The next morning I woke up in my own bed. I hadn't wanted to be alone but Sherlock insisted that he needed his sleep and so did I.

"I can't be awake worrying about accidentally hurting you John; we need our rest to entrap these people." Instead he brought his bedding from his room and camped on the floor. I had woken twice in the night, my painkillers had worn off and my fingers were throbbing. Both times he lay on his back, arms folded behind his head, fast asleep. I'm not ashamed to say I watched him for a little while.

This morning next to the bed was a cup of hot coffee. Sherlock was obviously trying hard, bless him. I smiled, genuinely happy, I could feel the glow of his words last night still toasting my insides.

"I love you." If only I could have recorded the moment, to listen to again and again. The brief humorous thought of asking him to say it into my phone so that I could do just that flickered through my head. I imagined his face and started laughing.

Thinking about my phone got me thinking about his phone. How had my kidnappers known where Sherlock's phone would be? I realised then that this was an extra part of their threat; they knew things about us both. They knew I longed to see the kiss on the end of his message, that our relationship was different now and they knew where his phone was, when we didn't.

I let those thoughts circle in my head as I sipped my coffee. Sherlock said he liked to let thoughts 'percolate' and I liked his description of the method. I closed my eyes, thinking of nothing and sipped. Hang on, this coffee was hot, how did he know? I smiled again, my brilliant...boyfriend? Jesus.

I get out of bed and slip on his dressing gown; it's thrown over a chair. It's far too long and absolutely awful but I think it will make him laugh. As I wander to the lounge I hear voices. Lestrade and Sherlock.

"So did you ask him about it? Where they kept him? Did they say anything?" Lestrade drinks something and pauses for an answer. Sherlock's voice is distant and I can hear the toaster clang as he pushes the bread down, my stomach grumbles.

"I didn't want to probe him..." Lestrade laughs dirtily, heartily.

"Yes you bloody did Sherlock!" There is a silence from Sherlock and then he laughs too. His marvellous, infectious belly laugh that changes his face and demeanour. I have to see it.

"What's this about not probing me?" They look up and laugh even more, Sherlock clutches his stomach a little, it makes my smile broader.

"Well, yes I did want to but..." Nods Sherlock, still laughing but then he sees the dressing gown and he snorts and turn back to the toaster. "Jam? Blackberry?" this is over his shoulder to me.

"Thanks," I say taking the plate he offers me. Lestrade shakes his head wonderingly. I raise my eyebrows like 'see? Well trained.' He grins; Sherlock spots it and mock frowns under his dark eyebrows. Then he shrugs as if he's agreeing and sits down. I resist the urge to carry on the joke by perching on the arm of his chair and take the sofa. Lestrade turns to me.

"Shit John, you look awful. How are you doing?" He stands up, touches my cheek where the bruising is half closing my eye and glances down to my taped up fingers.

"Looks worse than it is." His eyebrows raise, he doesn't believe me but it lets it lie. "I've been thinking a few things..," he nods, encouraging me to go on, Sherlock is sipping his coffee and looking at me over the rim with a half smile. "What?" I ask him.

"I have made my own deductions and I'm interested to see what you've come up with John. That's all." he sips his coffee again. Great. A test. I sigh and stare off into the kitchen arranging the conclusions I have come to over the hours since I have felt well enough to think.

"Well, the fingernails and the cheekbone. Both designed to hurt a fucking lot, sound and look bad but not do any lasting damage. Implies to me that this was a warning and not that they necessarily wanted to do me in." I look at Sherlock, he nods slowly.

"My rescue was, with all due respects to your brilliance in finding me, too simple." Sherlock says the same last words at the same time as I do. Lestrade looks at us eyebrows raised. Sherlock nods again. "So," I continue," I think they wanted me to get away, it's like the torture, they didn't want lasting damage. This was a quick strike to make a point."

"What about the method of your ensnaring?" Sherlock's hands are steepled together, his coffee cup put down because he has agreed with me so far and he's testing me, have I watched and listened to him, have I learnt the science of deduction?

"Someone knows about us." I wave my hand vaguely between the two of us, trying to express the trauma, questioning, uncertainty and ...fucking that is mine and Sherlock's relationship. He smiles and Lestrade looks questioningly.

"Yes John, they were telling me that they know about us. They knew intimate emotional details about us... about me and my emotional capabilities and shortcomings. It's like they wanted to force me into..," he trails off and I know he won't finish the sentence because of Lestrade. But he's right, there's a strange feeling about this, like someone wants to teach Sherlock a lesson in relationships. For a moment it's there on the tip of my tongue but then it's gone. Damn.

"And they knew where your phone was." I say and Lestrade sits up in his seat.

"What? Your phone?"

"Yes, they told John I had found it in my coat pocket. The other one. And there it was. I only put my phone in the one pocket so I didn't look in the other." He shrugs as though it's the most normal thing in the world. Lestrade looks at me and we share an exasperated glance. Sherlock is leaning forward now, is eyes piercing me.

"You've missed a very important fact John." I frown, have I? "How did they impersonate my number?" He's right. It would take someone with lots of power to do that, someone with clout in telecommunications.

" Enough power to use my number, big house in the suburbs, vicious but not damaging, knows my habits, wants to teach me a lesson and warn me off..." Sherlock is ticking things off on his fingers.

"Is obsessed with westerns." I add. His eyes are like a laser.

"What?"

"Westerns, you know cowboys, the TV channel only played westerns." Sherlock is out of his seat. He is pacing and clutching his hair. He kicks over his cup and doesn't bother to look down. Lestrade stands.

"Sherlock what is it man?" Sherlock turns to us. His face is grim.

"Mycroft." He says through clenched teeth.

When we get him to calm down Lestrade and I have some questions of our own. He wants to know why Sherlock ran off to the retirement home and I want to know what happened there. It's a good distraction from his anger and Sherlock explains his theory about the Brotherhood to Lestrade, showing him the relevant web pages and drawing a sort of tree on the back of the gas bill.

At first you can see Lestrade doesn't believe a word of it. But as the story gets more complex and things undeniably fit the pattern soon he's nodding and pursing his lips.

"You went to see this James Abrahams bloke?" he asks. Sherlock makes another cup of coffee, ignoring the spill from the last one. He doesn't ask us if we want one. You didn't expect him to change completely did you? He sits back down and drinks his coffee before answering. Show off.

"Yes, yes I did. He is a typical upper class, arrogant man." Lestrade tries to catch my eye and I avoid it or I'll laugh, Sherlock could be describing himself. "Refused to see me at first but then I told the nurse I was from the Brotherhood, it was a risk but desperate times and all that...," he purses his lips. "He told me nothing but the fact he agreed to see me once I mentioned them was very illuminating." He pauses, thinking. "Lestrade, can you phone the retirement home and enquire as to Mr Abraham's health?" Lestrade nods and Sherlock adds, "now?"

Lestrade sighs, stands up and gets out his phone. He goes into the kitchen and we hear him making the call.

"Right, I see, ok well I think I have to ask you to inform me before you speak to anyone else should that situation arise please. Lestrade, Scotland Yard. Thanks, great." He switches the call off. "Mr. Abrahams is critically ill. He's not expected to last the rest of the day. How did you? You didn't...?" I can see he would believe anything of Sherlock. The subject of this mistrust laughs.

"Poison him? Good god man no. I merely observed that Mr. Abraham's breathing was much more laboured at the end of our conversation. Leading me to believe he had a chest problem which would be exacerbated by stress. By his bed was a bottle of Zestril, an Angiotensin-converting enzyme inhibitor, commonly prescribed to widen the blood vessels thus lowering blood pressure. I imagined that the shock that, after nearly a hundred years, someone had discovered the Brotherhood and their game might be enough to worsen his already fragile health." I translate quickly.

"You mean you deliberately frightened a weak old man possibly to his death?" I ask, wondering if there is much difference between Sherlock and Mycroft except for one of them likes me. He cocks his head considering, then he nods.

"Possibly. What? He's a bad man! A serial killer if not directly then by order. I really can't keep up with your morals you know. I think it helps us gain a foot hold over this club which my brother seems intent on protecting." He looks from my disapproving face to Lestrade's disapproving face and throws up his hands. "I'm never going to get the hang of this!" he exclaims and leaves the room. I hear his go to the bathroom and begin to brush his teeth, it still sounds painful. Lestrade turns to me.

"So, what is going on with you two?" he sits back in his chair and tries to look like he's making conversation but I know better. I shrug.

"I honestly don't know Geoff." I use his first name, deliberately indicating that this is a private chat, not for station gossip. He nods.

"But you are erm...?" he raises an eyebrow and opens his hands in gesture that says 'god how do I ask if you're shagging?'

"Yep. We are." I leave it there but he has more to say.

"Look John, it's none of my business but be careful eh? I mean," he tips his head to the bathroom where we can hear Sherlock showering, he sounds like he's intoning the periodic table in there. I suppose he might be. I drag my brain from the image of Sherlock in the shower scientifically absorbed. "He's not normal. He doesn't...feel things like we do you know?" he sighs, exasperated about how little he is managing to express his concern. "Once, right?" he rubs his hands over his face." Once, I got the wrong messages from him. We'd had a drink and he was being very...friendly. It surprised me; I suppose I just read him wrong. And he's a good looking bloke isn't he eh? I just would hate to see you..." he trails off and I nod.

"Thanks Geoff, I appreciate the concern. I think I know what I'm doing. "I bloody hope, so I think. Sherlock is towelling his hair as he comes back into the room. He hasn't bothered to dry himself again and his grey t shirt is clinging in all the places I'm trying not to look at. Lestrade's phone rings. Sherlock smiles enigmatically.

"Hello? Oh. Oh right." he puts his hand over the receiver. "It's Abrahams, he's popped it. What do we do now? Why did you want me to...?"Sherlock is pacing, long bare feet on the rug.

"Right. Tell them to keep it quiet for now. Not to phone anyone, not his family, his doctor, anyone until they've heard back from you. Come on John, we're going out." I look down, I'm not even dressed. "Put some clothes on eh? I can always take them off later." Lestrade is choking as he starts to tell the person on the phone his latest instructions.

Jennifer Abrahams is in her late forties and very glamorous. She's Botoxed to within an inch of her life and it makes the reading of her facial expression very difficult, even when Sherlock tells her that her father is dead. Her face is impassive but I think I detect a little gleam of something in her eye, elation?

He's talked his way into the house under the guise of a doctor from the home.

"We wanted to continue our personal service even though your father has now passed on." He smiles in a sad way. She picks up a tissue from one of those boxes which are supposed to disguise the real cardboard box the tissues came in. I always wondered who bought those.

The rest of the house is expensive and imposing but in an entirely different way than Harry's house in Clapham. Whereas Harry's decor screams 'I'm understated and expensive', this house is ostentatious and bragging. Everything is twice as big, shiny, small and pointless as it needs to be.

Sherlock gets up from his perch on the sofa where he has been wringing his hands and doing the best impression of someone sadden by the loss of a great friend and client that I have ever seen. He scares me when he's like this. He wanders to a table that doesn't need to be there except for its some kind of antique and Jennifer Abrahams is showing off her wealth. He picks up one of two pictures which flank the beautiful veneer of the table top. He puts them down and sits with me again. I reach for my coffee, brought by the maid and tasting like they grew the beans here and Sherlock sneezes. It is the biggest sneeze I have ever heard. I scream and jump. He laughs and the coffee spills over my hand. When he sees it running down my taped up finger a flash of remorse crosses his face and he goes a little pale. It's not much compensation for the pain in my hand and the embarrassment of the shriek I just made but it helps a little.

"I'm so sorry," he says jumping up, "let me clear it up..," he reaches for the expensive tissues and Miss Abrahams stops him hastily.

"Don't worry I'll just get the maid to clear it up. Really it's no problem." She leaves the room and Sherlock accosts me. Hang on, I think, we're in public! But then I realise he's rummaging in my pockets. I push a sore hand into my jeans pocket and pull out my phone.

"Do you want this?" He snatches it from my hand and leers.

"Yes, for now at least. " Before I can say anything he is pressing buttons and leaping to the pictures on the table. He quickly snaps two photographs and is back in his seat before Miss Abrahams returns with the maid.

"We'd better be getting back to the home, Miss Abrahams, I'm sure you must have lots of things to organise in the light of our sad news. I'm so sorry to have had to tell you this." She stands, obviously eager for us weirdos to get out of her house.

"No, it was too kind. I do appreciate the gesture." But she's showing us to the door and we are on the step and the door is closed in seconds.

"Well, what was that about?" I start to ask him but he is motioning me to silence and crouching down to hover underneath the window of the lounge. I creep over to him, he is listening.

Inside Miss Abrahams makes a phone call. Not unusual I think, but what is strange is that, even though we can't hear her words we can hear the tone and it isn't sad or grieving. She sounds over the moon.

We sneak back to the path, and walk along it until we reach the road. Sherlock hails a cab. Once inside I look at him, his eyes are shining.

"We have them now John!" He is grinning madly and it's infectious I smile and then realise I don't know what he's talking about at all. I frown. He shows me the pictures on my phone.

One is the familiar black and white picture of the Brotherhood that I've seen a hundred times taped to the fridge door of 221b. The other is a much more modern photo, taken at what looks like a garden party. There are a couple of old men, one in a wheelchair attached to a drip. Surrounding them are younger, expensively dressed men and women. Sherlock's finger counts them out. There are ten in each picture. Then he points to the dapper figure of James Abrahams and one of the wheel chair bound old men in the newer photo. Despite the ravages of age and illness is it undeniably the same man.

"This is the new line up of the Brotherhood of Charlemagne." He beams. "I think we have some celebrating to do." He lunges towards me and kisses me passionately. His tongue is in my mouth and his hands are running down my jumper. I push him away. "Yes, of course," he glances at the shocked cabbie in the rear view mirror and shrugs an apology. "When we get home, of course."

"It's not that Sherlock," he comes forward again eagerly and I put my hand out and poke the new photograph on the screen. "Look."

Both of us look at the picture again. Sherlock's face changes from lust haze to impassive in two seconds flat. Because the man looking back at us, from the centre of the picture, smiling, his arms around the shoulders of his fellow players is Mycroft Holmes.

So, did you guess who had kidnapped John? I bet you did, didn't you? Please let me know what you think of events in this chapter. I think I'm starting with some sex next time eh? :D

I keep saying it because it keeps on being true, you guys are amazing. Your encouragement, detailed analysis of the plot and characters, amendments and fangirling are fuelling this story. That and my obsession bordering on insanity concerning Benedict Cumberbatch. :D Life's a bitch at the moment and you're keeping me smiling. Thank you.

Thank you PrincessNala, Peachsilk, Munchieees, Darmed, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Clubba Bear. mrs winny, Nellyington and Despairandcupcakechild – even Sherlock himself didnhave such help! Cx