Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
WARNING: Extreme violence, serious heart ache, and if you have been very brave in reading this all the way through, an emotional Hallelujah at the end.
This is the second half of the chapter named Deception. Broken in two due to the size.
Thank you to all my followers, reviewers, and everyone who has stopped by to just take a look.
Read, enjoy, review!
Chapter Twenty Nine
"Deception, Part II"
Sherlock let the video end, the silence in the large room strangely loud. John standing nearby, not touching him, tears running unchecked down his cheeks. Sherlock had watched the whole video as dispassionately as he could, but he found himself distracted. Molly's whisper had distracted him from the horror of her painless death. By the eyes of Molly's killer. They were so familiar. He knew them somehow.
Sherlock didn't hear the alarms coming from another station. He didn't see the MI6 agents pull up the CCTV videos, the city dark from the moonless night, overcast by heavy cloud cover, rain misting on the streets of London.
Sherlock was hunting for something, a clue so vital he could almost taste it. Molly's passing was a wound bleeding him out, but he stepped away from the pain. Rage and a lust for vengeance tore at his concentration. He strove for the temporary peace that Molly's ghost had given him, but it was all too much. He let it slip, determined to come back too it, now that he had all the time in the world to kill the woman responsible for so much cruelty. So much pain.
Her hostages were dead. The buffer between her and his retribution was gone. She had done so on purpose. She wanted a fight, a bloody battle. Death wanted a war. She would get one.
John had pulled himself from his grief, and was wiping his eyes on his sleeve. Sherlock looked to his lover, and knew with every fiber of his being that John would not share the women's fate. He wouldn't let it happen.
"Sir?" It was that aide again.
"What?" Sherlock growled, voice deep with his anger.
"We got a hit on facial recognition. Just now, sir."
Sherlock felt his rage roar in his heart, blood lust pulling him forward. Sherlock went to the station where the CCTV feeds were being analyzed. John followed, and Sherlock grabbed him close, his inner demons screaming at Sherlock to keep John safe. John didn't fight his tight grip, he let Sherlock hold him.
The video was of a dark wet street on the outskirts of London, just at the last CCTV camera station. The rain was falling, the wind carrying it down hard on the small figure struggling to her feet. A dark car had slowed just enough for her be thrown out, before the door slammed, and it disappeared down the unlit street.
The aides zoomed the feed in, and they watched in real time as Mary Morstan climbed to her feet, using the wall on the building she had fallen against. The camera zoomed in closer, and Sherlock felt John tense up at the sight of her face.
The entire left side of her face was heavily bruised, her eye dark, cheekbone bloody, lip split, and she was holding her side with one arm. They watched as she convulsed, and vomited on the sidewalk. Her long black coat barely shielded her from the rain, she was soaked to the bone in seconds. She leaned against the brick wall, and shook from head to toe. Her head fell back, and the horrible contrast between the undamaged half of her face to the nightmare side was extreme. Her bright blonde hair plastered to her skull, its light dulled.
"Dear God, what the hell happened?" John breathed, shock and fear flooding his eyes. John was pale. "Mary?"
Mary began to walk, shaking hard, almost dragging herself along the wall. She faltered several times, and eventually disappeared from view of the camera.
"Find her again, show me where she's going." Sherlock ordered. Something was off. He felt it.
The cameras switched, and the new view showed her walking to the corner, where the lights from an all-night medical clinic glowed. She fought the wind as it tried to drag her to the ground, crossing the distance to the front doors at a slow, painful pace.
"Sherlock, she's hurt, badly. She could be bleeding internally, for her to vomit like that. She needs help." John said, making as if to leave.
Sherlock's hand snapped out, and locked around John's wrist. John stared at him in surprise, his eyes wide. "Sherlock, she's in serious trouble. That clinic isn't equipped to help her. I don't care what she's done, she needs help."
"John. No." Sherlock growled at his lover, making John's face go blank in shock. "John, this is a trap."
"What the hell do you mean, a trap? How the hell do you know? For all we know, Mary tried to stop Death from killing the girls, and that's what she did to her!" John was shouting, fear clouding his eyes. Part of him was refusing to believe, the stronger part of him screaming at him to go help her.
"John. Stop." Sherlock yanked him back, his grip unrelenting on John's arm. "If that was the case, Mary would be dead. She would not be dropped off at a medical clinic, on the far side of town, directly under our cameras!" Sherlock spit the words out, fear forcing him to be blunt. Cruel.
"She is being hunted by the Americans. She is a wanted woman. An assassin. No matter how badly injured she may be, she would never allow herself to be exposed like this. This is a trap. It's a trap for you!" Sherlock was shouting back at him, conviction pouring from him in waves.
John was struck dumb, his eyes alternating between the woman struggling into the clinic, and his lover. Sherlock was pale, his eyes lit from within, fear and anger obvious.
"She knows you well. That no matter how mad you may be at her, the second she is need of medical attention, your instincts to help would kick in. You don't care about whether someone deserves your help, all you care about is saving the life." Sherlock wasn't yelling, but his eyes held John captive, each word being driven home. John felt doubt, in the face of Sherlock's logic. John looked at the video feed, where Mary had stepped into the clinic. Only a few minutes had passed, but John felt like it was an eternity. Sherlock was right. He was always right.
John dropped his head in defeat. He let Sherlock pull him to his chest, and John wrapped his arms around his detective. Sherlock kissed his temple, and spoke over his head.
"Scan the surrounding areas, look for unusual activity. Something suggesting an assault. Five block radius around the clinic. You know what to look for. Do it." Sherlock ordered, and the aides in the room scurried to obey.
"Call up the security teams. I want a team stationed here, two more ready to go as soon as possible. Death is waiting on us."
"She wants you John, and I'm not giving her a chance at you. You're staying here, in this room. No one can get in here, not even the Prime Minister. She cannot get you. This was meant to draw us out, draw you out so she could get you. I'll meet her out there, and use her own trap against her." Sherlock whispered in his ear.
"Sherlock no, let the teams handle this." John lifted his head, meeting his detective's eyes.
"My dear Dr Watson, I have hunted disciples for two years. Let me slay this last one. It is what I'm good at." Sherlock let slip some of his arrogance, pulling a small smile from John at his attitude.
"Dammit, Sherlock. I will kill you if you get hurt." John was terrified. Sherlock kissed him, his mouth demanding, urgent. Sherlock kissed him like they were alone, in their bedroom, with nothing but time on their side. All the time in the world to kiss forever.
"I love you, John Watson." Sherlock whispered against his lips, dipping back in to finish a kiss that should never end.
"Sir, security teams are en route. One stationed here inside the building, and two to go with you." The aide said, and coughed when Sherlock didn't raise his head from John's lips. "They'll be here in ten."
"Send someone for my brother, and DI Lestrade. Inform them of what's going on." Sherlock had pulled back from John reluctantly, his lips clinging until the last second. John's eyes were glazed over just a bit, and Sherlock smiled, despite all the pain of the last week. Sherlock stepped back from John, and addressed the remaining aides.
"I'll need my gear, I left it here last month." Sherlock's orders were sending aides scurrying like mice when a light was turned on; the bunker door opening and shutting, feet running, bodies bumping into each other. "Status updates on the perimeter of the clinic, alert local police to stay out of the area. I need the team leaders here ASAP."
John had never seen Sherlock like this. Orders were flying from him with the ease of long practice. His voice, while always commanding, now had an edge to it. Experience tempered the younger Holmes.
Sherlock didn't even react when Mycroft and Lestrade stumbled into the room. Sherlock cast a quick look over his brother, and the DI. Both were tired, haggard looking, and Mycroft was struggling to maintain his composure. Lestrade looked the better of the two, though Sherlock knew that wouldn't last long. Not once he was told about Molly. It was obvious that whichever aide had gone for them refrained from imparting the news of Molly Hooper's death.
"Sherlock, what's going on? They said you found Mary." Lestrade asked, as Mycroft sat nearby.
"Indeed. Mary is currently playing bait for Death's trap to capture John. I am going to use it to capture both of them instead. Perhaps even kill Death if I get the chance."
"Mycroft, John is staying here. I will not let him be captured by Death. She wants him; my demise is required only after she makes me suffer from watching John die first. You two are staying in here, as well."
"Am I?" Mycroft murmured, a shadow of his usual sarcasm attempting to come back to the surface.
"Yes, you are." Sherlock turned to two aides, who were carrying several large black duffel bags into the bunker. Sherlock motioned for them to drop them on the tables, and he tore into them. Guns, knives, electronic equipment, bullet proof vests, Sherlock flung them all out onto the tables.
John moved to Lestrade's side, his hand on the DI's elbow. Greg looked at him, his tired face lined by grief. He seemed to know already, from the pain in John's eyes. Greg closed his eyes, and bit his lip. There comes a point when it is impossible for the human body to suffer more pain, emotional and physical. Greg Lestrade was there. He merely stood there, broken, and let the pain of Molly's passing wash over him. She had been a friend for many years, longer than Sherlock. And her loss hurt just as badly as Donovan's.
John was at a loss. He felt useless, restricted by the actions of others. John knew that Sherlock was right. If he stepped out of this house, Death would attempt to capture him. And most likely succeed. Sherlock had shrugged out of his jacket, and was in the process of strapping on a bullet proof vest. It was black, like the rest of his gear, and as minimal as you could get without it being useless. John recognized it as a style meant for fast combat, so as not to restrict movement. He was struggling with getting it to fit, and John saw him flinch slightly as he moved his arms back. His ribs were still recovering from being broken the month before.
John went to Sherlock's side, and brushed his hands away. His detective looked at him in mild unease, not expecting help. John knew his way around this equipment; he was no stranger to combat. John concentrated on his hands, knowing if he looked away, he'd start weeping. Actions to focus himself, to stop the pain inside.
"Sherlock, let me." John knew better than to ask Sherlock to stay. Sherlock was the best suited of all of them to capture Death and Mary. He was more than a match for both. "Stop it, I'll fix it."
John adjusted the vest, tightening the straps, aligning the Velcro. "Weapons? I'm hoping you say yes, by the way."
"I'd ask for your gun, but I'd rather that stay with you." Sherlock murmured. John caught his eye, and saw a glimmer of something deep in his detective' eyes. Something that made John happy despite the horrible day. He felt weird for feeling it, as if he were committing a sin. Happiness shouldn't be felt along grief.
"Well, I know you; you'll want your hands clear. Nothing big, no shotgun. Handgun, that one there ought to do nicely." John grabbed the gun, checking to make sure it was loaded. He attached the holster around Sherlock's hip and thigh, letting the weight of the weapon rest on the leg, and not his lover's ribs. "You won't be leading the way in, will you? That vest makes it a bad idea if you are."
"Um, no. I'll be letting the security teams go first. Since my military advisor seems to think I shouldn't." John didn't even blink at Sherlock's comment, just kept adjusting Sherlock's gear. He strapped a knife to Sherlock's other thigh, the blade long and wicked.
Sherlock's hands were up away from his sides, letting John fix his gear, and he made no noise of complaint. His doctor's hands were quick, efficient, and moved with the ease of a man who knew his way around weapons. It served to remind him that no matter how many times people underestimated John Watson (himself included, ashamedly so), the man was more than a doctor; he was a soldier, too.
"John?" Sherlock whispered, as John made his final adjustments.
"Yeah?" John's voice was just as low.
"I should have taken you with me, after the Fall." John looked up at him. Their eyes met, held.
"Yes, you should have. But that's not important now."
John grabbed his shoulders, and kissed him firmly on the lips. "The team leaders are here, go plan your trap."
Sherlock raised a hand to his face, and brushed his thumb over John's cheek. "Yes sir, Captain Watson."
"Mary, Sherlock is en route to your position. He has two security teams with him. John Watson is not with him." Death's voice whispered in her ear, through the ear bud that was almost invisible to the naked eye. Mary didn't reply, just nodded slightly. She was next to the front window of the reception area, waiting on the doctor to see her. Death had people watching, across the street on the roof. So far, so good. Exactly as planned.
"Miss Morstan?" The nurse was at the door, and Mary stood up slowly. She avoided eye contact with the other people in the room, making sure not to draw attention to them. They were all waiting too, though not for the doctor. She had six men in the building already, six more waiting around the building, and six more outside of that, dispersed. She knew Sherlock would see the six outside the building, as they were being deliberately bad at being not obvious. He most likely saw the men within the building, the ones out in the reception area. Mary knew there was no way he saw the others, as they had been in place for hours. They would come in behind Sherlock's assault teams, and lock them in.
Mary smiled. She had Sherlock outnumbered. He had two teams, which meant twelve men. Eighteen men to his twelve. And she had her pocket aces. Mary struggled not to smile, as satisfaction swept through her. Death was a genius.
Mary followed behind the nurse, and as soon as the door to the reception room shut behind them, Mary roped her arm around the woman's neck. She dug in deep, the sleeper hold knocking her out within seconds. Mary dragged her to the end of the hall, and tied her up with the zip ties she pulled from her coat. She didn't even bother trying to hide the unconscious woman; Mary swept into the patient's rooms one by one, clearing them, and she left the doors open as she went down the hall. She reached the end, and kicked in the door. The doctor didn't even have time to be surprised before Mary took him out with her Taser, the voltage snapping loudly in the room.
Mary ejected the used cartridge, and tossed it at the doctor's quivering body. She grabbed his collar, and pulled him to the side. She kicked him in the head, insuring he stay down. Mary replaced the spent cartridge, and put the Taser back, inside her coat, under her arm. Her Beretta was still snugly in place, and she had no intention of using it, unless this whole op went sideways. Mary had another surprise in mind for Sherlock, which hung in wait along her back, under her coat. Death's present was heavy, but Mary didn't mind. Sherlock most definitely would though. Mary grinned, her bruised face stretching painfully. She was thoroughly enjoying herself.
Mary put a finger to the ear bud, and spoke. "Death, I'm in, civilians disabled. Waiting on Holmes in target location."
"Copy that, dear. Will advise when he arrives." Death replied.
Mary looked around the room, making sure she hadn't missed anything. This location had been scouted out days ago, and vetted before Death chose this as her ambush. She walked to the door, and she stumbled. Mary caught herself along the wall, and fought her stomach. Nausea overrode her insides, and she struggled not to be sick on the floor.
She breathed in through her nose, and out slowly through her mouth. Again. Her stomach subsided, and Mary was left dazed. She had thrown up on the sidewalk, and Mary had blessed her stomach bug for adding to her performance. But now she wondered. Wondered if she was really sick at all. Wondered if it was her heart trying to tell her that what she was doing was the wrong thing, or if something else entirely was at fault….
Mary's heart contracted, her heart rate jumping. Adrenaline coursed through her, and she realized with a thought as powerful as a lightning strike that she had been an idiot. How blind can I be?
Mary touched her ear bud, and asked for a status check on Sherlock's approach.
"He's ten minutes out. Standby."
Ten minutes. Mary spun around, and ran for the cabinets, slamming open the doors, and closing them just as quickly when she didn't see what she needed. She kept checking, her heart in her throat.
A clinic this small won't send out for blood tests, they'll use the store kits first….. Where are they? Yes!
Mary tore open the pregnancy kit, and locked the door. The test took five minutes. She would know in six if she would be working to kill John Watson, or save him. Sherlock living through this would depend on whether he came to kill her.
John watched the operation unfold on the screens, Lestrade beside him, Mycroft back in his chair next to the computers. Everything was quiet, as most of the aides had been dismissed by Mycroft. Only a few were left, the great room absorbed by the action on screen. Mycroft had most of his composure back, unless you looked him in the eyes, and you saw nothing but pain. Mycroft was pretending, acting like he was fine. Much the same with Lestrade. John had lost friends in combat, and his mind automatically compartmentalized the agony, and let him function. Never mind that his heart was broken, so badly damaged by the last few days he feared he might never heal from it.
The recon team had reported seeing nine men, plus Mary. A sniper on the roof across from the clinic, five men outside the clinic, and three on the inside. Mary was now out of the reception area, and presumably in with the doctor. There was no sign of Death anywhere.
Sherlock had looked disappointed, but then declared that capturing Mary would be the next best thing. She would lead them to Death soon enough. John had been alarmed, and part of him was afraid of what Sherlock meant.
"Death was the woman in the park, John. Mary helped Death evade the surveillance teams. Magnussen sells out Mary for information on Mycroft, and within days CAM Tower is blown up, and Magnussen presumed dead? John, Mary is involved, completely." Sherlock's voice flashed at John from his memory, before he had kissed his love goodbye, the bunker door sealing shut behind him.
"Sir, strike team is on site. They expect to breach in three minutes." The aide said, the same one who had been present through the last few days. He was listening to all the radio frequencies, and the video coming from the CCTV feeds, and the cameras mounted on the strike team's weapons. Sherlock had refused a video mounted weapon, opting instead for a radio uplink directly to the bunker, so John and the others could hear him, and not have it filtered through the rest of the chatter.
John watched the varying screens, his breath catching as he caught random shots of Sherlock among the strike team. His lover looked like a different person; his hair brushed back away from his eyes, the bullet proof vest and weapons nearly invisible in the blackness. His face had a focus to it that John had never seen before; this Sherlock was capable of killing. The only things that were the same were the flash of Sherlock's bright eyes, and the black coat he'd thrown over it all.
"Understood." Mycroft murmured, watching for glimpses of his brother.
"John….." Sherlock's voice whispered out over the sound system, loud in the bunker, but quiet where he was.
"I can hear you, Sherlock." John replied, hitting the radio button on his end.
"I won't kill her unless she forces me too."
John swallowed, fear and regret chasing his heart as it beat faster.
"Please be careful." It was all John could say.
"Mary, he's there. One minute. I'm a go. Starting my phase. I'll be waiting for word from you." Death whispered in her ear, startling Mary from her shock. Death's voice was gone as quickly as it had come; Death's part of the plan was in motion, and Mary had to hold up her end now. She had to go through with this, or everything was lost.
Mary shoved her reaction down, stuffing the test stick into her coat pocket. She threw the box in the sink on the counter, out of sight. She ran to the door, unlocking it, before heading back to the exam table in the rear of the room. She listened, as Sherlock's team breached the front doors of the clinic, disabling the men in the front room. He would be taking out the five around the outside of the building. Her hidden three were nearby, in the unseen attic space above the clinic, just over the reception area. They would wait on her signal. And she had her other hidden advantage, her 'pocket aces', planted by Death days ago. Mary grinned, knowing it would all be over soon.
Three down. Step one done. Mary's outer-lying ring of six would have started in at the same time Sherlock took out the sniper on the roof. And he wouldn't be breaching unless he had. She listened as his team swept into the hall, the calls they made as the found the knocked out nurse. Her door was the only one closed, and they knew she would be in here. Her six men should be outside any minute, all she had to do was stall Sherlock until they alerted her to their presence. And it wouldn't be subtle.
Mary pulled out her Taser, and put it on the exam table next to her. Her coat still covered her, and she felt behind her hip, to where Death's gift was, a shotgun hanging gently from her shoulders on a retractable sling. She pulled her hand away from the shotgun just as she heard the charmingly polite knock on the door.
John was captivated, nerves holding his attention to the screen. He saw Sherlock's men breach the clinic, both on the CCTV cameras, and the videos from the strike team cameras. Sherlock stayed near the back of the group, letting the teams take down the sniper, and the men outside the clinic. Mary's people folded instantly, only a handful needing to be put down. The rest were disarmed, and John watched the cameras for Sherlock.
"Her men are down. Approaching the last room, only place she can be." Sherlock's voice came clearly over the radio. John felt the insane urge to laugh when he heard Sherlock knock on the door.
Death stood in the center of the street outside Mycroft Holmes' townhouse, smirking at the Old World elegance of the entranceway. What a shame I'm going to blow it up. Feel the flames, Mycroft Holmes.
"Gentlemen, if you would knock please." Death asked her six, and they flowed forward through the shadows, taking down the two guards out front. They had thought themselves well hidden, but her sharp eyes had caught them quickly.
The building was secured, from the inside. Sherlock had ordered the building cleared of unessential staff, and had a security team on site. Two were down. Four remained. And Death had her own advantage inside, much as Mary had hers.
Her men attached the block of C4 to the front door, and Death ducked around the van she and her team had arrived in.
"Bring it down!" She screamed, giving her rage an outlet at last. The explosion rocked the very earth under her feet.
John felt the tremors, even from an entire level away. The lights flickered, but stayed on, and dust fell from the ceiling. Alarms began to sound, ringing loudly in the stone room.
"What the hell?" John asked, and suddenly Mycroft was free from his stupor, and running to another set of computers. He activated the screens, and John watched as he brought up the security cameras surrounding his house. Only a few were working, most of the screens showing the snow of dead cameras. One inside the front foyer was working, and it showed flames, and a clear view out to the street. The doors were gone. Smoke filled the front of the house.
It was the fire out front that explained the tremor; it was if the fist of God had punched through the front door of Mycroft's home.
"She's here." Mycroft said, and pointed to the image. "Call for assistance, now."
Mycroft glared at the aide at the other station, who nodded fearfully and began to talk over his radio. Mycroft turned on the rest of the screens, and John saw different angles from within Mycroft's house.
"Shit. She's not alone." Lestrade was at Mycroft's side, and they all watched as the gorgeous form of Death walked through the flames, half a dozen shadowy figures following her through.
She lifted her shotgun to her shoulder, and fired twice, the weapon modified for automatic fire. Two figures hidden within the smoke and flames fell, unseen until her bullets dropped them to the ground. She hadn't even stopped walking, her stride unbroken.
"Christ." John said, and reached behind his back for his gun. He pulled it free, and clicked off the safety.
"She cannot get in here, Dr Watson. Relax. All we need to do is wait for backup. We can catch her as she tries to blow through that door. I doubt she brought enough explosives for that." Mycroft walked back to the other station, as John faced the security feeds that showed her progress through the house. The alarms went quiet, and John was thankful.
"I hope you're right, nothing is stopping her." John growled, his pulse jumping as she neatly shot another hidden guard, her single shot placed with frightening precision. She was over their heads now, seconds from turning the bend in the hall, and making the stairs to the bunker door.
This was too easy, even for her.
"This whole thing was a trap, all of it. Get ahold of Sherlock, now!" John shouted.
"What do you mean, you've lost the strike teams?" Mycroft was nearly yelling, and John looked over his shoulder.
"Sir, the explosion must have caused damage to the outer systems. Everything is fine in here, it's all the equipment outside this room that's the issue." The aide said, his face showing his fear.
"Did you get the call out for help?"
"Yes sir, I think so." The aide stammered.
John was watching the screens now, and he felt a strange mix of awe and sick fear as he watched Death disarm and kill the last guard. Her long silver knife flashed in the low lights of the hall outside the bunker, ending his life brutally. Her men hadn't even fired a shot. All they did was watch her back. Death had walked into the heart of Mycroft Holmes' house as if she owned it.
"It doesn't matter, she's here." John said, and he turned to the door, angling so he could watch the camera over the bunker door, and the door itself from his side. She looked up at the camera, and John watched as she blew a kiss right at him.
Mary smiled, and settled more comfortably against the exam table.
"Come in, Sherlock." She said, letting her voice sound as it once had, years ago, her British accent falling away.
The door slowly creaked open, and she met Sherlock's wary eyes. His face was hard, free of color. His hair was back from his face, and Mary smiled wider as she saw the vest under his coat, the weapons at his sides.
"That's a new look, Sherlock. Very Bond." Mary quipped, her American accent filling the room.
Sherlock slowly stepped in, eyeing her hand where it rested next to the Taser on the table. She kept her other hand down, away from her back. He wouldn't be able to see the shotgun as long as she didn't move towards it. He hadn't drawn a weapon, but the two men at his back had, their guns up, and aimed her heart. They stayed behind him, but had a clear line of fire.
"Hello, Mary. You've looked better." Sherlock's words were polite, but his voice was dark and ominous, threat radiating from him. "And it's nice to hear how you really sound. Lovely accent, from the Deep South of the States, yes? I'd love to chat, but I have a friend of yours I need to kill."
"Georgia, you have a good ear. And Death, you mean? Good luck, better men than you have tried." Mary smirked, and wiggled her fingers next to the Taser. Sherlock's eyes darted to her hand, then back to her eyes quickly.
"Not much you can do with that, Mary. I've got you at a disadvantage." Sherlock stepped in further, only a few feet between them now.
"Apparently you've had me at a disadvantage for months, Sherlock." Mary let slip her smile, her eyes glittering with anger. "Hard to compete with the great Sherlock Holmes, even when he's supposed to be fucking dead."
"Mary, tell me where Death is, now." Sherlock ignored her jab, and Mary growled low in her throat.
"Oh no, Sherlock. We're having it out right here and now, you back stabbing bastard." Mary nearly shouted at him, her voice cracking in rage and pain. "You fucking stole him from me! I saved him after you fucking broke him, left him in ruins!"
Sherlock didn't react, but for the slightest of twitches next to his eye. Mary saw it, and did her best to bring it out again. She hadn't heard the signal yet, and her heart was demanding she vent her agony.
"John was a hollow shell of a man, one I took months to repair! He didn't even live, he just existed!" She was crying, her tears stinging on her bruised and bloody cheek. "I found someone to love, after decades of nothing but death and blood, a good man whom I thought loved me back."
Sherlock winced, the movement tiny, but still there. She saw it, and her heart screamed at her to keep going. All of it then, let him hear it all. The words tumbled free, and her fingers inched closer to the Taser. His eyes saw it, but he did nothing, not worried about her weapon against the guns pointed at her heart.
"I spent decades killing for men who cared nothing for me. I had only loneliness and the stench of death following me through the years, the hollow sound of gunfire my lullaby. I had no youth, no life, no comfort of a loving touch, missing the embrace of a caring man's arms. And then I manage to survive my retirement, escape to this rainy island of a nation, and spend years living a peaceful life."
She let the tears fall freely, and she refused to drop her eyes from his. "And then a miracle happened. I fell in love with a man, someone just as damaged as me. And by healing him I saved myself. I saved what was left of my soul. I gave it all to John Watson, you bastard. I gave him the rest of my fractured heart, what remained of the woman I used to be. I gave him who I could have been, if not for the foolish choices of a blood-thirsty, damaged child."
She was sobbing around her words now, and Sherlock had lost the hardness from his expression, his eyes holding hers as much as she was holding his.
"And what hurts the most? The absolute most of all of this? Was that while I loved him more than anything- he never loved me back. He had only enough room in his heart for your ghost, and the affection he conjured for me." She spit out those words, her anger welling up. "You waltz back into John's life, and without even trying, he was yours again."
"And when he left, he took all the good I had given him, all the tiny parts of my soul- he took it all away when he left me for you." She was panting now, empty. Her rage was fading, leaving the cold hard reality of her situation screaming at her. She fought the urge to draw her Beretta, and a part of her was damning the knowledge of what the test had shown her. She was trapped, by her choices, and a rapidly disappearing future.
"Mary." Sherlock's voice was softer, deeper, the rough edge of anger smoothed out. "Mary, I'm…"
"Don't you dare fucking apologize to me." She interrupted him, and grabbed at the Taser. She didn't lift it, just let her hand wrap around the grip. Sherlock's eyes darted down to her hand, and then back to her eyes.
"Mary, don't. I don't want to kill you. This can all be over, just come with me willingly. Help me stop Death." Sherlock asked, slowly lifting one hand towards her.
"It's too late Sherlock." Mary heard the crackle in her ear, and Sherlock was close enough to see her react to something. His eyes widened, but it was too late. The floor beneath their feet shook, and a crashing came from the front of the building. Gunfire erupted outside the building and from the front rooms.
"Now!" She shouted, as Sherlock went for his weapon.
He was too slow; the two men Death had planted among Mycroft's security teams dropped their guns from her heart, and kicked at the back of Sherlock's knees. She whipped her free hand under her coat as Sherlock fell, lifting the shotgun. She fired once, straight for his chest, catching him over the heart as he fell to his knees.
"Are you certain she can't get in here?" John asked. He was watching Death, as she stared straight through the camera. "What the hell is she doing?"
"I don't know Dr Watson, she appears to be waiting for something." Mycroft said, standing at his shoulder, looking at the same image.
"Is she waiting for our help to get here?" Lestrade asked. John frowned, and looked at the gun in his hands, his grip firm and sure despite the racing of his heart. He didn't like this, being trapped by a madwoman, no matter how lovely she may be.
"Somehow I don't think they're coming." John said.
Death had her hand to her ear, as if listening to an ear bud radio. She was still, and then she started to laugh. Her face was maniacal, all sanity stripped away by whatever she had heard. She spun on the balls of her feet like a child dancing, her braid whipping behind her in her crazy joy.
She pulled a radio from her vest, and spoke into it. She put the radio away, and her other hand came up, touching something in the wall outside the bunker.
"Hello, John." Death's voice tore through the bunker, and her laughter echoed from the corners of the room. "Are you ready to go?"
"Oh Christ." John said, and she laughed, having heard him somehow. The audio systems had activated in the room, and he clamped his mouth shut.
"I'm coming in John." She said, and her voice was like cold fire, burning his ears.
"Seriously? You brought enough explosives to get through that door? Without destroying the house over your head?" John shouted, knowing he didn't need to, but feeling better all the same.
"I don't need explosives, dear. I was born with what I need." Death raised her hand, slowly. She placed her hand flat on the access panel, and waited. The line of light appeared, and scanned her palm. No one looked to see what name flashed on the computer screens as her ID processed, so shocked were they all.
"Oh shit." John breathed.
The lights flashed green, and the men in the room looked on in astonishment as the bunker's locks released. John lifted his gun, and moved towards the door. He was one man against seven armed killers, and he wasn't going down without a fight.
Sherlock, I love you. I'm so sorry.
Her shot caught him over the heart, pushing him back over his knees, his back slamming into the floor. The two guards dived in, and ripped his gun and knife away. They pulled back, and Sherlock blinked past the agony to see Mary standing over him.
He couldn't breathe, his ribs were on fire, and pain radiated out from his chest. Mary stepped closer, the shotgun pointed at his heart. Her face was blank, the tears and pain gone. She let go of the shotgun, and it disappeared under her coat like magic.
He struggled for air, and saw spots floating in his eyes, the lack of oxygen pulling him under.
"Aaahhhh, there's the issue. Let me help you, Sherlock." Mary said, her voice low. She straddled his hips, and sat on him, ripping at the vest on his chest. She pulled at the Velcro, and as she did, he felt his lungs expand.
He pulled in air, and marveled at the fact he was still alive. His confusion and fear must have been obvious because she smiled. She reached past his face, and picked something off the floor. It was black, and about the size of a squash ball. It was soft, and moved weirdly as she flipped it in the air.
"Bean bag cartridge, designed to be fired from a shotgun. We call them riot guns back in the States, used by the police a lot. Non-lethal, but very nasty. Nifty toy, Death gave it to me." Mary smiled down at him, and she raised the Taser up in her other hand, and pressed it to his neck. Her eyes went to the men at the door. "Secure the rest of the building, make sure no one escaped."
They nodded, and melted away silently. Mary dropped her eyes back to Sherlock, and he was helpless, barely able to pull in enough air to stay awake, much less speak. She seemed to know, and dropped the bean bag. Her hand slipped under the vest, and rubbed up along his ribs. He jumped as she got to the impact point, and she chuckled.
"Broken ribs, several of them. Seems I was a little too close to be shooting you like this, but too late now. Sprained several muscles. Hard to move for a bit." Her hand dipped lower, towards his older injuries. "And some more! Poor Sherlock, looks like I broke you."
This was a trap, but never for John. She came for me. Death has gone for John. JOHN! Molly's death wasn't meant to cripple me, it was meant to make me too angry to see what was going on. She blinded me with my rage.
Sherlock glared at her, anger and fear pushing past the pain. She saw, and dug in with the Taser.
"Behave, and listen to me. They're coming back now." She leaned over him, and put her lips to his ear. "I was tasked with disabling you, and keeping you from the townhouse. It's too late to stop her, but you can follow. Find Blackwood, Sherlock, and you'll find Death. The river, you'll always see the river." Sherlock heard footsteps in the hall, mere feet from the doorway. "Look in your pocket. I'll help if I can."
With that she lifted from him, just as the two men returned. She stepped back, and fired the Taser. The last thing he saw before he succumbed to the lack of air and the voltage was Mary's eyes. The pain was gone, and a new fire burned from within.
The bunker door opened slowly, every inch a torture of anticipation. Death was giddy, excited beyond measure. She would finally get to meet John face to face, not just sighted down the barrel of her rifle.
Her men were at her back, their weapons up. Death dropped her shotgun, letting the retractable harness pull it around to her back. She had her knife, and she flipped it in the air, spinning it as she caught it, tossing it back up. It was a habit from her teenage years, and she did it when she got really excited. Like now. She didn't even notice the blood droplets her spinning knife was sending out on the walls, the floor.
Death stepped in, and held up her hand to stop her men. John Watson had his gun out, pointed right between her eyes. She wasn't bothered; if she died now, her torment would be over, and she would be with James again. Just the thought settled her nerves, and she walked forward, unafraid.
Watson's eyes were locked on hers, and he tightened his grip as she neared. She saw no trace of fear in him. His stance and posture showed he knew how to use a weapon, and the steadiness of his gaze told her he had killed. She held his gaze, and let her mask slip. She saw herself in his reaction; his face grew pale, his eyes harder, and he looked quite eager to pull the trigger. Death could never see what others saw in her, the madness. Objectively, she knew she was insane, but for her, it was normal. James had been much the same.
She stopped a few feet from Watson. His gun was pointed at her head, and she could still see his eyes. She twirled the bloody knife in her hand, impressed when he ignored it, focusing only on her.
"Go ahead, John." She said, and lowered the knife. She slipped it slowly into its sheath on her thigh, and raised her hands, spread wide and shoulder height. "I miss him with every breath I take. Kill me."
His breathed in, surprise in his eyes. He didn't say anything. John kept his eyes on hers, and she saw him realize how much she truly didn't mind dying. It happened often, that realization, and it crippled many. Who wouldn't be terrified when confronted by someone who didn't fear death? Not bravery, but total, utter lack of fear. Death poured her willingness to take that bullet into her gaze, and John saw it all. Time slowed between them, and Death saw him struggle.
The men behind him moved forward, and one of them came close. Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade and one of the aides were within feet of her, and her men were still standing in the doorway of the bunker, yards away. The face of the police man was all rage, and he looked as if he wanted nothing more than for John to pull the trigger. Mycroft Holmes was silent, eyes darting between the doctor, her, and her men waiting patiently at the door. He was emotionless, unless you saw the tiny tremors in his fingers; he wanted her dead, too.
Death stood helpless before John Watson, and she saw the conflict in his eyes. John wanted to kill her, he truly did, but he couldn't kill her as she stood, begging him to die. She was weaponless, a woman in front of him, hands up in surrender. The torture, and great weakness, of the moral man.
She sighed, and fought to hold back her delight as her inside man got closer to the good doctor. The click of the gun in her man's hands was unexpected, to say the least. He had used her dramatic entrance well, and moved himself into position. The aide spun, aligning his stance with her, facing the men standing at John's back. He raised his gun to Mycroft Holmes' face, and Death reined in her delight as the other men in the room tensed in dismay. The aide that had been abused, bullied, and otherwise overwhelmed the last week disappeared, and in his place stood a man well bought and paid for.
"Shall I fire, my lady?" He asked, and Death watched as John Watson's eyes dragged from hers, and took in the sight of her man holding his lover's brother at gunpoint.
"That's up to John, really. Is he going to kill Mycroft, John?" She asked softly. She heard her men move into the room, and arrange themselves behind her. John looked back at her, still pointing the gun at her head.
"Damn you." He whispered, and John lowered the gun. She stepped forward those last few steps, and gently tugged it from his hands. She held the gun out behind her without looking, and one of her men took it from her hand.
Death slid her hand up John's arm, loving the way he shook, anger and disgust at her touch so very obvious on his face. She put her hand behind his head, and stepped into him, her body pressed tightly to his, no space for air between them. His shoulders were strong, and he was all muscles, surprising in a man of his height. She dipped her head, her lips brushing against his ear.
He stood still, hands made into fists, and she could feel how much he wanted to push her away. The guns trained on all of them held him in check. She waited, as he conquered the urge to strike at her, his body relaxing.
"Come with me, John. The game's over." She whispered, and kissed his cheek.
"Take them down, gentlemen." Death pulled back, and caught John's hand, and she twined his unresisting fingers with her own. "Come along, dear."
Death tugged, and John moved, slowly. She pulled at him like he was a man dreading going clothes shopping, and she his overeager date. She pulled, until John stumbled behind her, away from his friends.
Her six moved forward on silent feet, half of them holding their weapons on the government men, while zip ties were produced, hands restrained. Holmes, Lestrade, and the remaining aides were all restrained, hands behind their backs, and dropped to their knees. Her bought man had lowered his gun, still facing his master, whose stare promised the traitor a special place in hell. Her six backed away, weapons up, sights trained on the hearts of the men on the floor.
John was glaring at her, his mouth a thin line. She saw his hatred, his rage, and she was very impressed at his control. Fear swam in his dark eyes as well, and Death stirred at the sight, this man's fear, his control, intoxicating.
"Oh, John, don't be so upset. Only one person is dying in here today, and it's not your friends."
She didn't even drop his hand, just held it tighter as her other hand went for the shotgun strapped to her back. He saw what she intended, and tried to stop her. She flipped her grip on his hand, and applied pressure, twisting until he dropped to his knees in front of her, a scream strangled in his chest. Her other hand pulled the shotgun up, and she took aim. One shot, booming like thunder off the stone walls.
Screams erupted from her hostages as the traitorous aide's head was blown apart by her shot, his body standing for a split second before slowly crumpling to the floor. Blood went everywhere, mostly on the kneeling men. Death laughed at their faces, and she released the shotgun to slide into its place on her back.
"He was no longer useful. Hope he already spent his money, what a waste if he hadn't." Death said to the man at her feet, helpless in her grasp. She saw John Watson's determination to kill her in his eyes, and she smiled, wondering if he would indeed be the one to end it all for her.
"You are just like him." John choked out, gasping as she pushed down harder.
"Thank you, dear."
One of her men approached, and she nodded to him, releasing John. Her man grabbed the doctor's arm, and he was zipped tied like the rest.
"Take him outside, I'll be along shortly." Death blew kisses at the enraged doctor, as her men dragged him from the room, kicking and cursing her the entire way.
Death was alone in the large bunker with her hostages, but for a single guard who took up a position by the door, unwilling to leave her alone. She didn't mind, and turned to her hostages. They just glared at her, and she walked to them, pulling her knife as she did. Mycroft Holmes didn't even flinch, and she was glad his reputation wasn't exaggerated.
"We will stop you. You will die." Mycroft said to her, his voice calm, free of emotion. She ignored him, as if he hadn't even spoken.
"Hello, Mycroft. Have you wondered what has happened to Sherlock by now? You must have." She said, and gently and very carefully dragged the tip of the blade down the side of his face. Not enough to cut, but just enough for him to know she could, easily.
Mycroft's eyes widened slightly, but his expression didn't change. Death pulled her radio from her vest, and the double-clicked the talk button.
"Death, Holmes is down." Came Mary's voice, almost immediately. "Returning to base."
Mycroft's face went white, and he struggled to stand, a shout of denial bursting forth. She kicked him, hard, in the chest. He fell to the floor on his back, and she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Lestrade was attempting to charge her. She spun the knife, and the edge kissed the skin of Lestrade's neck. He froze, and she moved gently, driving him back to his knees. The skin split just a hair, and a tiny drop of blood welled up.
"Copy that, dear. Mission complete on my end. See you at home." She replied, returning the radio to her vest. Her guard had come up behind her, and he was waiting patiently.
"This is the knife I used on Sally, dear Gregory. Shall I use it on you?" She whispered to the man at her feet. She drank in his anger, and the pain her words caused. His already pale face, strained by grief and despair, drained of any remaining color, and she saw something in his eyes. As if he wanted her to. Like he wanted to die. She saw it, and saw in him the fruition of her plan.
Death began to laugh, hysterical, tears running from her eyes.
"You shall all live, all of you! But for Sherlock, of course!" She gasped out between shouts of laughter, her free hand wiping tears from her face. "You shall live with your pain, your grief, as I have lived with mine. Knowing there is nothing you can do, nothing to stop the pain and helplessness. That once the person you love is gone, your life has no meaning."
Death pulled back the blade, and struck Lestrade over the head with the hilt. He dropped, limp. Mycroft struggled to get up, eyes on the man crumpled at her feet.
Death took one last look around, and nodded to herself. Almost over, all of it.
Death turned and left, the trussed up men as forgotten as the corpse bleeding out across the floor.
John. Wake up! John!
Sherlock couldn't breathe right. He woke up, choking, each spasm of his chest making his ribs stab at him like daggers.
His whole body was tingling, muscles vibrating like he was stuck in one of the wretched massaging beds found in cheap lodgings across the globe. He tried lifting a hand, an arm, anything, but the lack of air left him weak.
Mary had discharged the Taser's cartridge, leaving it and the long wires draped over him, the barbs still stuck in his chest.
I have to roll on my side. I can breathe better if I roll over. Move! I have to get to John!
Sherlock pushed as hard as he could with one arm, digging at the floor with a leg. It took him a minute, body shaking, ribs screaming in protest, but he managed to roll over. It hurt, but he felt his lungs open further, the pressure changed, letting his body get more oxygen. He fought for more air, his body recovering with each lungful.
He heard nothing from the rest of the building, but the scent of smoke, of freshly burning wood, was strong in the air. He look to the door, and saw no one. Sherlock went for his earpiece, pushing on it.
"John? Can you hear me? John!" Sherlock called, desperately needing to hear his doctor's voice. Hi voice was weak, and Sherlock coughed, so hard he almost blacked out from the pain. His vision came back, slowly, and he saw the blood on the floor. Tasted it on his tongue. He had blood in his lungs.
Punctured lung… ribs…..John….. I'm sorry…..
Sherlock passed out, blood dripping from his lips.
John couldn't see past the black cloth over his head, and his arms were straining under the tight grip of the zip ties, and the men who dragged him from the vehicle. The drive to wherever they were going was long, just over an hour. The familiar smell of the river was heavy in the air, but the scent was different, like it got when you were closer to the sea than the city, the wind racing across the ground.
John was dragged into a building, the sound of the wind dying down, the cold air fading away. Wherever he was sounded big, echoes and distant sounds bouncing around. He found himself pushed on a stool, and the cloth was suddenly ripped away.
John blinked against the light, his eyes watering. His eyes focused on the two women standing in front of him. His heart quaked at the sight of Mary, her beautiful face beaten and bruised. She stood tall regardless, arms folded across her stomach. She avoided his eyes, instead looking down at the floor.
"Mary, how could you." John gasped out. "What did you do to Sherlock?"
"He's alive, for now." She said, and she finally looked him in the eye. John expected to see anger, hurt, anything to explain her actions. He saw nothing, as if she hid from him, even standing so near. Her blue eyes were crystalline bright, and he felt something stir in him at her gaze. He thought he knew her well, this woman he had loved, but the stranger in front of him was unreadable.
"He's alive for now? What the hell does that mean? What did you do to him?!" John shouted, trying to stand up, only to have a hand clamp down on his shoulder, holding him on the stool. "I break it off with you, because I thought it was the right thing to do, and you decide to hook up with Moriarty's ex-girlfriend and burn down London? You get dumped and go insane?!"
John didn't care that he was shouting, he didn't care that the woman standing beside Mary was getting enraged, her hand clenching into a fist. John didn't care. All he cared about was Sherlock, and that the woman he had loved, trusted, and tried to do right by had been nothing but one terrible, vicious lie.
"I loved you! I'm sorry I couldn't love you enough to stay, I couldn't do it! I refused to live a lie! But you, you were ready to lie to me forever! And this madwoman meets you up for a chat and you throw in with her for revenge?" John was shouting now, loudly. Everything he'd tried to let go of came out, and it didn't help any that Mary just stood there and took it. He would have been better off if she had gotten mad back at him, if she had responded in any way. But she didn't, just stood there, her eyes on his, her arms across her stomach, as he vented his hurt into the ballroom. Her refusal to respond just made it so much worse. "I was going to talk Sherlock out of killing you, I really was. I was willing to help you right up to the very end of this. I tried not to care, but seeing you broken and bleeding on the street was too much. I should have realized, I should have seen, that you are nothing but a lie, not worth trying to save!"
The blow caught him unprepared. Death's fist stuck him, hard, and he feel to his knees on the floor. His vision swam, face throbbing. He didn't care, he looked past the madwoman standing over him, her hand raised to strike again. He looked at Mary, who hadn't even reacted to Death striking him.
"She killed Molly, you bitch! Molly!" John roared, his anguish and anger finally striking a nerve. Mary flinched, but she lowered her arms. Her chin came up, and she narrowed her eyes at him.
"Did I, John? Is that it? I murdered Molly! She let me kill Sally, and Anthea too. Right where you're at, isn't that right?" Death snarled at him, dropping her fist. Death reached down, and Mary was at his other side, and between them, they pulled him to his feet, ignoring the curses he tossed at them.
They turned him, and the women marched him from the ballroom. There were guards in the hall, all armed, and they parted as Death and Mary walked him down the hall, and around a corner. Up a flight of steps, dragging him as he stumbled. They ignored him as he demanded to know where they were taking him, what the hell they were doing. He noticed in the part of his brain that wasn't overcome by grief and betrayal that they were in the private areas of the large house.
They forced him to the end of the hall, to a door where two guards stood outside.
"Open it." Death ordered, and the guards obeyed. As soon as it was open, Death forced him through, spilling him onto the floor on his knees. "Behold, John Watson! Mary's price for her assistance in my endeavors!"
He was breathing hard, not caring what was in the room; whatever it was the price had been too high. He didn't care, didn't look up, right until he heard her voice. A voice he never thought to hear again.
"John?"
Impossible, no, it's a trick. No… John lifted his head, and saw the impossible. A miracle. She jumped from the bed where she had been sitting beside two other women, and raced across the floor, her arms wide.
Molly Hooper hugged him tightly, her arms real and strong. She buried her head in his neck, sobbing out his name. Her hair brushed across his face, the scent as real as the light from the lamps, the pain in his bound hands. She was no ghost. Neither were the two women still on the bed, staring at him in as much shock as he was staring at them.
"Molly?" John whispered in disbelief, as she sobbed harder at the sound of her name. John let her cry against him, as someone cut his hands free. He didn't fight, all he did was raise his hands, and frame her face. "Molly!"
Tears of his own came flowing free. Fast and unchecked, but he didn't care. He pulled the very much alive Molly back to his chest, and gazed in wonder at Anthea. Donovan sat behind her, and John cried harder as she managed a tiny smile for him.
The door shut quietly behind him, but he didn't notice. He only had eyes for the three miracles in the room with him, as he hugged Molly tighter.