A/N: Thank you so much to everyone for your incredible support so far for this series, and also for your incredible patience! I had hit a wall a week or so ago from some negativity but I was rallied back to strength from your lovely reviews and of course, lots of tumblr love. Thank you for encouraging me to press on and to keep writing because you're right, it does make me happy. So write on, I will. Let's finish this damn multi-chapter! :) x

A special shout-out to Arcoiris, who has been just the loveliest. I'd respond to you privately but you don't have a FF account. Nevertheless, thank you for your patience and for re-reading some of my work! I'm incredibly touched. Thank you so much! x

Chapter 21

It felt like an incredibly intense state of drowning. It was not as though Sherlock had drowned before but there was this terrible sense of enveloping blackness. Even in his unconsciousness, his mind fought to pry himself out of it. He could breathe, but it was not helping him emerge. His brain shouted out commands to move, but none of his limbs responded. He tried to get his eyelids to open, but they were sealed shut. Although Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before he would get out of it, he did not enjoy this current state of not being.

When the weight finally began to lift, he fought to gather himself again. This was a pleasing, albeit painful, challenge for that prized mind of his. He had to consciously control the pain, fight the heaviness in his head and assemble his thoughts once more. Was not the brain the muscle? It was the command centre that directed his every step. So it was only a matter of working on the mind, and everything else would kick into motion.

Her voice was muffled at first. Again, it was as though he had been submerged in deep water. It took a while but eventually, the first muscles that responded were those in his eyelids. Slowly, but surely, they lifted like heavy windowpanes. The outline of her shape was but a distorted array of colours. There was the large mass of coral pink that was her robe, with the paler splashes of beige, which were her flesh. Eventually, he made out the shape of her head. The dark brown area he could see was most likely her hair. Very slowly, other details of her body and the room began to emerge. He could see the coloured spots on her fingers, her manicure, as she gesticulated wildly, talking on the phone. Then, the overall shape of the room began to swim into view. He could see the bed before him, the settee to his left and to his amusement, the eyes of the portrait he had coveted staring down at him blankly.

There was the sound of a man groaning. It was soft but laboured, and the man seemed out of breath. It was only then that Sherlock realised the sound came from his own throat as his body fought its way into consciousness. It was also then that Evelyn realised her detective had stirred.

"What good timing," she said, setting her phone down, "I was just finished with my clients, I'm sure you know about them…"

Evelyn got up from her seat and strolled to where the detective was. He had been placed in the centre of her room, sitting awkwardly in her dressing table chair. His hands were tied behind him while his upper torso was tied to the rich mahogany back of her chair. Even his feet were bound tight, restricting any possibility of standing, much less a daring escape.

"A bit juvenile, don't you think? Trying to spike my drink?" she remarked with a mocking lilt in her voice.
"Not if you're dealing with an impulsive teenager, no…" he answered, grimacing from all the pain his body was awakening to.
"A teenager…" she said with laugh, "Maybe, but at least I'm no fool."
"I'll give you that," he replied a little too easily. "So, was it an antidote? Some 'spitting-it-back-in-your-glass' technique I don't know about? That can be done with beer bottles, I know…"

She laughed, interrupting his mini deduction of how she had escaped being drugged. Obviously it did not matter how she had done it, he was only relieved she had. Out of all the gambles the Holmes' brothers had to make, this was the largest one, and it had paid off.

"It's just a matter of popping pills and knowing which one to take," she answered casually. "I still can't believe how simple you are. Maybe I shouldn't be so fond of you after all."
"Not a problem," he remarked, hissing slightly from the throbbing pain in his skull, "I'd rather you weren't so fond."
"Oh, but I like you…" Evelyn whispered, staring at him with a smirk, "I can't help it, but I do."

There was no need to pretend now, no need to pretend that he was going to even tolerate her. Granted, she may have had a brilliant mind to begin with and was an intriguing conversational partner, but Sherlock did not have to pretend to want to have anything to do with her now. His eyes were hard as he glared at her, grateful that his vision had recovered enough for him to do so.

"It must hurt…" she whispered, placing a hand gently on his cheek. Evelyn could feel the rough streak of dried blood that had trickled down from when she had struck him on the head. It felt like a river of rust beneath her smooth palm.

The nearness of her face to his repulsed him, and he was not afraid to show it. When he felt her hand on his cheek it automatically made his skin jump. Evelyn felt the jolt from his negative reaction to her and it incensed her. As it stood, his deceitful affections had been insult enough. Now, to witness his true aversion towards her was infuriating.

"Shh…be gentle or you'll hurt yourself," she whispered, tenderly kissing him on the side of his face.

Sherlock shut his eyes and turned away as she continued to kiss him, not minding the dried blood on his face or the sweat on his brow. He flinched slightly when her lips grazed over a rather horrid bruise on his eyebrow bone. That was probably from when he had collapsed and hit his head on the floor.

"Yes, that one looks rather bad," she murmured, tracing a finger lightly over the swollen skin streaked with purple and grey. "I'll get that sorted. Wait here for me, and don't move." She smirked at her own words and sauntered out of the room.

When she returned, she had a first aid kit in her hand. Evelyn pulled up a decorative stool in her room so as to place the kit beside the detective. After opening it, she took a small tub of ointment out meant to help with the inflammation on his bruise.

"I'll take care of you, don't worry," she whispered.

Carefully, she lowered herself onto his lap, straddling him as her two feet hooked themselves on the bottom ledges between the legs of his chair. She stroked his cheek once more, ignoring his flinch of disgust at her touch.

"I'll be gentle, promise," she murmured as she dabbed the cold ointment gently around his bruise.

The care she took was delicate and almost loving. Her fingers gently circled the bruised area, taking care not to apply too much pressure as to hurt him. There was an obsessive look in her eyes as she continued to tend to him. After soothing the bruise, she proceeded to clean up the blood from the wound at the back of his head. Then, she wiped his face clean of any trace of blood. When she was done, she got off his lap and smiled, satisfied, at her handiwork.

"There, much better," she said, before leaning in to pop a kiss on his reluctant lips.

When she pulled back, her eyes were wide with anger. She had gotten accustomed to his willing mouth that moved with hers. His cold, unmoving lips now sent a stroke of madness through her. Incensed, she tried again, plunging herself into him and pressing hard against his mouth. Again, it felt like kissing a sculpture of stone. There was no reciprocation. His lips did not part, she could not feel his breath and there was no movement. Once again, she jerked back, staring down at him. Her eyes of fire were met with his icy ones.

Without a word, Evelyn placed the tub of ointment carefully into the first aid box and lowered its cover carefully. She then clicked it shut and picked it up. With the box in her hand, she looked up at the detective who now just stared blankly ahead, not bothering with her in any way. To her, Sherlock seemed aggravatingly calm, as though he was content to just sit there and wait forever.

A loud bang resonated inside Sherlock's skull as Evelyn swung the box firmly across his face. The hard edges of the plastic box were slammed against his cheek, sending a wave of pain through his cheekbone and temple. In the same manner, Evelyn swung the box once more, slamming him on the other side of his face. Sherlock's head swerved involuntarily, following the path of her force.

When she was done, she stood quietly in front of him, calmly observing the new injuries that formed on his face. She could see new little streaks of purple paint themselves from beneath his skin. There was a cut forming on one of his cheekbones and she had split his bottom lip. She watched in amusement as he grimaced from the searing pain that shot through his temple. The detective bit his lip instinctively to stave off the pain, only to realise it was bleeding and that he was in fact, aggravating the ruby-coloured gash on his lip.

"You poor thing," said Evelyn with a sympathetic click of her tongue. She moved towards him and, with her bare thumb, rubbed the blood that was trickling down his chin. "My poor, poor Sherlock…why would anyone want to hurt you?"

Sherlock knew that for as long as she remained here with him, he was buying valuable time for the plan to work. Yet, he could not help but want to escape her rather unnerving presence. With a smile on her face, she opened the first aid box once more and began to tend to his wounds again. This time, she got some cotton swabs and dabbed a little antiseptic on it. Evelyn resumed her position on his lap and began delicately cleaning up the scratches on his face, being careful not to touch the bruised skin around them.

Each time the damp cotton touched his wound, he hissed quietly from the way it stung. The one on his lip, in particular, quite nearly choked a tear out of him.

"Shh, that one's a nasty one, I know," she said soothingly, gently pressing the cotton swab onto his lip so as to stop the bleeding. "This will hurt a bit but I have to stop the bleeding…"
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, unable to contain himself.
"Doing what?" she asked, keeping the pressure on his wound.
"This." he repeated.
"Like I said, I can't help but be fond of you." she replied coolly.

Evelyn flung the bloodstained cotton swab away and picked a fresh one up to clean the cut on his lip once more. It still bled slightly but it was a lot more under control now.

"Haven't you any work to do? Instead of playing silly games?" he said, trying desperately to move his mouth away from her determined hands.
"Hold still, you silly thing," she remarked, smiling and ignoring him, "We don't talk business when we play."
"Play?" the detective repeated softly.

His dropped his head and laughed quietly to himself.

"So this is what happens when you take candy away from a child," he said raising his eyes to look hard at her. "It throws a tantrum."

Evelyn smirked as she continued to clean his wounds, ignoring the fact that he was fidgeting so as to avoid her hands that touched him.

"Oh, Sherlock," she murmured, planting a kiss on his forehead when she was done.

Once again she opened the first aid kit box carefully and returned all of its contents neatly. She made sure to arrange the bottle of antiseptic properly and even readjusted the little packets of cotton swabs. When she was satisfied with its arrangement, she slowly lowered the lid and shut it. The click from the case shutting seemed so very loud in the big bedroom they were in.

"My dear, dear Sherlock," she said, returning to tower in front of him, "I am no child. And no one has taken any candy from me."

Lowering her head so that their eyes met, she tilted her head and threw him a dazzling smile. She then leaned forward, shutting her eyes, and kissed him, his bloodied mouth and all.

"And no one will ever take what's mine from me again." she murmured. "Not even you."

Her smile had transformed. Her gaze seemed disconnected from rational thought and Sherlock could only hold his breath and try to regulate his increasingly palpitating heart. Managing to maintain his steely gaze, he watched her as she stepped out of her glossy black high heels. Slowly, she bent to pick one up and beheld it as though admiring it.

Sherlock could only sit and watch as she took one final step toward him such that her knees touched his own.

"But you're right," she said with a knowing nod, "I am throwing a tantrum."

With a gentle, dark smile creeping back onto her lips, she raised her hand that held the stiletto and with it, struck the detective hard in the face.

When John received word that the coast was clear, he was glad to be able to get moving. At least it brought him indoors, away from the rather chilly night. He had surveyed the building once before, while waiting on the signal. So when the call came to mobilise, he moved straightaway to the correct door and let himself in.

John found himself, as the building plans had revealed, in the staff area of the apartment block. This was where the lifts and stairwells were situated for any of the staff that worked here, whether they were the building staff or the live-in domestic staff of tenants. In short, the 'downstairs' of this fancy residence, where the bins were kept and where housekeeping staff accessed and exited the building.

He searched for the right lift that would take him to the back doors of the different residential sections and found the one to Evelyn's. John had been given a key card and casually swiped it at the lift's access scanner, letting himself into the lift once its doors opened. Taking a deep breath, he slotted the same card to activate the lift buttons. With a soft beep, the lift buttons were active. Soon the doors were closed and John was en route to Evelyn's penthouse.

Once the lift stopped, he stepped out cautiously into a small space with a single door in front of him. The little area was well lit, but dead quiet. From studying the floor plans, he knew exactly where he was. Quickly, he sent word out via a quick text that he had arrived and waited for the next signal before proceeding. John moved close to the stark black door with its fancy digital lock system and security devices. With his eye on the flashing red dot of light embedded in a long metallic bar fixed on the door, he waited. Suddenly, the little red light stopped blinking, only to turn blue and stayed blue.

The light will go off and switch to blue, John recalled. Wait fifteen seconds for the coast to clear before entering.

John stepped forward silently and put his ear against the door. He then began to count as he heard the swift scurrying of footsteps move away from the door. When the fifteen seconds were up and he had ascertained that there was no longer anyone behind the door, John turned the handle and pushed it open with ease.

"Very nice," he whispered to himself as he stepped into an impressive kitchen area. It was the second kitchen, where the housemaid did all the real culinary activity. There was another more exterior kitchen area that was used more as a showroom than a functional kitchen. Nevertheless, this 'less fancy' kitchen was far fancier than any kitchen John had ever seen. He stepped right through this kitchen into the next one. John had really done his homework, having memorised the floor plan of the penthouse. He moved easily through it, as though it were his own home.

"Through the kitchens, take a left, long corridor and last room on the right…" he spoke quietly to himself.

The penthouse was dark and empty, as he was expecting it to be. Nevertheless, John carefully surveyed every corner, making sure the gun he had brought with him was securely in his hands. However, there was no one in sight as John exited the kitchens, made a left and kept his footsteps as quiet as possible while he made his way down the corridor. He was rather grateful for the thick, ornate carpet that ran the whole length of the way.

When he walked past what he knew was the door to Evelyn's room, he was tempted to quickly take a peek, or at least press his ear against the door to see if Sherlock was all right. It took all of his faith in the brothers' plan to move past the door, choosing to believe that whatever the brothers said was going to happen, was indeed the case. Nevertheless, the worry arose from the fact that nobody knew what Evelyn was capable of. Not that they could not imagine the things she might do, but that they could not imagine a limit. That scared John the most. Even Mycroft had let slip a hint of worry, wondering if Sherlock was going to lose his life in the process. It was Sherlock, however, who had scoffed at them both, insisting it was going to be "just fine".

"Right, here we are," said John to himself as he came face to face with the infamous study door. Reaching into his pocket, he reached for the little toolkit Sherlock always had with him and unfolded it, searching for Sherlock's trusty lock-picker, which really was just a glorified name for a long, metal pin. As steadily as he could, John began to pick the lock, remembering all the various possible scenarios Sherlock had presented to him. When he figured out the structure inside, he made a few carefully turns and nudges, eventually hearing the satisfying click of the door being unlocked.

Immediately, John let himself in and quickly shut the door behind him. He made sure to lock it back, so that the sounds of anyone unlocking it would give him time to hide his presence. The first thing he saw was the mess in the room. There were papers everywhere and over-turned drawers all round the room. He gulped nervously, shaking away thoughts that his best mate might be dead, and focused on the mission at hand. In a single glance, he spotted the little shelf Sherlock had described and strode over to it. He knelt down and studied it, his eyes scanning the rows of pristine, glossy magazines. One by one, John then began to pull the magazines out, still being careful not to make a single sound. He spotted the door of the hidden safe at the back of the shelf.

Sherlock had told them about the safe and its dial. However, he had not had a chance to properly look at it, to determine the right safe combination. Thankfully, the fact that it was an ordinarily manufactured safe, with a recognisable brand and type, meant that Mycroft was able to supply John with the appropriate device to unlock it. John removed from his pocket what looked like a little black box with some wires hanging out of it. With great care, he affixed the device to the surface of the safe, making sure the wires and the original dial were all hooked up correctly. With just a few clicks here and there and manipulating the dial on the little black box, John had managed to unlock the safe as the little safe door popped open. John reached in and found the laptop they were looking for, the treasure trove of all the information Mycroft could not obtain.

It was safe to talk in the study and so John did not have to text, but instead touched the underside of his collar and spoke into it.

"I've got it. You can move in now."

Sherlock almost slipped back into the dark waters of unconsciousness, but he steeled himself awake, focusing on controlling the pain that ripped through his skull. He blinked his eyes rapidly, trying to regain focus in his vision as his head gradually stopped spinning. There was a ringing in his ears as well from having been struck so hard, and so many times in the face. When his vision finally cleared up, he looked up to find Evelyn had seated herself on the bed next to him and was quietly observing him.

"You've made me have to do a lot of extra work, you know, Sherlock," she said.

He rolled his eyes and looked away from her. There was no need to entertain anymore of her dramatic monologues.

"You've messed up my study, for one," she exclaimed with a little laugh, "And that brother of yours, pesky little government worker, isn't he? Stopping my precious cargo from reaching." Evelyn clicked her tongue in disapproval.

Sherlock would never miss a chance to insult his brother, but he did not tolerate it when others did the same. They had not the right to insult Mycroft.

"You may think me a fool, Ms Lancaster," he said, "But you are wrong to think that of my brother."

Evelyn sighed and fiddled with the silk sash of her robe.

"I told you to call me Evelyn," she said quietly.
"Never." Sherlock answered, almost spitting the words.
"You are stubborn, aren't you?" she remarked with a smirk, "But that's why I like you Sherlock."

She got up from her bed and walked over to her vanity table behind the bound detective. Sherlock obviously could not see what she was up to but desperately tried to listen out for her actions. He heard the sounds of drawers opening and the little clinking sounds of metal. After one final slam of a drawer, Evelyn had resumed her position in front of the detective.

If it had not been a life-threatening situation, Evelyn would have looked most amusing. She was still barefoot, for one of her heels had broken and was stained with his blood. The robe still clung to her frame and her hair was still neatly put up, save for a few wisps that had come undone at the sides. In her right hand was a dull, black handgun. In her left, a perfectly polished knife. The hyperbole of bearing two weapons contrasted most comically with the fact that she was no longer shod and was hardly dressed.

"I don't want to do this, you know, Sherlock…" she said, stepping towards him.

The detective's eyes widened slightly. Perhaps they were right. Mycroft was right, John was right, even Evelyn was right. He had been a fool. He exhaled, frustrated, not so much from his mpending death but from an internal chastising of himself.

"Pity your brother can't save you," she remarked, "Of all the times not to meddle with my business, he chooses now."

At her words, Sherlock still managed a little smirk. What did she know of Mycroft?

"As far as his surveillance of me is concerned, you're just having dinner with me, and possibly having dessert now." She continued, "It really is good, isn't it, to have inside information on the people spying on you? I suppose, in the end, it's just a matter of his network against mine." She let out a little laugh as she tapped the knife against her thigh.

"So, what'll it be?" she whispered, using the tip of her knife to raise his lowered chin. "Since you won't stay with me, I guess you have to go."

Even in the face of death, Sherlock was far too proud to give up. Logic would prevail to the very end and he would stick to the plan for as long as he could. His role was to buy time and if buying time meant a slower death, then a slower death it would have to be.

"The knife, please." he said. There was a subtle and inevitable crack in his voice, but he chose to ignore it. His answer made her chuckle. She dropped the knife and lifted the gun to his forehead.

"I prefer things a little cleaner – and faster." she whispered.

Suddenly, the sound of her door being swung open interrupted the pressure of her fingertips on the trigger. Immediately, she aimed the gun at the door and was most amused to find John Watson glaring fiercely at her, with a gun aimed right in her face.

"Drop it," John said, "Now."

Evelyn smiled as she studied the man, from the leather on his jacket to the cuffs of his shirt to the laptop he had tucked under his arm.

"Oh, how clever…" she said, turning her head to face Sherlock, "You got me there, dear. You really did."
"Did you not hear me?" John repeated, "I said, drop the gun."
"I'll do it if you give me the laptop," she answered calmly, "Come on now, John, we all know how you listen to the pretty ladies…"
"I don't see any in this room," he retorted.
"My word he has got quite a tongue, hasn't he?" she said, turning to Sherlock once more.

With his gun still aimed at her, John manoeuvered the laptop from under his other arm into his hand and held it up.

"We've got your laptop, we've got all the information we need to incriminate you, you might as well just give up," said John, not once taking his eyes off her.

His words made Evelyn laugh as she shook her head incredulously. When she was done laughing, the smile instantly disappeared from her face as she let a shot ring out, sending a bullet right into the laptop John was holding. When it fell crashing to the floor, she shot it a few more times until it was a hissing, smoking pile of mangled plastic and wires. After she had fired her shots, one of her henchmen returned, bursting into the room and placed a gun right at John's temple.

"You all right, Miss?" said the man.
"Never better." she replied smoothly.

John stared at what was left of the computer and knew to keep his cool. Above all, he was tremendously relieved to see that his friend was alive.

"You okay, mate?" he exclaimed across the room, ignoring the cold mouth of a gun pressed against him.
"Hmm, yes. Just a bit of a headache." Sherlock replied.

Evelyn turned to Sherlock and shook her head in amusement.

"Coming here to distract me, getting your friend to take my things…" she stopped to chuckle to herself, "Are you so obvious, Sherlock? I'm disappointed."

The detective looked up at her, his ears pricked for he could not see all that had happened behind him by the door. Moments later, he could hear the softest click, a sound he had been waiting to hear. It was the sign that they had succeeded after all. Now, it was his turn to grin at her.

"Sometimes, Evelyn," he said, dragging the sound of her name, "Obviousworks."

His grin puzzled her. When she turned back to look at John, she gasped softly to herself.

"Good timing, H," said the detective from his seat.
"Thank you, Mr Holmes." came the voice of Helena, Evelyn's housemaid.
"Helena?" Evelyn uttered, stunned.
"Just H. Now, drop the weapons," she said calmly, addressing both the henchman and Evelyn. The agent had a gun in each hand. One was pressed against the henchman's forehead just as he had done to John, and the other was aimed squarely at Evelyn.

"I'll shoot him…" Evelyn said, panicking slightly and brandishing her gun against Sherlock's temple.

There was no need for the agent to negotiate or protest. In some unusual synchrony, John elbowed the henchman behind him, pinning him to the ground within seconds. H had simply fired a shot, lodging a bullet right into Evelyn's wrist, forcing the gun out of her hand. Evelyn dropped to the ground with a cry, gripping her bleeding wrist as the pain rampaged their way through her.

"It's clear. Send him in," said the agent, speaking into her own intercom device.

The agent stepped easily over the henchman whom John had taken out with a strike to the head with his gun. She knelt beside Evelyn and grabbed her wrists, igniting another shriek of pain. Within seconds, there was the click of cuffs and Evelyn had her hands secured behind her back. John had immediately run over to Sherlock, picked Evelyn's knife off the ground and began to free the detective.

"You almost died." John muttered, his teeth gritted as he ran the blade over the rows of cable ties.
"But I didn't," Sherlock replied, stretching himself once the cable ties fell off.
"You're an idiot." John continued.
"No, I'm not and you know it," he said, turning to face John, "It worked, did it not?"

The best friends stopped their bickering when they noticed the arrival of Mycroft, who strode in quietly with his trusted umbrella in his hand. His calm eyes scanned the room from corner to corner, only to finally rest upon the crouched heap that was Evelyn Lancaster.

"You can't do anything now," she said, shaking her head wildly, "The laptop's gone to blazes. I'm going to walk away scot-free. I always do."

Mycroft smiled to himself as he lowered his chin. His long, pale fingers drummed against the varnished crook handle of his umbrella.

"I was disinclined to believe my brother when he would regale to me your conversations with him, but it seems he was right." he remarked stoically, "You really do underestimate me, Ms Lancaster."

The tall figure of Mycroft strode towards her and positioned himself just a few steps away.

"So believe me when I say this," he said quietly, "You really, really shouldn't."