A/N: I have no excuse. But if any of you are still interested in this, here's a new chapter. Enjoy and review!

Warnings: Violence.

The Waiting Game

"Are we there yet?" Sherlock asked for the hundredth time. He felt like the van had been moving for hours. His stab wound hurt. His head hurt. Jim was ignoring him in favor of whatever was happening on his mobile, and Sherlock was seriously considering trying to escape just to get his attention. He glanced surreptitiously toward the door, gauging its security.

"If you spend one more second looking at that door I'm sedating you," Jim said absently, not bothering to look up.

"I wasn't," Sherlock denied without conviction. "Besides," added, "sedation sounds downright pleasant after seven hours bouncing around in this death trap." As if to prove his point, the van hit another bump and they both jolted three inches off their seats.

Sherlock landed hard, wincing as pain lanced across his side. "See?" he gasped. "I'll never make it to the airport alive."

"Don't be dramatic," Jim retorted impatiently. "We've only been on the road an hour and a half, most of which you weren't even awake for, so I really don't see why you have to be so difficult."

"I'm being difficult?" Sherlock said in disbelief. "Difficult? Well, I'm sorry if my participation in my own kidnapping isn't quite as enthusiastic as you'd hoped, but it's been a difficult few days!"

"Really?" Jim asked, smirking. "Well, Sherlock, my dear, I am terribly sorry to hear that. If there's anything at all that I can do to make things easier for you, please don't hesitate to ask."

"I want morphine," Sherlock told him angrily.

"Of course you do," Jim said, rolling his eyes. "Not my problem."

"You're the one who stabbed me!" Sherlock yelled at him. "You're the one who kidnapped me from the hospital where they were giving me morphine! It's your fault, so I think that makes it your problem!"

"Do you think so?" Jim demanded, his voice going cold. "Well, you know what I think, Sherlock? I think you're annoying me. I think I have a headache. And I think that you've forgotten who's in charge here."

Sherlock froze. He knew that tone. He'd heard it a hundred times before, and it generally meant that his situation was about to get really unpleasant. Jim leaned forward slowly, and Sherlock shrank back against the seat. He was already regretting everything he'd said, and Jim hadn't even done anything yet.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock whispered. "I didn't mean to yell, I haven't forgotten, please, I'm sorry." He honestly didn't think apologizing would do any good, but he couldn't resist the impulse. If there was one thing he'd learned in three years, it was that Jim loved to hear him beg.

Jim laughed. "Oh, I see you do remember," he said brightly. He slid easily across the van and settled himself next to Sherlock, grinning at the flinch this elicited.

"Jim-" Sherlock started desperately, but before he could say another word Jim lunged forward and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's neck. Sherlock struggled, unable to breathe and all of a sudden horribly sure that Jim had changed his mind.

"He's going to kill me," Sherlock thought, and couldn't help but be a bit annoyed at how easy it was. His attempt at fighting was having no effect, and when Jim slammed a hand against his injury he gave up altogether. He couldn't breathe, he felt like his side was on fire, and he knew he had no chance.

Just as his vision began to blur, Jim released him, settling back with a smile. Sherlock collapsed, sliding off the seat and onto the floor of the van. He shuddered and coughed, clutching his wound as it was jostled further by his movements.

"Are you quite alright?" Jim asked casually, glancing down at him. He had already taken his mobile back out of his pocket and was typing a message without looking down at the screen.

Sherlock managed a pathetic sort of whimper as he managed with difficulty to drag himself up into a sitting position. He looked at his side, gingerly taking his hand away, then closed his eyes.

"I think . . . you tore . . . the stitches," he mumbled, still struggling to breathe. Blood was seeping through his shirt in a spreading red stain, and it was beginning to drip onto the floor.

"Damn," Jim said, sighing. "I just had this van cleaned, Sherlock. Couldn't you have just kept quiet for once?"

"Sorry," Sherlock replied weakly. "I think you might be . . . cleaning my corpse out of it . . . next."

"Don't worry about that," Jim told him. "I have no intention of letting you die on me." He rummaged in his pockets and withdrew a capped syringe. Sherlock blinked at it, then offered his arm resignedly to Jim. He supposed he'd wake up in Italy, or not at all, and he couldn't really summon the energy to care which.

Mycroft paced back and forth across his office, waiting for the phone to ring. His team had been trying to track down Sherlock for almost six hours without any luck, and Mycroft knew that with every passing moment the odds for their success grew worse. He couldn't believe that this had happened. The hospital's security should have been airtight, and he cursed himself for whatever sloppiness had allowed James Moriarty himself to get in.

Over and over, he reviewed the security arrangements in his mind, searching for the flaw. "There wasn't one!" he thought furiously. The more Mycroft considered it, the clearer it became to him that the only way Moriarty could have gotten into the hospital was if he knew the entire plan beforehand, every detail, every guard, every entrance. And that wasn't possible. It wasn't. No one besides Mycroft even knew what all the security measures were, not even Anthea. He hadn't been willing to take any chances, not with his brother's life. Not again.

Thankfully, the phone rang, freeing Mycroft from this train of thought before it could reach it's inevitable destination, reminding him once again of the guilt he had carried for three years, the knowledge that what happened could never be anyone's fault but his own. Without looking at the display, Mycroft flipped open the phone, wanting news as much as he dreaded it. "Yes?" he asked quickly.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes," laughed the voice on the other end. "I wasn't sure you'd pick up, but then I thought, 'Is he really going to check the caller ID?' And . . . well, here we are!"

"Moriarty," Mycroft snarled, his knuckles going white as he clutched the phone. "Where is he? Tell me where my brother is. Now."

"Do youreally think I'm going to just tell you? Let's be logical, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty replied cheerily. "I already gave him to you once, served up on a platter. It's hardly my fault you couldn't hang onto him, and I'm not about to make it that easy twice."

Mycroft gritted his teeth, knowing that James Moriarty was not a man who responded to being shouted at. If he wanted Sherlock back, he'd have to play the game. "What do you want?" he asked in the calmest tone he could manage. "I'm willing to negotiate."

"Are you? That's sweet," Moriarty told him brightly. "But you know I'm not going to just . . . sell him to you."

"Then why the hell did you call?" Mycroft asked tiredly. He knew better than to try to make sense of Moriarty's word games. The man could talk for an hour without saying a thing, and if the call gave any clue to his location, it could only be decoded later, from the recording. His computer had already confirmed it as untraceable. But this call was the only link he had to Sherlock, however tenuous, so Mycroft would hear the madman out.

"Just fancied a chat," Moriarty replied casually.

"A chat," Mycroft said slowly. He took a deep breath. "Well, what would you like to chat about?"

"Anything really. Sherlock's being all boring." Jim said with a sigh.

"What did you do to him?" Mycroft demanded. Boring was not a word that boded well for his brother's well-being. Or anyone's, really, coming from Moriarty.

"Relax, he's just sleeping," Jim assured him. "Wait, hold on," he said suddenly. There was a buzz of static from the phone, before Moriarty returned. "Sorry to . . . cut this short, but I really have to go. Talk to you later!" he sang, and ended the call.

Mycroft stared at his phone in disbelief. He had no idea what had just happened, but he knew he didn't like it. He needed to find Sherlock. Fast. Not knowing what else to do, he dialled Anthea.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, surprised. "I . . . didn't expect you to call. Is something wrong?"

"Quite a few things are wrong, in case you haven't noticed," he snapped. "Have you found anything?"

"No . . . not yet," she admitted. "I was waiting to contact you until we had news."

"I need you back here, now," he ordered. "I have a recording that needs to be analyzed, and someone really needs to look into how James Moriarty keeps getting my personal mobile number!"

There was a beat of silence, then she told him, "I'm on my way," and hung up.