A/N: GUYS. I am so sorry. I feel like I'm always apologizing, but there is just. never. enough. time! Anyway- here it is. Hope you like it, hope I did our Sherlock and Molly some justice..! Thank you all so much for reading, and dropping a line- I can't thank you all enough! (Also- 100 favs! Woo!)

One more chapter left, and an epilogue... after almost two years, this has been a crazy ride. Thank you!

XXV. The House on the Hill

The air was electric. Like so many tiny spiders, the shivers crept up the length of his spine. He breathed the stale air in deeply, and felt the hairs on the nape of his neck stand slowly on end.

Blood.

There was blood in the air; the sharp, metallic tang of it biting deep into his nose, the lazier waft of gunpowder declaring itself in a whiff of smoke as it drifted past. They were twin scents which he had known often enough in days past, and had hoped never again to know so intimately. But John Watson was soldier and doctor both, and so as he inhaled, he knew two things instantly: Death, or something close to it, had been dealt here- and thus danger, and all its pitfalls, lingered long after.

"Could be dangerous," he murmured under his breath. Taking the single step over the threshold, he tightened his grip about the pistol.

"I bloody well know that, would you get on with it?" Hissed Lestrade behind him. "I'll do you no good if you won't let me in!"

John moved warily forward, cocking the pistol's hammer with the edge of his thumb. The sound seemed to echo about the foyer, and in the dim sunlight that streamed through the windows, every object, every hat stand and cabinet assumed the stance of a threat. At the far end of the corridor before them, the flickering light of a low fire danced across the ground. The great shadow of a lamp cast its darkness down across the wedge of light, willowy and tall.

It moved.

In a moment John had his back to the wall, his hand darting out to pull Lestrade along with him. The Inspector gasped in surprise, backing into a cabinet as he staggered after John's movements. His revolver slipped from his hand and, as they both watched in horror, clattered deafeningly to the floor. With an enormous bang! it exploded, shooting off down the corridor in a shower of sparks.

A shriek rang out; the sound of glass shattering filled the air. "Please don't hurt me, don't hurt me I haven't- I haven't done anything, I swear I haven't- I haven't-!" A girl's voice babbled, her voice shrill and wailing. The shadows writhed, confusing themselves into her thin, pale form.

"I thought I told you to leave!" A man roared, and like a cannon-shot Sherlock bolted from the fire-lit room, seizing the maid by her shoulders and shaking her wildly. "Be gone!"

"Sherlock!" John shouted in dismay, rushing forward as Lestrade stood aghast behind him. "What the devil is going on? Mycroft- "

"I don't care about Mycroft- I want her gone- " his eyes were wide as he pointed a trembling finger at Julie, who flung herself, cowering, against the wall.

"Mycroft was shot!" John exclaimed. Sherlock's eyes widened, and he fell back. "Go, girl," said John quickly, his voice low, "No good can come of your being here." He did not look away from his friend, leaning his head back against the door jamb as he thrust a cut and bloodied hand into his untamed curls. Julie pushed past him without a second glance, sobbing hysterically into her hands. The front door slammed behind her, and suddenly the three men were alone, with the flickering light and the odd, biting smell of- formaldehyde? John wondered.

"Sherlock," he approached with a careful, outstretched hand, as if the detective were some feral beast. "Mycroft- he-"

"I know he's alright," Sherlock sighed wearily. "You wouldn't be… as you are…" he gestured vaguely, "if he wasn't."

John nodded. "An arm wound- nothing serious, but he was lucky the shot was so wildly fired. Only…" he paused, unsure of how to break the news.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Molly was kidnapped."

"I- how did you know? What's happened?"

His mouth twitched, and he met John's gaze, only to skitter away. "I can't think," he mumbled, letting his head fall back with a thud against the door.

"What do you mean, you can't think?" Lestrade asked quizzically, pocketing his revolver.

"I cannot THINK!" Sherlock exploded, launching himself forward and into the room. The men followed, but stopped as he took up a curt, a circular pacing, the crunch of glass present with every step. "I cannot think, nor breathe, nor do a damned thing! Is this what it's like?" Sherlock halted suddenly, eyeing them both as if he had seen them for the first time. "Is this what it's like, in those funny little brains of yours? Dear God, but it must be excruciating- "

"Are those- are those tongues?" Lestrade broke in incredulously, squatting down to have a closer look at the floor. Filthy was not an apt enough word to describe the room; utter tumult and chaos dabbed the floorboards and walls. The books had been ripped from their shelves, their bindings torn and shredded as the pages soaked in the stinking brine that coated the floor, lapping languidly at their boots. The tongues, those broken pieces of flesh, were scattered amongst the broken glass like so many sodden slugs, reeking and limp. And slumped against the far wall, blocked from view by the spindly old desk, peered the boots of a man, and a smearing, sticky trail of red.

John moved forward, his perspective widening step by step as he moved, slowly, around the desk. "Jim Moriarty," he breathed, looking down at the dead man. Crouching, John studied the body before him. He had been handsome once, before the bullet ripped through the confinement of his skull. The back of his head had exploded outward, his hair slick and wet, the upper limits of the wall stained in flecks of blood and bone and tissue. "What in God's name have you done?" He asked, turning to Sherlock, who stared stonily back at him.

"I didn't kill him, if that is what you mean- this handiwork is of his own sorry devising."

"I wouldn't blame you if you had, but- he has Molly."

"I am aware."

"Then- "

"I told you," Sherlock burst out suddenly, kicking at a half-broken jar that had rolled near his foot. "I cannot think! I cannot do anything, and in so doing I know I've killed her. I find myself at a complete loss, as if my brain has never come to one conclusion, solved one puzzle in all of its thirty-two years! Moriarty- he is a madman, John, was a madman," he laughed hysterically, scrubbing both blood-spattered hands over his face. "He told me he took her and- God help me, I now have confirmation! He took my sister, killed my sister, all those years ago, and now- "

"Sherlock, look at me." John snapped, seizing both of his arms in a steely grip. "She may yet still be alive! You must think, you're the only one of us that can do this- "

But Sherlock pushed away violently, pointing a shaking hand at Lestrade. "You've brought the Inspector, you've no need of me! No need- at all- carry on, then, carry on- "

In one fluid movement, John stepped forward, raised his fist, and hit him squarely across the cheek. His lips drew into a fine line beneath his bristling mustache as he watched his friend stagger back against the fireplace, astonishment and sudden flickering awareness warring in his pale eyes. Slowly, he touched the spot high on his cheekbone, where the skin had split and the blood welled. The red stood out against his white fingertip as he held it close to his gaze. His eyelids flickered, and his stare darted to John, standing grimly with his shoulders back, ever the soldier.

"Help me," he said, and his voice cracked upon the words.

~0~0~

"A sledge would have been better a company, in this weather," Lestrade muttered under his breath. They had ridden in strangled silence for the better part of an hour, each man caught up in the web of his own twisting thoughts. Neither Watson nor Holmes responded. He blew a nervous cloud of steam from his mouth, his gloved fingers tapping earnestly against the seat in nervous anticipation. The snow continued to fall in its unrelenting stillness, packing together into a hard, crackling surface beneath the wheels of the carriage.

"Bloody awful weather. Still, at least it's not terribly cold, eh?" He rubbed his hands together hopefully as he glanced again at Holmes. The detective sat stoically, staring out at the grey expanse that was London. The buildings had begun to thin, the slow breadth of the country creeping up to greet them. Lestrade swallowed uneasily, and sighed. "Chin up, Holmes," he murmured. "Stiff upper lip, and all that. I'm sure we'll- "

"What exactly is it that you're sure of?" Sherlock snapped finally, turning to stare at the Inspector. "That we'll find her? Yes, I expect we will. That she'll be alive?" His fist tightened in his lap. "Of that I cannot be certain. Although this DAMNABLE trap might move faster!" He bellowed suddenly, lurching as far upright as the carriage would allow as his fist slammed heavily against the roof. The driver squawked something unintelligible from his perch outside and Sherlock collapsed, his head falling into his hands.

John glanced up, and saw that the blow had left a more than sizable impression. "Sherlock, the horses cannot possibly go faster, and you know the state of the trains," he said delicately, laying a hand upon his friend's sleeve.

"I don't care!" Sherlock exclaimed, raising his head to glare at him. "What I know is that, sometime in the very near future, one of these new-fangled engines the tabloids have been in an uproar over will have developed far enough to allow travelers to travel through a snowstorm at outrageous speeds, and I will be in possession of one of these machines. What I know is that the horses currently hauling our carriage have not been cared for in any sort of laudable manner, and are traveling at a truly unremarkable pace. In fact, it might be kinder to shoot them. What I know is that Molly is out there, and that I have most likely killedher with the intolerable- this- I have- I have killed her- "

"Stop it." John hissed, tightening his grip. "Stop this madness, Sherlock. There is no use, as you've told me many times before, in ripping ourselves to shreds without a single grain of truth. Yes, Molly is out there, in the gravest of danger, and yes, I swear to you this is the fastest possible way to her. I swear it. And there is very little we can do, here and now. So I must insist, my friend, before you do something uncommonly idiotic: tell us how you know. Tell us what we'll find."

"I've already told you!" Sherlock exclaimed petulantly, drawing his greatcoat closer about himself, holding himself in.

"No, you've not: you've simply given us that look- there, that's the one- that assumes we've all followed your line of logic."

"Haven't you?" He mumbled, the lines of his face taut.

"Holmes," Lestrade broke in uncomfortably. Both men turned their stares to him. He swallowed, looking from one to the other. "I regret- I regret to say I am even farther behind than Dr. Watson. I could not have solved this case without you, or countless other ones. You must understand when I say that Dr. Watson and I are wholly indebted to you, and… we could not forgive ourselves, if anything should happen to Miss Hooper. So I must humbly beg you to give us whatever information, whatever might come in useful to- "

"You fail to recognize that it is no longer a matter of finding her, it is a matter of saving her, and it grates the nerves tremendously to know that we are- " Sherlock glanced from the window. The pale sunlight skittered across the snowy fields, attempting to blind him. "- at least five miles off and plodding at the interminable tempo of a bloody tortoise!"

"Nevertheless- "

"Spare me your courtesies, Lestrade- if I had wanted another idiot in tow, I would have sent for Mrs. Hudson." He snarled. Lestrade reeled back as if struck, the hurt and anger on his face unmistakable as his lips compressed tightly. John stared impassively out of the window, unmoving.

"Forgive me," Sherlock said after a moment, and the words hung in the air, foreign and absurd as they dropped from his lips. "That was… unkind."

John's head turned, his brow raised. "Where are we going, Sherlock?" He asked flatly.

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Home."

"I'm sorry- wh- "

"Oh for God's sake, home, my home, my childhood home, Musgrave Hall. That is where my sister is buried."

"Moriarty- he killed your sister, you said, when you were children?" John frowned. Sherlock refused to meet his gaze, raising his eyes to the dent in the roof as the carriage trundled ponderously on.

"You mean to tell me that man back there was responsible for killing your sister?" Exclaimed Lestrade, aghast. "I didn't even know you had a sister, much less- "

"Inspector, please do us the uncommon courtesy of remaining silent until I conclude my thoughts, or your ruminations on the matter will go precisely nowhere. Now. As I was saying, Jim Moriarty is guilty of the death of my sister, and countless others, though Eurus was the first in this long line. These killings, I regret to inform you, have all been staged for my exclusive benefit, and have now culminated in the death of Miss Irene Adler, and the kidnapping of Miss Molly Hooper. And how, you ask, do I know where we will find Miss Hooper now? I admit, I could not have solved this riddle without… without John's help. But understanding that these acts were intensely personal- and, of course, coupled with his boots- "

"His boots?" Asked John, lifting his head and staring intently. "Was it the make? The treads?"

Sherlock smiled thinly, inclining his head. "It's ironic, isn't it? The foot speaks volumes. Boots- they were his first clue to me, John, do you remember it? It is no coincidence. Moriarty's boots were of a good, stiff leather; the sort that one pulls on against the weather. They were wet, and uniformly so, past the start of the lacings. This is to be expected, as I saw for myself that he entered from outdoors. But do you see the snow outside, John? Is it not less in the city proper, than our current country whereabouts?"

John nodded. "I see it."

"Snow melts at a faster pace in the city; the cumulative heat of buildings and bodies and the constant pounding of pedestrian feet. The water stains were past his lacings; he could not have so soaked his boots unless he had been in the country or romping in a particular mound of snow- possible, but highly unlikely. You see with this simple observation, and armed with the knowledge of my sister, I might put together a hypothesis. However, it was the mud lodged between the treads of his boots that make an irrefutable argument. The land upon which Musgrave Hall was built holds a peculiar history. The earth is red clay: there is a deposit of minerals which turns it such a curious color, and it is the only such deposit for miles around in either direction. It has made the nearby forest particularly rich, and the land yields a good crop with the local farmers. Musgrave's land is particularly blessed with this red earth, and it is this crumbling clay that I found between the treads of Moriarty's boots, and caked about the sides. In my... anxiety, I did not at first note its relevance, or the other obscenely clear signs of his presence at my family home early this morning. But mark: he had done nothing at all to hide the fact, and would have counted on my observing them. It is, again, his personal brand of arrogance: once he had completed his ultimate task, the taking of his own life would only serve to punctuate the mess I have made of mine. He has taken Molly to Musgrave Hall, where she will expire slowly- tick tock were his exact, crude words. And they were uttered as a last resort, as he so clearly saw me dissolving into the sentiment that would bar my witness to his final, terrible blow."

"And… what will that be?" Whispered Lestrade, his whole body strained and tense.

Sherlock's eyes fixed him with a colorless stare, so intent, and yet so devoid of concern that the Inspector felt himself grow colder still. "When we arrive, it will be to find Miss Hooper's body, still warm, curled around the corpse of my sister, nestled in her grave. And the weight of both their deaths will take up their proud, heavy mantles, and settle upon my own stooped shoulders."

No one of them dared to speak at this confession, as the horror of the game Moriarty had been playing began to unfurl before their eyes.

"Your sister," began John hesitantly. "Eurus is- "

"Dead, as you know, these past fourteen years."

John stared at his friend. His face was a mask of flat, unseeing marble, with not a spark lurking beneath, or even buried deep. "Do not do this," John whispered. "Do not close yourself off, Sherlock, not now- you must understand, it is balancethat keeps us human, and this balance is vital in saving the ones we love."

"How would you know?" Sherlock laughed dryly.

"Because I test this balance every single day. I could so easily have been that husk of a man that you first met, but- my friend, you saved me and, God help me, I will save you, at least from yourself."

The silence was so brittle it could have been shattered by the smallest of movements. In the deliberately moving carriage, as the winter wind battered at the doors, three men held their breath.

And, ever so slowly, Sherlock nodded, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips. "One must do what one can."

"How long, then?" Lestrade asked in a gruff voice. "How long could she survive being… well…"

"Buried alive with the remains of my sister?" White fury flickered, distorting Sherlock's face into a vision of barely controlled pain. He turned to look, again, from the window. "Five and a half hours, if she does not scream. Let us hope she has the sense not to do so."

~0~0~

The carriage edged slowly along the drive, the wheels sticking with every new clot of unturned snow. The ragged thump, thump of the horses, plodding and straining to drag them up the hill was an entirely new form of torture. In his mind's eye he could see their steaming, snorting breaths; the icy sweat slicking their flanks. And suddenly, he could not wait for a single moment longer, nor endure the knowledge that with every minute Molly was slipping further away from him.

"Enough," he hissed and, as the gate peered over the cusp of the hill, Sherlock slammed himself into the side of the door. It burst open with a bang, and winter's strange light flooded in as he threw himself from the carriage and into the snow. The shouts of his companions rang out, the air exploding in a great flurry of cold, hard white. He landed awkwardly on his side, gasping in shock as the snow found its way down his collar and into his ear. But it mattered not a whit, because Molly was close, and he would not wait, not now, when he was so close. Staggering to the gate, he launched over it, the cold metal biting through the soft leather of his gloves. Snow clung to him, in his mouth and his hair, streaming in tiny rivulets down his open greatcoat and soaking into his shirt. But the graveyard loomed up before him, with first one stone and then another, and another, and another- and there, grey and heavy and lined with old regret, the sketch of the manor house emerged over it all. The breath froze in his chest as he stared at it, its empty windows turned to hard, watchful eyes.

The house on the hill was full of ghosts. And though he knew that time was of the essence, the world seemed to fall away from him, to be dispelled to some long distant place. He could not tear his eyes from the sight of that house, the home that had raised him and dispelled him. The cold lapped about him, buffeting through the air and whispering chilly words in his ear.

Sherlock Holmes stood, silent, un-breathing: and time became an odd, transient thing, as the snow melted about his feet and the ground thrust up scraggly shoots of grass. A sudden great gust tore through his hair, standing it on end as the shout of a child rang through the air. Giggling and panting she charged past him as he looked on, her cheeks red and full of life. Eurus's brown curls bounced as she glanced over her shoulder, her pinafore clutched up into one hand and the vegvisír tight in the other, her gaze sharp and wicked. "Sherlock, come!" She demanded breathlessly. "Come quick, or Jim will find us out!"

"He already has done," he heard himself pant, not ten paces behind his sister- and then he, too, was gone. He watched the little figures disappear, over the crest of the hill, over the windswept path that led to the copse of autumn trees fringing the land. The hairs on his head stood on end, like steadfast soldiers. Slowly, he raised his gaze to the house. It had become bright, alert and watchful as the shadow of his brother standing in the window. And though he was lost in shaded memory, and Mycroft could not have been more than fourteen, his brother lifted his hand, as if in greeting. He had always been large, even at an early age; his stomach ever leading his steps. Mycroft stepped closer to the window, twitching the delicate lace shades back an inch farther, peering intently at him through the warped, ghostly glass. His breath hitched as he stared back at his brother, unsure of where he was, when he was- or if he, Sherlock Holmes, had ever truly existed at all.

The boy darted suddenly between them, his gait ungainly, the lines of his clothes covering the jutting angles of his body. He was all quick eyes and nervous twitches as he paused in his path to look between the brothers; first to one, and then the other.

"Jim," Sherlock heard the words croak from his mouth, "don't do this."

The boy turned, facing him. His eyes were dark with an anger and betrayal far beyond his years- and suddenly he was the man fully grown, the hole in his skull expanding outward into mortifying flesh with every passing second. "Why, Mr. Holmes, it's already been done."

"Sherlock!" And within a moment John had barreled into him with Lestrade close on his heels, tearing him from the confines of his mind.

The house on the hill was silent. The trees were dead.

"You can't just- " John began, mopping at his brow.

"Can't I?" Sherlock growled, scanning their surroundings. He shook himself slightly, his fist flexing and curling tremulously.

John stared at him skeptically, his eyes narrowed. "Are you al- "

"Of course I'm alright." He snapped, closing his eyes and breathing in the scent of winter. When he opened them, he found they were stood together nearly knee-deep in snow, the graves grey pockmarks against the white expanse. "This way." He growled.

With every step he tore a great, sagging hole, the deep cold creeping, unnoticed, up his calves. His feet knew the way as if it had been yesterday, as if he had never grown old and the days had slipped by unmarked. And, stony-faced, they came to where the grave forced its way up from the earth, Eurus Holmes, beloved sister, darling, daring, manipulative girl, bones and dust, you drove us all to madness with the tips of your precious fingers.

Only the grave had been opened. The ground fell away beneath their feet into a dank, muddy hole, a patchwork of white, and brown, and red. The snow whirled around them, obscuring their vision and dotting their hair. The coffin was a dull thing, half edged in mud and sediment. It was the two forms that drew the eyes, languid and limp as paper dolls.

"Dear God," John whispered. Sherlock stared mutely, his world going still around him. One figure lay splayed over the other, and through the tangle of limbs and the odd mounds of snow that had formed over them, he knew in an instant it was not her. But as he caught sight of her ragged hair, the arch of her brow half-hidden beneath the man's blood-soaked collar, his heart seized in his chest. Without a word he clambered down into the grave, shoving the man atop her aside and drawing Molly into his arms.

She was cold, much too cold, and his eyes were everywhere at once: the tip of her nose a deep, pomegranate red, the fingertips and toes beginning to blister into a noxious blue-white, her body wrapped in Mycroft's overlarge dressing gown. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but simply found himself gasping against her frigid cheek. Molly Hooper, he thought, Molly Hooper, as if by thinking her name it might force her eyes to open. But it was his traitorous fingers that found their way close to her skin, pressing deep into the neck, searching for proof. And there, after several terrible seconds- there, the pulse fluttered, ever so faintly, beneath his fingertips. He choked, the relief pouring into him in crashing waves held long at bay. His lips sought hers, pressing in kiss after kiss, a warmth to her chill, shared breath, shared time, shared life. He held her close, struggling to wrap her closer, deeper, into himself-

"Hand her up!" John called, beckoning furiously. "She'll be dangerously hypothermic-"

Sherlock stared at him blankly, fighting the sudden urge to refuse, to never let her out of his arms again-

"Now, Sherlock! There's no time to waste!"

He stood, lifting her silently, his arms trembling from her dead weight. John disappeared with her over the lip of the hole, and his heart dropped from his chest. It was suddenly imperative that he not lose sight of her, the panic seizing up inside him as he clawed his way frantically up with the help of Lestrade's outstretched arm.

"Give her to me." He insisted breathlessly.

John obeyed without a word, his face grim-set. And with a single-minded purpose he had thought lost to him, Sherlock turned back the way he had come, through the relenting snow and the puddling footprints, back to the house on the hill. Had he ever really left? Dimly he was aware of the shouts behind him, and the aching breaths in his chest. His back had dotted in icy sweat, and the sound of his body roared in his ears, all to the thudding pulse that echoed of Molly. Molly. Molly.

The eyes that opened stopped him in his tracks. In his arms she was a fragile bird, beaten and bruised and numb. But still she looked up at him, half a challenge, and half a welcome, despite it all. Molly's eyes were big and black as wells, and he knew suddenly that he had fallen into those wells in a time long since past, and drowned in them. He was hers so thoroughly, so completely, that the abrupt knowledge forced him to his knees. Together they sank deep into the snow, and he held their selves, their twin souls, together tightly for that small space in time, wordless with wonder.

"Why are you crying?" She mumbled after a moment- and flinched, as if the small words were enough to cause pain.

The taste of salt clung to his lips. Sherlock blinked, and felt the dampness that dripped from his lashes. "I…" and his voice, so often resonant and demanding, shattered in the air.

Molly smiled faintly. "I am come back to you, Mr. Holmes," she sighed, and closed her eyes.