John Watson has been berating himself for the past hour and a half. He's standing on the terrace of the National Gallery wearing a green parka with fur on the hood. It rustles softly when people walk too close. It's zipped almost all the way up to his stubborn chin so that the foaming crowds buffeting him can't see the explosives strapped to his body.

Fucking great lookout, Watson, he thinks bitterly. Walking right into a trap. Had he learned nothing in Afghanistan? His instincts had remained sharp for months after being invalided home from the war with a bullet wound in his left shoulder and a limp he still doesn't understand. Then civilian life, London life, had lulled him into a sense of security. He doesn't check over his shoulder every few minutes, allows himself to become distracted as he walks - stumps - around the city. That's how he got into this mess - an ambush from the back, his cane kicked out from underneath him, a fight he couldn't hope to win, not with this leg. A doctor himself, he knows nothing happened to his damn leg but it hurts almost all the time.

Except now. The hatchet-faced man with the broad grin and dead eyes had taken his cane, but John hasn't noticed even a twinge after 90 minutes of standing still. Shifting his weight carefully, he closes his eyes, remembers the phone call, sifting through to find information he can use to escape.

CALL NOW came up as a text message on one of the cell phones the ugly man had given him moments before he melted into the crowd. He called the only contact in the second phone and waited for an answer.

"...Hello." When he hears the gorgeous baritone voice with the posh accent, his mind wants to scream help me I'm strapped to explosives I'm going to die everyone here is going to die.

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes. I've been so looking forward to this." John tries to speak boldly even when reading the texts from the first phone, to show this unknown man that he's brave, unafraid, a soldier.

"Who is this? Who are you?"

"So hasty! You'll know soon, my dear. I've sent you a little puzzle. You have four hours. Tick tock goes the clock - especially for this doctor!" Looking his own death in the face, John's voice cracks slightly on the last sentence.

Another text from the first phone: END THE CALL. John broke the connection and was alone again in the sea of tourists.

John is shaken from his reverie when a passing pedestrian bumps him slightly - a mild admonishment for standing still in the middle of the steps. He barely notices. His eyes are on the buildings around him - the gallery behind him, Trafalgar Square and Nelson's Column in front. King George V not too far away. The Canada House to his right. Obviously, there's a sniper on him. This does little to rattle John - he too well knows the weight of the crosshairs.

Three hours and 25 minutes have ticked by and John has come up with very little in the way of a plan. The sniper could be anywhere, though most likely in front, in Trafalgar Square. John can't rule out the Column even though there's no way to get to the top - these people clearly don't work within regular rules.

With that realization, John also throws out the rules. It's obvious no one is coming for him. Sherlock Holmes has failed, but John is not going to die for a game that, frankly, has nothing to do with him. Once again, he can rely only on himself. Fortunately, John Watson didn't survive Afghanistan more or less intact by not learning how to do just that. He slows his breathing, closes his eyes, focuses on the explosives strapped to him instead of the clock ticking louder and louder in his head.

Lightweight even for the amount, so most likely plastic. The explosives are in casings, so he couldn't see the color when they were being put on, so it's most likely either C-4 or Semtex. Considering the circumstances, C-4 wouldn't make sense as it can't be detonated with a gunshot. Though Semtex doesn't normally detonate in response to impact, John is not willing to take chances. Twice as explosive as TNT, the amount John is wearing could raze not just Trafalgar Square, but also the Gallery behind him and everyone in the vicinity.

With the makings of a plan in his head, John starts watching the people around him. First thing he needs is a large group that he can blend in to until he's safely out of range of the sniper. Then he can divest himself of the explosives and alert someone that a crazy person is kidnapping people and strapping bombs to them.

It's late afternoon, past time for most tour groups, but luck is on John's side. A group of about 20 Americans strolls in front of him and, with a prayer and a tightening of his jaw, John insinuates himself between three of them. Quizzical looks are thrown his way, but his adrenaline is high and he doesn't notice. With a calm he doesn't feel, he keeps pace with the group until the pass the George V. He ducks behind the trees lining the next street over. He freezes, waiting for screams or gunshots or... something.

Silence.

He's escaped.

John crouches for long seconds in his hiding place, attempting to bring his heart rate back to a normal pace. He's still straining his ears to hear the (in his mind) inevitable spray of bullets into Trafalgar Square - the sniper's retribution for John's escape. When they don't happen, he begins to wonder if there even was a sniper, or if that was just implied to keep him in line. Either way, he's escaped. Now, the slightly trickier part - what to do with the explosives he's wearing? Though he's got a pretty good idea of what's in the canisters, an expert is necessary to explain how to properly dispose of it. Scotland Yard it is.

Next - transport. He looks terribly conspicuous in the parka. It's the middle of April, after all. London's weather can be quite dismal, but it's not yet gotten to the point of wearing arctic gear. Besides, if the hypothetical sniper is looking for him, they'll be looking for the coat. On the other hand, he doesn't want to inadvertently detonate anything while taking it off of his body. He dithers for a moment, then remembers the phone - it's still in his pocket. Maybe this Sherlock Holmes can be of some use after all.

He extracts the mobile carefully, then calls the number. It's answered on the first ring.

"Your puzzle was - "

"This is Captain John Watson, I've escaped and I need your help." John hisses urgently into the phone.

There is silence on the other end.

"Did you not hear me? I'm wearing a vest made out of what I think is Semtex. An explosives expert needs to come down here and help me so I don't blow up all of Trafalgar Square."

"I solved the puzzle. What do you mean you escaped?" It's the same posh baritone voice as before, but John is not remotely interested in anything other than his safety and that of everyone around him at the moment.

"If you're not going to talk to anyone, put someone on the bloody phone who can help me." John spits out the words, growing more frantic with every passing moment. He's beginning to garner some questioning looks and the hatchet-faced man could be searching for him now...

He hears the phone being passed to someone else. "This is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, what is your precise location?" John describes his hiding place with as much detail as he can as quickly and quietly as possible. The DI promises to have someone there within minutes, then hangs up.

Sweat is pouring from John's body. The heat, the adrenaline, everything is starting to catch up with him. He can feel his hair plastered to his head. Even his socks are damp. Still, his hands are steady and his leg still doesn't hurt, which registers as out of the ordinary but nothing to be concerned with at the moment. He can taste rain in the air when he pulls in a deep breath. The smell of food wafts on the breeze, and John is astonished when his stomach rumbles - hunger seems too commonplace an idea after everything that's happened to him today.

The phone in his pocket rings.

He starts violently, then answers it even though BLOCKED shows on the caller ID.

"Johnny boy, you've flown the coop." The voice is deep, dark, Irish-accented. It freezes the blood in John's veins. This isn't the man that kicked his cane out from under him, abducted him, strapped a bomb to him - but he's the one that ordered it done. "Clever, doctor, very witty. I see you've phoned the Yard. Though I'm not surprised, I'm a little... disappointed. I'd hoped we could have some more fun, just us, but I won't worry." Words stick in John's throat - how can this man sound so cavalier about what's happening? "I'd better be off, but we'll be seeing each other again very soon." The line disconnects, and at the same moment, someone lays a hand on John's shoulder. Instinctively, John reacts by grabbing the arm and jettisoning the rest of the body over his shoulder to the ground.

"Who are you?" he snarls, kneeling next to the silver-haired man in the sports coat who's now laying on the ground, gasping for breath.

"DI Greg Lestrade. You must be John Watson."