Song for this chapter: Dancing With Tears In My Eyes by Ultravox

They drive for hours.

At least, that's what it seems like to Molly.

At first they wind through darkened, neon-lit streets, across London Bridge and towards the River House. Post-theatre crowds jostle, drunken revellers laugh and stumble along the streets. There are twenty-four-hour chemists open, porn shops, buskers singing at Tube Station entrances- It's Friday and the night's electric. The night's alive. Agents Tarr and Locke keep a steady, unobtrusive speed, not even slowing down as they pass their presumed destination, MI6 HQ-

Molly and Sherlock exchange looks as they pass it, and Holmes shifts protectively towards her. His hand reaches towards hers before he stops himself. Swears. Grits his teeth.

Moriarty notices and snorts, eyeing Molly lasciviously, only to be told gruffly by Tarr to "shut his bloody trap."

Jim blows him a kiss and coos that Tarr needs to work on his chat up lines if he wants to bag himself a real man. Molly snorts, calling him a tosser and Jimmy makes a "playful," swipe for her gun, getting himself an elbow to the nose in the process.

Considering how beaten up he is, it's actually sort of impressive.

Wee Jamie laughs again at the pain, blood dotting his pristine shirt while he clucks his tongue reprovingly. Tells Molly to stop flirting. He doesn't even seem to have noticed that one of his wounds has opened again.

Without a word Sherlock grabs the back of his head and smashes it into the car window beside him. Repeatedly. The glass doesn't break but a bloody smear is left along its surface; Tarr nods to Locke and the two men pull over. With unhurried deliberateness Locke opens the car-door on Molly's side and reaches in, physically pulling Moriarty across her and out onto the road.

He then proceeds to kick the smaller man senseless- Or, at least, he tries to.

By the time he's finished there isn't an inch of Jamie Moriarty that isn't bloody.

Molly grinds her teeth, not happy with any prisoner being mistreated on her watch but also aware that she's probably not going to be able to stop Locke. Moriarty was dealing with the Provos, and that means all bets are off. All she can do is watch and keep her hand on her weapon in case Jimmy tries to escape. After six or so excruciating minutes of violence Locke simply picks Moriarty up, cuffs his hands to his ankles and then places him back in the car like a piece of luggage. He then retakes his seat as if nothing had happened, flicking specks of blood and earth off his tie as he refastens his seatbelt.

They pull back onto the road.

He puts on a pair of mirrored sunglasses as the light in the east begins to brighten;Tarr gives his partner another silent nod and they pick up speed, the road brightening as they head out into the countryside. Neither Molly nor Sherlock take their eyes off Moriarty for the rest of the journey: they both know that he's planning something now. Something vicious. Whether he's bleeding or not will make no difference.

The two agents may have intended to beat the bravura out of him but Molly suspects they've done nothing but piss him off.

Finally, finally, after what seems like an eternity of silence and watching, the car pulls off the motorway and onto a smaller country road. There's a manor house in the distance, silhouetted against the early morning sun. It's old, rambing. It might be… Tudor? Molly thinks. However old it is, a great deal of it is in ruins. There's a single light burning in an upstairs window; as soon as he sees it Sherlock jolts upright, a frown on his face.

"What the-?" He glowers at the agents in the front of the car. "What the fuck do you think you're playing at?"

For some reason Molly doesn't understand, his eyes flick worriedly to her. Then to the house. In the morning light it might almost be glowing.

His breathing quickens as they make their way up the driveway.

"Ice Queen's orders," Tarr answers and he sounds smug. Like he knows something Sherlock hasn't figured out yet, a somewhat unfeasible contention in Molly's opinion. "She wants everyone here to… debrief Mr. Moriarty," he continues. He shoots Molly a smile in the rearview mirror of the car. It's ugly. Sharp. "Better for everyone, according to Agent Winters."

And he pulls in. Hits his horn once, like he's signalling someone. He then steps out of the car, his breath misting in the air before his face with the morning chill. Locke joins him. They pull Moriarty out too, setting him at their feet like a sack of potatoes- Or an offering.

In the manor house several lights flick on in rapid from here Molly can hear the sounds of ancient, heavy doors being pulled open and though she has no idea why, gooseflesh breaks out on her arms. Instinctively she moves closer to Sherlock; At this Moriarty lets out a high pitched, sharp laugh, no mean feat considering how he's been cuffed.

"I'm going to enjoy watching those two boys die," he tells her conversationally. "It's going to be-" he smacks his lips- "très drôle."

And with surprisingly effortless nonchalance he spits one of his teeth out in the general direction of Locke's shiny, perfectly polished shoes. It lands, then bounces away into the shadows, leaving a tiny red stain in its wake. Locke swears about the shoes as Tarr opens the car boot and fishes out a length of heavy chain with a collar attached. The two agents hook the heavy steel ring around Moriarty's neck and attach two of the chains to themselves, one to each hand, before awkwardly uncuffing his wrists from his ankles and then securing them behind his back. All of this is done to a soundtrack of Locke's complaints about the stain on his shoe leather and Tarr's half-hearted commiserations.

There's a tense moment as Moriarty stands up but Jim says nothing. Does nothing.

His eyes burn blackly, eagerly in the darkness.

"I know where we are," he sing-songs. He grins at Sherlock. WInks. "Home sweet home, bro."

"Shut it," Sherlock snaps and Moriarty laughs. Molly's eyes flick between the two men, the hair on the back of her neck rising more. She's never seen Sherlock like this before. "What is this place?" she asks him quietly.

The answer he gives her is nearly whispered. Hoarse. "It's called Musgrave Hall," he says. "It's… It's…" A deep breath. "Bad things happen here," he tells her. Suddenly his eyes flash up to hers. Suddenly he's fierce. "I won't let any of them happen to you.

I promise you, Molly, I promise."

And he brings her hand to press tightly against his chest. Kisses her forehead forcefully. Impulsively. Moriarty wolf-whistles. "Getting off on showing her the aul ancestral pile, Sherlock?" he says slyly. He leers. "Don't know why you'd bother, she's already let you in her knickers…"

Clearly he's trying to bait his brother-in-law but before he can say more there's a sound of dogs barking. Footsteps crackle on gravel and then Agent Winters appears, silhouetted in the mansion's doorway. She's wearing a slip and a blue silk dressing gown; A shotgun is held at the ready as she nods in greeting to Locke and Tarr.

Her eyes never leave Moriarty.

She looks… She looks pleased with herself, Molly thinks. Excited, and given how long she's been chasing Jim Moriarty Molly supposes she can understand.

And yet…

Finally Winter's eyes go to Molly and Sherlock; she acknowledges the younger agent though not her charge. There's something unreadable in her expression, now. "Hooper," she says. "Good to see you- So kind of you to bring me a housewarming gift."

Molly opens her mouth to start her retort but she doesn't get the chance. "This isn't your home," Sherlock spits at Winters. He starts stalking towards her, there on the steps. His hands are clenched into fists at his sides. "This house doesn't belong to you, it will never belong to you-"

Agent Winters smiles, looking every inch the Ice Queen. "We'll see about that… Will."

And without warning she brings the shotgun up and fires off two shots, directly into Agents Tarr and Locke. Point blank. In the chest. She reloads, follows those up with two more shots, directly to the agents' heads.

Their own mothers couldn't identify them now.

It all happens so fast. Blood spatters hotly across Molly's skin, the noise from the shotgun reverberating in her ears as Moriarty lets out a pleased giggle. "Yes, yes, yes!" he says as both men drop, heavy as sacks of grain. "Thank you, merci, Agent Winters!"

Sherlock grabs Molly, pushing her behind him. They duck behind the car and she pulls out her firearm. Scans the area for cover. She doesn't even try to work out what's going on: logic is for later- She needs to survive NOW. Moriarty is weighed down by the corpses of his two handlers so he isn't going anywhere; he's still giggling gleefully, delighted with the agents' fates.

"Don't run," Winters calls out evenly. "Nothing good will come of your running." A huff of breath and she rolls her eyes. "Come now, do you think you'd still be alive if I wanted you dead?"

And as if to underscore her point she lowers the shotgun.

Holmes isn't buying it, though, and neither is Molly.

"Fuck that," he says, dragging Molly along with him as he inches towards the treeline. "I wouldn't trust you as far as I could throw you, you bitch." He drops his voice. "If we make it to the trees," he whispers to Molly, "I can find my way around… At least I think I still can…"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

The voice is new.

Male.

Older.

It is followed by two neat, clipping shots into the ground at their feet, the sort of shorts which can be nothing other than intentional misses. The sort of shots that only a skilled marksman could hope to pull off.

Whoever had let those off, Molly muses, if they wanted me dead then I'd be dead.

So-

She and Sherlock stumble to a halt, both of them panting, both of them glaring at this newcomer. He's silhouetted in the light of the rising sun, a shotgun in his hands. A lit cigarette at his lips.

As soon as he lays eyes on him, Sherlock goes unutterably still.

His hand comes down and grips hers so tightly Molly swears it could crack bone.

The newcomer is tall, thin. There's something about him which is oddly familiar, but Molly can't put her finger on precisely what. He has piercing, fierce eyes and a reddish-tinged beard. A distinctive widow's peak and a long, aquiline nose. He's wearing an exquisitely cut suit, clearly bought on Savile Row. His white shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and a heavy gold pocket watch hangs at his waistcoat, emblazoned with a family crest and an elaborate H. But his most arresting feature is a tattoo, an intricate, stylized A which snakes across his left hand and up his arm, the letter teeming and blooming with hearts, diamonds, spades and clubs- And woven in through the ink is the word Anthea… Over and over again, Anthea…

"Mikey?" Sherlock says and there's horror in his voice. Astonishment.

And underneath it something very, very young and very, very frightened.

"In the flesh," the newcomer says in an accent which could cut glass. His eyes flick to Molly and then away. Their distaste leaves a coldness in their wake. "Now come inside and stop this nonsense," the newcomer- Mikey- is saying, "I went through enough bloody trouble to get you here-" He gestures impatiently towards the house. "Come in. We need to talk." He glances at Anthea and they exchange a tiny nod. "You too, Agent Hooper," he says. "I'd rather not deal with Sherlock's theatrics regarding you right now."

And he turns his back on them, starts walking back towards the house. There's something so very peremptory about it that Molly feels she has no choice but to follow. Dazed, shaking, Sherlock does likewise, his hand still gripping Molly's as if afraid she'll be pulled away.

Though she might not want to admit it, she finds herself rather grateful for the contact.

She doesn't like where this night is going, not one little bit.

As she disappears into the front door Molly just has time to see Agent Winters reload and empty another round into Moriarty. Head. Chest. She reloads and does the same again. His laughter stops, his breathing too, and suddenly the morning is still. So still.

It feels like it has ragged edges.

It's at this moment that Molly realises how much bloody trouble she's in.

"I've wanted to do that since the first time I met him," Agent Winters murmurs as she passes her on the porch. A smile. It's almost warm. "But then, most people who've met him did."

Molly can't help her cynicism. "Tell that to Eurus Ho-"

"Leave Eurus to me."

The words brook no disagreement.

And she gestures for Molly to enter. Watches Moriarty for a few more moments to make sure he's no longer twitching before closing the door behind her with a soft, final-sounding click.

Molly doesn't want to turn her back on Winters but she does as she's told and heads upstairs.

Meanwhile,

Back in London

At the side of the M1

Irene is still breathing when they come for her.

Broken, bleeding on the side of the road, the car totalled in what Mary has no doubt was not an accident- And still Irene is breathing. Still she's fighting.

That's my girl, Mary thinks.

Footsteps behind her.

The rustle of fabric as a weapon is pulled out.

The intake of breath as the agent prepares to fire.

She's done it herself, Mary knows the routine. Breathing carefully through her nose she goes still, lets the approaching assassin see her clocking them. (Anything else would be suspicious). Shifts, presses a kiss to Irene's knuckles which allows her to mask drawing her own firearm from its holster. Safety off. Cold metal in her hands. Steps coming nearer and she pulls her energy together, prepares to turn and decimate whoever has dared try to do this to her and those she loves-

"Stand down, Mary."

"You're supposed to be in prison," she says, turning to see Eurus Holmes standing behind her in a Met police uniform. There's a dead agent at her feet, throat slashed, and Mary recognises him as the one who had run her and Irene off the road. She suspects that it's his blood on Eurus' hands.

"An ambulance is on its way," Eurus says. "My people, not theirs. She'll be safe." She glances at Irene, lying still beneath the glass and metal that were once a car. "Snow White in her glass coffin," she muses softly. A look at Mary. "You can kiss her awake when we're done: it's time to be the huntsman now."

"Sherlock?" Mary asks.

"Jim," Eurus spits.

Judging by the expression on her face the honeymoon is definitely over for wee Jimmy.

"Your word that she'll be safe," Mary says because as terrifying as Eurus Holmes is, she knows she keeps her word. And she knows she can't bear to lose Irene.

"On my brother's life," Eurus answers, and they set off into the night.

It's amazing how fast you can travel with a private helicopter at your disposal.

End note: This amazing chapter written once again by hobbitsdoitbetter, who joins me in thanking everyone for their lovely reviews. Hang on folks, the bumpy ride is here!