A frustrated consulting detective was not someone anyone really wanted to be around. He was bad enough when he wasn't in one of his moods. But now with his best friend missing and the deliverer of a package disappearing into thin air, Sherlock Holmes was very frustrated indeed.

He entered to go into his flat when he stopped, looking at a small thing . He picked it up. Wrapped in tissue paper, smeared with red...

No.

Smeared with blood. Sherlock opened the paper and felt oddly detached for a few brief seconds before analyzing.

John's phone. Blood. Angle of the blood splatters indicates a fair amount. Presumably from hand.

He went upstairs to 221B and opened his friend's phone. One text message was waiting.

Don't worry. It's just an experiment. -J

Fury and hatred flooded through Sherlock, but who the emotions, rarely felt by the sociopath, were directed at, he wasn't even sure. All Moriarty was doing... was saying what he had said to John.

The last thing he had said to his friend, his only friend, was that he was overreacting from an experiment. An experiment designed to test John, designed to show what Moriarty could do. Sherlock hated the colliding thoughts and emotions, but was this near how John had felt? His sister and her former partner had been the targets they had picked, could John have felt this worried for them?

"Sherlock," a voice said calmly, making the detective turn with a look of distaste.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

The answer was obvious. Ashes, bits of them. Slight scent of smoke.

Numbness.

John.

Mycroft. His brother could have died.

"You are not the only target," the man answered, knowing that Sherlock had deduced what happened.

"Mummy?"

"Office."

"Controlled explosions."

Like with John. And Moriarty was a bomber.

Damn him.

"How did they get in?"

Mycroft looked at Sherlock and the younger brother was almost scared for a moment. His brother, his older brother, unshakable and brilliant, looked... lost.

It was so faint, the look, and very brief, but Sherlock swallowed hard, nervous now for the first time. Mycroft had no idea how Moriarty had gotten into his office and that, as John would have said, was a bit not good.

Sherlock took the bloodied box and phone. "Let's go to Bart's."

Mycroft's phone buzzed as his brother spoke and he reached into his suit jacket's pocket and read it with a raised eyebrow. He looked at Sherlock. "There's been a robbery."

"... A robbery."

"At Bart's. All laboratory equipment somehow just... missing."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Mycroft looked out the window. It was obvious to them. Remove Sherlock's usual means of analyzing.

"Moriarty doesn't seem like the kind to do this," Mycroft said aloud.

"Did you finally arrange for him to get some of your attention?" Sherlock inquired.

His brother scowled slightly before saying, "He certainly has it now."

The doctor had been good for his brother. Less than a full day gone and Sherlock was showing signs of stress already. Mycroft remembered all too clearly how his brother's youth had been spent... the dangers of it even now. John Watson had no idea how many danger nights there had been before his arrival. Months without one? A record.

"Have you eaten?"

"I don't eat while working. You know that. Perhaps you should try it." It was an attempt to get some semblance of normality, Mycroft knew, and so he didn't get irritated as he normally did.

A knock on the door and soon it opened, revealing a disheveled young man, obviously a member of Sherlock's homeless network.

"I-I heard y-yous was lookin' for infermation 'bout a p-package."

"Yes," Sherlock said, piercing the visitor with a look.

"I-I saw a bloke," the young man said. "Jus' looked like everyone else, shirt 'n tie. Glasses. He put somethin' in the mail slot 'n walked off."

"How did he look?" Sherlock demanded.

"I jus' said!" the young man said, thinking furiously. "Jus'... jus' a normal bloke."

Sherlock growled in frustration, "So we have a man in a shirt and tie with glasses. What else?"

"I dunno!"

"At least we have something," Mycroft muttered. "Thank you."

The homeless young man ran off and both brothers turned to stare as the bloodied phone in Sherlock's hand rang.

Harry was displayed on the screen.

Mycroft felt a slight twinge of guilt. No one had told her that her only family was missing.

"Hello?" Sherlock inquired.

"Johnny, you got me the wrong sandwich. I wanted turkey and ham, not turkey ham," the woman complained.

"... Harriet, this is Sherlock," the detective spoke quickly, running out the door, his older brother behind him. "You saw John?"

"Huh? Sherlock? Put Johnny on, s'important. He got me the wrong sandwich."

"You saw your brother?" This was said as they got into Mycroft's car, Sherlock in the front seat for once and Mycroft driving.

It was sadly obvious right now, the two brothers were taking the 'trust no one' approach. Mycroft's office and Sherlock's preferred research place both targeted? People with access to their places were helping Moriarty and they didn't know who.

"Yeah..."

"We'll be right there."

Mycroft was a fast driver, more so when he could actually drive through red lights courtesy of a police escort he had made while his brother spoke on the phone. "Don't get your hopes up," he said to Sherlock. "She's on pain medication. Not the most reliable."

"It's something," he snapped. "How did they get into Bart's?" This was asked with a forlorn look on his face.

Mycroft just shook his head. How indeed.

But of all the things for Harry to see, why her brother? Why not someone like her ex-wife that she clearly still cared for?

John had called her during the test. The first person he had called when Sherlock wasn't available had been his sister. He didn't turn to anyone else willingly except for his sister and Mike Stamford.

Think.

They had reached the hospital.

When he had been worried, John Watson had wanted his sister safe. Was going to use her flat, hadn't he said that? If Moriarity had been monitoring the test, he might have remembered that.

Mycroft looked around the hospital as they walked to Harry Watson's room. He knew every place was being watched. He knew the nurses and doctors were keeping a good eye on the woman. He went to the desk on her floor. "Have any visitors been to see Ms. Watson?" He inquired.

"No, sir," a nurse said.

Sherlock made a face and went into her room.

Mycroft knew his brother noticed it at the same time.

There was a sandwich on a tray. Bought, not part of the meals given by the hospital.

Someone had been to visit.

But how did they get in? Mycroft made a few calls and was looking over his phone as Sherlock talked to Harry. There was nothing, no record of anyone visiting this floor at all. Not from the front desk, not from any of the footage...

As he looked over photos and videos, he had no idea that he was being watched as well.

Jim Moriarty chuckled as he waited in the front, looking at his cell phone. "Like chickens with their heads cut off."

"Do you just like taxi cabs?" John asked, peeling off the surgical mask as he entered the taxi. "I mean really, what is it with geniuses and taxis?"

"They blend in," Jim said, shrugging as he started the car and drove. "I don't believe you risked everything to visit Harry." He wrinkled his nose.

"You can tell you don't have siblings," John said, stretching.

Jim pouted, "You say that as if it's a bad thing."

The doctor in the back seat said nothing, looking out the window, perhaps lost in thought. Jim gave him those few minutes before asking, "Anything else?"

"Information is what they thrive on," John answered. "I figured just doing nothing for a few days will have more of a panic than being active."

Jim drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.

"... Unless I'm imposing," John said softly. "Then I'll stay somewhere else."

"I wouldn't have offered my services if you were imposing. I was just wondering if you would be willing to lend me a hand with some business of mine."

"I'm not a thug," John said quietly.

Jim glanced at him, raising an eyebrow, "I never said you were. Though I was hoping to use your skill with a pistol. I think you'd understand. A wife. She can't get a divorce from her husband without losing her children. He's a police officer, nobody listens to her. Horrible fellow. Doesn't just hurt her though. Hurts their oldest son and makes the other one watch."

There it was. The same look of disgust Jim had remembered at such crimes that society seemed to overlook.

"And it'd be a shame if he was accidentally killed while on duty, would it?" John said softly.

"Oh yes," Jim answered quietly. He handed an envelope to the back seat.

John knew he should say no, should refuse. His hand took the envelope and he felt sick as he saw the bruised and bloody child, the woman even worse...

He had to refuse this, he had to. He had no right to play judge, jury and executioner. He should give it back and jump out the cab right now...

But how could he when he knew he could make a positive difference to three people? How could he claim to not want to kill someone when his hands were already coated in blood anyway.

Jim knew him. He knew to pick criminals that John wouldn't mind killing. A killer with a conscience. And Jim was keeping that in mind.

Unlike last time...

John pushed the thought away. He had left that life. He was good, damn it. He was only teaching Sherlock and Mycroft a lesson. He was not a bad person.

But... how could he say that after seeing those photos? After reading that information? He had the ability to help someone and he was saying no because of his morals even though he had killed on the battlefield and to save Sherlock's life?

He stared out the window for a few long minutes before saying softly, not looking away from the outside view, "What time does he work and what street?"

In the driver's seat, Jim just smiled.