Here's chapter 17! Gosh, am I updating quickly - I had this part written for months, it's great to publish it now, finally. I'm sorry about the length, but otherwise the chapters won't work.

WARNING: Mentions of torture and blood, as always, you can send me a PM.

Enjoy!

After a few hours, Sherlock's ice-cold demeanour crumbles and becomes frantic. Anthea can't help us as she isn't working right now and we aren't closer in any way to finding Mycroft, but the time is passing and so is probably the chance of Mycroft's survival, if they plan to kill him – which is the most likely solution, we haven't got any message or similar from anyone.

At midnight, I stop. It's hard to stop looking, the nagging voice at the back of my head telling that if I just search for one more minute, then I will find something is hard to silence. But I also know that I am no use to Mycroft if I am tired enough to fall asleep while standing, so I touch Sherlock's shoulder.

"I'm going to bed, just a few hours," my voice is hoarse, croaky, because of the lack of use or water in the last ten or so hours.

Sherlock frowns, and opens his mouth, probably to tell me off, but I just shake my head.

"Four hours, I can't concentrate any more. Sherlock, I want to find him as much as you do, but use your logic! I won't find anything if I am this tired, and if I sleep a bit I'll be also fitter if we find a lead."

Sherlock sighs but nods. When I turn around at the door of Sherlock's room, he is already looking at the pictures of Mycroft's office again, shoulders hunched, rubbing his eyes once.

The first thing I notice when I wake up is Sherlock's voice. It seems he has learned his lesson from a few months ago, he shouts my name and shoves my shoulder instead of stealing my blanket, but still I am disgruntled. When he says that he knows where Mycroft is though, the memory of yesterday come back and I jump up.

"Out! Get the stuff!" I tell him, as I jump out of bed and grab some clothes. He runs outside and I change as quickly as possible.

The house is big and ugly. It's just a giant cube, grey, not many windows. But the surrounding garden is nice. The houses on either side are at least five metres away each, perfect if you want to keep somebody inside without anybody noticing.

We don't ring the doorbell. I take out my handgun and Sherlock picks the lock, then he takes out his gun and we go inside.

According to Sherlock, there are two persons here, one, if you count the ones who walked in here. I don't know how he figured that out, but I trust him. He said that two persons must have carried Mycroft inside, then one person left again – after bringing him to a door, which seems to be going down to the basement. Sherlock pushes the door open quietly and walks slowly down the stairs to another door.

When Sherlock and I burst into the room, I think I am ready for what I am going to see. But I'm not.

Mycroft is sitting in a metal chair, only in his grey trousers and white shirt, which looks strange on him, like it is way to big for him. But that's impossible. We saw him only a day ago, in that shirt, when it had as always fit him perfectly. And you couldn't lose that much weight that fast.

Beneath the chair there is a small puddle of blood and I desperately hope that Mycroft isn't hurt fatally.

His hands are tied behind his back, as I can't see them, and there is a black blindfold over is eyes. The ginger hair his tousled by the hand which is holding it and pulling his head back. It is strange and just not right to see him like this, all powerless and completely at the mercy of the person who is standing behind him.

But the worst is what I can see of his face. Even though he does not make a sound, he must be in agony. I don't know why this is worse than seeing Sherlock in the house with Smith and Stone, sitting in a similar chair, screaming. Maybe because I don't think Mycroft is as used to those dangerous adventures as Sherlock and maybe me. Maybe because I couldn't really picture him in a situation like this. Maybe because he is not screaming, but so obviously in so great pain.

Then my gaze wanders to the kidnapper and I gasp when I realise who it is. I grip Sherlock's arm, and he breaks his horrified stare at Mycroft's face and looks first at me then at the kidnapper. And cold fury spreads over his face.

So, what do you think?