Trigger warnings: Mentions of torture

John was absolutely frantic. It had been about eighteen hours since Sherlock texted him and he hadn't sent a message since. John's texts went unanswered and each phone call went to voicemail.

At 6 hours, John had called Mycroft just to see if Sherlock had checked in with him at all. Or if whatever spying methods the elder Holmes man used knew offhand where Sherlock was. Mycroft had said he hadn't seen anything yet and "calm yourself down—you know how he gets."

At hour sixteen he called Mycroft again, and this time he heard a tinge of worry in the man's voice. John had begun to think that Sherlock had been suddenly recruited for a poorly timed mission of Mycroft's. Because if his three years away had been partly at his brother's request, there was a possibility he was still being used in that capacity. But John liked to think he knew Mycroft well enough that he could tell when the stone-cold man was concerned.

At hour 20, he called Lestrade to file a Missing Persons Report. He didn't care that the requisite time hadn't passed yet. There was a feeling deep in his belly that something was horribly wrong.

Greg had cursed violently when John told him. "How long has he been gone?"

John paused pacing to look at the clock. "He sent the text about 2pm yesterday. So twenty hours… maybe less. I can't know for sure."

He could almost hear Greg rubbing his eyes through the phone. "What does Mycroft say?"

John sunk into his chair. "I'm worried he's not taking this as seriously as he could be. I called him twice and he didn't say much either time."

Greg was quite for a while. "Greg, what is it?" John asked, as if hesitant for the answer.

"We received another threat this morning. I contacted Sherlock about it. That must have been what he wanted to see you about. He left here around 9am."

John sat up straight. "What did it say?"

"John, I don't think I should—"

"Gregory Lestrade, if you don't tell me right now, I swear to God—"

"It was the same generic paper and ink. But this time it was a line of a poem: ''Now take a crooked path to death,'" Greg paused and breathed. "'For I have come to torture thee!'"

John froze. "No. No that can't be it."

"I'm getting my team and we're coming to Baker Street to set up a base of operations. John, I need you to prepare yourself to receive a ransom note."

John's heart beat a rapid staccato. This was his worst fear coming alive. Again. He promised me. He promised me he wouldn't do anything stupid to get himself killed. Sherlock, you promised.

A throat cleared in the doorway and John snapped. "Not now, Mrs. Hudson!"

But when he turned toward the sound, he discovered that it wasn't Mrs. Hudson. "Hey! What are you doing here?" But the small figure was already scampering down the stairs and out the door.

"What was it?" Greg asked, having heard John through the phone.

"Just a scruffy-looking child, probably looking for…" he trailed off, his eyes catching something on the floor.

"Looking for what?"

"They left an envelope." John said slowly.

"John! Don't open it til we get there!"

John already had the envelope open. Inside was a photo and he pulled it out with shaking hands. He dropped the phone, a horrified sob wrenching itself out of his mouth, and sank into his chair.

When Greg raced up the stairs not five minutes later (he must have been talking to John from the car), he found the doctor almost catatonic. He was in his chair, staring at the wall. He didn't even really register the sirens and flashing lights outside or Greg entering the room. His mobile was on the ground, still presumably on. He had a piece of paper and an envelope clutched loosely in his hand.

Greg approached him and gently pried them out of his hand. What he saw made him growl deep in the back of his throat and kick the desk. Hard.

It was a photograph. Sherlock was bound to a chair wearing nothing but his underclothes, sagging against the binds. There were bleeding cuts and little burns all over his body. His left cheek was purpling badly behind the duct tape covering his mouth and it looked like his nose had been broken. His eyes were unfocused. Scrawled at the bottom was I'll be in touch. The time and date stamp was an hour ago.

"Get Mycroft here. Now," he growled. How did this happen? Why did it escalate so quickly? He walked over to John and put a hand on the man's shoulder. "John, I need you for this. I know this is the worst thing to happen and it doesn't look good, but I need you functioning."

John slowly looked up at him. "What next?"

Greg sighed and rubbed his face. "This is confirmation of the abduction and… proof of life. What's next is a ransom call. And we know it's coming."

About fifteen minutes later, Mycroft strode in purposefully. "Do we know what they want yet?"

John, who had managed to pull himself together a bit shook his head. "No. They haven't made contact yet."

Mycroft held out his hand expectantly and firmly demanded, "Let me see it."

Greg hesitated.

"Now."

He handed it over and watched as the man's jaw tightened in anger and his fist clenched the paper.

The phone rang and the flat burst into a flurry of activity as Lestrade's team set about recording the call.

At Greg's nod, John answered the phone and placed it on speaker. "Yes?"

There was a female voice on the other end. "You know by now that I have Sherlock Holmes. And I know that you have Scotland Yard and Mycroft Holmes with you."

"Are you watching us?"

She just laughed. "Your government has prisoners—colleagues of mine, you see. And I want them back."

Mycroft leaned toward the phone. "Madam, I'm flattered by the amount of influence you seem to think I have, but I'm sure you know that we don't negotiate with terrorists. The Prime Minister will not accept."

They jumped at the sound of a gunshot, which was followed by a muffled moan.

"What did you just do?" John asked, frantic.

"Oh, he'll live. Whether or not he'll walk again is entirely up to you. Gentlemen, I'm not playing games. You will release these people," she rattled off a list of four names, "and you'll give us 10 million pounds in cash. When you've decided, you can call me back on Sherlock's cell phone. But you won't find us if you try to trace it."

John growled. "I will find you, and I will kill you. And make no mistake: I will thoroughly enjoy it."

"That's sweet. I'll be sure to let Sherlock know how much you care. Take some time to discuss it, but you'll want to call back soon."

She hung up.

One of the techs looked up from the computer. "We traced the call to a major street in Ilford. But there's no way she's there. She probably dumped his phone there and is calling from a clone." She shook her head. "She's good."

John turned to Mycroft. "Get. Him. Back."

Mycroft looked back, eyes hard. "I wasn't lying when I said the Prime Minister wouldn't negotiate."

Suddenly John leaped at him and had him by the lapels. "If you don't bring him home, you won't like what I'll do to you, either."

Greg forced him back and Mycroft brushed himself off. "John! Calm down! We'll figure something out."

Mycroft looked John square in the eye. "I'll see what I can find out about those people she talked about." He stepped out of the room to make some phone calls.

As for John, he sunk back down in his chair and waited.

A/N: I'm back! You all know by now that this is solidly AU. We're at the climax!