A/N: Just a word to my wonderful readers; I've got myself in over my head with several WIP's, all of which started in a moment of inspiration. I commit myself to finIslington them all. However, the ones that get the most responses will be the ones that get the fastest update.

So, if you really like this story, let me know. If you like a different one more, tell me. My WIP's and a short description of each can be found on my profile page. Thanks, guys/gals!

The captives were dragged back to the cell. John was tossed upon his thin mattress, where he lay like a broken doll, trembling from pain and cold. They weren't chained up again.

When the guards had left, Mycroft approached the doctor, and hesitantly reached out to adjust his position on the mattress. John winced, but felt too drained to protest. One blanket was placed carefully on top of him, and then another. John heard that blasted voice talking to him again, as cool and composed as ever.

"Dr. Watson, do pull yourself together. This can hardly be the worst situation you have ever found yourself in. What would my brother think of you if you fell apart so quickly?"

The doctor's breath quickened in anger, but he didn't bother to respond. The voice continued, unperturbed. "Now, I won't have you fainting on me. That would be inconvenient. Can you sit up? Oh, alright, let me assist you-" here John felt two hands under his head and neck, pushing him up with surprising gentleness, "and drink slowly." As much as John despised the man, his instincts led him to feel grateful for the cool water sliding down his parched throat.

When he was let down, he closed his eyes, and slept.

"Dr. Watson."

John was vaguely aware of a voice in his ear.

"Dr. Watson, I must insist," the voice annoyingly persisted.

John waved his hand weakly, as if shooing away an annoying fly.

"Dr. Watson! You need to get up, immediately!" This was said in a harsh whisper.

John bolted awake.

"Thank you," said Mycroft primly. "Now, hurry. Those plans you were talking about? We need to implement them now."

The doctor rubbed at his eyes, at first in tiredness, and then disbelief, as he grasped what the other man was saying.

"Why now?" he whispered back angrily. "I'm in pain, and I didn't yet come up with a complete plan, and couldn't you have decided that before I was tortured?"

"No, because that's when they were expecting it. Now that you've been hurt, they expect us to stay put for a bit."

"Did anyone ever tell you you're a heartless bastard?" John gritted out.

In the dim lighting, John saw Mycroft smile thinly. "There's no time to waste. Tell me your assessment, and I'll tell you mine. I believe we can work something out."

As much as the doctor was tired, hurt, and frustrated, his survival instincts kicked in and he went into strategic mode. "The chains are fortunately off, probably to avoid further aggravation to my injuries, although yours may have been an oversight. I believe we can make use of it to fashion some crude lock picks and weapons. Hit the guards right outside with them, and get their weapons..." John said thoughtfully.

"Guards are on a smoke break. Unfortunately, their lighter disappeared, and one had to go get one. Then the other one realized that his cigarettes are missing..."

John looked at Mycroft, a spark of admiration in his eyes. "I thought Sherlock was the only pickpocket in your family," he smirked.

"I have some modest talents of my own," Mycroft gr8nned sardonically. "Now, quickly, what do you think is the best route?"

For several minutes, they threw ideas and suggestions back and forth, until they came up with what they thought was the most viable plan. It was in no way guaranteed, but they didn't have a spread of options.

Mycroft was to take care of the cameras along the way, starting with the ones in their cell. John would pick the locks, and they would take care of the guards together. Mycroft estimated that it would take five minutes for those in command to catch on, and proposed leaving one camera intact, run in one direction, and then stealthily crawl back from where they came from. They would need to find a small space to hide near their cell, while the minions searched for them on the upper floor.

John suggested firing some shots on the upper floor as a distraction, and then crawling back. Mycroft nodded in stiff approval. "This is it," he said quietly. "Good luck, Dr. Watson."

"Don't forget I'm not really in tip-top shape," John reminded him tersely.

"I know," Mycroft answered. Then, very softly, he added, "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson."

The next ten minutes were a blur. They stealthily picked the locks, and Mycroft disabled the cameras. They crawled next to the wall, until they heard the voices of the guards coming back. A good knock on the back of the head with the heavy chains were all it took to knock them out.

Now armed, the man crawled up the stairs from the cellar to the first floor, and began the next step of the operation. Mycroft disabled two cameras, and then signaled to John at the third. They began running freely down the corridor, and heard the shouts and footsteps coming toward them. John fired two shots at the wall, and then dropped down. Mycroft followed.

They made their way back, towards the door to the staircase. They had to knock out one guard on the way down, wasting precious seconds. They finally made it to the cupboard housing various odds and ends, and crouched inside, weapons at the ready. For half an hour, they heard the sounds of searching outside, mostly above them.

John turned to Mycroft, holding up one hand. He signaled him in their private code. What now?

Mycroft signalled back. Clothes.

The next few minutes were the most tense ones of the entire operation. They left their hideout, and let go of the safety of their weapons, in order to strip themselves of their clothes and exchange it with the ones of the original two unconscious guards, who had been left lying there like forgotten sacks of potatoes.

Mycroft was done in under two minutes, and then reached out to assist John, who was struggling because of his tender injuries. John winced in pain and humiliation as the older man roughly tore off his shirt and then pulled a new one over his head. At least he had managed the trousers by himself.

Weapons held in hand, they rushed upstairs, trying to mingle with the tens of people rushing about, searching for the prisoners. In three minutes, they had made it out the front door, to find themselves in a desolate industrial area. They ran, John lagging behind, and Mycroft pulling at him every few seconds. The government official led them into what seemed like another abandoned warehouse, and they positioned themselves between some crates, panting heavily.

"You... like... warehouses..." John wheezed out.

"We have fifteen minutes until they start searching this area," Mycroft said sternly.

"Let's... take a cab... home," John suggested.

"I doubt there are any cabs handy here," Mycroft smiled hollowly. "But we're definitely not going home."

"WHAT?"

"Think, John. The kidnappers knew too much. Someone close to me has betrayed me. And I have no idea who."