Author's Note: So, here is the new chapter! Unfortunately it seems like some people don't like the way this story is going and believe it is boring. If that is the case then I'm really sorry! I just write what I want to write and I fully accept that this may not be the most original of ideas. Having said that, the majority of reviewers seem to say that this story has potential and so I shall carry on writing it. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

Chapter Nine

The Great Escape

The handle turns easily. Sherlock lets out the breath he has been holding and allows the door to swing open. Surely there will be a guard. A guard sitting there staring at him and ready to raise the alarm. But there is nobody. The corridor ahead is completely empty. Sherlock stands, swaying slightly, almost unable to believe his good luck. Good luck? There is no such thing. Surely this is a trap. A trap which he is about to fall into.

He lurches forward, half expecting a blaring siren to leap into life and alert the entire mansion to his attempted escape. Nothing. As he moves down the corridor there is not the slightest sign of life.

It can't be this easy, he thinks to himself. There has to be something. Something I'm not understanding. But he is too tired and pain-filled to worry about it for long. All he is thinking at the moment is to get out and get out fast, if he can. The corridor seems an interminable length. Every time he takes a step the front door moves no closer and it seems like he will never reach it at all.

Eventually, however, he does. He looks at the solid mahogany and graps the handle as firmly as he is able. This is it. It will be locked... of course it will be.

It turns in his hand and he lets go of the handle, almost in shock. His mind is brandishing red flags urgently. This can't be right! But it's real. The front door gives under pressure and soon enough is swinging outwards, bringing a fresh and very welcome cold breeze onto Sherlock's face as he stands in the threshold.

He allows himself a moment of appreciation. The feel of fresh air on his skin seems to revitalise him somewhat. Stepping forwards onto the porch a gust of wind swirls around him, raising goosebumps on his skin. It is at this point he realizes that he has neglected to put on his shirt which is still lying along with his coat in a corner of the cellar. He isn't that bothered. The cold will keep him alert, much like a driver who is tired might switch the air-conditioning in their car onto cool just to keep them uncomfortable enough so they won't fall asleep. Sherlock welcomes it. Just being outside seems to kick-start his brain again, all those sleepy connections brush away the cobwebs and start to hum to life.

He is facing a long driveway, edged with herbaceous plants and bushes. They are all overgrown and weeds are springing up everywhere along the once obviously well-cared for path. Turning slowly he spares a glance up at the front of the mansion where he has been held captive. Much as he suspected it is huge, but has fallen into a state of almost total disrepair. The stonework is crumbling and moss and lichen have made their home in the cracks in the walls. Several windows along the edifice have obviously been shattered by hooligans in the past and are now boarded up... but no attempt has been made to repair them and they gape forlornly in the faded moonlight.

Sherlock turns his attention to the steps and, one step at a time, falteringly moves down them. They prove slightly tricky as his legs haven't quite got used to the idea of walking yet. The steps up from the cellar were hard enough but at least there had been a handrail. Soon enough, and after a great deal of effort, he gains the level ground of the driveway.

He has to pause for a moment and then suddenly sneezes several times very loudly. This is followed swiftly by a tickle in his throat which makes him to cough harshly. The sound is devastatingly loud in the silent night air. Sherlock freezes while the echoes die around him. Surely someone heard that. Surely someone will be coming any minute to drag him back inside for more torture. Nothing. Still nothing.

Hardly able to believe his good luck he stumbles forwards across the gravel, bare feet freezing and scraping against the occasional sharp stone. If he can make some sort of main road he will be alright. All he has to do is wait for a passing car and hitchhike his way back to London.

Now he is outside he can faintly hear the roar of traffic which is a promising sign. The only trouble is he knows how sound can carry and so the mutter of passing cars could be literally miles away.

He has advanced almost all the way up the drive, and can glimpse, through various bushes, what looks like a minor road ahead. He stumbles towards it, trying to ignore the increasing agony in his back, the ache in his chest and the pain in his feet.

Suddenly, behind him, he is aware of blazing lights being flicked on in the fairly darkened mansion. Shouts carry to him on the freezing night air.

'He's gone! Someone get the boss!'

'Check the grounds! He can't have gone far!'

Sherlock's heart almost stops with fear but his feet carry him onwards as if they know before his brain the seriousness of the situation. He has to find somewhere to hide. Where can he go...? he can hear thudding footsteps emerging from the mansion and the shouts are getting nearer.

Suddenly his brain registers a different noise. Something so totally unexpected it takes him a second to process what he is hearing. Someone is strolling down the road next to the driveway, whistling casually.

Uncaring of his feet, his chest or the wounds on his back, Sherlock hurls himself towards the noise. Unfortunately his feet kick up some gravel as he sprints forward and alerts his guards to his whereabouts. He can hear their shouts of triumph and the pounding feet as they draw closer.

He gains the road. A man has just passed the entrance to the driveway, a fairly scruffy man with a tattered hold-all in one hand who has paused just behind a large, leafy plant looking faintly puzzled at all the commotion coming from the house.

Poor, Sherlock's mind thinks immediately. Given his appearance and general demeanour I'd say he has nowhere to live. Not miserable, though. His whistling is indicative of that and he is walking as though he has springs in his feet. The state of his clothes, however, and the fact that he wears the look I so often see will give credibility to the theory he is homeless.

'Hey!' Sherlock hisses. The man turns from staring at the house and Sherlock sees his eyes widen in surprise. He can imagine what he looks like. Wild curly black hair on end, bulging eyes, shirtless and shoeless... he must look like a lunatic. 'Help me...' Sherlock manages before the first of the guards catches up to him. Almost like fog the man on the road fades into the darkness and hides behind the hedge. He sees everything.

He sees the crazy man with the staring eyes shout aloud, though his voice is hoarse and rasping. The thug who grabs him is bulging with muscles and has no trouble subduing the crazy man. He grasps his arms behind his back and begins manhandling him back to the mansion. The crazy man fights all the way, kicking his legs out and flailing his head as though trying to knock his restrainer into unconsciousness. He fails though, and they soon draw out of sight.

XXXXXXXXX

Lou McEwan stays where he is for an indefinite amount of time. What was it the crazy man had said? 'Hey! Help me...' And as he was dragged off, although it was hard to tell what with the shouting from the mansion and the fact the man's voice was raspy as hell... what was it? Something like, 'Tell John'. That's all he could hear,and it doesn't make any sense to him. Who the hell is John? And what on earth is he going to do about it? It doesn't take a genius to know that the crazy man is obviously being held against his will in that mansion for some reason. But is it really any of his business? He only passed by this way because the mansion is usually unoccupied and is a good place to doss for the night. It has been unavailable for the past few days but Lou isn't particularly bothered. There are other places.

But this, this is interesting. On the spur of the moment Lou makes a decision. He will go and see his friend Ian in London, who is generally to be found loitering around many of the homeless shelters or begging in Trafalgar Square, and see whether he knows anything. Ian is generally connected with all the shady goings on in and around London and if this deal with the crazy bloke isn't illegal Lou will eat his hat.

Decision made he starts to make his winding way towards the heart of London. It will take him awhile but he has had plenty of experience of sleeping rough in unhospitable areas. And this thing with the mad dude has been the most exciting thing to happen to him for months. He can't wait to tell Ian. Sometimes there is a cash reward for information. Lou could do with a cash reward.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Hunter almost laughs at Sherlock's pathetic attempts to get away from him. Sherlock is like an insect in his palm... one he can squash with no effort whatsoever. But the man insists on kicking his legs and flailing around like a lunatic. Eventually Hunter jabs him hard with a stubby finger in one of the human body's many sensitive pressure points. Sherlock falls unconscious almost instantly and Hunter sighs in relief.

He deposits Sherlock back in the cellar, chains his wrists and leaves, locking the door carefully behind him. From the stairs he hears a cold voice calling to him.

'You found him then?'

He turns and faces the stairs, his head slightly bowed. Moriarty stands above him, leaning on the railings, his face curiously blank and devoid of emotion.

'We did, sir. He's back in the cellar.'

Moriarty nods once. 'Did he manage to contact anyone?' Hunter has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. They are in a derelict mansion almost in the middle of nowhere. Who on earth would Sherlock contact?

'No, sir.'

Moriarty's eyes are sharp as he gazes at Hunter. 'Apparently there was a commotion and he was talking to somebody when he was recaptured.'

'He was raving, sir. We did a thorough check of the grounds... there was nobody there. He was probably hallucinating.'

'Hmm.' Moriarty rubs a finger against his chin in thought and then seems to make up his mind. 'Good. Keep him down there until I tell you otherwise. He is to see nobody until I decide to pay him a visit. Do you understand?'

'Yes, sir,' Hunter replies deferentially. Moriarty, appearing to lose interest in the conversation, turns abruptly and heads back down the upstairs corridor. Hunter allows himself to relax. Conversations like those with the boss always make him tense.

XXXXXXXXXXX

Wednesday

John Watson sits on the sofa in the apartment drumming his fingers on the coffee table and staring at his phone. Mycroft and Lestrade had both informed him that they would ring the minute anything came up. So far... nothing. His phone remains irritatingly, horribly, silent. Well, almost silent. Yesterday he had heard the ringtone while he was shaving in the bathroom. He'd hurled himself towards the sound so fast he'd cut a rather painful and deep gash in the side of his neck from the razor. Blood had been dripping down his neck as he snatched his mobile up and stared at the display. He had hardly noticed the pain. And then he saw the caller ID. Sarah. Not Mycroft or Lestrade. Not even, and he knows he is an idiot for even hoping this, not even Sherlock. He can imagine the conversation inside his head.

'Sherlock! My God... where... what...?' And Sherlock's response would be so typically dry and sarcastic.

'Come on, John. I go away for a couple of days and you lose the power of speech? Now come quickly, we have to hurry or we're going to lose Moriarty. Twenty minutes.' He would give John an address and then hang up, certain in the knowledge that John would drop anything he was doing and come.

Which of course, he would. In an instant. It had been that way since the moment they met and it would always be like that. How could he have imagined, even for a second, that he actually wanted to leave Sherlock? Where would he go? To Sarah's? Unaware he is doing so he lets out a 'pfff' noise from the back of his throat. Move in with Sarah? Ridiculous. Why does it have to take something so traumatic as Sherlock being kidnapped for him to realize that? Sinking back into the sofa cushions he once again thinks of something which has been floating across his mind for the past few days. He and Sherlock are irrevecably bound to each other. Well, he is to Sherlock for sure. Where Sherlock goes he will follow.

He levers himself up out of the chair, since Sherlock's disappearance his leg has started to bother him again, and heads toward the kitchen to make another cup of tea. He seems to be getting through teabags and milk at a rather alarming rate these days. Just as he reaches the fridge his phone rings, the tone blaring through the silent apartment like a siren.

He freezes and then turns slowly on the spot. If this is Sarah again, I will scream. I will actually scream. Moving quickly he crosses to the coffee table and glances at the screen.

MYCROFT CALLING

Immediately he picks it up and presses the answer key, holding it to his ear, hoping against hope that something has finally happened. That they finally have a clue as to Sherlock's whereabouts.

'John?' Mycroft sounds unlike he ever has before. There is a definite ring of tiredness in his voice but also, what? Excitement? Hope? John feels his heart speed up a little.

'Yes? What is it, Mycroft? Have you found anything?'

'Well... perhaps. A member of my team has just informed me that he has found some video evidence which might or might not have some bearing on Sherlock's kidnap. Can you meet me there? Say... twenty minutes?'

'What you're not sending a car for me this time?' He means this to be taken as a joke but Mycroft obviously doesn't get it.

'No time,' he responds curtly. 'Just get there, John.' He gives John an address which he scrawls down on a scrap of paper and ends the call.

Hurriedly John throws on his coat and shouts to Mrs Hudson that he is going out. He shoves his wallet into his jeans' pocket and virtually flies down the stairs, his injured leg completely forgotten.

XXXXXXXXXX

Mycroft is waiting for him on the pavement as the taxi pulls up. John gets out and they walk together up to a rather uninspiring building's front door. Mycroft scans a key-card through a security lock and pulls the door open, motioning John to enter first.

The lobby is rather drab and dim with brown wallpaper and pale blue tiles on the floor. A desk stands in one corner manned by a slender woman with brown hair. Mycroft nods to her as they pass.

'Morning, Linda.'

'Good morning, Mr Holmes,' she replies in a soft, well-spoken voice. As they cross by the desk John notices her make a small note on a pad of paper.

They enter the lift which stands next to the desk and Mycroft jabs the eleventh floor button. John frowns slightly. Mycroft, with the innate ability he and his brother share for reading people, looks at him sharply.

'You've got questions,' he announces. John sighs and nods.

'I thought you, er, occupied a... position, in the British Government...' he begins hesitantly. There has always been some confusion in his mind about what Sherlock's older brother actually does for a living. Mycroft always claims he holds a small but valuable position. To hear Sherlock tell it, however, Mycroft is the British Goverment with fingers in a great number of influential pies.

'That is correct,' Mycroft replies.

'Well, I mean... I suppose, I always thought that the British Goverment offices might be more, well...'

'Glamorous?' Mycroft suggests with a raised eyebrow. John sighs and nods. 'I'm sorry to disappoint you. But ours is a serious business. We have no need for glamour. And the more discreet the offices, the less attention we draw to ourselves, which can come in very useful on occasion.' The curtness of his reply makes it clear to John that any further questions on the topic will be fruitless so he holds his tongue.

The doors open into another small lobby. They cross it, John glancing at the dying plant in a pot in the corner, and go into a large room filled with desks and computers. It could be the office of some accounting firm, John thinks.

Mycroft moves swiftly between the desks, murmuring greetings here and there and John follows, trying to ignore the curious eyes on him. Everyone here is impeccably dressed and John is beginning to feel severely out of place in his shabby coat and scuffed trainers.

'Nathan. What have you got?' Mycroft has reached a desk near the end of the room and a rather scrawny young man with red hair and glasses in a well-fitted dark suit abruptly gets up and shakes Mycroft's hand.

'Good morning, Mr Holmes. I'm not sure this is going to help much, but I thought better not to take the risk.'

'Quite right,' Mycroft snaps, moving so that John can sit down on a spare chair and peer at Nathan's computer screen as well. The young man glances at him curiously and then looks at Mycroft, as if for permission to continue. Mycroft waves a hand irritably. 'Yes, yes, carry on, Nathan. This is Doctor Watson, a close acquaintance of mine. He is also very...' he glances swiftly at John, '... very friendly with my brother.' John bristles. He knows exactly what Mycroft is insinuating with that remark. To even consider the idea that he and Sherlock are... well, a couple. It's ridiculous. Obviously. Absolutely ridiculous. They're just friends, good friends.

Nathan glances once more at John and then looks back at his computer. 'Right. Anyway, well I'll pull it up for you and you can see what you make of it.'

John is expecting Nathan to open up some high-tech video surveillance software, but instead he accesses the internet and opens up Youtube.

'Youtube?' John exclaims incredulously and then quickly shuts his mouth as both Nathan and Mycroft glare at him. Dozens of possiblities are running through John's head. He hasn't received any tapes from Moriarty since the lashing and that was on Sunday. He would be lying if he said he wasn't worried about this, but he has been trying to tamp down on his growing panic. Has Moriarty decided to upload his sick 'demonstrations' to Youtube now? Are they about to see Sherlock being beaten up, or having his ankles broken or... God knows what else?

Nathan signs into his account and accesses his favourites. The most recent is titled 'Hilarious pratfall... MUST watch'. John frowns. How on earth is this going to help them? Nathan, almost seeming to sense the incredulity emanating from John and perhaps Mycroft as well, raises his eyes from the screen to look at them.

'I got sent this by a friend of mine. He's keen on searching through Youtube for all those stupid accident videos. You know, where people fall over in ridiculous ways. I thought this was just another one of those, but then I looked closely at the background because something caught my eye...' He returns his gaze to the computer and clicks on the video to start it playing.

The opening scene is fairly busy street somewhere in London. It is full of people shopping and from that John imagines that this was probably filmed on a weekend. There are never this many people shopping during the week. The person filming seems to be videoing a group of his mates, three lads who are walking in front of the camera, pushing and jostling each other good-naturedly. The video carries on in this vein for maybe twenty seconds or so, just following the guys down the street. Suddenly just ahead of the group, a woman's small dog makes a break for another dog walking with its owner the other way. It crosses, barking frantically, directly in front of the group of ambling, laughing men. Two of them stop, raising their hands almost as if to keep their balance. The third isn't quite so lucky. Unable to stop his feet in time he enacts what is almost a slow-motion comedy fall over the dog, turning around as he crashes to the ground so that he lands heavily on his arse. The camera view starts shaking and John assumes the film-maker has started laughing hard, much like the two other guys as the one on the floor groans and massages his bum.

'You bastards! This isn't funny!' is distinctly heard from the guy on the ground. Far from sobering up his friends it just seems to make them laugh harder. The video cuts out just after this. All in all it is about a minute and a half long. John frowns, puzzled. Mycroft looks mildly annoyed.

'My God, do people actually waste their time watching this stuff?' he asks in a tone of genuine puzzlement.

'Apparently,' Nathan responds wryly. 'It's got over six hundred thousand hits. But the guys aren't the important part. I'll play it again. Concentrate on a road just ahead of the guys to the left. It's like a small alley or something.'

He flicks back to the beginning and the video starts to play again. This time John forces himself to ignore the men in the foreground and scans the background for the road Nathan has mentioned.

There it is. He stares at it for a few seconds, unsure what he is supposed to be looking for. Then, suddenly, a car which has been driving up the road turns abruptly into it and stops, still just visible in the lip of the road. John sees instantly the significance. The car has the registration number and is identical to the car which abducted Sherlock. He shuffles straighter in his chair and leans in closer to the screen. For another second nothing happens and then the front passenger door opens and a bulky man casually dressed in a black sweater and dark jeans gets out. He has a baseball cap on and seems to walk with his head lowered. He opens the back passenger door and bends down, out of sight briefly of the video which has just started shaking as the guy holding the camera starts laughing. When he reappears he has a man's arm slung over his back and then as he backs up, two men issue from the car. One is evidently either asleep or unconscious due to the odd way his dark curly head lolls on the bulky man's shoulder. The other is dressed in a similar manner to the first man but he is slightly smaller and slimmer. He has the unconscious man's other arm slung around his shoulder. Together, moving quickly they disappear down the road, out of the camera's view, the third man slumped between them. A couple of seconds after this and a fourth exits the car. There is no mistaking who this is. Even with his head bowed and walking quickly John would recognize him anywhere. Moriarty. And the unconscious man is, of course, Sherlock.

'Jesus,' John mutters. 'They did this in broad daylight? Just off a street full of people shopping? I thought Moriarty was a genius.'

'It's not stupid, John. It's very, very clever.' Mycroft speaks up, still staring at the now dark computer screen. 'You should have learnt this by now, after living with my brother for so long. Ordinary people never notice anything. They are in their own little world for almost ninety-nine percent of the time. Unless Moriarty had literally thrown Sherlock onto the pavement in front of them, they would never have noticed anything untoward happening. It's the best way to be invisible, by acting in the middle of a crowd.'

John is forcefully reminded of the first case he'd ever done for Sherlock, the one with the murderous cabbie, which he'd entitled in his blog A Study In Pink.

'We'd better get moving,' Mycroft says abruptly. 'Come on Doctor Watson. Thank you, Nathan. Keep looking, see what else you can find out.'

Nathan nods and turns his attention back to the screen with a cursory nod at John. John hurries to keep up as Mycroft strides back down the room towards the lift, his dark coat billowing in a manner so reminiscent of his younger brother's. Damn it. Why does everything have to remind him of Sherlock?

'Where are we going?' John asks as they enter the lift and Mycroft jabs the button for the ground-floor bad temperedly.

The man looks around at him with an expression of incredulity. 'Lambeth, of course. Where on earth did you think we would be going?'

'Oh, yes. Of course.' John feels beyond stupid suddenly.

Because you're an idiot. Oh, no, don't be like that. Practically everyone is.

John desperately hopes that Dave gets back to him soon with something, anything. It would make him feel like he has contributed something in the hunt to find Sherlock, other than making endless cups of tea and moping around the apartment. Over the last few days that has been pretty much all that he has been doing and he hates how fucking useless it makes him feel. Perhaps if he'd paid just a little bit more attention to Sherlock when he was deducing it would have made him more helpful in this investigation. It kills him to think that Sherlock, that brilliant, enigmatic, sarcastic, beautiful man might die because of John's ineptitude. He is fairly sure that Moriarty is banking on him being too stupid to find Sherlock and it would be far beyond bearable to prove him right.

Wait... beautiful? What?

John shoves the errant thought to the back of his mind. This isn't the time to start psycho-analyzing himself. The lift stops and Mycroft strides out, swinging his umbrella almost viciously as he goes. John follows and tries not to think of how he must look like a puppy or dog following at the heels of its master.

People get so sentimental about their pets. They're so touchingly loyal.

You're very loyal, very quickly.

No, I'm not, I'm just not interested.

John shakes his head to clear these unwelcome thoughts from his mind as they get into the taxi once outside and focusses as Mycroft snaps out an address in Lambeth to the cabbie. The older man is more agitated than John has ever seen him, and he would suspect it has something to do with the fact that the end of the week is fast approaching and they still have no concrete clues to go on, other than a brief glimpse of the car in a Youtube video. If John had ever had any doubts as to how much Mycroft actually cares about his younger brother, these past few days have eliminated them all. The man has been like a whirlwind of energy, not stopping for even a moment as far as John can make out. He wonders if Sherlock knows exactly how much Mycroft cares. Perhaps not. They hardly seem like a family used to emotionally sharing themselves.

Traffic is light and they find themselves on the street seen on the video in about fifteen minutes. Mycroft thrusts a bundle of notes at the cabbie, gets out of the car and starts walking, not waiting to see if John is keeping up. Soon enough they see the alleyway or small road the car had turned down and are standing where the car had parked in less than a minute. John stares around slightly desperately.

There is nothing to see. It is a small and narrow road which connects the main road behind them to one running parallel to it on the other side. The way the buildings tower up on either side of them means that it is dark and shadowy even when the sun is blazing. A good spot to transfer an unconcious man from one car into another. Or at least, that is what John imagines would have happened. Mycroft strides away from John, apparently to have a look at the road opposite them.

John doesn't follow. He scans around the immediate area and tries to retrace the movements of the two men with Sherlock. If the car had been, here...

He begins moving as he remembers the men in the video had moved, imagining he was supporting an unconscious Sherlock. He keeps his eyes on the ground. And then he sees it. Tiny, almost invisible on the dirty tarmac of the road.

He kneels swiftly and examines it more closely. Yes. There are a couple of droplets of blood. Thinking back he remembers that in the first video Sherlock had had a head wound which was still fairly fresh. Someone in the car knocked him viciously unconscious and the injury had bled leaving faint tracks as he was transferred. Swiftly John searches about for more droplets. Yes, there, just ahead of him. They carry on intermittently for a few paces and then abruptly stop. John stands up and critically eyes the distance of the last bloodstain from the curb of the pavement. Definitely wide enough for a medium-sized car. This confirms his theory, in case there was any doubt about what had happened to the detective after he was hauled from the lexus. He was moved to another, probably less obvious car, and driven away. But where?

Mycroft starts walking back towards John, seemingly unable to find anything worthy of notice at the other end of the road.

'Found anything?' he asks in a tone of voice which makes it blatantly obvious he fully expects the answer to be 'no'. It is with some satisfaction that John points out the bloodstains on the road. Mycroft looks faintly surprised.

'Well done, Doctor Watson. I wouldn't have...' he trails off, not wanting to finish the sentence. Instead he settles for, 'Spending time with my brother has certainly rubbed off on you.'

John is just about to respond when someone hails him from behind. 'Hey! Doctor Watson!' He turns in surprise. Dave is standing at the entrance to the small road. Hurriedly John jogs over to him.

'Do you have anything on Sherlock?' he asks eagerly. Dave nods.

'I'll say I do. Hang on...' He looks anxious as Mycroft starts to stalk towards them. John winces. This may be tricky.

'Don't worry, Dave. This is Mycroft Holmes.' Before he has a chance to get any further Dave jumps in.

''Olmes?'

Grimacing slightly Mycroft holds out the hand which is not clutching his umbrella. 'Indeed. I'm Sherlock's older brother. And yes, I know...' he says before Dave can interrupt again. '... he probably wouldn't have mentioned me.' Slightly reluctantly Dave shakes Mycroft's hand which the older man withdraws almost immediately and then subtly wipes on his coat. Dave notices this and frowns.

John rubs his temples with his fingertips and addresses Dave. 'Anything about Sherlock can be said in front of Mycroft. You're not going to get in any sort of trouble, no matter what it is. Right?' The last word is addressed to Mycroft in a vaguely threatening manner. Mycroft visibly bristles but seems to recognize that the look in John's eyes means business.

'Precisely,' he says with a small smile. 'I want my brother back alive and I honestly couldn't care less about how legally it's achieved.'

Dave casts one more uneasy glance at Mycroft and then turns his attention fully to John. 'Right. Okay, well, listen close...'

I hope everyone enjoyed it. Reviews are always welcome if you are so inclined to drop me a line. Next update should be fairly shortly.