Disclaimer: I own nothing of this. But what's new, eh?

A/N; I just wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who's reviewed this far, you're all very sweet! I'm very flattered you seem to like the story (so far, at least)!

Chapter 10: Crossroads

"Have a look at this, John."

The army doctor flinched back as the detective pushed something up in his face. He warily accepted the small item as he sank into his old, chequered armchair. Mary reclined on the armrest beside him and the couple glared at the item in confusion. The mobile device was hardly bigger than an Iphone as it rested in the doctor's calloused hands, with three antennas sticking up at the top of the technical device.

"Is that a…?" the blonde began but her voice slowly faded into the shadows.

"A mobile phone jammer? Yes," Sherlock said as he paced across the living room. His maroon robe flowed around his long frame, desperate to keep up with the man's sharp turns. "I found it hidden in this room. Moran evidently had it planted in here, and that was why none of our calls came through on that day. You see, the use of cell phones is blocked as the device sends out radio signals-"

"I know how a jammer works..." John breathed and his face fell as he glared at the small object. "You're telling me this little thing… stopped us from preventing Molly getting shot four days ago? My God… Makes you want to wring the man's neck, doesn't it?"

In a feeble attempt at a joke, Mary snuggled closer to her husband. "I always preferred the gun myself."

"I don't think I'm ready for those jokes, honey…" the man closed his eyes tight and exhaled slowly as he tried not to wear his heart on his sleeve. When he opened his eyes once more, is gaze quickly sought out his best friend's impatient form.

Noticing John's pain, Sherlock hesitantly sank into his own armchair. Something anxious echoed in the depths of the great detective's own orbs as he offered his best behavior for a rare change. His impatience had withered like an old flower, and instead he sat still and gazed at the blond man prepared to give him whatever time he needed.

The doctor licked his lips and spoke only when he was sure his voice would carry, "… When did you realize you were Moran's actual target? Because you are, aren't you? Did you know when we were out in Hampstead trying to stop him?"

The curly-haired man leaned back in his chair with a bothered grimace. "I wasn't entirely sure then, but I had my suspicions. Targeting Baker Street made it rather obvious. 'Orders from the highest level', though…"

"Excuse me?" the married woman frowned.

"Nothing of importance. I think. Let's stay focused on Moran."

The blond man rolled his eyes and muttered, "I thought we were."

"Well, keep up, John."

"I thought I was…" the doctor sighed as his thoughts reached out to their friend at the hospital. Greg had informed them that Molly was past the worst hurdle, but the doctors at St Bart's saw no signs of her awakening anytime in the foreseeable future. He closed his eyes again and focused on the hateful mission that lay ahead, if only to keep his mind from straying to those sadder memories.

The tall man's gaze burned with a feverish passion as he continued, "My theory is that he is looking to claim Moriarty's withered crown. The terrorist attack last year was supposed to be his first act towards the goal, but I stopped him. If he wants to claim the criminal throne now, Lord Moran must exceed his previous intentions and aim at the sun itself. Aim at the one who killed the last king, and who has the possibility of becoming an admirable foe unless he's stopped permanently."

Reluctantly, John caught on his friend's line of thinking. "Meaning; you. Vengeance, then. But why kill the MI6-agent? And why shoot Molly?"

"Warnings. I fear they won't be the last."

The blonde woman shifted in her seat and looked quite bothered as she asked, "Have you… shared any of this with Irene?"

"She doesn't want to listen," the great detective grimaced and shrugged his eyebrows as if this was no big deal.

Mary squinted her eyes as she carefully pried for more, "… Is she alright?"

The tall detective shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "Don't know."

"Sherlock," John sighed exasperatedly and pinched the bridge of his nose tenderly.

The man's eyes were wide and confused like an infant's as he looked at his friends. It was not the first time he felt like the married couple were his parents, trying to teach him a thing or two about human nature. "What did I do this time?"

"It's about what you didn't do…"

"Really?" the detective questioned and his eyes danced with incredulous disbelief. "I'm telling you about Lord Moran's plan to kill me and possibly thousands of people, but you want to discuss The woman?!"

Mary took the bait. "… Kill thousands?"

Sherlock basked in the spotlight. "Yes. It's unlikely I'm his only target if he intends to claim the throne of the underworld."

"What else then?" John breathed and his voice seemed old and weary from his numerous years of hardship. "Another terrorist attack?"

"I believe so. But I don't know what or when. His former Underground network is scattered, so he's not using them… I'm missing something," Sherlock muttered and got lost in the labyrinth of his own mind. "What am I looking for?"

"Me."

The trio turned to the voice that interrupted them like a beacon being lit in the darkest night. Illuminated by the pale sun outside, Irene waited in the open doorway, clad in her pale trench-coat and a thick, red scarf around her slender neck. Like an empty vessel, her posture was proud and strong but her eyes lacked their tell-tale sparkle as she beheld the trio.

Sherlock found his voice fastest. "Sorry, what?"

"I have some information for you," the brunette said in a collected tone as she stepped forward and handed the man a manila envelope.

Mary eyed the file as she pointed out, "Those are police records."

"I know a police man, well… what-"

"-what he likes; We know!" Sherlock interrupted dryly as he glanced at the contents of what he'd been handed.

Irene licked her lips and clarified, "I talked to him, figured he might have something from the inside. He reluctantly gave me that file on Sebastian Moran. Apparently, the Lord is under police surveillance, but the police can't intercept even if he does something. They're only to report on his whereabouts and movements. Orders from the highest division, I'm told."

"Meaning Mycroft," the curly-haired man filled in the blanks without much trouble.

John frowned in his seat as he eyed the brunette, and then let his eyes fall to his best friend once more. "I still don't understand… why would your brother let Lord Moran kill people and run loose? It doesn't make any sense."

"Look at the files, will you?" the detective asked with a sigh as he scooted to the edge of his seat and handed over the manila folder. "Your thoughtless questions seem somewhat redundant once you've read that. Don't you agree?"

The doctor glanced at the papers and felt his understanding weaken. He didn't need to a clever detective to know these were highly classified files, still his tired mind found no useful information. In a bothered groan, he said, "He's… What? What's this? This doesn't answer my questions."

"There is going to be another terrorist attack, John, at least the police have been warned of one according to that," Sherlock explained coldly as he agilely rose from his seat and faced his audience. "My brother will stoop low in pressured situations, but not low enough to let something so atrocious occur. Worst case scenario? Coventry, all over."

The woman hurriedly bit back in a cold voice," That's assuming your brother knows how to prevent it."

"… But what is it?" Mary asked slowly.

"I don't know," the detective grimaced. "I expect him to come for my head first and then execute some sort of attack on London, but even these files offer few clues as to how or when."

Irene sighed as she crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back against the desk, her eyes low and dark. "If he's planning an attack, the police doesn't know about it. They've been warned to look for signs, true, but they're clueless. They think their surveillance has picked up on everything the Lord does, but they haven't even tied him to any of the shootings. Clearly, he's flying low on the radar."

"Yes, well, what else can you expect? They are police men, after all," Sherlock nodded in stiff agreement as he beheld the woman only a few feet away. "Can you look into this some more for me, Irene?"

"I… Yes. I can."

The tall man scrunched up his face as he read the failing emotions in her eyes, but she withdrew into her shell before he could reach out for her. Without a word of goodbye, the woman vanished out the door like a fleeting ghost in twilight. Had it not been for the manila envelope, Sherlock could almost have convinced himself she hadn't been there at all.

He closed his eyes and tried to refocus on the mission, but to no avail. His shoulders slumped as he glanced back at his married friends and decided to test a new approach to reach the next level of understanding. "… She's not alright, is she?"

Amazed to hear the man show interest in human emotions, John closed the file in his hands and focused his attention on his friend. "… Your relationship is struggling."

"It is?"

"Isn't it?" the doctor retorted without missing a beat.

The detective hesitated on the precipice as he pondered the last couple of months. "…I don't know. I haven't been paying it much attention in that respect."

"It's a relationship, Sherlock. You have to pay it a lot of attention. If you don't, it's going to end."

The man was inclined to disagree and he did so with a vague grimace, "I don't see you all day, every day, and we're fine."

"That's different, though, as you are aware," the blond furrowed his brow. "… You should open your heart to her, if even a fraction."

"Are you telling me to choose between sentiment and intelligence?" the detective asked in a slow, unappreciative voice as he attempted to read the proposed future.

"What? Jesus, Sherlock! How did you-? No." John seemed floored for a second, before he concluded, "I'm just saying that you should be there for her… as her partner. Irene's really struggling with her grief."

"As am I."

"Not like this, dear…" Mrs Watson intercepted with a pained breath that betrayed her true, caring nature in a sweeping hand.

"Of course. You're the friend who gave her a few sleeping pills. Benefits of being a nurse," The detective turned his curious gaze on the woman and was suddenly all smiley, "Mary, you can tell me anything. You know that. …Girlfriend."

The blonde blinked once and a small flash of amusement appeared in her warm, caring eyes. "What have I said about using phrases you've heard on the telly in real life? It doesn't make you sound genuinely predisposed. Certainly not more human."

The man shrugged off her remark flippantly. "Well, it was an experiment. Tell me anyway."

Her face faltered briefly. "I can't, Sherlock. I'm sorry. It's not my place to say."

"But you know," the man said as he sniffed out the truth like a blood hound in the field. His eyes flew between his friends as he stepped back in confusion. "You both know what this is about."

"Listen, we-"

The great detective swirled around and his protective walls rose higher than ever. "This is boring me, John. What say we corner my brother with the information in that police file instead? It might even give us some real answers."

"Well, aren't you running to your big brother for help a lot lately?" Mycroft offered with dripping sarcasm as Sherlock and John entered his grand, Victorian office. "Shall I take out the celebratory champagne?"

The doctor frowned as he eyed the older, suit-clad Holmes behind the desk. "… What?"

"I'm assuming all this free time means Ms Adler has left my brother at last."

"No… Tea will do fine," Sherlock breathed as he held both arms behind his back and stood stoic like a proud statue.

The government official sighed and buzzed for tea as he leaned back in his leather seat. "She was going to leave you once, you know, but you pulled her back in. Can you blame me for hoping she'll regain her senses soon?"

The younger man shrugged, "As I said; The woman's still around."

"...And you've brought your arguments full circle with that," Mycroft's eyebrows rose to his hairline. "Not much of a case, is it?"

"A good case needs very little to be great."

"A good relationship all the more."

"How would you know?" Sherlock questioned scathingly and there was a faint hint of irritation in the corner of his strong jaw and eyes. Tired of the conversation, the young man sank into one of the chairs opposite his brother's grand, oak desk. The leather groaned beneath his cloak as he settled down comfortably and fixed the other man with a strong glare. "I'm not here about The woman."

"No," Mycroft breathed with equal tension. "You're here about Sebastian Moran."

"Yes. John," the detective waved his hand expectantly.

The doctor jumped to action as he presented the older Holmes brother with the manila envelope. As the man placed the file on the desk and sat down in the other chair, Mycroft merely glared down at the papers with knowing eyes.

"It's true," Sherlock offered with a playful, mocking voice, "The police haven't got much of a register on Moran's movements since he was released from jail. That seems to be all they know."

"Did you really expect they would have more?"

"There's an interesting note in there, though, brother," the detective's leer was fake and inhuman as he continued, "The police have been warned of an impending terrorist attack, but have no evidence to support their superior's suspicions. With you being the highest division, the balance of probability suggests you know what they don't."

Reluctant to share his treasure chest full of secrets, Mycroft still gave them a glimpse of the truth, "We have our own spies tailing him, yes. Naturally, we know more about his movements than the police does."

"Naturally."

Their conversation was briefly interrupted as Mycroft's assistant, a beautiful, young woman in a sharp suit, entered with tray of tea cups. She set it down on the desk and left the ornate room without further ado. The second she closed the door, however, the tension in the room had as expected turned 180 degrees in the detective's favor.

"Fair enough, brother…" the elder Holmes sighed as his eyes admitted to being cornered. "I'll give you the information you want. Only the small portion I can offer... But perhaps enough to give you a head start on Sebastian Moran. God knows we could use an outsider to help us bring him down eventually."

John cleared his throat and interrupted, "Sorry, but how come you don't just lock him up again?"

"I'm not sharing that information, Dr Watson… Let's just say: We need Lord Moran to make a mistake before we can act officially."

As the other men spoke, Sherlock found his own attention drift to lesser important matters. Try as he might, he couldn't get the image of Irene's hurt expression out of his head. Her eyes had spoken a message to him so loud and clear… and yet he hadn't heard a single of word it.

You're busy! He reminded himself and blinked rapidly as he returned to the conversation in the office.

"What can you share about this terrorist attack then? Was your MI6-agent on to something before she was killed or…?" John asked and his voice was sharp in Sherlock's head at the start, but soon faded to a dull murmur as the detective's thoughts strayed back to The woman.

For God's sake, he thought, I'm not interested in her issues – the problem with Sebastian Moran, on the other hand, is at the top of my list of concerns!

Out of the blue, a figment of his imagination appeared behind his brother's chair, and the detective exhaled in great displeasure.

Molly Hooper, clad in her usual lab coat and with her long hair pulled back in a ponytail, grinned down at him. Her posture was calm and expectant as she stood behind Mycroft's chair, awaiting the detective's first move. The man knew there was no other way around it and so pressed pause on reality as he descended into his mind palace.

"Please tell me you're here to tell me to focus on the case with Lord Moran."

The woman's smile was unapologetic as she shook her head once. "I'm not."

Sherlock frowned. "Then why?"

"I'm you," Molly pointed out. "Are you really asking yourself why your own imagination is doing something?"

The man breathed out deeply and released the reins entirely as he submitted himself to his imagination's scrutiny. "The woman."

"You need to know the truth."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "... I don't understand how John and Mary know the secret, when I don't. It makes no sense."

The young woman tilted her head to the side and her imploring eyes searched his as if intent on leaving no stone untouched. "If it doesn't make sense that you don't know, then what is the most probable answer?"

"No, no…" he breathed and a sliver of emotion touched the edge of his weary voice. "I honestly don't have the answer."

"Then focus!" Molly exhaled without missing a beat and her sharp eyes tried to convey a meaning the man much didn't wish to receive.

"She isn't just mourning your near-death experience. So in view of all the likely explanations to explain her irrational behavior these past few weeks… Her problem is related to me. To be more specific: To her and me. To… us."

The young scientist nodded encouragingly and a sweet smile nudged him closer to the truth. "Focus!"

Sherlock grimaced as his mind rewound the past couple of weeks in his head and showed them to him as projections on a big silver screen. Without pondering it much, his attention was drawn to one conversation in particular he'd had with The woman about a week earlier.

"Honestly… You did the same to me. I had to eat in the living room."

"Yes, and you nearly threw up. Weak-stomached woman."

"I'm not weak-stomached, Sherlock."

As the revelation presented itself as clear as day in his head, the man released a heavy gasp and closed his eyes tight. There it was. The solution he'd been working so hard to find hadn't even been hidden behind an intricate puzzle to solve, it had been there in plain daylight all along.

Gathering himself mentally, he flew from his seat and startled the men to drop their conversation. In complete bewilderment and with wide, incredulous eyes, the detective uttered as an explanation, "The bloated fingers!"

Offering nothing more, the man swirled around and practically ran out of the room before either of his company had a chance to react. Close to being dumbfounded, Mycroft turned his mute surprise to the former army doctor.

John merely shrugged in reply and his eyes were wide as saucers. "Don't look at me…"

Hours later, Irene returned to Baker Street after a long day of trying to find answers to their case on Moran. She'd done a thorough job, but apart from the initial information she'd already passed on to the detective, she'd had a hard time receiving anything else of use from her sources. When she'd at last thrown in the towel, it was on heavy legs she had returned to the flat. She hated being the one to let her best friend down, she hated not being able to help Molly.

She'd barely stepped into the hallway when she heard Sherlock's voice float around her tired shape like a jovial, energetic dance. "Ah... Good, you're home."

The man suddenly stood beside her in the open doorway and his eyes burned with something unreadable as he hovered over her smaller frame. With a flick of the wrist, he turned off the overhead lamp and Irene noticed all the candles lit around the living room and kitchen. As she tried to understand the meaning of it, Sherlock raised a small remote, pressed a button and the room suddenly enjoyed the comfortable embrace of Ingrid Michaelson's Can't Help Falling In Love.

The woman felt her heart stop and was caught in her position as if turned to stone. She knew that cover song well enough; it was the very same tune Mrs Hudson had played at the dinner party that ended in Sherlock and Irene's first night 'together'. The choice of song could be no coincidence, though the woman wondered at the actual sentiment behind it. As to why, she certainly had but one idea, and it both terrified and calmed her in equal measures.

She lingered in the doorway to the kitchen as the man moved over and sat down behind the table and his microscope. With a wide grin that seemed out of place, he waved her over. She followed his siren call and lingered on the other side of the table but didn't dare to open her mouth and break the spell he had her under.

The man's eyes fell and as she followed their path, her own gaze soon came to land upon the small, velvety item standing solitary watch on the cold table top before her. She inhaled sharply and quickly discarded her purse and jacket on the stool beside her.

"What's that?"

"Why don't you open it?"

Irene reluctantly obeyed and raised her hand towards the object. Her slender fingers lingered on the lid for another couple of seconds, before she opened what she expected was a Pandora's box. Inside rested a beautiful, diamond ring. 2.5 carat. Small bead-set diamonds embraced an emerald-cut diamond as the center gem. It was refined and classically elegant – exactly the kind of ring that fit her taste. Clearly he'd put some thought behind the purchase.

The woman exhaled wearily as her eyes flew up to meet the detective's. His gaze shone with intrigue and clever scheming as he beheld her in return. Without missing a beat, Irene slammed the box shut and covered her heart behind a thin veil of impassiveness.

Her voice was crisp and low as she questioned, "So you know then?"

The man tilted his head sideways and casually remarked, "That's not an answer."

Irene mirrored his movement and retorted with fiery determination, "There was never a proposal… was there?"

"Only a deception," the man's eyes darkened with heavy thoughts and he was clearly done toying with her, as his smile faded into the emptiness of his hollow eyes. She saw the predator in his pale gaze, ready to snap her neck at any second, and she raised her chin to give him better access.

"The motives of some women… the secrets you can keep. I've always wondered how you can build anything on such quicksand," he continued and his low voice was meant to burn at her heart. "But you … are the worst of your kind. All I thought trivial about you is a bottomless sea of lies. The measure of your deceit… infinite."

"Should I-?"

"No, I'm on it."

"Okay."

The man jumped from his seat and circled the room as a hunter on the prowl. "The bloated fingers… You could barely stand the stench when I was experimenting on them here. Enhanced sense of smell. You nearly threw up because it upset your stomach, and it wasn't the last time your stomach's been upset. You gained a few pounds after returning home from our vacation. An increase in appetite," the man paused as he glared down at the woman and revealed his verdict; "...You're pregnant. Aren't you?"

Irene swallowed as she held her head high and breathed words she'd long dreaded to reveal, "I was."

Something flashed in the man's eyes as he cornered her mentally in a cage she could not escape from. "…That's right. You've lost weight over this past week alone, but not only because of your grieving process. Did you abort? No. You had a miscarriage, didn't you? Why didn't you tell me?"

"Does it really matter, Sherlock? It's all over and done with anyway. It can't be undone. Let's move on."

"I can't."

The woman offered no consolation as her eyes fell from his. She'd been expecting this confrontation for a while, but had purposefully not planned a defense. Now, she felt exposed and vulnerable, feelings she was unaccustomed to, and they threatened to rip her soul apart. To remain silent and still seemed the only way not to fall apart on the kitchen floor, and she forced herself not to move into a defensive stance.

When seconds passed without a reply, Sherlock eventually grew tired and turned his back on her. "When?"

Irene knew her protective walls were unsteady as she forced her voice to remain aloof, "You know when."

"The day Molly was shot. I thought it was psychosomatic pains," the man muttered to himself and glanced back at her. "So John and Mary…?"

"Mary, as well as Molly, knew I was pregnant before that day," the words were hard to utter as they painfully scraped at the insides of her throat. "I'd known myself for about a week then. John returned here the night Molly was shot not an hour after… it had happened. In a weak moment, I told him the truth."

"You told all of them – but not me?" Sherlock snarled and practically bared his teeth like a furious dog. "I've been so busy trying to figure out what the problem was with you, I got distracted. The distracting factor you contribute throws a doubt on all my mental results. Don't you see? If you hadn't been here – distracting me – I would have realized Moran was targeting Baker Street and intercepted his plan. I could have… set up a dummy to fool him. I would have caught him without anyone being harmed, Irene!"

The graceful beauty closed her eyes from the truth even the man refused to admit and let herself serve as his punching bag. "You're blaming me for what happened that day?"

"Yes!" the man growled without thinking and then paused to regain control over his mind. He drew a couple of calming breaths before he said, "…No. I'm blaming myself for being distracted by you. You didn't actually think I'd simply take this news in stride, did you? Irene... you lost my child."

"I am aware of that."

As the man once more paced the flat to let off some steam and make sense of his jumbled thoughts, the woman silently remained in her frozen pose in the kitchen. Her eyes closed on their own accord as she wanted to offer him words of comfort, but knew she had none to give.

"I was distracted," Sherlock breathed at last as he returned to her side and waited until she met his gaze. "But let us make one thing clear between us once and for all: I am unaware of your beauty, your emotions towards me and any other… soft passions you can imagine. It was your mind that distracted me. I am your partner, but you place me in a false position if you consider me a lover. I feel nothing akin to love towards you."

The conversation was going just as Irene had anticipated and she exhaled calmly, "I know."

At length, the man let his own eyes fall as he tiredly breathed, "You know love stands in great opposition to the cold reason I hold above all things."

"Yes. I know that, too."

"I can't give up my mind palace for you," Sherlock admitted and felt relief wash over him for being able to voice the thought aloud. Not even a second later, his relief was forced away by something dark that bit at his heart and forced him to conclude with, "…I'm sorry."

"Sherlock…" Irene's voice lingered in the small space between them, hesitant about pushing forward. "I don't want to be a distraction. And I would never ask you to give up your mind palace."

He frowned down at her suspiciously. "But aren't you?"

"No. It's very simple, perhaps too simple for your mind…" the brunette said and held his eyes with a flare of fire and resentment. "You and I don't function together. We won't function any better if you give up half of what makes you you. Sherlock Holmes."

"So what happens now?" the detective ran a hand through his curls as he walked back to his seat across from her and sank onto the chair. "What do people… partners… do in these situations?"

"There are only so many options."

The man nodded in agreement. "12, by my count... Of course, not all valid here. By my estimation: 2 - possibly 3 - scenarios can play out-"

"No," Irene's empty voice interrupted and the room was trapped in the void of their failing relationship.

"…'No'?"

"Only the one."

"Which one?"

"You already know."

"… Say it."

To be continued.