Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but he's got a hold on me...
WARNING: VIOLENCE!
A/N: Chapter is shorter than usual, apologies. Enjoy, read on!
Next Sunday, new chapter.
Chapter 55
"The Furies"
"So… how do we do this without getting shot?" Violet asked softly, eyeing the assassin as her hand slowly lifted from the handle of the steel door. Jaime tossed her a look, silencing the younger woman, and Jaime pressed an ear to the cold metal.
Violet opened her mouth again to speak, only to find a long slim finger pressing her mouth shut. Jaime closed her eyes, and focused her senses through the door, finger still on Violet's soft lips.
Metal conducts sound so easily. Fools would be better off with a solid wood door… I can hear every rustle of shoe on carpet in there. Someone is crying on the floor near the door, another is about ten feet back pacing heavily, and I can hear footsteps of at least two more people. That's just in this room, I don't know if there's more than one room past this door or not.
Jaime pulled carefully back, and turned her head, dropping her hand from Violet's mouth as she did. She checked the hall, and saw no one, and grabbed Violet by her upper arm, pulling her back from the door.
"What?" Violet hissed, thankfully keeping her voice low.
"You were in there last night?" Jaime asked, tilting her head towards the door.
"Yeah I was."
"How many rooms? Furniture placement, guards?" Jaime asked roughly, voice low, checking both the hall and the door.
"Two rooms that I saw. A large sitting room, and his bedroom, I'm assuming there's a bath in there as he ran off to puke after his bitchy ass slapped me for laughing." Violet growled, and Jaime let a tremor of rage snake out from her bones. She would let this woman find her peace, in blood and vengeance.
"Furniture?" Jaime asked, and she carefully pulled her other gun. The weight of both weapons in her hands were familiar, reassuring. Jaime let the ease of prepping for a mission sweep away her aches and pains, the calm center of the raging storm of anger and frustration screaming just past her mental boundaries.
I don't hear James.
"The center of the room is a clear space, about ten feet across, with a long couch along the wall on the right, a small sitting area to the left, and multiple arm chairs. There's a small bar built into the wall next to the bedroom door."
"Where would guards be at in the rooms?" Jaime gave up on being quiet. She could hear sounds of fighting approaching, and knew it was Sherlock and Clay. They would be too late to stop her if she went soon. Now.
"Probably next to the bar and couch, that's the only place people could be in there and out of the way. I don't think he'd let them hide in his bedroom." Violet whispered, her eyes shining, her fingers white knuckled on the knife.
There's man on the floor next to the door. There's large man pacing at about the distance I would guess the bedroom door to be. The other men sound like they're near the pacer, but not between him and the door. Idiots.
Jaime's earpiece crackled softly, and she put a finger to her ear, trying to hear the whispered words. She went back a few steps and leaned on the steel door, so she would feel the vibrations of anyone approaching it through the metal from the other side.
"Jaime?" It was Mary.
Jaime's heart jumped hard once, and she bit her lip to stop a foolish grin from spreading as she heard Mary's voice.
"Yes, my love?" Jaime's whispered back, uncaring that everyone could hear her. She had nothing to fear.
"State mission objective," Mary whispered, the hollow sound of wind whistling along with her words through the radio.
Jaime looked at Violet, and found herself reaching out with her other hand, the guns holstered. She ran her finger over the faint bruises on the younger woman's face, and found her body nearly overrun by anger.
"Kill Woodley." Jaime replied, harsh and guttural.
"Mission objective is twofold, Jaime Moriarty. Take out the monster, and both of you come out alive."
Mary was on board. She wasn't judging, nor was she trying to stop Jaime from killing Woodley. Mary understood why. Jaime felt her lover's endorsement fill her up, easing her aching muscles and soothing the deep bruises she would be feeling in concert soon. Her anger receded, and calm certainty took its place. She could do this, this was nothing short of common. Hard target, un-scouted location, unknown number of hostiles present. Hardly worth the fuss.
"Understood, my love," Jaime replied, and let her hand fall away from her ear. She took her fingers from Violet's face, the young hacker watching her, not a trace of fear on her lovely features.
"You will stay here, Violet. This will be fast and messy, and you'll be in my way. I'll call you in when it's safe."
"What? I thought we could do this together."
Jaime leveled a glare at her, and Violet grumbled, looking like a child playing dress up in mommy's clothes and not wanting to go to bed. Jaime smiled, and reached for her weapons one more time. Both Jaime and Violet heard the gunfire, merely a corner or two away, a rapid succession of multiple shooters going at it in the maze of halls. Jaime put both hands on her weapons, eyes trained on the hall, waiting for a rush of bodies to come pouring around the corner.
As she did, she felt a rumble through the door. Jaime had just enough time to shove Violet away as the steel door swung out against its hinges, metal tearing. It propelled outwards into her side like a freight train obliterating a car on the tracks, throwing her down the hall.
"Jaime!" Violet's scream echoed off the concrete walls, as pain shot through Jaime's body.
Woodley paced, and watched the door. The handle had moved the slightest amount just a moment ago, as if someone were testing it. Woodley paused, and thought he saw movement in the light trying to come in from the hall under the door, as if people were walking around in the hall.
Peter was sniveling on the floor, to the side of the door, crying quietly with his face buried in the carpet. Woodley glared at him, trying to hear past the man's weeping, wondering who was in the hall. If it was Moriarty, he was as good as dead just sitting here waiting for her to come get him. He had nowhere to go from here; his bedroom and bathroom were just past the sitting room, no windows and no doors. He had made it that way on purpose to control access to this place, as this was where he kept all his records. His private lab and study were outside in halls, just around the first corner of the long hall leading to his chambers. If he were out there, he'd have a chance to escape, but since he was in here, he was trapped.
She was coming to kill him, he knew it. Hunting him.
Woodley watched the door, and motioned for his two guards in the room to get ready. Two shadows were blocking the thin sheet of light coming through under the door, and had been there for a few moments. Woodley tensed, and felt rage burn through his fear. He wasn't going down without a fight.
He was the Master Chemist of London, the city's biggest drug lord. He was no one's prey.
Woodley growled a wordless challenge, and charged the door.
St Bart's Hospital
December 30th
Lestrade strode down the long hall, heading with a heavy heart for the room that Anthea was in, and Mycroft. Donovan followed on his heels, her shoes clipping at the floor, the only sound aside from the chirps and beeps of medical equipment.
He hadn't slept since yesterday morning, and the stress of the last twenty four plus hours was wearing him down. His side ached, exhaustion dragging on his mind, and his heart hurt worst of all. The man he loved was confronted by mind shattering loss, and Greg didn't have anything good to tell Mycroft since his reinstatement in the early morning hours.
Nothing good to tell him, the news I've got is bad enough.
Lestrade paused in the hall outside Anthea's room, and in a brief moment of wanting to delay the inevitable, he looked across the hall to John's room. His bed was empty, the blankets mussed, and there was no sign of him or the detective. Sally peered around his shoulder, and wandered into John's room, brow creased, biting her lip. Lestrade knew, from years of experience in dealing with Sherlock, that the detective was several steps ahead of him, and was neck deep in trouble.
Lestrade met Sally's eyes, both of them acknowledging the likelihood that Sherlock and John wouldn't be in the wind long. Once Sherlock got the bit between his teeth on a case, the man was unstoppable. And that usually meant Lestrade would be getting a phone call any minute.
Lestrade sighed, shoulders tense. He wanted to see Mycroft, more than he wanted to breathe, but the agony he could sense even from where he stood was making his own heart ache desperately. It was only hours before that he had mused about how the loss of Anthea would affect Mycroft, and that her leaving would be a wound of terrible consequences. He dreaded to see how right he was.
Greg moved slowly to the door of Anthea's room, and he saw his lover standing at the foot of her bed. Greg sent a sorrowful glance over the young woman resting under the white blankets. Her face was bruised deeply, blacks and purples along her jaw and temple, disappearing under the bandages that wrapped around her head. He knew from speaking to the paramedics and agents at the club that when she was found in the service hall, she had been barely breathing, and her skull was fractured. He'd had Sally giving him updates all morning, and he heard that Anthea wasn't expected to wake up. She was dying.
"Gregory?" he looked up from Anthea, and walked into the room, heading to the man who called his name so softly.
"Mycroft." Greg reached out, and wrapped his arm around Mycroft's waist, tugging him tightly to his side. He rested his forehead on Mycroft's and the spymaster shuddered at the contact. Mycroft subtly leaned into him, shoulders sagging, eyes drifting shut.
Greg wrapped his other arm tightly around his lover, pulling them together. Mycroft hugged him fiercely, clutching at him. Greg sighed Mycroft's name, and rubbed his hands up and down the spymaster's back, doing his best to offer comfort and reassurance. Mycroft pressed their cheeks together, and Greg found himself feeling a rush of love that Mycroft could seek comfort from him, and so openly.
Sally was in the room, having found her way to the chair next to Anthea's bed. Greg saw her reach out and take Anthea's pale hand, fingers limp. Sally gripped hard, and looked down at the floor, obviously overwhelmed by the state the MI6 operative was in.
"Any news about Violet?" Mycroft whispered in his ear, lips brushing lightly as he spoke.
Greg hugged Mycroft tighter, and shook his head once. There had been news, just not news he felt like sharing with Mycroft, not right now. He would though, since leaving Mycroft out now would make life difficult for them all later.
"I found one of Sherlock's homeless contacts, in a roundup of snitches this morning. He was going to clam up and not tell me anything, right up until I told him my name. Guessing our relationship isn't a big secret anymore, if Sherlock's contacts know about us. Once I let on who I was, he practically tripped over himself in sharing everything he knew. Apparently Sherlock sent them all out hunting for Woodley yesterday, and this guy knew where to find him, but when he texted Sherlock about having the information, Sherlock sent back he already had what he needed. The snitch told me there was a warehouse on the south side of town where Woodley was cooking up his newest designer drugs."
Mycroft tensed against him as he spoke, and Greg felt the rage building in the spymaster's lean frame. His lover lifted away from him, and Greg saw a level of anger in Mycroft's eyes that had him thinking of Sherlock at his worst. The Holmes men all had tempers. Serious with deadly consequences tempers.
"Mycroft… I think I've found where Violet may be, where Woodley is. But there's a catch…." Greg murmured, framing Mycroft's face with both of his hands. "There's over a hundred people in that warehouse, thirty plus armed guards. This is going to be a serious operation to get her out of there, and we aren't even sure Violet is there to begin with."
Mycroft's temper settled as Greg spoke, and Greg saw Mycroft's eyes lift past his face, over his shoulder, in the direction of John's now empty room.
"Sherlock and John are already there, aren't they?" Mycroft asked softly, his hands gripping Greg's wrists.
"I think so, yes. Seeing as how they aren't here anymore."
"Then it's time we joined my brother and the good doctor. Woodley's reign as Master Chemist is over."
Mary felt the police scanner hum at her knee, and she pulled her gaze away from John where he stood staring at his mobile. She turned up the volume, and cursed under her breath.
"John!" Mary called to the doctor, his head lifting, eyes focusing at the urgency in her voice. "We have incoming, ten minutes out. Guess you won't need to call Lestrade or Mycroft- they're both on the way."
"That's good right?" John asked, walking back to her side as she jumped free of the SUV, shutting the rear hatch. "We need the reinforcements."
"Jaime Moriarty is in there, John! Remember? She's supposed to be dead? You want to explain this whole thing to Mycroft?" Mary was nearly shouting at him, and John just stood where he was and blinked at her, comprehension finally sinking in.
Mary glared at him, and ran for the driver's side of the vehicle, jumping in and starting it. John hurriedly got in the passenger's side, and she didn't wait for him to put on his belt before she peeled out from where they were parked at the top of the alley. The alley was narrow here, and the fit got even tighter for the large vehicle as she roared down the cobblestones, heading for the door where Sherlock and Clay entered the warehouse.
"Mary, I don't think it's going to fit!" John screamed, bracing his feet on the dash. Mary gunned it, the gas pedal pushed all the way to the floor.
The sides of the SUV scrapped the brick walls on either side, sparks showering up in a wide spray, both side mirrors disintegrating in a burst of glass. Mary kept the wheel straight, and slammed on the brakes as the SUV erupted out of the alley, into the small space in front of the crookedly hanging steel door. Mary left the engine running, and jumped from the SUV, gun in hand.
"Shit! Mary! Don't you dare go in there!" John yelled, and Mary ignored him, weapon up.
She kept her gun braced in both hands, senses expanding. She clocked the bodies on the floor, the sounds of gunfire in the far reaches of the warehouse. She recognized the rapid fire of FN P90's, weapons shooting at people she cared about. Her heart was pounding in her ears, and her stomach threatened to revolt. She sucked in a deep breath, and held it, letting her fear go as she lowered her gun. John joined her just as she stepped back, weapon ready at her side, eyes watching the long halls and the maze of disjointed walls.
"We keep this exit secure. This door is on the far side of the warehouse, out of the way and hard to get to with the vehicles MI6 and NSY will be using. Our SUV will block the authorities' view if they do find it. This is the door Woodley uses when he doesn't want to be seen, and when he has visitors. I don't think it's on the plans for this place, but I'd rather not assume." Mary stated firmly, and she looked at John, needing him now to pick a side. "Either help me get them ALL out of this, Jaime included, or I need you to leave."
Mary waited impatiently, watching John intently as he met her gaze fully, no hesitation.
"Jaime is risking her life to save Violet, and stop a monster. I won't say anything to Mycroft or Lestrade." John grumbled, gun in his hand as well, and he checked the hall, calm and in control. "But if she goes off the deep end again and kills innocents, I will turn her in…..or put her down."
John's promise, and his threat, made her heart ache, a deep throbbing under her ribs. He was compromising so much just by being here. If Jaime wasn't involved, John would have no trouble keeping his mouth shut and head down, fully participating. Yet Jaime was involved, totally, and her success increased the chances of everyone walking away from the upcoming debacle.
"I understand, John." Mary whispered. She silently added that she hoped she wouldn't have to stop him if he did try to kill Jaime. He was good, and she cared for him deeply, but he was no match for her, and she would stop him without hesitation.
"Sherlock! It's Mary, can you hear me? Mycroft's coming, and he's bringing everyone." Mary said quietly over the radio, hoping he was in a condition to hear her and respond. She got nothing but static back, and she worried at her lip, restraining herself from running into the warehouse.
They both tensed as the booming echo of metal on concrete shook the air, and a faint scream followed in its wake. Gunfire was still erupting, and Mary prayed that there would still be people left to save once this was all over.
Sherlock grabbed the collar of Clay's shirt, ripping the cotton away from his left shoulder. The bullet wound was high on his shoulder, less of an actual entry wound and more of a graze. It was a deep one though, a straight line of flesh gauged out from the man's muscled shoulder. He was so fixated on Clay's injury he barely heard Mary as she whispered to him over the radio, something about NSY and MI6. His brain filed it away for him to process once the blood stopped occupying so much of his mind.
"Easy man, I've had worse." Clay murmured, and he holstered one of his weapons, his now free hand coming up to grip one of Sherlock's, pulling his hand away from his chest. "What's that Monty Python line? 'It's just a flesh wound'?"
Clay chuckled, and Sherlock realized he was standing inside the merc's personal space, inches separating them. Sherlock grimaced, and stepped back, wondering why he was so bothered. Clay let him go, his hand squeezing Sherlock's once before releasing his grip.
Sherlock patted his many pockets, and pulled out a handkerchief, folding it into a large square, and handed it to the merc. Clay took it, and pressed in to his shoulder, staunching the thick rivulet of blood blackening his shirt. He pushed on it, all the while letting his eyes track the halls in every direction. Sherlock turned away from the sight of the bleeding merc, and spun around, walking back to the corner.
Four dead men bled out on the floor, crumpled where they fell as Clay killed them. Sherlock dismissed them, and peered around the corner. They were very close to where Sherlock was assuming Woodley's inner sanctum was, and they seemed to be in the hall a couple of turns from where Jaime and Violet should be. Sherlock leaned out just enough for him to see down the hall, and froze.
There were a couple dozen men milling about down the hall to his right, none of them organized, all of the clearly wondering what they should be doing. Half of them were nursing injuries, and Sherlock saw the guard that Clay hadn't managed to kill before he ran, holding his gut, bleeding from a wound in his side.
Sherlock sensed rather than heard the merc come up behind him, his breathing low and even, his steps sure. Sherlock was about to pull back, when he saw an open door in the wall across the hall. He could see into the rooms, catching a glimpse of what appeared to be a large wooden desk, and another archway that opened into what looked like a small lab. Shelves lined with chemicals and concoctions cluttered to small space, and gave Sherlock an idea.
Expensive equipment. High quality furniture. Dog bed in the corner. Woodley's private lab. We're very close to where Jaime and Violet are. We've got about two dozen men between us and them. Good thing I'm not just a detective, hhhmmm?
Sherlock pulled back all the way, and met the mercenary's eyes. He tilted his head back towards the door, and Clay peered out around him, clocking the door's location, and the men several yards past the door. Clay came back, and Sherlock cocked a brow at him, letting the unspoken challenge hang in the air between them.
Clay grinned, and stepped back from Sherlock. He silently discharged the mags from his guns, and reloaded, the soft snaps and clicks clearly showing the years of practice the merc had in those motions.
Clay nodded once to Sherlock, and the two men moved in concert, racing out into the hall. The men gathered at the halls' intersection shouted, and began to fire. Sherlock went first, and ran down the hall, and darted with a swirl of his long coat through the lab's open door. Clay was steps behind and covering him with suppression fire, both silenced guns flashing with each shot, so fast he appeared to be holding firecrackers, spent shells flying, raining to the floor. Clay kept firing until he leapt through the door as well, kicking it shut. There was bar in the wall, and Clay ripped it across the door, catching on metal brackets. It was crude, but effective, and no one was getting through that door without a battering ram or a bomb. Bodies began to pound on the door, men yelling to each other on the other side of the barrier.
Sherlock ran through the office space, down the lab area, and made it to a side door. He spared a quick glance, but pulled back just as a shot rang out in the hall. Sherlock dodged the next shot, and slammed the lab's door, employing a bar as Clay had done on the other entrance. Sherlock walked back to the center of the two rooms, the merc joining him. Sherlock was breathing hard, resting his hands on his knees, winded more by the adrenaline coursing through his system than the hard sprint down the hall.
"So… you know we're trapped right?" Clay motioned around the room, pointing to the two doors with his guns. His confusion was evident, and Sherlock chuckled as he straightened.
"We aren't trapped," Sherlock gasped, adjusting his black club shirt, the tight material making it hard for him to breathe. Wish I'd had time to change before this rescue mission. Rather impractical to storm a drug den in black silk. No time to ruminate over clothing choices. Mycroft's going to be knocking really loud here any minute.
"Looks like we're trapped to me," Clay grumbled, perusing the small lab and office space.
"I have a plan, trust me."
Sherlock could hear shouting, and there was a loud bang from over the wall, in the direction Sherlock assumed Woodley's private quarters were. It sounded like a door crashing open, and both men heard a woman scream.
"Jaime!"
"Jaime!" Violet screamed, falling back on her butt as Jaime's shove sent her flying. The steel door was thrown off its hinges as it was railroaded by the former cartel bruiser, and she barely escaped being crushed.
Violet kept her hand tight around the silver knife, heart in her throat as the steel door smacked the brunette assassin, sending Jaime tumbling head over heels down the hall. Woodley followed, kicking the door aside as he swiftly gained on the dazed woman, Jaime gasping on the cold concrete floor.
"Damn it, Jaime! Get up!" Violet scrambled to her feet, pulse lurching in dread as the giant man lifted one of his legs, preparing to smash in Jaime's head. "You vile rat bastard!"
Woodley didn't even hear her, and Violet lifted the blade, running for his back, determined to stab every part of him she could reach.
Clay leapt for the top of the great desk, turning in a single step and then jumping for the top of the wall. He caught the edge of the wall with his fingertips, and he lifted up, climbing the wall with his legs as his arms strained to pull him up. The burning in his left shoulder was annoying, but not prohibitive, and he managed to get himself up. He had just enough time to get a second long glance down the hall before the first guard saw him and fired, making him duck back down. The bullet zinged past where his head had been, and Clay grinned, thinking it was too close not to be exciting.
Clay dropped, and backed away from the wall. Sherlock was doing something at the lab table, large glass jars and vials littered across the surface. Clay stopped, utterly lost, before he shook his head and pointed back over his shoulder.
"We're surrounded, and Jaime is one corner away. I caught a glimpse of her and Woodley. We need to help her, now." Clay snapped, and groaned as the detective ignored him, the crazy-haired genius carrying tubs and vials to the center of the table. "What are you doing? This is no time to get high!"
Sherlock paused whatever it was he was doing, sending Clay a daggered glare that reminded him of his old master. Clay tensed, and smiled nervously. Silver eyes released him, and Sherlock went back to his mysterious work, combining ingredients into several large glass jars. As soon as the mixture was in a jar, he snapped the lid on tight, and moved to the next. Clay watched, perplexed, as Sherlock made several jars, moving faster with each one. The pearly white and beige contents looked benign, but Clay knew enough about explosives and incendiaries to guess at what the detective was cooking. Things were about to get interesting, with a concussive flair.
"I'm not just a detective, my impatient soldier of fortune." Sherlock said, voice intense and deep, full of restrained aggression. "You happen to find yourself locked in a laboratory surrounded by villains trying to kill you, make sure you're trapped with a graduate chemist."
Woodley turned in time to brush Violet away from him with one arm, sending the young hacker flying into the wall. She fell with a sharp cry, the blade spilling from her grip to the hard floor. Jaime shook her head, freeing her mind from the painful haze she'd fallen under when the door sent her tumbling down the hall. Woodley was going to kill her if she didn't get up.
"Bitches! I'll break you both in half, and fuck you until you can't scream anymore!" Woodley shouted, his face a disgusting mix of eager glee and bloodlust.
I am Jaime Moriarty, called Death, and I have never lost a fight. I will kill you, and enjoy the scent of your blood in the air.
Jaime snarled as Woodley lashed out with his foot, catching the impending blow with her forearms, using his own momentum to roll herself away from him over her back and shoulders, landing in a crouch before springing to her feet. Her hand went for a knife that wasn't there, and her guns were on the floor, knocked off of her during her impact with the steel door. They were both on the other side of the furious man coming for her, murderous intent etched across his rough features.
Jaime ran forward as Woodley came within range, her rage threatening to spill over past her control. Her right hook landed square on his jaw, snapping his head to the side. It was enough to temporarily stun him, and she pulled down on his shoulders, and planted her knee in his gut. The blow ripped a grunt from the big man, and she laughed. Jaime sprang away as he tried to grab her, knowing that if he got a solid grip on her, she wouldn't be able to get free before he broke her.
Woodley was twice her size in weight and sheer mass; he was several inches taller that her. She was faster, and her training gave her an edge. He was fast for such a big man, but his stamina was nonexistent. He had the body of a man who spent too much time sculpting his muscles instead of using them.
He got her good, under her left arm, snatching away her breath and making her stumble back from him. She relied on instinct as he pressed his advantage, letting her body move without worrying about getting air. She moved away from his blows, great showy swings that would make any man impressed. She wasn't; he was expending too much energy trying to clip her with a single devastating blow. He was used to back alley boxing matches that relied on brute strength, and not skill. She would outlast him.
The best way to win a fight, any fight, was to not fight your own body. Survival is the most important thing, and the body wants to live more than the brain does. Muscle memory with the driving need to live kept her from harm's way, and Jaime taunted Woodley down the hall with every blow she dodged, a wordless snarl of challenge and derision goading on the drug lord.
Her lungs recalled how to breathe just as she saw an opening, and she sucked in cool air for her starving muscles, gaining a burst of energy.
Jaime dodged a haymaker aimed right for her face, ducking under his arm, letting him overextend his reach, his own momentum carrying him farther than he was expecting. He fought like a man who wasn't used to women avoiding his blows, instead of passively accepting his punishments. She growled, and pushed off the floor, double fisting her hands together and driving them up into his groin. She made contact, a solid hit right in his crotch, and she followed through on the blow.
He gurgled in pain above her, and Jaime danced out from under him, as he grabbed at his crotch with one hand, the other supporting himself on the wall as he stumbled away from her.
"Jaime!" Violet gasped out, and Jaime spun around, to see her sliver blade flying through the air. Her brother's gift to her on her sixteenth birthday had been with her through every major battle and op in the long years since, and she felt a surge of confidence as it sailed to her hand. Jaime caught it, spinning her old and familiar weapon, giving in to the bloodlust that teased at the edges of her mind. A thick haze was washing in from the periphery of her sight, liquid-y red light filtering everything she saw, and Jaime skipped gleefully a few steps, stifling the urge to laugh.
I can almost smell your blood, Johnathan Woodley. Your end is now.
Woodley pushed away from the wall as she turned back to him, and she jumped straight up, both of her boots crashing across his face. Blood sprayed, teeth flying, wetting the wall with crimson debris. Woodley groaned, and fell to his knees, and Jaime landed beside him, light footed and sure. Her blade moved in her hand as a live thing, with a mind of its own. He was panting at her feet, blood running from his mouth, and she giggled as he spat out another tooth.
"On the desk, and don't drop anything!" Sherlock instructed him, and Clay didn't hesitate, jumping on the desk, boots skidding on the papers strewn across the surface.
As soon as Clay got his balance, Sherlock tossed him a glass jar, and Clay flung it over the wall. He didn't know what he was expecting, but a split second after the crash of shattering glass, there was a deep thump, and men began screaming.
"Heads up!" Clay snapped free from his shock, and caught the next two jars, tossing them over the wall into the hall. Men were screaming, and uselessly firing at the door, and Clay smelled the scent of burning flesh, and ozone.
It was chaos in the hall, and Clay heard running footsteps heading away from doors. Sherlock pried off the bar locking the door closest, and he tossed another jar out the door, slamming it shut as the glass broke. A deep thump made the wall shake, and Clay grinned at the consulting detective as he tossed his head to get a stray curl out of his eyes, arms full of homemade explosives.
"You do this on all your cases?" Clay laughed, easily catching another jar the detective tossed his way.
The scent of burning air and men screaming in fear and pain was inescapable, reminding Clay of darker times, but the memories were nothing against the maniacal delight on the detective's face.
John heard the sirens, faint and far off but growing stronger with every second. Mary was nervously pacing just inside the warehouse door, gun still in her fist. She was cursing under her breath as she paced, eyes locked on the depths of the warehouse.
"They're here Mary. On the other side of the warehouse." John called out, his words floating through the rapidly chilling air. The winter storm was brewing overhead, the clouds darkening by the second. John could smell snow on the wind, and the air was so cold he had to blink faster as his eyes dried out from the temperatures.
"Let's hope neither Lestrade nor Mycroft breach before we get Woodley down, and Jaime out." Mary's voice came out to him from the warehouse, tempting him to walk back to her side. "Jaime will not risk being taken by the authorities."
"You mean she'll kill to prevent herself from going to jail."
Mary met his gaze, and John swallowed nervously at the cold core he saw in her lovely blue eyes.
"You think Mycroft or Greg won't hesitate to order a kill shot on her if they learn she's in there, John?" Mary turned back to the warehouse floor, her voice strong enough now he didn't have to strain to hear her. "Jaime will kill to defend her life, and a lot of people will die."
"I want this entire warehouse surrounded, every door and exit covered! Move it!" Lestrade shouted his orders, radios crackling, people running, vehicles squealing as they tore out in different directions. Donovan was next to his escort car, coordinating with the tactical team from MI6. Sharpshooters were setting up on adjoining rooftops, and there were enough police officers here to cover a royal visit.
"Sir, we have three exits covered, reports coming in already. People are escaping from the building, claiming there's bombs going off inside and disjointed statements claiming there's an army in there tearing the place apart." Sally called to him as she hurried to his side, Mycroft stately bringing up the rear. Greg spared his lover a glance, hoping he was together enough to deal with the next few hours.
Nothing had surprised him more than when Mycroft left Anthea's side to join him in the assault on Woodley's warehouse, never mind that Violet was supposed to be in there.
"Shit, tell no one to breach. If there are explosives in there we'll just make it worse." Lestrade glared at the ground, then lifted his eyes to Sally. "No word yet on Sherlock or John?"
"No one's seen them sir." Sally replied, her eyes worried.
"They are here, I know it." Mycroft said, his words hard to hear over the roaring of the bitter wind. He leaned down, and spoke in Greg's ear. "My brother is in there, and where he is, John is too."
"What do you want to do then?" Greg asked, and he was terrified that any decision he made would result in people he cared about getting hurt. Woodley needed to be stopped, and Violet was in danger. Waiting and going were two terrible choices.
"I hate to say this, but give him time." Mycroft murmured, lifting his head, staring at the large building ahead of them. "He'll either save the day, or need saving himself. He's got….ten minutes."
Greg nodded once, and pulled out his mobile, dialing John one more time. Sherlock wouldn't answer, but John might. Greg just hoped the doctor was able to answer, and not dead.
"Lestrade is calling me again." John said softly, and Mary sighed where she stood at his side. Both of them were in the warehouse, hiding from the wind just inside the doorway.
"Answer it. Scotland Yard and MI6 are here, no use pretending they aren't. Ask them to hold off, give us time."
"What they hell do you want me to say to him about what we're doing in here?" John demanded, glaring at the mobile he was holding.
"Tell them you and Sherlock have everything under control, with the help of your mystery friends providing backup. Their 'assistance' is dependent on the authorities staying out." Mary stated, one brow up in a sarcastic manner. John humphed, thinking it was literally the truth. He was lying with the truth.
John answered the mobile, "Greg? It's John."
"Christ, John! Where the hell are you? Is Sherlock with you? I'm at Woodley's warehouse, we're about to go in, tell me you're not in there." Greg shouted over the line, and John winced, pulling it back from his ear an inch or so.
"I need you to hold off on what you're planning Greg. Stay out of the warehouse, please." John asked, hoping Lestrade would be able to give him what he needed. "We have our mystery friends helping and things will get very messy if the authorities start shooting up the place."
"Hold on a sec." Greg asked him, and John waited impatiently, hearing Greg speaking to someone on his end. It sounded like Mycroft, and John got really nervous. Greg could be swayed, but Mycroft was difficult to outmaneuver.
"John? Here's Mycroft." Greg told him, and John groaned.
"John? Who is helping you and Sherlock, tell me now." Mycroft demanded over the phone, words clipped, tone broking no argument.
John sucked in a deep breath, knowing he was risking a lot, and not just his prospective brother-in-law's fury. Mycroft could be vengeful, and John wanted nothing to do with angering the most powerful man in Britain. Yet for Sherlock and Violet, he would do anything.
"Mycroft, I can't."
"Yes you will, John."
"Mycroft, if you have ever trusted me, trust me now, please. I cannot tell you who is helping us. I need you to give us time, please. Trust me." John asked, Mary gripping his elbow, her eyes on his face.
"John," Mycroft was getting upset, the anger obvious even past the howling wind.
"Mycroft….the people helping us, the person who needs you to stay out of this…is the same person who saved your life on Christmas Eve. I think you owe that person this small request." John took a gamble, and hoped it was the right one.
Silence, but for the wind. John checked the mobile, but the call timer was ticking away, the call still connected. He waited, and finally he heard Mycroft's response.
"I would have died that morning without that sniper. I would have died in front of Gregory and my brother, and that angers me as much as it terrifies me, Dr. Watson. Tell our mutual friends, whoever they may be, that they have twenty minutes before we breach. No extensions."
The line went dead.
"Well?" Mary asked breathlessly, still clutching his elbow.
"We have twenty minutes before the whole of the British Government's fury comes crashing through the front doors."
Peter dragged himself to his feet, staggering to the now empty door frame. He clutched the doorjamb, and blinked tears from his eyes. Woodley was on the floor down the hall, the evil woman standing over him, laughing. She spun a sliver knife that conjured images from nightmares, and eyed his master like she was looking for the best place to carve a piece off.
She beat him. A woman beat Johnathan Woodley to the ground.
Peter tried to speak, to call out, but the ache in his ribs stilled his tongue. Years of beatings and constant threats came rushing back to him, and Peter found himself turning away from the door just as the brunette woman bent down over his master. The blade glowed in the fading light, and Peter saw the blackening sky through the far distant windows of the warehouse.
He swayed on his feet, and turned back to the room, just in time to see the two guards remaining in the room make their way to the door.
"Sherlock, Jaime….if you can hear me, you have twenty minutes before MI6 and Scotland Yard take the warehouse. South exit is secured for quick departure." Mary's voice came through the earpiece, distracting Jaime as she bent to one knee on the cold floor. Woodley was moaning in a puddle of his own blood, and the sound of his pain was drawing her in, a moth to flame.
Jaime shook her head, and the red haze clouding her eyes pulled back. Her body shook from an overload of adrenaline, pain rippling her muscles throughout her whole body. She gasped, and wiped her hand down her face, waking herself from the blood-craze.
She faced the man panting through the wreckage of his face, bleeding on the floor, red liquid pooling under his head. He was awake, but the damage to him prevented him from doing anything other than breathing, and even then not well.
"Is he dead?" Violet whispered, huddling under Jaime's jacket, her voice tiny and afraid. Jaime shook her head once more, and stood slowly.
Jaime checked her mic, and tried to speak. She couldn't find the words, then coughed. She tried again, and managed to get something intelligent out. "I hear you, Mary. Woodley is down."
"Time to leave, sweetheart. Collect our friends, and get out now," Mary ordered her softly, and Jaime itched to obey, the smell of blood and fear-ridden man suddenly too much for her to handle. She felt sick and bored, and flicked at some of Woodley's blood as it cooled on her sleeve. She sucked cold air in through her teeth, and wrenched her jagged nerves under control.
"Understood, mo chroí." Jaime replied, and lifted the blade, hilt first, to the young woman at her side.
Violet gulped, and lifted a shaking hand towards the knife Jaime offered her. Jaime waited, impassive, letting this moment fall to the Holmes scion. She would make the last choice. Jaime had merely told Mary that Woodley was down, and didn't mention whether he was alive or not. Mary wouldn't care, but if Violet decided to kill Woodley, then Jaime would accept the blame. One more death on her nonexistent conscience was no burden.
Violet shuddered, and took the knife. She inched closer to the man incapacitated at their feet, and went paler. Jaime raised a brow in question, and waited. She could practically see the thoughts and emotions in the expressive amethyst eyes of the younger woman, and Jaime knew the instant she made a decision.
"Give me the knife, Holmes." Jaime murmured wryly, and snatched the blade back from the other woman. Violet gave her a sad, embarrassed smile, and Jaime laughed. "You're no killer, and he's done for. Couldn't hurt a kitten in this state. Let me do it if you still want his head."
Jaime flipped the knife, and nudged Woodley in the ribs, spurring a pitiful mewling cry from the defeated drug lord. Jaime grumbled, and turned away. She saw movement at the door at the end of the hall.
Her heart leapt in her chest, and she questioned in that infinite moment the reason behind her stepping in front of Violet as the first shot fired.
The impact was intense, a burning bludgeoning that hit with the fury of a thousand devils. Jaime heard screaming, crying. More shots went off, as she stood in front of her old enemy's blood, and took the punishment she knew she deserved.