John bolted upright in bed, panting as Sherlock's voice rang in his ears from the dream he'd been having just a moment ago before he was woken up by knocking on the front door.
"The game is on."
Brushing it off, John tossed the covers off him, giving his sleeping wife a glance before heading downstairs to see what was going on. He opened the door to find a woman in tears standing on his porch.
"I-I know it's early." She sniffled, breaking into a sob. "Really, I'm sorry."
"Is that Kate?" Mary questioned from further in the house, startling John from his daze.
"Y-Yeah, it's Kate."
"Invite her in?" Mary suggested, sensing that John was still a bit lost as Kate brought a handkerchief to her face.
"Uh, sorry, yes. D-Do you want to come in, Kate?" He offered, stepping aside and allowing Mary to find out what was wrong as he went to fix tea. Though, I do have an idea.
Sure enough, her son Isaac had not come home the previous night and was most likely passed out after shooting up in a dump. A little tired of the rebellious teenager causing trouble for him and Mary, John decided that going to fetch the boy would be the best bet. Mary, however, was a little confused.
"Seriously?" She questioned, trailing after him in her pajamas and dressing gown as he went for the car.
"Why not? She's not going to the police. Someone's got to get him."
"Why you?"
"I'm being neighborly."
Mary highly doubted that. "Since when?"
John chuckled, trying to play it off. "Since now. Since this exact minute."
"Why are you being so…" She waved her hands about, struggling to come up with the right word for what John was doing.
"What?"
"I don't know. What's the matter with you?"
"There is nothing the matter with me!" He said loudly, before realizing that he was near shouting. "Imagine I said that without shouting."
"I'm trying." She answered, swiftly moving to the passenger side.
"No, you can't come. You're pregnant." John argued, but Mary was prepared for that.
"You can't go. I'm pregnant."
She climbed in without another word and John begrudgingly got in as well, knowing better than to try and argue with her. Upon locating the abandoned building Isaac was most likely at—and incapacitating a druggie in the hallway—John was quickly upstairs searching for the kid.
"Isaac? Isaac Whitney?" He headed over to the smaller man he spotted on a mattress as he lifted a hand. "Isaac? Hello, mate. Sit up for me? Sit up." He helped the kid sit up and began checking his senses as the boy began to focus on him.
"Doctor Watson?"
"Yup."
"Where am I?"
"The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth. Look at me." John replied as Isaac tried to clear his mind long enough to think properly.
"Have you come for me?"
"Do you think I know a lot of people here?" John questioned, making him laugh.
What he didn't notice was the figure behind him sitting up and looking over his shoulder.
"Oh, hello, John." Sherlock chimed and John turned around in disbelief. "Didn't expect to see you here. Come for me too?"
John resisted the urge to punch the man and got Isaac up onto his feet, sending him out to the car as he got Sherlock up and started scolding him. Isaac stumbled out towards the car and Mary chimed a hello to him as the boy pointed at the car.
"Mrs. Watson, can I-I get in please?"
"Yes, of course, get in. Where's John?" She asked, a little worried.
"They're having a fight."
"Who is?"
A piece of plyboard flew from an entryway as Sherlock shouted.
"For God's sake, John, I'm on a case!"
Mary could hardly restrain her surprise at the spectacle in front of her.
"A month. That's all it took. One."
"I'm working," Sherlock answered, hopping over the railing and down a wall as Mary pulled the car closer.
"Sherlock Holmes in a drug den? How'd that gonna look?"
"I'm undercover."
"No, you're not!"
"Well, I'm not now!" Sherlock shouted back, waving his arms about.
Mary narrowed her eyes at the duo. "In, both of you, quickly."
John climbed into the passenger seat and Sherlock climbed in behind them as the druggie John hurt hurried over holding his arm.
"Please, can I come? I think I've got a broken arm." He pleaded with Mary.
"No. Go away."
John though sighed. "No, let him."
"Why?"
John leaned out of the car to the man. "Yeah, just get in. It's a sprain."
Mary huffed. "Anybody else? I mean, we're taking everybody home, are we?"
The man, Bill, hopped in beside Sherlock, eyeing him. "Alright, Shezza?"
John looked back with a face. "Shezza?"
"I was undercover," Sherlock grumbled as even Mary shot him a look.
"Seriously? Shezza though?"
Sherlock just sighed as John spoke up sternly.
"We're not going home. We're going to Bart's. I'm calling Molly."
"Why?" Mary asked.
"Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."
Once the test was completed, John eyed Molly as Mary cleaned up the other two off to the side.
"Well, is he clean?"
"Clean?" Molly questioned, taking off her gloves and standing before Sherlock before slapping him harshly three times. "How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with. And how dare you betray the love of your friends. Say you're sorry."
Sherlock shot her a bland look. "Sorry your engagement's over, though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."
"Stop it." She snapped. "Just stop it."
John stormed up to him then, taking the news poorly. "If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called, you could have talked to me."
"Please do relax. This is all for a case." Sherlock emphasized again.
"A ca… What kind of case would need you doing this? Why didn't Sam stop you or help you or something?"
Sherlock scowled. "Sam? She's not even home."
"What?" John looked slightly surprised. "Where is she then?"
Sherlock shrugged. "She took a flight somewhere last week… No, the week before. Haven't seen her since. Didn't say a word to me."
Mary stood, looking over at them. "She didn't tell you?"
Sherlock stiffened. "Tell me what?"
"Sherlock, the anniversary was a week and a half ago. For Bobbie."
Sherlock's expression faltered for a brief moment, before growing annoyed once again. "I'd be better off getting an answer as to why John's been cycling to work recently, than anything from her."
"No." John shook his head. "We are not playing this game."
"Quite recently, I'd say. You're very determined about it." Sherlock continued.
"Not interested."
"I am." Bill piped up before yelping in complaint.
Mary had been looking at something on her phone but shot him a look. "You moved, but it is just a sprain."
"Yeah. Somebody hit me." Bill muttered, eyeing John. "Just some guy."
"Yeah, probably just an addict in need of a fix." John murmured in response, earning a look from Sherlock too.
"Yes. I think, in a way, it was."
Bill mentioned something about John's shirt then and the trio of men went off in a ramble about proving that John had started cycling, but Mary wasn't interested. She knew better. Sam should have been home already. It was then that she got a reply text.
If you're a friend of Sam's
You better come get 'er
Before the pigs show up.
An address was sent alongside a short video of someone very familiar throwing fists at someone else. Understanding quickly dawned on her and Mary looked to Molly just as Sherlock rushed out.
"Molly, sorry, but could you take these two boys home. John's got the address for Isaac, but I really need to go."
John looked over, confused now. "Mary? What's wrong?"
Mary plastered on a grin. "Nothing. I've just got an urgent meeting with someone that I completely forgot about. I'll be taking the car, so you should probably ride with Sherlock to make sure he gets back alright." She said, kissing his temple and he dumbly nodded, unable to help but wonder who she was meeting.
It wasn't until after she was long gone that he realized that she was still in her dressing gown.
Mary hurried up the steps to the dingy place and slipped through the open door to the restaurant, moving quickly through the few men at tables, to the bar
"Yes. Hello. I'm looking for Sam. Sam Foxe."
The man at the bar wiped a glass. "Don't know him."
Mary sighed heavily, pulling out her phone and showing him the text and video. "I got this a few minutes ago, so I honestly think you do know her."
The man looked ready to say something more, but Mary added one last tidbit.
"And please don't upset me. I've very much pregnant and have had a hell of a morning."
The man nodded immediately, growing polite the instant she mentioned being pregnant, setting the glass down and motioning to another door.
"This way, ma'am."
Mary lifted her chin proudly. "Thank you."
She was, however, a bit concerned when she was led downstairs to another area—shouts and loud noises permeating through the walls. It wasn't until the man opened a door that she caught the full spectrum of the scene in front of her. A large boxing ring sat in the middle of the floor and a man was thrown out of it and onto a set of plastic folding tables where men shouted and threw beer at one another about the gambling chips landing on the floor. A new man entered the ring, larger than the last and it was then that Mary recognized the other figure in the ring.
Sam stood there with a bloody, broken nose and a cut over her lip to accent a swollen right eye, seemingly ignorant of her injuries and the lack of a shirt—standing in just a sports bra and a pair of harem pants. The larger man charged at her and she ducked under his fist, coming up and slapping her hand to the man's ear before ducking away. Fists held up in a manner not unlike kung fu, she slipped around the man, dodging and getting in hard hits when he was open, only to miscalculate and earn a hard hit to her side. She stumbled into the ropes, much to Mary's concern, grabbing a drink from the nearest man and taking a swig before returning to the fight. She fought hard and rough as the man beside Mary gestured to her.
"That the Sam you're looking for?"
Mary was speechless for a moment before something in her snapped and she spoke up as loudly as she could. "Sam Jacqueline Foxe, get over here this instant!"
The room fell silent and eyes went to Mary as Sam stiffened in the ring before quickly shying away.
"Now," Mary emphasized and the men in the room looked back to Sam as she started to head out of the ring.
The only thing that stopped her was her angry opponent spitting at the back of her head. Sam closed her eyes for only a millisecond, before whipping back around and throwing a bottle towards the man. He swiped it away but left himself open for a hard shot to the ribs and a hit to the jaw. He tried to swing again, but Sam blocked it with her elbow and clapped him on the ears, disorientating him. She again blocked a half-hearted shot, elbowing the man's jaw and adding another solid punch to it, his ribs and chest. And with one more hit to the man's mouth, she heel kicked him to the ropes and he promptly fell over them and to the ground on the other side in pain as Sam wiped her nose and spat a glob of blood to the side.
She reached Mary just as the man groaned and began to get up, muttering a word under her breath.
"Peasants."
A door burst open then and a number of police officers burst into the room, taking down the prime fighters as a stunned Mary was led out by Sam.
"What… What was that?"
Sam didn't even blink. "Underground fighting ring that I've been integrating myself into for months until I could find the right time to take down their toughest opponent, leaving the police to deal with the easier ones. There was a tournament today. I was on top, so the big guy came out. That was him, on the floor."
"Right…" Mary murmured, unlocking the car. "I take it New York didn't go well?"
"No. No, it didn't."
"What is my brother doing here?" Sherlock practically spat from the back of the cab the moment he and John pulled up to Baker Street, hopping out of the car immediately after, much to John's annoyance. "He's straightened the door knocker." Sherlock turned back to John as he climbed up the steps after him. "He always corrects it. He's OCD. Doesn't even know he's doing it."
Sherlock pushed the knocker off slightly before heading inside, leaving John to question his actions.
"Why'd you do that?"
"Do what?"
"Nothing," John said, letting it go.
Sherlock was still coming off his high and probably didn't realize he'd moved the door knocker. That being said, Sherlock was a bit too busy scowling at Mycroft sitting on the stairs than he was to pay attention to what he'd done.
"Well then, Sherlock. Back on the sauce?" Mycroft mocked.
"What are you doing here?" He spat.
"I phoned him," John answered, much to Sherlock's surprise.
"The siren call of old habits." Mycroft hummed. "How very like Uncle Rudy. Though, in many ways, cross-dressing would have been a wiser path for you. I would have thought Sam would have been the first of you two to go back, especially after her trip."
Sherlock's frown deepened. "Did everybody know about her trip but me?"
"I didn't." John offered.
"She's still cross with you, of course, you didn't." Sherlock huffed. "You phoned him?"
"Course I bloody phoned him."
"Course he bloody did," Mycroft added. "Now, save me a little time. Where should we be looking?"
"We?"
Anderson's voice chimed from upstairs. "Mr. Holmes?"
"For God's sake!" Sherlock snapped, storming up the stairs to find Anderson and an unknown woman standing in his kitchen. "Anderson?"
Anderson held up his hands. "Sorry, Sherlock. It's for your own good."
"Oh, that's him, isn't it?" The woman questioned as Sherlock stomped childishly to his armchair and curled up in it on his side, after spooking another unknown person from it. "You said he'd be taller."
Mycroft returned then, eyeing the man. "Some members of your little fan-club. Do be polite. They're entirely trustworthy and even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you are pleased to call a flat."
Sherlock didn't answer, closing his eyes.
"You're a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can't afford a drug habit."
His eyes snapped open. "I do not have a drug habit."
Mycroft ignored his comment. "And make sure you go through Miss Foxe's things as well. Having two drug users in the same flat means either one could have gotten something off the other." Mycroft spared Sherlock a side glance. "Especially since she's dealing with her own danger days, at the moment."
"She's clean." Sherlock huffed, closing his eyes again. "It would take more than just a death anniversary to get her using again."
"I wouldn't be so sure."
The front door was heard then and a shuffle of feet going up the stairs—the tell-tale creaking board being avoided as Sam so often did. That being said, no one in the room except Mycroft had been expecting the woman to walk in looking like she did.
"Christ, Sam! What happened!" John exclaimed, making Sam jolt in surprise and get a good look around the room.
It took her only a moment to see what was going on and understand what had happened. The shock left her features and she gave John a bland look.
"Nothing. Don't worry about it."
"Don't worry—Sam, I—"
"How was the bust, Miss Foxe?" Mycroft cut him off, earning surprised looks himself.
"Tedious, but done." She replied.
"And your trip?"
Her lips formed a thin line as she grabbed an empty beaker nearby and poured some alcohol into it, chugging it down like a shot glass with only a minor grimace of disgust at the taste.
"Hm, as expected." Mycroft mused, having guessed from the lack of response that it wasn't good.
It was just then that Anderson walked out of John's old room with a rectangular metal case.
"Mr. Holmes, I found this in some of Miss Foxe's things."
Sam winced upon landing on the case that was handed over to Mycroft for examining. Once look inside told him all that he needed to know.
"Planning a top up, Miss Foxe?"
"No." Sam spat, making him raise a brow.
"Really? Three hypodermic needles and a nearly full bag of powder. All it would take is one bad day."
"I haven't used anything."
"Doesn't mean you won't."
"I'll get rid of it."
"You haven't yet and it's been sitting in your room for how long?"
"Don't test me, Mycroft." Sam snapped and Mycroft responded in kind.
"I will test you all I like, Miss Foxe." He snarled, taking a step towards her and making her take a hesitant step back. "You have information that could make or break Britain as we know it and you refuse to share it with anyone except perhaps my idiotic brother. Said brother has a drug problem that he's been coping with for years, only to suddenly dive back into it the moment you choose to leave without informing him of where you're going."
Sherlock sighed. "It wasn't her fault—"
"It doesn't matter whether it was her fault or not. What matters is that she has the potential to be a danger to your health and the rest of the world, based on her own psychological status. One which was compromised the moment her oh-so-precious boyfriend was killed."
It took Sam only a split second to be standing before Mycroft with a snarl on her face and a fist wrapped around his tie.
"Don't you dare talk about him in front of me unless you want to learn how volatile my psychological status can be."
John tugged at her arm and she begrudgingly released Mycroft, shoving past a Sherlock-fan to head upstairs to her room. The door slammed shut loud enough to rattle the windows and Sherlock was the first to cut the thick silence.
"You shouldn't have done that."
Mycroft straightened his tie with a frown. "I did what I must."
Sherlock shook his head. "No. You prodded the preverbal lion. A lion with information you need. Dangerous information. It wouldn't be hard for her to use that information to turn around and take a bite out of you."
Mycroft still looked confident, even smirking a little. "She won't do anything that could potentially cause harm to you."
"She didn't even tell me she left for New York. Do you honestly want to bet on your theory?"
Mycroft's grin fell, but he didn't answer the challenge, looking instead back at Anderson and co. "What have you found so far? Clearly nothing."
"There's nothing to find," Sherlock grumbled, eyeing the metal case Mycroft set aside on the end table nearest him.
"Your bedroom door is shut," Mycroft observed, walking slowly towards it. "You haven't been home all night. So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on this occasion?"
Sherlock perked up, flipping his hood back and just before Mycroft could open the door, he jumped up.
"Okay, stop! Just stop… Point made."
"Jesus, Sherlock." John murmured, stunned that Sherlock was hiding drugs in his bedroom.
Mycroft retreated, coming back towards the main room. "Have to phone our parents, of course, in Oklahoma. Won't be the first time that your substance abuse has wreaked havoc with their line-dancing. I best inform Sam's brothers as well, that she's managed to get herself rather… tense."
"This is not what you think. This is for a case." Sherlock emphasized, standing and moving towards Mycroft—slipping the metal case into his hoodie unnoticed.
"What case could possibly justify this?"
"Magnussen."
That single word made any confidence fall from Mycroft's face.
"Charles Augustus Magnussen."
Slowly, Mycroft looked to the group of fans behind them. "That name you think you may have just heard—you were mistaken. If you ever mention hearing that name in this room, in this context, I guarantee you—on behalf of the British security services—that materials will be found on your computer hard drives resulting in your immediate incarceration. Don't reply. Just look frightened and scuttle."
They did exactly as he said, rushing out as Mycroft looked to John.
"I hope I won't have to threaten you as well."
"Well, I think we'd both find that embarrassing." John joked, earning a snort from Sherlock as Mycroft turned his attention back to his brother.
"Magnussen is not your business."
"Oh, you mean he's yours."
"You may consider him under my protection."
"I consider you under his thumb."
"If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself going against me." Mycroft hissed at him.
"Okay. I'll let you know if I notice." Sherlock mused, moving towards the door. "Uh, what was I going to say? Oh, yeah." He opened the door pointedly. "Bye-bye."
Mycroft started to walk out but gave him one last warning. "Unwise, brother mine."
With the same swiftness Sam had shown earlier, Sherlock grabbed his brother's arm and twisted it around behind him painfully as he hissed venomously into Mycroft's ear.
"Brother mine, don't appall me when I'm high."
John could tell the situation was out of control and hurried over as well, speaking to Mycroft. "Mycroft, don't say another word. Just go. He could snap you in two, and right now I am slightly worried that he might."
Sherlock released him and Mycroft jerked away, holding his arm tenderly.
"Don't speak, just leave," John told him, before seeing Mycroft wanted his umbrella on the floor, picking it up for him.
Mycroft snatched it up and left as Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck and stretched. Still curious, John approached.
"Uh, Magnussen?"
"What time is it?" Sherlock asked, confusing John.
"About eight."
Sherlock inhaled and sighed. "I'm meeting him in three hours. I need a bath."
John wasn't about to drop the subject though. "It's for a case, you said?"
"Yup."
"What sort of case?"
"Too big and dangerous for any sane individual to get involved in."
"You trying to put me off?"
"God, no." Sherlock grinned. "Trying to recruit you."
He then tossed the metal case to John, who nearly dropped it.
"Give that back to Sam, will you?"
"W-What?!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes as he went towards the restroom. "She's not going to use it. I told you she won't. Too proud for it. Using it now will only prove my brother right, so she's not about to try it out today."
"But she could still do it later," John muttered and Sherlock gave the upstairs a glance.
"Yes, she could, but it would be her choice, wouldn't it? And stay out of my bedroom."
And with that, he shut the door, leaving John to sigh and head for his old room.
I frowned, rubbing at my aching jaw as I tossed my gym bag onto the bed and tried to figure out what I was forgetting. Something… Something important, but what?
"…it's been sitting in your room for how long?"
"…she has the potential to be a danger to your health and the rest of the world…"
"…which was compromised the moment her oh-so-precious boyfriend was killed."
"God, just shut up!" I shouted, slamming my already throbbing fist into the dresser beside me, hearing a chime.
I looked over, ignoring the pain and picking up a cat's collar; the bell chiming as I did.
"Oh, no… Smith?" I spun around, checking the room as someone knocked on my door.
"Sam? Sherlock wanted me to give this back to you." John called out, muttering something under his breath, but I was too busy hitting my head on the underside of the bed as I searched for my black feline companion. "Sam?"
"Not now, John!" I shouted back, hearing something about "acting like Sherlock" before I remembered that the house hadn't been entirely abandoned while Sherlock and I were both out.
I bolted to my feet and rushed to the door, pulling it open and completely bypassing John as I hurried down the stairs and began pounding at Sherlock's door.
"Sam, Sherlock said not to—"
I snatched the metal case from John's hands with a scowl only to whip around as Sherlock's door opened and Janine looked at me in surprise—wearing only one of Sherlock's shirts.
"Oh, Sam, John, hi."
"Janine?" John gaped, having not expected this.
"Sorry, not dressed." She chuckled, pulling at the hem of the shirt which only irritated me further.
She's not having sex with him, just putting up the appearance of that. I can't remember. Did Sherlock tell her to do that? No, that can't be right. If I remember correctly, she's actually dating him and is only a little frustrated with his not putting out. I shook my head, immediately dispelling the intrusive thoughts. Not important right now. Deal with your jealous crush later!
"Janine, have you seen Smith?"
Janine looked at me in confusion. "Who?"
I groaned loudly. "The cat! Black cat, bit of an arse, lives here? Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson were supposed to be watching him while I was gone, but with what just happened—"
"Oh, has everybody gone? I heard shouting."
"Have you seen my cat!" I finally snapped. "Yes or no!"
"No." She muttered and I angrily raked a hand through my hair before knocking on the bathroom door.
"Sherlock!"
"What!" He snapped back.
"You seen Smith?"
"How would I have seen your cat? I've been working on a case!"
"Oh, you useless cu—" I was cut off as John pulled me away from the bathroom door before I could properly kick it hard with my foot.
"Sam! Sam, just calm down. He's probably here somewhere. I'll help you look for him."
I grit my teeth, but begrudgingly turned my attention away from the bathroom door and continued my search.
"God, look at the time. I'll be late." Janine muttered, moving into the kitchen as I looked under Sherlock's chair and in the empty fireplace. "Sounded like an argument earlier. Was it Mike?"
"Mike?" John questioned, looking under the coffee table.
"Mike, yeah. His brother, Mike. They're always fighting and Sherlock says you and him don't get along well either, Sam."
I merely grunted as John attempted to correct her name usage.
"Mycroft."
"Do people actually call him that?" Janine chuckled.
"Yeah."
"Huh. Oh, could you be a love and put some coffee on?"
John looked at me, but I hurried past him into the kitchen to check cupboards on the bottom for Smith.
"…Sure, right. Yeah."
"Thanks." Janine smiled, making to head back to the bedroom, but pausing. "Oh, how's Mary? How's married life?"
"She's fine. We're both fine, yeah."
"Liar," I muttered, cursing as I banged my head again and missing John's scowl in my direction as he moved towards the cupboard where the coffee was usually kept.
"Oh, it's over there now." Janine pointed out as I very nearly hurt myself for the third time.
"You reorganized the kitchen cupboards?"
Janine paused. "Oh, sorry. Was that your doing then? The way it was before? I asked Sherlock and he said it was fine to move some things."
"I'm gonna kill him." I spat, though Janine turned away without sensing the venom in my tone.
"Where is Sherl?"
"Sher…" John choked, grinning for only a moment before he caught sight of my face and dropped it. "He's just having a bath. I'm sure he'll be out in a minute."
"Oh, like he ever is." Janine smiled.
"Yeah…"
He glanced at me again and I was ten seconds from strangling the army man for the none-too-subtle looks as Janine made her way into the bathroom to join Sherlock.
"Morning! Room for a little one?" She chimed loudly, being followed by chuckles and splashing; the straw that had finally broke the camel's back.
I slammed a cupboard closed, ignoring the clattering of china that occurred, and stormed into the living room to grab my coat. "I'm going to look outside."
"Ah, wait, Sam." John stopped me, wincing as my bruised, beaten and angry face turned towards him. "Are you… Are you alright?"
"Just peachy."
And the door slammed shut behind me.
"So, just a guess, but you've probably got some questions." Sherlock mused, pulling on his black jacket over a crisp white dress shirt.
"Yeah, one or two, pretty much," John replied, watching as Janine—now dressed properly—headed back to the bedroom.
"Naturally."
"You have a girlfriend?" John asked him and Sherlock answered surprisingly easily.
"Yes, I have."
John couldn't believe it, but Sherlock didn't seem to think the information was important.
"Now, Magnussen. Magnussen is like a shark. It's the only way I can describe him. Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium, John—stood up close to the glass? Those floating flat faces, those dead eyes… That's what he is. I've dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen."
"Yes, you have," John muttered, having not listened to a word he'd said after hearing Sherlock had a girlfriend and someone as… enthusiastic as Janine.
"Sorry, what?"
"You have a girlfriend."
"What? Yes! Yes, I'm going out with Janine. I thought that was fairly obvious." Sherlock complained, not appreciating the way John was focusing on something so minuscule when Magnussen was going to show up soon.
"Yes. Well… yes." John cleared his throat, trying to think of a way to bring up a sensitive topic smoothly. "But I mean, you, you, you… are in a relationship?"
"Yes, I am." Sherlock reiterated.
"You and Janine?"
"Mm, yes. Me and Janine. Where'd Sam run off to? I assumed she'd want to hear about my progress with Magnussen."
"She… left." John murmured under his breath, the topic of his concern having been brought to light by the man himself.
"Left?"
John nodded. "To look for her cat, though… she didn't seem too happy about, you know…"
"I know what?" Sherlock questioned, making a disgusted face. "Why is her cat suddenly the most important thing in the world? I honestly hate the thing."
"No, you don't," John argued, having seen some of the pictures Sam had sent Mary of Sherlock and the cat getting along quite well—to the point that the cat was allowed to nap on his lap. "And I'm talking about Janine."
"Why would Sam care?" Sherlock huffed. "She dated Bobby. Who I'm dating shouldn't make a difference."
John wasn't quite sure about that, but if Sherlock was too clueless to see what was going on, then how would his telling the man make any difference.
"So, you and Janine. Care to elaborate?"
"Well, we're in a good place. It's, um… very affirming." Sherlock replied, but John could taste the lie.
"You got that from a book."
"Everyone got that from a book."
Janine chose that moment to walk in with a grin, that John hesitantly returned.
"Okay, you two bad boys, behave yourselves." She hummed, climbing into Sherlock's lap with a mischievous grin as the man wrapped an arm around her waist. "And you, Sherl, you're gonna have to tell me where you were last night."
"Working."
John could hardly believe the scene he was now witnessing as the two flirted in front of him.
"'Working.' Of course. I'm the only one who really knows what you're like, remember?"
"Don't you go letting on." Sherlock murmured, running a finger down her nose.
"I might just, actually." She then looked to John. "I haven't told Mary about this. I kind of wanted to surprise her. Sherl said Sam wouldn't say anything, so I'm trusting you not to either."
"Yeah, she'll probably be surprised. I won't say a word."
"But we should have you two over for dinner really soon!" Janine offered.
"Yeah." Sherlock readily agreed.
"My place though, not the scuzz-dump." Janine lightly punched Sherlock's shoulder, earning a laugh as John nodded, still rather frazzled from what was happening.
"Great, yeah. Dinner. Yeah."
"Oh, I better dash," Janine said, standing and making for the door. "It was brilliant to see you."
"You too," John muttered, standing as well as Sherlock went to walk Janine out.
"Have a lovely day. Call me later." Sherlock hummed to the woman in front of the door and she turned to fiddle with his coat lapels.
"I might do. I might call you unless I meet someone prettier."
John quickly turned away as they kissed, Janine whispering to Sherlock under her breath.
"Solve me a crime, Sherlock Holmes."
Once she was gone though, Sherlock's grin fell right off his face and wiped the back of his hand over his lips without John's notice, before continuing on where he left off with his Magnussen case.
"You know Magnussen as a newspaper owner, but he's so much more than that. He uses his power and wealth to gain information. The more he acquires, the greater his wealth and power." He rambled on, earning a frown from John, who was once again focused on other things. "I'm not exaggerating when I say that he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond. He is the Napoleon of blackmail and he has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. It's name…" He turned the computer to show Magnussen's home. "…is Appledore."
"Dinner."
"Sorry, what? Dinner?" Sherlock questioned, lost once more with John's lack of focus on what he was presenting.
"Me and Mary, coming for dinner with… wine and… sitting."
Sherlock couldn't believe him. "Seriously? I just told you that the Western world is run from this house and you want to talk about dinner?"
"Fine. Talk about the house." John huffed, not understanding how Sherlock expected him not to be stunned by this sudden scenario.
"It is the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world. The Alexandrian Library of secrets and scandals and none of it is on a computer. He's smart—computers can be hacked. It's all on hard copy in vaults underneath that house, and as long as it is, the personal freedom of anyone you've ever met is a fantasy."
There was a knock on the door and Mrs. Hudson quickly let herself in.
"That was the doorbell. Couldn't you hear it?"
"It's in the fridge. It kept ringing." Sherlock replied blandly.
"Oh, that's not a fault, Sherlock!"
"Who is it?" John asked, keeping them on task.
Mrs. Hudson didn't answer, but whoever it was had already made her anxious as she headed downstairs to show them up. Three men entered and Sherlock sighed heavily, putting his arms out.
"Go ahead."
The men searched him as John stared in stunned confusion before a man approached him.
"Sir?"
John looked to Sherlock and then back to the man, remembering what he had on him. "Can I have a moment?"
"Oh, he's fine," Sherlock complained, but the man still went to search John, who tried to hastily explain as the man got closer to what he had hidden.
"Uh, I… right. I should probably tell you…"
The man pulled out a knife and the tire lever that John hadn't taken from his pockets from when he'd come across Bill and Sherlock at the drug house.
"Doesn't mean I'm not pleased to see you." John joked as the man eyed him and Sherlock spoke up.
"I can vouch for this man. He's a doctor. If you know who I am, then you know who he is…" Sherlock said, looking to the final person to enter the flat. "…don't you, Mr. Magnussen? I understood we were meeting at your office.
"This is my office," Magnussen claimed, eyeing the place and the two standing before him. "Well, it is now."
He picked up a paper off the desk and took a seat on the sofa as Sherlock merely quirked a brow at the odd behavior.
"Mr. Magnussen, I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband's letters. Some time ago you... put pressure on her concerning those letters." Sherlock stated, though seeing how the man appeared to be mostly ignoring him. "She would like those letters back. Obviously, the letters no longer have any practical use to you, so with that in mind…" Sherlock's brows furrowed as Magnussen let out a soft snort of amusement. "Something I said?"
"No, no. I-I was reading." Magnussen replied, eyeing Sherlock in particular. "There's rather a lot. 'Redbeard.'"
Sherlock blinked at that name, mouth opening slightly, but Magnussen shook his head, having gotten the reaction he'd expected.
"Sorry. S-Sorry. You were probably talking?"
"I…" Sherlock paused for a while, before clearing his throat. "I was trying to explain that I've been asked to act on behalf of—"
"Bathroom?" Magnussen interrupted, looking to one of the guards in the room.
"Along from the kitchen, sir."
"Okay."
Sherlock bit back a dirty response, voice tight. "I've been asked to negotiate the return of those letters. I'm aware you do not make copies of sensitive documents—"
Magnussen, having removed his glasses cut in again. "Is it like the rest of the flat?"
"Sir?" The guard questioned.
"The bathroom?"
"Uh, yes, sir."
"Maybe not then."
Sherlock quickly just got to the point, tired of being ignored. "Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?"
Magnussen met his eyes for a moment before turning his gaze out the window—a small commotion of shouting happening somewhere outside.
"Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. I like her." He made popping noises, mockingly.
"Mr. Magnussen, am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" Sherlock repeated.
"She's English, with a spine." Magnussen pushed the coffee table away from the couch as he stood and approached the fireplace—the commotion outside going quiet and the door downstairs being opened and slammed shut without much notice. "Best thing about the English, you're so domesticated. All standing around, apologizing keeping your little heads down."
There was the sound of Magnussen's zipper being opened after he stepped past a stunned Sherlock and John—steps coming up the stairs.
"You can do what you like here. No one's ever going to stop you."
A figure entered the doorway and before anyone could blink, a knife embedded itself into the fireplace—slicing Magnussen's sleeve in the process.
"Piss in that fireplace and I won't miss next time."
Magnussen looked over his shoulder as the guards drew their guns, but Sam didn't even blink as she continued to glare at the man before her. There was a soft "zip" as Magnussen shut his fly and turned away from the fireplace with a small smirk.
"A nation of herbivores." He finished from before, just standing there and eyeing Sam. "I've interests all over the world but, uh, everything starts in England. If it works here I'll try it in a real country." He finally stepped past Sherlock and John, taking a wipe from a guard to wipe his hands as he approached Sam. "The United Kingdom, huh? Petri dish to the Western world. Tell Lady Elizabeth I might need those letters, so I'm keeping them."
He then took the wipe and reached towards Sam to place it in her coat pocket, but she snapped a hand up and grabbed his wrist tight.
"I'm not English, Mr. Magnussen. Don't test me."
The man smirked, jerking his hand from her grip which she allowed as he stepped past her to drop the wipe into the bin nearby the door.
"Goodbye." He hummed, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out some documents. "Anyway, they're funny." He made to leave, before pausing. "Oh, and we seemed to have hit some trash on the way over. I had my men toss it in your bin. Goodbye."
He walked out with the guards and John took a step towards Sam.
"Jesus!" He snapped. "If you hadn't shown up Sam, who knows what—"
He didn't get to finish before Sam dashed from the living room and back down the stairs.
"Sam? I wonder what that was all about."
"Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?" Sherlock questioned, out of the blue and John scowled.
"There was a moment that kind of stuck in the mind, yeah." He scoffed, believing that Sherlock was talking about the man who had been seconds away from pissing in the fireplace of their home.
"Exactly. When he showed us the letters." Sherlock clarified, grinning as he stepped across the room.
"Okay…" John sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "You didn't think Sam's reaction was a bit off?"
Sherlock ignored him. "So, he's brought the letters to London. So, no matter what he says, he's ready to make a deal. Now, Magnussen only makes a deal once he's established a person's weaknesses—the 'pressure point,' he calls it." Sherlock slipped on his coat, moving to the window to look down at the car outside. "So, clearly he believes I'm a drug addict and no serious threat. And, of course, because he's in town tonight, the letters will be in his safe in his London office while he's out to dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain from seven 'til ten."
"H-How do you know his schedule?" John questioned."
"Because I do. Right, I'll see you tonight. I've got some shopping to do."
"What's tonight?" John called after him as Sherlock bounded down the stairs.
"I'll text instructions."
"Yeah, I'll text you if I'm available." John countered, annoyed that Sherlock was assuming that he'd be open to joining him.
"You are! I checked!" Sherlock chimed as John hurried downstairs after him. "Don't bring a gun."
"Why would I bring a gun?" John questioned, mentally making note that he would bring a gun.
"Or a knife or a tire lever. Probably best not to do any arm-spraining, but we'll see how the night goes," Sherlock teased, hailing a cab.
"You're just assuming I'm coming along?"
"Time you got out of the house, John." Sherlock gave him a once over. "You've put on seven pounds since you got married and the cycling isn't doing it."
"It's actually four pounds," John argued as Sherlock climbed into his cab.
"Mary and I think seven. See you later."
The cab drove off and John huffed in annoyance, before heading back towards the door. He didn't get a chance to go much more than a step though, before he jumped—Sam having come around the corner without him noticing.
"Jesus, Sam. You scared…" John trailed off, immediately seeing that something was wrong. "Sam?"
She was shaking, arms held tight around a bundle in her arms and mouth opening and closing wordlessly. All that escaped her was a strangled sort of whine as she looked down to the bundle and it was then that John spotted the blood. He rushed over, thinking Sam had hurt herself, but he was quick to understand what had happened and suddenly felt that his giving Sam back her case was not the best idea. Not today.
"Oh my God, Sam." He breathed out, seeing the signs of shock that she was going through and he hastily hailed a cab, pushing her in and spitting out directions quickly.
"The nearest animal hospital. Quickly!"
Once there, John felt helpless as all he could do was rub Sam's back in comfort as he cat was confirmed deceased. She didn't cry, which worried him. She just stared blankly at the bundle until the vet took the creature away to cremate it and even then, John didn't get a word out of her. He'd texted Sherlock, but got no response so he'd gone ahead and texted his wife, to which she replied she was getting off work early to come over and help him. Until she showed up though, he was left on his own with a mourning woman who was practically comatose.
"Sam, please. Say anything. You can cry, get upset, anything." He urged, not even getting the woman to look up from her hands in the waiting room. "Don't bottle it up, please. That doesn't help. It never does."
"I…"
John perked up, hopeful that perhaps he'd gotten through to her. This was the first word spoken since the incident with Magnussen and that was hours ago.
"I-I don't… know what to say," she breathed out and John suddenly understood.
She was conflicted. She didn't know what to say to help herself, to get help from him. She was still in shock, possibly even denial as to what happened to her cat. She suddenly stood up, surprising him.
"I need to go."
"What? Where?" He hurried after her as she left the building and moved out towards the street. "Sam, at least wait for Mary. You can't be alone right now!"
This fact was made more obvious when he had to hastily grab her arm to keep her from walking out into traffic.
"Sam, please, listen to me!" He demanded, turning her around to face him. "I know you're hurting. I know you're upset, but you can't be alone right now. I'm worried that you'll…"
He stopped there, not wanting to claim that he didn't trust her right now—he'd seen how that could go with Sherlock already—but he knew she was vulnerable. She was at her lowest in this moment with Bobby's anniversary having just finished, something happening while she'd gone to visit his grave and now her cat having been killed by Magnussen. He just didn't think she'd be able to handle her own demons right now. Thankfully, a car pulled up to the curb and Mary hastily jumped out, rushing over and taking Sam's hand.
"Is she okay?" She asked John, immediately seeing that she wasn't going to get a response from the blank-faced woman she was hanging onto.
"She won't talk to me," he replied honestly. "The first words she's said since she found the cat happened just a minute ago and it's been hours. She just said she needs to go. Mary, she can't be alone right now."
Mary nodded. "I'll take care of her."
John visibly relaxed, trusting his wife to be able to manage Sam and after a quick check to his watch, he realized he needed to meet up with Sherlock soon. He quickly gave Mary a kiss and hurried off. Once Sam was led into the passenger seat of the car, Mary started to drive and spoke.
"You ready to talk now?"
Sam didn't shift her gaze from the street in front of her. "He killed him. Magnussen killed him."
"You're positive."
Sam grit her teeth, hand fisted and a snarl forming on her face. Her mourning had been pushed aside by pure anger.
"Those injuries were not from a car."
Mary gave Sam a side glance. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm gonna kill him."
John entered the lobby of CAM Global News and checked his watch. He was on time, so where—
"Magnussen's office is on the top floor, just below his private flat," Sherlock said, startling John. "But there are fourteen levels of security between us and him, two of which aren't even legal in this country. Want to know how we're going to break in?"
John shot him a disbelieving look. "Is that what we're doing?"
"Of course, it's what we're doing."
John followed after him, brows furrowed. "Did you get my text?"
"Yes," Sherlock hummed as they went up an escalator. "Magnussen's private lift. It goes straight to his penthouse and office. Only he uses it and only his key card calls he lift. Anyone else even tries, security is automatically informed."
John frowned, not seeing the concern he expected. "But Sherlock, the text I sent. I really don't think—"
Sherlock cut him off, stopping in front of the lift doors. "Standard key car for the building." He waved it in front of him. "Nicked it yesterday. Only gets us as far as the canteen. If I was to use this card on that lift now, what happens?"
John scowled. "Are we not going to talk about Sam?"
Sherlock closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. "I do believe we have a bigger issue on hand at the moment, John. What would happen?"
John begrudgingly sighed, dropping it, for now. "Uh, the alarms would go off and you'd be dragged away by security."
"Exactly."
"Get taken to a small room somewhere, get your head kicked in," John added with a bit of bite, that Sherlock frowned at before moving on.
"But if I do this…" He held the card against his cellphone. "If you press a key card against your mobile phone for long enough, it corrupts the magnetic strip. The card stops working. It's a common problem—never put your key card with your phone. What happens if I use the card now?"
"It still doesn't work."
"But it doesn't read as the wrong card now. It registers as corrupted. But if it's corrupted, how do they know it's not Magnussen?"
"Huh," John mused, understanding.
"Would they risk dragging him off?"
"Probably not."
"So, what do they do? What do they have to do?"
"Check if it's him or not," he concluded and Sherlock nodded, approaching the lift.
"There's a camera at eye height to the right of the door. A live picture of the card user is relayed directly to Magnussen's personal staff in his office—the only people trusted to make a positive ID, at this hour, almost certainly his PA."
"S-So, how's that help us?"
"Human error. I've been shopping." Sherlock grinned, patting his breast pocket and then holding up the keycard. "Here we go, then."
John, keeping an eye out, muttered. "You realize you don't exactly look like Magnussen."
"Which, in this case, is a considerable advantage."
Sherlock grinned as a familiar voice hissed through the speaker.
"Sherlock, you complete loon, what're you doing?"
"Hang on, was that… that…" John took a step closer, but Sherlock held a hand out to stop him.
"Hi, Janine. Go on, let me in."
"I can't! You know I can't. Don't be silly."
"Don't make me do it out here. Not…" Sherlock looked around, playing his part. "…in front of everyone."
"Do what in front of everyone?"
Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out a red ring box, opening it in front of the camera to reveal a diamond ring. John gaped at him and it wasn't a second later that the lift doors opened and the two men stepped in; Sherlock looking proud.
"You see? As long as there's people, there's always a weak spot."
"That was Janine," John breathed out in shock.
"Yes, of course it was Janine. She's Magnussen's PA. That's the whole point."
"Did you just get engaged to break into an office?" John accused, silently wondering if Sam knew about this.
"Yeah. Stroke of luck, meeting her at your wedding. You can take some of the credit."
"J-Jesus. Sherlock, she loves you."
Sherlock hardly looked like he cared. "Yes, like I said, human error."
"What are you gonna do?"
"Well, not actually marry her, obviously. There's only so far you can go and I'd rather return to being on speaking terms with Sam once this mess is over."
"So, what will you tell her?"
Sherlock spared him a brief look. "Well, I'll tell her that our entire relationship was a ruse to break into her boss' office. I imagine she'll want to stop seeing me at that point, but you're the expert on women."
"What about Sam? Sherlock, this can't be a big thing. Sam will be devastated and I don't think she can handle anything more right now."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She'll be fine."
John disagreed. "Sherlock, you don't understand. You weren't there. You didn't see her when she found Smith."
"Who?"
"The cat, dammit!" John snapped, tired of Sherlock's careless attitude regarding one of his best friends. "Sherlock, Magnussen hit her cat with his car. Sam rushed out to find it in the bins! There was nothing we could do and after Bobby, after whatever happened in New York..."
Sherlock suddenly grew serious. "Where is she now?"
"I left her with Mary, but Sherlock, this is a danger night for her. A big danger night and I know we can't exactly stop what we're doing now and rush to see her, but as soon as this is over—"
"I'll go." He stated firmly, not looking at John as the lift made it to the right floor. "Let's be quick."
He stepped off the lift, prepared to grin away at Janine, but she wasn't there.
"So, where did she go?" John questioned and even Sherlock wasn't sure.
"A bit rude. I just proposed to her."
John found her across the room. "Sherlock?"
"Did she faint?" Sherlock scoffed in disbelief as John checked on her. "Do they really do that? I bet Sam wouldn't do that."
John though lifted bloody fingers. "It's a blow to the head. She's breathing. Janine?"
The woman moaned softly, but Sherlock grew suspicious. He was the only one who was supposed to be here. Janine getting knocked out meant they weren't alone.
"Another in here," he called to John, spotting an unconscious guard on the floor. "Security."
"Does he need help?" John questioned and Sherlock barely gave the man a once over.
"Ex-con. White supremacist, by the tattoo, so who cares?" He offered, pointing back to John. "Stick with Janine."
Sherlock walked around to the deck, checking the temperature of the seat someone had been in and frowning. It was still warm. John too had come to the same conclusion he had, whispering.
"Hey, they must still be here."
"So's Magnussen. His seat's still warm. He should be at dinner, but he's still in the building." Sherlock looked around before understanding dawned on him. "Upstairs."
"We should call the police," John suggested.
"During our own burglary?" Sherlock reminded him. "You're really not a natural at this, are you?"
John just sighed and put his phone back in his pocket as Sherlock leaned towards the chair, having caught a whiff of something.
"No, wait… Perfume, not Janine's. Claire-de-la-lune." Odd. Who was here? Another one of Magnussen's victims? The assailant? More importantly… "Why do I know it?"
"Mary wears it," John informed him.
"No, not Mary. Somebody else."
"Well, it's definitely not Sam," John scoffed, both of them freezing as they heard something upstairs. "Sherlock!"
Sherlock didn't listen to John's hiss, rushing up the stairs and soon creeping closer to the voice he could hear in one of the penthouse rooms.
"W-W-What would your husband think, eh? He… You're lovely husband, upright, honorable, so English. W-What would he say to you know?" Magnussen attempted, on his knees in front of a dark figure, already looking rather beat up and whimpering in fear.
This only got worse when the figure cocked their pistol and aimed it his way.
"Y-You're doing this to protect him from the truth… but is this protection he would want? A-And I know you're n-not pleased a-about what I did, but what would he think a-about all this? If he knew where you were, w-what you're doing to me—"
A vase was thrown, narrowly missing Magnussen who immediately grimaced.
"Please, p-please. They wouldn't want this."
Sherlock decided now was the time to step out into the light, drawing attention to himself in order to avoid any more harm occurring to Magnussen, before he got what he wanted.
"Additionally, if you're going to commit murder, you might consider changing your perfume, Lady Smallwood."
Magnussen straightened slightly, looking up in confusion. "Sorry, who?"
Sherlock eyed the figure in black who still hadn't faced him and Magnussen gave him a disbelieving look.
"That's… not… Lady Smallwood, Mr. Holmes."
The assassin turned around, aiming their pistol at Sherlock now and his mind stuttered for a moment, remembering the one thing he'd picked up about Mary since they first met that he'd ignored. Liar. The assassin is Mary Watson.
"Is John with you?" Mary asked.
"H-He's um…"
"Is John here?" She repeated, trying to speed things up should John walk in.
"H-He's downstairs."
She nodded as Magnussen spoke up.
"So, what do you do now? Kill us both?"
Mary cracked a bitter grin at Magnussen as Sherlock spoke, trying to find a way out of this situation without anyone dying.
"Mary, whatever he's got on you, let me help."
Sherlock went to step forward, but Mary wasn't having it.
"Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step, I swear I will kill you."
Sherlock shook his head with a small smile. "No, Mrs. Watson. You won't."
He took a step and the gun when off, leaving him in shock. He made to look, seeing no gunshot wound, but a set of hands with a blade stabbed into his stomach. The second figure, the one who'd thrown the vase. He had forgotten about them. He hadn't seen where they'd come from. But the gun went off. Where… The person holding the blade took in a shuttering breath, letting it go as Sherlock started to stumble.
"Fall backward," they breathed, voice familiar yet the person he could identify it with was impossible to figure out with his failing consciousness.
He didn't miss the blood darkening their shirt though until everything snapped into focus.
An alarm blared loudly in his head and Sherlock stumbled about in a morgue, confused and surprisingly scared.
"What the hell is that? What's happening?" He questioned, turning to see his own body sliding out of one of the doors with a knife in his abdomen.
"You're going into shock," Molly supplied. "It's what's going to kill you alongside the blood loss, which would have been far worse if you hadn't listened to the advice of falling backward."
"What do I do?"
Molly was gone and Mycroft stood in her place. "Don't go into shock, obviously. Must be something in this ridiculous memory palace of yours that can calm you down. Find it. The East wind is coming, Sherlock. It's coming to get you."
Sherlock hurried down the long, winding staircase, opening a door only for Mary in a wedding dress to shoot him and him screaming. Then, he was running down a hall as Mycroft's voice echoed in his head.
"Find it."
He opened a door and looked to the Irish setter lying in the center of the next hall.
"Hello, Redbeard. Here, boy. Come on!" He called, patting his legs in encouragement. "Come to me. It's okay. It's all right."
The dog got up and hurried towards him, Sherlock looking like his younger self for a few moments until the dog reached him and licked at his face.
"Hello, Redbeard. They're putting me down too, now. It's no fun, is it?"
A meow made Sherlock turn away, seeing an open door to his left revealing Sam, tears slipping down her face as she held a small black bundle.
"Smith… Smith… God, Smith."
"Magnussen hit her cat with his car."
"Sam…" Sherlock breathed out, making to stand up to go and help her, but the door closed in his face as pain began to wrack his body.
"Without the shock, you're going to feel the pain." Molly reminded him as he fell to the ground and convulsed, teeth clenched in agony. "There's a hole ripped through you. Massive internal bleeding. You have to control the pain."
He was up again, running down and down the stairs before he reached the very bottom and shut himself in a padded white room where a man sat inside in a straight-jacket.
"Control! Control! Control!" He shouted to himself, lowering his voice as he turned to eye the man, Moriarty. "You. You never felt pain, did you? Why did you never feel pain?"
Moriarty turned his head. "You always feel it, Sherlock." He suddenly rushed at him, being held back only be the chain latching him to the ground. "But you don't have to fear it!"
Sherlock cried out in pain as he collapsed to the ground, Moriarty hovering over him.
"Pain. Heartbreak. Loss. Death. It's all good. It's all good."
John pat Sherlock's face, hoping the get the man to open his eyes, though he eyed the blade in his abdomen uneasily.
"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"
Magnussen groaned, starting to get up onto his feet after Mary had pistol-whipped him and fled with the second attacker.
"Who stabbed him?" John demanded from the now-conscious man, but he didn't answer as John called for an ambulance, but paramedics were already rushing into the room.
"It's raining, it's pouring. Sherlock is boring," Moriarty sang as Sherlock started to go quiet. "I'm laughing, I'm crying. Sherlock is dying. Come on, Sherlock. Just die, why can't you?" Moriarty slid up beside him on the ground. "One little push and off you pop."
A flatline could be heard now.
"You're gonna love being dead, Sherlock. No one ever bothers you. Mrs. Hudson will cry. Mummy and daddy will cry." Moriarty stood up and spun around. "And the Woman will cry and John will cry buckets and buckets. It's him that I'm worried about the most. That wife!"
Moriarty paused then, unwinding himself and staring up at the ceiling.
"No, that's a lie, isn't it? I'm more worried about Sammy. Poor, poor Sammy. What a terrible day it's been for her. Dead boyfriend, dead cat, dead you. Ooh, maybe even dead her now too, huh? She was having a danger day already, but I wonder about now. You're letting them down, Sherlock. John and Sam are definitely in danger."
Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he groaned, slamming a fist into the ground and forcing himself back onto his feet, much to Moriarty's disdain.
"Oh, you're not getting better, are you? Was it something I said, huh?"
"John! Sam!" Sherlock said frantically, pushing himself to the door and plowing through it as Moriarty shouted after him.
"Sherlock!"
And Sherlock desperately pulled himself up the banister all the way back to the top.