Sherlock wasn't sure of what a tantrum was, but he was pretty sure that, whatever it was, he was throwing one.

The grown man was laying on his stomach in the army cot he had been given, his face buried in a pillow. He had been this way since the buff guards had tossed him into his tiny cement room, which, if his internal clock was correct, had been about half an hour ago.

John had been so close-Freedom had been so close. Sherlock had been near positive that Mycroft would allow him to leave once John knew, but apparently, he had thought wrong- Something that had been happening more frequently by the day. Mycroft was getting tricky, and harder to predict.

Sherlock cast an irritated glare in the direction of the wall to wall mirror, which he was sure Mycroft was staring at him through the other end. Damn older brother, getting in the way of happiness. Despite Mycroft's attempts to prevent Sherlock hearing news, the younger Holmes did, indeed, hear. He knew all about Mrs. Hudson's failing health (Her kidneys were giving out, and she didn't have long), and how she was going to give 221 Baker Street to her niece, Clover Williams. He had met the girl once, she was only 20. Very polite, and as open as a children's book.

Sherlock knew that John's limp was back, and that Lestrade's daughter had attempted suicide. Apparently, Lestrade was coming home angry and frustrated, and life had already been hard on the fourteen year old (She had watched her mother die when she was 9, and her brother had succeeded in suicide two years later). Lestrade had found her one day when he came home from work, passed out, slumped over the kitchen sink. She had placed one of his ties around her neck as a noose, and fed the end into the garbage disposal. She was now on life support, but unless she woke from her current coma, she would die in two weeks; the due date to take her off life support.

He knew that Harriet, John's older sister, had gotten remarried. According to the gossiping guard that occasionally gave Sherlock food, Harriet had suddenly gone straight, and wed a man named Alastair Wood, who owned a large company in Brentwood. Since Clara, Harriet's last wife, had been given a large inheritance sum right before their wedding, Sherlock had silently deduced that Harriet wasn't, in actually, straight or homosexual. She simply adjusted her sexuality to fit whoever had the most money.

None of this news made Sherlock very happy. Quite the opposite, in fact; He had actually cried tears of sadness when he realized he would never be allowed out to see Mrs. Hudson one last time, or to confront Lestrade about taking his daughter off life support. He would never get to scathingly expose Harriet's little moneygrubbing secret, nor would he be able to assist a confused John in what exactly was going on.

Sherlock was vaguely aware of the steel door opening, but he jumped anyways when it was slammed shut, flipping over to face a fuming Mycroft.

"What," The older Holmes hissed, tapping his umbrella (Sherlock often wondered why his dear brother carried the dark purple object around; it was unnecessary during the summer months, yet he toted it under his arm regardless) on the cement floor. "Did you think you were doing?"

"Exactly what I've been meaning to do for the past 5 months," Sherlock stated dryly. "Assist John in discovering my whereabouts. I believe I did a sufficient job, don't you agree?"

"A sufficient job in getting John killed!" Mycroft growled, grabbing the pillow off the army cot and whacking Sherlock in the head with it in a fit of childish anger. "I hope you realize that I'm only doing this to keep you safe, Sherlock, you and John. You fighting me constantly is not making my job any easier!"

"You're fired."

"Very funny, Sherlock. I'm not letting you out of here again, and I'm increasing security," Mycroft informed him. Sherlock didn't even bother with a reply; he simply rolled his eyes and stuck his tongue out at his older brother- Under the circumstances, he had casted away any pretense of maturity, reverting back to the mindset of a 5 year old. A very intelligent five year old.

"You were punched," Sherlock suddenly said, the beginnings of a grin on his face as he surveyed the slight cut and purple bruise that decorated Mycroft's jawline. "John punched you. Splendid. Give him my thanks, I've been wanting to do that for several months now."

The scowl remained on Mycroft's face as he stormed out of the room, the large metal door swinging soundlessly on its hinges. As soon as he was sure his older brother was gone, Sherlock flopped on the army cot, sighing through his nose and closing his eyes.

It's alright, he assured himself silently. John knows. John will come for me.


John was pissed. After he had slugged Mycroft in the jaw, he was immediately escorted out, into a black government van, which drove him home. Clover was in for a nasty surprise as John brushed past her, snapping at her to keep quiet as he stormed into the flat and locked the doors. He paced the living room, formulating a plan.

"Don't worry, Sherlock, it'll be alright," He huffed, rubbing his face. "I know now, I'm coming for you."


Please review!