Chapter Song: Hungry Like The Wolf by Duran Duran

Enjoy another breathtaking chapter by hobbitsdoitbetter. The next chapter will be pretty much all me, baby! Oh yeah - and we're really close to the end of this saga, just fyi.

And back at Musgrave Hall…

Sherlock is starting to think he might be going mad.

In fact, the more he thinks about it, the more he suspects that he's been going mad ever since he ran into Molly Hooper. Because what else could explain all that's happened, how he's been behaving? What else could explain the apparition of his elder brother back from the bloody dead?

It might have been years since he saw Mycroft Holmes but he knows the man in front of him is not an imposter.

Even supposing someone were so unbelievably stupid as to try and fool him, they wouldn't be able to pull it off.

No, he thinks. This man is definitely Myc. Which means that he and Euri might need to have a long bloody conversation about what she's told Sherlock all these years. For Eurus had always told him that she burned Musgrave Hall to the ground with Mycroft inside it, that she had saved her beloved baby brother from the machinations of their cruel elder sibling after their parents' death…

It was the foundation of their relationship, the touchstone. Euri had saved Sherlock when he needed saving. Euri had taken care of him when nobody else would. It had never occurred to Sherlock to disbelieve her. Even during their trial for Myc's murder, the trial which Molly's bugging of his office had allowed to bring forward, Euri hadn't gone off book. Not to Sherlock. Not even to Jimmy. Oh, she'd lied through her teeth to the jury, telling everyone how Mycroft attacked her and her brother. How she had fled with a young Sherlock in tow and she had absolutely no idea how the fire which killed her brother had broken out.

In private, however, she had always told a bloody different story, one in which she was the saviour and Sherlock the saved.

It was the closest thing the surviving Holmes siblings had to a catechism, and had been since Sherlock was a boy.

And Sherlock, despite the accusations she had faced all his life, had been happy to believe it. He had no memory of the fire, nor of her facing off against Mycroft. In fact, he had little memory of life before their going to London, and so he had been happy to accept Eurus' version of events. Why wouldn't he? Mycroft was an abusive dickhead; Euri had saved them both from him. A had simply led to B and B had made everyone happy. Their freedom had enabled fun and games and empire-building a-plenty. But now…

The thought slithers like a snake in his head: what other lies had Euri told him?

Even as he thinks it, he can feel an imaginary chasm opening at his feet.

Because if he couldn't tell when Eurus was lying, if he had never been able to tell if she were lying… A lifetime of double deals and casual cruelty stretches out before him. A city of vice whose streets slithered out as far as the eye could see. And it was his doing. His London. He and his sister's London. It was their manor, their mirror, their playground. The thing they made. The thing they loved. The thing that told Sherlock who he was, what he was. The thing where anything was allowed.

But if everything he thought he knew was simply a fabrication of Euri's?

Who was he, if that were the case? What was he?

Did he need to have become the man he is?

You shouldn't be thinking like that, little brother, he hears Euri's voice in his head and he would give almost anything, in that moment, to tell her real-life counterpart to fuck off.

His eyes stray to Mycroft then, opening the door to what had once been their mother's parlour and gesturing tersely for Sherlock, Molly and Winters to join him inside. As he enters Sherlock is almost knocked down with a wave of nostalgia: in the aftermath of Mycroft's death he had tried to wipe all thought of Musgrave from his mind. Remembering it had been too bloody painful. Instinctively he steps towards Molly and she joins him. Takes his hand. Her fingers are small and calloused and strong in his. He knows it's a sign of weakness but fuck it all, he needs her right now and so he pulls her to his side. Holds her close.

"You ok?" Molly whispers.

Sherlock is pleased to note that, clever girl that she is, she's not taken her eyes off Winters this entire time.

"Of course he's not all right." Mycroft scoffs, ignoring Sherlock's nod to her. "He's never been all right. A bag of wrath and feeling, that's all my brother is."

And he pours himself and Winters a brandy. Sits down before the embers of the fire, Winters perching on the arm of his wingback chair. His hand reaches down and plays, carelessly, with the ends of Winter's hair, that intricate, tattooed A sliding through the strands. Caressing them.

There's something about the intimacy of the gesture that Sherlock finds deeply upsetting.

"What do you want, Mikey?" he demands. "I mean, you always had a flair for the dramatic-" he's trying to sound cocky now- "but faking your own death? The destruction of this place? Brav-"

"I did not fake my death," Mycroft grinds out, glaring at him. His tone brooks no disagreement. "No more than I faked the destruction of our family home." A look at Winters, a bitter twist of his lip as he takes another sip of brandy. "You can thank our darling sister for both," he growls.

Sherlock blinks, as ever unable to hide his reactions from Mikey.

The slow, smug smile which stretches across his brother's face should be grounds for murder and suddenly, suddenly he can sympathise with Eurus. And Molly. And everyone who has ever tried to shoot him.

"She wanted you gone." He puts the pieces together for Molly. "Eurus wanted to save me from brother dearest here-"

"You didn't need saving from me," Mycroft hisses. "You never needed saving from me, Will."

Sherlock glares at him. "Eurus wanted to save me from brother dearest here," he repeats, "so she burned this place down with him inside it- Or at least she told me she had." He gives Molly his best callous smile. "Frankly I'm surprised she didn't insist on seeing a corpse-"

"So am I." A snort. "Not like her usual, thorough self at all."

And Mycroft stands. Paces. Again he and Winters share that tender look and something clicks inside Sherlock's head. A memory. Something he'd thought lost to him. In his mind's eye he sees glasses. Pigtails. A freckled face which would be beautiful one day, dark eyes which only seemed to glow for Mycroft…

He fixes Winters with a glare.

"You," he says quietly. "I remember you."

And he does, now. He remembers the girl next door: Thea DeWinter. Nose in a book when it wasn't in the air. Obsessed with horses and Best in Show. Best arse in the neighbourhood too, but heaven help you if you said as much in front of Mycroft Holmes…

Oh yes, he remembers the girl Myc had begged Papa to allow him to marry, even if she was only sixteen.

He feels like an idiot that he didn't recognise her before.

"Huzzah!" Winters cocks a wry, elegant eyebrow. "I was wondering whether it would come back to you," she admits. "Mycroft didn't think your memories of your childhood were gone, merely buried. I wasn't inclined to agree." A small laugh. Another tender look at Mycroft. "I knew I never should have doubted you, my darling…" And she leans down to kiss him.

Again Sherlock finds the intimacy of the gesture stomach-twistingly upsetting.

Molly raises her hand. "Look, I can see you're all enjoying speaking in riddles but can someone translate for the pleb in the corner?"

Winters snorts in amusement. "Agent Molly Hooper," Sherlock says tightly. "This is my brother, Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. Who I was accused of murdering and who is, as you can see, very Not Dead."

Molly nods. "Very." A wry smile. "You were innocent after all: Who knew?" and at this Sherlock has to smile a little. She frowns though. Narrows her eyes at Mycroft. "Did you set Agent Winters on your brother and sister?"

The elder Holmes smiles indulgently. The condescension makes Molly grit her teeth but she wisely holds her tongue.

"Anthea was rather hellbent on taking revenge for my death," he says, "she needed no encouragement from me." Another smile, another kiss on Winter's lips. Molly looks unimpressed and Sherlock can't help widening his smirk. "But then she waited for me, Agent Hooper, she waited for me even when nobody else did… Anthea believed in me, even when she thought me dead.

I will forever be grateful for that."

Molly still looks unimpressed. "Very romantic," she says dryly and Mycroft lets out a bark of laughter. It sounds disconcertingly like Sherlock's own. The elder Holmes kisses Anthea's knuckles, the gesture oddly… courtly. His eyes stray fondly, just for a moment, to her belly, and the realisation hits Sherlock like a blow to the jaw.

Suddenly things start to make sense.

Suddenly everything starts to make sense.

The unexpected return. The interest in the family business. Apparently, Sherlock thinks, Mycroft fancies himself a paterfamilias these days. Again his brother's hand strays towards Winter's stomach, and this time Molly clocks it; Sherlock sees the realisation steal across her face. She nods to him, a tiny thing to show him they're on the same page and not for the first time in their acquaintance, Sherlock finds himself grateful for his supposed keeper's intelligence.

Judging by the look in her eyes Molly understands just how much more serious the situation now is.

Maybe it's the mention of family, maybe it's the remembrance of all he's done but Myc turns troubled, eyes flickering towards Sherlock, then Molly. There's something rather like contrition in their depths and it sets the hair standing up at Sherlock's nape.

What the hell is Big Brother up to?

"I'm sorry you were left with her, Will," Mycroft says quietly then. "I'm sorry I didn't rescue you. But if I had come back for you then I wouldn't have survived-"

The rage the words evoke surprises him, the speed of its arrival almost burning in his chest. "Save it," Sherlock spits. "I need to know what you're going to do to Eurus."

Mycroft's expression shutters closed. "You really don't."

"I really do."

And Sherlock summons what's left of his bravado, crossing his arms and swaggering forward. He is trying very hard to keep his temper under control, now.

Again Mycroft's eyes drift to Molly and, clever girl that she is, she has the good sense to look worried. "What would you say if I told you that you could walk away tonight?" he says quietly. He's moving to sit behind the desk where their mother once did. "What would you say if I told you that you could escape this life and start again, Sherlock? Somewhere fresh, somewhere new? With someone new?"

Again, he looks at Molly.

"Would that appeal to you, little brother?"

And suddenly Sherlock gets it. Oh, he gets it.

He's actually disappointed that Mycroft would consider him so easy.

"So you want me to walk away," he says flatly. "You want me to abandon Euri."

"I want you to have a life," Mycroft counters. "A life of your own, the life I couldn't give you. The life your sister stole from you, you stupid, loyal boy." He gestures to the building around him, standing. There's a light in his eyes now, a light that Sherlock remembers from long ago.

It aches, deep in his chest, to see it, to remember it, and he's not sure why.

"You were not meant to be a criminal, Sherlock," Mycroft is saying gently. "You were not born to spend your life cleaning up Eurus' messes and indulging her in her whims. You were meant for more."

He gestures to Molly.

"It's time you let yourself have it."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. It's a nice speech, but something tells him nice speeches come easily to his brother. "And if I refuse?"

He can't quite bring himself to look at Molly as he says it.

Mycroft sighs. He and Winters exchange looks and Sherlock's alarm spikes. No good can come from that look.

"Then I go through you, if I can't go around you," Mycroft says evenly. His tone is so matter-of-face he might as well be discussing the weather. "As I see you've already deduced, I'm not only responsible for myself anymore, whatever my own failings regarding you might be. So one way or another, I am coming out of exile and one way or another, I am taking back what's mine."

A small shrug.

"Regimes change: that's the way of the world. Get out of the way or become the Hapsburg Empire, little brother."

And he rocks back on his heels, pleased with himself. Sherlock sees it then, sees Mycroft's likeness to their sister. That utter, total belief that what they want is what will come to pass. The utter, total belief that they are the centre of this and any other universe. Before he can muse on this further though a white light flares through the bay window at the back of the room, blindingly bright. As the glass is shot through and suddenly, suddenly the sound of helicopter wings thunders inside. Then bullet after bullet after bullet.

Suddenly the room is a whirlwind, one borne on a vicious, East Wind.

Mycroft and Anthea get to their feet and before he can say anything Anthea is reaching for her shotgun. Apparently she had the forethought to reload after she did in Jim. She neatly lets off two shots in the general direction of the chopper pilot as Sherlock and Molly throw themselves to the floor. The Ice Queen pauses only to toss the shotgun to Mycroft for reloading and take the larger calibre rifle he hands her as a replacement. Mycroft forces his mother's oak desk onto its side and takes cover behind it, gesturing to Sherlock and Molly to join him-

"I don't bloody think so," Molly mutters, dragging him into the corner nearest the door as the shots ring out, She pulls out her own firearm.

"Don't suppose you have one for me?" Sherlock mutters, only for a small calibre pistol to come sliding across the floor from Mycroft. He picks it up and checks whether it's loaded: It is.

Almost as if they were kids again, he sees Mycroft roll his eyes.

"Do you remember the layout of this house?" Molly asks him tightly. "Is there a way out?"

Sherlock nods. "Priest's hole in the library, It leads into the cellars and then out into the grounds-"

"Then let's hope that it survived the refurbishment," she mutters. Sherlock grins at her. "What?"

"Have to say, princess," he mutters, "you know how to show a man a good time."

Molly's laugh is half exasperated, half wary. And though he should know better, it makes Sherlock's heart lighten a bit. "I aim to please," she counters dryly. "Now wait for Winters to draw their fire and then run like bloody hell."

And she takes his hand. Squeezes it. Sherlock nods, peering around the corner as another cacophony of gunfire bursts forth, mentally calculating how long it will take him to get over there-

Suddenly though, suddenly the gunfire stops.

Suddenly there's a call- Sherlock can't tell from who- to stand. Fucking. Down.

"Queen's in play," a voice calls and then it's footsteps on the carpet, a familiar perfume in the air. Suddenly there's someone- two someones- silhouetted against the lights of the helicopter.

Both of them are petite. Female. Armed.

As Sherlock watches his sister and Mary move forward, Mary on point, Eurus carrying a gun almost bigger than she is in one hand, a human heart in the other. Sherlock has no doubt that the latter belonged to James Moriarty. What looks like half the Holmes' Firm security boys are all but hanging out of the helicopter, their guns trained on Mycroft who's standing up, his hands in the air. His eyes are locked on Eurus, drawing her attention. Behind the desk Sherlock can see Anthea, crouched down and out of sight, waiting for her chance to take out both Eurus and Mary-

Their eyes meet and in that moment he thinks of the child in her belly. His nephew. An innocent.

He thinks of the look on Mycroft's face as his fingers tangled in her hair.

He thinks of Molly holding him tonight as he woke up from his nightmare and in that moment he realises- with a jolt- that he knows what he would do, if it were only Eurus.

He knows in his bones that he would walk away.

But this is Mary. Mary. His girl, every bit as much as Molly Hooper is. His right hand woman, his best friend. The person who kept him sane, who kept him human for so long. The person whose girlfriend had been run off the road for her trouble. He can't let Mary die. He won't. Not even for the sake of the Ice Queen and her little one, and certainly not for the sake of Mycroft. So-

"Gun," he yells. "Right corner, behind the desk."

Instantly Mary turns her weapon, lets out two shots.

Anthea curls in on herself, clutching her belly as she turns on her side. Blood starts pooling beneath her body and she hisses in pain.

Mycroft turns to him, a look of horror and rage on his face, and swings his remaining gun towards Eurus who raises her own weapon in return-

It's going to be a bloodbath, Sherlock thinks-

"They killed Jimmy for you!"

Molly yells the words at the top of her lungs and all the world seems to stop at them.

Eurus blinks. Turns to look quizzically at the young agent. "What?" she says. "What did you say?"

"I said she killed Jimmy for you."

And Molly comes forward, her hands held out defensively though she hasn't relinquished her firearm. She positions herself between Mycroft and Eurus, her every movement tentative. Controlled. In that moment Sherlock would dearly like to wring her pretty neck just as much as he'd like to kiss her.

"Agent Winters killed James Moriarty," Molly says quietly. "I witnessed it myself."

Eurus' eyes move to the heart in her hand. Her expression is almost distant, almost dreamy. "Is that true?" she asks.

"Yes," Anthea pants out through gritted teeth. "The little bastard had it coming."

Eurus' laugh is a trill, girlish. "And did it hurt?"

"Too bloody right it did." By now Anthea is pulling herself to her feet, using the wall for leverage. To Sherlock's relief the shots seem to be mainly in her shoulder and thigh, but she still leaves a slimy smear of blood across the wall and he can't say anything about the safety of her child. "I might not have been able to make it last long," Anthea is saying, "but I could bloody well make sure it was agonising, so I did."

"Agonising." Eurus says the word as if it is bereft of meaning. Her voice is uninflected. Flat. And yet-

"I would have made him sing for me," she says thoughtfully. "It would have taken hours, days if I could. But I suppose this will do." And her eyes leave the heart, go to Mycroft. Anthea. "Why, you're expecting too!" she coos suddenly and as if she hadn't just tried to kill anyone she takes Winters' hands in her own. Kisses her on the cheek.

"We have something in common, Agent Winters," and she hooks her arm through the other woman's. Calls to her boys to get Doctor Topher in here now, her sister-in-law needs help. The turn around is unexpected. Mercurial. So very, very Eurus.

Sherlock feels a hand in his, turns to look at Molly.

They're through the door and to the priest hole before anyone seems to notice they're gone.

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