Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
Hopefully this chapter helps reward everyone's patience. Enjoy, my dears!
Warning: Vague hints of child abuse. Lots of swearing near the middle.
Read, enjoy, review!
Chapter Thirty
"Madness Runs in the Family"
John wiped a thumb over Molly's cheek, still amazed she was real. Her tears had stopped, and she was hiccupping from her weeping. John smiled at her, and that wretched ache he had felt for days eased. It was if he could breathe again, the air sweet and cool, the first cold day of autumn after a long hot summer.
"How?" It was all he could ask, all he needed to ask. John keep his hand to her face, and looked past Molly to the women sitting on the bed. Anthea smiled at him, her face still pale, but the inner strength he had witnessed in her video was there. Donovan was leaning back against the headboard, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, but she looked him in the eye, unafraid.
"Mary….. She made Death promise not to kill us, and she would help." Molly said, hiccupping one more time, her cheeks getting red. "I heard her talking to Death the other morning, before Anthea was filmed. I didn't understand what she meant, until I woke up after mine, in here."
"I've been here for forever, wondering if everyone was dead, and I was in Hell." Donovan grumbled quietly. "And my head hurts like I am, by the way."
It was her mention of pain that snapped John back from his disbelief and joy. He stood, helping Molly to her feet. John looked closer at the girls, and saw what he missed in his shock at seeing them alive.
"Dear God, what did she do to you?" John saw the bruises, the scrapes, the blood that had soaked through the makeshift bandage wrapped around Anthea's arm and hand. They were all still dressed in those short grey shifts, legs and arms bare. John felt anger build up in him, indignation at their treatment. Make them think they're going to die, and that they're making the men who love them watch them die….. Cruelty. Purest form.
"Who's worse off?" John asked, as he sat on the bed, Anthea pulling her legs back so he'd have room. He banished the anger, needing to be calm for the girls. Fastest way to get a patient upset is if the doctor is upset.
"Anthea." Donovan said, not hesitating.
"Sally, please. You have a severe concussion, and a very nasty cut on the back of your head." Anthea tried to divert attention from her hand, but John was having none of it. She was holding her arm tightly to her chest, as she had in her video.
"Yeah, but I stopped bleeding awhile back, you bleed every time you move. And she hit you in the head too, remember?" Donovan said, and John found himself glad to hear that snarky edge to her voice, the one he usually found so annoying.
"Anthea, let me see." John said, his hands out, inches from her arm. "Please let me help."
She met his eyes, and John saw something deep in their green depths that he hadn't expected. She was nervous. Almost afraid. As if she was afraid to look. Looking makes it real. John was patient, and just waited. Molly scooted up on the bed behind her, and rubbed Anthea's shoulder lightly.
"We used the towels from the bathroom, wrapped it up best we could, but we can't make it stop bleeding." Molly said, her eyes on Anthea's arm, as the MI6 agent relaxed centimeter by centimeter, and John slipped his strong fingers underneath. She shook, her muscles cramped from holding that position for so long, and John soothed as best he could.
He took her measure as he slowly unwrapped the blood-soaked cloth from her wrist. Anthea was unbelievably strong, composed. She had held her fear in check, and managed to keep it together this long by sheer nerve. Her pain and her injury were wearing her down, and John saw it in her eyes. She was afraid to relax, to let someone take care of her, else she might break.
John felt his heart sink as the cloth fell away. He pulled gently at the places the cloth had stuck to flesh, and they began to bleed again. This was bad.
"Molly, do you have more towels?" He asked softly, not lifting his eyes from the ruin of Anthea's hand.
"Yeah, we have a bathroom, one second." Molly hopped off the bed, and disappeared from view.
John looked for a moment more, and knew Anthea needed more help than he could offer. She needed surgery. And soon. Three of her fingers were broken, and she had several pieces of wood imbedded like daggers in her hand and wrist. He would hazard a guess that she had more broken bones deep in her hand that he couldn't see. And she was injured days ago. Infection was the biggest danger now.
If this was Death's version of mercy, he dreaded knowing what her idea of being ruthless was. Though in a way he did know; she had convinced them all, even Sherlock, that the women they loved most had been callously murdered.
"How did this happen?" John asked, anger making his voice deeper. This woman deserved better treatment than this. They all did. "You said in your video you tried to escape?"
"Anthea was incredible! Convinced us all she was dying or something, took out a guard three times her size, disarmed him, and managed to get us out of that cage and to the ballroom door." Donovan said, as Molly rushed back in from the bedroom's small bathroom, arms full of towels. "Then that bitch showed out from nowhere, shot the gun from Anthea's hand, shot her own man in the head…." John saw Molly shudder at that mention, "and we got jumped by her goon squad."
"It wasn't enough." Anthea murmured, refusing to look down as John rewrapped her arm with clean towels. "I just made it worse."
"Stop it." John said, refusing to let this woman take any blame for the situation they were all in. She had nearly saved them all. His first impression of her as a mere cypher of Mycroft's shadowy agency was grossly inadequate. "We all know who's at fault here, and none of you deserved this."
John tied off the towel, having ripped the ends to make it easier to secure. He needed actual medical supplies to help her. Something more than fluffy white towels.
"Let me see your head." He ordered, kneeling up on the bed, not wanting her to move any more than she had to. His fingers feathered through her hair, and John found himself smiling despite the circumstances. Even tired, bloody and hurt, Anthea was a beautiful woman, and her hair smelled and felt fantastic. He chided himself on even noticing, a small part of him amused because he noticed how lovely she was. Interesting.
He felt a lump on her head, just behind her temple. Any closer, and the blow that Death had dealt would have killed her for real. Anthea flinched as his fingers gently probed, but the skin wasn't broken. Her eyes were dilating normally, and she didn't seem to have trouble speaking. No concussion, or at least not too severe. Her nose-bleed must have happened when she hit the floor, as an impact like that was enough to start one.
"Your head looks fine. Anything else?" John sat back, keeping a hand on her shoulder as she swayed. "You need to lie down."
"No, I'm okay….Starts bleeding every time I move…." She started to say, but John cut her off, and made her scoot back on the bed, sitting up against the headboard beside Donovan.
"Who's next?" John said, but he eyed Donovan as he said it. She grimaced slightly, but she didn't argue as he came around to her side. She was pale, like the others, but on her it was alarming. Her naturally darker skin looked almost hallow in its pallor, and she hadn't moved an inch since his unexpected arrival. He stood beside the head of the bed, and followed her hand as she lifted it to the back of her head. John hissed in a breath at the long cut he found, running from the base of her skull, and a few inches down her neck. There was a lump on her head as well, larger than Anthea's. It was above the top of the cut, as if Death had hit her with the hilt of the knife, and turned the blade as she continued the stroke, slicing just deep enough to coat the edge in blood. All without skipping a beat, or making it clear what she had done.
John held his breath, his chest tightening at the frightening display of control and skill displayed by Donovan's injury. Death had done so well, she had convinced a consulting detective, a spymaster, a doctor, and a police officer that she really had killed Sally Donovan.
"You need stitches, or you did. It's been too long now for them to help, it's started to heal. I'm worried about infection now." John moved to look at her eyes, and saw that Anthea was right. Donovan had a concussion, her eyes were off just a bit, and not reacting normally to the light level in the room. He was worried, but she seemed to be aware of where she was, and she was following the conversation easily enough.
John helped her lean back, and he grabbed a small pillow from the bed, putting it between her head and the hard wood of the headboard.
"Molly, let me see." John turned to the pathologist, who had sat quietly while he examined the other two women.
Molly was sitting at the end of the bed, and John felt his heart melt at the tears running down her cheeks. She wasn't crying hard, just tiny tears escaping from her eyes, and she didn't bother wiping them away. John sat next to her, and pulled her unresisting body to his shoulder. He could see the bruising from a blow to the head next to her temple, but he saw nothing else. She was remarkably unharmed physically, but he could see that the entire ordeal of the last few days had left scars on Molly Hooper. She didn't say a word, just soaked his neck in her tears.
John held her, and mentally cursed the woman who had caused all this pain. Death was indeed worthy of being the last disciple of Jim Moriarty. She was just as evil, and her madness was the same breed as her master's.
Smoke. Heat from flames, so near. The air was burning. Sherlock was burning.
His eyes cracked open, a bare sliver. Light, orange and bright, danced in front of his eyes. Sherlock saw in the haze his fingers outstretched before him on the floor, mere inches from a line of fire. He tried to move them, but his body wasn't aware of his mind; he felt the heat, the pain caused by the flames, but his fingers couldn't move.
Sherlock blinked, and forced his eyes wider. He had awakened twice before this, at the very least. Each time, he had managed to drag himself from where he lay, past bodies bleed dry by bullets, destroyed by flames. Something had exploded out on the street, and whatever it was had ripped through the front of the clinic. Sherlock could barely breathe, his body bruised and broken, but he refused to stop. He could hear past the flames sirens in the distance, the authorities responding despite the MI6 injunction to stay away. That meant he had been under for a long while, trying to drag himself out of the building. Drag himself out, to get to John. His doctor was in danger, and he let it happen.
It was that thought of John that made his hand move, his fingers curl into the burning carpet. He pulled in as deep a breath as his fractured ribs would allow, and pulled. Pulled until he screamed, blood running from his mouth, a rib stabbing his lung. Sherlock pulled until he moved. Just a few inches, but enough to get him closer to the door, closer to John. Away from the flames trying to consume him.
He rested, face in the blood dripping from his lips, shallow gulps of air chasing back the darkness. Sherlock reached again, feeling the faint brush of cold night air from the door. He was so close, so very close. He refused to die in here, refused to let John suffer for his failure. Mary had said it was too late to stop Death, but not too late to follow. And Sherlock would follow Death. To Hell if need be. He already felt the flames.
"Sherlock!" He barely registered the sound, so loud were the roar of the flames. He ignored it, and reached up again, grabbing at the floor, and pulled. The pain rode over his mind, flooding his eyes with black spots, red ribbons of light. He pushed it back at the pain, breathed again, and pulled as hard as he could.
The brush of cold air on his hand was his reward, but it came too late. Sherlock heard the creaking, the rumble above him, as the roof was devoured by the fires. He knew it was too late, it would fall on him any moment.
Sherlock was falling, the heat and flames withdrawing from his awareness. He fought to stay awake. It was so hard; his body had failed him. Sherlock was failing John.
Forgive me, John. I failed you. I let my emotions cloud my judgment. I dropped my guard. Became weak. …. But I will never regret you. Loving you is all I can feel now. I'm dying, and all I can feel is how much I love you.
"Sherlock!" It came again, that sound. Too late for him to realize what it was, as the darkness came back for him, pulling him under. He didn't feel the hands grab him under the arms, lifting and dragging him from the floor. All he could feel was that small flame burning in his soul, the flame that hissed John's name in the shadows.
The voices were quiet, but he could hear them. They were formless, nothing to tell him who was speaking. The darkness held him under, just under the waking point. Shadowy fog floated around him, wispy and beguiling.
The air was cooler, the absence of flames a welcome respite. A breeze fluttered over his face, cooling him, and he no longer struggled for air. Oxygen was being pushed into him, the mask over in his face annoying, but providing relief.
Sherlock struggled to cast off the darkness, the sluggish pull of the narcotics someone had given him. That fog was back, pulling at his mind, beguiling him, whispering at him to sleep. The shadows swam around him, singing to him of peaceful oblivion. He fought it off; he reached for that light he knew was there. It was always there. John. His John.
"How bad is it?" Said one of the shadows, concern heavy in the voice. Sherlock had heard this shadow speak before, somewhere. He knew it. Somehow.
"Lacerated lung, five broken ribs, several muscles in his chest are sprained. Smoke inhalation, not too severe. He has some minor burns, mostly around his hands. Those should heal up just fine. It's the ribs that have me worried." Another shadow was speaking, one that Sherlock had never heard before. Exasperation and fatigue so clear.
"What do you mean? Explain." The familiar voice was impatient, worry driving his words.
"There's evidence of earlier breaks, that weren't given time to heal properly. Whatever happened to him tonight caused them to break again, and one of them cut a lung. If he doesn't let himself heal this time around, his lung could collapse completely. That's a serious stay in hospital, and most likely surgery. No activity of any kind. He has to stay in bed and recover."
"He may not be able to, once he learns what's happened tonight. He will not be cooperative, Doctor." Said that familiar shadow voice. Sherlock knew it. The name was floating past him, the fog obscuring who this was.
"He's out of it for now. I don't expect him to wake up for another twelve to twenty-four hours. I'd suggest that whatever it is, if you can get away with it, don't tell him."
"Once he wakes up, Doctor, he's going to see it, know the truth. I've never been able to hide everything from him, even as a child. I'd like you to keep him under, as long as you can. He'll heal if we force him too."
"You want me to keep him sedated? Will it be that bad, once he learns whatever it is you don't want him to know?"
"It will be worse. Keep my brother sedated." Mycroft. His brother. What doesn't he want me to know?
"He's had a very large dose already. I'll see about giving him some more when it's safe to do so. I can keep him out for a few days without adverse effects."
"Do it. I'll be back tomorrow." The voice he had named Mycroft left, the sound of his shoes loud on the tiled floors.
Another set of footprints followed, and silence fell in his room. Sherlock was aware of the sound of a fan whirring overhead, the beeps of machines nearby, the sting of an IV in his arm. Hospital. He was in a hospital.
Why? What happened? Why isn't John treating me? He's my doctor. I changed all that paperwork years ago. Never told him… never came up. Never told him I left him in control of my fate. Mycroft shouldn't be here, telling the doctor what to do. Where's John?
John. Why aren't you here? I remember fire. Flames. Crawling away from the fire…. Mary. She was there. Why was Mary in a fire? No…. no…focus…..
Sherlock grew angry, as the fog tried to pull him under. There was something very important, so very vital, that he knew was just out of reach. He couldn't settle his mind, the drugs overwhelming him. He fought back, striking at the fog. It withdrew, but barely. Sherlock pulled in a deep breath, the oxygen helping. Pain burned in his chest, his side. Whatever they had sedated him with was keeping it at bay, at the edge of his reality. Another deep breath. Clarity. Sherlock pried open his eyes, and was thankful the lights were low. His eyes burned, and tears came in response.
There was a noise at the door to his room. Sherlock closed his eyes, and waited. Someone was breathing, being very quiet as they came in the room. He followed the sound of their footsteps, feather light on the floor. A scent that reminded him of gun-metal oil, fire, and the Thames crept over him, faint through the mask. Close now, very close to him.
"I know you're awake, Sherlock." Her voice. I know that voice. "Well, perhaps not awake, but close enough. Shall I help you out, dear?"
There was a beeping noise, and the fog retreated. The shadows thinned out, and Sherlock blinked his eyes open. A figure was standing over him, slim and wraith-like in the dim lights of the room.
"Ah, there you are. Mary said you were alive, but when I heard you were hospitalized, I was so worried." Death whispered to him, her hand drifting across his brow, smoothing back the curls. "She gets so enthusiastic sometimes, sorry about that. But then you did piss her off something fierce, dear."
It all came crashing back, every last second. The dark eyes above him glittered in unholy glee as she saw the memories return to him, and the rage that accompanied it. There was a beeping in the room, faster in response to his heart. Sherlock struggled to move, his arms still heavy from the morphine. She was here, staring down at him, a sweet smile on her beautiful face, eyes burning to match the fire raging in his heart.
"Shhh, easy Sherlock. Don't hurt yourself. We wouldn't want anyone to see me in here, might get messy." Death whispered, leaning over him. "You better get well soon, I won't have anything to occupy my time if you don't. Well, other than the delectable Dr Watson, that is."
Sherlock growled and managed to lift a hand, trying to push her away, grab her, anything. She caught his hand in her own, and clasped it tightly. She was strong, so strong. Sherlock meet her eyes, and he saw in her the ghost of a man long dead. Her eyes, she had his eyes.
"I have John, Sherlock. He belongs to me. I have your heart, that which you love most. I will burn your heart, set it ablaze, and destroy your future. Destroy your life. I will burn away my past, free my demons, and join James." Death leaned over him, her eyes all he could see. "Get well soon, Sherlock. It'll be a better way to die if we're all together. No phone call to change a mind, no backup plan to cushion your Fall. There won't be on a rooftop, it won't be as easy as a step off a ledge."
Death tugged the mask away from his face, still holding tight to his hand. Her free hand rose, and cupped his cheek. He didn't try to avoid it; this was inevitable. She kissed him, and her lips were soft, tasting like Irish whiskey and peppermint gum. She kissed him as if he were her true love, every heartbeat she had to offer his. She didn't hold back, and Sherlock didn't fight her. The scent of water, like the sea and the Thames, rose from her coat, her hair. It wasn't unpleasant, and Sherlock filed it away as her lips moved gently over his.
She pulled back, her lips clinging to his for a second longer. She brushed away his wandering curls one more time, before she reached out and increased his morphine drip. She gently put his oxygen mask back, making sure it was snug. She laid his hand on the bed, and pulled the blankets up a little higher, careful not to jar his side.
"I must go dearest. Your brother is sending someone to watch over you, he'll be here any minute. Big brothers can be so sweet, can't they? They do what they think is best for us, even when it hurts."
She was fading into the fog, her eyes the last part of her he could see. The morphine whispered at him, and Sherlock let the shadows sweep him away.
John, I'm coming for you. Stay alive. I know who she is. I know who she is…..
Philip Anderson stood hesitantly in the doorway to Sherlock's hospital room, watching as the consulting detective slept. He must be deeply asleep, as he hadn't noticed the very beautiful brunette who had wandered into his room by mistake. She had smiled at him, and Philip had been distracted by it, as it was shy and sweet. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a fancy braid, and it swung with every step she took. Her clothes had implied wealth and style, and Philip had enough brain cells left to hurry out of her way as she walked by him.
Philip stepped over the threshold, and when Sherlock didn't react, he figured it was safe to step in all the way. He moved to the detective's bedside, and looked down. Sherlock's chest was heavily bruised, the impact point high up on the left side of his chest, and spreading down his side. Philip felt a jolt of concern at the level the morphine was set at. Surely it shouldn't be so high. But then Sherlock would have a tolerance to it, considering how many times he had used it before. Not all of those times when he was hurt, either.
Philip pulled out his mobile, and stared at the text message he had received from Mycroft Holmes.
You may begin to make amends at St Bart's Hospital, Room 207. He doesn't leave. –MH
Philip sat in the chair next to Sherlock's bed, propped his feet up on the dropped metal railing, and did his best to watch Sherlock sleep without falling asleep himself.
Lestrade kept the icepack to the lump on his head, wincing as a thin trickle of cold water ran down the back of his neck. He was sitting on the bench across the street from Mycroft's house, as the fire crews and police worked the scene. Dawn had yet to arrive, but everyone was anyone was here, from several ministry officials of some kind, to some of his own superiors. Mycroft had left, going to the hospital where Sherlock had been taken. Lestrade would've gone, but he had managed to get caught by one of his superiors, and received a tongue lashing from Hell when he refused to tell them what had happened. The only thing he felt comfortable saying was that something had blown up and he'd hit his head. Wasn't technically a lie, but then the truth was so much worse. He had escaped only when the paramedics had cornered him, and that had been almost as bad.
"Are you alright, Greg?" Mycroft asked, making Lestrade jump, pain jolting in his skull at the sudden movement. He looked up, squinting at the MI6 man.
"Thought you went to the hospital? How's Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, moving over a bit as the taller man sat next to him. Mycroft peered at his head, mouth pinching tight when he saw the lump, and the thin trickle of blood running out of his hair.
"He's severely injured. Miss Morstan nearly killed him." Mycroft murmured, and he sighed in exasperation as the DI let the icepack slip from his head.
"Tired of holding this thing on, I'm soaking wet and I hurt if I take it off." Greg grumbled, resting on the seat back. "Is he gonna be okay?"
"He'll be fine if he stays in bed and rests. Though I haven't much hope of that once he learns that John was taken." Mycroft reached out, and very subtly took the icepack from Lestrade. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket, wrapped it up, and without even blinking, held it to the injury himself.
Lestrade eyed him in disbelief, but said nothing about it. Like Mycroft took care of him all the time. Totally natural. Never mind the last two days spent in each other's arms. Just holding each other, mind. Nothing else. Just some decent snuggling. Having someone to hold helped in dealing with the pain. "Someone keeping an eye on him?"
No one was watching them, and Lestrade scooted closer to the MI6 man. The shadows were deep here, and they were far enough away from the chaos that people weren't likely to wander over. Mycroft adjusted his grip, his forearm resting on Lestrade's shoulder as his hand held the pack to the bump. The handkerchief was absorbing the water, and it was helping with the pain.
"I've got a man on it. Someone motivated not to screw it up." Mycroft said, his thumb rubbing through Greg's silver hair.
"Well, alright. Don't know what we're gonna do when Sherlock figures it out. Man'll go mad for sure." Greg said, worry in his voice. Death had John. She'd waltzed into Mycroft's home, made a man betray his country, kidnapped John, killed her inside man, and then as a parting gift, knocked him out just for fun. Then there were their friends, the women slain so pointlessly. Slain just to make them hurt. Lestrade had never really hated anyone before, so this was a new experience.
"Is there any point in me asking if we know where she went?" Lestrade said, angling his body on the bench, so he was facing Mycroft. The other man kept the icepack to his head, his thumb soothing as it idly twirled in Lestrade's hair. Greg felt the anger, the pain, and the misery of helplessness drift away, this man's touch distracting.
"None whatsoever. She's gone. And I'll be explaining why to my own superiors here soon, I expect." Mycroft groused, eyeing the chaotic scene in front of his house with displeasure. Acting like he wasn't playing with Greg's very soft, thick, beautiful fox-grey hair.
"You have superiors?" Greg scoffed, smiling a little. Hard to believe Mycroft Holmes answered to anyone.
"Only two, actually. Everyone else is an annoyance to be handled." Mycroft said, and Greg caught a glimpse of a smile on the MI6 man's face out of the corner of his eye. Greg found himself wondering who those two were, but he dropped that line of thought. Better not to know that answer.
Greg avoided making eye contact, afraid to draw attention to the fact that every muscle in his body was very aware of Mycroft. Every nerve alive, tingling. Mycroft's hand holding the icepack; the thumb in his hair, just behind his ear; the scent of Mycroft's cologne, which he knew so well now. He felt it all, warm water washing over him, filling places long left cold. The air even felt different. Newer. Never mind the smell of burnt wood and car exhaust, the air tasted new. As if he had never breathed before.
Greg cursed himself for being a coward. He wouldn't call himself brave, but he knew he was never this fearful. He took a deep breath, and turned his eyes to Mycroft's.
He looked in the eyes of the man who had held him as he wept for Donovan. He looked into the eyes of the man who had mourned Anthea. They had held each other, not questioning the comfort they had garnered from the other man's embrace. He hadn't questioned it. It had felt so very right.
Mycroft met his eyes directly. The MI6 man had been waiting patiently for Greg to look at him. Mycroft's eyes were intent, watching the play of emotions across the DI's face. Greg didn't know what he saw in the taller man's eyes, but it made his insides tumble, like he had tripped while walking on a smooth surface. Greg felt lost, but not to those eyes. He was lost to the world, and he never wanted to be found.
The icepack disappeared, and Mycroft's hand was buried in his hair, long fingers framing his head, holding him. Greg's heart began to race, eyes burning from not blinking. He refused to look away, he couldn't look away. They were closer to each other, less than a foot between them, neither of them aware that they had moved.
The shadows were still deep here, where they sat on the bench. No one could see them, and Greg wouldn't have cared if they could. His hand rose on its own, and his fingers shook as he came within a hair's breadth of touching Mycroft's cheek. Greg swallowed nervously, and let his fingertips touch skin. He felt like he had touched a live wire, pinpricks of painful sensitivity racing through his fingers, his hand, through his arm and straight to his heart. It jumped, and beat faster.
Mycroft saw all this in Greg's eyes, and marveled at it. This was so unexpected, so different. This pull was magnetic, he couldn't stop himself, couldn't think of a reason why he should stop. Mycroft tipped his head down, Greg moving to meet him. Greg felt Mycroft's breath on his face, and his eyes drifted shut. Slowly, as if dreaming, their lips touched, feather-light. A spark was lit, and Greg trembled.
What is this…..Dear God! Don't stop…
Mycroft tensed up, but didn't pull away. Greg was past thinking, and let both his hands frame the other man's face. He pressed just the slightest bit more, and kissed Mycroft as gently as he could. Mycroft let him, his breath coming faster, and Greg felt shivers run through his frame.
"Mycroft Holmes!" Came a voice, impatient. Clearly feminine, and older. Demanding.
They jumped apart, both of them gasping for air, shock and fear and passion crashing between them on the bench. Greg met Mycroft's eyes for split second, before his face got red, and he pulled away.
An older woman with gold blonde hair stood on the sidewalk in front of the ruin of Mycroft's house, looking in their direction. Greg blessed the shadows, as it hid his red face, and Mycroft coughed into his hand. Mycroft tossed him a look, unreadable, before standing up. He straightened his suit, and handed Greg the icepack. He took it absently, mind still chaotic from what had just happened. Mycroft looked at him a moment longer, then turned, walking across the street to the woman who had called for him so imperiously.
Greg sat back against the bench. He had no idea what he'd just done, and he had no idea at all what it meant. He unwrapped Mycroft's handkerchief from the now warm icepack, and stared at it. It was red, and had the initials MH embroidered in gold thread in one of the corners. He rubbed it between his fingers, and he looked up at the man across the street.
Whatever they were talking about, it wasn't good. Mycroft was stiffer than usual, fist clenched, like he was missing his umbrella, and his hand was lost without it. His attitude was hard to decipher; the woman was obviously someone whom Mycroft respected, but he seemed very upset by what she was saying.
Greg raised his brows, believing he was seeing the most polite, high-brow, uptight bickering he'd ever witnessed. Thankful he was too far away to actually hear it, Greg went back to running the handkerchief through his fingers, watching the man who moved him so far from his comfort zone.
Morning came gently to the river, as if apologizing for the rain that had soaked parts of London the night before. Fog cloaked the still green grass of the vast lawn, stifling all sounds. Death watched the grey light of dawn mix with the shadows of the night, the fog prolonging the darkness in the shaded areas. The fog kissed the glass of her window, eventually obscuring the ground below. The river was long lost from sight, and the lamp glow from the boathouse was swallowed up. She touched the glass, feeling the chill on her fingertips.
The great house was quiet. This part of the manor was always quiet. Or it had been, until Mary swayed her decision, and she let her hostages live. Until John Watson had arrived. He had begun to be moderately annoying in the early morning hours while she was visiting Sherlock in the hospital. He had banged on the door until Mary had ordered the guards to figure out what he had wanted. He had demanded supplies to treat the hostages, and proper clothes. Death had plenty of both in abundance, and when Mary had texted her, informing her that she was raiding her supplies and her closet, Death hadn't minded. She had texted Mary back, telling her she had no issues, as long as it kept Dr Watson in a controllable mood. Death had smiled to herself; she had the perfect means by which to control John Watson, and it wasn't by threatening him with violence. All she had to do was maintain control of her very vulnerable hostages. He would obey without hesitation as long as she had the women.
Death turned from the window, and walked from her room, closing the door behind her gently. Death padded down the hall, her feet bare on the wood floor. She had exchanged her black gear for a simple shift, barely enough to cover herself in the cold autumn air, her shoulders bare, her legs exposed from her knees down. Her hair was free from its long braid, the waves in it wild and moving easily in the breeze she made by walking.
She nodded to the guard stationed in the hall, noting with approval that he looked alert, and his weapons ready. He stiffened slightly as she passed, an instinctive tightening of muscles, beyond conscious control. She had that effect on most people. She made no move showing she had seen, and continued on her way.
She had left her weapons behind, in her room not far from Mary's. The older assassin slept lightly, and rose early. Death knew Mary was aware she passed her room, but she wouldn't intrude unless she knew she was welcome. Death had come to appreciate the older woman's presence, much to her surprise. Calm, capable, and she understood Death, better than anyone had since the untimely demise of James. Mary was wary of her, but she wasn't afraid. She accepted Death as she was. So very rare.
Mary had initially been a debt to call even. She had been a woman wronged by Sherlock Holmes, and Death had sympathized. When she learned Mary was compromised, she had done her best to intercede before it was too late. Death had known Mary was in England, almost as soon as she settled, six years ago now. Death had let her be, knowing that she had faked her death as her official retirement. It would have been rude to reemerge in her life, colliding the old with the new. Mary was the only reminder of her previous life, when she followed the will and wishes of her beloved, when he still breathed. Before he became entangled in a game of obsession and control. Before he found Sherlock Holmes.
Death rounded a corner in the grand old house. Her bare feet were soundless. She was heading for the next level, up to the old nursery. Many decades ago the children of the house had been left in the rafters, to be trotted out for guests to be adored before being shuffled out of sight. It was up there that Death sought out her beginning.
Death had spent many years of her life in this building. She hadn't been born to it, but she had briefly been raised in it. The echoes of children laughing followed her down the long hall of the third floor, and she could have sworn she heard whispers from the other side of the nursery door.
She pushed it open, the hinges complaining from disuse. Light came in from the windows, dust shifting in the air. The walls were white plaster, warm red woods bracing the windows, the floor. Small desks were lined up along the wall, pushed to the side. There was a window seat under the largest of the windows, the cushion long gone. She was drawn to it, and her feet took her across the dusty floor. This room was above the fog, and the light came in strong. The fog wouldn't last long this morning. The sun was warm on her feet, her harsh breathing loud in the room, her emotions tumbling from inside her deepest, most secret of hearts. A heart that once beat only for one man, a heart that now had no reason to keep her alive, but for the promise of revenge.
She knelt next to the seat, its size more suitable for a child. Or two small children, who had no one but themselves for company, and love. Two small children left alone in a strange house, with a man they barely knew, their mother freshly entombed in the cold earth. A man who looked at them as things, and not as precious gifts left in his care. Death felt it all come back, and she let it, her grief pulling the memories out of the long abandoned past. She sobbed quietly at sight of the etchings in the wood seat. Her fingers followed the letters carved in the wood, the J and the M so familiar, and very so painful to the touch.
Sherlock blinked. The light was bright, the curtains pulled back from the windows. There was a snoring coming from the side of his bed, and he turned his head.
Anderson? Why the hell…. Ah. Mycroft. My babysitter. Woke him up in the middle of the night, no less. Sent him here to make sure I don't leave. So that I don't go after John.
Sherlock looked towards the morphine drip, noticing that it was almost empty. The flow had slowed as it neared the end, which is why he was awake now. That also meant that the nurses would be in here soon, replacing the drip, and putting him back under. To keep him here. Which was unacceptable. Mycroft wouldn't listen, would make him stay under until he healed. And John would be dead. That thought drove a spike of terror through his heart, and Sherlock refused to let anything stop him. Not even his brother and his meddling.
Anderson was asleep, drooping in the chair, his hands in his lap. Sherlock saw the mobile loosely held in one of his hands. He narrowed his eyes, evaluating Anderson. He was in deep REM sleep, despite his precarious position in the chair.
Do it now, before you get a nurse in here drugging you into stupidity. Move!
Sherlock took a deep breath, and rolled over. He fought back a scream, as his entire body protested the move. His ribs stabbed at him, and he froze, panting into the mask. He breathed as deeply as he could, and with infinite care, reached out. He plucked the mobile from Anderson's grasp, and fell back to the bed, gasping as quietly as he could. Anderson slept on, oblivious.
Sherlock woke the mobile, and figured out Anderson's password in less than two seconds. Took longer to type it in that to figure it out. The man was dreadfully obvious in his obsession. Sherlock pulled a number from memory, and began to type, casting glances at the sleeping man and the door.
Need a jailbreak. Disciple has John. –SH
Sherlock watched the screen, coming as close as he had in a long time to praying. A minute passed, then another, before he got his reply.
I've found you. In Paris. Will be there in 4 hours. –VH
Sherlock felt a rush of relief, glad she had been so near. She moved all over the globe, never staying in one place too long, especially after pulling a job. Sherlock erased the texts, and dropped his arm, letting the mobile fall to the floor. It hit with a sharp clatter, waking the former forensic technician. Sherlock ignored him as he pulled in air, trying to settle the pain.
"Sherlock! You're awake! Ah, let me get a nurse." Anderson looked embarrassed at having been sleeping, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the other man in resigned annoyance. Anderson gulped, and scuttled from the room, calling from the hallway for a nurse. Anderson had a lot more to be embarrassed about than sleeping on the job.
Sherlock groaned, wondering if Violet would get here sooner. Being stuck in a hospital room while high on morphine and having to listen to Anderson ply him with conspiracy theories didn't rank high on his list of worthy endeavors. He had a doctor to rescue.
Mycroft was very unhappy. Well, he would admit to such a state if he ever admitted to being happy. Neither were likely to happen. Lady Elizabeth Smallwood had expressed serious concerns over his handling of Moriarty's disciple, and she had spent the majority of her lecture informing him of it. But there was little she could do, other than stress to him the impropriety of letting his little brother run a disastrous MI6 operation in London. Which ended up leaving several people dead, two buildings blown up, and now a beloved public figure in the form of a certain doctor was missing. And she kept glancing at the bench across the street, were a very befuddled Detective Inspector was sitting.
Mycroft made every point not to look at Gregory Lestrade, determined to keep Lady Smallwood in the dark about his very ambiguous relationship. Dawn had broken, fog clinging to the side streets and alleys, the main streets clearing quickly under the bright sun. Mycroft sighed, wishing he were anywhere but where he currently was. Like the hospital. Or that bench.
"Mycroft." Lady Smallwood was glaring at him. Damn. She had noticed his distraction.
"Yes, Elizabeth?" Mycroft replied, raising a brow in exasperation.
"I am sorry…. About Anthea. She was an admirable woman." Her voice lost the angry edge, and she was looking at him in something close to sympathy.
Mycroft felt the sharp edge of grief stab at his control, and he blinked in the bright morning light. Anthea. His Anthea. The world felt wrong. She was supposed to be by his side, clicking away at her mobile, feeding him information about the world, letting him meddle where needed. But she wasn't. She was gone. There was a void, and he couldn't adapt. He didn't think he'd ever adapt to her absence.
"Yes…. Thank you." Mycroft looked down at the ground, avoiding her eyes.
"I will advise the Prime Minister that you will be handling this situation exclusively from this point. As valuable as your little brother is, he is obviously compromised by his direct involvement. Especially considering the abduction of Dr Watson." She said, watching him for a reaction.
There it was, the real reason she was here this early, giving him a lecture he didn't need. Sherlock. The wild card, the man no one could control. Other than Dr Watson. And seeing as how that inestimable man was missing, Sherlock was a loose cannon. Quite capable of burning down all of London in the effort to find his partner.
"Sherlock is currently incapacitated at St Bart's. He will not be involved anymore." Mycroft replied, his tone implying strongly that the conversation was over.
"Excellent." She nodded to him, and sharply turned on her heel, not even saying goodbye. Not that he minded, the entire conversation had left him vastly uncomfortable.
"She's pleasant." Greg had snuck up behind him, and Mycroft just managed to stop himself from jumping. He looked the DI in the eyes, and what he saw there both reassured him, and left him even more unsettled.
Mycroft Holmes was navigating in waters he had never thought to be in, and the way before him was unclear. All he knew is that he had to find John Watson. Find him, or lose Sherlock.
John listened to the girls breathe, the sound a hymn healing the wounds their faked deaths had left on his heart. The grief was fading, but fear was taking its place. He had to take care of them. They were injured, and very vulnerable.
Anthea had benefited most from the medical supplies and clothing he'd managed to get from their captors. He had been able to set her fingers, and removed most of the wood from her arm and hand. He feared there might be pieces he was missing, and bones he couldn't fix, but she was a lot better off than she had been. Molly had found her courage, and helped him with Anthea. Donovan had been too weak to help, falling asleep in between Anthea's gasps of pain. She hadn't cried. Anthea hadn't shed a single tear as he straightened her fingers, pulled wood splinters from her flesh, and stitched her up. Not one tear.
John turned his head from where he sat in the armchair under the window, checking to make sure they were all still sleeping. All still alive. Still there. Anthea was finally asleep, aided by the painkillers in the medical kit he'd gotten from Death's people. The dangerous pieces had been removed, like the scalpels and such, but he had done more with less before, and he'd made it work.
Molly was curled up against Anthea's side, and Donovan was finally fully under herself. He'd cleaned the wound on her head and neck, and she'd suffered through it without complaint. He hadn't stitched it up, as the wound was days past that point. He had merely covered it as best he could, and given her some antibiotics. Death's medical supplies were extraordinary, and he found himself wondering why she had them. For a woman callous enough to kill a member of her own guard for failing to stop three women from escaping, to taking out a government aide turned traitor because he no longer had a use, she was strangely out of character.
The girls were adamant that Mary had spared them, convincing Death that she didn't have to kill them. And Death had implied as much last night, when she threw him in here. And she was letting him stay with the girls, when he knew that keeping prisoners divided was one of the best ways to maintain control. She was doing all of this so differently than he would have expected. But then, she was insane. And it seemed Mary Morstan had a surprising level of influence over the disciple. John didn't know whether that was a good thing or not; Mary hadn't seemed inclined to show him mercy last night.
John tossed all thought of his ex out of his mind; there was someone far more important he was worried about. Sherlock. Mary had said he was alive. That's it. No word on how badly he was hurt. Nothing. For all he knew, Sherlock could be on a ventilator in a hospital, dying from internal injuries. Or he could be hounding Mrs. Hudson for some biscuits while he planned a brazen rescue. John could hope. Though considering that they were all still alive, and that Death wasn't singing in the halls, John figured that Sherlock was hurt, but still functional. Physically able to function. What worried John the most is how his detective was handling his abduction.
Sherlock had snapped when the assassins had threatened him with their rifles the other night at 221B. Lost it totally. Fear had overwhelmed him, panic making him shut down. John could only pray that Sherlock wouldn't break apart now. He needed his detective, the miracle. The man who claimed to be invincible.
John missed Sherlock with a sharp pain in his chest, like he'd been stabbed. He shut his eyes tightly, and breathed through it. Worry, fear, doubt, it was all there, making a racket in his head. And love. Love was there, too. God, how he loved his detective.
Sherlock. Hurry.
Sherlock was slipping in and out of sleep, the morphine keeping Anderson from getting too annoying. He had droned on and on about nonsensical theories all morning. The man realized at some point in the day that Sherlock really wasn't following along, and had settled for playing a depressingly cheerful app on his mobile. Little tweets and chirps and bird noises.
Hurry up Violet, or I'm going to kill myself killing Anderson.
It was enough to make Sherlock believe in the divine. Her voice suddenly broke out over the hospital intercom system, something about a car being towed due to improper parking, and Sherlock restrained a giggle at the description of Anderson's car. She had masked her American accent well, though Sherlock could still hear traces of it. No one else would, though.
The annoying bird noises stopped, and Sherlock stayed relaxed, letting the man think he was still asleep. He nearly was anyway, the morphine was still set on high, but he was adapting to it. Sherlock just stayed relaxed, and he heard Anderson get up, and throw on his jacket, swearing as he left the room.
He didn't know how long it took, but there was a beeping noise, and he was able to think clearer. Someone had turned down the morphine. Sherlock blinked away the fog, and looked up, into the most unique pair of eyes he'd ever seen. Violet eyes, for the girl named Violet Hunter. Black waves of silky hair framed a lightly tanned face, and she grinned wide as he met her eyes. Sherlock grinned back in return, the delight on her face at misbehaving infectious.
Violet removed the IV and the oxygen mask, silencing the machines as she disconnected him.
"Sexy, what the hell happened? Never mind, I know what happened, hacked MI6 on my way over the Channel. What a cluster fuck! And did you know your brother already locked you out of your access to the network? What a bitchy thing to do. Anyway, let's blow this popsicle stand, hospitals freak me the fuck out." Violet kept chattering away at him, knowing he really wasn't able to do more than blink at her in his current state. She had that covered, and he felt a sharp jab in his arm. His brain cleared remarkably quickly, and the pain dulled with the fog. Adrenaline. She always was very smart.
The shot made his heart race, but he was able to sit up, being careful not to bend too much. He steadied himself on the bed, feet on the floor, as the room spun. She had shut the door, and was pulling clothing out of a bag. Sherlock didn't even blink as she ripped his few pieces of clothing off, and helped him into clothes she must have raided from his flat. She even had his coat, which was relatively unscathed, though it did smell like smoke.
She had him dressed in less than two minutes, and he stood, gaining his balance by putting a hand on her shoulder. She walked a few steps, her height near to his, and she roped an arm around his waist, letting him put his weight on her as they stepped out into the hall. Violet glanced up and down the hall, and she took more of his weight before briskly stepping out. Sherlock matched her, bottling down the pain. This was the hard part; getting out of the hospital without getting noticed.
But Violet Hunter was more than a hacker; she was an American girl raised on causing trouble, and she did it well. Sherlock grinned in admiration as she hit the fire alarm on their way down the hall, where she pulled him into the stair well. She paused for brief second, and pulled the pin on something that looked suspiciously like a grenade. He knew better; it was smoke bomb, and she dropped it right in front of the staircase door. No one would use the stairs here with smoke billowing out of them. She cast him a look full of mischief, and she practically carried him down the stairs to the emergency exit doors. He blacked out, but he trusted her to get him out in one piece.
He came to in the front passenger seat of a very expensive car, a very bright yellow Ferrari. The engine roared, and he looked over to see Violet clicking away at her laptop, eyes narrowed in concentration, her teeth tugging at her bottom lip as she worked, her foot caressing the gas pedal.
"Disabling the CCTV cameras in a ten block radius. It'll mess everyone up enough for us to get away. And seriously, who would expect you to be in a bright yellow Ferrari with a sexy chick?" Violet laughed, and tossed her laptop gently on his lap.
"Where to, sexy?" She asked, putting the car in gear, and she drove from the rear parking lot of the hospital, dodging around other vehicles like they were standing still.
"Leinster Gardens, 23-24." Sherlock murmured, and he pulled his coat up higher around his face, hands in his pocket. He wasn't at all concerned by her speed, and relaxed into the seat.
He felt something in his pocket, some kind of plastic stick. He ran his fingers over it, and felt his heart jump in his chest as he recognized it.
"Look in your pocket. I'll help if I can." Mary's whisper came back to him, the words she had whispered in his ear, just before she used the Taser on him. Sherlock discretely looked down, and saw the pregnancy test stick in his pocket. The results made his eyes widen; his first thought was of John. His doctor. His John, his lover.
Mary was pregnant with John's baby. Oh, John….
Mycroft stood in his bunker, watching as a crew cleaned up the mess from the floor. The traitor's body had been removed, and Mycroft was impatient to get started. To see how deeply Death had wormed her way into the systems.
His pocket buzzed, and Mycroft pulled out his mobile. He felt a sense of inevitable dread come over him when he saw it was from Anderson.
Sorry, sir. He's gone. –PA
Mycroft gripped the mobile tightly, and spun on his heel. He strode from the bunker, and went hunting for his Detective Inspector. Surely the man would be able to find a severely injured consulting detective.
Violet wove the bright Ferrari through the early afternoon traffic, unconcerned at the horn blasts and fingers tossed in her direction. Sherlock needed to rest, flat on his back. And she knew him well enough to know he wouldn't rest as long as his boyfriend was in danger.
Boyfriend and Sherlock Holmes in the same sentence. Holy shit. Never ever thought I'd see the day.
Violet had met Sherlock Holmes over a decade ago, back when she had hacked her way into his university. She had been well under the usual age, and Sherlock had taken all of two minutes to figure out what she had done. Violet didn't have an official education; she had been on her own since she was thirteen, and school had always been a bore. But she had known that there were things a university could teach her that she couldn't get online. So she had enrolled herself in the best university she could find that had what she wanted.
Sherlock had seen, called her on it, and promptly kept his mouth shut. He hadn't turned her in, hadn't said a word to anyone. And so she went to classes, paid attention to what she wanted, and pretended she didn't notice that Sherlock was keeping an eye on her.
He hadn't been obvious, and he hadn't interfered. Sherlock had only ever sought her out when he needed code cracked, someone's computer hacked, or a piece of information he couldn't get from somewhere else. And in return, he took her dancing. The very anti-social, neurotic, grumpy and intimidating, highly intelligent Sherlock Holmes could dance. Very well.
Violet had caught him at it one night, in one of the closed up lecture halls. She had heard music playing, and having zero personal boundaries, decided to snoop. And there he was, dancing by himself. His hair had been much longer then, and he was skinnier, and the dorky picture he had made had almost distracted her from the fact that he was amazing.
He had been angry at first, when he had seen her smiling at him just inside the door. But he hadn't a chance to leave, or to start complaining before she threw the lock, and stepped into his arms. She loved to dance too. He had let her lead for all of three seconds before a massive grin broke across his face, and he took over. They had danced that night for hours, everything from the waltz to the tango. Man could move, and he pushed her skills to the limit.
Violet knew he was relieved when she never pushed him for anything beyond dancing. Beyond the occasional company, and working on solving puzzles. Violet cared for him a great deal, but he wasn't her type. She wasn't interested in men that much. Loved to flirt with them, as they were so easy to fluster, but that was it. She was still surprised to this day that it had taken Sherlock Holmes so long to notice that she was gay. But then, he hadn't been interested in sex of any kind, to the point of asexuality, that she really shouldn't be surprised. He had been younger then, and she had no doubt that if he were to meet her for the first time today, he'd pick it up immediately.
Violet looked at him, trapped in a foggy state of pain and nerves. He was older, more muscles on his frame, and he seemed to have found a better hold on his abilities. As a younger man, it took an act of God to get him to shut up when it came to his deductions, and she was glad he had found success as the world's only consulting detective. Gave him something purposeful to do. And it brought him love. John Watson.
Violet took the corner hard into Leinster Gardens, glad it was a work day and that most people in the area were out. She killed the engine right outside 23 and 24 Leinster Gardens, and hopped out, running to his side of the car. She pulled the door open, and caught him as he started to spill out.
"C'mon sexy, get up." She yanked him up, glad she didn't fit the stereotype of the usual hacker. She made it a point to work out often, and she was thanking that habit as she all but carried the detective up to the doors.
"Keys, in my pocket….." He gasped out, the shot and the morphine clearly worn off by this point.
She dug out his keys, and found the right one. She kicked the door open, and dragged him over the threshold. She recognized immediately what this place was. The rumble of the Underground wasn't loud, the concrete walls muffled the sound, but the vibrations underfoot were strong. She dragged him into a small alcove, and dropped him gently on a settee covered in dust.
"Stay here, I'm getting my gear, and dumping the car. Ten minutes." She didn't even stop to see if he responded, spinning on her heels and booking it for the car. She slammed the door shut, and ran to the Ferrari. She gunned it out of the street, heading for a nearby lot. Violet knew these streets well; she had lived in London for almost three years before moving on.
Mycroft Holmes had been uncomfortable with his little brother being so close to a woman who could, and did, hack into any government system on the planet. Violet had merely offered the opinion that he didn't like Sherlock having a life, one that didn't follow his expectations. Sherlock had laughed at the look on his brother's face, and she knew she hadn't made a friend that day. But not an enemy either; Mycroft was far too pragmatic not to see the value in knowing someone with her skill set. And so she was tolerated, and Violet hadn't any regrets when the jobs started pouring in. That meant money, and independence.
Violet pulled her thoughts out of the past, and jumped the curb next to a secure car lot, driving out of view of the camera that covered the front part of the entrance. The low slung car slid with ease under the gate, less than an inch to spare. She drove it to the back of the lot, and pulled it into a spot in the far rear, out of sight. She didn't care about the damage she had caused jumping the curb, the car wasn't hers. Violet wiped down the interior, grabbed her laptop and her small duffel from the floor. She left the keys on the front seat, and walked off without a glance back.
Violet pulled out her mobile, and using the Find-A-Cab app, called for a taxi. It was the same app that Sherlock used, and one she had designed. Another way to bring in the bling. Though her pal got it for free.
Now for the hard part! Avoiding Mycroft Holmes and helping Sherlock track down a pyscho bitch!
Sherlock struggled not to pass out. Violet had only been gone for a few minutes, and he knew she would be back. There was no time to waste.
Mycroft locking him out of the system meant the government was kicking him out of the search for Death. And Mycroft would be looking for him. Violet was very skilled, but she was one woman, and his brother literally had an army.
Sherlock tugged the pregnancy test stick out of his pocket, and stared at it. Mary was pregnant. She was carrying John's child. Sherlock knew his doctor well; John would welcome a child, no matter who the mother was. John's capacity to love was bottomless, as clearly evidenced by the love he gave Sherlock without hesitation. So this child must live; which meant that Mary must live. She wouldn't have told Sherlock she was pregnant unless she wanted to have the baby. Mary didn't need to hide behind pregnancy to keep people from hurting her; she was more than able to keep herself safe. The trouble would come in keeping everyone else from killing Mary without telling the world she was pregnant. If Death learned she was pregnant, who knew what that madwoman would do? Mary might even end up a prisoner herself, instead of a free agent with full access to Death and her plans. So no one must know, other than a select few. If they could be trusted not to pull the trigger if given a clear shot.
"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."
That moment came back to him in its entirety; she had given him a clue to find Death. Sherlock knew who she was, all the evidence was pointing straight at it. Who she was may very well lead to where she was. Now, to prove it, remove all doubt.
Violet came back in, locking and shutting the door behind her. Nine minutes and fifty three seconds after leaving him on the settee. She was good. He'd stomach his pride and go dancing with her. Hopefully with John, too. Though that was a conversation he wasn't looking forward to having.
"You still alive? I've got some cocktails from these Colombians I met in L.A. Excellent at killing all pain receptors, and knocking your education back a few years." Violet sat on the floor next to the settee, pulling out her laptop, and assorted other gear.
"Pain's manageable." He said, watching as she set up her mobile Internet access, the satellite connections, and her firewall. No one was going to be able to backtrack her to this place. "I'll prefer to remember my name for a while longer, thank you."
"Glad to see you kicked the substance habit. Just let me know if it gets too bad." She maneuvered herself so she was sitting against the settee, and he could watch over her shoulder. "Direct me, Mr. Holmes. Who we pissing off first?"
"I need to see what happened last night when John was taken." Sherlock said, stamping down on the pain and fear racing through his heart at the thought of John in danger. "I need to know how she got to him; I left him in Mycroft's bunker, he should have been safe."
"Yes, that's perfect! Hacking your big brother, literally! Ohhh sweet….." Sherlock ignored her mumbling, well used to it, even after all these years. She and Mycroft had a contentious relationship, to say the least. He watched as she hacked into the MI6 systems, pulled up the video footage of Mycroft's home, the bunker.
Sherlock watched, his heart in his throat, as Death blew up his brother's house. As she killed the security team, and accessed the bunker's door. As it opened for her. Sherlock's brow furrowed at that, but he would came back to it in a moment. The feeds continued on, and he saw John hold Death at gunpoint, until the traitor pulled a gun on Mycroft.
"Oh shit, a traitor? In Mycroft's house? Holy crap…." Violet breathed, as caught up as he in the scene unfolding. "John's got some guts, sexy."
Sherlock saw John give up his weapon, and he growled when he saw Death drop John to his knees, and blow the traitor's head off. Violet flinched, and buried her face in his arm for a second as the debris from the impact sprayed the men tied up on the floor.
"Copy that, dear. Mission complete on my end. See you at home." Sherlock's attention was caught by that phrase; Death hadn't repeated Mary's use of the word 'base'. She had said 'home'. He snapped himself away from that thought, and found himself wishing John was here, aside from the obvious reasons. John helped him focus.
Sherlock kept watching, anger building in him as she assaulted his brother, and knocked out Lestrade. She left them alive; she hadn't killed them. This worried Sherlock; it seemed that whatever her endgame was, she wanted people alive to see it. People she saw as involved, no matter how tenuously, in the death of Jim Moriarty.
"Ok, he was fine when she took him. Doesn't seem to have hurt in any; just a sore wrist." Violet said, ending the footage just as a new security team swept into the bunker and freed everyone.
"She means to keep him alive until I come for him, then she'll kill us all, and herself too." Sherlock said, leaning back on the armrest.
"Creepy and crazy, awesome." Violet turned her head, and met his eyes. "What next?"
"This all started when I came back from London, and stopped Lord Moran from destroying Parliament. She was playing as his wife for the last two years. No record of her existing before that, at all. We know from her actions at Blackwood Chemical, and the evidence gathered, that she was a disciple of Moriarty. The words she used were a variant of the same he used when he threatened me at the pool three years ago. She could only have known them if she were very close to him, or if she were there. I believe both. She is a skilled assassin, exceedingly talented. It's possible she was there that night, one of the snipers holding John and I under threat."
Violet settled in, and watched him. Watching this man pull the threads of a mystery together was never tiring. Like breaking an unbreakable code, it was addicting.
"She has had two years to exact vengeance. It's clear she knew I wasn't dead. So what made her not kill John, or Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson? All the other disciples had orders to kill them if I wasn't dead. She instead pretends to be a socialite, and stays wed to a man she had no issue killing the second he does something stupid. She acted only after Moran was arrested, as if he were the only thing stopping her. So what kept her hidden?"
Violet shrugged, and Sherlock smiled at her. "Well, it's obvious, really. She's out for vengeance for the death of Moriarty. She loved him, a great deal. The only reason she would restrain herself is if he had told her to stay hidden from the world. To keep her safe, unmolested. To be Sybil Moran, and not Death. Why would he care that much, even for his greatest disciple? The only reason he would care is if he loved her back."
Sherlock sat up, and gasped at the pain. "Now who would Moriarty love? He was a sociopath, purest form. It would have to be someone who had been in his life for a very long time, someone who had always been important. Moriarty wasn't one to keep pets of people, or to form strong attachments. So it wouldn't be a lover, or a friend. It would be family."
Sherlock nodded as Violet sucked in a breath in shock, her eyes wide. "Yes. Family. She is a Moriarty. And from her age, mannerisms, the way she speaks and moves, I'd say sister. She is so very similar to him, the only difference is that she is willing to be physical. Get her hands dirty. She was the blade, the sword; he was the master planner, the brains of the whole syndicate. He issued the orders, she executed them."
"Death is Jim Moriarty's sister."
Twenty-five years ago….. Blackwood Manor
"He scares me, Jimmy." She whispered, holding her brother's hand as she huddled on the seat, feeling brave as she peeked out the window to the ground far below. She was very brave for a little girl of five, her brother always said so. And she always listened to Jimmy. Her big brother was her best friend, and Mommy said he would always look out for her.
"Don't worry, I'm here. I won't let him get you." Jimmy tugged at a shiny brown curl that fell from her pigtail, very careful not to hurt. He was always playing with her, teasing her, pulling her after him as he got them both into trouble. But Jimmy was very smart, he always got them right back out.
Jimmy snuggled his baby sister under his arm, wincing when she pressed too hard against the sore spot on his ribs. Blackwood had caught Jimmy spying on him, and his fist had left a dark spot. Jimmy vowed next time not to get caught, he had to be better. He would be better. Blackwood was nasty, he was mean, and his eyes followed his little sister everywhere she went. Jimmy had promised his mother he would protect his baby sister with everything he had in him, no matter what happened.
Jimmy missed his old home, his old room, his Mom. She had brought them here after she got married to Blackwood, promising them bigger rooms, more friends, clean clothes, and presents for Christmas. All Jimmy had wanted was books, and a chemistry set like the boy in his year had. Jimmy liked books, he read all the time. Mommy was very proud of him, always said he was the fastest reader of all the seven-year olds she knew. Jimmy liked science and figuring out how things worked, and Mommy let him tear apart his toys, just to put them back together again.
Then Mommy got sad, and sick, and Blackwood got meaner. He had been mean before, but he had ignored the two little children before his wife began to tire him. Jimmy had heard Blackwood tell Mommy that it was all her fault, everything was her fault, and that she made him hurt her. Jimmy knew Blackwood was lying. Mommy never made bad things happen. She fixed the bad things. Jimmy wished she were here, so she could fix Blackwood. Keep him away from his baby sister.
Jimmy held his sister as she dosed against him, her tiny form warm on his bruises. Jimmy used to say all the time he remembered when she was born, a squalling bundle of mean screams. Jimmy would to brag to his Daddy about it, when ever she was really cranky or loud. Jimmy got sad as he remembered what his dad said to him.
"Of course she's loud, lad! She's Irish, and a Moriarty!" Dad would ruffle his dark brown hair, and Jimmy would smile up at him. Daddy had been gone since Jimmy was five, same age his baby sister was now. Mommy had cried for a long time, and Jimmy took care of his sister.
Then Mommy had married Blackwood, and then Mommy got sick, and died. Jimmy was alone now, little Jaime, his baby sister, all he had left. Blackwood wanted to hurt Jaime, and Jimmy was going to stop him.
Now
Death lifted her head from her arms, where she had rested against the warm wood of the window seat. Her fingers traced the faint outlines of markings in the wood, the twin J's intertwined with the single M. She glanced at her hand, and smiled at the ring she wore. The M's matched, even years later.
"I will not fail you, Jimmy. You were the only person in this world I loved. The only man I loved. Whom I could stand to love. You kept me safe, no matter what. I never blamed you when you couldn't stop him." Death whispered to the letters scratched into the old wood, by childish hands. Jimmy had helped her, an act of rebellion one night long ago as they hid from their tormentor. "I told Moran the truth, the day I killed him. You were the man I loved more than anything in this world."
She smiled at herself. Calling him Jimmy again, just from seeing these marks. He hated it when he got older, preferring Jim. She had of course gone a step farther, and called him James. He had grumbled every time she did, as he always said he wanted to be called Jim, James sounded too much like Jaime. And she had complained, what's wrong with my name?
The world assumed her relationship with the late, great James Moriarty was something other than the truth. It had served to hide her identity, and his. Tracking two Moriarty children would have been easier than the one. She never even called herself Jaime anymore. No one left living knew that name. Had ever spoken it. Death had gone by so many names over the last two decades, and she held no emotional attachment to any of them. Just his name. Always his name. Her brother, her protector, her master. James Moriarty.
Her one true love. Ashes now. Ashes and rage. She would be with him soon, and she wouldn't be going alone.