A/N: I do not own any of the characters, they belong to the BBC/Sir Arthur Conan Doyle/Sir Ian Fleming/MGM/Sony.
Warnings: course language, drug references, kidnap, torture references. Rated M to be safe.

I have to write this on paper, because I can't type it up. Partly because I'm scared about what Mycroft would do if he found out that I had, but also, what if my computer was hacked? What if someone else found it? Usually, I'm not so worried about protecting the identity our clients. I might change the odd name if I feel it necessary, but the facts of the story are always as they happened. But I dare not type this up. But I need to write it. Writing out our cases has become such a habit that I can't not do it. So good old pen and paper it is. Sure, this story has what I suppose is a happy ending, I mean, none of the good guys die, Sherlock gets a reward, Mycroft still runs the government and we all have one more contact in a very high place (except Mycroft, who already knew him, but whatever. Oh, and Sherlock, of course. And Lestrade? I don't know what Lestrade knows about this stuff. Well I have a new contact anyway. And a new friend, I suppose. And I suppose he has a new safe place, should he ever need us again. Is it really new, though? Not sure. Well, at least he knows he's more than welcome. I don't know why I'm writing all this in brackets, as no one will ever read this but me. I doubt even I will look at it again. I generally don't look back over my old blog posts. Oh hell, still in the brackets.) Right, here's the case:

Friday night, at home with Mary. We were nearly finished dinner; it was a bank holiday long weekend. We didn't have any plans, as she was rostered to be working at the clinic, but I'd been able to get the WHOLE of the long weekend off. It was going to be brilliant doing nothing, with the house to myself. Nearly finished dinner, and my phone buzzes.

Sherlock Holmes:
URGENT. Come to Baker St at once.

I ignored it and kept eating. It buzzed again.

Sherlock Holmes:
HAVE YOU LEFT YET? COME AT ONCE.

"Do you need to answer that?" Mary asked.

"It's just Sherlock." I replied. "He'll probably just want me to make him a cuppa or get his pen from the kitchen or something ridiculous. He's got Mrs Hudson. It can't be that important."

Sherlock Holmes:
COME AT ONCE. URGENT

"Maybe you should give him a call to find out what's up?" Mary suggested.

"No, he can damn well wait until we finish eating." I said. I'm still quite surprised that Mary is so fond of Sherlock. I mean, the man may be brilliant, but he's a complete dickhead at times too. It was twenty to seven of an evening. What did he expect us to be doing other than having dinner (the fact it was take-away is irrelevant. Our local Indian place is brilliant).

Call incoming: Sherlock Holmes.

I pressed ignore.

"Are you sure he can wait?"

"It's a Friday night. I'm sure it can wait."

Call incoming: Mycroft Holmes.

"Oh shit." I sighed.

"You should probably answer that."

"Yeah…" I picked up my phone and swiped to answer. "Mycroft."

"A car will be outside your house in two minutes. Bring a coat." He sounded worried or something.

"Wait, Mycroft, what's happened?"

"I'll tell you when you get to Baker St."

"Are you there now?"

"Of course he's here now!" Sherlock's voice carried through the phone. "Why don't you answer my calls?"

"Not now, Sherlock, it doesn't matter. John, the car will pull up outside your house any moment now. Tell Mary you shall likely be away all weekend. This is of the upmost importance, John."

"Yeah, right. Alright." I said, but noticed that Mycroft had already hung up.

"What was that all about?" Mary asked.

"I don't know, but I have to go. I don't think I'll be home tonight." I said, getting up from the table, taking one final mouthful of food. "Mycroft is sending a car."

"What could be so serious that Mycroft Holmes sends a car for you?"

"I don't know, but both he and Sherlock sounded somewhat – in a hurry."

There was a knock at the door. I have to admit, both Mary and I jumped a little as it startled us. "That'll be your ride." She said.

"Yeah." I said. "Can you tell him just a moment, I just need to get my…"

"Things?" Mary suggested kindly.

"Yeah." I replied, and hurried upstairs. I didn't know quite what to take, so I grabbed my gun and shoved it in my pocket, grabbed my wallet, coat and gloves, and ran back downstairs. "See you later." I said to Mary, and gave her a kiss, Mycroft's driver standing in the doorway watching us.

"Yeah, try to – I don't know. Catch the bad guy?"

I smiled. "See ya."

"Have a good weekend." Mary smiled. I followed the driver down the path. He opened the car door for me. I still find that strange. Anthea was, as always, sitting in the backseat, playing on her phone. I wonder if she actually does anything, or just escorts people in the back of Mycroft's vehicles. She probably just sits in Facebook or Instagram or plays Candy Crush or something equally useless all day. Anyway, she was there, and I found it somewhat comforting to see a familiar face. At least I wasn't being abducted. Or if I was, at least it was official.

"So, any idea what's happened?" I asked her as the car took off.

"Yep." She replied coolly, not looking up from her phone.

"Care to expand on that?"

"Nope."

I would have said something else, but I knew I'd get no more response out of her, so we sat in silence the rest of the way to Baker St. We had a remarkably good run (I think Mycroft's car might set off a sequence of green lights? I don't ever recall being stuck in traffic in his car). I got out of the car at Baker St, ran inside and upstairs to 221B. Mycroft standing by the fireplace and Sherlock was pacing, I noticed he was already in his coat and scarf.

"What's happening?" I asked.

"Have you got you gun?" Sherlock asked.

"What? Yes, of course."

"Right then, let's go." Said Sherlock.

"Wait, where are we going?" I asked again.

"John, you have to call me as soon as you return to Baker St." Mycroft said, pulling on his own coat.

"I haven't even left yet…" I said.

"Just come in the morning." Sherlock said, clearly annoyed.

"If he's dead, Sherlock…" Mycroft seemed really concerned. I'd only ever seen him seem concerned about Sherlock.

"He's not going to be dead, Mycroft!" Sherlock snapped at his brother.

"Sorry, who are we talking about? Are we – nope, I have no idea what we're doing."

"Hopefully we're not retrieving a body. Because if it is just a body, I will kill Mycroft."

"It is not my fault, Sherlock."

"No, you can't even keep tabs on him when he WORKS FOR YOU."

"He was on annual leave, Sherlock! I'm not going to have him followed on holidays!"

"Well maybe you should have, because it's taken you three weeks to figure out he's been abducted!"

"And less than 24 hours to find his location."

"If he's still there."

"He'll still be there."

"Sorry!" I cut in, before the Holmes brothers started world war three in Sherlock's living room. "So we're going to rescue someone, right. Well then, Sherlock, shouldn't we be leaving, and you two can finish whatever this is at some other date?"

"Come on John." Sherlock said, stalking out of the room. I followed quickly, looking back at Mycroft, who mouthed call me. I nodded, and ran down the stairs after Sherlock.

"What's going on up there?" Mrs Hudson asked, appearing in the hallway.

"Not now, Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock snapped.

"Oh, hello, John dear. I didn't think that was you yelling, was it?"

"Hello Mrs Hudson. No, that was the Holmes brothers."

"Oh dear. I hope I don't have to tell your mother about you and Mycroft having a little squabble, Sherlock."

Sherlock hailed a cab. "If Mycroft wasn't such a blundering moron, we wouldn't be yelling."

"And if you actually gave a damn every once in a while," Mycroft hissed, appearing behind me (it made me jump, I didn't hear him come down the stairs), "Then perhaps this wouldn't happen."

"John, get in the cab." Sherlock said.

"What time will you boys be back?" Mrs Hudson asked from the door.

"Later!" Sherlock yelled, and slammed the cab door shut. As the cab took off, I watched Mycroft get into the car that had brought me to Baker St, and Mrs Hudson disappear back inside 221.

"Where to, mate?" the cabbie asked.

"Romford." Sherlock replied.

"Right out the east end what, mate?"

"Yes."

"Where are we going?" I asked quietly.

"On a rescue mission." Was all the reply I got.