Hi folks, I was absolutely intrigued by the guesses made about what could have happened in part one. I'm not sure to what extent this clarifies, but all will be revealed one way or another, in the meantime all theories, postulations or views of any kind, are more than welcome. =)

James Moriarty, was not the only criminal in London with a considerable grudge against Sherlock Holmes. He was one of a dozen, who had many others working for him. The total number of crooks who had had the misfortune of crossing his path, was many hundreds.

Sherlock would not have lasted long, if he did not have his own network of informants to rely on. The man who came to him was not a friend, he didn't have those. He wasn't an acquaintance either, he was a crook. For the right price, he served as extremely effective security, to many of London's less than desirables.

"What is this about?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to attempt deductions in the dark. The man was standing in the shadow of an alleyway, while Sherlock leant against the wall of adjoining road, giving no indication he'd seen the other man. It was a busy day, no one was paying attention to the two men, one undetectable in the shadows, one seemingly standing alone. It made for an admirable meeting place for anyone wishing not to be overheard, Sherlock had to admit. Hiding in plain sight.

One of his homeless network had delivered a handwritten note, with an address, a time and the simple message 'you'll want to hear this'. Sherlock deduced from the haste with which the note was written, that the writer had feared he was being watched and from the fact he had not delivered it to Baker Street himself, that he would risk no association with Sherlock. The fact that despite both of these things, his note gave no indication he had a case for Sherlock, indicated it was not a hostile meeting. He had come armed, just in case, he was not so reckless as to assume, but he was confident his unnamed companion was in some sense, a friendly one.

"You've just finished working on a case, involving Sam Merridew." A low, soft male voice responded.

"Unsuccessful. No proof." Sherlock replied, hoping the other man was intelligent enough to know what he meant. Merridew had gotten away with his latest venture, while the man working for him had gone to prison. He was not about to discuss the details of the case in public, however difficult it would have been to overhear. There had of course, been more than enough proof to convince Sherlock, it was just that once he'd worked something out himself, it wasn't always possible to provide evidence that could be shown at a trial.

"Merridew wants to warn you off, in future." The voice told him, apparently understanding.

"Many do." Sherlock breezed, though he was intrigued, wondering who would go to such lengths to tell him the rather obvious fact, he'd annoyed a few criminals in his time.

"He has paid an agent to send you a message, via one of two targets."

Sherlock froze, alarm suddenly seizing him. By targets, he meant people, which gave him a very small number of possibilities if Merridew wanted people he was going to care about getting hurt. Even before he'd spoken again, he was running through a mental list of approximately five people, where they might be and what their chances of self defence were. He almost wasn't listening, when the voice continued.

"The agent has been instructed to make his point very clearly, but not to kill. He wants, to quote verbatim, 'for Holmes to look his victim in the eye and know they were maimed, for him. Make sure he won't meddle in my business again.' He narrowed the target down to two, at his agent's discretion."

Sherlock's heart was thumping violently against his chest, anger burning in his veins. He clenched his fists behind his back, forcing himself to retain his neutral posture.
"Based on what?"

"Expedience. One is a more difficult target, but to get to him would certainly show you how powerful a man you're dealing with. The other seems likely to hurt you the most."

"So, whichever of the two the agent judges to-" Sherlock trailed off, comprehension dawning. Who Merridew's target's were, was obvious given his companion's description. A powerful man and the man closest to Sherlock. His brother and his flatmate. What had taken longer to sink in, was that his informant had directly quoted Sam Merridew.

It took every last ounce of his iron will, not to turn as he spoke again, voice low and steely.
"You're the agent. You've been paid to attack one of them. If you-" Against his better judgement, Sherlock started to threaten, but he was cut off by a sharp, but calm and quiet interruption.

"-I don't do personal grudges, but the man with the money doesn't know that." The voice replied evenly.

Sherlock's brow furrowed, confusion starting to worm it's way between his clinical deductions. If this man was telling the truth, which Sherlock's instincts told him he was, then what did he want?
"Then why are you here?"

"I could have turned Merridew down and he would have found someone else to do the job. As it is, I think if Merridew has an issue with you, then he should deal with you."

"How noble of you, but if you don't do it, someone else will, that's what you're here to tell me?" Sherlock growled.

"Mr Holmes, I don't waste time placating the victims of any crime I feel like committing. I'm going to tell you the facts and you can act as you see fit. Merridew will get this done, one way or another. At this moment in time, he thinks I'm going to do it, now I have no intention of. I will either return his payment and tell him it's not my area, or I won't, understand?"

Sherlock's mind spun so fast he was sure it must have been audible to the oblivious passers-by. He couldn't go to the police, they could only offer so much protection and if John and Mycroft were too heavily guarded, they would simply move on to others, or resort to more remote, more deadly methods. If he asked his mysterious companion to turn the job down, it would be given to someone else who would certainly carry it out. Sherlock couldn't know when, where, who, or how to prevent it.

Sherlock was confused though, he had said categorically, he didn't do personal grudges. He was not going to carry out his instructions. So what did he mean by, or he would not return the money? What was Sherlock supposed to understand, by that? Fear and dread rose like bile in his throat, as the implication became clear. One way or another, Merridew had to believe the job had been done. The only way he was going to believe that, was if it had been. Sherlock could either let his companion turn it down and some other thug do it, or he could allow the other man to take the credit, for something he himself had done.

"You want me, to hurt one of them, so that you'll be paid for doing it?" Sherlock asked, unable to even inject anger into his hollow voice.

A shallow laugh emanated from the shadows.
"If you want assurance it's not about money, you take it. I'm giving you the opportunity to control, just how badly hurt one of them gets. This is simple, Mr Holmes, either you do it, or someone else will. You have twenty four hours before I return the payment and wash my hands of this. Act before then, if you want to limit the damage."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, audibly desperate as the shifting sound behind him indicated his informant was leaving.

There was a pause, during which Sherlock felt a sinking in his gut, telling him he knew he had no choice.
"A case of yours, led you to me years ago. You didn't hand me over to the police. If you had done, I'd probably be dead. Call it returning a favour."

...

...

Sherlock barely registered his return to Baker Street. He could feel his body trembling, irritating him with it's utter pointlessness. Another day, he might have been curious as to which of the many people he'd deigned to take the law into his own hands with, could have been his informant. At that moment though, he couldn't care less. He wanted to be angry at being put in such a position, but if he hadn't been, he'd have been getting a call within the day, to say either his flatmate or his brother had been seriously injured.

He supposed calling the police was an option. Mycroft had his own security, it couldn't be beyond the realms of police capability to protect one man from attack. At that point though, both were only in danger of assault, as a warning to Sherlock. Going to the police would give away his informant and make Merridew very angry. Sherlock knew what he was capable of. Somehow calling the police, felt a lot like a warrant for Merridew to call in a killer. Sooner or later, he would succeed and Sherlock couldn't stop him. His informant was right. He had one, single opportunity, for damage limitation, that was all.

He entered his flat in a daze, but had the presence of mind to stop as he reached the top of the stairs, to check to see if he was alone. A quick glance around showed him an empty room, but he moved through to the kitchen to be sure. He almost collided with Mrs Hudson, coming out. He made a sarcastic remark about her not being his housekeeper, while hovering around the kettle to look busy so she'd leave. She did so, tutting at him in her put-upon way, not noticing he left the kitchen and moved to the window even as she was closing the door behind her. Nothing there. He moved to the fireplace, glaring at his skull. It had to be done. Then which one? He turned and almost tripped over the fire grate. By the time he'd turned back once more, his phone was in his hand.

He text his brother a simple location and a request they meet, somewhere he knew Mycroft had taken John before. He knew the message would strike Mycroft as odd, but that couldn't be helped. He still didn't have a reply, when John came in for lunch and Sherlock borrowed his phone to call Lestrade. If Mycroft had suspected anything off, he'd have phoned.

John was worried by Sherlock's claim his phone had been stolen. It was a natural concern as such a thing was wholly unlikely, but it struck him as strangely funny John's confusion, was the only thing that held him up.

He waited for John to leave again, before slipping out of the flat. He was no longer shaking, no longer feeling violently sick. It was a simple solution and Mycroft would probably agree with him. He would catch Sam Merridew another day and when he did, he'd make him pay. In the meantime though, he knew what he had to do.

...

...

"John?"

"Lestrade, it's Sherlock."

"Oh hello, everything alright?"

"No, my phone's been stolen."

"What? How?"

"I have no idea, I'm pretty sure it was in my pocket."

"Someone pick pocketed you? If you want me to investigate this Sherlock I'll only have one suspect, you could probably save us both some time and just ask your brother to give it back.

…Sherlock?"

"It wasn't Mycroft. I haven't seen him this week."

"…Alright, send me the details, I'll see what I can do."

Lestrade couldn't explain why Sherlock's missing phone was bothering him so much. Sherlock had sounded worried and it didn't take a genius to work out, there could be information on the consulting detective's phone that was worth worrying about. It was also possible Sherlock was just annoyed at someone managing to blindside him successfully enough to steal one of his most valuable tools.

Usually, a missing phone was not something any police officer investigated, let alone a detective inspector. He didn't think Sherlock would be satisfied with receiving a crime number in the mail. It was possible, of course, to trace any phone they had the number of, to the last location it had been switched on at. It was just not usually worth tax payers' money to bother.

Having pleaded the case to a very confused and agitated sergeant he made sure was not Donovan, Lestrade convinced himself at least, that finding Sherlock Holmes' phone could be considered a matter of national security. For the moment though, they'd consider it an important piece of evidence in an as yet unknown crime. It had to be someone of note who had successfully robbed Sherlock. It seemed unlikely to have been with friendly or benign intent.

He and one very cooperative sergeant, got hold of the phone company, traced Sherlock's number and had it tracked to a GPS signal. All the while they were following it, Lestrade waited for something to go wrong. It couldn't be this simple. Who would go to the effort of robbing Sherlock Holmes, who didn't know a mobile phone was that easy to trace?

He waited to find a dumped battery or a phone without a sim card, but the signal kept moving and the closer they got, the more it looked like it was still in the possession of a person, who seemed entirely unaware the police were closing in on them.

Lestrade and his sergeant tracked the phone signal to an abandoned warehouse, where it had stopped moving. The signal could only tell them it was somewhere in or immediately around the building. Lestrade circled the building once. There were three stories and a roof. There were no signs of life from inside, but the phone hadn't walked itself there and Lestrade could think of no innocent reason for whoever had, to be there. It was a hunch, but he instructed his sergeant to call for back up.

While the call was being made, Lestrade tried calling the number. It was unlikely the phone would be turned on, but as he couldn't do anything until back up arrived, it was worth a shot.

His sergeant turned abruptly, as the distant sound of a simple ringing tone reached them. It was faint, but Lestrade looked up immediately, locating the sound to the third story, where there were no windows, but open ledges all the way around. Nothing to prevent the sound reaching them.

"Sir, we should wait." The sergeant spoke, as Lestrade made a b-line for the concrete stairs.

"This place is deserted, and if it isn't, I want to see whoever is here before the cavalry give them enough warning to escape." He replied, tone brusque and not inviting argument.

Lestrade climbed the steps as quietly as he could, alert on every floor, for signs of life, though he was certain the ringing phone, had come from the third. There was nothing to be seen on the first or second, the building was eerily quiet, even just from the stairs where the nearby traffic was still audible, it deadly quiet inside.

An uneasy feeling had crept up on him, as he inched towards the concrete entrance to the third floor, which had at some point been a car park. It didn't make any sense. To successfully pickpocket Sherlock Holmes, that was hard to believe. To do so in order to either simply keep his phone, or to leave it in an abandoned warehouse, made no sense at all. He'd almost made up his mind, he was walking into a trap, when he spotted the body huddled on the floor in the middle of the room.

He strode forward, all sense of caution deserting him for an instant, until he stopped, slowing down and hovering several metres away from the still form.
"Hello?" He tried, either to attempt to uncover anyone else, lurking nearby, or test whether the other man was conscious.

Receiving no response, he crept forward, still unconvinced he was not following a trail of breadcrumbs, but unable to stand by and do nothing. He was within a yard of the man, before red hair and familiar, angular, proud features came into view. His heart leapt to his mouth.

"Oh my God…" He breathed, making a sudden, hurried movement to the man's other side and dropping to his knees.

One hand searched for a pulse, while the other reached for his phone instinctively. Relief flooded over him as a faint, but steady pulse beat against his fingers.
"Mycroft?" He called, squeezing the elder Holmes' shoulder as he dialled he held the phone to his ear, calling for his sergeant.

"Call an ambulance, then whatever back up arrive, bring them up here."

His sergeant sounded confused, but he didn't argue. Returning his attention to Mycroft, Lestrade grimaced as he assessed the other man's injuries. He was covered in blood, which at first seemed alarming, but on careful inspection, seemed to be mainly coming from his split lip and bleeding nose, rather than any more serious injuries. The way he was lying, half curled in on himself, suggested several blows to his midriff. Lestrade did a quick check, but could find no signs of any kind of weapon used, which seemed to be a positive sign. It was Mycroft's left hand, splayed gracelessly, bent and twisted at disturbing angles at his side, that caused Lestrade to wince on sight.

It was no accidental injury, that much was clear. The whole situation in fact, had an air of a deliberate message about it. If he'd found it hard to believe anyone could succeed in blindsiding Sherlock Holmes, it was beyond comprehension, for Mycroft Holmes to have been caught off guard. He had only met the man once, though he'd recognise him anywhere, with the striking facial resemblance between he and Sherlock. Sherlock could be difficult to deal with, but Mycroft was nothing short of scary.

Mycroft didn't stir, despite Lestrade's attempts to wake him. As he took his phone for the second time, knowing he had to talk to Sherlock before the ubiquitous detective somehow found out of his own accord, he'd forgotten all about the reported robbery that had brought him there. Lestrade nearly jumped out of his skin, as Sherlock's phone rang from the floor beside Mycroft.

"Jesus…" He breathed, hand on his heart, utterly baffled as he reached for Sherlock's phone. Even with Mycroft, he couldn't believe he'd forgotten about it. It was a hunch, but even as he checked Sherlock's phone memory, he had a feeling he knew what he was going to find. His mind fogged in confusion, as he found the last message, sent to Mycroft, asking him to meet him in the warehouse, in which Lestrade had found the latter, beaten unconscious.

Swallowing back rising anxiety, Lestrade dialled John's number instead. For the time being, he had to get Mycroft to hospital and inform Sherlock of what had happened. He didn't want to think too hard about what might come after. He remembered all too vividly, what had happened the last time one of London's great criminals, had taken on the Holmes Brothers.