Sebastian and Harlequin sat in the backseat of the car with the tinted windows that Erryl was currently driving, quietly giggling over their shenanigans at 221B.

The radio was blaring music. Outside, there was no traffic, a bonus. It was a perfect, ridiculously sunny morning. Usually it aggravated her, but today it was almost magical.

Then she glanced out of the window, still giggling. Her laughter dried instantly. This was not the route back to her flat. She knew every single route in London that led back home, and this was definitely not one of them.

But she kept her mouth shut. Best not say anything. Easily slipping the smile back on her face, she leant against the sniper.

"So we'll be waiting for Sherlock. Might not be a long time. Got a plan?" he asked her.

"I never make plans properly. Halfway through they all fall to pieces," she responded. They giggled some more at that.

"Maybe this will be the lucky one."

The car abruptly pulled up beside a walled-up piece of land, the only entrance in the form of an iron gate.

The graveyard...? Harlequin wondered, puzzled. This time she frowned quite openly.

"Hey, Erryl, why are we stopping here?"

The driver ran a hand through his flame-red hair and cracked his neck, looking back at her. He grinned. "A pit-stop first before I get you two back home. No problem with that, eh?"

"Oh." She relaxed. "That's fine."

"I knew you wouldn't mind." The chauffer continued talking. "I look at you sometimes, I wonder if you and Mister over there have a thing."

"I can hear you, dumbass," Sebastian growled, but the girl shushed him. She felt amused.

"A thing? Please, explain."

"It's a professional relationship to the outside eyes, but in here you're all tee-hee and lovey-dovey, if that term can be used."

"So you're saying that laughing with people means you are romantically involved with them?" She raised an eyebrow, watched his face grow red to the extent that it matched the color of his hair.

"I-it's not that… It's that… Do you have a thing or not?!" Erryl blurted out.

She looked at Sebastian, and saw that the sniper was sitting straight, arms crossed, wearing the best poker face she'd ever seen.

A confused laugh bubbled up her throat.

Wait a fucking moment. Why am I confused?! The answer is obviously no. Seb and I? We don't have a thing…

That was a stupid question. Yet also extremely puzzling now that Erryl had unknowingly succeeded in confuzzling her.

Her family's relationship with one Sebastian Moran was always pretty straight-forward when she was growing up, especially when the four of them formed some kind of dysfunctional family living under the same goddamn insane roof.

Her mother hated her, hate-loved her father, hated Sebastian.

Her father hated her mother, hate-loved her (was that even possible?), and formed a professional relationship with the sniper. Employer-employee. That was it.

Jim gave the orders, Sebastian carried them out. Simple.

And Harlequin. She hated her mother, hate-loved her father, and then there was the sniper.

When she was growing up, he taught her how to be the ultimate assassin. He followed her when her father ordered him to move with her to London. He patched her up, she patched him up. They shared victories and losses and went at each other with claw and tooth when the opportunity arose.

"We're comrades," she decided firmly, telling Erryl.

"You sure there's no hidden feelings there?" the red-head persisted, and she pulled her lips up and snarled at him.

Snickering, he turned back to face the front just as the door of the passenger seat opened, and Natalia slid in, shutting the door behind her.

The assassin was clad in a body-hugging black jumpsuit, wearing a black armband over her right arm. Her lips were pulled into a wistful smile. She was thinking.

The chauffer began driving, turning the radio off. Silence, deafening, beautiful silence filled the vehicle.

"It's so fragile, is it not, Miss Moriarty? The human body, that is," the brown-haired woman began talking, softly. "A twist, a snap, and that's it. You're dead. How convenient."

Harlequin snorted, rolling her eyes. Utter shit.

The rest of the drive included listening to the assassin ruminate about life and death, about the human soul and fragility.

Pretentious claptrap, the lot of it.

At long last, Erryl pulled up outside her flat.

His voice was warm. "Out you go. Have a nice day."

"Thanks," she forced herself to say, getting out, Sebastian behind her.

The two of them went upstairs into their flat and the girl told the sniper what to do, retrieving a sling bag from her toy chest and pressing it into his hands. The man argued, but she was firm about the commands issued.

"Stay safe. Quin, this is not John you're dealing with. Sherlock is on a different level altogether," Sebastian reminded her, concern etched into the lines on his face.

It was this close from being touching, really. "I can take on a man who doesn't give a fuck about our solar system," she replied, shrugging.

"Better be sure about that little fact."

"Just fucking go already."

She pointed to the door, and he dutifully made his exit. Harlequin sat on the sofa, assuming an aura of mystery and badass-ness.

Jim Moriarty walked in from the open front door, hands in his pockets, obsidian eyes full of glee.

"Finally using the present I gave you before Sherlock's supposed death, I see. Atta girl," the consulting criminal said, giving her a playful slap on the face.

"I guessed it comes in handy. Are you going to be here for the final show-down?"

"Sure I am. I want to see if you succeed or fail."

The door downstairs opened, and she could hear footsteps. Father and daughter looked at each other.

Jim sighed. "Good luck. I'll see you in hell, eh?"

"Don't count on it," Harlequin muttered.

He loped away, disappearing into the darkness just as the door of her flat opened, and the consulting detective strode in, coat flapping around him, face impassive, yet she could sense the fury boiling inside his worthless, mortal shell.

"Good afternoon, Sherly."

"Harlequin." He sat down on the armchair across from her without invitation. She didn't really give a shit. "You injured my friends."

"Yes, and I do not regret a single move."

"You're going to pay."

"With what, my blood?" She laughed. "No way."

He smirked at her. A bulge in his pocket: A gun, how predictable. Those mesmerizing eyes gazed into hers, and she searched them for emotion. The usual fare, she supposed, of ice cold rage and determination.

"Pull out that gun and you're friends deaths will be on your head," she informed the consulting detective.

The smirk faded. "I do not understand."

"I think you do. You see, Seb is currently in the hospital, and he has a bag with him. In that bag is a bomb."

Eyes widening by a fraction, unnoticeable to few. But she saw it all. She could practically see the thoughts rushing to Sherlock's head.

"The force of the blast would kill him too," the dark-haired man reminded her.

Fucking hell.

That was the one little fact she'd so conveniently overlooked.

That stupid smile was back on his face. He leant back in the armchair, surveying her. "Would you risk everything by losing your faithful sniper?"

"I would," she said, jutting out her chin.

Which was a lie itself. Harlequin would rather lose an eye than lose the only person she had left. Well, the only real person if she excluded her hallucination of a father.

"But," she continued. "Would you risk losing all the people you care about in one go?"

There. They were on equal ground now, gazing at each other with mirrored poker faces.

"Shoot me. I dare you." She giggled.

Painfully slow, Sherlock took the gun out of his pocket, placing it on his knee, angled away from her. Her phone beeped, she took it out and opened the message.

All fired up, Boss. This baby looks like it's going to cause one hell of an explosion. Just give the word when needed.- SM

She looked up at the man opposite her. Took a deep breath.

"It's boring, this game, it's getting boring," Sherlock grumbled.

Harlequin extended a hand, and he looked on as she touched his knee. "I know. I can end it."

"I want a better game. Moriarty was a finer opponent than you."

He was buying time, trying to keep her occupied. She knew it, but played along.

Can I just tell Seb to pull out his gun and start shooting instead of detonating the bomb?

"Jim won, but the price was his life. Me? I'll win and reap the rewards in all their splendor and glory," she replied.

"I'd like to see that."

"You'd be dead by then."

"Aha. That minor setback."

Her hand pulled back, strayed to her phone, stroking the screen. She bit her lip, attempted a cocky grin, failed, and frowned.

"Give me a good reason why I should call Seb off."

"I have been actually paid to find out your location and pull Moriarty's criminal web apart," Sherlock explained, dropping the bombshell.

Her jaw did not drop. It clenched.

"Who, how, and why," Harlequin demanded.

"After the Fall, my first impression was that I had to burn his kingdom down. Unfortunately, I sorely lacked in information. But brother Mycroft knew who exactly to put me in touch with: An assassin who was once in that kingdom but long since left to free-lance. I told her my purpose, she took me to her new employer. We talked, agreed on things. This employer of hers sent the assassin out scouting, digging for information. She came back with the jackpot, really. Her employer and I settled on this: I'd distract you, throw you off course with all the emails, and in turn, he'd arrange all the necessary things to be done. Also, I was the one who was given the task of tearing the empire into little pieces."

"Who-"she began to ask, but the consulting detective held up a hand to shush her.

"Why: My reason is that Moriarty is a criminal, the most dangerous person to trifle with, and so are his associates. The employer's reason I have no idea. Who: I cannot tell you."

"Why not?!" Harlequin demanded, frowning.

"You're not the only one with hired guns ready at St. Bart's."

That kind of stunned her. Also angered her. She was unique. No dumbass was about to steal her style. Her phone beeped again, and she looked at the message:

Boss, I'm waiting… -SM

"Go on, blow up the hospital and lose the only loyal person you have."

He thinks I'll back down.

Harlequin bit her lip, nodding slowly. Already an unstable plan was forming in her mind.

"I…" The words were reluctantly dragged out of her mouth. "… Need your help…"

The consulting detective raised an eyebrow. "My help?"

"I won't blow up the hospital. I need to see who I'm up against."

He didn't reply immediately; They sat in silence.

Taking her phone, she texted Sebastian:

Stand down. Sherlock and I will be there in a bit. –HM

SHERLOCK?! –SM

Disbelief in all eight screaming letters. She completely ignored it. Standing up, Harlequin flashed Sherlock a grin. "Let's kick some ass, my temporary ally."

~At St. Bart's~

The hospital was everything a hospital was meant to be: Clean, white, sterile, packed with people, and smelling like disinfectant. The two of them went down one of the numerous corridors, still slightly wary of each other. This uneasy truce seemed so strange: Was she not trying to kill the man beside her?

"Boss!" It was Sebastian, hurrying towards them from the opposite end of the corridor. The sling bag containing the bomb was slung casually over his shoulder. His brow furrowed at the sight of the dark-haired man with the red scarf.

"Relax Seb: It's a truce," Harlequin sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Why the fuck is he here?" the sniper growled.

"Won't tell me who hired him. The employer's hired guns are here. We're going to kill them."

"Aha."

She glanced at Sherlock. "We'll check your friends' rooms first."

"Logical enough."

The consulting detective led the way, going to the one of the doors. Opening it, they peered inside. It was empty except for the still form of Mrs. Hudson on the bed. No assassins, hired guns. Out of the corner of her eye, Harlequin saw Sherlock's jaw clench.

The next door: Molly Hooper, apparently asleep. Her arms were bare, above the blanket, the words 'Get Sherlock' clearly visible. Other than that she looked remarkably well.

And the third door: DI Lestrade, who was motionless. She thought she saw him twitch the moment she poked her head round the doorframe.

The last door: It had to be filled with assassins armed to the teeth. She was sure of it. They went in. A groan of disappointment escaped Sebastian's mouth. Harlequin elbowed him in the ribs as a way of telling him to shut up.

John Watson –like the rest of the people they'd checked on- was not awake, or else pretending to be. His mouth was a firm line, his eyebrows drawn down. Having troubled dreams, the girl guessed. Sherlock approached the bed, staring at his best friend.

She watched emotion seep into his eyes, then disappear when the door swung open and a nurse came in, wheeling a trolley laden with various medicines.

"Your friend?" the nurse asked, motioning to John. They nodded, and she smiled. Her eyes were bright as she surveyed the medicines, deciding which would be suitable for the army doctor. Too bright. Harlequin wanted to point it out, but shrugged it off.

"I'm going to check the other rooms again," Sherlock announced, sweeping out of the room. Sebastian followed him at Harlequin's signal, leaving her alone with this strange nurse. Her hand plunged into her pocket, fingers wrapping around the hilt of her knife.

"Friends are such blind, loyal creatures," the nurse continued talking, taking a syringe filled with colorless liquid and testing it. "Follow you into Hell if they could."

"True…" the girl replied, uncomfortably.

"You aren't Dr. Watson's friend. You tried to kill him."

The knife was out of her pocket in an instant.

"Who the fuck hired you?!" Harlequin snarled, pointing the knife at the nurse- assassin.

Her answer was to lunge at John, attempting to inject him with whatever foul poison in the syringe. The girl would have gladly let the poor sod be killed.

But Sherlock was there, and she would most probably be killed by him.

Plus, she sort of promised not to touch John, or any of the others, as long as they had their truce.

So Harlequin flew at the assassin and stabbed her. Just once, to the side of the neck. It appeared to do the trick: The assassin squealed, the syringe falling from her fingers, and wheeled around, blood gushing from her wound, staining her crisp white uniform. The girl waited; Waited until the assassin was truly lying dead on the ground.

Then she picked up the syringe and pocketed it, wondering if she should wake John up.

Probably not a good idea.

Stepping out of the room, Harlequin shut the door behind her, taking a deep breath. She wiped her knife on the edge of her T-shirt, brushed the hair out of her eyes. Moving from her spot would merely give another assassin the opportunity to slip in and finish the job.

Finally, the others came back. They didn't look as though they'd killed anyone. She held up the syringe. "John was the first target. I killed the nurse by the way. Didn't get her employer's goddamn waste."

"Oh, he's a clever one, the employer. Clever, but not as clever as he'd like to think," the dark-haired man said, chuckling.

"One assassin is stupid. I expected more," Sebastian complained.

"There are more. He threatened me with at least four highly-trained killers."

"Maybe they're scattered," she suggested.

That was when someone wolf-whistled at her, and Harlequin whirled around to glare at whichever pervert it was.

It was followed by a giggle that made her blood freeze. Her eyes scanned the corridor.

No, no way, she thought. Not him.

A member of the Dead Children was strolling up to them, hands in his pockets, and the sniper and the girl knew his name well.

Seth.

"One, two, Seth Kester's going to get you!" the lunatic sung it to the tune of a children's song.

Sebastian looked at Harlequin, who in turn looked at Sherlock, who returned her gaze.

"Lure him outside if you can, and let's split," Harlequin told them. "If he's here, I bet Glassier and Ashlei are here too. And baying for our blood."

The consulting detective moved first, then the sniper. The girl waited until she could see the approaching man's toad-green eyes. Then she stuck up her middle finger and ran, yelling, "Kiss my ass, fucker!"

Not her wittiest taunt, but it would do.

Harlequin ran, Seth suddenly hard on her heels, dodging patients and doctors and nurses and trolleys and all manner of obstacles. Adrenaline flooded her veins, acidic and as sweet as ambrosia on her tongue.

Letting out a whoop of exhilaration, she rounded a corner and managed to gasp out a laugh in between breaths for air.

I'm starting to enjoy this.

Looking over her shoulder, she was happy to see that her pursuer was sweating profusely and red with anger. His lips twisted into a snarl.

She blew a raspberry at him, only to turn back to see the trolley coming straight for her.

She slammed into the metal thing, going over it and landing on her stomach with a loud and obviously painful thud.

The nurse pushing the trolley started apologizing, but all Harlequin did was pull herself up and keep on running. The distance between her and Seth was rapidly closing. Her stomach hurt, yet she drove herself to her limits, struggling to keep out of reach.

This isn't a good idea.

Lowering her head, she ran on, heading for the lobby. Once she reached there, she whirled around and performed a spectacular high-kick that connected with Seth's jaw. People shrieked as he staggered back, spitting blood. His eyes glinted dangerously.

"Who hired you?" Harlequin asked, as they circled each other. Her palms were sweaty, and the knife kept slipping from her grasp.

"I'd tell you but I'd have to kill you!" Seth giggled.

"Kill me then."

"Oh, I will."

They went at each other with bared teeth and flashing steel. Her first blow was to Seth's stomach, driving the hilt of her blade hard enough so as to make him double-up, gasping.

"Come on and tell me, I haven't got all day," she whined, as her straightened up and tried to slash her. Harlequin danced back, then parried with a kick that turned into a step forward, and she pressed her knife to his throat.

Seth froze. "I'm just a pawn. Don't know anyone."

She applied pressure, watching beads of blood roll down his flesh. The hospital was quiet, their horrified audience watching their frozen tableau.

"Oh, do stop fooling about, you two. This is serious business here," someone drawled, and her eyes flicked to the side to see Glassier Valentine stroll in, Sherlock's limp body thrown over his shoulder like a life-sized doll. Blood dribbled from the consulting detective's lips and nose, dripping onto the ground.

Behind him, Ashlei hummed happily, sucking on what appeared to be a lollipop. There was no sign of Sebastian. So either he was dead or had hidden and was waiting to swoop in and save the day like some dumbass hero.

"Hi!" Ashlei waved, giggling. "Daddy's going to kill Mr. Holmes if you don't step away from Seth there."

"Whatever," Harlequin said, not moving.

And then she began to really think about the consequences of Sherlock being dead.

For starters, his brother and the whole Scotland Yard would be after her.

Fuck this shit.

Ever so slowly, she stepped back from Seth and tossed her blade onto the floor. Held her hands up in a surrender gesture.

"Tell me who is behind all this," she demanded.

"You aren't exactly in the ideal position to ask," Glassier shot back, dumping Sherlock unceremoniously on the ground. "Look, if it's any comfort, I'll make your death quick."

"What a gentleman." Harlequin offered him a grin, which he returned.

Ashlei tugged her father's hand. "Daddy, can I ask Seth to kill her?"

A single, curt nod. The girl clapped, and gave Seth a look. Harlequin stood there, like a statue, extremely still.

In here mind, she was screaming Sebastian's name.

Goddamnit, Seb, bring the fucking bomb and blow up this goddamn place. Or come in and shoot them.

Seth pushed her forward, arranging her hands so that they were clenched behind her back. Licking his knife, letting his saliva run down its surface, he made a thoughtful sound, as though choosing in which style to kill her.

Finally, Seth made up his mind. Raising his arm behind, he closed an eye and stuck out his tongue, taking aim, knife in hand.

Sebastian Moran, I am going to fucking haunt you, Harlequin promised, trying to quell the rising panic bubbling up inside of her.

She scanned the room, looked at each patient or staff there, searching for someone, anyone to step up.

And help her.

But everyone was frozen with fear, unable to do anything but watch. So she looked straight at Seth, motioned for him to continue.

The madman threw the knife, and it flew across the small space between them almost effortlessly.

Just as it was about to reach her, Harlequin did the whole Matrix thing, bending backwards, forcing her body down. Her eyes widened as she let the knife sail over her and continue its path towards the father and daughter.

"Daddy!" she heard Ashlei shriek. Heard a dull thunk as the lollipop fell to the ground. Heard the splatter of blood on the ground, like gentle rainfall.

Heard someone hit the ground, hard.

Harlequin let her legs give way, and collapsed, just as Sebastian Moran sauntered casually into view, holding his gun and pointing it at Seth.

Blood was smeared across his face. His eyes flicked from her, to Sherlock, to Seth, to the Valentines.

"I… I didn't mean…" the madman with green eyes was saying, as he made his way past Harlequin, ignoring her completely. "It was an accident, Boss! The girl moved…"

Harlequin got to her feet and saw what had happened. Or the aftermath of it. Ashlei was on the ground, blood staining her trench coat. The hilt of Seth's knife poked out from between her eyes. Glassier cradled her, amber eyes full of surprise. Slowly, he raised his head to look at the other man.

"You killed my daughter," he said, simply.

"I didn't! That bitch did!"

She nodded to the sniper, confirming that she was unscathed. In reply, he went to stand beside her.

Now Glassier was standing, approaching Seth with the very knife that had killed his daughter. His eyes were dead. His voice was almost a whisper.

"First you die. Then the rest."

The green-eyed man was backing away rapidly, but his boss was faster than he ever could be. The amber-eyed man became a blur, and suddenly Seth was slumped on the ground, his throat slit, blood leaking out.

"Nice one, Valentine," Harlequin called, giving a thumbs-up.

Out of the corner of her mouth, she muttered, "Seb, shoot him. Now."

The moment Glassier turned to face them, the sniper opened fire. Bullet after bullet tore gobbets of flesh from the man's body, reducing him to a bullet-ridden training dummy.

Silence, blessed silence.

The girl reached up and slapped Sebastian. "Where the fuck were you?!"

"They beat me up somewhat," was the answer, accompanied with a tiny shrug.

She frowned. "We never got the name of the employer."

"Sherlock knows."

"Truer words have never been spoken."

Walking over to the consulting detective's body, ignoring the countless of people gaping at her, at the carnage, she turned him on his back and slapped him a couple of times.

"Hey, pansy, wakey wakey," she snapped, as those dark eyes fluttered open.

Sherlock bolted upright, touched the blood on his face, and looked around. "Well, isn't this the ideal situation?"

"Yeah, the ideal situation to ask you who the fuck employed you to kill me."

"I want you to promise me something," he said, as he got up.

"What?" The girl was getting impatient. There were people to kill out there, scores to settle.

"Don't touch my friends. Don't tell them I'm alive."

"Hm. I do enjoy their stupid little lives. And I do suppose I owe you one," she admitted, grudgingly. "So okay. Now tell me what I want to hear."

"It's going to come as a little stun, but it's James. He hired me."

Ho-ly shit.

Never in her wildest dreams would the conclusion be her own fucking uncle. Harlequin snorted. "Huh. Thanks."

"A pleasure."

"See you around?"

"Highly possible. I'll be back in action soon enough."

She stuck out her hand, and he shook it, firmly. Then the consulting detective strode out of the hospital.

Sebastian nudged Harlequin. "Time to go and kick some ass again?"

"Hell yes." She looked at their audience. "Sorry for making a goddamn mess, but it was necessary."

Giving a little wave, she gripped her sniper's arm and walked out.