Molly squeezed her eyes shut and leaned back into Sherlock's embrace. Beneath them, Redbeard continued his skittish climb up Eighth street. Every so often, he threw his head back and snorted. She did not blame the poor creature but his agitated jostling further frayed her already shredded nerves. Her lip quivered and she gulped back panic. In some respects, she wanted Sherlock to snap the reins so that Redbeard would race from the waterfront as quickly as possible. She kept imagining her Uncle rising from the street and coming after them with scorching flames in his wake.

However, she knew this was impossible. Her shot had ripped through his heart. Sherlock had checked his lifeless form and confirmed his passing. Even so, the idea of her Uncle lying there, discarded, made her stomach turn. He was her father's younger brother, after all. She could not understand how his moral compass had caused him to deviate so far off course. Was it something innate in him that had driven him to murderous extremes or had he just spent too much time inside his own mind and in his wanderings and reached the edge of a gaping void that drove him to madness? Her shoulders shook with a shuddering inhalation. Again, she was on the edge of tears. If not for Sherlock's arm anchored around her waist and his solid chest at her back, she was certain her soul would fracture.

Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!

Molly's eyes flew open. Never had the tolling of the bells sounded so ominous. She wondered if she would be able to associate them with a call to prayer again. They had not stopped ringing since the fire started and they would not soon finish. Sherlock's dire warnings had been correct. At their backs, the flames that had started at the feed warehouse quickly engulfed the adjacent warehouse before they jumped to the dry docks and the canneries. In less than a half hour, the entire length of the city's waterfront was roaring with flames that licked up into the sky as if trying to reach the moon. The beast's claws, stymied by the river, had since turned and clawed their way up the hills further into the city.

Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong!

Molly grimaced. In addition to the cacophony of the bells, people had exited their homes and were rushing around in a panic. Shouts and cries of fear and anxiousness filled the air.

"Sherlock!" Molly cried as a man clutching a hoard of books stepped off the adjacent boardwalk and skittered in front of them.

Sherlock yanked at Redbeard's reins and cursed as the horse danced on the spot.

"Bloody fool!" He called.

The oblivious man rushed across the street like a fleeing ghost. He tripped as he stepped up on the opposite walkway and spilled his books across the boardwalk. As he scrambled to retrieve his treasures, another pair of men ran across the road toting a piece of furniture. A woman toting a baby followed, crying out for someone.

"Daniel?"

She stopped and spun around. She appeared disheveled as if she had just hopped out of bed.

"Daniel?!"

Molly sat forward and glanced around. There was movement in every nook and cranny between the buildings. The city's inhabitants were crawling all over the city like ants escaping a flood.

"Will the fire department be able to help at all, Sherlock?" Molly craned her head to view his profile. "Do they have any hope of saving the city?"

He sucked in a breath at her back. His arm tightened momentarily.

"The downtown district will most assuredly be lost."

"A-And Ash Street? Your home?"

Sherlock's head angled down. She saw his brows pull together in the darkness.

"Our home, Molly Holmes," he murmured, "though, I am not overly concerned with its fate, at present. There is nothing there that cannot be replaced. I have everything I need with me in this very moment."

Molly swallowed. Then, she twisted around, slipped a hand around his neck and stretched upwards as much as her body would allow. He dropped his chin. Light glinted off the orbs of his eyes.

"Sherlock Holmes," she whispered as she gazed at his stoic face, "before anything else happens, before anyone else conspires to come between us, I want you to know . . . t-to know that . . . I love you. I love you. I lov-"

Before she could complete her declaration for the third time, Sherlock bent over and kissed her as if he was capturing her words. It was arguably the most uncomfortable kiss in the way her body strained but as he moved his lips over hers, and she felt the pull of him as if he were drawing her into himself, she didn't want it to end. It was the most peculiar time to think it, but she wished to be under him. She needed to belong to him again. When he lifted his head, he kissed her forehead and temple. Then he clutched her back against him and buried his nose in her hair. Her heart soared.

A blissful moment passed, but then it stretched into silence.

Molly didn't know what she expected, but Sherlock did not return her sentiment. She swallowed against a rising lump in her throat. Her stomach dropped when it became apparent he was not going to speak again. She tried to tell herself that it was fine, that she was fine, but she knew she was not. One minute dragged into the next as Redbeard picked his way up the hill. Why would he not say he loved her, unless . . . he did not actually love her? The sentiment he had displayed that night, she wondered, was it all just symptomatic of the tumult they had all been through?

They rode on, with her thoughts swirling into despair, until the sights and the sounds of people struggling to escape the approaching fire became too much for Molly.

"Stop," she said suddenly.

"Stop?" he repeated sharply. "Why?"

Molly sniffed back her misery. "Because I want to stay and help these people. I need to help them."

"Molly, you have just been through hell-"

"No," she flicked away a tear, "I am still in the midst of it. Please, Sherlock, I need this . . . I need to do something."

"I need to be of use to someone," she thought.

Crack! Fiiiiiifffft.

"Holy hell!" John hit the ground at the sound of gun fire, a habit developed from previous years of fighting as a soldier in Africa.

He swatted at his head. He had felt the whiz of a bullet pass by his ear. He heard another loud bang from the direction of Mycroft's home and in almost the same instant, a whack against the nearby bricks followed the sharp spray of clay fragments in his face. He heard the shooter work the bolt mechanism on their rifle and took the opportunity to roll away to escape the next bullet. Additional shots then sent him scrambling into the hedges. He muttered a silent prayer that he had left his mount tied up outside the gates and ventured into Mycroft's yard by foot. Otherwise he would have been a much easier target. The shots continued for another minute, three or four more in total, then stopped. He sucked in a few breaths.

"Jesus, Jesus, Jesus," he panted as he came to terms with his narrow escape.

Cold washed over him. Was he too late to save Mycroft, Anthea and their newborn? For several seconds, he fought the acute unsettling of his innards. In the distance, the city seemed to swell. Bells rung out urgently from the church spires.

"I suggest you flee, assassin," an angry female voice called, her voice had a faint echo, "flee or meet the fate of your compatriots!"

John stilled. He glanced around again from his belly. Across the ground in the gloom, he made out the shape of several humps of dark forms on the lawn and in the gardens. Bodies! He shook his head as he realized he recognized the sound of the woman's voice.

"M-Mrs. Holmes?" he shouted.

There was a brief silence.

"Who is there? Who is it?" She finally responded.

"I-It's John Watson, Dr. John Watson!"

"John!" Mary's voice filtered down to him as well.

He heard muffled cursing.

"For pity's sake, Dr. Watson," Mrs. Holmes reprimanded him, "I nearly took off your head! Get up here this instant!"

John heaved up from his hiding place and brushed himself off as he hurried towards their front door. He glanced up at the upper floor of their grand home. Every window was dark, in fact, not a single light illuminated anything within the dwelling. At the far end of the balcony, he spied a bit of movement and just caught a glimpse of the barrel retract into the shadows.

The front door swung open and John hustled to the interior, ushered in by Mycroft. The taller man peered outside and scanned his yard.

"Dr. Watson," he rubbed his hand over his heart, "where is my brother?"

"He and Molly are just behind me, I imagine," John replied breathlessly, "unless they decide to visit Ash Street first. He sent me to warn you."

Mycroft shut the door and reached for a nearby lantern. With a quick flick of a ready match, the lamp's flame sputtered to life. Its glow cast long shadows in every direction. Mycroft's pensive face appeared particularly grave in the wavering yellow light.

"Warn us? Is the invasion quite large then? How many do you think?'

John shook his head.

"I doubt very much that the invasion is going ahead, Magistrate," he replied anxiously, "the bells you hear . . . they toll for the fire."

"Fire?"

Above them, came Mrs. Holmes' solemn voice.

"Yes, a fire, my love. A rather large one along the waterfront. I can see the tips of the flames over the trees."

She descended the sweeping staircase outfitted in breeches until she sidled up next to Mycroft. A rifle with a long scope like the type John had seen used as a sniper in his service days, was slung over her shoulder. He blinked several times. How did he not know Mrs. Holmes was a marksman?

"I am surprised you missed me with such a weapon, Mrs. Holmes," he murmured.

She smirked. "Who says I missed?"

Mary descended hesitantly behind Mrs. Holmes. John's heart squeezed as he shifted his eyes upwards. She was as radiant as ever in her simple, green plaid patterned dress. She looked much improved from earlier in the evening but he was reminded of her betrayal in the anxious roundness of her eyes. Her lips pulled into a tight line. Of course, he had been aware far longer than anyone that she was involved in the plot against New Westminster but that did not mean he had wrapped his head around it. He had difficulty believing that his kind and caring Nurse Mary Morstan was an American agent. Again, he felt a pang in his chest.

"Ahem," he cleared his throat and glanced to Mycroft, anxious to escape her anxious blue eyes, "why did you remain here knowing what was coming?"

Mycroft sighed and looked to Mrs. Holmes. "Anthea insisted on defending our home."

Mrs. Holmes turned a surprised scowl to her husband, harrumphed and tapped her stock on the marble floor. "Our home? You think I care a whit for this house? I did not stay behind to defend its shell, you bloody cock."

Mycroft tucked in his lips. Mrs. Holmes shook her head before addressing John again.

"We have one of the few homes with a telephone, Dr. Watson. Mycroft has been making calls to Washington and California. I was not about to leave my husband unguarded."

John nodded. "Yes, well, an admirable effort, Mrs. Holmes but it may be for naught if that fire is not contained."

Mrs. Holmes frowned and glanced to her husband for reassurance just as his lantern flickered. Fear cracked like lightning across her face.

"Surely they will be able to stop the fire? I-It cannot possibly make it up here, can it?" She whispered.

A crease formed between Mycroft's brows. He closed his eyes momentarily. John watched them move back and forth beneath his lids. After a few seconds, the haggard man stretched his neck and breathed deeply. His eyes blinked open.

"My darling, it is time to leave," Mycroft murmured. "I want you to take Firefly and catch up to the Gunns."

"But-"

Mycroft handed his lantern to Mary and grasped his wife's upper arms. His hands shakily moved to her face. John gawped at them briefly as Mycroft tenderly kissed his wife. The doctor then quickly shifted his focus back to Mary who scooted past the pair and joined John as he moved away.

"Sherrinford needs you, my darling," Mycroft sounded as if he bore the world's burdens, "go with them to the Marsdens' in Vancouver. You will be safe there."

"Our son needs you too," Mrs. Holmes' whisper drifted across the great entry, "I-I need you."

Mycroft sucked in air as if someone had lanced him. "Yes, my love, but New Westminster is in its greatest hour of need. I will not abandon my city nor its people. So, as much as I would prefer to go with you, you know my conscience will not allow me to do so."

Mrs. Holmes sobbed and John knew, even as his back was turned, that the husband and wife embraced. His hand fumbled sideways and he intertwined his shaking fingers with Mary's. When he looked at her, her eyes glistened. For a moment, she seemed stunned but then squeezed his hand back. Her shoulders slumped in relief. She mouthed the words, 'I love you' as a tear rolled down her cheek.

John realized in that moment that he may not know Mary Morstan very well, but he knew this woman. So, he quickly returned the unspoken declaration.

"I love you too," he mouthed, "I love you too."