"I don't care, Mycroft. I have to find him!"

Mycroft just shook his head, looking absurdly, ridiculously unconcerned. "No, Sherlock, you have to finish what you started. If you don't bring down the rest of Moriarty's ring, it won't matter."

"Won't matter?" Sherlock couldn't keep the disbelief from his voice. "Of course it matters! This is John we're talking about. The reason I've done any of this. The man you were supposed to keep safe."

His voice was utterly unconcerned as he answered, "As I've told you, I don't know how they got him out of the flat. We saw him enter the building at his usual time after his shift at the surgery. He just … never came out. We checked … I checked … the next day, and the flat was empty."

Sherlock was pacing the room, pulling energy like waves as he swept across the floor. "And you didn't think to worry? We lost months, Mycroft. Months! How could you not tell me? Now the trail is cold, even for me."

John had disappeared from Baker Street four months, one week, and two days after Sherlock's 'death,' and had now been missing for five months, three weeks, and four days. Sherlock's heart clenched in his chest every time he thought of what Moran could have done to John with all that time.

Mycroft rubbed his temple with one long finger. "It's not like we didn't look, Sherlock."

"No." Sherlock wheeled on him. "You don't get to make excuses. You have to help me find him."

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"It looks to me like you're having a nice, relaxing drink, brother dear," Sherlock said, acid in his voice.

He flung himself into the empty chair and ran his fingers through his hair, scrubbing at his scalp as if to force his brain to find a solution. "It's been almost six months, Mycroft," he finally said, voice small. "John disappeared and you didn't even tell me."

Sherlock hated that his voice held the faintest trace of a quaver. He'd been in Germany and had gone to John's blog—a habit he couldn't break, even after John stopped updating after his jump. He could still remember the surge of anticipation, and how that was immediately overwhelmed with horror when he found the site completely gone. But he had stupidly believed Mycroft when he said John had lost interest in the site.

It wasn't until now, when he was down to the last cog in Moriarty's network, that Mycroft had told him what he'd done.

Five months ago, a week or so after John disappeared, an anonymous post had appeared on his blog.

"Found. One lost pet. Must claim in person."

It had included a photo of an unconscious John sprawled on a bare mattress in what looked like a dark basement. He had looked unharmed, but instead of alerting Sherlock, Mycroft had done the unthinkable. Not only had he not told Sherlock, he had instantly blocked his blog so that Sherlock would not see it.

That had been almost six months ago, and he had only just found out.

He had no idea if John was still alive.

Mycroft had lied to him, constantly, for months, every time he had asked him how John was.

Asking Mycroft to do look after John while he was gone had been the hardest thing Sherlock had ever done. It had also been his most costly mistake.

Mycroft shifted in his chair. "Sherlock, you know that I've done everything I could. You've seen the reports. I tried everything. He's just … gone."

Sherlock was on his feet again. "I shouldn't have left this to you. I should have stayed—or brought him with me! Do you think I cared about Moriarty's network? All that mattered to me was John's safety."

A sigh. "No, Sherlock. I know what his safety means to you."

Sherlock gave him a sharp look. "What? What aren't you telling me?"

Mycroft tightened his lips, eyes narrowed. "I don't mean to disparage him, but … I can't help but wonder."

"Wonder?" Sherlock's voice was sharp. "Wonder what?"

"He disappeared so thoroughly, with no signs of violence. And the only message has been that one note, telling you to arrive in person." Mycroft took another sip of his drink. "He had been so distraught, Sherlock. Even his therapist—yes, we both agree on her—but even she was worried about his mental health. He kept insisting he'd missed something and wouldn't let it go."

Sherlock was frankly staring. "You think this is him?"

"I think it's a possibility. If he was desperate enough and wanted to ensure your coming for him—how better than by faking his own abduction? And posting it to his own blog?"

"But … No." Sherlock was practically sputtering, unable to believe what he was hearing. This his rage caught up and he exploded. "That's why you didn't pursue this? Mycroft!"

Mycroft was giving him a stern look. "I did pursue this, Sherlock. You have the reports to prove it. But when I could find nothing, what else am I to believe but that perhaps there's nothing to find? That your doctor was so desperate, so broken, that he took extreme steps in the hopes of luring you back?"

Sherlock was speechless, actually speechless. "I can't believe you, Mycroft. All these years, my whole life, you've practically begged me to trust you, and when I finally need you, you do this?"

Calmly now, he picked up his coat. "I don't care what happens to Sebastian Moran or any of the rest of Moriarty's web. I am going to find John Watson, and if I must come back to life to do it, I will."

"And if you do, they will kill him outright in retaliation for your deception."

Sherlock shook his head. "I think not. They wouldn't have invited me only to have me miss the final act—the only question is whether he will survive the curtain call."

He looked his brother in the eye. "So, are you going to help me, Mycroft? Or not? Because I promise you, John Watson would never be so cruel as to trick me in this way."

"Why not? You did it to him."

Sherlock wished he could deny that statement, but all he said was, "But John has always been a better man that I, brother."

Mycroft set aside his glass and stood. "Then I will help you. I just hope you are prepared for what you may find."

#

In the end, Sherlock's resurrection was very limited. He sent a text to Lestrade that had the man hurrying to Sherlock's current flat, not believing his eyes.

His rage at Sherlock's deception lasted only until he learned why Sherlock was back and then all the fight drained out of him. "Oh Christ, Sherlock. I did everything I could to find him. The whole time, all I could think was how much I wished you were here, because nobody else I knew would be able to put the pieces together. Not that that was exactly a popular opinion, mind you, what with … everything."

"My suicide, you mean."

"Yeah, that and the reasons behind it. I mean, nobody but me believed you solved that last kidnapping either, did they? And frankly, disappearing didn't do John's reputation any favors, either. Too many people were willing to believe he'd faked it himself to get away from the bad press surrounding you, that he'd been involved after all."

Sherlock shook his head. Did nobody have faith in John Watson? "Sadly, inspector, I believe that this puzzle was tailored to me exactly. I doubt anyone else could solve it." He held up a hand at the other man's protest. "That's not to say you didn't try. I'm quite sure you did everything you could."

Lestrade's eyes were sad as he said, "I did, Sherlock, so help me. It broke my heart, losing both of you."

Sherlock continued to study the papers. "Yes, well, at least the trail wasn't cold when you started." He heard the note of despair in his voice, and hated himself for it. He didn't believe for a minute that this was a trick of John's, some kind of retaliation, but he had studied these reports multiple times. He had even snuck into Baker Street to no avail. He had seen nothing to provide any leads.

He didn't dare make his resurrection public knowledge. Not yet. Sherlock didn't believe they would kill John outright if he confirmed that he was still alive, but at this stage, with so much time passed, he wasn't willing to take the risk. It was better to be subtle.

His opening move was simple. He logged into John's (now resurrected) blog and wrote his own post.

Missing: One best friend. IOU if you can help me find him.

Sherlock might not be ready to confirm his survival to all the world, but he hoped the post would at least pique the kidnapper's interest enough to get a response, a lead—anything to help him find John.

While he waited, he poured over all the notes and reports from when the abduction was noticed. He studied John's movements prior to his disappearance, as well as watching the CCTV footage of all the activity on Baker Street that day. He read Mycroft's report about John's blog being hacked into and how the IP address had been a dead-end. And, with a simmering rage, read the note at the bottom of the file that suggested that the abduction was a fake.

There was no question that John was a smart man, but to have been able to go to ground thoroughly enough to evade Mycroft and Lestrade? After faking his own kidnapping? For this long? It just wouldn't happen. John might be hurt enough to want to run—and Sherlock could always sympathize with anyone wanting to avoid Mycroft—but the abduction? The worry it would cause his friends alone would prevent the John Watson he knew from doing such a thing.

Sherlock admitted that his own 'suicide' may well have changed John. But an angry, embittered John still would have his own basic, essential goodness at heart. He might lash out toward Sherlock or Mycroft, he might withdraw, but he still would never be deliberately cruel. At the very least, he wouldn't cause this agony to Mrs. Hudson.

He refreshed the comments page again and sighed with relief. An address, and a time.

He hoped he would soon have the answers.

#

John woke suddenly, startled. It was almost as if he'd heard a noise, but that was impossible. The only sound was of the water trickling down the wall. Same as always. There was no such thing as another noise. Noise didn't exist. Light didn't exist. There was nothing but The Dark. Nothing but Black.

He lay on his pallet, staring at nothing, then stood shakily and took the ten steps necessary to get a drink, sinking to the floor as he did. He considered eating, but he was down to his last few bars now, and decided to wait. There wasn't a point, really. Eating. Not eating. What difference did it make? When he ran his hands down his arms, his legs, his stomach, he could feel the weight and muscle he'd lost. Crossing the room was a challenge now. He sometimes worried that his legs would snap under his weight, and then was relieved to remember that he weighed so much less than before, so they didn't have to hold as much.

He'd long since lost track of how long he'd been here, but he'd gone through 519 energy bars and, if he'd had, say, three a day, then that was … how many days? He couldn't think. Even simple math was beyond him. He was wasting away, disappearing, fading into the darkness. Just a distant memory, even to himself. As distant as the world was from his cell, his prison.

His grave.

He couldn't even bring himself to care.

Then he jumped. That had been a noise.

#