Genre: Drama, angst, friendship
Timeset and spoilers: Post-Reichenbach, post-hiatus
Warnings: Spoilers, mentions of drugs, swearing, angst, some violence


Thank you for following my story and to everybody who favd and alerted or even favd me as an author!
It means a lot to know you are reading and paying attention. Love to hear from you!

Heartfelt thanks to all my lovely reviewers so far: Impractical Beekeeping, SusanneHolmes, Zacha, hjohn302, Howlynn, papergirl101, Skyfullofstars, Tetriano, Jenna Yemowa, Nos, Erindors, Maddi Paige, ShiverandShamy, Queen Morgan la Fay, Eldar-Melda, Puky2012, House Calls, eight of hearts and bringloid fiodior and to the anonymous ones.

A heartfelt thank you for beta-ing to Impractical Beekeeping and Eyebrows2!

I hope you forgive me for what happened to Mycroft - in fact, someone else is responsible, who made it very clear to me that I am not to talk about his business ;))


Missing Traces


John stares at Sherlock. The detective´s hands shake so badly that he needs three attempts to hit the right button and shut his phone down. He looks up at the doctor, and for a short moment John glimpses the anguish in his normally so detached friend´s eyes. Then, ever so quickly, it is replaced by raw fury.

"Hurry up, John. We need to go," Sherlock commands, traverses the room in a few long strides and grabs his coat and scarf.

John, who has followed him to the door, frowns, not yet comprehending. "Where to?" he asks.

Sherlock sends him his best "what must it be like in your tiny little brain" stare and pushes the leather jacket into his hands. "To the Yard. And then to Stokenchurch Gap, of course."

John shrugs into his jacket, at the same time instinctively feeling for the Browning nestling at his hip, then remembering and cursing the fact that it currently resides in the Yard's evidence vault. Sherlock has already bolted down the stairs, and John hurries to follow him through their front door.

Outside, he catches up with an extremely agitated consulting detective who paces the pavement in front of Speedy's with the suppressed energy of a caged tiger while frantically drawing on a cigarette. The early afternoon traffic and several pedestrians pass them with innocent ease and agility, and John feels as if the outside world has changed to a surreal dream, and only Sherlock's nervousness is real.

"Do you really think…," John starts in an attempt to soothe, but Sherlock stops him with a raised hand, blowing out smoke with an annoyed flick of his chin.

"Of course. This accident didn't happen by chance. It was arranged."

John decides to give it one more try. They can't know yet whether it was a perfectly normal calamity, whether there has been any serious damage. If Sherlock storms into the Yard for nothing, he would certainly be less than welcomed. He is still banned from the premises, after all. In an attempt to make his point clear, the doctor grabs Sherlock's right arm and hauls his friend towards him, stopping his frantic pacing.

"Sherlock. It could be coincidence. We don't even know exactly what happened."

The detective regards him coldly and tries to yank his limb from John's grasp. "Do you really think I will wait until the police inform me that Mycroft has been in an accident? And for the police and Mycroft's people to contaminate the evidence?" he asks and attempts to raise his left hand to hail a cab. A sharp stab of pain shoots through his shoulder, and he wrinkles his nose in annoyance.

"All right. All right." John stops Sherlock by grabbing hold of his friend's arm and holding it down gently and carefully. He waves towards the traffic, where a cab is already approaching. "Let's see how Lestrade can help us." Sherlock nods and throws the cigarette butt away as the cab draws up.


Twenty minutes later John tries to match Sherlock's long, determined strides to mount the stairs to Scotland Yard's main entrance. He fails to reach the revolving doors simultaneously with the detective, is forced to wait for a half-turn of the contraption, and eventually catches up with his friend at the security barrier.

Sherlock is barely able to contain his impatience as he glares down upon the officer in charge. The young man is obviously new to the job and determined to follow protocol strictly. He makes the mistake of asking Sherlock who he wants to see and what his business is, and is rewarded with a barked remark which is just short of an insult and the sight of the detective leaping over the knee-high barrier.

The youth stares at John, perplexed, and John smiles back and jumps, too, ignoring the deafening howl of the security alert. Three officers advance on them from the right, but fortunately one of the lifts opens at this moment, spilling out several members of staff. Sherlock squeezes in, John in tow, and the door closes just in time to shut the policemen out. The detective gives the doctor a sideways glance and John smirks. They stay silent on their way into Homicides and eventually Sherlock storms into Lestrade's office, resembling an avenging angel with his dark, blazing eyes and his swishing coat.

The Detective Inspector, who had been languidly skimming through a report, feet on his desk, jumps up when he sees them, spilling a mug of stale coffee on his file on Sergej Renko's murder. He swears under his breath and stares daggers at Sherlock, while he tries to wipe the brown liquid off the document. "What the hell are you doing here? Enjoyed your last stay too much?" he exclaims.

Sherlock, all nervous energy, stares back at the Detective Inspector, his brows knit, radiating urgency. "We need to go to the Chilterns, to Stokenchurch Gap. Mycroft has been attacked," he announces, deliberately trying to even his breathing.

Lestrade sends John a questioning gaze, and John nods in confirmation. "Mycroft's car seems to have crashed. It's more than likely he has been assaulted by Moran's people."

"Well," Lestrade says and scratches his chin, "the Chilterns are not exactly under the jurisdiction of the Yard. And you," he points at Sherlock, "are banned from cases, remember?"

The detective´s frown deepens and he balls his right hand into a fist. "I am allowed to approach the Yard for inquiries on cases concerning me. This does concern me," he replies firmly.

Lestrade rolls his eyes. "We don´t even know yet that there is a case," he mutters, but the look in Sherlock's eyes is request enough for him to grab his jacket and step around his desk. "For heaven's sake, let's get going," he sighs, and the two occupants of 221B Baker Street follow him.


One hour, a discussion with the Yard's security officers and several phone calls later the trio reaches the M40 on the Chiltern ridge. Mycroft's black Jaguar awaits them, abandoned on the lay-by, one tyre flat, the bonnet and the doors at its left dented. Mycroft's driver, who suffered only minor injuries thanks to the airbag system, has already been wheeled to hospital by the medical team. The local policemen who are securing evidence are less than pleased to find themselves working side by side with an extremely agitated and meticulous consulting detective.

It is pouring, the already dreary afternoon rapidly deteriorating into a copy of the deluge. Greg and John wait in Lestrade's car while Sherlock accompanies the forensic team on their search of a wide stretch of asphalt and the nearby shrubs. It is evident that the car was shot at. Only the driver's skill prevented it and its passenger from sustaining greater damage. A small amount of blood and an abandoned umbrella are the only traces of said passenger. Mycroft has disappeared.

Sherlock follows every hint, examining the car, reading the skid marks, calculating the trajectory of the bullet which hit the tire, conferring with the policemen about probable theories on Mycroft's abduction. All of this takes time, and all of this sets the attackers even more at an advantage.

After nearly two hours the detective sags onto the back seat of Lestrade's car. The never-ceasing rain has done what it can do best and soaked Sherlock's coat completely. He is dripping wet, his curls heavy with moisture, and shivering from the cold. His eyes are clouded by fatigue, his hair ruffled by the fierce wind. He looks exhausted and grim, and John is worried by the spark of despair in Sherlock's eyes.

The detective steeples his fingers, fingertips poising at his chin, and takes a deep breath. "DI Leyton agrees that we are not faced with a simple accident," he says. "It was a deliberate attack. The car was shot at. It is unclear whether its passengers or its tyres were intended to be hit, but since Mycroft is missing…" He stops to heave a breath, and stares out into the heavy rain. Greg examines him through the rear view mirror, wondering when he had last seen Sherlock so rattled.

John turns in his seat at Sherlock's last words. His friend sounded as unaffected and detached as ever, but he has noticed Sherlock´s frantic pacing, his chain smoking, his dark frown and his shaking hands. The detective has been trying very hard to keep up his professional appearance towards the policemen, but John won't be fooled by sharp remarks and Sherlock's deliberately elegant movements. He has witnessed his friend being on edge for several weeks now, and he won´t ignore the signs of his desperation.

"Sometimes people lose their memory when they experience a crash, and wander away from the scene," he remarks in an attempt to lighten his friend's mood, but Sherlock shakes his head.

"The medical team reported that the rear door on the right was closed when they arrived. If Mycroft had wandered off, he would most certainly not have been in any condition to remember to shut the door behind him," he replies.

"Abducted, then," Lestrade concludes, and Sherlock looks at him. "Most likely," he acknowledges grimly. "Fletcher's men are currently trying to trail my brother with their dogs. His tracker seems to have been deactivated."

John glances at his friend. "We are losing time," he states.

Sherlock nods. His eyes follow the small figures of two men who are leading their dogs over the stretch of asphalt which ends on the ridge. He is weary beyond the point where he can focus on his thoughts, and he feels guilt and fear nagging at his conscience. He would never have wished to endanger his brother. The people who planned this attack must have researched Mycroft's schedule thoroughly. Whatever they are planning to achieve, to Sherlock it looks suspiciously like the next blow to stop him, to bring him to his knees. Mycroft would never want Sherlock to relent. He has told his younger brother time and again that, if he were ever held hostage, he would happily prefer death over being used to blackmail the government. But if Moran is behind this… Sherlock runs a hand through his wet hair. He needs to think, he needs to draw a conclusion…

John's hand on his arm stops his rambling thoughts. "Sherlock. Robson is here," the doctor says gently, and Sherlock opens the window to look at the man who has approached their car. The ageing agent wears a grim expression and nods in greeting.

"There's nothing," he says. "They must have used a car. The dogs lost the scent."

"And if they did, he could be anywhere," Sherlock muses, and Robson nods again.

Sherlock wrinkles his nose, his eyes darkening to a deeper shade of blue. "Thank you. We'd still be better searching the area."

Robson looks back at him, his expression serious. "I don't think you should stay, lad. You look awful."

"He looks like shit, in fact," Greg agrees, and Sherlock flashes him an annoyed glance. But John immediately takes advantage of Lestrade's remark. "You are dripping wet, you just recently had a fever because you've been exerting yourself too much, and you have been advised to avoid any extensive strain on your heart less than a month ago," he says. "We'd better get home. There's nothing left for you to do here, anyway."

Sherlock stares back at the doctor, eyebrows raised, but finally and hesitatingly nods and bids Robson goodbye. Greg, who has half expected him to put up a fight, opens the window, shouts his goodbye towards one of the officers, and starts the engine.

John heaves a relieved sigh on seeing Sherlock so easily convinced. Even though he can still feel the nervous energy the younger man radiates, he can read from the way Sherlock slumps into the seat how worn he really is.


It is nearly dark and still drizzling when Lestrade drops Sherlock and John off at Baker Street. Sherlock doesn't argue that he can perfectly take care of himself when John orders him to strip off his clothes and get into a hot shower. He drinks the tea John offers him in silence, and obediently swallows painkillers, but refuses to have dinner. Instead, he retreats to his room, where John can hear him for the next hour pacing the space between his bed and the window.

Two hours later John, who has fallen asleep on the sofa, wakes with a start. He has been dreaming of Sherlock. The dream was peaceful at first, of a winter night with his flatmate curled up on the sofa, listening to music on his IPod, while John is typing away at his blog. The peace was shattered by thick black clouds of smoke which obstructed John's vision and swallowed Sherlock's relaxed features. John had cried out to his flatmate, trying to reach him, when his hand connected with a pile of books and he woke with a start, the familiar odour of cigarette smoke tickling his nose.

He opens his eyes to the sight of his friend, sitting fully dressed in his favourite chair, smoking. He regards John's startled gaze, takes another drag and stubs the cigarette out on a saucer.

"Just the one, John," he says. "I can't leave the flat tonight. I can't sleep or think, either."

John frowns. "Did you plan on getting out?" he asks.

"I wanted to contact the homeless network, yes. If Mycroft is in London they might be able to find him," Sherlock answers firmly.

John, who sees his worst suspicions confirmed, sits up and clasps his hands, his elbows resting on his knees. He looks at Sherlock, who has leaned back in his chair, his eyes on his violin. He won't look at me, John thinks grimly, and dismisses his anger at Sherlock's renege on his promise that he will not smoke in the flat. He can't be so pedantic as to reprimand his friend for a minor lapse when he has, in fact, managed to avoid a far more serious one, can he?

They stay silent for a minute, John at a loss for what to say, and Sherlock feeling he has already revealed far too much of his inner turmoil. After a while, he leans forward again and pierces John with a steady, sea-blue gaze. "I was desperate for an escape," he says. "But I won't try to chase my demons away with a hit. Moran already won once when he manipulated me with the drugs. I am not going to let him win again. And I need to stay alert – for Mycroft," he adds.

The detective's voice falters, and John's heart lurches out towards him.

"He won't win. We'll find Mycroft. It will all be fine," he says, chiding himself for the cliché, but Sherlock smiles wearily and sends John a look of gratitude. "I'd better be off to bed, then," he says and gets up, tiredly ruffling his curls.

John, who remains on the sofa, silently wonders whether his friend will need yet another dose of a depressant to get some rest.


The first thing he notices is heavy rain hitting leaves and soft earth, muffled by a solid structure, either wood or brick - he can't tell. The air is stale. Inside a building, then. Small, it seems, as the rain sounds as if it is just short of hitting his head. Of course, a roof made of corrugated metal, hence the noise. It is unpleasant but not unbearably cold where he lies, and he is not shackled.

Why should he be shackled when he was travelling in his official car? Oh, yes, the screeching sound of tyres on the asphalt. The Jaguar must have crashed. But why is he here instead of in hospital? Enemies, adversaries, rivals – far too many, and far too many interested in his downfall.

He needs to open his eyes, to deduce his surroundings. Then probably he will know what happened and why. His sight is blurred. Bad sign. He is most likely concussed. His arm hurts and he can feel a bandage. But there were no doctors… Ah, they (whoever they are) removed the tracker. Cut it out. The one which signals his location. Might leave an ugly scar. Don't think of scars. Think of them. They were clever. But not so clever as to remove the tracker which will go off after 36 hours. Good. There´s hope there. Perhaps they were even so stupid as to leave him his blackberry. If he tries very carefully to reach it, he can send a message.

No, no, stupid. Of course they would not have left the device on him. But something is poking into his thigh. He just needs to grab it. Not a good idea to move - aggravates his headache even more. If only he could get up… No, he needs to find out now. Not strong enough to haul himself upright. Finally. It worked. Open your eyes, Mycroft. Look at their funny little present. A mobile, how innovative. Some kind of sick joke, rather. Why? Why a mobile? Try to keep up, will you. Oh, I do, brother mine. But I´m tired. At least you are safe.

His eyes close and he slips into a welcoming abyss of oblivion.