Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.

Warning: Violence, sex, and some super hot shower scenes. And some scary parts too.

Part Two

Chapter Thirty Seven

"The First Snowfall"

(December, two weeks after the End of Part One)

"Sherlock!" John shouted down the hall. "Why does it look like the breakfast table was used as a funeral pyre?"

John stared down in disbelief at the burnt and battered table. This table had survived almost everything, from swords, experiments, heavy snogging sessions, and numerous breakfasts with two Holmes family members. But this morning, as John stumbled out of bed, where he had been resting peacefully in the arms of his detective, and gone to make tea, he saw the disaster. The table was bare, but the entire surface was charred, the center of which was burnt nearly all the way through.

"Oh my God, why is there shouting?" Violet mumbled as she groggily made her way to the kitchen from her room upstairs. She didn't even blink at the remains of the table, just walked past John to start making coffee. She was wearing her usual amount of sleepwear, which translated to tiny shorts and that long tee she favored. John had stopped blushing about a week ago.

"I'm shouting because your uncle decided to burn our kitchen to the ground." John groused as he reached for his travel mug, pouring his tea. "Don't know how he did that without me noticing."

"Huh?" Violet leaned against the counter, and pushed her raven dark hair out of her eyes. "Oh, wow."

She blinked her purple eyes at the table, and John threw his hands up in exasperation as a giant grin spread across her features.

"Uncle Sherlock that is some crazy shit! Show me how you did that, please." Violet said to the detective as he made his way into the kitchen. John's shout had dragged him out of bed, hours before he usually saw the sun. Sherlock didn't respond, just stole the nearest cup of warm liquid on the counter, and walked back to his bedroom. Sherlock didn't even speak, letting the slamming of his door communicate his displeasure at being woken up at the insane hour of seven in the morning.

"He's nuts." John said, pouring himself some more tea, and grabbing a handful of biscuits. He chewed thoughtfully, wondering if he would have time this afternoon to go shopping for a new table after work.

"You're the one sleeping with him. That means you're nuts too." Violet smirked good naturedly at him, and she giggled at the look on his face. "Go to work John, I'll keep Sherlock occupied."

"Just don't piss off too many foreign governments while I'm gone, having the flat bugged once a month is enough." John said as he went to take his shower.

Violet had more than made herself welcome when she had moved in two weeks ago. The first thing the hacker had done was sweep the entirety of the Baker Street flats. From the basement flat all the way to the roof which could only be accessed through a small hatch in the upstairs hall. To John's shock, she had neatly exorcised from their hidden nests over a dozen tiny microphones and cameras. She had 'killed' every one of them, pouring them out into John's hands like they were tiny black pebbles. Some were obviously newer than others, and a few had the look that they had been in place for years.

Sherlock had gotten an unreadable expression on his face, and John felt an unpleasant mix of anger and violation. He had asked her if she could identify them, but before she could answer, Sherlock had spoken up. "MI6 and the CIA." John had choked back his rage, and Violet had nodded in confirmation.

"Most of these are old, out of date. Been here for three to four years. Most likely around the same time you two first moved in here." Violet had picked up the tiniest of the lot, and stared hard at it as it rested on her fingertip. "This one is new. Very new, most likely installed by one of the repair guys you had in here fixing up the flat."

John had given them back to Violet at her insistence, claiming she could salvage them, and use them to their advantage in the future. John had wanted to crush them under his foot, but she just gave him a look that clearly said that was a silly idea. She really was a Holmes, to give him that look.

Violet had also given John a very big shock. Sherlock's niece was wealthy. Wealthier than he had thought she might be. He had the suspicion that being a hacker must be lucrative, as otherwise the risks of being caught would be too high. She had handed him a brown paper sack the morning after she moved in, and he had choked at the amount of money he spilled out of it. She just picked up all the notes, and dropped them back in the bag. The only thing she had said was that it was rent money. John had counted it, and still felt shock at the amount. She had given him what equaled out to be two years' worth of rent. In a brown paper sack. He felt like he shouldn't take it, until she leveled a glare at him that made him swallow nervously and say thank you.

John turned on the shower, his hand under the spray until it got hot. He looked to the door that led to their bedroom, but he could see no sign of Sherlock being up and about through the cloudy planes of glass. The detective had most likely gone right back to sleep. He stripped down, pulling shut the curtain as he got in. The hot water felt great, and he just let it run over his shoulders, hands braced on the shower wall. He was still partly asleep himself, so he didn't notice when the shower curtain opened.

He noticed he wasn't alone when he felt a soft kiss on the nape of his neck. Long fingered, strong hands slipped around his torso, and he felt his lover press along his back, chest to thighs. John said nothing, just pressed himself back, letting a hand rise up behind him, burying it in Sherlock's soft curls.

"Morning." Sherlock nibbled his ear, breath teasing his neck. John shivered despite the heat from the water, and he felt Sherlock grow hard against his lower back.

"Awake now, I see." John gasped as Sherlock slipped a hand down his side, grabbing his hip, massaging. "Thought you went back to bed."

"Couldn't sleep, too horny." Sherlock grumbled in his ear, and John laughed quietly. "You weren't there."

"Didn't get enough last night?" John closed his eyes, head falling back on Sherlock's shoulder as his lover's hands wandered down, gently grabbing him, and stroking his cock. Sherlock found that special place behind his ear, teeth and tongue nibbling and licking.

Sherlock sucked on his neck, and John didn't care if his lover left a mark. John shuddered as Sherlock got him hard, fingers knowing exactly what he liked.

"I'm an addict, John." Sherlock whispered in his ear, voice deep and sexy and making John feel like he was on fire. "I'm addicted to you. I'll never get enough of you."

The surge of lust that John felt at those words staggered him, and he groaned, writhing in Sherlock's arms. He tried to turn, but the taller man held him fast. John was so aroused he was having trouble seeing, breathing. Sherlock was hard, his arousal nudging at him, distracting him. Sherlock's hands on his cock were teasing him, keeping the rhythm just under the beat John would have liked.

"Sherlock, I want you." John gasped out, hands tugging at Sherlock's.

"Lean over." Sherlock ordered him, and John swallowed a cry in his throat. He was so eager he didn't even think, just slammed his hands on the shower wall, feeling Sherlock grasp his hips, pulling him back.

The water was running down his back, following his spine, pouring over his buttocks. Sherlock's fingers played in the water, dipping lower to his ass. John groaned, incapable of words. He was panting, head down, legs and arms shaking in need. John wanted to cry, so overwhelmed was he by what he was feeling. There was nothing left of the educated doctor, the veteran soldier, the caring best friend. John Watson was nothing but a quivering, aching, shivering storm of fire and lightning. Flashes of desire burned in him, responding to the caresses his lover was giving him.

Sherlock's fingers pressed lightly on his ass, and John desperately wanted him to push harder. Sherlock put a hand on his hip, restraining him from thrusting back against his lover's hand. Two fingers pushed, the water running right over the most sensitive place, and John shook. His whole body shook, and Sherlock rubbed his hip, soothing him. Those fingers kept pushing, the warm water easing their entrance. Sherlock pressed deep, not giving John time to adapt, stretching him, pushing in all the way.

John groaned, loudly, gasping for air. He couldn't speak. The pressure, the stretching sensation robbed him of thought. Sherlock slowly, maniacally, spread his fingers apart, opening John. The warm water from the shower flowed over Sherlock's fingers, the heat new and different, making John jump. Sherlock slowly pulled his fingers out, keeping them spread as he did, and John bit his lip to keep from screaming at how wonderful, how amazing it felt. He figured he was crying, but he couldn't feel the tears past the water running down every part of him. He didn't care, all he wanted was for Sherlock to be in him.

His detective read his mind. John's soft gasps were telling him all he needed to know about how ready John was.

When Sherlock finally positioned himself, taking John so slowly he thought he would die, John was lost. Lost completely in every touch, sensation. Sherlock had him in every possible way. Hard, so hard, and so unbelievably hot, Sherlock pushed until he seated his long length fully in John's ass. The doctor sobbed out a breath, shaking so violently he felt like he might collapse to the floor. Sherlock wrapped a strong arm around him at his waist, not moving. He was throbbing, buried deep. Nudging at John's core, and he clenched up in response. He was so tight, he pulled a groan at last from Sherlock, digging at the detective's control.

Sherlock leaned over him, and his free hand slid up his back, along his shoulder, and down his arm, to his hand as it pressed to the wall, where he twined their fingers together. Sherlock was over him, around him, deep inside of him. Everywhere.

When Sherlock finally began to move, John almost came all over their feet. That initial stroke felt like the very first, everything new and raw and wonderful. John cried quietly, so helpless in Sherlock's control. His detective pulled back, almost leaving his body completely, the head of his cock stretching his entrance. He held still for a heartbeat, before slowly pushing back in. John groaned, and gave up trying to increase the pace.

Sherlock was in control, thoroughly dominating him. John surrendered, and focused on what his lover was making him feel. Focused on how his weight felt on his back, how that strong, lean arm held him up and captive all at once, how his breath was ragged in John's ear, belaying his seemingly perfect control. Sherlock's fingers gripped his tightly, hardest as he seated himself fully back into John.

Sherlock kept that slow, deep pace. Again and again he took John, the water spilling over them both, falling from their straining bodies in tiny waterfalls. Each thrust was perfection, John crying softly, so willing to be helpless to the passion between them. Sherlock was swelling in him, larger and harder with every thrust. John cried out in encouragement as Sherlock increased his pace, needing the climax that was so very close.

The arm that Sherlock had wrapped around his waist moved, his hand grasping John's cock in a tight grip. He stroked John as he thrust faster, harder. So deeply John moaned as pleasure melded with pain. Sherlock moved faster, crying out with John in unison.

John erupted, coming hard as Sherlock hit that spot deep inside of him. John screamed, his shout bouncing off the tiles in the shower stall. He clenched around Sherlock, so tightly that he stopped Sherlock's thrusts, catching him deep inside, his full length swallowed by John's body. His climax triggered Sherlock's, and both men came together, crying out loudly in release.

John spilled himself out on the floor of the shower, the warm water washing his seed away, as Sherlock pumped himself in John's ass, the thick white wet heat making John sob at every burst. Sherlock was holding onto him, and his detective collapsed on John's back. Their combined weight made them fall against the shower wall, Sherlock still buried to the hilt in his doctor.

The water was still warm, falling over them. John was panting hard, shaking as rolling tremors of pleasure swarmed over his whole body. Sherlock had buried his face in John's shoulder, and John had the feeling Sherlock had bit him at some point during his orgasm. John didn't mind at all, part of him thinking past the orgasm that he wished he could see it.

They stood like that for the longest time, and John moaned lightly as Sherlock finally found the strength to move, pulling gently out of John. The doctor was finally able to turn, and he wrapped his arms around his lover's neck. Sherlock looked really sleepy now, eyes hooded and his face flushed. His expression was the most wonderful example of smug contentment John had ever seen. He smiled at his detective, and tipped his head back in invitation. Sherlock took him up on it, leaning down to kiss John. His lips were soft and firm all at once, gently molding to John's, the kiss slow and sweet and full of love. So much emotion in that nearly chaste kiss that John felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes.

Sherlock held him, and John hugged him back, his mouth opening under the gentle pressure from his lover's lips. Sherlock swept his tongue in, not too deep, just enough to touch the tip of John's tongue. Encouraging him to respond, which he did. John met his love stroke for stroke, telling him without words what he felt for him, how much Sherlock meant to John.

Sherlock pulled back after an eternity, and rested his forehead on the older man's.

"I love you, John Watson." His whisper flew through the short space between them, winging its way to John's heart. John smiled at his love.

"I love you too, Sherlock Holmes."

Mary gripped the cold iron pipe that came out from the concrete wall with both hands, and pulled herself up. She lifted until her chin touched the bar, and held herself there for a beat before lowering down, keeping her toes from the floor. She repeated that move, over and over, until her shoulders screamed in protest. And she kept going.

Sweat poured down her back, and her muscles burned. She had nothing better to do than exercise, and her determination was showing. While she had been in decent shape before she went into hiding, now she was in fantastic shape. Her arms had defined themselves, her legs tighter, and her stomach was flat and firm. But for the slight swell of her growing child, which was barely noticeable.

Mary estimated she was nine weeks pregnant. No more. A little over four weeks since she learned she was pregnant. Mary never pushed her body too far, being careful not to hurt herself. But she also knew that her limited activity as a result of her hiding would be just as dangerous as exercising. Especially if she were found, and had to run. Or fight. So she kept in shape, slept eight hours a night, and ate as healthy as she could. Violet had been bringing her vitamins, and came twice a week with food and other supplies.

John would come with her, and each time Mary tolerated his incessant questions. Always asking how she was feeling, if there was anything she needed, if she wanted something she hadn't gotten. So very polite and distant. And she would be just as polite, and answer that she was fine. She knew that John wasn't trying to be annoying, that he really did care. But a part of her was starting to feel like a prize brood mare, valued only for the offspring she carried.

Mary had saved his life, saved Sherlock, the whole of bloody London because she was pregnant. She was pushed from her place of rage and pain by the knowledge she could not help destroy her child's father. Regret and remorse had soon followed, and she had betrayed Jaime Moriarty in an attempt to save everyone. She had even tried to save Jaime.

But the young assassin was dead. Or at least, the world assumed she was. Mary didn't know. There had been a slight chance that Jaime had gotten away before Blackwood Manor exploded. Mary had inadvertently given her a knife when she covered the young woman with her jacket. Mary could escape that cell in under five seconds with a knife; she had no doubt that Jaime could do it in two.

It was a chance that Mary kept to herself. She didn't want the world to hunt for a ghost if Jaime truly was dead. And a large part of her heart, that part of her that was the trained CIA assassin, rebelled at telling the authorities that a fellow operative may still be alive. Not to mention that her heart cared for Jaime Moriarty for more than she thought possible, more than she knew was wise. She was watching the news on the mobile gifted to her from Violet, and if she saw any hint that Jaime was alive, then she would say something to Sherlock. Until then, she would stay silent. If Jaime lived, and stayed out of trouble, then Mary would say nothing.

Mary dropped from the pipe, stretching her arms and shoulders. She had been exercising all morning, and she was feeling the stress of being inside too long. She was beginning to feel like she should have taken her chances on prison, considering that in jail she was at least guaranteed an hour outside a day. She hadn't stepped out once since she found herself here, in Sherlock's fake house, for four weeks.

She grabbed a change of clothing, and went to take a shower. The floor was cold under her bare feet, but she didn't mind. There was much she could withstand, tolerate, and the unpleasant coldness was a sensation. She hadn't been able to feel much the last few weeks, her heart, soul and mind numbed by the last couple of months. So she welcomed the discomfort, as it reminded her that she was alive.

She turned on the water, stripping down to bare skin, stepping under the cold water. The cold made her heart race, her skin shiver. She embraced it, and found her thoughts spinning. She fought down the urge to just step outside for some air, the desire to go for run, and the need to speak to anyone who wasn't Violet or John. Anyone. She'd even talk to Sherlock right now.

She may be alive, but she wasn't living. Mary was fading away, and the nameless assassin was taking over. She needed to survive long enough to bare this child. And Mary Morstan may not be strong enough to manage it. Something needed to change.

Violet was lying flat on her back in the middle of the floor in the front room when John and Sherlock came out from their bedroom. She glanced at her mobile, and smirked at the time. John was really late for work.

"I'd ask why you're on the floor, but since you look like you're okay, I'm just not going to." John said to her, standing over her. She had put on her sweats, and in response, lifted her closest leg to him, straight up in the air, toes pointed at the ceiling.

"Yoga." She wiggled her toes at him, and she laughed when he blinked at the very brilliant neon pink shade she'd painted them the night before. "This is the largest space for it. I usually only do this once you've left, but you're running a little late today."

"Ah. Yoga." John was perplexed, and he just looked down at her as she twisted herself into the facsimile of a pretzel. Well, to him she looked like a pretzel, but to her, she was in a pose called Galavasana. She sat cross legged, drew her folded legs up to her stomach, and lifted herself off the floor, supporting her whole body weight on the palms of her hands. She froze, and zoned out the men in the room, oblivious to John's stunned expression. In and out she breathed, until she hit a minute.

She knew John was still watching, so she kept herself upon her arms. She ducked her head, lifting her hips and legs up in the air over her upper torso, unraveling her legs as she went. She did it slowly, carefully, making it seem far easier than it really was. She put herself in a handstand, legs pressed together, toes pointed at the ceiling. She heard John shift on his feet in surprise, but she wasn't done yet. She changed how she bore her weight, still looking down at the floor, and pulled one arm away. She held herself up on one arm, the other pointed out in a straight line to the wall. That she held for as long as she could, refusing to show the strain she was feeling.

She grinned as John clapped, and she quickly dropped her arm and legs, landing in a crouch. She flipped her hair out of her face, and met his eyes, grinning happily the whole time. She hopped up, and bowed at the stunned appreciation on John's face. She was sweating something fierce now, but she was happy. Exercise always did that for her. Sherlock had thrown himself into his armchair, a very sated look on his face, but he had a small smile hovering about his lips.

"And that was your lesson for the day, grasshopper." Violet said, reaching out to poke John in the chest. "Though you got some exercise in already, I think."

"Um, yeah." John coughed, and Sherlock broke out in a pleased grin. "And on that note, I'm going to work. Don't destroy any more furniture while I'm gone."

"Yes, Captain Watson." Violet laughed at the blush on John's cheeks, but he smiled at her as he went to Sherlock, kissing him goodbye. "But he was the one who did it, I was busy not paying attention."

"And you're the only marginally responsible adult when I'm at work." John laughed, throwing on his heavy winter coat and gloves. The weather had been warning about snow all week.

"Me? What about Mrs. Hudson? Why does it have to be me?" Violet grumbled, but she was enjoying herself. "Have fun. You know, undescended testicles and piles and all."

"Yeah, thanks for the reminder. I'm not telling you anymore stories about my patients. You two get a case while I'm out, please save me by telling me." John waved and left for work. She heard the door close downstairs, and he must have called for a cab, as she heard it pull away from the curb.

"So, did you two save me any hot water?" Violet asked her uncle, who was relaxed so deeply in his chair he wasn't sitting as much as slouching. His head was resting on the back, and he cracked open a single eye at her. He looked seconds away from passing out, so tired was he. "Hmm. I see from that look the answer is no. Looks like I'm in for a cold shower."

She grabbed her towel, and watched as her uncle literally passed out in seconds. He looked so peaceful, and no older than she. It was so weird sometimes, thinking that this man she had known for the past eleven years was her uncle. He was all innocence when he slept. He was closer to her in age than any uncle should really be, so much so he felt more like a brother. She had been without family for almost half her lifetime, so she was learning as she went. So was he, she guessed. Their attitudes hadn't really changed that much, beyond it being easier to show affection. She more than he, but she knew he cared.

He cared, but none of the other Holmes family members did. Mycroft was still pretending she didn't exist, and she knew Sherlock had told his parents, her grandparents, that she existed. They hadn't responded beyond the expected disbelief. Violet knew better than to expect a huge family reunion. She was a criminal, albeit not a violent one. And she had never been convicted, either. And she was the daughter of a serial killer. That would put a lot of people off, even blood.

Violet went to take her shower, pulling her gaze away from Sherlock as he slept. The great detective and his doctor were all the family she needed.

Sherlock dozed, part of him following Violet's movements through the flat as she went about her day. She didn't chatter on like Mrs. Hudson did, nor did she make as much noise as John. She didn't pretend she wasn't there, or anything else equally silly. She was just naturally that way, only breaking out into endearing chatter when spoken to, or if she had something to actually say to him. And she was never boring. Unlike Mycroft, Violet had yet to bore him.

He heard her mobile chime, and she stopped making coffee as she checked her messages. It must be interesting, as she started humming Bach under her breath. She always did that when she was having fun, when she was happy. He stayed in his chair, eyes closed, hovering in that peaceful place between sleep and being awake. He was very tired, having spent the previous evening experimenting, then tearing up his bed with his doctor all night long. And then there was the shower. He loved showers now.

So Sherlock napped as his niece got her laptop, and sat in John's chair across from him. She liked watching him when she worked. He didn't mind at all. People always watched him. She was one of the few who did so without judging him. John was another. Sherlock knew he was about to fall asleep, and spun his mind down to his mind palace instead, letting his body go to sleep.

He stood in Trafalgar Square, within his mind palace, the sky above him bright with a late summer sun shining down. Sherlock sat on the side of the fountain, and with the barest effort, conjured pigeons into existence at his feet. He pulled up a distant memory, people finding their places in the square as they had been years before. He was replaying a memory, a good one. One of the few before John entered his life.

Sherlock was watching as if he were a bystander, and not part of the memory. The young man who sat nearby was absorbed fully in the book he was reading, dark curls tumbling in the wind. He was hunched over his book, hands holding tightly in the wind. His bag was next to him, open, more books spilling out. He was so focused on his book that he didn't see the older boys coming at him from the side. Sherlock flinched as they grabbed his shoulders, and threw him back into the fountain. The bad part had to happen before the good part.

The young man came up on his feet, sputtering and soaking wet. The ringleader was holding his bag out over the water, swinging it, threatening to drop it in the water as well. His lackeys stood behind him, laughing as their leader sneered at the man he had just sent head first into the fountain.

"What's the matter, freak? Don't like to swim? He looks like a drowned cat!" The ringleader laughed, and made to drop the bag. "C'mon, Sherlock, you nothing but talk?"

"Give it back." Even then his voice was deep and vicious, anger radiating out from his tall slim form, fists clenched at his sides, dripping wet and shivering.

"Make me." The leader taunted, swinging the bag out towards this younger Sherlock, before pulling it back. "Hah! Too slow."

He swung it again, and this time Young Sherlock grabbed it, and yanked hard. The bully spilled forward, letting go of the bag before he fell in the fountain. Young Sherlock threw his bag over his shoulder, and ran for the far side of the fountain. He didn't run fast enough. The leader caught up to him just as he was jumping clear, throwing him back down in the water. His bag dropped to the ground, not in the water. The bully's friends joined them, and Young Sherlock fought them off, getting every one of them to some degree soaking wet.

Sherlock watched as his younger self got beat in the square, people watching in the distance but not stopping what was happening. The younger version of himself and the men beating him never saw the slim form of the then fifteen year old Violet Hunter come up behind them. His bullies paused their attack, having pulled him from the fountain, his soaking and bruised form huddled at their feet. He wasn't much use then against multiple attackers.

"What ya doing?" Violet asked, popping her gum loudly from behind Sherlock's assailants. They turned to look at her, and even then she was beautiful. Her gorgeous eyes were large in her face, her raven hair pulled back in a bouncy ponytail. She wore a very short sundress, her long slim legs bared at mid-thigh all the way down to her strappy sandals. She was pretty, knew it, and that was all she needed to lay them low. They were so distracted they never saw her hands.

Sherlock did, and he grinned as she brought them up, slapping the two stun guns to the chests of the men closest to her. The bright voltage snapped loudly in the air, and the two men she hit with them jerked on their feet, before collapsing to the pavement. The ringleader shouted, and went to grab her arm. He most likely still bore the scar from the contacts, as she planted one of the guns squarely in his face, pulling the trigger. He didn't even make a sound as he jerked hard on his feet, falling once she pulled it back.

"Anyone else want to be a douchebag?" Her sweet voice piped out, and she raised the guns, making them snap menacingly at the two men still standing over Sherlock. They didn't even bother helping their friends to their feet as they put up their hands and walked quickly away. Violet stepped over the nearest bully, her foot colliding solidly with his groin as she did. She ignored his groan of pain, and reached down for Sherlock's bag, slinging it over her shoulder.

"Up you get, Sexy. Before a cop comes along and arrests us instead of them." She stood beside him as Young Sherlock got to his feet, dripping wet, sore, and dirty. "I'm buying lunch, then you're helping me with my chemistry assignment."

"I think this is the most embarrassing moment of my life." Young Sherlock grumbled, but he followed behind her anyway as she lead the way to the street, intending to get them a cab.

"Somehow I don't think so. You've got years left to have that happen again. And I might not be around to save your astoundingly brilliant self from getting a beating." Young Violet poked him in the shoulder, ignoring his glare at the touch.

Grown Sherlock got up, following behind them as they got to the street. The really good part was coming up.

The sleek black car roared to a halt in front of them, and A Slightly Younger Mycroft jumped out the back seat, his long coat flapping in the breeze. He had seen the attack on the CCTV cameras, but had gotten there too late. He was always too late.

"Sherlock, how many times have I told you not to antagonize…." Mycroft's voice trailed off as he saw the young woman standing at his little brother's shoulder, holding his bag, a stun gun in her other hand.

"Excuse me? Did you really just say that fucking shit? What a tool." Violet appeared all sweet and innocent, but the second she got mad, swears and curses tumbled out. She had no filter, either. "How about, 'Are you okay? Do you want me to help you out? Maybe get you an icepack or something?' Who the hell are you, anyway? His dad? That's some effed up concern, buddy."

Slightly Younger Mycroft blinked at the girl in front of him, at a loss for how to process her.

"I'll have you know young lady that I am his brother, and just who are you…." Mycroft tried to speak, but she railroaded him again.

"I'm the fifteen year old chick who just saved your brother. Unlike you, I did something." Violet grabbed Sherlock's arm, and dragged him away. "The name's Violet Hunter."

Young Violet dragged Young Sherlock away, not noticing the astounded look on Sherlock's face. No one had ever stood up for him before, taken a risk and defended him. And no one ever spoke to Mycroft Holmes like that, either. Mycroft stood in shock next to his town car, watching in disbelief as the young girl manhandled his brother into a cab.

Young Sherlock had only just met her the week before, when she snuck into his chemistry class. He had seen immediately that she was new, too young to be here alone, yet she was, and that she had the look of someone who had been on their own for a while. She had sat quietly in his class, just a row below him and to the side. She had noticed him staring at her, and he knew she was aware of his attention. She looked like someone he had once known, someone who was long dead.

He had suspected at the time that she was related to him. Maybe a distant cousin. It wasn't until she saved him at the fountain that day that he had seen his brother in her. Not the evil, the love of violence. But her casual and easy acceptance of violence as a means to an end, that was Sherrinford. And that was Sherlock. But he kept his thoughts to himself, not confirming it until years later.

Grown Sherlock closed his eyes, withdrawing his mind from his palace, and lifting his consciousness back to his body, where he slept in his leather chair. He felt so much better, at peace and ease with his body and mind. He blinked himself awake, eyes focusing on Violet. She was sitting cross legged in John's chair, clicking away at her laptop. Her hair was slightly damp, and she had a mug of coffee next to her elbow on the small table beside the chair. His nose twitched at the smell of caffeine.

He hadn't moved beyond blinking, but she knew he was awake. She reached out without looking, and picked up her coffee, leaning out. He took it from her without a word, glad it was still hot. Cream, two sugars. Perfect.

"Where'd you go this time?" Violet asked him, as she looked up from her laptop.

"Hmm. Trafalgar Square, the fountain." Sherlock didn't need to elaborate. He watched over the coffee mug as she blinked at him. She knew what day he was referring to. She smiled at him, and went back to whatever she was doing.

She started to hum again, and it was always that song by Bach. It was the first song she had heard him play on his violin. He had played it for her that evening, on the day she rescued him from his abusers. He hadn't been able to say thank you, it was beyond him then, but he had tried. So he played for her. And now, eleven years later, she still hummed that same song when she was happy.

Christmas decorations were everywhere. Doors, windows, lampposts, even the dashboards of cabs. London was responding to the previous month's devastation by pouring on the holiday cheer. It had yet to snow, but the temperatures were falling, and the air had a fierce bite to it that made John think it wouldn't be long.

He was leaving the clinic, a long boring day of endless appointments finally over. He was professional about it, but there were so many times he wished he were elsewhere. Staring at the clock on his office wall wasn't the best way to pay attention to a patient. The only interesting part of his day had been one of his last patients. And interesting wasn't really a good word to describe that appointment. More like awkward, sad, and depressing.

A teenage boy had been battling drug addiction, and his mother had finally managed to drag him in to see a doctor. John grimaced at the unpleasant memory. Mom had been under the assumption that her son was just ill, battling a severe virus or infection. He was ill, but he suffered from addiction. Telling her that her son was an addict, and would benefit most from entering rehab, had been hard. Especially as her son just sat in his chair, staring at the floor, not responding to anything. He had been high even in John's office.

Mom wouldn't listen, right up until John had stood, picked up her unresisting son's arm, and pulled back the sleeve. The needle tracks were faint, but obvious. Her tears had flowed, and her son hadn't responded to her broken heart at all. John had called Donovan at Scotland Yard, and helped Mom wrangle her son into the patrol car Donovan had sent over. John had searched the young man, and flushed every single piece of illegal substance he found on him. He wouldn't be charged with possession, and he was currently being admitted into a facility that could help him.

The air was crisp, nipping at his face as the wind blew. John walked to the corner, waiting on a cab. He felt a stinging wet spot on his face, and looked up. It was snowing. Tiny little flakes were falling, so small they were almost invisible. John smiled at the sight, and didn't care who saw him stick out his tongue, catching a flake as it fell. Christmas was a couple of weeks away, and he thought about stopping for a tree on his way home. Sherlock wasn't one to put up decorations, but he didn't quibble when Mrs. Hudson and John put them up. He could even be persuaded to play on the holidays.

John was about to hail a cab when his mobile chimed in his pocket. He pulled it out, standing at the curb as snow fell harder around him. It was Sherlock.

Donovan called. Case at Black Park Lake, nurseries just south of the lake on Black Park Road. Murder. Do hurry. –SH

On my way. –JW

John hailed a cab, and he threw himself into the back seat. That was a long drive at this time of day, and he settled back in the seat, watching the snow fall on London.

Sherlock stood beside the barn, watching the blood freeze on the cold ground. He was on the leeward side of the building, so the snow wasn't obscuring much of the crime scene. The body was just past the open door, as if it had been dragged by a large predator, and dropped in the dirt. It had been a predator, the most vicious on the planet. Man.

The woman no longer resembled a person, just a torn assemblage of mangled limbs and bloody clothing. The smell of entrails and exposed flesh was heavy in the wet air. Her blonde hair helped identify the head, and her gender, but otherwise, it would require an autopsy to determine who she was for certain. Unless you were Sherlock Holmes, of course.

Sergeant Donovan stood inside the barn, watching as Sherlock stared at the corpse, unmoving. Sherlock heard her shift on her feet, trying to hide her impatience. Her demeanor had improved marvelously since Moriarty had kidnapped her the previous month, but old habits die hard. He couldn't tell if she was impatient with him, or if it was due to the rapidly falling temperatures. He cast her a sideways glance, saw her huddled under her heavy coat. The weather, then.

Sergeant Donovan had been temporarily assigned to head up Lestrade's division of Scotland Yard, while that worthy individual recovered from his injuries. He was due to be discharged from the hospital this week, and was facing months yet of physical therapy before he would be cleared for duty. Which meant Sherlock had to suffer through dealing with Donovan, and DI Dimmock.

Sherlock knew that Donovan was losing the battle with her impatience, but he paid her no mind. His attention was fixed on the slain woman's clothing, the footwear she had on, the direction she had been dragged from. His eyes tracked the signs in the dirt, across the concrete floor of the barn, to the opposite doors, which were open, facing the road. Sherlock saw the black cab as it stopped just behind the police cars, and his heart did a funny little jump as John get out. Donovan saw him staring, and turned to see what was so interesting. She rolled her eyes as she saw the doctor, but said nothing.

Sherlock walked around Donovan, towards his doctor as John followed the crime scene tape to the barn. Sherlock didn't even hesitate, he lifted the tape, and let John in, ignoring the glares from a patrol officer guarding the tape line.

"What we got? You said murder?" John asked him, the barn's dark shadows and the failing light making the air take on an ominous note.

"Hmmm. Female victim, just past the other doors over there." Sherlock led the way to the other door, and let John go ahead of him. John had been around enough crimes scenes now that he knew where to step, what to watch out for, how close he could get.

John didn't even pause, unperturbed by the mangled corpse, the blood everywhere. His doctor paid attention to the wounds, the broken bones, the split torso, and the entrails spilling out on the cold ground.

"Female, late thirties, early forties, minimal defensive wounds. Extreme blunt force trauma, lacerations, fatal blood loss from over a dozen potential causes of death. I'd say animal, but there are no paw prints in the dirt, none in the blood. Just boot prints." John was talking out loud, and Sherlock grinned, exceedingly proud of his doctor.

"Spot on John, keep going." Sherlock encouraged his lover, leaning against the open barn door at his back. "I'll let you know when you've caught up."

John tossed him a look, one that was half pleased, and half annoyed. Sherlock just waved him back to the body, crossing his arms over his chest. John went back to the body, and stared down at it.

"The size of the injuries, the wounds, all indicate that it was the same weapon that caused most of this damage. And if I'm not mistaken…" John held out his own hand, hovering over a mark just above the exposed ribcage. "Yeah, hands, too. Much larger than mine. A very big man did this."

"Excellent work, John." Sherlock said, jumping away from the door, coat flapping in the breeze. "Let's go catch us a killer, shall we?"

"You know who did this and we've been standing here in the cold for nearly an hour?" Donovan said, eyes wide. Her voice cracked on the last word, and she glared at the consulting detective.

"Certainly. Had to wait for John, of course. I never waste an opportunity to show off in front of John." Sherlock tossed that comment over his shoulder, heading back through the barn, and he walked off into the falling snow. He didn't see John get red in the face, a huge grin forming on his lips. John took off after Sherlock, leaving Donovan to follow behind them.

The snow was falling faster, sticking to the ground. Small white sheets were forming on the walkways, the paths through the great nursery. Trees barren of leaves rose from the grounds, and snow gathered on branches, making skeletons of the sleeping giants.

The snow was pure white, but for where it mixed with blood, rose red and spreading. The snow was letting them see where the blood was on the dark ground. Sherlock followed the blood path, stepping around the stains, weaving with unerring accuracy towards his target. John was at his heels, and as they walked off into the lowering darkness, John felt at his waistband for his gun. There was an air of menace in the air, the silence generated by the falling snow.

A large glass building loomed from the shadows, and Sherlock headed for it without hesitation. The greenhouse was dark, but for a single light the burned from within.

"Okay, Sherlock. Explain please." John murmured under his breath, chin tucked deep in his collar against the cold.

"You said the same weapon was used for the injuries caused to the victim, did you not?" Sherlock saw John nod, and went back to watching the ground in front of him. "But that makes no sense, given the blunt force trauma, the large and deep lacerations, and the signs of bare hands."

"Oh. Yeah. Huh." John sounded embarrassed, but Sherlock grinned.

"You aren't wrong, John." Sherlock stopped just below the great glass walls of the greenhouse, trying to see past the haze of the glass. "It was the same weapon, wielded by one man."

"I'm lost." John stopped beside him, and they waited for Donovan to catch up.

"Where are we?" Sherlock asked John, hands buried in his pockets, breath frosting in the air.

"Um…. A nursery." John offered.

"Yes we are. Did you see the state of her boots?" Sherlock queried, Donovan listening intently.

"Um, no. Distracted by the blood and guts, sorry."

"Look around John. Winter is here, there is nothing green, nothing living. But she had flower petals stuck in the tread of her boots. And her clothes, where not covered by dirt and grime, were stained by green plant matter. Which is why we are here, at the greenhouse, in an otherwise dormant nursery, Christmas mere weeks away."

"Okay, so she was in the greenhouse. " John was following. Trying to. "What does Christmas have to do with anything?"

"Yes, with her killer. Her wounds are consistent with large pruning shears. Blades for the lacerations, the handles for the blunt force trauma, and since he seemed rather pissed off as he killed her, I'm certain he used his hands too." Sherlock leaned down slightly, his eyes twinkling in the fading twilight. Night was coming, and quickly. "And Christmas is why she was here, why her killer was here."

"What?" That was Donovan, finally speaking up.

"Yes, see?" Sherlock pulled out his mobile, showing them the screen. It showed the front entrance of the nursery, and two people standing under the sign. The woman had long blonde hair, and the man at her shoulder was tall, over six feet. The news headline showed 'Christmas Roses and Poinsettias in High Demand, Local Nursery Supplying Flowers for Charity Events in London.'

"So, live plants, pruning shears, and a woman beaten and slashed to death by a large male assailant, rose petals, blood trail…. facile. Still don't know why I was called, but as I'm here now….." Sherlock motioned for Donovan to approach the doors of the greenhouse. "Might as well see this through, he's in there."

"What?" John asked, backing away from the door as Donovan pulled her weapon. "We've been standing out here chatting, and the killer is in there?"

"Yes we have been, and yes, he's in there. Rather strange he hasn't attempted to run for it, but as he's a big fellow, he may think he can fight his way out of this. Do go get him, Sergeant. I'd like to go home."

Donovan approached the door, saying nothing as John drew his weapon, guarding her back. Technically John wasn't allowed to be carrying, but seeing as all the other police officers were still back at the barn, Sally wasn't going to quibble legalities.

Donovan opened the door, John on her heels as she entered. Warmth spilled out over them, the strong scent of roses permeating the air. She disappeared into the fog that formed as a result of the cold air, John and Sherlock on her heels.

The greenhouse was full of flowers. Reds and whites and sweet yellows from the roses, and the deep blood red of poinsettias in their gold foiled pots. The scents were overwhelming. Sally kept her gun up, heading for that single lamp glowing amid the flowers, as John swept the shadows. Sherlock followed close behind.

"I found him." Sally's voice was soft in the close spaces, muffled by the plants. She sounded strange. Not excited at all.

Sherlock entered the light from the single lamp hanging from the ceiling. It cast a small circle of orange light on the concrete floor, on the figure lying still. Sherlock stared down at the man prone at his feet. He was over six feet tall, easily twice Sherlock's weight, and he was very dead.

Blood covered his arms, his hands, up to his shoulder, soaking his chest, down to his hips. There were no signs of injury on him, his clothes were intact, no gunshot wounds, no stab wounds, nothing. The blood wasn't his, it was the woman's. A large set of pruning shears was still clutched in his hand, blood caking every inch of the murder weapon. Tiny bits of flesh clung to the blades, and his hands.

His face was bluish and splotchy. His eyes were bloodshot, and his tongue protruded from his mouth. It was deep sick purple color, as were his lips.

John lowered his weapon, and went to lean over the body.

"John, stop." Sherlock warned his doctor. John froze, and looked at Sherlock in apprehension. "Don't touch the body. No one touch anything in here. He was poisoned."

"We need to leave exactly as we entered, touch nothing. Keep your hands away from your faces, don't touch your gloves to bare skin." Sherlock ordered, and the tone of his voice brokered no argument from the officer and his doctor. "Out, now."

Sherlock grabbed John by the arm, and didn't wait for his lover to move on his own, dragging him to the door and out of the greenhouse. John barely had time to protest before Sherlock was examining his gloves, tossing the gun down to the snow. John tried to stop him, but Sherlock wasn't listening, eyes intent on John's gloves. He saw nothing on the surface, nothing that wasn't supposed to be there from normal use. He sighed in relief, then pounced on Donovan.

She tried to tug herself away from him, but he was determined, and ignored her struggles. She gave up, and let him look over her leather gloves. Sherlock saw it, a thin, shiny glaze on the hand she had opened the door with. He grasped her wrist, and dug in his pockets, pulling out a clear plastic bag.

"Did you touch anything? Anything other than the door, and your gun?" Sherlock demanded as he used the plastic bag like a glove, grabbing her glove and peeling it off her hand.

"What? No, nothing." She was flabbergasted, as he bagged her glove and tied off the end.

"Don't touch it. You've got the toxin on your glove. It was on the doorknob." Sherlock eyed her gun, and she glanced at it nervously. He pulled out another bag, and made her drop the weapon in it. "Call whoever you need to, lock this scene down, warn everyone not to touch anything. Make your calls, Sergeant."

Sherlock let go of Sally, and she pulled out her mobile, dialing as she walked away a few feet, eyeing the greenhouse with a trace of fear. John was staring at him in shock, and Sherlock walked back to his doctor, wrapping his arms around John, holding him close.

"Sherlock, you okay?" John whispered in his ear, his doctor holding him tightly.

"Yes." Sherlock buried his cold nose in John's neck, making him jump. "Looks like this case just got more interesting."

Violet sat in her uncle's chair, her laptop keeping her legs warm. Sherlock had been gone for hours now, and Mrs. Hudson was next door at Mrs. Turner's. Violet grabbed the poker from the hearth, poking at the logs burning merrily away. It was dark, the only light coming from the fire, and the single lamp on in Sherlock's room down the hall. John was with her uncle, and he had texted her just minutes ago, telling her that they were on their way home.

Violet had smiled, oddly touched by John updating her on where they were. As if she were family, and such things were important. The night was very quiet, the falling snow muffling all sounds. She looked at the windows, and saw it was still falling, great white flakes visible in the street lights.

She sighed, determined not to fall asleep in Sherlock's chair. He wouldn't mind much, but having to drag herself back to the couch was too hard at the moment. She'd move when he got home. She went back to work, focused on the lines of code cycling down her screen.

Violet didn't hear it at first. Faint scraping noises from downstairs, like a piece of furniture was moving. Or a door being opened, below her in Mrs. Hudson's flat.

Mrs. Hudson must be back already. She said she was going to be late, it's kinda early. She must be part ninja, I didn't hear the front door open… I didn't hear it open. Fuck. That's not her.

Violet slowly raised her eyes from laptop screen, staring hard at the stairwell, the black void of it suddenly ominous. She could see nothing. But she knew, like she knew how to breathe, that she wasn't alone anymore. Someone was in the flat, trying their best not to be heard. Violet fought back her fear, and lowered her laptop to the floor. Her heart was racing, blood pounding in her ears. She watched the stairwell, and she thought she saw a slight motion. Furtive, tiny, as if someone had peeked between the railings, trying to see up into the flat.

Violet resisted the urge to scream, to call out. She pulled her mobile out, and without looking, hit the speed dial for Sherlock. She felt the small speakers vibrate in her tight grip as she stared at the person-shaped shadow creep up the stairs, pausing on the landing. She knew the call went through, as she caught the faint sound of her uncle's voice from her mobile's speakers.

Violet sucked in a deep breath, and jumped from the chair, the shadow man moving as she ran for her uncle's room. She barreled past the open kitchen door, screaming as a black clad arm snaked out from the doorway, trying to grab her. A large man careened past her, slamming into the burnt kitchen table. She ran, not stopping as she darted into Sherlock's room, throwing the door shut, locking it behind her. She reached over, and locked the bathroom door too. She brought her mobile to her ear, backing away from the doors. Sherlock was yelling over the open line, having heard her scream.

"Sherlock, someone's here. A man, oh God. He's after me, fuck fuck fuck…" She cried out as the door shook on its hinges, a large body slamming against it from the outside. "Sherlock!"