"Cardiff?" Greg asked, raising his eyebrows. Molly shot him an angry glance. "I can read, you know?" She tossed him a folder of aged, partly torn papers. "Marilyn Jones bought a warehouse on an island next to Cardiff 6 years ago and asked for permission to build a small house next to it. She kept the papers hidden behind the picture frame, I found it when I took out the photograph to ask around if anyone had seen her." John moved to take a look. "I assume she didn't need the place for a season pass to the Doctor Who Experience?" She shook her head. "I checked with the records and the Police kept an eye on it, given her history, even managed to get a warrant for a search a few years ago but they could never find anything suspicious." "If she was working with Moriarty he'd be able to find out about the warrant and tip them off." Sherlock brought in. He was pacing up and down like a tiger in a cage. "Question is what did they need the place for? Drugs, prostitution, murder? What was the case she got caught up in again?" Molly's eyes darkened. "An entire family went missing on their trip. Relative filed missing person report, police investigated for weeks and finally pulled the parents' bodies out of the water at the docks." "Given Jones' criminal history that might've been the cause for a search warrant." Greg brought in, his voice flat and distant. "They never solved the murder?" Molly searched her bag and got out the files. "Traces of torture, shot in the head, friction burns from ropes, possibly post-mortem, had been in the water for about 24 hours." He read out loud, "They had been scrubbed with chemicals, their fingers burned, also post-mortem, and therefore they couldn't find any evidence. Never found the children either. Wonder what was special about them they'd go through such trouble? Was it Moriarty's orders?"
Sherlock grabbed the papers impatiently, waving them in the air. "That's not our investigation. Marilyn Jones is somehow connected to Musgrave and Moran, she owns a seclude place that was once part of an investigation and," He dropped a hollowed book on the kitchen table, "she has a ton of information on him, bank accounts, places he owns, contacts, even records of murders and blackmails." "Insurance?" John asked. "For blackmailing?" He shook his head. "Unlikely. Moran has nothing to lose, he would just shoot her on the spot. Which means…"
Suddenly, his eyes lit with mad desperation, the spark of hope had broken through his calm façade, letting his emotions spill out. "Of course, yes, it's got to be- We need to go!" John grabbed his arm, trying to calm in. "Go where?" "Cardiff! The warehouse!" "What if it's a trap again? It's too easy, too obvious, Sherlock, you'll get hurt!" Pain flashed over the Detective's face. "I already am." He roared. "This is the best we got, our only chance of coming close to finding him and we are running out of time! They think I am too injured to move on with the investigation, which means keeping my brother alive to torture me is a waste of time, they don't need him anymore! I can't afford to play it safe anymore, John, I can't afford to be too late!" Tears glistened in his eyes, as he tore the folders from Molly's hands, approaching the door with a quick, determined step. "Get the dog to one of my agents, organize a car, I'll plan the rest. We're going to Cardiff." His words were final. He left, coat flying, burst out the back door and disappeared into the safe shadows of the trees. Coco yelped in the attempt to follow.
Half an hour later, the group sat quietly in the dark blue minivan Molly had organized for them. After a lot of debating, she had finally convinced the men that she was the safest person to drive and had banned the rest of them to sit in the backseats –it was a big 7-seat family van with darkened windows in the back- arguing that she that she had never had much contact with Mycroft and would therefore attract the least amount of attention. John was holding Sherlock, whose face was shadowed with worry.
Greg's eyes stared blankly out the window, watching the wide open fields pass by, trees and grass blurring as the minivan flew by, crossing every speed limit. He felt empty and defeated. Sherlock had said Moran had no reason to keep Mycroft alive any longer. And he was right. It all felt so pointless now, chasing after some woman and her cliché warehouse on a lonely island. Almost comical. With Mycroft gone, it seemed like the colour had been drained from his world, leaving everything gray and cracked. He did his best to hide it, to stay strong and positive, to bottle up his emotions and pretend it was just another case. But Sherlock breaking down like that had weakened his walls, cracks spreading through his world, threatening to shatter everything around him. He felt so lost and so alone. Greg closed his eyes, resting his head against the cold window, feeling the vibration of the car spread through his body.
The sound of waves splashing against a surface and the low rumbling of an engine dragged Mycroft backed into consciousness. Slowly, he became aware of the stabbing pain in his stomach and chest, remembering how the bullet had torn through his skin. Blinking against blinding light, he looked around. Someone had bandaged his wounds very roughly, dark blood soaking through the cotton already. He was on a small motor boat, lying on a white leather bench, the dark grey water splashing around him. Streaks of orange and red were blazing at the horizon as the sun set. He must have been knocked out for a while.
"Sleeping beauty is awake as last." A gleeful female voice said. Myroft turned around to find Irene Adler and another slim, gorgeous woman, her short bleached-blonde hair shimmering almost gold in the dim light, looking at him. She approached Mycroft with a look of almost childish curiosity. "He doesn't look very posh." She said, kneeling down before him, staring at his bruised, dirty face. Irene chuckled. "Well, what did you expect, he was kept in a basement for days." The stranger shrugged. "Well, guess he'll still be worth some money, won't you, pretty boy?" She tugged at the shredded remains of the expensive suit.
Mycroft stared back at her with confusion for a moment, then it dawned on him. "I see." He said, as he regained enough strength to bring back some integrity to his voice. "You are going to bargain." The blonde grinned. "Clever boy!" She held out his hand with a pitying glance, as if introducing herself to a frightened child. "I'm Lynn. I'll be your new abductor." "Is it money you need? I can give you money." Lynn frowned theatrically. "Oh puh-lease if it was only money I needed I would have let Moran kill you ages ago." She dropped on the floor, pulling her legs up, looking like a teenager on a pyjama party. Despite her cheerful, childish attitude and playful smile, her eyes were cold and cruel, sending shivers down his spine. "Irene and I are gonna need protection. See, I was thinking maybe a nice place in California and a little tweaking in my records and I swear you will never see us again." Mycroft asked his brow and looked over to the other woman. "You had your chance ages ago, why not stay dead?" "I owed your brother a favour." She answered. "I knew Moran was going to take over eventually and that Sherlock would be his number one target. But now I've done my part, we'll shake of Moran's men, contact your employers and trade you for our safety." "Moran isn't dead." "No, killing him would only send the next random criminal in the food chain after you and your brother. You need Moran alive and –" Gunshots echoed over the sea and the silhouette of a much larger boat peeled through the mist in the distance. Irene smiled, her eyes sparking in excitement.
Suddenly, the air was on fire. Lynn was screaming like a maniac, her face alive with joy, as she fired her guns at the approaching small yacht. Irene had pulled a small chest from under the leather bench and supplied them with weapons. Mycroft's head spun, noise and movement and fear too overwhelming for his weakened body. He gripped the revolver she had handed him tightly, willing his mind to stay awake. Moran's henchmen were shouting madly, bullets soared through the air and sent splinters of wood and plastic flying. Someone had manages to set their own small boat on fire, flames cackling merrily, making the air too hot to breathe. His vision blurred, the world started spinning and slowly, the noise faded away.
"Did you hear that?" Greg jerked awake in shock, his heart pounding. The sound of guns and explosion in the distance made his skin crawl with fear. The rest of the group nodded, the air growing tense. Molly ignored the traffic lights, the shrieking of brakes momentarily covering the sound of fighting. They had reached the harbour in record time, which also ensured that the local police was on their way. Leaving the car on the side of the street, the team dashed towards the water, guns ready. Far out on the water, flames glowing above the outline of a boat against the darkening sky. Mist obscured the view and it was too far out to reach in time.
"Do you think it's got something to with them?" Greg asked anxiously. Sherlock didn't answer. He signalled the others to stay back, walking along the harbour towards the water. Climbing from one of the boats, Sebastian Moran entered the scene. His head was bandaged and he looked ragged. He looked genuinely surprised to find them here. Sherlock smiled coldly as he watched the criminal cock his head in confusion. "This is not how the game works, Sherlock. You're supposed to be in a hospital. Really, you are no fun at all." The Detective stared at him, his face cold and hard. "The game is over Moran. We found Marilyn Jones. You should really consider getting a new secretary. The girl double-crossed you, she was more than ready to trade you for her own safety. Now, I am sure it's just a fragment of the allies and refuges you have across the country but it will be enough to weaken you and definitely enough to frighten anyone away from you." Moran's eyes widened in shock. "She wouldn't dare!" He roared. "I have her family! She knows I will kill them!"
"Oh yes, I think she is very aware of that." Sherlock said calmly. The sound of guns still roared in the distance, accompanied by muffled screaming. "You see, it first occurred to me when their dog showed clear signs of pure panic as Molly approached him. He had obviously experienced abuse from a female many times before, enough to traumatize the poor creature for life. Then, I took a look at the family photographs and noticed another thing, her partner Samantha was wearing long sleeves and turtle necks, even on the warmest of summer days. That alone is very suggestive. I would also have expected photos or letters or any other sign of social contacts but there were none. Musgrave payed them regular visits and gave them financial support, at first we thought he was just making sure his son lived a healthy life but then we found out you were paying Marilyn Jones quite enough money to sustain a decent lifestyle." Moran arched his brow in confusion. "I really don't see why this matters!" Sherlock shrugged airily. "Oh well, it's just that you assumed, grieving the loss of your boyfriend, that the best way to get to a person is by taking away their loved ones. You took Samantha Jones and her son to blackmail Musgrave back into submission after his medical condition had given him a conscious, hoping to force Marilyn Jones' loyalty as well. Two birds with one stone. Yet you overlooked the obvious. Marilyn did not care much about her family, she was abusive towards them. My best guess is she simply needed an alibi, with the police constantly checking on her, and marriage with child is the best way to look as innocent and normal as possible."
Horror spread on Moran's face. He looked over to the water, where the noise had died down and mist had swallowed the scene. He growled furiously. "Then my revenge is all I have!"
"You can still kill me." Sherlock answered coldly. "But the game is over. All the information Marilyn Jones had on you has been handed over to the authorities. You have abducted a man from the very heart of the British Government, there is no way you can escape this anymore. A bargain is your only chance."
Moran shook his head. "I have nothing left to lose. Jim is gone. He was my world and you killed him. The least I can do is avenge his death and kill you too."
"You are a failure, Sebastian!" Sherlock said harshly. "You thought you could take over from Moriarty, be the next Napoleon of Crime. And he made it so easy for you. Yet somehow, you managed to fail." "No!" Moran screamed, his face red with fury. "Shut up!" "You don't blame me for Jim Moriarty's suicide. You blame yourself. You wonder if there is something you could have done." Sherlock's face grew cold and cruel. "Most of all, I think you realize you meant nothing to him. That he chose death rather than be with you." Raw pain twisted Sebastian Moran's face, tears streaming down his face, as he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the ground, smashing the pavement, sending debris flying, as John tore him down, knocking the gun out of his hand, firmly gripping the criminal's wrists.
A small yacht slowly tore from out of the mist. It was scorched and cracked, some parts still smoking faintly. The silence out on the water was deafening. Nothing but the soft rushing of waves and the low hum of the engine. Sebastian Moran lay cuffed and gagged on the floor of the small fishing boat Sherlock had 'borrowed' from the harbour. Molly and Greg watched him carefully while the Detective steered them towards the chaos out on the water. As they came closer to the scene, Sherlock drew a sharp breath. Blood stained the once smooth white surface of the classy boat, fragments of a second one floated through the soft waves and bodies were scattered across the scene, most of them face-down in the water.
Irene Adler looked at them, calmly, seated elegantly on the wreck of the railing. Surprise showed on her face when she recognized the face of her rescuers. "I must confess, I underestimated you." She said. A second head bobbed up behind her, a young woman with short hair and a handsome face. She frowned. "This is not what we had planned. Where are the agents? You promised! What is going on?" A hint of panic rose in her voice. Irene cast her a nervous glance, shifting uncomfortably. "Calm down, sweetheart, it's not over yet." Her voice was a soothing, soft purr. Sherlock scanned the stranger, his guts twisting as he realized why the otherwise so dominant woman got nervous. Marilyn Jones – her hair shorter and bleached, her skin a bit more gray than in the pictures – was occupying herself by stabbing a sharp metal shard into a dead body at her feet. Her cruel eyes were restless, staring at the approaching boat. The girl jumped to her feet, shard still in hand, pouting. "Let's kill them and steal the boat." She screeched. "And then what? How do you want to negotiate your freedom standing on a pile of corpses?" Her voice was quivering slightly. "Calm down, love, please, just bring our little package and we'll fine, I promise."
Sherlock's eyes sparked. "Marilyn, I will do whatever you ask me to. Just give me my brother." She flashed a grin at him. "Okey-dokey!" Her glowing blond head disappeared again and Irene turned around, flashing Sherlock a confused glance. "Do you realize what you have done?" She hissed through gritted teeth. Lynn reappeared, dragging a half-unconscious Mycroft with her, the blade pressed to his throat. Sherlock tensed.
Behind him, Greg gasped, jumping to his feet, tears glistening in his eyes. Shaking with emotion, he stared at his lover. The joy and relief of finding him was tainted by the pain of seeing him in such a state. His elegant suit was torn and dirty, spotted with dried blood, soaked bandages covered him, his face was sunken and gray. The once so elegant and proud Mycroft Holmes was no more than a walking corpse.
"Just… come over… we'll take you back with us." Sherlock said quietly, his eyes alert. Irene swung her leg over the railing and dropped on the fishing boat. She was looking at the floor with an air of shame and regret. Carelessly, Lynn pushed Mycroft's body over, following closely, her weapon dangerously close to her captive's throat. She landed on the boat, one hand gripping the blade, the other keeping his head back, throat exposed. An unbearable tension stood between them. Sheer panic blazed in Sherlock's eyes. "Give him to me, please." He said quietly. "There is no need for this." A muffled cackle sounded from behind him and his stomach lurched. He had forgotten about Moran. The man was chuckling, watching the scene in amusement. Molly jumped forward, trying to silence him. Lynn's eyes lit up with madness. "Here we are at last!" She screeched happily. "You took away my toy, I took away yours. You broke mine, maybe…" She poked the tip of the metal shard at the exposed skin, making a thin thread of blood run down the throat. Moran continued to struggle against Molly's grip, laughing hysterically. "Think it's funny, do you? You just had to cross the line. You just had to!" She was screaming, waving her hands around. "The girl I didn't care about, I could've found another toy but you took my son! My own flesh and blood, my only kin! I trusted you, I was loyal, I killed and lied and Oh it was fun! There was no need for-" She stopped, eyes wide open. "Maybe I should thank you… You made me see, made me realize… All I really need is myself. Trust no one." Marilyn laughed, a childish giggle and Irene's face darted towards her in fear. Then, everything happened in a blur. Both she and Sherlock realized, both darted forward. Irene stood closer. She grabbed the girl's arm, dragging her down, both of them collapsing in a wild tangle of arms. Sherlock caught Mycroft. A scream of agony and rage split the air. He looked up, meeting the madwoman's eyes, pure insanity glowing in her face. A gunshot sounded and Marilyn Jones dropped dead. Irene Adler dropped the gun, gasping, her hands clutching the large metal shard that was now stuck in her stomach. Her eyes met Sherlock's, a smile quivered on her lips, then her head dropped on her chest.
The Woman was dead.