Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
WARNING: VIOLENCE. And extreme sadness.
Read, enjoy, review. And thank you.
Chapter Twenty Seven
"Say Goodbye"
Molly woke with a start, her heart in her throat, terror coursing through her veins. The floor was cold, her body shivering in the early morning light. Her face was cold from the floor, and she lifted her head. There was a shoe next to her face, a black high heel, shiny and expensive. Molly stared at it, wondering how a shoe got in her bed, when she was certain she'd never owned one that looked that nice.
There was a moaning coming from off to the side, and Molly sat up, hand to her head, looking for the source of the noise. She looked around her in confusion, unable to understand why she wasn't at home, in her bed. She was in a very large room, the light grey and weak. She had the impression of wood, a vast space above her, and white ghost like shapes in the distance. Her eyes refused to work right, her head was pounding in time with her heart. Molly groaned, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach, dizzy. She put a hand to her temple, and pulled it away, blood smeared on her palm.
It was the blood that brought back the flood of memories, the night before. She had been confronted by a nightmare, a woman with the eyes of a monster.
"Molly?" It was a whisper, spoken from a voice that sounded weak and dry. Molly sat up further, looking down to her other side. Sally Donovan was sitting up against the bars of their cage, her head braced by her hands. Her curly hair was a wild mess, and she was pale, which was a frightening look on her naturally dark skin. Molly stared, unable to understand why she and Donovan were in a large metal cage in a very big ballroom.
"Sally? Are you alright? What happened?" Molly whispered, nervous as her voice echoed in the large room. She dragged herself over to the other woman, her legs shaking, refusing to work right. The exertion made her head hurt worse, and she gasped, grabbing the solid metal bars of their cage for support. Sally looked ill, and Molly could see no signs of injury, nothing similar to her head wound. She knew from years of looking at mangled corpses that she had been hit, very hard, in the head, and she most likely had a concussion. Molly reached out to Sally, who looked like she was going to get ill.
"She got me, I couldn't move. Greg….. Called me back…. She got me there." Sally tried to explain, and she moaned, as talking hurt her head. "Think she drugged me."
"Sybil Moran? Is that who did it?" Molly whispered, putting her hand on the other woman's forehead. She was a little cold, and her eyes were focusing slowly. She was acting like she had a severe hangover, and Molly looked around their cage for a bucket, anything in case Sally decided to throw up.
It was then she noticed the other occupant, the owner of the very expensive black heel. She was laying on her stomach, long brown hair strewn across the floor, her suit wrinkled. Molly gasped, and crawled over to her, reaching a hand out to her shoulder, gently turning her onto her back.
"Oh dear God, Anthea?" Molly whispered, and she put her fingers to the woman's neck, looking for a pulse. She found it, nearly collapsing in relief. Her fingers traced the vague outline of bruises along the MI6 agent's neck. Anthea had been knocked out by a stranglehold, and her neck was bruising. It had been fast and hard, and she would most likely find it hard to talk. Molly hadn't seen Anthea for weeks, almost two months ago. She had stopped by to see Molly at St Bart's to tell her Sherlock was well, and was wrapping things up. That he should be home soon. Molly had been elated, and then swamped by guilt. She got to know that Sherlock was coming home, while John…
"Who is that?" Sally asked, her voice getting stronger. She seemed to be winning the fight with her rebellious stomach, and her color was coming back.
"It's Anthea. She's hurt, knocked out." Molly said, and she saw her lab coat tossed off to the side. Molly leaned over the prone woman, and snagged a corner of it. She balled it up, and put it under Anthea's head. Her pulse was strong, but Molly needed to check for more injuries. Surely a strangle hold wouldn't keep her under longer than Molly's blow to the head, or Sally's drugged state. Molly ran her hands through Anthea's hair, noticing it was far softer than hers. Anthea had no bumps, no blood. She hadn't been hit.
"Anthea? Can you hear me?" Molly asked, gently squeezing her shoulder. Nothing.
"Is she ok?" Sally slowly dragged herself over to them, her strength returning.
"I don't know, she isn't waking up." Molly said. She lifted her head quickly, the sudden movement making her temple throb. There was a noise behind them, outside the cage.
Sally stilled, her hands clenching into fists on her knees. Her eyes went bright with anger, and fear. Molly started to shake, and turned around, slowly. She kept Anthea behind her, the woman on the floor the most vulnerable of the three of them. Sally tried to stand, but her legs collapsed beneath the residual effects of the drugs.
A man was standing outside the cell, clad in black tactical gear, his bare head shaved down to the skin. He was large, well-muscled and scarred. His face was void of all emotion, and the gun on his hip drew Molly's attention. He didn't speak, just stared through the bars of their cage. He looked through Molly as if she wasn't a person, like she was a thing, an animal. No recognition that she was a frightened woman in a cage, who wanted nothing more than to go home. The sun was rising, and the room was getting brighter. Molly could see farther, and the vast space echoed with the silence, oppressive despite its beauty.
"Who the hell are you? Do you have any idea the shitstorm you've invited by kidnapping us?" Sally snarled, rage dripping from every word. She was glaring daggers, and she fought to stand. Molly reached out and caught her hand, keeping her down. "Oh brilliant idea, let's kidnap a police officer, Sherlock Holmes's lab partner and the personal aide to the most powerful man in Britain. Really smart."
He didn't answer, his hand resting casually on his gun. Molly shivered, and tightened her grip on Sally's hand. She wanted to speak, to tell Sally not to provoke him, but she couldn't get air into her lungs to form the words. Her eyes dropped to his other hand, and the bag he held. It was a plastic grocery bag, full of water bottles, and what looked like fruit.
He snapped free the strap holding his gun in its holster, the sharp noise making Molly jump. She held tighter to Sally, and the police woman gripped her hand back. Her face never lost its derision, but Molly felt her fear in her hands.
"What's wrong with her?" His voice was unexpected, rough. As if he wasn't used to talking to people. He vaguely motioned at Anthea, his face skeptical and cautious.
Molly struggled for words, as Donovan growled at the guard. She knew she should say something, Anthea may need help, more than Molly could give her.
"She hasn't… She won't wake up. I think something happened when she got grabbed." Molly stammered out, barely able to get the words out. "She needs help."
The guard's face finally twitched, with the faintest glimmer of annoyance, and something akin to nerves. He dropped the bag, and pulled his gun. Molly gasped, fearing she'd made a mistake. Donovan tensed, preparing to do something. Molly wanted to scream, but she couldn't. Fear was crawling around inside her stomach, making her feel ill. He brought the weapon up, and pointed it right at Donovan's face. Molly felt a sensation like cold water running through her muscles, convinced she was going to see Donovan die.
"Move back, both of you. Other side of the cage." He said, his intent to shoot sincere if they didn't do as he ordered. His eyes were empty of compassion, and Molly found herself pulling Donovan back, towards the far wall. Anthea was still out, limp, unaware. Donovan struggled against Molly, but the guard still had his weapon pointed at her face, and she went grudgingly. She moved in front of Molly, keeping the pathologist behind her, up against the wall.
The guard kept his gun aimed at Donovan, and with his other hand pulled out a set of keys, jiggling them one-handed until he found the one he wanted. Without once taking the weapon off Donovan, he approached the door to the cell, and inserted the key. He paused, and his eyes went to Anthea, still unresponsive on the floor. She hadn't moved, no reaction. He turned the key, the metal screeching slightly. He paused again, eyes locked on Anthea, but the gun was still trained on Donovan. Still Anthea made no reaction, and he seemed satisfied. He pulled open the door, and stepped in. Donovan tensed up, but the weapon was still pointing at her face, and she sat back.
He stepped in fully, his large frame and gun between them and the door to the cell. He stood over Anthea, and nudged her roughly in the ribs with his boot. She moved limply with the motion, and didn't respond. Donovan started to shake, and Molly wrapped her hands around the other woman's arms. The guard shifted his focus from Donovan down to Anthea, and he nudged her again. She must have made a small movement or response, because he suddenly had the gun pointed down at her. Molly wanted to scream, convinced he was going to shoot the woman as she lay helpless on the floor.
"Leave her alone!" Donovan snarled, and his eyes raised back to her, the gun still pointed down. His attention was split, and that's all Anthea needed.
She moved like the wind, faster than thought. Her body twisted on the floor, legs tangling with his, her hands raised up fast as a snake, locked on the gun. She kept moving, rotating on the floor, and he fell backwards, his own weight pulling the gun from his hands, and into Anthea's grasp. He fell, and Anthea brought her feet up under her, turning the gun around, her hands gripping it firmly, pointed straight into his face as she rose up over him. It was over in seconds, the large guard disarmed by the MI6 agent, who was very much all right, and her eyes were burning with righteous fury.
"Donovan!" Anthea snapped, and the cop surged to her feet, racing forward, one foot raised over the guard's head. She brought her heel down hard on his temple, his head hitting the solid wood floor with a sickening crack. Adrenaline had cleared away the last of the drugs, and left her shaking with anger.
He wasn't dead, his pulse still beat strongly in his neck, visible even to Molly, who was stuck in the corner against the wall, struck dumb by the last ten seconds. He wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.
"Get her up, we need to move." Anthea ordered, reaching down for the keys that had fallen to the floor. Donovan turned back to Molly, pulling her up roughly to her feet. Anthea stepped out of the cage, kicking off her high heels as she went, gun sweeping the room, eyes tracking everywhere, looking for movement. Donovan had Molly in a death grip, and dragged her out behind the agent.
Anthea led the way to the nearest door, weaving her way through the tables and shrouded furniture in the large room. Pressing her back against the wall next to it, she reached out a hand, and very slowly turned the handle. It was unlocked, and Anthea pulled only enough to crack the door open. Anthea looked through the thin space, holding her breath. Donovan kept Molly behind her, pressed against the wall on the other side of the door. Anthea waited, and heard nothing. She grabbed the door, intending to pull it open enough for them to sneak through. She held the gun up, and nodded at Donovan to get ready to move.
The shot exploded in the room, ricocheting like thunder. The gun spun from Anthea's hand, and she screamed, the wood of the door absorbing the bullet, splinters erupting like shrapnel from a bomb. Anthea clutched her hand to her chest, blood running between her fingers.
Donovan and Molly turned, and Molly bit back a scream of her own. Death, once known as Sybil Moran, stood behind them, the far door open. She was standing near the cage, her disabled guard at her feet. She had taken her shot from almost twenty-five feet away. She held a beast of a handgun in a grip that was flawless, her stance screaming lethality. The weapon looked far too big for the slim assassin, yet she handled it with ease. The black gear she wore gave her the look of a reaper, Death come for them at last. Her eyes were rabid, yet her face was empty of all thought and emotion. She emanated a level of rage that was beyond madness, from just her eyes.
Her men swept into the room behind her, from the same door she had used. Their weapons raised, over a dozen guns pointed at the three women. Anthea was breathing rapidly through her teeth, trying to stop the blood flow from her hand pressed to her chest. Death's men surrounded them, and the door at their backs opened, and Donovan and Molly found themselves held at point-blank range, two guards entering from the hall. A third guard grabbed Anthea, and threw her to the floor, his gun trained on her face, his boot on her stomach, holding her down. She groaned quietly as he pressed harder, and she stopped resisting.
"I was going to do this nicely, ladies." Death said, and she lowered her gun. "With a degree of civility, even."
Her men kept theirs aimed at the women, and Death looked down at her guard, the disabled one at her feet. She reached down, grabbed his collar, and single-handedly dragged his long form from the cell. She was tall and slim, but all muscle, and the ease with which she handled him was eerie. She pulled him towards the women, and as she passed, her men adjusted their aim, so that their line of fire would not endanger their mistress. She dropped him within feet of her prisoners, and they could hear him moaning, coming around. Death faced the women, her eyes burning like fire. Her black boot flashed out, cutting off his moans, pressing on his throat. He was choking, and her expression hadn't even changed. Not once had she shown any emotion on her face, just with those eyes…
"Since you have decided to be foolish, I am no longer playing nice." She fired without once taking her eyes from the three women. The large-caliber bullet destroyed the prone guard's head; blood, bone and brain matter exploding across the floor. Blood splashed up, droplets misting across her cheeks. Death didn't react at all, not caring she was covered in blood. The ruin of his skull sprayed onto Molly and Donovan's feet and lower legs, hot and wet. Molly screamed into Donovan's shoulder, closing her eyes too late to avoid seeing, and the police woman shuddered. Anthea looked on with a helpless expression, her eyes draining of rage at the sight. Death's men hadn't even flinched at the execution of one of their own, their obedience to her will absolute.
"Strip them down, and back into the cage. No more chances." Death holstered her gun, pulling her foot away from the corpse. "And clean this trash up."
It had been a full day since the women were kidnapped. Nearly twenty-four hours, and there was no sign, no whisper, no hint of where Death was hiding them.
Mycroft had shaken himself from his shock, and with one terse command, his minions flew through London, tearing it apart. Every crumb of a clue was inspected, and tossed up the line for consideration. Every CCTV feed scrutinized, every email searched, and Mycroft hacked into the cell towers, attempting to track Death via GPS and texts. Nothing. Not a scent of a trail.
Sherlock had sent the word out to his Homeless Network, and the whole of the city knew before breakfast that Sherlock Holmes was hunting for someone. Villains scurried into their bolt holes, as Sherlock's network tore through the underbelly of the city. They sent back a constant stream of information, but none of it was helping. All it served was to make it clear that wherever Death was, she wasn't inside London.
Lestrade had alerted every precinct in the city that an officer had been kidnapped, and the news stations picked up the story. Donovan and Molly made the news, their pictures sharing airtime with the coverage of the destruction at CAM Tower. Police officers were on high alert, patrols scouring the city. Mycroft had refused to let Anthea's picture be released, so the only people who knew she was missing were Mycroft's, and Sherlock's.
The entire city knew to some degree that something was very wrong, from the housewife washing dishes, eyes on the telly, as she waited on the kids to come home from school, to the street beggar hunting in the Underground for an undiscovered lair.
All of London was looking for Death, and her three prisoners. The day wore on, and failure was chasing at the heels of the sun.
Sherlock didn't know what time it was, all he knew was that the lessening light was making it hard for him to see the maps strewn across the floor of the room he was using. Sherlock had commandeered one of the larger sitting rooms of his brother's house, and he had sent Mycroft's people out for maps of all of London, and the surrounding countryside.
John was sleeping on a settee along the wall, one Sherlock had unceremoniously shoved out of the way. He had maps on his chest, one laying hallway across his face. Sherlock didn't even know when John had succumbed, so intent was he on finding the connections between Blackwood Chemical and Death. His intuition was screaming at him that there was something there, something important.
I know she chose that place for a reason other than convenience. It means something to her. She has a connection to it, or Moriarty did. She does this all for him; to avenge his death. Never mind that he willingly took his own life, she needs to avenge him.
This is all very personal. She took Donovan from Lestrade, Anthea from Mycroft, and Molly from me. She corrected Moriarty's mistake by taking Molly, she knows Molly matters to me. She has both inspired us by taking the women, and crippled us. For all the resources at our disposal, even if we did find them, she would kill her prisoners if we made one move against her. She has every advantage, and she knows it. Why take them?... Ah, that's why. To hurt us. To hurt me. The more pain we feel, the greater her revenge.
She has everything she needs, but for one thing. She doesn't have John yet. I know that's her endgame. She gets John, she kills me. I would Fall from any height to save him, and this time there will be no safety net. If she gets John, I am dead. She has had plenty of chances to capture John since my return, since Moran's arrest. John was on his own for a few days before he returned to Baker Street. Before he became my lover….
Why did she wait? I would've sacrificed myself for him regardless of the context of our relationship, why would she wait until we were together before starting this? Why not shoot me as I stepped out of my flat, or kill me with a car bomb?
She has had the advantage on me for years, not just since my Return. How does she want me to die?
There was a ruffling of papers from the settee, and the maps that had been resting on John's face fell to the floor as the doctor moved in his sleep. Sherlock stopped his whirling thoughts, placing them away for the moment. The sight of John relaxed, sleeping, stole into his heart, stirring the emotion that John had taught him was love. Sherlock had known the touch of love before, but it was different with family. There was almost no need to mention it in one's family, it was something instinctively understood in some ways. Taken for granted as well, for that very reason. But what Sherlock felt for John was beyond that basic emotion of familial love, so far beyond the reach of words. Sherlock could not describe how he felt about John, other than to reduce it to the simplest form. Love.
He had tried that night that John had lost the fortune cookie bet, but Sherlock knew he hadn't done it justice. To just tell John he loved him seemed wrong, as if he were doing it a disservice, what he felt. When John had snapped in the park, the words had come flowing freely of their own accord, as if it were instinct. Sherlock felt in welling up in him now, the urge to protect, shelter his doctor, all stronger in him every day. Sherlock hadn't comprehended the depth for emotions humans were capable of, and it staggered him.
He quietly moved to John's side, and knelt beside the settee. Sherlock lowered himself down until he could look John comfortably in the face, his arm along John's side, his hand resting on his doctor's shoulder. John stirred, but didn't wake. His face rested on Sherlock's hand, as if he knew it was there, even in sleep. The fading light finally gave up, and the room fell into shadow. The hallway lights were on, and cast their light deep into the room, just shy of the settee where he knelt next to his doctor.
Sherlock heard people moving about the house, the marble and wood letting sound carry easily. Mycroft's and Lestrade's people had been in and out all day, and even with all the armed law enforcement surrounding them, Sherlock hadn't let John out of his sight once. Even when John had gone to the bathroom, Sherlock had prowled outside the door. John had merely raised a brow at him, and didn't fuss. Sherlock had been thankful; he couldn't handle the danger John was in if his doctor wasn't cooperating. Or at least allowing Sherlock to stalk him everywhere. The shift in their relationship somehow made it more enjoyable to be by each other's side, constantly. Sherlock may have complained in the past about needing to be left alone, to be at peace, but those moments were gone now. Gone since the instant he realized he had peace with John, and only John.
He felt that peace now, chasing away the worry, the frustration, the disturbing, nagging fear he felt for the very essential Molly Hooper. Sherlock had locked his fear away, refusing to feel it, letting his determination and anger fuel him instead. But now as he rested, he felt that fear for her come sneaking out into the light. Sherlock examined it, and let the peace John gave him exile it. He would do her no good if he was frightened, scared. She was strong, far stronger than even she knew. Sherlock saw it; in the years since the Fall it had grown. Molly would survive until he came for her. He would, and she only needed to make it until he did.
Sherlock was tired, but he refused to sleep. The respite he took for himself now was all he would allow himself.
There was a commotion out in the hall, running feet. Someone was shouting, and Sherlock stood rapidly, his movement waking John.
"What's going on?" John asked, just as a figure appeared in the doorway. It was one of Mycroft's aides, panting heavily from exertion.
"Sir, we need you downstairs, now." The aide didn't even wait, he turned and ran back the way he had come.
Sherlock ran after him, John behind him. They caught up to the aide at the bunker door, Sherlock impatiently shoving him to the side as the door opened.
"What is it? Did you find them?" Sherlock demanded of Mycroft, Lestrade at his side. They were beneath the main bank of screens, and the sorely abused aide took his seat at the station.
"No, someone has found us." Mycroft said, and pointed to one of the screens, where an email icon was blinking. It was the same address that Sherlock had sent his data packet to, full of his research from St Bart's. "No one knows that address other than you, Sherlock."
Sherlock felt his heart jump in his chest, and he inhaled sharply.
"Molly knows it, she saw me enter the address while we were working together in the lab. Death has Molly; this is from her." Sherlock looked at Mycroft, his eyes a mix of guilt and fear. "Open it."
"Sir that may not be wise…" The aide stammered, and Mycroft waved him into silence.
"Scan it quickly, then open it. Hurry."
The scan was quick, over in a flash. It was a video file, a large one. There was a message under the file, simple.
Someone wants to say goodbye.
The aide clicked on the file, and opened it on the largest screen.
The video started out in the dark, vague shadows and hints of movement. Whoever was holding the camera soon figured out what they were doing, as the lighting improved, and the picture came into focus.
It was a simple wooden stool placed in front of a white backdrop cloth. The sounds in the video echoed, as if in a large room. There was a scuffling noise, and the men watching the video all stood straighter as they heard a woman's voice complaining in the background. It was Sally Donovan, and she was swearing something vile as she was dragged onscreen. Two men in black masks held her arms, which were handcuffed in front of her. Lestrade pushed forward, and he held his breath as Donovan was forcibly sat on the stool. She had nothing on but a short grey shift, as if she were wearing a large man's shirt, covering her just past her thighs.
One of the men backhanded her, the other holding her up under the vicious blow. Blood dripped from her mouth, and she spit it on the floor. Lestrade backed up a step, hands going to his head, his face a mask of anger and fear.
"Enough." A voice came from the video, off screen. It was cultured, sweet, amiable, and all wrong for the context of what they were watching. "Sally, dear, do I need to remind you again of what happens when you are foolish?"
They watched in dreadful surprise as Sally immediately stopped struggling, and sat still on the stool, her eyes flashing brightly with terror. She sat still, so still the men let her go, as if expecting her full compliance. They left the screen, and the sleek form of Death walked into view. She wasn't masked, she had no need. She walked gracefully behind Sally, one delicate hand trailing along the police woman's shoulder, tugging playfully on her tight curls. Sally started to shake, her eyes bright with tears she refused to shed. She seemed to be staring straight out to the heart of the man who watched her, wishing she were free. Death turned to the camera, and they could clearly see the madness on her face, her eyes burning with insanity. She smiled, and kept one hand lightly on Sally's shoulder.
"Gregory Lestrade." She said, her voice magnetic, as if she were there in the room. "Do listen carefully. Go ahead, Sally. Say your piece."
Death smiled encouragingly at Donovan, who bit her lip before sitting up straighter on the stool. Some fire came back into her eyes, and anger tightened her jaw.
"I won't play your game, you crazy bitch." Sally growled. She flinched back, as Death lifted her hand, as if she expected a blow. Instead Death placed her fingers lightly under Sally's chin, and she leaned in close, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. She whispered something in Sally's ear, and the fight drained out of her. Gone, just gone. Sally was defeated by a kiss from Death.
Death pulled back, and walked a few steps away, and the camera zoomed in on Donovan.
"My name is Sally Donovan." She whispered, as if reciting something from memory. "I am a sergeant at Scotland Yard. My superior officer and department head is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I have worked for him for several years." Her voice stumbled, like she was afraid to say what came next.
"And I love him. I love you Greg." She choked, and pulled in some air. "It has been the greatest honor of my life to serve at your side, under your command. Yet I carry the shame of making you doubt Sherlock Holmes, that in my stubbornness and contempt I nearly ruined us both."
"I am here because you love me, too." Sally closed her eyes, refusing to look at the camera as she kept going. "Gregory Lestrade loves me. And he loves Sherlock Holmes. And Sherlock Holmes cares for him in return."
"I am here to make a wound, to cut you, hurt you, Greg. Your pain will then hurt Sherlock. Just as my death will hurt you…" She started to sob, her eyes opening at last. "As John Watson's death will hurt Sherlock."
Lestrade was breathing so hard he was hyperventilating, tears running down his face. He had a death grip on the chair beside him, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen. The camera zoomed out, Death coming back into frame. She was walking lightly, almost dancing, and she was flipping a silver bladed knife in the air. Sally sat shivering on the stool, her eyes overrun by tears.
"Greg…. I'm sorry." Sally whispered, as Death lifted the blade high over Sally, her arm holding it at the apex, before bringing it down, so swift their eyes couldn't follow.
Lestrade screamed, his voice full of anguish, despair, terror. He screamed her name, over and over again. His screams filled the great stone room, bouncing off the walls. He pulled back from the screens, pushing past the men standing in horrified shock behind him. Lestrade ran only a few feet, before he collapsed to his knees on the stone floor. He was quietly crying her name, voice choking on his tears.
Sally had fallen from frame as Death struck her with the long blade, limp and landing hard. The others watched, frozen in horror, as Death flipped the red-streaked knife a couple of more times in her hand. They couldn't see Sally's body, they couldn't tell if she were alive or dead. Death stopped spinning the knife, and she held it so they could see. Blood coated the long edge, bright crimson in the light. She smiled at them through the camera, and brought the blade to her lips. The tip of her pink tongue flicked out, and licked the blood from the blade's edge. There was screaming in the background. Women's screams.
The video ended, silence descended with finality in the bunker. Only Gregory Lestrade's sobs could be heard.
Lestrade shattered. John sat with him, as Greg leaned over his knees, head in his hands, tears running from his eyes unchecked. He was quiet now, his voice robbed from him by his harsh screams of denial. He couldn't do anything, capable of only crying, his heart-broken by the loss of his fellow officer, his friend. She had been right in the video message, Sally. He did love her, very much. Lestrade cried for the woman he couldn't save, her life stolen by a madwoman.
John had his arm around Lestrade's waist, and he leaned into the Inspector. He didn't care that it was more personal than either of them would usually be comfortable with, he did it anyway. He put his head to the other man's shoulder, and kept silent. He knew well the terrible burden of fresh grief, knew that there was nothing to do but let the waves carry you under until you drowned in them. The only thing you could do was hope you had something to anchor you through the worst of it.
There were still in the bunker, the room emptied by Mycroft when the video ended. They were on the couch at the far side of the room, in an area that had a vague impression of a break area. John doubted Lestrade was even aware of where he was, much less what the other men were doing. Mycroft and Sherlock sat at the computer station, and they were subtly analyzing the video file from Death. They had the screens turned, so that Lestrade couldn't see. No sound came out, the Holmes brothers focusing on the visual aspects of the video. John watched them, his chin resting on Lestrade. The other man didn't push him away, and John knew that Lestrade needed the contact.
John caught Mycroft looking at them, his eyes haunted. John held his gaze, until the MI6 man let his drift to the broken DI. Sherlock didn't even notice his brother's focus had wandered, so intent was he on the video. John could see the misery, the fear, everything so clear in the other man's eyes, Mycroft so easily read by the doctor. For all his face remained an impassive façade, his eyes held the truth. He wanted to be were John was, and he hadn't a clue how to go about it. He most likely had no idea he even wanted it, too.
John's heart was whispering to him, a hint of an idea. Lestrade was trapped, caught up in his grief, and John was only able to provide a fraction of the comfort Greg would get from the person he truly needed now. Who John knew would help him most. John caught Mycroft's eye as he sneaked another peek at the men on the couch. He held it, and lifted his free hand, and beckoned to the older man. Mycroft got a pinched look around his eyes, conflicted. John beckoned again, letting his own face show his exasperation. Mycroft's eyes darted to Greg, before quickly coming back to his. John tried to impress upon the MI6 man that this was not the time for cowardice, and Mycroft got the hint.
He pushed back from the computers, and tentatively began to walk over. Sherlock didn't even twitch; unaware his brother was attempting to break his own cardinal rule: Don't get involved.
John held tightly to Lestrade as Mycroft came over, the older man's hands alternating between occupying each other, and hiding in his pockets. The elder Holmes had no notion what to do, and John took pity on him. Lestrade was lost in a maze of grief and shock, and he was unaware of everything around him. John extended his free hand as Mycroft came within reach, and grabbed his wrist. John tugged an unresisting Mycroft towards him, as he withdrew his arm from Lestrade's waist. John stood slowly, and pulled Mycroft into his place. He was stiff, and John caught a tremor in his tall frame, as he took Mycroft by the shoulders, and sat him down next to Lestrade.
If the last few hours hadn't been so very terrible, so depressingly final, the look on Mycroft's face would have made John break out with laughter. Mycroft was looking at Lestrade like the other man was the most frightening, and the most wonderful, person in the world. John felt a tiny crack appear in his already battered heart, and he mimed to Mycroft that he should put his arm around Greg, just like John had been holding him.
Lestrade hadn't moved, or responded, or reacted in any way the entire time John had been holding him, in the hours since Sally fell from sight in the video. He had screamed out her name, begging for God to spare her, and then he had fallen silent. Tears of acceptance, and honest grief had been flowing since, Greg Lestrade overwhelmed. He sat with his hands covering his face, head down, shoulders trembling.
When Mycroft sat next to him, and raised a timid hand to the DI's shoulder, Lestrade shook harder, and moved. He didn't move far, or much, but he leaned into that hand. He leaned into Mycroft, and the Holmes brother tightened his grip, and inched closer to Lestrade on the couch. Mycroft lost that fearful expression, and he looked determined, eyes locked on the man next to him. He looked like Sherlock in that moment, when confronted by a case he refused to leave unsolved.
John took one last look at them, before tucking his hands in his pockets, and walked towards his own Holmes.
John walked up behind Sherlock, where he sat in the chair, and wrapped an arm tight around Sherlock's shoulder and neck, tucking his hand under Sherlock's arm. John hugged his love to him, dropping his face into the dark, wild curls on Sherlock's head. John let a tear slip out, and stayed where he was, breathing Sherlock in. Sherlock said nothing, just lifted a hand, and took hold of John's arm in a firm grip, his thumb rubbing on his sleeve.
John held Sherlock, as Sherlock dug for clues. John found himself appreciating Sherlock's capacity to keep going, to focus, regardless of what horrible things were happening. The disciple was tearing them down, one by one. John feared the next video that Death would send, so obvious was her plan to demoralize them, render them useless by grief.
"Sherlock?" John whispered, his face still buried in the detective's curls.
"Hmm?" Sherlock stopped his analysis, waiting.
"I need you to make me a promise." John said, and lifted his face from the soft curls. He turned Sherlock in the chair, his detective facing him. He stepped in close, one hand cupping Sherlock's face, thumb caressing the sharply defined cheekbone, the pale skin.
"What promise?" Sherlock whispered back, his hand rising to hold John's hand to his face. Sherlock was very serious, eyes searching John's for a hint of what he wanted.
"Don't play her game." John said, and he leaned down, his forehead to Sherlock's. "No matter what happens: If she manages to get me, if she threatens to blow up London, if she holds the world hostage- Don't play her game."
Sherlock tensed, but John stopped him, and looked Sherlock deep his eyes.
"You win when you figure out the rules. Promise me you won't let her dictate the game."
Sherlock leaned back, mildly surprised by the intensity and fervor of John's words. His doctor was adamant, eyes serious.
"If she captures me, if she hurts me, you do everything you can to stop her. No matter what happens. Don't let her use me to control you."
"John, I won't endanger…." Sherlock tried to speak, but John cut him off.
"She destroyed Lestrade with a single video. A horrible, evil video, but she still did it. And she's going to do it again. She still has Anthea, and Molly. She wants to kill you, but not until she's killed me. She's controlling everything. Controlling you. Don't let her. Do whatever you have to, whatever it takes. Just don't let her win."
Sherlock couldn't speak, his wish to keep John safe obvious in his face, refusing to listen. John caught him tightly, both hands holding Sherlock still.
"Promise me." John told him, kissing Sherlock firmly. "Now."
"John….." Sherlock shut up at the look on John's face. John narrowed his eyes, and Sherlock found himself slowly nodding.
"I promise." Sherlock whispered, and John swooped down for a kiss, tongues and lips tangling.
Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around his doctor's waist, John flush against him, hands cradling Sherlock's face. The kiss was deep, and powerful. John kissed Sherlock as if they would never have the chance again, both their lives cut short any second. Too many wasted moments, too many years spent pretending they weren't each other's soul mates. Death was stalking them, and any minute could be their last.