Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
WARNING: Violence. Some sexy stuff. Oh, and a very, very bad man makes an appearance. Enjoy!
A/N: My villain is a variant of an original Conan Doyle. I hope everyone loves what I've done with him.
Chapter Thirty Eight
"The Master"
Violet cried out as he slammed into the door again, the man who had broken into her uncle's flat. Sherlock was calling her name over the open line, and she slapped a hand over her mouth, shaking.
"Violet, we're almost home. Calm down. Where are you?" Sherlock's voice was calming, reassuring, despite the man doing his best to get in the bedroom.
"I'm in your room. He's outside the door, trying to break it down." She whispered past her hand, unable to take her eyes away from the shadow of the man barely visible under the door. "Hurry, please. He's still here."
Violet could hear John in the background, yelling at the cabbie to go faster. Sherlock was still calm, and she struggled to match him, but she couldn't. She was shaking too hard. She cried out as the shadow man started to kick the door, his foot slamming into the wood next to the door handle. The door held, but she knew it wouldn't for long.
"Sherlock, you aren't going to make it in time." Violet gasped out. Fear was rising in her, fear that she hadn't felt since she was a child, on her own. "He's going to kill me."
"Violet! Fight! He gets through that door, you fight!" Sherlock finally shouted, the finality in her voice making his control shatter. She couldn't respond, her voice stolen by panic. She felt removed from her body, as if her soul was preparing to die, pulling away from her physical form.
Everyone dies alone. I am going to die.
Violet struggled to be calm, to keep from shutting down from panic. She couldn't run, the windows opened too high over the alleyway, and were locked shut against the frigid nights.
The shadow man was kicking the door, over and over. Violet lowered the mobile, and tossed it to the bed. The line was still open, and she could hear Sherlock shouting her name. Violet tore her eyes from the door, and looked around Sherlock's room. His room was always clean, spotlessly organized. She went quickly to the dresser against the wall, and ripped open the top drawer. She growled in frustration; John's gun gone and not where he usually kept it.
She hurriedly looked around, and froze in terror. The shadow man was in the bathroom, his silhouette clearly visible through the glass panes of the door. He was tall, dressed in black, and facing her through the wavy glass of the bathroom door. As if he could see her, see her fear. She gasped, a sob ripping from her, and she held a hand over her mouth, trying to quiet herself.
The shadow man raised his fist, and began punching the door. The glass cracked, and the door shook. This door was far more fragile than the main bedroom door, and it was starting to cave. Glass shattered on his second hit, and Violet knew she was going to die if he got in the room.
NO. Fuck this, I am not dying. NO!
Violet's eyes latched on the sword hanging on the wall. It was Sherlock's rapier, from some championship he won first place in when he was a teenager. The glass gave way just as she leapt for the weapon, her hand on the hilt. She pulled it free, the blade hissing as it released from the leather scabbard. Violet lifted the blade, just in time, the shadow man unlocking the door, smashing it open against the nightstand.
He lunged for her, arms outstretched, clearly seeing her as not a threat. Violet swung the blade, the sharp steel singing in the air, and she sliced the hand coming at her. He yelled, and she back pedaled, but not fast enough. His other hand came up, smacking her across the face, throwing her back into a bookshelf. She kept her grip on the blade, and she pushed off the case, swinging again, slashing at his shoulder. She laid him open, blood rushing from the long gash. The shadow man growled a curse at her, and backed up, a hand pressed to the wound. Violet gripped the sword in both hands, the point up and between them.
"Fuck off!" Violet yelled, and she disappeared under the rage that swept up from her soul. She was not a victim. She was Violet Hunter, Violet Holmes, and she would not be afraid. Violet lifted the sword, swinging at his face, stepping forward as she did. She missed, but she was past the point of caution. She flew into a fury, swinging the blade again and again, both hands gripping it, the shining steel covered in blood.
Violet felt the blows he landed on her face, her shoulders, but in a distant part of her, a place buried under her fury. He tried repeatedly to grab the sword from her, but she scratched at him with one hand as she kept her grip on the blade. She knew she was screaming, yelling, wordless cries of fury and pain. She was kicking, biting, stabbing and slashing.
When it happened, it was as if it were in a dream. The shadow man had a hand around her throat, squeezing. When the sword pierced his chest, she felt like someone else was holding the hilt, that someone else's hand was pushing the slim blade between his ribs. Time slowed. She saw it all, felt it all, tasted blood and sweat. She saw the blood running down his face, the gashes and cuts across his shoulders and chest. And the wreckage of Sherlock's bedroom, blood everywhere. She felt her own bruises, gashes, the lacerations from accidentally cutting herself with the sword as she madly swung it.
Violet felt his heart beating along the length of the blade, as the tip sank in the pounding muscle. She was close enough to him to see the disbelief in her attacker's eyes as he died. His hand fell from her neck, and she sucked in air, tasting blood on her tongue. He stood, the light dimming from his bloodshot eyes. She pushed harder, and his heart stopped beating.
He was dead on his feet. The shadow man slowly fell back, his weight pulling the blade from his chest. She held the sword, the point to the dead man's throat. Violet was in shock, cold now, her hand shaking, every muscle quivering with the overdose of adrenaline in her system.
She didn't hear the front door of the flat crash open, or the two sets of footsteps race up the stairs. She couldn't hear Sherlock and John screaming her name, running down the hall past the kitchen, into the bedroom. Violet couldn't look away from the dead man at her feet, the sword dripping blood.
"Violet!" Sherlock called to her from far away, over and over.
John and Sherlock were just feet away from her, but she didn't know they were there. All she saw was a man reaching for her, and she snapped, the blade flashing up faster than she could think. She screamed, the sound strangled, her eyes wild, and she fell back against the wall. Violet's legs slowly gave out, and she collapsed to the floor. She kept the sword up, and met Sherlock's eyes.
Sherlock had an arm out, restraining John from reaching for her. She couldn't hear anything past the pounding of her heart in her ears. She saw nothing but the brilliant diamond eyes of her uncle. She stared in them, and counted her heart beats. Counted them, because now every one of them was precious. She had almost died, lost her life on this night. Never again would she take air for granted, take for granted the earth beneath her feet, the warmth in a hug.
The sword fell at last from her hand, crashing to the floor. She was shaking, and so cold, so very cold. Violet felt the hot burning acid of tears run from her eyes, down her face. Suddenly she could hear again, and she flinched. She brought her hands up to her ears, and curled in on herself. She buried her face in her knees, curling up as small as she could get.
"No, Sherlock. Slowly. She's in shock, don't scare her." John's voice was like electricity, stinging exposed nerve endings.
"Violet? Sweetheart?" John said, and she heard him settling to the floor a couple of feet away. His voice was gentle, soft, sweet.
Violet heard Sherlock on his mobile, probably calling the police. She was so tired, her muscles quivering. She had started to sweat, her skin clammy and sticking. Her hair was wet along her neck, and she had no strength left to lift her head. She wasn't aware she was sobbing until her shaking torso caused her arms to slip from her knees, nearly falling over.
She raised her head, feeling like it was the hardest thing she had ever done. She stared at the bloody corpse on the floor of her uncle's bedroom, looking like it went through a blender. She blinked, and raised a shaking hand to her face, pushing her hair from her eyes. She paused, gazing at her hand. Her fingers were bloody, her knuckles scrapped, some nails broken. Violet sat back against the wall, and lifted her other hand, seeing the same ruin. She breathed, in and out, and stilled her sobs.
"Violet?" John called to her softly, moving closer. She finally looked to him, the concern on his face so clear, it was painful to see. She sucked in a deep, cleansing breath, and turned back to the body on the floor.
Violet curled her hands to fists, and felt something new. Something she had never really felt before. She had skated through life on bravado, and a joyous carelessness that let her get away with so much. She had always counted on her intellect, her ability to manipulate technology and people to get what she wanted, to do as she pleased. But a small part of her had always wondered what she was capable of, what she would be, in those moments that mattered most. Would she be a coward? Would she cry and beg, or would she fight?
Violet steeled her legs, her back, and pushed up the wall, using it to get back to her feet. Fire was burning in her heart, chasing away the misery and fear, the chaos. She breathed deeply, over and over, eyes trained on the dead man. A powerful sensation was singing out from her soul, and she lifted her chin. Sherlock was evaluating her, and John had gained his feet. They were watching her, wondering what she was doing.
She felt strong, powerful, as if she was a new person. She could do anything. Violet Hunter had survived. She stepped away from the wall, and moved to the body. John had a hand out, as if he expected her to fall. She stood over the corpse, and took another deep breath. Violet looked up, to meet her uncle's eyes. Sherlock was standing on the other side of the body, watching her, calm. He had seen that she was still in one piece, and was waiting to see what she would do next.
"Fucker." She gasped out, kicking at the dead man. Her foot landed solidly on a rib, and she refused to recoil from the body as it moved limply. She turned back to Sherlock, and tried to smile for him.
Violet stepped over the still warm corpse as if it weren't there, and went to him. Sherlock looked slightly surprised, but he opened his arms, and she walked in them. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder. She didn't cry, just hugged him. He held her tightly, their heights nearly the same. He rested his face in her hair, and they stood together in silence.
She was so tired. Alive, but tired. Relieved and tired. So tired she gave in to the darkness as it swept over her mind.
Anthea stared at her mobile in disbelief. The alert had come through Scotland Yard. A home invasion at 221B Baker Street, one casualty. She was running from her room before she even finished reading the text.
Anthea ran barefoot down the long hall, to Mycroft's room. She banged her fist on the door, over and over. She heard Mycroft swear, unused to such activity in his house. She would handle his irritation later. The door opened, to reveal the annoyed and surprised face of her boss, the spymaster of MI6.
Mycroft gaped at her, and she thrust her mobile in his hands.
"No idea on who the casualty is, sir. Scotland Yard is en route now." She gasped out, and she watched as his face paled, turned to frozen, frigid granite.
"Get the car, we're leaving for Baker Street now." Mycroft ordered, and she snatched her mobile back, running for her room, getting her shoes. She called for the ever ready car as she slipped back into her heels, grabbing her coat. She met Mycroft in the hall, both of them heading for the stairs.
They both ran down the stairs, out the recently repaired front foyer of his house, and to the waiting black Jaguar at the curb. Mycroft had his mobile out, and she knew he was dialing his brother.
Sherlock felt his mobile go off in his pocket, the vibration easily ignored. The young woman in his arms took precedence over whoever was calling him. Sherlock met John's worried eyes over his niece's shoulder, the doctor a few feet away. Violet was quiet, her arms tight around his neck. She wasn't crying, but she was very still. Too still.
John stepped over the dead invader, not minding the blood on the floor. It was a night for blood. John came to them, and he put a gentle hand on Violet's back. She didn't react, not at all. John rubbed his hand up and down, and Sherlock pulled back slightly, trying to see her face. Her eyes were shut, face pale. She had scrapes and bruises forming, a cut lip and the clear imprint of a hand on her neck. And she was unconscious.
"John, she's passed out." Sherlock swiftly bent down, and swooped an arm under her knees, keeping one around her shoulders. He picked her up easily, her weight nothing. Sherlock turned and strode from his room, carrying her out to the front room. John followed behind him, turning on the lights as he went.
Sherlock took her to the couch, and lowered her gently, her head on the armrest farthest from the door.
"John, secure the flats, please. The front door was locked when we came in, check Mrs. Hudson's flat, the back entrance." Sherlock asked his lover, and John nodded, pulling his gun from his waistband, clicking off the safety. He moved from the flat without a word, the weapon up, disappearing down the stairs.
Violet was pale, so limp she made him afraid. Sherlock throttled back his rage at the damage done to his niece. She was bruised and bleeding and miraculous. She had saved herself. She had fought, and won. He knelt at her side, running his fingers through her raven black hair, so much like his. Hers was wavy instead of curly, and far more tamable. She had it cut to just above her shoulders, so it swung freely every time she turned her head. So soft, and he couldn't stop himself from playing with it. A part of him realized he was reassuring himself that she was alive, that she was still here. That while he hadn't made it in time, she had survived until he came for her.
Sherlock heard the sounds of sirens approaching the flat, the police and the ambulances coming. Late as usual. Sherlock didn't move from his spot by her head, resting beside the couch on his knees. John came back up the stairs, and paused briefly in the doorway before heading up to the small room and the short hallway upstairs. That space was cleared quickly, and John ran back down the stairs, tucking his gun back under his jumper.
Sherlock dimly heard John usher the police into the flat, down the hall to their bedroom. Sherlock heard the exclamations of surprise from the officers, the swearing. John was talking, his voice distant as he explained what had happened, what they knew. He ignored the police officers who were trying to get his attention. He refused to pull his attention from his niece's face. She was still unconscious, and Sherlock was getting worried.
"John?" Sherlock called softly, but his doctor heard him. John came back out to the front as swiftly as he would have liked, straight to his side. "She hasn't woken up yet."
"Sherlock, let me see her. Budge over." John told him, gently pushing him back from his niece. John's capable and skilled hands raced over her face, her head, examined her neck. John found the cuts and slashes on her arms and legs from the sword, the bruised knuckles from hitting her assailant. Her neck was swiftly bruising, the imprints of the invader's fingerprints clear on her lovely skin.
"Nothing broken, nothing too serious. May need some stitches. I don't see any signs of internal bleeding, nor of a concussion. She's remarkably intact for what she just went through. It's just shock and stress, Sherlock. Cover her up, let the medics have a look at her. They're coming in now." John told him, and Sherlock felt some of his tension ease. John was never wrong, not when it came to this sort of thing.
Sherlock moved back, and sat on the other end of the coffee table, as far as he was willing to go. The paramedics came in, and Sherlock let John explain what had happened. He had yet to look away from her still form on the couch. They looked at him in askance, but he ignored them completely.
Sherlock felt the atmosphere in the room change. Someone was here, who hadn't been here in over a month. Sherlock finally lifted his eyes from his niece, to see his elder brother standing in his doorway. Mycroft was pale, and out of breath. Sherlock met his eyes, and thought he saw a glimmer of guilt, of worry in his brother's expression. Panic. Sherlock looked back to Violet, still out on the couch cushions. He heard Mycroft gasp softly as he saw the unconscious Holmes scion, and he stepped all the way into the room. He walked to Sherlock, but he ignored him in favor of staring at Violet. Sherlock smelled the flowery scent of Anthea's perfume, and she came in as well, moving to the fireplace, out of the way.
"Sherlock, what happened?" Mycroft demanded. Sherlock didn't answer, his jaw tightening in anger. His brother only cared when something messy happened, something inconvenient. John saw his face, and went to Mycroft, pulling the MI6 man away, to the fireplace. He could hear John telling Mycroft and Anthea what had happened. Mycroft would be able to tell most of it from just observing the flat. John led him down the hall to their bedroom, and Sherlock grimaced as he heard Mycroft take control of the Scotland Yard officers.
One of the paramedics reached for Violet's neck, and the scream that came from her in response was bloodcurdling. Violet shot up from the couch, her amethyst eyes bright and wild. She threw herself on the back of the couch, her shoulders against the wall, one hand out, as if holding off a monster. Everyone came running, and all the people pressing in on her, talking to her all at once was overwhelming. Strangers reached for her, and she lashed out, fist colliding sharply with one of the police officers who tried to grab her wrists. They reached for her again, and Sherlock snapped.
"ENOUGH!" Sherlock shouted, pushing people out of his way. An officer fell to the floor, but the others scrambled out of his way. Violet saw him, and jumped. Sherlock caught her, wrapping his hysterical niece in his arms. He strode to the fireplace, and sat them both in his chair. She curled up on his chest, and sobbed. She had been as strong as she could up until this point, but even he was feeling the strain of so many strangers in his home, the scent of blood and death heavy in the air.
Sherlock held her, glaring daggers at those who tried to venture too close. His entire attitude promised violence to anyone who thought to lay a hand on her until he gave leave. He glared back at the officer who he had shoved to the floor, daring the imbecile to say anything, anything at all.
John moved to the fireplace as well, standing beside his chair, facing the room. For once Mycroft made himself useful, and began directing people's attention away from the young woman in his brother's arms, and towards collecting evidence. He kicked the paramedics out, as they obviously weren't needed with a doctor living on site.
Sherlock directed a meaningful glance at John, and flicked his eyes over Violet's laptop, where it rested beside his armchair. She must have been working in his chair when the intruder attacked. John bent down, as if he were speaking to Sherlock, and snatched her laptop up from the floor, holding it behind his back. Sherlock looked at Mycroft, and he saw Violet's mobile held discreetly in his brother's hand. No matter how he may feel about her parentage, Mycroft was not willing to discuss the very illegal software on his niece's electronic equipment with the police.
Sherlock sat in that chair, Violet in his lap, as the coroner finally arrived. The dead man was finally cleared and released to be removed from the flat. The police wanted to take evidence from Violet's clothing, her hands, but Sherlock's face kept them at bay. Sherlock's attitude of barely restrained violence clearly communicated the futility of trying to talk to Violet. They were merely there because Sherlock didn't want to bother removing a body from his flat himself. Sherlock, Mycroft, and John all knew what had happened.
Violet shuddered as the body was wheeled out of the bedroom. Sherlock saw his sword clutched in the hand of a police officer, wrapped up in a plastic evidence bag. Sherlock tried to repress his dismay, but Mycroft saw it, and correctly guessed why. He went to the officer, and spoke to him quietly. The officer tried to resist, but Mycroft held firm, and the officer handed it over to his brother before walking out of the flat. Mycroft gently put his sword on the burnt out table, the blade still shining, even covered in blood and plastic.
Blessed silence finally descended in the flat. Mrs. Hudson peeked in the room, the police finally allowing her to come up. She must have come back home sometime during the middle of all the chaos.
She looked very worried, her hands over her mouth. She tried to approach Sherlock and Violet, but John intercepted her, guiding her into the kitchen instead. Mycroft and Anthea were in his bedroom, most likely looking for clues the police hadn't found. Which would be a lot.
Sherlock adjusted his hold on Violet, glancing down at her. She had kept her face pressed to his chest the entire time, not moving or looking up. She hadn't spoken a single word, not since the curse she'd thrown at the corpse. Nothing. Sherlock ran his fingers through her hair, soothing himself and her as best he could. She shifted, turning in to his touch, her body relaxing. He kept petting her hair, and he noticed when she started to doze off. She was relaxed enough to sleep, and he let her. He rested his head on hers, and sighed. This family business was so hard. But the emotional feedback he was getting was just as addicting as what he got from John, and he didn't mind the effort.
Sherlock was dimly aware of Mycroft staring him and the girl he held. He seemed to make up his mind, and came in the room, sitting in John's chair. Mycroft observed his brother tending to their niece, an unreadable look on his face.
"Is she asleep?" Mycroft asked, his brows lowered, voice as quiet as he could get it.
"Yes." Sherlock answered, unwilling to talk.
"You can't hold her forever, she is covered in blood. So are you, by the way."
"Excellent deductions, Mycroft. Brilliantly obvious." Sherlock snapped.
"Boys, not now." John scolded. He left the kitchen, and came over to Sherlock. "She needs to get cleaned up. Let me have a look at her."
"But…." Sherlock loathed to let her go. She was safe with him.
"She'll be fine with me." John murmured, putting a hand on his lover's shoulder, squeezing. Sherlock sighed loudly, and bent his head to Violet's ear.
"Violet." He whispered. No response. She was relaxed, breathing slow and deep. She was very much asleep.
"Is she sleeping?" Anthea asked from the doorway, her green eyes bright and concerned.
Violet stirred, lifting her head, her hair tickling Sherlock's nose. Sherlock hid a grin in the raven locks. She hadn't heard him, but she had heard the cultured tones of Mycroft's personal aide. Sherlock saw where her interest went. Violet blinked at all the people staring at her, before turning, looking her uncle in the face. The look of mild chagrin and appreciation she gave him made Sherlock's heart take a tiny tumble.
"Oh, this is embarrassing." She grumbled. "I haven't been held in a man's lap since that disastrous Christmas when I was five. I puked all over creepy fake Santa's shiny black boots. Oh, and when I made out with John last month, but that doesn't count."
Violet put her hand on his chest, and pushed up, wavering before finding her balance. He held a hand to her shoulder, nervous she might topple off his leg.
"Where'd everyone go?" She asked, hand pushing her hair back out of her eyes. "And why do I remember punching a cop?"
"Sherlock scared them all out. You feeling up to letting me check you over?" John asked her. "And yes, you punched a cop."
"First time for everything, I suppose." Violet put her hand out, letting John help her to her feet. "A man checking me over, not the punching a cop thing. I've done that before."
"I want to hear that story for certain. In the bathroom, let's go." John roped an arm around her waist, and helped her walk. She rubbed a hand through Sherlock's wild curls before stepping away, her odd way of saying thank you.
"Well, I was in New York City, and this really cute chick was getting a parking ticket…" Violet's voice faded out as John led her down the hall, Sherlock watching the whole way.
Sherlock felt a tension ease in him when he heard John laugh in response to what she was saying. Anthea wandered after them, and Sherlock's lips twitched when he saw Violet snake an arm out from the bathroom, grabbing Anthea's wrist and tugging her in too. The hallway door shut, and Sherlock tore his gaze away.
Sherlock got up so quickly he made Mycroft jump. He threw off his coat, his scarf, realizing as he did that he had been wearing them the whole night. Sherlock strode from his flat, down the stairs, and through his landlady's door. He went to the kitchen entrance, the one that opened to the rear alley.
The door was shut now, police tape over the handle, and an evidence seal over where the deadbolt used to be. The invader had broken the locking mechanism completely, not bothering trying to pick the lock, or forcing the bolt. Instead, the entire deadbolt, handle, all of it was broken. Subtlety hadn't been important. The fervor and violence of his actions gave no other impression other than murder. This man had come with the intent to kill someone. The question was who had he come to kill?
Nothing was disturbed in Mrs. Hudson's flat. The invader had come to this back door specifically, and once in, moved with purpose to the front foyer, the stairs. As if he knew where he was going. Someone told him where to go? How the building was set up? It was the most likely scenario.
Sherlock was staring at a muddy footprint on Mrs. Hudson's otherwise spotless floor, surprised that Scotland Yard hadn't destroyed all the evidence. It was a clean tread mark, a workman's boot print. He had been staring at boot prints all day long….
Sherlock stilled, and dove for his mind palace; to the room he kept his recent cases. He searched for the images of the boot prints that had littered the grounds of the nursery he had been at earlier in the day. He opened his eyes back to the kitchen, and overlaid the mental picture of several boot treads from the nursery over the boot mark on the tile. He dismissed several before finding a match. Same size, same type of wearing on the inside of the heel, same stride. The man who had tried to kill Violet had been at his earlier crime scene. Sherlock may have found his killer already.
He felt a vague sense of unease. That was too easy. Most would assume that the killer had seen Sherlock at the nursery, recognized him, and gone ahead to his flat (hard to find someone in London these days who didn't know where he lived), and lain in wait for him to get back, intending to kill him so he couldn't solve the case. If it was anyone other than him working this case, they might just wash their hands of the whole ordeal, calling it done, as the man was dead now.
Sherlock ignored the shadow standing in the kitchen doorway. Mycroft saw what he did, reading the killer's intent to commit murder as easily as Sherlock. The truest mystery to solve was who had been the target. Violet? Why her? She hadn't been with him at the crime scene, she had stayed home. And if anyone with half a brain knew the floor plan of his flat well enough to break in the back door, and go unerringly through Mrs. Hudson's inefficiently laid out flat, up the stairs…. Then they would be smart enough to notice that he and John were not home yet.
So what did his new case have to do with his niece?
"Violet was the target." Sherlock murmured quietly, not really speaking to his brother, but needing to voice the words. The room was dark, the only light from the window over the sink. The snow was still falling, gathering in the corners of the window, frosting in the cold temperatures.
"Are you certain?" Mycroft asked, unmoving from his spot in the doorway.
"Yes, though I don't know why." Sherlock stepped over the print. "The man who attacked Violet was at the crime scene I was at earlier this evening. Double murder, of sorts. First victim brutally murdered by her business partner, who was then poisoned by an as yet unknown substance by an unknown person. Whether the man Violet killed is the killer of my first murderer is now the newest mystery. And why he would chose to kill her, if he was, and not myself and John. If we were the targets, all he had to do was wait another ten minutes for us to get home. She had nothing to do with the case."
"And he was very determined to kill her." Sherlock said softly. "She did him serious damage with my sword, and yet he kept coming at her. Most people, even killers, would have fled after the first few slashes. She wasn't an easy target. She fought back."
"The dead man was at my crime scene, may have contributed to the murder of a nursery owner, then killed the first murderer, and then, while John and I were still at the crime scene, raced back here, and tried to kill my niece before we got home." Sherlock finally met his brother's eyes, diamond bright to deep blue. Sherlock saw the thoughts, the repressed emotions swirling in his mind, and tried to see what his brother was thinking. Mycroft was doing his best not to show his emotional state. Which in itself was a clue. He wouldn't be trying so hard if he was not upset.
"Why does a man break into a person's flat? Burglary, rape, murder, lesser reasons that don't bear mentioning. The big three reasons are what concern me most. If it was burglary, why not steal Mrs. Hudson's silver? She leaves it out for any passing thief to take." Sherlock mused, waving a hand to the nearby silver vase on a counter. He was still talking mostly to himself. Mycroft was present, and he would be a quick substitute for John while the doctor was busy. "Rape? Rapists are cowards. Once he knew she was on the phone calling for help, once she barricaded herself in my bedroom, the second she fought back, he should have been running. Instead, he kept attacking. So, what does that leave? Murder."
"She isn't safe." Sherlock told his brother, and walked past him, leaving Mycroft to stare at the tread mark on the floor. "Someone sent that man here to kill her, someone who doesn't want me find out what happened at that nursery. It's possible her death was meant to be a warning."
"This is all conjecture, of course, but how often am I wrong?" Sherlock's voice faded out as he left his brother alone in the dark, cold kitchen.
Mycroft sighed, and looked out the window. The snow had stopped, the street covered in a blanket of pure white, as far as he could see.
"Are you sure you don't want me to stitch that up?" John asked Violet, as she rolled her eyes at him, his hands very close to being in no-man's-land on her upper thigh. She had a long shallow gash on her leg, but it wasn't bleeding badly.
"Just leave some of those Band-Aid type butterfly thingies and I'll take care of it after my shower. Which is my not so subtle way of saying, 'thank you, love you bunches, but I'm about to get naked, no man has ever seen that, please leave.'" Violet quipped at him, her attitude clearly recovering quickly after her ordeal. Violet leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek, before making shooing motions towards the door. "I'm sure Anthea can help me if I need it."
Violet cast a perfectly innocent look at the very pretty MI6 operative, who smiled at her. Violet couldn't decipher what that smile meant, but she hadn't argued the point. John sighed, grabbed his medical kit, and stepped out of the bathroom, pulling the door shut behind him.
"You aren't very subtle, are you?" Anthea asked her, and she reached out to help Violet shrug out of her blouse. Violet moaned in despair at the state of the pretty blue silk top, and the fact it was so not possible to get blood out of silk.
"Nope." Violet smiled at her, unsnapping her bra, letting it fall to the floor. "Subtlety is a waste of time and effort."
Anthea didn't even blink at the half naked girl, just tossed the shirt on the counter beside the sink. Violet was attempting to pull off her very tight jeans, and Anthea made her sit on the toilet, and she tugged one leg off at a time for her. Violet bit her lip in pain as the fabric scraped across a cut, and Anthea went quickly, so as not to prolong the experience.
The jeans came off, and Violet sighed loudly in relief, jumping up and out of them, very smoothly kicking off her underwear at the same time. Violet had no trouble being completely naked in front of Anthea. She turned on the water, silently blessing her uncle for having a ridiculously large water heater. Violet hopped in the shower, and grabbed the curtain.
"I'd ask you to join me, but I don't want to presume your relationship with Mycroft is less than what it might be." Violet told the MI6 operative, who had a delightfully surprised and pleased look on her face. "I'm not pressuring, just making it obvious I like you. So there's no confusion."
"Mycroft is very much involved with someone who isn't me." Anthea told her calmly. "But considering what you've just been through, is this wise?"
Violet got all fuzzy and happy in her stomach, before she blinked, a smile gracing her mouth.
"Wise? Hell no. But I thought you were sexy as hell from the first moment I saw you." Violet told Anthea, but she knew that the other woman was right. "But seeing as how there's my entire family out in the front room, not to mention your boss, all waiting to know what happened, putting the moves on you in the shower probably isn't smart."
"Hhmm. I'd have to agree." Anthea told her, but before Violet could have her feelings get hurt, she stepped very close, steam rising between them from the hot water. "But after you tell them what happened? No one said I had to go home."
Violet felt every brain cell in her head die at the exact same instant, the very moment Anthea leaned in, and lightly brushed her lips to hers. Soft and sweet and so hot Violet gasped for air. Anthea held the almost non-kiss for a heartbeat before pulling away. Her eyes were a green so vivid that Violet couldn't see anything but them.
"I'll get you some clothes. Take your shower." Anthea whispered, and she pulled the shower curtain closed for Violet. She nearly had to slap herself in order to move under the spray, reach for the soap.
"Best and worst night ever." Violet whispered to herself as she heard Anthea leave the bathroom.
John was thinking hard as he helped Mrs. Hudson clean up the blood from the floor in his bedroom. The bathroom door was still relatively intact, and could shut. The glass panel closest to the door handle was shattered, but the door still provided enough privacy for Violet to take a shower.
John had seen Anthea step out a few minutes ago, and she was coming back down the hall, holding an armful of clothing. She must have gone for some clothing for Violet. John had no idea where Sherlock and Mycroft were, but he figured they were still here somewhere. Mycroft at least, as Anthea was still here. John had noticed a very particular type of tension in Violet, and her pulling Anthea into the bathroom with them had been a surprise.
John wasn't biased against Violet's preference for the female sex. His own sister was a lesbian, and it had never bothered him. Hell, he was currently in a very intense and delightfully sexual relationship with a man, so he had no issues with anyone's choice of partners. John felt embarrassed when he realized what was bothering him. He had always seen Anthea as an extension of Mycroft, and never as her own person. He had noticed she was beautiful, and he had felt a mild attraction to her once upon a time, but he had never thought of her as a separate person. Mycroft's shadow, and nothing else.
Anthea slipped back into the bathroom, and John could hear her speak softly to Violet. He couldn't hear what she was saying, but Violet giggled, and he fought off the very big grin that threatened to break his face. If he was surprised, he wondered what Mycroft's reaction might be to the fact his niece was putting some serious moves on his personal assistant.
John felt his worry wash away with the blood on the floor. Violet would be okay. She might be repressing, but he had no doubt that she was resilient enough to handle what had happened here tonight. She was a Holmes through and through. He saw that more every day.
Mrs. Hudson wiped up the last of the blood with the mop, and John carried the bucket out of the room for her. He'd gotten up all the glass, and there was little evidence of what had happened here. Just the broken glass panel in the bathroom door and the boot prints on the bedroom door. John was surprised, and glad, that the old door had withstood that much damage without breaking.
Sherlock was cleaning his sword, sitting at the burned out table as if it were fine. He was wiping away the sticky blood, vinegar and warm water making John's nose twitch. He had never seen Sherlock pay attention to the sword, never seen him take it down. He knew it was from a championship he'd won back when he was a teenager. The sword had been the prize, and John figured Sherlock had to be good, as he got first place.
Sherlock stood, and did some sort of fancy move with the blade that John was sure had name but he couldn't remember. His entire being was absorbed by the absolutely hot and incredibly delicious Sherlock Holmes wielding a sword like he'd been born with one in his hand. John bit his tongue, and dumped the bloody water down the drain. Sherlock was eyeing the blade, paying attention to the whole length. John figured he was looking for nicks or bends in the metal.
"Excellent craftsmanship, John. Didn't suffer one bit from its use." Sherlock murmured without taking his eyes away.
"Not a very good sword if it didn't work as intended." John told him, putting the bucket down and walking over to Sherlock. "I'm glad it was in there, she would have been in trouble if it wasn't."
"Certainly." Sherlock agreed quietly, putting the sword down, letting his doctor in under his arm, flush to his shoulder. They both looked up as the bathroom door opened. Mrs. Hudson pounced as soon as she saw Violet, Anthea right behind her. Sherlock met John's eyes briefly, and John saw the same mirth in his eyes at Violet's current interest. Mycroft would indeed have trouble with this one. Violet bore up well under Mrs. Hudson's hugs and kisses, far better than Sherlock would have.
"Is it too much to ask for me to go to bed? I'm assuming with the total IQ accumulated in the flat that everyone here has a good idea what happened?" Violet was whining, sounding exactly like Sherlock. Anthea was standing at her shoulder, texting. She put her mobile away just as Mycroft came in the flat. Violet was glaring at them, daring any of them to badger her with questions.
No one said anything, and Violet sighed loudly in relief. John's eyes nearly fell on the floor when she grabbed Anthea's hand, and walked to the stairs, right past Mycroft.
"Good night!" Violet called out as she and Anthea climbed the stairs. Anthea paused briefly, and looked over her shoulder at Mycroft.
"The car is waiting for you, sir. Goodnight." Anthea smiled, and followed Violet up the stairs and out of sight.
John pressed his face to Sherlock's shoulder at the utter and complete dumbfounded look on Mycroft's face. The MI6 man just stared up the now empty staircase, coat in one hand, face blank. He blinked, and tore his eyes away. He smiled tightly at the room in general, before walking out of the flat, down the stairs. John was torn between laughing and flinching as Mycroft slammed the front door on his way out.
Mycroft never saw the three shadows on the far corner of Baker Street. They stood watching, waiting until the black Jaguar of the spymaster drove away. They peeled away one by one from the larger shadow of the building, disappearing down the unlit street.
Mycroft was in a foul mood. He was glad the rear of the car was dark; he didn't fancy having his driver knowing that his employer was anything but his usual icy self.
He had been terrified when Sherlock hadn't answered his phone. The only information he had gotten from Anthea was that someone was dead after a home invasion at Baker Street. The slim chance it could have been his brother who was dead had made him run from the car as soon as it had stopped outside his brother's flat.
Seeing that it was Violet who was hurt, and the invader dead, had done things to Mycroft that he hadn't expected. Sherlock was alive, and unscathed, whereas his niece had nearly lost her life fighting off the intruder. Her wounds and the state of her clothing had told him just how close she had come to dying. Seeing the dead man in Sherlock's bedroom had opened up a nasty, sick, sinking sensation in his gut, one he equated to dread. He had felt it so strongly only three times before, when he thought he was watching Anthea die, and when DI Lestrade was fighting for his life after being shot. The third was a memory so dark he hadn't the courage to remember it, not on this silent night.
Mycroft was lost, navigating in waters he did not know. He could not see the far shore. Violet was the daughter of the man he loved, and killed. Because he was a monster, the purest incarnation of evil Mycroft had ever known. His daughter, though not him, carried his blood. Mycroft's blood, Sherlock's blood. The potential for madness was in them all. He did not begrudge her saving her own life. She had done what was necessary to live. But the manner in which she had…
Mycroft flashed back to a hot summer day long ago, the woman dead on the dry barren earth, blood making mud at his brother's feet. Sherrinford holding the knife. His eyes. Mycroft would never forget those eyes. As unique and lovely as his daughter's.
Mycroft wiped as hand across his face, banishing the memory of his dead brother. She was not her father. She was annoying, and precocious, and had no concept of legality (which he had taken advantage of numerous times), but she was not evil.
Mycroft had no idea of what to make of Anthea's decision to stay with Violet. He hadn't gotten even the slightest hint from her that she had romantic interest in his niece. But then, he never thought of her having an interest outside of the work, and him…..
"Home, sir?" His driver asked him, driving through the nearly empty streets of London. The city was sleeping peacefully under its blanket of white.
"Yes…Actually, no." Mycroft changed his mind. There was somewhere he wanted to be. Needed to be. "Take me to St Bart's."
"Yes, sir." His driver changed course, taking Mycroft to the hospital, where certain DI was recovering.
Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was doing his best to sleep. He really was trying. He did his utmost to be a good patient, not giving the nurses or doctors any trouble. He suppressed his impatience, bit back his complaints, and followed directions. And he was doing it all so that a certain government man wouldn't worry. So he could leave this wretched place, the sooner the better.
Greg tried to get comfortable past the pain. His side and lower abdomen and back hurt like hell. He was taking medication for the pain, but he wasn't taking as much as the doctors were offering. He was months away from recovering. Months of physical therapy and pain and frustration. Not to mention he might get invalided out of Scotland Yard, if he didn't recover enough to get back out on the streets. He wasn't meant for a desk job, his heart wasn't in it. He was in that perfect place of being the boss, but still being able to take the cases he wanted.
He was lucky, he knew that. He nearly died on the roof of the hospital he was in. That bomb had been minutes from going off, killing everyone, himself included. He knew when he charged off of that fire escape onto the roof that he might die. He never even felt the bullet as it ripped through his body. He hadn't stopped, killing two of the guards before disarming the bomb. He remembered turning it off. That was it. After the bomb was disarmed, he remembered nothing.
All he could recall was a great grey expanse, and whispers that came to him from the nothingness. Whispers from people he knew, that called to him, asking him to stay. It was so clear. They had told him that he had died on the table. The doctors had managed to get his body back alive, but Greg had a horrible, terrifying thought stuck in his mind. He was certain that while his body may have lived, his soul had left it. He had been dead, and willing to stay dead. Until he heard a voice that made him fight to live.
"Gregory?" His eyes flew open in surprise, hearing the voice he had just been thinking of. He gasped, wrapping an arm around his stomach. The pain was sickening, and he breathed through it as best he could.
The small light beside his bed turned ton, and he saw the patrician features of Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft was eyeing him, seeing his struggle and knowing instantly he was in pain.
"Why aren't you taking your medication?" he asked, settling in the chair he always sat in, to his right.
"Don't like the way it makes me feel." Greg gasped out, breathing slow, relaxing as the pain faded. He smiled wryly at the exasperation on Mycroft's face.
Mycroft never bothered anymore to hide his feelings, not when it was just the two of them. Greg saw the tired, stressed plans of his face, the small lines beside his eyes. Mycroft wasn't looking at him, eyes fixed at some distant point, fingers idly picking at the arm of his chair. He only ever fidgeted when he was dealing with something emotional.
"What happened?" Greg asked him. He rarely came this late.
"Someone broke into Baker Street, attacked Violet." Mycroft told him, eyes still far off and vague. "She killed him."
"What? Oh God, is she alright? Where were the guys at?" Greg tried to sit up, but he groaned in pain instead, putting both arms down and holding himself carefully. Mycroft was standing over him, and Greg blinked back the tears that came unwanted to his eyes. He didn't want to cry in front of this man. Not Mycroft.
Long, cool fingers brushed over his cheek, a thumb wiping away a stray tear. Greg gave up, and turned his face into Mycroft's palm. He breathed through the pain, the gentle pressure from Mycroft's hand an anchor for him.
"Violet has some superficial injuries. Sherlock and Dr Watson were at a crime scene. She killed the intruder with my brother's sword." Greg thought he misheard that last part, but Mycroft wasn't one to make jokes like that. "She will be fine."
"Good." Greg whispered. He tried talking some more, but couldn't.
"Perhaps you should stay in the hospital, Gregory." Mycroft murmured to him, his thumb still gently rubbing his cheek. "If you go home to recuperate, you'll most likely overdo things, and end up back here."
"I want out of here. I'm going insane." Greg growled softly. "I'm not used to doing nothing. I'm not built to be idle."
"So overdoing it will be your solution to restlessness?" Mycroft queried, and Greg scowled at him. Man could be annoying sometimes, he really could. "In my considered opinion, you going home to your flat is a very stupid idea."
Mycroft was serenely calm at the narrowed eyed glare Greg tossed him. He wasn't staying in this wretched place any longer than he had to.
"The solution is simple, really." Mycroft got a small, wicked smile on his face. "You will come home with me."
The air was so cold, so dry, that the blood froze before it even finished falling. Small droplets skipped across the snow, settling in a rain of deep crimson, brilliant over the pure white snowflakes. The trees were silent witness to the brutal death under their branches. The wind was dead, as dead as the rapidly cooling body that crumpled to the ground. Snow fluttered up from the ground at the impact, dusting the black clothing of the useless fool now dead at his feet. A fool who was not alone under the trees. Another body was farther under the dead branches, and they would keep each other company until some lucky soul found them in the morning.
"Sir?" Asked the timid voice of his servant, sniveling from his knees behind him. The third fool had been spared, and his groveling made it clear how very thankful he was.
"Are you interrupting me?" The Master Chemist demanded, shifting on his feet in the cold snow. The knife he held in his hand was steaming in the cold air, blood freezing as it fell from the edge.
"I…. forgive me, Master. Holmes the elder has left Baker Street. He has not placed additional protection on his brother's residence." His servant planted his face in the snow as his master turned, a snow white handkerchief out, wiping away the blood on the blade. The blood stained the pristine fabric, and he tossed it aside.
"Good." The Master stared out across Hyde Park, the trees and lawns covered by a glittering blanket of snow and ice. It would not last long, this lovely and pure expanse. Soon the sun would rise, and melt it all away. "Then we shall try again. But next time, my dear Peter, perhaps you will send better men? Ones who don't partake of my product?"
Peter flinched with his entire body, knowing better than to raise his head. His master would give him leave to rise. Until then, he would gladly freeze to death on his knees.
"Yes, Master. Forgive me." Peter whimpered, seeing his master's boots out of the corner of his eye. "The next ones will follow directions."
"And?" His master whispered, bending over him, the knife tracing its cold path along the back of his neck.
"They will be clean, and follow directions." Peter gasped out. "They will not fail."
Peter jerked as the blade was lifted away, and his master's boots disappeared from view. He stayed where he was, waiting.
"Come, Peter. The night grows colder." His master's voice drifted through the darkness. Peter leapt to his feet, dashing after the swiftly disappearing shadow of John Woodley, The Master Chemist of London.
He spared no further thought for the dead man under the trees. He and his partner had failed in their mission, and Sherlock Holmes was on the case. Holmes had his life, and his niece. Both things the Master wanted, too.