In this fic the name of Sherlock's mother is Mycroft Lydia Holmes, and she goes by her second name. We know that in BBC Sherlock Mrs Holmes's initials are ML, and so I'm proceeding as if her side of the family went by tradition of giving children the maternal maiden name. Girls were usually known by their second names in this case, but boys often did go by them. I'm going with 'Mycroft Lydia' in particular because in one of the better-known pastiches her name is Lydia Mycroft, which are the same initials but reversed.


Life, Unexpected

Sherlock's apprehension for The Woman shifted to a different dread the closer he and John drew to Guildford. Visions of his brother, wan, pale, and diminished, pushed through his mind, but since he was still irate over Mycroft's egregious deception Sherlock's feelings towards him were decidedly mixed.

Again he glanced in the rearview mirror at his son. He needed the sight of Nero's fresh vitality to banish the bleakness of the memento mori, so that he could move forward with the engine of his focus fixed solely on his mission, and not pulled awry by personal matters.

When they pulled around the curve that led to the hospital's reception he saw that Andrea had collected his parents, who were standing just outside of the main entrance looking disconcerted. He felt momentarily relieved that he wouldn't have to see Mycroft again, but then his nerves took yet another turn and his pulse-rate quickened as he recalled what John had said about his parents seeing in an instant that Nero was their grandchild. Sherlock's elite powers of observation meant that on occasion he didn't know when something was also obvious to others, and now was one of those times. But the extraordinary circumstances of Nero's conception, birth, and life to this point aside, there was no denying the basic fact of his paternity.

Sherlock couldn't deceive his parents about who Nero was, but neither did he have the ability at this time – practically or emotionally – to delve into a detailed conversation with them about it. It would have to wait.

He put the car into park and experienced a flashback to the previous day, to when Irene had been the one sitting by his side rather than John. That moment had been fraught with a different weight and tension, and now it seemed as if no time had passed, and yet everything between he and Irene had changed. They had reached a pinnacle of transparency, understanding, and indivisibility in their relationship that he could not have anticipated twenty-four hours before.

With a chastising shake of his head he stepped out of the car, glancing down through the tinted rear windows to where he could just make out his son's small but robust outline. Then he drew in a fortifying inhale, buttoned his jacket, and strode towards his parents.

He accepted the kiss from his mother and the distracted half-hearted hug from his father, before stepping back and raising himself to his full height.

No words came.

"Andrea's brought us out here but she won't say what this is about," his mother said after a length of uneasy silence. "Says it's for you to tell?"

Sherlock glanced at his brother's PA but her face was impassive, and then he gave his mother a terse nod.

"Have you found them, the ones who did this to Myc?" his father asked, his voice hoarse.

Sherlock was aware of three faces turned to his, riveted but wary, although of course John had a different reason for his nervous expectation.

He let out a soft, low cough. "Yes, although they're still at-large. But we expect to have made a significant breakthrough by tonight. Which is why I'm here, I…"

Again his mind went blank.

He opened his mouth, shut it, reopened it, and then clamped it shut again, as if the physical mechanism of preparing to speak would prompt his mind to supply words. It didn't; instead he felt his face begin to flush as his parents looked more and more bemused.

"Sherlock?" his mother said, her expression edging into concern, just as his father asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Yes, I…"

Again he came to a stuttering halt, and he compensated by swearing vividly in his mind.

As he had pointed out earlier to John, it wasn't as if he were a stranger to delivering life-altering news. Although he considered it a tedious formality that served as the conclusion to many cases, it was nonetheless effortless to give verdicts to clients, be they ostensibly good or bad. Above all he was an ally to the facts, and he was merely the vector through which they passed from one party to another.

However he wasn't 'merely a vector' in this instance, and though he was fairly skilled at governing his own emotions, with Nero that was impossible. The information being relayed now was of a deeply personal, meaningful, and revealing nature, and he felt paralysed.

Telling his mother and father about Nero ought to be much easier than it had been to notify John. He was far less concerned with managing their perceptions of him, or how the news of his fatherhood would compromise those perceptions. They had known him for his entire life, of course – had raised him through the formative years that he went by 'Billy', had seen him through addiction, relapse, and recovery despite his own hostility and distance at that time, and had been there for his climb, rung by laborious rung, towards finally coming into his own as a consulting detective – so he had no apprehensions about reputation with them. Moreover, the news that he'd fathered a child would come as just as much of a life-altering shock as it had for John, but his parents would rejoice rather than worry about its implications.

The words themselves were simple and he'd already uttered them once today, so why, as he looked into the wide eyes of his mother and father, did they remain so wedged and intractable in his throat?

"Sherlock has someone to introduce you to," John said, and Sherlock turned his own wide eyes on his friend, who prompted him with a firm, encouraging nod.

Sherlock's mind stalled for another moment before he lifted up a stiff, formal hand toward John.

"Yes. This is Dr John Watson," he said to his parents, and John let out a huff of air, but gamely reached out to shake hands with his mother and father, who both still looked nonplussed, but as if certain ideas were starting to form.

Then his mother exclaimed, "Oh – John!" and shook her head as whatever it was that she'd been starting to think was replaced by the realisation of whom he was.

"Yes, John is the one who's been assisting in and documenting the work I do; you might have heard me mention him."

"Maybe once or twice," she said with some irony. "Of course, hello. It's been a hell of a day – a week – but it's a pleasure to meet you after all of this time."

She shook John's hand with warmth, though she still looked disconcerted by the odd lead-up to the introduction.

"My parents, Siger and Lydia Holmes," Sherlock continued.

"Even our eldest has mentioned you Dr Watson, so it's very good to finally put a face to a name," Siger added, though he also looked uncertain.

"'John,' please. And it's wonderful to meet you as well," John said, and Sherlock noticed that beneath the geniality his friend was bemused himself as he took in Sherlock's parents. Sherlock had said next to nothing about them through the years, and he could read in John's expression and his body language that whatever he had been expecting of the people who had raised the Holmes Brothers, this was not it.

In another time, other circumstances, introducing John to his mother and father would've been a monumental step in lifting the curtain on his past, and would've been a significant concession in privacy because in its own way it also threatened John's perception of him. Introducing them was nothing to what learning of Irene and Nero had done, though, so it mattered very little now.

"I'm so sorry we aren't meeting you under better circumstances," his mother was saying. "The two of us must look a dreadful mess."

"No, I'm the one who's sorry for intruding. This is a family moment and—"

"Oh now that we've all met we're all family," she said bracingly though there was a small catch in her voice, and Sherlock saw John give her a small but genuine smile. "Mycroft might be in hospital, but we know that it's thanks to you that our youngest is still well and safe, and we—"

"All right," Sherlock interrupted sharply before they could proceed further with this embarrassing and time-consuming tangent, and John gave a nod and stepped back, crossing his arms behind him. Nonetheless, the exchange had provided Sherlock with a way into this at last, and he took a deep breath.

"John didn't mean himself—although yes, he warrants introduction too. But if you're going to call this a 'family' moment, he's not the only one who should be included."

Three pairs of eyes fixed onto him once again, and after a moment even Andrea looked up from her phone to watch things unfold.

"Before I proceed, though, I'd like to make it clear that this is very new information for me as well. I didn't wilfully withhold anything from the two of you, and you're finding out almost as soon as I—"

"Oh heavens Sherlock, out with it!" his mother interrupted, and John gave a small, humourless chuckle.

Sherlock shot him a glare that John absorbed with a slow, impenitent blink, and it occurred to Sherlock that he was using this as just another delaying tactic.

He swallowed and gave a resolute mental nod, deciding that he were unable to tell he had better show.

Pivoting, he circled the car, opened the door, unbuckled Nero and pulled him from his carseat, then re-joined the group. He kept his eyes fastened on the top of his son's head until the last moment, when with great effort he raised them back up to his parents.

He found them both staring at Nero with identical blank, uncomprehending expressions, though Sherlock could see emotions start to churn in the depths of their eyes as notions of his identity began to materialise.

"Is he… yours?" Sherlock's father asked John with a distracted air of polite inquiry, but his voice was flat from doubt and confusion, and when he peered at the baby and then back at Sherlock his expression became even more clouded.

Without tearing her eyes from Nero's face Sherlock's mother reached out a groping hand for her husband's arm, then grasped onto it hard, her chest beginning to rise and fall with rapid, unsteady breaths.

For a time it seemed that his parents were caught up in suspended animation, forming a frozen tableau of shock and disbelief.

"Sherlock, this child…" his mother started, finally breaking the spell. "Good Lord, he looks just like—oh, but that's – he can't be… can he…? Is – Is he…"

Sherlock had never seen his mother so at a loss for words – she could talk the hind legs off of a donkey, as his colourful uncle used to say – and Sherlock summoned up all the force of his will to complete the thought for her.

"Your grandson? Yes."

For some reason he found it easier to introduce Nero like that, rather than as my son. He had found his way to acceptance in his fatherhood, but incorporating into his life such casual references to Nero like that would take much more time.

"Well it's obvious, isn't it?" he said, finding in all this foreignness some comfort in condescension. "I know my powers of observation are a bit above the norm but surely it's not hard to—"

"Well yes, but… Darling, it isn't the resemblance that we're finding so…!" his mother interrupted with a choked, incredulous laugh, and then with a look of combined infatuation and greed, she released her husband and moved forward.

Sherlock readied himself for her embrace but she ignored him and gathered up Nero into her arms. To his surprise he felt a mild pulse of jealousy, though it was quickly allayed by the new look on his mother's face. He recognised it: it was an expression of the anticipation, fascination, and elation that Sherlock always felt at the discovery of a new and compelling case.

Nero had gone good-naturedly, and was now resting one hand on her shoulder for balance as he swivelled at his waist to look around the circle of people. He cracked a slow, shy smile, clearly enjoying being the focus of so much unwavering attention, and the discovery and yet another familial trait unnerved Sherlock. He saw the chain of Holmes, extending from the past into the future, connecting him to his family in a way he never had been before, at least not beyond his brother. Now what was 'obvious' was the way in which Sherlock's mother was in him, and in turn how Sherlock was in his son.

He looked at his mother and father, people he'd taken for granted at best, and whom he'd viewed as antagonists and embodiments of wilful mediocrity at worst, people to whom he'd set himself up in opposition for so long as the embodiment of the conventional and mundane, and felt a new inking of kinship and understanding with them. The prospect of parenthood daunted him in a way that nothing else ever had, not even taking on his recovery those years ago, and it gave him a faint appreciation for the attempt they'd made to provide children such as he and his brother with structure and loving stability, even at the most trying of times.

His parents huddled around the baby, their expressions both awed and ravenous as they looked over every inch of him, and for the first time since learning of Nero he witnessed first-hand how the infant affected someone beyond himself.

In his work Sherlock had seen first-hand how the loss of a child could devastate or even destroy a community, but he had never paused to consider that the inverse might be true – that the addition of a child could build and strengthen it.

His father lifted a finger and put it into Nero's hand and Nero obliged to hold of it, his smile widening to reveal half a dozen new white teeth, and in unison they both broke out into great smiles themselves, tears springing into their eyes.

"How?" Lydia asked as she stroked the back of Nero's head, just where his hair curled into fine tendrils.

"We never thought…" his father started but trailed off, too engrossed with his grandchild to finish the thought.

"Never," his mother repeated fervently.

"Don't think any of us did," John put in, deadpan, and Sherlock's parents looked up slightly taken aback, but then their lips twitched in appreciation.

"He's so like Sherlock was…" Siger marvelled after returning his attention to Nero, and Lydia nodded, her eyes glazing as she was transported by memory.

"He really was the sweetest thing. Could be fussy, but what a charmer. The only time he ever gave us any real trouble was when we laid him down to sleep…" She gave an indulgent chuckle. "Then he raised holy hell."

"Never wanted to miss a thing," Siger added with a soft smile.

Sherlock mentally flinched and glanced over at John, expecting to see him working hard to suppress a smirk and not to make a comment. Instead he found that his friend looked interested and slightly touched.

His mother's eyes suddenly cleared as her look of nostalgia was replaced by one of suspicion.

"But what about his mother, Sherlock? Who is she? Where is she?"

At the mention of The Woman his heart gave a hard, urgent thud, though he managed to keep his features impassive.

"You've met her," he said cryptically, and Lydia cocked her head to study him through narrowed eyes.

After only a moment her expression honed into one of realisation and triumph.

"It's the woman, that woman – yesterday, here – yes?"

"Yes, 'The Woman.'"

In his peripheral vision he saw John's chin jerk Sherlock's direction as he heard the salutation in the way Sherlock repeated his mother's words.

"Her name is Irene Adler."

"Irene Adler… I knew she wasn't just a client!"

"No, as it turns out, she isn't…" he said, although more to himself, as he recalled how they'd found their way to an uneasy rapprochement at Baker Street, back when they had both still been on the defensive and trying to discern where the other stood.

Warmth filled the chilled hollows in his chest at the fact that they'd been able to dispense with all of that. The circumstances they now faced were perilous in the extreme, but he far preferred the black and white nature of their situation to that ambiguous hell. He knew precisely who he was and how to behave during what came next.

"We– we didn't think you liked women," his father said quietly, still transfixed by his grandson's face. Nero lifted both arms to give an excited, flailing wave, as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. "Not like Mycroft per sé, just… not interested."

"Yes, well," Sherlock said curtly as his face heated, "what's the 'exceptional objects' rule in maths? You should remember, Mother."

She clicked her tongue with impatience and repeated in the authoritative voice he recollected all too well from his own childhood that meant that she was serious, "But who is she, Sherlock?"

He opened his mouth but for the third time in almost as many minutes found himself in the unfamiliar position of having no words ready to speak. Really, though, how could he answer that, such a paradoxically simple yet impossible question?

Less than 24 hours had passed since the second time he had asked Irene that same question but in reverse, when he knew she would answer him without pretence or deflection.

Who am I to you?

She had replied in the only way they ever had framed their meaning to one another, and the only way they ever could. To attempt to describe it in any other manner would only minimise and undermine what they meant to each other.

My exception.

Perhaps it was all of his chance reflections on family, but again he thought of his uncle. The man had been a person of deep faith, active in their local CoE parish and somewhat evangelical about it, albeit progressive. When Sherlock was a young adolescent he rejected any concept that couldn't be described using observable terms and descriptions, saving his most fervent disdain for anything pertaining to God or the spiritual. His uncle had attempted to convey the concept that while (his) God was infinite, language was a human construct and therefore could never accurately convey the reality of something so immeasurable. Lacking the proper vocabulary for something did not mean that it didn't exist, just that people were limited and therefore inadequate to the task.

Sherlock had been equally dogmatic, but his religion was logical empiricism, and his patron saints were Neurath, Hempel, Hume, and Ayer. He had dismissed his uncle's premise with the absolute certainty and contempt that only a freshly-minted intellectual can muster.

In retrospect, one reason he had resisted Irene's pull for so long was because he'd still been of that same mind-set, and he hadn't been able to define how or why he was drawn to her.

After their meeting he'd wracked his mind for labels, though even that was difficult in the context of such an unfamiliar situation. Was it simple intrigue? Admiration? Some sort of recognition? Was he intimidated by her? Did she only superficially appeal to him because he liked the way she reflected him? Was he physically attracted to her? If yes, did he want to act on that in any way? And how was the equation of answers to those questions different every time he thought about her?

The very process of considering the matter had become as nebulous, overwhelming, and confusing to him as the feelings themselves, because he simply did not possess the tools or systems with which to frame them, and that was unprecedented for him. Without vocabulary to describe it he could not then explain it, and that meant that there was no function by which he could compartmentalise and subvert it, which made it dangerous.

Having no notion how to react to her he'd ignored her as best he could, although he had never attempted to dismiss her from his mind. Aside from the fact that he'd suspected it would be something easier said than done, she was far too interesting for that.

It was only when he had been driven by her loss to express himself through the language of music, with its altogether different yet no less valid rules of expression, that he'd connected what his uncle had been attempting to convey more than twenty years before with what he was experiencing.

Whatever Sherlock felt, it might not be quantifiable but it was unequivocally real, and unless he intended to actively ignore its existence in perpetuity he had no choice but to accept the irrational into his life.

…Though he still considered organised religion a load of tosh.

He realised that he hadn't answered his mother and judging by the raised eyebrows on everyone's faces, quite a bit of time had passed.

"Technically at one point she was a client. We've known each other for several years, actually—"

"I think we can all gather that," his mother said with a pointed look at Nero.

"But… you said you just found out?" she went on, apparently recalling how he'd prefaced the introduction. "She kept this from you, kept your child from you?"

She tightened her hold on Nero as her fair complexion began to flush and her blue eyes sparked dangerously. From us, they said.

"She had reason, Mother."

"Look, I'm not condoning anything," John stepped in as Lydia opened to mouth to argue, her frame swelling. "But it appears she was in danger and felt that it would be safest for the baby if she was in hiding.

"And our son couldn't have helped? He's Sherlock, for God's sake! No one else in the world is better equipped to make sure Nero would be safe."

Siger put a calming hand on Lydia's back but John made a noise of reluctant agreement in his throat at that, and she whirled around to fix her gaze, as bright as her son's and just as unremitting, onto him.

"So, you know her."

"We've met several times, she, er…"

John shifted his weight and glanced towards Sherlock, but Sherlock remained silent and straight-backed. His outward appearance gave every indication that he was uninterested in and perhaps even irritated by the conversation, but in fact he was keen to hear how his friend might describe Irene when required to be politic, and he didn't want to influence John's words in any way.

"She must be extraordinary…" Siger said in faint speculation, leaving the rest of his thought – to capture our son's interest - unspoken.

"Yes—yes, she is that," John answered, seizing on the morally-neutral descriptor with obvious relief.

Yes, she is, Sherlock repeated with silent vehemence, and then a flare of apprehension and anticipation seized him, tearing him from the topic and setting his thoughts on the work to come.

"Andrea, is the helicopter ready?"

"Not quite, but we should make our way up there now."

"Helicopter?" Siger asked, his brows creasing again, and in a different situation Sherlock would've laughed at his perpetual look of confusion.

Instead he faced his parents and pulled a quiet breath into his lungs. He could never give his mother an adequate answer about The Woman (although apparently his confession in the car had made some impression on John), but he could feed them some information, at least.

"You said you knew I'd make sure to keep Nero safe, and you're right. That's what I'm doing. What we – Irene and I – are doing, with John's help. But if we don't go at once, everything will be compromised. I won't, I can't, risk that."

"Is she responsible for – for whatever this is?" his mother demanded, her voice still formidable but sounding close to breaking.

"No," he said, and the quiet intensity of his conviction made his mother relax her posture ever so slightly.

"And you'll be leaving Nero with us…"

"With protection obviously, and only for the short-term, a couple of hours – the night at most. But yes, you're the only ones I trust. You're to go home directly, and there the security system will be armed at full capacity."

Lydia nodded at that, but Siger's confusion was clearing at last, replaced by the gleam of emotional perceptiveness he occasionally showed.

"Would you have told us if you didn't need our help?" he asked softly.

Sherlock's lips pressed into a colourless seam, and he let out a sigh through his nose.

"…Eventually."

His parents exchanged a glance, but then his mother shifted Nero to the side and gave Sherlock a hug that was no less fervent for being one-armed.

"Come back safe, darling. For this little one, and because I don't think your father and I could bear it if anything should happen to you too, now that Mycroft—" She stopped short and then gave him a hard kiss on the cheek, but it was too late; every one of his vital responses had switched onto high-alert.

He pulled away. "What about Mycroft?"

"Just that he's so hurt, as you know," his father said quickly, but Sherlock didn't relinquish eye contact with his mother.

"No. There's more."

"Mr Holmes, we've got to go," Andrea interrupted.

"Mother."

She broke the connection to look at her husband with a sigh of dismay.

"We weren't going to say anything until we knew more, we didn't want to worry you… But darling, Mycroft isn't doing well. As you're aware he has a living will, and doctors tell us…" she pressed her lips together, shaking her head.

"He's approaching the baseline for executing his will," Sherlock said, his voice flat.

The image of his elder brother surged once more into his mind, short-circuiting all other thought. Sherlock's compromised state when he'd seen Mycroft rendered it imprecise, but carried all the dread he'd felt in that moment, making it like the lingering spectre from a childhood nightmare.

"So we need you to be all right," she answered, and this time her voice did break.

Sherlock gave a nod of combined acknowledgement and dismissal, though it was at odds with how he really felt. He hated to admit it, even within the privacy of his own mind, but he resented his mother for her slip of the tongue, and he was even more furious with Mycroft for causing him such distress when he could only cope with the simple emotion of hating him. Now he would have to work to subsume this burden of knowledge, and with everything else that was going on his efforts were wearing thin, and diverting energy and mental space required by the mission ahead.

"You be careful too, John," he heard his mother add after a period of tense silence, and from the corner of his eyes he saw her reach out to grasp John's arm. "Now that we've finally met I intend to hold onto all of you and never let go."

John reached up to squeeze her arm back with his other hand, and he gave her an earnest nod.

"Andrea, please lead the way. John?"

John nodded, but Sherlock hesitated as his eyes landed on his infant son. Finding that he needed one last touch to sustain him through the upcoming operation he touched a hand to Nero's face, and Nero looked up into his eyes, his own round blue ones radiating an innocent trust that daunted and challenged Sherlock in equal measure.

Then he directed a terse final nod to his parents, and turned on his heel, unsurprised but gratified to hear John fall into step behind him a moment later.

"So, those were your parents," John said as they exited the lift on the top floor and moved towards the roof access door.

"Yes."

"They're—"

"Shut up."

"I wasn't going to say anyth—!"

"Not now," Sherlock growled, and he was taken aback by the anger in his voice.

Clearly he hadn't managed to clear his head the news that Mycroft's prognosis had taken a turn for the worse, but he would have to ensure that that was dealt with well before they arrived on-site in London.

John had pushed out a sigh through his nose but didn't seem offended, and that almost made Sherlock want to say something to soothe the sharpness of his words. But then they were on the helipad and the aircraft waiting for them momentarily pushed any other thought from his mind.

In spite of his bitterly divided feelings towards his brother, he couldn't help but be impressed with the reach Mycroft commanded even in his comatose, near-death condition. They were to travel in London in a Sikorsky UH-60 Blackhawk, one of the stealthiest helicopters ever made.

He gave private thanks that Andrea was so competent. Thomson wouldn't beat them to the location in London but Moran very well could, and Sherlock and company would require every advantage that surprise could afford them.

Still, the air pounded with an infrasonic pulse that set Sherlock's teeth on edge, and the vibrating bass that he felt more than heard corresponded with the adrenaline drumming through him, doing nothing to ease his sense of agitation.


The four people in the helicopter were given headsets for communication, but aside from a short safety briefing by the pilot the ride was silent. Sherlock and Andrea had already agreed on both primary logistics and additional contingencies and there were no additional developments to discuss, and John sat unmoving and blank-faced. The events of the day had apparently caught up with him and put him into temporary stasis.

Sherlock noted then dismissed John's state, and used the time to prepare himself; he had left the interaction with his parents compromised in a variety of ways and he couldn't carry those things with him now. He didn't go over anything pertaining to the task ahead because he was already duly familiar with its variables and his options, and he didn't want to overcommit to any specific course because maintaining the ability to remain flexible and improvise was essential. Instead he focussed on the streets, cars, and landmarks streaking beneath them, using them as a kind of meditative tool.

Once he let go of the thought that one of the cars contained Irene, the sight scrolling below calmed him in some deep and fundamental way. At first he assumed that it was simply the comfort of the familiar, though he realised some time later that there was more to it than that.

For every three or four shops, schools, off-licenses or blocks of flats that he recognised in the grid of lights below, there was something that stood out as new and unfamiliar, and yet it didn't affect his perception that this was still unquestionably his city and home. Even though its neighbourhoods were constantly changing to reflect and accommodate new demographics, various investments or defaults, or differing land-use needs, it remained overall its essential self, London. It was simultaneously the most beautiful and most hideous place he had ever known, but above all it was a living and evolving thing.

It was a multilayered metaphor he perceived intuitively far before he grasped it in any cognitive way.

He too could adapt, could evolve certain aspects of himself without sacrificing the whole of who he was, and who he had always been.

…He, too, could also be hideous.

The first thought calmed and reassured him and then the second one set him ablaze again, but in a new and necessary way.

He had not forgotten the pact that he and Irene had made for the sake of their child. Really, it had only legitimised the vow he had already made with himself during the darkest days of his exile, when he had believed that only his bullet in Moran's head would enable his return, and he had become almost obsessed with pulling that trigger.

That lurking, impatient violence that was more visceral feeling than memory returned with a vengeance now, and only grew stronger the closer they drew to their destination. This time it wasn't his return to his figurative life that he would be buying with his bullet, but something far more important: the literal lives of two people he would do anything to protect.

The helicopter began its decent just over Ealing, several miles from their final destination. Below, brick terraced houses stood out like streaks of drying blood across the darkening grey cityscape, and rail lines traversed the land like stitches on a medical student's cadaver. They followed one track eastward, altitude steadily decreasing until the single line merged with a large hub. Just south of this interchange in a common called Little Wormwood Scrubs they set down, the muffled but still powerful whuff-whuff-whuff of the rotors concealed by the sound of passing trains and a thick verge of trees.

He exited the helicopter with his teeth bared in a half-subconscious snarl, and John leapt out nimbly after him, colour back in his face and vigour returning to his muscles at the promise of impending action.

Sherlock cut a straight line to the western edge of the common where a van bearing the insignia of a nearby storage facility was parked, then threw open its rear doors.

Lined up on benches spanning either side of the vehicle was a company of men in full tactical uniform: the members of Special Forces that Andrea had insisted upon, and were her condition for the use of the helicopter. Sherlock had been forced to agree – the helicopter had been essential to ensure beating Thomson to London – but he had convinced her to allow him (and now John) to approach first.

He turned to the ranking officer who was sitting in the first seat on the sight – obviously in charge: slightly deferential posturing from the men around him, greater wear on his com button from issuing orders, several newer-grade items amongst his gear, positioned as the first man to exit the vehicle – and drew himself to his full height, holding his tensed arms slightly from his body to make him look larger and more imposing.

"Captain, you understand that you are only to engage if absolutely necessary," he asked in his most commanding baritone. "You're here as a concession and a last resort."

"Sherlock Holmes, I presume," the other man said drily through his tactical headgear. "Yes. We've been briefed."

Sherlock acknowledged that with a sharp nod then turned away, only to face him once more, though he didn't quite resume eye contact.

"Thank you."

From a strategic standpoint he shouldn't put off a potential ally. The stakes were too high for him not to cover all his bases, and although he did think he and John, and then Irene, could handle things on their own, there was no room for the luxury of arrogance here.

Sherlock glanced at his watch to confirm that they were still slightly ahead of schedule, then pulled out his phone to check on the traffic conditions between the westernmost suburbs of London and this industrial but central point, and after a moment of calculation he determined that Thomson and Irene were arriving when expected. That done, he pulled out the weapon, and heard John making a sound of amused recognition when he spotted his gun.

Sherlock ignored him, double-checking that all its parts were clear and functional to his satisfaction, before replacing the safety and concealing it again. Only when all these tasks were completed did he allow his eyes to move towards the northern line of trees and study the low grey structure he could just glimpse through them, beyond the unseen canal.

It suddenly occurred to him that he wasn't certain what caused his blood to rise in anticipation more: striking Moran from existence after years of a blood-lust that had first unnerved and then sustained him, or being reunited with The Woman through this high-pressure collaboration.

His lips bent into a grim, predatory smile as he surveyed the buildings he was about to infiltrate. Tonight he might be on the side of the angels, but his intentions themselves had never been further from grace.


This chapter was meant to continue but it's getting rather long and couldn't reasonably also include what's to come. Plus it's been some time since I've updated, so… TBC!

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