It had been over a month. Over one month since he last heard about his brother. It was the longest month in his life. This wasn't uncommon, Sherlock had often gone weeks without speaking to his brother but he'd always known his location. This time, Sherlock had dropped off the map. Someone had taken him. Mycroft wasn't even sure if his brother still lived. But he hoped and prayed to a god he didn't believe in that he was. Because if he wasn't, there was not a force on this earth that would be able to stop him.

John curled up on the couch next to Mary, the two huddled together in front of the fire, content in each others company. John held Mary's hand in his, then lifted it up to his lips, kissing her fingertips. She giggled, wrapping her arms around his neck. John smiled and blew into her ear. "Should we spend the night in? Or do you want to go out somewhere?". Mary smiled, kissing his cheek, earning another cheeky grin from her solider.

"Let's stay in. I..want you to read to me."

"Read to you? Alright then, what from?"

Mary leaned over and picked up her copy of a Study In Pink. "I want to hear it, in your voice. Please John" John took the book from her and kissed her softly on her pale pink lips. "For you, I'd do anything." She resumed her cuddling of her doctor and solider. John turned to the first chapter and began to read.

"When I first met Sherlock Holmes, I had no idea that he would change my life. I had no idea how close we would become or the adventures we would share. But this story doesn't start with Sherlock, strangely enough. It starts with another old friend. Mike Stamford. I'd just returned home from war in Afghanistan..."

One month and one week and Sherlock was a changed man. Five weeks of torture was all it took. Five weeks of spending his days drugged so he didn't try and escape or fight back. Five weeks locked up in a little dark cell. Five weeks without love or kindness. Five weeks alone. Five weeks was all it took for Sherlock to no longer acknowledge reality.

He barely responded to outside stimuli. Oh if beaten, whipped or choked, he'd make a noise, but that was purely instinctive. A force of habit. No, Sherlock spent most of his time curled up in an empty corner of the cell, his torn blanket wrapped around his shoulders, lost somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind. They weren't sure if it was the drugs. Or if they had just broken the detective.

Sherlock was so much thinner now. They didn't starve him, he just usually didn't pay attention to the food. His black hair no longer carried a shine, his skin too pale to be healthy, too pale to even be alive. His eyes, they were the eyes of a dead man. Of someone who had long ago given up hope.

Hollow eyes. He had no hope. No one was coming to save him, he gave up caring a long time ago. Moriarty could keep him as a pet, or kill him. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. John mattered, but John had moved on, he had forgotten Sherlock, he no longer cared about the detective, or visited his grave. They had shown him proof. But Sherlock didn't think about this anymore. If he thought at all.

He was slipping away.

THIS IS HIDDEN DRAGON, REPORTING TO BROTHER UMBRELLA, PLEASE RESPOND -HD

Brother Umbrella reporting, what news do you have? -BU

DEERSTALKER HAS BEEN FOUND, I REPEAT DEERSTALKER HAS BEEN FOUND- HD

...I'm on my way -BU

Mycroft had been fortunate that after reading John's new book, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson that he had suspected the Black Lotus were involved in his brother's kidnapping. Fortunate still that he knew of undercover agents in China willing to help him. Hidden Dragon would not go unrewarded for her efforts.

Mycroft usually stood back from the chaos and arranged things from his office. But this was different, this was his only brother. His only family. This was Sherlock and nothing was going to stand in his way. Which is why he now stood in front of an old, disused prison in rural China, praying he still had a brother.

He could hear the gunshots, the muffled shouting from outside. His men and others had gone in to deal with the members of the Black Lotus still inside. He waited anxiously for the all clear. It felt like hours. In reality it was only thirty minutes.

The government official wasted no time in racing inside, running down the the twisting corridors, searching for his brother, crying out his name, desperate for a response. Nothing. He doubled over panting, trying to smooth his face into one devoid of emotion as he heard someone's footsteps behind him.

"Sir?"

"What?"

"We think we found him."

"Show me"

It couldn't be him. Mycroft thought as he stared at the pathetic, huddled figure. That couldn't be Sherlock. He barked orders at the man trying to open the cell door. Faster! Move faster! It took fifteen minutes. As soon as the door creaked open, Mycroft raced inside, the smell of old blood and a dozen other odours he didn't want to discern, hit his nose. He crept closely towards the cowered figure against the wall.

The body flinched, his long dark hair slipping down across his eyes. Mycroft reached out a hand, gently, pushing back the uneven locks. It was his brother. Even under that beard. Even under that pale, pale skin. It was Sherlock Holmes.

His skin was marred with bruises, his lips dry and bleeding. His hair was matted with old blood, some had trickled down the side of his head and dried there. His legs were folded awkwardly beside them, one clearly broken. His arms were folded across his chest. One broken, the other with broken fingers. His uneven breathing spoke of broken ribs. Mycroft felt his blood rising.

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock..It's Mycroft, it's Myky. I've come to rescue you."

Sherlock wouldn't respond. Mycroft's heart slipped into his throat. "Lockie?" He whispered, turning his brother's head to look at him. But his brother's eyes were dead, if not for the radiating heat and pulse under his hands he might have thought he was holding his corpse.

His brother looked straight through him. Mycroft had lost. A tear slipped down his cheek, matched by another and another. He wrapped his arms around his sibling and held him close. Rocking them both. No. Im sorry. Please come back.

He'd been too late. He'd taken too long.

He'd lost his little brother.

Please come back to me.

Give him back. Please.

Sherlock.