AN: To anyone who was a wee bit disappointed that Sherlock didn't get his share of the fight against Caine, fear not, there is much more action to come. Sherlock will get his share. The best parts in fact. He is after all, part Lion.
Enjoy.
BBC's Sherlock is not mine.
When Sherlock woke and his eyes sprung open, his mind went straight into deduction mode.
I was shot. By a specialized gun. Severely injured.
The Feline (Jaguari) nurse floating around the room just broke things off with her boyfriend. She thought he was cheating but he wasnt. He was just a LARPer- too embarrassed to tell her.
Marsupian orderly accompanying her indicates that I am in an Other facility. Their blood work and rapid healing tended to raise far too many questions in regular hospitals.
His body was sore and stiff, but manageable. The wound itched and aggravated, but also- manageable. Conclusion- out for approximately 2 days and John operated on site. Also likely that Molly used her curative saliva...Molly!
Sherlock snapped up, his wound pulling painfully. But he pushed the pain aside and scanned the small hospital room for a glimpse of her. Nothing. His Beast roused from deep within. It was sluggish. Still exhausted from using its considerable energy to heal. But if it was anything to do with Molly, the Beast would be involved.
MATE? I don't know. FIND.
Sherlock put his feet to the cold tile floor and was about to rip the IV out of his upper forearm when the door opened and in walked John, Mycroft right behind him.
"Sherlock! You're awake!" John's smile was bright. Until he noticed that Sherlock was in the middle of an escape attempt. He set his coffee down on a table and shuffled over.
"Are you mad?" He held up his hand. "No, don't answer that. More importantly, why are you trying to get up and move about without medical supervision when you were just bloody shot two days ago?!" Sherlock ignored John's rant.
"Where is she?"
John was flustered. "Who? The nurse?"
Sherlock's lip curled in a snarl of impatience. Mycroft cut in before he could say something he might regret later. "No John. Not the nurse. Molly. The last time Sherlock saw her, she was about to be killed by a vicious Hunter."
The injured detective slammed his open palm on the bed railings. "Exactly. Now if you wouldn't mind terribly, could someone please tell me if my Pria is alright and where the hell she is?!" He started out in a whisper, his volume increasing exponentially until he was practically bellowing the last part. The energy expended caused him to waver a bit.
John understood then. "Sure, mate. Right yeah. Sorry. She's fine. She's okay. Calm down." He helped Sherlock back onto the bed, making sure the equipment hadn't been jostled out of place. Sherlock went willingly, indicating just how drained he must have been. "She's with Mary now, down in the cafeteria gettin' a bite."
He nodded. "So she was uninjured?"
"A few scrapes and a bit of light bruising, all healed within a matter of hours. She refused to leave your side the entire time you were out. In fact, the only time she wasn't with you was while she was out cold from the tranquilizer-"
"Tranquilizer! John, you tranked my Pria?!" Even settled among fluffy white pillows, Sherlock's sharp cheekbones and glacier eyes afforded him an impressive scowl.
John slowly shook his head, reluctant to reveal the next bit. "Ahem...No not me. Mary did. Molly wouldn't let anyone near you and when I tried to help, she charged me. Mary had no choice."
"You know, its funny how your wife is constantly finding herself with no choice in a situation but to shoot a friend. She has now shot both myself and my mate. Coincidence?"
John blushed, the red blooming down his face and neck. He had no defense other than the truth.
Mycroft stepped in here, breaking the tension. "Moving on." He approached Sherlock and handed him a file."His name was Percival Caine. A Hunter for hire. Quite a reputation."
"Was?" Sherlock was scanning the file, but John could tell his attention was riveted on what Mycroft was telling him.
"Yes. He's dead. Now, he would not reveal any individual names, but he admitted that he was contracted by what he referred to as 'The Order'..." Mycroft was obviously trying to avoid the topic of the confrontation, but Sherlock refused to be swayed.
He enunciated each word slowly. "What. Happened. In. The forest?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. "Oh very well. You passed out from blood loss and shock and Doctor Hooper attacked the man, managing to score admirable wounds, but was thrown off before she could do any fatal damage. He was about to cut her with a Rachtu-"
"A what?" John butt in.
"A saber laced with poison capable of incapacitating an Other." Sherlock waved him off impatiently, motioning for Mycroft to continue.
"I intervened. I interrogated Caine and then John showed up and we carted you back to London. Now, about the Order-"
"You? Intervened?"
Mycroft flicked a non-existent piece of lint from his suit and refused to meet Sherlock's eyes. "Yes."
"You stayed at the Inn as back-up. Came when you heard my roar and saved my mate. You then extracted information from him in what was hopefully a most unscrupulous manner?"
"Naturally."
"Did you make the kill?"
Mycroft did look at him then. "No. That was Molly's rite."
Sherlock nodded, unfazed by the revelation that his gentle mate had ended a life. Percival Caine got what he deserved and he was frankly proud of Molly. She did what any female whose Prius had just been fatally wounded would do. And admirably so if the approving look on Mycroft's face was anything to go by.
An awkward silence filled the room, neither brother sure of the protocol involved when showing familial gratitude and affection.
Just as Mycroft pointed toward the file and made to speak again, Sherlock blurted out a soft, "Thank you."
Mycroft appeared positively flummoxed. "You know, Sherlock, you have shown me gratitude and a facsimile of affection twice since you and Doctor Hooper became an item."
Sherlock fidgeted with his IV. "Yes well don't become used to it," he snapped.
His brother smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."
"Ahem, so, the Order?" John was loving every minute of this. Sherlock alive and well. The Holmes brothers trying to be cold and distant to each other, but failing miserably. All in all, a good day.
"Right. Caine mentioned an Order. They hired him to eliminate the Other pathologists and high-ranking police officers of London. Apparently, they wanted to-"
"Eliminate any possible identifiers of an aggressive move against the Other community. Obviously. All of the murdered pathologists were Other. Of course. I always miss something. I was so focused on the serial killer perspective, that I did not think to have you check their species status. Dammit!" Sherlock was fuming with self-reproach.
And then, in what John believed to be an attempt to compensate for his perceived failure, he deduced the rest himself.
"Caine's propensity for blowfish venom is explained by his Hunter's expertise. He would know that it is one of the few natural toxins that affects Others. It also works on humans which is why I didn't make the connection at the start of the case. Judging by the amount of times your phone has buzzed since you've been in the room, which is quantifiably more than usual, you have begun an intense investigation into this Order, your researchers commanded to update you with any relevant information without hesitation. This level of severity means that you believe he was referring to the Purus Homines, a fanatical Order determined to eliminate Others from the general population, supposedly destroyed during the final Crusades, and the most legitimate threat our people have ever known. Lestrade's noticeable absence tells me that Caine's body was disposed of in a less than conventional manner. The barest smell of sawdust and trace amounts of soot on the hem of your trousers indicates that Caine's body will be found in an abandoned warehouse, burned almost beyond recognition, but with just enough evidence to prove that it was indeed he who murdered those pathologists- the Undertaker officially laid to rest." He breathed deeply, steepling hands beneath his chin. The IV dangling from one hand made the classic pose almost comical. But John was impressed. As usual. "Did I miss anything?"
"Just one small detail-"
Mycroft was interrupted yet again by the door opening, Molly and Mary returning from their meal. The second Molly realized he was awake, she rushed him, shoving past Mycroft and John straight into his waiting arms. She was trying to be careful of his wound, but Sherlock just pulled her tight to him, burying his nose in her loose hair, inhaling deeply. She was peppering his jaw and cheeks with soft kisses and mumbling nonsensical words in his ear.
The others left the room discreetly, shutting the door behind them.
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After several solid minutes of loving reaffirmation, they pulled apart, but only slightly. She was snuggled in the bed with him on his non-injured side, propped on her elbow, one hand petting intimate circles on the rigid muscles of chest and abdomen. He had one arm wrapped around her, the other playing with the hand she was using to pet him. He would catch it and bring to his mouth for little nibbles of her palm and fingertips, before releasing it to return to its ministrations. A few seconds later, he would snatch it back up again. It was the most silly bit of love play they'd ever indulged in and Molly was euphoric.
"Did he hurt you? Caine." He sounded almost hesitant to ask. It was strange to hear such a tone from Sherlock Holmes. The one thing he most certainly was NOT was hesitant.
"No. I handled things quite well if I do say so myself, even before Mycroft arrived." Her playful words and Sherlock's teasing slap on her bottom following them helped to lighten the mood a bit.
"You haven't slept. The bags under your eyes and the state of-"
She cut him off before he could deduce her into oblivion by pressing her lips to his. He didn't seem to mind the interruption, coaxing her mouth open and deepening the kiss.
When the kiss ended, she explained, "I couldn't. Not until you woke up. Not until I was SURE you-" She choked up a bit, tears lodging in her throat. "You can't ever do that again, Sherlock." She continued softly. "I mean, I know your profession is generally dangerous and I would never try to interfere in that, but...you almost...you almost died. For a time, I thought you WERE dead. I...it was...I can't..." She couldn't seem to remember any extended vocabulary. Luckily, there was only one thing she really needed to say. "I love you."
She knew he wasn't typically a male prone to expressing his emotions vocally, so when he didn't return the sentiment out loud, it didn't bother her. What he did do was even more significant. He picked up her hand again, but this time instead of laying a kiss there, he nuzzled his cheek into it and Molly was astounded to feel the barest hint of wetness on her palm.
No more words were spoken. He pulled her in for a heated kiss, then dimmed the lights from the bed controls and settled her into his hold, a silent command for her to sleep.
BOSSY MATE. Yes. And we wouldn't have it any other way.
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Molly fell asleep within minutes, and not long after, Mycroft re-entered. Sherlock was not surprised. He knew he would be coming back. They had not finished their conversation after all.
"She's finally asleep. Thank God."
"You don't believe in God Mycroft."
"No, but I've found using such expressions tends to put ordinary people at ease around me. Opens them up, so to speak."
"Sound reasoning."
"Hm. So..."
Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at his brother's suggestive tone. "Yes?"
"The Chase went well I presume."
"You know it did. The Mark on her neck is clear evidence of that."
"About that...You Marked her rather hard, no?"
Sherlock shrugged casually, but a grin of pure male satisfaction colored his attempt at nonchalance.
Mycroft just shook his head, the mood turning somber as he adjusted the file in his hand, bringing the conversation back to its original purpose.
"Go on." Sherlock's deep baritone was grim. No more pleasantries or awkward platitudes. Time to get to the matter at hand.
"We recovered Caine's phone. Numbers in the call log were all untraceable. Burners. There was only one message in the Inbox. The only reason it was not cleared being that it was received during the attack. It reads 'Calm down, Princess. Make no move on Pawn until given further instruction. And under absolutely no circumstance confront White King. -M' Rather droll if you want my opinion. But there you have it. SHhuld be all you need to reach the same conclusions as I."
"A controlling megalomaniac with a penchant for grand allusions and metaphors, in this case chess. Focused on me but not wanting me out of the game. Also, repeating the mistake of relegating Molly to the lowly position of 'Pawn' instead of her true place on the board as my Queen, though that mistake will work in our favor as far as protecting her. And signed 'M'." Sherlock's tone was bored but every inch of his body language radiated anger and protectiveness. He tightened his hold on Molly and fixed his stare on his brother. "It's rather obvious who this Order official is, isn't it?"
Mycroft nodded. "Elementary."
They spoke the name at the same time, the sound of it in the air like the cold caress of a blade.
"Moriarty."
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Much love,
Direwolf