Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
A huge thank you to all my reviewers, followers, everyone who has favored this story.
WARNING: Mentions of child abuse. Swearing. Brief violence.
Read, enjoy, review.
Chapter Thirty One
"The Younger Moriarty"
John jumped at the noise outside the door. He stood, ready to face whatever came through. No one had come to the door in hours, not since a dour faced guard had tossed in a sack full of bottled water and breakfast sandwiches from a deli. It was obvious their captors weren't using the house's kitchen. Probably no one in this place knows what to do with a knife other than slit someone's throat with it. It was well into evening now. The sun was setting, intense orange colors burnishing the walls and floor.
Someone was unlocking the door, and sure enough, it was opening. John stiffened in dismay. It was Death. She pushed the door open with her fingertips, and gave him an endearing smile; or it would have been if it wasn't from her. John glanced at the bed. The girls were asleep, but for Molly. She sat up quickly, and John motioned for her to stay on the bed.
Death stepped in, just at the threshold, leaving the door wide. John could see past her, at the two guards at her back. She was dressed all in black, from the black band that held her hair back from her face, all the way down to her combat books. Their captor was beautiful, so much so that John was disturbed. Such evil shouldn't be allowed to look so wonderful. She had no weapons beyond her knife; but then she didn't need a gun, as the men behind her were armed, and had their guns trained on him. The long silver blade was the only flash of light about her, and it glimmered menacingly from the sheath on her thigh. She looked disconcertingly lovely. As if the past weeks had been nothing but a bad dream, and she was just visiting friends.
"Hello, John. Settled in nicely, I see." Death said, her voice low. Molly was shaking, and Death smiled sweetly at her. For some reason this made Molly flinch, and John fought to control his rage that boiled up from the depths. He would be able to help no one if he was dead.
"Leave her alone." John said. He moved between Death and Molly, not caring that her guards reacted. Death raised her hand, and they stayed back in the hall.
"I'm just here to say hello. No need to get upset." Death said, and walked in the room, moving around him like he wasn't standing between her and the bed. John clenched his fists, and it took all he had not to snap her neck as she brushed by him.
"And how are my guests? Molly? You look a little ill." Death sat on the bed, and her movement woke Anthea and Donovan. Neither moved, their eyes locked on their captor. Molly bit her lip, and her eyes were begging John to make the monster leave her alone.
"What do you want? You've already done enough to them." John growled. Death ignored him, and continued to look at Molly. As if she were an interesting new animal at the zoo, one she hadn't expected to see.
"Molly. Now that I've spared you, I'm finding myself curious. Is there more to Molly Hooper than meets the eye? There almost always is, with women at least. And then, there is the men in your life. You so briefly held James' attention all those years ago." Death said, her tone sickly sweet and somehow predatory. "And the great Sherlock Holmes is very fond of you, as well."
"What's the matter, you jealous? Your psycho boyfriend paid attention to another woman and you think you'll come in here and torture her? Leave her alone." John said, standing as close as he dared to Death, keeping an eye on her twitchy guards. He'd say anything to get her to leave Molly alone.
"Psycho boyfriend?" Death whispered, and Molly pushed back towards the headboard at the look on her face. Death breathed in deep, and held it. She rose, and John mentally cursed himself, thinking he was going to get a repeat of last night. She slowly turned, and looked him in the face. His blood ran cold. Her eyes were madness. John would say until his dying day that he caught a glimpse of an abyss in them. There was nothing sane in them. Death stood so close to him that she was only inches away. He could smell her shampoo, and the slightest hint of peppermint.
She spoke, but not to him. She kept her eyes locked on his, and addressed Molly.
"Molly, tell Dr Watson who I am." Death ordered, her voice a low purr, sensual and dark.
John saw Molly shake her head in denial, and the other women sat up, gazing at Molly too. John focused on Molly, who was biting her lip, and looking at her feet. What does Molly know?
"Molly, my dear. You recognized me instantly when I came for you at St Bart's Hospital. Tell your friends who I am." Death put an edge of command into her voice, and Molly jumped.
"You…. You have his eyes. Jim's eyes." Molly stammered out. She took a deep breath, and continued. "Same pattern to the irises, same colors and depths."
Death smiled, and John felt the revelation all the way to his bones. This was so much worse than a girlfriend avenging a lost love. No no no….
"She is …. Moriarty's sister." Molly said, her voice full of fear. John backed up a step, suddenly terrified to be so near. Hearing it spoken aloud made the light dim, the air grow heavy. This isn't possible. She can't be. Dear God, she is!
When Sherlock had brought up the video feed of Sybil Moran and her husband on the day Moran died, John had felt a powerful sense of familiarity. The woman before him had struck a chord, as if he knew her. He realized now that he hadn't been seeing her; he had seen the ghost of her brother. He was there in her, from the way she tilted her head, to the expressive eyes that shone brightly with their inner fires. They were alike as siblings could be without being twins. All the way down to the madness.
Death let John look, and she could see in his face the recognition, the way her eyes matched her big brother's so exactly. "Men, always taking so long to see things, even small details. Well, most men. Sherlock had seen as soon as I was close enough. Meek Molly Hooper had known immediately."
"Hello, John Watson." Death sighed dramatically, and swept her hands out wide. "A long time ago, I was once Jaime Moriarty. Welcome to my childhood home." Death laughed, her voice beautiful and horrid all at the same time. As she spoke, the socialite-influenced tones fell away, and John could hear a hint of the fair green isle in her voice. She even sounds like him!
"Dear God." John wasn't even aware he spoke out loud, not until she laughed softly.
"Poor Sherlock. Wonder how he'll handle knowing that if Molly had just seen a picture of me days ago, that none of this might have happened? He might have found me by now, and instead of everyone he loves feeling my pain, it would just be the two of us." Death walked to the window, lazily staring out through the glass. She lifted her hand, moving it in the brilliant rays of the setting sun. Long shadows fell from her fingers, while the dying sun set the top of her hand on fire. John could almost believe she was burning in that moment, before she dropped her hand. Her next words struck him to his soul. "Now, the whole of London shall burn. I can't wait to feel the flames, can you?"
John had nothing to say, no words to offer this madwoman. She would do as she chose, and the only way to stop her was in death. John found himself wishing he had taken the shot in the bunker, before her traitor pulled on Mycroft. They might all be dead as a result but London would be safe.
"Oh well, hardly matters now. This will all be over soon anyway. Just waiting on Sherlock. My men should be finishing up the last details anytime now." Death said cheerfully, turning to face John. He was still staring at her, his mind and soul disturbed to a degree he hadn't known possible by the fact that this creature was a Moriarty. Suddenly it seemed as if all hope was lost. As if her bloodline made her even more deadly.
There was more than one in the world, and we never knew. Evil's been with us the whole time…..
"I went to visit your lover last night, John." She didn't react as he paled, hands making fists. John was afraid of what she would say next. She was calm, with a teasing smile hovering about her lips. "He was in the hospital, heavily sedated and suffering from several broken ribs and a lacerated lung."
John sucked in a breath, worry making him feel ill. Sherlock was in a bad way indeed if one of his ribs had lacerated his lung. He could begin to bleed internally, and die a slow death. It could collapse if he did anything strenuous. Like trying to rescue John and stop Moriarty's disciple. Sister, his sister!
"He was lucid enough to recognize me. It was very sweet. He seemed to know who I was the second we kissed." Death tossed that out casually. As if she kissed Sherlock Holmes every day. "You're very lucky, darling. He's a great kisser."
He snapped. It was too much. John growled deep in his throat, anger making his vision go red. He didn't even realize he took a step forward until the click of the gun in his ear made him stop. The cold end of a barrel pressed to his temple, and he froze.
"John. Don't be difficult." Mary said. She had come from nowhere, her approach silent.
"Mary! Wonderful of you to stop by. Don't mind John, dear. He's just a teensy bit jealous." Death smirked at him. John swallowed, and felt his anger fade. Something else was taking its place. Betrayal and heart ache.
John relaxed as the barrel pulled away from his head, and he turned. Mary held a gun leveled directly at him, her gorgeous blue eyes bright with something he couldn't place. It looked like fear, but she had nothing to fear from him. She had the gun. She stood as if the gun weighed nothing, one arm holding it perfectly aimed for her chosen kill spot, unmoving. Mary held the weapon as if she had been born wielding it.
John looked past the gun, and his heart was breaking anew at the look on her face. He knew this woman, regardless of her lies. He knew that expression on her face. Everything in him was saying that she was begging him to stop, to behave. Her expression was superficially neutral, but for the stress around her eyes and mouth.
Why is she worried? She's worried and yet she pulls a gun and points it at my temple…. But she is worried, I see it in her eyes…. John nodded slightly, so vaguely that only she could see, being so close to him. He didn't know what to think. This Mary, in this way, was so alien to him, yet so very familiar.
Mary stepped back, and lowered the gun. She kept her finger on the trigger, ready to bring it back up at a moment's notice. Anthea was sitting up, her expression blank but watchful, and Donovan looked like she wanted to jump off the bed and start hitting someone. Molly was pale, eyes dancing between the three of them as they stood in the middle of the room.
Death giggled in glee as she walked to Mary's side. Death stroked a hand across the back of Mary's shoulder, and hugged her with one arm. John felt his stomach roll as Death leaned in, and kissed Mary on her bruised cheek.
"Nice to know where your loyalties lie, Mary. I admit, I was concerned." Death nuzzled her face in Mary's ear, and Mary didn't shrug her off. Mary had yet to take her eyes off John. Her eyes were screaming something at him, but John was distracted by the very disturbing image of Jim Moriarty's sister nuzzling his ex-fiancé.
"I was coming to tell you that your teams have returned. They're waiting in the ballroom for their debriefing. Team leaders informed me that they have your packages." Mary said evenly. As if Death snuggled with her every day. For all John knew, they could be more than old acquaintances. They could even be lovers. His stomach threatened to revolt at the thought, and he bit his tongue. I will NOT vomit in front of them.
"Excellent timing on their part! I'll just be off then. I'll be back later, John, ladies. Do enjoy your stay, I'll see about dinner." Death planted one last kiss on Mary's cheek, her eyes lighting up in delight as she saw John's jaw clench in anger. John had the sneaking suspicion that she was messing with him.
Death turned, and walked into the hall. She pulled her silver knife from its thigh sheath, and John could see her tossing it into the air as she went down the long hall. The blade cut a silver blaze of light as it tumbled through the air before being caught in long slim fingers, just to be tossed right back up. The madwoman was practically skipping in joy. Whatever her men had just done, it made her happy. And that terrified John.
The two guards repositioned themselves, one of them peeling off from the door and following behind his mistress. The other moved away from the door, as if trusting that Mary could keep them all in line. And John had no doubt that she could.
"John." Mary's voice snapped him back from watching Death disappear down the stairs.
"Mary." He let his voice convey his anger, disappointment, and the pain, all of it.
"I bargained for the lives of your friends. I couldn't do the same for you. Don't give her a reason to hurt you." Mary warned him, her voice sharp, as if she were trying to hide fear behind anger. She clicked the safety on the gun as she tucked it in the holster on her thigh.
John's eyes were drawn by the movement, and his nerves tingled when he saw the weapon. She had his gun. Mary was using his service weapon, the one Death took from him in the bunker. His eyes darted up to hers, and she gave just the barest hint of acknowledgment. It was the tiniest of smiles, at odds with the tension between them. Her eyes were hypnotic, and John couldn't look away. She seemed to be waiting for something, and John remembered with a jolt that she had warned him.
"Ah, sure. I'll keep that in mind." John replied, his voice vague. The guard was back in the doorway, as if waiting for Mary to leave. She nodded curtly to the man behind her, and she left, holding his eyes until the last second. The guard shut the door, the lock snapping loudly in the quiet left behind in her wake.
"This is so not good." John murmured, and sat on the edge of the bed. He stared at the door, trying to make sense of the last ten minutes. "She's a Moriarty. Dear God."
John could hear Anthea and Donovan whispering behind him, discussing the identity of their host. Molly crawled up next to him, and rested her head on his shoulder. "What did she mean, Sherlock 'was' in the hospital?"
"Yeah, I caught that too. Sherlock's escaped the hospital. He's closing in on Death." John replied, voice low, not wanting to let the guard hear him. "I just hope for his sake that he's got help."
"Sherlock will save us." There was no doubt in Molly's voice, and John smiled at her conviction.
I just hope he has someone to save him. I'm currently unavailable. Be careful, Sherlock.
"Violet, see how she got the bunker door to open. See if it was the turncoat, or if she had some other means in." Sherlock said to the woman sitting cross-legged on the floor beside his settee.
"Yeah, sure. Gimme a sec." Violet attacked her laptop, and Sherlock watched the lines of code fly by on the screen. The joys of having your own hacker. Almost as good as having your own doctor.
Sherlock felt a stab of pain that hurt worse than his ribs. John. She had him. A Moriarty had John. Focus dammit! You can't help him if all you can do is sit here and worry!
"Hey, here we go. Looks like that ID has been in there for…Wow, let me pile on the sarcasm! What a coincidence. The night you caught Moran." Violet kept clicking away, and Sherlock saw her pull up the ID on the screen. There was no picture with the name. "Says it belongs to Moriarty, J."
"Hhhhhhmmm. 'J' for Jim? Or perhaps that's her initial?" Sherlock mused. "I think it's likely that the 'J' is hers, as if she's poking fun at the whole situation. Most would assume it's his name, but that's too obvious. We all know she's out to avenge Moriarty, not use his name…."
"I think it's hers. If they're siblings, it stands to reason that their names could have the same initials. Parents lack originality like that no matter where you're from." Violet grumbled. "And women aren't that silly. Sorry. We just aren't. We wouldn't go around using our dead brother's name, that's just weird."
"Violet, bring up the files that MI6 gave Scotland Yard, the ones on Moriarty. The files they used to clear my name." Sherlock asked, trying in vain to get comfortable on the settee.
"Sure, I've already got them on my hard drive. I've been following along since you pulled your swan dive maneuver." She threw him a look as he continued to shift and fidget. "I really think you either need to lie down, or let me stick you with one of my cocktails. Sweetie, you look like you're about to die."
Sherlock thought about it, biting his lip. He couldn't afford to turn off his brain. John needed him. Screw the rest of the world, he needed to rescue John. For John he'd stay sober.
"Any adrenaline left?" He asked, willing to compromise.
"Only got a couple left. Think we should save those until we actually need to move." Violet said, her face clearly showing her concern and exasperation. Violet wasn't one to be subtle. "Mycroft will eventually catch on; he'll figure you couldn't get out on your own. And there are only so many people you'd call. I can theoretically hold him off forever, but I'll have an easier time of it if we change locations. We'll need to leave in the next day or so if we can't find Moriarty."
"I know, I know." Sherlock waved her concern away, finally giving up and resting fully on his back. The strain of holding himself up eased, and he didn't have to fight as hard to breathe. "I need to find John. Don't let me sleep. Please."
"But….." She paused as she caught his eye; for the first time in their long relationship, he had a pleading look about him that just slapped her heart in all the right places. "Oh, fuck it. I won't let you sleep. But if you pass out and start to die, I'm calling your brother. And it's gotta be bad for me to call him."
He just gave her a smirk, and waved at her to get back to the files. She huffed, and pulled them up.
"Okay, what am I after?" Violet asked, idly scrolling through the files she'd stolen from MI6.
"Track big brother Jim as far back as you can. Skip long breaks in time; go back to the earliest record of him anyone could find." Sherlock figured they might as well start at the beginning. "And see if Scotland Yard and MI6 had any luck in finding out where that bloody boat went. The one Miss Moriarty used to get to Blackwood."
"The river, you'll always see the river." Mary's voice came to him past the pain, circling in his head. "Never mind tracking him. She said that if I found Blackwood, I'd find Death. And that I'd always see the river."
"Who said?" Violet asked, twisting around, almost spilling her laptop on to the floor.
"Mary, before she knocked me out." Sherlock murmured, wondering at her phrasing. "Find Blackwood? We know where Blackwood is, why say to find it? Unless….. There's more than one Blackwood."
"Mary? John's ex-girlfriend? She's on our side now?" Violet set her computer down, as it ran its search through the files on Moriarty. She had typed in the Blackwood name, and the computer was working its magic. "Okay, I wasn't expecting that. But hurray for having our own inside girl. Go Team Sherlock."
Sherlock didn't respond, as he thought around the pain. He had just learned how deeply he could breathe without the stabbing sensation in his chest. Mary would be useful for certain if they found where Death was hiding. And keeping her safe through it all was paramount.
"She said that if I found Blackwood, I'd find Death. And that I'd always see the river. So let's assume that there is another Blackwood, not just the chemical plant. And since we could see the river from the plant, and Mary said we'd always see it, perhaps there is another Blackwood out there that's on the river as well."
Sherlock struggled, pain fogging his mind. There was something he needed to know. "I couldn't find out who owned the chemical plant. All I could remember was that the owner died twenty years ago. How do I know that? I remember the name, and that the owner died."
"Do you recall when you first learned that?" Violet asked. She had a particular look on her face, brow furrowed in thought. Sherlock caught on quickly; he knew what she was getting at. Find the origination of the memory, and perhaps he could fill in the blanks.
"No, but I will momentarily. I'll be stepping out for a moment…."
Sherlock closed his eyes, and dived past the pain, the weariness, and his fears for John. He went deep, looking for that moment in his life when he had learned about Blackwood. It was there, what he needed to know. He saw a glimmer of it, that memory. It was beckoning to him, and he followed. The streets and buildings of his internal city fell away, and he soared over the rolling green hills of his childhood. He trusted Violet not to disturb him; she had seen him do this many times. Rather like John….
He found himself standing in his parent's kitchen, looking at a very young version of himself reading his father's newspapers at the table. His mother was making breakfast, scolding him absent-mindedly when he dropped a section on the floor. He ignored her, as he usually did, and kept on reading. Sherlock moved through the illusion of his childhood home, coming around behind his younger self.
Sherlock smiled at the Irish Setter hiding under Little Sherlock's chair. Redbeard, his friend, always with him; faithful until his last days. Sherlock grinned as the dog gently beat its stubby tail on the floor, his memory supplying a moment of comfort. The ghost of his long deceased companion wormed his way out from under his young master's chair, and came in answer to the soft whisper of heartache from the grown version. Sherlock reached out, and welcomed the joyous sting of pain as he ran his fingers through the silky fur, felt the soft tongue as Redbeard kissed his hand.
"Hello, old friend. I miss you too." Sherlock said, throat tight with tears he refused to shed. He had cried them all for this animal's passing years ago; he would cry no more. He would remember the good times.
"You should come visit him more often, you know. He gets lonely." Little Sherlock piped up, not lifting his head from the papers on the table. His voice at this age was high and squeaky, and Sherlock winced at the reminder. "Would do you some good, too."
"Ah, but I'm not a child anymore, or so Mycroft keeps reminding me." Grown Sherlock replied, unperturbed that he was speaking to himself. This wasn't the weirdest thing he'd ever done, by far. He kept petting his dog, and peered over his own shoulder at the papers on the table.
"Mike is boring." Little Sherlock said, snickering as Mummy glared at him from the stove. "Well, he is."
"Yes, Mike is boring, and he hasn't improved with age either." Grown Sherlock replied, pulling out a chair next to his younger self. Redbeard followed, and rested his head on his master's knee. Sherlock kept on stroking the silky head as he pushed the papers around, smiling at the melting brown eyes of his very first friend.
"You going to ask what you came here to ask? Our John needs us." Little Sherlock finally turned to look at him, and Sherlock was struck by how much he had, and hadn't, changed in all the years since. His hair was wilder as a child, the curls tighter, and going every which way. His eyes were the same. His mother's eyes. It was a gift she had only shared with her youngest, those indescribable eyes of hers.
The illusion of his mother responded to his subconscious, and he looked up as she turned from the stove, throwing him a wink and a smile. He got quite a bit from his mother, though he'd never say so. For all her scatterbrained ways, his mother was a genius. Give her an impossible equation, and she'd solve it faster than most people thought; ask her to drive to town for groceries, or for help in finding a lost jumper before school, and you'd have better chances with the dog. She glared at him as she caught his line of thought. Sherlock realized he was disciplining himself as his mother while sitting in the mind-palace version of his old home while petting the ghost of his dead dog while he got impatient with himself from the seat next to himself.
Okay, time to focus. I'm starting to confuse myself.
"Blackwood. This is where I first heard the name. Read about the owner dying." Sherlock turned from the illusion of his mother, and focused on his younger self. Little Sherlock was glaring at him, and Grown Sherlock stifled a smile. "I need the whole memory."
"Oh, that memory! I just read all about Blackwood. Here, in the Times." Little Sherlock snatched at a paper across the table, and pulled it back to him, imperiously holding it away from Grown Sherlock as he reached for it. "I found it, I'll read it."
"Go on, then." Sherlock waved a hand at himself, and smiled at Redbeard. He forgot how annoying he could be. Little Sherlock glared at him again, and sniffed haughtily. His younger self snapped the paper out straight, sat up in his seat, and began to read aloud.
"Lord Vincent Charles Milverton, Eighth Earl of Blackwood, was found dead yesterday in the private study of his residence outside London, Blackwood Manor. Authorities are investigating the circumstances of his death, and inside sources are quoted as saying the earl had a history of emotional and mental issues, and there is a suspicion of suicide. He was the sole owner of Blackwood Chemical Treatment and Storage Facility, which is to be closed while the investigation is ongoing."
"Lord Blackwood is preceded in death by his second wife, Elise Milverton nee Moriarty. He is survived by his two stepchildren. Due to the circumstances of his passing and the ages of the children, this paper shall not disclose their names."
Sherlock remembered it all. It struck him in its entirety as a force of nature upon the face of the world. He was the lone tall oak in hot summer fields, as lightning strikes from the heavens. The recollection was powerful, and Sherlock let it fill him up, pull him from his comfortable memories. Little Sherlock gazed back at him, eyes bright in the shared memory.
I have known for decades…. All this time. I had a clue within me the entire time. The universe never gives me coincidences….And only I can be a big enough idiot not to see it! I must go back now… I am so tired. I'm never this tired here. I never feel exhaustion here…
The younger version of himself suddenly jumped up from the kitchen table, and whistled for his dog. The rear kitchen door opened of its own accord, and Grown Sherlock watched as he ran out into intensely green fields, his faithful dog yapping at his heels. The light was bright, but didn't hurt his eyes. Every fiber of his being was telling him to step through that door. To follow, and be free in the sun, as he had been as a child. But he couldn't. John needed him.
Sherlock took one last look, around the room he had spent so much of his time in as a child. One last look before he focused on the voice calling to him, with an edge of fear laced with exasperation. He pulled himself away, ignoring the temptation to stay. Back to the world, and the crazy American shouting in his ear.
"Sherlock! Jesus, wake up! Don't make me call Mycroft!" Violet was almost screaming, her hand on his shoulder, shaking him as hard as she dared.
"Violet, you keep shaking me, I'll pass out for real." Sherlock grumbled as he blinked at the single lamp in the room. "I'm fine."
Violet snapped her mouth shut, annoyance and fear fairly obvious on her face. She narrowed her eyes at him, her nose crinkling up exactly as it used to when she was a teenager and he caught her stealing PIN's for pocket cash. Not that he stopped her; she just got annoyed when he caught her.
"We need to find Blackwood Manor." Sherlock said, ignoring the cranky face of his partner in crime. He struggled to sit up, and collapsed when his body reminded him that while his mind might be in fine working order, the rest of him wasn't. There was a different pain in his chest, and Sherlock felt a wave of dizziness come over him. He breathed lightly, and the dizzy spell lessened.
"Ooooohhhkay." Violet drew out the word. "So I shouldn't worry about the fact that I was fairly certain you were dead, just now?"
"What? No, I'm fine. Just had a moment." Sherlock tossed her a look, and she threw up her hands. "Find all of the properties of Lord Vincent Milverton, Eighth Earl of Blackwood. Blackwood Manor. He died nineteen years and ten months ago, suspected suicide. Suspicious circumstances. He was married to a woman named Elise Moriarty, and he had two stepchildren."
"Holy crap. I need to get me one of those mind palaces." Violet forgot all about being worried, and dived for her laptop. Her fingers flew over the keys, and she was doing an admirable job of imitating him at his most focused. "Oh, um Mycroft's people are back in the system, and someone's noticed all the movement. I think they think I'm the crazy chick, or something. They keep trying to track me down, and getting disappointed when they can't."
"I would tell him that it's just us, but that would be playing fair." Sherlock snickered, not really caring that his brother's people were trying to track them. Violet was the best in the world. You only found her if she let you.
"Yeah, I was monitoring Scotland Yard while you were pretending to be dead over there, and everyone is looking for you. Lestrade's called in every single cop this side of the pond."
"Obviously they aren't succeeding." Sherlock murmured, the clicking of the laptop keys soothing. He let his eyes drift shut, and concentrated on breathing as normally as possible.
"Nope, they're failing rather spectacularly. Your brother's boyfriend is cute, by the way. Silver fox thing does it for me." Violet didn't notice Sherlock's look of complete befuddlement, his eyes flying open to lock on the back of her head. "Looks like love really is contagious."
Lestrade is Mycroft's WHAT?! Sure they're close, I suppose… They did just spend two days in the same bed. Must have just happened. Oww, now my head hurts. Will not think about it, will not think about it….Dammit.
"Explain, please." Sherlock couldn't help himself. He had to ask.
"Yeah, I've got access to the camera feeds for Mycroft's street, the house, and bunker, all of it. Caught a blurry vid of them making out in front of his house before dawn this morning." Violet dropped that nugget of information, still not seeing his face. Sherlock was suddenly wishing for a morphine drip for a whole new set of reasons. "I saved it to my personal 'I told you so' file. I can show you if you wanna see."
"No, thank you. I'm fine." He was certain he never wanted to see that. Ever. "And he had the audacity to judge me for sleeping with John."
"He does that again, I'll beat him up for you. Just like the old days." Violet gave him a cocky grin over her shoulder before she went back to her laptop. A small window popped up in the corner of the screen, and she opened it quickly. "Scotland Yard had no luck finding the boat."
"Not surprised." Sherlock said, not minding as Violet slouched farther down the side of the settee, her head resting on his arm. She drew her legs up, and balanced the laptop precariously on her knees. "Somehow I don't see that helping us out right now."
"Don't you Brits have a registry for all the titled people in this country? Wouldn't that be the fastest way to find Blackwood?" Violet didn't even wait for him to answer, she hopped on the Internet, and suddenly the screen was teeming with websites following the British peerage. "Wow, the sheer amount of people obsessed with you guys is insane. Look at all the anglophiles! This is a goldmine!"
"Blackwood, Blackwood….. Here we go! Yup, that doesn't help. The title went extinct when he died. No heirs." Violet wasn't even paying attention to him; she kept on scrolling, switching windows and clicking on everything. "Looks like property was sold off, including the houses, cars, everything except the chemical plant. It hadn't been run correctly in years, no one wanted it."
"Government condemned the property fifteen years ago." Sherlock whispered, fighting the urge to close his eyes. The entire day had been nothing but pain and worry. He was so tired. "Find Blackwood Manor, it's on the river."
"Sherlock, you're falling asleep." Violet rolled her head back and forth on his forearm, making him blink away the cobwebs. Her shoulder-length jet black hair shone in the low light from the single lamp. "You said you didn't want to sleep."
"Hhhmmm." Sherlock blinked again, and took a deep breath. "Help me up."
"Um, why?"
"Bathroom." He stated. Not elaborating…
"Oh, joys. Hope you can handle your business in there, not my area of expertise. This creepy fake house has a bathroom?"
"And a kill room. This once belonged to the Clarence House Cannibal."
"Sweet." Violet snapped shut her laptop, and stood, reaching down for him. "The cannibal isn't going to stop by for tea, is he?"
"Oh no, I caught her years ago."
"Her? Wicked."
Lestrade was beyond frustrated, beyond depressed. He had returned to Scotland Yard, and been inundated by questions about Donovan. He had been ordered by Mycroft not to reveal her fate, nor that of Molly Hooper and Anthea. The entire operation was to be handled as quietly as possible. He had tried not to give anything away, but he couldn't control the grief that had come over him at the questions from his people. They knew him well enough that they had seen the truth, without him saying a word.
So he had endured the painful outcries, the vows to find the person responsible, the anger and fear. He had let his people vent, and then held hard to his resolve as he ordered them back to work. They couldn't stop Donovan's killer standing around filling sorry for themselves. It was if he had thrown ice water on fighting dogs, so shocked was the room. He had told them what he could, that Sherlock Holmes was on the case, and currently missing. That he was in danger, and for them to solve Sally's murder, they needed to find Holmes.
But then he was rewarded, and made proud. Every one of his people had pulled it together, and sprinted for their desks, the phones, and heading out to follow up leads, no matter how tenuous. Every one of his officer's had jumped back into work, determined to avenge their sister.
Lestrade shut his office door, and rested his head on the back of it. He tried pulling his thoughts away from the knowledge that Sally's desk was less than three feet from the door to his office. It was exactly as she had left it, all those days ago. Her cluttered desk, overrun by files, the long forgotten flower sitting on the corner, the computer humming, pulled up on the case she had been working the day she went missing. She had a pair of high heeled shoes under the desk, one fallen over on its side. Some kind of shiny black leather strappy things. Her bag was sitting open over the back of her chair, one strap fallen from the seatback. Her space was exactly as she had left it, and well warned was anyone who touched it now.
Lestrade had seen it before. When officers died. The desk was always left untouched, a shrine of sorts to the person who had used it. Left as it was the last time he or she were there, to be packed up only after the funeral. To be packed up by him. She had been his officer, his sergeant. Sally had been almost a partner, as much as he was allowed to have with an officer under his command. And she had been very dear to him.
Sally Donovan had been a prickly, snarky, rude, stubborn woman. She had always been quick to judge, but he knew there had been no malice in her heart. She was too stubborn to let go of her initial opinions, and that had hindered her many times on cases. But he had seen in her potential, to be one of the best. He had chosen her out of so many young officers, and did his best to steer her right.
It had taken Sherlock's Fall to finally get through to her. To break her cycle of judge first, learn later. It had been a hard lesson, and one that had taken years for her to absorb. And she would have kept evolving and growing, if not for the cruelty of fate, and a madwoman's blade.
Lestrade bit back a sob, covering his mouth tightly with his hand. He would allow himself no more tears. No more pain, no more lost days crying and bemoaning his helplessness. He would find Sherlock, find Death, and avenge his friend. His Sally. Even if it meant blowing Death's head off himself.
Sally sat back against the headboard, shifting slightly in a vain attempt to get comfortable. Her head was killing her, the long slash on her neck stinging her as she shifted.
Death had left them all in shock. Her admission to being Jaime Moriarty, sister to the madman Jim Moriarty, had been as devastating as a wrecking ball through the walls of a home. Sally cast a look at Anthea, who was sitting up next to her, cradling her broken arm to her chest.
"So, we're really screwed, aren't we?" Sally murmured to the MI6 agent, biting her lip.
"It's starting to look like it, yes." Anthea whispered back, and Sally caught her eye.
Both women broke out in giggles, laughing at the sheer absurdity of the entire situation. They had all been through the trauma of having their deaths faked, without them knowing. They had been kidnapped, their bodies stripped and battered, and left in a cage like animals. And here they were now, in a room together, sharing a single bed, three women and one very angry doctor. Held captive by the epitome of baddies, a Moriarty. I think that's the definition of screwed for certain!
John turned around, and Sally started giggling anew at the surprised look on the doctor's face. She could only shrug at him as Anthea broke out in trilling laughter, leaning against her shoulder. Sally couldn't stop laughing, and Molly wasn't helping. She kept looking back and forth between the officer and the agent, her face clearly saying that she was afraid they'd snapped under the pressure of the last few days.
"Hey, it's either laugh, or cry." Sally choked out, and kept on laughing.
"Sir. We have some news." The new aide said, face blank, posture stiff.
"What? It had better be useful." Mycroft snapped out, perversely pleased when he made the aide stiffen up further.
The bunker had been swept, all traces of Death and blood removed. Mycroft had summoned a new team from headquarters, and sent all of his old aides to be debriefed. Where there was one traitor, there might be more.
"There has been some suspicious activity in the last few hours in the systems. MI6, MI5, the military command networks, Scotland Yard, the Royal Services network, everywhere."
"Explain." This must be Death. She must have an access point somewhere in the system.
"Someone is searching through classified data. We can't see what exactly, as the footprints are being erased almost as soon as we notice them. We are catching glimpses. And most of it appears to be sporadic. If it wasn't for the fact that these areas are all maintained daily, we would almost think it was a malfunction. Our tech experts are suggesting this is actually a person, shifting through classified files."
"A single person? Not a virus or a program?" Mycroft asked, and he felt a tightening in his muscles. He had a vague thought, and a sinking feeling in his gut. Sherlock had escaped from the hospital, and he couldn't have done it on his own. He had been too injured. Someone he trusted had helped him. And now someone was hacking the British Government.
"Yes, sir. And whoever this person is, he or she is the best we've ever seen." The aide said, and his opinion of the skill level of the hacker was clear in his voice.
"I think I know who that would be. Keep watching." Mycroft said, and he waved the aide back to work.
There was only one person in the world who fit the description of 'the best'. And her name was Violet Hunter.
Mycroft pulled out his mobile, and dialed. Whether or not she answered would depend mostly on her mood. But he had to try. He had to know if Sherlock was okay. And he really wanted to know if she had found Death yet.
Violet was typing, sitting on the floor outside the bathroom door. She was waiting for Sherlock to finish, praying he wouldn't need help in there. She hadn't exaggerated, she had no expertise with men and biological needs. Wanted none, really.
She tilted her head, glad she could hear water running in the sink. He was well enough to wash his hands, at least.
Violet stiffened up as she heard him cough through the door, stilling her fingers over the keyboard. He spit into the sink, and Violet bit her lip. She may not be well versed in medicine, but she had seen his chart, and knew a lung was damaged. It was most likely blood. She just hoped he wouldn't push himself further. She really didn't want to talk to Mycroft Holmes at all.
It was if her thoughts summoned him. Violet pulled her cell out as it started to vibrate, and she squirmed on the hard concrete floor as she saw the caller ID. No one else would be able to see who was calling from that restricted number, but no one else was Violet Hunter.
Violet stared at it, and hit Denied. She would answer only after talking to Sherlock. What she had found while he was in the bathroom was important.
"Your brother is on to us, Sherlock." Violet said over her shoulder, talking through the door. "He just called me."
The door opened, and Violet looked at the pale consulting detective. He was leaning on the doorjamb, hands holding tight. His eyes looked like they were bruised, dark blue and reds surrounding them. He wavered, and Violet feared he might fall. She snapped her laptop shut, and put her cell back. Violet pushed herself up on her feet, and didn't complain when Sherlock draped an arm over her shoulder. She started off slowly for the room with the settee, taking her time.
"Did you answer?" Sherlock asked, his face so pale Violet's heart trembled.
"No, I'll call him back though if you want. I dumped your mobile at the hospital." Violet said, and carefully lowered him down on the dusty cushions of the settee. Sherlock leaned aback, his head lolling over the back cushions.
"I have to tell you something." Sherlock said, and he fixed his diamond bright eyes on her. Violet swallowed nervously, and hugged her laptop to her.
"Okay, go ahead. You're acting like you're about to dump me, so let's hurry up with the bad news." Violet was watching his face, and was rewarded with the tiniest of smiles.
"No, it's good news. Usually the best news. At least I'm assuming it is, I've never had the experience. This time it's just difficult." Sherlock sighed, and pulled something small, white and slim from his pocket. Violet's eyes widened as she recognized it, and Sherlock dropped it on the seat next to him. "Mary Morstan is pregnant with John's baby. That's why she's now on 'Team Sherlock'."
"Holy banana peels on a sidewalk, Batman! That's a trip!" Violet sputtered, then thought past the usual happy baby thoughts. "Oh shit, that's not good. She's on the 'kill on sight list.' Mycroft is gunning for her just as hard as Death."
"Yes, and there is the issue. Mary must live. She wants the baby. John is to be a father, and I know he would want this child too. I love John, with everything that's in me. I want this for him." Sherlock sat up, and she held back from helping him. He would only need help if he reached for her first. "Mycroft and the government will not care at this juncture that Mary is expecting. Acceptable collateral damage. Once we find where Death is, and if we tell Mycroft, we won't be able to stop him from killing Mary as he storms wherever they may be."
"Yeah… and John won't be happy." Violet said. She bit her lip, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. He could always read her so well. "I found Blackwood Manor."
Sherlock blinked, and she saw a glimmer of something in his eyes. Hope.
"Tell me."
"It took so long because it's been passed through so many hands over the last twenty years. Renamed, rezoned, sold and resold. It was bought by its current owner five years ago. It was renamed to Copper Beeches Estate when it was purchased the last time. The new title was processed under the ownership of a Ms. Jaime Brook."
"Jaime Brook? How delightful. Richard Brook was the alias Moriarty used when he was staging my downfall. It seems likely Jaime is his sister."
"I found the estate, it's over an hour away, towards the sea, on the river. There's some Google maps shots of it, and it's pretty damn big. Has a boathouse, too." Violet told him, and she watched as life came back into his face. He now knew where his doctor was, and Sherlock was pulling himself from the depths of his pain.
"John is there." Sherlock made as if to get up, but he grabbed at his side, and fell back panting to the cushions.
"And we so can't get him out of there on our own, sexy. You're not your usual super ninja-detective self, and the only weapon I know how to use is my laptop. And a potato gun, but that's not really relevant."
"Whoever we get to help us has to be trusted not to kill Mary. I know we can trust her. I know we can." Sherlock said, and wiped at his face. "Trouble is, we need someone, and everyone I know is currently damaged by losing a loved one to the younger Moriarty."
Sherlock bit his lip, and Violet moved to sit at his feet. She put her laptop down, and rested her cheek on his knee. She sighed, and just offered him this small measure of comfort that she could give him. Sherlock wasn't one to snuggle, and this was as close to it as she knew he would let her get. So it was with a great jolt of surprise that she felt his hand come to rest on her hair, his fingers drifting through the black shoulder length strands. Violet held back any words, and let him find comfort however he needed.
She felt her cell begin to vibrate again, and with one hand pulled it out, and held it over her head to her favorite sociopath. Sherlock didn't stop petting her hair, just took the cell with his other hand. She felt him drop it on his other knee, and she could feel it vibrate through them as the call went unanswered.
Sherlock stared at Violet's mobile, the caller ID clearly showing Mycroft's name. His brother had found out who he was with, if not where he was. And Violet was right, eventually he would find them, if they didn't move on.
Sherlock was trapped. He felt a surge of satisfaction, of mad joy, and it battled with frustration. If he was whole and healthy, he would already be on his way to Blackwood Manor. Or whatever it was called now. He would get in, rescue John, and if he could get away with it, kill Moriarty and take Mary with him. If wishes came true, Moriarty would join her brother, and Sherlock would have his doctor back. But wishes were never granted. There was no higher benevolent power listening to prayers, just the universe spinning, and nothing could stop it from moving on.
Sherlock watched as Violet's mobile went quiet, the screen showing two missed calls. He didn't even care that his fingers were still running through her soft hair. She was warm against him, and Sherlock felt a pang in his heart as he realized just how much John Watson had changed him. There had been a time he would have pushed her away, or held himself back until she caught on to how uncomfortable he was. But now, all he wanted was to keep touching her soft black hair, and accept the heat from her. The comfort she offered so easily.
Violet was like him in many ways. Neither of them cared much for laws, the expectations of society. They did as they pleased, and be damned the consequences. But neither of them strayed to depravity. It was much like Sherlock had once told Jim Moriarty. He may be on the side of the angels, but he wasn't one of them. And Violet wasn't either. She had no trouble doing what was needed, despite her running commentary on everything.
"I don't know what to do. This would be made easier if I could talk to Mary….." Sherlock said, and his voice trailed off as he stared at the raven-haired woman at his feet. "Violet?"
"Yeah?" She lifted her head, and looked at him, her chin on his knee.
"Can we talk to Mary?" He asked. "We know where she is."
Violet was confused for all of a second, before her face cleared and she caught on. "Oh my God, yes we can!"
She sat up, and snatched at her laptop on the floor. Opening it, Sherlock watched as she accessed the mobile networks, for London and the surrounding areas. Large maps sprung up, and Sherlock could see the locations for all the towers that serviced the city. On the side, a long list of mobile ID numbers scrolled past, lit up in green and zipping by so quickly Sherlock couldn't differentiate them. Violet plugged in the address of the estate where John was, and located the tower that served it.
"These are the cellphones in the area of Copper Beeches. Or mobiles. Whatever. There's thousands. But I can narrow it down." Violet zoomed them in, and Sherlock saw the little blinking dots of active mobiles in the area around the estate. She weeded out the ones that weren't within a hundred yards of the property, and hundreds of dots blinked off the screen. "These are the mobiles that are all on. If it's turned off, I can try and turn it on, depending on the model. But I've got a feeling that Death and Mary have virgins, mobiles that have clean ID's and they'd have no reason to have them off. In this day and age, everyone has a smartphone, and we all get our news that way. Not having one would be a handicap."
Sherlock said nothing, just waited as she zoomed in further, and she put up a satellite overlay of the property, with a small handful of blinking green dots within the house.
"Okay. There's five smartphones within the house. Three of them are individuals, different makes and models. Different years of manufacture. But two of them are identical. Same manufacturer, same serial batches. They were most likely purchased from the same wholesaler, by the same person."
"Death and Mary." Sherlock said, and Violet looked over her shoulder at him. "They are partners in this, and Death most likely gave her a mobile to use. Mary dumped hers at the park."
"Very likely. Trouble is, who is who? We could dial Death first, and then we're screwed. I don't think anyone has those numbers other than the two of them. And getting an unexplained call would be a signal to dump them."
"Can you see where in the house they are?" Sherlock asked, and Violet nodded.
"Yeah, give me a minute. I can find out their specific locations to within a few yards."
In less than thirty seconds, Violet had the two matching mobiles blinking alone on the screen. They were within yards of each other, in the same room.
"Well, shit. Looks like we wait, and then guess on who to call." Violet muttered, and slouched back against his knee.
"I never guess. We wait, and I'll tell you which one to call once they separate." Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the dots. "Change the caller ID on your mobile to my name."
"I hope you pick right, cuz if the psycho Moriarty answers, you're doing the talking."
Death looked at her men, and each one met her eyes without fear. They weren't built for it, these select few.
"You all understand what this means." Death asked them. Making sure to hold their gaze, each man individually. One by one they nodded, and she was satisfied.
"Once the countdown has started, you will know that I am past protecting. All that will remain is that you fulfill your duties."
"We understand, my lady." Said her bodyguard. Death looked him in the eye, and smiled. He had been with her the longest, and his diligence was why he was chosen.
"It will be over soon. For all of us." Death nodded to her chosen, and they filed out of the ballroom.
Mary knew she was in trouble. So much trouble she didn't see a way out. She wasn't being held captive or anything, Death had been clear that she could leave at any time. But she couldn't leave, not now. She couldn't leave, and let the father of her child be burned alive. And she was very good, but she couldn't break four hostages out of this place without help.
Mary sat on top of one of the long tables in the ballroom, watching Death and her men on the far side of the room. She had forty mercenaries and para-military men under her command. Death had recruited them directly, by rescuing them from Sherlock and MI6 in the last two years. She had crisscrossed the entirety of the Continent and further abroad to destroy evidence that linked Moriarty in any way to Lord Moran and his wife. Along the way, she had carefully culled the best from the lot, and left the rest to be slain or arrested. Sherlock had indeed destroyed Moriarty's network, but he hadn't gotten them all. The favored few had escaped and were all in this room. And as a result of Death's actions, every man was devoutly loyal to her.
Even when she was at her most ruthless, Death inspired in her men absolute loyalty. Her slaying of the failed guard and the traitor at the bunker had been met with approval, not censure. Her men sat and stood in a large semi-circle around their mistress, lounging on large crates and boxes. Death was explaining last minute mission details, and assigning any changed roles. Mary knew from the men's posture and the way they moved that they held Death in high esteem. They would die for her, without hesitation. Some of them already had. And a great many of them would be dead in the next few hours.
Mary couldn't hear all of it, but that was fine. Death had filled her in on all of it hours ago, and Mary found herself shocked that she hadn't felt regret and dismay until now. Death was literally going to set fire to the world. Forty men and one woman. Who were about to set London on fire, and destroy any chance Mary might have at a future. One that didn't involve a bullet in the brainpan or four concrete walls.
Mary dragged in a deep breath, and slowly let it out. She had to calm herself. She hadn't been this bad off emotionally until she learned that she was… in trouble.
Anger and love makes fools of us all. I should have stayed true to my training, and avoided both. But if I had, I wouldn't be… I can't even think the word! I'm pregnant. I'm pregnant with John's baby. I never thought to hope for this, never thought it through. I am a fool. Such carelessness is beneath me.
But I was happy. So happy. I love him, I wanted him, I had him….. John. I saw my life laid out before me, full of happiness and potential. And all I had wanted when I escaped my old life was peace. A chance to be myself, and never have to pull a trigger again. Dreams, all of it.
I was so angry when he left. He didn't just dump me, he yanked away the happiness I had found. The chance to live fully. And I reacted as I would have years ago, and not as I should have reacted as Mary Morstan. Though none of this matters, as Magnussen knew who I was, and the second he couldn't use me, he sold me out. When John left me, the connection from me to him to the Holmes brothers broke. I would have had to run anyway. And I'd still be pregnant, and in trouble. But I would have had someone to help me…. John and Sherlock both would have helped me. I know they would have. John wouldn't let his anger at my lies keep him from helping me. And Sherlock would help because he would do anything for John.
Pride, anger, spurned love, all of it played a part. But I made all of my own decisions, and I deserve what's coming. I deserve it, but my baby doesn't. My baby… Dear God, help me please…
Mary felt her hands lace together over her belly, as if the thought of her baby being hurt made her body react on its own. So strong was the urge to run, to get as far away from danger as possible, that Mary nearly fund herself leaping from the table. She reined herself in, schooling her features back to a mask of perfect indifference. No one could know she was wavering. And she knew, with every cell in her body saying a stark truth in chorus. That she would be unable to look in the eyes of her future child and not feel wretched regret for leaving its father to die.
Ruing my decisions is a waste of time. Regret wastes energy. All I can do now is keep things from getting worse. Hurry, Sherlock. I have a feeling the fires are about to begin.
Mary watched as Death ended the briefing, and over two thirds of her men left the ballroom. They were heading back in to the city, and once Death sent them the signal, it would begin. There was maybe ten to twelve men left here at the compound. The rest were all leaving, back to their assigned positions. They were to guard the firebombs. In case Sherlock or Mycroft caught on to what was happening. London really was going to burn.
"Mary, there you are, dear." Death called to her. Mary hopped off the table, and met her halfway down its length. "I have something for you. My boys brought it back with them while out running my errands."
Death dropped a black box in her hands, and Mary stared at the unexpected gift.
"A present? And I didn't get you anything."
"They brought back my present as well, no worries dear. I'll be waiting on using mine until the final stage starts."
Mary opened the box, and what she saw left her dumbfounded. Passports, ID cards, birth certificates, alias workups, all neatly stacked up, and wrapped in a red ribbon. Death reached in the box as Mary just stared, and untied the ribbon from the documents. Her delicate fingers sorted through until she came to a dark blue passport, brightly embossed with the golden eagle of Mary's homeland. She pulled it out, and opened it to the information page.
There was a name next to her picture, a name she hadn't been called since she was seventeen. A seventeen year old girl cornered by shadowy government spooks who were hunting for damaged children to train.
"In case you wish to go home." Death said, as Mary blinked back sudden tears. "It may be too dangerous, perhaps for the rest of your life, but if the opportunity arises…." Her tears flowed over, and Mary had to let Death take the box from her as she lost her grip. Mary found herself weeping, her emotions out of her control.
Death's arms wrapped around her, and Mary cried on her shoulder. Amelia…. I never thought to have that name again. They stripped it from me, took it from me years ago…
"It isn't a perfect match to the one you were born with, as that would draw attention, but perhaps it is close enough." Death murmured in her ear. Her arms were tight, and Mary didn't care. This creature had pulled off a miracle, and Mary knew better than to spurn it. "All the separate aliases are real, exact, and clean. No one will find you with these. All you have to do is avoid facial recog."
"I can do that." Mary choked out, laughter mixing with her sobs. She lifted her head, and wiped away the tears. Her face was sore, but she didn't care. She had options now, more than she had five minutes ago. All she needed to do was save John, and she could go. Have a baby, have a life. Be free, and find peace again. "Thank you."
I can't stay in London. Not after what I've done. I'm sorry John, maybe one day I can come back… Let you meet your child. You would be the best father in the world…
"Enough tears, Mary. Soon this will be over. I promised you a new start, and the means to end the threat Magnussen posed. I have fulfilled my promise. And you fulfilled yours. And in a most spectacular fashion, too." Death rubbed her shoulders, and picked the box back up from the table. She put the top back on it, and handed it over to Mary. "If you wish to leave, you may. I'll have my men take you anywhere you want."
"Leave?" Mary gasped out, hands clutching the box to her chest. She was incredulous; Death really was willing to let her walk out of here. A part of her had been expecting Death to kill her, or at the very least, hold her until her own mission was over. "Now?"
"Well, if you choose to stay, I will not turn you away." Death said quietly, her dark eyes watching Mary's carefully. Her face was unguarded, and the madness was quiet, slumbering. She looked like a normal young woman, who was waiting on an important decision. As if the answer mattered.
A change was spreading across Death's features. Mary saw no trace of anger, no pain, the evil exorcised from the young woman before her. It was as if every other incarnation of her was the lie, and Mary was seeing the truth.
Mary felt a small part of her heart ache at the waste of potential she saw in front of her. The things Death would have been capable of if she had found a different path were impossible to fathom. Who she would have been was just a lost dream, now. It was a regret that disappeared as soon as she thought it. Death was as she should be. Forged by love, loss and grief.
"I'll stay. I have no place to be right now." Mary said, and watched as Death's shoulders loosened, and she relaxed. Mary couldn't leave yet. Not while John and his friends were still here. And this young woman had a hold on Mary's heart, despite the evil that simmered in her soul. Mary had a brief flash of herself standing on the edge of a great fire, her hand reaching out to a wraith being consumed in the depths…
"What's your real name, Death?" Mary whispered to the woman in front of her, who was so near Mary felt her body heat in the cool room. In their profession it was beyond impolite to ask, but Mary couldn't stop herself. "I know it's not Sybil."
"You didn't hear earlier? When you drew your weapon on John?" Death whispered just as quietly. "I told them, and everyone got very upset."
"I won't. Tell me." Mary asked, her eyes searching the younger woman's. There was an actual emotion in them, hidden. Something that wasn't rage or madness. Mary needed to know.
Death broke eye contact, her face flushing slightly with color. As if she didn't believe Mary would be able to handle it. She seemed to ponder the odds, and slowly raised her head. Her voice was low, but even. There was nothing in it of the evil she could conjure at will.
"Jaime Moriarty."
Mary sucked in air in surprise, as the younger woman flinched slightly, eyes clearly expecting a harsh reaction. She's a Moriarty? Oh Dear God, no wonder…
"You're his sister." Mary whispered, and she felt a river of awe, unease, and strangely, satisfaction race down her spine. The mental image of this marvelous creature of death and destruction suddenly crystalized, and every question of how she was capable of being so very talented was answered. Mary had once thought that Death had been born disconnected from her soul, to be as good as she was. It was more than that. She had been born to be this way. She wasn't born wrong; she was as nature intended.
Mary couldn't help herself. She lifted a hand, and brought it to the younger woman's jaw, and traced the fine bones, the elegant lines of her face.
"Are all of you so magnificent?" Mary asked. Her fingers stilled on the perfect cheekbone, skin unblemished and smooth under her fingertips.
I'm standing next to perfection. She was born to be as she is. Whatever sent her down this path was destined to happen. Am I just as dark as she, that I appreciate her for what she is? The lives she's taken, the blood she's spilled, none of that bothers me. But I am not one to be bothered by blood. Nor death. Look at us both, the assassins with hearts, who bleed for the men who left us…. The heart that now beats beneath mine is all that keeps me from becoming her…..
"I am nothing compared to what he was." Jaime said, her face bemused as Mary pulled her fingers away slowly.
"I never met him. All that I know is from John." Mary said, and she fought not to flinch as she said his name. "Sorry, he did tell me a lot."
"Most likely all of it accurate." Jaime said, and she moved back. Reluctantly, slowly. "He was everything to me."
"So I've seen. Forgive me, I assumed that you and he were….." Mary let her voice trail off, as she caught the glitter of merriment in the dark eyes of this young Moriarty.
"On purpose, trust me. Harder for people to track us as we grew up." Jaime said, and jumped up on the table, much as Mary had been sitting earlier. "Many times we would split up, go our own ways for several months, but we would work our way back to each other. James had his distractions, I had my missions."
Mary raised her brows in surprise. This version of Death was charming, accessible, and seemingly sane. And it made her curious, and cautious. No, not Death. Jaime.
Can she see reason? Can she be turned aside? She cannot be saved, but can she be stopped?
"Tell me about him." Mary asked, resting her hip on the table next to Jaime's legs. "The world saw him as a monster."
"And so he was." Jaime looked down at her, and grinned at the look on Mary's face. "We are both of us monsters. Of course we are. What else would you get, with two small children being raised by one?"
"What?" Mary whispered. She had a feeling she knew. She didn't want to hear this, but she couldn't look away…..
"Our stepfather was an alcoholic, abusive, wife-beating, child molesting monster." Jaime told her, and Mary fought the urge to place a protective hand over her stomach. "We were left on our own after our mother died from too many beatings. He had a fondness for young girls, and we endured his abuse for five years. In this house. Alone."
"Dear God…" Mary felt sick. Jaime looked in her eyes, and Mary saw nothing she expected in there. There was no pain, no fear, and no shame.
"There is no God." Jaime said. "There are those who cause pain, and those who are hurt. We stopped being victims. We took what we learned by surviving Blackwood, and chose to live as we wished. So we became monsters, and we flourished. Different set of standards, of course. But monsters all the same."
"How did you get away? Though I have a feeling you didn't escape as much as stop him."
"I killed him." Said so calmly. Without fear of judgment. "James staged his death as a suicide after I killed him. I choked him with his own tie. We then took every asset we could, and raised ourselves from that point on."
"What? How old were you?" Mary was finding this hard to believe.
"I was nearly ten, James was twelve." Jaime laughed at the look on Mary's face. She had given up trying not to be shocked. "James had already killed a boy at his school, so it was easy."
"Carl Powers?" Mary breathed, remembering from John's blog, and the stories he'd tell her of Sherlock's cases.
"Yes. The little snot was harassing James. He stopped." Jaime grinned, and kicked her feet back and forth like a child on a swing.
"Oh." What else could she say?
Jaime jumped down from the table, and darted in quickly, kissing Mary on the lips before pulling away just as fast. Mary had barely registered the soft touch of her lips before she was gone.
"It's dinner time for our guests, Mary. And then I'll be waiting for Holmes to start the show. The end is almost here." Jaime slowly morphed back into Death before her eyes, the charming woman-child without guilt and shame fading back to the heartless maniacal monster bent on revenge. Mary found herself missing the young Moriarty, she was refreshingly real. True to who she was, without agenda. Unburdened by the deadly purpose to end her life for man who left her alone.
Death gave her a smile tight smile, and walked back down towards her remaining guards, presumably to send someone out for food. People had to eat while waiting to die.
"Wait." Mary called, still standing where Death had left her. She stopped and turned her head, one brow raised in question.
"Can I call you Jaime?" Mary couldn't believe she was asking. Anything to bring the real girl back. Even if she was insane in all her incarnations, Jaime was worth saving, more so than the mercurial Death.
Death was surprised, the first time Mary had ever seen her without complete control. Mary held her breath as the younger woman looked at her, as if trying to see her heart.
"Only you." Jaime Moriarty smiled at her companion. She paused, and Mary was finding herself holding her breath as the younger woman stared at her.
"The final stage will happen once Holmes figures out where we are. We will have short warning before he comes. I'll be moving the women to the boathouse after they start this way, so that they will not be in range. Dr Watson will stay with me. You will have to run at the same time, unless you chose to burn with us all here at the house."
Mary shuddered at the look in Jaime's eyes. Her willingness to die. The desire to die.
"You don't have to die, Jaime." Mary dared.
"But I want to, Mary." Jaime replied, her sweet voice clear. "He left me behind, and went to where I cannot follow. At least, not empty handed. I'll finish what he started."
Mary carried the bags of food from the nearby deli down the hall to where Jaime was holding her prisoners. Two guards stood outside the room, and she nodded to them to open the door. The larger of the two unsnapped his firearm while the other unlocked the door. Mary was armed as well, though she knew John wouldn't try anything, not with the women as injured as they were.
She walked in as the door opened, and Mary ignored the glares from the women sitting on the bed. John was back at the window, and the look on his face was enough to make her flinch. But she didn't, well aware of the guards in the hall. She turned to them and nodded for them to close the door.
"Dr Watson will behave. I'll be fine." The guards looked at her for a brief moment, and the other drew his weapon as well. She wasn't worried. The guards closed the door, and locked it, and Mary knew she would only have few minutes before they opened it to check on her.
Mary dropped the bags on the bed, and waved a hand at the women.
"Go ahead. It's safe. I already ate." Mary held back a smile at the grumbles she got, but since they knew they were only alive because of her, Mary knew they'd eat.
Molly was the first to move, and she snatched up the nearest bag. Molly opened it, and Mary grinned at the look on the younger woman's face. Best damn sandwiches in the city. Somehow Mary wasn't surprised that Jaime knew about it.
"Why are you here?" John asked quietly. Mary didn't look at him, her hands at her sides. She put her fingers on his gun, the one on her thigh. She had seen it on the table the evening before, when everyone was checking in their gear from the assaults on the clinic and Mycroft Holmes' house.
Jaime had seen her take it, but she had grinned when Mary said it only seemed right she got to use his weapon. Would serve him right if she shot him with it. Only a part of that had been a lie. Mary was still very mad and hurt by John Watson, but she had to put that aside. She was carrying his baby, and there must be some way to fix this colossal mess. Sherlock had to hurry. And he had to be subtle about it. If he could get here without Jaime knowing, they may yet save everyone's life. And London too.
"I'm here because the world is about to burn, and me along with it." Mary told him, finally looking him in the eyes. She ignored the women on the bed as they ate, well aware they were watching, and not caring.
"You helped her do all of this." John said, and he stepped towards her. He was angry, and Mary watched him throttle his anger back. "You deserve to burn."
"No argument from me, John. But my circumstances have changed." Mary refused to elaborate. She couldn't. He wouldn't believe her. He would see it as nothing but a trick, the means by which to further insure his compliance. "Just behave John, and you might get out of this alive. We all might."
"What the hell do you mean? Mycroft and Sherlock will eventually find us, and there's nothing to stop them from killing everyone here. You included."
"I know." Mary met his eyes, and she saw his confusion at her behavior. "I have to go. I'll be back soon."
John didn't say anything, but he didn't have to. She knew he didn't want to see her again. She stepped towards the door, preparing to knock. That's when she felt it. Her pocket was vibrating. It was the mobile that Jaime had given her.
Why is it ringing? What is going on? If she needed me, she wouldn't call, she'd use the radio, have a guard get me.
Mary pulled it from her pocket, and she sucked in a sharp breath at the name on the caller ID.
Sherlock Holmes.
"Oh thank you God." Mary fumbled with the mobile, and turned to face John. He was affixed by the look of shock and nerves on her face, and she almost dropped the mobile trying to answer it.
"Hello?" Mary asked, voice breaking.
"Hello, Mary." His deep voice came clearly across the line, and Mary felt tears prick at her eyes. She brought a hand to her face, and tried to calm herself.
"What took you so long?" She asked, and moved away from the door. She grabbed John's arm, and dragged him away from the door too. He was so distracted by the look on her face that he didn't protest.
"Well, I was shot by an angry American assassin, and I had to escape my meddling brother. You know, busy as a bee."
"Oh shut it. Does this mean you're coming to the rescue?" John straightened up at those words, and made to speak. She slapped her hand over his mouth, and cast her eyes at the door. The women on the bed had stopped eating, arrested by the woman on the phone. John glared at her over her hand, but he relaxed. She dropped her hand away.
"That depends. I need to know what's going on." Sherlock said, his voice as calm and deep as always, but she could hear the distrust in his voice. She knew one way to clear up any residual distrust at this point, for everyone.
Mary choked back her reply as the knock came at the door. "Hold on." She whispered, and put the call on Hold. She tucked it in her pocket, and met John's eyes. "Say nothing."
Mary went to the door, and tapped lightly. It popped open almost immediately, and Mary looked in the eyes of the guard holding it.
"Dr Watson has requested some more medical supplies for treating the prisoners. I need one of you to go get a fresh kit. Make sure you remove the dangerous items. I'll stay here until you get back." Mary tugged the door shut, and held her breath. She heard murmuring, and she knew it had worked when the lock snapped on the door and a single set of footprints walked down the hall. The other guard moved so he was in full view of the door, which meant he had to move away to see it clearly.
Mary leapt away from the door, and plucked the mobile from her pocket. She took it off of Hold, and threw it on speaker.
"Sherlock, John's here, and you have to stay quiet. I bought us a few minutes." Mary said.
No matter how mad she may be, how heartbroken, scorned and ashamed she might feel, the look of joy and disbelief on John's face was something she'd never forget. It broke her heart all over again.
"John?" Sherlock's voice whispered out from the mobile's speakers.