A/N I don't remember how to rate separate chapters (if that's still even possible). But, we all know where we are in SiB, so we know there will be violence. And Sherlock getting in touch with his sadistic side. This chapter was edited on 3/27/18 after a suggestion made by elbafo. Thank you for pointing this out!

The door creaked ominously when Sherlock slowly pushed it open and entered his living room.

An agent to his left was holding Mrs Hudson who immediately started to whimper when she noticed his arrival. Sherlock's eyes however, were drawn to the slumped over figure in the chair. Gun pointing at her head. Blood staining her shirt. Her head hanging down, making it impossible to determine the extent of damage that was done to her. Not that it mattered. They had drawn blood. They shouldn't have.

"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock!" Mrs Hudson whimpered in fear.

"Don't snivel, Mrs Hudson," he said as he walked further into the room, "It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet." His eyes lingered on Kyrie briefly before he raised his eyes in a stone cold glare.

"What a tender world that would be," he said, recognising the American he had encountered before, in Irene Adler's villa.

"Oh, please, sorry, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson whispered raising her hands up in a plea for help.

"I believe you have something that we want, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, until he stood right in front of Kyrie.

"Then why don't you ask for it," he suggested. He reached out his hand and gently placed his fingers under her chin, gingerly tilting up her head while at the same time positioning his fingers in such a way so he could check her pulse… a bit irregular, but otherwise still strong. He showed no outward sign of his inner turmoil, but he could feel his stomach turn at the sight of her face. Cuts and bruises marred her features, her lips were a bloody mess and apparently she had a broken nose. Her skin looked deathly pale and her eyes were closed with her eyelashes resting still against her skin, like the broken wings of a butterfly.

Mrs Hudson whimpered and cried softly, seeing what had been done to her.

"Oh, I've been asking that one," his American friend said, nodding at Mrs Hudson, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "She doesn't seem to know anything. Not even when we started asking… this one. But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock noticed the rip in Mrs Hudson's sweater, the bruises forming on her cheek. He took in every cut and bruise inflicted on Kyrie's face and the blood stains on the ring that man was wearing.

When Sherlock looked up to level his gaze, he was already contemplating the points he could inflict a maximum amount of pain without it being lethal.

"I believe I do," he growled softly before he recomposed himself and straightened himself up, standing ramrod straight. He clasped his hands behind his back again and regarded the American with a stony gaze.

"Oh, please, help," Mrs Hudson pleaded pitifully.

"First get rid of your boys," Sherlock demanded.

"Why?"

"I dislike being outnumbered," he said coldly, "It makes for too much stupid in the room."

"You two, go to the car," the American ordered his cronies, his eyes not losing contact with Sherlock.

"Then get into the car and drive away," Sherlock said, "Don't try to trick me, you know who I am, it doesn't work," he drawled and couldn't help but to stress the last K a bit.

The American and Sherlock kept glaring at each other, while the two 'guard dogs' obeyed their master and made themselves scarce.

"Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me," Sherlock commanded.

"So you can point a gun at me?" the American scoffed.

Sherlock simply spread his arms, "I'm unarmed."

"Mind if I check?"

"Oh, I insist," Sherlock replied and he kept his expression polite, almost pleasant.

Mrs Hudson was beside herself. "Don't do anything…" she pleaded but couldn't finish her sentence.

With slow measured steps, the American approached Sherlock. He briefly checked the insides of his coat fronts on either side. Sherlock rolled his eyes when he felt the American pat his back, because obviously that's where he was most likely to hide a weapon, between his shoulders where it was so easy to hide and get to a weapon, Sherlock thought sarcastically.

Then, as the man was still subjecting Sherlock to a search, Sherlock quickly reached inside his coat and grabbed the hidden canister he had nicked from Mrs Hudson's bucket. He whirled around, coat flinging around him, and sprayed the contents of the canister in the American's eyes. The man groaned in pain as it could hardly be comfortable when an aggressive cleaning solution was burning in your eyes. Sherlock gave the man a decisive head butt for good measure. That seemed to take care of that problem, at least for the time being.

Sherlock twirled the canister in his hands. "Moron!" he scoffed as he slammed the canister down on the small table.

With just two steps he reached Kyrie and knelt in front of her.

"Oh, thank you," Mrs Hudson whimpered over and over while Sherlock soothingly shushed her. "You're all right now, you're all right," though he wasn't exactly sure who he was saying it to.

"Come, Mrs Hudson, here, let me help you. There, let's get you seated on the couch. Now, I am going to call the police shortly, but first I need to check on her, all right?" he said as he guided Mrs Hudson to the couch.

"Yes, oh yes, of course," she said.

Sherlock went back to Kyrie, knelt down again and gently cupped her face with his hands, tilting it upwards. Her face was entirely too pale. Strands of hair were sticking to her face in blood, so he gently smoothed them away.

"Kyrie, can you hear me? Open your eyes for me, can you do that for me?" he pleaded in a soft voice. He gingerly stroked her cheek in comforting movements as he softly kept asking her to open her eyes.

"It's all right now, I'm here. I'm here."

His heart constricted painfully again when he saw her face contort in pain as she struggled to open her eyes. Her lashes fluttered softly against her cheek, then she gingerly blinked her eyes open and gazed at him with unfocused eyes. Sherlock swallowed a gasp. A soft sigh escaped her shredded lips as if she tried to say something.

"Shh, don't talk, don't... you'll be fine, I promise". He softly settled her head against his shoulder and carefully wrapped his arms around her as a crushing wave of relief washed through him. She was hurt, she would need time to heal, but she was alive. She wasn't lost to him, she was still there. He placed his left arm under her knees and made sure her head was still resting safely against his shoulder, before he raised himself up and carried her with him.

Mrs Hudson wanted to start her whimpering again when she looked at the still form he carried in his arms, but a stern look from him made her go quiet. He gently laid her down in the couch and his eyes searched Mrs Hudson's in a silent plea to stay with Kyrie.

When he stood up again, the soft smile dropped from his face. Cold silent outrage coursed through him as he turned around and none too gently grabbed the American and dragged him along, just to fling him in the exact same chair Kyrie had just sat on.

He found rope, he found industrial tape. He made sure the American wouldn't be able to do anything once he'd come to.

He then grabbed a piece of paper from the table and quickly scribbled a message on it. 'Crime in progress, please disturb.' Sherlock bounded down the stairs and secured the note under the brass knocker. He raced up the stairs again, positioned himself in the chair near the couch, so he could keep a vigilant eye on Mrs Hudson with her frayed nerves and Kyrie with her unfocused eyes.

Soon Sherlock heard a familiar set of footsteps bounding up the stairs. "What's going on?" John asked before he even entered the living room. He stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed the American propped up in the chair, his mouth taped shut with industrial tape.

"What the hell is happening?" John demanded to know as the American glared at him.

"Mrs Hudson and Kyrie have been attacked by an American," Sherlock said from his little corner. He held his phone to his ear with one hand and pointed the pistol at the American with his other hand. "I'm restoring balance to the universe," he remarked dryly.

Only then did John notice the visibly upset landlady sitting meekly in the couch, careful as not to accidentally bump against Kyrie who was lying very still.

"Oh. Mrs Hudson, my God, are you all right?" John started, until his eyes fell on Kyrie. "Holy Mary of… What the hell!" he cried out. "What the bloody hell have they done to you?" John looked very much appalled by the display of violence that met him.

He rushed to her side and pulled out his trusted little penlight from the inside of his pocket. John carefully lifted her eyelids and checked out the response of her pupils by flashing the penlight briefly into her eyes. Without disturbing her, he then gently prodded and inspected her head.

"Sherlock, she needs to get checked up in the hospital. Broken nose and, as far as I can tell, she's got a severe concussion. She'll have to stay overnight to make sure there's no internal haemorrhaging."

"On it," Sherlock simply said.

John got to his feet and quickly hugged Mrs Hudson to his side and after another look at Kyrie, he sent a glowering glare in the direction of the American. Mrs Hudson broke apart, "Oh, I'm just being so silly," she cried. "But just look at that they've done to our lovely girl!" John hugged the woman tightly.

Sherlock got up from the chair. "Downstairs," he said to John. "Take her downstairs and look after her." He didn't want her to stick around. Mrs Hudson had seen enough violence for the day, she did not have to see more.

John obeyed immediately and supported Mrs Hudson as he headed for the door.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" John asked as he walked up to where Sherlock was standing. "I expect so," Sherlock said impatiently, "Now go." Sherlock kept the gun trained at the criminal, while waiting for some police trainee to put Lestrade on the phone. It was difficult to keep all the anger inside at bay. How he would love to put a bullet in that offensive brain. But no, that would be much too easy, much too merciful and much too quick. He wanted the American to suffer.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock asked when he heard someone call his name on the other end of the line. "We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance. Oh, no no no no no, we're fine. Mostly fine. Except…" he paused and turned around to look at Kyrie who had her eyes open now and was regarding him with a tired bleary look.

"It's Kyrie," he finally admitted, "She's hurt. She err… got banged up pretty bad. A broken nose and John suspects a bad concussion. Needs to be checked. And the burglar err… he's got himself rather badly injured as well."

A sardonic smile tugged at his lips. "Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull, suspected punctured lung…" Sherlock turned to face the American, making sure he understood what was coming.

The American looked up at him and oh look, there it was, the expression Sherlock had been waiting for. Dread.

"He fell out of a window."

With those words Sherlock ended the call. He stared at the American intently, his hands were positively itching, but first he moved back over to Kyrie. She was on her side, her knees lightly bend as if she'd been trying to curl herself into a ball, but couldn't find the strength to pull it off. He found her looking up at him and he quickly knelt beside her, touching his fingers to her bruised face.

"Hey," he whispered softly and had no idea what to say to her. What to do, to make things right. "You're all right. And… we'll be okay. We'll… we'll be okay. Now, just rest, all right?" He leaned over her to place his lips near her ear, his breath tickling her skin. He clenched his eyes shut for a moment, he wanted to say something but… he had no words. In the end, he whispered just one. "Kyrie…"

He quickly got up, raised himself to his full height and approached his victim with measured steps.

"Now then, let's get started, shall we?" Sherlock said as he firmly grabbed the burglar and dragged him along.

"Oh, no need to look so afraid," he said deceptively. "You don't have to be afraid of falling, because you see, falling doesn't hurt at all." He hoisted up the American so he could look him squarely in the eyes. "The sudden stop however, now that might sting a little…"

And with those words Sherlock hurled the American at the window with such force, that the glass shattered violently, spreading thousands of tiny shards around him, falling through the air like stars shooting from the sky.

Sherlock leaned out of the window, right in time to see the American lend right on top of Mrs Hudson's bins. He smirked when he heard a grunt of pain tear from the man's throat. Then his smile dropped. It wasn't enough.

He turned around, saw Kyrie looking at him with hazy eyes. Seeing the damage done to her made a muscle twitch near his mouth and he got angry all over again.

"I don't think that was enough, do you?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. He then stalked off again. "Thought as much," he muttered as he bounded down the stairs.

"Oh, look," he said, taking in the results of his handiwork, "There is the fractured skull. And I do believe you have a broken rib or two… I just don't see any evidence of that punctured lung yet. Let's remedy that, shall we?"

Sherlock grabbed the American from the bins so he landed on the ground with a thud and a painful groan. He then dragged the American along for round two…

Sherlock was standing outside, his hands shoved deep into his pockets and he watched the ambulance drive off, sirens wailing. Lestrade was standing next to him. Bit of a perplexed look on his face. Then again, 'perplexed' seemed to be the natural state of the man's face anyway.

"And exactly how many times did he fall out of the window?" Lestraded asked him pointedly.

"It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector," Sherlock quipped, "I lost count." He sent Lestrade a meaningful look. Lestrade just shook his head and walked away, leaving it at that.

Now that the high of adrenaline was leaving his body after he had sated his need for a bit of painful revenge, an empty feeling settled inside of his stomach. Sherlock slowly turned around and walked to the back door entrance, leading straight into Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

Mrs Hudson was still upset, but seemed to be in better sorts as John had kept her company and had tended to her cuts and bruises.

"She'll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight," John started immediately as Sherlock was still busy wiping his feet. "She could stay in Kyrie's room for the night. We need to look after her."

Sherlock tensed at the suggestion.

"No," Mrs Hudson didn't seem happy with the suggestion either.

"Of course not," Sherlock said, "She's fine." He dove into Mrs Hudson's fridge while John still wouldn't let it go. "No, she's not. Look at her! She's got to take some time away from Baker Street."

Sherlock found a plate of mince pies, grabbed one and closed the door of the refrigerator by giving it a shove with his foot.

"She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor's orders."

"Don't be absurd!" Sherlock scoffed at the suggestion and took a bite from the pastry.

"She's in shock, for God's sake! And all over some bloody stupid camera –phone. Where is it anyway?"

"Safest place I know," Sherlock replied, his mouth full, and wiped away a few pastry crumbs near the corner of his mouth. He turned to look at Mrs Hudson with a fond smile.

Mrs Hudson suddenly reached inside her vest and rummaged around and fished out the phone and handed it to Sherlock.

"You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot!" She chuckled and buried her face in her hand. "I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry. Ooh," she whimpered as she cradled her forehead.

"Thank you," Sherlock said in a quiet manner as he pocketed the phone in his coat. "Shame on you, John Watson!" he said sounding stern, though there was humour in his voice as well. He quickly walked over to Mrs Hudson.

"Shame on me?" John asked, his brows arched in confusion.

"Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street?" Sherlock said with a scoff and he wrapped his arm around Mrs Hudson, gently pulling her to him in a quick hug. "England would fall!"

Mrs Hudson chuckled and briefly clasped his hand on her shoulder. John smiled at them and seemed appeased.

Upstairs in their apartment, home, John poured himself a drink. Sherlock walked to the small table while taking off his scarf and Belstaff coat. The room seemed… so much emptier now.
As if something was missing. Someone. He exhaled on a lingering breath.

"So, you are not going to the hospital and see Kyrie then?" John asked, taking note of the Belstaff coat resting on the back of the chair.

"Hardly any point in going there now," Sherlock replied.

"So, you're not going then?" John asked again.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock said softly. He hoped John wouldn't press the matter. How many months had it been? That time he had said something like… 'Why don't you go cry by their bedside? See what good it does them?' He still stood by that statement, mostly, but no longer entirely. Because, even though reason dictated that Kyrie would not benefit from him being there, he did feel a desire to be there. Not long of course, but, he wanted to see her, check on her, make sure she was… all right… comfortable. All so very silly. And useless. But… there it was. Sentiment.

"Mind if I tag along then? Tomorrow?" John asked. Sherlock remained silent for a while.

"Actually," he finally said. "I was thinking of going by myself. I won't be long."

"Oh," John said, "Err, all right. I can visit her later then. Sooo… Where is it then?"

"Where's what?" Sherlock asked, a bit distracted.

"The phone?"

"Ah… Where no one will look," he replied, picking up his violin.

"Whatever's on that phone is more than just pictures," John said as Sherlock adjusted one of the tuning pegs.

"Yes, it is," he agreed and he plucked the string to assess the tone.

"Whatever's on that phone is the reason why Kyrie is now in the hospital, with a severe concussion and a broken nose."

"I know," he agreed again, but softer.

"So, she's alive then," John asked him after a moment. "The woman, I mean. How are we feeling about that?"

At that exact same moment, the clock outside started tolling twelve. Sherlock looked outside for a bit.

"Happy New Year, John," Sherlock said.

"Do you think you'll be seeing her again?"

He turned around and pick up his bow, twiddled with it for a bit before he drew it across the strings. Soon the melody of 'Auld Lang Syne' echoed through the room, Sherlock's subtle cue that he would not be answering that question.

Long after they had retired for the night, long after all the lights in the apartment had been doused and the music had died, Sherlock was lying in bed. He was looking at a small item, dangling from his fingers on a delicate chain. A pendant. It turned around slowly, glistening in the moonlight that fell into his chamber through the window. It was a pear-shaped tanzanite, partially wrapped in a thin gold brim. The gold brim ended in a small curve around the chain at the top, while the rest of it gently hugged the tanzanite in a larger curve. Tiny diamonds were set in the gold, framing the gem, almost in a loving embrace.

Near the bed, a small jewellery box was carelessly tossed aside with the torn remnants of the gift paper scattered beside it.

As the pendant languidly swayed on the chain, Sherlock found himself haunted by his own words. "The fact that she's serious about him is clear from the fact that she's giving him a gift at all. That always suggests long-term hopes however forlorn…"

If those were really his thoughts on Christmas presents… then what did this necklace represent? What did the music paper in the leather map gilded with his initials represent?

It didn't help that, now that he was studying the damned pendant, he noticed that the delicate gold setting with diamond accents, kind of resembled an S if you looked closely.

"Caring is a disadvantage, Sherlock," his brother's words echoed in his mind.

Sherlock sniffed in irritation and he flipped up the pendant to catch it with his fist. He got up from bed, opened one of his dresser's drawers and flung the necklace inside.

He was not serious about anyone and he certainly did not have long-term hopes. Now that he had proven to himself that the pendant meant nothing, he could finally get back to sleep.