A/N: Been awhile, sorry. Balancing five stories is crazy difficult.

I don't own Sherlock or the actors. Sherlock belongs to Sir ACD and Mofftiss and the actors belong to themselves.

May's brows contracted in confusion. She had never heard of Moriarty using this particular form of 'entertainment'. "Sorry, what?" she asked, hands on her hips. Her eye was throbbing again, reminding her just exactly how swollen it was.

"You are proficient in swordplay, are you not?" She had no idea how he could know that. It had been a college club thing; she hadn't held a sword in years. Although, Moriarty probably knew everyone's back history who worked for him down to the very finest details.

"Not exactly," she said, her heart wrenching in two at the sound of Charlie's ever-escalating crying. He was wailing at the top of his lungs now and John seemed to not quite be able to calm him down due to his situation.

"No matter." A smirk rippled across the maniac's face. "You will see a sword and shield in the far left corner of the room. Go to them and you will find a door. If you wish your friends to continue their existence, I suggest doing what I ask." His voice was pleasant enough, but May knew well enough that James Moriarty was at his most dangerous when he sounded the happiest.

Slowly, May made her way to the designated spot. The sword was extraordinarily old-fashioned with a stout leather-bound hilt and a finely sharp blade with a blood-gutter down the middle. Given the length of the weapon it was more a performance item than it was a purposeful one, but she supposed that she shouldn't be surprised overly much. Hefting it in her hand, she tossed it from palm to palm to test the balance, feeling the heavy, deadly weight slap against her bare skin.

Ordinarily, she would have put bracer pads on her wrists and shins, a lightweight breastplate, some minimal chain mail, and a light helmet of some sort. This time, all she had was a shield that looked like it was more of a prop from a play than anything. Was it unexpected? Not exactly. She'd surmised it would be something like this, in other words, it would be like underground, bare-knuckled, no-holds-barred boxing similar to what went on in gambling communities sometimes.

Please let my skills be as good as they were in college, she prayed, lifting the shield and stepping through the doorway with the sword held aloft, preparing for any sudden attacks that might be thrown at her. It didn't take long for her fighting partner to come from seemingly nowhere. She was small and wiry with a determined, haggard face that made her look far older than May knew she was. It was one of her friends from back when she still worked for the Consulting Criminal.

"Laura," she whispered in disbelief. Her onetime friend scowled darkly, circling her tightly like a wild animal.

"That's my name," she spat. May circled her as well, sword held up at chest level in a block position.

"Why?" The one word question asked so much. Why are you fighting? Didn't you leave? Did you come back or did he make you?

"Why not?"

"You know why I'm asking."

"Do I?"

May sighed, tired of beating around the bush and angry at the woman for going back to the madman, no matter which way it happened. "Yep." Her voice was clipped. She lunged in suddenly, immediately catching Laura in the shin. She only cut the material of her pants though. It wasn't a blow intended to injure. It was a warning.

Laura retaliated swiftly with a sharp cut aimed at May's throat. It was a wild, reckless strike that came from pure pent-up anger and frustration. May easily blocked it with her own weapon, twisting from the hilt and sending them both reeling backwards.

"Getting soft, are we? I always knew you would. With a strike like I just made you could've killed me and been done," Laura grunted, pitching herself forward again.

"Yeah, 'bout as soft as this steel right here. Thought you cut out on this place." The conversation was strained and interrupted as they darted in and out, but it wasn't unusual to talk while fighting. It was one tactic often used by May when she sparred in college to try and get the upper hand by distracting her partner.

"I came back, problem?" May bit her lip hard enough to draw blood when the woman's sword caught her on her shield arm when she misplaced a block and sliced a long and shallow gash down the side of her arm like filleting a fish.

"No one comes back. You know that." They were either killed or spent the rest of their life on the run in secret.

"I did."

"Especially when you leave like you did." She referred to the fact that Laura had run away, determined to start a new life away from the horrors of her job.

"Boss likes me, told him I made a mistake," Laura licked her lips.

"Does he? Does he really?" May knew her tone drove the point home when Laura's eyes went slitty and she started hacking like a woman possessed. It was all she could do to keep the blade far enough from her face to keep it from doing serious damage.

She became a whirling dervish, taking long cuts and strikes, body spinning in and out, twisting like the faded serpent decorating her shield. She fought for her life, for Sherlock's, for John's, for the lives of the policemen, for Charlie. The blade hardly touched her again, only a nick on her cheekbone that sent the metallic taste of blood into her mouth.

Laura's stringy red hair tumbled free of its' restraints, flying in her face and creating a momentary blind spot. May saw her chance and took it, hooking the underside of her hilt with Laura's and sending the other blade skittering to the floor as Laura fell onto her back and May's sword followed her, hovering inches from her neck. She bent over her adversary, looking into her wide, scared eyes.

"Do it," she whispered. "Just get it done."

"Not 'til I get information on why you're here," May hissed. "You hated this place more than me and that's saying a hell of a lot. I think you owe me an explanation."

"He found me," Laura rasped quietly, chest heaving up and down with blood gushing from a wound on her shoulder. "Made me come back. Been doing this for a year."

"Oh," May managed, still hovering with the sword to keep up appearances. There was no way she could actually snuff out the life of the one person she'd known she could trust completely.

"When you kill me, he's going to let you try to run." May knew the try was the key word in the sentence. It was rare that anyone actually got away from that place. At that point however, death became a blessed freedom.

"Who says I'm going to kill you?"

"You have to. It's part of the rules. Anyway—" She was unsurprised to hear Laura talking in such an offhand way about her own death. It was her way of dealing with extremely stressful situations. "—Once you do that, you have to run like hell. If you get back to where you came out in time, he might let you live. But you've got to book it."

She sucked in a long breath. "And if I say you're coming too?"

"I can't." Her voice was a pained gasp. She was losing blood fast.

"Too bad."

May stood up boldly and threw her items down. "Oh come now," Jim's cringe-worthy voice fluttered into her ears. "You haven't finished yet. Off you pop, then."

"I made my point. I call that finished," she retorted. She could hear John murmuring from the monitor in the next room. Charlie had stopped crying for the most part, now he was just whimpering. It hurt May's heart more than the full-on sobbing.

"Do you? Well, this should be interesting. I'll let our dear Sherlock in with you for a few moments so you can, erm, tidy up a bit."

A second later, Sherlock popped his head around the door. A brief tremor passed across his forehead in the form of a frown at the sight of her wounded arm and face. In silence, as ever it seemed, he tore a strip of fabric from the hem of his shirt, but hesitated when he got to her. They both knew it would hurt like no tomorrow, but also that she would need it to keep from losing too much blood.

"Just do it," she shut her eyes and gritted her teeth. His cool fingers bound the fabric tightly around her injured arm, making her wince as it burned like it was a fresh wound again. When he finished, she examined his work. It was done well; he clearly knew what he was doing. "Laura next."

"But isn't—"

"She's a friend. Misguided, but she's seen what she needs to to move past this lifestyle."

"Very well." He nodded once, taking the fabric May tore from her own shirt to bind Laura's shoulder to staunch the bleeding. She stuffed her free fist into her mouth to keep herself quiet while the fabric was tied over her gash. It seemed to be only a moment later that Moriarty glided in, appearing in all of his sinister glory.

"Ah, I see you've betrayed me once again my dear," he addressed Laura first, walking up to her and tracing a hand across her jaw lightly. She shuddered, but refused to back up even a fraction of a step.

"An honor and a pleasure," she spat, wincing when he clasped her shoulder purposefully.

"I'm sure. You're aware what happens now, aren't you?"

"Run for our lives? How utterly obvious and tedious," Sherlock interjected, seemingly bored out of his mind.

"I'll see if your answer changes in the next five minutes or so. You'll have twelve hours to get back to where you were. If you don't... well, you've got imaginations. Use them. It's so much funnier that way." A wide smile painted itself across his face and he exited the room.

As soon as he was gone, Laura turned around with an urgent look. "May, we can't stick together. You and Mr. Holmes go where you need to. I'll split off to buy you more time."

"But—"

"I've made more than my share of mistakes in life. I expect it's time I paid for some of them."

Knowing it would just be wasting time to argue, she nodded weakly to her hugged her tightly. Afterward, she cast Sherlock a glance. His pale eyes glittered with a flinty, unreadable emotion. "Now?" she whispered to him.

"Now."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

John's eyes narrowed to slits when the black-clad snipers approached where they sat tied up. He shifted as best as he could to protect the child in his arms. To his surprise, they began to undo the tight bonds. "What the hell?" he spat.

"Cool off, Doctor Watson," a voice huffed impatiently. "Orders came through to let you and your friends go, sort of."

"Explain the bloody 'sort of'," he growled, fighting the urge to deck the man then and there. It wouldn't do them any good; the men had guns and outsized him by a fair amount. They snatched Charlie roughly from his arms and the baby awoke instantly, whimpering again. John took him back as soon as he could, rocking him soothingly back and forth. The child was sort of like his nephew, he supposed.

"You're to stay here, don't call for backup, don't move from this spot," a lean, almost scrawny looking sniper ordered. "If your friends get back to you, you're free to go. If after twelve hours they don't make it, get in those cars and leave. Do not come back. Take the baby with you." John opened his mouth to dispute, but Lestrade interrupted him with a severe look.

"Understood," he revised his earlier statement which involved a colorful array of profanity and nodded curtly. The snipers walked away, their overconfident swaggering making John sick to his stomach. He snapped his head around to look at the Detective Inspector in a way that was part confusion and part accusation. He supplied the infuriated ex-army doctor with an explanation of his actions. "Don't anger them, they're the ones with the guns remember?"

"How could I forget?" John remarked dryly. "We're not going to just stand by though, are we?" he asked angrily. "Look at them!" He jerked his head sharply in the direction of the video monitors.

Sure enough, Sherlock and May were on the screen. They dashed through the forest at a near breakneck speed, a group of Moriarty's crew hot on their heels. There was a bandage on May's left arm, which reminded him of the earlier clash of swords.

Even though he'd been horrified at the fact that he psychopath was making the two women fight like gladiators, he couldn't help but be somewhat fascinated at the display of skill.

Something nearly superhuman seemed to come over May when she fought. Most people got a sort of inhuman bloodlust look on their face. May looked more human than ever. Her eyes were always focused entirely on her target, pulsing with an emotion of some sort. John hadn't been able to get a close enough look to tell exactly which kind.

She had clearly spent a long time training in that form of fighting, because she was fantastic. The blade of her sword became no more than a deadly shimmer that flashed from place to place in the room faster than you could blink. Her opponent was excellent too, and they fought with a sort of familiarity that came with working closely for years and knowing exactly where each other's weak points were. Their bodies twisted together and apart like some sot of macabre dance of death.

When May had won, she stood over her fallen adversary's body longer than she should've. John surmised they had probably reconciled with each other and were attempting to formulate a spur-of-the-moment plan to get out alive. When they ran, the other woman left in the opposite direction, leaping over a set of bushes like a spooked deer. She was trying to buy Sherlock and May more time, if that isn't selfless than I haven't a clue what is, he thought.

The diversion hadn't worked very well; mere minutes after the running began, the loud crack of a gun sounded and the cameras switched to see a body falling to the ground like a marionette whose strings have been recently cut. His breath caught in his throat, involuntary tears burning his eyes briefly. They killed her without a second thought. The women of the abduction team wept silently in grief and in anger.

"John?" Lestrade's voice cut into his thoughts, startling him.

"...Sorry, thinking. Yeah?" He bounced the child in his arms gently.

"I see them." The DI's voice was gruff. "It breaks my heart too. And... I've got an untraceable mobile on me. I've sent a message back to the Yard with our coordinates. They'll send a chopper," he said out of the corner of his mouth and John noticed for the first time that Lestrade still held his hands behind his back. Now he knew why.

"Will it work?" John knew not to get his hopes up too far.

"I hope so, because this is absolutely our last chance to help them."

"Won't the snipers notice?"

"With any luck, they won't see it coming until it's too late."

Luck, John repeated in his head. They were going to need a lot of that.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

May leapt over a bush and skittered sideways on the trail until she could get her footing. They'd been running for what seemed like days when really, it'd just been a bit over an hour. Her chest heaved up and down wildly as she scanned the foliage for shadowy figures and cameras. She'd liberated a gun from one of Moriarty's crew that Sherlock had knocked out—his ammunition too—and was slowly picking off any cameras she saw. By her count, at least ten or so had bitten the dust at her hand.

She heard a click and knew it was the safety of a gun. "Get down!" she hissed forward to Sherlock. He ignored her and kept moving. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a finger on a trigger begin to squeeze. Without thinking, she launched herself forward and tackled Sherlock to the ground. No sooner had they hit the ground than did a bullet go whistling by overhead, accompanied by the customary resounding explosion.

Sherlock looked up at her in shock, or as close to shock as he could get. During their fall, he'd twisted and landed on his back, causing her to land on his chest. Their noses were practically touching. "The next time I say get down, do it will you?" she huffed, raising the shotgun and firing off a round in the direction of their would-be murderer. A cringe rippled through her body when she heard the bullet hit home. She rolled off Sherlock and got up quickly, giving him a dark glare.

"It would have missed," he shrugged, taking a quick glance around and running off at a slightly slower pace than before.

She looked at the position of the bullet hole in the tree. "It would have hit you square in the temple, I can see that from where it is. You're welcome, by the way." May took off, brushing a strand of loose hair out of her eyes.

Two words reached her ears that she thought she would never, ever hear from the mouth of Sherlock Holmes. "Thank you," he murmured around the sound of his heavy breathing. She increased her speed until she was beside him, shooting him a look before taking off ahead of him.

Roughly two minutes later a shot fired over their heads, causing them to duck beneath some bushes, trying their hardest to control their breathing. Warning shot, May mouthed. Sherlock nodded tightly.

I know, he mouthed in return. They'll shoot as soon as we pop up again.

May's eyes turned rock hard. Then we'll just have to be faster, won't we?

On May's signal, they burst through the bushes with a gun held aloft. Two shots dispatched the first two men in front of them sufficiently enough for them to go crashing through them and run like there was fire nipping at their heels.

The men weren't dead, May's aim was good enough to just impair them enough to keep them out of the way. Her arms pumped like pistons on a runaway train as her feet churned the ground. Soon, they came skidding to a stop in front of yet another drop down, somewhat like the one they'd come across the night before. Thankfully, this one was short enough that they could just take a leap and keep going.

She flung herself off the ledge, feet piked like a long jumper at the Olympics. Please, don't let me fall, she prayed seconds before her feet made contact with solid ground and she was off again. A huff of breath forced itself from her chest and she took a cursory glance back to see Sherlock land with a grunt and whip his head around to check on the position of their pursuers.

"Think we lost them," May panted, hands on her knees. They must have gone nearly fifteen miles already. Maybe more. A crashing noise caught her attention.

"Think again," he replied, noticing the rocky terrain and grabbing her hand as they ran so they could both keep their balance a little more. She felt her fingers lace between his for extra stability.

Mere minutes later, May's foot rocked perilously on a deceivingly small and harmless-looking rock and rolled to the side, causing her to go down hard. A loud snap was audible and she couldn't help screaming when the pain rushed through her foot. It was definitely broken; she would not be able to put any weight on it whatsoever. She let go of Sherlock's hand and felt him slip away. A single tear slid down her cheek and she squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the gunshot and the blessed nothingness of death.

Take care of our son, she thought weakly.

The shot never came.

With a yelp of surprise, she felt herself being picked up and cradled tightly against a muscular chest. A bouncing sensation jarred her ankle and she hissed in a breath through her teeth. She suddenly realized who was carrying her.

It was Sherlock.

He'd come back for her. The bloody idiot.

"Sherlock Holmes, put me down! We agreed you'd leave me if something happened!" she demanded.

"Your son deserves a mother," he replied, holding her delicately so his running wouldn't hurt her too much.

"He deserves at least one parent, which he won't get if you don't put me down! I weigh too much for you to run fast enough to ensure safety for both of us!" she protested, trying to wiggle free. He was having none of that; he just held her tighter.

"Want to bet?" Hunching down, he ran faster. The wind began to whistle in her ears.

"I hate you," she said with feeling, giving in to the fact that he wasn't giving her a choice in the matter and hanging on.

A chopper appeared in the distance. She almost panicked, but then she saw Sally Donovan, a person she'd been rather unfriendly with when she knew Sherlock the first time, in the passenger seat. It was from Scotland Yard.

They risked stepping into an open spot when it was nearly overhead. May waved a hand over her head and a ladder came down. Gently, but hastily, Sherlock shifted her to his back and grabbed onto the ladder, climbing quickly into the helicopter.

"You're damn lucky DI Lestrade had his mobile with him, freak," Sally informed him. "They're driving to an open field we can touch down in."

"No," Sherlock interjected. "We are flying straight to the hospital. Ms. Harrison has significant injuries. She requires medical attention."

"Sherlock, I'm fine," May lied, feeling the blood seep ever so slightly through the bandage on her arm. "I want to see Charlie. Go to the field."

He looked like he was going to argue this one to the death, so she clapped a hand over his mouth and nodded to Sgt. Donovan. He scowled at her in irritation.

She felt every single minute of turbulence on the way there, clinging to Sherlock's back and gritting her teeth. Her ankle throbbed with every beat of her heart and the blood was soaking through her makeshift bandage. She did her best to ignore it. She was going to see her son and that was that.

Moriarty was, at least this time, kind of beaten. He still got to know far more about Sherlock than was safe, but he didn't know everything May did. He hopefully never would know that much. It would destroy Sherlock in a second. She was sure the only person who knew more about the enigmatic consulting detective than she did was his mysterious brother who she had never met.

When the chopper touched down, May was feeling mildly dizzy from loss of blood. Sherlock piggybacked her off the chopper, carrying her over to where John stood with Charlie still in his arms. He looked like he might faint in relief. "Thank God you're both all right," he sighed.

"Sherlock, put me down. I can lean on the police cruiser," May instructed, a drop of blood dripping down the length of her arm.

"You look a little faint, maybe—" John interjected.

"—Comes with the territory of a broken ankle," she said. "I won't put any weight on it, scout's honor."

Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, 'spy's honor, more like.' but he put her down next to the stationary vehicle. She stroked her sleeping son's hair softly, kissing his forehead.

When she looked up, the world wavered a little. The fatigue from blood loss, running a colossal distance, and breaking her ankle came flooding back and she swayed against the car. Gray spots swam in her vision and the concerned voices around her adopted a very faraway sound, like hearing the ocean through a conch shell.

The last thing she saw before the ground greeted her like an old friend and faded to black was Sherlock reaching out to catch her and calling her name.

A/N: Review?