TITLE: It Takes a Village

CHAPTER/TITLE: Chapter Fifty/ Now Comes the Dawn

RATING: T (violence/language)

A/N: What do you guys think of the rescue? I didn't want to make it too complicated and elaborate, as the story's murders, etc already have been confusing for some. But is it really that simple?

Chapter Fifty: Now Comes the Dawn

John wasn't sure how much time had passed as he anxiously awaited his wife and best friend's return.

The adrenaline was fading far more quickly than John would have liked. Minutes earlier, he had finally properly applied and tightened the bandages when it was obvious the bleeding wasn't going to give up. It was helping, but it couldn't save him.

For only a moment, John drew his trained attention from the door to his daughter. His soldier senses were still on high alert, as even though he turned away, his eyes continually returned to that threshold.

Brushing a hand over the girl's face and hair, John didn't dare to try and stop the single tear that escaped, drawing a jagged line down his flushed face.

He just needed to do this. To touch her. Mary and Sherlock had both gotten to, but John hadn't. He needed to feel her. To know that she was real. His daughter. Alive. Real.

So many nights he had dreamt of seeing her again, holding her, only for her to be ripped away by Moriarty or waking before he could. Sometimes she would turn to dust or a wisp of air in his arms. Other times, she would be just out of his reach. In all those years, he never had been able to touch her in those nightmares.

Now he could.

It was quite possibly the most glorious and joyful sensation he had ever experienced.

But that joy was soon to be quickly interrupted.

John was still tucking some stray hair behind her ear when he noticed it. His watery eyes barely caught the flicker of movement. He was almost positive his heart and breath had both paused as he stared down intently at his daughter's hand, waiting. And then it happened again. The girl's fingers, just two, flinched. That was more than enough for him.

The doctor promptly went to work checking his daughter's vital signs, setting his firearm on the small table closest to the bed. Indeed, she was waking. Slowly, but waking nonetheless. If seeing her just like this was enough to stop his heart, he wondered vaguely what watching her open her eyes for the first time in years would do to him.

He remained like that for some time, closely watching and mentally cataloging the signs. Each finger spasm. Every variation of breath. He even spoke to her, gently urging her to wake up.

"Billie," he said softly, the name sounding like heaven on his lips after so many years of disuse. "Can you hear me? It's alright. You're safe now. You can wake up now. It - It's - Dad. It's your father. We found you. Oh, Billie. We've been so lost without you. We need you. I need you. Just, please, be alright. Can you hear me? If you can hear me, Billie, move your fingers."

This was hardly the first person John had witnessed and helped break back through to consciousness. From criminal mishaps where Sherlock was knocked over the head, to unconscious near-victims, to the occasional addict that came through the clinic - oh, and that one time a father-to-be slipped in his own spilled coffee as he waited for his wife to give birth to their twins. He ended up being unconscious for the entire delivery, and the first two days of his sons' lives.

"Billie," John prompted again, "if you can, squeeze my hand."

There was a bang against the door and John snapped his head toward his barricade.

His eyes were still sharply fixed on the door as he reached for his gun.

His gun that was no longer there.

Spinning his head back around in confusion, John Watson was met with one of the most terrifying sights he had ever witnessed.

There, sitting up in the bed, awake, and pointing his own gun at his face, was his daughter.


Sherlock and Mary were silently regretting their initial stealth approach as most of the men they had previously knocked out were now wide awake and all gathered together against them. It wasn't exactly a fair or even fight, but then again, numbers weren't everything. Moriarty's men were fighting only for money and their lives. Sherlock and Mary, on the other hand, were fighting for far more than their own survival. They were fighting for their own lives, for each others', for John's, for Billie's. If a mother can lift a vehicle off of her child with pure adrenaline, then Mary and Sherlock could most certainly take down this hoard of henchmen.

Only one had gotten to the door, but that was merely because his body had slammed against it on its way down to meet the cold ground.

By the time all of their opponents were permanently on the floor, Mary was doubled over and panting, and Sherlock was leaning against a wall as he tended to his shoulder. The bullet had barely grazed him. He had also taken the wrong end of a knife to his face, but that too had just been deep enough to leave him with a line of crimson across his cheek and not much else. Mary had suffered a significant blow to the abdomen and was merely trying to regain her breath. She too had met an angry blade, the back of her hand barely bleeding, and a fist to the face where there was sure to be a shiner in the morning. The punch Sherlock had failed to block to his own face was already leaving swelling in its wake. A bulky elbow to his stomach just about ensured a bruised rib. Overall, they were in a lot better shape than they had anticipated.

They were sharing a smile when they heard it.

Another gunshot.

But this one hadn't come from the hall.

This one came from behind the door.

From inside the room.

Despite their exhaustion and their injuries, both Sherlock and Mary ran for the door. Mary was already banging on the old wood while Sherlock searched his pockets for the key. He had locked it as they had left, just in case they hadn't been able to stop Moriarty's men. He heard the lock disengage and immediately gripped the handle, practically ripping the old fixture right off.

Except the door didn't open.

Sherlock internally cursed himself for his last instructions to John. Of course the former soldier had somehow summoned the strength to barricade the door, even with a bullet wound in his leg.

The pair were shouting for John and Billie now, demanding answers, ordering someone, anyone, to open the door.

Sherlock's mind was whirling. There wasn't enough information to deduce what exactly had happened. He blinked and in that split second reviewed what he had seen in the room for those few minutes. Was there a closet he had missed? A form hiding under the bed? A figure in the shadows? He remembered nothing of the sort. But what were the other options? Either John had fired the gun at someone, or -

No. No. No.

They had discussed this possibility ages ago, but Sherlock never wanted to believe that it could actually be true. He never should have left John alone with her. Not before they knew who exactly was waking up in that bed.

"John! Answer me right now!" Mary pounded her fist against the wood.

Sherlock slammed his entire body against the door then, Mary soon joining him. Sherlock had heaved himself against the blockaded entryway three times before he realized that Mary was longer at his side.

It took him less than a second to find her on the floor.

And even less time than that to notice the blood.