Present

From the lovely, sweet darkness, voices called him forth. He strained to hear them, to make himself understand a few snatches. Something was wrong, why was his brain so quiet? Was he drunk? Drugged? Drugged. He knew he hadn't relapsed, that meant he wasn't in this state voluntarily. Sherlock couldn't help it, he groaned, trying to make sense of anything.

"...Er kommt zu sich!" This voice, male, sounded sharp, with a hint of frantic undertone from somewhere above his head. He was laying down he realised, the concrete floor was cold and hard under his cheek. German, his brain supplied him with helpfully from where it lay buried in cotton wool. How odd. Not a language he'd expected.

"...Schnell, wir müssen ihn wieder unter Leute bringen..." This voice was different, it was cool, collected and female, coming closer to him. His vision was barely there, he felt the shift in air, heard her heavy footfall. They... Needed to get him back amongst people? What? His mind had done enough to help and was frustratingly quiet.

"... Schlafen Sie wieder ein Herr Holmes, einfach nur einschlafen..." Sherlock blinked his eyes open one last time. Orders to go to sleep he could follow. Her blurred and veiled face was above his, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. Unable to focus on any more details, that was the last he knew.

Hours later, he was woken by a resounding slap to the face.

"Schnell! Aufstehen - Wir müssen raus hier, bevor sie uns finden - " The woman's voice was scared, panicky. Get up - get out, Sherlock's brain roughly translated for him. His body refused to obey, it had been through enough and all he could do was given another weak groan. The panic in her voice roused him but not enough.

"Scheiße," she hissed and pulled him up, despite efforts his weak cries of protest. They began a long, awkward and very painful walk, the woman hurrying him along as fast as she could, their footsteps echoing around them. Warehouse, how boring, Sherlock thought before a blow to the head dropped him back to the floor. The last thing he heard was the woman's angry, rapid German.

oOoOoOo

Two weeks ago

221B Baker Street was playing host to a rather tense atmosphere on an otherwise sunny afternoon. Mycroft was stood by the fireplace and drummed his fingers on the skull, his patience clearly being pushed to its limits, Sherlock knowing exactly how to push. John was sat, his head swinging back and forth, watching the brothers try and best each other with a mildly amused smile gracing his features.

"Honestly Sherlock, it's like the words 'National Security' mean nothing to you," Mycroft said, trying to keep a lid on his exasperation. He wasn't doing very well, hand repeatedly clenching on the handle of his umbrella. "I'm trying to offer you a case, even John seems interested - no offence - and managing to grasp it, but you? You're being petulant."

Sherlock simply played a rather jarring array of notes on his violin, but was disrupted in his attempts to permanently damage his brother's ears by clumsy footsteps hurrying, no, stumbling noisily up the stairs. A woman on the shady side of thirty lurched into the flat, giggling as she tripped over her feet and nearly banging her head on the doorframe.

"Hey John - wha's with the men in black routine?" She was accompanied by the strong aroma of excessive alcohol consumption.

"Harry?"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Oh - the famous sister?"

Something in his tone attracted the woman's attention. Before John could react, Harry turned and stumbled into the government official, hands outstretched to steady herself.

"John, if you would be so kind as to remove your sister from my person," Mycroft said, turning his nose at the smell, and ignoring Harry's slurred "Shrrrrlock?" as he picked her hands off his chest.

"You must be flattered Mycroft, being mistaken for being someone quite so much younger," Sherlock said, following the action through narrowed eyes. "Can't happen often - though alcohol does turn even a sow's ear into a silk purse."

"Mycroft I'm so sorry, she's supposed to be in rehab," John said, getting up and heading to Mycroft's rescue, pausing only to glare at Sherlock.

"You're funny," Harry giggled, patting Mycroft clumsily, nearly resting her chin on his shoulder as she wobbled.

"Most certainly not. Good day gentlemen - Miss Watson," Mycroft said, attempting to regain some dignity. He was surprisingly light on his feet, sidestepping Harry with a well timed push to her shoulder and walking out, ignoring his younger brother's snickers. Sherlock's appreciation for the woman he'd never met was growing, simply because she made Mycroft uncomfortable.

John on the other hand, had caught his sister who unexpectedly turned and snuggled into him as he sat her on the sofa. Harry was well built, muscly and far taller than him, his big sister in every sense of the word. She also looked incredibly vulnerable, arms wrapped around herself. John used the moment to study her more closely. She was surprisingly well groomed, he noted, detecting a hint of perfume under the whiskey.

"I don't feel so good," she groaned, pale and sweaty, turning steadily more ashen and John, recognising the signs, grabbed the nearest thing, a bowl of fruit, scattering its contents across the floor. The moment seemed to pass and John let out a shakey breath, unfortunately, just in time for Harry to release a stream of vomit. A dab hand at aiming, John avoided getting covered, and only a few splashes glooped back into Harry's now also snotty face.

"Sherlock, get me a bucket, loo roll and a glass of water," he snapped at his friend who was seemingly oblivious to the dilemma, whilst juggling his sister and the bowl. "Sherlock!"

The combination of sharp tone and the acrid smell of vomit spurned Sherlock into action, dragging him back from the window where he'd been watching Mycroft leave. The bowl was set aside in favour of a bucket. John wiped his sisters face and transferred her wordlessly into the arms of his ex-flatmate who glowered at him.

"Only for a minute," John said hastily. He frowned as he looked at the contents of the bowl and quickly analysed them. It looked like Harry hadn't eaten much bar some sushi and had gone straight to a mix of drinks. "I thought you'd given up."

"I have." Harry was nodding vigorously from Sherlock's arms.

"Clearly," Sherlock commented.

Harry flailed a dismissive hand, barely missing Sherlock's nose by a fraction. He bristled and shoved her off him at arms length and she tumbled off the sofa, landing with a soft 'oof'.

"Sherlock really?" John groaned. "Come on, it'll take both of us to lift her."

Together they pulled the woman back up onto the sofa. Sherlock eyed her closely, his face making strange twitches as he used visible effort to prevent himself from talking.

"Oh Harry, what am I to do with you?" John asked sadly, brushing her hair with his hand. "Who'd you put your glad rags on for anyway, not like you to dressup?"

"She is clearly trying to hold down some sort of city job, finance I'd say, going by the expensive whiskey on her blouse - her fingers are manicured but longer on the left hand suggesting she is right handed and uses her dominant hand to access smart screens, again, likely in a city job." Sherlock, it seemed, would not be contained for long and carried on regardless, despite Harry's growing discomfort and John, who was trying to pacify her's glares. "The fact she has relapsed again and keeps going to a private clinic, also suggests substantial financial assets that are gained in a high stress environment. The smell of tobacco lingering on her fingers means she's tried to control it with smoking but has fallen off the wagon -"

"Sherlock shut up! - Harry I'm going to let you sober up a bit, I'm just going to give Mary a ring then you can stay with us tonight, she can come pick us up -" John said in what was meant to be a reassuring tone.

"'m fine - gotta go -" Harry groaned, blushing bright red with embarrassment at her predicament. Sherlock made a noise of protest at the 'sober up here' concept.

At this announcement John began to voice his opposition as his sister lurched upwards, pulling herself up by the arm of the sofa.

"Nice place you've got Sh'lock," Harry slurred with another wave of the hand and then pitched forwards, long legs carrying her out of the door with remarkable speed. Sherlock looked unconcerned and picked up his violin again but John, still frozen in place with the bucket of vomit shook himself.

"Harry wait," he called as he heard her thunder down the stairs. "Sherlock -"

"Hmmm?" The latter replied.

"Help she's - she's my sister she needs help, we should -" John began disjointedly as the front door slammed.

"Clearly," Sherlock said as John put the bucket down with aam exasperated growl.

"Well help - oh for gods sake," John said and stormed out of the room after her, pausing only to grab a jacket. The door banged a second time and Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow, playing some chords.

It wasn't long before John returned, defeated, frustration coming off him in waves.

"Shes gone," he said, face pale despite the exertion.

"Evidently, alcohol's call waits for no man or woman," Sherlock replied curtly. "Now will you get rid of that?" He asked, pointing at the bucket of vomit still innocently sitting where the doctor had deposited it.

"Sherlock, she's my sister!" John said, his voice raised.

"As you've said repeatedly, I fail to see why I have to put up with the stench of her vomit in my flat, she is not you," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Sherlock, she's drunk and she's vanished. She could be hurt or have alcohol poisoning -"

" - unlikely to be acute as she's a chronic alcoholic -"

"That's not the point! - I'll call her - maybe Lestrade can - do you think Mycroft can -" John's tone was unsure, like he was hesitant to even ask the smallest of favours.

"She's managed her condition for years John, she's unlikely to seek or even need help now," Sherlock said and then his brow furrowed.

"What?" John asked, pausing mid pace. "I know that look. What does that look mean? It means something!"

"What was she doing here?" Sherlock asked.

"Probably wanted to come somewhere safe until you pushed her onto the floor and analysed her to death. She's not even a banker, she's a bloody nurse," John snapped and instantly regretted it, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm sorry, I -"

"Don't be sentimental. You are given to react viscerally when under stress, it's quite normal for you," Sherlock said, his face not quite cleared of its puzzled look.

John sighed.

"I know, but it's not nic- never mind. I'm going to go look for her."

When he called Sherlock hours later it was dark. There was no sign of his sister.

oOoOoOo

Present

The world was filled with pain. The drugs in his system confused Sherlock, he didn't know up or down. All he knew was that someone had begun hitting him. Then a weight settled on him and the pain stopped. He was cradled against a woman's chest, being gripped tightly.

The woman emitted low cries of pain, the blows now reigning down upon her back. At least Sherlock was given a reprieve, she told herself. Her plan had failed, this was the best she could now do. Ride out the storm, she thought. She screamed as they tried to separate them, but in the end all they did was laugh and dish out the punishment to whichever parts of them they could reach. She heard one of her ribs go, could see the bruises beginning to form on Sherlock.

When their captors got bored, they left them laid on the warehouse floor with only two guards. The woman pulled her gun, silencer already on, carefully out from under her hoodie. Amateurs, she thought to herself as she swiftly dispatched the two guards, one dying before he realised anything was wrong, the other with a look of surprise etched permanently on his face. She gave another groan of pain as she pulled Sherlock up and they began staggering out.

oOoOoOo

Earlier that day

"You're sure?" Sherlock asked the woman, a member of his homeless network as he read the scrap of paper.

"Yes guv. Three bin murdered in the last week." She sidled away as Sherlock turned and was already moving back towards John.

"And? What did she say? Any sign of Harry?" John asked.

"Harry? Who's Ha- oh your sister. No, no sign - but something very peculiar," Sherlock said, looking at the note again.

"Did you even ask?" John asked heatedly.

"Yes of course I did -"

"It's just you couldn't remember who she was just now," John ground out.

"Sister, alcoholic, goes off grid regularly, no one has seen her. John she obviously doesn't want to be found - it wasn't so long ago you were shot of her," Sherlock said sounding bored. "Now we have something much more interesting - a criminal conspiracy. Someone's killing the members of my homeless network, I need to speak to Molly, get them transferred to Barts."

John swallowed his anger and nodded. Sherlock was right - people were dying and really, Harry had done this before - all of his adult life in fact. Still, despite the falling out earlier in the year, John couldn't help but worry about his troubled sister.

"Any theories so far?" He asked the consulting detective.

"Several. I need more data to narrow them down," Sherlock replied, hailing a cab. "Have you got any cash?"

"I really need to start invoicing you for expenses," John muttered as he climbed in behind Sherlock, tone somewhere between resigned and reluctantly amused.

oOoOoOo

"They were expertly killed," Molly said as they stood around the corpses. "The other pathologist ruled them suicides but I checked further."

"Clever," Sherlock muttered, peering at the track marks on one man's arm through his magnifying glass. "Pulmonary embolism by injecting air straight into the vein?"

"Exactly," Molly said, nodding. "The track marks -"

" - all match except for this one. How unusual. Excellent," Sherlock said, making Molly, who had been nodding falter slightly with his last word.

"How is this excellent Sherlock?" John asked.

"Because it means the killer has medical training," Molly supplied before Sherlock could answer. "Only and experienced nurse or doctor could inject that precisely, it's a forensic counter measure."

"Couldn't another junkie do that?" John asked.

"Hardly likely," Sherlock snorted. "We can find veins but it's not usually this neat. Also, there would be very little point, it's not really in keeping with an MO around robbery gone bad, which is the usual reason addicts kill." John found he had to concede that point.

"So, doctor or nurse - well, that narrows it down to most of the NHS," he said with a sigh. "Angel of mercy killer?"

"Possible, but they tend to operate more in a ward setting to be sure they can be part of the first response or to call it - no, this is interesting. I think someone might be trying to get my attention," Sherlock said, rubbing his hands in barely contained glee.

"Sherlock, people, dead," John chided once again.

"Again, a sound analysis John," Sherlock said, missing the point completely. Molly and John exchanged exasperated smirks and shook their respective heads.

Once outside, John shoved his hands into his coat pockets and watched his breath crystallise as he exhaled.

"Has this got anything with the business Mycroft was telling us about before Harry - you know, barged in?" he asked.

"I doubt it, not really a terrorist style," Sherlock said. "This is personal."

"Personal - to you or the tramps?" John asked after a second.

"Personal to me. Like I said, I think someone wants my attention. Question is why. Oh I do so love it when they are glory seekers," Sherlock said gleefully as he headed out.

"Just try and remember the dead," John sighed to himself, shaking his head. He headed off after Sherlock.

oOoOoOo

The operative half carried half dragged Sherlock along with her. She was strong but this clearly wasn't in her regular job description. They splashed through gravel laden puddles in a back alley, Sherlock growing weaker by the second, barely conscious. The operative's breath was getting laboured, she emitted little strained noises, but still, her determination was etched into her movements. When the floodlights came on between the buildings, headlights from cars in their path she froze, clutching Sherlock tightly to her. The gun in her hand, on the arm around his waist, tightened ready to aim but then she sagged with relief as she heard a cry of 'Sherlock'. These were friends. Despite the laser targets aimed at her head and chest she relaxed and dropped the gun. A few dots lessened and then John Watson was before them, glaring at her before casting worried eyes over Sherlock.

"What did you give him? What did you do to him?" John hissed at her. She transferred Sherlock wordlessly into the doctors arms and stepped back, hands raised, getting slowly to her knees.

Lestrade moved forward, and had one of her wrists already cuffed when a fifth person joined them hurriedly, heading straight for her.

Mycroft.

"Stop! Stop at once, do not arrest her. She is free to go, here are your orders, don't touch her," he shouted as he rushed forwards. Lestrade was barely able to voice his surprise, and John looked up shocked for a moment. In that hesitation, Mycroft took the operative's wrist and dragged her up, pulling her tightly to him, one hand cradling her head against his chest so her face remained hidden. The scarf keeping her identity masked had begun to come loose.

"What the -?" Lestrade began, shocked at the display by the elder Holmes. John meanwhile jumped up as the paramedics put oxygen on the unconscious Sherlock. He was torn between wanting to help his friend and wanting to know what had happened to Sherlock.

"What did you give him?!" He snarled at the woman, grabbing her shoulder. She ignored him and simply wound herself tighter into Mycroft, gripping the back of his suit, locked in what would otherwise been a tight, loving embrace, hiding against him. Mycroft's arms also tightened and he stared at John, his cold eyes turning to ice. There was no mistaking the threat in his voice and John quickly realised he'd never actually experienced the wrath of the most powerful man in Britain before.

"Get your hands off her at once. This woman is one of mine," Mycroft said with deliberate, cold slowness. Lestrade swallowed and automatically took a step back. "Rest assured," Mycroft continued, "that she had nothing to do with my brother's abduction and -" there was a barely perceptible nod from the head on his chest, " - and maltreatment. She got him out at great personal expense and keeping her identity secret is paramount. So get your hands off her!" Mycroft hissed. "Before I have you arrested for threatening National Security."

John stepped back like he'd been stung, hands wide in surrender. Mycroft continued to give his unyielding glare when the woman sagged against him and he struggled with the sudden weight.

"Agent?" he asked sharply, and John was at once concerned, the doctor in him overriding all else. "I said don't touch!"

"But I'm a doctor," John protested, his need to help overriding his anger for the moment.

"And you can't know her identity," Mycroft retorted, patting her face gently with one hand. "Agent!"

"She might be seriously hurt -"

"National Security," Mycroft droned, shaking her. She began to come around.

"You'd rather she die than me know here identity?" John asked, astounded.

"Yes." Mycroft's response was cold and unapologetic.

"Well, I'll never again accuse Sherlock of being heartless," John said, turning to look at Lestrade, sharing a look of disgust with the detective. Consequently, they missed the look of something that flitted over Mycroft's face, and the brief squeeze the woman gave his arm. They did not however miss Mycroft standing back from her slightly and securing her scarf firmly in place with a tenderness that was so out of character, John later wondered wether or not he had imagined the whole thing in a dream sequence.

"Take care of my brother, I'm having him sent to a private facility - I assume you are going with him John," Mycroft said, voice now softer, drawing the woman back to him and under one arm, helping her stay on her feet.

"Yes - will we be seeing you?" John asked, feeling he already knew the answer but wanting to hear it anyway.

"I think not - I have other matters to attend to - text me any developments," Mycroft said as Sherlock was wheeled to the waiting ambulance, now all patched up for the ride. Mycroft led the woman away, trying to shield her as much as possible from here surroundings. Anthea and a few of his suits cleared a channel to a waiting car for them as they walked very carefully.

"What on earth was that all about?" Lestrade pondered.

"Dunno, but whoever she is, she's important - I've never seen him so -" John began as they headed towards the ambulance containing Sherlock.

"Caring? Worried? Scared?" Lestrade supplied.

"Human," John said as he climbed in the vehicle. "See you at the hospital."

"Later mate," Lestrade said, shutting the doors and staring at the black car that was pulling away. He shook his head. There was a crime scene to process.

oOoOoOo

AN: sorry to disappoint, that the update isn't a new chapter but I really wasn't happy with the way the old chapter had gone. So I took some advice and have rewritten it, I'm now much more pleased with it. Part two has also been edited again but the change isn't so great. Part three will be done soon :) thank you, please review, I welcome any comments or criticisms :)