September 1916

Mycroft stalked through the hallway, barely noticing the somber mood. It had been this way since the war began two years ago, and it didn't show any sign of letting up soon. At times it seemed like the war would never end.

"Are these the latest casualty figures?" He asked his staffers. "Let me take a look at them before we send them to the papers." He tried to keep an eye on the lists, but it had become increasingly difficult as the war dragged on. Especially this year. The Battle of the Somme, which had been raging in France for the last two months, was quickly turning into the bloodiest battle of the war, perhaps one of the bloodiest battles ever. Still, Mycroft never let anything get in the way of doing his job. Not even his own feelings on the carnage he was witnessing from a distance. All the same, he sighed in relief on seeing there were no names he recognized on the list.

Then his telephone rang. Mycroft picked it up, and it was if the trenches had suddenly appeared in his office. He could hear shouted orders and the occasional bomb going off in the distance. Suddenly those casualty lists didn't seem so distant. "This is Mr. Mycroft Holmes, who is this?"

"We're sending the lists but they told us to call this number ahead if anything happened," the voice on the other end shouted without preamble over the sounds of rockets and gunfire. "I'm Major Clinton, in charge of the regiment Dr. Watson is attached to?"

Mycroft's heart sank. "What is it, Major?"

"Just, we had a tough assignment up at the front, and there were some casualties. It was a real job getting out of there and Dr. Watson insisted on trying to bring back some more of the wounded men. And we, uh – when we did a head count later he wasn't there. He didn't make it back." Major Clinton's voice lowered in sadness, "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. We all liked Dr. Watson here."

"What are you saying? Was Dr. Watson killed?" Mycroft wasn't a praying man but in that moment he prayed – wished? – with all his heart that it wasn't true. He didn't know what he would do with Sherlock otherwise, now that even he was used to thinking of them as a partnership.

The major sighed, "We don't know. We listed him as missing in our report. It's possible he wasn't, that he was just taken prisoner, or is lost between lines. But it's been three days and we couldn't wait any longer to contact you. We're sending the casualty lists this afternoon."

Mycroft put his head in his free hand, "Thank you, Major, for letting me know." He hung up the phone, only to see his secretary standing outside the door. "Yes, what is it, Wallace? I'm very busy," he snapped.

"I only wanted to know if you were done with the casualty lists," Wallace said, and Mycroft sighed.

"I'm sorry, Wallace. Yes, I am. And please tell everyone I'm not to be disturbed. I have an important phone call to make, and it won't be an easy conversation."

Wallace, who had been with Mycroft long enough to guess his moods, looked shrewdly at his employer, "Is it Dr. Watson?"

"Yes," Mycroft said heavily. "I've just received word that he has been reported missing. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to inform my brother before the news reaches the papers. It's better if he hears it from me." It would be better if he didn't have to hear it at all, but the papers would have a field day with this news.

"Hello? Who is it?" Sherlock answered the telephone promptly.

"It's Mycroft. I…have some news that I didn't want you to hear from the papers."

Sherlock's breath caught, "Watson…Mycroft, was he killed?" Mycroft could picture his brother, even though he had never seen the cottage at Sussex Downs, sitting there, his expression frozen between fear and grief.

"No, Sherlock. He is missing. His regiment had some difficulty getting back to their lines, as I understand it, and in the chaos, they lost track of him." Mycroft sat back. "I don't really know much else, Sherlock. They only just informed me, directly from the front lines."

Sherlock sounded like he hadn't even heard Mycroft, "He could be wounded, then, in no-man's land. Or captured by the Germans. If he is behind enemy lines it will be difficult to find him, but I have done worse in my time. There is no time to lose, if he is lost the Germans will find him quickly."

"Sherlock?" No response, so Mycroft tried again. "Sherlock! You are not going after him. Do you think I want to lose you to this war as well?"

"Well, what do you expect me to do?"

"I am sending the very best people I have right away," Mycroft said, beginning to make a list of names. His best intelligence operatives would be pulled off their assignments, provided they weren't in the middle of something too important, to do this instead. Mycroft had never asked for anything personal in all his years of service at Whitehall; he had some favors he could call in and he intended to use them.

Sherlock, however, scoffed, "Do you really trust the equivalent of Scotland Yard to do this? I would much prefer to go myself."

"Sherlock, you are an excellent detective, but you are not a soldier, or a military commander, or in any way experienced in military matters. In this one instance, please step back and let those with more experience and knowledge take care of it. I promise you, we will do everything possible to bring Dr. Watson back to safety." Everything possible, and then some. It was time to see what Mycroft's governmental powers were truly capable of.

"Do you know what you are asking?" the Foreign Minister said indignantly. "I can't pull these men away from their assignments!"

"It is only for a few days," Mycroft said patiently. "I checked the progress of their assignments and I am positive nothing will go wrong if they leave for a few days. I am not suggesting we use anyone who is too involved in something of dire importance." He had personally chosen the men for their records of success and for their availability. The Foreign Minister gave him a dark look.

"You are far too informed for your own good, Mr. Holmes."

"You and half of your staff owe your positions to my information," Mycroft said mildly. He had, indeed, recommended the Foreign Minister to this position, and had slowly filled the office with his own staff members. It was a simply matter of efficiency; Mycroft's staff was the best-trained in the government, and he thought it better to have men he could depend on in each department. The fact that it gave him even more influence that he had already enjoyed was a mere side benefit.

"Yes, well," the Foreign Minister looked at Mycroft guiltily. "I will see what I can do. I enjoyed the Doctor's stories myself, you know."

The wait dragged into the next week, and it was agonizing. Sherlock called every day, sometimes more than once, to see if there had been any news. Mycroft was growing impatient with his staff, and he often wished they would hear something, even if it was bad news. At least then they would know something, although every time this thought crossed his mind he was seized with guilt.

Finally, after seven days, Mycroft's telephone rang and he picked it up with some trepidation, expecting it to be his brother, who was increasingly distraught with every day that passed (although only Mycroft and perhaps Dr. Watson himself knew Sherlock enough to be able to tell). Instead, a voice on the other end exclaimed, "We have him, sir!"

"Who is this and who do you have?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. My name is Scott Bennet, I'm the intelligence officer sent after Dr. Watson? We found him, sir."

Mycroft sat up straight at his desk, "Is he all right?"

"A little tired, I think. Other than that he appears to be all right. We found him hiding in a barn near one of the occupied towns on the French border. It seems our troops retreated without him in the chaos." Mycroft sat back and almost laughed with relief.

"Is he there with you? Can I speak with him?"

"Is Holmes there?" The new voice was obviously Dr. Watson's, sounding tired but none the worse for wear.

"No, I insisted he stay at his cottage. He would have been no use to anyone, getting in the way and taking risks on your behalf," Mycroft said. "I am glad to hear you are all right, Doctor."

"I'm lucky they found me. A few more days and my hiding place would have been found out. I was almost surrounded as it was." Dr. Watson's voice sounded giddy with relief and Mycroft made a note that the men who had found him should be commended.

"I did all I could, Doctor. My brother would never have forgiven me otherwise."

"Thank you. I'm afraid I can't send him a telegram right now, would you tell him I'm all right? I have to return to my unit." Mycroft knew better than to argue that Dr. Watson should return home; as long as he felt fit for duty he would remain there.

"I certainly will. He will be relieved to hear it," Mycroft said.

Relieved turned out to be an understatement. Sherlock laughed aloud and actually crowed in his excitement, thanking Mycroft multiple times for his planning and training of the intelligence men who had found the doctor. It wasn't often Mycroft had heard his brother so happy, but it was for the most joyful of reasons. He hung up the phone, with the first smile he'd worn in more time that could remember.

It was the first joyful duty he'd had to carry out since the beginning of the war.

A/N In answer to the anon who asked me if I had ever considered writing a book - I'm floored, thank you! I've definitely considered it, and it would probably be a Holmes pastiche because I have a one-track mind, but I'm definitely not there yet :)