He waited as the information sunk in. If what Holmes was saying was true, then Mycroft was in grave danger. Mycroft was an intelligent man, superior to Holmes himself in that aspect, and he knew that Holmes would easily decipher the nuances in the telegram. But how was Mycroft able to send the telegram if-
Holmes interrupted my thoughts with an answer to my unfinished and unspoken question. "My guess is that Mycroft informed his captors that he was to have dinner with me in the near future and that his absence would warn me that something was amiss, thus putting me on the scent early in the game. His captors most likely allowed him to send the telegram with the hopes that it would put me off. This leads me to believe that Moriarty was not present at the time of my brother's abduction. Moriarty would have overseen the writing of the telegram, and would not have been fooled by the French, which was what alarmed me most." He arose from his chair and began to pace again, mumbling things that I could not interpret. He remained in this state for a few minutes, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I was sitting merely inches from where he was pacing. Suddenly, he stopped pacing and spoke. "Watson, I must go out now and see what I can discover regarding Mycroft's whereabouts. I recommend that you go back to your bed and try to sleep for a few more hours. I'm going to need you well-rested and alert in the days ahead."
"But Holmes, it must be before three in the morning. What could you possibly hope to accomplish at such an hour?"
When he spoke, it was softly, and with resignation. "Whether or not I accomplish anything is unimportant. I am unable to sleep while my brother is in danger, and I may as well put the time to some use. Good night, Watson. I will wake you in the morning." And with that, he left me sitting on his bed, hopelessly lost in thought.
I arose and slowly made my way to my bedroom. I tried in vain to sleep, but I found it very hard to still my racing mind. Holmes' brother was missing and the fate of England rested upon his ability to find him. I envisioned a future where England had crumbled and evil ran rampant in the streets. I quickly shook the thought from my head and told myself that Holmes would be able to find Mycroft. He had to.
After what seemed like an hour, I finally fell into a fitful sleep, tossing and turning as visions of the future flitted across my mind's eye.
I awoke in the morning to the sound of shattering glass. I leapt out of bed, hastily dressed myself and ran out into the sitting room to see what had happened. What I saw caused me to stop short. Holmes was leaning over the shattered remains of one of his chemistry experiments, with his shirt sleeves rolled up, his head in his hands, and his left forearm bleeding freely. It was a sight that sent chills down my spine. The man that I had come to know and love was losing hope. As I stood staring at him, it occurred to me that the wounds in his arm were rather vicious, and that I would have to tend to them soon. But I did not want to startle him in his present state. So I made my way to the kitchen where I poured a tall glass of brandy. On my way back into the sitting room, I stopped by my room to grab my medical kit.
I approached Holmes as if he were a wounded animal. I was unsure if he would welcome my presence or perceive me as an intruder. When I neared him, I set my medical kit down and placed my hand gently on his shoulder as I offered him the glass. With a heavy sigh of resignation, he took the glass. I guided him to a chair, where he collapsed. I waited for him to drink the brandy, and then I began to tend to his arm. He did not so much as flinch while I cleaned the glass from his wrist and forearm. Only after I cleaned and bandaged his arm did he begin to speak.
"I have never felt so insignificant and incompetent in my entire life. All that I was able to uncover this morning was that Moriarty was indeed the one who oversaw the abduction of Mycroft. I found nothing regarding his whereabouts or his condition. For all I know, he's lying dead somewhere."
I could sense the frustration in his monotone voice, as well as see it in his vacant expression. Holmes had been wrong in some of his prior cases, but at least he had had something to go on, some clue to lead him to his erroneous conclusions. Now, he had nothing. He had no clues, and no ideas. And this was the time that it mattered most.