I have added a short paragraph to Sherlock's deduction in the previous chapter because I felt it needed a bit more exposition. So, please pop back and read it!

No triggers in this chapter.

Chapter Twenty Three

Sherlock sat at the table in the Brocklehurst's kitchen, while John prepared a pot of tea for the family, who were still in shock.

'Well, it's no surprise that Robinson has dropped off the radar. Once Arthur was taken, it was Mission Accomplished. He's probably miles away by now,' John observed. Arthur Sr had confirmed that his BFF had been nowhere to be seen since the weekend.

'No, he's still part of the team. He'll be wherever Arthur is. But, you're right. He won't be seen back here again. However, one thing is certain. The longer Arthur is in their hands, the more in danger he becomes. We must find him and get him away from them, as quickly as possible.'

'But he could be anywhere! He probably isn't even up here. They more than likely have him somewhere near London.'

'No, I don't think so,' Sherlock replied, that characteristic crinkle appearing between his eye brows. 'This whole thing has a distinctly regional feel to it. All this time, while Robinson has been here, he hasn't just been schmoozing Arthur's dad and indulging in a spot of casual shit stirring amongst the ethnic minorities. No, he's been doing a recce of the local area. He will have identified a suitable location in which to hold a hostage. We just have to look around, from his perspective, and see what leaps out.'

'So what are we looking for?'

'Well, they would want somewhere secluded, out of the way. It would need to be secure - they wouldn't want the hostage escaping and Arthur's a fit man...'

'And a soldier, so escape would be an imperative.'

'Quite. So where, around here, would fit those criteria?'

'Well, I don't know, do I!' John huffed. 'We need to get a map.'

'I did, remember, on the way here?'

'Oh yes, Einstein, sorry, I forgot. So what have you come up with?'

Sherlock was already scanning the map of Stalybridge and its environs, pinned to the wall of the Incident Room in his Mind Palace, looking for likely places one might hold an abductee, so he did not respond.

Josie came through, to check on the progress of the tea order.

'How's your mum?' John enquired, solicitously.

'She's 'aving a lie down. Rosie's with 'er. And Dad, too, but she won't speak to 'im. I don't know if any of us will, ever again.'

John gave a little shrug. He did feel a bit sorry for the guy. He had been chewed up and spat out by people who were experts at that sort of thing.

Josie looked at Sherlock but he was away with the fairies and didn't even glance in her direction.

'Don't mind him,' John advised. 'He does that.'

'What is 'e doing, exactly?' Josie asked, fascinated by this eccentric genius.

'He has a place in his head. He calls it a Mind Palace. It's where he goes when he needs to think or work something out.'

'Can 'e 'ear us, talking about 'im?'

'Oh, yes, I think so. But unless we say something interesting, he'll just filter us out.'

'So what's 'e working out, in 'is Mind Castle?'

'Palace. His Mind Palace,' John corrected. 'He's scouring the local landscape looking for somewhere suitable to hold someone captive.'

'God, that could be anywhere,' she exclaimed. 'I mean, look at these blokes who kidnap girls and women and keep 'em in their cellars, as sex slaves, for years!'

'Yes, but Arthur's not a terrified, defenceless young girl. He's a fit and healthy, recently demobbed soldier. You couldn't keep him in a suburban basement for long. No. Sherlock says it needs to be somewhere isolated and very secure.'

'Oh, well, that sounds like the psychiatric 'ospital, out on the old Mottram Road. It's all closed up now, ever since they introduced 'Care in t' Community' - or 'Careless in t' Community', as Arthur calls it. 'E used to volunteer there, when 'e were a kid, at school. That's what give 'im the idea of being a psychiatric nurse, in t' first place. 'E loved it, there. 'E really liked the patients, said they were just normal people going through a bad time...'

Josie suddenly realised that Sherlock was staring straight at her and she stuttered to a halt.

'Yes, that's it. That's perfect,' he said. 'We need to go there.'

ooOoo

The private jet taxied off the runway towards the Freight Building at Ostend-Bruges International Airport and stopped in a deserted area, out of sight of the passenger terminal. As it came to a halt, a sleek black limousine moved forward, out of the shadow of the building and drew up alongside the aeroplane. The plane's passenger door opened and the stairs were lowered. Anthea Smith stepped out of the aircraft, closely followed by Mycroft Holmes.

They made their way across the asphalt to the waiting limousine and were ushered inside by the chauffeur, who then took their luggage from the flight attendant and stowed it in the car boot before hopping back in, behind the wheel, and setting off on the twenty-five mile trip to the city of Bruges.

Once installed in the back seat of the car, Mycroft said to his assistant,

'I'd like you to be First Chair, this evening, my dear. I'll be in the Observation Room and will make suggestions, if needed, but I think he may respond better to a woman's touch. I seem to remember he was something of a Ladies' Man.'

'Yes, sir, I seem to recall that, too,' Anthea replied then they both lapsed into silence and gazed out of their respective side windows at the scenery cloaked in darkness, as the car sped on its way.

ooOoo

'We need some back up, then,' John declared.

'No time,' replied Sherlock, jumping to his feet. 'What we need is a car. Do you have one?' he asked Josie.

'No, but Ro…' she began but John cut across her.

'Sherlock, these people are Combat 18, not the WI,' he insisted.

'So? I told you, John. We need to get Arthur away from them as soon as possible. It would take hours to organise back up, hours that we don't have. We need to go there now. Rosie has a car?' He addressed Josie again

'Her husband doe…'

'Sherlock!' John almost shouted. 'This is a highly disciplined, paramilitary organisation we're talking about, here! They will be combat trained and armed to the teeth and we have precisely one ex-Service hand gun between us. It would be like going against a machine gun with a pea-shooter. We cannot go in there on our own!'

'We have to!' Sherlock almost shouted back, rounding on John in frustration. 'The longer we delay, the more damage done to...' He snapped his mouth shut, dropping his gaze, at the expression on Josie's face.

Josie blinked and tried not to cry. Sherlock raised his eyes, to look at her again.

'Can you tell Rosie we need her car,' he said, quietly, and she nodded and went off to perform that task.

'Sherlock, you mad bastard, have you any idea…'

'WHAT do you think I was doing for three years, John, when you thought I was dead? Do you think I joined a Knitting Circle? Or maybe spent the time on the beach in St Tropez?'

John pursed his lips and stared back at him.

'No,' he spat, at last.

'Then you'd be right. I spent that time going up against the likes of Combat 18, without back-up, and usually without even the advantage of an ex-Service hand gun, and I lived to tell the tale.'

'Yes, and you have the scars to prove it! I know that, Sherlock. I do not doubt your bravery or your skills in unarmed combat and general sneaking around but, back then, you didn't have a choice! You had to risk your life on suicide missions because there was no other option! But. Now. There. Is.'

Sherlock threw back his head, closed his eyes and clenched his fists, as though he was trying hard not to hit somebody – which he was. But, eventually, he exhaled a long breath and looked down at the floor.

'Alright, Mr Health and Bloody Safety, what do you suggest?' he hissed.

'Phone Anthea.'

Sherlock took out his phone and gave it to his friend.

'Here. You phone her,' he growled and sat back down, in a sulk.

John found Anthea's entry in Sherlock's phone address book and speed dialled the number. After two rings, a man answered.

'Good evening, Anthea,' John quipped. 'I do believe your voice has broken since we last spoke.'

'This is Agent Delaney. Who are you?'

'Oh, hello, Agent Delaney. I'm John Watson, erstwhile friend and associate of Sherlock Holmes, which is how come I'm using his phone, but he is here. If you want proof of my identity, he can provide it.'

'Not necessary, sir. Your voice matches on our Voice Register.'

Voice Register? John marvelled. Whatever next?

'How can I help you, Dr Watson?'

'We think we know where Arthur is being held.'

'You think you know? So you aren't sure?'

'Sherlock is sure and he's been pretty spot on so far. We need to go in and rescue him but the people whom we believe are holding him are – we believe – Combat 18. So we need back up.'

'How many operatives do you believe are present in this place where you believe Arthur is being held?'

'Haven't got a Scooby, mate, so we need the biggest boy scout brigade that you can muster.'

Where is the location?' Delaney asked, in a business-like tone, despite John's flippant attitude.

John gave the address of the defunct psychiatric hospital as 'somewhere on the old Mottram Road, just outside Stalybridge.'

There was a slight pause, as Agent Delaney tapped that into a pc.

'Would that be St Benedict's Hospital, Mottram Old Road, Stalybridge?'

'Hang on, I'll check.' John could hear the voices of the two sisters approaching, through the sitting room. The moment the first sister put a foot through the door, he said,

'Is that old hospital called St Benedict's?'

'Yeah, St Benny's we use' t' call i'.'

'And is it on Mottram Old Road.'

Both girls nodded their confirmation.

'Yep, that's the place,' John passed on to the agent on the phone.

There was another pause, and more keyboard tapping on the other end of the call, until Delaney said,

'We are scrambling a helicopter assault team from RAF Leeming. Should be on the ground in approximately fifty minutes. Where are you, exactly?'

'We are exactly in the kitchen at Arthur's parents' home, in Stalybridge,' John replied, a bit snittily, as Delany was getting on his nerves.

'Might I suggest you stay there and we will keep you informed on the progress of the operation, via this phone?'

'You might suggest that, Agent Delaney, but I can't guarantee that we will follow your suggestion.'

'Well, sir, as a member of the public, I would…'

'Goodbye, Delaney. Nice chatting,' John said, breezily, and cut the connection.

'Can we go now?' Sherlock asked, testily.

'Sure. Where's the car?' John asked.

ooOoo

On arrival at the building that housed the Bruges branch of Interpol, Mycroft and Anthea were shown to an Interrogation Suite, very like the one in the building in Whitehall, with which they were both very familiar. Not wishing to waste any time, Mycroft requested that they get straight down to business so he was taken to the Observation Room and Anthea to the Operations Room, where she was fitted with a very discrete ear piece, through which she would be able to hear any instructions given to her by Mycroft, during the interrogation of Marcus Frayne.

She was then subjected to an electronic scan and a body search, by an absurdly apologetic WPC, who insisted on asking permission every time she was about to touch another part of Anthea's body.

What would she do if I said no? Anthea wondered, but decided not to test the hypothesis.

Search over, she was shown into the Interrogation Room, where Marcus Frayne was already seated – as she could see, from the monitor outside the room. As she entered the IR, Frayne looked up, smiled and went to rise, as a gesture of chivalry, but was pushed back down onto his chair by the hands of the two guards, who stood one either side of him.

Anthea took her seat, beside an Interpol officer, who would be a witness to the interrogation, and went through the protocol of identifying everyone present – for the benefit of the recording equipment – and marking the beginning of the interview.

'Miss Smith, what a pleasant surprise,' Frayne purred.

'Good evening, Mr Frayne.'

'So, if you are here, Miss Smith, I must assume that the illustrious Mr Holmes is here, also. I am honoured. To what do I owe the pleasure?'

'Mr Frayne, I suspect you already know the answer to that question so I won't insult you by responding.'

Frayne looked genuinely bewildered.

'I do assure you, Miss Smith, I have no idea why Mr Holmes would be remotely interested in any of my recent exploits. Of course, if you're talking historical, that might be very different kettle of fish.'

'I don't think Monday counts as historical, 'Anthea replied.

'Monday? Oh!' said the professional kidnapper. 'That's interesting.'

He did not elaborate further and Anthea chose not to give him any prompts, so they sat and looked at one another for a couple of minutes.

Eventually, Frayne gave in.

'Alright, I'll play a little ping pong with you. I did fulfil a rather lucrative contract on Monday, yes, but I can't imagine why Mr Holmes would be interested.'

'Really?' Anthea asked.

'Yes, really! I didn't think that the turf war politics of a couple of rival extremist groups was of any interest to the great man, unless members of the general public were inadvertently damaged in the process.'

Anthea paused before answering, to give Mycroft time to absorb that comment and, perhaps, suggest a retort. However, he was surprisingly reticent on the matter.

'Can you outline your mission to me, please, Mr Frayne?' Anthea said, off her own bat.

'On one condition,' he replied.

'Which is?'

'That you give me immunity from prosecution for any of my actions, in relation to this operation, regardless of the eventual outcome.'

Frayne was no fool. He was aware that, if the abductee were to suffer an unfortunate fatality, he could be charged with Conspiracy to Commit Murder, Aiding and Abetting, at the very least. If they had been planning to charge him with the kidnapping itself, he was sure they would have done so, already, since he was sure they must have irrefutable evidence of his culpability in that particular offence.

It was obvious to the former MI5 operative that the 'minor government official' was more interested in who ordered the operation than the person who carried it out. So, by requesting an amnesty, he was indicating his willingness to give a full and frank account of how he was head-hunted for this particular contract and by whom.

Anthea paused once again, waiting for Mycroft to make a decision. He did.

'Agreed,' he said, into Anthea's ear piece.

Agreed,' she repeated.

ooOoo

I don't know if there is a derelict psychiatric hospital on the Mottram Old Road, just outside Stalybridge but it is entirely plausible that there could be. The Victorians were very fond of building Bedlams - as they were known - in the middle of nowhere and populating them with the unfortunates of their society. They became like little gated communities, with shops and everything. And, as well as the secure wards, for the most distressed patients, the grounds were dotted with little cottages where the more independent inmates lived relatively normal lives. Most of them were closed down, in the 1980's, 90's and 00's and redeveloped as housing estates. And some still lie moth-balled, waiting for the wrecking balls to arrive.