"Sherlock!"
Sherlock dimly became aware of his name being shouted.
"Sherlock!" Jim shouted his name again, this time emphasising it with sharp slap to the face.
The detective jumped, instinctively raising his arms in defence and pushing Jim away. He had been in his Mind Palace, collating information and details, and he hadn't heard Jim and Sebby's return to the room.
"Fuck!" Sherlock exclaimed, rubbing his hand over his reddening cheek. He composed himself for a moment, resisting the urge to jump up and fight back. He needed to play along for a while longer.
"Welcome back." Jim said sarcastically, leaning down in front of the detective and bringing himself almost to eye level. "You don't want to miss the fun and games now, do you, Sherlock?"
Sherlock remained deliberately silent, taking a minute to assess the exact positions of everybody in the room. Chrissie hadn't been moved from the bed, Jim was just in front of Sherlock himself and Sebby - Sherlock strained his ears to locate the man - Sebby was somewhere on the far side of the room. Sherlock needed to be careful if he wanted to ensure that he didn't place Chrissie in any more danger than she was already in.
The detective sensed Jim moving away from him and decided to see how his eyes were faring. The pain behind them had lessened quite a bit, and he thought perhaps this was the effects of whatever Jim had used wearing off. He squinted one eye open slightly, hoping not to be seen by either man in the room. When the previous blinding brightness didn't hit him like before, he tried opening it a little further.
The room came into view, not clear but a blurry representation of the area around him. He experimented with the other eye, opening it just a little to begin with and, when he discovered that he could tolerate the light, opening it fully and allowing both eyes to get used to the light.
Slowly and subtly, he took in his surroundings. The hotel room layout he remembered from previously. Chrissie was still laid on the bed, bound herself but not tied to the actual bed. This was good. Sebby and Jim were on the far side of the room, stood near the bathroom door. Fortunately, neither man was facing either of their captives, and this gave Sherlock the perfect opportunity that he was looking for.
John pulled the car door closed behind him, sliding into the back seat of the sedan alongside Mycroft. He nodded his acknowledgement to the "heavy" who had escorted them into the government vehicle and let out a long breath as the car set off in the direction of the hotel.
"I really did think that he had gone to see you again." John's voice was subdued; guilt-ridden, as if he should have known there was something not right about it all. "He's been seeing so much of you lately, I just didn't give it a second thought."
Mycroft nodded silently. Sherlock had been spending a lot of time in Mycroft's presence, but that was only because of the reappearance and, more seriously, the capture of Jim Moriarty. Sherlock usually made a conscious effort to stay away from his brother, determined as he was not to be drawn in by their obvious incestuous attraction to each other. Mycroft was a busy man anyway, and he rarely noticed Sherlock's deliberate avoidance. It was the times when Sherlock was there, in his office or at the Diogenes club, that Mycroft realised that Sherlock still felt the same way that he did, unable to resist the small touches and caresses that had played such a big part in their covert relationship for so long.
Mycroft shook himself from his reverie and turned to John.
"It's not your fault, John." he said calmly, in an attempt to reassure the doctor, "Sherlock knew what he was getting into."
Conversation was interrupted by the shrill ring of Mycroft's phone.
"Mycroft Holmes!" he barked into it, not quite as professionally as he had intended and rather giving away his current state of anxiety. A brief silence at the other end of the line gave Mycroft opportunity to calm himself somewhat before he acknowledged the caller a second time.
"Good evening and my apologies, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Were you able to do as we discussed?"
Greg cleared his throat and swallowed before answering.
"Mycroft, yes, of course. I have a tactical team heading that way now."
Mycroft nodded and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thank you, Greg," he responded, the informality getting a raised eyebrow from John, "I shall see you shortly then." Mycroft ended the call and allowed a little of the built-up tension to slip from his body.
"Greg?" John asked curiously, "First name terms?" It was unusual for Mycroft to call anybody by the first name, having only just begun using John's very recently, so John was surprised as such a lack of formality between Mycroft and the Detective Inspector.
"Detective Inspector Lestrade, before he was a detective inspector, of course, was one of the officers who dealt with our father's death, John. We have been acquainted for many years now." Mycroft's face broke into an uncharacteristic genuine smile, just for a moment, before settling back into its more familiar mask of detachment.
"Right. I see." John tried to keep the surprise from showing in his voice, realising he had pretty much failed to do so when he spotted the slight smirk of Mycroft's lips, "So we have back up at the hotel then? A tactical unit? Or somebody armed, I hope?" John really didn't fancy being the only gun against Jim Moriarty - a man who likely had more than one gun and more than one pair of 'helping hands'.
"Most definitely." Mycroft's reply was calmly reassuring. "You can rest assured, John, that whatever Jim Moriarty has in place, he will most definitely be out-manned and out-gunned."