Sorry this update has been a while coming. I had guests - my nephews - who are lovely but very time-consuming!

No triggers on this chapter.

Chapter Thrity Four

When Mycroft returned to the Waiting Area, Anthea, Richmond and John Watson rose to greet him.

'Josie has recalled some details about a lorry?' he remarked, with a rising interrogative.

'Yes, sir. Apparently, they drove the Audi into a lorry, to conceal it,' Agent Richmond confirmed.

'Yes, alright, well, she says that it was two colours, one light and one dark and that it had small windows all down the side,' he reported.

'Windows? What sort of a lorry has windows?' John questioned. 'Does she mean a bus?'

'What sort of a bus has a ramp?' Richmond countered.

'Well, whatever the vehicle was, be it a lorry or a bus, it gives us something more to go on. Anthea?' Mycroft turned to his PA for an update.

'Sir, the crime scene is still being processed. Agent Monroe believes it will take all night. The prisoners that were taken are being held at RAF Leeming tonight and will be transferred to London tomorrow, for interrogation. In the meantime, Dr Watson has reserved rooms for us at the Railway Hotel, where he and your brother had intended to stay. Can I suggest we adjourn for tonight?'

'Yes, my dear, I think that would be a wise move. Richmond, would you be so kind as to take us to this hotel and then join your colleague back at the scene?'

Richmond nodded and they all left the hospital.

John Watson was curious to know what, if anything, Arthur had had to say but Mycroft was not forthcoming so he did not pursue it. He did ask, however,

'Has anyone thought to tell Molly the latest developments?'

'Yes, John, I did think about it but I decided that tomorrow morning would be soon enough to drop that particular bombshell. I'm sure she will be delighted to hear that Arthur and his sister are safe but I doubt that will compensate for the fact that Sherlock traded himself for them.'

John thought that was probably true.

ooOoo

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of horses' hooves clattering on the roadway, outside the house. And not just one or two horses, either. It sounded like a whole brigade. He rolled out of bed and crossed to the window, drawing back the curtain, just a little, to peek outside.

At the end of the garden, on the other side of a low hedge, he could see about twenty horses, all in single file, walking by. They each wore a two-tone fly sheet, in sky and royal blue, with the initials WB appliqued in one corner, and the riders all wore matching jackets, in the same two colours, and dark blue jodhpurs. The silks on all their riding helmets were also sky and royal blue.

This was a much more up-market enterprise than the one belonging to George Bridges, where the detective had been 'unavoidably detained' on the night that Violet was born. Thinking of Violet was a distraction he could ill afford, at the moment, so he shut that door in his Mind Palace, very firmly, and scanned the surrounding area visible from his bedroom window, making a mental note of all its features for future reference.

He heard a sharp knock at the door to his room and then the door opening. He looked round to see one of Moran's men, now dressed in civilian garb of slacks and a buttoned shirt, bringing in a tea tray and placing it on the bedside table.

'The colonel says he will see you in the breakfast room in half an hour,' the man informed him, not even batting an eye at the guest's nakedness. But, if this were an all-male household, as Sherlock strongly suspected, barrack room law probably held sway and they would all shower and sleep in communal facilities. It would be, he imagined, a bit like boarding school.

The foot soldier cum footman withdrew and closed the door – not locked, Sherlock noted, but the guard outside rather over-rode the need for a lock. The detective crossed back to the bed and poured himself a morning cup of tea, then carried the cup and saucer through to the bathroom.

He had seen, the night before, that the bathroom was well-stocked with a range of quality men's toiletries, which he had inspected, closely. He sat on the toilet seat, sipping his tea, pensively, waiting for the bath to run, adding a generous dollop of bath essence to the steaming water. He might as well, he concluded, take full advantage of the facilities while he was detained here.

After his bath, he redressed in yesterday's clothes. He was not a fan of two day shirts, or two day boxers and socks either, for that matter, and he thought, wistfully, of his crisp, freshly laundered clothes still packed inside his valise, in his room at the Railway Hotel. If he was going to be here for any length of time, he would need to send for those, he concluded.

Once dressed, he opened the bedroom door and preceded his over-night guard down stairs to the breakfast room.

'Good morning, Mr Holmes. I trust you slept well? We are early risers, here. I'm pleased to see you are, too.'

'Not usually,' he lied. With three young children in the family, lie-ins were a fond and distant memory but he saw no reason to agree with everything Moran said, just on principal.

'What do you have planned for me, today?' he asked, helping himself to a cup of black coffee and a slice of wholemeal toast, which he spread liberally with butter and blackcurrant jam.

'I have a Skype session scheduled for you, Mr Holmes, so that you might reassure yourself that your friend and his sister are both well.'

'As well as can be expected,' Sherlock corrected, sardonically, 'under the circumstances.'

'I trust you have a number for Mr and Miss Brocklehurst,' Moran remarked.

'One does not use a number to Skype, Colonel, but a username. I have one for my brother.'

Moran's eyebrows rose in surprise.

'Well, I never would have thought of Mycroft as a Silver Surfer,' he chortled.

'Hardly silver. He's in his mid-forties. He may behave old beyond his years but he is barely middle aged. And, for your information, his children use Skype far more often than he does but they are too young to have their own user names.'

'Meanwhile,' he added, looking at his watch, 'time is pressing. Let's get on with this, shall we? Give me my phone.' He held out his hand.

'No, Mr Holmes, that's not how this works. I know that the location of a phone can be traced - you used that trick, already. Your phone has been…dealt with.'

Sherlock shrugged.

'Alright, colonel, how does this work?'

'After breakfast, you will email your brother from my laptop and schedule the conversation between you and the other two. You will give him the time and he will make sure they are there. At the appointed time, you will call him and speak to them and then you and I will do business.'

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow but said nothing.

'Ah, in case you're thinking that the origin of an email can be traced, too, I can assure you that my laptop has software installed that makes all communications anonymous. That includes emails and browsing history. I'm invisible on the Internet.'

Sherlock shrugged again. Once more, Moran had out-thought him. Perhaps he had underestimated the man. He would have to up his game.

ooOoo

'He did what?' Molly croaked, clutching at her heart.

'I am so sorry, Molly. I know this is not the news you were hoping for. And I do understand how you must feel,' said Mycroft, regretfully.

'Oh, Mycroft, don't feel guilty. Of course, I am relieved that Arthur and his sister of safe and, obviously, if anyone can talk their way out of this situation, it's Sherlock, but…Oh, God, you know what I mean.'

'I do, Molly. And, if it's any consolation, I am almost as angry with him as you are.'

Mycroft felt it politic not to add that Sherlock and John had been specifically advised not to go to the hospital but to leave it to the Special Ops assault team. He was relatively certain that this whole matter could have been resolved satisfactorily without his brother's intervention. And he would most definitely be having that conversation with him, the very next time they spoke.

Neither did he mention the email he had received, just minutes before, requesting a Skype conversation with the other two hostages. That would be his next priority, once he finished breaking the bad news about Sherlock's current situation to his wife.

The email had been untraceable but there could be no doubt it was from Sherlock. He had gone to great pains to make that clear.

I request a Skype face to face with Arthur and Josie, at 10.00 BST, to verify well-being before fulfilling my side of the bargain. There's a Headless Nun in it for me.

The 'Headless Nun' code word meant that he had a plan. Mycroft was hoping that this would be an exit strategy but one could never be certain, where Sherlock was concerned. He rarely thought about how he would get out of situations – only how to get into them. He had always been the same, his entire life.

Mycroft despaired, sometimes, at his brother's lack of forethought, even though he felt an enormous debt of gratitude for the safe return of Arthur. Such mixed emotions were hard to deal with so he suppressed them and turned his attention to the task in hand.

'Anthea, you will go to the crime scene and liaise with Agents Richmond and Monroe,' he instructed his PA, who left to do his bidding.

'John, I'd like you to come with me. I believe Arthur will be more co-operative with you, under the present circumstances, so you will take my phone into the ICU and persuade him to speak to Sherlock, to verify that he is being well looked after. I'm sure Josie will assist with that task. I will wait elsewhere.'

John nodded his agreement. He would try to communicate with Sherlock, too, or, at the very least, get an idea of his circumstances. The use of the term BST, when scheduling the Skype session, inferred that Sherlock was no longer in the UK but one could never be sure exactly who Sherlock was trying to confound. John hoped that his friend might, somehow, be able to give him a clue as to his whereabouts.

He and Mycroft took a cab to the Tameside Hospital and were directed, first, to the ward where Josie had been admitted for observation, the night before. She was looking a lot better than she had when they last saw her. A few hours' sleep, a shower and a good breakfast had helped with that. When Mycroft explained what Sherlock had suggested, Josie was very willing to co-operate and she volunteered, without being asked, to persuade Arthur to do his bit, too.

With the Ward Sister's permission, John and Mycroft accompanied Josie to the ICU and here Mycroft parted company with them, resignedly, and took himself off to the Family Room, to wait alone. John pushed Josie, in the hospital wheelchair, into Arthur's room, finding him awake and no longer surrounded by heat lamps. The saline drip was gone - though the cannula remained - and the heart monitor had been disconnected.

When his sister entered the room, Arthur held out his hand to her and she took it, giving it a squeeze.

'You're looking much better, lovie. 'Ow are you feelin'?' Josie asked, brushing a stray curl off his forehead with her free hand.

'Better, I think,' Arthur replied, still sounding weak and light-headed. 'And you? What's wrong with you?' he asked.

'We can talk about that, later,' Josie replied, glancing at the ex-Army doctor. 'You remember John, don't you?' she asked.

'Yes, of course,' he replied, offering a rather wavering left hand for John to shake, since Josie refused to relinquish the other one. 'John, what are you doing here?' He didn't seem to remember seeing John the night before, at the Psychiatric Hospital, or that Josie had been there, either.

John wondered whether he would remember seeing Sherlock, at all.

'I'm on a bit of a mission, actually,' he replied.

'Really, what could that be?' Arthur asked, looking confused.

John walked round to the other side of the bed and drew up a chair.

'Arthur, how much do you remember about the last few days?' he asked, cautiously.

The patient rubbed his brow, thoughtfully, before replying,

'I remember pretty much everything up to last night but then it gets a bit hazy. Is there something important you need to know?'

'Do you remember seeing me at the psychiatric hospital?'

Arthur shook his head.

'What about Sherlock? Do you remember seeing him?'

Arthur's brow furrowed, as though that did ring a distant bell.

'Was he really there? I thought I…dreamed that or was having hallucinations, or…something.'

'No, we were both there. It was Sherlock who figured out where you were and who had taken you…well, someone who was involved, at least.'

'Oh, that was clever of him,' Arthur murmured 'but then, he is clever.'

'Sherlock allowed himself to be taken hostage, Arthur, along with you and Josie.'

'Josie?' Arthur gasped, looking alarmed. 'How did you get mixed up in this?'

'I'll explain everything, later, sweet. Just listen to John, for now,' Josie soothed.

'He let himself be taken so that he could negotiate for you and Josie to be released,' John explained. 'And it obviously worked because here you are.'

Arthur nodded his understanding of that simple truth.

'But where is Sherlock, now?' he asked.

'Well, he's still being held. We don't know where. But Mycroft got an email from him this morning…'

At the mention of Mycroft's name, Arthur's face clouded over and he seemed to retreat into himself. Josie patted the hand she was still clinging on to and made shushing noises, as though to a child.

'Are you OK, Arthur?' John asked.

'Yes,' he replied, sounding a little hoarse. 'What did the email say?'

'It said that Sherlock wants to speak to you and Josie on Skype, at ten o'clock, today, which is in about half an hour. This is part of the deal he made with the kidnappers. He needs to see that you and Josie are OK before he does whatever it is that he offered to do so that you and Josie would be released. Are you still following all this?' John asked, because Arthur looked confused again.

'Yes, I understand what you are saying. That was a very…brave thing to do, that.'

'Yes, very brave,' John had to agree. 'So, Arthur, will you speak to him, on Skype, when he calls?'

'Of course,' the other man replied. 'Why wouldn't I, after what he's done? And none of this is his fault. He's just as much a victim as I am…as we are,' he amended, looking at his sister.

'Oh, well done, Arthur,' Josie exclaimed, leaning over to kiss her brother on the cheek. She then went on to explain how she had come to be taken hostage as well and John left the room to go and assure Mycroft that the Skype session would go ahead without a hitch.

'He doesn't remember what he said to Sherlock but he certainly seems to have an issue with you,' John commented to the elder Holmes.

'Well, I'm sure we will discover what that is, in the fullness of time,' Mycroft replied, curtly. 'You'd better get back in there, in case he calls early,' he advised, so John left him, alone again, wondering what dreadful untruth Arthur had been fed by his captors, along with all the mind altering drugs.

ooOoo

'What does that mean?' Moran asked, pointing at the phrase,

There's a Headless Nun in it for me.

'It's a private thing, between me and my brother,' Sherlock replied. 'It's just so that he knows it's really me sending this email, since it is anonymous. He won't act on it if he doesn't know it's really from me.'

'How do I know it's not some secret code?' Moran demanded.

'Well, obviously, it is a secret code,' Sherlock retorted, with a dramatic eye roll.

Moran looked at him, askance.

'Oh, for God's sake,' Sherlock huffed, still playing the role of the spoiled aristocrat to a tee. 'If you must know, when we were children, if I was really good and didn't piss him off too much, he would read me the story of the Headless Nun. It was my favourite story. He used to say to me, 'If you behave yourself, there's a Headless Nun in it for you.' See?'

Moran was not sure whether or not to believe this explanation but he could see the logic of having to prove to the other Holmes that this really was his brother sending the email.

'Alright, I will allow it but, if I find out you've been lying to me, you will pay a price for your deception.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and went to press 'Send' on the laptop.

'Wait!' Moran barked.

'Oh, what now?' Sherlock grumbled.

'10.00 BST? Why BST?'

'It will make think that I'm no longer in the UK,' he explained, grudgingly, with an implied 'Duh!'.

'Oh,' Moran acknowledged.

'You really were Moriarty's equivalent of John Watson, weren't you?' Sherlock huffed.

'Yes, I was his Right Hand Man,' Moran replied, with a hint of pride.

'Well, a rather ambiguous statement but I'll let that pass. No, I rather meant that you are good in a fight but not much going on between the ears,'

Sherlock pressed 'Send', before Moran could respond to that insult, then turned to his host with a bored scowl.

Moran gritted his teeth and clenched his fists but kept his anger under control. Turning to the guard, standing by the door, he growled,

'Take our guest back to his room.'

The mufti foot soldier took Sherlock roughly by the arm and frog-marched him back to his bedroom, opening the door and pushing him inside, then closed the door and stood outside, with his arms folded across his chest.

Left alone, Sherlock walked to the window and scanned the view, again. There was no visible evidence of security or surveillance but he was pretty sure that there would be pressure pads in the ground and movement sensor lights and cameras covering the immediate area around the house. Escape from here would not be straight-forward or easy.

He had rather enjoyed winding up Moran, with his snide comments, but did feel moderately guilty for maligning John Watson's mental acuity. However, it had been in a good cause, as there was method in his madness. In the first instance, it would convince Moran still further that he had no sense of loyalty to anyone but, also, a decision made whilst in an emotional state was invariably a bad decision, in his experience. In his not so humble opinion, the more he goaded his host, the more likely he was to make a mistake and Sherlock would be ready to exploit it.

ooOoo