A/N: This chapter written by hobbitsdoitbetter with some tiny bitty bits by me!
Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Btea read by my lovely co-author MizJoely. Enjoy!
Previously:
"Princess," he croaks as she gets to him. "Nice of you to join the party." His eyes scan the area around her and she sees worry darken his gaze. "Where's Mary?"
Molly helps him into standing, wondering how quickly she can explain things. "She went to get Irene to safety…"
Sherlock blinks. "Adler's here?"
Molly nods. "Yeah, she set us up. Culverton beat her black and blue for her trouble, and maybe worse. Morstan's trying to get her to safety."
Sherlock shakes his head. "I always knew she'd sell out her own mother for a payday, Adler," he says. He straightens his shoulders. "Just one more thing I'll have to pay back, once me and Euri get out of here."
"And how do you plan to do that?" Molly demands. "Or was being punched through a wall part of your plan, eh?"
At that Sherlock shoots her a, frankly, bloodcurdling grin.
"You should see the other bloke," he says, taking her hand and pulling her towards the hole through which he'd come with rather more cheerfulness than she felt the task merited.
The sight which meets Molly, however, is utter chaos. The room beyond is in a shambles, bodies falling left and right and gunfire punctuating the air.
And right in the middle of it is her good friend Major John Watson - wearing only a hospital gown, and what had happened to his hair and moustache?
Judging by the accents of the people he's shooting at, he would appear to have declared war upon half of the Irish Republican Army.
"You leave me alone for five minutes," Sherlock murmurs into her ear, his tone worryingly cheerful.
And then, as she had known he would, he throws himself back into the fray.
Molly follows.
Chapter Song: All Hell Breaks Loose by The Misfits
The thing about being a spy, Molly muses, is you spend your entire life avoiding firefights.
No matter where you go or what assignment you're on, the point of the exercise is to get in and out whilst gaining the least amount of notice and the maximum amount of intel.
Everything else is just what Agent Winters terms (in her more wry moments,) "James Bond bollocks."
Molly reflects on this as she darts forward, weapon drawn, and takes up an easily defended position behind one of the body fridges, Sherlock wedged in beside her.
She reflects on this as she lays down fire, taking out two, then three, then four of the armed assailants whom John is fighting, thus drawing enough of their fire that he can take up an equally defensible position on the opposite side of the room to her. (He nods to her in gratitude, and she can see that he's been recently crying: she'll have to ask him about that).
She reflects on this as she watches Jim Moriarty attempt to escape and neatly clips him in the leg, then the shoulder, the latter causing Sherlock to crow and press a delighted kiss to her temple- "Almost the best thing you've ever done for me, princess!" - and she reflects on this when one of her opponents- little more than a teenager- comes charging at her with a rebel yell only to be promptly shot by John. His young body toppling forward, his gun tumbling out of his hand and across the floor where Sherlock coolly picks it up, checks it has bullets and then tucks it into the back of his trousers-
He gives her a single, curt nod, no flirtation in it, and despite herself Molly feels a shiver of arousal run down her spine.
She really can't seem to help what the man does to her, especially when he's not even trying.
Blood pounding in her ears, adrenaline screaming through her, for the first time it occurs to Molly that this, this madness in front of her is far more to her liking than skulking in the shadows for Agent Winters, no matter how well she might try to hide the truth from herself. It occurs to her that, sensible as her career has always seemed to her, perhaps it's not sensible that she needs right now. It's not sensible that she wants.
At that thought, her eyes are once more drawn inexorably to Sherlock.
Grinning, blazing with life, he looks to be in his element despite- or perhaps because of- the chaos around him.
Molly's not sure whether to be pleased or horrified that she understands the sentiment.
She elects rather to set it aside to examine later and focus on not getting killed right now. Fortunately she's aided in that by a clicking sound down the far end of the room, the sound of a door swinging open. She hears the assailants- Provisional IRA, according to Sherlock- yell something she doesn't quite catch. And then there's gunfire, in the opposite direction to which the men had previously been firing. This is followed by the clear thud of another corpse, then another and suddenly there's silence.
It's so unexpected as to be deafening.
Whispers, then. Two voices, she thinks, but she can't be sure what they're saying, only that one of them is definitely from Belfast. The other one sounds… North of England? Yorkshire, perhaps. Footsteps, a scuffle and then slowly, slowly three figures appear, moving towards Molly, Sherlock and John. They walk tentatively, two of them trailing blood in slick, sickening trails in their wake. All of them breathing loudly, heavily.
They sound as if they've run a marathon.
Every sense alert, Molly peeks out from behind the body fridge: she sees Jim Moriarty, body held in front of the last of the IRA men as a shield, a gun to his temple. The provo has his arm wrapped tightly against Moriarty's neck. Behind him, another gun trained carefully on the Irishman, stands Culverton Smith. Red is blossoming horribly across his abdomen and chest and his face is grey with sweat, but he is clearly still breathing.
"Mary is going to be so pissed off that he survived,"Molly mutters.
Sherlock's grin is wolfish. "More likely, she'll use it as an opportunity to plan a proper revenge."
He sounds rather cheered by this notion. Molly doesn't blame him.
"I'm going to have you roasted alive for this, Smith," Moriarty is hissing. "You and everyone you know. I expect this shite from an inbred sheepfucker Provo, but not from a fellow businessman-"
And he struggles, causing the young man holding him to tighten his grip on his windpipe and hiss at him to "pipe down."
Moriarty's feet are now dangling slightly off the floor.
"Sherlock." Smith's voice is hoarse, his breathing difficult. Nevertheless, he manages to hold a sawn-off shotgun (formerly belonging to one of the dead Provos', if Molly isn't mistaken) steadily at Moriarty. His eyes are cold in the same way they were cold when he looked at Molly and Mary in the morgue. "Now, Sherlock," he repeats, "I'm a sensible man-"
"No he's fucking not," John mutters. "Wanker."
"-And I have a deal I would like to propose, if you're up for it, lad."
"Why the fuck," Sherlock inquires archly, "would I care about a deal?"
The Yorkshireman lets out a bark of laughter. "Because despite what Jamie Moriarty says, you're not an idiot." Smith gestures to the young man gripping Moriarty. His face is bloody, Molly notes, and there's a tremble to his trigger finger. She's willing to bet his hostage has noticed that too, because he's quietened down. "Young- Donal, is it? Aye, Donal- Young Donal and I are going to walk out of here in one piece," Culverton is saying calmly, "and we're going to use your brother-in-law to do it…"
He gives a careless shrug, smiles the toothy smile which housewives across the nation swoon at.
Molly feels a wave of revulsion go through her.
"Once we're out you can have him and, well, I imagine you have some plans for him." A chilling chuckle. "After all, I can't imagine your sister will have much use for him after this nonsense..."
"You know fucking nothing about my wife," Moriarty hisses but for the first time Molly hears the tiniest hint of… fear underneath it. As if it's finally occurring to Jimmy Boy quite how pissed off Eurus Holmes is going to be, and how unlikely she is to choose him over her brother.
Molly certainly doesn't envy him this long overdue moment of clarity.
"Why wouldn't we just shoot both of you and drag him out?" Sherlock calls.
Again that chuckle. "Because you need him alive," Culverton says. "At least, according to a little birdy, you do." A beatific smile. "Can't keep up the terms of your release if you bring loverboy here back in a bodybag, now can you?" He clucks his tongue.
"I'll make sure that's what happens, if you try anything."
And again he chuckles. Shoots the young provo a winning smile. Molly, John and Sherlock exchange sharp looks: that element of Sherlock's deal wasn't common knowledge- Or at least, it wasn't supposed to be. Aside from Mary and Agent Winters, the only people who had access to Sherlock's deal regarding Moriarty were all in this room, and Culverton Smith certainly wasn't supposed to be privy to it.
Molly frowns, leans in.
"Take the deal," she mutters. "We need to know who Smith's source is-"
"Well, obviously." Sherlock looks affronted that she felt the need to point that out. "Fine, Smith," he calls. "You and young Donal make your way towards the door here-"
"Oh, no." Smith laughs. "I'm not that simple, lad." He chucks his chin towards the back of the room, towards the door which Molly suspects he used to sneak in here. After all, he has essentially made his wing of the hospital into a private maze. "We walk back to my hidey-hole," he says. "You send that sweet little agent of yours over to pick Jimmy up and search him, and while you're doing that we get away. Donal can go back to Belfast and take his chops like a man. Then you leave me out of it when you talk to MI6 and when the smoke clears I go back to doing what I do best…"
"You mean preying on the vulnerable," John mutters. "You've got that all figured out, haven't you?"
Smith's smile turns ice cold. "I've never yet met a whore what didn't have it coming," he says matter-of-factly. "So yes, I do plan on continuing."
The shot comes from nowhere, neatly hitting Smith in the forehead. Blood spatter and brain tissue spray Moriarty, the young Provo, the walls. Smith drops like a stone, a look of stupefaction on his face even as John steps out from behind his shield, gun shoved in the young provo's face. The young man pulls his gun away from Moriarty, points it at him. John pulls the trigger, dropping him, then shoots another shot into Smith. And another. And another. He only stops when Molly, her own gun still trained on Moriarty, touches his shoulder.
"Enough, John," she says quietly. "Enough."
"Jesus," Sherlock mutters, looking down at Smith. He glares at John. "We fucking needed him, you idiot."
John's jaw works but his look is cold. "I know what he was," he says stonily. "I know what he did." He shoots Sherlock a hard, stubborn look. "In no way was that man needed."
And he leans down, starts searching through Smith's pockets. He also helps himself to Smith's jacket and socks. Sherlock lets out a string of swear words and John ignores him, coldly checking him for other weapons.
Moriarty laughs.
"Well I for one can feel the testosterone from here," he coos. A flirtatious look at Molly. "Tell me, do they tag team you too?"
He tries to stand and the leg Molly shot out goes from beneath him. Rather than help him, she shoots his other leg- "In case you were getting any ideas." None of the assembled group comes near him, nor do they attempt to intervene, despite his litany of threats and abuse. Rather, Molly steps around him, checking Smith's and the provo's pulses, both of whom have flatlined. She gestures to John and Sherlock to lift Moriarty and they do.
They carry his weight between them as they limp out into the hall with Molly taking point.
Once outside Sherlock shoots the fire alarm and the sound of it goes tearing through the building. Within minutes Bart's is crawling with police, hospital staff and firemen. Sherlock waves them off, refusing to allow them to help him and refusing to give up Moriarty-
"He just can't live without me," the Irishman sniggers.
John winces at the joke but pulls himself together admirably, and in that moment Molly sees for the first time the sort of soldier he must be, current rag-tag appearance aside. For he's answering questions and directing the different departments where they're needed. He's giving updates and keeping an eye on Moriarty in case he tries anything in front of a crowd. When Tarr and Locke- Sherlock's former handlers- arrive, he explains the situation with the IRA men downstairs and regretfully informs them that the famous television personality Culverton Smith appears to have been accidentally caught in the crossfire. According to John, he had been attempting to help James Moriarty escape.
Tarr and Locke don't seem to buy that but they allow it, shrugging and telling John that they'll take his word for it. They also inform Molly, Sherlock and Moriarty that they are to be brought into custody in The River House- "Agent Winters wants a word." So once they've been patched up (or waved it off, in Sherlock's case) Molly, Moriarty, Holmes and the two agents pile into a sleek black merc and pull out into the traffic, Moriarty loudly threatening to bleed out all over the upholstery as Molly waves good-bye to John-
They pass a car crash on the way out.
Sherlock frowns, head turning to track the car as he passes it. A dark-haired woman is lying on a gurney, paramedics rushing over her while a small, pink-haired figure stares into space in the background-
She appears to be crying, her shoulders shaking in distress.
"Is that-?" Molly opens her mouth to speak, recognising Sherlock's right hand woman but he silences her with a single, sharp shake of his head. There's something in his eyes. Something she recognises. Something which frightens her.
"Whatever's coming," he says quietly, "Stay behind me, alright princess? I'll get you through it."
He doesn't even wait for her agreement, merely lapses into silence.
The London night flashes by as Molly's sense of foreboding grows.
End note: Hey all, sorry for the lengthy delay but we were both rather...writer-fatigued? Blocked? Whatever you want to call it, we are currently doing our best to be OVER IT and working on the rest of this story. Next chapter is already mostly done, a good start on the one after that (both by the amazing hobbitsdoitbetter) and the chapter after that will be mine and I have Ideas, lol! So until next time, thank you for all your lovely comments and your patience while we tussled with this particular writing gator.