Mycroft arrived back at the Diogenes club in a much better state of mind than when he had left. Not only had he informed Gregory of his work and plans, he had asked the man on a date. Admittedly, Mycroft didn't date much; in fact, until this point in his life, he hadn't gone on an actual date since he was fifteen, much less a date with a man. He straightened his tie and looked subconsciously around. This was going to be an interesting experience.
He made his way to his office, and, upon entering, found that someone (most likely Anthea, who always seemed to be worrying about his health, the dear thing) had placed a cup of tea and a plate of buttery toast on his desk. The toast was made just the way he liked it; cut triangular, with loads of cinnamon sugar. Munching the toast contentedly, Mycroft began to sift through the large pile of mail on his desk.
Near the top of the pile (delivered earlier that evening, possibly while he was at Scotland Yard) lay a small, rectangular package. Mycroft observed it carefully; the last package he had received had contained a rather nasty amount of earwigs. It had taken months just to get them all out of his desk. However, this one seemed to contain nothing alive; or harmful, for that matter.
He carefully slit the cardboard with his penknife and pulled out something soft carefully wrapped in scarlet red tissue paper. He ripped off the tissue paper and found himself face to face with…a simple scarf. Blue, slight wavy pattern, Hugo Boss brand…Mycroft paused and examined the myriad of stains along the length. He gulped. Blood. This was Sherlock's scarf.
A small piece of paper fluttered out of the remains of the tissue paper and onto the floor. He snatched it up and let out a cry of shock. It was Sherlock's own handwriting; shaky, though, as if he had been forced…and it was written ink as red as…blood. Oh, God. Mycroft thought he was going to be sick. It was blood. Sherlock's blood.
Come and play with me, big brother; I'm just dying to see you again! No clues this time; last time you found me much too quickly. This time, it won't be so easy. But remember; you're running against the clock. Every hour I stay here, I get a little more cracked. By the time you find me, I may just be shattered.
Come and play, big brother; come and play.
-Sherlock
Mycroft was out the door in ten seconds flat.
…..
"Hello, honey! Boy, am I glad you're awake; now we can start to play!"
Sherlock moaned and the world came into focus. Where the hell was he? And then he remembered. Molly, the morgue, the key, a hit, and his world exploding into stars. He remembered waking up drugged and something sharp against his arm and pain, pain, pain, and then being forced to write...something...but what was it? A letter?
"Where's…Molly, Molly…is she okay? Jim…I will kill you…if you've hurt…her." He rasped, his throat dry from lack of water. He could feel a slick wetness where his left arm met his side. Too much wet, too much blood, blood loss is bad...
Jim smiled. "Someone has a cru-ush!" he sang in an annoying sing-song voice, and then sighed. "Yes, Sherly, your girlfriend is fine."
Sherlock muttered something and Jim leaned in close. "What was that, sugar?" he asked in a honey-coated voice.
"Not my girlfriend…" he muttered again.
Jim nodded sagely. "Oh, yes, of course not. I'm forgetting now; you have no friends. Isn't that right, Sherlock? Isn't it?"
Sherlock stared up at the man and didn't respond.
Jim's face twisted. "ANSWER ME!" he screamed, and he slapped Sherlock's scarred cheek, opening the cut again.
Sherlock's head reared back and hit the bedstead of the bed he was chained to. Blood dribbled down his cheek onto his perfect pale lips, a streak of scarlet against the stark white of his skin. "No….I have…John, and Mycroft and…" he broke off, coughing. "Lestrade…Mrs. Hudson…"
He looked up at the criminal. "I have friends…you cannot fool…a detective. Not that easily." He coughed again. "You will never break me, Jim."
Jim leaned in to Sherlock's face. "That's what you think, Sherly. But I know; I know."
He reached down and pressed a button on the dreaded remote, which was lying on the bed beside Sherlock's legs. Sherlock frowned; hadn't he had trousers on in the morgue? Now, he was wearing only a pair of black silk boxers. It didn't make sense. But then he was distracted by a figure appearing on screen, a person walking out of the Tesco near Baker Street with a red dot flying across their forehead.
It was John, and this time Sherlock just knew that he was real. This wasn't like last time. No, this was the real deal. And if he didn't do whatever Jim wanted, all his friends would die; for real, this time.
Sherlock gulped. "No. Jim, don't do this. Just…you cannot do this."
Jim's hand was now rubbing across his emaciated ribs. "Say it, then." He looked Sherlock in the eye. " Say that you have no friends, or I swear I will ."
Sherlock closed his eyes. "I have no friends. I am a psychopath. Nobody likes me, and everybody hates me." A single tear slipped down from his closed eyelid.
Jim laughed maliciously. "That's right, Sherlock. Every single human being on the planet; everybody hates you, and you will never, ever have anyone who loves you."