Soooooo what did you think about the last one? I hope no-one is too bothered about a bit of blood - although there isn't too much of that in this chapter, rather in the next or the one after that or so - remember, you can always send me a PM.

Then: Thank you so so so much to Smiling Dreams who had been reviewinng nearly chapter and who is also a great help while talking with me through PMs.
And a huge thank you for the amazing and lovely itsnotobvioustome who has been planning this story with me nearly from the start and is just brilliant.

I know I should maybe wait and keep writing, so I can update regularily, but where's the fun in that? I can tell you though, most of the conclusion is already done, and next chapter as well as a few after the conclusion are already planned out...

Okay, balbbering over, Enjoy!

Mycrot's POV:

When he wakes up, he can't see a thing. A few seconds later he blames the heart-attack for that first irrational fear of being blind. Was it a heart attack? He isn't sure. Anyway. It's not that his eyes aren't open. There's something in front of them. A blindfold?

Fine fabric, black, not see-through, pressure all around his head. Blindfold it is.

He didn't move at all since waking up, but he can feel the leather around his wrists, which are tied together behind his back.

Reassessment. Heart-attack? Unlikely – no further pains, not in hospital, given current situation. Kidnapping or hostage situation looking good.

No distinctive smell – no further information there. No sounds – wait. No sounds? Meaning somewhere away from street and nature, or something with very thick walls and without windows – basement?

Slowly the captured man becomes aware to more detail. He is sitting in a metal chair, the backrest is only a bar. He is tied to the chair securely and can't really move. His jacket, tie and waistcoat are gone, leaving him only his white shirt, trousers and shoes.

His fingers dance carefully over the leather-ties, assessing the quality of the material and the knots, trying to find out his chances of escape.

But as he is doing it, he knows it's no use. Somebody who kidnapped him from his own office, poisoned probably his coffee and managed to distract Anthea the whole time wouldn't be careless with his bounds. And so he stills and waits for something to happen.

He doesn't have to wait very long. After a few minutes steps become audible, starting somewhere above him and then coming towards him, only strengthening the theory of the basement.

There is something strange about the rhythm and sound of the steps – something barely familiar, but he is completely sure he has never heard steps like that before. The whole movement sounds are strange, but as he can't figure out what it is, he just stores it away in his mind and waits.

The person, a woman by the sound of it, doesn't stop in front of him, but walks around him. Her steps are telling him where she is all the time, so he jumps only a little when she grips his ginger hair from behind him and pulls his head back. The cold steel against his throat isn't unexpected either.

"Mycroft Holmes." The voice is changed by computer, indiscernible what it is like in reality, so he doesn't answer. Why should he? There's nothing he can gain from it.

"I didn't think I'd live to see the day when you wouldn't be in control of everything. I guess the world is full of surprises."

The voice doesn't betray any emotion, but Mycroft isn't bothered. He doesn't need to know how his kidnapper is feeling right now, as there is nothing he can do about it, and he does know that the woman holds a grudge against him. Again, something he can't change anything about.

"Okay. Where is your brother?"

That question is unexpected and Mycroft stiffens. Does the kidnapper know that Sherlock is alive? If yes, how?

When he doesn't answer, the knife is taken away from his neck and a long cut is made, starting at his right shoulder and ending near the middle of his spine.

Gasping, Mycroft tries to move away instinctively, but the hand in his hair keeps him in the chair.

"Where is your brother?"

The voice hasn't changed, still void of emotion, but now it's unsettling him.

"He is dead," he knows his voice is shaking slightly, and hopes that the woman will mistake it for shock because of the pain. Which is there. Definitely. The cut isn't that deep, only about a centimetre, but already colouring the back of his shirt red.

He knows his kidnapper doesn't mistake it, when another cut is made, this time at the back of his arm. Now he knows that it will be a very painful stay, but despite many accusations, he is very fond of his brother, so he doesn't dare say anything else. Mycroft's only chance is to rely on exactly Sherlock, and it pains him even further that Sherlock will be, to rescue him, in great danger.

And so he readies himself for the pain that is coming.

Kiara's POV:

He isn't there. Mycroft isn't at his office, hasn't left any note, hasn't called us or anything – so it is true. Someone has taken him because he would have never left us just like that. It's scary to watch Sherlock right now. He doesn't look furious or anything right now. No – he is ice-cold, and stone-hard. His gaze is merciless, and I know that whoever his wrath will be directed against, they will die. If not worse.

But still. Sherlock's in his investigation-mode, looking around, piecing things together, when he calls me.

"Kiara, what do you think is this?" He asks and I crouch down next to him. The thing he's pointing at is a small patch of carpet – a small wet patch of carpet. Judging by the colouring and smell, it's tea, and when I tell Sherlock, he nods.

"Tea it is, and Mycroft drank some of it. But what else is in there? That bitter hint, it's not because of the tea, that's poison. Not deadly, but it would have knocked him out quickly. Whoever did this is good, and knows far too much about us. We need to go. And exactly one hour after we left the office for the first time, left Mycroft, we storm out of the door.

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