Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he's got every part of me.

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting, real life caught up to me. And temptation. But I digress! A diversion from last week's heart-wrencher, here's something entertaining.

Almost to the end of Part II of "Forever Yours, Sherlock". I cannot wait for Part III to start... Clues abound in this chapter for what's to come!

Special thanks to silvereyedbitch, editor and all around awesome person.

New Chapter drops next Sunday.

Enjoy my dears, read on!

Chapter 53

"Two Hearts"

December 30th, 3:48 AM

"Boss!" Donovan called again, trying for the third time to get Lestrade's attention.

Lestrade was still in his long coat, scarf askew, hands buried in his trouser pockets, head down. His badge, which until tonight had been useless in his coat pocket for the last couple of months, was clipped to his belt, as if he were back on duty. He was biting his lip as he stared at the floor, at the small pool of blood under the impact spot in the drywall.

Donovan's eyes tracked to the same spot, but she hurriedly glanced away, uncomfortable seeing the broken wall. The evidence of a short, brutal burst of violence usually didn't bother the sergeant, but this was her first time directly knowing the victim of such an attack. Donovan pulled her thoughts away from what had happened to the one woman in the hall, and tried to think about the other victim.

I can't help Anthea, but I can try to help Violet. It's not too late.

"Anything from MI6? The warrant teams?" Lestrade asked suddenly, his dark eyes pinning her where she stood in the bright hall. She fidgeted for a moment before sighing deeply and shaking her head once. They'd been here at the club for hours, interrogating witnesses, searching Woodley's offices, his private suite upstairs, and accounting for all the drugs they'd found on the premises. The only thing they hadn't found was evidence of where Woodley would have taken Violet.

"No, Boss. The cameras tracked all possible vehicles that could have been used, but since the cameras here in the immediate area, including the club's, were out, we don't know what Violet's abductors were driving. No way to track all Possibles." She hated telling him that, she really did, and she flinched at the harsh cast of his features. "And nothing has been found from the warrant searches on Woodley's place at the hotel, or his residence outside London."

He wore a tormented expression, eyes haunted, and she felt her heart ache even more as he turned back to the small pool of blood in the club's hallway.

"I got word from the Yard, sir. You've been temporarily reinstated, per MI6's request." Donovan tried not to let her relief show up in her voice, knowing this was the wrong time to tell him she was glad he was back, that she didn't have to pretend anymore that she wasn't lost without him. "You're back in charge, thank God."

"Good." Lestrade tore his gaze away from the blood at last, and she shivered at the rage burning in his eyes as he looked back at her. "Comb all our informants, every junkie we've busted, every single dealer, pimp, and prostitute. Everyone who has ever snitched for the Yard, I want their balls in a vice. We will find Woodley, and Violet."

"Yes, sir."

"C'mon, Donovan. We won't have a Holmes helping us on this one, not for a good while. Neither of them are in any condition to help."

St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London

3:50 AM

Room 200

Thump-thump…...Thump-thump…Thump-thump…

This heart was steady, sure, strong. Each beat a calming expectation of the next. The gentle beat translated via the vitals monitor was soft in the hushed hospital room. It valiantly tried to sooth the ravaged nerves of the man who sat beside the motionless form resting under the white blankets.

He was assaulted by fear. Pernicious and sickening, the whispers of fear voiced their doubts in his mind, finding footholds as his thoughts spun out scenario after scenario, ones where he wasn't too late to stop the horrible events of the night. His failure to observe, to pay attention tonight resulted in every person he dared to love getting hurt, and even with his recent exposure to guilt, he had no measurable ability to control the overwhelming emotion he was experiencing.

Don't leave me. I cannot be me without you. Don't die. Wake up, wake up as yourself, full of life and strength, unwavering in your love and devotion. Wake up. I need you to wake up.

The fear chided him, scolded him, and drew guilt into the maelstrom of uncontrollable emotions in his heart. Love had cracked the shield around his heart, and as a result, he now felt everything. The nothingness he once felt so confident dwelling in was gone, and in its place was a boiling mass of everything. He felt the terror, rising as bile in his throat, he felt the despair and grief as numbing blankets of ice on his shoulders and chest. He tasted the bitterness of blame, the guilt of letting down the people he loved. All of it making his hands curl into fists in his hair, the pain in his scalp a small punishment for his failings.

Don't leave me alone. Fight for me, fight for you, fight for us.

Fight.

His control, his impeccable, unflappable confidence was gone. So far out of reach he was rendered useless. He didn't know how he was going to survive the next minute, the rest of the night….. Just as he didn't know whether the beloved person in the bed next to him would make it to dawn.

Thump-thump…..Thump-thump….…Thump-thump….

St. Bart's

Room 209…Directly across the hall.

3:50 AM

Thump…..thump….Thump-thump…

This heartbeat was weaker. Struggling….. Fighting to find its rhythm. To find a reason to fight. It had fought for so long, so bravely. The body it was contained within was fragile, the night's experience beyond its capacity to function easily, muscles, bones, nerves abused.

You have never been fragile, not to me. It hurts, HURTS, to see you like this now. Keep breathing, don't give up. You have never given up. You are the bravest person I know, don't give up.

He stood by the bed, eyes locked on the face that usually held such vivacity, such an enjoyment of life, that to see it now, barren of conscious thought, struck him to his core.

Tenuous control left him unable to move, afraid he would shatter into a million pieces to the cold tile floor. He was having trouble breathing, refusing to let air fill his lungs until the slight form in front of him did as well. He breathed in tandem, threatening to leave himself spilled on the floor from lack of oxygen, but he could do no less. There was nothing, nothing he could do to help the ravaged body in front of him, other than to breathe along, encouraging fruitlessly, foolishly, trying to infuse each breath with more energy.

His vaunted abilities, his impeachable control, every single experience and enriching moment of his life was no match, no resistance to the fear, the utter helplessness he now felt, standing still in this quiet room. The much needed and valued soul resting on the precipice of life and death in front of him held no small piece of his heart, his life, and to be confronted by the possibility of permanent loss ripped at his sanity.

Fight. Fight for me.

London, 4:00 AM

Clay lay flat on his back, fully clothed, his bed still made, hands crossed over his stomach. He stared at the ceiling, content to listen to the far off sounds of a city slowly waking up. Dawn was hours away yet, but the blue collar crowds were beginning to make the city come alive, pieces of a never-resting machine that rumbled to life before the break of dawn every morning.

I haven't been to Castle Láidreacht in years. Not since Moriarty ordered us away, to cover his assets in Europe. That was days before The Fall, and his suicide. Did he know then that he would take his own life, and leave Jaime alone?

Bitterness welled up from his gut, and Clay swallowed back the urge to swear. He wanted to return to the castle, a place he once called home, regardless of his former place in the stone barracks outside the great walls the last time he was there. He had been a lowly foot soldier, unnoticed but for his skills in assassination and subterfuge. It was those skills that drew the attention of the late James Moriarty. And so, disillusioned by his lackluster and underrated life within Her Majesty's service, he had resigned his commission, and joined the mercenary ranks led by a young woman, then known only by a dreadful moniker. Death.

Back then not many of the men under her command knew her true identity, and most had considered her the lover of their boss. The connection between Death and James Moriarty had been unbreakable, and the devotion the young woman gave Moriarty used to inspire envious conversations in the barracks some nights among the men. Many of them would have killed for the chance to have her look at any one of them with the same faith and love she gave Moriarty, and the negligent, casual affection he gave her in return left them feeling protective of their mistress. They all felt that she deserved better than the random hugs, the light touches to her perfect face that Moriarty gave her. She was a sight to behold, her skills and talents leaps and bounds beyond even the best of the men, and she was a treasure valued by all within the walls of Moriarty's castle.

If not for the undeniable rapport between them, he with his inhuman ability to know what she wanted, needed, and she with her obvious delight in making him happy and proud, Clay would have long suspected that their Master and young Death had a seriously dysfunctional relationship.

It was one night, years ago now, but soon after his arrival at the castle that Clay learned the truth. The pair, Death and his new master, Moriarty, were arguing in the great courtyard of the castle. He had been on patrol, the moon high in the midsummer night sky, the breeze soft and warm. Their voices hadn't carried well, so he was upon them before he knew they were there.

She knew, he was a fool for thinking she wouldn't sense him in the shadows. Death knew he was there, a predator sensing another in the lethal night. She never let on though, merely a tiny tilt of her lovely head the only hint that she knew he was hiding in the deeper shadows nearby. Moriarty hadn't, his senses not as attuned as the two killers, and their argument continued unabated.

"Moran is a fool, James. Why do you pander to that cretin?" Death demanded angrily, pacing on the great stones of the courtyard, her long shadow a sharp blade of black cutting through the moonlight.

"I need his position, his contacts in the Ministry. Keeping him happy allows me access without having to cultivate another mole." Moriarty replied, and Clay was struck by the patience in his voice. Their mercurial master rarely showed patience, usually flashing from rage to eerie calm faster than thought. "And I don't pander to him."

"He aggravates me." Death growled, ignoring his last comment, still pacing, her shadow chasing her as she prowled the stones. "He persists anymore in his infatuation with me, I will gut him like a hog and let him bleed out on the streets of London."

Moriarty laughed, throwing back his head, hands in the pockets of his finely tailored suit. She sent him a glare, angry enough to leave a lesser man swallowing his tongue in fear, yet Moriarty let it slide off him like water from a waterproof ghillie poncho. He alone never showed fear or apprehension when she was enraged, and that was a state she was steadily approaching. Clay was growing nervous, even though she had yet to acknowledge him, her anger directed at Moriarty.

"He persists because you are a marvel, Jaime. Even the basest fool can see your worth." Moriarty said, and Clay felt his jaw drop at finally learning Death's name. Jaime. His next words robbed Clay of his thoughts. "And what man wouldn't wish to curry my favor, by wooing my little sister?"

She is Jaime Moriarty… Moriarty has a little sister!

"Wooing? Wooing?" Death spun to a halt, her long braid swinging as she faced her brother. "You would have me encourage that idiot, to accept his clumsy advances and crude pick-up lines, merely to make him happy so you can use him to further your own devices?!"

She was screeching now, and the flash of silver in her hand under the brilliant moon, making Clay tense. She spun her knife, moonlight given physical form, and Clay feared she might use it. If she went for Moriarty, Clay didn't know who he would have to defend, or if he would even survive trying to interfere. Moriarty didn't flinch, rocking on his heels, a small smile on his face as he watched Death-Jaime- spin the blade in agitation.

"It is as insulting a proposition as letting him assume he is your chief disciple! And then you reveal my identity to him, and Moran's leering turns to advances! You KNOW I will never return his attempts at seduction, unless it is with my blade! He dares to touch me uninvited, Brother, and I swear on our mother's grave that I will spill his guts in the street before the halls of MI6!" Death said fervently, the blade pointed at her brother's face. Her vow bounced off the great stone walls, and Clay saw at last a hint of something in Moriarty's eyes other than insanity.

His shoulders drooped, the cockiness fading, and Moriarty stared hard at his sister. She was panting, rage contorting her gorgeous features, her blade still pointed right at his face. He looked past the blade, and Clay was startled to the soles of his feet by what happened next. Moriarty reached out, and calmly took the blade from her hand. And she let him. The blade came free from her sure grip, and she suddenly relaxed, tension falling from her like the last wave of rain in a storm. Her arm dropped, and she watched her brother, waiting. Moriarty stuck the blade in his belt, and reached out, stepping close.

Moriarty gently framed her face with his hands, and tugged her head down for him to kiss her brow. She was taller than he, but not overmuch. Clay had never seen anyone touch Death as Moriarty did, unafraid and sure of her reaction to the contact. No one touched her, not even accidentally, without the fear of her knife sinking into a tender spot. Yet he did, and she accepted the affection.

"We need him yet, my darling. Offer him nothing but your contempt, and if he presses his luck, I will deal with him." Moriarty whispered to his sister, and she shook her head slightly, not believing him. He sighed, and tried again.

"Jaime. My sister, mo chroí." Moriarty said, the affection in his voice wheedling past her stubbornness. The Irish was indecipherable to Clay, but he figured it was an endearment of some sort. "If Moran dares to touch you uninvited, I will gut him myself, and leave his body for the crows."

"Promise?" She whispered, sad now, the anger gone. She sounded like a tired little girl, needing reassurance and love.

"I promise." He held her still, foreheads touching, and Clay strained to hear Moriarty. "I will always take care of you, my sister. No one holds a surer place in my heart than you."

She lifted her hands to grip his wrists, and the two siblings held each other in the courtyard of the great castle, on the shores of the North Atlantic, the moon hanging low on the horizon. Its reach was long even as dawn approached, illuminating them until the last second as sunlight rushed into the courtyard. It wasn't until that moment in time that Moriarty earned Clay's full faith and respect, when he promised to care for his sister forever.

Clay stood vigil over the pair, his presence known only to the highly skilled assassin. She never revealed Clay's presence to her brother.

Clay came back slowly from the memory, saddened by the inevitable betrayal that drove Jaime over the edge of sanity into mindless grief and rage. Moriarty eventually ordered Jaime to marry Moran, and within days he was dead at his own hand. Clay had returned to London once the word of his death spread through the ranks. Clay's one thought was to find Jaime, heedless of his previous orders to stay in Central Europe.

When Clay returned, he was devastated to learn that Jaime was reduced to living the life of an empty-headed socialite, forever bound to the lecherous fool Moran as his fake wife, forbidden to reveal herself to the world. She grieved alone, lost without her brother, endless days and nights held captive by her word, and his last orders. It was only her skills and the fear she instilled in Moran that kept that man from pressing his advantage, and using Moriarty's orders in forcing her to his bed. With Moriarty dead, Moran foolishly expected things to change in his favor, but Jaime retained control of the inner web of the syndicate, and left Moran out in the cold. It was her refusal to let him exploit Moriarty's syndicate for his own plans that eventually forced Moran further under the heels of his North Korean masters.

Clay frequently traveled back and forth between his place in France and London, and each time he would go to visit Jaime Moriarty. He offered what meager company he could, even if he just stood ignored in her solar and listened to her breathe through her pain. Over the next two years, she gradually acknowledged him, and the day she cast off Moran and welcomed Clay into her inner circle of guards was one of the best in his short life.

Jim Moriarty left his sister alone, and broken. Clay vowed to never do that to her, eternally pledging his loyalty and service to the remaining Moriarty scion. His position now as his lady's lieutenant was one he was honored to hold, and he would never let her down. Their return to Castle Láidreacht was a chance for all of them to start over. For Jaime, Mary, and himself.

Clay found himself sad at the thought of leaving London, and the image of the consulting detective teased the edges of his thoughts. Sherlock Holmes was everything that Moriarty had claimed him to be, just more. He was the man who forced Moriarty's defeat, and took Jaime out of the game without killing her. Clay's surveillance of the detective the last couple of weeks had made him even more fascinating to Clay, and he struggled to maintain his control around the man. The detective was deeply involved with another man, and Clay refused to sully his honor by poaching.

He wanted to though. Dear God did he want to try it, touch those rioting curls, listen to the man speak for hours, see if he felt as amazing as he looked…..

As if he would even notice me like that… all our intel says that Sherlock Holmes has never loved anyone, except for John Watson.

Clay gave in the urge to know what Holmes was doing, and cursed himself for his weakness as he reached for his mobile. When he was in the Holmes' kitchen over Christmas, speaking to Sherlock about the threat he and his family faced, he had snuck a small tracker into the consulting detective's coat. He was still surprised he'd gotten away with it, considering who was in the room at the time.

It was still functional, its battery useful for another week or so. Clay snagged his mobile, and opened the tracker app. The small dot that was Holmes lit up on the map of London, and Clay sucked in a sharp breath in surprise.

Oh fuck me. St Bart's Hospital. Sherlock is in the hospital….. Please let it be for a case…..

Clay sat up, blood rushing in his head, making him dizzy as he brought up the news on his mobile. He found several headlines that made him fly off the bed, grabbing his jacket and gun.

"Violence at Sinful Vices Nightclub. Hat Detective Involved."

"Consulting Detective's Lover in Critical Condition at St Bart's".

St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London

7:00 AM

Room 200

John felt like he was floating, his limbs heavy and weighing him down in cold waters. His throat was dry, mouth tasted like desiccated gym socks, and his whole body ached. He dragged in a deep breath of air, and wanted to sneeze as he let it go in a rush. He only ever wanted to sneeze when he had oxygen tubes running into his… Why am I in the hospital?

John blinked awake, and he found himself staring at ceilings he knew too well. He was flat on his back, in a cold hospital room, covered by a thin white blanket, and stuck in both arms by IV lines. He was getting oxygen through tubing running in his nose, and he ripped it away just as he sneezed. His whole body objected, and he groaned loudly in complaint as well.

There was a small bang off to his side, and John turned his head to see Sherlock rubbing his eyes, sitting in a chair a foot away. His detective had obviously been sleeping, because he had that blurry look in his eyes that he got whenever John would wake him too early in the morning when he got ready for work. Sherlock was still in his club clothes, and he looked damp and bedraggled, his curls a crazier riot than they usually were. His long coat must have been draped over him, and it was falling to the floor as Sherlock struggled to wake up.

"Hey, love. You okay?" John coughed, his voice scratchy, but clear enough.

Sherlock came fully awake so fast that John had to grin. Gone was the sleepy detective, lost to where he was or what was going on. In his place was the devoted lover and best friend, a man relieved to see his partner awake. Sherlock grabbed his hand, and John gripped it back, squeezing hard so that Sherlock knew he was okay, no matter how badly he might look.

"John." Sherlock leaned over, and still holding John's hand, leaned his whole upper torso and head on John's shoulder. He stayed seated, and just rested on John, face pressed hard to his shoulder. John lifted his free hand, mindful of the IV, and buried his fingers in the soft curls of his love.

"I take it things got bad, huh? Told you I wasn't good at dancing." John said, trying his best to sound strong. Sherlock was fragile when it came to John's well-being, and he must have been through hell while John was out. "Care to share? What happened?"

"Someone…..Woodley….. Drugged you." Sherlock's words were muffled in his shoulder, and he had trouble understanding what his detective was saying.

"Come again, love? I was drugged?" John was confused. He hadn't a thing to drink before his memory went dark, and he didn't think Sherlock would let anyone slip something in his drink. Doing something like that without Sherlock seeing it should be impossible.

Sherlock lifted his face, keeping his chin propped up on John's shoulder, their faces inches apart.

"While we were dancing. I wasn't paying attention, someone swiped Winter's Night on the back of your neck." Sherlock mumbled, quiet. His eyes were tired, face paler than usual. He met John's gaze head on, and John saw the tightness around his eyes as he spoke. "You OD'd. It was really close, John."

John breathed through his surprise, and took a mental evaluation of how he felt as he tried to process Sherlock's words. His body felt like he'd fallen off the back of a lorry speeding down the highway, and he was incredibly thirsty, head achy. Yet considering the fact he'd OD'd on a designer drug that someone obviously tried to kill him with, he felt okay. Not great, but okay. He'd had worse mornings while still in the army, coming out of a three day holiday weekend while on leave, having drank his way through so many pints someone should have taken his medical license away.

"Did I hurt anyone?" John asked, worried. He tried to see if Sherlock was hurt, because if he was drugged while they were dancing, it stood to reason the first person to get hurt when he went Doppelgänger-Tom-crazy would've been Sherlock. "I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"The dose was very large, John. You skipped the berserker stage, and started to OD almost immediately." Sherlock told him, and strangely enough, John was reassured by this. He wouldn't be able to handle it if he'd hurt someone while under the effects of that drug.

"Thank God. How's Violet, and Anthea? Are the girls okay?" John asked, rubbing his hand through Sherlock's curls still. "They didn't get drugged too, did they?"

Sherlock's reaction to his questions made John's heart skip a beat, the monitors in the corner having a small fit before his heart settled back into rhythm. The detective's face went from sleepy relief to heartbroken in seconds. Sherlock closed his eyes, and John watched as his lover did his best to control his wayward emotions. He sat back up, and squeezed John's hand even tighter.

John dreaded what Sherlock was going to say, as the detective opened his eyes. Heavenly eyes were screaming at him that something was very, very wrong. John struggled to sit up, glad he could manage it with one arm, and waited. Hardly breathing, he waited.

"Woodley kidnapped Violet, John. While we were dancing. He drugged you to distract me, and took her." Sherlock gasped out, and he held John's hand so hard it was starting to hurt. "And Anthea…. She…"

Sherlock's voice gave out, and the detective turned to face the doorway. John was inundated by disbelief and pain at Sherlock's words, and John turned to look when Sherlock failed to continue. He could see through the glass wall of his room, and John felt nausea roll through him. He could see out of his room, into the one directly across the hall. Mycroft stood at the foot of another bed, unmoving. It took John a second to see the dark mahogany sweep of Anthea's lovely hair past the white bandages wrapped around her head.

"Anthea is in a coma, John. Woodley's remaining men… Anthea disabled one severely…. He...….." Sherlock was trying to speak, too absorbed in seeing his brother's grief to organize his thoughts. Sherlock gathered his resolve, and tried again. "Witnesses say Woodley threw her into a wall when he took Violet." Sherlock finally told him, and they both watched as the eldest Holmes brother stood vigil alone at Anthea's bedside.

John swallowed past his dismay, and turned back to Sherlock. He tugged gently on his lover's arm, and Sherlock eventually tore his eyes away from his brother, and back to his doctor.

"Tell me everything, Sherlock. Everything. We need to get Violet back."

St Bart's

7:09 AM ….Dawn

Clay stood in the shadows of the hall, a few feet from the doorway to John Watson's room. He was glad to hear the army doctor was awake, and equally glad he'd stopped when he heard him speaking to the detective, else he would've kept walking right into their conversation before he was ready. He was able to see them all from where he was at in the hall, straight into both rooms, and the presence of the spymaster in the room to his left was making Clay nervous. He didn't like being nervous.

The halls were dark, the sun rising slowly at this exact moment, the darkness clinging in this early morning light. None of the hall lights were on, turned off by a timer as the sun rose. He stayed where he was, able to clearly hear the doctor and detective speaking in the room to his right.

Clay listened carefully, gathering intel, wondering what he should do. He let Sherlock catch him up along with the doctor, and Clay felt a band of grief tighten around his chest at the obvious pain and guilt in the detective's voice.

"I left the girls alone, John. I didn't pay attention, I let my guard down. You almost died, Violet's missing, and Anthea may die." Sherlock murmured softly, and Clay clenched his hands into fists. This wasn't Sherlock's fault. Woodley did it all. Sherlock wasn't to blame for any of it, and he shouldn't be allowed to carry that burden. Clay knew from years of experience that evil acts belonged only to the ones who committed them, and no one else. Carrying the burden of guilt for something outside your control merely lessened you. "Mycroft blames me."

"Sherlock. NO! This. IS. Not. Your. Fault." Cpt. Watson stressed to the detective, and Clay smiled at the vehemence the smaller man held in his voice. This one loved the detective very much, it rang out clear and true in every word. He'd keep the detective's head on straight. "And I don't care what Mycroft said about it, either. He was nowhere around last night, and Violet is as much his niece as yours. Anthea is his friend and well….his something in the spook business, and all he was doing was projecting his own guilt onto you last night."

Clay leaned forward, and glared unseen at the back of the oblivious spymaster's head. Trying to blame his little brother for what sounded like a complete mission failure was a little extreme.

"I…." Sherlock started to object, but something made him shut up. Clay figured the doctor was doing something enticing to distract the detective, and Clay shuffled on his feet, glad his bronze skin hid the blush creeping across his cheekbones. He refused to look, not wishing to intrude on what was obviously a very private moment.

"No more nonsense about blaming yourself, love. We need to find out what's going on, and where Woodley took Violet."

Clay smiled, and he was glad for once that his infatuation with the detective could benefit something other than his insomnia. He knew exactly where Woodley took Violet Hunter.

His mobile chose that exact moment to vibrate in his pocket. Clay pulled it free, and stepped back a few paces from the rooms, so the occupants wouldn't hear him reply to his mistress.

Clay. That was the laziest excuse for sneaking out to spy on Sherlock Holmes I have ever heard you utter. "I'm going for a walk." Really? –JM

Yes, my lady. I'll try harder next time. I'm at St Bart's. Something happened last night. –C

Explain, now. –JM

Clay checked to make sure no one was watching him, that neither Holmes saw him yet.

Woodley has Violet Hunter. Anthea is in a coma. John Watson was drugged, and nearly died from an OD. Neither Holmes knows where Woodley has taken Violet. –C

Clay waited patiently, checking frequently that no one was leaving either room. Nurses and doctors walked around him, and he moved closer to the retired captain's room. Both men were still speaking, and Sherlock was talking about a network of homeless people searching for Woodley's labs. Clay's brows rose with that one, and he wondered what the hell that meant, eyeing his mobile. It was a miracle that he hadn't been noticed yet.

I will recon the warehouse. You have permission to approach Sherlock. Do not be seen by the elder Holmes. –JM

He waited, somehow knowing she wasn't done.

A debt is owed. –JM

Thank you, my lady. –C

Nothing for a moment, and then Clay smiled as she sent another text.

Stop calling me that! –JM

Sorry. Ma'am. –C

December 30th, 8:00 AM

London

"Hey asshole! You tell Woodley he won't have to worry about my uncles, I'll kill him myself!" Violet yelled at the dour faced guard as he threw her back into the dilapidated concrete room, slamming the door shut behind him. Her trip to the crappy (pun intended) bathroom had resulted in Violet getting more cuts on her feet, and too many leers from hyped up junkies carrying what looked like Uzis or something. Everyone is this place was either wrapped up in lab coats and protective suits, or so strung out she was surprised they weren't shooting each other.

"Please don't provoke them, Ms. Hunter." Carruthers pleaded with her, still sitting against the wall where she'd left him earlier. "I've been here for days, I stopped trying to get away after the fourth or fifth beating."

"It's not my fault you've given up." Violet scolded the chemist, and she went back to pacing the cold floor, her silver mini providing little warmth. If she stopped pacing, her temperature would drop too low, and she'd get sick for sure. "Your son is fine, by the way. So is Bear."

"Vincent is okay? Thank God." Carruthers sighed, relief pouring off him in waves. He slumped on the floor, and Violet peered at him. He was thin, pale, and tired, and there were bruises of varying age littered about his face. He wasn't kidding about the beatings. Violet felt a little bad, but she'd been beat up a few times, and she wasn't whining about it.

"Sorry about your wife," she said softly, pausing briefly in her pacing. Carruthers didn't look at her, merely nodded his head once.

This fucking sucks ass. Poor man watches his wife get killed, he's kidnapped, and he is being forced to do something…Hhmm.

"So why were you kidnapped, anyway?" Violet asked, and went back to pacing. She could barely feel her toes.

"That guy Woodley wants me to stabilize a hallucinogenic narcotic romantically labeled Winter's Night." Carruthers told her, and she smirked. "It can't be manufactured in large amounts due to its instability, and the dosages are restricted by body weight and type. That's affecting his sales."

Sherlock was right.

"Dead on with what my uncle thought, then. Sorry he got sidelined tracking you down, we had a douchebag American spy trainer trying to kill us all the last couple of weeks." Violet told him, and she fought back a giggle at the odd look on his face. "You know why Woodley kidnapped me?"

"No idea. I would hear about a woman Woodley wanted sometimes in conversation in the labs, but I never got a name. I'm assuming that would be you."

"Yeah. He got me. And he hurt my girlfriend in the process." Violet sucked in some air, and shook off the impending sense of doom she was feeling. She needed to focus on staying warm, and escaping. Worry for Anthea would come later.

"I'm sorry." He whispered, and she knew he understood. Woodley's people killed his wife when they came for him. It was her turn to nod, and not reply. Her heart hurt so badly she rubbed at her chest.

"Who's your uncle? A policeman?" Carruthers asked, obviously trying not to think about his grief and the situation he was in, and talking about Sherlock could occupy anyone. She humored him, and figured she had nothing else to talk about.

"Sherlock Holmes." Violet said offhandedly, and she finally laughed as his eyes bugged out, and he got the silliest expression of shock on his face. "Yeah, that Sherlock Holmes."

"You're Sherlock Holmes' niece? Thank God." He exhaled roughly, and rubbed his face briskly with his hands.

"Why's that?"

"If you're the famous detective's niece, we're going to get rescued anytime now."

Violet smiled, and kept chuckling. Not the reaction she was expecting, but it pleased her none the less. Her uncle apparently had more fans since his dramatic resurrection this past autumn. Coming back from the dead, and stopping two major catastrophes in as many weeks tends to make people like you.

"We're on the same page then! Just don't expect me to sit back and wait for Sherlock to show up, okay? My uncle is brilliant, but he ends up in trouble every time he tries to save the day. I plan on kicking some of that trouble in the balls."

"Well, if he's got half your determination, I think we'll be okay. Just don't get me beaten again."

"No promises."

December 30th, 8:30 AM

St Bart's Hospital

Room 209

Mycroft stirred from his reverie, blinking his dry eyes. He'd been here since late last night, and he knew from the light streaming past the blinds it was shortly after dawn.

Anthea wasn't moving, her chest barely rising as her body struggled to survive. Not once in the long hours since he'd rushed to her side had he taken his eyes from her face.

"Mr. Holmes?" asked a soft voice at the door. Mycroft could barely tear his gaze away from Anthea, but he managed it, and eyes the doctor standing patiently in the doorway.

"Yes, doctor?" he whispered, part of him foolishly fearing he might disturb the young woman slipping away from him with every breath she took.

"Can we talk?" The doctor asked, waving back over his shoulder. He was the neurologist that had tried to talk to him last night, but he'd been in no shape to listen. Once he learned that Anthea lived, but was dying by inches every minute, Mycroft lost all ability to function. The last thing he really remembered was ordering the upper brass of the MSP to temporarily approve Gregory's reinstatement at Scotland Yard, and tasking his partner with finding Woodley and Violet. After that, it had been nothing but fear and pain.

"Speak to me here, Doctor. I'm not leaving her side."

"Mr. Holmes, it's about her DNR, and her instructions in case she ever experienced something like this. I think it best she not hear us talking about her condition. I prefer to give her some hope, on the chance she can make it through."

Mycroft shuddered, and wiped at his eyes with one hand. He agreed. Gregory had been dying after he got shot, and he claimed to have heard Mycroft in the "grey nothingness". He wouldn't risk Anthea hearing him speak of her death. He wouldn't be that cruel to her.

"Very well, Doctor. Make it quick." Mycroft warned the neurologist, slowly following him out of Anthea's room, keeping his eyes on her as long as he could.

St Bart's, 8:35 AM

Room 200

Clay stepped from the empty room beside the captain's, and watched as Mycroft Holmes was lead to a small lobby at the end of the hall. He felt badly for the man, he knew too well the grief of losing a loved one. Clay was lucky, as Jaime had crawled her way free out of the burning ruins of her past, and back into his life.

"John, what are you doing?" Clay could hear Sherlock's voice easily, the door wide open on the room across the hall. He could see into the room, and the retired army doctor was sitting up in bed, and reaching for his trousers that were folded on the small table next to the bed. The IVs were already undone, and hanging from their respective stands.

"We need to get moving, Sherlock. I'm feeling better, I swear. Nothing worse than a severe hangover, really. We need to find Violet, Sherlock." John went to drag on his trousers, and Sherlock reached out and snatched them quickly away from the smaller man.

"You OD'd last night, John! And you have the audacity to claim I'm a bad patient!"

Clay couldn't help it, he really couldn't. He laughed, softly, but not quietly enough. His deep chuckle drifted across the hall, and both men turned to face him. They were both too funny, equally stubborn, and well suited. Clay was ready to like the doctor, as well as respect him. He was a brother in arms, no matter Clay's current occupation, and John Watson was more than capable of holding his own with the amazing Sherlock Holmes. Clay wasn't even jealous.

Guess I'm a shipper now. They are too cute.

Clay kept the grin on his face, and quickly stepped across the hall into Cpt. Watson's room. Sherlock was blinking at him in surprise, eyes jumping back and forth between him and the retired army doctor. Clay didn't drop the smile, and nodded curtly to both men. He shut the door, and went to close the blinds, giving them some privacy.

"Um….hi?" John said, clearly confused. He was still sitting up on the bed, eyeing Clay with consternation. It was clear Dr. Watson didn't recall him from the events at Blackwood Manor.

"Glad to see you're on the mend, Captain Watson." Clay didn't salute, but it was a damn near thing, his training screaming at him to acknowledge the superior officer in the room. Thank God the captain wasn't in uniform, or Clay would be really discomforted. He turned to Sherlock, and nodded again, giving him that smile that always made the detective squirm. He did this time, true to form, and Clay refused to laugh. "Mr. Holmes, pleasure to see you again as well."

"John," Sherlock waved from his lover to Clay, doing his best not to appear as nervous as he looked and failing. "This is Jaime Moriarty's….Hhmm what is your job title, or your name?"

"My name is Clay, sirs. I am Jaime Moriarty's lieutenant." Clay stated, not perturbed at all by the anger and frustration on the doctor's face. He wasn't a fan of Jaime, it was obvious. "I'm certain Miss Morstan and Lady M would extend their regards."

"Lady M?" John blurted out, still trying to figure out why he was here. "Mary is okay?"

"Lady M is Jaime, sir. Old nickname we gave her years ago after Moriarty forced her to wed Moran." Clay winced, certain that Jaime wouldn't appreciate him sharing that tidbit. She was touchy about the whole Moran debacle. "We never saw her as Sybil Moran. The M was for Moriarty."

"Moriarty forced his own sister to marry Moran?" John was aghast, and Clay smiled at him, appreciating the man's shock.

"I shouldn't have said anything, I spoke out of turn. I'm not here about my lady, nor about Miss Morstan, who is just fine by the way." Clay walked closer to the two men, Sherlock shifting to place himself firmly within reach of the doctor. Clay smiled at him again, and the smile grew into a grin when the detective dropped his eyes, and started to fidget with nonexistent lint on the white blankets.

"Why are you here then?" John demanded, and he snagged his trousers back from Sherlock as the detective got within reach. He shimmied into them, managing to stand unaided, zipping the fly hurriedly.

"We know where Woodley is hiding." He had both of them paying attention to him now, Sherlock's eyes boring holes in his skin, and the doctor immediately straightened, the set of his shoulders clearly communicating he was ready for war.

"Where?" Sherlock demanded, stepping towards him, one slow graceful step at a time, steadily coming around the bed. Clay wasn't threatened at all. The detective was dangerous, but so was Clay. He glared at Clay like he was looking for a lie, and whether or not Clay knew something he wasn't sharing.

"Warehouse down by the river. Jaime and I followed the Vicar there last week when he ran from Mycroft." Clay offered, not even bothered by the detective getting right up in his personal space. Guess he really, REALLY wanted his niece back. That was something Clay could help with. "My lady is on recon now, she's familiar with the layout. She'll let me know if Woodley is keeping Violet there. I'm waiting on a text from her."

"Sherlock, we need to go. Now. We need everyone, Scotland Yard, MI6, everyone." John stepped gingerly over to the table where the rest of his clothes were laid out, and got dressed in the black outfit from when he was admitted. His shirt was in ruins from being cut, but his jacket was intact, and he shrugged into it.

Clay watched the doctor, not willing to give himself away by staring at the detective standing so near to him. Sherlock was eyeing him like hawk does a field mouse, and it was doing warm and fuzzy things to his insides. Probably not what the detective had in mind, as this stare probably did render most people useless from fear. He wasn't most people though.

Clay's mobile vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it free. Jaime.

Sherlock came right up to his shoulder, invading his personal space even more, and peered intently at the mobile as he opened the text. Clay breathed Sherlock's scent in, and blessed his control, otherwise he'd be showing just how interested he was in the consulting detective.

He has Violet. I can hear her cussing all the way across the warehouse. Bring Holmes now. No cops, no MI6. –JM

Understood. –C

"John, Woodley has Violet for certain. Get your boots on." Sherlock grabbed their coats, and waited impatiently as John stomped his feet firmly into his boots. "No cops, we need to sneak out."

"What the hell do you mean, no cops?"

I finally found a Holmes I like. Good Lord, this girl can swear! –JM

South London, Woodley's Warehouse

Dec. 30th, 9:00 AM

"Someone wake that poor excuse of a crime boss up and tell him I think he's a limp dick loser who couldn't cook his way out of an episode of Breaking Bad if his life depended on it!"

Jaime snickered in glee, resting on her back as she stared at the ceiling of Woodley's warehouse, the massive ventilation system under her hiding her from view of anyone below. She was laying on the main line, which branched out into a system of ducts and ventilation shafts that ran the entire width of the warehouse, cooling every room below that contained labs or storage units for the drugs.

Violet's very entertaining curses and insults were a symphony of chaos, and Jaime laughed as they got even more inventive. The hacker's diatribe about her captivity and her opinions of her captor were making it hard for Jaime to stay hidden, even thirty plus feet above the main floor of the warehouse. She was loud enough that Jaime could hear her over the low roar of air through the ducts and vents.

"Never mind, I'm sure I can yell loud enough he can hear me. Woodley! Douchebag! If I find out Anthea is hurt or dead, I swear to God you'll get nothing from me but misery!" Violet was practically screaming, and Jaime laughed out loud, as now everyone was listening to the young Holmes rip their boss a new ass. She peeked out past the edge of the vent duct, and even the peons in the labs were listening, no one working. "I bet you couldn't find the end of your dick with a road map and a magnifying glass! My uncle's Sherlock Holmes, and I doubt even he could find it!"

Violet paused, and Jaime could hear people all over the warehouse break out in giggles, small snorts of laughter. None of the rooms below had ceilings, only walls. It was a giant rat maze, with Violet the cheese reward at the end.

Jaime rolled over, and eyed the exterior door closest to where she figured Violet was. There were a lot of echoes in this cavernous space, which made it easy for Violet's insults to be heard by everyone, but that also made it hard for Jaime to pinpoint her exact location. There were three guards next to the door, none of them at all anything close to professional. She could literally walk up in their midst and kill them all before the first one ever figured out how to point and shoot.

Violet seemed to be taking a break from screaming insults at her host, and Jaime cautiously got to her knees, making sure her guns, and her knife, were secured before crawling over to the nearest branch of the ventilation system. She couldn't risk standing up from her crouch, it was too likely that someone below would see her silhouette and alert the guards.

She climbed over the vents, gradually getting closer to the room she figured Violet was in, the metal under her hands and knees cold to the touch. The whole warehouse was cold, nearly as cold as outside, and up here in the rafters, it was colder still. Jaime paused, and looked out over the vent she was on, her breath fogging slightly.

Violet was pacing below her, and Jaime smiled. The Holmes scion was wearing the barest excuse of a dress, silver and flashing in the harsh fluorescent lighting. She had no shoes, and was clutching her hands to her shoulders, shivering even as she paced. There was a man in the room with her, and Jaime recognized him as the hostage she'd seen last week. Man was still alive, which meant he hadn't fulfilled the task Woodley kidnapped him for, which was in itself a ringing endorsement for mediocrity.

Jaime turned her head, and looked to the exterior wall of the warehouse, and the door being guarded by the strung out junkies. Clay and Sherlock would have to navigate a maze of winding halls to get to Violet, but with Jaime in the rafters leading the way, it should be easy.

Jaime grinned wickedly, and pulled free one of her guns, the 9mm silenced and equipped with an extended magazine, over twenty bullets ready to play once the show started. She had extra magazines, nearly a hundred rounds in total, and she would need them. There was close to that many people in the warehouse, between guards, strung out junkies testing the products, and the chemists. Woodley had several of his personal guards with him, ones that looked a trifle more serious than the fools waiting to accidentally shoot themselves in the halls. She was more concerned with the fools, as they would be unpredictable, and the odds of them shooting her or the hostages were pretty high.

Jaime tugged out her mobile, glad it was on Vibrate, and sent a text to Clay.

ETA? –JM

A heartbeat of time, then his answer.

One block out. Found Mary. Dr. Watson is most aggrieved she is here participating. –C

She's not, Clay. She said she'd mind the SUV and listen to the police bands. –JM

So she just corrected the doctor. Handing out radios now. –C

No police and no MI6, correct? –JM

We got away clean. I watched them, neither one alerted the elder Holmes or the DI. –C

South entrance. Three guards. Double click when in position. They will be dead, breach after my Go. Hold 'til then. –JM

Yes, my lady. –C

Jaime rolled her eyes, and furiously typed back to her lieutenant.

STOP CALLING ME THAT. –JM

Dec. 30th, 10:00 AM

Woodley's Warehouse

Sherlock accepted the gun from the young merc, not planning on using it at all but accepting the wisdom of having it. John took two guns, both 9mm and silenced, the guns sliding easily under his jacket. Mary was sitting with her legs curled up under her in the back of the large SUV, a blanket over her lap, radios and a gun snuggled up to her.

Clay was sifting through bags in the rear of the vehicle, and Sherlock saw what John was missing. They- Jaime, Mary, and Clay- were packed and leaving London. It was apparent to Sherlock that Violet's kidnapping had detoured the trio from their plans to leave London behind. Sherlock sent Mary a glance, and she met his eyes briefly before looking away. Mary knew that he knew. She was listening intently to the woman speaking softly over the radio, the ear bud invisible, and Sherlock only knew Jaime was talking when Mary put her finger to her ear.

Clay was hurriedly tapping away on his mobile, and Sherlock wished he could see what he was texting, but he didn't want to get that close again. The young merc was way too distracting, and left Sherlock confused.

Clay handed him a similar setup to what Mary was using, and another to John. Both men hooked them up, and Sherlock could hear the younger Moriarty in his ear. He attached the cuff mic, and waited for John. His doctor was moving slower than usual, and Sherlock hesitated to ask him to remain behind. John was too ill still from his near death experience, and Sherlock feared he would be a liability during the rescue.

"John?" Mary called her former fiancé's name softly, and Sherlock saw the quick flash of blue as she looked to him before facing the doctor. "Stay here with me, please."

"What?" John paused in the act of attaching his cuff mic, and looked in askance at Mary. She leaned back on a large duffel bag, and sighed.

"I'm not feeling well again. Stay with me, please."

Even Sherlock flinched at the blatant manipulation of John's concern for Mary. None of them wanted John to go into the battle for Violet, because it was obvious from his pallor and eyes that he was fading fast. He was exhausted, and Sherlock feared John wouldn't make it out of the warehouse alive. So he let Mary play her hand, and heavily too. John must not be risked.

"Dammit, Mary…." John whispered, and he yanked the ear bud out, and leaned his hip on the vehicle. She patted him on the shoulder, and she tossed Sherlock a wink that no one else caught. "Fine, I'll stay here."

"Thank you dear. I've been alright the last few mornings, but all this excitement is making me queasy."

"Don't overplay it, Mary." John grumbled, and he glared at Sherlock as she just smirked. "Explain to me why we haven't called the cops or Mycroft yet?"

"My lady's orders to me, sir. Her assistance is contingent on them staying out of this." Clay stated calmly, his hand to his ear, and Sherlock tilted his head, trying to hear the assassin past the wind. Clay turned on a small handheld, and Jaime's voice snapped out into the cold morning air.

"I've located Violet, and the other hostage. Nearly a hundred on site, non-friendlies and nearly thirty hostiles. No sign of Woodley. Standby." Jaime whispered, and Sherlock stilled, wondering whether this was a mistake or not. He doubted Jaime Moriarty's sudden altruism, and he feared she would slip back into madness. It was Mary's calm acceptance of Jaime Moriarty back in her life, and the loyalty of the young merc that gave Sherlock some reassurance that Jaime wouldn't betray him or Violet at her first chance.

"There is a small armed group approaching the hostages." Static crackled, and Jaime said nothing, her breathing a faint shushing sound over the radio. "Damnation."

"What?" Sherlock demanded gruffly, turning to face the warehouse a block away, a finger to his ear, speaking into his wrist mic. "Tell me what's happening."

"Violet is being escorted out of the room they were keeping her in. Woodley's sent for her." Jaime growled, and Sherlock heard in her voice a slumbering madness. "I cannot maintain this position and cover her. He gets her alone, he will hurt her. Choose my directive, Holmes. Either I take out the door guards, or I save your niece."

Sherlock thought carefully, mind spinning out scenarios. They were here for Violet. If Jaime struck out in defense of Violet, her presence could be revealed, and she would be one armed rescuer against thirty armed thugs. If she took out the door guards, then Violet could be harmed before they got to her.

This decision was easy and difficult, and deadly either way.

"Can you protect her, until we get in there on our own?" Sherlock queried, evaluating their options if Jaime said no. There wasn't many.

"I can, with extreme prejudice. That means lots of bodies." She hissed softly, and even Sherlock felt the urge to shiver at the malice in the sound.

"Sherlock. Choose NOW." Jaime ordered him, her words jarring with impatience. "She's running out of time."