Author's note: Dear Amy, don't worry, I won't leave you hanging! I accidentally marked the story complete, and now I seem to be unable to 'uncomplete' it – when I'm logged in, it says in progress. I'm at a loss here …

To all my readers: Thank You! You saved my day.

Elopement

Mycroft was striding back to John's hospital room, the weight of the world on his shoulders and a sour look on his face. He noticed one of his more competent agents approaching him hesitantly. By the look of the man, another catastrophe had just occurred.

"Yes, Harrison, what is it?"

"Sir, I'm sorry to say we've lost your brother. We were able to track him until …"

He waved the man off impatiently. "Have you tried tracking his phone?"

"Yes, Sir, it turns out to be impossible."

"That was to be expected. Track his coat. There's a microchip in it."

"Sir, I'm sorry, we've already tried that, too."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Don't tell me he deactivated the chip as well."

"No, Sir, he didn't."

Mycroft arched his brows. "So, where is he?"

"Um, Sir, according to the signal, right here."

Mycroft's raised brows dropped into a dark frown and he groaned inwardly. 'Oh, for God's sake, Sherlock!'

Turning away, he rummaged through his pockets and soon found what he was looking for: a tiny chip, no bigger than a pinhead. So Sherlock had known all along that his beloved Belstaff was more than a welcome home gift. Mycroft managed to shut his mouth just in time before he did the unthinkable: cursing twice in a day.

He sent the agent away and knocked on the door to John's room. Upon his entering, John raised his brows and Mary tilted her head curiously. He noticed that she was sitting on the bed, next to John, with her hand in his, and he had wrapped an arm around her. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your goodbyes," Mycroft began, "but there is a slight change of plan."

"Why?" John and Mary echoed simultaneously.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Sherlock has taken matters into his own hands. He left, and we cannot track him." He gave John a piercing look. "John, I need you to tell me if you have any knowledge whatsoever as to what he plans to do or where he might go. Even conjecture would be helpful at this point, I regret to say."

"What?" John gaped at him, dumbfounded. "Hold on – what?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to rephrase the question, but Mary cut him off. "Don't bother, Mr Holmes, I'm sure John just needs a few seconds to process the information. So do I, by the way. Why on God's great earth would Sherlock run off? He's got all he wanted. John's safe, Moran taken, Moriarty about to be captured – or not, according to you. Why would he change the plan?"

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Well, there was a slight misunderstanding about the timing of the plan."

John narrowed his eyes at him and Mary inhaled sharply, both waiting for an explanation. "Care to elaborate?" Mary prompted.

Mycroft smiled benignly. "I will not trouble you with irrelevant information, Mrs Watson."

Mary scowled. "I'd like to decide for myself what I consider irrelevant, Mr Holmes."

Suddenly, John groaned, realization hitting him. "Oh, no, no. Tell me you didn't." He stared at Mycroft, his mouth hanging open in horror. "Seriously, Mycroft. Tell me I'm wrong. Please."

Mary's eyes darted from John to Mycroft, who was busy scrutinizing his umbrella. Then she understood. "He did," she stated flatly.

Mycroft looked up and found himself facing two icy stares. It was … strangely disconcerting.

Mary sat up sharply. "You never planned to go through with that plan to lure Moriarty into the open. That's why you have no contingency plan! You lied to us! You just wanted to capture Moran and then trap Sherlock! Oh, you–" she abruptly clamped her mouth shut before something decidedly uneducated could slip out.

"Do I get this right?" John asked, his voice almost breaking. "You planned to section him, to drag him off to be treated against his will?"

Mycroft remained silent, his face a mask.

John blinked in shock. "Oh dear God, please don't let this be true." He buried his face in his hands and moaned. "Honestly, Mycroft, can it get any worse?"

"Hardly," Mary declared coldly.

John looked up sharply at the stoic figure. "Mycroft, even if your plan had worked, what do you think this sort of betrayal would do to Sherlock? Hm?" Suddenly, his patience snapped and anger flared up red hot; he slammed his fists into the mattress and he yelled, "Were you NOT BLOODY THINKING?! MYCROFT?!"

The man in question stared back, looking decidedly bored, had it not been for the twitching muscle at his temple.

Fighting for self-control, John huffed out several breaths before going on in a dangerously low voice. "Let me get this straight. You have – again – betrayed your brother." He held up a hand to stop Mycroft from interrupting. "No, you listen. I know you worry about him. Constantly. But are you aware of what you have done? At all? Hm?" John's eyes were glittering with fury. "Mycroft, we're talking about a man who is severly traumatized, who was betrayed, captured, drugged and tortured; who clearly suffers from PTSD and possibly paranoia. Your brother. Whom you accused of being delusional and seeing conspiracies where there are none. Mycroft," John held up a finger, shaking his head. "If Sherlock wasn't paranoid before, he now sure as hell has every reason to be. I'm getting paranoid over all this, goddamnit!" He felt Mary's hand on his, squeezing reassuringly, and suddenly he became aware of the searing pain from his bruised ribs. John shook his head, groaning.

"I'm sorry, John," Mycroft said as calmly as possible. "However, what is done cannot be changed. Please tell me if you know where he might go."

"No. I don't. I know nothing, Mycroft. You know he didn't talk to me." John laughed hysterically. "That was the whole point of faking my death, wasn't it? Sherlock. Shut. Me. Out."

Mycroft sighed deeply. "There is something else I need you to help me with."

"Who says I want to?"

"Sherlock is in danger, John." Mycroft raised his brows.

"Thanks to you!"

Mycroft pouted. "I would strongly deny that, but–"

John held up a hand. "Three years ago, you fed Moriarty the information he needed to destroy your brother, kicking off this avalanche. So: just shut up."

"Well, if you see it that way." Mycroft twisted his umbrella. "However, it does not change the fact that Sherlock is in great danger. Therefore, I need your help."

"If Moriarty doesn't exist, why would Sherlock be in danger?" Mary countered.

Mycroft shot her an irritated look. "First of all, there are quite a few people who have a score to settle with Sherlock. Secondly, Mrs Watson, as you yourself may have observed – without telling John, of course –" he smiled sweetly at her, "that Sherlock is potentially suicidal. He is not able to cope with his mental problems, and it is very likely that he will revert to substance abuse in an effort to self-medicate."

"Suicidal?" John's voice cracked. "What are you talking about?" Horrified, he looked at both of them, but received no answer. He closed his eyes, willing the nightmare to go away, but it was no use.

Mycroft took a deep breath. "John, I assume Sherlock will rely on his homeless network. Therefore, I need to contact them."

"Forget it. They won't talk to you. Neither will I."

Mycroft stiffened imperceptibly at the rebuff. "John, surely you see-"

"No, I don't." John crossed his arms and stared him down.

Mycroft bit back an impatient remark. "John. I can't believe you suddenly do not care about Sherlock anymore."

"Oh, I care. That's why I won't tell you anything. You've had your chance."

Mycroft's face seemed to freeze for a moment, then he tried again. "I am the only one who has the means to find and protect Sherlock. He needs help, John-"

"Agreed. But you want to lock him away. Can't see that helping."

"John, I deeply regret that this crisis has arisen. My priority now is to find Sherlock and get the best possible help for him. I need your cooperation to do that – and I will promise you that he will not be treated against his will–"

"You're lying," Mary said softly, tilting her head and watching him like a hawk. "I can tell."

Surprised, Mycroft turned towards her, realizing that he had not paid sufficient attention to her. "I can assure you, Mrs Watson, I am not lying." His voice was colder than ice.

"Well, then you're not telling the whole truth, Mr Holmes." She stared at him with her dark blue eyes, daring him to challenge her.

John quickly looked at his wife, then back at Mycroft. "I know you mean well, Mycroft, but you won't listen to anyone and I'm afraid you'll section him anyway when you think it's necessary. I don't trust you." He shook his head emphatically.

Mycroft closed his eyes and retreated into himself; for a moment he resembled Sherlock, but the similarity vanished as soon as he opened his eyes again. "Perhaps I can remedy that," he sighed and reached out, his elegant fingers probing under the hospital bed; when he pulled his hand back, a small black object was lying in his palm.

John bristled. "Ah, f..., Mycroft, you – argh …" John pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. Mary smiled wryly. "Well, I hope your agents had fun listening to our activities." She shrugged. "Pervert."

"Hardly," Mycroft defended himself. "Information is vital."

"Sorry, Mycroft," John sneered. "That does definitely not restore my trust."

"I am aware of that, and I have not deactivated the device with that intention." He pulled over a chair, sat down and crossed his legs. "What I'm going to tell you is for your ears only. I deactivated the bug because I will not entrust some random government agent tasked with listening to you two snogging with this information." He paused.

John raised his eyebrows, but remained silent.

"I have told you that Sherlock was working on a particularly important case when he was captured," Mycroft began carefully.

"You said he was hunting Moran." John's voice sounded cold.

"He was doing much more than that," Mycroft raised his brows. "He started out hunting Moran, but in the face of the scheme he uncovered, apprehending Moran became a minor task."

"So what did he uncover?" Mary asked quietly.

"A horrendous terrorist threat," Mycroft replied smoothly. "Sherlock went to Afghanistan, following a lead on Moran. You certainly know, John, since you have done your own research – as you were keen to point out – that Moran served with the army in Afghanistan and has connections in the region. He is involved in gun running and smuggling drugs – after all, Afghanistan is the world's largest producer of opium." Mycroft gave a tight smile. "Sherlock discovered a deal Moriarty had arranged before his demise; a deal which Moran was about to conclude. It turned out, a terrorist group had contacted the Consulting Criminal, and as always Moriarty had provided excellent service. Apparently, this group is not content with petty suicide bombings and the usual amateurism, as Sherlock called it. This group is new and in need of a reputation, and they seem to have the money to build it. All they needed were the brains."

"Which Moriarty provided," John grated.

"Indeed. Moriarty devised an ambitious project, it seems, and arranged the business deal, putting them in contact with the right people to purchase what they needed."

"And what is that?" John held his breath without realizing it.

Mycroft smiled. "A small nuclear warhead."

The silence that followed was thick and stifling. Suddenly, the outside noises seemed absurdly loud and intrusive, as if London's traffic were passing right outside their door.

"Where would they get that?" John asked in a low voice. "Even on the black market, you can't just go and buy nukes."

"Indeed." Mycroft smiled weakly. "As I said, it is a small nuclear warhead, nothing fancy, but deadly if used correctly. Apparently, the warhead was bought from a Russian organization. The leftovers from the cold war are still being dished out, it seems," Mycroft raised a finely arched brow in disdain.

"That's why Sherlock was in Russia," John concluded.

"Obviously," Mycroft confirmed. "He had identified the man at the centre of this business deal – a big shot in Russian business, has his fingers in every pie and very close relations to all the important members of the Duma. He sold the warhead and organized its transport to its destined site of operation."

"And where is that?" John rasped barely audible.

Mycroft's smile vanished, and for once all affectation was gone from his demeanour. "London."

"F…" John rubbed his forehead. Mary placed her hand over his knee. "What do they plan?" she asked softly.

"I regret to say we do not know, Mrs Watson." Mycroft gave her a long look and there was no pretense in his voice. "But now you will understand why Sherlock was willing to take a huge risk to obtain this information."

"And he failed, getting himself captured," John moaned.

"No."

Both heads turned to look at him.

Mycroft raised his brows. "Sherlock succeeded in the end – he reverted to measures you would be very surprised to hear."

"What measures?" John interrupted sharply.

Mycroft frowned. "That is not important. However, Sherlock managed to enter the villa of the Russian business man; he gained access to his safe where he keeps electronic records of his entire business data. Sherlock managed to copy it. The Russian does not know that his entire business data was stolen. To the day, I suppose."

"Jesus, that brilliant genius …" John whispered.

"Imagine, John," Mycroft said in a low voice, "not only the delivery location of the warhead is disclosed there, but also detailed records of who ordered it, who shipped it, and most of all, who financed it. We were never able to get to the men in the dark. We always suspected Saudi princes, but without proof …" He raised one hand. "Now there is proof and probably a lot more."

"And Sherlock transferred the data onto his phone?"

"Yes."

"No wonder the Americans where so keen on it. And the Russians. And everyone who got wind of it." John sighed. "Why did the Americans not tackle this Russian big business fish themselves?"

"He has powerful friends, and blackmail is of course also on his business list. Apart from that, no one even knew the man kept such meticulous records." Mycroft smirked. "The Americans have no idea of the scale of information Sherlock obtained."

"Huh." John gave a dry laugh. "But the phone is gone."

"Unfortunately."

Mary asked suddenly, "But how do you know London is the target?"

"Sherlock found out early on," Mycroft explained. "Therefore, we were able to establish with certainty that the warhead was transported to London." Mycroft folded his hands. "Given several other clues, we assume that the target is the Tube."

"The Tube," John hissed. "Bloody hell …"

"The Tube anniversary," Mary said slowly. "It fits."

"150 years, and the pride of London." Mycroft nodded.

"Shit." John squeezed his eyes shut. "How many tunnels are there? Oh God. You'll never find it."

"It is difficult."

"But nothing's happened?" John looked lost. "During the celebrations, I mean?"

Mycroft shrugged. "The year is not over yet. It is possible that they are just biding their time to avoid the massive amount of security we have in place or that they simply had trouble meeting the deadline." Mycroft sneered. "Big projects tend to lag behind schedule. Why would terrorists be more efficient than governments?"

"Huh." John folded his arms. "So, there's a nuclear warhead somewhere in London; the target is most likely the Tube; we don't know where it is or when it's gonna go off. Therefore, what we really need is Sherlock's bloody phone, because all of the information we want plus a lot more is on it; but the phone is God knows where. And what's Sherlock doing, by the way?" He frowned, shock, fear and worry coalescing into a tight knot in his stomach.

"Searching the phone, of course," Mycroft replied. "He is convinced Moriarty has it."

"Oh God … and you think Moriarty is dead. Mycroft, you seem very relaxed about the missing phone." John's anger suddenly won over; he wasn't quite sure who he wanted to punch more urgently – Sherlock for risking his life in Russia or Mycroft for burdening his brother with this impossible task.

"The phone cannot be accessed, John, the information on it is safe, and I assume some kids in Russia found it – the rooftop where Sherlock hid it is known as a hideout for homeless teenagers; they are now proud owners of a non-functional high-tech communication device belonging to the British Secret Service."

"Which will blow up in their faces if they try to open it," John spat.

"Sherlock insisted on acid rather than explosives," Mycroft smiled. "Ever the chemist."

"Fine." John nodded in irony. "Sounds great."

Mycroft's face became serious again. "Do not worry about the phone, John. The warhead is more important."

"I see. So." John huffed out his frustration. "What do you expect me to do? You wanted to lock me up in a safe place – is that still the plan?"

Mycroft pressed his lips together before answering. "Yes. But in order to find Sherlock, I need to contact his homeless network, and I need your help to do that."

John shrugged. "I can't help you; even if I wanted to, I can't get you access to the homeless network because I simply don't know anything about it. I never had anything to do with it."

"What a pity." Mycroft sounded genuinely disappointed.

John frowned, racking his brain. "So, what do you think Sherlock is up to? What will he do?"

Mycroft smiled. "Contact Moriarty. Make a deal with him."

John rolled his eyes. "Moriarty is dead, according to you."

"Exactly. "

"Problem?"

"What do you think will happen when my brother finally accepts the truth?" Mycroft folded his arms. "Imagine him, alone, possibly on top of a building, realizing that he is indeed delusional, that the torture has destroyed his brilliant mind, that the phone is lost and he can never restore his memory? That his old life, the life he so desperately wants, is once and for all over?"

John and Mary both remained silent for a long time. John knew what Sherlock would do; he had seen it all before.

"Hang on," Mary suddenly snapped. "What has the phone to do with Sherlock's memories? And why has he lost his memories in the first place?"

Mycroft blinked in surprise, realizing that he had given away something he had not intended to. Annoyed, he frowned at himself. This had never happened before – Sherlock's escape must have upset him more than he had thought. "You are very observant, Mrs Watson," he admitted grudgingly. "Sherlock kept a diary on the phone."

"A diary?" John exclaimed in surprise. "You mean, he kept notes."

"No, John, a diary." Mycroft sat up slightly. "A meticulous report on everything that happened to him, including his thoughts and … emotions."

"Why?" John gaped open-mouthed. "I thought he considers that a complete waste of time - I mean he even found my blog ridiculous. Why did he keep a diary?"

"Because I suggested it to him."

"You?" John's mouth fell open. "Why?"

Mycroft almost – almost! – squirmed in his chair. "Let us say, Sherlock's state of mind at the time in question was very fragile. I thought it would help him concentrate."

"Did it?" Mary asked quickly.

"Yes, as far as I can tell."

"So," Mary said slowly, "Sherlock wants to get this phone back not only because of the data stored on it; he needs his diary to fill in the gaps in his memory. I understand that – but why did he lose his memory in the first place?"

"Torture, Mrs Watson." Mycroft stated calmly.

"Torture doesn't destroy your memories."

"Some forms do."

Mary shook her head. "It makes no sense – usually, you torture people to get information, not destroy it!"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her. "Unless you come to the conclusion that there is nothing to be obtained; or you have found out that the most vulnerable spot of your victim is indeed not his body, but his mind."

Mary closed her eyes in horror. "So they realized he wouldn't break under conventional torture, but threatening his mind, his sanity – that might get to him."

Mycroft held her gaze. "And it did."

After the door had closed behind Mycroft, John looked into Mary's eyes. She held his gaze for a long time, and not one word was spoken, but a silent agreement made.

"Come here," John whispered and she snuggled closer until their faces touched. "I bet Mycroft has cameras in here," John whispered, "so this will have to look like a long kiss."

She just chuckled and started to gently bite his earlobe.

"Mary, I can't let Sherlock-"

"I want you to be safe, John."

John hummed in approval. "I know. But Mycroft will change his plans now. Since he can't use the homeless network to get to Sherlock, he'll use me to lure him. Me. I'll be the reason why he comes out and ends up in a loony bin. I know Mycroft. He's busy setting up a trap right now. With me as bait."

They remained silent for a long time, only their quick breaths indicating both their agitation. Finally, Mary bowed her head and pretended to kiss along his jawline, her lips brushing against his skin. John swallowed nervously, trying to control his excitement.

"John, I love you. So much, that I know I can't protect you."

"So you'll let me go."

"Oh no. I'll help you go," she chuckled. "If you swear to come back."

He smiled and kissed her.

In the end, it was easier than they thought. Mary went out to prepare his escape route; the men came in to transport John to a secret location, disguised as a corpse. John pretended to oblige, then jumped up, threw a few punches, knocked down two people, snatched a gun, and bolted, using the fire escape ladder. Mary stopped his pursuers quite effectively by pushing over the food trolley stocked with dishes for the entire ward.

Lunch was cancelled that day.