A/N: Season 4 has awoken me.

I know, I know. I neglected this story for so long. I am incredibly sorry about that. I honestly have a really bad lack of motivation and it sucks because I really want to be the good author that pumps out chapters every week. But it's just hard for me to be inspired sometimes.

On a side note, wasn't that first episode SO GOOD?! I cried for a full blown two hours. I have several ideas for fanfictions based on the episodes, but I made a vow (*cries*) to finish this story first.

Please, if you are still reading leave me a review and let me know. I know I really don't deserve it, but your reviews let me know what I can improve on and motivate me to write to the best of my ability!

Warning: Angst. Violence.

Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own Sherlock.

Chapter 13:

Mycroft unfolded the newspaper, eyes traveling over the pages vacantly. He read the first few lines before he realized that he had taken none of the information in, his mind somewhere else. He folded the paper back up and set it on the table beside him, rubbing a hand over his forehead and looking up at the ceiling.

He just couldn't stop thinking about it... couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock.

There was a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, something he hadn't felt since they were children and Sherlock had broken his arm trying to see if he could climb the tree in the backyard. He hated it.

Mycroft stood up from his chair and started pacing back and forth, rubbing his thumb in circles over the palm of his hand.

"Sir."

The voice came from the open doorway behind him. He didn't turn, looking down at his polished shoes, watching his toe tap against the hardwood floor.

"What do you want?" he asked, his voice not unkind.

"There... Sherlock took a call and has left John's apartment."

Mycroft turned around.

"What?" This time, there was anger and bitterness in his voice, not from rage, but fueled by fear. "What do you mean? Was anyone with him?"

Sherlock... his little brother….

"Sherlock left John's apartment about twenty minutes ago and has not returned. We tried to trace the call from his phone. All we know that it was from John Watson's phone and we can't find where the signal came from," the man said hurriedly, straightening his tie and smoothing down the wrinkles in his jacket.

"Please tell me my men at least followed Sherlock to where he was going?" Mycroft snapped.

"We-" The man stopped speaking, looking away from Mycroft.

Mycroft clenched his jaw. "You... You have got to be kidding me! I had at least three men posted outside the flat so something like this wouldn't happen!"

"They are also missing, sir," the man responded.

Mycroft cursed.

This was all going to hell.

XXXXX

"Hello, Sherlock."

Sherlock nearly dropped the phone, his hand fumbling with the little device, desperately trying to keep hold of it. He tried to open his mouth and respond, but he couldn't get the words past his lips, couldn't force his voice to work past the shock.

"I know you are probably curious to know why I am contacting you."

Sherlock took a deep breath. Get it together!

"John." It was the only word he could say.

"That's right. I have John here with me," the man on the other side of the line said, his voice casual and smooth, as if he were talking to a friend about weather or the price of gas.

"Why…. I thought you were dead," Sherlock responded.

This was one of the many men that he had encountered over his years 'away', one of the men who had beat him with a pipe until he couldn't breath, couldn't see, couldn't speak.

Don't think about that.

"You really are dull for a genius, aren't you Sherlock?" the Serbian responded. "I am no more dead than you are."

Sherlock had shot the man himself, had watched as his body was swept away by the raging water.

He was kneeling in the mud, hands clutching the gun, shaking, shaking, shaking.

NO! Sherlock shook the memory away.

"How…?"

"I am still alive. You didn't tie up all the loose ends, Sherlock. You didn't make certain that Moriarty's web was completely obliterated."

Damn it.

"What do you want from me?" Sherlock fumbled with the lock on the front door as he spoke, stepping into the cool night air.

The detective could feel his mind slipping a little, could feel him start to fall back into the depths of nothingness that he had found himself spending so much time in. He hated it- this feeling of falling apart, the fear that at any moment he could lose his sanity.

"I want you to meet me somewhere. So we can have a little chat," the man said.

Sherlock knew in that instant what he had to do.

"Where?"

This would be it.

This would be the day he ended it for good.

XXXXX

John couldn't hear his friend's exact words over the phone line, but he could make out the sound of his tone, the rising of his voice, the franticness of his words.

The detective sounded distraught, but he also sounded present. It was a good sign that Sherlock had remained aware up until this point. John could only hope that the other man would remain that way.

John's captor spewed out an address, telling the detective where to meet him.

John wanted to scream at Sherlock, to tell him not to come. But he could only lay there on the ground, his hands clutching at his sides, gasping for breath through the agony.

The Serbian clicked the phone off, letting the mobile fall into his pocket. He turned to John with a smirk, kicking the man one last time before leaving the room.

The sound of the lock clicking echoed off the cold, stone walls.

John closed his eyes and let himself fall into the darkness.

TBC

A/N: I know it's short, but I am just getting back into the swing of things. I am starting to write the next chapter as I post this one, so hopefully you all wont have to wait two years.

Thank you all so much for sticking with me! You guys really are the best. Don't forget to leave me a review if you are still reading. :)

-Dawn