"We have to go," Molly said, still holding the phone between them.

"Absolutely not," said John, passing Abigail off to Mary.

"John, that message was supposed to be for Sherlock! If he doesn't show up, Moriarty is going to kill someone!" Molly pleaded.

"Jim Moriarty is dead! Have you never seen a spy movie?" John asked, his hands in the air. "This has got to be a trap. Sherlock shows up to some 'factory show-down' trying to be the hero and gets shot in the head by someone pretending to be Moriarty!"

"John!" Mary shouted, giving him a sharp slap to the shoulder.

"As much as I dislike footwork myself, I fear Miss…excuse me…Doctor Hooper is correct," Mycroft noted, taking the mobile out of Molly's hands. The three others stared at him as if he had grown an extra head.

"You can't be serious," John scoffed, hands now on his hips.

"I am deathly serious, Doctor Watson," he took the mobile and picked up Sherlock's abandoned coat. "You see, the fact that my brother left both his coat and his phone here means I have absolutely zero means of tracking him."

"What's his coat got to do with anything?" inquired Mary, rocking a now sleeping Abigail back and forth absentmindedly.

"GPS tracker sewn into the collar," Mycroft replied nonchalantly, tossing the coat over the chair.

"You have got to be kidding," Molly said with one eyebrow raised.

Mycroft shrugged off the comment, moving toward the door. "I'm going. If you choose to come, that is your prerogative."

"I'm in," stated Molly, joining him near the door.

John looked to Mary, who nodded once and gave him a brief kiss on the cheek before watching him join Molly and Mycroft, the three of them descending the stairs together.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The abandoned factory was just as John remembered it from the kidnapping case he had worked with Sherlock so many years ago. His chest gave a painful twinge as he remembered the last case on which he had accompanied his best friend before he "died."

The three walked to the south wall of the largest room, two stone steps leading to a nondescript door into what Molly assumed were previously offices. The room was completely silent; Molly's heart the only sound pounding loudly, blood pulsing through her ears.

Mycroft surprised John and Molly by holding out his arms to either side, effectively stopping their forward motion. They both looked at him with confused expressions before he began to speak loudly and confidently to the seemingly empty room.

"Moran, let us skip the dramatics."

Sebastian Moran emerged from behind the door, a gun pointed directly at Mycroft's head. Mycroft didn't flinch.

"Lose the gun, Doc," imparted Moran, moving the gun to point at John's head instead. John removed the Browning from his waistband and set it on the floor, kicking it out of reach. "And you, Holmes, the umbrella."

Molly had long suspected that Mycroft Holmes carried some sort of government-issued super weapon within the confines of his umbrella, and this seemed to confirm that notion.

"Now that we are unarmed, are you going to inform us as to why you wanted my brother here?" Mycroft raised his arms with his palms out, his voice smooth and confident.

"We didn't want Sherlock to come, we wanted you," Moran smiled viciously at Mycroft.

"But you called Sherlock's phone," Molly blurted out, immediately chastising herself for stating the obvious.

"And we knew you'd have it," Moran said icily.

"How did you know?" asked John, but before an answer was given Mycroft held up hand to silence him.

"Where is he?" he asked, his expression changing rapidly from indifference to concern.

"Oh, no worries, we've been taking real good care of him," Moran opened the door and reached inside, pulling Sherlock into the room. His legs and arms were bound with wire cables, causing him to immediately fall to the floor face-first, his legs dangling over the edge of the stone steps. His cry of pain was muffled by a large piece of duct tape over his mouth. Molly gasped and covered her mouth when he made eye-contact with her, his face a bloody mess of cuts and bruises. His shirt had been torn in several places and was stained with blood in both the front and back, and his previously injured shoulder was cocked back at an unnatural angle, clearly dislocated once more.

"What do you want?" John asked, stepping forward and trying to control his rage.

"Revenge," answered a voice from the open door. All eyes immediately flew to the door, the only sound in the room the labored breathing of Sherlock around his tape, as a figure stepped forth into the room. Molly gasped, while John shook his head in disbelief.

"Janine?"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Miss Hawkins, while I am aware that my brother betrayed you in a rather shocking manner, don't you think this is going a little overboard?"

"Oh, Myc," Mycroft visible cringed at the name. "You don't think this is all about my little ex here, do you?"

Janine stepped forward and placed her foot on the side of Sherlock's face, pushing it roughly into the concrete. After a brief kick, she stepped away, Sherlock moving his body awkwardly to lie on his back, legs still draped over the steps on which Janine stood.

"No, no, no. My revenge stems from something much more primitive. Oh, and my name's not Hawkins, by the way," she said with a sing-song quality to her voice. From her pocket she withdrew a small rectangular object and held it to her mouth.

"My name is Janine Moriarty-hi!" The voice that issued from the device was not hers but that of Jim Moriarty, the box clearly a voice modifier of some sort. "Anyway, I believe you knew my brother?"