Warnings: non-con references, panic attack

A/N: I'm a terrible person and I have no excuse. But I'm gonna estimate right now that this fic will probably only have 3 or 4 more chapters so there is light at the end of the tunnel! Dim light. A low energy bulb, possibly.

To anyone still reading, my genuine gratitude. You deserve much better than what I give you. Special thanks to cliffwriter, Don't touch my Seaweed Brain, RainyDays-And-DayDreams, Aliit Vodeson, Silverfox588, JustMijke, Xmyhearthope2die, Colelockian, meep484, InsideYourDreams24, Jcaslcgaiwd, Guinevere81, SaiLena, christenannemarie, and In Arduis Filius for the lovely reviews.

~III~

Two days.

Greg Lestrade hadn't bitten his nails since he was seventeen years old but, as he watched the minutes tick agonisingly by, he found his hand drifting to his mouth more and more.

Two days.

It was too long. Far too long to be at someone like Moriarty's mercy.

"Nasty habit, that," came a voice from behind him, and God he could hear Sherlock in it, the same perfectly pitched superciliousness.

But it wasn't Sherlock, and turning to see the expressionless face of his older brother was cold comfort indeed.

"There are worse vices," he said briefly. He didn't want to speak to Mycroft unless it was about a lead on the case. He found the man peculiarly unsettling, and not just because he reminded him of his missing friend.

"Indubitably," Mycroft said politely. "But I wouldn't whittle your fingers away just yet."

Lestrade instantly perked up.

"You've found something?"

"Two somethings, in fact. Two possible locations for where they're being kept."

He beckoned Lestrade away from the stairwell and back into the flat, where the rest of the team were crowded around a laptop showing a split screen of two aerial views.

Mycroft gestured to a muscular blonde woman sat by the laptop and she turned to face Lestrade

"This is a manor house near Ulverston in the Lake District," she said brusquely, stabbing at the right hand side of screen with one stubby finger. "Two weeks ago locals reported the sound of a disturbance – when the police arrived, everything seemed fine and the housekeeper told them the owners had gone on a cruise. It's been quiet since then."

Lestrade couldn't help but feel he was missing something from that story, but the woman was already barrelling on, tapping the left side of the screen.

"Stately home in Northumberland, currently unoccupied due to disrepair, not scheduled to be refurbed by the National Trust until next year. Some kids playing in the grounds last week swore they saw people moving around inside the house, they sent one officer down to check and it was empty."

Mycroft looked at Lestrade expectantly, as though it was completely obvious that one of those two places had to be concealing Moriarty. Personally, Lestrade thought the evidence presented was about as compelling as the case for Sherlock and John being kept in his own garden shed. Sounds of disturbance? Shadows inside empty houses? There were a hundred calls to the police a day like that.

"The question is," Mycroft said quietly, "which of these two it is."

"The stately home," said Tomas decisively. "We know Moriarty likes glamour and those surroundings would appeal to his sense of the dramatic."

"I think the Lake District, it's much less conspicuous," the blonde woman argued. "I know he likes drawing attention to himself but for a job like this, he needs to fly under the radar."

There was a short pause.

"I agree with Tomas," Mycroft said. "We'll take Northumberland first, and then go back west to Ulverston if we're wrong."

The blonde woman huffed a sigh but didn't argue.

"Can't we hit both at once?" Lestrade suggested. "Surely that'd be the most fool proof-"

"We don't have enough operatives," Mycroft said.

"Can't you… get some more?" Lestrade said a little weakly, but he was confused. Whatever Mycroft's actual job was, he clearly had no difficulty commanding an expert task force on extremely short notice, so getting some extra manpower couldn't be so hard, surely.

"This operation is off the books," Mycroft said shortly. "I only trust a certain amount of people with this information, and they're all in this room right now."

He fixed Lestrade with a pointed look, as though he rather wished Lestrade did not count among their number.

"Why?" Lestrade said.

Mycroft's lips thinned.

"Recent events have made it likely that there is a mole within our wider circle. I have a backup team at my disposal, but I will not call them until I am sure we have the correct location. I cannot risk the information getting back to Moriarty."

"A mole? Who would-"

"Detective Inspector, I need not remind you that time is a priority in this situation. If you insist on the Spanish Inquisition, you may ride with me in the car to Northumberland, but for now there are more important matters to attend to."

Mycroft hadn't raised his voice but Lestrade felt chastened all the same. He didn't like the man but he knew he could trust him to do his job correctly. He nodded and obediently went over to assist Tomas in packing up the equipment.

He felt his fingers drift towards his mouth again and forced himself to pull them away. It was at least six hours drive to Northumberland.

He hoped Sherlock and John had that long.

~III~

John had felt numb since his breakdown in Sherlock's arms. When Moriarty had come for them again, it was like he had just closed down. He could hear every word being said, he was perfectly aware of what was going on, it just felt very far away. Muffled, like music coming from a distant room. Even when Moriarty was goading him, touching him, the whole scene seemed out of focus. The gentle press of a knife to his throat barely registered.

He wished it could have stayed that way. He was only dimly cognisant of Sherlock removing his clothes, of Moriarty strapping him to the trolley, kissing him. Events remained vague, fuzzy.

But then Sherlock had cried out, unexpectedly, and the sound had shocked him back into his body. Maybe it was the unfamiliarity – Sherlock had never been expressive when it came to pain – or maybe it was the obvious anguish in it. John's eyes refocused, taking in the room properly. Moriarty was running his hands all over Sherlock's body, and his friend was rigid with tension, limbs straining against the bonds. It was already horrifying and then Moriarty reached down under Sherlock's hips and John's heart lurched in his chest.

He couldn't see properly from his angle but it was pretty obvious what Moriarty was doing. And the worst thing about it was that Sherlock didn't just look angry or shocked or disgusted. He looked scared. As scared as Sherlock ever looked; body suddenly gone still, like he'd frozen up in distress.

Then Moriarty made a sudden quick motion and Sherlock whimpered, the sound like a dagger in John's chest.

John wanted to shout out; to try and distract Moriarty, but all he'd learned so far was that wouldn't end well for either of them. And his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, so thick and heavy he didn't know if he was capable of speech. Sweat was breaking out on his forehead and his heart was hammering. He recognised a panic attack when he felt one and he shut his eyes, feeling the heat flaming through him, his breath coming up short in his lungs. But no, look at Sherlock, don't abandon him, keep your eyes on him.

No, keep them shut, he wouldn't want you to see this.

John's panic made the decision for him, his vision going blurry. He could see Moriarty's hand moving, see Sherlock squirming in place, but the image was fuzzy. His heartbeat wasn't loud enough to block out Moriarty's hateful words, however, and hearing them only constricted his chest further.

He tried desperately to suck more air in, tell himself it was all in the mind, but it didn't help. He just had to ride it out until eventually his pulse began to slow and he could take in a few deep breaths. His tongue came unstuck at last, but far too late to save his friend.

"Sherlock's first orgasm! What a momentous occasion."

John hung his head.

He'd never known if Sherlock would have any interest in sex, even if they were in a relationship. He didn't mind either way, it would have been more than enough just to be with Sherlock romantically. But if Sherlock had been interested, if he'd wanted to try with John… oh, John had made such plans. To be the first to pleasure Sherlock, show him how good sex could feel, coax him to his release with Sherlock's full enthusiastic consent.

Moriarty had taken all that now. Taken something precious from Sherlock in the most brutal and ugly of ways.

John could still feel the anguish and torment of being forced to orgasm at Moriarty's hand the day before. As devastating as it had been for him, at least he knew what a real, un-coerced orgasm felt like with a partner you loved. Sherlock had never had that.

It was beyond cruel.

He kept his head low and his face blank as Moriarty cleaned Sherlock off. Would it be better if he pretended he'd been out of it the whole time? Less painful for Sherlock?

Moriarty was suddenly back in his face, standing over him.

"I'm sorry you couldn't have him first, pet. But I'll make sure you get a chance, don't worry. Everyone gets to play."

John looked up, hoping to convey all the hatred and contempt he possibly could in one glare, and then he heard the sound of retching. He whipped round to see Sherlock vomiting on the floor, and he unconsciously strained against his bonds.

"Please," he got out, desperately. "Let me… he needs…"

To his utmost surprise, Moriarty untied him. He had a brief idea he should use this chance to attack the man but what was the point, the guards were right outside the door, and he'd only risk further injury to him or Sherlock. Instead he went straight over to his friend, reaching out to rub his back as Sherlock finished purging his stomach.

Sherlock flinched away from the touch almost instantly and John was quick to reassure him.

"No, it's just me, you're alright, just get it all up."

Sherlock relaxed, but only fractionally. John took a second to worry about the mess on the floor, there was hardly anything in it. Sherlock hadn't eaten in over two days now. Would he have to bargain with Moriarty again to get some food?

John rubbed slow soothing circles on Sherlock's back until the dry heaves finally stopped.

"I should make you clean that up," Moriarty said idly from behind them, and John suppressed the urge to knock him to the floor.

"Please can I take him back to the cell?" he said instead, hating how humble his voice came out, but knowing it was necessary to flatter this monster's ego.

Moriarty stretched slowly, almost feline in his languor.

"Mmm, no, I don't think so. I don't think you're going back to the cell again, I think I want to open all my presents right now."

John's heart sank. Whatever Moriarty's long game was, it sounded like it was drawing to a conclusion.

"You can take him to brush his teeth however, and you can both change your clothes. I want you nice and spiffy for the final act."

He whistled through his teeth and the henchmen lumbered back into the room.

"Take them to the bathroom and get them spruced up. Then bring them to the bedroom."

Sherlock had finally straightened beside John and Moriarty grinned at them both.

"Foreplay's over, boys. It's time for the real show."

~III~

The atmosphere in the car was heavy and oppressive. Lestrade was sitting next to Mycroft, Tomas opposite them and an as yet silent man in the driver's seat. Mycroft was tapping away on his laptop for most of the journey, while Tomas cleaned and reloaded various lethal looking guns. The only words spoken so far were when Mycroft fussily demanded Lestrade put his seatbelt on, even though Tomas clearly hadn't. Lestrade almost asked the mute driver to put on some music at one point, if only to see if he could make any of them crack a smile. Fat chance.

He hated the silence because he only had his thoughts for company, and right now they were tied to one particularly gruesome track in his mind. He'd learned more about Moriarty in the last two days than he'd ever known before, and most of the new information he could have done without. Mycroft and the rest of the team may have been able to stay impassive in the face of this madman's brutality, but Lestrade was sick to his stomach with it. The thought of John and Sherlock being subjected to the things he'd heard about made his hands shake and his knees threaten to buckle. While he was grateful for the professionalism and efficiency of Mycroft's team, he longed for someone as brash and upfront as Donovan to show a little emotion. If Donovan was here she'd no doubt be ranting about what a psycho Moriarty was and how he deserved to be hung by his thumbs or chewed up by rats or something. All this calm proficiency was doing his head in; he wanted someone to be angry and afraid with him.

He knew that wasn't entirely fair. Mycroft was clearly worried about his brother, even if he wasn't showing it. But, God, he wanted him to show it. He wanted to feel less alone.

Lestrade suddenly realised this was exactly why John and Sherlock worked so well together. You couldn't have all that single minded intensity on its own, it needed to be balanced by a little common sense, a little normality. Everyone needed reminding to be human sometimes, even Sherlock. Especially Sherlock. And it wasn't a one way street, Sherlock had helped John too, Lestrade knew it. They just… worked, the pair of them.

Lestrade prayed to the God he didn't believe in that Moriarty hadn't managed to shatter that beyond repair.

Four hours in, he couldn't stand the silence anymore.

"How did you narrow it down to those two locations?" he asked, without preamble.

Mycroft didn't look up from his screen.

"Predominantly using the patterns we've noticed in Moriarty's previous operations. He tends to occupy properties a fortnight in advance of their use, hence our search for police reports of unusual activity in a two week timeframe. The properties are usually large, to accommodate his inner circle, with high vantage points for snipers to be situated if necessary. We used these pattern analyses to identify what kind of cars he favours for transport, we also scanned CCTV at garages for operatives of his that we recognise, etcetera, etcetera. It's a very intricate programme."

Mycroft finished with a very small sniff, as if to suggest that Lestrade had no hope of grasping these complexities. Regardless, Lestrade pressed on.

"And what about the mole?"

Mycroft met his eyes for a second before closing his laptop.

"On the night Sherlock and John were taken I was not watching their flat. I was lured by a false trail to a flat in Kilburn. The intelligence could only have come from a small number of people, and I can make an educated guess that similar misleading information has been fed to me before. However, nothing that has had such drastic repercussions as the Kilburn tip off did."

Mycroft suddenly sounded tired and Lestrade noted the pinched set to his face. He felt a twinge of sympathy.

"I'm sure we'll find them in Northumberland," he said reassuringly.

"Oh, they're not in Northumberland," Mycroft said airily.

Lestrade wasn't sure he had heard correctly for a second.

"Sorry, what?"

"They're not in Northumberland," Mycroft repeated. "They're in the Lake District. Which is where we happen to be headed right now."

"But you said-"

"I lied. Because you see Detective Inspector, I know exactly who the mole is."

Mycroft's eyes flickered past Lestrade.

"Isn't that right, Tomas?"

Lestrade turned to see Tomas frozen in his seat, a momentary panic flicking across his eyes. Then, quick as a flash, he clicked the dismantled gun in his hand back together and pointed it straight at Lestrade and Mycroft.

~III~

A/N: Jeez, Mycroft, always so dramatic. You couldn't have waited till he wasn't holding a gun?