"You must read, you must persevere, you must sit up nights, you must inquire, and exert the utmost power of your mind. If one way does not lead to the desired meaning, take another; if obstacles arise, then still another; until, if your strength holds out, you will find that clear which at first looked dark."

- Giovanni Boccaccio

Two and a half hours of rainfall, stopped at approximately 7.15pm, alleyway is the only direct footpath leading from the recreational ground to the main road. Twenty-three distinct shoe prints, John has relatively small feet, wears plastic soled shoes, size eight and a half, slight weight displacement as he favours left side due to phantom pain in right limb.

Drag marks extending six meters from the impact point to the street, slight blood pooling at the mouth of the alleyway, no more than 15ml, obviously not from arterial bleed so more than likely from a small laceration caused by a hand or insignificant appendage being dragged against this piece of broken glass. Minimal blood loss suggests heart rate was low – most likely attributed to a mixture of the paralytic and sedative_

"Would you like for me to lend you my eyes – metaphorically speaking - ?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He had been staring at the same patch of concrete for the past ten minutes and all that he was certain of was that this was the spot where John had been drugged and kidnapped.

"How did you find me so fast, don't you usually go to your OA meeting on a Wednesday?"

"Something really must be upsetting you," Mycroft said as he emerged out of the shadows and came to stand by Sherlock's side, "You only comment on my weight when you're in a foul mood."

"Maybe it's just because you're abdomen is looking startling bloated this evening."

"I rest my case."

Sherlock took a measured step away from his brother and pressed his palms firmly together, "Mycroft are you aware that I need something to stimulate my adrenal glands to increased the production and release of adrenaline into my blood stream to help to facilitate my thought process_"

"Sherlock are you aware that when you get nervous you start talking like a post graduate medical student and stop using full stops?"

Sherlock pressed his palms harder together,

"I was simply trying to illustrate the fact that I can either shoot up a few grams of cocaine or I can punch you in the face. Both would achieve the desired goal of making me feel better."

"Point made, however neither are going to happen under my watch."

"Why are you here?" Sherlock snapped as he finally turned to stare at his brother, "It took me thirty-seven minutes to find this place – and I knew what I was looking for – how did you find me so fast?"

Mycroft flexed his fingers around the handle of his umbrella, seemingly hesitant to admit something,

"After I found out that you flew to Islamabad... without me knowing," he said tensely as if the admission had made his jaw lock, "I decided to put a GPS tracking device on your phone."

Sherlock's eyes flashed black with rage,

"How_"

"Don't act so outraged brother, you're lucky I haven't tagged you like a cat by now."

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from rising to the bate,

"Do you often follow me? Or is it only when you're in the area looking for an all night bakery?"

The eerie smile quivered slightly but still remained on Mycroft's lips,

"This is a hot spot," Mycroft said as he waved in the general direction of the surrounding area, "drug dealers frequent this, and the surrounding, alleyways. They shift cannabis, heroin and crack cocaine by the kilo. I get an alert on my phone whenever you enter into an area that poses a potential threat to your sobriety_"

"My sobriety is not in danger, John is in danger_"

"Those things are not mutually exclusive."Mycroft said as he fixed Sherlock with a steady look, "I like your friend Sherlock, I think that he is a good influence on you, he keeps you fed and sober and clothed – apart for when you choose to grace the rooms of Buckingham Palace." Mycroft said with a little acidic twinge in his voice that clearly conveyed the idea that he wasn't quite over Sherlock roaming the royal halls without pants.

"But he also impairs your judgement. Because of him you make rash decisions."

"I don't."

"You are standing in the middle of an alleyway at almost one o'clock in the morning wearing nothing but a set of pyjamas and a coat. You aren't even wearing shoes."

Sherlock blinked before he looked down at his sodden sock clad feet. He hadn't noticed, he'd walked across almost six miles of wet London pavement and hadn't noticed that he wasn't wearing any shoes. He wasn't even wearing his own socks; they belonged to John that's why they were cutting off blood supply to his feet.

"I got a call Mycroft from a man, a serial killer who I have been trying to catch for months. He told me that he had my_ John, he told me that he had John and that he had injected him with a paralytic and that this was my last chance to find him. Forgive me if I didn't take pause to dress appropriately."

Mycroft shook his head slightly almost as if he was... disappointed,

"This entire case has been an embarrassment to the name of Holmes, you have embarrassed me and you have shocked me with your own ineptitude. You, the Sherlock Holmes, Scotland Yard's only consulting detective, the man who can solve a murder case by glancing at a police report, you have missed every clue offered to you in this case. You missed that killer's – quite frankly – pathetic attempt at a hidden message. You failed to anticipate that this man, who is obviously trying to attack you and the people that you care for, would go after John – when Irene Adler wasn't incentive enough - and that is why John is now in danger. You failed to protect your friend because you were too encumbered with emotion to see the situation clearly." Mycroft said, his tone rose to a level that almost sounded impassioned.

"Do you know where he is?"

"No." Mycroft said after a moment's hesitation.

"Mycroft_"

"I don't know where he is Sherlock, if I did then I wouldn't be having this conversation with you. I would have sent a group of special operatives to retrieve John, kill Irene Adler and bring in both this serial killer and Moriarty. But I don't know where he is – mainly because I don't care – but partly because I have far more important things to worry about." Mycroft took a step forward, the metallic tap of the tip of his umbrella chipping the concrete made Sherlock wince slightly,

"It's a puzzle, nothing more, nothing less. Take John and Irene out of the equation and simply look at the facts. Stop acting like a normal human being and start acting like Sherlock Holmes otherwise they'll both be dead and I shall be your sole ally in the world."

Sherlock stared at his brother for a moment before he closed his eyes and searched for the switch. As a child standing in the playground of his private school listening to the sneers and hisses of his fellow classmates as they mocked him, Sherlock had trained himself to turn off his emotions. It made sense to him, the only way to remain calm in the face of fear was to simply stop being afraid. All he had to do was visualise a switch, concentrate hard enough and then reach out and flick it off.

He did this now and the second he turned them off the fog began to clear, his fear began to fade and could finally see the door to his mind palace. He hadn't seen it in a while, not since he had started this case. The sight of the smooth dark wood and shiny brass handle made his body sing.

He stopped thinking about John being scared and hurt and alone. He stopped thinking about the sound his violin had made as it smashed against the wall or about what John had been about to say before he had been incapacitated. He stopped thinking about Irene.

His mind was clear. He reached out through the residual fog and grasped hold of the handle, even though this was all in his imagination, the metal still felt cool against his palm.

Calm settled over him as he turned the handle and opened the door.

Blinding light shattered the darkness and thoughts swarmed at him like flies, each one jabbing at him, biting at his skin, urging him to think, think, think_

The women, each one with a slight abrasion above the left cheek bone from evenly distributed impact pressure rather than blunt force trauma which_ not important, it's part of the signature, it's his pathology.

White power under the nails, not grainy, but fine like chalk_ no, not chalk, flour, refined flour. And then there was the purple stains on the feet and knees, the hair had signs of torn purple petals, some variant of vegetation or_

Sherlock opened his eyes and said, almost joyfully,

"Agrostemma githago."

Mycroft smiled, "My biological terminology is a little rusty. Care to elaborate?"

"I'm surprised brother," Sherlock said almost joyously as his moment of defined clarity and finely tuned deductive skills made his body and brain feel shiny and clean for the first time in months, "I appear to know something that you don't."

"Oh don't sound so gleeful." Mycroft said as he rolled his eyes, "If I was so inclined I could work out_"

"You do that," Sherlock said as he cracked the back off his phone, "Once you've worked it out you can meet me there and then all four of us can have a picnic." Sherlock said as he flicked the tiny GPS device in Mycroft's direction.

"Sherlock, where are you going?" Mycroft called as Sherlock began to walk in the direction of the main road.

"Home," Sherlock called back, "You can't fight a serial killer shoeless."

"Sherlock_"

"Thank you for the pep talk Mycroft," Sherlock said as the squelching sound of his sodden socks became distant, "It was inspiring."

Mycroft sighed deeply and, not for the first time in his existence, he wondered what it would be like to be an only child.

Even before he was fully conscious John could feel pain radiating from the base of his skull to the back of his eyes. His head felt light and for some time he simply floated in the pain, internally wincing when the dull ache became stabbing agony. He was making noises, deep throated groans and whimpering little moans but he wasn't conscious, not quite, not yet.

He was cold and he could feel his body trembling, shivering to increase his core body temperature. He wanted to curl himself into a ball, to hug his knees into his chest to stop these incessant shivers.

"Hush." He faintly made out the soft sound of a voice, "It's alright."

He tried to open his eyes but he couldn't, his eyelids were too heavy, they felt swollen.

A warm hand lightly rested against his cheek and then the side of his neck, its warmth and softness soothed him slightly.

"Shhh," he tried to say but his throat was too sore.

The hand stroked his hair away from his face and traced the fragile skin beneath his eyes.

"Shher..." he coughed a few times, "Sherlock?" He managed to slur.

Someone laughed_ no, a woman laughed. He could tell, he was coming into consciousness now and was fighting his way through the darkness and the pain.

"Men always reveal their darkest desires when they're drugged up. It's a shame I couldn't stick around to listen to Mr Holmes's inebriated revelations. Did he talk about me? Did he call out my name?"

John was winning the fight because his eyelids opened a crack and he saw a face blur before him.

"Are you missing him?" The voice cooed condescendingly as the hand played with his fringe, "I have to admit that I've missed him a little. But I'm sure he'll be here soon so don't you worry."

John tried to speak but the pain behind his eyes throbbed and he whimpered. Suddenly he felt his body moving, being slid across the ground. He tried to fight the hands that were moving him because every jolt sent sharp stabs of pain through his skull.

Just as he thought that he was about to start crying the pain abated as his head was rested against something soft and warm.

"He might have nicer hair but I have more comfortable thighs. I know that I'm no substitute but you'll have to make do with me for the moment." The voice said and John could feel the soft hand return to his hair.

"Do you two enjoy snuggling up on the sofa? I can picture it now. Does he like to be the big spoon or the little spoon?"

John turned his head so that his cheek was resting against the soft, warm thing. This time, when he tried, his eyes fluttered open and after blinking twice he was able to focus on the world around him. He soon realised that his head was resting in someone's lap, a woman's lap. His eyes travelled up, slowly tracing the dimensions of a woman's abdomen, chest, throat and...

"Hello Dr John Hamish Watson, you look terrible."

John said nothing, he simply stared into the eyes of Irene Adler.