Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

When Sherlock woke up to the unfamiliar scent of cinnamon, the first thing he thought of was, at least this time, it wasn't John who was taken to God-knows-where because of his association with the consulting detective.

"Oh good, you're awake Mr. Holmes." A distorted voice, clearly someone using a voice changer so that they won't be recognized (most likely the cinnamon scent was also a diversion to make Sherlock think that the kidnapper was a woman) greeted him. Or maybe it was a woman and they made the smell distinct so as to make Sherlock double-guess. Also, they were able to find Sherlock despite his earlier disguise to fit in the crowd and follow John.

It looks like the kidnappers this time are actually smart. How invigorating.

"What do you want from me?" Sherlock began to talk, blinking his eyes rapidly so as to adjust and to look around his surroundings. To his annoyance, he discovered that he was blindfolded as well as tied up, and he grunted at the expert knotting done onto his wrists. "Revenge? I haven't been following any cases lately so you can't be the suspects of any current crime I have. Petty thievery, then? Or are you about to commit a crime and just want me out of the way?"

"The first and the last reason. Revenge and also we want you out of our way before we commit our next heist. We don't like the thought of having a nosy person like you being kept alive. Not after what you did to our colleagues, throwing them in jail after they kidnapped that doctor." The voice came nearer. Sherlock could hear dainty footsteps and the clicking of heels. A woman then? No, the footsteps were too heavy and uncoordinated. A fat woman? No, Sherlock could smell something unwomanly, aftershave. A hairy woman? Or a man wearing woman's heels to deceive him?

Interesting.

"Oh, are you the ones who set up John with that woman?" He knew it! There was another person behind the dealings and the ones Lestrade caught were nothing but minions! Aha! The drug dealing and thievery business went deeper than he thought!

"Very smart." The man- or woman?- said purring. "We were warned about you, Mr. Holmes. About how clever and how enthusiastic you were when it came to crimes. We were also told about your greatest weakness- that doctor who follows you around, all sweet and innocent and caring. We were also told about his dating habits… Had to test the waters and see how easy it was to kidnap him and make you bend to our will."

"Sentiment." Sherlock said the word with a well-practiced venomous tone. "You are assuming that my weakness lies in sentiment."

"Oh, we aren't assuming, Mr. Holmes. Everyone knows sentiment is your weakness. Everyone but you it seems." There was laughter behind the fake tone and Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"And?" Sherlock snapped, "Why haven't you kidnapped John, then, if you believed he is my weakness?"

"We aren't idiots."

"Oh really? The words you have spoken to me, tell me otherwise." The consulting detective mocked.

"Say what you like, but we weren't going to kidnap the assistant surgeon of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, Captain John Watson, again." The kidnapper mocked as Sherlock froze. "It would be a foolish idea to kidnap someone who was trained to escape hostage and kidnapping situations, an excellent marksman, and expert in hand-to-hand combat."

Sherlock swallowed, his mouth felt dry as he said, "You did your research…" He didn't understand how they could've gotten such information. Mycroft had placed John's personal file and background under lock and key when he started living with Sherlock, to ensure his safety.

Who were these people?

"Of course we did!" And there was a loud 'BANG!' and Sherlock felt something whoosh by, centimeters from his face. "We aren't idiots, Mr. Holmes. We wanted to get to you and we thought going through the doctor would work. But it didn't, and we realized why. And as a bonus, we also figured out that the only way to get to you, was to get to you directly. To kill you personally. It saves us a lot of effort and time."

"And now I'm here." Sherlock said.

"And now you're here." Even though he can't see, Sherlock knew that the man or woman was nodding thoughtfully. "So what do we do?"

"I can tell you what you should do." The consulting detective closed his eyes, his lips twitched into a smirk meant to make the enemies nervous. Usually he'd also give them a piercing glare but his eyes were covered at the moment, so he could only do this much. He fought down his earlier shock and focused only on the now. "How about I give you a very clever advice? If you let me go now without any harm, you might walk away from this situation unscathed."

There was silence.

"Are you threatening us?" Came the incredulous tone. Us, so more than one then. Sherlock could hear impatient tapping several feet from him, and there was also the scent of tobacco in the air, although very faint, as though someone outside was smoking. "You're tied up and blindfolded, you have no idea who we are or where we are, you're cell isn't with you-" He said 'cell', American then? "-and you threaten us? Are you sane?"

The smirk grew. "Slightly deranged but nothing to worry about." He talked. Was he buying himself time? Maybe, maybe not. "Although, it would be very smart of you to do what I say anyway. I won't take pity on you especially with what happens next."

The speaker snorted, "And what would happen next? The doctor and your police friend are getting wasted at the pub. And you go missing for hours a day as though it's normal. Most likely that John fellow will go back to your flat, see you're not there, not care about it, and when will he start looking for you? A week or two maybe. He'll think you're avoiding him because of your fight, so it'll take time before he becomes worried and calls your phone."

The guy had a point. But Sherlock had been texting his brother right before his disappearance. No doubt, the overdramatic worry of his elder brother would spur on his two somewhat friends to go looking for him.

"And besides, you are the brains of your little clique. None of your friends are smart enough to find you. How could they be, when we were smart enough to get you here in the first place? And you have no idea where you are now, do you?" The voice sneered at him.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Being blindfolded had enhanced his hearing and smelling. He opened his mouth, allowing the taste of the air to permeate as well. Cinnamon was everywhere, in the taste and in the scent. But still, Sherlock could smell the faint whiff of tobacco and something… something else. His ears could pick up the tapping sound and it seemed like something hitting against wood.

Was the other scent wood shavings?

"Oh, I wouldn't say that I didn't know where we were." Sherlock smirked again. Just as he said those words, the air became still, the tapping stopped and the clicking footsteps of someone's heels froze.

Suddenly the footsteps picked up, heading towards Sherlock. The consulting detective barely had any time to open his mouth when he suddenly felt himself getting hit by something. A riding crop.

"SHUT. UP." Came the growl. Hearing it so close, Sherlock was able to hear two voices: the original one and the fake one. "Don't play smart detective with me. You're blindfolded and I'm sure, even you are smart enough to guess that the cinnamon scent is a diversion. We're not in some bakery in London."

"Oh, I never said we were in a bakery." Sherlock chuckled, spitting out the blood at the harsh blow on his cheek. "We're in a factory. Obviously."

There was another frozen pause. The young Holmes could almost taste the fear in the air and he started to smile in triumph, when all of a sudden he was hit again, harder than before on his face. Once, twice, more than three times, Sherlock's face was hit at different angles with the riding crop.

"YOU! ARE! WRONG!" The person yelled and the abused detective heard a soft 'oi!' from behind the man, warning him. Sherlock didn't bother to tell the man to stop. The fact that he was getting abused like this meant that the guy was distressed because Sherlock was right.

Sherlock loved being right.

He nearly drank a poison pill once just to prove he was clever enough to live.

To prove he could always be right.

"Oi, calm down man. Losing your cool won't help us." A small voice whispered, causing Sherlock to raise an eyebrow. Looks like there wasn't only one sharp mind in the group. "Look, let's just get on with this and finish him off. Then we can go back to work."

At the tone, the person threatening Sherlock calmed down, inhaling deeply. Sherlock's ears picked up sound of a gun being cocked in his direction. The consulting detective pursed his lips.

"You're right." The voice was much calmer, the voice changer hiding the original user's tone once more. "But first, I'd like to hear what sort of deductions this guy has been making while being tied up." At those words, the young Holmes' smiled. Human beings were curious to a fault. "I want to see if he really is that great." He argued with the quiet voice behind him. "Go on then, impress us one last time. We're in no hurry."

Sherlock's lips formed a smile.

"That git! That absolutely annoying git!" John cursed under his breath while looking out of the window. His right foot had been tapping against the floor of the car for the last several minutes. After receiving the text, Lestrade and John had gotten out of the pub immediately and was greeted by the usual mysterious black car with a solemn-faced Anthea.

"Calm down John, getting angry won't help." Greg said to the doctor as he observed the streets they were passing. "Where are we going anyway? You have any idea where they're holding Sherlock captive?"

"Mr. Holmes is working on it." Anthea said with a serious face as though she dealt with stressed out doctors and calm detective inspectors everyday. "He said it would be better if you stopped by your flat for a moment while he traced the unlicensed car to its location. The kidnappers were experts at dodging the CCTV cameras."

"Why? Is there something in the flat that might help us find Sherlock?" John asked, blue eyes narrowed, and in that moment Lestrade caught a glimpse of the soldier the doctor took efforts to keep hidden.

"Maybe. He didn't say." Anthea said, calmly. "He just said to take your cane because you might need it."

"What?" John snapped, but then the car stopped, signifying their arrival at Baker Street. Not waiting for a response, the ex-military soldier got out and ran up the steps, eager to find any clues that would lead him to the idiot detective.

"Hey," Lestrade paused before getting out. "Can you- uh, pass a message to that Mr. Holmes of yours?"

"Depends if what you're about to say next is of relevance." Anthea answered easily and Lestrade scratched at his cheek self-consciously.

"Well, uhm, just tell him not to botch it up, yeah? Tell him to find Sherlock as fast as he can because…" Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair. "John's a little drunk and a little pissed, and I don't fancy dealing with an angry doctor at the end of the day."

The young woman smiled at the words, "Irrelevant." The detective inspector sighed just as she added, "Mr. Holmes already knows this. He hates repetition. But for your sake I'll pass the message along."

"Er, yeah. Thanks." The inspector stepped out of the car and followed John up into their flat.

"I know we are currently in a wood factory, somewhere in the east- north east- at least a mile or two from the nearest road. There are three of you-" A soft exclamation several feet away, "No, make that four, keeping guard on me. All are men, yes," Sherlock smirked at the direction of the heels, "Even you. You are wearing heels to throw me off but your inexperience with them and the second voice I heard despite the voice changer tells me otherwise. I wish you would take off my blindfold, I bet you look ridiculous right now."

There was silence and the tobacco Sherlock had smelled earlier seemed to have been crushed underfoot, seeing as the scent waned.

"You-"

"I can tell you your height and weight too. Any distinguishing features enough to have you thrown in jail. The state of your clothes, any old habits-" Sherlock interrupted but then he was suddenly hit across the face, this time, instead of the riding crop, it was a fist.

Thankfully, the young consultant turned his face just enough so as to avoid breaking his nose. Having trouble to breathe would not be ideal at his current situation.

"We have to kill him! Kill him now! He's dangerous! He knows how many we are, where we are-!" A squeaky voice, the third kidnapper, said in a panicked tone.

"I vote for torture." A rough voice, most likely the guy smoking tobaccos outside, had come in. "He's too high in his own pedestal, someone needs to teach him a lesson, yeah? A daft bastard he is." Suddenly there was the sound of a gun being adjusted and-

BANG!

The chair fell to ground as the tobacco-smoking man shot one of its legs, causing it to topple back to the floor, taking Sherlock with it.

The young Holmes breathed in sharply at the impact. His bleeding face met with wood shavings, infecting the wounds further. He gritted his teeth as a foot stepped on his sides.

"We were told to finish him off." The fake voice interrupted calmly but the speaker made no move to stop the other man.

"And we are! Only we're doing it my way." The man said roguishly as he kicked Sherlock on the back, causing him to cough out.

"The more you hurt him, the more you're leaving clues on him. Clues to our identities."

"Well, we'll bury him somewhere so no one will look too closely on his body." The man snorted as he stepped on Sherlock's hands this time. "Ain't that right, Sherly?"

"John?" Lestrade called out to the doctor as he took the steps two at a time. It seemed like Mrs. Hudson was not in, judging by the note she left on her door. She was off with Mrs. Turner attending book club at one of their friends' houses. "Oi, where are you? Did you find anything?"

"Up here, Greg! I-" There was the sound of something being pulled off before silence.

Eyebrows furrowing, the detective inspector ran up to John's room, knowing from the last drug bust where it was.

He was met with the sight of John's back as the doctor seemed to be reading something under the lamplight.

"Bloody hell." John murmured.

"John?"

The doctor turned around, eyebrows furrowed, lips set in a frown as he waved the paper in the air, saying, "Couldn't bother being a normal person for once, yeah? That bastard ought to have said something or-!" And just as suddenly the outburst came, the soldier deflated and sat on his bed tiredly. "I keep forgetting I'm the normal one between the two of us. Stupid Shelock."

"Er, sorry. I can't keep up." Lestrade shifted his weight on his other foot. "Am I missing something?"

John half-heartedly waved the paper on Greg's face, tempting him to take it and read it himself.

Ways to tell John I'm sorry:

1. Pretend we never fought to avoid awkward conversations.

2. Don't ask him to make tea for me as though he is a houseboy.

3. Don't play the violin in the middle of the night so as not to irritate him.

4. Leave flat frequently when he is home so as not to annoy him with my presence.

5. Don't risk his life by inviting him to potentially dangerous cases.

6. Don't shoot the walls when bored.

7. Don't take his laptop without his permission.

8. Move the decapitated head in the freezer and replace them with animal intestines. Intestines are less surprising.

9. Buy milk myself.

10. Follow him around when he leaves to make sure he won't get kidnapped again.

11. Don't ask him not to leave if he decided to move out. I owe him that much.

SH

Lestrade blinked in surprise before clearing his throat awkwardly, "Wow." The doctor deflated even more at the word. "So, he was in the alley near the pub when he got kidnapped because-"

"The idiot was following me to keep me safe." John said in a grunt, but the words sounded sadder. "Git."

The Yarder gave the doctor a smile as he folded the paper and stuffed it in his jacket. Another proof that Sherlock was a normal human being, "Well, I guess Sherlock isn't the only one who owes someone an apology, yeah?"

John sighed and gave him a reluctant smile. "Guess not."

Suddenly the two were alerted to someone else's presence when the familiar click of heels made them turn.

Anthea looked at the cane in John's hand in approval before saying, "They've found him."

The two were out of the door without any more prompting.

Sherlock guesses he should be doing something, staving off the attack or else trying to escape. He knew that if John was in his position, the soldier would have thought of a dozen ways to be unbounded.

But he was Sherlock Holmes, whereas other people would shut their mouths in order to avoid further hurt, whereas other people would do their best to locate a possible escape despite the hopeless situation, Sherlock would do the opposite. He would crave the danger and the hurt, he would taunt the enemies and would care less if they kicked him harder as the truth spilled from his lips.

It was all part of the Work.

And he craved the Work with every part of his being.

"Gone awfully quiet, haven't you?" The assaulter finally stopped his boring repetitive action of kicking his sides. The consulting detective breathed in sharply, trying to hide the wince as he smile dup at where he thought the suspect was.

"I was merely waiting for you to finish. I'd be wasting my energy, talking to someone who is too busy doing something else." Sherlock said in a monotonous tone. "Because clearly, your brain is only capable of one action at a time."

A sharp, heavy kick to his stomach took Sherlock's breath away as he tried to fight the urge to curl into himself.

"It's not a good idea talking up to me like that," The voice rough with anger, "Talking all high and mighty, I'm the one stepping on your body now, I'm deciding your fate."

"Wrong." Sherlock coughed, "We decide our own fates. And I've decided I won't die."

"You're pretty confident," The man with the voice changer interrupted as Sherlock was dragged up into a kneeling position. The chair went with him, bending his arms in a painful way. "You still believe that your friends will come and get you? Are you really sure they're that smart? When you aren't even smart enough to escape?"

Sherlock grunted, twisting the grip of his unknown assaulter, trying to stand despite the chair on his back "I'd like to think that my talents lie elsewhere. For example, I'm fairly talented in getting my enemies arrested with a handful of clues."

The young Holmes froze when the unmistakable sound of a gun being loaded met his ears. He frowned at the direction of the man as the cold mouth of the weapon met with his forehead.

"But those clues will be useless if the brain that stores them explodes, now won't it?" The voice was smooth and confident. Sherlock bit the inside of his cheeks, trying to stave away panic, trying to think because in this situation that was all he was good at.

"Hey-" The man who had been kicking Sherlock earlier, voiced his protest. "I'm not through with him yet-"

"Yes you are." The man with a voice changer snapped, "You've revealed your voice to him and undoubtedly your shoe size and far more clues to your identity from abusing him." Sherlock smirked, it was nice not being underestimated for once. "He's dangerous and we should get rid of him, now."

"Hm," The consulting detective hummed, "Good luck with that." And before anyone could decipher what he meant, Sherlock dropped skillfully to the ground, twisting body to the side so as to hit the gunner with the chair he was still bound too.

BANG!

The man accidentally fired a shot as the firm chair made contact with his legs. And with the annoying addition of the heels, it was inevitable that he would trip and fall forward without much effort, according to Sherlock's calculation.

Now he had 5.7 seconds before the assaulter reacted and 10.23 seconds before the two other perpetrators get ahold of him.

All in all, he had 15.30 seconds to save his life, bring them down, gather all the necessary information to solve this case, and get them arrested.

Oh, he loved his Work.

But of course, as always, no plan was ever perfect. As Sherlock once said to his fateful blogger, there was always something.

The young Holmes was an expert in doing creative tactics that would surprise any enemies and thus, turn the advantage to him. He was also fairly good in boxing and other defensive maneuvers fairly needed in his line of work. But he had woefully underestimated the strength of the other men and also the burden of having a chair tied to your wrists.

He was able to put his first plant into action, twisting his legs to where he calculated the second attacker to be, stretching to kick below the belt. He heard the groan, mentally patted himself in the back because he hit the bull's eyes. But then as he surged forward to initiate the third attack to put the third man down and find the gun, he forgot about the first man who had tripped and tangled his legs on the chair Sherlock was tied to.

The consulting detective tried to move forward but a force kept him in place and in less than 6 seconds, he was caught. Hands grabbing at his arms tightly, and the fourth man tackled him back none-too-gently. His back pressed against the chair painfully and he let out an indignant yelp.

He could still hear the second man groaning somewhere and the first man was gasping for air as he untangled himself from the stupid chair.

"I admit, that was a close one." The voice changer crackled, probably because of the fall its owner took. "But I'm afraid you've just sentenced yourself to death, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock gritted his teeth as someone grabbed his hair, forcing him to look up. The black cloth covering his sight was still intact and it irritated him that after all that, he was still caught, unable to get free, and sightless!

He felt more than heard the gun cocked a few centimeters from his forehead. Sweat dribbled down his cheek as he resolutely gazed into the darkness with an impassive face.

"What's with that look?" The first man laughed with a wheeze. "Can't believe you've failed? Disappointed that you won't get to share your deductions with anyone?"

"No." Sherlock said and even though his body was aching and he was still being held down and against the painful angles of the chair, he felt calm.

"Oh, don't tell me!" The man laughed, "You're still hoping your friends will come and save you?"

"Believing in any chance of survival in a situation like this is pointless." The consulting detective said but then he added, pushing past the hurt and the possibility of speeding up his death, "But I have never been failed by my 'friends' before, unlike you."

The man growled but then he regained himself and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice as he pressed the mouth of the gun on his head, "Tell you what, let's wager. I say you're going to die in the next few seconds and no one's coming after you."

"And my wager would be?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"That you won't die in the next few seconds because some miracle's going to happen," Then a laugh, "Which I doubt, by the way."

"Even if I had a choice," The consulting detective said, "I'll still wager that."

He knew the man was grinning predatorily at him as the gun eased form his temple. Even without it pressing against Sherlock's forehead, it would still penetrate his skull and kill him. Right now though, the detective preferred to have it touching his skin, because then it felt real. Now he had to wait in agony, wondering when the shot was going to be fired.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes." The voice was still predatory and Sherlock closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. He heard the safety click, and then-

"SHERLOCK!"

BANG!

John had no idea what he was doing. All he knew was that one moment he was bursting in some wood factory and the next second he was firing a shot that could possible save his best friend.

Sherlock Holmes fell to the ground like a sack after the sound of gunshot permeated the air, and just like that the doctor's mind went blank.

He was aware of the four men in the vicinity. One man had been holding a gun to Sherlock's head, two others holding the detective down, and the last one was curled up in a sort of way that made you know he was kicked in the balls by one Sherlock Holmes.

The fact that he wanted to laugh when he saw that seemed so long ago now.

John Watson wasn't really aware of what he was doing. After firing the first shot and watching Sherlock go down, his body went into autopilot mode and he fired a second shot, a third, a fourth. The three men went down like ragdolls and he knew they cried out or something, but apparently aside from the strange buzzing noise in his ears, his body was unable to process other sounds.

He ran across the distance, his mind automatically cataloguing other information, his eyes darting left and right, trying to see if there were other people hiding away. He jumped over the curled up man he saw before and stopped in front of the men that went down.

His blood froze when he saw the blood but he exhaled shakily when he saw that the blood came from the shots he gave to the suspects.

It wasn't Sherlock's blood.

He hoped it wasn't Sherlock's blood.

He was only vaguely aware that he hadn't killed those damn kidnappers, before he kneeled forward, blue eyes wide as he stared at the unmoving form of the only consulting detective in the world.

"Sherlock?" John called out tentatively. His hearing was coming back and his voice sounded so silent that it scared him. He reached out and grabbed the other by the arm.

The sharp breath and the wince from the detective was like a slap of relief. He would have been laughing right now if not for the fact that when he turned Sherlock's towards him, the other's face was covered in bruises. He noticed the blindfold immediately, standing out against the pale skin, and removed it swiftly.

"John." The voice was rough and the smirk, despite the pain, that graced the sharp features was a relief as blue gray eyes regarded him thoughtfully. "I won the bet."

"Jesus Christ!" The doctor said, as he crawled closer to help Sherlock sit up and to release him form is binds, "What the bloody hell happened?"

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he rubbed his wrists opened his mouth to speak, "I-"

"JOHN! BEHIND YOU!" Lestrade's voice registered several feet away, and Sherlock's eyes widened as a shadow came from behind his blogger.

It was the man who had been kicked in the balls. He had been bidding his time after all.

Thankfully, being an ex-military soldier had its perks, and with a sharp turn and a well-aimed hit, the man was down. John loomed over the figure, blue eyes narrowed as he leaned down and spotted specks of blood on the man's boots. He looked over at Sherlock who was wincing while placing an arm around his sides. The doctor could see suspicious shoeprints on his coat.

"Sherlock, did he hit you?" John said in a calm voice that made the detective turn to him with eyebrows raised.

"A few kicks," Sherlock replied trying to sound indifferent, but then he winced. "Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to- blimey, Sherlock! He could've broken your ribs! That could've punctured your lungs! You could have died!" At the last word John shot the suspects an angry glare, his sight lingered on the one who had been holding a gun to his friend's forehead moments before. "What were you thinking?"

"That I'd get as much information on them as I can." The consulting detective answered automatically.

"Wha- You baited them?" The doctor gasped before his face contorted with anger, only this time it was directed at his best friend. "You baited them! You were practically asking to be hurt weren't you?" John said as the guilt boiled slowly into fury at the thought of being a second later than intended.

"I wasn't-"

"John! Sherlock! Are you okay?" Lestrade finally came up to them, panting. He was left behind when John had suddenly gotten out of the car the moment they stopped and ran full sprint to the factory. Sherlock nodded but winced while John muttered darkly under his breath. He sighed in relief and turned to the unconscious men and blinked, "What the- is that man wearing heels?"

At those words, Sherlock smirked, "A useless attempt at trying to throw me off."

Lestrade sighed, "I don't even want to ask. This is taking years off my life." His dark eyes turned towards the entrance where several men in formal suits began to enter. The detective inspector began to fidget, "Mycroft said he'd handle this- and I'm thankful and all. But a minor case of kidnapping being handled by the British Government? I don't exactly pity these guys but-" A few men inclined their heads towards the group before starting to drag the unconscious suspects away, "I shudder to think what they have in store for them."

"Oh, don't worry about that, detective inspector." A voice suddenly came from behind them. Lestrade and John turned abruptly while Sherlock sighed in annoyance, not bothering to turn because of his injuries and because he already knew who it was.

Mycroft smiled at them, umbrella in hand as always, as he gazed at them with narrowed eyes. "We will take it from here, although…" He tilted his head slightly, "They won't get off too easily, a simple life imprisonment seems too mild."

"Oh let it go, Mycroft." Sherlock huffed but then paused at the pain the simple action caused, "They did not endanger the British Government, no need to extend your power over something so trivial."

"You are not a trivial matter." Mycroft said softly. Lestrade and John exchanged looks as Sherlock scoffed, but his narrowed eyes seemed to have softened.

A clicking of familiar heels interrupted them. Anthea, ever immersed in her mobile, made herself known with a short, "The car is ready, sir."

"Good." The elder Holmes cleared his throat, "Sherlock, I know how you despise the tube, police cars, and government cars, so I took the liberty of arranging transport for you. My driver will assist in taking you to the A & E."

"Oh for God's sake, I am fine." The younger Holmes hissed as he tried to stand up. But a burst of pain flared on his injuries and he froze barely pursing his lips together to keep from wincing.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed and Lestrade had a sense that the other man was already planning horrible things to the people who did this to his youngest brother. John had stood up immediately, arms extended, ready to assist although his face was unreadable to the detective inspector's ire.

"Your body has limitations, Sherlock. As a doctor I can see that you need medical attention. You should be thankful for your brother's consideration. He would've called an ambulance but he knows you hate those too." John said in a cool tone. The consulting detective was about to argue, but he seemed to have seen something on his doctor's face that made him close his mouth and glare at the ground.

"Good," Mycroft nodded in approval. "Now that that's settled, you three should be off. Sherlock, this case is officially off your hands and I advise you not to pursue it any further."

For once, Sherlock did not argue and merely looked away, "I had solved it anyway. It's barely a six and I do not take cases unless they're a seven.

"Good. I will see you again soon, goodbye and take care." The elder Holmes said curtly before he turned towards the men who had dragged the suspects off.

Sherlock straightened and swayed where he stood as Lestrade gently grabbed him by his left arm while John balanced him on his right.

"Right well," The Inspector said to the tense silence between the two. "To the car then, seeing as you two have things to talk about."

Glancing at the quiet doctor by his side, Sherlock nodded and allowed himself to be dragged towards the offending vehicle.

Silence permeated the air as Lestrade fidgeted on his seat. He sat in the middle of John and Sherlock. Maybe he should've taken a cab after all, seeing as how thick the tension in the car was. Running a hand down his face, he realized it was once again up to him to somehow get these two stubborn gits to talk.

"So, Sherlock… Mind telling us how'd you get to be that injured?" Lestrade said to the dazed detective. Clearly, the young Holmes' mind was elsewhere or maybe he was getting a concussion? But John wasn't panicking, so maybe it wasn't that bad. Although the doctor did keep looking at Sherlock whenever he shifted and winced.

"They simply did not like the fact that I could deduce them so easily," Sherlock answered automatically.

"Like most normal people." John muttered and sharp blue gray eyes turned to him immediately at the words.

"You're angry." Sherlock said, eyebrows furrowed and Lestrade thought, this is good, they're talking, this is good. "At me. But you're trying not to be, why?"

The detective inspector wanted to slam his head on the nearest windows. It was a well-known fact that Sherlock was thick when it came to other people's emotions with regards to his attitude. Oh sure, he could deduce the reason why a husband killed his wife but he was always so thick when it came to the fact that other people, normal people, did not like they're whole lives being dissected in front of them.

Lestrade knew this, but he couldn't help but wish that Sherlock would just not be so Sherlock-y.

"Yeah, good deduction that." John snorted but there was heat in his tone. The doctor took a deep breath and you could just see the effort he put in being patient. Lestrade felt pity, it can't be easy being flatmates with Sherlock Holmes. "It's just- I don't want to have a row Sherlock. You've just been kidnapped and injured-" John flinched, "You need rest and you shouldn't be stressed-"

"I'm fine." Sherlock said dismissively, "Absolutely fine. Not in shock, injured yes but my emotional capacity is at its best. I'd prefer to get this-" He motioned between them, "whatever this is, over with now."

John blinked but then shook his head in exasperation, "We have a spat and you call it 'this'," He made the same hand gestures Sherlock did. Lestrade had to lean back to avoid getting hit. "Like it's another, meaningless- Well, you know what? Fine! Sod your feelings! Sod bedside manners! Sod this! I'll tell you straight out how annoyed I am at your right now!"

The detective inspector winced, this was not how he imagined this to go, "Boys-"

"You, Sherlock Holmes, are the most inconsiderate fellow I have ever met." John began in a clipped tone, his face was controlled, his blue eyes dark. "We have a fight, you ignore me and pretend we're not having said fight! You go off on your own whenever I come home, and you don't even bother apologizing even though, if I may remind you, it was your bloody fault why I got kidnapped in the first place!"

Surprisingly, Sherlock said nothing as he gazed at the doctor with an unreadable expression. Lestrade tried to intervene again, but the look on John's face made him shut his trap.

"And then, as though that's not enough, you go and get yourself kidnapped!" Blue eyes were light with wild concern now and guilt, "And do you know what a conscience does to a man when the person he was fighting with gets kidnapped? I nearly went out of my mind with worry and guilt! Then I go and rescue you and I see you centimeters from a gun and all I could think was, God no! I haven't-" The doctor choked, "Haven't even bloody apologized yet." The ex-soldier let out a shaky breath.

"And it made me realize how silly it was all in the first place. Even though it was all your sodding fault, I-" John began to mumble, "I don't even mind apologizing, Sherlock. I'm sorry you- you idiotic git. So don't do that again."

The good doctor hung his head once he had said his part and Lestrade had the decency to pat him on his shoulder in comfort. He shot Sherlock a look when the detective continued to look at John quietly.

"Earlier, you asked me if I baited them, John." Sherlock said in a soft tone. Lestrade looked at him uncertainly while John acknowledged his words by looking up slightly, "I admit, I may have done exactly just that. I never consider another person's feelings when I am trying to prove myself right, as you might know." A hesitant smile appeared on the consulting detective's face. "But I did not mind being beaten, I had full confidence that I would come out of there alive."

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock took a deep breathe, "I made a bet with the person you saw holding the gun. I made a bet with him, in exchange for my life."

"Bloody-" Lestrade said, his expression turning into anger as John inhaled sharply. How could Sherlock be so careless? Didn't he know that there are people who cared if he was gone? The detective inspector rubbed at his forehead, trying to contain his emotions. "Well, go on then, this better be a good bet or I'll sock you."

The young Holmes continued to smile. "Oh it's a good one, I assure you. I had one hundred percent confidence that I would win."

"And? What was the bet?"

Narrowed blue gray eyes locked on with blue ones and in a soft tone no one would have heard unless they were close, Sherlock whispered, "I bet that you would come and save me before he pulled the trigger."

Silence.

"Y-You-" John began to say as Lestrade stared at Sherlock with mouth agape. The doctor ducked his head, burying his face in his hands, "You git, you absolutely brilliant, idiotic git."

"Saying brilliant and idiotic in the same sentence defeats the purpose of a compliment." Sherlock said coolly but he was smiling slightly.

"It's not a compliment!" John snapped and the smile fell from Sherlock's face as the ex-soldier grabbed him by the front of his shirt. His blue eyes were fierce with shock and also with frustration, "What would you have done if- God forbid- I was a second longer? If I hadn't gotten out of the car fast enough? Or if I had tripped? Would you have stuck to that bet? Would you have let yourself die?"

"It was my atonement." Sherlock said, uncomfortable by the grip but resolved. "You have been in that situation at least four times, having myself kidnapped one time is nothing-"

"Nothing to you." John said, gritting his teeth, "But think about how we would feel! Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft!" And then he added in a desperate tone, "Me."

Silence.

"I believe in you." Sherlock said in factual manner that made the grip on his shirt loosen. His eyes flashed, "And I am alive now. I don't regret being kidnapped, as long as it wasn't you again."

At those words, John's grip on him fell away and the doctor slumped back to his seat, defeated. Lestrade continued to watch in shock. This was one of those rare Sherlock moments when the great mind is overtaken by an even greater heart.

"I can't win with you." John said, covering his face but there was a reluctant smile on his face now. Sherlock relaxed back into his seat and looked out of his window.

"No you can't." The consulting detective said quietly and comfortable silence filled the atmosphere.

Eventually, Lestrade recovered from his shock and for good measure he nudged Sherlock on the ribs, eliciting a small wince. When blue gray eyes glared at him, the detective inspector pointed at John with an inclination of his head.

Sherlock pursed his lips and sighed, "And John?"

"Yeah?" Came the muffled reply.

"I am sorry. Very sorry." Sherlock said in a heartfelt tone that didn't last as long as Greg would've wanted.

A grin made its way to John's face as he removed his hands and looked at his nervous flatmate. "Yeah, I know." And when Sherlock shot the other a confused look, Greg took out the paper John found hidden on the head of his cane.

"Ways to tell John I'm sorry," Greg began to read to the amusement of John and to the horror of Sherlock, "Number one-"

"Mycroft." Sherlock growled and John laughed with Lestrade joining in.

This was how it was supposed to be. Lestrade thought as he saw John laughing and Sherlock frowning although the soft twinkle in his eyes tells you otherwise. The detective inspector shot the man a smile while said Holmes rolled his eyes.

All is right with the world again.