A/N: Virtual margaritas for Sevenpercent, Ghyllwyne, and SailOnSilvergirl. To be exchanged for real ones should you show up on my door step one day.

This fic has strong ties back to the story Mycroft told John in 'Fraternity'. This stands alone, but might make more sense if you read that bit of backstory.


Doubled over, clutching his stomach, tears streaming down his face, Sherlock laughed.

He didn't have time for hysteria, but the absurdity of the situation demanded release.

He stood on an overgrown dirt track, ten feet from the target he'd raced to reach. His pursuers weren't close, but between the dogs and thermal imaging, he estimated his chances of escape at less than four percent. But he didn't have to escape - he just had to make the drop.

The abandoned car before him, rusted, rotting, and filled with bees, was the drop location.

Sherlock sobered, drawing in a ragged breath. He straightened and moved toward the car. Pulling his phone from his pocket he took a photo, texted it, and switched the phone off.

"I will be captured soon," he said calmly, positioning the phone at the gap in the rotted gasket that served as an entrance to the hive. "I am unlikely to survive the Baron's hospitality."

He slid the phone gently through the opening and into the car. It fell to the floor, out of sight behind the curtain of honeycomb. The bees buzzed angrily in response.

"Mycroft will send someone for that. He'll get what he needs to finish the mission. Eliminate the last gunman. That's all that matters," he said, backing away. "I never understood that, before."