Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or anything affiliated with the legendary character.

A/N: Let me start by saying that this was the most difficult chapter to write. Not least because I purposely left it open until it became time to write it. I had three very different options on what direction to take this chapter, and wanted to see where the story went on its own. Most important was to stay true to the characters (as developed by the BBC show and in my two stories). I hope I did them justice.

We have reached the end, my friends. After this, there's only an epilogue.

Chapter 20: The Third Option

There was a gentle knock on the door and Irene raised her head.

"May I come in?" John's voice was low and heartfelt as it carried through the wood.

The brunette rose leisurely from the bed and opened the door without a word in reply. The doctor looked momentarily stunned at the willing cooperation before he recovered and stepped inside her safe haven. His hand was clenched in a weary fist by his side and he looked quite awkward as he lingered in the open doorway.

Irene saw the signs, but chose to ignore them as she sank bank onto the covers and faced him. She only hoped he wouldn't keep her waiting.

"Any news from Sherlock?" John asked, evidently stalling for whatever precious time there was. "Or Greg?"

"Nothing," she cooed and an unguarded sigh escaped past her lips before she could rein it in.

The blond man inclined his head and seemed to search for any words that might actually penetrate her strong defences. "I'm sure something will turn up soon."

"You sound like a dad."

The man clearly knew it was meant as a jibe, but still remarked, "I am one."

"Not mine. I meant that you've embraced the role effortlessly, John. Fatherhood suits you."

"Elizabeth makes it easy for us. Most of the time anyway."

The woman raised a slender eyebrow and gazed at him with clear poise. She had grown tired of waiting for whatever that remained unspoken between them. This was not the time to dance around the subject. "…What's on your mind?"

"What's on yours?" John countered quickly. His gentle eyes carried an apology as he continued, "I just want to know how you're dealing with all this, Irene. If there's anything I can do to help?"

"I can't ask anything of you. It would only endanger you."

The man tilted his head to the side and threw her a cautious glare. "You were willing to endanger Mary to help you find Lord Moran."

"That was different," Irene disagreed with bitterer aftertaste than intended. "I didn't know we were facing Godfrey then. Had I known for certain…" her voice trailed off and she knew the ghosts that plagued her were evident in the pained expression she could not hide.

John was silent for a couple of long, outdrawn seconds as he gazed at her. In the end, his compassion turned to sterner sentiments as he said, "You've decided how this will end. I can see it in your eyes. I've seen it before… in soldiers' eyes seconds before being shot and killed. Problem is; you're not them. There's no gun pointed at you, no certain end. You shouldn't pretend there is."

Irene sighed and pulled herself together. "I haven't given up hope yet. Sherlock talked me out of it."

"I'm glad that was possible."

"I know you trust him blindly, John... But my fear of Norton is stronger than my belief in Sherlock Holmes."

The short man shrugged meekly. "… Luckily for us, Sherlock doesn't need trust to perform miracles."

The woman inclined her head but her mouth remained shut. Disbelief and a lack of words kept her silent as she tried to maintain her fortress intact around her beating heart. From the piercing knowledge in John's eyes, she could tell she was fighting a losing battle. Shutting out the rest of the world would not be possible at this moment. She'd unwittingly crossed a threshold she couldn't step back over.

Sherlock's words of comfort and assurance had cracked her defences, and she worried for him now. The sentiment was unusual to her heart, yet familiar in so many ways in regard to the detective. Still, while a part of her needed to make sure he was safe, another part longed to disobey his request and seek shelter for herself. She was all but defenceless if she remained where she was. With her guard down, her heart in emotional disarray and no protection, she would be an easy prey for Godfrey Norton.

John eyed her as if able to read the thoughts that ran through her mind. He took a slow step closer to her seated frame and breathed, "Hey… This doesn't have to be the off-switch. None of this…"

His voice trailed off and Irene shrugged her eyebrows as she maintained the façade. "Do you mean with Sherlock or with Norton?"

He shrugged again. "I just wish you stopped viewing it as a defeat."

"Ah!" the brunette cooed and her strong voice hedged along the edges of dismay. Sentiment was at the heart of his friendly intervention. "So we're back to me and Sherlock."

"When this is all over, the two of you will have a lot to work through. But he wants that. Wants to live with you."'

Though she held his gaze firmly, she dared not speak. She dared not say a word because she feared what her own hope would make her say. Perhaps she wished it to be true, perhaps she wished it all to be a false dream from which she had to awaken. Defeat or no defeat, things had to change.

As she planned a sassy comment, the phone on the nightstand suddenly started to vibrate furiously. She reached for the ringing mobile and smirked at the caller ID.

"… Speak of the devil," she remarked and pressed the phone to her ear. "Found anything, Sherlock?"

The voice that met her was not the expected, vibrating tune of the Brit. "He didn't. But I found the clever detective."

Irene felt the hairs at the back of her neck stand to attention as the familiar tone filled her veins like poison. Her empty voice was unwavering as she called, "Godfrey?"

From the corner of her eye, she noticed John's head whip back in her direction. She felt the tension rise like a wall of mist to encompass them both. Together, they waited on baited breath for whatever would come next.

The criminal did not disappoint. "I think it's time we reached the finish line, don't you? Your boyfriend seems quite… eager to play."

"Text me the details. I'll come at once."

"With pleasure, my love."

Irene hung up the phone and rose from the bed in a flurry of motion. As she opened the door and stepped outside, she was closely followed by the blond man.

Like a shadow, he rushed after her and his questions echoed in the pale hallway, "What's going on? Where's Sherlock?! Please."

"You know what comes next. I have to go," the woman spoke as she shrugged on her leather jacket and red scarf.

Panic and worry had taken over the man who firmly shook his head and stood his ground. She thought he resembled something of a cornered wild dog, prepared to bare his teeth if it meant threatening the enemy. "Not alone, you don't."

The brunette glared up at the man in her path and pushed past him. "It's not up for debate. I don't have time for this. There's something I must do."

She stepped into the evening air and saw stars gleam down at her from their heavenly throne. The hour was already late, and she had much work to do.

"Irene, don't leave me behind like this!" the man pleaded as he ran down the stairs after all. "If Sherlock is in danger-"

"John!"

The two of them came to a halt by the motorcycle on the pavement. The doctor seemed beside himself with worry and his voice rose in the dark, despite the quiet neighborhood around them, "You don't have to do this alone! Whatever it is you're planning."

Irene straddled the bike and paused. She tiredly turned to face him head on. Weary of the never-ending night and the bottomless darkness that desired to consume her, she found herself weakened. It left her empty, and open to admit the truth, "You know, Mycroft believes I'll leave Sherlock to his own demise and flee the country. You believe I'll head first into danger and save him in the name of love. I know better."

John exhaled and the weight of the world seemed to balance on his shoulders. He shook his head once as he quietly asked, "Which is what?"

She threw him a sad smile and hoped he could see the apology written in her eyes despite the evening's dull glow. "Trust me… this is the only way things can proceed from here."

She didn't wait for another word as she put on the black helmet and sped off down the road on the motorcycle.

The punches rained down on Sherlock like a hailstorm from hell, each one feeling like a hammer blow to his face or torso. Though Norton's frame hadn't given it away, the man was evidently a skilled boxer with his fists. Sherlock had lost count of the blows as his mind swam in and out of focus. With hands tied in front of his body, Sherlock had little chance of defending himself from the onslaught and there was no use trying to block the punches. He winced as a blow to the guts brought him down to his knees.

Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, staining the concrete floor beneath him a ghostly red. Sherlock drew a raspy breath. The tight rope around his wrists cut into his skin, burning almost like acid. Sherlock knew it was futile to try and escape now. He'd allowed himself to get trapped, and now he had to suffer the consequences.

Despite the haze, Sherlock still remembered where he was. He'd been brought to the large storage space of a warehouse; an old, worn venue he recognized from the files on Norton. This had been the criminal's hideout for a while, and it was quite brilliant in its plain demeanor. It was a forgotten place in the western outskirts of London that drew no attention to itself. No one would suspect it was a criminal lair.

The scarce lamps up ahead threw a raw light upon the dirty area, crowded along the walls by craters and boxes - filled with stolen goods, no doubt. The shadows seemed to rule the room in eternal slumber beyond the reach of light.

"Up!" Norton growled like a mad dog. Dragging his feet with him, Sherlock slowly rose from the ground and swayed in place.

During his many years of crime solving, he had rarely been used as a pawn instead of being the main player. He'd been circled by mighty predators before, people who wrongly assumed their superiority over him. None had been right thus far. Sherlock's gaze lingered lazily on Norton as the younger man stalked around the detective and the armed guards standing as if to make out the ropes of a makeshift boxing ring.

Despite the other man's strength and the burning injuries on his face, Sherlock didn't feel very frightened. Something about Godfrey Norton simply didn't make the man a threat. Norton was, after all, not Jim Moriarty. He didn't burn as bright on the starry skies, and his demise would be short-lived and soon forgotten. Sherlock was confident he saw the light at the end of the tunnel ahead, but not the same light Norton intended for him. Still, he played the part as they all waited.

Godfrey stopped before his victim and turned towards the closed iron gates at the edge of the hall. Norton was clad in another glen plaid suit and a smart bow-tie, but had removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeve for his little 'excercise'. Except for the added splash of color on his knuckles, Norton wore fresh cologne and had even trimmed his blond beard for the occasion. All in all, the signs hinted at vanity and a desire to appear at his best for his intended prize. They were all expecting the arrival of Irene, but none more so than Godfrey himself.

Through his pain, Sherlock managed to roll his eyes at the desperate image. The movement stung his right eyebrow and he realized it was probably split wide open, which could help explain the warmth that seemed to flow down his right cheek.

Once more, Sherlock let his gaze wander the room. Standing in a circle around them were four guards dressed to the teeth in combat gear. Their rifles were raised to their faces and all of them had their weapons fixed on Sherlock. The mercenaries were merely awaiting the inevitable killing order. Though the four of them were the only ones he could see, Sherlock was well aware of the others hidden in the shadows. Sherlock was certain there was a hanging steel ramp that ran the length of the room high up above. He couldn't see it due to the darkness beyond the lamps and the blood in his eyes, but every now and again he could hear footsteps echo against metal from up ahead. More footmen awaiting orders of death and destruction.

Sherlock dragged his gaze back to Norton. "How is the stamp collection going? Still missing that one valuable 'Copernicus' from… 1955, is it?"

Godfrey's low chuckle echoed in the huge space as he inspected his own split knuckles. At length, he met Sherlock's gaze. "I would say I'm surprised you had noticed… but you are Sherlock Holmes. I would have been more surprised if you hadn't... Could you fill this simpler mind in on how you did it?"

"Please," Sherlock huffed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "It's right before your eyes. Anyone can see it. For starters, you can evidently see the slight indent of stamp tongs in your chest pocket. Matejko's stamp was mentioned in The Telegraph last Thursday, any such mention is surely enough to remind you of what you do not have, no? Sets the mind ablaze... Impossible to miss."

"Clever."

The detective hummed, "So I'm told."

Norton looked at his captive with barely veiled intrigue. "Anything else to deduce about me while we wait?"

"Where to begin? You're an orphan. Born in New Jersey. You've tried to lose the accent, but clearly it lingers in the way you say the letter 'E'. Your fists suggest a past in boxing, probably as a troubled youth. Your posture, however, shows that you've refined your tactics through military training before you joined CIA. The Navy. You prefer brute strength because you feel you lack the IQ for any other approach. Despite your stern exterior, your façade doesn't fool me... You're not the brute your men think you are. If you were, you wouldn't have married Irene... That was out of love, at least in part. You're just like the others… Weak. Afraid…" He trailed off and exhaled in amusement. He concluded by slowly mimicking words he had heard months before, by one of Norton's first victims. "…It's human to be afraid."

Godfrey snorted and all intrigue was washed from his face in a waterfall of fury. This time, Sherlock saw the punch coming, but still did not flinch away. The punch connected with his left cheek and it felt like a lightning strike. He tumbled to the ground as pain invaded his head, pulsating through him like a warning flare. He could taste iron in his mouth and spat blood onto the floor.

From somewhere above him, Sherlock heard a cold whisper, "I'm not afraid."

The detective feigned being offended as he glanced up at the two images of Norton that hovered above him. "No more compliment?"

Norton sidestepped the game invitation as he casually requested, "Tell me about Irene... What have you deduced about her?"

Sherlock inhaled. He'd expected the question, of course, but even as it slapped him across the jaw, he hesitated. The awkward pause clearly did not go unnoticed as Norton grabbed hold of Sherlock and violently pulled him up from the ground. Sherlock barely had a chance of finding his footing and nausea filled his mind from the sudden movement.

"Well?" Norton growled.

"…She is an intricate woman to deduce," Sherlock admitted once his stomach settled. "It took me quite a while to read her. I'm not certain I will ever get a full grasp of her. Irene's protective walls are old and worn. She's worn them high since the passing of her parents. She never talks about her youth or the past, which suggests unpleasant memories. No trauma per say, but no joy either. She evidently uses sex and intelligence as her tools, and they've been her primary weapons since her teenage years... Her moral compass is somewhat askew, but who am I to judge?"

"And what of her selfishness?"

Sherlock tensed and failed to hide his reaction behind a facade. He set his jaw before he slowly asked, "Why don't you reveal the conclusion you undoubtedly desire to hear?"

"No fun playing anymore?" Godfrey teased. Back to vain pride, the man glowed with content. "Very well. My ex-wife… She knows how to touch others hearts with warmth and kindness… but none dwell within her own icy heart. The rest of the world is dead to Irene. Her walls, as you called them, have created a woman who will always put her own well-being first. Everyone else will always come second."

Sherlock raised his chin as the other man stepped right into his personal face, letting his face linger mere inches away. He could read Norton's wide eyes as plain as a newspaper, and couldn't help but say his revelations aloud, "You don't believe she'll come to my rescue... You must have spoken to my brother."

"When given a fresh window of opportunity?" Humor danced in Norton's eyes and he slowly shook his head. He leaned closer as he whispered into Sherlock's ear, "… I believe she's already long gone, Mr Holmes. You'll never see her again... At least not alive."

Sherlock frowned as he glanced at the five assassins that kept the circle intact around them. "Then you set this up to prove a point to me. You wanted to open my eyes before you go in pursuit of her?"

Norton shrugged as he withdrew a handkerchief from one of his pockets and proceeded to wipe the blood from his knuckles and shirt collar. "It seemed only fair."

"For a man who claims to detest games, this has been one game after another since the start."

"I adapt to circumstances, Mr Holmes," Norton proudly stated. "And Irene deserved nothing less than the full fanfar."

"Indeed…" Sherlock acquiesced in a low growl. He inhaled and smiled broadly at his captor. "Oh, before I forget! There was another teeny, tiny thing I've deduced about you... Would you like to hear it?"

"Go on."

"Despite your attempts to pretend otherwise, you evidently didn't collaborate with Moriarty much. I doubt Jim would stoop to your level for too long before being bored out of his socks. But you are evidently influenced by his methods, like a child imitating an older brother. This suggests you have a desire for refinement. A talent you'll never possess, I'm afraid... My point is this: Moriarty preferred hired guns, too. Especially out of sight. You're not as particular about who you choose for the job, I gather."

Norton ran a hand across his short beard as he pondered the detective's words. Hesitance flashed by in his vibrant eyes as he asked, "... No?"

"Moriarty knew every single one of his employees. You don't," Sherlock explained with a pointed glare. It was his turn to enjoy the spotlight where he belonged, and he milked the seconds for all their worth. "There are a few problems with hired help… not least with their loyalty. But the problem I want to shed light on is far simpler. If you're not particular about your choices, how can you be sure the right person is hiding behind the barrel of a rifle? It's impossible to know for certain when you can't see their faces, isn't it?"

He'd barely finished his sentence as one of the five guards, a woman with blonde hair, broke formation and fired her semi-automatic on the other mercenaries. As the loud thunder of the gun erupted and filled the area, Norton ducked behind the detective with wide, surprised eyes that betrayed his nature. The other assassins barely had time to flinch as the bullets pierced their bodies with lethal accuracy and soon all of them lay dead and discarded on the dirty floor.

As the burnt scent settled in the air and silence once more reigned in the shadows, the blonde discarded her semi-automatic. It clattered loudly as it hit the floor and signaled the brief victory. Sherlock felt a firm hand on his shoulder as something small pressed against his temple at the same time.

The men watched as the woman threw away the blonde wig and whipped around to face them. Irene's strong, angled face was tense and fierce as she glared across the divide at them. She raised her hand and the small Ruger SP101 gleamed beneath the lamps as she pointed it square at her ex-husband.

Her pale, sapphire eyes met Sherlock's briefly, and the latter could not contain his proud nod.

Sherlock knew there was a gun pressed to his own head and that they'd simply entered another standstill. One in which the tables had turned and all bets were off. Anything could happen. Not even the henchmen up above acted despite the sudden change. Irene and Godfrey's weapons stood rival and tense in the air, like two cobras prepared to strike. Not a sound echoed in the vast room as all stood so still that time itself seemed to have stopped. The gentle sound of heavy, erratic breathing was the only noise to slowly rise in the deep.

"That was quite an entry," Godfrey breathed as he recovered and shoved his own gun harder against Sherlock's temple. The metal against his skin was unpleasent and the rough touch stung his fresh wounds, yet the curly-haired man kept his pose. The grip around his shoulder had tightened considerably and gave away Norton's displeasure of the recent turn of events.

Sherlock could practically feel the tension raise between the two divorcees. It was as if they all balanced at the pinnacle, and everything would be determined by which way from the top they fell. Any movement could cause a ripple effect with numerous, unforeseeable repercussions that could not be undone. Sherlock once more tried to tug his hands lose from the rope, but he was too weak. Any drastic attempts on his part would only put Irene in more danger, and Sherlock forced himself to be still.

Irene smirked as she playfully cooed, "A girl does what she must to get ahead."

Sherlock grinned slightly as Norton countered, "...Not bad."

"If you thought that was impressive, wait until you hear what I intend to do with your evidence," Irene breathed and shifted her grip on her weapon as she saw her ex-husband's face stiffen. Her thin, red lips spread into a wider grin as she continued, "I know you, remember? I know you would never go anywhere without being certain your evidence is near at hand. Before I came here, I did a little recon…"

Irene parked the motorcycle outside the familiar, black front door and removed her helmet without further ado. She knew time was of the essence as she ran for the door of her former home. She unlocked it hastily and flew inside alike a whirlwind and up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

As she sped up the stairs she heard the surprised voice of Mrs Hudson from below, "Irene? Is that you, Irene? Heavens me, what's going on here?"

The brunette glanced back as the elder woman joined her in Sherlock's flat. Mrs Hudson's gaze sparkled with worry as she frowned up at the younger woman.

Irene didn't bother with a white lie as she spoke the truth, "Sherlock's been kidnapped. By my ex-husband."

"… Oh my," the elder woman managed as she took a step forward. She wrung her hands and seemed at once taken by concern for the man she practically called son. "Why are you here? Is there something I can do to help?"

"I've got it handled, Martha," Irene reassured with a sharp nod. "We knew there was a risk this would happen. We have a plan. Sherlock hid something for me in his flat that I can use to infiltrate my ex-husband's league."

Mrs Hudson jumped into action at once as she flew into the kitchen and checked between the dirty pans and cups. "Where, dear? It's a big flat… It'll take ages to search for whatever it is."

The brunette grinned at the woman's devotion but cleared her head from such affection. Instead she focused on the plan as she stepped through the living room. "I know where it is."

"Oh? Where?" the landlady asked as she edged closer.

"Where he hid my camera phone from me a long time ago." Irene knelt by the leather armchair and dug her hand down between the black cushions. The chair itself smelled of Sherlock. Irene's hand wrapped itself around a few items and she pulled them out to look at them in the light of day.

"Oh!" Mrs Hudson's amused breath nearly discarded her worry. "Thank Heavens the two of you have similar minds. Is... is that a… wig? And... explosives?"

The woman nodded as she gazed down at the long, blonde tresses, the C4 and the small detonator. "It is."

"How is a wig going to help our Sherlock?" the landlady blurted out without thinking.

Irene merely grinned in reply. She stepped back towards the stairs but Mrs Hudson reached out for her forearm. The older woman met Irene's gaze with a tender smile and the kindness almost knocked Irene off-course.

"Bring him back to us. And take care of yourself, Irene," Martha said. She gave the younger woman a quick peck on the cheek and an encouraging wink to send her off. It was the best encouragement Irene could have been given and she inclined her head in silent gratitude. She offered a small peck on Mrs Hudson's cheek in return and then set her plan in motion.

As Irene exited the house mere seconds later, she withdrew her phone and re-read the address Godfrey had sent her. Her grip tightened around her phone as she hesitated on the sidewalk. Plan or no plan, there were some things that needed to be done tonight.

The wind blew strong and resilient as she steered the motorcycle towards the target. Thankfully, she had the cover of darkness to protect her as she came close. She stopped out of earshot and crept closer on silent feet, leaving her vehicle for another day. She crouched low behind a rock as she surveyed the area ahead of her. To her left was a vast, seemingly forgotten warehouse. Light pried its way out from beneath the closed gates and at once Irene knew that Sherlock was kept within.

Straight ahead, inside an adjacent building, Irene thought she could make out the shadows of an office of some sort.

Two guards kept watch outside the steel gates to the warehouse and one stood idle watch on the step that led up to the office. They'd been placed there at the precipice to watch the entrance to hell, to guide lone travelers into the depths of Hades' abyss.

Irene pulled out her gun and tightened the silencer she had 'borrowed' from Mary before she pointed the weapon at her targets. Without wasting any bullets, she took out the three of them without trouble. She rushed across the grass and over to the closest guard. Irene removed the dead woman's west and rifle as she kept watch of her surroundings. She quickly threw her own jacket away into the shadows and replaced it with the stolen outfit from her victim.

She crept towards the door to the office building and fired another bullet at the lock. She managed to kick the door in and stepped inside the belly of the beast.

Irene only needed a single glance to feel assured her gut instinct had been right this time. She rushed through the room and left no file nor book untouched as she searched for the wanted items. There had to be a reason why Godfrey had chosen this particular spot. The room lay in chaos when she at last found her way to search behind the book case. There, at the back-alley of the world, she found what she had searched for.

"… I found the vault in the adjacent building," Irene paused to read the expressions to her news.

Norton's face immediately plummeted like a loose rock from a cliff. It was as if someone had pulled the rug out from under him and he could see the floor approach his falling face.

"I charged it with explosives before joining the fun," Irene clarified and waved the small remote device in her left hand. "Release Sherlock, or see all you've worked for destroyed."

Godfrey recovered seamlessly. "What makes you think I don't have copies?"

"But you don't," Irene cooed. "Hubris is a funny, little thing… It makes us act foolishly, because we think we have already won. You have no copies, because the information you have would be useless if you did. Besides, you've always gotten too carried away in your schemes, rarely thinking about the consequences. It seems you haven't learnt your lesson yet..."

"If you believe I haven't won, you haven't been paying much attention," Norton pointed out with a playful voice that carried secrets and mirth. "Now… Give me that device, or see your lover's brains splattered on the floor."

"You plan to shoot him either way," Irene pointed out stiffly and made no inclination to lower her gun.

"Perhaps."

"You've tried to kill him twice already. You've tried to have him run over… and ambushed in his flat. You've even tried to beat him to a bloody pulp tonight. You've continuously failed."

Norton shifted his grip on his captive's shoulder. "… Thanks to you I have."

"He's of no importance to you, Godfrey. He doesn't need to die."

"Collateral damage, dear," Norton shrugged and seemed to regain some momentum. "Now, hand me the device."

Irene met Sherlock's gaze and he saw her determination shine bright despite the meek lights. He didn't say anything despite the situation, but knew she could see the same emotion in his gaze as she spoke in an impassive voice, "No."

"Do you see that, Mr Holmes?" Godfrey asked as intrigue and humor returned to his own merry tune. Sherlock stumbled as the man tugged on his shoulder and Sherlock glanced sideways at the scorned man. "Selfishness. She can save you… but instead she would rather save herself from being publicly destroyed. She'd rather destroy evidence than stop a bullet intended for someone she loves."

"… No," Irene smiled sadly as she held the detective's gaze. She lowered her gun momentarily but only to raise it and point it to her own temple. Sherlock flinched but the hand on his shoulder kept him rooted in place. He felt his heart rate increase but listened as his mind tried to calm him. Her eyes, once more cold and focused on business, turned back to her ex-husband, "If you shoot him… I shoot myself."

Godfrey, too, seemed momentarily stunned, but quickly found his voice, "… Shoot yourself and I am guaranteed to shoot him. The only winner tonight will be me."

Irene lowered her gun and her features darkened. "… You're right, Godfrey. There's only one winner tonight. What is that, Sherlock?"

"... Death," he snarled in an oddly restrained voice that didn't seem to belong to him. Sherlock wasn't a player in this game, but knew the plan he and Irene had made before-hand was not being followed as per his instructions. He tried to convey his dismay now, hoping she would step back from the ledge and see sense once more. He trusted in her, but he did not trust in the look she threw him now. Her eyes were cold and sad, reaching across the divide to speak words to him that had never been uttered aloud. Sherlock shook his head once. He refused to do it this way.

Irene smiled meekly and something shifted in her cobalt eyes as she raised her gun and aimed it at her ex-husband once more. "Just so…"

Sherlock gritted his teeth at the incomprehensible shift and felt Norton's gaze fall to his profile. Norton practically chortled as he said, "Look, the thought of your death upsets your boyfriend. How adorable his affection is! How unexpected! Yet, perhaps I shouldn't be so surprise. I fell for your lies once, too."

Irene ignored the words as she took one step closer and coldly said, "The deal is off, Godfrey."

"I haven't lost yet, Irene," the man countered bitterly.

"You're missing the point, Mr Norton," Sherlock breathed as he eyed the woman closely and saw the truth in her gaze. "She means that in less than five minutes you'll be surrounded. MI6 and my brother send their love. With all the evidence destroyed, it's over. They'll take you and your league down and that will be the end of this game."

Though the criminal seemed somewhat taken aback by the news, it didn't unsettle him as the detective had expected. Instead Norton seemed to shrug off the implication and a faint smirk spread on his lips. The reaction seemed incomprehensible to Sherlock as he tried to understand the ease with which the man welcomed his surrender. "That's still not losing, Mr Holmes..."

Sherlock read the man's expression and the revelation suddenly painted a colorful picture inside his head. Fear filled his bloodstream and Sherlock raised his gaze to meet the woman's on the other side of the deep abyss. He could see her determination strengthen as she squared her shoulders and considered the unspoken proposal.

Beforehand, the two of them had agreed there were two options out of this mess: One in which Norton's evidence was destroyed and no one died, and one in which everyone died. Despite this, Sherlock could see she strayed closer and closer to a third option. They hadn't discussed that solution, and frankly: Sherlock hadn't even considered it as a valid option.

What scared him more, however, was another realization that hit him across the head. Norton's lifeline. Mycroft had tried to warn Sherlock, but he hadn't expected Norton be actually be this desperate and mad when it all came down to it. It must have been his plan all along, after all. Godfrey Norton had never intended to make it out of this situation alive.

Before Sherlock had a second to warn Irene, Godfrey set his last plan in motion. In swift, deliberate movements, he once more pressed the gun firmly against Sherlock's temple and pulled back on the trigger.

The shot echoed through the shadows. Blood sprayed the right side of Sherlock's face and body as the bullet pierced Norton's head. The man's body violently flinched backwards and Sherlock felt the man's grip roll off of him like a gentle stream. Norton fell without a sound and hit the floor in a graceless heap of body parts. Norton's wide eyes were lifeless as blood trickled out from the small hole at the center of his forehead.

Sherlock's heart beat like a thunderstorm as he swirled around to face Irene. Fear tore at his every fiber and he knew time was scarce. "Irene-"

"I know," she breathed wearily and dropped her gun to the ground.

"'No, you don't!" Sherlock stressed as his brother's warning flared like a warning flag inside his mind palace.

"... What would happen if anyone was to take down Norton?"

"They'd have to die, too."

Norton's plan had always been to activate the special clause in his agreement with the British government and bring either Sherlock or Irene with him in his fall from grace. As long as the evidence wasn't secured or destroyed, there was no way to guarantee Norton's fail-safe wouldn't be set in motion. Norton's ultimatum had to be followed. Death, it seemed, had been everybody's solution to the mayhem, except Sherlock's plan.

Sherlock threw himself forward in a desperate attempt to prevent the final effect. He couldn't lose Irene this way, not this easily. This wasn't how they'd planned it, this wasn't how it was supposed to end. His reaction came too late, however.

A second, lone shot echoed through the storage space and it was Irene's time to stagger back a step. The detective faltered as he saw her stunned jaw fall open in silence. Everything else faded away as he reached out to her, his trembling, tied-up hands holding onto her as he felt for an exit wound on her back.

"No exit wound... " he muttered to himself as he felt her hands grab his suit jacket and they swayed together. "Fall backwards…"

He helped lower her body to the floor as careful as he could not to jolt the bullet. He gazed down at her eyes slowly losing themselves to the strong grip of shock. He glanced down to inspect the bloody wound on her chest - mere inches from her heart - and only needed a quick, surveying gaze to know the truth. His eyes closed tight and he drew a trembling breath in an attempt to pull himself together and away from the edge. This wasn't simple surgery.

Irene's mouth fell open as she gasped for air and the raspy sound pulled the man back to reality. Her strained breathing spoke of shock and a punctured lung. Her eyes danced with the knowledge as the blue pools slowly clouded over with pain. Her eyelids fluttered and she managed a strangled whisper, "T-this… is just l-losing."

Sherlock shook his head as he held onto her tighter and applied pressure to the wound. "No, no, Irene. Look at me. Look at me. This is not losing."

Her shaking hand pressed the remote device into his shoulder and he took it from her. Her meek smile wavered as she breathed, "… D-do it."

Sherlock needed no further order as he pushed the button and heard the explosion outside. Everything was silent for half a minute, and then all hell broke lose. As Sherlock tried to help Irene, he heard plenty of weapons go off through the air as the two sides combated each other; the government against Norton's remaining mercenaries. At last, the spell had been broken and MI6 could do their proper work and bring down the criminal league. All could end well now that the evidence was destroyed and the deal was torn to pieces. Everything would end well, except for the one sacrifice.

Sherlock didn't care about any of the mayhem around him, but could see relief wash over Irene's features as her hand clung to his neck. Her wide eyes traveled across his bruised and battered face as if trying to memorize him a final time. Sherlock shook his head at the implied reason for her action and pressed down harder on her wound. The blood had seeped through her clothes long ago and his hands and the rope around his wrists bathed in a pool of the thick liquid. He felt utterly useless as his efforts made no difference and he could see her skin turn paler by the second.

He mer her gaze and searched for anything to say. He couldn't think of a single word that wasn't a lie when it concerned her condition or the future. And he didn't have a single word to express the emotions that clouded his heart and brought stinging tears to his eyes. Sherlock's own shock had taken the upper-hand and his mind could not calm him this time. Raw emotions threatened to tear him apart and he shut out the rest of the world as he shifted closer to the one woman he had come to care for.

He knew why she had made the choice, why she had opted to sacrifice herself. When Norton had chosen to act, she had done the only thing she could to save him, fearless of the repercussions. Sherlock wondered if she had even been aware of making a choice, or if it had been pure instinct. Sherlock knew he would have considered doing the same if their roles were reversed. Yet, somehow, in a cruel twist of fate, he once more found himself huddling over Irene seemingly rushing towards death's cold and final embrace.

"Irene, I…I..." his voice failed him and he swallowed past the bile that rose up in his throat and felt like barbed wire.

A single drop of red trickled from the corner of her mouth as Irene coughed. Her brows furrowed briefly before she managed a slight smile. He knew he lacked words, but evidently he needed none. She whispered, "… I know... Me, too."

Her hand reached up to cup his bloodied cheek but barely rested against his skin a second, before it fell to her side and remained still.

The life in her eyes slowly faded and her body stopped twitching in pain. Irene lay motionless in Sherlock's arms as she gazed into infinity and beyond. Irene Adler was dead.

To be concluded!