The gun is oddly weighty, as if after over a decade of always having one with reach, her arm is finally tiring. She stuck it back in her waistband before they left the house, not bothering to flick the safety on.

"It's um…nice to see you Wom?"

She smiles wryly at John as she twists her hair into a bun. "He already knows I exist. What's he going to do, have me beaten up again?"

"How's, um," he tilts his head toward Sherlock, who's paying the cab.

"Oh, it's fine. We're fine, he's fine, I'm fine. Couldn't be angry anymore, really."

"Did you know we met with him – Magnusson - today, on the landing?"

"I heard, yeah. What did you think?"

"Uh, the 'Blackmail Napoleon' does seem appropriate." The skyscraper looms above them, a steel and glass empire in its own right. "You alright, then – with doing…whatever it is we're doing here?"

"I almost shot him earlier but that would be disobeying a direct order from Mycroft to 'not shoot Charles Magnusson,' and we both know I'm rubbish at that. Sherlock! Stop dallying!"

"Sorry. Man didn't have change. Now, John, I'm sure you're wondering what we're doing here."

"Um, breaking into Magnusson's office?"

The trio step through the glass doors and into an atrium that feels a century ahead. It's meant to intimidate, to make you feel small. From interns to the editor-in-chief, the white on white on silver, the staircases, the multitude of checkpoints made everyone resist the urge to shrink a little. Wombat rolls her eyes as she scans herself through the barrier.

"God, I hate Scandinavians."

"Why won't either of you tell me what's happening?"

Wombat turns. "Well, I'm not entirely sure what Sherlock has planned, but I do know you're going to think we're both extraordinarily cruel when you find out."

"You can't be cruel. You weren't even here," Sherlock calls over his shoulder.

"Oh please, it was my idea."

"Is this to do with Janine?"

But Sherlock takes off over him, rambling about security systems and canteens and private lifts. Wombat lags behind, letting her mind open up and rove over the offices they pass. It's late, and most have left for the weekend. The ones that remain send her dull ideas.

Christ, why can't anyone teach this bastard to use a semi-colon.

Maybe he fancies Lissa, maybe that's why…

Martini, extra dry, extra olives.

By the time she reaches the lift it's too late. He's already done it. The tiny box is out of his pocket and in his hands. The ring is sparkling even under the dim lights. When John turns to see her reaction she's gone.

"There's a job to do Wom."

"What if I can't." Her voice wavers. Her hand is locked over her mouth as it distorts in pain. Her chin crinkles and just forward. She follows them into the lift anyway.

"She's a person, Sherlock. She has feelings. You can't just do that to her."

"Well, once she finds out that I only proposed to break into her bosses office, she shouldn't want to be with me anyway."

"That's not the point!"

Sherlock casts a glance where he think Holiday might be, but sees only cool steel. "I don't know why you suddenly care so much."

Half a sentence gets out before being cut off by a sob. "Because you would never even consider, never even think about-!" Think about marrying me.

John flinches.

"Sleep deprivation is making you overly emotional," Sherlock snaps. "John's right. There's a job to do."

If only she had moved faster. If only she hadn't been so upset. Her mind should have been opened, sensing everyone around them. A thousand if-onlies poured through her head as the gunshot rings out, as she sprints those last few steps into the room – and she sees the attacker. Her mind clears, her body reconnects with light. The hand with the gun falls limply to her side. It's no surprise really; she should have been expecting it.

Sherlock hears their clipped tones only vaguely as he falls.

"Thank you."

"Thank you? There's no assurance he'll live."

"He'll live. But if you ever come near him again, I will destroy you."

"What about John?"

"At least John knows the truth about who I am." This is a cruel thing to say to a woman so like her, but Holiday turns her back on Mary and Magnusson and rushes to Sherlock's side.

"I'm calling an ambulance," Magnusson assures her.

"Glad you're offering him that courtesy." His pulse is still strong. She whips off her jacket and shirt, pressing the cotton onto the gush of cherry red.

"Oh, you were barely injured. It wasn't personal."

"You're lucky I promised my superior I wouldn't shoot you. Sherlock! Sherlock, love you need to stay with me." But his eyes are drifting closed.

"Wombat, what's happening?" John is in the room now, by her side. Magnusson is speaking quickly on the phone. She can't think. Sherlock is dying and she can't think of what to do.

"Shut up! Shut up! Both of you shut up and stop thinking so loudly! I have to fix this! It's my fault."

She cuts off the part of her mind that's listening to them, cuts off the part that's panicking about the blood, and she focuses on Sherlock. There's no plan, she doesn't know what she's doing as she reaches out. Silence.

It's a deep silence, slow moving where the current of the world and the current of his mind counter each other. She sinks into it, releasing all the air from her chest and relaxing into the water. Something reaches around her and pulls her down, down, down. Her lungs burn; she can't risk breathing and they're lying flat in her chest screaming for air. Against her instincts, she exhales every last bit, turning herself into a stone of a person.

I'm sorry. Her mind pushes at the currents. I'm so sorry Sherlock.

Far away, his chest rises slightly under her hands. The heart beat that was so strong is fading. Holiday screams.

Only she doesn't scream; she never quite gets there. She's standing on a spiral staircase. The old oak bannister, smooth under her hand, smells of wood polish, and the carpet runner is old but well-maintained. Three steps up is a landing of white marble

"Sherlock?" The echo of her voice bounces back to her. Her footsteps sound too; orthopedic shoes are gone, replaced by a pair of stilettos. It's inconvenient; she can barely hear:

"Good boy Redbeard."

"Sherlock!" She takes off into a sprint, running in the surreal way of dreams. Doors blur by her.

"They're putting me down too."

"Don't be dramatic. You'll survive." Her knees want to buckle at the sight of him, so she lets them, thudding down to the marble beside him. "You'll survive."

"Holiday?" His eyes are wide, still those of a child reunited with his dog. "What are you doing here?"

"You let me in, stupid. You dressed me in this." Moscow. They went out to a club where Holiday felt tiny and plain amidst the Russian women. As the night turned towards dawn, she stuck her gun in the elastic waistband of her backless dress and took off down the poorly lit streets. Sherlock found her in the metro half-asleep, and took her back to their bolt hole.

He stared at her. "You knew about Mary."

"Yes."

"That was the horrible thing you did." The scene around them twitched; the dog was gone.

"Sherlock, you can't think about this now, okay. Come here."

"Molly told me I can't go into shock." He buries his face against her. She feels real. Smells real.

"No, you can't, but you won't die. She shot you in the same place I shot Mycroft."

"Is that something they teach you in spy school?"

She doesn't respond right away. In the real world, someone is pulling her up away from him. People are swarming.

"Holiday." Even in his mind he's pale. The room flickers again. "Holiday you have to help me."

"Love, I'm right here. I'm right here." She presses against him even as John holds her away. He feels her mind like he did that morning after their first mission, only now it sounds against his, swarming with colorful emotions.

"Holiday." She fades. John has his arms locked around her as she flails to stay in place.

"You have to fight this, Sherlock. I lov-"

The real world swirls around her. Magnusson was the first thing to swim into focus before her eyes, beiges and blues solidifying into a man. She lunged, but John was strong.

"Wombat. Wombat you have to calm down." John's voice was close to her ear. "They're going to take care of him." He's holding her so tightly he's sure she can't breathe, but she continues to struggle, trying wildly to kick out his legs.

"I'm going to kill you." She claws at the air like an animal, words shrieking out of her. "I'm going to kill you for what you've done to my family."