As Mrs. Hudson cleaned up their dishes, Felicity unashamedly entered her mind skyscraper. Talking with Mrs. Hudson had calmed her down enough to let her usual flow of logic in. She now knew that the Blochados had no reason that Felicity knew of to suspect Mrs. Hudson's involvement. That was the key to solving this problem effectively. If it appeared as if Felicity hadn't gone to Mrs. Hudson in an emergency situation, anyone watching her would continue to assume that Felicity had yet to visit or find the double agent. Regardless, it was no longer safe for Mrs. Hudson. Sooner or later, someone would put the pieces together and send after her. If she sent Mrs. Hudson to a safe location, say, the morgue, a public place with a friend, she would be protected without immediately going to Scotland Yard. From there, she could call Lestrade to meet them at St. Bart's- another perfectly normal action for a DI and a friend of Mrs. Hudson's. That play left everyone in safe environments, and would keep them safe until further steps could be taken, which she would talk to Sherlock and Mycroft about.

Wait.

She whizzed back over her conclusion, starting to frown. Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock and John. Annette! None of them had called Baker Street looking for her, and her disappearance and clue were bound to have been found by now. She was sure that all of her family would be in an uproar over her exit, especially because of what had happened with Moran. So why hadn't they called, started a search?

Terror gripped her heart when she realized that there was only one possible thing that could keep her family from trying to find her- someone was keeping them from doing so. Somehow, the Blochados had gotten in to the Holmes Estate, and, upon finding that she wasn't there, had most likely gone berserk. Worse yet, Felicity knew that, logically, she should be considering Mr. Wellembry as a member of the Blochados. It seemed absurd, but the only visitor that the Estate was expecting and would have allowed in would have been Mr. Wellembry. The idea that someone hijacked his car and then the Estate was inconceivable- an attempt to take the Estate by force would have been easy to stop. She couldn't prove it, but she was almost positive that Mr. Wellembry was involved.

What to do, what to do?

Don't panic, Felicity chastised herself. Panicking solves nothing. She hadn't panicked on the roof of St. Bart's, and that was the only reason she'd lived to reminder herself of it at that moment. She was too smart to panic. Channeling the pure logic she'd seen Mycroft and Sherlock spewing even at their most stressed, Felicity considered her options. Her family certainly wouldn't tell the Blochados where she had gone, if they'd figured it out, but the threat of force or violence may have been enough. If Mr. Wellembry had been planning this for a while, she may have been seen going to Baker Street, which would also yield her location. Either way, Baker Street was not safe, for her or for Mrs. Hudson. Her only conclusion was this: get Mrs. Hudson out, find a weapon, and make a strike against the Blochados. Going to the police would only create a hostage situation. Until Felicity could level the playing field slightly, she was not about to enter negotiations.

Snapping out of it, Felicity uncrossed her legs, checking the time simultaneously. It was just after noon- Molly would be back from her lunch and in the morgue. Perfect. "Mrs. Hudson, I need you to listen to me and do exactly as I say." She said, trying to sound as calm and in control as possible. Mrs. Hudson raised the dish towel in her hand to her chest, looking worried.

"What's the matter, dear?" She asked, slowly setting down the tea mug she'd been drying. Felicity stood up, snatching up her backpack.

"I'm not going to lie to you; I think something has happened at the Holmes Estate. Sherlock or John or someone should have called here looking for me by now, especially because I ran away without saying anything, but no one has. Just to be safe, I want you to take a cab to St. Bart's and find Molly Hooper in the morgue. When you get there, call Greg, alright?" She rattled off, grabbing Mrs. Hudson's coat and helping her into it as she spoke.

"I- dear, where will you be going?" Mrs. Hudson asked, making no move to protest. She looked frightened now, which tore at Felicity's sense of resolve. Scaring Mrs. Hudson had not been her intention, and she had no time to reassure her. Luckily, Molly was as lovely as she was strong, and she would take care of Mrs. Hudson, no doubt about it.

"I need to confirm something first. Remember, call Greg when you get there and tell him to get a team to go to the Holmes Estate. Okay?" Felicity prompted, steering her to the front door and checking the peephole. The street was as busy as usual, and a quick glance around revealed no obvious people staking out Baker Street, Mycroft's or otherwise.

"Alright, dearie, but be careful!" Mrs. Hudson called over her shoulder as Felicity ushered her out onto the street, waved, and then hastily shut the door. She watched through the peephole as Mrs. Hudson called her cab (the driver was safe, so no worries there) and drove off. In the sudden silence of 221B, Felicity took a few deep breaths, leaning against the front door once she'd locked it. After giving herself a good shake, admonishing the wasted time over being scared, Felicity ran up into their flat, intent on finding John's gun.

At the Holmes Estate, Sherlock was fighting to keep his raging temper in check. The stupidly smug man in front of him hadn't just attempted to hunt down Felicity; he had ensured that his daughter had hurt her, physically and emotionally. Worse yet, Sherlock had met the man and had deduced that he wasn't a threat when he was clearly deeply involved with the Blochados. Mycroft hadn't picked up on it either, but that wasn't an excuse. He had promised to himself and to Felicity that no one would ever hurt her again, and the realization that he may have forfeited that promise made him angrier than he could show, especially with the grinning face of Richard Wellembry looking right at him. "Well, I suppose I can't do much with you…yet. We'll bring your pathetic excuse for a daughter back home, and then we'll all sit down for a nice chat." He said smoothly, smirking when Sherlock's hands formed into fists.

"And you're a pathetic excuse for a man while we're on the subject," John fired back without so much as batting an eyelid, treating Richard Wellembry to one of the more intense stares he'd learned in the army. "Bullying an orphaned little girl wasn't enough for you?"

"Watch your mouth," Wellembry said, voice angry but face unconcerned. "You're forgetting who is in control here, a mistake you shouldn't make twice."

"If you call this being in control, you are the worst terrorist I've ever had the misfortune to meet." Mycroft said dryly. He knew that yes, Wellembry for the moment had the upper hand, but Felicity was as sharp as a tack. Her intelligence compared to a man with a few guns made his attempt to abduct them so hilariously unplanned that he nearly laughed in Wellembry's face. Seconds later, a bullet whizzed directly past him, inches from his cheek, and embedded into the wall of the study.

"The next bullet goes through you. Now shut up." Wellembry ordered, maintaining an eerily calm expression while managing to sound intimidating and threatening. "This gay, freakshow of a family really isn't my main concern, but shooting you will significantly damage your value." He added, aiming the gun directly at Mycroft's forehead.

"Wait, gay? Mycroft?" Sherlock rounded on him, an eyebrow raised in disbelief, completely ignoring Wellembry and his insults. Mycroft gave a short huff of disapproval, crossing his arms.

"As usual, you always miss everything of importance when you make your deductions. Yes, Sherlock, I am gay; although my sexual orientation is no concern of yours."

"Didn't you know, Sherlock? He's dating Lestrade, after all." John piped in, enjoying the revulsion on Sherlock's face, the complete fury on Wellembry's, and, of course, the gold mine of discomfort on Mycroft's. John had learned in the army that the one surefire way to piss off a drill sergeant was to ignore him, and completely changing the subject on Wellembry would undermine his authority. Besides, John was completely unimpressed with the man anyway.

"What-?" Sherlock managed to choke out, turning puce, before Wellembry interrupted.

"I congratulated Christina, you know. Every time I got a call about her bullying your sick, orphaned little freak of a daughter. I always told her she was doing the right thing." He said so casually, almost nonchalantly, but the ire in his eyes was enough to pin all three men where they stood. He laughed as each expression morphed into fury equal to his own. "Oh, you don't like it when I play this game? When I make you angry? Too bad. I gave Christina new ideas; I even suggested the beating to round out Felicity's stay at Ruth's." He sneered her name, smirking when John's hands formed into fists and he took a half step forward. Sherlock grabbed his shoulder to stop him, but he too was quivering with rage.

"When this is finished, I promise you that there will be not a moment for the rest of your life where you will have peace. I will make every last second of your days as painful and miserable as I can. You will pay for what you have done to my niece, and for what your terrorist group did to her family. You will regret what you have done; I promise you that." Mycroft's voice was chilly, and carrying a promise of violence that only the most powerful man in England could deliver.

Before Wellembry could say or do anything else, his mobile rang.

Half an hour earlier, Felicity had found John's gun. It felt heavy and unsafe in her hand, even after the gun training she had received from Annette, John, and Sherlock. She'd read endlessly about guns, especially after the incident on the rooftop of St. Bart's, and was proficient in their use. Despite that, it felt inelegant and desperate in her grip. She would have stared at the gun for longer, unsure, if she hadn't heard the door to the flat block open, and three people walk in cautiously.

In a moment, her mind slowed down to the moment where she had heard Moran knock out Sherlock and John. She'd mentally run over every possible exit and option in that moment, and everything she had come up with then flashed through her mind. The way out was blocked, no one in the flat could help her, and her only defense was a weapon that would murder, not incapacitate. She just knew that she didn't have it in her to shoot people, no matter how evil. Spinning through her options, she silently ascended the stairs back to her room as the people who had entered 221B climbed the stairs to the flat.

Where to go?

Her mind had only one conclusion, no matter how much she didn't like it. In the bathroom on the second floor, there was a window above the toilet that she could fit through. From there, she could climb up onto the roof, close the window, and find a way down. Taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, Felicity made sure the safety was on John's handgun before sticking it into the waistband of her jeans like some American undercover cop. Once secured, she opened the window and shimmied her way through as the door to the flat downstairs was kicked open.

Grabbing onto the edge of the roof was easy enough, but pulling herself up with just her arms and hurt shoulder was almost too much. She had just enough time to haul herself up, reach a leg back down to shut the window, and to retreat before she could hear footsteps up on the second floor. Lying flat on the roof, eyes closed, Felicity got her breath back, ignoring the throbbing pain in her shoulder. Even though the sounds of the street were loud, she could hear when the three people inside the flat (two women and one man) searched the place, determined that she wasn't there, and started to go back down. Their noise was more than enough to cover the sounds of her sliding further on the roof to avoid being seen from the street. She had to carefully walk a house down until she found a suitable fire escape to get down to the ground, but once she was there, she slipped back around to where she had parked the car from the Holmes Estate, her heart pounding the whole time.

Pushing aside the absurdity of her situation, Felicity pretended like she wasn't a twelve year old girl driving a stolen car with an illegal handgun in her jeans. Instead, she put the car into gear and drove off towards Ilford. If Mr. Wellembry was going to hold her family hostage, she would do the same.


I am such a dick. I can't apologize enough for how much of a giant cockbag I am. I mean, this update is three months late. THREE. I'm glad that I spent the time on my classes so that I can have a career some day, but I lost all my writing mojo. To the lovely anonymous reviewer who asked (was it two days ago? I can't even remember) if I would update, this is for you. Thank you for getting my ass in gear. You go, Glen Coco.

I've already started the next chapter, so hopefully I can compete with my summer class to get it to you soon. Thank you all so much for your support!

-BITCHIN