Before long, Sherlock was reading John's mail more eagerly than John was. He delighted in teasing John about the charity invitations, of course, but his favorite part was looking for crimes. Considering they came in letters begging for money, there were a surprising number of them.

Many of them were just pathetic people looking for handouts, which he was happy just to bin, but others? He found it surprisingly satisfying stopping crimes before they were committed for a change, though the domestic disputes were somewhat dull. The con men delighted him the most. The mere fact that they had the audacity to write directly to Sherlock Holmes (well, John) in an attempt to con money from him? There was something almost endearing in their conviction that they wouldn't be caught.

Really, John's mail had become a welcome diversion when there were no real cases.

He had protested about the money, but Sherlock pointed out that he should really do something with the excess "rent" money each month, and it's not like John was a selfish person. He actively liked helping people. It was being inundated by begging letters he didn't want. (Sherlock had agreed before he realized how entertaining they could be.)

They had compromised, though. For the people who really needed immediate cash, they would leave exactly that—cash—anonymously, with whatever help the person needed. Hotline numbers. Rental and job ads. Numbers for government agencies who could help. "It's like being Robin Hood," John had said, "Without having to rob the rich first."

Sherlock had had to be reminded who Robin Hood was, but was almost disappointed when John insisted that no, they were not going to become thieves. Not that he really wanted to turn to crime (though the look on Mycroft's face would be priceless). No, this was just something to do between cases. It was almost entertaining.

Over the next five months, he and John caught three con men, and helped five ordinary people who were simply out of their depth. It didn't even necessarily cost money, either. Most times, they just needed a little guidance, or a subtle threat to someone causing them trouble. (Sherlock tried to leave the boring 'guidance' part mostly to John.)

And then, seven months after John's inheritance, things went a bit not good.

Sherlock was proud of his reputation. He told the truth when he said he didn't care what people said about him—because except for John, and maybe Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, that was true. But that didn't mean he didn't appreciate that he had a reputation. Since his return from the dead, people tended to take him more seriously.

He found that amusing because, except for Mycroft and John, most people had no earthly idea what he had been doing during those missing years. For all they knew, he'd faked his death just to sit and watch crap telly all day. (Wasn't that a shuddersome thought?) It's not like they knewhe'd taken down an enormous crime syndicate practically single-handed. Apparently being able to convincingly fake a suicide, though, was "impressive." (He didn't like to think about how many idiots believed he'd actually come back from the dead.)

Now, when he introduced himself, people tended to blink and look slightly frightened—which could be an enormous advantage when making threats.

Which is why he couldn't believe he'd ended in this situation.

He tried again to move his wrists, his arms, but couldn't. Taunting him from the table four feet away were bottles of water that his parched mouth was longing for, but tied to this chair, he had no way to reach them.

Whoever had arranged this kidnapping was sadly much more efficient than the last one, and more ruthless. He hoped John had a plan, because for once, Sherlock wasn't sure he'd be able to get out this on his own.

#

"Sherlock? I'm back," John called as he struggled up the stairs with the shopping. "I hope I got the kind of salt you wanted. I tried to call, but you didn't answer. Who knew there were different kinds of salt, anyway?"

He maneuvered his way through the door and stopped dead in his tracks, bags dropping to the floor. The sitting room was pure chaos, papers and books strewn across the floor, chairs knocked aside, and a spilled cup of cold tea next to the couch.

There was no sign of Sherlock.

John stepped into the room, face blank with shock as he looked around. Then he saw the note taped to the door.