2

Sherlock admitted grudgingly that he was hungry. The latest case had taken most of his energy. Even he who considered sleep boring had collapsed the day before into his bed. He had barely managed to drag the duvet over his body before falling asleep. Ten hours and a hot shower later he found Mrs. Hudson clattering away in his kitchen, producing tea, toast and scrambling eggs in the process. It took Sherlock mere minutes to devour everything, and about the same time to feel the first tingling of boredom again. Having eaten everything Mrs Hudson had made for him, Sherlock headed for the sofa. Letting himself fall back, he steepled his fingers under his chin. Bored!

He looked over to John's empty armchair allowing his mind to drift. Mrs Hudson had been partly wrong. John was still seeing his friend often, although he was married. They were still solving their fair share of crimes together but it wasn't the same. Sherlock had been used to solitude but having tasted the companionship of John had left an empty place - of course only in his flat. No one who made tea for him, he had to fetch the phone himself even when he became deeply engrossed in something, and didn't have time for banalities such as texting. John had selfishly taken his gun with him so Sherlock couldn't even shoot at the walls.

Closing his eyes Sherlock entered his mind-palace, heading straight for John's room for some company.

It was some hours later, Sherlock was still dressed in his pyjamas and dark-blue dressing-gown, when his phone beeped.

"Mrs. Hudson, the phone!" Sherlock shouted but his landlady, not his housekeeper thank you very much, had left hours ago.

The detective craned his neck, looking at the kitchen counter. There was his phone, and dirty dishes.

Pondering if it was worth getting up from the sofa Sherlock wiggled his toes against a cushion. He contemplated his feet for some time before he got up, walking right over the table to get into the kitchen.

Reading the text he had received lit up his face. Another case. Lestrade had been kidnapped.

'You're happy about a friend being kidnapped?'

"Shut up," Sherlock boomed. After his return and reunification with his friend a little part of John had taken up residence in Sherlock's head, providing unrequested comments on a variety of subjects. Usually moral aspects of dos and don'ts that hadn't bothered the detective in the past.

Instead of starting another argument with his newly acquired 'Johnscience' Sherlock got dressed and headed downstairs.

He stepped onto the street to get a cab and was almost run over by a black limousine that stopped mere inches from him. His brother Mycroft lowered the window.

"Get in, I'll give you a lift."

For once Sherlock didn't argue but got in the car.

Mycroft drove quietly, guiding the comfortable car skilfully through London's late afternoon rush hour. For the first minute Sherlock was busy typing on his phone, texting John Watson to join him asap. No sooner that the answer 'on my way' appeared, did Sherlock turn to his brother. Mycroft had lost weight, and it suited him. Sherlock however would rather throw himself in front of a tube train than voice that observation. Still his brother apparently had read his carefully disguised facial expression because the typical Holmes smirk invaded his features.

"What are you smirking at?" Sherlock asked. The amusement glittering in Mycroft's eyes were the only reaction that gave away he had actually heard the question.

The car hadn't completely stopped in the reserved parking area of New Scotland Yard when Sherlock jumped out, long legs carrying him effortlessly towards the building.

Sally Donovan approached him and a dark cloud appeared on the detective's face.

"No," she said, holding her hands up. "Please, for once don't start. I apologise for ever calling you a freak. Just find him, will you?"

Sherlock bit back half a dozen remarks before answering. "What have you got so far?" Not much I presume.

Sally waved a young constable over.

Twenty, lives with his parents, probably only his mother. Recently his girlfr... no, his boyfriend, interesting, broke up with him. Before Sherlock could continue his train of thoughts, Sally went on.

"Carl found Lestrade's keys in his office just a few minutes after he had left yesterday evening."

"Exactly when?"

"Sixish," Carl piped up. "I looked up his address. It was only a few minutes walk from here so I figured he would come back soon enough. Left his keys with the guard. It was a busy night, and when I went home..."

"You had forgotten all about it," Sherlock filled the gap. "Anything else?"

"No." Carl shook his head.

Sherlock turned back to Sally but not before startling Carl with his observation that if he'd eat his burgers in the future without the tomato he'd feel better soon. The young officer looked confused at the detective, but haven't risen in rank far enough to open his mouth without authorisation he just nodded and walked away.

Sally rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I offered him a ride yesterday but he wanted to walk home." Sherlock bit his bottom lip, and looked at the floor.

"He gave me a wave when I left and that was the last I saw of him. The guard told me the DI's keys were here when I came in today. I thought..."

Sherlock produced an amused hum at her choice of words.

Clenching her fists, Sally repeated, "I thought! He was coming in late, having crashed at a friend's place. Something you wouldn't know about." She sneered at Sherlock.

"Greg, I mean DI Lestrade. He was as exhausted as everybody else after those murder investigations. When it turned noon and there was still no word from him we tried to contact him. And yes, we checked hospitals, family and friends, even his ex-wife. Eventually we sent a patrol car to his flat. At first they didn't find anything suspicious."

"Course they didn't," Sherlock sighed.

"However, when one of the officers walked around the house he found skidmarks on the lawn and a packet of cigarettes that belongs to the DI."

When Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow she added, "His lighter was inside the packet."

"And why have you called me here instead of directly to the crime scene? I'm wasting precious time."

"Wanted to give the boys a head start before you'd lumber all over the place."

Sherlock felt his hackles rise.

"I don't lumber!"

"Hey," John came running into the office seeing at once that Sherlock and Sally were just short of strangling each other again.

Sherlock calmed visibly the moment John was at his side, and allowed a thin smile to tug up the corners of his mouth. "Where does he live nowadays?" he asked.

Sally gave him the address, and Sherlock stalked outside, John in his wake.

Neither Mycroft nor his car were anywhere to be seen, and since Lestrade had walked home the detective wanted to retrace the inspector's steps anyway.

Sherlock paused and closed his eyes for a few seconds. A map appeared in front of his inner eye, showing him the fastest and most logical route Lestrade had taken home.

Sally watched from the office window as the lanky detective and his shorter side-kick were walking away swiftly before she went for the phone to alert the crew on-site.

oOo

The pain that shot up Greg Lestrade's spine was so bad that it forced another whimper from him. His tongue and lips were already bleeding from biting into his own flesh when another cramp shot through his muscles. The inspector's whole body shook for several minutes. He curled into a foetal position eventually, rocking back and forth, moaning quietly.

Time passed, and the cramps became less and less frequent before they stopped altogether. He had lost all sense of time. It must have been less than twenty-four hours since he had been abducted but it felt much much longer. The exhaustion from the previous investigations, the drug they had knocked him out with, the cold, lack of food and water and now the poison that had been wreaking havoc inside his body had him almost defeated. Almost. A tiny little part of him still was willing to put up a fight.

Nevertheless it cost him every bit of composure not to crawl into a corner when the light in his cell came on again. For several minutes nothing happened. Greg's eyes adjusted to the light, and he could now see his prison as well as looking at his own body. The cell was a rectangular room, only a few square feet in diameter, with a high ceiling. Concrete floor, no window, only a metal door that lead to the corridor. Not much to look at.

His body was a different matter. Greg was glad that he couldn't see his face. His limbs and torso were covered in bruises and plenty of abrasions were visible, undoubtedly injuries from thrashing around the rough floor. Blood, vomit and sweat covered his skin. He wasn't a vain man but right now he was rather disgusted by his appearance.

The door opened and a guard, a new one, stuck his head inside. "Ready to talk?" the man asked.

Lestrade gave him the finger, certain that he'd be sorry soon.

"I guess that's a no," the man sneered.

Seconds later the door was shut with a bang, and he heard a body outside dropping heavily onto the floor.

The door opened again, and the female constable he had seen earlier stuck her head inside.

"Sir, if you feel up to it this might be a good time to leave the premises."

Greg gaped only for a second before he staggered to his feet.

"Shall I help you, Sir?"

Greg closed his eyes for a second. "Please, I'm almost naked, I stink and I hurt. Don't call me Sir. Greg will do just fine."

"Right, Sir... err.. Greg."

He noticed a bruise at the young constable's cheek, and her uniform was torn in some places. Apart from that she looked remarkably well.

Having felt his gaze she turned around. "I fight in the national squad - karate." She grinned. "Think we should get out of here."

Greg agreed wholeheartedly.

"Let's put him in here first. It might alert others if we leave him lying around." He indicated the unmoving body of his guard in the corridor.

Together they dragged the body in the cell Greg had just vacated.

"Wait a second," the inspector said, stripping off the man's jacket and t-shirt. Though he really wanted some trousers too he opted against the jeans the man wore. Taking them from an unconscious body would cost precious time. Besides, clad in the shirt and jacket he felt much better already. He frisked the man's pockets quickly, and was a little disappointed when he found neither weapon nor anything else that was useful.

They locked the guard inside the cell, and took off in the opposite direction to the one that Greg had been taken before.