Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me.
WARNING: VIOLENCE. And some fluffy scenes, of course. But seriously, Violence!
A/N: Lots of love to all of my reviewers, readers and followers. The encouragement I get from all of you keep me going. I set myself a huge task, and sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. Then I read the reviews, read the PM's, and I know it is. So here is one of my favorite chapters I have written yet.
Read, enjoy, review.
Chapter Forty Five
"One Last Song"
Sherlock left the cab so fast he slid on the cobblestones, tossing some money at the cabbie as he made for the police tape. The house was large, three stories, and the front garden was overflowing with dormant plots and topiary. The street out front was crowded with police cars, neighbors outside their own homes, and people were gathering on either side of the house.
Ambulances were parked beside the police cars, shut off and dark. That meant there was a corpse inside the house, no one living who needed help. Sherlock lifted the tape, John sneaking under with him at the last second. He paused on the sidewalk, taking his time, eyes flowing over every surface. He watched the people standing outside on the street, saw which ones were neighbors, and which ones just stopped to see what the fuss was about.
Sherlock saw police talking to a brunette woman, late forties, distraught. She was standing with a man, slightly older, who was pale, doing nothing but keeping a hand on the woman's shoulder as she cried. Sherlock saw the blood on her sleeve from where he stood, and the blood on the heel of her very expensive leather shoes. Sherlock squinted at the duo, before angling his head to scan the cars parked on the street. He saw what he wanted, and went back to watching the house.
She doesn't live here, wearing a coat, and so is he. Luxury car parked out front match the price ranges exhibited in the clothing. Came to see the residents. She found the body. Relative?
Sherlock saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and recognized Sally Donovan as she walked up to them on the sidewalk. He didn't acknowledge her, too focused on the crime scene to care much for pleasantries. John murmured a good morning to the sergeant, and the two talked quietly as Sherlock finished his external examination of the house.
"You said there was a possible kidnapping?" Sherlock spoke out of the blue, making John jump, and Donovan nodded.
"DI Dimmock already sent out the alerts, media has the story. Father is missing, mother dead inside. The couple's child, a five year old boy, Victor Carruthers, is missing as well. Prevailing theory is that it was a domestic dispute, father kills mother. Takes the boy. We have the area shut down, but considering the time gap between when this all happened and when we finally closed down the area, I expect them to be long outside the radius."
Sherlock walked up the front path to the door, cutting through forensic techs and police officers. The coroner was on site, an empty stretcher with a black body bag outside the front doors. People moved out of his way, and he spared them all less than a thought, eyes cataloging and evaluating everything. John followed him, and Sherlock could hear the click of Donovan's heels on the stone pavers.
He entered the front foyer, pausing next to the door, running his gloved hand down the doorjamb, feeling nothing amiss from the heavy whitewashed oak. The handle and dead bolt looked fine, nothing beyond normal wear.
He heard whispering, people staring at him in the front sitting room just off the foyer. He saw the bright jackets of more police, and the blue jumpsuits of techs. Sherlock stepped further in the house, noting the pictures on the walls, the overabundance of family cheer smiling back at him from nearly every portrait. There was a small round table in the foyer, covered in framed photos. A thin young man, late twenties or early thirties sitting with a young woman, mid-twenties, and between them on the settee was a small boy, four years approximate.
Sherlock heard a familiar voice, but paid no heed to DI Dimmock as the inspector came out from the rear of the house. Sherlock walked away, heading down the hall, towards what he was correctly assuming was the kitchen. Dimmock huffed in annoyance, and Sherlock detected a shred of bitterness in his voice as he greeted Donovan.
She was given Lestrade's desk, his job while he's on medical leave. Dimmock is most displeased. A mere sergeant getting the spotlight over an inspector.
Sherlock entered the kitchen, a homey, large space with a table set for breakfast. Bowls and plates emptied of oatmeal and eggs, toast, breakfast finished, family migrated to another room once they were done. Three place settings. Three people eating breakfast together, happily too.
There were two large bowls on the floor along the wall by the table, and the kibble in one of them made it apparent there was a dog here somewhere. Sherlock looked up from his musings, but he hadn't seen or heard the presence of a dog since he entered. Where was the animal?
Father murders wife and kidnaps his son, takes the time to bring the dog? Big dog too, by the size of the bowls. Leash is still on the hook over the bowls. Dog is still here, but where?
Sherlock could see through the large kitchen windows into the back garden, a far larger space than the front. He went to the window over the sink, and stared out. The snow was falling still, patches of it struggling to stay on the dead grass, most of it melting away under the sporadic morning sunlight. It was a degree or two above freezing, the air getting colder.
The back garden was large, and terraced, six different levels dropping down the hillside, about fifty yards in total from the rear of the house to the back fence line. Trees and shrubs and hedges lined varying levels, some obscured from view, and others open, plainly home to flowers in the height of spring.
Sherlock turned from the window, and wandered off, taking a hall to the other side of the house. Pictures lined every available space, the happiness coming out from them obvious and appalling, too cheerful for Sherlock to comprehend. Domestic bliss at this level was outside of his experience.
The rear hall opened up into a large family room, two large armchairs and two old battered couches that looked remarkably comfortable despite their state. Thick blankets were draped over the back of every chair and couch, ready in the cold weather to warm someone up.
The furniture was at odds with the upscale feel of the house, and Sherlock saw why when he gently tapped a child's toy with his foot. Toys were everywhere, the floor overrun with the beloved objects of a young boy. Dog toys clustered amongst them, nearly indistinguishable at first glance from each other. The nice furniture was kept in the front, where visitors would be; here was the family room, where they played and lived.
The boy and his dog share toys. Inseparable.
There was a music stand beside the fireplace, sheets strewn over the floor, a beautiful and well-tended violin resting in the armchair next to the stand. Sherlock's fingers twitched at the sight of the high quality instrument, and he had to pull his gaze away. The rug in front of the hearth was as old as the furniture, but deep and warm looking. The rug was wrinkled, as if someone had pushed at it with a foot.
He could see across the room, through another doorway, both doors opened in to a study, a big desk covered in books and papers. Paperwork and a few books had fallen to the floor, and there were some scuff marks on the hardwood floor. Shoes, two men; one obviously the husband from the similar marks throughout the house.
Whoever sat at that desk would have a clear, complete view of this family room, be able to watch a child and mother play. The doors being propped open said the husband wanted to watch, to be a part of the activities in this room.
"Is he going to say anything, or just walk around?" Dimmock asked impatiently. Sherlock went to the fireplace, unlit and dark. There was blood on the mantle, hairs sticking in the drying red smear. He looked down, and saw the body behind the other armchair. The mother, dead now, no longer smiling, eyes vacant, face frozen in an expression of surprise.
"John, come check out the body." Sherlock spoke for the first time since entering the house, as Sherlock backed away from the chairs, the music stand. There was something about the rug, the way the room was set up. How the study doors were open, and the old dictionaries propping them open said they always stayed that way.
John moved up next to him, and went around the other side of the chair, avoiding the blood that had spilled from the deep contusion on the dead woman's head. He knelt next to the body, and Sherlock let him do his thing.
Sherlock pivoted where he stood, and was able to see two large glass doors, covered in white curtains, that opened into the rear gardens. He strode over, and reached out for the handle, pushing one of the doors open easily. It was on a hinge that automatically closed the door unless something was holding it open. He let go, and the door swung shut, whispering over the cold stones of the patio. He could see the snow falling faster, sticking now in thicker clumps.
Sherlock looked back at the fireplace, and stared at that large rug. He shifted, catching it at a new angle, and saw why it was bothering him. There were two indentations in the rug, one covered in dark brown and grey hairs, the same colors as the rug, and a smaller depression next to it. As if a small boy and his best friend would sit on the floor, cuddling, and watch as Mummy played her violin…..
They spent all their time in these two rooms. The father in his study, working, but not to the exclusion of his wife or child. The dust on the dictionaries holding open the study doors tells me there were put there a long time ago, and never moved. He wanted to see into this room, watch his wife play, watch his son tussle with the dog. Family dispute? Where was the dispute?
Domestics usually involves a more dramatic mess than one rug mussed up. Especially if one ends up with a corpse on the floor. Where's the thrown glasses, the pushed over furniture? She has no defensive wounds on her. She was surprised, thrown into the mantle hard enough to kill her. She wouldn't have been surprised if they were fighting. Nor would she have been playing the violin.
He moved farther back into the room, aware that Dimmock was becoming impatient. Donovan seemed more worried about Dimmock throwing a fit than the dead woman on the floor.
"Was the front door locked when the woman came over? The one who found the body?" Sherlock asked, everyone stopping, as if they had forgotten he was there until he spoke.
"Um… No I don't think so. That's the aunt, the dead woman's aunt. Came over to pick up the boy for a shopping trip for holiday presents. She had her key to get in the house, didn't need it, she mentioned the front door was unlocked." Dimmock offered.
"What kind of dog do the Carruthers's have?" Sherlock asked, looking back and forth between the angle of the study, and the patio doors.
"How the hell is that…?" Complained Dimmock, but he cut short his question when he was skewered by hard, glinting eyes. "I'll go ask."
"John, how long has she been dead?" Sherlock queried his doctor, the shorter man getting back to his feet slowly from where he was crouching next to the body.
"An hour, no more." John walked to his side. "You have that look again."
"I do?" Sherlock murmured, eyes sweeping the room. He knew what he was seeing, and the temperatures outside were making his heart race. This day was either about to end with two dead bodies, or just the lonely one on the floor. "An hour may be too late, now. Hopefully not."
The back doors were unlocked. Family has a large dog, must need to go out. Fenced back yard. Open the doors, let the dog in and out. Why was the front door unlocked if the aunt was expecting to use her key? It's obviously locked all the time then. But the back doors, these doors, are not.
"Sherlock, what's going on? What do you see? Did the dad take the kid, kill his wife?"
"No, to both counts." Sherlock spun as Dimmock came back, the victim's relatives in tow. "What kind of dog?"
The older woman spoke up, her voice clouded by tears and despair. "What does it matter? Find my great nephew! That bastard has him, killed my niece!"
"What kind of dog?" Sherlock ground out, behind clenched teeth. This was important!
"A Cão da Serra da Estrela….. A large working dog, huge beast. Loves my great nephew. Named him Bear." Spoke up the older man, putting a hand on his wife's shoulder, rubbing as she cried. "Why does that matter?"
"That dog bonded with the boy. Would sit for hours with him as he listened to his mother play the violin." Sherlock stated, striding to the armchair, picking up the instrument and the bow. "The spots on the floor, look."
"Bear goes everywhere with Vic." Stammered out the aunt, wiping at her face. "He doesn't care much for anyone else but Victor."
"So where's the dog? Mother gets murdered. In front of the kid and the dog, I'm guessing, by the way the music sheets are flung about, the rug messed up." Sherlock pointed at the doors to the garden with the bow. "Those doors are not locked. Anyone could open them. They stay unlocked for the dog and the boy to come and go easily."
"Someone came in, killed the wife, and took the husband, boy escaped with the dog. If the father had the forethought to run, take his son after killing his wife, he would have used the leash in the kitchen to take the dog too. But he didn't. Where's the dog? He's not in here, and the father doesn't have him soooo…."
"Bear stayed with his master. Did you search the gardens, or just assume that they weren't here?"
"What is going on here?" Dimmock was nearly shouting. "Are you just making shit up now?"
"John, open the garden doors. All the way." Sherlock ordered his doctor, and walked to the doors as John flung them wide. He grabbed some flower pots, and propped them wide to the cold, damp air.
"What is he doing? Stop wasting our time….!" Dimmock shut up as Donovan's elbow jabbed him in the ribs.
Sherlock ignored everyone, stepping to the threshold of the family room, and put the violin to his chin. The curtains on the doors were fluttering in the cold wind, the snow falling briskly, sticking now in great white swatches. The terraces below him were partially obscured by the snow, and he feared he was too late. If the boy hadn't responded to the police presence in the house, he may be dead from exposure. Sherlock was hoping he was too afraid to come out of hiding.
"John, watch the garden. Look for movement." Sherlock ordered, and began to play.
The woman had been playing Lux Aeterna, Requiem for a Dream, when she died, playing for her child, her husband listening from the other room. And so did Sherlock play it, loudly in the cold air, the notes floating out through the snow and wind.
The wind caught the song, pulling it away, down the hill, and Sherlock kept on. The song was a powerful one, and Sherlock found himself afraid. He was afraid he had been called too late to see that the boy wasn't missing, but hiding. There was no signs that anyone but the husband had been taken. The boy and his dog ignored as the killer took who he wanted from the beginning.
Sherlock played as loudly as he could, the wind pulling at his coat, snow landing on his face, on the violin as he willed the child to hear him. To be able to hear him. The boy had hidden so well that no one had seen him, if the police had even bothered to do their jobs and look for him…. The temperatures were so deadly, for a small boy hiding in terror.
"Sherlock!" John moved at his side, hand up to block the snow from his eyes. "Do you see it? At the bottom of the hill, near the back fence!"
"I see it, John. It's the dog." Sherlock played the chorus, loud, bow complaining against the strings. There was an answering deep bark from the bottom of the hill, a large shadow shaking himself as he came out from under a hedge along the fence.
"John, get a blanket." Sherlock dropped the bow and violin to the nearest couch, and he ran. He ran out across the patio, down the wide stone steps, across the flat expanse of each terrace. Sherlock could see the large Estrela, the dog brown and grey in wild patterns, long fur shaggy and deep in his winter coat.
Sherlock hit the last terrace, slowing his breakneck pace. The dog dropped his great head as he approached, the growl rumbling out from him reminiscent of a spectral dog Sherlock had once heard in Dartmoor. This beast was very real, and willing to rip him to shreds to protect the small form huddled behind him under the hedge. Black eyes promised him pain if he went near the boy laying so still.
"Sherlock… Jesus, stay back, he'll tear your throat out." John was panting behind him, a blanket in his arms.
"No, he won't." Sherlock said, calm. He let the excitement and adrenaline fade away. His shoulders relaxed, and he would meet the dog's eyes for an instant before dancing away. His hands were down, at his side, and he made no move towards the child. This dog loved his master, and Sherlock was certain he had saved the boy's life with his devotion.
"Bear." Sherlock spoke the dog's name, deep and in command. "Behave."
Sherlock didn't smile when John swore in amazement, as the great beast blinked at him, head lifting slowly. The growling stopped, and Bear snuffled loudly. The dog tilted his head, and took a step forward, towards Sherlock. The big black nose sniffed at him, the bushy tail sweeping the tiniest bit side to side. Sherlock held out his fingers, letting the dog close the final distance.
Bear threw his great head under Sherlock's hand, sitting at his feet to be petted. He ran his fingers through the thick multi-hued coat, and the great beast leaned into his thigh, heaving a big sigh, as if to say he was glad to have company. Sherlock smiled at the loyal animal, and spoke to his doctor.
"Go ahead, John. Get the boy out." Sherlock told the man he loved, and John went for the child under the hedge.
Bear gave a tiny grumble as John knelt under the hedge, wrapping the tiny boy up in the blanket. Sherlock tapped a finger lightly on his nose, and Bear subsided, ducking his head to be petted again. Little Victor was barely awake, strength enough left to tuck his head under John's chin as the doctor pulled him out from under the hedge. Sherlock felt a funny sensation in his chest at the sight, as if he had stumbled, and caught himself on the edge of a high fall.
"He's alive, and warmer than he should be, wearing just his nightclothes. Dog kept him warm, saved his life." John was in disbelief, and he clutched the small form to his chest, walking fast through the snow, up the terraces to the house.
Sherlock petted the dog, smiling at the deep black eyes of the gentle giant.
"Come, Bear. It's cold out here, for me at least." Sherlock whistled, and the giant dog lumbered along at his side, tail wagging. He made for the house, John far ahead of him now, people racing down the steps to crowd around the doctor and his precious cargo. "A detective of my caliber ought to be able to find you some treats."
The study was empty but for Sherlock, and the Estrela who followed him. The boy had left minutes ago in an ambulance, his great aunt and uncle with him. The house had erupted into bedlam when John carried the boy in, police and techs swarming, the previously unneeded medics taking the child. John had assisted, right up until the ambulance left. He should be back in the house any minute, Sherlock looking up from the desk every few seconds to check.
Sherlock pulled a dog biscuit from his pocket, tossing it at the expectant animal. It smelled good, and Sherlock wondered what it tasted like. He sniffed one, but saw some police officers in the family room eyeing him oddly, and he gave it to the dog. Loud crunching filled the room, and Sherlock smiled at the big animal, his tail wagging in wide arcs.
The desk was covered in formulaic work- the husband was a chemist. He was an adjunct professor at the nearby university, and consulted for a pharmaceutical company in downtown London. Sherlock rifled through the papers, noting the empty space for a laptop, missing now.
Carruthers was contracted to help with stabilizing a new cancer drug. Trials were to begin next month. Hired to stabilize a drug…. Damn. The universe is rarely so lazy. This is not a coincidence.
He was taken to stabilize Winter's Night.
"That was amazing, Sherlock." His doctor was back, hands in his trouser pockets, staring at him as if he'd never seen him before.
"What was?" Sherlock absently petted Bear as the dog came to sniff at him, running a large furry ear gently through his fingers. He feared the reckoning that was coming, John's presence reinforcing the dread of his inevitable confession. John must be told; he had made a promise.
"You knew the boy was hiding, playing the music, knowing the dog would be with the boy- all of it. Amazing." John stated all that in his usual charming matter. Partially serious, with a sense of awe, and with a hint of bedazzlement. As he always had, since the first night Sherlock dragged him on a case.
"No, not really. I just used my eyes." Sherlock murmured. "Bear saved the boy, I just told him it was safe to come out of hiding."
"How did you know the dog would react to the music?" John asked him, and he eyed the great beast in question, who thumped his tail when he saw John looking at him. Bear walked over to John, and Sherlock felt a tiny smile move his lips as John did his best not to stiffen up when the big dog came over to him, demanding attention.
"He'd sit for hours with the child, listening to her play- that noise was associated with safety. Of course he'd come out."
Bear leaned into his hip, making John stagger a step, and he petted out of habit. "He's a handsome brute for certain. Aren't you? Good boy."
"Oh please don't baby talk to the dog." Sherlock groaned in exasperation, rolling his eyes. John ignored him and kept at it, making silly noises as the dog wagged his tail happily.
"We need to talk." Sherlock blurted out, uncomfortable. He had no idea how to tell John something like this. Usually, if it was something Sherlock didn't want John to know, he wouldn't tell him, confessing to something only if John caught him at it. But that was the old Sherlock, pre-Fall Sherlock. He was different now, more- he had so many more reasons to hide the darker side of things from John. But he couldn't, not after his promise.
His promise prevented him from being silent. He had promised John the week after his return, a few days John after confessed his love, that he would never hold back a truth, lie to John about anything. That promise was weighing on him now.
"About the case? Just need to find the husband now, yeah?" John had a silly smile on his face, the dog damn near pushing him over as his hands found a sensitive spot.
"About the case, yes. And," Sherlock paused, the words hard for him to find, much less vocalize. "And about something I haven't told you."
John stopped petting Bear, rubbing his hands to shake off the fur. The smile slipped away, and Sherlock tried his best not to look as nervous as he felt.
"Oh?" John was watching him, and Sherlock flinched at the doubt brewing behind John's eyes.
"I…. This is… Why is this hard!?" Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, curls sticking every which way. He snapped out with his other hand, and a stack of papers fell from the desk to the floor.
"Okay, not here. Not at a crime scene." John was at his side immediately, his right hand finding its way to that spot over Sherlock's heart. "Whatever it is, we'll work it out together, alright?"
Sherlock nodded jerkily, exhaling in frustration. John rubbed his chest, his hand steady, warm, distracting. John was here, with him. Sherlock leaned down, and rested his head on John's, absorbing his scent. The erratic thoughts that threatened to pull him under calmed, easing back from the front of his mind. John always did that for him- centered him. Only John Watson.
John rubbed his chest; his other hand finding Sherlock's, and the detective let his dear doctor soothe him.
"Sherlock." John whispered his name, their cheeks brushing, sparks floating as skin touched skin.
"Hmm?" He was captivated by how John's face felt on his, the scent of the soap from their shower, how this coat was too bulky, he couldn't see John's strong shoulders…..
"I love you." He accompanied those marvelous words with a small kiss, so small it was a brush of lips, faster than a thought.
"I love you too." Sherlock dipped his head the last distance, giving John a kiss much more substantial. He needed John, needed his touch, his presence, his love. Sherlock needed John in every way possible, beyond want, beyond desire.
Sherlock took one leisurely taste after another from his lover's lips, John stepping deeper into his arms. He hummed, pleased, content to put the truth on hold to kiss his love. John put his arms around his neck, fitting them tightly to each other. Breathing sped up, not too fast, they needed to be alone and soon…..
"Can't leave you two unattended for any amount of time, I see." Donovan said loudly from the doorway of the study. "Snogging at a crime scene."
Sherlock refused to let John pull away, tongue sliding sensuously across his lover's lips before lifting his head. John was breathing fast, face flushed, his eyes dazed and full of a languid heat that made Sherlock's stomach muscles clench. He dropped his arms, and John pulled back, and Sherlock grinned as he could see the doctor trying to restart his brain.
"What do you want?" He asked the sergeant, not lifting his eyes from John's face.
"Now that the Christmas miracle is on his way to the hospital, care to fill us all in on what happened here?" Donovan demanded, but with only a shred of her previous snark in her words.
"Certainly." Sherlock grinned quickly, stepping around his befuddled companion.
Sherlock went back to the family room, the dog following him, nails clicking on the wood floor. DI Dimmock was speaking to two other officers, and it appeared every forensic tech had decided to be in this one room at the same time.
Sherlock saw the looks he was getting, figuring it was from the very intimate situation in the study a few moments ago. He could care less what others thought- only John mattered. If John let him kiss him in public, then Sherlock would. As easy, and simple, as that.
"Front door was locked. Breakfast was finished, family moved here, waiting for the victim's aunt to arrive. Child and the dog in their customary places on the floor, mother plays the violin. Stand has her facing the room, but as with most violinists when they are comfortable, relaxed, she closes her eyes as she plays. I do the same."
Sherlock pointed at the rug, his finger tapping twice in the air over the indentations made in it from the child and his dog.
"The boy and his dog watch, the music muffling the sounds from outside."
Sherlock threw a hand over his shoulder, towards the study.
"Father sits at his desk and watches, listens while he works. This is a well-established pattern of behavior, habit. They did this every morning."
"The music covers the sounds of the garden door opening, though anything would really, those two doors are maintained, open and shut quietly. Killer enters through the garden doors, mother doesn't see him until it's too late. One push back, hard in the chest, head hits the mantle and she's dead before she lands on the floor."
"Father sees the intruder, too late to save his wife. Child and dog are up, moving away; the dog is a herder, so his instinct in that situation is to protect his charge. The boy. The child runs, the dog follows. They run out the garden doors, down the hill, keep going until they hit the fence line. Father is the target, so is his work. Laptop and some papers are missing, judging by the printouts remaining on the desk."
Sherlock walked past Dimmock, heading for the front of the house, people moving out of his way. He went to the front door, and opened it, letting the cold air rush in. The crowd out on the street was larger, and Sherlock saw at least two news vans outside the crime scene perimeter. Cameras flashed as the reporters caught a glimpse of him, and Sherlock moved so he was obscured by the open door.
"The front door is always locked, as evidenced by the aunt having her key out as she comes to the door. Why was this door open? Very easy, the killer took the father out the front, to a waiting vehicle. No one would notice a service vehicle parked out front, like a delivery truck, or a heating and central air repair, not this time of year. And when the neighbors were canvased, you were all assuming that the father killed the mother, and took the boy, so you didn't ask the right questions. You got the first assumption wrong, and nearly killed a child for it."
Sherlock slammed the door, making everyone in the foyer jump. Dimmock had a pained expression on his face, and Donovan was clearly frustrated, glaring daggers at the DI. The dog sat at Sherlock's feet, huge mouth open, panting loudly in the silence. Big, shiny white canines gleamed in the lights.
John had followed them all, standing behind the crowd. Sherlock caught his eye, and the pride on John's face made him feel warm, as if he'd gotten too much sun, his cheeks heating. He turned away before his face could get swallowed by a full blown blush.
"There is a kidnapped chemist out there, try thinking rescue instead of murderous manhunt. How about you start over, see if you don't do better with the actual facts."
"Any questions?" Sherlock asked the room at large.
No one dared say a word.
Mycroft strode out of his room, the new text from Anthea compounding his problems. Sherlock and John had snuck out before he got up for the day, as he lay sleeping peacefully beside Gregory. Thankfully he had Anthea, and she wasn't currently distracted by her new lover (not much at least), and she put a protective detail on his brother and the doctor as a precaution.
He was silently cursing himself, knowing he should have thought of that. He took the stairs, turning to the kitchen and the breakfast room. He was expecting a full briefing in the bunker, and wanted tea before he engaged in his trade of espionage and world management.
Mycroft pulled up short as he entered the kitchen, the women clustered around the table giving him a jolt. He was not used to so many people actively living in his house, and Mycroft sighed as he saw Gregory sitting next to Violet at the breakfast table. Anthea sat across from them, reading a report and sipping her tea like this was all perfectly normal.
"Mycroft, come eat. Tea's warm, eggs are fantastic." Greg patted the empty seat next to him, and Mycroft found his feet moving in that direction before his brain could figure out what to do. He never ate breakfast with anyone but Anthea, and that was usually a sedate, reserved affair. She occupied in her mobile, he the same….
Mycroft stood next to the chair, wondering if he could get away with snagging a cup of tea and a kiss and running down to his office. But the happy and eager look on Greg's face made him smile tightly and sit down beside his man. Greg handed him a plate, full of actual food, and he did his best no to let on how good it looked.
"Mary! Come in, food's ready. Let me get you a plate." Violet shot up from her chair, as the blonde woman stood hesitantly in the doorway to the kitchen.
Mycroft froze, staring, eyeing the woman who was the focal point of all the trouble he was currently experiencing. He didn't realize he was being obvious about it until Greg kicked him under the table. Mycroft blinked, glared at the DI, and picked up his fork, digging it to the eggs without saying word. Mary hovered in the doorway, as if internally weighing the pros and cons of entering the lion's den. It wasn't until Violet sighed loudly and waved a plate at her that Mary came to the table.
"Here ya go, eat up. John got yelled at by the baby doc, said you weren't eating enough." Violet pushed the well laden plate at the assassin, who took it quietly, sitting beside Anthea. "Time to pack on the baby weight."
"I think I recall something to that effect. Really wouldn't call it yelling though." Said Mary, attacking her food with caution. She was pale, with dark circles under her eyes.
"It's yelling in my version of events."
Mycroft looked around the table. Greg was reading the paper next to him, one of his feet snuggled up with his under their chairs, his niece sitting on the other side teasing a pregnant woman, and his personal aide and all around miracle worker sipping her tea as if this was a normal morning.
Mycroft ate in silence, chewing slowly, and his heart did a funny flip when Gregory, without looking, reached out and took his free hand. Held it, hand warm and strong, between them on the table. Just held his hand, and he forgot how to chew his food. He choked a little, and Greg slid his tea closer.
He saw Mary eyeing him over her food, one slim brow raised in question. She seemed to know why he was out of sorts, and he went back to eating, wondering again how he was sitting where he was, his table crowded by people. It wasn't unpleasant, just foreign. Not his usual milieu.
They all ate in that bright and cheery room, and Mycroft was thoroughly enjoying himself. Not so much the family atmosphere, just the man sitting next to him. Foot rubbing his under the table, holding his hand, and once, when a napkin fell off the table, and firm stroke of the DI's hand along his thigh. He was proud of himself for not jumping, and the look in Greg's eyes as that scamp pretended he hadn't done a thing made Mycroft want to drag him to the floor and do very impolite things.
"I have business I need to attend to shortly. Gregory? Need assistance anywhere?" Mycroft stood quickly; exceedingly glad he wasn't showing signs of how aroused the last thirty minutes had made him.
"Oh, well, I was going to stay….. Um, second thought, I could use some help getting back to my room, thanks." The DI saw the gleam in Mycroft's eyes, and swiftly caught on. Greg stood carefully, and Mycroft ignored the smirks from the three women still sitting at the table. Violet wasn't being subtle at all in her smug attitude, simpering at him when he threw her a glare.
Mycroft helped Gregory out of the kitchen, going down the hall to his makeshift room. His pace was faster, and soon Mycroft figured he might be able to take the stairs. And once he could, Mycroft was moving Gregory Lestrade into his bedroom and never letting him move out.
"What kind of business?" Greg asked idly as they entered his room, and Mycroft let him go, the DI making his way to the couch on his own. He still sat on it heavily, face strained. Mycroft closed the door, and locked it. He leaned back against the hard panels, and stared at the man on the couch.
Dark grey and silver hair, whiter at his temples, darker near the top of his head. Thick too, the coloration giving the only hint to his fortieth decade. Few lines on his face, faint crow's feet near his eyes. This man laughed a lot. Smiled a lot. Strong build, firm muscles, tall and straight. And every inch of him turned Mycroft on like he was a teenager again, determined to demystify sex.
"Business that can wait. I'll talk to the Prime Minister after I do something more important." Mycroft strode over to the couch, towering over the man reclining on the armrest.
Greg stared up at him, and Mycroft watched as a very sexy, super naughty and devilish grin lit up his features. Greg reached out his hand, and Mycroft joined him on the cushions. He sat on the edge, and held still as Gregory used his arm to leverage himself back up to a sitting position.
"Mycroft?" Greg whispered in his ear, lips caressing, his breath teasing.
"Yes?" Mycroft tilted his head just enough to look his lover in the eye, but he got distracted by those lips so close to his own.
"You know I've never…. What you did to me…. Before….. I've never done that to anyone." Greg was getting red in the face, a deep scarlet on his cheekbones. He leaned in to Mycroft, hiding his face behind his ear, leaving wet, small kisses on his neck. "Can I….. Would you let me?"
He would swear on his own intelligence that he never felt a more amazing feeling as that wild surge of lust that spindled out from his groin, at those shy words from his DI.
"Never? Not even when you were married?" Mycroft flinched, thinking that mentioning that miserable excuse of a marriage was to be a killjoy for sure. But Greg just sighed, and one of his hands crept over his thigh, up towards his hip.
"Never. Just the regular man and woman thing. The boring stuff. Never had fun of any sort in that farce of a relationship." Greg was waiting, and he was still hiding his face in Mycroft's neck. His breath was warm and moist, and Mycroft felt his ability to reason leak out his ears when Greg found a sensitive spot and sucked gently.
"Yes, I want you to." Mycroft assured his lover, and tried to turn to him, take him in his arms. But Greg ducked his head, resting his hot face on the cool linen of Mycroft's starched shirt.
"Well, not now….In the middle of the morning, house full of company." Greg whispered, and Mycroft bit back a groan of disappointment. "Let a bloke work up the courage first."
"Whenever you want to, no need to rush." Mycroft put a finger under the DI's chin, and he lifted that handsome face. "There is no rush on any of it. You do realize I want you here with me, even after you're recovered, and back at work? I want you here, in my house, in my bed, my arms. Make this grand empty house a home."
Greg's face was a study in mixed emotions. First and foremost was a pleased, gratifying happiness. And a shred of disbelief that Mycroft could want him like that, more than sex or a warm body in the dark. Mycroft had been thinking along those lines for a long time, and he never meant those words more than as he did giving them life, telling this man how he felt.
"I know you've been lonely. So have I. So alone, and for so long, that I didn't know I was. I thought what I was feeling was normal, was expected, an equilibrium I was destined to endure because of who, what I am. Not even Anthea, not even my brother could make me see how lonely I was."
Greg said nothing, their eyes locked on each other. Mycroft felt the words come pouring out of him, each one easier to say than the one before.
"Move in with me, live with me. Give up that sad shell of a flat, let me love you, make love to you, let me be what you need. I promise you, there is nothing I want, or need, more than you in this whole world. I will start a war for you, release every secret I hold, slay every evil known to the Western world to make you happy, keep you safe, keep you mine."
"I can't stop loving you. And the most amazing thing, out of all that I feel for you? Is that I don't want to stop loving you."
Greg put a hand along Mycroft's cheek, pressed their faces together. He was crying, or Mycroft thought he was, but he couldn't be sure past the kiss. Every time they kissed, it was a powerful as the first, familiar as the last of thousands, and as wonderful as anything they could ever experience. Greg pressed tight to him, held him close, forever, an eternity, and yet over far too fast.
"Is that a yes?" Mycroft asked, blinking away the daze from his eyes. "To moving in permanently, I mean."
"It's a hell yes."
The crowd was thick, even out on the street. Word had spread that Sherlock Holmes was in the house, on the case, and once twitter and Facebook got wind of it, everyone and their brother was flocking to the address. There were over two hundred people on this quiet residential street, all impatiently waiting for a glimpse of the great detective and his doctor.
Jaime stood across the street, in a slim alley between two houses, leaning on the wall not far from her motorcycle. Clay was canvasing the crowd, dressed in plain civilian clothing, looking for the CIA hit men. She could see one from where she was standing, on the outskirts of the crowd on the sidewalk, dressed in plain clothes, his attitude, his stance, and the way he moved all screamed killer. Jaime had sent Clay into the crowd, to find the others.
This was no tail and trail op; they were waiting for Sherlock and John to exit the house. The slope of the front garden, the height of the sidewalks, the way the crowds were milling- all of it easily adapted to, and where her target was set up made it clear he was going to take the shot as soon as he could, and disappear into the panicking crowds. And with two targets, in this environment, there was more than one shooter, hence Clay scouting them out.
"My lady." His whisper came across her earpiece, and she was too focused to mind his use of the title. "I have mine. At your eleven o'clock, dark leather jacket, ten yards north of your target. He's armed."
She discretely put her hand up, pretending to brush her hair back under her hood. She tapped the earpiece, and spoke into the mic in her sleeve. She saw the man Clay described, and she was too far away to take him out without being seen. Clay would have to get him for her as she took out her own target.
"Mycroft's men?"
"In the black town car, three cars down from the police line, crime scene side of the street. They haven't gotten out of the vehicle, two men."
"What good are they as a protective detail if they won't get out of the bleeding car?" She didn't mean for Clay to hear her, she was so mad she forgot to drop her sleeve away from her mouth. She heard him laugh softly in her ear, and she found her mouth twitching.
"Orders?" Clay asked, his voice low and even. Perfectly calm. He may tear up thinking she was a burnt husk, but the man could kill as coldly as she.
"If they make an attempt on Holmes, Dr Watson- kill them all." She told her man, eyes locked on the front of the house. If Sherlock died, if John died… their deaths would mean there was one less protection between Mary and the vengeful natures of two superpowers. She thought she saw movement near the door of the house, as if a tall man with a black coat was framed in the doorway for a brief moment. "Get ready, he's coming out."
Jaime stopped leaning on the wall, and her hands subtly went for the nine mils strapped to her back, under her long coat. She waited, her attention split between the man she would be killing, and the men she must protect, so that Mary could live.
She didn't bother trying to be subtle about her bloodthirsty grin.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked him, as he took the leash off the wall, where it hung over the bowls in the kitchen.
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked his doctor, as he bent down over Bear, snapping the leash to his collar. Bear licked at his face, and Sherlock ruffled his thick fur. He bent down further, picked up the two bowls, dumping the stale kibble in the trash. Thankfully the water dish was empty.
"Are you….. Are you stealing the dog?" John asked in disbelief, and Sherlock scoffed at his question.
"Stealing? No. Keeping him away from the moronic public animal services that the police called to take him, why yes I am." Sherlock held up the leash and the bowls, and waved the both of them at John. "The father is missing, the boy in the hospital, and those two relatives are not going to want him. I'll give him back once we find the father, and the boy is better. He's mine for now."
"Pick one, I'm not carrying the bowls and handling the dog."
"Oh Christ." John absently reached out, and the hand closet had the leash, so he ended up holding onto a very large dog who was beyond excited to be going for a walk. "We're stealing a dog."
Bear towed him towards the front door, people jumping out of the way. The dog and John were nearly the same weight, and the dog had far better leverage on the floor. Sherlock chuckled as he followed behind his doctor and the dog, thinking he would have to stop for better quality kibble on their way home. Poor thing had been eating off brand kibble. Atrocious.
Sherlock caught up to them at the door, as police officers and forensic techs poured out of the house in front of them, more following behind. Sherlock and John stepped out in to the hazy grey light, snow still falling, the wind blowing it in swirls across the dead front garden.
The street was packed with people, who started screaming and shouting once they saw Sherlock and John. Cameras flashed, and news crews aimed their video cameras at them as they walked to the sidewalk. Sherlock saw his brother's car, and lifted a hand, signaling the men inside.
No need to pay for a taxi back to Baker Street. Bear should be able to fit in there with us. Maybe….. Where to get kibble….
His thoughts abruptly scattered at the first gunshot, the pop loud in the air. So close was it, so out of place and unexpected, that everyone froze, except for the police man just behind John, to Sherlock's left. He fell, dead from the hole in his forehead.
"John! GET DOWN!"
More shots filled the air, and the crowd out on the street came alive with panic.
"Clay, now!" Jaime screamed into her mic, raising her nine mil. She heard Clay fire, and narrowed in on her target, confident her man would handle his.
The hit man just in front of her was running with the crowd, firing at John Watson on the sidewalk. She tracked him, running low with the flow of panicked civilians, as he made it to a car on their side of the street. She dodged hysterical people, moving through them as if they weren't there. Her target was focused on the man on the cold ground across the street, and Jaime's focus was centered on him.
There were too many people heading for the cars, trying to hide, that she put her gun away, and pulled her silver blade. The long knife flashed in the chaos, and she sank it hilt deep in his side, as he knelt up from the wet pavement, aiming for the doctor.
She plastered herself to his back, an arm under his and around his chest, holding him tightly, and she twisted the blade. Sharp and true, the blade ripped through the layers of his winter coat like it was tissue paper, destroying his kidney and the surrounding flesh. She laughed in his ear as he died.
Her target was dead before she extricated her blade, and she backed away, running among the screaming idiots huddled behind the row of cars. She heard more gunfire ahead of her, and she saw her first mistake in a long time as she cleared the far corner of a news van. There was another hit man, a third killer, and he was shooting from the roof of the other news van, at the prone forms of the detective and the doctor on the ground. Clay's target was down, pulped head spread like jam across the street, but Clay was taking fire from the inspectors across the street, hiding behind a cluster of trash bins.
"Clay! Get out of there! I have the last one! That's an order!"
Jaime saw that the police were thinking Clay was one of the hit men, and they had yet to see the man crouching on top of the news van, firing at the two men unmoving, huddled behind some concrete topiary planters. Jaime didn't know if Holmes and Watson were alive or dead, and she spared them no further thought, knowing they would be for certain unless she acted fast.
The last hit man was her target, and she ran across the wet pavement. Any shots she made would draw fire from the police, who were idiotic enough to shoot first, look for allies later. She was thankful as she leapt for the back of the news van that her hood was still up, her hair braided out of the way, as a reporter was filming the anarchy, camera pointed at the man shooting from the roof of the van.
Jaime grabbed the steel rungs of the ladder, not climbing them as much as using them to swing herself up in the air, along the side of the vehicle. She flew up, just high enough to reach out over the roof, and snagged the back of the hit man's collar in her hand, clenching her fist tight.
Her momentum pulled them forward, and Jaime yanked the man off the roof, over the front of the van, cracking the windshield as he tumbled down to the street. They were out of view of the cameras, the police having stopped firing. Clay must be gone, and she hoped he was, and not dead. She landed on her feet, a few paces away from the killer, and she went for him.
The hit man sprang to his feet, wet and pissed off. He raised his gun, but she was already there, inside his personal space. She knocked his arm out to the side with one hand as he fired, the stink of gunpowder fresh in her eyes. She punched forward with her blade, her full weight behind the strike. She relished in the complete, total, absolute dismay in the hit man's eyes as she killed him.
Her knife sank through his sternum, her lips pulled back in a feral snarl, the scent of hot blood as familiar as the air she breathed. The crunching from his chest was muffled, and she enjoyed every sound, as his weight pulled him off the knife, to the wet ground.
Jaime sucked in the cold air, the frigid damp clearing the blood haze from her thoughts. She could hear police shouting, sirens approaching, reinforcements arriving. She tucked away her knife, and slunk along the side of the van, peering through the front windows to see the far side of the street.
Sherlock was alive, kneeling beside the smaller form of John Watson. He wasn't moving.
"My lady?" It was Clay, still alive, thankfully. "I'm away, no pursuit. Please tell me you're out of there."
"Too late, Clay." Jaime looked up and down the street, police vehicles converging from both directions. She walked to the other end of the van, still hidden from sight of the police and the detective on the other side of the street. The camera man was still filming, but he was focused on the front garden where Sherlock was clearly visible. Her alley was overflowing with police, and civilians hiding.
"I'll be making my way out on foot, wait for me at the rendezvous. I will be fine."
A small group of people were running past, probably heading for their own homes or vehicles. Jamie ran with them, counting on people's panic to keep them from noticing her, or the dead man she'd left on the wet pavement.
"Sir!" Anthea called out, her voice echoing in the bunker.
Mycroft stopped glaring at his niece, at the abysmal mess she'd made of one of his work stations. He had come downstairs to grab some files before his meeting with the Prime Minister, only to find his workspace usurped by his blood, and turned into some sort of hacker-cum-spy network monster tracker.
"What?" Mycroft did his best not to shout.
"There's been an attempt on Sherlock and John. In progress right now, multiple shooters. Sherlock and John are down, no status on their conditions. Active shooters are still firing."
Mycroft wavered on his feet, and moved slowly, unsure he had heard Anthea correctly. Violet came to his side, her hand tight on his elbow. It was her touch that snapped him out of his shock.
"Send help, now. Send everyone!" Mycroft ran for the bunker door, Violet and Anthea on his heels.
"John? John!" Sherlock knew he was screaming, shouting, his composure shot to hell. He cared not one iota that people saw him shatter, as John lay still on the frozen earth. His face was white, eyes shut, and Sherlock shook him lightly, trying to make the man he loved wake up, to look at him.
Bear huddled next to them, whimpering and whining, nosing at the doctor. John had a bruise forming over his temple, from hitting a concrete planter as Sherlock tackled them both to the ground. There was blood all over John's coat, the greenish-grey fabric wet with it, glistening in the weak sunlight. Sherlock tried to find a wound, but he couldn't focus, tears and fear rendering him useless.
"John! Sherlock, is he hit?" Donovan shouted at him, rushing to his side as Sherlock checked every inch of John's clothing, his head, legs, looking for bullet wounds.
"I don't know! John!" Sherlock screamed his doctor's name, tears running down his face, terrified. So consumed by the thought that he may have lost John, Sherlock was coming apart, head to toe. "He isn't waking up! JOHN!"
"Shit, Sherlock! Breathe! Just breathe!"
Sherlock dimly heard the words, but he couldn't see who it was speaking to him past his panic. John was still, limp, and Sherlock couldn't figure out why. There was a screeching noise loud in his ears, the winter storm brewing over head racing down to pummel his heart to icy dust.
Hands reached past Sherlock, bodies crowded around, people trying to pry him away from his doctor. Sherlock struck out in a rage, screaming obscenities as paramedics shoved him away. Sherlock heard the roar of an enraged animal, and a great furry beast threw itself over him, to the ground.
Bear stood over him, snarling at the police who had dragged Sherlock away from John. Sherlock reached out around the dog, past the people kneeling next to John, to grab his doctor's hand in his. Sherlock clutched, the only part of John he could see was his fingers, people blocking Sherlock's view.
"John…." Sherlock clung tightly, refusing to let go. "John!"
"Sir, Sherlock is alive, and our men can't tell if he's hurt or not. John is down, paramedics are tending to him on scene."
Anthea was listening intently to his people on the other side of the line, mobile pressed to her ear. His Jaguar devoured the streets as they raced to the crime scene. Violet sat beside him, her knees drawn up to her chest, her bruised and still lovely face scrunched up in fear.
Mycroft had lost one of his hands to her grip, but he let her have it. He was texting to his security teams as Anthea talked to one of the guards that a tailed the men as they left the townhouse that morning. He was putting extra coverage on his brother, and arranging it for the townhouse even now.
Mary and Gregory were in the bunker, under guard, the door sealed shut under a priority lockdown that would take him to open, and only him. There were two teams in his house, between his people and any threat that came for them. Mycroft didn't need to check to know he had three security details trailing his car, one in front, as they tore through London.
"It's the Vicar, isn't it?" Violet asked quietly, leaning into his shoulder as the car took a corner far too fast.
"Yes. And it was the last thing he will ever do."
"Sir?" Her voice was low, and her eyes troubled as she met his. Anthea was afraid to tell him something.
"Tell me."
"Our men said that it appears John Watson is grievously injured… and Sherlock has snapped. They said he's become violent."
"Driver, get us there now."
"Let me go! Damn you all!"
Sherlock struggled against the cuffs, the men holding him to the ground. He had eyes only for John, as the paramedics took him away on a stretcher. No one was telling him anything, would let him up to go see his lover. He had knocked down a police officer after Bear let him up, trying to get back to John's side.
Everyone overreacted, and Sherlock found himself cuffed and sat upon. Donovan was ignoring his shouts, holding the dog's leash as she talked rapidly to someone on the phone.
The ambulance holding John lit up, and took off down the street. Sherlock screamed, and pulled hard on the cuffs, trying to get free, to follow.
People were running everywhere, swarming around the bodies on the ground. One police officer was dead, and Sherlock could see from where he was laying, chest pressed to the cold ground, that there were more bodies out in the street. Not alive, as evidenced by the fact the paramedics were tending to everyone else. The crowd on the street had dissolved into a mad riot, a chaotic disaster once the shooting started.
"Let me up." He growled, and he managed to twist his hands in the cuffs, preparing to break his own wrist to escape. "Now."
"Sit on him until I tell you to get up!" Donovan ordered, and she went back to speaking on the phone.
Bear was sitting forlornly at her feet, looking sad and dejected. He saw Sherlock looking at him, and perked up, great tail wagging in the dead grass. He pulled on the leash, and nearly yanked Sally off her feet. Sherlock grinned in wild approval, glad she was distracted, that the men holding him down were watching the dog. He was going to snap his wrist, slip free, and go after John. And God help anyone who tried to stop him.
"Sherlock, you will NOT be breaking your wrist." A voice behind him stated firmly, and Sherlock turned his head, to see an immaculate Italian leather shoe standing next to his shoulder. He looked up, and squinted at his brother.
"Gentlemen, please let him up." Mycroft ordered calmly, far too calm for Sherlock's state of mind.
John is hurt, John needs me. And they took him!
Violet came out from behind her uncle, and started swatting at the men sitting on Sherlock. They moved away, when Mycroft waved them off. Violet went behind him, and she had the cuffs off and away faster than she should have, as he hadn't seen anyone give her a key.
She grabbed his arm, and helped him to his feet. Sherlock barely had time to stand before she wrapped her arms around him, face buried in his chest. She hugged him, her attitude one of fear and desperate relief. His arms closed around her automatically, and he shuddered at the comfort he got from her, still so unexpected.
"Mycroft… I have to go…John…"
"One of my men is in the ambulance. Dr Watson is awake, and asking for you. If you would like to behave, we can go meet him at the hospital."
"But….." Sherlock finally processed his brother's words. John was awake, John was asking for him. John was awake…
"Come on, let's get the hell off this fucking street before another psycho decides to try and kill us all." Violet tugged him away, and Sherlock let her, heading for the fleet of black cars that overran one side of the street.
Sherlock stopped, and whistled loudly. There was an answering bark, and a woman's shout. Bear bounded out of Donovan's grasp, the police sergeant cussing at him, and he ran to Sherlock's side. He picked up the leash in one hand, held Violet with the other, and utterly ignored Mycroft's dismay as the big dog followed happily.
Jaime watched from the far side of the street, as the motorcade swept off after the ambulance holding Dr Watson. Sherlock was alive, and she figured John must be as well, considering how swiftly Sherlock had calmed down after his brother showed up on scene.
The cars holding the Holmes' family roared by, less than ten feet from her, and she laughed softly under her breath, keeping her head down, hood pulled tight over her face. The exhaust from them washed over her, the smell of wet pavement and damp wet earth rising. She took her time, confident the blood on her clothing was hidden by the black fabric. She hadn't fired a single shot, and two of the Vicar's men were dead beneath her blade, the third by Clay's hand.
The Vicar would be beyond enraged at this point. And the violence was no longer restricted to the hidden parts of the city, out of the public eye. This fight had been very public, portions of it most likely on the news right now. Dozens of people injured, three dead. And she and Clay gone, with no one able to clearly say what, or who, had stopped the carnage. She figured parts of her were on footage, but no one had seen her face. So it mattered not.
This was about to collapse into a bloody, violent power struggle, between two men who held far too much power. The Vicar had made two moves, and soon Mycroft would retaliate. People were going to die, bleed. And yet neither of them knew just who was winning. Neither of them were on the leaderboards.
Jaime Moriarty was winning the war, the last two battles hers, with the prize Mary Morstan. She would whittle the Vicar's men down to the roots, until he was vulnerable enough to be slain. He would come for Mary himself, and that is when Jaime would strike him down.
Mycroft Holmes was no threat to her. Jaime knew the way around him, always had, and she would do so to take Mary out from beneath his so called protection. And if he was properly appreciative of her assistance, she might leave him breathing when she did.
And once the threat to Mary was gone, Jaime would give Mary what she wanted. Freedom, and a life, a future.
And who knows, I may let Mycroft Holmes do the honors. Kill the Vicar himself. He hasn't personally killed anyone since his own brother. I think he might appreciate the gift.
Jaime laughed freely in the cold air, the cars long out of sight. She danced a few steps down the sidewalk, giggling, wondering who would die next.