A/N: I've had running in my head for a few years and, because I've no life, I finally decided to flesh it out. I've always had this idea that Mycroft manages to piss off the wrong group of people, so in retaliation, they go after his brother.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.


1

In Loving Misery

"Are you going to sit there all day?" John Watson's voice cut through the silence of 221B Baker Street. He stared with annoyance blatant on his features, to which his flatmate and friend, Sherlock Holmes, dutifully ignored. John pursed his lips, exhaling forcefully as he gave Sherlock the same look he always gave when the young genius was driving him mad.

When he left the flat that morning, Sherlock was lying in the same position on the couch, a book held firmly over his face with his eyes darting back-and-forth between words. Though John was certain Sherlock was holding a different book then.

"Isn't there a new case or something?" he put emphasis on the last word, wanting to gain some sort of response. Yet, the only response he received was Sherlock's nonchalant shrug.

"London is…quiet for the moment," he said, his voice hinting aggravation.

John nodded, his eyes trailing around the room, which was in disarray, just as he left earlier that morning. It was only more evidence of Sherlock's disdaining boredom.

"Right," John drew own, his eyes falling back on Sherlock, who was turning ahead in whatever book he had buried his nose into. "And that doesn't bother you in the least?"

"Quite the contrary," was the immediate response, having John raise his brows in curiosity. "I am bored out of my mind."

With the finished word, John gazed at him intently, but wound up rolling his eyes as Sherlock turned yet another page. "Well, then I don't know about you, but I'm starving, and since you threw out my roast to house someone's leg in the fridge—"

"It's necessary for an experiment."

"—I'm going to go out for a meal and you, Sherlock Holmes, are more than welcomed to join me."

Sherlock's eyes darted to him for the first time since he came through the door, before quickly moving back to his book, which John just realized was on the American serial killer John Wayne Gacy. Before Sherlock could even voice it, John knew what the man was going to say. He was going to comment on—

"Clean-shaven, hair groomed with only a few hairs sticking out, shirt clean and ironed – You were preparing to meet that shop keep from last night, but she turned you down last minute. Now you've got a reservation for two at a restaurant you've been wanting to try, but no one to go with." John sighed and, while anyone else's interpretation would have been irritation, his was more-or-less of understanding with only a hint of annoyance, which he knew Sherlock picked up on. "How's their tea?" Sherlock asked without prompting, causing John to chuckle.

"Better than what you serve." Sherlock scoffed. "You're coming, then," he phrased with certainty, instead of a question.

"So incessant, John," he said as he shut his book and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the couch. "I could do with some nutrients, I suppose."

Inwardly, John smiled.

He had not seen Sherlock eat the last week, so for the man to willingly go out to supper made him, in a way, feel fortunate. He doubted anyone else could have swayed Sherlock Holmes into doing what they wanted, but if living with the genius taught John anything, it was how to work around Sherlock's quirks and to manipulate – to get him how to do what he wanted. While he was certain Sherlock knew what he was doing, he had yet to call him out on it, leading John to believe his opinion mattered.

Within a few minutes, Sherlock was dressed to his normality, overcoat and scarf included, and he and John were out on the sidewalk, walking to the restaurant John had been so looking forward to.

The streets were fairly vacant and the streetlights already lit, casting shadows every which way. A couple was walking on the opposite side of the street, both obviously intoxicated, whereas they were both laughing obnoxiously as the two men could overhear them discussing past matters. The woman was latched onto her partner's arm, doubling over and stumbling several times before they turned the corner. Even as the distance increased, they could still hear the couple's laughter. There was a man talking hastily on his cell phone, walking towards the duo, paying them no attention as he was heard shouting at the person on the other end, who Sherlock concluded was his wife, judging by the tone and subject. He failed to notice the six-foot detective, bumping into him and offering no apology, instead flowing into a slew of curses to the woman over the phone.

John made a comment about the subject matter, which made them both chuckle, garnering an odd look from another man passing by.

Just as they turned the corner, a female bumped into both of their shoulders, her nose having been buried in her phone. She immediately fell into an apology, before her eyes trailed up to their faces. Her gaze fell on John first, and then darted over to Sherlock, when her eyes appeared to light up.

At the change in demeanour, Sherlock inadvertently rolled his eyes.

"Oh, my god. You're Sherlock Holmes," she said, entire face beaming. Her breath appeared to catch in her throat and she moved to look at John. "And you're Doctor Watson. I follow all the cases on your blog, and I think you two are fabulous."

"Oh, um, thank you," John sputtered, indiscreetly knocking his shoulder into Sherlock, getting the detective to force a smile to the young woman.

The woman smiled, her face turning red. "Apologies. You two are out on a date and I didn't mean to intrude."

Before either man could respond, the woman scuttled off, knocking into both of them as she ran down the sidewalk. Sherlock was snickering, while John was trying to refrain from calling after her about not being in a relationship. John looked at him in disbelief, as though expecting some form of back-up. When Sherlock gave none, John pursed his lips in annoyance and began walking again, speeding up his pace in an attempt to put distance between them for the moment.

After making another right and walking the block to stand outside of the restaurant, he turned to see how far back his friend was, only to see he had not yet turned the corner. He waited another moment, but when Sherlock still failed to round the street, he released an aggravated sigh, his steps heavy in annoyance as he retraced his steps. When he turned onto the street, he expected to see Sherlock caught up in reading a flyer or something of the like; instead, he was introduced to his best mate leaning his back against a building, holding his head, appearing to sway.

He ran up to him, immediately placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, peering into his face.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong?"

The younger man, whose eyes were closed, shook his head. "I've been drugged," he said, his voice sounding distant,

John's face was overcome with confusion. "What? How? By whom?"

Sherlock shook his head. "That woman, I think—" he was cut off, his head falling forward while his body began going limp.

John found himself supporting Sherlock's full weight as he escorted the man to the ground, his back sliding down the building. Once on the ground, John grabbed Sherlock's face, lightly slapping his cheek, making the genius' eyes flutter open.

"Sherlock! Stay with me, come on." Sherlock's body fell forward, falling into his shoulder before he was able to say a word. Heart racing, he held his friend with one arm while pulling his cell phone from his pocket with the other. Yet, before he could dial, he felt a searing pain radiate through his head and neck, his vision going dark.


John awoke to a bright light shining in his eyes and a throbbing headache. Sally Donovan was leaning over him, shining a penlight into his eyes as she lifted his eyelid, looking for an apparent concussion. The doctor groaned, trying to roll his neck while Donovan kept his head in place. His entire head pounded, his frontal lobe aching with a dull pain, the light aiding in no comfort. Behind Donovan, he could see the blur of a blue lights from a police car. Her voice sound muffled and distant, but he was certain she was calling his name.

"John," her voice finally pieced through the veil of haze. "Yeah, a minor one by the looks of it," she responded to a question the doctor did not hear. His vision began coming into focus, the features of the detective filling his view. "Can you stand?" she asked, to which he groaned as he rolled to the side, nodding. She helped him to his feet, holding his arm as he stumbled.

His back hit the outside of the building and he placed his hands on his knees, inhaling while his head pulsed. Her hand was on his shoulder to help stabilize him.

"John, what happened?" came the familiar voice of Greg Lestrade.

Peering up, Lestrade was now standing in front of him, his face filled with concern. With a glance around, he realized there was more than one patrol car; there were four, along with an ambulance that had just turned onto the street.

His attention was drawn back to the inspector, his eyebrows knitting in confusion as he tried to piece together why he was awakened on the sidewalk with a torch. He shook his head. "I – I can't remember." He held his head, recalling walking down the stairs of 221B Baker Street with Sherlock in front of him.

Where were they going and why?

"How'd you know I was here?" He was hoping the answer would fill in to blanks.

"Someone called, saying they saw a dark van speeding off and an unconscious man on the ground," Donovan responded. She waved over to the emergency medical responders, who were just getting out of the ambulance.

His head shot up to stare at her, a look of realization flooding his features.

Seeing the expression, Lestrade's concern filled his speech. "What? What happened?"

As the medical personnel approached him, he tried to push them away, saying he was fine. "Sherlock." He clamped his eyes shut, recalling the memory of seeing his friend's failing state. "Where is he? Greg, Sherlock was with me. He was drugged – where is he?"

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged glances, the older man's going into one of confusion and panic.

"Sherlock was with you?" he asked as if in confirmation, to which John nodded violently.

"I'm fine," he yelled at the paramedic who was still trying to walk him over to the ambulance. When the young paramedic tried to protest, John cut him off. "I'm a doctor, it's fine! It's a minor concussion and I don't need to go to the hospital to confirm that, now please stop touching me!"

The medic looked to Lestrade and Donovan for confirmation, rolling his eyes in aggravation when Lestrade nodded.

"Please tell me he's with you," John said, referring to Sherlock as his eyes darted between Lestrade and Donovan. When he saw their expressions, his entire body dropped. "We have to find him. There was a woman." He fell into Donovan as his head swam, recalling the young woman who claimed to be a fan when she ran into them. He held his head and pulled back from her, wobbling slightly as he stood, regaining his sense of balance. "There was a woman who came up to us and I think she somehow managed to drug Sherlock," he finally spoke coherently.

"What did she look like? We can put out an APB for anyone fitting her description."

John tried to recall her appearance.

He remembered her red hair and freckled face, but could not remember her eye colour. She was slender and he knew she was eye-level with him, putting her height at about 170cm; she had been wearing a dress – a type of sun dress if he remembered correctly – but could not recall the pattern, if it even had one.

The description he gave was fairly vague, but it was the most he recalled and was able to give for the police to put a bulletin for anyone fitting her appearance.

It was not until the early hours of the morning when John returned to 221B Baker Street. He had waited at the police station for hours, hoping for a call to come in, fitting the female's description; but when nothing came in, Lestrade convinced him to return home.

He understood.

Most people were home for the evening and would not pay attention to the news or any type of alert until the following morning. When he did return home, the thought of sleep had never crossed his mind, despite the heaviness tugging at his eyelids. Instead, he found his way to the kitchen, where he found himself making tea. He settled down in his usual spot, his laptop opened and phone turned on full volume, waiting to hear something from someone.


Creaking filled the room.

On the ceiling, a lone light hung down, drenching the cement walls in a low, orange light. The room held few items: what appeared to be a blood-soaked mattress sat in the far-right corner, which was butted against a set of pipes. A metal door at the South end of the windowless room was opened, leading into a dark hallway that seemed to curve in every which way. In the centre of the room was a loan wooden chair with steel d-rings bolted to the ground around it. Attached to the rings were chains, which were connected to shackles around the wrists and ankles of a young detective.

A deep groan escaped his throat, his eyes flittering open to see the orange light hanging directly above him. When he shifted, finding his hands chained behind the chair and his ankles chained to the floor, his realization seemed to come into perspective. He recalled going to a restaurant with John, only for his head and body to feel numb after John had disappeared from view. He saw the image of the young woman who claimed to be a fan before she ran off.

He shifted his hands, pulling at the chain and trying to find a weak point. The metal shackles dug into his wrists. When he tested those around his ankles, he realized he was barefooted, which prior experience told him was never a good start.

He clamped his eyes shut, allowing his head to roll to the front.

A sharp headache made itself apparent.

The sound of boots on concrete drew his attention to the door in front of him. Squinting, he looked up to see a shadowed figure walking down the hallway. Between the pounding headache and aftereffects of whatever he had been drugged with, his vision was blurred; so when the figure came to a stop inside the room, all he could see was the blurry silhouette of a man. He blinked a few times, trying to focus.

"Top o' the morning!" they shouted, their voice bouncing off the walls, increasing the throbbing of Sherlock's head.

Sherlock shut his eyes and shook his head. "Must you be so loud?"

The response he received was a chuckle. "In your case, yes."

Sherlock knitted his eyebrows.

The man's accent was slight and forced, making the detective realize he was not British, nor part of the United Kingdom. Opening his eyes, they began to focus, albeit slowly.

The man before him was broad, though not heavy, wearing what looked to be a navy-blue t-shirt and cut jeans. Despite the appearance, it was clear that the clothing was expensive, most likely designer from a higher-end store. The boots Sherlock had heard were steel-toed and black, covered in what looked to be bits of dirt and dried liquid. He wore two rings on each hand, bulky and scratched; a cell phone was in his left hand, unlocked with the screen brightness shining on his jeans. On his arms, Sherlock could see the faint lines of track marks.

"Do I owe money to someone I'm unaware exists?" Sherlock asked, his voice somewhat slurred. The man gave him a curious look. "You clearly shoot up regularly, but your clothing suggests you're a dealer more than a user." The man nodded, obviously impressed. "I'm assuming heroin, judging by your pupils."

The man smiled in excitement. "Oh, you're good. I like you."

"Could you drop the accent? It's quite painful to listen to one that bad."

The man laughed and clapped his hands. "I thought my accent was pretty spot-on, to be honest. But leave it to a professional detective to call me out on it." Once he spoke normally, Sherlock placed it in the Americas, most likely Southwestern if he had to pick a quadrant based on the Americans he has heard. His phone buzzed and he held it up, reading and responding to whatever text he had received.

"Texting your boss to tell him you've got me chained to a chair?" he asked, voice flooded with sarcasm.

"Oh, we actually have very little interest in you, Sherlock Holmes. But you see," he held up his phone to face Sherlock. "Your brother, Mycroft, has been a thorn in our side, as of late and we – do smile pretty, won't you? – never do like people intervening with our affairs." The flash from the camera went off as Sherlock gave a sardonic smile. He brought the phone down and continued texting.

"Brilliant plan, but you miscounted." The man's eyebrows went up in curiosity, but he did not trail his gaze from his phone. "Mycroft's never been one to negotiate, so all of this won't bend in your favour."

The man looked up from his phone, contemplating, before a smile graced his features. "No one's expecting an immediate response, Mr. Holmes. But believe me when I tell you that he will eventually, unless he's always wanted to see his little brother die."

Sherlock shrugged.

"You might be surprised."

The man closed the distance between them and reached down, grabbing Sherlock's chin and forcing his head up.

"I doubt it." He cocked his head, inspecting the other's features as his fingernails dug into Sherlock's cheek. "Though you do look a bit too clean for their liking. So why don't we try giving a bit of incentive, hm?"

With that, he let go right before the back of his hand quickly and painfully struck Sherlock across the face. He repeated the action with his other hand, doing it several times, barely garnering an audible groan. When he finished, he stepped back, admiring his handiwork.

Sherlock's face was red, blood slowly seeped out of a few areas of now-broken skin, as well as his mouth, which had been cut on his teeth.

The man nodded, seemingly satisfied.

"A bit better." He took his phone back out and aimed it at the detective once more. "Come on, look up," he said, snapping his fingers. Once Sherlock looked at him, the flash went off. Again, the man began texting. "Let's call this a little portfolio of your progress. Because if Mycroft really couldn't care, they're going to need some way to identify the body." He put his phone into his pocket, a disturbingly innocent smile on his face. "Tell me, Sherlock. How are you with being on film?"

~TBC