Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

There was something electric about being in the same room as Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. It was electric, the kind of electricity that you could feel halfway across the room as it raised your hair and made your veins tingle. It was the kind of electricity that set John’s nerves on edge and left him with the itch to punch something, anything.

They were so perversely obsessed with one another. The constant need to outwit, outdo, and even out speak one another. It seemed like a lifetime ago, the first time they’d met, John had mistaken that obsession for lust, for attraction, and not just the compulsive need to always be right.

John knew better now.

Everything was just a bloody competition between them, just as it had been between Sherlock and Moriarty. In this room sat the two smartest people in the world, but one of them was just the smallest bit brighter. And no one knew exactly who it was, them least of all, and so they competed.

There was nothing sexual about it, or at least there wouldn’t have been had it been possible for Irene to exist in a space without making it sexual. With her present, every moment felt like one long and elaborate game of foreplay.

Typically, Sherlock and Irene in a room left John feeling uncomfortably aroused because he’d be the first to admit that their displays of wit ridiculously turned him on. Today though, he had no time or patience for them. He had no time to sit back and enjoy the peacocks strutting about fanning their impressive plumage of intelligence.

Because his daughter was missing.

For over six hours now.

John had been forced to keep his hands busy for fear of who he would strike when the time came and he lashed out. He was currently making his second kettle of tea since Irene had arrived in order to distract himself from their ridiculousness.

There had been police milling in and out of 221B for what seemed like forever, though it’d been less than an hour since the first DS had arrived. They had started off asking pointless and redundant questions to the point John had been ready to channel his inner Sherlock. To scream at them about how vapid they were being.

A particularly young DS had asked them to write up a list of any people who might wish to harm them. This had gotten Sherlock’s attention from whatever argument he’d been having with Irene. He’d just stared at the boy like he’d lost his mind, speechless by his stupidity.

John had broken into a fit of hysterical giggles because, really, a list? A list would even begin to cover it. A file perhaps, or maybe a whole god damn filing cabinet.

Greg, sensing the danger the DS had put himself in, had pulled him aside and given him what John recognized as the number to Mycroft’s office. Where there possibly was an actual filing cabinet containing the numerous threats to John and Sherlock.

After that, Greg had stood in the doorway intercepting officers and either answering their questions himself or directing them elsewhere. John truly wasn’t sure where they were being shooed off to, but the only important thing was that they were no longer near him.

Six hours.

John hadn’t ever not known where Willa was for more than a few minutes. Before Sherlock, there had possibly never been a moment where he couldn’t have told you exactly where she was. Since Sherlock had come back, John had relaxed because surely if Willa wasn’t with him then she was definitely off with her Papa getting into trouble.

This was different, though. Sherlock and Irene were in the next room having a pissing match, and Willa was… somewhere. Nowhere. John didn’t know.

The sound of something shattering only vaguely permeated the thick cloud of fog that had taken up residence in John’s head but he ignored it. He couldn’t be arsed to give a damn about things breaking. Not when his entire world had begun to crumble.

Why should he have to care about anything else?

“John,” Sherlock’s voiced called out to him a tone that said this wasn’t the first time he’d said his name.

John couldn’t answer, not right now. He couldn’t look Sherlock in the face and hold onto the tattered remnants of his composure. He’d promised himself that there’d be no more break downs. No more panicking. He needed to keep it together for Willa because falling apart would do her absolutely no good. It certainly wouldn’t get her home any sooner, likely distracting Sherlock from being able to see that one vital clue that they all knew was out there, somewhere.

Because that was what would get her home. Sherlock. Not hysterics or prayers, Sherlock and his deductions. They were what would bring Willa home, and once again, John would owe Sherlock his life.

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was closer now, somehow he’d managed to move directly in front of John without him noticing.

Sherlock carefully took John’s hands and pulled him away from the counter. The contact was enough to bring John entirely back to the real world. He looked down and startled, surprised to see blood staining both of their hands where they met. A small droplet welling up and then falling to the floor.

“You’re bleeding,” John mumbled, realizing why Sherlock had been calling him. He wondered vaguely how the mad genius had managed to hurt himself this time.

Sherlock was uncommonly gentle when he grabbed John’s wrists and turned his palms upwards. Speaking softly when he said, “no, John, you are.”

“Oh.” John was surprised to see that he was correct. The blood coming from several cuts on his own hands.

He looked around to see what had done it, he hadn’t noticed. There, at his feet, was a teacup lying in pieces with the saucer shattered in a halo around it. A noise involuntarily tore itself from his throat as he pulled his hands away, fully intending to reach down to see which cup it’d been.

Sherlock quickly and carefully recaptured John’s wrists. “No, it’s alright. Just a cup, not yours,” he soothed.

It was only after Sherlock had bodily shoved John to the sink and ran his hands beneath the tap did John finally, finally, feel the stinging of his wounds.

“Fuck,” he hissed and yanked his hands away again.

Sherlock didn’t move but fixed John instead with a pointed stare.

“No, I’m alright. I’ve got it now.” John said as he began picking out the broken shards of porcelain from his skin.

Sherlock, clearly doubting John’s competency as a doctor at this point, frown and asked, “are you sure?”

John ignored him in favor of focusing on continuing to clear his wounds of debris. At least it gave him something to do, something to focus on other than the world around him.

As soon as the wound was clean Sherlock manhandled him around the shattered cup and into his chair. He disappeared and then reappeared a moment later with John’s medical kit in hand. When John reached for it, Sherlock batted his hand away gently. “Let me,” Sherlock insisted.

John was quick to give in and held his hands out for Sherlock.

For a moment, all Sherlock did was give John an odd look before he pulled out the disinfectant. He was quiet as he set to work, his talent in triage had increased over the years and he was able to stitch and bandage nearly as well as John could.

He looked around only to discover both Greg and Irene were still there, both watching them. Greg’s face was written over with concern and exhaust, but Irene’s was impossible for John to decipher. His hatred of her flared in his chest.

“Why are you still here?” He bit out.

She shrugged and rose to stand behind Sherlock, who was still kneeling in front of John’s chair. He was now wrapping John’s right hand carefully.

“You asked me to help,” she reminded.

“Now, I’m asking you to leave.”

She gave a short chuckle. “Go away, Irene. Come here, Irene,” she mocked him, “which is it?”

She then leaned forward, hands coming to rest on Sherlock’s shoulders. It was a rather obvious display of dominance and they all knew it. John knew better than to let her goad him, and yet it was working exactly as she hoped.

He inhaled. 1...2...3 and reminded himself that hitting her was not going to help anything, his hands or the situation.

“I want your help when you have some to give,” he bit out in a terribly measured voice, “but right now you have none to give and are doing nothing but making me very, very annoyed.”

A bit of Captain Watson crept into his voice, knowing well enough that would leave The Woman irate. Sherlock also heard it and his hands stumbled for a moment before he remembered himself, though a small smirk had formed on his lips. Whether from John’s voice or the fact that he was done with the bandaging, John wasn’t sure.

There was a pinched look on Irene’s face and she huffed. “I’ll go, as you wish, though I expect you want me to find your daughter for you while I’m away?” Her hands were still on Sherlock’s shoulders.

John hadn’t even had time to think of a retort before Sherlock was up and whirling around so he was nose to nose with her. “Irene,” he growled low, “if you could please focus on something other than yourself right now, that would be helpful.”

It took just a moment too long before she remembered herself and laughed in the face of Sherlock’s rage. “Fine, I’ll look for her, but I won’t be sticking my neck out for nothing,” near the door she paused and turned to narrow her eyes at John, “you will owe me, John Watson.”

With that last warning, she left.

~~~~~

The mirror was broken, glass splintering up to the top with bits missing to reveal the black parts beneath. The lights in the bathroom didn’t work, nor did any of the other lights in the building, at least that she’d noticed. In the other room they were using a small generator to power the few works lamps scattered about. She’d shut the door but a faint light was still spilling in from the space beneath it and some from the street lamps, filtered through the filthy window.

Will could just barely see herself in the mirror, mostly undistorted, but only if she stood near the left corner. She barely recognized herself though.

Janine had cut and cut at her hair until the ends of it didn’t even brush her shoulders, the floor beneath her was still carpeted in the fallen locks. Willa hadn’t been able to control the sniffling as she watched the first strands of her hair fall away. She’d tried though, telling herself she was being silly, it was hair, and it would grow back.

Once Janine had been content with her work, she grabbed the box of hair dye and started on that. It had smelt awful, and Willa had been forced to breathe through her mouth.

“Will it work?” Cole had asked as he watched from the other room, Janine was still working the dye through the ruins of Willa’s hair.

There was a tug, she had assumed Janine had shrugged. “I dunno, but it’s better than leaving her like she was,” she said from above her.

Willa had to bit down on the desire to protest that there’d been nothing wrong with the hair her hair had been before. She’d like her hair like that, everyone always talked about how pretty it was, but more importantly, that was how Daddy and Papa knew she looked.

Once Janine had finished with the dye she and Cole had gone to the other room, Willa caught a glimpse of the gun Cole carried tucked into the back of his trousers. She sat by herself for forever, still perched on top of the toilet lid. When they began talking again, she cautiously got up, seemingly forgotten for the moment. She took her chance to inspect the room she’d been left in.

There was a single window in the room, opposite the toilet, and Willa realized she couldn’t be seen from the other room when she stood at it. The handed was rusted and the wood and paint crumbled when she touched the sill.

There was nothing below the window, no fire escape or even a roof. Nothing but a four-story drop. Even if she could get the window open Willa realized there was nowhere for her to go, which was probably why they’d decided they could leave her alone. Dejected, she returned to the toilet and sat, listening to the far away sounds of sirens.

Willa wondered if they were looking for her, neither Cole nor Janine seemed concerned though.

She knew that Daddy and Papa would know by now that she was missing even though she really didn’t know how long she’d been gone for. Willa hoped Aunt Harry was alright and had been able to tell them what had happened. That way Papa could start deducing and find her.

He was the world’s greatest detective and surely with Daddy’s help they’d be able to find her.

After a while of assuring herself they’d find her soon Janine came back in. “Let’s see your hair,” she said cheerfully.

Willa bent over the bathtub as she was told, watching the woman out of the corner of her eye. She grabbed one of the jugs of water and turned back to her. “It won’t hurt if you keep your eyes shut,” she warned.

Willa nodded, accidentally knocking her chin off the edge of the bath, before squeezing her eyes shut.

Janine tried talking to her again after she’d rinsed out all the dye and scrubbed her head with shampoo that somehow managed to burn Willa’s eyes even though she’d never opened them. She was roughly scrubbing her hair with an old towel when she exclaimed, “oh look at that, you’ve got some curls.”

Willa just stared at her knees.

With a sigh, realizing she was getting the silent treatment, Janine tossed the towel onto the floor. “Fine, have it your way,” she said and turned and left the room.

Willa followed her back, not knowing what they wanted her to do. Cole was back at the window again.

Other than the door to the bathroom and a handful of windows, there was only one other exit in the room. A door on the other side, past both Janine and Cole. Willa knew there was no way she’d be able to get out that door without them catching her.
“I need to pee,” she announced glancing between them.

Janine, who’d been saying something to him, turned midsentence, “fine, go on. Just pour water in when you’re done, won’t flush otherwise.”

Primitive. Papa’s voice echoed around in her head. He’d once said that about the toilets at a shop when the didn’t have an automatic flush.

She was halfway to the bathroom when Janine called out to her. “Here, change while you’re in there,” she handed a pile of clothing off to Willa.

Nothing special, just a plain pink t-shirt a few sizes too big, a black pair of leggings, some knickers and a thin pair of socks. Willa was surprised when she realized that everything, other than the shirt, was in her size. They seemed to know a lot about her.

Willa decided to press her luck when she went into the bathroom and closed the door. Act like you’re supposed to be doing it. People won’t question you if they think you know what you’re doing. Papa told her that once too, Daddy had made a grumpy face at the lesson. But it worked, neither of them came and demanded she open the door. They were trusting the fact that Willa had nowhere to go.

She quickly used the toilet and changed, still uneasy of the fact that there were strangers on the other side of the door.

She was gathering up her own clothing when she had an idea. She might not be able to go anywhere but her clothing might.

She quickly grabbed the sweater she’d been wearing and went to the window. Carefully she dug her fingers into what was left of the handle and pulled up. The window didn’t budge at first so she pulled harder, flakes of paint and wood chipping away at her efforts. When it finally gave it did so with a squealing so loud to her own ears that Willa paused, waiting for someone to come investigate the noise.

To her surprise, no one came.

She carefully pushed the sweater through the crack until most of it was out the other side, hanging down from the window. Holding it in place, she bent down and scooped up a small pile of her hair and stuffed it into the sleeve still on her side. Cautiously Willa slid the window down until the shirt was pinned, the noise wasn’t as loud this time, then she poked at the fabric until none of it was showing on her side.

Willa hurried away from the window, eager not to get caught, and balled up what was left of her clothing. As she passed by the mirror again she caught sight of herself in it. She pushed up on her toes and looked carefully. It was unnerving not to know the person looking back at you in the mirror.

Her face may still have been the same but in the dark bathroom, she looked like a totally different little girl.

Willa stuck her tongue out at the girl with the short dark hair, which seemed even shorter now that it was mostly dry. The girl stuck out her tongue back.

Willa choked on laughter she felt bubbling up, still tired and a little disoriented. They’d been trying so hard to make her not look like herself, not look like Daddy anymore, but they’d only managed to make her look more like Papa instead.

Janine pushed the door open just then and smiled, though it didn’t seem friendly. “What do you think?” She asked.

Willow dropped her heels back down and tried to scowl at Janine. “I don’t like it,” she said before holding up the ball of her clothing. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

Janine gave a half shrug before nodding toward the bathtub, “put them in there and then come out. I have water for you.”

Willa did as she was told, taking care to make sure the bundle stayed rolled up so no one would notice anything missing. She also took a quick moment to kick around her hair so they wouldn’t see that she’d taken some.

When she came out of the bathroom Janine was waiting by the bed with a plastic cup in her hand. Willa sat down and took the cup as it was handed to her. One of the work lamps shined down into it and she could see specs of white things swirling in the water. Whatever they wanted to give her hadn’t completely dissolved yet.

“Drink it,” Janine ordered, her friendly tone was gone again.

Willa wanted to throw it, or dump it, anything but take it but she was sure they had more. Probably even more shots so she realized there was really no choice. She drank quickly, trying to ignore the grit as it passed over her tongue.

Once she was done Janine refilled the cup with more water, this time there was nothing crushed into it so Willa drank it more willingly.

It seemed like almost no time before the cotton feeling returned to head and limbs grew so heavy she could no longer sit up. Janine stood the entire time watching her, even after Willa had given up fighting and laid down she could still feel her watching.

~~~~~

Sometimes it seemed that the only time Mycroft came to Baker Street was when he was the bearer of bad news. Usually, it was regarding the proverbial sword hanging above his or Sherlock’s or even John’s neck. This was the very first time, though, that the sword had swung around to threaten Willa.

Of course, given who her family was Willa was born into a state of danger, but this was different. This was an actual physical danger she was in, not something theoretical or abstract. This was the very first time she stood below the sword and one of the few times in his life that Mycroft truly felt powerless.

Despite the hour the windows in the flat above him were brightly lit, a stark contrast to the neighborhood surrounding him where nearly everyone was asleep. He could even see movement from above though he couldn’t exactly make out who’d just been shuffling past the window.

A silence greeted Mycroft when he pushed open the door to 221 B, regardless of what he’d seen from the outside.

Silence did not belong here, it was an omen of terrible things. Things such as Sherlock’s faked death or his exile.

At the beginning of his familiarity with the flat Mycroft was confident that it would never know such a thing as silence. Sherlock was always winging about something (usually Mycroft) and John, so eager to please in those days, would be following him about trying to find the neutral ground between Mycroft and his younger brother. As time marched on John worried less about pleasing Mycroft and the noise became jokes cracked at his expense.

It didn’t honestly bother Mycroft, their little jokes, instead he was pleased that Sherlock was finally experiencing a sense of comradery that he’d never gotten to as a child. Besides, if he’d ever really gotten fed up with them John was an easy enough man to remove. A man with a military career and several dealings with MI6.

It would have been nothing to place a gun back into John’s hand, wave a paper in his face, and ship him off to parts unknown. But Sherlock was so taken with the little doctor that he allowed their friendship to grow. Because even if some of it was at his expense, Mycroft enjoyed watching Sherlock experience the joys and tragedies of friendship.

More recently it had been the sounds of Willa that brightened the flat, her laugh most of all. She’d been barely a year old the very first time she’d laughed properly for Mycroft. Back then she’d been an endless supply of giggles for her father and even Mrs. Hudson, both of them willing to make fools of themselves just to earn them. Mycroft, at the time, hadn’t been willing to lower himself to that level. So instead, her first giggle for him had come from a simple sneeze.

She’d laughed so hard she’d fallen back on her bottom, red coloring her cheeks.

She reminded him of Sherlock at that age, perhaps because he’d had little to do with any other babies. Even then, when Mycroft was eight and found his little brother mostly tiresome, a giggle from the little boy had always managed to coax a smile onto his face.

Mycroft may have decided she was his to protect that day, not just on some promise to Sherlock but because he wanted to.

Realizing that he hadn’t actually moved into the building any further than the entrance Mycroft shook his head, placing the now melancholic thoughts where they belonged.

Sherlock, it seemed, had been the one he’d seen moving through the window. He was pacing about the living room, every so often stopping and glancing out a window. He was waiting for something, Mycroft wasn’t sure what though. John, on the other hand, was seated in his chair, only his eyes tracing Sherlock’s route around the room.

Gregory was on the sofa with his head tipped back to rest against the wall, looking utterly exhausted and seriously troubled. Despite his eyes being closed Mycroft could tell he was awake, monitoring both John and Sherlock by the noises they were or weren’t making. Mycroft’s long-rumored dead heart squeezed at this because long ago he’d vowed he would do everything within his considerable power to keep this man as happy as he could.

Yet another thing he was failing at.

“Well, what do you have?” Sherlock demanded impatiently even though he hadn’t bothered to spare his brother a glance.

Mycroft held out the only thing he had to offer, a small black memory stick. “This is everything from this evening,” he admitted.

Sherlock, in one fluid motion, snatched the stick from his hand and strode over towards the desk. Mycroft just barely suppressed the urge to sigh at his brother’s impertinence and instead sank down onto the sofa. Gregory, whose eyes still hadn’t opened, reach over and grabbed his hand with surprising accuracy. Mycroft laced their fingers and then returned the squeeze Gregory gave him.

“Did you know Irene Adler was also not dead?” Gregory asked after a beat, finally opening his eyes and lifting up his head.

Mycroft winced slightly before nodding. John, from across the room, let out a disgruntled huff.

“Right, so I’m always the last to know. Funny how that all works,” he snapped.

Mycroft did sigh this time. “I was only made aware of Miss Adler’s miraculous survive about three years ago,” he informed the other man.

“Really?” It was Gregory this time and he sounded properly surprised.

“As it turns out I do not, actually, know everything,” Mycroft admitted sourly.
Though for his discomfort Gregory flashed him a cheeky smile. It was short lived though as Sherlock chose this moment to huff at them in annoyance.

“Well I do hope you’ve managed to bring us something useful,” he bemoaned finally sliding the memory stick into the computer.

Mycroft didn’t want to admit how little he knew he’d actually given his brother so instead he opted to warn him. “She’s clever, Sherlock. This isn’t some bumbling fool we’re dealing with, this is a woman who has already successfully duped us all.”

~~~~~~

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at Mycroft’s warning, his heart sinking further. He’d known when his brother first came in that the news wasn’t great, or at least it wasn’t the new Sherlock was looking for. Mycroft would undoubtedly have come in gloating if he’d found substantial evidence of Willa’s whereabouts, he would have been positively insufferable if he’d already located her.

Sherlock would have welcome his brother’s smugness for the next decade over having found something out before Sherlock if it meant they would have Willa back tonight.

“What do you have, Mycroft?” John asked Sherlock didn’t have to look behind him to see he had risen from his chair and was moving across the room. John wasn’t a fool, he would have already reached the same conclusion Sherlock had.

“Surveillance from the streets outside the restaurant,” Mycroft told him.

Sherlock glared at the computer screen as it seemed the loading bar refused to move, he made a note to tinker with the processor; clearly, something was wrong with it.

When the files did finally come up Sherlock noticed that the first dozen or so in the folder were nothing more than stills taken from a surveillance camera. He immediately turned to glare at his brother.

“The only camera pointed anywhere near the alley only took a photo every two seconds,” Mycroft cut him off before he could accuse him of withholding information.

Sherlock scowled and turned back around, sour that his brother had reasonably thwarted his attempts to pick a fight. John, growing impatient, reached around him to open the first photo. Sherlock was distracted, just for a moment, by the bandage still wrapped around John’s hand. It was still perfectly tight and the bleeding had stopped, there really was no reason for him to be as distracted by it as he was.

John, oblivious to Sherlock’s split attention, began scrolling through the pictures. With a small shake of his head, Sherlock returned his focus to the screen… back to the case, though he allowed John to continue the navigation.

At 7:29:24, Sherlock noticed, just at the edge of the frame, a familiar woman. At 7:29:26 Janine Hawkins, or whatever her actual name was, had appeared entirely on screen as she emerged from the alley. Relatively little had changed with the woman in the last six years, a little older maybe but quite recognizable. In the next frame, Janine was in the same spot but her head had turned, she was clearly deciding which direction to go. It was in this one that a man was barely visible from the shadows of the alley. Despite the distorted image Sherlock could see a shape, Willa, on his shoulder hanging limply.

A sharp inhale from over Sherlock’s shoulder and John ripped his hand away like the computer had shocked him. He’d spotted Willa too.

Sherlock took over scrolling and before the timestamp had even switched to 7:30, about five minutes before John and Sherlock had even realized Willa was missing, the three of them headed off the left side of the screen.

The next few files were only seconds long CCTV footage tracking glimpses of them as they made their way down the streets.

Sherlock’s blood began boiling as he watched each of the short videos. Not a single one of the dozens of people they passed had even looked twice. Everyone just saw a sweet family heading home after dinner, the little one exhausted. No one noticed that Willa had only one sandal or that her head was being jostled about in a manner that would surely have woken any other child.

Not a single person notice how wrong the scene actually was.

About five blocks, and a handful of cameras, from the restaurant Janine and her partner stopped briefly just barely in view of the camera. Janine turned and spoke to the man carrying Willa, they were obviously waiting for something. It didn’t take long until a small sedan pulled up next to the curb and they climbed inside.

Janine went in first and then

the man did something and just for a split second Sherlock saw something that may help them. As he passed Willa into Janine he was careful with her, cradling her head and gently sliding her legs in before climbing in himself. Sherlock replayed the video again to ensure he’d seen what he thought he had.

“What do you see, Sherlock?” John asked after the second replay.

“This man,” Sherlock said turning to look at John, or rather his chin for as close as they were, “he’s being careful with her, or at least more than we’d expect. He’s clearly uncomfortable with the fact that she’s a child.”

From the sofa Mycroft made a sound, both John and Sherlock turned their heads to look at him. “I agree,” he conceded, “we’ve been running him through facial recognition software, starting with the American’s database given what Harriet had said.”

John straightened up so abruptly that he shoved Sherlock’s chair into the desk. “So this is all we’ve got to go on?” He was agitated, “bits of useless video and a polite kidnapper?”

Sherlock looked up at John. He wanted to say something to calm him down, to reassure him. To remind him that sometimes the littlest details were the ones that solved the case. But he was worried it might set John off even more.

Mycroft took over that job for him, thankfully. “John, this is more than you had ten minutes ago.” He reminded him in a placating tone.

Perhaps maybe not thankfully, Lestrade even cringed.

“And it’s shit!” John roar and stalked over towards Mycroft.

Mycroft outwardly appeared unconcerned by John’s aggressive movements, though Sherlock knew his brother well enough to know when he was worried. It was Lestrade who sat up straighter, mouth drawn into a line. Sherlock was loathed to admit it but it was clear the detective was prepared to defend his husband, even from one of his oldest friends, and that was… not nothing.

“They’re still in London, John,” Mycroft told him sounding bored, “we have faces and a car to look for. That is more than we might have hoped for.”

John glared down at Mycroft, his fists clenching and unclenching. “It’s not enough,” he hissed.

“But,” Sherlock began quietly, “it gives me somewhere to start looking.”

John turned to Sherlock the anger draining from his face, leaving him distressingly blank, “fine.”

Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off John, worried, though he tilted his head towards his brother and Lestrade, “which I’m going to do as soon as my brother leaves.”

Lestrade got the hint first and started moving, he sat up and patted Mycroft’s knee. “Let’s go find some coffee,” he said before standing. Then, in a move that was either exceptionally brave or foolish, he walked around and stood in front of John. “I’m going to call my people and see if there’s anything new. I’ll let you know either way.”

John gave a short sharp nod, mouth set into a thin line. “Thanks, Greg.”

“Always, mate,” Lestrade said and started moving towards the door once Mycroft had gathered himself to rise.

At the doorway Mycroft paused, “I am doing my best, John.” His voice was uncharacteristically soft before disappearing down the stairs with his husband.

Sherlock watched as John let out a sigh that seemed to cause him to deflate. He turned back towards Sherlock. “What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going back to the restaurant and follow their route,” Sherlock told him.

“To where?” John asked, this time sinking down into his chair.

Sherlock paused, he wasn’t quite sure where one would hide out when kidnapping a young child. But he did know they would still be in London, there hadn’t been enough time to get out of the city before the police had been alerted and Mycroft had more or less locked down the country.

Though he didn’t know precisely where they were heading, Sherlock did know that there were only a handful of neighborhoods to choose from. The kinds of areas where no one asked questions or spoke to the police about strange happenings. It was still much too extensive a list to give to John.

“I’m not entirely sure,” he answered finally, “but the car stopped somewhere, and someone must have seen something.”

“Right, so now I’m useless,” John said, dropping his head into his hands.

Sherlock blinked, for a moment, confused. “Useless,” he parroted.

“This, the waiting and the figuring it all out. This is you, Sherlock,” John gestured towards him with one hand, head still resting on the other. “Drawing conclusions from less than five minutes of CCTV footage, this is you. My daughter’s been kidnapped and I’m bloody useless.”

“John...”

“No,” John interrupted before Sherlock had a chance to assure him that wasn’t true at all. “No,” he repeated, softer this time, “give me someone to fight, or shoot at, or run after and then I’ll be helpful.”

“So then you’ll just sit here all night,” Sherlock snapped.

John looked up properly, surprised by Sherlock’s tone. “Yes.”

Sherlock walked over to the coat tree, grabbed John’s jacket, and threw it at him perhaps more violently than he’d meant to. “Sitting around here getting drunk with be of no use to Willa, come with me, be useful.”

John stood, jacket still bundled in his hand, and seemed to consider for a moment. “Fine,” he said, still clearly annoyed.

~~~~~~

It was nearly three in the morning and Harry couldn't sleep. Hadn't been able to get even some much as twenty minutes with her eyes shut.

Harry, unlike John, had never been able to fall asleep just anywhere. At least sober. Drunk she could, and often did, pass out where she stood waking up several hours later where she'd fallen. Sober, she was relegated to lying on her side looking out as the night passed by her window. The nurses and doctors didn't help either.

Of course, that wasn't their fault, they were concerned about the nasty blow to the head she'd taken. They were only coming in every hour or so to check her vitals and perform, what she'd been told were, standard neurological tests. Harry wasn't sure, but she thought John might have told them about her drinking history since they seemed overly cautious with her. She couldn't remember if being an alcoholic would affect a concussion. It's something she might have known long ago but had slipped away as she drank.

It wasn't just the foreign bed or the constant parade of people in her room that were keeping her awake. It was the guilt too. Gnawing away at her insides to the point she didn't know if she was nauseous from the concussion or the guilt.

There was also the fear, not helping matters anyway. If John found out, though more than likely it was a 'when,' he'd have every right to do whatever he wanted to her. She'd betrayed him, badly. Even she saw that now. But it wasn't just John anymore, she's also betrayed Willa, and that was where John would gather most of his righteous fury from. He'd no doubt take the time to make her feel smaller than a cockroach, less desirable too, before very possibly ending her life.

She didn't mean to betray Willa or even John for that matter. It was all just supposed to be harmless. A little bit of innocent information here or there and the occasional photo. It all seemed so… harmless at first.

Of course, there had been the thank you donations into her account every time she sent off a text, and yes, maybe that should have tipped off that things weren't exactly on but how was she to know it was going to become this?

Harry had contemplated sneaking away from the hospital, leaving London, so that by the time John realized she'd had a hand in all this she'd be out of the country. All fanciful thoughts because she knew though that there wasn't anywhere in the world they wouldn't come looking for her.

The shrill ring of the hospital phone jerked Harry from her thoughts, her heart sinking. Only John knew where she was, she couldn't imagine a 3am call being good. She hoped for the best and prepared for the worst as she reached out to answer the phone.

"Hello," her voice wasn't as steady as she'd hoped.

"I heard you got a little bump on the head."

Suddenly Harry knew there was someone a thousand times worse than John on the other end. Mary. She'd only ever spoken to the woman about five times during all the years of knowing her, but there was no doubt as to who it was.

"What have you done?" Harry hissed only to realize her hand had risen to cover her mouth in an attempt to calm her breathing.

"Me? I haven't done anything. Why, Harriet? What have you done?" She was entirely too calm sounding for someone who had just kidnapped a child.

"I didn't do this!" Harry shouted before remembering herself and where she was. She took a deep breath and lowered her voice, "this was you, I know it."

"You agreed to this."

"It was only meant to be photos, texts, not… this!" Harry hissed into the phone.

"Do you think if you keep saying that, that maybe John won't destroy you?"

Harry inhaled sharply, surprised at how accurately Mary had been at guess what she'd been up to. "He won't," she said even though she knew differently.

A cold, hollow, laugh rang down the line and it made Harry's spine tingle.

"I married him, Harry. I know just what he's capable of, and now with Sherlock back by his side, there'll be no one to stop him."

Harry opened her mouth to protest once more but found she didn't even have the strength to dispute those claims because she knew it was all true.

"Now I need to go. I'm rather busy at the moment but I wanted to remind you, Harriet, that if you tell John anything it won't just be his gun you're running from. Are we clear?"

"Y-yes," Harry agreed, her voice shaking.

As soon as she spoke the line went dead, dial tone ringing in her ears.

She lost it then, her ability to keep the great weight of it all in her stomach. She didn't even have time to stand before she was leaning over the bed, retching. The hospital phone dropping down to the floor, even then she could still hear the tone.

After several moments the dry heaving finally stopped and Harry managed to crawl back into the bed. Hitting the call button, she allowed herself to sink back into the pillows and cry. Mostly for herself, she was dead either way now, so she was entitled to some self-pity. It was likely no one else was going to cry for her when the time finally came.

~~~~~~

Greg watched as Mycroft paced in front of his desk, one mobile wedged between his shoulder and ear with another being furiously pecked at in his hands.

It was the fact that Mycroft was pacing that was the worrying part, Greg had seen him juggle several devices at once more times than he could count. Except in the past, all of the feats of multitasking had been performed behind a desk, never pacing the floor.

Greg was fairly confident in the fact that he was probably the only person on Earth to have ever seen Mycroft Holmes in such a state. This knowledge caused a little bit of warmth to invade the chill that had been residing in Greg's insides since they'd found out that Willa was missing.

Mycroft was comfortable enough with him (as he should be seeing as they'd been married for over two years) that he was allowing Greg to see him at his most vulnerable. As the man who cared deeply for his family, for his niece and her fathers, and felt he needed to be the one to right this wrong. It made Greg want to get up from his seat and force Mycroft to stop pacing, to bury his face in his neck and assure his husband it'd all end up alright. Sherlock always came out on top, and god willing, this would be no different.

He didn't though because, at this moment, Greg knew that they all needed Mycroft as his best. Not distracted by his sentimental old fool of a husband. Now was not the time to be thinking of his own wants and needs when his niece was out there somewhere not with her fathers.

There really wasn't much for him to do here though, he was itching to get out on the streets but knew there wasn't a place for him there either. Greg was absolutely chaffed to admit that any useful information on her whereabouts would come from Sherlock or through Mycroft's office, not through the Yard. Still, he was texting constantly asking for updates on the case, the responses were all the same. Which was to say absolutely nothing of use.

If they were at home Greg could have found a way to occupy himself, to feel useful. Whether that was making tea or pacing around his own bedroom. Hell, he'd probably feel more useful in the near-empty flat Mycroft insisted on keeping because it was nearly center between their offices. So instead of being able to find something to do, Greg was forced to sit on his hands and watch his husband try and control the world.

No sooner had Mycroft put down the mobile he'd been talking on than one of his assistants knocked at the door. Seemingly, becoming aware of himself Mycroft settle himself into his seat behind the desk before calling the person is.

The woman who walked in was gorgeous and probably about half his age. Greg was always somewhat amused by the fact that nearly every one of Mycroft's assistants were pretty women. The kind of women Greg wouldn't really mind having wait on him hand and foot. In the beginning, during the early stages of their courtship, he may have been a bit jealous and more than slightly suspicious of this fact. Over time he'd come to realize his darling husband would have little knowledge of what to do with a naked woman aside from handing her a coat.

"Surveillance report on your brother, sir," she said, holding out a single piece of paper towards Mycroft.

Mycroft took the paper, not bothering to look up from the laptop he was now navigating. He glanced at the sheet for a few moments before putting it down, returning his full attention to the computer screen. Greg waited with eyebrows raised for the update.

"Aside from being a few thousand pounds short by dawn and having walked most of London, there's not much to see," Mycroft said finally after he realized Greg was waiting on him.

"Nothing new?" Greg asked though he'd already gotten his answer.

Mycroft shook his head, and for a second, even in the presence of company, he looked sad. "You may go, Jessica," Mycroft said finally.

She gave a short nod and turned to leave, but before she reached the door, she turned to Greg. "Would you like anything, Detective Lestrade?"

Greg shook his head, "I'm good," he lied. He was dying for a coffee but always felt out of place asking for something from one of Mycroft's assistants.

"My husband would like a coffee, black," Mycroft informed her as she reached the door.

Greg raised an eyebrow at that, though he couldn't help but smile a little at Mycroft's perhaps excessive use of the title husband.

"You do," Mycroft told him once again focused on the laptop screen.

"Yeah," Greg relented, "but it's not necessary since she's obviously doing just as much work as you are. I could have gotten it."

Mycroft's lips turned down into a small scowl. "No," he said simply, "you're more useful here."

Greg sighed and leaned back into the chair, recognizing when an argument wasn't worth having. After all, that was

as close to 'I need you here' as he was going to get from Mycroft.

The coffee helped distract him from the oppressive silence and the feeling of uselessness for a while but eventually, the cup was empty. No sooner had he drained the cup, though, did the feelings crawl back up into his throat. He couldn't help but think of John and Sherlock wandering London all night looking for their daughter. He loved Willa immensely but knew whatever he was feeling now, John and Sherlock were going through it tenfold. He didn't even know what he'd do if it were Addy out there missing.

That thought at least gave him something to do. Pulling out his mobile, he sent a text to David, even though he hoped he was asleep, and updated him (nothing) and asked for him to pass his love onto Addy.

He managed to sit still for approximately another two minutes before the urge to do something overwhelmed him. So he stood up from the chair and walked over to Mycroft who was once again wholly immersed in his devices. Despite seemingly being in his own world Mycroft tensed when Greg walked around the desk, but that was the only indication he gave of being aware.

Ignoring all the warning signs that said 'go away,' Greg stepped behind Mycroft's chair. The back was low enough he was able to put his hands on his husband's shoulders and begin rubbing them in a futile effort to relieve him of some of the tension.

"Gregory, this is not helpful," Mycroft said even as he leaned back into his touch.

Greg shrugged and continued, thumbs pressing firm circles into the base of Mycroft's neck, "it is for me."

"How is distracting me helpful for you?" Mycroft asked, turning his head in an attempt to look back at him, a halfhearted scowl affixed to his face. Greg was having none of it and removed a hand to gently push Mycroft's chin until he was looking forward again.

"It's distracting me," Greg clarified.

"And you need distracting?"

Greg snorted, "desperately."

He could almost see the gears in Mycroft's head working until suddenly he nodded, "carry on then."

~~~~~~

She was riding her bike around the boating lake at the park, it was fun since she hadn't been on her bike since she'd broken her arm. Papa was nervous about her rebreaking it even though Daddy had said she was well enough to ride again. She could hear them talking to each other behind her, when she felt brave enough she turned and could see them just behind her. They both smiled at her before turning to each other and talking again. Willa thought it was funny because even though it was very warm out Papa was wearing his big jacket.

Willa laughed at her silly Papa to herself, about to call out to him and tell him he was being odd, but her bike began to wobble. She focused on gripping the handlebar tighter and steering it straight. By the time she got the bike under control, she realized she was going frightfully fast, and every time she tried to hit the brakes they wouldn't work, she just kept on going.

She could hear Papa shouting at her to slow down and to stop, she tried to tell him she couldn't but she was so far away now that he couldn't hear her. She turned to look at them, Daddy was racing after her now but he wasn't going fast enough and she kept getting further and further away. Soon enough she couldn't even hear them anymore.

She didn't care now if the bike crashed and she broke her arm again, anything would be better than this, so she lifted her hands off the bars.

Willa started awake. She struggled to open her eyes, they were still so heavy, but when she did she could just make out the sun rising above some of the buildings outside her window. Not her window, she remembered and gave up struggling to keep her eyes open, the tears stinging at her eyes anyway. Her entire body felt too heavy, and besides moving her arm, she couldn't get it to do much she wanted. She wondered why she was awake since her body clearly wasn't ready to be up.

"Why this?" Cole asked, rather loudly.

"Because you were told do," Janine answered from somewhere near Willa.

They were arguing, she could tell by their tones, but it didn't seem like they'd noticed that Willa was awake. She now kept still on purpose so they wouldn't stop talking, maybe she could figure out what they were going to do.

"Yeah, I was told I'd have to do a lot of things, but not this!"

"Do you want me to call her and tell her you're refusing?" Janine spat out, she was nearly yelling now.

Cole made a funny noise, "would you do it?"

"Yes," Janine answered shortly, "if I was told to. It's not like you won't be paid for it."

"It's a child," Cole insisted, sounding upset.

Janine laughed, but it wasn't a funny laugh, it made Willa's stomach roll and not feel right. "There are millions and millions of kids, you need to get over it."

"Really? That's your justification? That there's more? What about her parents?" Cole was pleading now, but his voice was getting closer to Willa and Janine.

"How many people have you killed?" Janine snapped, and the bed near Willa's feet bounced. "Were they all soldiers?"

It was very quiet for a while and Willa nearly fell back asleep. She was almost there when Cole growled out, "fine."

He left, stomping out of the room angrily, Willa could hear his footsteps down many of the stairs. Janine was quiet after he left and this time Willa really did fall asleep again.

It seemed she'd only been asleep a few minutes when Janine was roughly shaking her awake. Willa's eyes weren't as heavy this time and she blinked them open at Janine, it took her a moment to realize that room was much brighter than last time.

"Get up," Janine ordered.

Willa managed to sit up this time, but her arms and legs still felt wobbly. Cole was back in the room, his lips were pulled together in a very thin line and he wouldn't look away from a spot on the wall. She only barely remembered the conversation from before, her sleepy head making it feel more like a dream than something that really happened. Whatever he'd agreed to do was making him very upset.

Looking around the room Willa realized she'd been back asleep for a while as the room was now nearly bare. All the work lamps and the generator were missing along with all the other little things they'd had with them. Aside from the mattress, the only things in the room were three big orange plastic jugs.

Janine stepped in front of her holding a silver foil packet and a bottle of water. When she held them out to Willa it took her a moment to realize she was being given her breakfast. Obediently she took it and managed only to wrinkle up her nose a bit when she realized that they were cherry pop-tarts.

"Oh just eat it," Janine snapped apparently having noticed Willa's unhappiness.

The food kept sticking in her throat and she wanted to gag. She'd always hated the taste of artificial cherry, so much so she'd thought she hated cherries. She thought that up until last summer when Daddy had taken her to the beach. They'd stayed in a little cottage right by the shore, and one dad Daddy had bought a small basket of cherries. He'd chased her around playfully until she agreed to try one.

She'd realized she loved the real ones.

Daddy then taught her how to spit the pit out really far into the sand. Their afternoon had been spent having a pit spitting contest to see who could get them to go the farthest. That had been the happiest she could ever remember Daddy being, at least before Papa came to live with them.

Tears were stinging her eyes once again as she remembered their beach trip. Daddy's eyes had crinkled up as he laughed when she'd puff out her cheeks really big before spitting. Papa had talked about taking them all on holiday again so he could do those things with them.

As soon as she was done Janine pulled the trash from her hand and handed her a pair of trainers. They were a little too big but Willa didn't say anything about it. As she put them on, she looked at Cole again. He hadn't seemed to have moved since when she first woke up, he was still only looking at the wall and nowhere else.

"What are we doing?" Willa dared to ask once her shoes were on. By now her head didn't feel as fuzzy and her arms and legs were almost back to normal.

Janine, who'd been in the bathroom, reappeared. "We're going for a ride," she said simply, "go use the toilet quick."

Willa nodded and went, realizing they weren't going to tell her anything else. Once she was done Janine took her hand and pulled her out into the hallway near the stairs. They stood watching as Cole finally moved and grabbed one of the big orange jugs. He too went into the bathroom but Willa quickly realized he wasn't dumping the jugs down the drain, a brownish puddle began trickling out under the door. He came back into the room and grabbed the next canister, dumping it all on the mattress where she'd slept. By now the smell had reached Willa's nose and she gasped.

It was petrol.

Instinctively she took a step back trying to put more space between her and the liquid.

"Oh, aren't you clever," Janine said, but it didn't sound like a compliment. She gripped Willa's hand even harder to keep her from going anywhere else.

The third jug of petrol was emptied all over the floor, some of it splashed onto the walls, of the room. Once it was finished, only then did Janine half pull Willa down the stairs. They only stopped right before a door, Willa could hear the sounds of a street on the other side. Janine let go of her hand for a second and leaned down so she was looking right into Willa's eyes.

"I'm trusting you to act like a big girl," she warned, "if you scream or cry when we go outside I will shoot you. Do you understand?" As she said this she pulled open the purse she was carrying and in it Willa could see a tiny silver handgun.

Swallowing down the urge to cry, Willa nodded.

Cole's

boots were heavy on the stairs again, this time because he was running. "Let's go," he said as he brushed by them to the door, not even stopping.

Janine grabbed Willa's hand and pulled her after him, "come on, we have somewhere to be."

~~~~~~

“Sir,” Jessica called as she pushed open the door to Mycroft’s office just a crack. She hadn’t knocked but everyone knew the fastest way to find oneself unemployed was by barging into his office without an invitation.

“Come in,” he told her. Mycroft knew the lack of knocking meant there had been some kind of news on his niece.

Jessica came in quickly, carrying yet another sheet of paper. Just one again.

“Yes, what is it?” He asked tone just on this side of impatient.

“Miss Watson became ill and extremely agitated around three this morning,” Jessica explained as she handed the paper to him. “We looked into it after it was noted in her chart and found she had received a phone call to her room moments prior.”

Jessica was very studiously not looking at Gregory as she spoke.

Gregory had given up his vigil less than a half hour before after some, perhaps inappropriately timed, snogging. At the time neither of them had been receiving any new worthy of alert, so there had been no point in both of them being awake given that it had been nearly 24 hours since either of them had slept. He was currently sprawled out on the leather sofa in Mycroft’s office, his mobile resting on his chest.

Though now that there was something that might have been news Mycroft found himself loath to wake his husband. He wasn’t honestly sure if the phone call was actually news, perhaps it had just been an empty update paired with a concussion that had set Harriet Watson off.

He glanced over the paper and realized the number didn’t make sense to have been John or someone else who could update Harriet. According to the information they’d pulled on the number it belonged to a cell phone that had been purchased in China.

“Was the phone line tapped?” Mycroft asked after he had finished reading.

Jessica pulled her bottom lip in between her teeth and Mycroft sighed, that would be a no then. “Why?”

“We didn’t think Miss Watson was involved,” Jessica answered, her voice quieter than usual.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. “Well obviously she is involved as she was the one with the girl when she was taken,” he reminded ever so carefully, “has she called John or Sherlock at all?”

Jessica shook her head.

“Pull her phone records, see if this number has ever been in contact with her before,” Mycroft ordered as he shoved the paper back towards her.

Jessica took the paper and seemed to ignore his irritable tone with her. “For how long, sir?” She asked.

“Six years,” Mycroft said more sharply than he’d meant to but he held any apologies and watched her until she began to turn. “And please make sure someone is trying to track this number,” he called out as she reached for the door.

Gregory stirred on the lounge and Mycroft instantly regretted raising his voice. He’d decided that there was no reason to wake his husband until he was sure there was something to tell him.

Mycroft couldn’t imagine Harriet Watson being the one to receive a ransom call for Willa and even if she did it was unlikely that she’d forget to inform anyone else about it. If this wasn’t just some innocent call and an injured woman, which he was slowly beginning to doubt was a possibility, then she was certainly involved in Willa’s disappearance. Mycroft just wasn’t entirely sure how she’d fit into the entire thing.

He’d had Harry looked into shortly after John had moved in with Sherlock and he’d had her looked into more closely just before John returned to London with Willa. She was mostly unremarkable as far as people went. Three years older than John with a petty criminal record stretching back into her early teens, no doubt her form of rebellion against their father.

Originally it had been vandalism and minor shoplifting but as she’d gotten older and found herself in the world of alcohol she’d found herself arrested for more and more things. But still, the most serious offense had been assaulting a police officer as he attempted to secure her a ride home one night after she’d gotten excessively drunk.

She’d fallen into the bottle early, barely into her teens. She’d somehow managed to get into university but failed out in her first term. She never went back and instead spent her life shifting from shop positions to temp agencies and then back again. She’d met her future ex-wife in 2000, the relationship had been rocky from the start, but Clara had stuck by her through two stays in rehab. They eventually married in 2005 while John was home on leave, him being one of the few people to attend their wedding. The divorce came four years later after alleged infidelity on Harry’s part.

After the divorce she moved into the bottom of a bottle, only working when the situation got dire and John refused to help her out. Only in 2015, after an ultimatum issued by John, she managed to maintain a functional level of alcoholism in order to be able to see her niece, this included a steady job.

She had no contacts to anyone even remotely connected to Moriarty or Mary Morstan (Mycroft still hadn’t managed to discover her proper name). She only got into trouble when she drank, hardly a career criminal.

A very pedestrian tragedy that some might have deemed a worthwhile story, but one Mycroft found tedious. Though he wondered if that dullness had caused him to overlook something.

He tried not to think very hard on that and forty-five minutes after her last visit to his office Jessica knocked again.

“Yes?”

“Miss Watson has never communicated with that number before, Sir.” Jessica began informing him even before she was entirely through the door. “The number is registered to a disposable phone that was sold in Chengdu, China.”

Mycroft frowned at the news.

Jessica continued to read from the file she was holding, this time it truly was an entire file. “But since January of 2012, she has been in semi-regular communication with a mobile phone from Santa Clara, California.”

“How regular?” Mycroft asked, holding out his hand.

Jessica closed the file and handed it to him, “three times a year at least.”

Mycroft looked over the first page. Even if he wasn’t looking at the exact texts the dates they were being sent were extremely telling. Text every year right around the beginning of January, the beginning of April and finally the middle of June. Scattered in between these telling dates were a few random messages. This year there had been three messages exchanged on Willa’s first day of school.

Mycroft because quickly scanning through the actual copies of the texts, the messages even more damning.

2 April, 2016 22:03
Willa’s walking now.
Very independent, wanted to get down and run around the restaurant.

6 January, 2017 21:14
She’s still just a wee thing.
Knows hundreds of words though! Talked my ear off all evening.

7 September 2020 12:08
She’s started school.
Some posh place too. Not sure where John’s getting the $. Doesn’t seem to actually work.
She looked excited about it though.

Harry had been filling someone in about Willa’s life since the very first time John had allowed her to come visit them. There was suddenly no more room for doubt in Mycroft’s mind as to Harriet Watson’s involvement. He was also very sure who the person she’d been texting was.

“Run Miss Watson’s bank records, please.” He instructed suddenly more angry than he could remember having been in a very long time.

Jessica must have heard it in his voice because she nodded and scrambled out of the room without another word.

Mycroft took a few deep breaths and stood. Walking over to Gregory he leaned down and gently shook his shoulder. Gregory stirred just a bit, his eyes still closed.

“I have news,” he said as softly as he could manage.

This was what got the other man’s eyes to open. “What is it?” He asked even though his eyes weren’t even focused yet, a response learned after years of constantly being on alert as a detective.

“It looks like Harriet Watson has been relaying information regarding Willa to someone for the past five years,” Mycroft said as he straightened up, his anger returning.

Gregory sat up at this news and began scrubbing at his face. “Shit.”

Mycroft nodded in agreement.

“Mary?” Gregory asked, taking a moment for his brain to catch up to the possibilities.

“I believe so.”

“Shit,” Gregory repeated.

“My sentiments,” Mycroft agreed.

~~~~~~

John was more exhausted than he’d been in a very long time. He’d been up for well over twenty-four hours at this point and was relying solely on adrenaline and caffeine to keep him upright. He was beginning to feel the adrenaline ebb away, draining from him with every person they spoke to that had no news on anything related to Willa. So it was a good thing they were needing to stop every half hour or so to refresh their coffee supply. By this point it was possible that John had ingested a near lethal dose of caffeine.

Sherlock was a bit away speaking to an older man with a rather obvious case of scabies. John was all too happy to lurk in the background sipping as his coffee and observing. He made a mental note to send Sherlock’s coat off for fumigation as soon as they had the time. Meaning just as soon as they’d found their daughter.

Sherlock was awkwardly trying to avoid shaking the man’s hand (at least he’d noticed) when John’s phone began ringing. His heart did a funny thing where it simultaneously rose in his throat, fluttering like a panicked bird, and sank into his stomach like a stone. He tried to ignore the feeling as he switched the carrier in his hands and went fumbling into his pocket to get it.

Mycroft.

“Yeah?” John answered he was far past pleasantries.

Mycroft inhaled on the other end before speaking, the bird in John’s throat died and joined the stone in his stomach. “You might wish to meet us at the hospital your sister is in,” he said eventually.

“Why?”

John demanded, Sherlock had turned and was watching him now.

“I have not received any information in regards to Willa’s whereabouts,” Mycroft told him, almost as an afterthought.

“But...” John encouraged.

“But,” Mycroft confessed, “I have received information that suggests Harriet may know more about this situation than we’d first believed.”

John only noticed his right knee giving out when Sherlock, who’d been inching closer every second, was forced to catch his arm to steady him. “What?” John hissed after a moment.

“I believe it would be best if we question Harriet,” Mycroft continued.

“Mycroft,” John warned, “you need to think about what you’re saying.”

“I’m quite aware of what I’m saying, John,” He said tersely, “but I’m still saying it. Will you meet us at the hospital?”

“Yes,” John bit out before stabbing at the little red button on his screen. Sherlock was looking at him with concern, hand still on John’s arm.

“We’re going to the hospital,” John told him as he pulled away, heading for the nearest road.

Neither of them spoke during the entire cab ride to the hospital. John didn’t dare open his mouth right now, certainly not in the back of a cab. He wasn’t sure what the cause of Sherlock’s silence was especially since he hadn’t explained what was going, but he was grateful for it on some level. Sherlock being quiet meant he didn’t have to answer and that was going to keep him from appearing insane, even it was for just a few more minutes.

Mycroft and Greg were waiting for them just outside the lift on Harry’s floor, both of their mouths fixed into a grimace.

Sherlock cut in front of John, hand out and gesturing for Mycroft to hand over the file he held at his side. John wondered if Sherlock had been messaging Mycroft in the cab and already knew what was going on.

Mycroft handed the file over to Sherlock but was looking to John. “The evidence is all there.”

John stepped into Mycroft’s space, ignoring the way Greg shifted uncomfortably beside him and the way Mycroft determinedly would not be cowed. “Are you sure? Because this is my sister and I know she’s got issues but I’m not about to go in there-”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted John’s tirade, forcing him to look at him. “The evidence is… compelling.”

“Compelling?” John repeated.

Sherlock nodded and held out the file, ever so hesitantly, “she’s been receiving payment.”

A bark-like laughed echoed down the hallway and from the way everyone, including some of the nurses, were looking at him John realized he’d been the one to make the sound. “Jesus,” he groaned and scrubbed a hand over his face.

Sherlock dropped the arm he’d been holding out, realizing John didn’t actually want to see the proof of his sister’s betrayal.

John narrowed his eyes at him. “How?” He spat, “how didn’t you notice?”

Sherlock jerked back, offense written all over his face. Greg even made an aborted motion to come between them.

“I can tell you if she’s been drinking, John,” Sherlock said eventually, “but there was no way I could know what she was doing, I don’t even think she realized what she was doing.”

John felt just a bit guilty beneath all the layers of rage and despair so he drew away from the others. “Fine,” was all me managed before stalking down the hall towards Harry’s room.

Predictably the other three followed after him quickly.

John shoved the door open into Harry’s room with far more force than necessary. She started at the noise and all it took was for their eyes to lock for just a second and John knew, without a doubt, that what Mycroft had been saying was true. Harry was sitting in the hospital bed but when John had entered one hand crept up to worry the necklace she wore. Her eyes were wide and she was very obviously afraid of him (rightly so). He could feel the rage building in his chest at an alarming pace.

“What did you do?” John hissed at her.

He stepped forward to the end of her bed and very intentionally wrapped his hands around the plastic foot board. His fingertips found the rigid plastic of the joint and he dug them into it. That little bit of pain was the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing keeping him from lashing out.

“What do you mean? I didn’t do anything?” Harry insisted but John could see that her heart was in her protests.

“Don’t,” John growled at her, “don’t you fucking lie to me right now.”

Sherlock brushed against him as he came into the room and went around John so he could sit at the foot of the bed. Harry suddenly couldn’t decide which one of them to watch so her eyes began flickering back and forth between them rapidly.

“Why?” Was all Sherlock asked and John stared at the back of his head incredulous to how the other man could sound so calm.

Harry sniffled pathetically, a single tear running down her cheek. “It was just texts.”

John had to look away, not because he was feeling remorse, but rather because if he watched her facade any longer he might just let go of the footboard and strangle her.

“And pictures,” Sherlock said as he took a piece of paper and waved it towards her. John couldn’t really see the paper but he saw enough to recognize some photos from Willa’s second birthday.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, sounding like a child, “and pictures.”

“Who approached you?” Mycroft asked from behind John. It was first he’d noticed that Mycroft and Greg had followed them into the room.

Harry looked up, seemingly just as surprised that there were other people in the room too. “I don’t know.”

“Lying,” both Sherlock and Mycroft pronounced in unison. Any other time John might have been amused and pointed it out, but not now.

~~~~~~

“You were threatened,” Greg said as soon as he realized it. The other four people in the room turned to look at him as if they hadn’t expected him to speak up. “That’s why you got so worked up earlier,” he explained.

Harry looked startled and actually pushed herself further up the bed as if she could get away from them. “How’d you know about that?”

If Greg had to pinpoint his exact purpose in this room right now, he would have to say it was as Harry Watson’s reluctant protector. It wasn’t that he actually wanted to protect her, but he worried that if he wasn’t here, there was a very real possibility that Mycroft wouldn’t do anything to prevent John and Sherlock from killing her.

“What were you threatened with?” Mycroft asked, toying with the handle of his umbrella looking for all the world as if he were bored. Greg knew better.

Harry didn’t answer, just watched them all with wide eyes.

“Your life then,” Sherlock pronounced instead.

Mycroft sighed and quickly traced on the square tiles on the floor with his umbrella before glancing up at Greg. “Tell us everything and I will do my best to keep you alive,” he said after turning back to look at Harry.

Greg knew that promise came not from the good parts of Mycroft’s heart but from the part of him who felt Greg didn’t actually know what he was capable of and wanted to keep him in the dark.

“What?” Both John and Harry asked at the same time.

“Try? You’ll try,” Harry laughed breathlessly. “Try? Why the hell would I tell you anything for that?”

“Because,” Mycroft said, shifting his glance towards John, “the other options are even less favorable for you.”

Harry swallowed at the implication and even Greg looked away. This whole thing was turning to utter shit.

“She called me,” Harry said in a small voice a few moments later.

“Who?” John demanded.

“Mary,” Harry clarified. “She called me just after Willa’s first birthday. She said she’d tried to reach out to you, but you wouldn’t have any of it. That you wouldn't even speak to her. She said all she wanted was to know how she was doing and maybe a picture when I had it.”

“So, you just gave it to her?” John asked, incredulously. “You decided ‘oh to hell with, John’ and just gave it to her?”

Harry looked distraught. “No! But I know how you can be when you think someone is wrong you just don’t give in. You’re so stubborn and-”

Greg cleared his throat as John’s face was turning an alarming shade of red. Harry was doing a piss poor job of defending herself. Insulting John was a surefire way to get him, or Sherlock, to strangle her than it was to get them to see her side.

“The money didn’t seem odd to you?” He asked, once again, everyone looked at him surprised.

If he weren’t so tired Greg would be annoyed. Everyone in the roomed seemed to be forgetting that he was a detective and damn good one too. There was a time in his life when his husband didn’t practically run the government and his brother in law wasn’t a slightly mad ‘consulting’ detective.

Harry shrugged, finger twisting around a gold chain she was wearing. “Well… yes,” she admitted finally.

At just that moment Greg’s mobile began vibrating in his pocket. He ignored it for a second, assuming it was a test, but it continued to go. Once he fished it out and saw that it was work he shuffled over into a corner, not really comfortable enough to leave everyone unsupervised.

“Lestrade,” he answered.

“Sir, this is DS Meyer.”

“Yeah?” Greg asked, letting just the slightest bit of his irritation seep into his voice, he really didn’t have the time for asinine calls.

“You’ve asked us to alert you to anything suspicious, sir,” Meyer told him sounding nearly as annoyed. “We’ve gotten a call from the fire brigade about a suspicious fire they put out in Peckham this morning.”

“What makes it suspicious?”

“Fire took out just the top floor of an abandoned building, said it was intentionally set with an accelerant. Did some questioning and some of the neighbors reported seeing lights up there the past few nights, except there’s no power running to the building and there was nothing up there.”

Greg rolled the words around in his mind before deciding, “yeah, alright, I’ll come out. Text me the address?”

“Yes,

sir.”

Mycroft was openly watching Greg as he turned around after finishing the call, the other three were involved in a sort of dark staring contest. He cleared his throat. “There was a suspicious fire in Peckham,” he announced.

Sherlock turned slightly in his seat. Whatever they’d been discussing while Greg’s back was turned didn’t seem to have improved John’s temper any.

“Took out the entire top of an abandoned building, said it was lit on purpose. Reports that there’d been activity up in that room lately.” He explained.

“And you think this has to do with Willa?” John asked, finally letting go of the footboard for the first time since they’d entered the room. Greg hadn’t realized how tightly the other man had been holding it until he watched the blood return to John’s knuckles.

Greg shrugged. “Could be,” he offered, “an intentional fire set to an empty room in an abandoned building.”

“At this point, every lead is worth following,” Mycroft chipped in.

Harry was, wisely, choosing to be very silent at this moment.

John and Sherlock exchanged glances, clearly having a silent debate as to whether or not a fire across the city was worth looking into.

“If you wish to go with Gregory, I will finish taking Miss Watson’s statement,” Mycroft volunteered in an uncharacteristically helpful way. Greg narrowed his eyes at his husband but didn’t say anything.

Both Sherlock and John rode in the back of Greg’s car, he felt more than a bit like a cabbie and at any other time he would have told them as much. But both men were on edge and running on even less sleep than he was, there was also the possibility that at least one or both men were armed.

Greg had known John for eleven years and Sherlock even longer and he’d truly never seen them this unwound. There had been a few incidents, like when Sherlock jumped off a damn building or John got married, that had come close, but this was something way beyond even that.

~~~~~~

Sherlock was summarily, unimpressed with the crime scene in Peckham. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when they arrived, but he’d known what he’d hoped for. A single tiny piece of evidence to point him in the right direction. As of right now, he didn’t know whether the fire was even connected to Willa’s disappearance. Should he include the entire scene as evidence or discount it as some other crime that had occurred last night.

John seemed just as dismayed by the whole room. Lestrade was lingering a floor below talking to some people, no doubt smoothing feathers and giving them time to look around.

There wasn’t much to look at though. Parts of the ceiling had come down in the room and there was water damage everywhere. The only feature in the room that might have been worth anything was the mattress but that had been burnt so severely all that remained were the metal coils sticking up.

Even the bathroom had been charred. The fixtures had all been blackened by the smoke.

Sherlock wasn’t ready to dismiss the fire as unrelated though. The extent of the damage was so severe whoever had set it was definitely trying to cover up something. And since there was little actually in the room whatever they’d been trying to hide was something more than a drugs lab. It was still possible that Mary’s cronies had set the fire to cover up physical evidence of Willa having been there, but it was just as likely that someone else was trying to cover up something unrelated.

Sherlock hated the feeling of not knowing, of not being able to tell John definitively that yes, this was to do with Willa.

“Sherlock?” John asked from his spot in the doorway of the burnt out room.

“I...” Sherlock began as he glanced about the room again, “don’t know.”

At his admission John’s shoulders slumped and Sherlock instantly felt guilty.

He was supposedly the greatest detective alive and he was absolutely useless. Nevermind that he’d once found one of the world’s cleverest criminals, or that he’d taken down entire organized crime networks and escaped alive. Here and now, in this room, Sherlock Holmes was absolutely useless.

Outside of Hadeon he’d never been able to find a solid lead towards finding Mary and because of that their daughter was missing. All he had now was a demolished room and some melted petrol jugs, even he had to admit that there were limits to his own brilliance. So once again, he wasn’t able to find a single clue, nothing, that would even tell them they were on the right path.

But once again, the lack of clues was drawing him in making him doubt that this wasn’t just a random thing. The entire building had been emptied, for several days it appeared judging by the amount of dust that had settled in the rooms on the lower floors. An abandoned building of this size would certainly have been a homeless camp.

Sherlock pushed past John and leaned over the rail, he could just barely make out Lestrade’s head in one of the halls below.

“Lestrade,” He bellowed, causing several people to jump.

Lestrade just sighed and walked towards the rail and looked up questioningly.

“Has there been any reason to clear out this building before now?” He yelled down.

Lestrade pressed his lips together and seemed to think about it before shaking his head. “Not that I can think of, we’ve just been letting these places slide lately. We sweep out the squatters and they just set up somewhere else.”

“What is it?” John asked, suddenly at Sherlock’s side.

“We’ve been asking the wrong questions,” he said going for the stairs.

John instinctively followed as Sherlock pounded down the stairs. “What do you mean?” He called.

Sherlock stopped suddenly and gestured into one of the rooms on the floor they were on. Inside was several dirty mattresses and a few piles of garbage. “Why was there no one here?”

“Someone made them leave you mean?” John asked as he peered into the room.

Sherlock nodded, pleased that John was catching up, “exactly and when we find out who it was we’ll be able to determine if it’s connected.”

It wasn’t much but Sherlock was thrilled for anything, a tiny scrap of information. Now they just had to go out and find one of his homeless contacts who’d know why the camp from this building had been forced to leave if it was the Yard’s doing.

“Oi!” Lestrade bellowed as Sherlock and John hurried past him. “Where are you going?”

“Out!” Sherlock yelled back, even though they were already near the door.

“Wait!” Lestrade yelled after them, “you can’t just go...”

Whatever else he might have been planning to say was lost to the wind as Sherlock and John emerged onto the street.

Aside from a single fire truck left to make sure the fire was properly out the rest of the presence on the street was police. Most of the residents of the neighborhood had retreated back into their houses. Some, Sherlock could see watching from behind their curtains. There would be little chance of getting anyone to talk in this area. So he turned to go behind the building, hoping to catch sight of anyone who might be willing to talk with them.

Unfortunately, the excitement near the front of the building seemed to have scared everyone off. Sherlock quickly wracked his brain trying to decide where everyone might have gone.

“Sherlock,” John said from somewhere behind him, he was close enough that Sherlock wasn’t worried about losing him.

“Not now, John,” Sherlock said absently as he looked up and down the alley deciding which direction to go.

“No,” John said again, “wait.”

“John, we have a lead,” Sherlock reminded him, a little impatient with John.

“No,” John said and suddenly grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled him back a little. He wasn’t looking at Sherlock though; instead, he was facing the other direction looking back towards the building. “What is that?” He said before letting go of Sherlock’s arm and pointing up.

Sherlock followed where he was point and blinked, a few time actually, surprised at what he was seeing. There was something hanging from one of the rear windows of the building. Some of the water from the hoses had dampened it and caused it to cling to the side, but it appeared otherwise intact.

~~~~~~

John was the first one back into the building, this time leaving Sherlock to follow behind. Where Sherlock gained an advantage through longer legs John persevered with sheer will as he took the steps two at a time.

Greg nearly tried to stop them, only having seen two people racing up the stairs not even five minutes after they’d tried to leave. Once he saw who it was though he threw up his hands. John wasn’t sure but he might have been following them, the echo of footsteps seemed louder after they passed. He didn’t care to turn and look.

He wasn’t even sure what had made him turn and look at the building, after all they’d just spent nearly an hour inside and Sherlock hadn’t come up with much. Maybe that was what made him look back, he couldn’t stand watching Sherlock both literally and figuratively spinning in circles in some alley.

He may not have been Sherlock but it seemed an odd thing something remaining intact after someone had gone through all that trouble to burn down the building.

Even though John reached the top floor first, Sherlock was the first to orient himself and went flying into the remains of the bathroom. John followed.

Sherlock struggled with the window for a moment, the wood was warped and blistered from the fire. His fingers turned black and paint and wood chipped off onto the floor but it wouldn’t budge. John let him work for approximately another minutes before he made up his mind, not that he honestly put too much thought into what he was going to do next.

“Move,” he barked.

Sherlock complied quickly and just as soon as he was out of the way John drove his fist through what was left of the glass. Sherlock made an odd sound from next to him but didn’t say

anything else.

“What the hell?” It was Greg finally having caught up with them just in time to see John punching out a window.

John, of course, ignored him and set to work peeling back the glass until there was enough space that he could reach out and grab whatever was hanging off the side of the building. He struggled a moment, part of the cloth pinned beneath the wood, but after pulling a bit more, it came free.

There was no longer a single question as to whether or not this fire had anything to do with Willa.

In his hands, damp and slightly singed on the one sleeve was the sweater he’d made Willa wear out to dinner. As he held it up something slipped out of the one sleeve, Sherlock managed to grab most of it before it hit the ground. It took a second to realize he was holding hair, John grabbed the sleeve it’d come out of and sure enough there was more stuck inside.

“What’s that?” Greg asked, eyeing them up.

“Hair,” Sherlock said softly before turning back into the room.

He stood under one of the patches where the ceiling had collapsed and the noonday sun was shining through. John watched as Sherlock held up the clump he’d saved from falling to the floor. The sun bounced off of it highlighting the blonde and red, it was a shade John could have recreated from memory. Anything he might have wanted to say died in his throat as John realized he was staring at a clump of his daughter’s hair.

“Sherlock,” Greg asked, taking over for the sense that seemed to have left John’s mind.

Sherlock pulled out the magnifying glass he carried and examined it, ignoring both of them. John was still holding tightly to the sleeve where there was no doubt more of the same hair tucked inside.

“It, uh, it was cut,” Sherlock said his voice was rough with emotion, “scissors probably.”

John was sure whatever pieces of his heart that were intact shattered at the look on Sherlock’s face.

It was a silly thing getting so upset over cut hair, especially given the rest of the circumstances, but that was their thing. Every morning now they could be found at the table where Sherlock brushed and did Willa’s hair while they talked about what they were going to do that day. At night Sherlock would pull it out of whatever style she’d worn that day and brush it, often for much longer than was necessary. Willa never once complained though, she was always too busy describing her day or reading out loud from a new book that had magically appeared on her desk overnight.

“It’s hers then,” Greg asked again because John’s voice was failing him. The detective was most likely unaware of the significance Willa’s slightly unruly main had for her and Sherlock.

Sherlock nodded, “yes, so is the sweater.” He sounded far away, too busy staring at the locks of hair he was holding even though he'd probably gotten everything he needed from it.

John heard Greg walk out of the room, but he didn’t care to find out where he was going.

“Sherlock,” He said, surprised at how rough his own voice came out.

Sherlock looked up, unshed tears shining in his eyes. “They... they cut her hair,” he told John after a while. “Probably so she wouldn’t match the pictures that we have of her.”

John already knew why they would have cut her hair but he allowed Sherlock to explain it to him nonetheless.

“Alright, John,” Greg said as he reappeared in the room. He now had on gloves and was carrying an evidence bag, a few more police had followed him up the stairs. No doubt forensics ready to go over the place since it had been determined that it was somewhere Willa had been. They were all dutifully waiting behind him.

“I need that,” Greg told him gesturing to the sweater he was still holding.

John was reluctant to hand it over but he knew he had to. He carefully placed it into the evidence bag that Greg held out taking care in folding in the sleeves so that the rest of the hair didn’t fall out.

Greg closed the bag and handed it behind him. Evidently, he’d been elected the one to deal with them exclusively. A new bag appeared in his hand and he took a step towards Sherlock, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s head snapped up as the whole time he hadn’t stopped staring at the hair in his hand. He instinctively clutched it to his chest and shook his head. “No.”

“Sherlock,” Greg’s voice was a warning now.

Sherlock shook his head again. “It’s contaminated now,” he reasoned, “there’s more in the sweater that’ll be of more use for forensics.”

“Alright fine,” Greg sighed, realizing when he was trying to fight a losing battle. He instead handed the evidence bag to Sherlock who took it and after having put the hair into it, rolled it up and placed it in his pocket.

“Why would they do that though?” Greg asked, obviously waiting for Sherlock to offer some kind of explanation.

“What?” Sherlock’s brows knitted together as he tried to follow Greg’s line of thought.

“The hair, in the sweater. That’s not normal,” Greg explained.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, almost back to his non-sentimental self, “that’s because they didn’t do it.”

“Willa,” John gasped, realizing what he was saying and suddenly understanding (once again) why Sherlock thought they were all stupid.

Sherlock nodded.
~~~~~~

Cole Barnes had been born and raised in Hoback, Wyoming. A tiny scrap of nothing in an even more vast state of nothingness.

He’d been just seventeen in 2001 and with the same righteous fury that most American’s seemed to carry at the time he’d enlisted in the army on his eighteenth birthday in the spring of the following year. It seemed like every boy from his graduating class was going straight from the ceremony into basic training. It had made him proud.

He was one of the lucky ones. Noticed early on in basic for his steady aim and true shot. They’d sent him off for sniper training where he earned some of the highest marks. He’d been so ridiculously proud to call home and tell his mother all about his budding skills as a marksman. He’d been only a fraction less proud two years later sweating his way through the Afghan desert in full armor.

When his contract had come up four years later Cole had thought nothing of signing on for another four years. That decision had changed his life in ways he couldn’t have even imagined.

He was approached upon returning to Afghanistan by men who wore very expensive suits and looked like they’d never even touched a gun, let alone fired one. They were pulling together a team, they told him. A small handpicked group of men from the various armies to be commanded by Colonel Sebastian Moran. They didn’t have to say anything more to convince Cole, as soon as he’d heard about Colonel Moran he was in all the way. Moran was a legendary sniper who was rumored to have never missed a single shot, even while in training.

Moran was the only Brit but there had also been a Frenchman, two Germans, a Canadian and one other American besides Cole.

After a few weeks he began to get the distinct feeling that the reason for such a mixed team was that the missions they were running were a little less than approved. He didn’t care though, everything seemed to be for the right reason. Moran never questioned the orders either.

For eighteen months they ran back to back successful missions until the day their luck caught up with them. Three men died and Cole had taken two bullets to the gut. He’d nearly died on the way to the hospital and then again during the surgery to remove the bullet that hadn’t passed through him. He’d been shipped out to Germany to recover until he was well enough to be sent stateside.

The night before he was to be sent home those same men appeared in his hospital room. He was threatened, not just with a dirty record but with his life, if he spoke to anyone about the missions they’d run.

Cole had returned to Wyoming with medals to spare and a deep sense of rage. How dare they threaten his life when they’d been the ones to put him in those places? How dare they tell him to shut up and go home like a good dog?

He’d spent the next year wallowing in his rage, pushing everyone away and drinking himself stupid every night. He was arrested almost monthly for various offenses but every single time he appeared before a judge his service history was looked at and he was let off out of pity. It only pissed him off even more.

During one such arrest, his life took another bizarre turn. Colonel Moran showed up, in person, and bailed him out even though Cole didn’t even know how even begin to try and contact the man.

“You’re angry, Barnes, we all are,” Moran had reassured him while shoving several cups of coffee at him. “But you’re a soldier and we carry on, but now I’ve got a mission for you.”

That ‘mission’ was how he’d ended up in London kidnapping a child with a psychotic bitch. Not that anything was ever such a straight line, that meeting with Moran had been over a decade ago but it had put his feet onto this path. There was probably more blood on his hands now than there had been during his entire military career. There was blood there that he’d never expected to have and for the first time in a very, very, long time he was uncomfortable with what he’d done.

His jobs since Moran had pulled him from that holding cell had become less and less sniper work and more and more close combat, even assassination and a smattering of unarmed civilian kills, but never before a child. At least never directly a child.

Do it as quickly as possible, he’d been told, don’t hurt her.

Her neck had been so small under his hands, he’d only really needed one, and he’d been able to feel the violent tremors wracking her body as she’d known was he was going to do. Her spine had made the same noise knuckles did when he twisted her chin sharply. He’d never again be able to hear someone crack their fingers without remembering the way her neck had felt under

his fingers.

She was dead immediately. He was a terrible person, evil probably, but he’d been efficient and precise. She hadn’t felt a thing besides fear. As he lowered her onto the ground he’d felt compelled to correct the awkward angle of her head, not that anyone would know once he’d finished with the rest of his task.

Carve her up, make her unrecognizable had been his next instructions.

Most people don’t realize that even though the heart had stopped beating that blow will flow freely from the body, especially immediately after death.

He’d started with her fingertips because he couldn’t bear to look at her face. He wasn’t squeamish, he’d done this sort of thing to dozens of corpses over the years but this was something he’d never done to a child. Her skin was so thin and fragile, pulling off the fingerprints was no unlike skinning a fish.

And there went any chance of him ever enjoying seafood again.

He’d never admit it to Janine, or anyone else, but when he’d gone after her face (with a sledgehammer, oh god the noises her skull had made), he’d gotten sick, twice. She’d just laugh at him and call him a coward until he got mad and went after her with a sledgehammer to shut her up. After dealing with the hell that had been her face, carving up the rest of her had been straightforward enough. Straightforward, not necessarily simple or easy.

He hadn’t wanted to do it. He really had tried to talk sense into Janine, telling her that killing the girl was one thing but desecrating the corpse was somehow worse. It was disgusting. But Janine, so unfailing in her loyalty to Angie, had never once questioned her judgment. She spoke about her the way Catholics spoke of the Virgin Mary.

She’d threatened to call Angie right there and tell her he wasn’t following orders.

That was the threat that got him to comply. His life was on the line now, but not just his. Angie wasn’t known for simply extinguishing you, she’d pick off everyone you loved in the most brutal and terrifying ways before she pulled the trigger on you. There were rumors that some people who had betrayed her were still alive but had gone completely nuts after what she’d done to them.

He knew better than to risk that sort of wrath.

So he killed the girl and disfigured her just as he was told.

They’d been oddly specific about where he was to dispose of her body: on the south bank of the Thames just past the Waterloo Bridge. He’d even been sent photos of the exact location. Typically when you were dumping a body you wouldn’t leave it in such an open spot, even if you were looking to make a statement. Doing that in an area that open was a risk for the person doing the dumping (him) especially if they were forced to do it during daylight light he’d been.

Luck, or maybe not, had been on Cole’s side once again. Not a single person had spotted him as he carried the girl’s body to the river bank.

~~~~~~



Mycroft had… questioned Harriet for half an hour after everyone else had gone running out before returning to the office. Even though there had been an officer in the hospital Mycroft decided it was best to put one of his own people at her door, to make sure nothing she said or did went unnoticed.

Once back in his own office, no word of news from anyone else, the lure of sleep had claimed him. It was rare Mycroft honestly went this long without sleep, even on his busiest nights he was usually able to catch an hour here and there. Falling asleep felt like admitting defeat like he was throwing up his hands and saying he couldn’t find Willa so he might as well nap. Logically he understood it didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t change the way he felt, no matter how hard he tried.

But exhaustion won out and as Mycroft lowered himself onto the sofa he hoped that when he woke there would be some kind of good news waiting for him.

The smell of coffee and takeaway Thai food was what eventually woke Mycroft, which was confusing as he knew he hadn’t ordered anything. He blinked awake to find Gregory placing those exact items on his desk, he was taking extra care to not actually put anything on the various papers that were stacked there. Mycroft’s heart stuttered for a moment in his chest, reminded how much he loved the other man.

“Hey, sorry did I wake you?” Gregory asked as he turned and saw him watching him.

Mycroft shook his head and sat up, attempting to smooth out his clothes. “No,” he said eventually, “I think it might have been the food.”

Gregory grinned, “good, I’m glad I’m not the only one who’s starving.”

With that, he set to work pulling out whatever he’d ordered.

“The fire?” Mycroft asked, feeling annoyed that he hadn’t stayed awake long enough to discover what the ruling had been.

“Mmmm,” Gregory had just popped something into his mouth. He quickly chewed and swallowed while waving his arms around as if that would help him do it faster. “She was there, found a sweater and some hair stuffed in a window. Sherlock thinks she put it there herself.”

“Really?” Mycroft wasn’t really as surprised as he sounded. He knew Reinette was a terribly clever girl and would no doubt try and leave as many clues behind as she could, it was the fact that the fire had truly been connected to her that had surprised him.

Gregory nodded, more food having gone into his mouth. “They cut her hair it seems, I put an issue out to the rest of the yard about that.”

“How much?” Mycroft asked as he finally rose and made his way over to his desk, before he grabbed a coffee he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his husband’s lips, not caring about the sauce he’d just, no doubt, gotten on himself.

“What?” Gregory grabbed for his own coffee.

Mycroft sighed, only a little, “her hair, how much of it was cut. I have to let my people know too.”

“Oh,” Gregory nodded, “it’s got to be above her shoulders now, so a foot?”

Mycroft nodded and quickly sent off a series of emails updating everyone who needed it that Willa’s hair would be much shorter than previously described. Only then did he sit down and finally begin eating.

“How are John and Sherlock,” Mycroft asked once they were done.

Gregory slumped over at this question. “They’re… it’s rough right now. I don’t think either of them have slept.”

Mycroft knew for a fact that neither man had slept and caffeine could only keep one going for so long.

“We’ve got to do something about it,” Gregory continued obviously thinking along the same lines as Mycroft.

“I agreed, though I’m not sure anything short of a tranquilizer dart is going to get either of them to stop right now.” Mycroft wasn’t even sure that would work.

Gregory nodded, “I’ll try and talk to them, remind them that she needs them in top form.”

Mycroft didn’t argue, Gregory speaking to them would have a much better chance of working than if he were to do it. Sherlock, despite allegedly having been an adult for a very long time, was always reluctant to follow any suggestions Mycroft might ever give him. Except in the cases where things seemed dire, and while this certainly counted as a ‘dire’ situation, he doubted Sherlock could be reasoned with by himself.

Both men were probably going to need to be drugged in order to get them any kind of restful sleep. While that wasn’t something Mycroft necessarily wanted to do, it wasn’t something he was above. While Gregory distracted himself cleaning up Mycroft quickly sent someone out on an errand to get sedatives that he could easily slip into a drink. That was another one of those grey areas where he wasn’t entirely sure Gregory would be happy with him.

Once the rubbish had been cleared away, the two men settled onto the sofa together. Mycroft checked on the whereabouts of Sherlock and John, apparently terrorizing the homeless population of Peckham, while Gregory called into the Yard looking for an update on the forensics from the site of the fire.

Once that was cleared, Mycroft settled against his husband and closed his eyes again.

No sooner had Gregory fallen asleep and Mycroft had finally gotten comfortable did it seem both of their mobiles went off, almost at the same time.

Gregory cursed loudly as he had to push Mycroft up and get his out. Mycroft waited patiently for the barrage of foul language to subside before he answered his own.

“Sir,” came a voice from the other end of the line.

“Yes?” Mycroft asked, very very patiently.

“There’s been a body found along the banks of the Thames.”

“I don’t see how -”

“Sir,” the voice bravely interrupted him, “it’s a little girl.”

Mycroft’s mouth snapped shut audibly as the news registered. “Keep me updated,” was all he managed to say before hanging up.

One look across the room at Gregory and Mycroft knew he’d received the same phone call. He looked as though he’d aged several years in less than a minute, suddenly pale.

“I’ve got to go,” Gregory told him as he stood from the sofa.

“Gregory that’s hardly -” Mycroft began only to be cut off once again, only this time it was by a hand held up by his husband.

~~~~~~

There were about thirteen thousand things currently running through Greg’s head after a phone call like that. The most prominent being not her, please God, don’t let it be her loudly and on repeat, followed by an immense wave of guilt because that just meant it’d be someone else’s daughter. He didn’t need to hear Mycroft once again offering to let him sit back and have someone else do the dirty work, he didn’t get as far as he did in his career with that kind of thinking.

It was also bloody demeaning.

“I am going,” Greg said as firmly as he could manage, “and until we, meaning Scotland Yard, decided there is sufficient enough evidence no one is going to contact John or Sherlock, understand?”

Mycroft’s lips drew up into a line, clearly unhappy with being told what to do but he nodded anyway.

Greg nodded, mostly to himself before going towards the door. Just as he was about to exit he realized Mycroft was following him. He stopped short and turned around, forcing the other man to bump into him.

“Mycroft,” he warned.

Mycroft face became poker passive as he took a step back. “I am coming with.”

Greg went to argue but realized there was no point in it. Mycroft would no doubt find a way to be there; whether in person, through one of his spooks, or even via CCTV. It was easier just to meet him halfway than try and pretend if he told him to stay that he actually would.

“Fine,” Greg relented, and when he saw just the smallest bit of relief creep onto his husband’s face he held up his finger, “but, you will wait in the car.”

“Gregory,” Mycroft began pleadingly, but he seemed to consider his angle before sighing, “alright.”

Greg drove and Mycroft sat quietly next to him.

The block he’d placed on telling John and Sherlock about the body was as much because he was their friend, and family, as it was because it was procedure. He wasn’t going to tell them until he was sure it wasn’t her… or if it was.

There was a gaping black pit in his gut as he drove. The extent of the fire would have made sense if they’d murdered someone (her) in the room and were trying to hide evidence. It was the dumping of the body in such a place that made him wonder what the hell they were up to.

That was right up until he got to the location and an uneasy sense of deja vu settle on him.

“Bloody hell,” He cursed and hit the steering wheel as he parked, Mycroft looked over worriedly.

“The fucking security guard,” He explained by way of cursing even more. Mycroft actually looked confused so Greg took a deep breath and tried again.

“Moriarty… the bombs… the security guard...” Greg spat out random words until a look of comprehension crossed Mycroft’s face. “He was found here, right here,” he gestured out towards the banks were dozens of police were milling about.

He was out of the car without another word and halfway to the bank when he yelled out behind himself, “stay there,” knowing full well Mycroft was going to try and follow him. He didn’t care enough to make sure he stayed though.

That pit had turned into a gaping chasm of inky blackness and the chanting grew louder in his head.

Not her, please God, not her.

He understood why people weren’t supposed to investigate cases that they were connected to. Being objective was the furthest thing from Greg’s mind right now.

Not her, please God, not her.

He wasn’t supposed to be on this case, wasn’t meant to get information before anyone else. But he’d shoved himself in front, for John and Sherlock and Mycroft. Because he’d wanted to feel useful, now all he felt was bloody stupid.

Not her, please God, not her.

There was a canopy set up to prevent anyone from seeing the body and no one questioned as Greg shoved himself into it. All motion inside the tent stopped and everyone just watched him, Greg didn’t doubt he looked a state, he could feel the sweat forming on his brow already.

There in front of him, still on the ground, was the white tarp they used to cover bodies until they were taken away. This one was folded in half, the body underneath so small that it didn’t need the whole thing.

Greg took a deep breath, crouched down next to it and said one last prayer.

Not her, please God, not her.

He pulled back the tarp and it took every last ounce of training and desensitization to prevent himself from being sick. He quickly replaced the covering and stood, taking a moment for several deep breaths before looking around the makeshift room. All eyes were still on him.

“Take her to the morgue,” He ordered and then turned out from the tent.

There was no point in him being in there anymore.

He marched back up to the car a stretcher with a body bag passed him, and he slowed down once again to take a deep breath. Surprisingly he found Mycroft leaned up against the car looking absorbed in his mobile once again, Greg knew his husband’s shams when he saw them.

Seeing the mobile reminded Greg of something and he pulled his own out and quickly dialed the morgue.

“This is Lestrade, who’s on right now?” He yelled as he reached the car.

“Sir?”

“Is Molly Hooper on right now?” He repeated more clearly this time.

There was movement on the end of the line. “Yes, sir.”

“Pull her off,” Greg ordered immediately.

“Sir, I don’t think...” The protest came but Greg was having none of it.

“This is Lestrade, and I don’t give a fuck,” he punctuated the word with a punch to the roof of the car, “what you think, you need to pull Dr. Hooper off right now.”

After the voice, now cowed by his unusual display of anger, assented to his terms, Greg hung up and looked over to his husband who was watching him with a carefully neutral face.

“Gregory,” Mycroft ventured after a beat, “is it her?”

“I don’t know,” Greg ground out, barely able to get his jaw working to form the words.

“What?”

“I don’t know!” He shouted, “I don’t, bloody, know.” There was another hit to the roof of the car and Mycroft jumped.

Greg instantly felt guilty, he took another deep breath, “there’s… not enough to tell,” he struggled through the explanation.

“Oh,” was all Mycroft said though he looked paler suddenly.

~~~~~~

On her worst days, Molly Hooper questioned her ability to be a medical examiner. She knew she was soft, Aaron said it was one of the things he loved about her. That she could work and see such terrible things and still cry at homeless kittens. Normally she agreed, it was pretty spectacular, but some days she wondered if she wasn’t strong enough.

That was why she was at work, nearly a month before she was meant to come back from maternity and the day after her niece had gone missing, she felt as though she had something to prove. She’d thought about calling in and staying home cuddling Teddy but it just didn’t sit right with her, the fact that she could choose to stay home with her child while John and Sherlock were without theirs. So she’d come in.

In all her years of questioning her fortitude against the terrible things she saw daily, never once did she question her competency. So when she had been suddenly told that she was being pulled off intake duty it pissed her off. It was about ten times worse when she found out Greg, who technically had zero authority over her, had been the one to order her off.

She stewed in her office a while after Dr. Golden appeared, profusely sorry and obviously as out of the loop as she was, right up until she heard someone mention that Lestrade was in the building. She set off to find him and tell him exactly what she thought about him issuing orders outside his purview.

She was raring to go and have a good yell (finally release some of the stress she’d been holding all day) right up until the very second she saw him standing in the hall outside the morgue.

“Greg,” the nasty things she wanted to say to him died in her throat.

She’d worked with Gregory Lestrade for over a decade and there was only one time she’d seem him look this beaten down. It had been less than six hours after ‘Sherlock’ had jumped from the roof.

Greg looked up at her and she noticed that Mycroft was also there, looking a lot less put together than she was used to seeing him.

“I’m sorry, Molly,” was the first thing out of Greg’s mouth. “But they found the body of a little girl by the river.”

“Oh god,” Molly’s hand flew up to her mouth as she realized the gravity of the situation.

“You couldn’t be on,” Greg continued seemingly not noticing her distress.

All the anger she’d been feeling since they’d told her she was on paperwork duty left. “Is it…?” She couldn’t even finish the question properly.

“Gregory was… unable to determine,” Mycroft spoke up, an unusual amount of tenderness in his voice when he did.

Molly had to sit but there were no chairs in the hall so she settled for leaning against the wall, hand still up to her mouth. She closed her eyes trying to bring up images of Willa the last time she’d seen her, giggling as she’d told Molly that she’d asked Sherlock to be her Papa and just as quickly as she’d said it begging to hold Teddy even though he’d nearly outgrown her lap. She needed these images in her mind, not the ones that her years of seeing terrible things allowed her mind to conjure up at Mycroft’s words.

“Sherlock and John,” She looked up after a moment realizing that there was no way either of men would just stay home if they’d realized the body of a little girl had been found.

Greg’s lips pressed together and Molly already knew she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “I don’t think they need to worry about it,” he explained carefully, “at least until we have solid evidence either way.”

Molly straightened up so quickly that something in her back actually popped. “How could you?” She asked

“Oh come on,” Greg snapped throwing his hands up in the air, “you really want them to spend the next few hours thinking their daughter is dead?”

Molly tamped down on the urge to yell back, “so instead you’d rather them find out that you knew and allowed them to walk around with false hope for how long?”

“We don’t know it’s her!” Greg yelled.

“Which is exactly my point!” Molly allowed herself to yell back this time. “We need to tell them that there’s a possibility,” she pleaded.

“It’s not worth it,” Greg snapped clearly not wanting to hear her rationale.

“How would you feel if it were Addison?” Molly’s voice was quiet but her words seemed to ring in the hall. It was a low blow but she could see the exact moment that it worked.

Greg’s shoulders slumped and he leaned back against the wall with his eyes closed. Mycroft, who had been watching the exchange with an unreadable expression took a step closer to his husband and rested a hand on his arm. Molly looked

away feeling terrible.

“Fine,” Greg said and slid his mobile out of his pocket.

Molly stepped forward. “No, I’ll do it,” she said softly.

Both men blinked at her, Greg’s thumb hovering over the screen of his phone obviously not having expected that she would make that offer. Honestly, Molly hadn’t expected herself to say that either. But she realized she meant it.

“I’ll call, John,” She continued sounding more sure of herself, “that way they won’t realize you’ve known for a couple hours already.”

Mycroft and Greg exchanged glances before Greg finally nodded, “alright.”

Molly took a deep breath and went back up to her office. She took a moment to find the picture on her mobile of Willa holding Teddy when he was only a few days old and then she dialed John’s number from the office phone.

“Hello?”

“John, it’s Molly,” She said softly not sure what she was going to say precisely.

“No news, Molly,” John told her, obviously mistaking her phone call for one looking for an update.

“John, they’ve just taken me off intake,” she continued even though she couldn’t bring her voice much above a whisper, “there was a little girl’s body found by the river.”

Getting those words out was possibly one of the hardest things she’d done. Listening to John’s choked half sob down the was a close second.

“They weren’t able to identify who it is but I think you should come down.”

There was shuffling down the line until Sherlock spoke, “Molly?”

She repeated what she’d told John, much quicker this time. Sherlock said they’d be down shortly before hanging up leaving her questioning if she’d made the right decision. Instead of heading straight down to Greg she went the back way into the morgue where she found Dr. Golden just starting to unzip the unsettlingly small shape in the body bag.

He jumped when Molly deliberately let the door shut loudly behind her but she refused to move from the doorway. Here she really couldn’t see anything taking place in the room.

“Molly, you’re not supposed to be in here,” he said as he zipped the bag shut again, obviously having figured out why she’d been taken off.

“Listen, I know but I need you to come right to me as soon as you figure out who this is,” She explained gesturing towards the bag.

He nodded and promised he would find her immediately.

She found Mycroft and Greg in nearly the exact spot she’d left them. This time she sat down on the floor and waited.

~~~~~~

Sherlock was the one to hail the cab and direct them where to go. John had all but disappeared when Molly had called them. The only thing left was the shell of his partner, worn and definitely battered, seemingly wholly unoccupied.

It didn’t escape Sherlock’s notice that John was limping again, his right knee buckling ever so often when he tried to walk normally. He’d seen it give out several times in the past day but this was the first time John had actually begun limping again. Sherlock didn’t know how to stop it this time.

The first time had been easy enough. Running him about London after a mad poisoner had done the trick but he knew this time it wouldn’t be as easy. Sherlock knew there was very little he could actually do to bring John back if their worst fears had been realized.

He tried not to dwell on it, it would do them no good.

Instead Sherlock did a very un-him thing and clung to the hope, however small, that the body lying in the morgue wasn’t Willa Louise Watson. That it wasn’t a little girl who had, less than twenty-four hours ago, happily told anyone who would listen that he was going to be her Papa. He allowed himself this irrational hope because without it he knew he’d be no better off than John was.

He nearly asked the cabbie to head towards Harry instead of the morgue. He was very willing to place John in front of her and let him do his worst, whatever that might be, just to coax the tiniest bit of personality from him. Right now the things he wanted to do to the woman who sold his daughter out was surely twenty times worse than anything John might imagine. Let John loose on her would almost be a merciful act.

But he kept his mouth shut all the way to St. Bart’s.

They found everyone in the hallway just outside the morgue. Molly and Lestrade were slumped together, seated on the floor and Mycroft was leaning against the wall. No one spoke as they walked in, Sherlock and the shell that was once John following.

“Has there been any news?” Sherlock asked Molly who only looked up at him miserably.

She shook her head.

Sherlock walked to the doors and this was what got everyone to react.

“Sherlock, stop.” Molly called out as she scrambled to her feet.

Lestrade was right behind her.

“I can...” the words stuck in his throat and he was forced to swallow twice before being able to continue. “Identify… her,” he managed to choke out.

The shell behind him wheezed.

“So can I,” Lestrade said stiffly, “just trust me on this, Sherlock, stay out here.”

It wasn’t just the tone of Lestrade’s words but from the way he just suddenly seemed to drain of color that kept Sherlock where he stood. His mind went in every direction at once until he realized Lestrade had tried to save them the pain of possibly identifying their daughter but had been unable to.

Lestrade, a man who frequently babysat Willa, who had watched her grow from an infant to the child she was, was unable to identify whether the body belonged to her or not.

There was a dull thud from behind Sherlock and when he turned he found John kneeling on the floor like a puppet whose strings had been cut. John claimed not to be as bright as Sherlock but had almost as quickly reached the same conclusion he had.

Molly was the first to get to him, “John,” she pleaded softly and grabbed his arm trying to help him up.

John struggled to stand until Sherlock, whose body finally caught up to where his brain was, reached down and pulled him up by his other elbow.

Molly cast a worried glance at Sherlock. “I’ll go find some chairs,” she was all she said.

Sherlock realized, as he was both holding John up and waiting for Molly to return, that Mycroft had been unusually silent. In fact he had even seen the infamous mobile make an appearance. He just stood, seemingly rooted to the wall, and stared at his shoes.

This entire thing was very wrong.

Twenty minutes later Molly appeared, followed by another staff member, carrying folding chairs. John was promptly deposited in the first one that was set out. Sherlock sat next to him. Molly took a seat next to Sherlock and Lestrade next to John. Mycroft didn’t move from the wall.

Sherlock was never particularly good with time. He understood it of course hours, minutes, seconds and all that but he was bad at being aware of the time. He didn’t realize it was the middle of the night until someone was howling at him for playing the violin to late, didn’t realize it was the middle of the day until Mrs. Hudson was nudging him awake with tea, and it was why sometimes when he promised to do something ‘in a few minutes’ it ended up taking him several days.

This time though, when he would give anything to be blissfully unaware of the time, he was able to count down every passing second.

An hour after they arrived Lestrade stood and walked to Mycroft talking to him in a low voice that Sherlock didn’t even both to try and listen in on. Mycroft said little back and stayed at the wall. After five more minutes Greg went over to Molly and asked her if she needed anything. He asked Sherlock and John the same question. Sherlock said no and John didn’t seem to have heard him.

Still, when Lestrade returned twenty-one minutes later, he was juggling five cups of coffee. He had a bag stuck between his teeth too.

He quickly handed out the coffee to everyone, holding John’s in front of his face until he finally took it, before walking back to Mycroft. Sherlock watched as he pulled the bag from between his teeth and then produced a cookie, which he shoved in Mycroft’s hand without even asking. Any other time Sherlock would have had hundreds of rude things to say but this time he was quiet.

It was thirteen minutes later that Dr. Golden emerged from the morgue and headed straight for Molly.