Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
WARNING: SEXY Scenes with Mycroft(!) and Violence.
Read, enjoy, review!
Chapter Forty One
"Falling Under Its Sway"
Mycroft picked up the crystal glass, and threw it at the wall, shards exploding out across the room on impact. He ran a hand shaking from anger through his hair, and swore loudly, glad he was alone. A rain of crystal shards littered the floor, winking like diamonds in the lights.
Cool, calm, stay calm. No matter how much I want order a missile strike on his flat, I must be calm. Peace, I need peace…I cannot protect him …protect them if I blind myself with rage.
The insult and threat Silas Williamson had offered in Mycroft's home was bitter in the air, leaving a metallic taste in his mouth as he pulled in a lungful, exhaling as much of his anger as he could.
His temper, though rarely unleashed, frightened even him in its intensity. All of the Holmes brothers had tempers. All three of them, from the brutal Sherrinford, to the icy Mycroft, down to the mercurial Sherlock. All of them cursed by temper to match their intellect. Disregard and impatience for those who couldn't keep up, for those who called them freaks or monsters, the idiots of the world who thought themselves so smart. Each of them had to learn to master their tempers in order to thrive.
All but Sherrin, who had fed the dark wolf in his heart, fed it anger and rage and blood lust.
It was the thought of Sherrin that snapped Mycroft out of his blind rage, though it roiled inside of him. Mycroft would not be anything like his brother. He breathed deep, and returned to his desk, and sat in his chair, relaxing as best he could. Anthea was returning; he had never let her see him like this before, he dare not let her see now.
"Sir?" Anthea called softly from the doorway, one hand holding the door open. Her eyes were worried, their brilliant green clouded. She had lost the impassive mask, and he saw the concern. She had seen the shards on the floor, though she made no comment.
"Yes, dear?" Mycroft stood, picking up the picture of Gregory that Williamson had used to illustrate his threat. He ran a finger over the handsome face of the Detective Inspector. Rage pooled in his gut, and his heart beat loudly in his ears. No one was going to hurt Gregory Lestrade. No matter whom they answered to, or what flag they saluted.
"Are you alright?"
"I will be. I was not expecting that. I should have been, considering who they sent."
Mycroft picked up the rest of the photos, lingering over the one with his brother. Sherlock was the wild card; Mycroft knew that Sherlock was hiding Mary Morstan. The only way she could hide so successfully in London would be if she had Sherlock Holmes helping her. Sherlock would not hide her unless it was important, especially after the events that transpired with Jaime Moriarty. If Williamson didn't get his rogue agent, things were about to get inconvenient.
"You can handle him. You can handle anything, Mycroft." She stated plainly.
He looked up, touched in spite of himself by the faith she had in him. The faith she'd always had in him, even when he'd done nothing to deserve it. He found his rage calming, his muscles relaxing. He needed to think, to plan. He had to protect his heart, and his family. And he couldn't do that with anger eroding his abilities.
"Thank you." Mycroft told her, walking to her side where she stood at the door. He rarely, if ever, said those words to anyone. But he would say them to Anthea.
She took the pictures from him, and to his surprise, lifted up on her toes. She kissed him, on the cheek, one hand braced on his shoulder. Her lips were soft, and he breathed in her perfume. She always wore the same scent, lilacs and some sort of fruit. She pulled back, and gave him that tiny smile, the one that said the world was foolish, but she loved it anyway. That she loved him.
"Tell me what you need." Anthea said. Mycroft held her gaze, not letting on how much she steadied him. He depended on her for so much. He pondered her words, thoughts and plans racing through his mind.
"Sherlock is hiding her. I know it. Violet and John go see her at least twice a week. He is hiding her for a reason. A reason important enough that it keeps a well-trained assassin from fleeing a hostile country. Sherlock hides it from me because he knows I'm hunting for her. But I am not Williamson. I would have been content to let it go on indefinitely. Moriarty was the active threat, and she is dead. Morstan was merely a side note, but I cannot pretend anymore to be looking for her without actually doing anything. The Vicar will hunt for her until she's his, and Sherlock and John will be caught in the crossfire."
"Send him everything we have. Do not send him the surveillance reports on Sherlock and John. He already has Morstan's scent through them, let's not make it easier. Send him the rest of it, though. We shall assist as ordered, but run every request he makes through me, allow nothing out until I approve it."
"I need to see Sherlock before Williamson gets to him. Send a car and guards, he will come." Mycroft told her, his mind spinning out countermeasures, but he got distracted by her expression.
"Of course." Anthea said, her eyes intense. Mycroft saw a glimmer of something in their verdant depths. As if she wanted to say something, but then changed her mind. Her eyes were such a deep green that he could almost swear they weren't real, but emeralds instead. She looked happy, and sad, as if he had done something to make her both at once. She opened her mouth to speak, sucking in a small breath, and she held it for a beat.
"What?" Mycroft asked, wondering what she could possibly want to say to him. Part of him was afraid to know. Afraid she would bare her heart and make him choose. Part of him wanted her too, if only to get it over with. There were only a handful of people in this world he loved past the point of redemption, and she was one of them. If the time ever came that the choice had to be made, he feared losing any one of them as a result.
"Nothing important. I'll take care of everything. Go see him, sir. Go see him, find a calmer place to start from. You always do better when you aren't mad." Anthea smiled one last time, and walked off down the hall, heading for the bunker. He knew whom she was referring to. She always saw what he needed before he did. "I'll send for your brother and Dr. Watson."
He sighed, and closed the door to his public office. This night was not going well. Mycroft hesitated, but only for a moment. Thinking of Greg made the anger evaporate, and the cool, rational place he operated best from settled over his mind. He turned, and went to Greg's room. To the man he loved, and who loved him back. If he could protect this new found love, he could do anything.
Molly slammed the bathroom door shut, and threw the lock. She jumped back as the door shook under Tom's fist, and she flinched at the obscenities he shouted through the door.
"You slut! I knew it! I'm gonna kill him for real!" Tom yelled, and she cried out as he kicked the door. It held, and she sat on the toilet, staring at it, praying it would continue to hold.
"Tom, stop it! What's gotten into you! Just leave!" Molly screamed back at him, and she did her best not to sound scared. Her face stung where his fist had struck her, and she couldn't stop crying. "He didn't do anything! I kissed him, that's it!"
"Whore! I'm going to teach you who you belong to, slut!" Tom shouted at her through the door, and he kicked again, over and over. The door held, and she was never more thankful to be in a newer flat with heavy doors and high rent in her life. "I'm going to kill that freak bastard!"
Molly sobbed into her hands as she heard Tom storm out of the bedroom, charging to the front of the flat. She heard him slam the closet door, presumably grabbing his coat, and the front door followed suit. She sat on the toilet, crying, afraid to see if he was gone, afraid he might be trying to trick her.
Molly had come home earlier, to find Tom out. She had waited hours for him to get home, her engagement ring on the table in front of her, her coat and a small bag next to it. She would leave once she told him everything. She didn't love him enough to marry him. She couldn't marry him, not when her heart belonged to someone else, even if that someone else would never love her back. She had to free herself, learn to be happy on her own, learn to love herself. She had to learn how to love herself, and find happiness on her own, before she could ever find it with someone else.
He had come home a few minutes ago, and she had gotten a sick feeling in her stomach at the sight of him. There had been something off about Tom, something that made her shift nervously on her feet. His eyes were bloodshot, his face flushed, his lips a bluish cast to them, and his hands trembled as he put away his coat.
Tom stood there, staring at her, unblinking, as she explained to him what had happened at the lab that morning. She had been worried that he was getting ill, and that he hadn't heard her. She kept going, refusing to let fear keep her from doing the right thing, all the way up to the kiss.
It was when she confessed to kissing Sherlock that he reacted, his fist flying out from his side, cracking her hard across the face. She had fallen back into the bedroom door, and she was thankful that he hadn't been very stable. If Tom hadn't tripped over his own feet, he would have caught her before she got in the bathroom. Molly almost vomited, thinking about what could have happened if he had gotten his hands on her.
Molly got up from the toilet, and carefully went to the door. She listened, and when she heard nothing, risked opening the door. The flat was quiet, no movement. She opened it all the way, and stepped out to the bedroom, eyes towards the front of the flat. Nothing, he was gone.
Molly sprinted for her coat, and dug for her mobile. She dialed Sherlock, mobile to her ear, and she ran for the front door, hearing it ring out. She locked the flat door, and put the chain up.
Please answer, please answer… I'm so sorry Sherlock, please answer…..
Sherlock answered on the fourth ring, and she dropped to the floor, never so thankful to hear his voice.
"Molly?"
"Sherlock, Tom's coming for you. I'm so sorry, I told him I couldn't marry him, and he's coming for you!" She sobbed out, biting her knuckle hard, pain pushing her past the tears. "I'm sorry."
"When did he leave?" His voice was calm, even, and she clung to the sound of it.
"Less than five minutes ago. Sherlock, I think he's high. He was really off when he got home." Molly stammered, trying to calm herself. "He just went insane…"
She heard the sound of Sherlock moving around wherever he was. She thought she heard John in the background, wondering what was going on. Hearing John's voice made Molly cringe, guilt swamping her.
"He hurt you, didn't he?" Sherlock said, voice low, deep, and so dark it sent shivers down her spine.
"That's not important! Sherlock, I'm sorry." Molly sobbed quietly, unable to think past her shock, guilt and pain. Shame clouded her heart. She did this.
"Molly, I will handle him. Lock the doors, and call Donovan." Sherlock ordered her, his voice snapping her out of her tears. "Call Donovan NOW."
The line went dead. Molly bit her lips, and tasted blood. The sharp taste woke her up, and she dialed Sally. Sherlock sounded mad enough to commit murder.
"She say what he was high on?" John asked him as he got dressed. He tucked his shirt in his waistband, and then sat on the bed, tugging his boots back on.
Sherlock had woken him up as he was on the phone with Molly, turning on the bedroom lights and tugging off the covers.
Sherlock grabbed John's gun from the nightstand, handing it over to his doctor without asking.
"No, all she said was he went insane." Sherlock replied, his ears straining, listening to the lower level. Mrs. Hudson was out Christmas shopping, and would be for a while. Woman loved to shop. "John, he hurt Molly."
John stopped tying his boot laces, and met Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock gave his love a feral grin, seeing a growing anger in the doctor's eyes to rival the fury in his heart. The doppelgänger was going to regret every breath he'd ever taken.
They exited the bedroom, heading for the front. John took up station at one of the windows, angled behind a curtain so he wouldn't be seen. Sherlock went to his coat, palming his knife, and slunk down the stairs, turning off the hall lights as he did. He moved down, in the darkness of the foyer, and went to the front doors. He unlocked the front door, and moved back, in the shadows on the other side of the unlit fireplace. He waited.
He heard John on the phone above him, calling the police. They would arrive too late to stop him. Tom should be here any moment, and Sherlock would show him the great error he had made in touching Molly in anger. No one, NO ONE, would ever hurt her again.
He didn't have long to wait, as he heard a cab stop outside on the curb. A car door slammed, and the cab pulled away fast, tires squealing. He breathed low and slow, keeping his heart rate calm. His rage was threatening to erode his better judgment. He wanted blood.
"Sherlock, he's here." John whispered down to him. He stayed upstairs, but Sherlock could tell that he was on the upper section of stairs, halfway between the landing and the flat. "And I think she's right, he's not acting normally."
A man in a long dark coat slammed through the front door, crashed through the inner one, and rocketed past Sherlock. Doppelgänger Tom landed against the stair railing, clutching the wooden post.
"Where are you?! You ruinous bastard!" Tom shouted up the stairs. "How long have you been fucking that slut?!"
John walked down the stairs, gun up, and stopped above the intruder on the landing. He aimed for Tom's head, finger on the trigger.
"Shut the fuck up, sit down, and I won't kill you." John said, anger lacing every word. His eyes were no longer blue, but a deep slate grey, the color of storm clouds. "Take another step, and I will end you."
Tom was panting, breathing so hard spit was falling from his lips. His fingers dug like claws into the wood railing, and he was moving like he was on a ship, and not dry land. He made a sound, a wordless growl and shriek all in one, and raised a foot to climb the stairs.
Sherlock leapt from the shadows, the knife in his hand, hilt flipped forwards. He barreled in to the madman, throwing his full weight behind the blow to the back of Tom's head. No one was more shocked than Sherlock when Tom didn't go down. He turned, inhumanly fast, and grabbed Sherlock by his shoulders, throwing him back. He launched himself at Sherlock, arms up. He flew into a rage, blows raining on the detective's head, fingers scratching, teeth bared.
Sherlock dodged what he could, keeping the edge side of the knife out of play as much as possible. Tom caught him in the side, and Sherlock felt a deep twinge of pain from his ribs, still recovering after being broken over a month ago. Sherlock stopped being careful, and fell into berserker mode.
Sherlock roared out his own rage, swinging his arm wide, blade free and flashing in the dark. He caught the madman across the chest, laying him open in a gash several inches long. Tom didn't even blink, and kept coming at Sherlock, face a rictus of madness. Sherlock saw the bloodshot eyes, the blue tint to his lips, and the deep shadows under his eyes. Every blow Sherlock gave Tom merely incited him further. Insanity had come 221B, and Winter's Night had followed.
Sherlock heard John shouting at him to get out of the way, but he pushed the doctor's voice aside, blocking with one arm and slashing with the other. He was fighting someone who was less a man and more rabid animal, and he changed his style accordingly. Strike fast, dodge, strike again. Tom was shrieking, having lost the ability to form words, a savage howling reverberating throughout the flats.
Sherlock slashed at his joints, his wrists, elbows, and the top of his shoulders, and with each slice, he slowed the drugged madman. Sherlock reveled in every cut, a feral snarl warping his lips in brutal glee, and he fought the madness that invaded his home.
Blood was falling in steady streams, and Sherlock reigned in his rage, knowing he shouldn't kill Tom, no matter how much he may feel the urge. He was having trouble seeing past the knowledge this man had hurt Molly. He had yet to give a fatal blow, even though he wanted to land it with every breath he took.
Sherlock saw John coming up behind Tom, gun up, aimed for his head. John was going to kill Tom if he didn't end this now. Sherlock shoved Tom away, and followed him across the foyer, catching him with an undercut with the knife hilt fisted, throwing his head back. He kept moving, and threw a left, smashing his fist to the man's temple.
Tom fell to his knees, blood dripping from his nose and mouth. He was bleeding copiously from numerous cuts and gashes, air gurgling through a broken nose. He tried to stand, determined to keep coming for Sherlock, even in his beaten state. The detective raised his arm, preparing to strike again, but John beat him to it. The army doctor pistol whipped the crazed man across the skull, and he fell over backwards, finally out.
"Christ." John gasped out, and he bent over cautiously, feeling at Tom's neck for a pulse. John exhaled, and gave Sherlock a look that was half awe, and half exasperation. "Bastard's alive."
John pulled out his mobile, and Sherlock leaned against the dead fireplace, smearing blood over the white paint. He caught his reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall, and he grinned at the streaks of blood across his face. The air in the foyer smelled of blood and sweat, and there was the hint of flowers on the edges of his awareness. John was calling for an ambulance or the police or someone, but Sherlock didn't care. The bastard had hurt Molly, would have hurt John, and had tried to tear him to pieces.
"I got Donovan, she's on her way. She has Molly, too." John said, pocketing his mobile. "Doesn't look like you hit anything too serious, I say we leave the bastard for the medics to mop up."
"Excellent idea, John." Sherlock said, unable to stop grinning. Something was wrong with him, but it felt so fucking good…..
He began to laugh, and John looked up at him, surprised. The doctor's eyes raced over him, head to toe. Sherlock felt like the dead hearth suddenly sprang to life, and he saw red sparks out of the corners of his eyes. John had a glow cast over him, and Sherlock rode the adrenaline high from the fight. Adrenaline, and something so very intoxicating and familiar.
A strange haze settled over him, and small part of him recognized the sensation. He looked down at his wrist, the hand that held the knife, and saw a tiny slick of shiny liquid on his skin. Tom was high on Winter's Night, and gotten some of it on him during the fight. No wonder he had gone insane…
He struggled, and shook his head, wondering what he was worried about. John was looking at him, all wonderful and here and his… Red, living fire wreathed John, vibrant in the dimly lit foyer. The hallucination hit Sherlock hard, a punch to the gut.
He's mine! John Watson is MINE.
Sherlock growled past his laughter, and faster than thought, stabbed the knife point down in the mantle, and he grabbed John's shoulder with his other hand. He yanked his man to him, crushing his doctor's lips under his, tongue pushing deep in John's mouth, hands like steel bands around his hips.
John gasped, as Sherlock ravaged his mouth, growling deep in his chest. He pushed, daring John to respond in kind, challenging his own passion to ignite. John exploded in his arms, wrapping his around Sherlock's torso, tight and hard, plastering his body to his detective. They kissed each other as if they were fighting, mouths battling for dominance, tongues sparring.
This tiny taste of Winter's Night would not last long, and it seduced Sherlock as his body burned in this flash fire between him and his lover.
Sherlock spun John, pushing him hard to the wall, arms caging him. He ground his hips against John, who moaned at the friction, arms wrapping around Sherlock's neck. Wet hot kisses, teeth biting at each other's lips, deep groans buried under gasping breaths for air. John jumped in his arms, legs going around Sherlock's hips, hands buried in dark wild curls. Sherlock pushed them both hard to the wall, John returning each savage advance with matching fervor.
They most likely would have kept going if not for the high pitched scream from Mrs. Hudson, who was standing in the doorway, hands to her face. There were shopping bags dropped to the floor around her feet, wrapped presents strewn every which way.
She screamed at the bloody man at the base of the stairs, and screamed again when they broke apart, John dropping to the floor, startling her. Sherlock fell back against the wall, John panting next to him. John had stopped burning to his eyes, and Sherlock shook his head, the lethargy caused by that brief taste of Winter's Night seeping in his bones, his mind.
"Twice in two days?" Mrs. Hudson cried out, exasperated. "I'm raising your rent, boys!"
Violet heard a door close, and crept out of Anthea's room, heading for the stairs. She was barefoot, and the cold marble floors felt great on her toes. Her short tank and even shorter shorts provided no protection from the cold winter air absorbed by the stone floors, but she didn't mind one bit. She had been in bed, waiting for her uncle to stop holding up her date night, but gave up pretending she had any patience after twenty minutes.
She ran light-footed to the end of the hall, and looked down the stairs. She caught a glimpse of Mycroft's tall shadow heading for Greg's room, and she grinned. Mr. Not Involved was neck deep in love with Lestrade, and weirdly enough, Lestrade loved him back. But who was she to judge love? She shared more than just blood with her uncles; love was love.
Violet peered over the railing, but saw no sign of Anthea. She frowned, and decided she might as well go exploring. Her girl was probably in the bunker.
Violet knew the layout of Mycroft's house better than he did. She knew exactly where the 'secret' bunker was, and just how to get in. She usually hacked her uncle from her computer, but she figured she needed sneaking practice, so sneak she did. Violet hopped down the stairs, and took the long hall to the back of the house, breezing past Greg's room, noting the shut door and stifling a giggle.
Mycroft and Gregory, sitting in a tree…. Eeeww, Mycroft kissing someone, oh my poor brain!
Violet ran around the corner, grabbing the wall as she did, swinging herself down the short flight of stairs to the bunker's level. She skipped to the door, and eyed the panel. It was still active, which meant someone had been through the door in the last few minutes.
Crossing her fingers that it was Anthea, and not Mycroft, Violet raised her other hand, and placed it flat on the palm reader. She had borrowed a trick from crazy girl Moriarty, and added her palm print and name to the access list to Mycroft's bunker. She didn't know if it would work, right up until the lights flashed green, and the door locks disengaged.
Violet Hunter, One point; Mycroft Holmes, Zero.
She slipped through the doorway, and came up short. Anthea was standing a few feet away, arms crossed, one deliciously sexy foot tapping away in Jimmy Choo black leather heels.
"Ummm…. Oops?" Violet grinned.
Molly huddled in the back of Donovan's car, wrapped in a blanket, sitting with her feet outside the open door. It was still raining, the drops ice frigid, and a few degrees colder, it would be snowing. Baker Street was a mess, patrol cars and ambulances crowding the small street. She watched past the chaos of people as Tom was wheeled into an ambulance, restrained and handcuffed to the stretcher. Sherlock had beaten him brutally, but seeing as how Tom had come to and tried to rip the face off of a paramedic, no one was thinking it had been overkill. She shuddered, watching the ambulance carrying her now ex-fiancé out of sight.
Donovan had arrived at her flat at the same time she had gotten a call from John, and instead of sending someone else to deal with Tom, had bundled Molly in her car, and sent everyone to Baker Street. Molly had cried quietly the entire way to Sherlock's flat, terrified equally that Sherlock was hurt, and that Tom might be dead. Sally had told her nothing beyond the fact that Sherlock had stopped Tom. Ambulances were on the way.
"Molly?" She jumped at that voice, and lowered her head, too ashamed to meet John's eyes. He was a couple of feet away, huddled in a heavy coat. "Hey now, don't be like that."
John came over to her, and Molly flinched away from his hand, burying her face in the blanket. He paused, but John was a stubborn man, and she gave up resisting when he put his warm fingers under her chin. He tipped her face up, and she squinted at the light and rain, face wet and cold.
"Have you been looked at yet?" John asked patiently, fingers gentle on her aching face.
"Nooo…" She stuttered, as much from cold as nerves. She would meet his gaze for a quick second, then look away just as fast. She couldn't look at him. She had done this.
"Molly…" John sighed quietly, and she heard the frustration. But he said nothing else, just tipped her face so he could see the bruises under the harsh street light. She closed her eyes, and let John tilt her head further. His hands were kind, and she hardly felt a thing as he pressed around her eye, her nose.
"Nothing broken, but you're going to have one hell of a black eye tomorrow. Did he hit you anywhere else?" John's voice was even and calm, but she knew him well enough to hear the anger.
"No, I got away." She whispered, and he let her go. She sat back, deeper in the car, out of the rain. "Is Sherlock okay?"
Molly cringed again, thinking she had no right even be saying his name. Not after she caused all of this.
"He's fine, Molly. He's dealing with Donovan right now." He paused, and leaned down a bit so he could see her face. "You aren't to blame. You didn't make Tom use drugs, you didn't make him hit you, and you didn't make him come over here to get his ass beat. You didn't make him do any of this." John was adamant, but calm, doing his best not to show how upset he really was.
"I'm sorry I kissed Sherlock." She said, so low he bent over to hear her. She risked a look at him. He was leaning against Donovan's car, his head and shoulders glowing a horrid orange under the street lights.
Molly couldn't read his expression, his eyes in shadow. But she met them anyway, determined to apologize. She had kissed someone who was taken, and she wouldn't have appreciated it if someone had done that to her.
"I'll be honest, I was a bit bothered by it. Okay, more than a bit." John slouched down a little, leaning more, and he turned his head towards the curb. She followed his gaze, and saw Sherlock standing in the cold rain, no coat or jacket, his white shirt stained with red splotches and plastered to his chest. He was talking to Donovan, hands gesturing, hair messy and wild in the rain. "But I know exactly why you did. I kiss him for the same reasons. And I admit, a part of me is scared."
"You? But you never get scared." Molly said, in disbelief. John never got scared, ever. He was one of the bravest people she knew.
"I'm scared because of all the people in this world, you have the best chance out of all of them in taking him from me." John told her, sighing. He hunkered down in his coat, hands in his pockets.
"What…?" Molly thought she heard him wrong. Sherlock leave John? That would never happen. The universe would be burned to ashes before that happened.
"He cares about you. And you understand him, as well as I do." John chuckled, and looked over at her, catching her eye. He gave her a tiny smile, before looking back to the man they both loved. "But I'll tell you right now, Molly Hooper- that was the only kiss you get. So don't be sorry."
She just blinked at him, wondering whether or not Tom had given her a concussion along with the black eye. He looked back at her, and he held her gaze, and she couldn't look away. She saw in him a man who called her friend, and cared about her. Who loved the same man she did, with everything in him.
Molly felt a tiny crack spread from the center of her heart. Not because he had Sherlock, and she didn't, but because he was scared she might try and break his heart. That she would try and succeed, take away the man he called his soul mate. Molly hadn't been thinking about John, or Tom, or anything other than her desperate heartache when she kissed Sherlock. She hadn't even considered that anyone would think that she would try for Sherlock. She wasn't like that, she wasn't that kind of person.
"I….." Molly stopped, and thought hard. "Okay, I'm not sorry I kissed him. But I'm sorry I kissed your boyfriend, if that makes any sense."
"Kinda does." John pushed off the car, and smiled down at her. "You going to be okay?"
"No, but I'll work on it. Are… we okay?" She asked, refusing to drop her yes. She could be brave, too.
"Yeah, Molly, we're okay." He reached out, and pushed a strand of damp hair off her face, behind an ear. She smiled at him, as much as she could around her aching cheek.
"John, your freak… umm sorry… your boyfriend is fighting off some government types, think you might need to rescue someone." Sally Donovan said, walking through the rain to her car.
Molly and John both looked, to where Sherlock was arguing with two men in dark suits, a black car idling not that far away. John swore and tossed her a quick smile before he ran off, calling Sherlock's name. Molly sighed, and let Donovan shuffle her back inside the car. Donovan got in, and took them away from Baker Street, to the hospital.
Molly wasn't going for Tom, not really. She would make sure he was still alive, and if he was, she'd start packing her stuff in the morning. If he wasn't, then she wouldn't need to move. She knew that was cold of her, and harsh, considering she was willing to marry him just yesterday, but she figured you couldn't be friends with Sherlock Holmes without learning how to handle heartache.
"I can 'splain, honest." Violet put her hands behind her back, and grinned at her girl. "I wasn't even sure it would work."
"Mmmmm. Be thankful it was me, and not your uncle." Anthea gave her a stern look, but Violet caught the twinkle in her green eyes.
"Oh, you have nooo idea, really." Violet skipped over to Anthea, grabbing her hand and pulling her to the nearest computer station in the large room. They were the only people in the large space, everyone sent home hours ago.
"What do you think you're doing, dear? Uh no, no hacking the computers, please." Anthea groaned, her sexy schoolteacher voice on full.
"Well, it's not hacking if I'm on an authorized computer in the system, sooo….." Violet sat in one of the chairs, and spun around, pretending not to hear Anthea's quiet groans as she tapped randomly at some keys. She spun, and spun, having to stop herself after a few turns, she was getting dizzy. She grabbed the desk, and her hand landed on a stack of photos.
Being a naturally nosy person, she picked them up, flipping through the pictures. Her good mood evaporated, and she shivered, feeling the cold for the first time that night. Her hand trembled as she pulled out a picture of herself and John, walking out the front door of 221B. From the clothes she was wearing, it was taken a couple of days before. And from the angle and distance, it hadn't been the MI6 surveillance team that routinely followed Sherlock and John.
"Please explain." Violet turned the picture around, and held it up to Anthea. "This wasn't taken by Mycroft's people."
Anthea's met her gaze, chagrin and relief fighting for dominance. Violet let her new girl see her fear, and that tipped it for Anthea.
"You'd find it all out anyway." Anthea said, and she reached out for the photo. "His name is Silas Williamson, and he goes by The Vicar."
Violet dropped her hand, and stood, her good mode gone, her whole body icing over.
"Who is he after?" Violet whispered, scared to her bones, even buried in the heart of her uncle's house.
"Violet?" Anthea reached out a hand, but Violet moved back, her hand so tight on a picture it ripped.
"Who is he after?" Violet demanded. Anthea lowered her hand, and she got an intense look on her face.
"Mary Morstan."
Violet almost fell she was so relieved. Relieved and scared, terror running through her whole body. Relieved it wasn't her this time, but still scared. He was here.
"Violet, tell me what's going on." Anthea asked, finally snaring her hand, holding it firmly between her own.
"He's been watching me for years." Violet gasped out. "He sent a team after me a few months ago. He's why I didn't leave London after I helped Sherlock with Moriarty."
"Violet. Sweetheart." Anthea hugged her, and Violet didn't know she was crying until she felt Anthea's jacket get wet under her face. "You have to tell Mycroft and Sherlock. We have to tell them everything."
"We?" Violet stuttered, confused. "I'm the one hiding behind my family."
"Yes, we. Mycroft knows that Sherlock has Mary, that you and John have been visiting her. Tell him about Williamson sending that team for you. And we have to tell Mycroft about Mary's condition."
"But….." Anthea cut her off, giving her a quick kiss.
"All of you underestimate Mycroft. He may be the director of MI6, but he is first and foremost a Holmes. And Violet Hunter- so are you." Anthea told her, giving her shoulders a tiny shake. "And Heaven help the man who threatens Mycroft Holmes' family."
Greg was sleeping, right up until he felt the bed dip as someone sat on the side. He cracked his eyes, rubbing away the sleep as he tried to figure out where Mycroft came from. The small lamp on the far side of the room was on, and it gave off enough light for him to see Mycroft's silhouette.
"I didn't think you'd be sleeping already." Mycroft said quietly, looking down at his hands.
"Physical therapy wiped me out." Greg murmured, putting his hands on the mattress and slowly sitting up on the headboard. It hurt, but he could do it, and he rested in relief as the pain faded from his chest and side, the damnable gunshot wound.
"I see."
Greg waited, watching Mycroft not look at him, but stare at his immaculately manicured nails instead. Greg waited, until he couldn't stand the silence anymore.
"Mycroft." Greg reached out, his hand on the quiet man's elbow. "What's wrong?"
"I may have to start World War Three." Mycroft said, finally looking at him, one brow raised.
"Oh. Right. Busy day at the office, then." Greg wanted to ask, but figured that it was classified and he didn't qualify as need to know. Part of him didn't want to know, really. He knew who Mycroft was, on an intellectual level, but hearing the confirmation of what he did on a daily basis might be too much for him to handle.
"A very dangerous man just threatened to kill you if I didn't make Sherlock hand over Mary Morstan." Mycroft slid over, and Greg nearly swallowed his tongue as Mycroft stretched out beside him, leaning on the headboard. He was so distracted by Mycroft's warm shoulder touching his that he almost didn't process the MI6 man's words.
"Uuumm…. What? Kill me? Sherlock has Mary?" Greg was well and truly lost, half his brain devoted to everything Mycroft, the rest to trying to figure out how Sherlock was hiding Mary. And the why of it, too.
"The CIA has sent one of their top officers to find her. I believe Sherlock knows where she is, and has been hiding her for some time. I don't know why, though. It's important enough for her not to run, to stay in hostile territory, and for John and Violet to visit her regularly despite her crimes."
"Okay, that's a head scratcher for certain. Why kill me?" Greg leaned into Mycroft, as casually as he could. He was so warm, and this was the first real private time they'd had since he'd left the hospital. Greg bit his lip when Mycroft lifted his arm, and wrapped it carefully around his shoulders.
"The Vicar threatened you, everyone else I care about, if I don't help him get Mary. He will try to kill you all."
"Obviously you aren't going to let that happen." Greg dropped his head, resting it on Mycroft's shoulder. He felt a sharp but pleasant tingle run down his spine when Mycroft turned his head, and buried his face in Greg's hair.
"He will not touch you….. Any of you." Mycroft whispered in his ear.
Greg damned his injuries, and damned the pain, but he sat up anyway, turning as best he could to the man on the bed with him. He wanted to touch, to be touched, and he was tired of waiting. He had been waiting for weeks, for years, an eternity. He'd been so lonely for so long.
Greg did the impossible and kissed Mycroft. Fully, deeply, hand wrapped around his neck pulling him in close kissed him. It was as if it was magic; Mycroft responded as if they had been kissing for years. A lifetime of loving each other. He knew to bury his hands in Greg's hair just behind his ears, to slide his tongue over Greg's bottom lip before slipping inside, he knew that Greg liked to tip his head to the right, and go as deeply as he could.
Each stroke was a dream, a powerful memory of kisses past, and Greg's heart was racing in his chest. Mycroft's lips over his were electrifying. The dark, lonely corners of his heart were catching fire, and he groaned quietly, not used to being happy and aroused, not in a very long time. And never like this.
He ignored the pain burning in his side, every sense caught up in Mycroft's mouth, lips, tongue, and his hands. All of him, everywhere, so warm and real and there. Mycroft was in his arms, not a dream or fantasy.
Mycroft moved without once stopping their kiss. He lifted up, on his knees, and moved over Greg, one arm braced on top of the headboard next to his head, the other buried amongst the pillows beneath them. He kept his weight off of Greg, and the kiss went wilder. He wasn't the only one thoroughly enjoying the kiss; Mycroft was eager, making tiny sounds deep in his throat, tongue sliding over Greg's in a wet dance that shook him to his bones.
Greg was shocked at how damn good Mycroft was at kissing him, but it lasted only a second. Greg slid his hands from Mycroft neck, down his chest, and gripped Mycroft's belt in both hands, fingers curling in his waistband. Mycroft broke away, panting, lips wet.
"What are you thinking?" He gasped out, and dipped his head, nibbling on Greg's neck.
"That I'm sick of being alone, and that I want you." Greg groaned, and he was pulling at Mycroft's belt, wanting desperately to feel the other man's weight on him. Mycroft went, slowly, and Greg quaked on the mattress as Mycroft knelt between his knees, still bracing himself above the injured man on his arms.
"I want you too, and you're not alone. You'll never be alone again." Mycroft kissed him, and Greg forgot everything but the man above him. He pulled back, and Greg moaned in disapproval. "But we won't be alone for much longer, and you literally got out of the hospital a few hours ago."
"Shut up and kiss me." Greg demanded. "Now."
"Yes, sir, Detective Inspector Lestrade."
Greg couldn't stop, didn't want to stop, and he dimly heard his own voice screaming in the depths of his mind, in disbelief and awe when he brazenly undid Mycroft's belt. Absolutely never in his long life had he ever thought of loving a man, touching him in lust and joy and love. But he was, and Dear God did he enjoy it. Needed it, so much he felt nothing but the skin under his fingers, the mouth over his, the scent and sounds of his new lover's body.
Mycroft wasn't hesitating, he knew exactly what he was doing, and rolled his hips slightly, encouraging Greg to keep going. It was the hottest thing he'd ever felt, and he got so aroused his thoughts scattered to every corner of the universe.
Greg opened the belt, and gasped under Mycroft's hot mouth when he sucked in his stomach, and Greg's hand slid all by its self under his waistband. Mycroft still crouched above him, perfectly positioned for Greg to touch him, intimately. Greg got himself a serious handful, and he froze, startled.
Mycroft stilled, easing his kiss, licking and teasing. His hard length was throbbing in Greg's hand, and Mycroft seemed to know that Greg was at a crossroads. He had no idea what he was doing, but he wanted to keep going. He really, really wanted to keep going, but Greg had no idea where to go or what to do. And holding another man like he currently was- it was so new and surreal he started to feel nerves dig at the passion.
"We'll be having company soon." Mycroft whispered against his lips. "I love where your hand is, I really do. But if you're not ready…It's okay if you want to stop, I'll live."
Greg met his eyes, trying his best not to be embarrassed. A man of his age getting embarrassed over sex was embarrassing in itself. He saw only patience and love in Mycroft's eyes, and he sighed in relief. Greg tightened his grip just the tiniest amount, a promise to go farther when he could. Mycroft let his eyes drift shut for a heartbeat, a wicked smile on his face, before opening them again, and easing away slowly.
Greg let him go, his hand hot and tingling. Mycroft lay down next to him, hands on his stomach, looking up at the ceiling, breathing evenly. Greg breathed with him, his heart racing, and only as he managed to clear out the lust did he feel the nightmare of pain rolling in his side and chest. He gasped, arms coming up, cradling his ribs, and he groaned, biting his lips.
"Shhhh….. Hold on." Mycroft said, rolling into a sitting position, reaching for the prescriptions on the nightstand. He heard a bottle open, and Mycroft was back, pressing two pills into his hand, and a glass of water from the pitcher next to the lamp.
Greg took the pills without complaint, and handed back the glass. He curled up on his uninjured side, and did his best to survive until the pills kicked in. Mycroft swept his fingers through his hair, a favorite pastime of his now. The touch helped as much as the pills, and Greg feel asleep to Mycroft watching over him.
Mycroft stood, once he was certain Greg was asleep. He pulled the covers over the policeman, and took out his mobile. He texted the security detail stationed at the house, ordering a guard to be posted outside Greg's room at all times, and another team on the whole property. He would keep his home safe, and the man who made it feel like one for the first time.
Mycroft saw a text from Anthea, asking for him to join her in the bunker. Sherlock and John were on their way. He went to the door, stopping before he opened it. Mycroft closed his belt, tucked his shirt back in, and did his best to restrain his need to swagger just a little as he left the room.
Sherlock swept in the front door of his brother's house, heading down the long hall to the back of the house, and the bunker hidden beneath it. John was at his side, trundled up in a heavy winter coat. Sherlock snuck a glance at John, wondering if John thought his passion in the foyer was out of character, if he would notice how off Sherlock had been.
Sherlock still felt vague hints of Winter's Night in his system, sickening and delicious, wisps across the surface of his mind. He had a brief glimpse of himself in the foyer mirror, and he was thankful he hadn't been exposed to more, as his outward symptoms would be obvious.
Tom had gotten a large dose, one not tailored for him. He had taken it haphazardly, messily enough that Sherlock had been smeared with a small amount during the fight. That tiny amount was enough to encourage Sherlock's bloodlust, and he had avoided killing Tom during the fight through pure willpower. If he had been exposed to more, Tom would be dead, and Sherlock feared what could have happened to John other than some rough snogging against a wall.
"Any idea why Mycroft felt it necessary to summon us this late at night?" John asked, as they got the bunker door.
"I have my suspicions." Sherlock murmured. "Reveal nothing."
John shot him a look, which Sherlock ignored, placing his hand on the panel next to the bunker door. He wondered for a brief instant if his brother had revoked his access, but seeing as they hadn't been greeted at the door, everyone was most likely in the bunker, so his access was most likely still valid.
The panel went green, and the heavy door disengaged from the wall, opening with a noticeable shift in air pressure. With the rush of air came the sound of shouting, and John and Sherlock stood in the doorway, watching as a very mad Mycroft shouted at an equally enraged Violet. She was wearing next to nothing again, indifferent to the cold temperatures and the company she kept. She was waving a large crumpled piece of paper in her other fist, whatever it was mangled from her grip.
"No, I'm not telling you how I got in here! Don't be an idiot! You feel like explaining why you stalk your own brother?" Violet shouted at Mycroft, right up in his face, finger stabbing at his chest. "No? No answer for that one? Then don't ask stupid questions!"
Mycroft opened his mouth, Sherlock figured to shout back, but he got there first, stepping between his older brother and their niece. He didn't say anything, just swept an arm around Violet and walked her away.
"Tool!" Violet yelled over her shoulder at Mycroft, growling under her breath. "First thing he does is threaten to kick me out when he sees me in here! Never mind ignoring my questions about why he's helping a CIA trained killer, especially after he threatened his family! But I guess I don't count, do I Mycroft?"
She shouted that past Sherlock, but he ignored the outburst, dragging her over to John. He handed her over to his lover, who grabbed one of her hands in his, holding her next to him. Sherlock shrugged out of his coat, and draped it over his nearly naked niece, who was shivering from cold and anger. Violet pouted at him, but she accepted the coat, snuggling under the warm fabric. Her lovely amethyst eyes were snapping and crackling with nervous energy and anger, and Sherlock hid a smile. They were very much alike, he and his niece.
Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, who was struggling to maintain his own temper. His face was white, and his usual unpleasant expression was especially marked this time. Violet had gotten to him, which not many people could do.
"CIA trained killer?" Sherlock casually asked, standing next to Mycroft, ignoring his brother's malevolent attitude. He watched as Mycroft reigned himself in, and the Iceman slowly appeared. Any trace of anger was frozen out, and calm certitude returned. Mycroft cracked him a small smile, sarcasm firmly in place once again.
"Yes, the Americans grew impatient, and sent The Vicar for Mary. No point now in pretending you don't have her, Sherlock. Williamson has threatened to kill you all unless he gets her."
Sherlock showed no reaction to Mycroft's assertion concerning Mary. John moved behind him, startled. Mycroft saw the subtle tell, and smirked at his little brother.
"Sherlock…" John moved; an aborted reaching out before he remembered Sherlock's order to say nothing. Sherlock rolled his eyes at John, and figured there was no point in playing games with Mycroft. He always complained so piteously when he lost. But then again, Mycroft loved to play.
"And what would you do to her if it turned out I was hiding Mary Morstan?" Sherlock rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets, giving his brother a tiny smile.
Mycroft mirrored him, and came close, a couple feet separating the brothers. Sherlock met his eyes, wondering just what Mycroft's intentions were. He did not know whether he spoke now to his brother, or to the spymaster.
"That would depend entirely on why you were hiding her. Why she's chosen to remain in London after recent events." Mycroft said softly, ignoring the army doctor as he moved up beside them. "I was content to maintain the status quo after things settled down. Especially as you seemed it so important to hide her from me, and so well. But Williamson's appearance has made my lack of effort in apprehending Mary an issue."
"Do explain." Sherlock said, thinking he knew, but needing John to hear as well.
"Tell me where she is, Sherlock." Mycroft replied, not dropping his eyes from Sherlock's.
Sherlock just kept smiling, refusing to break. He could do this forever. Mary was safe where she was, as long as Violet and John had taken proper precautions. And considering how important Mary was right now to John, he doubted his doctor had screwed it up. So he need not worry about her being discovered, and he knew full well that Mycroft would never let a foreign operative threaten his family and live.
Mycroft grew impatient, like he always did, his desire to get an answer overriding his control. Sherlock knew he won when Mycroft looked away, to where Anthea was glaring at them both in exasperation from the nearest computer station. Mycroft made a faint movement in his shoulders, as if he had been reprimanded by their mother for breaking a house rule.
"Very well. I theorized a few weeks ago that you, John, and Violet were hiding Miss Morstan, due to the latter two's routine disappearance, and the shaking of the surveillance teams. Twice, sometimes three times a week since the night Morstan disappeared, John and Violet would go off grid for several hours." Mycroft expounded, and he began to pace across the floor, hands in pockets, tossing Sherlock and John a look every time he made a point.
"As Violet's sexual orientation, and John's steadfast loyalty to you preclude any chance of a romantic liaison between the two of them, the reason for their disappearances must be significant, and not the obvious assumption. But significant to whom? Not to you, for if it was important to you, Sherlock, you would be the one making the trips. But it's not; it's the good doctor and Violet. So, that means it's something, or someone, important to John or Violet."
Mycroft paused, and sent a look Violet's way, before his gaze landed on John, and stayed there.
"Now, it's not Violet. Everyone or thing important to her is in this room right now. But John Watson- there's the clue to the whole puzzle. John is a remarkably loyal man, so much so he would do anything for the people he cares about. And he certainly cared about Mary, enough to propose. Not enough to stay, but enough to ask."
Mycroft ignored the nasty look John sent him, the doctor's shoulders tensing up.
"Spot on so far, Mycroft. Extra points if you get the rest right." Sherlock thoroughly enjoyed this, though he would never voice such a sentiment to his brother. Mycroft rolled his eyes at him, but kept going.
"So, John Watson's former fiancé has yet to flee the country, when she has every smart reason to do so. I would have caught her if she had attempted to leave. But instead, she goes to ground. So well hidden it would take Sherlock Holmes himself to hide her from me." Sherlock smirked at his brother, prompting another eye roll. "John disappears on a regular basis with Violet, and strangely enough, CCTV cameras in the same area of the city go into maintenance, or experience a glitch, or just plain shut down within the time frame the two of you are missing."
Sherlock heard Violet swear from somewhere behind him, but he wasn't worried. Mycroft wouldn't be explaining if he intended to harm Mary. Mycroft would have handed her over to Williamson if he did. He knew enough to find her in short order if he truly wanted to.
"My conclusion is that Sherlock has placed Mary in one of his bolt-holes, one I do not know about. John and Violet go to see her, and she remains, against all her training, for a reason I cannot fathom." Mycroft sighed loudly, sharing his exasperation with the room. "So perhaps all of you would like to tell me what exactly is going on, so I can kill the American who dared to threaten the lot of you?"
Mycroft glared at them all, Anthea and Violet included. Sherlock looked to John, and raised a brow. It would be John's choice, whether or not to share Mary's situation with Mycroft. John met his eyes, and Sherlock saw the struggle. John and Mycroft, while ever enemies, had never gotten to the point where they could be friends. Even if Mycroft went in for that sort of thing. John would have to decide if he could trust Mycroft. And Sherlock would not pressure his doctor in this, it was his choice.
"John, it's up to you." Sherlock told his doctor. "She is safe right now."
Mycroft shifted on his feet, zeroing in on John. He scented the truth, and he wanted to know if he was right or not. Sherlock sighed, ignoring his brother. Sherlock took John's hand in his, tugging his doctor to his side. He planted his nose in John's soft hair, pressing a kiss to his ear. He waited, John thinking hard about what to do.
"What are you going to do to her, Mycroft? I tell you where she is, are you going to hand her over to the CIA or are you going to leave her alone? I will tell you nothing if it places her in harm's way."
"I was ready to let her be a forgotten side note, Dr. Watson. I had more pressing matters to attend to than one scorned assassin, and out of sight, out of mind. But the Vicar is forcing my hand, as are my superiors. I can work around them all, but I need to know where she is." Mycroft met John's eyes, and Sherlock could nearly see the individual thoughts weighing behind his eyes. "If she controls her baser urges to blow something up or kill someone who annoys her, I will not harm her."
"Then why do you need to know where she is?"
"I cannot control Williamson and his people unless I have full knowledge of the situation, including her whereabouts."
"Wait just a damn minute! Don't you think you should ask Mary, John? What if she doesn't want Mycroft to know where she is? What if you scare her away?" Violet spoke up, indignant. "Or worse yet, piss her off again?"
She flounced over to them, so close to Mycroft he sighed loudly and shifted over a foot. Which was the wrong move, as she just followed him, a devious look on her face.
"I… yeah, good point." John took out his mobile, and shot them all a look before pulling away from Sherlock. "I'll be right back."
John walked away, to the far side of the room, the mobile to his ear. They all watched as John called Mary, unable to hear what he was saying at this distance, but each of them curious. Sherlock felt the tiniest bit of extraneous excitement in his heart, the last dregs of Winter's Night leaving his system. He swayed, the slightest amount, so minute a movement no one should have seen it. But he was standing next to Mycroft, who always saw too much.
"Brother?" Mycroft murmured, none of them taking their eyes off John.
"Not now, Mycroft. Later." Sherlock said, watching as John spun back around to them, a nervous look on his face.
The doctor walked back over to them, phone still to his ear. He was listening, and stopped just shy of them. He gulped, and looked Mycroft in the eyes. John brought down the mobile, and he flipped it on Speaker.
"Go ahead, Mary. He's listening." John told the woman on the open line.
There was silence, just the faint sound of a deep rumbling in the background. Sherlock knew it was the Underground vent, the sounds of the trains coming up through the walls. When she spoke, her voice was calm, cool, and all traces of Britain was wiped clean. She was not speaking as Mary, but the cold blooded assassin.
"Who did they send?" She asked, sharp, deadly.
Mycroft sighed, but answered.
"Silas Williamson, known as the…" She cut him off.
"The Vicar, yes I know." Mary paused. "I know him well."
They all looked at each other, wondering at her tone, her words. John had a look on his face that was partial dread, and part curiosity.
"Care to share what you know?" Mycroft asked, as if he were requesting tea instead of coffee.
"I might. But what prevents you from handing me over to Silas, as your betters have demanded? I hide not for myself, Mycroft. I have more than one life to protect now."
Sherlock saw the truth bloom in Mycroft as his brother made that last connection. Mary Morstan was pregnant, and Sherlock watched as his brother's gaze landed squarely on John. His doctor met Mycroft's eyes dead on, not blinking. John would do anything to protect Mary. Even against Mycroft.
Sherlock waited, patient. Mycroft must choose who he would be in the next moment; his brother, or the spymaster.
"Considering this new information, Miss Morstan, I am willing to extend an olive branch. But the Prime Minister is most adamant that I cooperate fully with the CIA, with Williamson. The Vicar threatened everyone if I did not force Sherlock to give you up. I got rather insulted, so I'm ignoring that edict."
John shifted nervously, hand clutching the mobile tightly. Mary revealing herself at this juncture was terrifying him. May didn't speak, weighing her options. Sherlock wasn't worried. Mary was a smart woman.
"We shall talk face to face, Mycroft Holmes. And if I don't like what you have to say, I'll make CAM Tower look like a fireworks party. If the CIA is here, they are watching you right now. You will not be able to get here without them following. I will not reveal where I am currently hiding. But I will come to you." She paused, and her voice went colder. "Your brother knows what I mean. Sherlock, I'll be expecting you."
The line went dead.
"What did she mean, she'll be expecting you? And how is she getting out, and getting in here, without the CIA seeing her?" John asked Sherlock.
Sherlock smiled at his love, and couldn't help the deep chuckle of appreciation that swelled up in him at Mary's sheer guts. The woman was made of steel.
"Let's go for a walk, John. Mycroft, I do hope you haven't closed off the basement."