"Knew you'd figure it out eventually. You're a clever one, aren't you, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock paced through the warehouse, his steps slow and deliberate. He was soaking up every clue he could about the place: Old munitions factory. Out of service for forty—no, forty-three years. Full of the damp and crawling with mold, so should have been demolished decades ago. He sniffed delicately. Ah, yes. And lead-based paint, and . . .asbestos? Bloody hell. He scanned for exits and found old lead windows all but painted shut by layer after layer of that lead paint. Must remember not to take any deep breaths for fear I'll get that in my lungs. That wouldn't do.

"I suppose I know what you're here for."

"Should be obvious," he said, scanning for the source of the voice. It was hard to determine; the sound bounced off walls and reverberated in the far reaches of the space.

"Transparent."

"Then get on with it." Sherlock flashed a one-sided sneer. "I'm busy."

"I like that." A hint of a well-hidden German accent slipped through; a soft D sound at the beginning of the word that, something that would have slipped the notice of lesser people, the kind of people who see but do not observe. "Very well, since you're so busy."

A loud crack from overhead: Old lighting, not gunfire, followed by a slow-building hum, and a spotlight was thrown over a form approximately two dozen yards distant. The form was seated, slumped forward, and, judging by what Sherlock knew of balance and human anatomy, that form was bound.

John.

He smirked again. Why did the criminal classes never learn? Repeatedly they'd tried to provoke him by absconding with his best friend. Sure, the Tong had made a mistake by confusing John for Sherlock—of all the madness—but since then every attempt had been deliberate. Moriarty had tried twice, once at the pool and once via sniper. Sherlock had thwarted every attempt, always assuring John could be where he was meant to be, where the photo in Sherlock's secret heart demanded he be: Safe and warm at Baker Street.

This would be no different. The criminal classes would someday learn that taking John away only resulted in a cold, brilliant, and furious Sherlock.

He didn't run. He resumed his careful stride, headed for that slumped form. He let a largo tempo throb in his veins and he measured his footsteps against that steady, relentless crimson tide. No rush. John will be fine.

"So what's the trap?" Sherlock asked casually, just a chat between friends.

"Trap?" the omnipresent voice asked him.

He let out a sharp huff of laughter. "Come now. You didn't go through all this trouble to let me simply untie him and take him away from here."

"It's always about you, isn't it, Mr. Holmes?" the voice asked. The German accent sharpened in anger. "It doesn't always start that way, you know. Perhaps old Moriarty was . . .fixated on you, but we aren't all the same. I have a business to run, and you've grown bothersome."

"That doesn't answer my question. What amazing feat of logic am I expected to perform?"

Oops. Perhaps the tone of forbearance in his voice was a bit heavy-handed. But honestly, how was he expected to tolerate these simplistic idiots who, time after time, abducted John like it was procedure?

"You arrogant child," the voice said. The anger was gone. Excitement and amusement had replaced it. "Very well. If you can make it to Doctor Watson, you may have him."

"Make it?" Sherlock asked. "What's to stop me?"

"My boys."

At that word, no less than a dozen fully-costumed ninjas materialized from the shadows.

Sherlock sighed heavily. Oh, this was just too ridiculous. He took one more look at John: His John, his best friend, flatmate, blogger, partner-in-crime, and secret heart—and he rushed forward into the fray.

Much later, as John was kept in hospital overnight "for observation"—tedious—and as Sherlock kept his patient, silent vigil, perched like a condor in the uncomfortable plastic bedside visitor's chair, he would close his eyes and slip into a secret room in his Mind Palace, a place full of soft furniture covered in skin-warmed wool, the scent of Earl Grey wafting between banal books, crap telly murmuring in the background. Sherlock took a seat in his chair and pulled a wool throw closer, over him, and wallowed in everything that John had come to mean to him.

A voice—the voice of his hidden self, the relentlessly emotional, sentimental sap living deep in this tortured basement full of feelings—whispered that this whole situation was untenable. Something would give. It had to.

He hushed the voice and found peace in the steady largo beat of John's electronically transmitted pulse.

"So . . .Lestrade, then?"

"Mm." Sherlock was now standing by the window, projecting boredom through his voice and posture as he answered John's questions. John was sitting up in bed, rubbing the chafed-raw ligature marks on his wrists. His hair was sleep-mussed and a little longer than usual. His eyes were bloodshot. A plaster was fixed over an abrasion on his left temple where he'd been struck to render him unconscious.

"And extradicted, you said?"

Sherlock frowned. How he hated repeating himself. "You weren't concussed, John. I won't repeat myself simply to satisfy your fascination with the sound of my voice."

John smiled that wide, guileless smile of his, and Sherlock turned away. "Prat."

"Oh, God, why are we still here?" Sherlock groaned.

"Paperwork."

"Mycroft is footing the bill for this. There shouldn't be any paperwork."

"There's always paperwork. Calm down."

"You seem back to your usual, infuriating adherence to societal norms, John. I'll leave you to that."

"You're off?"

Sherlock stopped before he reached the door to the private little hospital room. John's question was unsteady, unsatisfied. He doesn't want me to go.

"I-I thought I should go to the shop, make sure we have your precious milk and beans and biscuits."

"Ah. Right then. Off you pop."

Sherlock did not turn back.

John watched him go, and when he was sure Sherlock was gone, he closed his eyes and sighed.

He didn't mind so much the near-constant abductions—at least, not anymore. He didn't mind being waked at all hours of the night to paw through stacks of books or sneak into the flats of vacationing government officials or be the rabbit in any number of Sherlock's experiments. He didn't mind the sulking or the tantrums or the seeming impossibility of living with a deranged genius—because there were certainly benefits to this life. There were the impromptu violin compositions in the stillness of a Sunday afternoon. There were the breathtaking glimpses at what very well may be the next phase of human evolution, a peek at the Übermensch through the portals of Sherlock's prismatic eyes. There was a friendship at the end of the day, a friendship that obliterated any relationship that pretended to be more significant. He belonged with Sherlock. He knew that. Sherlock's absence after that awful dive from Bart's roof had drilled the lesson into his soul.

What he minded was the physical restlessness of his libido. The range of available women in the greater London area who were willing to put up with these shenanigans had thinned to the point of desperation, and he'd finally given up his search for that one singular soul who could bear it. He'd briefly considered employing the services of a professional, but . . .no. He was a doctor and an army veteran. It would be just too sad to resort to paying for sex. Besides, he'd never enjoyed wearing a condom during sex. He was too damned old for this relentless single-life churn, too old to wear the mask of the interested suitor when nobody, simply nobody, could be as interesting as his own flatmate. Nobody could supplant Sherlock. It was a singular, aggravating, fascinating, and infuriating fact of his condition.

There was only one possible solution.

Captain John Hamish Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was not gay, but for the sake of his continued sanity he was going to find a way to seduce Sherlock Holmes.