Chapter 4: The boy gets hurt

Four years later Sherlock had become an even better criminal, he didn't fear punishment anymore. He always gave his best and more. There was no reason Master could criticize his work.

He was given more freedom, could go wherever he wanted if it did not impact his work negatively. Most of the time he was his own master. He still got his work from Master although he was allowed to do his own little projects. Master trusted him.

Right now Sherlock had been left alone at their headquarters making decisions only Master and he were entitled to. He was sitting in a meeting with the head of an oil company to discuss the further working conditions. The boy who had once felt guilt was long gone.

Sherlock had become what Moriarty had dreamed off. His perfect creation, someone he could trust his life work with. When he thought back to the first few years, with more punishments than would have been necessary, with locks on the doors and days in chains, Moriarty had to smile. His creation had made a fantastic development. He had had some doubts around the time Sherlock was a teenager but he knew that showing him his work would either destroy him or make him better than before. And he was right because the boy who now came back and sat in the car had changed. The last remainder of human feelings had disappeared.

Moriarty now had new things to occupy himself with. There was a mole in his organization. The reason he had left their headquarters in the first place was to find out who it was and kill him or her, the family, friends, supporter and everyone who knew it. A lot of people to kill and the last one to die would be the mole after he or she had watched the death (painful) of all the people that meant something to him or her.

Sherlock was in charge of the daily business, he had long been able to do it and he trusted the boy's decisions. The call that changed everything came only a few minutes after he had caught the mole. Their headquarter were under attack.

Moriarty was angry and had to change his plans. The mole could live until he found out what had happened to his base, his men and his creation. Not that he cared but it had been hard work to build him and his organization. It would be unpleasant it he had to start again and maybe a bit of waiting was good for the mole, to understand what would happen next.

The hospital staff was not happy to get a terrorist in the A&E but what can you do when soldiers and government agents storm into your building with a badly injured man and tell you to save him. They would need him for a testimony against some big crime boss. Nothing really has a meaning when your job is to keep people alive and healthy no matter who they are or what they did.

The man who looked like a boy when you looked closely bud had just jumped into adulthood, had internal bleeding, seventeen broken bones, ribs, finger, arm, foot and a crack to the head, the latter being the reason for the swelling in his brain which had led to a coma. The patient hadn't woken for two days now.

The staff was already stressed out from the daily controls and the identity check at the patient's room. There was also no name for the patient; he was just a John Doe. That made more than one nurse sad. But if the man was a criminal he had to have a record and the finger prints and DNA sample they had taken the day before would provide them with his identity very soon. Not that a record would change the staff's behavior. To them he was a patient and no government official could tell them how to treat him.

The call came at 3 a.m. but Mycroft Holmes was still awake, working. It was his trustworthy assistant Anthea who called him with the message he had been waiting for fifteen years for.

"Sir, we found him." Mycroft catching up in seconds knew there was only one person missing at the time who had to do with him and this was his baby brother. Maybe it had been wrong to use his position to find him but this was all he can do to make the guilty voice in his head stop. He had let go of his brother's hand in the book shop all these years ago. Something he could never forgive himself for.

"Where is he?" Was all he was able to ask. After Anthea told him where, Mycroft stood up, took his bag and climbed into the waiting car. She had already organized everything, the flight, his traveling on the ground, got him names and numbers of people he could call and use or ask for help. She was just perfect.

Mycroft Holmes who never felt fear was afraid of what he would find. His only information was that his brother was in a hospital, recovering from serious injuries. What he had done all this years, where he had been or who had taken him where probably in the file Anthea had sent over as the plane left the ground. A bit of reading during the flight was good, it would pass time.

As Sherlock opened his eyes he felt pain, his head hurt as if someone had cracked his skull. Outside the window he saw the night sky and was glad for the late or maybe early hour of the day. He had time to think. He was in a hospital, connected to more machines than seemed healthy. The last thing he could remember was the alarm system, they were attacked and then nothing.

Sherlock couldn't remember how he got hurt or who brought him to the hospital. The only thing he was sure of is he had to leave before someone found him awake.

The thing with being in a hospital is that most of the times there was a good reason for it, like being injured. Which meant Sherlock couldn't just walk out after he had located his injuries. It meant he had to wait for help. He closed his eyes again; playing the sleeping patient was easier than acting as a victim or a someone suffering from amnesia. That would be his next option after the coma would stop working.

Moriarty had hacked himself into the hospital security and thanks to the detail of every patient it was easy for him to not only find Sherlock but also make out the exact moment he woke. It was much easier to transport someone who was awake. Through the file Moriarty knew they had taken a DNA sample and fingerprints to identify his creation, he had to act soon before someone found out who Sherlock really was. This boy is mine, Moriarty felt a possessiveness he had never felt before. No one would take his creation from him.

He already had more than one plan how to get Sherlock out of the hospital to someplace better, secure and under his control. Moriarty sent his men inside in the middle of the night when the security guard he owned had his shift and the nurse he had blackmailed had drugged the soldier who was guarding Sherlock.

Sherlock for his part didn't need an explanation as five strong man entered his room. He was ready to leave the second he woke. They walked to his bed, disconnected all the machines, ignoring the alarm sounds like the nurse who had let the alarms to the room go silent, and lifted Sherlock onto a gurney. Sherlock was used to a certain degree of pain and had survived bad situations in the past, but the pain he was feeling now, especially after the machines had been disconnected, was bad. But showing pain was a weakness, so he tried to be strong and not show it. Glade to be outside of the hospital, he accepted the offered help without feeling his pride hurt but happy to know Master would come to save him. When needed.

When Mycroft arrived only a few hours after the 'rescue mission' he felt his heart break. Not only was his brother alive, but he had lost him again. He was too late, again. Someone, probably the same kidnapper had taken his brother away.

Mycroft found the responsible people in the hospital staff but it didn't change the fact that he was too late. The only thing that he got was a picture of a young man, skinny with sharp cheek bones and black curls, that and a new lead. The base where Sherlock had been found.