Snow swirled in the gusting wind as Mycroft sat inside the new car and waited. Daniels was finding them some decent food, while Sherlock did one of the few things he did best, disguise himself and sneak into the required country.
As soon as they'd decided to stay Mycroft had phoned around the few agents in the area who might help despite the lack of approval from the top. One had felt obligated to him enough to at least provide them with his car and drive Mycroft's back towards the UK with a couple of friends. Mycroft had promised to reimburse them for the effort.
Before his younger brother had left, the pair of them had marked out on a map the few places Amelia could be held, given how far into Russia they'd travelled, the few pieces of information she fed them and what Mycroft and Sherlock already knew about the area.
So far, Mycroft had ruled out one possible location himself with a few questions put to an old agent. Sherlock needed to narrow it down the rest of the way.
Amelia had fallen asleep again, something probably wise given everything that was likely to happen over the next few days. Somehow, she would have to endure at least one day of whatever the Russians had in store for her, and he knew it wouldn't be much longer until the day arrived. The horizon in the east was lightening, and there was work to be done.
As the first few sun rays came up across the sky, turning everything a gentle orange, Daniels returned, a loaf of bread tucked under one arm and a paper bag under the other. He wasn't wearing his usual suit but had borrowed some of the scruffier clothes Mycroft sometimes used as a disguise.
“There doesn't seem to be much here,” Daniels said as he got back into the car. “But I found a couple of barns we could hole up in until we get Amelia back. And there's a good place to put the car behind one of them as well.”
“Good, we'll go there now. I'm sure my brother can find us when he returns.” Mycroft didn't want to be out in the daylight any longer than necessary. It was important that it looked like he was returning to England.
It took them almost no time at all to drive the car down the little country lanes that led to the disused barn, but getting this new car hidden behind it was another matter. Although it was as bullet proof as his own, it was designed to look more like a sports car and appear unobviously changed. As a result its suspension was far lower.
One side of the stone barn's roof had crumbled slightly and it covered the ground in half-concealed boulders. It took one of them driving and the other pushing the car over particularly awkward patches, or moving rocks out the way to get the car behind the barn.
With the snow coming down, Mycroft quickly worked out that the easiest way to hide the car from sight on the final side was simply to cover it in a tarpaulin and let the snow blend it into the surroundings. Thankfully, they had one in the boot. In his line of business you never knew when you wanted to hide something.
It wasn't quite large enough to stretch the full length of the car, but a bush grew near the other end, and in a few hours that would all be part of the snow, as well. Although it was cold, and would make it harder to get Amelia out, the snow at least had one or two advantages.
With that job done, Mycroft had a look inside the barn. Apart from the small section of roof that had crumbled, the inside was still dry and snow free.
For now they could use it as a dwelling. He didn't plan to be there more than a day or two at most, and neither he nor Sherlock could die of the cold. Of that, they were both well aware.
Mycroft was just thinking that his brother really ought to have been back, when Sherlock sauntered around a hedge and came into the barn.
As soon as they saw each other the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched up in a grin. He was wearing the uniform of a Ukrainian Air Force officer.
“I have a feeling we've got everything we need right at our fingertips.”
“Did you find where they're holding her?” Daniels asked, but Mycroft knew the answer from one glance at his younger brother.
Sherlock fidgeted a little.
“I narrowed it down to one of three places, and they're all near to each other. We should be able to put together a plan and figure out which one along the way if we need to. There's a chance we'll get the information we need from Amelia anyway.”
Mycroft nodded. Even if he wanted to be angry at Sherlock, there was nothing that could be done now. They would have to work with what they had.
Before they could start doing anything else, the sound of a metal door closing came through the speaker on Mycroft's phone. He'd pulled up the feed from Amelia's bug on his phone while the laptops were kept in the car.
Not long afterwards they were trying not to listen to the sounds of Amelia being tortured, but one phrase was going to stick with Mycroft for some time. The Russian was right. He should have taken better care of her. They'd evidently been planning to take her for some time and he'd not noticed.
“We'll have her back in less than twenty-four hours,” Sherlock said. “And I can listen to the feed if it bothers you.”
“Why would it bother me?” Mycroft asked a little too hastily. As he said it he unclenched his fists and relaxed his jaw. His younger brother gave him a look to know he wasn't fooled but, thankfully, he didn't pursue it any further.
Over the next three hours, Sherlock told him everything he'd found, from the Ukrainian base just this side of the border to all the places to incarcerate Amelia he'd ruled out. It was a lot of information, but it sounded like they had or could acquire most of what they needed.
To see if he could identify the person interrogating her, Mycroft sent a snippet of the recording to his secretary and any of the agents he'd ever sent on Russian missions. It was a small enough task that it was unlikely to be prevented. One of them might recognise the voice or be able to match the recording to an old one somewhere. Whoever he was, neither Mycroft nor Sherlock had ever met him.
“I'm going to need to come with you,” Mycroft said.
“I assumed you planned to all along.”
“I was considering it. But it's not ideal.”
“Take the helicopter,” Sherlock said, pointing to where he'd found it, in the Ukrainian base.
“I know how to fly one,” Daniels said, piping up for the first time in several hours. Immediately, Mycroft frowned; he had no intention of taking his chauffeur into any more danger with him if he didn't need to.
“Brilliant.” Sherlock slapped Daniels on the back, and Mycroft could tell from the looks on both their faces that it was decided. There would be no way to persuade Daniels to remain with the car. “It works better with my plan anyway. You'll find Amelia faster and I'll have less running around to do. It also gives you an excuse if the royal family cause you trouble over it. You can insist you went into Russia against your will.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. It was just like the younger Holmes to be so flippant about the risk they were taking.
“Now, if that's all settled, I want some sleep. I was up all night.”
Although it was tempting, Mycroft didn't point out he hadn't slept either. It would be yet another sign that he was emotionally invested in Amelia's rescue. Instead, he encouraged Daniels to take the other spare blanket and curl up to sleep as well. Someone had to listen in to Amelia, just in case she gave them something useful.
As he sat there, he looked over the details of everything Sherlock had mapped out and informed him of. It didn't take him long to spot Sherlock's obvious attempts to hide what he intended to do.
“Oh, Sherlock, what were you thinking?” he muttered under his breath, knowing Sherlock was doing the one thing he would do if it wouldn't start a war. It was probably a good thing he was going to let Daniels fly him into Russia in the helicopter. It would reduce the time it took to find Amelia and get her out.
Mycroft was looking over the three possible facilities to work out the best way to search them when he got a message from one of his old agents.
Recognised the voice. Russian called Maksim Nesterov. Works in Western Russia mostly. Ambitious but not as nasty as some.
Relief lifted the weight in Mycroft's stomach a little. He could easily tell the interrogation on Amelia had been tough, but there was hope she'd pull through if her captor really was Maksim Nesterov. Over the last few years, Mycroft had heard the man mentioned.
He was organised and bright, with a lot of success at getting the information he wanted, but he prided himself in doing it without resorting to mutilating the victim. There was even a rumour or two that he broke the few women he'd interrogated without resorting to the savagery some other men did. He was nicknamed the civilised butcher.
It also meant they could cross another one of the three locations Amelia might be in off the list. It wasn't somewhere a man like Nesterov would be.
As Mycroft listened to the feed and waited for nightfall, they abandoned the idea of water torture and Nesterov spoke.
“Well, all I can say is you can't be just some acquaintance. It usually requires some kind of training to put up with that sort of punishment. However, we're not done yet. We could be if you'd just talk.”
“I have nothing I can tell you, but you're forgetting that I'm a writer. I know how this ends,” Amelia replied, her voice sounding washed-out and tired.
He laughed at her comeback, a cold laugh that was meant to frighten her. Given everything that was happening, she was coping well.
“Let us try something different,” he said in English to her before barking out for his minions to flip her over in Russian.
Not long after, he heard her whimpering but had no idea what they were actually doing to her. He assumed from the lack of beating that it was some kind of pressure torture or they were hurting her in a way that wouldn't mark her.
Mycroft could only listen for so long before he had to ignore it and think over their plan again. It had surprised him that they wanted her for information about him. He'd assumed they actually wanted her for her role in everything, but it did mean she would be much more likely to be alive by that evening. You didn't kill your only source.
As long as she didn't say anything, she stood a good chance. Although he wouldn't want her to tell them anything about him, he knew she would say very little, but once they realised she knew next to nothing they would kill her. They didn't go to this sort of effort and then just let their victims go again.
Thankfully, Nesterov decided she'd had enough after only an hour of punishing her that way.
“Stop,” he said in Russian; evidently he was not the one torturing her.
“I think that is enough for now. It seems you're strong-willed. Maybe that's what he likes about you. But I have plenty of time. We'll give you some time to think about your predicament,” he told Amelia in English.
“Good luck,” she replied, sounding surprisingly perky given what was happening to her. “You're going to need it if you go up against the Holmes brothers.”
Nesterov didn't respond to Amelia's taunt but barked another few orders at his own men.
“Remove her dress,” he then commanded his men. Mycroft held his breath wondering where Nesterov was going to go next. When the agent had said Nesterov was civilised, he'd assumed she would be untouched in any manner that would be sexually humiliating.
“Perhaps you will be more talkative when you are fed up of the cold. Russian winters are harsh for you British people, no?”
“The cold never bothered me anyway,” Amelia sang back. Mycroft raised his eyebrows at the strangeness of the response but it seemed to amuse Nesterov, because he laughed.
“Ah, maybe he likes your sense of humour.”
“No, I very much doubt that.”
“Well, we can have another little chat tomorrow.” Nesterov's voice grew louder while he spoke, making Mycroft frown as it became obvious the bug must be attached to her dress. If they found it now she wouldn't be given the reprieve of the night time.
“I don't think you understand what 'little chat' is in English,” she called out but Nesterov continued to walk away from her, her voice getting fainter and confirming Mycroft's suspicions.
“Two guards on the door at all times and wake her every half an hour,” Nesterov said in Russian to his guards, once he was outside the cell they were keeping her in.
It wasn't much information but it was useful. Wherever she was being held, he'd know when he got close to her.
Now that the bug was on the move, Mycroft hoped it would be left somewhere that might provide further information, but luck wasn't with them. Wherever the dress was put, only the sound of something shutting followed it.
With nothing else to do, Mycroft allowed himself to get a few hours' rest before dark. Thankfully, in winter the days were short, and in not very long he was up and waking Daniels, Sherlock opening his eyes as soon as Mycroft even came close.
“It's time,” he said and gave his younger brother a nod, knowing he would pick up on Mycroft's gratitude.
“I'll see you on the other side,” he replied, his eyes saying everything else the two of them needed to. This wasn't goodbye, but it was just as important.