Chapter 10

October

Mycroft entered Sherrinford, his stride confident and sure. He had his umbrella in his hand, the tap of it on the cement floor was comforting in a way. Even though it was after ten and late, the lights were on and the guards were alert. He nodded at the guard who opened the door to an interrogation room. Inside sat Philip Martins aka Goon 1 as his brother had dubbed the man. Both of Oliver's men had said surprisingly little since their incarceration. His agents had questioned the men after their capture, focusing on their knowledge during the initial months of his brother's recovery. They had been low-level thugs. Mycroft had gleaned more from reading Oliver's file and his own investigations into Oliver's business dealings than they got from the men. They had been dismissed in the end as reliable intel, prone to minimizations and lies to cover their own incompetence. It didn't make them any less dangerous.

Mycroft placed his umbrella against the wall and stepped to the table. The other man was handcuffed to the table, his feet encased in chained manacles. He wasn't going anywhere and Mycroft opened the file he had been carrying. He pulled out two photos of the video stills he had taken, spread them out in front of the other man.

"This isn't new to you." He said, noting the other man's interest. "Tell me about it."

The man turned his gaze from the photos to Mycroft. "No."

Mycroft scanned the man and he made a few deductions. Read the resolve in the other man. Knew the hidden violence that was swimming under the surface of calm. This man was the one responsible for some of his brother's nightmares. He changed tact. He needed to be smart about this if he wanted to get the information and he knew that pushing the man physically would lead nowhere.

He looked at his nails. Feigned disinterest as he waited. They sat in silence for fifteen minutes and finally the man fidgeted. A small tell but it was a start.

"You tried your hand at fishing?" Mycroft indicated to the man's hands. "I can see the hook scars on your hands. See how faded they are. Then there is the scar just underneath your left eye. When you tried to cast a line as a young child and inadvertently impaled the hook."

The man sniffed. Looked away. His body was tight with tension.

"Did you enjoy fishing?" Mycroft asked. After a moment, gauging the man's reaction, he said reflectively, "No, I guess not. Your dad was an alcoholic."

"It's easy to find my family history," the man finally said. Empty eyes met him. "It's all in my file. You don't impress me."

Mycroft tilted his head. "In fact, your file doesn't contain any information regarding your childhood."

The man sneered. "You spoke to your brother. He gave you the information."

"No. He's been a bit light on mentioning you. It seems you never really counted in the grand scheme of things regarding what happened to my brother."

"I find that hard to believe," Philip seemed to consider his words. He leaned back. Smirked. "Your brother begged Oliver to kill him. Did you know that?"

Mycroft was careful. He needed to bait the man, get him to reveal what he needed. This was a start. He widened his eyes just a little, pretended that it was a surprise. The man noticed and seemed to take satisfaction from it. Mycroft leaned forward, tapping one of the photos.

"Is this one of those times?"

"Don't be stupid…" the man trialled off. Seemed to realise what he said. Clamped up again, shaking his head.

"Again, Oliver was the man wasn't he. Sherlock wasn't afraid of you. The failed fisherman of an alcoholic abusive father. I bet he could read you from day 1. Could push your buttons." Mycroft tapped his lips. Smiled. "He did, didn't he? Knew how to rile you up. Tell me, when you got angry and you hit my brother, did your frustration diminish the surgical punch you intended? The result hurts much less for the man on the other end of your fists."

The other man's breathing increased, his body taught with anger. Mycroft decided to push a little more. "I read Oliver's notes he had on my brother. Now your fellow men were actually mentioned in the notes. More than once, I might add. Gary Saunders was especially useful to Oliver in making sure my brother behaved. He stayed with Molly, didn't he. Made sure that she was 'punished' whenever my brother failed one of Oliver's tests. And then there is the dead man. Mike is it? He appeared more than useful at using his fists and hurting my brother. But you, you are never mentioned at all. Why is that?"

"Not true."

"Oh, but it is. I can get the file if you want. I'll let you read it. You, Mr Martins are never mentioned. You are sitting here and my brother is free. He'll ask about Moriarty occasionally but I find it telling that he's never once asked about you."

Mycroft watched the play of emotions on the man's face.

"I think this," he indicated to the photos, "are not you're doing." He stood up. Gathered the photos to the file. "I'll have a discussion with Gary. I'm sure he'll recall what happened here."

"No."

Mycroft paused. Waited but when the man didn't say anything more, he pushed away from the table and picked up his umbrella. His hand was on the door handle when the other man called out to him. "Gary never interacted with Sherlock except during his retraining session. Even then, he only had one job to do." Philip sneered in disgust. "He liked it a little too much, if you get my drift."

"It doesn't mean he wasn't the one holding the video camera." Mycroft said casually, staying where he was on the verge of leaving. He tightened his fingers on the door handle enough to let the other man notice.

"After Oliver was done with him, your brother never rebelled again. He was broken, inside and out. Completely stripped and willing to do anything and I mean anything to not go back to that cellar."

Mycroft dropped his hand from the door handle. Turned so he faced the other man.

"Did you take the video before or after?"

"What do you think?"

Mycroft paused; his eyes hooded as he inspected the man before him. "The wording implies a certain knowledge you could only have gained during Oliver's interrogation of my brother's life. I would say after."

Philip nodded. "You are the smart one, aren't you. Oliver knew some people that streamed his challenges. Ran the website. They did the video editing too. That," he indicated with one of his hands to the file held in Mycroft's hand, "was by special request. Oliver sometimes did commission work and if the payment was high enough, he was willing to include Sherlock in it."

"Getting my brother high has inherent risk." Mycroft stated softly. Moved forward and sat down at the table again.

"Oliver was willing to take it. As I said, the commission was pretty high on this one."

"Was it scripted?"

Philip looked down at the file. His fingers tapped on the table and he sighed. "Yes."

"How did you get my brother to follow it?"

The other man gave him a disbelieving look. "You're kidding right. I just told you; Sherlock was willing to do anything not to go back to that cellar. And Oliver told him what would happen to the girl if he didn't follow it."

"Very well. Were there any …hiccups during filming?"

"No. This was quite early on after he recovered. What happened was still fresh in his memory and he was afraid. He did as he was ordered."

Mycroft nodded. "The man who commissioned the video…do you know who it was?"

"Hell no. Oliver kept those close to his chest. I did the video. Gave it to Oliver and he sent it off to the I.T. guys. We were muscle, nothing more."

"You were aware of Alex?"

"Oliver's pet assassin. Sure."

"Who else?"

"I don't understand."

"Who else visited Oliver with my brother present?"

For the first time Mycroft noticed fear started to seep in. It was telling. "We can add Jim Moriarty to that list." Mycroft said, careful to not spook the man any further. Not while he was willing to share.

"That is one sick puppy." Mycroft raised an eyebrow at this. Wondered if the man realised his own actions to the abuse his brother had suffered at his hands. "He's insane, you know. Hard to read. At least with Oliver there was consistency. He paid us well and we at least knew we'll be alive to spend it. With Moriarty," the man shuddered, "let's just say that those that worked for him never knew if they would be alive to spend the money they made."

"Did you ever see the I.T. people?"

"No. As I said, Oliver dealt with them exclusively."

Mycroft took a measuring breath. He calculated the risk with his next question. Calculated reward of having his question answered versus the man deciding that he had enough. He shifted words, angled the question and then he asked, "How many men were involved in the hunts when my brother was used as bait."

Philip stiffened. His face drained of colour and he shook his head. He licked his lips. Looked down at his hands and then said, "I'm done. Leave."

Mycroft knew he wouldn't get anything else further. That much was evident. Fear was a motivating factor; his brother can attest to that.

It was early morning by the time he left Sherrinford. He had questioned Gary but the man had known even less that Philip did. It seemed Gary was ignorant of the comings and goings of Oliver whenever Sherlock had been with his captor doing his challenges. His role had always been to watch over Molly. Mycroft couldn't help his disgust at the man he now knew had been the one that Oliver had employed to rape his little brother. He had left the man when he realised that there was nothing to gain by any further questioning.

He had briefly looked in at Moriarty. The man had been asleep. Satisfied that everything was as it should be, he had made his way home. Had finally stepped over the threshold at four in the morning. Irene was asleep as he slipped under the covers.

He was still contemplating what he was going to do with the knowledge he had learned when sleep stole over him.

"I know it's late but you told me to let you know when Mycroft was here."

"Yes?"

"Philip didn't say anything about you."

"Good. My associates will be there in the morning. Have everything ready."

The meeting room was plush, even taking in consideration the place. Sherrinford was not supposed to be nice. Not supposed to be welcoming. No visitors to entertain as all inmates are considered extremely dangerous and under the special measures act, have no rights.

Jim had never been to this room. His shackles were removed and he was left on his own. He immediately made his way to a wet bar, incongruent in this place but he wasn't about to pass off the opportunity and poured himself a good measure of scotch. Downed it in one go and enjoyed the feel of the drink as it went down. Turned when the door opened and two men stepped inside.

"I don't believe we've met," Moriarty said, taking the measure of them.

"No, we haven't." One of the men replied, taking a seat at the table. "Please sit, Jim."

The consulting criminal tilted his head. Glanced at the second man who stood by the door. A man who could have been his doppelgänger. His eyes gleamed. He turned back to the bar and poured himself another measure before stepping to the table.

"I'm assuming my services are needed?" He said, taking a sip of his scotch.

"You come highly recommended."

"Yes."

"This is about the Holmes brothers." The older man said. "Interested?"

Moriarty took another sip and sat down. Grinned in anticipation. "Whatever you're about to tell me, I already know it's going to be awesome."

It was early morning when John and Sherlock went back to the house. Lestrade was waiting for them, with keys in hand and opened the door. For now, while Mr Oxley languished in a jail cell for the next day at least, they had free reign on the property. Lestrade hadn't been happy about it but Sherlock had managed to sway the man to his favour after a quick walk through had failed to produce a body or any obvious reason to have SOCO involved. It helped that Mycroft had sent the required paperwork to Lestrade's boss, citing national security in allowing them access to the property.

Sherlock bypassed the foyer and main sitting room. He's already seen what he wanted yesterday. He made his way steadily through the house. The rest of the house was dull. Barely lived in and became apparent quite quickly that Oxley didn't use this as a place of residence. The kitchen had a few takeaway cartons on the table. Some had mould growing in them and looked about ready to walk off. John grimaced and Lestrade looked a little green while Sherlock had tried to classify and identify the mould in his head. Things changed when they found the cellar. The door had been hidden behind a cupboard. Sherlock had noticed the faint drag marks and had smirked as he had stepped up. It had taken him less than five minutes to find a way to open the door.

Going down the steps had been hard. He had to acknowledge that. He reminded himself that Oliver was dead. That this was not the cellar where Oliver had kept him for those three days. That he was okay. And truth be told, after he took his first step, it had gotten easier. He had focused on Lestrade who led the way, and knowing John was behind him inexplicably calmed his transport to a place where he felt he could deal with his fear.

The light was dim. The ground is hard packed dirt. It smelled of damp, old blood and… He paused at the bottom of the stairs. Closed his eyes and took another sniff. Definitely like something had died here. Something was off.

He opened his eyes and stepped into the room.

"Sherlock…" Lestrade's voice was hoarse. He was breathing into his elbow, eyes wide with horror.

Sherlock followed Lestrade's gaze. Brilliant, he thought. Saw the look on John's face and swallowed the grin that was about to erupt. John would say it's a bit not good. But at least there was one more serial killer put away. Mr Oxley was not going to find a way to explain this away.

He stepped closer to the preserve jars that lined one wall. John swore. Hand pulled on his arm, but he shrugged it off and moved forward until he stood in front of the trophy wall. There was no other word for it.

He eyed the jars. There were 10 of them. The calculations done in his head automatically. He took note of the jars. Of the liquid. Of what was preserved inside.

"I'm calling this in…" Lestrade said. "Sherlock, don't touch anything."

"Fine."

"Sherlock, maybe we should…" John started.

"No."

He moved down the row of jars. Reached the end where an open jar sat on the bench. It had a clear solution inside and he gave it a sniff. The familiar pungent stench of formaldehyde solution filled his nostrils. The names and dates were scribbled in neat black cursive on labels on each of the jars. Kitty corner to the jars, he noticed a spotlight on the roof. Found the switch on the wall and flipped it.

"Oh, shit." John said. The wall opposite from where they stood was filled with photos. Some looked like stills from video frames. Others were obviously taken after. When death had claimed its victims. Sherlock could make out four men with guns and Oxley. There was a familiarity to them and he frowned, trying to place them in context. His memory palace came back empty yet there was a whisper that he had dealt with them in some capacity.

Run!

The voice was familiar, it echoed in his mind and brought fear. His transport reacted to the stimulus and his pupils dilated and the familiar knot he had come to associate with Oliver formed in his stomach.

"Sherlock, breathe."

He looked at John. Gave a brief nod. "I'm fine." He said. Willed himself to believe it. Turned back to the photos as he stepped up to the wall. A hand reached out. Fingered one lower down. It showed a man running, his back to the camera.

"This is sick." John said. "Who would do something like this…"

Sherlock moved to another photo. Stretched his hand and almost smoothed down a corner. Stopped himself just in time.

"What is it?" John asked. Sherlock felt John's hand brush his arm. Fingers closed on the sleeve of his Belstaff at his wrist. Grounding him. A headache was starting to throb just behind his eyes. A memory trying to surface but he couldn't grasp it. It kept flirting away.

"I…don't know." He said. Looked away from the photos. Opposite the jars, a ratty couch was in front of a tv set. Sherlock stepped closer and then the tv switched on. A motion sensor, he thought.

Interesting. Wonder how they did it and he eyed the corner of the wall and noticed the infrared. It was hidden in the dark, barely perceptible.

"Do you understand despair yet?"

The words were clear. The screen flashed from black to a grainy image of a couch. It was a dark brown, three-seater. Looked expensive. Set plush against a wall. Sherlock felt his mouth go dry. During the whole three days he'd been with Oliver, his blindfold had never been off. He'd never seen the cellar. This…this was real. He knew instinctively that this is where he'd been held. Where he had spent his sessions with his captor. Where his life had changed and he had learned that he wasn't above it all.

Oliver came into view. Sat down on the couch.

"Sherlock, let's go." John was insistent. Pulling on his arm. Sherlock couldn't move.

"I'm ready. You can bring him." Oliver said. Eyes on the camera.

Sherlock felt a twinge in his left shoulder. His left hand fisted unconsciously. He remembers. The way Oliver walked. The way his body had felt. The feel and texture of Oliver's shirt in his hands and the sound of his voice. He knew every nuance, every inflection. When Oliver was angry. When Oliver was pleased with Sherlock's effort when he did well in the challenges. When Oliver wanted to bring a point across.

When Oliver hurt him.

The sound of Molly's arm breaking. Her screams and the sound of Goon 2's fist as he hit her. The experience of his own terror…

A man came into view. Naked except for the blindfold. Blubbering. Folded onto the couch by the other men. Head onto Oliver's shoulder. Oliver's arm going around, pulling him in…

"Shit. Sherlock don't look…"

"Shhh. It's okay. You're going to be okay. I promise it will get better. Shhh. You're doing good."

His shoulder was hurting. He couldn't…He couldn't breathe…

"Where's the bloody off switch?"

The man on the couch shifted. Calmed down. Hands settled on Oliver's chest. Breathing was slowing down.

"Don't fall asleep."

Sherlock stood frozen. Oliver's voice…his transport wasn't cooperating. The disconnect in his hard drive wasn't happening. His mind palace…

"Is it okay if I ask you some questions?"

"Sherlock…bloody hell. Lestrade!"

"Excellent. Let's start with your childhood..."

"What is he doing? I told him not to touch anything."

"It switched on by itself. Sherlock, come on mate. Don't do this…"

Breathing…his transport wasn't breathing…he couldn't…

"Is it plugged in somewhere...Greg, get the damn tv off…"

"What's wrong with him?"

"I don't know. This is new…"

Doors…why are the doors opening in his mind palace. Right…focus. Too much information. Too many…memories…Taste. Smell. Fear. Terror. Pain. Too much pain.

The door to Oliver's room was wide open. He reached out a hand. Curled fingers around the handle and then he wasn't alone. Oliver's laughter danced in the hallways of his mind palace. Drifting on a wind that seemed to have started somewhere. The smell of rain and grass in the air. The crackle of fire and Molly…Molly snug against his skin on a mattress too small for two.

Oliver was …here.

No!

I've dealt with this.

"Greg, hold on… …Giles, hello… …it's Sherlock. Yeah…I don't know. He's …."

Focus. Oliver is dead…

"Do you mind sharing with me…the first time you realised you were different?" Oliver's voice was gentle. Coaxing. Fingers making lazy circles on skin hyper sensitised by pain.

I can't…transport is not behaving rationally. You've dealt with this…you can…

Oliver isn't here…

"Do not move…"

The voice…

"Sherlock. Can you hear me?"

"Greg, so help me…Get that damn tv off…"

"There's no switch…"

"Then break the f…"

The doors don't want to close. He and Giles had worked at this. Bringing Oliver and these memories to this room. Bringing it to light. He had the key. He could choose to access these memories. They were now in his control…

"Are you really in control, Mr Holmes?" Oliver's voice laughing, drifting on the ever-present wind of the hills and valleys of the grassland surrounding the bothy.

This is …irritating. Dull. Boring. He stood back. Everything was as it should be. He took the key out of his pocket. Turned his back on Oliver's room to find his mind palace warping. A wall was shattering. He frowned. Perplexed. This shouldn't be happening. Turned back and reached out for the door again.

"Sherlock. Giles wants you to go to the library."

What?

No. The door needs to be closed. Oliver is dead…isn't he? He dealt with this. The door…

"Get out the Count of Monte Cristo."

Oh. Right…

Sherlock looked around. It was hard to turn his back on those open doors that led to Oliver's room. To leave the door open. But his transport…

Everything hurts…

"Sir, you want us to …what the hell?"

"Greg, get them out of here. Just…"

"Sherlock, please, mate…you're scaring me."

He was in the library. He moved books around until he found the special bookcase. The one that had Mycroft's name on it. The books his brother had read to him. His book index was still sound. Still good. He reached up, stood on tippy toes and finally managed to snag fingers around the book. Pull it out and feel the leather against his skin. He crushed the book to his chest.

Mycroft should be here. He should be reading so his mind can still. So that the noise can settle and make everything better.

"Myc?"

"Shit…what? He wants Mycroft…What do you want me to do?"

"John, Mycroft phoned. He's already on his way. He said five minutes…"

"Ta Greg…"

"Sherlock. Hey mate, Giles wants you to focus on the book. Can you open it."

The pages were old. Smelled of his brother and home. Musgrave hall before everything changed. Before…Redbeard.

Oliver had lots of questions about Redbeard.

Don't think about it…

Control. You are in control…

"Sherlock, stop. Can you sit down? You can't read a book unless you're sitting."

Right. That was true.

"Good, Sherlock. Are you on the first page?"

"Giles? Are you sure? Fine…"

He searched his room. He was sitting on the bed. Waiting for Mycroft. His brother was always on time. Always here to help him sleep. His brain was too noisy. Too busy with questions. He couldn't seem to rest…

He saw everything…Myc said it was his special gift. That it was his superpower.

He just wanted to be a pirate.

"Mr Holmes? Are you listening…"

No. He put his hands on his ears. Oliver wasn't here. Oliver was dead. Oliver is dead…

"Sherlock, hey, you're safe. Come on mate…"

It was bedtime. Myc needed to read to him. Why was Mycroft late? He's never late. He looked up. Didn't move. If he moved Oliver would be angry. Oliver hurts him when he's angry…

"Myc?" he whispered, hoping Oliver wouldn't hear him.

"It's okay, Sherlock. Hey. Oh look, Mycroft is here…"

"Do we have to do this tonight, Sherlock?"

"Please, Myc. The noise is…it hurts."

"Okay. Why don't you settle down. Where are we?"

He passed the book over. Watched his brother open to the page they had stopped at. The part where Dantès escapes Chateua d'If. He always loved this part.

He closed his eyes. Listened to his brother's voice as he told the story. Read the book until it got …better

Mycroft stopped reading. Closed the book and passed it to Giles. Sherlock had mercifully fallen asleep. Giles had been good and Sherlock had not reacted when the sedative had been injected. Mycroft was seated on the damp, cold floor in the cellar next to his brother. His arm was around Sherlock, gently running his fingers through the curls of his brother. He was lying on an orange shock blanket, another one was draped over his form, his head on Mycroft's lap. Not that it would do much against the cold seeping in from the floor. Or the smell of old blood and death. Mycroft wiggled his nose in disgust.

A broken tv lay on its side not too far away. The acrid smell of smoke was still sullying the air. He took note of the camera in the corner. The red light blinked lazily. Recording everything.

"John, get Greg." He said softly.

John moved silently up the stairs, leaving him alone with Sherlock and Giles. The psychiatrist was seated on the floor just in front of them, elbows on knees and hands relaxed.

"You did good," he said to Mycroft. "He told me about you reading to him as a child."

Mycroft gave a small smile. "He was always busy. He didn't sleep much. It nearly drove our parents mad. His brain didn't have an off switch. The only thing that seemed to calm him down was when I read to him."

The creak of the first step of the staircase and then John and Greg came down.

"Greg, do you remember the systems analyst?" Mycroft asked.

"The one that traced the signal to the bothy?"

"Yes. I want you to phone him and get a trace on the camera. We're being watched." His eyes swivelled to the camera.

"Yeah. Okay." The DI had his phone out, making the call as he ascended the stairs. John stood at the bottom.

"I think it's best if we take him home," Mycroft stated. "My brother would not be happy waking up in a hospital bed."

"I don't see any reason why not." Giles said. "He'll sleep for at least another hour or two. The familiar surroundings of his bedroom would be better."

"Will he be okay?" John asked.

"You said there was a video?"

John glanced at the tv. "It wasn't Sherlock, it was someone else," he said softly. "There was a couch. Oliver was there. The man…" he swore. Dragged a hand through his hair. "It wasn't good."

"Okay. What did Oliver say?"

John closed his eyes. "Uhm. He was asking questions. Personal ones, you know. Like he was in a session with this man. Is this what he did to Sherlock?"

Giles didn't answer John. Colour drained from Mycroft's face. His eyes carried weight when he met John's gaze, his lips thinned into a tight line.

"Bloody hell." His lips pursued and he rode on the balls of his feet. Mycroft had seen it on John, knew the tell for what it was. "How can he still be this reactive?"

"Triggers are not that easy, John. The stimuli flooded his nervous system. Sherlock was confronted visually and auditory on what was done to him. This," Giles indicated the tv, "was not anticipated. We had never any reason to think Oliver had taped any of his 'sessions' with Sherlock. His notes were comprehensive. They didn't reference any video files."

"Is he going to be okay?" John asked again.

"Sure," Giles nodded. "It isn't going to be pretty but I think once Sherlock realises that it wasn't him on that video and reminding himself that Oliver is dead, he'll be able to disentangle and process this. We were aware that Oliver had perfected his craft with others. That Sherlock wasn't the first. It isn't unfeasible that over the course of working with the others, Oliver managed to stumble onto an operant conditioning regime. He knew what he was doing by the time he had Sherlock, John."

John sniffed. Looked away from them. "Do you know these men, Mycroft?" John asked, indicating the photo collage. "Because it sure as hell looks like Oliver had a plan on how to get rid of the men he kidnapped. Is this what he had planned for Sherlock?"

Mycroft sighed. "As I've said before, John Oliver wanted my brother to work for him. To be loyal. To be an asset. Whatever this is, Oliver wouldn't have allowed Sherlock to be a part of it."

You just lied to John. Oliver did make him a part, just without lethal force.

He ignored the twinge of guilt. Now was not the time for sentimentality. Clearly the Phoenix club had more members than the original four, as he'd suspected. He needed to see how far it stretched. The man that was caught is not going to go anywhere. Once Sherlock is safely home, he'll contact Anthea and get a transfer in place. See how well the man will hold out against a proper interrogation.

Lords Edwards, Marsden, Michaels and Cavendish were smiling in one of the photos. Pleased with their hunt, their feet on the body of the man stretched out. Clearly dead.

This insanity…

"You realise Sherlock will not stop, Mycroft. Not after this…"

He sighed. Pinched his nose. Felt a headache starting.

"I'm aware."

"So how do we stop him from being sucked into this black hole? Two separate cases that came Sherlock's way and both of them linked. And now…Oliver again."

"Tell me about the cases."

"The neighbour came to Sherlock complaining about loud noises. I made him take it…dammit. He was bored and I made him take the first case that came in yesterday. He didn't want to…but it got fun okay. The lion…he was having fun. We didn't expect …we didn't expect this." John said, indicating the cellar.

He wiped his face. Placed his hands on his hips. "The other case…Mike asked Molly to speak to Sherlock regarding a friend of his. Ethan had invested into a bogus company. Lost a lot and the police and bank couldn't help him. Sherlock only really got interested when Ethan told him that the mate that asked him to invest was named Jason. He didn't think it was a coincidence. We ended up going to Derby to the hunting club where Ethan had met Jason. Apparently according to the club president, Jason has been given the boot. Sherlock deduced him and smelled a rat. He got me impersonating a businessman in import export. Brad was very interested. We got invited for a hunt last month. The weekend he got food poisoning…" John paused. Narrowed his eyes. "They got him sick on purpose, didn't they?"

"Evidently."

"But why?"

"Did you leave Sherlock alone?"

"No…yes. The agents stayed with him, Mycroft. Sherlock wanted me to go hunting with Brad. He wanted us to go back another weekend so he could snoop. This is messed up. He was having fun…"

"I don't doubt it, John. My brother loves a good puzzle."

"What are we going to do?" John asked, indicating Sherlock. Mycroft looked down at his brother, who looked almost peaceful in his drug induced sleep. He remembers him as a little boy. A busy little boy…playing pirate.

He sighed. Glanced up at Giles. "Sherlock?"

Giles seemed to understand his question. "Let's get him home first. See what he remembers when he wakes up."

Mycroft nodded. Ran his hand once more through Sherlock's curls. Remembers Sherlock's little body as a child, curled up against his while he read to him. A childhood filled with innocence and laughter until Redbeard…

Oh Sherlock… he thought. If I could take that day back, I would. If only I found Oliver before he did this…

I'm sorry.

You had it wrong at the hospital. I really am a rubbish big brother.