Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
Warning: Swearing!
Enjoy, review! Read on, fellow fans!
Chapter Twenty Three
"Violet and the Snipers"
"Have you decided then? What you want to do?" Death asked, as Mary stepped into the ballroom. Her voice echoed in the large space, brightly lit by the morning sun. Golden wood and white drapes complimented the airy environment of the ballroom, and the room had an aura of welcome to it.
The room was shrouded, like the rest of the house, with large plank tables oddly out of place in the elegant space. The rough wood tables held an assortment of gear, crates, and large boxes underneath them. One of the tables held several computers, and several types of communications equipment. Weapons lined up along the top of the nearest table, in neat rows that spoke of long association with weapons. Death sat on a bench at the halfway point of the table in the middle, cleaning a disassembled pistol. She wielded the tiny brush with precision, making certain to get all the tiny nooks and crannies.
Mary walked down the center table, idly glancing at the items arranged on it. She stopped at a familiar sight. It was her personal weapons case, the one she had left at the house two days ago, when she had gone flat hunting. Beside it was the bags she had packed, in preparation for leaving the house she had shared with John. Her heart gave a tiny leap, and she shuttered away the pain before it could overwhelm her.
Mary tugged one open, smiling as she saw her clothing and personal items.
"Thank you for this." Mary waved a hand at her belongings, and walked the rest of the way down, sitting on the bench next to Death. She sat with her back to the table, leaning on its edge, legs stretched out in front of her. "And I have some questions I need answered, before I decide."
"Go ahead. I've got nothing to hide. I'm betting you already guessed at my plans, as I gave you my motive earlier." Death kept cleaning the gun pieces, rubbing away at the slide with a cloth. She was relaxed, her attention locked on her task. Mary watched her, and then looked ahead to the far wall. There was a large square object under a white dust cover, about ten feet tall and twelve feet wide. It came out from the wall another ten feet. It was a very large boxlike item, whatever it was.
"First, I know you asked me to help you disappear at the club last night to throw everyone off. I'm the distraction. Otherwise, you could have easily disappeared on your own, no help needed. I'm going to keep MI6 and Holmes busy, while you carry out your plans. Whether I help you or not from this point on, I've already served my purpose."
"Yes. I knew you'd figure it out. I didn't bother hiding my intentions. You could have said no." Death replied, her voice clear, no emotion. "And I'm really not trying to hide my identity, either. The only thing that must be hidden is where we are. My husband's imminent death will tell Sherlock who I am and give a fairly clear signal that I'm not messing around."
"I'm assuming you plan on getting revenge on Sherlock Holmes for the death of James Moriarty." Mary said, no judgment in her voice. Death nodded, and continued to clean the gun.
"Correct, keep going." Death said. Mary cast her a wary look, and figured she might as well ask.
"Do you plan to kill him?" Mary looked at Death, watching her face. There was no emotional response to Mary's question, as if she had calmly offered tea to the woman next to her.
"I do." Death said, her tone steady. There was no excuses, no skewed rationales. She knew what she was doing, and it bothered her not at all.
Mary turned back to the wall, and had a sudden urge to run up to the large object under the shroud, and yank it off, revealing what was hidden underneath. Mary quelled that urge, and thought about Sherlock dying at the hands of Death. She hadn't lied to John that night Sherlock returned, she did indeed like the detective. Or she had, until he took John, and made her life fall apart around her. She drew in a shaky breath, swallowing back the rage she felt, the hurt from her badly injured heart.
"I'm okay with that." Mary said, her pain coming out clearly in her voice. Death put down the piece she was cleaning, and finally looked at Mary. Her eyes were those of that wild creature she so resembled. Her face was impassive, in control. Mary struggled for control, determined not to lose it, not in front of her.
"Magnussen. He is going to keep selling me off to the highest bidder until one of them gets me. He knows my current identity, who I was before. He may have sold me out to the CIA, but there's far scarier people out there, people I don't want looking for me. He needs to be stopped, and I need a new name."
"I can help with that, easily. Shouldn't be an issue." Death made that guarantee casually, didn't even blink. Mary breathed out a sigh, and she hated herself for asking her next question. Mary tried to smile, her eyes broadcasting her heart ache to the other woman.
"What about John?" Mary asked, her voice breaking, much to her disgust. She bit her lip, and tried to hold back the tears. Death shifted, and the hand closest to Mary crept out to her, and wrapped around her upper arm. Death just squeezed, and gently held on.
"John Watson is a prominent part of my plan. Whether he lives or dies depends on Sherlock." Death told her, voice blunt, but there was shadow of something in it. Something close to compassion. Mary knew Death saw her rage, her hurt, the insult dealt to her heart and pride. Death squeezed again, and Mary found herself crying, tears flowing out uncalled. Never had she had such trouble controlling her emotions, and she felt weak letting them out now. Mary swiped at them, but she kept crying. She was suddenly wrapped up in the younger woman's arms, Death holding Mary's head to her shoulder.
"I will make them pay, Mary. For your sake and mine." Death whispered. Mary cried harder, and she found herself holding the other woman back, clinging to support from this unlikely source.
"Will you help me?" Death asked, and a gorgeous smile broke across her features as Mary nodded, still weeping in her arms. "This will all be over soon, I promise."
"Dead? What do you mean, dead?" John asked, disbelief obvious in his voice. Mycroft looked uncomfortable, and he smiled faintly.
"Cardiac arrest, or so the doctors at the prison are claiming." Mycroft replied.
"This is oddly inconvenient, isn't it? We just learn we need to speak to him, and he's dead?" Sherlock said, his eyes getting that distant look when he started thinking hard.
"I shall send the body to Bart's." Mycroft declared, and Anthea appeared like magic at his side. She didn't even need him to finish the sentence before she was clicking away at her mobile, presumably sending out instructions.
Sherlock took off, striding to the nearest computer station, rudely shooing the occupant out of his way. Sherlock took the chair, and he immediately began typing in commands.
John went to stand at his shoulder, Mycroft following. John watched as Sherlock accessed the prison's security feeds, the time logs, prisoner records.
"He was perfectly fine when he was first arrested, he was given a physical exam. The doctors cleared him, he had no obvious risk factors for heart disease. Nor any other disease for that matter." Sherlock paused, and looked up at John. "How likely is it that he would just drop dead of a heart attack when he was considered healthy?"
"Anyone can have a heart attack, truly. Even if you are perfectly healthy. Embolism, undiscovered heart defects, injury, toxins, poisons, excessive stress, fear. Seriously, that's what a post-mortem is for." John replied, and Sherlock huffed, turning back to screens.
"Could he have committed suicide?" Mycroft asked, addressing John. "He was being charged with terrorism, treason, and hundreds of counts of lesser charges."
"Suicide by heart attack? That's an incredibly painful way to go. Unless it happened fast enough he didn't feel it, though that's unlikely." John answered, watching Sherlock. His lover had stopped, and John leaned in to watch a video feed over his shoulder. "And how could he cause one deliberately?"
It appeared to be a visitation, between Moran and a beautiful young woman dressed in black. She was all elegance, and lovely grace. John was struck by the way she moved, every turn of her head, the sweet smile on her face, all perfection. She seemed so familiar, and John struggled to place her.
"Who is she?" John asked Sherlock, but it was Mycroft who answered.
"That is Lady Sybil Moran, his wife."
"That's Moran's wife? Good Lord, isn't she a bit young for him?" John was surprised, he couldn't see the gorgeous creature on the screen married to a man so much older than her. He found himself smiling despite the circumstances as she gracefully got up from her chair, and went and kissed her husband goodbye. Her kiss was sweet, and she had a smile on her face as she left.
Sherlock rewound the footage, and pulled a headset from under the desk. He ignored everyone, and played back the visit again, sitting insanely close to the screen. Sherlock sucked in a breath as Sybil Moran bent down to kiss her husband, and he turned the footage back again, and again. He pulled back abruptly, and ripped the headset off. He turned up the speakers, and zoomed the footage in close, watching as she bent and kissed her husband.
"Listen." Sherlock ordered, playing the audio on loud.
"You're wearing it, Sybil."
"Of course I am! Silly Sebbie, why wouldn't I wear the ring of the man I loved more than anything in this world?"
Sherlock stopped the footage, and zoomed in again. On her hand was a flash of gold, a ring.
"Why wouldn't she say 'Of course I'm wearing your ring.' Why did she phrase it like that? And if it was something he wanted her to wear, or it was a piece she wore all the time, he wouldn't have mentioned it like that. Like he was upset she had it on." Sherlock questioned, and he played the audio back again. Moran sounded upset, not at all happy.
"What's the ring then?" John asked, peering at the screen.
Sherlock zoomed in the last time, and as the image cleared, John felt like the world dropped out from beneath him. There was a haunting sense of familiarity about it, like he should know who it belonged to. It was an M, black and masculine, set in Welsh gold. It was a man's signet ring, and did not seem to be hers, as she wore it on her largest finger, as if it were too big.
"M for Moran? Not likely. She spoke in the past tense, as if the previous owner of the ring was dead." Sherlock sounded excited, and he had an expression on his face John hadn't seen for two years. He hadn't looked like that since a certain madman was alive. "She isn't wearing Moran's ring. It's Moriarty's."
"Now hang on Sherlock! That lovely girl can't be Moriarty's disciple. Seriously? Can she?" John was confused, trying to reconcile the image of the young noblewoman before him with his mental image of a cold-blooded disciple bent on revenge.
Sherlock didn't reply, just played the audio again.
"Why wouldn't I wear the ring of the man I loved more than anything in this world?"
"Let's look at all the facts, shall we?" Sherlock stood, and began pacing. "First, Lord Moran attempts to destroy the British government. We catch him, he's incarcerated. No contact with the outside world, other than his wife and a lawyer. The lawyer is clean, yes?" Sherlock asked Mycroft, who nodded. Sherlock went back to pacing, hands and arms moving excitedly. "He cannot be the one who orchestrated the overdone fireworks show at Blackwood. Sure, he may have been aware of it, even ordered it, but that makes no sense now that he's dead. If he was avenging Moriarty, why would he die? Wouldn't he be trying to escape, get revenge in person? Sure, he might want to get revenge for his capture and arrest, but that brings us right back around to the fact he can do nothing while in that secure facility. And he wouldn't use those words, the ones in blood at Blackwood. He would have said I instead of WE. We know from Mycroft's investigation that Moran received orders from outside the country to blow up Parliament. If he were the last disciple, wouldn't he be giving the orders instead?"
"The only reason for Moran to be killed would be to keep him from revealing someone else's plans. He knew something, something important enough to kill him over it. It can't be the lawyer, he never made physical contact with Moran. Sybil comes in, kisses him, and he's dead within a day? Honestly, that's just too perfect for it to be coincidence."
"And then there's the connections between my last mission, the explosives used by Moran in the bombing attempt, and the incendiaries used at Blackwood. This whole thing stinks of connections to Moriarty! The man is dead, and he's still causing mayhem!"
"Think about it. It's the perfect cover. Young socialite, easily noticed and then dismissed as unimportant. Nothing but a pretty face to the outside world." Sherlock was all manic energy, conviction pouring off him in waves.
Sherlock stopped pacing, and looked at the screen, to the image of Sybil Moran kissing her husband. "I'd be willing to bet that she killed him, with that kiss. Did you see how he froze up when she kissed him? He didn't kiss her back. So, a kiss from her is not usual." Sherlock motioned to the picture, and he was right, Moran was not kissing his very beautiful wife back. "There's no way an otherwise healthy man, who's being monitored every second, suddenly develops a heart condition without someone noticing something wrong."
"Sybil Moran is the disciple. She wears a ring for the man she loved? Her words make it clear that whoever that was is dead. She was close to him, so very close that she could know the words that Moriarty said to me that day at the pool. And she used those words at Blackwood, written in blood. A threat and promise all in one."
"Have Molly test for toxins immediately after she receives Moran's body. Moran took orders from his North Korean masters, and brought attention to bear where it shouldn't have been. He failed, she got noticed as the wife of a traitor. She killed her husband because he was no longer useful, he knew too much to let him live, and he knew who Moriarty's last disciple was." Sherlock didn't wait for Mycroft's reply; he whipped out his mobile and began typing, most likely to Molly.
"Sherlock, are you sure?" John knew better than to doubt Sherlock, but he was having trouble wrapping his head around Sherlock's theory. He kept jumping around, his connections tenuous yet equally solid.
"Yes John! If he was the disciple, he wouldn't be dead! He most likely would never have been caught in the first place! Moriarty didn't suffer fools." Sherlock was pacing again, all nervous energy.
"Where is she now? I am assuming correctly that you've had surveillance on her since her husband's arrest?" Sherlock asked Mycroft. Mycroft nodded, and gestured the lost looking aide back into the chair Sherlock had shoved him from. John just stood and watched, struggling not to be lost in Sherlock's reasoning.
"Bring up the surveillance videos of Sybil Moran please. Last forty eight hours." Mycroft ordered.
The aide worked quickly, and the screens filled with video footage of Sybil Moran. Shopping, going out to lunch, walking a tiny dog on a thin leash, every activity normal for a young woman who had too much money and no purpose in life. The most recent shot was of her and another woman dressed up for a night out, getting into her town car.
"We have nothing more recent than this, sir. The teams reported that her car returned to the Moran household from a club around 3 AM." The aide reported, and he replayed the video of Lady Moran getting in her car with her companion on one of the larger screens.
It was that video that made John swear in disbelief, reaching out and freezing the video.
"That can't be….!" John breathed in shock, hand shaking as he pointed to the blonde woman in the shot next to Lady Moran. "Mary?"
Sherlock moved in close, Mycroft right next to him. There was an older woman in the frame next to Lady Moran, with very bright, short blonde hair. She was short, but perfectly muscled. Trim legs showed off to perfection in the short beaded black mini she wore. Black high heels, and a diamond pin flashing from her hair. Her eyes were done up in smoky blacks and greys, accentuating her bright blue eyes. She was beautiful, and had a predatory look about her that screamed power. It was a look John had never seen on her, but it was unmistakably Mary Morstan.
"What is your former fiancé doing with Sybil Moran?" Mycroft asked, eyes narrowed at John.
"She disappeared after an attempt was made on her life. There was another woman present in the park as well, one I couldn't identify." Sherlock looked at John, but his doctor was lost in shock, just watching as the video feed started up again, replaying her exit from the manor.
"Run them both through the facial recognition programs, see what happens." Sherlock ordered the aide, who immediately typed in the command. Portraits of both Mary and Sybil Moran appeared to the side on another screen, green dots and lines connecting their facial features, as the system tried to find matches. Pictures flew by at undecipherable speeds, as the computers processed and discarded each potential match.
John tore his gaze away from the screen, and his expression hardened. He shook his head, and walked away. He went to the stairs down to the holo-floor, and sat. John put his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, and just sat there, saying nothing. He was past the point of acceptance, and he needed a moment alone. Mary had kept so much from him, and now it seemed she was in league with someone who used to work for Moriarty.
Mary may have worked for Moriarty! I lived with her, slept with her, planned on marrying her. None of it was real. If she worked for Moriarty, is it possible the disciple sent her after me on purpose?
John distantly heard Mycroft tell Sherlock that the facial program could very well take a while, and Sherlock replied back that Mycroft needed to find out where the women were for certain. Just because the car returned to the house, doesn't mean the women did. He asked Mycroft to get the surveillance teams to confirm their current location, before John couldn't hear anything else. It was quiet in the large room, the only sounds the echoing rustle of people moving about the hard floors, and the tiny beeps as the computers discarded one match after another.
John looked out down to the floor below him, where Sherlock had invited him to watch the real world version of his mind palace in action. He sighed, and tried his best to let go of his anger. He had been so mad for so long, and he hated what it was doing to him. He wasn't built to be angry all the time, it was making him feel worn out, older.
"Mycroft designed it for me." Sherlock sat down next to John on the step, leaning his elbows back on the next step up.
"What?" John said, struggling to focus. He looked at Sherlock, who gave him a tiny smile in return.
"The holographic interaction program, the lasers." Sherlock waved a hand at the floor below them. "Mycroft said he was fed up with not being able to see my cases as I saw them, so he made this. It was more for him than me, really. He designed it around my descriptions of my mind palace, the techniques I use to view and process information."
"Huh. I was right, then. I guessed it was something like that, actually." John leaned back as well, matching Sherlock's posture. He knew Sherlock was attempting to distract him, and John let him. "It was from the way you were moving your hands, it's exactly like how you move when you're in your mind palace."
"I've only ever used it once before, back when he first built it. I came back for a brief spell about a year ago. So he dragged me down here, made me try it out." Sherlock looked down at his feet, and he seemed to be looking for something else to say.
"You came back last year? When?" John know he shouldn't ask, that it would just stir up more trouble. He didn't want Sherlock to be upset, thinking John was still angry at him for faking his death.
Sherlock looked at him, and his face was a strange mix of happiness and grief. "I came back for your birthday."
John blinked in surprise, and he found himself choking up a little, the emotions swirling just under the surface. "You came back for my birthday?" John thought hard, and remembered. "Harry threw me a party at a local pub. She got drunk, everyone was uncomfortable, and I was in no mood for having fun. It was dreadful, actually."
"I could tell, you looked miserable." Sherlock replied, casting John a look out of the corner of his eye. "I was there."
John turned to Sherlock, pulling one leg up on the step he was on, facing his lover. "You were there? Tell me."
"I was in a black car parked across the street. Sat there the whole time. I fought the urge to just run across the street, and into that pub. I really wanted to see you. But I couldn't, I hadn't taken out all of the high ranking disciples yet, the majority still had orders to kill you if it was discovered my death was a lie." Sherlock moved, copying John's position on the step, his face about a foot from John's.
"I remember taking Harry home, and when we stepped out of the pub, I saw a black car. For a second there I thought for some reason it might be Mycroft, it looked like his car." John thought hard, trying to pull memories up of that horrid evening. "It made me sad; I knew he'd never be bothered with something as trivial as his little brother's former flatmate's birthday. I took Harry home, then I went to…. I went to…."
Sherlock reached out his hand, capturing John's as they clasped together at the painful memory.
"You went to the cemetery, you went to my grave. You sat there beside it, until it started to rain." Sherlock squeezed his hands, and John uncurled them to twine his fingers with Sherlock's. "You sat with me for hours, John."
"But it wasn't really you."
"I was with you, John. I was less than a hundred feet away, one of Mycroft's men having a fit, convinced I was going to blow my cover, and let you see me." Sherlock tried to smile at him, but he couldn't pull it off. "Just being that close to you was as enjoyable as it was painful."
"Sherlock." It was all John could manage, his voice overcome by tears, ones he refused to shed. He just looked in Sherlock's eyes, and the joy he felt at having this man back in his life came singing out from his heart, chasing away the tears. He would never have to feel that sorrow again. Sherlock was home. John tugged, and pulled Sherlock closer. He leaned over their hands, and kissed his detective. Sherlock kissed him back, then pulled away a little.
"I only saw you for a few hours, but it was enough to give me the strength to keep going. You set me back on course, gave me back my focus. I had spiraled out of control, convinced the only way you would ever really be safe was if I was actually dead. That every breath I took was placing you in danger." Sherlock said it all so calmly, as if mentioning dying wasn't a big deal. He hinted at something far more final than a fake death, and John glared at him.
"Don't be an idiot." John growled at him, kissing him on the lips. "You're back, I'm fine, and we're together."
Sherlock kissed him back, hands raising to frame John's face. John scooted closer, and he grabbed at Sherlock's collar, holding him tight. The kiss promised to go deeper, but a shadow fell over them, and an impatient sigh broke them apart. They both turned and looked. Mycroft stood over them, hands in his pockets, with a very exasperated look on his face.
"Is that all you two are going to do today?" Mycroft asked, his tone making it clear he thought their behavior juvenile.
"In between doing your job, saving the Western World, and getting some lunch, absolutely." It wasn't Sherlock who made that reply, but John, and he leaned over to kiss his detective one more time. "C'mon, Sherlock, let's go find some food before I pass out."
John stood, and pulled Sherlock to his feet. John pulled Sherlock past his brother, and towards the door leading to the house. John completely ignored Mycroft, and John grinned when he heard Sherlock snickering as he followed behind his doctor. Anthea was standing at the door, waiting on them.
"I've had Cook make lunch, if you would like to eat here. The results from the scans should be complete within the hour, and we should have visual confirmation of the women's location at about the same time."
John turned to Sherlock, and he shrugged, not caring. He wasn't interested in eating, but he also wasn't willing to let John out of his sight either. John nodded to Anthea, and she opened the door, leading them out to the hallway.
John sat on a very expensive couch in one of the many underused rooms in Mycroft's house, eating a salad, and perversely satisfied to have his feet up on the coffee table. Sherlock sat on the couch next to him, his coat and jacket hanging off an armchair nearby. Sherlock wasn't eating, hands under his chin, leaning back, and looking up at the ceiling. He had been there like that since Anthea had directed them to wait, she would have the food brought to them.
"You know, I am very upset with Mycroft." John said, swallowing a mouthful of veggies. "Making me eat rabbit food, a nice ham sandwich would've been nice. We aren't all on his diet."
"Somehow, my dear doctor, I doubt it's the vegetation that has you upset with my brother." Sherlock mused quietly, rubbing his chin idly over his fingertips. "You would have beat him to a bloody pulp over an hour ago."
Sherlock didn't sound mad at all, just stating a fact. John cast him a glance, and put his salad down. He took a sip of filtered water, and then decided he might as well own up.
"I've been mad at your brother since the night you came back." John confessed, and sighed loudly. He felt slightly embarrassed.
"Why?"
"Because he talked you out of telling me the truth, sent you away on those missions, got you brutally beaten, and left you alone out there, with no one but strangers to help you as you chased down the most dangerous people on the planet." John felt the anger stir in his heart, and reined it in.
Sherlock had turned to him, and was watching his face. He frowned, and made to speak. John shook his head, and figured he might as well confess the lot of it.
"And …... All he had to do was make me disappear too, and I could have gone with you." John looked back at Sherlock, and smiled sheepishly. Sherlock's face was blank, and he blinked in surprise.
"You would have gone with me?" Sherlock asked, eyes intent on John's face.
"Without hesitation." John replied, and tried to let Sherlock see the truth. That he would follow Sherlock anywhere, to keep him safe. "Even before I knew that I was in love with you, I would have followed you to Hell and back."
Sherlock reached out, and took John's hand. He held it, and Sherlock looked like he was going to speak.
"Dr Watson, as sentimentally delightful as that thought may be, it would not have suited the best interests of the missions, this country, or my brother if you had gone with him." Mycroft stated from the doorway. "You would have been a fatal distraction, as you are steadily becoming one now."
John whipped his head around, to see Mycroft staring at him, and it was only Sherlock's hand on his that kept him from leaping up and bashing the insufferable man's skull in. John dragged in a deep breath, and refused to let his anger get away from him. It was as if Mycroft was attempting to spur him into doing something rash. There was a tiny twitch next to his eye, as if he couldn't quite hold back his disappointment at not getting a stronger response from John.
Sherlock looked at his brother, then back at John, and he appeared to see something too. The look he tossed his brother was glacial, any hint of warmer emotion leached from his eyes and face. Sherlock stood, and moved between his brother and John, coming within arm's reach of Mycroft.
"Brother Mine, be very careful how you proceed." His voice was a deep growl, and his posture screamed anger, cold anger.
Mycroft looked at his brother, and came to the conclusion that he may have gone too far. He smiled that tight, insincere smile of his, and nodded once.
"The surveillance teams are due to report any time now. Do make your way back down at your convenience." Mycroft didn't even look at John, he just turned and left. Sherlock stalked to the door, and watched as his brother walked down the hall and out of sight.
John stood, and joined his lover at the door. He looked at Sherlock, and reached out to touch his jaw, as he was tense with anger still. Sherlock flicked his eyes down to meet his, and the anger just melted away. Sherlock lifted his hand, and held John's to his face.
"I wonder if he realizes just how dreadfully obvious he's being." Sherlock said, stepping closer to John.
"I'd bet he either thinks I'm not aware he's trying to get us to break up, or he doesn't know that's what he's trying to do. Is he actually jealous, or does he really think that I'm going to get you killed?"
"Probably all of it, to some degree." Sherlock leaned down, and snatched a quick kiss. "For Mycroft, sentiment is a dangerous flaw. And he's not entirely wrong."
"Really?" John raised a brow, and with a look dared Sherlock to keep going.
"For Mycroft it's dangerous; for me, not so much." Sherlock grinned, and laughed as John rolled his eyes at him. "Nothing's too dangerous for me."
There came a chirping noise, oddly cheerful in the emotionless room. Sherlock perked up, and went to dig his mobile out of his pockets. He opened a text, he stood up straighter, and what he read made excitement crackle off him in almost tangible sparks.
"What is it?"
"Molly- she ran those tests I asked her to, before she did anything else." Sherlock looked at John, and he saw satisfaction and a crazy gleam sparkle in his eyes. "Moran was poisoned."
Sherlock all but ran from the room, John right behind him, both of them tearing down the long hall. Sherlock tagged his hand on the access panel, and he barely waited for the door to open before he was sneaking through. Mycroft was there already, and he turned as his brother walked to him.
"Moran was indeed poisoned. The toxin made him have a heart attack, a time-delayed mixture, with organic poisons. Convallaria majalis and a small amount of hydrogen cyanide, from hydrangea paniculata. There was a trace of red latex on his lips, as well. Sybil Moran killed him with her lip gloss." Sherlock delivered his news all in one rush, excitement at Molly's discovery validating his theory making him giddy.
"Excellent timing. We have news as well." Mycroft pointed to one of his aides, who swallowed loudly before speaking, as the detective was making him very nervous.
"Sir, we ran the facial recognition programs, and got mixed results." The aide pulled up Sybil Moran's portrait first, above them on the larger screen. Beside her portrait was a grey void, the words 'NO MATCH' flashing, as if teasing them. "We got no results on Lady Moran, sir. We pulled her records, as far back as her wedding certificate to Lord Moran just over two years ago. We… we… could find no trace of her prior to that. No passport, no visa, no student ID. She doesn't exist anywhere in the public record before her wedding date."
"What about agencies, government affiliations? She must have been trained by someone." Sherlock asked, glaring at the aide.
"We checked, sir. The program came up blank. Not even a classified file or deleted file; it's like she doesn't exist." The aide glanced around at the three men surrounding him, but his gaze stopped on John, and he paled. "And with reference to a classified file, we found something on the other woman, Mary Morstan."
John tensed, and moved closer. Hands curled into fists, John braced himself for hearing whatever came next. The aide clicked, and Mary's portrait replaced Sybil's. The one they had of her from the surveillance video, eyes all smokey, a dangerous smile on her lips, graced the left side of the screen. The aide then clicked again, and a new picture materialized next to it. It was still Mary; hair still bright blonde, but slightly longer, and her face was clear of makeup. It wasn't recent, and looked to be several years old. It had been taken at a distance, and zoomed in, making the image slightly hazy. Underneath the newer picture, two words were flashing in red: 'CLASSIFIED', and 'DECEASED'.
"The file was classified by the CIA, sir. We can't tell you her real name, where she's from, nothing. Her file is completely locked out, the only thing we could access was her date of death, almost six years ago now. We need clearance to see more." The aide stopped talking, his eyes locked on Mycroft. "We sent in the usual request under your authority, but it came back denied."
John was staring at the new picture of Mary, the confirmation of her lies clear for all to see. John felt a tumbled mix of anger, grief, and surprise. It was as if a part of him had been holding out hope that Mary wasn't all lies. That the woman he had come to love, the woman who had saved him from his grief, couldn't be this person, this foreign operative. John closed his eyes, and fought back the emotions threatening to take him over. He concentrated on breathing, and let everything go. He just let it all go. The anger, the sense of betrayal, the love, all of it. He let it all flow out of him, and John strived for peace.
Air in, air out, let it go. It doesn't matter anymore. She doesn't matter anymore. Sherlock matters. Stopping the disciple matters. Living your life matters. Let it go.
John relaxed, as the emotions faded away. He knew Sherlock was at his shoulder, but the detective hadn't touched him, sensing that John was working things out. John smiled, and reached out his hand without looking. Strong, long fingers gripped his, holding tight. John squeezed, and opened his eyes. He lifted his eyes to Sherlock's, and smiled at his detective.
"I'm alright. What's next, then?" John asked, his voice even. Sherlock nodded, and skewered the aide with a piercing look.
"Where are they now?" Sherlock was all business, and the aide shrank back slightly in his seat. He cast a look to his boss, but he wasn't getting any support from Mycroft. He paled even more, and hands shaking, eyed all three of them before finally stammering out his answer.
"The Level 4 team observed the Moran townhouse, saw no signs of anyone being home, and decided to do a sneak and peek. When they went inside, they found…..nothing. The targets weren't there, sir. They swept the house, and found the personal smartphones of the staff, Lady Moran, and her bodyguards all left on the kitchen table. All were on, GPS enabled. Nothing personal appeared to be removed from the house, no clothes from closets, everything just left. Team Leader reported that it was as if the targets had needed nothing when they left."
Silence. The aide looked down at his hands, avoiding their eyes. He drew in another breath, and looked up at Sherlock.
"They found one thing, sir. On Lady Moran's mobile. There was a text, unsent. It was addressed to Sherlock Holmes."
"What did it say?" Mycroft asked, before Sherlock could strangle the aide for taking too long.
The aide clicked a button, and a smaller picture appeared, obviously taken on someone's smartphone. It was a close up picture of another mobile's screen, but the words were clear.
The fires are coming, Sherlock. Protect your heart, if you can. –D
The three of them were in Mycroft's personal office, a stone room similar to the operations room, smaller, with a large portrait of the Queen behind his desk. John sat in a chair in front of Mycroft's desk, chin in his hand, thinking hard. Sherlock stood behind the desk, hovering at Mycroft's shoulder as his elder brother made a phone call.
He had it on speaker, at Sherlock's insistence, and only after garnering promises from both men to remain silent did he relent. It rang out for over a minute, and John was expecting it to go to voicemail. Suddenly the line opened, and there was nothing at first. Just an open connection, a faint buzzing noise. John tilted his head, convinced he heard something. When the voice finally spoke, John barely stopped himself from jumping.
"This had better be important, Mycroft Holmes, or I will hop on the earliest flight to London and stomp your British ass." It was a woman's voice, with a very distinct American accent. John blinked in surprise, and struggled not to laugh.
"My apologies, dear. I need a consultation, please." Mycroft's voice had changed, no longer snarky or sarcastic, but polite, and he seemed to lean on his accent, polishing it up even more than it already was. John raised a brow in disbelief, and Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand, as if holding back a laugh.
"Isn't Sherlock your resident genius? I'm in California, my love, do you have any idea what time it is here?" The woman on the line was clearly annoyed, and sounded like she was struggling to get up. "I was sleeping peacefully, dreaming about not helping out an emotionally stunted Brit with Mommy issues."
"Violet. I feel it pressing to mention I am not alone." Mycroft hurriedly spoke, apparently willing to let the American know he wasn't alone, to get her to stop berating him.
"Oh! Sherlock, is that you, sexy?" The woman named Violet cheerfully asked, her mood swiftly changing.
"Yes, Violet. Good morning." Sherlock replied, and his voice changed as well. Sherlock had charm when he wished to use it, and his words were positively dripping with it. "Always lovely to hear your voice."
"Is it true you finally hooked up with that dashing army doctor? The sexy blonde?" Violet asked, and there were sounds of her moving about a room in the background.
John bit his lip, and struggled very hard not to laugh. Whoever this woman was, she knew a lot, and from the other side of the hemisphere, too. Mycroft tossed up his hands, and leaned back in his chair, his face exasperated, and waved at Sherlock to just take over.
"Do you mean Dr Watson? And yes, I can confirm that I have 'hooked' up." Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes at John. John grinned, thoroughly enjoying this phone call.
"Well, that's wonderful! I was afraid your sex drive would evaporate like your brother's, glad to see that didn't happen. What can I do for you, at this utterly horrendous time of day?" There were sounds of her moving something, and she must have set the phone down, as they could hear the noises of a computer powering up in the background, the familiar beeps and whirring of fans ubiquitous across the globe.
"My brother sent you two pictures. We need access to any and all information you can get on the subjects." Sherlock said, all business now.
"Yeah, I see the email, one sec. Ohhh, the blonde is cute! The brunette, not so much, I like blondes….." They heard typing in the background, and she started humming. John leaned closer, wondering what the song was. She was singing under her breath now, and John was really curious as to what she was doing. Whatever it was, she was enjoying herself immensely. The song was familiar, but John couldn't tell what it was.
The singing stopped, and they heard what sounded like Violet swearing in the background. She must have picked the phone back up, because her voice was more immediate, and there was no mistaking the shock in it.
"What the hell are you guys doing over there? Fuck me, what did you just send me?!" Violet was yelling now, and the mobile's speakers fizzled a little at the volume.
"Violet, dear. Please calm down." Mycroft spoke, hand reaching for the mobile on his desk, stopping just shy of it as the woman on the other end started cussing louder. John about lost his tenuous control on his laughter, as he watched Mycroft's face as the woman created on the spot some very original and interesting swear words. She kept at it for a moment longer, before she calmed down, and started breathing normally.
"Before I go and paint a target on my back, I want to know just how fucking important this is." Violet asked, and she was not messing around. Her voice had lost the flirty edge to it, and she sounded like she was seconds away from hanging up the phone. "Uncle Sam won't be happy if he catches me."
"This is very important, Violet. The brunette is Moriarty's last remaining disciple, and the blonde is someone we know, who's gotten pulled into this for some reason, we don't know how or why." Sherlock told her, and he tried to impart just how urgent this was into his voice.
"Shit. Sherlock, I thought you got them all. Seriously? The fashion plate is a disciple? Hhhmmm, she just got sexier. I need some assurances, please. Favors. If this is as important as you make it sound, then I want a major favor, both of you. A really big favor. Each. Oh, and Sherlock takes me dancing next time I'm in town. Man has got some moves in him! He can bring his boyfriend." Violet laid it all out, and she started to idly hum that song again.
John looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock actually appeared to be embarrassed. He wouldn't look at John, and John narrowed his eyes at his lover. Sherlock didn't have time to answer, as Mycroft replied quickly, obviously eager to get the conversation back on track.
"Yes, Violet. A big favor, from each of us." Mycroft said, one hand out to stop Sherlock from speaking.
"And the dancing." She said, stubbornly.
"Yes, I'll take you dancing!" Sherlock groused.
"Perfect! One sec, lemme start dodging Uncle Sam over here, stay sexy." She put the phone back down, and they heard her typing again. She started to hum again, and John was very curious about what it was. John looked at Sherlock, who had a very exasperated look on his face, like he couldn't believe he got trapped into taking a woman out dancing. John was finding this to be the best phone call he'd ever experienced, and he didn't want it to end.
"Oh, wow. Um. Wow." Violet said. "I found something on the blonde. Brunette is still processing."
"Go on, Violet." Mycroft said.
"I don't have her name, just her initials. A.G.R.A. Born in 1972, recruited by the CIA at the tender age of seventeen. She was part of their badly named la femme fatale program a couple of decades ago. Top of her class out of the Farm, highest mission success rate for her age group, and she was also in the top of her class for kills rates. I've got my eyes on over three hundred confirmed actions, many of them multiples. Minimal collateral damage, she left civilians alone, and it seems she did most of her work solo. She was active for over fifteen years. Impressive, most don't make it past ten without the Agency tagging them with expiration dates." Violet dropped that information as if she were reading off the answers to a crossword puzzle, and she had more. "Damn near six years ago, she took out three high-ranking terrorists, about a dozen of their people, and supposedly blew herself up at the same time. Uncle Sam has her listed as dead."
Sherlock went to speak, but she interrupted them.
"Well, they did have her listed as dead. There's a tag on her file, a recent action. From a few days ago. Looks like someone let it slip that she was alive, told the CIA that their Golden Girl wasn't red mist, and they sent the dogs after her. Whoa! Looks like she took care of it though, three dead bad guys, and she got away! Oh look! It mentions you, Sherlock! What was that like, at the crime scene? I bet it was hot. I'll go cruising through MPS crime scene logs after I finish this. Never mind that, I've got more. Whoever she is for reals, they want her dead. And I don't think they'll be able to pull it off easy; everything I'm seeing here says she is one badass momma."
The three men had nothing to say, just sat there and tried to process the information this woman was pulling out of the ether. John was struggling, and he was glad he was sitting down.
"I just found out who informed Uncle Sam that she was still alive. Some creepy dude with the pretentious name of Charles Augustus Magnussen. Oh, this is priceless! He sold the blonde for information on Mycroft! Gratz dear, you just became currency! You guys outta know him, he lives on your side of the pond."
"Yes, we know the name." Sherlock practically growled it, and his face was a mask of disgust. John was pulled from his own thoughts by the look on Sherlock's face, and he knew that he was going to be asking about the media magnate for certain. Mycroft looked annoyed, but he didn't seem particularly upset that Magnussen was targeting him.
"I got something on the brunette." Violet said, and she said nothing else.
"Violet? Are you still there?" Mycroft asked.
"Um, yyeeaahhhh." Violet was quiet, and she wasn't humming anymore. "I found something in one of the blonde's mission files, eight years ago. There's one mention of her providing backup, to another female operative. Younger woman, early twenties at the time. There's no picture, no name. Just a generalized description, but it kinda matches the brunette. And if she's a disciple of the late and great Moriarty, this makes sense."
"What? Just say it, Violet." Sherlock snapped, his patience almost gone.
"The note on her is short. She's a ghost, a freelance operative. Nothing substantial at all, just this one mention. She was hired to take out a politician in Europe, and did that, but she took everyone, and I mean everyone, within a quarter mile of the target out with him. Two dozen dead in less than thirty minutes; whole family, staff, guards, everyone dead. It was covered up as a gas leak explosion at a private resort. Oh, wow. Got something. I found a name, sorta."
"What?" Mycroft bit out, highly impatient now.
"This is sooo hot! She's my fav now. Super sexy." Violet said, and she started humming again. "There's a line in the cleanup report done by an Agency sweeper team, after the 'incident' at the resort. This is so hot! They nicknamed the female operative 'Death'."
"Death? As a name? Seriously?" John couldn't help himself.
"Gasp! Who is that? Is that the boyfriend?" Violet got even more excited, and Mycroft sighed loudly. Sherlock waved a hand at John, as if to say it didn't matter anymore.
"Um, yeah sorry. Hi." John said, suddenly uncomfortable, realizing he'd been sitting there the whole time, listening to this highly entertaining woman do all their hard work for them. "Thank you for helping us out with this, I appreciate it."
"You sound as delicious as your pictures, sexy. You are most welcome. See, boys? Sometimes a girl just needs some consideration. Recognition, even." Violet was typing away again, and she was humming that song. John stifled the urge to ask, and just smiled at the mobile.
"Um, thanks?" John said, lost as how to proceed.
"Anything else boys? Before I sacrifice my hard drive and skip town?" Violet asked, between humming her song and typing.
"Anything else you can tell us about them? Does anyone out there know where they are?" Mycroft asked, face intent.
"Nope. Off the grid. Only activity I see is mine, yours from the last few hours, and the CIA from a few days back. I'm going to delete my foot prints, do you want me to delete yours as well?" Violet was typing up a storm, the clacking of keys loud over the line.
"No, shouldn't need to…" Mycroft was cut off by Sherlock, who talked over him.
"Violet, can you go back at any time, access this information?" Sherlock said, the question hanging in the air.
"Yup. As long as I have a secure line, anytime. Why?" She asked, still typing.
"I may need to get back in there in the future. As for now, just delete your access, Langley already knows we submitted a request." Sherlock said.
"Perfect! I'll be cashing in those favors soon, boys. Kiss the hottie boyfriend for me, Sherlock. Don't forget, dancing! Lots of dancing. Goodbye Mycroft, find a better sense of timing please. And John, sweetness, you lucky bastard, enjoy the catch of the century! Bye!" There was click, then the tone of a dropped line. She was gone.
"So, who wants to tell me who Violet is, and why she wants to go dancing with Sherlock?" John asked, alternately torn between laughing at the look on Mycroft's face, and the endearingly offbeat American and her miraculous information.
The evening sun was warm, filtered by the heavily tinted windows on the Jaguar. The powerful car cut through traffic like a dream, and they were making good time back to Baker Street. Sherlock sat beside John, who was leaning with his head on Sherlock's shoulder. John looked tired, and Sherlock knew that no matter how stoically John tried to handle the day's revelations about Mary, it couldn't have been easy. John had waved off any concern, and merely nodded when Sherlock suggested they go home after spending hours looking through the CCTV footage of London, searching for any sign of the two women. They had found nothing.
Sherlock was frustrated, and he didn't bother trying to hide it from anyone. Mycroft had lost patience, claiming he had other work to do, and leaving them alone in the underground bunker. Anthea had walked up to them, and told them the car would be ready for them in a few minutes if they wanted to leave. Sherlock had told her thank you, and John had silently joined him at the door to leave.
Sherlock caught a glimpse of a tail car in the rearview mirror, and he knew Mycroft had them under surveillance again. No matter how upset he might be over Sherlock being in a relationship with John, he wasn't going to take the chance on anything happening to either of them. There was another man in their car too, aside from the dour driver Mycroft usually used. He was armed, and had gotten in the front as Sherlock and John had piled in the back. Sherlock saw signs of a nine mil in a shoulder holster, and a snub nosed revolver strapped to his ankle. Mycroft wasn't messing around.
Death. What a strange name for a woman, even if she is an assassin. And one so successful, she has been invisible for the last decade. She has sacrificed her cover as Lady Moran, shed that identity completely. She has no intention of returning to it. She means for this to be her last mission. She will come for John. He is my heart. All that I feel comes from him.
At that thought Sherlock rested his head on John's, and the doctor's steady breathing let him know John had fallen asleep. The warmth from John was soothing, reassuring. Sherlock was finding himself becoming steadily dependent on that warmth, missing it when John wasn't touching him. Sherlock understood to some degree Mycroft's concern with this relationship, he truly did. Mycroft feared that Sherlock would become so reliant on John Watson that if the day came he didn't have him anymore, Sherlock would cease to be himself. And Sherlock knew he was right. And he didn't care. It was too late to pull back, to sever this bond.
The car rolled to an easy stop outside 221B, and Sherlock gently nudged John awake. John stirred, and seeing where they were at, sluggishly sat up and stretched.
"Sorry, Sherl', didn't mean to fall asleep on you." John mumbled, yawning.
Sherlock said nothing, just opened the door and held it as his doctor stumbled out sleepily. John was exhausted again, the emotional toll of the day wearing him down. Sherlock shut the door, and took John's arm in a firm grip. Sherlock eyed the street both ways as he walked with John to their front door. Everything appeared to be normal, including the surveillance car parked at the corner. Letting them in, Sherlock didn't relax until he shut and locked the door behind them.
John went straight to his chair, barely taking the time to pull off his jacket, and removing the gun from his back. John had the presence of mind to put it carefully on the table next to his chair before passing out, fast asleep. Tiny slips of noise that sounded suspiciously like snores came swiftly from the red armchair. Sherlock smiled, and picked up the weapon. It was the same dependable gun John had carried through his military service, and the years since. Sherlock pulled it from its holster, and tucked the gun into the waistband of his slacks, under his jacket. John would be in no condition to use it if someone came for them at the flat, and Sherlock had no issue with killing someone if they were so foolish as to attempt an attack.
Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson moving about downstairs, and knew she would be up soon. Sherlock prowled around the flat, looking for anything out of place, anything disturbed. Just the usual, Mrs. Hudson cleaning up as she snooped about, but nothing suspicious. No one had been in here who shouldn't have been.
"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson whispered loudly from the front room. She was standing at the door, and in her attempt to avoid waking John she was actually making more noise.
"I'm here. Don't worry, John's fast asleep, I could play Bach in his ear and I wouldn't wake him." Sherlock said, not lowering his voice as he came back out into the front room. "Anything eventful happen while we were out?"
"No, just a couple reporters nosing about after you two left, but since you were gone for so long they gave up." Mrs. Hudson said, walking into the kitchen, heading for the tea-pot. "Has Mycroft put his people back on you then? I saw that car was back, same spot it used to be back in the day."
"Yes he has." Sherlock said, sitting at the still clean table, and he eyed it with displeasure, certain he could find something with which to return it to its naturally messy state.
Maybe I can get Moran's blood results, narrow down the toxins Death used to kill him. Could be useful to have someday. So much to catch up on! Molly could bring them over I suppose, but John is sleeping. Sleeping! So boring.
Sherlock wanted to bang his head on the table, feeling his brain start to circle, spiral out into little tangents of thoughts and ideas. Having no leads on the whereabouts of Mary and Death, Sherlock needed something to do. He'd already checked his Inbox and his email, but there was nothing in there worth leaving the flat for, not that he'd feel comfortable leaving John alone anyway. So no cases requiring him to leave, not without John.
Sherlock felt himself getting bored, and his fingers were drumming away at the table, and he shifted in his seat.
"Don't start with your fidgeting now, Sherlock! You start that, next thing I know I've got holes in my wall and bloodstains on my carpets! Drink your tea and restrain yourself." Mrs. Hudson warned him, and a cup of tea appeared next to his hand. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but picked up the tea and took a sip.
"Can't stand being bored." Sherlock muttered, sipping his tea and ignoring Mrs. Hudson's glares as she started puttering about his kitchen. He guessed she was making something to eat, but he wasn't interested and zoned her out. "What am I supposed to do while John is sleeping? He gets so cranky when he's woken from a nap."
Sherlock saw it first, and he stilled, the tea-cup hovering just above its saucer. Mrs. Hudson turned, and saw Sherlock making a fine impression of a statue. He was staring at the table, at the far end. She moved her head and looked, but saw nothing. There was a faint glimmer of something, a slight movement, but Mrs. Hudson couldn't make it out.
Sherlock could see it, and held very still as the red laser dot from a sniper rifle slowly, and deliberately, moved down the length of the table. It moved with purpose, and once it became clear that Sherlock had seen it, whoever was holding the rifle moved it down the table top. His eyes tracked it back to the window, and the sun had set well enough by now he could see where the laser came through the window. Whoever it was, they were in the building across the street. And they weren't alone. Sherlock's heart contracted in fear; there was second dot, the laser cutting through the window, and it was aiming right at John. That one wasn't moving, and the other was closing in on Sherlock. Sherlock couldn't move, the second sniper had John dead to rights, and he knew that if he moved, they would fire. He just knew it, like he knew how to breathe, how to walk.
Mrs. Hudson gasped; the red dot had gotten close enough for her to see it. She looked at Sherlock, and started to reach for him.
"Don't! Don't move. Stay exactly where you are." Sherlock warned her, and he fought the urge to dive away. The dot danced across his teacup, and the bright red light caught him directly over his heart. There it sat, seeming to pulse in time with his rapidly beating heart. Sherlock tensed, waiting for the shot. Waited, as Mrs. Hudson sniffled against the counter, hands at her mouth, stifling her sobs.
Eternity passed, and the red dot held Sherlock immobile. Sherlock didn't care about himself; John was asleep, and had no clue the danger he was in. If he should suddenly wake up, move, anything, they might fire. Stay asleep, stay asleep! Sherlock felt his muscles starting to cramp, as the snipers made their position of power very clear. Anger and fear were boiling up in him, but he was trapped, and he knew if he made any move, John was dead.
They held Sherlock prisoner for what felt like forever. He knew it was only for a few minutes, but to him, it felt like hours. Sweat was running down his face, and he couldn't feel his fingers anymore, where he gripped the tea-cup.
Sherlock knew if this kept up any longer, either he or Mrs. Hudson would move, and the snipers would fire. He knew what this was. It was pure, simple, and straight forward threat. Total intimidation. See how we can get to you. Anywhere. We own you. You will die when we want you to. He could almost hear the voice behind the threat, so clearly did he receive the message.
Sherlock almost collapsed as the lights pulsed, then as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone. The cup hit the tabletop, and rolled onto its side, tea everywhere. Mrs. Hudson began to cry loudly, and Sherlock put both hands on the table and all but shoved himself away from it, to the far wall.
"JOHN! Wake up!" Sherlock yelled, as he pulled the gun from his waistband, and he ran towards the window, safety off and the gun pointed across the street. He kept his body between John and the line of fire they would have to use to shoot his doctor.
John sat up, confused and not able to think straight. He saw Sherlock with his gun drawn, and woke up fast, responding to the unseen threat, not knowing what was going on. Sherlock carefully looked out the window, but saw nothing, no sign that anyone was watching from the building across the street. He looked down and saw the surveillance car, exactly where it usually sat. He pulled back from the window, and went straight to John, grabbing his lover by the arm and dragging him out of the chair, and behind him. Sherlock kept the gun up, and pushed John, protesting the whole way, all the way back into the kitchen and behind the wall.
"Sherlock! What the hell is going on?" John asked, and he struggled against the hold Sherlock had on him, as his detective kept him shoved up against the wall. Sherlock breathed deep, all but panting in relief and fear. He lowered the gun, and turned to John, pulling him against his chest.
"Oh God, John." Sherlock whispered, shaking. "I love you."