John walks out of the power station to find a sleek black car waiting for him outside. He nods appreciatively at how efficient Mycroft is. He opens the back seat to find his packed bag along with other things Mycroft may have thought he needed. The moment the door shuts, the car lurches forward, wheels screeching. He looks at the box of assorted stuffs and picks out quite a few to bring with him. A GPS tracker, one strategically placed inside a wrist watch and another to plant on someone else. It would definitely be useful if he manages to get close enough to Sherlock to plant the thing. At least that way he won't lose him again. He also takes a torch. A Swiss Army knife. A pair of binoculars better than the one he had. A wad of foreign currency which he had to admit he hadn't even thought of when he was packing for his trips. And… John eyebrows narrow, frowning just a little as he started at the rectangular, plastic thing in his hand. A shiny new credit card in his name.

For emergencies only. – MH, he texts just then, as if somehow he had eyes in the car. John wouldn't put it past him.

John arrives at the airport merely 15 minutes later. He hadn't even felt that they were traveling so fast. Mycroft must have controlled the traffic lights, he thinks. He grabs his bag, straightens his posture and puts his shoulder back, breaking into a brisk walk, hoping he looked every bit as important as a man who had the power to delay international flights.

It's supposed to be a two-hour flight. John allows himself to close his eyes for just a minute and before he knows it, it is already three hours later. And it's one more hour before the plane finally lands. John hadn't realized he was so tired.

He hears snippets of conversation from the other passengers as they all scramble for their carry-ons and head for the exit, something about the VIP.

"I saw her. It was the princess herself."

"No, it was just a business man. He must own the airline or something."

John wants to laugh out loud but he doesn't want to attract attention. But somehow he manages to do exactly that. The immigration officer takes a really long time examining his passport and all the other documents. About thrice as long as the others and he seems to be enjoining the fact that he's making John late for something. John sees him smile when he checks his wristwatch for the eighth time.

He exits the airport as quickly as he can, using all of his will power to not start a row with the immigration officer. It would just be fucking fantastic to be deported before you've even set foot on their land.

John hails a cab and gives the address Mycroft texted him just before he boarded the plane.

Called every hostel and hotel in the country. A person matching Sherlock's description checked in at Rusovský Penzión under the name Basil Sullivan. The woman at reception seemed very certain of it. – MH

John had wondered how Mycroft had described his brother. He certainly couldn't have said dark curls and a big coat since they had assumed Sherlock would at least dye his hair and change his clothes. He had fallen asleep before he could come to any plausible conclusion. Now without the haze of his fatigue, he thinks about it again. Drop dead gorgeous then? The woman at reception, Mycroft had said. She many have fancied him enough to remember. Was it the magnetic eyes or those impossible cheekbones? Or…

He deduced her, didn't he? Is she okay? Was she too upset? Hope he wasn't a dick about it. –JW

You know how he is. – MH

John does. Sherlock never means to hurt or upset anyone, but he comes across that way. There is a brutal honesty in the way he relays his observations and some people are just not equipped to deal with it head on. Too fragile, John supposed. But for a genius, Sherlock certainly can be tactless.

The cab passes through what looked to be a peaceful subdivision and John suddenly feels uneasy. But he pushes the feeling and the thought that comes with it out of his mind for now. They stop in front of a pastel-coloured building with a restaurant out front. He pays the cab driver and steps out, stretching his shoulders just a bit and taking in the place. He can't imagine Sherlock in this place. It is much too muted to suit his liking. Once again, the feeling returns and there is a hard set to John's mouth as he walks in, still defiantly ignoring the thought.

He approaches the woman at the desk and asks for Basil Sullivan. She nods imperceptibly as if someone had already told her to expect him. He gives him a key and points to the ceiling. Second floor then.

He finds the room he's looking for without any trouble. He puts his hand on the door knob, feeling for the first time in months, how incredibly close to Sherlock he is right now. Sherlock had been here. John feels the steady calmness rushing through him, his body's natural response to any threat of danger or stress. He is a soldier. And following Sherlock into this is probably going to be one of the most dangerous things he would ever do. And he will do it. There is no turning back. He opens the door and steps in.

He's not here. He senses his absence at once, even before he's checked the bathroom and the closet. He walks carefully around the room, trying to find any clues. But Sherlock Holmes is the consulting detective, and John knows it is very unlikely that Sherlock would leave something for him to find. He walks to the window and looks out, as if trying to put himself in Sherlock's frame of mind, what he had seen and what he had felt and what he had heard. His vision stretches out and all he sees are the same houses, rows and rows of the same design. That uneasy feeling grips him again and this time he knows he can ignore it no longer. He whips his phone out and texts Mycroft.

Is anyone missing nearby? – JW

Mycroft takes all of ten minutes to reply. And with that span of time, he's emailed him a name, an address, a photo and two police reports. One is a missing person's report. And the other is a crime scene report.

The body was just found in an abandoned building half an hour from your location. You're cleared to go there. – MH

John looks at the photo of a family of three and focuses on the little boy, not more than nine years old in the loving embrace of his parents. He sees where he gets his smile, his eyes, his hair, his chin, a lovely interplay of genetics and chromosomes getting what seemed to be the very best from both the mother and the father. He wonders if they've been informed yet. John buries his face in his hand and tries to calm the swell of questions and thoughts in his head. Did Sherlock kill this man? Did he torture him? How bad was it? Has he crossed a line? Can he ever come back? What if he loses himself?

His phone beeps in his other hand and John peeks at the screen through the space between his fingers.

[NUMBER BLOCKED]
This is why you shouldn't follow me. – SH

John jumps to his feet as if a bolt of electricity had passed through him. He leaves at once, takes the stairs two at the time and asks the woman at reception to find him a cab. One arrives in barely 30 seconds.

A knot has formed in the pit of his stomach after reading that text. He doesn't know what he'll find and he's hand reaches for the butt of his gun and he focuses on the sensation of it against his palm and the skin of his back, trying to reassure and to prepare himself for what's to come.

The cab stops in midst of crime scene tape and police car lights. One man seems to be waiting for him by the tape and he lifts it up and jerks his head towards the door. John nods and marches in.

The first thought that pops into his head once more is that Sherlock was not here. Obviously.

The second thing he notices is the amount of blood. On the walls. On a solitary chair placed in the center of the room. on the floor. Blood drops and spatters and trails. In all the time he's spent with Sherlock, in all the crime scenes they had gone to together, he has never seen this level of… brutality. The man who had invited him in hands him a laptop and he sees that several crime scene photos are lined up on the screen. He must have booted it up especially for him. John clicks on the first photo and instantly feels sick. The body is mutilated beyond imagining. He tries not to count the missing fingers, the number of gashes and cuts on his limbs. He tries not to see them. He breezes through the pictures, pressing the right arrow key as fast as possible. But in every photo, he can see the terror in the eyes. The fear and tension is palpable even through this medium. He juxtaposes the photo in front of his eyes with the one Mycroft had sent him and his ears are ringing with phantom pleas and begs. He wonders if Dominic Milos had felt desperation at not being able to see his wife and child again, wonders if he was every bit of an assassin as John would expect judging from the amount of torture he had endured. Which picture tells the real story?

John hands the man back his laptop and tries not to be sick. He has seen horrible deaths before. In the war. Whole limbs missing. Gaping holes in the middle of one's chest or abdomen. Complete heads blown off. Violent, painful, bloody. He has seen them. But not here. Not in this place, away from the stage of war.

He fishes his phone from his pocket and replies to the text he had received earlier, hoping that Sherlock would still get it somehow, even though John expects he's thrown it away.

Sherlock, what have you done? – JW

Author's Note: the chapters are getting longer. whyyyy. :)) I'm really happy that this story has passed 2000 hits. 22 of you put this on your alerts thingy and I really hope you guys like where this is going. Wish I had more reviews though. At least as many as the number of chapters I've already posted. I have about half of that so go ahead and click that link on the bottom that says "Review this Chapter". Okay? Please? :)