The latest chapter... wow... I'm really getting into this... and yes I'm finding this SO HARD to do! I mean after the last chapter I lost my groove and found this one so hard to start... but I am nothing if not brilliant and so I managed to belt out this entire thing for you (I order you to smile and thank me profusely).

This is probably one of the chapters I'm sort of half-proud and half-hating myself for mainly because of the way it works... still; you'll love it! :D

Enjoy

Kasey

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CHAPTER FIVE

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MY DREAMS THEY AREN'T AS EMPTY, AS MY CONSCIENCE SEEMS TO BE

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"The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong." - Mahatma Gandhi quotes (Indian Philosopher, 1869-1948).

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After Sherlock had fled the sitting room in such a state of distress that John felt like he could happily shoot himself in the head for being so... stupid. How could he have thought that getting Mycroft to explain would make it any easier? Make it any better? Make it any less of a betrayal? But he hadn't been thinking as clearly as he usually did when he'd made the decision.

"I don't care Mycroft! You seduced me!" John exclaimed in indignant anger, "of all the things! You... oh God... you're so fucked up!"

Mycroft for the most part simply stared at John, his eyes unintelligible and his face impassive, as John tried to find a way to justify, to come to terms with what had happened between them. Though Mycroft understood the fact that he shouldn't have done what he did he didn't entirely regret it because he'd wanted it so much... but that was of little importance when John suddenly, decisively sprang out of his seat and gripped Mycroft's suit-jacket lapels and hauled him up in an amazing show of strength.

Mycroft managed to make a rather surprised squawk before he found himself slammed against the wall directly behind him and John's forearm cutting off his airway; though the man was short Mycroft had to commend him for being able to manhandle someone over a head taller than him. It bespoke of the specialist training John had had when he'd been younger, "This is your fault..." John said darkly, there was anger plain to see in his eyes but there was so much more in there; there was pain and hatred and self-loathing, and Mycroft was stunned to realise that John hated himself for his lapse in judgement. It was so... unusual that that more so than the arm pressing across his throat was what caused him to quickly acquiesce to John's demands to inform Sherlock and to never do it again.

Of course, in hindsight it would have been more prudent for John to speak to Sherlock privately and explain so that Sherlock wouldn't have reacted... quite like he had done. It confused Mycroft, and on some level it affected him, greatly that Sherlock hadn't hit him, shouted at him, even looked at him, and had ran away to hide. The brother he'd always known had never done such a thing; his brother had never ran away from the bullies and from the pain, he'd always met it head-on. So what was so different about this?

But, those bullies had never been Mycroft and the pain had never been because of him; he'd never had a hand in any of Sherlock's childhood experiences unless his brother had come to him. Heavens Mycroft could recall a day when Sherlock had come to him, after trying and failing constantly, in need of assistance because he wanted to catch the butterflies in the rose garden. It had been an interesting experience for the pair of them; especially since Mycroft had somehow ended up in the small pond in the rose garden after Sherlock had caught a butterfly and smacked him with the net.

"Mycroft..." a small and soft voice whispered into the room Mycroft had deemed his own; though technically it was the grandfather's old study but their grandfather was dead and no-one had argued when Mycroft had declared the space as his.

Looking up from the 16th century manuscript he was reading purely because he was bored, Mycroft saw his brother, his younger and much more naive brother, poking his head through the door looking nervously at his big brother, "Yes Sherlock."

Sherlock fidgeted slightly and pulled on the one single bangle of his dark hair that had always refused to be confined by the hairstyle imposed upon it by their mother. Mycroft waited for his brother to speak for he had quickly learnt that Sherlock, when he wanted something important, would ask when he wanted to not when asked or told. And he wasn't disappointed this time around as Sherlock asked, his voice quiet and his eyes scanning the books, looking anywhere but at Mycroft, "Can... can you help me?"

Mycroft sighed theatrically but secretly he was glad that he brother had asked him for help as opposed to him trying to continue whatever it was he was doing and damaged being done. So with slow and dramatic gestures Mycroft rose from the plush leather armchair he had been seated in, closed the manuscript and left it on the seat for when he returned before following his now flamboyant brother out into the rose garden where he immediately deduced what his brother had been trying to do.

"Didn't mummy tell you that you're not meant to chase the butterflies Sherlock?" Mycroft scolded lightly because it was expected of him as he was the older sibling and therefore more mature and responsible, but he quite liked butterfly chasing and hadn't done it since he had been... well Sherlock's age actually.

"I just want to look at them, not hurt them," Sherlock defended himself giving Mycroft his patented wide-eyed, angelic look that worked on everyone; Mycroft included. It had always amazed him how his brother could look so innocent, especially after he'd played a rather nasty prank on him; like accidentally melting his favourite Egyptian-cotton shirt which had been a gift from a rather splendid girl he'd first met when his father had taken him to the Houses of Parliament.

"You have to let them go, you can't keep them and you can't let mummy find out I helped you understand?" Mycroft said firmly, quietly and Sherlock nodded enthusiastically as Mycroft sighed and picked up one of the nets; looks like his brother had been expecting him to agree to this all along, and tutted lightly, "Sherlock you haven't extended the handles; it's no surprise that you haven't caught any of them."

Sherlock glared at Mycroft and said, "I couldn't hold it up long enough," and he scowled at the net as though it were personally responsible for Sherlock's short-stature. Mycroft smiled at his brother and chuckled lightly as Sherlock turned his scowl on him, "It's not funny; I'll be taller than you one day."

"I'm sure you will Sherlock, I'm sure you will," Mycroft agreed absently as he fiddled with the catch on the handle and extended it out, "here; be careful encase you catch mummy's plants. You know how much she loves them."

"I told you that you should have informed Sherlock yourself John," Mycroft said quietly but there was still that mild arrogance in his tone that had never been tempered by anything because Mycroft always thought that in the end he was in the right and everyone else was wrong. Perhaps though Mycroft should have considered the fact that he already angered the doctor with previous words earlier this morning and now he was angering him further and that resulted in Mycroft being slammed against the wall for the second-time that day by an almost apocalyptic-looking John.

"And you should never have taken advantage of me," John snarled the words out, ignoring the way they made him feel like he was a victim because really he hadn't been against it at the time; but he'd been intoxicated, not in control, unknowingly taken advantage of, "get out, get out," he released Mycroft suddenly and stepped away until he slumped down on the sofa; head in his hands and he sounded defeated, broken, "just... go..."

Whatever anger had been in John, whatever had fuelled him since he'd awoke in Mycroft's home had evidently abandoned him as Mycroft watched the man crumble beneath a weight that had been wrongfully placed upon him; placed by Mycroft on a broken man's broken back. If Mycroft had been as normal as everyone else, if he had had the capacity to truly feel emotions and show them to people then he was quite sure that he might have looked regretful and felt ashamed. But he was Mycroft and though he felt, he had learnt to control what he showed the world from a relatively young age because emotions were a weakness he couldn't afford unless they suited him.

He moved towards the door fully intending to take his leave and avoid his brother and John for the foreseeable future until his job necessitated Sherlock's involvement, but he paused just before he stepped out on to the landing, long enough for him to turn around slightly and say softly, "I'm sorry."

John didn't answer him and Mycroft left, leaving John to hate himself and Sherlock to break as the day drew on and any and every phone call made to 221 b Baker Street was either ignored or hung up.

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Banging on the door to 221 b Baker Street Lestrade felt like shouting up to the obviously open window and telling Sherlock to get his skinny, sociopathic arse down here now because he needed his help. He was tired, anger, frustrated and not just because of the case he was working on but also because neither Sherlock nor John had been seen or heard from for the last three days and it worried him. The surgery where John worked had received a call in the early hours of the morning two days ago in which John had simply stated that he was dealing with family problems and couldn't come into work for a few days. And that would have been fine but Lestrade had listened to it when he'd checked the surgery looking for one of the occupants of Baker Street and he'd heard the sounds of things smashing faintly in the background.

Of course, that had been just before he'd got this latest case he was working on and he hadn't had a chance until now to check up on the two men; and now he truly was starting to panic because he could see Mrs Hudson ambling along the street towards him carrying three shopping bags. Deciding to help the woman so he could get into the flat, Lestrade hurried over to Mrs Hudson and asked, "do you need any help Mrs Hudson?"

The woman was obviously shocked at his offer and it took her a moment to answer in the form of a polite smile and a simple, "that's very generous of you detective but I'm quite alright."

But Lestrade wasn't to be dissuaded because he insisted politely, flattering her and showering her with praise so when they reached 221 b she opened the door and offered him a cup of tea; although for some reason she had added onto her offer the words, "but I'm a landlady, not a housekeeper," before bustling off towards her own flat. Having seen his chance Lestrade quickly bounded up the stairs taking them two at a time and thrust open the door to Sherlock and John's flat to find that it looked like a miniature war had been waged; and he couldn't see any signs of any actual causalities.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade called out his voice reverberating around the empty room, "John?" and he frowned in confusion because there really should be someone in the sitting room at this time of day. Carefully side-stepping what looked to be melted gloop he moved throughout the room looking closely at certain things that told him certain things; like this hadn't been an accident, that this hadn't been some sort of argument, this had been something... dangerous. Damn it Sherlock!

He groaned as he picked up what looked to be a laptop but most of the keys on its keyboard had fallen off and the screen was cracked leaving a strange sort of ghosting shadow on the entire screen. He tapped a random button and was surprised when the screen lit up as well as it could with such obvious damage. He blinked and frowned at the half of an e-mail, or document or something, that he could see on the screen and he read it. Taking the words in slowly and carefully as each word sat heavy in his stomach and the worry he'd been feeling about Sherlock and John suddenly peaked and turned to fear.

He placed the laptop down on the desk and pulled out his mobile, immediately calling in a possible kidnapping and the fact that it also related to his latest case. He couldn't help but think though, as he surveyed the chaos of the room, that Sherlock deserved a bloody good smack right about now.

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This was the second time in as many weeks that John had felt the insatiable urge to hit something, someone, but it was kind of hard to do this time around since his hands had been tied behind his back with a strong, metal wire which kept cutting into his wrists everytime he moved. And everytime the person he was attached to moved as well. When he thought about it he guessed it could have been worse; he could have been taken and Sherlock wouldn't have known where he was, not that he'd care that much anymore since John was a cheating bastard and all; or he could have been out when it happened and then he wouldn't have known where Sherlock was and that would have been a hundred times worse than this. So in comparison the fact that he and Sherlock had initially started shouting and throwing things, though that had been Sherlock really, and after he'd called the surgery to tell them he wouldn't be in for a while; since he did have a cut lip and the most noticeable black eye on the planet, it had all somehow gone to hell.

Standing in silence as Sherlock smashed another cup from the kitchen cupboard John felt like he wanted Sherlock to smash him, to break him and make him splinter into pieces. He waited it out, waited until Sherlock came to the mug John had bought for him before this whole mess had started and he waited for Sherlock to pick it up and study it for a long moment. He waited for Sherlock to throw it, to make it smash too because it was a symbol to him of John's betrayal, of how much hurt he'd caused him. Only... Sherlock didn't smash it.

Though he might have done if he'd had the chance to since at the very moment that Sherlock looked up at John and caught his eye the door to the sitting area and the kitchen burst open and three burly men barged into the room. They had the element of surprise on their side but they'd never really come across a pair like Sherlock and John before so they weren't expecting it when John dove straight at the two who had come through the sitting room door, and they hadn't been expecting it when Sherlock had picked up a frying pan and walloped his opponent full-on in the face.

It had been rather funny really, the sound of the frying pan coming into contact with the thugs face and then the sound of John roaring at the two he was currently rugby tackling to the ground. John was small, yes it was quite true, but he wasn't slight and he had more than enough incentive to knock those two down and ensure they never got up again. Whilst Sherlock continued to entertain himself playing his opponents head like it was an instrument John sucker-punched the one on his left before turning his attention to the other one; and it would have been nice, simple and over in a matter of seconds it another trio of goons turned up and one of them grabbed John from behind as the other two focused on Sherlock.

Though, rather admirably, John managed to knock one of them out and break another's nose there were too many of them for him to fight at once and blow after blow rained down on him until a lucky fist hit him at just the right speed with just the right amount of force and knocked him clean out. Sherlock had followed rather miserably after that when one of the three he was dealing with managed to get him in a head lock and steadily cut off his air supply until he too succumbed to unconsciousness.

"Sherlock, could you stop moving," John whispered quietly knowing full-well that drawing attention to themselves was a very bad idea in their current predicament, "or you're going to slice my hands off."

And John was sure he felt Sherlock's back shake slightly, almost as though the man was snorting in silent amusement at that comment, "highly doubtful John, though I suppose it would get us out of here quicker."

"Oh? And how'd you figure that one out Sherlock?" John growled in annoyance at Sherlock's cavalier attitude and he wanted to really hit the man now when he felt Sherlock's back shake once again and this time he knew Sherlock was laughing at him.

"Because they want us alive so if you bled out too much you'd require medical assistance and they would have to give you that; but they'd have to untie us first," Sherlock said simply and though his voice was barely above a whisper there was still that trademark arrogance that made the majority of people want to hit the younger man. John included.

John was silent for a moment before he sighed and said, "oh... right well... that's... good," and he was sure Sherlock's back stiffened slightly and he wondered why until he heard the sound of footsteps and then he too stiffened though not in fear; he stiffened as he readied himself for what was to come because if he was honest, he'd been waiting for this to happen for the last two days.

"Let's hope we don't have to resort to that," Sherlock said softly as the door swung open and the repugnant looking interrogator stepped into the room and smiled widely at them, and it wasn't a nice smile; it was smile that told them of the world of pain one of them was about to endure and each of them was hoping that it was them because they didn't want to watch each other suffer.

"Well boys... down to business again," the interrogator said jovially as three others stepped into the room, one of them holding a semi-automatic pistol which wasn't for decoration, "I think the short one needs another session," he said as he began to set his things up humming a little melody to himself.

The two unarmed thugs moved over towards them and Sherlock struggled and shouted, "No! He's had three sessions! That's favouritism!" the two thugs however ignored his protests, as did the interrogator, and when he tried to hit the one who was closest to him the third one by the door aimed the pistol directly at his heart and Sherlock didn't struggle anymore as they retied his hands and shoved him against the wall.

He couldn't do anything but watch as they dragged John over to the interrogator who smiled at John and said, "same again today then?" and Sherlock wanted to scream and tell them to hurt him, to torture him because he couldn't watch them doing it to John anymore.

"I'm really pissing you off aren't I?" John asked as they threw him down into the chair that had been bolted down specifically for this sort of thing, "you hate the fact that I haven't broken yet don't you?" and as they exchanged the wire for handcuffs Sherlock saw John smirk at the interrogator, "you're not going to break something that's already broken mate... but feel free to try."

No... no, no, no! Sherlock wanted to shout at John, tell him he was wrong; John wasn't broken, he didn't deserve this, he wasn't a bad person, he was... John, Sherlock's John and though he'd been hurt and upset he didn't want this to happen to him; John thought he was broken... he was wrong, he was cracked and damaged just like Sherlock. He wasn't broken, not anymore. Not since he'd met Sherlock and Sherlock wasn't broken anymore because he'd met John. Even the whole thing with Mycroft didn't matter in the long-run because Sherlock could see, he could see, how much damage had been done to John by that one event and he could see now that John was protecting Sherlock from the interrogator's blade, from his cruel touch, from his twisted games. But John couldn't protect Sherlock from his own feelings and watching John's body arch up as an electrical current was sent through the man's body was hurting him more than anything Mycroft had ever done... he'd forgiven John within the first day because he knew John, he knew John so well and watching him kill himself was breaking Sherlock more than anything ever had done so before.

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"Have we got any leads yet?" Lestrade demanded as he stormed into the case room in Scotland Yard, "they've been missing for nearly a week for Christ's sake!"

There was no reply to his question apart from shrugs and apologetic looks and it angered him further because Sherlock and John were missing, they'd been missing for an entire week and they'd been taken by the same people who'd killed those other six people. None of those six people had been kept for more than forty-eight hours and they'd all had signs of torture. And oh sweet Jesus!

"Who the hell are you?" Lestrade growled as he strode into his office to find a man sitting in the chair behind his desk fiddling with an umbrella. The man looked at him and a memory sparked in his mind and Lestrade frowned, "you're the guy I saw at Sherlock's when John turned up right?"

"Quite correct Detective Inspector, my name is Mycroft Holmes," Mycroft said smoothly, "I'm Sherlock's older brother," and Lestrade could see it too; the man had the same razor-sharp gaze that Sherlock had, the arrogant tone and his eyes just screamed that he was superior to everyone he met.

"Do you know your brother and his flat mate have been missing for the last week?" Lestrade said bluntly, not bothering with pleasantries as he was too far past the point of caring what this man thought of him; his job was getting harder and harder and two people he considered to be friends to him, though he used the term rather loosely for one of them, were missing.

"Ah, yes I do," Mycroft said as he stood up and moved out from behind the desk, "and I'm here because I know you have nothing to go on; I know this because I have been looking for my brother and John also. And I am telling you this because I wish for this to go through the correct channels and for the men responsible for what has been brought upon my brother and John to be put in away permanently."

Lestrade repressed the urge to shiver as Mycroft's voice grew deeper and darker, menace underlining every polite and grammatically correct word his smooth voice said. He frowned and said, "where are they then?" he tried to stop the hopefulness from creeping into his voice but he failed somewhat, and he couldn't really care less because Mycroft picked up a file from his desk and passed it to him in one move.

"This file contains everything I have collected during my search; it includes the only possible location of where they are as well as detailed sheets on each and every member of this particular group who have probably had a hand in this little escapee. I trust that you will not waste any time Detective?" Mycroft said rather curtly and he stared at Lestrade intensely and Lestrade returned the gaze with the one he'd used on Sherlock many-a-time when the man was being excessively difficult during a case.

"Of course not," Lestrade said firmly and Mycroft nodded looking away from Lestrade for a moment before looking back at him and smiling. The smile seemed to be rather taught and tense, like it was being put on and it made Lestrade pause and wonder if this Holmes in particular was more attuned to feelings that he let on; and he guessed he was quite right in his assumption as he realised that the man had been distancing himself from Sherlock, calling him 'my brother' the entire time.

Mycroft left Lestrade's office and he stared after the man, watching him as he disappeared out of the case room before he took a breath and made his way out into the case room where he called for everyone's attention and told them that he had a possible lead on Sherlock and John's whereabouts.

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To Be Continued...

Okay... mega-cliffie people (you cannot kill me yet :P)

I'll try and get the next chapter done and up as soon as possible but I do actually have another Sherlock fic that I want to finish sometime this century (but this one keeps nibbling on my toes and annoying me so I need to get this one sorted first... argh!)

Anyway, I hope you liked it and will tell me what you think... and yes, this is the only way I could figure out how to resolve all the issues just swirling around in my precious little head pertaining to this Goddamn fic!

Hope you liked it

Kasey