you think you could help me stand? We still have to get out of here…" Sally came to his side and got an arm under his shoulders. Together, they managed to get John on his feet. He stumbled to the side, and Sally had to struggle to keep him standing.

"Sorry… My leg's out. Between the plywood landing and a couple of good hits from Moran… I don't think I can stand on my own."

"Don't worry about it. We're getting out of this together, one way or another." Donovan pulled one of John's arms over her shoulder and wrapped the other around his waist, careful to avoid the most sensitive ribs. "I've got a mission to complete."

"Thanks, Donovan." John gasped. "I don't think I'd have been able to manage it, what with the night I've had. Two nights, really… You saved my life."

"Yeah, well, I figure I owe you one. Sherlock's been… Well, he's been manageable since you moved in with him."

"Sherlock? Not 'The Freak'?"

Sally only paused for a moment. "I guess I owe him one too."

John didn't ask. They started walking together towards the door Donovan had come through earlier. Sally got there in front of John. He pulled his arm back and then around her neck so she could use one of her hands. Sally steadied him with her other arm and pulled the handle.

"It's locked!" Sally tried again, but the door wouldn't budge.

"Got your gun on you?"

"No," she sighed, "I lost it when I hit the mats."

"We'd probably better go back for it. I don't know what kind of security Moriarty has, or whether she's armed herself. Did you see any guards when you came in?"

"Not a soul."

"Well," John thought aloud, "Then it might just be the two of them holed up in here. I know that Moriarty has 'people' for things like this, but I've only seen Moran in the building. He did the kidnapping solo as well. Maybe we should grab your gun and make for the back of the building. There might be a second exit. Escape should be our first priority. I mean, we were barely able to take Moran when I could walk."

"Yeah. I don't think a second round is a good idea. Should we do anything about him? What if he comes around before we get out?"

John paused to consider. "No, I don't think he'll be moving for another fifteen minutes at least. It should give us enough time to make good our escape. I say we just get the gun and leave. And while we're at it, let's check Moran too. Better he's got as little advantage over us as is possible."

"Alright. Let's do it." Sally gave an affirmation to John's plan, and they slowly traveled back to the scattered equipment. Donovan set John down on a foam wedge and began her search. In no time at all, she was able to locate the hard metal weapon amongst the squishy mats. She made a more cautious approach to the downed sniper and quickly ascertained that he had only his sidearm. Sally grabbed the gun and hurried back over to John.

"Got it. What now? Do we shoot the lock?"

John shook his head. "It might ricochet and hit one of us. And we still don't know who is in the building with us. We think it's just the two of us, but who knows? A shot could alert Moriarty or her hypothetical goons."

"Alright. No shooting unless absolutely necessary. Shouldn't be a huge issue." Sally walked back over to John, gun in hand, and stopped. "How's this going to work? I can't carry you and shoot at the same time."

John pursed his lips. "You might not like this."

"What?"

"I could shoot. I've got one free arm."

Sally shrugged. "Ok."

John looked astonished. "Really? You'd seriously trust me with your gun?"

Sally smiled and handed the weapon over. "Desperate times, you know? After all this, I have a firm suspicion that you can handle it. Why? Is there a reason I shouldn't trust you?"

John chuckled at her tone. "None at all. You ready to get out of here, Sergeant Donovan?"

"Ready when you are, Doctor Watson." Sally helped him back to his feet and the duo made their way to the other corner of the gym- toward the door Moran had come through. Fortunately, this one was left ajar. Sally nudged it open with her foot and they proceeded.

It was a blessing. They had discovered a back passage, better yet: the secret shortcut around all of the traps. Admittedly, the first few minutes of laboriously slow searching, scanning, and shoe-throwing were tense. However, it was soon discovered that this passage wasn't out to maim them.

It was pretty slow going with John's leg almost out of commission. Several times, they even found themselves at a dead end. Doors were almost always boarded up, and a search of a potential escape route often ended with one solid brick wall.

In one such room, Sally was forced to set John down. He was breathing heavily. They had been going for quite a while: close to half an hour and well over Moran's estimated nap duration. The strain was beginning to show. Sally sank down to the floor next to John. It wasn't easy carrying someone all this distance, even if he could support a bit of his weight himself.

"You alright, John?"

"Yeah… fine…" He said between gasps. "Just need a breather."

Sally looked around the little room. She hadn't brought her purse in, and was only now remembering her phone stuffed in her car's glove compartment. Donovan figured she should at least find something to clean or bandage John's wounds with. Especially that spot on the back of his head. I know head wounds bleed a lot more than normal, but this kind of blood loss is especially worrying.

They appeared to be in a storage room of some sort, but most rooms in this creaky old building were used for storing random crap. It meant this room was pretty commonplace by their experience. Sally got up and started going through some of the less hazardous looking boxes. Once a boarding school, the building had been abandoned and in a state of disrepair for several decades. No one had bothered to search the decrepit building, and many of the boxes that remained were intact. She found chemistry equipment, textbooks, glassware, and cleaning supplies before she discovered the box of linens. Sally Donovan thanked her lucky stars that they had ended up in the somewhat stable forgotten-storage-wing.

She took the first piece of clean-ish fabric- a pillowcase- from the box and hurried back over to John.

"What d'you want me to do with that? Wear it as… as a hat?" He snorted groggily.

Sally snorted in frustration. "No, Doctor, I was going to try and make a bandage. You need one, if you haven't noticed."

John blinked hard and sat up further. "No, no, I'm definitely aware of it. Let me see that." He took the pillowcase and fished around his coat pockets for the knife. Once located, John took the little blade and began cutting shaky strips in the fabric.

"Oh, let me!" She interjected. "Before you lose a finger." Sally grabbed the pillowcase and pocketknife from a secretly relieved John Watson. She quickly cut the fabric into strips. "Alright. What now?" John took one of the pieces and folded it up into a little square. He reached his fingers around and found the wound on the back of his head.

"I'm going to hold this here. You wind the bandage around my head. Be sure to get my piece under the wraps. That's it. Not!... so tight…" John gritted his teeth. "That's better." Sally tied a little knot directly over the wound as John had instructed and then cut off the excess fabric. She helped John lean back against the wall and regain his bearings.

"I'm good." He said after a few minutes of silence. "Let's get a move on."

Sally started to move when she heard a sound. John didn't seem to have noticed and kept trying to get up. She pushed him back to the floor, maybe a bit too quickly. Feeling guilty but also worried for their lives, Sally made an apologetic expression and clamped a hand over John's mouth before he could groan or swear loudly. Footsteps. There's a dragging sound too, but definitely footsteps. Sally looked back over to John. His eyes were widening in a panic and he tried to stand again. Donovan moved closer and squeezed the doctor's hand in a silent sign of reassurance. He calmed considerably after just a moment, and Sally let him go.

John was weakened but alert as the footsteps increased in volume. They were coming steadily closer to the open door. John held his breath. A shadow flickered into view. The doorway was slowly encompassed by a great mass. John's stomach dropped.

Moran trudged slowly past. He was breathing hard. He was dripping blood from various wounds. He was dragging behind him the limp body of Sherlock Holmes.

Every muscle in John's body screamed at him to charge Moran. The only thing restraining him from sure suicide was Sergeant Donovan's crushing grip on his hand. Moran struggled forward. Now he was out of sight. A door opened and closed moments later. Moran had gone, taking Sherlock with him.

John snapped out of his frozen state. He pushed off the wall and stood unsteadily. His forward descent was quick. Donovan was quicker.

"I have to… We need to go after them. Sherlock…" John strained towards the door.

"John! John, we need a plan!" Sally hissed. "He's got a hostage now, remember. Probably dragging him straight to…" Her mouth fell open in realization.

"Straight to Moriarty." John finished. He pulled the gun from where he'd stashed it in his coat pocket. It was still very dark, but Donovan hadn't missed the action.

"We can't go in there shooting up the place. As an officer of the law, I can't let you."

"But you gave me the gun." John whined.

"Yeah," Sally huffed in annoyance, "For self-defense. Not for some crazy revenge mission. Very similar to the one Moran is on, let me remind you."

John sighed and let her continue.

"We go in, warning shots only unless attacked. If I'm letting you go in there, it's on my terms."

"Letting me? I don't know if you could stop me from going."

Sally smirked. "Yeah, with that leg, let's see you try and get in there on your own."

John had nothing to say.

"Alright then. Here's what we do."

Sherlock came to himself very slowly and painfully. Possible concussion- no, definite concussion. Oh, my head… There was a heavy sledgehammer pounding against his skull. Pounding pulse, also indicative of head trauma. Further data is required. I must- oh. That's unfortunate. Sherlock discovered that he was, for lack of better terminology at present, all tied up. Bright nylon cord secured his wrists, and an extra dozen loops wound around his chest for good measure. He took another breath and found the bonds excessively tight. His lungs didn't expand easily with the ropes securely crushing him. They were absolutely no help.

Sherlock was aware too late of the noises in the room. Someone was hauling him upwards by the collar. Ah. That left-handed, American, ex-Special Forces sniper-for-hire who recently lost a fight with multiple opponents and has an affinity for blended drinks. Pattern of bruising tells me he got his fair share of th-AUGH ribsribsribs!

Sherlock struggled in gasps to try and ease the burning pain in his chest. His feet floundered until they found solid ground to support them. That's right, he remembered, I was ambushed under the cover of darkness. If it hadn't been for the severely dysfunctional and annoying ceiling configurations in this wretched building, I would have not hit my head so hard and would have been able to hear him coming. Serves him right, whoever fought him. Looks like they won. Judging by the angle of attack and present damage, his shorter opponent must have fairly kicked his-… Shorter opponent. Favored one side strongly, based on one-sided pattern of injury. This goon has blood on him, not his own. Drip spread on left arm shows he hoisted his opponent into the air… No… It can't be! Short, one-sided focus, fairly light for the giant… John!

Sherlock struggled under the iron grip. His captor was having none of it and set his head spinning with a backhand blow. Sherlock staggered. As he had made his way into the death-trap of a building Mycroft had directed him to, he found no end of frustrating and difficult obstacles barring his path. He had been shocked by exposed wires, tripped by loose floorboards, and smacked around by falling pieces of ceiling. His coat was dirtied and ripped in places and he had bruises on both knees. He had kept going until he was ambushed by the sniper. Now conscious again, he tried to stand firm.

A door on the other side of the damp, wooden room opened. There she was, exactly as he had first seen her- the real her. Moriarty faced him in her best pressed power suit. Hair and nails impeccable. Shoes had been shined, likely by the oaf asphyxiating him. Moriarty was smiling as well. It was a crocodile's smile. Blood-red lipstick completed the effect. Sherlock shuddered despite his best efforts. He was worn down physically and not in any other way. Not any way to do with sentiment. He had rushed into the abandoned school on the desperate search for John, but had instead found the nemesis that haunted his- John's nightmares.

"Hello, Sherlock. Miss me that much? Just had to come rushing over?"

"Where's John?" He managed to choke out. This hired thug had a really strong grip.

Moriarty sighed. "Moran…"

Sherlock fell to his knees, gasping. He took a few gulps of air and looked Moriarty dead in the eyes. Mustering all of his pent-up fury, Sherlock growled.

"Where. Is. John."

It wasn't a question so much as a demand. A threat. Moriarty smirked back at him.

"Hmm. Can't quite say, Sherlock dear. Can't get a fix on one place in particular. Why, he could be in so many places all at the same time!" She giggled.

The implications were not lost on him. Sherlock growled again and lunged. Moran's hand on his coat collar did nothing to stop the detective's violent struggling. He saw red.

"What have you done with him?" Sherlock shouted. "If you've hurt him," he began. His voice was low and dangerous.

"Oh, do finish. I very much need this information, because I have. Hurt him. Certainly." The predatory grin was back. Fury coursed through Sherlock's veins. He was beyond simple anger. This was absolute loathing. If it wasn't for this tower of meat, he seethed inwardly, I believe I would kill her here and now.

Moriarty began to laugh. "This is too good. Really, it's better than I could have hoped." She began pacing around the room. Sherlock knew the walk. It was just the beginning. She would answer his threats with every detail he feared. Moriarty would tell him all about the kidnapping, the torture. His worst nightmare in every gory detail.

She stopped in front of him once again.

"Let me tell you how I beat you, Sherlock Holmes. We should finish this with a BANG!" She ended up shouting gleefully. "I'm glad to say you won't have to wait any more. There's no one waiting for you. If you hadn't deduced it already, Moran has been in a little fight. I say little, because Sebby is my very best man. John Watson is lying dead somewhere in my palace, and there's nothing you can do about it. Would you like me to describe it to you? How he met his end?"

The sound of splintering wood almost drowned out the anguished response. But, Sherlock was released as Moran spun.

"If anybody's telling that story, it's going to be me! GOTCHA, MORIARTY!"

Sherlock's hopes soared. He knew the voice. It was different, a little hoarser, but very much the voice he knew.

John.

There was the sound of a gunshot, then two. From his position on the floor, Sherlock saw a blur retreating through the other door. "Catch you… later…" He grunted. There was no response.

Another gunshot, closer, and something smacked his head sharply to the side. He saw stars and two, much fuzzier, exiting blurs. So, the chase is on then. Good. I'll just wait here. Take a nap, maybe. Over the ringing, he heard a voice shouting something.

"SHERLOCK!" Of course. My name. Right. Right?

A body landed close by him. Hands gripped his shoulders and then moved down to the ropes that were crushing him. The pressure disappeared very suddenly. Then the hands were back on his shoulders, shaking him. He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned in pain. That hurts, idiot. Stop it… My head is spinning enough as it is… I don't need your help.

"Stop…"

Immediate results. Scarily immediate. Sherlock tried opening his eyes. There was little enough light in the room, but the fact that everything was dimmer bothered him slightly. What bothered him more was the terrified face of John Watson hovering over him.

"Sherlock? Are you alright? Sherlock, say something!"

There was noticeable panic in his voice. In addition to that, his mind began deducing, he has been strangled, concussed, beaten… Oh how I wish I could get my hands on that loathsome, odious, repulsive, devil incarnate!… And her hired goon too, I suppose. Might as well…

"Fine, John, fine." He ended up saying. Sherlock began sitting upwards and found that his head was now spinning at a much slower rate. He raised a blessedly unbound hand to his forehead. The stars were beginning to clear. John's battered face came back into focus.

"What I am really interested in," Sherlock almost snarled, "Is your condition. You are hurt, John." His eyes flicked between the various bruises decorating his flatmate's face and neck. Blurry as his vision was, he could see enough. Quite enough.

"It's not as bad as it looks. Apparently, I'm not the only one." Sherlock ignored the remark and focused his attention on the bandage clumsily wrapped around John's forehead. Completely disregarding his flatmate's protests, Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulder and pulled him forward. Now, with John slouched awkwardly in front of him, he could see the wound a bit better. What really enraged him was the presence of multiple wounds. Other than the bloodied mess, there were several bruises, one perhaps twenty four hours older than the rest. He fumed.

"You have been very ill-treated."

"Hmm, you really think so?" John replied to the floor. Sherlock lifted John to a less uncomfortable position. He received the patient look that he was very used to seeing. It was John's patented 'I work with a child' look. Sherlock almost laughed with relief. Hmm… I must be severely concussed. Keep it together. Catalogue symptoms: There is certainly the disorientation, inclination to sentiment…

Suddenly, John was smiling. He looked up at his best friend.

"That…" John began, "Was traumatizing." Sherlock couldn't stop the giggle.

"What an absurd statement." He replied. John snorted. Within moments, they both dissolved into a laughing fit. John's breath hitched with an effort to stop. All this movement hurt his ribs terribly, but he couldn't quit. Sherlock was in the same predicament. His shoulders rose and fell painfully, but it felt so good. He was relieved beyond belief. Here was John, alive, mostly unharmed, and right here in front of him. It was ridiculous. He was laughing. John was laughing. And quite suddenly, John wasn't laughing. He pitched forward and Sherlock hastily caught him. He was a little shocked and a bit confused. John cleared that up presently.

"I think I might vomit." The muffled voice declared from his shoulder.

"That's just the shock talking John," Sherlock's voice wavered a bit. John's not in a fit state to move. How am I going to get him out of here? "And the exhaustion, adrenaline crash, concussion, bruised ribs," observations and deductions rattled off. Sherlock couldn't stop himself. "Skipped meals, lack of proper sleep, stress, chloroform, over taxation… John, how did you do it?" John's body had gone slack and he quickly responded to the change. He gripped his flatmate tighter. I can't carry him all the way out alone, not as a deadw-… not without any kind of assistance from him. At least, not any time soon. Disorientation is still present, I would not be able to navigate or retain my balance. If John was conscious…There's got to be something, something! Think!

Sherlock recognized the sound of footsteps on the periphery of his awareness.

"I chased them out the back but there was a car- OhnoJohn!" After the hurried exclamation, Sherlock found himself face to face with Sergeant Donovan.

"John? Come on, talk to me!" She shook his shoulder and got no response. She turned to Sherlock. "What did you do? Did he tell you anything? What happened?" The rapid-fire questions bounced around in Sherlock's brain for a second before he could formulate a response.

"Uh… Um… I- Donovan." He eloquently retorted. Sherlock sighed. "He fell forward, mentioned that he felt nauseous, and passed out, I suppose."

"You suppose?" She quipped. "Well, you're no doctor. I suppose you did your best. All right then." Donovan fixed him with a grim look. "Can you stand?"

Sherlock was three steps ahead of her question, but realized the importance of his answer.

"Yes. How shall we go about this? John is usually… Ahem. This is not my area of expertise." He looked to Donovan, glazed with a coat of John's blood, No! Focus! Experienced with work in emergency services. Donovan is our best bet. "I defer to you for… emergency procedures."

Donovan actually cracked a smile. "Alright. I'll relish this moment later. How's your vision?"

Sherlock grimaced in a way that told Sally everything she needed to know.

"Ok. Well, I have an idea. I'm exhausted and I jarred my leg quite a bit kicking down that door. It's usable, though."

"That was you?"

"Yeah. What did you think, John did it concussed and with only one good leg?"

Sherlock was tactfully silent.

"Never mind. Here's what's going to happen. You're going to get John in a fireman's hold over your shoulders. Of the two of us, you're definitely stronger. Even though your vision's impaired, we should be able to-"

"My balance is also… hmm… compromised."

"Oh." Donovan's face fell, but an expression of fierce determination came over her as she thought.

"No, this can work. Same plan, but be sure, once he's over your shoulders, to get his leg in the crook of your elbow and his wrist with that same hand. It'll make it easier to keep your balance with one arm free. I'll help hold you up on that side."

Sherlock was surprised. "Where did you learn that?"

Donovan smiled back at him. "Greg taught me. Now let's get him up." Sherlock stood, swayed on his feet, but maintained his balance with Donovan's help. She also assisted him in lifting John and kept a steadying hand on his back as he hoisted John over his shoulders, making sure to use Donovan's recommended grip. Donovan did her part and let Sherlock lean on her a bit with his free arm. John was not terribly heavy, Sherlock reflected, but they had both been through a lot tonight and his energy was almost sapped.

Donovan guided him back through the winding halls and past the gymnasium. Sherlock had left the second door wide open when he had come through, and Moran hadn't the presence of mind to close it. Lucky them. Sherlock's vision was beginning to blur further. Donovan was thankfully right there beside him. She started talking at some point to keep him attentive, but Sherlock couldn't focus on the words. The only things that reminded him of his mission were the slight tugs he felt on his arm guiding him in the right direction, and the thumping beat of John's heart on his back. He was far enough gone to not remember the low ceiling, nor to duck when he was told. As he fell, a weight was lifted from his back. It should have been a relief, but he lost consciousness with a feeling that it was very, very wrong.

Sherlock awoke from the after effects of blunt force trauma for the second time that day. His first sight was a vibrant pink sky, painted brightly with the streaks of sunrise. Something hummed close to his head. Mmmmaybe it's a butterfly. No. It's the other thing. The yellow… Ah. A bee. A bumbly bee. That's it. Sherlock listened to the humming of the bumbly bee and he realized he had never heard one buzz to a tune before. Strange. This requires further study. Oh look. Lestrade. His second sight of the morning was the irritated and exhausted looking face of Detective Inspector Lestrade. He scowled a bit, and then the too-loud voice rang in Sherlock's ears.

"Donovan. I think he's waking up." Lestrade cracked a smile when Sherlock winced.

"Of course, I'm waking up, Lestrade. You imbecile. What does it look like I'm doing?" Was Sherlock's intended brilliant comeback. The sound that actually reached the open air was: "'Corzm…w'kin…stray…y'bizzle duzit likum doo."

There were a few chuckles flying around from nearby. One from Lestrade, which was particularly irritating.

"How articulate." Was his oh so clever response. I'll show him. As soon as I can move something beyond my nose, like my mouth or my leg or something, I'll give him what for! They should really show me some more sympathy. I've been concussed!

Sally Donovan appeared fairly close to Lestrade's side.

"Oh good." She sighed. Sherlock had had about enough of this chatterbox nonsense. Quite beyond his control, one of his arms flopped out at Donovan. It didn't nearly reach her, but dropped like a stone onto his chest. It knocked a bit of the air out of his lungs. Rather unpleasant.

"Whoa. Easy there, slugger." Another voice. One of those blasted chucklers. A hand came from beyond his field of vision and pulled his dead arm off of his chest and laid it back down by his side. He felt something warm and slightly squishy under his head as feeling started to come back to him. Oh. Just a human leg. Boring. I wonder where that other arm of mine's gone off to. He tried opening his eyes beyond a squint and found a third figure. Hmm. Mrs. Hudson. I wonder when she got the roof removed. It's also rather suspicious, that the heart of London should have so many trees. And bumbly bees.

"Oh, Sherlock!" The old lady cried, further assaulting his stinging head, "We've been so worried about you. You've been so out of it, murmuring things, shouting too! Such language… You had poor John worried sick!"

John. All of the sudden, Sherlock desperately needed to form a question. Unfortunately, between his disoriented state and his landlady's natural gregariousness, it didn't go as he'd hoped.

"How…"

"Oh! Silly me! You've missed most of it, dear. We had better explain." She exchanged a nod with the DI and Donovan and then launched into a narrative that covered the first five minutes after Sherlock had left in the space of ten. Sherlock couldn't contain his agitation beyond that point and groaned loudly enough to stun his landlady into silence. Someone squeezed his hand reassuringly. That felt nice. At least one of these idiots is listening to me.

Lestrade decided to take over and give the short, sweet version of their story.

"Well, ahem, after Mrs. Hudson assured me she was alright, and um… presented me with a spare firearm which I will remember very little about, we decided to come out after you. I tried calling your phone and got no answer, so Mrs. Hudson fished out an emergency contact and whoever it was texted me directions to the school. Mrs. Hudson had to drive since I have a concussion, and here we are. Oh! Yeah. We met Donovan just outside the building, said you'd had a bad fall and she couldn't get you up or out on her own. There were some gymnastic mats lying around, so we rolled you onto one of those and dragged you back outside. I called for an ambulance about… ten minutes ago. The paramedics should be here in another ten. Hospital's a ways off and there's not enough of us that can realistically drive to one either. So here we are." Lestrade made a 'that's that' gesture with his arms and sat back.

Sherlock took a few minutes of absolute silence and processed this information. He blinked several times, and hummed in affirmation. Lestrade held back a snicker. Donovan elbowed him.

"John?" Sherlock inquired at last. He had heard little mention of his flatmate and friend. They must be keeping something from me. He's lying wounded, possibly dying, just out of my line of sight! I've got to get to him, got to-

Sherlock's agitated squirming was halted by one: a restraining hand on his flaily arm, two: a reassuring squeeze on his other, and three: an unexpected voice.

"Yes, Sherlock? I'm right here! Hey- cut that out. Hold still!" Sherlock stopped flailing and craned his neck backwards and around to get a look- to really be sure, my eyes would not deceive me- at the source. There was John, resting upside-down against Sally Donovan's equally inverted car. Ah. I see. An optical illusion, as I am on the ground, looking upside-down at John. He would appear, from my perspective, to be upside-down, when the guilty party is in fact my head. Obvious.

"John."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"You're awake."

"Yeah. Funny thing, that. I woke up right after you dropped me. The falling part actually woke me up, but what really got me wide awake was you then falling on me." Sherlock's brows furrowed as a fresh bout of giggling erupted in the circle.

"John, you're not making any sense."

John, in turn, joined in on the mirth. "Of course you would say that. Yeah, um… Donovan said you hit your head on a low beam or something. I woke up, hit the ground, and then got the wind knocked out of me when you landed on my stomach. You were unconscious, but you wouldn't let go of my arm so Sally had to run for help. Then Lestrade rushed in, just as I was losing feeling in my hand, and dragged the both of us to safety."

"Your leg?" Sherlock asked, still a bit befuddled.

"It'll be ok. You've got your gigantic head settled nice and cozy on my good one. I'd tell you to shove over so I can flex my foot, but you've got a concussion and I have a wonderful bedside manner. So, here we are."

Sherlock snorted, a sure sign that everything was on its way back to normal.

They all sat in fairly companionable silence. Lestrade fell asleep against Donovan before the ambulance arrived and was scolded by the paramedics for neglecting his injuries. Sally was declared fit as a fiddle and sought proper punishment for her boss' neglect. She insisted that Lestrade get a ride home from Mrs. Hudson. Starry-eyed glee from the landlady. John was loaded into an ambulance fully conscious and actively involving himself in the emergency treatment. He was both a model patient and a model doctor. In the other ambulance, Sherlock fell back into a doze. When the paramedics dosed him with painkiller, he didn't even put up a fight. The sooner we get it over with, the sooner we get to the hospital and the sooner they'll let me visit John. For once, maybe because of his head injury, he wasn't a miserable pain in the neck to the EMTs. It was the most cooperative Sherlock had ever been to an ambulance crew, and he vowed it would never, ever happen again.

A/N: Thank you, everyone, for reading. It's honestly better than what I thought I could possibly do, but maybe not quite everything I wanted to do. I hope it was nice.

Thank you again.