The soft click of the door as it closes awakens Sherlock. He tempers his body, careful not to display any overt signs of waking, and, eyes still closed, attempts to deduce the situation.

No sounds of footsteps; could be seated in the room, but, considering the closed door, not likely. Coverlet under his body, slightly springy mattress; not Mycroft, then, Mycroft normally uses the office. (And asks before resorting to such measures as kidnapping. He is always so particular about manners, before giving into the flair for violent drama underlying his personality.) Sherlock is somewhat disappointed; though he'd never say it, he'd been dying for a case, and one worth the effort of kidnapping him is always bound to be an interesting one.

Room, then. Judging from the air flow in the room, window open, stupid to leave it open. Surely they, it's most definitely more than one person, so they, realize that even if it's a moot point of escape, shouting is more than effective as a means of communication? Air vents as well, only two, so decently-sized room, approximately fifteen by twenty feet. Feet are placed on the floor, a soft sigh issued. Well, then. Male, obviously, from the tone, but what else? Frustration, no, boredom, possibly (he sympathizes with the man, if this turns out to be the case), relief… His deductions continue as the feet stand, walk approximately eight feet (six steps, large man), and stop at the bedside. From his (slightly awkward) position stomach-down, head off the bed, Sherlock can see the shoes of his baby-sitter; black, scuffed but expensive, indicating previous (possibly sudden) wealth but a down-turn in fortunes recently. Not an altogether uncommon story, considering the economy. The pants-cuffs reveal the newness of the suit – grey worsted wool, pleats from the store still ironed in, only a few washings new, then. The feet rise up to balance on their toes while the man's knees make an unscheduled appearance quite close to Sherlock's eye sockets. A hand drifts down Sherlock's neck to his back.

"Time to wake up, lovely." The voice is low, cultured, soft, what Sherlock's would have been had he actually given a damn at those manners lessons into which Mummy had shoved Mycroft and him. Wealthy, then, not only previously, but from childhood; most likely pampered from a young age. Spoiled. Angered easily. Sherlock ponders for a second the repercussions of not responding, but as the man's knee is still so close to his eye, he decides against following his curiosity. He gives a half-hearted groan, as if waking from a deep sleep, pulls his head onto the mattress and burrows down.

"Don't make me do this the hard way," The man's voice gives no sign of agitation, rather, faint amusement. "I know you're awake, been awake for a bit, too, now haven't you?" Sherlock's body shows no response, but inwardly his mind is racing, searching for the tell, what did he do, what did he do – "Alright, Mr. Holmes. I'll give you one more chance, and then I'll have no choice but to use- other methods of inquiry." The voice holds a hint of anticipation, and Sherlock adds –violent– to the man's already rather long list of qualities. The hand strokes up, cradles his cheek. Possibly gay. Probably. The hand reels back, and Sherlock braces for the slap, when-

"Oi! Mind you don't bruise the bait!" A (female, on the younger side of middle-aged) no-nonsense voice cuts through the air, and Sherlock whips his head off the bed and toward the sound. She places the brown paper bags (take-away, smell of Chinese, grease spotting through) on the table and turns to face the man with a ferocious scowl. "He's to be in good condition, do you hear me? No mess-ups." The look on her face expresses the cut-off ending, this time. She reaches over and snaps the window shut, rolling her eyes. "And next time you open the window, I'll, well…" She smiles widely; the man pales. She pats his cheek. "Use your imagination, love." Sherlock swings his legs over to the edge of the bed, and the woman looks directly at him for the first time. Her eyes are sharp, needle-sharp, piercing and darting and cunning all at once. She walks over (five-foot six in heels, respectable height, nothing in appearance to make her stand from the crowd; with those eyes, that fact cannot be coincidence) and stands solidly in front of him. "Hello, Mr. Holmes." A hand appears in the vicinity of his face. He lifts his head to look at her, eyebrow raised. "You'll most likely be here a while, Mr. Holmes, we might as well be civil." The hand remains. He pushes it out of the way dismissively; it returns. He stares at it. She stares at him. Grudgingly, he shakes the hand. It disappears. "So, Mr. Holmes." She turns back to the table, where the man from before and a new one are now sitting. The bag is untouched; Sherlock would be more than a little amused at her complete dominance over her surroundings and peers, were he not included in such a category. However, he surmises, he needs more information before doing anything. Besides, without a case in weeks, this is the most interesting thing that's happened since he set the oven on fire. Again. It burned green. John wasn't happy. "Would you like some food?" Inwardly, he congratulates her on the vagueness of the suggestion; were the windows kept shut, as apparently was ordered, he wouldn't have gotten any information as to the time of day from the question.

He stretches lazily, responds, "No." Dull, flat tone, as if bored. Throw, if not her, at least her two lackeys off.

"Come, now, Mr. Holmes," she responds, teeth flashing in what is assumed to be a comforting grin; it reminds Sherlock too much of Mycroft's manipulative smiles for it to work on him. "You could be here for a bit, and the food's warm now. Much better eating it fresh than reheated." He remains on the bed, and she adds, "Besides, I know you have questions for me. You eat, I'll talk." Weighing the alternatives is almost too easy; communication, any communication, brings information, what he's currently in need of, and the risk of poison is low, considering the lack of tells in the lackey's faces when the leader talked about keeping him for a time. He joins them at the table, and the male who watched over him reaches out to stroke his hand as he places it on the table. Sherlock rears back, but the woman beats him to the punch with a sharp snap of her hand across the male's back of the head. "No," she says, in the same tone of boredom Sherlock just used, and continues ladling chow mein into the bowls. "Sorry about that, Mr. Holmes; he's a bit grabby." The male receives his bowl and starts to eat in silence. Sherlock watches, fascinated by the overt display of alpha-dominance and acceptance of such by what he's termed "the pack". "So, questions, Mr. Holmes?" Her friendly gaze is on him, and he is again reminded of Mycroft. The two would make a striking pair, he thinks, both slithery and slippery and manipulative.

"What are you called?" He asks. Her eyes glimmer, and he wishes again that he had paid more attention to social manipulation techniques. "You may call me Christina," she replies. At that response, he has to admit that her attempt to assimilate him into her pack is well-played, if a bit heavy-handed. "Alright, then," he smiles in an attempt at amicability, "why have you brought me here?" She stares pointedly at his bowl until he takes a bite, surmising that, at least until the conversation is over, appearing to submit to her authority would be the best option.

"Mr. Holmes, have you been in recent contact with your brother?"

"Not altogether recent, no."

"In the last few days?"

"…yes." If the texts Sherlock deleted unopened count as contact.

Christina purses her lips. "Then he did not inform you that we might be contacting you?" She seems somewhat displeased by this notion; for the life of him, Sherlock cannot imagine why.

"Are you an old school acquaintance of his?" He asks. Christina throws her head back, throat in full display (so she hasn't been acquainted with many people who know him, then, if she still thinks sexual manipulation might work on him), fake laughter pouring out like cheap wine.

"No, no, no, though good guess," Seemingly delighted with the notion, she shakes her head. "We only know each other – professionally." The pause is (obviously) deliberate.

"Professionally." Sherlock repeats, then realizes he sounds like the bloody Scotland Yarders.

"Yes, professionally." She leans forward, a certain gleam in her eye. "Now, Mr. Holmes, in the area of case-solving…"

Well, that was unexpected. Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at her, but says nothing.

"You are good?" Sherlock sniffs, turns his head away. She presses on.

"Well, I say good…" Her voice trails off, then returns, barely a whisper now. "I've heard of some of your exploits, Mr. Holmes. All most… intriguing."

He turns his head to look at her, face displaying nothing. "And?"

"I'm here, Mr. Holmes, to ask you –"

"Ma'am." The second man glances at his watch. "Ma'am, he'll be here any second."

"Ah. Well." She dusts off her skirt, moves behind Sherlock. Too late, he feels the prick of the needle piercing his neck. "Too late now, I suppose. Until next time." Her voice fades away into the soft blackness creeping in from the edges of the room…

o.O.o

Mycroft stares at the blinking light on his phone indicating "New Message". His fingers, almost too big for the buttons, tremble as they press the "view" option. A merry little chiming sound, and a picture of his brother, unconscious on a nondescript bed, mouth sagging slightly open and skin looking almost translucent against the dark red of the coverlet, flashes across the screen. Weak. Soft. Unprotected. Vulnerable. His hands clench involuntarily around the phone, just for a split second, before he remembers that there are others in the room. Another merry little chiming sound: the words "New Text Message Received" blink over the image of his younger brother's unconscious body. He opens it, and the words, "Ready to bargain?" scroll past his eyes. He closes them. His fingers clench again around the phone, and this time, he gives into the anger, just once. The phone screen sparks, breaks in his hands. The words white out, although the words and image are burned against the back of his lids. He pockets the now-useless piece of technology (although Anthea will get it working again in no time, he's sure, it's so nice to have people around to do that for him) and finishes his conversation with Lestrade, who is kindly oblivious enough to have not noticed Mycroft's distractedness.

o.O.o

John, however, has. He frowns as he watches Mycroft weave and cut smoothly through the living room, dancing in and out of conversations, smiling kindly here, patting Mrs. Hudson's hand for a moment, then back to Lestrade to discuss quietly any theories (all bogus, John would bet the farm Mycroft's known about this for weeks). He says his goodbyes, quietly avoiding John's eye, trying to slip through the door unnoticed (given his bulk, an admirable feat). Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work. John saw his face while he was talking to Lestrade, saw the brief spasm of the hand holding the phone, turning it into a black, mangled hunk of broken technology. He grabs his coat, shoves the note, which he's come to think of as his lucky talisman, inside a pocket, runs out the door, and is able to fling himself into the back of Mycroft's car just as it's pulling away from the curb. Mycroft looks up, plastic smile on his face.

"John! So sorry, I didn't get to say goodbye, but work-"

"What was on your phone?" John interrupts. Mycroft looks carefully taken aback. John wonders how often he's practiced the look in the mirror before the expression became second nature.

"Sorry?"

"On your phone. Something you saw made you angry." Mycroft's plastic smile softens into one perhaps 5 % genuine.

"You know, you really are more observant than people give you credit for, John."

"You can tell that to your brother when he gets back. Now, what was on the phone?"

Mycroft's smile becomes rigidly plastic again, for a second, before releasing itself into lines of straight tenseness.

"I believe it'd be considered classified information, John. Besides…" He fishes the phone from his pocket. "The information is gone." Across from John, Anthea, silent during the entire exchange, darts her eyes from the phone to Mycroft, then back to the phone again.

"Your assistant would have no problem fixing it, and you know it, Mycroft, it's the only reason you allowed yourself to destroy it." John holds out his hand for the phone, but Mycroft is already pocketing it. The car stops; John glances out the window, realizes they are, again, at 221B Baker Street. Mycroft shifts in his seat.

"Thank you for your time, John; it's been most informative."

John knows he's only got a few seconds to convince Mycroft, so he keeps his voice down and speaks fast as the driver approaches the door. "Mycroft, whatever you saw on your phone, whatever it is, it has to do with your brother, and I'm going to help. I'll be your legwork; I need the information you have, but you detest legwork, so that's what I'll do. I'll be your legwork, but I need help, because I need somewhere to start, and you can give me that. He's your brother, Mycroft, but he's my flatmate, my friend, and I deserve to know anything you know about his location and condition. I want to be prepared when I find him to take care of him, and I can't do that if you don't give me the information. So please, Mycroft, just fix up the phone, tell me what you know. I promise you, I will search to the ends of the earth if I have to, but I will find your brother. But," he adds, hand scrubbing the back of his neck, "it'd be a lot easier with something to start from."

The driver is holding the door open, sounding concerned. "Sir? Sir?" But Mycroft's eyes are roving John's face, the tense set of his jaw, the steady, calm stare, searching for- what? Apparently Mycroft finds it. He nods to himself and tells the driver to shut the door. As they speed off towards- well, wherever,- Mycroft hands the black broken phone to Anthea, who immediately begins recovery work. Mycroft stares at John, quiet, simple, unassuming John who is never what he seems; John, ever the fierce soldier, stares right back.

o.O.o

A/N: I signed away everything to pay for college loans. Happily, I didn't have to sign away BBC Sherlock. Sadly, this is because I never have, nor will I ever, own it.

Um... so, yeah. Plot. What'd you think? (I'm kind of excited. Although scared stiff about writing Mycroft. Sherlock, I think I've gotten. How the fuck do you write Mycroft?) Is it plot-y enough? Are you excited to find out what happens next? (So am I; I honestly have no idea what's going to happen next. I'm just writing. Planning, plotting, what's that?) Thank you so much for reading and sticking with me through this! And, as always, my lovely reviewers, you have a very special place in my heart.