DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN SHERLOCK

Sherlock stood in front on his wall with his palms pressed together as if in prayer; his fingers carefully aligned together with the tips just barely touching his lips. His piercing blue eyes were fixed on the photograph that was fixed in the center of the wall. Sheets of paper filled with his almost unintelligible scribbles and one vial stained in dull red, framed the photograph with lines of red knitting thread connecting the information that was relevant. He tried to drift his eyes over the sheets of paper to keep himself reminded of all the relevant facts but he kept going back to the photograph. The photograph of Mycroft. His brother. His self appointed arch-nemesis. His teacher. His torture master. His savior. His… He shook his head with one vigorous snap that sent his hair stinging into his eyes. He was getting sentimental now and sentiment was not going to save Mycroft.

'Go over the facts,' He could hear Mycroft talking in his head in that condescending tone. How he would long to hear that tone in his ears now. He snapped his head again.

"Go over the facts," he murmured and then straightened up, "Right… the facts." He took a breath.

"Five days ago a vial of blood was delivered to 221B Baker Street at eight pm on the dot. Source unknown. No fingerprints. The vial was housed in a box, details of which I have already stored and do not need to mention at this point. The vial contained blood that belonged to Mycroft Holmes. Personal history already known and does not bear repeating," here Sherlock paused and swallowed a sudden lump in his throat, "The box contained a hidden compartment in which a phone was stored and that phone was used to convey a message which said that Mycroft Holmes had been kidnapped and I was to be the one to save him. The tone of the text almost playful. Could be Moriarty but I doubt that. The tone does not hold the same feel of madness that is associated with Moriarty. It could be that the kidnapper or kidnappers are simply enjoying this." Sherlock paused. His eyes fixed on the photograph.

"Two days ago a photograph was delivered to 221B Baker Street, again at the eight o clock hour. It was a photograph of Mycroft Holmes tied to chair with his shirt gone having been cut off and not done with much care since there are one or two cuts on his chest and arms that suggest a sweep a blade. The appearance of his face and eyes suggest the effects of a drug. Most likely a hallucinogen; or else he would have found a way to send me more information than this if he was fully aware," Sherlock felt a shudder run through him. He knew what it felt like to have his reasoning power slip away from him. How helpless and frustrating it was to not be able to hold onto a cognizant thought. How frightening it was to not be able to distinguish fact from the fantasies of his mind. And he knew it was probably double what he felt that Mycroft was feeling. Proper Mycroft. Steady Mycroft. Unable to hold his liquor Mycroft. Now being pumped full of a hallucinogenic drug. Of course Mycroft would know what it was. But he had no defense for it. Sherlock shook himself and continued.

"Cuts in his chest made with a surgical blade and with equal precision. The applicant of the cuts took his time in making the letter judging by the stage of coagulation apparent from the first letter to the last. The words read 'Save me Sherlock'." Sherlock ran through the other details that he gleaned from the photograph; possible room size, make of the chair and possible locations that it could have been used or bought, the characteristics of the individuals that were dimly illuminated by the camera flash. But in the end of all his deductions he had nothing solid. He needed more data. But he didn't want more data. More data meant that Mycroft would have to suffer more in order for Sherlock to get his precious data. He wanted to scream and throw things but he kept his sentiment in check.

"What do you think John?" he asked, without turning from the wall, "John? John?" There was no answer. With an exasperated sigh he turned to see that the room was empty. His eyes flickered around the room quickly picking out the little clues that would tell him where John and gone and for how long. He sighed; three hours. He had been talking to himself and John had been gone for three hours. He turned back to the wall.

"I have the facts," he murmured to Mycroft- in- his-head.

"You have the facts and you have connected all what is painfully obvious," Mycroft-in-his-head said, "Now you have to find what is not painfully obvious."

"I've done that," Sherlock said.

"Don't be stupid," Mycroft-in-his-head chided, "Of course you haven't. If you did you would have found the one clue that would start you off on the game. Think Sherlock."

Sherlock pressed his palms together harder and frowned. He glared at the picture, running the facts over and over his head. He did it in different orders, trying out the validity of all the theories that he had. Then it came. Softly at first, the pieces falling into place bringing the picture into focus. His eyes lit up and he took a deep breath in. His sense seemed to explode; pupils dilated, hearing sharpened, he could feel the coarseness of the fabric against his skin and he smelt John's aftershave coming up the stairs; heard his footsteps. He spun away from the wall, grabbing his coat and swung it over his lean frame. He grabbed john's other coat and flung the door open in the exact moment that John had reached to open the door.

He saw John look up at him. Saw the gears turning in John's mind; the question forming on his lips. Then the quicker dawn of understanding that stopped the useless question from being manifested. John moved past him to drop the grocery bags on the couch and take off his coat. Sherlock helped him into the one that Sherlock had held. They moved quickly down the stairs, Sherlock bursting out from the door and striding to the edge of the sidewalk his mind ablaze with the victory of his deduction. He was right about this clue. He knew it. He felt it in his blood. He held his hand up to sign for a cab.

"Taxi!" he called he could feel the sound waves resonate in his throat. A cab pulled up and he let John get in first. "Scotland Yard." He caught a small smile from John.

"Sherlock?" he asked. Sherlock didn't turn from staring out of the window. He loved these moment. Shuck it. He lived for these moments. The world outside was startlingly bright.

"I know where he is," Sherlock said, "I know where he is."