Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
WARNING: Serious violence, mentions of child abuse, and bombings.
A/N: I changed some of the geography of London to accommodate the story. I know my locations are fictional and that I changed where some of these places are.
Read, enjoy, review. And I apologize in advance for the tears and abused feels.
Chapter Thirty Two
"It's Not Fun Unless Something Burns"
Nineteen Years and Ten Months Ago….. Blackwood Manor
Jaime stood sniffling over Blackwood's body, her fingers cramping and burning from the silk tie wrapped so tightly around them. She felt silly for crying, she really did. Jimmy never cried.
Jaime struggled to free her fingers, sobbing quietly as the limp body at her feet moved in response to her frantic tugs. She had pulled too hard at the end, and now she was stuck. It had been easier than she thought it was going to be. She had practiced and practiced, destroying teddy bear after teddy bear to get the move right. But she hadn't accounted on her fingers getting stuck.
Run forward, grip tie with both hands, jump up and spin over shoulder, drop body to floor with my weight. Pull. Runforward, jumpup, griptiewithbothhands, spinovershoulder, …. Don't stop pulling….
Jimmy's instructions ran through her head, over and over. Jimmy. She had to get her fingers free. So she could free Jimmy. Blackwood always locked him in his room when he came home from school, so Jimmy couldn't stop him. But Jimmy had stopped Blackwood. Jimmy taught Jaime how to do it. She saved herself this time. It was the first time she had fought back, and she won.
Jaime tore at the tie, and it came free, tearing her already raw skin as it unraveled from her fingers. She fell to her knees, hitting the still warm body with her hands. She shook, and pushed away. It was nothing now, just a bag of bone and blood, limp muscles. Jimmy had told her to come get him as soon as Blackwood was dead. She had to get the keys.
Jaime bit her lip, and snuck a small hand into the pocket closest to her. The pocket wasn't too tight, and she felt the cold steel keys with her fingertips. She steeled herself one last time, and snatched the house keys from the corpse's pocket. She pulled back so fast that she fell on her rear, and crab walked away from the dead monster.
Jaime shot to her feet, and ran for the door. Blackwood always locked the door when he was going to hurt her. She unlocked it, and peeked in the hallway. The night was dark, the stars brilliantly visible though the wide windows that lined the wall opposite the study. No one there. Jimmy had been very specific. No one could see her in the hall, and she must close the door and lock it behind her, so that no one would see the body before Jimmy did. The staff usually left around this time anyway, but he had warned her to be careful.
Jaime darted out quickly, and shut the door. She locked it with the keys in her tiny hands, and sprinted down the hall, running silently. She made no noise as she took the stairs two at a time, running past the second floor, all the way up to the bedrooms on the third level. She paused at the landing, peeking over the top. No one was in the hall. She ran the last few steps, and ran all out for Jimmy's room.
She nearly dropped the keys in her excitement and nerves, and she heard Jimmy jump off his bed and come to the door. She unlocked it, and stood in the pool of light from his room, shaking and breathing hard. She looked in her big brother's face, and she saw him run his eyes over her, taking in her injury-free state, the keys, and the giant grin on her face. An answering smile broke across his face, and her big brother reached out, and hauled her against his thin chest in a massive hug.
"I always said you were very brave." Jimmy whispered in her ear. She hugged him tighter in response, and she cried her last tears into his shirt. She didn't mind when he took the keys from her hand, she just held him. He held her back, his chin resting in her red-brown curls.
Jaime squeezed him hard one last time and pulled back. "I did it exactly like you told me too. He died in one minute, twenty seconds."
"Good job. I knew you could do it." Jimmy let go of her, and ran for his closet. "Watch in the hallway, Jaime. Make sure no one is coming."
Jaime turned around, and hid against the doorway, peeking down the hall in both direction. She could hear Jimmy grabbing the rope from his closet, and he slung it over his shoulder as he joined her at the door.
"It's clear, no one." Jaime whispered, and she jumped in surprise as Jimmy took off at a run down the hall and down the stairs. She tore after him, silent despite her speed.
Jimmy paused for a second on each landing, making sure the way was clear before he went down to the next level.
Jimmy checked that the long hall was empty, and he ran for the study door. She was right behind him, and she snuck through in his wake as he opened it, and shut it just as quickly. He threw the lock, and went straight to the body.
Jaime stayed by the door, in the exact spot he had pointed to. It was Jimmy's turn now. Jaime watched as Jimmy unraveled the thick brown rope, and his hands flying, tied the large noose at the end.
Jaime looked on in awe as her older brother staged Blackwood's death as a suicide. He was really very smart, and Jaime had a distant recollection of hearing her Mummy say that once upon a time.
She wasn't scared anymore. Blackwood was gone. Jimmy would always take care of her.
"John?" Sherlock held Violet's mobile tighter to his ear, and sat up so sharply he began to cry silent tears at the pain. He didn't notice the pain or the tears. He heard the voice of the one he needed more than he needed air in his lungs, more than he needed food in his body. John. His John.
"Sherlock?" John's voice was disbelieving, incredulous.
"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asked, and Violet spun around on the floor, a wide smile breaking across her lovely face. Sherlock didn't see, so focused was he on the sound of John's voice. John's voice swept through him, his nerves on fire, joy and love singing in every inch of his being.
"I'm fine, please tell me this means a security team is minutes away from blasting down the doors and getting us out of here."
"No, not really. I'm in hiding with my personal hacker, and we only just learned where you were. I figured it was safe to call this number, as I deduced it was Mary."
"How did you….. Never mind. Are you okay?" The worry in John's voice was clear, and Sherlock grinned. Always wanting to take care of him, his doctor.
"I'm fine." Sherlock said. He wasn't really, but this didn't count as a lie. He was still functional. Fine enough.
"You too are adorable, really. Sherlock, we have a serious problem." Mary's voice came through just as clear, and Sherlock tensed.
"Go ahead, Mary."
"Death has bombs placed throughout London. She has them spread all over. There's over ten for certain that I saw, maybe an even dozen. I don't know where. The only thing she told me was that they were in places important to James. Places where you two had confrontations, or he did something."
"Violet, bring up maps of London. Plot everywhere we have record of Moriarty being, and every place he and I had confrontations. I'll fill in the rest once you're done." Sherlock told the girl at his feet, and she snapped out of her happy daze, and attacked her laptop. She was as fast as he could wish, and Sherlock found himself thankful that he had decided to have that first dance with her all those years ago.
"Violet? The American girl Mycroft called?" John asked over the mobile.
"Yes, Violet is here, you two can meet later." Sherlock said, and tried to calm his racing heart. Violet waved one handed at the mobile in his hand, and Sherlock laughed. His John was alive. John was fine. "She says hi."
"Sherlock, shut up! I need to tell you the rest." Mary was impatient, and Sherlock could hear it making her voice crack in stress.
"Go on then."
"She knows somehow, some way, what Mycroft and his people are doing. Same with Lestrade. I'd say it was more traitors, but it is most likely spotters. She'll know within minutes once you send people this way. She's going to activate the bombs once she knows you're coming. That's not the scary part. The scary part is she's planning on burning London. The only way to save it will be to kill her, John, and yourself."
Jaime Moriarty stood in the ballroom, perusing the crates laid out around the room. They were all ready, every last one. She gently shut the lid of the large crate nestled up next to the empty cage, and sighed. She had trouble with patience, she truly did. Sherlock needed to hurry up. He really was taking his time figuring out where she was. Did I make it too hard? Thought it would've been obvious from the way I destroyed what was left of the chemical plant.
"My lady? It's ready for you." One of her men said, holding her present in his hands.
"Finally." Jaime said, and without hesitation, pulled off her shirt. She had on a bra, but it covered very little. She had no problem standing half naked in front of her guards, and walked over to the one holding her present.
"Do it quickly. Make sure not to hesitate, the sensors have to be exactly on target for this to work." Jaime ordered.
Her bodyguard went pale, and looked down at the two long, very slim spikes in his hands. He looked back at the lithe form of his mistress, and paled further. He looked back down at his hand. The spikes were very sharp, and had a tiny hook on the end near the tip, so they couldn't be pulled out. Similar to acupuncture needles, but were twice the diameter. Sturdier. They were over two inches long, and at the end, foot long black wires that ended in plugins, where they would attach to the rest of her present.
"My lady, I ….." He stammered, and Jaime rolled her eyes. She growled in frustration, and grabbed both needles from his shaking hand.
Jaime took a deep breath, fixed her eyes on a distant point, and let all the air out of her lungs. As her chest went down, and as the air left her fully, she plunged the needles deep in to her chest, directly over her heart. She did it at an angle, so the ends would lay flush with her body and not stick out. She didn't react at all to the pain. It was intense, and she felt the delicious tingle all the way down to her toes.
Jaime pulled her hand away slowly, ignoring the blood on her fingers, and dripping from the two impact sites. Her aim had been true. She had aimed between her ribs, and she hadn't missed. She could feel the barbed tips deep in her chest, just above her heart. She pulled in a deep breath, and felt the tugging sensation that meant the sensors were fully seated. She would not be able to rip them out by mistake.
"Give me the rest." She ordered, and her man shook himself out of his shock, and picked up a metal harness from the table next to them. It wasn't solid metal. It closely resembled the top half of a climbing harness, but made of stainless steel and titanium links, and carried a slim electronic device in a metal cage. Wires wove through the links, around the entire harness, no link spared. They all connected to the slim flat device in the metal bracket. The tiny computer with its display and touchpad was lightweight, and about the size of her palm, and damn near indestructible within the fine bars.
Jaime shrugged it over her shoulders, not minding the tightness or the weight. One strap of metal went over each shoulder, connected near her bra strap in the back, and wove around her front, under her breasts, high on her stomach. She connected the buckles, securely seating the wire connections. The transmitter and receiver concealed within the slim tablet-like device in the bracket beeped as it sensed the connections. It rested flat on her torso, just under her breasts. The whole ensemble was tight, and very fitting. It would be noticeable under a very tight shirt, but it would not hinder her in any way. She had full movement, and she had no trouble ignoring the pain from the spikes. She wouldn't be wearing it for long anyway.
She grabbed the wires running from the spikes in her chest, and wove them through the chain strap over her left shoulder, down her side, and plugged them into the computer. She heard the beep again, and looked to her man.
"The readout says all connections are at one hundred percent, my lady. It's activated."
"Good. Go, double check that all the party favors are ready." She ordered. She ran her fingers over the thin metal cage that protected the tablet, just enough room for her fingers to fit through to enter her codes to begin her show. She pondered what the failsafe should be. She knew better than to assume the device couldn't be accidentally activated. Many people had been slain by such foolish mistakes, and she had no intention of starting anything until she was ready.
What should it be? It shouldn't be something easy for anyone to guess. If I get disabled without dying, Sherlock would have a chance to disarm it. So something no one would guess. Something that isn't known to be connected to me or James, but something I know well. Something I care about? What do I care about? James is gone, but that's far too obvious… Ah. I know.
Perfect. Just the thing.
Jaime smiled as she typed in the failsafe, giggling gently as she did so. The device beeped happily again, and Death started to laugh. All she was waiting on now was Sherlock Holmes. And she knew he would come. It wouldn't be his brother, or the police. It would be him, because she had his heart. She had the one he loved beyond all others.
Jaime grabbed her shirt, and pulled it back over her head. It snagged on the metal harness, but she straightened it out easily. She could just see the sensors, and the blood on her chest near the low bust line of her shirt. The blood had stopped, and was smeared across her chest.
Jaime felt a vibration, and paused, a part of her thinking she accidentally activated the device. But the vibration wasn't coming from her chest, it was her pocket. Jaime's brow crinkled in confusion, and she pulled out her mobile, and looked at the screen. It was her usage alert, to be activated whenever Mary was using her mobile. She was speaking to someone.
"Oh Mary." She whispered, and felt for the first time in a long time a thread of pain that wasn't connected to her grief. "You should have left me when you had the chance."
Jaime lifted her head, and let the pain of betrayal be drowned out by her rage. No more mistakes. Human error would not be her downfall. It was time to begin. Sherlock would not be able to stop her now.
She ran to the nearest table, and grabbed two handguns from the assortment laid out. She ran from the room. She knew without a doubt what Mary Morstan was doing, and where she was.
John was watching Mary is disbelief. She had swiftly changed yet again, from the cold-blooded assassin from earlier, to this woman who spilled secrets that left him cold. The relief in her voice as Sherlock called her was unmistakable. Whatever it was that made Mary change sides must be significant.
"I'm not going to kill myself, or John. Her, yes." Sherlock said over the mobile John held in his hand, and John watched as Mary shook her head in frustration.
"Sherlock, you won't be able to stop her. She has an altered dead man's switch. Built into a harness. It's run by her heartbeat. As long as her heart beats, London burns. Once her heart stops, the London bombs stop going off. But once she dies, the manor we're in now is going up in flames."
"What?" John gasped out, incredulous. "She's insane!"
"Yes John, that's been obvious." Sherlock said, and John waited anxiously for his detective to speak up. "Well, can you two get out of there now? Mary, I am assuming you're armed, between the two of you, you should manage an escape. I can send some of my homeless network to meet you someplace nearby."
John felt a crazy sense of joy and frustration. Sherlock didn't know, of course he didn't know.
"Sherlock, it's not just the two of us. The girls are alive, we're here with them now." John said, and he didn't bother hiding his joy at being able to say those words. Molly, Anthea, and Sally had moved to the edge of the bed, and Molly was crying quietly in her hands.
"What?" John had never truly heard Sherlock shocked to such a degree, and John snaked out a hand and pulled Molly to her feet. He smiled at her, and motioned for her to speak.
"Sherlock? It's Molly. I'm okay." Molly sobbed, and she kept crying, happy to let Sherlock know that she wasn't dead. "I'm so sorry you thought we were dead. She tricked us."
There was nothing, but for the sound of an open line. John heard a shuffle, and suddenly there was the sound of another voice over the line.
"John? Hey sexy, it's Violet. You just shocked the shit outta my pal here. You've done the impossible, Sherlock Holmes is speechless."
"Violet, hello. He okay?" John asked. Nothing for a minute, and he heard a coughing sound come over the line.
"Yup, he's now gesturing at me to relinquish the phone. That didn't last long. Here ya go."
"John, can you get everyone out?" Sherlock demanded, sounding better than he had in days. Sherlock had life in his voice again.
"Um, Anthea and Donovan are hurt. Anthea really shouldn't be doing anything strenuous like escaping, and while Donovan is relatively intact, she's got a serious concussion. And we have one gun against a few dozen." John told his lover, frustrated.
"So an escape at this point isn't feasible. That means a rescue." Sherlock said. "But as soon as we make a move to where you are, Death will know."
"Jaime said that she would move the girls to the boathouse on the river, so she would keep her promise to me that she not kill them. She's expecting me to leave at the same time. John's going to be here with her, waiting on you."
"Jaime is her name then." Sherlock said. "I was right. She is his sister."
"Yes, she is." Mary confirmed, and John could almost see the smug satisfaction emanating from Sherlock over the open line.
"The only way we stop London from burning is to get there without her knowing. I can get Mycroft involved, have him pull in resources from outside the city. Use teams from other parts of the country."
John didn't have time to answer. Mary suddenly froze, her head whipping towards the door. John heard it a second later. The sound of someone running hard down the hall. Mary's face went white, and she went for the gun on her thigh.
"She's coming! Sherlock, it's too late!" Mary gasped out.
The door burst open, so hard that part of it broke off at the handle and went flying into the room. Death erupted in the room, so fast she was a blur of motion. Mary hadn't even cleared the holster with her gun before Death was spinning on one foot, the other lashing out in a lightning fast kick that caught Mary in the chest, knocking her off her feet and into the wall, the gun falling to the floor. John dropped the mobile and dived for the gun, managing to grab it.
Death dropped and continued her forward motion, rolling towards him as he fired at her. The bullet flew over her head, and hit the wall next to the door. She came up from the roll right into him, and pistol whipped him across the head as he fell backwards.
John collapsed to the floor, and Death's booted foot came smashing down on his hand, forcing him to release the gun. The pain from his head was blinding, and he felt blood running down the side of his face. He stayed conscious, and looked up to see Death holding a gun in his face, with another trained on Mary, where she lay gasping at the base of the wall. She had a booted foot planted firmly on his sternum, and she was pressing so hard he fought to breathe. The guard who had remained in the hall had come in while Death dealt with them, and had knocked the girls back on the bed, his weapon up, aiming at Donovan's head.
"Mary. You should have left." Death gasped out, and John felt the pain recede as dread came over him. The look on her face was terrifying. Every other expression of madness she had before this point was nothing compared to how she looked now. She didn't even resemble a human being anymore.
John struggled to pull in air, hands grabbing at her boot. He twisted towards her just enough to suck in air, and he saw the mobile on the floor next to Death's other boot. The line was still open. Sherlock was hearing all of this. Several more men came running in the room, guns out and up. Death didn't seem to notice, her gaze locked on the blonde assassin as she crouched at the base of the wall. Death wasn't pressing down as hard, and John sucked in air. Blood had run into his eyes, and he blinked it away.
"Gentlemen, restrain the good doctor." Death pulled back as her men swooped down, and pulled John to his feet. "Take Dr Watson downstairs to the ballroom. I'll be down shortly."
The last thing John saw before he was dragged from the room was Death standing over Mary, the gun still pointing at her head.
"She's coming! Sherlock, it's too late!" Mary gasped out.
Sherlock heard the door burst open and he felt his heart stop at the sound of a gun firing.
Sherlock was helpless as he heard Death knock John down, and he was never more terrified in those seconds before he heard Death order her men to take John downstairs to the ballroom. The line remained open, and Sherlock struggled to stay quiet, so as not to draw attention to the phone on the other end. He needed to hear as much as he could. He flipped Violet's mobile on speaker, and listened intently. He held a hand up to Violet, motioning her to be quiet as Death's voice came over the line.
Jaime fought to maintain her control. The rage was so powerful, so seductive. She wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger. It was whispering to her, caressing her mind, her finger dying to pull the trigger. Kill Mary. Kill her as her breaking heart was demanding.
Jaime stared down at the woman at her feet, who looked up at her without fear. Mary wasn't one to beg. She was calm, a hand braced on the wall behind her, the other up slightly in front of her, as if she had stopped herself from reaching out to the woman who was fighting not to kill her.
"Why didn't you leave? Why make this hurt?" Jaime choked out, and to her horror, felt a tear roll down her cheek. "You should have left me."
Death saw it on Mary's face. Saw her realize just how much her betrayal hurt. Mary's face went white, and there was a shadow of guilt in her eyes. Jaime saw it, and she swallowed against the cry she felt rising in her chest. Jaime fought back, battling emotions she hadn't felt in decades. They were thundering through her heart, striving to ruin her control. She refused to let herself care.
Jaime didn't care. She wouldn't let herself care. Jaime found herself crying, crying for the first time in decades. She hadn't cried since the day she killed Blackwood. She hadn't even cried when she learned that her brother had committed suicide. She hadn't cried when she couldn't steal his body back from MI6, she hadn't cried in the last two horribly lonely years without him. She hadn't cried one tear.
But the woman at her feet had found her heart, and on the same day she did, destroyed it utterly. Jaime had known her end was near, and so she gave in to the urge to be herself. To show the woman at her feet who she used to be. She had wanted Mary to see Jaime Moriarty, and not Death. She had wanted so badly for someone to know her before she died. And yet the very first day that Jaime Moriarty came back to life, from the depths of a shadowed past, she got her heart-broken. She shattered.
Mary said nothing, just locked her beautiful blue eyes on Jaime's. Jaime could see her so clearly, see her thoughts racing through her eyes.
"I'm pregnant, Jaime." Mary whispered. Jaime saw the truth in her eyes. Those three words gave her all the answers she needed.
She snapped. She dropped the gun to point at the floor, and staggered away from Mary. Her men moved in, and lifted the blonde woman to her feet, securing her hands behind her with zip ties. Jaime sobbed quietly, pressing the back of a hand still gripping a gun to her mouth. She shook, and she couldn't pull her eyes away from Mary. The expression on Mary's face only made it worse. Jaime saw in it the confusion, the guilt, the awareness that she had broken the other woman's heart, and that she hurt as well. Mary had been forced to choose. Between the young assassin so similar to herself, and the man who fathered her child. And she had chosen the father of her child, no matter his sins against her.
Jaime let the room fade away, and she felt heavy. Her eyes fluttered shut. The weight of the last two years came crashing down on her, and she struggled to breathe. There was a howling in her heart, like a cold winter wind roaring over a barren landscape. Empty broken remnants of her soul shuddered under the force of the winds, and she closed her eyes tight. The cold filled her, tearing at her, and she fought to remain standing under the strength of her pain, her grief.
There was a tiny spark of light, valiantly burning under the winds. Cold daggers of despair stabbed at it, trying to smother it. To force it out of existence. It was the flame that fed her rage, her desire for revenge. The desire to hurt Sherlock Holmes. To hurt the man who made her brother leave her.
James had been content to run the world through the greed and hatred of others. He played with people's lives, and took commissions for jobs that interested him. He had been a consulting criminal, and the quality of the world's evil deeds had risen when he discovered his vocation. She had followed him, content to be the weapon he depended on. She thrived on blood, on death, and she had never met a challenge she couldn't defeat. As she grew in skill, she had spent more time away on jobs, and after a particularly long absence, had come home to find James obsessed with a man named Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock had challenged her brother in a way she had never seen anyone do before. James came alive, the ennui that threatened to smother him on a daily basis banished in the face of his delight. Sherlock played the game, played it so well he defeated her brother. That had never happened before. Ever. James had risen to the challenge, and it was that drive to win at all costs that was ultimately his downfall.
James had chosen to die rather than lose to Sherlock Holmes. He had only spared her enough concern to tell her to hide as Sybil Moran, to stay safe. In case he lost. Which he had. He had lost to Sherlock Holmes, but it was his little sister who lost everything. She had lost her brother to his obsession. And Sherlock Holmes had defeated her brother by living, nullifying his death. It was if the greatness, the power, all of it was hollow and useless. Because Sherlock lived, James was rendered less than who he really was. Nothing but a madman. To be dismissed, and forgotten.
He was James Moriarty, the greatest criminal mastermind to ever live. She was his sister, his disciple, his blade. She wouldn't let anything stop her from fulfilling her brother's last job. To kill Sherlock Holmes, and to burn out his heart.
Jaime Moriarty opened her eyes, and dropped her hand. Mary stood before her, and Jaime handed her guns to one of her men. She lifted her shirt, and Mary's eyes widened as she saw the harness strapped to her torso.
"As I am fairly certain the first thing you did was tell Holmes where we are, I'm going to assume it's safe to start the show." Jaime cast a glance at the window, at the deepening shadows of the night, but the distant lights of London could be seen in the distance, along the river. "You should have left me Mary. It gave me some measure of satisfaction knowing that while I may have used you to further my own ends, I was able to avenge the hurt and pain inflicted on you. I found myself wanting to avenge you, for your sake. I wanted you to be happy. I have never wanted that for anyone other than James. I think you just broke my heart. I would have handled you leaving far better than I am handling your betrayal."
Jaime slid a finger through the metal cage, and activated the London bombs. Every ten minutes a bomb would detonate. Until London lay in ruins, the heart burnt out of the country. Or until her heart stopped. And when it did, this nightmare would be over. This fresh wound hurt too much.
"Jaime, no. Don't." Mary pleaded. "Sweetheart, you don't have to do this. James didn't love you enough to stay, he left you alone. Don't follow him."
Jaime nodded, and wiped the tears from her face.
"So he did. But I plan on asking him about that in person. And I intend to drag Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to Hell with me." Jaime Moriarty stood tall, and pulled her shirt back down. "The first of the bombs should being going off within the next ten minutes. It'll continue until I'm dead, or London is. We'll have an excellent view from the ballroom. It's dark enough now that we can see the fires from here."
Jaime turned to the women on the bed. Anthea and Donovan looked as if they wanted to kill her, and she didn't blame them one bit. She deserved to be killed. She was a monster. One so evil Mary had turned from her own desire for revenge, and betrayed her. Never mind that she wanted Sherlock to know where she was; she just hadn't expected that this was how he would discover her location. And she had no doubt that Sherlock Holmes was on the way. Let him do the honors. Molly shook, and Jaime looked at this woman. She was so scared, and Jaime felt a shiver of delight. She knew what she was going to do.
"I'm going to keep my promise, Mary. It seems only right. When we Moriarty's make a promise, we keep it. I promised them mercy. You shall join them. Together, you may all watch as John and Sherlock burn to death. You chose them over me, over yourself. Enjoy the pain, I know for a fact it lasts a lifetime."
"Take them to the boathouse. Secure them inside. They do not leave." Jaime ordered her men, and she left, not looking back.
The line went dead, and Sherlock wasted no time in dialing his brother. Less than ten minutes. Not enough time to disarm, but enough time to warn.
"Violet, send that list of locations to Mycroft and Lestrade. Hack through everything you have to, send it now. Bombs are about to go off." Sherlock ordered, and he listened anxiously for his brother to answer the phone.
"Violet Hunter, I do believe you have some…" Mycroft started to complain, but Sherlock cut him off.
"Mycroft! Shut it! Violet is sending you locations where there may be bombs about to explode. Less than ten minutes until the first one goes off. A bomb will go off every ten minutes until I stop Death. I should be at her location within the hour. Don't argue, do your job!"
"What…. We just got it. Go." Mycroft hung up the phone, and Sherlock was thankful his brother chose not to argue just this once.
"Violet, I need a boat. Get us to the river." Sherlock tossed her the mobile, and she caught it, summoning a cab as she packed up her gear. She pulled out two syringes, and Sherlock didn't even blink as she pulled off the caps. She handed them over to him, and kept packing.
"Both in the thigh, next to each other. One's adrenaline, the other is that cocktail I got from my Colombian contacts. It's a variant on what the military uses on severely injured black ops soldiers in the field. Keeps them going, but sacrifices higher functions. You take the adrenaline with it, you should feel fucking great, and it'll keep your head kinda clear, but you'll crash really hard in about forty five minutes. I've got another set if we need it."
She was ready, and Sherlock didn't hesitate. He stabbed himself in the leg with both needles, and pressed both plungers at once. She didn't even give him time to pull them out before she had a hold of his arms, and was dragging him to the door. Her bag was slung over her shoulder, and she held him up with one arm as she pulled up locations on the river nearest to them.
"Considering the hour and what we need, we're gonna to be committing our thousandth felony of the day here in a bit."
There was a cab coming down the street, and Violet flagged it down. Sherlock found himself thrown into the backseat, Violet slamming the door shut.
"Head towards the river, fastest route, I'll direct you where we're going once we get close." Violet told the cabbie. "And if you do it as fast as possible, there's a hundred pounds in it for you on the side."
The cabbie had a cross look on his face right up until Violet slapped the pound note against the glass divider. Sherlock found himself having to hold on as the cab flew away from the curb.
Sherlock didn't know what was happening to him, but he was alternating between wanting to vomit, giggle, and get up and run to the river himself. His heart was beating so hard he felt the arteries in his neck jumping, his pulse thrumming in his ears. The pain was evaporating, and his fingers and toes were tingling, as if he had a low current of electricity running through him. He took a deep breath, and when he felt no pain, sucked in more air. He coughed as a result, and he caught the shiny flash of blood on his sleeve as he pulled his arm away from his face.
Okay, still have internal bleeding. Not a cure all. Feel fucking amazing, but still hurt. Got it.
Sherlock ignored Violet and the cabbie as she gave him directions she was reading off her mobile. His head was in a strange place. He was remarkably lucid, but he kept getting distracted by lights in windows as they passed, idle observations, deductions cramming themselves in his frontal lobe, all demanding attention. Sherlock let his head fall back on the seat, and closed his eyes. All that did was make him nauseous, and he quickly opened them.
"Violet?" he murmured. She cast him a quick look, and didn't say anything. She raised her free hand, and put her fingers to his neck. She held her hand there, and pulled it away after a minute.
"Give it a few minutes to work itself out, Sherlock. You'll be fine." Violet went back to directing the cabbie, but not before Sherlock caught the worried look in her eyes.
Sherlock locked his eyes on the back of the cabbie's head, and hoped his stomach and head would settle. He hated getting sick.
"Yes, here's fine. Stop! Here, take your money, and we were never here." Violet told the cabbie, and Sherlock found himself yanked from the cab. He stumbled several steps before he noticed he was able to walk, and his legs felt weird. Like he had ropes wrapped around his legs, and he had to be extra careful not to trip.
Sherlock let Violet drag him by his sleeve, and she pulled him down a dark alley, the only light from the torch app on her mobile. Sherlock caught hints of light above them, and he saw a brief flash of the Eye as Violet dragged him down the alley. She stopped just outside a gate in a tall chain link fence, and shielding the mobile in his jacket, she hacked into the security feeds of Jubilee Gardens.
"What are we doing?" Sherlock whispered, and fought back the urge to laugh. He thought he was being quiet, but he had sounded so loud. Her face was right next to his, and his words stirred her jet black hair. "Sorry, I thought I was whispering."
"Shhhh! I just turned off the cameras and killed the alarms. You have two minutes to pick that lock on the fence and help me steal one of the sightseeing boats." Violet pulled back from him, and pushed him at the gate.
Sherlock giggled, and grabbed at the lock, and smirked when he saw what kind it was. Sherlock had that lock opened and fallen to the ground in less than ten seconds and he pushed the gate wide. He skipped in, and a part of him was appalled at his behavior, but all he could do was laugh. Violet blazed past him, and Sherlock took off after her. She knew exactly where she was going, and took him down the side of the massive platform that held the Ferris wheel on the banks of the Thames. Violet didn't hesitate, she just leaned over the railing, and looked down.
"Got one! There's a ladder, go!" Violet tugged at him, and Sherlock brushed her off, certain he could climb down the ladder. Which he did, very enthusiastically. So much so he fell in a seat, and couldn't remember why he was there. He remembered once Violet jumped from the platform, landing so close, she almost ended up in his lap.
"Sherlock! I know you know how to hot wire a car, tell me you can do the same to a boat." Violet flipped her mobile at his face, and Sherlock glared at her in disbelief. Of course he can, he's Sherlock Holmes! And just to prove it, he pulled out his knife, opened the panel next to the steering column, and had the engine roaring to life. All in about twenty seconds. Violet cast off the moorings, and she took over, backing the boat out and way from the platform.
Sherlock thought he was paying attention, but he found himself distracted yet again by a bright orange glow flashing brightly between two large buildings next to the river. He stared at it, wondering why there were fireworks going off in the middle of the night next to the Tower of London.
"How long was I out?" Sherlock felt a jolt run through him. Those weren't fireworks. That was a storm of fire. Burning at the Tower. They had just been at Jubilee Gardens, and that was no quick trip, even by boat on the river.
"It's been thirty minutes since Death activated the bombs. That's the second bomb to go off. The third is about to go off any minute. I called Mycroft while you were having your little drug moment over there. He has people on it already. The first bomb went off in Westminster." Violet said quietly, her voice sad and angry all at once.
"Where in Westminster?" He knew, he just knew. Before she even spoke, Sherlock knew where the first bomb had gone off.
"Baker Street." Came her soft reply.
"How long until we get where we're going?" He asked, dread pulling at his insides.
"Too long."
Lestrade swore as the bullet came too close for comfort, metal ringing over his head as it ricocheted off the fire escape. He ducked back even further, having seen enough. He was at the rear fire escape at the roof level of St Bart's Hospital, and Greg Lestrade knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had found one of the bombs.
The information had come from Sherlock via a woman that went only by the initials of VH, and it had taken a call from Mycroft for Lestrade to know the information was legit. She had sent a map of London dotted with dozens of potential bomb sites, and the first two he had checked had been clear. He had emptied Scotland Yard out on to the city streets, and Mycroft had sent him operatives as backup. There were hundreds of people searching London. But they were too late. Lestrade could see the inferno that blazed from Baker Street, the flames casting their light against the shadows in the far distance. And he knew from the chatter on the radios that another bomb had gone off at the Tower.
"DI Lestrade to Dispatch. Confirm targets at St Bart's Hospital. Multiple suspects, confirm explosive device." Lestrade called softly into his radio.
"Dispatch copies, sir. Be advised, MI6 is warning of imminent explosion of next device in five minutes." Came the reply over the radio, and Lestrade swore. The Hospital was only about halfway evacuated, and there wasn't enough time to get them all out before the next bomb went off.
Why are they guarding the bombs? If they are on a timer, why are they guarding them? Lestrade stayed under the ledge of the roof, but lifted up just enough to see if anyone was coming his way. He knew nothing about bombs, just what he caught from taking to the guys on the tactical response teams, and odd bits from movies. Hell, the closest he'd ever gotten to a bomb was talking to Sherlock and John about…. They are guarding the bombs because they can be turned off! It has to be easy for them to be turned off, otherwise, they wouldn't be here waiting to die!
Lestrade took a quick look, and ducked back down as another shot went over his head. There were two men he could see, possibly more. He'd say three, just to be safe.
"Dispatch to all teams: Imminent detonation in four minutes." The voice cracked out over the radio, and Greg knew he was out of time. If this bomb went off, dozens of people would die.
"Lestrade to Dimmock." Lestrade called softly over the radio. Dimmock should still be at the roof access stairwell, about five yards from the bomb on the roof. They had tried to get through at that point, but the return fire had been too heavy, and Lestrade had ordered them to stay back.
"Go ahead, sir." Dimmock answered him, voice low.
"I need a distraction. NOW." Lestrade gripped his gun, and stuffed his radio in his pocket. He nodded at the two MI6 operatives just below him on the landing. They looked back at him, faces tight and grim in the shifting shadows. They knew what he was going to do. And he knew they would be right behind him.
Whatever Dimmock did as a distraction worked. Lestrade waited for a heartbeat, and trusted that if he was going to die, it would at least be quick. Gunfire erupted on the rooftop, all pointed towards the stairwell off to the side. Lestrade stood and jumped on the roof, running forward towards the bomb, and the three men around it.
His first shot was lucky. He was nervous, pulse pumping violently in his arms and chest. The first suspect dropped, the bullet catching him in the face. The farthest guard turned from the stairs, and aimed for him. Lestrade kept running, full out. The guard aiming for him fired, and all he saw was the muzzle flash bright in his eyes. He was mere feet away, and he didn't stop. He refused to stop. Lestrade fired, and caught the guard shooting at him in the throat, and his gun fell as his hands reached up to stop the gushing torrent of blood.
There was a shot from behind him, and it screamed past his shoulder. The bullet hit the remaining guard, and he toppled lifelessly to the roof top. The operative just behind him had a clear shot, and he had taken it without hesitation as he leapt up from the fire escape.
Lestrade dived for the bomb, falling to his knees beside it. It was large, about three feet long, and a foot and a half in diameter. There was a timer on the top of it. From the descriptions Lestrade had gotten from John, it looked very much like the massive bomb in the train carriage under Westminster that Sherlock had disarmed. Lestrade began to pray in earnest, as the timer on the bomb was counting down. This was the next one to go off.
Death was Moran's wife, Death has his left over explosives. Same makers? Same design? Where's the FUCKING OFF SWITCH?
He ran his hands over the bomb's casing, and he shouted out an exultant 'Yes!' as he found it, low down on the other side of the bomb. Greg threw the switch just as the counter hit two minutes. They had killed three guards and turned off a massive bomb, saving untold lives in the process. Not a bad use of two minutes.
Lestrade stood, and hands shaking from adrenaline, pulled out his radio. His hands were shaking so much he almost dropped it.
"DI Lestrade to dispatch. Bomb at St Bart's disarmed. Suspect down. Bombs can be shut off. I repeat, the bombs have off switches! Kill the guards, turn off the bombs!"
He stumbled, and Lestrade wondered what was wrong with him. He had never felt this way after a shooting. Sure, the adrenaline high could make him shaky, and light-headed. But this was different. He felt like he couldn't find his feet, and his mouth was dry. There was a strange pulling sensation in his side, like his shirt was caught on something. He didn't notice that he dropped his radio, or that his gun clattered to the rooftop as well. The stairwell door was propped open, and light spilled across his chest as he stumbled. Lestrade put his hand to his chest, where that weird sensation was. He didn't feel anything, and he pulled away his hand.
He blinked. Why was there blood all over his hand? So much blood. He stared at his hand, and he couldn't feel the blood run from his lips, down his chin. Lestrade could feel nothing as his knees gave way, and he collapsed to the rooftop. The last thing he saw was blood pooling beside him.
John fell to his knees in the ballroom, the barrel of a shotgun boring into the back of his neck. His hands were tied behind him, the zip ties digging deep. He blinked fast, trying to see past the blood running in a steady drip over his right eye, down his face. If he survived this, he was going to need stitches. Only two guards had come into the ballroom with him, and the look in their eyes had him thinking it was a very bad idea for him to be alone with them.
The guards hadn't been gentle with him this time. John guessed it had something to do with how badly their mistress had taken Mary's betrayal. He had found himself thrown down the last few steps of the stairs, kicked, and jerked around by his bound hands so much he feared his shoulders might dislocate.
"I say we kill him, tell her he tried to escape." He heard one grumble behind him, and whoever was holding the shotgun pressed harder. John bent with it, teeth clenched in fear and anger. "I've never seen her that upset before."
"Can't do that, she'll know." Another voice said, and John could barely see a pair of feet clad in black combat boots come at him from the side. He couldn't avoid the kick as a foot slammed into his ribs. He coughed as pain radiated from his ribs, air in short supply. "But that doesn't mean we can't work him over while she's fighting with her girlfriend."
"Would you like that, little man? Heard you like boys, want to play with big men now? Real men?" A voice growled in his ear, and John refused to show fear as a hand grabbed at his waistband, jerking him back against the shotgun. A roughly shaven face was pressed along the back of his neck, and John had a sick rolling sensation in his gut as the man behind him bit him. "Little man like you must really like it when his freak of a detective fucks him."
"Fuck off." John gasped out. Crap, wrong choice of words!
"Good idea, pretty man." The man behind he laughed, and John was jerked to his feet. The shotgun was tossed to the other guard, and John kicked at the man holding him. He got the other man in the thigh, and John went to kick him again. A fist came from nowhere, and clipped him on the jaw. John gasped, and spit blood out to the floor. He was bodily picked up, and slammed on the top of the large table behind him. He couldn't move, and his hands were trapped under him, the zip ties cutting at the tender flesh of his wrists.
"Who's first?" The man with the shotgun laughed, and the guard holding the doctor down didn't even answer before his free hand went to John's belt buckle. John brought his legs up, and kicked as hard as he could, pushing his assailant off him briefly. The bigger man was too fast, and came back at him. John cried out as his hands were crushed by the other man's weight, the guard practically lying on top of him on the table. A sick feeling was washing over him, pulling at him, tearing at his resolve. They meant to rape him, rape him for hurting their crazy mistress's feelings.
John gasped at the pain in his hands, and struggled under the weight of his attacker. The guard was fully on top of him, and he felt a large hand working at his belt, fingers digging at his trousers. His belt opened, and John shouted as the guard's hand reached under his waistband, fingers pinching and grabbing.
NO! I am no one's victim!
John went limp. Totally. So limp he knew his unresisting form would draw notice. His attacker pulled back, lifting his face from where he was biting at John's neck. John slammed his forehead as hard as he could into his attacker's nose, the crunching noise loud in the room. His would-be rapist fell off him, hands clutching at the ruin of his nose, blood running through his fingers and down his face. His screams reverberated through the large room.
John rolled off the far side of the table, and quickly sat on the floor, pushing his bound hands under his backside, past his thighs, and over his feet. He had his hands in front of him now, and snapped them sharply against the soles of his shoes. One of the ties broke, and John was free. He leapt to his feet, and he grabbed a gun from the table in front of him. John clicked off the safety just as the guard with the shotgun fired.
Jaime stood in the hall, ignoring the women her guards were escorting from the room. She leaned her head to the wall, arms braced to the wall over her head. She concentrated on regaining her equilibrium, and she refused to acknowledge Mary as the blonde assassin was walked out behind her.
"Jaime….." Mary whispered, and Jaime flinched, turning her face away, hiding it against the cool plaster of the wall. "Sweetheart….."
"Take her to the boathouse. Make sure they can't leave. Establish a perimeter around the house. Holmes is to be allowed in to the main house. No one else is to be allowed in. If anyone leaves after he comes in, kill them." Jaime said, and she heard the quiet affirmative from her men as they dragged Mary and her hostages down the hall.
She stood in the silence of the hall, and felt her mobile vibrate once. She dropped an arm, and pulled it from her pocket. The first bomb just exploded. She hadn't put them in any particular order. She had simply let her men arrange them among the targets as they saw fit, and they would explode in sequence. The random element to it was she didn't even know which one would go off next. Only the guards actually with the bombs knew. She had chosen her most loyal, her most devoted, to remain behind with the bombs to insure they exploded. And they all knew, to the last man, that they would only survive the night if she died before all the bombs exploded. And they had still gone. Jaime had been left with the less able, the marginally devoted dregs of her people. But that was fine. The ones remaining were all aware of her plans, and those here knew they wouldn't die as long as they maintained a perimeter as she had asked.
Once Sherlock was here, she would have her people withdraw, and cover the exits to make sure no one escaped. In case Sherlock Holmes defeated her as he had defeated her brother.
Jaime put her mobile back in her pocket and walked down the hall. She was halfway down the stairs when she heard John Watson yell from the ballroom.
Jaime grabbed her radio, and called over the channel. "Is Holmes here?" She got no answer. She sprinted for the ballroom doors, convinced she was going to see Sherlock attempting to rescue his lover.
She burst through the doors, and took in the scene before her in one glance. They had tried to rape the doctor.
NEVER AGAIN IN THIS HOUSE! Rage erupted from her core as she saw the state of Dr. Watson's clothes, the bite marks on his neck, and the moaning guard holding his broken nose as he huddled on the floor. She didn't even know how her knife got in her hand; it was spinning through the air in a streak of flashing silver as it traveled the length of the room.
The guard fired the shotgun at John just as her blade sank to the hilt in his temple. The new corpse jerked, and the shot went wide. She was running, not caring that John was aiming at her as she crossed the long room in seconds. Jaime screamed in fury as she jumped at the kneeling guard, her knee connecting solidly with the back of his head. He fell out full length on the floor, flat on his face, and she landed between him and the man she had killed with her knife. She grabbed the hilt, and with the harsh sound of metal grinding on bone, ripped the blade free from the dead man's skull.
"Never again! Never in this house! Never again!" She screamed, and screamed, the blade rising over the man sprawled on the floor. She brought it down, silver mixing with deep red as she stabbed and stabbed at the rapist on the floor. Tears ran from her eyes, scorching hot as they raced down her cheeks. They were as hot as the blood splashing on her arms. "No one will ever be raped here again!"
Jaime stabbed until she lost a grip on the blade. Until her arm was coated in hot red blood. She left the soaked blade in the ruined remains of the guard, and her arm fell to her side. She wavered, and collapsed to the floor. Her arms were shaking, and her mind was numb.
"Well, um, thanks?" John said, standing over her. She hardly registered the gun in his hands, and she didn't care that it was pointed at her heart. The spikes that hovered in her flesh over her rapidly beating heart were a reassuring reminder that all pain ends.
Mary didn't fight the guards. She walked calmly between two of them as they brought up the rear. The three women were ahead of her, three guards forcing them along the long path down the lawn to the river. The boathouse was a couple hundred yards from the house, and hovered over the shore. It was large; befitting of the grand old house it belonged to. A single lamp glowed at the door, and the guard in front unlocked the building, tossing on the lights as he entered. Mary was ushered in behind the hostages, and she watched as they were walked down to the far end. There were three slips in the boathouse, two of them empty, and the third held a large boat, easily twenty-five feet long, and large enough to carry several people, and many large crates. She knew this was the boat that Jaime had used when she bombed Blackwood Chemical.
Anthea, Donovan and Molly were all being tied up at the far rear of the building, over the water. Mary knew that if the main house exploded, they were in the most protected place, farthest from the blast. Which is why she wasn't surprised when her escorts tied her to a wooden support column near the door. Closest to the main house. If debris made it this far, it would most likely hit the front of the building. Hit her. Mary didn't fight them as they grabbed her arms, and pulled her against the column. Her wrists were tightly secured together, and they left her there, hugging the column. She had some slack, about six inches. Not enough to pull on the ties until they broke, not in the time she figured she had.
Mary said nothing, and she waited patiently as the men left. They were going to take up their positions around the perimeter, to make sure no one left the manor. The only way out of that building once you went in would be in a body bag.
Mary jerked in surprise as she heard the distant report of a shotgun. It had come from the house. John. Dear God, John was up there, and Sherlock wasn't here yet. Mary looked out all the windows she could see, and then up at the column.
"Ladies, tell Sherlock when he gets here that she's in the ballroom. I have to stop her." Mary called to the women at the far side of the room. Anthea looked her in the eye, and Donovan called to her, and Molly started tugging at her restraints. "I'd take you with me, but I'm afraid it's a one way trip back into that house."
Mary looked up the length of the column, and leaned back as far as she could. She planted her feet against the base of it, and using the restraints, began to climb up the column. It was hard going, the zip ties sharp as she applied pressure on them. She knew her wrists were bleeding, but she dragged her arms up, and stepped higher. She climbed one foot at a time, breathing hard at the strain. Her shoulders began to burn, and she felt nothing in her fingers. Mary was nearly ten feet from the floor when she felt the first tie begin to slip.
She pushed off the column hard, falling backwards, letting her feet go up as gravity dragged her down the column, her wrists and the zip ties rubbing along the wood like it was sandpaper. She felt the ties snap a split second before she hit the floor. The impact knocked all the air from her lungs, and she instinctively grabbed at her stomach. She curled up, and sucked in air. She let herself lay there for only a heartbeat, and she got up.
Mary looked back at the girls, and held a finger to her lips, asking for silence. She grabbed a hook from the wall, the old kind used by fisherman for centuries. The handle was short, and the blade still sharp and wicked after all these years. Mary moved in the shadows to the wall nearest, and peaked out over the sill of a window. There was a guard barely visible at the corner of the boathouse, nest to the door. The others had melted away into the shadows.
Mary opened the window, and slipped over the sill. She landed lightly on the ground, and crept along the side of the boathouse. She moved like a ghost, her long years of killing from the shadows giving her the confidence to slip up behind the guard three times her size. The bladed hook sliced through the air, soundless as it sank deep in his throat. She pulled him down to the ground, fatal blood loss achieved before he even hit the dirt.
Mary yanked out the hook, and ignored the stench of hot blood in the cold night air. She went to the door, and opened it, dragging the corpse through the door and in the boathouse. She pulled his nine mil from his holster, and the silencer next to it. She looked down to the women. She didn't know what to make of their expressions, and she didn't want to take the time to figure it out. Standing, she threw the hook in their direction. Her aim was true, and it landed at Molly's feet.
"Do not follow me. Get out while you can." Mary told them, running from the boathouse and in to the deep shadows of the path, heading back towards the main house. She had some guards to kill, her baby's father to save, and a poor, mad girl to stop.
Sherlock gripped the side of the boat and looked ahead at the river bank. This section of the river was only lighted sporadically, and he did his best to see the shoreline of Blackwood Manor.
"GPS says it's coming up on our left. Any minute Sherlock." Violet told him, as she navigated the boat closer to the shore.
"How many bombs have gone off?" Sherlock asked, eyes locked on the dark shoreline.
"My timer says one should have gone off ten minutes ago, but I don't think it did. She might be dead already." Violet said, trying not to state the obvious. That if the London bombs had stopped, then that meant the manor was destroyed.
"We would see flames, fire. Something else happened to that bomb. Someone stopped it from going off. The next one will go off any moment, unless Mycroft and Lestrade's people have found a way to stop them."
"I hope they did." Violet strained to see, certain she had seen a light in the distance.
"I see it." Sherlock said, and it took everything he had not to jump from the boat and swim to shore. The drugs were still coursing through him, but the messed up head games side effects were wearing off. That meant the pain blockers would be going soon too. Then he'd come down from the high, and be useless.
"There's the boathouse, think it's safe to park this beast in there?" Violet asked.
"I'd say so, I'm fairly certain I see a ghost." Sherlock was grinning, despite the overwhelming urge to make Violet speed up.
"What? A ghost?" Violet saw the slim figure of Molly Hooper leaning out over the water, and she had a grin on her face to match the mad detective's.
Sherlock barely waited for Violet to steer the boat into an empty slip in the boathouse before he was leaping out. His feet hit the wood decking, and he sprinted towards the girl he thought dead and gone. Molly was crying and laughing, and her arms snaked around his neck as he hugged her tightly.
She was hysterical, tears mixing with her happy giggles, and Sherlock hugged her slim frame, burying his face in her long hair. She was real, she was alive, and she was breathing his name over and over. Sherlock spun her, and he felt a crack in his heart miraculously seal back up. Molly was alive. That loss of self he had felt when he believed her dead was gone. It was if he hand a hand back after it had been severed from his wrist.
"Molly." He whispered in her ear. She pulled back just enough to see his face, and she smiled that awkward little smile of hers at him. "Molly."
Sherlock leaned down, and pressed his lips to her cheek, wet from her tears and cold from the chill night air. He didn't mind one bit, she was real and alive and his again. She sighed, and he remembered to behave. He had a doctor to save. This sweet doctor gave him hope he would save the other.
Sherlock pulled back and looked at the other two women. Donovan smiled weakly at him from where she stood leaning against the wall, and Anthea still sat on the floor. The remains of zip ties clustered on the floor, and there was a bloody fisherman's hook in Anthea's good hand. He looked, but saw no fresh wounds.
Sherlock followed the blood droplets on the floor, and saw the dead body next to the door. There was another set of ties near the front, and Sherlock knew what had happened. Jaime was attempting to spare Mary. Looked like the American assassin was not happy with that.
"How long has she been gone?" Sherlock asked Molly.
"Not too long. Maybe ten minutes?" Molly told him. She bit her lip, and seemed ashamed for some reason. "We were going to follow her, but Donovan can hardly walk, and Anthea gets dizzy every time she stands up."
"No, stay here, you'll all get killed. They're expecting me, I'll be fine. Stay with Violet." Sherlock gestured to the raven haired woman standing in the boat, and she waved as he mentioned her.
"Violet, get the girls to safety. Call Mycroft, tell him you have the women, and head away from the manor."
"You want us to leave you?" Donovan blurted out.
"Yes." Sherlock pulled Molly to the edge of the slip, and he pushed until she stepped down into the boat. She clutched at him, her hands holding his until he had to pry her away. "I will not fail, but if the impossible happens, I prefer not to have you die with me."
Sherlock didn't give them a chance to argue, he grabbed Donovan, and helped her down into the boat. Anthea was the hardest, he felt a shimmer of pain as he bent down and helped her up. He held back the desire to cough, knowing they wouldn't leave if they saw him coughing up blood. He handed her over to Violet and Molly, and Sherlock backed away.
"Go, Violet." Sherlock ordered his hacker. She looked him in the eyes, and he thought he saw a tear. Violet never cried. Ever. "Go now."
Sherlock broke away, and walked to the front of the boathouse. They were expecting him. He knew he had no reason to fear walking out that door. Once he did, he either killed a madwoman, saved London, damning himself and the one he loved. Or she defeated him, and London burned as his corpse cooled.
Sherlock opened the door, hearing the boat back out of the slip, returning to the river. He stepped out in the night, taking the path up the hill to Blackwood Manor.