Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, but he owns me.

A/N: Here is the final chapter of Part II. I'll be posting an epilogue for Part II on Sunday. Apologies for the lateness in posting, real life is a bitch.

It is with profound gratitude that I share this chapter with all of my readers, reviewers, and fans. Thank you all for the boundless support and company as I've stretched my literary wings after ten years of hiding from my talents.

Warning: Violence, sadness, grief, love. Pain.

Special thanks to Silvereyedbitch for her editing genius. May the ending suit us all.

Chapter 57

"Nothing Secret Stays That Way"

December 30th

"Out of the way," Greg said as he shouldered his way through the crowd clustered outside what looked to be a war zone in the long hall near Woodley's private lab. People both MI6 and NSY parted for him, glancing nervously at his face before whispering quietly to their companions. Greg eventually broke through the massed bodies, and stared down at the once formidable man named Johnathan Woodley.

Someone had moved Woodley to his back, face broken and bruised severely, eyes swollen shut. It looked like he got hit in the face with a shovel or kicked by a horse, and blood still dribbled from his nose and mouth. Greg found zero compassion in his heart as he noted the slow rise and fall of Woodley's chest. Whoever beat him was one hell of a fighter, if not multiple people to take down a man of his size and stature. Woodley was a beast, even bloody and unconscious on the floor, covered in dust and dirt, fine clothing ruined along with his head. Greg was equally impressed and terrified by the possibility of there being a bigger bruiser out there than the man beaten on the floor.

Greg looked away, up the hall to a frame bereft of its door, and he could see into a posh private lounge from where he stood. Greg stepped over Woodley, doing his best to avoid the blood on the floor, and strode towards the end of the hall. From the way everyone was clustered around the once mighty Master Chemist, Greg doubted the rooms had been cleared yet. His curiosity and refusal to let a potential threat go prompted him to walk faster down the hall.

"Sir, do you want us to get an ambulance?" It was one of his officers, and Greg didn't bother turning around.

"It's not a priority. Just keep the labs secure, make sure we have everyone. Make sure Director Holmes is escorted at all times," Greg instructed over his shoulder, waving his hand dismissively. "Call one, I guess."

Greg didn't wait for a response, pulling his service weapon and bringing it up, swinging into the lounge, clearing the corners. He lasered in on a grey bundle of skinny limbs and shaking muscles that huddled at the feet of a tackily upholstered fainting couch. He kept his gun pointed at the figure weeping on the floor, and took a few steps to peer cautiously into the bedroom and its attached bath. He was certain there was no one else, and went back to examining the person crying softly. Greg figured the other person, possibly a man, wasn't even aware that Greg was there.

"Hey you. Hands up, slowly," Greg said gently, gun trained at the wreckage of a human form. The crying quieted, and a battered and disconsolate face lifted from spindly arms to blink at him. Tears ran down a dirty face, and Greg sighed silently, seeing the telling signs of hardcore addiction and a serious lack of personal care. "No sudden moves, stand up slowly, hands where I can see them."

"Oh…okay," sniffled the junkie, and he continued to cry, using the couch to get to his feet, swaying as he did. He steadied himself, and jerkily raised his hands, moving as if his ribs were pained. Greg scanned him quickly, and saw no immediate signs of a weapon.

"Hands behind your head, lace your fingers, and turn around. Slowly." Greg instructed, and the way the junkie moved told Greg he'd be through the procedure before. Lifelong offender from everything he was seeing. The junkie assumed the position, and Greg moved in on him, holding his hands to his head as he got out his cuffs and holstered his weapon, snicking one wrist before lowering the thin man's arms down and behind his back, securing both hands.

Thank you God. Sherlock never got this bad. This man is nothing left but a shadow of what he once was.

Greg felt his heart contract at the tears still pouring down the thin man's face, and he instinctively knew that this brittle vestige of a human being was no threat. He gentled his actions, and loosened the cuffs a fraction, earning him a surprised and appreciative glance from the junkie. That quick glance was enough to tell Greg that this man was unused to compassion from anyone, much less the police.

He may be a junkie, possibly a criminal or worse, but I doubt he deserves more cruelty.

Greg held the man by his wrists, and walked him from the room. "You have a name?" Greg asked him, as they neared the thinned out crowd in the hall. Woodley was being loaded into a stretcher, several officers attempting to manhandle the stricken drug lord into position.

"My name is Peter, sir." The junkie told him respectfully. A junkie with manners. Or just a healthy urge not to anger someone in authority. Greg could work with both.

"We'll sort you out at the Yard, Peter. Cooperate 'til then, you'll be fine."

"Yes sir, thank you." Peter whispered, and as they passed Woodley on the stretcher, Greg felt him tense, moving a discreet distance form the drug lord. Greg watched him, but he made no move to escape. Peter refused the watch the drug lord, and Greg made a mental note to talk to Peter later at the Yard. There was something in the way he acted, and where Greg had found him, that made him believe that Peter was more than a junkie. He doubted Woodley would let any regular user hang out inside his private quarters.

Peter might have seen what happened here. He may be able to tell us who our 'mystery' friends are. I'll tell Mycroft after he gets done antagonizing his brother.

Greg handed Peter over to a uniformed officer, and Greg smiled reassuringly at the ruined man. He seemed to shrink in on himself the second Greg passed him over.

"Don't look so sad, Peter. This officer will be very nice to you, just you wait and see," Greg said, eyeing the uniform sternly in warning. The man blanched, and adjusted his hold to a more polite grip on the junkie. Peter gave him a surprised look, a tiny hint of a long forgotten smile appearing in a flash before disappearing. At least the tears had stopped. "Go on with you now. I'll talk to you later at the Yard. No more crying, yeah?"

"Of course sir, I'll try my best," Peter whispered, and Greg called out softly as the uniform led him away.

"That's all any of us can do, Peter."

Greg watched as the thin man was taken away, to join the numerous others under arrest and being taken to the Yard for questioning. It had been a matter of minutes to secure the majority of the compound, allowing Greg to deem it safe enough for Mycroft to accompany him inside the warehouse. Considering they breached with over a hundred armed officers and agents, having Mycroft in the rearguard hadn't been much of a risk.

I need to talk Mycroft into carrying a weapon. I know he doesn't like to, but maybe he will for me. I'm certain he's certified to carry, but I don't think he's ever been a field agent. Something about Mycroft Holmes says he's always been the one calling the shots, never the one taking them.

Finding John and Violet at the south entrance had done much to soothe Greg's worries and his temper, yet Mycroft remained frigidly aloof, his anger a tangible thing. Seeing Violet relatively unharmed and happy to see him had briefly cracked the Iceman's armor, but it was promptly in back place after his niece's hug ended.

Maybe Mycroft with a weapon isn't a good idea. He might shoot Sherlock.

A nameless aide had at some point in the early morning hours raided Mycroft's closet, bringing the spymaster a change of clothing to the hospital before they departed for Woodley's warehouse. Mycroft changed, wearing his finest grey suit and red silk tie, his deep charcoal great coat and umbrella all reinforcing the impression of Mycroft's reputation as the Iceman. For Greg, he saw all the fine trappings for what they really were; Mycroft's armor. The spymaster was spiraling, and he clung to familiar things to secure his tenuous emotional control. Greg held his tongue, knowing his lover needed every reassurance he could get, even if it came from a fresh change of clothing and an umbrella he might not need.

Greg moved aside, and let the stretcher and the medics pass him with Woodley still unconscious.

Damn it, he's still breathing. Hopefully he dies on the way to the hospital.

"I want around the clock guards on Woodley, in the room at the hospital and the ambulance. He is not to be alone," Greg ordered, and several officers peeled off from the crowds milling about to follow the stretcher down the hall.

One of the year's largest joint ops and people are standing around chatting. Donovan and I are going to have a talk. I'm gone for two months and things go to shit.

Greg waited as the crowds gradually drifted away under his glares, his unspoken disapproval at the lackluster work ethic he was seeing making both the MI6 agents and his officers flee. As the last of them left to be useful, Greg caught the glimmer of something silver on the floor, buried under dirt and spent shell casings.

Greg took a step forward, peering intently. He thought it was a knife, the handle and blade long, and it shone even in the haphazard lighting in the hall. There was something about it that piqued his interest, made his brow furrow as a memory tried to crawl free from his subconscious. He was about to lean down and lift it from the debris on the floor when an explosion rocked the relative quiet of the warehouse.

A stunned silence gripped the building, as everyone froze, trying to pinpoint exactly what happened and where. Lestrade was reaching for his gun and radio when he heard a shout that reached every corner of the decrepit building.

"WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES! STOP BLOWING THINGS UP!"

Mycroft's shout came on the heels of the explosion, instantly calming his racing heart and making him chuckle. He took off down the hall, the knife forgotten as he hurried to keep his lover and one of his best mates from killing each other.

That's one hell of a name, Sherlock.

The explosion faded away until not even its echoes remained, and Violet grinned, thinking that her uncle had given her the perfect distraction.

Violet waited, impatient for Greg to leave. No one noticed her, where she was hiding around the corner, not far from where Jaime defended them both before she passed out from her wounds. Violet stared at the blood stained floor, and looked around one last time, making sure she was alone. No one was watching, and she quickly sprayed the blood stains on the floor with bleach she found in one of the labs. She made sure to cover the pool where Jaime had been laying in her arms, and the trail leading to the spot where Jaime took the bullets meant for Violet.

Violet sprayed every drop of blood she could see, not bothering to distinguish between Woodley's blood and Jaime's. Destroying DNA trace was essential to maintaining her peace of mind, and protecting her family. It was imperative she got it all, or a faceless crime scene tech might discover that Jaime Moriarty was alive. And that would be all levels of bad, especially for Sherlock.

She didn't have to save me. No matter what she thinks she owed me for helping Mary, she didn't have to save me. She could die. I don't even know if she's still alive. She took those bullets for me. No hesitation, she stepped in front of me and got shot twice.

I owe her. Big time. Fucking huge.

Violet sprayed until the bottle was empty, the stench of bleach strong in her nostrils. She sneezed, and wiping at her face, Violet spied Jaime's knife glittering on the floor. Violet looked over her shoulder, and quickly darted down, snatching up the wicked blade. She gingerly tucked it in her waistband at her back, under Mary's borrowed jacket. She sent up a quick prayer that she wouldn't stab herself with it.

She secured the knife, adjusting the jacket to cover it, and looked around. She saw Jaime's two guns not far away on the floor, and ran for them. She didn't know much about guns, but knew enough to wipe the weapons down with a corner of her shirt, erasing fingerprints. She ejected the mags and took them, figuring that there would be fingerprints on the bullets she couldn't reach. The guns fell back to the floor, and Violet tucked the mags into the slim pockets of her jacket. They were going in the river the first chance she got.

Violet wiped the spray bottle down, and threw it into a corner, the trash there hopefully enough to disguise it for some time. Feeling the intimidating weight of Jaime Moriarty's blade hovering menacingly at her lower back, Violet casually walked away from the scene of Woodley's defeat, hoping she'd done enough to keep the last Moriarty scion a long dead ghost.

St Bart's, here I come.

I'm coming, Anthea. Still be alive, please baby.

Sherlock grinned at his brother, then dismissed him completely, going straight to his doctor. He paid no mind to the enraged expression on his brother's face, irked past his ability to handle the assumption on Mycroft's part that Sherlock would have used the formula to manufacture the drugs.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, burying his face in the short blonde tresses behind his lover's ear, breathing in his earthy scent. John wrapped his arms around his waist, the strength in them solid and sure. His doctor snuggled under his chin, a spot that both of them loved. Sherlock let every one of his senses disengage, but for the ones absorbed in holding John. Outside stimuli fell away, leaving him focused on the man in his arms.

I almost lost you John. I'll never let you go.

Hands rubbed his back under his coat, whispering up and down his spine, sending shivers along his nerves, tingling places awake. His adrenaline and anger combined, mixing into arousal and awareness of the shorter man. John nibbled lightly on his neck, gently teasing him, unseen by anyone watching at this angle. The small hint of attraction and affection John gave him extinguished the flames of anger, and bitter disappointment he realized he was feeling.

Mycroft blames me for Anthea, and Violet. He blames me for it all. And then assumes I'm nothing but my addictions. I am more than my past. I trust John, I believe in John Watson. He believes in me. He makes me more, makes me better in every way. Without John, I am what Mycroft believes me to be.

I'm saying yes. And I'll spend my life making John happy. He is my challenge, the case that constantly needs solving. I never back down from a challenge.

Sherlock pulled back from John, one arm maintaining his secure grip around the smaller man. John smiled at him, wondering, and a soft, affectionate look in his evening-sky-blue eyes. Sherlock worked his hand into his tight silk shirt, and pulled free the metal chain holding John's tags and the ring he gave him on Christmas. John's eyes widened, and he got a hopeful, nervous look on his handsome face.

Sherlock nimbly removed the ring with one hand, and let the tags fall to his chest, gleaming against the darkness of his shirt. He held the ring, and offered it silently to John.

Their eyes met, and Sherlock nodded, once. John's face lit up, and he took the ring without a word. John's breathing sped up, and Sherlock felt the fine tremors run through his solid frame as his doctor lifted the ring. Sherlock carefully gave him his left hand, and the older man exhaled a short breath in relief and happiness as the ring slid over Sherlock's finger. It settled below his knuckle as if he had been born wearing it, the metal band sparkling brightly.

"Yes, John." Sherlock whispered, afraid to break the spell that held them together. John smiled at him, and it was if the world held its breath as they kissed, fingers curling together, the ring warming against their skin.

Neither registered the harsh exhale from Mycroft, the sound heavy with exasperation, and maybe a grudging amount of envy.

"Oh, that's ….. Oh wow….kinda hot," Carruthers gasped, and Sherlock felt John smile as they took their kiss deeper.

Violet ran along the halls of St Bart's, the text from Molly telling her where Anthea's room was. She saw the pathologist outside a doorway halfway down a hall, her stark white lab coat accentuating the fading bruises on her soft cheek. The marks from Tom's assault were almost gone, nothing but a faint bluish blush high on her left cheekbone.

"Hey Molls, you okay?" Violet asked breathlessly as she slowed her headlong pace to stop beside the pathologist. Molly gave her a tremulous smile, but her eyes were cast in shadows, and she bit her lip as they both turned to the room. Violet forgot her question, and barely remembered to breathe.

Violet felt her whole body lurch in sickening grief at the broken vision before her. Anthea lay in the bed, the white sheets washing out her once healthy skin tone, her dark hair closer to black as it weaved through the snow-white bandages wrapped around her head. Bruises ran rampant down a side of Anthea's face, neck, and the top of her shoulders all on the same side.

"She's suffered severe head trauma, Violet. Her brain is swelling, and she's in a coma. She had emergency surgery right after she came in, and the surgeons opened up a part of her skull so her brain could expand safely." Molly whispered, and Violet realized the shy woman was holding her hand, patting it gently as she regretfully destroyed Violet's peace of mind and broke her heart.

"She….. She isn't expected to make it." Molly continued, and she swallowed loudly, having trouble speaking. Violet gripped her hand tightly, unable to remove her gaze from her battered girl. "Mycroft is in charge of her care, he wants them to keep trying to save her."

"That's….. That's good. She's a fighter," Violet gasped out, and she felt her shoulders shaking as sobs fought their way free. Molly grabbed her close, hugging her tightly as Violet cried. She couldn't tear her eyes away from Anthea, and she sobbed out her anger, fear and guilt into the cold sterile hall of the hospital.

I should have gutted him. I should have killed Woodley when Jaime offered me the knife.

Violet sobbed, dropping her head to Molly's shoulder, and both women cried together. One thread of thought ran through Violet's head as it was buffeted about by her chaotic emotions, teasing her anger and desire for retribution.

Woodley is here in St Bart's.

Somewhere.

I can find him.

I have Jaime's knife.

Mary hovered outside the bedroom door, the surgeons Clay had summoned just finishing their post-op cleanup. Mary heard the reassuring beep of the heart monitor, telling her with every soft sound that Jaime lived.

Clay stood at her back, one of his big hands resting on her shoulder, occasionally squeezing as she controlled her breathing, refusing to cry. Jaime needed her to be strong, and they were too close to London and the older Holmes brother to let down their guard.

Clay had gotten them all out safely, the helicopter a large monstrosity that raced along the river, picking them up at the shore side in an empty gravel lot behind a closed factory. Mary barely remembered the race to get out of London, recalling bits and pieces of the escape. What stood out the most was the way the strangers had treated Jaime, and Clay. Something had changed.

There was word she'd heard a few times as the faceless men descended on them, a word that held a thread of awe, even fear.

"Tell me about Reaper, Clay," Mary asked softly, pulling shut the door so the men in the room couldn't hear them. The hall was empty but for them, the nameless hotel they were in deserted on this floor.

Clay stiffened, and he slowly turned to her. His face was closed off, cautious. His bronze skin had regained some color the longer Jaime survived, and he was still covered in his lady's blood. She locked eyes with him, and the young man nodded once. He took a deep breath, and leaned on the wall.

"'Reaper' is the activation code for the syndicate. I activated the inner web and the remaining outer pieces," Clay whispered, eyeing the hall in both directions.

"Why?" Mary whispered back, subduing her concerns at what that may mean.

"The code is a failsafe, to be activated in the event of Jim Moriarty's death. It reactivates the whole thing, the syndicate, and passes complete control to Jaime. It's a partial formality, as she held control anyway after his suicide. She did it all without Reaper needing to be activated, as she was still in hiding. All Reaper does is formally place Jaime in control, and immediately gives her first lieutenant disciple status."

"First lieutenant? That's you, I'm assuming?" Mary queried, watching his face carefully. Clay nodded, and tried to smile. He failed.

"It's the only way I could get the immediate resources to save her life. It gave me the authority to do all of this," Clay told her, nervous and looking sick. "I hope she understands."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Activating Reaper like I did told every remaining member of the syndicate that she's alive," Clay said, and Mary felt the floor shift under her feet. "A lot of very bad people now know that Jaime Moriarty is alive, and they'll be looking to resume the activities that ended when Jim blew out his brains on the top of St Bart's."

"Oh shit."

The hall outside Woodley's room at St Bart's was crawling with cops and MI6, and Violet grumbled under her breath as she watched from the far end of the ICU. There was no way she was going to be able to get through the mess of people unseen. All of her uncle's men, and most of Scotland Yard, knew who she was, and she would be noticed.

Mycroft was back upstairs with Anthea, Greg standing vigil with her uncle in between confabs with his men and Donovan. Wrapping up the official version of the Woodley incident was something Violet had no interest in, but she was monitoring everything with her programs. Any hint of MI6 or NSY figuring out who had helped them in the warehouse that morning would immediately send an alert to Violet on her cell, and she would decide what to do after that to contain the damage. She hated going behind Mycroft's back, but she knew his temper, and he would not hesitate to punish Sherlock and herself for their part in Moriarty's continued freedom.

Fucking monster is less than thirty feet from me, and he's getting put back together. Fucker is a serial rapist, drug lord, and all around fucking deviant, and he gets medical care and pain meds. He needs to die.

I really should've killed him when I had the chance.

Of course, Fate could do us all a solid and let him kick it any minute.

Wonder if Jaime would have killed him if she hadn't gotten shot?

Never mind, think I know the answer to that.

The weight of Jaime's blade was both comforting and frightening, and Violet felt like people could tell she had it just by looking at her, even though the knife was hidden under her jacket. She didn't carry weapons, usually just her mace and a stun gun or two. Those things couldn't do much damage, and she only ever resorted to violence if she couldn't think her way out of a situation. So carrying the wicked knife under her jacket, and recognizing on a visceral level the amount of lives it had taken over the years was unnerving and making her skin crawl.

Damn thing is big enough to be called a fucking sword, I swear. Okay, maybe not really, but close enough. Fucking heavy though.

Violet sighed in frustration, and gave up trying to work her way through the teeming uniforms and suits to finish off Woodley. She saw a sign for the ICU's restrooms, and curiosity drove her to enter the ladies' room. She flipped the lock on the door, and walked to the sink. She pulled out the long blade, and stared at it. She'd seen it several times over the last few weeks, in surveillance videos and pictures of Jaime during her vengeance streak a couple months back, but all of those views had been blurry or too quick to really see it. And the last twelve hours hadn't given her enough time to study the blade in any detail.

She took the time now, wondering what would prompt a sociopath like Jaime to hold onto a weapon for such a long time. She found her heart stilling, fingers tightening unconsciously as her brain slowly registered the masterpiece she held.

It was around a foot long, the length similar to the large hunting knives popular in the States, but slimmer, and the edges curved and flowed. It reminded her of a single ripple of water on a smooth lake, the moon shining high overhead. Usually such a romantic thought would make her snort with derision and a smidge of appreciation, yet this time the thought of this blade being crafted from ice-cold water and moonlight seemed apt. It was double-edged, both sides as long as the other, and the hilt was crafted to fit a woman's hand, wrapped in fine dark leather and what looked like thin strands of silver thread woven through the leather.

What arrested her attention the strongest was the lettering, hidden in the wavy lines of the silver plating that graced the steel near the hilt. At first she wasn't aware what the language was, or if it wasn't just a maker's mark for the blade. The words were tiny, and she squinted, lifting the blade closer to her face, shivering as she smelled the tooled leather and the sharp bite of high quality metals.

Tá mé i gcónaí leat.

What the hell does that mean? That's not even English. Sometimes it pays to be a genius.

Violet pulled out her mobile, glad that Mycroft's people had found it at the club and returned it to her earlier. She found her translation app, and instead of typing in the words (which the accent marks would have made highly difficult) she took a close up picture of the wording. The translator read the words from the picture, and Violet waited, eyeing the knife as if it were going to bite her at any minute.

Her mobile beeped, and Violet read the translation it gave her. It was in Irish, or Gaelic, depending on who you asked. The words meant the same, and Violet felt her breath catch as they sank into her consciousness.

I am always with you.

Weird ass thing to have on a knife. "I am always with you"? Really? Is that supposed to be the knife saying that, or maybe the person who gave it to her…? Oh Shit! Someone did give this to her! It's why she always has it! She carries more blades, but Jaime always has this one blade on her!

There's only been one person she would treasure a gift from… until Mary.

Her brother gave this knife to her. Holy fuck.

"Holy fuck me," Violet murmured, and she looked up from the blade, staring at her reflection in the bathroom's mirror. "Jim Moriarty gave this knife to Jaime."

Violet put her mobile away, and slowly lifted the blade. It had an aura of violence about it, a hovering menace that made her skin crawl. She usually wouldn't give in to such follies, but the knife was freaking her the fuck out, and she wanted nothing more than to stuff it in the trash and run to her uncle screaming about monsters.

She stared at her reflection, a part of her surprised she couldn't see the corruption of evil messing up her features, the creeping of shadows over her heart. She almost gave in to vengeance, the desire to kill someone. She understood killing in self-defense, and killing evil men and women to stop them from committing atrocities, but her bloodthirsty willingness to kill someone rendered helpless made her feel ill, as if the knife had given her a disease, and she let her anger and pain feed it. Violet knew she was being foolish, that anyone in her position would have entertained the thought, but as she stared at the blade, her body wanted to vomit up the rage and cleanse her soul.

Instead, Violet breathed through the riot brewing in her gut, and let her body settle. Her heart, overcome by grief and frustration at being helpless to aid Anthea, was an aching void of misery. Violet shrugged off the outward signs of grief, a mask of cold apathy coming over her Holmes features. She put the knife away under her jacket, and slipped from the restroom.

On her way back upstairs, Violet mused over the words on the blade. Jim Moriarty obviously loved his sister a great deal, and yet he killed himself. He had someone in his life who was willing to burn the world to ash and dust to avenge his loss, yet he took his own life to make sure Sherlock died? She understood the drive to win, she really did, but to take himself out of the game so totally was a bit odd.

Why would a madman, who spent his whole life rising above his helpless beginnings, abandon his sister, and make such a permanent move as suicide, especially when facing a man as adaptable as Sherlock Holmes? From all accounts, Jim Moriarty never gave up. And regardless of Sherlock's witness to the act itself, Violet felt a shiver of unease run through her body. Suicide was a capitulation, of every future choice and action, rendering all options yet to be taken pointless.

Jim Moriarty was always a step or a thousand ahead of everyone. So why kill himself?

Violet shook her head, dismissing the thoughts that threatened to circle in her mind ad nauseum. She wondered where John was, and if he was in the mood for handing out hugs. The good doctor was a deft hand at settling her nerves, and she smiled at the thought of Sherlock benefiting from John's presence in a similar fashion. Sans sex, of course. John was cute, he just did nothing for her in that regard.

Thinking of John brought Mary to mind, and Violet realized she should probably get rid of the knife before Mycroft saw it. He would recognize it immediately, and the game would blow up in a massive shitstorm to end all shitstorms.

Violet hopped in the elevator, glad it was empty. She pulled out her mobile, and sent a text to Mary.

J left a certain something behind. It's not something I can carry around for long. You still in London? And please tell me everyone is still here, and haven't 'moved on'. –VH

A moment went past, as she stared at the floor numbers above the door, the elevator pinging past one by one. A short vibration, and she had her response.

Everyone is still here, resting comfortably. I'll collect the item in person. Where are you? –MM

St Bart's. Be careful, the whole of Britain's police force is here too. Want to meet somewhere else? –VH

No. I'm closer to Bart's than anywhere else in town. –MM

Okay. Just you though, leave Sexy Soldier behind. –VH

I couldn't pry him from her side if I used a nuke. Be there soon. –MM

Violet sighed in relief, glad that Clean Slate would keep Mary safe as she came back into London. The doors pinged as they opened on Anthea's new floor. The operative had been moved to a private suite a few floors up, to the neurological department of the hospital. Violet felt her heart spasm in her chest, and she bit her lip as she forced herself to step from the elevator.

Thea. I'm back baby. I'm sorry I almost gave in.

Sherlock waited outside the examination room, hearing the low voices of his doctor and the emergency room nurse talking together. John had wilted with exhaustion soon after Mycroft and Lestrade kicked them from the warehouse, and Sherlock had given into the tiny voice of wisdom that told him to take John back to Bart's.

"I'll be fine, I just need to sleep." Sherlock heard John's voice come clearly through the curtain seconds before it was pulled back, revealing his lover. John smiled at him, and Sherlock reached out a hand, and John clasped it firmly in his own.

Sherlock led the way from the A&E, and with John at his side, he was hell-bent on getting them both home. Naked, then into bed, and he wasn't letting John go for days.

Violet squeezed Anthea's hand gently. The other woman was pale beneath the bruising on her face, and her pulse was weak. Her hands were cold, and Violet tucked them both under the blanket, pulling it higher around her torso. Hospitals were always cold, and Violet wanted Thea as comfortable as possible.

Violet saw the shadow of her uncle move slightly as he sat in his corner, and she turned to him. His face was paler than usual, and his eyes were tired. Mycroft's fury that had carried him through the last two days was fading, and he looked as exhausted as she felt.

She felt her mobile vibrate, and hid her reaction to it. She walked over to Mycroft, and without a word, kissed the top of his head. He sighed, but let her, and she hugged his shoulders.

"You going home, Violet?" Mycroft asked her, voice low.

"Yeah. I need a shower, some fresh clothing. I'll see you when I get back, okay?" She didn't bother asking him if he would be here when she got back. He could run the nation from a closet in Siberia, so he didn't need to be anywhere but here, his aides supplying him with everything he needed.

"I'll be here. Be careful, please."

"I will," and she kissed him one more time. She walked away, and left Anthea's suite, pulling out her mobile.

In the morgue. –MM

Omw. –VH

Getting to the morgue was easy. Violet knew the way, having walked it many times with John and Sherlock in the last two months. She smiled at the operatives and cops loitering in the halls, and eventually the crowds thinned out as she made her way to the rear of Bart's, the morgue ahead.

The lights were on, and Violet spied Molly inside, talking animatedly with the American spy. Violet grinned, and pushed through the doors.

"Violet! Look who came back!" Molly called out, excited. Violet smiled at the pathologist, glad that she harbored no ill will towards Mary for her involvement in Jaime's vengeance plot weeks before.

"Hey Mary, glad to see you're okay," she said tongue in cheek, not letting on to Molly that Violet and Mary had been hanging out for the last couple of months on a weekly basis.

"I came to ask a favor…. Molly, can Violet and I have minute alone please? I'll come see you before I leave."

"Oh! Of course! I'll just go tag some more bodies for autopsy tomorrow, I'll be in the admittance bay." Molly pointed towards the double doors leading to the ambulance bay in the back, where corpses were brought in from outside the hospital. "Take your time."

Violet smiled at the flighty pathologist, glad for her sweet nature and eagerness not to pry. She was curious, but Molly appreciated secrets, and the desire to keep them. Most of Sherlock's inner circle had plenty of secrets, so that was nothing new.

Mary kept the innocent smile on her face until the doors swung shut behind Molly. Mary exhaled, and Violet saw the strain on her fair face from the last several hours. Mary leaned a hip on a steel exam table, and quirked a single brow in Violet's direction.

"Here….I think Jaime might want this back. I almost tossed it, and Greg nearly discovered it back at the warehouse," Violet pulled free the knife, and put it gently on the table beside Mary's hand. She let it go, and felt a weight drop from her shoulders as the last hint on temptation to kill Woodley left with the knife.

"Oh," Mary sighed as her fingers reverently lifted the blade, and her fingers traced the flowing edges, the leather hilt. "She loves this knife. Sentimental of her, I know. Yet it was a gift, so she treasures this beyond common sense sometimes."

"From her brother, right? I translated the Irish on the blade, there near the hilt." Violet told her, and pointed to the tiny words engraved in the metal.

"Yes, it was from Moriarty. What does it say? My Irish is very rusty."

"'I am always with you.' A weird thing to put on a knife, but I guess he loved her, so who knows? Must have meant something to the two of them."

Mary was quiet for a minute, finger running over the tiny letters. "They meant a lot to each other. Jaime has depths of love in her, to rival the insanity. Maybe this blade means he felt the same for her."

"He didn't love her enough not to kill himself. Selfish bastard." Violet realized she was mad, angry at a lunatic whom she'd never met, for killing himself and leaving his equally crazy sister alone in the world.

"My sentiments exactly, Violet. I've tried to tell her that, and Jaime may be on her way to believing me. She's having trouble letting him go. It doesn't help that she never got to say goodbye to him, either."

"What do you mean? She didn't know he was going to kill himself?"

"Not that exactly. She didn't know what he intended to do. I meant she never got a chance to bury him, his body was taken by MI6 before she could get to him." Mary secured the blade under her black jacket, zipping it up. Her blue eyes were pensive, her thoughts presumably focused on the young woman recovering from this morning's crazy events.

"That sucks," Violet grimaced, and thought about how much that would hurt, being unable to bury a loved one. When her mother died, Violet had manipulated the system to arrange for her mother's cremation, and she had stolen her mother's ashes. She still had them, secured in a storage facility back in the States. A sudden idea gripped her, and she sucked in a deep breath.

"Mary….. I have an idea. Give me a minute." Violet yanked out her mobile, got to work, glad the Wi-Fi was so strong down here. She owed Jaime Moriarty her life, and this was an easy solution to help balance the debt between them.

"What are you doing?" Mary asked, moving to her side, peering over her shoulder.

"I have the entire Jim Moriarty debacle on my servers. I can tell you what MI6 did with his body. Give Jaime some closure."

"Violet, you do this, I'll kiss you, so be ready."

"Sweet! You're my type too." Violet winked at Mary, and the blonde woman smiled at her.

It didn't take long. She had access to the entire thing, from first contact between Sherlock and Moriarty, to the minute Sherlock came home to British soil after tearing apart Moriarty's syndicate. She scrolled through the reams of data, looking for the day on St Bart's when Moriarty shot himself and Sherlock jumped.

"Here it is….. Eeewww they have photos from the rooftop. Let's see…." She ran her finger down the screen, clicking through the photos. "MI6 found a blood pool, bone fragments. Tissue sample… gross… and they took his body to…what the fuck?"

"What Violet? What did MI6 do to him?" Mary asked, squinting at the screen.

Violet double-checked, then looked at Mary. Her heart was racing, and she kept flashing back to the words on the knife. "You SURE that Jaime didn't get to her brother's body first? And she just forgot, seeing as how she's crazy and all?"

"Yes, Violet. I'm certain. Clay and Jaime both assured me they never recovered Moriarty's body, that it was gone before they could get to him. MI6 took Jim." Mary sounded certain, but she must have seen the dread, the apprehension on Violet's face. "Why?"

"MI6 found his blood, hair, and microscopic bone fragments in the blood pool where Sherlock said his body fell to the rooftop. They never recovered his body, as MI6 was too occupied in shooting the sniper aiming at John, and orchestrating Sherlock's jump. They sent people for him afterwards, but there was no body. Mycroft theorized that Moriarty's people were ordered to collect his body, and that they disposed of him per his orders, as he must have been intending to die the whole time."

Mary and Violet stared at each other, the silence in the morgue heavy and ominous. Violet shivered, thinking again of the words a madman had inscribed into silver and steel for his beloved baby sister. 'I am always with you.'

"MI6 doesn't have his body?" Mary asked her, as if needing confirmation.

"Yeah. They never did." Violet whispered, and she swallowed, clutching her mobile in her fist.

"Oh shit." Mary's British accent was gone and she sounded like a good southern girl from the States.

"Oh shit is right."

"Jaime doesn't have his body, and she looked for him for months. She would know if her own people had him."

"Sooo…. You think we should be freaking out now?" Violet gasped, and it took everything she had not to start screaming.

"I'll let you know. I…. I have to talk to Jaime. There's no way that both the syndicate and MI6 lost Jim Moriarty's body. Someone knows what happened to him. Violet, I'll call you. It might be a few days, Violet. Please… for your own sake, don't say anything to Mycroft."

"I don't fancy seeing WWIII starting in the middle of St Bart's. Go, ask Jaime about it. I'll poke around, see what I can learn. Maybe we missed something, and he's buried in pauper's field somewhere," Violet assured Mary, and the American assassin nodded.

"Thank you, Violet. I hope Anthea pulls through, and I'm glad you're okay. Let's hope you're right. Let me say goodbye to Molly." Mary backed away, her face settling into a pleasant, happy mask, only her eyes betraying the tumult that Violet was sharing.

I never pray, but today I am. Let his body be burned to ash, or buried six feet under beneath a hawthorn tree somewhere…. This has to be a mistake.

Mary nodded once, and took off through the bay doors, calling goodbye to Molly as she walked away hurriedly.

Violet gulped, then put away her mobile.

"I need Sherlock."

John sighed, and shifted under the man resting on top of him. Sherlock was limp, exhausted, and his weight was pressing John deeper into the mattress. He didn't want to move, but he need to breathe, and he was having trouble. He rubbed the naked, sweaty shoulders above him, and sighed again, louder. He grinned when Sherlock nibbled on his shoulder, then lathed at the spot with his tongue, soothing the tiny bite.

Sherlock grumbled in protest as he shifted again, and long arms roped under him, and Sherlock rolled. He found himself resting on Sherlock's chest, his head tucked under his detective's chin. Sherlock's right arm held him tightly, and John gripped his lover's left hand, twining their fingers together. He played with the engagement band that rested on Sherlock's ring finger, the low lights reflecting off the polished metal.

"Go to sleep, John. I'm here," Sherlock's deep voice rumbled under his ear, and John snuggled further into Sherlock's embrace, feeling secure, and loved. "No one is coming for us. It's over, and we're together."

"Yes we are." John tipped his head back, and met Sherlock's heavenly eyes. Sherlock leaned down, and kissed him softly. "I love you, Sherlock. Thank you for saying yes."

"That was always my answer, John. I just had to see why you wanted me to wait. It took me a bit, but I found my way through to the answer."

"And what was the answer?"

"That you are worth sacrificing everything for. You make me who I am, and I can do no less than my absolute best for you. You inspire me to greatness, and part of that will be showing you exactly how much, for the rest of our lives."

"Sherlock….. How do you do that? Every bloody time… I'm not going to cry. C'mere you git." John pulled Sherlock back down for another kiss, and the fire between them roared back to life. Sherlock rolled back on top of John, and settled between his spread thighs, both men groaning at the contact, their bodies stirring despite having spent their passion minutes earlier.

December 31st, 12:30 AM

John woke to the gentle tapping on the bedroom door. He cracked open one eye, and peered towards the door. The moon was out, and night had fallen. It came again, tap tap tap.

Sherlock was sleeping beside him, hair a tangled mess, and his face was buried between John's shoulder and the bed.

Tap tap tap.

Go away, I'm sleeping. Man needs to recover after 'we saved the day' sex.

"John? Sherlock? It's Violet. I need to speak to Sherlock."

Crap. Okay.

"One sec Violet, he's sleeping. We'll be out in a minute or so," he called out softly, and he saw the light from the hall move under the door as Violet shifted.

"Thanks John. I'll be in the den." She must have left, as the light pooling under the door was uninterrupted.

He exhaled, and nudged Sherlock with his arm, gently.

"You awake, mate?"

Sherlock growled, and burrowed deeper under the blankets. John grinned, and ran a hand down his lover's back, from his curls down the lean muscles of his back, under the covers, before finding his finely-toned ass. He lightly pinched a cheek, and Sherlock jumped. One brilliant eye cracked open, and glared at him.

"Violet wants to talk to you, love. Time to get up. I'll make you some tea."

"Sleeping."

"Nope, you're awake. Up you get," John smiled at the sleepy detective, as petulant as a child awakened too early from a nap. John got out of bed, evading the grasping arm determined to keep him under the covers. He snapped on the light, and Sherlock moaned loudly. "Up, now."

"Evil doctor. Evil niece. Will destroy later," came the mumbled threat from under the covers, and John laughed. He reached out, and pulled them away, the cool air rushing in over Sherlock's bare skin. He admired the view even as Sherlock tumbled from bed, glaring at him and mumbling threats the entire time.

"I'll go put on some tea, you get dressed." John grabbed his robe from the back of the door, and pulled on a pair of pajama trousers that were pooled beside the bed. The hall was deserted when he opened the door, and he made for the kitchen, catching sight of Violet as she paced in the front room. She must have changed while they were sleeping, wearing her customary lack of clothing when she was at home, just a pair of short shorts and a tank top tee that did nothing to hide her slim body. John shook his head, and went for the stove and the tea kettle. The clicking of the gas as the burner lit got her attention, and she gave him a tense smile, chewing on a fingernail. She kept pacing, and John wondered what could be bothering her so much.

"Violet? It's not Anthea, is it? She's still with us?" John called to the young woman wearing a hole in the carpet as she paced back and forth. She looked so much like Sherlock in that moment that John had to smile, even with his fears over Anthea's health.

"Thea is still alive. Still in a coma," she told him, peering down the hall, obviously impatient for Sherlock to get out of the bedroom.

It was as if thinking about him made him appear, the detective flouncing indignantly down the hall past the kitchen, dropping dramatically in his armchair by the fire burning merrily in the hearth. His royal blue robe and pajamas gave him a dignified air despite his annoyed expression and mannerisms. John grinned, walking out of the kitchen, and sat in his own armchair. Both men looked to Violet expectantly, and she stared back at them, at a loss for words.

"Violet? Anytime now, please," Sherlock waved a hand at his niece, and Violet grabbed a footstool, dragging in to the space between the two chairs, within touching distance of them both. She met John's eyes, her amethyst eyes deeply disturbed, before pulling them away, and locking gazes with her uncle.

"This is going to sound totally crazy."

"Never stopped a Holmes before, so go on." Violet tried to smile at Sherlock's quip, before her face fell into a strange combination of dread and discovery.

"Jaime carries this knife. You've both seen it." John and Sherlock nodded. "She left it behind at the warehouse. I picked it up, and hid it so no one would see it." She paused, and both of them nodded again. "There was an inscription on the hilt, in Irish. I translated it, and it says, 'I am always with you.' Kinda creepy, especially as Mary told me the knife was a present to Jaime from her brother, Jim."

Sherlock froze, his attention narrowing down to Violet, his focus absolute. John watched both of them, and Sherlock stopped blinking.

"Anyways, I couldn't carry it around with me all day, and I got ahold of Mary. She came to get it from me at Bart's. She told me that it was gift from Moriarty to his sister. We got to talking about the… about the two of them. Jim and Jaime I mean."

Sherlock leaned forward, his whole body angled to Violet. She gulped, and dragged in a deep breath of air. The atmosphere in the flat was changing, and John felt the tension like a charge of electricity, flowing over his skin.

"Mary and I were talking about how Jaime needed to move on, and she couldn't, not really, because she never got to bury her brother."

John blinked. Something wasn't right in that sentence. Sherlock was transfixed on Violet, his entire body primed for something to happen. John felt the tension in his lover's body even from a foot away, and John went from watching them both to staring in shock at Sherlock. There was nothing human left in the man in front of him, all emotion and thought barricaded behind the cold exterior that most of the world saw.

"Mary…..and I…. I went looking for Moriarty's body in the files. MI6 never had him. They found the remains on the rooftops, the blood, some tissue, small bone fragments from when he shot himself. But… they never recovered his body."

John felt it then, a shift in the world under his feet. Sherlock relaxed, and leaned back. He wasn't losing his focus; no. It was intensified, to a level no regular man could sustain. John hadn't seen this expression on his lover's face in over two years. A sickening sensation raced over his body, and John put a hand over his mouth.

"Jaime and Clay both told Mary that Jaime and the syndicate never recovered Jim's body. Jaime spent months hunting for her brother's body, so she could bury him." Violet looked as ill as John felt, and she was losing her composure. Her hands were shaking, and she gripped her knees, fingers white knuckled.

"Sherlock… if Mycroft and MI6 never had his body… if his own sister and his own people never had his body….. Where's Jim Moriarty?" Violet's question hovered in the calm air of the flat, disturbing the peace and wreaking havoc on John's nerves.

Where's Jim Moriarty?

Where are you James? Are you dead, or haunting me now as my life becomes something worth fighting for?

Sherlock pulled his gaze away from Violet, and leaned back fully in his chair, facing over John's shoulder into the kitchen. Sleep was finally gone from his mind, and a restless energy was writhing in his gut, whispers from deep inside his mind palace calling out to him.

"Give me some time." Sherlock was barely aware of the words, sparsely registering that they came from his mouth. This was something he needed to think about. With his entire ability, nothing distracting him.

"Come on Violet, I'll make something for us to eat. His face says he's gonna be at it for a while." John stood, and offered his hand to Violet, guiding her into the kitchen where the kettle was whistling.

"Okay. We have anything that won't count as cannibalism?"

"Think Mrs. Hudson got rid of the body parts. You know, I've never asked her what she does with them."

"I'm never eating another thing she makes until we find out."

Sherlock let the voices fade out, and he closed his eyes, dropping away to his mind palace. He returned to that day on the roof, the day Moriarty forced his hand, and made Sherlock rip apart his life.

He saw again the gun firing, felt the jerk of Moriarty's hand as he gripped it with his own; he smelled the tang of hot metal that accompanied freshly spilled blood. The vacant, yet still smug expression on the dead man's face as he stared up at the sky, eyes unseeing. He recalled his shock, his utter surprise that Jim would go so far, that such an option was even considered. Adapting to it had been the work of seconds, and there was a plan that was modifiable to work with Moriarty's death.

Lazarus worked as planned, and Sherlock ended his life in London. He pushed aside the grief he experienced that first week, the loss of John's presence in his life crippling. He went home that week, and stayed in his room, refusing Mycroft's orders to get up. It wasn't until Mycroft told him that John would always consider him dead and gone if he never got to work that motivated Sherlock onto the flight to Europe.

He expelled that memory, the smell of John's scent lingering on his skin and the taste of his kiss in his mouth enough to calm his nerves. John was here with him, puttering about in the kitchen, making something with peas and chicken despite the late hour.

Violet was talking easily, her nerves calmed by John's company. John was a calming influence, and having him there was reassuring, in such a way that left even Sherlock wondering why. There was a steel core to the army doctor, an inviolate quality that gave Sherlock a place to center himself.

Sherlock felt the warmth of the fire on his skin, saw through his shut eyelids the flickering orange glow. He settled deeper into his chair, body relaxing fully, and he surrendered to the pull of his mind palace completely.

He slipped away, and wondered why this trip to his mind palace felt different. Something was wrong.

So very wrong.

2:00 AM

St Bart's

Mycroft jerked awake, his empty paper coffee cup falling from his grip. He shook his head, and dispelled the revenants of the dream from his mind. A chaotic laugh still chased his thoughts, and he felt disturbed on a level he hadn't in years.

It had been a nightmare, a horrific retelling of the night he stabbed Sherrin. He could still hear the echoing laughter of his psychotic brother as Sherrin tumbled from the cliff, disappearing into the inky black waves over a hundred feet below. He could almost taste the salt on from the sea, he could felt the damp sea air on his skin. Something had prompted him to dream of his brother, and the specter of Death hovered about him.

Taunting him.

He did his best to eradicate the remaining unease, the trilling laugh seeming to hang in the chilly air of Anthea's hospital room. The soft beep of the heart monitor greeted him, and she was still slumbering, an unwilling Sleepy Beauty. He stood, and moved gingerly to her bedside, his feet unsure in his exhaustion.

"Mycroft?" he jerked at the sound of his name, and saw Gregory standing in the doorway. "Any change?"

"No. She still sleeps."

"That's good, right? It's really only been a little over twenty four hours, poor thing took a serious knock to her head, I'd still be sleeping too." Gregory reassured him, and moved from his place at the door, coming to his side. Gregory took his hand, and leaned slightly on him, his warmth filling Mycroft, chasing away the last of the dream.

Mycroft said nothing, merely reached out a hand, his fingers touching her soft cheek. She was cool, and he felt a shiver run over him. He reached for another blanket, and covered her awkwardly, Gregory helping him. He didn't have much experience in tucking someone in other than Gregory, and it felt odd to do the same for Anthea.

"Time to go home, mate. She wouldn't want you passing out from exhaustion. She'd tell you the same." Gregory nudged him with his elbow, and Mycroft nodded. He would go home, recharge, and come back in the morning. "The doctors know to call you if anything changes. Come on, let's go home."

Mycroft touched her cheek one last time, before letting Gregory lead him from her room. He held onto the soft beep of her heart monitor for as long as he could, then let the strong hand in his supply him the strength to keep walking.

"I love you, Gregory. I think I should tell you that, as often as I can."

"Good idea. I love you too, ya know. With everything in me."

Jaime sat up, screaming as she pulled the stitches in her side. Hands came down over her, restraining her to the bed. Molten licks of pain radiated out from her side, and her limbs refused to cooperate. Her blows fell ineffectively on broad shoulders, and it took the light coming on in the room for her to calm at last.

"Jaime! Relax, you're okay." It was Mary, standing beside the light switch, as Clay restrained her from his spot in the chair beside her bed.

"What?...What happened?" Jaime gasped, hands covering her side, and she slowed her ragged breathing, her mind automatically cataloging every ache and pain. She was a mas of bruises, sprained muscles and aching flesh.

"Everyone made it out okay, sweetheart. You saved Violet, and no one more than Sherlock and his people know you were there." Mary came over to her, and Clay moved back, letting Mary take his spot. Jaime reached for her, and Mary took her hand, soothing her.

"Where….." she left her question unfinished, recognizing where she was.

Home. She was home.

"We got you out of England after the surgeons stabilized you. You've been out of it for nearly a day. We're at the castle, my lady." Clay spoke up from behind Mary, his handsome features lit up by his relieved grin.

"So I see." Jaime eased herself back, and looked around. It was the same room it always had been, and she saw the familiar starry sky through the windows. She was home.

"I got something for you." Mary reached down to the floor, and came up with her knife, placing it in her hand. Jaime's fingers clenched on it instinctively, and she felt the last dredges of alarm fade away.

"I….. Where was it?"

"Violet got it out of the warehouse before anyone saw it. I got it from her just before we left London."

"Good. I'm glad. I couldn't….. He gave it to me." She refused to contemplate a future without this knife in her hand. It was the last enduring gift of her brother, and as she shed his influence as her master, she would cling to the man who was her brother as best she could.

"I know, sweetheart. Here, let's put it on the nightstand. I have something to ask you." Mary took the blade away, and Jaime saw that she put it just out of reach. Clay was shifting nervously on his feet, staring at her as if he was afraid now, afraid of her and what she might do.

"This doesn't bode well, Mary. Ask me then, whatever it may be."

Mary sighed, and gripped her hand in both of hers. Her lovely face grew serious, and her deep blue eyes reminded Jaime of the sea that roared along the cliffs beyond the castle.

"I asked Violet to find Jim's body in the MI6 records. Violet says MI6 never had him. Mycroft, in one of his records, stated that he thought Moriarty's people got to his body before they could collect it themselves."

Jaime sucked in a deep breath, the pain in her side overwhelming, yet even the agony couldn't breakthrough her shock.

"Is it possible that someone other than you got to his body first? Another disciple?" Mary asked her, squeezing her hand.

Jaime went limp, staring up at the stone ceiling of her room.

No.

The old cracks in the mortar glowered down at her, mocking in ancient whispers, jeering at her stupidity, her gullibility.

No. No. Nooooo…..

NONONONONONONONO.

He wouldn't… Yes. Yes he would.

NO!

A single, powerful phrase attacked her, lancing her perception of the world, her dearly held beliefs. It came from the corners of her mind, flooding her thoughts with vivid, acrid despair. Drowning her.

"I am always with you."

Her faith shattered, torn asunder by the greatest betrayal she had ever experienced, surpassing all previous hurts and injuries. She was a raw wound, every breath salt rubbed harshly across her psyche.

"Jaime? Sweetheart?"

She ignored Mary. She ignored everything, her breathing speeding up, her heart racing. Adrenaline coursed through her, numbing the pain. Her legs drew up, her hands curling to claws, her spine bowing under the boiling rage that spilled from her body. Her scream was full of torment, betrayal slashing at every lucid thought she had. She pulled free of Mary, and clawed her way to the other side of the bed, crashing to the floor on her knees. The blankets tangled her around her legs, and she erupted from the floor, kicking free from them.

"James!"

She was screaming, screaming his name. Over and over, her voice as jagged and harsh as the wail she heard within her mind. She dodged Clay as he tried to tackle her, her body moving like liquid thought as she sprinted for the door. She blasted through the heavy oak panel, the door ricocheting off the wall, swinging on its hinges. She ran around the dumbstruck guards in the hall, moving past them as if they were statues.

Jaime tore through the castle, running to his room. It was at the end of the long stone corridor, and she snarled with incomprehensible rage fueled by betrayal as she kicked the door open, shattering the lock, pieces of metal and wood exploding into his room. The moon, waning now, still illuminated the room well enough for her to see inside, and she charged in.

Jaime ran for his wardrobe, ripping the finely carved panels away. She kept screaming, and she plunged her hands into the densely packed wardrobe. She ripped the expensive suits from the space, his familiar scent still strong after two years. His cologne, the scent of his suits, fueled her even more, and she ravaged what she could of him. He was out of reach, but his beloved Westwood suits weren't.

She dragged them behind her as she ripped them apart, heading for his desk. It was as he had left it, notes and papers, his ledger opened to the last page he looked at. Nothing in this room had been altered since the day he died, ordered untouched these last two years.

"Jaime, stop! You must stop sweetheart, you're hurting yourself!"

Mary was there, Clay beside her, and she brushed off their hands as they attempted to stop her. She felt the hot rush of blood spilling from her side, but her determination to destroy what she could of her bastard of a brother pushed her past all reasoning.

"He lied! He always lied! James, you bastard! I'll kill him myself, I'll tear him apart, he will burn as all traitors do, my blade spilling his blood, his guts for the crows, and I'll take his head and ruin his handsome face!"

"Bhfeallaire! Betrayer!"

Jaime reached the desk seconds ahead of Mary, and she savagely attacked his belongings, flinging knickknacks and mementos against the stone wall, glass and metal shattering in sprays of glittering shards. Jaime reached for another object to throw, and felt a sharp prick of a needle lance into her neck.

The sedative worked fast, her limbs refusing to comply. She drooped on her feet, Clay's strong arms collecting her to his chest. Mary was caressing her face, murmuring soothing nonsense sounds as she led Clay from Jim's room.

Jaime succumbed, and the rage simmered in her heart as false sleep claimed her. She slept, and dreamed of vengeance. This time, love would not sway her.

She learned his final lesson. Never trust love.