Adelaide closed the short distance between herself and the man passed out on the couch. Bart and Cass had made themselves voluntary bedfellows and were wedged between him and the back of the sofa, snoozing equally as calmly. The man she saw looked broken–run ragged by whatever wild goose chase he had found himself in the center of and pushed himself until there was no more of him left to give. And then he still went an extra mile.

Her fingers carded through his hair in the tenderest of caresses, hating the fact that he was so out of it that the instinctual response of pressing himself closer to her touch was absent. Steeling her resolve, Addie crouched down beside the sofa and brushed her lips against her husband's, taking care not to hurt the already bruised bits of his face in the process. The kiss was brief, but she hope it would make up for the sour disappointment of when he woke up and she was nowhere to be found. Mary and Addie had not told John the entirety of their plan, either, since they both knew the doctor had loose lips. When she pulled away from the detective, she couldn't help but acknowledge the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"Let's go, Mar," she whispered, stepping backwards, remembering the planes on Sherlock's face as if this were the last time she would ever get to enjoy them.

"Love, John and I could–"

"Let's go, Mary!" Addie repeated, more forcefully, ripping her eyes away from Sherlock and brushing past the doctor and his wife out the door.

"What did you find on the wyvern?"

Addie and Mary were in the Watson's car with Mary at the wheel. The blond gestured with her head at the folder laying across the dash for Addie to take. She had only just mentioned the appearance of the card to the ex-spy, but apparently she needn't have ever doubted Mary's abilities to find information.

"I didn't find a hell of a lot," she started and Addie snorted. "What I did find was that they're an elite group that originally operated out of France. Now, they've crossed the channel and have tried to make a home on our side. More money than god and enough connections to make anyone disappear."

The feeling of dread in her belly had not settled the more space they put between themselves and their husbands. Every kilometer that flashed past punctuated the fact that she had very idiotically volunteered for a suicide mission. "What do they want with Mycroft?"

"I don't think it's much to do with Mycroft, as much as it is about Sherlock. The crème de la crème of criminals, trying to operate on British soil? Influencing the government? Sherlock would have them exposed within a week!"

"Right." Addie sighed, flipping through redacted reports of assassinations and "missing" persons. "So it's a double whammy. They eliminate Sherlock's access to the inside and eliminate Mycroft's ability to rope his brother into his side projects. Why go for me?"

Mary rolled her eyes, cutting a glance at Addie as if she were being a fool. "Because Mycroft expects Sherlock to taunt someone enough to put a bullet in him –hi, hello, that was me– but he doesn't want you in the crossfire. The Tinman has feelings."

It was all fairly apparent, but the details just seemed to fall into place a little too perfectly. Villains weren't so cautious–they were messy and narcissistic and pedantic… kind of like Sherlock with a migraine.

The car slowed as it turning into a residential area full of expensive houses all a couple of hundred metres apart. Their facades glimmered and shouted of expense and the perfectly manicured lawns for the chilly time of year denounced the rich were slowly killing the planet to keep their front yards looking fresh. Addie recognized the streets from the time she and Sherlock had left a ghost pepper-infused cake on Mycroft's doorstep. To think that she was driving in the efforts to save the same sod she had played such a juvenile prank on seemed bizarre.

"Something still feels off, Mary. How many high-class criminals have come and gone through the years? This feels oddly personal. Not like you're trying to eliminate a roadblock, but like some sort of revenge."

"I'll admit it is off," Mary agreed, parking the car several blocks away from Mycroft's cul-de-sac. "Killing Mycroft outright would be easier than go for you. A bullet is easier than forcing an emotional response."

They both exited the vehicle and quietly walked down the roadways, keeping to the shadows and away from any unruly pets ready to give away their positions. Mary had taken to the stalking like a fish to water. Apparently secret missions were just like riding a bike–Addie hated riding bikes. Though she tried, her footsteps could never achieve the soundless effect that Mary's did. Her mind running a million miles a minute wasn't paying dividends on minding how loud she was being, anyway.

"Unless… emotional is what you're going for," Addie whispered, feeling the hair on the back of her neck prickle insistently and making her pace falter.

"Felt that, too?" Mary asked in an equally quiet tone. Addie nodded, squinting into the dark surrounding them for the telltale glimmer of laser sights or night-vision binoculars. "If this were the Wyvern, we'd be dead right now, Addie."

It was time for her to do something she didn't like–try to think like Sherlock. Sure, it had proven more than useful in the last few days and had kept her alive, but that was merely his logic playing Jiminy Cricket while she was in peril. It was another thing entirely to try and mimic his train(wreck) of thought. Sherlock's Mind Palace, as he had once explained to her, was a meticulously organized estate where every room was appropriately categorized, catalogued and cross-referenced. Every nook and cranny was accounted for because there was no part of his brain that he could waste. When he asked what her mind looked like, she had answered that she did not know. In actuality, it was sort of like a studio apartment filled with haphazardly arranged filing cabinets and administrated by cranky toddlers. Every seven minutes or so, something caught fire. That was, she had finally told him, why scientists have lab notebooks.

However, as she turned the matter in her mind, and tried to put herself in the very sleek shoes of her husband, there was a detail in the file that had irked. She must have been making a face because Mary stared at her oddly while she thought (or perhaps she was silently willing the other woman to keep moving and not let them become sitting ducks in the street). It was frustrating. Addie knew there was something, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. Something more than just a perfectly orchestrated coup. Addie struggled to envision the papers and the calling card from her lab in her head. She gritted her teeth and steadied her breathing–she almost had it.

And then it clicked.

It was only then that Addie noticed that she had been tugging at her hair and the braid where she had placed her thick, blonde mane was falling apart. She unhooked her fingers from her tresses and turned to Mary, who seemed a mix of intrigued and amused. "Mary did you photocopy those files?"

The Watson wife shot her an incredulous look. "Do I look like someone who needs to break in somewhere and photocopy things to find secrets?"

Addie had assumed as much, and the next phrase tumbled out of her lips without even realizing it. "They were mirror images." In her head, she could see the white wyvern on the sea of black with all its symbols in a halo surrounding it. The winged creatures were looking opposite directions. "It was a copy cat," she gasped, before taking off full speed towards Mycroft's.

Mary took off after her, managing to catch up and pull the younger woman to a stop with a yank. "Wait! Addie what do you mean!?"

"The pictures were facing different directions! This wasn't someone from The Wyverns. It was someone who wanted us to think they were! They wanted Sherlock and Mycroft involved!"

Mary blanched. "Oh god, it was a trap."

"We need to get Mycroft!"

Now, Addie was still not cleared under medical orders to do anything physically exerting after her concussion, but there was a sense of urgency in her very soul that superseded any doctor's recommendation about her wellbeing. Out of breath and slightly dizzy, she had outpaced Mary to the side door of the elder Holmes' mansion. No one but the cleaning staff ever used this entrance, so she assumed no one would be looking after it. That was, until someone jumped out of the nearby bushes and pounced at Adelaide, only to intercepted by a very angry Mary. Two minutes later, there was an unconscious form on the grass and an adrenaline fueled Mary gesturing Addie ahead.

Slinking through the door, Addie kicked off her shoes and moved past the laundry, following the sound of conversation ahead. Rounding the corner into the lavishly furnished living room, she saw Mycroft, bruised and cuffed, but in relatively better kit than when they had been hostages together. Beside him a man pointed a gun at his head. He was familiar.

The man was slight, his brown hair was a little shaggier than she remembered it and the beard had gone far past casual lumberjack/conspiracy theorist to utterly insane. It was the slightly manic blue eyes that she connected to the most. Addie had seen those eyes chase after Sherlock a dozen times, wild and unhinged, while their accompanying mouth spouted nonsense.

"Oh, Sherlock and Doctor Watson, it was about ti– You're not Sherlock and John," he started to say pleasantly, stopping to frown at the women just beyond the foyer. He raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth and hissed, "I thought I told you to stop anyone who wasn't Sherlock or John!" There was nothing but silence. "Hello?"

"Oh, your lookouts? Guard dog took care of them," Addie remarked casually.

Mary grinned. "Woof." She frowned. "Who's this twat?"

Addie contained the urge to tell Mary off just this instant considering his brother was in peril. "I didn't know the Empty Hearse was into felonies now, Mister Anderson."

The gun clicked ominously and brushed against Mycroft's temple. In all honesty, Mycroft looked more annoyed that it was this fool who had gotten the drop on him and not the fact that there was a gun pressed flush against his head.

"You were supposed to be Sherlock and John!" He spat at them jaw clenched in anger. "Where are they!?"

"Oh, they're parking the car," Addie riposted sardonically, pointing over her shoulder. "Alright, Myc?" The elder Holmes nodded, hissing as Anderson knocked the gun against his temple, as if to remind him that it was there.

"He always does this," he muttered. "He ALWAYS DOES THIS!"

"Your little fanclub nearly killed us!" Addie growled, gesturing between she and Mycroft. "Sherlock might need surgery on his leg! Why?"

The man was just shy of breaking down or losing his mind completely. "If they had just done what they were meant to and stopped sticking their noses–"

Addie scoffed, shaking her head. "Why, though? Just so he would tell you that you were clever? That you got him this time?"

"I've known Sherlock for years and he's never given me the chance to-to show him how much of an asset I could be to his operation! All he had to do was give me a chance." He scrubbed a hand through his face, putting his beard into disarray and making him looking even crazier. "If I could convince him the Wyverns were interested in him and that they were after you two then he would ask me to help."

"Tell me something, did you take a picture of the logo? For the cards?"

"Yes, of course. That's why I broke into Mycroft's office. Where I found your picture."

"Oh, he's an idiot," Mary grunted, lowering her own gun to groan. "You flipped the image, you fucking dolt. Sherlock probably saw this coming a mile away and was probably too busy wrangling the hired muscle who went berserk."

"No! They're under strict orders to–"

"Look at him," Addie interrupted, pointing at Mycroft. "LOOK AT HIM!" She bellowed. "Under whose strict fucking orders was that done?" Anderson opened and closed his mouth several times before deciding that looking at the floor was his best option. With a roll of her eyes she marched towards the pair with a scowl. "Fucking amateur. Mary, call Greg to pick this fool up. You better start thinking really hard about who the hell you hired and quick. Now give me the damn gun!"

"N-no. I am waiting for Sherlock."

"He's not coming! You made damn sure of that. Now give. Me. The gun." Addie held her hand open, staring holes into the wild-eyed man, who still seemed to debate whether or not the consulting detective would actually show. "Now!"

Anderson shook his head like a petulant child, tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he realized the severity of the situation. With a scoff, Addie reached for his hand, pulling it away from Mycroft's head. As soon as she went to pull the pistol away, an explosion echoed through the front room followed by the clattering of metal on the marble floor. A much more subdued explosion followed and Anderson cried out in pain, holding his shoulder where Mary had promptly buried a bullet into.

Adelaide had her eyes closed so tightly they ached. After a moment, she allowed herself to crack them open an assess the damage of the room. All she could see was Mycroft staring at her, mouth agape, terror in his eyes. Mary's footsteps pounded over Anderson's whimpers, and the nurse turned Addie towards her, adopting a similarly horrified expression. She wondered if their faces had anything to do with the fact that it was getting progressively harder to breathe. Chancing a look down, she saw her hands clutching at her torso, just under her floating ribs, and a river of crimson bubbling forth from her fingers.

"Mary," she gasped before everything went black.