John frowned behind his newspaper as he heard someone coming up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson was on a holiday in Rome for the weekend, and Sherlock had gone out to buy milk.
"Back so soon, Sherlock? I don't suppose you remembered sugar, did you? ...Sherlock?"
There was no answer.
"Sherlock, for heaven's sake, why are you-" he looked up from his newspaper to find a gun pointed at his nose. "Oh, well this is just bloody brilliant, isn't it," he muttered. "What do you want? I hope you know my flat mate has taken all of my cash with him and anything of value isn't kept here. Haven't even got milk in the fridge."
"We don't want your money, Doctor Watson," the man said in a thick Scottish accent. "Stand up, please."
John stood with an irritated sigh, then kicked the Scottish man in the knee, wrenched the gun from his hands, gave him a mean left hook, and very calmly pointed the gun at the man's head.
"Now, what is it you want?"
The man glowered at him from the floor and said nothing. His hand twitched and John gave him a swift kick to the ribs.
"Don't even think about it. People always seem to forget that I was a soldier once, and know when a man is going to try and disarm me."
The Scotsman's expression turned to one of confusion. "But I thought you were a doctor."
"I had my bad days!" John cried. "Now unless you want to see what else I learned in Afghanistan, I suggest you tell me what the hell you're doing here!"
The Scotsman opened his mouth to speak when the small sound of a silenced gun and a bullet in the back of the head interrupted him. John looked up in surprise. A tall, thin man stood in the doorway, a hat casting a shadow that obscured his eyes. He had a gun aimed at John's chest, and the doctor could tell by the neatness of the shot, the way the man handled the gun and himself, that he was not to be trifled with.
"Come, now, John. Look what you've made me do. I quite liked him. Oh, well. Drop your weapon now, and come with me."
"Who are you?" John asked as he set the gun down on the coffee table.
The man tipped his hat back.
"You," John breathed.
"Me!" the man answered cheerfully.
"Don't touch anything!" Sherlock snapped at Lestrade. "Just because my flat is a crime scene does not mean you get to touch anything."
Lestrade sighed. "Holmes, I'm just doing my job. You do realize you're a person of interest, don't you?"
"Oh, don't be ridiculous. I was buying milk and sugar. I have the receipt right here."
Lestrade looked at it and nodded. "So you were. What about John?"
What about John?
Sherlock blinked. He had been so occupied with learning as much as he could about the victim that he hadn't stopped to consider what had become of his flat mate.
He looked again at the position of the body and the shot and examined the carpet closely.
"Well, it wasn't him," he told Lestrade matter-of-factly. "It was his kidnapper."
"His…kidnapper," Lestrade repeated slowly. "Watson's been kidnapped?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes in irritation. "Obviously. You-what are you doing? Calling him? That won't do any good, I've just told you he's been kidnapped!"
Lestrade ignored him. "You forget, Holmes, you are a consulting detective. You can give me advice, but I do not have to take it." He stood with his hand on his hip and his phone to his ear. After a few seconds, he hung up his cell in frustration and shoved it in his pocket.
"He didn't answer. I knew that would happen. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go examine the security footage."
Lestrade frowned. "Security footage? There aren't any security cameras in the complex!"
Sherlock just gave him that mischievous, infuriatingly knowing look and swept out of the room.
Lestrade watched him go and muttered some rather choice words under his breath, his hands on his hips.
"You guys want to get this body out of here?" he said to no one in particular. Sherlock Holmes was quite possibly the most infuriating man on the face of the planet, and it was no wonder that Watson had gone and gotten himself kidnapped, having a flat mate like that.
John watched as his kidnapper paced back and forth, wiggling his hands uselessly in the handcuffs behind his back.
He cleared his throat and the kidnapper looked up. "Question, doc?"
"Um, yes, I do have one. I thought you worked for Moriarty and, well, he's dead now. So who are you working for now, Mr-"
"Okay, okay," the kidnapper interrupted. "One: I didn't work for Moriarty, I worked with him. Two: for your information I'm not just a hired hand. I'm working on me own now. Three: Enough with all that mister stuff, John. Just call me Sebastian."
"Well, Sebastian, only my friends call me John. So I'd prefer if you called me Doctor Watson. Look, I don't mean to be rude, but are you going to tell me what the hell you want with me?"
Sebastian stopped mid-step and smiled at John, a wide smile that showed all of his teeth. It reminded John somewhat of a shark and he shuddered.
"What do I want with you? I want to work with you, John! Sorry, Doctor Watson. You and I, two veterans out of place. We don't fit in. We both know that the only way Scotland Yard is able to catch any of the higher-end criminals is by consulting your friend Sherlock Holmes. If he's out of the way, you and I, we would rule this city."
"Sorry," John said with a shake of his head. "But a life in the shadows doesn't appeal to me. Besides, Sherlock is my best friend. Did you honestly think there was any way in hell that I would betray him? You're as mad as Moriarty was."
Sebastian's expression grew dark. "I really was hoping that you'd see my side of things. We could have done great things. But if you're not with me, then you're against me. And if you're against me, I have no reason to be nice."
"Is shooting someone in the head in my flat, holding me at gunpoint, and handcuffing me to a chair to listen to your psychotic ramblings considered nice?" John asked, seething.
Sebastian's mouth twitched and he punched John in the face hard enough to make his head snap to the side.
Memories of the war began to creep into the front of John's mind, and he felt the hard demeanor of a soldier taking over.
"You haven't lost it, Colonel," John said with a bloody smile.
"I'm not a colonel anymore, and this isn't Afghanistan. You may be wishing it were in a while, though," Sebastian growled.
"I'm a soldier, Moran. I've been wishing I were back since I left," John answered coldly.
He didn't know how much time had passed, but in that time, John had gone from being a soldier to being the lonely, uncertain shell of a man he'd been when he'd first arrived in London.
Spirit and body were broken and battered, and he found himself slipping in and out of consciousness.
"You're a stubborn bastard," Sebastian said from the corner of the room. "I can see you fighting it. Fighting death. You must have something you're holding onto. I'm just wondering what the hell it is."
John knew what he was holding onto. He was holding onto the hope that a certain consulting detective would hurry the bloody hell up, because John was losing a lot of blood and he was tired of getting the life beat out of him, and damn, there went his consciousness again.
There was a loud bang as someone entered the building they were in.
Sebastian shot one more look at John and picked up his gun, leaving the room to go face the intruder.
"Hand over Moran," Lestrade demanded.
"I'm afraid I can't do that, detective inspector," the man answered. "I'm taking him in on orders from M."
Lestrade blinked. "Ah. You must be 007. On your way then."
Bond smiled. "Good day, Lestrade."
Lestrade wondered how in the hell the MI6 agent knew his name, but decided maybe it was best he didn't know.
Sherlock had gone looking for John, and finally found him in a room on the third floor. He ran to his side and felt for a pulse. His heart quickened as he realized the danger his companion's life was in and called for an ambulence.
Sherlock undid the handcuffs and tapped John's face gently.
"Come on," he muttered quietly, even though he knew it was a silly thing to do. "Come on, John!"
He was surprised when John's eyes fluttered open.
"Sherlock?" John whispered.
"Yes! Yes John, it's me, very good! I need you to-"
"It's about bloody time," John interrupted before he broke into a fit of violent coughs that shook his shoulders and spattered the floor with blood. He frowned. "Bugger. That's a bad sign." His eyes rolled back and his head lolled and Sherlock yelled at the paramedics who had just entered to hurry and come before he reported them for poor job performance.