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

WARNING: Violence.

Enjoy! Next chapter drops either Tuesday or Wednesday.

Chapter Forty Two

"The Underground"

"Let's go for a walk, John. Mycroft, I do hope you haven't closed off the basement." Sherlock said, grinning in unholy glee and anticipation at the scandalized look on Mycroft's face.

Mary Morstan had just issued a challenge to Sherlock Holmes, and he was feeling exceptionally daring. John sighed loudly, seeing the look on Sherlock's face, and automatically dreading whatever it was his lover planned.

Sherlock was thinking he made the right decision in telling Mary to go to Leinster Gardens. She hadn't been lazing about. She would know that space as well as he by now, and she would know that there was more than one way out of there. As there was more than one way out of Mycroft's house.

"Mycroft, is the house under surveillance?" Sherlock pulled John under his arm, turning his doctor to the computers with him. Anthea turned to the screens, and tapped some keys.

The screens lit up with the infrared views of the exterior of Mycroft's townhouse, and the rear garden. She hit another key, and the images altered, the computers searching for anomalies in the feeds. On each screen, multiple views lit up with red boxes, red outlines. Within each was an alert, a human silhouette.

"Sir, we have multiple targets identified around the house. I count six unknowns." Anthea turned to Mycroft, catching Sherlock's eye. She grimaced, and Anthea was well aware of who was watching them. If anyone left the townhouse, they would be followed.

"Williamson didn't waste time, did he?" Sherlock exclaimed, finding himself impressed and annoyed at the CIA officer's determination. "That just makes this all the more fun."

"I wouldn't count this as fun, brother mine." Mycroft scolded him.

"Of course it is." Sherlock hugged John tighter, thinking that there was one exception to Mary's edict he would be making. John Watson was not going to be out of his sight while a CIA officer was tossing threats. "Feel like taking the Underground, John?"

"Oh dear God, this isn't going to be as simple as taking the Tube, I just know it." John groaned, banging his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

Violet hurried over to the computers, gently pulling Anthea's chair away from the keyboard. Anthea squeaked in protest, which she thought was adorable, but she couldn't focus on her girl, typing away furiously.

"What are you doing?" Mycroft demanded, coming to her shoulder, peering at the commands she was issuing lightning fast. She had no need to answer, as the screens lit up above their heads.

Violet let her family watch her every move as she located and illuminated the ten block radius of London where Mary was hiding. Violet didn't need to explain as she pulled up the bird's eye view map of London, overlaid the street map, and then, on an adjacent screen, cycled up the live CCTV feeds of the exterior of the safe house zone.

Sherlock and John came over, her uncle staring intently at the screens, his gaze bouncing back and forth, from her to the screens. She saw him comprehend what she was doing at the same time she heard Mycroft swear softly under his breath.

"Anthea told me that you ordered her to send everything to the CIA, except the surveillance logs. Did you send the CCTV logs, the ones that told you someone was altering the feeds?" Violet turned from Mycroft to Anthea, needing verification, even though she knew the answer. Anthea nodded, not understanding at first, gazing at the maps Violet had brought up. Anthea's expression changed from confusion to horror as she caught on to the problem.

"Violet, please explain, some of us aren't genius by birth." John asked, confused.

"Mycroft had Anthea send everything but the surveillance logs. But if the CCTV logs were in the file for Mary, and she sent them to Williamson, he already knows Mary's general location. Those ten square blocks." Violet pointed up at the screens, heart pounding. "The same way Mycroft knew I was messing with them, so does Williamson know her general location."

"I've got the CIA's residence up there in the lower right hand block. See the vehicles? That's the feed from earlier this evening. Watch the SUVs as they pull away from the house." Violet told her audience. "This is like looking for Waldo, I know they disappear, one second."

Violet turned back to the computers, and began typing in more commands. She minimized the map, and enlarged the live CCTV feeds around the ten block radius. She ignored her uncle as he hovered over her shoulder, though she was dimly aware of his indignation and astonishment as she reprogrammed his computers at the same time she sent them hunting.

"Watch the screens, tell me when you see them." Violet ordered the room, not looking away from the new lines of code she was writing. Lines and lines were born, and she sent them off as soon as they were ready. Violet breathed out, her nerves tingling, and she stood up from the keyboard. Her program was running now on its own.

She heard John swearing, and Mycroft was looking at her a whole new way. She didn't know what that look meant, so she put it out of her mind.

"MI6 hunts people by facial recognition, human silhouettes and profiles. The programs can hunt for anything, really. I can send the programs to find a particular pigeon out of thousands, or a single piece of trash fluttering in the breeze by the river. As long as I have the parameters of an object, the programs will find it. Watch."

Violet gazed up, and she knew her program was successful as green boxes and outlines appeared on dozens of camera feeds. She was running the feeds from earlier in the evening, and comparing it to the live feeds of the same views. Every time the computer made a match, the live feed was sent to its own screen, and the target was held. This happened five separate times.

"Do you see? The CIA is camping the perimeter of where Mary is hiding, at the main intersections and thoroughfares. I took the dimensions of the CIA's SUVs, and sent the program after them all. Confirmed by the license plates and tags. The feeds we're watching are of the same vehicles, sitting in place since the information was shared, and waiting. They're waiting for us to lead them to Mary." Violet turned to the room, and spoke to Sherlock.

"You'll lead them right to Mary, and straight back to Mycroft, if the CIA sees any of us enter the radius. We wait this out, they will begin to search the area, section by section. Mary needs to get out of there, unseen, and soon. She's fucking trapped."

Mycroft moved in her line of sight, his eyes intent on her face. She met his eyes, as best she could past her nerves and the residual anger he always brought out in her. She wanted to like him, he wasn't all bad. Sometimes he was a total prick, but he loved his family. The ones he acknowledged, at least.

"You have experience hiding from the CIA, Violet." A statement and question all in one. "You knew immediately that Mary was vulnerable, that this would be one of their moves. One of his moves."

"I've been hiding from every spook agency since my mother died." Violet snapped, but she bit back further words when she caught Anthea's eye.

Violet sighed, tucking her hands in the pockets of Sherlock's coat. Anthea nudged her arm, and Violet grimaced. She would tell Mycroft, but they needed to get Mary out of there. She was safer than the assassin right now.

"I've been running my entire life, since I was thirteen years old. I've been on the Agency's wish list for almost as long. The Vicar has been actively after me for the last year. He sent a team for me three months ago. I got away, obviously. I wouldn't have if he had come for me himself." Violet stated as calmly as she could, dropping her head, resting her forehead in her hand. "When Anthea told me he was here, I thought he had come for me at last."

She rubbed her face, suddenly tired. So tired of running, of hiding. She just wanted to rest. She had never been caught, but she never had a place to call home because of it. Never in one place long enough to call any roof and four walls home.

"Silas Williamson has been hunting you." Mycroft murmured, and she looked up in surprise at the anger in his voice.

"He doesn't just hunt down enemies of the state or whatever it is they call people the USA wants disappeared. Williamson takes delivery orders, and goes shopping. He's a fucking bounty hunter. I'm on someone's shopping list." Violet shuddered, and she gave up the fight against the stress. Hearing the words out in the world made the whole mess even more real, so much scarier. She put her head in her hand again, too tired to face the room, and the people in it. "Somewhere out there, there's a picture of me and a price tag."

When the arm wrapped around her neck and pulled her close, she thought at first it was Anthea. But the scent of pine and the height of the hard shoulder under her face made her reevaluate who was hugging her. She choked on a sob, and cried quietly on her uncle's shoulder. She hadn't been expecting his gesture of comfort, and it felt better than she thought it would.

"You count, Violet." Mycroft whispered in her ear, echoing the words she'd shouted at him earlier. "You are one order he won't be filling."

Mary strode down the narrow concrete hall, and entered the small room at the very end. It really didn't count as a room, really. It was more of an alcove, full of pipes, electrical boxes, and miscellaneous paneling. Mary went to the corner, and put a foot on a large pipe that came out from the wall, and pushed herself up.

She grabbed the next pipe up, and lifted herself higher. Just above her head was a large metal panel in the wall, and she reached, stretching to hit the latch. She managed to snag it with her fingertips, and the disused latch resisted before opening with a harsh groan.

The panel creaked open a bare inch, but it was enough for the pungent stench of hot metal, wet earth, and exhaust to poor over her head and in the alcove. She climbed up higher, grasping the door to leverage herself into the opening. She straddled the edge, and looked out and down.

She had discovered this maintenance hatch the evening after her arrival, having explored the shell house thoroughly top to bottom. Whoever the previous occupant was had been using Leinster Gardens as a safe house as well, and this small door had once been used with great frequency. Mary was thirty feet over the rail lines of the Underground, and as she watched, a train bulleted past below her, the thunder of its passage echoing off the concrete walls. She was above three separate lines, in an area where they ran parallel to each other for a short stretch before the lines diverged.

23-24 Leinster Gardens was nothing but a shallow shell around the old steam vents of the Underground, and the greater portion of the space was a large rectangular hole in the ground between the actual, real houses of Leinster Gardens.

Mary leaned out, holding the wall as she looked down. There were metal rungs imbedded in the wall, running all the way down into the darkness of the great vent. She had followed it down one night, all the way to the ground, where there was a space between the wall, and the closest rail line.

Utter darkness had spread out in either direction, and she had gone no further. But there were old traces of someone disappearing into the mazelike Underground, and Mary knew that at some point, this place had seen regular travel. Which meant there was a safe path out, somewhere down there. She would not risk her health by investigating, but Mary was certain that if anyone knew the way through, Sherlock Holmes would.

Mary pulled herself back in, and swung the panel shut before dropping lightly to the floor, bending her knees to absorb the fall. She looked up, staring at the panel, wondering how long it would take before Sherlock knocked.

John was startled by what Violet had revealed, though he shouldn't be. Her profession would bring her to the attention of a lot of governments, and Sherlock had told him weeks ago that there were people out there who wanted Violet. John pulled his gaze from the incongruous sight of Mycroft finally expressing affection for his niece, and started to send Mary a text.

"John?" Sherlock asked, watching as John typed.

"She needs to know they have her surrounded. They could get impatient, start a grid search any minute." John said, hitting Send, telling Mary everything. John went back to watching Mycroft and Violet, leaning on Sherlock's shoulder as the young woman rested on her uncle's.

"Never thought I'd see that." John murmured, not caring that Mycroft sent him a narrow eyed glare in response. "Now you just need to work some sense into your parents."

John caught the small grimace on Sherlock's face at the mention of his parents, Violet's grandparents. Sherlock leaned down, and John was gifted with a tiny kiss before his detective pulled away.

"That may happen, it may not. They suffered most due to Sherrin." Sherlock said softly, and he tugged John away from the others, towards the door.

John felt his mobile vibrate, and he pulled it back out, checking the text.

The Vicar will not wait long. It's not safe here anymore, I must leave. He engineered the meeting between him and Mycroft to inspire you to come for me. –MM

Sherlock and I will get you out. We will be there, I promise. Sherlock has a plan. –JW

No reply for over a minute, John shifting nervously. Mary needed to wait. If she left without him or Sherlock, he may never see her again.

You have until dawn before I leave. –MM

Sherlock had been reading over his shoulder, and John tucked his mobile away, looking at Sherlock expectantly. Just over five hours until dawn.

"I know you have a plan, let's hear it. And I have a feeling I'm not going to like it." John told his detective. He groaned at the smug look on Sherlock's face. "Dear God."

"John, you flatter me." Sherlock dodged the gentle jab John sent his way, grinning. "And yes, I have a plan. Mycroft!"

Sherlock called out to his brother, where the elder was still standing with Violet. She had stopped crying, and was huddled in Sherlock's coat. Anthea was rubbing her arm, and Violet managed a smile for John and Sherlock.

"What? And why do you insist on shouting?" Mycroft grumbled, making his way over.

"I need torches, rope, and some explosives." Sherlock told his brother, and John threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Explosives? Christ, Sherlock, if you blow anything else up, I'll be the first to exile you to Eastern Europe!"

"Never worry, it won't be anything remotely important. And do hurry up." Sherlock made shooing motions at his brother, who just glared and pulled out his mobile. "A few pounds, please. C4 would be best."

John tugged Sherlock to him, as the elder Holmes talked to whoever you'd ask for explosives. Mycroft would know exactly who to call to get explosives. Ahh, I love my life. Sherlock stood expectantly in front of him, and John took his time looking him over.

Sherlock had cleaned up and changed, ridding himself of Tom's blood before leaving with Mycroft's people. John had to remind him he shouldn't traipse about in bloody wet clothing, and Sherlock had a lost look on his face before noticing the state he was in. John was glad to see that he hadn't suffered any injuries, though John was worried about his detective's ribs. Tom had landed a few blows, and John had seen Sherlock wince from one particular nasty strike to his side.

"Before we go on a rescue mission, you okay?" John asked him softly, not wanting Mycroft to hear. "He got a few hits in before you turned him to mincemeat."

Sherlock hummed a reply, and his eyes were intense, locking on John's. He never got tired of this man's eyes. They were beyond impossible, inhumanly lovely, and every glance from them made John feel alive.

John ran a hand over Sherlock's pale face, the smooth planes and gorgeous cheekbones. Sherlock came closer, and leaned into his touch, eyes drifting shut. John smiled, and did his best not to get too distracted by Sherlock's proximity. He was intoxicating, as necessary for life as air, and John sighed, happy to have a small moment in the chaos. Sherlock's heavenly eyes were hidden from him, so he went up on his toes, kissing Sherlock softly on the lips. He blinked them open, and John kissed Sherlock slowly, sweetly, holding his eyes as he did.

Sherlock moved, so gradually John didn't notice when he was enclosed in his detective's arms, chests pressed firmly together. Every kiss they shared was as perfect as the first, mixing love and passion in John's veins, stirring him, accelerating his heart. John deepened the kiss, feeling Sherlock hum in approval through their joined lips.

"Aren't they adorable?" Came the mock whisper from a few feet away. John smiled against Sherlock's lips, kissing his love for a moment more before pulling back. Violet was smirking at them, Anthea at her side, the MI6 operative with a tiny smile on her face.

Sherlock sighed loudly, as if annoyed, but he gave Violet a lightning fast wink.

"Mycroft's got one of his security people bringing what you need. What do you want me to do?" Violet asked her uncle, the expression on her face so similar to Sherlock's when he was working a case John wondered again at no one else in the world noticing that they were kin. John shook his head, amazed at the blindness people afflicted themselves with, himself included. All those years denying how much Sherlock meant to him, how much he wanted, needed him.

"Watch the CIA, report to me their movements. The ones here, and around the safe house perimeter." Sherlock told his niece, and she nodded in agreement. "We will be in contact sporadically, limited cell service as far down as we'll be going."

John banged his head on Sherlock's shoulder again, impatient to be going, but dreading it all the same. John had a pretty good idea where his night was heading, and it wasn't their warm, comfy bed back at 221B.

Phillip Anderson was cold, wet, and fairly certain he was experiencing frostbite or hypothermia. Probably both. He thought about going home, but he hadn't a thing to do there but stare at his wall of theories. Even he needed to get out once in a while.

Of course, his idea of going out was going to different crime scenes around the city, places where Sherlock had solved a case, or done something spectacular. The detective was always doing something spectacular, so there was quite a few places he could go and reminisce.

But there was only one place he had wanted to go this night, regardless of whether the consulting detective was home or not. From the dark windows of 221B, Anderson figured the detective and the doctor were out for the night. A thrill shot through him, thinking that Sherlock and Dr Watson were out solving a case somewhere, chasing down the bad guy, Sherlock making wild deductions that were incredibly farfetched but dead on brilliant…..

Anderson sighed, and huddled under his coat, thinking he should have stayed home, the rain was cold enough to be snow, and it was seeping through every layer he had on. He had been out all afternoon, and had gotten his fill following Dr Watson and the beautiful Holmes scion. He felt an uncomfortable tingle in his extremities when he pictured the young woman who looked so much like the detective she really ought to be his daughter. He had lost them a few times after they got the sports car, but he guessed where they were going. They always went to the same place, one of Sherlock's hiding places. Leinster Gardens, 23-24.

Anderson had followed Sherlock there his first week back from being dead. And he had gone there today after losing the pair as they zipped through London in the flashy car. Anderson had gone straight away to Leinster Gardens, determined to see if he were right, that this would be where Violet and John would go. He had been surprised earlier that day when he sat in someone's front garden, on a covered bench, hidden behind an ill tended bush of some kind; surprised because while he had only ever seen Violet and John go there, he had never seen anyone else enter or leave.

Until today.

A short woman in a long hooded black coat had exited the house, and walked to a nearby park. He hadn't needed to get up to watch her progress down the street, and for her to enter the park. He had been incredibly curious as to who she could be, as her face was hidden. She was hiding in one of Sherlock's bolt-holes, and John and Violet went there a few times a week. Anderson sat, and watched, and it wasn't until she had come back an hour later that he had recognized her. It was Mary Morstan, her face revealed as the wind pushed the hood back just enough for Anderson to see gold blonde hair, and deep blue eyes.

"Isn't it a bit cold to be hiding in the shadows?"

Anderson jumped, and would deny to his dying day that he squeaked in alarm when the voice came out from the night. Heart thumping, he turned to the alley, and saw a shadow separate from the far wall, and walk to him. He was hiding under a large piece of machinery that was still sitting in the vacant lot across from 221B. The building that used to stand here had been destroyed by one of the explosions that had rocked London the month before.

The shadow approached him, sleek and graceful, soundless on the wet pavement. He refused to show how scared he was, pretending he wasn't shaking in his boots. The harsh street light washed over the head of the shadow, and he blinked in confusion, and some small awe.

The woman was beautiful, dark eyes in a perfect face, a sweet, shy smile on her lips. Her hair was brown, and red highlights danced under the glaring street light. She was in a long black coat, hooded, and very similar to what he had seen Mary Morstan in earlier.

"I… I don't mind. It's nothing. Aren't you cold?" Anderson stammered, floored by her mere presence. She looked very familiar, as if he had seen her somewhere before.

"No, not really. Waiting on Sherlock and John to get home?" She asked, moving to hide under the giant machine with him, out of the rain. She was very close, and he did his best to stand up straight, even though that let some more damp, cold air seep in through his clothes.

"Oh! I'm not…. You don't think I'm…." He snapped his mouth shut as she sent him an amused look. She was so pretty, where had he seen her…..

"Of course you are! I'm waiting as well. Sherlock asked me to drop by, I've got some information for him. Are you one of his sources too?" She whispered, a glint in her eyes. She was smiling at him, as if she and he knew a delicious secret. He found himself smiling in return, and pulled his shoulders back, chest forward.

"Umm…..Yeah. That's why I'm here. Man relies on me for a lot." She smiled at him again, and shuffled a tiny bit closer. She even smelled pretty. Like top shelf whiskey and mint.

"Does he now? I can see that." She sighed, soft, and gazed wistfully at the dark windows of 221B. She cast him a quick sideways glance, and he bit back a grin as she blushed prettily when he caught her looking. "You look really familiar, have we met before?"

"I don't know…." He gasped as she stared at him, her eyes twinkling in the street lights. "You were at the hospital the night Sherlock got hurt last month!"

"Oh, that's it! You were coming in just as I was leaving! It's Phillip, right? He's mentioned you to me a few times." She giggled, and came a half step closer to him. "That was a scary night, wasn't it? Poor thing hardly recognized me, I had to come back the next week to give him my information. Were you there for that too?"

"I was…. Ummmmm… I was asked to sit in with him, trusted friend and all. Man didn't want to be alone." Anderson lifted his chin, encouraged as she gazed at him in awe. She was so very pretty, and sweet. Anderson found himself very pleased he'd gotten out of his house on this cold night. She was enough to warm any man's bones. And Sherlock had told this lovely creature about him!

"He's so nice, and so smart. I never get invited over, just for company. Lucky you." She looked up and down the street, and leaned in to whisper to him. "I shouldn't tell you this, but seeing as you're one of us and all, I think I can share."

He leaned in, their heads nearly touching. He did his best not to get distracted by the sweep of her perfect eyelashes, her rosy lips, and her adorable nose. He watched her pink lips as she spoke, forcing himself to pay attention to her words.

"The CIA is watching the flat." He jumped nervously, and he was about to start looking when she put a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. "No! Don't look like that. Just beyond my shoulder, far building at the main street, balcony. Go slow."

He very carefully looked to the spot she described, and he gasped as he made out the faintest hint of a grey silhouette of a man, hidden in the hazy shadows. He was far enough away Anderson couldn't make out more than his outline. If she hadn't pointed him out, Anderson would never have known the man was there.

"What is the CIA doing here, watching Sherlock?" He asked urgently, keeping his voice low. She still had her hand on his shoulder, and he found himself thankful for her firm grip. This night had gone from boring and dull to flat out exciting. A good portion of his anatomy was utterly captivated by her touch.

"I came here to warn Sherlock. It's about his current case. The CIA are after something Sherlock is hiding. I can't tell you more than that, I don't want to put you in danger." She glanced up and down the street, and he wanted to groan when she bit her lip, pearly white teeth flashing in the dark.

"Sherlock is hiding something from the CIA?" He asked, thinking as hard as he could with this woman and her distracting beauty. Sherlock wasn't hiding something, he would have noticed. But John and Violet were hiding someone…..

"Ah! Don't worry, I know exactly what you're talking about, never fear." Anderson said proudly, grinning. He was having trouble absorbing his luck. The whole miserable day was well worth it to catch this beauty's attention.

"You do? No! I thought only a few of us knew! You must be a close friend indeed if he trusted you with this secret." She sent him a doubtful look, and he did his best to look like he was certain.

"Sure I am! He's hiding someone, not something."

"You do know!" She laughed in delight, and reached out to poke him lightly in his side. "But you could be trying to charm this secret out of me, you'll have to prove it now."

"Prove it?" He gulped, wondering what she meant. She giggled, and moved right up next to him, and whispered in his ear. Her warm, sweet breath raced across his cheek, and he wanted to purr, his insides melting.

"We say the name at the same time, count of three." He couldn't nod fast enough, anything to keep her next to him.

"One…. Two….. Three…" They counted together.

"Mary….." He gasped out, jumping as her sweet lips curved in to a perfect bow of a smile.

"Morstan!" She said at the same time, and she clapped her hands together in delight. "You do know! Well, then I guess I can tell you the rest. They're searching for a safe house, where she may be."

"You mean Leinster Gardens? Saw her there today myself, in the flesh." He asked, preening as she gaped at him in adorable awe. She was very close to him, arm brushing his. "She was fine. They haven't found her yet."

"And with your help, Phillip, they won't." Her voice changed, went cool and smooth, the girlish overtones fading away like smoke in a high wind. He met her eyes, and choked as he saw them change, become less lovely, and wilder. Dangerous. She was deadly.

He fell from the blow, as it crashed into his temple. He had no time to be alarmed, unconscious before he hit the frozen ground.

Jaime stepped away from the unconscious man, shaking out her hands, anything to get the feel of idiot off of them. She looked at the dark windows of Holmes' flat, and her eyes tracked down the street to the CIA officer, thinking he was so smart hiding in plain sight. He was dressed right but he hadn't picked his placement well at all. Sure, he had a full view of the street in front of 221B, but anyone could see him if they thought to use their eyes. But not many people used their eyes….

Jaime reached under her long coat, and knelt to one knee on the cold gravel of the empty lot. The shadow under the wrecker was deep, and covered her completely. She pulled up her rifle, bringing it to her shoulder, eye to the scope. He was at the far end of Baker Street, over a hundred yards away. And perfectly vulnerable.

She saw him through the scope, clear as day, and took her shot as the crosshairs settled over his heart. She absorbed the recoil easily, not bothering to watch the now dead spy fall from the balcony to the street below. Jaime stood, and let the rifle fall back under her coat, unseen to the casual observer. The shot would draw attention, and she had to leave.

There were plenty more CIA to kill, more men to beguile and destroy. And a very vulnerable woman to save. Mary didn't know it yet, but Jaime Moriarty was on her way. Mary was caught in a power struggle between two nations, and she would suffer for it. She had been missing the final piece to Mary's location, and finding Sherlock's family stalker outside his flat had been the solution to her problem. So easy to manipulate, men. Easily dispatched, too.

She considered killing him, as he lay at her feet. But his death wouldn't be swept under the rug as the CIA officer's death would be. There would be attention brought to bear on Anderson's death. So this one night, he would live.

She walked away from the fool, and let the shadows of the cold winter night swallow her back up.

Sherlock waited impatiently as Mycroft's security people moved the boxes away from the old coal cellar door. This house had been retrofitted so many times over the decades that there were places in the basement level that weren't on any blueprints. The bunker took up most of the sub levels of the townhouse, but out on the street side of the basement level was a room untouched by time and construction.

Sherlock accepted to coil of black rope from one of the guards, throwing its weight over a shoulder and across his chest. He may need it, he may not. It depended on how much the Underground and the sewers had changed since he left two years ago.

Sherlock motioned the small rucksack to John, the one containing the explosives, and the spare torches. John groaned and rolled his eyes, but took it readily enough, throwing it over his back without hesitation. Brave man, his doctor. Most men would refuse to handle explosives. But it was C4, which was incredibly stable, and wouldn't go off if accidentally dropped or bumped into.

"Is this wise, brother?" Mycroft asked, standing at his shoulder, Violet behind him in the hall. She was wearing Mycroft's suit jacket, having given Sherlock back his coat. He could smell her shampoo on the collar, lilac and pears. In fact, it was the same scent Anthea was wearing.

"Can you come up with a better way of getting us out of this house unseen, without the CIA either grabbing us or tracking us to Mary? And she's right, by the way. The Vicar will start his search anytime now if he thinks we won't leave."

"No… it's just ….. Do be careful." Mycroft muttered, and Sherlock couldn't help the small amount of pleased surprise he felt. Mycroft rarely voiced concern.

"Sherlock will be careful, or he'll have me to answer too." John assured Mycroft, flicking his torch on and off in the dark room.

The coal door was unlocked, and the hinges groaned in complaint as it was peeled away from the wall. Dust and debris fell from the doorway, cobwebs and other things hanging from the ceiling of the passageway. It was a few inches taller than Sherlock, and wide enough at this point for them to walk side by side. John shined his light down the long tunnel, the beam fading out after ten yards or so, darkness overwhelming the torch.

"I know the way, Mycroft. I'll text when I can get a signal. Have Violet send me updates, let me know if they're moving in on Mary. If they are, I'll have to do this the fast way, and forgo stealth." Sherlock clapped Mycroft hard on the shoulder, rocking the taller man on his feet. His brother rolled his eyes, and went to wait with Violet.

"Sherlock- my every move is being watched by the Prime Minister. I will not be able to intercede if the CIA reaches Mary, or you get caught helping her. Not openly, at least. Do us all a favor, and don't get caught." Mycroft said, and Sherlock nodded.

"Come, my dear doctor. Adventure awaits, and there is a damsel to be saved." Sherlock didn't hesitate, walking through the door, the deep shadows of the world beneath London swallowing him in seconds.

John didn't wait either, plunging into the shadows behind his detective. Mycroft and Violet were left behind, staring anxiously into the abyss that consumed the people they loved most.

Mary, Sherlock and John just left now. Wait for them. –VH

Mary stared at the text, pausing only a moment before resuming her packing. She would take nothing beyond her box of aliases, her weapons, and a change of clothing. Everything else was going in the rubbish bin, accelerant waiting nearby. She would burn her presence away, the concrete walls insurance enough to prevent the fire from spreading to the neighbors.

The detective and the doctor had five hours until dawn. If they weren't here, she would have to leave. Silas was too close to her, she would not wait to die. She hadn't exaggerated, she did indeed know Silas Williamson well. So well in fact, that it had been Mary who gave him the codename The Vicar.

A Lifetime Ago… Somewhere in Virginia, USA, "The Farm"

"A, don't push him." Whispered the blonde named B to her left, both girls sweating profusely, muscles aching and ready to collapse to the mat.

"He's a dick- beating us down because we're girls. Invading the Holy Church of Male Superiority. We wouldn't be here if they didn't need us." A whispered back furiously, wiping her bangs out of her eyes, watching as their instructor knocked another girl to the mats, kicking her when she tried to get up. "It's his turn."

She sprang from her prone position on the floor, attacking from his blind spot, his attention locked on the seventeen year girl crying at his feet. A moved silently, and fast, jumping at his shoulders. She wrapped her arms around his neck, but let her legs swing out, her momentum spinning them both over the poor girl huddled on the floor, spilling them to the mats. She let go, and rolled away, as he sprang to his feet, indignant rage spilling off him in waves. She crouched, fingertips resting lightly on the mats, and met his eyes squarely.

A pulled her lips back in a rabid grin, and she leapt forward as he did, going low as he went high, his fist sailing above her head. She brought both hands up as he struggled to stop his forward momentum, and pushed, throwing him over her shoulder. She kept moving, jumping over the girl crippled by fear in the center of the training floor.

"Get up! Fight back or move!" A shouted, flipping out of the way of her instructor's bulldozer charge, evading him easily, his anger making him predictable and slow. She had faced worse from her drunken, asshole of a father, and this pathetic excuse for a man was nothing compared to seventeen years of abuse.

A laughed at the instructor as he charged her again, and her open handed slap was shockingly loud in the training room, bouncing off the concrete walls. She led him on a merry dance across the mats, provoking him into uselessness, his rage making him forget every inch of his training. She used that, dodging every blow he sent her way, laughing as she darted in and spanked him, or slapped his face again and again. He would grab her shoulders, but she would slip out from under him, evade his sweaty grip on her wrists, his moves awkward and unbalanced.

It wasn't until she laid him low with a double fisted blow to the groin that she pulled back, panting in exhaustion. The large room was quiet, and her breathing was the only noise she could hear in the space. That, and the clapping. She looked past the other trainees who had been watching in disbelief and fear as she wiped the floor with their dick of an instructor. She saw the dark haired man in the fine grey suit who had been silently watching them all the past few weeks as they began their training. He was applauding, slow enough to rankle her nerves, unsure if he was mad or not.

"Well done." He said, walking onto the mats, sniffing in disdain at the groaning pile of man sweating his life away at her feet. "What was it you called this place? The Holy Church of Male Superiority? Inventive, and so clearly not true anymore. Not for him, at least."

She swallowed nervously, afraid he would take her to task for insulting this bastion of maleness called the CIA. She felt it, but wouldn't show it. "I did. And who are you, the fucking vicar?"

She ignored the shocked faces of her fellow trainees, the winces on the faces of the other instructors as she met the dark-haired man's eyes squarely. She would not show fear, it only made people hurt you more. She had nothing left to lose. Her life was gone, her future stolen, and her name erased from existence. She would not bow down.

"The Vicar." He laughed, his eyes twinkling in mirth and something so cold she shivered. "I like that. And yes, if this was a church, I would be that indeed. Congratulations, A, you've passed orientation with flying colors."

"What?" She gasped, not understanding. She wasn't going to be punished?

"Come with me." He motioned for her to follow him from the room, not looking to see if she came as directed. "It's time for your real training to start."

She took what would be her last look at her fellow classmates, never seeing those girls again. They had washed out, and from the hundred girls picked from across the country, only a small percentage had passed. She was the best of the lot, something she never counted on. And she never stopped being the best.

The girl born Amelia followed Silas Williamson, and found her purpose in this life.

"Sherlock, you sure about this?" John was whispering, which Sherlock thought was funny, as they were alone as two people could be in the chaotic maze of tunnels and sewers beneath the city.

"Sure." Sherlock replied, using his light sporadically as he led the way in the darkness.

"I'm only asking because you paused back there like you weren't sure." John was practically riding his shoulders he was so close in the dark.

"Merely consulting my maps, my dear doctor." Sherlock told his lover, his direction fixed in the lightless maze. "I know where I'm going, trust me."

"Oh, I trust you, but I also know you well enough that you'll not admit to being lost until it's too late." John grumbled. Sherlock didn't take that personally, John wasn't wrong.

"Would you like to lead the way?" Sherlock asked him, knowing John couldn't see his grin in the dark.

"Ummm….. No thank you, keep on going please."

"Hmmm." Sherlock paused, hearing the sound of rushing water ahead, the stench of sewer.

They were making good time. They had been walking for the better part of an hour, and were near the river. They had two choices now: Either go to the surface and cross one of the bridges and risk being seen, or take the catacombs and railways under the river to the other side.

Sherlock turned on his torch, checking the wall in front of him for the access door he remembered. He saw it a few yards ahead, pleased his internal map was on target. He knew their exact location, and went for the door. John helped him turn the rusted handle, the metal screeching and echoing off the stone walls. They pulled it wide, and John stepped through the open space, swearing. They were above a sewage runoff, several feet above rushing brown water as it ran to the river.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and saw he had a signal for the first time since they entered the old coal tunnel. Violet had sent a message, the CIA were holding, and Mary was still waiting. He sent her a reply, telling her that he and John would be at Leinster Gardens within the next two hours.

"We are yards from the Thames, John. We can follow the slope here down to the bank, follow the shore to the nearest bridge, cross, and go underground again, or…"

"We're right outside the safe house radius, aren't we? We cross any of the bridges here, won't they see us?" John asked, nearly shouting over the roar from the passing water. "The CIA?"

"They just might." Sherlock agreed, and he pointed his torch down the other way, from the direction the sewer water was coming from.

"What's the option you aren't mentioning?"

"The catacombs, John. You didn't develop claustrophobia while I was away, did you? That would be inconvenient." Sherlock tugged on John's arm, leaving the door open. They would be coming back this way, hopefully with a pregnant former CIA assassin.

"No… Christ." John followed him, as Sherlock led the way, following the water deeper under London, away from the surface, careful and cautious on the narrow stone ledge.

"Have you done this before? Other than last time, when we found the bomb?" John asked him, the walls making his voice loud in the darkness.

"Rescued someone from the CIA or gone gallivanting through the catacombs?"

"Oh, well, both."

"Yes I have." Sherlock answered, laughing under his breath when John grabbed his arm when a very large rodent ran over their shoes. "Been a few years since the catacombs, not so long for the CIA."

John said nothing for a few minutes, and Sherlock led the way down a narrow passage, the walls changing from concrete and cement to something older, more ancient. Stone blocks and cobblestone floors were covered in slime, cobwebs, and water lines high on the walls. The smell was not that bad, full of moldy undertones and damp. The air was a constant temperature, cold, but not changing much. It was the damp that was the most unpleasant aspect, it sank in through their layers, and settled in their bones.

Sherlock watched as John rubbed at his left shoulder, over the old bullet wound he'd gotten years before while in the service. The cold damp air was most likely aggravating the old injury.

"Tell me a story, Sherlock." John asked suddenly, as the sound of the water faded away. Sherlock dropped down, under an old pipe, his coat dragging in the muck on the floor.

"Tell you a story?"

"Yeah, you said you'd rescued someone from the CIA, tell me all about it." John said, pausing to zip his coat up higher, his breath fogging in the cold.

Sherlock watched John shiver, and sighed. For a man so good at taking care of others, he could be remarkably blind when it came to himself. Sherlock put his torch in his pocket, the light shining up to the ceiling, and reached up for his scarf. He was fine, he hardly felt the cold. But John was still accustomed to living comfortably while he was gone, and wasn't used to long, cold, lonely nights.

Sherlock roped his deep blue scarf around John's neck, making a loose hoop like he wore it, and tucked the ends in his coat. John got a faint pink tint to his cheeks, and Sherlock leaned down, catching his doctor's cold lips with his. He held his love, kissing him in the deep dark of the oldest parts of their city, content and happy, no matter where they may be.

"So, the rescue? Well, that's an interesting story." Sherlock said as he pulled slowly away, John's lips clinging to his. "And you know the person I saved, too."

"What really? Who?" John followed behind him as Sherlock took off again, going down a stone spiral staircase that was older than dirt.

"Well, before I tell you, I should probably inform you that I know you lied about Irene Adler going to America." Sherlock stopped when he heard John stumble, and he shined his light towards his lover. John's face was an odd mixture of embarrassment, consternation, and weirdly enough, fear.

"Oh…. Saw through that one, huh?" John gasped out, rubbing his knee. From the wet spot he must have hit the stone floor. But he stood up just fine, and Sherlock met his gaze calmly. "She's dead, mate. Got beheaded by terrorists in Karachi."

"Did she now?" Sherlock asked, resuming his journey downwards.

"Well, Mycroft said…. No! Don't tell me you…. Sherlock!" John called out to him as he rounded a corner, pausing to consult his internal map. He waited for John to catch up, his doctor breathing faster than he should be for such a short sprint.

"Don't tell me you saved her." John said, shining his light in Sherlock's face. "How did you? Never mind, it'll make my head hurt hearing how you pulled that one off."

John was alternating between looking mad, and looking scared of something. Sherlock was at a loss, and he stared hard at his doctor, trying to figure it out. His lips were tight, and there was tension in his shoulders.

"Why are you upset I know you lied about Irene? And I was going to tell you a story, but if you're going to sulk at being caught out, I guess I won't." Sherlock shook his head in exasperation, and went to turn away.

"No, wait. Sherlock, stop." John put a hand on his arm, and tugged him to a halt. "I'm sorry, go ahead and tell me."

"Okay." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, trying to figure his doctor's odd behavior out. He shrugged, and continued downwards, John on his heels.

"Well, I sent her into hiding after I saved her from the terror cell in Karachi. Faked her death- I happen to be very good at that- and shucked her off to Greece."

"Greece? Of course; sandy beaches, warm sun, nude beaches. Yeah, I see her being happy there." John muttered, and Sherlock sighed at the interruption. "Sorry, keep going."

"As I said, Greece. Got her in a convent there, and said my goodbyes. Came back here with no one the wiser." Sherlock said, taking the older tunnel to his right, which would take them directly under the Thames. Hopefully there were no collapses ahead, he didn't fancy turning around.

"A convent?" The incredulity in John's voice was hilarious, and Sherlock grinned, laughing at the memory of Irene's face as he left her in the courtyard of the convent.

"Yes, a convent. She was most…. Upset with me."

"Yeah, I imagine she would be. So how'd you save her from the CIA?"

"She decided retirement wasn't for her, which I can sympathize with, and got herself in deep with a man who was one of their assets. She being who she is, she then learned something that they didn't want her to. That was about a year ago, now. I was in Paris at the time, tracking down smugglers, and got her message almost too late to save her."

"What happened?" Sherlock turned to help John, illuminating a rather large hole in the floor, one that echoed beneath them. He cast the torchlight down the long tunnel, but saw no more voids.

"I dropped what I was doing, much to Mycroft's disgust, and made it to Athens just in time to see Irene get kidnapped off the street by the CIA, posing as local police." Sherlock grabbed John's free hand, and hugged the wall as they skirted the void in the tunnel. Sherlock kept walking, figuring they were at the halfway point of the river tunnel.

"I then tracked them to the harbor, and had to pretend to be a fisherman to get close enough to the ship she was being held on. I managed to sneak aboard, take out a few CIA, nicely though, I didn't fancy killing them, and stole a boat. I got her out of Greece, and took her to Turkey. She's in a castle there, living the dream, as she called it."

"Huh." John muttered, his torch lighting up a large puddle of water ahead, as the tunnel dipped downwards more. They were just under the deepest part of the river, and the most dangerous.

"What?" Sherlock asked, hearing the odd tone in John's voice. Like he was trying not to talk but couldn't help himself.

"That sounds kind of…. Ya know…. Romantic." John told him, and Sherlock stopped in disbelief. John sounded really upset.

Sherlock spun around to John, angling his torch so he could clearly see his doctor's face without blinding him. John was doing his best to look casual and relaxed, but the tension in his shoulders, and the way he kept biting his lip belied his efforts. Sherlock, while never that good with the subtleties of human emotions, knew John well enough to finally figure his doctor out.

"Dear Lord, are you jealous?" Sherlock asked, wondering what he'd said in his entire recounting to warrant jealousy from John.

"I…. no…." Sherlock raised his brows in disbelief, and John threw his hands up in surrender, shrugging. "Fine, yes, I'm jealous."

"Of what?" Sherlock asked his lover, unsure of how to proceed. "I never slept with her, as you well know."

"Do you love her?" John asked, miserable.

"What?" He was really lost now.

"Do you love Irene Adler? I thought you must have, I believed you did when she broke your heart with the whole camera-phone mess."

"Love The Woman?" Sherlock asked, just to be sure.

"Yes, dammit!" John shouted, slapping a hand over his mouth as his words echoed loudly in the long, narrow tunnel. "You did travel across Europe to save her life twice."

Sherlock had no idea what to say. John was jealous of Irene Adler, one of the coldest and most calculating women Sherlock ever met. She was arrogant, manipulative, and fiercely intelligent. She played the game as well as he, and she had lost. Fallen for him completely, given up the upper hand to her heart. And he had wanted her, he knew he had. She was the only one other than John to stir his body past being transport, past an inconvenience of necessity. But he had never taken her up on her offer of 'dinner', not wanting to take that last step and be with another human so intimately. Not until John. His doctor was the only one he had ever been intimate with, and he wanted no one else, ever.

John got an indignant look on his face, as Sherlock took the time to ponder John's question. Did he love her? He knew he loved Molly, but Sherlock felt John didn't mean that kind of love. John meant the in love kind of love. Like he loved John.

Sherlock leaned back against the wall, and tugged out his mobile. No signal, and it was still hours yet to dawn. He'd risk the wait to soothe his doctor. John was the most important part of his life, the world could burn for he cared as long as it meant John was happy. He put the phone away, and crossed his arms, content to take his time and answer as best he could, right up until he saw John's face. John was gaping at him, shocked he had to think about it.

"I think I might have, at one point. Or I could have been close." Sherlock blurted out suddenly, worried he hadn't responded fast enough, making John jump. "Is that bad?"

Sherlock felt a quiet pain creep into his chest at the confounded look on John's face, and he lowered his light, inching away.

John was aghast, but snapped himself out of it when Sherlock made to walk away, the look on his doctor's face actually making his chest hurt. Sherlock was in an impossible place, a place where telling John the truth was actually causing him pain. Sherlock tried to shrug him off, pulling his arm away when John reached out for him.

"I don't understand, John. Here I am, slogging through the muck and grime of the oldest sections of this rat infested tunnel system to go save your former fiancée, and you get upset that I kept a woman from getting her head chopped off, and then save her again when she gets kidnapped for torture?" Sherlock turned on John, making the shorter man step back a foot in shock. "You go see Mary twice a week for over a month, and I never complain. You spend nearly as much time with Violet and Mary as me, and I never said a word. She's pregnant with your child! She has a greater claim on you than I will ever have!"

Sherlock spun away, kicking at a loose stone that had fallen from the ceiling God knows how long ago, sending it rocketing down the tunnel, splashing into the pool several yards away. He turned back to John, too upset to see that John had gone pale, guilt making him swallow uncomfortably as Sherlock got even more animated.

"And I've done all I could to keep her safe because I love you! And yet I mention a woman I haven't seen in over a year, who did more harm to me than good, and you sulk and pout and snap at me? I had a mild infatuation with her, nothing compared to what I feel for you."

Sherlock brought his light up, and flicked it off, hiding in the shadows. He whispered in the darkness, unsure of where he was with John. He knew where they were physically, but this was a new place for him, his heart hurt and John had done it to him.

"If anyone in this relationship has cause to be jealous, shouldn't it be me?"

"Sherl, love, I'm sorry. I'm an idiot." John pleaded, certain he did damage to Sherlock's fragile heart. His detective gave his trust and love so rarely, and here he was getting upset about a woman worlds away, whom Sherlock thought he might have loved. Might, not a yes, and not a serious yes, either.

"You're right, I'm sorry. I really am. I appreciate you helping Mary, helping me with her." John tried reaching out to Sherlock again, slowly, as if he were afraid the detective might bolt. "I keep going to you for help all the time with her, keeping her safe and out of danger, and I never thought about how me doing so might make you feel. I'm sorry."

Sherlock looked down at the floor, the lights bouncing off the water, the slick stones. John held a hand outstretched to him, as if waiting for him to reach out and take it. Sherlock flinched, thinking he should have chosen a better story to tell than The Woman. John saw his flinch, and Sherlock looked up as John groaned in despair.

John was standing in front of him one moment, the next in his arms, face buried under his chin against his neck. The place John always snuggled, and Sherlock lifted his arms, holding him back.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. Forgive me for being an idiot?" John whispered, squeezing him tightly, nose cold against his neck. "Please?"

Sherlock sighed loudly, and let go of his frustration and confusion. John was his, his doctor, his lover. He had him in his arms, and John loved him. He knew that, he truly did.

"I forgave you for being an idiot years ago." Sherlock whispered, and he smiled when John laughed. "I love you, so yes, I forgive you. I'm sorry I got mad."

Sherlock held John for a moment more, before his internal clock nudged at him, telling him they had wasted enough time confessing foolish jealousies. Sherlock lifted a hand, and with a gloved finger, tipped John's face up to his. He kissed his lover in the deep dark, closing his eyes, and thinking of nothing but the man he loved so much. John sighed in his mouth, arms around his neck, and Sherlock felt a flicker of heat deep in his core when John's tongue licked across his lower lip before sweeping deeply in his mouth.

Sherlock pulled back, and flicked his torch back on. John gave him that sweet smile that was only for him, and let him go.

"C'mon, we're almost to the other side." Sherlock grabbed John's hand, and held it as he led the way down the ancient tunnel.

Peter scurried down the alleyway, nervously checking over his shoulder every few steps. He slipped in his haste, fetching up against the hard brick wall, scraping his hands.

Peter pushed off from the wall, careening on the icy cobblestones before gathering what was left of his balance and running the last distance to the door at the end of the alley. He raised a shaking fist, and did his best to rap out the code correctly. The shakes were settling in hard, and he was losing feeling in his fingers and toes. He didn't mind the cold; it helped to keep the pain levels down.

Withdrawal was chewing on him, like Hannibal with a raw bone. He'd run out of that baneful blessing called Winter's Night while out hunting down the Master's information. Usually it lasted longer than the few hours he'd had, but this last batch was off. The entire process was off.

The door opened, and he spilled through it, not responding to the guard's shouts, running past the front room with its armed occupants, choking on each ragged breath. He pushed past the heavy plastic curtain at the door to the lab, and startled the mixers at the nearest table. The masked and aproned mixers fell back, clucking like chickens, as he grabbed the nearest test tube and stuck his fingers in the iridescent gel.

He sucked the gel off his fingers, one at a time, making sure he missed nothing. The drug hit him fast, and hard. The pain fell away, his muscles relaxed, and everything in the room developed a halo of foggy light. Peter sobbed in relief, hand falling away from his mouth, jaw slack, the euphoric and nearly erotic warmth spreading through every layer of his body as his system was flooded by the hallucinogen.

"PETER!" It was a yell of utter disgust, echoing through the lab, bouncing off the inside of his skull. Peter blinked, the fresh high cushioning the rabid terror he should be feeling at hearing the Master Chemist screaming his name.

Woodley burst in the lab, and every occupant froze, staring down at the floor, but for Peter, who smiled beatifically at his master, swaying on his feet as if he heard music. Woodley stalked down the length of the lab, white light reflecting off his head, eyes glittering, and teeth shining. Peter grinned at his boss, and even managed a weak wave at Hannibal when the Rottweiler growled at him from beside his master.

"What are you doing, you stupid git?" Woodley growled, and Hannibal lowered his head, ears back, lip curling. Peter giggled, thinking the dog might actually be cute if it wasn't so fucking mean. Peter barely felt the fist that clipped his head, and he fell in slow motion to the floor, one hand still clutching the test tube, landing on his ass and giggling.

"Fucking junkie." Woodley reached out, and plucked the test tube from his weak grasp. "You were supposed to come see me the second you got back, not raid our supply."

"Sorry, Master. So sorry." Peter couldn't stop giggling, and he made kissy noises at Hannibal, ignoring the fact the dog was looking at him like he was a side a beef that fell on the floor.

"For fuck's sake." Woodley reached down, and grabbed Peter by his coat collar, dragging him across the concrete floor of the lab. Woodley pulled him across the floor to the decontaminant station, and threw him under the shower head.

Peter just laughed as the ice cold water rained down over him, soaking him through, and doing little to clear his head. Woodley turned the knob, and the water went to blistering hot in seconds, making Peter scream and drag himself out from under the spray.

"Now tell me what he said." Woodley demanded, backing away from the dripping mess of a man sniveling at his feet.

"Master… The Vicar… says he is busy." Peter gasped out, water dripping in his eyes, the drops on the floor shining impossibly bright. Even the dirty floor was glowing, and he closed his eyes as the world spun, his equilibrium shot to hell. He was loving every second.

"Busy? He's busy? I pay the man three million pounds to fetch me the girl, three months ago I might add, and the second he's on the same bloody island as her, he's 'busy'?" Woodley shouted, and threw the test tube of Winter's Night across the room, the gel sloshing out, raining over the room. The tube smashed and shattered, shards spinning on the floor. Peter watched its flight, mourning the waste of all that delightful poison.

"Fuck him being busy! Get your ass up." Woodley drew back his foot to kick at him, and Peter scrambled to his feet, dripping and shaking. "You will go back over there, and tell him I don't pay people to sit on their asses and spend my fucking money!"

Peter swallowed, the initial high fading, pulling back from his brain. He was capable enough of realizing if he went back to the CIA spymaster's house, he wouldn't be alive to report back to Woodley.

"He's after his own target, master." Peter stammered, hiding his head under his hands, expecting a blow to fall. "He said he would drop by after he had his target."

When no blow came, Peter peeked through his fingers. Woodley was petting Hannibal, the dog licking his chops, eyeing Peter. He avoided looking at the dog, and saw Woodley wasn't paying attention to him anymore. He was thinking, brow furrowed, and his eyes distant.

"Fine. I'll wait." Woodley snapped, skewering Peter where he stood with his sharp eyes. "We'll move ahead with our backup plan. Send the men out day after tomorrow. I want that formula."

"Yes, master." Peter whispered, glad of the reprieve. Woodley walked away, Hannibal's claws clicking on the concrete floor. They left the lab, and Peter fell back down, too fucked up to try standing anymore. He reached out a finger, and touched a tiny drop of Winter's Night on the floor, bringing his finger to his lips. Even that tiny drop was heaven, and he hummed happily to himself as the high took him deeper.

"I'm taking the world's longest shower when we get home." John muttered, slogging through the rank sewage on the tunnel floor.

"It's not that bad. We could be in Paris, the catacombs there have corpses." Sherlock rejoined, dodging a section of low hanging ceiling that was partially collapsed.

"I'm thinking I've already seen one or two of those." John said, determined not to look down at whatever was moving past his feet in the filthy water. It was freezing cold, and he'd lost feeling in his toes.

"We're almost out, we'll be coming up on the rail lines in about a hundred yards." Sherlock told him, his deep voice bouncing off the hard walls of the tunnels, echoing deeper into the abyss.

They had been down in the vast labyrinth under London for three hours now, and John was both amazed and disturbed by Sherlock's memory of the ancient tunnel system. John had yet to see him falter, and they hadn't once had to turn around, or backtrack. Sherlock was heading for a distant point he alone could sense, the way birds knew where magnetic north was while migrating.

"Where are we going, Sherl'?" John asked, finally realizing he had yet to voice that question the entire time they'd been trudging through the gross, nasty shit of the sewers and tunnels.

"This section of tunnel dead ends right beside the rail lines that run beneath 23-24 Leinster Gardens. We are within a thousand yards of Mary as we speak." Sherlock told him, glancing over his shoulder at his doctor.

"Seriously? We're that close?" John sighed loudly in relief, glad this half of the nightmare was almost over. All they had to do was get Mary and go back the way they came. Then he thought through the words Sherlock actually used, and he stopped abruptly, shining his light at Sherlock's tall form. "What do you mean, 'dead ends'?"

Sherlock held up his hand against the bright light, and John lowered it enough so he wouldn't blind the detective.

"I brought the explosives for a reason, John." Sherlock said calmly, motioning to the pack John still carried on his back. "We have to blow our way through to the Underground once we get there."

Sherlock started walking again, and John gaped at his back in complete incredulity. There was no way he heard that correctly. Blow up the Underground?

"Sherlock! We are not going to blow up the Underground! We just stopped a lunatic from doing that last month!" John shouted as he hurried to catch up to Sherlock, feet slapping on the wet stones.

"We aren't blowing up the Underground, just a section of non-load bearing wall." Sherlock replied, and John came up next to the detective as he ran his torchlight up and down a smooth, tall wall in front of them.

"Oh, that's tons better." John snorted, nerves jingling. Only Sherlock bloody Holmes. John watched as Sherlock thoroughly perused the wall, shining his light over every inch, before stopping a few yards away.

"Here." Sherlock put his torch on the ground, the beam aiming at a spot on the wall. "Give me the C4."

"Christ, Sherlock." John swore, but he took off the rucksack and handed it over to his lover. "What if a train is going by at the same time we blow that, and people get hurt?"

"As long as I know what time it is, I can time the detonation to avoid hitting a train." Sherlock said as he took out a small block of C4, a timer and detonator imbedded in the explosive. "I'd be more worried about the trains being late than me getting this wrong."

"Fuck me, Sherlock." John groaned, watching Sherlock attach the small bomb to the wall. Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and stared at the screen. He had the clock up, and appeared to be waiting.

"John, once I set this, run as fast as you can back down the tunnel. Keep going until we hit that last corner about two hundred yards back." Sherlock said, not looking up.

"Oh shit." John's heart was racing, and his fingers were tingling. Adrenaline was pouring into his veins, and he felt like he was running already. Sherlock gave him back the bag, and he threw it over his shoulder, hand gripping his torch tightly. The concussive wave from the explosion would be magnified by the tunnels, and it would devastate everything in its path.

"Get ready." Sherlock said, and John leaned over slightly, slanting his body back the way they had come. Sherlock started counting under his breath, and put his mobile away, and picking up the torch from the floor. John watched, his heart damn near bursting from his chest, as Sherlock started the timer.

"Run!" Sherlock shouted, and they bolted away from the wall. John reached out his hand, and grabbed Sherlock's, and they ran hard and fast down the tunnel. The darkness came up at the swiftly, and they dodged broken stones and puddles in their mad dash down the long tunnel. "Keep going!"

They ran for what felt like forever, until Sherlock yanked hard on his arm, jerking him around a corner that came out of nowhere in the dark shadows. Sherlock threw him to the wall, and plastered himself to John, and the world decided to rearrange itself at that exact moment.

John slapped his hands over Sherlock's ears, and Sherlock did the same for him, as orange light flashed brightly, reflecting off the tunnel, burning stone and hot winds racing after the light. It was the noise, the concussive wave that was so amazingly horrible; it echoed and roared, ricocheting and destructive. The wall trembled at his back, the floor beneath his feet.

John was convinced they were going to die, right up until Sherlock locked lips with him in the chaos. Fire bloomed in him, inescapable and fierce, and he kissed his detective back, adrenaline burning his nerve endings. He kissed Sherlock so hard he bit his lip, making Sherlock gasp and pull back. Sherlock raised a hand to his bottom lip, and it came away wet, a tiny drop of blood on his fingertip.

"Sorry." John grinned, shaking from the incredible high he was living.

"Hmm. We'll see how sorry you are once we get home, Dr Watson." Sherlock winked at him, and John felt all the blood drain out of his head and pool in his groin. Sherlock dodged John's eager hand, and walked back around the corner. John growled, and darted out after him.

They walked back up the tunnel, stepping around the fresh debris on the tunnel floor. There was a patch of light ahead, John felt a breeze running down the tunnel to them, the air cleaner, newer.

"It worked!" John started to jog, eager to get out of the tunnels. Sherlock kept pace with him, and John heard a chiming coming from his detective's pockets as they hit the opening. John stepped through the hole in the wall, and his feet crunched on the gravel of the Tube line. There was a ten foot span between the wall and the nearest track, and John looked down to his right. There was light coming from that direction, and he instinctively began to head towards it.

"John." Sherlock called to him, and he stopped.

"What?" John was about to turn, right up until Sherlock sprinted past him, running full out along the wall, towards the light. "Sherlock, what?"

John caught up to him, Sherlock's mobile bright in the shifting shadows.

"I just got a text from Violet, she sent it an hour ago. Williamson started searching the grid. We may be too late."

John's heart froze in his chest, and he ran faster. Mary was ahead of them somewhere, and she was trapped.

Jaime Moriarty was tracking the American spy as he searched the park not far from Leinster Gardens. He had been circling the park, looking for houses or flats that appeared to be abandoned, or anything else out of place in this heavily residential area. Jaime was confident he wouldn't see her, as she was crouching in the eave of a roof, the overhang making a deep shadow where she watched, and waited. She was high enough she could be certain she was out of his line of sight, but not so high she couldn't drop to the ground immediately if needed.

He was slowly working his way down the street, to the house Jaime was convinced Mary was hiding. It wasn't so much a house as a shell, surrounding a ventilation hole for the Underground. She was one house over, on the same side of the street, and she could see the interior walls of the shell. Jaime stilled as he came directly under her, and she could see the mobile he had in his hands, the screen lit up on what looked that a real estate website. He was running the addresses, looking for homes that were empty. He would get to the shell house soon enough, and he just might suspect Mary was hiding there once he ran that address.

Jaime waited until he walked on a few more feet, and she reached up for the roof above her, swinging herself up and over. She landed silently on the roof, and kept back far enough she would not be visible from the sidewalk. She was at the edge of the shell house, and she ducked down, pulling her rifle. She crawled to the edge of the roof, able to see down inside the shell house, and the street to either side. She set up the rifle, and waited.

She knew he had found the same target as she when he stopped walking, and abruptly moved to the opposite side of the street. She checked her ammo, and listened. The streets were quiet, everyone sleeping at this late hour, so she could hear the revving of a high powered engine in the distance. They were coming for Mary.

The black SUV careened around the sharp corner, coming down the street, screaming to a stop three houses down. Jaime counted five men pouring out, joining the sixth on the sidewalk. She had more than enough ammo for all of them. There was a noise from far below her, down inside the shell house on the opposite wall. Jaime leaned over carefully, and she raised a brow in mild appreciation as a well hidden panel opened in the wall, about thirty feet above the rail lines. Jaime grinned as she saw the golden head of Mary peer out, looking down into the void.

She was getting ready to toss a spare round at the blonde spy to get her attention, when movement on the street caught her eye. The Americans were approaching, converging on the house. And fast. Jaime lifted the rifle, and fired. The loud report shattered the lazy silence of the predawn hour, and a man dropped to the pavement. The Americans scattered, diving behind parked cars and trash bins, anything close. Jaime ignored the blonde assassin as she started to climb down the wall, heading for the lines three stories below her.

Jaime fired again, dropping another man, his head exploding in bone fragments and red rain. She laughed, blood lust singing in her heart, and drifted the scope over another spy, shooting through the trash bin he was hiding behind. The thin metal did little to stop the bullet, and a third man fell. Jaime ducked, finally taking return fire from the street, two men shooting at her, their shots too close for comfort. She pulled back from the edge of the roof, and checked on Mary. She was nearly to the bottom, and Jaime squinted, thinking she saw lights below her. She swung the rifle around, used the scope to look below, to where Mary was just reaching the ground.

"Dammit!" She muttered, seeing the very recognizable silhouettes of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson. They had reached Mary first. If Jaime didn't catch up, she may not find Mary until she was a cold corpse in an MI6 morgue somewhere. She clocked the direction the trio disappeared, and swung the rifle back over her shoulder.

Jaime got to her feet, and gauged the distance, the feet she'd fall. Shots were coming thick in her direction, another SUV having pulled on scene. She could run away, and try and find Mary later, or she could jump. It was an easy decision, really. She had nothing to live for anymore, just the never-ending ache in her heart for the blonde assassin's presence.

Jaime backed up, and then sprinted for the void of the Underground vent, pushing off hard from the ledge. She flew over the hole, a train screaming by below her as she headed at a steep angle for the far wall of the shell house. She felt nothing as she fell towards the wall at an incredible speed, and Jaime didn't hesitate to reach for the metal rungs imbedded in the concrete wall. She hit hard, so hard her arms nearly dislocated as she clung to the metal bars, dangling for a heartbeat over the rail lines, the train still barreling past thirty feet below. She didn't want for her stinging hands to acclimate to the pain. She pushed the agony from strained muscles out of her mind, and descended the metal ladder quickly.

She heard men shouting above her through the open panel, and went faster. She knew they had found the panel door when shots began to be fired down the wall at her. Jaime hit the gravel, and ran after Mary. She could see nothing in the darkness ahead of her, but she didn't falter. Mary was just out of reach, and nothing would stop Jaime from seeing her again.

"Who are they shooting at?" John panted, gun out, covering Mary and Sherlock as they ran ahead of him.

"There was someone on the roof next to the safe house, using a rifle. Whoever it was killed three men as they approached." Mary said, not sounding winded at all, her strides even over the rough gravel. She glanced back over her shoulder, hearing gunfire coming from behind them. "Whoever they're shooting at is still alive, and coming up on us quick."

Mary turned back, and started to jog faster, matching Sherlock's long stride, John still behind them.

"Mycroft send someone after all?" John asked Sherlock as they reached a hole in the wall of the Tube tunnel.

"Ah, that's explains the mini earthquake I felt a while back. Nice." Mary hopped through, not bothered by the muck and nasty smells of the tunnels. She saw there was only one way to go, and went.

"He may have sent someone when we didn't respond to Violet's text. We can ask him once we get back." Sherlock followed behind Mary, his torch illuminating the floor for her. She kept walking, and would only hesitate when they came to a fork. Sherlock would point, and she would resume her relentless pace.

"Should we wait for whoever it is?" John said, looking behind them sporadically.

"No, don't stop. Keep going, Mary." Sherlock pointed down the tunnel, and she walked faster.

Mary would occasionally catch a glimpse of John's face as she kept going, nary a complaint or show of fear. He was surprised by her for some reason. She had been in worse places. This dank, ancient, dirty place was nothing.

"Mary, you okay?" John asked, after ten minutes of silence.

"Yes, why?"

"You just seem very, um, focused." John said, and she rolled her eyes at him. "No one's behind us."

"Look at the floor, John." Mary instructed, pausing for a moment. Sherlock stopped beside her, and they both watched John as he shined his light back the way they came.

"Okay?"

"Ours are the only footprints down here. They will follow. Keep moving." Mary turned back the way she was going, Sherlock a silent shadow at her side, his torch lighting the way for her.

"Oh, gotcha." John said quietly, and Mary laughed for the first time in weeks at the silly tone in his voice, as if he should have known better than to ask.

"Come on John, the fun is about to start." Mary called softly over her shoulder.

"Fun?" He sounded dubious, as well he might.

"Yes, fun. We're about to be hunted by CIA trained assassins in catacombs in one of the oldest tunnel systems in the world. Sounds like fun to me."

"That's fun?" He didn't bother restraining his surprise and dismay.

"For me, at least. I've done far worse in my lifetime. I'm actually interested to see who is better. Me, or the new kids."

Sherlock threw her a glance, and she just grinned at him. John was muttering under his breath, something about hormones and cabin fever. She didn't disagree.

Jaime paused at the hole blown through the side of the Tube, and she reached in her coat, searching for her torch. She swung the rifle over her shoulder, pulling out her nine mil, eyeing the way she had come. She had whittled the number of agents following down to three from the nine that had come for Mary. They may or may not risk following. If they were smart, they'd fall back and call for assistance or new orders, but this was the CIA, and smart may be a stretch.

Jaime attached a small LED light to her nine mil, flicking it on before diving through the large hole in the wall. She had seen the shadows of men approaching, and heard the ricochet of bullets slapping the walls. Idiots.

Jaime aimed the light down, and could clearly see the footprints on the wet floor. The three were mere minutes ahead of her. Jaime put on more speed, and trusted that Sherlock and John would be more focused on keeping Mary safe and moving than setting booby traps behind them.

"Someone is behind us." Sherlock whispered, dimming his light with his hand. "Don't stop."

"Is it Mycroft's man?" John asked, whispering back.

"How is he supposed to know that, John? Both of you shut up, keep going." Mary muttered, smacking John on the shoulder in disgust. "What part of 'hunted' was difficult?"

John glared at her as she moved past him, but he said nothing. John couldn't tell if Sherlock was smirking or frowning at Mary's comment.

John kept his gun out relying on Sherlock's light to guide them through. In the deep dark, the faint light escaping past Sherlock's fingers was sufficient to show them where to step. They had been moving swiftly for nearly an hour now, and John figured they were making better progress going back than they had coming through the first time. Mary was moving at a ground-devouring pace, and she had yet to falter. Even carrying a small black bag over her shoulder and a nine mil in her right hand, she was untiring.

John was beginning to feel fatigue, and his legs were heavy from the cold and wet. But he would keep going as long as she did, determined to keep her safe regardless of who was behind them.

They were coming up on a section of the tunnels that split into multiple branches, some angling further down into the abyss, others snaking out into dead ends or cave-ins.

There was a loud pop behind them, and John leaped forward, pushing Mary against the wall, covering her body with his. He aimed his gun back down the way they had come, and he could have sworn he saw a flash of light. Then another. As if they were two people back there, about a hundred yards behind them. John stiffened as he realized that Mary had her gun out, her arm over his shoulder, pointing at the exact same spot. She had moved so fast he hadn't even seen her do it.

There were two more pops, and they saw what looked like muzzle flashes in the far distance.

"Whoever is behind us is either about to die, or they just killed someone else." Mary murmured in his ear. He caught whiff of her perfume, Claire de la Lune, and he swallowed back the memories. The pre-Sherlock-lives memories. Before she went crazy and started killing people because she was pissed off memories.

"Shit, we have people heading this way! Move!" John pushed at her, and Sherlock pointed them to a tunnel just as bullets flew through the air between them. John gasped as he felt a searing white hot heat scorch his upper right arm.

Mary was running, dodging bullets, and she disappeared down a tunnel next to the one Sherlock had tried to get her to go down. John shoved at Sherlock, pushing him down the right tunnel, just as two men ran into the junction behind them.

"Mary!" John shouted, trying to go back for her, but Sherlock had him in a tight grip, and pulled him deeper in the shadows of their tunnel.

Mary dodged the shots being fired at her, running down the ancient tunnel. She thought she heard John shout her name, but she could do nothing but run as the man behind her kept firing. Bullets were bouncing everywhere, her heart racing in sudden fear that she might get hit. Her baby wouldn't even have a chance to live.

There was shot so loud, so close, that Mary stopped running, looking down, convinced she would feel a gaping hole in her somewhere. She felt nothing, no wetness, no cold and hollow pain, nothing. There was a whisper of sound behind her, and she spun, bringing her gun up.

A shadow reached out from the dark, and snatched her gun from her hand, smooth as silk and easy as breathing. Mary felt her heart seize up, her arms freeze, as the shadow kept moving to her. Instead of a blow, or a stabbing pain, Mary was enveloped in a tight, warm embrace.

"Mary." Jaime Moriarty whispered in her ear. The assassin wrapped her close, every inch of their bodies touching, and Mary couldn't stop the brief cry of disbelief and joy that burst forth. Long brown hair caught back in the familiar braid, the smell of Irish whiskey and mint, and the smooth, perfect face pressed to hers.

Mary sobbed, holding the younger woman, oblivious to the bleeding corpse, his torch still glowing, illuminating the tunnel. Relief, joy, and an overwhelming sense of rightness was filling her up, and Mary felt her walls come down. She was a miracle, a ghost, an unexpected gift in the lonely dark.

"Jaime, sweetheart. I guess you found the knife." Mary choked out, laughing in happiness. She pulled back just enough to see the younger woman's face. Jaime was crying, silent tears running from her dark eyes, a tiny smile on her lips. Mary cupped her face, and without thought, kissed her rescuer.

Jaime gasped, and Mary found herself locked in the most intense kiss she'd ever had. She'd kissed women before, hard not to in the job she'd had for over fifteen years. But this was different. She was kissing someone who admired her, loved her, and understood her as no one else in this world did, or ever could. She was herself with this woman, in her purest form.

Jaime kissed her back, arms tight around her neck, and she was making faint mewling noises of joy deep in her chest as Mary touched her tongue to hers. Fire flared up, running over Mary's caution, making her forget where she was, the last two months of sadness, everything.

There was the sound of a gunfire, and Mary pulled back, gasping for air and wondering where the Hell all that passion had come from. Jaime lifted her gun and handed it back over, raising her own nine mil and aiming it back up the tunnel.

"Oh God, John!" Mary grabbed Jaime's hand, and pulled her back up the tunnel. They ran back to the junction, and Mary paused at the entrance to the tunnel the two men had gone down. There was another flash and a pop, then silence. "No, please no…."

Mary waited beside Jaime, both of them aiming down the tunnel, waiting. The two women put their backs to the wall on either side of the tunnel, and listened.

"Mary!" John shouted from the darkness, and Mary nearly collapsed in relief. She could hear the deep rumble of Sherlock's voice, the men coming back up the tunnel. Mary left her position, and grabbed Jaime, pulling her away from the tunnel mouth.

"If they see you, there'll be a fight." Mary told the younger woman. Jaime merely smiled, her eyes wild in the darkness. "No killing my baby's father."

"Yes, dear." Jaime murmured, and Mary did her best not to laugh. Sherlock and John were almost back.

"Are we still being followed?"

"No, I killed them all. I am guessing John killed the last one." Jaime whispered.

"They can't know you're still alive. John will tell Mycroft if he sees you. Sherlock I'm not sure about, but John will tell the world if he sees you're alive. Jaime, you have to hide. Please." Mary begged, not wanting Jaime to be forced to kill John or Sherlock. And she could, she would. Without blinking.

"Are you certain? Come with me now, and we can disappear, forever. No one will ever find us." Jaime said, her eyes beseeching.

"Oh, sweetheart, I want too. I really do." Mary was surprised by how badly she wanted to go, to run, to disappear with this woman and forget her troubles. But she couldn't. The heart beating beneath hers wouldn't let her give up on it all. "The Vicar has come for me, and if I run, Mycroft Holmes will make sure any chance I have at a future is stripped from me. I may have a chance to get out of this mess intact if I stay with John and Sherlock. I'm pregnant, I can't think for just myself. I will be safe with John and Sherlock. We're going to Mycroft's townhouse. I'll be fine. I'll see you again, I promise."

Jaime looked down the tunnel, the men closer now, running, and their footsteps loud.

"I love you, Mary." Jaime kissed her, and she was gone, evaporating into the darkness.

Mary turned back to the tunnel just as John and Sherlock reached the top, John panting hard.

"Mary, thank God! Are you okay?" John grasped her shoulders, and she was glad the light was minimal. He shouldn't be able to see the tears falling from her lashes, or the bittersweet smile on her lips.

"Turns out they weren't better than me after all. They're dead, let's go." Mary said, glad her voice didn't crack on the tears she was fighting against, and losing.

Sherlock and John parted for her, as she went down the tunnel, not looking back.

I love you too, Jaime.