Forever Yours, Sherlock

by Revella

All families contain a secret, and some are deadly...Old enemies are coming home, and sometimes the greatest evil is also the one closest to our hearts. James Moriarty is back from the dead, and he's not alone...S3 Rewrite! Trilogy under one title. Contains plot, character development, mature content, Sex!, violence. M/M,F/F,F/M. Four OCs, ACD influence. PART III has begun!

50. Kingmaker

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

A/N: Special thanks again to silvereyedbitch, she gave me a grand idea with the music scene, and she seriously helped me out, proofing his chapter to within an inch of its life. She rocks!

Warning: ANGST, OMG the FEELS.

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Chapter Fifty

"Kingmaker"

Christmas Eve, 11:30 PM

Violet let John escort her to her room after the disastrous dinner party. She was sore, and so sick and tired of being beat on, hit, dragged through drama, and hounded because of who she was, or who her father was, that she wanted to explode. John hugged her at the door, his face full of concern and love. He waited until she shut and locked it before walking down the hall to the stairs to where Sherlock waited.

Violet kicked off her heels, and stumbled over to the bed, now empty. Anthea discretely moved herself out earlier in the day, not long after their moment in the pine grove. She took herself to the other guest room on the second floor, and Violet hadn't even seen her leave. The sheets were new, and Violet pushed her bags off the bed, too tired to care that they fell on the floor, making a mess.

She ripped back the covers, and tugged and pulled at her dress until the black cloth gave way, and tore. She threw the pieces to the floor, cursing the entire time. She didn't bother with her hair or jewelry. She would deal with the resultant mess tomorrow. Violet crawled into bed, punching her pillow a few times before burying her face in the downy softness.

She fell asleep faster than she thought she would. No tossing or turning, no fussing. Just sleep. Sleep and the dreams, always the dreams.

Violet knew she was dreaming. It was hard not to know, seeing as how she was walking down the darkened halls of the Seattle hospital in which her mother had spent her last few weeks. The emergency lights glowed balefully from the corners of the hall, barely illuminating the floor and walls. She walked with no purpose, no urgency to find a room or person. On and on she walked, until she knew every inch of the long hall that was her world.

Wait… where…. This is the hospital…MOM.

A thought kept circling, past her ability to understand it fully, and she shook it away, her sense of lazy wandering fading. A sense of loss, a growing urgency made her walk faster, hands running along the walls, looking for the door that would open to her mom's room….

She saw nothing but hallway, felt the cold floor under her bare feet, the air chilly on her skin. Her hair was longer, like it had been as a child, sweeping past her shoulders in thick shiny waves. She noticed in an offhand fashion that she was shorter than she should be, her head not as high, and she couldn't see as far down the hall as she would like.

"Mom?" she cried out, her voice small and thin. She sniffled, wiping at the tears that spilled from her eyes. She couldn't find her mom's room, and the walls all looked the same.

Where's her room? Mom!

Violet ran, her slim legs churning over the white tiles, chasing the dim lights down the long hall. There was no end in sight, just shadows and spots of light spaced evenly into the distance. She ran until her feet hurt, her chest burning from her ragged breaths. Violet tripped in her exhaustion, crashing to her knees, the hard tiles jarring her bones.

Head drooping, long black hair covering her sweaty face, Violet gasped for air, too tired to cry anymore. There was a shuffling sound, like a boot scraping over hard floors, the sound making her freeze. It was child services coming for her again, trying to take her away from her mom. Violet shot to her feet, legs refusing to work properly, and she fell against the white wall, under the baleful glare of an emergency light. Fear tangled in her veins, her hands shaking, mouth dry, heart pounding.

The noise came again, and Violet spun, hand slapped over her mouth, and she backed away, eyes straining to see who or what was making that noise. They were coming for her, coming to take her away, make her leave her mom all alone…..

A heavy weight fell on both her shoulders from behind, long fingers curling over her thin frame. She screamed, harsh and shrill, trying to pull away, but she was yanked back against a hard body. Violet tore and scratched at the hands trying to pull her into the darkness, and she spun, looking up.

"Sherlock?" She stammered out, relief and terror clawing at her mind. "Sherlock, is that you?"

She couldn't see the man's face, not clearly. He was almost in the light, his face and shoulders cast in shadow, his arms and hands illuminated. She could see dark, thick hair, a high forehead, and the chiseled cheekbones so common among the Holmes men.

"No, Violet. Don't you remember me?" His voice was as deep as Sherlock's, but more polished, his words clipped, and so cold she shivered. The fingers holding her shoulders dug in deep, each tip hurting her slender form. She gasped, and tried to pull away. He stepped forward, just enough for the light to touch his face.

"Don't you remember your father, my dear girl?" Sherrinford asked her, his amethyst eyes burning brightly from his aristocratic face.

Father…. I remember you.

She screamed, over and over, her cries falling on uncaring ears as her father dragged her into the darkness, his hands hard as stone. She screamed until the darkness swallowed her whole, her father whispering her name as he took her deeper. The shadows were suffocating, her body deprived of air, and his whispers were prying into her mind, tearing at her heart.

"Violet! Dear, wake up! Violet!"

She struggled against the hands holding her shoulders, and she screamed so loudly she woke herself up. Violet jerked, her whole body immobile, and her eyes snapped open wide, to see the silhouette of a person above her. Air rushed into her lungs, and her muscles snapped like ropes, her body jerking. She was about to strike out when she saw the long wing of white hair, thick and luxurious, lit by the light from the hall.

"Grandma?"

"Oh, dearest. It's okay. Wake up, it's just a nightmare." Her grandmother gathered her about the shoulders, pulling her up into her embrace, her hands stroking her hair. Violet shook, and curled against the woman holding her, offering love and support. Her touch was gentle, full of love, and she pressed a kiss to her temple.

Violet couldn't stop herself, she broke. Tears came pouring out, from her battered and lonely heart. The hospital in the dream brought back every horrible memory of watching her mother deteriorate from the cancer and the chemo, and the weeks spent dodging child services every time the hospital would call to notify them that there was an unattended minor. Her mother had faded away quietly in the end, having succumbed to a coma a few days before her death.

Violet sobbed, pouring out every repressed sorrow and lonely heart ache of the last several years. She didn't realize how lonely she had been, not until the voids in her life started to be filled by so many essential people. People she loved, now. Where there had been but one, was many, including the woman who held her, her embrace reminiscent of another woman long dead and burned.

That last week before her mother finally passed Violet spent running away from her social worker, again and again, determined to stay with her mother until she breathed her last breath. The government nanny hadn't approved, saying that Violet didn't need to remember her mother passing away in such a manner, wasting away to nothing, barely recognizable as human.

"Can you tell me? Was it the Carstairs boy?" Marion asked softly in her ear, after the bitter spate of tears eased, Violet sniffling loudly.

"No….. It was the hospital… I couldn't find Mom's room…. Then ….."

"Then?" Marion queried, pulling back just enough to see her granddaughter's face in the square of light from the hall. She gently moved a strand of raven hair from her eyes, soft hands framing her face.

"Then… I saw him." She gasped out, the last word so hushed it almost didn't reach Marion's ears. Marion paused, and searched her granddaughter's face. Violet trembled, and nodded as she saw the realization on the elder's face.

"You saw your father?" Marion asked, her voice low, with a touch of pain.

"Yes." Violet clutched at her grandmother's arms, needing the support. "I met him once, when I was around two years old. He looked the same."

"You…. He knew about you?" Marion's eyes were glistening, and her expression grew strained.

"He is my first memory." Violet told her, biting her lip, casting her mind back all those years, to the warm summer day she met her father.

"Can….. Will you tell me?" Marion said, and Violet was surprised to see the tears gathering in her grandmother's eyes. She searched the elder woman's face, and saw the need, the desire for Marion to hear something about her long dead son. Violet may fear the memory of her father, and the knowledge of what he had been, but to Marion, he would always be in many ways her firstborn child. Not just a monster, but her son.

She scooted back on the bed, leaning on her pillows. The door was still open, the hallway bright, and giving her enough light to feel safe sharing. She pulled in a deep breath, and looked unseeing across the room, her mind already pulling the memory from the depths. Her dream had stirred it from her subconscious, so she saw it clearly, as vibrantly as if she were living it again.

"I was barely two years old, I think? I'm in a new dress, and Mom was telling me that it was going to get dirty before lunch, or something like that. It was my birthday dress, and I loved wearing it, Mom dressed me in it for days. She put me in the front yard, the sun warm on the grass, and I'm surrounded by toys. I'm sitting, and laughing really hard. I don't know why, I think I was banging two noisemakers together or something. I've always liked loud things."

Marion smiled at her, and Violet barely saw it, her eyes absorbed in watching the memory play out across her mind. It truly was her first memory, so powerful and real she felt the hot sun on her shoulders, heard the buzzing of bees as they danced over the flowers in the garden.

She hadn't thought of this memory in so long, so many years, not since she was very little, and she learned to stop asking her mom about her father. She rarely thought about it, and so thinking about it now felt strange, out of place.

"I think Mom was inside, sweeping out the house, the front door open so she could watch me. I'm banging my toys, laughing. I lost my grip on one, and it goes flying. I got mad, and couldn't reach it. I remember crying, not a lot. I'm having a lackluster hissy fit, trying to get my toy, when I see two legs in front of me."

Violet's breathing hitched, and the memory tilted, as strong hands lifted her in the air.

"A man leaned down, and picked me up. I love it, I start giggling. He holds me up, and spins me, the sun bright and warm, gleaming in his dark hair. I grabbed a good handful, and he holds me to his shoulder, prying my fingers free from his hair. He's playing with my fingers, nibbling on them, making me laugh. I can see his face, and I'm patting his cheeks. He's smiling at me, saying my name. I can hear him laughing too. It's deep, and I can't forget it. I can't stop laughing, and he spins us around and around."

Violet looked up, and her eyes were blank, blind to all but the vision only she saw, and Marion shivered. She looked exactly like Sherlock when he retreated to his mind palace.

"It must have been his laughter that drew Mom back outside. The next thing I know, I hear her screaming. She's screaming a name, and running towards us. She sounds so scared. I can close my eyes, and hear her say 'Ford, stop! Don't, please', again and again. She's begging him to stop….. Why would she say that…..? He was taking me away from the house."

Violet felt the rush of realization, the epiphany that her father had come for her, and was stealing her away from her mother. She saw the world from a new height, the sky blue and littered with fluffy white clouds, the trees rustling in the summer breeze. He smelled like wood and paper, ink and for some reason, metal. Violet felt queasy, recognizing the scent as blood. Her father smelled like blood. She didn't know the smells then, but her grown mind placed the scents easily.

"He was taking me away, he wanted me." She stammered out, doubt shaken under the weight of certainty. "Mom is trying to take me back, begging him to stop. She calls him Ford, not Sherrin. She always called him Ford."

Violet paused, her mind spinning. The rest of the memory is chaotic, colors bright and blurry.

"I don't know what happens after that. I remember Mom crying, holding me tightly, so tight I start to cry. I keep looking out over the front yard, trying to see where he went. Ford is gone, as if he were never there. He made me laugh, I wanted him to come back and play with me. I remember missing him, so much I couldn't stop crying."

"I cried the rest of day, and I looked for him again the next day, as Mom packed us up, driving us away from our home. I learned years later that it was that day, the day he came to visit, that is what made Mom take us away from England. We went to the States, and we never stayed in one place longer than a year. I remember her saying that she changed our names, but I thought it was because she divorced my dad, not because he may have been after us. I was never told what my surname used to be, before she took back her maiden name. She home schooled me when I was little, then she would let me go to public schools once in a while after my begging drove her nuts. It wasn't until I was older that I learned I was born here, and that my dad was a topic better left alone."

Violet stopped talking, blinking away the memories. She felt so tired, and the fear was a distant sensation, easily dismissed. She realized that Marion was quiet, hands clutching one another. Her grandmother was staring at the comforter, her face in shadow.

"Grandma? I'm sorry… I'm sorry if that hurt…. I know you loved him."

"That I did, dear. He was my firstborn. And a monster. He broke my heart many long years ago. Don't be sorry. A part of me isn't surprised that he would try to take you. He always went after what he wanted. From what you say, he may have loved you, too. He never, not once, showed affection to such a degree with anyone as he did with you that day. That hurts me as much as it makes me happy."

Marion looked up at her, and Violet was held captive by the intensity, the sheer gravitas of her grandmother's eyes. Marion's expression was fierce, as if she had an epiphany of frightening power. The resemblance to her youngest son was overwhelming in that moment.

"I have many regrets, about my eldest. I will always feel like I didn't try hard enough, that there was something I could have done more. He wanted the death, the violence, an addiction and obsession, ones that I saw too late to turn aside. Yet there is one thing I will never regret, one thing he did I will never wish away. He made you, child."

Marion reached up, and ran her fingers down the side of Violet's face. Her touch was reassuring, comforting, and Violet blushed as she yawned loudly. Marion laughed, and grabbed the covers, pulling them up. She went from wide awake and coherent to bone tired and mumbling in seconds.

"Lay down, dear, go back to sleep." Marion whispered to her, and Violet did as she asked. She curled up tightly, face in her pillow, and smiled in delight as her grandmother tucked her in. No one had tucked her in since she was a kid. Her mother was the last, before the cancer took her too far for her to care for her child. "I love you."

Marion pressed a kiss to her brow, and walked quietly for the door. Violet fell asleep as the door shut softly, the light fading away as her eyes drifted shut. A dream came swiftly, calm and sweet, penance for the earlier terror. She heard the faint echo of her father's laughter, and the touch of the summer sun on her face.

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2:45 AM, Christmas Day

Marion closed the door to Violet's room, hand on the doorknob as she thought. Violet's nightmare had woken her from a sound sleep. She heard her granddaughter screaming down the hall, and her heart beat hard in her chest as she ran for her girl. Instinct woke her, the need to protect the young woman she already loved dearly forcing her to run.

Marion sighed, and let go of the handle, mind lost to memories long past. She turned from the door, heading for her room, when she came up short.

Her sons were in the hall, dressed in rapidly donned nightclothes and robes. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, his back to the wall, knees drawn up and his arms wrapped around them. Mycroft stood beside him, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with a wary expression. Sherlock just looked tired, and he was wearing only his pajama bottoms. He looked cold, and half asleep, but his eyes were keen.

"What are you two doing in the hall?" She whispered, glaring at them like she used to when they were young, sneaking desserts from the kitchen in the middle of the night.

"We heard Violet screaming." Sherlock stated plainly, lifting his head from the wall, blinking slowly in exhaustion. "We got here just after you woke her up."

"Ahhhh. And both of you being nosy creatures, stuck around. Sweet of you, too." Marion grinned as Mycroft rolled his eyes. In a very rare moment of affection, her older son reached out a hand, and helped Sherlock to his feet. She felt a twinge in her chest, knowing that they only acted thus because they were so tired, and she the only witness. "Time for bed, my darlings. It's late, and you've Christmas in the morning. I would tuck you both in, but you've men sleeping in your beds."

Mycroft got an uncomfortable look on his face, as if he was embarrassed to have her mention the fact he slept with someone. Sherlock didn't react at all, her youngest unfazed by her allusion to his sex life. Sherlock leaned down, kissing her, and accepted her hug before toddling off down the hall.

Mycroft faced her, and opened his mouth to speak. She stopped him, pressing a finger to his lips. He snapped his mouth shut, his expression both wary and melancholy. She knew what he was about to say, and she refused to hear her son apologize again for slaying her firstborn.

"You never have to say those words to me, my dear. You did the right thing. Better you than some stranger, a policeman who would have bragged and boasted about taking out a serial killer. I know how badly it damaged you, my love. I know. Don't carry anymore guilt than you must, Mycroft. Don't carry my pain in addition to your own."

He looked down at her, and dropped his head. She saw him relax, slowly, one muscle at a time. He carried this guilt with him every day, and she knew the futility of trying to convince him to let it go. He was her son, and she knew him better than anyone else, so she knew he never would. He would carry the guilt and pain of slaying Sherrinford until the day he died, and it broke her heart.

She kissed him on the cheek, a finger tracing the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. He may be getting older, but to her, he would always be her little boy. He was a grown man now, for many long years, and yet she still saw in him the thin tall boy, arms full of books, and questions that never ended. So curious, her middle son.

Mycroft kissed her as well, and he bore up under her hug with a resigned expression, but he returned it all the same. "Mike, make sure Sherlock doesn't fall on the stairs, please. He looks ready to collapse."

"Yes, ma'am. Goodnight."

"Goodnight dearie. I love you." She whispered after him, and she grinned as he got red in the face. He didn't say it back, but she saw how he felt easily enough. He had expressive eyes, and she saw how much he loved her in the quick glance he sent her way. He caught up to his little brother, grabbing his elbow, and helped the half-asleep younger man up the stairs.

Marion walked down the hall to her room, smiling despite the emotional turmoil she'd experienced in the last half hour. All the pain in the world was worth it to have her family under one roof again.

---

Christmas Day, Early Morning

Sherlock gazed at the sleeping face of his doctor, the older man fully relaxed. John was snoring softly, so much so it wasn't really a snore, and more of a breathy whisper of sound. He propped his head up on his arm, rolled to his side, and stared.

John was short, but that didn't stop him, or hamper him in any way. He was strong, compactly muscled, and in such wonderful, tasty ways. Sherlock couldn't stop his body's reaction as his eyes trailed over the firm chest, the flat stomach, and the powerful lean hips of his doctor. The sheet was pulled low, frustratingly short of his groin, denying Sherlock the full view he wanted. He could reach out, and pull it down, but that might wake John, and he was so interesting asleep.

Sherlock went his whole life without understanding the need, the appeal, of a sexual relationship, and now that he had it, he still wondered at the power it held over his body, and his mind. The day he met John, and saw all he thought he needed to see about the doctor, was the turning point of his life. John was everything to him. He literally could not exist without him. The loss of his lover would be the day he lost himself, never to be found again, never to exist as he was now. Sherlock's fate was bound to John's, forever, and he willfully obliged his obsession and need. This was love, in its extremes, and he gave himself over to the addiction, and gratification he got from the relationship.

The morning sun breached the windows, and a stray beam fell over John's eyes. Sherlock held still, and stayed quiet as John stirred in his sleep, turning his face away from the bothersome light. He fell back under sleep's hold, and Sherlock breathed again. John needed to sleep, and Sherlock wanted to watch him some more without the doctor getting all flustered by his focus. One arm was above his head on the pillow, the other along his side, fingers twitching as he dreamed. Sherlock saw the way his skin moved as he breathed, the way his muscles flexed on his flat stomach. It was fascinating. Everything about John fascinated him.

Dawn broke fiercely over the top of the hill, and lit up his childhood room so brightly that the white plaster walls looked to be made of fire. He felt a strong sensation, as if he were a child again, watching this as a little boy.

He fell back on the bed, careful not to wake John. He'd fallen back asleep almost immediately after sneaking back into bed last night, after Violet's nightmare, and John hadn't woken up the entire time he was gone. His doctor was exhausted, and Sherlock wanted him to sleep longer.

His eyes tracked over the ceiling, watching his fledgling mind palace blueprints dance across the ceiling, moving in the faint breeze from the heating vents. He smiled, seeing the childish design, and in his head, moved the pieces around, streamlining the information with grown, more experienced eyes.

Sherlock saw a fluttering in the rafters, and saw a piece loose, a corner broken free from the strings that held the paper to the ceiling. It was a piece of music, one of the first compositions he wrote when he was small. Sherlock turned his head, and looked to the corner where their bags were still stacked. His violin perched in its case, nestled among the luggage. He had a glimmer of an idea, foolish sentiment spurred on by the emotions stirred in him by his lover, and the fact it was Christmas morning, and he was home. He didn't mind that he was home, either. John steadied him, let him navigate the emotional waters of his family with far more ease than if he were here alone.

Sherlock carefully got out of bed, digging out a clean pair of dress slacks and a shirt. He didn't bother with socks or underwear, and grabbed his violin case on his way out of the bedroom. He shut the door, taking one last long look at the slumbering man in his bed. He smiled, and silently shut the door.

First the bathroom, then downstairs. He could see down the long hall to his brother's room, the door shut, and he heard nothing from the bathroom. Lestrade and Mycroft must still be sleeping. He slipped into the bathroom, cleaning up, before running lightly down the stairs, case in hand.

Sherlock strode soundlessly through the great house, heading for the front sitting room, and the tree glowing beside the fireplace. He entered, and knew from the silence that he was the only one up yet this morning. Bear was sound asleep in the kitchen, the big dog snoring louder than John, audible through the open doorway between the two rooms. Sherlock didn't think the big brute would mind, and Sherlock was far enough away from the rooms to guarantee himself some privacy this morning. He hadn't been able to play for himself, just himself, in months.

Sherlock tossed the case onto the seat of his father's armchair, and opened it, pulling free his violin and bow. He checked the strings, fingers running through the motions of tuning out of habit, the ease making it but a few short moments of waiting before he could play.

Sherlock's eyes drifted over the familiar room, the large space filled with the same furniture he'd lounged on as a boy. He smiled as he saw the long scrape on the coffee table from his fencing practice, his mother's scolding loud in his ears as he practiced in the house. That day it had been raining, and Sherlock hadn't wanted to get wet outside. His fifteen year old self was stubborn even then, and he was determined to get his form correct. It had been, right up until Mycroft staggered through the front door, soaking wet and wearing a look Sherlock had never seen before.

It was the same day Mycroft came home, from the shore where he spilled their brother's blood, ending his reign of terror and death. Sherlock lifted his eyes from the coffee table, and turned to his side, where his father's piano rested next to the window. The Grand was well loved, as all things were in this house, and Sherlock felt a twinge of regret, for his father's hands were too fragile now for extended playing. Their father passed his skill down to his son, not to Sherlock, but Mycroft.

Mycroft hadn't played a single note in all the long years since Sherrin fell from the cliffs, Mycroft's knife buried in his murderous heart. Mycroft's music died that fateful day, along with the love he bore for their older brother. To his knowledge, Mycroft never played another note, and Sherlock mourned the loss of his brother's skill, for it had been sublime, matching well his natural born genius.

Sherlock sighed, and banished as best he could the melancholy threatening to override his desire to play. He was happy today, and content. He would treasure the feeling, and not ruin it with miserable, heart wrenching memory.

He lifted the violin to his chin, the bow to the strings, and closed his eyes, leaning a hip on the armrest of the chair. He breathed, relaxing, and opened the door to the music room in his mind palace. He let his fingers play the first song that floated free from the hundreds stored within.

Sherlock smiled wryly at himself, but let the first opening strains of 'What Child is This' flow freely. A fitting choice, considering the holiday. Many knew it as 'Greensleeves', but he preferred to play the Christmas version. He took it slow, playing tenderly, gently. It was a joyous song, with a reverent and melancholy thread to it that suited his mood. The notes sounded as they did years past in the room, echoing off the ancient walls, filling the lower level of the house.

He slipped away from where he was, falling totally into the music, his body moving with the song, his breathing changing, his body nothing but the means by which he created the music. His mind stilled, the ever moving storm of thoughts settling down, tamed in the music. He smiled, a faint hint of enjoyment, and dropped all the ragged emotions, the futile frustrations, his worries and fears. He let it all go, surrendering, finding peace in the music. It filled him up, his ears and mind hearing nothing but the notes.

He played through the first song in its entirety before he noticed the hint of movement in the room. He kept his eyes shut, still withdrawn from the outer world, content halfway between his mind palace and the place he existed in reality. A part of him was aware, but a lesser part, the part of him that mainly dealt with keeping him upright and on his feet. Someone, no make that several people, were entering quietly from the many doors, settling onto the furniture in the room. He played on, and let his fingers choose another song before his mind thought of a better choice.

That lesser part of him heard the kitchen door open and the dog bark as he was let out. He smelled the scents of coffee brewing, food cooking, and whispers of people talking quietly. Someone was sitting at the piano, he could hear them breathing, quietly watching him. No one disturbed him, nor did anyone speak loudly enough to interfere with his music. They let him play, and so he did. He spindled his thoughts away from the room, and went deeper into the music.

He moved effortlessly from the first song to the next, and he didn't care that it was morning, and not the eve anymore. He played 'O Holy Night', one of his personal favorites, and moved with ease through the song. His fingers were warmed up, his wrist well attuned to playing again, even after his years chasing criminals on the Continent. He hadn't much time to play while away, being dead and all, and even after his Return, he was too busy battling the last Moriarty, and getting injured, to play as often as he wished. He took his chance, glad he could, fulfilling his inner needs with each note released.

It was the thought of Moriarty, her love for her brother, which spurred his next choice of song. It was one he had played many times over the years, only when he was home, and only during Christmas. He had written it himself, as a young boy, determined to put how he felt about his family into song. He hadn't the words to describe how he felt, so he let the music drive his thoughts.

The song he played now was the one he wrote for Sherrin, a melancholy device of confused hope and fearful apprehension. He had meant the song as a gift, one he believed his mathematically minded eldest brother would have appreciated. It was technically superior, precise and yet fluid. There were moments in his life he thought he saw the man past the monster, and he tried his best as a youngster to reach him, to bring his brother out of the shadows. It was with this song he made his last effort, presented to his brother on the final Christmas Sherrinford attended.

He felt the grief, the love, the regret come soaring out of his soul as the first notes broke the cheerful atmosphere, the lesser, watchful part of him aware that the others in the room were more intently focused on him, their few whispers silenced. He felt their attention, drawn as moths to the flame by the sorrow and agony he set free with each raw note.

Sherlock drew on his memories, the sensations that drew him out from the darkness of his scarred heart. The place within him that belonged to his dead brother opened up, and Sherlock poured everything he had into the music. It was a complicated piece, and he had been very ambitious with it as child. It was better suited to have two people play it, another violin or even the piano. There was only one person in the lonely world who knew this song other than him, one who heard it once a year, on this day. He was here, that other soul, yet Sherlock doubted he could be swayed to play. So he continued on, his heart bleeding with each draw of the bow across the strings.

It was with that lesser part of him he heard a strange and foreign sound. The piano nearby was stirring to life, the seat occupant opening the cover over the keys. Sherlock was too caught up in the music to falter, but his body moved slowly, of its own accord, to better hear the notes lifting hesitantly from the keys.

Sherlock slowed, to match the tempo of the one who played beside him. The musician worked slowly, gently, his notes matching Sherlock's, following along as if afraid of his welcome. The music was meant to be shared, and Sherlock relinquished the second part, and took over the main, letting the piano carry the song with him. He felt the relief of letting go, and took over his part, owning the music he crafted in the cool morning air.

Together, piano and violin wove a song meant to reach the heart of darkness, coaxing the light out from beneath the horror that lived within their brother. Hope chased after pain, soothing forgotten wounds and stricken moments of anger. Love, ever enduring, fruitlessly calling out for an answer, the absent echo of sentiment never heard.

Wretched ambition dashed on the ruins of love, hope shattered by the final slash of a sharp blade in the hot summer air, the scent of blood and fury, all of it- all of this Sherlock set free with the song.

Sherrin's Song.

And Mycroft played with him.

Sherlock lifted from the depths of his palace, lesser and greater minds joining again, and Sherlock acknowledged his brother's presence in the music with a small dip of his head towards the piano. His small welcome gave Mycroft the impetus he needed to invest his long dormant skill in the song. Sherlock challenged him, taking the song faster, his notes perfect, daring his brother to respond in kind.

Mycroft answered him, and played, as if the last eighteen years were but a nightmare. His fingers moved with surety, evoking the need present in his part, the need to find solace in love, no matter how uncomfortable, how awkward it may feel for them. It was a query, a call, a cry for love. Sherlock saw it now, fully understanding what he was striving for as a boy, trying to make his broken family work.

The song was ending, the music fading. Mycroft played softly, each touch of the keys conveying his broken heart clearly to all who listened. Sherlock faded, letting Mycroft take over, and he mourned again for his brother. Mycroft bore the guilt, the pain of betrayal, every morning he opened his eyes. Confronted daily by his choice, Mycroft held himself away from the world, under layers of icy disdain. Yet here, in this stolen moment, he asked his little brother for forgiveness.

Sherlock tried to tell him the truth, that he never blamed Mycroft for any of it, and that he accepted with a grateful heart the decision Mycroft made that fateful day by the North Sea. Mycroft had saved them all, even Sherrin. Sherlock loved his remaining brother, and told him the only way he knew how.

Mycroft faltered, a misstep so faint no one but Sherlock could hear. Sherlock felt his heart break, for Mycroft heard his forgiveness, his love in his music, and it reached him. Reached him deeply enough he showed it in the music. Mycroft responded, and Sherlock felt a grin break across his face, joy finding its way for the first time into a song long held down by sadness.

Together, they played, and the atmosphere in the room cheered, brightened. Sherlock still had his eyes shut, and knew without looking that Mycroft was tiring. Whether it was his hands, or his heart, Mycroft could abide no more. Sherlock nodded to him, and let Mycroft fade away completely, with a final flourish of notes.

Sherlock ended the song, and without pause, broke the spell it held over his audience. Sherlock made no acknowledgement to the warm hand that rested on his shoulder for a heartbeat, before walking away. Sherlock continued to play, and he heard Mycroft stop and listen to his mother. She whispered something to him, and Mycroft responded softly. Sherlock turned his attention away, not wishing to intrude on what his mother might say to her son.

Sherlock fell away, faster than before, retreating to his mind palace, the emotional confession of the last several minutes driving him to find something innocuous to play. He chose a song at random, anything to remove himself from the intimacy of his brother's music echoing in his heart.

Sherlock moved from one Christmas song to the next, playing for so long that he began to feel the strain. That portion of his brain not absorbed with playing told him he had been at this for over an hour now, and his fingers and wrists were starting to be bothered by the exercise.

Sherlock felt the morning sun move across his back, the time passing without his notice or care. His back warmed, and it pulled him up from the depths enough for him to become fully aware of the other beings in the room with him. There was a heavy weight on one of his feet, a furry blanket warming his toes. His other leg was being leaned a by a slender body, and he smelled lilacs and heard the humming of computer fans.

He heard breathing close by, and smelled tea and coffee in the room. Someone was eating a muffin, and he smelled his brother's cologne nearby as well. He kept his eyes shut, and decided to finish the song he was in the middle of before acknowledging anyone else. Sherlock did his best to pretend he was alone, letting his face remain blank and empty, nothing but a vessel for his music. He was arrogant enough to enjoy the audience, and put an extra polish on the last few notes before slowly lowering the bow. He sighed, dropping his chin, the violin resting on his thigh.

His arm was tired, and he was irritated by that. He would get back to where he was before his Fall, where he could play for days without rest. Sherlock blinked open his eyes at the applause that suddenly nudged him from the comfortable place he had been playing from.

He looked up, to see everyone, even the dog, watching him keenly. His mother smiled at him from nearby, sitting with his father on the couch. His father gave him a short nod of approval, and Sherlock dipped his head, pleased far more than he should be by that display from his parent.

Mycroft was pretending to read the paper while Lestrade ate breakfast next to him on the loveseat, balancing a small plate on his knee and a cup of coffee in one hand. The DI smiled at him and saluted him with his cup. Sherlock quirked a brow in response, and looked to the others in the room. Violet was at his feet next to the dog, and she gave him a sweet grin when he looked down at her, leaning against his leg, head on his thigh. She looked well rested, even with her nightmares bothering her in the night. He put the bow back in the case, and ran his fingers through her soft hair, not saying a word.

Anthea stood in the doorway from the kitchen, sipping on tea, clicking away quietly on her mobile. Sherlock saw her eyes wander to the girl at his feet, before latching back on to the mobile's screen. Their brief relationship was over, both women handling it with denial and polite distance.

Sherlock lifted his head, and looked for his doctor.

John was leaning against the wall across from him, giving him a full view of Sherlock as he played. John smiled at him, not at all displeased that Sherlock snuck out of bed to play. He gave his detective a small smile, the expression of wonder and love on John's face more precious to him than any song he could play, any case he could solve.

"That was beautiful, Sherlock. Always a treat hearing you play. Thank you dear," his mother said to him, as she got to her feet, coming over to him. He accepted a kiss on the cheek, and tolerated the tussling of his hair too. Her thanks was for more than the music, he knew. She thanked him for drawing Mycroft out, for letting him play. She sighed, her face proud, and wandered off to the kitchen, the dog standing, following her out.

Sherlock gently placed his violin down, propped up in the case, still running his fingers through his niece's hair. She was doing something on her laptop, leaning on his leg, sitting cross legged on the floor at his feet. He peered over her shoulder, and felt his brows rise once he recognized what she was doing. He wondered how his brother would react to what their niece was doing to MI6. She was playing kingmaker, and his brother was in for a surprise.

John wandered over, and helped Violet to her feet when she lifted a hand to the doctor. She gave him a swift hug, her eyes twinkling, before she strode over the Mycroft and Lestrade. John smiled at him, and Sherlock roped an arm around his waist, pulling the smaller man close.

"Morning," he said to his doctor, taking his lips in a kiss. John snuggled up to him, and Sherlock hummed happily. Kissing John was something he could do for hours, days, years.

"Nice concert. Woke to hear you playing, all the way upstairs. Great way to wake up on Christmas morning. I was surprised to see Mycroft play, but I guess I shouldn't be, considering this family." John nibbled on his chin, discretely rubbing a hand up and down his side, caressing a hip. "Come with me, I have something for you."

"Sounds interesting," he murmured, wondering exactly what John could mean. There was plenty John could give him. He let John grab his hand, and lead him from the room, back to the stairs, and up. "And just what might that be, Dr Watson?"

"You'll have to solve it to get it." John said over his shoulder, still leading Sherlock by his hand.

"Oh, a puzzle then?"

"Yes it is."'

Sherlock grinned, wondering what John was playing at, what his doctor was doing. He had a suspicion, but he needed more data to confirm. John took him back to his room, tugging him over the threshold, and maneuvered him to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Close your eyes." John ordered him, hands on his hips. "And hold out your hand."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but did as John wanted, closing his eyes and holding out his right hand, palm up. He heard John walk away, towards their luggage, and stifled a smile as he heard John opening pockets, looking for something. John came back to him, and Sherlock raised a brow at the tiny box John put in his hand. It was smaller than the box containing the cufflinks John had gotten him for Christmas a couple of weeks ago. John didn't know he knew, and yet this was a different gift.

"No peeking. Solve what it is without opening your eyes."

"And do I get a prize for solving this puzzle?"

"Well, you get what's in the box, obviously, but if you guess it correctly, then I'll give you a reward. Something… entertaining."

Sherlock grinned in anticipation. He kept his eyes closed, and examined the tiny box. He shook it gently, and heard nothing. So whatever was inside was secured, or built into the box. It was hard, and finely made, leather casing with metal accents, tiny hinge at the back for opening it…..

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, holding it, as his fingers stilled and his body tingled all over. He held the jeweler's box caged in his hands, like he would a wild bird, afraid to let it fly free. He heard John shuffling on his feet, the doctor nervous, hesitant. Sherlock was shaking, tiny quivers from head to toe. His equilibrium from playing was gone, scattered to the corners of the room. He had nothing to anchor him, but for the man he loved, and it was he who shook him to his foundations.

"John….. A ring?"

"I know you said a while back that you would say yes, if I ever asked. A 'pressure free proposal' is what you called it. You rationalized the sound reasons for marriage, and told me you were happy to live by my side whether we were married or not. But I didn't want to take it for granted, our relationship. I didn't want to take you for granted."

Sherlock slowly cracked his eyes open, to see John standing in front of him, hands tucked in his pockets, head down, toe scuffing at the wooden floors. John looked up at him, and gave him a shy smile. Sherlock couldn't speak, his voice stolen, John having caused one of his rare moments of utter speechlessness.

"I know how you feel about marriage, I really do. I know that you think it's a sign of everything foolish and specious in our culture, our society. But that's not what it means to me. To me, it's a promise, before the whole world, that I am yours, forever. That I gave you my heart, my loyalty, my life, and I will never belong to anyone else. I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

John stepped to him, hands reaching down, opening his fingers gently, and he popped open the little box, leaving it in his palms. Sherlock had yet to look, his eyes latched on John's handsome face. John smiled at him, and with one finger, traced the line of his jaw, before cupping his face tenderly.

"I am asking you to marry me, Sherlock. To be my spouse, my husband, and to willingly accept all the joys and sorrows that come with being married. But I don't want your answer yet."

Sherlock twitched at that, opening his mouth before snapping it shut, giving John a mild glare in confusion. Why ask now if he didn't want his answer now? His look must have said it all, because John leaned down, and kissed him gently. He pulled back, and gave Sherlock a serious look.

"You think so fast, and act as swiftly. This is a choice that I want to see last forever, so please, please, think on it, longer than the nanosecond it would usually take you.

I want you to really think about this. To be sure, certain past all doubt that you want our relationship to go in this direction. I know I do. I've thought long and hard about it, and all I ask is that you give it some time and thought as well. I also want you to know this- that no matter what your answer, I will always love you, and I will never leave you. I'm yours, Sherlock, forever."

Sherlock finally looked down at his hands, to the box nestled on his palms. He froze, seeing the ring, and not seeing it, all at once. He knew instantly that it was an alloy of silver and palladium, a bright and vibrant hue that shone brilliantly in the morning light. He knew in that first second that it would fit him perfectly on his ring finger, not too loose, not too tight, just perfect. He lifted a finger, and touched the smooth metal band. It was warm from the sun, and he liked the finish on it, how it felt on his skin.

The ring was free of adornment, no designs or flourishes. Simple, honest, and beautiful. Like John, and the love he felt for the doctor. Sherlock coughed, and swallowed once.

"Do I have to wait?" he asked, touching the ring again.

"I'd like you to think about it for longer than a few seconds….."

"No. I mean… can I wear it now, or do I have to wait? I don't know the protocol for protracted marriage proposals. Or proposals in general, actually." He was proud his voice didn't crack from nerves and that his words came out in the proper order. Sherlock picked the ring up from its satin bed, and held it up so he could get a closer look. Anything to reclaim his scattered brain cells.

John wrapped a hand around his, holding the ring with him. Sherlock met his eyes, and waited, looking for a hint of what to do. He wanted to say yes now, scream it loudly, but if John wanted him to wait, and waste time thinking about a question he already knew the answer to, then he would. He just needed to know how to handle the next five seconds.

"If you wear it now, think you can handle all the questions from every genius downstairs, and your friends? People will ask, immediately."

"I'll tell them you asked me to marry you, and I want to say yes, but you're being ridiculous and not letting me answer yet."

"Ummm…. Hhmm. On second thought, no wearing that until you've thought things over. At least, not on your finger. Gimme." John took the ring from him, and Sherlock tried not to pout as the doctor strode over to their bags again. John pulled out his toiletry kit, and rooted around in it. Sherlock was confused, right up until he saw John pull out his service tags, the thin pieces of metal clinking against each other on the chain.

John came back to him, and Sherlock saw that he had run the chain through the ring, the band resting with his tags. Sherlock blinked at his doctor in surprise, touched and pleased, when John dropped the chain over his head, the tags and ring resting on his chest.

"There, safe and sound until you've thought things through." John leaned down, and kissed him, this time full of energy and lust, as if the ring was already on his finger and the world knew that Sherlock belonged to John.

Sherlock kissed him back, trying to tell John with every touch and stroke that he was going to say yes. That he wanted to say yes so loudly that the house shook from his affirmation. Yet John asked him to take his time, and think about it….what was there to think about?

---

Violet stood over her uncle and Greg, both men tilting their heads back in identical fashions, and she smirked, thinking it was cute. Hearing her uncle play was a surprise, and the emotion, the vulnerability he displayed had left her feeling exposed, as raw as the music the two men had played for them.

"Yes, Violet?" Mycroft murmured, trying to read the paper. She held her laptop with one arm, and snatched the paper away. Her uncle glared at her, and Greg snickered.

"I need to talk to you. In front of Greg, or alone. Doesn't matter to me, but it may to you."

Violet watched as both men froze, the mirth fading from Greg's face, and Mycroft started to go glacial. He sighed, and turned to Greg, and Violet wondered why they were acting like someone was dead. She watched as Mycroft looked at Anthea in the doorway, still drinking her liquid breakfast and pretending to text. She felt a rush of alarm, and immediately waved a hand at her uncle and his lover.

"Oh! No, no nono…. Not that awkward conversation, good God that'll ruin Christmas for years. We can have that one tomorrow if you want. Fuck! Scare the crap outta me….Christ Mycroft, you and jumping to the worst conclusion…..Up you go, I have something important to show you." Violet told him, and she walked off, heading out of the sitting room, into the dining room.

The ancient table was cleared, and the chairs all tucked up. She pulled one out, and set her laptop down, sitting in the old chair.

She didn't have long to wait. Mycroft came in the room, Greg trailing curiously behind. She watched as they approached her with trepidation, as if they didn't believe she didn't want to call Mycroft out on dragging Anthea's heart through the street, broken and bleeding for years. Not today. Maybe not ever. It was still a huge maybe.

Greg and Mycroft sat across from her, and she smirked. Mycroft was glaring at her, but not as badly as he usually did. The Iceman was thawing out. His performance earlier with Sherlock made her see just how deeply he did feel, and that what he felt was more painful than her bruised feelings and damaged ego.

"Mycroft."

"Violet?"

"You remember the day I busted out Sherlock from the hospital, and hacked MI6 and the entire British Government?" Violet asked, pulling several thumb drives from her pocket, slapping them on the table. She opened a program, and she secured a direct line through the satellites to MI6.

"Hard to forget. You gave my technicians several panic attacks that day."

"Ha! I bet I did. Good God, your people suck. Anyway, while I was helping Sherlock save the world, I found tons of interesting things in the nether regions of the government networks, the systems, all of it. Things so interesting, I couldn't resist exploring. I didn't bargain on finding so much, so many interesting things…..." Violet stood, and turned her laptop to face the two men. She looked out through the doors, saw no one, and hopped up on the table. Mycroft was shocked, but she ignored him, and scooted over on her butt until she was sitting on the edge, laptop beside her, facing her uncle.

"What do you mean, interesting?"

Violet didn't answer, she just leaned over, and tapped Enter.

Violet didn't watch the screen; she watched his face. She watched as her uncle saw every single leak, virus, worm, malware, backdoor, breach, messy hack, high quality hack, and every single fucking vulnerability in the United Kingdom's cyber infrastructure. She had found them all, and her programs were finding new ones every minute.

Mycroft's face went white; he leaned back in his chair, and sucked in air. He tried to breathe normally, but alternated between choking on nothing and holding his breath. Greg grabbed his shoulder, shaking him slightly.

"I found everything, Mycroft. Absolutely every dirty secret, criminal act, hack and breach. I found the illegal and black ops, the embezzling of government funds, blackmail schemes, murder for hire, espionage, terrorist acts, every single nasty, dirty thing that every single member of your government has ever committed. Everything that they were foolish enough to leave a trail or hint of, I found. I found dozens of traitors, some you may know about, some you may not."

Violet tapped another key, and brought up another list, this one live and actively running within MI6.

"This is live feed, real time information. You currently have several thousand people attempting to hack MI6, with varying degrees of success. Since I have been babysitting MI6, I have stopped several thousand attacks to the network. As of yet, no one has gotten past me into the really important stuff."

Mycroft finally moved, leaning forward, eyes locked on the screen. She smiled grimly as he slowly raised his eyes to hers, and she saw the icy resolve in his eyes. He was not one to take such actions easily, not fail to try and do something.

"How?"

"How do I know all this, or stop it?"

"Both."

Violet paused, and smiled. "I'll not be telling you that, not yet. That's a long and detailed conversation, pretty fucking technical and not very Christmassy. Not to mention Greg looks like he's going to pass out. If I took the time to explain this all, we might lose him."

She tapped the screen, and sighed. Things were about to get dicey. She wondered if he was deserving of this present, or if she were violating her personal hacker code for nothing. Greg was so still, eyes wide, staring at the both of them in shock that she spared him a thread of worry, wondering if he was going to pass out.

"I can give you your Christmas present, though." Violet reached back, and snagged a thumb drive. She came back up, and grabbed Mycroft's limp hand, pressing the drive to his palm. His fingers closed automatically, and she let him look at it.

"And what is on this?"

"I call it the Key to the Kingdom." She smirked at the silly name, loving the wry look he tossed her. "This is the full list of everything I found in the last several weeks. The list goes back fourteen years." She leaned forward, and met his gaze dead on. "I am literally giving you ultimate power. What I just gave you can shape the future, Mycroft. You can use it to save the UK and her allies, or you can become a despot. You thought you were the British Government before; that was a dream compared to the power you now hold in your hand."

She sat back, and watched his face. Primary was disbelief. As if he doubted she knew what she did, that she could find and control all that she had in rooting out the evil so deeply rooted in the fabric of the United Kingdom. She wasn't done yet, either.

She leaned back, and grabbed the remaining drives. She came back, and Mycroft tore his gaze from the drive in his hand to the others she held.

She picked one up, and held it before him.

"This one is a special gift. This one contains the activities and plots committed against the UK by foreign governments and entities, and all hacks and breaches associated with those governments as it applies to their dealings with the UK. And your enemies aren't just on here, Mycroft. Allies are as well. I'm trusting you to use this wisely, and not start WWIII. I'd like to eventually have kids, maybe even get to be old. Like forty or something, before we all die in nuclear war."

Greg looked like he wanted to bolt, to run out of the room with his ears covered. Mycroft was paler, eyes locked on her face. She could almost feel the physical touch of his gaze. She gave him the new drive, and he held it with the first. Mycroft reached out his other hand, and grabbed Greg, holding him firmly in place.

"This is not something I expected from you, Violet. Why give this all to me?" Her uncle asked her, his hands clutching the drive and his lover at the same time. She leaned back on her hands, swinging her feet over the floor.

"Because I want a home. I haven't had one since Mom took us away when I was two years old. I want a family. I know I'm a time bomb, Mycroft. You think having Mary around is difficult to handle? What happens when the wrong people in this government want me, instead of some crazy drug dealer? I want to stay here, be a part of this family, maybe even find someone to love who is free to love me back."

She flinched at that last part, wishing she could take the words back. This wasn't the place or time. Mycroft's mouth thinned out the smallest amount, but he made no other reaction.

"I trust you with this, Mycroft. You can handle what I've given you. It's Pandora's Box, and you won't fuck things up like she did. What you hold is greater than the wealth of knowledge that the evil creeper Magnussen knew. You won't do with it what he did, either. You're one of the good guys. I want to live here, so this rainy island of grumpy people needs to stay safe, for me to be safe too. And I figure that what I'm giving you will grant you the power to keep me safe forever."

She shut up, feet swinging. Greg was watching Mycroft, his mouth partially open in astonishment. Mycroft was staring at the screen, his hand up, clenched around the two drives. The Iceman was back, but his icy exterior wasn't meant for her. He was thinking hard about the people he saw on her lists, many of them people he knew, some for years. He was surrounded by evil, and much of it was new to him. She just shifted the world under his feet, and she couldn't imagine what he must be feeling, thinking.

His eyes snapped up to hers, burning with a fierce glow, one she knew meant ill for the people named on those drives. She wasn't afraid, not one bit. His wrath would burn the world around her, but she need never fear the flames herself.

"Violet. You never needed to do this for me to keep you safe. I'm sorry I was so cold to you, after Sherlock revealed who you were. I couldn't handle who you were, who your father was. I will no longer be a coward, afraid of my pain and guilt in regards to Sherrinford. I will guard you every day of your life. This will make it much easier for me to do so. So thank you."

Mycroft stood, and pulled her off the table, into his arms. She hugged him back, and he squeezed her so tightly she squeaked. He held her for a long moment, and she let him. He finally let her go, her face red, with his getting red to match. He lifted a brow at her, and got a rueful smile on his face.

"If you keep this up, I just might give you a job at MI6."

"Oh God, no. Gainful employment? Yucky." She laughed, and poked him in the side. "No way am I calling you my boss, Spymaster Holmes."

He got a pained expression on his face, and Greg was laughing at his side. Greg stood too, and dropped his head on Mycroft's shoulder, still shaking in laughter. Her uncle held him close with one arm, and Violet smiled. The Iceman melts for a DI from Scotland Yard.

Violet hopped off the table, and snapped her laptop shut. She still held the last drive, but it wasn't for Mycroft. She had another present to give this morning. She went to walk off, leaving the two men alone, as Mycroft was rubbing his thumb over the DI's hand in a very non-uncle-like way, but she stopped. She turned back to him, and met his eyes one last time.

"Mary has a gift for you as well, once we get back. I texted her this morning. She finished the majority of her mission files. I can find the rest for her if you let me use MI6 to rampage the CIA's files." She grinned at him, and he got a wary look on his face. "Don't worry, if I'm not dodging MI6 and the CIA at once, I can get in and out in half the time, with no one the wiser. Asking this in no way implies I'm working for you…just figure I should ask this once, it being Christmas and all."

Violet grinned hugely as Mycroft nodded absently, distracted by the man he held.

---

"She said she'll find the rest on her own, I gave her most of them." Mary told Jaime, turning off the brunette assassin's laptop. The Moriarty network was far more comprehensive than she expected, and Jaime had steered her to all her old mission reports.

Mary had worked all morning since they woke up, tangled in each other's arms. It was the best night's rest she had gotten in months. It was a relief not to hide anything, to be truly herself with someone. Jaime knew her, fully and completely, and without judgment. John couldn't accept some of her darkest secrets, and he never spoke of her past with her. The past didn't matter to Jaime.

"If you fulfill your bargain, will he let you go?" Jaime asked her from the other side of the table, where she was polishing her silver blade, the white cloth shining the surface in great detail. Mary met Jaime's doubtful gaze, and quelled the same doubt she felt in her heart.

"I don't know. He gave me his word." Mary sat back, and she picked up a 9mm from the table, breaking it down piece by piece. She didn't have to ask who Jaime was referring to; Mycroft Holmes was the last hurdle in her way. She smiled ruefully, and realized she was happy. It was to her the perfect way to spend Christmas morning. She was with a loved one, and not pretending. She was free.

"My offer still stands, Mary. Leave them behind. I can have you so well hidden by nightfall that not even the combined might of the entire Holmes' family can find you." Jaime put down the cloth, and spun her blade, her slim fingers handling it with ease. Mary watched the silver edge flash in the morning sun, and sighed. She looked back down to the gun she held, and removed the barrel from the weapon.

She held the piece in her hand, tightening her grip so the sharp edges dug at her skin.

"Jaime. I'm pregnant. I'm going to be a mother. In a few short months, I am going to have another life to care for, to protect. Dirty diapers, no sleep, formula and growing pains. It will be up to me to make sure my baby is safe, happy, healthy, and has the best chance of a good life. You do realize that if I leave with you now, you won't just be getting me, but my baby as well?"

Jaime stared at her, lovely face stilled in thought. She may know intellectually that Mary was pregnant, but she hadn't mentioned it but the once. Mary watched the knowledge sink in, that one day Mary would give birth, and have a baby. A tiny, helpless, wonderful baby, but a baby none the less.

"Oh."

"See? You and I can live that life, and live it well. I've lived it before, and if I wasn't pregnant, I would be gone from here in an instant. I would have left weeks ago, Jaime. The night you burned London… if I wasn't pregnant, I would have done my best to leave, and take you with me. I don't know if I would have let you do what you did…. That night…. But I know I wanted you to be safe, and I wanted to stop your pain." Mary stopped, and put the barrel on the table, watching the younger woman watch her back, an unreadable expression on her perfect face. "Can we be fugitives for the rest of our lives, and do that to my baby? She needs her father, too. Somehow I don't see John willingly coming along with us, nor Sherlock letting John go either. My best option is to deliver her safely, and give her to her father…"

Mary choked, and put the back of her hand to her mouth, blinking at the tears that threatened to escape. She didn't want to give her baby up, but John would love her and care for her far better than she could. She would always be hunted, and that was no life for a child.

"John will take care of her, and if I'm lucky, I can see her from time to time. Maybe." Mary picked up the gun, and broke it down further. She reached for a cloth, and started wiping the pieces. "John is the best choice for my baby, and if I leave with you like you want, it'll make the option of giving her to John all that harder. I think. I don't know… if I could give her up once I've held her longer than a few minutes."

Jaime stood, and came around the end of the table, her lithe form elegant in motion. She came to Mary, and held her close. Mary put her face against her side, and Jaime stroked her hair. Mary fought for control, one hand wrapped around her abdomen, and the tiny life growing within.

"If you were to leave with me now, then Sherlock and John would be forced to look for you. Sherlock knows…. Clay texted me this morning. Sherlock knows I live. Yet he hasn't said anything to Mycroft, as no one in MI6 is looking for you. They know you left the townhouse, but Mycroft has made no move to look for you. He may be distracted by his new lover, he may not. You are right though. Leaving as you are now would force them to search for you, and force Sherlock to reveal my existence."

Mary nodded, and Jaime ran her fingers through her hair again.

"Jaime, I'm always going to be hunted. Too many people know I'm not dead, and the CIA is aware of my new identity. Even with Silas dead, there's those four hundred and twenty plus missions that happened, and all the freelance ones. The CIA will eventually tell my enemies that I'm alive, on the off chance they get to me where the CIA couldn't. I'll be running forever."

"No one will ever hurt you, Mary. I swear it." Jaime looked down at her, and reached out for Mary's mobile, the clean one Violet had given her. She opened the menu, and stared at the hacker's number. "I have an idea."

---

Greg waited until Violet left them alone before grabbing Mycroft's hand, and guided him to the rear of the dining room, out of sight of the doors.

"Gregory? What….." Mycroft started to ask, before Greg caught his face, kissing him. Greg grinned past the kiss, happy when Mycroft kissed him back as avidly as he could have wished.

He found his back pressed to the wall, one of Mycroft's arms above his head, the other roped around his waist, holding their hips together. Mycroft's hand wandered down to cup his ass, massage his hip, and Greg struggled to remember why he wanted Mycroft alone. He had a present to give him.

"You are hotter than hell, Mycroft Holmes. I didn't know you could play the piano." Greg whispered between kisses, and Mycroft groaned, kissing him so hard he lost the ability to breathe.

Mycroft's hand bumped his pocket, and he felt the tiny gift box in his pants pocket. Mycroft lifted his head, and peered down, a questioning look on his patrician features.

"What's this?" Mycroft asked him, still holding him close, breath whispering in his ear. Greg reached down, and tugged the tiny packet from his pocket.

"It's your present. It's not a SIG Sauer P226, but it's for you. Merry Christmas, Mycroft." Greg held out the tiny gift, the red paper held together by a green ribbon. It was small, small enough to fit easily in the palm of his hand, and lightweight.

"You got me a present?" Mycroft asked, disbelief and a small measure of happiness crafting a vulnerable edge to his words.

"Aye I did. You got me one, which I wasn't expecting. And I didn't buy this as much as get it made for you. Well, you'll see. Open it."

Mycroft gave him a look, and opened the tiny packet carefully, as if he were afraid whatever was inside was going to fly away. Greg nibbled on his lower lip, hoping he hadn't made a bad decision. He was worried how Mycroft would take his gift, if it would go over well or not.

The paper separated to reveal a tiny watch fob, less than two centimeters long. It was made of gold and a darker metal, almost pewter in hue. It was a long, flat oval, the edges gold, and glittered with tiny scalloped designs around the whole length. In the center was the darker metal, and Mycroft ran his fingers over it. Greg waited with baited breath as Mycroft flipped it over, and the spymaster stilled, fingers frozen as he took in the inscription engraved in the darker metal.

"When I got shot, the bullet fragmented on its way out. The surgeons pulled a piece out of my rib. I had Sally take that piece to a jeweler, and asked them to make this. I heard you, Mycroft. I heard you, as I was dying, and you called me back. I love you, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. I'll even come back from the dead for you."

"'Anything for You'," Mycroft read softly, the inscription the first words he said after Mycroft called him back from that place in between death and life. "Gregory…"

Greg took the tiny fob from the stunned spymaster, and gently pulled his pocket watch from his vest pocket. The long chain was empty, and Greg picked a link close the watch, so that Mycroft could keep it out of sight if he wished. He attached it, and gave the watch and chain to Mycroft, letting him see how it looked. It was subtle, and the engraving tiny. Someone would have to be way too close to Mycroft to read it, much less see the words. Perfectly subtle enough for a man who piled his trade in secrets and threats, who wouldn't want enemies to know about his love life.

Mycroft put the watch back on his vest, where the tiny fob glittered against the gray fabric. Greg smiled, thinking he might have made the right choice, as Mycroft kept touching it with a finger, as if needing the sensation of the metal under his fingers to tell him it was real. He looked up, and Greg knew his spymaster loved it, just by the glow in his eyes.

"Thank you, Gregory." Mycroft pulled him in, and the kiss they shared was sweet, tender, and slow.

"I figured I ought to give you the tangible present first." He said as they separated, their arms holding each other tightly. Mycroft cocked a brow at him, and waited. Greg grinned, and whispered in Mycroft's ear. "I called my landlord before we left London. I'm not renewing my lease. I'll be moved in to your townhouse by New Year's."

"Gregory Lestrade, I love you." Mycroft whispered back, and the happy smile on his face was one Greg hadn't seen often. Glad he could put it there, he hugged his spymaster, holding him as tightly as he could, the other man doing the same.

Greg felt a vibration, and it took him a moment to realize it was his mobile. Mycroft felt it too, and pulled back enough for Greg to dig his phone out of his pocket. Greg felt his good mood take a hit; it was his parents. Most likely calling because it was Christmas, and he hadn't called.

"Hang on a sec, darling. It's my parents." He told his lover, and Mycroft nodded, a brow raised at the endearment. Greg winked at him, and answered the call, walking away a few feet.

"Hello, Dad." Greg answered, as his mother never called him first on holidays. She called his sister first, his dad always called him, then they switched. "Merry Christmas."

"Greg! Son, Merry Christmas. How's the country air?" his father asked him, his voice sounding forcibly cheerful. They were still upset at him, as he hadn't stayed in London for the holidays, like they wanted him too. He told them he was going out of town with friends, and his partner, and hadn't elaborated.

"Air's cold, Dad. It's winter. How's Mum?" Greg paced a bit as he talked, wondering when he was going to have to hang up. There was something in his father's voice, and it was making him nervous.

"Your mother is just fine. Upset you didn't stay in town for Christmas, of course. She can't figure out why you'd leave with Donovan to go spend time in the woods when all the fun and family is here, but then she's your mother, if you know what I mean."

"Dad…" Greg tried to talk, but he father rolled right over him.

"In fact, she was so upset about it, she called your partner, but Sally said you weren't with her. You said you were spending the holiday with your partner, Gregory."

Oh shit oh shit….dammit. I didn't want to do this today… shit.

"Dad." Greg gulped, and he looked at Mycroft. There was no going back once he said what he was about to, once he told his father he was involved with a man. This was going to be bad. "I am with my partner, Dad. We're at his family home. Nice people, I like them."

"You got a new partner? What's wrong with Donovan?"

"Dad, Sally isn't my partner. She's my sergeant. I meant my boyfriend. I'm sorry I wasn't clearer when I told you both earlier." Greg swallowed, mobile tight to his ear, and Mycroft held his gaze. He nodded at Greg, as if to tell him that it was okay, everything would be fine. "I'm with my boyfriend, Dad."

He didn't hear anything for a minute. The line was still open. He could hear his dad breathing, faster than was wise for man with a bad ticker. "Dad?"

"BOYFRIEND?"

It was shouted so loudly into the phone that his mobile's speakers couldn't handle it, and Greg yanked it away from his ear. Mycroft heard the shout, even from a few feet away, and his brows disappeared in disbelief at the vitriol rolling out from the mobile. Greg held the mobile away, and tried not to get upset. It was hard, hearing his father use words that he normally wouldn't, calling him horrid things over the line.

He stared at the mobile, at a loss, not knowing what to say or to do. So when Mycroft reached out, and took it from his unresisting hand, Greg let him. The spymaster ended the call mid-tirade, and turned it off. He put the mobile down on the table, and gathered Greg to his chest. Greg was so mad, so upset, that he couldn't do anything but hold Mycroft back, jaw frozen, tongue immobile, ability to speak shocked into silence.

Mycroft held him, hands rubbing over his shoulders, saying nothing. Greg dropped his head to Mycroft's chest, and let his lover soothe him. His heart hurt, and he had never felt such a nasty mix of pain, shame, anger, disappointment and betrayal in his life. He knew his parents' prejudices. Mostly they were his father's, and his mother usually agreed with whatever his father said. His sister had little to do with their parents, but she probably felt the same, as the man she married was a carbon copy of their father.

"The only thing you can do, Greg, is be who you are. Never be ashamed of who you are. They will either love you, or not. Let them decide whether or not they can handle the truth." Mycroft was calm, his hands rubbing him, every gentle glide across his back easing the tension in his body. "I love you."

"I love you too." Greg managed to whisper back, his mind in turmoil. Every second that Mycroft held him quieted the storm, and Greg clutched at him, arms holding Mycroft to him, giving him a safe place in this horrible situation.

---

Violet hummed softly to herself as she wandered out of the dining room, running up the stairs to put her laptop away. She was going to give her grandparents their Christmas present, but her grandfather was taking a nap, and Marion asked her to wait until later that evening.

Suddenly her mobile buzzed, and Violet pulled it out of her pocket. It was a text from Mary.

Go talk to Sherlock alone. Ask him about the pine tree. –MM

Violet stopped in the hallway, and read the text again in confusion. Ask Sherlock about a pine tree? Weird. But I'm game….

Violet turned on her heel, and walked for the stairs. Sherlock and John hadn't come down since John pulled Sherlock out of the sitting room earlier. They were probably upstairs having sex. She had no issue interrupting, and took the steep steps eagerly, her curiosity giving her strides an extra bounce.

Violet knocked loudly on her uncle's door, and laughed as she heard the grumbling on the other side. She heard them get out of bed, and the whispering as they hopefully put on some clothes.

Sherlock cracked open the door, a frigid look on his face, brows raised as he saw her. She held the mobile up, text message open, and watched as his face went from annoyed to astonishment. She yelped as he reached out and snagged her wrist, and pulled her into the room, slamming the door behind her and locking it.

John was sitting on the bed, putting on some socks, equally surprised to have his lover's niece in the room, both men half dressed. She saw the tags and the ring on Sherlock's neck, and giggled in delight, glad to have some non-hacker things to think about.

"Hey John. You ask him already then?" She asked the doctor, and he rolled his eyes.

"I'm not going to ask you how you know, waste of time. Just don't go telling everyone else, okay?"

"No problem. I can keep any secret. Just promise to tell me when you settle on a wedding date. I'm gonna make a killing off of the betting."

"Christ. Both of you are going to be the death of me." John groused under his breath, and he stood up, reaching for a shirt. Thankfully he had on trousers. "So what's with the poorly timed visit?"

"Mary wants me to ask Sherlock about a pine tree." She said casually, and she grinned as John froze in the middle of putting on his shirt, glancing at the brooding detective. "Alone, too. Which means no Mycroft. But I figure that doesn't mean you. Okay Sherlock, tell me all about the pine tree."

Sherlock walked over to John, the look he was giving his lover a very intent one, full of hidden meaning. She felt her curiosity stir, and she really wanted to know what this was about. John sighed, and nodded resignedly. Sherlock sat on the bed, John dropping back down to sit beside him. Sherlock looked at her, and his words bounced around in her head like ping bong balls in a game of beer pong.

"Jaime Moriarty is alive, and she is the sniper who saved Mycroft."

---

"Do you want me to do it, Jaime? What if Sherlock and John don't handle this well? Or Violet, for that matter?" Mary asked the younger woman, who was staring at her mobile, an unholy gleam of enjoyment making her dark eyes shine brightly.

"No, I'll do it. Best fun to be had right now. I'll be well behaved, don't worry. Think she's had long enough to ask him?"

"Knowing Violet, she probably ran as fast as she could to ask him. She likes puzzles, same as Sherlock."

"Ahh, the joy of family." Jaime whispered, and Mary hovered as the young assassin dialed Violet Hunter, mobile on Speaker.

---

Violet gaped at her uncle, for once so shocked she had nothing to say. She was so flummoxed that she at first didn't notice her cell was ringing, the opening notes of a Bach violin concerto loud in the room. Sherlock cocked a brow at her, and nodded at the phone.

Violet shook her head, and answered it. She saw the caller ID, and tossed it on Speaker.

"Mary?" Violet asked, her voice cracking with excitement. "I'm with Sherlock and John, what's going on? Are you okay?"

There was a brief moment of silence, and Violet's eyes about popped out of her head when the beautiful, airy laugh flew from the speakers, in a voice she had never heard before. John and Sherlock stood, and stared at the mobile like it was live thing, ready to bite them all.

"Mary is just fine, Violet." The woman's voice was astonishingly pretty, alternately between low, seductive, mature tones, and the joyous abandon of a young girl. "And is everyone enjoying their holiday?"

"Holy shit, you're Jaime Moriarty. You're alive! Fuck me." Violet was stunned, and she couldn't decide whether to toss the mobile on the floor and run, or bust out laughing. "This is so cool."

"I am indeed. Is Sherlock available, dear? I would love to talk to him."

Violet looked at her uncle, and gently gave him the phone, glad to let someone else hold it. Her hand felt like it was stuck in a live current, full of tingles and starting to sweat. He sighed, and stared at it musingly.

"I'm here." His voice was like a growl, barely restrained emotion evident. "Speak your piece."

"Oh, Sherlock. Don't be so hostile. I have been saving your life for the last several days."

"I want to talk to Mary." John said, impatient. "I need to know she's okay."

"John. Seriously?" Mary snapped, and John sighed in relief, not caring the mother of his child sounded pissed off. "If the three of you can't play nice, I'm going to get upset. Don't make me get upset, dammit."

Violet just slapped a hand over her mouth, and tried not to giggle. She was the only one having any fun with this highly improbable situation. Well, except for the crazy killer chick. Still, this was so cool she couldn't care about anything else in this moment.

Jaime laughed again, the sound way too appealing to belong to a mass murderer. Violet shuddered, but couldn't stop listening.

"My dearest has spoken, gentlemen. Are you prepared to listen, or do I need to come do this in person?" Jaime asked drily, her voice so full of enjoyment that Violet just gave up, and started laughing silently. She was probably not the best person to have in the room, her idea of what was funny really didn't make people comfortable.

"Go ahead." Sherlock told the crazy woman, and he sat back down on the bed, staring at the phone. Having Jaime Moriarty anywhere near his parents' place was apparently out of the question for the consulting detective.

"I have a proposal. We share a common interest, gentlemen. Keeping Mary safe. You, for the life she carries, John Watson's child." Jaime stated plainly, and John was about to protest, but Sherlock shook his head at him to stay quiet. "I want Mary to stay safe for my own reasons. Mainly, because she is the only person left in this wretched world I love."

Violet sighed, hearing Jaime confirm that she loved Mary making her feel jealous and happy. Even the crazy ones were falling in love and pairing up, and she finds a girl in love with her own uncle. Life was most definitely unfair.

"We can debate the reasons later, but yes, we share the same goal."

"She has made a bargain with Mycroft, that he set her free once she gives him every one of her missions. With Violet's assistance, Mary is nearly done with that task. Mary assures me that Mycroft will honor his word?"

"Yes, my brother will keep his promise."

"Mary also tells me that she bargained for protection, that MI6 protect her until her child is born, after which our dear doctor gets custody of the child. This is to insure she survives to give birth, which is a challenge indeed, as the CIA is going to spread the word that she is alive, and here in London. Mary has many people who want her dead, as you know."

"What? Mary, you're going to leave? What the hell? Why?" John interrupted again, his voice cracking.

"John, please. I can't raise a baby. No matter how badly I want her John, she will never, ever be safe with me once the CIA tells my enemies that I'm alive." Mary sounded so sad, her voice low, as if she were holding back tears. "She'll be safe with you, I know she will."

"Oh, Mary, no…." John whispered, wiping at his face. It was obvious that John hadn't expected Mary to make this decision, and it bothered him a great deal. He wasn't the type of man to want to separate a mother from her baby.

"The good doctor shares my difficulty, it seems." Jaime said, and Violet could hear the satisfaction in her voice. The air was full of something, as if the first crash of thunder was expected, but taking its time happening. "I want Mary to be happy, and she wants her child."

"Get to why you've called, Moriarty." Sherlock demanded, sharp and impatient.

"I shall! I have seen a solution. Rather simple, but it will require the singular skills of your niece. We were going to ask her directly, without involving you, but Mary assured me that Violet would not keep this a secret unless you asked her too." Jaime sounded so smug, a satisfied cat having eaten a canary. "And she would go to you the instant Mary asked, as her loyalties belong to you first, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at Violet, his impossible eyes weighing Moriarty's words. Violet blushed, but nodded once. Her loyalty was to Sherlock first, above all others.

"So, since there is no other way to go about executing my solution other than to involve everyone from the first, I decided to call. Are you ready, little scion?"

"I… sure. Fuck it. I've probably done worse, all before breakfast. Wow me."

"I want you to erase Mary Morstan, Violet. I believe you named your world-ender Clean Slate." Jaime stated plainly, and Violet gasped at the proposal. She didn't question how Jaime knew about it, all it took was one dropped word in the wrong ear a lifetime ago, and the legend spread like wildfire among the criminal elements of the world.

Why the HELL didn't I think of that already? I'm such an idiot!

"Holy shit! You're just as smart as your crazy brother! Why the hell didn't I think of that myself?" Violet crowed, tossing her hands up. She could do this! She had done it already!

"My crazy brother once told me that it was the most obvious answers that escaped the notice of genius the longest." Jaime told them softly, her words full of hidden meaning, undertones of grief and sadness.

John raised a brow, and gave Sherlock a lightning fast look. Violet was too busy dancing around to pay much attention to the doctor teasing his detective.

"I thought a Clean Slate program was just in movies and science fiction novels?" Sherlock asked, watching his niece jump around in excitement. "It's impossible to make, or to use?"

"Normally, that would be a yes. But have you wondered why the CIA, Interpol, and every major agency and government in the world wants your niece?" Jaime asked, her voice smug. "I know why, gentlemen. She is the best in the world, yes… and she has done the impossible. There is a legend floating about the nether-realms of the internet that a Clean Slate program was written, fully executable and functional, and by a child prodigy no less. It was those rumors that inspired the foolish tales and stories seen in the movies. The rumors of its creation have been dogging your scion for the last thirteen years."

"Yeah, never brag to a cute girl with a douchebag boyfriend in an internet café when you're bored and lonely. My bad." Violet stopped bouncing, and was glad she still had her laptop. She ran to a nearby desk, and powered her computer back up, her brain already working in overdrive.

"And what about you, Jaime? Do you wish to be erased as well?" Sherlock demanded, his words making it clear he feared the assassin had an ulterior motive. Violet paused, and waited for the answer.

"No, darling Sherlock. I am dead, I have no need for such protection. My remaining power comes from my infamy. And if I were to ask, you would keep Violet from doing it, and keep her from helping Mary as well."

Sherlock growled softly under his breath, frustrated, but he must have believed her, as he just nodded to Violet. She bent back to the keys, and pulled up her restricted files.

"Violet? Care to explain?" John asked from the bed, but she didn't respond to him. She was too focused on what she was doing. "Violet?"

"Shush! I have to work!" Violet snapped out, and she lifted her head, and spoke loudly to the woman on the phone. "Crazy chick, I'll call back when I'm ready for Mary to test the program. It'll be a while, don't expect a call for a few days."

"My thanks. I owe you a favor, little Holmes. And a favor owed by a Moriarty is always paid in full."

The line died out, the call ended. Violet ignored the two men staring at her, her fingers flying over the keyboard so fast her computer was having trouble keeping up. Violet knew, she knew, that she could do this. She could erase Mary from all existence, and even better, make sure she stayed erased, forever. She would be impossible to find once Violet got done.

"Violet?" John asked again. He snapped his mouth shut when she tossed him a gimlet stare, her eyes clearly conveying her need for his silence.

"John, let me work. Once I'm done, Mary doesn't need to hide, she doesn't need to run, and she doesn't need to give up her baby. She can stay in London, and between the two of you, you can raise your bound to be adorable munchkin in mixed family bliss. SHUT UP."

She dived back into the work, ignoring the glares. She had so much work to do, and a goal just out of reach.

"She isn't going to work on it in our bedroom, is she?" John asked Sherlock, and the detective shrugged. "She said days, Sherlock…. In our bedroom."