Mycroft seldom made mistakes, a man in his position couldn't afford to make them. However, the surveillance on Dr. Watson had been interrupted so smoothly it was an unpardonable 30 minutes before anyone realized he had gone missing. He supposed a shake-up was due in his organization again, and signaled Agent A to start the process.

It was Sherlock's reaction, on the other hand, that made Mycroft pause. He hadn't seen the fear on Sherlock's face since he was a little boy. Now, seeing the panic, brought Mycroft back to those rare moments he saw Sherlock this way when they were little. It made the big brother in Mycroft stir protectively, and despite his reservations, vow to help Sherlock with the return of his...friend.

Even if it required...mental shudder...legwork.

Jim hadn't been joking when he told Sherlock his one weakness was his changeability. In the past days, he had formed and discarded more plans for Sherlock's pet John than most people had meals in a lifetime. But deep down, Jim had an artistic streak, a love of fine tableaus and dramatics he just could not suppress.

So when the pet had been dragged in, his three-day old beard making him look appropriately disheveled, Jim knew this next game was going to be spectacular. His Sherlock had a weakness, and Jim would take pleasure in burning his weakness away, so they could play the game together the way it was meant to be.

With glee, Jim set about directing his men as they prepared the helpless man for the next phase of the plan.

Sherlock was berating a helpless Lestrade when it arrived. An innocent looking envelope, delivered by a courier who the front desk clerk immediately forgot the look of, containing only a DVD.

Lestrade groaned. "Not again. Isn't this my bloody office, not your playroom?"

Sherlock paid no attention to the inspector or the growing crowd behind him, attempting to take in every detail of the package. Unfortunately, every detail was nondescript, telling him more about the messenger (bike courier, left handed) than the sender. Brushing aside the inspector, he loaded the DVD into Lestrade's computer.

A website address appeared. Lestrade shouted to Donovan to get the cyber task force for a trace, but Sherlock knew Moriarty would not be so careless. Clicking the link, he couldn't suppress the sharp intake of breath at the scene in front of him.

A helpless John Watson lay inclined in the center of the room, raised on some sort of black platform, so his entire body was both flat and visible. Arms raised above his head, his shoulders strained with effort. It had to be agonizing on his shoulder, a fact Moriarty must have known. His feet, legs, waist, and chest were all strapped with black belts, standing out against his pale skin. Sherlock noted a few deep bruises on John's body, likely from the kidnapping as they appeared days old. Altogether, John looked small vulnerable, clad in only boxers underneath the straps.

Sherlock scanned John's face last, afraid of what he might find written there. Signs of abuse, his captivity? Instead he found the face of a drugged man, his head lolling to the side. He was relieved not to see signs of further damage. Apprehensively, Sherlock clicked "play" on the video as he heard Lestrade swearing quietly beside him.

As they watched, Jim Moriarty came on the screen. "So, Sherlock. Welcome to the next game. You did well in the last round, but not good enough to beat me!" He danced gracefully toward John, like a demented ballerina. "So patient, this little one," he gloated, "days here and hardly a peep!"

With that Jim's eyes changed and he slapped John across the face, eliciting a groan from his helpless victim.

"BORING!" he sang. "If Johnny-boy here can't be entertaining, you'll have to help me out Sherlock. After all, pets are only good as long as they earn their keep."

With a tender pat to John's cheek, the psychopath turned to the camera. "At your flat by now is all the information I have on a certain someone who has been attempting to blackmail me. No one ever gets to me, Sherlock. While I'd love to deal with him myself, I've got an empire to run! So your job is to find him and deliver him either to myself to trade for Johnny-boy here," he gestured beside him, "or to the Yard with enough evidence of his crimes that even dear old Inspector Lestrade can convict him."

"Which reminds me," he continued, smirking, "hello Inspector. How's the wife?"

He turned away from the camera and strolled two steps before he stopped. "Oh one last point, Sherlock. You have no time limit on this one, but don't take too long. If I get bored, I may just have to 'play' with your little pet here."

"Good-bye!" the last parting shot sing-songed out, and a door was heard closing. All that was left on screen was the dramatically lit John, a red mark starting to stand out on his face.