Birthdays: XII. A Few Loose Ends

[willow_41z]

Title: Birthdays
XII. A Few Loose Ends
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock, John, Anthea, Mycroft, Lestrade, Donovan, OCs
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the BBC's characters or plots.
Word Count: 10,335
Warnings: Violence.
A/N:
1.) Not beta'd or Britpicked
2.) PLEASE CHECK the ratings, warnings and pairings on each individual chapter, as they will be subject to change.
3.) More extensive author's notes will follow at the end of the last chapter.


John woke, looked at the light coming in through the window, and realized he'd slept later than he'd intended. He'd have to hurry to make it to the A&E on time. He showered quickly, dressed, and went downstairs for a quick cup of tea.

The first floor was quiet, and Sherlock's door was closed. John put the kettle on, rummaging through the cupboards for something he could eat in a hurry; his mobile buzzed in his pocket. It was a text from Harry: lunch saturday?

yes he replied, and saw that he had another message, from a number he didn't recognize. He opened it. We have Holmes. Stop investigating.

John stared. “Sherlock!”

No answer. He knocked forcefully on the bedroom door. “Sherlock?” John pushed the door open. The bedroom was empty, and the bed hadn't been slept in. “Sherlock!” John called once more as he ran up the stairs, hoping his flatmate was going to pop out of some corner and tell him to keep his voice down even as he knew it wasn't going to happen. He rang Sherlock's phone, just in case. No answer.

First things first: he checked his gun, made sure it was loaded and safetied, and tucked it into his trousers. The message had been marked as received an hour ago, so where had Sherlock been between midnight and then? John ran back downstairs, ringing Mycroft as he found Sherlock's laptop and opened it. Sherlock hadn't shut it down; there was an email open with the attachment Totentanz.mp4, and a map centered on a concert hall on the outskirts of London.

Why didn't either of the Holmes brothers ever answer their phones? John hung up and forwarded the message to Mycroft. He rang his boss.

“Hello?”

“Paul. I can't work today, there's been an emergency.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, I can't talk.”

“I'll have someone cover for you,” Paul said, and John hung up. About to close the laptop, he frowned, and with a little searching found Sherlock's music player. Totentanz had been imported, and it was marked as having been played fourteen times, the last one fifty-seven minutes before John had received the text. The song was fifteen minutes long; why had Sherlock sat through it fourteen times? John closed the laptop, pulled on his coat, tucked the computer under his arm, and ran downstairs.

“Mrs Hudson!” He knocked on the door.

He heard someone stirring inside. “Just a moment,” his landlady finally called. “John, is that you?”

“Yes.”

She opened the door a moment later, wearing a long floral dressing-gown.

“I'm sorry to wake you, Mrs Hudson, but I need to know if you saw Sherlock any time after midnight.”

“No, dear, I was sleeping.”

“You didn't hear anything, then?”

“No. What's the matter?”

“He's been kidnapped.”

Mrs Hudson's eyes widened.

“This is important. If you see anyone asking for spare change out front, would you give them my number?”

“Yes, of course. Where are you going?” she called after him.

“Scotland Yard!” he replied over his shoulder.

He called Lestrade from the cab. “Sherlock's been kidnapped.”

A quick intake of breath. Then: “When?”

“I don't know. I woke up and there was a message on my phone saying 'We have Holmes. Stop investigating.' There are no signs of struggle in the flat, so he must have gone out somewhere-- he was looking for a homeless man, I think.”

“What had you been investigating?”

John glanced at the back of the cabbie's head. “Something for... an issue in the government. I'll tell you about it when I get there.”

“Right. See you in a bit.”

With the morning traffic, the ride was long enough that John had time to listen to Totentanz once the whole way through. There was no recorded message inserted in the middle, nothing to indicate why Sherlock had found it so fascinating. John turned to the email and set it to display the full header, but the resulting server trail told him nothing; he was barely computer-proficient enough to update his blog.

Lestrade and Donovan were waiting in Lestrade's office. Lestrade pushed a cup of coffee across the desk. “Start at the beginning,” Lestrade said.

“There's little to tell,” John said, and then hesitated. “Do you know Sherlock's brother? Mycroft?”

“Met him a few times.”

“We were working on something for him.” John hesitated again, but he'd trusted Lestrade with his life, and if the detective inspector was somehow involved with the spying, the whole thing was about to go to hell very quickly anyway. “Helping him find a spy in the government. We were kidnapped the day before yesterday and dumped off at Heathrow. They tried again yesterday morning. Last night Sherlock finally narrowed it down, told Mycroft, and we thought that was the end of it. This morning I woke up to this text--” he slid his mobile across the desk-- “and no Sherlock.” John took a quick swallow of coffee as the two police officers leaned in to scrutinize the message.

“You said he was looking for a homeless man?”

“Yesterday morning, shortly after midnight, Sherlock found one of his contacts and asked for information about the possible spies. His sister told us he'd disappeared, and Sherlock promised to make sure he was looked after if she'd get us the information. Sherlock said last night that he was going out to find him today.”

“Where'd he disappear?”

“No idea.” John set the laptop on the desk. “There's one other thing: someone sent Sherlock a message, an email, and it had a song in it. He was listening to it over and over.” He opened the top, and swung it around so they could see the screen. “He listened to it fourteen times between midnight and half seven. I listened to it on the way over, but as far as I can tell it's just a normal song.”

Donovan frowned. “Totentanz-- it's German, it means dance of death, or dance of the dead.”

The three of them exchanged looks. “Get the email to Alistair and see what he can get out of that header,” Lestrade told Donovan.

“There was also an address, he was looking at a concert hall of some sort.” John turned the laptop and showed them. They both bent over the screen.

“We'll start there,” Lestrade said. “What about the brother? He knows?”

“I don't know. I sent him the text, but he's not answering his phone. I don't know what happened after Sherlock texted him the name-- there could have been some sort of confrontation... Mycroft wouldn't ignore a text like that, and it has to be related, they said to stop investigating.” John frowned.

“We'll assume we're on our own, then.” Lestrade stood and reached for his coat. “Donovan, get a car.”

On the way to the concert hall, John played the recording for them. “Nothing,” Lestrade said when it had finished. “I don't get anything out of it.”

“Same. It sounds like I remember,” Donovan said.

John was busy with his mobile, checking arrest records for the past sixteen hours and searching the names of all three people on Mycroft's short-list. “There's something else.”

“Of course there is,” Lestrade said.

“The serial killer, Jared Wilkins. Apparently this is connected to him. The explosions at Westminster, those were the tenth day. There was something yesterday, too, but I can't find anything today.”

“What sort of thing are we looking for?”

“Well, so far it's been bombs in places frequented by high government officials. Not exactly subtle.”

“Do you suppose Sherlock's brother stopped it?”

John considered. “I suppose it's possible that he managed to stop whatever was supposed to happen today, but couldn't catch the spy. But if so, why hasn't he been in touch about Sherlock?”

“Maybe he's working on it, and hasn't contacted you.”

“Maybe.” John wasn't convinced, and Lestrade hadn't sounded very convinced, either.

The concert hall was closed to the public, but Lestrade showed his badge, which not only got them in but brought the building manager very shortly. “We're looking for a missing man, and this was his last known destination,” Lestrade said. “We need to know if anyone has spotted him.”

John passed over his mobile, which had the picture of Sherlock he'd posted on his blog. The manager studied it. “I haven't seen him, but I'll ask around. If he's been here, I'm sure someone will remember-- he's quite distinctive.”

“We're also going to need to review the footage from the building's security cameras.”

“You don't need me for this,” Donovan murmured when they were bent over the small, grainy screen, and slipped out of the room. John looked after her, puzzled. Lestrade shook his head.

There were feeds from eight cameras, and they watched on fast-forward. John tried not to look at his mobile; if there'd been a new message, or a call, he would have felt it. Fidgeting wouldn't help anything. “There!”

Lestrade paused everything. “Where?”

“There. In the corner, just at the edge of the frame. He's picking the lock.”

“South door,” Lestrade said. “Thirty-five minutes before you got the text.” They resumed watching. Nineteen minutes after Sherlock had broken in, he left by the same door. They watched up until they saw themselves in the car park, but Sherlock didn't reappear.

“So what happened in the next sixteen minutes?”

“Let's have a look at the door,” Lestrade said.

Donovan met them there. “I've been all over the place. Fr-- Sherlock's not here. They opened everything that was locked for me.”

“Right, we saw him leave,” John said. “Had anyone seen him? Did they know what he was looking for, or at?”

“No. No one remembered him.”

“Nineteen minutes,” Lestrade mused, kneeling at the door and looking at the lock. “That would just take him around the whole building. What was he looking for? You said he was looking for a homeless man, is this the sort of place...?”

“No,” John said. “At least, I don't think so, not so far from the city, and not inside. We found him at a church, sleeping in the basement.”

“Right,” Lestrade said. “You wouldn't have a picture, would you?”

“No. His name is David, he served in Ireland and Iraq... I could find the church again.”

“If not him, then what was he here for?” Lestrade looked frustrated. The person they needed to help them find a case like this was the one they were looking for. He stood. “There's nothing else here, not unless we want to send Forensics on a wild goose hunt. And that wouldn't tell us where he is now.” He started for the car, and John and Donovan followed him. “John: find this bloke Sherlock was looking for. You know what he looks like, and where you met him. If you need a car, or a couple of officers to go round with you...”

“No,” John said, “thanks, I'll manage. What about you?”

“Sherlock has some... refuges... throughout the city,” Lestrade said. “Places where he can go to ground. I know about a few of them; I'm going to check them. It's a long shot, but...”

“You think he's gone to ground?” John frowned.

Lestrade was quiet for a moment. “If he thought he was being pursued, he might have. They might have grabbed him from there... or he might have left some sort of clue.”

“But there were only nineteen minutes between him leaving the concert hall and my getting that text. You think he hasn't been kidnapped after all?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Something doesn't add up.”

John tried to call Sherlock again. No answer. When he rang Mycroft, the call went straight to voicemail. “At least I know he's got his phone,” he muttered. Searching for the three potential spies turned up nothing, and no one was reporting explosions. “Let me out here,” he said a few minutes later when they were closer to the center of the city.

“John,” Lestrade said. “Be careful.”

“Yeah.” John looked around to get his bearings, and then set off down the pavement.

It took him twenty-five minutes to retrace their steps to the day centre. He went in the front this time, and was confronted with a woman sitting behind a large desk, just inside.

She looked up. “I'm sorry, this centre is for women only. There's one for men in Ealing.”

“No. I'm not homeless. I need to talk to Annie, the blonde woman. Is she here today?”

“I can't let you in.”

“Her brother's gone missing. It's about him,” John said. If he couldn't talk his way in, he'd have to go over the back fence again. “I'm with the police,” he added. “Call Detective Inspector Lestrade at the Yard-- he'll vouch for me.”

“Do you have a badge?”

“No. Look,” John said, “would you please just tell Annie someone needs to talk to her about her brother.”

The woman looked displeased, but picked up the phone and made a call. A moment later Annie came through the door at the end of the corridor. She frowned when she saw John.

“No, we haven't found him,” John said quickly, not wanting her to get her hopes up. “Have you heard anything?”

She shook her head, looking puzzled, and worried. “No.”

“Sherlock's disappeared, too, and the last thing he told me he was going to do was look for David. If your brother was hurt, and he wanted to get out of sight for a while... do you know where he'd go?”

Annie pursed her lips, and scrutinized John. Finally she said, “There's an abandoned Tube station, the old Down Street on the Piccadilly line. He went there, sometimes.”

“Thank you. If you hear from him, get a message to Mrs Hudson at 221 Baker Street-- she'll know how to get in touch with me.”

“I'll tell the people I know to keep an eye out for Sherlock,” Annie said. “And be careful, when you go to Down Street...”

“Thank you.” After leaving the centre, he called Mrs Hudson, just to make sure Sherlock hadn't been back to the flat and no one had been out front asking for spare change. She confirmed that neither had happened. When he got to Down Street, he circled the building, looking for David's way in. There: a loose board in the back. He pried it away from the gap, climbed in, and found himself in the storage area of what looked like a newsagent's shop. Ahead of him was the shop proper; to his right, a dimly lit corridor. At the end of the corridor, part of the wall was decaying, and he was able to slip through into some sort of dark, narrow space between the walls. Where from here? Access to the station would have been at the front of the building, so, to the left. John inched through the narrow space, watching where he was stepping in the narrow beam of his torch, until the space opened up and he saw a spiraling, metal staircase descending into deeper darkness. It looked newer than he would have expected. John spared a moment to be grateful his leg was behaving, slipped his gun into his jacket pocket, and went down the stairs.

He stopped at the bottom to get his bearings. His torch didn't illuminate much, but he took it in sections, discovering that he was in a large, empty space. Ahead was a wall, which rumbled faintly and then fell silent: a train passing by. To his left was a series of rooms. John approached these, walking as quietly as he could.

In the third room, he found clear evidence of inhabitation, but not recently; there was a blanket folded against the wall, a first aid kit, and several sealed tins of food. John knelt, and examined the first aid kit. It looked standard, bearing the mark of the British Red Cross; there was nothing missing from it but a few bandages and some of the paracetamol. John had a look round the other dark, silent rooms, and returned to the surface, sneaking out of the newsagent's shop the same way he'd entered it.

His mobile buzzed: John thumbed the button immediately to read the text. It was from Lestrade. found something, not him. John called him. “Hello?”

“One of his hideouts has been occupied in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Where?”

“Chiswick.”

“I'm at Hyde Park. I'll be right there.”

Lestrade's next text directed him to a tiny one-room flat on the fourth floor of a rather dingy building. The detective inspector opened the door as he approached. “Here,” Lestrade said. “This mud is new, and the basin isn't quite dry.”

John looked around the flat. There was little to see: a bed with dusty sheets, a bare desk, and a tall, narrow wardrobe. He opened the wardrobe, and found several hangers: a black jacket, a long burgundy dress, a set of trackies, a long coat, two dowdy suits, jeans, and two jumpers. At the bottom were three pairs of shoes, and a box that proved to have a set of cosmetics, a long black wig, and three hats.

Lestrade was looking over his shoulder. “I think these have been moved recently. Look, there's dust here, but not there.”

“Mmm.” John looked into the tiny W. C. There were droplets of water at the bottom of the basin, and... he looked more closely: tiny black marks on the cheap plastic of the counter. He couldn't identify them.

John frowned. “When did he have time to come here? We were running round after the spy, and then... Oh,” he said. “He took his laptop with him.” John straightened up. “He took something out of the wardrobe, and it looks like he applied some sort of cosmetics, or paint, here.”

“So he's in disguise,” Lestrade said.

“Apparently.”

They descended to the street again. “Alistair traced the email as far as a set of government servers and then was told in no uncertain terms to back off,” Lestrade said. “Have you found anything?”

“Not yet.” John looked down the street, frowning.

“John?”

“Sorry, have to go.” John took off running, because he was quite certain that was Anthea, standing in front of the fifth building down.

She vanished in front of his eyes-- there one moment, then a group of men passed by and she was gone. But there were no doors swinging, and the only alley close enough was-- he ducked down it just in time to see her running around the corner at the other end.

“Anthea!” he called. Small mercies: whenever he needed to run really fast, there was usually enough norepinephrine in his veins that he didn't have to worry about his limp, though there was often hell to pay the next day. He could see her still ahead, running flat-out, dodging passersby, lamp-posts and police officers as she careened down the street and then around another corner. His legs were longer than hers, and if he wasn't gaining on her, he at least wasn't falling farther behind-- hang on, where had she gone? John took a wild guess as to direction, darted down an alley, and there she was ahead. “Anthea!” She neither slowed nor looked back.

By a combination of rapid-fire, Sherlock-style deductions as to her direction and sheer luck, he managed to stay on her trail for nearly twenty minutes. Then he found himself in the middle of Fulham without any idea where she'd gone. He picked a direction, continued running, and kept going for five minutes until he knew he'd lost her.

John slowed to a fast walk, lips compressed. He rang Mycroft again and left a terse message this time. Then he texted Lestrade: any way to trace his phone?

The answer came back almost immediately: ill see what account information alistair can get off his laptop. any luck?

Right: John had left Sherlock's laptop in the police car. He wrote back, no. you?

Lestrade replied: he hadn't been to any of the other places that i know about.

John looked around, trying to get his bearings and figure out what to do next. Would someone at the church they'd broken into know where to find David if his sister hadn't? Was it worth going back to Baker Street to check if there were any messages from Sherlock's network that Mrs Hudson hadn't, for some reason, passed on? What were his other options? John didn't know where else to look for David, and unless Lestrade's people could get something off of Sherlock's computer, he suspected Scotland Yard would be out of ideas as well. Mycroft had inexplicably hung his brother out to dry.

He would go back to Baker Street, check in with Mrs Hudson, and search Sherlock's bedroom for any clues to his whereabouts. Then he would go by Scotland Yard, borrow Sherlock's computer, and find someone in Sherlock's extensive list of contacts and owed favours who could trace Sherlock's mobile. If necessary, he would return to the women's day centre, find out from Annie where else her brother might be, and also ask if she had any idea where he could find the other men who'd been sleeping in the basement of the church. He headed for Baker Street.

As he walked, John realized he had one other option. He took out his mobile and started to reply to the morning's message: what do you want? But what was the probability that the kidnappers would reply with anything useful, and was it greater than the probability that such a message could someone get Sherlock into trouble? His thumb hovered over the button that would send the text.

“John?”

He spun at the rasping voice, jamming his mobile back into his pocket. Who had spoken?

“Here.” It looked, at first, like a bundle of rags, piled in the corner of the alley, but no--

“David?” John knelt beside him. “What happened to you, and where are you hurt?”

“Oh... lots of places,” the other man said, grimacing. “Ribs are the worst, I think, and my left knee.” John began to probe gently. “What happened-- yesterday morning, not long after you left, I was attacked by two ex-military blokes, black uniforms, with chips on their shoulders.”

John paused. “Two men? You're sure?”

“Yeah. When I could move again, I holed up for a while, and then tried to come out today to see if I could get in touch with Annie... but I didn't get very far.”

“She knows you're missing,” John said. “So-- Sherlock didn't find you, then.”

David's blue gaze fixed on John's face. “No. Where is he?”

“I'd love to know.”

“He's missing?”

“Someone texted me this morning and told me they'd kidnapped him. No idea who, but...”

“It doesn't take a genius to connect the dots,” David said, and grimaced.

“You need a doctor-- you'd be best off in hospital.”

David looked away. “I've been in hospital before. It wasn't pleasant.”

John , unfortunately, didn't have to ask what he meant; he'd seen too many instances of doctors and nurses taking out their own petty prejudices on their patients. He hesitated for a long moment. Sherlock was missing; every minute John didn't find him was another minute he could be in a variety of extremely bad situations. But John wasn't being particularly helpful anyway... and the homeless network had given them the information, and a promise was a promise. “I'll come with you-- make sure you're settled well.”

“You a doctor?”

“A&E physician. RAMC,” John added.

David nodded slowly. “All right.” John reached for his mobile, but David grabbed his hand. “No mobile,” he said.

So John called a cab, and with difficulty, and a lot of pain on David's part, helped the man off of the pavement and into the seat. The driver dropped them off at the nearest A&E, which wasn't the one where John worked; afternoon on a weekday was slower, if not exactly slow, but David's injuries put him at the bottom of the triage list. John felt himself getting tenser as time passed; he should be out there, turning London upside down if necessary, instead of sitting down. He texted Lestrade: anything?

no. had a lead in victoria but it was nothing. where are you?

a&e. found david. he didn't know anything.

Finally, the A&E physician saw David. John knew her, and took her aside for a moment before she went in. “Friend of mine, used to be in the Army,” John said. “He fell on some hard times, and needs to be looked after by people who can't be arsed about where he sleeps most nights.”

“Right. I'll see to it.”

After she'd examined David, the man asked to speak to him. “You don't need to stay,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Go find Sherlock, John. If you could get word to Annie I'd appreciate it, but she'll be all right if she doesn't hear.”

“Right,” John said. Then: “Thank you.”

He skipped Baker Street and went straight to Scotland Yard. Lestrade was out, but Donovan brought him Sherlock's computer when he explained what he wanted. “Alistair's not been able to get anything off of it about his phone. Don't suppose you'd know?”

“No.” It was really a stroke of luck that Sherlock hadn't logged out of his account, or they wouldn't have even the minimal leads that they had. Sherlock's organizing system was... incomprehensible; he appeared to have kept every single file he'd ever had in the last three years. On another day John would have been fascinated. He ended up searching on the word “computer,” and after ten minutes had the name of someone who, judging by the case history, owed Sherlock a favour. Several favors, actually.

In another file was the woman's name, phone number, and address. She answered the phone on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

“You need to do Sherlock Holmes a favour,” John said.

A pause. “Who is this?”

“His friend. He's gone missing, and you're going to track his phone.”

“You have the wrong number.”

“I really don't think I do,” John said. “You have two options: you can hang up on me, and when I find him, I will tell him about this conversation. Or,” he let his voice drop, “I can come see you now and we can talk about it. I have your address, you know, it's in his records, his very extensive records. Did I mention I'm sitting in the middle of Scotland Yard?”

The pause was quite long this time. “Either you're John Watson,” she said finally, “or there are two nutters mad enough to hang round with him on a regular basis.”

“The first one. Well?”

“I'll do it. Give me what you have.”

“I have his phone number...”

“His SIM card number? GPS pin?”

“Sorry, what?”

She sighed. “Do you have access to any information about his account?”

It took ten more minutes, and her calling him a backwards technophobe, but he finally found Sherlock's last billing statement for his mobile.

“Right. I'll ring you back at this number as soon as I know something. Don't hold your breath-- knowing Sherlock, I'm sure he's scrambled his signals eight ways from Sunday just to be annoying.”

John hung up and checked the news. Nothing had exploded. What was the spy waiting for? Had Mycroft detained the right person but somehow lost track of Sherlock? Or was the spy using Sherlock to try to force Mycroft into-- standing down, or something? John took out his mobile, hesitated, and then, before he changed his mind again, sent the text he'd composed earlier.

He thanked Donovan and hurried down to the street. His phone buzzed as he hailed a taxi. I think you know, it said.

John's hand clenched in frustration. What was the point of telling John to stop investigating when Sherlock had already delivered the names to Mycroft? Just how capable did they think John was on his own, anyway? Or was Sherlock a hostage against Mycroft making the arrest? When the taxi dropped him in Baker Street, he was no closer to an answer to any of his questions. He took the stairs two at a time, stopped at the landing, ran back down, and knocked on Mrs Hudson's door. No answer. John ignored the worry that immediately took hold in his brain and went up to their flat.

He found something half-edible in the fridge and took it into Sherlock's room. John didn't know where to start; between his general unfamiliarity with the room, and the state it was in, he had no idea how he was going to find anything out of place. The top layer, presumably, was the most recent. He sifted through Tube stubs, tissues with three different shades of lipstick, a copy of Measure for Measure in French, a book on tuberculosis, three test tubes with dried brown gunk, an evidence bag with a tuft of purple fibers, a twig, a red figurine of a cat, half of a program from a Vivaldi violin concerto-- not the front half, or the back half, but the top half-- John frowned, and went back to the program. The performance had been held in the hall whose address had been up on Sherlock's screen. The date was two days ago.

What was the significance of that concert hall? John got his laptop and read about it, but found nothing more than why it had caught Sherlock's attention: the London Philharmonic Orchestra had recorded a program of Liszt there two years ago, including “Totentanz.” But what had Sherlock been looking for there?

The sun was setting. John reached for the lamp, and suddenly felt furious. He had spent all day running round London looking for his friend, had accomplished exactly nothing, and had no plan for improving his track record.

Had their situations been reversed, Sherlock probably could have found him in about an hour and a half.

He struck the table with his palm and bit back a curse. Here he was, being useless again, when the stakes were the highest they'd ever been. But reproach was unproductive; he'd have time for that, later, if...

John continued to search Sherlock's room and finally gave up after finding nothing useful. He called Lestrade. “We've found nothing,” Lestrade reported, sounding aggrieved. “None of his regular contacts that I know about have seen him; he doesn't show up on any of the CCTV footage I have access to; no one matching his description has been admitted to a hospital in the past twenty-four hours. Or,” Lestrade added, “brought to a morgue.”

John's breath stuttered.

“We've put his description out to the train stations and the airport. Did you ever hear from the brother?”

“No.”

“Have you any other way to get in contact with him?”

“No. No, I don't-- but I saw his PA on the street today. I chased her for twenty minutes but she gave me the slip.”

Lestrade hesitated. “Do you think a threat to Sherlock's life would... make his brother, I don't know, back down on something?”

Until today, John hadn't even been able to imagine Mycroft getting into that situation. “I...” John licked his lips. “He's even more stubborn and implacable than Sherlock, sometimes. I don't know.”

“Right.”

“The last I heard from him, he was telling us about a shipment of RDX.”

“What?”

“The explosions.”

“That's something to go on, at least. Did he say who it was to?”

“Rowley, Alex Rowley.”

“We'll start tracing that.”

“Sherlock thought it was going to be a military target.”

“Right.”

“I've got someone trying to trace Sherlock's phone-- I'm going to go pay her a visit,” John said. “Let me know--”

“I will.”

John had jotted down Gwen Simmons's address in case he needed it. It was in a part of London that he had little familiarity with except for its rough reputation. The cab driver knew more, and flatly refused to take John any closer than a mile. “And if you know what's good for you, you won't go at all,” he said, making one final attempt to dissuade him. John paid him and got out.

He hadn't gone more than 200 meters before he knew there was a gang of boys following him. He could take them, almost certainly, but he didn't have time for this. John walked more quickly.

“Dr Watson!”

John frowned, stopped, and turned. It was the boys, or a boy. “How do you know my name?”

The boy, a tall, skinny redheaded one, grinned crookedly. “You run round with Sherlock Holmes.”

“What do you want?” John said. “I haven't got time.”

“Annie sent us. She said, three people think they've seen your friend today, but none'd swear to it.”

“Where?”

The boy gave him three addresses. Then he said, “Don't worry about this neighbourhood, Doctor. You'll be safe enough, tonight.”

“Thank you.” The boys disappeared into the night. John hesitated, then texted the three addresses to Lestrade with a brief explanation, and continued walking towards Gwen Simmons's flat, hoping Sherlock's information was current. He blinked. Was that-- yes. Up ahead, walking and texting, was Anthea.

He didn't run this time, just stayed behind her, which was easy enough since they were going in the same direction. When she walked past where he should have turned, though, he followed her without a second thought, suspecting that she knew she was being followed. Fifteen minutes later, he had followed her into a neighbourhood with fewer boarded windows. She went into an all-night café; he hesitated across the street, and then hurried inside after her.

Anthea was sitting in a booth towards the back, with her back to the wall and two exits in sight. She looked up from her mobile as he approached, and gave a vague approximation of her usual impersonal smile. “Hello.”

“Where,” John said, “is Sherlock?”

The smile vanished, and she had the temerity to look puzzled. “Sherlock? No idea. I found his coat, but that was six hours ago.”

“You-- wait-- then where's Mycroft?” John had to make an effort to keep his voice down. “I've been texting him all day!”

Anthea took another mobile out of her jacket and frowned at it. “Oh, that was you.”

John sat down across from her. “Bloody hell, Anthea! Sherlock's been kidnapped!”

“Really?” Her face fell. “And here I didn't think it could get worse. Are you sure?”

John opened his mouth to say something biting, closed his mouth again, considered the words 'get worse,' and looked carefully at her. She looked extremely tired, there was a bruise on her cheekbone, a small cut just at her hairline, and more severe scrapes visible at her wrists as she texted. He shook his head, went to the counter, paid for two black coffees and a plate of pastries, brought it all back to the table, and pushed one of the coffees across the table to her. “What's going on?”

She drained half the mug in a few quick swallows, put it down, and met his gaze. “Thank you.” It was possibly the first sincere expression he'd ever heard from her. Her mobile buzzed, she glanced at it, and frowned. “Haven't got time. You'll have to come with me.”

John grabbed his coffee, bundled up the pastries, and followed her out the back door. There was a car parked there, not the usual black thing, but something blue and beat-up. She slid behind the wheel as he climbed into the passenger's seat. “Look, what's all this about? I've no idea if Sherlock's alive or dead at this point and Mycroft is the only person who can help me.”

“Sorry, you're not going to have much luck with that,” Anthea said as she pulled out of the alley. “He's been missing since last night.”

John nearly choked on his coffee. “What-- happened?”

“Those two you and Sherlock sent along yesterday morning, I made the mistake of leaving him alone with them for three minutes while he was questioning them. He said he could handle them. I got back, and they were all gone. He'd struggled.”

John sat back, trying to assimilate this. “If they've got Mycroft, why kidnap Sherlock? Hang on-- Alex Rowley. Was he arrested?”

“I don't know. I gave the order, we were about to leave-- I spent the next hour trying to track him, and then half my resources were cut off. Tell me about Sherlock's kidnapping.”

“Where are we going?”

“Outskirts. It's a bit of a drive.”

“Right.” He explained about the previous night, the song, waking up to find Sherlock gone, the two text messages, and the trip to the concert hall. “I've got someone tracing his mobile now, but she's not found him.”

“Is this the Queen Anne Centre for the Performing Arts that you mean?”

“Yes, how did you--”

“I managed to trace the shipment of RDX there.”

“And when you say outskirts, you mean--”

“Yes.”

“Have they... issued demands, or anything? To the government, or to you?”

“I've heard nothing. Half my contacts have gone dead, but I haven't heard anything.”

“Why would they tell me to stop investigating? We were done investigating, and anyway, I'm not him.”

“No idea.”

“Do you have any backup, for this?” he asked a moment later. “Rowley's got more people than we thought.” He told her what David had said.

“No backup that I trust.”

“Would you happen to be taking volunteers?”

“This once, I suppose,” she said after a moment. “You did get me coffee.”

John felt the corner of his mouth twist up. “Right. What's the plan?”

“I need to get in and have a look at the basement-- there are old diagrams that indicate another level below it. If the RDX is there, that's where they have it.”

“Of course there's a secret sub-basement. Why didn't I think of that?” he muttered. “Do you think Mycroft might be there?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. If they had any sense they'd hold him in a fortified country house in the middle of nowhere, but. Either way: my first priority is the RDX. It has to be.”

“Do you know what they want it for?”

“I'm afraid not. What I didn't spend of last night and today running down every possible lead about Mycroft, I spent just getting this much information. Most of my usual channels are closed, and there are a couple of teams after me.”

“Hang on,” John said. “You said-- you found Sherlock's coat.”

“It was at the front door of one of Mycroft's hidey-holes.”

“So...” John could think of several ways that could have happened. “Was it... damaged?”

“Not that I could tell. I left it at a safe house.” She glanced over at him. “Changing your mind about volunteering?”

John hesitated. “Mycroft is the best chance I have to find Sherlock,” he said finally. “And the RDX... well. We have to stop it.”

“Good, because we're here.”

John was surprised when they pulled into the car park of the concert centre. It was full of cars, and they had to drive for a few moments to find a spot. “Are you armed?”

“Yes.”

She produced tickets. “These will get us in. After we're in, I know how to get to the sub-basement. If we do find anything, that'll be enough evidence to bring down some teams I know are trustworthy. We'll pull out and get in touch with them.”

“And evacuate the building?”

She turned and pulled a blanket off the back seat. Underneath it was a blazer, a hat with a blonde wig attached, and a handbag. “Sorry, I don't have anything for you. We'll have to hope whoever's on security isn't expecting you to show up here.”

John decided not to press his last question. “Are you armed?”

She stopped in the act of putting on the blazer, and looked at him in amused disbelief.

“Right, just... checking.”

They got out and started towards the hall, both of them checking the shadows out of the corners of their eyes. “So,” John asked. “Is working for Mycroft always this exciting?”

“Oh, God, no. Much less dramatic on a regular basis, though I wouldn't call it boring.”

“Riding around in cars looking decorative doesn't get old?”

“I don't do that very much.”

“Oh.”

“I spend a lot of time sitting in the office looking decorative, and no, it doesn't get old. There's always someone new to be taken in by the act. I doubt Rowley was, though. Those two teams of kidnappers, or assassins-- more than just a precaution.”

The usher accepted their tickets without so much as glancing at John's decidedly inappropriate dress, and informed them they were in the upper tier. When they were around the corner of the hall, Anthea pulled John into the women's toilet. “Er--”

“Oh, don't worry,” she said, locking the stall and climbing onto the tank. “If anyone saw us they'll just assume we're shagging.” She took out a knife and cut part of the ceiling away at an angle. “You have no idea how many people think that's why Mycroft keeps me around.”

John licked his lips. “Actually, you'd be surprised.”

She glanced down. “Give me a hand up?”

John boosted her into the ceiling, then climbed onto the tank himself. She helped pull him up and steadied him on one of the beams so he wouldn't go through the ceiling, then replaced the chunk she'd removed. From somewhere she produced a torch, and they began crawling along the beams. John was reminded of his trip through Down Street station... had that only been that morning? He'd never, he realized, let Annie know her brother was okay. Up ahead of him, Anthea took off her blazer and hat and left them on another beam with her handbag.

They came to a long gap in the ceiling that descended into darkness; they must be between rooms, then. “Old lift shaft,” Anthea confirmed softly. “There should be a ladder...” The light of the torch found it, and they began to climb down. “Once we get to the bottom, just to the left of the shaft is a concealed staircase to the second basement.”

“Won't someone be watching that?”

“Yes, which is why we'll be rappelling from the ceiling instead. But the staircase is there for getting out again.”

“How many guards are you expecting?” John asked, and winced, because the shaft echoed.

“If we're lucky, they'll be busy somewhere else and there'll only be a few.”

“And if we're unlucky?”

“We'll be very unlucky.” Anthea turned off the torch, paused to let their eyes adjust, and climbed down the last six rungs in darkness. Once out of the lift shaft, she turned left; John, following her, could see well enough now, by the emergency exit lights, to know when she pointed to a section of the wall and mimed pressing part of the wall beam. The basement was large, and it took about six minutes to come to a large jumble of discarded chairs and music stands. Behind it, part of the wall was crumbling.

Anthea produced a good deal of rope from somewhere and tied it to one of the exposed supports. John's mobile buzzed. He fumbled with it, and automatically rejected the call before turning it to silent. Then he looked at the name: Gwen Simmons. A moment later, a text came in. He's finally stopped moving, it said, along with a set of coordinates. Anthea was already plugging the coordinates into her own phone.

It was the Queen Anne Centre for the Performing Arts.

They looked at each other. Anthea pointed down, and John nodded after a moment, reluctantly. To be in the same building after pursuing him all over London... but if Sherlock was a prisoner, finding out about the RDX was the best thing they could do to thwart his captors. Anthea let the rope down, swung her legs into the gap, and disappeared. A moment later there were two sharp tugs on the rope, and John followed her down.

There were no emergency exit signs down her; all John knew, at first, was that it was cold and damp. He listened, but heard nothing besides Anthea's very soft breathing beside him. Then Anthea took out her mobile, and shielded the glow with her hand so they could see. There was a wall ahead, and on the other side was, presumably, the concealed staircase. They could hear people moving around on the other side. There were also two doors, one on each side wall.

Anthea touched his shoulder and pointed towards the right door, which was cracked. John nodded, took his gun out of its holster, and held his mobile, just barely glowing, in his other hand. She disappeared into the gloom to the left. John stopped by the door, and waited.

Someone was in the room on the other side; he could hear them moving around. Someone tall, judging by the breathing. He could feel a faint breeze on his face, flowing out of the room-- where was it coming from? It was lighter in the other room, but not by much. Would the hinges squeak?

They didn't. He eased the door open just enough to squeeze through, and found himself in sort of an alcove on the other side. The breathing was around the corner-- deep and even, as if someone had fallen asleep. John couldn't see anything in the rest of the room, just bare stone walls. He stepped around the corner, and found himself looking at a gun barrel.

John ducked back into the alcove, crouched, and sprung around the corner as footsteps hurried forward. His head intersected with someone's midsection-- then there was a sharp thunk! and his opponent dropped.

John brought his gun up and looked around. He could barely see, and risked touching his mobile screen. The room was empty... well, there wasn't anyone else pointing a gun at him, but he wasn't alone.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft said quietly.

“Fancy meeting you here.” John knelt by the downed man, and felt for his pulse. He was alive, but he'd be unconscious for a while. Mycroft was sitting against the wall; from the way he was holding one of his arms behind him, John guessed he was fastened to it. His other hand rested by the leg of his trousers, which looked remarkably clean for a nearly twenty-four hour imprisonment. “Nice work with the rock.”

“Thank you. If you would give it back, I'd be obliged. Never know when I might need it again.”

“You all right?” John asked.

“Yes, John, thank you.” Mycroft managed a smile. “Under what context are you here? I'm afraid I've been rather out of touch.”

“Anthea's in the other part of the basement, looking for the RDX. Sherlock's here too, but... I don't know where. Or with whom.” John started going through the guard's pockets. “I spent the day under the assumption that he'd been kidnapped, but I'm beginning to think they were talking about you.”

“The RDX is in the corner,” Mycroft said. John looked, and saw a plastic barrel. “From what I can gather, they're planning to plant it in various pieces of military equipment going to the field in Afghanistan.”

John froze.

“Quite,” Mycroft agreed.

“Ah. Here.” John came up with a ring of keys. Mycroft obliging leaned forward to reveal the handcuff attached to the wall. “This... should do it.” A moment later, Mycroft was free.

“Excellent, John, thank you.” He stood, carefully; John watched to make sure he wasn't about to fall over. “Oh, I've been fed, and allowed to walk.”

“Right... Anthea mentioned someone who would come if she had more evidence. If we get you out of here, will you be able to handle it from there?”

Mycroft smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. “Oh, yes.”

“Then--”

“Charlie?” A new voice, at the door.

John flattened himself against the wall, gun raised, and inched towards the alcove.

“Yes?” It wasn't Mycroft's usual voice at all. “We're fine in here,” he said, sounding guttural. “Passcode: Antony.”

“I'm going to lock you in. There's an intruder out there. Keep an eye on the prisoner.” Before John could react, there was the sound of the door swinging shut, and then a bolt.

John waited for the sound of retreating footsteps, and then tried the door. It was fastened very securely shut. “Tell me,” he said, walking around the walls, “why do I get the feeling there were acting lessons in both of your pasts?”

“Lessons? We never needed them. If there's another way out I haven't found it.”

John continued to look.

“And I've been sitting here for sixteen hours,” Mycroft added. Cloth whispered on cloth; when John turned the next corner, he saw that Mycroft had taken the guard's rifle, and was tying him up with the guard's own belt.

“Well, you know, I haven't got anything else to do.” John finished making the circuit of the room; unfortunately, Mycroft was right. “Anthea didn't know; did you manage to arrest Rowley?”

“I... don't know either, to my deep consternation. I'm assuming not, given present circumstances.” His glance around the room was comprehensive. “However, in the light of sixteen hours of consideration, I've begun to wonder--”

“You do realize,” a new voice cut in, “how long it's going to take me to forget that you said there wasn't another way out of this room.”

Two guns pointed at the newcomer, and then just as quickly, away. “Sherlock!”

“Hello, John.” A tall, slender figure unfolded itself from the deepest shadows of the room. “Mycroft.”

“How long have you been there?” his brother asked.

“Only a few minutes. Since your last changing of the guard.”

“Sherlock--” John bit back the phrase Where the bloody hell have you been all day, and instead asked, “So how do we get out?”

“There are some stones loose, over here. I found them from the other side, this morning. It opens into an old well, covered, but not fastened down.”

John walked over to the corner to examine them, and partially to reassure the irrational part of his mind that it really was Sherlock, alive and well. He climbed partially into the hole, feeling out whether it was wide enough for that barrel.

Then the shooting started on the other side of the wall.

“Mycroft, get out of here,” Sherlock said sharply. “John, go with him.” He started for the barrel of RDX.

“Sherlock, what are you--”

“I'm going to drop it down the well after you get out. Hurry up, Mycroft, there's barely time--”

The shooting continued as Mycroft backed towards the corner, rifle trained on the door, and Sherlock reached the barrel. “Seven,” he said. “I really ought to give her a raise.”

The shooting stopped and the door banged open. “Drop that rifle or I shoot her!” Anthea came in, hands in the air, with a man behind her holding her at gunpoint. After a very long moment, Mycroft dropped the rifle. “Center of the room, both of you. Ten feet apart. Hands up.”

John breathed very quietly.

“Well, this was rather ingenious of you.” It was a cool, cultured voice, and it belonged to the woman in the grey suit who had just stepped into the room. “Sherlock Holmes. I suppose you're the man my guards saw come in with her. It's a pleasure to meet you at last.” As she came further into the room, the guard prodded Anthea towards the long wall.

“That's hardly a proper introduction,” Sherlock said.

The woman smiled. “Did I call it one? I'm sorry. I'm Rosemary Jenkins. Your elder brother knows me, and you know my younger brother. Curious, isn't it?”

“Jared Wilkins,” Sherlock said, in that voice he used when he'd just figured something out.

“Half-brother, actually. Our father had an affair. Well, Mycroft? Did you figure it out?”

“About ten hours ago, yes,” Mycroft said.

“Congratulations. I don't think anyone else did. Certainly not your assistant-- who, by the way, I had no idea was such a crack shot. Rather alarming, in fact, I think I'd better even things out a bit in case she should happen to get the drop on my guard.” Rosemary took out a small pistol from her jacket and pointed it at Sherlock's head. “And congratulations, too, on your masterful handling of the CCTV, Mycroft. This would have come off already if you hadn't disabled my eyes all over London.”

“It is my job,” Mycroft replied, sounding as urbane and detached as ever.

“Quite. Well, if Hollywood has taught me anything, it's that my chances of dying improbably get higher with each moment I stand here and talk, so I think that's all I wanted to say. Mycroft I need alive, of course, but please believe me when I say it's only the highest respect that compels me to kill the two of you. I don't think I could hold you for any length of time. I will, however, do it in the other room, out of respect for your feelings, Mycroft. Any last words, any of you?”

“Kill her for me, when you get the chance,” Anthea said.

“Don't let Mrs Hudson throw out the mould experiment, send it round to Barts,” Sherlock said.

“All right, move.” Rosemary nodded towards the door, Sherlock stepped forward-- and John finally had a clear shot. She stumbled, but stayed on her feet, hauling Sherlock around in front of her before John could get off another one. The guard looked between Anthea and the hole in the wall, obviously confused.

“Exactly,” John said. “Only two guns for three people, all of whom would die to stop you.” Except the only way to kill her was through Sherlock... John breathed a silent apology, and took careful aim at his friend's calf.

“And you get to choose?” she asked. “But you see, we can shoot two people, in the time it takes you to shoot one. And it will take you two shots to get to me. Mycroft and his assistant will be dead before Sherlock hits the floor. Did you really mean all?”

John hesitated, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Two more shots rang out in quick succession, and three bodies tumbled to the floor-- sort of; the last was more of a controlled fall. Sherlock retrieved Rosemary's gun and the rifle the guard had dropped and covered the door. John and Anthea reached Mycroft at the same time. “I do know how to duck,” he said with dignity.

“Get me--” Anthea was already stripping the guard of his shirt and cutting it into strips. John applied pressure, Mycroft's blood spurting out through his fingers with every heartbeat. “Not very well, apparently,” John said.

“She's got more guards upstairs,” Anthea said. “We need to hurry. The door doesn't lock from the inside.”

“Don't worry,” Sherlock said, and the part of John's brain that giggled at crime scenes realized that there was no way Sherlock was keeping that rifle, ever.

“Where did you learn to-- never mind.” As he spoke, John was putting makeshift bandage and dressing on the wound. “Get me the guard's belt.” Anthea passed it to him, and he fastened it tightly around Mycroft's chest.

“Here.” As Anthea picked up the rifle she'd snatched from the falling guard and used to shoot Rosemary, Sherlock bent over Rosemary's body, undid her jacket, and pulled off a bulletproof vest. He slid it across the floor at Mycroft. “Put that on backwards.”

“The RDX?” John asked. “We can't just--”

Somehow, Anthea had reception down there. “Someone's on their way.”

“How soon? Because this room is actually pretty defensible,” John said. “We don't know who or what is up there, and there are a bunch of civilians.” But while Mycroft wasn't in immediate danger, he did need the hospital.

“Soon,” Anthea said.

So Sherlock covered one door and Anthea covered the hole in the wall, while John kept an eye on Mycroft. “Sherlock?” John asked.

“Mmm.”

“Where were you all day, and why the hell didn't you answer your phone?”

“I turned it off so Mycroft's spy couldn't track me.”

“And you didn't think to let me know?”

“My phone was off. I didn't know you were calling.”

John let that one go. “Right, so, where were you?”

“I worked out that the song was a threat, and I identified the recording venue by the acoustics. I came here, realized it was being used as a base of operations for Mycroft's spy, tried to inform Mycroft, discovered he was missing, and found him again.”

“Ah,” John said. “Apparently next time I post to my blog explaining which one of us is who, I need to post our mobile numbers as well. I got a text message this morning informing me that 'they had Holmes.'”

“Why would they send the text to you? My number's on the website...”

“Given that you have me send half your texts anyway, and Mycroft texts me for you more than he texts you, they probably assumed it was a fake.”

A short silence. “Oh.”

More gunshots; shortly after that, footsteps. “Mr Holmes!” a deep voice called. “Are you in there?” The SAS agents led them up to the basement and then out a back way to a secured area. Mycroft was bundled into an ambulance; Sherlock rode with him.

John found Anthea at his side, looking suddenly exhausted. “Explosives squad is going down to take care of the RDX,” she said.

“That's... good.” John's mobile buzzed. It was Lestrade. “Hello?”

“Oh good, you're alive.”

“Yeah, er, listen...”

“Now, this is just a hunch, but does the high concentration of SAS agents and the special explosives unit at the hall we visited this morning have to do with Sherlock?”

“Sort of. We're... all fine, it's over, apparently he was never kidnapped.”

“What?”

“It was his brother.”

There was a pause. “Why don't you get some rest, and maybe we'll both make more sense in the morning.”

“Yes, all right. Thanks... for everything today.”

“Of course.” Lestrade hung up.

“You know,” he told Anthea, “those pastries are still in your car. When... was the last time you ate?”

She laughed. “I stopped counting.”

“Are you going to the hospital?”

“I need to stay here until they get the RDX out.”

“Right. Give me your keys.”

“What?”

“Well, you look like you're about to collapse.”

So they sat against the wall, Anthea with half her attention on her mobile, and ate pastries and drank cold coffee. “Things should quiet down after this,” she said. “I hope. Back to being decorative.”

“That's... good.”

“I should have quite a bit of free time. You know, we've got a range... I don't imagine you get to practice much.”

“No, I let Sherlock handle shooting all the holes in the wall.”

“Want me to take you round there sometime?”

“Er, yes. Yes, I'd like that.” His mobile buzzed; it was a text from Sherlock, demanding to know where he was. Busy, he replied, also stuck.

Anthea went off to talk to one of the SAS agents. “Done here,” she reported when she came back. “Want a ride to the hospital?”

“Please.”

A/N: So, that took longer than expected! There'll be a bit more later today, since this obviously goes with yesterday.