{note...the Bacha Bazi are a group of men in Afghanistan who use boys as sex slaves. http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bacha_bazi}


John stayed precisely two steps behind. When they reached the top of the stairs, it was John who spoke.

"The man with the violin."

Both Holmeses turned to face John, who had turned his gaze towards the violin on the sofa.

"He came to pack up things. He wanted to take the vioiln-- it was lying on the sofa. And I said not to take it. That you might need it when you came back. To help you think." John looked at Mycroft who was sure enough, sitting in Sherlock's chair. "And I expected you would say something condescending, like I needed some rest. Or say I was crazy. But instead, you didn't say I was wrong. You didn't say anything at all... just smiled a tiny smile, like someone who knows something, and turned and left it on the sofa, untouched."

"And there it remains, John. Do you know who I am?"

"No. No, I don't."

Sherlock scowled. This was not the way this conversation was supposed to begin.

"John, go check the fridge for heads."

"Yes, sir," was the reply.

"Well, that was said with quite a bit less sarcasm than expected."

"Shut up, Mycroft. this is not a game."

"Indeed not. You were saying you found him. Where?"

Mycroft looked like he wanted to make a gesture with a tumbler of scotch. Sherlock took pleasure in not offering him one. "Where did you say you lost track of him?"

"South of Kandahar. we caught up with him and were going to provide him with information as to your last point of contact, but the agent said he went into a tent and disappeared. he assumed he intended to raid a camp nearby."

"Of Bacha Bazi."

"So he was out to liberate some dancing boys along the way?" Mycroft glanced at John, who had emptied the contents of the fridge onto the counter and was busy wiping down the shelves. "Noble, your soldier. Whatever brought you back to Afghanistan?"

"We didn't meet in Afghanistan. We met in Chisinau."

"Moldova? Before or after your..."

Sherlock cut off the line of questioning with a look. Mycroft observed John again, far more subtly this time.

"I see no injuries."

"Some injuries are not visible."

Mycroft leaned forward. "How did you get him out? We've been trying to infiltrate that camp for over a decade. With good men."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, then at his chair. "I'll send you the bill."

"You purchased him?"

"I happened to be staking out an auction at the time. It was expedient."

"Do you realize how easily you could have been spotted, Sherlock? Maybe you were. Maybe they knew it was you from the moment you walked through the door. The Underworld knows you are alive. The Yard has its suspicions, always a step or two behind the criminal element. One member of the force-- Anderson, I believe-- has made tracking you across the Continent his personal obsession. You should have noted where John went and we would have gotten him out."

"The same way you got him in? No." Sherlock picked up his violin, and started on a discordant arpeggio. Mycroft only spoke louder.

"You are letting your heart rule your head, Sherlock. I'll admit it wasn't easy, given the circumstances, but you are entirely too close to this to be objective. He will need specialised care."

Sherlock stopped the cacophony. "And some debriefing, perhaps?"

"Why must you always be so cynical? I am merely trying to help."

"Why must your actions always inspire cynicism? And I accept your acknowledgement of responsibility."

Sherlock turned back toward John, who was thoroughly absorbed in cleaning the bottom vent with a cotton bud and rubbing alcohol.

Mycroft looked uncharacteristically grave. "The very best care, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded. "Outpatient only."