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Casting a desperate look at the antidote, Sherlock knew his only hope was speed. Moriarty was crossing the room now-
Sherlock uncorked the stopper, pried open Lissie's mouth and poured, tilting her head back. Moriarty crashed into him, and the bottle shattered, precious liquid spilling...
221B Baker Street
"The location is seven hours away, Mycroft," Lestrade said presently. "Feel like taking a helicopter for a spin?"
Mycroft nodded. "You have a point. Too much could happen in seven hours. I just hope this can be considered top priority. Let me call someone..."
Apparently Mycroft's unfailing influence held true, for they found themselves in a roaring copter with a cheerful young pilot.
Mary knew it would not be safe for her current condition, and she volunteered to stay with Ms. Hudson. John, Donovan, Mycroft and Lestrade were going, Lestrade in constant contact with the Yarders. A team of police would be standing by in case Moriarty' s cronies turned nasty.
Of course Moriarty was expecting them, he'd laid this plan all along. What could he have in mind?
The chopper landed, and they hesitantly approached the heavy oak door. Guns drawn, Lestrade and John led the way, up rickety stairs.
Donovan and Mycroft followed a little more slowly.
There was a sudden shout, and Mycroft pushed past all of them to climb the stairs first. "Sherlock!"
Moriarty was standing over Sherlock, ropes and broken chair pieces laying about. A shattered bottle and amber liquid decorated the floor. Obviously Sherlock had just escaped his bonds. While everyone else was taking in Moriarty, John turned to the patient with deadly calm, skill born of months in country.
"Poison," Sherlock said desperately. "Antidote's spilled, couldn't get it to her, he grabbed me, ... too late..."
John watched Lissie for any sign of response, Sherlock shaking beside him.
Moriarty tried to edge away.
Suddenly Sherlock lunged himself back at Moriarty, grasping the man's coat and ramming him into the floor repeatedly, cursing and screaming. Arms flailing, he pummeled Moriarty with bloody blows, roaring and hitting.
"Don't kill him! We need him to testify," Lestrade said, making an attempt to free the two.
It was Donovan who intervened, pulling Sherlock away with an almost superhuman strength. "Let me go," he said, angry at his weakened state.
"Sherlock," she said, for once not calling him 'freak', "listen to me."
They all stopped, Lestrade and Mycroft pausing in cuffing Moriarty, John listening as he took Lissie's weak pulse.
"You -" she gave Sherlock a little shake "- will not let this break you. No matter what."
He blinked at her, wiping his bloody palms.
"You deduced something personal about my family once, do you remember?," she asked quietly.
"Sally, " said Lestrade, "you don't have to-"
She waved him off with one hand, facing Sherlock. John looked at Mycroft and suddenly felt like an intruder. What had Sherlock deduced?
"I remember," Sherlock said in an almost whisper.
John knew he should focus, not watch the unfolding drama. He dialled a poison specialist.
"I thought losing my baby would break me," Donovan was saying. "Her little body... wasn't even formed all the way-"
"Sally," Lestrade sighed, looking like someone who has heard a tragic tale and cannot bear to hear it again.
John suddenly remembered hearing how a pregnant yarder had been targeted by an assasin for revenge several years ago. The yarder had survived but the bullet killed the unborn baby. Could the yarder have been Donovan?
"I'm here, and I'm stronger," Donovan finished in a rush. "I'm not broken, and, whether Lissie lives or dies, you will be strong. Unbroken. Understand?"
Sherlock nodded, moving back to Lissie.
John felt he had seen a drama he had no part in- Lestrade, Donovan, Sherlock, actors in some tragic play. There was no time to consider everything he'd observed.
The team of police arrived, looking at the cuffed Moriarty in shock. "Not much of a fight?"
"No, apparently he thought Sherlock and Lissie would keep us busy."
Moriarty spat at Sherlock angrily,"Your daughter will be dead any second. Fat lot of good capturing me does."
Sherlock ignored him. He was watching John and the police paramedics treat Lissie.
Their grave faces said everything, she was dying, almost dead...the word was so empty - dead. He did not want to think of her blue eyes, grey and lifeless, or her tanned skin and bright smile fading pale, but the thoughts rushed at him.
It seemed as if something inside him was falling, falling hard and fast from the heavens to the earth. He wondered if he stood there, rooted to the ground, would he fall all the way through the dark earth and arrive at the core, raw and white-hot and burning?
Anything to escape this emotional turmoil.
He dimly felt rather than saw Lissie being rushed to a copter, Donovan, the other Yarders and Lestrade slipping away, John going with Lissie. Sherlock deduced the noises as if he were blind.
Mycroft shouted suddenly, and Sherlock opened his eyes. He saw Moriarty falling, the policeman he was cuffed to kneeling beside the sadistic criminal...
"Cyanide capsule in the back tooth," a MI6 man informed Mycroft after giving the body a quick once over."Bloke bit right into it on purpose...Blimey, haven't heard of those being used since the Second World War... spies, y'know..." He trailed off as Mycroft stepped over to inspect the body with the air of touching something slimy and disagreeable.
"He's really dead, Sherlock," Mycroft said in what was perhaps the gentlest tone Sherlock had ever heard his older brother use.
The consulting detective nodded slowly, eyeing the body. He hardly regretted losing control earlier; the criminal's bloody face gave him some small satisfaction. He realized that Moriarty was getting a far worse punishment than he, Sherlock, could have ever inflicted, and he considered that for a moment.
Mycroft was talking in hushed tones with the investigators, MI6 and police. No one was watching.
He gave the body a vicious kick with his dress shoe.
"That's for Lissie," he said low and grimly, and then turned away. There was no need for revenge. He had a copter to catch, and a daughter to see to. He had tried to put her out of his mind and focus on Moriarty's corpse, but his concern for her was a dozen times stronger than any desire for revenge.
He suddenly felt very old. He caught a reflection of himself in the mirror as he walked out, face grey, eyes wild. He longed for John or even Lestrade, a comfortable silent companionship to keep him sane.
He was only delusioning himself, and he realized it; what he was missing was the girl's prattle, or silence followed by a profound comment. A slim figure dancing about, puzzling a holiday- assigned math problem at the kitchen table after clearing out experiments, then abandoning it to chase down a stray cat she'd seen out the window. Making suprisingly good meals out of his random grocery scraps.
With a strangled noise he prayed the copter would hurry.