Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter 1

"Thus," Sherlock said to Lestrade regarding the mysterious person who shot the pill-wielding cabbie, "we're looking for someone left-handed, five foot seven, military trained, with a strong moral principle..." his voice trailed off when his quick eye caught a sandy-haired man behind a police car who seemed to match his description exactly. The man whirled around and started running off as soon as Sherlock saw him. Sherlock bounded towards him.

"Wait, where are you going?" Lestrade asked, grabbing Sherlock by the arm.

Sherlock briefly entertained the idea of telling Lestrade that the shooter was right there, running away, but he still did not know the motivation of the shooting and did not want to risk New Scotland Yard botching the interrogation. Nothing for it-- he would have to go alone.

"Oh, I have to go," Sherlock mumbled. While he was making up excuses, it occurred to Sherlock that the shooter was probably still armed. He let Lestrade pull him in and snaked an arm behind him to pickpocket Lestrade's gun and shove it into his own pocket.

"I, uh, just remembered that I have a date--"

"At one in the morning? With whom?"

"Better late than never. And that's my business." He glared hard at Lestrade.

"Fine, we'll have your statement in the morning. Off you go."

Sherlock was off and running before Lestrade finished that sentence.

***

It really is Christmas, he thought as he slipped down a fire escape after the shooter. For the second time in one evening, he was giving chase across the city, and this time his prey was on foot and competent.

He turned after him into an alley only to find that it looked deserted.

No sewer access from here, his internal map told him. The only way he could have gone is up. He looked at all the fire escapes. None of them had been touched recently. There was only one explanation. The man was still in the alley on ground level. The ground was strewn with rubbish and there were several dumps.

Sherlock set himself to examining the first dump in the alley. As soon as he turned towards it, however, he heard a scuffling sound from behind him and twirled around just in time to see a small figure jump from the edge of the dump and pop himself off the opposite wall to land on the ladder of a fire escape. The figure then scurried up the ladder.

With several inches of height on the other man, Sherlock did not need to pop off the wall to jump on to the same fire escape and seconds later he was nearly within reach of his prey. Once the man had run to the middle of the roof, however, he slid his small frame through one of the ventilation shafts going into a stairwell.

Sherlock knew that even with his considerable flexibility and dexterity, he would not be able to follow the man down the shaft with nearly enough speed to have a chance of catching him. Having explored this area many times before, however, he knew that they were on top of a building with a great refractor telescope, the dome of which could be opened from the outside, and the stairwell from which led to the same hall as the shaft his prey had gone down.

He bounded on to the dome, heaved open the aperture, and jumped through it towards the stairs. Once he had glided down a flight of stairs, he could hear his prey again and knew that he was hot on the trail. His prey opened a door and ran through a hallway with a private art gallery.

As soon as Sherlock ran into that hallway, however, his prey, who had made it to the opposite end of it, whirled around with his gun in hand.

***

Sherlock's hand automatically went to the weapon in his own pocket, but the man hardly gave him time to react before a bullet ripped through the air and lodged itself in the frame of one of the most expensive paintings in the hall.

It took a split second for Sherlock to react and he leapt back towards the exit, knowing that a bullet to the frame of the painting would activate thief alert and clamp down the hallway. He was just an instant too late, however, and slammed into the metal shutters that descended from the ceiling, blocking off the exits as part of the thief containment measures.

The only remaining exit out of the hallway was now a small ventilation shaft. Sherlock sighed. He would have to navigate the shaft system after all. He pulled out the small screwdriver he kept with his lock-picking kit, unscrewed the shaft cover, and heaved his body into it. When he managed to crawl through the shaft, he grabbed the nearest ladder, made his way down, and ducked his head in to the nearest shaft below.

He hardly finished crawling out of the other end of the shaft and did not have any time to orient himself before he was shoved against a wall with a cloth pressed against his face over his nose and mouth.

Sherlock could feel the halothane on the cloth. He tried to struggle without breathing, but stopped when he heard the safety switch click off on a gun.

"You know I would," the man said, pressing the muzzle of the gun under Sherlock's chin, "because you know I have, and that cabbie was a lot less armed than you are."

Sherlock stilled and started to breathe in the sweet air through the cloth.

"Don't worry; I know you have questions," the man continued calmly after a minute of listening to Sherlock's slowing breaths, "just rest yourself now, and we'll get to them soon enough."

Sherlock felt himself falling into a warm woollen jumper as his consciousness slipped away.

***

When he came to, Sherlock was lying on a bed. It was his second time being kidnapped in one evening. He could not decide whether this was a good thing.

He took a moment to steady his thoughts before opening his eyes to observe his surroundings. He was in a small studio apartment with a kitchen on one end and a single door leading to a toilet by the exit. The walls were undecorated. Except for the indentation from his body, the bed was set with military precision.

He had gathered so far that his assailant was a special forces soldier in Afghanistan who was invalided home with a limp and had now fully recovered.

He strained his mind to remember the more recent events. He had followed the man up the building; he had taken the dome entrance when the other man had gone through the shaft; he had caught up in an art gallery when-- oh!

Could it be? It must be. Known as The Fury on the streets, this dangerous assassin had taken out powerful mafia leaders as well as slippery blackmailers. Sherlock had been pursuing him on and off for months.

Now that he thought about it, it was beyond a doubt that Sherlock's captor was The Fury. In addition to the fact that he was a crack shot with nerves of steel, there was the expertly administered halothane, and, most conclusively, the fact that the man had whipped out The Fury's signature move-- to use building security measures to his advantage.

Sherlock was distracted from his thoughts by the soft padding of bare feet. The Fury came in from the kitchen. (It felt strange to call this jumper-clad man "The Fury", but Sherlock was always one for calling things what they were.)

"Good! You're awake. Are you all right? Not nauseated, are you?" piped the barefoot captor, offering a small plastic bucket with one hand and holding a pamphlet in his other.

With all the strength he could muster, Sherlock leapt out of the bed towards the man. Or rather, he tried to; the halothane had so weakened his system that he lost his balance as soon as he was out of bed. The other man dropped the bucket and rushed to his side, reaching him just in time to stop him from crashing to the ground.

"Sorry about that; I went a bit strong on the anaesthetics, since I knew you had been into hard drugs before," he said, steadying Sherlock and guiding him back to the bed.

"I'm John, by the way" he said "It's nice that we're finally getting to meet each other after all these months. Would you like some tea?" He handed the pamphlet to Sherlock.

"Tea Menu?" Sherlock asked, reading across the top.

"Yes, I like to offer tea when I have guests over, and I find it easier just to provide a menu" the man smiled. "Go to the first page for the ones with caffeine, and the second page for herbal and decaffeinated teas. You would probably not be interested in the ones on the third page as those are laced with sedatives."

When John stopped talking, it took a few seconds for Sherlock to realise that a response was expected. "Well? Tea?" John prodded, his friendly smile never leaving his face.

Sherlock mentally went through his etiquette lessons to see if he could remember what the appropriate response was when a world-renowned assassin has threatened to shoot you, knocked you out, and kidnapped you, and was now offering you tea. He drew a blank, and for the first time in years, regretted deleting all of the social protocols his mother had taught him.

"Earl Grey, thanks," he responded.

"Sure," John replied, looking through his shelves of tea. "Might take a few minutes, though. I need a new electric kettle-- this one's painfully slow and sometimes turns itself off randomly. I'll see if I can find some biscuits."

There was an awkward silence as John rummaged through the kitchen.

"You're The Fury," Sherlock posited, trying to keep the doubt out of his voice.

"Yeah, they call me that sometimes. I prefer 'John', if it's all the same to you."

"You killed Spider. And Lucarelli. And Milverton. I would have believed that last one was an accident if you hadn't wiped his hard drive," Sherlock watched John carefully and noticed him smile slightly at the admission.

"This is how you have been getting your kicks, isn't it? After you were invalided back from Afghanistan with a severe limp in the right leg? By killing people?"

"How--" John looked down at his leg questioningly, clearly worried that it might still giving signs of limping. Sherlock smiled, part of him wondering how an assassin could survive being so readable, but another part revelling in anticipation of his reveal. Frailty of genius, a voice in his mind chided before he stamped down on it. He was going to enjoy himself even if the audience was an assassin.

"Don't worry, you're not limping any more. It was clear from the asymmetry in your shoes; you have not been putting as much weight on your right leg. The shoes are about six months old, so you had that limp within the last six months. Military would be obvious from the way you made your bed if I didn't already know it from the way you hold yourself and the fact that the weapon you're most comfortable with is standard military fare. Afghanistan I could tell from your tan; you need both high altitude and sunny climate to procure a tan like that."

"Wow. You are brilliant. And in top form despite coming off anaesthetics" John proclaimed, his too-earnest eyes shining in admiration.

The kettle started whistling, so John turned away to prepare the tea.

Sherlock smiled despite himself. "Did I miss anything?"

"Well, I don't kill people for fun," John replied, handing Sherlock a mug of Earl Grey and holding another one for himself. "Much like you, I enjoy a good chase, but the killing is just a job. Pays the bills."

"I see. Was the cabbie a job?" Sherlock asked. To his surprise, John blushed.

"I know you've been pursuing me. The police have been happy enough to drop all those cases," John replied nonchalantly, sauntering back to the kitchen counter. "I must admit, I am flattered by your interest, given how brilliant and amazing you are, and I didn't want the cabbie taking that away from me. Speaking of which--what were you doing? They were clearly both poisoned! Have you never seen the Princess Bride?"

"The Princess Bride?"

"You really haven't seen it? All right, remind me to check it out on Lovefilm. We are so watching it on our next date."

"Date?" Sherlock felt his whirring mind grind to a halt.

"You're the one who called it that," John chuckled. "Your exact phrasing was 'I, uh, just remembered that I have a date', was it not?"

Sherlock stared back at him in shock.

"That's why instead of leaving you in that building, I brought you here... for... tea.." John faltered, looking less and less comfortable with each word.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but for the first time in years, he was at a loss for words. John froze.

"Oh god, that was just a turn of phrase, wasn't it? You're not actually interested." John looked down in horror and started to fiddle with his fingers under the counter.

The effects of the halothane must not have worn out much, because only when John was approaching Sherlock did the latter realise that the former had the cloth in his hand again.

"Ok, look, I'm sorry I misinterpreted; I'll just give you a ride home and we can forget this ever happened, all right?" John said.

"No, I--" Sherlock tried to struggle, but his system was still weak from the last dose, so it was not long before John was on top of him holding his arms down with one hand and holding the cloth over his face with another.

This time, however, Sherlock's assailant (captor? date?) was not armed and had made it fairly clear that he had no intention to kill, so Sherlock felt no qualms about struggling. He brought his knee up to strike John's torso several times. The latter hardly seemed to notice. He tried to roll over, but could not manage the torque with John sprawled across him sideways.

He continued to twist and struggle until the pleasant scent of halothane dragged him to unconsciousness once again.

Chapter 2

It was with great difficulty that John carried Sherlock up the steps to his flat on Montague street. He laid him on the couch in his living room and left the gun that had been in Sherlock's pocket on the coffee table. He contemplated leaving a bucket next to him in case he felt nauseated when he came to, but he had not got sick last time, so it was unlikely that he would this time.

John slipped out the door and made his way back to his own flat. He wanted nothing more than to get some rest and put all of this behind him, but knew that that would be unwise. Between the shock of rejection and the fact that it was nearly dawn, his mind was not up to its usual speed, but he could still see now that Sherlock's pursuit of him over the last few months had not been out of personal interest as he had expected given the man's own unconventional methods, but out of a desire to hand him over to authorities.

In light of this, it was of utmost importance not to be found.

Given the man's observational power, John supposed that even though Sherlock had been drugged on both the journey to his flat and away, he would have the location worked out within minutes of waking up, so John needed to move out as soon as possible. Luckily enough, as a former military man with a risky job, he was always ready to be on the move. He packed his few personal items, along with his more useful tools, into his backpack, put his weapons on him, and headed out the door.

In his rush to leave, he had not fully worked out where he would go, but he had been prepared for this sort of situation. What he needed was sleep; it was getting painfully hard to think. He considered checking into a hotel, but he knew Sherlock was a formidable computer hacker, so it would not be wise to leave any records. There were a couple of places where the homeless lived and nobody asked any questions. Like most criminals worth their salt in London, John was aware that Sherlock had a homeless network, so he could not stay long, but if he chose an unexpected area of London he should at least be able to manage some sleep for the next few hours before Sherlock found out that he had moved, and sent out feelers for him. All he needed was four or five hours to regain his ability to think.

As John strode towards the three taxis by the Tube stop, however, he sensed that something was off. He stopped and looked around, but there was nobody on the street except for the cabbies. He continued his stride, but could not quell the tingling of his senses.

When he got to the first taxi by the Tube stop, he examined both the car and its driver very carefully before getting in. The man could be part of Sherlock's network (did it extend to cabbies, too?) but he did not seem to suspect anything of John. It was likely that Sherlock was awake by now, but it was not likely that he would have been able to put his network on the lookout for John so quickly. John got in the car.

"Elephant and Castle Tube stop, please" he told the driver.

He figured out what had been bothering him as soon as the taxi pulled onto the road. The surveillance cameras were following him.

Oh, you're being too slow, John thought. Of course he didn't contact his network. He contacted umbrella man. From whispers among the criminal classes, John had heard that Sherlock had a very influential friend who liked to wield umbrellas and train surveillance on Sherlock and his associates. He also knew that Sherlock did not generally approve of his methods, and rarely went to him for help. He supposed that anything goes when you have been kidnapped.

John had to reformulate his plans; between the homeless network that saw everything that the umbrella man's cameras did not, there was no respite to be had in London. Probably not anywhere in the United Kingdom, even.

"Change of plans," he announced to the cabbie. "We're going to Heathrow now. And fifty extra quid if you can make it there by six."

"All right, sir" the cabbie responded, turning the car. As John desired, he drove recklessly, flouting speed limits, traffic lights and all manner of signs.

John decided that the cabbie knew what he was doing, so he concentrated on the next task at hand. A man who could see everything in London could probably also see all purchases of flights out of the United Kingdom the instant they were made, John reasoned. He would have to take a riskier exit strategy. He pulled out his phone and started going through flight schedules.

The cabbie made it to Heathrow at 5:58 and John left him more than fifty extra quid. He grabbed his bag and went to the Ryanair counter.

"Hi," he said pleasantly to the lady at the counter, "do you have any flights that leave in the next few hours? Round trip returning tonight or tomorrow morning?"

"Hmm... Let's see. Sofia at 7:45 returning at 20:15, Barcelona at 8:30 returning at 7:30 tomorrow morning, and Milan at 8:15, returning at 2AM."

"I'll take the one to Milan," John said, handing her his credit card and passport.

As soon as he got his boarding pass, John was off to the Virgin Airlines international check-in counter. As he predicted, almost everyone there was on the 8:00AM flight to Boston. He waited around in line until he found a man with two unwieldy suitcases, filling out a luggage tag while waiting for the self-check-in machine to find his itinerary. It found it, and the man tapped through the forms without noticing John's approach.

When the machine said that it was processing the order to print the boarding pass, the man turned away to keep filling out his luggage tag. At that moment, John brushed by behind him and took the boarding pass and receipt. As he walked away, he could hear the man complaining that the machine did not print anything. He waited for the man to try again and get his boarding pass before leaving.

John put away the stolen boarding pass, disposed of most of his weapons in the toilet, and passed through security with the Ryanair boarding pass, which matched the name on his passport.

Once through security, he went to the nearest gift shop and bought a large teddy bear in cash.

He took a deep breath. The toughest part was yet to come.

He strode towards the gate of the British Airways 8:00AM flight to Boston. When he was near, he looked around to familiarize himself with the area before sitting down about 150 metres away from the gate and waiting. He continued to watch and wait as boarding was announced. When the flight was about half-way boarded, he ran towards the gate, making sure to appear breathless when he got there.

Once at the gate, still huffing, he gave the attendant the stolen boarding pass.

"Um, sir, your boarding pass is for the Virgin Airlines flight," she said, giving him a worried look.

"Oh god," John breathed, looking horrified. He looked at his watch. It was 7:55. "Oh dear, I'm never going to make it—Virgin airlines; that's on the other side of the terminal! Oh no! I'll miss my daughter's birthday party. Again."

"Oh!" the attendant's brow furrowed in sympathy. "Look, there are plenty of seats on this flight. Let's see if I can't fix you something." She started tapping away at her computer.

"Yes, I think I can actually fit you in here. Can I see your ID?"

"Uh, yeah! Thank you so much!" He started rummaging through his bag, with an occasional "just a moment," and "sorry, it's been really frantic". Another attendant started shouting that it was time to close the gate.

"Actually never mind, just go ahead; your seat is 32A," John's attendant finally said.

"Oh, thank you, thank you so much!" John smiled. He picked up his bag and the teddy bear, and ran onto the jet bridge.

When he finally had a moment of rest on the plane, he closed his eyes and was assaulted by mental images of Sherlock. Sherlock's brilliant deductions, so proudly performed for him just last night, now used against him. He felt sad, of course, but oddly enough, he also felt excited. His escape from London gave him a rush he hadn't had in a while. He shook his head to clear these thoughts. Plenty of time to sort it out later, he told himself, as he drifted off calmly to sleep.

He woke up a few hours later, looked around, saw the television screen in the aisle, and froze.

The screen was showing The Princess Bride.

John rummaged through the seat back pocket in front of him, pulled out his copy of British Airways High Life magazine, and flipped to the inflight entertainment section. The films for this flight were The King's Speech and Tangled. He looked back up. On screen, Fezzik and Inigo Montoya were supporting Westley.

A small elderly lady sitting next to John noticed his confusion.

"Yeah, they made an announcement earlier," she said, taking off her head-set. "Somehow the disks got switched up, so they're showing The Princess Bride instead. Not sure how that happened, since I doubt it's been shown in flight for decades, but, I'm not complaining. It's a wonderful film!" She smiled.

"I see," John tried to smile back.

"You okay?" the lady asked.

"Yeah, just, disoriented," John breathed deep to keep himself from squirming in his seat. Given their conversation the previous night, it was beyond a doubt that Sherlock Holmes was behind this. How could he have known I'd be here, he asked himself, when I didn't even know I'd be here.

The next twenty minutes before the plane landed were some of the longest ones in John's life. He was startled by every person who looked his way. He wondered just how far Sherlock's network reached. Eventually, he convinced himself that there was nothing he could do before the plane landed, since commercial flights did not come with parachutes. By sheer willpower, he forced himself to sit straight in his seat and stare at the screen.

When the plane landed and the captain turned off the "Fasten Seatbelts" sign, John's paranoia did not ease at all. He sat perfectly still, but could feel every glance that went his way.

Since he was sitting in a window seat near the back of the plane, John was one of the last to leave. As he got into the aisle, he felt a brush behind him.

"Sir?" a raspy-voiced flight attendant said, before being taken by a fit of breathy coughs. "I think you dropped something." She picked up John's wallet from the ground and offered it to him. For a moment John did not move. Something about this woman was very disconcerting. One emerald green eye with far too much eye-shadow gazed at him. Her other was hidden behind long golden hair. She rubbed her lips against each other, redistributing the alarmingly pink lip gloss.

"Uh, sir?" she prodded again, one exposed eye widening with concern. She was still holding out John's wallet in a pale hand with bright pink nails matching her lip gloss. John mentally kicked himself. There's no point in being paranoid; he just needed to get out of here.

"Thanks," he said, grabbing his wallet and turning away.

It was a miracle that he had no trouble getting through immigration, but John did not have any time to question his luck as he made for the currency changing station. He was glad the exchange rate was in his favour; he was running low on cash and did not think it was a good time to risk leaving a paper trail. He mentally calculated how much cash he had in dollars.

When he opened his wallet, however, all calculations ground to a halt. Inside, there was a perfectly folded piece of pink stationery. He unfolded it to reveal the following in neat cursive handwriting:

John,

I feel that I should clear up the misunderstanding regarding our first 'date'. I was not disinterested; I was merely disoriented. I am sorry if it caused you consternation. I hope you found this second one more enjoyable--I certainly did. I must confess that The Princess Bride turned out to be less boring than I expected. You might be right about the poison tolerance; if so, then this promises to be an exciting new poison. But I digress.

I simply wanted to say that I do find you fascinating and did enjoy your company, and that I would not be opposed to further 'dates'. (Though, I would prefer if you spared the halothane in the future, as long-term use can cause severe internal damage.)

-Sherlock Holmes

PS: I think you would be delighted to know that my intrusive git of a brother has made a fool of himself delaying all flights to Milan by several hours. I certainly am.
PPS: Turn around.

Chapter 3

Sherlock had just wiped the acetone off his fingers and disposed of the rest of his costume when he saw John heading towards the currency changing station. He weaved through the crowds to get in line behind John. He was 98% sure he had read the situation correctly, but a small wave of apprehension still coursed through him when John whirled around.

"Green coloured contacts," John said with a small smile, raising his eyebrows. "I should have seen it."

"Probably," Sherlock smiled. "That was also not the most romantic thing you could have said in response to my heartfelt letter."

"Romantic? Was it romantic to pick-pocket me?"

"I had to get the message to you without you fleeing at the sight of me. And besides, you kidnapped me."

"You were pursuing me across London! And then you chased me halfway around the world."

"But you enjoy a good chase."

"God help me, but I do," John laughed and any apprehension Sherlock might have harboured melted away as he joined in the laughter.

"How do I know you won't turn me in?" John asked, suddenly serious, when the laughter died down.

"How do I know you won't kill me?" Sherlock replied.

"So," he continued as if they were talking about the weather, "we could stand here all day."

"Ah, of course, let's head out. Have you been to Boston before?"

"Boring, and no, I haven't. Let's go back to London."

"What makes you think it's boring?"

"It's not London."

"No. We didn't come all the way out to America just to go back to London. Let me show you around; Boston's not all boring. I'll show you the interesting parts."

"You couldn't do that in public," Sherlock muttered in as off-the-cuff a manner as he could.

"What-- did you just--" John sputtered.

"Hmm?" Sherlock tilted his head to one side with a blank, innocent expression.

"Never mind," John replied.

Sherlock smirked. John narrowed his eyes, but did not respond, opting instead to finish changing currency and drag Sherlock into a taxi to down-town. A blast of freezing air greeted them as they stepped out of the taxi.

"Dull and cold," Sherlock whined.

"You are just sulking because your deductions don't work on this side of the pond." John goaded.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped. "How much do you want to bet that the man we just walked by came here from the Southern part of the United States within the last few hours to visit friends or family?"

"I believe you," John replied. "But how do you know? His coat looks worn enough to me."

"Boots," Sherlock rattled, "dirty, but without salt stains, so where he's coming from it hasn't snowed for a while. The coat is, as you say, worn, but it's not his; it's too short for him, and the wearing on the right side shows that the person who normally wears it always holds his briefcase in his right hand, while this man holds his in his left. This also settles the question of visiting friends or family--why else would he be going around in a borrowed coat?

"That he came from the Southern part of the US follows from the fact that his skin is not dehydrated even though he has not applied any cream, so he could not have travelled by aeroplane. He would have to travel for days to get here from another country or from the West coast without a plane--this country is spread out across vast expanses of boring--and he isn't weary enough for that to be the case. So the south it is."

"That's fantastic!" John exclaimed, ignoring the jibe about 'expanses of boring'.

Sherlock decided that that was a response he could get used to. He smiled, and continued to deduce things about the other people on the street-- a cellist who just got in to a major orchestra, a plumber who returned from his cousin's wedding, etc.-- while John interjected with the occasional "brilliant!" or "amazing!".

Sherlock stopped, however, when he looked across the street.

"That woman on the phone across the street is talking to her kidnapped daughter. They are demanding something other than money."

John stilled. "What makes you think that?"

"I cheated. I read her lips."

"She was covering her mouth."

"But not her cheeks. She said 'I know you're brave, you big girl. You'll be home soon, I promise', though she doesn't believe the last part. That and her obvious distress can mean nothing else. She was crying all night, which means they probably took her child yesterday.

"That it's not for money is clear from her hands-- she works a full-time job and does all the housework at home, which means she's not wealthy enough for it to be worth kidnapping her daughter for money."

"So what are they demanding?" John asked.

"I don't know," Sherlock replied. "Yet."

Sherlock strode towards the woman with John right behind him.

"How much are they demanding?" Sherlock asked, looming over her.

"What?"

"For your daughter. We know she has been kidnapped. How much money are they demanding?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the woman replied.

"I told you," Sherlock said, turning to John. "She could pay for it herself; she just doesn't care enough. Save your bleeding heart for someone--"

"Don't be ridiculous," John cut him off, just as Sherlock expected him to, though they had not planned this before-hand.

"Look ma'am, I know what it's like to love a daughter." He sat down next to the woman and pulled out his passport to show her the US entry stamp. "I came from across the ocean to see mine. I can't bear to see a parent in this kind of situation. The one thing that shows you the meaning of love again and again, suddenly lost and vulnerable, and it... it doesn't bear thinking about. Please, let us help you. I don't have a lot of money, but we should be able to help you think of something."

The woman stared at John for a few seconds before her lip started to tremble and she could no longer hold back her tears. John put an arm around her and she leaned into his chest.

"You are very kind," she sobbed, "but you can't help me. They're not after money. This is all my fault and I don't know what to do. I'm such an idiot."

"I don't know what it's about and you don't have to tell me," John said. "But it's not your fault. Someone was cruel enough to take your child; that's never your fault."

"It is, though. It was so easy at first, but I got in over my head, and then they took Kayla, and she's only six, and I can't..."

"Kayla's a brave girl. And so are you. You'll both get through this. Are they after information?"

"They want me to kill Tyrone. The police sheriff. My boyfriend. When he asked me out, I vacillated and they paid me to say yes and spy on him. Kayla wanted ballet lessons, and it was so hard to refuse. But he's so good and so brave and I started to love him and couldn't spy on him any more, so they grabbed Kayla and told me to kill him." Her voice broke at these last words.

"I don't know what to do. We're going out tomorrow night, and that's obviously when they expect me to do it, but I can't; I just can't."

She buried her face into John's shoulder and he awkwardly patted her back.

While they were speaking, Sherlock slipped the woman's Android out of her pocket, keyed in the pattern code, which he could tell from the wearing on the screen, and went through her correspondence. John glanced at him every so often as he spoke to the woman.

Who? Sherlock mouthed to John.

"Who are they?" John asked.

"I corresponded with Clayton, who's in charge of their security and reconnaissance division. He answers to a man called 'Zeus'. I don't know anything more than that. God, I should have just come clean with Tyrone. He would probably hate me, but he wouldn't let this happen to Kayla."

"Really," John said, "it's really not your fault. You couldn't have known they would do that. I mean, by God, I still can't imagine that, and it's happening. I mean, if it were Trudy, I just don't know what I would do."

When Sherlock finished reading all of the correspondence between the woman and Clayton, he slipped her mobile back into her pocket and nodded to John. John continued to hold the woman in his arms for several minutes before she broke off.

"I should probably go," she said. "Thank you for... for listening."

"Of course," John replied. "I'm sorry I can't do more to help."

***

"The café around the corner has excellent wifi," John said to Sherlock as soon as the woman left. "Do you think you can hack in to his account?"

"Probably not directly if he's a security expert," Sherlock replied. "I'm hoping a more psychological attack might do the trick."

As it turned out, Clayton used an excellent email service provider and was clever enough to use a strong password, but was indeed paranoid enough to open an attachment that promised to be proof that Zeus was selling him out, so within an hour, Sherlock had access to the information in his computer and all of his email accounts, including the schedules of the security guards and his correspondence with Zeus.

"We're going in tonight." Sherlock said with gleaming eyes after sharing the information with John. "She won't be able to kill the sheriff, so this is the only chance Kayla has."

John smirked. "So what was that I was hearing about boring?"

"Shut up." Sherlock tried to scowl but could not keep the smile from his lips.

"Now," Sherlock explained, "any security guard's card will get us into the building with the holding cells, but the cells themselves are set up like safe boxes; a new code is entered every time something, or someone, is locked in. It's not stored anywhere, so I can't just hack into it. The only person who knows the code to get Kayla out is the one who locked her in, likely Clayton. I can't see another way to open these cells except to cut the power to the entire building, but the electricity is locally generated and the only person who holds the code for that is Gerard—that's Zeus."

"Gerard? As in Henri Gerard?" John interjected.

"You've heard of him?"

"Yes, for a job. He forced a guy to watch a live stream of his wife getting poisoned with phosgene in one of those holding cells, so the guy offered me two million quid to kill his nine-year-old son the same way while showing Gerard a live stream."

Sherlock gave John a look halfway between confusion and horror.

"What? And you--"

"Of course I refused!" John interjected, misinterpreting Sherlock's expression.

"No, I know you refused. As I was saying: And you somehow forgot to mention all this when you were trying to convince me that Boston was interesting?"

John raised an eyebrow. "You know, sometimes it's hard to remember which one of us is the notorious criminal."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, mumbling something about "pedestrian" and "stereotyping".

"Sherlock," John interrupted. "I'm having a thought here. He sounded a lot like you."

"Who?"

"Maximilian Atherton. The person who asked me to kill Gerard's son with phosgene. He did. Same intonation even. Deep, beautiful voice, smooth--"

"Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?" Sherlock cut in sharply, narrowing his eyes.

John smiled.

"But do finish that sentence. Smooth what?" Sherlock said, breaking off his smile. "I want to hear the rest of it."

John raised an eyebrow, but continued: "smooth as silk and dark as sin. The sort of voice one could die for."

Sherlock blushed.

"Seulement une petite mort" he purred into John's ear in the deepest register he could manage. "Only a little death."*

* In French "petite mort", literally "little death", is sometimes used to refer to orgasm.

***

That evening found Sherlock and John crouched behind a bush in a garden watching the two least experienced security guards on the Gerard estate making their rounds in one of the identical sleek black cars that roamed the estate. As the car approached an art gallery in the garden, John tossed a rock into one of the windows, smashing the glass and setting off the burglar alarm. The car skidded to a halt in front of the gallery and the two officers jumped out with their guns in hand, one in front of the other.

Sherlock approached the second one from behind, jumped on him, grabbing his gun hand and forcing him to release the gun. He grabbed the man's wrists and hand-cuffed him with the guard's own hand-cuffs.

Then he looked up and saw that as the other guard whirled around, John kicked the gun out of his hand, causing it to twirl several times in the air before landing in John's hand. He pointed it at the guard's head and switched off the safety. Sherlock was thankful that John looked only at the guard and did not see Sherlock gawking at him.

"Strip, but no quick movements" John commanded "Jacket and uniform shirt. You may keep your under shirt on."

The man started to shiver as he did so. John kicked a small duffel bag at him and told him to take one of the jumpers out of it and put it on, and then hand-cuff himself from behind with his own hand-cuffs. The man did.

When Sherlock's guard was similarly stripped and hand-cuffed, John administered intravenous sedatives to the guards and ushered them into the car. Sherlock and John changed into their uniforms.

Sherlock pulled the hat down to cover his eyes, walked over to the art gallery, and used the guard's badge to enter into the system that it was a false alarm, while John started the car.

"There really was no need for overkill, show-off," Sherlock said as he got into the passenger seat and noticed that the security guards were already asleep. "You could have taken the gun without that ninja kick."

"Show-off?" John asked, pulling out of the driveway. "This from the man who went around deducing half of Boston for me?"

"You enjoyed that," Sherlock pouted.

"Don't tell me you didn't enjoy that," John replied, nodding at the sleeping security guard in the back seat.

"Not hardly. Why would I enjoy being distracted on a case?"

"All right then; I'll keep my methods perfectly conventional from now on." John said, looking at him.

Sherlock's expression went from impatient to scheming to puppy-face in the next second.

"Fine, maybe I enjoyed it a bit?"

John smirked.

They deposited the guards, still fast asleep and hand-cuffed, on the far end of the garden and drove towards the security control room of Gerard Manor. Entering with their stolen badges, John kept a look out and took a pair of hand-cuffs while Sherlock reprogrammed the security screens so they would redisplay the 9PM – 9:30PM tapes instead of recording anything until 11PM, after which they would switch back to displaying live recordings.

That done they made towards Gerard Manor itself.

"So why are you the one doing the kidnapping, when I'm the one who has kidnapped someone before?" John asked on the way there.

Sherlock turned to him. "Someone. Singular. I was your first?"

"I don't take my targets alive, so yes."

"Well, John," Sherlock purred, lowering his voice to a whisper. "I would like to be your last."

"Aw," John's voice dripped with sarcasm. "You're so romantic."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Besides, you're warm and cuddly, the better for catching someone" he said, switching back to his normal emotionless speaking voice.

With that, Sherlock bounded towards the house, climbed the drainage pipe up to a window of the hallway leading to the bedroom of Gerard's son Pierre, opened the window, and threw in two powerful smoke bombs. Then he continued his climb up the pipe to the roof and stood over the fire escape from the Pierre's room.

***

As Pierre's bodyguard climbed out and helped Pierre onto the platform of the fire escape, Sherlock leapt off the roof and delivered a powerful roundhouse to the bodyguard's temple before landing on the platform. He pushed Pierre over the railing of the fire escape, so that the boy fell two stories before landing in John's waiting arms.

The bodyguard stirred again at this point and lunged towards Sherlock, but missed as Sherlock popped off the railing to jump back onto the roof and scamper across it. The bodyguard hesitated between following Sherlock, going after Pierre, attempting to shoot John, and calling reinforcement for a moment before he bounded down the fire escape after Pierre. At that point, John had already handcuffed him and shoved him into the back seat of the car.

Sherlock leapt down a different fire escape and got to the bottom just as John pulled the car up to it. He got into the back seat with Pierre and they made towards the building in which Kayla was held.

Once there, they opened a holding cell on the ground floor, and John carried Pierre in and tied him to a chair, while Sherlock took out and turned on the humidifier they had brought with them, setting it to spew warm mist at the whimpering boy. They then set up the camera at an angle to show the boy and the mist gushing at him, but not the humidifier itself. After locking the holding cell, they ran up the stairs, John to the top floor, where Kayla was kept, and Sherlock to the roof where Gerard's helicopter was electromagnetically locked down.

Sherlock waited a few minutes until 11PM and then texted Gerard's personal number from his own untraceable mobile.

"If you want to see your son, check the video for holding cell 105," he wrote. He waited a few more seconds before calling Gerard.

"What the fuck?" Gerard yelled into the phone by way of salutation.

"Hello Mr. Henri Gerard," Sherlock said in his deepest, most menacing voice.

"Who the hell are you and what do want?"

"I am Maximilian Atherton."

"Dear sweet Jesus," Gerard swore.

"Ah. You remember me?"

"What the hell do you want?"

"Perhaps you also remember my late wife Eleanor Atherton? You must do; she was an unforgettable beauty. Though admittedly not so beautiful when she was choking on phosgene. As for what I want from you, that should be quite clear: I want you to watch." Sherlock disconnected the call.

"Of course he locked it! Somebody! Cut the power!" Gerard's voice boomed from the intercom devices Sherlock had taken from the security guard. "The code is 283AXQ9!"

Not an instant later, the building blacked out. Sherlock pushed the helicopter off of the now-disabled electromagnetic lock and started to rewire the engine to bypass the ignition switch.

"What the hell? That's not phosgene! It's... mist? It's just a humidifier spewing mist." Gerard yelled again into the intercom.

"Took you long enough," Sherlock muttered to himself as he continued to work on the engine.

"It was just a distraction," Gerard continued. "He's after something else. Turn the power back on. Search the building. Find him!"

Sherlock started up the engine just as John came running across the roof carrying Kayla.

"Ugh," Sherlock could not prevent himself from wincing when he drew near. The child smelled of urine and faecal matter.

"Yeah, well they didn't give her a toilet," John explained as he handed her over. "Just food, water, and a bucket to relieve herself."

Sherlock set the wide-eyed child in the helicopter and helped her into her seatbelt as John slipped into the pilot's seat.

Sherlock then got out of the helicopter to move to the cockpit when two things happened at once: a shot rang out and a dark blur leapt out of the helicopter and tackled him to the ground.

John, still sprawled on top of Sherlock, whipped out his gun and shot the two security guards coming out of the stairwell. Sherlock and John jumped back into the helicopter.

By that point, there were two unarmed people running on the roof, clearly escaped prisoners of Gerard's holding cells. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and looked at him questioningly.

"The aircraft only holds three," John said. "And those are the Russian Dolls, who happen to want me dead."

Sherlock nodded and John brought the helicopter into the sky.

***

Only when they were in the air did Sherlock realise that John was bleeding.

"John--" Sherlock said.

"Chest shots," John cut him off, missing the point entirely. "They'll be all right. Bullet-proof vests, remember?"

"Yes, I know they'll be fine. You are bleeding,"

"Just a graze. But you might want to help me patch it up if you can, just so we don't get turned away when we try to hail a cab. First aid kit should be in that box." He spared a hand briefly to point.

Sherlock took out the first aid kit and started to work on John's arm efficiently as John focused on flying the helicopter.

When John landed it in Somerville, they slipped down a manhole and ran through the drainage system to Harvard, alternating carrying Kayla, and then took a cab to Kayla's apartment.

"You took a bullet for me," Sherlock whispered to John in the taxi.

"Technically it would only be called taking a bullet if it were lodged inside me."

"You jumped out of an armoured helicopter to get me out of the path of a bullet."

"Don't let it get to your head. I did the same for a stranger in Afghanistan. I actually took a bullet that time."

Sherlock was not sure what to say. This conversation was difficult enough without John's unhelpful responses. He decided to ignore him.

"I. Well. Nobody has ever done that for me. I'm truly touched."

John turned to him and smirked.

"No, not yet, but don't worry," he whispered, "you will be truly touched." He lowered his voice and spoke into Sherlock's ear. "All over."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked away.

When they brought Kayla back to her mother, she nearly fainted but came to and called the sheriff and came clean to him as she said she would, were she given a second chance. John and Sherlock slipped out before the sheriff got there.

Chapter 4: [Reactions]

[Mycroft]

"So, London?" Sherlock asked as he and John left Kayla's house, giving the taxi driver arbitrary directions. "There's a Virgin Atlantic executive who owes me a favour; she should be able to get us on the 2AM flight."

"No-one gets between Sherlock and his beloved London," John chuckled.

"You did. For twelve hours." He paused. "That was a declaration of affection, if ever I knew one."

"No," John replied. "This is." He leaned over and kissed Sherlock on the cheek. Sherlock turned to him in an attempt to catch his mouth, but John pushed him away. "Not outside of London," he explained when Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Besides, we both smell like crap."

"Change of plans; Logan airport please," he said to the cabbie.

At that moment Sherlock's mobile chimed to notify him of a text message. He glanced at it before turning to John.

"It's my brother," Sherlock giggled. "He would like to congratulate you on the shot with the cabbie and on the trick at the airport, so he has probably finally worked out that you aren't trying to murder me. He has been so slow on this one.."

Sherlock giggled again, and John wondered if he was always this childish with his brother.

The mobile chimed again. This time Sherlock frowned and started to type out a response.

"He also wants to offer you a job. Probably to spy on me. I'm telling him you're refusing. He has enough spies as it is."

John wondered if both Holmeses were this childish with each other. Another text came in.

"Hm, so it wasn't to spy on me. What? Oh!"

Sherlock pouted and started typing furiously and receiving messages every few seconds.

"What is going on?" John asked. Sherlock ignored him. Since the text exchange was clearly about him, John decided that he had a right to know. He kicked Sherlock in the ankle, distracting him enough that he could pluck the mobile from his fingers.

"Hey, give that back!" Sherlock cried, but John successfully blocked him away as he flicked through the recent texts.

No! He's MY assassin. I found him first. -SH

Finders keepers does not apply to people; he is not yours. He is, however, a subject of the United Kingdom. I am offering him the perfect career. -Mycroft

You lie. There is nothing in MI6 worth his talent. -SH

That is for him to decide, is it not? -Mycroft

You can't take him away from me! I have had no one since Victor. -SH

Victor? So that's what this is about? Fascinating. -Mycroft

And there was one unsent message:

NO. Unlike with Victor, you are NOT going to

"I have changed my mind," Sherlock said after watching John read the messages. "Let's not go back to London. Ever."

"Aw, Sherlock," John replied. "I'm not going to take your brother's job offer. MI6 can't be as interesting as you are, yeah?"

Sherlock sighed. "Obviously that's not what I'm worried about."

"What are you worried about?"

"He'll kidnap you," Sherlock pouted. "He'll kidnap you and you'll decide that my whole damn family is just too much and you'll leave and go find someone normal."

John could not stop himself from chuckling.

"Do you even hear the things you say?" John asked. Sherlock glanced at him sharply and smiled.

***

In the end, John insisted that it was common courtesy to allow older brothers to make their speeches, so when Sherlock received the text Sorry, might be late; being treated by your brother to a pleasant kidnapping. before their first scheduled date, he decided simply to let Mycroft take John for a ride. It was not as if anything Mycroft said could scare John away.

When John arrived in one of Mycroft's vehicles, however, he looked somewhat subdued and oddly pensive.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

In response, John pulled Sherlock down and gave him the sweetest, most poetic kiss he had ever imagined, wrapping his arms around Sherlock desperately, and kissing with all his soul.

"What did he threaten to do if you mistreated me?" Sherlock asked when he broke off the kiss. "Disappear your entire family? If he hurt you I will--"

John smiled and placed a hand on Sherlock's lips. "He didn't threaten to do anything at all."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but did not respond. Figuring out how Mycroft managed to intimidate John could wait for another time.

***

[Other assassins]

The rest of their first scheduled date was objectively boring; they had dinner at Angelo's, shared stories about their past exploits, and exchanged notes regarding the several months during which Sherlock had tracked John around London.

It was only when they walked out of the restaurant that something interesting turned up: there were three people watching them—one in a parked car, one on a balcony across the street, and one on the roof of Angelo's. Sherlock turned to John to make sure he had also noticed them.

"I know them," John said without looking up at Sherlock, "but I don't know what they want."

As he was speaking, the man who was in the car leapt out and started to make a run for the nearest alleyway. Without even sparing a glance at each other, both John and Sherlock made to follow him.

They were barely in the alley when several other people jumped out of various windows and balconies in an attempt to land on top of them. They dodged out of the way, and were put slightly off balance, but quickly came to themselves. Sherlock attempted a roundhouse kick at the man who was attacking him, but the man sidestepped it and threw a reinforced outside block, showing clear signs of martial arts training. Another man took the distraction to approach Sherlock from behind and held a knife to his carotid in a perfectly steady hand.

In the mean-time John had thrown one of his assailants against a wall so she gave a sharp scream.

"Ah! John!" the girl yelled to John, clutching her side.

John took a breath in, stilling and dropping his fighting pose for an instant to turn to her, but in that moment, the girl jumped up towards him and the man behind him launched himself towards John as well. John kicked the girl and elbowed the man at the same time, but the man was moving with too much momentum to be stopped and he toppled on top of John and used his element of surprise to wrestle John into an arm-lock.

"Look, Piruz," John said, glancing at Sherlock. "I know you don't like involving innocent bystanders, so whatever the problem is, take it out on me, yeah? It has nothing to do with him. I met him two days ago."

The man holding John down (Piruz?) chuckled. "On the contrary, Fury, this has everything to do with him."

As he spoke the petite girl John had kicked collected herself and pulled out a needle, injecting John with something that quickly put him to sleep. When she stood up, Sherlock realised he had seen her before. He then looked to one of his own assailants and he remembered two women running across roof.

"You're the Russian Dolls."

"Yes!" The smaller woman beamed. She turned to the larger one. "See? I told you it was a catchy name."

The larger woman frowned. "Call us that again and I will hurt you."

Sherlock continued: "You won't get away with killing John. Even if you kill me, too, I know people who--"

He was broken off by the smaller Doll's laughter. "Kill Fury? What gave you that idea?"

The other Doll answered for him. "Fury did. Clearly. I told you he took your threat literally."

"I was obviously just sulking."

"Until you blew up his flat. But anyway, this isn't about John. Or rather it is." The larger Doll turned to Sherlock. "It is about how lucky you are to have him."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes before suddenly understanding. "Oh! This is the 'hurt him and I'll kill you' talk."

"Kill you?" The smaller Doll giggled. "Is killing the only thing on your mind? You know, I'm much more trigger-happy than Fury is."

"You're also not on the market," the larger Doll seethed, wrapping an arm around her. "But no, it's not the 'hurt him and we'll kill you' talk. It's not even the 'hurt him and we'll break you' talk."

This time it was Piruz that continued "It's the 'if you hurt him and drive him away, you'll wish we'd kill you but you couldn't pay us enough to do it' talk."

Sherlock stared at him, trying to parse the threat before a different man explained.

"Mira, hermano," he said. "I have been an assassin since childhood so I don't know much about affairs of the heart. But I know what it is to live life knowing that you drove away the one person who knew who you were and loved you still. If you hurt Fury, then you will know that you threw away the best thing that has ever come into your life, the one person who fits you perfectly. I do not want anyone else to go through life regretting a mistake like that. So you treat our Fury well, vale?"

When John came to again, his assassin friends had left, and Sherlock sat by him with a thoughtful expression.

"Intravenous halothane," John mumbled groggily. "Sorry about that. Know I promised future dates would not involve halothane."

Sherlock smiled at him. "I love you."

"Are you all right? What did they do to you? Didn't knock you about that brilliant head of yours, did they?"

Sherlock stared at him.

"I think I know what Mycroft said to you," he said finally.

***

[Lestrade]

"So, how was your date?" Lestrade asked the next time Sherlock was called to a crime scene. "And who's this?" he added, gesturing to John.

"The date was fine." Sherlock said. "He brought me home for tea."

Lestrade opened and closed his mouth. "So there really was a date? He took you to tea, and somehow domestic bliss so suited you that--"

"I invited him on another date." Sherlock answered. "And for the next date, we watched a film."

Lestrade regarded him out of the corner of his eye. "Which film?"

"The Princess Bride," Sherlock replied.

"What is the name of the male romantic lead of the Princess Bride?"

"Westley. Now if you're done interrogating me--"

"Sherlock, whatever it is you're doing to this date--"

"Your faith in me is heart-warming, Lestrade. For the third date, we ran across a roof-top on the Boston skyline. Does that satisfy your ridiculous preconceived notions of what my dating life should be like?"

"So you went to Boston."

"That's what I just said."

"Does this look familiar?" He pulled out a section of a newspaper, headlined "Boston Crime Syndicate Uncovered, Thirty-Seven Arrested."

Sherlock took the article and glance over it. "Unidentified vigilante rescuers release all prisoners from mafia holding cells? That sounds fascinating! How could I have missed it?" He glared at Lestrade as if this were Lestrade's fault.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock, I've known you five years. Spare me the bull-shit?"

There was a long silence as Sherlock and Lestrade stared at each other "Fine. That was our third date. The roof-top in Boston was this chap's roof."

"For your third date you wandered into the depths of a Mafia and pulled a heist that resulted in the arrest of almost forty mafiosi including a criminal mastermind?"

"Mastermind? Ha. Can you believe the idiot mistook mist for phosgene? The criminal classes these days."

In response, John, for whom Lestrade had hardly spared a glance during the conversation, jabbed his elbow into Sherlock's ribs.

"Present company excluded," Sherlock amended.

"Present—what? Actually, I don't want to know. Just, if that was your third date, would you mind, er, keeping your subsequent dates far away from... anywhere near my jurisdiction?"

"It's far too late for that," Sherlock replied with a sweet smile. He raised the police tape and grabbed John's hand, pulling him through.

***

[Moriarty]

"Evening. This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?" John said, stepping in to the darkened swimming pool.

"John-- what the hell?"

"Bet you never saw this coming." He paused and cocked his head. "Wait what? I'm not going to say that. If you want to flirt with my boyfriend, the least you could do is use your own voice."

"Hey! What are you doing?" A dis-embodied voice shouted from the back of the room. "I've got snipers out there!"

"Oh, right, them," John replied.

"Shoot him!" The voice echoed through the room, but nothing happened.

"Right then," John continued. "Hey Gibbs? No no, don't worry, I didn't see you; your hand still moves the same way when you recognise your target. Speaking of which, you can aim away now."

One of the laser lights on John's chest moved away.

"Sorry John," a man's voice said, "I... times were hard... and I didn't know it would be you."

"It's all right," John replied. "No hard feelings. Anyway, it's been a while. What do you say we head out to the pub later tonight and catch up, yeah?"

The man chuckled. "Sure. Same one as always?"

"Sounds good," He turned to look in a different direction. "Hey Katsumi? Your rifle is still moving with your breath. Didn't I teach you a relaxation technique to steady it?"

"Oss, sensei," answered the crisp voice of a young lady. Another laser light moved away.

"What the hell?" Moriarty's voice shouted. "Siobhan, love, what are you waiting for? Shoot him."

"Sorry, I can't do that," replied a hesitant lady's voice. "John's my friend. You know, chicks before dicks and all that."

"Chicks before-- What the heck? Actually I don't even want to know."

And Moriarty stormed off in a huff, and the snipers looked away to grant the lovers privacy as they ripped each others clothes off by a darkened swimming pool.