Hello, and this is the third chapter.

Before I go onto the fanfic, I'd like to know something. Who came up the shipping of Mystrade? Have Mycroft and Lestrade even talked once in the entire series of Sherlock?

April 17th, 2013. 11:40 AM, Manchester.

Sherlock Holmes sat at a table in a small café, sipping on a coffee.

Since he had supposedly killed himself, he had been drifting around England, hopping from city to city and living in hotels. It was a nice, quiet life. Just the kind that Sherlock hated.

His brain was like a machine, its parts racing at an unusually fast speed. Cases were like oil for his brain. They kept it running smoothly, everything in check. They kept him sane.

So, while he had been traveling, he had "liberated" cold case files from multiple police departments, anonymously emailing the results of his cases to the police inspectors who hadn't been able to solve them. He had just solved his last case in Manchester and emailed the results, so he was going to take off soon. Maybe he would go to Liverpool. Or possibly Bath. Whichever train that pulled into the station first, he supposed.

"Would you like anything to eat, sir?" He looked up at the waitress standing before him. His brain instantly began to work, deducing this:

The young woman's makeup had been hastily applied and there were bags under her eyes, indicating that she hadn't had much sleep the night before and overslept. There was sadness in her eyes, signifying that she had lost someone close to her. In pen, there was a drawing of a heart on her wrist that contained the phrase CJ+RF. So she had lost a boyfriend. She wasn't wearing anything that could be a lover's gift, so either she broke up with him or they hadn't been in a relationship for a long time. Considering that her wrist mark was drawn in pen and the freshness of it showed that she had drawn it around two days ago, it was the latter. If she had been in a long term relationship, there would have been something more permanent, like a gift or tattoo. So, judging that her and her boyfriend hadn't gone out for very long and that she was so shaken up, Sherlock deduced that her boyfriend had broken up with her because she was obsessive.

Sherlock drank the rest of his coffee in one swig, stood up, and answered, "No, I'd rather not." He took a few steps towards the door, then turned back to the waitress. "Next time, be a little less obsessive when you're in a relationship. It'll most likely help." The waitress' mouth dropped. Before she could speak, he exited the café.

The streets of Manchester weren't crowded at his location, so he walked the streets silently, making observations about the few people that passed him. The teenage boy to his left accidentally impregnated his girlfriend. The woman in front of him was frustrated because she couldn't pay her rent. The postman across the street was divorcing his wife. And the person behind him had a gun pointed at Sherlock's back.

"Keep on walking," the man behind him ordered. He was a tall, burly man with sleeve tattoos of skulls and snakes stretching across his arms. He was so muscular and broad-chested that he resembled a hunk of beef more than an actual person.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, stopping. He knew that he should have brought his gun when he left the hotel.

The man behind him almost tripped over his fat feet trying to not crash into him. "We're just going to take a nice trip on the tube." The man prodded his back with the gun. "Now, go."

"Can I stop at my hotel to get my things? I'd rather not leave them behind."

"We already have them." So Beefy had accomplices.

"Did you get my laptop? There are some important files stored on it." Trick question. He didn't have a laptop.

"Of course. Now go." Sherlock did as the man said, resisting the urge to smile. He could tell that the man was a complete idiot, more brawn than brain. He could easily get away from the man by outsmarting him. He just needed the perfect opportunity.

The two of them walked for a few minutes, and then the opportunity came. A woman sprinted across the street, being chased by a group of people. This distracted Beefy for a moment. During that moment, Sherlock whipped around and kicked him in the groin. The man hunched over with a groan and he took his chance and turned, running into an alley.

He dashed through alleys and streets, zigzagging through Manchester. Beefy followed him at first, but eventually trailed behind. Once Sherlock was sure that he had lost him, he stopped and leaned against the wall of the alley to catch his breath.

Who had sent the man to chase him? He had said 'we.' That meant that either he had accomplices or someone had employed him. He was betting on the latter for a number of reasons.

First off, the man didn't seem like the kind that would start a mission to take out someone, especially Sherlock, who had never met the man. He seemed like the type of man that was used by others, doing their dirty work for a living. He had to have been employed. So who was his employer?

The first name that came to Sherlock's mind was Moriarty, whose death had also been faked. When he had supposedly killed himself, he had so quickly that Sherlock hadn't noticed that the gun was fake, or that the tag in his shirt was actually a packet of fake blood.

How did he know how he faked his death? Exactly one week after their supposed suicides, Moriarty had paid someone to give him a letter that detailed how Moriarty did it. The letter also stated that he would be watching and that he would be back.

Sherlock stopped leaning against the wall and shook his head to clear it. He would have plenty of time to think about this later. Right now, he had to get out of Manchester.

So he set off to find his way out of the alleys. But, as he was walking, he heard a footstep behind him. He turned around. He couldn't see anyone.

Cautiously, he continued to make his way out of the alleys. Then he heard another footstep. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. No one. The sound had come from around the corner of the building he was walking next to. Sherlock had two options of what to do. Keep walking and see what happens or confront the person following him and question them. He decided that the second choice would be more helpful for finding answers.

He crept towards the corner of the building and peeked around it. Nothing. Unluckily for him, the person following him had circled around the building and, before he could react, had covered his face with a rag that smelled of chloroform.

Sherlock struggled and writhed, but his attacker had put him in a headlock. So, after about half a minute of flailing, he fell unconscious.

When Sherlock woke up, he noticed several things. The first thing that he noticed was that he was in an abandoned building. The crumbling walls were made of dark gray stone. Scorch marks covered the walls and spider webs had been spun in all of the corners.

The second thing that he noticed was that his arms and chest were duct-taped to the chair that he was sitting in. A square-shaped metal table sat in front of him, looking severely out of place.

The third thing that he noticed was that someone was sitting at the other end of the table.

That someone was none other than Irene Adler.

Ah, how I love cliffhangers.

~Haymitch-The-Hobo