Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me. (05/18/2014)
A/N: I'm a huge fan of the original Conan Doyle works. Hundreds of works have been published about ACD's works concerning the detective, and some of my favorite's are the ones concerning the mystery of the Great Detective's family and past before John Watson. I heartily encourage everyone to go pick up an original Sherlock Holmes mystery, written by the master himself. In this chapter, I touch on some of these theories, and some of my own.
Here in this chapter, I also pay homage to the creators of BBC's Sherlock, as they discussed resurrecting our beloved detective on a train... and the rest is history.
Read, enjoy, review.
Next chapter drops one week from today, Sunday morning.
Chapter Forty Seven
"Two Strangers On A Train"
December 23rd, Afternoon.
Anthea watched as Violet headed for the bar, and went back to enjoying the passing scenery outside the bar car windows. The snowfall was thicker out in the country, great fields of white as far as the eye could see, the afternoon sun bright, reflecting of the snow. The old antique bar car was paneled in rich deep oaks and red maple wood accents, the finish on the wood shiny and smooth. Violet was so enamored of it that Anthea caved, and agreed to spend some time in the bar car, instead of working on the stack of reports she'd brought along to read while traveling.
Her mobile buzzed, and Anthea pulled it out, checking quickly on Violet again at the bar. She was dazzling the bartender, the poor man looking like she'd asked him if he wanted a million pounds and a kiss.
Anything to report? –MH
Anthea looked discretely over her shoulder, pretending to fuss with her shoulder bag while perusing the car, and the other occupants. The men she wanted to see were sitting as far from her and Violet's table as they could get, without being outside. They were still there, pretending to be drinking, and being very obvious about it too. Americans. Nothing subtle about them.
They are still here, watching Violet and I. No aggressive moves. –A
Report if anything happens. Do not disturb for the next hour. –MH
Anthea chuckled softly to herself, reading into Mycroft's instruction clearly. He was in their private compartment, alone, with Gregory Lestrade. She knew full well what those two men were doing.
Anthea looked up again, to see a large man talking to Violet at the bar. He was heavily muscled, mid-forties, tattooed yet dressed like a business man from downtown London. Not that well off men couldn't have tattoos; it was that he acted, and moved, like an old school bruiser, a man well versed in using his fists instead of his brain. Such a mode of dressing and behavior were usually at odds with each other.
She caught Violet's eye, standing a little as the man made another pass at her girl. Violet shook her head, and Anthea slowly sat, something about the man making her nervous. He was too predatory, overplaying the charm. Anthea shot to her feet, the Vicar's men behind her forgotten, after the large man put his arm around Violet, the poor girl stuck holding their drinks, and doing her best not to lose her temper. Violet tried to shake her head, to tell her to stay away, but Anthea gave that up when she saw the girl's amethyst eyes go storm dark, just like her uncles' did when they were about to flay someone alive.
Anthea swept away from their table, hand brushing against the reassuring presence of her pistol tucked beneath her breasts, hidden under her suit jacket. Anthea moved as fast as she could, dodging tables, heading for the bar, moving easily with the rocking of the train.
Violet was opening her mouth to say something scandalous, and the body language of the man she was about to say it to just screamed bad confrontational skills. Anthea didn't want to risk an incident she couldn't talk Violet out of, seeing as how they were stuck in a large wood and metal box barreling through the countryside, with no backup they could reveal without blowing their plan.
"Come with me, Lovey. I've a private room, with plenty of things to stir the blood. I can stir you up just fine too," the older man said to Violet, and Anthea put on more speed to get to her girlfriend before things got out of hand.
"Violet, darling. Need help with those drinks?" Anthea purred, slipping up beside Violet and the stranger, deliberately moving in between the man and her girlfriend, reaching for her martini. She kissed Violet, a slow sultry lip lock that made Violet blink rapidly in shock and delight, temporarily taming her outrage.
Violet swallowed back the obscenities she surely would have let fly if Anthea hadn't come over. Anthea took her drink from Violet, sipping lightly before moving closer to Violet. The big man dropped his arm, and Anthea ignored him as if he didn't exist, roping her free arm around Violet and steering her away. "I thought you'd forgotten all about me. I was getting lonely over there at our table."
Anthea nudged Violet away, giving her a sweet smile that begged her to trust her, to behave and just go. Anthea would handle Mr. Pushy. Violet walked off, and Anthea saw the unspoken promise in her eyes that she would not hold back on him if he gave Anthea trouble. Thankfully Violet knew that they were being watched by the Vicar's men, and they could not afford a scene on this trip.
"Hey now lovey, don't rush off, there's no need to be so shy," he rumbled, and Anthea heard a trace of the docks in his voice, well hidden beneath the tutored accent he affected. Born a brute, pretending to be a gentleman. Explained his behavior.
"'Lovey', as you so impolitely addressed her, is not interested," Anthea said, her voice level and cool, expression bland, yet she let a trace of anger glimmer around her eyes. He dared to touch a young woman, unwanted and uninterested. What. A. Pig. "Let's not ruin this beautiful trip by being rude to each other. As you put your hands on her without her permission, I am quite justified in asking for your removal from the carriage. Although, I do realize we all have to travel together for the foreseeable future. So she will stay with me, while you shall go elsewhere, preferably someplace I don't need to see you."
He leaned back on the old wooden bar, and Anthea refused to be intimidated by the menacing glower he sent her and his belligerent attitude. "I won't be leaving this car, and maybe Lovey wants a man. She's a fine, hot little piece. She would feel just perfect under me. Maybe I should ask her again."
Disgusting pig. I will not shoot him, I will not shoot him…
Anthea sighed internally, hating the crude, stupid people of the world more and more with each passing day. Mycroft Holmes had spoiled her for the rest of the human race in that department. Mycroft would never, ever speak to a woman in such a manner.
"You will be leaving," Anthea murmured, a small smile flirting about her lips.
She met his stare, and nodded her head to the end of the bar. One of the train's security personnel was standing at attention, focused on the two of them, his hand on his radio. The bruiser looked, and Anthea felt a surge of triumph as he grimaced, slowly reaching for his own abandoned drink on the bar. The look he sent her was mean enough to strip varnish from wood, and she merely smiled pleasantly at him in return.
The big man downed the remains of his drink, and picked up his jacket from the stool beside him, and pushed away from the bar. He glared at the security guard, and paused at Anthea's side. He leaned down from his impressive height, and whispered in her ear.
"Be careful, you bossy bitch. One day you won't have a fucking security guard watching out for you," he threatened, and Anthea merely raised a brow at him, not a trace of fear anywhere about her. She had no fears of being caught alone with this man; she had taken down far deadlier. And any man lucky enough to hurt her, or Violet? Mycroft Holmes would destroy him. "No one denies John Woodley anything. I'll be seeing Lovey again, and you."
Anthea didn't react, not knowing the name, and not caring one wit who he was, or who he thought he was. Arrogant ass. He stood and pushed past her, heading for the exit to the bar car. Anthea watched him leave, and turned back to her table after giving the security guard a nod of thanks. Big man stormed from the car, and Anthea forgot all about him as she rejoined her irate girlfriend. Soothing the Holmes temper was something Anthea practiced daily.
…
"Comfy?" John asked him, and Sherlock hummed his affirmation from his position in John's lap. John was at the window, and Sherlock stretched out on his back along the bench seat, head in John's lap, their hands tangled together over Sherlock's head, next to his wild mop of curls.
"Very comfy," he finally whispered, moving his head to gaze up at his doctor.
John felt sick laying down, and preferred to stay sitting upright as the train moved through the snowy landscape. His head was very touchy, tender and prone to giving him a constant ache.
Sherlock didn't care much for watching the scenery, and found his thoughts absorbed by the loving touch of his doctor. John was playing with his hair again, in a manner that suggested it was entirely unconscious. And Sherlock appreciated the touch all the more for that. They had been like this for the better part of an hour, relaxed and content to be together, no need for words.
"That dog can sleep anywhere, can't he?"
John was referring to the Estrela, who was firmly ensconced on the opposing seat, snoring into the armrest, so large he took up the whole seat. Sherlock hummed again, content to be petted, not unlike the big animal. John loved to tug on the lock of hair that always fell over his eyes, pulling out the curl, and letting it go to bounce back amongst the others.
Sherlock's eyes traced the planes of John's face, as John stared back down at him. He was so content, so at peace, that he was happy to live in this quiet moment forever. No rioting thoughts, no deductions blinding him to the exclusion of all else; he was centered in his stormy life. John centered him, anchored him; kept the tempest at bay.
Sherlock saw the long days in the desert sun, the harsh winds of the cold winter mountains in the lines on the doctor's handsome face. He saw the years of endless kindness and laughter, the easy and relentless patience in his eyes. The hands that caressed him held more talent and skill than any other man Sherlock knew, healer and lover all in one. The strength in his shoulders, the way he carried himself was ever the soldier; John had ingrained the army so deeply within his psyche that he would never expunge it. And Sherlock knew it was all the finest parts that John kept; the resolve, determination, loyalty, and depthless honor. John Watson was soldier, a warrior, but without the malicious edge of violence that most men carried. For him, violence was the means by which the innocent, the defenseless, were protected, cherished. And John did it so well.
"What are you looking at, love?"
Sherlock didn't realize John was talking to him until his doctor raised a brow at him in question. He shook himself from his reverie, and said the first thing that popped into his head.
"I don't deserve you."
"What? Shush, don't be stupid."
"No, I really don't deserve you, John," Sherlock said, completely serious. Meaning every word. John was too good of a man to be with someone like him, to love someone like him. "You are amazing, boundless in worth and quality. A doctor, soldier, best friend. Endlessly patient, brave beyond the measure of words."
John bit his lip, and blinked rapidly, as if he had something in his eyes. His fingers stilled in Sherlock's hair, and he opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock spoke first.
"I'm a drug addict, a man who solves crimes to avoid getting high. I'm a man who obsesses, who pries apart the world to see everything, no matter how personal or intimate, until all is laid bare before me. I lack compassion, understanding, and I have no social graces, nor do I care to obtain any."
He dragged in a breath, and kept going. "I spent over thirty years of my life alone, on purpose, refining my skills, my mind, and my talents, to keep up with the natural born genius of an older brother I should never have measured myself against. And to protect myself against the other, who would not have hesitated to kill me if I showed any weakness. Doing so left me cold, hard, and sociopathic."
"Sherlock, stop…."
"No, please. Let me finish," Sherlock asked softly, and dragged in a lungful of air. "The years before you came into my life are alternately crystal clear in their emptiness, and hazy from addiction. I haven't told you something."
Don't be a coward, tell him. Mean the apology. He may forgive you. You'll deserve it if he doesn't.
"You've been trying for a few days now, love. Not just at the crime scene, Sherlock. I've seen you carrying a secret since the night Tom broke into the flat," the doctor said, and Sherlock blinked at him in surprise.
"You have?" Sherlock asked, wondering how. They were so busy the last week dealing with Mary and the baby, the Vicar, all of it, that there was no way John knew he was holding something back.
"Yeah. I know you better than anyone in this world, Sherlock Holmes. I love you. You haven't said anything because you've been afraid of what I'd think."
Sherlock was shocked, utterly floored by John's insight. He gaped at John, before snapping his mouth shut, and narrowing his eyes at his lover as he smiled smugly.
"Go on then, tell me. I promise to still love you afterwards."
"Well, I can't recall how I was going to say it now; stole the wind out from my grand confession," Sherlock grumbled, and he blinked in astonishment as John tapped him lightly on the nose with a fingertip. Like Sherlock did when Bear misbehaved. Sherlock glowered, but the words tumbled out anyway.
"Oh fine. I used to be addicted to a designer drug named Winter's Night after Lestrade and I first started working together. He needed my help tracking down the suppliers, shutting down the drug ring. One of the few cases left unfinished, due to the fact the drug lord in question ended up dead in the Thames, and the drug vanished from the streets."
"Doesn't sound that bad. I know you're an addict. I've seen you high before, Sherlock. I don't like it, obviously, but I won't judge you for having a disease like addiction. Judging never helps anyone stay sober."
"That's not all. The reason the drug disappeared years ago is because it was unstable, it had to stay cold, or it would break down incredibly fast. And the drug had to be tailored to a specific person, so no fast sales on street corners. But it was worth it to those who wanted it. Highly addictive, incredibly dangerous."
"Go on…."
"If the drug lord making it had learned how to stabilize it, created a generic dosage, then Winter's Night would have overrun London, then England, everywhere. And I…I learned how to stabilize the drug. I was days away from going insane and mass producing it myself when the drug lord died, and my suppliers disappeared."
"What...Dear God, Sherlock."
"Mycroft dragged me kicking and screaming into a dark room, and sat on me for weeks, forcing me sober. It took everything I had not to come out of that room a broken wreck of a man."
"Christ, Sherlock….."
"It's back," Sherlock said, and he watched the emotions race across the doctor's face. Fear was there, and Sherlock knew it was because John was terrified he would use it again. Be trapped by a drug for which he would have turned criminal. "Someone is trying to perfect Winter's Night. The core ingredient was being grown at the nursery, the drug drove the gardener insane and eventually made him snap, kill the woman, and then he died from a bad dose. Tom was high on it the night he came for me after Molly kissed me. It's spreading through London again."
John looked like he was going to say something, but Sherlock beat him to it again.
"And he got some on me during the fight," he dragged in a deep lungful, afraid to see John's reaction, but unable to look away. "It's why I jumped you like that afterwards."
Sherlock couldn't stop, he dragged in more air to keep confessing, waiting for John to turn on him in disgust….
"And looking back now, the man who attacked Violet at the flat, he was most likely not there to kill her at all, but afflicted by a bad dose as well. He was at the nursery that day, and then came to our flat that night. Not a coincidence. Something about either myself or Violet drew him there, or he was sent."
More air in, the words chaotic, thoughts starting to circle each other…
"It gives you a solid, ecstatic high, or drives you insane, or kills you, at its current stage….."
"Okay, hold on. Stop talking for a minute," John demanded, and he put a hand to his temple, head hurting and Sherlock's rambling confession disturbing his mental peace. Sherlock brought his arms down, wrapping his hands over his stomach nervously as he looked up at John, the doctor closing his eyes, rubbing at his face.
"John? There's more, the chemist who was taken…."
"Shush. Just give me another minute."
Sherlock sighed silently, finding himself feeling a creeping sense of sick nerves twisting his gut, his once peaceful thoughts rioting. John mad at him used to be no big deal; but now that love was between them, having John mad at him, disappointed in him, terrified Sherlock to his core. He feared more than anything the day that John grew tired of him, his once infinite patience exhausted, and he left, destroying Sherlock in the process. It terrified him as much as the thought that John would die, and leave him alone.
Sherlock cast a quick glance at John, who was quiet, head down, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. His eyes were shut, denying Sherlock the chance see what he was thinking, and feeling by the color of his eyes. Sherlock was dreading his lover's reaction, and he resisted the urge to nag him for a response, anything. Being quiet was so hard sometimes.
"Have you taken it on purpose since the drug's resurfaced?" John asked him suddenly, making Sherlock jump, holding his breath. His eyes were darker than usual, strong emotions running through him. "Or gone looking for a supplier so you could take it?"
"No!"
"Shhh, easy. I'm not doubting you, I just had to make sure," his doctor said, hand burying itself in riotous curls once again. "I meant it Sherlock, I still love you. Just tell me these things sooner, okay? The longer you hold something back, the worse it gets."
"Oh."
"Hhhmmm, yes 'oh'," John murmured, and Sherlock rolled over on his side, burrowing his face in John's stomach, curling his long legs up against the seat cushions. John sighed, and draped his arms over Sherlock's shoulders, knowing his detective was seeking comfort without asking for it.
"I'm sorry," came the mumbled apology, and Sherlock didn't see the tiny grin on John's face at the heartfelt words. "I really haven't told you much about the pre-John years."
"No you haven't. And it is okay, you don't have to tell me if some things are too personal. As long as you aren't hiding a major secret, like you got married or had a kid or invented a death ray device or something."
"No marriage-wretched idea- and no sex, so no offspring. Death ray sounds promising."
"It would, to you," John teased him, and Sherlock snuggled closer, making John jump the slightest amount as his detective rubbed his head over his lap. Sherlock liked how that felt, and did it again. "Well, if you can trust me to keep you together on this case, how about once we get home, we stop the drug, rescue the chemist if he's still alive and if Scotland Yard hasn't found him yet, and find out who attacked Violet and why, and then relax."
Sherlock stopped making John jump, his head tilting up to meet John's eyes. He saw nothing but confidence and pride in those deep blue eyes, and that never-ending wellspring of patience.
"Once we survive the holidays with my parents, and take out the Vicar, I would like that."
"Good. Now how about you get back to that thing you were doing in my lap. That was nice."
"No sex until your head is better."
"I'm the doctor here, what I say goes," John said, and Sherlock could feel the heat under the side of his face, burning through the fabric of John's rough trousers. He rubbed his face over the hardening heat again, and John moaned lightly. "And I wasn't thinking sex, more like heavy petting and some snogging but sex sounds really nice…."
"Well, if the doctor says sex who am I to argue? I'm thinking this time we can try this position I read about on your laptop… Wait a minute." Sherlock rolled off of John so fast he startled the dog, the big brute shaking his head, ears flopping. Bear stared at the detective, tail thumping on the seat.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?"
"I'm not having sex with the dog in here."
"Oh my God," John watched in disbelief as Sherlock shooed Bear off the seat and towards the door.
"Exactly! Staring at us, nosing in wherever…. Not happening."
"Where are you taking the dog? I don't care! Sherlock, get back here!" John yelled at him as he took Bear by his collar and walked him out of their compartment, down the hall to his brother's. Sherlock tested the door, found it locked, took less than second popping said lock, and opened the door.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled in surprise, and Sherlock averted his eyes, and Bear bounded through the door, big tail wagging excitedly. Greg laughed as the dog jumped him, and Mycroft shot his little brother nasty looks.
"Watch him for me, I'm about to have sex with John. I'll be back," Sherlock said to the startled men in the compartment, still not looking (he had NO desire to see his brother or friend partially dressed), and started to slide the door shut. "No complaining, you've already had your turn!"
"You prat!" Mycroft shouted at him as he shut the door, and Sherlock ran back down the hall, jumping into his compartment and slamming shut the door, locking it. He was laughing so hard he dissolved into giggles, and John's flabbergasted face sent him off again.
"You didn't!"
"Yes, yes I did. Come here, Doctor Watson."
Sherlock pounced, landing on the smaller man with far more control than his leap suggested, making John fall over on his back, head cradled gently in Sherlock's arms. He was panting fast with laughter, and twitched his hips enough to get them between John's thighs, rubbing his groin over the doctor's.
"Oh, that's…hot….fuck me," John gasped as Sherlock nuzzled at his neck, licking the salty hot skin as John blushed. John always blushed when Sherlock got aggressive with him. He kissed and licked, following the blush up his strong neck, across the firm jaw, and swept in for a kiss, muffling John's groans as he rubbed his cock over the man beneath him. Hips rubbing, firm enough to make contact through layers of clothing, hard cock to hard cock. He felt John shake under him, and groaned eagerly, right up until John stopped kissing him back.
"How's your head?" Sherlock whispered as he lifted away from the kiss, letting John breathe.
John was going white, eyes dark with desire, but with a tremor to his lips that had nothing to do with passion. Sherlock was alarmed, and lifted his weight from the man in his arms, a hand pressed gently to John's temple. His doctor was breathing fast, same as him, but Sherlock felt John moan silently as he closed his eyes.
"I'm… going to get sick, love. Lemme up," John whispered hoarsely, and Sherlock scrambled off of John, his doctor rolling of the bench seat to land in an awkward crouch on the floor. Sherlock felt sick himself, having forgotten how badly laying down made John feel.
I'm an idiot, a blind fool. Selfish, so selfish… I'm sorry John.
Sherlock swore softly under his breath, and carefully helped John to his feet, holding the doctor to his chest as he swayed. John lifted his arms, slowly, and wrapped them around Sherlock's neck, resting his head in that favorite spot of his, right under Sherlock's chin. The detective held his doctor, a hand rubbing up and down his back as John leaned on him for support.
"I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot," he whispered to the man in his arms, feeling wretched.
"No need to be sorry, I'm the one who ought to know better. I'm a bleeding doctor, and here I am acting like a horny teenager, with a serious concussion no less," his doctor said against his neck, his breath making Sherlock shiver in response, even though the passion was fading fast. John felt it, and pressed a wet and hot kiss to his neck, making Sherlock shiver again. He felt John smile against his neck, and his doctor's arms shifted.
John pulled back the smallest amount, and Sherlock looked down at him. His color was returning, and his doctor wasn't looking as pale. He was due for some painkillers, and needed something to eat with the pills. He was thinking he might want to go get his doctor some food when John kissed him.
Sherlock stopped thinking, as John's mouth moved on his, his lips skilled and firm. He closed his eyes, and brought his hands to John's face, tilting his head. Sparks lit off behind his closed lids, lips tingling, the sounds of the train falling away, his hands shaking gently as John pulled back the barest amount.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?" He had barely enough ability left to form that simple word, thoughts sluggish under the effect his doctor's touch had on him. John taught him a lot about making love, and when he chose, he could still knock Sherlock's IQ down a few points with just a kiss.
"How about we snuggle?"
Sherlock broke out in a short burst of laughter, his deep voice rumbling in the small room. "I think we can do that. I'll go get you something to eat first, to take with your pills."
"Okay…. Want me to come with you? I feel better…"
"Nope. Stay here, Dr. Watson. I will be back. Nothing strenuous while I'm gone."
"I can't figure I'll be doing anything strenuous without you here, too."
"Be right back then."
Sherlock kissed John quickly on the lips, and waited until his lover was safely sitting on the bench seat before leaving the room. He checked down the hall towards his brother's room, and saw the Estrela laying in the hall, leash trailing under the door into the room. Mycroft had a way around everything. Bear thumped his tail once in greeting, and Sherlock smiled at the great beast before turning and walking down the hall towards the bar car.
Violet and Anthea should still be there, and Sherlock had seen a cooler beside the bar, full of small salads and sandwiches. Nothing too heavy for his doctor, something light to settle his stomach on the pills. Sherlock was watching the floor when he heard the door at the end of the hall crash open.
Sherlock looked up, to see a large man in a suit, sleeves rolled up to show old cartel tattoos storming from the bar car. He slammed the door shut, the noise reverberating down the hallway. He drew up short when he saw Sherlock in the hall, standing to his full height. The way he was standing, and the rising red on his neck said he was angry, nearly to the point of violence. It was the look in his eyes that made Sherlock look past the expensive suit, to the person underneath.
Some of the tattoos are twenty years old by the designs. Typical of that old drug cartel that ran out of the docks, the one fronted by the loan sharks. Scars on hands says he was a bruiser, muscle mass and way he moves says he was good at it too.
Successful now, wearing enough gold on that pinkie ring and that watch to buy a third world country. That's a Westwood he's wearing, expensive taste. Doesn't flatter him at all, style is meant for a slimmer, shorter physique. He's mid-forties, excellent shape, with an old drug habit from the marks on his arms, but clean for a long time. Sober for over ten years, from his appearance. Dog hairs on his trousers; has a large breed dog, Rottweiler or Doberman from the hair colors and distribution.
Something happened in the bar to make him mad. Wonder what it was?
He looks familiar. Like I've seen him before, but I cannot recall. Where have I seen him?
Sherlock didn't pause, kept walking forward down the hall, towards the man standing in his way. The haunting sense of familiarity was annoying, but John was more important than figuring out who this man was. It was entirely possible, considering the tattoos and scars, that Sherlock had seen him at Scotland Yard at some point, looking far less reputable than he did now. Odds are he saw him waiting to be processed or released for some boring and common crime or another.
The big man was blocking the door, a very expensive suit jacket mangled in his large fist. Sherlock rolled his eyes, figuring the man must have wealth in excess if he was comfortable destroying such a lovely piece. Although not everyone appreciated fine tailoring like Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock felt the train shift under his feet as he approached the retired knee-breaker, and Sherlock merely raised a brow in question as the bigger man waited until the last second to move. He shifted over the barest amount to let Sherlock reach for the door to the bar car. The train was slowing, preparing to stop at small station before beginning the longer portion of their trip deeper into the English countryside.
Sherlock ignored the glowering, silent man, aware he was trying to intimidate him with his demeanor and refusal to move a polite distance away, but Sherlock didn't feel a flicker of fear or nerves. He pulled open the door, and the change in air pressure pulled a breeze into the hall, carrying the chatter of inebriated bar patrons and laughter. The cooler air brushed over the old bruiser, and carried a faint flowery scent to Sherlock's senses. Strange for a man so obvious in his desire to appear masculine to be wearing a floral cologne, but he was not one to judge someone's personal grooming decisions. At least he bathed.
The old bruiser backed up more as Sherlock whipped the door open wider, right into his personal space, forcing him past the detective, farther down the hall. Sherlock ignored the cracking of knuckles, aware that too many people were staring at the doorway, some of them recognizing him, pointing at him. The old bruiser wasn't going to make a move, not while all those eyes were pointing this way. Sherlock could feel the rage practically pouring off of the stranger, and figured he was just itching for a fight. And if they hadn't been playing vacationing family for the Vicar's men, Sherlock wouldn't mind a tussle at all.
Sherlock stepped in, and let the door swing shut, ignoring the people whispering, and forgetting the bruiser in the hall. He saw his niece and Mycroft's assistant occupying a table halfway between the door and the bar, and Sherlock considered walking over to say hello, but that meant making small talk, and he wasn't up for it right now. Sherlock spied the cooler with the snack foods, and walked past the table holding the Vicar's men on his way to the bar.
Their plan to draw the Vicar out of London and into their literal home territory was working, these men some of the few he had left after the last week. According to Mycroft, nearly a third of the Vicar's people were dead, and the CIA had refused to send more. Whoever was assisting them in this endeavor was wheedling down The Vicar's men at an astounding rate.
Learning that Mycroft hadn't sent the sniper, nor had his people been the ones to save them at the crime scene shooting earlier in the week was ruffling Sherlock's calm. A CIA operative had also been shot on Baker Street, the same night they had gone to rescue Mary from Leinster Gardens. There was something about this whole situation that wasn't adding up. Mycroft was of the opinion that it was either a group settling a debt they owed Sherlock, or it was a foreign agency using this situation to destroy one of the CIA's strongest assets. Whether it was the Americans trying to clean up Williamson's corruption was also up for debate at this point.
Mary filled in Violet on everything she could in the morning hours before they left, the young hacker sitting with Mary on her bed, computer in her lap, doing something. Whatever Violet was doing with the information Mary was feeding her was actually beyond Sherlock's expertise. He was comfortable with his brother's systems, but the programs and codes Violet used were indecipherable to him. So Mary spent a handful of hours confessing sins to Violet, and then Violet had sent some of it on to Mycroft, presumably after their hacker-cum-niece verified it and structured the information. Sherlock knew it was good, by the gleam in his brother's eyes, and the way he disappeared briefly before Sherlock left with John and Violet for 221B to pack.
Sherlock pulled open the cooler, and snatched up a handful of cold sandwiches, making sure that one was ham and cheese for John. Sherlock ignored the not so subtle stares of the Vicar's men, and the fans he apparently had on the train. He went to the bar, paid for the sandwiches, and was about to leave when Anthea caught his eye, her expression saying clearly that something was wrong.
He looked at his niece, and Sherlock immediately headed for the women's table at the state of his niece. She was angry, angrier than Sherlock had ever seen her, and she kept throwing glares over her shoulder at the bar car's door.
"What happened? Who bothered you?" Sherlock demanded, once he was close enough to see that Violet's dress was askew around her waist, as if someone had grabbed her. Her face was flushed, her eyes snapping vivid purple, and she had bit her lip so hard the old split on it had reopened a little.
"Just some douchebag who wouldn't take no for an answer," Violet muttered under her breath, glaring at the door one more time. Sherlock looked too, and realized that since no one was dead or bleeding in here, that whoever it was who had bothered Violet must have just left. Which meant the retired bruiser.
"What did he do? The big man with the tattoos?"
"All he did was hit on her, and grab her around the waist. I talked him out of the bar car. He left without incident. He did insinuate he would try again, though." It was Anthea who answered him, and Sherlock set his jaw, about to walk from the car and find the fool who dared touch his blood. Anthea grabbed his hand as he was about to leave, tugging him back. "Sherlock, relax. He's gone, he won't bother her again, not on the train. Nothing but a pushy jerk, not worth the trouble."
"He called you a bitch, 'Thea! That's not cool! I don't give a flying fuck who this Mr. John- I'm-a-douche-Woodley thinks he is, we should arrange an accident. I'm sure Sherlock and I can find an open window somewhere on this train," said Violet, slamming back the remainder of her drink, smacking the glass back to the table. "Let's go commit murder on the rails, Sherlock. Between the two of us, I know damn well we'll get away with it."
It was his niece's very serious desire to kill the asshole who had bothered her and insulted Anthea that reigned in Sherlock's temper. She was too valuable, too important, too much his, for her to be doing something so dangerous. Violet got up from her chair, and was about to storm away when Sherlock caught her around the waist and pulled her to him. She stiffened up, so mad she was shaking. She was a Holmes for certain, with this temper.
She resisted the affection, right up until he pressed a kiss to her cheek, gently bumping his forehead to Violet's. She sighed, and dropped her head to his shoulder, hugging him back. He held his niece, nose buried in her raven black hair, smelling the lilacs in the shampoo she used, same as Anthea's.
It was that scent that nudged at him, pulled a memory out of the distant past. His mind palace shook, as an image flung itself free from the drug-induced haze of his bad years. It was of a man, younger in this memory, a man covered in tattoos, handcuffed amongst dozens of others as Scotland Yard officers and a younger Lestrade processed the arrests of the first makers of Winter's Night.
Many of the men had been released after Sherlock had given the final clues to Lestrade about where to find the drug chemist's warehouse. It was Sherlock's addiction that had prompted the magistrates into releasing a majority of the men arrested, as they didn't want to risk his testimony in court unless it was for the higher ranking cartel members. It was the boss who was dead, and the drug dead with him, so the majority of the case had fallen apart.
The memory was of the retired bruiser, much older now obviously, his status changed by his clothes and demeanor. The floral scent he had caught as he passed the bigger man was that of the Christmas Rose, a variation of the morning glory flower. It was a hallucinogen and the primary ingredient in Winter's Night.
"What did you say his name was?" Sherlock whispered to his niece, a roaring in his ears, heart pumping fast.
"Asshole? John Woodley. Why?" She sniffled, lifting her head to plant a kiss on his cheek. She caught the look on his face, as Sherlock turned to look at the doorway. "Do you wanna kill him after all? Let's go."
"I know him. Anthea, Violet, come with me now," Sherlock dropped the sandwiches into his jacket pockets, grabbed Violet's wrist, Anthea's in his other hand, and unceremoniously towed the girls after him. He left the bar car with the girls, hearing the loud whispers at their abrupt departure.
"Sherlock! What are you doing?" Anthea whispered, breaking free but still following him and Violet as Sherlock tugged his niece behind him down the hall to his brother's compartment. Bear was no longer in the hall, and Sherlock figured that meant it was safe to leave the girls in here.
He threw open the door, glad Lestrade and Mycroft were dressed. Sherlock gently pushed Violet over the threshold, Anthea stepping in quickly before he could toss her in as well.
"Sherlock?" Mycroft stood from his seat, Bear sleeping against the wall under the window. The train was stopping, buildings flashing by as it entered the small village before the longest stretch of the trip.
"They stay in here until I get back. No one leaves," he ordered, pulling shut the door, turning for his room and John. "I will be right back."
Sherlock ran lightly for his room, and threw open the door, startling John. The doctor held a hand to his head, and Sherlock knew from the expression on his face that John would not be able to help him with this. That meant Mycroft.
"John, up now, hurry," Sherlock gave him no time to argue, helping the shorter man to his feet, taking half his weight and damn near carrying him back to Mycroft's room. His brother was at the door, a confused and exasperated look on his face, Violet at his shoulder, watching.
"Sherlock, what is going on?" John asked, as Sherlock pushed John gently over the threshold into a room rapidly being filled up with too many people. The train was slowing even more, and Sherlock knew he had minutes left to find the bruiser before he had a chance to get off. Sherlock slipped his hand under the back of John's jacket, snagging his gun from his waistband and tucking it in his own lightning fast. John spun fast, too fast, Greg reaching up to catch him before he fell.
"I'll explain once we get back. Anthea's armed, everyone stay here with her. Mycroft, get Lestrade's gun, move it," he ordered, looking up and down the long hall, watching. The bruiser named John Woodley had gone somewhere, and he had to find him fast. "No one leaves Violet alone, and John and Lestrade can't keep up. I'm serious, no one leave Violet alone! Stay here."
It was his order for his brother to get a weapon that made Mycroft move. He spun, and went straight to Greg, pulling a move identical to Sherlock's, neatly extricating the DI's well-hidden weapon. Lestrade made to stop him, but Mycroft avoided his hands easily and joined his little brother back at the door. Sherlock ignored the questions, and slammed the door shut on his family, keeping them in one place.
He had to trust that they would listen to him, and stay locked up in that room. The train was nearly stopped; they had little time before they reached the station. Sherlock took a gamble and headed away from the long hall and its other compartments; he went towards the rear, the carriages farthest from the bar car. Mycroft was at his side, clicking the safety off the gun, tucking it under his jacket out of sight.
"Explain, brother."
"A man accosted Violet in the bar car not ten minutes ago. He is the drug lord currently attempting to revive Winter's Night, and I suspect that he sent that madman after Violet last week as well. His name is John Woodley, and I saw him years ago when Lestrade took down most of the cartel's men," he said, eyes searching the hall, and they exited their car and went through the doors to the next. People were starting to exit their rooms, carrying luggage, talking loudly, slowing their progress.
"Winter's Night? When were you going to tell me it was back?" Mycroft barked out, but he got a look on his face that said he just realized what else Sherlock said. "He assaulted Violet? Is that why we have the guns?"
"I just did. Doesn't matter now. Tall man, mid-forties, scars, cartel tattoos around twenty years old. Short hair, wearing a mistreated Westwood." Sherlock spat out the description, knowing Mycroft would see the man as soon as he in the crowd, even with such sparse details. Sherlock pointed down the hall, towards a gathering crowd of people. "And I heartily support shooting first, interrogating a corpse later."
The train was nearly stopped, the station visible outside the windows, people waiting at the doors to be let off. The platform wasn't overflowing, but this was one of the last afternoon trains from London, so there were plenty of people waiting out there, enough to make things harder in finding Woodley.
"Dammit, we may be too late, he'll be getting off here I know it. He knew who I was when we passed outside the bar car earlier. He won't risk staying. Hurry."
The brothers ran for the nearest door, pushing through the crowd to the platform. Mycroft had his mobile out, texting his people they had undercover on the train. Sherlock walked out from the train, scanning the crowd for the tall man.
It was a small movement, but enough for Sherlock to know who it was. Woodley was on the far end of the platform, two men in dark jackets walking beside him, out to the small parking lot through a side exit.
"Mycroft! There!" Sherlock ran, dodging round luggage and people alike, Mycroft cutting through the crowd at his left, both brothers heading for the exit to the car lot.
Woodley was out of sight, and Sherlock knew he wouldn't be able to catch up in time to prevent him from getting away. He may be able to see what vehicle they used, though. He put on more speed, ignoring the shouts from people he knocked into as he ran. Mycroft was too far behind, his brother out of shape and used to letting others do his running.
Sherlock burst through the side exit, into the bright winter light, temporarily blinded by the white glare. He put his hand up to shield his eyes, just as a body barreled into him from the side, knocking him to the cold wet pavement. He hit hard, and the air left his lungs in a rush. Sherlock swung at the figure dressed in black on top of him. It was one of the men he saw with Woodley heading this way, and he wasn't happy about being followed. The knife in his hand proved just how pissed he was.
Sherlock caught him in the face with his fist, but the man on top of him just shrugged off the blow, lifting his arm to bring down the blade. He grabbed his attacker's wrist, stopping the knife point inches from his neck. A part of him heard Mycroft shouting his name, but he was too busy to shout back.
His grip slipped, and Sherlock could see nothing but the glare of the harsh winter sun in his eyes, and the knife point slowly descending towards his neck. So he never saw the man come out from the glare, a booted foot swinging up from the ground, cracking across the head of the man trying to kill him. His attacker rolled off of him, holding his bleeding head, knife dropped in the slush on the pavement.
Mycroft was nearly to the car lot exit, shouting, gun in his hand. Sherlock's attacker looked quickly over his shoulder at the spymaster, then at the tall shadow standing over the detective. He cut his losses, and ran deeper into the lot. Mycroft ran out to the lot just as Woodley's man disappeared among the cars.
"Sherlock!" Mycroft shouted as he came out into the light, gun up, eyes looking to where his brother's attacker disappeared, and the man standing over him.
Sherlock looked up at the man obscured by the bright sun, and blinked as a hand came down to him, palm out. Sherlock took it, and a powerful grip pulled him easily to his feet. Sherlock brushed off his slacks, eyeing the young man who had saved him from Woodley's man.
Military, army. Recent discharge from service? Holiday leave? Has calluses on his hands from weapon's grips. Early twenties, seen foreign service. Iraq perhaps? Skin is dark, tanned, short military cut, plenty of action.
"You okay, sir? Want me to call the police?" Asked the young soldier, his tags hanging free over his dark tee, hands tucked in his jean pockets. He had on a thin brown leather jacket, and seemed oblivious to the cold damp air. "I saw him jump you as I was coming in, picking up my girl. Thinking he was a mugger, but he really wanted to kill you."
"No, thank you. You handled him nicely," Sherlock smiled at the young man, who just grinned at him. Mycroft dropped the gun, and came over to his brother, hand coming up to grab his shoulder in relief. Sherlock was surprised, but held his peace, not wanting to draw attention to the rare show of affection.
"It's my training, sir, courtesy of Her Majesty." The soldier asked, rocking on his heels, a sweet smile on his face. He was looking at Sherlock as if he wanted to say something, but he just smiled again instead.
Where the hell is Woodley? And why is that kid smiling at me like that?
"I'm certain. He is the police," Sherlock tilted his head at Mycroft, ignoring his brother's glare. "We need to get back to the train, brother dear. He's gone."
"Well, alright, have a good day." The young soldier gave him a sideways look, and Sherlock watched as his rescuer walked past them, into the station. He melted into the crowd, and Sherlock felt a niggling sense of something. As if the soldier knew him, but didn't say a word. It would explain that smile, and the look. At least he thought it did. Or that young man was giving him a very special smile for another reason, and Sherlock had noticed that 'special smile'.
Damn newspapers, everyone knows my face now. Hoping I hit my head, hoping I hit my head, I must have. I don't notice smiles from handsome young men…..SHUT UP!
He put his hand to the back of his head, looking for a bump, but he was fine, curls wet from the snow. Sherlock frowned, and shook his head. Mycroft was staring at him in a most peculiar manner. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and walked back into the station, his brother at his side. He forgot the young soldier, thinking he would have a very angry doctor to soothe once he was back. And he didn't relish explaining himself to his brother's boyfriend either.
"Save the glares for later, Mycroft. We can't miss our own train."
Clay walked away from the detective and his brother, merging with the crowd, pulling out his mobile as he neatly stepped around travelers on the platform. He hit the speed dial, and waited as the call rang through.
"Clay, report." Jaime asked him, her voice even and cold. He heard the sound of traffic over the line, and figured she was still in London.
"Sherlock caught onto Woodley as quickly as you thought he would, my lady. Woodley tried to kill him, too. I stopped him."
"Did Sherlock connect you to Blackwood?"
"No, my lady. Dr Watson didn't see me either, so he can't identify me to the spymaster or the detective. Sherlock never saw me before today. I'm clean."
"Good. Keep watching Woodley and the Vicar's men. Call me if you need back up."
Clay heard Jaime sigh quietly, nearly too soft to hear over the wind and the roar of traffic.
"My lady?" He was afraid to ask, but she sounded off. She never sounded off kilter, not like this. Violently wrathful, and deviously vengeful, yes. But never fretful. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, Clay. I'm not accustomed to keeping a Holmes alive, is all. My brother is spinning in his grave right now. Though I'm assuming Mycroft Holmes had him buried. I never found his body…"
"I can try and track his body down for you after this mission, if you want."
"I searched for him for two years, Clay. His body is burned to ash and thrown in the trash somewhere, I'm certain. Keep an eye on them. Call me of you need me, I have a friend or two to see for the holiday."
"Yes, my lady." Clay bit his lip, and took the chance. "Merry Christmas, Jaime Moriarty."
A pause, a quiet moment even he could tell was shock. He feared he overstepped, when he heard the faintest whisper before the line went dead.
"Merry Christmas, Clay."
He dropped the mobile away, and smiled to himself as he got back onto the train, hiding in the farthest economy car from the Holmes party as he could get. He'd been watching over them for the last few days, per Jaime's orders. He'd spent worse Christmases in years past, and this was the nicest one yet.
He had a feeling this Christmas was going to be interesting.
"So, this Woodley is a drug dealer."
"Drug lord, close enough. Runs a ring, odds are the remnants of the one Lestrade dismantled nearly a decade ago, while I was high as a kite." Sherlock leaned back in the soft leather seat of the limo, eating a peanut from the can in John's hand. His doctor was grumpy with him, but let him steal his snacks anyway. "He sent that madman after you, and I'm guessing he was high on Winter's Night that night, probably why he tried to kill you. He was likely sent there to kidnap you, or kill me and didn't wait for me to get home due to the drugs."
Violet was quizzing him, and she had a look on her face that said she was trying to decide whether or not to be mad that her uncles ran off after the man who harassed her and left her behind.
They were all piled into the long car, even the dog. He was up front with the driver, who stoically bore up well under the kisses Bear showered on him before he settled down, nose snuffling at the cracked window. Sherlock, John, and Lestrade were in the rear seat, the doctor wedged between the two bigger men. Mycroft was on one of the side seats, up front, Anthea at his side as they both talked on their mobiles, and to each other at the same time. Violet was alone on the other side seat, avoiding looking out the windows as they drew closer to Sherlock's childhood home.
"And he hit on me why?"
Violet asked, her lovely face crinkled up, and she looked so much like him that Sherlock smiled.
"Did you really just ask why a man would hit on you?" Lestrade asked, flummoxed that the pretty young woman had no idea why a man would hit on her.
"Oh, stop it. I know I'm okay looking, but he really should have gotten a clue."
"Okay looking?" Lestrade muttered to the doctor next to him, and John shrugged. "She serious?"
"Dunno, she's a Holmes after all. Wonder what the rest are like?" John whispered back, and he and Lestrade ignored the glares from the three Holmes in the limo.
"You'll know soon enough, gentlemen. Our family home is just ahead," said Mycroft, calling from the front of the limo, Anthea looking past him out the front window.
Sherlock sighed loudly as his lover and the DI sat up, peering out the windows to the red house high up on the hill. The drive was long, and the view spectacular. The Holmes family home was a three story house, old as the hills it crowned, but maintained to perfection and lovingly cared for. The hill was covered in a thick sheet of white, the snow here pristine and unmarred by thousands of feet. The house was a deep red, the masonry painted every year to maintain the fresh color. Well groomed trees kept the house company, the pines still wreathed in deep evergreen boughs, taller than the house they sheltered from the bitter winter winds.
Violet twisted in her seat, peeking through the windows too. Sherlock watched his niece as everyone else got their curiosity out of the way. She sat back from the window, having taken a quick look, and she was staring at her shiny black boots as if she had forgotten how they got on her feet.
Sunset had happened minutes before, the red manor house bathed in a dimming twilight, the lights within shining out through the windows. There was just enough light left to see the two figures waiting in the front garden.
His parents. Sir William and Marion Holmes were expecting them.
Oh my God, it's too late to get out of this. What if they don't like me? Fuck, what if they do like me? I have grandparents! I just saw them. Oh my God oh my God…
Snap out of it!
Violet sucked in a deep breath, and grabbed her computer bag from the seat next to her, slinging the strap over her chest sideways, gripping it tightly. She stared down at her high heeled boots, wondering if they were too much to wear when meeting grandparents for the first time. Her mother's parents had died well before she was born, and she had no other family in the world except for the people in this limo. So this was so very new.
Violet looked up from her boots, and bit her lip again, not noticing the sting from her cut lip. She was wearing a thigh-length black dress, no hose, and a black leather jacket that did nothing to protect her from the cold and did everything to make her feel silly. She had loved the outfit right up until this moment, wondering if she would be found adequate.
The limo stopped, and Violet stayed in her seat, letting everyone pile out around her. Sherlock gave her a chiding look, but she ignored him, waiting until he got out before following suit. She hid in his shadow, glad it was getting dark fast. Hopefully no one would be able to see how nervous she was. She steeled her face as best she could, and yet found herself hiding behind her uncle. Sherlock knew she was there, and his hand found hers in the shadows, holding tight.
Violet could hear an older man's voice, greeting Mycroft and Anthea first. Her uncle started introductions, pointing out his assistant and his boyfriend (though he didn't say boyfriend, Mycroft was ballsy and said 'lover' to his parents). She heard Greg cough at that introduction, but the DI pulled himself together well enough to say hello in return. John introduced himself, as Sherlock was still letting Violet hide behind him next to the limo. Violet heard a woman's voice, welcoming them to their home, inviting them in from the cold.
"Please, all of you inside. It's cold out here. Tea and snacks in the front room, just head for the fire." That must be her grandmother. I don't even know my grandmother's name! Oh I can't do this, I can't do this…..
Footsteps walked up the stone path, her friends presumably entering the house. Violet realized she was hiding her face in her uncle's shoulder, her grip on his hand so tight she was surprised he wasn't complaining.
"Hello Father," Sherlock rumbled, his voice sounding extra deep under her head. Violet peeked the tiniest bit from behind his shoulder, and saw a stately old man with thick white hair and Sherlock's face smiling at them both. He shook Sherlock's free hand, clasping his son's hand in both of his.
Violet gave a tiny start when she saw Mycroft's eyes in his father's face. Sherlock looked like his father, but Mycroft got his eyes. It was those eyes that made her freeze up, staring. He saw her looking, her face hidden, and gave her a smile. The twilight was still bright enough for her to see his face clearly, and she saw nothing but kindness there.
"Oh, child. Come out from behind my son. I'm no dragon," Mr. Holmes bid her, and Sherlock squeezed her hand in encouragement. She dragged in a deep breath, and let it out. Hacking the CIA was easier than this.
Violet held Sherlock's hand still, but moved out just the littlest bit from behind him. She knew when her grandfather saw her clearly when his face went blank from surprise. She gulped, wondering if she wanted to know what he was thinking. She stared at him, as he stared at her, from her hair, to her eyes, to the face that resembled his so much. She saw herself in him, and blinked quickly, to rid herself of the tears threatening to ruin her calm.
"Father, this is your granddaughter, Violet Anne Hunter. Violet, this is my father, your grandfather, Sir William Holmes."
Violet barely heard her uncle, so absorbed was she in the older man. She let her lips quirk up the smallest bit, and shuffled out a bit further from behind Sherlock.
"Hi." It was her best effort, and she cringed, dipping her head. She wasn't used to being so self-conscious, so afraid of what someone else might think.
Violet didn't notice she was shaking, and if anyone was looking they might think it was the cold. She noticed the long fingered hand that touched her jaw, strong fingers lifting her chin. She met her grandfather's eyes, and blinked hard, refusing to cry. He had a pensive look on his face, his eyes searching hers, the slim fingers on her chin trembling slightly.
"Forgive me, my dear. I wasn't expecting you to be so lovely. It is an old man's wish to have grandchildren. I am glad to have this wish granted, and so beautifully."
Violet knew he meant something else, but was too kind to say it. He hadn't expected her to look so much like her father. Like Sherrinford.
Violet tried to say something, but she got really embarrassed when she blushed. She just smiled as best she could, aware of her uncle smiling indulgently.
Her grandfather neatly took her other hand, and tugged her away from the shelter of Sherlock. Her uncle let her go, and with a wink, walked up the path, leaving her alone with his father. Violet had no idea what to say or do, but she found herself following, her arm roped through her grandfather's, his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. Her grandfather walked her up to the house, and he had trouble looking away from her face. There was no one else outside, everyone inside, presumably waiting on the two of them to get in there so the holiday could start.
"My son tells me you're an American?"
"Oh…. Um, yeah. Technically…..sorta," Violet stammered out, and she was mentally cursing herself for sounding like an idiot. "I was born here, but Mom took us to the States when I was two."
"Your mother? Hunter, I am assuming?"
She nodded, and she caught the vaguest hint of something in his eyes.
"There was a young woman my eldest knew from school, named Evangeline Hunter. She left the area suddenly, nearly twenty-five years ago. Could she be your mother?"
"I…. wow. Yes! My mom's name was Evie."
"You have her smile," Sir William said, and Violet felt the nerves begin to fall away. "Sherlock also said that she passed?"
"Yes…. When I was thirteen. Cancer."
"My condolences, my dear. She was a sweet girl, brave and smart."
"She was the best mom I could have asked for."
They were at the door, and Sir William opened it with a gentlemanly flourish, making her smile. He paused her briefly before she stepped in, and he gave her a look that was all Sherlock.
"Welcome home, Violet."
Sherlock took the final step over the front threshold of his parent's home with a spring in his step, satisfied that his father had sufficiently charmed his American grandchild. Violet's atypical shyness had been very obvious, and Sherlock had caught his father's eye when his niece hid behind him. His mother was busy inviting everyone in the house, and busy pretending she wasn't horribly nervous at greeting her only grandchild, so his father was left to work his charm.
"How did it go?" Mycroft nearly pounced on him as he took off his coat and scarf, hanging them on the coat tree beside the doorway. Sherlock could hear everyone speaking in the front room, his mother's voice forcibly cheerful.
"Father charmed her, as expected. It helped that she is equally charming in her own way. I think our father loves her already."
"Good. Mum shall be the hard one. She's doing her best not to act like anything is wrong."
Mycroft and Sherlock both moved from the front door, heading through the sitting room door, where they saw their mother holding court over her guests. Long white hair swept up regally on her head, black and white blouse topping black slacks gave their mother a queenly air, and she moved about her guests with energy. John was thoroughly engaged in talking to her, his doctor red in the face when she patted him lovingly on the cheek.
Mycroft went to kiss their mother hello, before joining Lestrade beside the fireplace. Sherlock saw his father and Violet walking up the front path through the windows, and knew his mother would have to stop pretending she wasn't about the meet her dead son's daughter for the first time. Sherlock didn't blame his mother for pretending Violet wasn't here, or that this was emotionally difficult for her. Sherlock truly was like his mother in many ways; emotions left them off-balance, and withdrawn. It was hard for his mother to open up to anyone other than her husband and sons. Yet she was doing a marvelous job with Greg and John; she must have decided to give it a try with the men her sons loved.
Sherrinford had nearly destroyed his mother, and his death had been as much of a relief as it was heartbreaking for her. Sherlock was afraid, for both Violet and his mother. Violet's resemblance to Sherrin was strong, very strong…she had his eyes. Sherlock just hoped his mother would be able to see past them, past the ghost, to the brilliant girl beneath.
Sherlock looked over his shoulder, just as his father and niece entered the sitting room. Time to get it over with.
Jaime zipped her jacket up tight, glad it was insulated for artic temperatures, as the air unit she was hiding on top of was ice cold. She was laying on the ventilation ducts that ran just below the ceiling of John Woodley's warehouse, and from her top-lofty position, she could clearly see what he was up to in the large building with its mazelike floor plan.
There were dozens of lab technicians in specials suits hovering over tables and machinery, mixing chemicals and ingredients. The warehouse had an open air plan, meaning there were walls, but none of the rooms had ceilings, so she was able to see clearly into each room. The labs where the temperatures needed to stay cold were covered in thick plastic sheeting, but she could still see through them just fine.
Years and years ago, James had helped (for a very stiff fee) a minor lieutenant in a drug cartel take over his organization and resources from his ailing crime boss. The plan had almost fallen into ruin, as even then, Sherlock Holmes had interfered. If the detective hadn't become addicted to the drug cartel's product, the final meeting between Holmes and Moriarty may have happened years earlier.
James had salvaged enough of the situation to arrange it so Woodley was never charged, and released, and he slowly and carefully took over what was left, building it into a syndicate that had stranglehold on the London crime scene. Woodley, while a sick, perverted, nasty and rude man, was a decent chemist; it had taken him this long to finally resurrect the formula for the drug known as Winter's Night.
It was Jaime who Woodley truly owed thanks to; for it was she who had slain the old crime boss, allowing Woodley to take up the reins. Jaime had single-handedly beguiled and killed the old pervert to make way for the new one and his pet junkies. The old crime boss had ended up in the river, looking like a victim of a bad hookup in an alley. In a way it had been, as she killed him swiftly and without mercy.
Jaime watched as two guards dragged out a hostage from one of the labs, taking him down a long hall to the room where they were keeping him. She figured this was the kidnapping victim that had lived at the crime scene where the Vicar had tried to kill Sherlock and the doctor. She had been watching on and off for two days now, and she was currently figuring out the connection between the Vicar and John Woodley. She knew they knew each other; she caught snippets of conversation the night before, something about three million pounds.
It was here that Williamson had run to for protection after Mycroft Holmes successfully revoked his diplomatic immunity. MI6 was still hunting for the now rogue CIA officer and his people. It hadn't taken long for Jaime to figure out that Williamson was here to kill Mary not because she was an active threat to any government, but because she was an active threat to Williamson. Mary knew too much for the Vicar to let her live.
The hostage was safely locked up in his room for the night, and Jaime went back to watching. The Vicar was around here somewhere, as it had been Woodley who was sent to retrieve Violet and kill Sherlock Holmes. Once again, the attempted hit was a failure, and Jaime giggled silently to herself as she contemplated how many men Williamson had left to spare.
Sending Clay to cover for Woodley and the Vicar's men had been a smart move. Now all she had to do was get a glimpse of the Vicar, and the threat to Mary would be over. She wasn't alone on this ventilation shaft; her rifle was waiting patiently beside her in the cold evening air.
She heard the voices, the shouting, coming from her left. She slowly turned, keeping her profile low. She recognized that voice as the Vicar. He was most displeased by something. She couldn't see him yet, but his voice was strident enough to be clear.
"What do you mean, he almost got caught? What an idiot! I told him exactly what to do if he wanted that girl, but does he listen? He let his crouch think for him, and nearly got caught!" that was indeed Williamson, yelling so loudly that his shouts echoed around her head in the rafters.
"Any sign of our target?" He was calmer now after that outburst, and Jaime eagerly listened for a reply. He was talking about Mary now, not the niece.
"No sir. We can't tell if she is with the party or not. Most of them stayed out of sight on the train."
"There has been no sighting here in London at all. Mycroft Holmes' house is dark, minimal staffing in and out. If she's in there, I can't tell. I'm starting to think she might be on that train after all. There's no way they would leave her behind, all of them. There's no reason to do that if they went through this much trouble to hide her from me and two governments."
"I would agree sir."
"Alright, we'll stay here, keep surveillance on the townhouse, and the detective's flat as well. Search it if you can, see what you find out. If Woodley can't get his target, and distract Mycroft Holmes enough once his niece goes missing, then I'll have to leave early to get Morstan myself. Planned action is still on for the 25th, correct?"
"Yes, sir. Woodley confirms he'll acquire Hunter on Christmas morning, as planned. That will give us the time we need to remove our target while they are all distracted."
"Good. And if all goes to plan, Mycroft Holmes will have a bullet in his head for Christmas."
Jaime sucked in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. She was at a crossroads; the Vicar was here, but she had no shot; the Holmes' family was being targeted in an attempt to flush out Mary. If Mycroft Holmes died, Mary was in danger. No matter she wasn't in the country; Jaime knew Mary hadn't gotten in the car when everyone left for the train station. She knew that Mary was still in the townhouse.
And Jaime Moriarty knew exactly how to get in there now, thanks to a certain detective not making sure they weren't being followed in the catacombs….
Looks like I need to go shopping. I have a date with a very lonely blonde. Let me see what Mary wants me to do. It's her future. I'll kill whoever she wants.
Marion Holmes had heard of John Watson for years, so when she finally had the chance to meet him properly, she found him a kind and loving man, full of patience, with a steel core that would keep Sherlock from ruling the roost. He was exactly what her son needed in a partner. Her son's refusal over the years to countenance a romantic relationship had been at first a worry to her, as he was a sweet, wonderful boy who tried too hard to freeze out the world, protect himself. He needed love more than any of them, of her three children. So for Sherlock to have finally fallen in love, it was for Marion a gift, a reassurance that her child would be happy and content in his life at last. Love would tame his demons.
Sherlock was not one to love more than once in his lifetime; John Watson was in her son's heart for all eternity. And the way John acted when Sherlock's name was mentioned, the way he looked at her youngest, she was certain, convinced, that John loved her baby boy the same way.
Mycroft, her precious middle child, had always been so adamant that he needed nothing from the world, especially love. His elder brother's madness had broken his heart, and driven Mycroft to hide behind his frozen armor, allowing little sentiment to be exposed or developed. At odds with this was his belated and steadfast dedication to care for and protect his little brother; Mycroft was attempting to make up for the years he felt wasted on adoring Sherrin. Sherlock had been spared most of the atrocities Sherrin committed due to his age; she had done her best to shield her youngest. She had not been so lucky with Mycroft. He had loved and adored Sherrin, his older brother his hero.
So to meet Gregory Lestrade was a miracle. Mycroft had found love, in the most unlikely of places. He found it with a detective inspector from Scotland Yard, who was a sweet, almost shy man who was doing his best not to appear as rough around the edges as he really was. He had the face of someone who was just learning again how to be happy, as if happiness were a dream, an illusion. He had obviously been very alone, for a very long time.
She saw the way he looked at her son; he loved him totally, completely, with everything he had in him. And so she loved him a little in that moment too. If young Gregory Lestrade made her son happy, then she would gladly do anything to keep him happy as well. They were two men who had been so alone, for so long, that she knew that they would treasure each other as they should.
Marion smiled gently at the young doctor, handing him a teacup. She saw Sherlock look to the entrance of the sitting room, and she knew she could not pretend any more that her husband hadn't been sent to greet Violet. Marion had seen right through her men, both her remaining sons and her husband. Trying to pretend that she wasn't terrified had made it all the more obvious that she was, and her men folk had kindly worked around her panic.
When she heard Sherlock speak at the doorway, she took a deep breath, and looked for the first time at the child her eldest son had fathered in secret. A granddaughter. Curious despite her trepidation, Marion did her best not to be too hopeful, and what she saw was not what she was expecting.
Marion lost her grip on the cup she was handing to the lovely young woman who traveled often with her son, not comprehending when Anthea had to take the teacup quickly before it fell to the floor.
Marion felt like the last eighteen years were gone. Wiped clean from the earth, and her lost son was standing before her again. She gasped, and put a trembling hand to her mouth, tears welling up quickly.
The child in front of her was not a child at all; she was a young woman, fit and strong and more beautiful than any grandmother could hope for a granddaughter. Tall as her youngest, hair as black as William's had once been, wavy like her father's. Skin losing its tan in the winter light, and her eyes; her eyes were Sherrinford's. Those brilliant amethyst eyes locked on to hers, and Marion struggled to breathe. Her son was a ghost in the woman before her, and with that thought, Marion's heart broke.
The threatening tears spilled free, and she wasn't aware she was crying until Mycroft was at her side, hand on her shoulder. Marion couldn't look away from the girl standing so nervously between her youngest and her husband. The room fell quiet, and Marion hardly noticed when her guests quietly got up and discreetly left the room. Mycroft's hand was a firm reassurance on her shoulder, and it took him rubbing lightly for her to snap out of her shock.
She dropped her hand, and wiped at her wet cheeks. She blinked away the tears, and really looked at the young woman. She was Sherrinford's daughter. Marion would have known that, no matter Sherlock's silly tests. It was in the way she stood, the way her hair fell at the part, the obvious intelligence in those gorgeous eyes. Her heart was screaming at her that she had a granddaughter, screaming it so loudly that Marion was moving at her heart's behest and not her brain's.
She was no longer a young woman, and moving fast wasn't as easy as it used to be, but this one moment in time her body didn't complain. Her feet were pulling her across the room, her hands out, wanting to reach out to touch this marvelous creature. Marion stopped a short arm's length away, and simply stared.
"Hello dear." It was all she could manage, and Marion tried her best not to start crying again.
"Umm…. Hi."
It was the American accent that did it, that banished the ghost of her long dead son. Marion saw before her a nervous young woman, one dreading being judged for the sins of her father. Marion was ashamed; her grief at learning that Sherrinford had a child hadn't been meant to drive Violet away. No matter her son's crimes, Marion had loved him deeply, her firstborn child. So when she learned a piece of him still lived, that he'd a daughter, all these long years, to Marion it had been a fresh wound over the scarred part of her heart dedicated to Sherrinford. She hadn't meant for this girl to think she was being measured by her father's actions.
"You look..." Marion stopped, drew in a breath.
"I know, I look like my father."
"Oh, darling. You do indeed, but I was going to say you look exactly like William's mother, your great-grandmother. William, Sherrinford, and Sherlock look just like her. And the lovely thing? Her name was Violet, too."
"I do? She was? Really?" Violet perked up at that, as if the thought that she might look like someone other than her deceased father a cheering thought. Marion saw it, and lamented silently her foolish fears. This girl was not her father, and deserved none of the burden that came with his mention.
Marion reached out, for the first time in her adult life feeling something close to shyness. She wanted so badly to touch this young woman, hug her close, feel how real she was. Marion caught the smooth, slim, youthful hands in her aging ones, and pulled just the littlest amount. Violet blinked at her, but moved, just as hesitant.
Marion took it as all the invitation she needed; she had her grandchild in her arms faster than thought, pressing a kiss to her perfect cheek before clutching her tight. She laughed, crying too, as Violet hugged her back, hiding her face in her grandmother's snow white hair.
They stood there for a long time, as her men folk gradually drifted away, leaving the two women to get to know it each other. Some wounds took a lifetime to heal, and others never did. This wound here would had been waiting a long time to heal, and it had a good start, requiring only a few brave smiles and a long awaited hug.