Well, Ladies and Gentlemen... Here we are.
The main song featured in this "Qui si attenda", from Donizetti's opera Maria Stuarda. There is also reference to Mary's aria "Deh! Tu di un'umile" Both are in the public domain.
Thank you so much for your ongoing support. Hold onto your hats, this is the big one...
Sherlock? Can you hear me?
First there was music, then there were screams.
"John," Sherlock breathed, baritone dripping with revelation, "I think I remember."
The companionable space beside him remained silent, and Sherlock turned. John was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock wasn't in London anymore. He wasn't anywhere.
Sherlock stood at the end of a dark corridor, lit by candles on rusted candelabra. Etchings of musical notes were engraved in the walls; scratched, disjointed, yet somehow beautiful. They were roots, the spring of the man he was.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed on the hunt for shadows.
He heard the scream of a child.
"Who are you?" Sherlock called into the darkness.
Suddenly, a boy with red hair scurried past. His hand wielded a gun, though Sherlock understood it should have been a sword. "Come on, Yellowbeard! They're coming for Viola!" He giggled, and disappeared into the mist, on the trajectory of the screams.
A feminine voice joined the cacophony of darkness.
'I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below the old beech tree…'
Sherlock began to run, Belstaff billowing behind him.
Suddenly, an exit emerged. A grand chestnut wood decorated with engravings of Dionysus and Apollo.
The detective braced the wood with both of his palms and thrust it open.
He was welcomed into the arms of a theatre balcony in chaos. It was a scene from the past, replaying with clarity.
A small boy in a striped fleece, grasping a plush bee in his hand was screaming. Screaming and screaming. Music from an orchestra was blazing around him.
On and on he shouted. "You! You!"
The boy was Sherlock.
Mycroft was glued into his seat, face covered in steel armour.
Nearby, a little girl was spinning, giggling, "It's just a silly show, Sherlock!"
The boy screamed louder.
Violet Holmes begged her son to quieten down.
"She did it, mummy! She killed Redbeard!"
On the stage, a lady dressed in black was stepping up towards a guillotine. Soft recitative fell from her lips. Her eyes often drifted to the balcony, yet she never swayed out of character.
"What show was it, Papa?"
Viola was beside him, dressed in the hospital gown from when they first met. She glowed with innocence under pale cotton. Her head was slightly tilted to the side, keenly examining the scene in interest. Her voice was clear English.
"…It was Maria Stuarda," Sherlock answered, watching his family fall apart in front of him, "Donizetti. The Italian Opera based around Mary Queen of Scots." His head turned to the stage, "The song Eurus played to me, it happened at the start of the opera. The composer laid the premise of hope, whilst the audience knew it would end in tragedy." The reflection in his face descended into confusion, "…I don't, I don't understand why she'd use it. Think!"
"Do you remember what happened?"
"It was three weeks after Victor had vanished. My parents wanted to give us a distraction after the accusations. So, they took us to the opera."
"A tragic opera is hardly the place to take children after your friend vanishes." Viola omitted, contemplative.
"We were never a normal family."
Horace Holmes managed to grab a hold of the boy. Sherlock pummelled against his father's chest with tiny wrists, "She told me! Daddy! She told me she killed Redbeard!"
Viola blinked, "What did Eurus do?"
The memories were coming violently, one after the other. "Eurus turned to me, as Mary Queen of Scots sang a prayer, and said-"
The little girl turned, voice echoing as Sherlock's lips formed the words. "Redbeard liked drowning. It's better than the guillotine. You can't laugh without a head. What a silly show."
The little boy escaped his father's arms. He never stopped screaming. His plush bee lay abandoned on the ground.
"Eurus had only sung her riddle up until this point. Deep down, everyone knew… I overheard Daddy threatening to call social services, but Mummy refused. I heard Dwight blame Mycroft... But everyone denied it. I denied it. I looked and looked and looked for Redbeard," His voice cracked, grief splitting amongst the cliff face, "Then… When she said this, without so much of a flinch, I knew. She thought I was laughing. She thought I found it funny."
The boy's screams became so violent, he sputtered. Violet went to his side and helped but he was choking.
"I… I forgot about it." Sherlock breathed, "I suffered psychological trauma… This is where my problems began. With this opera. The musicians never stopped performing as my entire life fell apart."
"Papa," Viola started gently, "Why would this song be playing in the nightclub? The opening of this opera? Why would it personify Viola?"
The nightclub. Save Viola. Save Mycroft.
It sent a jolt to his heart, a call to reality. For a moment, sirens swept around him.
Suddenly, the lights changed beneath them. A company of performers took the stage. But they weren't strangers. No- They were figures from Sherlock's life: Mary, Moriarty, John, Molly, Sebastian Moran, The Woman, Mrs Hudson, and more distant shadows.
They sang, but in voices not their own.
"Qui si attenda, ell'è vicina. Dalle giostre a far ritorno."
Viola smiled, a knowing smile, "Here we shall await. Soon she will return from the tournament."
"They're awaiting Queen Elisabeth the First," Sherlock confirmed, "Viola… Are they awaiting you? Was this Eurus' message?"
"If that's the case, Papa, then tonight I will kill someone in my family. Queen Elisabeth kills Mary Queen of Scots."
"That's not right," His face puzzled over a plethora of expressions, "Mary, the foreign queen gets executed for laying claim to the English throne. Viola, are you the Queen? Related to English blood, imprisoned your family?"
"I can't answer that in your own head, Papa." A beat passed, and her whole demeanour shifted, "You need to focus. Can't you hear John?"
"Sherlock," John begged, "We have to move. Can you hear me?"
The boy fainted.
Eurus grinned, picking up the abandoned bee. With a flourish, she started to pretend it was flying. Her skirt tossed and turned.
"Every second you stay in your head Papa, the closer I get to dying. Or would Mycroft step in? Are you prepared to lose us both?"
His heart gripped in a vice. "…I don't want to lose you."
Viola pivoted to stare at her father, blue upon blue. Sherlock raised his hand and cradled her cheek. He memorised every detail on her face, every single ounce of himself on a new canvas.
My daughter.
Viola Seraphina Esposito-Holmes.
"Viola, I am so sorry I missed all of your life… I will never forgive myself for failing you."
"Now is not the time to be in your mind palace! Jesus Sherlock-" John ranted in a hushed, desperate tone, "Wake up!"
"You can tell me in person after you've saved me." Confidently, Viola took his hand off her face and held it between them. "Go, be a detective. Go and save your family. Now, Papa." A beat passed, her glittering determination brighter than the lights on stage, "The game is on."
Abruptly, Sherlock's eyes burst open into the land of the living. The detective gasped and grasped John's arm as if waking from a nightmare, and the army doctor realised his friend may have just been in one. His expression was deranged, panicked. "Mary-"
John stiffened, "Sherlock?"
A couple of news reporters assembling cameras noticed them.
"Eurus is using Mary Queen of Scots, John!" Sherlock groaned, "I remember! Someone is going to die. Someone is going to allow an execution-"
"I don't understand-"
"We need to go!"
Sherlock barrelled into the building. As John started to track the trajectory of his friend, his only thought was of his daughter's innocent smile.
"De' Brettoni la Regina È la gioia d'ogni cor" ~ "The British Queen is the joy of our hearts"
Nineteen Minutes Before
Viola remembered the first time she and Matteo danced. The Summer was warm, the grapes and olives were full on their branches. A friend's party had taken them up to Montecatini Alto. Between the mountains, wine was poured, songs were sung, jokes were played. Viola had felt distant that night, her mother had relapsed three days before. Matteo had noticed the sadness in her eyes when other people hadn't been looking. He took her to a private space, and she confessed her hurt. He called her beautiful. She had never been called beautiful by a boy before. With a charming grin, he led her back to the party, and they danced hand in hand. The moon glimmered above their eyes. The strings in her heart had been pulled, and she'd never look back again.
Viola's heart was in her throat, and it was painful. Entering The Grand, she could only liken it to a ghost train.
Girls squealed, singing without key to songs she didn't recognise. Men tossed drinks back to their heart's content.
Viola thought of home, of the sweet wine and calm summer nights, and realised the stereotypes were right. British drinking culture was something else. Bitterly she considered that her parents met in a situation like this. Two addicts, surrounded by madness, clinging to each other for humanity.
Her heart was pounding.
Rapidly, her eyes searched for any sign of Matteo, her uncle, anything- Yet there was nothing. There were too many people. If this went wrong any one of these people could end up-
Someone knocked into her.
A girl with dark blonde hair in a pink dress stumbled, grasping the glass in her hand as if for protection. She shot Viola a sloppy smile, "Fuck me I'm so sorry!"
Suddenly, Viola was unable to breathe.
"You alright lovey?"
Wiggin's scanned the girl over a second and took Viola's hand. "She's fine, now piss off."
The girl looked annoyed, but rolled her eyes, and chased over to a group of friends.
"Viola," Wiggins spoke worriedly, grasping her hand, "You're shakin… We can go, we don't have to do this."
"No," She shook her head, "We just need to… Use the time."
With a forced façade of calm, she stepped away and headed to the bar.
Sherlock better hurry up, Wiggin's thought anxiously, that girl knew exactly who Viola was.
The Grand, in the Nineteenth Century, had once been a theatre. On a usual night, the public could take to dancing in the stalls or balconies. Rainbow lights twisted over the frivolity. Occasionally, the dust became thicker, as if it was drifting down from the skies.
Wiggin's met Viola leaning over the bar, expression a mask of analytical concentration. A couple of metres away, two men had ordered a round of shots. Wiggin's effortlessly swiped two away. The men were too drunk to notice.
"Viola."
A pair of blue eyes flicked to him.
Wiggin's held out a small shot glass, eyebrows raised.
"What is this?"
"Dutch courage."
Viola frowned, taking it from his hand. The liquid was dark red. "I thought you don't drink?"
"Much," He clarified, "Other vices are better fo' me."
She frowned, confused.
"Cheers." Wiggins brought his glass to meet hers.
Biting her lip, Viola summoned courage and downed the drink in one. Suddenly, her throat burned. She slapped a hand on the bar, spluttering.
Wiggin's smirked, licked his lips, and popped his glass on the side, unmoved.
For a moment, they could have just been two friends. Yet Wiggins couldn't shake the feeling of eyes on them. As Viola's smile drifted, he realised she thought the same, too.
She forced a smile on her face, and grabbed his hand, "Come on."
With a playful tug, she drew him away.
"Where are we goin'?"
"We can dance!"
"Nah, Missus 'Olmes, that isn't me."
Viola pouted, pushed into his personal space, and tucked her head near his ear. The warm air from her danced on his neck. "I need to see. I need to be middle. Dance, Robin Hood… Dance."
Thank god it was dark. He was beet red.
Rather awkwardly, they moved amongst the young and ambitious.
Wiggins dreadfully tried to focus on anything but the smooth way her hips moved. The lights painted a rainbow painting across her skin. His mind was in overdrive. His deductions were weakened by the kaleidoscope of activity- everything moved too fast.
A shadow passed across Viola's peripheral.
Her cheek clenched, her chest raised up and down twice.
Then she grabbed Billy.
And she kissed him.
What the actual- ohmygodohmygodohmygod-
Viola captured him possessively, hands landing either side of his stubble covered cheeks. Her lips moved passionately but definite, as if commanding instruction. Wiggin's floundered, he went to push her away but found himself gripping onto her waist for support. Intuitively, he moved against her, unable to stop- to think- Viola was magnificent, beautiful, wrong, insane-
Shezza is going to bloody kill me!
The electricity shot through his blood as a-
Something cold landed on the base of his skull, pressing, hard.
Terror spread down every vertebrae of his spine.
Viola hummed in annoyance, hand circling around his neck, then froze.
She pulled her lips away, foreheads resting against one another.
Wiggin's daren't open his eyes, because he knew.
Her pale fingers had ghosted the barrel of the gun that was placed against his head.
Wiggin's felt a tremor run through Viola's body. Wiggins, despite the music, heard her mutter a phrase. The Italian rang with no familiarity, yet it chimed like a mantra from her depth of her soul.
"Billy," She whispered, "Let go."
And he did.
Only then did he let his eyes open. She was flushed, dusted with glowing lights and painfully magnificent. Her intelligent gaze watched the spot behind his shoulder.
"Viola." A voice reverberated; a sickly, playful sound.
Billy knew who it was- Of course, he did. It sent poison into his veins more damaging than the cocaine he'd used over the years. He wondered what Viola saw in that moment; Memories of a love she had once had? Or the hatred, the fear of his abuse, and the damage to her life.
"…Matteo."
From the complexity in her eyes, the distinction between fight or flight vibrating in the air, Wiggin's realised… She was seeing both.
"Send the gun down." Viola spoke, voice remarkably level, English incorrect but spoken as confidently as Shakespeare.
Of course, her first thought was to protect him. Viola Seraphina was glorious, and it hurt his heart.
The metal drew away from his skin as a sultry, yet terrifying voice hissed down his ear. "You touch her again, and it'll be worse than a gun, Tramp."
The words were far more painful than a bullet would have ever been.
All Viola saw was Matteo, the world around her was silent. His eyes were the same silver, hair just as brown, yet his jaw was set harder, his frame sturdier, adulthood eclipsing the teenager she had once loved.
For Mycroft.
She didn't hear what he said to Billy, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.
As Matteo turned to her, the lights momentarily drifted elsewhere, and he was obscured in shadows. Viola's mouth went dry, she felt sick, she couldn't do this, she couldn't-
"You've lost weight."
Matteo stared at her like a starved animal.
Viola's hands shook violently, and she shoved them against the material of her dress. "Trauma does that to you."
He stepped closer- once, twice- Then reached out towards her jaw.
Don't touch me, she almost begged. "Where's Mycroft Holmes?" Were the words she found, and for a moment, she was proud of her self-control.
"No greetings? I imagined I'd receive an apology. Upon your invitation, I doubted I'd find you in the arms of another man. Are you trying to make me jealous?" He laughed, a charming sound.
Viola shot a glance towards Billy, shame blossoming over her features. Wiggin's eyes were wide with confusion. She only realised then she was speaking only in Italian.
"It got your attention, didn't it?" She asked with forced affluence. Her heart ached. Thank God Billy doesn't understand Italian.
"You know you only have to breathe to have my attention, Vi." There was a dangerous possessiveness in his eyes.
"Tell me where uncle Mycroft is."
"Oh, he's… Nearby. Good job on the obituary, by the way. Very clever. Your intelligence is as alluring as ever."
Viola was walking into a bullring dressed in scarlet. "Matteo… I've missed you."
Something primal flicked in his expression. "You've missed me?"
She nodded, blinking back tears, because despite everything – She had, and it hurt. "So much." It was the truth. "But this can't go on anymore. Please, you don't need Mycroft, you don't need the threats." Viola begged, voice trembling, "We can fix this, together."
Matteo's eyes held onto hers, and for a moment she felt he would concede. But with a flick of a head, it dissolved, and a cold skeleton laid in its place.
"Matteo," She implored, "Hand yourself in. Give up Mycroft Holmes. I'll go with you, I'll stand by your side… Please."
His face didn't budge, "If I was to do that, I would lose you forever-"
"No," She cut in desperately, "No… You'd get time, yes, but we'll show them you're a changed man." A small smile lit up her face, "Love makes people do silly things. I was wrong to doubt you all those years ago. I see now…" Her voice broke, "Our love is devastating, but it's true. I will wait for you." Tears smattered her pale skin.
Viola realised she didn't know where the truth was, and the lies began-
"Liar."
Viola blanched, "W-What?"
"If you really believed that, you wouldn't have run when you saw me. You would have come to my side."
"Special Agents were there, I was trying to save you!"
"You, Viola," His pupils dilated viciously, "Ran to protect your father. Not me. That… That vile man. The man who's only ever intent has been to take you away from me." Viola stepped back, but he moved into her space, towering, leering, "I can see it in your eyes. The care you have for him-"
"It's not true," She protested, "I came for you!"
"I am the only man in your life," He spat, teeth bared, "Not him, never him-"
"This has nothing to do with Sherlock-"
"Sherlock Holmes is going to pay for coming into your life, Viola. Look at you," He eyed her with a disdainful eye marred with pity, "You're bruised, starved, exhausted… I need him to suffer for hurting you!"
He's mad.
Viola's body perforated all hope of survival. Matteo was an open carcass. If she took a scalpel to his body, there would be nothing within.
Rough hands grabbed her, fingers pushing into the side where she'd bruised her ribs. She cried out, and somewhere, she heard Wiggin's yell. Suddenly, she was in the past, and Matteo was tearing at her clothes, holding her too tight, kissing her- She was suffocating, she was going to die-
"Steady, my Queen." Matteo purred, supporting her legs that started to cave, "The show is just getting started."
Matteo grabbed her wrists and began to drag her away. She screamed. Around her people ran to try and help, but the woman in the pink dress emerged, pointing a gun at every single person who tried. Civilians started trying to escape the theatre. Her legs hit something on the ground, and she heard Matteo growl before hoisting her up some stairs. Her vision was blurring, dizziness coming in waves. Lights scorched her eyes, and she realised she was on stage. Panicking, she scanned the crowd rapidly, desperately… Wiggin's had vanished.
She was on her own.
This time when her legs fell, Matteo let her drop. She wanted her Papa. She wanted Sherlock.
Matteo licked his lips with a predatory grin and stepped onto the stand of sound decks. He stared at the chaos as a creature that wished to feast. With a sophisticated air, he procured a microphone, turned the music off, and addressed his audience in English.
"Why hello London! Wow, it's so refreshing to have such a gorgeous audience." He laughed, and it rattled like a stone being thrown in a cave, "Why now, don't run. You have a job to do. Get your phones and start streaming: Instagram, Facebook Live, whatever… This show is going to be so fabulous!" He flew his arms outright, "Whilst we await our special guest, let's have a song," He smirked, pressed several buttons, and suddenly string instruments reverberated around the hall, "This goes out to Holmes brothers… Courtesy of the beautiful Eurus Holmes."
Viola watched in revulsion but could scarcely comprehend the English, nor the music that played. Fear ruled tyrannically over her body. She had been wrong, so wrong-
"P-Please," A small hand raised. His eyes dilated, black holes orbited by ash. "You don't have to do this."
Matteo sneered then, dipping his head down. For a moment, she thought he would kiss her, but he merely ghosted her lips, brushing them. "For someone so clever, you really are blind."
Someone shouted behind her, and pressure plunged on the back of her head. Her world became darkness.
"Quanto lieto fia tal giorno se la stringe ad alto" ~ "How happy will be the day that binds her to noble love."
Sherlock bolted through the darkness, unwavering, unthinking, driven only by a need to save his family, to destroy those who would bring it harm. Adrenaline pulsated through his veins.
The first sign of Mycroft almost stopped his heart but didn't stop his legs. The man was sat atop the venue stage, almost thin, dehydrated, and terrified. A ratty shirt hung loosely over his shoulders. Relief doused Sherlock's soul- he's alive, he's alive- sang the voices in his head.
Sherlock saw every bruise, every drop of matted blood, every sign of deprivation. It set his nerves alive with acid. His gaze dropped downwards, and a sight so awful arrived in his vision he finally froze.
Viola, unconscious, propped up in her uncle's arms. Uncharacteristically, the politician was stroking the girl's hair, one hand against her pulse point.
Matteo is going to pay for this.
"Oh Jesus," Came John's voice, "Sherlock-"
But he was gone, plunging further into the crowds. Black rage filled his soul. The detective and doctor emerged, scarce metres from the stage. Sherlock gripped his gun and flicked off the safety. Bystanders cleared space, wielding phone cameras like weapons.
The music switched off.
"Ah! You're here!" A warm tenor voice cooed.
Mycroft's eyes raised upwards, and for the first time in days, brothers found each other. John saw the alertness shift in their eyes, the gentle cheek twitch in unison, before attention shifted. For them, that was a cry of joy.
With a professional grace, Matteo walked out from the wings, microphone held lazily near his lips.
Sherlock snapped the gun upright, assuring his aim, teeth bared and-
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr Holmes." Matteo sighed, "You're being streamed right now, all around the world. If you shoot me, the whole world will see." The young man smiled, "You can secure the building now, folks."
Immediately, they heard doors fortifying shut, and the screams of young people still inside. How many? One – Two hundred?
Sherlock's knuckles were white against the barrel of the gun.
"What have you done to Viola?" The detective's mind ran rampantly, reading Matteo again and again, cataloguing weaknesses, strengths, anything.
Matteo glanced at Viola in surprise, as if he'd forgotten her, "Woman are funny creatures, Mr Holmes… Malleable."
"What did you do?!" Sherlock shouted, finger flinching against the trigger.
John almost restrained him.
Sherlock looked capable of committing a homicide.
"You're the detective," Matteo rolled his eyes, "You tell me."
A few seconds later, Sherlock listed her injuries with astounding detail, as if his intellect would save her life.
Matteo formed a falsified grin, "Well done, not bad."
"I must admit, Matteo Conti, these past days you have proven yourself to be a worthwhile adversary."
"Is that a compliment?"
"No." Sherlock smirked then, "It's an observation."
"Do you like the venue? Moriarty did always like the theatre… It's as if she knew, Sherlock." Matteo smiled angelically, "I owe an old debt to a friend, it just so happens to be mutually beneficial to me… I owe you a fall, ring a bell?"
John's stomach plummeted, and he resisted an urge to grab Sherlock and drag him the hell out of the building to safety.
Sherlock pouted, "Need I remind you that we're on solid ground?"
"No," Matteo ran a hand through his hair, "The real fall, Sherlock… The real one."
Viola stirred. Mycroft craned his head to her ear. Sherlock's gaze flicked to them, then back immediately. Matteo didn't notice.
"I thought you were here to trade my brother for Viola." Sherlock deadpanned, "The fall, that metaphor for the demise of British security is a lie. You have no information, I can see it. I'm going to walk out of here with my family, and you are going to let me. You try to escape, you get shot by the police outside. The whole world knows about you… The stalking, the sexual assault, the kidnapping and bargaining… If you think you have a life after this, you are sorely mistaken." A beat, "Moriarty would pity you. You're as stupid as the rest of them."
A silence followed a long, doubtful, empty sound.
Then Matteo threw his head back and howled like a wolf.
John stood straighter, and saw Mycroft shaking his head.
His whole soul dropped ten feet into the ground.
"What is it?" Bit the detective, eyes fiery yet bitterly cold.
"My, you sound like a Shakespearean actor!" The young man exclaimed, throwing his arms outwards with a hoot, "You're an idiot! I don't need any security information. You've released everything yourself. The Holmes' empire is about to collapse and oh I cannot wait for the fall."
In the corner of John's eye, a small trail of dust fell from the ceiling.
"Sì, per noi sarà più bella d'Albion la pura stella quando unita la vedremo della Francia allo splendor." ~ "Yea, fairer will we see Albion's pure star when she will be united to the splendour of France."
Molly held Sherlock's Belstaff coat tightly against her chest. Blue lights shone rapidly against her skin. The feeling was akin to drifting in the ocean during a strong tide, with no land in sight.
Surrounding her was chaos. Police were stationing themselves rapidly, barking into speakers. Young adults who'd escaped before the lockdown were clinging to each other desperately. Press vans had arrived, and now several news stations were broadcasting live.
Tears prickling her eyes, Molly found herself putting Sherlock's Belstaff on. It didn't matter what the press would say.
Because the man she loved was inside in danger, whilst she stood on the side-lines, useless.
Molly found herself watching the building searchingly. Yet it stood still, stable, painting the landscape.
A bird stood atop the roof- wait-
No.
The bird grew, it wielded a crowbar, and swung down on something out of eyeshot.
A pale hand shot out to stifle a scream.
The floor fell out from underneath her.
"G-Greg!" Molly began to search amongst the jungle of terror, but she was staggering like a drunk, vision blurring- "Greg!"
Suddenly, Lestrade appeared, hands glued onto a telephone streaming the scene inside. He grasped Molly's lower arm. "Molly- Jesus, what's happened?"
"There's someone on the roof."
But there wasn't. They were gone.
"Molly, I can't be distr-"
"There was someone on the roof with a crowbar!" She gestured to the spot, "They were breaking something!"
Greg's eyes flashed with alarm. "Are you sure?"
"Yes!"
For a moment, Molly saw doubt. But then the detective faltered with such lack of cohesion he appeared bereaved. "Matteo said he would bring around the real fall-"
"What when-"
"Moments ago." Greg gasped, "…They're going to bring down the roof. Oh my God… They don't know. Sherlock doesn't know. We need to get everyone out. Now."
Automatically, he turned and bolted off into a swarm of policemen. Molly saw his arms gesturing frantically, heard the echoes of his shouts amongst the pandemonium. She saw attention begin to gather and calls for helicopters to be made.
Molly wasn't reassured.
She saw Rosie as an orphan, Sherlock's family without their sons, Maria's screams when she found out that Viola was- no.
They needed to get out.
There was no time.
Not anymore.
Sherlock's Belstaff hugged her small frame, however the warmth didn't penetrate the ice in her spine, as she waited for the avalanche to fall.
She needed to tell Sherlock.
By any means necessary.
As Mycroft stared into the shadows, his fate became sealed. A strange feeling gripped his body, but logic prevailed. Hurt would diminish, danger could only be removed. It was a necessity, to save his family. He raised a single eyebrow to the darkness and saw a flash of metal move in response.
Viola was drowning. The water filled her lungs, her body, her brain, suffocating and pushing- It hurt. Warmth pulsated through her skull violently. Ringing screamed in her ears, and she grimaced, curling in on herself-
"Viola Seraphina," A voice whispered, punctuated against her ear, "You're alive. You've been hit on the back of the head. Don't move. Stay still."
Viola's stomach rocked, she heaved-
"Breathe. Don't vomit. Bodily urges are a weakness. Don't give into them."
Who is that?
"It's Mycroft Holmes, Viola. Don't open your eyes. Don't move."
Her whole body ached to protest, but she found she was too weak. Around her, she started to hear faint voices. Events started to flood violently into her memory.
"If you understand I need you to tap twice against my wrist." Viola, still as a stone, moved one digit in succession, twice. "You are going to stand. You are going to tell Matteo to stop the madness. You are going to tell him you love him." She flinched, and Mycroft gripped her tighter, "Get him behind you. When you're ready, I need you to shout Vatican Cameos. That's the signal. Do you understand?"
Viola trembled.
His voice dropped a level, "I can get Matteo out. He will serve a life sentence, but this doesn't have to be the end for him."
You were always a bad liar, brother mine.
"You need to trust me. Shout Vatican cameos. If you don't, far too many people will die. Be strong, Viola Seraphina. Be a Holmes."
A long moment drew out without a response, but then one finger landed, and then another. If he had been able, he would have cried out in relief.
"You're an idiot! I don't need any security information. You've released everything yourself. The Holmes' empire is about to collapse and oh I cannot wait for the fall."
Sherlock teemed with tension. He felt every single eye, every camera, every heart beating around him.
Matteo stood, a black hole, "You have stood here, and called Mycroft your brother. You told the press that you were working alongside the Secret Services. The world right now will be discovering who Mycroft Holmes is. Putting you two together will shake the world of terrorism. I never named your brother, I never named Viola. You did this. Moriarty knew you would… You're far too emotional, weak, just like Viola."
"Viola isn't weak." Spat the detective, mind crumbling at just what may have been the worst mistake of his life. Don't let him see, stay alert.
"She has a feisty front, indeed, but Moriarty saw through her façade. As did I."
John felt a wave of heat rush over him. "Moriarty met Viola?"
Sherlock remained silent, with a mask of blinding fury. That bastard had seen her, seen her heart and morphed Matteo into the one person she would love. It was Moriarty. Always.
Matteo chuckled, "Once. Although I doubt she'd remember it." He gestured over to Viola's limp form, "Jim knocked her over. When he offered her a hand, she told him to fuck off."
Despite everything, Sherlock sniggered. That's my girl, he thought, with a primal flaring of pride.
"Mm," Matteo mused, "She truly is remarkable. A supernova of intelligence against passion. You should see her in throws of passion, Sherlock, how she-"
"That's enough." Bit John.
The man pulled a face of mock offence, "Sorry! Does our fair detective still cower at the thought of sex? Oh," Matteo whacked his forehead, "I apologise. He's with the corpse lady now, isn't he?" He twisted his head to the side, with a sneer that bore his teeth, "Doctor Hooper and Sherlock sitting in a tree, F-U-C-K-I-N-"
"Matteo!"
All heads turned at the shout, and jaws dropped at the sight of Viola Seraphina, stood up. Her makeup smudged down her face, her clothes creased. She swayed on the spot, neck muscles betraying nausea, but she remained resolute. A warrior. A survivor.
Sherlock caught Mycroft's gaze, followed his eye line, and understood.
"Has the queen awoken from her slumber?" Matteo asked with feigned fondness.
"…You shouldn't have hit me," Viola stated him in Italian, "You didn't have to. I know what you want to do to Sherlock…"
Matteo turned to her, world forgotten, stars blacked out with lust. "…Aren't you afraid?"
"Yes," She nodded, and bore him an honest look of fear, "But I know you can save me. I'm sorry… I am, so sorry."
She stepped closer.
"What's she saying?" John hissed, and Sherlock's arm shot out in warning.
"I just got so overwhelmed... I love you. Your love is terrifying, maddening… But I can't resist it. Do what's needed to Sherlock." Viola didn't move her blue orbs from his silver ones, they became planets forming their own galaxy, "Kill him. If I have you, nothing else matters."
You can do this. Be strong, Viola.
Sherlock wanted to scream, to rip Viola away. He understood what Mycroft intended, what he could see from the stage that Sherlock couldn't. It was wrong- so wrong- and Viola would never forgive him. But this is what Eurus predicted.
Matteo kissed her, a dam bursting in his chest. Viola was his. Only his. Desire consumed his. Viola clung onto him like a lifeline, knowing she was about to save his life, even though it broke her heart.
"Dance with me, Matteo."
"The whole world is watching."
"I don't care."
Matteo laughed and called for music. The young woman in the pink dress dashed out from the wings and set the song from Maria Stuarda playing. It was Haggarty, and she curtseyed at the couple before tattling off stage.
The music wasn't suitable. The singers appeared to be clawing for escape, the strings drawing trees from their roots, the percussion sending tremors into the earth's crust.
"John," Sherlock hissed, "Go to Mycroft, release him. Do it now."
John blinked, "Are you sure?"
"If I go Matteo will shoot me. Go. Now. Whilst they're distracted."
John's eyes betrayed doubt, but with unmovable loyalty, he abandoned his post and started to make his way to the politician.
"Do you remember the song, Viola?"
Matteo moved gently, intimately, in complete contrast to the sounds around them. Viola choked in a breath, afraid to look upwards, for fear sentiment had broken through the cracks of his insanity. "No."
A small kiss landed on the stop of her hair. "It's Maria Stuarda, Donizetti. A wonderful opera that Jim introduced me to… He said it reminded him of you. Maria Stuarda, the Queen who grew up in a foreign land… Everyone thought she would unite nations, yet her family prevented her, they killed her for treading on their toes. Sherlock will do that to you."
"I am not a story… I'm not a part of English history-"
"But you are," He explained, "Eurus Holmes said so, and she's the cleverest person in the world."
Sherlock's heart was in his throat. Had Eurus known Mycroft would make this decision?
If Viola is Queen Elizabeth, then she's about to sign the death warrant of the person invading her family. Someone was waiting in the wings, someone was going to kill Matteo on her command.
Sherlock watched his daughter moving in an obedient trance, non-the-wiser to her fate.
Mycroft was about to make her complicit in a murder she didn't understand.
Viola and Matteo waltzed, the anthropologist and the madman. John frantically removed Mycroft's shackles.
Viola began to turn in Matteo's embrace, back against his chest. He buried his head into the crevice of her neck, kissing it, claiming her. The whole world was watching them. But that was exactly why.
Viola was a puppet, enraptured in the arms of its master. But was that Matteo or Mycroft? The lines were too slim.
To save Viola, Mycroft told himself, to save her.
To save Matteo, Viola reminded herself devotedly, to save him.
"No," Sherlock muttered, walls breaking, "No!" He launched himself up the steps onto the stage.
"Vatican Cameos!" Viola yelled, jumping aside.
A crack filled the air.
People screamed.
Viola felt a force against her body, knocking the air from her lungs.
For a moment, all was silent.
Stage lights, like rainbows, swam above her.
A thump on the floor, as Matteo slumped to the ground.
Dead.
John Watson moved on instinct. He fell at the young man's side, knees entering a puddle of sickly redness, reaching out for a pulse point. The absence sent a chill down his spine.
It had been a close-range gunshot from above. John knew it. His looked at old balcony in the wings and saw only darkness. Who had pulled the trigger?
Mycroft stared at the scene of horror before him, edging in deathly quietness. He'd saved his family.
Suddenly, he was accosted by strong palms. Sherlock was in front of him, checking him, examining him with devilish scrutiny. Mycroft, overwhelmed, felt dizziness start to fill his skull. Sherlock secured his upper arms, "Don't go fainting on me, brother mine. Anthea has lemon cake with your name on it."
"There's a lack of blood in my peripheral nervous system" Mycroft rasped.
"Who did it, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded, "Why did you make Viola a pawn?" Was his real question, but there were too many cameras, too many witnesses. It took all his strength not to go ballistic.
He was furious.
"Sherlock!" John shouted, breaking the men from their reverie.
They turned.
Besides a dead man, sat a young girl in mourning. The lights cast them in shadows. It seemed almost spectral, staged. But this wasn't a play. There was no music. Sherlock's daughter had just witnessed the death of the first person she had ever loved. Whilst his first instinct was to patronise her for becoming so emotional over an abhorrent man, he couldn't. Because if that was Molly… He would shatter, like glass, no matter the circumstances. Sherlock observed Viola's face start to crumble, her blue eyes shimmering with water, and he realised she was glass, and she was cracking. An indecipherable weight dragged her face, contorting it, until she sobbed in pain.
It was the most horrific sound Sherlock had ever heard.
"Who was it?!" Viola shouted, blistering tears falling down her cheeks, "Who?!"
Viola looked so small, so innocent, so broken, and it caused his heart to age fifty years in a moment.
"Viola..." Sherlock started, voice quiet. There was nothing he could say. Nothing.
"Who did it, Papa?!" She begged again, and then started rocking, mumbling no over and over.
John rubbed her back reassuringly talking to her gently, and Sherlock was eternally grateful for his best friend.
"Mycroft," Sherlock began, desperate to change the subject, to hear anything else, "How do we get out of here? Where are the police?"
A deathly expression crossed over the politicians face, "The police won't be coming in… It's too dangerous."
"What-"
As if on cue, a large, creaking sound, echoed through the building. The sound vibrated, as a ship hitting an iceberg. John saw young adults' recoil, mortal fear awash on their faces.
"Oh my God…" John whispered, "What was that?"
Mycroft staggered, and gripped onto Sherlock's arm. "You didn't notice, did you? Someone's missing… Whilst we've been here, Sherlock, Moran has been on the roof. He's dislocated the timbers. We have minutes until the roof collapses."
Sherlock's cheek clenched. Inside his mind, an earthquake destroyed floors.
"…How many people are in the building?"
"Including us, I can see two hundred and thirty-six. But there may be staff hiding."
Sherlock Holmes, a man who'd dismantled huge crime rings, had been through building collapses before. But as he stared out and saw the plethora of terrified young people searching his eyes for hope a petrifying thought stopped him dead.
There's too many.
Rapidly, he began to search for solutions, over and over, but his brain was short-circuiting. Viola's cries were distracting- he couldn't think. He needed Molly. He needed-
"Sherlock!"
BANG
A shot rippled through the darkness.
Sherlock dived to the ground, taking his brother with him.
Suddenly, hands grabbed Sherlock's back and shoved him, hard.
John's instinct kicked in. He lifted Viola upright, pulling her backwards in a strong hold she couldn't free herself from. The colour drained from his face.
It was Ahmed Moran.
Sherlock and Ahmed tumbled in a flurry of commotion. One man trying to pin the other down. Shouts sounded from the detective. With a yell, Sherlock threw himself on his front, reaching out for his gun desperately.
Ahmed was quicker.
The man snatched it, and suddenly Sherlock had a barrel against his head.
"Papa!" Viola screamed, kicking out against John.
Ahmed dragged Sherlock to his knees, one palm gripping his collar, the other holding the gun to his head. "Stand!"
Sherlock complied.
John suddenly had a sinking sensation that they'd been after the wrong man.
Inside a safe house, Mrs Hudson was clutching a baby to her chest, praying. Outside The Grand, Lestrade was screaming at his operatives to do something. Inside Sherrinford, a patient was smiling.
From the crowd, Sherlock thought he heard a familiar voice shout his name.
Sherlock felt hot air ghosting the bottom of his neck. Ahmed Moran, scarcely a man, had come for Sherlock Holmes. Because Sherlock Holmes had killed his father. A horrid emotion filled his chest, and he thought he may combust. It took him a long time to find words, but the ones he found were a comfort. "As-salaam alaikum".
John saw the young man, with dark skin and darker eyes betray a wave of grief. Whilst Matteo had been bound by an emotionless love, Ahmed was grounded by pure, unadulterated rage. He was fragile, vulnerable, and dangerous. God, Sherlock, be careful.
"Don't you dare," The boy spat, "Speak to me in the tongue of my faith."
Sherlock's eyes fell closed momentarily, "Your father always made me greet him in the Islamic style, Ahmed- regardless of faith. Always. You know that. You grew up with that."
The ceiling groaned, sobbing, as if one could hear the building tearing.
"You do not have the right!" Susurrated Ahmed, pulling Sherlock's back tightly against his chest.
John straightened at the violent tone, prepared to intervene.
"John," Viola whispered, "What is happening?"
Sherlock's eyes slowly lifted to the roof. A crack had appeared, followed by a long train of dust, shimmering against the stage lights.
"You've… You've damaged the internal structure of this building." Sherlock breathed, it was a statement.
"A final fall." Ahmed explained hotly, "Ironic, isn't it? How all of you focus on the brain instead of the brawl? You all went after the deluded psychopath. Matteo was an idiot."
Sherlock fisted his hands together, "You're hardly Moriarty. The network is gone."
"Moriarty never died… Not really. You took his mortal body, sure. But his plans remained alive. The children of his associates remained alive. Grudges lived. I lived." With a flourish, Ahmed kissed Sherlock's cheek, and Mycroft moaned in panic uncontrollably. "You'll never escape us… Perhaps one day we'll drug Martha Hudson, perhaps one day Rosamund Watson will vanish from school," Ahmed kissed his cheek once more, "Perhaps Molly Hooper will be approached by a gang of men on the way to her nightshift-"
Sherlock let out a guttural moan, and involuntarily pushed away from Ahmed's grip, but the latter held him tighter.
"Amazing how love can cloud a genius's judgement." He turned his gaze to the high roof in wonderment, "Such an old building… It'll come down, so soon, I can feel it in my bones…"
The man had furious anger in his eyes, a raw, unflinching insanity.
I did this to him.
Sherlock saw Sebastian's last moments play out like they'd happened moments before, and deep guilt enveloped his soul.
Sherlock's words appeared suddenly as if forced from the recesses of his mind, desperate for release. "…I'm sorry about your father."
Ahmed flinched, clearly surprised. His chin jutted out and he pressed the gun closer.
"Sherlock-" John gasped.
Ahmed breathed in heavily, "You know… When Moriarty died dad was crushed. He wept. I want you to feel as crushed as he felt. You're a murderer. And now the whole world will know. You'll die in shame, tarnished… You ripped dad from our family. I want to watch you be ripped from yours."
Mycroft's head fell into his hands.
Sherlock felt his mind palace flood with dark liquid.
It was his fault.
All of it.
"Ahmed…" He began, voice grating, "You can do what you want me, alright? Just let everyone else go before the roof collapses. Please."
A smile started to spread, a candle illuminated in the dark irises. "Am I really being begged by Sherlock Holmes? Again?"
"Yes." Sherlock responded, earnest, "Let my family go."
"Papa, no." Viola chocked, and John held her tighter.
A groan from the building occurred, closer, louder.
"I tell you what, Sherlock." Ahmed leered, pressing the barrel of the gun to hard against Sherlock's head it would leave a bruise, "I'll let everyone go, as you said. But you stay. Then after you're gone, when they pull your body from the wreckage… Perhaps Molly Hooper will conduct your post-mortem. She'll be the one to cut out your heart. She might even keep it. She might burn it."
A scream built in Sherlock's chest, unnatural and painful, and he fought against it. He would not show his weakness. He had to be noble. For her.
"You promise you won't go near them, my family. Please. If I stay."
"…I promise."
Sherlock saw Molly. He felt her kisses, the longing, the love.
He'd always found self-sacrifice easy. He wasn't important. A blip on the normal strains of humanity. Naturally, he would lay down his life for his friends without question. But knowing he'd be giving up on Molly… He found his throat thick, and he was petrified.
He didn't want to go.
"So, what will it be, Sherlock? I'll let everyone else go… If you stay, no one will come for your family, you have my word."
A patch of dust drifted onto his shoulder, followed by another creak from the heavens.
With a vulnerability he had never felt, he bowed his head in surrender.
Mycroft swayed.
"Ahmed… Do understand that your father's death was the most regretful thing I have ever done in my life. I knew about you, and your sisters. But he had killed so many people, caused attacks I don't imagine you even know of. I had to choose humanity over him. I had to."
"Sherlock," John pleaded, "Don't. Please."
The boy fisted the gun in his hand, lips trembling as he forced emotion aside. "Is this your attempt at a final confession?"
"Allow me that, please." Sherlock sunk to his knees.
Ahmed let him drop. Mycroft let out a disjointed sound.
"Make it quick."
Sherlock's palms lay flat on the ground, attempting to stop the trembling. He imagined Molly alongside him, murmuring encouragements in his ear.
"Viola… I am so sorry I have failed you." He couldn't look at her, couldn't let the dam break. His words were Italian, but smatterings of English escaped through. He couldn't think enough to construct the words. "I wish I'd have had the opportunity to be your Papa. You're remarkable. It appears my presence in your life has only brought heartbreak and pain. But I want you to thrive… Don't settle for ordinary, you're anything but."
Viola started calling to him, broken. But he didn't listen, he couldn't.
"Mycroft, for god's sake, please keep an eye on your weight." A devastated splutter formed on the politicians face, ice breaking around him, "I mean- I don't wish for you to leave this world early. I know you are not ruled by your heart, and sentiment is a weakness… But look after our family, provide for them. Please."
There was no response. Mycroft was trying to make it easy.
Sherlock groaned and took several audible breaths before speaking. "John… Know that I love you. You need to live, for Rosie. I will not allow you to sink as you did all those years ago. You never doubted I was capable of emotion, despite the way I conducted myself. Take it as a-"
CRACK
"Move! Everyone out! Now!
"There's no time! Go!"
"Run!"
In a split second, the silence became screams.
Sherlock jolted against the sound and was suddenly hoisted upright.
"Wiggins!" Sherlock exclaimed.
"No time for pleasantries, Shezza! The ceilin' is gonna go! You got ninety seconds at best!"
A sound like of rocket breaking apart sounded overhead. Discombobulated, the detective span-
Ahmed Moran lay unconscious on the floor behind him. What the-
"I knocked 'im out! I'll take 'im! Go grab Viola now!" Wiggin's yelled.
Sherlock stepped back, eyes saucers of shock. Focus! Instantly, he bolted towards Viola. She kneeled on the floor, arms cradling Matteo's paling face. "Don't make me go! Don't make me-"
"Sherlock!" Cried John, visibly panicking.
Sherlock rounded in on him, "Go. Help Mycroft, he's intensely dehydrated. Get as many civilians out as you can as you go. That's an order!"
By pure reflex, John saluted, with a firm stamp of his foot, then raced over to the disorientated politician.
Sherlock deduced Viola quickly. God, she was a state. "Please don't make me-"
"Viola," Sherlock crouched beside her, "We need to go. There is no time for emotion. Not now."
"I can't leave him! It's my fault, it's my-"
"Stop being stupid!" He snapped, then cursed inwardly.
Far away in the stalls, a chunk of ceiling fell inwards. Moonlight shone through the hole.
"Viola, listen to me. We will move whether you like it or not." He grabbed her face in his hands, and God, she looked so young.
Her bright blue eyes refused to tear away from Matteo's body, "Papa I killed him-"
"No," He pulled her to his chest, and kissed her hair, the gesture felt so unnatural but necessary, "No. Come on. Viola, there's no time. I don't want you to die. Please. Please."
Suddenly, he shot to his feet, holding her in his arms.
Another chunk of ceiling plummeted to the ground, dust burst into the air.
The lights went out.
Viola protested, kicked, screamed. But Sherlock sprinted. Get her out. Get her to safety. He leapt over crumbled brick, shouting commands to teenagers struggling through the doors. Constantly, he looked back for people, mind deducing rapidly for signs of people left. And saw no one.
As he neared the door, a sickening sound of timber ripping filled his ears.
"Za che zu!" He bellowed.
A final flurry of movement and he exploded through the doors. It was like emerging from deep water. The air was dry, thick, but he drank it open in huge gasps. He kept running and running and didn't stop. Ahead, he saw John sprawled opposite Mycroft. The sight of them caused his legs to collapse, and finally, he fell, unceremoniously putting Viola on the road. A huge rumbling sound emerged from behind them, followed by a deafening crash as the ceiling fell inwards. Instinctively, Sherlock pushed himself to a seated position, bent over his family, valiantly trying to protect them from the ash, the glass, the smoke.
They're alive. They're safe.
An unmeasurable amount of time past until the earth began to stir again. As the dust settled, the sound of photographers' cameras began to fill the air, shortly followed by fresh sirens and cries for help.
Sherlock coughed against the dust, dragging himself to a better position.
"Sherlock are you alright?" John wheezed, pushing himself to his knees.
"Fine. Mycroft?"
"Still in existence." Huffed the politician through bleary eyes.
"Viola?"
After a moment, Viola opened her eyes. They shone brighter than the police car lights reflecting around her. Sherlock almost cried. He was so grateful she was alive.
The sound of rapid footsteps approaching sounded in their ears, and they turned to see a plethora of medics coming to their aid. Sherlock batted them away, pushing himself to his feet. His shirt was ripped, his face scratched, his hair dusted grey, his mouth dry as a desert. But he was alive.
"Sherlock!"
Sherlock turned his head with a wince, to see Lestrade moving through the crowd of young people. Relief hit the detective first, and despite everything, he smiled. Lestrade looked normal, silver-haired, flustered, and professional. But as he got closer, he saw an urgency; The lines on his face were deeper, the sweat too pronounced.
Something was wrong.
"Sherlock-" Lestrade panted, "Are you alright?"
"What's wrong?"
"Have you seen Molly?"
The world turned on its axis.
"What?"
"She went after you, Sherlock. Channel 4 caught her managing to get through one of the toilet windows-"
Molly's missing.
"-She found Wiggins and he came out-"
No no no-
"And brought in MI5 through there. But we can't see her. Was there anyone left inside?"
He couldn't breathe. The broken building exploded partially into flames overhead. Sherlock's mind palace exploded in the same manner. It burned. "She's still in there!"
"Hang on- Sherlock we don't know that. There are hundreds of people outside!"
The words didn't penetrate the fire. Orange reflected against blue in his irises. "…No, she's still in there. I know it-"
He went to move, and Lestrade seized his wrist. "Sherlock it's not safe. The roof is still collapsing! You are not-"
"Let me go!"
The words were a roar, violent and terrifying. With a valiant cry of a warrior, Sherlock ripped his arm away and charged forward. Police tried to grab him, he shoved them aside. Nothing could stop him. Molly was in there-
Not Molly, please- Not Molly-
Mycroft saw the commotion. Everyone did. The cameras did, and so did the world.
As Sherlock charged into the ruins, all Mycroft saw was a little boy in a striped fleece, plush bumblebee in his hand, disappearing into the darkness.
A minute stretched.
Then another.
The world dawned into silence. John gripped Mycroft's hand and for the first time in his life, he was grateful for the human contact. Tangible energy bound humanity, as they prayed for Sherlock Holmes.
"Come on, you git, come on." Muttered John impatiently.
A huge bang followed by the sound of collapsing cement suddenly echoed. And people gasped. Viola cried. Mycroft didn't blink.
Another minute passed.
"Something's wrong," John spat anxiously, "I need to go, I need to-"
Mycroft caught him, dangerously tight. "Don't. Think of Rosamund."
Out of the quiet, there was a whisper, a breeze brushing autumn leaves. A moment later, another sound, like a mole pushing through soil. A rustle of a lamb moving through long grass. Then, suddenly, a horse, galloping, leaping, screaming into daylight-
Sherlock exploded from the shadows, large gash on his forehead. He was sprinting, screaming-
"Help me!"
In his arms, was Molly Hooper, limp, wrapped like a doll in his Belstaff coat.
NHS staff ran, but John ran faster, barrelling through the crowds not missing a single step. His body was electrified. Just as he beelined towards his best friends, Sherlock fell to his knees, and frantically laid Molly out in front of him. He didn't stop shouting for help.
"John!" Sherlock chocked, "I got it wrong, she's Mary. She's Mary!"
His eyes dropped to Molly's chest, and his heart skipped a beat at the amount of blood coming. Immediately, he began to press on the wound. Sherlock was frantic.
"Eurus thinks Molly is invading the family! Haggarty stabbed her, she left her there to die and I-"
"Sherlock let me work!" John snapped, forcing aside everything that wasn't saving Molly's life. Two other Doctors ran over with first aid bags, and they forced Sherlock to the side. But he was persistent. He continued cradling her head and calling her name as an oxygen mask was forced over her head. John caught his eyes for a fraction of a second and swore he saw Sherlock's entire world shattering around him.
A minute later they ripped the top of her shirt to assess the injury. Sherlock watched them like hawks, gaging their every reaction, something to prepare him in some way-
He was wrong. He was going to lose her. He was going to-
John frowned brow knitting, staring a moment too long. Then the other doctors moved inwards around him, and he sat back, shell-shocked.
"John," Sherlock rasped, "What is it?"
"…It's a flesh wound, Sherlock." John breathed, face finally breaking out in reassurance, "Haggarty has shit aim. Molly is going to be fine."
The words were wanted so much, his brain struggled to compute them, analyse them for lies, and tell him the solution. John watched his friend stare at him, completely dazed, crumble from terror into abhorrent exhaustion. John pushed away and let the other Doctors work, crawling to Sherlock's side over the tarmac. His head slumped onto his best friend's shoulder, drained.
"Everyone's safe, Sherlock. You've done it. …Thank you."
Through dark curls, ash, and dust, Sherlock finally broke down, sobbing with relief into his bare hands.
"Festeggianti ammireremo la possanza dell'amor." – "Then in celebration will we admire the power that belongs to love"
...Well, there we have it.
Do you all have questions? I imagine so! I promise everyone will get their happy endings.
This chapter was a mammoth task to construct, and I'd love to hear your feedback. Fire away!
See you at the next one...