Moscow was overcast and bleak by the time their plane touched down on the runway. Sherlock leaned over Natasha to look through the plane's oval-shaped window. The skies were gunmetal overhead and clouds, heavy with rain, streaked the muddy color.

Natasha followed his eyes to the landscape outside. "Weather's not usually so bad this time of year," she said absently. "We'll have to adjust."

Sherlock hummed his agreement and straightened in his seat. People around them were already unbuckling their seat-belts and fishing phones out of their bags. Announcements had already been made but they were still taxiing. He swept keen blue eyes over the crowd one more time.

"Anything?" Natasha took his hand and laced their fingers together, resting her head on his shoulder. Sherlock spared only a cursory glance for their joined hands.

There was purpose behind the gesture. Single travelers were statistically more likely to raise red flags with air marshals than those traveling in pairs. Red flags were something they simply couldn't afford. Having agreed that traveling together as a recently married couple was safer and more practical, they'd taken to their covers easily enough.

Mycroft would know as soon as he caught his first glimpse of the passenger roster for the flight, but there'd be very little he could do about it by then. Sherlock made sure of it. But he kept an eye on the air marshals and flight attendants throughout the journey, just in case. Pilots would've been in constant communication with a controller. He hadn't ruled out the possibility that his brother might send a message.

"Nothing," he answered finally, lifting Natasha's hand to his lips when the plane stopped moving. He pressed a kiss to the back. "I'll get our bags."

She let go of his hand to straighten in her seat. His fingers fidgeted without it, but it was an anxious gesture easily attributed to the confined space they found themselves in. He concentrated on retrieving their carry-ons from the overhead bin. When he finally managed to dislodge them from between the others, they both stood and waited for the door to open so they could step off the plane.

The process was tedious and time-consuming, or so it felt for both of them. Natasha was ready to knock a few people unconscious if it meant slicing a couple of minutes off their waiting time, and Sherlock wasn't faring any better. He stood close enough that she could feel his chest rising and falling. Hear his fingers tapping away at her leather bag.

She turned her head to look at him and his eyes darted from one person to the next, lips pressed firmly together. She knew he suffered from very mild claustrophobia from her previous dealings with Mycroft, but she never did manage to wrangle the whole story out of the elder Holmes.

She chastised herself for missing the signs. "Hey," she spoke quietly, reaching up to turn his face her way. "Focus on me, okay? We'll be out of here in no time."

Sherlock instinctively leaned into her touch. She turned fully, cupping his face in both her hands. He locked eyes with her and exhaled. "I'll be fine."

"I know." Natasha stroked one of her thumbs over his well-defined cheekbone to distract him. She made sure to keep eye contact. "But what kind of wife would I be if I didn't make the time in-between a little easier for my husband?"

Sherlock huffed. "I wouldn't know," he said.

"Mhm, and you'll never have to find out because I'm just that good," she retorted. "Aren't you a lucky man?"

"I don't believe in luck."

Natasha smiled a little and noticed the tension ease out of his shoulders. She waited until he'd matched her breathing to speak again. "How's it going back here?"

Sherlock peeked behind her. "Moving now," he answered, blue eyes straying back to her face. He reached up and circled one of her wrists with his hand. His thumb pressed against the pulse point. "Thank you."

Natasha winked and stroked his cheek one more time. "Any time," she said meaningfully.

Everything went by very quickly after they left the stifling interior of the airplane cabin. Having traveled only with carry-ons, there was no need to wait by the baggage carousel like everyone else. They made their way to the rental service counter and procured a practical car for themselves using their newly acquired identities.

Once they'd driven half an hour's distance from the airport, Sherlock parked the car and Natasha disabled the GPS tracking device it'd been equipped with. She worked quickly hoping to avoid the rain, but was still caught in a downpour seconds away from climbing back inside.

She yanked the door closed without complaint. "It's going to be a hell of a job doing recon in this weather."

Sherlock steered them back into traffic. "I checked the forecast. It doesn't appear to improve within the next few days. Ideas?"

Natasha's head fell against the headrest. "I might have something to help us along at one of my safe houses. Take the next exit."

"Yes m'am." Sherlock quipped, and cast a sideways glance her way. "How many?"

"Safe houses?" Natasha smiled and rolled her head on the headrest to look at him. "Enough to get by."

"And do you scatter your stolen goods amongst all of them?"

Natasha's smile grew. "You could say that. Can't keep it all in one place." She cocked a brow. "Why? Curious?"

"Curious about where you'll keep my scarf," he retorted. "I'd like it back eventually."

"A sense of humor," she teased.

"Surprised?"

"Not really." Natasha ran a hand over one end of the navy blue scarf looped around her neck. "I'll tell you where I'll be hiding it though." He glanced at her. "Right here, where I can keep an eye on it," she told him coyly. "I meant it when I said you'd have to fight me for it. You think I'd give it up so easily? I just got it."

Sherlock turned his eyes ahead, but his lips turned upward in a noticeable smirk. "I can be very persuasive," he informed her.

Natasha felt herself smiling in return. "Me too."

They arrived at Natasha's safe house twenty minutes later. She exchanged a few words in Russian with the building's owner before they made their way upstairs, closing the door once they stepped inside. The apartment was small and fully furnished, but otherwise empty. Save for a wooden cabinet propped against the far wall, there was nothing to give away the identity of its owner.

"Make yourself at home." Natasha strode over to the cabinet and punched in a ten digit combination on a keypad beside it. Sherlock set their bags down beside the couch.

Over the next few hours, they ironed out the details of their newest plan. Natasha was anxious, but she was well-versed in the art of keeping her feelings separate from her work. She wouldn't allow this become personal because that was precisely what Ivan wanted from her, and she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. She was better than that. Or at the very least she wanted to be.

Within the last twenty-four hours they hadn't done much sleeping or eating, but they were both too wired to do either while they waited. Sherlock didn't when he was working a case and Natasha was much the same. 'Hunger sharpens the mind' they used to say in the Red Room. Healthy or not, the habit was difficult to break. She resolved to do both afterwards and put it out of her mind.

Silence filled the rest of their waiting time. Sherlock retreated into his mind palace and Natasha into her pre-mission ritual. She liked to go over every possible scenario in her head and run through her options beforehand—battle math.

She liked this part of what she did. When everything else fell away and there was nothing but moves and countermoves before her. She liked playing the game and she liked playing to win.

Late in the evening, they packed their car and drove out to Ivan's location. He'd taken up residence in an abandoned mansion near the cemetery where Rose's little lifeless body had been buried years before.

Leaving their car far enough away not to raise suspicion, they hiked their way through the surrounding forest in tactical gear designed to withstand the weather.

"Not much in the way of security," Natasha commented three hours after they'd settled in to surveil the building. "Can't see any cameras from here, but they'd be well hidden. I haven't ruled out the possibility of motion sensors either, but—"

"Yes, I can't find any evidence of them anywhere." Sherlock lowered his high-powered binoculars and peered at the two-story structure through the falling rain. "No sign of him either."

Natasha looked again through the scope of her sniper rifle. "If he knows I'm coming for him, he won't take that chance."

"Then we are left with only one course of action," Sherlock concluded.

"It's not ideal," she replied.

"Or safe," he agreed.

"Suicide," she continued.

"Very likely."

Natasha lowered her rifle. "Shall we, then?"

"Absolutely."

Natasha thought the two-story monstrosity Ivan had chosen as the setting of their confrontation must've been beautiful once upon a time. A remnant of Imperial Russia, it was built in the neoclassical style with baroque elements scattered over its facade. An intricately designed triangular pediment crumbled over four stone pillars, all of them dangerously cracked and severely weathered.

She eyed them critically as they neared the building, using a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued night-vision goggles to cut through rain and darkness. Sherlock stopped her with a hand on her arm and pointed to the stairs leading up to the mansion's humidity-swollen double doors.

"Do you see them?" His voice had an anticipatory edge to it next to her ear.

There was nothing particularly remarkable about the stairs at first glance. Leaves blanketed the tread and a thick layer of moss covered the risers. Very little of the stone underneath was even visible. That is, of course, unless you were paying attention.

Every ten steps, a trip wire ran from one end to the other, parallel to the ground. Leaves hid them from view, but they were hard to miss if you knew what you were looking for

"I see them," Natasha confirmed. "It would explain the lack of traditional security measures, if Ivan chose to booby trap the place."

"My thoughts exactly." Sherlock led her round to the back of the house with long purposeful strides. "You, Natalia, are a marvel."

Natasha didn't bother hiding her amusement in the darkness. "Am I? I didn't realize."

Sherlock whirled around and took hold of her rain-soaked arms. "Secrets from the past, dead witnesses, puzzling deaths, impossible escapes, booby trapped mansions," he listed in quick succession. "It's Christmas! What an excellent choice of name for you."

Natasha felt the knot of anxiety in her stomach loosen at the sight of his smile. She tapped his arms, lightly and playfully, to signal he should let her go. "Let's see if we can survive the booby trapped mansion first," she said.

"Of course we will." Sherlock straightened and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead. "Once more into the breach, dear friend?"

"Once more," Natasha quoted in reply, and together they disappeared inside the mansion.