Forever Yours, Sherlock

by Revella

All families contain a secret, and some are deadly...Old enemies are coming home, and sometimes the greatest evil is also the one closest to our hearts. James Moriarty is back from the dead, and he's not alone...S3 Rewrite! Trilogy under one title. Contains plot, character development, mature content, Sex!, violence. M/M,F/F,F/M. Four OCs, ACD influence. PART III has begun!

59. Part III- Body Counts

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

A/N: Welcome all, to the beginning of the Third, and Final, Part of my epic trilogy, 'Forever Yours, Sherlock'. This chapter is the introduction to Part III. The final act if you will, and as such, it is the summation of all the major and minor plots left unresolved within the previous two installments.

I want to thank Silvereyedbitch, as she is my sounding board, and generous editor. I really couldn't have maintained this level of quality without her incessant desire for more. Love you babe!

WARNING: Sex, Violence, Snark, Tears, and one helleva OH MY GAWD moment. Don't miss a thing dearies, and enjoy.

Next chapter in about 10 days.

---

Chapter 59

Introduction of Part III

"Body Counts"

January 15th

London, New Scotland Yard

Winter moved in permanently across London, the bone-crushing cold biting and gnawing its way through the depressed hearts of her citizens. The previous autumn had been a grave injury to the hearts and minds of every inhabitant, and the deep cold that followed on that fiery season of vengeance was enough to break even the most cheery of souls.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade ducked his head against the wind as he stepped free from the black town car, nodding at the driver as he was informed to text or call when he was ready to be taken home. Greg was eager to get on with his day, the last two weeks wearing down his spirits.

Living with Mycroft Holmes wasn't easy, although he truly hadn't expected it to be when he agreed to move in last month. Mycroft was a strong-minded individual, determined to run everything, even his love life, in a certain way. Usually that was Greg's way too, and he had no complaints that Mycroft kept tabs on him throughout his workday. Mycroft arranged for him to be driven to work, and the car was ever ready to take him home regardless of the time in the evenings. Greg left his BMW at the Yard, to be used when he had to leave to go to crime scenes or about town on short notice.

What was beginning to drive Greg slightly insane was Mycroft's ever-present protective detail. He spied the nondescript duo in the generic suits pacing him in the crowd outside New Scotland Yard as he walked towards the main entrance, and he'd given up trying to convince them, and his lover, that he could manage a day sitting at his desk repairing the damage done to his department after a two-month absence on his part from getting shot.

The department really hadn't been mismanaged, but Sergeant Donovan spent most of her time in charge guarding her back from petty detective inspectors and securing his empty position while he was on medical leave, and not enough time actually running the Homicide Department. Cases got put on the back burner, others closed without proper follow through, and many others weren't even being touched yet, just shuffled around from desk to desk.

Today was his second day back at the Yard, officially. He'd been temporarily reinstated two weeks prior when the late Master Chemist, John Woodley, had kidnapped Mycroft's niece Violet Hunter, and fatally injured Mycroft's longtime aide and best friend Anthea.

Violet was subsequently rescued by Sherlock Holmes and John Watson (along with the help of a mysterious personage that both men and Violet refused to name, claiming the identity of their unnamed 'friend' was unimportant), and it was just over a day after her attack that Anthea succumbed to her injuries and passed away.

Greg faltered as he traveled the last few meters to the glass doors of the Yard, thinking of the lovely woman whose death nearly destroyed Britain's most powerful man. Greg wasn't jealous of the love Mycroft had for her, the love he still harbored in his heart for Anthea. He hadn't been jealous when she was alive, a fact that left him still to this day surprised. Mycroft mourned her every day, and Greg didn't see his grief dissipating anytime soon. Greg was glad that Mycroft leaned on him for support, that Mycroft still reached for him at night, and that the passion between them was still as strong now as it was when they first kissed months ago.

One of the nameless government guard dogs reached the glass doors to the lobby strides before him, and discreetly opened the door for him. Greg bit back a scathing remark about being able to open his own doors, and just nodded curtly before walking through.

"Good morning, Detective Inspector. Cold start to the day, eh?" Greg was greeted by Gerry, a member of the security detail that manned the public lobby, as he pulled his badge and credentials free from under his coat, signing in at the roster. Greg just smiled at the old timer, and took the armed officer's bypass around the metal detectors stationed across the hall accessing the lifts. He was in no mood to talk today, not with the loaner goon squad dogging his heels through the lobby.

Greg ignored his guards as they followed him through the bypass after signing in, and he decided to have some fun on this somber morning. He walked to the main bay of lifts, not waiting for his two guards to finish signing in. He hit the button, and the lift opened, and he darted in. The doors closed just as the two men walked swiftly towards the lift, and Greg grinned with glee. He hit every button on the floor panel, and immediately got off on the next floor, running for the stairs. The lift next to the one he had been on was heading up to the floor Homicide was on, and Greg entered the stairwell and ran down the single flight back to the main lobby.

He hit the main lobby, and sedately turned to head for the small café that fed most of the building on a daily basis. He smelled the rich scent of freshly brewed coffee and sweet pastries, and found his mouth watering despite the gourmet meal Mycroft's chef had prepared for him that morning. Greg was a walking cliché when it came to coffee and pastries.

Hijinks and coffee. Mmmmm… I smell pastries.

His mobile buzzed at him just as he got in line at the café, and he knew who was calling him before he even saw the Caller ID. He answered, and smiled as he greeted the bound-to-be annoyed man on the other end of the line.

"Good morning."

"Gregory." Mycroft was indeed annoyed, and trying his best not to show it. Greg heard the tiny sigh of exasperation the spymaster gave as he puttered about in the vast bunker under his townhouse, the echo telling Greg exactly where he was.

"Hey, darlin'." Greg grinned, and pointed to the pastry in the café display case he wanted, as the barista, whom he dealt with every morning for the last few years gave him his usual large black coffee.

"Don't 'darling' me, Gregory Lestrade. Did you just duck your protective detail?"

"Yes I did." Greg sipped his coffee as he awkwardly accepted his pastry in its thin paper bag, and he meandered back toward the lifts in the lobby.

"Care to explain why?" Mycroft was all soft, silken, polite tones, and Greg shivered as he realized Mycroft was very upset with him. He would tread carefully…usually. That tone of voice did things to Greg and portions of his anatomy, and the only thing that kept him from provoking Mycroft further was the tiny hint of vulnerability he could hear in his lover's words.

"Mycroft. I'm a grown man, a fully armed and experienced inspector. I'm over forty, I haven't been rendered an invalid, and I can still remember where I live and who I am. I don't need nursemaids."

Greg sipped his coffee as the lift in front of him opened, and he grinned at the two disgruntled guards as they stepped back, letting him on the lift. The one closest to the floor panel hit the appropriate number for his floor, and both men were acting like he was a recalcitrant suspect being taken for questioning.

"I know all that, Gregory."

"Then why the guards, darlin'?"

He heard nothing from the spymaster for a moment, just the hollow sounds of people speaking to each other in the large bunker Mycroft used as his base of operations.

"The guards aren't for your sake. The guards are there for mine."

Greg exhaled, feeling like an ass. Ever since Anthea's passing, Mycroft was tense, his control held on a razor's edge. As if even the slightest thing could set him off, make his composure snap. If putting guards on Greg made him feel better, Greg figured he'd have to deal with them. For now. He caught one of the guards glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, and gave him a faint smile in apology in return.

"Alright darling. They can stay. No interference at crime scenes, and absolutely no guns out in public when I'm working unless Britain's getting invaded, you hear? And they are NOT touching my car. No one drives the BMW but me or one of my officers, got it?" Greg knew Mycroft could care less about his car or the crimes scenes, he just needed to put his own conditions on this arrangement so Mycroft didn't think he was caving just to make him feel better.

"I'll convey your wishes to the security detail. Please don't dodge them again, Gregory. I couldn't…. If I lost you…." Mycroft's soft sigh reached him over the phone, and Greg felt like an even bigger ass at the sadness he could hear in that one sound.

"You won't lose me, I promise. I'll play nice with my new best friends." Greg ignored the smirk he got from the man at the floor panel at his words, and waiting impatiently for the lift to get to his floor. "You'll be around for dinner? You were up before me, I didn't get to see you before I left for work."

"Thank you, Gregory. And yes, I should be there for dinner. As soon as I get myself a new assistant, my schedule should even out…"

Greg winced at this reminder of Anthea's absence, her void in Mycroft's life affecting everything, even the banal details of planning out the spymaster's day. He needed to change the subject, and fast. The doors opened on the floor for Homicide, and Greg bit back a frustrated snarl as one of the guards got off first, the other waiting with him until the first guard nodded it was clear.

I'm NOT a target in my own precinct, dammit!

"Well, I'll see you tonight, Mycroft. I love you."

"I love you, Gregory. I'll see you at home."

Mycroft hung up, and Greg stared at the mobile, thinking this whole relationship thing with the most powerful man in Britain was going to take some getting used to. He should be okay with it all by the time they were in their eighties and in a nursing home.

He stepped free from the lift, and entered his domain, grinning in satisfaction as everyone scurried around, like kids caught goofing off in class before the teacher walked in the room. It was good to be back.

Time to catch some killers.

"Boss! We got a weird one!" Sally called to him as soon as he cleared the main squad floor, nearing his office.

"How weird?" he inquired, smiling as Sally grabbed her jacket from her desk outside his door, files in one hand, gun in her other.

"Think you need to call your favorite freak for this one Boss, just from the description alone."

Just like old times. God I love this job.

---

January 15th

London

The blood was frozen, a macabre ice flow locked in a nightmarish display as it ran down the side of the roof, coating the shingles in a thick layer, running over the lip of the backed up gutters, dripping with still-life perfection in icicles down to the alley four stories below.

The naked body itself was flung casually across the apex of the roof, the neck laid wide open by a deep, single slash from ear to ear. The cut was so deep that the white of the neck vertebrae could be seen past the wine-red of the separated flesh, stained with the blood that ran everywhere. The rest of the body was a maze of slashes, cuts, lacerations that entangled in each other in a display of viciousness that left the crime scene techs vomiting off the side of the roof. On the opposite side of the building from where the blood flow went, of course.

Sherlock stepped over his tether, careful not to disturb the rope that was meant to keep him from falling off the roof and falling to his death. The look on John's face when the crane operator attached the safety harness and rope to Sherlock as they got lifted to the roof hadn't been lost on him, and he knew full well that his doctor was recalling the last time he was on a roof, except that time he didn't have a rope.

The wind carried the bottom of Sherlock's Belstaff out behind him, caressing his face and chest, moving his curls in chaotic patterns as he danced around the body and the blood. John was at the edge of the roof, still in the basket on the crane, with Lestrade and Donovan at his side. There was really only enough room with the corpse to have one person up there at a time, and everyone had magnanimously decided to let Sherlock handle the scene first. The techs hung like crows on the edge of the rooftop on the other side of the weathervane, a large Gothic piece of twisted iron and stone that looked original to the house.

"It's bloody colder than a detective inspector's welcome in a brothel out here, Sherlock! You got anything?" Lestrade's time away hadn't lessened his impatience any, and Sherlock ignored him in favor of getting a better view of the body.

He held up one hand imperiously in Lestrade's direction, commanding silence. Sherlock stood up straight, and looked out across the vista provided by his perch on top of the building.

It was midday, London overcast as it always was in winter, the grey ubiquitous across the horizon. The wind was strong, coming from the north, a steady unending ribbon of movement at this height. Most of the buildings here in this part of town were all the same height, between four and six stories tall. This was the tallest for at least two blocks in any direction, and it had the most peculiar roof among them all. The building was one of the few that retained a majority of its original architecture, unchanged in the hundreds of years since it was built in the height of the Gothic era. The weathervane itself was untouched, and highly original.

The body was resting at the foot of the weathervane as if it was an offering to the monster woven in black iron and stone that leered down at them all from its lofty position. Sherlock turned carefully on the slick roof, mindful of the ice on the ancient shingles. He stared upwards at the weathervane, and decided that the killer had a serious flare for the melodramatic. This entire scene was dramatic, with a degree of showmanship that Sherlock only ever saw in serial killers.

He pulled out his mobile, and zoomed in on the weathervane, snapping several pictures when the wind placed it in an optimal direction. He tucked away his mobile, and turned back to the body, and saw in the cuts and slices a lack of the random; whoever did this had cut these seemingly meaningless patterns before. Whoever this killer was, he or she was a veteran hand in dealing death.

"Caucasian female, early to mid-twenties. Athletic, decent shape. From her hands and feet, and the state of the skin that hasn't been maimed, she went to a spa or clinic on a regular basis. Features are free of makeup, yet clean, eyebrows waxed. Minor surgical alterations to her jawline and the bridge of her nose. Conforms to societal expectations of what people would call a 'classical beauty'. Hair is dyed, obviously, as we are lacking a matching set." Sherlock ignored the snickering from the techs, focusing on the body at his feet. He heard John choke back a laugh, and sent his doctor a quick sideways look from under his lashes.

"From the amount of blood, and the minimal cast off from the other wounds, I say the fatal injury to the neck was delivered first, the body mutilations secondary. She was dead before he began his art. He killed her up here, and then took his time with her afterwards. From the current temperatures, and the state of the body, I'd say she's been dead for ten hours. Most likely got time of death around midnight or one AM."

Sherlock moved towards her head, the only part of her untouched by the blades used on her body. He gently moved a strand of hair away from the left side of her face, and he smiled when he saw the Latin script under the delicate shell of her ear.

'Esse quam videri.' Better than an actual ID card.

"Do you have an ID on her yet?" Sherlock called to Lestrade over the wind, and looked up from where he was crouching next to the body to see the Inspector shake his head in negative. Sherlock got out his mobile, and went hunting among the Missing Persons list from the last forty-eight hours, narrowing his search by his new parameters until he found the picture he wanted.

Perfect match. Hello, Cassandra. Apologies for finding you thus.

Sherlock tucked his mobile back, saving the screen where it was. He stood, and the wind lifted his coat again, fluttering it out behind him like a great black wing, the wind flowing around him with the intimacy of a lover. He smelled the vaguest hints of blood as the roof warmed even under the grey skies, and the random hint of exhaust, even four floors up and traffic light. Sherlock winked at John, and gave Lestrade what he needed.

"Cassandra Hunter-Smythe, twenty-one, senior at Bedford College at the University of London. Reported missing yesterday morning by her dorm mate when she didn't return home from a trip to the Kensington Library the night before. From the state she's in, I'd say the killer had her from the night she went missing. The cuts aren't random, there's no hesitation marks or wavering in the designs or the placement. No skipped or incomplete cuts. He's done this before, many times. And his chosen place for displaying her body is a very deliberate message to the authorities. He dropped her here, for the whole of the world to see his work. An advert for his arrival in London."

Sherlock stepped around her body, and lightly worked his way over to the crane, the line loose from where it hung from his hips. Lestrade was looking at him in a peculiar fashion, while Donovan was just shaking her head. John was smiling, a faint lift to his lips that told Sherlock that the primary thought running through John's head at that moment was something along the lines of 'amazing' or 'brilliant'. He accepted John's helping hand as he made the box, and stepped clear of the roof. He pulled the latching panel shut behind him.

"Okay, I know you're dying to tell me how you know all that." Lestrade grimaced, but there was a sparkle in his dark eyes that let Sherlock know he wasn't upset.

"There's a tattoo behind her left ear. 'Esse quam videri', Latin for 'To be, rather than to seem', a popular motto among the students of Bedford College at the University of London. Majority of the tattoos the young women get who attend Bedford is that particular phrase, and behind the left ear is a popular place for it." Sherlock dug out his mobile, and offered the lit up screen to Lestrade, showing Cassandra's Missing Person picture.

"Her age, fitness level, and the cosmetic surgery all fall in line with an upper-middle to upper-class college student. The ink under her nails, and the slight curvature of her fingers tells me she spent a lot of time reading actual books, and not too much time on a computer or smartphone. Makes sense, as the last place she was seen was the Kensington Library two nights ago."

"The killer is a seasoned pro, Lestrade. He has extreme self-confidence, as he did his killing out in the open, not to mention it was four stories up on a very precarious roof. This part of town is well lit at night, and traffic is moderate. Anyone looking up last night might have seen him."

"And shall I point out the wind? It's been blowing like this the last few days, and at the angle he dropped her, and the direction of the wind traveling, he would be covered in her blood. He had the audacity to commit murder in a busy section of town, on a weekend night, and then walk away covered in his victim's blood. I doubt he took the time to change. Has this crane been here long?"

"A week or so, doing repairs to the building's fire escapes," Donovan spoke up, her tone grudging.

The Universe is rarely so lazy. I doubt this is coincidence.

"Did he use what was available, or did he arrange it to be here for him to use? Adaptable, and opportunistic, and highly intelligent. Canvas for witnesses, of course. Someone saw at least a portion of last night's activities."

John disconnected Sherlock's safety harness and rope, and the crane operator hit the button to take them back down. Sherlock kept talking, taking advantage of his captive audience as the crane lowered at a snail's pace.

"He took a healthy, young, athletic female from a public place, and I didn't see any signs of a fight on her. No defensive wounds. He may have drugged her at the end or during her captivity right up until he killed her, but I'm going to assume he used good old fashioned charm to get her alone initially. So, I'm again presuming, but let's say he's a passably handsome fellow, and has the personality to put a young woman at ease with a stranger."

The passengers of the crane's box were all staring at him, John the only one who didn't look overwhelmed by Sherlock's deductions. He always saw this look on people, how boring it must be to be them. Everything he was telling them was clear as day to him, everything they needed to know was there. The body, the crime scene gave them all they needed. This was easy, too easy. Finding this killer would be slightly harder, but reading the messages in the blood and body was barely enough to motivate him out of the flat.

"He chose that roof for a reason. The weathervane is highly unique, an original to the building. I'll have to do some research, but I believe the building's history, what the weathervane is depicting is why he chose that place. It suited his ego, and he identifies with it for some reason. All the truly smart ones need an audience, and he's done everything but sign his name to tell us who he is. That's arrogance, pure ego, and an affinity for drama."

"Serial killer then, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked him, a grim note of resigned finality to his words, and Sherlock nodded in the affirmative.

"Yes. Check for other missing women, same type as Ms. Hunter-Smythe, and don't just focus on London either. We would have noticed a serial killer with this kind of flair in town if he'd been here for any amount of time."

"Gotcha."

"I'll need to see the body once you've had it delivered to Molly at Bart's. The location wasn't conducive to further examination."

"Not a problem. I've already alerted her, she's expecting the two of you sometime this afternoon. Body will be down and at Bart's in about three hours."

"Excellent! John and I have somewhere we need to be in the meantime. Have Molly call me when she's ready, she knows not to start without me," Sherlock said just before he leapt over the railing from the crane box, making John sigh in grudging amusement. Lestrade cursed as he plummeted to the ground, until the detective inspector saw how far it actually was.

The fall was only five feet or so, and Sherlock grinned back up at his doctor, not bothered by the glower being sent his way. He moved out of the way as the box descended to the ground, and everyone piled out.

Sherlock caught his mobile as Lestrade tossed it back to him, and pulled up his cab app, calling for one as John joined him on the sidewalk.

"Where you off to in such a hurry? Usually you'd be all over this, demanding to look at old case files or hounding me to rush the coroner to move the body." Lestrade joined them at the sidewalk, and Sherlock grinned as John coughed into his hand, his face getting red. "Okay, now I have to know. What're you two up to?"

"We have an appointment with a wedding planner," Sherlock deadpanned to Lestrade as he checked his email on his mobile He drifted away as Lestrade's eyes went wide and John dissolved into a coughing fit that sounded a lot like laughter. Sherlock wiggled his left hand at Lestrade, the engagement ring flashing in the soft winter light.

"Oh. Oh… okay." Lestrade appeared captivated, and yet horrified, by the concept, and Sherlock cocked a brow at him, wondering what was so engrossing about going to see a wedding planner. He did accept John's proposal after all, and weddings usually occurred after those, did they not?

John was all out laughing now, gasping every time he caught a look at the expression on Lestrade's face. Sherlock just rolled his eyes, and started off for the street corner, his app telling him the cab was minutes away. He sent a negligent wave over his shoulder as John caught up to him and Lestrade called out his goodbyes.

He was almost out of hearing range when he heard Donovan ask Lestrade in her typical snarky and disbelieving tone-

"How does Sherlock know about the types of tattoos that attractive female coeds have?"

Sherlock saw a news fan and crew setting up on the far corner outside the police cordon, and hurried John along down the sidewalk towards their newly arrived cab. John saw them as he laughed at Donovan's comment, and gave a jaunty salute to the camera as they slipped inside the cab.

---

London

Dream Escape Weddings and Events, Inc.

"Sherlock, stop poking around in the man's cabinets, and come sit down!" John hissed at his lover as Sherlock casually unlocked the next drawer in the row of oak cabinets lining the wall of the opulent office. They were waiting on their wedding planner, who, at five minutes late, was seriously making Sherlock doubt the man's 'planning' capabilities.

John said he wanted a nice wedding… This is so boring. Who needs a planner? Say 'I do' when prompted, exchange rings, sign a paper. He's lucky I like seeing him smile.

"If he didn't want people to pry, he would've used better locks. I'm not the only one who's picked these locks, at least….two...no, three separate times this lock had been forced, and I'm seeing the same on the others. What's so interesting about other people's weddings that filing cabinets get broken into on a regular basis?" Sherlock mused, and he ignored the blonde doctor glaring at him over his shoulder from where he was sitting beside the large mahogany desk.

"Sherlock! Someone's coming, don't you dare get us kicked out of here!" John hissed at him, and Sherlock slammed the filing cabinet shut just as a small, bird-like, white haired man in round wire framed glasses stepped through the office door, smiling when he caught sight of them. He was about five feet tall, and moved like a dancer; graceful, with small, gliding steps.

"Gentlemen, such a pleasure to see you today! Dr Watson, I presume? And the great Sherlock Holmes! I say sir, you look taller on the television!" The tiny man gushed as he shook John's hand, before appearing to skip joyfully in Sherlock's direction, using both of his small soft hands to shake hands with the detective.

Sherlock quirked a single brow at the tiny man as he held his hand far longer than was common, before turning lightly on his heels and seating himself behind his desk. His armchair was huge, and Sherlock smirked to himself as the tiny man appeared to hover on it, sitting far higher than he should in a chair that size.

There's some form of a booster seat in the leather cushion. Vanity? Or practicality? Or both?

"Come sit sir, come sit!" The small man motioned Sherlock over, and he grudgingly sat in the chair beside John, his doctor taking his hand as he did. John smiled tightly at Sherlock, and he wondered if it was because of the tiny man, or Sherlock's propensity for snooping that dropped the tension on his doctor's shoulders and around his mouth. The small man beamed at the sight of them holding hands, and he continued on. "Now, my name is Jeremiah Bradbury. I apologize for being late, I was helping another client with a small issue with their event. Nothing to worry about, plans get adjusted all the time. I'm so pleased you could be here today at Dream Escape Wedding and Events! We focus on creating unique and tailored events for our clients, geared towards giving you the best possible experience…"

Sherlock lost interest, too focused on the tiny man's outfit to care about what he was saying.

Clothes are tailored, due to his stature. Expensive. Very expensive. Entire suit runs for around twelve hundred pounds. Shoes tip the scales at three hundred. Watch is easily another nine thousand. Expensive tastes.

The amount the wedding planner would be charging us to handle our wedding, multiplied by the average number of events they handle in a year, would NOT cover this man's extravagant wardrobe. Independent wealth? Possibly.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand, still ignoring the conversation, and stood. The tiny man stopped speaking, blinking at him in confusion, but Sherlock just walked away from the desk and towards the window, he turned his attention back to John, and continued speaking. He waited for them to get back into their conversation, before eyeing the expensive black leather satchel resting on the small table next to the window, not far from where he was standing.

Clients' files are locked away, personal information is on those files. Why isn't it kept digitally? I saw files on a few ministry officials, some diplomats, and some minor royals….

Interesting. And so easy to take advantage of the situation.

The man we're meeting is NOT one of the owners, but a senior staff member. I don't see any sign of him carrying keys, or having them out in the open. His suits are tailored well enough I can tell what brand of boxer briefs he's wearing, so no keys. He needs a file, he has to have the cabinets opened. By someone else.

I'm not so bored now.

"We keep all our client's information on limited hardcopies, to prevent hacking of sensitive information by unscrupulous characters, we have strict access policies…."

Got you!

"…..now I'm aware that your partner has a degree of celebrity, will we be needing to keep the press away? Security would be an extra fee, of course, but we have tons of clients with special circumstances….Does he usually prowl about like that? How…energetic of him. Oh, as I was saying, we would love to…."

He heard bits and pieces of their conversation, fading out when the small man was chattering on about nothing important, which was everything he'd said since opening the door to the office.

How to get him out of the office?

Sherlock actually looked out the window, and saw his chance. The news crew at the crime scene must have alerted their parent station, as there was another van parked outside the wedding planner's, cameras pointed at the front of the building. They must have put a tail on them when they got in the cab, or the cabbie called the station, selling out their destination. He made sure to let the cameraman get a clear glimpse of his profile, and he grinned in satisfaction at the flurry of activity.

"John, darling, dearest. The reporters have followed us here! How am I supposed to feel comfortable planning our happiest day together if the media keeps spoiling our plans!?" Sherlock swirled dramatically away from the window, putting an excessively aggrieved expression on his face, running to John's side. John stopped speaking in surprise, but long years of working together had John thinking fast… sort of. He cast the tiny man a quick glance, plastering a fake smile on his face as Sherlock did his best impression of a brainless groom-to-be.

"Oh! Um… Should we leave? Do you want to cancel and escape out the back?" John stood, and Sherlock wrapped his doctor up in a tight embrace, squeezing him hard. "Or not? Do you want them chased off? Call the police?"

"Darling, you brave man! Make them go away! I can't possibly spend my millions of pounds I've made solving internationally renowned crimes while the media hovers like vultures!" Sherlock squeezed John hard again, as he felt the doctor hold back a laugh as Sherlock played his role to the hilt.

The tiny wedding planner stood, and ran to the window, spurred by Sherlock's antics. And the mention of millions of pounds. Sherlock followed, waiting and watching for his next chance. He got it, as the tiny planner began to reach into his jacket.

"I'll just call the police, and have them sent off straight away…." The tiny man said, starting to pull out his mobile, but Sherlock snatched it out of the tiny man's hands while waving his arms wildly.

"Don't call the police, the paparazzi will be here next, if they aren't coming already! I was assured privacy with this company, make them leave, or we shall straightaway!" Sherlock flounced away, pocketing the man's mobile as he did, his behavior taking away from the fact he just stole the phone.

"Oh! Well, yes…." John finally caught on, and moved to the window, taking the tiny little embezzler's elbow in his hand, guiding him towards the office door while talking. "Don't worry darling, Mr. Bradbury and I will chase them away, never fear we'll be back in a few minutes!"

The tiny wedding planner, completely at a loss, was led out of the room, John chatting the whole time about how the paparazzi followed them everywhere, and what kind of security measures did they offer in their wedding packets?

Sherlock grinned as the door shut behind the two men, heading for the front of the building and the street. Sherlock saw another news van pull up, lending to the mayhem. He took his chance, and swooped in on the leather satchel, digging through it one handed as he searched the mobile at the same time.

He found what he was looking for in a small side pocket of the satchel, a black ledger full of account numbers, routing numbers, and abbreviations and initials. The initials started to match some of the names he saw in the files, and the amounts next to the names were substantial, spread out over a serious of weeks or a few short months, depending on the account. All sent to one number, an online banking service, one not used by businesses.

He's inflating the prices of services and goods, then skimming the difference, and I bet he's cooking the rest of the firm's clients' accounts too. Sneaky little bastard. Not so smart taking me on as a client. Though it looks like he's been doing it for a while.

Sherlock looked up from his ledger and the mobile, and pulled out his own phone, hitting Lestrade's speed dial.

"Lestrade, feel like joining John and I at the wedding planner's office? Yes, on Exeter. I have a little problem with my wedding planner, he won't be able to help with my wedding, as he's going to be in jail. Why? You're going to be arresting him for embezzlement and theft, and probably fraud too."

Sherlock heard the laughter over the line as Lestrade assured him he was on his way, and he was rolling his eyes as John and the tiny wedding planner thief came back in the room. The planner's eyes went straight to the ledger and mobile in Sherlock's hands, and his face went blank in total dismay, halting in the middle of the office.

"John, Scotland Yard is on the way. Excellent idea, using a wedding planner. Though I'd prefer not to use one that steals over a quarter-million pounds from happy couples, bad luck I'm certain."

John shook his head ruefully, and Sherlock sent him a lightning fast wink, unable to keep the glee he was feeling from stealing across his lips, making him grin at his doctor. John blocked the door, and Sherlock groaned in disbelief as the tiny man began to wail hysterically, crying into his ill-gained silken and cotton blend monogrammed handkerchief.

"Do hurry, Lestrade. Yes, I can hear it too. Yes, yes I made a suspect cry. Again."

---

Baker Street

Jan 15th

"No John, I don't want to use a wedding planner. Can't we just go find whoever officiates these sort of things, get the license, and just get married?" Sherlock complained as he climbed the stairs to their flat, John on his heels.

Sherlock whirled off his scarf and coat, tossing them over the desk as he went for his chair, dropping theatrically into the pale green leather seat, the metal frame complaining.

"Sherlock, I want to get married with our friends and family present, not standing in the middle of a judge's chambers. Chapel, reception, and then a honeymoon. The whole nine yards, Sherl'." John told him sternly, pointing a finger at him as he made for the kitchen, banging about as he refilled the kettle with water.

"But…." Sherlock snapped his mouth shut when John glared at him, but he opened it again as another thought struck him. "A honeymoon? Have we not been having sex enough? I'd be more than willing to increase our daily average, my stamina's improved substantially in the last few months."

He heard a strangled sound coming from the kitchen, a combination of laughter and reluctant admiration. "Sherlock, we have any more sex, I'd have to prescribe us a break, as I don't think we'd survive it."

"Oh, don't do that. Can't have my one allowable vice stricken from my diet." Sherlock smiled as John joined him, heading for his own chair. Sherlock uncrossed his legs gracefully, and John paused, distracted by the movement.

"Hhmm?" John hummed, and he slowly sat down, staring at Sherlock intently.

Sherlock reached up, and loosened his collar, moving far slower than he usually would, drawing John's gaze to his fingers. He popped a few more buttons, hand traveling southwards, and John's eyes dropped to the skin revealed as he opened his shirt. John's eyes were dilating, his fingers curling over the arms of his chair, skin flushing.

Sherlock kept going, each button securing John's total focus as he moved down to his waistband. Sherlock stopped at his belt buckle, tapping one long finger on the steel, as if contemplating continuing. John leaned forward, eyes locked on the buckle, and Sherlock let his fingers slip just the tiniest amount behind his waistband, making John suck in a quick breath.

"Don't stop. Whatever you do, don't stop, Sherlock," John begged him, voice raspy with need.

Sherlock said nothing, merely leaned back in his chair as he spread his legs further apart, his right hand opening his belt buckle as his left pulled the ends of his shirt free from his waistband.

John groaned, a soft, eager sound that made Sherlock's heart race. He was getting hot, skin sensitive, and his cock was hardening at an alarming rate behind his zipper. John's attention was locked on Sherlock's hands as he peeled back the front of his trousers, and the black of his boxer briefs teased his doctor.

John nearly fell from his chair, instead making it to his knees, kneeling between Sherlock's spread legs. Sherlock dipped a finger under the tight waistband of his boxers, and John gasped, leaning forward, thoroughly absorbed in watching where his wandering finger was going. Sherlock made brief contact with his erection, and he moved slightly, hips lifting to the quick contact. His eyes drifted shut for a second, and a warm, wet sensation touched his abdomen.

He opened his eyes, to see John kissing openmouthed down his navel, each inch lathed with his wet tongue. Sherlock pulled his hand away, letting John take over as his doctor eased his underwear down, releasing his hard cock. John growled in approval, lips tracing the ridges and veins of his cock, the merest hint of a real kiss, teasing now in return.

Sherlock sighed deeply, arousal easing his mind to peace, body taking over. His whole body tensed, begging for John to take him in his mouth. John sensed his need, and with a quick jerk, pulled Sherlock's trousers and underwear roughly down his hips, to his ankles in one continuous motion. Sherlock kicked his legs free, a split second before John swallowed him whole.

Sherlock groaned in appreciation, John's hot, wet mouth taking his entire length, the head nudging gently at the back of his throat. Sherlock exhaled, enthralled, as John slowly pulled back, eyes closed in concentration, is strong tongue swirling the underside of his cock as he pulled back to the head. He sucked hard, making Sherlock jump.

John chuckled, and his eyes opened as his tongue teased the slit, causing shots of hot electricity to flash through Sherlock's groin. John's eyes, normally a deep clear blue, were black with passion, and challenge. Sherlock grinned as John let him go, withdrawing a bare breath away, licking his lips. Sherlock lifted his hands, and ran his fingers through John's short hair, holding his head securely. John nodded, a small tilt to his head with permission, and he opened his mouth in time for Sherlock to thrust his hips up and forward, feeding John his hard cock.

Sherlock thrust deeply, John's throat muscles working as he bottomed out, before rapidly withdrawing, only to return just as fast. John groaned, sucking hard with each thrust, and Sherlock gave him his all, fucking his sweet mouth over and over.

John gripped his thighs, urging him deeper, closer. Sherlock slid forward on the seat, sitting up, maintaining his bruising rhythm without losing a beat. John hummed with each deep thrust down past his tongue, that clever muscle writhing under his hard cock, spurring him faster. Sherlock's whole focus settled to the man kneeling before him, and the demands he was making with his mouth. John was in control, no matter how hard Sherlock was fucking him with his quick hips and thick cock.

John's fingers gripped with brutal intensity, and Sherlock obeyed, pushing off the chair with his thighs, standing in front of his doctor, John moaning in approval. Sherlock locked eyes with the man at his feet, and gave him everything he had, sparing nothing. John, while perfectly content to make gentle, languorous love for hours, had a deeply woven rough streak in his core, and every now and then, it came out to play… with Sherlock a willing participant.

Sherlock fucked John's mouth, his lips reddened and wet, cheeks hollowing as he sucked harder and harder. Sherlock drove for the back of his lover's throat, the sharp, happy noises John made with each attempt driving him insane. His whole body was sweating from the effort of trying to tame the man below him, muscles straining, nerves exploding with a riot of sensation and pleasure from his cock all the way to the top of his head, and making his toes curl into the rug under his feet.

When he came, it was without warning, every muscle in his body seizing, bowing his back, a sharp, wailing cry slipping free from his mouth as he poured his essence into John, the smaller man taking it all, swallowing fast. His eyes went blind, white lights overwhelming his brain, senses defaulting on him but for touch, John sucking hard, pulling everything he had to offer the love of his life free from his core, sparing nothing.

His breath ragged, Sherlock was undone, and helpless. And every cell in his body was ecstatic.

Sherlock wavered on his feet, weak, brain shut down, at the mercy of the man slowly releasing him. Strong hands ran up his hips, his waist, and the room spun as John maneuvered him. Sherlock found himself kneeling now on the floor, his torso resting on his chair seat, head cradled on the backrest. He heard the rustle of clothing, the faint hints of movement in the air behind him as John removed his clothes. A single finger was trailing down his spine, causing him to shiver, his sweat slicked skin rapidly cooling.

He gasped softly as that single finger continued south, finding his ass, pushing on the tense muscle, demanding entrance. He relaxed easily, his orgasm still riding him, and John slipped that thick digit all the way in, stretching him. Sherlock was limp, languidly enjoying the finger opening him, John moving with intent. He felt a wet, cold liquid run down his crack, and felt a flicker of satisfaction at deciding to plant tiny bottles of lubricant all over the flat. They'd already had sex in here several times in the last few months, with the fireplace a favorite of theirs.

"Sherlock…" John called softly, and he hummed in happy response to the second finger working its way inside of him. "It's my turn, love. Do you want me?"

"Yes….." he whispered, barely audible, no strength to do more than that single syllable. Sherlock was eager, willing compliance, and he wanted John desperately.

Always John. Only John.

He heard a zipper open, and hands holding his hips angled his body. The hard, blunt head of John's cock pushed against him, and with a moment's hesitation, slipped in, his body sucking John in to the hilt. He exhaled, the pressure intense but welcome, filling an aching, empty need. He heard john growl deep in his chest, and then his weight as his doctor rested on his back, firm pectorals covering him, setting fire to every place skin touched skin.

John's weight held him down, and he began to move. Hilt deep, slow withdrawal, pause, then repeat. John knew the rhythm to break Sherlock down to nothing but gasping need, and he used it now. Sherlock was already there, or he thought he had been, but with each repetition of that devastating pattern, John peeled away another layer of the enigmatic detective. Sherlock felt more, needed more, wanted more, with a purity he never felt at any other time…..only with John loving him did he feel this way, and he was addicted to it as surely as any drug.

John fed that addiction, a willing enabler to the passion that wove them together, each little gasp of unthinking delight spilling past Sherlock's lips his reward and inspiration, and he whispered that to Sherlock as he moved over him. Words of love, lust, everything Sherlock would be embarrassed to hear yet wanted to know, John gave him, using his hard length deep inside the detective to make him beg for more.

And so Sherlock begged. Pleaded. Cried, tears pooling under his face on the warming leather. John was relentless, and with a deliberate change in the angle of his thrusts, brought Sherlock screaming to the edge of oblivion again, his swelling cock finding that nub of nerves several times in a row. With one last whisper of love, John pushed Sherlock over the precipice, and he came again, his whole body convulsing with the power of it.

John came as Sherlock's body tightened around him, pulsing with every jet of liquid fire deep inside his detective, moaning and jerking above his lover.

The good doctor collapsed, both men melting together into the welcoming leather of Sherlock's armchair, the metal frame complaining just a little. Sherlock was completely incoherent, aftershocks of pleasure making him jump sporadically under John.

"I love you, Sherlock." John whispered in his ear, and Sherlock managed a glimmer of response, trying to recover. "And we're still having a wedding. No getting out of it."

---

Sherlock was waiting on Molly, staring at his mobile, listening to John assemble the new table in the kitchen. Mumbled curses, random banging noises, and pieces of cardboard thrown in frustration interrupted John's murmuring as he read, and read again, the assembly instructions. It had taken them the better part of a month to remember to get a new table after one of Sherlock's experiments burnt the previous one to charred rubble, and John (wisely enough, he had his moments), refused to let Sherlock 'help' him put it together, or even be in the same room while he worked on it. So Sherlock was banished back to the front room, dressed in his bedclothes, where he sat, and waited.

Match the letters, John. A to A, B to B… though he does have an imaginative range of swear words. Military broadened his horizons there for certain!

He brought his fingers under his chin, staring at the mobile where it sat on the armrest of his chair, sending his body into a deep trance as he waited for what seemed an eternity. He was aware of John's movement in the flat, and he heard the front door open and close downstairs. The flat's doors were open, and he pulled back to his body in time to see Violet sweep in, shaking off snowflakes from her raven dark hair, longer now in the weeks since she moved in, an inch or so past her shoulders. She wore a long dark grey coat that Sherlock recognized as the woman's version of his Belstaff, and her scarf was a deep purple, suiting her amethyst eyes, making them appear even more vibrant when she smiled. Her smiles were rare, but in the last couple of days she'd been making an effort to appear more energized, her grief still present, but less immediate. Her California tan was long gone, and she was as pale as the rest of her relatives, her features angular with tension. Her beauty was untouched, but something was different. The way she saw the world was different.

She sent him a small smile before entering the kitchen, whispering something to John that had the doctor laughing from his spot on the floor. Sherlock returned his gaze to the mobile, aware that it was exactly four hours since he was at the crime scene, and one hour past Lestrade's promised deadline of having the body to Molly at St Bart's. He sighed, and reached for his mobile, intending to call one of the two, or both, but Violet was standing next to him, and he looked up to see her staring down at him.

"Hey….can we talk?" For her to ask, especially in that tone, was most unusual. She was too much like him to hesitate; if she wanted to know something, she either pried until she knew what she wanted, or hacked her way through to the truth. If she couldn't do either, she found a way. Violet was too much a Holmes not to learn what she wanted, by any means.

Sherlock quirked brow, and silently waved a long fingered hand to John's chair. She threw herself down, slouching back, crossing her black leather knee high boots at the ankles, her hands tapping an offbeat tempo on the armrests. She was dressed somberly, matching the weather, in dark greys and blacks, her scarf the only flash of color.

Sherlock waited, watching. Most people filled silences, voids in conversations, unable to bear the empty spaces between words. Waiting always got you more. So Sherlock waited, patient when he must be, when he needed to be. With Violet, he would wait for as long as she needed, because whatever she wanted to talk about had been haunting her for several days.

"I feel guilty, Sherlock," Violet finally spoke, as forthright as ever. He tilted his head, silent still, waiting. Her hands stilled, and she exhaled, as if relieved to say the words.

"I feel guilty… because Woodley fixated on me. He stalked me across the globe, hired a CIA bounty hunter who almost killed everyone as a side benefit, and every one of us got hurt to some degree….. And….. And Anthea died." Violet leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her split grey skirt wrinkling as she moved, burying her face in her hands, fingers ruffling her hair.

John went quiet in the kitchen, still working on the table, keeping the noise to a minimum, presumably listening. Sherlock didn't think he should speak yet, the way Violet was acting indicating to him that she had more to say. He was the sounding board, and he was only thus because of everyone she loved, she trusted him the most. He withheld his smile at this thought, knowing she needed the colder, more dispassionate man now. Violet didn't want comfort….. She wanted clarity.

"Sherlock, why did Woodley want me? Why me, out of all the women in the world, did he want me? I went looking back through my jobs over the last few years, and the closet we came to any kind of contact was an anonymous job I did for one of his suppliers in covering up a digital sales receipt for illicit goods. It was a two minute job, 5k on completion, I did it with one hand, and never left my apartment in New York City. So….. Why me? Why did Woodley want me?" She asked him at last, chin resting in her hands, eyes flashing through her bangs, hair messy and hanging over her face.

Sherlock sighed, and processed her question. The 'why' of her question was more important than the 'how' at this point, and he wasn't afraid to be blunt.

"I can't tell you how he discovered you. I don't know, and it would take more effort on my part to find out than I'm willing to spare. I can tell you the why of it all."

When he spoke, he kept his voice low, the deep rumble filling the flat, the afternoon light darkening as the sun finally hid behind the building. Violet was in shadow, her eyes the only thing he could see reliably as his adjusted to the lower light level in the flat.

"Okay, explain."

"Woodley was after the means to stabilize Winter's Night. If Carruthers failed to do it for him, he wanted you to hack your way through every pharmaceutical company and lab in the world until you found the means for him. He actually went after Carruthers because he couldn't get you. I think in the process of trying to hire you for that job, and your peculiar….. Requirements… in doing jobs prevented him from getting you to do that, and he became obsessed with you. A violent psychopath wanted you, and as these things tend to escalate, his obsession changed to one of a sexual nature. Your skills were secondary to him in the end, he just wanted to own you."

Violet stared at him, and breathed a long drawn out breath through her teeth, thinking hard.

"Violet, I have been doing this for a very long time. I've seen evil, violence, depravity in every combination, every incarnation imaginable, and the day will come that I will no longer be surprised by the monstrosities humanity is capable of…. Will you believe when I tell you that you did nothing to deserve this, and it's only your own personal actions that you should be accountable for in the end?"

She bit her lip, and struggled visibly. He opened his mouth to try again, wondering what to say next, emotions still not his strong suit, and John chose that moment to speak up from the kitchen, his soft voice floating clearly through the subdued atmosphere of the flat.

"He's fairly close to nailing it, Violet," John said, and he paused, and both Sherlock and Violet found their attention arrested by the thoughtful tone of the doctor, the man himself still unseen on the kitchen floor. "You feel guilty because you're a good person, and good people feel bad when horrible things happen. Be thankful you feel the guilt, as it means you're still decent inside, where it counts. It's the people who don't feel guilty for being alive, who don't feel sadness or grief after personal tragedy that worry me. Since it was Woodley who hurt Anthea, and not you, and he's dead, feeling guilt at this point is only hurting you, since it won't let you feel better as time passes. You loved her, and you always will. Grief will always be with you, but it won't hurt as badly every morning if you wake up determined to live life as best you can. The guilt will fade if you let it, and you can remember the good emotions again one day."

He spied John now, standing, righting the completed table without disturbing the mood that had settled like a warm blanket between the two armchairs. John wasn't even looking their way, keeping the mood casual, as if grief wasn't shadowing them in that moment. Violet was thinking, her eyes far away, focused on something he couldn't discern, and thankfully he felt no need to pry. She sighed, the soft sound filling the quiet flat, sadness clouding her eyes.

John finally looked over, and Sherlock saw the small, faint smile on his doctor's lips. Sherlock realized then that John must have had someone tell him the exact same thing he told Violet, consoling him, helping him past grief. The situation wasn't the same, but apparently grief and guilt did damage no matter the circumstances. Sherlock breathed through his own pain, wondering if John was thinking of those lost two years as he was.

Sherlock's eyes flicked to the mobile, still annoyingly boring, and he returned his gaze to his niece. Violet must have seen his annoyance, because she left her deep thoughts unspoken, and sat back in her seat.

"Saw on the news you two at that murder scene this morning. Rumor has it there's a new madman in town. How bad was it?" Violet queried, no grief evident in her voice.

"Serial killer," Sherlock stated plainly, finally giving in, grabbing his mobile and looking for nonexistent texts from Molly. He had only seen the one body, but all the trademark indicators were there. This was a serial, and he was playing in London now. His killing trail would have started somewhere else.

"Godammit. Fuck. Maybe I need a vacation. Fuck! Just do me a favor, and don't bring your work home, I think one violent assault in this flat a year is enough." Violet grinned at him, only partly sarcastic.

He smirked, thinking he would need to get John more ammunition. Lestrade was his usual source, and now that he was back at the Yard, easy enough to get. Serial killers tended to fixate on one investigator, and odds were in favor of that attention coming to rest on him the longer this case went on. This wasn't his first serial killer, after all. They liked him.

"I'll do my best. No promises."

Violet made to stand, but sat back after stopping mid-motion. She pushed her hair back from her face, and stared hard at Sherlock, her eyes burning now with something he saw every morning in his own. The same insatiable urge to know.

"Sherlock….." Violet started, and paused, hesitation on her face. She made up her mind, and barreled ahead, as was her wont. "Speaking of serial killers…"

She trailed off, impaling him with her jewel-tone eyes, and he saw instantly where this was going. Where her logical, code-creating, effervescent and never-ending thought process just landed.

Damn.

Sherlock palmed his mobile, and made to stand, but her hand whipped out, and gripped his wrist, hard. She held him to his chair, and while he could have broken free, it would require more effort than he wanted to employ against his niece. She was strong, and held him in place with her one arm and his own refusal to hurt her, fingers squeezing around his wrist, conveying her desire, her need to know.

About her father, and tragically enough, his first-hand education about serial killers. Hard not to learn anything when you were raised with one.

John must have made the same leap Sherlock had, as the doctor stopped puttering around, and came into the front from, staring at Sherlock. He grimaced, and dropped his mobile, where it bounced off the armrest and fell to the floor, the rug dampening its potentially disastrous plummet. He leaned back, and Violet let him go, white marks from her fingers on his wrist. He cocked a brow at the marks, but said nothing, as she hadn't hurt him and it was tame compared to what most people did to him in wanting information he was withholding.

"Speaking of serial killers, Violet?" Sherlock was annoyed now, but willing to give her something, anything to avoid a full out confessional about his older brother.

"Tell me about my father," she demanded, leaning forward, her previous sadness replaced by a fiery intensity that was all too familiar. "I haven't found anything, anything at all. And when I can't find something, it doesn't exist. It's like he was erased from existence."

Sherlock smiled, a faint twist to his lips, and stared at the dead hearth, avoiding the stares of his lover and niece. No getting out of it now. It was difficult to talk about, regardless of his confession to Violet months ago when he revealed her identity. The pain and drugs helped then, but he had neither now.

"I…. damnation." He bit off the curse, and shifted in his armchair, wishing himself anywhere but there. "He has been erased."

"How the fuck? Okay, I know how I would erase someone, but I've got Clean Slate, and I know for a fact I'm the only creator of a program that can thoroughly erase a person from existence, so how the hell did my father get erased so thoroughly that I can't even find traces of him?"

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his face, and leaned back in his chair, so blasted uncomfortable that he was willing to do anything to get out of the flat and back to hunting killers he wasn't related to. He was glad Sherrinford was dead and gone, but his daughter wasn't, and she was as stubborn as every other Holmes family member.

"Sherl'?" John walked to his side, and put a warm hand on his shoulder. Sherlock stared up at his lover, at the sympathy and love in his dark blue eyes. "You okay talking about it?"

Sherlock heard Violet sigh in exasperation, but he ignored her, and John gave him a small smile, a smile that clearly said Sherlock didn't have say anything he didn't want to. Sherlock lifted his head, and saw Violet's face, and knew he would have to say something, she wasn't taking 'I don't want to talk about my insane and violent older brother because it bothers me even eighteen years later' excuse.

"We erased him," Sherlock growled out, and Violet's face went blank from surprise. John's hand tightened on his shoulder, and he spared his white faced lover a glance before turning back to his niece. "We all erased him. Mycroft, myself, my parents. And… Sherrin himself."

"What the fuck do you mean he erased himself?" Violet asked breathlessly. "How does anyone even do that, especially two decades ago?"

Sherlock gave up. He exhaled roughly, took John's hand in his, and glared at Violet as he peeled off the top layer of the inner scar of his heart labeled 'Sherrin-Deceased.'

It all came rushing back, a torrent of frustration, fear, and terrible pain. With the twist of betrayal that only came from family. He spit out his words as if he were fighting them, a part of him refusing to believe that speaking of their familial past would do any good, for anyone.

"Sherrin wasn't the most gregarious person, and aside from forced contact with other people as a child in school and university, he kept to himself. Sure, people knew him in person, by sight. Family, schoolmates, our parents' colleagues, neighbors. He was the most charming, slick, manipulative bastard I have ever seen in action, yet he hated people, and went out of his way to limit contact with anyone he didn't need to speak to. Not to mention he was violent and mad as a hatter, and keeping him from other people was easy, and imperative."

Sherlock was restless, the words pouring out now, his feet moving against the rug under his chair, and he couldn't sit any longer. He shot up, and began pacing, John moving to slide into his now vacant chair. Sherlock ran hand through his curls, and paced back and forth in front of the two chairs.

"He was talented, smart, and eclipsed Mycroft in raw intelligence. He was adept in mathematics, and a fair hand with athletics as well. And to make the rest of us feel inadequate, he was artistically inclined, putting our musical endeavors to shame. In between forced bouts of treatments at mental facilities, he was excelling quietly in everything he put his hand to. Yet anytime he made the student rolls or a newspaper for something, his name would be removed at his insistence, or something wouldn't get printed, or people would be suddenly afraid to speak about him, mention him, or even look at my brother."

"It happened for years, ever since he was a child, well before I was born actually. I get most of this second hand, as the beginning of his reign of terror happened shortly before even Mycroft was born," Sherlock paused, and stared at the door, seeing another door in another house in his mind, the rain pouring down as a fifteen year old Sherlock practiced his fencing form inside his parent's sitting room. He recalled the rush of rain falling on the large front windows, and the creak of the door as it was thrown open, and the tall, rain-bedraggled form of his brother Mycroft as he stood shell-shocked in the front door of their home, fresh from killing Sherrin the night before.

Sherlock sighed loudly, and returned his thoughts to his niece, remembering her original question. Or questions, really.

"Violet, I would tell you more. I would. But I… I can't. Partly because I literally can't. I rarely interacted with Sherrinford directly growing up, because by the time I was born, my parents knew he was dangerous, if not yet to what degree, and made sure I was NEVER alone with him. They knew instinctively that it would have been risky, even if they hadn't yet the courage to speak out loud about why that was."

"After Mycroft…. After Sherrin was gone, we all did our best to destroy what was left of him. By the time we got around to erasing the last vestiges of him, there wasn't much to get rid of, really. He'd erased himself pretty thoroughly by the time I was fifteen. He was nearly thirty when Mycroft killed him."

Sherlock stood for a moment, refusing to see the expressions on Violet and John's faces. He was pulled away again, and the look of horror on Violet's face and the one of sympathy and love on John's was too hard to see, let alone handle.

"Sherrinford knew what he was about. He was a killer, from his youngest years. To prevent himself from being caught, and remembered by potential witnesses, and to keep from being hunted down by the authorities, he erased himself every single opportunity he could. He limited exposure, confined himself to his studio, and went hunting when the mood struck him. Sherrin was an adult by the time that particular habit of his formed, and he never left any viable proof behind. He disappeared for long stretches of time, and when he would, we feared equally that he was either dead, or out killing somewhere far from home." Sherlock paced again, but came back after one turn, staring at Violet.

"Turns out we were right. He would go on long killing sprees far from where he considered his home territory, so as not to bloody the waters around where he lived. We all knew this… and could do nothing." Sherlock felt ill now, and stared at his hands, seeing them red with blood, dripping in imagined rivulets to the floor, the scent of the hot fluids reaching his nose, tickling his senses.

"Do nothing? You all knew he was killing, how could you do nothing?" Violet demanded, and she sounded accusatory, angry even.

"Save your anger for your other uncle, and my parents, Violet. I knew he was a killer for years, for years…." Sherlock gasped out, anger of his own welling up, from a long ago deserted place in his heart, full of bitterness and shame. "I knew since I was a boy barely out of the nursery, yet no one, not one single person believed me. My own family refused to believe Sherrin was anything more than a troubled boy, who needed love and guidance and some corrective restrictions. They all let his charm and intelligence, his marvelous talents blind them to the darkness that grew out of the nothingness of his heart. No one believed me when I said he was killing our neighbors' daughters! I knew from my earliest days that Sherrinford was a monster, and no one believed me! No one believed me until it was too late, with the body count past numbering!"

He was shouting now, overcome by the sheer debilitating frustration he felt, the helplessness he experienced as a child at knowing his own blood was dangerous past all measure, and no one believed him. Not until it was too late, and all that was left was trying to hold together the pieces of their lives. Sherlock put both hands to his head, trying to block out the memories, and he shook head to toe, body revolting against his control, every instinct telling him to run, hide, to keep Sherrin away.

John got up, and moved to him, but Sherlock broke away, fearing compassion would break him. He took off down the hall, running for his room. He slammed shut the door, and crawled into bed, burrowing under John's pillow and trying his best to keep the memories at bay.

His failure to convince his family and the authorities the truth about Sherrin was a deep and abiding injury to his psyche, even eighteen years after his brother's death. The original wound was far older, received in his earliest days. His deductive skills came upon him early, and it was forever frustrating that he was so young when he used them on his own brother- frustrating that because of his age, he was ignored or coddled, his words the whining of a jealous child. Even when he received vindication in his theories about Sherrin when Mycroft caught him in the act and later killed their elder brother, Sherlock still had no peace. If only he had been better, more persuasive, Sherrin would have been stopped long before he took all those lives. The true total of people Sherrin murdered was unknown, and the ones they did know about? That total was sickening. It was a body count he couldn't stand to think about.

---

John heard the mobile chime from the front room, the little snippet of sound indicative of Sherlock's alert for Molly's text messages. John stood outside the door to their room, and he could hear Sherlock's ragged breathing through the open bathroom doors. He reached out, and closed the bathroom door to the hall, catching a glimpse of Sherlock huddled on their bed through the connecting door, his head covered by what looked like John's pillow. His heart clenched in sympathy, and John let the door close, knowing a shocked Violet was still out front.

This case is going to be hard for him to solve if he keeps getting reminded of his brother. It's very clear to me he can't handle talking about Sherrinford in any kind of detail. I'll need to watch him, even more than usual.

Sherlock, I'm sorry. You won't like hearing me say that out loud, but I have to say it. I'm so sorry you suffered like that as a kid. I love you.

He walked back down the hall, to see Violet picking up her uncle's mobile, staring at the screen until it went dark again. She heard him coming, and wordlessly handed him the mobile, her brilliant eyes clouded, her face a mask of anger, and pain, and some regret.

"He's a wreck, Violet. He won't be up to talking for a while," John said softly, turning Sherlock's mobile over in his hands, feeling the familiar lines and edges. He spent as much time on this mobile as his own, as Sherlock hated going through his own email, preferring John to find him the sixes and sevens, the rare eights. It was usually Lestrade that brought them the nines and tens. It was only when Sherlock was looking for an escape from monotony, or boring conversations, or when John was at work that Sherlock checked his own emails for new cases.

"I…. crap. Did I do anything I should apologize for? I didn't mean to send him screaming from the room, I swear," Violet asked him, carding her slim fingers through her hair exactly as Sherlock did to his own, and John's heart flipped a bit at the sight. "I forget sometimes…. I forget that he's not much older than me, that he was kid through all of that shit with my dad."

"No, Violet. Don't apologize. You have the right to know. But…" John took a deep breath, and stared hard at the young woman in front of him. She hadn't meant to disturb Sherlock to such a degree, but John didn't want Sherlock unbalanced, not if he was going to be working a serial killer case, and having to deal with memories of his own sibling at the same time. "But I think you need to go to Mycroft with any more questions about your father. Him, or your grandparents. Sherlock was just a kid, and it's very obvious he suffered deeply dealing with it. Please don't ask him anymore about his brother, not during this case."

"I…. well, shit. I get your point. Mycroft would be the guy to ask, wouldn't he? I don't think I want to stress the grandparents out, they only just started to talk to me, and well, they're old. But Mycroft I can harass easily. Been doing that for years." Violet reached for her messenger bag, where she kept her laptop and other assorted toys for her illegal and profitable profession. She carried several thousand pounds worth of equipment around with her everywhere she went, and John would worry if she wasn't also packing two stun guns, a large canister of mace, and zero inhibitions in using whatever means necessary to keep herself safe.

Well, he worried anyways. She was family now. And vulnerable, as all the Holmes were, beneath their armor and prickly exteriors.

She hugged John, and he hugged her back, his heart full of love for this young woman who reminded him so much of Sherlock. She was worth loving all on her own merits, but it was the resemblance, both physical and behaviorally to Sherlock that first snuck Violet Hunter into John's heart. She was amazing, and while she might struggle from time to time with 'damn rules' and 'fucking laws', he loved her dearly. She was as much his niece now as she was Sherlock's.

Violet kissed his cheek, and gave him a wry smile as she stepped to the door, pausing for a moment to look down the hall to the bedroom.

"If you think he needs to hear it, tell him I love him," Violet said softly, not turning around. She walked out the door, and left the flat, her boots snapping on the wooden steps as she went.

John listened to her leave, and waited until he heard the sound of a cab pulling up the curb and then away before he closed the flat doors, locking them. He opened the message from Molly, and saw she was ready for them at their convenience. John winced, and thought hard about whether or not he could manage to keep Sherlock away from this case. Whether he should. John knew the odds of keeping Sherlock from working a case were astronomical, and he gave up the inclination. Sherlock was the best man on this case, regardless of his history.

This new serial killer wasn't the first Sherlock had managed to catch in the last decade, and John knew, as depressing as it sounded, that once Sherlock caught this one… another would come along. They always did.

John went down the hall, and entered their room quietly, warily watching the man hiding under his pillow on the bed. Sherlock was awake, and pretending he wasn't. John put the mobile down on the nightstand, and sat on the bed, rubbing Sherlock's shoulder and back, not saying anything.

Sherlock was trembling, tense all over, and clutching John's pillow like a lifeline. John moved his legs up and around, and snuggled against Sherlock's back, spooning him, one arm working under his head, and the other draped over his chest. John held Sherlock tightly, no space between them, plastering as much of his body to the taller man as he could. John just held him, and breathed evenly.

Eventually Sherlock's trembling eased, and their breathing patterns meshed. The lanky form of his lover relaxed, melting back into John's embrace. John hugged him, pressing his face to Sherlock's shoulder, breathing in his scent. Sherlock always smelled amazing. If it was possible to bottle a personality that was made up of intelligence, excessive snark, lack of control, ice cold exterior yet tender and sweet… with a dash of crazy…. Okay, a serious serving of crazy…..that is what he smelled like. Sherlock. His Sherlock.

John inhaled happily, his hand holding Sherlock close rubbing small circles over his detective's front. Sherlock hummed, and John felt the vibrations under his face, where it was still pressed tightly to his detective's shoulder.

Sherlock stirred when the circles widened, and John's hand wandered south. He tilted his hips for John's hand to graze over his groin, and John chuckled softly at the cock-tease in his arms. He gave Sherlock a light squeeze through his clothing, making Sherlock gasp before wiggling his ass back into John's groin. John's chuckle turned to a laugh, and he pressed a kiss to the shoulder under his face.

"Feeling better, Sherl'?" John murmured, and Sherlock caught John's wandering hand, holding it in his, pressing their hands to his chest over his heart.

"I am. Did I hear my mobile chime earlier?" Sherlock asked, his voice level, no stray emotion leaking through. Sherlock was fine.

"Yeah, Molly. She's waiting on us. Still up for this case?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock queried, soundly legitimately confused as to why John asked. All John did was smile ruefully against the firm muscles of Sherlock's shoulder.

"No reason. Get dressed, love. Want to take my car?" John said as he sat up, reluctantly pulling away from the warmth of the long body he was snuggling. It was tempting to stay where they were, and let the authorities handle this latest threat. John got up anyway, tugging Sherlock off the bed with him, smoothing his riotous curls as Sherlock stared down at him, inches away.

"Mmmmm….. Tour about London in a death trap with an adrenaline junkie driving, then to a morgue to examine a serial killer's victim?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, making John grin. "Sure, let's take the car."

---

Jan. 15th

London

He watched the news, the remote clasped in his elegant hand. He leaned back in the leather and velvet chair, enjoying the solitude of his private study as he watched the Great Detective get in a cab on the large flat screen. The news caught wind of the gruesome murder earlier that morning, arriving on scene just in time to film the famous Sherlock Holmes getting into a cab with his fiancé.

He paused the image, and put down the remote. He brought his hands up under his chin, fingertips together, and contemplated the younger man frozen in digital perfection.

He smiled, the tiniest of movements to his chiseled features, barely disturbing the aristocratic outline of his profile. Anyone watching him now would see a refined, upper class gentleman dressed with impeccable care and precision. His dark suit was pressed and immaculate, his black tie pure silk and done in a Windsor knot, a severe line against the white of his shirt.

He stood slowly, with a predatory grace he gave up hiding decades ago. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror above the mantel, and stared back at the man he saw there. He was tall, his body lean and efficiently muscled, even for a man in his late forties.

Years away from home did little to impact his appearance, the violence that he relished leaving not a trace upon him. His skin was pale, alabaster smooth, and the only indication of his age was the stark white hair at both temples, a deep contrast to his raven black hair. His hair was as thick and full as a man half his age, a black so dark it had blue highlights in the weak light from the windows. It was wavy instead of curly, a fact he knew was a pure stroke of luck, considering how his younger brother turned out.

He smiled, his vanity appeased by the view, his winsome grin transforming him from a cold, impassive inhuman creature to a charming member of the peerage, his vibrant amethyst eyes sparkling with intelligence.

Home at last. Time to claim that which is mine. Time to step free of the shadows, and let the world bleed at my feet.

I am home, my brothers.

His laughter broke free, filling the grand house he dwelled in, reverberating off the high ceilings. His laughter drew his companion to the study, and he watched as the large oak door opened behind him in the mirror. He let his laughter die out, and he observed the younger man who slowly walked across the room to him, not turning around to greet him. He kept his smile, enjoying the view.

His companion was nearly two decades younger than he, a devious man in his prime, gifted with an intelligence to rival his own, and a ruthless, maniacal personality that he enjoyed, and encouraged, on a daily basis. Shorter than he by a head, the younger man was a lithe, wiry example of manhood, with pale skin, and dark, devious eyes that conveyed the insanity he carried inside. His grin was lightning quick, and appeared often, as changeable as his moods, and the tone of voice he used. He was a mercurial man; a dangerous, powerful man. The younger man moved with a confidence that captured his attention, and stirred his blood.

"And what is so amusing, Sherrin? Did you find someone more enjoyable than me to have fun with?" His companion asked, grin flashing on his handsome face. Sherrinford Holmes finally turned to face the younger man now standing at his side, and lifted a long fingered hand to caress the smile curving his luscious lips.

"Are you jealous, dear James? Of the thought I may replace you?" Sherrin asked softly, his hand curling behind the shorter man's head, burrowing into his soft brown hair, drawing him nearer.

"Don't be absurd, I know there's no one more enjoyable than me," Jim chuckled as Sherrin pulled his head back by the grip he had in his hair, eyes drifting shut. His pink tongue drifted out over his lower lip, drawing Sherrin's gaze.

Sherrin pulled him closer, and leaned down, brushing his lips over Jim's lightly, in so faint a kiss it hardly counted. The smaller man shuddered in his grip, pulse leaping in his throat, breathing speeding up. He didn't move though, the instinctive reaction of a smaller animal caught in the claws of a predator, and Sherrin nibbled along his chin, down his neck. He breathed in Jim's scent, and lathed his tongue over the rapidly beating pulse in his neck, before sucking on it, hard. Jim jumped, but stayed where he was, docile in the grip of the eldest Holmes brother.

Sherrinford claimed James Moriarty, leaving a love mark just above the collar of his Westwood for anyone to see. He pulled back, the vivid red bruise small but noticeable. He let Jim go, and stepped back, returning to the chair and the remote. He rewound the video, and played the scene with his youngest brother again.

"You marked me, Sherrin," Jim grumbled, standing on his toes to see the red hickey in the mirror above the mantel, head angled to the side to get a better view. He sent a glare to Sherrin in the mirror, before dropping back off his toes and joining him at the television.

Sherrin ignored Jim's complaint, his attention locked on the youngest Holmes brother.

"Are you prepared, James?" Sherrin asked softly, eyes glittering intently as he watched his little brother on repeat.

"I've been ready for two years now, Sherrin. Jaime's activation of Reaper merely moves my timeline up. I make my first move soon," Jim assured him, and the smaller man took the remote from his hand, pausing it again on Sherlock. "He won't survive what is coming."

"None of them will."

James Moriarty grinned, a feral motion that made Sherrinford Holmes chuckle in appreciation.

They both watched with an obsessive fascination as Sherlock walked to the cab, again and again.