WARNINGS: Older Man/Younger Woman, Past Child Abduction, Past Child Abuse, Past Kidnapping, Murder, Gore and Blood, Past Torture, Indoctrination, Child Soldiers, Consensual Underage Sex, Past Forced Sterilization

I know that all sounds depressing but there's going to be some cute fluff in here too.

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Sherlock Holmes continued to pluck at the strings of his violin for the second hour running while his right foot tapped absent-mindedly on the floor of 221B Baker Street, probably annoying Missus Hudson down stairs but Sherlock didn't much care. The sound was similar to that of two shards of glass clashing against one another, or at least to anyone who wasn't Sherlock himself; a steady and repetitive twang. He stared straight ahead into the kitchen from his chair while John made the tea that the anti-social genius had demanded only a few minutes earlier; God he needed a case! Big case, little case, any goddamn case! The key to his last had been the wife's bra, elementary, easy, Lestrade could have solved it. Boring! Sherlock needed something more stimulating and less snooze worthy. Never had he wanted to see Gary or Gavin, whatever the hell his name was, so much.

"You've got to stop sulking, Sherlock." Said John as he handed the detective his cup before taking his usual chair where he leant back on the Union Jack pillow. "There'll be a case soon. I'm sure the second Greg needs you he'll be straight over to ask for your help."

"I want a murder case, John. Something interesting!"

He set his violin down – finally thought John. If it had gone on any longer he'd have no doubt woken Rosie. Sherlock drained his mug of tea only to slam it back down.

"I know, but people don't just drop dead because you're bored."

"I know, it's so selfish of them." John rolled his eyes at that and reached for his own cup to take a sip. "Don't drink that."

"What? Why?" Watson shot the curly-haired detective a confused expression.

"Because I want a kiss and frankly that overly milky concoction you call tea is disgusting."

John sighed but it quickly gave way to a smile, that was just who Sherlock was and part of the reason John Watson loved him. After Mary's death he'd been so angry, had hated Sherlock but they were connected, something that no amount of bad could ever break and eventually John had realized that his love for the macabre genius would always win out. He'd always love Mary but there was plenty of room in his heart for Sherlock Holmes as well. He'd never forget what had happened in that aquarium... but he had forgiven; it was what Mary would have wanted.

With that soft smile still on his face John set the cup down carefully, got up and went to his lover who quickly accepted the kiss, soft but loving, Sherlock pulled the doctor down onto his lap and gripped him tightly.

"Happy?" John questioned with a glint in his eyes.

"When I get a case I'll be happy, but I'm happier."

They kissed again letting their foreheads touch, somehow when John kissed him Sherlock's mind found peace, the world fell away and his brain managed to slow down for a few blissful moments. Usually words zoomed around his head with only a quarter of them ever adding up in his chaotic mind, but the second his lover touched him there was only one word left left; John.

His arms tightened around John's waist while the doctor's hand came up to cup Sherlock's cheek keeping them close together, chest to chest. Sherlock could feel his boyfriend's slight five o'clock shadow against his cheeks but he couldn't bring himself to care, it helped to send little bursts of electricity through his skin allowing him to relax; and at least it wasn't that damn moustache.

John licked along the seam of his lover's lips seeking entrance that was quickly granted letting their breath mingle, Sherlock, of course, tasted of the tea he'd just downed while John still tasted faintly of his breakfast toast as well as something unique to one Doctor John Watson; Sherlock would never get enough of that.

Without warning there was a God awful bang mixed with the sharp sound of splintering wood.

"Hey! You can't go up there!"

Suddenly everything grounded to a halt when they heard that loud thud and it didn't take a mind like Sherlock's to figure out it came from the front door being kicked in, the bell had probably rung but Sherlock had yet again shot it. John hopped up from Sherlock's lap expecting some sort of fight but the younger Holmes knew Missus Hudson would have screamed if there were a real threat, instead, her yelling was more anger and annoyance driven. Still, he stood as well and moved over to the door just in time for it to fly open revealing a rather stunningly beautiful young woman... covered in blood and dripping on the floors. Sherlock nodded at Missus Hudson who stood halfway down the stairs dismissing her but she just continued until she was only a few steps behind the strange newcomer. The woman had clearly been shot in the abdomen and looked only a few seconds from passing out, face pale from blood loss and panting lungs but none of the pain reached her eyes.

"Can we help?" The great detective asked rather nonchalantly as John slipped into his doctor mode as his lover had taken to calling it.

"Mycroft." Breathed the stranger in an accent John couldn't identify. "... get Mycroft Holmes."

Before anyone could say another word the woman collapsed with a thud face first leaving John to dive to her aid, he checked her pulse and screamed at Sherlock to get his medical kit, it took three attempts before John actually got him to move. Missus Hudson just stood there looking worried... as well as somewhat irritated there was blood all over the floor. Sherlock raced back and dropped the kit down beside his boyfriend, mind already working on possibilities. If the elder Holmes brother was involved it could have been just about anything.

"What has your brother done now, Sherlock?" John growled without looking up, voice tainted by worry and concern, he pulled the girl into his arms bridal style then quickly deposited her down on the black leather couch before pulling up her tank top and setting to work on what he quickly realised was a gun shot.

"I have no idea." The dark-haired man finally replied.

"I hope she's alright. I'm charging her for the door, she kicked it down."

"Not now, Missus Hudson!" Sherlock shouted as he usually did but it no longer effected Missus Hudson, she just sighed and went back downstairs.

"She's exhausted and has lost a significant amount of blood, nothing looks too damaged so I can get this bullet out, patch her up here and start getting some fluids into her but she really should go to a hospital, Sherlock."

"Let's hold off on hospitals until I get Mycroft down here. He's got some explaining to do."

"Greg too. If we've got someone shooting random women in the streets of London, he should know." Muttered the doctor without looking up; hands coated in a thin layer of crimson.

~X~

Sometime later found Holmes the elder walking up the stairs to 221B Baker street wearing his usual perfectly tailored three-piece suit – this time a dark grey herringbone with pale green shirt and tie – an umbrella securely in his right hand; his own iconic symbol. When he stepped into the main room he found John making yet more tea and Sherlock staring out the window as he often did when thinking, the unconscious woman laying on their couch caused his eyebrows to raise, he'd wondered where the blood on the stairs had come from and the cause of Missus Hudson's missing door.

"What's this about a girl?" Mycroft asked in a rather detached tone, he had better things to do.

Sherlock turned to glare at his brother.

"Oh, you mean the one screaming your name?"

John appeared from the kitchen having forgotten about the tea in favour of preventing another Holmes brothers fight; maybe he could put that on his CV.

"She wasn't screaming it." The Doctor signed. "I believe her exact words were 'Mycroft, get Mycroft Holmes' then she passed out."

"Know who she is, dear brother? One of your lackeys? Doubt it, she spoke with a Romanian accent." The detective spoke a little too quickly but everyone had grown used to that; just another peculiarity of Sherlock Holmes.

Everything fell silent for a time as Mycroft looked at the young woman with those deductive eyes of his, he was the smart one after all. He set his ever-present umbrella against the couch. The first thing he noticed – the first thing anyone who'd ever seen her had noticed – was how stunningly beautiful the woman was, even laying there covered in drying crimson blood it couldn't be denied. Raven colored hair with ever such a slight curl to it hung around her face like a cloak, the bottoms of which had been recently cut. Her angelically smooth porcelain skin just seemed to show itself off. Mycroft leaned down and pulled back one of her eyelids surrounded by long lashes to reveal bold green eyes, almost an impossible green, they looked like two freshly polished emeralds staring blankly into the distance and around the very edge of her iris was a ring of black that only made them appear brighter. Stunning, Mycroft's mind muttered; there was something distantly familiar about them. Her body was athletically thin which only worked to make her chest seem larger – another thing most people would have noticed quickly. The woman had no jewellery and only wore a fitted grey tank top – that was now blood stained – and a pair of worn black jeans and boots, over the couch arm a denim waistcoat had been slung, drying blood covered it as well.

Annoyingly, Mycroft could tell very little about her which was frightfully unusual for him, he got the basics of course but nothing deeper. Her clothing had been purchased in Montenegro judging by the label in her tank top and waistcoat but everything was at least five years old, her boots however, were brand new, hardly a scuff on the soles. There were small callouses on both her hand indicating she worked with them a lot but nothing like hard labour; the lack of a sun tan ruled that out too. This young woman certainly didn't have a regular occupation. Then there was her age; somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. That was just about all he could gather from her.

Mycroft straightened himself but didn't look away from her as he spoke.

"Unfortunately, brother mine, I have no idea who this woman is."

"I can hardly read anything from her myself." And didn't he hated that. "She had a gun in her pocket though, a Ruger, it's on the desk" Sherlock sighed as his brother lifted her arms in search of tattoos or scars. John watched on. "Then there is that Romanian accent, it wasn't quite right, doubt anyone would notice but I've been studying Romanian, Polish and Russian accents as of late and it's not quite right."

Just then Greg bounded up the stairs and straight into the room, as soon as he saw the unconscious young woman his eyebrow raised. The Detective Inspector nodded to Mycroft in a silent greeting, somehow the two had become reluctant friends though neither one publicised it.

Finally Holmes the elder tilted her head to the side and pulled her hair out of the way to see the back of her neck, there he found six little numbers tattooed in jet black ink hidden away in her hairline, Mycroft paused going stiff and very silent.

"No." He finally said, low and almost whispered, it certainly got the attention of Sherlock, Doctor Watson and Lestrade. "It can't be."

Quickly Mycroft peered closer at the six numbers; 132601, the detective and doctor shot their eyebrows up when the elder man esentially yanked up her top and ran a hand down her left thigh in search of something, his movements suddenly quickened and became a tad panicked. On her abdomen, almost directly underneath the wound John had patched up, was an old gunshot scar while under the fabric of her left thigh he found another raised scar indicating further previous bullet wounds.

"Do you make a habit of feeling up unconscious women, Mycroft?"

Sherlock asked teasingly but Mycroft didn't dignify it with a response, instead his eyes went wide with what could only be called shock, Mycroft never let his emotions be seen so plainly and it actually worried Sherlock and John.

"It can't be." He whispered again almost as though he were trying to convince himself.

"What are you talking about, Myc?" Asked Greg but he was utterly ignored by everyone in the room, even Watson.

Searching the deep pockets of her oversized denim waistcoat he found the right empty – probably where the Ruger had been – while the other held a grey scarf.

"The scarf doesn't seem to fit either." Sherlock began, mind still focused on solving the puzzle before them rather than wondering why Mycroft wasn't acting like his normal stoic self. "It's very well made, lambswool in fact, English too, I'd say Mulberry and it's probably from Harrods. However it's a mans. The scarf is old yet well cared for. You know it?"

"Yes." Responded Mycroft as he finally turned to face his brother, Lestrade and John. "It's mine." Mycroft paused for a second shooting the woman a fleeting glance. "Little brother, I was wrong, I know exactly who she is."

He retrieved his umbrella almost seemingly for support.

"Well, you going to tell us?" Questioned John.

"Yeah, Myc, if you know who she is you need to tell us. We still don't know who shot her, they might hurt someone else."

The taller man's deep eyes, a combination of blue and grey, looked back to the fabric in his hand.

"Artemis."