He remembered thinking in a stupid, damning way that everything seemed to be going swimmingly. The boys were calmer without the weight of schoolyard taunts on their shoulders. They had at last finished wedding planning – far ahead of schedule thanks to Cate's dedication and skill. Cases were coming in again, keeping Sherlock unusually content and sparing Mrs Hudson's walls further abuse. Life had settled into a happy routine: case, surgery, rest, play. John was breathing again.
He should have known better. Peace never lasted in their house.
It was hard for him to say when it all started to go wrong; the shift was subtle enough. A permanent crease formed in Sherlock's forehead. He started to fidget. Casual inquires into his disposition received curt dismissals. Not that this was unusual; John had simply grown unaccustomed to it after months of quiet and caring and recovery. He dismissed this behaviour as Sherlock falling into one of His Moods.
Then one morning over beans and toast, the pieces fell together in a single, off-hand comment.
'Sherr hasn't written in some time,' he said.
John prided himself on his ability to speak Sherlockian. After two decades of close study, he doubted if anyone could best him in the battle for linguistic supremacy. This simple phrase gave him everything he needed. The incurable frown, the short temper, the lack of interaction… Sherlock was scared. Sherrinford had disappeared before – it seemed a Holmes Family tradition – but never for this long. His lack of communication could only mean that he couldn't reach out to his youngest brother. And that almost certainly meant danger.
Worry made Sherlock impossible to live with. He spent more and more time sulking on the sofa. He seldom shed his dressing gown and whinged like a toddler when John confiscated it for a round through the wash. His mood was infectious: Will withdrew once more, barricading himself in his room and refusing to go to counselling. Hamish drew closer to John, sensing that the lesser lunatics must form an alliance to increase their chances of survival.
Things could only get worse, and they soon did. A week or two after Sherlock's nonchalant revelation, a plain, brown envelope found its way into Baker Street. John glared at it from his chair and waited for Sherlock to arrive from the morgue. These things are best faced together.
The flat was dark when he at last returned. John was nursing a cuppa and unwilling to move close enough to the envelope to switch on the lamp. He knew he'd rip it open if he did, scream at the contents and go off hunting whoever was responsible. Long fingers tugged the lamp's chain and Sherlock stared at him in the golden light for a long moment before his gaze shifted to the side table. It remained there for some time.
Of course the handwriting was familiar. Of course the paper was the same. Poisoned candies and unmoving children danced through his head. It was intended to foster déjà vu. As much as its sender despised being obvious, he was overly fond of methods certain to jog Sherlock's memory. There was no doubt what the envelope contained. His eyes met John's. He picked up the envelope and eased it open. Scotland Yard would give him hell for it later, but that didn't matter now. He slid the contents into his hand.
A photograph of a woman's face. Everything below the septum obscured. Her eyes bright and angry, dangerous.
A white handkerchief. Pressed often. Flecked with something visceral and brown. On one corner, a simple monogram in green thread, hand stitched, skilled workmanship: GSSH.
The bottom dropped from his stomach.
He looked to John once more and saw only fury and understanding in his stormy eyes. Without a word, John stood and removed his mobile, leading Sherlock to the sofa as he dialled. Sherlock heard his brother's voice crackle weakly from the speaker.
'He's back.' How could John sound so calm at a time like this? 'We got a package. He has Elaina and Sherrinford.'
Lestrade was at last in conference with MI5 and Interpol, his voice hoarse from shouting. Mycroft sat silently and passed him notes on Sherrinford's last known locations and favourite hideouts. Moriarty had been hunted for months with nothing in the way of progress, which surprised no one in the flat. Donovan was leading the hunt for known associates. It had so far resulted in enough dead bodies that Greg had almost complained before a glance from Molly reminded him of the circumstances. Mrs Hudson ferried endless cups of tea across the flat and had recently disappeared to throw something in the way of supper together. Terror and crisis were no excuse to skip a hot meal.
The boys sat on the sofa on either side of Molly. One arm was wrapped around Will, curled prone and staring blindly. The other hand rested on Hamish's trainer. Hamish scribbled furiously in a notebook, names of officers and suspects and far-off places pouring from his pencil. No detail was too small. John watched him longingly. If only he could find something as useful to do. Instead he sat beside Sherlock, back aching from the unforgiving dining chair, eyes flicking from the calamity in the sitting room to his silent, unmoving fiancé.
Sherlock hadn't spoken since he'd gotten home. He was off in his mind palace, that much was certain. His fingers rested against his lips, hands pressed together prayer-like and elbows on the table. The photograph and handkerchief were laid out on the wood before him, the only evidence of a blatant crime. John hoped he was somewhere investigating the dirt on the handkerchief against his endless database, or perhaps finding some esoteric light bulb used to illuminate Elaina's face. He didn't want to consider the alternative. He couldn't handle the thought of Sherlock panicking at a time like this. It was too reminiscent of Tchaikovsky and tinny air and sickly comic apples burned into his children's flesh. John shook the thought away before the bile finished climbing up his throat and he made a bigger scene of the current sitting room farce. No, Sherlock was working. Sherlock was picking apart the facts, what few there were. There were no alternatives.
Greg's voice cut through his thoughts, its tone too decisive to be ignored by anyone in the room. 'Alright. Thank you, sir. I'll keep you informed as well.' He rang off and ran a hand through his already rumpled hair. 'They're assembling a task force, finally. Interpol is reaching out to whatever locals they can reach. Honestly, if I hadn't said "Holmes", I don't think we would've gotten anywhere.'
'The old family still has some hold,' Mycroft muttered. He was paler than usual, the copper of his hair oddly apparent without the colour in his cheeks. 'I've of course made my own calls, but I think it best we make as much of a show of protocol as possible.'
'The charges will stick better that way, yeah.'
'The charges are of no concern to me.' His nostrils flared. 'We have incarcerated Moriarty before. It was deemed ineffective.'
'So was death.' John nearly jumped at the voice next to him. It was deeper than usual, hoarse from lack of use. Relief may have flickered across Mycroft's face, but it was tamped in the blink of an eye. Sherlock would see it, of course. Sherlock saw everything when it came to Mycroft. His colourless eyes were fixed on his brother, a strange moment passing between them as it so often did. John wondered if Hamish might understand their silent vernacular. Perhaps he should ask him later. He closed his eyes and forced his rambling thoughts to quiet. 'There are no simple answers to this problem, Mycroft; nor is this the most important matter we are currently facing.'
'You can't believe he will release Sherrinford alive.'
'Of course he will. It's no fun to kill him; he's proved that time and time again.' John saw Will wince in his periphery.
'Sherlock…' he murmured.
'He's right, Papa,' Hamish interrupted. The party turned to hear him. Hamish had that effect on people. 'There's no point in pretending different. If either of us have an episode, it will be from losing Uncle Sherr, not from hearing what we already know.'
'Yeah,' Will agreed, his colour returning a little. 'I'm all right, Papa. Really.'
'The point is,' Mycroft continued, 'we will proceed through the proper channels as a matter of respect so long as it is in our best interests to do so. However, I doubt I'm alone in saying that I am more than willing to take whatever action is necessary to return my brother and his partner to safety.'
'Agreed,' Greg said. He nodded as if he hadn't intended to vocalise the thought but meant it nonetheless. 'Right. Sherrinford and Elaina come first and we'll hang the book if we have to, make no mistake. Everyone's on board with that.'
'Of course we are.' Greg couldn't help but smile at Molly. 'We're a family. Yes, even you, Mycroft. And he's not going to ruin that again.'
'Yes, this is all very moving.' The acidity had crept back into Sherlock's voice. John could read anxiety in his shoulders and frustration in his too-still hands. 'Could we stop sitting around congratulating ourselves and do something?'
'And what do you suggest we do, brother mine? Have you gleaned their location from a bit of fluff on his handkerchief?' Sherlock huffed. It was a dangerous sound. 'We are at the mercy of our contemporaries. There are no leads.'
'There are always leads.'
'Then enlighten us as to what they are.'
He was up like a shot, stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket and at the coat hooks before anyone could react. 'This is intolerable.' The Belstaff was around him and he was out the door, his feet heavy as he all-but ran down the stairs and out to the street.
The room slowly turned to John, even Mycroft at a loss to this outburst. John sighed, scrubbing his face before he, too, stood. 'He'll be at the lab. It's the closest to home he can get right now.'
'But this is home.'
'It is, Will. And it will be again. But right now, it doesn't have the answers he wants.'
'Nor does anything, I'm afraid,' Mycroft drawled. 'He never did handle failure well.'
'Yeah, well, he hasn't failed,' John snapped. 'Not yet, anyway, and I won't hear different.' He stepped to retrieve his own jacket. 'Molly, Greg, do you mind keeping an eye on the boys for a bit?'
'Not at all,' she said. 'Gents, you don't mind an afternoon with us, do you?' They didn't respond. Will plucked at his jeans, but Hamish's eyes were on his father. They said far more than his words ever could.
'We'll get him back,' John promised. 'We haven't lost him yet and I don't mean to.' Hamish nodded. John's hand found his hair: thick, unruly, so much like the man he loved. 'Right. I'll be back. I promise.' He headed for the street, swearing under his breath at the unseasonable wind. It was just like Sherlock to run off in a storm. His pace quickened.
