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"Here we are." Mycroft's chauffeur opened the door and John stepped out, shielding his eyes from the sun. Mycroft emerged behind him, his cane at his side as his driver parked up the street.

"The photograph, please, Dr. Watson," Mycroft held out a waiting hand and John fished the sketch from his pocket. He gave it to the older Holmes who studied it for a few seconds, "We're at the correct location."

John looked at Sherlock's sketch for a minute or two before affirming Mycroft's theory, "Looks about right. There's Windsor Castle," he pointed to the horizon and back to the sketch.

"We're at the wrong angle," Mycroft pursed his lips, "we must find where Sherlock exactly drew this. It'll show us where his location was."

"Okay, do we go around the city all day and try to examine the photograph to the horizon?"

"No," Mycroft scoffed, "we head to the post office Sherlock delivered this from. He couldn't have gone far from there."

"Right, right," John wanted to smack his forehead for being so stupid, "let's go."

The chauffeur took them to the outskirts of town, and parked right in front of a rather shabby looking post office. The sign was teetering off the hinges, dangerously close to falling off. Through the glass, Watson could see the old man Mycroft showed him in the photo, only aged and dirtier. John walked into the establishment, Mycroft waiting in the car.

"Hello," Watson smiled quickly, "are you the manager?"

"Do ya see anyone else 'round here?" the man's thick slang accent threw John off, but he recovered.

"I was wondering if you remembered the man who sent this," John placed the sketch on the table, and pushed it over for the man to see, "he mailed it just a few days ago."

"Ya think I 'member every bloke that come in here? Bug off, ya wanker!"

"Sir, please," Watson ground his teeth, "It's impertinent you remember."

"Fancy English," the clerk released a guttural laugh, "but it don't do ya no good, here."

John felt something within him snap. All of the anger, frustration, confusion, and lack of knowing sent him over the edge as he leaned over the counter, grabbed the grimy clerk by his stained collar and pulled him close.

"Listen!" Watson hissed, "My best friend is in danger, and if he dies because your thick, alcoholic brain couldn't see past your big ego, then I will hold you personally accountable! Now, look at the paper and tell me who sent it!"

"All right, all right!" the man begged, holding his shaking hands up in the air as John released him and shoved the paper under his nose again.

"Fine, ya, I think I remember," the clerk fixed his wrinkled collar, "this bloke came in, dark curly hair. Bleeding, long coat."

"Yes, that's him!" John laughed with relief, "When did he come in?"

"Yesterday mornin. Some van was chasin' him down. Asked for a phone, didn't have one. Asked for a fax, my sister's got it. Wrote that down quickly, and ran off."

"Wait, you said a van was coming after him?"

"Looked like it. They took him down over there," he pointed farther off by the edge of the road.

"What direction did they come in?"

"Down there, I think," the clerk pointed south.

"Did you see or recognize anybody in there?"

"No," he huffed, "wouldn't tell you if I did either."

John sighed, "Thank you, sir, you've been a big help."

Watson left a few pounds on the counter and ran out to Mycroft.

"I see you got a little rough in there," Mycroft wiped the edges of his coat.

"He was being a bit uncooperative."

"John Watson, the soldier, the doctor, the sidekick, and now the fighter…interesting."

Watson got into the car, relaying the information the clerk begrudgingly told John, "A van was supposedly coming after him down there," John pointed down the road, "we've got to go there."

"Don't be so rash, Dr. Watson," Mycroft tutted, "two men and a driver can hardly trespass on terrorist grounds."

"Okay, so call in the troops, antiterrorism," John patted his legs impatiently, "do something!"

"I'll phone Lestrade," he whipped out his mobile and dialed, "and make a few other calls."

Watson had never seen Mycroft so compliant, had never seen him so ready to act. Maybe it was because his brother was taken, maybe it was to stop these terrorists, but these last few days being in close proximity with him definitely taught John a lot about the elder Holmes.

Mycroft put the call on speakerphone for both John and him to communicate.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft began, "I'm confident we've pinpointed Sherlock's location."

"Where?"

"Windsor."

"Okay, I'll send men down there, but I'm on my way. Don't try anything until reinforcements get there"

"Will do, Lestrade, thank you," John said as Mycroft hung up.

"Now, for more effective measures," Mycroft didn't look up from his screen as he dialed another number.

"Who are you calling?" John inquired, but Mycroft didn't answer him.

"Mycroft Holmes," he introduced himself, "Windsor."

He hung up.

"That's it?"

Holmes nodded.

"Now, we wait."

An hour later, Lestrade called and said he was approaching. He parked his squad car near Mycroft's Mercedes and met up with them.

"Anything new?" the detective inspector asked.

"Not yet," Mycroft shook his head, "but Sherlock is being kept somewhere along this road."

"How'd you figure it out?"

"Sherlock sent us a message," John gave the mailed sketch to Lestrade who eyed it carefully.

"Vatican Cameos?"

"It's sort of code," Watson shrugged, "an alert for danger."

"And this horizon is supposed to be Windsor?"

"I stake my reputation on it," Mycroft held his head up high.

John tapped his foot against the gravel impatiently, "Are your men almost here?"

"Nearly," Greg answered.

"Almost," Mycroft followed up.

"You have reinforcements coming too?" DI Lestrade asked Holmes.

"You have your friends, I have mine."

"Can't we just go down the road and check it out?" Watson tried to peer over the hill, but couldn't make out anything.

"It's too dangerous," Lestrade sighed, "if they're keeping Sherlock in there and know we're snooping, he could face serious consequences."

"We're talking about the rabbit hole of a known terrorist organization, Dr. Watson," Mycroft raised a brow, "you know we can't just go waltzing in, this requires care and efficiency. Our intrusion could threaten national security."

"And that's all, isn't it," John retorted bitterly, "only national security? Nothing else?"

"Well, I don't think there is anything more important than our nation's well being, don't you agree? Think carefully before you answer."

"Your brother, perhaps!" John shouted, "He's not even my sibling, yet I've been more family to him than you have!"

"Calm down, John," Lestrade soothed, "maybe another time."

"When's a better time than this? This whole mess started because of Mycroft and now we have to tiptoe around him in case he gets sensitive about his brother's kidnapping, in case he sheds just a sliver of emotion for his abducted, possible dead, family. Mycroft doesn't feel for Sherlock, just for Sherlock's abilities. If he had it his way, Sherlock would be locked up in his office, just used to solve cases and nothing more."

"Watson-" Lestrade tried to intervene.

"No," Mycroft held up a hand, "Dr. Watson, I respect your opinion, however wrong it may be. I know in my heart where my feelings truly lie, and I don't expect someone so mundane to understand our complex relationship. Now, if you'd excuse me," he went walking off, just a few yards away by himself.

"You've got to keep it together, John," Lestrade gripped his shoulder, "we can't fall apart, not now."

John looked at Mycroft bitterly, "Yeah, yeah, I know, I'm just antsy, that's all."

Greg patted his arm, as squad cars and black vans started to drive down the hill. It was the reinforcements, the ones from Scotland Yard!

"They're here," Lestrade's eyes brightened at his support team. The cars came to a stop as people emerged, immediately getting to work. The two squad cars pulled up the rear and parked, facing each other, as they formed a road block. Nobody could get in our out. Donovan emerged from the passenger seat of a black van, wearing a dark bullet proof vest.

"Sergeant Donovan," Lestrade smiled, relieved, "glad you're here."

"Well, the Freak is one of us, right?" she cracked a smile, "we'll get him back safe and sound."

"What's the plan?" John asked, eagerly.

"We've got police roadblocks formed on both ends of the street. I sent a few cars down south, looping around the town as not to be noticed, that way if they try to escape we'll get them. I've also got C019 with me, and they'll be ready to head in as soon as-"

The distant whirring of rotating helicopter blades got louder and louder, almost deafening. Wind started to pick up speed around them as they all held onto their ears and looked up. A helicopter was descending a few hundred yards away, the grass pressed to the soil by the force of the wind.

"IS THAT YOURS?" John yelled above the noise.

"NO," Lestrade replied, trying to eye the label along the side to identify the craft.

"It's mine!" Mycroft stepped forward, eyes sparkling, "Like I said, I have powerful friends!"

The helicopter touched ground and out jumped four men, heavily armed, top of the line military gear, matching jumpsuits, earpieces, machine guns, revolvers, pistols, batons, knives, machetes, the whole works. John gawked, eyes wide as this elite team of four approached Mycroft and each of them saluted in sync.

"Mr. Holmes," one of them said in a husky voice, "ready for instructions."

"Thank you, gentlemen, for arriving so quickly. Where are the others?"

"Others?" Lestrade choked.

"On route, sir," the soldier spoke again, "another helicopter has landed farther down the road, they met with Scotland Yard. Two ground vehicles should be here anytime, but the tank could take longer."

"Tank?" John's jaw dropped.

"Yes, maybe the tank was a bit excessive on my account," Mycroft rubbed his chin, "call it off."

"Right away, sir," the soldier turned away, speaking into his earpiece.

Mycroft walked towards an astonished John and Lestrade.

"Close your mouths, both of you," Holmes rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft," Watson gulped, "I didn't realize you sent for the entire British army!"

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, John. It's just a few precautionary measures."

"If these are just precautionary measures, I wonder what else he's got in store," Greg mumbled to John.

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft exhaled tightly, "if you'd like to lead this investigation any time."

"Y-yes, of course," Lestrade got his bearings and he walked to the center of the field, surrounded by Scotland Yard and military reinforcements, "All right, listen up! We've got a civilian trapped inside a known terrorist organization's base of operations! We believe he is being held in a building along this road, so I need everyone on their game today! Our job is to make sure we extract the civilian safely, and take down the enemy with minimal casualties! Let's move in!"

Mycroft stayed behind, watching the troops go. The team he called in led the charge, them four first rounding the bluff to make sure it was safe, then waving in Lestrade, Donovan, and Scotland Yard men. John brought up the rear, not exactly an officer, but he wouldn't miss this. They would meet the remaining teams on the other side of the road and continue from there to help Sherlock escape.

If he was alive.

Mycroft just watched them disappear over the crest, as he rested against his black Mercedes. The wind was blowing quite harshly and the edges of his suit jacket billowed in the wind. He thought about Sherlock, how is younger brother had been missing for the last few days, how John's accusations that it was his fault Sherlock was taken were true, how he knew he was responsible for this mess, how he might've jeopardized the entire mission by sending in his family to solve this case, how Sherlock Holmes might die because of it.

His knuckles tightened around his case, fingers turning white.

A heavy boot kicked his chair and Sherlock jolted awake. He didn't realize his eyes even closed. The combination of blood loss and lack of nutrients for his ailing body put him on the verge of unconsciousness. He knew he would collapse eventually, but not yet, not while the Hamas organization was still at large, not until he took out Farooq and Abbad Bahar. He promised Farooq he'd prevent Mycroft from hurting his brother, but Mycroft wasn't even close to knowing his whereabouts, that's why he put Sherlock on the case. Now, he had to complete it, he had to locate their whereabouts and figure out their plans before they executed it and delivered a nasty terrorist blow to central London.

No pressure.

"Keep working," Ekram barked, delighting in any way he could order Sherlock. He got small satisfaction from waking his tired body up every few minutes.

Sherlock was typing on a laptop that must've been ten years old. It was monsterous, bulky, and had multiple thick wires pumping battery life into the worn machine. Every time he typed a key, the machine would cough and spatter, trying to compute the command with reluctance. He asked for a mobile phone, but to not risk Sherlock making any calls, they offered this beat up excuse of a laptop to do the job.

Due to its outdated programming, Sherlock wouldn't be able to text or contact authorities or his friends in any way. It could only search the internet every fifteen minutes after the hard drive rebooted four times or play computerized chess.

"I can't work with this," he spat.

"Try," Ekram's knuckled tightened around his chair. Thankfully, he was given a bottle of water and a small packet of saltine crackers, "the only reason you are alive is because Farooq needs you to find Abbad before your scoundrel brother does!"

"Don't talk about my brother that way," Sherlock growled.

"Like you have any right to give demands," Ekram retorted, "one bad word from me and Farooq will have your head!"

Sherlock sighed, pressing some fingers against his shoulder warily. He was given bandages but they were soaked through. A needle and stitches would've been an ideal solution, but any weapon-even a needle-was forbidden.

"What have you got?" Ekram peered over his shoulder.

Sherlock tilted the computer screen away from him, "You approach me again, and Abbad is dead."

Ekram grumbled as he pulled away, still less than a foot away from Sherlock.

There was no way he could contact Mycroft and fabricate a story on Abbad Bahar with this prehistoric machine at his fingertips.

A sharp pain flared in his upper shoulder, and he clenched his teeth. Sherlock doubled over, clutching his chest as he fell out of his chair gasping.

What was happening?

His breaths were harsh and labored, his eyes wide and slightly…scared. Fear? No, it couldn't be, no…

"What?" Ekram's face hovered above him, "What is it? Get up!"

Sherlock saw black dots form across his gaze, the edges of his vision turning fuzzy. He felt lightheaded and his limbs heavier than usual as a cold, creeping calmness spread over his body.

"Hey!" Ekram crouched down by his head and patted his cheeks harshly. The impact of the slaps made his skin sting, but it barely registered, "Enough of this!"

Sherlock couldn't move, his hands resting against his chest as his body heaved for lungfuls of much-needed oxygen.

Ekram groaned and ran to the door. He opened it, stuck his head outside, and started shouting in Arabic. A few seconds later two more men came rushing in, crowding the half-conscious detective, their voices sounded distant and distorted.

Heavy hands gripped his underarms and his legs as he felt the ground disconnect from his spine; he was lifted from the floor by the men and rushed outside, taken to the main living room where a torn, moldy couch became his bed.

"What's happened?" Farooq came barging in, voice tinged with irritation.

"I don't know," Ekram growled, "he just collapsed!"

"You idiot!" he heard a heavy slap from Farooq to Ekram, "You hurt him, and now he's lost too much blood!"

"He was fine just a second ago-"

"I don't want to hear it!" Farooq barked, "Get me a medical kit!"

"You want to keep him alive?"

"Of course! He knows where my brother is!"

Heavy boots clomped in the distance and someone returned with a first aid kit.

"Hold him down," Farooq's voice was dripping with impatience and anger. He wanted to kill Sherlock then and there, let the detective die for his deceit, but he couldn't risk his sibling.

"Get me a needle and thread."

"Anesthetic?"

"No," Farooq smiled evilly, "let him feel it."

"He's half conscious, sir."

"Then he hasn't fallen unconscious yet. More fun for me, a little reward for my troubles."

Through his hazy vision, Sherlock could see the glint of metal against the light from a thin needle.

Ekram was holding his arms, another man had his legs, Farooq was grinning in the corner as the other man tore off Sherlock's soggy coat roughly.

"This is going to hurt," Farooq's smile was wide and maniacal as he approached Sherlock, needle in hand.

Chapter 8 coming soon!