I am determined to see this story through, and I hope you are too! Remember, I don't own Sherlock Holmes in book, TV, movie, or any other form. Enjoy!

Chapter 16

"It is in my nature to be kind, gentle, and loving. But know this: When it comes to matters of protecting my friends, my family, and my heart, do not trifle with me. For I'm the most powerful and relentless creature you will ever know." ~Harriet Morgan

"Papa! Papa!" Mary squealed, jumping up and down before the foggy parlor window.

"What is it, lovely?" Watson asked, taking a sip of his tea. His daughter ignored him, continuing to giggle excitedly and point out the window. The doctor sighed, hoisting himself up out of his chair to see what the fuss was about.

"Oh," he chuckled, picking Mary up and kissing her dimpled cheek. "It's snowing, isn't it? Well, it's very pretty, hmm?"

She nodded, resting her head on his shoulder and putting her thumb in her mouth. A habit Watson had tried to break her of, but believed Holmes secretly encouraged simply to spite him. They watched the snowflakes fall to the street below in tranquil silence for a moment longer before Watson asked, "Would you like to go out and play in it, dearest?"

His daughter's head shot up, her eyes wide and sparkling. "Yes!"

"Then that is exactly what we shall do," Watson chuckled. "But, we can't let Uncle Holmes and Auntie Irene miss out on all the fun, now can we?"

Mary shook her head, her blonde curls flying.

"What say we go wake them up?"

The little girl grinned and squirmed in his arms, attempting to get down and run to her aunt and uncle's bedroom.

"Hold on," Watson laughed. "Impatient little imp. You have been spending entirely too much time with your uncle, young lady." He tapped her nose and she scrunched it up in an adorable pout. Watson chuckled and placed a kiss there instead.

Balancing his daughter on one arm, he knocked gently on his friend's bedroom door. There was no answer, so he assumed the couple was still asleep. He hoped so anyway. Once the pair had returned from their honeymoon in Venice, he told Holmes that if he ever happened to be enjoying his wife's company, he was to be sure to lock the door. That way Mary, or himself for that matter, did not walk in on anything unpleasant. The door swung open, revealing Holmes and Irene both sound asleep. Watson grinned. This was far too easy. "Are you ready, lovely?" he whispered in his princess' ear.

Mary nodded.

Irene's eyes fluttered open, being a much lighter sleeper than her husband, and watched with an amused turn of her pretty lips as Watson quietly approached the bed, placing Mary on Holmes' chest. He then took a step back to watch the scene unfold.

Mary almost immediately began to bounce on her uncle's stomach. "Homes! Homes! Homes!"

With a startled cry, Holmes awoke to to find his niece's giggling face above him. Irene stifled her own laughter into her pillow, and Holmes narrowed his eyes at Watson who was chuckling to himself as he left the room. Holmes sighed and ran his hand over his niece's soft curls. "Good morning Mary darling," he croaked. "What can I do for you this fine day?"

The little girl threw her hands up into the air. "Snow!"

"Snow?" her uncle echoed in confusion.

Mary nodded emphatically.

Irene left the warm bed to look out the window, drawing back the thick curtain. sure enough, a heavy blanket of snow covered Baker Street. "Oh, it's beautiful," she smiled. "I don't suppose you want to go play in it, do you, Princess?"

"Yes!"

"Hmm, well, I'm afraid you'll have to escape the tickle monster first!" Holmes declared, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her down flat onto his chest, crushing her in a fierce bear hug before tickling her sides.

Mary squealed with laughter, her bright smile showing off two adorable dimples. "Auntie! Auntie!" she called desperately between fits of laughter. "Help me!"

Irene laughed and climbed back on the bed, snatching Mary from her husband's grasp. "Leave my niece alone, you monster!"

Holmes crossed his arms behind his head raising one challenging eyebrow at his wife. "Your niece?"

"Yes, my niece! We girls must stick together, mustn't we darling?" she asked the child in her lap. Mary nodded her head firmly in agreement, even sticking her little pink tongue out at her uncle.

"Well. If that's the way of it," Holmes sniffed indignantly, pulling the quilts up over his head.

"Oh dear," Irene whispered loud enough for him to hear. "I do believe we've upset him."

He suppressed a laugh as he felt Mary crawling back over toward his side of the bed. Tiny fists yanked the quilts away from his face, and he abruptly closed his eyes. That was when a feather light kiss brushed his whiskered cheek. "Please come play Homes," the little girl's angelic voice begged.

Holmes smiled. Mary held his heart in the palm of her hand. She had since the day she was born and he was quite certain she knew it. He peeked one eye open to see her gazing back at him in eager anticipation. "Well, I suppose if you insist," he grinned, giving her a mischievous wink.

"Hurray!" Mary cheered.

"Alright yes," he chuckled, scooping her up in his arms and placing kisses across her face. She giggled and he set her on the floor, giving her a swift pat on the rear. "Off with you now. Auntie and I will get dressed and meet you and Papa outside."

Per usual, Holmes was ready before his wife and went to wait for her in the parlor. When she finally emerged, Irene came upon the most ridiculous sight. Mary was standing atop the table while her father busied himself wrapping a scarf around her neck and the lower half of her face. Meanwhile, her uncle attempted to make one of Watson's woolen hats fit over her darling curls. The only thing visible of the poor child was her nose. Irene sighed and put her hands on her hips. "You are two overprotective fools," she scolded. "She's going to go play in snow that's half melted already, not trudge through an Arctic blizzard!"

Both men looked at her as if she had been speaking in tongues.

"Oh honestly," she huffed, shooing them both away. She nestled the scarf down around Mary's neck, rid her of the extra pair of mittens, folded the hat up so the poor dear could see, and then tied the little girl's boots which both Holmes and Watson had managed to overlook. "There," Irene declared at last. "Are you ready, darling?" Mary nodded and Irene lifted her up and settled her on her hip. Since losing her own child, Mary had become even more precious to her and to her husband. Watching her with Holmes made Irene ache for what she could never have, but it seemed little Mary had been put on this earth to bring peace and healing to those who loved her best. One smile directed toward her aunt was a gentle balm for even the most painful of wounds. Irene pressed a kiss to Mary's plump cheek, then looked to both Watson and Holmes with one elegant eyebrow raised. "Coming, boys?"

He could feel the cold, wet snow seeping through the material of his trousers, making his leg ache even more terribly than it had been that morning. But one look at his daughter as he knelt in the wintery slush, helping her to build a snowman, was nearly enough to make him forget all but her delightful giggle. Irene had gone inside to ask Mrs. Hudson for a carrot and also to gather some coal so they could give their snowman a proper face.

Watson paused his snowman making task to flex his glove covered hands. They were stiff and clumsy as he tried to put the snowman's stick arms in place. Before he had much time to ponder this though, a snowball hit him square in the back of the head, knocking his hat clean off. Watson cringed as the freezing slush trickled down the back of his neck. From behind him, he could hear his friend's hysterical laughter. "Holmes!" he roared, grabbing his cane and hauling himself to his feet. He turned on the detective, both anger and amusement sparkling in his green eyes. He scooped a handful of snow off the stoop of 221B and began to form it into a tightly packed ball. Holmes began to back slowly away from him, his hands up in surrender.

"Now, now, Watson. Let's not do anything rash. After all, you have no real evidence it was in fact I who…"

But Watson hit him in the jaw with one well aimed throw, and Holmes found himself silenced by a mouthful of snow. Irene, who had come out of the house just in time to see him get what he well deserved, began to laugh.

"Oh. You think that's funny, do you, my dear?"

Irene tightly pinched her lips together in a failed attempt to stifle her laughter. Holmes began to advance on her with an ornery gleam in his eye, and quicker than a flash he was by her side, crashing his frozen lips into hers and pressing his cold, wet body close.

Watson suddenly coughed, grateful the couple was otherwise occupied so as not to have them both worrying over him again. He had only just gotten to the point where he could simply go about his day without them eyeing him carefully for any signs of a relapse. But upon pulling away his handkerchief, he once again found it stained with blood. Watson frowned. There was no reason for it. No irritation in his throat or congestion in his chest. He quickly tucked it into his breast pocket before anyone took notice, making note to analyze the reason for such a symptom later. He looked back to his daughter, who was currently admiring the single white rose she held in her small hands. "Mary, darling," he asked, "where did you get that?"

"Pretty flower, Papa," she said, holding it out for him to see.

"Yes, my love, it is very pretty," he nodded, panic beginning to worm it's way into his mind, "but where did you get it?"

Mary simply pointed down the street. Heart in his throat, Watson followed her gaze until it landed on the figure of a man watching them from the end of the block. Mind racing, Watson shouted for Holmes and lifted his daughter up into the safety of his arms.

The frantic tone of the doctor's voice did not escape Holmes, and he and Irene were quickly by his side.

"Irene," Watson said urgently, "take Mary back upstairs. Lock the door and don't open it until we return."

Irene's eyes landed on the mysterious figure and she nodded, holding her niece close and hurrying back inside. Once the door was closed, their girls safe for the time being, Watson and Holmes began advancing on the figure. Their gait was calm and steady, but frightfully determined. The only sound for miles was the click of Watson's cane and the crunching of snow beneath their boots. They'd made it but a few feet before the man took off running. Without a moment's hesitation, Holmes and Watson gave chase, hot on the intruder's heels. They followed him down Baker Street, dodging through back alleyways, and jumping fences. Any other given day and Holmes would have complimented Watson on his impressive athletic ability, considering he knew his leg had been bothering him more than usual recently. But Holmes knew a force far more powerful than pain was driving his friend. Finally, they had the man cornered, the person of interest having made a wrong turn and running straight into a dead end. "Right," Holmes fumed, his breath forming white puffs of smoke in the frigid air, "who are you and what do you want from us?"

A sickening smile crept over the man's face, making Holmes' flesh crawl. "Just wanted to make the little girl smile."

Before the man could even blink, Watson had drawn the sword from his cane, shoving the man up against the wall with the glinting weapon pressed against his throat.

"Remember now," Holmes said, despite quite enjoying the look of fear that flashed in the stranger's eyes, "you're a doctor."

"I'm also a father," Watson growled, his murderous gaze fixed on the man beneath his blade, "and, at this moment, that takes precedence."

Holmes smirked, taking a step back to provide his friend with all the room he might need. "Truer words have never passed your lips, John."

With that, Watson swiftly removed his sword, leaving a thin trail of ruby red blood in its wake. Bringing his fist back, it connected with the man's cheekbone, sending him crashing to the ground. Pinning him to the icy street, Watson continued the beating, delivering blow after blow to the man's face. All else faded from his mind, until he realized the man had a smug smile on his face. Giving pause to his attack, Watson grabbed a fistful of the man's tawny brown hair and yanked his head up. "And just what is so bloody amusing?"

"Dr. Watson," the man chuckled, blood staining his teeth, "it is not me who you should be worried about."

The ice crystals clinging to his clothes suddenly entered his veins, and Watson's face grew alarmingly pale. "Mary."

Never taking his eyes off Watson, the man addressed the detective next. "How is your wife, Mr. Holmes? She is quite lovely, is she not? I would not make it a habit of leaving her alone if I were you. Professor Moriarty sends his regards to you all."

"Moriarty?" Watson echoed. He looked to his friend, rage, shock, and confusion all warring for dominance as his body trembled. "Holmes, what…"

"Watson," Holmes said urgently, fighting the surge of panic in his chest, "we must go. There isn't a moment to spare."

Watson shoved his questions to the far corners of his mind, knowing Holmes was right. They had to get back. Dropping the man back to the ground, letting his head crash onto the ice, Watson spat, "You will never threaten my family again." With that, he drew his sword across the henchman's throat, leaving him to choke on his own blood. Watson and Holmes then took off running back toward Baker Street and the girls they loved more than life itself.

Mrs. Hudson, bound and gagged, was the sight that greeted them upon bursting into 221B. Holmes unbound the gag while Watson set to work cutting the ropes wrapped around her wrists. Using his handkerchief, Holmes wiped a bit of blood from her split lip. "Dear, sweet Nanny," he whispered, tenderly brushing a tear from her eye, "what have they done to you?"

"Blast," Watson muttered, his hands trembling too much to safely cut the binding. "Holmes, come cut these bloody ropes!"

Holmes pressed a reassuring kiss to Mrs. Hudson's cheek and did as he was told without question. Watson came around to face Mrs. Hudson. "Are you alright?"

She nodded tearfully.

"Where are the girls Mrs. Hudson? Who did this to you?"

Before she could say a word, two gunshots rang out from up the stairs. Air rushed from Watson's lungs and it felt as though the bullet had sailed through his own heart.

He shared a brief look with Holmes, the same panic mirrored in both their eyes. Mrs. Hudson's voice shook them from their paralyzing fear. "Go! Both of you, go! Hurry!"

Racing up the stairs, they found the door to the flat wide open. "Irene!" Holmes shouted, Watson by his side with his sword drawn. "Irene!" he shouted again, his voice verging on frantic.

He felt as though he'd shed ten years when she answered, "In here!"

Following her voice to the bedroom, they found Irene with two smoking pistols crossed over her chest, and two lifeless bodies on either side of her.

With a sigh, Irene gave them a victorious smile. "Well, it's about time, gentlemen."

It was then Mary poked her head out from behind Irene's skirts. She grinned when she saw her father, "Hi, Papa!"