Sherlock sat calmly in the back of the cab, driving down the streets of London. Watson had gone away to visit his sister, and Mrs. Hudson was having a weekend in Dorset with her goddaughter, which meant that he was alone in the flat for a whole weekend.
He had been to the Science museum, mentally pointing out all of the mistakes that the curators had made, and then, surprisingly to him, he went to buy milk. He now understood why John hated doing the chore so much: it was boring. No, it was mind-numbing and Sherlock suspected that being a corpse in the morgue at St. Bart's would be more fun.
The cab pulled up outside of 221B Bakers Street and Sherlock climbed out and fumbled around in his pocket for his keys as he walked to the door. As he put the key into the lock, she paused. He turned around and saw Mycroft's familiar black limo. Parked in front of it was a black Rolls Royce. He turned back to the door and stared at the key still poking out of the lock. He took a deep breath and turned the key.
He walked slowly up the stairs. When he opened the door to the living room, he saw Mycroft sat in one of the armchairs looking straight at him. Sherlock stepped into the room.
"Hello Mother. Father," he said. He turned to see his mother sat at the kitchen table and his father stood behind her with his hand on her shoulder.
They were as he remembered from the last time he saw them: cold, hard, expressionless faces, both with grey hair and striking features. And both impeccably dressed. His mother was slim, elegant and beautiful even in her autumn years, and his father still looked as strong and powerful as he did before he fathered Mycroft and Sherlock.
"Sherlock," his father said, his voice rich and deep. But emotionless. He spoke to Sherlock as though he were talking to a wall.
"I can gather by your visit that this isn't a social call. Father, you're stood and you're tapping your foot, which means you are agitated. Mother, your nail varnish is chipped where you have been biting your nails in worry. And Mycroft, you're here. Need I say more?" Sherlock asked, moving through to the back of the kitchen to put the milk away.
"You haven't changed a bit," his mother sighed.
"Why would I?"
"Exactly. Make me some tea," she ordered. Sherlock sighed. Remembering that both Mrs. Hudson and John were away, he couldn't call out for someone to make the tea for him. He put the kettle on.
"What is the real reason you're here? It must be an emergency since you came with Mycroft," Sherlock said, walking through to the living room, sitting in the armchair opposite Mycroft, picking up his violin and tuning it.
"Do you remember seventeen years ago when I had that trouble with a business rival of mine?" his father asked.
"Ah yes. Joseph Pickwell. You exposed him for smuggling drugs and trafficking humans from Thailand in his exported and imported cargo. He got fifteen years, didn't he?" Sherlock said.
"Yes. He was released two years ago and now..." his father trailed off. Sherlock froze. He looked up from his violin to Mycroft. Never in his life had he heard his father go speechless, let alone have a wobble in his harsh voice as he spoke. He put his violin down and turned to see his father look down at the floor and his mother with her eyes clamped tightly shut.
"Mother, father...what happened?" he asked.
"What was the one thing they had at home that they truly treasured?" Mycroft said. Sherlock turned to his brother. "That they treasured more than their own lives? More than their own sons?" Mycroft asked rhetorically. He felt like he was talking to a monkey.
"Their daughter..." Sherlock trailed off. He stood up and walked over to his parents. He got down on one knee and took his mother's hands in his. "Mother, what happened?" he asked. A single tear rolled down his mother's pale, porcelain cheek.
"His men came and took Victoria Regina in the middle of the night. They dragged her kicking and screaming from her bed. They beat her in front of us before taking her away," his father bit back his own tears. He paced the living room and stood in front of the yellow, spray-painted smiley face on the wall.
"They want you to find her. And where they took her," Mycroft said. "You have my team and my resources at your disposal," he added.
"Sherlock," his mother said. Sherlock turned back to his mother. "I gave birth to a politician, a scientist and detective, and a historian and linguist. I have the full hat trick. My mother used to say that the King and Queen of Diamonds gave birth to the Aces of Clubs," she looked at Mycroft. "And of Spades," she squeezed Sherlock's hands. "And now I want you to bring me back my Ace of Diamonds," she said.
"I take it she used the cards analogy because she liked playing Bridge," Sherlock stated. His mother nodded.
"When you find Pickwell, I want him destroyed. Get Victoria Regina back, boys. Bring back our Ace of Diamonds," their father said.