This chapter contains sexual references, bad language and anguish.

Chapter Twelve

When Arthur awoke, it was pitch dark. Not a beam of moonlight or a twinkle of starlight illuminated the room. He held up his hand and could barely see it, in front of his face. He rolled over, onto his back, and gasped at the sharp pain around his rib cage, from the vicious blow that his 'friend' had given him. The second period of sleep had cleared away a little more of the anaesthetic that he'd been administered in order to get him here – wherever here was – but he still felt weak and woozy.

He lay still, focusing all his attention inwards, to hold tight to the memory of a dream that was so vivid he could taste and smell and feel it. The dream had been of the night that he and Mycroft pledged themselves to one another - the tactile sensation of their bodies entwined, in the throes of passion, moving in perfect synchrony, the taste of Mycroft's mouth and skin, the smell of sweat and musk.

It was painful to remember but so much more painful to forget, so he replayed the memory over and over, to fix it in his mind, and as he did, he felt for the ring on his middle finger, right hand, to touch that symbol of their love – but it was not there.

The shock of that realisation elicited a cry of anguish that rebounded off the bare walls of this stark, comfortless room. How could they do that? How could they?

And now he recalled what happened in the park.

He had bought his pre-packed sandwiches and bottle of water, in the coffee shop, at morning break as usual and, at lunch time, he had gone straight out of the rear exit, though the court yard and along the alley to Cavendish Square. Crossing the road in front of the bank, he'd entered the little park. Once inside, he crossed the grass to sit in the shade, under a big tree. He was no sun worshipper, being all too aware of the risks of over exposure to sunlight.

He took off his jacket and laid it on the ground then sat on it and leaned back against the tree trunk. There were lots of people in the park today. The sun brought them out, mostly shop and office workers, making the most of their lunch breaks, just like him. Opening his sandwich pack, he fished one out and took a big bite, then a swig of bottled water to wash it down.

Looking around, he spotted those two young guys he'd seen a couple of times last week. They seemed to have the same lunch hour as him. As they walked across the grass towards him, they nodded and smiled in recognition. He returned the greeting.

'You've found a good spot there,' said the shorter of the two. 'Mind if we join you?'

'No, sure, pull up a pew,' Arthur replied, and the two guys flopped down on the grass, next to him. 'Do you work near here?' he asked, by way of friendly conversation.

'Sort of,' said the taller one. 'We're just here for a couple of days, doing some contract work. How about you?'

'I'm doing a Summer School course at the university, over there,' he replied, indicating over his shoulder, with his thumb.

'Is there a university around here?' asked the shorter one, incredulously. 'Where abouts?'

'Oh, just down that alleyway, there, next to the bank,' Arthur explained, turning round to indicate the entrance to the alley. As he raised his right arm to point, he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck, as though something had stung him. He yelped and slapped his hand on the point of pain – to find a plastic syringe sticking out of his neck. He stared, in shock, at the man to his right, the one who had stuck him with the syringe, but even as he opened his mouth to curse, he felt his body begin to float, his vision blur and his awareness fading. The next thing he remembered was waking up, incarcerated, in this room.

And, now that he was awake again, his body was demanding that he take a pee. He rolled, very gingerly, off the bed and stood, momentarily, centring his balance. The drug was still in his bloodstream, in his brain, making him dizzy. Under his bare feet, the lino felt smooth and cool. He shuffled over in the direction of the sink, arms outstretched, until he made contact with the stainless steel rim of the basin and – for want of any alternative –he leant on the counter and peed in the sink.

His urine smelt very strong and had a distinctive additional odour which told him exactly which drug had been used on him. It was a powerful anaesthetic, normally administered during surgery. He had not been given the antidote so his body had to metabolise it, unassisted. No wonder he felt so groggy.

He was obviously dehydrated, so he turned on the tap to get a drink of water – but no water came out. The supply was not connected. He felt a huge wave of disappointment, quite disproportionate to the nature of the dilemma, in the grand scheme of things. But his inner voice spoke to him, reminding him what was going on here. This was all about domination. They needed to break him. Break his body, break his mind and break his spirit. He could not allow them to do that.

As a soldier, on active service in a war zone, he had been given anti-interrogation training and, as an army psychiatric nurse, he had assisted in debriefings, so he had experienced the interrogation process from both sides. He knew exactly what he had to do in order to survive. He had to preserve his ego at all costs, maintain his sense of self, remember who he was.

He remembered the bottle of water his gaoler had given him and wondered if it was still in the room. The only way to find out was to search by touch, since it was too dark to actually see anything. He rolled off the sink unit, trying to ignore the pain in his ribcage, and began to walk around the room, arms still outstretched, feeling the floor with his feet and every horizontal surface with his hands. He did a full circuit of the room, finding nothing but the bare furniture. He tried the door, when he came to it, without much hope of success, and his assumption proved correct. It did not budge. And the light switch he discovered, next to the door, was ineffectual, though he flicked it several times.

When he reached the bed again, he lay back down, pulling the blanket up to his chest. Now the sun had set, it was chilly in this room devoid of all home comforts, except for the bed, the pillow and the NHS cellular shock blanket. He had no idea what time it was or how long he'd been here. He didn't even know what day it was. He felt his wrist, for his watch, but that was gone, too.

He was hungry. He hadn't managed to eat his lunch before those two bastards had snuck in under his radar and jabbed him in the neck. The last meal he'd had was breakfast, on Monday morning – two slices of pate on toast. Always break your fast with protein - that was his diet mantra. Ok. Being hungry wasn't the end of the world. He'd seen people go a lot longer than one day without food and live to tell the tale.

His thoughts strayed, inevitably, back to Mycroft - and the twins. Charlie, especially, would be missing him terribly. Katy was Daddy's Girl but Charlie was Poppah's boy. And Mycroft would be so worried and – worst of all – he would be blaming himself. Of course, Mycroft would assume that he was the intended target, that Arthur was just a hostage, a means by which to get to the Iceman.

The thought of Mycroft feeling responsible for this cut him to the quick. If only there were some way to tell his partner that the perpetrators of this heinous act had no idea who Mycroft even was. Their ignorance would be their downfall. These dumb fucks may have taken his clothes, his shoes, his watch, his phone and his ring, but his personal possessions would be here, somewhere in this place, and the tagged items would be transmitting their tracker signals. Mycroft's minions, as Sherlock irreverently called them, would be homing in on this spot, even now. He had no doubt whatsoever that Mycroft would find him.

But, alongside the knowledge of who was not responsible for his predicament lay the shocking revelation of who was. His own father had arranged this? He could barely grasp that concept. How did his father even know about such people as Reparation Therapists? Arthur could only think of one answer to that question – the new BFF, Mick Robinson. Someone like him would be likely to have contacts in all sorts of extreme Right Wing organisations.

And it was with a sinking feeling that he realised that he hadn't told Mycroft – or anyone else, for that matter – about his father's new affiliation with a White Supremacist. He'd just wanted to forget about the vile things his father had said and done to him. Boy, had that backfired right in his face! Mycroft would not even suspect that there might be a much simpler explanation for his disappearance than an anti-government terrorist plot. Arthur screwed up his eyes and cursed his own stupidity.

ooOoo

Sherlock was roused from his contemplations by the ringing of his phone.

'Hello, babe, what's happening?' Molly asked.

'Processing data, at the moment. There's quite a lot to go at so it will probably take all night. Anthea has promised to call me the moment they have anything tangible. How are the children?'

'Ours are fine. They love being out here in the country. It's like a mini holiday for them, although William knows something is not right because of the sudden decision to come here. I've told him that you are safe and that I will tell him what's going on as soon as I can. He's OK with that. Freddie and Violet are oblivious, obviously, although I think Violet might miss you round about two in the morning, when you usually have your little commune.'

Sherlock smiled, wistfully. Violet wouldn't be the only one who would be missing their little commune.

'What about Katy and Charlie?'

'They were OK until they realised that Mycroft and Arthur wouldn't be home by bedtime, then they both got upset, Katy insisting that 'Daddy pwomised!' and Charlie just sobbing and asking for Poppah. Sara and Michele have been marvellous but we really don't know what to tell them. That has to be up to Mycroft – what to tell them and when. How is Mycroft coping, by the way?'

'In a 'Mycroft' sort of way, taking it all upon himself, of course. Anthea had to push him into his car and send him home. He should be arriving soon.'

'I'll listen out for the car,' Molly resolved.

'Do give him some space, though. He's been in the spotlight all day. He might appreciate a moment to himself.'

'Now I am impressed, Sherlock Holmes,' Molly declared. 'That Empathy App is really working well, now.

'Thank you,' he replied, 'for giving it to me.'

'You had it installed all along, you just hadn't applied it.'

'Are we going to run this analogy into the ground?' he asked, in mock disdain.

'Oh, yes,' she replied. 'I have hundreds of App related metaphors. I bought the app. Oh!'

'What?' he asked.

'I can hear a car. It must be him.'

'Give him a good half hour, at least. And make him eat something.'

'Did you and he do a body swap, or something?'

'No, it's just my turn to be mother.'

'So, tell me what's been happening. What do we know?' she asked, serious again.

He went on to describe how the day had unfolded.

ooOoo

Mycroft climbed from the staff car, just as the front door of Colbert House opened and Andrew, his butler, appeared.

'Good evening, Andrew, are the children in bed?' he asked.

'Yes, sir, though I don't think they're settled quite yet.'

'I'll go and see them,' Mycroft replied, walking into the front hall and straight up the stairs. Andrew collected the weekend bags from the boot of the car and brought them inside, as the driver turned the vehicle around, on the gravel forecourt, and drove away, down the drive, back to London. When you drove for Mr Holmes, there was no such thing as regular hours. It came with the territory.

On reaching the top of the house, Mycroft pushed open the Nursery door and stepped, quietly, inside. The two cots that the twins had slept in as babies had been replaced by twin beds, each with their own distinctive style, to suit the preferences of the occupant. Katy's bed linen was a riot of frothy pink, like an explosion in a candyfloss factory, but she loved it. Charlie's colour scheme was all greens and browns, like a jungle scape, with animal prints and a camouflage theme – Poppah's boy, indeed.

As Mycroft tiptoed across the carpeted floor, towards the beds, Sara, who had been sitting on the sofa at the far end of the room, reading a book, stood up but Mycroft indicated, with a wave, that she should not disturb her reading, so she sat back down. Approaching the nearest bed – Katy's – Mycroft spotted a little gleam in an open eye, so he knelt down and put his hand on Katy's head.

'Daddy,' she murmured, tearfully, 'where were you? 'U pwomised!'

Mycroft lifted up the little girl, in his arms, and hugged her to his chest.

'I know, my darling. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me,' he whispered.

'As'awight, Daddy, I know it not your fau't. It der Gubberment fau't. Naughty Gubberment.' In Katy's head canon, 'der Gubberment' was a person who was always making Daddy do things he didn't want to do.

Mycroft glanced across at the hump in Charlie's bed. The only movement was the gently rise and fall of a sleeping child's breathing.

'Charlie did cwy. He want id Poppah,' Katy informed her father. 'But he sleeping now.'

'We won't wake him, then,' Mycroft decided.

'Daddy, where id Poppah?'

'He's had to stay in London, Katy. He couldn't come home tonight.'

'Why?' asked the little girl, mystified. 'Do Poppah wert for der Gubberment, too?' She was appalled at the very idea.

'No, my darling, he doesn't work for the Government.'

'Why id he busy, den, Daddy?'

'He's had to go somewhere – hopefully not for long – but I'm not sure when he'll be back, so I can't tell you a definite time or day.'

'Ad he don to see id Mommah an' Poppah, agen?'

'No, not this time. He's gone somewhere else.'

'Ad Untle Serlot don wib im? Ee div'nt wert for der Gubberment, neeva.'

'No, Uncle Sherlock hasn't gone with him but he is helping him, which is why he's not here, too.'

Katy seemed to be mollified by these rather obscure answers. She rubbed her eyes with her fists and cuddled into her daddy's shoulder.

'Are you ready to go to sleep, now?' Mycroft asked.

'Yet, I tired,' she admitted.

He placed her, gently, back in the bed and covered her over, then bent and kissed the top of her head,

'Good night, my darling. Sleep well.'

'Du'night, Daddy,' she breathed, half asleep already.

Mycroft stood and looked over at Sara, beckoning for her to follow him out onto the landing. Once outside the Nursery, with the door closed, he turned back to the nanny.

'Sara, I must apologise for any inconvenience this unfortunate situation may be causing you and Michele, being under house arrest, to all intents and purposes. We will resolve this issue as quickly as possible and, in the meantime, be assured that you will be fully remunerated for the extra hours…'

'Sir,' she interrupted him, 'I think I speak for all the staff when I say that we are all shocked and appalled at what has happened and we will do whatever we can to support you and the children until Mr Arthur is safely returned.'

Mycroft was quite taken aback by the bald sincerity of the nanny's outburst and, for a moment, he was rendered inarticulate but he recovered quickly and said,

'Thank you, my dear. I am immeasurably grateful to you.'

He gave a polite nod, turned and descended the stairs, to the ground floor, walking briskly to the Summer Drawing Room, where Molly was sitting in front of the television, having just finished talking to Sherlock. She stood to greet Mycroft, giving him a comforting hug. He returned the gesture, gratefully, but drew back after only a few seconds.

'I am so sorry for the inconvenience to you and the children, having to be here, Molly,' he said, echoing his apology to Sara.

'Oh, Mycroft, don't even go there! None of this is your fault!' she exclaimed, and pulled him in for another, much longer, hug.

'Thank you, Molly, It is a great comfort to know that the children and I have the support of all my family and staff, truly, it is.'

He paused, thinking, then asked,

'Do you have everything you need? Are the staff taking care of you?'

'Yes, and absolutely, Mycroft. We are fine. But how are you?'

'I'm tired, my dear, but there are a few matters that require my attention so I'm afraid I must leave you to your own devises, again.'

She squeezed his arm and gave a quick nod.

'Don't work too late and please try to eat something, though I know that may be difficult.'

With a tight smile, he left the room and made his way to the Butler's Pantry, where he spoke, briefly, with Andrew about the increased levels of security. Heightened alerts were nothing new for the butler. He had worked for the Holmes family for many years. But this time was different. One of their number was missing, perhaps in mortal danger. This was personal. He assured the master of the house of the willing support of all the staff.

Duty served, Mycroft repaired, at last, to his study, finding a plate of beef sandwiches, covered in cling film, and a glass of his favourite single malt on the side table, beside his chair. He sat down and picked up the glass, lifting it to his lips and taking a sip. Then his shoulders began to shake and he covered his face with his hands, giving way to all the pent up fear and despair, at last.

ooOoo