Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
WARNING: SEX. Have fun.
Enjoy! Review!
Chapter Forty
"In the Shadows"
"I'm up for committing a felony, John." Violet told the doctor walking at her side. It was bright and sunny and every surface was soaking wet, the snow melting fast.
"Haven't you been doing that all day?" John quipped, and she smirked. She certainly had been.
"Ssshhhhh! That's a secret!" Violet called for a cab with her mobile cab app, and they waited out in front of St Bart's. "I should have told you I was a barista or something bland, now you can't get enough of my sexy-hacker-awesomeness."
"Is that even a word?" John asked, his eyes checking the corners of the square, the street to either side of them. He was paying attention to her, but also looking for bad guys. What a man. Sherlock was one lucky guy.
"Nope, just made it up, all me." Violet sighed in relief as she saw the cab approaching. "Or if it is, I'm still calling dibs on it."
She loved her app, all the major metropolitan city cab services around the world were picking it up. Every time one did, and people used the app, she got a tiny itty-bitty percentage of the fare as a service fee. And not to mention the money she made when people purchased the app. She was making a killing every day just by thinking up lines of code. And it wasn't her only app, just the most successful legal one. Violet restrained her glee at remembering John's face when she gave him that brown paper sack of money last month. His face had been priceless. She wasn't the wealthiest person in the world, but she never had to work another day in her life if she so choose.
"So where, too?" Asked the cabbie as they hopped in the back.
"Winchester Luxury Car Sales, please." Violet told him, not responding to John's quiet groan of disbelief. She tossed him a smile, and said nothing more as the cab pulled out from Bart's.
Violet pulled out her mobile, and started to check the dealer's website for the car she wanted. It was there, and she hid her mobile so John wouldn't see. She was going to have some serious fun. Usually she'd just have the cabbies drop her off a couple of blocks from the rear storage lot of the luxury retailers, disable security, and take a car out for the day without any one being the wiser. Depending on her mood and what she was doing, she'd either return the car, or dump it. But seeing as how they were on their way to save the sanity of one very cabin-fever stricken assassin who was carrying John's baby, she thought it best not to risk getting caught. But that didn't mean she had to tell John what she was doing. And having him show up in a really good mood might be better than the usually tense and disillusioned attitude he had on these visits.
The cab dropped them off in front of Winchester Luxury, a grand building with a glass and steel three story lobby filled with cars usually only seen in spy movies and high speed action flicks. She pulled out her mobile as John was sweet enough to pay the cabbie, and accessed her accounts, and the dealer's website. She had her transaction complete before John walked to her side, staring up at the daunting building full of dream cars.
"So, John, what's your dream car?" Violet asked, roping her arm through his, walking to the doors. She already knew the answer. He had a magazine that he kept next to his armchair, the page with the car so well worn it was almost falling out.
"Um, wow. Easy, that one over there." John pointed to the sexy black Audi R8 V10 that just screamed horsepower where it crouched in the center of the lobby. He held the door for her, and she let him go, heading unerringly for the car, leaving her behind. She didn't mind, letting him look his fill.
Violet caught the eye of a smartly dressed salesman, pulling him over with a flirty smile. He came over so fast he must have smelled the money in her accounts from across the room.
"Hello, miss, how may I help you today?" The salesman asked, his smile oozing charm, attitude all about thinking she was a mark. Too bad for him. She'd run circles around him all day.
"I'm here to pick up the Audi. It's my uncle's birthday. He's the doctor salivating all over the car there across the room." Violet murmured, grabbing the salesman's arm, and navigating him to the offices in the back. John didn't even notice, so engrossed was he in the car. "My name is Violet Hunter, I ordered the car just a few minutes ago."
She pulled out her ID, and a cotton and linen blend business card that had her account information embossed on the surface.
"The Audi, miss? The R8?" The disbelief in his voice clear despite his attempt to hide it. He looked down at her cards, then back up to her face.
"Yes, that one. I believe you have an invoice waiting in your Inbox, do be a dear and get me the keys." Violet smiled, and winked at him. "And the faster we move this along, the bigger commission you make."
Violet gently nudged the salesman towards the offices, waving her fingers at him to get moving. He gave her a look that was part disbelief and surprise, and epic amounts of curiosity. He went, calling for someone she assumed was a secretary, heading to the back rooms.
Violet meandered over to John, smiling at the fanboy awe on his face. He was already in love. He was so cute, hands held behind his back, like a kid told not to touch anything in an antique shop. He was oohing and aahing as he walked slowly around it. He went to touch the hood of the car, before snapping his fingers back. Violet laughed, and came up next to him, bumping his shoulder with her own.
"John, you're adorable. And you're my uncle, okay? I didn't feel like explaining that you're my uncle's lover to Mr. Salesman." Violet told him, watching the back offices, wondering how long it would take the salesman to verify her accounts, her ID and the fully purchased she already bought-it-while-she-was walking-in-the-front-door luxury car. "If I hadn't, you'd be getting winks and high fives for dating me."
"What? Okay, but why would you tell him…. What did you do?" John snapped up, getting a nervous look on his face, eyes dancing between her face and the car he was clearly in love with.
"Just play along." Violet roped her arm through his again, snuggled in when she saw the salesman come back out, a huge, cloying, sickly sweet smile on his face, followed by a secretary and what must be his manager. All of them smiles and she grinned herself when she saw the shiny keys held in the boss man's hands, the stacks of paperwork in the secretary's.
"Miss Hunter, I presume? And this must be your uncle! Happy birthday sir, you have a lovely niece for her to buy you such a gift." The manager shook their hands, Violet not paying attention at all to his name, and she let John be distracted by the fact he now had the car keys in his hand.
She signed all the paperwork, collected her ID, and very discretely handed over a few tightly stacked clips of money to her new best buddy at the dealership. Best not to let John know she walked around with so much money, he'd probably never let her out of the flat. She stuffed her copies in her bag, reminding herself to pay off all the taxes on it for the next few years, get the title sorted out. It was already in his name, he just needed to sign it.
John just stood there in shock as some attendants opened the lobby up, using the cleverly hidden doors to the outside that let the cars be displayed in the large room.
Violet managed to offer up her thanks without letting slip her impatience, and waved off the sales crew. John was standing next to the driver's side door, staring at the keys in his hand.
"John!" Violet nearly had to shout to get him to look up.
"What….. Christ, Violet! Did you just steal a car?" John whispered to her loudly over the roof of the car. She grinned at him, and opened the passenger side door.
"Nope, I bought it. Straight up. Happy birthday, John Watson." Violet slid in the car, and reached across the seats, opening the door for him, as he was very much in shock. She bumped the door on his hip, waking him from his daze. He got in, pulling the door shut carefully.
"Okay, seat belts." Violet instructed the poor man she'd shocked into a walking coma. She put her belt on, watching him. She was hoping he would be able to drive, she figured he might want to be the first one to drive his present.
He put his seatbelt on, and stared at her. "Okay, put key in the ignition, turn it on."
John did so, super slow, as if he might break something. The engine roared to life, the vibrations subtle and strong all at once, pure power shivering their bones. John put his hands on the wheel, and looked at her as if he needed to be told what to do next.
"John, I should have asked, you can drive stick, right?" Violet needled his male ego just a bit, trying to wake him up. It worked, and John Watson snapped from his daze. He gave her a grin that looked like it belonged on a teenager, full of mischief and pure excitement.
She slammed back against the seat as John put the car in gear, roaring out of the dealership, onto the streets of London. He handled it like he was born driving the car, one smooth machine action all the way through downtown. She laughed, enjoying the speed, glad she could do something for John. He had welcomed her into his life and home, and treated her like she was family.
Sherlock and John were her family. What else was she going to spend her money on? Shoes? Never mind John's birthday wasn't for another month. Sherlock was on notice, now. He better sweep John off his feet.
She figured they'd tool around for a bit, then go see about saving Mary from her doldrums. Violet pulled out her laptop, and began playing merry hob with the CCTV cameras around Leinster Gardens.
Mary knew she was being foolish, but she had to get out. She threw on the long black coat that was reminiscent of Sherlock's, but hers had a hood. She pulled her dark red scarf up over her chin, the hood up over her hair, and buttoned up the coat. She had her nine mil under her shirt, tucked into her waistband, and the slit she'd cut in the coat pocket would let her draw easily and quickly.
She palmed the keys, and stepped out of 23-24 Leinster Gardens for the first time in weeks. She squinted against the sunlight, the weak winter sun bright on her eyes. She breathed in deep, the cold air searing and invigorating. Mary pulled the door shut, and walked. She picked a random direction, and went. No thought of where to go, what to do, she just needed to move. It felt weird, walking farther than a few feet, not needing to stop and turn. Being able to see in the distance, see more than bare concrete walls and iron pipes, hear something other than the rumble of the Underground.
She wanted to run, she was so happy to be free. There was a park nearby if memory served, and she headed in that direction. There was no one around, it being the middle of the workday, kids in school. The trees were barren and covered with tiny patches of snow, the grass was a dull wet brown, but she didn't mind. Mary skipped to a bench on one of the paths, overlooking a fountain that had been turned off for the season. She sat, and stretched out her booted feet, leaning back on the bench.
The fountain was a cute one, concrete children playing in the empty basin, toys and a stone puppy in the mix as well. Mary smiled at the statues, and she imagined this place as it would be in the spring. How it would be in mid-summer. She was due in the summer, late July sometime, she wasn't entirely sure.
Mary saw a flash, a dream. She was pulled away from the dead park, to a place full of warm sun and sweet breezes. The park was alive and green, flowers and trees in full summer colors. She heard the sound of laughter, children giggling. There was a young child, a tiny toddler, walking with her little hand securely grasped in her parent's. She had blonde curls so light her hair was nearly white, bouncy and adorned with a red ribbon. Pale cheeks, rosy red lips, and her eyes were a deep, wise blue. Like her father's. She took her first steps under the kind and proud eyes of her father, who was holding her hand as she walked down the path to the fountain.
Her dream child giggled as she walked to the tall dark haired man beckoning to her from where he crouched on his knees, holding out a soft toy as incentive. She made it, and giggled, grabbing the toy. Her daddy picked her up, giving her kisses on her plump little cheek, and she reached out for the man she had walked to, who swooped her above their heads, making her giggle some more.
Mary watched, broken hearted and in love with a dream, as her yet to be born child was hugged by John and Sherlock, loved beyond all measure of words. They walked off together, laughing, happy. A family. Safe and alive, fully realized.
Mary battled her subconscious, but she saw the truth in this daydream. The truth that no matter how much she may already love the life growing in her, she would not be around to see it flourish. She would survive to bear this little miracle, but then she must go. She was dangerous. She killed with ease, hated fiercely, acted quickly from a place of anger and pain. Too many people wanted her dead, or behind bars.
Mary made herself a promise, sitting on the bench in the winter stricken park. That no matter what happened, she would make it, live long enough to have this baby. And she would give her child to John. She knew full well that regardless of how he felt about his child's mother, he would love the baby they had made. John would cherish and adore, nurture and protect his son or daughter. She would leave, to keep them all safe. From herself, and the people who would never stop hunting her.
Mary wrapped her arms over her stomach, hugging herself. She shut her eyes tight, and dropped her face deeper into her scarf, letting the fabric absorb her tears. She let the dream go, returning to the barren reality of her prison. Mary cried, saying goodbye in her heart to this child she had yet to meet, but whom she already loved so very much.
She sat there for nearly an hour, before getting up, and walking back to Leinster Gardens, head down, hands in her pockets, untroubled by the cold winter winds. She would endure her prison willingly now, for seven more months if she must.
The afternoon light was grey and dreadful, invoking a depressive atmosphere across the city.
Sherlock strode out of the front door of Bart's, eschewing a cab in favor of walking. Baker Street wasn't far by cab, but he wanted the walk to help with thinking. He had the evidence in his pockets, and he would finish his analysis at home.
Molly hadn't returned to Bart's, presumably still dealing with her fiancé, whatever his name was. Sherlock had doubted she would return at all that day, so he had done what work he could, before leaving. John had sent him a text not long ago, something about wanting to go driving without Violet and Mary, but not elaborating. The text had made no sense whatsoever. John hadn't been in trouble, so Sherlock decided to just go home.
He flipped up his collar against the wind, the day getting colder from the cheery dawn they'd had that morning. Rain looked to be on its way, but he might have the time to get home before it started. He hunkered down in his coat, eyes sweeping the street in front of him, watching and evaluating the people he passed on the streets.
Sherlock saw them all. The widower stealing his children's inheritance, the banker in love with his married partner, the old lady with too many cats. Everyone he saw was nothing but a long list of deductions, some of them so smothered by them he had to look away. For all of his waking memory, Sherlock knew more than he ever wanted to, more than the average person could handle knowing. He saw the truths carefully hidden in the lies, the lies buried under the truth. He saw everything.
Sherlock ignored the droplets falling, eyes on the street in front of him. A chill wind was blowing, driving the fresh rain down the nape of his neck, under his collar. He felt the cold, and dismissed it, unbothered by it. It was just water and cold air, precipitation and weather. Nothing he could change, nor should he if he could.
He had gotten a lesson in what he could and could not change earlier, when Molly found her courage, and kissed him in the lab. Her kiss had been a new, foreign experience, one he had never sought before. Molly loved him, she was in love with him. And so she kissed him because she wanted the experience, a memory to have. And to his shock, he hadn't found it distasteful, or unpleasant. Once he had gotten past his confusion, Sherlock had sat on the stool for quite a while, staring at the doors, thinking. Why did he not dislike the kiss? He had no answer for that. None at all.
He knew he loved John, loved John to the exclusion of all others. But he also knew that he cared for Molly, more than he cared for anyone else who wasn't John, Mrs. Hudson or family. He had called what he felt for her love before, and he knew of no other word to name the emotion she generated in him. Sherlock was at a loss, pure and simple, and had no idea what to do about it. He didn't know what to do with what he was feeling, and the walking wasn't helping. He would usually talk out his problems with John, and have the solution come to him with its usual invigorating epiphany of brilliance.
Sherlock felt a warm rush of excitement creep out from his bones at the thought of John, his doctor's strong arms holding him tightly, firm lips kissing his, nibbling on his neck. And just as quickly, Sherlock stopped walking, so abruptly he almost tripped himself. How could he talk this out with John, when the topic was kissing Molly and how it made him feel? Sherlock didn't know much about relationships, but he figured kissing someone you weren't involved with was one of those bad things that made people fight. Would John be mad at him, what would he do? Was he supposed to tell John about the kiss? Molly had told him to, but Sherlock felt a nagging sense of fear that John would leave him if he did, abandon him in disappointment and hurt.
Sherlock stood in the falling rain, cold to the bone, oblivious to the rain falling from his curls, in his eyes.
Oh John, what did I do?
The sky darkened above him, unseen. The winds howled through the streets of London, driving the rain before it, stinging and frigid as it pummeled the detective. Sherlock bore up under the elements, eventually continuing on his way home.
John parked the R8 in the alley behind 221B Baker Street, turning off the intoxicating car Violet had given him. He didn't know what had possessed her to buy it for him. She said it was a birthday present, and it was one hell of a present. He was well aware of how much this car cost, and a very big part of him was telling him to take it back. That no matter how much money she had, her spending that much on him was too much. He had said as much to her after they left Mary at Leinster Gardens, but she had shot it down with a look that reminded him very strongly of Sherlock at his worst. So he would graciously accept it until he could get away with either keeping it guilt free, or he'd donate it or something.
Violet hopped out the car, running for Mrs. Hudson's kitchen door, wiping her feet before running inside. She was going to pack an overnight bag, something about Anthea inviting her over for dinner at Mycroft's. John had a feeling that it was a private dinner, and not with Mycroft. Anthea was sending a car with an armed guard, so John was okay with Violet leaving without him.
Their visit to Mary earlier had been different. She had welcomed them in, apologizing for her text to Violet that had prompted their arrival. Via a dealership, but still. She had eaten the takeaway Violet and he had stopped for, talking to them without a hint of bitterness or anger he had gotten so used to in the last few weeks. Mary had been acting like she used to be, before Sherlock's Return. When she had been nothing but a good woman, one he loved and liked. He hadn't known how to act at first, afraid he was seeing things. But she had seemed different.
John felt bad for her forced solitary confinement, he really did. But every time he thought about finding her a different place to hide, he was crippled by fear that it wouldn't be as secure as the place she was now, that she would be found. Found, hurt, captured, or killed.
John had a feeling that Mary was trying to come to terms with who she really was, with her options of a future. John was trying to reconcile the same thing, really. How was Mary going to raise a baby fighting off shady government agencies? How could she kept herself and a baby safe? And where would she raise a baby? John refused to let his child be raised in a place like Leinster Gardens, a concrete hole in the wall. Refused to let his child's mother be condemned to a life in the shadows.
John refused to entertain the thought of separating mother and child. To him, that was close to sacrilege. He had no delusions about modern society, and he believed that a man could raise a baby just as well as woman. But Mary was a powerful, vibrant, intelligent woman, and aside from the whole assassin thing, he would want a child of his to be like her. She would be a good mother, fierce and deadly as a momma bear, as caring as any doting Madonna archetype.
John sighed loudly, watching the rain pour down hard over the windshield. He opened the door and got out, locking the car behind him as he ran for the door, rain running over him. He just wanted to get inside, hug his detective, and sit in front of the fire.
John got in, feeling bad about the water he was dropping over Mrs. Hudson's clean floor, running through her flat to the stairs. He took them two at a time, noting they were exceptionally wet. Someone soaking wet must have taken the stairs. He walked in the flat, and stopped next to a very still Violet.
Violet and John stared at Sherlock, who was standing next to his chair, dripping wet and paler than he usually was. He was still in his coat, scarf soaked and drooping. He wasn't really 'there', having that aura about him he would get when deep in his mind palace. He was absent, unblinking, eyes fixed and blind. John shivered, a chill coming from his heart, and not his clothing.
"Hey, I'll take care of Sherlock, go get ready for your sleepover." John gently touched Violet's shoulder, snapping her out of her surprise at seeing Sherlock like that. "Anthea's car will be here soon."
"Are you sure?" Violet whispered, a worried expression on her pretty Holmes' features.
"Yeah, I've seen worse. He'll be fine." John shooed her upstairs, and she went, looking over her shoulder as she took the stairs to her room.
John waited on Violet to pack, grabbing her toiletries from the bathroom, and kissing him on the cheek when her mobile vibrated. Anthea's car was here, and Violet left, torn between wanting to stay with her uncle, and going to see her girl. He shut and locked the flat doors, so that no one could just wander in while Sherlock was like this.
John was alone at last with Sherlock, the building quiet and still. John shrugged out of his coat and winter gear, and carefully approached Sherlock. His detective would sometimes get caught up in his mind palace, so deep that he would forget the passage of time, and stay far longer than he should. John had a feeling that something had prompted Sherlock to overstay in his palace, and had lost his way back.
John very gently tugged the coat off of Sherlock, hanging it over the hook on the door. The scarf and gloves came next, John putting them away before returning to Sherlock. John undid the suit jacket and cuff links, pulling off Sherlock's damp jacket, tossing it on the desk. Sherlock had yet to react, and John was getting worried. Whatever it was that did this to Sherlock must have been serious. John had no worries that Sherlock would react badly to his ministrations. Now, if someone else were to try this, they would get a very nasty and brutal surprise. John had seen Sherlock react violently at being awoken from his palace.
A murder suspect just the week before had poked Sherlock while he was in his palace, calling up information on the velocity of certain caliber bullets in relation to objects they were passing through, all in connection to proving whether or not the suspect had killed his wife. He had, and he had also gotten a bloody nose for touching Sherlock. Everyone learned on real quick not to touch Sherlock Holmes unless you were John Watson.
John bent down, and started a fire in the hearth. Sherlock was cold, and his hair was damp. He fed the fire, and got up to get a towel from the bathroom. Sherlock was as he left him once he got back, and John gently took him by his shoulders, and maneuvered him to sit in his leather armchair. Sherlock went easily, cooperating with John. The doctor took this as a good sign, that Sherlock wasn't too deep.
John moved behind him, and started drying his love's wet hair. He figured talking would do the trick, tempt him to come back on his own.
"So, I had an interesting day. We went to see Mary, who was actually in a good mood, of sorts. She seemed sad, but happy. Weird, right? Usually we haven't a thing to say to each other, but we actually talked. Not about much, but it got me thinking. I'm going to be a father. Me. A dad. Do you know I never dared to hope for such a thing?"
"I never thought I'd find myself having a family, at all. I always thought of family as something someone else did, not me. When you were….gone…. I tried to be happy with Mary, and the idea of settling down. Considering how old I am, I never thought that hard about kids. Guess I should have, seeing as how the whole baby thing wasn't planned. But I can't be unhappy with the way things have worked out. You came back to life, brought me back with you, and I have you in my heart, my home, my bed. I have you, I'm going to be a dad, and no matter how crazy this life may be, I've never been happier."
Sherlock's shoulders relaxed, and he leaned back slightly. John smiled, and kept it up, and figured he might as well take advantage of Sherlock listening.
"Well, before we went to see Mary, your darling niece got me a birthday present. I was properly shocked when she bought me a car, an Audi R8 V10. You have any idea how much those things retail for? It's parked out in the back alley. I'm still in shock. Feel like I'm going to wake up, and it was some cosmic joke. I don't think I'll keep it, feel bad about her spending that kind of money. But damn, is it hotter than hell to drive."
Sherlock tipped his head back, and John took away the towel. He smiled down at Sherlock, his soft black curls dry and springy. John leaned down, and lightly kissed his love on his upside down lips. He stood up quickly though, as Sherlock flinched.
"Sherlock? What's wrong?" He asked, coming around to the front of Sherlock's chair.
Sherlock met his eyes, and John was floored by the look on his detective's face. John had no other word for it but afraid.
"Love? What's wrong?" John reached out a hand, and cupped Sherlock's face. "Did you learn something about the case?"
Sherlock shook his head, a tiny movement. John stroked his fine marble cheek with his thumb, and moved closer. He was standing between Sherlock's knees, against the chair.
"Tell me, please." John asked his love, worried. Sherlock never hesitated to tell him anything, unless he was worried about how John would take it. But then he usually went glacial, and blunt. This Sherlock was timid, fearful.
"Molly kissed me." Sherlock blurted out, and he pressed his lips together, as if he couldn't believe he said those words. "And I didn't not like it."
John stopped thinking. He breathed and felt, but he, John, stopped. Molly kissed Sherlock, and he didn't not like it? Did that mean he liked it? Did Sherlock kiss her back?
John didn't realize he'd asked that last question out loud until he saw Sherlock shaking his head vehemently.
"No, I didn't. She kissed me, and I didn't stop her. I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered, and he looked like a child stripped of privileges and sent to bed for not being loveable enough.
John exhaled the breath he didn't know he was holding, and grabbed his armchair, dragging it closer to Sherlock. John sat down, knees to Sherlock's, and tugged his detective's hand into his.
"Okay, tell me." John ordered, not unkindly.
"I really don't understand anything, John." Sherlock said, half plea, half whine, all misery.
"Just tell me what happened."
"I….. Offered to leave. To leave her alone." Sherlock said, his diamond eyes clinging to John's, unblinking. The fire was casting half his face in shadow, but John could see his luminous eyes clearly enough. "Since she couldn't stop loving me."
"Okay." John was surprised by that, Sherlock knowing enough, caring enough, to make that offer. A very mature, and eventually kind thing to do.
"She said no. Very firmly." Sherlock sucked in a deep breath. "She cried for a bit more, after you two left the lab. Then she kissed me."
"Okay. I'm not surprised, really. I know she's loved you for years." John told Sherlock, no anger or judgment in his voice. Poor Sherlock, he was so lost. He wasn't mad at Sherlock. He didn't know how he felt about Molly.
"She said that she wanted to do that once before she died." Sherlock gasped out, his voice making it clear he was conflicted. He paused, and seemed even more nervous now.
"I think I liked it." Sherlock was horrified, and he ducked his head, looking at their joined hands.
"Oh." John breathed, and he felt a little off balance. "She's very pretty, and you care about her. I'm not shocked that it would be a nice kiss."
"But I love you!" Sherlock said, the force of his words making John jump, before he forced himself to relax.
"I know you do. Tell me what's got you so bothered, love. Please." John begged Sherlock, gripping his hands tight. A kiss was close to breaking down Sherlock, and John was beyond worried now.
"How can I love you, and kiss you, and like her kiss, do I love her too?" Sherlock was babbling, and John took a minute to unravel the confused question. Sherlock was a tumbled mess of utter confusion, fear, and nerves. John hadn't seen him this off kilter since Baskerville. He wasn't as terrified, and he wasn't angry, but he was thoroughly messed up.
John sat and thought. He knew without any hesitation in his heart and soul that Sherlock loved him. That he need never fear that Sherlock would go astray, cheat on him, break his heart with another man or woman. That he had the most intensely human man for a lover and friend, who carried so many imperfections and skewed realizations along with him. He had so much knowledge and skill, yet he had sacrificed the larger realities of human interactions, the subtlety of the unspoken communications and implied meanings to be what he was. There was so much that Sherlock saw, but a good chunk of it was beyond his experience.
"You love me, and you kiss me." John said, holding Sherlock's eyes, not letting his love look away. "But she kissed you, and you liked it, and you're worried you're in love with her too?"
"I…. Yes." Sherlock sighed deeply, and finally relaxed all the way, slouching in his chair. John gave him a tiny smile, did his best to help Sherlock through this tricky maze. He was no expert by any means, so it was almost a case of the blind leading the blind.
"Are you in love with me, Sherlock?" John asked, keeping it simple.
"Yes, don't be silly." Sherlock said, and John grinned at that snip, glad Sherlock was coming back from the ledge.
"Okay, do this for me. Close your eyes." John ordered his detective. Sherlock gave him a funny look, but did it.
"Now I want you, Sherlock Holmes, the most analytical human in the world, to go over every single thing you know and feel about me in your head. Go through every instant of our lives together, and remember. Think about how it all makes you feel, why it makes you feel that way, what those feelings do to you. Take your time, and be thorough."
John waited, and watched. He could tell when Sherlock stopped humoring him, and actually did what he asked. His face, while usually so hard to read, was as clear and decipherable as a book open in front of him. John could almost recognize the memories, the moments in time that Sherlock recalled, just by the emotions that raced across his face.
John saw in Sherlock the first day they met, when Sherlock both awed and annoyed him. A night of racing through London's streets, and Sherlock showing John the strength of the human mind, helping him to conquer his body and that damnable limp. The shot that sealed their friendship, and the laughter that followed.
John could see when Sherlock got to the night he was kidnapped by the Tong, and nearly killed. He saw the bombings, the strain of having cases thrown at him on a timer, and the steadfast faith and support John gave him throughout those couple of days.
John was with him when he got to the night at the pool, the night that John saw that Sherlock did indeed have a heart, and that he had a claim on it. John found himself reliving that night with Sherlock, the scorching scent of the chlorine, the damp air, and Moriarty threatening to end them all. The hurt and fear, the momentary flash of doubt in Sherlock's eyes when Moriarty made John repeat after him. The joy and enormous relief when Moriarty let them go, and Sherlock tore off the vest.
John was with Sherlock when his love met The Woman. John saw the obsession, the attraction, and a small part of him had to recognize that Sherlock may have indeed loved Irene Alder, after a fashion. He felt that like a sharp jab to his heart, but it faded away, as Sherlock moved on.
John watched as Sherlock relived Baskerville, and his first confrontation with real terror. He gripped Sherlock's hands tightly, feeling that fear with him. And the first time that Sherlock admitted how he felt about John. That he didn't have friends. He had only the one, and it was John. Only John.
John wanted to weep at the frustration, the grief, and fear on Sherlock's face as his love recalled the events prior to his Fall. John saw to his determination to protect his friends, the people in his life he cared about. His determination to protect John.
John felt his own love rise up in him in response to the love and awe on Sherlock's face, as his detective confronted and embraced the sacrifice he had to make to save John. And John knew without any doubt in his heart and soul that his love really was a hero, and the truest kind, the kind that shrugged off the title, and kept going on no matter what.
He waited, and he was so very thankful and overjoyed when Sherlock got to his return. He had to forgive himself for slugging Sherlock so hard when his detective came back, but the first few days together afterwards were indelibly imprinted in John's mind, heart and body. He relived telling Sherlock he loved him for the first time all over again, and had to bite his tongue to keep from saying it now, and distracting Sherlock.
John felt the fear and frustration of dealing with Jamie Moriarty. The endless days of tears and hollow hearts, grief swallowing them whole. The pain of separation, fear that they would die. And the love and overwhelming joy of reunion.
John was helpless to his own heart. He gave in to it, and let the love and joy sweep out from every corner of his being. Sherlock. His Sherlock. Here, home, his. John waited quietly, knowing Sherlock couldn't do anything less than perfection in any task placed before him. So it was with infinite patience that John waited for Sherlock to open his eyes.
John met the heavenly eyes of his true love, and smiled at him.
"No talking. Just listen. I want you to hold onto the feeling you have right now, the one for me, and compare it, in depth, to what you feel for Molly." John told him, fearlessly. He knew without any doubt what the result would be. "Close your eyes, and tell me when you're done. Take your time."
The time Sherlock was away was shorter, the emotions not as intense. He got a tiny scowl on his face, and he sighed. He was thinking hard, and John stifled a gentle laugh at how endearingly wonderful his man was. It was a mere heartbeat of time that he was away. Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked at John.
"I'm done." Sherlock said, willing to keep following directions. John gave him that smile he never gave another living soul, and tugged Sherlock forward. Their faces were inches apart.
"Now tell me what you've just learned." John whispered. He wanted nothing more than to kiss Sherlock right now. He knew exactly what Sherlock was going to say, and he was rewarded well for his faith.
"I love Molly, but not like I love you. She's a friend, nothing more. Her kiss was nice, but only because I do care about her. I wouldn't have felt anything if she had been a complete stranger, or someone I had an aversion to." Sherlock stated, confident in his reasoning. John nodded, encouraging him to keep going. "I don't want her. I want you. I need you."
"I love you, John Watson. I am in love with you. Deeply, irreversibly, forever engraved across my psyche in love with you. John- you make me, complete me, tear me down and rebuild me. I am not Sherlock Holmes without John Watson." Sherlock was so close to him now, lips brushing his. John felt as if the fire had escaped the hearth, and was burning merrily inside of him. "When I kiss you, when I touch you, there are no human words to describe the sensations, the emotions. You are a force of nature and divine epiphany all in one."
"Show me." John begged, undone. Their breath mingled, Sherlock's curls brushing across his face, shivers of heat and lust building, cresting inside of his gut, snapping like static in the dry winter air. "Show me how you feel, Sherlock."
It was a kiss so slow and wonderful that John felt like he had left time behind, and was living in an eternal moment. Sherlock's lips were firm and gentle, moist and warm. John's eyes drifted shut, and he brought at hand to Sherlock's jaw. His detective pressed closer, his hands wrapping around the back of his doctor's neck.
John brought up his free hand, and snagged Sherlock's shirt collar. He kept their lips together, and leaned back, pulling Sherlock from his chair. Sherlock came willingly, and straddled John's hips in his red chair, resting in his lap. John put his hands on the other man's waist, his detective wrapping an arm around his shoulders, one hand behind his head.
John groaned softly as Sherlock deepened the kiss, his tongue slipping in his mouth, touching his tongue before flitting away. Sherlock's weight on him was pleasant, grounding him as his heart threatened to fly free from his chest. John kissed him back, their tongues dancing, touching, and teasing in light easy strokes. Air was unnecessary, their bodies thriving off the other, feeding the flames between them on the chair, an inferno building in the deep.
John tugged Sherlock's shirt free from his waistband, fingers gliding lovingly over smooth, pale skin, lean tight muscles. Sherlock shivered, moaning softly in John's mouth. The kiss went deeper, pressure harder, John growling deep in his chest. Sherlock lifted his face, wet lips glistening in the light from the fire, eyes as vibrant as jewels.
"John." Sherlock brushed his lips over the doctor's, pulling back just enough to keep John from capturing his mouth.
"Yes?" John gasped out, the word nothing but a wisp of air. He wanted nothing more than to keep kissing his love, his gaze fixed on those delicious lips so close to his.
"Bedroom." Sherlock said, and slipped off his lap before he could protest. Sherlock caught one of his hands, tugging him to his feet.
Sherlock walked backwards down the hall, pulling John in for a quick wet kiss before backing away again. His eyes were glowing, lips plump from their kisses, hands flirting across his torso in light strokes and caresses. Tempting him, beguiling him, Sherlock seduced him down the hall, opening the bedroom door wide with his shoulders as he pulled John over the threshold.
"I'm going to show you, John." Sherlock's voice came out from the darkness, disembodied and deep, overwhelmingly sexy.
The room was cast in shadows, and Sherlock shut the door, throwing the lock. John tried to reach for him, pull him in, but Sherlock kept just out of reach. He moved behind John, hands warm and heavy on his shoulders, and he pressed a gentle kiss to the nape of John's neck. His breath moved the short blonde strands, and goose bumps rose up all over John's body in response. Sherlock moved in the shadows, soundless as a ghost. He glided in the darkness to John's front, clever fingers racing lightly across his chest, and began unbuttoning his shirt.
John went to help, but Sherlock pulled away, and he got the hint. He dropped his arms, and let Sherlock touch him as he wanted. His fingers came back, and undid John's shirt, tugging the fabric back away from his chest and shoulders. It fell to the floor, a wisp of movement in the quiet room. John resisted the urge to close his eyes, wanting to see everything he could.
He whimpered when Sherlock's lips touched his collar bone. Little, tender kisses along his left shoulder, to the scar that graced him even now, years after the shot that ended his military career. It was faded, and slightly rough, but Sherlock kissed it, tongue tracing the lines and dips carefully. He let his head fall back, eyes shutting, and Sherlock put his hands to his waistband. Long fingers opened his fly, tugged off his belt, and with sublime grace, unzipped his trousers.
Sherlock split John's attention, his mind and body focused on his lips and tongue on his shoulder, and his fingers dipping through fabric to touch his erection as it strained to get free. Sherlock loosened his trousers, and kissed his way down John's chest. John gasped loudly, and it took everything he had not to reach out, to bury his fingers in Sherlock's hair as his love kissed his way further south, his teeth nipping lightly on his stomach. He curled his hands into fists, shaking in need as Sherlock pulled his trousers and underwear off his hips, down past his thighs.
Sherlock knelt at his feet, and John trembled, thoughts running dark and hot with lust. Sherlock helped him out of his boots, his socks, and he stepped out of his clothing, totally naked in front of his lover. His erection was hard and full, and John was panting in need as Sherlock brought his face to rest on John's hip. He rubbed his lips over the muscular thigh of his doctor, licking and nibbling his way to John's groin.
When Sherlock finally took him in his mouth, wet and tight over the head of his cock, John lifted his hands, crying out. He buried his hands in his own hair, digging in his scalp to keep his hands from reaching for his lover. Sherlock hummed in approval, and took him deeper. His mouth was wet, and so hot, liquid fire burning him as Sherlock slowly engulfed him. Took him as deep as he could go, nudging the back of his throat. Sherlock swallowed around him, and John swore and cried all at once, tears of joy and need springing to his eyes. His tongue writhed under his cock, licking in the wet paradise of his mouth as he pulled away, lips tight.
John was sobbing quietly, body jerking as Sherlock freed him inch by inch, the air cool on his cock as the moist skin was exposed. His tongue lapped at the head, following the ridges, humming happily when he tasted the sweet salty drops leaking out.
John was destroyed, happily surrendering his mind to the delicious chaos Sherlock was brewing with his mouth and hands. He sobbed, hearing his own cries echo in the bedroom, and he quaked in joy as Sherlock took him deep again. Each swallow, lick, breath of air past his cock knocked down a piece of John's soul, evaporating the man, leaving nothing but love and lust. Cool invigorating air fueled the inferno raging in his chest, the fire beast named lust roaring to be released.
Time disappeared. The universe dissolved, flying into pieces, just the two of them in this endless instant. There was nothing more wonderful and real than the man at his feet, the man he loved with every fiber of his being, who was doing impossible things to his heart and body, with wet mouth and clever hands. Again and again his detective upended the world under his feet, tipped the sun on its side, and rearranged the heavens. John found himself in love to a degree and capacity he knew was beyond mortal limits.
Sherlock showed John just how much he loved him, kneeling in front of the man he worshipped above all others, hands holding his love, giving pleasure so selflessly. Each stroke drove John to an edge, and he was crying out, Sherlock in total command of his body. John was gone. He was a rioting storm of sensation. Sherlock increased his pace, sucking harder, lips tighter, pulling him as deep as he could, and with one last swallow, Sherlock pushed John off the brink.
His orgasm ripped itself free from his chest, his full throated shout of joy and release loud in the silent room. He came, and Sherlock groaned around his cock, swallowing the think jets of cum, the liquid hot and searing, delicious. He swallowed every drop, the salty and heavy taste of John filling his senses.
John screamed, and his hands finally acted of their own accord, coming down to hold Sherlock's head tightly to his groin. He jerked, and Sherlock stilled, letting the waves roll over his love, being so careful in this highly sensitized moment. He pulled back, as John finished, sucking away traces of his orgasm as he did.
Sherlock rested his head in John's hands, his fingers cool on his hot face. John stroked his fingers over chiseled cheekbones, wet from tears he hadn't noticed Sherlock shedding.
John wavered on his feet, and Sherlock stood slowly, as he had no more strength in his legs than John did. He put an arm around John's waist, and picked him up, dropping them both on the bed, bouncing together once before subsiding.
John came back to reality slowly, resting on Sherlock's chest. His detective was still dressed, arms wrapped tightly around John's shoulders, holding him securely.
John moved his head, barely able to do even that, so tranquil he had trouble finding his muscles, much less telling them to work. He met Sherlock's eyes, bright in the shadows. They stared at each other, blinking slowly, eyes heavy and both of them radiating contentment.
"I….. " John gasped out, doing his best to stay awake. "Wow."
Sherlock laughed, his deep voice rumbling under John's ear. He hugged his doctor tighter, pressing a kiss to his forehead.
"I love you." Sherlock whispered, and John felt those words as if hearing them for the first time. "I am nothing, nothing but my love for you."
"Sherlock…." John sought his love's lips, kissing him. He tasted traces of himself on Sherlock's lips, and was pleasantly surprised to feel a lick of heat flash in his core. Only this man. He was addicting. "I love you, forever. I will always love you."
Sherlock left John sleeping in their bed, his doctor buried under the covers. They'd dozed for a while, before John fell so deeply asleep he didn't stir when Sherlock maneuvered him under the blankets. He gazed down at the man he loved, a smug smile on his lips.
He left the room, closing the door so it was only open a few inches. John had a habit of waking up if he couldn't hear Sherlock through the door if he wasn't in bed with him. As if he feared Sherlock would disappear if he lost track of him. Sherlock sympathized. John had been taken from him before, and that terror he felt when Moriarty took John would never really leave him.
He went to the kitchen, and frowned at the remains of the table. He hadn't really been thinking things through when he tried out the 'smokeless' fire compound he was attempting to perfect. It was a liquid that burned without visible smoke, and he had decided to see how long it would take to burn through the solid wood of the table. He was glad he hadn't used too much, since it most likely would have burnt through the floor to the café below, and in to Mrs. Hudson's flat. That wouldn't have been an easy thing to get away with.
Sherlock went to the front room, and pushed every item on the desk against the wall, uncaring that he spilled documents and objects to the floor. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, and caught the faint breathy snores of his doctor. John hadn't woken up yet.
Sherlock went for is equipment, lifting the heavy microscope easily, managing to avoid tripping over the cord as it snaked around his feet. He set up his equipment on the desk, everything he needed to analyze the slides he'd managed to get from the traces of the film on Donovan's glove. The substance had been difficult, and he'd noticed signs of accelerated cellular degeneration at the pathology labs before his concentration went to hell. It was an organic compound of some kind, and it had a nagging sense of familiarity to it.
Sherlock dug out the samples from his still wet coat, and began prepping slides. It was dark out now, the days short and the light dull. He added wood to the fire, and turned on everything, rearranging the lamps in the room to give him better light.
He went to work, the tasks and tests so habitual he moved on muscle memory. He'd stop, take some notes, and go back to peering through the scope. Every slide he saw, every test, drove him closer to a conclusion he didn't want to acknowledge. He recognized parts of the compound, the synthetic portions that resisted breaking down. The organic elements were nearly past the point of recognition. If it had been anyone else, they may not have known what they were seeing. A lesser man would have thought the samples and slides contaminated. Sherlock saw the whole of it, and he sucked in a deep breath. He knew this substance well.
The killer at the nursery hadn't been murdered. He had been killed by the substance, yes. But it wasn't murder in the strictest sense. What Sherlock was seeing was a drug, one that broke down quickly when exposed to warm temperatures. If maintained at freezing or just below, it was stable and easily stored for long periods of time. But the second it was consumed, or left for longer than a couple of hours at room temperature, it broke down to its separate elements. If administered orally, injected, or placed on skin to be absorbed, it acted fast. Incredibly fast. With unpredictable and sometimes violent results, and could kill you if the dosage wasn't perfectly tailored to the person taking it. But if you got the right dosage, the effects were euphoric, addictive, and intensely psychedelic.
The drug was one that Sherlock had seen years before, while working on a drug ring case for Lestrade. It was once called Winter's Night. It was an amalgamation of an organic hallucinogen derived from a type of morning glory flower, Turbina corymbosa or Rivea corymbosa, 'The Christmas Vine', and a combination of cocaine and LSD. It was incredibly difficult to make and preserve, and the going price of it had been exorbitant. Due to the highly addictive nature of the drug, and the fact it had to be stored cold, it had been sold during the winter months, at clubs and private parties.
It had been a scourge in London during the Christmas season years ago, and Sherlock had known that if someone out there had learned to stabilize it, perfect it for mass production, it would have exploded across the nation. An unstoppable nightmare. One he knew personally.
He had worked the case for Lestrade, years before he met John. And in the process of doing so, had taken Winter's Night. It had become an obsession, and he knew it was against all odds that he hadn't destroyed himself working that case. He had the experience to tailor the drug to his individual metabolism, and it had worked to perfection. And he had been consumed by it.
Sherlock had studied it, experimented with the drug. And he had found the way to stabilize it. He had been so tempted, in his addiction, to produce it for himself. And he had nearly succumbed.
Sherlock felt sick, his stomach rolling. He pushed away from the desk, staggered to the hearth. He rested his hands on the mantle, and stared into the flames. He closed his eyes, and tried to settle his racing heart. He had escaped the drug's hold. Mycroft had roped him in after the crime boss who was manufacturing the drug was found dead in the river. The case had been closed, the drug flow had stopped, and Sherlock imploded. Mycroft had dragged him home, kicking and screaming, and forced sobriety on him. It had taken weeks, but he had come out from under it.
He had emerged scarred, stricken, and vulnerable. He had used other drugs on and off in the years since, but never Winter's Night. He had never thought to be confronted by that most dangerous and delightful poison again.
Someone out there in London was attempting to perfect Winter's Night. Was trying to make it stable enough for mass production. The nursery must have been where they were growing the flowers for the drug. And something had gone wrong.
Sherlock pushed off from the mantle, and went to the window. His violin was in its case below the sill, and he bent over, pulling it free. He put it to his chin, grabbed the bow, and closed his eyes. The music came, and he let it flow, trying to settle his mind and body.
The jet landed at Heathrow, taxiing in at a private hangar. The night was young, the air cold and wet. Rain storms had buffeted the small jet as it entered British airspace, making the last few minutes of flight interesting.
Silas Williamson exited the aircraft, glad to be free from the small space, his men filing out behind him. His cars were waiting, all bearing the diplomatic flags of the United States. The State Department had a vehicle waiting as well, and the rear door opened, a thin, young man getting out. His contact in London for the duration of his stay.
Williamson went straight to his contact, one brow raised. He had no time for pleasantries. He had a rogue agent to hunt.
"Sir." The young man stammered, eyes incapable of meeting his for longer than a second. "Your residence has been set up according to your specifications. Diplomatic credentials are assigned to you and your team."
"Good. And what of the Iceman?" Williamson demanded.
"Mr. Holmes is expecting you at your earliest convenience, sir." He gulped, and handed over a slim package. "Which I think means now."
"He hasn't changed, I see. Good, that means we should have little trouble." Williamson put the package under his arm, and walked away. He signaled to his men, and they allotted themselves in the vehicles, two with him, the others to their residence to begin the search.
He would greet his counterpart at MI6, see how much Holmes was hiding, and then work around him. If he was willing to cooperate, then this mission shouldn't last longer than a week. If Mycroft Holmes decided to give him trouble, it still shouldn't take longer than a week, but Britain would be short one spymaster.
Violet sat on Anthea's bed, eating the British equivalent of a hamburger, remote in the other hand, scrolling through channels on the TV.
"Violet, you're getting crumbs on the duvet." Anthea murmured absently, holding two earrings up, comparing them in the mirror over her vanity. She had to leave soon, something or other about an important guest stopping by to see Mycroft. Violet hadn't been interested, automatically bored. If she wanted to know, all she had to do was hack MI6 later, get all the deets.
"Sorry." She mumbled around a mouth full of burger, standing up and getting crumbs on the carpet instead. "And who names things here anyway? Who thought up 'duvet'?"
"I believe that was the French, dear. I'm sorry about this, we weren't told our guest was arriving until after I invited you over." Anthea chose the pearls, a good choice, and picked up her heels.
"No problem. I'll just hide up here." Violet found a good show, something or other about clones living separate lives. Sexy chick played all the roles.
"You do that." Anthea laughed softly, kissing Violet on the cheek. "I don't believe our guest would appreciate family hour at the Holmes' household."
"I have that effect on most people." Violet said, giggling.
"I believe that effect to be genetic, dear. I'll be back." Anthea waved at her, leaving her room, closing the door behind her.
Violet jumped back up on the bed, bouncing, and she turned up the TV. John usually watched crap TV, and Sherlock never watched. He would catch the news on occasion, and if a trash show was on in the morning while John was up and about, he would spend hours correcting people's grammar. She never got a chance with the remote anyways, so she was going to enjoy herself. Mycroft had all the premium channels, too.
She cheered when crazy blonde clone smacked the smart ass brunette clone, completely forgetting she should probably be quiet.
Mycroft looked up as Anthea came in his public office, dressed differently than she had been earlier. He raised a brow, seeing the signs, and huffed quietly in annoyance. Violet must be here then.
"I trust she knows better than to interrupt?" Mycroft said, ignoring the glare Anthea tossed his way.
"Does Greg know the same?" Anthea quipped, and he found himself grinning. Rarely did she show her claws, but she had them for certain. She smiled back at him, checking her mobile.
"The Vicar is three minutes out, sir. Anything you want from me?" Anthea asked, standing at his side in front of his desk.
"Watch him. The usual." Mycroft murmured. "Watch his people."
"Of course." Anthea left, heading for the front of the house. She would greet their guests, and bring them to Mycroft.
He would greet them here in his public office, not the one adjacent to the bunker under the house. He felt it best not to broadcast where he really did business.
Anthea waited patiently in the foyer beside the stairs, accustomed to greeting high priority guests. Though never one with such an interesting profile. Silas Williamson was the top rated trainer, field section chief, and now Director for Special Operations for the CIA, and he had a perfect field record. Not to mention he was supposed to be a heartless bastard.
Anthea wasn't intimidated at all. She had been working for Mycroft Holmes the last five years.
She heard the cars pull up at the curb, and straightened her jacket. The guards stationed outside the doors opened them wide, admitting Williamson and two escorts. She quickly evaluated the escorts, dismissing them as the standard CIA field officers. Deadly, but no more than she. Easily handled.
Williamson looked exactly like his pictures, and she saw him evaluating her as she did the same to him. He was carrying a slim folder case under his arm, and there was a spattering of rain drops in his dark brown hair. It was streaked with grey at his temples, and he had a few lines near his eyes, but he was in his prime, and moved like it. He was handsome, in that typical American fashion, but no more than average. Enough to charm, but not enough to be remembered unless he chose. Middle age was running away from Silas Williamson.
She saw him make his initial judgment of her, meet her eyes, and then rethink his assessment. She nodded, unperturbed that he saw past her usual secretary façade. He saw the former field agent, and his eyes tracked to her waistline, where her gun was hidden under her jacket.
"Welcome to London, Director Williamson. You may call me Anthea. If you would follow me please, Mr. Holmes is looking forward to seeing you." Anthea greeted the CIA officer, smiling pleasantly.
"Thank you, Anthea. What a lovely name." Williamson shook her hand, a bland but polite smile on his face. "Do lead on, I prefer not to drag this out."
Anthea smiled, eyes shuttered, and she waved graciously down the hall. He followed her, his two men a few steps behind. She knew they were armed, by the way they were not touching their left arms closer to their torsos. Shoulder holsters.
She cast her eyes over Williamson, and saw no sign of a weapon. That meant nothing, really. He most likely had a knife on him somewhere, or a small caliber gun in an ankle holster. Not to mention he would be exceedingly proficient in hand to hand combat. He had been a trainer at the Farm for a decade.
Anthea knocked on the door of Mycroft's public office, before opening the door and waving the men in before her. She had enough to form a profile on Williamson once their guests left. It was the spymaster's turn, now.
She took up her station as she shut the door, in the rear of the room. Mycroft would be able to see her, and she him, their guests between them. Williamson's men stayed at his back as he greeted Mycroft, slightly off to the side. Anthea watched them all, acting for the entire world like an aide and not a highly trained MI6 operative ferociously loyal to her own director.
She didn't just answer the phones, or get him coffee. It was her job to protect him, no matter the threat. And she would, even if it cost her life.
"Have a seat, Silas." Mycroft welcomed Director Williamson in, waved him to a chair. "Can Anthea get you anything?"
"Scotch, no ice. Thank you." Williamson sat, folder on one knee. "Let's get to business. I want my rogue officer. I will get her."
Mycroft leaned back in his chair, a reserved look on his face. He ran his eyes over the CIA director, and saw from the relaxed slope of his shoulders, the way he held his jaw, and the steely glint in his eyes that Williamson was deadly serious, and only here as a courtesy call.
"And I have been ordered to assist. We have not found her. There has been no sighting of Mary Morstan since the night Blackwood Manor exploded."
"I have little faith in your 'assistance', Mycroft. From all accounts, your brother and his lover were the last people to see her. Seems the easy solution was to not let her go." Silas snapped, a thread of anger evident in his voice. He didn't react to Anthea placing his drink in front of him on the desk.
Mycroft took the scotch Anthea offered him, scenting it before taking a sip. He swirled it, and held the glass, ignoring Silas' outburst. No one raised their voice to him, not in his own house.
"Mary Morstan was instrumental in stopping Jaime Moriarty, and saving hundreds of lives that night. She risked her life to stop a madwoman." Mycroft murmured slowly, ignoring Silas as the other man tightened his jaw. "And detaining her was not a priority at the time. Nor was it my brother's job to arrest her."
"And it was your brother who theorized she blew up CAM Tower, and killed Magnussen. She is an active threat, and a liability to both our governments. Let's cut the bullshit, Mycroft Holmes. Your brother, his lover- who happens to be her former fiancé- let Morstan go, and I believe they know where she is. They will tell me."
"Will they now?" Mycroft kept his cool, and let nothing slip past the mask. He had suspected for weeks now that both Sherlock and John knew where Morstan was. What Mycroft didn't know was why they were hiding her, and even more so, why she hadn't fled the country. It would have been the smart move, and Mary Morstan was a smart woman. Quick tempered, but intelligent. She shouldn't still be here. Something was keeping her here, in London.
Mycroft had a tail on Sherlock and John, had for years. And while they had routinely evaded his surveillance teams in the past, Dr. Watson was doing it with steady frequency, twice a week for the last several weeks. As if he was visiting someone. Violet would disappear with him, and Mycroft had yet to figure out where they were going.
"Yes they will. I was guaranteed your cooperation, and I'll have it. They can talk to me, tell me where she is, or I will go through all of you to get her. I will not hesitate to destroy every one of you."
Williamson stood abruptly, and opened the folder case. Mycroft watched, ice filling his veins, as the CIA officer pulled out a stack of photos.
"Your brother, Sherlock. Drug addict, part time spy, and now a sexual deviant. Regularly breaks the law to solve cases. Sociopath, and loose cannon." He tossed a large glossy photo down on the desk, and Mycroft caught it as it slid across the surface to him. It showed Sherlock, taken at a distance, picking the lock on a door of a warehouse or business, John at his back, gun out.
"Doctor John Watson, formerly of the British Army, Captain. Now he's a pervert too. Almost tipped the scales on alcoholism a few years back when your brother faked his death. Adrenaline junkie. Decent enough doctor, but has a violent streak, and isn't afraid to kill to protect his partner. He's done so a few times already. I'd call him a psychopath."
Another photo was tossed his way, one of John walking outside of his flat, Violet on his arm.
"And may I offer congratulations on the recent discovery of your niece? Your dead brother's daughter, I believe. Wasn't he that serial killer flaying women alive in the English countryside several years ago? And she's a real peach, that one. Breaks the law as soon as she wakes up in the morning. Hacker, been active for over fifteen years. Nothing sticks, but we know who she is, and what she can do."
"Excellent photography. My compliments to whoever took these. What is your point?" Mycroft carefully put his glass down, knowing full well that Williamson was attempting to intimidate him. He'd heard worse, from his own people no less.
"My point is simple. No blackmail, no threats of revealing anything, no extortion. I know who you care about, I know their habits, their schedules, and their weaknesses. I can get to them at any time. And I will remove them all from this world if I don't get what want." Williamson picked up his glass, drank down the scotch, and slammed the crystal down on the desk. "I don't care what country I'm in, you cannot stop me."
"And I will start with him." He tossed one last picture, and Mycroft felt his mask slip. It was a picture of Greg, in a wheelchair being rolled out of the hospital to his Jaguar. The air in his lungs seared him, ice cold and necrotic, and his heart thumped loudly in his ears.
"You touch any of them, I will kill you." Mycroft whispered his eyes locked on Williamson's. "I have killed for worse than you."
"I'm not your psychopath big brother. Your masters have tied your hands, Mycroft Holmes. And I've got your balls." Williamson left the photos on the desk, tossing the case on top of them. He nodded his head, a pleasant smile back on his face.
"Full cooperation, Mycroft. Everything you have. I will be visiting your brother soon, and he had better answer my questions. I'll see myself out." He turned away, not bothering to hear Mycroft's reply.
Anthea opened the door, and she escorted the Americans from the room. Mycroft breathed out, struggling to maintain his equilibrium. That arrogant bastard had threatened Gregory, his family. He would never do so again.
He would assist in the search for Mary Morstan, as ordered, but no more. And he would attempt to keep Sherlock in line, no matter how futile such an endeavor was. Williamson had made a fatal mistake. By threatening his people, threatening the man he loved, Silas Williamson just lost the best asset he had on British soil in his hunt for Mary Morstan.
And if Williamson made one aggressive move towards any of Mycroft's family, he was well prepared to start a war to protect them.
…