A/N: I wont give excuses... Damn my timeline! Thanks to KoraM852 for continuing to beta my writing...helps me catch my wandering timeline...!

Disclaimer: Sherlock (BBC) does not belong to me. I fill the hole in my heart with fanfic writing!


Chapter Six:

Mary securely closed the door to 221 Baker Street behind her and descended the three short steps to street level. As she dialed the familiar number, she wondered absently if it was strange for a pub owner to have a detective inspector's personal number among her contacts.

The line rang twice before he picked up.

"Greg? It's Mary Morstan. We need to talk about Sherlock."

"Mary? Oh, sorry…from the pub, right? What about Sherlock-wait. How do you know him?"

"Just met him, actually. But John knows him." She sighed, "Let me start over. This whole situation is a bit convoluted. Anyway, John's been staying in the second flat above the pub. You can't tell anyone. He'd be furious if he knew I'd told even you."

Greg paused, waiting. "Go on."

"Well, he talks about Sherlock sometimes. It's sad, really. Like he's died or something..." Her voice grew distant, thinking of how lack-luster the soldier had been. "Anyway, I took it on myself to visit this Sherlock Holmes who he values so much. I was a little surprised by what I found."

"Why... What did you find?" Greg's question was hesitant. He had not yet been involved in Sherlock's return. It hadn't been publicized quite yet.

The detective's brother, Mycroft Holmes―an altogether infuriatingly controlled individual, with a pension for dictating government conspiracies―had followed the suggestion made by the hospital doctor. They were to reintroduce Sherlock slowly, give him time enough to adapt after the length of his absence. Mycroft had insisted that this was to mean no cases.

Mary went on. "He's lost, Greg. Like he's got no purpose in life. I suspect that his brother basically has him under house arrest. His landlady has been taking care of him, thank God, or I do believe Sherlock would have completely wasted away.

"John has told me about Sherlock's habit of experimenting, but I can't say that I saw anything like that in the flat…not like what he had described. Though, to be honest, I had been warned about the usual contents of fridge-I didn't check there.

"It's like...his motivation is gone. You've got to find him a case, Greg. Something he can help with…but not too dangerous, yeah? Can you do that?"

"Mary, that's not something that can be decided in a day. And I have no control over the cases I'm assigned. Not to mention, Sherlock doesn't always come willingly when I ask for his help." Greg sighed. "What do you say I come 'round the pub in a bit and we can have a chat. I can meet you there in about twenty minutes, and we can see what cases I've got that would be appropriate for his current state. You would know better than I, especially since I haven't seen him since he got released. And since John's there, maybe he can suggest something."

"That'd be great. Though, John's away at the moment. Not sure when he's going to be back. He kind of comes and goes all the time, and I have no idea what he's up to...guesses, I suppose. To be honest, I'm not sure if I really want to know."

"It's probably better if you don't." Greg thought over some of the details they had learned about Moriarty when they had cleared Sherlock's name. If John was getting himself involved in that part of the criminal world... The less they knew, the safer they would be.


"John Watson?"

John turned slowly. He was faced with a tall, well-built man. He had obvious training, and held himself with a discipline he rarely saw outside of military service. This must be one of Mycroft's MI-6 contacts.

"Benjamin Havers." The man did not offer his hand in greeting.

John narrowed his eyes, this man did not respect him or the help he was offering. He wondered what information Mycroft had revealed as his reason for being there.

"You're the army man on loan from London." The man sneered at John.

The soldier, though shorter than the other man, leveled him with a glare. "You can address me as my rank, Lieutenant. I don't know what you've been told about my presence here, Havers. But you had better start respecting me. Or, my assistance will vanish, along with my cheery disposition."

John's stance left no doubt of his authority. The good-natured doctor had been left on the tarmac when his plane departed London. The John Watson standing in the room now had the bearing of someone who had seen war and knew exactly what to do with it.

"Sir." Havers dropped his eyes to the ground and swallowed. "Being from London, I thought for sure you were going to be an analyst, or some other kind of desk-jockey not qualified to be in the field."

He preferred not playing the power card, but it was better than answering pointless questions. "Would you like my resume?" John prompted, a thinly veiled threat in his voice. "Or can we get on with our job?"


Days moved slower for Sherlock. It was mid-afternoon by the time he stiffly removed himself from his bed. He could hear John rummaging around in the kitchen, possibly looking for the tin of tea he had moved to the sitting room...

Sherlock went to join him in the kitchen, only to find John was yet again not there. He closed his eyes, frowning, and swallowed at the dry feeling in his throat.

Right, he reminded himself. John was supposed to not exist. He was a fiction, made up to occupy a restless mind.

Sod it!

He pulled his dressing gown closed, but gave up when he found this was the tan robe...the one he had destroyed the tie from... fire-resistant fibers, what a farce!

He snapped on the kettle and pulled out the box of prepared tea bags. He stared at it disapprovingly. It wasn't the real stuff that John preferred, but to be honest he couldn't remember where he had put the canister...

It didn't matter. He could never make tea like John.

When the kettle whistled, he turned it off and drowned his tea bag in the bottom of a tall mug. He dashed a bit of milk in and didn't bother to notice the separating cream-indicative of milk beginning to sour.

He took his mug back to his bedroom, promising to sit in bed and not look at everything around the flat that still made him think of his army doctor. As he passed the bathroom door, he heard snippets of the news report coming from Mrs. Hudson's television downstairs. It almost made him drop his tea.

He spun quickly around, sloshing the liquid down his arm. He cursed and dropped the mug, shaking out his hand as he kept running. His bare feet jumped the old stairs, two and three at a time. He burst through Mrs. Hudson's front room and plopped himself in a vacant armchair in front of the television.

"Sherlock dear, it's been days! I'm so glad to see you out. Though, why are you still in your dressing robe? I suppose, I shouldn't be surprised. You always hang about in your dressing robe..."

"Shhh!" Sherlock's eyes were glued to the screen. The correspondent had a natural calm despite the chaos around him. Good actor, Sherlock surmised. He examined the lines around his eyes and deduced he had been in the region for three weeks.

Reports from Istanbul are varied. The most consistent factor is the description of a man rumored to have helped nearly every member of this community after the explosion. The building was completely destroyed, and only a handful died from the initial blast. This man, said to have been a doctor, helped many out of the rubble, and bandaged injuries before rescue workers arrived.

Again, the textile plant had been a cover for human traffickers. The women who worked there had no idea. Every few months, a couple of the girls became ill and were taken to the main office. They were told that these girls were taken home, but they were never seen again.

The information uncovered about this organization so far, suggests ties to some departments of the government. The extent of the cover-up indicates it would never have been revealed by ordinary measures. Had the building not been destroyed when it was, the world may not have known what was really going on here.

We have spoken with one of the women in the office at the time of the blast. She believes that all of the girls who had disappeared, had been drugged. Medics on the scene performed cursory analysis and determined something simple had been used-like a ketamine-based sedative, mixed in their tea.

Sherlock sat back and ran his hands down his face. Istanbul. What was it about Istanbul? Aruk Al Sayed, human trafficking for slavery and prostitution, minor drug operation of opiates...

Sherlock stood and walked to the door.

"Sherlock, but you haven't touched the sandwiches." He glanced back briefly. As she said, Mrs. Hudson had indeed placed a plate of finger sandwiches on the small table beside the armchair he had occupied. "Wont you stay and have something? Goodness, what has happened to your arm, young man! That looks like a pretty bad burn! Let me clean you up."

He ignored her, fussing over him and the angry red welt on his arm from where the tea had scalded him. He pried at her hands trying to break free, until he brushed against the burn and hissed through his teeth at the pain.

He stood quietly while she sprayed antiseptic on the burn and wrapped a length of gauze around his forearm. "You really must take better care of yourself, dear. He would be so cross if he knew..."

He turned suddenly, stared at her for a moment, bent and kissed her forehead before running away up the stairs again.

"Newspapers, Mrs Hudson! Get me newspapers!"


A/N: I hope you enjoyed it! Please let me know what you think!