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

WARNING: Violence. Heartbreak. Sadness. Explosions.

Read, enjoy, review.

Next chapter posts on Saturday.

Chapter Thirty Three

"Wraith in the Flames"

Jaime lay panting on her back, looking up at the hard eyes of Doctor John Watson. She had no fear in her heart. It was a wasteland of broken dreams. There was nothing left to lose, so she had nothing to fear. He held the gun pointed at her heart, and she smiled.

"End us all, John." She whispered. Her voice was hoarse from screaming, and she had no energy to get up. The warm blood from the freshly slain guards was running along the floor, soaking in her clothes as she lay between the two bodies. Every inch of her splattered in blood.

She slowly raised an arm, and watching his eyes for signs he was going to fire, tugged at the hem of her shirt. She lifted it just enough to show the harness underneath. John's eyes dragged from hers, and she giggled as she saw comprehension flood them. His eyes came back to hers, and she saw his fear, and the steel beneath it. She also saw the willingness to pull the trigger. John was willing to die to stop the bombs in London. She was impressed, even in her exhausted state. What a man, this army doctor. He had seen his friends die, his lover was injured, and he had been kidnapped and beaten, and nearly raped. And there was no sign in him anywhere of being broken. And he was willing now to pull the trigger, before anyone else died. What a man, indeed.

"Do it." She told him, her voice the only thread of sound in the large room. "Kill me, free me. I miss him, John."

John backed up a step, moving so he had a clean line on her heart. She appreciated it; that meant he was going to make it quick. The bombs would burn as much as explode. She really didn't fancy waiting for the flames to consume her. She was too impatient.

She was feeling something new. Something she hadn't felt before. The rage was gone, it was so quiet in her mind. She had no urge to fight, even though she could kill him now. She could see it in her mind, so easily. Spin and kick from the floor, knock the gun from his hands, grab the shotgun that was only a couple feet away. Blow him in half. Grab her knife, and gut him like a fish. So easy. Yet she didn't. There was no need. No desire to fight.

"My lady." Came a voice, unexpected. John jumped, and his eyes flickered to a radio on the nearby table. "He's here."

Jamie couldn't believe it. Fate was indeed willing to be kind. Sherlock Holmes was here at last.

"Will you answer that, or do you want to hand me the radio?" Jaime giggled, and she laughed harder as John comprehended the words from her guard. "Your lover is here, John. Pull the trigger, you may yet spare him before he walks through that door."

She kept on laughing, curling in on herself on the bloody floor. Not minding the blood or the dead bodies one bit, she laughed and laughed.

Mary sprinted through the shadows, avoiding the path. She ran parallel to it up the hill, and she was screwing on the silencer to the nine mil as she went. The nearest guard should be at the midway point of the hill, where the path spread out in a small terraced garden before continuing down the hill to the boathouse. There were two large trees just off to the side, and if she were a sniper tasked with killing anyone who stepped out of the ballroom, it was exactly where she would be.

She kept low, minimizing her silhouette in the weak starlight. The house was ablaze with lights, lit up from within like a miniature sun. She kept her eyes down, avoiding ruining her night vision. She paused just below the trees, and looked for the broken shadows that indicated a human body.

She saw it, halfway up the largest tree, in a clutch of large branches. He was foolish; the lights from the house clearly outlined him from this angle. He would be invisible from directly below, or from the house. But she could see him clearly. Mary knelt on the hill, and raised the pistol. She breathed, in and out, again, and pulled the trigger. There was the soft pop from her gun, and she was moving before the body even toppled from the tree. She ran to the body, stopping to grab a nine mil from his belt, and a knife. She may need to kill someone without using her gun. She tucked the blade into her jacket pocket, and expelled the clip from the spare gun. She didn't need the weapon, just the ammo. She tucked that into her waistband as she moved away from the corpse.

If any other snipers were in the area looking in this direction, she would be targeted by the muzzle flash. She went deeper in the shadows, where the hill dipped in the lawn, creating a dark, black shadow along the width of the yard. She tucked the gun into her waistband, and kept her head and body low as she half ran, half crawled across the vast green lawn. The other sniper for this side of the house should be positioned somewhere in the hedges on the far side of the lawn, directly where she was heading.

Mary ran, ignoring her sore body, her bloody wrists. She knew Sherlock would be here any minute. He loved John too much not to be. She understood him. She loved John too. And if she were to save the man she loved, she needed to save Sherlock. She had no doubt that if anyone could stop Jaime Moriarty, it would be him. She ignored the part of her heart that quaked at the thought of Jaime dying. But not even Sherlock Holmes could stop multiple snipers ordered to kill anyone who left the manor alive.

She ran through the cold shadows, her feet noiseless in the grass. The hedges that framed this side of the vast lawn were just ahead, and she dropped, flat to the earth. Mary pulled in air, keeping her body fueled, ready to move. She was waiting, listening for some sigh of where the sniper was. She had patience, long years of it. And she would not let her years of experience go to waste, not this night.

It was quiet. She could hear night birds of some kind calling in the far distance, and there was a boat out on the river. She heard the engine as it came nearer, and she risked turning her head to look down the hill. A large boat was approaching the boathouse, no running lights. There was enough ambient light in the night that she could see, even at this distance, the tall dark form of Sherlock. She fought down the urge to run back to the boathouse. She was too close now to her target not to be seen. She had to wait. They would not fire on him at this point. The goal was for him to go into the manor.

She hadn't been the only one to see him approach either. Mary heard it, and she held her breath in surprise at how close she actually was to the sniper.

"My lady, he's here." He called over the radio, alerting Jaime to the fact that Sherlock was on site.

Mary slowly turned her head, so low her chin was in the grass. There he was. Five feet up, sitting on the stone wall behind the tall hedges that grew next to it. Mary evened out her breathing, dragging in deep soundless breaths. She was in a horrible position to fire. Her gun was tucked into her waistband, and she would have to move more than she wanted in order to get it. He was alert now, watching the boathouse for signs of Holmes. If he looked down, he would see her. Her dark clothes were a help, but she had nothing to cover her yellow hair or pale skin. She stayed in the shadows, and hoped he was as unobservant as his comrade had been.

John had no idea what to do. The madwoman was still giggling on the floor, uncaring he had a gun aimed at her heart. The harness she wore had stilled his finger on the trigger, and despite how badly his heart had raced when the guard said Sherlock was here, it terrified him. He couldn't take the shot. If the house went up, he would kill Sherlock too. And he had no idea how far away the boathouse was. He had no desire to hurt the women held there.

John dropped the weapon from her heart, and backed away. He wiped at the blood on his face, and felt the gash she had given him earlier. It had stopped bleeding enough for him to ignore it for now.

John was at a loss. She had no issue killing; the blood surrounding her was evidence of that. She had reacted with extreme violence, to her own people, at their attempt to rape him. He may have stopped their attack, but she saved his life by killing her own guards. And the words she had screamed as she sliced away at his assailant sent a horrible chill through his heart.

'Never again in this house.' She was raped here. She said this was her childhood home. That's fucking horrible. I don't care what she's done as an adult, no one, no one, deserves that.

"Why save me if you intend for me to die?" John demanded. She blinked at him, and John was even more confused by the look on her face. It was if she didn't know why she had saved him, either.

"Excellent question, dear. Let me get back to you." She sighed, and dropped her head to the floor. Her hair was soaking up the blood on the floor, but she acted as if it was nothing.

"Shut it off." John said, knowing it was useless, but unable to help himself. All she did was look at him, her eyes wild. She was covered in blood, and he was deeply disturbed by the fact that she was content to lay between the leaking bodies of his assailants.

"No." She gasped out, and she sounded as tired as she looked. Her long red brown hair was tangled about her arms, wet with blood. She was still lovely, despite all that. Her mask was stripped away. There was nothing of the cold-blooded monster left in the woman in front of him. She was like a flame, flickering and fading in the cold breeze, struggling to stay lit. Her eyes shone in the light overhead, and John backed away further, fighting the urge to raise the gun. No matter how much he might want her dead, she had to live. No matter how much he might want her to live, she had to die.

John looked to the open doors of the ballroom. They were glass, and ran the length of the room. He could see the river down the hill, and London in the far distance. He couldn't see the boathouse from this angle, but he had a feeling it was too close. If the manor went up, the women were at risk of dying.

"Then I'll just leave, collect Sherlock and the girls, and shoot you from the lawn. You even have a sniper rifle for me to use, how considerate of you." John went back to the table, and grabbed the large rifle. He held it tightly under his arm, and went to one of the open doors.

"Go right ahead, see what happens, John." She giggled again, and he stopped at the threshold to the outside. He looked back at her, to see her pointing at him. He looked down, and his heart sank. There was a red dot from a laser sight hovering over his heart. "My snipers have the house covered. They are outside the kill radius. I ordered them to shoot anyone trying to leave the manor."

"Damn you to Hell and back!" John shouted, and he threw down the rifle. "I should have killed you at the bunker!"

"Yes, you should have. London wouldn't be burning." She pointed again, and John turned his head back towards the city. The lights of London were always bright, but there was an orange and red glow spread across the skyline. His heart sank. London was burning already. People were dying. She needed to die.

John lifted the pistol, and went back to her side. A part of him was screaming that this was wrong. He was seeing in her flashes of sanity, of empathy. As if those traits were trying to crawl free from beneath the madness. This was part murder, self-defense, and suicide all in one. His hand was steady though. His aim never suffered under stress. He never suffered under stress.

"Forgive me, Sherlock." John said, and he aimed for her heart. "I love you."

Sherlock walked calmly up the path, his strides long and even. The house was open and waiting, every window ablaze with light. He had yet to see anyone, no guards and no sign of Mary. She had gone this way, he was sure. Though he doubted she took the path. He knew no one would fire on him. The goal was for him to meet Moriarty in the ballroom, and they would all die together.

Sherlock refused to show weakness as he climbed the hill. The shots Violet had given him were wearing off, and quickly. He knew people were watching, and he had no desire to telegraph his physical condition.

John was up there. His doctor. His love. The man who meant more to him than anything in this world. He smiled briefly in the dark, realizing how closely his thoughts mirrored the words of the younger Moriarty. She had told Moran that Jim was the man she loved more than anything. He understood that feeling. Sherlock had ignored his own heart, his own feelings, for decades. It had taken John Watson to teach him to feel. How to love.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to see John again. Hold him, hear his voice. So close.

Sherlock stopped. There was something in the air. The scent of blood. Someone had fired a gun recently. He had paused on a small garden terrace, halfway between the house and the river. He looked in the trees, and saw the crumpled form of a dead man. Mary. She had cleared the way.

Why is there a sniper here? And the way he fell suggests he was facing the house. Why have a sniper set up on the house? Ah. Yes. Of course. To prevent us from leaving. To make us stay, and die. Clever girl.

Sherlock looked around him in the clear night, the air cold and the wind still. He looked, but saw no further signs of Mary, nor any more snipers. Though he would be surprised if he did. Mary was just that good. He knew she would head for the house once the other snipers were dead. And that also meant he had an advantage over Moriarty.

He had promised John that he wouldn't play her game. He didn't intend too. There was every chance that he could get to her another way. Not through violence and death, but through her one weakness. She had revealed it in that room as she confronted Mary and John, and he heard every word of it.

Sherlock walked on, and he knew that he had more than a fighting chance of getting everyone out of this alive.

Violet took the boat out as far as she dared, without losing sight of the grand house on the hill. She couldn't see anything, but then she wasn't expecting to. All she wanted was for that building to not explode.

"Hey, Molly? Come here, steer for me, I'm calling Mycroft." Violet asked the pathologist. "You don't have to do anything, just keep the wheel steady."

Molly got up from her seat, and took over. She smiled nervously at the hacker, unsure of exactly who she was. But Sherlock knew her, and that was enough for Molly. Did nothing to satiate her curiosity, though.

Violet pulled out her mobile, and dialed. She was expecting voicemail, as she was certain big brother Holmes was a busy man.

"Sherlock?" He answered almost immediately, and Violet gulped at the worry in Mycroft's voice.

"Um. Nope. Just your friendly neighborhood hacker. Sherlock is currently keeping a date with Death at Blackwood Manor." Violet said, and she could hear Mycroft grinding his teeth over the line.

"Violet, explain what is going on right now." Mycroft was enraged, and she stifled a smile at his tone.

"Death is Jaime Moriarty, younger sister of Jim Moriarty. She is at the old home of her stepfather, the Earl of Blackwood, formerly known as Blackwood Manor. It was renamed Copper Beeches five years ago. Mary Morstan is on our side, and helping Sherlock stop Moriarty. I've got three not so dead hostages here with me, and I'm thinking you need to send backup our way. Sherlock has to kill little Moriarty or the bombs won't stop exploding in London until they've all detonated." Violet steadied herself as the boat hit an eddy in the river, and Molly shrugged at her apologetically. "And we're on the river in a boat that may or may not have been acquired through legal means."

"What do you, mean three hostages?" Mycroft's voice broke. "Who's not dead?"

"Someone here wants to talk to you." Violet walked over to Anthea, and she held the phone out to the MI6 operative. The wounded woman looked at the phone like she was afraid to take it. Violet shook it at her, and Anthea reached out. She bit her lip, and put it to her ear.

"Hello, sir." Anthea whispered, and Violet felt her heartstrings tug at the tears running from the other woman's eyes. "I'm not dead."

Violet didn't hear what Mycroft said, but whatever it was, Anthea smiled brilliantly. Her eyes lit up behind her tears, and Violet felt a tug on her heartstrings again. She was so pretty. And Mycroft Holmes made her smile.

Whoa, Vie. No thinking sexy thoughts about the injured chick. Down girl!

"Understood, sir. I will be seeing you soon. Here's Ms. Hunter." Anthea smiled at Violet as she handed back the mobile. Donovan put a hand on Anthea's shoulder, and said nothing as the operative cried silently.

"I am on my way. Do you know how many bombs there are?" Mycroft asked, and she could hear him moving around.

"Mary said she saw ten, but thinks there may be twelve. That's a lot of bombs yet to go off." Violet replied. "And the manor is rigged to explode too."

"Why is her house set to explode…..? Oh Sherlock." Mycroft wasn't slow. Annoying, yes. Slow, no.

"Yeah. She wants Sherlock to kill her, and that'll make the house blow up." Violet told him, voice low. Her eyes were drawn to the hill, and the grand house shining atop it.

"I'm on my way." Mycroft said, and for a second she thought he had hung up. "Violet."

"Yeah?" Violet asked.

"Keep her safe." The line went dead.

Mary watched in horror as the sniper leveled his rifle at the ballroom. She turned, and saw the distant shape of John at one of the glass doors. He paused on the threshold, and she prayed he wouldn't go any further.

Don't step out. Dear God, John! Don't step out! Stay in there!

She looked back to the sniper, and he was holding. He was waiting to fire. He was absorbed down his scope, and Mary took her chance.

She flipped on her side, and pulled the nine mil from her waistband. Her gun was up and fired, and the sniper never saw the woman who took his life. The rifle fell on her side of the wall as the now faceless corpse went the other. Mary leapt up, and grabbed the rifle. She slung its strap over her shoulder, and followed the wall towards the house.

Mary scanned the shadows, and she caught the brief glimpse of a tall man walking up the path. Sherlock. She would gain the house at the same time as him.

"I love you too, John. It's all okay, put down the gun, I'm here now."

John felt his heart explode in his chest. That voice. Deep and powerful and it made his blood rush through his veins. John lowered the gun, and stepped away from the woman at his feet. He backed away from the temptation to kill her. She was now immune to harm; Sherlock was here. His detective was here.

John turned to the door, and saw Sherlock in the doorway. His black coat covered him in the chill night air, and his tall form appeared whole and intact. John saw in that first instant the flash of relief in Sherlock's eyes, and John knew Sherlock would see the same in him.

"Oh God, Sherlock." John didn't wait, he went to his detective.

Sherlock's arms caught him, strong and hard and real. Held him close to his chest, and John buried his face in the taller man's neck. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, under his long coat. John breathed his man in, and he didn't know he could love this much. Sherlock was here, and John knew that everything would be fine. If anyone could save the world, it would be the man who had done it before.

"John." Sherlock murmured in his ear, lips warm against his skin. John shivered, and lifted his head. Sherlock kissed him, his lips capturing John's. There was nothing better in the world. John sighed, and let Sherlock in. His detective's tongue touched his, and John swept his back, kissing his man as deeply as he could. He didn't care they had a witness. She could see whatever she wanted from her crazy spot on the floor. John was with Sherlock again, and nothing else mattered.

"Aww… How sweet." Jaime giggled. "You didn't kiss me like that, Sherlock."

Sherlock slowly lifted his head from John, and the doctor saw the change in Sherlock. His eyes frosted over, and his already very pale face turned to stone. Sherlock gripped John's hand, and they both looked at the woman on the floor.

"This isn't how I expected things to go at this point." She murmured, mostly to herself. "Oh well, it's not really fun unless something's on fire. And blood and death always puts a smile on my face. It'll all end the same anyway."

Jaime had sat up, her arms on her knees. The knife was back in her hand, blood dripping from the point. She smiled at them, and ripped off a piece of the dead man's shirt. John felt Sherlock tense, and he watched as his detective took in the dead men on the floor, Jaime's exhausted state, the blade she was cleaning, and then he looked at John. The rage he saw in Sherlock's eyes was making him nervous.

Sherlock was evaluating John. His belt was still undone, his shirt ripped from his waistband, the stinging bite marks on his neck. John mentally cursed himself. Sherlock saw exactly what had almost happened.

"I'm alright, love." John said to his detective, tugging on his hand. Anything to get Sherlock to stop staring at him like that. Sherlock looked like he was going to commit murder. When Sherlock got this mad, bad things happened. "I stopped them."

"He stopped them, I butchered them." Jaime said casually. "I don't handle rape well. But then, who does? I'd say the rapists, but they don't look so good."

Jaime kicked the corpse next to her, the body moving limply. She dissolved in giggles, and kept cleaning her blade. Sherlock's tension eased, and John sighed in relief. Having Sherlock enraged at this point would be too much to handle.

"Jaime Moriarty, is it not?" Sherlock said, his deep voice melodious and riveting. He pulled John closer to his side, and John went willingly.

"Yes, hello again, dear. What a relief not to have to go by that ridiculous name anymore. 'Death.' Atrocious. A name gifted to me by the unimaginative of the world. And may I say you look far worse than you did last time? What narcotics did you pump into your system to get out of bed?" Jaime grinned, and flipped the knife, reversing the grip once before stilling. "And you traveled all this way with internal bleeding. I bet that lung hasn't stopped leaking since Mary shot you."

John looked at Sherlock. He saw past the joy at seeing his lover, and noticed the signs of internal bleeding. Sherlock was severely pale. His eyes were sunken, and the skin around them looked bruised. Sherlock's grip was strong, but John could feel the occasional tremor run through his frame. His fingers were cold.

"Sherlock?" John said.

"I'll be fine, John. Focus." Sherlock didn't even look at him, just kept staring at the woman on the floor. "It's time to end this."

"Yes, I agree. Shall John pull the trigger, or would you like to borrow my knife? It's very sharp." She said. "There's no point in pretending you don't know about the harness, the heartbeat switch. We've got the rest of our lives to decide how I die. But London? London hasn't got any time."

Jaime stood slowly, the move predatory and graceful. She stepped over the bodies, her boots wet from the puddles of blood on the floor. She was wet all over, actually. There was no inch of her spared from the crimson mess.

"I'd rather not die, today. No thank you." Sherlock sighed, and smiled at their host. "Show me."

"Show you? Why not? John's already seen it." Jaime didn't hesitate.

She slipped the knife back into its sheath, and pulled her shirt off completely. Her very trim and well-muscled frame was enclosed in the metal harness, the chains wrapped in wires, and securely strapped to her torso. John flinched at the sight of the spikes driven into her chest, directly over her heart. She had stopped bleeding from the injuries, but the area was red and bruising. She was obviously unconcerned with infection. She wasn't planning on living that long.

She walked to Sherlock and John without fear. She came straight to them, and stood within arm's reach. John held his breath as she met Sherlock's eyes. John could smell the blood on her skin, she was so close.

"Do hurry, I don't think London has long." She whispered, as Sherlock dropped John's hand. The detective moved slowly around the younger Moriarty, his eyes intent. He looked at every inch of the harness, and John knew he was assessing for weaknesses.

"Why haven't you just taken your own life?" Sherlock asked. "You are so determined to die, why not just do it?"

"Excellent question." Jaime replied, and she smiled as Sherlock came around to her front, his eyes on the small device attached to the harness. "It isn't fun if I go alone."

Sherlock stepped into her personal space, and she let him. She could kill Sherlock right now if she wanted, but she let him as close as he chose to get. She did nothing.

"Ah. Alone." Sherlock said, his voice a deep whisper. "For that is exactly what you have been, these last few years. Alone."

"Yes." Her voice just as low. John had to strain to hear her. "Tell me Sherlock. For a man who was so steadfastly asexual and uninterested in other humans on an intimate level, how did you get so many people to love you?"

John moved closer, until Sherlock held out his hand, stilling him.

"That's it, isn't it? Your brother. His obsession with me. He showed to me, in his own twisted way, a level of attention, even affection, that he had only ever shown you before. Jealous?"

"Angry. He left me for you. To finish your game. He wanted you, Sherlock. Not me. I was forgotten." Jaime spit it out, and tears ran from her eyes. The tears mixed with the blood, and bloody drops fell from her face, to her chest. She pulled back, and turned her back on them. She walked away, and stopped, head down. "He was forgotten. He was the best in the world, Sherlock. The world was his. I was his."

John gripped the gun in his hand, as she shifted on her feet. The quiet lethargy from earlier was leaving, and he heard the deep timber of something powerful in her voice. The shotgun was on the floor, just a foot away from her. She might go for it if Sherlock refused to kill her.

"And in his determination to win, he chose the surest way to get it. By attacking your heart. By forcing your compliance. He thought to win by forcing you to die. And in doing so, he took his life to insure you did. I am merely attempting to do the same. Except I know better. You will only ever do such a thing again if it means saving lives. On such a large scale, that you'll have no choice but to die for real."

She turned back to them, and John saw the mobile in her hand. She looked at the screen, then tucked it back in her pocket. She was still crying, but it was impossible to hear her tears in her voice.

"Another bomb just went off, Sherlock." She didn't react. "I think it best we move this along. There's no way for me to know which bomb is where. For all I know, the Old Bailey just went up in flames. Or it could be the pool. Or even St Bart's."

"We die, here and now, and the world will bleed and suffer. I have burned the heart of England. Your loss will be another wound, for this country, your family, and your devoted friends. They will go on living, and the pain of the last week will tear at them forever. And my pain will be over."

John was shaking his head. She was insane. Completely gone. She was an ever changing mix of cold-blooded disciple, and heartbroken little sister. John felt like he was trapped in a room with a rapid animal, one that used to be a cherished family pet.

"I kill you. End your pain. We die with you." Sherlock murmured. "We die with you so you won't be alone."

She didn't reply. Just stared at Sherlock, and her tears continued to fall.

"But you weren't alone, Jaime. Someone got through to you. She touched your heart. Once that happened, you were no longer alone. I should know." Sherlock's voice was soothing, and calm. There was no trace of anger. Sherlock was trying to talk her down from the edge she seemed to be hovering on, as if she were about to jump. "You aren't alone anymore."

"Mary." Jaime whispered. John saw the pain on her face, and with a sinking feeling, saw the heartbreak. Jaime loved Mary. Jaime Moriarty loved Mary Morstan.

"Yes, Mary. You aren't alone, Jaime. She may have chosen to help John, but she didn't want you to die. You left her no choice, in the end. I heard her beg you to stop. She cares for you."

"She chose him over herself! He broke her heart! He left her." Jaime accused, her eyes flashing fire, looking at John before she returned her eyes to the detective. "He left her for you!"

John struggled not to show his surprise, his shock. His confusion. Why did she care that John had left Mary?

"Everyone leaves. The ones we love. They never stay. She…. She isn't important right now. She's gone, I sent her away." Jaime whispered, and John slowly put both hands on the gun grip. There was something in her eyes he didn't like. Her fingers were wrapping around the hilt of her knife.

Dear God, is Sherlock getting through to her? Is she wavering? Is Sherlock really talking her down? My God, has he really learned that much?

"Don't die, deactivate the bombs. Don't hurt Mary, Jaime. You die, she'll mourn you." Sherlock had out, palm up. As if he were beseeching her to listen, to stop the madness. "Turn it off, Jaime."

"No." She didn't sound so sure. "She doesn't care, she can't care about me. I am a monster, Sherlock."

"Mary isn't in the boathouse, Jaime. You die, this building goes up, and Mary might die too." Sherlock was calm, and there was a level of compassion in his voice John had never heard from the detective before. "You spared her earlier, because of what she told you. Don't kill her, Jaime."

What did Mary tell her? Does Mary love her too? Then why help me? Why help Sherlock?

"Yes, I did. I've never done that before." She whispered. She was confused, and she had an expression that clearly said she wasn't wholly aware of what was going on. She was lost. Jaime was gripping her knife, one hand tight around the handle. "I've never shown mercy."

"Why did you show mercy?" Sherlock asked, and he took a step closer. He was less than ten feet from her now. "Can you tell me why?"

"I couldn't kill her. Not after what she told me. I've never hesitated…..." Jaime whispered. Her eyes were wide, unblinking. Tears ran down her face, washing away the blood. She was holding the knife so tightly her knuckles were white. "And she asked me too. I wanted to make her happy, that's why I spared the hostages. I didn't need her, not after the club. I could have done this all without her. But I didn't want to….."

"Doesn't matter anymore. None of this matters. I thought to make you do it. Kill me. Kill us all. But I can see you won't. Why won't you? London is burning." Jaime looked out the nearest door, and she could see the fires in the far distance. She blinked, and John saw an emotion sweep across her face.

"You won't because you love John too much. You won't kill him. I am a fool, it seems. You love John too much to kill him. You're willing to let the world burn to spare him. But I don't love him. I don't love you."

"I loved James. I love Mary. Both left me, chose you over me. Everyone loves you, Sherlock. No more….." Her voice trailed off. John saw her intention too late. It was in her eyes. Her need to end the pain. "He's been waiting for me."

"If you won't do it, I will." Jaime didn't go for the shotgun. She went for her knife, and she was out of their reach.

Jaime raised the silver blade, backing away from them as she did. John brought up the gun, but Sherlock was in his line of fire. Sherlock darted forward, trying to stop her as she brought the knife to her throat. He was too far away to stop her.

He was too far away, but Mary wasn't.

Mary came out from the darkness of the open door behind Jaime, and struck. One arm went around Jaime's neck, the other snapping out, stopping the blade's decent to the younger woman's throat. The edge was at her throat, and Mary twisted her grip. The blade fell, and Mary kicked Jaime's feet out from under her, dropping them both to their knees.

John and Sherlock ran forward, but the look on Mary's face made them stop just out of reach. Mary sank her arm deep in Jaime's neck, bracing it with her now free arm. The chokehold was set, and not matter how she struggled, Jaime succumbed. She went limp, and Mary immediately released her. Mary supported the younger woman in her arms, and she felt for the pulse at her neck.

"She's alive. She'll be out for a few minutes." Mary said, glaring at Sherlock. Her expression was a mix of regret and relief. "If you know how to get this off, Sherlock, do it now."

"Excellent timing, Mary. I'm glad to see I was right." Sherlock said, voice low and distracted as he eyed the harness.

Sherlock crouched beside the women, John next to him. John reached out, and took Jaime's pulse at her wrist. It was strong. She wouldn't be out for long. Mary held Jaime, braced up on her chest. Her arms held the madwoman, cradling her. Much as Sherlock had held John after pulling him from the fire. As Mary had just pulled Jaime from the flames.

John looked at Mary, and the realization of how much he truly didn't know about this woman came over him again. She had disarmed and knocked out the most dangerous, violent person he had ever met. And she had done it with ease.

Sherlock was examining every inch of the harness, his fingers tracing the metal links, the wires.

"Tell me what you know, Mary."

"Break any of the connections, the bombs all explode. Here, and in London. The only way for the London bombs to stop is if she dies. It's programmed to recognize her heartbeat, so we can't fool it. Even if we could remove the spikes without it going off, which we can't."

"There's a touchpad. Did she enter a code?" Sherlock murmured.

"I didn't see her enter one, though it would make sense if there was a failsafe." Mary replied, her hands brushing hair out of the unconscious woman's face. "She was cautious with her explosives."

"Excellent. Now we just need to know what it is. And I doubt she'll tell us." Sherlock sat back on his heels, and he got that look on his face. His 'I have an idea and it's crazy but it always works' face.

"Sherlock, no rush, but another bomb should be going off here in a few minutes." John said, and he looked out the windows. The fires in London were visible from here. John stiffened, and thought he saw movement.

"Shit." John stood, and raised the gun. "There's someone out there."

There were two shadows moving, coming from the corner of the lawn, guns up and heading their way. And they weren't friendlies.

"Get down!" John shoved at Sherlock's shoulders, pushing him down over the fallen woman and Mary.

John strode towards the door, staying well back from the opening, behind the wall. He had a clear shot, and he took it. Satisfaction came roaring out of him as the first man dropped, a harsh scream of pain coming out from the dark. John ducked behind the wall, and looked out. The remaining guard was firing back, but his aim was atrocious. The shots kept hitting the wall, and John sank down to one knee, and came out from behind the wall just long enough to shoot. This shot was as clean as the first, and the second man dropped. John scanned the lawn, and saw no one else.

Why hasn't that sniper fired at me?

"There was a sniper out there, but I'm not dead." John got up and returned to the group huddled on the floor.

"Already dead, Mary killed them." Sherlock murmured, and John looked back and forth between Sherlock and Mary. He wasn't going to ask.

Sherlock had the small tablet in his hands, and he seemed to make up his mind about something. John watched, heart pounding, as his detective entered a code into the device.

Mary

There was an angry beep, and Sherlock growled in frustration. John looked down, and saw the panel read Incorrect Code: Two Attempts Remaining.

"Explain, Sherlock." John asked his lover. How is Mary's name the failsafe?

"No time to explain, this should be it. I know what the failsafe is. I know it." Sherlock grumbled.

"Um, try again? It's not deactivated. I know you can do it." John kept looking out the windows. He saw something, a light in the distance, over the river. John stepped closer to the doors, and smiled.

"Your brother is on his way. Reinforcements are incoming." John wanted to shout.

"Mary, you must be gone before he gets here." Sherlock said to the blonde assassin. John tossed his lover a look, not understanding.

"Sherlock, the bombs! Worry about me after!" Mary yelled at Sherlock.

"Fine! I'll do it again." Sherlock typed in a code. The angry beep came again, loud in the room.

A.G.R.A

"Sherlock! Are we going to explode if you get it wrong again?" John asked.

"Yes." Sherlock was calm. Eyes intent on the face of the slumbering madwoman. Sherlock raised his eyes to Mary. She was looking down at the unconscious woman in her arms, and he watched as she pressed a kiss to her brow. Mary cared. John didn't know what to make of the whole mess, and he was getting ready to grab Sherlock and Mary, pull them out of this hellish place, and shoot Moriarty from the lawn.

"Mary." Sherlock had that tone in his voice. The one he gets when he sees the truth, a clue long ignored. Something so obvious it takes forever to see it.

"What?!" Mary was at the end of her vaulted patience.

"What's your real name? Does she know it?" Sherlock asked. John held his breath. There's no way that was going to work. The other names hadn't worked. Mary nodded, and her eyes widened.

"Amelia." Mary whispered. Sherlock reached out, and without hesitation, punched in the name.

The beep this time was sweeter, happier. The device hummed, and went dark. The power turned off, and Sherlock reached for the harness. John was in disbelief, looking down as his lover unclasped a buckle.

Nothing happened. No explosions. No roaring wave of fire, no pain, no instant death by being blown apart. It was over.

"Oh thank God." John breathed, and fell to his knees next to Sherlock.

"Not quite, John. But I understand your confusion." Sherlock grinned at him, and John started to laugh. Only Sherlock bloody Holmes.

John sat on the floor, gun in hand, and laughed. He watched as a helicopter came into view over the river, hovering. Its spotlight pointed down to the water, lighting up a boat below. The helicopter dipped slightly, before lifting up towards the house. It flew overhead, and John knew it was looking for a place to land.

"Mycroft is here, Sherlock." John gasped out. He dropped his head to Sherlock's shoulder, and his detective brought a cold hand to his face. John grabbed it, warming it between his hands.

Mary still held Jaime, her arms wrapped tightly around her shoulders, cradling the unconscious woman tenderly. Mary sniffled, and buried her face in the rich brown hair.

"What of Jaime?" Mary whispered. She didn't look at them, couldn't look at them.

"Jail." John said. "She's Mycroft's mess now."

"He'll not show her the mercy she needs. I know she doesn't deserve any, but she needs compassion." Mary murmured.

"Mary, you must go." Sherlock stood, and faltered.

John got up, and Sherlock didn't complain as John moved under his shoulder, and took some of his weight.

"And you need to go to the hospital." John scolded the detective, who tossed him a cranky look. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his doctor, and John just grinned.

"Mary, go." Sherlock urged the blonde assassin.

Mary hugged the younger woman, still knocked out cold in her arms. She lifted the fair face, covered in dried blood, and kissed her lips. John wanted to look away, uncomfortable. He didn't know how to handle the woman in front of him. He had no idea why she changed sides, why she helped them. She obviously cared for Jaime Moriarty a great deal. So why did she turn from her?

"Mary? Why did you help me, help us?" John asked. He was so confused.

Mary looked up at him, and there was something in her eyes. Something that made John afraid to know the answer. Mary stood, and grabbed the younger woman by her wrists. Mary pulled, and gently dragged the assassin to the large metal cage next to the wall. She didn't answer, and she glared at John when he made to go help her. He stopped, and held Sherlock. Mary lowered Jaime down, and ran her fingers over her blood streaked forehead. Mary pulled off her tight black jacket, and draped it over the half-naked woman at her feet. She left the cage, and shut and locked the door behind her.

"I helped you because I'm pregnant." Mary turned to John as she said it, face calm. Waiting.

John felt like he had just gotten sucker punched. Her words ran through him like ice water, exploding in his gut and making him hold on to Sherlock for support. He couldn't think. Mary was pregnant. She was carrying his child. He had no words; his world was turned upside down. He saw her anew. He saw her wounds, the bruises, the tired planes of her pretty face. She was so strong, and immeasurably capable of taking care of herself, and yet John wanted nothing more than to keep her here. Keep her safe. She was pregnant. With his baby.

"Mary, you must leave." Sherlock told her again. "Mycroft will arrest you, he will have no choice."

"I know." Mary took one last look at the young woman in the cage, and walked over to them.

John wasn't expecting it. She came to them, and hugged them both. She burrowed her face between Sherlock's shoulder and John's face, and held tight. John reached up, and put his hand behind her head, holding her to them. She was shaking, bloody, hurt, and tired. She was pregnant. John didn't know what he was feeling, but it took everything he had to let her go as she pulled back.

Sherlock leaned down, and whispered something in her ear. John could hear the helicopter landing next to the river, and John knew it was almost too late for Mary to escape. Sherlock was right, she had to go. The government would show her no mercy, pregnant or not. John couldn't hear what Sherlock said to her, but she smiled at him. Her blue eyes were dry, and the shadows were gone. She pulled away from them, walked to the long table. She picked up a small black box, and grabbed a duffel bag from beneath the table, out of a crate. She walked out into the night without looking back. John watched her until she disappeared.

Jaime's head hurt. Her eyes refused to work right. Her pulse was pounding in her skull, and her neck hurt. She dragged in a deep breath, and felt the spikes in her chest tear at her muscles. The pain nudged at her mind, and she opened her eyes. She coughed, and the pain from doing so drove the fog away. She curled up on her side on the cold wood floor, and coughed hard. There was fresh blood on her chest, and she peered downwards. The spikes were still in her, but the harness was gone. A black jacket was covering her like a blanket.

She looked up, and saw Dr Watson and Holmes talking quietly to each other a few feet away. They glanced at her, but paid no further attention to her. As if she didn't matter anymore. She stay curled up on the floor, and watched. More fools, they. She wasn't helpless, not yet. She would not spend the rest of her life in a cage, to be put down like a dog after months of torture. Mycroft Holmes would be ruthless with her. She knew she could handle whatever he chose to do to her. It wasn't a matter of surviving; it was a matter of free will, of controlling her own life, her own end. A very long time ago she had made herself a promise to never be helpless to another man. Only James was worth trusting, following, despite his choice to leave her.

Mary. I know it was Mary. She knocked me out. She is the only one who could get close enough to me. Where is she?

Jaime looked around, eyes searching everywhere, but there was no sign of the blonde assassin. Mary was gone. She watched Dr Watson, who kept looking out the glass doors, down the hill. Jaime could hear the sound of a helicopter, and she figured out where Mary was. Or rather, why she wasn't still here. Mycroft Holmes was here. And he would not spare Mary Morstan, no matter her current condition.

Jaime cautiously lifted her head, being careful not to telegraph her movements. She was able to see the long table, and the black box was gone. Mary had taken her new aliases.

Good. Go Mary. Run. I hope you're far enough away by now. I'm not mad.

Jaime lay her head back down, and rested. The large crates nestled against the side of the crate obstructed her view, so she couldn't see the elder Holmes as he entered the ballroom. She tugged at the black jacket that covered her torso, and caught a whiff of Mary's perfume from the fabric. Jaime brought it to her face, and breathed it in. She wrapped it closer around her, and buried her face in the jacket, her eyes just peaking above the collar.

She saw John and Sherlock turn to the doors, and could hear Mycroft call out to his brother. The Iceman may play it cool, but nothing got to him faster than his brother. So very obvious, the love he felt for his sibling. Let them distract each other. A security team swept in the room, and she heard John tell them that there were another six or so men left on site that were unaccounted. Good, let them leave. The team cleared the ballroom, heading into the other parts of the house.

You are such fools. Now all three of you are here. All three shall pay. Feel the fire.

"She doesn't look so dangerous, now." Mycroft Holmes asked. She ignored the men standing outside the bars, looking down at her. She just watched them, giving no reaction to their words. She was cold, the blood soaking every part of her drying uncomfortably. She was glad for the brief comfort offered by Mary's jacket. "Is she secure in there?"

"Yes. She can't get out, I checked the cell, and it's secure." Sherlock replied, and he leaned on John. Her eyes were narrow slits, but she could see the exhaustion on Holmes' face. Whatever he had given himself was wearing off.

"She shall stay there then until the grounds are clear. It's time we got you out of here." Mycroft cocked a brow at the doctor, who nodded in agreement. They both held on to Sherlock, who had started to stumble on his feet. He was weakening and fast.

Good. Get weaker Sherlock. So weak you can't run. I refuse to be anyone's prisoner.

She waited until they had turned their focus to the detective. None of them heard her as she came to her feet, carefully pulling the jacket on. Her hands paused as she zipped up the jacket, pressed to a pocket. She grinned.

Jaime backed up until her shoulders came in contact with the bars behind her. She sucked in a deep breath, and sprinted for the opposite side of the cage. Sherlock heard her, and the others held him up as he almost spilled on the floor. She screamed as she leapt, her booted feet flying between the bars of the cage, crashing into the side of the large crate flush against the cell. It was the same crate she was looking in before she attached the harness earlier in the day. She knew what was in there.

The side of the crate collapsed, and her boots made solid contact with the metal casing of the very large bomb inside. The men outside the cage could do nothing. Sherlock was attempting to get to her, but the other crates kept them away. John had his arms full of his detective, and Mycroft was yelling uselessly for some of his men. She pulled back a leg, and kicked again, screaming a roar of rage and pain. The casing snapped away from the timer, and she reached through the bars, into the void of the break, and grabbed a handful of wires. She screamed again, and pulled.

She came away with a fistful of wires, and the bomb gave off a beep. Loud enough to silence Mycroft. John and Sherlock were thunderstruck, and she laughed. She pointed to the timer. It was counting down. Less than two minutes.

"Burn in hell, you bastards!" She threw the Off Switch wires at the men frozen in shock. "Shut that one off, Sherlock Holmes!"

Jaime laughed, letting go of the remnants of her control. She laughed so hard she couldn't stop. Pain, loss, rage, love. Triumph. All swept at her mind, and Jaime Moriarty embraced them all.

I lost, only to win. Goodbye, James.

Goodbye, Mary.

"Run!" John grabbed Sherlock around the waist, and pulled him to the door. The detective was in shock, staring at the crazy woman laughing her ass off in the cage. Where she was supposed to be helpless. She just managed to kill them all. John pushed Mycroft, and the MI6 man stumbled out of the ballroom. John dragged Sherlock, taking all his weight, and he pushed Mycroft until the man began to run on his own.

John didn't hesitate. He took a better grip of Sherlock, and ran them down the large hill towards the river. He could see Mycroft on his radio just ahead of them, hopefully ordering his men out of the house. Two minutes. Most likely less than one minute now. John kept going until they hit the shore, and he didn't stop until he felt the cold tide waters of the river lapping at his feet.

John pulled Sherlock down. Just in time. The night sky was lit up as the manor exploded. The ballroom shattered from within, a massive shockwave sweeping out from the hilltop. The noise was beyond anything John had ever heard. It was the deafening roar of hellfire, and John could feel the shockwave smack them, even at this distance. John held Sherlock down, covering his detective with his own body. The sky was on fire. Everything was burning. The ground shook, and trembled. There was no sound beyond the roar of the explosion, the hissing of flames. Debris fell from the sky, and John covered Sherlock as best he could. He felt some small, and some not so small pieces of debris fall on his back, and around them. He didn't flinch, just kept Sherlock covered.

He stayed like that, and looked in the gorgeous eyes of his detective. Sherlock was in pain, and worry was etched across his face. Sherlock tried to get out from under John, seeing the debris falling on his doctor. John held fast, and covered Sherlock. John didn't care about the debris and flames falling around them. He didn't feel the cold water of the Thames washing over their feet. All he saw and felt was the man he sheltered in his arms. John lowered his head, and captured Sherlock's lips with his. He kissed his detective, and let the world burn around them.