Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read so all mistakes are mine. Thanks for their reviews go to theartstudentyoulovetohate, buttercup59, likingthistoomuch, DanaanB, roses-after-rain, shazzykins, Miss Whiddlesworth, Bekah1218 and Katya Jade. Hope you enjoy this.


~ TIGER ON A GOLD LEASH ~


There had always been stories, Mycroft explains.

Always, even when he started. Even before then.

There had been whispers of things that moved in the shadows, assets which could occasionally be called into play. But not every day and not for every assignment. Not even for most. For these whispers, they took their tithe in blood and flesh. They brought with them consequences both wondrous and terrifying.

Failure to understand this had resulted in… problems, Mycroft says. Problems which could not be dealt with. Problems which could not be rationally explained. The department still has a couple of these problems extant and on the loose, taking up residence amongst the few things which can deprive the great Mycroft Holmes of sleep-

"It's irrational, you see," he says. "Irrational and outside our understanding.

"I have no weapons against such circumstances as these."

And yet, the cord which tied him and his masters to these shadows, that had never been cut. It never would be. There had to a point of contact, some way to communicate with the other side.

"And this communication goes both ways," Sherlock says.

It is a statement, not a question. Nevertheless Mycroft nods.

"Yes," he says. "We keep our ear to the ground- As do they. And the whispers we heard most recently were that our old friend Moriarty has been playing in the darkness. Trying to make deals. Trying to buy influence."

"Has he succeeded?" This from John, his gaze sharp and worried.

Mycroft shakes his head, wanting to reassure a new father perhaps- Or maybe just proud of the little he knows.

"Our master criminal is not well liked, by the other side," he says. "Our sources indicate he has attempted manipulation. Threats and violence." A small, shark-like smile tugs at his lip. "The creatures with whom he is dealing have neither the time nor the patience for such childishness."

"So they're not interested?" Molly asks the question quietly. Hopefully.

When Sherlock looks at her, she flinches and looks away.

He feels a corresponding tug of something he will not name in his chest.

Mycroft inclines his head. "We had hoped that. Though tonight's events would seem to suggest that we have been overly optimistic."

And for a moment regret, or maybe even pity, move through his features.

Just as quickly he looks away.

Without knowing why Sherlock reaches out and takes Molly's hand. She squeezes it as she asks her next question.

"Mycroft… What am I now?" she says, and her voice sounds tiny. Frightened. "What… What did they do to me?"

Mycroft winces, as does John, but nevertheless he meets her gaze.

Sherlock knows his brother to be many things, but he is not a coward.

"The word we would use, garish as it is, is vampire," he says quietly. "Anything else would be mere euphemism. There are, of course, as many different terms as there are cultures but for what we know of the condition, that serves best."

Molly gulps. She takes the news, Sherlock can't help but think, with rather remarkable fortitude.

"And so that's why I- That's why I was able-" She gestures to Sherlock, somewhat helplessly.

He tightens his grip on her hand.

He doesn't know why but he thinks that it will help her.

"Strength is amongst the most obvious signs, yes," Mycroft says. "Speed is another. When Stanford called he said he didn't see you leave Bart's, that you were there one moment and simply gone the next."

He narrows his eyes.

"That's how you got in here too, isn't it?"

Molly nods. "I ran. It felt… Good. Right. Even without shoes. I've never… Something so small has never made me feel so happy. And then when I got here I climbed the drainpipe. I didn't even think about it, I just- I just knew how."

And she shivers, her gaze drawn to Sherlock before it skitters away.

Mycroft nods. "Yes, that would tarry with our observations in the past. The change is quick. Almost instantaneous, once the subject awakens. Instinct takes over, which probably drew you here."

His expression grows curious.

"Do you remember deciding to come here?"

She shakes her head. "No," she says honestly. "I just… Sherlock left his coat at Bart's. I saw it and I just… I just…"

She shakes her head, turns away. Without warning Sherlock pulls her tight to his side and covers her with one arm, hushing her.

The naturalness of this gesture seems to confuse both John and Mycroft but he doesn't care.

It just seems right, to want to protect Molly.

He presses a quick kiss to the crown of her head and she mumbles something, turns to him. For a moment she moves closer to his throat, lips finding his skin and applying the barest pressure. It feels exquisite and without asking himself why, Sherlock shifts his head and bares his throat in invitation, his eyelids growing heavy and fluttering shut-

Immediately Mycroft's hand dart's out, his little silver bauble gripped tightly between thumb and forefinger.

One look at it and Molly hisses, moves away from Sherlock and stands.

She walks to the corner of the room, her eyes on the three men between her and the door.

Sherlock feels an uncharitable hiss of annoyance. She looks so frightened.

"What is that thing?" he barks, gesturing to Mycroft's device. "And why is it frightening Molly?"

His brother doesn't answer right away, merely holds the object out to Sherlock. Lets him take it.

He watches as he handles it- checking to see whether it has the same effect on him that it does on Molly perhaps.

He seems relieved when it does not.

Sherlock doesn't care though; he hefts the thing easily, runs his fingers across it. It appears to be a small, solid ball of grey metal. Despite its size it weighs about the same as a bag of sugar. It is traversed, here and there, with carvings, runes by the looks of things. There are also thin lines and small, picked-out star shapes, giving the appearance of constellations. In some places they've been worn away- Clearly it's rather old- but in others they're fresh.

They dig pleasingly into Sherlock's thumb when he runs it over them.

"It's pure silver," Mycroft supplies. "On loan from a certain… interested party."

Sherlock looks at him sharply. "Can it hurt Molly?"

He shakes his head. "At the moment, yes. Once the transformation is complete then probably not."

Molly's head flicks up. "So I'm not all the way through the process?" she asks. "I could- I could change back-"

"No." Mycroft says the words with a certainty that seems to have a weight all its own. "There is no cure. There is no going back."

John opens his mouth, about to interject, clearly, but the elder Holmes silences him with a raised hand. "Once the process begins," he says, "it cannot be reversed. We have spent centuries trying- Millennia, possibly. It simple cannot be done."

He bows his head.

"I am sorry, Ms. Hooper," he says. "If it is any consolation, we did not believe that Moriarty's organisation would target you- We had assumed that Dr. Watson was a more logical choice."

John blanches. "So you thought that they would-"

"We thought they'd try," Mycroft says quietly. "It seemed more in Moriarty's line: New father, just married, and my brother's best friend to boot. We also assumed that he would make his attempt when you were in your home- And your darling wife was there."

John and Sherlock exchange looks.

"It might have been enough to take the assassin out, having her there," Mycroft continues. "I am not… unaware of the new Mrs. Watson's skill-set, after all." He looks at the doctor, then at Sherlock. Lowers his voice. "You may rest assured that her secret is safe with me."

John has turned livid though. "So you were going to hang me out like bait?" he snaps. "Let Moriarty's boys go Frankenstein on me and hope Mary managed to fight them off?"

Again Mycroft nods. "That was the plan, yes."

Sherlock knows what's coming next.

"But that's not all of it, is it?" he asks quietly. "Any more than it's all of what happened to Molly."

His brother shoots him a look which is simultaneously proud and incredibly irritated. It shows Sherlock that Mycroft would rather he had not put together what he just has.

"We didn't believe- even if the process took him whole- that John Watson would ever turn on you," he says quietly.

Sherlock continues for him. "No, you knew he'd remain loyal," he says. "You know he would protect me. Et voila! Suddenly I have a supernatural body-guard. Strong. Quick. Lethal- And entirely loyal to me. Not your organisation, not these "interested parties," you mentioned earlier. Just to me."

He looks at his brother who has, at least, the good grace to appear chagrined.

"Yes," Mycroft says. "If the thing was to be done anyway, I wished to secure the best possible outcome for you-"

"So you didn't warn us," Molly says, speaking over him.

She's gone awfully, awfully still, something almost… predatory moving through her eyes.

It sets every hair on the back of Sherlock's neck erect, goose-flesh breaking over his skin.

Mycroft looks at her, gestures for Sherlock to return his bauble. The detective toys with it for a moment before handing it over, moving to stand beside Molly and lay a hand on her arm.

She jerks it away, her gaze fixed on Mycroft.

Suddenly the air is thick and silent. Dangerous.

Mycroft meets her eyes without flinching. Draws himself up and stands. "If you're going to attack me, then attack," he says simply. "You might even argue that you're justified- What has happened to you is, I admit, partially my fault-"

Molly opens her mouth, shows her teeth. As Sherlock watches they extend, incisors lengthening, seeming to grow sharper.

It makes him shiver, though not entirely in fear.

She stalks over to his brother, leans up on tiptoe so that her lips are a mere breath away from his skin. Though he tries to hold still, nevertheless he balks: He fears making contact with her mouth, Sherlock muses. He might be afraid she'll bite him, or (more likely) there might be something specific about her kiss or touch that can effect him-

Like it's effecting you? An irritating voice- which sounds uncannily like John's- whispers in his head. Is that why you're taking this all so easily?

He dismisses the question, something in him resolutely not wishing to think on it.

That such reticence might not be entirely his own doing is, likewise, a notion on which he does not wish to dwell.

Instead he watches as Mycroft meets Molly's eyes and she… She forces herself calmness. She forces herself not to hurt him.

Sherlock's not sure how he knows that's what she's doing, he just does.

After a moment's charged silence she hisses, skulks over to the window of his bedroom. Looks out onto Baker Street.

With her back turns she doesn't see the sheer relief which washes over Mycroft's face.

The elder Holmes draws himself up, takes a deep calming breath and nods to John. Sherlock. He hands his little silver safety-measure back to the good doctor. "You're probably going to need this," he says.

"Get bent," John snaps back, even as he accepts the damn thing.

Head held high Mycroft walks to the door, pauses at it. His words are addressed to Molly's back and they betray not a shred of discomfiture this time.

"Tomorrow, 2pm at The Diogenes Club," he says. "Don't worry if you don't know it- Sherlock does. I will need you to be there."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

Molly practically spit's the words, unwilling to look around.

Mycroft's smile is cold. Unsurprised.

"You won't be going anywhere with me, Ms. Hooper," he says. "I shall have an expert there, someone to explain your new… circumstances to you." His gaze flicks to Sherlock. "Unless, of course, you're willing to allow these new abilities of yours to endanger my brother-

"Are you that reckless, Ms. Hooper?"

Sherlock knows the sound of a manipulation when he hears it, and Molly must too for she swears under her breath. He sees her fingers tighten against his windowsill, the wood cracking slightly as she inclines her head. She doesn't turn around.

"I'll be there," she says. "I wouldn't- I won't allow anything to hurt Sherlock."

Her eyes flick up and she meets the detective's gaze in the glass for a moment before once again looking away.

Mycroft inclines his head, the promise Sherlock belatedly realises he'd come into this room to procure making him smile slightly. There are times when, as much as Sherlock loves his brother, he knows him to be an utter bastard.

"That's the spirit, Ms. Hooper," Mycroft says. He at least has the courtesy to not sound as pleased as he looks. "Until tomorrow, then-"

And he leaves. Closes the door carefully behind him. After a moment Sherlock hears his army of agents begin to gather their things. Take their leave. By the time Sherlock, John and Molly quit his room there's almost no evidence of the agents' presence, except for a small pile of UV lights of various sizes. Someone has stuck a post-it on them saying, Use Me.

They have also left a small fish-knife, about the length of Sherlock's hand, its blade inscribed with the same runes and constellations which Mycroft's bauble sported. It sits beside a post-it saying Just In Case.

John, Molly and Sherlock wander out into the Baker Street living room. The silence is so thick, so tense, that it seems to have a will of its own. John opens his mouth- probably to offer to stay- but Sherlock shakes his head. "Go home to your wife," he tells him.

"Molly will be fine right here- As will I."

The doctor clearly looks unconvinced but he still inclines his head. Pulls out his phone and calls a cab, then calls Mary. He even tries to surreptitiously slip Sherlock the silver device Mycroft left him.

The detective takes it gladly, pockets it.

He waits for his friend to leave, puts him in the taxi and watches it pull away. When he climbs the stairs back up to his flat he finds Molly sitting in that same corner she hid in earlier, her face in her hands, body hunched in over herself.

She appears to be crying, pink-hued, droplets hanging on her eyelashes, sliding down her cheeks. Her hands.

Without asking her permission- or questioning his motives- he picks her up. Carries her into his room.

She goes utterly still when he touches her, and she remains utterly still as he lays her down on his bed.