Chapter 14

November

It was in the early morning when they came. The time when death stalked corridors, as night was at its deepest. There was no warning. The security system didn't activate. There were no shouts of alarm from his security agents. Just the rude awakening as he was pulled from his bed. He grabbed at a hand. Twisted, the satisfaction brief when a backhand flipped his face to the side and blood started to drip from a cut on his cheek. He blinked upward, still trying to gather thoughts when Irene grunted. He turned to rise but hands pushed him down onto the carpet. They pressed his nose into the fibre and rough hands pulled his own behind his back, the cold of steel clamped onto his wrists. A hand stayed on his neck, holding him in place.

"Be quiet." Two words harshly whispered. The voice had a familiar cadence and he closed his eyes while he tried to keep the fear at bay. Focused all of his intellect on the men and the furtive movement around him.

"What are you doing?" Irene's voice, loud in the silence. A slap and another warning. A rough hand grabbed at his chin and then a sock was pushed into his mouth and his own tie used as a gag followed. He was pulled upwards, pushed forward. The plush carpet falling away to the wooden floor that covered his lounge. Cold against his bare feet.

They were hustled through the kitchen. He stubbed his toe against the sill. Could feel blood well up and each step out on the path through the garden left a little blood smear as he was dragged forward. Irene was silent behind him.

A van was waiting, the door opened wide. Dark and threatening in its meaning. He baulked, pulled back but their fingers tightened around his biceps and then he was pushed inside the van. Rolled onto the floor, held in place by a foot. Another warning not to move.

His breathing was harsh in the silence of the van. Irene didn't join him and he protested against the sock and gag. "Be quiet." Another harsh warning and a stabbing foot against his ribs. He focused on what he could see of the shoes. Italian made. Stitched leather. Colour was difficult to determine in the darkness of the back of the van but he surmised that it was a tan leather.

The drive was less than an hour. The hum of tires against tar, the feel of feet against his ribs keeping him place, the smell of sweat and fear and an anticipation of violence unmistakable in that small space in the back of the van. He tried to deduce where he went wrong. When had he underestimated these hidden men and how far they'd go to make sure what they do is kept secret. But he didn't have enough data. The fact of the matter – somewhere he had made a mistake. Had not taken to heart the depths to which they were willing to go. He had thought himself safe as far as these men were concerned. He was after all protected in as much as it was possible because of his role and whom he represented. That it wasn't enough was eye opening. And Sherlock…how will his death impact his brother, he wondered. Would it push him to become more reckless? To forgo caution in his hunt for these men because he had no doubt that Sherlock would throw everything of himself at this problem to find the men that killed his brother. And where would that leave Molly? John? He didn't have an answer. Only knowing that this could potentially push his brother into recklessness or back on the sauce as it were. Drowning his memories and hurt in the drugs that had pulled him into its arms when he was younger and promised empty lies.

He was silent, his thoughts turned inward while he contemplated all the threads that seemed to open before him with his abduction.

When they finally came to a stop, the door was flung open and he was pulled outside. His feet stung against rough stone and then it changed into a pathway that snaked its way further into a park. A stand of trees, branches stark against the night sky rose before him. He was pushed further in, when he protested and stamped his feet down, they pulled him off centre and dragged until he managed to get his feet back underneath his body and stumbled along in their arms. By the time they came to a standstill in a clearing, his feet were bloody and his breathing harsh. He was pushed down onto his knees. The feel of a gun barrel on the back of his head and he closed his eyes. Waited for the bullet but it didn't come.

There was some movement and then a pair of headphones were placed over his ears. His body almost betrayed him then. He remembered what he'd read of Sherlock's ordeal at the hands of Oliver. It didn't take a genius to know what was coming. His nostrils flared and fear dampened his armpits and the collar of his pyjama top. He could feel sweat drip down the side of his head and he made a small noise at the back of his throat. The gun barrel was cold steel against his neck, leaving its imprint and a warning not to move.

"Tell me about Mycroft Holmes."

He started at the sound. The clarity was astounding. It was as if Oliver was sitting right next to him, asking the question. He heard his brother's voice. It was no more than a whisper. But it contained so much. Pain and fear and despair all rolled into one. Broken. Shattered. That was the word he was looking for. His little brother shattered into shards. He moaned. Moved his head but the gun at the back of his neck didn't shift.

It wasn't new, the words. He had read it from Alex's laptop, the transcript. It had been the last session that Oliver had had with his brother on that third day. When he had pulled apart Sherlock's memories, had emphasised just how much he could and did take from his brother. He knew what Oliver had asked. Knew what his brother's answers had been. But this…this was inhumane. Words read dispassionately were not the same as hearing. Experiencing his brother's anguish. His fear and pleading that fell on deaf ears while the questions extracted his innermost thoughts. If he could, he would've asked them to put a stop to it. But he was gagged and there were no words that would move these men to compassion. Surprise came when he felt a wetness on his skin. He was embarrassed, dropped his head to his shame as the tears flowed unheeded down chapped cheeks that were blushed red with cold. The taste salty on his lips, soaking the gag.

They made him listen to everything. He saw the words in front of his mind's eye as he read it, now overlayed with sound. But it didn't end because when the words in his head were finished, Oliver asked more questions. Words he had never read in the transcripts. Words that were new to him.

He shifted on aching knees and a hand came down heavy on his shoulder. He tensed but Oliver continued questioning his brother. A ghostly memory of his brother's torment and proof that even Sherlock was human.

Despite everything, he listened now with intent. Wanted to understand what it was that those men behind him wanted him to understand. Intuitively he understood that this was what they wanted him to hear. He closed his eyes and let the scene flow over and through him. Watched it as if he was a spectator standing in that room on that day.

Sherlock sat quietly against Oliver, his head resting comfortably on the other man's shoulder. His breathing was even now. He had no reserves left at all, was completely spent and wrung out. He didn't tense anymore at the man's touch. Allowed whatever physical contact Oliver wanted to happen. He knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He just wanted this to be over and if it meant accepting the caresses, then he'd do it.

In all honesty, the circular caress on his back had now become comforting somehow. Oliver fussed, murmuring soft words and he relaxed some more. His breathing was deepening when Oliver spoke.

"When is your brother at his most vulnerable?"

Sherlock tensed beneath the other man's hand. He hadn't expected this question at all. Oliver had never really seemed interested in his brother before except for the video he had to make. Even that seemed to have been instigated on behalf of someone else. Possibly Moriarty if he had to give it a good guess.

Oliver pressed against his back and he understood that Oliver was becoming impatient for him to provide an answer. It had now become second nature to read Oliver's intent with what he was doing. His voice was long gone, lost sometime during the second day's torture. All that he had left was painful whispers, barely loud enough to warrant as sound.

He suppressed a sob. Oliver clearly wasn't done.

"I don't understand." He says, and Oliver sighed. They'd been here before and Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to play dumb for too long. He just couldn't anymore…he's already given everything and now this. He was surprised that a spark remained to not give his brother to Oliver in this manner. Something in his demeanour must've shown because Oliver's hand shifted warningly to the back of his neck. Fingers tightened and Oliver's anger became apparent in the stiffness of the man's body he sat against.

"Mr Holmes, do you want me to bring back the headphones?"

He shook his head. He didn't have words to protest anymore. Oliver's hand moved and then he was carding fingers through his hair. It was a gentle touch, unlike the brutality of the last 70 hours or so. He leaned into the touch and didn't understand why. He was beyond reason now. Couldn't think or deduce anymore. He was empty.

"We're almost done, Mr Holmes. You want to go home to Ms Hooper, don't you. Want to make sure she's safe. If you're stubborn, she'll be alone. Vulnerable. You don't want to do that to her, do you?"

He shook his head. The gentle carding continued. It was bringing a false comfort and yet even though he could logically tell himself that it was nothing more than Oliver manipulating him, he couldn't stop his transport from reacting to the touch.

"You've already given me everything, Mr Holmes. What is telling me about this little detail in the big scheme of things. Nothing. Your brother won't be hurt. I promise. We need him to stay exactly where he is. Then it's less likely he'll intervene in our plans."

"My brother won't stop." He said. Oliver's hand paused for a moment and he shifted beneath him. A soft kiss against his forehead. He hated it but again, didn't do anything. Didn't move away or tense.

"That may be Mr Holmes but unless he becomes a direct threat I'm not going near him. Do you understand?"

He nodded. He could see how sound the reasoning was. Yet still, he didn't want to give this knowledge to the other man. Oliver murmured comfort; his hand resumed its gentle, calming touch. Sherlock shifted; his hands lay lax against Oliver's shirt. He imagined he could feel every textured block of colour on the material.

"When is your brother at his most vulnerable?"

The fingers in his hair continued and Oliver's other hand settled on his arm. A warning touch, nothing more. Something deep inside him, the last thread that had kept the small sliver of stubbornness connected to his psyche gave way.

He blinked against the darkness of the blindfold. And he understood the depths of despair. Could touch and taste it. Knew then what it was to be so completely broken that resistance was futile. From deep within him a sob tore loose as he realised that this was the moment when nothing would ever be the same again. That he was completely lost.

Oliver had won.

Another sob. Heartbroken. It tore into Mycroft's own being. He didn't think he'd ever forget this moment. His own heart stabbed with a pain that was physical and he hunched over, groaning. And still it continued. They didn't stop the recording. He listened as Sherlock gave Oliver everything the man wanted to know.

"At night. In his home…when he's asleep."

"Alarms?"

"Easily circumvented."

"Guards?"

"In a car, watching the front of the house."

"Entry point?"

Sherlock's voice was almost inaudible at this stage. Mycroft could hear it plain as day - Sherlock had given in. There was no more protest. No movement at all. Just stating facts.

"The kitchen by the back of the garden."

"Good, Mr Holmes. You're doing very well. You didn't have to make this so hard on yourself."

"Can I sleep now?" Almost childlike in its question. Mycroft felt his heart give another lurch. Remembering Sherlock as a child. Reading to him to help him settle. His mind always asking questions. Always busy. Never resting. Wanting to know how everything fits together. How the world operated. When he was innocent of its evil. Of Oliver. What they were doing here was wrong.

This was wrong. His little brother…If I get out of here alive, you are dead. I will hunt you down and annihilate you. He almost missed Oliver's next question.

"No. Not yet. Do you understand despair, Mr Holmes?"

A pause. A soft intake of breath. A very silent yes.

"How much? Can you give me an estimate?"

"I understand everything."

"Everything?"

A sob. Then another one. "Shhh. It's okay. I believe you, Mr Holmes. Very well done."

It took more than an hour, the early morning pre dawn twilight started when they finally removed the headphones. He was shivering in the end in the cold, his teeth chattering quietly against the gag. His knees ached and his feet hurt. Then the crunch of more feet. One heavier and then he understood when they came into view. Irene was held over the shoulder of one of the men. The man that held her, dropped her unceremoniously onto the leaf littered forest floor. She rolled and then came to a stop, not making a sound. Her head lolled to the side, her eyes closed and a dark hand sized bruised covered her right cheek. The gun barrel against his neck pushed him forward, dipping his head towards his chest. His hands balled and the only sound was the harshness of his tortured breathing.

All his intellect and he was going to die without shoes and in his pyjamas. In ignominious defeat he didn't even know these men. Or what they wanted. There had been no demands. No questions. Just silence and the recording of Sherlock's torment. It was terror induced fear and his stomach roiled.

He was so focused on the gun barrel. On not shaming himself and at least dying with a little bit of dignity that he missed the prick of a needle.

Then a voice in his ear, the man's breath caressing his neck and side of his face, hot against the cold of his skin and smelling of garlic.

"Your brother told Oliver exactly how to get to you, Mr Holmes. Now, imagine what other secrets he told that weren't in the transcripts. Imagine the chaos we can cause. Do I have your attention?"

He gave a brief nod.

"You received the first two packages?"

He gave another brief acknowledgement.

"You scheduled a meeting with Moriarty?" The man didn't wait for his acknowledgement. "He says hi by the way." Mycroft felt an icy hand grip his heart and squeeze. "He wants you to lie to Sherlock about the fact that he's not at Sherrinford anymore. He says he'll know if you told. And you won't like the consequences when he finds out."

He shifted but the gun pressed harder. He closed his eyes, his breathing harsh but there was nothing he could do except nod. Which he did.

"We will contact you when the time is right. We expect you to phone Lady Smallwood and tell her you were mistaken about Oliver. Close the file."

A command. One they expected him to follow.

"Do you understand?"

He did. But they were wrong if they thought he was going to stop. All this was going to do was force him to be circumspect. To pull it inwards and do it himself. But he will find them. Of that he had no doubt. He knew his own intellect. His own ability to deduce and pull apart the web of international intrigue. They will pay. For what they did to Sherlock. For what they are hiding. For making his little brother cry.

He gave a nod, for that is what they expected. His limbs were getting lethargic. His eyelids were heavy and then the realisation came that they must've drugged him. He crumbled to the ground. He wasn't aware when the men left. Wasn't aware of the rising sun and the warmth of a late autumn morning.

Wasn't aware when a mother and daughter, out for a mid-morning stroll found them.

Molly found Sherlock on his chair with his violin on his lap when she woke at 7. It was evident that he'd been sitting there for a few hours. He looked up at her and gave her a quick smile as she sat down in John's chair.

"How're you feeling?" she asked him casually.

"Fine."

"Sherlock…what happened yesterday?"

Sherlock plucked at a string, focusing on the violin. "Not sure," he said softly. "I've been going over the things I did yesterday. It's a bit …blurry." He said in the end, clearly not happy with his memories.

"Okay. Mycroft phoned last night."

"The three hours?"

"Yes."

Sherlock stood abruptly and made his way to where his music stand stood. Grabbed his bow and ignoring Molly, did a quick few warm-up exercises. Molly waited him out. He stopped midway through a particular complex piece and turned around to face her, his violin and bow still in his hands.

"I remember the morning. John and the Sun article. I remember phoning you. And then the walk gets …blurry. After that, Mycroft was here and I felt …unwell. I was briefly aware that you and John were in our room. I woke up this morning and it's as if yesterday happened to someone else. And Oliver…" Sherlock clenched a hand around his bow and then seemed to become aware of what he was doing. "It's frustrating, Molly. I woke up this morning, hearing Oliver's voice."

"It's only been a week. Maybe your mind is still trying to process…"

"No! No…no. It's not that. This is something else. When I used to get high, it felt a bit like that. I'm aware but also not really. Like a dreamscape depending on what I used. And no, I didn't use yesterday. If I ever felt the need, I'll discuss it with you, Molly. You know that. There were a few times after Alex and when I dealt with Oliver's memories that it came very close. If it wasn't for you and John…but I didn't." He narrowed his eyes. Placed the violin in its case with his bow and made his way to Molly. Pulling her up so she stood toe to toe, he tilted his head, scrutinising her. "If you saw me, really focused on yesterday – what would your thoughts have been?"

"Mycroft was concerned…"

"No. Not my brother. You. You know me. What did you think?"

"Sherlock…"

"Molly, please."

Molly looked him up and down. Rested her forehead on his chest and then her arms went around him and she leaned into his body and hugged him. He stiffened briefly but then his own arms followed suit and they stood in silence.

"It looked like you took something," she said in the end, speaking into his shirt. "You were strung out, Sherlock. Nauseous. A bit sweaty and obviously photosensitive. The headache could've been a by-product. You were barely coherent."

"And John, what did he think?"

"He's never seen you …high." She said the last word softly. Molly knew that it was Lestrade, Mycroft and herself that had seen Sherlock high. Knew what he was like back when he was using. She wondered again what Mycroft had thought. Maybe that's why he was concerned about the missing three hours. "He wasn't sure what to think. He thought it might be psychosomatic."

"Yes. That makes sense that he'd think that." Sherlock nodded. Stepped away from her and walked to the kitchen. Filling the kettle and switching it on, he turned to Molly who had followed him.

"Do you have a kit to draw blood?"

"Yes. At Barts but you know it will be too late now, Sherlock. If there was anything at all, your body would've already metabolised it."

"Can you bring a kit home?"

"Why?"

Sherlock busied himself with the cups and making tea. He said her name in the tone that she knew well. The one that said – Don't be stupid.

"You think someone is drugging you?"

He looked up. Met her gaze with a seriousness she's rarely seen. "Yes."

Mycroft glanced up when the door to his private hospital suite opened to see his brother enter. Sherlock looked better than he did yesterday, the wan, drugged-out look was gone, replaced with his normal stoic face. He came to a standstill at the end of his bed, eyebrows raised in silent question.

"I'm perfectly fine, thank you. Some stitches were required on my feet and I was slightly hypothermic. Hence the heating pads and hospital room. I'll be home by tonight. Irene has a concussion; I'm told and requires closer monitoring."

"Anyone we know?"

"No. New players. I've given Anthea as much detail as I could recall of the men who took us. There were six in total, mostly thugs except for their leader. He seemed to have a modicum of intelligence. They had balaclavas on. I didn't actually get any time to have a go at looking in their eyes. My first few moments after waking up was spent staring at my bedroom carpet, then being hustled through my home and garden to a nondescript working van – already gutted. Anthea found it in Battersea of all places. We drove for less than an hour, where I was hustled again to the clearing where I was found with Irene. I woke up here. You got a phone call from Anthea an hour ago?"

"Yes."

"Quite clever how they got in, actually." Mycroft said, watching Sherlock closely.

"Oh?"

"They knew how to circumvent my security. They knew about the guards in front. They knew to go via the backdoor, through the garden behind the kitchen."

"So, they did their homework. You've got someone on your payroll that's a tattletale, Mycroft. Obvious really."

Mycroft allowed a sad smile for the briefest of seconds. Knew his brother would notice. He wasn't disappointed. Sherlock frowned, a look of confusion on his face. One Mycroft has seen only a few times throughout their life together.

"You told them, Sherlock."

"No, I didn't."

"You told Oliver."

Sherlock shook his head. Incomprehension firmly etched into his face.

"They played me one of your sessions you had with Oliver, brother mine." He stated the facts. Clear and hopefully in a way that his brother would listen. "The questions Oliver asked surrounding our relationship. Most of it was nothing new until towards the end. Towards the end, Oliver asked you how one would go about entering my home unnoticed. When I would be vulnerable. You resisted at first but in the end, you told."

"I…I don't remember."

Mycroft shifted on the hospital bed. Smoothed the blanket, his eyes never leaving his brother's.

"How much do you remember about that third day, Sherlock? Your couch session with Oliver."

Sherlock moved away from the bed, towards the window. Twitched back the curtain, his face highlighted by the incoming late afternoon light. Fear, anger and agony all seemed to vie for a second, the emotions a deadly storm across Sherlock's features before he got a measure of control back.

"Some."

"When Alex read you the transcripts, how much detail did he go into?"

Sherlock turned from the window, the curtain falling close again plunging the room back into twilight. Enough to see by but not the bright fluorescent of the hallway lights. "Ask your question, Mycroft and stop fishing."

"Very well. The leader of the men who took me was quite clear that you told Oliver other secrets. Secrets that could facilitate chaos in England. That if I didn't close the file on Oliver. Didn't do what they asked, they would put into action what you spoke of in secret. So little brother, what exactly did you tell Oliver."

"I didn't…" Sherlock seemed to flounder. He took a step back. Mycroft sat up, concern for his younger brother flooding his body with unwelcome sentiment. He didn't need sentiment right now. What he needed was Sherlock fully functioning. Using his brain and thinking his way through this.

"Don't be a bloody idiot, Sherlock. Sentiment will not help you now. My being here is not an accident. It was by design. To send a warning. To you. To me. Someone is targeting us. You lost three hours yesterday. Do you not find that in the least suspicious?" He used a tone of voice he had found over the years that brought Sherlock to annoyance. Even anger at some instances but it always brought Sherlock out of whatever funk he'd find himself in. If his ire towards Mycroft increased – well, he could deal with that.

"I'm not a child anymore, Mycroft. Stop treating me like one."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. Mocking. It had the desired outcome, his brother's look changed to a full-borne strop. Anger vibrating off him.

"Have you figured it out yet?" Mycroft asked contemptuously. "Three hours missing…come home strung as high as a kite. Oliver's memories are suddenly very real."

"Obviously this morning." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Seeing that I was still too drugged out of my mind to make the connection yesterday and mostly asleep."

"And?"

"Why didn't you take bloods yesterday?"

"Would you have allowed me?"

"Since when do you need my permission for anything, Mycroft."

"Since Oliver…" Mycroft swallowed. Stopped guiltily and looked away.

"Since Oliver…what were you about to say, brother dear?" Sherlock's voice was dangerously soft. Mycroft knew his brother well enough to know that he was very close to losing Sherlock. Very close to his brother walking out the door and then the silent treatment would follow for the next few weeks. Not something they needed at this moment. He dropped his shoulders deliberately. Pride was not going to be helpful right now. Pride will get them both killed. He reminded himself of last night. Of listening to his brother's pain and fear and agony, while Oliver extracted his memories. This wasn't about him. This was about Sherlock. Of making sure his brother is safe. Looked after. Loved. Making sure Sherlock understood that.

"I'm sorry." He apologised sincerely. "As you can understand it was a bit of a trying night."

Sherlock swore, the words sounding foreign to Mycroft coming from his little brother's lips but he didn't run away. Instead, he moved to the chair that sat next to the bed and sank down slowly into it. Put his head into his hands.

"How bad was it?"

Mycroft blinked, for a moment lost.

"The recording, Mycroft?"

When Mycroft didn't answer, Sherlock swore again. It turned into a chuckle, his voice low and a hint of sob could be heard. It drew Mycroft's attention, more than his brother's body language. More than the look of abject shame.

"Oliver was very clever, Sherlock. You know that. No-one is immune to torture. Everyone breaks in the end."

"I know." Sherlock sounded tired; his voice still had a defeated tone to it.

"Then why do you persist to feel shame, Sherlock? If it was me, he wouldn't have needed three days. Nor would Oliver have needed Molly Hooper."

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. Contemplative.

"Whatever you told, Oliver. We need to get ahead of this game. This group of Oliver that is leftover and obviously well-hidden has plans, Sherlock. And it seems that you and I are at the centre of it. Are you going to continue to sulk or can we get on with it."

Sherlock sat back. Finally seemed to relax.

"Fine. What do you suggest, brother mine?"

"I haven't exactly been idle these last few hours since I woke up, Sherlock. Here's my plan…"