Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. He's got me, though.

WARNING: Heartbreak.

A/N: I recall a quote by Gandalf from the LotR movies.

"I will not say, do not weep, for not all tears are an evil."

-J.R.R Tolkien

Next chapter drops one week from now.

Chapter 52

"For Love, and Duty"

December 29th, Late Evening, London

Violet handed over her coat to the attendant, letting John get her claim ticket. The beat caught and held her attention, her foot tapping along to the loud music.

The club was large, three levels of techno and rave, old school melodrama with the smoke and the leather and black marble. Red highlights in leather and flame designs covered the walls and the booths around the dance floor. The DJ booth was up on the second level balcony, hanging partially out over the dance floor, along with what appeared to be VIP lounges and drink service booths. The dance floor was the entire bottom floor, surrounded on two sides by wall length bars.

The place was packed, full of people dancing, drinking and getting high. Though most of them looked to be spazzing out on some good shit, and not actually dancing. It was place of careless abandon, a place to dump the bullshit and misery of the daily grind, get crazy, and be irresponsible. Violet's kind of place, and she felt a small tendril of delight creep out to tease her lips into a smile.

Dance clubs are the same around the globe. Reminds me of the New York City club scene. Whole bunch of fun and crazy.

Violet looked at the heartbreaker at her side, and grabbed her hand. Anthea was too pretty to be sad, and Violet refused to feel the same. "Dance with me, beautiful," she whispered in Anthea's ear, and the music called her out to the floor.

Previously that afternoon…

Anthea let the lid snap shut on her last suitcase, and she straightened. She pulled in a deep breath, and forced herself to look at the room she'd called home for five years.

Same king size four poster bed, the armoire and wardrobe standing where they'd been since Mycroft ordered them for her all those years ago. He hadn't said a word to her, sending for the pieces because he wanted to, giving her more space for her belongings. He would do that, randomly getting her small things that over the years that transformed her small bedroom with the attached bath from a suite in someone else's house in to her home.

She'd already found a flat close to Headquarters, and her new boss wasn't expecting her to report for a few days' time, to discuss her 'future'. The tone of the section chief's voice was diffident when he'd called to accept her transfer, and he made certain to let her know she was on her own timetable when it came to work.

Anthea knew what that meant, really. Mycroft throwing his weight around. She didn't mind, not one bit. She had been by the Iceman's side for half a decade, and she was having trouble trying to wrap her mind around working with someone in a lesser position.

Anthea felt a buzzing on her hip, and reached down for her mobile. Violet.

I can't do this anymore. Being so fucking sad. Come dancing with me tonight. –VH

Anthea bit her lip, hard, and sat on the edge of the bed. She thought for a moment, wondering what she should do. The issue wasn't resolved; she still loved this girl's uncle, far more than she should. Yet Violet was too full of life, passion, to resist. She made even depression seem like fun. Maybe she was exactly what Anthea needed.

Will need to bring guards. Where to? –A

Place called Sinful Vices. I found VIP passes. Come with me, 'Thea. –VH

I will. I'll bring the limo. –A

Thanks, babe. –VH

Now….

Woodley leaned against the glass wall of his office, watching the woman in the silver mini tear up the dance floor below, another woman in dark blue dancing beside her. Both women moved together, sex on heels. He felt himself getting hard just watching, as the woman in blue spun his obsession, catching her in an embrace that left little to the imagination…..they were lovers. The pair danced, each one so focused on the other that they were the best out there, making everyone else on the floor look second class.

"Peter," he growled out to his servant, the man still cowering beside him. "Get the car ready, and alert the warehouse guards. And clear the back alley and the service hall. We'll be having a new guest after tonight."

He narrowed his gaze, and saw through a break in the smoke the arrogant features of the bitch from the train, the one who embarrassed him in the bar car. Rage pooled in his gut, and he heard the rush of blood in his ears. A red haze of anger clouded his vision, and he ran a shaking hand down the glass wall. The desire to run down there and tear her apart limb from limb was nearly overwhelming.

I made that bitch a promise on the train. I cover my IOU's.

Sherlock watched his niece and her estranged lover sway together to the fast beat, owning the dance floor. Violet was exceptional. She always was at dancing, or anything else really. It was hard to find something a Holmes couldn't excel at if they put effort behind it. She flashed like lightning in the lasers and fake smoke, Anthea a spark of blue fire in the shadows at her side.

"Sherlock, I'm seriously out of my element here." John told him, having to practically yell in his ear to be heard. "I'm going to the bar. At least I know how to drink."

John stepped away, heading for the nearest bar, but the music, for all its simplistic beat and repetitive melodies, was making the detective want to move. Sherlock reached out, and grabbed John by the wrist, spinning him back. The smaller man came at him, landing against his chest with a harsh 'oomph'. Sherlock held him tightly, and took his mouth, sweeping his tongue deeply into the other man's mouth. He kissed John until the older man stopped thinking, and Sherlock began to move them both to the seductive beat.

Sherlock kissed John, and the doctor raised his arms, kissing him back now in a fight for dominance, and he clung to Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock growled in triumph, and didn't stop kissing his lover until they were surrounded by the riot of moving bodies on the dance floor. Sherlock started to dance in earnest, distracting John with teeth and tongue, while his hands rested on John's hips, moving his lover's body to the beat. He led John, the other man giving him control without thinking about it, and Sherlock had John dancing faster than any alcoholic drink could have done.

Sherlock lifted his head, and let a wicked grin grow on his lips at the sight of the heavily aroused man in his arms. John was moving with him, too turned on to want more that a hairsbreadth of space between their bodies. The beat was seductive, full of sex with a nearly violent edge, and couples, even trios, packed the dance floor, the air heavy with desire and need.

Sherlock didn't give John time to think, to be embarrassed. He teased and tormented, swaying them together, and Sherlock led John through the throng. Whenever John would falter, start to notice they were dancing, glued together in a most indecent manner in public, Sherlock would pull him close, and kiss those thoughts away. Hips rubbing, arousals sliding over each other, strong thighs touching with each step they took, Sherlock and John danced unnoticed among the teeming mass of animalistic passion.

And Sherlock loved every second. And he made sure John did, too.

Previously…

Anthea tugged at the hem of her blue dress, making sure her garter straps weren't showing beyond an occasional flirty flash. The right combination of naughty vixen and glam dancer reflected back at her, and Anthea spun, getting a good look. Her hair was up in a messy Grecian style, tendrils escaping. Good for dancing, it kept the hair off her neck and shoulders.

Anthea picked up her mobile, and frowned. Her latest assistant candidate for Mycroft just bowed out, and she figured it was because of what, or rather who, the position required. Not many people out there, even veteran field agents, could stomach the thought of being the Iceman's personal go-to person. Anthea saw past the smokescreen to the good man underneath, but no one else did. Mycroft played the role of spymaster and Iceman far too well sometimes.

Anthea sighed, and grabbed her short coat, throwing it over her arm before stepping out the door of the room that would only be hers for a couple more days. She meant what she promised earlier. She wouldn't leave Mycroft without an assistant. She would find someone brave enough to take the job, and smart enough to survive Mycroft. He didn't suffer 'goldfish', and unfortunately, most of their cohorts fit that description.

Anthea strode down the hall, the limo and the additional security she'd arranged earlier already waiting at the curb. She made it halfway down the stairs before she saw Greg and Mycroft at the door, the DI presumably just returning from his own flat. His face was bruised from the altercation with his father, but not badly. The elder Lestrade didn't have time to do much before the admirable Doctor Watson saved the day. John was good at that, saving the day.

Both men stopped talking, and looked up, to where she was standing. Anthea met dark green and brown eyes, and saw the unease. She saw pain in both, more in Mycroft's green than in Greg's dark brown. In his she saw regret, and a desire to protect the new love he had. She didn't blame him one bit, and she liked the down to earth DI from Scotland Yard. If she were in his position, she would feel the same. He was a good man, and she knew, without any doubt, that he wasn't pushing Mycroft to get rid of her. Leaving was her choice, her idea, and she believed it to be the right one.

Mycroft took in her short, body hugging deep blue dress, running from her deliberate messy hair, to her bare shoulders, the low neckline, the very revealing hemline, all the way down to her black high heels. Greg looked too, and Anthea felt her first real smile in days break free. Men were men, no matter where their hearts may lay.

She slowly took the remaining steps, neither man speaking, and she put a little extra swing into her stride as she walked across the foyer.

"You look great, 'Thea." Greg said, coughing a little into his hand. His eyes were sparkling, and if anything from his reaction, she knew she looked better than great.

"Thank you, Greg. Very sweet of you," she said, happy to get the compliment. He was a good man. Mycroft was lucky to have him.

She went to put on her coat, but Mycroft stepped up, and took it from her. She met his eyes for a silent moment, before letting him help her into it. She saw the meaningful look that passed between the two men, and Greg wandered away, deeper down the hall. She turned, and wondered why Greg left, and tugged her coat tighter. It was if Greg was leaving the two of them alone on purpose….…..

"Anthea."

She looked up, and was transfixed by the powerful emotions swirling in his deep green eyes. He was close, so near she felt the heat from his body. She couldn't help the shiver that spread from her core out to her extremities, and she couldn't stop the deep aching pain that throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She loved him too much to be this close.

Anthea went to step back, but he stopped her. His long fingers lightly touched her cheek, his fingertips shutting down her ability to move. She couldn't look away from him.

"Are you packed?" He asked softly, and she had the feeling he was going to ask something else, and changed his mind. There was something he wanted to say, but couldn't.

"Yes… I'll be out of here in a few days. Waiting on my new flat to be cleaned, and I haven't found you a new assistant yet." Anthea responded, whispering, his fingers still touching her face. "Won't be long."

Mycroft moved closer, a tiny half step, and his fingers touched the hair at her temple, and next to her ear. She fought off the urge to turn her face into his palm, to feel more of his skin on hers. She wouldn't, couldn't, no matter how badly she wanted too.

"Anthea…. Are you sure this is necessary?" Mycroft sounded so sad, heartbroken, and his voice held a pleading edge to it she'd never heard before.

Anthea tipped back her head, and realized he was close enough to kiss. All she had to do was lift up on her toes, and brush her lips to his. The image was so powerful she struggled to remember why she shouldn't do that. It was the intense pain and longing that snapped her back to herself, his fingers burning hot on her skin.

"Yes, Mycroft," she said to him, and she heard the unseen tears in her words. "Don't make me break, please. I can't deny you anything, don't ask me to stay."

"You would. Stay, I mean. If I asked."

"Yes. Without hesitation." She swore to him, a part of her screaming in pointless hope that he would ask, and remove the burden of choice from her shoulders. Another part, the wiser part, was praying he wouldn't. That he would let her go. "I love you too much, please let me go. I can't be here, and watch you fashion a life with Greg, with me forever at your side, and yet always on the outside of your heart. I could survive it before, before him, but I had some hope then. I have none now."

Anthea let the lone tear fall, unable to stop her body's betrayal. He saw it, and he caught her tear with a finger, wiping it away. He was so gentle, and her body shook. The crack in her heart shattered, and Anthea tore herself away. She walked to the door, a hand on the wooden panel, and dropped her head.

She fought to maintain control, and it took every shred of her will not to turn around, not to run to him, and beg him to let her live out her days at his side. He had her love, her loyalty, he always would. But she couldn't give him her soul, and survive.

"I'm going out tonight, Mycroft, with Violet. Have a good evening." She said, proud her words came out stronger than she felt. "I'll be home tomorrow, I promise. For a few more days at least."

She heard him shifting on his feet behind her, and she hoped he wouldn't come to her. She wouldn't be able to stop her reaction, kept herself off of him. She grabbed the handle, and opened the door a few inches. The cold snapped through the small space, and helped her focus on something other than the man she loved.

"Goodbye, Anthea. I'll see you tomorrow, then." Mycroft whispered, and she refused to turn around. She heard the tears, the ones he would never let fall. She pulled the door open all the way, and saw the limo waiting. Violet would be waiting for her at Baker Street.

She stepped out, and let the guard outside the door shut it for her. The great black wood and iron door shut with a finality that made her bones hurt, and Anthea took the steps down to the limo. She felt different. Empty. As if all the light was gone from her life, and she was nothing but a shell of her former self.

Previously…

Greg watched the scene in the foyer play out, and he found himself feeling wretched. The shadows in the darker hall were deep enough for him to watch and not be seen. He trusted them both, and he wouldn't be bothered over much if Mycroft did kiss Anthea. It looked to him like it would go that way for a minute, and wondered why she pulled away. Surely she wanted to kiss him, and they both needed to answer the question of how it would feel if they gave in, if only for the sake of their combined sanity.

He felt wretched not because Mycroft so obviously loved Anthea, and was showing it, but because she was a remarkable woman who deserved to be loved. She deserved every ounce of love a man could give her, and Mycroft was a man who could love her unconditionally, if his heart was free.

They were well matched. Both intelligent, strong, fiercely patriotic, and highly dedicated. She knew what he needed, and he trusted her to a degree Greg knew he trusted no other. They'd been a pair for so long that Greg worried that Mycroft wouldn't be able to adapt to her absence. She would excel no matter where she went, but Mycroft…. His spymaster had so few totally trustworthy people in his life, and he needed every one of them.

Greg worried that Mycroft wouldn't survive losing Anthea, not again. She may not be presumed dead this time, but she would be gone all the same. Almost as far, forever out of reach.

Now…

Clay stepped in the front door of his mistress's cottage, listening carefully. He heard movement in the back room, and tossed his keys into the small tray next to the door as he shut it, not bothering being quiet. He made noise on purpose, knowing that trying to be quiet would earn him a bullet. Nothing makes an assassin more trigger happy than a fellow killer trying to be sneaky.

"Enjoy your holiday?" It was Miss Morstan, dressed in dark jeans and a black jumper. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, her deep blue eyes glittering in the low lights.

"I did, thank you ma'am. I assume you enjoyed yours?" Clay tugged off his coat, and draped it over the back of the nearest chair. He was back early, but he had nothing to do other than watch over his mistress and her lover, so he stopped wasting his days moping around the English countryside and came home. He could have gone and spied on the detective, but that man would spot him easily in the city, he was far too attuned to being watched here, and Clay wouldn't be able to pull it off. He had been tempted though, very tempted.

"We both did, yes. A lot has happened since The Vicar died."

He looked around, and saw signs of packing. Most of Jaime's weapons, and his, were stored away, an essential few left out on the table. Clay craned his neck, and saw his bags already packed and waiting on the bed. He felt his brows raise up, and looked back at the blonde assassin in question.

"Don't worry, you aren't being abandoned. She's been quite adamant that you come along," Mary reassured him, smiling at his puzzled expression. "She packed your belongings first."

"Lady M packed for me? Oh." Clay was flummoxed, and stood staring at the blonde woman, who was grinning at him in a devious manner. "Where we going?"

"Home, Clay. We are going home." Jaime called out from the rear of the hall, her voice ringing with happiness. She strode into the room, stopping beside Mary. "We leave tomorrow. I've already sent word ahead, they are preparing for our arrival."

Clay found himself grinning, his heart overwhelmed by the happiness and joy, the hope on his lady's face. He hadn't seen her this happy since before her brother died. In fact, he'd never seen her quite like this before. Even with James she'd held a manic edge to every move and word. She was different now, better. The madness was quiet.

"I can't wait." Clay said, trying not to choke on the lump in his throat. Crying in front of her for the second time just wouldn't do. "I haven't been to the castle in years."

Now…

John was seduced, swept under Sherlock's spell. The detective moved against him like sin and sex, the heat between them hotter than the press of bodies all around. Sherlock led him, and he stepped with him, the steps instinctual and erotic. He stopped caring ages ago that he was dancing in a very scandalous manner with his lover. From the glimpses he got of the others on the floor, they were fairly tame in their moves.

Sherlock was different man. He was nothing but the movement, the deep encompassing need to mate, and John was addicted. Sherlock broke him down and made him nothing but urgent need, and the way the detective moved on him, around him, and with him made it obvious that Sherlock knew it too.

Gone was the analytical machine, the mercurial best friend, the petulant child, the hard-nosed detective. In his place was a man who wanted one thing, and he wanted John Watson.

John succumbed, and let Sherlock do what he wanted, what he needed, because every damn move the younger man made was what he needed too. John kissed Sherlock, and ran his hands all over his torso, his hips, and flirted with his belt. He didn't go farther south, but dear God did he want too….

Sherlock responded, plastering his whole length to John, hands gripping his hips, holding them tightly together, rubbing and caressing. The club was alive around them, and the sensory overload spurred them on. John caught the faintest hint of flowers, sweet and cloying, until he was lost in the man who seduced him so powerfully.

Fire spread from the back of his neck, a new place affected deeply by the man he loved. Sherlock wasn't even touching him there, but John found himself feeling fucking amazing with the sensations flowing from the cool flames licking his skin.

Now...

Sherlock lifted his head from John's tempting kiss, his mind determined to pay attention to something other than John. He caught it again, the scent of flowers, intensely sweet. Sherlock moved John, spinning the doctor around, his ass pressed tightly to Sherlock's groin, and he distracted his doctor with his hips and hands. John moaned, and leaned back on him, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock smelled it again, very strong. He dipped his head, and was about to kiss John's neck, when he saw the shiny film on his doctor's skin.

Winter's Night. Someone just drugged John.

Now...

Violet danced with Anthea, the other woman matching her step for step. Violet found she was relaxing, her worries falling away. Anthea's mood was lifting too, and she saw a glimmer of enjoyment in her deep green eyes as they danced.

Violet and Anthea twirled and swayed, dresses catching the lights and lasers. They danced under the DJ booth, the smoke the thickest there. Violet saw the glances from men and women alike, and they garnered an adoring fan club that danced around them. Violet laughed, the music too loud to be heard, but she saw the answering smile on Anthea's face. Violet couldn't resist, and pulled Anthea to her side.

Anthea surprised her, and moved in even closer. She ran her hands up and down Violet's sides, enticing and teasing. Violet grinned, and matched her move for move. She daren't let herself hope, to read into this more than was wise. They both loved to dance, and the music was enough trick the senses into thinking things were more than they really were.

Tomorrow would come, and Anthea would still love Mycroft. The sun would rise, and Violet would still be alone. Yet Violet gave in, and let the dream of a love that might have been settle her doubts, shape her actions. Tonight they could forget their heartache, the pain, and the bitter sting of loss. Tonight there was just the music and dance, and the sweet scent of lilac and smoke.

And she would take one step closer to freeing herself from a past filled with pain and sorrow. Woodley was going to regret every second of his life he ever spent thinking about her. He was the last annoyance in her way before she was free.

She lost track of how long they danced, but it was long enough for Violet to want a drink. Pulling back, she caught Thea's hand and tugged her from the floor, to one of the bars along the wall.

Anthea held her hand, and they went to the bar. Violet let Anthea order, and she looked around for her uncles. Violet started to laugh in delight when she found them, in the thickest populated area of the dance floor. Sherlock was showing John some serious moves, and Violet had the sneaking suspicion John was going to be horribly embarrassed in the morning. The two men weaved and snaked around each other like they were alone, and Sherlock controlled every step. John was putty in his hands, and Violet figured she should stop watching, considering one was related to her and all, but it was just too much fun.

She watched Sherlock and John until the crowd swallowed them up, and Violet turned back to the bar. Anthea held out her drink, and she gulped down the mojito like it was water. Anthea was waiting on her drink, the bar constantly barraged by people streaming back and forth between the dance floor and the bar, in search of drinks. And something else.

Violet saw it from the corner of her eye, and pretended not to notice anything. She watched as the bartender nearest the wall slipped a small glass tube about the size of a small thumb drive to a patron in exchange for cash. The bartender filled a drink order next, then as easy as breathing, pulled out another tiny vial from a small fridge under the bar top. She saw dozens of vials inside, in different sizes, ranging from even smaller vials the size of a thimble, to shot glass sized bottles. The contents glittered like diamonds, and Violet knew her trackers had found the right bar. Woodley owned this place, and was using it to push Winter's Night.

Violet reached out, and put down her drink. She tapped Thea's elbow, and when the other woman turned to her, swept her hand into her dark hair, pulling her in close. Violet kissed her, capturing her mouth in the kiss that Violet felt down to her toes. Anthea stilled, startled, and Violet moved in closer, both hands now holding her still for her kiss.

She wasn't expecting a response, but she got one anyway. Anthea kissed her back, just as passionately. She molded her luscious curves to Violet's, arms holding her back, tongues dancing together like they were back on that floor, following the beat. Violet let her kiss say everything she couldn't. That she would have been willing to be Thea's one and only, if they had only been given a chance. Fate was cruel, and brought them together too late for true love. Maybe in their next lives they might have a chance…

Anthea answered, and if a kiss could taste of yearning and frustrated hopes, then her kiss did for certain. Passion was there, and need. Flickering and dying, a brief chance of happiness in the tumult of their lives. Violet lost herself, forgetting where they were, and let this lovely woman distract her from what she was really doing here.

Anthea was the first to pull away, her gorgeous face flushed, green eyes alive with lust and something close to love. Violet cupped her face, and sighed. The music was too loud for Anthea to hear her, but she saw her expression clearly enough. Thea leaned in, and spoke in her ear.

"What is it, Vie?"

Violet wrapped her arms around Thea's neck, and buried her face in the soft hair by her ear.

"This is Woodley's club. He's selling Winter's Night here, through the bartenders."

To her credit, Anthea didn't react badly at all. She made it look like they were just making out, and ran her lips over Violet's ear. Violet didn't have to fake the shiver that ran across her skin at the sensual touch.

"Is that why you picked this place?"

"I wasn't sure until I saw the bartender make a deal. I hacked most of Woodley's financials early this morning, and found this club." Violet said, enjoying the way Thea felt in her arms. "None of you would let me come here to find out on my own in case I was right, so I staged a night out. Sherlock wasn't getting anywhere with the legal side of things, and neither was Scotland Yard. I decided to take care of Woodley myself. We got the just cause for the warrants. We can call the cops now, I saw the exchange. An anonymous tip about drug deals should get the cops here quick, especially if we call Donovan."

Anthea chuckled, and pulled back to give her a half-hearted glare. Violet couldn't stop her grin, and winked at the MI6 operative. Thea leaned back in, and kissed Violet just below her ear.

"I have all of Scotland Yard and MI6 on speed dial. My mobile is in my coat. Let's go get it, and shut this place down." Violet grinned as Thea whispered in her ear, and let Thea lead her away from the bar. "Woodley is going to be having a bad night."

Now...

Woodley watched the two women kiss at the bar, and he felt his arousal grow by the second. The small glass panel in the rear service door was large enough for him to see them clearly. Peter was sniveling at his side, the junkie twitching. He'd just returned from dispatching the detective and his gay lover, and Woodley had a feeling Peter had partaken of some of the product when he drugged his target.

"Make sure the car is ready, and the cameras are off in the rear alley." Woodley ordered Peter, and the junkie scurried away.

She was going to be his, the beautiful Violet Hunter. And her snobby bitch of a girlfriend was going to pay for her actions on the train.

Woodley's hand curled into a fist, unconsciously channeling his desire to beat the brunette in the blue dress senseless.

Now...

"John?" Sherlock called, shaking the doctor gently, then harder when all John could do was gasp and moan against him. John's deep blue eyes were foggy and blown wide, and his heart rate erratic. John was high, hit hard by a powerful dose of the hallucinogenic narcotic. The smear on his neck was thick, and more drugs were being absorbed into his system the longer it stayed on his skin. Sherlock searched through John's pockets for a handkerchief, cursing the man's tight trousers as he did.

He found one, glad his doctor was always so pragmatic when he left the flat, no matter where he was going. Sherlock wiped off the remaining gel, and tucked the offending cloth in his own pocket. John was still able to stand, and he seemed very interested in getting his hands on every inch of Sherlock's body. Sherlock eyed the crowd, but the chances of spotting John's attacker were very small.

John was intent on reducing Sherlock to a puddle of sexual need, but Sherlock left the haze of desire behind as he eyed the club. He saw Violet and Anthea at the bar, and his brows rose as he took in the two women snogging like they had no tomorrows left. Sherlock hefted John higher against his chest, and tried to dig his mobile from his pocket.

John seized once against him, and started to moan, airway sounding choked. John was hot to the touch, far too sweaty, and his muscles started to go limp. Sherlock gave up trying to reach for his mobile, and felt a frisson of terror run through his veins.

He didn't get a tailored dose. He got too much. I didn't notice in time! John!

Sherlock took all of John's weight, and dragged his lover through the crowd, heading for the restrooms. John was barely able to stand, and he couldn't find enough coordination to walk, much less move his feet. Sherlock blasted through the door of the gent's room, glad it was empty. The lights were bright and glaring in comparison to the deliberate shadows of the dance floor, and it let Sherlock see John's face.

His eyes were becoming red, bloodshot, and his lips were getting a bluish tinge to them, cheeks paling. John's hands were growing cold, while his core temperature rose. His circulation was shutting down in his extremities, shunting blood flow to the vital organs.

Sherlock laid John down on his back, and reached for his mobile. He stood as his fingers blindly dialed, and he turned the nearest faucet on full blast. The mobile rang out on Speaker, and Sherlock dropped it next to John as he grabbed handfuls of towels. He soaked them under the spray, the water cold, and he wiped at John's face, his neck, cleaning off the remaining drug.

"Emergency Services…." The line opened, and Sherlock wanted to scream in relief.

John wasn't responding. Sherlock felt his composure snap, an audible crack through the foundations of his mind palace as the horrible possibility of death entered his heart.

Now...

Violet held Thea's hand as they weaved their way through the throng of bodies, heading for the front door and the coat check station. No one but the attendant was at the door, everyone out where the fun was. Thea got her coat back, and fished out her mobile, flipping through her contacts. Violet would call, but Thea knew who was best to call and what to say, so she got bored waiting. Violet was looking over her shoulder, trying to spot Sherlock or John on the dance floor when it happened.

A large hand fell over her face, and a big arm roped around her waist. She lost her grip on Thea's hand the same moment she tried to draw in a breath to scream, but no air got past the hand covering her face.

She saw over the large handing holding her two men restraining Thea. They were both bodily picked up, and carried through the edges of the crowd towards a service entrance. Violet was kicking, clawing at the arms of the man who held her. Her heels made contact several times to her attacker's legs, and she heard grunts of pain from the man at her back. Her breath was running out, and Violet bit hard into the fingers covering her mouth. She got the taste of blood before the hand was jerked away, and she spit out a shred of flesh before she dragged in a deep lungful of air. Violet screamed, and threw her head back, the back of her skull connecting with the face of the man who carried her.

She heard cursing, and kept fighting. His hold on her was loosening, and she refused to give up. They burst through the service door next to the bar into the glare of a well-lit hallway and Violet screamed again before the door swung shut. No one out in the club heard, or cared. The music was loud, and most of the people here knew better than to get involved in what was going on, or were too high to care. They were being carried down a long hall, towards an exit that must lead to an alley or street. Violet scratched, ripping bloody grooves across the back of the hand that gripped her waist, and she moved her head away from the other hand that tried to cover her face again.

Violet kicked back, heel high and she lucked out, catching her assailant in the knee. He dropped her, screaming, and she kicked again, catching him in the chest as he fell to his knees. Violet turned back to Anthea and the two men holding her. She dashed forward, jumping on the back of one of the men holding Thea's arms. Getting Anthea free was the best option for them to escape, as the MI6 operative was well trained and capable of defending herself. Violet screamed in rage, dragging at the neck of the man she was attacking, and he let go of Thea's arm.

Anthea exploded into action, kneeing the remaining man holding her in the groin, punching him hard in the throat as he bent over, gagging. She spun on her heel, and Thea's other foot landed squarely in the stomach of the man Violet was trying to choke out. He doubled over, and Violet dropped off of him, darting to the side as Anthea dodged past his reaching hands. She slid inside his personal space, and elbowed him so hard in the face Violet saw an explosion of blood from the ruin of his nose.

"Run! Violet, move!" Anthea shouted to her, and she picked up her mobile from the floor as her other hand took Violet's. They ran back down the hall to the door that led to the club, past the man who had grabbed Violet, who was trying to regain his feet. They needed to make the dance floor, get to Sherlock and John and more witnesses.

Anthea was dialing with her other hand, still holding tight to Violet's hand. She put the mobile to her ear, and Violet could hear her calling Mycroft's name.

A giant blur of heavily muscled brute force barreled out from a recessed door in the hall, about five strides from the door to the club. Anthea was thrown bodily into the wall several feet off the ground, shrieking in surprise as she flew through the air. Her head hit the plaster with a solid thump, the mobile clattering under her as she fell to the tiles. Violet screamed, trying to rush to her side. Her shoulder was caught in an unrelenting grip, and Violet was spun around, and she found herself pinned to the wall above the stricken MI6 operative.

John Woodley held her with one hand, the giant man using no more effort than she would at swatting a fly. Her feet slowly left the floor as he lifted her against the wall, and Violet felt her mind go blank with terror at the disgusting look of enjoyment on his face. He saw her fear and it made him happy.

He pressed her so hard to the wall she struggled to breathe. Her chest couldn't expand enough to draw in enough air. She tore at his arm with her nails, but her fingers merely slid off the granite muscles under his silk shirt.

"I've got you now, Lovey."

Now...

Sherlock slapped John, hard, forcing him to stay conscious. He grabbed John by his collar, lifting his torso from the floor, and squeezed ice cold water from the soaked towels over his face. John sputtered, and he blinked at him, a vague hint of awareness coming back to his eyes. Sherlock was a chaotic storm of fear and sickening panic, watching his lover overdose on Winter's Night.

"John! Wake up! I called an ambulance, but I need you to stay awake!" Sherlock shook his doctor, and he breathed through his panic as John succumbed again to the drugs coursing through his system. That flash of self-awareness faded from his bloodshot eyes, and Sherlock screamed in his face. "John!"

Sherlock reached down to the floor, and dialed Mycroft, again, but his brother wasn't answering. Mycroft had to know that Sherlock and John were out with the girls, so he didn't know why Mycroft wouldn't be answering. Unless he was too busy with his lover to mind his mobile lighting up like a storm. He needed to alert the security teams to the fact that something was wrong, but he couldn't reach anyone, and he didn't have the number for the guards waiting outside the club. He had tried to call Violet, then Anthea, both with no success, and Mycroft wasn't answering.

Whatever the mix was for the dose they gave John, it was highly concentrated, and pushed him past the rabid dog stage of a bad high into the overdose part of dying. John was going to die if he didn't snap out of it, and soon.

"John, damn you, don't die on me!" Sherlock pulled back his hand, and slapped John again, so hard the doctor's head snapped to the side. He was pulling his hand back for another blow when John coughed, and blinked bloodshot eyes at him. John saw him, and recognized him, but he was going to fall under again any moment. "John, you must stay awake!"

Sherlock gave up on his brother, and called the one man guaranteed to get through to Mycroft. He dialed Lestrade, and hoped he wasn't too distracted by his brother to answer his damn mobile. Lestrade answered fast, as if his mobile were already in hand…

"Sherlock? What the hell is going on…?"

Now...

Greg moaned, hands clutching at Mycroft's silk tie. He rolled his hips, spreading his thighs wider, and Mycroft lowered himself between them. He felt their combined weight press him deeper into the soft cushions of the couch in Mycroft's room, and he concentrated on undoing the stubborn strip of cloth as Mycroft took his mouth again.

The kiss was scorching, wet, and deep. Mycroft curled his arms under Greg's shoulders, and tilted his head, delving deeper, tongues clashing. Greg rolled his hips again, and felt Mycroft's arousal rub along his own. Mycroft gasped, and groaned, thrusting his hips forward, leaving no space for air between them. He managed to get Mycroft's tie undone, and did his best to pull it off while Mycroft ravished his mouth.

Greg heard a buzzing noise, but was too engrossed in what Mycroft's tongue was doing to his to focus on it. The buzzing kept on, and finally Mycroft lifted his head with a curse, and looked to the coffee table next to the couch. Greg panted for air, and took his chance, latching on to Mycroft's neck and sucking on the salty skin under his ear. Mycroft groaned, eyes drifting shut halfway, and he lifted one arm out from under Greg. He reached for his mobile, which was still ringing.

Mycroft looked at the Caller ID, and sat up. He blinked, and turned to Greg. Greg stopped kissing his neck, and raised a brow in question. Mycroft mouthed 'sorry' to him, and answered it on Speaker.

"Mycroft!" Anthea screamed through the open line. She was out of breath, and sounded like she was running. "Mycroft!"

The spymaster launched from the couch, responding to the urgency in the unflappable operative's voice. Greg sat up, worried. Anthea never sounded worried, nor stressed. The scene earlier in the foyer was the most emotional he'd ever seen her get, and she hadn't even yelled, or really cried.

"Anthea? What's wrong?" Mycroft called out, one hand blindly reaching for Greg. He caught his spymaster's hand and clutched it.

Both men jerked as they heard Anthea cry out, and there was a violent crash of something that sounded like a person being thrown. Greg stood in a flash as they heard Violet scream over the still open line, and a struggle. They didn't hear Anthea again.

"I've got you now, lovey….." It was a deep rumble of aggression, and in a voice neither of them knew. They heard a gasp for air, and tiny whimper in a feminine voice before silence fell.

Mycroft was running, dragging Greg behind him, out his door to the stairs. Mycroft was shouting Anthea's name at the phone, but they got no response. The two men ran to the railing that over looked the foyer, and Mycroft's shouts drew the attention of the guards stationed below.

"There's been an attack on Anthea! Track her mobile, it's still active! Alert the security teams guarding her and my niece!" Mycroft shouted, and the two men below immediately began to speak on their radios. "Contact Scotland Yard and our informants, I want to know where John Woodley is now! Fuck the warrants!"

Greg felt his pocket vibrate the second before his own mobile started chiming at him. Greg dug at his pocket, one ear on the orders Mycroft was shouting to his men below, and the other on his own mobile. He finally yanked it out with one hand, the other still gripped tightly in Mycroft's shaking hand.

It was Sherlock. He answered it on Speaker, heart in his throat. This wasn't a coincidence.

"Sherlock? What the hell is going on…?" Greg asked as he opened the line, and he heard the detective on the other end of the line scream John's name.

"Lestrade, I need Mycroft now! We're at the club called Sinful Vices with Anthea and Violet. John's been drugged, and I can't reach the girls. I think we've been separated on purpose." Sherlock's voice faded out for a second, and Mycroft turned from the now silent mobile in his hand, to the chaos of agony in his little brother's voice. "John's overdosing! Goddammit John, please don't leave me alone!"

Mycroft jerked from his fear-induced trance at the name of the club, and shouted it down over the railing to his men.

"Hold on Sherlock, we've got help on the way." Greg reassured the detective, not certain Sherlock could hear him, the detective shouting to his doctor.

Sherlock was screaming John's name, the usually cold man shattered by the threat of his lover's death. Greg held Mycroft's hand so hard he lost feeling in his own fingers. Fear coiled in his gut, the thought of the ever-steady John Watson dying making him feel tilted on his axis. Anthea and Violet were in trouble, and Sherlock was helpless to save the man he loved. They were across the city, their family under threat, and they were forced to wait as others went to their aid.

Mycroft must have seen the frustration on his face, as they were suddenly running down the stairs, Mycroft shouting for his car to be brought around.

Now...

"I've got you now, Lovey." Woodley growled, and Violet felt tears escape and run down her cheeks. She was praying, silent screams in her head that she'd see her uncles running to the rescue. That Sherlock would know they needed him, and that John had his gun, and she'd get to watch Woodley die.

Anthea was limp, unmoving. The force with which she'd hit had broken the drywall, a huge crack running from the middle of the wall down to the floor. There was a dent where her head had hit the wall, and Violet strained in his grip, trying to see the woman on the floor, to see if she were okay.

Violet was jerked away from the wall, Woodley still holding her shoulder in one massive hand, and she was pulled back against his chest, her feet hanging above the floor. Her heels slipped off her feet, bouncing off the tiles next to Anthea's still form. Violet couldn't fight, the man who held her now stronger than the first one who'd grabbed her out front. Woodley didn't even acknowledge he held her other than his first words, and he was shouting orders at a pale twisted wreckage of a man.

Violet didn't realize she was calling Anthea's name until Woodley shook her, silencing her soft cries, easily holding her to his side a foot off the ground. Anthea was still, a ribbon of blood escaping from her mouth, her nose, her lovely brown hair sticking in the thin stream. Violet was sobbing, and she tried reaching out to the beautiful woman at her feet. Anthea's eyes were shut, her face pale, and Violet wanted to vomit from the sickening worry roiling in her gut.

She couldn't tell if Thea lived, but the way Woodley was ignoring her, the way the junkie didn't pay any attention to the motionless form at their feet made her hope fade away into black despair.

Violet groaned, any concern for her own welfare evaporated under the total certainty that Anthea, one of the bravest and truest people she'd ever met, was dead. Thrown like garbage by a man who saw her as nothing, and left on the floor like a thing, an object. She felt her soul freeze, her heart implode, and her mind faded out her surroundings.

She only saw the gracious and beautiful woman on the floor, in her gorgeous blue dress, who but for the blood, could've been sleeping. She didn't feel the arm around her waist, the cold air as the rear exit was opened. She felt nothing, heard nothing, as Woodley carried her down the hall. Violet kept Anthea in view as long as she could, craning her neck around past Woodley's shoulder. It wasn't until they hit the door to the rear alley, the frigid air slapping Violet that she came out from under her shock.

"Anthea!" Violet screamed, needing more than anything to get back to her girl. If only she could get back to Thea, hold her hand, feel the pulse at her neck, then everything would be all right. "Anthea!"

The pale wretch of a man that followed on Woodley's heels grabbed a red switch on the wall next to the door as they walked past. There was a shrieking noise, a siren that screamed as loudly as the endless voice in her head and heart. Lights flashed red and white, blinding her as she lost sight of Thea, lying so quietly on the floor of the hall.

My fault, all my fault. I'm sorry, baby.

Now...

The club was a riot, people streaming out from the exits all over the place, like ants from a burning hill. Cop cars lit up the street, ambulances and fire trucks casting their seizure inducing lights over the front of the club. The night was the coldest so far this winter, pouring on the artic temperatures as the year crept closer to its end.

Sherlock shook head to toe, soaking wet from the sink in the restroom, and trying to shock John into staying awake with the frigid water. The paramedics were running to the ambulance, John on a stretcher between them, barely conscious. Sherlock had succeeded in keeping John awake, and he hoped he'd gotten enough of the drug off of his doctor before he got a fatal dose. Considering the size of the doctor, and the sheer amount of gel Sherlock had wiped off of him, he couldn't be sure. He didn't know how long it had been there before he finally noticed that John was enjoying himself far too much, no matter how well Sherlock had distracted him on the dance floor.

"Sherlock!" He barely registered the voice calling his name, too cold and numb, too focused on his lover to see the two men running to his side. Sherlock refused to let go of the end of the stretcher, as they dodged the milling mess of people on their way to the ambulance.

Someone had thrown the fire alarm just as the paramedics had made it into the restroom, and Sherlock had barely noticed. Part of him feared what happened to Violet and Anthea, not having seen the women since John was drugged while they were dancing. He didn't know where they were, and his mind was torn in two, each half equally demanding that the other was more important; Violet and John.

John won by proximity alone, and Sherlock clung to him as they made it to the ambulance.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade grabbed his shoulders as the paramedics readied the stretcher, John moving feebly under the blanket.

"Sherlock, where are the girls!" Lestrade shook him, and he snapped back to reality, blinking at the DI.

"I don't know." He whispered, mouth dry from panic and stress. "I don't know."

"How do you not know?!" Mycroft shouted at him, ripping him from Lestrade's grip, turning Sherlock to him roughly, his hands like claws on his shoulders. His face was a rictus of wrath and ice cold disappointment. "They were with you!"

"I don't know!" Sherlock screamed back at his brother, tears running from his eyes, cold to the bone, and terrified John was going to die. He hadn't been paying attention, and this was all his fault, he failed. He failed everyone.

"Mycroft, let him go." Lestrade pried his brother off of him, and walked Sherlock to the ambulance. It was getting ready to leave, and Sherlock could barely function enough to realize he should be going with John to the hospital. Guilt swamped him, ground his clarity to dust. "Sherlock, don't worry about the girls, Mycroft and I will find them. Go with John."

"Hey, hold up. He's going with his partner." Lestrade told the paramedics, as they went to close the door.

"Is he family?" One of the medics asked, and Sherlock couldn't pry his eyes off his doctor.

Lestrade swore under his breath, and he felt his friend move jerkily, reaching in his coat. Lestrade pulled out his badge, and held it up to the paramedics to see.

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, MPS. That's his husband. Let him in the ambulance." Lestrade didn't wait for the paramedics, he threw the door open wide and helped Sherlock climb in the back. "Take them to St. Bart's Hospital. I'll call ahead, they get around the clock guards and a secure room."

"We need his name, and his husband's." They were speaking around him like he wasn't sitting there on the bench seat. He wasn't; he was on that stretcher with John, holding him tightly. No matter he was sitting quietly, catatonic with fear and worry, he was lying beside his lover, hugging him to his chest, listening to his heartbeat. His body sat quietly, but his heart, mind and soul held John.

"Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes."

Now...

He was with them. Sherlock was with them and they're gone. He never misses a threat….

Mycroft watched as his brother left the club in the ambulance, anger and frustration rolling over him in waves. Anthea was around here somewhere, and Violet too. They needed to find them. Greg called Donovan as he walked back to Mycroft's side, asking her to run to Bart's, and manage Sherlock and John until he could get there. Mycroft heard something about marriage, but shook it off, certain he misheard.

He sees everything. Sherlock never misses a thing. Sherlock… Where are the girls?

"C'mon, let's go find the girls." Greg grabbed his arms, and towed him off the street, heading for the entrance to the club. Greg flashed his badge, the one he technically wasn't even supposed to be using yet as he hadn't been cleared for duty, still on medical leave. The police at the door left them in, and Mycroft set out immediately, looking for his people, his niece, his best friend.

Anthea…. Let fate be kind…My Anthea. Don't do this to me….

Police crowded everywhere, fire fighters and more paramedics in the main area of the club. There had been a riot when the alarms went off, people trampling each other in their haste to escape. People sat on the floor, or on stretchers, and chairs and stools dragged from the bar out onto the dance floor where there was more room.

"Sir!"

Mycroft looked up from the dance floor, one of his operatives he'd assigned to guard Violet running to him through the crowd.

"Where's Anthea and my niece?" Mycroft demanded, his words a brutal staccato that made his operative blanch.

"We've scoured the whole place. No sign of your niece, sir. We think they got out the back alley before we could get in here. Someone threw the fire alarms, otherwise we would have been in here sooner. This place erupted into bedlam when that happened."

Mycroft chilled. No sign of his niece. Anthea. Violet wasn't here anymore, so where was Anthea….. He looked up, but didn't see her. She would know he was here by now, his people wouldn't hesitate to bring her to him immediately, they all knew better…

Sherlock left you alone. My Anthea. You said you were leaving, but not this way…. Never this way. No…...

"Anthea?" Mycroft got in close, and grabbed his operative by his collar, yanking him bodily to him, inches from his face. "Where is Anthea?!"

"Sir… I have some bad news." The operative whispered to him, face white, eyes wide in fear at the expression on his director's face.

Mycroft felt the world drop out from under his feet. The great chasm in his heart, the scar scoured into his soul, the place of pain and misery he kept secret and hidden from his family and the universe cracked. Every single emotion he refused to feel since the day he betrayed and killed his own brother came roaring out from the depths of his heart, smashing through the carefully erected walls around his mind. If not for Gregory, Mycroft would have collapsed.

"Where is she?" He whispered harshly, the howling abyss in his soul escaping with each word.

A memory came to him, immediate and violently real…

"You alone know my real name. Will you whisper it into the dark night air? So that I can hear you say it, and so you know that you will never be alone, no matter where I may be?"