A/N: Two chapters today because they're short. Warning: This story does contain references to drug use, but none of is it explicit. And underage smoking. Though none of that in this chapter yet.

Also, Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or the show, and sadly I don't own Martin Freeman or Benedict Cumberbatch either, but they'd make a great late Christmas present =]

Brighton

Monday Afternoon

Bee-beep. John walked into the sitting room of his and Mary's suite in his dressing gown and picked up his beeping cell phone from the coffee table. Mary followed him out in her own dressing gown and sat down on the sofa, flicking on the telly and putting the volume on low. John simply stood in the middle of the room, looking at his phone.

There were two text messages, one voicemail and four missed calls. All from Mycroft Holmes. He opened the texts first.

Call me immediately.

Mycroft Holmes

And the next message.

Call me immediately after you've listened to your voicemail.

Mycroft Holmes

John furrowed his eyebrows and dialed his voicemail. After the recording informed him of the date, time and sender of the message, Mycroft's voice filled his ear, oddly frantic and panicked. In contrast with his usual calm, it sounded so wrong.

"Dr. Watson, this is Mycroft Holmes." Always so proper, even as the panic made his voice thin and pale. "It's um…Well this is…It's about Sherlock." There was a slight crack of his voice on the name, almost imperceptible, but he'd spent enough time around the Holmes brothers to notice the subtlety. "He's missing and I can't find him." He said it like it was his fault Sherlock had gone off grid. "Call me at once, Dr. Watson. He needs you."

Mary was looking up at him from the sofa with too knowing eyes. His face must have given him away. It always did. "What is it?" she asked, knowing it was something.

"Sherlock's brother, Mycroft, called. But it's nothing…nothing," he added on distractedly.

"Your mouth says it's nothing, but your eyes are telling a different story. What's wrong with Sherlock?"

John shook his head slightly. "No, it's our holiday. I'm sure Mycroft is just overreacting."

"You don't believe that," Mary replied with a knowing smirk. "Stop worrying about me. I'll be fine. I know you'll always go when he needs you, whether it's to send a text, make tea or bring him back to Earth. Sherlock Holmes is the most important person in your life. I know that. No hard feelings." Mary cupped one side of John's face in her hand and smiled a knowing little smile that was not sad or happy or smug. It simple said, 'I saw this coming and I've been expecting this for a while.' "Go. You're supposed to be out there with him."

John nodded sharply, reining himself in, before jumping up to get dressed and throw a few things into his bag. He was out the door within ten minutes, saying, "Thank you, Mary," very sincerely before he closed the door and hailed a taxi to the train station. The moment he was in a compartment on the train, he was on the phone with the older Holmes brother.

"Mycroft Holmes," he answered, sounding distracted.

"It's John Watson."

"Oh Doctor, thank Heavens you called. Sherlock has been missing for three days. He left his phone on his desk, is out of range of all security cameras and is not hiding in any of the places I have found him before."

"Before?" John asked, voice trembling slightly because he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer.

"Yes. He has decided to run away in the past. I think he has fallen off the wagon…again." John's eyes widened and he tried not to audibly react. "Dr. Watson, I would be most obliged if you were to meet me at your flat on Baker Street as soon as your train arrives from Brighton."

"Of course," John replied immediately. The phone clicked off in his ear and he didn't move for at least five minutes.

London – 221B Baker Street

Monday Night

"Mycroft?" John called as he opened the door to his and Sherlock's flat.

"I am here, Dr. Watson," the other man replied from Sherlock's chair by the fireplace. John's brain screamed that it was the wrong Holmes sitting there, but he ignored it in favor of finding the right one. "Sit. We must discuss our plan of action for finding my brother." Nodding, the doctor sat in his armchair and dropped his bag to the floor beside him.

"When you say you think he's fallen off the wagon again…" John began before Mycroft interrupted, having deduced the question already.

"I trust you know about the drugs."

"That's all I know. Sherlock doesn't like to divulge details. He told Lestrade he was clean and I don't know anything more than that," John explained.

"Then I suppose I shall have to tell you the story," Mycroft replied.

Fidgeting with the sleeve of his jumper, John cut in, "I wouldn't want to violate his privacy." Honestly, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Privacy is of little importance at this juncture. If we do not act quickly, I doubt there will be much left of him to care." John still didn't want to know, but he was quickly becoming aware that this wasn't about what he wanted or what Sherlock wanted. It was about the fact that his best friend needed him and that was not something he took lightly.

Steeling himself as best he could, John nodded and Mycroft began. "Try to imagine a fifteen-year-old Sherlock." And John did. "He was shorter than he is now, but just as lanky, like a puppy not quite grown into its limbs. He was not as thin and he had the look of a growing boy who ate three square meals a day." And the picture slowly assembled itself in John's mind. He could see a gangly, but healthy, kid with a dark mop of curls, shockingly bright eyes and only slightly less sharp cheekbones wearing his school uniform and an infuriatingly familiar smirk…

Thanks for reading!