Author's Note: Almost forgot to post this one today. I have a major statistics exam tomorrow morning. Wish me luck!

A million thanks, as always, to Becca (LlamaWithAPen), whose responses to this chapter were well needed. Of all the chapters I've written, this has been the one I've been most interested in seeing everyone's responses to.


Chapter Forty-Eight

The gun was steady in Mary's hands. Sherlock's gaze flickered between it and the hard expression on her face. This wasn't right. This could not be right, this could not be happening. Sherlock was supposed to meet Moriarty, not –

Was this Moriarty?

Was she Moriarty?

She inadvertently answered his unspoken question seconds later. "Moriarty sends his regards," she said, her voice calm and steady. There was no fear audible in her speech or visible in her face.

Not Moriarty, then. Of course not, that had been a completely illogical deductive leap. Moriarty was a vampire, Sherlock had been certain of it. Mary was not a vampire. Mary had a heartbeat, pumping blood around her veins. She was human.

So then how was she involved in this? Had Moriarty targeted her upon discovering she was getting close to John? Had Moriarty realised that she was in a position where she could hurt them, because they had grown to trust her? Sherlock's gaze flickered to her neck, seeking signs of bite marks that might have suggested she was being dosed with enough venom to make her loyal to him. There was nothing above the collar of her jacket, but that did not rule out the possibility of something lower down.

Mary continued, "He's sorry he couldn't make it."

Was she simply serving as Moriarty's voice? Moriarty had kept himself out of the line of fire for so long; had he chosen Mary as a way to continue to sit above it all? Was he whispering into her ear, telling her what to say? Her ears were covered with a dark beanie; Sherlock could not see if there was an ear piece slotted into one of them.

If she was wearing an earpiece, it was entirely possible that Moriarty was using it to listen not only to what she said, but to what Sherlock said as well.

He reached into his pocket quickly, and he saw her tighten her grip on the gun for a second before she realised that he was reaching for a phone and not for a weapon. He typed out a message as quickly as he could and then turned the screen around so that she could read it.

Can he hear us?

Her gaze flickered to the screen as she read it, and then she shook her head. "No," she said calmly. "Nor can he see us. It's just us."

Unless, of course, he could see them, and she knew that, and so she was left with no choice but to lie.

Doubt must have crossed Sherlock's face, because Mary reached up and slid the beanie off her head. "No earpieces," she said. "No cameras. And you know as well as I do that there's no one else in this forest. You would be able to smell him, if not hear him. I have no reason to lie to you about this."

Sherlock pocketed his phone again. The gun in Mary's hand remained trained on Sherlock's still heart.

"Mary," he started slowly. "Whatever he's got on you, whatever he's using to threaten you, let me help." He went to take a step closer, but her finger tightened on the trigger, so he stopped before he put his foot down and stood his ground. "I can help you. Whatever he's using to make you do this..."

"Oh, Sherlock," she said, and for a second, something flickered over her face, something almost sad.

No, not sad, Sherlock realised immediately.

She looked disappointed.

Mary continued, "No one is making me do anything."

She might not see it like that, Sherlock thought to himself, if she were being dosed with venom. She might not have been aware that she was being forced to do anything, because she would still have the illusion of free will. Sherlock's gaze flickered to her neck again, but nothing new had been revealed after she had taken her beanie off.

"Then tell me," Sherlock said, keeping his voice soft, gentle. "Why are you working for Moriarty?"

Mary said, "I didn't say that I was working for him."

And it hit Sherlock all at once.

The fact that Mary had started work as a receptionist while John was recovering from an injury. After both Winthers and the hunter from the forest had failed to kill both him and Sherlock.

The fact that she had immediately taken interest in John – specifically, in John's work with Sherlock.

That she was clever, clever enough to solve ciphers at a glance.

That within Moriarty's network, there had always been evidence of a sub-organisation of hunters, separate from whoever was involved in the puzzles that Sherlock had been sent.

That Winthers had been clever enough to outsmart them and get away, but had apparently been foolish enough to still give them a name that they had thought would be a genuine lead.

That O'Donnell, the gun manufacturer, had a contact that he only referred to in his diary as "M".

That O'Donnell had meetings with "M", but that Moriarty sat above it all and never got too close.

"The hunters weren't Moriarty's organisation," Sherlock breathed.

"No," Mary said. "He was just a contact."

Sherlock had been so focussed on the big picture, trying to understand the extent of Moriarty's influence and the variety of cases that he was involved in. Now, it felt like his mind was zooming in to a smaller part of the puzzle, to focus on the hunters that had originally captured his attention, long before the name Moriarty had ever reached his ears. Now, it felt like pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, pieces he had not realised were missing because he had been too focussed on the wider image, the general gist and not the specificities.

"You can take the gun out of your trousers," Mary said, interrupting his train of thoughts. Her expression was still cold. "Slowly, if you don't mind."

Sherlock could reach for the gun. His reflexes were faster than a human's. He would be able to fire before she had the chance. The bullets would have been useless against Moriarty, but not against her.

His hand reached behind his back, closed his hand around the gun.

He could turn it on her and shoot before she had a chance to react.

Could he?

Sherlock had killed people. All vampires had, at one point or another. He had hurt people who were far more innocent than her.

And yet, this was different.

He'd never pulled a gun on anyone and fired to kill. He had never killed anyone while his head was clear, while his thoughts were not clouded by bloodlust. He put murderers behind bars. That did not mean he was eager to become one himself.

His gaze flickered between the gun in Mary's hands, and her eyes.

He couldn't kill her. She had information that he needed.

And, hunter or not, she was John's girlfriend.

Sherlock crouched down, and placed the gun on the ground.

"The hunters were a separate organisation," he said slowly as he stood up. The pieces of the puzzle were still coming together in his head, slowly. "Moriarty did not control them. He merely gave you access to resources that you would not have had otherwise."

Mary nodded her head. "He helped with recruitment," she said, "among other things."

"We were right, then, about the bite marks. He is a vampire. You recruit people by drugging them with venom."

"Not always. You'd be surprised how many people come willingly. Others just need a little more persuasion to focus their skill sets on creatures like you."

People couldn't be convinced to kill that easily, Sherlock realised. People who did not have any reason to want to take a life previously would not change their minds so suddenly, not even if they were high on vampire venom frequently enough. Moriarty – and Mary – would have targeted those who did not have a moral compass that kept them from killing, those who had skill sets that made them the right men and women for the job.

"He warned us about you, too," Mary continued. "You caught his attention before you even knew he existed. He's quite a fan of your work."

"He planted the camera in John's flat," Sherlock stated.

"Not him, personally," she said. "One of his other contacts."

"And the puzzles?"

"Were Moriarty," Mary finished. "When he found out that you had heard his name, he couldn't resist getting in touch in one way or another. You thought he was just a member of an organisation of hunters. He had to show you how much bigger his network was."

"Why with puzzles? Why send me to solve cases that he had been involved in?"

Mary's lips pulled up into a ghost of a smile. "It kept you busy," she said. "You'd be surprised how much you missed while you were distracted."

The gun shifted in her grip, and Sherlock's gaze flickered to it automatically, before he looked back at her eyes. He wanted to see a flicker of doubt there, a flicker of uncertainty, but all he was met with was determination.

"So now you're here to kill me," Sherlock said, his mind whirring as he tried to form some sort of plan. There had to be a way for him to escape, or bluff his way out, or something. He just had to keep Mary talking for long enough for him to work out what to do. "Your other hunters failed, so you knew you had to do it yourself, and that's why you took the job at John's clinic. So that you could get close to him, and then to me, so you could finish the job."

"That was the plan, yes," Mary said, and Sherlock's mind latched onto the past tense, plans of overpowering her to escape coming to a halt.

"Was," he repeated. "But not anymore." And seconds later, he worked out why. "Because you fell for him."

For a long moment, Mary's expression did not change, and the gun in her hand remained perfectly steady. Then, for a fraction of a second, Sherlock saw her gaze flicker to the ground. "Yes."

Sherlock kept his eyes on the gun, which was still pointed at his chest. Any feelings that Mary had for John might keep her from killing John, but this protection would not necessarily extend to Sherlock. It was not the right time to do anything risky. He waited, and after a moment of silence, Mary spoke again.

"I don't want to kill you," she said. "Either of you."

"That's rather difficult to believe while you have a gun pointed at my chest," Sherlock said. Mary did not lower it.

"You're a vampire," she reminded him. "I'd rather have a weapon on me in case you decide you want to fight."

"What makes you think I'll do that?"

"I am a hunter," she said. "I pose a threat to your kind."

"Technically speaking, so does John."

She hesitated, perhaps considering the probability that a vampire who is content to be friends with a werewolf might still want to kill a hunter, but then she lowered her gun just a little. She did not put it down, nor did she shift it in her grip, so it was still in a position where she could raise it and fire quickly if need be. At this point, Sherlock assumed that it was the best that he could ask for.

"You've seen now what Moriarty is capable of," she said. "You've seen what the hunters are capable of. You've not seen what I am capable of, but I'm sure you can fill in the blanks for yourself. You've gotten closer to Moriarty than anyone before. Now you need to stop."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Is this a threat, Mary? After you said you would do me no harm?"

Mary's expression remained carefully blank. "I said I did not want to kill you. If you leave me no other options, I will." She paused for a moment, letting the determination in her gaze imprint itself firmly in Sherlock's mind, before she continued, "Moriarty's network is vaster and more powerful than you can imagine. One man cannot stand a chance at taking it down, and if Moriarty decides that your meddling is starting to inconvenience him, he will kill you."

"That would be tremendously ambitious of him."

"From what I've heard, your arrogance is precisely what has almost led to your death before. I would not be so certain, if I were you."

Something made a sound nearby, and Mary's gun was immediately raised, pointing at the direction it came from, before she saw a bird land on the branch of a tree nearby. She returned her attention to Sherlock. "You need to stop searching for Moriarty," she continued. "In return, I can keep my hunters out of London. You, John, and Mycroft will be safe."

"How do you know about Mycroft?"

Mary's lips twitched. "Moriarty has his contacts. So, are we in agreement?"

"You're asking me to refrain from investigating the single biggest criminal enterprise I have come across in my life."

"I'm asking you to choose your own safety over a pointless investigation that will ultimately lead nowhere. Moriarty can, and will, remain hidden from you if he wants, and if he wants you dead, he'll organise that too. You, and John. I'm asking you to back off, a lot more nicely than he would."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, and then asked, "And what of you, then?"

"I'll have left London in the morning," she said. "I've handed in my letter of resignation, and I've left a letter in John's office, giving him an explanation for my sudden departure and thanking him for a wonderful couple of months. I can't stop you from telling him the truth, if you choose, but you know as well as I do that it would hurt him more to know that I've lied to him from the start. I know you care for him, too. We can protect him from that."

"Bit late for that," said a voice from behind Sherlock, behind a nearby tree. Mary raised her gun, Sherlock whirled around, and John stepped out, expression hard.

For the first time, genuine emotion seemed to cross Mary's face. Fear. Shock. Sadness.

"How much did you hear?" she asked quietly.

John came to a stop beside Sherlock. "Enough."

"John," she started, "I'm so-"

"Don't. I don't want to hear it."

In the silence that stretched between them, you could almost hear the tension buzzing in the air. John was the one who broke it. His voice was cold.

"I could kill you."

Sherlock's attention snapped towards him. Mary raised her gun, but now, it trembled just slightly in her hands.

"You were expecting Sherlock," John continued. "So that's got wooden bullets in it. They won't protect you."

Mary hesitated, and then lowered her gun, shifted it to one hand, and raised her hands in surrender.

"There's nothing I can do to stop you," she said quietly. "If you want to kill me, then kill me. But what I felt for you was – is – real, and I think you felt the same."

Sherlock's gaze flickered between Mary's position of surrender, and John's anger, determination. Then, after a moment, John relaxed his shoulders and hung his head, and Mary let out a sigh of relief.

"But you know we can't let you go," John continued after a moment. "You're a murderer. You belong behind bars."

"I know," Mary said quietly. "So I'm sorry."

She raised her gun and fired.

Sherlock let out a cry of pain as he felt it penetrate his chest, and he was falling, falling, falling. He heard John yell his name, and he hit the ground back first, John immediately dropping to his knees beside him.

"Sherlock," he could hear John saying, pushing Sherlock's coat out of the way, hands scrambling at the buttons of his shirt. "Sherlock, stay with me."

The pain radiated through Sherlock's body. For such a small bullet hole, it felt like everything was burning.

He could feel, though. That meant it hadn't hit the heart. Right?

John was talking, saying something - Sherlock's name was the only thing Sherlock could pick out – and then his voice cut off and his expression changed. He looked confused.

The pain was fading, slowly. Sherlock shifted, tilted his head forward to look at his chest.

There was no wound.

His chest was bloody, and he was definitely feeling the effects of the blood loss, but there was no wound.

He sat up slowly, wincing, and then got to his feet. He could move. He could stand. He could walk.

He walked backwards a few steps, swaying a little on his feet, and then he found the bullet, coated in his blood. It was metal, not wood.

"She was bluffing," he said, turning the bullet around in his hand. "She was never going to kill me. Not today."

He looked back over his shoulder. John was sitting on the ground, staring at the blood – Sherlock's blood – on his hands.

Mary was nowhere in sight.