Author's Note: Sorry if you like Lestrade.


There was a sinking feeling in Mary's stomach when the police spilled in through the double doors of Bart's. She didn't want to be found out. The affair was the worst thing she could ever hope to do to a person she 'loves'. But it was guaranteed now. No going back. She swallowed the needles in her throat that split the flesh and stopped her lungs from doing their job. "John," she began weakly. "John." "Not now, love." John said it tenderly, but his gaze was metallic, locked on the swarming policemen filing in and out of the surgery. He was ready to kill, his white-knuckled grip crushing the cane's handle as he held onto it, the other clinging to his gun. It wasn't the biggest or showiest, but very strong, and capable of murder, like John himself. Mary swallowed again. It would be incredibly easy for her to come out with the truth and for him to slaughter her, right there, in front of everyone. He'd been livid last time something like this had happened, and his patience was worn thinner than printer paper. Her best chance of escaping death by his hand was stealing the gun and aiming at her own forehead. "John," Mary repeated, and held their baby out to him. "Take her. I've- got to go." She had to run away. She couldn't live here anymore. Maybe she could go to China, or America. Anywhere but here. John shook his head. "I can't. I've got to be ready for when we find out where Sherlock is," he replied, one finger ghosting over the trigger of the Sig Sauer at his hip. "You just go home. Bring her along. It's not safe here."

"John, I can't... Take her. Please." John's irises were hardening. He was getting irritated. "Mary, go. The baby needs to sleep and you're bringing her home. Get out." Lestrade glanced up from the floor, barked an order into his mobile, and raised a brow. "You guys 'lright?" he asked gently, one hand over the phone. John nodded and said, "Mary's just leaving. Taking the babe with her. Go, Mar'."

Mary's throat was closing sharply again, but she dipped her head and meekly tore out of Bart's, shoving past officers. She didn't know what to do with the cooing child. She had to leave, and it wouldn't help if she stole the baby and took her along. An orphanage might work, but John was a great father, and would take good care of her after Mary had gone. She didn't know anybody that could hold onto the unnamed figure without spilling the beans to John, unless- she didn't tell them. Her neighbor owed her a favor for saving her teenage son, so she leaped into a cab and ordered that the driver bring her to the older woman's home. The ride was quick and dismissive, and in no time Mary was rapping sharply on the front door of a little building next to wear she lived, shoving her baby into the clueless woman's arms when the door swung open, and running again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she chanted between brisk pants, tears flying behind her in spheres of salty fluid, thoughts racing faster than her feet ever could take her. She never should have gone with Moriarty to begin with, and now she was running from home, running from a continent, giving away children and abandoning family. She'd never see anyone ever again. She would have to start over with another new name, and-

"Mrs. Watson?" A policeman swiped the beam of his flashlight over her countenance. He probably knew her from the papers, or saw her with John at Bart's during a case. This was a bad thing. She didn't want to see someone, anyone right now, not like this. Not ever. "What are you doing out here?" "I... I-" Mary didn't have an excuse for running and crying. His gray eyes widened when he finally took in her state. "Mrs. Watson...? What happened?"

Suddenly, Mary had an idea.

She sniffed and forced a sob. "I-I... Found Moriarty," she said between gasps and tears. "I've been spying on him for weeks. He thinks I'm on his side, a-and... He's in a warehouse. I'll show you!" Before she had even finished, the officer was shouting into his walkie-talkie, giving orders and arguing with risen volume. The quiet, rain-drenched streets echoed his calls and tossed them through her skull, bouncing behind her eyes and digging into her brain like spears. He redirected his attention to her again, and gave a gentle, reassuring smile. "Everything is alright," he said, and he took his rain-repelling coat off to drape it over her shoulders. "Can you tell me where the warehouse is?"


Before he knew what was happening, Moriarty and his 'palace', as he liked to call it, were being swarmed with policemen. He never thought they'd actually, well, find him, but oh well! He grinned mischievously when they arrived. "My love is in the building," he purred to the officers in a sing-song voice as they restrained him, just in case. "He's been waiting on you. Tell him I say he can leave!" His feet dragged along as he was brought to the Detective Inspector's car. "Hello," he smiled again, and shook his wrists pointedly as he dropped into the back seat. "Mind giving me a hand?" "Nice try," came the dry reply from the driver's seat.

The vehicle's engine started with a healthy growl and it gave Moriarty delighted shivers. He loved when things growled, especially at him. "Please, love," he crooned, holding his arms out and sticking them between the passenger and driver's seat. "They're so tight." "Get back," the DI answered roughly, emitting a soft rumble from his throat. "Forceful," Moriarty laughed and pulled away, reclining in his spot.

Poor lad. Sexy, but gray hairs aren't my thing, he thought to himself, and jingled the chains between his wrists. Gotta wait till we get far away. Then I'll visit Mary darling.


"Sherlock!"

John attempted the locked closet door down. Deep moans could be heard from inside minutes earlier, and they silenced when he screamed the man's name. "Sherlock!" he cried again, his bad shoulder throbbing as it collided with the door's surface. A police officer caught his arm, pulled him back, and when he ripped free, several more latched onto him. Another promptly explained that they could unlock the door, and he shrugged them all off, nodding in reluctant acknowledgement.

Sherlock was okay. Mary and the baby were okay. Oh, Mary... Mycroft had said that she was sneaking out to a warehouse every Saturday night for a few weeks, and at first, John had been enraged. He thought she was having an affair, and he thought his life was horrible enough. But when they got a call that said that Mary was spying on Moriarty to find Sherlock, he was more than relieved. Mycroft sounded displeased with the news over the phone, but he always sounded displeased, so John brushed it off.

"There," stated the officer that had actually spoken to him instead of trying to maul him. He lifted a small tool in his gloved hand, waved it around, and pointed to the door knob with it. "Don't open it yet. It might be a trap." He sauntered off, along with the other policemen, and left John alone with what could either be a sniper, an atomic bomb, or a broken consulting detective. He needed to open the door. Sherlock could be hurt in there. And what if Moriarty had planned this all along? What if he moved Sherlock far away and left a recording of his final breaths behind a closed door, taped to a bomb that would set off the second the door flicked open.

"Everything is happening so fast..." John dropped his forehead against the surface of the only way in or out of the now hellish closet. Mary, a spy for him, but not telling him she had been 'recruited'? Sherlock, missing and hurt, possibly mere inches away from his strong hold? Their nameless child, who could be anywhere by now, since Mary was in the streets somewhere alone? John himself, confused, terrified, and slowly breaking, unsure of who to trust and who is even... real? John growled at himself. Everyone was real. He was acting stupid and going crazy. There was too much pressure on his leg. He could barely stand. "Stop getting distracted," he said aloud, standing upright and leaving the bedroom. He didn't want to be insane. He'd be like that one "time traveler" he and Sherlock met and he was definitely certifiable. He sighed gently. "We'll know soon enough."

John stalked through the rest of the house, examined the furniture, washed his sweaty hands in the sink. Everyone was bustling around him and screaming, and he was taken aback, but without Greg or Sherlock he guessed no one had any idea what to do. He looked at Sally. "Hey," he said, and she returned the stare, but her gray eyes were vacant and glassy. John blinked. "Oh, are- you okay?" He didn't think Sally would care about Sherlock. She hated him. Called him a freak. Why was she so upset? "John... Haven't you heard?" He shook his head.

"Greg's dead, John."