Sherlock stopped John near the entrance to the vaults, before they emerged back onto the street, one hand very lightly on John's right arm, almost hesitantly. John paused and looked up, keeping a sigh to himself. Sherlock's grey eyes were dim in the low lighting.

"That was remiss of me. I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

John closed his eyes momentarily, then nodded once, to avoid arguing about it. He didn't have the energy for that. It had rattled him more than he wanted to admit. Not because he actually thought Sherlock would hurt him, not deliberately, but that he'd simply forgotten that John's old wound could make him vulnerable. It was a very Sherlock thing to do, but that didn't mean John had to like it.

Sherlock searched John's brown eyes, his own grey ones flickering rapidly. John sighed, then ran his fingers once through Sherlock's hair, a sign that he would forgive him, if he hadn't quite done so yet. Sherlock looked relieved, and John knew he'd probably be berating himself for slipping up, which he hated doing.

"Come on," John said. "There's still a boy who needs us."

Sherlock looked as if he might say something more, but then nodded and followed John up the steps into the Edinburgh evening. They hailed a cab, travelling back to the hotel in silence.

They arrived back at the suite to find that Mycroft had liberated two of the computers – a laptop and desktop – from the bedroom, installed them at the desk in the sitting room and was poring through information, his grey eyes dark with concentration. He glanced up at them when they came in, then returned his attention to the monitors.

Angela was standing by one of the windows overlooking the city, arms folded across her stomach, her profile tight. John could see she'd been crying and was surprised, then wondered at himself about that. Of course she was distraught. Even if she was trained not to show it, she would still feel it, particularly when it pertained to her missing son. She kept her gaze from Sherlock and John when they came in, but listened to Sherlock when he filled them in on his deductions.

When he'd finished, Mycroft leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

"I've not worked with any American mercenary groups," he said. "Not that they couldn't have been hired by someone working against me, but I'm afraid it doesn't get us much, does it?"

"That depends on if you have any enemies in Afghanistan," Sherlock pointed out.

"Other than the whole of the Taliban and the fact that I'm British?" Mycroft suggested. "No, actually, it's not been an area in which I've worked. Rather the purview of MI6, not mine."

"Drugs smugglers?" Sherlock suggested.

"With that, you could take your pick," Mycroft sighed. "And yes, probably linked to narcotics coming out of Afghanistan, but also Pakistan, Bolivia, Mexico, Jamaica, India, you name the country, there's probably something making it's way here that shouldn't be. And my responsibility is here, in Great Britain, not in those other countries. It's more likely dealers here who would want something from me, not someone in the country of origin."

"There's no reason someone here couldn't hire an American mercenary, or several," Sherlock pointed out.

"No," Mycroft agreed. "I'm simply saying it does not narrow down the list over-much."

"But it does give us something with which to refine our search," Sherlock said. "Draw up a list for me, so I can get started on looking."

John settled into a chair, drawing his feet up onto the table. He watched Sherlock and Mycroft work – actually working together without bickering for once, probably the only time – and waited. His left shoulder was beginning to ache, but he knew it was probably psychosomatic, from having called so much attention to it, and from what Sherlock had done, unintentionally. He watched Angela stand near the window until Mycroft was done drawing together a lengthy list, and then she took a laptop without comment, uploading the list from him and settling down to work on it as well. John felt superfluous, but kept silent, knowing there was not much else he could do at the moment.

After awhile, Sherlock moved onto the couch and gestured for John to join him, so John did, leaning in to see the screen on which Sherlock was working. He let some of his weight rest very lightly on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock cast a quick glance at him. John met his eyes and that was all – surrounded by Mycroft and Angela, he didn't want to do anything else, because this was probably already being noted, and Mycroft had undoubtedly noticed that something was off between Sherlock and John the moment they'd come through the door. But John didn't want to be upset, he didn't have the energy, nor was now the time.

About half an hour into their lengthy search – Mycroft had a lot of contact with drug lords and drugs traffickers, which was unpleasant, John thought – the phone resting on the coffee table buzzed. Angela had the laptop put aside in a flash and was leaning forward, but Sherlock held up a hand to forestall her, and she stopped, looking angry and anguished. He nodded, then leaned forward himself, answering the call and putting it on speaker again.

"Good evening," Sherlock said smoothly.

"Detective," the man greeted in his convincing English accent. "I trust you've worked out some information since we last spoke?"

"I have," Sherlock agreed. "How long were you in Afghanistan?"

"Less time than your husband, to be sure," the man replied. "Not long actually, a few months. More work in Iraq, you see. All told, better climate there, too. Stability is about the same, on a day-to-day basis, but that means there's always something new to do."

"You can drop the accent, if you wish," Sherlock said, as though extending the man some courtesy.

"Do you know, this is easier now, I've been doing it for so long? Well done on picking up on the remnants of my American accent, though. However, this isn't what I've called about. Agent MacTaggart, are you there?"

"Of course I'm here," Angela replied in a tight voice. "What have you done to David?"

"He's still fairly good," the man said and John felt a cold stone settle into his stomach. The last conversation they'd had, he'd said David was well enough. The change in words didn't pass John by, and nor did it to the other three in the room. He saw Angela's expression freeze and stiffen, her face blanching, her knuckles whitening as she balled her hands into fists.

As though he could sense the tension in the room, the man laughed.

"Don't worry, Agent MacTaggart! We're not going to do serious damage. Unless, of course, we don't get what we want."

"What do you want?" Angela snarled and John was taken aback by the fury and anguish in her voice, if only because they hadn't yet broken the surface. Within a moment, she'd visibly reined herself back in. Mycroft got up from his position behind the desk and moved silently to sit in the chair beside hers. It was not, John considered, an open expression of support or affection, but it was positively a declaration from Mycroft. Again, he wondered what still went on between them.

"I want to know how your vacation was over the Christmas break."

Angela raised her eyes to exchange a look with Mycroft, puzzled and frustrated. She closed her fingers around the arms of her chair, her jaw tightening, but kept her voice as steady as she could.

"It was lovely, thank you. David had a wonderful time." The last sentence was delivered pointedly.

"Happy to hear it," the caller answered. "I understand the weather in Sicily is quite mild, even in the winter."

"Compared to here, certainly," Angela agreed, the pulse in her temple jumping visibly. John realized suddenly that he had a hand curled tightly around Sherlock's, who was holding his just as hard in return, even though his expression remained mild, inquisitive, listening intently to the conversation.

"I shall have to make a point of going," the caller said casually and John wondered at his ability to simply carry on a conversation with the woman whose son he'd abducted, as if it didn't matter and she didn't care.

"Where's my son, you bastard?" Angela hissed, her composure breaking again. John felt her shock as his own when the line went dead again. She stared at the phone, then dropped her head into her hands. Everyone sat stock still, waiting, then less than a minute later, the phone buzzed again. She snatched it up, then dropped it, leaning back in the chair, holding one hand out in front of her, as if that could remove what she'd seen.

Sherlock picked it up and John saw the picture of David, a new one this time. He was awake, but the glassiness in his eyes told John he was still drugged. But he now had a bruise on his left cheekbone, vivid blue, roughly in the shape of a heel of a hand, as if someone had slapped him hard enough to cause a haematoma. His lower lip was swollen, split and bleeding. His eyes were red and his cheeks streaked with tears.

Attached was the message:

Consider that for awhile. I'll be back in touch again soon.

John closed his eyes, feeling sick.

Without a word, Sherlock passed the phone to Mycroft and John could feel the hesitation in his husband's movements – whatever victory Sherlock had felt earlier in being able to hold something over his brother had drained away. Mycroft looked at the photo, doing his best to keep his expression impassive, but his eyes glinted dangerously. He put the phone down and shifted as if to move toward Angela, but she held her hand up toward him, shaking her head.

"No, don't," she said, and her voice was remarkably even, but taut, as it about to break. She stayed where she was a moment, then stood up and went into the small bathroom that wasn't off the master bedroom, shutting the door behind her, but not locking it. John heard the water come on but didn't hear any sounds of her being sick. The water from the faucet would, though, drown out the sound of her tears.

He glanced at Sherlock, whose jaw was tight for a moment.

"Afghanistan, Iraq and Italy?" he enquired, turning his gaze to Mycroft. Mycroft gazed back at him a moment, then closed his eyes, looking more defeated than John had ever seen him do. In the past several hours, he'd seen more emotion from Mycroft than he had the entire time he'd known Sherlock. Mostly, he'd only seen exasperation directed at Sherlock, never any hint of weakness.

"You know who it is," Sherlock said.

"Yes," Mycroft replied. He stood, crossing to the window where Angela had been standing not long before, looking out as she had done, his expression stormy.

John felt this at least should have been good news, because if Mycroft knew who it was, then he must have some idea of where David would be. This did not seem to be the case, however.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said in a warning voice.

"There's nothing I can do, Sherlock," Mycroft replied, his tone suddenly blank in a way that sent a chill down John's spine.

"Bollocks," Sherlock retorted. "You can always do something."

"Not this," Mycroft replied. He was silent a moment longer, then turned back, casting his eyes once towards the closed bathroom door. "He's an Italian drug lord, Sherlock. Marco De Luca. We have his granddaughter, Alessandra."

"What?" John demanded. Mycroft held up a hand, asking for patience.

"I mean, we arrested his granddaughter. Here, in England, six months ago. He's been running significant quantities of heroin out of Afghanistan, but she's been a far bigger problem here, bringing cocaine in from Central America. Most of his product moving from Afghanistan doesn't end up here, but in Italy and southern France, as far as we can tell, so our case against him is secondary to the Italians and the French. But Alessandra… Seven years to pin her down, to get agents in close enough to earn her trust."

"And Iraq?" Sherlock pressed.

"Her husband is Iraqi. It's how De Luca moves product in and out of Bagdad. He's still in the wind, no hint of him since we managed to arrest Alessandra. He could be here, in Iraq, in Italy, we have no idea."

"And he wants to trade," John said.

"David for Alessandra, yes," Mycroft sighed. "But I cannot. There is absolutely no way my superiors will let it happen. I could call in all the favours owed to me, and Angela as well, but they will not sanction the release of a drug lord's drug trafficking granddaughter. Even if it is for the sake of our son."

John felt sick, but Sherlock held his brother's gaze firmly.

"I suggest you find a way, Mycroft," he said harshly. "Unless you want the death of yet another innocent child on your hands. Somehow I doubt even you could handle that, not right now."