Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
WARNING: Sex. Naughty rough sex.
A/N: Due to how time consuming it is writing two massive chapters twice a week, I will be cutting back to posting one chapter per week while I work on my other projects. I am NOT abandoning this story, I love it too much. And I wouldn't do that to you guys. It's hard working full time and writing full time. Now if only I got paid to write fanfiction. ;-)
I am beyond thankful for the reception I have gotten from this site, and the amount of love this story has seen. Just a few hours ago this story hit over 30,000 views. Wow. That's a tremendous honor. 30,000 views! Thank you, every one of you. By the time I wrap this story up, who knows how many views it'll have? But no worries, we're only halfway through Part Two, and we have yet to get to Part Three!
Please enjoy, and if you do, drop me a review. I love to hear from you all.
Chapter Forty Four
"Allegiance"
"My lady, I was beginning to worry." Clay jumped to his feet as she entered the room, dumping her long coat on the table, mud dripping from the hem. Her rifle followed, ammo exhausted. Her nine mil was equally empty, and Jaime was glad that the CIA hadn't sent more men after Mary. The stench of expelled rounds followed her, the damp of London clinging to her hair, her clothing.
"Clay, you never worry." Jaime murmured sarcastically, but without malice.
She cast her dark eyes over her bodyguard. He stood at attention, black clothing doing little to hide the muscles and scars of his previous profession. He had been one of her brother's mercenaries, and his loyalty to the Moriarty clan had never been questioned.
Clay was the youngest of the lot, of the men she had rallied to her side over the last few years. Handsome, with strong defined features and the dark, perfect complexion his mixed race parents gifted him, and pretty brown eyes. A young soldier disenchanted by active service, he changed his fortune by hiring himself out as a merc. And he had been very, very good at it. So good that she had spared him from the Holmes brothers.
The days after Blackwood exploded were hazy, as she came out of the experience slightly singed. She had indeed found the knife Mary left in the jacket, and when the good doctor dragged the Holmes brothers out of the ballroom, Jaime broke free from the cell and escaped the manor. She took the long way out, through the old study window on the far side of the great house, and had tumbled down the forested hillside as the manor went up in flames. The fall, and the burning debris, left her bruised and scorched across her back, below her shoulders.
Jaime spent the next day in the manor's park, waiting for the emergency crews to put out the fires, and clear out. Jaime dumped everything, her mobile bashed under a tree branch, her gear thrown in the river. The only thing she kept was Mary's jacket, and her own silver blade. It had been a gift from James, on her sixteenth birthday, and she would burn in hell before she surrendered it. She was lucky enough to have been able to grab it from the floor as she ran from the cage, and those spare seconds scooping it up nearly cost her the time she needed to get out.
Clay was one of the few members of her guard she brought back into the fold, the rest left believing she was dead and burned. Jaime estimated that nearly two dozen of her men were still alive, having survived the London bombings the month prior. She had left money and clean passports for her men at assigned rendezvous points across England, and each was to go to their own cache if she died before the bombs all exploded.
It was at one of these caches that she found Clay, the foolish man sitting on the ground, his go-kit next to him, doing his manly best not to cry over her presumed death. She had watched from the shadows, leaning on a tree, burnt and bloody, and totally confused as to why he was upset. It wasn't until he had choked on her name that it clicked. He was sad that she was dead.
When she walked out of the night, to stand above him as he sat on the cold ground, he had sworn she was a ghost, jumping to his feet and pulling his weapon. It took her laughter to convince him that she wasn't a specter. She had been a wreck, bloody, dirty, covered in soot and smelling of sulfur and ozone. Yet Clay, the youngest of her guard, pulled himself together, and scooped her up as she passed out in front of him.
She awoke the next morning, bandaged, clean and clothed, with her knife sheathed on her thigh. Clay had hidden her away in an old safe house her brother would use for his clients. She recovered there, sneaking out sporadically to see the damage at Blackwood, and to look for signs of Mary.
"Of course, my lady." Clay waited beside the table, where she saw the remains of take-away from a local pub. He must have left while she was killing spies in the catacombs.
"I am not a lady, Clay." Jaime said, her silver knife in her hand, twirling it in her fingers from habit, the motions providing comfort. She twirled the knife as other people would pace; it cleared her head, calmed her nerves, and brought back memories of her brother. She hid a smile as Clay stiffened, gaze locked on the long blade, the edge glinting in the lights. "My unfortunate husband is long dead, and I was never truly Sybil Moran."
"I…. yes, ma'am." Clay was engrossed in the blade, and Jaime flipped it up, his eyes following it as it tumbled through the air. She caught it without looking, making him twitch as she did. Men were so squeamish.
"Are the others back yet?" She asked, slipping the knife back in its sheath on her thigh. She went to the table he had been sitting at, and picked up the last half of his sandwich, taking a big bite, and taking his chair. He voiced no complaint, and she tore it in half, giving him the end.
Clay took it, surprise at her action evident in how he lost the smooth efficiency of movement all her men had. She chewed, waiting on his answer. She had all the time in the world now, as Mary was safe for the moment, and Williamson foiled. He wouldn't be for long, but Mary was safe for the next couple of days as that cold bastard tried to figure out what happened.
She giggled to herself, thinking he was most likely to blame Mycroft Holmes for her activity at the safe house, and Mycroft would have no idea what he was talking about. The blame would be cycled about, each man then focused more securely on the other, and hopefully ignoring the potential for a third party.
"They should be back any time, a man left on station at Holmes' townhouse, and at the CIA safe house. I've arranged for rotations of the men, so we should be able to keep an eye on them twenty-four seven." Clay told her, chewing with his mouth shut after she sent him a narrow eyed glare.
"You've kept yourself out of that rotation, I hope?" Jaime asked, throwing her booted feet up on the table and leaning back in the chair. She put her head back, stretching out tired muscles, able to see Clay from her upside down position. She felt the burn scar along her back tug as she stretched, but it wasn't unpleasant. Some pain was welcome, reminding her that she was alive, and that she must stay that way, and not for her sake. For Mary she would live on, regardless of the hollow devastation in her heart, the echoing emptiness in her soul.
"I have, yes ma'am. As you requested." Clay shifted on his feet, and she could tell he was wondering why she wanted him out of rotation. He was doing his best not to look at her as she leaned back further in the chair, the front legs lifting from the floor. She felt a maniacal and lively urge to torment this sweet homicidal merc, who acted for all the world like she was something to protect, something fragile. All her men acted this way, no matter that she could defeat them all in combat, break them like brittle twigs in the depth of winter.
But she resisted, knowing she needed them all if she were to save Mary, Clay included. She had no desire to reach out to the rest of her men. They were remnants of misery, pain, grief. The few she had let Clay contact were enough for her. She held the final threads of her brother's network, his money, and the contacts. Sherlock Holmes hadn't gotten it all.
It had taken all her strength to resist drowning herself in the Thames, or falling on her blade, after that horrible confrontation with Holmes. If Mary hadn't left her the knife, she would be dead- she would have still set off the bomb, and died willingly. Part of her felt like she was already dead. That she was a wraith in truth, a ghost, with no purpose but to live for another's sake.
She breathed for someone else, and it was so strange, so foreign. With James alive and in her life, there had been no need to fear being without purpose or destiny, as they forged it for themselves, and lived their lives as they so choose. She followed his lead, and took jobs as they pleased her. When he died, she lived for vengeance. And after Blackwood burned, she found herself freed from her past, a weight so heavy that when it was lifted, she had no notion how to exist, function.
When she decided not to die, to run free from Blackwood, to stay on the cold shore and not drown- she had struggled to know why. And she kept coming back to Mary. The blonde woman was out there, and Jaime found herself wondering why she wasn't mad at her. She had been, after Mary betrayed her to Sherlock. Violently mad. Yet the anger and betrayal fled, as quickly as night fled before a summer dawn, to be replaced by the epiphany that followed on the heels of the rage. She loved someone, a human being who wasn't James. And she never wanted to lose that feeling.
She sprang to her feet, grabbing her rifle in one hand, startling Clay.
"You remain at my side and free from onerous duties for one reason, Clay." She told him, the poor man flustered when she got in his personal space, weapon under her arm. "Are you certain you want to know?"
"Only if you wish to tell me, ma'am." Always the good soldier, following orders.
"You mourned me." She said plainly, watching as his face flushed beneath his light brown skin, and he ducked his eyes. "The others let me go easily, released from oath and duty. But you? You mourned for me."
"I….." He stammered, unsure how to act. She didn't blame him. This whole feeling lot was so strange. Caring for someone other than James was so new. She loved Mary, very much. But how to be a person worth loving in return? She had no idea. So why not have someone around who felt something for her? To try and learn….. Learn to be more than madness.
"Follow me because you wish to, Clay. No other reason. Teach me how to be human. The one I love is out of reach, and I can't be a monster and deserve her. So teach me, help me. You are a killer, yet you mourned my passing. You don't fall to cruelty, but you are capable of violence. You have balance. Show me how to do that."
"I…" He was unable to gather the thoughts together to respond, so dumbfounded was the poor man.
"Wake me if The Vicar moves on the townhouse." She walked around him, leaving the shell-shocked soldier pondering her words. "I'm going to bed after I wash off the filth. If I'm disturbed for anything less than a glimpse of Mary or a raid, someone's temple is target practice for my blade."
She'd work on being less of a monster after she washed off the sewers of London and slept.
Mary refused to look up from the mattress, eyes locked on the tiny floral pattern in the blankets. She breathed in and out, slowly, holding it before starting again. The process was so elemental, so easy, that it calmed her nerves faster than any sedative.
John was inches away, his hand on her knee, rubbing. She was doing her best not to cry again, and she held to that resolve as another twinge of pain radiated out from her abdomen. She flinched, and she knew John felt it, as his hand stilled.
"Mary?" He called her name softly, rubbing her knee again. "Tell me what's going on, please."
His voice was always kind, and sure. He never showed nerves or doubt when given someone to help, to care for. It made her heart ache, hearing that in his voice again.
"Cramps. Nausea. Lightheaded." She told him, voice monotone and flat. She couldn't look away from the little flowers on Anthea's sheets. "Can't tell if the last two are a result of me panicking or not."
"Keep breathing through it, make yourself relax as much as you can. I'm not going anywhere, but I need to see Anthea real quick. I'll be right back." She felt him squeeze her knee one last time, before his weight left the mattress.
Mary lowered her head to her knees, and waited. She waited to see if the sick rolling in her stomach would fade, and if her head would stop spinning. The pain was in small waves, tiny twinges that came and went.
She could hear John talking to Anthea at the door, the other woman's dulcet tones full of worry. Mary found herself bemused at how easily the girls had forgiven her after everything she had done the month before. But she figured negotiating for their lives may have had something to do with it.
"She needs to see an obstetrician. I'm not even remotely qualified to help her. I know the basics of childbirth, but she's months away from my comfort zone." John's voice was low, but she could hear him easily. "How the hell do we get her the care she needs?"
"I'll handle it." Anthea said sharply, and Mary could hear her run back down the hall.
She felt someone sit on the bed, the mattress dipping from the weight, and she moved her head, expecting to see John. Instead it was Sherlock, his impossible eyes staring at her. She watched him as he watched her, his eyes jumping all over, evaluating and cataloging everything. She rested her head on the headboard, and found herself calming down just watching him. He didn't even speak to her; he was just there, watching. As if nothing was too personal, too small not to be seen, noticed, worth thinking about.
Mary tensed as another cramp hit, a smaller one, but enough to make her react. Sherlock's eyes flew back to hers, and he tilted his head to the side, observing as she breathed through it. The pain went away, and Mary held his gaze. It was strange, and oddly comforting, being the focus of this man's total concentration. She matched her breathing to his, and he somehow soothed her panic. Most men would be useless right about now, or doing their best to reassure her until she was at the point of committing homicide to get some peace. But all he did was watch and wait, and meet her stare for stare.
Mary was aware that John was back, throwing his newly cleaned jumper on over his head, standing next to the bed and gazing at the two of them. Mary gasped when another cramp hit, and she couldn't stop herself. She reached out, her hand grabbing the strong thin fingered hand of the detective. She gripped, and bit her lip, burying her face in her knees.
"John?" Sherlock sounded worried, but it was most likely due to the fact she was crushing his fingers than concern over her physical condition. Mary eased her grip, and she bit back a sob when he turned his hand over in hers, and gripped back. Sherlock held her hand, and Mary was thankful.
"Here, Sherlock, go get dressed, I'll stay." John told the man holding her hand, and Mary lifted her head just enough to glare at the doctor. He gulped, and raised his hands in surrender. "Or you can stay right here until Mary says you can go."
Mary sighed, and loosened her grip on Sherlock. She gave him a small smile in thanks, and waved her fingers at him to go, if he wanted. He had yet to say a word to her, which for him was a miracle surely, and he got up from the bed. She finally noticed he was nearly naked, just wearing pajama bottoms, the thin fabric of the pants clinging everywhere. Her eyebrows climbed in to her hairline, and she did her best not to blush. He wasn't her type, but he wasn't sore on the eyes either.
Sherlock walked out of the room, passing by Anthea, who had gotten dressed herself, and was speaking quietly on her mobile in the hall. She appeared to be giving instructions, and Mary hoped it was for getting an obstetrician, someone to tell her what was going on with her baby. If it was even her baby that was in trouble. For all she knew, she could be sick with a stomach bug, and would be spending the next few days stuck in bed throwing up everything.
Mary groaned, bending over farther, stomach revolting at just the mere thought of getting sick. She pressed her face to a pillow, and hadn't the strength to object when she felt John sit beside her, hands on her shoulders, rubbing.
"Feel like throwing up?" John said, voice low, sympathy clear. She barely managed a nod, and he got up from the bed, heading for Anthea's bathroom. He was back moments later, and she snuck a peek, to see him holding a small trash bin. He set it down beside the bed closest to her, and Mary pulled herself over to the edge.
She rested there, close enough to the side of the bed she could throw up in the trash bin, and panted softly into the blankets. The lights were on in the room, hurting her eyes at the angle she was laying, and she squinted. She buried her face in the blankets to hide her eyes from the light. John sat beside her again, and Mary let him comfort her, the first time in weeks that she could tolerate him being so close, to be his usual sweet self with her.
It was so surreal. Here she was, pregnant, the father of her child doing his best to comfort her, and it felt so weird. He had removed himself so swiftly from her life, her bed, her heart, that having him back in it in any way other than casual conversations was difficult. He had broken her heart, and the scars were deep. The wounds he laid open in her heart had scarred over, remaking her at a very basic level, as any powerful trauma was wont to do to a person. That's how the previous month felt; traumatic.
"You broke my heart, you know." Mary blurted out, voice muffled by the blankets, but clear enough for him to hear her. His hands stilled, pausing the soothing circles he was rubbing on her shoulders. He halted for only a second, before the rubbing resumed. She really shouldn't have said anything, but she wasn't feeling well, and any topic of conversation was better than dwelling on her horrible worry.
"I noticed. I think the whole of England noticed." John replied, a hint of sadness and mirth in his words. "I am still very sorry for what happened, Mary. I never wanted to hurt you."
"Humph." She scoffed, not letting him see how much that simple apology touched her. Once the anger faded, and she could think, she knew that she would never have been able to compete with Sherlock Holmes. The love John felt for that man was extreme, and beyond what most people were capable. She loved John, or she did before he shattered her happiness. She hadn't been able to get John to love her enough to resist Sherlock, and the effect his Return had on the doctor.
Mary sighed in frustration, and tilted her head slightly to see John's face. He was staring down at her, and his expression was nothing but sincere, and compassionate. He was a far better person than she would ever be, that was for certain.
"I'm sorry." She whispered, knowing as she said them that she could never mean them as much as a normal person would. She was too accustomed to blood and death to ever regret violence, but she could regret the harm she caused a good, decent man. A man who had broken her heart, yes, but he hadn't deserved to be kidnapped, beaten, assaulted, and made to think his friends were dead. And never forget the whole situation when my new best friend wanted to blow you up along with your boyfriend and herself.
John blinked down at her, and she smiled grimly at him. She wouldn't say the words again. Once was more than enough.
"I know you are. Relax, Mary. Anthea sent for a doctor to help you. I'm sorry I'm not enough, this time. Not my field." John sounded guilty, and it was such a stupid thing for him to be feeling that she slowly moved an arm out to him, and smacked his knee. It was about as effective as a fly bouncing off of him, but it made her point. She glared at him, and he shut up.
Mycroft dimly heard his mobile buzzing, but as Anthea wasn't knocking at the door, he figured he could ignore the mobile for a few minutes more.
Greg was sleeping again, his chest rising and falling evenly under his head. Mycroft threw a leg over his thigh, being very careful of Greg's injury, and snuggled closer to his lover. Greg shifted, his arm tightening around Mycroft's shoulder, hugging him. Greg turned his head, still mostly asleep, but awake enough to press a kiss to the top of Mycroft's head.
The mobile went off again, chiming from somewhere on the floor. The chime meant someone was calling, instead of texting. Mycroft groaned, and lifted his head. He wanted to show Gregory the rest of his talents, but that damned phone…
"Just answer it, I'm already awake." Greg groaned, shifting urgently. "I need to get up anyway."
Mycroft sighed, and threw off the covers. He got up, looking in the shadows for his trousers. He caught the glow from his mobile, shining through the fabric of the pocket. Digging it out, he saw several texts from Anthea, and one missed call from… His mother.
"What in the world… Oh no." Mycroft groaned, rubbing his face with his hand. "They were just here, what could she possibly want?"
"Who want what?" Greg asked as he pulled on his sweats, gingerly scooting over to the side of the bed. He breathed deep, and slowly stood up. Mycroft went to help, but stopped, holding his breath as Greg struggled to stay upright. The DI's face was white in the low light coming from the tiny lamp in the corner, and he was breathing very shallowly.
"You okay?" Mycroft wanted nothing more to reach over and help him, but Gregory was a proud man, and he knew better to do so unless he asked.
"Never better. Bathroom, be right back. Then you can tell me who's calling you that put that look of fear all over your face." Greg, with infinite care, took one slow step after another towards the door. The only downside of having this sitting room converted into a bedroom was that there was no adjoining bath. The nearest was one of the lower level bathrooms, a few doors down from the room they were in now.
"Should you be walking that far alone?" Mycroft couldn't help himself, especially after Gregory stopped, and clutched at the back of a chair on his way to the door. He went to his DI, and hovered.
"I was well enough to have mind blowing, life altering sex, and you're worried now?" Greg panted, obviously in pain. Mycroft flinched, thinking he surely hadn't helped matters, but Greg surprised him, reaching out, and wrapped a hand around his neck, pulling him close. Mycroft stood still and let Gregory hold on to him.
Mycroft sighed in exasperation as he felt the DI shaking on his feet. If it wasn't for the fact the man obviously needed to use the bathroom, he'd be dragging him back to bed.
"Let me get dressed, then I'll help you." Mycroft let the DI rest against the chair, and he went for his trousers, pulling them on, not worrying about underpants or his belt. He did them up, and was back at Gregory's side in flash.
Mycroft let Greg rope an arm around his neck, thankful he wasn't that much taller than the injured man. He'd like to put an arm around Greg's waist, but the still healing wounds made that awkward. No place to put his hands without hurting something. So he held tight to Greg's wrist, holding his arm tightly over his shoulder, and together they walked to the door.
They got there easily enough, Greg still shaking, tired from walking the fifteen feet to the door. In hindsight, having him in such a large room may not have been such a wise idea, but he'd wanted Gregory to be comfortable. Though he wanted nothing more than to have Gregory not in this room, but in his, in his bed. Those damned stairs were cruel, and would have effectively stranded Gregory upstairs until he was well enough to go up and down them without help. Though that wouldn't be all that bad either, having him in his bedroom all the time…..
He reached for the door, and opened it, waving away the guard stationed outside in the hall. The security guard looked at him, eyes wide, and Mycroft remembered he was dressed only in his trousers, barefoot and shirtless. No one other than his mother when he was a child, and his last lover, had ever seen him this undressed before. This was his house, he could dress however he wished, dammit. He glared, and the guard scuttled off, tossing a flustered look at him one more time before heading down to the bunker.
Great, just perfect. Rumors abounding with the technicians now. Can't wait to hear the snickering.
"Why was there a guard outside the door?" Greg gasped out, doing his best not to look absolutely tired.
"Because a rude American assassin decided to threaten you." Mycroft told him calmly, leading Greg to the bathroom. "He's got limited time on this earth, don't worry about it."
"Oh, yeah. I sorta recall hearing that. Got distracted since you told me." Greg whispered, and Mycroft fought off the cocky grin he felt encroaching. They were at the bathroom, and Mycroft propped open the door, letting Gregory go in alone. "I'll be few minutes, don't wait for me."
Mycroft went to pull away, but he suddenly found himself in the midst of a deep, toe curling kiss. Greg kissed him, and Mycroft felt every brain cell in his head reboot. He groaned in delight, not expecting this level of affection from the DI displayed out in the open. Admittedly, they were in his house, but his house usually had around thirty people in it at any given time. Greg was so shy, so reticent about acknowledging to other people what they were he treasured this small moment.
He couldn't care about anyone seeing them; all that mattered was that he was kissing the man he loved. He'd never been in love before, and he never wanted to be without it again. Hence the guards.
Greg pulled back, leaving Mycroft to blink at the door as he shut it gently behind him.
There was a faint sound to his right, and Mycroft turned to it. He sighed, seeing his little brother smirking at him from the bottom step of the staircase.
"Don't get involved, brother dear." Sherlock called out, and Mycroft huffed in annoyance at the merriment in his brother's words.
I'll be hearing those words until we both die of old age…or until I strangle him in his sleep….
"Careful, brother mine. Mother called, don't make me have her call you next." Mycroft threatened, smirking when Sherlock winced. They loved their mother, they really did, but she was at once devilishly brilliant, and utterly scatterbrained at the same time, making deciphering her words and thoughts difficult at best. And she delighted in embarrassing her two remaining children. Mycroft tilted his head, hearing the water running; Gregory was doing fine.
Mycroft pulled out his mobile, and called his voicemail, ignoring Sherlock as he wandered over. Sherlock stood at his shoulder, correctly surmising he was curious as to what their dear parent wanted. He put it on Speaker, letting Sherlock hear as well. Their mother's voice came out clear from the speakers, and they both listened intently.
"Mike, it's Mummy…." He sighed at the nickname, feeling like he was a teenager all over again. He did his best not to react as Sherlock snickered at the endearment. "Your father and I would love to see you and Sherlock for the holidays next week. We've both decided to stay home this year for Christmas, and New Year's. We haven't had any time together in years during the holidays, do come home."
They could hear their father's voice in the background, but they couldn't make out what he said. They did hear their mother sigh, and neither man acknowledged how much they sounded just like her in that small sound.
"And your father says to bring your boyfriends, please. Oh, and….. If she wants to… you may bring Violet, too."
Mycroft was not expecting to hear that from his parents. They had ignored Violet's existence, more than he the last few weeks since Sherlock revealed who she really was. For their parents to even offer… he didn't know what to make of that. He met his brother's eyes, and Sherlock shrugged.
"Of course we're both going, Sherlock." Mycroft ordered his brother, and he clicked the mobile as the recording ended, slipping it back into his pocket. "How does she know about Gregory?"
"Mike, the whole world knows about your boyfriend." Sherlock grinned at that last word, and Mycroft found himself wishing they were teenagers again, and it was perfectly acceptable for them to tussle about the halls, beating each other senseless. He chose to ignore how many times Sherlock won, figuring that his intellect would outmatch his brother's training. Maybe. "Good Lord, the Americans know about him."
"Don't call me that." Mycroft grumbled, refusing to look at Sherlock as his brother laughed. "Why are you down here, and not with your dear doctor?"
"John is with Mary. She's experiencing some…. Issues."
"Issues?" Mycroft queried, wondering what in the world could be wrong with her…. He breathed in, and cast his up to the stairs, the floor above. She was pregnant. There was much that could happen there, and none of it good. Even he knew that, in his limited experience with the female sex.
"Anthea arranged for an obstetrician to be brought in with Lestrade's physical therapists disguised as an assistant. Their gear will hide his equipment. They'll be here any minute." Sherlock told him.
"Arranging my life and my house. If I didn't know any better, I'd say we were married." Mycroft said, realizing as he did that he was damn near naked, and Sherlock was fully clothed. His brother had most certainly seen the red mark low on his neck, and Mycroft refused to surrender his dignity by letting on he knew that Sherlock saw it.
"You just might be. You should check on that. Don't tell Lestrade, he might object. Or if you're lucky, he won't." Sherlock teased him, and Mycroft was glad the door to the bathroom was shut. He threw Sherlock a warning glance, but his brother just rolled his eyes at him.
"Well, as she's evidently in charge, I just might take the night off." Mycroft mused, thinking of all the things he could do with the very handsome and willing DI. Both of them were rested, and he had nothing pressing that his army of aides in the bunker and Anthea couldn't handle.
Williamson was most assuredly spinning in rage right now, but Mycroft had people watching him, and his people. He would know every move that man made while in London.
"Feel free, we'll most likely get more done without you mucking things up." Sherlock complained, and Mycroft huffed loudly at that assertion. "Though your interference last night with the sniper was well played. We might not have made it out of the catacombs if your man hadn't cleaned up behind us."
Mycroft stilled, pushing away from the cool wall he had been leaning against. He looked at Sherlock, and skewered his little brother with a steely gaze. He hadn't sent a sniper last night. He had been able to nothing but watch on the CCTV feeds, and hope that his brother would make it out of that raid in time. The only coverage of Leinster Gardens was at the intersections, so anything that happened between them was off camera.
"I never sent a sniper. What sniper?" Mycroft demanded.
Sherlock gaped at him, at a loss at his assertion that he hadn't sent them a sniper the night before as they rescued Miss Morstan.
"Tell me what happened last night, now." Mycroft demanded. He had been willing to wait on a debriefing, as Miss Morstan was needing time to recover, and he was gentleman enough to provide her the time to do so. He may not be able to wait on her now.
Sherlock was saved on answering, as the guard was back, hovering at his elbow.
"Sir, the requested medical personnel are here. Let them in?"
Mycroft glared at Sherlock, angry at the interruption. But he was in no state to interrogate Sherlock over what happened, and Miss Morstan needed medical attention.
"Yes. Search them thoroughly, verify identities, and let them be about their business." Mycroft waited for the guard to leave down the hall, and he rounded back on his brother. "You tell me everything once I've gotten Gregory settled, and Miss Morstan has been attended to. Everything."
Mary waited with John, dozing as best she could, having thrown up several times already. He had yet to complain, merely held the trash for her as she emptied her stomach. She hadn't eaten anything in over twenty four hours, so she was dry heaving by the end of the fit. John tried to get her to drink some water, and she managed a few sips between bouts of nausea.
"John?" Anthea whispered from the doorway. "He's here, they're bringing up the equipment now."
"Good." John exhaled loudly, and Mary struggled to move enough so she could see the doorway.
Mary tried to understand what was going on, but she was cold, and so very tired. The cramps had eased, but the nausea would subside only long enough for her to start to relax before crashing back through her body.
"Just relax Mary." John murmured, and Mary let her eyes drift shut. "We'll get you sorted, don't worry."
Mary felt herself floating, only distantly aware of what was going on. There were voices around her, and she knew John's, his smooth voice reassuring. There was a different voice, and this one she didn't know. A man, quiet and unassuming and older, by the tone of his voice, but a stranger still.
"I take it this poor girl is my patient?" Came that soft voice, and Mary stiffened as a shadow fell over her face.
"Yes. Pregnant. Severe nausea, moderate cramping, dizziness and dehydration. She's been vomiting for the last hour."
"How far along is she?" Asked that new voice. Mary startled as she felt a hand touch her wrist, take her pulse. She fought to open her eyes, but couldn't. All she could do was try and pull away, her attempt feeble. "Not long, by how slim she is yet."
"Nine to ten weeks. Maybe eleven at most." John answered. "Her name is….."
"No names, please. I'll just call her Dear." The soft voice ordered gently. "This is not the first time I've been summoned to help a pregnant woman in clandestine conditions."
"Oh. Well, that's good." John said, and even Mary could tell he was flustered. "I think."
"I take it she wants the child?"
"Yes." John was sure, and he was beyond confident is his reply.
"Ahhh. You're the father then."
"Yes, I am." John said. "And a GP too."
"This will be much easier for her then." The soft voice reached down for her, and Mary was lifted to lay flat on the bed, hands adjusting her, moving her around. She knew John's hands, so she didn't fight. "Don't worry dear, you'll be feeling better soon."
Mary couldn't hear much else, as she slipped further away. She was so cold, and she couldn't summon the strength to shiver. She floated, and not even when she felt a sharp needle pierce her arm at the elbow did she fight. Mary knew John was there, and no matter the pain and betrayal between them, John would never hurt her.
So she let the voices and hands tend to her, trusting in John to keep her safe, their child safe. She floated in that cold place for a long time, and she came back slowly. That cold hollow feeling inside was fading, and the nausea was just a mere memory of what it had been. She could hear that stranger speaking, his words clear one moment, the next far away and vague.
"Saline IV…. Dehydrated…She hasn't bled. Not a miscarriage."
"Thank God."
"My diagnosis is hyperemesis gravidarum. Severe morning sickness. The cramping is not uncommon for the first trimester, merely aggravated by recent activities and stress. She is in remarkable shape, so that helps. Let her rest for a few days, and manage the morning sickness as I've instructed."
"Of course. Thank you."
"I believe her to be around eleven weeks, and I must encourage you to have her eat more. She is far too small at this stage. She doesn't need to gain weight, she's perfectly fine, but the child needs more. She's obviously in prime shape, but she's burning off calories that the baby needs. She can still exercise, just have her cut it down."
"I usually tell this to my patients directly, but as she's resting, and you're the father, I'm certain she'll be fine. I'll come back when she wants that ultrasound."
"Thank you again." John's voice faded away, and there was the sound of a door opening and closing, footsteps trailing away into silence.
Mary woke slowly, her eyes adjusting to the low light in the room. It was dark out, the moon high in the sky, not yet full, its silver light streaming in through the windows. It would be full in a few days, sometime around Christmas next week.
Christmas. By this time next year my child will already be six months old, give or take a few weeks. Will I be there to see her?
Mary could hear footsteps in the hall, through the shut door. There were many, and voices raised. She could hear Sherlock, not yelling, but speaking rapidly, and Mycroft too. John was nearly shouting. She shifted on the bed, turning to see the door. The IV in her arm tugged just a little, but she was able to ignore it, focusing instead on the shadows of the men outside in the hall, visible through the crack under the door.
"You are not going anywhere near her right now." John was shouting now, his words muffled by the door but clear enough. "She needs rest. NO."
"Dr Watson, she was the only one who saw the sniper….."
"I don't care who you are, whose brother you are, and I don't care if you're shagging one of my best mates- I SAID NO!"
Mary jumped a bit herself, hearing some of Captain Watson come out in John's voice. Usually so easy going, so sweet and calm, but he could be tough as steel when he needed to be. She was grateful for him now, because she needed the time to determine what to tell them.
"She said she saw a sniper on the roof, shooting at the CIA. She never saw who it was. We didn't either. Whoever it was defended us through the tunnels, saving our lives. The only people we saw were the CIA officers trying to kill us. It's entirely possible that the sniper died protecting us, as we were ambushed by two men, one of which John killed, and Mary the other."
Sherlock. Brilliant, and usually so right. Wrong this once, but his guess would give her the cover she needed for now. Until she decided whether or not to reveal to Sherlock that Jaime Moriarty lived.
Violet sat beside Greg on the couch in his room, as the therapist and her assistant packed up their gear. Violet had been wandering around for a while, as Sherlock and Mycroft were arguing with John, and Mary was passed out sleeping after the obstetrician's visit. Anthea was upstairs with Mycroft, who was foolishly trying to get John to let him talk to Mary. John was stubborn when it counted, and she was betting he wouldn't budge.
"Mycroft mention anything else?" Violet asked Greg as the guards escorted the medical types from the room.
"Nope. Just that his parents want us all- you included- to come visit for the holidays." Greg said, leaning back on the couch, obviously tired out of his mind. She had come in at the tail end of the therapy session, and hell, she was tired just watching. She figured she was being rude at the time, but couldn't work up the effort to feel bad about it.
"That won't be awkward at all." Violet said dryly, copying his pose. She stared at the ceiling, and pondered why the Brits made the ceilings as pretty as the walls. No one ever looked at the ceiling, why do that?
"Oh yeah, looking forward to it. I guess I've got no choice in the matter, I can't exactly escape in my current condition."
"I can break you out if you want, I'm good at it." Violet offered jokingly. The odds of Greg Lestrade going anywhere without Mycroft were nonexistent.
"Um, no. I'm tempted, but I'll not do that to him."
"He's lucky. Not many people can handle him. Don't know what that says about you." Violet turned her head to toss Greg a wink, and she laughed out loud at the blush creeping across his cheeks.
"Shush, you. Don't you have something to be doing, other than harassing a middle aged injured man?" Greg groaned as he stretched, propping his feet up on the coffee table.
"You're not old, don't start that pity train." Violet jumped to her feet, startling Greg. She smiled at him, and figured she shouldn't waste everyone's preoccupation right now. "Anyone asks, don't tell them I'm committing international cyber-crimes in the bunker."
"What? Lord, don't tell me that!" Greg got a pained look on his face, and she skipped out of his room, waving over her shoulder as she left.
Violet checked the hall, and winked at the guard stationed outside Greg's room. Her uncle was serious about keeping his new boyfriend safe. She wondered how long that would last, as Greg might not object to being watched while recovering, but he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life hiding. Man was a cop; he needed to be out doing his job.
Violet grinned as the guard shifted on his feet, doing his best not to look her up and down as she sauntered past him, heading for the bunker. She had no worries that anyone would try and stop her- act like you belong, then no one questions you.
Violet opened the bunker door, and headed for the nearest computer station. There was an aide working but she could handle him. He looked up as she approached, and he got that nervous expression all the aides had around her. They knew who she was, but they had no idea how to act around her one bit, or what to do about her. No one wanted to mess with the Boss's niece.
"Hey guess what." She leaned hard on her American accent, and she suddenly wished she had some gum to pop. Anything to increase the sheer amount of discomfort for this very British government man. The more flustered he was, the easier to manage.
"Ummm…. Oh-kay… What?" He stuttered.
"You're in my seat." Violet came around the desk, and shooed him from the chair. He stood slowly, looking back between her and the computers. "Buh-bye."
"Go on, go take a break or hit on that cute redhead over in the corner, the one at the CCTV feeds. She looks lonely." Violet sat in the chair, and turned to the systems in front of her. She wondered how long she'd have before Mycroft came down to complain. The aide hesitated, and she sent him a glare, the one John called the 'Holmes death look'.
The aide wandered away, and Violet turned her attention to the computers. She delved into the MI6 systems, and opened up a direct line to her personal servers, hidden so carefully in the ether of the Internet.
Violet closed off the station she was on, restricting all access to it from any other station, and from the system as a whole, the only communication allowed to her servers. She blacked out the screens above her head, doing her work on the actual monitors on the desk. She leaned back in her chair, plopped her bare feet on the desk, and put the keyboard on her legs. Violet pulled her own programs off her megaserver, and adapted them to the MI6 systems.
She paused for just a second, and found her playlists, queuing up some hard rock from the eighties. Hair-band chaos started pouring out over the sound system in the bunker, and she could hear the techs whispering loudly amongst themselves from the other stations. They really needed to loosen up. She turned the music up when she caught a nasty look from the aide she'd kicked out of the station she was using, her toes moving to the beat.
She was breaking about a dozen laws with every keystroke, but she figured Mycroft had the clout to cover for her, even if she were careless enough to leave traces behind. Her programs were designed to identify, track, and even predict the flow of money from transactions across the globe. She didn't care for the average banker's transfers either; she was after the 'off the books' and sub rosa money transfers that government agencies across the globe used to bribe each other, pay for ops, and seed bad deeds. If anyone of those shadow agencies out there knew she could do that, she doubted that even her uncles would be able to keep her safe from the collective spook wrath she would incur.
Silas Williamson had been paid a ton of money to abduct her three months ago, and for a year prior to that, she had been under intense scrutiny from the CIA and Interpol. She was used to being watched, what she did made that inevitable. But that didn't mean she had to accept living in fear. She wasn't a quarry to be hunted, bought and sold- she was no one's purchase. If she could find the transfer used to pay Williamson, she could backtrack it to the person responsible for hunting her.
Violet had a strong suspicion that the man that had tried to kill her at the flat wasn't someone trying to get Sherlock to stop investigating the nursery murders. She figured it was an attempt to kidnap her. Someone out there knew where she was, knew who and what she was past the Holmes' niece thing, and that someone was here in London. And the attempt to get her had gone horribly wrong, even for something as horrid as a kidnapping.
If Mycroft wouldn't hand her over (she hadn't expected him too, but she knew better than to assume anything with him), then she must find out a way to get the bounty off her head. And the best way to do that would be to find out who wanted her.
Someone out there had spent a large amount of money trying to get the CIA's favorite headhunter to grab her. Violet Hunter was prepared to do anything to find out who. And once she knew, she wasn't going to do a thing herself. All she needed to do was tell her uncles.
Violet continued to rewrite code, and if Sherlock or Mycroft had seen her face at that moment they would have seen a shadow of her father. The thought of Mycroft and Sherlock confronting the colossal idiot who thought he could touch a Holmes and live to tell about it put a small smile on her face, and her eyes were as hard as the gems they resembled.
Violet finished her quick rewrites, and opened her station back up to the wider systems. She blocked out access to what she was doing, and she put her toughest encryption in place to prevent anyone from snooping. No one, not even Mycroft's or the CIA's best people, could break her encryption, or learn her password. She had dozens, but there was one password that opened all 'doors'. It was her master key, the God-mode of all bad ass passwords.
The trackers weren't the only programs she installed on the MI6 servers, deep in the systems. She put in there her very special program to hide in wait, ready in an instant if she needed it, a program guaranteed to put her head on a platter around the globe. But she wasn't worried; it was hers to command, and any attempt to hack it, bypass it, or to control it without her master key would result in the program erasing itself from the cosmos, and destroying whatever system it was in, and the system attempting to control it.
The program she hid was not meant to be destructive, it had another purpose entirely. It would only destroy if someone was foolish enough to try and control it. And try fools would, which is why it was hidden. She very rarely used this program, considering the potential for mayhem it contained. The world wasn't ready for her to set this beast free.
This was the work that would give her the label of cyber terrorist, of criminal. She held the program in reserve, and let it sleep in the systems, a dormant dragon. She may not need it; but it was there if she did.
She paused the music still blaring out over the sound system, and contemplated her decision. She would go forward, and let Fate react as it wished.
Violet sat back, and double-checked her work, whistling that tune by Bach that Sherlock had played for her all those years ago. All of her programs were ready, including the nasty beast hiding under all the rest. She reached out, letting her finger hover over the Enter key. Violet stopped whistling, smiled, and hit the key.
The words FIAT LUX flashed on the monitor. The screens above her winked back on, the letters V and H scrolling across the screens. She now owned this station, and locked it for her personal use. Violet laced her fingers together in her lap, and waited for Mycroft to come yell at her.
She reached out, and started the music again, toes moving in time with the beat.
Mycroft glared at John, as that worthy stood in front of the door behind which Miss Morstan was resting. His arms were crossed, and his eyes contained that hard edge to them that Mycroft had seen years ago when he arranged to meet John for the first time in a damp warehouse.
"No, Mycroft! Let her sleep. Anyone makes a move towards her, it's going to get ugly."
"Now see here….." Mycroft was interrupted by a soft cough down the hall.
Mycroft, Sherlock and John all turned to see Anthea, who was doing such an admirable impression of a displeased mother that each one of them shifted uncomfortably on their feet.
"I could have sworn the three of you were gentlemen." Anthea stated archly. Her vivid green eyes were sharp and she pierced each one of them directly. She exuded an air of total contempt, and Mycroft suddenly flashed back to when his mother caught him sharing cigarettes with Sherlock when they were kids. "There is a sick pregnant woman behind that door trying to rest, and the three of you are yelling and carrying on like barbarians. Utterly despicable."
John opened his mouth to say something, but he snapped it shut when she leveled her sternest gaze on him. Sherlock was slowly edging away, and Mycroft was aghast as his brother damn near hid behind him.
"Supper is ready in the dining room. Move it, now." Anthea ordered, and Mycroft found himself moving along towards the staircase, no idea how she managed to cow him into submission. John and Sherlock trudged along with him, and Mycroft pretended not see the nasty looks the doctor was throwing his way.
Anthea followed along sedately, and none of them dared argue as they went down the stairs.
I really ought to see if I married her at some point and totally forgot about it….
Anthea left the men eating quietly in the dining room, each one of them properly chastened, at least for now. Anthea had yet to see Violet, not since John had first tended to Mary. That was a few hours now, and Anthea knew she hadn't left the townhouse. There was one place she knew for certain that she would be, especially since no one was watching her.
Anthea walked down the hall to the bunker, pausing outside the open door to Gregory's room. The DI was sleeping, passed out on the couch. Anthea reached out, and quietly closed his door. She addressed the guard outside in the hall.
"Please have DI Lestrade's dinner brought to him in his room. Give it a few minutes, let him sleep a while longer." He nodded to her, and she continued on to the bunker.
When she finally got in the bunker, she saw a dozen technicians and aides all clustered to the far side of the room, the lot of them tossing looks of suspicion and nerves to the lovely young woman at the computer station nearest to the door. Music of some kind was playing loudly, bouncing off the walls of the great room. She guessed rock music from America, older than what she usually listened to. She just watched, perusing the screens above the desk, the vibrant green letters V and H hovering and twirling against a black backdrop.
Violet was sitting calmly at the desk, feet propped up on the edge, pink painted toenails bright in the grey of the room. She wasn't typing, merely watching as lines of code flew by at impossible speeds on the monitors in front of her. Anthea saw the briefest flashes of actual words popping up here and there, but she couldn't make them out.
Suddenly the volume of the music dropped, and Anthea could hear herself think.
"I was expecting Mycroft, but you'll do. Saw you scold the boys on the cameras." Violet called out, and she pulled her mobile out of her pocket, waving it at her. She probably hacked the security feeds for the house. "What's for supper?"
"Oh, Vie, what did you do?" Anthea moved slowly to the station, unsure of what, exactly, Violet was doing, but whatever it was, her uncle was not going to be happy.
"I'm hunting for the asshole who paid Williamson the bounty for me." Violet stated calmly, her face even and flawless, amethyst eyes glittering. "I'm searching the entire world, farthest reaches out first, then cycling back to London last. I'm searching through every transaction made by all government agencies and spook shadowy groups around the planet that use wire transfer, and not hard cash."
"And how are you doing that?" Anthea found herself asking against all her better judgment. What Violet was describing was impossible. No one could do all that.
"I hacked the Internet." Violet offered up. She had a tiny smile lifting the corner of her mouth just the tiniest amount. "Well, not really the 'Internet', more like the whole planet. Good thing MI6 has their fingers in a lot of people's fucking business, it's making things go faster. Though if I was at the Pentagon, this would be over already."
"Oh dear."
"Yeah, you might wanna tell Mycroft his Netflixing might be slow tonight, I'm kinda hogging the Internet."
Mary slept as best she could, finally removing the IV after the bag was nearly empty. She was expecting to see John come back anytime, to do what she just did herself. She curled on her side facing the window, trying to muster the desire to get up and use the bathroom. She was tired, but sleep was eluding her. She watched the horizon past the buildings lighten up, dawn far off yet, but the grey skies brightening all the same.
Anthea's room was lovely, but she couldn't stay in the poor girl's room the whole time she was here. She had no idea where she and Violet had slept last night, but she did hear John and Sherlock go to bed next door around midnight.
Tell Sherlock, don't tell him….. Would he keep this secret? He wouldn't, not from John….. I can't tell them that Jaime lives. Not even if it meant that I would probably be able to buy sanctuary from MI6 and the government if I told them Jaime was alive. I won't do that to her. I can't.
She saved me, she saved us….. She didn't have to. She could have let us all die, or killed us herself. She would have been able to do it, at any point last night. But she didn't.
She loves me….. I love her too. Oh Jaime, what do I do?
Am I a guest, or a prisoner?
She heard the sound of movement coming from next door, and she figured John was awake. He would come over soon, to check on her. She cautiously sat up, and when she didn't immediately throw up, went to the restroom. She washed as best she could, found a spare toothbrush under the sink, and borrowed Anthea's hairbrush.
Mary caught her reflection in the mirror, seeing herself for the first time in weeks. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes. Her hair was longer, and soon she would either have to cut it back, or let it grow out. It had been a long time since she let it grow out, nearly six years now. She had cut it short after she faked her death, mourning the blonde, shiny tresses as she changed her appearance.
Mary found her black bag, and put on the change of clothing she'd packed. That was another worry, but one she figured could wait. Needing clothing.
She put her bag under the bed, and checked to see if the nine mil was still under her pillow. It was, and she sighed in relief. One less worry to carry right now; she wasn't planning on using it, but being defenseless was not an option for her.
Mary sat cross legged on the bed, and watched dawn break over the frozen garden. She tugged the comforter over her shoulders, huddling under the thick fabric. It was snowing, small flakes falling, catching the golden rays, flashing brightly before she lost sight of them from where she sat. The sky overhead was dull and cloudy, but in the east, the sky was clear, and she could see the sun rise.
Sherlock grabbed John's wrist as the doctor tried to slip from bed without waking him. He had been awake now for hours, thinking. John slept heavily, and Sherlock found himself pondering how his doctor could sleep so much. Sherlock had slept more in the months since his return than he had in the years before he Fell. It was John's influence, and the fact that it was very easy to fall asleep after an orgasm.
"You're up early." John whispered to him, thumb rubbing at the inside of his wrist.
"Hmmm. Sleeping is boring. Thinking isn't."
"Maybe for you, but some of us actually enjoy sleeping."
"I enjoy other things besides sleeping." Sherlock tugged, and John toppled on top of him. He caught John tight to his chest, and rolled his doctor under him.
Sherlock stopped John's protests with his mouth, humming in delight as he slid his tongue deep, tasting John. His doctor groaned, and wrapped his legs around Sherlock's thighs, rolling his hips eagerly.
Sherlock ripped the sheets away, tossing the blankets askew. He wanted nothing between him and John, not even air. John was kissing him back just as madly, and Sherlock found himself laughing between tongue strokes. John smiled under his kiss, and moved his hips again, rubbing his hardening cock on Sherlock's.
Sherlock groaned loudly, as heat built up under his skin, charges zipping along his nerves. He licked and bit down John's neck, to his shoulder, the taste of John on his tongue familiar and new all at once. Salty and sweet and he couldn't get enough. Sherlock licked at the scar on his doctor's shoulder, the bullet wound a favorite place of his, before returning to kissing and licking his way down John's chest.
John was gasping, chest rising fast with his frenzied breathing. His hands found their way to Sherlock's hair, and threaded through his curls. Sherlock could feel the hard cock pressing against his chest, and pushed down with his torso, spreading John's legs as he laid open mouthed wet kisses down the other man's stomach. He grinned against the smooth muscles of John's stomach when his doctor writhed under him.
Sherlock pulled back enough to move all the way down, until he was laying between John's legs, lips gently brushing over the throbbing cock in front of him. He put his hands under the doctor's thighs, and touched his cock with lips and tongue. John jumped, moaning, as he wrapped his tongue around the throbbing head. It was hot, and so big, and Sherlock fought back the urge to suck the whole of John into his mouth. He wanted to take his time, torment his lover before letting them both find release.
Sherlock pulled the head into his mouth, and sucked once, hard. John gasped and cried out, his hands pulling at Sherlock's hair. He was whispering to Sherlock as he arched his back, trying to push his cock deeper in his mouth. He was whispering dirty things, things he wanted to do to Sherlock, things he wanted Sherlock to do to him. Sherlock held him down, gripping his thighs, refusing to let John move things along. He kept the broad head in his mouth, and opened his jaw, sliding the tip of his tongue down the underside of the hard cock throbbing madly in his mouth. John groaned, a sound that fell apart and became a desperate gasp for air.
John was begging him now, begging him to swallow him whole, pulling on his hair, his hips thrusting upwards. Sherlock pulled his tongue back, as slowly as he had slid it down the shaft. John jumped, and he did it again. Slow and torturous.
Sherlock pulled back, and John cried out, begging him not to stop. Sherlock waited, until John lifted his head from the mattress to see what his lover was doing. Sherlock met his eyes, and swallowed him whole. John's eyes flew wide, and he watched, captivated, as Sherlock deep throated him, sucking and swallowing around his thick shaft. John jumped each time Sherlock moved his jaw, nearly hyperventilating from what he was experiencing. John arched hard on the mattress, eyes squeezed shut, a keening cry escaping from behind his teeth.
Sherlock was thoroughly enjoying himself, and he was filled with an intense satisfaction that made the lust and passion burn hotter in his gut. He pulled back, John's cock harder and bigger, glistening in the early morning light.
"John." His voice was raspy, deep with lust.
His doctor looked at him, sweat pouring down his temples, body shaking everywhere.
"Tell me what you want." Sherlock demanded. "Tell me what you want from me."
John's hands gripped his hair tightly for the briefest of seconds, and Sherlock shivered at the primal look that overcame his doctor's usually gentle face.
"On your knees." John ordered, and he pulled Sherlock up by his head, a savage kiss crashing on Sherlock's lips.
This time the atmosphere between them was different, more urgent, and ruthless. John pushed and tugged, until Sherlock was kneeling on the mattress, John behind him. John put a strong hand on his back, and pushed him down, until his chest was on the bed, bent fully over his knees. His doctor's hands gripped his hips, massaging and rubbing as they moved to his ass. Sherlock shivered, hands clutching at the sheets.
John left him there for a heartbeat, and Sherlock did his best not to laugh in excitement as he heard the drawers of the nightstand opening and slamming, with John cursing until he found the lubricant. Anthea wasn't kidding about the rooms being fully stocked.
John returned to him, his hips flush to Sherlock's rear, and his rapid breathing was loud in the room. Sherlock groaned eagerly as John rubbed his cock over the cleft of his ass, the heated length making his muscles clutch instinctively, anticipating what was coming. The lubricant was cold, but quickly warmed, dripping as John damn near poured it over him.
The bottle was tossed away, and Sherlock laughed as he saw it hit the mattress near his head. He laughed right up until John plunged his hard length inside him, his laughter turning to a gasping moan of shock and roiling, fiery, total surrender.
John throbbed inside him, stretching him wide. John hadn't prepared him, and he would feel the consequences of that later, but the only thing he could focus on was the hard heat buried deep. John was breathing fast, hands rubbing at Sherlock's hips restlessly, and he began to pull back, making Sherlock cry out as he did. John was so big, too big, and Sherlock's body was struggling to adapt. He loved every second of the torture, fighting the urge to thrust back on John as he pulled away. He thrust in, and Sherlock moaned at the tight fit.
John's thrusts grew frenzied, and Sherlock let go, giving in to the raging fires under his skin. He feel away thought by thought, every cell of his body screaming John's name, impossible to separate the man from the need. John was insane, plunging harder, deeper, his fingers digging deep into the muscles of Sherlock's hips. His breathing was erratic, sweat running from them both, slicking skin and making everything hotter.
Sherlock saw a wave of white flame roll over him, his eyes burning from the power of the orgasm building deep inside of him. John was crying out with each thrust, his rhythm abandoned. Soon, so very soon, Sherlock rode the slow wave as it crested, and he screamed into the mattress, his body clenching around John as the other man plunged faster. Sherlock came so hard he felt his orgasm ride the nerves down his legs, his toes curling, his fingers digging into the sheets so much they ripped.
John cried out, the sound strangled as his body forgot how to breathe. Sherlock's orgasm tripped John over the edge, and he came, jerking and quivering behind his lover, pumping deep, great gushing bursts of wet heat. Sherlock pushed back hard, imbedding John as deeply as he could reach, and John collapsed on his back. The weight of his doctor made him jump and shake in response, sweat everywhere, muscles shivering, and his skin so sensitive that John's breath on his neck made him want to cry.
Sherlock came to reality, thinking he must have passed out, as John had fallen from his back, and was laying along his side, curling into him. His legs had straightened out beneath him, and he grimaced, feeling the damp sheets under his hips. He grabbed at John, using the man to pull himself off the wet spot, and he dropped on John's chest, that one movement too much to handle.
John raised a hand, and ran it through the damp, sweaty curls on his lover's head. Sherlock fell asleep with John petting him, and he was never more content.
Sherlock picked up his mobile, flipping through his messages as John went to check on Mary. He had heard it go off as they were showering. Sherlock was feeling the strain of living under his brother's roof, thinking it was time for him to get out and go home while Mycroft was occupied with Lestrade, and watching Williamson. The CIA officer was quiet, having done nothing since the failed attempt to capture Mary. Sherlock was certain he was evaluating his options.
Murder and missing child. Possible kidnapping by father, mother deceased on scene. Urgent. DI Dimmock has the case, but I can meet you there. Please come. –SD
Send me the address. –SH
Sherlock grabbed his coat, and walked out to the hall, just as John left Mary's room, shutting the door behind him.
Sherlock checked his mobile, and memorized the address Donovan sent him.
"Let's go John." Sherlock told his doctor, swirling his coat over his shoulders, putting on his scarf. He took off down the hall, impatient to be doing something more than sleeping. The sex was worth staying in bed for, but for some reason John wasn't comfortable having sex all day in Mycroft's house.
"What? Where to?" John hurried to catch up to him, having run back in the guest room for his coat.
"I have a case. Murder, mayhem, missing child." Sherlock was nearly running down the stairs, to the front of the house. He ignored the guards at the doors, walking past them, stepping out in the cold winter air. It was snowing, but lightly, the flakes small and melting as soon as they hit the cobblestones.
Sherlock flagged a cab, knowing he'd have a few minutes before Mycroft's people pulled together enough courage before they disturbed his brother.
"Should we be leaving? What about Williamson?" John hopped in after him, and Sherlock gave the cabbie the address. "Hasn't he threatened to kill us all?"
"Mycroft is watching him." Sherlock could care less in that instant about the CIA officer and his threats. The American had nothing on his brother. The cab pulled away, and Sherlock looked over his shoulder, seeing a black town car pull out from the alley next to his brother's house. Anthea must have been waiting for him to do something like this, having a car ready to follow if they left. "Don't worry, we have babysitters tagging along."
"Oh I feel tons better now."
"My lady…. I mean, ma'am." Clay called softly from the door to her room. Jaime slipped from bed, and opened the door wider, her expression saying it had better be important.
"Holmes and Dr Watson have left the townhouse, not two minutes ago." Clay told her, his stance nervous.
"Mary?" Jaime asked, turning from the door, and reaching for her clothing. She got dressed, oblivious to Clay's presence. She threw on her black gear, but left off the vest, shrugging into her long coat over the tight black clothing. Her combat boots were stylish enough not to attract attention.
"No sign of her. I believe she's still in there."
"John wouldn't leave her if she was in trouble. Where are they heading?" Jaime asked, brushing past Clay, heading for the front room and her weapons. She left the rifle for two nine mils and several magazines, all of it easily hidden under her long coat.
"We have a man following. Mycroft Holmes also has someone following his brother and the doctor." Clay hesitated, and seemed to make up his mind about something. "The CIA are also following the two of them."
"Tell our man to stay out of sight. Get ready to move, civilian cover." Jaime ordered Clay, and he jumped to obey. The Vicar was moving against the men keeping Mary safe. If Sherlock was under sufficient threat, Mary would not be safe with Mycroft Holmes. The elder would have no choice but to turn her over to the US government at his master's decree, or he would lock her away forever out of spite. "Have our man text the address of where they go, I want us to be there as soon as possible."
"Yes, ma'am!"
Silas Williamson picked up his mobile, and saw the text from his technicians. Holmes the younger and the pervert's lover had left the older brother's house. His people were following. He sent a text back, knowing that once he did this, it was one short step away from starting a war. He couldn't wait to see who would win. Mycroft Holmes thought he was so sly, sending a sniper after his team. He would pay, and his brother had just made a colossal mistake.
Tell the men they have a kill order. Wait for maximum witnesses. – The Vicar