John thought the waiting was agonizing.

Sherlock went back to work on the computers, as if he could track down more information, pin down De Luca's whereabouts – which, even if he could, didn't mean anything, because there was no guarantee that David was actually in the same place. But Sherlock needed to work, needed to chase down any leads he could think of, if only to pass the time. His mind was not about to stand still. John understood that.

Angela stayed in the bathroom for some time and Mycroft kept his vigil by the window, barely shifting. His expression was dangerous, more so than John had ever seen, and John felt a stab of unexpected and unfamiliar pity for him.

He thought, too, that he'd hit upon why John and Sherlock, and even Angela, had to be there when the kidnapper called. Why they had waited three days, until after Sherlock had come onto the case, to get into contact with Mycroft. They could easily have done this before, laid their demands out right at the beginning, instead of making him wait.

But all of it, the waiting, the presence of Mycroft's younger brother, of David's mother, even John, and the games, they were to force Mycroft further into a corner. He couldn't deal with this quickly, quietly or easily. This was not in his control, not at all his choice. He was being compelled to handle this in front of others, in front of his younger brother, over whom he'd always exerted power, and Angela, with whom he'd had a previous relationship and shared a child. And Angela would not put the same considerations at the fore that Mycroft would – she could force his hand when it came to the decision. Had it just been Mycroft, John privately thought he'd have said no, despite how difficult it would have been. He couldn't simply do that now, and someone had waited until Sherlock was there to witness it.

John was appalled and utterly impressed. And disgusted by himself for being so impressed. But this De Luca had placed Mycroft very nicely into a trap, surrounding him with vulnerabilities he could not escape.

It was incredibly cruel.

John thought even Mycroft didn't quite deserve that, no matter what else he'd done in the past, if only because it meant David's life hung in the balance, and David was innocent of any of his parents' wrong doings. It frightened John that a child could be used in this manner, as though he were a bargaining chip, some term for an agreement.

When Angela came out of the bathroom, Mycroft took her into the bedroom to speak to her in private. Sherlock glanced up when the door closed, then met John's eyes, but didn't say anything. John strongly suspected his husband had worked out why they were there, given that John himself had done so. What Sherlock thought of this, John couldn't tell. His husband's expression was shuttered in a way John had never learned to read. He was keeping everything out, but there was a flash of something – guilt – when he looked at John. Not at the situation, but at what had happened in the vaults. But he said nothing and nor did John. He would deal with it later if need be, when this was over with, although he was having a hard time imaging how it could end, or at least how it could end well.

Mycroft and Angela stayed cloistered in the bedroom for some time and John dozed on the couch, his head dropping into the crook of his arm, listening to the sounds of Sherlock working continuously behind him. When he raised his head again, he grimaced; this time, his left shoulder did hurt from being kinked at a bad angle for awhile. He stood and stretched, looking out over Edinburgh, which was cast in darkness now, alive with light. Somewhere out there, people were having fun, enjoying themselves, partaking in a pint in a pub, laughing, joking, appreciating the weekend. He wished he were.

And, somewhere out there, there was a scared and injured ten year old who desperately needed their help.

John wondered what help they could give him now, if Mycroft didn't think he could arrange anything. He wondered if that's why he and Angela were still in the bedroom, trying to work things out with their superiors, or if they were giving themselves some privacy to deal with this terror as David's parents, taking whatever brief cover they could from John and Sherlock.

John rubbed his eyes and then noticed Sherlock watching him, having stopped his work for a moment. He circled round the couch and behind the desk, and Sherlock reached out, hesitated, then snaked an arm around John's waist. John let him rest his head against John's hip and side for a moment, then leaned down, pressing their foreheads together. Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I am sorry," he said quietly.

"You're an idiot," John replied, but with a small hint of a smile in his voice. Sherlock's lips twitched at that and he opened his eyes again, meeting John's across the short distance that separated them.

"I'm an idiot," he agreed.

"At least you know that," John said, then pressed his lips to Sherlock's forehead. "Back to work. What've you found?"

"Loads, but nothing pertinent," Sherlock replied.

John let Sherlock get back to work, not at all hopeful he'd find anything, and curled back up on the couch, staring at Sherlock's dark and silent phone on the coffee table. He waited, not knowing what else to do. There was a small brass clock on the mantle opposite him and he watched the second hand click forward, growing more and more aware of the ticking sound until it started to get on his nerves. John tried to ignore it, but it worked its way into his brain so that he could not distract himself from it. Finally, he heaved himself from the couch and crossed over the mantle and the gas-powered fireplace, currently off, and fished the battery out of the back of the clock, putting the disassembled time piece back on the mantle.

"Thank you," Sherlock said from behind him and John had to repress a smile, given the circumstances. He'd had no idea it was bothering Sherlock.

He reclaimed his seat on the couch as Mycroft and Angela emerged from the bedroom. Sherlock didn't look up and John was glad – he did not want to see whatever expression his husband was wearing at that. Both of them just looked worn, though, Angela's eyes red and face blotchy, Mycroft paler than normal. They sat down in chairs next to one another, but John could read nothing in their body language past the exhaustion. Whatever relationship they may or may not have had, they were not displaying anything John could read. He wondered if Sherlock could.

Minutes crept past, turning into hours. Angela finally folded herself up in her chair and dozed, and John nodded off again, his head, which he'd had propped in his hand, sliding down until it was resting on the arm of the couch, his arm curled so that his hand rested on the top of his head. Even in his sleep, he could feel that this was uncomfortable but couldn't quite bring himself to wake up.

Until he felt someone else's fingers in his hair and managed to blink his eyes open. Across from him, Angela was awake again, but was staring blankly at the ceiling with red-rimmed eyes, and Mycroft had taken up position at the window again, hands clasped loosely behind him. He looked for all the world as though he were contemplating and enjoying the view, his body at ease, unless one looked at his face. John tried not to.

He tilted his own head back to see Sherlock standing behind him, running his right hand through John's hair. He stopped when he saw John watching him and John sat up, then stood, trying to work out the cricks in his back. He wished Sherlock could rub it for him, but that was for a time when things weren't as they were now, when they were at home, or at least alone, and working the tension out of John's muscles could lead to so many other things.

Plus, his shoulder hurt, too. He gave it a few experimental rolls and wished he'd brought some ibuprofen.

Sherlock went back to the computers and the rest of them went back to waiting. John checked his phone once in awhile, trying to delay as much as he could between doing so, then wished he had something to do, something useful, something that wasn't just waiting for a phone call they had no control over.

When it finally came, he was actually glad. He saw Sherlock stand and gesture to Mycroft – if they'd sorted out some system, John had been asleep when it had happened.

Angela redirected her attention immediately, staring at the phone as if she wanted to pounce on it, and Mycroft moved past her, turning it on.

"We're all here," he said, settling himself into a chair. Sherlock joined John on the couch, but sat on the other end. John rested a hand between them on the cushions and Sherlock covered it with his own, absently rubbing John's wedding ring as he did so, as if reminding himself that John was, in fact, his husband and was not, in fact, going anywhere.

"Good," the American with the British accent said cheerfully, as if he were joining them for an evening out and was pleased to find they'd all been able to come. "Glad to hear it. I assume by now you've figured out what we want?"

"I have," Mycroft said. Angela was still watching the phone, her expression murderous and desperate. John had no doubts that, had she known where to go, everyone surrounding her son would be dead by now. How hard must it be, he wondered, not just to go through this as a parent, feeling helpless, but as someone who is trained to deal with these kind of things and has been forced into immobility? Torture, he thought. This was torture.

"I want something first, however," Mycroft said. "Let me speak to David."

"Certainly," the man said. "You had only to ask."

At this, Angela's nostril's flared, and John curled his fingers around Sherlock's, who tightened his own hand around John's. John could hear some sort of shuffling in the background, then the kidnapper said:

"David? Your father wants to speak to you."

John's eyes snapped back to Mycroft, as did Sherlock's, and the older man stiffened, one hand tightening on the arm of his chair, but he kept his expression smooth, with a lot of effort, John could tell. After ten years and only having met David twice, after agreeing to father a child only out of practical considerations and because an appropriate woman he knew wanted one, after being removed, unknown, unimportant, his hand had been forced, his identity revealed in a way John knew full well was the last means he would have chosen.

All the choice had been stripped away from Mycroft in this.

They must really know him, John thought absently.

"Hello?" a small Scottish-accented voice quavered over the other end of the line and Angela pressed an open palm to her mouth to keep from making any noise, tears suddenly streaking her cheeks. She reached out with her other hand as if to grab the phone, then pulled herself back with considerable effort.

Oh God, John thought. He sounds so young.

They couldn't let him die, he realized. Mycroft had to find a way to get his superiors to agree to Alessandra's release. No matter the cost.

"Hello, David," Mycroft said, his voice level, even if his expression was not. "My name is Mycroft Holmes. Do you remember me?"

There was a pause.

"Yes," David said, in a shaking voice. Crying, John thought. Either he was currently or just had been. It twisted something inside of him, made him feel sick. And they were making Mycroft do this in front of John and Sherlock, and Angela. It seemed like a mistake, but they had calculated so well thus far.

"You're my mum's friend, right?" David continued.

"That's right," Mycroft replied.

"Why are they calling you my father?"

For a second, Mycroft closed his eyes, rage passing so quickly across his face John thought he may have imagined it, but a glance at Sherlock's expression told him this was not so.

"Because I am, David," he replied.

There was silence on the other end of the line and Angela looked like she might scream or throw up. Mycroft was watching the phone intently, as though he might see David through it.

"Is my mum there?", David asked and Angela nodded, moving her hand from her mouth to answer, but Mycroft held a hand up to her quickly, shaking his head at her, the only time their eyes had met during the conversation so far.

"Yes, David, she is, but I need you to talk to me right now, all right?"

There was another pause and John tried to imagine what it must be like, at ten, taken away from his home and mother, introduced to a father he'd never known about, suddenly, out of nowhere. Probably inconceivable, especially since David was drugged, or had been. Even if the drugs had worn off, he'd probably still be disoriented, given his age and his circumstances.

"David?" Mycroft asked.

"Okay," David agreed, reluctant, his voice shaking.

"Can you tell me where you are?" Mycroft asked.

"No," David replied and John heard fresh tears in his voice. "I don't know. In a room with some men. It's concrete, and cold."

"All right," Mycroft said, keeping his voice calm, stable, for the boy's benefit. "Can you tell me who you're with?"

There was a hesitation, and John heard a voice in the background saying something.

"Um, three men. Two of them say they're Americans, but they don't sound like Americans. They sound like you. With English accents. And another one, and old man, he's Italian."

"Are they hurting you?" Mycroft asked.

Much, John thought. Are they hurting you much?

"They hit me," David said and Angela groaned, dropping her head into her hands. "And they won't let me eat anything."

"Are they giving you anything to drink?"

"Water. And juice."

"Good," Mycroft said. "All right. David, you must listen to me. We're going to get you back here to your mother, but I need to speak with the older Italian gentleman, do you understand? I need you to ask him for me to speak to me."

"Can I talk to my mum? Please?" David begged. Angela gave Mycroft a pleading look but Mycroft shook his head, once.

"Soon," he promised. "I need to talk to Signore De Luca first."

There was another long pause, and David didn't say anything else. A moment later, a new voice was on the end of the line, smooth, composed, with a sleek Italian accent but impeccable English.

"Mycroft, hello," De Luca said, almost pleasantly.

"Marco," Mycroft returned.

Do they bloody know each other? John thought, stunned. Probably, yes, he decided. Mycroft's world couldn't only be composed of high ranking government agents and government bureaucrats. It must also be composed of high ranking criminals. These categories probably often overlapped, he realized.

"Detective Holmes? Doctor Watson? Are you there?" the Italian man asked.

"Yes," Sherlock and John replied in unison.

"Good, welcome. So nice to have family around, isn't it, Mycroft?"

John felt his blood go cold and Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a glance that was full of history, animosity, impatience. For a moment, John got a flash of just how much Mycroft disliked having his brother witness this, but then it was gone, smoothed over.

"Always," Mycroft said. Lied.

"Where is she, Mycroft?" De Luca asked. His tone was light, but John heard the steel underneath it.

"She's in prison, Marco, you know that."

"Such a shame, to think of my beautiful Alessa in one of your dreary English prisons. Or in prison at all. You know my terms, Mycroft."

"And you know what I have to say to them, Marco."

John's eyes snapped to his brother-in-law; he couldn't be bloody serious.

"Your own son, Mycroft?"

"You know our stance in negotiating with terrorists," Mycroft replied. John's eyes flared and he bit his tongue, literally, to keep himself from saying anything. Any contribution he made would only make this worse – if it were possible for things to be any worse. He tightened his fingers more on Sherlock's and fought to keep his silence.

"I'm hardly a terrorist, Mycroft. Terrorists aim to kill or injure people. I'm a businessman. Why dispose of my customers? Would good would it do me? I provide a service and a fine range of products for discerning clients. I have no interest in harming anyone."

Again, John wanted to interject. He'd seen the effects of hard drugs, both long-term and acute, on more than one patient. Products? Services? They were death, destruction of the brain, ripping lives apart. He'd seen what it could do to families, not just individuals. And he had seen, first hand, during an autopsy, what it could do to a human brain.

"Nevertheless, I cannot let Alessandra go. English law is quite specific regarding the trafficking of narcotics in this country. You know that as well as I do. I have no power to release her."

"I very much doubt that, Mycroft," De Luca replied. "And I am disinclined to believe that you will not make this trade, your son's life for my granddaughter's. It's a matter of family, after all. I won't be so callous as to threaten your brother – if only because I believe any attempt to take him would end rather badly for me, since he appears quite clever and I'm given to understand he has some powerful friends. More powerful than you, perhaps? But I do miss my granddaughter. She is the light of my life, as they say."

"You know I've had very little contact with David," Mycroft replied. "And that he didn't know I was his father until you informed him."

"I do know that," De Luca replied easily. "But I also know Agent MacTaggart is there, and that she will not want to see him harmed further. And I am aware of your past relationship with her, regardless of whatever arrangements you have at present. Do you really want to see a mother lose her only son? Just as a grandfather has lost his only granddaughter?"

"What would you have me say, Marco? I cannot let Alessandra go. She was arrested and convicted here. She broke federal British law. If I release her, she'll go back to what she was doing, and I shall arrest her again, and then will we find ourselves in the same situation once more."

"I assure you, Mycroft, if you send Alessandra home, she will never set foot on British soil again."

"Yes, but where else will she go next? France? America? Australia?"

John could almost hear De Luca shrug.

"If she does, let the French, or Americans, or Australians deal with her. Perhaps she'll choose to remain in Italy. Regardless, she will never be your problem again. That is all I want from you, Mycroft. Such a simple, solution, really. You return my granddaughter, and you will never see her nor be bothered by her again. And you get your son back."

John shot daggers at Mycroft. He had to do this, didn't he?

Did he?

The woman he'd be releasing was an international drugs trafficker, granddaughter of an obviously high placed Italian drug lord. What kind of choice was this? As a doctor, John was appalled at the thought of letting someone like her go, with those kind of connections, those intentions, those resources. Letting her go would only give her the chance to pick up where she left off, continue ruining lives, continue tearing people and families apart.

The man in him didn't care – if it came down to a choice between potential lives and the actual life of a missing boy, he knew what choice he'd make.

But he wasn't Mycroft. He was less practical, more human. He hadn't had the years of training, of experience, of detachment, that were necessary to make this kind of decision. How did one place a single life over many? John understood this requirement from his days in the army, but he'd never been asked to choose whether or not a child died. When he'd been forced to make this choice in triage, it was almost always on soldiers who knew the risks when they enlisted, who were adults, who had made a choice of their own.

David had no choices.

And now he was captive not only to a drug lord who wanted someone back, but to a father who had to make decisions for the good of England. Not for the good of his family.

For a moment, John hated Mycroft, more than he'd ever done, more than he thought possible. He was going to make the hard choice. He was going to end a short life in order to do his duty, to protect untold other lives.

Then he nodded.

"Very well," Mycroft said tersely. "I will need forty-eight hours to get Alessandra released. You will need to give me details for the exchange location."

"Agreed," De Luca said and John heard no hint of triumph or elation in his voice, just satisfaction, as if he'd just successfully concluded a favourable business deal. Which, John thought, may not be too far off the mark for what he thought of people. Not his own family, likely, but everyone else.

His customers.

"Take the phone off from speaker and let us discuss details," De Luca said. "And then perhaps Agent MacTaggart would like to have a word or two with her son."