Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.

Warning: Extreme sadness, violence, and serious heart-break. If you can stay strong, and read this through to the end, I promise that you will be rewarded in the next chapter. I broke this up into two pieces, as the entire chapter was 30 pages long.

Be strong. Read on. Next chapter drops soon.

Read, enjoy, review.

Chapter Twenty Eight

"Deception, Part I"

Mycroft watched Lestrade breathe; his chest rise and fall in slumber. The DI was passed out in Mycroft's room, where he had ended up the night before. His very big bed somehow seemed smaller with the other man spread across the blankets. Mycroft felt a warm flood of something new swell up from his core, making him want to step nearer to the bed. To reach out, hand to warm skin, and feel his pulse….

John came up behind him in the doorway, looking carefully into the room.

"He still out, then?" John asked quietly, eyes scanning the prone figure. The doctor had helped Sherlock carry Lestrade out of the bunker the night before, and Mycroft's room was the nearest, with a big enough bed. Anthea's room down the hall just didn't seem right to intrude upon. Mycroft had sat in his armchair next to the window, checking updates on his mobile, eyes drifting over the DI as he slept throughout the night. Mycroft had made a very quiet call early in the morning, excusing Lestrade's absence from work at Scotland Yard, temporarily assigning him to MI6. Lestrade was incapable of facing the world today.

John and Sherlock had spent the night, in the room next door. Mycroft felt unsettled, sleeping in the same house as his little brother; something he hadn't done since he was a very young man, coming home from university during the holidays. Having so many people in his home was disconcerting, in the areas he reserved for himself, and only in the last few years, Anthea. She had moved herself in, as constantly being woken in the middle of the night, and really all hours of the day, by incessant calls and orders had been very inconvenient. He had let her do it, and said nothing. She had known he knew, and all she did was smile at him across the table the next day at breakfast.

Mycroft felt a small smile attempt to move him, as he flashed back to the very powerful memory. It was the first time he had ever let someone make their own decision about his life since he became an adult. And Mycroft hadn't minded at all. He knew he rationalized it by saying having her here in his home was more convenient, but truly, he knew it was because he cared. He, the Iceman, Mycroft Holmes, cared for someone he wasn't related too. Mycroft couldn't even remember when she stopped being just another aide, and became his. And now his Anthea was in danger, and he was useless. She was out there in the hands of pure evil. Madness had his girl, his Anthea.

Mycroft tore his gaze away from the DI, uncomfortable. He had been staring at the man sleeping in his bed, and felt a strange sensation creep from the depths as he thought of Anthea. Mycroft was torn, and he didn't know why. It felt like someone was waiting impatiently for him to answer an important question, to do something, and he was lost as to what it was.

"He slept all night. He didn't wake up once." Mycroft murmured back, and stepped back into the hall, pulling the door shut as he did.

"Did you sleep?" John asked, the shorter man looking up at him, a touch of professional concern evident in his eyes. And there seemed to be something else, a secret in the doctor's eyes, like he knew the answer to what was bothering Mycroft.

"I share more than a name with Sherlock, Dr Watson. I rarely sleep." Mycroft said, and he turned down the hall, John stepping with him.

Mycroft paused beside Anthea's room, her door open, the room dark, even in the morning sun. The curtains were drawn, and he could just see the base of her bed, her bags from the aborted trip to the countryside sitting forlornly on the comforter. Mycroft stiffened, and walked on. John stayed a moment, and the evidence of a woman's touch within the space clicked for him. Anthea lived with Mycroft, and John had never known. Sherlock would know, yet he never said anything either.

John watched the tall lanky form of the oldest Holmes disappear down the stairs, presumably going to the breakfast room. The Holmes men were more than they appeared. The younger with the attitude of a sociopath and a hero's heart; and the eldest, cold and ruthless, with a hidden vulnerability, seen only by a few.

Lestrade didn't know where he was. It was beyond him to care. The blanket beneath his face was soft, the scent foreign and eerily familiar. His head was foggy, his eyes burning, his throat sore. Every muscle in his body hurt, hurt badly.

He rolled on to his back, arms shaking. The world hurt, it all hurt. It all hurt. The feeling of the soft bed beneath him was like daggers on his skin. The warmth of the sun stabbed him, the cold air from the autumn chill razed his lungs, the clothes on his back choking him. Every sense was attacking him, ripping into him.

He was rolled under by the torrent of memory. It came crashing in from the darkness of his soul, tearing him apart. He couldn't turn it off, he couldn't escape. Reality tore him to shreds. She was gone. Gone because he loved her, because she loved him back. The blade flashing silver in the light, her blood red on its edge. Her body falling from the stool, limp. He hadn't seen her hit the floor, but the sound had carried across on the video, and he could hear her hit. The hollow thud of a corpse. Not a person anymore.

Sally. Sally. I was supposed to keep you safe. It was my job. My responsibility.

It came back hard, roaring at him. Greg Lestrade screamed under its weight, the force of his grief, fueled by guilt, fighting its way free in the cold morning.

His scream tore through the house, horrendous in its power. Grief shook the foundations of the world within the townhouse.

The two Holmes brothers and John were in the kitchen, grabbing something to eat before heading back to the bunker. Mycroft was standing sipping tea, his mobile in his hands, just staring at the empty screen, wishing he could get some useful bit of information.

Lestrade's scream reverberated through the kitchen, and Mycroft jerked as if he had been stabbed. The teacup hadn't even hit the floor before Mycroft was out the door, running for the stairs. He took them three at a time, not caring that he left his brother and John struggling to catch up. He ran for his room, the man he had left sleeping. Another scream ripped down the hall, bouncing off the hard walls, slamming with terrible force on Mycroft's ears. He had to get to him, there was nothing left to do but push harder those last few steps.

Mycroft tore into his room, and headed for the bed, and the man tearing into the blankets. Lestrade was nothing but misery, guilt, despair, and he couldn't keep it in. Mycroft jumped to the bed beside the detective inspector, and grabbed him. Mycroft pulled him up, ignoring the fists striking out, hands digging, tearing at him. He held Greg tightly to his chest, the police man's screams muffled in his shirt. His hands came up, and Mycroft tensed for the blow, but it never came. Arms wrapped around his torso instead, and Lestrade began to shake. His screams dissolved into sobs, and both men shook with the force of them.

Sherlock was in the doorway, arm out to keep John from going in the room. John braced himself on Sherlock's arm, mouth agape at the sight before him. Sherlock was having trouble on his own, a strong part of him telling him to go in there, to try and offer something to the broken man his brother held so tightly. Lestrade was damn near in Mycroft's lap, his big brother's arms holding Lestrade securely to his chest, one hand buried in the silver hair of the weeping man. Mycroft was crying silently, his own tears falling unnoticed down his cheeks as he let the grief pour out from Lestrade.

Sherlock wrapped an arm around John, and pulled his doctor to his chest. Sherlock lowered his head to John's and the doctor held him as tears slid out from under his lashes. Sherlock was crying, for the man who grieved for the woman he loved so much, and Sherlock cried for his brother, at the tears another human's pain wrought from Mycroft.

John held Sherlock, his own eyes wet, and he watched the two on the bed. John cursed himself for wishing for something to show Mycroft how to be human. It had come, but at a terrible price. It had cost a life.

Anthea sat at the base of the wall in their cage, Molly huddled along her side. The pathologist was better off physically than the MI6 agent, but she was far more traumatized. They had been forced to watch as Death filmed her message to Detective Inspector Lestrade, and the horrible events that followed. Molly had dissolved, a ruined mass of helpless fear and grief. She had sat and rocked herself to sleep the night before, as close to Anthea as she could get. During the night, Molly had cried out in her sleep, something about 'she has his eyes', over and over. Anthea had wanted to ask Molly what that meant, but she knew the other woman was too fragile, and needed what little sleep she was getting.

Anthea knew well that Donovan had been a friend to the pathologist, the two women colleagues for years. Anthea hadn't known the officer that well, only seeing her when she summoned Lestrade to Mycroft's side, or other random moments of chance. But she had been a capable, strong and stubborn woman, and she hadn't deserved the death she had gotten.

It still troubled Anthea, the way she had fallen from the stool, the way Death had struck at her with the blade. It had been very impressive, very showy. As if Death was going for the visual impact of a horrid death, and not an efficient one. Death was all cool efficiency, deadly and ruthless. The way she ended Donovan was out of character. Sally had still fallen, and Death's minions had dragged her limp body from the room, with a trail of blood on the floor behind them.

Anthea watched the men in the room, as they prepped gear, checked their weapons, and talked in small groups. There was more than the dozen or so she had seen the day before, Anthea guessed nearly thirty men in total. Most likely more, as they kept coming and going from the ballroom, and she was having trouble keeping track of that many people through the pain.

Anthea's hand was broken, and she had several small shards of metal and wood imbedded in the flesh of her hand. When Death had shot the gun from her hand, the impact had broken several bones, and the bullet hitting the wood door had added to the damage. Anthea feared she would never have full use of her hand again, even if she managed to survive this captivity. She had attempted to use a portion of her shift as a bandage, and she had stopped most of the blood flow. Anthea held her arm tightly to her chest, and blood had soaked through the front of her shift. She had lost close to two pints from the way she felt, weak and dizzy, but not too severe. As long as she moved slowly, she was okay.

She had dozed overnight, waking from the pain, as her body jerked in sleep. Molly had been a welcome source of heat through the night, as their captors had seen fit to punish them further by removing their clothes and giving them these cotton shifts to wear instead. Anthea had expected it; it was one way to insure cooperation from captives, by making them as vulnerable as possible. Being this close to naked worked. They were tossed bottles of water, and fruit, and every few hours three men armed to the teeth would escort them to the bathroom. One would stay with them the whole time, and Anthea had stamped down her rage at the indignity of it. She hadn't been allowed to tend her hand, roughly pulled from the bathroom once she finished using the toilet.

There was some sort of mission prep going on, as a dozen or so men were being briefed on the far side of the room. Anthea was too far away to see what it was, or to hear, but there was a large map on the wall, and the mission leader was assigning what looked like parts of an assault. Anthea wished she were able to see, to hear. Any information she could gleam from her captivity could help the others find them, or at least stop Death. Anthea knew her time would soon come to be filmed, and she wanted to do everything she could to help Mycroft and Sherlock find Death. Anthea had no hope of surviving her video message. She knew she was going to die.

She watched, half awake, and flooded by a fresh wave of pain when Molly jerked in her sleep. A door on the far side of the room opened, and a small figure stepped into the ballroom. Anthea was too far away to hear anything, but she easily recognized the blonde head of Mary Morstan. The female assassin was wearing normal street clothes, dark denim jeans and a dark blue jumper that hugged her curves and made her hair shine brighter. She walked straight to the group of men getting briefed, and Anthea watched in amazement as the men parted for her easily, their demeanor screaming she was in charge. Mary perused the map on the wall, asking questions of the mission leader, and he answered promptly, filling her in on details. Mary nodded, and continued to study the map. Whatever was going to happen, it would be soon. Mary was planning something, something big.

Mary stood outside the cage, looking down at the women sleeping on the floor. Mary knew Molly, but she had never met Anthea. Donovan had been a taboo subject back when she was with John, as the very mention of that woman had enraged the doctor. Mary felt her heart stir, as Molly whimpered in her sleep. Anthea was cradling the pathologist with her uninjured arm, despite her own condition. Mary hadn't been present when Anthea had staged their attempted escape, and from all accounts it had been smoothly done. If not for Death's timely arrival, they may have made it outside. But not much farther, as the grounds were patrolled and there were many more men here than the prisoners had seen.

Death came up behind her, and stood quietly at her shoulder, watching the women as well.

"What has you so troubled, Mary?" Death asked, her voice low, avoiding the room's tendency to echo.

"Cruelty is not part of me. I enjoy the spilling of blood, the violence. But cruelty is beyond me." Mary replied, unafraid to speak her mind.

"It is a part of me, though." Death replied, her hand rising to Mary's shoulder. "Don't be worried, Mary. They are only the tools I use to harm my true victims; their ordeal shall soon be over. I promised you, after all."

Mary nodded, remembering the morning she cried in this very room, Death holding her as she wept out her rage and pain. Death had asked for her help, detailing her plans for Sherlock Holmes and his friends. Mary had agreed to participate, for two things in return. That she help Mary stop Magnussen, and to obtain a new identity; and the last was that she show mercy. Not to Sherlock or John- but to the tools of their destruction.

"They have only a few more hours in that cage, before the second stage is over, and then they can join Donovan. A merciful end is what I promised you, and they shall get it." Death gripped her shoulder one more time, and walked away.

Mary stared down at the women, and knew she had bargained all she could for them. Death was not naturally bent towards mercy, but she seemed willing to offer it on Mary's behalf. The woman known as Death only acted close to human when she was with Mary, the madness settled down, like a dragon well fed and sleeping in its cave. Mary did not know what to make of that, the reactions she garnered from Death, just by being in the same space.

Anthea slept on, but Molly stirred. Mary held her breath, afraid the woman had heard; that she was awake. Molly never opened her eyes, and settled back into Anthea's side. Mary waited, and when Molly remained still, she pulled herself away from the cage, and back to the mission.

Sherlock was pawing through stacks of paper, most of it twenty years old, and many of them older. He was looking for the deed to Blackwood Chemical, to see who owned it. Sherlock knew, he just knew, that there was something connecting Blackwood to Death. To Moriarty. She had deliberately chosen the chemical facility as her debut. And she knew it wouldn't be easy for Sherlock to find the connection. It was as if she had foreseen his difficulty, and set the information like a time-delayed bomb of knowledge. Sherlock would find the connection either too late to stop her, or just when she needed him to know.

Sherlock had sworn to John that he wouldn't play her game, and so he needed to find the connection sooner rather than later. He had been a step behind this woman the entire game; she was a match indeed for her deceased master. Her ability to show them all just how helpless they were to stop her was daunting, and Sherlock felt a grudging sense of admiration for her skills. She outclassed even The Woman.

Sherlock had attempted to find the information digitally, but had come up empty. Most records within the system had been updated, but recent titles and deeds had been digitalized as priority, and the older bits of information had been wait listed for input. Anything at the twenty year mark or older would eventually get there, and since the property was condemned by the government and promptly forgotten, it was unlikely it would have even been entered into the system.

So Sherlock had sent some minions out for the hard copies of records for properties in the area of Blackwood, raiding the public records offices with impunity. They had brought back boxes of paperwork, and Sherlock wasted no time in tearing them apart.

He had given up trying to trace the email, the one sent with the video. It was designed for secure transactions, to be untraceable. They were foiled in tracking Death by their own precautions.

It was late afternoon now, approaching the same time of the previous day's video message. John had been right, last night when he confessed his fears that Death would send a video until her hostages were dead. Sherlock dreaded the news of its arrival, for it would been he was failing. Sherlock Holmes didn't fail. Ever. And yet he was. He was letting this madwoman win, destroy their lives.

Sherlock lashed out, his foot connecting solidly with a nearby chair, sending it slamming into the wall. It broke and the snapping of wood was loud in the room. He closed his eyes; hands curled into fists at his sides, and strove for control. He couldn't let his emotions take precedence; he had to remain focused.

He had studied the video of Donovan's execution for clues to where Death was, where she was holding her hostages. The room the video was recorded in had been large, the floor solid wood, and the backdrop had concealed enough of the wall behind it to offer vague hints of wood lined walls. Large wooden room, shrouded. A place that had been locked up perhaps, as the owners were away? You only shrouded a room when you were expecting to be away for a long time. It made sense, taking over an empty property to hold out in. Not that this revelation was at all useful. There were possibly millions of likely candidates for empty places to hide in in the whole of England.

"Sir?" Came the timid voice from the doorway.

Sherlock turned to the door, his face an emotionless mask, belaying the wreckage of the room, the papers scattered everywhere. An aide was waiting, and Sherlock knew what words were to fall from his lips.

"There's another message. Your brother and Dr Watson are waiting." The aide stuttered, and disappeared.

Sherlock went cold all over, air in short supply. He waited a moment longer, a moment longer to avoid the inevitable. He flashed back to Mycroft's words, uttered so long ago now.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Mary waited with her team, as they geared up in the ballroom. The plan was a complex one, and she needed her people in position before she went. It was a stroke of genius, and Mary found herself idly wishing it had been her idea. Death had planned this all out, substituting Mary for herself, and the change merely improved the whole.

Mary felt for her weapon, a small Beretta snug under her dark blue jumper, tucked into the bottom of her bra. She would only need it if Sherlock intended to kill her once the mission began. And considering the video Death had just sent, and the one being filmed now, he just might. She wouldn't be using her Beretta unless she had no other choice. Death had given her a special weapon to use tonight, and Mary had found herself again impressed by the younger woman's innovation.

Mary felt a vague stirring of guilt, her stomach getting queasy. She stamped down on it hard, eradicating her emotional response. She cast her eyes over to the far side of the room, where Molly Hooper sat dejectedly on the stool, the camera filming. Mary looked away, and her stomach complained again.

She walked quickly from the room, so none of the members of her team would see her get sick. She made it to the bathroom just in time, and vomited into the toilet. She sat on the cool floor until her body calmed down, and she flushed, standing slowly. She didn't know how long she had been in there, but it was long enough for Death to have finished the video. She was waiting just inside the door, and watched as Mary rinsed out her mouth in the sink.

"You've been sick a lot, Mary." Death stated, no emotion in her voice. Her eyes followed Mary's movements, looking for the cause of her illness.

Other than being pale, and thirsty, Mary now felt fine. She glared at her reflection, and blew out a breath.

Mary stared at herself in the mirror, and she felt a quiver of doubt race over her heart. What was she doing? Was she so conflicted that she was making herself ill? Killing for something other than duty and a paycheck was so foreign.

"I'm not used to killing for emotional reasons. It's against all my conditioning, my training. But so is failure. Once I start a mission, I never fail. I'll be fine." Mary said, throwing away her paper towel, and facing Death without showing a trace of doubt.

The younger woman looked at her, head to toe. She seemed to be measuring the depths of Mary's convictions. Mary let her look, knowing she would only see her determination to finish. Mary never failed a mission. Ever.

"I hope so, Mary. One of us needs to survive this, and it certainly shouldn't be me." Death said, and smiled slightly. "Are you ready? I'm about to send the teams into position, and once you've left, I'll send the last video. Should give you enough time to get in place before I head out."

"I'm ready." Mary nodded, and walked out of the bathroom, back into the ballroom. The men were waiting, the twenty-four of them dressed accordingly to their specific duties during the mission. Some were in uniforms, others in street clothing, and the few in tactical gear stood to the side. The far side of the ballroom was empty, the cell unlocked and vacant. Mary felt it again, the stirring of guilt, and pushed it away. She couldn't focus on them now, she had a mission to complete. She knew Death had kept her promise, and that was enough.

Mary turned to face Death, who had stopped next to her gear, where it was waiting on the table nearest the door.

"You choose, Mary. Fist, or asp." Death asked her.

"Fist, please. I'll need to be able to see for this to work, after all. Just make it look good." Mary shook out her arms, and refused to let herself tense up.

Death was very fast, she couldn't deny that. Her fist flashed out from nowhere, cracking Mary across the cheek. The blow staggered her, and one of the men caught her as she stumbled. She put a hand to her cheek, and moved her jaw. Nothing broken. Yet. The pain stirred her blood, and Mary growled in anticipation. Death could do better.

"You hit like such a girl. C'mon, try again. Give me shiner." Mary came back for more, and grinned in delight as Death shook out her fist. Death just cocked a brow at her, a matching grin growing on her lips, and she swung again.

Sherlock entered the bunker, slowly this time. The world was waiting on him, the email unopened, waiting on the screen where the one before it had played. John came to his side as he stopped before the screens, Mycroft sitting at the station, his hands clutching his knees. Sherlock nodded to the aide, who silently opened the message.

Her devotion to you is impressive, Mycroft.

The video played.

Anthea was seen immediately, seated on the stool, and the camera was steady, as if on a tripod, unwavering. She was dressed much as Donovan had been, a short grey shift barely covering her, this one shorter on her than on Donovan.

The bottom hem was ripped off, and wrapped around the ruin of her hand and arm. Blood soaked through the makeshift bandage, and where she held her arm to her chest, blood had dried in a river down her front. Mycroft swore under his breath at the sight, leaning forwards in his chair.

Anthea wasn't crying, nor did she look frightened. Her long slim legs were bare, and crossed neatly on the stool. She was very pale, blood loss obviously the cause. Her hair was a wild mess, her face tired and streaked with blood, but she was lovely despite all that, and there was smile on her lips. She stared into the lens of the camera as if she was there in the room with them all, and she smiled only for Mycroft. Her bright green eyes were shining, affection lighting them from within. There was that special tilt to her lips, the one she gave when she found the world amusing, yet she couldn't summon the bother to laugh at it. Her posture spoke of calm certainty, and grace. Anthea was not afraid.

"Mycroft." Her voice was soft, and strong. She said his name as if it were a benediction, caressing the air in the space between them. "Listen to me carefully, sir."

Mycroft cringed as she called him 'sir', his heart breaking apart in his chest. It was the way she always said it, as if he were the only man in the world worth the title.

"Death has promised me that I may speak my mind if I tell you what she wants me to say first. So here are her words, as she has asked me to repeat them. I had meant to pass you a message, but I know that is folly, for I wish for my last words to be uncensored. For my cooperation, she will make it quick."

Mycroft shuddered, and John held tighter to Sherlock.

"The world knows me as Anthea, and I am an MI6 agent, the personal aide to Mycroft Holmes, director for MI6. I am here because I love you, and regardless of what the world thinks, you love me in return. I am to cripple you, to draw out your will as poison from a wound. My death is to kill your strength. As John Watson's death will kill Sherlock's."

Death moved into the frame of the video, her hands held behind her back. She said nothing, just went to stand behind Anthea's shoulder, and stood waiting. Anthea glanced back at her, and Death nodded, as if giving permission. Death's demeanor spoke of respect, an odd attitude for her to hold for the woman bleeding on the stool. The men watching tensed up, fearing what was coming. They saw no weapon, yet Death's hands were hidden from them, and the fate she held for Anthea could be terrible.

"Mycroft. My Mycroft." Anthea whispered, her voice still clear and strong, yet intimate, private. She didn't care that others were listening, watching. She spoke only for Mycroft.

"The name I carry is not mine, chosen in a moment of silliness, and yet you called me that, embracing it as you embraced me. The day I came from headquarters to be an aide for you was a day I shall never forget. The rumors of your heartless, ruthless ways and cold intelligence had been passed among the agency for years, and everyone dreaded being assigned to you."

Anthea smiled, as if she knew a secret. "I wasn't afraid. I didn't care about rumors, and how big your legend had gotten. And after I met you? Why, I was confounded. Where had these tales of a heartless man come from? Where was the Iceman I had heard so much about? Only fearful fools believed such things, only idiots failed to see past the armor you carry so securely around yourself."

Her smile grew into a grin, and her voice carried a hint of laughter. "Mycroft. All I saw when I met you was a great man. Fiercely intelligent, deeply loyal, with a depth of character that made all other men lesser creatures. Your devotion to our country and your family inspires me. I gave you my loyalty, these past years of my life without hesitation. For you, nothing was too great a price."

"So I want you to know, I fought to get back to you. Back to my life, my life with you. I am injured because I fought to escape, and nearly succeeded. I almost saved the others." Anthea stopped, and took a deep breath. She smiled one last time, her gaze for Mycroft, the man watching her as if she were his world.

"You alone know my real name. Will you whisper it into the dark night air? So that I can hear you say it, and so you know that you will never be alone, no matter where I may be?"

A noiseless sob was ripped from Mycroft, and he nodded, unable to stop the specter of doom that stood behind Anthea. The MI6 agent sucked in a deep breath, pulled her shoulders back, and let it out. She nodded to the woman behind her, and looked ahead, eyes fixed on the knowledge that Mycroft was watching her. She hadn't cried once.

Death came alive behind Anthea, and one of her hands whipped out, unsnapping an asp. The long black weapon cracked loudly in the quiet, and Mycroft cried out in denial. Death spun it in the air, lightning fast, a blur of motion. Anthea didn't flinch, didn't make a move that said she knew her end was coming. The woman known as Death handled the asp like an extension of her arm, and she moved fast. So fast their eyes were denied seeing the blow that ended Anthea. She fell from the stool, as Donovan had, yet they could see her on the floor, limp, hair covering her face. Blood ran from her nose, and dripped to the floor.

Death twirled the asp, the passage of it moving through the air the only sound to be heard, other than Mycroft's strangled breathing. She raised her arm, and slammed the point of the asp into the hard wooden seat of the stool, collapsing the weapon back into its handle. She looked into the camera, her eyes hard, dead inside. Dark eyes, eyes void of humanity.

There was weeping in the background. Molly's tears.

The video ended.

John was crying, his hand over his mouth. Death had stolen his voice, with her wordless slaying of Anthea. Sherlock stepped to his brother, who was still, unmoving in his chair.

Anthea's courage at the very end was beyond the measure of words.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered, hand outstretched to his older brother.

Mycroft moved. His movements were jerky, as if he were being pulled by strings. He staggered on his feet, and pushed past Sherlock. He went to the computer, and began typing. John went to his side, trying to understand what he was doing. Sherlock groaned, his eyes on the screens.

Mycroft typed in the final commands, and John caught it before he hit Enter.

Activate: Holmes, Sherlock. Priority ULTRA. Command Status. EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY.

Mycroft hit the key, and backed away from the computer. He had no words, nothing to say. His face was vacant, eyes shuttered. Mycroft was shutting down. He turned, and Sherlock followed on his heels as Mycroft left the bunker. John chased after them, as the Holmes brothers were close to running now. Mycroft took the stairs as if they weren't there, moving down the hall, and up the stairs again to the upper floor. John chased Sherlock and Mycroft, panic and pain clouding his thoughts. He feared what Mycroft might do, what Sherlock might not be able to stop him from doing. Mycroft ran like he was out of time, that something was going to happen.

He ran in to his bedroom, and to the bed where Lestrade lay resting. He was awake, and the DI's eyes lit up with the horrible knowledge that it had happened again. Mycroft stopped at the foot of the bed, and his shoulders shook with the tears he couldn't release. Lestrade sat up, and put his hand on the spymaster's. He pulled, lying back down, and Mycroft followed him onto the bed. Mycroft buried himself in Lestrade's chest, and the silver haired man wrapped his arms tightly around him.

Sherlock stood at the side of the bed, and looked down at them. Voiceless tears ran down his face, and Sherlock reached out. He put his hand gently on his brother's shoulder, squeezed. Lestrade caught Sherlock's eyes, and even John could see the fury brewing in them, past the pain and grief.

"Stop her." Lestrade whispered to Sherlock. The detective met his eyes for a long moment, and he nodded.

Sherlock rubbed Mycroft's shoulder once more, before stepping away from the bed. Sherlock collected John at the doorway, and shut the door behind them.

Sherlock sat on the floor outside Mycroft's door. No sound came through it, nothing. Sherlock leaned into his doctor's shoulder, as John held his arm. Sherlock didn't know how long they had been there, needing to stay nearby, but unwilling to intrude on the grief inside that room. It had been a long time though. A few hours. Night had fallen, deep shadows everywhere.

"John." Sherlock whispered. John looked up at him, from where he was snuggled up against his detective. Sherlock was breaking apart, guilt seeping into the cracks. Helplessness. Doubt.

"Yeah?"

"Molly is next." Sherlock closed his eyes, tears pricking and burning. "And I'm failing her. I failed Donovan, and Anthea. I failed Lestrade. I failed my brother. I don't know how to find them."

John was quiet, his breathing soft. Sherlock leaned into him more, seeking comfort. Anything. He opened his eyes, and saw John watching him, eyes running with tears of his own. His doctor's dark eyes were sad, and help a depth of compassion that Sherlock had never ceased to be amazed by. John Watson was the better man by far. Such a strong heart, an inner core of steel. He had survived so much, so much injury and pain. And he never failed to offer a shoulder to cry on, to support someone in pain. He never hesitated to step up, to do what was necessary. Brave, and strong. John Watson was a fighter.

Sherlock saw this all in his doctor's eyes. Strength, compassion, a kind and loving heart. Sherlock held his gaze, and breathed John in. Took a calm breath, felt his insides settle. Pain was coming, death was among them. But as long as Sherlock had John, he would never be defeated.

John didn't have to say anything. He could see Sherlock's entire heart, in those brilliant eyes. Eyes that were as lovely as stars in the clear night sky. He saw the doubts the detective was battling, the fear he wasn't enough. That for all his hubris, he truly wasn't enough to save the day. Sherlock may claim to not be a hero, but real heroes never claimed the spotlight. Never took credit for their acts. As if they didn't see their actions that way. Sherlock was a great man, who did amazing things. John knew that if the day came that Sherlock sought out glory for glory's sake, that meant John was long dead and buried, and Sherlock was lost. John wasn't worried, he had everything to fight for. Everything to gain by living a long and meaningful life by this man's side.

"If we can't save Molly, if we can't find Death in time, then we will avenge them."

There was a sound down the hall, and Sherlock and John looked up to see an aide hovering on the top step of the stairs.

Sherlock moaned quietly. John saw the look on the aide's face, and swore, his grip on Sherlock tight. The aide gathered his nerve, and came towards them. His posture clearly said he didn't want to be the messenger.

"Sir." The aide stopped a few feet away. "There's been another message. Just came in."

John held Sherlock's arm, as the taller man shook. John's heart was shattering, and they both sat there, as the aide shuffled on his feet, looking at the floor.

Mollymollymollymollymolly….. Her name circled in Sherlock's head, and he raised his free hand, and bit it, hard. Sherlock was losing it, and they hadn't even gotten off the floor yet. How was he going to survive watching Molly die?

John choked back a sob, and gathered his feet under him. John let the tears fall. The aide caught his eye, and John nodded at him. He seemed to understand, and he ducked his head, and walked back the way he had come. John watched as Sherlock struggled, and John felt his heart break for his lover. John cared for Molly too; she was smart and funny, and kind. She had done the impossible; she had gotten through to Sherlock Holmes, and she had helped him destroy a monster.

"Don't let Death win, Sherlock." John whispered, and he gently tugged Sherlock's hand out of his mouth, rubbing the deep welts where he had bitten down hard. "Molly needs us now. She needs us to see this."

Sherlock let John lead him to the bunker, let John raise his hand to the panel, unlocking the door. Sherlock was fighting for his control, mind retreating already from the pain. Molly had worked her way into his heart, she truly had. Subtle, essential, Molly Hooper.

John sensed that Sherlock was withdrawing, his eyes colder, the light fading. John struggled for words, for anything to say. There was nothing.

Sherlock knew that Molly was already dead. She most likely died soon after Anthea. These video messages were not live, they weren't broadcast. She had been dead for some time now. Sherlock was certain.

Sherlock stopped halfway across the floor. He dropped John's hand, closed his eyes. Sherlock withdrew fully from the world around him, dropped away until he felt nothing from his body. His mind was where he was strongest, his abilities purest, unfiltered by distracting sensory input. Sherlock opened his eyes to his mind palace, and strode through the doors of St Bart's. He took the illusionary halls to Molly's lab, and stepped inside.

Molly was standing beside her microscope, the one he always used. She never complained when he commandeered it; just let him have her seat, a small smile on her face. Her hair was down, flowing free, so long it fell along her whole back, ending past her hips. Only once before had Sherlock seen her like this, long ago in the cold of the morgue.

This Molly smiled sweetly at him, and reached out her hand, her ring finger bare. Sherlock grasped her small fingers in his long pale ones. She looked up at him, and her voice was an echo of reality, stutter free and without nerves.

"You can do this." Her voice pulling him in, Sherlock stepped closer, just their clasped hands between them. "Death was Moriarty's disciple. He assumed that he would cripple you, force you into defeat by using your heart against you. She does the same. She makes the same moves."

Sherlock knew she wasn't really there, that he was merely speaking to himself. He didn't care, he needed this. He lifted a hand, and pushed her hair from her face, behind her ear. Soft strands, warm skin, same scented shampoo as always. He had known this woman for years, and to his everlasting shame, he had let her believe herself invisible. She was the first to ever find his heart, even before John. Sherlock hadn't known what to do with her, so he just let himself maintain the status quo. It had taken John's effect on his heart to open Sherlock up to Molly, at the last-minute. Her seeing him in those last hours before the Fall, the love and sadness in his eyes as he gazed at John, those words she spoke were forever scorched across his memory.

"Forgive me, Molly Hooper." Sherlock said to her, this ghost. More fool he, for always needing to say those words. "That I could not save you. I didn't know how."

"Sherlock, I will always be with you. Here, where I will never be forgotten. But you must go back, you must let me say goodbye." Her ghost was shimmering, her hand in his disappearing. Before she faded from sight completely, she whispered in his ear. "Don't let me be the reason you miss something. You have been so close, so very close to solving this. Don't let her blind you."

"Open your eyes, Sherlock." And with that, Molly was gone. Sherlock tried to summon her back, to give her substance, but she was gone. He felt a deep sense of loss, as if he had lost a part of himself.

John was worried sick. Sherlock was so deeply shut down, eyes hidden to the world, hands clenched at his side. He looked as if he were fighting, striving to hold on to something with all his might. John couldn't think of what to do, or if he should even do anything. The aide was staring, his own exhausted eyes troubled as he watched the man standing so still in the middle of the room.

Sherlock opened his eyes to the bunker, eyes dry, free from pain and misery. The pathologist's ghost had centered him, released his dread, his guilt. Sherlock would face her last goodbye, no matter what happened, without pain or trepidation. She deserved no less from him. Molly had been right. Death was trying to blind him, remove the threat of him by destroying his heart. She won if he let her.

Sherlock moved to the computer, and pushed the aide aside, out of the chair. He scurried away, and Sherlock took his place. He opened the email, saw the customary message.

Unrequited love is so painful, isn't it, Sherlock?

Sherlock queued up the video, and hit play. He stood back up, and backed away, facing the largest screen, getting the best view he could. This farewell was the most important. He would not fail Molly again; he would do his best to avenge her.

Molly was alone on screen, huddled on the stool, shivering. She looked cold, her skin paler than usual, her hands shaking as she clutched a water bottle, half empty. She kept looking past the camera, then back down to the floor. Like a child afraid to speak in front of her class.

Molly took a sip from her bottle, and gathered her courage as best she could. Her eyes lifted to the camera, wincing slightly, as if she was looking in Sherlock's eyes, and not the lens.

"My name is Molly Hooper." She gasped. Her fingers were making the plastic of the bottle crinkle loudly. "I am a pathologist and coroner for St Bart's Hospital. I have worked with Sherlock Holmes for several years. I helped him escape Moriarty on the rooftop. Death says I am not to blame, as I only did what I did because I'm in love with you, Sherlock."

Molly looked down, hands wringing. "And you love another, instead of me."

"So I am to die, to drown you with guilt, for taking such shameless advantage of me, using me to further your own ends. Because Death sees what I really mean to you. My death couldn't hurt you unless you actually cared, so her taking me is proof, I suppose."

Molly wavered, her balance on the stool precarious. Death calmly walked into the picture, and put a steadying hand on Molly's shoulder. Molly looked at her, and blinked slowly.

"Say what you want now, dear. Soon it'll be too late." Death's voice was low, and somehow kind. Molly took another sip of water, the bottle nearly empty, and looked back at the camera.

"Sherlock, I do love you, very much. You were at first a crush, a hopeless dream. Perfect in all the ways I wanted, what I needed. But I knew you were just a dream, an empty wish. You weren't meant for me, but for John. That never stopped me from loving you. Don't be sad, you are worth loving. I regret none of it. Even though I tried to be with someone else, my last thoughts are of you."

"Sherlock?" Molly whispered, and the bottle fell from her grasp, the last drops spilling across the floor. She struggled to stay upright, and Death wrapped her arms around the faltering woman. Molly's head fell back on Death's shoulder, and her eyes latched on to Death's. Her last whisper was low, but came though clearly.

"You have his eyes." Molly sighed. Her eyes shut, and she went limp.

Death lifted a hand to Molly's face, brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. Her fingers slid slowly down to Molly's neck, and hovered over the artery, fingers falling away after a moment's pause.

Death looked down at the floor, and nudged the empty water bottle with her black boot. She lifted her eyes to the camera. The truth of Molly's passing was spilled out on the floor, those last few drops. In her eyes, Sherlock saw a swirling madness. Eyes that looked into him, all the way down to his core.

Molly had died quietly in the arms of Death.