'It is not a game anymore'
Part 3

Come home immediately. He's here.
SH

Lisbeth gulped as he caught sight of the message and her first reaction, besides complete terror, was to theatrically drop the bags she was carrying. Thought it would have been a perfect movie scene, she remembered the new shirt she brought for Sherlock so she snatched the bags and run off to catch a cabbie. The ride felt like the longest ten minutes of her life. What on earth was he doing at her apartment? Why would he come now, after all this time? What had happened? Why would he go there when she was not there? Did he want to talk to Sherlock? Did he intend to threaten him? She was fidgeting so wildly that the driver asked her twice whether she was feeling well. Yes, just drive!- was the not-so-nice answer each time. She jumped off the taxi and burst through the door.
'Hey miss! You have forgotten to pay the ride!' Yelped the confused driver jumping out of the car. Lisbeth hurried back, gave him money, she had no idea how much, but since he didn't complain it must have been enough.

As she rushed up her footsteps were echoing so loudly that no one could miss her coming.
'Feminine as ever,' as she recognised the deep voice her blood ran cold.
Trembling she stepped into the room. He found a handsome man in his thirties sitting in front of a man in his fifties, who could have been good-looking, but his hard features and strict expression made him frigid. They were doing nothing, but eyeing each other, Mrs. Hudson's favourite china tea cups next to them. Sherlock crossed his long legs and tilted her head slightly as, without a wink of an eyelid, he was examining the other man while drinking tea slowly. The elder one sat there clearly uncomfortably with a deprecating look on his face while investigating the flat and puckering his brows. As his eyes landed on the knife stabbed into the wall exactly into the head of Moriarty, he sighed below his breath. Clearly, he had different ideas about how a living room should be decorated.
'Have… have you too been talking to each other?' Lisbeth blurted out sheepishly, and deep down she was hoping that the answer would be something like 'no, we only stared passive-aggressively at each other waiting for tea.'
'First of all, good afternoon to you too, Adelaide! Second of all, don't you think that it would be appropriate to introduce us?' He corrected her as a pair of ice-cold blue eyes landed on her looking her up and down critically. Lisbeth gulped as she felt heat rising in her. She couldn't decide whether it was because of embarrassment, anger, or because her coat which was still on her. Sherlock have never seen the girl so upset, at a loss for words. He was suddenly caught by a strong desire to protect her.
'There's no need for that,' suddenly he spoke up. William's pale blue eyes turned away from the girl and arrived at two identical, yet somehow much warmer pair, 'I knew who you were, the moment you stepped in,' Sherlock put away the cup, sprang up and clasped his hands in front of his face wild with excitement. The elder one sat back, crossed his arms and waited for the show. Frowning, Sherlock started the rambling, walking up and down in the living room.
'Expensive suit, clearly a brilliant work of Henry Poole, I like him as well, although he is overrated. Expensive leather shoes, polished, newly purchased the new collection of Hugo Boss. Then, your glasses, Ray Ban, classic and stylish, latest model. You are a quite a snob, there's no doubt about that, and you have enough money to afford this style. Your clothes, glasses, hair, shoes, words and manner are impeccable. The way you hold your head suggest that you look down on everyone. Your micro expressions, and the fact that you have crossed your arms implies that you don't want to be here and not only do you disapprove of the flat, but you also condemn the life we lead. It is morganatic for you to sit here in a scrubby armchair with a junkie. Judging by the fact that you are not carrying a bag, you are not planning to stay long. Your briefcase, and it's evident that you have one, since you are a businessman, is probably in the limousine which is waiting for you outside. The license plate number is registered to be one of the government cars. Obviously, you work there, maybe you know my brother Mycroft as well. You come from an aristocratic family, you went to boarding school, Eton in fact, you have strict morals, and severe views of what is right and what is wrong. You are narrow-minded and you demand respect, that's why you are fidgeting why I'm deducing you, because you are not used to people speaking to you like that. Back to the main statement, I know who you are because I know the effect you have on people first hand. You intimidate them, you believe fear is the key to respect. Machiavelli, you probably read. You are as cold as ice, practical and demanding, a control-maniac. Strict, very strict, you do not tolerate mistakes. This makes you a very overbearing parent to have. Your wife has died approximately ten years ago which left you with your daughter alone. Since you always were the strict parent and you didn't know better, you didn't listen to her, you provided her a with good education, enough money to live comfortably, but not too much, in order not to prevent becoming a snob, but not emotional support she would have needed. This resulted in a moody and rebellious, but very smart teenager who was fuelled by the anger for his father, sadness of her mother's death and of course love for her silly uncle, to pursue her own path and do everything, but what her father planned her to do. And that's how she ended up chasing criminals, learning about the depth of human mind, living and being in a relationship with an ingenious, but extremely dangerous and addictive high-functioning sociopath. Furthermore the slight similarity between your features, the nose and the shape of the eyes, height and posture is giving you away. Of course, the way you speak is similar to hers as well, even though her language clearly has been affected by her studies in the US.'
He finished his monolog, paid no attention to the man and walked up to the girl, looking deep into her eyes.
'And, 'she cleared her throat, 'although very difficult to put up with, but one of the greatest minds and greatest people on earth,' she added and she could hear her father snorting and standing up, but it didn't matter anymore. What mattered were the pale blue eyes staring at her encouragingly, offering support.
'Nice name by the way,' he cocked an eye at her and turned back to the elderly man, giving no time for his partner to reply.
'William Sherlock Scott Holmes. It is a pleasure to finally meet Lisbeth's father,' he emphasised the girl's name as he stepped closer to the elder man and offered his hand.
'William Charles Lestrade,' they shook hands firmly. 'I have now obtained first-hand information and I have to admit that the rumours about you are all true. Since you seem to know so much, clearly, you are well aware the purpose of my visit.'
'Quite right. However, I believe that your daughter will have something to say about that. Am I right, Lisbeth?'
'As always,' she replied as she stood next to the detective feeling brave at the first time in her life.
Her father sighed deeply.
'You are no longer to continue this 'relationship of yours' Adelaide,' he stated, not about to be dissuaded.
'Lisbeth,' she interrupted which caught her father off guard. He put his glasses straight indignantly:
'Lisbeth, you will finish your degree and after you acquired it, you will go to Wales where you will become an intern at one of my colleague's company. You will forget about that silly dream of yours, running around in London, getting involved with crime and criminals, risking your life, and living with a drug addict. I've find a brilliant man for you, you are to marry him and finally settle down and start to lead a respectful life. You-'
'No, father, I will not,' she declared loud and clear, her voice echoing in the flat, followed by a long silence. Tension was palpable between the three of them, an invisible line separating father and daughter.
'Excuse me?' William finally asked really slowly, giving her daughter the last chance to retreat. Lisbeth felt the detective's hand gently joining hers.
'You have my life figured out. But that is MY life and I want to be the one to choose how I lead it. And I want live with Sherlock, no matter what you say.'
'Is that so?' he studied his daughter with a curious expression on his face, placidly deciding about how to solve the problem most efficiently. As a polite smile without any warmth appeared on his face, Lisbeth froze to the ground. She disobeyed her father and now he was going to reprimand her and demonstrate his superiority. Frigidity of the most severe winter could not be compared to the coolness of his voice:
'My only daughter, 'as he started a chilly shiver ran through Lisbeth. No sentence containing 'my only daughter' held a pleasant surprise as it was an equivalent of normal people's young lady, 'why are you so convinced that it is in his intention to live with you as well?' he finally gave up ignoring the purple-shirted junkie.
'I believe it is obvious, since we've been living together for 4 months now,' the detective pointed out, putting his hand around the blonde's waist possessively. William's jaw tightened:
'Four months, she's been lying to you,' Lisbeth has forgotten to breathe.
'No, clearly she has not. I immediately see if she's not telling the truth,' Sherlock replied without hesitation, however as he glanced at his partner avoiding eye contact, he started to doubt her sincerity.
'Lisbeth, look at me, what does he mean by that?' he demanded, turning the girl towards him, his voice low and serious. Lisbeth stopped examining the floor, cast a loathing look at his father whose eyes were filled with victory.
'I've told you that we always were to be together,' she started quietly.
'Oh stop the sentiment!' he burst out. 'I want facts! What have you been lying about?'
She gulped hesitantly:
'How we met. I came to get help form you on the day when my landlord was killed. But he never was my landlord.'
'What do you mean by that?' Sherlock frowned and was very disturbed as he genuinely had no clue what the blonde was talking about.
'I have never lived there,' she bit her lips, trying to ignore her father, whose presence without speaking was enough to thicken the air.
'But… you had a key and access to the flat.' the ingenious detective still couldn't put the pieces together.
'Yeah, well I'm a talented cat burglar. I really wanted to have an interesting case for you to solve, therefore I was looking for a murder. You were close when you joked about me killing him to get in acquaintance with you. I did not, however I used his murder to meet you.'
'You broke into the police database, did you not?' he finally was getting the picture.
'Almost. I visited uncle every day at Scotland Yard waiting for a homicide. I sneaked in the crime scene, knocked at the doors, pretending to be a police officer asking about the incident. I'd found out that 57 was empty and the tenants went on a vacation. Getting into the flat was the easy part.'
William Lestrade sighed deeply:
'Breaking into the database of Scotland Yard, breaking into an apartment, pretending to be a police officer. If your uncle wasn't the DI, Adelaide, you would be in prison.'
'If I was caught. But I was not,' she had to courage to snap back as he could no longer hold anything against her.
'Well, I was not expecting that, 'Sherlock admitted, frowning, still turning a blind eye to the other man whose lips were set in a straight line, 'I never knew you went to such extreme lengths to get to know me. I have to admit, that's a bit obsessive,'
Lisbeth opened her mouth to say something in her defence, but she needn't have to.
'But appealing as well. I value your skills and devotion very much,' the detective grinned at her.
William Lestrade couldn't believe his ears.
'But, where did you live?' Sherlock inquired casually, letting go off of the clearly mental plan the girl had carried out to meet him, and deciding to find out about every detail.
'Dormitory, university. My father knew nothing about this.'
'Oh, of course I knew,' the aforementioned person joined the insane conversation. 'Do you really believe that I don't have eyes everywhere? Preposterous, he finds breaching the law appealing,' he murmured to himself, making the younger two smiling broadly.
'But why not be utterly candid with him? I deem it to tell him about Gregory.'
'Who?' Sherlock asked the million dollar question.
'Uncle, 'Lisbeth replied, 'I don't believe that is my place to tell.'
'You are right, because it is mine,' out of nowhere a fourth voice joined in the conversation. Three pairs of blue eyes turned to him.
'Mycroft, my friend, what do we owe the pleasure?' William was the first to address the newcomer.
'Friend?' the younger Holmes grimaced. Even though William and Mycroft shared many similarities (to name some: obsession with being in control, arrogance, high intelligence and a ridiculous loyalty to the government, not to mention a very troublesome soft spot), he never actually made the connection.
'Friend, colleague, associate,' his brother replied as he entered the flat and joined William's side, stepping across the invisible water divider, 'Sherlock texted me and informed me that you were with the intention of taking Lisbeth with you.'
'Indeed, I am planning to do so. Since you let things go out of control, 'his artificial welcome lost all the warmth. 'I believed we had an agreement.'
'We had, in fact. But I chose England over my personal feelings,' Mycroft leaned casually against his umbrella, smiling at his friend who puckered his forehead between his eyebrows.
'Are you really convinced that he needs my daughter?'
'Sadly to say, but yes, I am certain,' Lisbeth had a flashback to her childhood, the two tall men having serious grown-up conversation, ignoring her completely. However, she was not the only child in the room.
'What are you two talking about?' Sherlock gave voice to his frustration.
'So observant, yet so blind in the face of truth,' William retorted, not taking his eyes of the elder Holmes. This will be the title of my book, if I ever write one- Lisbeth thought bitterly.
'Little brother, I need to tell you something, 'Mycroft turned to his brother. 'William and I have been working together since the very beginning. He is my partner, and he may not corroborate it at this very moment, but my old friend as well. However, we always had our weak points. Mine was my ingenious junkie brother, his was the kind, but not so bright brother who was a police officer at Scotland Yard. When you started to investigate, I needed someone to keep an eye on you. He had a perfect candidate for that post. Hence, Gregory was appointed D.I. and you had a friend.'
'Have you two been scheming behind my back about my life?' Sherlock asked outraged, eyes blazing between the two men in front of him.
'Yes, we have, 'his brother answered him calmly. 'Have you never wandered how Lestrade became DI? Forthright, he is not qualified for that job.'
'But what does this have to do with Lisbeth?'
'Well, Lisbeth was another problem,' William spoke up.
'Thank you dad,' she murmured under her breath.
'When Johanna was murdered I did everything in my power to avenge her death, of course, with Mycroft's help. However, we reached our limit where we couldn't go deeper. Naturally, my daughter never understood no and her solution was to run away and break into the police archive. Even before you decided to start consulting, she had done everything in her power to try to get herself killed. At last, she calmed down, and I managed to send her away and everything seemed to be settled. But then you became famous and I felt I was fighting a losing battle to keep her away from you. When you died I believed that finally I could have some rest. By the time it turned out you did not quite cease to exist, I had already allowed Adelaide to come to London. And here we are,' he extended his hands, and Lisbeth added 'in the middle of complete disaster' in her head and could wait no longer to pose the question:
'But why now?'
'Owning to the fact that I was on a business trip in America for the last four months and presumed that Mycroft would keep an eye on you two. What he certainly failed to do so,' he cast an indignant look at his partner, promising repercussions later.
'As a matter of fact, I did. However, my top priority was and still is to provide help for my brother any way possible to find Moriarty. If it requires your daughter, then I will not stop her. Look at her! She's safe and sound; I've been taking really good care of her. She's about to get her PhD. Speaking of which, nice essay. Very perspicacious,' Mycroft gave her a very rare genuine smile.
'How on earth-' Lisbeth pondered.
'Adelaide, stop swearing!' his father barked, unable to pick at Mycroft's argument, but always able to pick at his daughter.
'Thank you Mycroft,' she modified her sentence.
'She's clearly not fine when she's living in a place like this, with a man like this., 'William was still not satisfied.
'A man like what?' the elder Holmes raised an eyebrow, taking the role of overprotective big brother.
'You are well aware what I mean by that Mycroft, I just don't intend to insult your brother.'
'My brother, an ingenious workaholic who is addicted to danger and is always ready to push his limits and give everything up for his work? Are we talking about my brother, or your daughter?'
'Touché,' Lisbeth clapped approvingly as a smile lingered in the corner of Mycroft's mouth.
'Adelaide, keep quiet! I don't like how you are turning the tables around. I'm here to put an end to this nonsense for good. And that's it!'
'But father, we are on the verge of finding Moriarty.'
'Adelaide, you are nowhere to find Moriarty. The only reason is why I am not taking you away right now, is that you are about to finish your degree.'
'William, I understand your concern, but-'
'ENOUGH!' Sherlock finally burst out. 'OUT! YOU TWO, OUT! He madly pointed at the two men, tearing across the room, springing the door open.
'How dare you talk to me like that?' William confronted him, ice cold fury burning in his eyes.
'Leave my flat right now through the door, or I promise you are going to leave it through the window!' a low voice answered him, belonging to a devilish grin.
Lisbeth gulped as her boyfriend has just openly threatened his father. Insanity was glowing in his eyes, and she was convinced that he meant every word he said. She needed to warn his father. Her desperate gaze met with Mycroft's who recognised he needed to take control of the situation at once.
'William, I apologise for my brother's behaviour. Please, let me invite you for a tea during which we can discuss this whole business,' he offered as he stood between his friend and his brother.
'If you think that he can talk to me like that and get away with it without any consequence-' he replied.
'Then what?' Sherlock provoked him dangerously. Lisbeth stepped closer to the detective and put a hand on his chest.
'Sherlock please, let him go,' she murmured to him, but the icy gaze he got from the detective made her take away her hand a take step back. Her stomach did a summersault as realisation hit her. Not only was he furious about Mycroft and her father, he was mad at her as well. Her heart sank.
'Leave him, my friend, he's clearly high. Let's discuss this as grown-ups.'
William slowly took his eyes off Sherlock:
'Very well,' he set his glasses again. 'Though I'm not leaving my daughter with him.'
'She's staying here,' Sherlock stated assertively.
'I can assure you there will be no harm done on Lisbeth. They need to settle themselves. After that I'm sure Lisbeth will join us.'
'Adelaide. Her name is Adelaide!'
'Adelaide, of course, my friend.'
'Adelaide, I expect you to meet me at Eleanor's in one hour. Exactly in one hour. Do you understand?'
'Yes, father, I do understand.'
'Goodbye,' he finally stepped out of the flat. Mycroft gave a comforting look to Lisbeth and followed his colleague. The door was quietly shut.

As silence lingered in the air, tension was becoming unbearable.
'So, you finally met my father. I guess we won't expect him at Christmas,' Lisbeth joked weakly.
Sherlock simply ignored her and sat into his chair. He put his arms into the praying position, his eyes empty. Lisbeth bit her lips, and was trying really hard to pull herself together. She figured that the detective didn't want to talk about anything, so she started taking the tea mugs out. As she was reaching for the cup, he suddenly spoke up:
'You knew all along,' he whispered in a low voice.
'I'm sorry?' she asked, being well aware what he said.
'You knew all along!' he jumped up, making the girl drop the cup. It crushed on the floor, shattering into pieces, brown liquid spreading on the floor.
'You knew since the very beginning. You knew before we met. And yet, you never said a word. You were leading me by the nose.'
'Sherlock, I was not!'
'You were lying to me. Keeping the truth from me. How could you look me in the eye day by day?'
'What difference does it make? I told you everything about my father. You knew my uncle, and our relationship. You had every piece; you just didn't put them together.'
This was the last straw to the detective:
'You were fooling me the whole time. You were using me!'
'I was not!'
'You were using me to find your mother's killer! Getting to know me, winning my trust, being my assistant, getting closer to me, letting me tell you my secrets and all my plans, letting my guard down, letting me fall in love with you!'
'You know that was not intentional. Or it was, and yet, I only did it because-'
'Get out!' He shouted as loudly as he could, his voice echoing loud in the room and Lisbeth's head.
'Sherlock!' she cried disparagingly, advancing towards the detective.
'Get out before I hurt you,' he whispered in a deadly voice. She desperately looked into his eyes, but saw nothing, but malice. As she caught sight of her miserable reflection in mirror of ice-cold eyes, her blood ran cold. She collected what was left of her dignity, and walked out of the flat. He didn't even bother slamming the door and could clearly hear as she bounded downstairs. Tearing the door open, she dialled a number.

The living room at Baker Street was filled with the furious and yet magnificent sound of violin. Sherlock almost missed his phone buzzing. It occurred to him that was Mycroft, or worse, Lisbeth, so he decided not to pick it up by any chance. Few minutes later curiosity got the better of him and he grudgingly unlocked the phone. He immediately froze to the ground, violin stopping in his hand, heart stopping in his chest. Crimson fury spurred his vision as he almost threw the phone out of the window. He laid his instrument down on the couch, put on his coat and started off, his mind buzzling with thousands of ideas, his heart filled with dozens of emotions, but one was stronger than the others: rage. Pure rage.
Inside the pocket of his long, navy coat, on his phone there was a picture attached of Lisbeth getting into a car with a tall, blonde man, and the text saying:

'Kidnapping your girlfriend Sherly, what a precious thing! Oh, but it not really is a kidnapping, isn't it, when the girl is willingly getting in the car! The game is on, dear! J.M.'

'This is not a game anymore,' Sherlock thought as he was calling his brother.