Repens

He began by taking a sample of the blood on the scalpel. He was handling the equipment a bit rougher than usual. Once the blood was off the blade, he began an identity scan to see who the unfortunate was who had been cut for this horrible purpose. John had accidently fallen asleep in a chair across the room and Greg was outside chatting with nurses to pass the time while keeping an eye on the lab door. This left Sherlock alone to his thoughts and work, giving him the silence and solitude he so desperately needed.
The silent room filled with a fierce yell as Sherlock screamed, "DAMN!"
John quickly rose to his feet, still half asleep, and asked, "What? What did you find?"
An enraged Sherlock knocked multiple stacks of clean Petri dishes off a nearby cart with a single swipe of his arm. After hearing the loud clatter, Lestrade ran into the room just in time to catch a glimpse of the livid Sherlock's contorted face.
"What the bloody h-"
"It's HER blood!" He screamed, now beginning to pace. "That bastard cut her and used her blood."
"Moriarty cut Stephanie with… with that?"
"You can't be serious," Lestrade whined, doing his best to hide his shock and terror.
But Sherlock was in no mood to be second guessed, especially by a friend that was supposedly on his side. All it took was one dagger-like stare to silence the ignorant detective. John took three steps towards his best friend but paused when he realized that he hadn't a speech prepared. There was no use in him going to comfort his high functioning friend if he had nothing to say. Yet that was still is best friend, and he was in the darkest of times. Watson took the final few steps towards the shaking genius and placed a single sympathetic hand on the taller man's shoulder. At first, Sherlock was going to shout something to the unknowing ex-soldier. But John never said a word and Sherlock couldn't contradict an unspoken apology or comment of understanding.
Sherlock's hand slowly covered John's, a silent and rare gesture of thanks.
"We’re going to find her, Sherlock. You've got to believe that. Then we're going to bring her home. Moriarty WILL be behind bars this time tomorrow."
The great detective's eyes began to tear. What would he do without Watson, his best friend in all the world? Holmes' hand fell then he gathered his coat and navy scarf. John followed him through the doors and Lestrade began to follow. The three made it to the hospital's lab exit when Sherlock turned, suddenly nose to nose with Lestrade.
"You are to go back to the station and look after Molly as you were told to do before."
"Fine." Lestrade obviously didn't appreciate the orders but wasn't going to argue or second guess the furious Sherlock.
"Come on, John."
The two almost made it to the exit but John caught a glimpse of their Asian friend. He called Sherlock's name then the detective noticed the foreign man. Questions needed to be answered and now. They backtracked and began running towards the suddenly fearful man. The Asian ran to the staircase, grabbing something in his pocket. When the burst through the door, Sherlock motioned for John to keep silent- listening for footsteps from either above or below. Of course their Chinese dragon would be going towards the roof.
Closer and closer, the gap between them was quickly diminishing. Finally, just three floors from the roof, Sherlock grabbed the man's leg and pulled him down. Without hesitation, the man pulled out some sort of plastic pump and squirted a red substance on Sherlock's white shirt.
"Security! Security! In the staircase. Come quickly!" The dragon smiled, a mad look in his eyes. Greg was already gone so Holmes and Watson were on their own.
"John! Cab! Now!" Sherlock yelled just before the two retreated down the staircase in a full run.
They were outside hailing a cab long before the authorities arrived. Just as the black car pulled off, the Asian and four security guards came running outside. Perfect timing. While slightly relieved, Holmes was still ready for vengeance, ready to kill all who took part in this whole endeavor. Even John remained silent and more worried than before. It wasn't easy for one to walk around London with red smeared over their shirt.
"2-2-1 Baker Street," Sherlock muttered.
"Home? We're going home?" John chuckled in sheer disbelief.
"Yes," Sherlock flatly replied while keeping his eyes forward. "I need a fresh shirt."
"Fine, but do we even know what's on this one?"
"Blood." It whispered but said as a fact, further worrying the good doctor. "You’re a doctor. Don't be foolish. You've seen plenty of blood-stained material."
"But is it-"
Sherlock finally turned to his babbling best friend and hissed, "Yes, John. This is HER blood. The next step of Moriarty's game. Familiar? Someone find me, report me, I go into custody, then when the blood work returns, guess whose blood is on my shirt? It will look like I-"
"Yes, I see," John interrupted, not wanting to scare the already highly suspicious cab driver. They didn't have the time to bail Sherlock out a second time. It was now approaching half past three. Only an hour and a half remaining on the clock.
Then a buzzing sound filled the currently silent cab. Sherlock retrieved his phone from his pocket.
"Yes?"
"Just letting you know, someone from your homeless network picked up Molly while I was out," Lestrade explained.
"What? You couldn't possibly have--" He tried to gain composure, taking a deep breath with the phone away from his ear. John watched as his blood hungry best friend placed the phone against his face again. "None of my homeless network is involved in this. I didn't ask anyone to fetch Molly. That was one of Moriarty's men, you idiot!" He paused, a new solution forming. "Do exactly as I say. Do you understand? I'm telling you this once, Lestrade. One time and one time alone. Stay in your office until I tell you to do otherwise. If something happens to Molly, it's on YOUR head." He hung up, his skin more pale than usual.
"This just keeps getting-"
"Yes." The cab pulled up to their home and Sherlock tipped the cabbie generously for his silence. "Not a word of this to anyone. You tell one person, I'll know about it and I'll find you."
The nervous older man nodded multiple times and promised his silence.
John was standing in front of their door in fear, his attention to the ground. Sherlock didn't ask but instead observed the sight on his own. Looking over towards his half mad friend, John contemplated asking one of many questions on the tip of his tongue.
"What does it mean? An egg placed on the edge of our doorstep. But it doesn't make sense," he hissed, mocking the conversation he and John would be having if John had been brave enough to ask. "THINK! An egg sitting on a ledge." He glanced over at the still confused Watson. "Humpty Dumpty, John! Sat on a wall? Had a great…" His voice trailed off and eyes widened after a sudden thought- more a realization from the looks of it. "Of course," he whispered, his thoughts now racing at immortal speeds. "St. Bart's."
"St. Bart's?" John repeated, hoping to make better sense of it. When realization finally hit the good doctor, the insight was unfathomable. "A great fall. You think that-"
"They've been there the entire time, in a vacant part of the building keeping silent. Our Asian has been working with them the entire time."
Of course Sherlock would get all that from an egg on their doorstep. Usually a deduction this complicated would be seen as a success but not this time. This time, they both fell silent. Sherlock bent over, picked up the egg, spun it in his fingers for a brief examination, then angrily threw it on the sidewalk. Just as predicted, the egg splattered- unboiled and raw like his emotions. This was Jim's reminder of how delicate the situation was, how quickly Stephanie could be ended, and the power he still held over Sherlock from all those years ago. Sherlock had once been the egg, that day on the roof of St. Bart's- there on a ledge about to jump to save his friends.
As they went inside, Sherlock ignored the cries and questions of a frantic Mrs. Hudson. John stayed behind to give her a kind lie, so much simpler than the truths they had learned since this morning. Sherlock ran upstairs, threw the horrid white shirt in the laundry bin, then locked himself in his room for five minutes.
John waiting in the living room, worried for a variety of reasons. Sherlock rarely mentioned that dark day and avoided the issue at all costs. Moriarty was toying with him, opening old scars then pouring salt in them. Anytime Sherlock was forced to revisit that day, he seemed to go into a short period of depression. The experience alone was traumatizing enough but not even John knew the details of what Sherlock had done the three years he was away. Then there was the matter of Stephanie.
When Sherlock walked down the hall, John immediately picked up on his being calm and collected. The fresh purple shirt and black suit was his armor of choice. He appeared to have a plan but John wouldn't be up to speed until the plan unraveled. Sitting in silence, he awaited his leader's orders.
"Let's go save a princess," Sherlock's attempt of cheery sarcasm became gloomy just before he made his way to the door, John in toe.