Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I love him dearly.

Warning: Violence.

Pay attention kids, there's something happening...

Special thanks to silvereyedbitch, grand editor and friend.

Next chapter in week.

Chapter 56

"Reaper in Our Midst"

December 30th

"Níl sé do chuid ama a chodladh, mo dheirfiúr. Múscail, anois. Beidh mé leat go luath."

The whisper was inside of her, the words in the tongue of her ancestors. His voice was familiar, beloved. She heard him, each word a cooling caress, a bulwark from the debilitating pain seeking out her soul. She clung to each word, his accent stronger as he spoke the nearly lost language. It was the language he taught her, as they grew to adulthood in the dark underworld of crime and greed, lust and violence.

"Beidh tú beo, ach ní mór duit troid ar sé."

He shouldn't be speaking to her. A remnant of tender moments long gone, each word, every phrase lovingly spoken shouldn't be heard, much less exist. He was gone, his life as misplaced as his body, both separated and sent astray in the relentless pull of time and death. She had lost him to his obsession, and he was never returning. So hearing her brother now, as fires stretched out across her tumultuous thoughts and erratic emotions, left her adrift. An encroaching dense grey smoke spun out at the edges of her consciousness, and she struggled to recall why she shouldn't step forward, and seek out the man who spoke to her through the writhing veil of nothingness.

Am I dead at last? Let me sleep, mo dheartháir. My brother. Let me join you.

"It's not your time to sleep, my sister. Wake, now. I will be with you soon…"

"You will live, but you must fight for it."

Pain rolled her, rode her will to dust. A clawed fist of agony unfurled in her side, her bones on fire, the flames of red hot misery tearing her apart. His voice was pushing her, prodding her from the depths, as persistent as the pain.

"Jaime!" A woman was yelling at her, in the storm of anguish she was caught in…reminding her of something. "Damn you, don't you dare die! Not for me, please don't die for me…."

Light. Cool air, wet drops falling on her face. The sharp retorts of gunfire, the soft clink of shells hitting the floor.

"This is all my fault, all of it, I'm so sorry…." Sorry for what? Who are you, to weep and beg forgiveness? Never apologize, it's a weakness… who told me that? Someone once told me that…..

Jaime's eyes flew open, adrenaline searing her muscles. She dragged in a deep breath, choking on something hot in her throat, fluid welling up from inside. Hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her up into a reclining position from where she was laid out on the dirty floor. Her hands were covered in blood, where they clasped tightly over her chest. Something was very wrong.

I think I've just been shot. Was I dead? I was dead. I didn't think death would feel like that…

"Oh God! You're still alive…. We need to move, they're still coming!" Violet gasped, tears streaking down her face as she hovered over Jaime protectively.

Jaime struggled to breathe, the panic in Violet's voice spurring her to sit up. Violet was trying to lift her, and Jaime saw past the blur in her eyes that the two of them were no longer in the straight section of the hallway outside Woodley's rooms. Violet must have dragged her around the corner, and Jaime flinched as bullets ricocheted off the concrete floor inches from her feet, sharp pale chips shattering off the hard surface on impact.

Jaime rolled, somehow finding her knees under her. Air was in short supply, each attempt to fill her lungs harder than the last. Violet was trying to grab her around her chest under her arms, but her hands kept slipping in blood. Jaime heard the sound of men running down the hall, and she knew they would both be dead in seconds. Jaime lifted her head as Violet tried to get her up again, and she saw a dead man a few feet away. Time was slowing due to adrenaline and the threat of her imminent death, and a part of her brain tried to understand why the dead guard was burned away over half his body, charred and blistered.

"Cuimhnigh cé tú féin, Jaime Moriarty." She was awake, in tremendous pain, and she heard him. Not like she used too, either. The words sang out from the past, from a time when he was less her master, and more her brother. She remembered his love, and the steadfast determination to keep them both alive as they fought to carve out a part of the world for themselves. His determination to live came to her with his words, the Irish a sweet, tender reminder of every wonderful moment they shared growing up alone.

"Remember who you are, Jaime Moriarty."

I will not die like this. I hear you, James.

Jaime felt a rush of hope as she focused again on the dead man. His weapon, a fully automatic FN P90, was on the floor, inches from his hand. A mere foot or two from her.

The running guards were coming, so close Jaime could tell them apart now by the way their treads landed on the floor. Violet tugged on her again, and Jaime let herself spill out on the floor, arm outstretched. Her fingers brushed the cool metal of the gun, and Violet's scream gave her the energy to move that last distance. Blood spilled from her mouth in a choking wave of heat, but she managed to get her fingers around the grip.

They were there, a pair of men just clearing the corner, looking down on Violet as she tried to cover Jaime with her body. Jaime rolled, the last of her strength expended as she brought the weapon up, pulling the trigger. A flurry of bullets screamed through the air, the short distance between her and the guards reducing them to hole-littered meat in seconds.

Solid thumps of limp flesh and metal clinks of guns both hit the floor, silence falling as Violet breathed raggedly over her, the hacker's fingers clutching at Jaime as the assassin lowered the weapon. It fell from her faltering fingers, and Jaime let the darkness hovering at the edge of her mind come for her. Violet's arms about her head and shoulders was the last thing Jaime felt as her awareness left her, a whisper carrying her down into the depths.

"Níl go fóill, mo deirfiúr. Níl go fóill."

"Not yet, my sister. Not yet."

"No!" Clay's shout of denial was harsh and painful, and forced Sherlock to run faster to keep up with the merc.

Sherlock was mere steps behind the mercenary as Clay rounded the corner, and the volley of gunfire was deafening. Sherlock watched in grudging awe as Jaime Moriarty fired on the men trying to kill her and Violet, their bodies riddled by dozens of bullets instantaneously by the bloodied assassin.

Clay skidded to his knees, sliding to stop at his lady's side. Violet was holding her, crying wretchedly as the mercenary gently pulled Jaime from her arms. Sherlock paced slowly to the three huddled on the floor, his eyes scanning the hall for more threats. Sherlock saw Woodley on the floor next to the wall halfway down the hall, a pool of blood under his head. He wasn't going anywhere soon, assuming Moriarty left him alive.

"My lady? Jaime, no…. Please don't die." Clay sobbed, and the big man tucked Jaime tenderly to his chest, getting to his feet. He held his mistress as if she were spun glass, with blood dripping to the floor from her drooping hands. Her mic was hanging uselessly from her shirt, the wires coated in sticky fluid, tracing red lines over Clay's arms as he shifted her weight.

Sherlock lifted his hand to his ear, pressing on the earpiece, and spoke over the mic.

"John, Mary, we're coming out now. One casualty." Sherlock didn't wait for a response, as he strode around Clay and his mistress, grabbing Violet around her waist, swinging his hysterical niece into his arms. "Clay! On my six, now!"

Clay snapped out of his grief at Sherlock's order, and the younger man latched onto the surety in Sherlock's voice. He nodded once, and followed behind Sherlock as he led the way out.

"One casualty…" Sherlock's words sent a bolt of terror through John's gut, making him press a hand to his abdomen in reflex. Mary groaned in despair at his side, and she swayed hard. He grabbed her arm as she paled, and it was the dread in her usually composed eyes that snapped John out of his own panic.

They had both heard the staccato burst of gunfire mere minutes before, and the warehouse was eerily quiet. A few people had tried to leave from this exit, but Mary's warning shots at their feet had sent the strung out minions of Woodley scurrying for another bolt hole, presumably trying to flee before the ever-present police swooped in the building.

John steadied Mary, and squeezed her arm, getting her attention. "Medical kit?"

Mary dragged in a deep breath, and she collected herself between one blink and the next. "In the SUV, red and white duffel."

John dropped her arm, and ran outside, the bitter winds tearing at his jacket. He recalled the lack of a shirt under his black suede jacket, the icy touch of the elements driving him to move faster towards the vehicle. John opened the rear hatch, and dug through the bags and crates assembled until he found the large medical kit, pulling it out from under the other bags. He slammed the hatch shut, and sprinted back to the warehouse, medical kit flung over his shoulder.

John felt the first stings of falling rain, freezing as it struck the cobblestones and pavement, the building. Pings of tiny ice shards heralded his return to the dubious shelter of the drug labs, and Mary anxiously awaited him as he stepped back through the dismantled door.

"Sherlock!" John called over the radio, trying to get his lover to respond. He needed to know how bad it was before deciding to treat the wounded here, or if a trip to the hospital was necessary. "Who's hurt, and what's the damage?"

John listened, waiting for Sherlock to respond. It was only his absolute faith in Sherlock's ability to get out of anything that kept John at Mary's side, as silence answered his question.

Sherlock refused to let his niece's pleas sway him, holding her tightly to his chest and carrying her through the twisted maze of the warehouse. Violet gave up asking to be let down after a few turns in the long cold halls, dropping her chin on his shoulder, her eyes streaming tears. He would be worried if not for the mumbled curses she threw at him randomly as he strode for the southern exit of the warehouse.

Sherlock could hear John over the radio, but with both hands occupied in insuring Violet didn't get taken from him again, he couldn't answer his doctor. Clay was equally absorbed in his mistress, the remaining Moriarty scion still and seemingly lifeless in the young man's arms as he followed quietly behind the swiftly moving detective. Sherlock would catch glimpses of Clay and Jaime as he took the corners quickly, stepping over bodies and shallow craters in the floor. Clay was weeping, his light bronzed skin washed out by grief and what Sherlock could only assume was love.

He told me that all of Jaime's men served her out of love. He meant it. A Moriarty, one clearly insane, inspired love and devotion. I do not understand. Love eludes me. But for John, and how I feel for him, I would not believe such a thing possible. Hardly tenable, an honorable man loving a sociopathic monster….

Yet John loves me.

Even I see the similarities.

Sherlock tightened his grip on Violet as he rounded one of the last corners before the hall opened up out to the southern exit. Light streamed in, dimmer than it had been when they first entered the warehouse less than an hour ago.

Sherlock walked faster, and breathed a deep sigh of relief as he finally caught a glimpse of John and Mary standing together at the exit. John's expression of love and relieved annoyance soothed Sherlock's fraying nerves better than any high, and Sherlock would never admit to running the last few strides that took him to John's side. John fixated his attention on Violet, features settled into what Sherlock recognized as his doctor mode.

"Who's injured? Violet, you okay?" John dropped the red medical bag at his feet, hands reaching for Violet as Sherlock stopped walking. Violet immediately pushed away from him, and Sherlock let her go, his niece shaking from nerves and cold.

"I'm fine John. It's not me. Help her, please." Violet stammered, her lovely eyes overflowing with an emotion Sherlock had never seen in them before. If he was better at reading other people's emotions, he might conclude it was guilt. She pushed at John's shoulders, moving the doctor around Sherlock. He was watching John's face, and he saw the instant John realized that it was Jaime who was injured. His composure was shaken, and John swallowed roughly, hands clenching into fists.

"Jaime! Oh God, sweetheart no." Mary cried out, rushing to Clay and his mistress as the mercenary sank to his knees in the swath of pale winter light coming in through the open door.

Mary ripped at the assassin's blood soaked shirt, revealing firmly toned musculature, and two bullet wounds over her lower ribs on her right side. Blood freely ran from the wounds, and Jaime was growing whiter with every passing second. Her chest barely moved, her breathing labored and thin.

Sherlock was still watching John. His lover was transfixed by the sight of the young woman obviously dying on the cold floor. He was shaking, his whole frame wracked by tremors. His eyes were a stormy dark blue, emotions running wild in their depths. Sherlock waited, and he felt certain he understood the problem. John was a doctor, his oath to save lives first and foremost in his heart. Yet here was a woman responsible for so much evil, random acts of violence and the cause of hundreds of deaths over the years. To John, saving her was nearly too much to ask of him, akin to making him choose between the victims she killed over the years and letting her get away with her crimes.

Honor and his sense of justice were at odds.

It was John's choice. And if he waited much longer to make it, he wouldn't have to.

And Sherlock knew that John wouldn't be able to handle the shame in not making the choice before it was too late. Words from one of his father's many books floated out from the heart of his mind palace, the Kularnava Tantra one of those he remembered vividly, its words now stirring him to act.

Death does not wait to see if things are done or not done.

Sherlock moved, and took a single step to John's side. He captured one of John's fists in his hands, and brought their hands up between them. John shuddered, and slowly met his eyes. Sherlock saw the conflict deep inside his doctor, and it was tearing the good man he loved apart. John needed him now. John was always saving Sherlock, giving him an anchor. It was Sherlock's turn now.

"She took the bullets for Violet, John," he told his doctor, and John sucked in a deep breath of air, holding it. "Jaime sacrificed herself for Violet."

He saw it, like the settling of uneven stones in the foundations of John's heart. He chose, and the conflict was gone. Certainty came over the retired army doctor, and Sherlock saw him reach for that unflinching strength he carried with him always.

John moved with remarkable speed, grabbing the medical kit from the floor and moving to the injured woman's side. Sherlock took a few steps forward, and gripped Clay's shoulder by his leather jacket, pulling the younger man out of the way of the two medical professionals. Mary and John were working quickly, supplies from the kit strewn across their patient and the floor, both of them speaking to each other in efficient and clipped sentences. Sherlock left Jaime to them, and dragged Clay over to Violet.

"Is she? Please tell me she isn't…" Clay begged him as Sherlock dragged him unresisting towards the door. Violet was shaking, huddled in her borrowed jacket, and she gasped as Sherlock grabbed her arm in his other hand. "Please tell me she's going to make it. I just got her back."

Sherlock spared Clay a quick glance, refusing to lie. Jaime may well die in the next few minutes. Clay wilted at his glance, the proud mercenary crumbling under his fear and grief. Violet was shivering hard as Sherlock towed both of them to the SUV. Sherlock opened the closest door, and threw Violet up on the wide seat. He slammed the door, and moved to the driver's side. He opened the vehicle and turned it on, setting the heat to high. He closed the door, and went back to the mercenary who was standing listlessly beside the SUV.

"Snap out of it, now." Sherlock ordered him, making Clay jump. The younger man focused on him, eyes fighting to restrain more tears. "She needs more assistance than Mary and John can provide here. We have less than ten minutes to get all of you out of here before my brother descends on the warehouse. Call who you must to get her out of here, to get the three of you out of here."

Clay sucked in air, the freezing rain pelting them both. "Do it now." Sherlock's last three words snapped Clay free from his wayward emotions, and he immediately straightened up, his demeanor hardening, eyes clearing swiftly. He pulled out his mobile, and stepped away a few feet, dialing whoever he needed for an extraction team.

Sherlock went to open Violet's door to check on his niece, but paused when he heard Clay say a word that bothered him more than it should, speaking to an unknown on his mobile. The young mercenary whispered through the frozen rain 'Reaper', and Sherlock felt the chill the word generated chase across his skin, and burrow deep into his bones. His time abroad in Europe dismantling Moriarty's syndicate came back to him, the shadow of a memory filtering out through the dozens of missions.

Reaper.

The world was about to change; torn between chaos and order. And it would take Death to decide which would win.

Clay ended the call to his men with a swipe of his thumb, and he forced his hand to stop shaking as best he could. Jaime was still hidden from sight by the kneeling forms of Cpt. Watson and Ms. Morstan, and Clay tried to see past them to the lithe form covered in blood. He just needed to know she was all right. He had thought her dead once before, and those few days of misery before she stumbled burnt and wounded out of the shadows to collapse at his feet were indelibly imprinted in his psyche. He loved Jaime Moriarty, more than he thought it possible to love someone without sex being involved. She inspired his heart and loyalty, and he didn't need for his body to be engaged for him to know she was worth every ounce of his devotion.

Clay tucked his mobile away lest he drop it, and looked to where the detective was standing beside the SUV, the window rolled down as he conferred with his niece through the opening. The resemblance between the two was striking, and Clay was glad for the distraction of their likeness to keep him from staring at the others.

Sherlock saw him staring, and Clay shrugged, walking back to the consulting detective. Sherlock tilted his head, and gave him an expression that clearly conveyed his desire to know what Clay's call had been about.

"We need to get to the top of the alley, down to the river. Two blocks. There's an empty lot, Medevac incoming. Our men are nearby, they're a few minutes out." Clay stumbled over the words, eventually finding the strength to stand taller under the cool gaze of the man who fascinated him.

"They are not to engage with Scotland Yard or MI6, Clay." Sherlock told him, and Clay nodded automatically at the order in the other man's voice.

"No, sir. Strictly extraction." Clay replied, and he dropped his eyes to the cobblestones at their feet. The rain was still falling, the air so cold the tiny droplets bounced as they hit the stones, the SUV. Their breath frosted in the space between them, and Clay was lost in the swirling fog.

Sherlock lifted his attention from him, and Clay felt the loss of it keenly in his raw state. There was something so reassuring about having those gimlet eyes watching every move, every facet of thought and expression Clay didn't bother to hide. The man saw so much, to a degree that was impossible for other mortals, and the near omniscience the man wielded appealed to Clay's inner needs like nothing else.

"Violet, change out of Moriarty's jacket. There's some of Mary's clothing in there, it will fit you. We need to move them out, now." Sherlock told his niece, and Clay could hear her moving about inside the vehicle, searching through bags. Sherlock turned back to him, and Clay found the strength to meet his gaze again. "Get ready to take your lady out of here, disciple."

Disciple….but I'm not….. I am. I am now. Moriarty's disciple, for however long she lives. He heard me activate Reaper. What does he know?

Clay nodded, and moved back a step so Violet could exit the SUV. She was staring at him, her amethyst eyes evaluating him just as Sherlock's celestial eyes did. She was dressed in some of Mary's clothing, the dark winter clothing covering her slim form, the clothes tighter on her than Mary. She even lucked out and found a pair of boots, and her shivering was gone, color lightly gracing her pale cheeks.

Sherlock walked away when the army doctor called his name, and Clay froze in place, convinced he would hear them say she was gone. That Jaime was dead. A slim long-fingered hand slid into his, fingers tangling together. He watched as Violet held his hand, the hacker squeezing tightly. She didn't say anything, her face a mix of grief and exhaustion. His nerves were settling, her regard as steadying as her uncle's, and he squeezed back in wordless thanks.

They were broken from their silent rapport as Sherlock strode towards them, Jaime in his arms. Her torso was wrapped in startling white bandages rapidly staining red, and Clay moved to open the rear door of the SUV. Violet sprang away, and Sherlock leapt up inside, depositing Jaime across the rear bench seat of the SUV. The detective backed out, and Mary took his place, medical kit on her shoulder, and Sherlock shut the door firmly as she settled in.

Clay sent Sherlock one last look, trying to tell the detective how he was feeling in that spare second. Sherlock held his gaze for a heartbeat, before releasing him. The detective backed away, and walked to the retired captain's side.

Clay tore his mind from the man he couldn't have, and raced to the driver's side door, getting in the running vehicle. He threw it in gear, and barely waited for the trio to move back from the vehicle as he tossed it in reverse. Clay refused to look back as he floored the gas, sending the battered SUV screaming back up the alley backwards, heading for the Medevac landing site two blocks away.

Sherlock watched as the SUV disappeared, the roar of the powerful engine fading out. Sherlock had an idea of where they were going from Clay's description, yet he wasn't concerned about them being spotted or stopped. Mycroft and Lestrade would be too busy handling Woodley and the mess within the warehouse.

Sherlock took John's hand, his doctor leaning on his shoulder. Sherlock nuzzled his nose in John's soft blonde hair, and breathed him in. Violet hovered on John's other side, and the doctor pulled her to him, wrapping his free arm around her, hugging her to his side. It was still raining, but Sherlock was warm enough under his coat not to mind standing under the soft stings of the frozen droplets. He patted his doctor's pockets, and pulled out John's mobile, dialing his brother.

It was answered almost immediately, and Sherlock could practically feel the rage pouring out from the mobile as his brother refused to speak. The line was open, and Sherlock could hear noises in the background. People moving around, vehicle doors slamming, and the ragged breathing of his very angry older brother.

He knows it's me calling, and not John. John would call Lestrade before Mycroft. Not so bored now, are we Mycroft?

Sherlock waited, not giving in to Mycroft's perverse desire to bicker. If Sherlock spoke first, Mycroft won the battle of wills. He ran the risk of infuriating his brother further, but as long as Mycroft was focused on him, he wouldn't be paying attention to the warehouse perimeter, and the SUV that was carrying a whole mess of trouble Sherlock had no desire to discuss.

"Sherlock." He smiled, despite the fury in the roughly snapped word. Mycroft was as impatient as anyone, regardless of his reputation.

"Hello, brother dear. How are you this morning?" Sherlock asked, letting his nose tickle John's ear as he pulled John in closer to his side. John glared at him as he baited Mycroft, but stayed quiet, and leaned his weight into Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock." Mycroft was too angry. Sherlock had no desire to end up in jail, though he had a few escape scenarios he wanted to try at his next foray into Scotland Yard, it might be beneficial to be arrested today. It took John's heat along his side to snag Sherlock's attention away from his sporadic desire to experiment, and Sherlock grinned.

"Woodley has been soundly routed, brother dear. He may or may not be alive. I'm at the south entrance, small alley between the two neighboring warehouses. I have John and Violet with me."

"Is she alright?" Mycroft demanded, and Sherlock heard Lestrade's voice in the background, the sound of doors opening and shutting. Mycroft was on his way. Sherlock idly noted that his brother didn't react to his statement about whether or not Woodley was alive.

"Cold, bruised, but intact. Here she is." Sherlock didn't wait for Mycroft to answer, he passed John's mobile to a surprised Violet, who took it from him. Sherlock kissed John's temple, and let his hand go, turning back to the warehouse and stepping inside.

There's still a chemist in here somewhere. We have a dog to discuss. And a formula.

John stayed behind with Violet, his niece talking to Mycroft, her softly spoken words trailing behind him as he paced away. The warehouse was darkened now by the gathering storm outside, the space echoing hollowly as he walked back the way he came.

Sherlock heard the doors opening on the other ends of the building, shouts as police entered the warehouse. Sherlock refused to hurry, tracing his way through the building's maze of corridors to a room with a door that locked on the outside. He had passed it in his initial entrance with Clay earlier, but didn't want to waste the time getting to Violet by releasing the chemist. He was safe enough locked away where he was.

He stopped at the door, and tested the handle. Still locked. Sherlock searched his pockets, and pulled out his lock picking set, before getting to work on the crude lock. He heard movement past the door, a single man moving hesitantly away from the doorway, to what must have been a far corner.

Not a confrontational kind of man. Which is good, I don't feel particularly motivated to fight or argue right now. All I want to do is finish up here, go home, strip John naked, and not leave our bed for days.

The lock gave up in seconds, and Sherlock put away his set before reaching out and opening the door. He pushed it wide, and smirked at the gawking chemist in the corner. He was a tall thin man a couple of years younger than himself, and the resemblance to little Victor was strong, despite the bruises from several beatings and the gaunt appearance of a man kept alive on fear and meager meals.

"Carruthers, isn't it? Would you like to leave, or are you planning on moving in?" Sherlock grinned as the chemist bolted away from the wall, and ran towards him at the door.

"You're Sherlock Holmes! I'm a huge fan, I knew you'd come!" Carruthers came right up to him, and Sherlock froze as the chemist threw his spindly arms around his neck. Carruthers held on like a knotted rope, and Sherlock had no idea how to untangle the man.

"Ah…hhhmmm. Yes. That's me, delightful to meet you." Sherlock muttered, and patted the man a couple times on his shoulder before exhaling loudly in frustration.

"Oh! Sorry. I'm just glad it's over. It is right? Did you find your niece? She looks just like you. Wow, you're shorter than I thought you'd be. Your niece is tall though. Seriously, she looks just like you. You sure she isn't your sister?" Carruthers pulled back, words tumbling out over each other in excitement as his pale brown eyes sparkled in relief. "Sorry! I tend to blather on when I'm excited, I can't help it. I drive my students crazy and my wife too….."

Carruthers' mention of his own wife, murdered by Woodley's men, was enough to silence his endless ramble. Sherlock merely stepped back, and waved the now quiet man through the door into the hallway. Sherlock walked away, the mourning man trailing along in his wake. Sherlock heard the bouncing echoes of MI6 and Scotland Yard inside the building, and calculated they were still trying to navigate their way into the interior of the labs. Sherlock recalled the way, and headed for Woodley's private lab.

Carruthers was a ghost of a man, his countenance strained and cheeks pale, the contrast great beneath the bruises and cuff marks. Sherlock entered the drug lord's lab, and the stressed chemist remained at the doorway, head down, and hands in his pockets. Sherlock pulled out his mobile, and texted Lestrade and Mycroft, insuring that their people wouldn't shoot first ask later when they managed to get this far. Usually he'd let things be tense, enjoying the chaos, but he had a rare moment of sympathy. Carruthers would be in no mood to discuss Bear if he was too busy fighting off Scotland Yard and his brother.

Sherlock strode over to the desk, the large surface a complete mess, thanks to the large boots of the mercenary as he tossed Sherlock's explosive cocktails over the walls. It took him a minute, but he found what he was looking for, in a locked drawer of Woodley's desk. It was his private notes, and Carruthers' laptop. He laid out his finds, and booted the computer, fingering through the pages of the notebook as he waited.

"What are you doing?" The chemist asked, having finally drawn himself out from his melancholy long enough to notice the detective's actions.

"How far did you get? In your work? I'm assuming you didn't finish, as he didn't kill you." Sherlock asked vaguely, eyes not lifting from the screen or notebook as he read both simultaneously.

"Oh? Oh!" Carruthers took a second to realize what Sherlock meant, and wandered past the threshold, shoulders hunching as he looked around the lab and office. "I figured out what was making the drug collapse, and decay at such a rapid rate. I was at least another couple weeks away from synthesizing an agent to stabilize the drug, but I was trying my best not to get there. I figured he would kill me the second I did it."

"He would have, yes." Sherlock concurred, and finally lifted his eyes to pin Carruthers to the floor where he stood, his impossible eyes burning the man to the quick in their intensity. "Do you know what agent you would have used?"

"No, not really. I was trying not to think about it, I didn't want him to kill me once I finished."

Sherlock eyed the chemist, taking in his sincere eyes, the resigned tone, and the drooping shoulders. He was telling the truth, and Sherlock dismissed him. He knew what he needed to, now. Sherlock stared at the formula, written out in penmanship indicative of an older man, a generation or two older than Woodley. Sherlock figured it belonged to Woodley's previous master, the man who died just before Woodley took over years ago.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stilled at the sound of his name, spoken softly, but with a hard edge, from the tall man at the door. Sherlock slowly looked up, and met Mycroft's stern gaze with an impassive mien, not responding to the anger he could hear in the undercurrents of his name.

"Mycroft." Sherlock replied, snapping shut the laptop, making Carruthers jump nervously. The chemist clearly sensed something amiss, eyes darting back and forth between the two men. Sherlock spied movement, and saw Lestrade standing in the hall behind his brother, his attitude one of protection for his brother, and nervous relief.

"What are you doing? And where is Woodley?" Mycroft asked him, his words delivered in the same manner as his brother's name. He was deliberately making an effort not to vent his anger and frustrations, and Sherlock estimated it would be another two minutes or so before Mycroft snapped and started yelling.

"I am perusing the notes of drug peddling chemists, what are you doing? There's a barely alive drug lord in the hall a couple turns away, though considering his state as of thirty minutes ago, he may well be dead by now." Sherlock casually waved his hand to the hall in the direction of where Woodley was left lying in his own blood, and Lestrade immediately took off, gun drawn.

"I think it best if that formula goes someplace it won't be used, brother dear." Mycroft sighed in aggravation, and finally entered the room, idly swinging his umbrella from one arm, long fingers playing with the handle. Sherlock felt the hard touch of his gaze on his face, but ignored his brother's suggestion.

"And that means not with me, but you? Perhaps in a clandestine lab somewhere, government lackeys deciding the best applicable use of a hallucinogenic narcotic that is both fast acting and highly addictive?" Sherlock pondered wryly, eyes narrowed as he saw the tiniest of muscle twitches near his brother's eye.

Not so caring of me, but of the drug's uses. I see through you, brother. Remove the drug from the addict's reach, and use it for your work. Is that your plan?

"Leaving it your possession is foolhardy and dangerous, Sherlock, as you well know. I'll be peeling your drug-riddled body out of a gutter in a matter of weeks if it stays with you." Mycroft walked to the desk, and imperiously held out his hand, his eyes darkening from an anger that nothing to do with his brother's drug issues and everything to do with his brother.

I am not the reason Anthea lays dying, brother mine. Her killer suffers down the hall.

Sherlock let his impish desires run free, and took the notebook and the laptop in his hands. Mycroft smirked, and waited, hand still out. Sherlock walked around the desk, snagging a remaining explosive cocktail from the corner, the jar securely in his grip. Mycroft glowered at him as he walked away, to the end of the lab, that door still locked with the bar over it.

"Sherlock? Exactly what are you doing? I'll not let you get out of here with that formula, so don't try." Mycroft warned him, and Sherlock ignored him. He went to the rear of the room, and grabbed the nearest large waste bin, a tall metal affair that held a few pieces of trash at the bottom.

Nothing flammable beyond some paper. We'll see how he likes my methods of securing the formula.

Sherlock stiffened momentarily as he heard John enter the room, his doctor's tread distinctive and lovingly memorized. John will understand, and perhaps be proud. Sherlock tugged the bin to the door, and carefully juggling the three items, threw the bar and opened the metal door, and dragged the bin out to the hallway. It was a smaller hall, and no one was in it, obviously undiscovered as of yet by the authorities.

"What is he doing?" Mycroft demanded of John, and John demurred quietly.

Sherlock left the door open, and made a grand sarcastic show of dropping the notebook and Carruthers' laptop in the bin, a large bang coming as they hit the bottom. Sherlock strode back to the door, and smirked at his brother, John at his side. He held up the jar to John and Mycroft, one hand on the door, grinning as he turned quickly on his heel. He threw the jar high, watching as it sailed to the bin, and he slammed the door shut just as the shattering of glass could be heard.

The explosion was amplified by the hall and the bin, and he could feel the blast through the door. The wall and door shook, then settled. A flurry of paper bits and destroyed electronic equipment rained down from the sky, and Sherlock grinned maniacally at his brother, the elder for once silenced.