John, making sure Ludovic was behind him, made his way to Sherlock's side. He was used to following Sherlock around, but it seemed odd following someone who looked like they belonged in a children's commercial about shampoo.

"You don't happen to have a knife, do you?" Sherlock whispered as he leaned his ear against the door. It was so disturbing yet adorable watching him say that as a ten or so year old.

As Ludovic replied, "I wish," John muttered, "Ms. Hudson hid them."

"Right. Well lucky for you I took the liberty of texting Lestrade. It takes him about five minutes to get here." Sherlock muttered, adjusting the cuffs of his "dress" shirt.

Ludovic cleared his throat as several awkwardly quiet seconds passed by, "You're sure you'll friend will come?"

"Of course, it isn't like he's got anything else to do." Sherlock scoffed.

(That very second at Mycroft's house...)

"Aren't you going to check that?" Mycroft asked, as he raised a glass of wine up in a strange zig zag motion.

Lestrade gave a wispy laugh, "Of course not! It isn't as if I'm ever included in serious matters!"

"But you are a policeman, are you not?"

"I thought so. But it seems your brother dear has made sure to hack into my phone to make sure all the danger related texts are sent to him."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, "Same old Sherlock. Recon he's doing something dangerous?"

"Of course not, I saw him just the other night cursing at a grocery woman for not carrying two percent milk."

(Back to 221B...!)

"I don't think he's coming, Sherlock." John muttered as the pounding on the door grew louder.

Sherlock turned, raising his eyebrows, "Really? Such a marvelous deduction, John. Care to deduct anything else that's completely obvious?"

Ludovic gave a dreamy sigh, "I've always wanted children, there so remarkably moody. Matches my personality completely."

As John agreed smugly, Sherlock practically screamed, "I am not a child!" before swinging the door open in a dramatic swoosh.

Several large men stood at the doorstep, each armed, looking down at Sherlock with keen interest. It was a wonder no one had reacted to armed men pounding on the door, surely at least one person would have the decency to call the police. Then again, this was 221B Backer street, they probably thought these men were the police...

Leaning down, so he was at eye level with Sherlock, a man with thick eyebrows grabbed Sherlock's shoulder, "How very kind of you to open the door, we were about to break it open. Saves so much unneeded work."

"Yes," Sherlock stuttered, obviously intimidated by the gorilla sized man, "I'm personally sort of fond of the door, decided it wasn't worth it."

"No. No it wasn't." He snatched Sherlock's arm, pushing him into the custody of the other men and faced John with a dark grin, "Dreadfully sorry, but I've got orders to deliver both of you as well. It's just business, really. Nothing personal."

"Personal!" Ludovic snapped, his face turning an alarming shade of red, "I shared my peanut butter with you, Harold, did that mean nothing to you?"

John gaped at Ludovic, "You know him? Of course you know him..."

"Come on, don't want things to get messy, do you? Especially not in front of a-" Harold was cut off as Sherlock kicked his leg. It was a pitiful kick, really, but his words were sharp, "If you say child, I swear I will hunt you down and murder you with crayons and animal crackers you little-"

"Shut up, Sherlock." John interrupted as the men raised their guns, "Were coming." He said calmly, nudging Ludovic silent as he protested.

"I thought so." the man, Harold, slurred, motioning to the ominous black van parked at the curb.

John followed the men slowly, glancing behind and up to the window where Ms. Hudson was waving cheerfully, like he was going out with some buddies to a bar. Crazy woman.

As one of the men used his foot to push Sherlock forward, John grabbed Sherlock and glared at the man, "No one abuses Sherlock but me." He whispered before climbing into the van, Ludovic and Sherlock following silently.

It was dark in the van, a small, empty space with screws and nails scattering the floor. The widows had been sprayed black, so that the only light was the cracks from where a small divider leading to the driver seat sprinkled through. Sherlock made his way to the corner, brushing away nails before sitting down cross legged, John and Ludovic followed.

As the van lurched forward, John felt Sherlock's small hand tug on his sweater, "What did you mean by 'no one abuses me except for you?'"

"Simple," John then located Sherlock's head and whacked it with great force, "you do realize all of this wouldn't have happened if you had just done what I asked and bought milk?"

"So sorry, mother. But for your information, Ludovic would have surely located me anyway. And we both know I'd have probably ended up drinking the vile, I calculate it was inevitable." Sherlock's voice muttered, muffled. It sounded like he was covering his mouth with his sleeves. It was strange enough knowing what Sherlock looked like as a kid, but it was even stranger the things Sherlock couldn't hide. As an adult, he could easily hide emotions such as fear or discomfort with a snarky comment. But John couldn't help his heart aching as he listened to Sherlock's voice crack, and how he realized Sherlock was shaking. He'd spent his all his time knowing John acting like he was like a machine. But really, John thought, he was the most human of all of them.

(scene fades to black...you know how it does that in shows? Never mind...)

"John...John, honestly, your snoring could give an exploding firework a hearing impairment. Would you wake up?"

"It was even worse sleeping next to him, while he was asleep 'e kept trying to touch my-"

"Can you please shut up? The lack of intelligence when you talk gives me a headache."

John groggily rubbed his eyes. His back ached immensely, probably because of the fact he was sleeping on at least a dozen screws, and his vision slowly pieced itself into mini Sherlock glaring down at him. Any other time he might of said something like "Aww" or "How cute" but considering the fact that there were shotguns pointed to his forehead made him think otherwise.

"How long was I out?" He muttered as Ludovic pulled him to his feet. After a wave of nausea as a head rush hit him, he gazed up at a rather lovely looking mansion. It was mid afternoon, and the rich green grass with the pleasant hues of vibrant blue sky sparkled across his vision.

Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes hard and serious. "A week."

"What?" John gasped, his mind spinning.

Laughing, Sherlock shook his head, "No, you idiot. A few hours. Lucky thing too, you missed Ludovic's horrid singing."

"It was not horrid!" Ludovic argued, "The song was immensely catchy and I think my singing skills were lovely."

"Wrong. Might I remind you that the Black Death plague was as you say catchy. That doesn't mean people liked it!" Sherlock snapped, rubbing his temples.

"Stop talking." One of the guards prodded Sherlock's back so he stumbled out of the van and onto the grass.

John quickly followed, helping Sherlock up, and began to walk across the pebbled pathway. It seemed they were just at the outskirts of London, he could begin to see rolling hills in the distance, but there were still apartments and stores. He considered making a run for it, he could have easily taken down at least one of the guards. But considering Sherlock's tiny legs and Ludovic's...not tiny legs, John would probably be the only one to escape.

As they neared the entrance, a tall, slim man in a pristine white suit approached them. His pale blond hair was slicked back in an immaculate stroke, and his large pointed nose and chin were deathly pale. Like he'd never seen the sun before.

He walked past John and Ludovic and leaned down, holding up Sherlock's chin to examine him. Almost as if he were an exotic painting being critiqued, "Fascinating..." The man's terrifyingly calm voice drawled, "Bring him to the lab, sedate him but no experiments yet. I want to be there..."

As Sherlock kicked and yelled out, "John!" Which made John reach out to help, but ended with one of the guards forcefully kicking behind his legs so he shriveled to the ground, John glared up at the man, "Who are you?" he snarled, pain hammering through his vision.

"Nice seeing you again," The man said crisply to Ludovic, who looked as if he were staring into death itself, "Mr. Watson, I apologize for the inconvenience. I hope my men were not to hard on you?"

Instead of replying, John spit on the mans shoes, which made his oily smile quaver for a few moments, but it returned as he ordered the guards to pull John up, "Come, doctor." he whispered airily, "We have much to discuss."