Chapter 13

Greg threw his car into park a few blocks from Trafalgar Square. Even though it was possibly not the wisest decision to be seen in the same area as Sherlock, he just wanted to know that he got off okay and things didn't go wrong from the start. As he turned the ignition off, he took a moment to calm himself before exiting the car. Trafalgar Square was a bustling tourist attraction filled with people enjoying the sites in the early evening, making it the perfect spot to hide away or catch a ride with someone without being too conspicuous. Greg fidgeted with his keys in his pocket as he made his way down the crowded sidewalk that finally spilled onto the plaza.

He spotted Sherlock sitting on the ledge to the fountain fairly quickly. The awkward kid stood out slightly, but mostly because he was glowering at anyone that got near to him. Greg smiled and shook his head, making his way toward Sherlock's general area, trying not to draw too much attention to himself. There was a small group of kids that looked to be about Sherlock's age, milling around the fountain, talking, laughing, getting to be stupid teenagers. Then there was Sherlock, who looked so out of place next to them. Greg could see the kid was eyeing them with disdain at their rambunctious laughter. He only hoped that Sherlock would find a group of friends to connect to; hell, Greg would just settle for him to have one good friend just so that Sherlock could know what it was like. Until then, Greg would do what he could to be that person for Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced away from the group of teenagers and spotted Greg from his spot at the fountain. Greg nodded towards Sherlock but remained where he was, not wanting to give himself away if Volkov's men were there. Sherlock pursed his lips but nodded back at Greg. The kid looked nervous, and Greg was sure he didn't look much better, but they needed to do it this way for now. It was one night, and Sherlock was confident in his abilities to get in and out of Volkov's home without harm to himself, so Greg chose to believe him too.

Something grabbed Sherlock's attention and Greg turned back to see a black town car parked at the plaza's edge. Sherlock turned back to Greg and offered a small smile that Greg returned. The last few months with Sherlock replayed through his mind in a blur. There was so much still left that Greg wanted to say, but instead, all he could do was give the kid an encouraging nod and hope that would be enough. Sherlock grabbed his backpack and headed off for the town car, trying to appear oblivious to being watched by a Police Sergeant. Greg was close to halfway between the fountain and the car, so it didn't look overly conspicuous when Sherlock veered off to avoid a group of tourists, giving the kid an opportunity to make a show of accidentally bumping into him.

"Sorry, sir," he apologized loud enough for others in the area to hear.

"It's fine," Greg replied slowly, not exactly sure what the kid was getting at with that maneuver. He watched as Sherlock made his way out of the Square and slid into the black car. This was it. The kid would be fine. Sherlock would be fine, he kept repeating to himself over and over until the town car was out of sight.

Now, with nothing left to do, he opted to head back out to the Yard to monitor the Volkov house's surveillance. He just needed to know that the kid was able to get in and out okay. When he reached his car, he pulled his car keys out from his pants pocket and frowned when he found a stray cigarette in there. It would have been nice to have had that yesterday, he thought, and then closed his eyes in an annoyed realization, reaching to pat the inside of his jacket. He pulled out his missing half carton of smokes that the kid had nicked off of him yesterday.

"Oh, you sneaky little bastard," he laughed as he got situated in his car. When he flipped open the lid, he pulled out a note that had what he assumed to be Sherlock's, surprisingly neat, cursive on the inside.

Don't go through the rest of the pack tonight. I'll be safe. Promise. - Sherlock

Greg read the note repeatedly until the letters all blurred together. He carefully folded the message up and slipped it into his breast pocket, giving him some hope as he headed back to the Yard for the evening

Sherlock warily eyed the two brutes in the front seat of the car as they drove through the streets of London towards Volkov's personal home. He was surprised to be chauffeured by two of Volkov's personal guards. He found it slightly worrisome that Volkov thought that it was necessary to send two of his strongest to collect a somewhat scrawny teenager. Hopefully, it didn't mean anything too dire, and regardless, it was all beyond Sherlock's control for the time being.

He directed his attention towards the window and watched as the city passed by in a blur. In the quiet of the car, he found his thoughts drifting towards Lestrade again. While he was glad that Lestrade was able to see him off, he found himself wishing for more. Unable to get much sleep the previous night, Sherlock had plenty of time to think about what life would be like with Lestrade after this was over. What kind of man Lestrade would be, what kind of direct correlation that would have on himself having a dad- Sherlock winced at the thought, not because he abhorred the idea, but because he hadn't anticipated becoming so attached to the Police Sergeant. Now, he had a taste of what having a dad was actually like, someone who he could readily rely on, who had earned the title of dad. Sherlock found that he wasn't eager to let him go.

Then there was Lestrade to consider. Did the man even want that kind of attachment with Sherlock? Yes, Lestrade had been quick to jump to the guardianship, and he was currently searching for a larger flat just to accommodate Sherlock for the future. But what happens when this is over, when there isn't Volkov to worry about and undercover work to keep himself occupied with? What happens when the excitement is over, and Lestrade got to know the real Sherlock? Would he still be there then, Sherlock thought as the car rolled to a stop outside an impressively ornate brick house.

The house appeared to have three stories, the brick and the trim all done in white with the occasional black accent. The front garden was manicured to perfection with deep red rose bushes climbing a trellis that framed the front door. Sherlock had never been to Volkov's personal home before. He'd been to warehouses, office buildings, and other smaller areas where his deductions had led to the loss of several of Volkov's men; but never had he been extended an invite to the man's personal home. Gauging from the other neighbors' homes, he doubted that they realized a high-class drug dealer lived amongst them.

The two guards in the front seat exited the car and the one on his side opened the door for him. "Out," the guard instructed in Russian.

Sherlock obeyed the command and was curious as to whether the guard knew he was able to understand him or not. Perhaps Nickoli had slipped in passing, or the man simply assumed Sherlock also hailed from the same country as him. Either way, Sherlock decided it was best to keep his mouth shut for the time being.

Just before entering the front door, the guard behind Sherlock pulled him to a stop by his backpack while the other guard continued towards the front door.

"Your bag," he demanded in English. This one, surprisingly, had no trace of a Russian accent.

Sherlock slid his backpack off of his shoulder and dangled it by his index finger for the guard to take. The guard reached for the bag, only for Sherlock to let it slide off of his finger and hit the drive with a thud. He supposed he shouldn't be winding the thugs up too much, but sometimes he just couldn't help himself.

"Thin ice," the man threatened him, shaking his head. He reached over to rifle through the bag.

Sherlock looked down at the balding head of the man. American if the accent was anything to go by, former military experience, divorced, had two cats, doing this job for money, not the drugs.

"Arms out, spread your legs," the guard ordered gruffly. Sherlock obeyed while the man patted him down, looking for any contraband that could do harm to Volkov on the inside. Once satisfied, he got up and shoved Sherlock towards the front door where his Russian counterpart was waiting.

Sherlock looked around the grand entryway and was greeted with clean white marble floors and decorative blood red roses in a gold vase. The vase and flowers were placed on top of one of those dainty stands in the middle of the entryway that was only big enough to hold the flowers. Russian voices could be heard to his right where the grand dining room was, that of the Russian guard that brought him here and the silky voice of one Alexander Volkov. Sherlock found a fascination with the roses placed in the center of the room and went to inspect them closer, the American guard watching him closely, remaining at his spot by the front door. He picked up the vase somewhat carelessly, inspecting the gold patterns that went across the ceramic, intricate piece, trying to wait for the perfect opportunity to plant the first bug.

"Careful, Shezza," Volkov's svelte voice traveled across the hall. Sherlock pretended to stumble slightly, giving himself the opportunity to place the small listening device in the vase before righting it back on the stand. "That vase is worth more money than you've brought into this organization."

Sherlock stepped away from the expensive piece and threw a confident smirk in Volkov's direction. Showtime.

"My boy," Volkov greeted, crossing the entryway to give Sherlock a welcoming embrace. "I heard you had a bit of a stumble," he chided, patting Sherlock on the cheek before directing him to the dining room where he came from.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed, "Blasted police," he gruffed.

"All that matters is you know where you belong," Volkov affirmed Sherlock, following him into the dining area.

Another person stepped just out of Sherlock's line of sight and he turned back just in time to catch another younger man, approximately Sherlock's height and hair color, wearing clothes that were similar to his own. He met the American guard who passed off Sherlock's backpack to the man. Sherlock felt his stomach go cold at the sight of his look-alike. The younger man gave him a sad look as he sat in a chair in the entryway, waiting on instructions for his next move. They were going to try and pull one over on the police. He slowed his steps but was shoved further into the room by Volkov behind him, so he turned back to face the room where he had been led.

"It's just a shame that you decided you belonged on the wrong side," Volkov's voice dropped to a threatening level.

Sherlock quickly swiveled back to Volkov but was stopped by that of the fist of the Russian guard. He felt himself begin to fall but the world went black before he hit the ground.

Greg got off of the lift and made his way to the conference room where he knew the narcotics surveillance team would be eagerly awaiting the bugs that Sherlock had to go live. Greg told himself that he would just stay long enough to make sure that the kid got out okay. He was exhausted after these last couple of weeks from hell and needed to try and take a night to get his bearings in check. His stomach growled at the smell of pizza wafting through the doors of the conference room, reminding him that he hadn't had much to eat today. He entered the room to find Jackson, one of the narcotics Sergeants, and surprisingly, Mike Stamford.

"Mike!" he greeted excitedly and extended a hand that the other man took eagerly. "Didn't expect to see you up here, mate."

"Well, I ran into the pizza delivery chap downstairs," he explained after finishing his bite of pizza. "Earned me a slice for bringing it up here for you guys."

"Rightfully so," Greg agreed, grabbing his own slice of pepperoni. "It's nice to see a friendly face up here," he told the doctor, smirking at Jackson when the man turned to give him a glare from his spot at the table. "Do we have anything yet?" he asked the Inspector who was seated next to the two way radio that was on, waiting on a report from the undercover officers that were on the ground.

"Sherlock just entered the house. We have undercover agents that are using the guise of landscapers working on a house down from Volkov's. None of the bugs have gone live yet," Jackson informed him before turning back to the other Sergeant, effectively ignoring Greg.

"Sherlock?" Mike asked him curiously. "As in your kid?"

"Yeah, well, he's not technically speaking mine, but," Greg paused looking for the right words, nervously scratching at the back of his neck with his free hand. "It's a bit of a story," he settled on with a shrug of his shoulders.

"You'll have to tell me it some time," Mike told him with a smile. "He seemed like a real bright kid when I met him in the lab."

"A little too bright for his own good, but yeah, he's a good kid," Greg replied, unable to stop the smile from spreading on his face.

The sound of static flared to life through the radio and Greg turned quickly to look at it, waiting eagerly for any sign of Sherlock to come through. Shortly after, the muffled sounds of at least two Russian males came over the radio.

"The Russian translator wasn't able to come in tonight," the random narcotics Sergeant told Jackson. "He told me to just bring the recording to him in the morning and he'd make us a transcript."

Jackson nodded, listening intently to the radio in front of him.

Greg was startled when he felt Mike give him a reassuring pat on his shoulder, finally allowing himself to exhale the breath he'd been holding. He gave Stamford an appreciative nod and found himself thankful for the younger man's steady presence beside him.

"You sure you're okay, mate?" Mike asked him, probably concerned to see that Greg's face had paled with light perspiration that had also broken out over his forehead.

Greg nodded, setting his pizza down on the conference room table, suddenly no longer hungry. The Russian conversation continued for several minutes. The anxiety that Greg felt from being so close, yet having no idea what was going on, caused his anxious leg to twitch while he remained standing.

"That will be all, Shezza," a smooth, male voice came over the radio in English this time. "Thank you for stopping by," the voice continued on cheerfully. "It's so nice to see that you're back with your family."

Greg squinted his eyes as he tried to focus on the voices coming through the radio. He waited anxiously to hear Sherlock's voice, but instead just heard the closing of a heavy sounding wooden door.

Greg shook his head, "Something's wrong," he told the room, looking directly at Jackson. Greg continued to glare threatening daggers at the Inspector until the other man broke off eye contact.

"I need eyes on the boy," Jackson ordered the undercover agents that were at the other end of the two-way radio.

Greg waited impatiently, clenching his fists while he waited for their report. Jackson kept his eyes fixed on the radio, refusing to look at Lestrade.

"Jackson, I swear, if something happened to-" Greg started angrily, but the voice of one of the undercover agents cut in over him.

"Eyes are on the target. The kid is fine. They are loading him back up into the town car now," the agent reported.

Jackson leveled a see-I-told-you-so gaze at Lestrade, but Greg shook his head.

"You don't know the kid like I do," Greg started angrily. "He can't keep his smart gob shut, it's a disease," he bit out with a sarcastic, but still angry, laugh. "There's no way he would have stayed quiet after getting dismissed by Volkov."

"Sergeant, I think you're too close to this," Jackson told him, shaking his head, but Greg ground his jaw and clenched his fists tighter. "You're sure it was Sherlock?" Jackson asked the agent to verify through the radio again while keeping his eyes fixed on Lestrade.

"Yes, Inspector," the agent confirmed. "His face was partially obstructed by the guards, but the same height, hair, clothes, and backpack. Nothing seemed unusual."

Right, Greg snorted, nothing seemed unusual about sending a teenager into a house with a dangerous drug lord.

"Thank you," Jackson told the undercover officer. "Stay vigilant, just in case," he added on at the end.

"Yes, sir," the officer replied back before ending the conversation.

"I'm telling you, something is wrong," Greg clapped the back of his right hand into the palm of his left, emphasizing the last few words with muffled claps. "He was in there for what? Half an hour?"

"Sergeant, you don't know the details behind the meeting, and we likely won't until we get the full story from Sherlock. For all we know he was given an assignment and will be back later tonight or tomorrow," Jackson argued.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose and took a long inhale, trying to control his emotions. Getting angry wouldn't do him any good right now.

"I think you need to take the night off," Jackson said, looking at Stamford. "That's an order, Sergeant," he finished sternly. "We've got at least one bug in Volkov's home and we'll listen for any signs that something is amiss. In the meantime, you need to get some rest."

"You know, I was actually thinking about hitting the pub myself," Stamford piped up, giving Greg a hopeful look.

"Fine," Greg muttered, nodding at Mike. "I could use a pint," he admitted before looking back at Jackson.

"You'll be the first to know if something is amiss," Jackson told him before he could say anything.

"I'll be back in the morning," Greg told him with a point. "I want to know what the translator had to say about that conversation."

"I expected nothing less," came Jackson's monotonous reply, accompanied by an eye roll.

"Right," Greg nodded, feeling helpless with the current situation. "Lead the way," he told Mike tiredly, waving his arm towards the door and followed him out the door to try and relax.

Greg remained silent as he followed Stamford to the lift. The voice of doubt kept nagging at him from the back of his mind, telling him that something was wrong. The voice did its best to drown out all other reasonable thought, and it was exhausting. Hopefully, it was nothing more than Greg's own personal worries and doubts combined with total exhaustion. As much as he hated to admit it, Jackson was probably right. He was too close to this. Besides, he only knew how Sherlock was with him. How he was with Volkov or the other Russians could be a completely different persona. Maybe Shezza was quieter and reserved than his normal self.

"It'll be alright, mate," Mike told him with a clap to his shoulder. "Sounds like you need a night off. Don't worry too much about Sherlock. A smart lad like him, I'm sure he's alright."

Greg looked at the doctor with a tired smile, "I hope you're right, mate."

Sherlock slowly blinked as he came back to consciousness. The room spun slightly, making him slam his eyes shut and hold his breath in an attempt to keep the nausea at bay. He hadn't expected to be taken out like that so soon into his first meeting with Volkov since he'd returned. It would not bode well for what was left of his time with the Russian criminal. His only hope was that the listening device he was able to plant was working properly and had alerted the narcotics team to his current predicament.

"Took you long enough to come around," Volkov commented from somewhere off to his left.

Sherlock risked opening his eyes again, spotting Volkov reading a book on a settee. He eased himself up into a sitting position slowly, not wanting to make the nausea return. It appeared that he had been moved somewhere else in the house, likely a finished basement given that there were no windows in the area. The walls were done in exposed brick, painted white like the exterior of the home and decorated with expensive furniture made with dark mahogany. There was a medium-sized conference-style table across from him and a large ornate desk directly behind Volkov. He got the distinct feeling that he had landed himself in the belly of the beast.

"I know I've been away for several months," Sherlock started, wincing at how loud his own voice sounded to him. "I just hadn't anticipated that my departure would earn me such a warm welcome."

He was met with silence from the other man who continued to read his book, otherwise ignoring Sherlock completely. Sherlock frowned at the drug lord's actions. Volkov was known for being quiet, calculating… Sherlock just hadn't expected to be on the receiving end of it. He felt his heart rate quicken at the situation and Sherlock closed his eyes to try and calm down. He tried to tell himself Lestrade would have no doubt heard what had happened. Lestrade heard and he would be on his way.

Deep breath in.

Hold it…

Deep breath out.

Sherlock opened his eyes and found himself locking eyes with Volkov, who had set his book down and was now staring down at Sherlock like a predator waiting to pounce. Sherlock made his face as stoic as possible as to not give away the anxious current that was just below the surface.

"Interesting," Volkov remarked from his position on the settee. "So much has changed about you, Shezza," his face remained indifferent while his voice took on a disappointed tone.

Sherlock stood up from his spot on the floor, encouraged that the room was no longer spinning. He pressed tenderly on the side of his face where the goon had punched him. It was hot and throbbing, the telltale signs of swelling making themselves known. He'd be lucky if the swelling didn't take up most of his orbital socket.

"Come sit," Volkov ordered, pointing to an empty chair across from him.

Sherlock slowly made his way to the chair, keeping his gaze locked on Volkov across from him. The two stayed quiet, each taking the other in as they made their own determinations about the other.

"Why the brutal reception committee with your goons?" Sherlock finally asked him, breaking the silence. "I came straight back to you as soon as I could escape from rehab and the police," he rubbed at his painful eye again.

"Still..." Volkov drawled as he clasped his hands over his crossed legs. "You were with them for quite some time," he pointed out with a shrug. "Perhaps you made a friend?"

Sherlock snorted, "I don't have friends," he told the man with a roll of his eyes. "I did what I needed to," Sherlock held his chin a little higher. He didn't want to come across as weak to the man. "In the end, what matters is that I came back."

Volkov remained quiet across from him. Sherlock clenched his teeth at the other man's impassive façade. He had to get control of the situation. Surely there was something he could say, something to get on the upper hand of the situation without giving too much away.

"I came back," Sherlock repeated. "No one ever suspected anything to do with you and I never elaborated when pressed for information. I'm just some kid that ended up on the wrong side of the tracks," he finished with a shrug, feeling quite maudlin.

"Perhaps," Volkov trailed off.

"Perhaps?" Sherlock asked, feeling his anger begin to rise. "I'm telling you the truth. I didn't give you away to the police! In fact, I'm just a blip on their radar. Your name never even came up! And don't even get me started on the rehab facility. They were probably just as happy to find that I had left their services early as I did," he clenched his hands around his knees as he glared at Volkov across from him.

"Don't be so dramatic, Sherlock," Volkov waved him off with a flick of his hand.

The phrase stopped Sherlock in his tracks for a moment. It suddenly triggered memories of being in his parents' sitting room, finding out he was about to be outcast from his own home. Only, sitting across from someone such as Volkov, he suspected would have slightly more dire consequences.

"Perhaps you're right," Volkov nodded and then leaned forward, bringing him closer to Sherlock. "But would you like to know how I know you're lying?" he whispered, and Sherlock looked on at the man with skeptical eyes. "Let me see your hands," he demanded, pointing to Sherlock's hands that were still resting on his knees.

Sherlock looked on at the man suspiciously, but raised his hands and stretched them out between the two of them. Volkov looked on, tutting while shaking his head, and placed his hands under Sherlock's. Sherlock watched on and was proud of himself for not flinching when he felt the delicate palms of Volkov's gently touch his own. The two stayed there unmoving for a moment before Volkov looked up at Sherlock, his dark brown eyes gleaming under the lights of the basement.

"See?" Volkov asked Sherlock quietly. Before Sherlock could pull his hands back, Volkov snapped and grabbed him painfully by the wrists. "The Shezza I knew wouldn't have been able to stop himself."

"What are you talking about!" Sherlock yelled and fruitlessly tried to wring his hands free from the other man.

Volkov tightened his grasp even more on Sherlock's wrists, causing him to wince at the amount of force the other man was applying.

"The Shezza that I knew wouldn't have been able to survive the week without a little help," Volkov growled out, reminding Sherlock of his previous reliance on cocaine. "You could always be distinguished by the shaking of your hands," he kept on, twisting Sherlock's wrists in such a way that Sherlock tried to twist with the man or else he was certain the drug lord would break them. "Here you are, after being welcomed back, and you are clear as a country day."

"That doesn't mean anything," Sherlock argued back, failing to keep the frantic edge from creeping in.

Volkov shook his head, closing his eyes against what Sherlock was trying to tell him.

"I'm afraid you're wrong, my boy," he rasped darkly.

Before Sherlock could reply, Volkov cut him off with a quick practiced motion. The man's left hand snapped back at an angle against Sherlock's wrist that was not meant for that particular joint to go. White-hot pain radiated throughout Sherlock's entire body. Sherlock cried out against the sudden influx of pain and brought his right hand to his body, crouching over the broken appendage.

"Now," Volkov started up again, angling a hand under Sherlock's chin to bring Sherlock's tear-filled eyes up from his broken wrist. "You're going to tell me exactly what I want."

Sherlock closed his eyes and felt a lone tear fall down his face.

Deep breath in.

I'm so sorry, Lestrade.

Hold it…

I tried.

Deep breath out.

"Wow, that's quite the story," Mike Stamford said, taking a sip from his beer. "Poor kid has been through a lot. Sounds like you have too since meeting him."

Greg nodded and took a sip from his own beer. "Yeah, but he's a good kid. I'd be lying if I said it helped a bit keeping me distracted during the divorce. Hannah's happy though with her new boyfriend, and I've got Sherlock," he finished with a shrug. "Know it doesn't seem it, but looking back on it now, it seems like a fair trade."

Mike laughed and Greg smiled. God, it was nice to get out and interact with someone that wasn't Sherlock, on the narcotics team, or carried an umbrella with them. Mike was a good guy, too. He was nice to work with at a crime scene. Also, he occasionally came along to the homicide department's pub night, though Greg hadn't spent much one-on-one time with the forensics wiz.

"Thanks for this, mate," Greg told him with a raise of his glass. "As much as I hate to admit it, Jackson was right. I needed to get out of there. I was driving myself crazy."

"I think sending your kid into unknown danger warrants driving oneself just slightly off one's rocker," Mike nodded

Greg took another drink, emptying his pint. He had considered Sherlock his for a bit now. However, it was different hearing someone else acknowledging the same thing. It made him feel like what he was doing was right. It made his smile an almost permanent fixture on his face.

"You look happy," Mike started from the other side of the table. "Despite the immediate situation," he corrected quickly. "Not that we've hung out all that much, so it's completely not my place to pass any type of judgment on you," he quickly tried to get out, causing Greg to smile. "But you just seem more, I don't know, you," he said vaguely and finished off his own glass.

"Thanks, mate," he gave a disarming smile at his friend. "I've always wanted to be a dad, I just thought it'd happen in the usual way," he shrugged.

Mike let out a laugh, "You know, my mum always used to tell me that we were all dealt a hand in life. Sometimes it'd be shite and sometimes it's a royal flush, but in the end, it's the hand you were dealt."

"Practical, but I get it," Greg told him with a smile.

"Yeah, but it sounds like you got the hand you were supposed to have."

Greg nodded, "Agreed. Listen, I appreciate you taking me out for the evening to get my mind off of things, but I think I'm going to head back to my flat and try and get some sleep," he thanked Mike for the evening out and the drink while standing up from their booth.

"Of course, mate. Anytime," Mike waved him off happily. "Let me know once things settle down for you two, maybe you could bring Sherlock by the lab some afternoon."

"'Course," Greg shook the man's hand and they made their way towards the street. "I'm sure the kid would love that," he finished as they made their way outside.

A black town car pulled up next to them and Greg covered his eyes with one of his hands.

"Christ," he mumbled, dropping his hand from his face. "Have the need to stalk me on my nights out now?" he asked when the door to the backseat opened. Only, instead of an umbrella, a head of shaggy black hair stepped out of the car.

When Greg saw who stepped out of the car, he clenched his fists at his side. The undercover officer's description of Sherlock exiting Volkov's home repeated through his mind. His face was partially obstructed by the guards, but the same height, hair, clothes, and backpack. The young man that stepped out of the vehicle was not Sherlock. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach as the Sherlock imposter opened up Sherlock's backpack and pulled out a single Polaroid picture and passed it off to Greg.

Greg paused and waited for the imposter to get back into the car and drive off before flipping the picture over. "No!" he cried and started grabbing in his pockets for his cell.

Mike took the picture from him while he dug for his wallet, looking for a particular card.

"Oh, no," Stamford murmured, taking in the picture of the unconscious, beaten Sherlock.

Finally, after finding the card he was looking for, and his cell, he dialed the number frantically and kept murmuring undecipherable words until a voice on the other end finally answered.

"You know, when I gave you my card, I hadn't exactly anticipated you to use it within the first week," the smug voice greeted him.

"Sod it," Greg cried, running his free hand through his hair. "It's Sherlock," he began to fidget and fumble for the right words.

"Take a deep breath, Sergeant," Umbrella Boy instructed calmly before continuing on. "Now, what seems to be the problem with Sherlock?"

Greg let his eyes fall closed as he leaned into Mike's reassuring arm, "Volkov, sent a picture… they pulled the wool over our eyes…"

"Sergeant, what-have-they-done-to-Sherlock?" the voice on the other end took on an eerily calm and composed tone.

"Get your MI6 lad and have him get Sherlock the hell out of there," Greg pleaded. "Please don't let it be too late," he begged, letting the tears fall down his face.

There was a pause on the other end of the line and for a moment Greg thought they had been disconnected before the other voice came back.

"Are you able to get reinforcement from the Yard?" his ally asked, and Greg could hear him giving quiet orders on the other end of the line.

He looked over to Stamford, who already appeared to have the Yard on his one cell, waiting to see what Greg's next move was going to be.

"Yeah, I think we can meet them there," he told the man, trying to get the Earth back under his feet again. He wouldn't be doing the kid any good in the state he was in right now.

"Go," Umbrella Boy directed him, and Greg nodded to Mike who went off to hail a cab. "Wait for Ryan's signal," the man started up again. "Do not, and I repeat, do not engage until you are told to. You won't do Sherlock any good dead," the man deadpanned, making Greg roll his eyes.

"Thanks ever so," he muttered, taking off down the block where Mike was holding a cab for them to take to Volkov's home.

"Now is not the time for sarcasm, Sergeant," Umbrella Boy informed him. "Contact me once you are both safe."

"Glad to know I rank in your concerns too," he bit back, sliding into the cab next to Stamford.

"As I mentioned before, Sergeant, you won't do Sherlock any good dead," and then the line was disconnected abruptly. Greg hit the end button on his phone with slightly more force than was strictly necessary before giving the cabbie Volkov's address.

"Jackson and the rest of the narcotics team are one their way," Mike reassured him. "We'll get him out of there."

Greg couldn't stomach a response. His insides were completely tied up with worry and a million other emotions that he wasn't able to identify. Hang in there, Sherlock, he thought to himself as the cab whisked them off through the streets of London towards their destination.

Sherlock cried out as the Russian brute from earlier held his broken wrist higher, letting Sherlock dangle between the two Russian and American guards. Once the two guards had returned, they inflicted more damage to Sherlock's head and were currently letting him dangle like some kind of cat toy for Volkov to play with.

"It's a shame you know," Volkov began stalking closer to him, and Sherlock felt a bit like he was being hunted down by a jaguar, slinking, sleek, deadly. "I hand-picked you for Moran," he told Sherlock with a disappointed shake of his head as if he should know who that was. "He would have loved you and that big smart brain of yours. He has a thing for smart kids. In fact, he just took one under his wing not too long ago. You could have had a brother," Volkov finished with a shrug.

"I have a brother," Sherlock growled and immediately regretted his decision when one of the guards that were holding him punched him, hard, across his cheekbone, causing him to see stars. Sherlock would have fallen to his knees if it wasn't for the guards on either side, holding him up by his arms.

Volkov picked up the ornate chair that Sherlock had been sitting in earlier and placed it in front of him. The man crossed his legs and put his hands to rest neatly on top of his knees. The two stared at each other for several minutes before Sherlock tried to sag away from the drug lord's gaze but was stopped by the toe of Volkov's shoe digging under his chin, forcing Sherlock to remain to stare at him.

"Now, now, Shezza, you and I both know your family has long forgotten about you," Volkov spoke quietly, but the volume of his voice did nothing to tamp down the fire in his eyes. "Do you think they'll even shed a tear for you when the police find your body in the morning?" he finished, tilting his head while digging the point of his shoe slightly harder into Sherlock's chin when he tried to close his eyes. "Your brother? What about your mother or your father?" Sherlock felt a pang in his chest at the latter option. Lestrade would be devastated.

Lestrade would be devastated; Sherlock played that thought over in his head. Sherlock never had a chance to tell Lestrade how much he had meant to him. How he wished that Lestrade could be the father that he never had. Now, he would never get the chance.

"Perhaps your new friend will miss you," Volkov started again, and Sherlock felt his heart stop. "What is his name?" Volkov asked lazily, reaching into the breast pocket and producing a picture and turned to show Sherlock. "Sergeant Greg Lestrade?"

Sherlock felt tears fall down his face at the picture. It was a picture of him and Lestrade at the ice cream shop in Piccadilly circus. Lestrade had a big grin on his face, while Sherlock looked at him with a smirk on his own.

"Wish you would have told me you wanted to make friends with the police. We could have come up with a deal. Maybe it would have prevented me from losing Ryan to the police for months to make contacts on the inside," Volkov shrugged and ripped the picture of him and Lestrade down the middle in one long exaggerated motion.

As if hearing his name, Ryan took the opportunity to step out of somewhere in the shadows. Sherlock looked him over but was having difficulty focusing on anything other than the pain inside his chest, head, and wrist. Lestrade had mentioned Andrew Ryan while he was in rehab, and he had heard rumblings of one of Volkov's right-hand men, trusted, brutal, behind bars. Apparently, he was no longer behind bars.

"Of course, I know how much the police love to solve things," Volkov carried on with a smug look on his face. "They need to wrap up everything with a pretty bow on top," his gaze turned to one of evil with the spark of an idea. "So I suppose, if we were just to dump you in the Thames, there'd be no body to worry about. That makes things a little neater on our end, you see. As for your friend in the police, it's hard to tie up loose ends when there is no evidence," Volkov shrugged. "It would have the added bonus of driving your police friend mad. Were you murdered? Or did you simply take off out of the city to start your life over?"

Sherlock couldn't stop the tears from rolling down his face. Lestrade wouldn't give up until he got answers. And if Lestrade indeed had met Mycroft, there was a strong possibility that he would have the means to tear the city apart until he reached the answers he was looking for.

"Leave him," Volkov instructed the two goons that had been dangling Sherlock. They reluctantly let him go, letting him fall to the floor with a thud.

Sherlock grasped for his broken wrist as he writhed on the floor in agony. The two guards turned to leave the basement with the American one giving him a sharp kick to Sherlock's ribs before leaving him alone.

Volkov leaned forward to look into Sherlock's tormented eyes, "Do you want to ask Andrew over there if your Sergeant Lestrade would be the first police officer that he's executed?"

Sherlock turned his head to stare at the other man in the room. Andrew Ryan's face was expressionless as he stared back at Sherlock. They locked eyes momentarily before Sherlock closed his own in defeat, letting his forehead fall to the cool floor. He could only hope that Lestrade would make it out of the situation unscathed.

"Whatever you do to the boy, try not to make it too messy," Volkov told Andrew, wiping the palms of his hands off on a pocket square as he passed him on his way towards the exit of the spacious basement room. "I'm rather fond of this room, it'd be a shame if I have to remodel it so soon."

Andrew Ryan hiked up one of his cargo pant legs as he made his way down towards Sherlock.

"There is a phrase that British troops would use to alert other Brits to duck out of the way of incoming fire," Andrew whispered into his ear, earning a curious look from Sherlock. "Vatican cameos," he finished, shoving Sherlock's head down out of the way and pulled his own weapon on the exiting Russians.

Sherlock flinched in surprise as the first shot rang out. Shouting and chaos could be heard from all around him. Andrew grabbed Sherlock from underneath the armpits and dragged him out of the immediate line of fire. It still didn't stop Sherlock from flinching every time he heard shots ring out from around the room, the loud echos of the gunfire angering the raging concussion that had been brewing for some time now. Andrew Ryan stayed, guarding over Sherlock from behind the settee of the basement.

Sherlock thought he heard the sound of the entrance door being slammed open, followed by a chorus of shouts from Sherlock's attention from his position hiding behind the settee in the basement, however, the pain in his head was becoming too much to focus on much of anything else. Ryan fired off several more shots from his weapon over his head, making Sherlock cover his ears from the loudness. Between combined pain in his wrist and head, Sherlock found it difficult to stay conscious.

"Hang in there, kid," Andrew told him, nudging him awake with his shoe. "Sounds like help is on the way."

Sherlock struggled to remain conscious as the sounds of angry shouting made their way down into the basement. Several rapid shots that rang out and a flurry of commotion could be heard before the basement went silent. Sherlock closed his eyes, relishing in the newfound silence that let his head finally feel like it wasn't about to explode.

"Sherlock!" a familiar voice rang out in the silence, causing Sherlock to flinch at the loudness. "Sherlock! Oh, Christ," Lestrade called out, collapsing next to Sherlock on the floor behind the settee. "Stay awake, kid, the ambulance is on its way," he murmured, bringing Sherlock's head to his lap and carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair, pausing when it reached a portion of dried blood.

"Dad," Sherlock slurred in response before the call to unconsciousness became too strong.

"It's okay, kid. I've got you. You're going to be okay," the whispered voice of his hero could be heard before everything went dark for the second time that night.