Sergeant Donovan glared at Sherlock when he swept in to the hotel room, John in his wake, but the consulting detective ignored her. Anderson wasn't there, John noted, which meant Sherlock had noticed it instantly, but he didn't comment. John wished they'd all just drop the bad blood nonsense, but it went back to before John had even returned to the UK, and he knew the sergeant, at least, was still angry over comments Sherlock had made about her relationship with Anderson. He wondered if she felt guilty and was taking it out on someone else, or was really and truly offended by Sherlock's opinions. Maybe a bit of both.

She and Anderson had tried hard not to make it easy for Sherlock when he and John had gotten together – and it had driven both police officers batty that Sherlock didn't even notice. The snide comments had passed him by unremarked, and John realized it was because Sherlock truly didn't care. He would have been upset if Lestrade had said anything negative about it, but the detective inspector had merely congratulated them and moved on. John knew Lestrade had actually been relieved that Sherlock had something in his life other than his work.

Then John had had a quiet talk with both Donovan and Anderson and the barbs and attempted baiting had stopped. The doctor had made it clear that he himself wasn't going to put up any of that, and he was one half of the partnership. He'd also suggested, not entirely kindly, that if they wanted to pass judgments on someone's relationship, they should perhaps look at their own first.

It earned him a glare from Donovan every time they saw each other, but John didn't pay much attention. He thought it was sad, in a way, that she was so unhappy, but so unwilling to do anything about it.

To John's now practiced eye, it looked like a CSU team had already swept the place. The lack of other officers in the room was an indication, too; if this had just happened, the hotel would have been swarming with police personnel. Instead, it was just the four of them.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, turning back to Lestrade, hands in the pockets of his dark blue wool overcoat. John stood by the door, scanning carefully, wondering what his partner and husband had already seen.

"Holly Merkley, age thirty-two," Lestrade replied. "Visiting from Manchester. Here for an audition, apparently."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow and John rolled his eyes.

"At the Globe, Sherlock," Lestrade said pointedly. "She was last seen yesterday morning, coming back with breakfast. The cleaners found the room like this early yesterday afternoon, just after one."

Sherlock turned away again, scanning the room. It was a mess, John noted; CSU hadn't cleaned anything, but of course they wouldn't. Lamps were tipped off their tables, the standard hotel chairs were overturned, drawers were pulled out and their contents tipped carelessly on the floor. He looked for a laptop or phone and saw none, nor a purse or wallet. On one of the beds, both of which were torn apart, their sheets and blankets in bunches on the floor, Merkley's suitcase lay open, its contents scattered about. A pair of trainers caught John's eye, sitting forlornly on the floor at the end of the bed, as if Merkley herself had dropped them there and forgotten them.

"No scratches on the door or the frame," Sherlock commented. "She let this person in."

Lestrade nodded.

"Looks like they were after something she had," John commented.

"They may have found it," Sherlock said. "No laptop, no phone?"

"No," Lestrade confirmed.

"And no girl," Sherlock said.

John rolled his eyes. At thirty-two, Merkley was only a few years younger than Sherlock himself, and certainly didn't qualify as a "girl".

"No," Lestrade repeated.

Sherlock moved further into the room, ignoring them now, and crouched down on the balls of his feet, regarding the two double beds and the carpet. It was as standard a hotel room as John had ever seen, down to the painting above the beds, some Monet rip-off in pale pastels and browns. It was depressing and impersonal, even with the stamp of Merkley's presence and her struggle superimposed on everything.

"Any leads?" John asked quietly. Lestrade sighed and shook his head, which was, after all, why Sherlock was there.

"No, but frankly, John, I'm a bit biased right now. Whenever someone so much as sneezes on the tube, I think it's Moriarty."

John chuckled mirthlessly. He understood that feeling.

"Not really his style, though," he commented, keeping his voice low to prevent Sherlock from being distracted.

Lestrade sighed, shaking his head.

"Who can say?" he replied. "The man is a psychopath. But no, I don't think this is linked to him. God, for her sake, I hope not."

John nodded, feeling cold at that. He knew what sort of games Moriarty liked to play with his victims – Sherlock still woke up from nightmares about it, and John knew that Moriarty had let Sherlock off relatively easy. Wherever Merkley was, John hoped she wasn't in the clutches of any psychopath, but it didn't really seem that way. He pressed his lips into a line. The fact that the perpetrator had nearly two days lead on them was not a good sign.

"Lestrade," Sherlock's voice, curiously tight, brought John back to the present fast. Lestrade started, taking a step toward the consulting detective, but Sherlock held up a hand and the inspector stopped short. Donovan was still glowering, and John wished she'd just lighten up a touch.

"What?" Lestrade asked. The expression on Sherlock's face concerned John a great deal; usually the consulting detective relished this kind of mental puzzle and he'd be flying high by now, racing through a list of clues no one else had caught, chasing down a theory and with it, a suspect.

"What about the child?" he asked.

John felt his blood go cold.

"What child?" Lestrade demanded. Sherlock stood and pointed to the far side of the bed closest to the window. Lestrade moved toward the younger man carefully and so did John, joined a moment later by Donovan, who was no longer glaring, but looking alarmed.

Beside the bed, near the nightstand, was part of a very small footprint in the carpet.

"Your victim has size 38 shoes, very standard for an adult woman. That is a child's partial footprint," Sherlock said, and his voice was grim. "There was a child in here with Merkley."

John felt himself pale, and watched Lestrade and Donovan do the same. There was nothing else in the room to indicate a child had been there, no clothes, no toys, no books.

"The hotel manager didn't say anything about Merkley having a child with her," Donovan said.

"But the manager didn't check her in, am I right? Have you interviewed the desk clerk who was on duty when she arrived? Reviewed the security tapes?"

"We're tracking down the clerk; she hasn't been in for the past couple of days, and isn't returning calls. We haven't checked the tapes from when Merkley arrived, no. We were focusing on yesterday."

Sherlock nodded, but looked displeased.

"Get me those tapes," he said. "Because it may not have been her this person was after."

There was Merkley checking in, three days ago, looking composed, sleek and professional. John thought she didn't look like an actress, more like a businesswoman, in her suit and heels. Her long dark hair curled down her back, the only thing about her appearance that seemed unrestrained. But her manner was easy and she was obviously not looking over her shoulder, nor was she apprehensive about the young boy playing at her feet and darting about the lobby as she spoke with the desk clerk.

John watched him in silence, as did everyone else, and felt grim. The boy was no more than two or three, with a head of curly hair like his mother's, only a lighter shade. He was obviously confident and independent, darting to and fro, not clinging to his mother's side. And she didn't seem worried, as long as she could see or hear him. Not a woman who had any sense that someone wanted her, or her child.

Sherlock was watching the boy intently, and John wondered what he was seeing that they didn't. What else could one see from the slightly grainy security footage?

Other than the case was a lot more complicated, and a lot more urgent. Whoever had taken them didn't care that it looked like Merkley was gone, but had gone out of their way to ensure that no trace of the boy remained. It was eerie, and somewhat nauseating, to watch the boy on the screen and wonder where he was now.

Without taking his eyes from the screen, Sherlock reached out and clasped one of John's hands in a gesture that was at once both comforting and requesting comfort. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Donovan frown and wanted to ask her what it was like to carry on an affair and be forced to hide her feelings, to have no way to express them when with others. Privately, he thought it would be an exhausting way to live, but it was her choice to do so. He ignored her, and watched Merkley gather up her son after finishing checking in, and walk out of camera range.

Lestrade was already on the phone, his voice low and urgent, speaking to his superiors. Sherlock sat back and stared thoughtfully at the screen for a moment, then looked at John. The blank expression on his face wasn't comforting to John, but then the consulting detective pushed himself to his feet.

"Come with me," he said in a tone John knew meant he hadn't even considered that John wouldn't accompany him. "I need to see that room again."