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Chapter Twenty Six

"The Other Holmes' Heart"

Mycroft Holmes was rarely surprised by anything. His brother was really the only one who could do it these days, as the rest of the world was so predictable. He could see the motives, the hollow gestures of humanity, seeing the actions of others before they thought to make them, and it left him cold. Mycroft cared only for his work, and his family. His family came only after the work, and many times Sherlock had stumbled into it, foolishly combining the two. It seemed to be his curse, for Sherlock to forever intertwine himself in the affairs of England, and in his brother's business. So it was no surprise when trouble came looking for his brother, it dragged the rest of the world in too. But Mycroft had found himself surprised by Dr Watson, a man whom he had thought neatly figured out and labeled.

Mycroft sat at his desk, preparing to leave London for his country estate. There had been no progress from the searches for Moran or Mary. They had searched for the last two days, and the events from last night had made it very clear that Lady Moran and Mary would only be found if they wanted to be.

Somehow they had evaded the CCTV feeds, and gone unseen by the surveillance teams he had following his brother and Dr Watson. Frustration made Mycroft grimace briefly, before he stamped it down. He had kept his cool as best he could when Detective Inspector Lestrade had informed him that two snipers had breached the safety net he had in place, and threatened his brother and the doctor. Mycroft had sent reinforcements as fast as possible, and the men who had been on duty last night had found themselves reassigned to very unpleasant tasks that morning. Mycroft knew he shouldn't go, that his people would handle it well enough on their own, and that Lestrade was there to tell him exactly what was happening. But Mycroft had been unable to resist the urge to go, and word of his brother's mental state had been the deciding factor. Sherlock was supposedly out of control, highly emotional and destroying things at his flat.

Lestrade had texted him, saying that Sherlock had injured himself in the midst of a breakdown, and that Dr Watson was tending to him. But that hadn't been enough for Mycroft; he had seen Sherlock break before over the years, and the results were always unpleasant, and usually involved hospital stays and restraints. He had expected to be walking into a scene of chaos, and instead found himself greeted by a calm Detective Inspector, who had waxed poetic on the merits of living with a doctor. Dr Watson had controlled his brother, treated his injuries, and then tucked him into bed like a recalcitrant toddler. To then see the doctor after his arrival at the flat in a serene and perfectly calm state was unexpected. Mycroft knew from experience that John Watson could handle his brother, but he had never expected the doctor to be able to handle Sherlock when he was completely out of control. And to then be politely dismissed as if he was a guest who had over stayed his welcome was even more surprising.

Mycroft had swallowed his protests, and followed the man from Scotland Yard out of the flat. Lestrade had waited for him outside on the curb, and Mycroft had found himself staring at the police officer. Mycroft knew that Lestrade cared for his brother, and a part of him appreciated it, as it meant the detective inspector would go farther in his efforts to take care of Sherlock. But Mycroft was wondering in part why he cared; most people saw Sherlock as a dangerous entity, necessary only for his skills, to be promptly forgotten once he was no longer needed. To be held at arm's length, and never welcomed closer. Yet Lestrade had run to Sherlock with all haste when informed he was in danger, and then had stuck around in the midst of an emotional and mental breakdown because he was worried. Those were not the actions of a man ordered to look out for a sociopath out of duty, but the actions of a friend, with emotional motivations.

"Don't worry about Sherlock, John's got him well sorted." Lestrade had said, lighting up a cigarette, the light from the flame briefly illuminating his eyes, bright and clear. "John didn't even blink, impressive as hell really. Man woke up to be told he'd had snipers painting on him with lasers, and his mate goes off his rocker, and John is calm as can be, hardly a feather ruffled. Sherlock cut his hand up in a nasty way, glass sticking out of it and everything. John didn't even act upset. Man's covered in his lover's blood, and he's as mellow as a man reading the paper."

"I thought for certain Sherlock was going to have to be restrained, or that John would have to drug him to get him under control. All he did was have Sherlock lean on him, and your brother passed out all on his own." Lestrade had flicked some ashes away, and finally noticed that Mycroft had been staring at him in most peculiar way.

Mycroft had been listening to the police officer, but it took him a moment to realize that Lestrade had stopped speaking, and was staring back at him. Mycroft had heard the concern, the affection, and dare he say love in the other man's voice as he described the actions of his little brother, and the indomitable doctor. Mycroft couldn't stop himself from asking, the question slipping out half formed and unwanted.

"Why do you care for him so much?" Mycroft had asked, his uncertainty clear in his voice, his confusion.

Lestrade choked, coughing, smoke coming out around his hand. Lestrade had looked at him, eyes wary before he answered.

"Your brother? I care because he's worth it." Lestrade answered, simply, without hesitation.

Mycroft had nodded, he had expected that answer.

"Yes, his consulting work is invaluable. I see." Mycroft had nodded at the police officer, and turned to his car where it was waiting for him on the curb.

"No, you don't. I care about Sherlock because he is worth it. The work he does doesn't factor into it for me. Man's my friend." Lestrade had cast him a look, and ground his cigarette out on the pavement with his toe. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."

Lestrade had turned, and walked off down the street, waving once to the guards parked behind his silver BMW. He had gotten in, and driven away, with Mycroft standing where he had left him.

Mycroft had gotten into his car, his driver pulling away from Baker Street without having to be told. Mycroft felt out of sorts, like he used to when his mother would scold him as a child for tormenting Sherlock. Mycroft had sat in silence the entire drive back to his townhouse, and it wasn't until he was back in his bedroom, preparing to go to bed, that he found his mobile in his hand. The text had almost sent itself, his mind screaming at him to stop. But he had sent it, in denial as much as he was aware of what he was doing.

Goodnight, Detective Inspector.-MH

It was as close to an apology as he could get. He somehow felt like he needed to offer one. He hadn't gotten a reply, and he had checked. Mycroft felt like a fool for checking. He never felt like a fool, and feeling like one in this instance had left him even more disconcerted.

"Sir?"

Anthea stood at the door to his office, snapping Mycroft out of his memories of the night before. She had a small smile on her lovely face, one hand raised, holding the door open.

"Yes, my dear?" Mycroft asked, putting down his mobile, unaware that he had picked it up while trapped in his thoughts. He pretended that he hadn't been staring at it, willing it to chirp at him, and gave Anthea his complete attention.

Mycroft only ever called her thus when they were alone. Anthea had been with him the longest of all his aides, putting up with his cold ways and ruthless attitudes as if they were nothing. She had swiftly graduated from being an aide to being his aide. He relied on her for almost everything, and he struggled not to let her see his dependency. He tried, but knew she saw through him. Thus he acknowledged her place in his life with this one endearment, never straying further. She returned the affection, and only she said 'sir' to him like that, as if he were the only one deserving of being called that. Anthea would smile at him, her eyes sparkling and her lips curved with the barest traces of amusement.

"The cars are ready. We can leave for the country house at your discretion." She said, and Mycroft nodded in reply.

He stood, and grabbed his bag and mobile on the way out. She held the door as he passed, falling into to step behind him down the long hall, out to the front. The house was already dark in preparation for their departure, and the sound of Anthea's heels on the marble floor echoed off the wood walls. His bags and hers had already been packed up by his staff, and the escort car was waiting behind his Jaguar. Night had fallen, and the city was quiet. He waited beside her on the curb as his valet loaded their bags, Anthea checking her mobile for last minute alerts before they left. Mycroft gave his bag over to be loaded up as well, and he froze when he heard Anthea gasp.

"Sir! There's been an incident!" She looked at him, dismay and fear clear in her eyes, and she stepped close, grabbing onto his arm.

"What has happened?" He asked, not at all bothered by her touch.

"There's reports of an explosion at CAM Tower, the top levels are engulfed in flames." She said, and just as she finished speaking, Mycroft's mobile erupted in a flurry of alerts, and began to ring loudly.

He answered, and stood listening to the alert being broadcast simultaneously to all high ranking MI6 members. It was an automated alert, and gave no more information this early on than Anthea had given him. He turned to Anthea, and caught her attention.

"Go back inside, recall everyone. We won't be leaving." He kept the mobile to his ear, as more updates rolled in. Anthea nodded briskly, and let go of her grip on his arm, and all but ran back into the house, through the still open door. He watched as she disappeared down the long hallway, going to the bunker.

She texted as she ran, sending out commands on her mobile to recall the teams that had gone back to headquarters after Mycroft had dismissed them earlier. Her heart was racing in her chest, and she feared her night was about to get a lot more exciting than a lovely ride through the countryside with her boss. Explosions never meant anything good, no matter what you did for a living.

Anthea went as fast as she dared in her high heels, navigating the long halls of Mycroft's home confidently in the dark. She didn't even bother stopping to turn on the lights, knowing her way well. She rounded the sharp corner in the hall, near the rear of the house, just as in went down to the lower level. She was going so fast she didn't see the shadow detach itself from the wall, the flash of wild eyes in the low light.

Anthea fell fast, caught from behind in a choke hold around her neck, a hand clamped down on her mouth. Anthea struggled, and she fought, clawing at the arm wrapped around her. She tried her best, fear giving her strength. Her mobile fell to the floor, clattering down the first few steps of the stairs that led to the bunker. Its glow on the stairs was the last thing she saw.

Anthea collapsed, her attacker dragging her out of the hall, into the shadows of an empty room. The window at the back was open, the cold night air blowing the curtains, moonlight beginning to streak in across the floor. The newly risen moon was so bright it lit the features clearly of the disciple, her eyes glittering in triumph. A larger shadow waited next to sill, and accepted the weight of the unconscious woman easily. He carried her over his shoulder as he leapt into the back garden, the smaller wraith of the disciple following.

Death didn't bother with closing the window, nor did she care that Mycroft Holmes was just on the other side of the house. She followed her bodyguard through the darkness of the garden, footsteps sure in the black. Their limo was parked in the alley behind the townhouse, engine running. Death opened the door, and her man got in, gently lowering Mycroft's woman to the floor next to the still form of Dr Hooper. Death had sent her regular car ahead to the estate earlier with Sargent Donovan, and she had taken the limo to grab her remaining two targets.

Death got in, and the limo purred deeply as it pulled away. She knew Anthea's absence would be noticed soon, but she had accounted for this, and had a vehicle waiting for them at the designated place, where they would switch out before heading to the estate. She knew well the streets of London, and the coverage of the CCTV cameras. She had avoided detection for days, and she had done it with ease. No one would be able to trace them.

She smiled, content. Mary had texted once she had made it safely back to the estate, and Death was satisfied. The first night's work of her plan had gone well. Mary had her revenge and secured further protection from Magnussen, London was put on notice, and Death had stolen away the women dearest to the hearts of her opponents. The only men she need worry about were the Holmes brothers, and their very dependable police officer. She now had them all by their heartstrings, and soon she would strike for the very heart itself.

John Watson would soon be hers, as well.

Mycroft swore under his breath, and stalked down the hall to his bunker. He flicked on the lights as he passed, not being as sure as Anthea was in the dark. Mycroft tried calling her again, and he thought he heard something ahead of him. He felt a cold breeze whip out from one of the side rooms, and was about to look when he heard a mobile chirping around the corner.

Mycroft rounded the corner, about to head down the stairs, when he stopped in surprise. He had thought he heard someone's mobile, but there was no one there. Mycroft still had the mobile to his ear, and it was ringing out. He looked down the stairs, and he saw something shining in the shadows.

That chirping came again, and the light was stronger too. Mycroft felt himself grow cold, fingers tingling as adrenaline coursed through his veins. He stepped down, slowly, his legs barely keeping him upright as he stood over the mobile on the stairs. Anthea's mobile. He bent down, pocketing his mobile, silencing hers. He looked down the hall, the lights still off, the bunker door still locked and dormant. She hadn't even made it to the bunker.

The window! The cold breeze! Mycroft ran for the first time in years, leaping back up the stairs and grabbing the wall to round the corner. He ran into the dark room that looked out into the garden. The window was open, the cold wind ripping into the curtains and spiraling into the rest of the house. The moon was bright, so very bright that he squinted against the light as he ran to the window. Mycroft could see nothing, the garden a twisting maze of moonlit plants and deepening shadows.

He leaned out, hands on the cold sill, and looked down. Two sets of footprints, one of large man, his feet imprinted deeply in the damp earth beneath the window. The other was a woman's, wearing combat boots and moving swiftly. The man had been carrying extra weight. He had been carrying Anthea. Mycroft felt his heart surge into his throat, blood roaring in his ears.

Mycroft was in shock, he couldn't think, he couldn't breathe. The only thing he could was move on autopilot, let habit tell him what to do. But his habit was to reach for Anthea, let her carry out his will, to fix things for him. Mycroft wanted to scream, his emotions wreaking havoc for the first time in decades. He knew she was long gone; he stood and stared out into the night, the cold moonlight bright in his eyes. Mycroft fumbled for his mobile, and pulled it out. He stared at it, having almost forgotten how to use it.

Call him, call him call him …. Mycroft hit the speed dial, and held the mobile to his ear. It was ringing, and he waited for that voice. The one that would pull him back.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade. What do you need, sir?"

John was making supper when Mrs. Hudson came upstairs, and he was about to ask her to stay and join them when she ignored him, and went straight for the television. She turned it on, and backed away. John walked to her side, and he stood there in shock, watching the burning tower, the destruction wrought in the heart of London.

"Sherlock!" John called, and he heard his detective stir from the bedroom. "Sherlock!"

"What? I'm right here, there's no need to yell!" Sherlock grumbled, his blue robe billowing out behind him has he stomped into the room. He stopped at John's shoulder, gaze captured by the fires on the screen.

Sherlock stood taller, all weariness wiped from his face, eyes went bright and icy. Sherlock reached out, and turned up the volume. A reporter's voice came out, clearly from the helicopter that circled around the burning building.

"An explosion ripped through the top levels of CAM Tower earlier in the evening. Several witnesses claim to have heard up to five separate explosions, and reports are coming in of multiple fires spreading throughout the tower. We have unconfirmed reports of dozen of casualties, no word on any fatalities as of yet. We cannot confirm if this is the result of terrorism, or if this was some sort of gas leak disaster."

"We cannot confirm whether or not the building's owner, Charles Augustus Magnussen, was in his private flat at the top of CAM Tower when the fires started. Witnesses said that the top floor of the tower exploded prior to burning."

The reporter droned on, repeating the same information over and over. Sherlock reached out and muted the television, and John put a hand on Mrs. Hudson's shoulder.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and hit the speed dial. John watched him, rubbing Mrs. Hudson's shoulder reassuringly as she watched the news. John figured he was calling Mycroft.

"Mycroft- I assume you're aware that…. What?" Sherlock stopped talking, whatever his brother was saying enough to interrupt him. Sherlock's eyes went glacial, and John felt a wave of unease sweep across his heart at the look on Sherlock's face. "I'm coming."

"We need to go, now." Sherlock didn't wait for John's reply, he turned for the bedroom, throwing off his robe as he sprinted down the short hall.

"Is it the bombing at CAM Tower?" John asked, reaching for his boots, glad he was already dressed, as Sherlock was getting dressed faster than he'd ever seen him do it before. He picked up his gun from the nightstand, checking it was still loaded, an extra magazine in the holster. Sherlock was dressed in record time, tearing past John, the doctor hard on his heels. Mrs. Hudson watched them grab their coats, and John smiled at her before he followed Sherlock out of the flat.

Sherlock tore out of the flat, just as a black Jaguar roared up in front of them. John was expecting to see Anthea as they opened the door and got in. She wasn't there, just one of the regular drivers. The second the door was shut, Mycroft's man hit the accelerator, and the car leapt away from Baker Street.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked, adjusting the gun in his waistband. Sherlock looked paler than usual, and whatever it was that Mycroft had said to him had shaken him.

"Anthea has been taken." Sherlock said, words clipped. "From inside my brother's house."

"What?" John was in shock. For someone to get to an MI6 operative while in one of the safest homes in Britain was unbelievable.

"Mycroft asked me to come." Sherlock said, and his voice betrayed him. Uncertainty laced with confusion. For Mycroft to ask, not order, was rare. Very rare. Yet Sherlock knew who was responsible. And his heart iced over, resolve hardening his core, stripping away his emotions.

"Death has her." Sherlock said.

Sherlock jumped from the car before it even finished stopping, running through the front door of his brother's house. Police cars and black government vehicles crowded the street in front of the older Holmes' home. He ignored the MI6 agents, the police officers, everyone. He knew John was behind him, within arm's reach. Sherlock dodged and weaved around the people stupid enough not to get out of his way, as he headed down the long hall.

Lestrade saw him coming, as he was standing in the doorway of the rear room where Anthea's kidnappers had taken her out of the house. The rooms were all lit, officers looking for evidence, taking pictures.

"Where is he?" Sherlock demanded, as Lestrade stopped him from running past with a hand on his chest.

"He's in here. One sec Sherlock. Mycroft…" Lestrade paused, and dropped his hand away at Sherlock's look. "Mycroft called me just as it happened. He didn't sound….. He didn't sound right."

Lestrade looked over his shoulder, his face a mix of sympathy and something else. Something like pain. "Go gently, Sherlock."

Sherlock paused, eyes searching Lestrade's face for clues to his brother's state. He didn't see what he needed, the Inspector was looking deeper in to the room, his concentration locked on the other Holmes. Sherlock moved past him, looking for his brother. John followed Sherlock, the doctor casting Lestrade a sympathetic look before entering the room.

Sherlock zeroed in on Mycroft, where his brother was standing near the open window. He was looking out into the garden, the wind blowing strongly into the room. Mycroft didn't pay any attention to the people working around him; they all knew better than to ask him to move. Useless officers were taking pictures, notes. All to catalogue what Mycroft already knew. The evidence had been very clear, after all. Anyone with a brain could see what he did. Sherlock went to his side, making forensic techs scuttle away nervously. Sherlock looked out the window and down, much as Mycroft had done earlier. He saw exactly what his brother had.

"They didn't leave her here, Mycroft. She was alive." Sherlock said, staring out into the garden, standing much like his brother was. Mycroft didn't even look at him, he kept looking out into the night, where she had disappeared.

"I sent her back in here." Mycroft stated, voice emotionless. His eyes were bright, the moon still shining intensely through the open window, its light scattering across the floor. "We were on the way to the country house, when the alerts came through. I sent her back in here to…."

His voice faded away, and Mycroft stopped himself, holding tightly to his control. Sherlock shifted, moving closer, his shoulder almost touching his brother's. Mycroft let him, not minding that his little brother was close to showing brotherly sentiment.

"They were waiting for the best chance, brother. If they hadn't been able to get her here, it would have been at the other house." Sherlock told his brother, knowing as he did that Mycroft wouldn't heed him, that he would blame himself if he wanted. Mycroft nodded, the barest dip in his chin. Sherlock just moved half a step closer, lightly touching now, and Mycroft relaxed, just slightly. Sherlock saw out of the corner of his eye, and stayed where he was. Offering comfort to his brother was difficult, as neither man knew how to handle it.

John watched them both, baffled by them as usual. How hard was it to reach out, to hug one's sibling? Admittedly, not every family was the same, and the Holmes brothers were the most unusual of them all. John kept back, within hearing distance, but not intruding. Mycroft was obviously upset, as much as John had ever seen him, really. He was paler than usual, and his superior attitude and sarcastic airs were gone, stripped away by shock and fear. Mycroft may not know he was scared, but John saw the signs clearly.

John looked back at Lestrade, who was still standing in the doorway, mobile to his ear, eyes locked on Mycroft. He looked equally impatient, and concerned. John figured the concern was for Mycroft, as John could easily see the regard the Inspector held for the elder Holmes. It was in every glance Lestrade tossed at the MI6 agent. John marveled at it, that no one else seemed to see it. It was if Lestrade didn't even know, really. John filed that away for later, wondering what it would take to prod the Iceman into opening up to a normal human being. John shook his head, knowing it would most likely take a miracle.

Lestrade dropped the mobile away from his ear, redialing, cursing in frustration. John looked one last time at the brothers, still standing by the window, silent. He walked to Lestrade, who seemed to be having trouble getting ahold of someone, considering how many times he was hitting redial.

"Greg? Problem?" John asked quietly, keeping his voice down. If there was a problem, it was best not to let the brothers hear it unless it was relevant to Anthea.

"I've called and texting Donovan all afternoon, since Sherlock called earlier today. I got ahold of her as she was leaving an interview with a witness, told her to come back in. I assumed she went home instead, as she never came back to the Yard. But she always answers if I call. She hasn't even texted me back." Lestrade was worried, his face pale, and he was chewing on his lower lip as he hit Redial again, listening to the mobile ring unanswered in his ear.

"You haven't heard back from her?" John felt his stomach drop, his hands go cold. Anthea had been taken, and now Donovan wasn't answering her boss. No matter how John may feel about her, he didn't want her hurt. The world of Sherlock Holmes never offered up pure coincidence. This was not good.

"I'm sending an officer to her place." Lestrade muttered, canceling the call and dialing a new number.

John felt Sherlock come up behind him, a change in how the air felt, a warmth in the cold air. John turned, his lover at his shoulder, looking at Lestrade. Mycroft had followed, his gaze locked on the Inspector. John reached out a hand to Sherlock, his detective catching hold without looking. Lestrade was sending a patrol car to her flat, and would know in a few minutes if Donovan was home.

They all waited, standing silently, as the minutes ticked by. The other people in the room worked around them, knowing better than to interrupt, to intrude. There was a gloom hanging about them, noticeable to everyone. They just stood, waiting for Lestrade's mobile to ring, for Donovan to call or text, to apologize for not answering. Maybe she fell asleep on her couch, having intended to get right back up after resting for a minute. Or she was out on a date, not answering on purpose.

Those were the thoughts running through Lestrade's mind, though he knew better. Hope was trying to tell him to be optimistic, but every instinct of his was screaming that she was in danger. No one moved, John gripping Sherlock's hand tightly. Mycroft moved up to the police officer, as if drawn by gravity, glaring at the mobile too.

They jumped when it began to ring, Lestrade fumbling to answer. He brought the mobile to his ear, barking out a "What?!" before listening.

"What do you mean she isn't there?" Lestrade snarled, fear and panic twisting his voice. He listened for a moment more, before slowly dropping the mobile down. His face was white, and his hand shook as he ended the call.

"They talked to her neighbor, Sally never went back to her flat after leaving for the Yard early this morning." Lestrade stiffened up, and started dialing another number. Mycroft reached out, catching the Inspector's hand, stopping him.

"I have a faster way to find her, to see if we need worry. Come with me." Mycroft turned the Inspector, pushing him out the door and down towards the bunker. John and Sherlock followed, John shocked by Mycroft's willingness to touch another human.

Mycroft guided Lestrade downstairs, and opened the bunker's door. They all stepped through, the room fully lit, MI6 agents back at their desks, most of them monitoring the crisis at CAM Tower, and a few were searching through the CCTV feeds that watched over Mycroft's neighborhood.

Mycroft went to a station, and whispered briefly to one of his aides. The man blinked once before turning to his computer, typing in commands so fast his fingers were a blur. The video feeds all changed, switching to views of Donovan's street, and outside the Yard. It was from earlier in the day, the sun still up, shining brightly before the rapidly moving clouds swept across it. The aide moved the time, speeding things up, and they could see the computer freeze an image, outside Scotland Yard. A green box outlined the frame of a woman, stepping from a cab in front of Scotland Yard.

"That's Donovan! She did come back to the Yard…. But what…" Lestrade stopped, as the video zoomed in, clearly showing Donovan outside the Yard, and walking into another woman dressed in a long black coat. The video held them all captive, as they watched Donovan waver on her feet, reaching down to her side as if going for her weapon. It was gone, having quickly been snatched by the woman in the black coat. Donovan's face went rigid in fear, eyes wide, and she seemed to recognize the woman in front of her. Suddenly she was bracketed by another person, a man who wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her up as she passed out while standing. A town car had appeared behind them, and the man carefully put Donovan in the car, her body limp.

No one noticed, no one tried to stop the kidnapping happening in broad daylight in front of Scotland Yard. The woman in black turned, walking forward a few feet, seeming to stare directly at them, her hand lifting away her hat. Her long brown braid tumbled free, and the computer zoomed in on her face, clearly showing the beautiful features of Sybil Moran. She smiled directly at the camera, and nodded once. Her eyes were dark and burning with what looked to be satisfaction, and her smile had a feral edge to it, for all its beauty. She then got in the car, and it was lost in the afternoon traffic.

"Death has Donovan." Sherlock said, knocking them all free from the dread and shock that had held them as they watched the very smooth operation unfold in front of them. Death had kidnapped a police officer in the heart of London, without once drawing a glance or a question from anyone.

Lestrade looked stricken, and he gripped his mobile tightly, like he was willing Donovan to call him, to tell him she was okay. Mycroft was watching him, his face as white as the Inspector's. Mycroft was standing at the policeman's shoulder, and Lestrade wavered on his feet, swaying slightly, towards the taller man.

"Sally's tough. Vicious. She'll fight." Lestrade mumbled to himself, and looked up at the image of her frozen in time on the screen.

Sherlock pulled away from John, pacing. His eyes narrowed, and his steps were fast. He would look to the screens, then back down to the ground. He had his back to them all when he stopped, head coming up. He'd had a thought, and he moved back around so fast John feared he gave himself whiplash.

"Check for similar activity outside of Bart's Hospital." He ordered, his voice echoing in the bunker, deep and ominous. "John, call Molly Hooper."

John's heart jumped in sudden realization, and he fumbled for his mobile, looking for Molly's number, and dialing, the call on speaker. It rang and rang, before going to voicemail. Molly's sweet voice came through, telling them to leave a message. Her voice dropped out on a small laugh, and John ended the call. Silence hung heavy in the air, John looking to Sherlock.

Sherlock was impassive, eyes as hard as diamonds, his demeanor radiating lethal anger. He was watching as the CCTV feeds from outside of Bart's were pulled up, and the multiple views ran on all the screens. The day went by on fast forward, the sun setting swiftly.

"Stop! There, the bottom image. Bring it up on the larger screen." Sherlock pointed, to a darker video. The image was laden with shadows and the light was minimal. Once it was on the larger screen, the aide enhanced it, and the shadows dulled out to grey.

The video showed the back service entrance, and there was a shadow of a dark car just outside the doors. The door opened, light spilling out, illuminating the figures who walked out, one of them carrying the limp form of a woman. Her long hair was pulled back in tail, spilling over the shoulder of the man carrying her. Molly's pretty face was briefly lit by the light from inside the building, and the man carrying her got into the limo waiting for them. The smaller figure, the one that moved with a predatory grace, paused in the light, her shadow stretching out across the alley. She looked up, as she had before, and she gazed directly into the camera. She knew where it was, with unerring accuracy. Death smiled, and this smile was all violent mania; all previous smiles had held at least a hint of decorum. This smile sent shivers running down John's spine. He knew who that smile was for.

Death knew, she knew, that they would piece it together, and too late for them to stop her. She smiled now for Sherlock.

"She took Donovan earlier in the afternoon, then Molly and Anthea within an hour of each other. She had this planned, exceedingly well. She has watched the women for days. This has been her plan all along." Sherlock said, and Mycroft and Lestrade pulled themselves from their mutual misery to look to the detective.

Sherlock looked at the aide, and the man shrank back from the detective's stony eyes.

"Can you track them at all?"

The aide shook his head, and stammered out a nervous negative.

"She knows where all the blind spots are, where all the vague coverage is. She either switches vehicles, or uses some other method of evading the cameras until she's out of city limits. We've even tracked decoy cars that eventually disappear as well. Her people are well-trained, sir."

"Sherlock. Find her." Mycroft ordered his brother, a thin crack in his armor showing, despair leaking out into the air around him. John couldn't tell if Mycroft meant Death, or Anthea. From his face, he most likely meant both. Lestrade was shaken free from his own despair, and he lifted a hand to Mycroft's shoulder. The elder Holmes didn't even react, just looked at his brother beseechingly.

John stood in the cold underground bunker, the room that held such power over the whole of England. Here so many lives could be affected, with just a few commands typed into a computer. It was here they were rendered useless, impotent to the skill and cunning of a single woman. She had stabbed directly at their hearts, and claimed first blood.

London was burning, and they knew Death had only just begun.

Sherlock moved to John's side, grabbing his hand in a grip so tight it hurt.

"She will come for you next, John."