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

A/N: Hope you all enjoy this chapter. It's the longest one so far that I've written for Sherlock that I haven't chopped in two due to size. No skipping parts, there's tons of clues hidden away in here for what's coming in Part III.

WARNING: SEX. OMG level SEX. So hot it's melting the snow in this chapter. No blushing!

Oh, and VIOLENCE too.

Read, enjoy, and review!

Next chapter drops 6/1/2014!

Chapter Forty Eight

"It's Bloody Christmas!"

December 24th, Christmas Eve, 12:01 AM…London

"John, I'm fine. You don't have to call every few hours," she said to the worried man on the other end of the line, leaning against the window frame. The night was not yet too late, and Mary could hear people talking, laughing in the background.

"Are you sure you don't want us to send a car for you?"

She could hear him walking around, fussing with something. They were all at the Holmes' residence, and she could tell everyone was having fun.

Mary smiled ruefully, and rested her head on the ice cold glass, her breath frosting as she breathed on it. John was trying his best not to worry. He worried about everyone. Even though there was so much hurt, so much anger and things left unsaid between them, Mary knew that she need never fear he'd ever take how he felt about her out on their child. He was going to be a wonderful father.

"John."

"Yeah?"

"I'll be fine. Help Mycroft kill Silas, and have a wonderful Christmas. I promise I'll call you if I need you."

Mary heard him sigh softly in frustration. Poor John. He hated not taking care of people. And she counted very much in the 'take care of' column. Mary placed a hand lightly over the slight swell of their growing child, and sighed herself. He heard her, and grumbled something she couldn't make out.

"Alright, alright. Just be careful, please. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, John."

She hung up before he could think of something else to be worried about. Mary tossed the mobile on to the bed, and went back to staring out the windows. The moon was high overhead, nearly full. It would be on Christmas night. One of the brightest of the year, too. Snow was falling slowly, lazily collecting on the dormant plants in Mycroft's garden.

The spymaster had a lovely home, for all that it resembled a museum more than a house that was supposed to be lived in. Mary mused that having Greg move in with him was probably the smartest move she'd seen the eldest Holmes make. Mary had only spoken to him handful of times, and each time she did, the elder Holmes seemed more human. Gregory Lestrade was thawing the Iceman.

Mary hoped the plan to trap and kill Silas Williamson would work. While it wouldn't stop the hounds from coming for her, it would give her the breathing room she needed to bear her child and make a run for it. The farther away she was from her baby and John, the safer they would be. She refused to die in a cage, or to live forever trapped in comfortable solitude under house arrest. Mary knew the longer she stayed in Mycroft's custody, the likelier it would be that he wouldn't be able to hide her away, keep her from prying eyes. His peers across the world would eventually want to know who the blonde was that he hid away, and who her child was, and those questions would be never ending until she was a pawn in countless power plays.

Mycroft had seen that eventuality; Mary had made it clear to Sherlock as well. She doubted faking her death a second time would stick, and it wouldn't solve anything. Governments around the world knew to some degree whom she was due to the bombings, the events with Jaime Moriarty. There was no way to erase her existence from the world unless she was dead for real. And even then, her history and her face were in too many files, on too many hard drives.

Mary watched the snow fall, and thought she saw movement in the garden below. She stood back a step from the window, and was about to alert the security teams that there was a perimeter breach when she saw the silhouette below. Mycroft had cleaned out the watchers around the house, and the teams left behind to guard the house did a regular sweep. So whoever was down there, standing on the edge of a bright swath of moonlight, knew how to avoid the guards, the cameras.

There was only one person in the world with the skill and knowledge to avoid Mycroft Holmes and his security. Mary stepped back to the window, hand to the glass. The figure below turned its covered head in her direction, and slim hand rose slightly in acknowledgement. The pale white hand moved in a sweeping motion, down to the ground, and mimed walking with two fingers.

Mary tapped the glass twice, and the figure stepped back from the moonlit spot in the garden, disappearing instantly into the black shadows. Mary grabbed her wrap, tossing it over her nightgown, and tugged on silk slippers she'd borrowed from Anthea. She ran for the door, and checked the hall before stepping out, gently closing the door behind her. Mycroft had a skeleton crew in the house, but they all left around midnight, leaving just the security teams. They stayed away from the residence level, and she knew there was a small security room they used near the front of the house.

As long as no one saw her head past the bunker, she should be okay. The cameras were recording, but Mycroft assured her that she wouldn't be spied on while she was under his roof, especially while he was away. The security teams would only access the feeds if an alarm was triggered during a breach, much as they would when Mycroft was home, and there was no current threat against him. When he made that assertion before he left Mary saw nothing but an honest effort on his part to make her feel like she wasn't a prisoner, but a guest. She knew he wouldn't approve of her letting this new guest in, though.

Mary ran soundlessly down the hall, pausing at the top of the stairs before running down them just as quietly. Thankful that her stomach had settled down a few hours earlier, Mary ran through Mycroft's house, down the long hall past Greg's room, and down the stairs, past the bunker. The basement access to the coal cellar was well hidden at the end of the long hall, and Mary grinned as she saw it was unguarded.

She snuck through the door, checking to make sure no one saw her. She knew that there were no cameras in this old, dark room, and the ancient lamp in the corner cast a fretful glow across the stone walls. Mary waited next to the door, hand on the knob, and thought she heard a sound at the coal tunnel grate. She closed the door, and grimaced at the rusty lock. She turned it carefully, and it made a minimum of fuss as she turned it.

There was the barest whisper of sound from the black void, and Mary slowly walked over to it, the grate locked, utter darkness an abyss through the bars. She couldn't see anything, and a part of her was hoping it really was who she thought, and not someone trying to trick her.

"Mary?"

She jumped at the sweet voice, light and airy, with a hint of Ireland. She felt a sharp sting of yearning impatience in her chest, and ran the rest of the way to the grate, unsnapping the lock and swinging it wide on its ancient hinges. A tall slim figure dressed in black escaped from the darkness, and she found herself wrapped up in a snug embrace.

Mary buried her face in Jaime's shoulder, smelling snow and icy city air on her clothing, feeling the sting of the bitter cold emanating from the younger woman's garments. Jaime's arms held her tightly, and her hood feel back, long braid falling free over her shoulder. Mary pressed her face to the other woman's, and found herself laughing. Jaime hugged her hard, and she picked her up, swinging her gently before setting her back down.

Mary clasped her perfect face between her hands, those dark wild eyes bright and clear. Jaime gazed at her, the madness usually so prevalent nothing now but a memory, hidden away. Mary was caught up in those eyes, and wondered at what she was feeling. Her chest hurt, but it felt so good. A sweet ache was crushing her heart, and her whole body felt like she was on the edge of a storm, lightning striking the ground at her feet.

Jaime gave her the tiniest smile, and sighed, her strong arms roping around her waist, the taller woman pulling her body close to hers, chest to thigh. Jaime slowly dipped her head down, and gave Mary the shyest of kisses, sweet and gentle. She pulled back a hairsbreadth, and whispered to her, eyes locked.

"I love you, Mary."

Those words had been spoken before, in the rush of disbelief and reunion, and Mary had feared she dreamt them. To hear them now, so clear and unmistakable was marvelous. There was a pain deep in her center, one that bore John's name and would never really heal. Yet those words from this mad girl set a fire burning in her darkest of hearts, the place where the real woman who had no name lived. The dream of a perfect life was a lie that she finally cast aside, and the woman deep inside answered with everything she had in her.

"I love you too, Jaime Moriarty."

Mary kissed Jaime, holding her head firmly in her hands, unrestrained, pouring every shred of feeling she could into it that she staggered them on their feet. Jaime gasped, and Mary took the kiss deeper. She tried to show this mad girl how much she missed her, how vital she had become in those few short days they'd had together before madness and grief tore apart the world. Jaime Moriarty was capable of doing the impossible, and she had performed her last great act on Mary's broken heart.

Jaime kissed her back, and Mary suddenly found herself sitting on a dusty crate with no idea how she got there. The young assassin put her hands on Mary's knees, gently nudging them apart, stepping between as they opened for her. Mary couldn't stop kissing her, her own hands tugging at Jaime's long braid, the wavy lengths tumbling free. The scent of sugar and peppermint, top shelf whiskey and clean water flowed out from her hair, soft tresses cloaking the lovely woman.

Jaime pulled back, briefly breaking their kiss, and lifted one of Mary's knees, wrapping her trim leg around her waist. Mary eagerly lifted the other, both legs tightly holding Jaime to her. Mary's silk nightgown rode up her thighs, and Jaime's callused and slim hands pushed it up higher, fingers dusting over the top of her thighs before landing lightly on her waist.

Mary pressed tiny kisses to Jaime's neck, her jaw, and sucked once on her earlobe. Jaime gasped, and tried to kiss her again. Mary ducked her lips away, and darted under Jaime's chin, licking and nibbling the fine creamy skin of her neck. Jaime gasped, and shivered, her head falling back, long red brown hair a waterfall of incredible softness cascading down her back.

Mary held Jaime tightly with her legs, and very carefully let her hands run from Jaime's shoulders, down her chest. She picked at the lapel of Jaime's heavy long coat, tugging it back, over her shoulders and away. The younger woman had on skin tight black under armor shirt and a leather vest covered in pockets. Mary grinned at the familiar sight, such gear a normal part of her old life. She tugged at the zipper of the leather vest, lowering it a slow inch at a time, the tight fitting gear revealing a lush and supple form beneath.

Jaime shivered again, and not from the cold. Her hands on Mary hips were clenching and rubbing, her head still back, eyes closed. Mary did a double take as she saw a red sweep of color run across the young woman's face. She paused, and put a finger on the fine jaw of her girl, tipping her head back down. Jaime blinked at her, her dark eyes shadowed, something secret moving in their depths.

Mary found herself catching on a moment late. This mad child in a grown woman's body had been savagely abused when she was small, and Mary had a sinking feeling that sex had never been a part of her life since those early nightmarish days.

"Jaime, have you….? I mean, I don't want to do anything that you're uncomfortable with."

Jaime ducked her head, and snuggled her face to Mary's, her warm sweet breath tickling her ear. Her response was so quiet, so lost in the shadows around them that Mary had to fight to hear her.

"I've never been with anyone. Not since…..no one."

"Oh, sweetheart," Mary whispered, kissing the graceful arch of Jaime's neck. This mad child was broken, shattered into a thousand pieces, but there was glimmer of light shining through the cracks. Mary pondered her choices, and let the right option win over her own desires. She wanted to touch, to be touched in return, but she knew well the scars this young woman carried. So really, whatever she wanted was secondary. It was only about this girl now, in this moment.

"Go as far as you want, sweetheart. I'll take as much as you want to give me, and happily go no further," Mary said to the girl she held, dropping kisses everywhere she could reach. Jaime sighed happily, and arched her neck into the touches.

"I want to, but… I think I forgot why I came here." The younger woman gasped out, as Mary licked a tender spot behind her ear. "Oh, do that again…."

Mary sucked on her soft, pristine skin, tasting peppermint and the light flavor that was all Jaime. She was powerful, wild, unpredictable, and strangely enough, one of the most steadfastly loyal people Mary had ever met. This young woman was insane, truly lost to sanity, but she loved deeply and fully, and gave her faith along with it. Her devotion to a brother long dead had left the world burnt and broken, shaken to its foundations. Jaime Moriarty loved to the exclusion of all else, and never gave up. Her devotion could shape the world.

So for her to say to Mary that she loved her, there was no doubt in her heart that Jaime meant those words. Mary felt no fear that one day someone else would come along, and tear away the love this girl gave her so completely. Mary had found her safe harbor, the place she was meant to rest her weary soul and revel in the love returned.

What did it matter this woman was by all accounts evil? Mary was no saint. She had more blood on her hands than most, all lives taken willfully and with full knowledge of her deeds. Mary was not a hypocrite either; she was dark and covered in blood. She had one foot in the madness that Jaime dwelt in, and one planted firmly in the graying wasteland of her remaining morality. She would be an anchor in turn for her lovely mad girl, keeping her grounded as best she could. For Jaime's sake, and the world's.

What is evil anyway? Could a person truly be wholly evil if they could love, and love completely?

Jaime leaned into her more, a sound reminiscent of a purr and making Mary smile. She hugged the girl to her tighter, Jaime hugging her back. Jaime settled against her, much as a cat would when it needed a bit of loving, shy but insistent.

Mary clutched her tight, let her sweet mad girl cuddle. She ran her fingers through her red brown hair, the waves left behind by the braid glinting with fire in the low lamp light. It hadn't been long since Mary let her in, but it felt like hours, days, months. Mary sighed, and realized for the first time since John destroyed her heart that she was happy. Mary felt a few tears threaten but she blinked them away. No sadness tonight.

"Why did you come, sweetheart? Not that I'm complaining, really. But this is so dangerous, for us both."

She posed her question softly to the woman she held, and Jaime laughed quietly, her shoulders shaking a few times before she pulled back. The young woman smiled at her, and gave her another tiny kiss.

"I'm here to figure out what you want me to do about the Vicar and Woodley."

"Who's Woodley?"

"Oh! That's right, you've been hidden away under Mycroft's umbrella. Woodley is a drug lord my brother put in power several years back, and he's after Violet Hunter. Woodley paid the Vicar three million pounds to kidnap Violet, but she escaped her to England and her uncle's protection before she was caught."

Mary sucked in a breath, and did her best to organize her thoughts.

"So Violet is in danger from Woodley, while everyone else is in danger from the Vicar?"

"Yes dear, that's about it. I had one of my men stop Woodley from killing Sherlock earlier today. Woodley is planning on kidnapping Violet on Christmas, and using that distraction so that the Vicar can kill the Holmes family and presumably take you. They think you're there, by the way, and not here."

"Oh God, Violet. That poor girl."

"I suppose. If I had my way, I'd kill everyone and let the bodies sort themselves out. But I figured you were trying this good girl thing, so here I am. I've never kept someone alive before, other than James. I failed at that. So I need you to tell me what to do."

"Let me think." Mary rested her chin on Jaime's shoulder, idly playing with her soft hair. Jaime was content to be held, and waited patiently.

"Do you know why Woodley wants Violet?" Mary asked her girl.

"I didn't hear for certain, but he's a deviant. Charged with sexual assault and rape several times, always skated on the charges." Mary could hear the deep seated anger in Jaime's voice, and she marveled that Woodley wasn't dead yet. Jaime hated rapists, so much that she would kill her own people if they strayed towards sexual assault. "He wants her for something she can do for him. And if he gets her, he will rape her."

"I give you permission to kill him, no hesitation there," she said to the deadly assassin in her arms. "If you don't, I will."

"I'll flip you for it."

Mary settled back down, and let her hands rub down Jaime's back, sweeping up under the vest, along the slick under armor shirt that hugged every curve and muscle of her body. Jaime purred again, and leaned into Mary's hands as they came to rest just below her breasts, before sweeping down her firm abdomen to her hips. Mary smiled mischievously, and nibbled on Jaime's neck before resting her chin on a lean, sleek shoulder.

"If I warn Sherlock, he can prevent Woodley from getting Violet, and they can still trap the Vicar. Let them kill everyone. Keep you out of this, away from trigger happy spymasters and sociopathic detectives who will want you dead."

"You could keep me out of this, but what then? Mycroft kills the Vicar, Sherlock stops Woodley, Violet is safe, and you're a commodity for the life you carry." Jaime pulled back from her, pinning her with her sharp gaze. "If you think Mycroft will let you go, that John or Sherlock will let you go, it won't happen."

"I made them promise to let me go once the baby is born. I give Mycroft every mission I went on, every detail I can recall, and he lets me go. My baby will never be safe with me, and I'll never be able to give her the life she deserves. John and Sherlock can."

"What? Mary, no." Jaime was shocked, her perfect face a mask of shock and dismay. "You want the baby!"

"I do, more than anything. But the assassin cannot be her mother. I can't raise her, be there for her. I'll destroy her if I try."

"Mary, don't throw away your life. Leave with me now. I can hide you, I can hide your baby, and we will never be found or caught. Sherlock didn't destroy the syndicate!" Jaime burst out, gasping as she did, her face showing the rising madness attempting to return.

"Jaime?" Mary stressed her name, disbelief warring with incredulity. Surely she didn't hear that correctly.

"Oops." Jaime blinked at her, face getting red. "If James was still alive, he'd kill me right now."

"What do mean, Sherlock didn't destroy Moriarty's syndicate?"

English countryside, Holmes' Family Residence, 12:15 AM

Greg threw himself back on the soft bed, holding up his whiskey so he didn't spill it on the covers. Mrs. Holmes had shown him upstairs to Mycroft's old room, and he looked around it from his spot on the bed.

Everywhere he looked was a room belonging to a kid he probably would have beat up in school. It was neat, extremely organized, and without a trace of sentimental knickknacks anywhere. Zero toys, no football hero's posters on the walls, no family photos. Nothing to show the personality of the boy who once lived here. And he could swear in court that there were more books in this room than all the libraries in London. Bookshelves everywhere and full of books on every subject he could think of… some books even covered topics he hadn't known existed!

Greg toed off his boots, and his socks, tossing back the last of his whiskey as he did. Mrs. Holmes had asked what he wanted to drink for a nightcap, and he managed to sneak his first real drink since the day he got shot. He was aware that alcohol and his meds weren't a good mix, but dammit all, he just wanted one. Being here in the domicile of the Holmes family had been a very serious wakeup call- he was in love with a man, and one who wasn't an average bloke either.

Greg didn't care if men fell in love with men, he just absolutely never figured he would. Ever. So here, in this house, where the elder Holmes' made it blatantly clear that they didn't care about their son's sexual orientation, and that to them it was normal, all that just drove it home to Greg that his own family wouldn't react this way. His family would be shocked, in disbelief, and his father would be angry, to say the least. His mother would wonder what was wrong, if he wasn't still trying to get over his ex-wife, and God forbid she brought up wanting grandchildren. Greg could practically hear the sniveling concern and recriminations echoing in this bedroom tucked away under the rafters.

Greg rolled over, the liquor having helped numb the constant ache in his side. He dropped the glass on the night stand just as the door opened, and Mycroft came in the room. Greg sat back on the pillows, and eyed the tall spymaster. Mycroft was uncommonly evasive, not looking at him as he emptied his pockets into a small tray on the bookshelf next to the door.

"What's wrong with you, then?" Greg winced, not having meant the words to come out as bitter as they had. His fears and worries about his own family weren't Mycroft's problem.

Mycroft didn't answer, just threw him a sideways glance as if he were trying to avoid him. Greg scowled, and wished he didn't have that drink after all.

"Nothing's the matter, I'm fine." He could barely hear Mycroft, he was speaking to the wall and his voice was low.

"Oh."

Greg sighed, and leaned back, unbuckling his belt and pants, kicking off his jeans. It was warm in here, and he always got hot when he drank. Mycroft stayed by the door, and Greg kept throwing him curious glances as he fiddled with his mobile. He wasn't texting, just flipping the phone through his fingers, idly running a thumb over the dark screen.

He shrugged, and stood, his feet not as sure under him as he was thinking. He really shouldn't have had that drink, his meds were messing with him for sure. Greg stripped off his jumper, leaving just his white tee and underwear on. He looked at Mycroft again, and the spymaster was still standing there. It clicked, suddenly. Mycroft thought Greg was mad at him. He was such an idiot sometimes.

"Mycroft." The spymaster looked up him, hesitant, eyes guarded. Greg let him look, head to chest, his bared thighs down to his toes. He saw a flash of heat in those intelligent eyes, and grinned. "I'm not upset at you, please don't think I am. Just grumpy cuz my own family isn't as awesome as yours."

"Oh…. It's just you seemed off after Mum and Father cornered you after dinner."

"Nah, not upset at them, or you. They just made it obvious that my own parents, wonderful as they are, would disown me the second they knew I was sleeping with a man."

"What? Why?" Greg was touched as Mycroft blurted that out, his phone now long forgotten in his hands. Greg grinned at the spymaster's incredulity. He found himself falling just the tiniest bit deeper in love at the lack of comprehension on Mycroft's face.

"Well, to my Dad, two men need have no more contact than a handshake. What we're doing is bit past that." Greg sighed, and tried to cheer up his spymaster. "There's a reason you haven't met them."

Mycroft just stood straighter, and tossed his mobile down. His jacket was off, vest with it, snowy white shirt bright in the low lamp light. Greg smiled as Mycroft came to him, arms under his, pulling him flush to his front. Greg laughed softly, and put his arms around Mycroft's neck, holding tight.

"So this isn't okay? They wouldn't approve?" Mycroft leaned down, and kissed Greg slowly on the neck, his breath hot on his skin.

"Ahh…no."

"Then this isn't either?" Mycroft asked as his hand slid down Greg's side, to cup a firm buttock, pressing Greg's groin tight to his. Mycroft was aroused, and Greg was getting there fast too.

"Oh….. What the hell, none of it is okay, and I want it all." Greg groaned, and captured Mycroft's head in his hands, holding his lover still as he took his mouth. "You're mine, no one will ever take you away."

Greg kissed Mycroft without restraint, hard and deep. He staggered the spymaster back a step, but his mouth opened, letting him in, and his tongue roughly seeking out the other's, touching and caressing. Mycroft groaned, and his other hand fell to his ass, massaging and gripping hard.

"Mycroft, I want my turn," he panted into his lover's mouth, and he saw Mycroft's eyes go to pure liquid fire as heat swept up between them. "I want you."

"Are you sure? Your side…"

"I'm very sure. Nice and easy, I promise. Please, I want you."

Greg tugged Mycroft back, to the bed, his hands busy on the man's clothing. Mycroft helped, and together they had him stripped down to his underwear in seconds.

Greg turned, and pushed Mycroft back on the bed, coming over him carefully. His side was sore, but the pain manageable for sure. His erection was burning hot, and Greg used one hand to strip his underwear off, exposing his hard cock to the now cool air. He pulled off his shirt, and tossed it away. Mycroft looked up at him, and a long fingered hand was suddenly wrapped snugly around his hard length. His whole body jumped in response, and he fell to the bed beside Mycroft, the spymaster caressing him, thump rubbing the tip, stroking him.

Greg moaned, and grabbed Mycroft, pulling him to him, catching his mouth in a kiss. Their tongues were rough on each other, kissing deep, urgently. Mycroft's hand on him was incessantly devious, making him groan with every sure stroke. Greg broke off the kiss, and thrust his hips at Mycroft's hand. His nice and easy promise was thrown out the window, both men aggressive, hands tugging and gripping at each other.

Mycroft got a small smile on his face, and Greg felt every brain cell in his head cheerfully die in anticipation as Mycroft moved down to lay beside his hips. He did his best not to shout when Mycroft's wet mouth slipped over the head of his cock, and his lover deepthroated him totally, without hesitation. Mycroft had no gag reflex, and in a small part of Greg's nervous system that wasn't overwhelmed was thoroughly impressed. Mycroft took him all, his tongue dancing merrily over his erection as Mycroft swallowed around him.

"Oh, fuck," he gasped, and Greg bit his hand to keep from yelling. Mycroft's mouth was destroying him, reducing him to nothing but quivering muscles and a raging inferno that pooled in his groin. He bit down hard on his hand, crying out around it, as Mycroft's suction, and strokes, moved the foundations under him.

"Mycroft!" He shouted softly as he could, and he did his best not to come in his lover's mouth. He wanted Mycroft in a different way, beneath him and moaning his name.

Mycroft pulled back, a devilish grin on his face, and he let Greg tug him back up on the bed next to him. Greg leaned up, breathing heavily, and removed Mycroft's underwear, exposing the hard, heavy length of his lover. Greg stared, and before he had finished the thought, wrapped his own mouth around the hardness. Mycroft tasted as good as he remembered, salty and musky and so damn good he wanted to keep going until Mycroft came in his mouth.

Greg pushed Mycroft's legs apart, and set about obliterating Mycroft's control. He rested on the bed, mouth on Mycroft, hands wrapped under his hips, holding him tight to his mouth. He swallowed as he sucked, and he did his best not to choke when he took Mycroft too deep. His lover's long fingers were buried in his hair, and Mycroft was watching him, head propped up on his pillows. Greg met and held his eyes as he licked and sucked, and he found himself having so much fun he decided to make Mycroft come.

Mycroft thrashed on the pillow, hands tugging at his hair, Greg's name whispered in entreaty, begging him to stop, begging him to keep going. Greg pulled away, only to return, the whole of Mycroft in deep, until he got used to the depth, the way his cock nudged at the back of his throat. He swallowed as Mycroft had, and was rewarded by Mycroft's eyes rolling into the back of his head, and the keening shout of pure lust he dragged from the spymaster.

Mycroft was whispering something, over and over, and Greg paused to listen. It was Mycroft saying his name, interspersed with 'love'. Greg groaned, and rewarded Mycroft by taking him deeply again, sucking hard. His lover cried out, the soft sound bouncing off the walls. A part of him was worried that the others might hear, but the biggest part of him didn't give a damn. Mycroft was his, let the world hear it all.

Greg felt Mycroft swell up, his mouth stretched to hold him all, and suddenly his lover shuddered beneath him. Mycroft came, thick spurts that Greg struggled to swallow. The taste was intense, and so purely Mycroft that Greg was close to coming himself. He rubbed himself over the covers, enjoying the friction, as Mycroft came. Greg swallowed every drop, sucking hard so he missed nothing.

He stopped once Mycroft began to jump at every tiny move, pulling away as his lover came down from his climax. Mycroft was panting, hands still buried in his hair, eyes shut, with tear tracks wet on his cheeks. Greg grinned, absurdly happy to have reduced the Iceman to this state.

He crawled up Mycroft's side, and pulled the lanky form to his chest. Mycroft collapsed on him, arms holding him as tightly as he could manage, without hurting his side. Greg pressed kisses over his face, his lips, blushing once he remembered where his mouth had been. Mycroft stopped him before he could pull away, kissing him deeply, surely tasting himself in Greg's mouth.

Greg's cock twitched, still heavily aroused and wanting its turn. Greg was content to wait, round two whenever Mycroft was ready. He smiled, and wiped a hand across the damp brow of his spymaster. Mycroft smiled back at him, eyes heavy and looking like he was ready to pass out. Greg kissed him, not wanting him to fall asleep just yet.

"Greg?"

"Hhhhhmmm?"

"Thought you were going to take your turn?"

"Oi, listen to you. You ready then?" Greg dipped his head, kissing Mycroft passionately, clutching his love to him. Mycroft responded as eagerly as he could have wished, and Greg moaned in pleasant surprise as Mycroft wrapped his legs around his hips, rolling the DI on top of him.

Greg laughed, feeling Mycroft harden under him, thoroughly impressed yet again. They were nearly the same age, and he doubted he could recover as fast as this man did, no matter the stimulus. Greg rubbed himself over his lover, groin to groin, Mycroft's hands everywhere on him. Greg couldn't stop kissing him, and let his hands wander too.

His hand went to Mycroft's ass, and Greg found himself again impressed. Mycroft may not be in the best shape stamina wise, compared to his brother or John for instance, but he had the loveliest ass a man could ever hope to touch. Totally fantastic. Greg showed his appreciation, whispering words in Mycroft's ear that he had never said to anyone, ever. Dirty, loving words all in one, and Mycroft went crazy beneath him. Legs tight around his waist, arms around his neck, Mycroft lifted himself to Greg, begging him to take him, fill him up.

Greg pulled back, and keeping Mycroft under him, he leaned over to the night stand, glad he'd unpacked when they first arrived. He grabbed the lubricant, returning to cover Mycroft again, holding his lover under him. Mycroft wouldn't stop kissing him, lips tasting every inch of skin he could reach, whispering in his ear how much he wanted him, loved him. Greg shook, and took a moment to whisper back how much he wanted him too, how perfect the spymaster was, how unbelievably wonderful he was.

Greg blessed the brave minute he had taken to talk to John earlier about the best way to go about this, as he had no idea how to make love to Mycroft. He hadn't exaggerated when he told Mycroft that his sexual repertoire was limited. He had been married to the same woman for a long time, who had seen sex as an inconvenient means to an end, mainly keeping him content enough not to complain when she left him alone on so many cold nights.

Greg banished the thoughts of his ex-wife, and focused on the man under him. He kneeled, and applied the lubricant liberally, to himself and Mycroft. Mycroft grinned at him, seeing what he planned, and angled his hips for him. Greg did his best to restrain himself, so eager he fought back the urge to just plunge away.

Mycroft helped him, a hand guiding him to his entrance, and Greg buried his face in Mycroft's neck as he pushed. The pressure was insanely tight, and so hot he felt like he was burning. Mycroft's legs were tight around his hips, his angled to give Greg the best access. Greg was sweating, shaking, and when he finally pushed in, he bit Mycroft's neck, sinking his hard length entirely in the man under him.

Mycroft moaned, arms tight on his shoulders, and he was kissing Greg everywhere he could reach. Greg shuddered, and held still, afraid he would hurt his lover, thinking he was too big, considering how tight the fit was.

"Go ahead. I'm alright. Take me."

It was that whispered order in his ear that made Greg snap, and he pulled back, nearly all the way, before plunging back in, deeply. Mycroft gasped, and kissed him, tongue dancing with his as Greg found a perfect rhythm. He thrust slowly, but deeply, each thrust pushing Mycroft deeper into the soft covers. Mycroft lifted his hips to meet him, and they moved perfectly in sync.

He was lost, lost totally in the arms of the man holding him, in the tight warm body beneath his, so lost he never wanted to find his way back. Greg nibbled and licked and gently bit at the strong jaw of his lover, sucked on the smooth skin of his neck, all the while moving in him, changing the angle, the depth, to pull soft sounds from Mycroft each time. Soft, light cries, moans feathering out from his chest as Greg gently rode him, moving on him, Mycroft's hard cock nudging against Greg's firm abdomen.

Greg felt a tightening deep inside his groin, and knew he was getting close, so close to coming. He wanted to wait, to prolong this perfection, but Mycroft knew somehow how close he was, and he whispered the naughtiest, dirtiest encouragement he had ever heard, directly in his ear. Greg swelled up in response, pulling a deep moan from Mycroft, and he damned his injury, his need for this slow pace, and took Mycroft hard.

He drove as fast as he could, as deep as he could, the wet tight grip of Mycroft's ass pulling him in deeper each time, his long legs holding them together. Greg couldn't stop, and Mycroft wouldn't let him, fingers flying down his sweaty back to his ass, playing with him in return, long fingers dipping knuckle deep as Greg plunged wildly on top of his spymaster.

"That's it Gregory, come in me, now." Mycroft's order came out of nowhere, accompanying the stretching of his fingers in Greg, and the DI lost it totally. He plunged ruthlessly, making Mycroft scream under him, and the spymaster came himself, the wet heat splashing up between their bodies. The sensation of Mycroft clenching tightly on him made Greg's orgasm trigger, and he thrust as deeply as he could.

He seated himself fully, and crushed Mycroft to him, his hips jerking as he came. Thick jets pumped into Mycroft, and the spymaster cried out softly in his ear with each white hot burst. Greg gritted his teeth and stopped breathing, moving, everything, letting Mycroft anchor him.

Greg sobbed, his orgasm ripping everything out of him. There was nothing left inside of him, no strength in his body, no desire to move in his muscles, no willpower to leave the hot wet heat he was so happily secured inside. Mycroft was trembling under him, and his legs shook, falling from his waist to hit the bed. Greg rested, breathing hard, and he figured if he didn't die happy in this moment, he would do his best to try it again, and soon.

Mycroft kissed his face, and Greg pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Eyes dark with spent energies and satisfaction, Mycroft let Greg see him, no walls and armor free. He tumbled deeper in love with the man he held, just from the emotions swirling in his intelligent green eyes.

"I love you." Greg wasn't planning on saying those words, right after sex, so cliché and all. They came out anyway, and Greg couldn't hold them back. "I love you so much."

"I love you," the spymaster whispered to him. A thumb smoothed across his hot cheek, and those long fingers pushed his hair out of his eyes. He was thinking he probably should get it cut, but Mycroft loved to run his fingers through it, every chance he could.

There was an ache in his side, front and back, the gunshot wound protesting vociferously to get his attention. Greg ignored it as best he could, and gingerly pulled out of the man under him. He was watching Mycroft's face as he did, and he grinned at the light blush that dusted over Mycroft's cheeks as he did it, making the spymaster jump.

Greg rolled on his side, Mycroft rolling with him, the spymaster snuggling to his chest. Greg held him lightly, both men breathing hard, hearts racing, and neither of them wanting to stop touching the other.

"For someone who's never done that before, you certainly have an aptitude," the spymaster said to him, nuzzling closer, breathing in the heady scent of their lovemaking.

"Had a good tutor."

"Oh, John gave you some good pointers did he?"

"Oh my God, did he tell you?"

"No, I saw. Both of you blushing something fierce first chance you got alone to ask him. Seriously Greg, of course I saw."

"I meant you, not John, you sneaky git. Can't stop spying, even on holiday."

Mycroft laughed softly in his ear, and those hands of his were wandering again. Greg moaned as Mycroft's fingers teased and toyed with his ass, and he didn't protest when Mycroft tugged him to lie on his stomach.

Greg stopped talking, stopped caring about the rest of world, and focused on the man rubbing his back and buttocks, firm hands soothing sore muscles. Mycroft was careful, avoiding direct contact with the larger exit wound, still a brilliant red and tender to the touch, even weeks later. He eased the aches around the large scar, and Greg did his best not to fall asleep under the tender care of his lover.

"Go to sleep, Gregory. I'll be here when you wake up, I promise."

Greg passed out, and he had a fleeting thought as he did. He thought he once loved his ex-wife, he had married her after all. Put up with her for over a decade, longer really. And yet the emotions Mycroft stirred in him were so vastly different, so totally pure and powerful and eclipsing in their scope that Greg knew that he hadn't loved her one bit.

Gregory Lestrade was in love with Mycroft Holmes, so permanently that he was renewed, and all his lonely years now worth it if he could love his spymaster for the rest of their lives.

Holmes' Residence, 1:00 AM

Sherlock led the way up the stars, John holding his hand in the dark, his detective nervous he might fall on the narrow stairs. He had fallen plenty of times as a kid, mostly because either Sherrin pushed him, or he was too busy thinking to pay attention to his feet.

Lestrade and Mycroft were already asleep, or he figured they were since they had been up there long enough to do their business and pass out. Sherlock grinned, and gripped John's hand tighter.

Sherlock's room was also on the third floor, thankfully under the rafters at the opposite side of the house from Mycroft's room. He didn't fancy hearing his brother and his boyfriend having sex the entire time they were here. Especially as John wouldn't be in any shape for sex for at least another week. He reached the top, and led John down the dark hallway, to the far end of the hall.

The house was centuries old, and back in the days when it was first built, people were shorter. The halls up here were narrow, the ceiling low in the hall, exposed rafters at the apex of the ceiling, white plastered walls the only brightness against wood floors so ancient they were nearly black.

Sherlock stopped at the black iron wood door to his room, and let John go first. His doctor was insanely curious, and didn't bother hiding his eagerness in seeing the room Sherlock grew up in. Sherlock stayed at the doorway, turning on the light for his doctor as he stepped in, looking around him.

Sherlock's room to him was entirely normal, and he saw nothing out of place about it, nothing unusual. Yet it was the delightfully stunned look on John's face that made him look again, as if it wasn't his room, but a stranger's.

He was lucky enough to have a several large windows, providing him with a strong cross breeze in summer, and plenty of light year round. The walls were white, untouched, and pristine after centuries of copious care taken by his ancestors. He had left the walls alone, no posters marring their perfect finish.

What he had done instead to make this space his was to hang charts and diagrams, tables and pictures, countless maps and portraits from the exposed rafters of his room. If he were to lay flat on his back on the floor, he would have an unimpeded view of every piece of information he had thought vital to know as a child growing up in a house full of geniuses.

Everything from the periodic table, to PI written out to the 1,000th decimal, to the chemical equations for every man-made and natural occurring poison in the world (at least the ones known when he was nine), to maps of the United Kingdom and London, and on and on it went. All of it secured above his head, and all he would have to do would be to change position on the floor to see a new set of information.

He had multiple desks in his room, his childhood chemistry sets and equipment neatly laid out and waiting for him, and there were enough bookshelves filled with everything under the sun to once make his father remark that he was glad the foundation was so strong, else the weight might break the house.

Skeletons, bugs, chemical formulas, some of his mother's equations on whiteboard, literary works by late 19th century authors, poetry, tomes in Latin and Greek, a random stuffed animal here and there, everything imaginable littered the shelves. There was a kite leaning against the wall beside the door, a large metal key tied to the string, and in the umbrella stand was a collection of child sized weapons, and sticks fashioned to look like pirate swords.

Dozens of his father's books covered every spare spot, many stacked on top of each other. His father was a retired university professor, and his love of books had been a gift to all of his children.

Sherlock had cannibalized the old suits of armor that were hidden in the cellars, fashioning for himself a small suit, which rested under another window. It worked too, as he had neatly avoided being skewered by his older brother when he was caught spying on him out in the woods. Sherlock had stopped following Sherrin after that.

Sherlock hoped John wouldn't notice the small black pirate hat with its long blue feather resting atop the calf skull in the corner. A globe as large as he when he was a small boy stood beside a window, black X's marking places he had wanted to go when he grew up. Sherlock smiled at it, and wondered where he put his marker. He had plenty of new places to tick off the list.

Sherlock spied the old dog bed that still rested in its place of honor next to his, and felt a tremor run through his heart at seeing where Redbeard used to sleep. There was an old photo framed on his nightstand, and from the doorway, Sherlock could see a thin, pale boy with wild hair holding a tiny Irish Setter pup in his lap.

"Sherlock, the ceiling… should I ask?" John turned to him, and Sherlock smiled at the wonderfully impressed and dumbfounded expression on the older man's face.

"This is how I trained myself to make my mind palace."

"What?"

"This room, everything in it, is the core of my mind palace. The first room I made. I still have it too, in here," he tapped a finger to his temple, then waved a hand at the room. "This is the room from which everything spirals out. Well, it used to. I changed the center of my mind palace a while back, gave it a new starting point."

"You did? To what?"

"Our bedroom at 221B Baker Street. Our bed and you in it. My palace is centered on you, John."

John had no reply to that, his face so shocked and overwhelmed by emotion Sherlock thought he said the wrong thing, and that he revealed too much. He straightened from the doorway, and John must have seen his worry, as his doctor was in his arms faster than it took for Sherlock to open them.

"That is the most amazing thing you have ever said to me." His doctor mumbled against his throat, pressing a small kiss to his jaw before hugging him tighter.

Sherlock sighed in relief, and pondered his lover's words. The most amazing thing he'd ever said? Surely he'd said more amazing things than that. John knew he was the center of his reality, didn't he?

"John, I….. Do I make you happy?" He had to know. John was his, forever, but Sherlock would forget sometimes that John wasn't just his lover, but his partner, flat mate, and best friend. Sherlock was afraid sometimes that he wasn't enough to satisfy all the facets of the man he needed, the man he loved, so much.

"Yes, you do," came his doctor's reply, with a firm hug and a swift kiss to his favorite place under Sherlock's chin.

"Can I ask…? Why, how?" Sherlock bit his lip, and waited for John to pull back, his deep blue eyes searching his, looking for the root of this sudden vulnerability.

Sherlock never doubted himself, nor his worth to others. The only thing he felt stir doubt in his heart was John. The fear that John would leave him, either by death or exasperation. Sherlock feared John's loss so greatly, he strove to keep it from crippling him.

"That's easy, love. An easy question, easy answer. You make me happy because every part of you, from the insane intelligence, to the cold hard exterior, the manic spiels and wild deductions, to the sweet and shy cuddler, to the fierce warrior and devoted lover, every single part of you resonates with me, perfectly. There is no other match for me in the world, Sherlock, no one but you."

"Oh…"

"Yes, 'oh'. I seem to be making you say that a lot lately. Come to bed with me, Sherlock, and tell me stories to match the room. I want to hear about Little Sherlock."

"What's to tell? I was born, I grew up, and then I moved out, and met you."

John laughed at him, tugging him to the bed, and Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket, his clothing, as John did the same. They both dived under the covers, and Sherlock wrapped his body around John, both of them naked and enjoying the contact. Sherlock stretched out, and turned out the lights, snuggling with his doctor.

John tucked himself under Sherlock's strong arm, and curled tightly to his detective. Sherlock smiled, letting John get comfortable, well used to his doctor fussing until he was settled. Every night, John would fuss, unless Sherlock exhausted him thoroughly before hand. But seeing as how John was in no shape for exhausting activities, he would endure the fuss.

"You tired?" John asked him after several minutes, and Sherlock pried an eye open to peer at John.

The moon was bright, and the flooded the room with white light. Sherlock found himself feeling oddly, having John in this place. Two different points of his life colliding, much as it had when John and Violet first met. Every piece of his pre-John years was coming into contact with his doctor, John leaving himself indelibly imprinted on his life.

"No, not really. Not used to sleeping with you and not having sex."

"Yeah, kinda weird. And laying down is making my head hurt."

Sherlock sighed, and got up out of bed. He went to the closet, and pulled out some more pillows. He went back to bed, and made John sit up, piling the pillows high behind his doctor. Sherlock got back in bed, and leaned back on the mounds of pillows, pulling John to rest back on his shoulder.

"Go to sleep, John. I'm here."

The smaller man sighed happily, and let Sherlock hold him. John stared up at the ceiling, and Sherlock was able to see where John's eyes would rest in the moonlight. He watched the emotions and thoughts race across John's handsome face, and Sherlock relaxed. John was examining every tiny piece of his childhood, and he seemed to like what he saw. John didn't flinch away from the animal skeletons that graced one shelf, fully assembled and standing up in anatomically correct poses. John saw the autopsy diagrams from Grey's Anatomy, the original volume, the great book beside them on a shelf.

Sherlock watched as John sent his eyes upwards to the rafters, and Sherlock wondered if John could see the patterns, the way Sherlock had prioritized and arranged the information flowing across the ceiling. Not many could, not even Mycroft. The one time Sherrinford had been up here, he had seen a glimmer of understanding in his eldest brother's eyes. He couldn't be certain, though, as his father had shown up, and ordered Sherrin out of his room.

Sherlock pondered his memories of Sherrin, and realized as he did that there weren't many good ones. Sherrin never talked to him unless he had to, never looked at him, or acknowledged his existence unless they were in public, and he must. Sherrin only ever talked to Mycroft, or rather, let Mycroft talk to him, and follow him like a puppy.

It hadn't been until Mycroft was away at university, and Sherlock older, that Sherrin began to pay real notice to the boy who looked just like him. Sherrin was tall, slim, leanly muscled, and so closely identical to how their father looked as a young man that in pictures they were indistinguishable.

Sherlock had avoided Sherrin as best he could, even when his brother appeared to be in control. His brother was a monster, not a man, madness personified; regardless of how polished or charming he may have seemed. Sherrin hadn't provoked him much, a part of him perhaps seeing that he couldn't push Sherlock like he could Mycroft. Sherlock was capable of violence of the same variety as his, and Sherrin was loathe to instigate a confrontation, even with a boy sixteen years younger than him.

Instead of curly, wild hair, Sherrin's had been wavy, and dark as a raven's wing, same as Violet's. Face along the same lines as Sherlock's, hard cut planes and sharp angles, and pale too. Where Sherlock had the faintest idea of freckles, Sherrin was blemish free, fine porcelain skin unmarred by marks or scars.

His eyes were as his daughter's too, vivid, deep and crystal clear purple. His eyes had earned him a few cutting remarks and jabs from the other boys at school when he was little, right up until Sherrin hurt his abusers, and hurt them badly. Always in full view of adult supervision, Sherrin would provoke his bullies until they came for him, and Sherrin would decimate them with a brutal efficiency that was beyond what a small, normal child should have been capable of doing.

Sherlock learned all of this from his father, after Sherlock had come home from school one day, with a bloody lip and black eye, and absurdly happy that he wasn't as bad off as the other boy. Sir William had given Sherlock a stern lecture, one of the first, and it stuck with him to this day. Sir William didn't make the mistake of assuming that Sherlock was Sherrin; but he had warned his youngest that the potential for bloodlust and violence was in him, as it was in all of them, and that he must control it, harness his rage.

Their genius came at a price. They were given the gifts of intelligence, and as a price, they were burdened with violent tempers and the propensity for madness. Sherrin hadn't resisted the madness, he had willfully and eagerly given in to it, reveling in the blood and misery. And so Sir William warned Sherlock to learn control, and wisdom to temper his actions. Logic gave him the edge he needed, and obsession with solving crimes and puzzles challenges to focus his mind. Wherein Sherrin succumbed, Sherlock thrived. He would fail on occasion, his habitual drug habit proof enough of that. At least he tried.

Sherrinford hadn't tried, he had given in to the darkness, the evil within. And over the course of his brutally short life, Sherrin had killed nearly two dozen people, mostly women. Sherlock figured there was more, but he had never been able to discern how many more victims there might have been. Sherrin had gone on a terror spree across the countryside, taking life after life, sowing fear and suffering throughout England. Right up until Mycroft stabbed him through the heart, the only one able to get close enough to their brother to stop him.

Mycroft stabbed Sherrin through the heart, and watched as his brother's lifeless body fell from the high cliff upon which they stood. Sherrin's body disappeared into the frothing waves of the North Sea, never to be found. Mycroft had returned home, confessing to his masters and his parents his crime, and locked himself away for weeks in his room, never showing his face. It had taken a missive on thick vellum paper, written in an elegant female hand, to shake Mycroft from his misery, and pull him from his room. He had told no one who sent the missive, or what it said, burning it before he left for London.

He had emerged the Iceman, the boy dead and gone. And his career was his focus from then on out, while occasionally harassing his younger brother.

Not long after, Mycroft was ascending the rungs of the government, securing position after position in rapid fashion. He had been the spymaster of MI6 now for over a decade.

Sherlock sighed, pulling his mind away from his brothers, and realized that John was sleeping on his shoulder, snoring softly. His doctor had fallen asleep while Sherlock was musing about his less than pleasant childhood.

Sherlock gently brushed a thumb over John's cheek, smoothing the lines near his eye. John didn't wake, but the corner of his mouth lifted in the tiniest of smiles. Sherlock grabbed the blankets, and tugged them higher, as the cold moon chased shadows across the floor, illuminating pieces of his childhood.

Christmas Eve, 12:25 AM London

"I hold the inner web, it's intact. Always has been. Sherlock just got the outer web, the external networks and contractors. The core is perfectly intact, and fully functional." Jaime told her, her face at once lovely and perfect, and yet equally disturbing in the casual acceptance of holding all that power.

"Moriarty's syndicate, the web, his criminal empire, is intact?" Mary was having trouble processing those words, still shocked. Jaime saw the disbelief on Mary's face, and sighed, wondering what she had said to make Mary so bothered. This relationship thing was not easy at all.

"Sherlock got most of it. The original web, the core James spun everything off of is still intact. I have all the money, the contacts, and the inner circle. Most believe me dead along with my brother, but if I was to come back to life, the world's criminals wouldn't hesitate to flock back to the Moriarty banner."

Jaime didn't hesitate to tell Mary any of it, her days of needing to keep parts of her life hidden no longer necessary. She was dead, after all. Only a handful of her people knew she lived. She wasn't exaggerating either. If the world's degenerates learned that a Moriarty yet lived, and the syndicate was revived, then there would be a revolution of crime, unstoppable and devastating.

Jaime watched as Mary fought to comprehend what she had just told her, and the consequences of what that meant.

"Are you going to come back to life, Jaime?" Mary asked her, a hollow sound in her voice. Jaime tilted her head, and wondered at it, what that meant.

"It was never my syndicate, Mary. It was always his. It was James' design. I was the blade, he was the general. He abandoned me, and left me nothing but grief and rage. I have what I need now, nothing more."

Mary stared at her, her lovely porcelain skin paler in the low lights, the gloom of the coal cellar giving her a vulnerable aspect, as if she would break if handled too roughly. Jaime felt a frisson through her heart, and thought she might be feeling worry. She had felt nothing but rage and grief for so long that she couldn't remember with any reliability what anything else might feel like. The only emotion she felt with any certainty was love. She knew how love felt, knew it so well that when she lost it, it left a howling abyss where it once burned brightly.

"Mary?" She couldn't take the staring, the expression on Mary's face anymore. There was only one person left in this world who could hurt her, and she was in this room, her arms.

Mary appeared to shake herself from a daydream, blinking at her, before her gaze narrowed. Jaime tilted her head, eyes wide, waiting. Mary sighed, and gave Jaime a tiny thrill when she wrapped her arms around her neck, and kissed her. This kiss was sweet, and left Jaime with a slow burning heat in her stomach, her fingers tingling.

Mary pulled back, and whispered in her ear. "Just tell me if you plan on taking over the world, that's not something I want to find out from the evening news."

Jaime smiled, thinking of when Mary blew up CAM Tower, Magnussen dead on the top levels. She knew that night that Mary was successful because she saw it on the news. She quickly wiped the grin away, and nodded solemnly at her love when Mary gave her a mock frown.

"Okay, enough with the depressing stuff. Call your man, we need to warn the others." Mary ordered her, and Jaime backed up to dig her mobile from her pocket, shrugging off her coat and vest, tossing them both to the crate next to Mary.

She dialed, and let it ring out on Speaker, and it got to the third one before Clay answered.

"My lady?" He had yet to break that bad habit. She was no longer that farce of a noblewoman.

"I'm with Mary, Clay. Speak freely, please."

"Oh! Wow. Hello, ma'am. Again. Guess you might not remember me from Blackwood."

Jaime sighed, and Mary laughed softly at the young man who sounded so flustered. Clay heard his mistress, and coughed discretely, waiting.

"Do you know where Woodley is?" Jaime asked Clay.

"No, my lady. I have eyes on the Holmes' residence. Perimeter is secure. I was going to do a closer sweep, but there's a very large dog, and he didn't take kindly to me getting too near. I backed off before he woke everyone up. I can't imagine the Vicar or Woodley getting any closer than I did."

"The Vicar?"

"He's got a small house about a mile away from the Holmes' place, looks like the owners left to go on a vacation. He just moved himself and his people in there about an hour ago. He must have used a helicopter to get here so fast."

"I would have. Looks like he took the bait, Clay. He just moved his timetable up too. Probably because Holmes is on to Woodley, a trap may not work for Violet anymore. This may not happen on Christmas, it might happen earlier. Keep an eye on him, he could go at any time."

Mary grimaced, and leaned on Jaime's shoulder, her hand rubbing absently at her abdomen. Jaime was curious, but figured if Mary wasn't well, she'd say something. "Hold on Clay, I'll be right back."

Jaime put her man on Hold, and cocked a brow at Mary in question.

"What do you want to do?" Jaime asked Mary, and she was hoping Mary gave her the go ahead to start shooting people's faces off. This waiting around bit was annoying. She was meant to kill, and she had patience issues. She liked trouble. Just thinking about using her blade on Woodley made her skin tingle deliciously.

"We have to warn them about Woodley making an attempt on Violet, so they don't fall for a trap and get killed."

"Okay, so how do you suggest we do that? Want me to call them, say 'Hey, I'm not dead, don't freak out its Jaime Moriarty and I've been saving your lives for the last week?'"

Mary laughed, and Jaime smiled, not used to making people laugh. She hadn't heard Mary laugh like that before, and liked the way it sounded. Mary leaned in, and gave her a kiss, making Jaime purr softly.

"You said Clay saved Sherlock? Would Clay be able to warn Sherlock, make it seem like he was part of that mystery group they think is protecting them all from the Vicar?"

"Well, it's not much of a stretch, as he is part of that mystery group. And yes, that should work," Jaime flipped the mobile back, and spoke to her man, who was whistling softly, patiently waiting for her to come back. "Clay."

"Yes?"

"Warn Sherlock that Woodley is after Violet, and that the Vicar is there, and where. Woodley was the one who paid Williamson three million pounds to abduct her. Tell them not to leave her alone for anything. They plan to move on her Christmas morning, or earlier, considering he left for the area tonight instead of tomorrow."

"Ummm…. Sure. What if he asks how I know, or who I am?"

"Well, obviously don't tell him who you are, or about me! They think there's a mysterious foreign agency assisting in this, play that angle. Don't die, please. I won't have anyone to order about until I train a new lieutenant."

"Yes, my lady." The line went dead, but not before Jaime heard the amusement in Clay's voice. She caught Mary smirking at her, and wondered why.

"I think he likes you, sweetheart."

"There's only one person I want to like me, dear. And I've got her right here."

Christmas Eve, 3:00 AM, Holmes' Residence

Sherlock heard a scratching at his door, and blinked away the cobwebs. He had been dozing on and off for the last couple of hours, John so deeply asleep on him that he hated to move, lest he wake him.

The scratching came again, and he feared for a second that ghosts were real, and Redbeard was back, begging to be let in his room. Sherlock woke fully, and realized that it was Bear, the big dog snuffling at the small void under the door.

Sherlock got up, careful not to wake John, grabbing a robe and pacing to the door. He opened it, and Bear gave him a giant puppy grin, white teeth flashing in the shadows. Sherlock went to wave him in, but the dog backed away instead, crouching down on his front legs, tail up and wagging, before running down the hall.

Poor thing has to go out, I bet everyone forgot he was here. I wasn't sleeping anyway.

Sherlock got dressed quietly in the dark, the moon still bright. He pulled on the closest thing at hand, not bothering with his suit jacket, letting the shirt stay untucked, and stuffed his feet into John's boots. Thankfully they fit, his shoes weren't suited for the snow outside. He bundled up in his Belstaff, and closed the door behind him as he followed the dog down the hall, and down the stairs. Bear ran ahead of him, big tail thumping the walls in his eagerness to get outside.

Sherlock went to the kitchen door, and grabbed the lead from the old hook where Redbeard's leash used to be instead. He clipped it to Bear, and together they went outside. The snow was about six inches deep here at the top of the hill, and the wind was still. Total silence greeted them, the world lit up by the moon that was one night away from full. The sky was cloudless, stars winking brightly in the deep abyss of the sky above.

His feet crunched on the snow, each step sounding like a muffled gunshot in the empty, cold air. Sherlock looked around, and figured he might as well let the dog run. He wouldn't go far, here was food and company. Sherlock unclipped the Estrela, and the big dog took off across the hilltop, bounding like a puppy, biting at the snow and rolling round.

Sherlock watched, and smiled, huddling in his coat. It was well below freezing, but the dog hardly noticed, his coat well suited to the temperatures and the snow. Sherlock even bent over, picking up handfuls of snow and tossed some snowballs at the dog, who caught them each before smashing them in his huge jaws, tail wagging like mad. He would run to Sherlock, and dash away, begging the detective to chase after him.

Sherlock surrendered his dignity, and chased the big brute, snagging the tip of his bushy tail, and running as the dog in turn chased him. Sherlock was laughing so hard his lungs felt like they were a block of ice, and he played until he couldn't feel his toes or fingers.

He didn't mind, this was the most fun he'd had in ages. The big dog came over, and leaned on his hip, begging for head scratches. Sherlock obliged, and looked out over the hilltop, the place his home had stood for centuries. The great pines were taller, the small apple trees his mother planted when he was a baby not so little anymore. Sherlock was watching the bottom of the farthest pine when he saw something. He stood still, and watched, wishing he had thought to grab John's gun before coming outside.

There it was again, a small silver flash in the moonlight. Sherlock held still, and gripped tightly to Bear's collar, the big dog growling deep in his chest. Sherlock slipped on the leash, not wanting the dog to get shot if this turned out to be the Vicar making his move. Sherlock tensed, and watched as a lone figure stepped out from the tree's shadow.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. He wasn't expecting to see the young soldier from the train station. Yet there he was, hands tucked in his pockets, dark skin tinged pink from the cold, a nervous smile on his face. He met Sherlock's eyes, and even from this distance, Sherlock saw no threat there. The young soldier seemed to think about it, and made up his mind to approach. He was silent in the deep snow, feet making not a single sound in the still night air.

Not just a soldier; Special Forces. Trained assassin. He is accustomed to killing silently. He can't be on active duty, unless this is a black-op mission. Recently discharged? Why is he here? Obviously he saving me earlier wasn't happenstance.

"Hi." Simple, direct, and there was that smile again. The young soldier was just a few feet away, hands empty at his sides. He had a weapon under his leather jacket, but he kept it zipped up, away from a fast draw if he meant to kill.

"Hello again. Strange place to go for a walk," Sherlock said to the younger man, and he got a big smile in response.

"Not so strange, sir. I've been covering you for days now. Not the easiest of assignments, either. You attract trouble like an American tourist in the Middle East."

"Ahhh, that makes sense. You've been part of the group watching over us. I take it I owe you thanks for the other day, the shooters, and the catacombs?"

"No thanks needed, just following orders. Though you're welcome, I don't like the Vicar much, gives the industry a bad name and all." The young soldier ducked his head lower in his collar, and Sherlock saw him shiver. "And I wasn't the one in the catacombs; that was my boss."

"Come inside, its cold out here." He turned to the house, catching a glimpse of the shocked expression on the young soldier's face, leaving it up to him if he followed or not. It was very cold out here, and he had yet to make a move. If he was part of the group covering them, then he had little to fear. These people, whoever they were, had plenty of chances to kill them all, and didn't have to help them. Sherlock smiled as he heard the tentative, deliberately noisy footsteps behind him. He wondered who the soldier's boss was, the one in the catacombs that night they ran from the CIA.

Bear seemed to understand that Sherlock didn't see the young man as a threat, and ignored him, keeping aloof. The big dog ran straight for the low burning fire in the kitchen, plopping down with a groan on the warm hearthstones.

Sherlock took off his coat, not bothering with tucking in his partially buttoned shirt. He did kick off John's boots, and put a kettle on to boil on the stove. He waved a hand at the table, and the bemused soldier shrugged once before sitting down.

"Can you tell me why you're here? I'm assuming it's not for tea."

"Nope, got orders again. You're all walking into a trap."

Sherlock was about to speak, when he heard a noise at the kitchen door. Mycroft stood there, Lestrade at his shoulder. His brother was dressed sloppily, much like he was, and he apparently got dressed in a hurry. Lestrade was dressed similar, and armed as well.

The young soldier tensed, but Sherlock moved to his side, a hand out, silently asking him to stay seated.

"Mycroft, Lestrade, do come in. I'd introduce you, but I haven't asked our guest's name, rather on purpose I might add."

"Sirs." He was very polite, this young killer. Mycroft stepped in all the way, and went to the other side of the table, Lestrade hovering behind the spymaster like a mother hen over her chick. Mycroft sat down, and Lestrade gripped the back of his chair, eyes intent on the potential threat in the room.

"Ignore them, I usually do. Tell me about this trap." Sherlock made their guest a cup of tea, the steaming mug at his hand where it rested nervously on the table.

"I was instructed to just tell you, sir."

"And I in turn will tell my brother, who will tell his lover. So you might as well tell us all now. Mycroft won't bite, you're not his type." Sherlock sat down at the head of the table, and stared intently. John would be down here already if he was awake, and he heard nothing on the stairs. He'd tell John afterwards; let the poor doctor rest.

"Okay….. Well, kinda simple, really. I was told to tell you that the drug lord John Woodley is going to grab your niece on Christmas morning, and the Vicar was going to use that distraction to kill you all, even your parents. My boss says he may move even earlier, as he wasn't supposed to get here until tonight, late. The Vicar knows you made Woodley on the train." The soldier played with the tea cup, but didn't take a drink, instead turning it on the table a few times before meeting Sherlock's gaze directly. "They think Mary is here, and have come for you. The Vicar got here a couple hours ago, he's holed up with about a dozen men in a small cottage less than a mile from here. Small blue house, about a hundred yards from where two streams meet in a small valley, tons of cherry trees."

"We know the house. And how do you know all this?" Mycroft leaned forward in his chair, hands crossed on the hard wood.

"My boss told me, and my own recon. Woodley and the Vicar know each other. The Vicar hid at Woodley's place after you made your move on him earlier this week. My boss also said to tell you that Woodley is the man who paid the Vicar three million pounds to kidnap Miss Hunter back in the States."

"Your boss knows a lot, for someone we don't know." Lestrade spoke, the DI sounding like his old self again, the cop instead of the polite houseguest or boyfriend.

"That she does. Look, I don't know where Woodley is. I lost him after the train station. I had orders to cover you, so I couldn't follow him. I'm sorry." The young soldier fiddled with his drink, and honestly appeared to be contrite that he hadn't done more.

What a strange young man. Sweet and polite, and a trained killer. And he keeps smiling at me! Why does he do that?

Wait….. She? His boss is a SHE? Who….

"Your information is appreciated, as is your assistance the last few days. Any chance we could thank your employer in person, or get a name?" Asked the spymaster, a small smile on his lips, eyes cold and focused. "It would be nice to thank our new friend is in this matter."

The young soldier actually laughed, his polite mask gone, a big smile on his face. He picked up his tea, downed the hot liquid in an impressive fashion, and stood. Lestrade didn't lift his weapon, but it was close. The young soldier shook his head ruefully, and slowly went for the door. Lestrade wouldn't stand a chance against this young man, none at all.

"Not going to happen. Don't think the world is ready for any of you to know that just yet," he put a hand on the door handle, and looked back at Sherlock. He smiled, and Sherlock shifted in his seat, wondering why he kept doing that. "I'm figuring its safe enough to go to sleep. Been up for the last three days. Do me a favor, don't get shot before I'm back on duty. She'll kill me herself if you die while I'm napping."

"I'll do my best," he murmured to the younger man, and as silently as he appeared, the young solider was gone, the door swinging closed behind him. Sherlock tilted his head; he heard someone moving around upstairs. Probably John, he'd been gone from bed long enough to wake his doctor. John didn't like it, not knowing where he was at night.

Sherlock sat in silence, pondering the news the soldier had carried, and the implications. Mycroft was equally silent, both men evaluating and changing plans in their minds.

Woodley's potential presence was a hiccup they hadn't planned for, but knowing exactly where the Vicar and his men where made things easy. Take out the Vicar, track down Woodley, have a quiet Christmas. Well, as quiet a Christmas as you could get in this house.

John stumbled into the kitchen, hair all messy and a sleepy look on his face. He stopped at the sight of his boyfriend, his boyfriend's brother, and another boyfriend all sitting around with very serious expressions on their faces, dressed crazily.

"What did I miss?" John asked, as he wandered over to Sherlock, so tired he was tripping over his robe. Sherlock absently put out an arm, and pulled John to his side. To their credit, Mycroft and Lestrade didn't twitch an eyelash when John sighed loudly and crawled into Sherlock's lap, arms around his detective's neck, face resting in his curls.

"Nothing much John, I'll tell you when you wake up. I think you're still sleeping right now."

John didn't answer him, just nuzzled his face deeper into Sherlock's embrace. Sherlock smiled, and kissed his doctor, arranging the very sleepy man better in his arms.

Sherlock held his doctor, and met his brother's gaze. Mycroft nodded, and pulled out his mobile, texting his people. The Vicar was a fool, and soon to be a dead one. They would do recon of their own, and if the young soldier's information was good, they would move on Williamson.

Sherlock held John, and he shifted under the limp weight of his lover in his arms after a few minutes. John was asleep, snoring against his neck. Lestrade was resting on the table, head on his arms, equally asleep, and angled towards Mycroft. Sherlock grinned at his brother, who just lifted a brow and went back to texting.

11:47 AM, Christmas Eve

The sun was cresting high over the frozen hills, the light flashing intensely, blinding on the snow shrouded fields. The shadows were bluish in their deepest recesses, and that is where Jaime, Clay, and Mary stood, eight hundred yards away down the shallow valley from the small cottage that the Vicar was hiding in with his men. They had gotten here a few hours ago, Clay napping in the helicopter while the women waited for Mycroft to ambush Williamson.

Jaime had arranged her own helicopter, and it didn't take much convincing to get Mary to agree to take a short trip with her. Getting Mary out of Mycroft's townhouse had been so easy it was disappointing. She had been hoping for some trouble, but all Mary had to do was walk out the tunnel….

It was nearly noon, their own helicopter hidden from sight behind the small hill they stood on, the three of them under the boughs of a giant evergreen. Jaime was an accomplished pilot, and flew them here herself.

Jaime shifted on her feet, watching the valley through her binoculars, glad she decided to bring her rifle along with her on this adventure. If she got bored, she could start shooting out windows on the cottage, just to see if she could rile up the American. She had left the baby rifle at home; she brought the Barrett M82 with her, securely set up on the ground, and lovingly covered by a blanket so her precious darling didn't get cold. She had it set back under cover, and if she had to shoot, no one would be able to pinpoint their location in time to reach them. Though approaching a sniper tucked into cover wasn't the smartest idea…..

"Jaime, sweetheart. You're fidgeting," whispered the blonde assassin standing beside her, watching through her own set of binoculars. Jaime grinned, and settled her feet evenly on the ground.

"My lady, movement, two hundred yards east. Looks like Holmes took me at my word."

Jaime looked to where Clay was pointing, and saw several small black dots moving quickly over the landscape, hiding behind the cherry trees and bushes in the overgrown orchard surrounding the blue cottage.

"He did indeed, that's fantastic. I was all set to be bored. Mary, I'm betting Williamson runs."

"I'm not taking that bet. He's going to run for sure. He's nothing but a bully, the odds aren't in his favor right now."

"Pity. Maybe I can pick him off with my rifle if he bolts."

"What's the pity is you're the better shot, otherwise I'd do it."

Clay turned back to the cottage, and he laughed. "My lady, looks like they just saw their incoming guests. I think that's panic I see down there."

Jaime turned back from watching the MI6 teams, and laughed herself as she watched through the windows of the cottage. She caught the smallest glimpse of Williamson, running through the rooms, presumably alerting his people, far too late.

"This is sad. Where's the blood and mayhem?" Jaime grumbled, impatient to watch the spymasters go head to head in the quiet English countryside.

11:52

"Teams are reporting full coverage, sir. Brief visual of Williamson inside. Confirmed."

Anthea was at his shoulder, where he leaned against the SUV, listening to her relay the play by play from the assault teams. Mycroft grinned and opened the door he was leaning on. He waved to Sherlock, his little brother hopping out, feet crunching on the snow.

"We've got him in there. Looks like we owe your young soldier friend," he said to his brother, and Sherlock gave him a weird look. Mycroft held his tongue, wondering when his little brother was going to notice that he had noticed the soldier, as a person would notice another that was attractive. Sherlock was playing oblivious, and Mycroft let him. It's not like Sherlock had to act on the 'noticing', he just might want to accept it so it would stop distracting him. John noticed attractive people all the time.

John piled out from the SUV, shutting the door when Violet complained loudly at the cold air. He stood between the two brothers, hands tucked in his pockets, breath frosting in the bitter air. Their niece was still in there with Lestrade, the DI armed to the teeth, and Violet was grumbling about 'being babysat'. Mycroft let her complain, as no one had any intention of letting her out of their sight until Woodley was in handcuffs.

"Tell all teams to breach." Mycroft told Anthea, and she relayed the orders.

"This may be a good Christmas after all," said Mycroft, and he looked over Dr Watson's head to meet his brother's gaze. Sherlock gave him an impenetrable look, and went back to watching down the hillside to the cottage in the orchard.

11:55 AM

"Jaime! Look!" Mary was nearly jumping with excitement, grabbing her sleeve and pointing at the cottage. She saw exactly what had Mary so excited. Holmes was breaching the cottage. Impressive coverage, too. They just might get him.

"Looks like I won't be killing anyone today. What a pity."

"Keep watching, you just might get your chance. He's a sneaky bastard."

"Clay, get ready to start the helicopter. We may need to leave soon."

12:00 Noon, Christmas Eve

Sherlock stood over the handcuffed and very angry CIA director, as the man was put on his knees in the snow. Several of his men were dead, their bodies laid out in a row next to the road to the cottage. It had been a quick matter of minutes subduing the CIA, and the ones who hadn't surrendered were dead.

Williamson had been caught trying to run out the back door, and he was promptly stopped and trussed up by the MI6 teams. Sherlock smirked at the furious man at his feet, and left him to his brother. He was bored already, thinking of the biscuits his mother had been making as they left earlier in the morning.

Mycroft gestured for his men to give them some space, and the security teams dragged away the surviving CIA agents, leaving Mycroft standing over his impotent adversary. Sherlock leaned on the side of the cottage, John and Lestrade at his side. Anthea was with Violet, at the front of the cottage, refusing to let the Holmes' scion out of the vehicle until the entire area was deemed safe.

This moment was for Mycroft, more than any of them really. Sherlock wondered what his brother was going to do. He would have no issue whatsoever if his brother was to shoot Williamson dead, right here and now. John and Lestrade might, considering their moral stance on cold-blooded killing.

"Nice to see you enjoying the country air, Silas."

"Fuck off, queer."

"Now don't be that way, mind your manners. Impressionable ears and all." Mycroft waved a hand at Sherlock, and who rolled his eyes at his brother and his humor.

Williamson spat at Mycroft's feet, and the word he used next to describe Mycroft made Sherlock stiffen in rage. He was going to march over there and punch the Vicar, but the DI beat him to it. Lestrade was at Mycroft's side faster than he should have been with his injury, a hand holding the Vicar's collar, and he delivered a bruising right hook to the man's face.

Lestrade held Williamson up, and was about to hit him again, when Mycroft grabbed his arm, and pulled him back a foot, whispering in his ear. Sherlock settled back against the wall, and huffed. John bumped his shoulder, as if to say it was okay, Greg had taken care of it.

"I should have killed you the second I walked in your office."

"Yes, that might have been wise," Mycroft told the American, who spit a globule of blood at the snow covered ground. Lestrade made to go for him again, but Mycroft held him back.

Williamson mumbled something under his breath, and Mycroft leaned down from his lofty place of superiority to try and hear what he said.

Sherlock was too far away. So was John.

Williamson exploded from the ground, zip ties broken, his hands free and snatching at the spymaster. He grabbed Mycroft with one arm, and with the other, reached a hand in Lestrade's jacket, pulling out his gun. The Vicar spun on one foot, pulling Mycroft to him as he kicked Lestrade hard in the side, the DI screaming, falling to his side in the snow.

Sherlock and John ran forward, but stopped, as the Vicar held the gun to Mycroft's temple, while the other arm slowly choked him, squeezing the life out of him, in front of them all.

12:00

"Jaime, look at his hands. Silas isn't secured properly…." Mary whispered worriedly to Jaime, the blonde woman concerned.

Men and their egos.

Jaime saw it too, the way Silas was working his wrists in the zip ties. The cold air would make the plastic brittle, easy to snap, and the big man was well aware of that. He was about to break free, and Mycroft Holmes and Gregory Lestrade were far too close.

They hadn't noticed what Silas was doing with his wrists, far too distracted by whatever it was he had said to make Lestrade foolish enough to come so close, to hit him. Lestrade would be armed, and Mycroft never carried a weapon.

I get to kill someone after all.

Jaime dropped her binoculars, and sprinted for the Barrett. She ripped off the blanket, and threw herself to the ground beside her rifle, and drew a bead on the CIA director just as he erupted from the snow.

12:01

"Let's see how well you die, queer. I may not have gotten my target, but I'll die knowing you beat me to Hell." Williamson growled in his ear, his arm tightening on his neck, the gun pressed hard to his temple, and Mycroft knew he was a fool.

He wrapped his fingers around the Vicar's wrist, and tried to pry his arm away, too determined to live to care about the gun, right up until the Vicar dug the barrel harder into his temple.

The Vicar was going to snap his neck, or shoot him in the head. Kill him in front of his family, his little brother, and the man he loved. They were frozen, mere feet away, held at bay by the very angry man choking the life from him. He was fading fast, the choke hold set, the gun threatening to end him if he didn't suffocate first. Mycroft sought out Gregory's face, the DI on the ground, struggling to stand, to get to him, despite the pain etched across his handsome visage.

The darkness swept up, his sight failing, and the last thing he heard was The Vicar laughing in his ear.

12:01

The shot was a rolling clap of thunder, deep and violent in the silence of the valley. It shook the air, bouncing off the sides of the small cottage, loud and shocking.

Sherlock was held frozen, immobile, as the CIA director's head dissolved into a splatter of red bone fragments and brain matter, raining across the snow, spraying his brother's face in gore and debris.

Mycroft stumbled, the arms of the now dead man relaxing, and he fell to his knees before the headless corpse. The body seemed to be unaware that it was dead, and had no reason to still be standing. It was a nightmare, a tableau from a dream.

A second roll of thunder devastated the stunned hush of the valley, and the body jerked, a puppet with its strings cut, spinning to the snow covered ground. The gun went flying, landing with a puff of snowflakes a few feet from John and Sherlock.

Mycroft had a hand to his throat, coughing, dragging air into his lungs. People were shouting, yelling, running back to the small side yard where a rapidly cooling body was steaming.

Greg was sobbing in agony, tears streaking down his face, an arm clutched tight to his left side, but he managed the strength to drag himself to Mycroft. The spymaster wrapped an arm around the DI, and they held each other.

John was gripping his arm, and they stared at the now decimated body of The Vicar.

Sherlock turned, slowly, feeling blood freezing on his face from droplets that had blown on him from the first shot. He looked up the valley, and with one arm, moved John behind him. The shots had come from up the valley, the direction of those faraway pine trees standing vigil on the lonely hill, about eight hundred yards away. There was no cover close enough that any of them could get to before the sniper took them out. They must wait, and see if this was their mystery friends.

"Sniper! No one move."

Everyone froze, and Sherlock felt a peculiar sensation race over his heart. As if he had been here before, in this place and time, waiting for a sniper to decide whether he was to live or die. And it had happened, twice before. And in each instance, the same woman held his fate in her hands.

12:02

Jaime held the scope over Sherlock's heart, the crosshairs neatly lined up for the kill shot. Her finger rested lightly on the trigger, and she contemplated squeezing, wondering how it would feel to kill Sherlock Holmes. She heard the whispers of her long dead brother, his screams of fury on the wind.

I thought I let you go, James. I thought I let all of this go. I can't feel this anymore, this pain.

"Jaime, don't," Mary said, kneeling at her side, her voice low, calm. She wasn't pleading for Sherlock's life, not really. Mary was asking her not to kill Sherlock for her own sake. "Sweetheart, don't kill him."

Jaime gritted her teeth, and felt tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. Her tears froze as she cried, stinging and itching on her chilled face. She dragged in a deep breath, and did her best to fight off the demons screaming in her brother's voice. Her body wasn't cooperating.

The ghost of James Moriarty wanted his revenge, even at the expense of his baby sister's remaining sanity. Jaime stared at the great consulting detective through the scope, and Sherlock seemed to know that he was in danger. That she was deciding his fate. He may not know who held the rifle, but he somehow sensed the conflict in her heart. His face was serene, patient even, and he was staring directly at where they were hidden in the pines.

Her finger began to tighten on the trigger, the rifle unwavering, the crosshairs centered on Sherlock's heart.