.Two hours, three minutes.

It's been two hours since Mycroft Holmes walked willingly out of the Diogenes Club with an assassin at his back and Anthea is growing worried.

No, that's not true. She's been worried since Moran managed to slip away and avoid getting caught on the CCTV cameras only fifteen minutes after leaving. She's been worried because even though she knows her boss is intelligent and wouldn't do something like this if he didn't have every outcome and possibility mapped out and considered, she doesn't like this. She expected him to get in contact, but he hasn't.

Everyone is working, the office is buzzing because no one comes near their boss, they've grown rather fond of him, thank you.

Samantha hurries over to Anthea, looking stricken. Anthea pretends the knot in her stomach isn't there. "What is it?"

"Mr. Holmes is on his way," she says shakily.

Anthea breathes a sigh of relief, but they're not out of the woods yet. Samantha wouldn't look so troubled if they were. "What's the problem, then?"

"...It's not Mycroft."

.Two hours, forty-seven minutes.

Anthea isn't sure how Sherlock knew his brother was missing. In fact, Anthea isn't sure how Sherlock is alive. Unfortunately, now is not the time to ask such banal questions. Instead, she watches him pace irritably, snapping at anyone who approaches.

As he inspects what video and audio feeds they have and rushes about, she's reminded of the first time she met him, coming down off the drugs. She's one of the few who knows of his former habits.

She'd been new, then, taking on the job of helping Mycroft get his brother clean after the two girls before her quit without notice. Mycroft didn't seem very surprised by this, and when she went to meet him for the first time he inspected her for a long moment before nodding and briefing her on his situation.

Anthea likes to think Mycroft's grown fond of her, if only because she's competent.

But now Mycroft isn't here and Sherlock is, and Anthea suddenly realises there's another man who should be here, damn whatever Sherlock thinks.

Because ever since Sherlock's [so-called] death, he's been on a mission to take out the rest of Moriarty's men. And while he wasn't receptive to Mycroft at first, they've since come to an understanding of sorts.

Anthea doesn't hesitate to phone Doctor Watson.

.Three hours, seventeen minutes.

Once more, through the feed.

"Where's your brother, Mr. Holmes?"

"I couldn't hazard a guess, Colonel."

"Cut the crap. We both know he's alive. And we both know you know where he is." Mycroft's expression darkens then, before he smiles pleasantly.

"I suppose I should inform you, then, that I shan't be telling you."

Sherlock rewinds again, steeples his fingers together, and presses them to his lips. He watches the scene, deep in thought. He fast-forwards through the next fifteen seconds, presses play again.

"Would you like to see him, then?"

"Your boss? Oh yes, quite. I don't believe our last meeting ended as well as I would have liked."

"All you have to do is come with me. The boss is rather eager to see you. Don't know why. I'd rather kill you. That would certainly get your little brother to come running."

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Colonel, obviously you haven't spent much time observing the two of us, if you believe he would 'come running', as you so eloquently put it."

Sherlock pauses, growls in frustration, and closes his eyes. He opens them after a moment and hits play again.

"Nah, I think I've observed you just enough." And then he finally does it. He pulls a gun, hidden from view to the rest of the club, but perfectly within Mycroft's sight. The bored expression on Mycroft's face never wavers.

"Ah, I see. Am I supposed to be impressed?"

Moran scoffs. "I couldn't care less if you're impressed or not. My boss, he's the one for theatrics. Me? Well, I already told you, didn't I? I'd just shoot you and be done with it."

"Yes. Unfortunately for you, your boss would like me quite alive until he speaks with me."

"And you're going to come with me. In fact, he told me I wouldn't even need to use this on you."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"Because you can't resist the game. You talk big, but you're just like your brother. I can tell you this is a trap—not that I need to, 'cause you already know—and you'll come anyway."

"Hm." Mycroft considers him. "I do believe it's time to leave, Colonel. It has been enlightening, speaking to you today."

Moran jerks the gun in the direction of the door. Mycroft stands, smoothes out his suit, and Moran moves behind him, the gun held firmly to his back, despite his claim he doesn't need it.

Mycroft smirks. "You do love your bloodshed. You're disappointed you don't have a need to use that on me."

"Not now. Maybe I'll get the chance later, hm? Oh, and if you wouldn't mind." He takes Mycroft's mobile and drops it on one of the tables, before they step outside.

"He signaled for me to stand down," Anthea says from behind Sherlock. "I did, against my better judgement. As soon as he got into the car, I knew I couldn't obey."

Sherlock shifts to looks at another screen, this one with the CCTV footage. All they have is Mycroft getting into a nondescript black car before it pulls away from the kerb. The scene follows onto the next camera, but when the car finally pulls to a stop less than a mile away, no one is inside. Sherlock re-watches. Before he is halfway through again, he's distracted by the voice coming from behind him, to the left.

"What's all this about, then?" Sherlock stills, as Anthea begins to speak.

"Mr. Holmes has currently vanished. We have the best possible man on the job to find him."

"Okay, who's that?"

Sherlock knows Anthea will be nodding her head towards him. He knows and he tries not to look but he can't, can't not look at John, it always comes back to John, and he turns, can't stop himself.

It doesn't take John any time at all to recognise him.

.Three hours, twenty-two minutes.

John is standing in front of him. John is trembling. Hands clenching and unclenching, lips together – anger. Betrayal. Work shoes – came from the surgery. Crumbs on his shirt, money sticking out of front pocket – no, lunch. Long hair on his coat, brown – ah. A woman. Spot on his coat has been mended – long term, then.

It takes Sherlock less than five seconds to take all that in and more.

"You were dead," John says in a controlled, quiet voice. Dangerous. "Except, now you're not. Explain to me what the hell is going on."

"Now is not the time. I need to think." Sherlock turns away, because he can't look at John. John who is finally in front of him but Sherlock can't touch and Sherlock can't focus on anything other than John. John, John, John.

"No, Sherlo–no." He brings a hand to his lips, pulls it away again. "Now is exactly the right time. You left me thinking you were dead. I took your pulse – I was there, Sherlock, I saw it with my own eyes. I saw you jump!"

"Yes, but you didn't see me land, now did you?" Sherlock says impatiently. He's irritated, god he's irritated, not at John, never at John, but he doesn't know who he's irritated with. Anthea, Alison, Samantha, himself. None of it matters right now. "It was a trick, John. Just a magic trick. Now, I don't have time for this." He just wants to tear his hair out because this isn't how he wants his first moments back with John to be, with Mycroft invading his every thought.

Sherlock turns away, angry and upset and unsure and unwilling to let John be the one to reject him. So, he rejects him first.

"Sherlock, wait." John grabs his wrist, before he let's go like he's been burned. Sherlock doesn't turn to look at him, but he does stop. "I – I'm not – I'm still furious at you. And we are going to talk when this is over with, understand?"

Yes, Sherlock understands, or he thinks he does. He looks up, hope on his face that nearly breaks John's heart. Except, that's not how flatmate-friend-acquaintance-former-somethings are supposed to feel. "...You'll–"

"Yes. I'll help."

.Three hours, fifty-nine minutes.

"Sebastian Moran. Former Colonel in Her Majesty's Armed Forces before he was dishonourably discharged five years ago. Moriarty hired him four years ago. After that he goes off the record officially. All we have of him since then are what's left of his victims. He's an assassin-for-hire, these days." Anthea holds the file out to Sherlock, who's too busy to look up long enough to take it. He's watching the CCTV cameras again. John doesn't know what he's looking for, since this is the third time he's been through them, but it's important enough that it holds all of Sherlock's attention. John takes the file, instead, thanking her and opening it as Anthea walks away.

She moves back over to Samantha and Alison, and John takes a moment to appreciate the fact Mycroft seems only to have beautiful women working for him. The scarier thought is how competent they all likely are. Could probably take him on in a fight.

The thought vanishes quickly, but not before Sherlock looks briefly up at him, as if he knows exactly what John's thoughts are three years later; as if he still knows John. John isn't so sure if he can say the same. Sherlock's taken to muttering to himself, and John can't shake the thought his friend hasn't had many people to talk to in the last three years. Hasn't had anyone to help him work through his thoughts on the occasion they're rushing around in his head so quickly, so many, he needs to voice them to sort them all out. He works best when his lips are moving, after all.

The suggestiveness of that thought strikes John, and he quickly looks back at the file.

Deceased mother, father likely beat him as a child. No siblings. Nearly failed the psychological test for the army. Lacks empathy, lacks respect towards authority figures. "Not a very nice man," John sums up finally.

Sherlock's lips twitch in amusement.

.Six hours, eleven minutes.

The call they just received plays back in Sherlock's mind, as he scrambles to find every hidden meaning in James Moriarty's words that he might have missed the first time.

"Sherlock."

His mind is racing, he doesn't have time to look at John, doesn't want to, doesn't want John to be able to read everything on his face like no one else can (no one but Mycroft), but he looks anyway.

"Sherlock, it's okay to be worried for your brother. It's only natural. You're only – only human."

"I'm not worried," he snaps. Caring is not an advantage (all hearts are broken).

John doesn't say anything, because he's not going to push Sherlock when he knows the truth. He'd been scared of how he might've changed, but John still finds he can read the man.

"Seb is certainly having fun. Not sure if I can say the same for the great Ice Man. Next stop I'll have to tell him you called."

"If you think—"

"I don't think, Sherlock, I know. How long until the gallant knight and his loyal squire come to rescue him? Lie to me all you want, my dear, but you're going simply crazy looking for your brother."

"Hardly. You think I would let something like this distract me from hunting your men?"

"Oh, but it has, Sherlock. It has. Here I was starting to think neither of you cared if the other lived or died. I never expected this plan to work so well."

"Luring me out wasn't your motivation."

"No?"

"If it was, you would have taken John."

Laughter. "Good. You're paying attention. Your dear brother has been sticking his nose where it wasn't wanted. He's been trying to figure me out while you've been running around continental Europe. Although, he's been going the much more personal route."

"Ah, I see. He discovered something you didn't like. Mm, someone. Mother? No, you didn't much like your mother, did you? Brother? More likely."

Silence. Finally, "...I've told you where we are, Sherlock. But were you listening? Remember, Daddy's waiting."

.Eight hours, thirty-six minutes.

"We managed to isolate the sounds in the background," one of the women at the computer is saying, headphones slung around her neck. "It's–"

"A train whistle," Sherlock interrupts, leaping to his feet. "'Next stop I'll have to tell him you called,' " he quotes, "couldn't be on a train, too much of a risk of someone hearing something. Look for abandoned buildings close enough for a train whistle to be heard. No, don't. You'll take too long." He closes his eyes, a map of London before him, before he waves it away. Too close. Too dense.

"How long until the gallant knight and his loyal squire come to rescue him?"

Squire – John. Knight – honourary title given for service to Queen and country – Middle Ages – mounted warrior. Rural, train stations, knight – ah.

"Knighton. They'll be near Knighton."

Sherlock is pleased to find his brother's employees are halfway competent, as none of them question the deduction.

Anthea is already making sure they'll have medical personnel as Sherlock dashes out of the back of the van. John is close at his heels.

It's a three hour drive to the Welsh-English border. Longer, if traffic is too bad. In front of him is a government issued black car. The keys sit in the ignition.

A small smirk appears on his lips.

.Ten hours, fifty-seven minutes.

"Do you have your gun?"

If there was ever a doubt in John's mind whether or not Sherlock was worried about his brother, it's vanished now he's just driven to Knighton with him in just over two hours.

John nods, and they get out. Anthea will not be far behind.

For now, the look on Sherlock's face is enough for John to keep quiet. He knows what Sherlock's anger can do when people hurt those he cares about. And Sherlock might not admit it, but these past few hours have proven he holds Mycroft in high regard.

They're at an old building, near the train tracks a mile out from the town of Knighton. He recalls coming here once as a child for a festival with his mum and Harry. The memories are hazy and vague now, and quickly pushed aside.

Here, now, they have a much more sinister motivation for being here. Sherlock rushes headlong into the building, without a thought for personal safety. John is only steps behind him, gun out and the safety off.

It's old and rotted and falling apart in places. The building has clearly been abandoned for a long time, and John minds his steps, even if Sherlock doesn't. No need for anyone else to be injured if they don't have to be.

The thought causes a pit to form in John's stomach. The idea that Mycroft might be – he doesn't enjoy the thought. Mycroft is steadfast, an untouchable and unwavering point. Nothing could ever get to him.

And yet, clearly, something has.

John's grip on his gun tightens as Sherlock moves into the open room, and he follows. Sherlock takes a quick look around, seeing everything John doesn't, before he moves to – oh.

John does an assessment of the room, verifying Moriarty is no longer inside. It's just Sherlock, John and Mycroft. He doesn't want to put his gun away, but his instincts as a doctor are screaming at him to move to Mycroft.

Sherlock is untying his brother, cataloguing his injuries, compartmentalising – this is a fracture, that is sprained. His mind runs through the different medical definitions, can't associate them with the domineering figure of the man.

But Mycroft's eyes follow Sherlock as he moves, and John detects a smirk. It makes him sick with relief, that he can fall into old habits so easily even now.

"Worried about me, brother?" he drawls, but his voice is off.

John looks away, and his eyes are drawn to the smiley face painted on the wall. It's reminiscent of the one in the flat, left untouched, but this one is red. A piece of paper is pinned to the wall with a knife beside it.

"No," Sherlock says flatly. Sirens, John hears sirens in the background. "I was busy, Mycroft. Couldn't you have done this at a more convenient time?"

And John would tell him off, but he knows what Sherlock's doing, understands, and so he leaves it be.

.Thirteen hours, nine minutes.

Sherlock is pacing in the hospital waiting room, irate. The nurses sidestep him when they need to talk to someone about Mycroft's progress, moving instead to Anthea seated in an uncomfortable waiting chair and scrolling through her Blackberry like this is any other day, or John standing with his back to the wall and watching the door, ever the soldier.

Surgery. They've just taken him in for surgery.

.Sixteen hours, nineteen minutes.

"He's sleeping now. If you'd like, one of you can go in with him."

It's Anthea who went, of course. Now it's just Sherlock and John in the waiting room, surrounded by the other occupants. John finally feels like he can breathe a sigh of relief.

With the relief comes a rush of anger as he watches Sherlock pace and deduce the other people in the room under his breath (she's a victim of abuse, he fractured his foot playing football).

John straightens and pushes off the wall and approaches Sherlock. The taller man turns to look at John, opens his mouth to say something, and his painfully cut off by the fist connecting with his jaw.

Sixteen hours, twenty minutes.

"If you cannot control yourselves I will be forced to call security!" the nurse cries, ready to get between the two men should one try to strike the other.

John just takes in a breath though and gives Sherlock a nod. Sherlock's lips twitch.

"No, I'm good, now. No need to worry about us." The nurse glowers darkly at him, but after thirty seconds she finally deems it safe enough to move back behind her station.

"That was a good punch," Sherlock says conversationally.

"It was, wasn't it?"

.Twenty hours, thirty-nine minutes.

It's been almost an entire day since this entire mess began, almost eighteen hours since he last spoke to Mary and – oh god, Mary.

Because Sherlock's back and John's already started running with him again, already wondering how he survived without this adrenaline rush. And this entire time he's hardly thought of Mary.

But it's more than the adrenaline, it's Sherlock. And damn the man, he's ready to take him back.

Sherlock is sprawled in the uncomfortable chair next to him, all long limbs and a gangly mess. His arms are crossed and he looks knackered.

"Sherlock." Sherlock turns to look at him, eyes sharp and observant as always, but he blinks slowly. "Here, just – come here." Sherlock raises an eyebrow, John rolls his eyes, and everything is just like it was until John pulls Sherlock back and takes his hand.

Sherlock stills.

"You should sleep. When's the last time you were properly rested?" He doesn't really expect an answer, but he receives one anyway.

"Properly? Three years ago."

Oh. Oh. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock shakes his head and leans it back against the wall. "I rested when I arrived in London four days ago."

"You've been here for four days?"

Sherlock gives a small nod and opens one eye to look at John, unsure what his reaction will be. John always manages to surprise him. "I'm not through with Moriarty's web, yet. I've gotten rid of almost everyone on continental Europe, now it's a matter of..." He doesn't have to say Moran's name for John to know who he's talking about. Moran and Moriarty are the two they have to worry about, now.

"No running off without me this time, yeah?" Sherlock nods tiredly, and John sighs. "Come here, I'm more comfortable than the wall."

Sherlock moves to rest his head against John's shoulder, and suddenly it's like he's never left. John doesn't know what's coming next, but they'll figure this out. Because Sherlock is back, Sherlock is alive, and it hits John then and there that he has his best friend back again, and this is something most people never get the chance at. The relief is so great John feels as if he's being both freed and crushed simultaneously.

"You'd better not die on me again," he mutters. Sherlock turns his head and buries his nose in John's jumper. "Yeah."

.Twenty-one hours, two minutes.

"Mr. Holmes?"

John touches Sherlock's head and straightens when he hears the name, regretfully waking Sherlock as the doctor approaches.

Sherlock blinks, looking dazed, but the look is replaced by his usual masks by the time the doctor is in front of him.

"Your brother is awake, if you'd like to see him."

Sherlock looks over at John, realises their hands are still clasped. John gives his hand a squeeze, and thinks that maybe everything will work out okay.

Notes: Well, I had fun with this one. Inspired by a graphic I saw on tumblr. It just sort of grew from there. And of course, I ask you bear in mind, no, I am not Moftiss. BBC Sherlock does not belong to me. Although, I certainly felt like Moftiss with the research I did into the town of Knighton. ConCrit?

Review, if convenient. If inconvenient, review anyway. -Tal