Sherlock grimaced from his place on the couch, as Irene brushed back his messy locks. She was sorely tempted to put it all in pig tails, it would be very cute. But the poor man had suffered enough. It was nice to see it back to it's dark colour and curls. She'd missed it. Over the past months it had been every colour under the sun. Even green once, but that had been a mistranslation. It had been curly, straight, spiked. But she liked it best as it was naturally.

"There, all done. Gorgeous" Sherlock offered nothing in reply but that was normal. He didn't speak much anymore. Except to Mycroft. The detective turned to rest his back against the couch, watching her out of the corner of his eye. "Hungry?" He shook his head. "Thirsty?" Another shake. Irene shrugged and sat back down next to him. "I hear that cute silver fox of DI is going to be a daddy. Good for him" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Clearly this was brand-new news. "You didn't know?" Another shake, curls swishing back and forth.

"Well apparently, he and his fiance..yeah he got engaged a few months back. Anyway, she found out she was pregnant. Heard it from Mycroft, though he didn't know I was listening. She's about a month along. Probably going to be a boy. Listen, do you mind? Just got to pop off to the loo" She patted his arm, not noticing the, now very common, flinch and left the room. Lestrade was going to be a father? Sherlock was not sure what to do with this piece of information. He supposed he was happy for him. Thats what people were supposed to feel, weren't they? If it were anyone else, Sherlock might not give a flying whats-it, but Lestrade, he'd always wanted children. Life was changing, everyone was moving on, enjoying their lives. Everyone except himself.

"Ah I feel much better. Sherlock are you sure you aren't hung-..Sherlock? Sherlock?" The room was empty. Where did he go? It's not like he could have gone far. Not on those legs of his. The cane was missing, so he must have left voluntarily. "Sherlock?" Damn it. Mycroft was going to kill her.

You're gonna hate me...But Sherlock's missing.. -IA

WHAT? Tell me exactly what happened. From the beginning -MH

Nothing happened I swear! I went off to use the loo, came back and he was gone. -IA

I'm cutting this meeting short. I'll be right over. Search EVERYWHERE. Do you understand? -MH

Of course -IA

Of course this had to happen. He would try and wander off when he was locked up in his mind but his leg injuries prevented him from getting very far. Where could he have gotten too? The bloody idiot better not get himself into more trouble. Mycroft apologised profusely to his superiors and hurried home, who cares about speed limits when you're the British Government? As soon as they arrived he leapt out of the car, his hand still clutching his umbrella. It was already dark, he could be anywhere. He could be lost, he could be hurt. Why couldn't he just stay put? "Where is he? Have you found him?" Irene jumped and shook her head. Molly looked anxious, worried. Mycroft took out his phone and began to bark out orders.

One hour later and the night was pitch black, the air outside incredibly cold and if Mycroft was correct, and he usually was, it was going to rain soon. Still no sign of his little brother. His house was a flurry of activity, so many people rushing about, so why had they been unable to find one person? Where had he gone? Had he been taken? Had he left himself? What if he'd gone to visit John or the others..? He'd put his own plans in jeopardy! Mycroft made a point of getting his men to keep on eye on Lestrade, John and Mrs Hudson.

Two hours later and weather outside was even worse. Mycroft was getting increasingly more worried, Irene was looking incredibly guilty and Molly, Molly was actually being useful and helping them search. Mycroft had forbidden Irene from helping. As far as he was concerned, this was all her fault. The woman in question stood to the side, biting her lip, arms folded. He wished she would stop asking him if she could help. It was very annoying.

Three hours and it had begun to pour heavily outside. Wherever Sherlock was he hoped he was someplace warm and dry. Sighing Mycroft sat down, his mind running through hundreds of places he could of gone, thousands of scenarios that could have taken place. Perhaps his brother would return soon, apologetic, remorseful. Which wasn't like Sherlock. But then Sherlock wasn't like Sherlock anymore. The Sherlock he knew was a smart ass, rude, loud, insulting, teasing, a talker, a prankster, a flurry of movement, energy incarnate. This new Sherlock seemed the opposite. Quiet, polite, soft-spoken, rarely talked, never smiled, never laughted, barely moved, was timid, sad and very lonely. Not his Sherlock. He wanted his Sherlock back.

Mycroft turned his head, staring at the pain pattering against his window. Outside, he wanted to go outside before..could he have? No, he wouldn't, would he? Mycroft stood suddenly, an idea and a memory forming in his mind and grabbed his umbrella, heading outside, ignoring his men's questions and ventured through his own backyard. The weather was harsh, the cold air whipped through his suit, the wind, strong, the rain's pressure increasing the further he walked.

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock, if you're out here answer me!"

A cane lay abandoned in a pile of mud, footprints, the knee prints dotted the ground, leading to a group of trees. And nestled at the base of these trees, looking wet, cold and pathetic was his little brother.

"Sherlock?"

"Sherlock if you're out here answer me!"

Mycroft stood in the rain, his umbrella up, walking and turning in circles desperately trying to find his little brother. He'd been missing for hours, his parents were frantic with worry, the police couldn't find him. Mycroft had decided to check their own yard. His observations had led him out here in the cold and the dark. The storm outside was terrible, his sibling could be lost, hurt, sick. A cough sounded from his right and Mycroft spun around to see his baby brother nestled at the base of a large oak tree. His school clothes covered in mud, in tatters and the seven year old himself, drenched from head to foot.

Mycroft rushed towards the boy, picking up him up in his arms. Sherlock was sobbing, there was dried blood dripping from his lip down to his chin, his left eye was bruised, a yellowing bruise on his cheek. "Sherlock, who did this to you?" The boy shook his curly head. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Sherlock, who hurt you?" The boy sobbed and hiccuped, wrapping his arms around his brothers neck. "Boys at school. They don't like me because I'm smart. I don't wanna be smart Myc" Sighing the elder Holmes hugged his brother tight. "It's not easy being intelligent sometimes Sherlock, it can be very lonely, but you'll find someone who understands you soon. A friend who will always be by your side"

"A best friend?"

"Yes, exactly. You know mine, Harry."

"Can't you be my best friend Myc? You smart like me, you can do observations too. No one thinks its cool, they all think I'm stupid and a show off. Even the teachers hate me." Mycroft placed him on the ground, taking his small hand in his own and began to walk him home. Rage filled him. He was just a child. "Wouldn't you rather someone your own age?" The child shook his head. "No, people my own age are stupid" Mycroft laughed. "I quite agree. I'd love to be your best friend Sherlock, but I want you to never stop searching for one yourself. Understand?" Sherlock nodded and gave his brother a wavering smile.

"Come on, Mummy and Father are being horribly over dramatic, when you were out here the whole time. Tomorrow, I'll find a way to help you get those boys back. It'll be fun."

"I love you Myc"

"Love you too Lockie"

Except he hadn't found friends, Mycroft had made acquaintances, friends with people in wealthy families, at his father's bequest. Never disobey father. As he grew older he did make real, true friends, but the nature of his work prevented him from getting close to anyone. For fear of loosing them to people he counted as enemies. Sherlock had tried to so hard to make friends that in the end, after so many months and years of rejection and bullying from students and teachers alike, he just shut down his heart, put up a facade, pretended he was a sociopath and didn't bother anymore. He never got a chance to practice the social niceties because no one ever gave him a chance. And just when he finally found someone he could call a true best friend, it was torn away from him.

His brother shivered in his pyjamas, his feet bare, his knee bled through the thin fabric. "Sherlock, what are you doing out here?" His brother didn't seem to hear him at first, over the rain, Mycroft moved so his umbrella covered them both. "W-wanted t-to see the s-stars again, M-myc" His teeth chattered and he shivered harder. Mycroft pulled him up, his brother crying out and hopping on one foot. "And then you tripped trying to come back inside, you couldn't get back up and you were stuck out here in the cold and the rain for hours. Why didn't you call for help?" Sherlock looked down at his muddy feet as he leaned on his brother, the two making it slowly towards the house.

"T-tried. N-no one could hear m-me. D-didn't want to b-bother anyone anyway. Besides I thought-t t-that someone w-would f-find me anyway" Not wanting to bother anyone? Definitely not Sherlock. "You're an idiot. Do you have any idea how worried I was?" Sherlock shook his head, sprinkling water into Mycroft's eyes. "Y-you always w-worry." Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You are taking a warm shower, then into clean pyjamas and then bed. I'll have the cook making you some soup and hot chocolate. Can't have you getting pneumonia can we?"

"No, t-that would b-be very b-boring" Mycroft laughed heartily. Now that was Sherlock.

Dear Normund,

I am very pleased to hear from you again! But not about what's happened. I can only deduce from your email that you were imprisoned? Captured? And hurt. Mostly likely tortured. Shit, thats, shit. Fuck. How the hell did you get into that sort of situation? You seem like such a careful guy. Did you get into some sort of trouble or did they kidnap you? Are you ok now? What am I thinking of course you aren't. Look, I have dealt with a few POW's in my time. You are most likely suffering from PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, in the case that acronym didn't translate well. Thats something I've had myself. It ain't fun.

You really need to talk to someone, a therapist, your family. But someone you are close too. It really makes me sad to think that someone I call a friend could have been brutally treated. Just talk to someone, ok? You can take it slowly, but you shouldn't keep what happened to you bottled up inside. Especially if you think its had a change on your personality.

Thats all I can say right now. I wish I could help more. Don't hesitate to hit me up if you really feel like talking.

Your concerned mate,

John.