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

WARNING: An absolutely naughty sex scene that left me needing a cold shower.

A/N: For those who sent PM's asking, yes, Bear is a real dog. In fact, he's my real dog. I couldn't resist. I apologize for the delay in posting, I had a stranger try and break into my house Thursday, and I'm still pretty shook up. Took everything I had just to wrap this chapter up. I will not let this recent even t keep me down, and I'll be bringing out the big guns in the next chapter.

Read, enjoy, review.

Chapter Forty Six

"His Wrath, Her Bargain"

"Go easy, Sherlock. He hit his head really hard, he's got a serious concussion. Don't hover, he can't handle hovering."

John thought he recognized that voice, but he couldn't open his eyes to see who was talking. It was a woman, with an American accent.

Why can't I open my eyes, where is Sherlock?

Sherlock Fell… he fell, I saw him…

Sherlock, where are you…. I miss you, come back to me. Please don't be dead….I never told you how much I loved you…

No, Sherlock don't…..

"John? Are you awake?" Now that was a voice he knew. Deep, rumbly, and it made his insides shiver. That voice had always been special. As special as the man it came from.

Sherlock is dead, isn't he? Why does my head hurt?

"Sherlock?" John whispered, prying his unwilling eyes open. The room was bright, and his eyes wouldn't focus. There was a black blob wavering in front of him, and he blinked, trying to make his eyes work.

"John?" A warm hand brushed across his cheek, a thumb caressing his face. It was that familiar and wonderful touch that woke him fully. Pulled him from the painful, lonely past, and reminded him that miracles do come true.

The chaos at the crime scene echoed in his ears, and he flinched at the memory of gunshots ringing over their heads. His head was pounding in time with his heart, and the light hurt his eyes. John groaned quietly, the pain making his mouth water, like he was going to get sick.

John squinted, and stopped, his temple hurting so badly he flinched, but his vision cleared enough for him to see his detective.

John's eyes devoured Sherlock, who was sitting beside him, face strained with worry. His detective was dirty, wet, had blood drops on the left side of his face, and dog fur sticking to his black coat. And he never looked more handsome. John breathed in relief; Sherlock looked okay. His head was feeling somehow heavy and hollow all at once, his vision wavy and making him nauseous.

"Hey." John said, blinking slowly, and he tried to lift his hand. Sherlock saw, and reached out, meeting him halfway. Sherlock held his hand, the other gently stroking his face.

"Hey back."

"You… okay?" He would be all right, as long as he had his detective.

"You're the one in the hospital, and you're asking me if I'm okay? John, you never stop astounding me."

"Don't want you to get ….bored with me."

"You are the only person in the world who will never bore me."

Mycroft waited at the hospital long enough to insure his brother had regained his sanity, and the doctor was in good hands. Violet was given her own protection detail, and she promised to stay with her uncle and the doctor, not leaving their presence for anything. Mycroft had them all in a closed off section of St Bart's, an area freshly renovated that hadn't been opened up yet for use. Mycroft was taking no chances with his family, not after this morning's debacle.

Mycroft had two teams protecting his niece, his brother, and the man his brother really should marry. Having to strong-arm the hospital into getting Sherlock access to the doctor, and able to make decisions for him, was tedious and annoying. Beneath his capabilities.

As long as it isn't a wedding with a silly reception and flowers…. Though I wouldn't mind seeing Gregory in a tuxedo. And then getting him out of it afterwards….

Things got especially annoying when he had to threaten the staff with exile to the Artic when they complained about the very large dog that had attached itself to his brother. The beast stayed, and Mycroft was not going to bother asking where it came from. His brother and dogs. Always a mess.

Anthea was waiting for him at the doors of the hospital, flanked by armed guards. He got in his Jaguar, Anthea at his side. She closed the door, and Mycroft pondered his choices.

"What do you think, my dear? Play nicely, or go for the throat?"

"In my considered opinion, sir, you have never played nice. Don't start now." Anthea grinned at him, her classical features angry and bloodthirsty. "Rip out The Vicar's throat."

"Yes, dear." Mycroft nodded to his driver, and his motorcade pulled away from the hospital. "But first, it's time to bring the Prime Minister to heel."

"I have some more information from our men."

"Tell me everything you have," said Mycroft, and he smiled grimly as the cars headed for Downing Street. This was meant to be the usual visit, with polite conversation and full of status reports on the multitude of missions and ops Mycroft was running across the globe. But not this time.

"The three dead men are coming back one hundred percent clean, but our files on Williamson's surveillance show them to be his people, from a fresh group he called in yesterday. Here's something interesting: None of our people killed them."

"What do you mean, none of our people killed them? Did John get a shot or two off before Sherlock knocked him out? Or was it the police? Some of them must pass their qualifiers to be allowed to carry."

"One of the hit men was killed by a double tap to the head, within ten feet. The last two? Stabbed, single wounds." Anthea met his gaze, her face showing her consternation. "The protective detail we had on Sherlock and John never made it past the car once the shooting started. They didn't kill the CIA."

She bit her lip, and settled deeper in the seat next to him. Anthea's perfume drifted through the short space between them, teasing his attention.

"The police say they think there was another shooter, one who got away. But as some witness reports have that one shooter killing one of the three Williamson sent, I'm inclined to believe that he was one of the people responsible for saving Sherlock and John."

Mycroft leaned back in the plush leather seat, thinking hard. This was most unusual. Mycroft started to think aloud, a habit he only shared with Anthea. Sherlock would ruminate out loud to anyone, he was not in a position to be as discreet as his elder brother.

"Sherlock and John rescue Mary in time, but only make it out of Leinster Gardens because an unknown sniper covers their retreat. Sniper is presumed dead in the catacombs, as they get ambushed by two CIA killers. John kills one, Mary the other."

Mycroft rubbed his fingers over his knee, thoughts spinning. Downing Street was coming up, he needed to sort this out quickly.

"Next, Sherlock and John get ambushed by the Vicar's men. Three hit men sent to take them out in a public way, to send a message to me that Williamson is not to be trifled with. Instead, his attempt to kill my brother and the doctor is foiled, by unknown individuals. From what I saw at the crime scene before we left, it's obvious that there was more than one person protecting Sherlock and John this morning."

"That line's up with what our people are reporting, yes."

"Who is this shadowy person, this group of people protecting my brother? I would say they were protecting Miss Morstan, but as she was nowhere near the crime scene today, that makes little sense. Any chatter out there? Perhaps someone from Sherlock's overseas missions clearing a debt by protecting him and Dr Watson?"

"No, sir. Nothing. Whoever is doing this is a ghost." Anthea told him, and the motorcade was taking the turn down Downing Street. "What will you tell the Prime Minister about the deaths?"

"The truth, of course. I assisted Williamson, our hands are clean. As we didn't send the sniper, nor are we responsible for the Vicar's people dying this morning, I can say with a completely clear conscience that I followed orders to the letter."

Mycroft sat in the car as they pulled up to the curb, thinking.

"Things will get very tense in there, my dear. I will have to go around him if he's feeling fractious today." Mycroft said softly to Anthea, grabbing her hand in his, squeezing.

"I know. I'm not worried. A pity you do more good behind the scenes; I would vote for you as PM in a heartbeat." She gave him that tiny smile, the one that said the world was full of fools, and she loved the one intelligent soul. "We wouldn't have nearly as much fun, though."

"Shush, you. Tell no one that's this is fun, they'll take away all my toys." Mycroft slowly released her hand, and she sat back, watching him. "Will you come or stay? Usually he has no issue with your presence, but considering today's topic, I don't want to put you under extra scrutiny from him."

"I'll be in there. Someone has to help you hide the body if you kill the idiot."

"No, I will not keep my voice down! Heed me well, sir!" Mycroft was in fine form, pacing back and forth across the shiny wood floors of the Prime Minister's private office. He would stop and glare at each point, damn near impaling the poor man cowering behind the wide desk. "You foolishly invite a cold-blooded foreign operative to our shores, give him carte blanche to start his own manhunt, force me to assist in this matter without giving me the autonomy to handle The Vicar appropriately, and as a result, he threatens the lives of my family, my people, starts a shootout on the streets of London like this was the Wild West- and you want me to calm down?"

Anthea stood near the office door, hands behind her back, posture relaxed but serenely formal. No one looking at her now would be able to see the mirth she was suppressing as her boss flayed the PM to the bone for his idiocy. Though an observant soul might see the gleam of pride in her eyes as she watched the only man in this world she would ever love tear down a fool.

I will never tell him just how amazingly sexy he is when he gets like this.

Never, ever. But damn! Be still my heart…..

"Now see here, Mycroft!"

"That is Director Holmes to you, sir," Mycroft intoned in a deadly cold voice, making the PM snap his mouth shut. Anthea watched Mycroft tear down the snooty, uptight, elitist prick of a PM, reduce him to the emotional state of a sullen five year old, and just because he could, made him squirm.

"You placed the lives of British citizens in jeopardy in your attempt to curry favor with the CIA." His voice had dropped, the temperature in the room dropping with it. Anthea found herself leaning forward, the smallest amount, captivated by the dangerous creature in the room. "Your foolhardy restrictions made me complicit in a failed operation that resulted in the destruction of public property, shoot outs in residential areas, and now, a police man is dead, along with three foreign operatives. In full view of the public. On the evening news."

"You will no longer have the authority to go around me in these matters. Never again. You have placed the lives of every citizen in danger, and are no longer trustworthy to have access to my agency, its people, and my work. As by law, you shall be informed of certain operations, but you will have no authority to supersede me, or interfere."

"The Morstan matter shall be handled by my office, my people, and I have the final say in whether or not she is important enough to waste the manpower on. We have bigger issues to deal with in this world than one woman, without contacts or support. She is a non-issue."

Mycroft stepped close to the desk, and Anthea bit her lip to hide the smile that threatened to escape as the PM shrank back. Anthea was never prouder of Mycroft Holmes in her whole life than she was in this moment. He was marvelous.

"If you attempt, I any way, to interfere or meddle with my work in the future, I will be most put out. Don't make me upset Her Majesty by removing you."

Anthea waited, holding her breath. Here was the gamble; Mycroft would prefer not to kill anyone just because they were inconvenient. Mycroft hated waste. And a fool in office was more easily managed than someone with intelligence. The next Prime Minister may not be so willing to be handled.

But the legend of the Iceman, the man who knew all the secrets in the world, even the ones never spoken aloud, was intimidating enough, scary enough, and downright bloody ruthless enough to conceivably do as he threatened. And if he were a less moral man, Mycroft would already rule the world. He was a king, born in the wrong era, meant to rule with impeachable control and flawless execution, yet hidden in the shadows, in a time and age of democracy and freedoms.

The Prime Minister must believe that Mycroft would remove him. And if Sherlock, Greg, or even herself or Violet were to be caught in this power struggle? If anyone of them were to die? Then Mycroft Holmes would unleash the frozen wastelands of his wrath on the moronic goldfish who fucked up, and every single soul who had a hand in it. God help the world then.

"I….understand completely." The PM slowly stood, carefully, as if afraid Mycroft would snatch his life away in this instant. "I shall be sending my regrets to Director Williamson, rescind his credentials, and have him escorted to the airport within the day. My apologies at the inconvenience, Director Holmes."

"Thank you, sir. Lovely to see you can be counted on. Don't worry about sending your regrets, I will be doing it for you in person." Mycroft was once again cool and collected, the icy wrath hidden away. "I will see you next week for our regular meeting. Have a wonderful day. Oh, and don't worry, I shall be watching, as always."

Mycroft walked out, stately and confident. She fell in at his side, and they left the Prime Minister behind, no doubt weighing the odds of successfully taking out Mycroft Holmes and replacing him with someone more controllable.

"He's planning your demise this very second, I'm certain." Anthea whispered softly to Mycroft as they walked towards the front doors. She shrugged into her coat as he held it for her, and she caught the glimmer in his fierce eyes.

"Oh, I am certain as well. I wish him luck- arresting him for attempted murder would be advantageous; far better than killing him." Mycroft took her elbow as they stepped out of Downing Street, the valet holding the door to the Jaguar. They walked down the steps, and Mycroft leaned down to whisper in her ear. "You weren't helping me in there, you do realize."

"What? Me? I was perfectly behaved, thank you very much."

She slid in first, Mycroft next to her. The door shut, and they were away seconds later. She raised a brow at him in question, seeing the mirth around his eyes, belying his stern expression.

"I could nearly hear your laughter, so obvious was your enjoyment." Mycroft scolded, but he smirked when she laughed at his comment. "Every time I saw your face I wanted to start laughing too."

"I can't help it; watching you verbally eviscerate idiots makes my day."

"Then watching me forcibly remove The Vicar from British soil ought to last you through the holidays. Whether Williamson will be alive to enjoy his removal is debatable."

"Sherlock! Woo-hoo, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's incredibly loud whisper woke Sherlock from his nap. He was in a chair beside John's bed in this empty corner of St Bart's, his feet propped up on the loudly snoring Estrela stretched out on the floor.

The dog gave off a surprising amount of heat, and didn't mind at all being used as a foot warmer. Sherlock sat up, lifting his feet from the dog, who merely rumbled, and rolled to his back. Sherlock spared a glance at John, but the doctor was still sleeping, hand out towards Sherlock on the white blankets.

Mrs. Hudson fluttered in the room, carrying a large linen bag, in which Sherlock could see some of John's clothes, and a garment bag from his armoire, hopefully holding one of his suits. Their clothing was filthy, muddy from the wet ground, and torn from Sherlock throwing the two of them behind the topiary planters.

Sherlock winced at that thought, knowing John's injury was his fault. The blood on the doctor's coat had been from the policeman's head as he died from the first shot. If John hadn't turned when he did, to see what Sherlock was waving at, he would have taken the bullet. John would be dead. And there would have been nothing Sherlock could have done to stop it, to stop his world from imploding, his heart dying, his life collapsing. And yet, Sherlock almost killed John, tossing him down as he did, John's head smacking hard on the concrete planter they'd sheltered behind.

Mrs. Hudson came over, and he tolerated her fussing hands, and the quick kiss she pressed to his curls. He snagged the garment bag, and gingerly got up from the chair, heading for the bathroom. Mrs. Hudson clucked worriedly over John, and Sherlock checked to make sure she hadn't woken him from his nap.

"Sherlock?" Called a weak voice from the bed. He paused in the middle of changing, his dress shirt unbuttoned, and he left the bathroom, heading back to the bed. John was awake, and struggling to sit up, his unfocused eyes alarmed at not being able to see his detective.

"I'm here, easy now." He caught John's hand in his, and Sherlock ignored the watery smile on Mrs. Hudson's face as John relaxed, eyes on his detective's face. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"Was worried…. I woke up, you were gone….."

"I was no more than ten feet away, John. Shush now, sleep. Let your head find its way back to rights." Sherlock whispered, leaning down, and pressing a kiss to John's brow. He pulled back slightly, his hand cupping the doctor's bruised cheek, the welt over his temple having spread in the last few hours. "I was just changing, I hadn't left."

"Always running off…" John blinked heavily at him, and Sherlock found himself fighting off moisture in his eyes at the sadness in his lover's voice. John was obviously only partially awake, his eyes drooping shut longer between each blink. "Leaving me behind…"

"I will never leave you behind again, John Watson. I'm home now, with you, forever." Sherlock bent down, dragging a chair close enough he could prop his arms beside John, fingers running through grey-streaked blonde hair. "Go back to sleep, love. I'll stay right here."

"Okay…" John whispered, snuggling deeper into his pillow, "Love you…"

"I love you too John."

Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair, as his lover fell back asleep. He sat quietly, Mrs. Hudson rubbing his shoulder as Sherlock again confronted the guilt, the remorse, of having caused John so much agony and grief over the previous two years. He would spend the rest of his life keeping such pain from ever touching John again, no matter the cost.

Mycroft nodded to his security team, and the even dozen swept through the front door of Williamson's house, boots echoing off the marble floors. Mycroft could hear his men clearing the house, calling out room by room over the radio. Anthea was behind him, safely on the other side of the car, waiting for his men to insure their foreign friend's cooperation.

"Sir, house is secure. Subjects acquired, bottom level, main sitting room. Clear for entry," his team leader's voice crackled over the radio. Mycroft waved up Anthea, and together they left the street and the frigid winds, and entered the Vicar's house.

They followed an operative to the room where the Vicar's operations had been set up. Sweeping his eyes over the assembled people held at gunpoint, and zip tied, Mycroft sought out the man he wanted to see. Who he wanted to see, but didn't.

"Where is Williamson?" He asked softly, his voice drifting out among the terrified technicians and officers.

"Sir?" A tech stammered out, flinching when Mycroft's icy gaze settled on him. "Director Williamson left over an hour ago. He said to….." he swallowed loudly and gathered the shreds of his courage, "he said to tell you that you can't stop him, and he'll be back to finish his…mission."

"Find him, now. Tear this house apart, interview every one of his people. See who else is missing," Mycroft barked out the orders, and he turned away sharply, Anthea nearly running trying to keep up with him.

"Mycroft, where would he have gone? We were watching the house, how did he get out?" Anthea asked, Mycroft nearly running in his haste to leave the house, to get back to the car. To get back to the bunker, to send the hounds of hell after Williamson.

"He went to ground, and he'll strike when he thinks us most vulnerable. He's certain we have Mary, and if we all stay here in London, he'll sit on the townhouse forever, hidden. Every time we go out, we'll be putting people in danger as he tries again and again to kill us. Mary can't remain there, not her whole life, and I don't think I can handle a pregnant assassin once the mood swings hit," Mycroft dodged the little swat Anthea threw in his direction, helping her into the Jaguar. "We need to get out of London, away from the city. Every one of us, including Ms. Morstan."

"Every one of us? I thought you were going home for the holidays?"

"I am, and so is everyone else. Remind me to call my mother, tell her we will be coming home for Christmas. And we will be bringing… friends."

"With Williamson after us, you want to bring that home to your parents?"

"The Vicar and his people will be highly noticeable in the countryside, especially in the village near my parent's place. I know every inch of that region, the hills and forests. As does Sherlock. We will have the advantage there. And I will kill him there, too."

"You will?"

"He lost his one chance to make it out of this country alive when he ran like a coward. He dies, even if I must do it myself."

"I'll have to cancel my plans then, you're not having all that fun without me."

Peter was used to running everywhere, the drugs usually riding him hard enough that he couldn't keep still. So when The Vicar showed at the warehouse, a dozen dark shadows at his back, Peter was at a loss in what to do, since the Vicar certainly wasn't going to run after him.

Peter looked over his shoulder again, for what felt like the millionth time, smiling crookedly at the silent CIA director as he followed Peter to Woodley's private labs deep in the heart of the warehouse.

He banged open the heavy metal door, and bowed The Vicar in to his master's private lab and office. The big man, while not carrying the look of an intellectual, was a fair hand at chemistry. Though his talents ran towards the recreational sides of things, and not so much the medicine parts.

Hannibal growled deeply from his bed beside the great oak desk, the rumbles echoing off the concrete walls and stainless steel tables. Williamson let his gaze pause briefly on the large dog, before dismissing the beast as unimportant.

"Welcome to London, Vicar," Woodley intoned from his microscope, the device looking small next to the large man as he bent over it, peering intently through the lens. "I'm sad you couldn't stay longer."

"I'm not leaving just yet; I have unfinished business to attend to before I go."

The Vicar left his men in the hall, slowly meandered over to the table, idly examining the formulas on the whiteboards, the beakers and vials in various stages of experimentation, wisely keeping his hands away from the substances laid out.

"No? I just heard Mycroft Holmes kicked you outta here, one way ticket back to the States."

"He tried. Can't send someone away if they aren't there to send."

"True," Woodley sat back on his stool, eyeing the CIA director. Peter knew that his master's calm exterior housed a vicious, nasty temper that was at the tipping point. He was most displeased that Williamson could no longer move with impunity; the deal for Violet Hunter seemed to be a lost cause.

"A shame you couldn't deliver on your obligations while you were here," he said, meeting the Vicar's gaze head on. Peter shivered and tried to spot a safe place to hide if things got violent.

"Ah, you mean Ms. Hunter," The Vicar smiled, and there was something in it that made Peter think the Vicar wasn't quite useless. "What if I settled that order? Within the next week? Would it garner me use of a quiet space to set up shop?"

Woodley leaned back, crossing his arms. Peter bit his lip, eyes darting back and forth between the Vicar and his master. Woodley thought so long Peter feared his master had slipped himself some product and zoned out.

"Peter." His name made him jump, and Peter scurried forward, bowing awkwardly to his master.

"Sir?"

"Please take the Vicar and his men to one of our empty spaces, preferably one of the nicer ones."

"Of course, Master."

"Oh, and Williamson? I already paid three million pounds for the girl. If I don't have her in my possession before the New Year begins, you won't have to worry about Mycroft Holmes finding you. I'll be feeding you to Hannibal."

Jaime watched from the fire escape as The Vicar and his people were ushered into the decrepit warehouse, a wiry little junkie waving the men through a reinforced steel door.

"What are they doing here?" Clay whispered in her ear, the ear bud barely loud enough for her to hear him over the howling wind. He was in the building opposite, and she regretted that they hadn't a clean shot on Williamson until seconds before he walked through that door. He wouldn't be coming out any time soon.

"Hiding."

"And what are we going to do with this information? Turn them in?"

Jaime laughed at that, the sound swallowed by the wind rifling through the alleys, up the side of the building. He was so innocent for a mercenary.

"No… We sit on this golden egg of information until we can use it to our advantage. Even two years dead, my brother's influence keeps affecting my life."

"My lady?"

"I know who Williamson went to for help. His name is John Woodley, Master Chemist of London. And James Moriarty made him who he is today, the city's biggest drug lord."

Two Days later…December 23rd

Mary groaned, so fed up and frustrated she didn't care she was acting like a spoiled child. She ran her fingers through her short hair, probably making it stand straight up in spikes, and again not caring.

"You want me to crawl through the bowels of London again? I can hardly use the stairs before I have to vomit by the third step!" She shouted, the pressure of using her diaphragm to do so making her stomach roll. Mary slapped a hand over her mouth, and ran for the bathroom, barely making it in time to get horribly sick. At least that proved her point.

"Dammit, Sherlock, make her see reason." Mycroft muttered loudly enough for her to hear. She leaned back on her heels, wiping her mouth with a hand towel, and glared at Mycroft so hard she was surprised she didn't lacerate his jugular from the bathroom.

Mycroft blinked, and carefully removed the frustrated look off his face. She could practically see the thoughts spinning in his head, most of them about assassins and pregnancy hormones. Sherlock bit his lip, and looked at the floor, losing a battle with his laughter. He wouldn't look up, so she didn't bother wasting the glare on him too.

It was two days after the assassination attempt on John and Sherlock, and Mary was astounded that they had waited until the last minute to tell her she was going home with them for the holidays. She wasn't in any mood or condition to deal with festivities right now. And traipsing through the catacombs in order to escape notice by anyone watching the townhouse was out of the question. She was finding even the simplest of things difficult right now, her morning sickness striking whenever it fancied, not just in the morning. She hadn't kept a meal down in days, managing to eat salty crackers and cool water. The doctor's advice to consume more calories was going to be harder than she thought.

"I'm not going," she growled from the cold tiles, panting beside the toilet, trying to calm down. "I am NOT risking my baby just so you can shuttle me about England like luggage!"

"John is going, and so is Lestrade, and both of them are injured, I don't see the difference…," Sherlock snapped his mouth shut fast when she lifted her head, skewering him with the glare he'd missed the first time.

"Greg and John are hurt, and recovering nicely. I am not injured, I am pregnant, and I intend to stay that way. I have severe morning sickness that is leaving me too weak to defend myself, much less walk down to supper! Which means no catacomb adventures, no traveling, and plenty of quiet time without a Holmes breathing down my neck! I haven't eaten anything in two days without throwing it back up, and you want to stick me in a house full of holiday food and strangers?"

Sherlock and Mycroft glanced at each other, trying to think of something to say. She figured she better convince them soon, or she'd wake up after one of them drugged her and she was halfway across the country.

"Listen to me right now." Mary breathed shallowly, trying to settle the roiling in her gut. "Sherlock, I will be fine here, I promise. This is what you are going to do: make a big show about leaving for the country, and have a short blonde operative bundled up getting into a car, make it look like I've left, and sell the lie by leaving yourselves."

Mary had disappeared plenty of times, it was easy enough to reverse the trick, and make them think you were gone, while still being around. Mary glared at Mycroft, the spymaster looking at her in a perplexed manner. Probably not used to having a sick pregnant woman telling him what to do from the bathroom floor.

"Mycroft, you set up your trap for Silas, kill him, wipe out his men, singe the CIA back to the Hell they crawled from, and I'll give you the details of my four hundred and twenty three missions. Every name, every order, and every black smear of evil I was tasked with in my fifteen years as the CIA's top assassin. Everything."

Mycroft developed a gleam in his eyes, one she'd seen in many men's when promised the world. What she knew was enough to cement his position for his lifetime, all the way down to those of his great grandchildren. And he knew it.

"That is tempting, Miss Morstan, but I'm sensing that's not all."

"Smart man, you really are Sherlock's brother." She grinned despite the nausea, wanting this conversation over so she could crawl into bed and sip on some plain tea. "What I know can burn down the world, why do you think the Vicar wants me back? Silas would not have come for any stray agent, not at all. But he came for me, himself."

"Yes, he did. I thought it unusual myself at the time, a director for one woman."

"Can you guess why? Sherlock, any ideas?" Sherlock didn't answer fast enough, and she waved him quiet any way. "He came for me himself because for the last ten years, before I retired, Silas Williamson was my handler."

Mycroft's thin brows disappeared into his hairline, and Sherlock nodded to himself, as if he suspected something along those lines. She now had them, and she could nearly feel the cool sheets beneath her cheek as she thought about sleeping once they left.

"He wants to silence me, before I reveal his off-book missions. The nasty, evil, vile things he had me do when his masters weren't looking." Mary leaned over, and literally crawled to the door jamb, glaring at Sherlock when he moved to help her. She grabbed the frame, and pulled herself to her feet. She wrapped her arms tight around her abdomen, the gesture not lost on either Holmes man.

"Mycroft, Sherlock." She met their eyes each, and sighed heavily. "I am not worth saving. I have done things so evil, so dark, that if I were you, I'd be dead already."

Sherlock went pale, and Mycroft got a harsh mien about his eyes.

"I am not worth saving, but my child is. John's child. You keep me safe until I bring her into this world, let me say goodbye, and then I leave." She ignored the shock on their faces, the unspoken dismay, and disbelief. "I am not fit to be a mother, but I am going to be one, and let this be my gift to my child. I'll give her to John, and in return for everything I know, you let me go. She will never be safe while I am in her life. And she will won't have the life she deserves if she stays with me."

"Mary, John won't..." Sherlock started to protest, but she silenced him with a sigh.

"John has no say in this. He will raise our daughter, I will leave to keep all of you safe. The CIA will never stop hunting me, and eventually Mycroft's peers will learn about me. Then I won't be able to leave. It's going to happen. I'll be stuck in limbo for the rest of my life, or in jail, or buried in a field somewhere with a hole in my head."

Mary could tell from Mycroft's face that she wasn't wrong. The wrong people would learn who she was, and what she knew, and would make everyone's lives hell getting to her, with her child caught in the middle.

"What I know in exchange for my continued safety, and you let me go after I give birth. John gets my daughter, and you get everything you've ever wanted in that devious spymaster's heart of yours." Mary struggled not to fall over, resting her head wearily on the door frame.

"Deal, gentlemen?"

Mycroft lost all expression, and Sherlock looked confused, and unsettled. She smiled grimly as she realized that if John was going to raise their child, then that meant Sherlock was too, and it was unnerving him something fierce. Yet for some reason, Mary found any fears for her child's future fall away at the thought of Sherlock Holmes being in her life. He would keep her safe.

"You have a deal Miss Morstan, enjoy your holidays." Mycroft didn't waste words, nodding to her curtly before slipping out of the guestroom.

Sherlock stood listlessly, staring at her as if he hadn't understood a word she said. She wondered what part was bothering him the most, her leaving her child to John, or the fact that once she did, John would be raising a baby with him.

What he asked next floored her more than anything. She was thinking he might be worried about the prospect of raising a baby, or what would happen before then.

But he didn't, and instead asked her something so out of character it made her heart flutter.

"Mary…. You said daughter. It's too early to know the sex of your child. Why say daughter?"

She blinked, tears making a split second appearance as she thought about it. She had, hadn't she? Her mind stopped saying 'it' or 'the baby', and gone straight to 'her' and 'my daughter'. Her answer was so simple, so true, and real. Her heart knew what she was having, and no ultrasound could show her any different.

"Because that's what my heart says I'm having, Sherlock. A girl."

She smiled her first real smile in days when the younger man just nodded solemnly, accepting her words at face value. He gave her the smallest of glances before walking quietly from the room, the door shutting softly behind him.

"She's staying here, John," Sherlock told the cranky doctor sitting in his chair, upset because the mother of his child wouldn't leave London with them, and because his head hurt too much to read the paper. "Stop complaining, Mary will be fine. Mycroft is leaving two teams to guard her, and she can escape through the tunnels if she must."

John was moping, pure and simple, and for once, Sherlock was taking care of him. For the first time in years, John was the one needing help, and Sherlock was reveling in his role as caretaker. It was really easy. Pay attention to pain signals, provide sustenance, medication, and affection. Repeat. Don't repeat step three too close together or John gets too much medication. John isn't fun high, he just wants to sleep and grumble about Sherlock disappearing.

The no sex part was wearing at him, having grown accustomed to having it on a daily basis, oft times more than once, and suddenly having none was a jolt to his system. He understood though; the increase in blood pressure due to arousal would cause John's head to feel wretched, and no matter how beneficial an orgasm might be, getting John to that point would be too painful. So he would wait (as patiently as he could, he really did want his doctor) until John could handle it.

Sherlock was running back and forth between the front room, the bathroom, and their bedroom, packing clothing and toiletries for their trip to his parent's home. It was a few hours away by train, and Mycroft was picking them up in less than an hour to head to the station.

Sherlock ran through the list of everything they might need, and heard Violet thumping about above him in her room, packing as well. She had been here in 221B for nearly a month, and had more clothing than that brief a stay justified. But then she was a female, and she liked to shop (which he didn't understand, but it was her money and who cared?), so she apparently had a lot of wardrobe decisions to make. Sherlock grinned when he heard her stub her toe on John's old dresser, the swearing drifting down the stairs. His parents were in for a shock once they heard their granddaughter's vocabulary.

Her decision to come home with him was surprising, in some ways. She had made no overtures towards his parents, her grandparents, and he didn't blame her. His parents were shocked, deeply, to learn that Sherrinford fathered a child before he died. When he told them, during that brief call, he could have sworn he heard his mother cry. That was too much for Sherlock; usually tears affected him little. Unless they were his mother's.

Sherlock flinched and knew he would have to tread carefully with his mother and father, with Mycroft. Sherrin was such a deep, aching wound in the family, that he held little hope for Violet and his parents striking up a relationship. She need not rely on them for family; she was his, and Sherlock would never let her be unwanted in this world. She belonged to him, like John did now.

Sherlock picked up their luggage, looking around his room one more time before striding for the hall. He nearly ran into Violet, her approach down the hall silent. She was getting really good at being sneaky.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked as Violet dragged the chair behind her, towards the small space between the hall door for the bathroom and his room. The bags weren't that heavy, so he watched as she hopped up, and lifted her hand as high as she could, up in the dark corner of the hallway.

"Planting some bugs."

"Ahhhhhh."

"What is she doing?" John called from where he sat in his chair, and Sherlock heard his lover groan in pain as his voice made his own head hurt.

"Plant one in my room, and the kitchen too," Sherlock told his niece as he shuffled by her, glad he did as John was trying to get up on his own without help. Sherlock dropped the bags, and gently pushed John back to his seat.

"Violet is planting some surveillance devices to monitor the flat, as we will most likely have guests once we leave."

"What? Why would anyone come in here if we were gone?" John asked miserably, holding his head in his hands. Sherlock moved behind his chair, and rubbed his lover's tense shoulders, until John sighed in relief, his head drooping on his neck.

"Tons of reasons," Violet said as she came in the room, looking around for a good place to plant a bug. "Like replacing the bugs I neutralized, searching for progress on any of Sherlock's cases, Williamson looking for Mary, or that fucktard looking for me."

"Oh, okay. Plant away then." John waved a hand vaguely, his head still down, Sherlock easing the tension the pain was causing in his neck. "God, that feels good."

"Not quite John, but close." Sherlock murmured the old joke, and John chuckled. Violet rolled her eyes at them, and figured out a good spot for the bug. She picked up Billy, Sherlock's skull, and stuck it deep in an eye socket.

Violet aimed the skull, looking at Sherlock to see if he liked the angle, and moving it until his face lost that 'not quite there' look. She beamed, and went hunting for a spot in the kitchen.

"You ever gonna tell me that thing, that was bothering you that day at the crime scene?" John asked him out of the blue, and Sherlock felt his heart stutter, and his hands stilled.

"I….. Yes. On the train, I will." Sherlock gathered his courage, and hoped John would forgive him for not sharing sooner. For not telling him that Winter's Night was here in London, and the effect it had on him, the hold it once had.

"Okay, I'm done. I got the bugs programmed, and a small satellite uplink is hidden upstairs in the roof access. I'll be able to monitor the flat while we're gone," Violet said as she strode back in the room, saving Sherlock from feeling uncomfortable. "Lemme go get the dog from Mrs. Hudson, then we should be good."

"Did Mycroft really order up another car just for the dog?" John asked, as Sherlock went to the window to look for his brother. Violet flew done the stairs, and went for Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Yes, Mycroft refused to let poor Bear ride with us, don't know why."

Greg carefully followed the attendant down the narrow hall on the train, Mycroft at his heels. Anthea stayed behind with Violet in the bar car, the young American woman besotted with the concept of traveling by train. Sherlock and John were settling in their own private compartment, and apparently Greg and Mycroft were getting their own too.

"How long of a trip is this?" Greg asked as they were ushered in the private room, their bags put away. Greg tipped the attendant, and they were left alone.

"Four hours."

"Oh, excellent. Guess I can get a nap in before I answer awkward questions from your parents about how long we've been having sex."

"What?" Mycroft asked him, face blank with surprise and dread.

"Have you never brought someone home before to meet your parents?"

"Never."

Greg found himself getting a little hot in the face at the conviction in Mycroft's voice when he said that word.

"Really? You haven't? I know you've had relationships before, hard not to notice, your, um, expertise," Greg felt the heat sweep up his neck, across his face as Mycroft settled in the seat across from him, one brow raised, his mouth quirking up in a wry smile.

"I've had casual liaisons, not relationships. I've never had one of those," Mycroft assured him, and Greg found he was surprised, and pleased.

"I'm the only one you've….."

"Been in a relationship with? Yes, and you'll be the only one, if I have my way."

The look Mycroft was giving him made Greg very glad that the door to their compartment wasn't glass, but a solid wooden affair. Greg eyed the distance between them, wishing it was nonexistent and that he could put his hands all over the spymaster.

"You seem fairly confident that this relationship is going to work out."

Greg fought off the blush as best he could, but he didn't bother hiding how turned on he was getting. Mycroft pulled out his mobile, and typed out a few messages, before tossing it on the seat next to him. The next thing to go was his coat, and then his suit jacket. Greg found his ability to think eroding with every piece of clothing Mycroft took off.

"I know this relationship is going to work out. I'm never wrong." Mycroft leaned over him, hands braced on the seat behind Greg's head. Greg found his gaze drawn to his lover's lips, and he was breathing faster.

"Yeah?" Greg sat up just enough to come within a hair's breadth of Mycroft's mouth, and his hands lifted to run along Mycroft's sides, down to his hips. They hadn't made love since the first time, as Mycroft had spent the last few days trying to find the Vicar and his missing men. Greg was certain Mycroft hadn't even slept.

"Oh yes." Mycroft whispered, and Greg couldn't take it anymore. He pressed his lips to Mycroft's, sweeping his tongue past his lips, boldly taking his mouth. Mycroft groaned, and Greg tugged at his hips, pulling Mycroft down.

The spymaster surprised him; instead of sitting beside him, Mycroft gently straddled his lap, his tongue matching him stroke for stroke. Greg laughed gently, and eagerly clutched Mycroft to him. The spymaster was being so careful, keeping his full weight on his knees, and away from Greg's lap, so as not to hurt him. But this meant that Mycroft's groin was in a wonderful position to be touched.

He swept a hand around Mycroft's hip, and palmed the full length hardening beneath the fabric. Mycroft gasped, and thrust forward the slightest amount, begging him to do it again. Greg rubbed his lover through his slacks, and Mycroft threw his head back, hands grabbing at his shoulders. Greg grinned, and rubbed harder, his thumb over the throbbing head. Mycroft groaned again, louder, and pushed his cock into Greg's hand.

Greg looked up at this man he held so intimately, and relished in the power he held over him. Greg took his chance, and before he lost his courage, sent both hands to Mycroft's belt buckle.

"What are you...oh, never mind," Mycroft gasped as Greg undid his belt and pulled it off, throwing it to the floor. The fly was open and his underwear tugged down before Mycroft could wrap his head around what was happening.

He understood clearly enough when Greg slipped his fingers tightly around his throbbing cock, making Mycroft jerk, his eyes close, his breathing erratic. He lifted up a bit more on his knees, and Greg grinned as his cock came closer to his face.

He consulted his nerves, his heart, and the insistent, raging desire burning through his body. In less than a second, Greg decided, and left Mycroft Holmes utterly speechless and eternally privileged when he took his hard cock in his mouth. Greg closed his eyes, and wondered at the taste, the feel of hard flesh and the sheer heat coming from the man he held in his mouth.

Mycroft was shaking, his muscles quivering, hands clenching and releasing their frantic grip on his shoulders. Greg gripped his hips, and tested his resolve. He relaxed as best he could, and sucked lightly, pulling him deeper. The taste was salty, and the heat so high, that Greg focused on the sensations, and welcomed them. This was farther than he ever thought he'd go; but Mycroft made him forget his fears, his nerves, the doubts that he wouldn't be enough to make him happy. That Gregory Lestrade could make someone happy.

So he did his best to make Mycroft happy, to show him how much he loved him, needed him, absolutely wanted him. He sucked, and wrapped his tongue around his lover, and pulled back, eliciting a deep gasping moan from the other man. And he sucked harder, pulling him back in, going deeper, and he felt a thrill race through him Mycroft whispered encouragement, sexy words of praise, making his heart race. He was pleasing this amazing man, and the sensations he was giving Mycroft was doing wonderful things to his insides too.

"Oh God, Greg…. More, please…"

That's it sexy, beg for me….. You are mine….….

He found his courage, and did what his body was demanding for him to do- he fucked Mycroft with his mouth, making the spymaster strangle a scream in shock and lust. He went faster, deeper, and harder. He took control of Mycroft, clasping his hips, and pulled his lover back and forth, slipping him in and out of his mouth, Mycroft letting him do what he wanted, following his pace.

There was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing, violent hot heat, Greg's overwhelming determination to leave his mark on Mycroft's soul and body. And he did, as his lover began to swell, harden impossibly, and Greg exulted, satisfaction flashing bright as Mycroft came. Greg pulled him deep, hands holding him tightly to him, and he swallowed every burst his lover gave him, tongue rubbing and teasing as Mycroft sobbed above him.

Greg gently pulled back, resting his head on Mycroft's stomach, and he felt a surge of intense satisfaction as the muscles beneath his face shivered. Mycroft was still coming down from his climax, and Greg gently eased him over to sit beside him on the bench seat.

"Greg…," Mycroft could manage nothing more, and he curled his long frame to Greg's side, resting his head on his shoulder, still shivering as tingles raced along his nerves.

"Mycroft?" he whispered to the poor man he'd laid to wonderful ruin.

"Yeah?"

"I love you. And yes, this relationship is going to last," and he smiled in his love's red-brown hair, breathing in his scent, never happier.

"I'll take a mojito please, extra naughty," Violet flashed a ten pounder at the bartender, on top of the drink's price, and winked at the bedazzled man. "And my darling wants a martini."

She sat at the train's bar, and checked over her shoulder to see how Anthea was doing. She grinned as her girl sent her a very lovely smile, right up until a man stepped between her and the gorgeous view of a green-eyed brunette. Violet eyed the tall, muscular man with the short hair, and dismissed him as too obvious, and not worth the flirt.

"I'll pay for the lady's drinks." A deep voice rumbled as he stepped up to the bar, his dress shirt sleeves pushed back to reveal old tattoos lacing around his wrists. Violet sent him a sidelong glance, realizing she couldn't rely on tact to get this one to leave her alone.

"This lady has her drink, and her girlfriend's drink, thank you though." Violet snagged both drinks from the nervous bartender, and went to move around the big man. He moved quickly for a big guy, a strong arm slipping around her waist, keeping her at the bar.

"Where you off to so fast, lovey? Won't you have a drink with me?" He grinned at her, obviously thinking his charm was sufficient enough to capture her attention. And if she went for men, she might have been interested, right up until he spoke, and the overwhelming icky arrogance that poured off him put her back up.

"I'm off to sit with my girlfriend. Let me go, now." Violet kept her cool, and shook her head the tiniest amount at Anthea, the other woman making to stand from their table, a concerned look on her face. Some men just needed a bigger hint.

"Oh, don't be that way. A pretty thing like you needs a man to keep her company on such a long trip. Name's John Woodley, and you lovey, you look like you need this man."