John sighed. It had been a very long day at the surgery. By a wild coincidence the appointments for the local hypochondriac, the overprotective mother, and the absolute berk had all been scheduled on the same day. Not to mention that because of Sarah taking vacation leave early he had to work straight through his lunch break. And of course, when he got back to the flat there would be Sherlock to deal with. He had only been back a week and had already gone back to his usual actions; moping around the flat when he didn't have cases, putting on nicotine patches as often as if they were water, moaning and griping that he was bored. The only thing he hadn't done yet was play the violin because of his splinted fingers. John, admittedly, was a bit relieved he hadn't tried; Mrs. Hudson had told him all about the first two burned batches of eggs from Sherlock's breakfast, and he had a feeling that Sherlock trying to play right now would end just as badly.

John arrived at Baker Street and climbed the stairs wearily. He approached the door, pulling out his key, but surprisingly found it to be unlocked. He pushed through and stepped into the all-too-quiet flat.

"Sherlock?" he called. "Sherlock, are you in your bedroom?" he frowned when he received no answer. "Sherlock?"

And thus John conducted a full search of the whole of 221B (thinking that maybe Sherlock had passed out somewhere due to lack of sleep or pain from his injuries), punctuated with occasional swearing as he came across more of Sherlock's 'experiments' that had been forgotten, including a particularly nasty one in one of the kitchen cupboards that had grown quite a spectacular display of mold. After finishing his search in his own room (he found a number of plant cultures thriving under his bed and was definitely going to have words with the great experimenter) he concluded that Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

For the third time in so many days, John found himself taking the stairs two at a time. "Mrs. Hudson? Mrs. Hudson?" he yelled hoarsely, now very worried about the consulting detective. He got to the door and found the elderly woman standing at the foot of the stairs, at the door of her own flat.

"Whatever is the matter, John?" she asked in a concerned voice.

He took a deep breath. "When was the last time you saw Sherlock?"

She smiled. "Oh, the dear. He came down to my flat for some tea this morning after you left. He said something about going to the morgue this afternoon to see if Molly had any fingers for him. Though really, I did try to dissuade him, dear. One time finding fingers in the fridge is enough for me, thank you. However, that Molly is such a nice girl, I sometimes hope…"

John cut off Mrs. Hudson's rambling. "Okay, thanks, Mrs. H!" he said loudly, and reaching inside the door to grab his jacket and keys off the hook, he left the flat to go pick Sherlock up. Really, the man should have known better than to go off to the morgue-he wasn't quite recovered yet and John was afraid that the sight of those bodies might have been triggering for him.

John sighed as he hailed a cab. Sometimes Sherlock just didn't have any sense.

….

At exactly 5:02 that evening, as Greg Lestrade was pulling on his coat to head home, a knock sounded upon his office door. Damn, he thought, must be Anderson with that forensics report. Late, as usual. He couldn't stay late, not tonight; Jenny had asked him if she could come over and talk to him, and he sure as hell wasn't going to mess up with his wife this time, no sir.

"Sorry, mate. Just going home now, be a good lad and bugger off till morning, alright?" he said, not looking up from one last straightening of his desk.

"Excuse me, Gregory, but I do not intend to 'bugger off', as you so creatively put it."

Lestrade whipped around and found himself face to face with Mycroft Holmes. He coughed uncomfortably and swore in his head. One did not tell the British Government to bugger off. He gave the man his best fake smile.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, I thought it was someone from forensics. Always late with the reports, they are…"

"Mycroft, please. No need for formalities here." He smiled. "I've come on account of my brother."

Lestrade's fake smile dropped off completely. "What about Sherlock? He's alright, isn't he? Not gone again or something?"

Mycroft's look of complete calm didn't waver. "No, Gregory, he is fine, I assure you. Actually, I believe that at this moment he is at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, no doubt trying to obtain some kind of human organ from Miss Hooper. No, I was referring to the search for his captors."

Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. "Ah. Right. Well, we've been doing everything we can; even Donovan and Anderson have been trying to help with it. But there's only so much we can do, Mr. Holm-Mycroft, and we have been busy lately…"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Really, Gregory, I didn't come here to listen to you make excuses. I merely meant to inform you that I have discovered two of the men who were there with Jim Moriarty during Sherlock's…ordeal, and one who was behind the scenes operating the screens and blocking my cameras."

Lestrade stood stock still, then relaxed. "Oh. Right, then. What exactly…"

Mycroft smiled grimly. "They are currently residing quite happily in a top-secret location that I simply cannot reveal the name of…such a controversial place, Carandiru."

Lestrade returned the smile rather uneasily. "Okay. Glad that's over, then. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I wasn't done, Gregory."

Lestrade sighed. "Right. Go on, then." 5: 15. He was supposed to meet Jenny at 5:30. Make it quick, Mycroft, he thought irritably.

"I will be blunt; we have no idea where to look for Jim Moriarty." Mycroft said firmly. "None whatsoever. However, if we could just have Sherlock put a little hint out there that he's recovered, we're hoping that it might draw him out into the open…"

Lestrade's jaw dropped. "Sorry, what?" he said incredulously. "Did I just hear you say that you want to use Sherlock for bait?" he shook his head. "Mycroft, he's your brother, not a fucking piece of meat!"

Mycroft sighed. "Oh, really, Gregory, don't be so dramatic." He smiled, attempting to be reassuring and miserably failing. "He will be completely safe. No harm will come to him, and he will be far out of Moriarty's reach." He narrowed his eyes. "Trust me when I say that the safety of my brother is my one main goal in this entire chain of events. Even if it means losing Moriarty…or even myself."

He smiled and clapped his hands together on his umbrella. "On a more pleasant note, Gregory, I was wondering if you might like to have dinner somewhere with me." Lestrade could have sworn he'd seen the man wink. "I should like to get to know the man who thinks so highly of my baby brother."

Lestrade shook his head ruefully and looked down at his watch again. 5:20. He was going to be late if he didn't get a move on. "Sorry, Mycroft, but I'm married."

Mycroft laughed rather unkindly. "You're going to see your estranged wife tonight at your home in hopes that she will move back in and rekindle the marriage, when in fact she's only meeting with you to tell you that she'd like a divorce because she has moved in with the P.E. teacher she was sleeping with and is pregnant with his child."

Lestrade was admittedly shocked. He ran a hand through his graying hair. "Jesus. Between you and Sherlock it's a wonder I haven't had a heart attack yet."

Mycroft opened the door to his office. "Next Tuesday, at Angelo's. I'm sure you know where it is-one of Sherlock's favorite places, though I must admit I have yet to find why…"

Mycroft's voice trailed off as he left, walking down the hallway. Lestrade grimaced and rolled his eyes. He looked a final time at his watch. It was just now 5:30; he had officially missed his date with Jenny. However, for some strange reason, Lestrade didn't give a damn about it. Whistling cheerfully, he picked up his briefcase and headed for the door. As he was waiting down below for a cab, Lestrade wondered what one wore for a date with a Holmes.