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

A/N: Apologies for the lateness of posting. Expect new chapters every two weeks from now on. Thank you all for following along and reading, I sincerely appreciate it all.

WARNING: This chapter contains rough play BDSM. It's consensual, but very primal. Please, PLEASE do not participate in BDSM unless you know what you're doing, and have established safewords and soft limits. BDSM can be wonderful, but must be undertaken sanely.

With that buzzkill in play, please enjoy the chapter!

And special thanks to Silvereyedbitch, my rock and editor. She has yet to see the 'special' scene in this chapter, as I managed to kept it from her until now. It's short, but exactly what you've been begging me for. Enjoy!

Chapter 60

"Make it Bleed"

Somewhere near the North Sea…..

18 Years Ago….

"Jimmy, watch it!" Jaime snapped out her small hand, her fingers gripping her brother's elbow as he stumbled in the dark, hanging above the abyss that roared below them. The cliff was so high that Jaime could barely see the ocean below, let alone the trail, which made their trek down the cliff side all the more harrowing.

Jimmy backpedaled, his sister pulling him back from the ledge. She was fast, his little sister, and getting faster and stronger every day. She was nearly three years younger than him, and even at his exalted age of almost-fourteen he was no match for her. Jaime was going to be a force of nature one day, when she grew up. Jimmy stared down at the ocean, the white crests catching sporadically in the weak moonlight that hung high overhead. Jimmy patted Jaime's head in silent thanks, her red brown curls flying in the wind, her dark eyes full of something…. Not fear. She didn't fear anymore. He hadn't seen fear in her since that night.

A bitter wind kicked up the sea mist, making Jimmy blink as it stung his eyes. They were on the tourist trail that ran over the cliffs not too far from the tiny nameless hamlet that clung to the sea, struggling to survive forgotten by man and kingdom. It was why they were here, hiding from the authorities intent on finding the 'lost' children of Lord Blackwood. Jimmy knew their interest in finding them was more salacious than Samaritan; the majority of people tracking the wayward stepchildren of Blackwood were reporters, and only a few actual policemen. Rumors of Blackwood's violent tendencies and his unhealthy leanings for the 'company' of children had somehow made it out into the ether of the moronic public, and Jimmy resisted the urge to go back to the estate and strangle whichever servant it was who blabbed.

He'd set it up so that it looked like at first that a long lost relative had found them and gotten custody; then he arranged it so it looked like the government made them wards and took them to a home; then he made it so they had been kidnapped by incompetent criminals and whisked away to places unknown on the Continent. The best mislaid trail yet was that they were dead, killed in an accident as they ran away from home, inconsolable with grief, their fragile young bodies swept away by the currents where the Thames entered the ocean. Each theory Jimmy fostered as they snuck away from Blackwood Manor in the days after their stepfather's 'suicide', thus keeping the truth, and the interference of idiotic adults, away from the Moriarty siblings.

Jimmy took Jaime's hand in his, shouldering both their packs, and he slowly resumed their cautious journey down the cliff side, trusting in his earlier reconnaissance during daylight hours to getting them down safely. There was a hidden cove at the bottom of the treacherous path, where locals, in days long past, used to smuggle heavily tariffed and taxed items into the region. Now the cove was long since forgotten, except by those who used it for another purpose.

Getting out of the UK.

There were plenty of people, who for reasons of their own, wished to escape the United Kingdom unseen, and without records. Most foolishly took the southern route, over the Channel into France, via private or chartered boats. Or they stupidly used commercial transport, either flying or taking the boating equivalent of public transport. The heavy traffic of people between England and France over the Channel made it likely that anyone, no matter how careful, would be seen by someone. And remembered. And that is exactly what Jimmy didn't want.

They needed to disappear. To cease to exist. Jim and Jaime Moriarty needed to fade away, and be forgotten.

Forgotten until Jim was ready to come home.

St Bart's

Morgue

Jan 15th

"No need to feel awkward about this. I can handle seeing him," Molly whispered to herself, pacing back and forth beside the occupied exam table, eyes trained on the steel doors to the morgue. "Not like I haven't seen him a thousand times or more…."

He was going to be here any minute now, John's text telling Molly they were on their way.

Sherlock was coming. And other than at Anthea's funeral weeks earlier, Molly hadn't seen Sherlock in person since the night her ex-fiancée tried to kill him the month before. A funeral wasn't a place to talk, and they hadn't. He'd just nodded once in her direction and that was it. And before that….. There was the kiss. An epic, heart-stopping soul wrenching kiss that left Molly aching for more and desperately wishing she'd never given in in the first place.

She stopped pacing, watching the doors with both dread and hope, but no one walked through. She grumbled at herself in annoyance, and spun back to the table, the red stained white sheet covering the victim fluttering in the small breeze from the central air. It was colder than the Arctic outside, but not cold enough to keep bodies from decaying, so it was always colder in here than anywhere else in the hospital.

She nibbled on her lip, twisting her fingers together with a jittery case of nerves. Molly was used to being nervous around Sherlock, but she didn't know how she was going to react. How HE was going to react. Never mind her crush's fiancé!

Molly stared at the sheet covered corpse, not really seeing it. She was so caught up in her wayward thoughts she didn't hear the doors swing open or shut behind her, nor the very subtle tread of the tall man creeping up to stand quietly at her shoulder.

Sherlock leaned down, and whispered in her ear, "I'm certain this would move along faster if she were naked, don't you?"

Molly shrieked, hand to her throat, and she spun to face the grinning detective. He raised a lone brow at her, and she struggled to ease her racing heart. "Sherlock! You wretch!" Molly couldn't believe it when she saw her own hand swing out, and gently slap his shoulder in reprimand.

His deep chuckle filled the cave-like morgue, and he straightened from his lean, hands clasped behind his back. He meandered around the examination table, head tilted, staring at the covered body.

"You haven't started?" he asked, his bass timbre smooth as dark chocolate and just as sinful. Molly swallowed, and forced herself to pay attention to the words, and not just his voice.

"No….No. I know how you are about serial killers. I just got her situated. Waited for you."

"Excellent, Dr. Hooper." Sherlock rocked back on his heels, and his eyes lifted from the corpse to a spot over her shoulder. Molly heard the doors swing open again, and she turned to see John enter the morgue.

John gave her a great big smile, a gloved hand waving in greeting as he walked past her to the desk, where he sat in her chair. His face was flushed, cheeks rosy, and he couldn't stop grinning. Usually John was more somber in the morgue, or at least more annoyed to be sitting in the cold room for hours on end. He was dressed for it, and she could smell the cold winter air on him when he passed her.

"Hello, John. How's things?" Molly tried for normal, and was relieved when John let her.

"Wonderful, Molly. We took the car today, roads were clear enough. Had to find a spot to park her at. Marvelous machine, that Audi." John kicked his feet up on the clear corner of her desk, and leaned back in the chair, balancing on the rear legs. He gave her a contented smile, and sent his attention to the detective.

Sherlock was staring down at the corpse, hands still clasped behind his back. Molly wondered what he was doing, then she remembered. She hurriedly snapped on a pair of blue exam gloves, and carefully pulled back the cotton sheet from the body. She revealed the head first, and lifted the sheet away until the corpse was fully uncovered. Molly tossed the sheet in the biohazard bin, and went to stand at the head of the table, and waited.

The body was in ruin. Molly felt a part of her shudder in fear, the knowledge that one human willingly did this to another disturbing her at a very basic and primal level. Whoever did this had done it before. Molly had done hundreds of postmortems, and she knew the hand of experience when she saw it, same as Sherlock.

The person Sherlock was after now was most definitively a serial killer.

Sherlock paced slowly and methodically around the table, one measured step at a time. He would move, pause, evaluate, and then move again. He repeated this until he'd seen the entire front of the body, from every angle. When Sherlock came to the morgue on cases, it was always the same, the only difference was in the speed of his methods. His circuit, depending on the body, would either be lightning fast, with him spouting out COD, motive and killer in minutes, or he would take forever, waiting on old age and boredom to prompt him to figure it all out. This time, he wasn't at his fastest, but he certainly wasn't at his slowest. This time he took only a handful of minutes, and Molly spent them all watching him work.

John shifted in the chair, and she sent him a quick glance. John was watching Sherlock too, but he saw her look, and gave her a tiny smile before returning his attention to his lover.

"Molly." She jumped as he spoke her name, standing opposite of her across the table, the body between them.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Give me your thoughts, please."

"So soon? You haven't even seen more than the body, let alone any evidence I have yet to examine her for."

"You won't find any." Sherlock said it so surely, with so much certainty, that Molly stared down at the body, wondering what he saw that told him that.

"It's what I don't see, Molly." There he was, reading minds again. He did that a lot.

"Okay I'm confused, how can there be no evidence on her? Look at her! She's covered in filth and blood." Molly waved her hands over the body, not bothering to point out the various blood stains and grime on the body, all of it evidence to her.

"All you'll find on her body, Molly, is evidence she was killed on the roof. So- water and air pollutants, roofing materials, rust, exhaust residue, bird feces and other animal traces, et cetera. Evidence of being killed on a roof." Sherlock stood tall and straight, hands not once released from behind his back, clad still in his dark coat, collar pulled high. "You won't find any evidence of where she was before the roof though."

"What? How do you know?" John asked that, still seated at the desk. Molly had almost forgotten he was there.

"He took everything that could identify himself through trace evidence with him, and her body was cleaned before she was forced to that rooftop. Look along her hairline, under her chin, underarms, inner thighs, between her toes. She's clean, freshly washed, where she hasn't been exposed overmuch to the elements or her own blood."

Molly peered down at the dead woman's head, and her eyes went wide as she saw what Sherlock was talking about. The victim was indeed very clean on the parts of the body that were hidden from direct contact with the night air and the rooftop.

"Tell me what you think, Molly. I already know what I think, but I'll take an outside opinion now." Sherlock was watching her, eyes trained on her face, face impassive yet strangely encouraging.

Molly sucked in a deep breath, held it, and let her thoughts out. She tried not to form opinions before she did an autopsy, but that didn't stop her from thinking about things she saw. And waiting on Sherlock had given her plenty of time.

"Cleaning the body, or in this case the living victim, speaks of awareness of forensic training, knowledge of police procedures. He knew she was going to be found, and that he had no intention of being caught, which is why he cleaned the body. Cool, analytical." Molly stepped back from the table, tilting her head to one side, peering intently at the cuts and slashes. "No hesitation marks, as I'm sure you've seen, Sherlock. He knew exactly where he was putting the knife, and how hard to push to go as deeply as he wanted. He's done this before."

"Spot on so far, keep going."

"These aren't really random. See how some cutes overlap, but others curve so as the avoid crossing over each other? Why would he do that? And since there are no hesitation marks, I would guess that these slash marks are actually a pattern, probably only one he can see."

"Brilliant, Molly." Sherlock tossed the compliment easily, as if it was nothing to him. She warmed to it anyway, and she saw John smile out of the corner of her eye. She fidgeted, and then stared at the body one more time. "I'll still need to take trace from her body, and then the autopsy."

"Cause of death is obvious, really. Single laceration to her throat, severing all arteries and veins, and it traversed the neck to the…" Sherlock peered down at the victim's neck, tilting his head and getting so close he was could touch the ruined flesh with his nose, "the C4 vertebra, in fact nicking the bone on the release stroke."

Sherlock pulled out his evidence kit from his coat, without getting back up, eyes narrowed at the furrow of red seeping flesh. He brought up his tiny magnifying glass, and held it over the victim. "Yes, there. See? There's a definitive marking on the bone from the blade he used. I'll need that vertebra as soon as possible, Molly."

"Sherlock, I have to do this autopsy with the proper protocols, you know that. I just can't give you a piece of the body straight off."

"That vertebra, any drugs you find in her system, and I'll need photos of the knife designs he drew on her body. While you're doing that, I'll be researching other avenues of inquiry." Sherlock put his kit away, all without taking his eyes off the body. He was staring, again. Never lifting his gaze from the slashes and artfully arranged cuts that decorated the dead woman, Sherlock stilled.

"What?" Molly queried, recognizing his epiphany face.

"There's no marks on her back, is there?"

"I didn't see any when I was laying her out on the table, no."

"Interesting." Sherlock said, softly, face pale as cold granite. His eyes, that impossible heavenly shade of blue, green and gold, glowed from the charismatic depths of his face. "Why didn't he use the entire canvas?"

"Human being, Sherlock, not a canvas." That was John, speaking evenly from the desk where he still sat. He said it as a gentle reminder, one Molly had seen him make many times over the years, reminding Sherlock to act human himself time to time.

"Of course." Sherlock wasn't really paying attention, still staring. He settled into an odd quiet, the room's background noise fading away as if respecting the genius in the morgue. Molly smiled at the flight of fancy, yet she couldn't argue with the stray thought. Sherlock was a genius.

"Right! Off to Scotland Yard." Sherlock startled Molly and John, after a minute of total stillness on the detective's part. He clapped his hands together, and gave Molly the barest of nods before he spun around the table, and walked towards the doors. He snagged John's hand as he passed the seated doctor, and pulled John to his feet without stopping. John tossed Molly a small wave, and she watched as the two men disappeared from view, the steel doors swinging in their wake.

"Well, at least that wasn't awkward," Molly told the dead woman, as she grabbed the overhead spotlight and turned it on, illuminating the corpse in its crimson splattered finery. The red lines of cut flesh seemed to writhe in the washed out skin, and Molly blinked. For a second there she thought she saw something in the red lines, something familiar. She squinted and looked again, but whatever she thought she saw it wasn't there now.

She picked up her camera, and got to work. Working with Sherlock Holmes may not be a smart thing to do when she was trying get over being in love with him, but that didn't stop people from dying horribly and ending up on her table.

And it didn't keep the man from being so damned sexy, either.

January 15th

Marylebone, City of Westminster

9:00 PM

Cabs laid out on their horns, pedestrians milled about in droves and businesses were doing a steady beat of gratifying capitalism, countless shoppers and diners entering and exiting swinging glass doors of restaurants and shop fronts. Marylebone was a tourist's dream of inner city London, and as such it was a perfect place to immerse one's self in the culture and heartbeat of the city and her people. Everyone was trying to see and experience everything, and as a result, no one saw anything.

It was the perfect place to hunt. According to Sherrinford Holmes at least, the most successful serial killer this side of the pond.

"So, Sherrin, any reason we're enjoying a damp and cold night out with the marginally washed masses when we could be back at the mansion, doing reprehensible things to each other and planning the ruination of the UK?" James asked peevishly, a faint pout curling his fine lips, a dark grey ball cap pulled low over his eyes. It was late at night, but Marylebone Road was well lit, and it was bright enough that people could conceivably recognize the master criminal consultant.

Sherrin paced along easily, his raven dark hair brushed back in high waves from his face, eyes flashing in the golden lights spilling onto the sidewalks from the collected storefronts. His coat was long and solid black, his jacket and tie a black so dark they shone like India ink against the pristine white of his silk shirt. The warm golden glow cast out onto the sidewalk gilded his profile as they walked slowly through the crowd, Sherrin's midnight hair mirroring the light and his eyes flashing as he let his gaze run lightly over the unworthy that moved instinctively from his path. He drew appreciative looks from many women, and some few of the men they passed. The crowds seemed to part for him naturally of their accord, as if a man of his obvious caliber was worth moving aside for, and they were privileged to exist in the same time and place as he.

Jim watched him from his place at his shoulder, casting looks to the eldest Holmes from under his hat, seemingly unnoticed to the masses as Sherrin pulled all eyes to himself. The night was cold, but the street was well sheltered from the wind, and the crowds made the temperatures tolerable. Sherrin's coat and jacket were unbuttoned, as if he was impervious to the cold, a man so past ordinary that such inconveniences as illness or discomfort were things for lesser mortals.

"We are here, my young mastermind, to finish the first round of clues for my darling baby brother. I'm slightly disappointed already, really. I left enough hints on the first victim that he should have realized who killed that mewling excuse for womanhood already," Sherrinford mused, amethyst eyes trailing over the crowds as they walked sedately down the sidewalk.

"Yes, that's why you're here- why am I here?" James grumbled as he was jostled by a pedestrian, and Sherrin smirked as the younger criminal did he level best not to lose his temper and kill the useless scrap of humanity there on the street.

Sherrin paused, a large group of tourists exiting from a store in front of them, his hands buried in his coat pockets. Several of the women sent him beguiling looks, tiny smiles or outright grins of appreciation. Sherrin merely lifted a dark brow at them, face impassive, and Jim rolled his eyes as the women went into fits of blushing and giggles. Their menfolk pulled them away, a couple of the women whispering to each other, all the while staring at the eldest Holmes over their shoulders.

Sherrin suddenly turned to Jim, and ran a leather-clad finger along the fine line of his jaw. Sherrin hummed as Jim shivered at the touch, and the older man slowly pulled away his hand. Jim was transfixed, those eyes holding him as securely as the shackles attached to their four post bed back at Jim's mansion.

Sherrin leaned down, and whispered in his ear. The scent of wood, seawater and smoke curled in the air between them, and Jim caught the underlying hint of hot blood rising from the taller man.

"You know why you are here, my dearest. Don't forget, it was your idea." Sherrin tapped the bill of Jim's cap, and the consulting criminal grumbled under his breath as the older man pulled back, and continued down the street.

Sherrinford wanted to be visible, needed it for his plans. It was Jim's job this time around to make sure that he, James Moriarty, wasn't. If they passed amongst the teeming masses of one of London's busiest streets, covered in CCTV camera stations, with Jim invisible and Sherrin drawing all eyes, then they were well set to continue. The risk of discovery just made it all that more exciting, and Jim needed exciting. His plans were set and waiting, merely requiring Jim to send a text and the fun would begin. His version of fun, with hundreds of people screaming and running around as chaos dissolved the cohesive whole of London.

Jim jogged after the sleek serial killer, hiding again in his wake, waiting for the monster clad in silk and cotton finery to pluck his chosen victim from the swarms of base humanity.

Sherrin let Jim's petulance diminish from his awareness. The consulting criminal had always been one to avoid discomfort, and nothing made James's Moriarty more uncomfortable than letting someone else run the show. Though he should be accustomed to Sherrin being in charge, no matter the years since the last overlap of their lives.

Sherrin slowed his pace, stopping in front of a restaurant on the first floor of one of Marylebone's best hotels. He waited, watching through the glass, as his target gathered her coat, wrapping the fur and silk around her bare shoulders. She said goodbye to her companions, who failed to watch as she left the restaurant, too absorbed in their fine drinks and conversation.

Sherrin made sure to keep his body angled away from the CCTV station over his shoulder, his back to the cameras, and Jim was unrecognizable in his role of grey shadow beside the brilliance of the eldest Holmes.

She was tall, nearly as tall as he, and slim. Model thin, but her dark hair and pale skin made up for the lack of muscle tone. Her long dress of washed silk, in gold and shimmery creams barely covered her lithe frame, and Sherrin applauded himself on his choice. Her skin was flawless, and the long lines of her body would hold up well under his blade as he left darling Sherlock more clues.

She left the restaurant, wrapping her coat tightly to her lovely body, and at first she didn't see him. Jim was back a few feet, invisible in his common attire and cap, as Sherrin stood out on the sidewalk like a beacon of refined tastes and wealth. He knew the second she really saw him, as her deep blue eyes went from politely disinterested to an avid avarice of the physical variety. She trailed her eyes over his whole body, from the tips of his Italian shoes, up his long and leanly muscles legs, his narrow waist and muscled chest. His coat and jacket hugged his shoulders, accentuating the efficiently muscled flesh of his body, and Sherrin waited patiently as his prey became steadily enamored the longer she looked.

Her eyes ran over his face, unconsciously seeing the fine bones of a long line of the peerage in his features, and the white hair at his temples merely reassured her on a subconscious level that he had wealth, and in abundance, to match his demeanor and clothing. Sherrin saw the need in her eyes, and kept his face clear of all thoughts, and the silent roar of victory filled his soul as she sent him a sideways glance of interest, angling her body slightly to face him.

"Waiting for a taxi as well?" she asked him, coyly burying her lower face in the ruff of mink fur that lined her collar. Her deep blue eyes were almost black on the street lights, and she was pretending not to stare at him.

Sherrin sent her a tiny smile, and moved a foot or so closer, as if he found her ploys alluring. "On my driver, actually. It's a new Bentley, the poor man seems to think he'll scratch the finish if he goes too fast."

Her eyes flashed, and she turned to him completely, sliding a hand down her side, pulling the silky fabric of her dress tight over a hip, showing the flat lines of her stomach. She was reeling herself in, and didn't even know it. Jim moved closer to the street, and Sherrin knew he was calling the car, the prearranged signal passing silently between them as Sherrin confirmed his choice by mentioning the car.

"Your driver? The poor man, he must be terrified of his boss to make you wait as he babies your car." She tried to be charming, but she was trying too hard, and Sherrin resisted the urge to roll his eyes at her feeble attempts. He didn't want her for conversation, after all.

"He's paid well, he has nothing to complain about. And I try not to be a monster to the help." Sherrin ignored Jim when he snickered faintly from where he stood at the curb. His victim didn't even see Jim, her attention locked on him.

A great dark car purred as it slowed at the curb, and Sherrin moved next to the young woman, drawing her eyes as Jim and the car's driver traded places, the driver disappearing into the darkness as Jim got behind the wheel of the Bentley. She didn't see a thing, and the restaurant's valet was so distracted by the 'power couple' in front of his station that he didn't see anything either. The valet opened the door to Sherrin's car, and the elder Holmes turned to the car, raising that one brow again, to devastating effect. He sent her a glance, finally giving her a thorough once-over as she shivered on the sidewalk, and not from the cold. She swayed just the tiniest amount on her heels, her body all but screaming her interest and desire.

She was his, and she'd done all the work herself.

"I am heading for my private club. If you wanted, I could drop you off at your next destination, so you don't have to rely on a cab?" Sherrin motioned to his car, the interior lit up with the door open, the plush leather seats gleaming in the faint light.

"I truly shouldn't accept rides from strangers, sir. Even handsome ones." She smiled at him, belying her words of caution. She wanted to get in that car, and badly.

Sherrin held out his hand, accepting hers in a light grip, caressing the back of her hand with his gloved thumb.

"You may call me Sherrinford Holmes, my dear. Sherrin, for short." He bowed slightly, and lightly kissed the back of her hand. He raised up, and held onto her hand. She let him, and the monster stirred in Sherrin's heart.

"Camilla V. Heron, and it's a pleasure, Sherrinford Holmes." He kept her hand, and led her to the car, helping her slide in across the leather seats. He got in behind her, pulling the door shut. He hit a button, and let the lights stay on in the rear of the car, the windows darkly tinted so no one could see in. Jim pulled the car away from the curb, and the doors locked, soft clinks she paid no attention to.

"Holmes? Like that celebrity detective who lives here in Westminster?" Camilla asked him, and she leaned back in her seat, angled towards him. Sherrin reached out to the mini bar, and removed a chilled bottle of champagne. She smiled wide, and accepted the flute he passed her, making sure she got the correct glass. It wouldn't do to drug himself.

"He's my little brother, Sherlock. Haven't seen him in an age, actually." Sherrin sipped his drink, and she followed suit, the high quality tempting her to take a larger mouthful. "I came back to London to see him and my other brother."

"I didn't even know the famous Sherlock Holmes had a brother, let alone two. Are all three of you so devilishly handsome?"

Sherrin gave her a smile, making her giggle. The drugs would soon take effect, and she was now past the point of escape. He drained his glass, and put his flute back. She finished hers, and he put her glass away as well. He took her hand again, and distracted her by rubbing his thumb over her fingers.

"Sherlock is the youngest, and takes after our father, as do I. Mycroft takes after our mother, the poor man." Sherrin told her, and he smiled as Jim took them out of Marylebone. She wasn't paying attention, the drugs lulling her senses already. Camilla stayed focused on him, and the sensations coursing through her body. "I am the eldest, and I'm here to settle an old score."

"Settle a score? Do you not get along with your brothers?"

"They've thought me dead these past eighteen years, my dear Camilla. One tries to right the scales he feels were left unbalanced by my killing spree and his inability to convince the world I was a monster; and the other seeks to ease his guilt and culpability in my actions and presumed death by pretending I never existed." Sherrin held her hand tightly as his words sank in, her mind moving sluggishly now. She blinked at him, her head falling back on the leather seat. She tried to think through his words, and he saw the fear pooling in her pretty blue eyes as they finally sank in.

"I plan on killing my brothers, my dear." Sherrin grinned at her, and watched as her eyes drifted shut, the drugs impossible to fight. "Though I'll kill you first, sweet Camilla."

She was asleep now, drugged senseless. Sherrin dropped her hand, the pulse still strong despite the large dose of sedative she'd eagerly taken too fast.

"Take us out of Westminster, James. My kill house, please."

"Now it's getting fun. About time," grumbled the Irishman, shifting gears and letting the Bentley loose on the streets, the powerful engine devouring the distance between Sherrinford's house of death and blood and the City of Westminster.

Jan 16th, 12:00 AM

Ireland

Castle Láidreacht

"Is breá liom tú, Máire. Codladh, mo ghrá."

Mary sighed as the whisper drifted over her cheek, the aroma of mint and whiskey following her thoughts as she finally found the ability to relax. Her body was tired, exhausted from the morning sickness that came at random times throughout the day and night, leaving her weak, sick, and cranky. She melted into the soft mattress, Jaime's body heat hugging from behind, shoulders to legs.

Jaime had the patience of a saint, an unexpected quality in the Moriarty scion. For a woman who hated stagnation of any kind, and who could kill without hesitation or remorse, Jaime was dealing with Mary's pregnancy far better than she was. It was if the pregnancy was a mission, and the goal was to get Mary to the other side of it, happy, healthy, and with a bouncy baby for whom she had yet to select a name.

Jaime and Clay kept giving her random names every day, and it was steadily becoming a game to see which of the two, mistress or disciple, could come up with the better selection. The ones Mary liked went on her list, and Mary would merely smile and thank them nicely for the suggestions, not letting on which ones she found favor with.

Mary yawned, and let the hand rubbing circles on her back lull her nearer to sleep, that fickle mistress she hadn't been able to make the acquaintance of for the last couple of days. Mary was seconds from sleep when she felt a flutter in her abdomen, so faint she would have missed it if she wasn't resting. Mary stilled for a moment, and it came again, the sure sign of the life she was carrying.

John Watson's child. Their daughter.

Mary finally got confirmation of the sex of the baby just that morning, the second ultrasound far more successful that the first. She and John were expecting a daughter, her deep-seated instinctive knowledge weeks earlier confirmed. The OB-GYN managed to narrow down her due date, and Mary felt a trickle of amusement as she slowly drifted, a stray thought coming to her. She was due around June 1st, and the doctor said it was possible she could deliver anytime around there, even the first couple of weeks in June. Mary thought of how likely it would be for John Watson to deign to come to the heart of the Moriarty criminal empire, even for the birth of his child, and she struggled to remind herself to tell Jaime NOT to kidnap John to make sure he came.

But this was John Watson, and the man wasn't afraid of anything. He would come, no matter where the birth was to take place.

The real battle would be the name.

Mary smiled as sleep claimed her, Jaime warm against her back and vigilant, her child growing at a steady pace and healthy. She had her freedom, her love, and soon a babe. Mary let her dreams rise up, knowing none of them would match the peace and contentment of the real world she called home.

January 16th, 12:00 AM

Harrow

His kill room was his studio. The place of his life's work, where perfection was born from his artistry, and imperfections were wiped clean, forgotten in the cleansing fall of blood.

Amid the wood dust and the scent of pine and the sugary overtones of maple was the aroma of blood and gore. His statues, carved from the details trapped in his infallible memory, lined the walls of the long studio, windows cut into the roof letting in moonlight in sharp squares of cold illumination that he glided through, his prize tossed over his shoulder.

Sherrin carried his new inspiration down the long attic space of his studio, covering the entire top floor of the house he recently purchased upon his return to the UK. He'd watched her for days, making sure she would be where he needed her to be tonight. Two nights previous he'd brought her predecessor to this very room, and beautiful Cassandra was to be forever rendered perfect in a statue of willow and oak, an unfinished statue which even now graced the pedestal in the center of the room.

Sherrin paused beside the wooden column, the willow resting in its base of deep red oak, seeing the completed piece in his mind's eye. It would be done in a few weeks, as he never rushed his work. Camilla's piece would be done a few weeks after Cassandra's. He thought about it, and decided to carve Camilla from cherry and red maple.

Sherrin laid her out on the semi-reclining steel table, and secured her waist, ankles and wrists to the cold surface. He removed his coat and jacket, carefully hanging them from the coatrack next to the door. He reached for his rough leather work apron, and gave the door a cursory glance as James entered the room.

James had replaced his common clothing with a fine Westwood, sans jacket. The white shirt and grey slacks hugged his lithe frame, and Sherrin felt a shimmer of interest in his body as James rolled back his sleeves, revealing his muscular wrists and forearms.

"Come to watch… or make your first cut?" Sherrin purred, walking away from James as he trailed after him, walking around the wood cutting equipment and work stations.

"Are you referring to wood or flesh?" James asked, wiping off some sawdust as he got too close to a table.

"As if I'd let anyone touch my work. Shall I show you how I leave my marks on the lesser canvas?" Sherrin picked up a long thin blade from a tray as he returned to his muse, still sleeping under the effects of the drugs. Her long gold and cream colored dress shone under the bright lamps and in the light from the windows in the ceiling, the white light of the moon balancing out the harsh glare from the lamps.

"I've stabbed plenty of people, Sherrin. And they weren't tied down at the time, either." Sherrin heard the implied insult in James' voice, but he ignored it, in favor of examining his slumbering muse.

"Violence of such a caliber has no place in my art, James." Sherrin slipped the blade under the thin strap that ran over her shoulder, and sliced the fabric, reaching to do the same on her other shoulder. He slid the blade under the fabric along her side, and sliced the dress from ribs all the way down her side, past her hips to her thighs, and finally to the hemline where the dress pooled at her ankles. He reached down and gathered a handful, and yanked, removing the entire garment in one sharp maneuver. He tugged off her heels, and tossed them into the trash along with her dress.

With calm impartiality he sliced and removed her undergarments, noting the creamy perfection of her skin, pleased to find no surface imperfections. Nothing to make him alter the strokes of his blade, or to change the layout of his sculpture. Sherrin returned the knife to the tray, and lifted the covers from the drains in the floor, the entire attic reworked to handle the sluicing as he cleaned his muse. She slept on still, though not for much longer, as he was certain the ice-cold water would wake her quickly enough.

Sherrin unraveled the thick rubber hose from under one of the nearby tables, and kicked at the valve that was in a slight depression beside the table. A heavy stream of water roared out of the hose, and Sherrin adjusted the flow, so it came out fast enough to wash his canvas clean and not abrade the delicate skin. James backed up and hopped up on a table out of range of the water, pulling out his mobile as Sherrin pointed the jet of water at his living canvas.

The strangled shriek that rose from Camilla as the water hit her made James chuckle, not looking up, utterly engrossed in his mobile. Little bird chirps and peeps arose from the consulting criminal's mobile, and Sherrin sent him a glance of appraisal as he callously ignored Camilla's pleas and screams, leaving no portion of her body untouched by the ice cold water. Sherrin hosed her down, washing from her face and neck all traces of cosmetics, all the product from her hair, only stopping momentarily to ensure she didn't inhale the water as she thrashed her head from side to side, pleading and sobbing, her words lost under the torrent.

"Stop! Please! Let me go, please don't…." Her words tumbled over each other, not falling on deaf ears, but uncaring ones. James rolled his eyes as Camilla begged, Sherrin's attention for detail leaving her without dignity as he aimed the icy water stream lower, a waterfall filling the space under the table. The drains laid in the floor sucked the water away, Sherrin's shoes only getting a little damp before the water was gone.

"You'd think after all these years you'd finally pick someone with more originality than 'Stop, please, let me go'," James thoughtfully offered, canting his voice high enough for Sherrin to hear over the rushing water and the woman's whimpering. "It's always the same, boring murder victim after boring murder victim. No one with anything new to say."

Sherrin grinned, and closed off the valve, the only sound in the room the steady drip of water and the clattering of teeth as Camilla shivered on the steel table. She watched him with wide eyes, the deep blue full of terror and disbelief.

"I did, my dear boy." Sherrin exclaimed, whipping the hose back from the floor and roping it back up, packing it away. "Twenty seven years ago, to be exact. I found one singular and unique muse who moved my art as never before. And I have never found another since."

James froze, and Sherrin watched the younger man's face, as the consulting criminal made the connection. James gave him a tiny smile, and a slight dip of his chin, before returning to his mildly annoying app, the little noises rising once again from where he sat.

Sherrin turned back to his living canvas, moving over the chilled floor, feeling the frosted air as he wandered around the table, eyeing pretty Camilla from head to toe. He picked up a scalpel as he went, and pondered his canvas, making her jerk as he drew lines in the air over her body. He would not cut yet. No blade would touch her skin until he was certain in his work, his design.

Blood flow from a living canvas obscured the lines. His art shone through clearer once they were dead.

Jan 16th, 2:00 AM

Baker Street

"Sherlock, I think we ended up with every case of mutilation-based murders in the UK, not just the unsolved ones," John complained as he balanced the three boxes full of case files, carrying them up the stairs to the flat. Sherlock was similarly burdened ahead of him, only he had one box to John's three.

"Nonsense my dear doctor, I'm certain Lestrade can find some more. There's thousands of cases left unsolved by the Yard that meet my criteria." Sherlock dropped his one box unceremoniously on the floor beside the desks, a flutter of papers and dust swirling in the air as Sherlock removed his outer garments, tossing them haphazardly across the nearest chair.

John took the time to put the boxes on the desks, careful not to drop anything or let a box topple over, though it was a near thing. John was about to take off his own coat when he saw Sherlock pause beside their chairs, staring down at the seat of John's.

"What is it, love?" John tossed his coat aside, and joined his lover beside the chair. John saw a heavy vellum envelope on the seat, his name in fancy script across the front. John huffed once in surprise, and reached down for it, oddly surprised Sherlock didn't snatch it out of his hands and start deducing it straight off. He sent the detective a wary sideways glance, even waved the heavy envelope at him, but Sherlock made no move to take it from him, face impassive, thoughts unreadable.

It was as if Sherlock knew already. Of course, the man always knew, didn't he?

"Wonder who it's from?" John turned around and sat in his chair, and he absently noted Sherlock lighting the fire in the hearth. He slipped a finger under the edge, and gently ripped the paper.

There was a silky finish type of paper inside, and a thick, folded note. The fire lit the room as it grew, and Sherlock was still crouching at the hearth, the glow from the flames casting half his face in shadow as he stared at John. The light increased, and John flipped the square of strange paper over, sucking in a deep breath as he recognized what he was seeing.

It was a picture from an ultrasound. There, in the top corner, was the name, "Baby Girl Watson'.

His baby.

He was having a daughter.

John wasn't aware he was crying until he felt a tear fall, a cool trail of liquid racing down the back of his hand. A graceful white hand came gently into view, and removed the ultrasound from his hands before his tears could mar its perfect finish. Sherlock placed it on the armrest, and he knelt at John's feet, resting his chin on John's knees. Sherlock was really too tall to sit so folded up, but John couldn't think of any words, nor thoughts to form words, to tell Sherlock to sit up.

He was going to be a father, to a bound-to-be-beautiful little girl, and his heart was breaking. All from a single piece of paper, covered in grey, white and black ink.

Him. A father.

And he wasn't there to see her grow. He wasn't there to feel her kick and stretch, to wait impatiently for the day he would be able to hold her and give her a name. He wasn't there.

"Read her letter, John."

John shook his head, unable to understand Sherlock past his grief. For that's what he was feeling- grief. Sadness he wasn't there to experience the joys of impending fatherhood, that he was being denied the right to be there every step of the way because the mother of his child loved a madwoman, and one who was supposed to be dead, and chose to exercise her newfound freedom by being at aforementioned crazy lady's side instead of staying here in London.

"What?" John gasped out, tears dripping from his lashes.

"Read Mary's letter, John."

John shook his head again, but pulled out the thick paper, and opened it with unsteady hands.

John-

I couldn't wait to show you our baby girl. I would have sent pictures earlier, but she was shy the first time I tried to find out what we were having, so I refrained from sending pictures until now. If I was there, I would have asked you whether or not you wanted to know her sex, but since I am here, and as I cannot return alone without someone getting upset, I believed this was the better alternative.

I'm fine, John. I am happy, and healthy despite the continued morning sickness that comes and goes. I'm not in any danger, and there's no one threatening me or our unborn child. Thank Violet for me again, will you? I wouldn't be enjoying my current circumstances without her…. or Sherlock, really.

I wouldn't be where I am now without you, either.

Thank you, John.

You and I are sharing the greatest gift two people could possibly have in their lives. A child. A daughter. My heart breaks and heals just saying the words aloud as I write this. We're having a baby.

I know you, John Watson. I know you want me back in London, so you can watch over me, and over her. I know you feel cheated, and hurt. I am so sorry.

Don't be sad, John. I am happy, and loved where I am. So is she. And don't worry about being here when it's time. Our mutual acquaintance will make arrangements, so please trust me, if not her, when I send for you, no matter the means by which it happens, or when. I'll try and send a warning if I can. Just be ready.

I've enclosed possible baby names I like on the second sheet of the letter. Please feel free to agree or disagree, or add ones of your own. Leave the list with your choices on the mantel, and our mutual acquaintance will see it backs it back to me.

I love you, John.

-MM

P.S- Yes, Sherlock can come too, when it's time. If he wants.

John felt his tears dry on their own. He sucked in a cleansing breath, and slowly let it go, feeling the sadness and grief fade away, Marys' words easing something inside of him he didn't realize was there.

Sherlock peered up at his face from his spot on the floor, and John gave him a tremulous smile, cupping his face with hand now steady and sure. John brushed the silky curls, ran his thumb over the dark arch of his brows, and gazed deeply into the heavenly eyes of his detective.

"How did you know it was from Mary? You knew before I opened it, didn't you?" John asked softly, curious, his heart at peace.

"The envelope is the same type a certain consulting criminal used when he sent me a letter, my name in female script across the front. I suspect it was his sister's handwriting then, too." Sherlock made no mention of names, yet John knew very well who he was referring to.

The Moriarty siblings.

Both were officially dead. One they knew for certain was alive. And the other…. Sherlock believed he lived, too.

But that was a conversation they'd avoided having for a couple of weeks, and John wasn't going to have it now. Not now, his daughter's ultrasound picture at hand, his heart full of love and pain and an overwhelming mess of impatience and dread.

John sighed loudly, and leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Sherlock's neck. He hugged his detective to him, and Sherlock hugged him back. John leaned on his lover, and let himself feel.

Jan 16th

Harrow

8:00 AM

"I said not to move, James," Sherrin grabbed his hair, and lifted his head from the mattress with a single hard yank. Jim growled, making Sherrin tighten his grip as the older man moved over him.

The shackles held him spread wide and open, the leather cuffs impossible to fight as Sherrin rested his weight fully on top of him. Jim groaned, anger and lust raging in his gut as he felt Sherrin's hands run down his shoulders, over his back, gripping his hips. Big, strong hands that held no kindness, only a perfect awareness of how rough he could be before Jim's body broke and he crossed that unspoken line. Sherrin never crossed it, yet Jim's threshold was so deeply off course from any sane person's limits that Jim knew that every time Sherrin took him, he risked a most inglorious end.

"What's your safeword, my dear boy?" Sherrin whispered harshly in his ear, and Jim laughed sharply at the incongruously civil sentence, the courtesy. Not that Sherrin would heed him if he ever broke and used his safeword- it was uttered merely for the titillation.

"Mayhem," Jim huffed out, and he felt Sherrin grin widely against his neck, his sharp teeth finding purchase on his vulnerable flesh. Jim hissed, then tensed all over as Sherrin lifted above him, naked skin rubbing and tugging as Sherrin yanked harder on the pulley system, forcing his arms and legs wider, stretching him taut in all four directions.

The mattress bounced under him as Sherrin reached for a pillow, folding it in half and shoving it under Jim's hips, raising his ass, his bare skin tingling at the thought of him spread open, totally helpless, the control he so prized wrested from him. The man above him was violence and death personified; and yet he let him touch him, expose him, fuck him.

Jim's mind, as ever, rebelled at the loss of his control, and his body responded, instinctively fighting the shackles. Sherrin sat naked on the back of his knees, well accustomed to this moment of rebellion in Jim. He couldn't stop himself; he roared and raged and threatened, pulling until his muscles screamed and his throat was harsh. Jim lost track of time, his mind and body fighting each other, the arousal and the indignity of his situation colliding. He didn't know how long the battle raged, yet when it was over, lust was yet again the winner.

Sherrin waited, and Jim only recalled his was there still once he moved over him, fingers running up the back of his legs, massaging hard, kneading at his buttocks. Jim was hot, and tired, and every muscle in his body ached, yet his cock still jumped as Sherrin spread his ass cheeks, thumbs pressing at his entrance.

"Say it, James," Sherrin ordered, pushing with both thumbs. Jim felt the ring of muscles clenching, resisting, but his cock loved the tension, leaking over the pillow under his hips. Jim shook his head, refusing to give in this final time- refused to let Sherrinford bloody Holmes know exactly what he wanted, what he savagely needed. His body burned, he was being devoured by the flames in his soul, his mind torn asunder by the lust and the rage and the absolute disbelief that this man was owning him and that he wanted more.

"Say it!" Sherrin pushed one last time, the friction without lubrication almost too much for him to endure- Jim finally capitulated, and yelled his answer as Sherrin's thumbs breached him, shocking his whole body.

"I want to destroy them all!"

"Good boy." A deep chuckle echoed over him, and Jim cursed his inability to see, as he had a wrenching sense of déjà vu… and that for a second, he thought the other Homes was in the room, holding him down. That split second hardened him further, and left him panting with want.

Jim bucked and squirmed as Sherrin relented at last, dipping one thick digit inside of him, the other withdrawing, and then returning dripping with lubricant and easing the passage of his fingers. Sherrin slicked him thoroughly, all the while Jim was left a quivering collection of conflicted muscles and excited cock.

When at last Sherrin covered him completely, the Holmes' long body forcing him into the mattress, the shackles pulled tightly at the added weight, only then did Jim surrender. The chaos in his head waned like fog over the river, the sun rising high in the morning sky. Sherrin was the sun, burning out the niggling side voices, the tenuous, sporadic flights of anger and mania. Sherrin burned it all out, and left behind only absolute purpose, conviction that no matter what happened to him, his plans would continue. He would succeed.

So when Sherrin finally entered him, his thick masterful length stretching him wide and thrusting without hesitation to the hilt, Jim completely let go. And lived in the fire.

Jim stepped out the front door of Sherrin's house, the building boarded up and closed, the real estate agent's sign still out on the iron wrought gate. Anyone looking form the street wouldn't be able to tell that the townhouse had a new owner, nor that it was occupied.

His body was stiff, muscles strained slightly from Sherrin's ….. Over exuberance. His lip curled, recalling the barely restrained violence that had coiled out from the older man. Not long after Sherrin's initial examination of his 'living canvas', the Holmes brother had damn near dragged him downstairs, and they'd barely made it to one of the sparsely decorated bedroom and the plain bed before Sherrin ripped off his clothes and …..devoured him. Jim grinned as he recollected Sherrin's propensity for carting around multiple sets of shackles, and rolled his neck and shoulders, feeling them again as his muscles complained. Sherrin, for all his savagery, always left him refreshed, his mind clear, his schemes and plans laid out before his mind's eye in wonderful detail.

His driver was waiting, and Jim discreetly got in the back of the Cadillac, the vehicle high class without being obvious. He needed the subconscious deference afforded to a wealthy person on the road, yet the subtlety of being one among many such people on London's streets. It was imperative that he remain unseen.

Of course, saving Sherlock Holmes' life months earlier probably didn't help matters in that regard, yet all his watchers kept assuring him that Sherlock wasn't looking for him, not openly at least. It was if Sherlock had forgotten all about Jim Moriarty pulling his ass out of the fire. Literally.

He couldn't let Sherlock die, not like that. Not in a fire, consumed by something as boring as flames, instead of his sister's wrath, or his scheming and manipulations. No- the end of Sherlock Holmes would come by the hand of a Moriarty, or not at all. And devil help the fool who sought to take what was claimed by a Moriarty.

He shouldn't have been watching, not that night. Being back in London was such a bad idea, especially after Moran let himself get caught, by Sherlock Holmes off all people. It was so sad, recalling those couple of weeks the previous autumn. Not sad for Sherlock and Co., but for Jim. His carefully orchestrated diffusion of blame onto the North Koreans was wasted as Lord Sebastian Moran failed in his mission, got caught by Sherlock, and then let Jaime kill him…. with a kiss, no less. All of it rang like a bad melodrama on late night telly.

If only his operative hadn't died, then MI6 giving credence to another dead spy's words….. Then they would have let Sherlock keep racing around on the Continent, tearing down the old syndicate as Jim built another one in his wake, the foundations of the old supporting the new.

One hiccup after another. After two years of perfection, his plans threatened to unravel past the point of salvage all because one man, Moran, failed to push a damn button. Never mind that Sherlock disabled the bombs. Moran was at fault for the whole of it, and he was past Jim's grasp. And then, when he thought his darling sister would rescue his grand schemes and destroy London on her own, all out of loyalty to her brother, she went ahead and….. Horrors!…..fell in love.

The most utterly boring cliché of all time was redemption through love. And Mary Morstan, once the best hired killer in the world, made his madcap baby sister trip over her training and convictions and fall in love, redeeming the both of them and giving them a new team to play for, innuendo meant. Twice.

Jim wanted to gag. This love business was sickening.

Then…. THEN…. Someone activated Reaper. The failsafe. The failsafe that Jim was certain Jaime would never activate because it would mean she really had let him go, and decided to live her life without his influence. That she would be in charge, when her place had always been to follow, and ONLY him. He never saw it coming, so two weeks prior, when she freed Reaper and took over, Jim was left confounded. In total disbelief.

Yet Reaper was activated, and it changed the dynamic of his plans. She was now Lady M in truth, and her lowly lieutenant her chief disciple. With the whisper of Reaper racing around the world, Jaime single handedly picked up the reins of the old inner web of the syndicate, and without her knowledge, almost all of the new strings of the web as well. He wasn't out in the cold; thankfully he had foreseen the wisdom of weaving himself, under an alias, into the web before Reaper locked out all of his old commands and passwords, giving the lot to Jaime.

For Jim to destroy London and the Holmes brothers, he would need to bring his sister to heel. His favorite weapon was enjoying far too much autonomy.

Time for her to remember who was in charge. And once Jim tamed his wayward sister, he would start knocking down the hallowed halls of London, the UK, and the Western world.

Jim Moriarty was back, and he wouldn't stop until the world was burning. And he would be the one throwing the fuel on the flames.

…... And having a Holmes helping him, spurring him on?

The flames would never die.