Apologies for the delay in publishing this chapter! The method of nearly killing JW was chosen by Ar3emis.

There was wariness in John's eyes as he watched his captor stop and peer at the clock for what was maybe the tenth time in as many minutes. It didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to figure out that whatever was going on it was time sensitive, but as yet the doctor hadn't worked out exactly what it was.

He sat still, not wishing to chafe his wrists on the cable ties securing them to the arms of the rather sturdy yet uncomfortable chair he had woken up in. His head ached. No amount of practice ever prepared you for how much it hurt to wake up after being bashed on the head he thought to himself, and yet he had lost count of the number of times this very thing had happened to him.

His captor glanced his way.

"Will he come?"

"Who?" John asked as blandly as he could.

The resulting snarl confirmed his thought that this was yet another set up to lure Sherlock into a trap.

"Your friend, Sherlock!"

"You'll wait a long time."

"He'll come." The man replied, grinning at John as if he were the punch line in a particularly funny joke. "If he wants you back unharmed, he'll come."

Now John had faced many threats from various assorted criminals regarding the removal of one or several parts of his body, and being a surgeon he knew just how unworkable those threats were without the right tools. The calmness of this man's words though was somehow chilling in their promise.

xXx

Sherlock paced the living room for what was probably the hundredth time, staring at the pictures on his phone.

The first to come through was a clock and a picture of John.

Then a picture of a hypodermic needle and the clock was sent a second time – it didn't take a consulting genius to work out that the time shown on the clock was a deadline, the time that something would happen to John if he didn't get there or solve the puzzle.

The third message had just arrived. Pictures of a building near Canary Wharf was shown as well as one of another building that would not have looked out of place in the newly refurbished riverside setting, then there was the clock, and this time it included a sneering message. 'Hope your knowledge of London is as good as you think. This is your last clue – you have an hour.'

Before he had finished reading the message Sherlock was into his coat and out of the door, hailing a cab and demanding to be taken to the old converted warehouses in Canary Wharf.

Throughout the journey he turned over in his mind the few facts he had; the perpetrator obviously had a grudge against him and sought to get at him through John. Whoever it was seemed to be cognisant of John's movements when they were not working on a case, and the presence of a hypodermic needle suggested knowledge of, or access to, medical supplies.

Sherlock closed his eyes and considered how many people he had helped to incarcerate over the years, shifting names and faces around in his mind palace, whittling down the numbers until he was left with four prime suspects, all bar one were known drug users, the fourth a disgraced Phlebotomist.

It was this man, the fourth suspect, which seemed the most likely in Sherlock's opinion. He would have a good working knowledge of hospital and GP surgery shift patterns, and was possibly still able to pass unnoticed around hospital corridors – all the better to steal the supplies.

And the other telling fact that backed this up was the fact that John hadn't said goodnight to any of his colleagues at the hospital. Sherlock knew his friend too well to think that he would have left the hospital without a friendly word or a cheery goodbye no matter how bad his day had been, yet none of them recalled seeing him leave, and on closer inspection they had found his jacket still hanging in the staff common room.

xXx

John looked around the room wondering, taking note of the kind of a place he was being held in.

The room was well lit and brightly painted, probably to compensate for the lack of windows, and a selection of comfy armchairs and less comfy straight backed retro armchairs, one of which he was currently tied to.

As well as the clock there were posters and paintings scattered about the wall, and a list of homeopathic treatments available. John smirked inwardly at the irony of it all – he had spent half his life training to save lives and then actually saving them both on the front line and in the hospitals of London, only to have his own life threatened in the waiting room of what was probably a highly profitable yet unregulated alternative therapy clinic

With his captor's back turned John tried surreptitiously to loosen the arms of the chair, or at least stretch the ropes that were holding him prisoner but he was frustrated by the strength of his restraints.

"You won't get free Dr Watson." Without turning to face him his captor spoke. "I will enjoy watching Mr Holmes' face as he realises there is nothing he can do to save you."

The man's voice sounded so calm and matter of fact that it chilled John to the bone.

xXx

As the cab pulled up in front of an old red brick building similar to the one in the photograph he had received, Sherlock's mind was already mapping the area, considering the likely places that John could be held captive. Without batting an eyelid the consulting detective paid the extortionate cab fare and slipped out into the chilly spring evening.

Turning his phone onto 'vibrate' Sherlock walked purposefully along the buildings, his eyes scanning the buildings. The photograph had shown external stairs, and a rather fuzzy sign on the wall but the angle had made it impossible for him to read and therefore identify the building.

He walked slowly, examining each building carefully as he passed, careful not to miss anything that might identify John's prison. The light was fading as he turned off the main thoroughfare and found himself face to face with a row of renovated waterside warehouses.

A small smile flitted across his face as he recognised the general styling of the refurbishments. They all had external fire escapes, and several had boards advertising the companies renting the buildings. With his phone in had Sherlock worked his way along, methodically comparing the signs to the one in the photograph.

xXx

Bending over a small metal trolley John's captor reached out to pick something up.

"He's here." He said, turning round and holding a large syringe up to the light, gently depressing the plunger to push out any air bubbles. A thin stream of clear liquid flowed down the needle. "Clever isn't he, Mr Sherlock Holmes. He's worked out where you are, and even picked the lock to get in here – he must care for you a lot."

"I don't know what you're talking about." For the first time John was beginning to worry. Until now he had assumed that he was simply bait, that if Sherlock didn't arrive to this man's timetable that he would be beaten up and maybe forced to make a pleading call to his friend for help. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time a kidnap scenario had played out like that, and john was sure that if he got out of this in one piece it wouldn't be the last.

But as well as being a realist John is a doctor, and he recognised the syringe as being a 200ml capacity syringe, the kind they used to add medication into an intravenous feed. It was full, and whatever medication was in there John was certain it would do him no good at all.

"Who the fuck are you?" he shouted. "What is this all about?"

"Tut tut Dr Watson. Shouting to attract Mr Holmes attention?" the man grinned. "Well, he'll find you sooner or later so while we wait I'll tell you what you want to know because the knowledge won't do you any good – you'll be dead and your friend will have to live with that on his conscience."

John's chair was dragged round to face the door.

"My name is Graham Turner. I see the name means nothing to you, and so it shouldn't. Your flatmate worked out that I had given my mother a merciful release from her illness and had me accused of murder…"

"Because you had forged her will in your favour, cutting your siblings out and taking the whole of her not inconsiderable estate for yourself."

John held back a relieved sigh as Sherlock stepped through the door. Now the odds were more favourable.

"You were too greedy Graham, if only you had given some of the money to your sisters the solicitor's alarm bells wouldn't have started to ring so loudly."

"And of course you remember how it was done, don't you Mr Holmes?" Turner brought the syringe around from behind his back and moved to stand beside John. Leaning in, he held the needle against the captive man's stomach. "Subcutaneous injection of insulin," he glanced down at John. "My mother wasn't diabetic, now I'm sure you know what that means Dr Watson."

"Hypoglycaemic coma, then death…" John couldn't pull his gaze away from the liquid in the syringe. "200ml would cause irreversible damage." His eyes flicked up to Sherlock's, making sure that he understood the message.

The room ran almost the whole length of the building, and there was no way Sherlock could cover the distance from the door to where John was tied to the chair before Turner plunged the needle in and released 200ml of insulin into his body.

It seemed that the former phlebotomist had had the same thought, and he laughed cruelly in John's face.

"What price friendship Dr Watson? What would you give for your friend to be able to save your miserable life?"

"You won't get away with it." John snarled angrily.

"Maybe not, but I'll be alive, and you'll be dead."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that." Sherlock's voice was soft and menacing.

Turner looked up, his sneer fading to shock as the explosive sound of John Sig ricocheted around the room and a neat hole spurted blood from the centre of his head.

Sherlock was moving before the echo ceased, pushing the body away from John. He looked down into relieved blue eyes.

"Well," he said with a smile. "It would be ridiculous for him to kill you after I killed him!"