Warnings for this chapter: we will see torture.

Chapter Six – Agony

"Never mind, you're an idiot," Sherlock snapped and severed the connection. No, Lestrade wasn't going to be much use to him, this was Moriarty for goodness sakes. He ran through the rest of the modest contacts list on his phone and to his dismay there was only one other number he could call to help him. Any reluctance he might have had vanished when he glanced at the screen again; he pushed the 'call' button and the line connected through to Mycroft.

"What on earth are you calling me for?" he said with distaste and wonderment.

"Come to Baker Street," he demanded; his voice felt hollow.

"Come to- Sherlock I'm in the middle of an important security meeting! Some of us do lead productive lives you know," he replied.

"I need you brother," Sherlock said. He resented the words coming out of his mouth, but he knew those words would make Mycroft come running. Despite their feud and growing number of differences, Mycroft was still the one who had cared for him the most, the one who had got him out of the mental hospital, the one who forced him into rehab. There was silence on the other end of the line for a few poignant seconds.

"This had better not be one of you games," Mycroft warned and Sherlock could hear the sounds of rustling papers as the elder Holmes packed away his desk.

"It's John."

"Twenty minutes," he said and cut the line. Sherlock looked at his phone, checking for any message from Moriarty.

Exactly twenty minutes later Big Brother Holmes came into the living room to see his little brother curled up in his armchair, staring at his computer screen as though he were lost and didn't know which way was home. He surveyed the mess.

"A falling out?" he asked, picking his way through the debris to sit in the other chair (John's chair). "No, more than that. He's left?" he said with obvious surprise. He had thought the soldier to be a better man than to simply leave his little brother after how close they had become, especially given Sherlock's inference earlier on in the day.

"Moriarty." That word changed everything. Mycroft took a deep breath and rose again, removing his jacket and sitting again, knowing this would get very dirty very quickly if it hadn't already.

"How long has he had John?" He didn't vocalise the thought that the doctor needed security since this was the second time he had been snatched.

"At least since my trip to the Palace." Sherlock's voice was very small; Mycroft had only seen him like this before once, when they were little and their father was being forced out the house by their furious mother.

"And?" He knew there was something else. He craned his neck to look at the screen on which Sherlock was focusing his gaze. Sherlock turned the laptop slightly so his brother could see the live feed and John, unconscious, bleeding and bound in a dark cell-like room.

"Before I phone you, Moriarty had him beaten. He's going to do more. Do worse. He promised," Sherlock said. His words sounded like a child's, but Mycroft knew they were true, Moriarty kept his promises, especially these ones. "He's not doing it himself, an ex-military man he calls 'Seb' is the torturer." That last word came out as a whisper, the word barely able to claw its way out of Sherlock's throat.

"Seb is Sebastian Moran, we've encountered him before. Ex-marine, one of the finest marksmen we've ever produced. He was dishonourably discharged from service three years ago after a regrettable incident in Bazra," Mycroft betrayed a look of distaste at the memory of the 'incident'. "He was the sort of man who quickly became a mercenary because he enjoys hurting others. I'm not surprised he's worked his way up to being Moriarty's right hand man."

Sherlock passed the card he had found in Victor's jaw over to his brother. Mycroft immediately turned to his phone and typed steadily into it, communicating with some contacts who would be put to the task of tracing the connection and finding out where it was being broadcast from.

"I have put it to my team. I am confident they will have news for us soon." Mycroft didn't get a response from Sherlock who was staring at the screen, ghostlike. He knew his younger sibling was currently lost in a sea of emotions, the foremost being guilt. He had been like it when their father had left. A little eight year old Sherlock had made an off-hand comment about how their father had been seeing another woman and their mother had investigated, found it to be true and expelled her husband from the family home leaving the two boys without a father. He had lost himself in guilt then, too, refusing to speak for at least two months, devastated at the destruction his powers could cause. Mycroft had been lucky, he had been less removed from societal graces and had always been able to manage his observations, but Sherlock had been unfortunate enough to not have that intuition and it had proved detrimental many times.

Indeed, it seemed that while Mycroft had retained the ability to control himself, that trait had not been passed onto his younger brother so Sherlock could no more control how his powers worked than he could his own emotions. They had both found that burying, or stamping out most of their feelings had made life much more bearable and, according to their formidable logic, had improved the efficiency of their overall being. But they soon found it was impossible to purge all emotion, Mycroft had never forgotten his love for his brother, despite everything that happened between them, it was a fundamental part of his being that he could never separate from. When their father was evicted Mycroft became the principal male figure in Sherlock's life and he had tried to be a good role-model to a child who, it was painfully clear from his earliest developments, was going to have a harder time going through life than Mycroft was. He had always seen it as his responsibility to look out for Sherlock, no matter how much he didn't want it, because times like this he really did need Mycroft.

The elder Holmes then did something that he would only ever do for his brother and his wife; he made tea. It took him a while to find everything he needed in the kitchen, it seems John had developed a system of working around Sherlock' curiosities and after finding human ears in one sugar jar, he found the other one and sniffed it very carefully before he put it in the cups. When he came back he saw Sherlock staring, horrified at the screen. John was awake and groaning in pain as his muscles screamed at the abuse he suffered almost an hour now before. Sebastian entered the room and untied the injured soldier who was too weak to protest much. He led him out of the room and Sherlock cried out at the loss of contact. Mycroft checked his phone, nothing; not that he expected anything so soon. He hoped something would be found, though he knew someone of Moriarty's ilk would not be discovered easily and he knew, with grim resignation, that the good doctor would be in for a lot more yet.

John was brought in half an hour later, returning to the screen with wet hair and glistening drops on his face. He had been washed and stripped down to his underwear. A blanket was thrown over him and the light was cut. The camera took a second to switch to night vision, they saw John crawl into the far corner of the room and use his doctor's hands to check his wounds, his bruises. Fingers ghosted quickly and efficiently, if not with great pain, over the bruises which were blossoming already in dark patches over his body. His heavy, pained breathing could be heard like a sinister whisper through the speakers. As soon as he had ascertained he was not sporting any serious wounds, he pulled the blanket over himself as though it was a shield and went to sleep, wanting to forget everything that had happened.

Sherlock exhaled shakily, letting a breath of relief go that he didn't even know he was holding in. He knew it was largely because John had escaped torture for the next period, but he also knew that the relief came in small part because he didn't have to feel new surges of guilt for being the cause of John's pain. His tea cup was cold now, he had taken one sip and set it down; it was not John's tea and John's tea made it worth getting up in the mornings.

The night was long, far too long for Mycroft who worried as he saw his brother slip so easily back into that sealed off shell. The hours passed inconsequentially to Sherlock, who was so lost in his own thoughts and emotions that he did not register the procession of the clock, even when the sun rose over the London haze in the small hours. The screen showed John wake with a start, he rolled over, frightened and alert; he had forgotten where he was, and after a few seconds for his situation to sink in he remembered, with a grimace, what was happening.

"Dammit," John whispered, bringing the blanket up around him again to keep warm in the presumably unheated cell. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but stopped himself; John wouldn't be able to hear him and anything he said would be overheard by his brother, even if Mycroft had fallen asleep in his armchair. The younger Holmes knew his brother had chosen to sleep that night because he knew he wouldn't be getting any for the next few.

"Be strong, John," Sherlock whispered to the screen, knowing that it was silly as there was no audio connection from his computer to the speaker in the cell, but he said it anyway. Perhaps because it brought him comfort more than anything. He glanced up at the time on the computer display: 6:23, still quite early, perhaps Moriarty and Moran were having a lie-in.

Nothing else happened on the screen until 9am when Moran entered the cell with two slices of toast liberally slathered in jam. John glared up at the former Marine and told him to piss off. Moran snickered and left it on the floor before removing himself from the room. John looked hungrily at the toast and the sweet-smelling jam, but left it where it was.

"If you think I'm going to eat that you can think again," John said, talking to the camera; he assumed that the feed went to Moriarty. "I'm not willingly ingesting whatever it is you've put in that," he said and turned his back to it and stared at the wall. Sherlock thought with almost surety that there was no foreign chemical in the breakfast, Moriarty wanted to break the doctor when he was at his best so he had no way of blaming something else when his mind cracked.

The 'show' began again at 10am, this time the chair was removed and John made to stand, his wrists bound and chained to a loop on the ceiling and Moran entered with a metal hose. This place really had been purposely made for this express purpose, who knows how many other poor souls had met a painful end here?

"I hope you're watching this Sherlock, you're really not going to want to miss this. Time for Seb to warm up for the day's fun!" Moriarty chimed and the audio snapped off.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock cried out and the older brother snapped awake. Sherlock's face was strained, his eyes wide and afraid, things were starting again. Moran turned on the hose and a jet of boiling water burst out and John cried out in surprise and pain as his skin was assaulted.

"Damn…" Mycroft cursed and looked at his phone, no new messages from his team.

"Are your people even doing anything?" Sherlock demanded, upset by what he could see and hear on the screen.

"I'm sure they are doing all they can, Sherlock, they just need more time."

"Look, John doesn't have time, he's…" the detective couldn't finish that sentence, guilt washed over him anew. John yelled out again, this time a distorted curse word. If the picture was in colour Sherlock estimated John's skin would be bright lobster pink by now. Moran turned the hose off and John was afforded a few moments before a large bucket of ice water was thrown over him and he screamed out as the conflicting temperatures made his skin electric.

"You motherfucker!" Johns screamed out as the hot water returned. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to smile even a little at his partner's spirit, but internally he applauded John for not giving up so easily.

The temperature torture went on for a long time and by the time Moriarty had decided that was enough, tears were running down Sherlock's face. Mycroft had sat close and watched it with his brother, but his attention was on his phone; the updates he was receiving were not the ones he wanted. For the sake of family and his little brother who he had vowed to protect since he was born.

"I need to step out for a moment," he excused himself and went out into the hall. He called the phone number of his team and waited to be put through. They answered after four rings; they were afraid to talk to him because they had nothing.

"G…good afternoon, sir," a young man answered, stuttering in his fear of the power of the older Holmes. "I'm afraid we don't have anything yet. This man is using a very complicated encryption programme and has re-routed the connection through hundreds of servers," he rambled, trying to explain the technical difficulty of what his boss was asking.

"I'm not asking for a technical explanation, I'm asking why you haven't found the source yet, you are one of the best men in the country for this, are you not? That was why I personally asked you to be in this team." His voice was low, measured and dangerous.

"We're doing our best, sir."

"You do know what is at stake here? I presume you have the live feed up in your office?"

"Umm, we do, but the screen is turned off. Sampson said it was distracting him," he said, giving away far more information than he should have. The silence Mycroft gave him was terrifying.

"This is an order:" he said in his most dangerous voice. "Turn that screen on so that for every minute you fail to find the source of that transmission you understand that an honoured serviceman will suffer."

"Yes, sir!" the man squeaked.

"Get me results and get them quickly or I will have to come in personally. Don't make me come in personally," he threatened.

"No, sir!" The other man was now breathing quite hard and Mycroft hung up. He sighed bitterly, it wasn't enough for them to be up against a clever man, it was just his luck that Sherlock had sought out the cleverest adversary on the planet. He took a deep breath and went back into the front room. Sherlock had risen and was now staring out of the window at the street below, a freshly lit cigarette in his hand.

"In the circumstances I hardly think John would admonish me," he said defensively as he took a drag. Mycroft noted how Sherlock's first point of reference for anything was now his flat-mate. He remembered when his little brother would refer to Mycroft after everything he did and said, seeing if what he had done was right or wrong and Mycroft would always guide him, making sure Sherlock's behavioural difficulties were as covered up as much as possible. It had been his fear from an early age that Sherlock would be 'taken away', especially for his 'own good'.

"I might join you," he said and stood by his brother, watching the people going on by. He took a cigarette from the box on the table and lit a match.

"Look at them, going about their boring little lives, they don't know or care what's happening all around them."

"A historical observation, it has always been the same with the plebeian populace," Mycroft said with an air of superiority and a cloud of smoke streaming out of his nostrils.

"At least one pleb can raise his head above the rest," Sherlock snorted as he saw a familiar car pull up outside Baker Street and Lestrade came running out and banged on the door. Mycroft looked down at his phone and saw a message from someone he had better not ignore.

"Oh, I think I know what this is about," he said lazily. He brought up the picture of Moriarty sat on the regal throne, adorned in a familiar ermine gown, the crown of Great Britain on his brow and the orb and sceptre in his hands. Sherlock sniggered, which turned into a full laugh as he thought how ridiculous the picture was.

Lestrade came bounding up the stairs, two at a time and burst into the front room. He nodded to Sherlock, but was surprised to see Mycroft there; they even appeared to be smoking amicably, this was something he had not thought possible if all the complaining Sherlock had done was anything to go by.

"Sherlock, you need to come down to the Yard," he said. The detective didn't reply, he was too busy looking a little more sombrely at the next picture Mycroft was showing him on his phone. It was a picture of the case that held the crown jewels with the words 'Get Sherlock' written on the side just before he smashed the case open.

"Yes, James Moriarty has been wearing the crown jewels," he drawled and took a very long drag of his cigarette while he thought.

"How did-" Lestrade looked at Mycroft and didn't bother to finish that question. "He says he wants to speak to you directly." Sherlock's eyes flickered to his laptop and then to his brother.

"My best men," he reminded Sherlock who he had out looking for John and the younger Holmes knew it would be alright to go out for a while, especially since it was Moriarty himself who had summoned him.

The Yard was surrounded by press; Lestrade had briefed him in the car on the way there that not only had Moriarty tried to steal the crown jewels, but he had simultaneously opened Pentonville Prison and the vault at the Bank of England.

"I haven't got much time to be away from Baker Street, Lestrade, let's make this quick," he snapped.

"I thought this would be important," the DI grumbled.

"Bigger things at home, though this should be a nice distraction," was his reply. Lestrade gave him an incredulous look.

"Where's John, I didn't see him at the flat?" he asked, wishing the doctor was around, he always managed to make Sherlock a little more bearable. Sherlock said nothing but gritted his teeth. Lestrade raised an eyebrow, maybe they're had an argument? It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock had pissed someone off.

"Where is he, I want to interview him right away," he demanded and Lestrade pointed down the corridor through which they were walking.

"We're going there now. I warn you now, he's a bit…odd."

"I know very much what he's like," Sherlock growled, his anger rising to surface, an unfamiliar and rarely seen rage threatening to bubble through into his conscious mind. He knew that when his emotions crested the surface he became uncontrollable. He took a deep breath, all he had to do was maintain control long enough to get Moriarty to tell him where John was. Lestrade nodded to the men guarding the room and the summoned man went into the room.

Moriarty's face split into a huge smile at the sight of Sherlock.

"Hello Sherlock," he said happily.

"Where is he?" Sherlock snapped, unable to stand the prattle Jim liked to bore him with. He was getting straight to the point. All he got was a snigger.

"Where is he?" he repeated, his anger rising.

"Getting a little antsy without your fix?" Jim sneered. "Can't live without your drug?" Sherlock backed off a little, he knew exactly how deep his connection to John went; Jim knew he was torturing far more than the detective's blogger.

"Tell me!" he shouted, quickly losing control of himself.

"Me? I don't know anything, I'm just…me," he giggled. Sherlock roared and threw the table across the room and seized Jim by his shirt, pulling him close.

"Tell me what I want to know!" he hissed. He could hear Lestrade scrambling to get out from behind the glass.

"Don't you want to know how I broke into all those places at once?" he teased, knowing all he had to do was stall for time for the police to come to his rescue.

"I don't care about that!"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade yelled and pulled the taller man off the triumphant Irishman. "What the hell?" he cried as he struggled with the thrashing man. Sherlock was in a haze of ire, he could barely think about anything other than hurting James Moriarty and forcing him to tell him where John was and anything that got in his way registered as an enemy in that mindset. Sherlock pushed Lestrade's arm off of him and spun round, his fist in the air, already swinging to hit the DI but at the last second he stopped himself and the haze cleared for a moment. Lestrade was looking confused and afraid for both his own personal safety and for Sherlock. He had never seen the 'consulting detective' behave like this before and it was deeply worrying. Sherlock dropped his arms.

"Out, now," Lestrade ordered and Sherlock felt himself complying. He would get no answers here.

"You need to relax, go home, watch some TV, you wouldn't want to miss anything," Jim sneered and Sherlock was bundled out of the interview room before he could react. The hot rage was giving way quickly to cold dread and as soon as he was out he took to his heels and ran out of the Yard, diving into the first taxi he could see. Lestrade called him while he was on his way home. He answered it without thinking.

"Sherlock, you need to come back, what the hell happened just now?" Gregory Lestrade was confused and ticked off.

"He asked me to the Yard to bait me and waste your time. This one isn't difficult, even you can handle it." He needed to be clear of Lestrade's irritating time wasting by the time he got back to Baker Street. He needed to focus on John now, not something as trivial as breaking and entering, no matter on how grand a scale.

"Are you alright? You didn't seem you usual cheerful self," he asked sardonically to cover up his concern for Sherlock's well-being.

"I'll be fine when you stop wasting my time," he snapped.

"Oh, sorry. We'll be in touch," Lestrade said, not really hurt by Sherlock's waspish tone and the consulting detective supposed it was because the DI was used to it by now.

When he arrived back at Baker Street his first action was to check the screen; he had arrived home in time to see John refusing more food and the large bucket of water had been refilled. Moran kicked John savagely in the back of the knees, causing the man to drop hard on his knees on the cold, wet ground. John grunted in pain.

"No-!" Sherlock whispered as Moran seized a fistful of John's lovely thick hair and forced him forwards, head into the water. John thrashed about, as much as his bonds would let him, After what seemed like forever, Moran pulled his captive up again, by the hair, and allowed him to gasp several painful breaths before plunging him in again. Sherlock fell into his chair, again bound by the strange horror that meant he could not look away. Every part of him was repulsed and reviled by the sight of John undergoing this torture, but he knew he had to endure, if not so John would not be alone. Another ridiculous notion, but he was so full of them it seemed, so another added to mix wasn't going to hurt.

AN: Thanks for waiting, I meant to put it up yesterday but I was blindsided by a cold :s Next one in a few days hopefully, I don't intend to keep you waiting too long!