"Sleep, Sherlock." he said softly. "I'll still be here when you wake up."

"I know." Sherlock murmured, eyes sliding shut. "Though I'd imagine this'll be a good one for your blog."

He could practically feel John's smile. "I wasn't going to blog about it. It wasn't exactly a case." the doctor said.

"Nonsense." Sherlock replied, the darkness looming ever closer. "Someone set fire to the clinic, and I intend to find out who."

~Two Weeks Later~

"He's definitely dead?"

In the centre of the dark and abandoned warehouse were two men – one of them on his knees – lit up by the sunlight streaming in through the grimy windows. The rest of the building was cast in darkness, but Carlos Gutierrez knew his men were lingering. They were what remained of his once massive drug ring, now dwindling to a mere fifty odd. The rest had been arrested and captured, or had fled the country.

"Yes Mr. Gutierrez."

Carlos looked down at the man kneeling before him. He was wearing a zip-up hooded jacket and had his head bent to the ground, his hair covered by the hood. His face was hidden, but Gutierrez had never met this man before, though he'd been told that this was the person who'd completed the task set by him.

"What's your name?" he asked gruffly, crossing his arms.

"Harvey, sir. Marcus Harvey." the man answered in a deep voice. Gutierrez guessed him to be late thirties.

"And you were the one who set fire to the clinic?"

"Yes Mr. Gutierrez."

"You saw Holmes' body?"

"Yes Mr. Gutierrez. He was dead."

"What about his sidekick? John Watkins or whatever it is."

Harvey paused for a moment, and Gutierrez frowned. "He's still alive, sir," The man's voice sounded cold, and Gutierrez shifted. "But he still 'ad a few injuries to account for it."

"What?" Carlos asked sharply. "You said he wasn't there."

Harvey kept his head bent, but his voice sounded shaken. "Well, he arrived 'bout twenty minutes later with some bloke dressed in black..."

"And?" Gutierrez prompted, anger growing inside.

"And... they both pulled out casualties. The guy in black with that Inspector fellow, and... Watkins with 'Olmes."

"But Holmes was definitely dead?"

"Well, he certainly looked like it. 'Is face was all pale and 'is 'ead was bleedin' bad. It'd be unlikely he was alive."

"But it could happen." Gutierrez growled, stalking closer to Harvey. "The one thing I asked for during that mission was to ensure Holmes didn't get out alive. I didn't care what you did, as long as it got the job done. And now you're telling me there's a possibility he's not dead? What do you think he's going to do now, hmm?"

As he came closer, he slowly pulled a revolver from inside his jacket. When he reached the trembling man, he held the gun to the top of his covered head. "You've signed everyone's death certificate you stupid piece of–"

"Drop it, or I will shoot you where you stand." A sudden voice behind him cut him off, and Gutierrez felt the cool barrel of a gun being pressed against the back of his neck.

"Who the hell are you?" he snarled, calmly waiting for one of his men to stop this stranger.

He heard the safety being released. "I said drop your gun. Now."

"You think I'm gonna do as you say?" he retorted with a sadistic grin. "Not a chance. Boys!"

The smile was wiped off his face when no one moved. Gutierrez squinted into the darkness to try and make out any of his men, but there was no one there.

"Yes, you will do as I say." The man behind him hissed. "Do it."

The revolver clattered to the floor next to him, and he raised his hands.

"About time, John, I thought you'd never turn up."

Gutierrez watched with wide eyes, as Harvey got to his feet and raised his head, the hood falling from him to reveal a tall, lanky man with dark curls smiling sweetly at him.

"Would've helped if you'd told us what you were planning." The man behind him sighed.

"You!" Carlos spluttered. He spun to see a short man pointing a Browning at him, watching with a cold expression. "And you!"

"Yes, and it's John Watson, thank you very much." the doctor answered. "Turn around."

Knowing that resisting was futile, Gutierrez turned back to face Sherlock Holmes, watching as the taller man took off the hooded jacket and threw it to the floor. He felt handcuffs being snapped around his wrists, and he closed his eyes in defeat.

"Do we have to stand in darkness? A bit of light please, Agent!" Sherlock called.

"Yeah, alright, just hang on a mo... There we are!"

The long overhead lights groaned and stuttered to life, illuminating the large and empty warehouse, and Gutierrez's jaw dropped open when he saw all his men lying unconscious near the walls, four or five men dressed in black moving amongst them. One of the agents approached the trio and grasped Gutierrez's arms, dragging him towards the exit without saying anything.

"This won't be the last you'll see of me Holmes!" Carlos shouted, but he was shoved outside before he could continue.

"I'll take your word for it." Sherlock muttered, brushing himself down.

"How did you know he was here?" John asked, wincing slightly as he tucked his gun back into the waistband of his jeans, aware of his only recently healed shoulder.

"Mycroft traced the phone call he received to a house in Stuttgart." Fred Brownley interrupted, walking over.

"Yes, and I visited the resident in prison and found out who he worked for and when the next meeting would be." Sherlock continued, casting a disdainful glance at Brownley.

"But didn't feel the need to tell anyone about it?" John asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I told you." Sherlock argued.

"No, you sent me a text saying, 'found Gutierrez; meet me at the warehouse in North Greenwich in three hours. Could be dangerous.' The warehouse doesn't really tell me much, does it? And I didn't even know who Gutierrez was." John said with a sigh.

"Yes, well," Sherlock cleared his throat, shifting. "Doesn't matter anymore. Everything went according to plan."

"Only just." John muttered, though his lips twitched.

"So why did this Gutierrez guy want you dead?" Brownley asked.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock asked, frowning. John rolled his eyes.

"No? Fine. Carlos Gutierrez was part of the drug syndicate I took down three months ago. I had his partner in crime and also his brother, Julian Gutierrez, sent to prison, and I imagine he didn't take too kindly to that." the detective said. "He set a price on my head within his organisation, promising the first person to kill me got the reward."

"I see." Brownley said. "Well, then, I'd better be off. Mycroft will want a report." he added with a half-smile.

Sherlock's expression turned cold. "If he wanted to know what was happening, he could've come here in person." he said icily.

"Leave it, Sherlock." John said quietly, laying a hand on his arm. "He let us go back to Baker Street, remember?"

Sherlock's face remained frosty, but he didn't say anything.

Brownley sighed. "You know what he's like–"

"All too well." Sherlock muttered. John's grip tightened.

"– but I'm not going to argue. It's a miracle I've still got a job, so..." Brownley shrugged.

"Of course." John smiled.

"Catch up with you later." the agent said as he strolled towards the exit.

"Tell your nephew I said hi!" John called. Brownley raised his hand in acknowledgement, walking out the door.

"All of Mycroft's agents are spineless." Sherlock sniffed as the two of them began to head slowly across the warehouse.

"You're calling Fred spineless? The guy who defied the British Government without a second thought for his career?" John asked, incredulous.

"Most of Mycroft's agents are spineless, then."

"Better." John smiled.

Sherlock's phone chirped and he pulled it out of his pocket, reading the text.

"It's Lestrade." he said. "Got a new case." He suddenly groaned as he put his phone away.

"What? I thought you'd be pleased about it." John said, frowning whilst they left the building and headed towards the main road.

"I just know Lestrade's going to contaminate the scene." Sherlock muttered.

"He doesn't usually; why would he decide to now?"

"Because of his bloody crutches! It's been two weeks and he still can't use them properly."

"Stop being so rude." John smiled, nudging Sherlock in the side.

"I'd bet my skull he'll fall over at least twice." the detective said, hailing a taxi

John grinned. "You're on." he said as they got into the cab and drove off.

END