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!

51. Vice, Sins and Sacrifice

Disclaimer: Sherlock isn't mine, but I am his.

A/N: I'd like to address some misconceptions out there real quick. I'll be short and sweet, then on to the fun. Please take a minute, and read this note, I appreciate it.

1. This story, 'Forever Yours, Sherlock', is actually a trilogy. It's THREE books published under one title, so that the story continuity remains intact. Part One is Book One, Part Two is Book Two, and it'll be the same for Part Three. Chapter 51 is in the middle of Part Two. I mention this so that everyone can stop worrying about me abandoning this fanfiction. I'm not even close to being done, I swear. You all have MONTHS left of me publishing.

2. This is my second time writing this story. Every SINGLE MAJOR plot point is already written, waiting for me to transcribe it from my notes into chapter form. I know exactly where I'm going, where I'm taking Sherlock and his friends, and what's going to happen. Trust me kids, I know what I'm doing. I am NOT making any of this up as I go along. The story exists, handwritten and lovingly guarded beside my desk. Please don't beg me to go contrary to the plotline I have mapped. If you all love what I've done so far, I PROMISE that I will not let you down.

Trust me. I love Sherlock like I love to breathe. I've got this. I'll see you all through to the end, broken, bleeding, crying, laughing and having so much damn fun we'll all want to do it over again.

"Right, back to work."

WARNING: SEX. And sadness.

---

Chapter 51

"Vice, Sins and Sacrifice"

Christmas Day, December 25th

"No, not in your bedroom. I need to get back to London." Violet stood, having primed the programs she would need to activate her world-ender.

It was the beast slumbering beneath her trackers, the program that could, and would, erase generations of knowledge and information if handled incorrectly, or if coercion was plied against it, or any command issued without her password. Her program of last resort was the Clean Slate, born in a desperate wish from a broken-hearted teen, and grown to eclipse its original purpose in the years since. It had many uses now, first and foremost among its duties the protection of Violet's identity, and her megaservers.

Once Violet turned Clean Slate's focus on Mary Morstan, there was nothing the digital world could do to prevent her erasure. She needed to get back to London, and the station she 'borrowed' from her uncle. The execution would be easier from there.

"I have to go….." Violet snapped her laptop shut, and pulled it under her arm. She was so engrossed in her plans, she didn't see Sherlock jump from the bed, not until he was between her and the door. She stopped abruptly, blinking at him in confusion, her mind overlaid by code and designs, plans to be executed.

"You can't leave like this." Sherlock told her, and she rocked back on her heels, mind begrudgingly crawling out from under her desire to get started.

"What? Why the hell not?"

"Mycroft."

One name was all it took, and Violet groaned, closing her eyes and throwing up her empty hand in exasperation. She snapped her fingers, and opened her eyes, fixing on Sherlock a narrow glare. She pointed at him, and stepped up into his personal space.

"I need to go. I gave Mycroft the Key to the Kingdom, Sherlock. He has everything he needs to rule the world, and I gotta get this done before he's back in London. I need to leave."

Sherlock didn't waiver, didn't falter. He met her glare with one of his own, and leaned back on the door.

"No, Violet. You leave now, we all must leave, Mycroft included. Even he won't understand why you want to leave on Christmas Day, and we can't let you go alone. He will follow us, because he can't keep from digging once he gets the scent of something. Act normally as we can, and we leave tomorrow evening instead of two days from now." Sherlock reached out, and touched her cheek, smoothing her frown away with a quick flick of his finger. She sighed, seeing the entreaty in his eyes.

"One day more, Violet. Mary is safe right now. Safer than she ever was with us, strangely enough." John told her, stepping up beside them. "I don't approve of the company she keeps, but the crazy psychopath can keep Mary safe until you can sweep in and save her for real."

Violet grumbled, knowing John was appealing in part to her ego, and Sherlock on her loyalty to him. She couldn't, she wasn't capable of telling her uncle no, not when it mattered. And he knew it, too.

"I still have a case to solve back in London. A drug lord to stop, and if Scotland Yard is still predictably inadequate, a missing chemist to find as well. I'll tell them tonight after dinner, and we leave tomorrow night on the last train for London." Sherlock used his hand to pull her in, and she gave up when he hugged her to his chest, his big hand rubbing at the tense muscles of her neck, under her hair. "If we're lucky, Mycroft and Lestrade will stay here another day as planned, and you can do what you must before he returns to London."

"Do we have to keep this from him?" John asked softly, leaning on Sherlock's other shoulder, his hand rubbing Violet's back in apology for waylaying her. "If we tell him about Moriarty, he'll rescind his offer to Mary because of her association with her, but what about the Clean Slate? Surely he won't begrudge Violet using it to keep Mary safe."

Violet pulled back just enough to see Sherlock's face, his eyes the only splash of color on his otherwise pale face. He was thinking, eyes faded, his awareness spinning. She would follow his lead, and trust he knew what he was doing.

"We shall see. It's best to ask forgiveness than permission, anyway. We leave tomorrow night."

Violet grumbled, and gently pulled away from her uncles. The ring resting with the tags let Violet have a small moment of obsession free clarity, before her mind got pulled back into her codes. Sherlock and John getting married meant she could call John her uncle as readily as she did the two related by blood. Her family was getting bigger, and better, every time she turned around.

It was the best gift of all.

"Well, since we leave tomorrow night, then I'm stealing your room. Mycroft won't dare snoop in here, especially with you two going at each other like newlyweds. I'll be over here in the corner, saving the day."

Violet ignored the dual groans of exasperation as she sat back down at the desk, mind occupied already.

---

Christmas Day, Evening

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Mum. I have a case to solve back in London. Violet's in danger until Woodley is stopped." Sherlock murmured, eyeing the door to the kitchen over her shoulder. Marion figured he was making sure no one else was walking this way, to avoid explaining himself to multiple people. Her youngest was up to something for certain. "And she wants to leave, for a little while at least. I believe she and Anthea are no longer special friends."

Marion eyed her youngest, seeing his impassive face, the stony cold eyes and the way he was standing, rigid determination clear in the set of his shoulders.

"Don't be lying to me with the truth, William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" She snapped at him, glowering. "I can see it's something more than that, but I won't pry." Marion grumbled, putting away the last dish, throwing the towel on the rack to dry.

Dinner had been a far more relaxed affair than the debacle of the night before, just family. Marion smiled despite her displeasure, realizing she considered Greg and John family already. Her sons were deeply enamored of their partners, the air was thick with love and those special glances that always led to something more. She may be of an age where such things didn't matter as much, but she remembered well how it felt. To be young, and newly in love.

Marion looked at Sherlock, her son leaning against the sink, arms crossed over his chest. He wore a wary look on his face, clearly unused to having someone see through him so easily. John was getting there, pretty soon he'd have her beat. Marion saw the flash of metal underneath his collar, a chain around his neck. Sherlock wasn't one to wear jewelry, at most a wristwatch.

She moved quickly enough he couldn't dart away, and he sighed as she tugged the chain free from his shirt. Marion felt tears prick her eyes as she read the tags, John's name and information stamped clearly in the shiny steel, and she saw the ring nestled among them.

"Oh, Sherlock." Marion whispered, a hand over her mouth. She held the ring, and smiled past her tears. She knew without being told what it meant, that her son had a partner who loved him, faults and virtues in all, and was willing to make it official. John was a brave man, and his determination to be with her son made her the happiest mother this side of the Atlantic.

"Umm… he asked me." Sherlock said, hesitant. Shy, as if he feared her reaction.

"And you said?"

"He doesn't want me to answer him yet." Sherlock huffed out, annoyance and frustration deepening his voice. He was nearly mumbling, and she grinned. John was a very smart man as well.

Sherlock saw her grin, and tugged the necklace away from her, putting back under his shirt out of sight.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, wondering at her expression.

"He's wise man, your doctor."

"What do you mean?"

"He knows you well, and knows that you tend to jump into things without pondering the consequences. You think so fast, sometimes you outthink yourself. He knows you want to say yes, but he also wants you to be sure."

"What's there to be sure about?" He asked her, throwing up his hands in exasperation. He ran a hand threw his curls, a sure sign he was at his wit's end. "I love him, I want to say yes."

Marion checked over her shoulder, glad they were alone. Her poor boy was lost and didn't even know why.

"Look at me, darling." She ordered him, grabbing one of his hands, tugging until he met her gaze. He looked so confused. "I know you love John. I also know how you feel about marriage. For you, it's either a waste of paper, or a legal transaction. I suspect a large part of you sees this marriage as a convenience, a way to bind John to you in every way, so the world doesn't interfere with the two of you. Now get that look off your face-…." She chided. Sherlock was indignant, upset with her summation of his marriage opinions. "I know you love John, and that the delightful, buried part of your heart wants this marriage for sentimental reasons too. But we both know what you think of sentiment. John loves you, and feels differently about marriage than you do."

"Yes, I know." He said, obviously wishing for her to get to the point.

"Tell me how John sees marriage, Sherlock." She rubbed his hand, and glared at him when he rolled his eyes. He settled down, and dropped his head. "Think hard about it, too."

Sherlock sighed, and held her hand back. She smiled, glad to have him stop fighting her on this. He needed to see, to understand.

"He sees it as a promise, a partnership." He snuck her a glance, and she nodded at him encouragingly. He bit his lip, and dug deeper. "John thinks it's something to be valued, worked at, that it's something worth having."

"Go on."

"He thinks it's something respectable, desirable. He's a man meant to be married, so he can devote every shred of himself to another person." His voice trailed off, and he blinked rapidly. "The person he marries will be first in his life, before everything else, every other distraction or temptation."

Marion nodded, and pulled him closer. He sighed, and gave her the saddest look she'd ever seen on him, even one to rival the look he wore after he faked his death, and came back to hide from his pain in his old room. He was starting to understand what it meant for John to propose.

"Can you, my darling boy, make John the center of your universe, the most important thing in your life? Can you make the choice between a case, and John? Usually you're both on the same page, but the time will come when you'll have to choose between who you are, and your spouse. Conflicts arise, decisions to be made, every day that goes by in your lives together. Can you forego your own pain, to soothe his? What happens if John doesn't want to be your crime solving partner anymore, and be just a doctor? Can you adjust to that? Can you sacrifice what you want, to make someone else happy?"

"I…."

"Shush, let me finish. John is the type of man who will do anything, anything Sherlock, to make the person he marries happy. Even if it means sacrificing the things that make him happy. He loves you so much, he's willing to do anything for you. I fear, and so does he, that you will take advantage of his willingness to sacrifice for you, and you'll cease to be partners. It'll be only about you, what you want and need, and there'll be nothing left for John."

"But I love him… I wouldn't hurt him!" Sherlock's face was a study in shock, dismay, anger, and denial. And there was doubt….. hidden in his eyes, Marion saw the doubt grow.

"Can you be certain of that? I know you well, my dear boy. It's entirely possible you would become that way, if he let you, if you didn't fight to remain equals. Not deliberately on your part, but it might happen all the same."

"Is that why he wants me to think about it?"

"Yes, dear. He loves you, and wants you, but he is afraid that you'll destroy each other if you enter this union before you've thought things through. He's afraid he'll be unable to protect you, from everything, and most especially from yourself. He's afraid that you'll consume him, too." Marion put a hand to the back of his head, and pulled him down for a kiss to his forehead. He looked so sad and lost, she didn't want him to think there was no hope for him and John.

"Sherlock." She whispered in his ear, and he lifted his eyes to her. "I have more hope for you now than I ever did. John has made you grow, opened you up to your heart, he makes you better, stronger, wiser. If you enter into a marriage with him, fully prepared and aware of what it means to the both of you, I have no fears for your future together. Marriage is a case that needs constant solving, it is never closed. Remember that, and you'll be fine."

Sherlock held her gaze, damp eyes full of entreaty and bedraggled hope. He must have seen her confidence, her faith in him, because he relaxed. She was glad they were still alone, otherwise he would never have let her hold him, nor would he have rested his head on her shoulder.

---

London, Christmas Evening

Jaime watched the sun set on Christmas, the last orange rays disappearing over the London skyline. The wind stirred as the sun set, cold air rising from the shadows, each breath painful and sharp. Unusually cold, even for winter, London was freezing with each passing day. Temperatures were plummeting, and this was one of the coldest holidays on record. The lonely atmosphere called to her, the silence in the deepening dark a siren call.

Jaime stepped out from the front stoop, the front garden of her brother's cottage covered in snow. She felt the snap of the frozen air over her skin, and her muscles tightened instinctively before she relaxed them. Twilight was illuminating the small street, the city lights few and far between. It was quiet, traffic rare on this street, the other houses shuttered and vacant.

As silent as the voice in my mind. I cannot hear him.

Jaime walked out into the yard, the crunch of the snow under her boots the only sound. Her breath frosted the air, and she ran her fingers through it, watching the swirls fade away.

She stared at her hand, the smooth skin, the perfect nails, the tiny scars faded, nearly invisible. Years of handling sharp objects, climbing over rough terrain, and fighting tooth and nail for her brother's orders and blood money had left the faintest of marks on her body. The scar she bore across her shoulders and back from Blackwood's fiery death was the only true visible mark on her body. A single scar of her wretchedly violent and dark life.

"Jaime?" She turned to the woman standing in the doorway, Mary's deep blue eyes shrouded in concern. Jaime had been withdrawn, quiet, trapped by memories after the phone call to Violet. "Jaime, sweetheart, are you okay?"

Jaime dropped her hand, and looked to the sky. The winter moon was already bright, high in the sky, full and so clear she could see the darker marks on its surface. The moon bore scars, much as she did.

"It is strange for me, Mary."

"What is?" Mary whispered, silently coming to her side, habit making each footfall soundless, even in the snow. Old habits are the best habits.

Jaime stared at the moon, its light cold, yet so bright. She was fading away, as fast as her frozen breath in the night air, falling to pieces beneath the heartless moon. There was nothing holding her anymore….

"Talking to Sherlock Holmes. Not planning his death, or anyone else's. That was my whole life, planning the next death." Jaime whispered, watching her breath swirl into the darkness. "I did as he bade me, as my master asked. Always his voice in my head, telling me what to do, always."

"Your master? Sweetheart, he was your brother." She could hear Mary's concern in her voice, her words.

"He was my master since the day he taught me to kill," Jaime told the moon, the same moon that hung high in the sky the night she slew Lord Blackwood, her brother's words cycling in her head, her mind, overriding her fear. Giving her power. "He taught me how to save myself, and I stopped fearing everything that day. There was nothing left but him, and how much I loved him. I owed him everything, and so I gave him everything I was."

Jaime blinked, her eyes dry from gazing at the moon and the cold air. She dropped her head, and looked at Mary. Her blue eyes were luminous and vibrant in the moonlight, her face crafted from porcelain, and yet even smoother, finer. Jaime felt the vague sense of loss, of being weightless, small under the heavens slowly vanish, the love she saw in Mary's eyes stronger than any melancholy.

"It's you now, Mary." Jaime told her, and she placed her hand along Mary's warm cheek. Mary leaned into her, holding her hand over hers. The blonde woman sighed, her eyes asking the question, what she meant. "I am…darkness. I am Death, in truth. I tried to have Clay show me how to exist, to be real, but he can't reach me like you. I don't know how to exist without a focus, purpose. I need you, Mary. Be what I need, be my master. I already love you, save me, please."

"Oh, sweetheart." Mary lifted a small hand, her slim fingers tracing over the planes of her face. "I won't be your master, but I will be your love. I'll always be your love. That will be enough. I'll be all you need, because I love you."

Jaime sighed, and hoped Mary was right. She no longer had his voice to guide her, James was gone. Truly gone. She had not even his bones to visit, no empty grave to stand beside. He was gone, forever, and her life aimless without him, and without his purpose guiding her throughout her days.

She would let Mary guide her, whether the other woman wanted to or not. Jaime knew in her wasteland of a heart that she couldn't be in the same world as this wonderful woman without something, someone, holding her together. Keeping her in bounds, and under control.

Jaime silently gave her allegiance to Mary, vowing in her heart to treasure her, love her, and obey her as long as she breathed. For Mary, there was nothing she wouldn't do, no task too great.

"I love you, Mary. You may not be my master, but you can be my guiding star. As bright as the stars above us now in the night sky, that is how you shine for me," Jaime whispered, and she dipped her head, brushing her lips over Mary's soft and luscious mouth.

I will follow you, Mary. I am yours, no measure spared. I am yours.

Jaime kissed her, lips cool and so appealing. Mary gasped, and her sleek, firmly toned arms roped around her neck. Mary pressed her full length against her, and Jaime sighed, deepening the kiss. Heat grew, slow and sure, embers stoked, each breathy sigh and sweet gasp Mary gave her causing her blood to run hotter and hotter.

Jaime pulled back, and gripped Mary's hand in hers, and firmly towed the smaller woman after her, to the house. Mary followed eagerly, and Jaime crashed through the front door, the old wood bouncing off the wall and slamming shut behind them. Jaime led Mary to the bedroom, and she slammed the door shut behind them. Her room was dark, the drapes closed. No light, just touch.

Jaime slid her hand up Mary's arm in the dark, and she stopped at the zipper of her coat. Jaime grabbed the tiny piece of metal, and slowly, surely, tugged it down. Mary helped her, and shrugged from free from her coat, tossing it away into the shadows. Jaime grabbed her own collar, and ripped off her own coat, the long black fabric sliding down her torso, hips, and her legs. Mary's hands were on her waist, and Jaime stepped into her embrace. Their mouths found each other in the darkness, tongues sweetly caressing, soft lips wet and delicious.

"Jaime? Are you sure?"

"I am not afraid of love." Jaime vowed, and picked the smaller woman up, and tossed them both onto the bed, the soft blankets welcoming them. "I will never be afraid again."

Jaime rolled over on top of Mary, taking infinite care not to put any weight on her, no pressure on her abdomen. Every part of Mary was precious, even the child she bore. Mary was kicking off her boots, and Jaime laughed softly, doing the same.

Jaime kissed her, her sweet mouth returning each advance with eager passion, leaving her breathless. She felt Mary's hands work under her shirt, and Jaime sat up, straddling Marys' thighs. She finished for her, and pulled her shirt off over her head. Mary's small hands swept up her stomach, over her ribs, and cupped her breasts. Jaime tossed back her head, the sensation so new, so invigorating, every muscle in her thighs clenched and tensed.

Mary sat up, Jaime in her lap, and her soft lips kissed her shoulders, tiny white teeth nipping at her skin. Jaime moaned softly, and gasped as Mary's hands wandered behind her back. She unsnapped her bra without hesitation, and Jaime felt the tiny scrap of fabric slip off her arms and away. Mary cupped her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples, and Jaime gasped and giggled all at once. She felt Mary smile, her lips pressed to her shoulder.

Jaime followed her lead, and found the hem of Mary's shirt, tugging the fabric up. Mary raised her arms, and Jaime pulled the offending garment off, tossing it to the floor. Mary was slim, and she was far more muscular than she had been the month prior. Jaime smiled, seeing the methods her poor love had used to manage her pent of frustrations while in hiding. She would offer her a new method of exercising, now.

She slowly placed a hand on Mary's side, thumb rubbing the soft skin. Mary sighed, sounding so happy, and Jaime went higher, over her ribs. She stopped just below her bra, and Jaime waited a heartbeat before slipping her hand underneath. She touched the firm, yet soft swell of a breast, and Mary ran kisses up her shoulder, and along her neck. Jaime moved her hand back, and with one tiny flick of her fingers, unsnapped Mary's bra.

For some reason, Mary giggled, and Jaime took that as encouragement. She tugged, and Mary was suddenly naked from the waist up. Jaime put both hands on Mary's shoulders, and pushed, lightly. Mary fell back on the bed, Jaime above her. She bent over, and placed a wet, open mouthed kiss to Mary's abdomen, just above her navel. She heard the soft, breathy sigh above her in the dark, and Jaime went higher, kissing and tasting. Mary writhed the tiniest amount on the blankets, her small hands gripping and releasing on Jaime's arms.

Jaime paused, and closed her eyes. She found that shivering, elusive, fragile nugget of fear and nerves that was trying to spread through her mind and body, and gripped it ruthlessly. Jaime strangled the fear, the nerves, choked it out and ground it to dust, letting the remnant blow away in the cold east wind of her soul. She breathed out, and let her mouth settle on the sweet curve of Mary's breast.

Mary exhaled in a rush of sound, enticing Jaime's senses. She sucked lightly on the pert nipple she found, enjoying every twitch of Mary's muscles beneath her hands. The blonde woman was panting, and the broken words that slipped past her lips were words Jaime had never heard before, not whispered so reverently. The taste of Mary's skin was sweet, the faint hint of mint from her body wash and the suggestion of salt addicting. Jaime moved higher, kissing the delightful curve of the breast she worshipped, to the lean muscles of a graceful neck.

Jaime slowly touched her lips and tongue over Mary's jaw, to the soft pink lips she spent most of her day thinking about. This kiss was gentle, intimate, Jaime sighing in relief to feel them again, responding to her eagerly. She was so captivated by the soft lips she tasted she didn't notice Mary maneuvering beneath her, not until the smaller woman lifted with her hips, and flipped her on her back.

Jaime went, startled, and doing her best not to tense up. Mary knelt between her thighs, and her slim fingers were carefully undoing the waistband of her cargo pants. The buttons popped free, one at a time, and Jaime breathed fast, fingers digging into the blankets under her. She felt exposed, open, her body being bared layer by layer. If this had been anyone other than Mary she would have snapped, and ended the night in violence.

My loyalty, my life, my heart. Take me all, everything I am.

Jaime relaxed, and Mary felt the tension leave her, her fingers moving faster. Hands gripped her waistband, and her cargo pants were peeled off and away. Jaime didn't have time to acclimate before two fingers snuck under her panties, and they were gone too.

She was naked before Mary, legs open, with the cool air touching her intimately. Gentle fingers dusted over her inner thighs, and she couldn't restrain the whimper as hands splayed wide on her legs, coaxing them open further. She obeyed, her stomach clenching, knees lifting on their own. Mary lowered herself to the bed, and there was just enough light leaking into the room for Jaime to catch a glimpse of pale skin and glittering eyes between her legs.

The first touch was a singular one, cautious, exploratory. A fingertip, small and sweetly wielded slid through her wet folds, and Jaime shook. A single, tiny touch made her whole body react, a tightening of muscles in her core. She never felt the like before, and she nearly flew off the bed when she felt a breath exhale beside the finger touching her up and down, top to bottom.

"Sshhh. Easy sweetheart. Relax, let me show you something wonderful." Mary's whisper soared out from the dark, her breath caressing her most vulnerable place. Jaime whimpered, as that one finger coasted up, opening her.

Jaime cried out as that one finger teased her entrance, the small digit circling it, getting her used to the idea of it being there, touching her like that. She knew it was coming, her body torn between fleeing and acceptance. Mary's slim finger teased her, deeper and deeper, until her finger was wet, and sliding in and out easily. Jaime groaned, the sensation so wonderful she had no basis for comparison, and she didn't resist when a second finger joined the first.

Two fingers slid in and out of her, and a liquid wave spilled free, Mary chuckling in appreciation, her warm breath making Jaime lift her hips. She was asking, as best she could, for something, what she didn't know. Mary knew, and suddenly a wet tongue joined the delightful dance between her legs. The scream that wrenched free from her throat was startling, and quickly silenced, Jaime heaving for air around her hand. Mary licked her, her tongue finding her sensitive little nub and her lips sucking on it softly. Fingers plunged with a formidable intensity inside of her, curling to teasingly touch a special place just out of reach.

Jaime was sobbing, toes curling in the blankets, hand clamped over her mouth, the other ripping at the cloth beneath her. Her thighs were quivering, hips writhing, and the tongue and fingers driving her mad were relentless. The fingers pulled away, and Jaime cried out in protest at the aching empty sensation, right up until it was filled, a wicked tongue slipping inside of her.

Jaime shattered. Both hands gripped the bed, her hips lifting, her spine arching like a bow, her cries of release bouncing off the walls. Mary caught her hips, pulling her back to the bed, and drove her higher. Her tongue knew just where to touch, to lick, how long she needed to dip inside, and to lick up the juices freely flowing as Jaime came.

She had her first orgasm screaming Mary's name, a fiery white hot wave of liquid heat erupting behind her eyes, blinding her, air burning in her lungs, every single muscle in her body obeying the woman who tortured her so adeptly. Cry after helpless cry ripped from her chest, and Jaime succumbed to the swirling chaos of her body.

A smaller climax chased hard on the first one's heels, and Jaime shuddered, brain exploding in a shower of sparks and heart pounding rapidly. Muscles deep inside of her clenched and released, over and over, each time making her spasm across every nerve. The gentle tongue between her legs was slowly licking every inch of her, sucking and nibbling. Jaime was a ruined wreck of a woman, and loved every instant of her destruction.

"Mary!" She sobbed, lungs seeking air, each breath begging for more air, her body flash burning through the oxygen in each panting gasp.

Mary placed one last gentle kiss on her most vulnerable spot, before lifting up in the shadows. Mary's hands rubbed soothing over Jaime's thighs, each glide from her delicate fingers impossible to ignore. Mary was humming softly, her fingers calming, and Jaime blinked wearily at the woman sitting between her legs.

"Mary?" She didn't even sound like herself anymore; Jaime couldn't recall ever hearing such a vulnerable and yet happy edge to her own voice. At least, not offered honestly, without artifice.

"Yes, sweetheart?" Mary asked her softly, crawling up alongside her, and Jaime pulled her close with one shaking arm. She held Mary to her chest, her whole body useless, rendered into putty and tingling nerves. If they were to be attacked right now, she would be unable to defend Mary or herself, much less move a finger.

"What about you?" Jaime didn't know much about these things worked, but she figured past the fuzzy feeling in her head that maybe Mary wanted some attention too.

"Hmmm. This is all for you, sweetheart. Let me know when you're ready for more." Mary whispered in the dark, and Jaime felt a grin coming on, and she giggled. Both arms held the smaller woman to her chest, and Mary leaned up for a kiss.

"Now." The world's deadliest assassin grinned in the darkness, eyes that were once bright with madness and grief now free of all ghosts. She hugged her love to her, and searched out her lips for another kiss.

---

December 26th

"Dead?!" Woodley roared, the sound deafening in the warehouse, and technicians and guards alike froze. "What do you mean, he's dead?!"

"Master….. After you were spotted on the train by Holmes, and the failure to lure Sherlock to his death, The Vicar decided to take care of everything himself. He left that night, and somehow Holmes knew about it. They killed him the next morning." Peter whispered to the floor, his breath stirring the dust and minuscule debris on the concrete floors.

He dared not look up; Woodley was so enraged that even loyal, vicious Hannibal was hiding under his master's desk. Peter snuck a glance from his prostrate position on the floor, and saw the hefty beast cowering under the desk, his dark eyes glittering, as if expecting a blow. Woodley would have to be very upset to hit his dog, and he was there. The dog was smart, he'd run at the first crack in Woodley's voice, and Peter received the backhanded blow to the face instead of the dog.

Blood dripped from his mouth to the floor, and he refused to wipe it away. If he moved, Woodley would strike, like a viper in the long grass. Long years taught him better. He was thankful that he was still riding the middle of a high; the pain wasn't as bad as it could be.

"Is the fucking detective still alive? What about the girl?" Woodley growled, his feet coming in to view, barely visible out of the corner of his eye. Peter quaked, and did his best not to start shaking outright.

"Both are intact, master. No casualties other than the Vicar and some of his men." Peter whispered.

No response, no sound. Woodley wasn't moving, and he was breathing slower, not so loudly. Peter dared a quick glance up, and saw Woodley chewing on a neatly manicured nail, destroying the expensive work. It was an old habit, one left over from his rougher days.

"Three million pounds, a year of waiting and watching, and he fucking dies," said the drug lord, staring off over Peter, ignoring the man huddled at his feet. "Fucking prat. Get up."

It took Peter a moment to realize Woodley meant him, and he slowly sat up, muscles protesting at having spent so much time on the cold, hard floor. He didn't stand until Woodley paced away from him, and even then he kept his gaze averted, face down. He watched his master from under his lashes, as Woodley paced to the long table, his fingers tapping away on the hard surface.

"Anything else?" Woodley asked, his deep voice settling down, the set of his shoulders telling Peter that he was thinking, and deeply.

"The detective has purchased three return tickets to London, sir. They should be leaving this evening, getting back in late tonight sometime. No one else is returning yet, at this time."

"The elder brother isn't returning?"

"Not that I was informed, sir. Our contacts said only three tickets were purchased, under Sherlock Holmes' name."

"He pieced it together, after we passed each other in the hall on the train. I doubted his abilities, no one should have been able to figure out my identity. Fast, too. He followed me off the train, and he avoided my man outside in the lot. My mistake, leaving only one man to finish him off. I won't make another mistake." Woodley murmured, mostly to himself. "He's returning for me, now."

Peter made no reply; he knew better. If Woodley wanted him to speak, he'd ask him a direct question.

"He'll know by now I want his niece. Why is she returning with him?" It was rhetorical; Woodley moved on to a new nail, chewing absently. "Make sure the package is delivered just before he returns to his flat."

"Yes, sir, we have a man in place." Peter replied, glad he had some good news to provide. A huge, nasty grin swept across his master's face, and Peter felt sick to his gut.

"Good. See how well that fucking freak handles my present. It should take care of him for us." Woodley started to laugh, and Hannibal crept out from under the desk in response. His stubby tail was wagging, and Woodley snapped his fingers. He kept on laughing as Hannibal pranced over to him, the big monster leaning happily on his legs. "And if it doesn't, if he has the willpower to resist, he'll see the threat."

"Peter, get the car ready. I'm going to the club, call Sinful Vices, and have the VIP room prepped. I feel the need to celebrate."

---

December 26th, Midday

Greg watched as Mycroft fussed with the computer, his spymaster busy texting and making hushed calls. Anthea was at his side, and Greg watched them from the fireside chair as they sat together at the kitchen table, working with the information Violet had given her uncle. Bear was at his feet, the hairy beast panting contentedly from the heat of the fire, each breath enough to move Greg's legs. He was impressive, and Greg wondered how long Sherlock thought he was going to get away with keeping the kidnapping victim's dog.

Greg lifted his gaze back the two people at the table, and went on with his internal musings. Anthea was quiet, Sherlock's declaration of returning to London with John and Violet this coming evening having rattled the female operative. She might have been expecting more time with Violet, or using the others as a buffer from awkward silences. Mycroft told Greg the night before that Violet and Anthea had parted ways, and all because of Anthea's unresolved feelings for him. Greg remembered the whole conversation, very clearly.

Mycroft hadn't hesitated the night before when Greg confronted him about Anthea. Mycroft was aware that Anthea loved him, and he had known for quite some time. It wasn't until her kidnapping several weeks prior that he came to realize the quality of her love for him, and the depths she cared. Mycroft didn't shy away, confessing to Greg that she moved him, and held a part of his heart.

"I love you, Gregory. It is you I want to sleep beside, live with, share my life and grow old with. And I love her, yes. More than I should, than is wise. I have for a long time. But I never loved her enough to let her in, to make her mine. I had years, Gregory. Years to change our relationship, to let it flourish. Yet I chose not to. Because of you."

Greg remembered that he was lost in a tumult of pain, embarrassment, frustration, and love hearing Mycroft's words. They'd been in Mycroft's room, his spymaster sitting on the edge of the bed, running his watch and its new fob through his long, elegant fingers. Mycroft never lifted his gaze from his face, and Greg didn't bother hiding his emotions. Mycroft saw everything he was feeling.

"For five years, Greg, she's stood beside me. I thought once or twice about being her lover, changing the dynamic. She is beautiful, and she has never been frightened of me, or intimidated. That was a rare quality, and hard to find in a sexual partner. Too many of my previous ones were far more interested in my position, and not me, that even a casual sexual liaison became onerous after a few weeks."

Greg watched as Mycroft dropped everything, his armor fading fast. He remained silent, but his heart broke a little as Mycroft did his best to be honest with him, upfront.

"I kept you apart, firmly planted in the part of my life that connected to Sherlock. I am good at that, separating how I felt, from what I needed to do. After Sherlock…jumped…. I told myself that not seeing you on a regular basis was wise. My preoccupation with you was dangerous, and I didn't…. I felt I didn't deserve to feel anything for you. For so many reasons, none of which I think I'll go into right now."

Greg wandered closer to the bed, and Mycroft had this look that just begged for reassurance. Sad eyes, so fucking sad that Greg didn't stop his hand from rising, and brushing the back of his fingers over his handsome cheek. Mycroft gave him a small smile, and continued.

"Per Sherlock's conditions for faking his death, we followed John Watson. Kept him safe if necessary, had him under surveillance. I did that for my brother, even though I disapproved of the depths of affection that Sherlock held for the doctor. And I….. Did the same for you."

"What?" Greg remembered being confused, wondering what Mycroft meant.

"I had you under surveillance too. Not as thorough as John, not as constant, but I would get reports, photos. I knew when your marriage ended, when your wife left you. I got a report on you twice a week, for two years. I convinced myself it was because you were one of Moriarty's targets, and that was reason enough for the surveillance to escape the notice of my peers. But I did it to keep seeing you."

"Sounds rather extreme now. I didn't understand how I felt about you, the obsession I was fighting off tooth and nail. I didn't know I was in love with you. I have never loved anyone the way I love you. It took me years, and my brother's headlong fall into love, that woke me up."

Mycroft stood, holding Greg's hand to his face, the other running his fingertips across his chest, to hover over Greg's heart.

"Gregory. I never made the decision to get involved with Anthea because of you. I didn't go to you because I was a fool, convinced what I felt for you was nothing more than a passing diversion. And part of me fears I didn't go to you after your marriage ended because of how I felt for her. It's a fear, a small one, that I let a lesser love hold me back from the greatest love I could ever have in my lifetime."

"She will never mean more to me than she does now. What I feel for you hasn't stopped growing since the moment I saw you again in Sherlock's flat all those weeks ago. Everyday my love for you eclipses what I feel for Anthea."

Mycroft stepped to him, and Greg didn't step away. Mycroft slowly, carefully, held out his arms, and Greg sighed. He stepped into his lover's arms, and Mycroft held him tightly.

"The other morning I realized how I really felt about her, and my thoughts since then have been about you. I almost died, and my last thoughts were of you. I love you. I will never choose another over you. Never."

"I don't know how to handle her, or what she feels for me. All I know is that I love you enough to promise not to hide anything from you, or make a decision without consulting you. You are my partner, Gregory. In every way."

Greg held Mycroft, hugging the thinner man to him. Mycroft sounded calm, in control, but he had small tremors running through his lanky frame. Greg rubbed a hand up and down his back, and kept it up as Mycroft relaxed against him. The spymaster buried his nose behind his ear, and Greg smiled as it tickled. Mycroft loved his hair for some reason.

"Always so complicated with the Holmes' boys. Can't just say you love me more, and you're not planning on cheating on me with her. Always gotta be grandiose speeches." Greg teased the man he held, holding Mycroft to him as the taller man stiffened up, indignant. "Hey now, I'm just playing. I was more worried about how you were feeling about this than worried about you choosing her over me."

"I….. Oh." Mycroft mumbled, and Greg chuckled. "I thought you were really upset…."

"Not gonna lie, I'm thinking this is a fucked up working relationship you've got, but I can't judge. I love Sally, but I also know she doesn't love me like Anthea loves you. Most a man can be upset about is the fact you didn't talk this out with her before now." Greg told Mycroft plainly, pulling back just enough to see his lover's face. Mycroft was blinking at him, his intelligent eyes cloudy with resignation and nerves.

"I don't…..talk about things like this with her. We never have."

"And that's what's gotten you both into this mess, and hurting Violet as well. I'm not the world's smartest man when it comes to relationships, but my own wreckage of a marriage showed me the value of communication. You're a serious talker, Mycroft Holmes. So talk to her."

"I….." Mycroft hesitated, and Greg glared at him, doing his best to look stern. To his surprise, Mycroft blinked, and nodded once. "I'll talk to her."

Greg snapped back from his memory of the night before, and eyed the two people sitting at the table. The space between them was tangible with a forlorn tension, and Greg wondered what the conversation had been like. He would never ask, it wasn't his business, but the dynamic was different now.

---

December 26th, Morning (Prior to the previous scene)

Mycroft hesitated, hating his indecision. Anthea was outside, hands and face burrowed into her thick winter jacket as she sat on the iron wrought bench in his mother's rear garden. This was one of the best views from the house, encompassing the entire length of the valley, and the hills beyond. He stepped away from the door, highly aware that Gregory was inside the house, knowing he was out here, and what he was about to do. Mycroft kept reciting what he wanted to say, over and over in his head, more nervous than he had been as a child about to give his first presentation in class.

Anthea heard the door shut softly behind him, only the tilt of her head revealing her awareness of him. He buttoned up his jacket, part of him ruing the visit home, as the country always felt colder than the city.

He sat beside her on the bench, and leaned back, flinching as he felt the cold iron through his thick coat. He didn't say anything, and she sat back as well, copying his pose. They both stared out over the snow covered valley, the pine trees the only splash of color against the white.

Mycroft jumped when she spoke, not expecting her to say anything first.

"I know what this is about. Greg and Violet both know how I feel about you. I wasn't subtle the other day after Williamson tried to kill you. I shouldn't have acted like that. I'm sorry." Her tone was flat, even. No emotion, just exhaustion. She didn't look at him, just stared ahead at the vista spread before them.

"Anthea….." Mycroft whispered, and he struggled not to let his emotions get the better of him. This was the right thing to do, and he should have done it years ago. He just didn't know how to say it, not now.

"It's alright, Mycroft. I know you love me. You know I love you. Haven't hid that either. I just never acted on it when I should have. And then you fell, hard and fast for Greg, and I knew it was over for me. Part of me feels like I never walked out of Blackwood, that my confession as I was facing my death really were my last words."

"Anthea, no." Mycroft objected, the finality in her voice bothering him, her choice of words ominous. "Don't you dare think that, feel like that."

"I'm okay, Mycroft. I'm not suicidal, I'm not going to be selfish and hurt myself. I love you, but no man has that kind of power over me, to make me do something like that to myself. Not even you." She reached out, and grabbed his hand, holding tightly. He let her, gripping back just as hard.

"I don't know what to do, or say. Whenever I'm at a loss, my instinct was to always turn to you. Most times you were a thought ahead of me, knowing what I needed before I did." Mycroft said, and he closed his eyes, feeling like he was being ripped apart, seam by seam. "I can't do that this time, not with this."

Anthea finally turned to him, and he opened his eyes, the cold air making his eyes sting. She was so lovely, even when hiding her emotions, her face a blank mask. It was her eyes that gave away the chaos within, their verdant depths a tumultuous blend of pain, love, regret.

"I value my time with you. I believe in what we've done together, and what I've helped you achieve. But if that must come to an end, I'll do it, I'll walk away. I'll go back to Headquarters, move out of your home, and do my best by my country somewhere else. I can't be around you anymore, Mycroft. I've been selfish, I've been fostering these feelings for you even though I never had a chance. I have to stop doing that to myself."

"I… you always know what is needed. I'm sorry." Mycroft whispered, and any thoughts of trying to say his foolishly practiced words from earlier were gone now. She knew what needed to be done; she'd just been waiting on him to come to her. He couldn't think of anything to say, this moment of time beyond his experience. He didn't know how to say goodbye to someone he loved.

"We get through the next few days, and once we're home, I'll start searching for my replacement. I'll find you someone who isn't afraid of you, who'll see past the position to the man underneath. Though I'm thinking it might have to be someone who isn't going to fall in love with you. Twice in a row is a bit much." Anthea murmured, and Mycroft was floored by her bravery. She wasn't hiding, she wasn't pretending, she wasn't treating this like it would all go away if they ignored it. She was by far the better person, and far stronger than he. She knew what needed to be done to take care of herself, and she was doing it.

"You always do that to me. Make me feel smart, and dumb, at the same time." Mycroft mumbled, still holding her hand, marveling at her. She was a strong, smart, wonderful woman who wasn't afraid to make a sacrifice. "I was prepared to tell you that we could still work together, just not as closely, or something. All idiotic ideas. I feel like I'm a teenage boy all over again, getting dumped by my first girlfriend. I thought I was the clever one."

"Oh, Mycroft. You are the clever one. Just not with the heart." She let go of his hand, and stood. She stared down at him, her face easing into a sad, but real smile. He smiled back at her, his attempt weak compared to hers. "Back inside, it's too cold out here. Go tell Greg everything is okay now, and he needn't worry. I won't be living with you after the New Year, and he can move in officially without worrying about me."

Mycroft stood, and followed behind her, heading for the house. She hadn't let him say much of anything, and compared to how this went to what he had been expecting, it was a good thing too. She was right, he was clever in all things but affairs of the heart. She was far wiser, and braver, than he.

---

December 26th, Late Evening

Violet stretched out on her back on the bench seat, plopping her head on John's thigh, and she smiled, hearing John sigh in exasperation. She rested her laptop on her stomach, and went back to her code.

"You know, it's a good thing Sherlock's not wired the wrong way, otherwise he'd get really jealous, considering the amount of snuggling he walks in on all the time." John told her, his tone slightly cranky. Violet tilted her head back on his very warm and muscular thigh, and sent him a wink. She grinned outright when he blushed, and she went right back to typing furiously.

"Jealous of what?" Sherlock asked as he came back into the compartment, sliding shut the door. The train was quiet, few people traveling back into the city this soon after the holiday, and not this late at night. They were nearly home, and Violet couldn't wait to get started on the Clean Slate, and sleep in her own bed at the flat. She was torn between which one she wanted more, sleep or codes.

"John keeps thinking you'll get jealous of me using him as a human body pillow." Violet murmured, distracted slightly. Sherlock walked in and sat on the seat opposite, stretching out his long legs, feet touching John's.

"Really?" Sherlock sounded curious, and she tilted her head to see him eyeing John, one brow raised in question. "Why?"

"Well, c'mon…not every day a pretty girl wants to snuggle with me, and have it not be, ya know…for non-snuggling reasons." John struggled to explain, and Violet rolled her eyes. "And not every bloke would be okay with his lover snuggling with a twenty-six year old woman."

"Violet is gay, John."

"Um, yeah noticed that, thanks." John was blushing all out now, and Violet lifted a hand over her head, and patted him absently on the shoulder before she returned to her code.

"She snuggles with you because you're safe, John. A safe man, who won't take advantage, or presume. She gets comfort, reassurance and safety, and I know you enjoy it." Sherlock stated calmly, and Violet was only paying attention to them with one ear. Her mind was too busy with what she was doing to care that they were effectively speaking about her like she wasn't there. They weren't saying anything that wasn't true, so she didn't mind one bit.

"Safety? I can see that…. She seems so confident, why does she need reassurance?" This time it was John's fingers that played with her hair, and Violet enjoyed the petting, her brain settling down. Too much caffeine in the last twenty-four hours, and her mind working in overdrive, had kept her from sleeping since the phone call from Crazy Chick Moriarty the night before.

"She is very similar to me, John. You center me, calm me down, and make me more than I would be alone. You do the same for her, I would presume." Sherlock stated his hypothesis calmly, as if it were obvious, and not a big deal. Violet nodded once, a small movement of her head that John felt on his leg. "The frailty of genius, my dear doctor."

John's hand stilled in her hair, and she felt him looking down at her. Violet didn't say anything, just kept working, and his warm hand settled briefly on her head. She closed her eyes, and enjoyed the affection she felt in that simple touch. He went back to playing with her hair after a small pause in time, and she appreciated the message in that instant.

"Snuggle all you want." John whispered to her, and Violet smiled in thanks, not looking up at him. She faded out her awareness, her codes her full focus, but not before she noticed Sherlock and John engaging in the most adorable game of footsies ever.

---

London, Same Day

Sherlock stepped from the cab, helping Violet out as John exited from the other door. It was extremely late, and both Violet and John were exhausted. Sherlock found himself in the odd position of being the caretaker, and he flatly refused to let Violet go work on the Clean Slate at Mycroft's place until after they all got some sleep. His niece was stumbling in her drained state, and it was past John's usual bedtime. He roped an arm around her waist, and took her bag. John and the cabbie were handling the rest of the luggage, and Sherlock half-carried Violet to the flat's door.

He was confident Woodley wouldn't make any overt moves against him, especially seeing as how the surveillance teams were back in place.

221B was secured, Mycroft having sent his men to make sure Woodley wasn't in the area. The text he'd gotten from his brother made it clear they weren't exactly out from under suspicion due to their rather abrupt departure, as Mycroft made it a point to remind him that he would be watching. Mycroft and Lestrade were due to leave for London tomorrow afternoon, and be back late that night. They had one day to run the Clean Slate before Mycroft returned.

Violet assured him that all she needed to do was collaborate with Mary about the final mission statements she owed Mycroft, and then tweak some things before she unleashed the program she called a 'world-ender.' Moriarty had also called the Clean Slate program that, and Sherlock was insatiably curious as to why that was. Violet was too tired to answer, all she said to him earlier when he asked was it was 'as bad as it sounds'.

Sherlock trudged up the steps of his flat, taking Violet to the couch, and she slid limply to the cushions. She had her mobile out, and was blinking heavily at the screen, doing something. John tipped the cabbie as they deposited their luggage at the doorway, and Sherlock sighed in extreme relief to be home. Visiting his family this time around had been far more enjoyable than he expected, even with killing the Vicar and the uncomfortable emotional dredging up of bad memories, but he was exhausted from dealing with emotional issues. He wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around John's naked body, bury his face in his own pillow, and sleep.

"Mrs. Hudson come back?" John whispered, and he leaned on Sherlock's shoulder. He automatically grabbed John, and held the sleepy man up as he swayed on his feet.

"No, her flat was empty. Why?" He asked the man in his arms, and John waved a tired hand at Sherlock's chair beside the hearth. There was a small glittering object on the seat, with a red and green bow on it.

"Interesting." Sherlock murmured and he leaned John against the desk, intending to walk over to see what it was on his chair.

"Stop." Sherlock halted, a few feet from his chair, and looked back at Violet. She was sitting up, staring at her mobile. The screen illuminated her face clearly in the darkness of the flat, and he met her eyes as she slowly stood. "The bugs caught an intruder, Sherlock. It was planted there by a man I've never seen before. Someone broke in while we were gone."

John moved to her side, his exhaustion gone. He stared at her mobile too, and Sherlock looked back to his chair. He took off his coat and scarf, tossing them to John's chair, and cautiously approached his armchair. Sherlock stepped closer, and reached down. John was at his side in seconds, anxiously hovering at his elbow. The light from the still large moon streamed in through the windows, and Sherlock sucked in a deep breath.

It was a glass test tube vial, larger in diameter than most. It was as long as his hand, and stoppered off by an actual wood cork, red wax sealing it closed. The ribbon tied around it in a simple bow was rich and expensive, red and green. It was the substance inside that nearly dropped Sherlock to his knees. Semi-clear and shining with a myriad of colors, the gel inside the vial shone like ice crystals in the moonlight.

"No…" He breathed out softly, holding it up, transfixed and terrified. It was cold to the touch, a dreadful shard of ice burning in his hand.

"Sherlock, love? What is it?" John asked him, and Sherlock barely heard him. His heart was racing, and he literally couldn't look away from the glass vial in his hand. He was breathing faster, his arms tensing, and his fingers closed tighter around the vial. He was screaming in his head, screaming loudly to put it down, drop it and walk away. His body refused to listen.

"Winter's Night." He whispered to the man standing next to him. "Woodley sent me Winter's Night, John."

Sherlock couldn't think, his brain shrieking, thought scrambling every which way. The vial was cold, subzero, and the substance within was perfect. He knew from long ago experience that this mix, this cocktail, was made for him. Tailored to his body weight and his metabolism. Someone out there in the dregs of society remembered his stats, what he liked. It was Woodley, it must be. There was enough gel in this vial to keep him high for over a week. He was shaking, on the edge of hyperventilating, and he felt like his heart was going to explode in his chest.

"John….." He whispered his lover's name, pleading, begging as best he could for his control to return, his equilibrium to be restored. He was losing himself to old memories, old desires, far more powerful than he ever expected them to be, even after all these years. Shadows within his mind moved of their own volition, across the cityscape of his mind palace, overwhelming the usually peaceful calm of his ordered mind.

A hand, warm and strong, came to rest on his wrist. His cuff was low enough that the fingers locked around his wrist caught his attention, the touch of skin pulling his thoughts away from the vial in his hand. A thumb rubbed firmly, distracting him. Warmth, tendrils of heat, flowed from his wrist, down his arm. There was a shiver of static over his skin, a charge building. His breathing slowed, his heart jumped once, and settled. Heat was fighting off the cold generated by the instinctual terror he was experiencing.

Skin on skin, heat to heat, the sensations spiraled down Sherlock's arm, his mind slowly easing back from the edge. Thoughts tucked themselves neatly away, one by one freeing his mind from the chaos. Fear faded out, indecision beaten back by clarity and confidence. Sherlock breathed in deeply, eyes drifting shut briefly, and he exhaled.

Sherlock opened his eyes to John, his doctor holding him safely in place, the cold vial now nothing but an annoyance, its appeal sifting away like sand through stone blocks as his foundations strengthened. John was inches away, his chest nearly brushing his shoulder, his powerful fingers rubbing his wrist firmly with a gentle pressure. His eyes were nearly black in the low light of the front room, and yet Sherlock could sense the determination, the love, pouring off his doctor. John believed in him…he had always believed in him.

Sherlock lowered his arm, muscles almost cramping, and Sherlock sighed loudly, resigned, and relieved. Sherlock held John's gaze, and turned the vial around in his hand, and he held it out. His doctor gave him that special, sweet smile- the same smile he gave Sherlock the day he confessed his love, and changed both their lives. Sherlock let John take it from him, and the doctor tucked the vial in his pocket before pulling him in for a tight hug. John held him, his strong arms shielding him from the world, and Sherlock exhaled again, each deep release of air setting him free from residual nerves.

He dropped his head to the shorter man's shoulder, and held on tightly. It was lower than was usually comfortable, but he needed John's strength, and suffered the complaining muscles in his neck. John's influence, his love- nothing was stronger when it came to affecting Sherlock.

---

John held Sherlock, his detective burying his face against his neck, heart still beating hard in his chest. John felt the tension leaving the long from of the man he hugged, and clutched Sherlock to him.

John held his detective for a long time, and Violet quietly wandered out of the room, heading up the stairs to her bedroom. John waited until he heard the door to her room shut, and he pulled back just enough to softly kiss Sherlock's ear. He caught the edge of a small smile on luscious lips, before Sherlock ducked in, and kissed his temple in return. John leaned his face to the other man's, and they held each other for a heartbeat more before pulling away.

John looked up into the heavenly eyes he loved so much, and he couldn't resist lifting a hand to trace the chiseled planes of the angelic face above him. The moon graced Sherlock with an otherworldly, icy glow, and it was only the warmth of him in John's arms that convinced him that Sherlock was real, and not a vision.

"Are you okay?" John asked him softly, glad to see the stress and anguish gone from the handsome face. Sherlock nuzzled into his hand, and his arms roped around John's waist, keeping their hips tight together. John felt the glass vial of poison in his pocket, digging at his hip. Sherlock paid it no mind, even though he must feel it, considering there was no space between their lower halves.

John would get rid of the drug later, the expression on Sherlock's face holding him captive.

"I'll be fine." Sherlock whispered. "You pulled me back. It's always you, John."

Sherlock nipped gently at the hand he still held to his cheek, and John felt heat stir in his core. They were home, and John felt nothing of the exhaustion that had plagued him the last few hours. John felt an answering heat from Sherlock, where they were pressed so tightly together. The look in his remarkable eyes was that growing flash of a supernova. That look always, always, meant that John was in for a long, wonderful night of Sherlock showing him his formidable skills.

John pulled back from Sherlock, soothing the pout on his face by grabbing one of his hands, and walking him down the hall to their bedroom. John knew the way well in the dark, and he pulled the willing man behind him, through the door of their room. Sherlock closed it, and the lock snapped in place loudly. The drapes were closed, the silver light from the moon slicing through the edges of the fabric. Clean lines of light cut across the bed, and John had enough light to see Sherlock stripping, fast.

John kicked off his boots, ripping off his jumper and shirt at the same time. His heart felt like it was going to climb out of his chest, beating hard on his ribs. His hands were shaking, and he couldn't tear his eyes away from the pale flashed of skin Sherlock revealed as his clothes fell to the floor. He barely got his trousers off before a very naked detective tackled him to the bed.

They landed hard, Sherlock between his legs, and John wrapped them around the lean hips of his lover. Sherlock captured his mouth, his tongue sweeping over his lips, demanding entrance. John groaned, and opened his mouth. Sherlock took the kiss deep, and John let him. He felt the detective's hard arousal pushing on his stomach, Sherlock's hands holding his head tilted to the side, his lips and tongue plundering his mouth. John groaned, overwhelmed, his own hands gripping beseechingly at Sherlock's hips.

Sherlock lifted his mouth away, both breathing fast. Sherlock was weighing him down, hard cock throbbing between them, John's own body eagerly responding. Sherlock moved his hips, as if he were dancing, and John felt his whole body clench. Their cocks brushed together, steel under silky soft skin, and the heat made them both jerk. He threw back his head, Sherlock nipping at his throat, and nothing but delirious moans of delight escaped him as Sherlock drove him insane.

John couldn't stop the soft cries and gasps as Sherlock nibbled his way down his chest, his stomach. Long fingers rubbed and grabbed at his muscles, tracing the defined lines, Sherlock stopping the lathe his tongue over his favorite places as he maddeningly wandered down John's stomach, past his navel. John dragged his fingers through the riot of wild curls on Sherlock's head, as a hot wet mouth slipped over the head of his cock. Sherlock's hands spread his thighs wider, and John cried out, spine bowing, as Sherlock swallowed the whole of him. On deep swallow, no hesitation, and John was nudging at the back of his throat.

Sherlock sucked, his tongue writhing against the hard cock in his mouth, as he came back up. Sherlock stopped, holding the throbbing head in his mouth, and John cried out in protest, needing Sherlock to keep going. John lifted his head, and their gazes locked, even in the darkness. Sherlock was waiting for this; he sucked his cock back in, the pressure intense, and it took all John's control not to close his eyes. Sherlock drove him hard, mouth demanding he respond, louder cries torn from him with each swallow, every flick of his tongue.

John was vibrating in every muscle, his bones threatening to shatter, skin on fire. He was close to coming, so close, and one hand held Sherlock's hair in a death grip as the other tore at the sheets. Sherlock was moving faster, his rhythm devastating. John was calling out, begging, Sherlock driving him to edge of orgasm, fast and hard.

"Sherlock!" John screamed, and he ripped his hand away from Sherlock's head, fearing he'd hurt Sherlock as he came. His climax exploded from his core, pleasure tearing free from every cell, muscles snapping taut. His eyes slammed shut, tears running from under the lids, and he called out over and over as Sherlock swallowed every thick drop.

John sobbed into his arm, crying in truth, his body exploded into pieces across the whole of Westminster. Sherlock released him from the devious torture of his mouth, and kissed his way back up John's body.

Sherlock paused briefly, and leaned to the side. John heard a drawer opening, then Sherlock was back on top of him. Sherlock snuck a hand between his quivering thighs, and John jumped as a long lubricated finger pushed at his entrance. A heartbeat of pressure, and Sherlock slid his finger in deep.

"I want you, John." Sherlock whispered in his ear, lips brushing against the lobe, and John shivered in response. "I'm going to take you now."

John was weak as a kitten, his body pliant under the man working him with his finger, his lips dropping small kisses over his face and neck. The brutal devastator of a few minutes ago was gone; Sherlock changed in a mercurial moment, a tender lover now. John sighed, lifting his legs up as best he could, giving Sherlock better access to his ass.

Two fingers worked him now, stretching him open, slick from a copious amount of lubricant. John's body was stirring to life, his cock filling again as Sherlock sucked on his neck, those two long fingers driving deep. John moaned, and he shifted under Sherlock. He ran his hands down the younger man's back, nails drifting lightly over his smooth skin.

"Perfect…." Sherlock whispered, and he moved just enough so the head of his cock took the place of his fingers. Sherlock pushed in slowly, easing past the tight threshold, opening John with every thick inch. Sherlock grabbed John's legs, and rested his weight on the back of his thighs. This forced John open further, fully exposed, as Sherlock sank to the hilt inside of him.

John groaned, his brain incapable of thought. Only need, desire. His arms found themselves around Sherlock's neck, the taller man bracing himself above him on his elbows. John's mouth was captured by a deep kiss, not overpowering as it was before, but powerfully intimate as Sherlock began to move inside of him.

John was taken by talented mouth and ruthless cock, his lover sensuously dominating every inch of his body. Sherlock's pace was slow and deep, relentless, his weight holding John hostage beneath him. He would barely catch a breath before Sherlock took his lips again, tongue exploring every surface of his mouth. Sherlock gave him no chance to respond, his tongue and teeth thoroughly imprinting his need and lust.

John surrendered, willingly trusting Sherlock with his body, his pleasure, letting Sherlock take him as he pleased. John was hard again, fully aroused, eager gasps escaping from him in between gasps for air. John crossed his ankles behind Sherlock's lower back, holding his lover to him, the hard cock deep inside of him causing his body to quake with each thrust.

Sherlock knew the pace he needed to conquer John, and he used it without mercy on the man under him. John tore his mouth away, dragging deep for air, as Sherlock rode him. Sherlock grinned down at him, and John couldn't look away from his impossible eyes. John saw enough in the low light to see the grin on Sherlock's face, and John clenched his ass muscles. He caught Sherlock deep inside of him, and it was John's turn to grin as Sherlock finally moaned in pleasure. Sherlock didn't pause his thrusts, making John cry out under him.

Sherlock moved deeper, and changed his angle. John dissolved as the hard length inside of him took its path over his prostate, again and again.

"Sherlock, more…." John begged, his words weak as the thrusting broke his ability to speak. "Do it, make me come…"

Sherlock heard him, and obeyed. John saw a glimmer of intense concentration come over Sherlock's face just before John's eyes shut, impossible to keep them open under the onslaught he was experiencing.

Sherlock took him, long thick cock plunging deeply, the angle of his thrusts constantly riding over the soft gland, giving John an overload of pleasure. John keenly felt each thrust in and pull out; each swipe making him cry out against Sherlock's shoulder. John bit down, and Sherlock groaned as he did. John held on, with hands, teeth and legs, as Sherlock dragged them both to the precipice.

Sherlock's breathing was ragged, panting in John's ear, the thick length in him growing firmer, swelling. John ran his nails down Sherlock's back, scratching, begging wordlessly for Sherlock to push them both that last distance. He couldn't move his hips in the position Sherlock had him, but he could grip Sherlock tightly, where his lover moved within him. John clenched, hard, and didn't let up.

Sherlock shouted, and his pace became erratic. Sherlock took him fast and deep, and John shattered in his arms. It felt as if pieces of him were lodging about in the room, his lover, the bed underneath them, all vibrating together, connected by the insane release he was feeling. There was a humming in his ears; there was a resounding scream of pleasure flying free as he came. John erupted, his orgasm wet hot and liquid fire on his stomach, Sherlock's abdomen.

Sherlock stilled, a statue of perfection above him in the darkness. His lips were at John's ear, and John felt Sherlock come deeply inside of him as Sherlock whispered something to him.

"Always you, John….." Sherlock gasped, his own orgasm making his body shiver, "It will always be you….."

---

Violet tugged one ear bud free, and listened intently. John's screams weren't audible this time, and she laughed quietly as she got up from bed. John was a screamer, and she usually slept with her ear buds in most nights. She didn't mind the sex, it was the volume that kept her up when they went at it.

Violet changed quickly into her sleepwear, and wandered downstairs. Her computer and mobile were still on the couch, and she picked them up before turning back for her room. She cast a glance down the hall to the other bedroom, and figured they would both be sleeping in late in the morning. Violet ran back upstairs, body and mind awake after her brief respite.

Violet tossed the laptop on the bed, and pulled up the video feed of the man leaving the vial on Sherlock's chair. The camera hidden inside Billy's cranium gave her a very clear view of the man's face in the moonlight, and he wasn't anyone she'd seen before. Once morning rolled around, she'd run a face recog program on him, see what turned up.

Violet slid into bed, and stared at the ceiling. Dawn was hours away, and she should be sleeping, but her mind wouldn't let go. Too many things happened in the last few days, and she couldn't process any of it. Violet wiped a stray tear from her cheek, futilely wondering why she was crying.

She needed to have some fun. Dancing always cheered her up.

---

December 27th, Midday

Violet rushed through the doors of her uncle's townhouse, ignoring the questions posed to her by the security detail. Sherlock was at her heels, and John called out apologies as the three of them all but ran down the hall to the bunker.

"Did he say why he was returning early?" Violet asked again for the millionth time, and Sherlock tossed her a shrug, obviously unconcerned that his elder brother left this morning for London, instead of later tonight. Mycroft and Lestrade and Anthea would be back within the next hour or so. Violet figured Mycroft had done it on purpose, to mess with Sherlock for ditching holiday week early.

They'd slept in later than Violet had wanted them too, all three of them exhausted from the return trip and being awake since Christmas morning. Violet had rolled out of bed at the insistence of her bladder, and when she saw the time, she'd freaked out, and stormed her uncle's door, banging until both men got up.

Violet beat Sherlock to the bunker door by inches, and she tossed him a grin as she slapped her hand on the palm scanner. The locks released, and she rushed in, heading for the station she 'borrowed' before they left. It was still under her control, and Violet slid into the seat. She'd done most of the work already, she just needed direct access now to the Clean Slate through MI6.

The room was empty, and Violet accessed the controls to the door, locking everyone out, disabling the cameras, so they'd have no witnesses, no one stumbling in uninvited.

Violet paused, her hands over the keyboard, and swiveled the chair around. John and Sherlock were staring at her, wondering what she was doing. She met John's gaze, then Sherlock's, and decided if she was going to love them, then that meant she would trust them too.

"What I'm about to do, what I'm about to show you, cannot, must not, ever be discussed again. To no one. Not even Mycroft, not even Lestrade or Molly. No one. I'm not talking about Clean Slate, either. That cat's outta the bag, has been for so long it's a legend and not fact to many people. I mean my password, my master key. No one, ever." Violet said, and she was never more serious in her whole life.

John nodded slowly, eyes wide at her demeanor. Sherlock dipped his head but once, his bright eyes curious. Violet swiveled back around, and hit Enter.

The largest screen above them stopped spinning VH across a black background, and a standard password popup appeared. At least it looked normal, boring, regular, seen it a thousand times.

Violet sucked in a deep breath, and leaned forward, so the nearest built in mic could clearly pick up her password. Violet whistled, loud and clear, and she watched the screen above as the password was registered, her tone matched. She whistled the Bach violin piece she always hummed, the one Sherlock played for her the day she saved his geeky butt in Trafalgar Square. Thin lines waved across the popup window, and the words FIAT LUX flashed once. She stopped whistling, and the Clean Slate program was accessible.

Violet caught Sherlock's massive grin from the corner of her eye, the man ridiculously pleased with himself. He knew the song she whistled, and John must have too, as he nudged Sherlock with an elbow.

Violet dived in, and prepped Clean Slate for activation. With one hand she pulled out her mobile, and dialed Mary. She threw it on Speaker, and let it ring out, echoing in the large room. Three rings in it was answered.

"Yes?" Mary asked cautiously.

"It's Violet. You in London?" She asked while working, nearly ready. Sherlock and John were shifting behind her, and she registered their curiosity and excitement.

"Yes, I am."

"When I tell you to, go to the nearest CCTV station, and be obvious about yourself. Wait until I tell you though, don't jump the gun. MI6 isn't the only agency to watch those feeds."

"You wish for Mary to expose herself, take such a risk?" Jaime Moriarty asked, her voice sharp and cold, and Violet paused with her fingers over the keys. She tossed the mobile a nervous glance, before continuing her work.

"Once I'm done, the CCTV's won't even be able to recognize her. Trust me… it was you who asked me to do this."

There was a pause, the sound of furtive whispering too low to discern.

"I trust you Violet. Tell me when. We aren't that far away from one where we're at now." Mary told her, and Violet sighed in relief. Having Jaime Moriarty pissed at her was a worse thought than sicko drug lords trying to buy her over the internet.

"Stay on the line, I'll tell you when. Start heading towards that station, and wait for my go."

Violet executed a command, and the numerous screens above the station she was at illuminated. Each screen held a portion of the global map, drawn in black and white, with red splotches across a vast portion of the map, hundreds of places, countries.

One monitor held a picture of Mary, a close-up of her face.

"Violet? What are we looking at?" John asked curiously, and Violet spared him a quick glance.

"Every red smudge, dot, line, blotch, whatever up there across the world is a place Mary has been. Where she grew up as a child, records of her previous existence. Her life as Amelia, as the Golden Girl for the CIA, her missions both on and off book. Her life as Mary Morstan, even her connection to you, John. Every picture that was ever taken, every voicemail, every digital smidge of thought or collection of banking information, social media, credit, medical, purchasing, every single digital proof of existence."

"We are all collected, stored, data-mined, and meta'ed to the millionth degree by the digital world we live in. No one, NO one is truly off grid, unless they've spent their lifetime in the Amazon and never seen anything beyond trees, or been dead for over a hundred years. But that's no safe guarantee, as so many physical pictures have been scanned for preservation in the last decade. Being dead isn't even a guarantee of anonymity. And I know for a fact that satellites have seen every human in the world currently alive at least once. No one is immune."

"If it exists in electronic form, Clean Slate has found it. And it will destroy every last shred of her existence."

Violet stood, and gestured to the maps above her. Mary's global reach was astounding, her career as an assassin having taken her to every country in the world. This one was a challenge, and Violet grinned. Clean Slate was up for the task. Violet never failed. She spoke to the women on the phone, and sent up a silent prayer she hadn't made a mistake anywhere in her code.

"Mary, this won't protect you from people who know your face, what you look like. If there are physical pictures out there of you, I can't stop people from carrying around a snapshot in their pocket. But I can prevent them from being utilized if they're scanned, and if someone tries to use a facial recog or tracker with a real photo. Same thing for physical files. I can stop the information from flowing once it's digitalized, and connected to a network influenced by Clean Slate. Nothing will get far, or exist for longer than a few minutes if that happens."

"I understand, Violet." Mary sounded hushed, excited, and nervous all in one. Violet grinned again, and looked over her shoulder at John.

"Watch John, watch the screens. Your baby momma is gonna disappear like magic."

John smiled at her, hands in his pocket, nervous himself. Violet saw Sherlock smirking at her, and she gave him a wink.

Violet hit Enter.

It began so slowly, on such a minuscule level, that it wasn't noticeable. John shuffled up next to her, and Violet sat back down, idly swiveling in her chair, unconcerned. John glared at the maps, and tossed her a look after a minute or so. She knew when he believed, when the program hit its stride, by the look on his face. Violet turned back around, and watched as the red was erased from the maps, in great fading patches.

Clean Slate was running through millions of pieces of data, and its speed increased as the data pool declined. Violet sighed, content to see her program fulfill its original purpose. At one point, Violet had wiped herself free from existence as well, and rewrote her history, her past. She kept her name, just reassigned a past, one free from memory and grief. She was a foolish heartbroken child when she did it, and she hadn't realized at the time that what she was trying to do couldn't be achieved by a program. Only time lessened grief.

It took some time, and John's face was a reward in itself. He was in total awe, staring up at the screens, and she patted him on the shoulder. It was almost over. Mary would be able to go for a stroll this evening, eat at restaurant, and hail a cab.

"Mary?" She asked softly, the line still open on the call.

"I'm here."

"Get ready to flash those pearly whites, chica. I'll tell you when."

"Understood."

Clean Slate was cycling down, the last few lines of data evaporating from the monitor in front of her. Finally, it was all gone, the maps above free of red. Only one digital picture of Mary remained in the world, the one that Clean Slate would use to verify its successful completion. It would keep the parameters of her facial structure and body, to prevent anyone from uploading a new photo, and that's it.

"Tell me what station you're at?" Violet asked.

Mary recited the address closet to the CCTV station she was near, and Violet accessed the live action video feeds. She popped the feeds up so John and Sherlock could see, and looked at the mobile.

"Now, Mary."

Violet looked up, watching with a very nervous John, and a fascinated Sherlock, as a small blonde haired woman dressed in black leather pants and a dark jumper melted out from the shadows of an alley. She walked freely onto a busy sidewalk, people walking around her, going about their lives, unaware of what just occurred. And that was for the best.

She gazed up, stared directly into the cameras. Mary smiled, her mobile pressed to her ear, and Violet grinned. The facial recog programs MI6 had been running for weeks skipped over Mary like she wasn't even there. No bleeps, no boxes, no alarms. Perfection.

"Mary Morstan no longer exists. Gratz babe, you're free." Violet said loudly, and she jumped up from her seat, wrapping her arms around a dumbstruck doctor.

Mary smiled wider, and laughed, the sound coming over the line.

"Thank you Violet. I owe you. We owe you."

"All you have to do is name the munchkin Violet, we'll be even!"

---

Sherlock watched as Violet danced around in glee, John flabbergasted. Sherlock was happy for his lover and relieved that Mary was as safe as she could possibly be. Violet had done the impossible, and Sherlock was proud of her. John would be able to have his child in his life, and not suffer for missing out.

Sherlock felt his pocket vibrate, and he pulled out his mobile. Mycroft.

What is Violet doing in my bunker? She accessed the room. -MH

Violet solved the Mary issue. Tell your masters she's no longer a threat. –SH

I'll be home in twenty. Do not leave. –MH

"So, I'm after catching a drug lord. John, shall we go?" Sherlock asked his lover, the doctor still celebrating, speaking to Mary over the phone. John gave him a smile, and handed the mobile back to Violet.

"Where we off to?" John asked as he came over, leaving Violet at the station.

"Scotland Yard. See what records of Woodley are out there. He's been arrested several times, some officers there must know where he hides out at. Man wasn't considerate enough to have his address in the book." Sherlock tossed Violet a smile, his niece staying behind in the bunker. She should be safe in here, with Mycroft nearly home. Only one person could get in here other than Mycroft, and she was too busy guarding Mary to bother the woman who saved her lover.

Violet waved at him, and she was whistling as Sherlock and John left. Sherlock grinned, hearing the Bach piece follow them out the bunker door. Violet could handle Mycroft just as well as anyone.

---

December 28th, London

Greg pondered the boxes in front of him, his flat full of them. He had come over early that morning, eager to pack up this miserable excuse of a home and move in with his partner. Greg hadn't been expecting help, as no one else knew he was moving in with Mycroft but Anthea. She was at the townhouse, packing up her room to move out.

So having John show up twenty minutes prior was a surprise, but a welcome one. John said Sherlock had sent him over, as the detective didn't do 'moving duties'. Mycroft texted him to get everything important boxed, movers would be by that afternoon to pick it all up, the rest he could decide what to do with later. Greg figured Mycroft tried to order Sherlock to help, and that boiled down to John. Greg was putting most of it either in the trash bin, or donating it to charity. His personal belongings were already packed, his luggage full of clothing and immediately needed items.

"Greg!" John called from the front step, sticking his head back around the doorjamb. John adjusted the box of trash he was holding, and disappeared. "Someone here to see you!"

"Coming!" Greg forgot the box, and wondered who was here, moving to the door. Donovan said she'd be stopping by sometime today, to help with the move. Greg stopped in shock, mouth dropping open.

His father, Gavin Lestrade, hesitated just inside the front doorway. The door was open behind him, the cold winter air tunneling in the flat. He had a strange look to his face, a pained and frustrated look that Greg had never seen his father wear before. He father was tall as he, less hair, and with more of a gut. Still a formidable man, and strong, even with a bad heart and in his sixth decade.

"Dad?" Greg stammered, not expecting to see his father. He was suddenly nervous, and he slid his hands into his pockets. His heart hurt, and he felt his cheeks get red. He didn't drop his eyes though, knowing his father saw him packing up, moving out. He had nothing to hide, nothing of which to be ashamed. Mycroft was right, it was up to his father to decide whether or not he could live with this truth.

"You're… moving out?" Gavin asked, his stance a mirror of his son's. He looked around, eyes landing on Greg for a second before darting away, as if he couldn't stand to look at him long enough to make eye contact.

"Umm. Yeah. Moving in with Mycroft." Greg said softly, waiting. His father was never this…unassuming. This quiet.

"He your….." Gavin's voice stumbled, unable to say Mycroft's name, and he cleared his throat, "Your boyfriend?"

"Yeah, Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes' older brother."

"The crazy detective that gets you in trouble all the time? His brother?" Gavin's eyes widened, surprise in his voice.

"Yeah, that's Sherlock. But he's good at getting us right back out of trouble, same as Mycroft. He's a good man, Dad. Both of them are." Greg tried to assure his father, but he snapped his mouth shut as his father pinched the bridge of his nose, his face clearly saying he was too close to the edge to hear more.

"Son…" Gavin sighed, dropping his hand. Greg saw the first flash of anger, disappointment. His father was trying to hide it, but it was there. "Are you sure about this? About…. Making this kind of change?"

"I love him, Dad. I have for a long time." Greg said quietly, doing his best not to flinch as his father stepped closer. Memories of the harsh and vile words his father had shouted at him over the phone came back to haunt him, and he didn't trust his father's attempt to stay calm.

"Him? A man! Greg, what the hell happened? You got shot, and went insane. Mentally sound people don't wake up from a near death experience and suddenly decide to be gay!" Gavin was obviously attempting to maintain his calm, but Greg knew his father saw him flinch before. The old man hated that, hated that his kids automatically flinched away from him if he got too close, or moved too fast.

Old habits of frightened children, impossible to break. His father hadn't hit him in decades, not since he was a teenager, but his body remembered.

"I fell in love, Dad. That's what happened. Who cares if the person I love is a man? And no one 'decides to be gay.' It's either there all along in some form, to some degree, or it's not. I didn't decide to be gay. I love a man, and thankfully I want him that way, too. I'm happy." Greg said firmly, determined not to cave under the glare his old man sent him.

"Your mother and I think you need to see someone. The Yard has shrinks, doctors. Go see someone about this. It might be some weird case of PTSD or brain trauma." Gavin said, and Greg felt a rush of anger. His parents thought he was crazy.

No fucking way. My parents think I'm gay because I'm crazy. Great.

"Dad, I saw a shrink while I was in the hospital, and I'm fine. I got a clean bill of health, mentally at least. There's nothing wrong with me." Greg did his best not to yell. His patience was escaping quickly, his own anger responding to his father's belligerence.

"There is something wrong with you! You're fucking a man, son! That's not natural! It's a sin, an abomination! No son of mine goes from straight to being a fucking shirt lifter queer without something being wrong!" Gavin didn't bother keeping his voice down, his volume loud, and anger, disgust laced every word.

"Get out, Dad. Now." Greg warned his father, fed up and sick to his stomach. "Leave!"

"I'm not letting you destroy your life, embarrass your mother and me, and let you ruin your career by letting you be a fucking faggot. Either you go see a shrink, or I'll take you there myself." Gavin warned his son, striding forward.

"No, Dad. I said leave!" Greg backed away from his father, but not fast enough. Gavin grabbed his arm in an iron grip, hand like a vice. Greg wasn't a kid anymore, and slipped free, the skin where his father gripped stinging as he did. Greg pushed his father off of him, and the old man stumbled back a step.

Greg tried to walk away, ignoring his father, the look of rage and shock on his face. Greg had never lifted a hand to his father, even on the old man's worst days, and Gavin wasn't able to tolerate it.

"No child of mine lifts a hand to his father! I'll not tolerate disrespect, especially from a queer!" Greg dodged the first blow, refusing to hit back, but he couldn't dodge the second. His father's fist caught him just below his right eye, throwing his head back, his shoulders slamming against the wall.

Greg saw the next blow coming, but it never landed. There was tan blur in front of his eyes, and suddenly his father was flat on his back, a very, very angry John Watson standing over him. Greg's face throbbed with agony, but he'd been in plenty of brawls, and shook off the pain. He'd have shiner for certain in the morning.

"A real man doesn't beat his own child." John growled to the shocked man at his feet, his hands curled into fists. "No father worth a damn strikes his child for being true to himself, or trying to defend himself. Get the fuck out of here, before I force Greg to arrest me for beating you senseless."

Gavin backed up, and slowly stood, his face raged out and unrecognizable. He made to go for John, but the wordless growl of ready challenge that rumbled out from the diminutive doctor stopped him in his tracks. Fear flicked across Gavin's features, the smaller man an unexpected threat. Violence and retribution was promised in every inch of the former military captain.

"Dad, please go. Now." Greg said quietly, still leaning against the wall where his father's blow landed him. He couldn't move, his heart breaking, embarrassment and shame and fear and total pain swamping him. His voice was steady, that's all he could hope for right now.

Gavin tossed him a look that clearly said it wasn't over, and Greg sighed. He didn't have the strength to convince his father he was happy, that he was right to be with the man he loved. Mycroft was always right, this time no different. His father would have to learn to live with it, or not at all.

John pointed to the door, and Gavin went, face red with humiliation and anger. John followed on his heels, damn near chasing the older man from the flat. Greg heard his father run down the front steps, and a car started a moment later. With a squeal of tires, Gavin Lestrade left his son heartsick and bruised, tears threatening to fall.

John was back in flash, concern and sympathy on his kind face. His hands, no longer curled into fists, reached up for Greg's face, turning his cheek to the light, gentle and offering compassion.

"I won't be stupid and ask if you're okay. I'll ask instead if you want me to call Mycroft." John said softly, his blue eyes clearly conveying that he thought Greg should say yes. "How's your side?"

"A little sore, but I'm fine. And no, I'll be okay. I think I'll just text the driver, go home early. I can pack this all up tomorrow. Got a few more days before my lease is out." Greg stepped away from the wall, John's hands dropping. John gave him a look, equally exasperated and sympathetic.

"You sure, mate? I got my highly expensive, totally amazing car with me, we can go for a drive before I take you home. Clear your head."

Greg gave him a small smile, before reaching for the duffel bag full of his clothing and important personal items. He slung it over his shoulder, the other hand pulling out his mobile and texting Mycroft's driver.

"Nah, I'll be okay. Just need a beer, some quiet time at home." Greg said, and waved John to the door. John sighed, but went, grabbing his coat and keys. "I like the car, Violet's a good niece to have."

"She's not my niece yet, but yeah, she's amazing." John said as they walked down the steps after Greg locked up the flat. Both men took the diversion of the car, which sat lurking like a sexy feline a few spots down on their side of the street. Greg blinked at the car, and turned to John.

"Not your niece yet?"

"Oops." John grinned at him, and rocked back on his heels a few times, eyes suddenly happy. "Asked Sherlock to marry me."

"Wow! That's great! I think." Greg's brows rose up, and he thought again about what John said. "Wait. You asked Sherlock Holmes to marry you?!"

"Yeah, Christmas morning. And get that look off your face, I made him swear to think seriously about whether or not he wanted to do it, get married. I know what I'm doing." John assured him, and Greg felt like his day was stuck on a repeat of weird and wonderful, heartbreaking and fun.

"Well, congratulations. I hope you're both very happy together, no matter what our crazy detective says." Greg offered his hand, and John shook it, still grinning.

---

Same Day, London

Greg stepped through the front door of Mycroft's townhouse, resolutely holding his own bag, refusing to let the valet take it from him. He kept his face down, avoiding eye contact. He didn't want Mycroft hearing about his bruised face from someone other than him. No point in hiding it, he just didn't want Mycroft to get upset.

Greg walked to the stairs, not seeing Mycroft anywhere. He was probably downstairs in the bunker with Violet, trying to convince her to give him access to the Clean Slate program again, for the millionth time. They'd come back the day before to a bombshell of a revelation, Mary Morstan gone and in an unknown location, and Violet smug as cat in the cream for pulling off the most hacker-savvy move of the decade. (According to her, of course.) Mycroft was torn between being awed of Violet, and angry she'd used MI6 to erase Mary from existence. Not mad for long, though, as Violet had rather effectively solved Mycroft's problems concerning Mary, and gave Mary her freedom, and removed an angry pregnant woman from his house in the process.

Greg was glad he could manage the stairs now, albeit slowly and with care. His side was getting better and better each day, and his strength was returning quickly. He was pondering when he might be cleared to return to duty, Donovan anxious as he was for his return, as he walked through the door of Mycroft's room. Their room, now.

"Greg! I wasn't expecting you to be home so soon. How was the…" Mycroft asked him from beside the bed, where he was changing his shirt. Greg dropped his bag in surprise, facing Mycroft squarely.

Greg knew when Mycroft saw the swiftly spreading bruise on his face, the state of his clothes, the way he moved. Sherlock did the same thing, instantly deducing an event merely from tearing apart the clues a person carried with them, no matter how hard they tried to hide things.

Greg swore, not wanting to upset Mycroft, not wanting his pity. He sprinted for the adjoining bathroom, but Mycroft caught up to him at the doorway. Mycroft snuck in front of him, and cradled his face between his long fingered hands. His fingers were gentle, soothing, and Greg sighed. He was so tired.

"Who hit you?" Mycroft asked him, his voice a deep rumble, anger lacing the words. His hands were gentle, and examined his face much as John had earlier. Greg grimaced, and figured he might as well stop trying to pretend he would ever get anything past his lover.

"My dad."

Greg found himself trying not to smile, a perverse sense of hilarity making him think that Mycroft's face was funny in his disbelief. It was obvious from his lover's face that Mycroft was never hit as a child, and hearing that it was Greg's own father who hit him left him speechless. Not for long, but long enough.

"Your father hit you?" Mycroft was aghast, and slowly dropped his hands from his face, to hold Greg to his chest. "What the hell happened?"

Greg wrapped his arms around Mycroft's waist, squeezing the spymaster tightly. Mycroft snuggled up to him, their bodies not even separated by air. He sighed, and recounted the events earlier at his flat. Mycroft listened, one of his hands running soothingly through his hair.

Greg got the part when his father tried to force him to leave the flat with him, and Mycroft tensed. Greg kept talking, and it wasn't until he got the point where his father hit him that Mycroft really reacted. His lover was shaking from rage, his indignation obvious. Greg found himself feeling the tiniest bit better having Mycroft get angry, as if it validated some need in his heart. He could handle an angry Holmes, not a pitying one. Mycroft's anger made his shame and hurt begin to lessen, and he recalled how many times he thought about Mycroft during the whole debacle.

"I kept thinking about you. How you were right. That people will either accept this relationship, accept me, or not. I shouldn't worry about other people's bigotry." Greg whispered, and he buried his face in Mycroft's neck, breathing in his scent, the feel of his skin reassuring.

"Oh Gregory. I love you. I will always love you, no matter what. I'm here, at your side. Forever." Mycroft tipped his face up for a kiss, Greg sank into it, every soft glide of tongue and lips easing his hurt. Mycroft pulled back, and whispered over his lips. "I'm always right, too."

Greg laughed, and kissed Mycroft, pushing him back towards the bed. He had plans to show Mycroft just how much he loved him in return.

---

December 29th, London

Sherlock threw the file at the wall, frustration pouring off him. John barely twitched, reading The Guardian in his chair beside the briskly burning fire. Papers exploded out from the folder, scattering across the floor.

"So, nothing in the records then?" John asked casually, and Sherlock tossed him a glare before throwing himself down in his own chair. John gave him a tiny hint of a smile over the top of the paper, and Sherlock groaned, half turned on, half annoyed.

"When do you go back to work again?" Sherlock complained, crossing his arms over his chest, feet refusing to stay still.

"After the New Year, I told you this already like five times. Want me to go back early? You were complaining about the lack of sex with me at work, so unless you changed your mind…" John teased him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. John couldn't see him past the paper, so he felt safe doing that again.

"Nothing, John. Nothing to tie Woodley to the current influx of Winter's Night flooding London. And he lawyered up fast once he got back to London after the train station incident. Donovan says she can't get a warrant on my deductions, and the claims made by a clandestine mercenary working for a mysterious foreign agency. I can't even tell them that the soldier works for Moriarty, or Mycroft will freak. Everyone would freak, actually. Need proof." Sherlock scoffed, and grumbled to himself about idiot policewomen and stupid laws.

John dropped the paper, and Sherlock saw him staring at him with a silly grin on his face. He raised a brow in question, and Sherlock waited.

"Sherlock, love, you've never cared for the law in solving a case. Never. It's never stopped you. You're all about solving the case, the challenge, the problem resolved. Stop trying to impress me by playing by the rules, and stop Woodley. You'll have all the proof after the fact once the drug lord is in handcuffs."

Sherlock gaped at John, and his doctor dropped the paper to the floor. He reached out, and snagged Sherlock's hand, and yanked. Sherlock was pulled solidly from his chair, and into John's lap. John roped his arms tightly around his waist, and Sherlock grumbled about being manhandled, but settled in nicely. John's lap was a wonderful place to sit, and think.

"This is less about stopping Woodley, and more about you trying to prove something to me. I've seen your face the last few days, double checking that I'm seeing you trying to behave out in public, to be nice to the police, trying to work with them. Stop it. Be yourself, please." John ordered him, kissing that spot under his chin. Sherlock shivered, and leaned on John's shoulder.

"Is that what I've been doing?" Sherlock whispered.

"Yes. I want my mad detective please, not some poster boy for reform. You're doing this to prove to yourself that you're capable of being married, and trying to convince me too. Just be yourself, love. Do what you do best, and solve this. Find Woodley, stop the drugs, save the missing chemist, keep Violet safe, and give Bear back to little Victor."

"The dog might be a deal breaker, John." Sherlock mused, and John laughed.

"We'll talk about it. You can't hide the dog at your parents' house forever."

"Not forever, just ten or fifteen years, whatever his lifetime may be." Sherlock quipped, and John nipped at his neck, making Sherlock get very interested in where he was sitting. John felt great underneath him.

He pulled out his mobile, and while nibbling on John's hard jaw, he texted his Homeless Network contacts, sending them after Woodley, and every scrap of information they could find. John was right, time to play dirty.

Sherlock was sucking on the salty skin behind John's ear when they heard the snapping of high heels on the staircase. Violet stepped in the room, and John stiffened under him, surprised. Violet was in a very short, very thin, very revealing silver mini dress, with three inch high heels that made her legs look way too long. Sherlock frowned, and glared at his niece.

"And you're off to go where…?" Sherlock grumbled, thinking he wasn't going to like the answer. Violet had been off color since returning to London, restless and almost sad, even with releasing Mary from her troubles.

"I'm going out, new club opened up a few weeks ago. I'm going to go check it out. Sinful Vices." Violet said calmly, and she grabbed her coat from the hook on the back of the door. Violet snickered, and grabbed Sherlock's scarf too, wrapping it around her neck. "I haven't had any fun for too long. Too much hacking, not enough dancing."

"A drug lord is trying to kidnap you, Violet." John said from under Sherlock.

"Mycroft is having me shadowed by five guards all the time, along with some off duty officers moonlighting from the Yard. And… Anthea is going with me. I'll be okay." Violet said, playing with the ends of Sherlock's scarf. "You two could get dressed and come with us. You still owe me a night out dancing, Sherlock."

"I thought you two broke it off?" John risked asking.

"Yeah we did. But we both need some cheering up, so clubbing it is. You two gonna trust Mycroft's goon squad to keep me safe, or you gonna come along?"

Sherlock leapt from the chair, and tugged John to his feet. He dragged John down the hall, his doctor complaining. Violet laughed.

"You've got fifteen minutes until Mycroft's car gets here! And you better come outta there looking too sexy to be my uncles!"

---

Violet snickered, the sight of John in club clothing enough to make anyone laugh. He looked so uncomfortable. Sherlock had midnight black slacks on, a shiny black leather belt with a sparkling silver belt buckle, and a black silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His hair was doing this thing that was screaming 'I just had amazing sex, and I'll be doing that again.' He looked astonishingly good, and Violet looked back at John. The poor doctor just looked silly wearing his black pants and thin black t-shirt. Silly and cold. It was dark in most clubs, and everyone either drunk or high. No one would care.

Anthea sat at her side, quiet, and looking lovely. The car was dark, but Anthea shined in the shadows, her dark blue mini a match for Violet's silver one. Accidentally dressing alike, but still looking good. Violet couldn't stop herself from looking at her every few seconds.

"Seriously? Dancing?" John groaned for the fifth time, not at all excited about going to a club. "I'm ten years past this sort of thing, all three of you are making me feel old."

"Sexy older doctor dating the hot, innocent younger man, oohhh that's a romance novel right there." Violet whispered loudly, winking at John as he blushed. Sherlock laughed, his deep rumble filling the car with the pleasant sound.

The club wasn't far from the warehouse district by the river, a large building with three levels. Violet stepped out, the valet opening the door for her, Anthea following. They had VIP passes, courtesy of Violet hacking her way in, and the girls waited for John and Sherlock to get out of the car. Violet led the way down the red carpet, the sound of loud music muffled by the red and black doors. They passed the line of people, and Violet flashed her passes. The door guard opened the rope line, and the door, and Violet stepped into the club.

---

Peter blinked in astonishment at the tall slim brunette woman, standing with a group of people just inside the door. She was a dead ringer for Woodley's obsession, and he had a clear view of her from the bar. He was close enough that when she turned her head to talk to a woman in a dark blue dress he saw her eyes. Purple, so intensely vibrant they couldn't possibly be real.

Peter dropped the crate of vodka, and sprinted through the service door beside the bar. He ran for the private staircase in the back of the building, taking the steps as fast as he could. He ran up the three flights, to the top level, where a private office overlooked the dance floor, the bars, and VIP lounges.

Peter burst through the door, interrupting his master as the big man snorted a line of white powder off the breast of a very drunk, and very naked woman. Woodley got a nasty, enraged expression, but Peter ran to the wall sized one way glass panel, and pointed down to the dance floor. He had no breath to vocalize what he wanted Woodley to see. Woodley got up, spilling the naked woman to the floor. He stalked over to the glass wall, and looked down to where Peter was pointing.

Peter felt sick to his stomach at the incomprehensible look of glee that came over his master's features. Woodley stepped closer to the glass, so close he was nearly touching it. The young woman that held his attention was dancing in the middle of the club, seducing everyone around her as she moved to the beat. She was like bottled lightning, the silver dress she wore catching the colored lights and reflecting them back out. She was beautiful, and even Peter felt a long forgotten part of his anatomy stir at the sight she made.

Violet Hunter just walked into the lion's den. Sinful Vices was owned by John Woodley, Master Chemist of London, and she was losing her freedom with every sexy step she took across the dance floor.