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

A/N: Sorry for the long wait between chapters. Real life interrupted.

Special thanks to my editing awesomeness-personified Silvereyedbitch for her help. I lurve you!

WARNING: SEX. BLOOD. MURDER. Enjoy!

Chapter 61

"A Living Ghost"

London, Mycroft's Townhouse

January 16th, 9:00 AM

"Sir, the reports are in from our operatives on the Serbia issue." Mycroft's temporary aide told him, and the spymaster barely acknowledged him as he held his hand out for the folder. The bookish, thin and very nervous aide gulped once, and handed over the folder, arm outstretched as if he were afraid of losing his fingers.

Mycroft sent him a quick glance, already mentally dismissing this young man from his list of possible personal assistants. Far too timid to be of use in the long term as he seemed to be more afraid of Mycroft as time passed, not less. Fear was a useful quality to have in his people, but a personal assistant for him needed to be made of sterner stuff.

Like Anthea.

Mycroft's fingers tightened briefly on the folder, his eyes shutting as he fought back the pain he felt, just from thinking her name. At least, the name she let the world call her. Mycroft was the only man, the only person left alive who knew the name she was born with, the name she let go the day she accepted the job at his side. It would take John Watson to spur her to make her final choice of her new name, and Mycroft tried to recall the sense of levity he had gotten when she told him about the doctor's attempt at flirting on the same night he tried to buy the man to spy on Sherlock.

"You alone know my real name. Will you whisper it into the dark night air? So that I can hear you say it, and so you know that you will never be alone, no matter where I may be?"

"Darling?" Mycroft opened his eyes quickly, lifting his head to see Gregory leaning on the doorway of his private office, the one adjacent to the bunker on the basement level of his townhouse. He'd keyed Gregory's palm signature into the security systems, so the DI could move freely about the house as needed. It was a fact he didn't share with MI6, and he was keeping it that way. The less his peers knew about his lover, the better.

"Yes, Gregory?" Mycroft struggled to put aside his sadness, lest his lover see it, and know the cause behind his depression. He wasn't that successful, as the DI's kind eyes caressed his face, showing the spymaster that Gregory saw the lack of sleep, the paleness, his exhaustion dragging on his thoughts and emotions. He was tired of being tired, and he hated letting his lover see his pain, even if the other man never complained or made one negative comment about the source of his grief.

He didn't deserve Gregory Lestrade. Sainthood was too insignificant for the DI and his endless patience.

"I'm off, got a meeting at the Yard, but I'll be back early tonight. Unless Sherlock has something for me on the new case, anyways," Gregory told him, entering the office. The aide scurried unremarked from the room, dodging around the bigger form of the DI. He wasn't an overly large man, but he had an air about him that clearly communicated he had a weapon, and he didn't mind using it. Mycroft knew that wasn't the case, as Gregory was a relatively easy going man who rarely lost his temper, but it served to protect him if people thought him more prone to violence than he was. So Mycroft never corrected his peoples' erroneous assumptions, and hoped Gregory never did either.

Mycroft grimaced at the mention of his little brother, and the DI caught it, giving him a tiny roll of his eyes. He hadn't spoken to or seen his brother in weeks, and had no intention of doing so in the near future. He wasn't stopping Gregory though, and no matter his issues with Sherlock, his brother's assistance with his lover's cases would insure the DI would be spending less time at the Yard, and more time with Mycroft. Gregory was aware of how he felt, and kept the mentions of his brother to a minimum.

He leaned back in his chair, as his lover rounded his desk. Mycroft felt his body sit up and take notice and his blood warm as he watched Gregory stride to him. He was still tall and fit and strong, despite his gray hair and the faint lines around his eyes. His lover reached his side, and Mycroft gave him a small smile as Gregory reached out and turned his chair, spinning his chair gently to face him. Mycroft leaned further back, as Gregory lightly nudged his knees apart and stepped between them, leaning down over him. He braced his hands on the armrests of the chair, and Gregory moved in those last few inches, noses touching, lips barely restrained from kissing.

"Miss me while I'm gone?" Gregory whispered, his dark eyes glinting as he teased, not closing that last distance and giving Mycroft the kiss he wanted, that he needed. He groaned quietly, and sought out Gregory's lips, stealing a small kiss. It was the barest of contact, soft yet firm lips rubbing, nibbling, before it deepened, became more. The taste of him, the feel of his warm, wet mouth and strong tongue filled him with a deep, everlasting sensation of heat and love. The sadness evaporated, and Mycroft forgot his lack of sleep, the stress of missions gone awry and people dying. The only thought he had was of Gregory, and the taste of his kiss.

Mycroft pulled back for air, and searched his lover's eyes. He saw an answering love, and his heart stuttered. "I always miss you when we're apart, my love," he whispered, mindful of where he was, and who may be listening. His people were never far away, not here on the business end of the house. Gregory's eyes warmed at the rare bit of silly sentiment that Mycroft couldn't restrain, and his lover gave him a quick kiss before standing up.

"I'll call if I get delayed, either by the case, or Sherlock." Gregory wasn't afraid to mention Mycroft's brother, and he bit back his annoyance. No matter how much he may want to, he wouldn't ask Gregory to stay away from Sherlock. His nerves were strained, a nebulous fear whispering in his heart that people always ended up hurt or dead the longer they stayed near Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft watched as Gregory left his office, giving him a scorching glance over his shoulder before disappearing down the hall. His escort peeled away from the far wall of the hallway where they'd waited for the DI, and Mycroft sighed in relief as he remembered that even if the master of MI6 wasn't there to personally watch over DI Lestrade, then at least his operatives were.

Violet was walking up the short steps of her uncle's townhouse just as the door opened, and Greg stepped out. He grinned wide as he saw her, and she sprinted up the steps, hugging him enthusiastically. He held her just as tightly as she held him, lifting her off her toes for a moment before letting her down gently. She got the faintest hint of her uncle's cologne from the DI, and grinned again at the adorable couple things they did, like sharing toiletries and even dressing alike. If she wasn't mistaken, Greg was wearing one of her uncle's long coats and he looked sexy as hell, the dark blue accentuating the silver of his hair and the flash of his smile.

"How's my favorite Holmes?" Greg asked her, and she winked at him in return, making him blush. She laughed, and hugged him once more before stepping back.

"I'm okay. Here to annoy my uncle. Going off to play catch-and-incarcerate with Sherlock and John?"

"Letting Sherlock run with things on his own today, I've got a meeting at the Yard with my bosses." Greg shifted on his feet, and she bit back a smile, trying not to let on she knew about the meeting. "Not that I could ever stop Sherlock from running with a case anyways."

He must be getting good at reading her, as his eyes narrowed suspiciously and he thrust his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels.

"Alright, give it up. You know something."

"Not telling." Violet grinned, thinking she really ought to hack back into the Yard's security feeds and watch Greg as he met with his superiors. She really wanted to see his face when he learned why he was being requested at such a high level appointment.

"Not even a hint?" Greg asked, resorting to begging. He really was a handsome man, thick hair the shade of a winter fox's fur, and just as luxurious. His face was young and with few lines, and his body was muscled and healthy, fully recovered from the near-death shooting he'd experienced months earlier. If she went that way at all, her uncle would have some serious competition. Violet smothered that thought, thinking her track record of being attracted to people who were in love with her uncle was way too weird to handle this early in the morning.

"No hints, just a piece of advice. Say yes," Violet told him, causing him to squint warily at her as the wind picked up, bitterly cold and reminding her that she was wearing clothing more suited for spring and not the depths of winter. She shivered, and shoved him good-naturedly down a step, to the town car idling at the curb for him. "Go on, that's not something you want to be late for."

"I swear, if it's not one of your uncles, it's the other, and now I've got you to deal with…." Greg lamented with a smile and a shake of his head, and he waved as the valet opened the door for him. Violet waved back, and watched as the car took off for Scotland Yard.

Definitely spying on that meeting. He's going to be fucking floored when he hears what the brass have to say.

Violet leapt up the remaining stairs, and swanned her way through the door, smiling at the guards in the front foyer of her uncle's house. She had an uncle to see about her father, and she wasn't going to take No for an answer.

January 16th

Baker Street

John exhaled loudly, and dropped the file he was reading on the floor beside his chair, papers shooting out as the impact disturbed the other files carelessly discarded after he determined they were useless. Not that his opinion of useless would stop Sherlock from tearing through the case files anyway, even with John's endorsement of their relevance.

Sherlock was clicking away at John's laptop, and the doctor grinned at this familiar and annoying sight. Even years on, Sherlock still refused to use his own laptop, never mind that his was merely inches away. John was inured to the consulting detective's habit of treating the doctor's belongings as his own, and he suspected he'd miss it if he ever had to go without Sherlock in his life…again.

"Okay, Sherlock. I've got the files organized by similar kill styles, MOD, and victims. Kill styles by how the victims were killed, MOD by where the bodies were found and condition they were left in, and all victims of a similar type are correlated together. There's overlap, as apparently the majority of serial killers like to target young, beautiful women. Fucking depraved, that." John got up, and pointed to each stack, as Sherlock barely tipped his head in his direction. It may look like the detective wasn't listening, but John could tell by the way the man's muscles moved under his silk blue robe across his shoulders that he heard every word. Sherlock could multitask better than Mycroft's army of aides in the bunker.

Sherlock stood, one finger tapping the mouse pad on the laptop. John couldn't make out the screen, he thought it was a picture of some kind, but couldn't tell past Sherlock's arm. His head was down, and he was still, but for the tap tap tap of his nail on the plastic casing.

"What?" John asked, sitting up, feeling a change in the air. Sherlock was on to something, his thoughts spinning. John could tell, never mind he couldn't see his detective's face. Sherlock exuded an air of realization, as palpable as shock or anger emitted by an average soul.

"You read all the files?" Sherlock asked, his deep voice rumbling, the words clear and concise.

"Yes."

"Can you arrange them by location? Unusual body dumps or kill sites?"

"Um, yeah, have it that way already…or nearly? How unusual are you wanting?" John got up, and grabbed the piles relating to where the bodies were found. He walked to the desk, arms full of case files, and finally got a glimpse of the screen. It was the weathervane from the rooftop, zoomed in on the black iron design. It was a twisted relic of Gothic nightmares, a monster of some kind rearing back on what could be two legs, heavily clawed. It was catlike in appearance, slim to the point of being serpentine, and the ancient iron was black and heavy.

John was arrested by the ominous sensation of being watched that seemed to pour off the screen, the zoomed in picture from Sherlock's mobile glaringly clear and making him feel like they were back on that rooftop. He could almost smell the blood.

"John?"

He snapped out of the near trance-like state he was in, the eerie tingles falling away.

"What?" John asked, pretending not to see the bemused smile on Sherlock's face. "Here's the files." He dropped the stack, and Sherlock reached out a pale hand for the top folder, never taking his eyes from his doctor.

"Stop looking at me like that," John demanded, and his glower bounced ineffectually off Sherlock, as usual.

"How am I looking at you?" Sherlock asked, sounding all prim and restrained, when John knew he was anything but.

"Like you're reading my mind and laughing inside." John grumbled, grabbing another folder, contents full of blood and gore on silky smooth HD pictures. He flipped it, so used to the horrific pictures he hardly saw the images anymore.

"I don't look at you like that." Sherlock acted aghast, but John saw through to it to the tiny twitch on his lips, the detective's eyes glowing as John glared.

"Yes, you do. And what was that epiphany you had just a minute ago?" John tossed the folder, and pointed at Sherlock, making the taller man quirk a single brow. "I know you did….. You got another look."

"All these looks you say I have, must be difficult keeping them all straight."

"Easy as all get out, actually. Things always go crazy right after you get one. Survival on my part. Now spill."

Sherlock watched him for a heartbeat more, and then spun back to the laptop, turning the screen so John could see the weathervane in all its creepy glory. He didn't realize he called it that aloud until Sherlock huffed softly in amusement, enlarging the image with a few clicks.

"Why did the killer choose this spot? Sure, the location does a lot for ego and bravado, sends a statement and a challenge all in one. But there's comparable buildings, and easier to get to the roof. That crane being there was either a stroke of convenient luck to see at a pre-chosen spot, he chose the building because the crane was already there, or he arranged for it to be there. Two of the three options imply that building was what he wanted for his London premiere. So, going with the options with the highest likelihood, his placement was also important. What does that all mean?"

"He knows London rooftops? He's Batman," John sniped, following along but aggravated by the thought of one more psychopath out there to tangle with, this one cutting up innocent women and leaving their bodies in horrible tableaus.

"Yes, our new killer is Batman. Brilliant John, put a call into Gotham, they've lost a superhero." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and tapped the screen again.

"Wait, you don't know who the current Monarch is, but you know about Batman?" John asked, eyes wide, trying not to laugh. Sherlock was just too much sometimes. "He's an American superhero, too!"

"The Americans occasionally get things right, my dear doctor. And I was a boy, once upon a time. He used to be called the 'superhero detective,' so of course I know who Batman is. Now focus John, stop avoiding the creepy monster in the harmless weathervane." Sherlock ran a finely manicured nail over the lines of the monster, and John followed its path, distracted by the strong fingers of his lover.

"This is why he chose that rooftop. This monster, here, captured in ancient iron and left adrift on the elements. Tongue in cheek this killer is not; he knows what he is. He knows he's a monster. This is him." Sherlock's voice grew soft, his words hissing out near the end, snagging John's attention completely. Sherlock was intent on the monster, his finger paused over its heart. His heavenly eyes were burning, and John knew that look.

Sherlock was enjoying himself. Personal history aside with serial killers, Sherlock Holmes reveled in the hunt.

"So he knew about that weathervane in particular, then. Obviously," John thought about it, and chewed on his lower lip. "Right?"

"Hhhmmmm," was Sherlock's reply, and John rolled his eyes. "Yes, John. Illuminating as always." Sherlock smirked and John huffed quietly, a wry smile on his lips. "Not that knowing about the weathervane is in itself a clue. Anyone with decent eyesight and walking the street below on a fairly routine basis would know about it. Subtle it is not. No John- the weathervane is an indicator of the killer's mental thought process, how he sees himself, how he wants us to see him, not as a clue to his actual identity. At least not yet. I think we'll be seeing more monsters haunting this case before it is over."

John dropped his head; shoulders slumped, dreading Sherlock's prediction for the future and at the same time feeling excited. Sherlock wasn't the only one who enjoyed the hunt, and they were sorely lacking in high caliber criminals the last few weeks.

"I think we'll be seeing a pattern from our killer, John. Mythical and legendary monsters, creatures of lore at or near dump sites for his victims. Hand me my phone, will you? I need to text Lestrade."

John sighed, seeing the detective's mobile weighing down the pocket of his blue silk robe. Sherlock was busy sitting back down, typing away on John's laptop, and he leaned over, hand digging in his pocket. John pulled out the younger man's mobile, and handed it over, Sherlock not looking up from the computer as he took the phone on a long fingered hand. John dropped a kiss on the messy curls, and rubbed a hand across the lean shoulders of his lover. Sherlock hummed softly, absently enjoying the caress, and John smiled.

Jan. 16th

Mycroft's Townhouse

Violet glared at the aide as he ran away from her down the hall, nearly tripping over his own feet as he tried to keep one eye on her and one eye on the floor in front of him. He rounded the corner of the hall, and she heard a muffled crash. She assumed the aide went sliding and smacked into the wall or floor. Violet snorted loudly, before giving in to her laughter.

"What exactly is so funny, Violet?" Mycroft asked drolly, moving papers around on his great oak desk as she walked in from the hall. Violet shut the door behind her, clicking the lock, and Mycroft merely raised a single brow, in a manner identical to Sherlock's. He wouldn't appreciate hearing that bit of sentiment, so she just smirked at him.

"I think they get even more frightened of me every time I come by. Who's telling them horror stories before bed about the scary American girl?" Violet quipped, throwing her coat and bag on top of Mycroft's desk, before dropping herself in one of the leather chairs across from her uncle.

"I don't, if that's what you're asking. You scare them enough on your own without any help from me." Mycroft leaned back in his chair, hands on the rests, and he sent her a look that would unnerve a lesser mortal. She just smiled back. "To what do I owe this pleasure, niece of mine?"

"Seems you're the main source of intel I need to talk to about my father." Mycroft's face blanked as she spoke, growing pale and his eyes flinty, but she pushed on. "I asked Sherlock about my dad, but I think I broke him. John reminded me that he was just a kid through it all, and if I wanted to know about my dad, I should ask you."

Violet held her breath, afraid she'd get shown the door; or be witness to a rare display of Mycroft's temper. She was even prepared to blackmail her way into learning what she wanted to know, several of MI6's current ops' files not as secure as they could be, and vulnerable to an intrepid hacker with family issues. Of course, ever since she created the Kingdom Key and gave it to Mycroft, the UK was a lot more secure than the rest of the world, and she wasn't about to muck up her hard work by messing with MI6 and its missions. Not that Mycroft would know that, but still. She had limits. Sometimes.

"Mycroft?" Violet asked softly, after a few minutes of total silence from the spymaster.

Mycroft blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and his eyes found her face. She knew, instinctively, that he wasn't seeing her, but her father, the resemblance between them marked and extreme. It was a wound that her whole family felt when they saw her, but for Sherlock. Where it would take Mycroft or her grandparents a nanosecond to recover upon seeing her after a long stretch of time, Sherlock was never bothered to begin with. He was free of hang ups about her appearance, and she loved him all the more for it.

"Come with me." Mycroft stood quickly, around his desk and halfway to the door before she finished registering his words. She leaped to her feet, and grabbed her coat and bag as she ran out the door behind Mycroft. He led the way to the bunker, and she followed him through the door.

"Everyone out. Come back in two hours." Mycroft's voice carried out over the large, cavernous space, echoing off the walls, startling the occupants. Aides all jumped to their feet, securing stations before hurrying past Violet and Mycroft where they stood by the door. "Down here."

Violet gave some of them sickly sweet smiles as a few gave her nasty looks, probably for all the times she made them look like idiots. It wasn't her fault, either. Some of them really were idiots. MI6 should've hired smarter people.

Violet followed him as he went towards the second level of the bunker, a grand, flat expanse of a floor that she recognized as Sherlock's Mind Palace made real, a virtual holographic projection interface that let her youngest uncle share his leaps of genius with other people. Violet stopped at the bottom of the stairs, as Mycroft returned to her from his short side-trip to a station nearby. In his hands was as small, black lacquered box, and he opened the lid. Inside was a wireless earpiece, like she had for her cell, and two bracelets, wide enough to fit a man's wrist.

"Sherlock's Mind Palace program? But he's not here." Violet looked up at Mycroft, his face creased by frown lines, brows tense over his eyes. "Isn't it engineered to interact with him alone?"

"Yes, it is. Yet you and he are so similar, so alike, it will work for you. Of that I have no doubt." Mycroft removed the two bracelets from the box, leaving the earpiece inside and closed it, tossing the obviously expensive box lightly to the stairs were it landed with a soft thump. Violet dropped her coat and bag beside the box, as Mycroft fitted one bracelet, then the other to her slim wrists, tightening them somehow. They appeared to be solid, yet were strangely lightweight, nearly impossible to sense unless she thought hard about them.

She shook out her arms, and watched the lights in the bunker play off the smooth finish of the bracelets. Mycroft's fingers were warm, and moved with a grace she wasn't accustomed to seeing in her eldest uncle. She watched his face, instead of his hands, and found herself saying a thought she never meant to air aloud.

"It's always been you, hasn't it?" Violet said, the words pulled out, impossible to stop. She needed to say them, yet part of her dreaded it. She felt an odd urge to speak of something other than the wound that bled in the space between them. "You've always been the odd duck out, the one who didn't fit. Sherrinford, Sherlock, me...even Grandpa. We're all so alike, and yet you are so different from the rest of us."

Mycroft held her wrists, not looking up. She couldn't see his eyes, the angle of his face obscuring his thoughts. She pushed on anyway, knowing he was listening. "Sure, there are some mannerisms that are the same, learned behaviors and traits. Yet you've always felt different, different from both your brothers, even your father, when they were all so similar." Mycroft stilled, his fingers gripping her wrists more firmly, and she flipped her hands, to hold his. She'd never really held his hand, but for a few terror-filled moments here and there. He held her hands in return, as if starved for the contact; not knowing he was wanting from lack of touch. "It's why I'm wearing the bracelets to run Sherlock's ego builder, and not you. You can't make it work."

"No, I can't." His affirmation was said simply, without bitterness. Easy tone and diction, relaxed, yet full of something that made her hold him tighter. "And I have always been different. I learned this early on. And I am thankful for that difference, that lack of cohesion with our little family unit. It spared me the worst of the family's gifts." Mycroft looked up at last, green eyes dark with contained emotion, and she saw in them a powerful thought that made her skin shiver. "Our family has always had three gifts: Genius, madness, and anger."

Violet opened her mouth, but found no words to speak. She waited, eyes intent on his. He had more to say.

"Genius in its full glory is fueled by madness, and the madness is worsened by the genius. They go hand in hand. The curse, the payment if you will for the intellect we all share has always been a devastating temper." Violet didn't know how to respond, so she didn't. "Sherlock celebrates the madness as much as the genius. He enjoys his flashes of temper, exercising bare amounts of control. Sherlock is a fine balancing act of the three traits. It is an art for him, as much as his skill with bow and violin. Sherrinford…. Sherrin made no effort to balance the three. He indulged them all, reveling in the joys of genius, madness, and anger. That, I believe, along with a disturbing sociopathic diagnosis, is what led him down the path of blood and death….. and I….. I learned to separate the three. I have compartmentalized my own personality, so that I will never be vulnerable or susceptible to the passions and drives that exist in every Holmes. And that, dear niece of mine, is why I cannot use Sherlock's interface. I refuse to give in to the passion. The madness and emotions we feel so strongly are kept far from my surface thoughts. This machine is matched to how Sherlock thinks, as his thoughts are then interpreted into motion. As he thinks and moves so do you."

"What of me?" Violet queried. There was an ache in her chest, a vulnerability she wasn't used to feeling. "What do you see in me?"

Mycroft gave her a tight smile, and his hands grew hard around her fingers, almost biting. She didn't flinch, unafraid.

"You, Violet, you are a Holmes, through and through. The genius, a touch of the madness, even a dash of Sherlock's brand of sociopathic behavior. Yet where we men have the fury and temper and the manic reaches, you do not. There hasn't been a Holmes daughter in a very long time, and I think you are the exception to the family's penchant for insanity. You have an equilibrium that we lack, a natural bulwark. What I struggle to maintain on a daily basis, you achieve with ease."

"That's reassuring…. Well fuck, now I feel left out." Violet muttered, and Mycroft dropped her hands, smirking at her. The seriousness of the last few minutes was gone, and she silently asked her uncle what was next.

"I'll set it up for voice activation. You have two hours, Violet." Mycroft walked up the steps, and went to the nearest station, and she heard a deep muted roar of generators powering up in the far reaches of the room. "I'll be back once your time is up."

"Wait!" she called as he was about to walk out. He turned back, hands in his pockets, clearly impatient. "I thought Sherlock said that everything about my father was erased. Destroyed."

"That's what I wanted everyone to think. That's what I wanted Sherrin to think, what I wanted Sherlock to think." Mycroft told her, his words floating across the distance between them. "The password for his files is 'Brother Mine'."

With that he was gone, the great door to the bunker gliding shut, locking her in with nothing but an oppressive solitude and the ghost of her father.

I thought I went through every file MI6 had. How did I miss the files on my father? How did Mycroft hide them from me?

Jan. 16th

Scotland Yard

"Wait. What?" Greg was beyond shocked, heart in his throat, blood rushing so loudly in his ears he was certain he was either having a panic attack or was about to pass out. Probably both.

"I said, Detective Inspector Lestrade that you are to receive the Queen's Medal for Gallantry, for exemplary service to your country in the line of duty," Sir Albert Josephson, Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police Service reiterated. He was a large man, with a bald head, small thin silver framed glasses, and a white mustache that only served to bleach the color from his already pale cheeks. He had bright blue eyes though, that were sparkling now in mischief as Greg tried to fathom the words the Commissioner was saying.

"I will?" Greg knew he was looking like an idiot, but he couldn't get over the shock. The Queen's Medal was reserved for heroes. It was for people who did amazing and astounding things, often dying in the process, while saving countless lives. It was for people…. It wasn't for people like him, an over forty divorced DI who was in love with a man he couldn't really talk about to family and his few friends, and who spent his free time drinking beer on a couch worth more than his entire year's salary, watching football on a television that wasn't his either, who let a self-admitted sociopath help him solve crimes. Such an honor wasn't for men like plain old Gregory Lestrade.

"Yes, DI Lestrade, you will. The ceremony will take place next month, and the reception gala will be held at The Dorchester, hosted by the Metropolitan Police Force and Buckingham Palace. I expect your full cooperation and participation with the press and media as we get closer to the event." Commissioner Josephson leaned back in his chair, the expensive seat creaking ominously under his massive frame. "I understand you're divorced. Do you have a significant other we need to be including in the photo shoots for the Times and the Guardian?"

Greg gaped, mouth working, no sound escaping. He snapped his mouth shut, and rubbed a hand over his face. He had a significant other for certain… but Mycroft was never going to step in front of a photographer. He couldn't be spymaster of MI6 and have a public profile.

"Um, I'll have to get back to you on that issue, sir. Photo shoots? Gala? Are you serious?" He was wishing this was a cosmic joke. Now he understood Violet's glee on the front steps of the townhouse this morning. He should have gone with his gut and run back inside the damn house.

"You're a national hero now. You stopped domestic terrorists from blowing up a bloody hospital, learned how to shut the rest of the bombs off, took out two terrorists, and got shot doing it, nearly dying in the process. That's hero material right there, and exactly the kind of publicity the Yard needs right now. The same kind of press the Palace needs right now too. We'll also be setting up interviews with your family and friends, coworkers in Homicide. There's no getting out of it, either."

"I…yes, sir." What else can I say? Please don't do this, my family hates my guts because they're homophobes, my lover is really the man who rules the Isles and he can't be on the front page with your new national hero, and my case closure rate is owed to one of the few people I can call a friend, a sociopath the Yard thought it drove to suicide two years ago?

"You have a day to get back to my office about who will be accompanying you on the photo shoot. It's at the end of the week." Greg nearly swallowed his tongue at that. He sat in shock, barely able to move as the Commissioner stood, buttoning his suit jacket. He stared up at the top brass, before remembering his manners and standing, too, hardly able to feel his feet, much less his legs.

"I have some meetings to be getting along to; it was a pleasure seeing you this morning. I believe you have a new case that needs your attention?" Greg nodded, mind still overwhelmed as the Commissioner placed a large beefy hand on his shoulder and guided him out of the office. "I look forward to seeing more of you, Detective Inspector. Keep making us look good in the papers."

He got a slap on the shoulder as the Commissioner walked off, flanked by a personal aide and two uniforms, disappearing around the corner. Greg was left on the top floor of the Yard, a steel and glass environment that felt as foreign as the surface of the moon. All he wanted in that moment was to go home, find Mycroft, and pretend the last thirty minutes hadn't happened.

He wasn't a hero. And his family would have plenty to say about it, too.

Especially his father.

Jan. 16th

Baker Street

The sedan paused on the curb, black and lethal-looking, and Sherlock watched as Lestrade prevaricated with whether or not to get out. After a few minutes the DI opened the door, and got out, every action screaming dismay. Sherlock watched as the car pulled away, stopping down at the corner where it idled. Two men in black suits got out of the car, leaning on its shiny exterior as they watched the street and the flat.

The bell rang, and John moved out from the kitchen, running lightly down the stairs. He heard John greet Lestrade, the two men joking easily. Sherlock turned to face the stairs, absorbed in watching Lestrade move, and as the two men gained the front room of the flat, he was convinced something was wrong.

Eyes too bright, face pale. Accelerated heart rate, sweat along his collar and difficulty swallowing. Something odd has happened. Another murder? But if that was the case, he would have come with Donovan, not in Mycroft's car. It wasn't my text about the killings either, he doesn't waste time on pleasantries when it's a case that brings him here.

"What's happened?" Sherlock demanded, interrupting John, causing both men to look at him where he stood by the window. "And don't tell me it's nothing, clearly it's something."

"Hello, Sherlock, nice to see you too. How's your morning been so far?" Lestrade quipped, but without the usual level of exasperation he normally exuded.

Sherlock waved that off, putting his hands in his pockets, and he moved in on Lestrade, the DI backing up and falling heavily onto John's chair. He stood over Lestrade, and his proximity forced the DI to look up, craning his neck. Sherlock eyed him, part of him frustrated at evolution's lack of foresight in not providing him with the ability to read minds. Things would be so much simpler. No need for talking then.

"Christ Sherlock, bored already? No luck on the dramatic serial killer?" Lestrade hedged, plucking at his coat, which Sherlock saw immediately was actually one of Mycroft's. He looked away from Sherlock, rubbing a hand over the dark blue fabric, and it was the coat that clued him in.

"You're wearing one of Mycroft's better coats. So you had someone to impress this morning, and you wanted the psychological support of wearing your lover's clothes. Meeting at the Yard?"

Lestrade swore softly under his breath, and sent him a glare. John groaned as he rolled his eyes and went to make some tea.

"You know Sherlock, I did come here to talk about that, with the two people who would understand my problems, but then you had to jump right into deducing me. Christ, you really haven't a clue sometimes."

Lestrade sounded upset, but he wasn't looking at him while talking, so Sherlock made the leap Lestrade was upset about what happened at the Yard earlier.

"Here, Greg." John came back in the room, and handed the DI a cup of tea. Lestrade took it, and stared at the liquid, as if looking for answer in the bottom of the cup.

John moved to Sherlock, and he let the shorter man gently push him away, his hands pushing down on his shoulders, making him sit. Sherlock dropped in his chair, and sniffed at John's casual manhandling of his person. John merely smiled back at him, and left, presumably getting more tea. It was a very British reaction, fetching tea in an emotional crisis. Of course, he was assuming this was an emotional crisis. He wasn't too sure, even after the last several months of nothing but emotional crises.

"Ignore him, Greg. He's out of sorts all of a sudden for some reason," John told the DI as he came back in the room, handing Sherlock one of the two cups of tea he was carrying. His dear doctor smirked at him before taking a seat at the desk, placing his tea on one of the many stacked case files crowding the surface.

Sherlock held his tea lightly with one hand, contemplating how hot it was, and whether it would scald if he drank it all in one gulp. He'd get out of this conversation for one, which was apparently about him now and not about why the DI was here.

"Why's that? You've got half of Scotland Yard's case files in this one room; think you'd be happier than a loon escaping the bin," Lestrade quipped, sipping his tea finally, giving Sherlock a small smile as he swallowed.

"You're wearing Mycroft's coat." Sherlock hadn't meant to say that, feeling irrational and out of sorts, exactly as John had stated. It shouldn't be an issue, people lived together; they invariable ended up sharing clothing. He'd found John wearing his socks on more than one occasion. So Lestrade wearing his brother's coat shouldn't be an issue at all. Yet it was.

"I am. Looks great on me. What about it?"

"Nothing." Sherlock glared at Lestrade, hoping to shut the man up about his brother and on to why he was there and not at the Yard or having inappropriate relations with Mycroft at their place…. Oh, that image would never leave him now.

"Oh good God, I know what this is about. Are you two ever going to speak again, or do I have to make sure to sterilize myself of everything Mycroft before I come over here from now on?" Lestrade exclaimed, glaring at him.

"That would be an acceptable measure, thank you." Sherlock sipped his tea, and John broke out in laughter from where he was sitting. "What?"

"You two really need to get over your squabble, it's ridiculous." Lestrade sniped at him, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"There is nothing to 'get over', as you've so eloquently put it. I am not responsible for Anthea's death, and Mycroft needs someone to blame. Woodley is dead and out of reach- and here I am, guilty merely by proximity to the attack that took her life. I have nothing to get over."

"I don't hold you responsible, and he doesn't either. Not really. You two need to talk." Lestrade put his tea down, and leaned forward, too close to Sherlock for his comfort, but he refused to back away. "He loves you, Sherlock. He's your brother, and he's grieving, and he needs you."

"I am well aware that he is my brother. And that somewhere, under all that ice, he cares for me. It's a biological drive impossible to escape. And I am also very aware that he loved her more than he has ever loved me." Sherlock looked down at his tea in disgust, flabbergasted he'd said what he had and painfully aware of the stares he was getting from both John and Lestrade. "Mycroft has only ever needed me for my talents, and my casual disregard for the laws and society's strictures in the pursuit of the truth. He does not need me, the man, to be his brother."

"Sherlock…." John reached for him, suddenly standing at his shoulder, his hand warm and strong. Sherlock dropped his tea cup on the side table, and got up. John looked up at him, deep blue eyes caressing his face, concern writ clearly over his features. Sherlock dipped down, and gave him a nearly chaste kiss, before pulling away.

"Tell your sorrows to John, Lestrade. He's better equipped to help you than I am. I'll be back." Sherlock stripped off his robe, and put on the suit jacket hanging from the back of his chair, buttoning it up tight. "I have some of my homeless network to see today before the evening rush hour begins, and John's determinedly clean cut image scares them off."

"Love, you sure?" John followed him to the flat's door, and Sherlock wrapped an arm over his shoulders, tugging him close. John hugged him tightly around the waist, and they held each other for a short moment before Sherlock pulled away.

"I'll be fine. Enjoy your heart to heart. Text me if someone else dies, Lestrade," Sherlock told the DI, who was still sitting in John's chair, jaw tight, eyes dark with something Sherlock couldn't name. John handed him his Belstaff, and Sherlock shrugged it on.

Sherlock didn't wait for a reply, running down the steps and out the front doors. The slap of frigid winter air on his face was welcome. Too many emotions were driving him insane, and he had a pressing need to escape the man who did little but remind him of the brother who refused to speak to him.

He pulled out his mobile, and flagged a cab. He had a text from someone he was expecting. One of his best contacts on the street was back in town, and had something he was claiming was worth Sherlock's time. He hopped in the cab that pulled up to the curb, and dialed Billy Wiggins as the cabbie asked him where to go.

"Vauxhall Arches," he instructed, mobile to his ear. The man he wanted to speak with answered, and Sherlock smiled, "Billy, you have something for me?"

January 16th

Evening

St Bart's Hospital

When it comes to fastidiousness, there was no one keener on that trait than Mr. Milford Wiggins, a bookish, mouse-like man who wore spectacles and raggedy, dull-colored jumpers, and spoke in a squeaky voice that made people lean in, trying to hear him. He kept his closet-sized office immaculate, and even the casual sloth of the visiting nurses and doctors to his space, with their wrappers and snack boxes and random nitrile gloves that were immediately thrown in the trash in the hall outside his office never besmirched his domain. If anyone disturbed his desk, or twitched over the small carpet in front of the door, or made a comment about the absolute sterile environment, they found themselves and their supply requests mysteriously moved to the bottom of the pile, and left there until 'more urgent' requests were seen to first.

Mr. Milford Wiggins leaned back in his chair, letting out a deep sigh of contentment, staring at the stack of supply requests sitting neatly on the center of his desk. Time was ticking down, and soon he would be on his way home. His lovely wife was making his favorite meal, and his son was expected to be visiting from Kent. Young Billy was well on his way to becoming a fine man, taking after his wife's side of the family, thin and tall and freakishly smart. Aside from his regrettable habit of recreational drug use and spending too much time on the streets of London, Mr. Wiggins was satisfied he'd done well raising his only child.

Just as he was reaching for his desk lamp to turn it off, his phone rang. He jumped, laughing nervously at his reaction. He grabbed the handset instead of shutting off the light, and looked at the wall clock over the door just as it hit 5PM.

"Hello, this is Milford Wiggins, Supplies and Blood Bank Coordinator, how can I help you?" he asked politely, wondering who he'd have to annoy this late in the day by telling them their supplies request would be seen to in the morning.

"Good evening Mr. Wiggins, this is Alice from Franciscan Blood Bank, I'm just calling to inform you that your order of packed red blood cells, all antibody types, is on its way and will be there any minute. Apologies for the delay, we had some paperwork mix ups." The woman on the other end had a lovely voice, a charming upper class accent that swayed him to his bones, even if he had no idea what she was talking about.

"I'm sorry? I thought we already had our delivery earlier in the week?" he asked, brow crinkling, fairly certain the hospital had indeed received its blood shipment a few days before. And it wasn't short by units of any type.

"Oh! Truly? But it says here the order wasn't complete….. we only sent you about half of what you ordered. This shipment completes your order, Mr. Wiggins." The woman told him, sounding very sure and slightly apologetic.

He sat back, holding the phone to his ear, and eyed the clock. It was time for him to get home; he had a roast and a prodigal son to see. And if St Bart's ended up with free blood, then he wasn't going to turn it away. He'd figure it out in the morning.

"Oh, of course, I understand now. Yes, thank you. I'll make sure Receiving knows the shipment is coming. I appreciate the follow through on the order." He tried not to sound impatient, and he silently told himself he'd sort out the issue in the morning and send a check for the balance of the extra units. Maybe.

"Excellent. Thank you Mr. Wiggins, have a wonderful evening."

He hung up the phone and grabbed his coat and hat, heading for the door and shutting off the lights as he went. The odd shipping mishap was quickly forgotten as he strode down the hall, eagerly thinking about that night's meal and grilling his son about his recent activities.

January 16th

Downtown London

7:00 PM

There is nothing more appealing than imminent catastrophe. Everything so peaceful, quiet….boring. Then the screaming starts.

Jim Moriarty adjusted his ball cap, pulling the bill lower over his eyes. The sun had set long before, but there was a chance someone would see him. It was imperative that no one learned he was in London, not until he wanted them to.

He was across the street, directly under a CCTV tower, out of sight and in the shadows, while buried in the after work rush, his people did their work. He wouldn't be here when the screaming started, as he had a date with a sociopathic serial killer to keep across town.

The cab pulled up, and he got in, nodding to the man who looked at him in the rearview mirror, eyes in shadow. No words were necessary as they left the busy downtown street behind. Things were about to get interesting.

The cab cut through traffic, heading for Hyde Park. It was Sherrin's choice, and Jim had applauded the audacity of it when the elder Holmes told him his plan earlier that morning.

The drive was short, and he was dropped off at the edge of the park. The gate here was open, allowing him to slip inside the confines of the city's most celebrated green space unobserved.

It was a charming view to be had, the trees all dormant and leafless, the grass a confused mix of green and brown, the smell of damp earth and mold carried on a brisk wind. The paths were strewn with leaves, wet in patches, and he hummed under his breath as he wound his way deeper into the park. The music was a song that played only in his head, unheard by the slumbering foliage and stone statuary he passed. Rossini's The Thieving Magpie was a favorite, and Jim grinned as he jumped along the path, sailing over an ice-crusted puddle, leather boots skidding on the stones as he sang the wordless notes aloud.

The place he sought was buried deep in the heart of the park, a large stone gazebo used for musical performances in the summer, open on all sides, with four great Ionic columns supporting an arched roof twenty feet in height. Made of gray marble and aged by lichen and decades of London's acidic rain, it was a piece of architecture that invoked childish fancies of hauntings and ghouls. A ghost haunted it even now, a tall shade dressed in white robes, his black hair lifted by the cold wind, looking down at his feet, where coiled lengths of white rope lay in wait.

Jim leapt up the few great steps to the gazebo floor, the stone reducing the temperatures further, and he walked around the trussed up bundle laid against the nearest column. She was stripped and free of clothing, one of Sherrin's thick white robes covering her exposed flesh. An odd courtesy for a serial killer, yet Sherrinford Holmes was never less than a gentleman. Sherrin's newest acquisition glared at Jim as he passed, and he sent her a tiny finger wave and a cheeky grin before turning to Sherrinford.

"All goes well, I take it? I see no other reason for an impromptu concert of Rossini amidst the weeping beeches." Sherrinford gestured with an elegant hand covered in fine Italian leather out in the direction from which Jim had come, the path shrouded by the arboreal giants, silvery limbs barren of their dark green foliage.

"The screaming commences at seven AM, just in time for London's caffeine fix and the daily trek into perpetual cubicle drudgery." Jim hopped over a length of rope, the end already anchored and looped through the pulley system hidden in the shadows overhead, used by the tech crews during the summer shows. "Shall I be the mad assistant to the brilliant master? Or do you require an audience only?"

"Just observe, James. I'll not have your presence be noted by Sherlock when he sees my work in the morning." Sherrinford gestured to the column farthest from where he stood, and Jim went to it, out of the way as the master of blood began his work.

Sherrin grabbed with gloved hands the two ends of the ropes that slung down from the ceiling, anchored in two connecting corners on one side of the gazebo. He pulled, walking backwards across the wide stone floor, until most of the thick rope was suspended off the ground. He dropped the ropes, and went to his muse, her eyes blown wide by fear and the knowledge of her approaching end. Jim grinned wide as she struggled, and he marveled at Sherrin's gentleness as he roped his arms about her torso, easily lifting her from the marble floor. Her attempts to escape were feeble, hindered by the drugs Sherrin kept in her system. She was far from docile, yet there was no strength in her waif-like body.

Jim watched, avidly interested, as Sherrin pulled his living art to her feet, one hand tearing the robe away, leaving her naked to the arctic temperatures wafting through the stone building. Her wrists were bound, not by rope or steel, but by a wide band of plastic wrap, the sort used to cover food or shrink-wrapped over books and packages, looped around her lower arms multiple times. Her ankles were similarly bound, and he leaned her against his torso as he pulled free a knife from under his robe, a long wicked dagger that glimmered in the moonlight and the weak light from the far away lamps.

She made a mewling cry in her throat as Sherrin raised the blade, and with one swift stroke brought it down. Jim leaned forward eagerly, but all that happened was the neat extrication of her arms from the plastic. Jim fell back against the column, disgruntled, but he held his tongue. This was Sherrin's art, and he was deadly enough to warrant polite behavior on his part.

The knife returned to its place in Sherrin's robes, and the elder Holmes laced each of her wrists in the ropes. She tried to pull her arms free, but the drugs and cold air were sapping her strength, leaving her unable to cry out for help, or to put up more than a show of resistance. Sherrin pulled on the ropes again, until she hung above the floor, toes mere inches from the icy support of the hard marble. The long knife made another appearance and her ankles were freed, leaving her to swing and weakly kick, searching instinctively for a foothold.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a brilliant swath of light over the woman, Sherrin's 'living canvas,' gilding her skin a bright silver and porcelain hue. He dipped to the floor, picking up the plastic restraints and putting them in a canvas bag that must have housed the ropes on the trip here. He then pulled out a folding broom, and snapped it out. Jim's brows rose to his hairline as he watched Sherrin methodically, in overlapping patterns, sweep the floor of the gazebo, back and forth, even gesturing for Jim to momentarily vacate his spot.

Sherrin offered no explanation, though Jim needed none. Sherrin pushed the small pile of dust and debris back towards the canvas bag, were he pulled out a dustpan and a plastic baggie, which he then disposed of the contents. The broom and the other items went back into the canvas bag, and Sherrin stood, stripping off his own robe. He put the robe away, and removed a tan canvas sheet, folded neatly and in a plastic bag of its own, which he then placed on the stairs furthest from the woman hanging from the ceiling of the gazebo.

Jim felt his body stir, as interested now in the proceedings as his mind. Sherrinford was lean and strong, muscles well defined, sparsely haired and pale as snow. His eyes glittered in the moonlight, the deep jewel-tones of the unique orbs arresting in their intensity. Age was avoiding Sherrinford Holmes; that nasty side effect of Fate and mortality had no bearing upon the man who stood naked and unaffected in the depths of winter. Other than the flashes of white at his temples, he was the near mirror image of his brother. Jim felt a thread of anger and discontent rise up in his gut, as the thought of the youngest Holmes was unavoidable. It was as if he were seeing the future—for one day Sherlock would look as Sherrin did now, sans waves instead of curls, and the color of his eyes. That is, if he wasn't going to be very, very dead, and soon.

Sherrin was naked but for his feet, tread-less leather booties of a kind Jim recognized as those used by thieves, the ones who specialized in cat burglary. No tread marks made it harder for the authorities to find forensic evidence at a crime scene, and kept Sherrin from leaving footprints and epithelial traces as he worked.

Blade in hand, Sherrin stood in front of his canvas, as she cried tears that froze and dried on her cheeks, her hair fluttering in the cutting breeze.

"Can you see her face, James?" Sherrin asked, his words echoing softly.

"I can, Sherrin. Lovely view. I'm not going to get bloody, am I? These jeans are designer, you know." Jim sighed, trying not to be impatient. Artists and their setups. They take forever to get started.

"If you do, don't move. I'll have to account for every spilled drop, so don't go leaving trace around for the crime scene techs to find," Sherrin instructed casually, as he walked around his victim, her struggles exhausted, hanging limply from the ropes.

"Oh, the trials of being a serial killer in modern times. How dreadful," Jim snarked, and he crossed his arms, trying to ward off the frigid air seeping through his coat. "Get on with the good bit, will you?"

Sherrin was not paying attention, amethyst eyes locked on the woman. Her eyes were shut, cheeks finally free of tears, thin body stretched, ribs showing, curves minimal. Slim, tall, and beautiful, she was the type of woman who appealed to many men, her socially lauded features clear of blemish or marks.

"I've changed my mind…" Sherrin murmured, eyes drifting over her form. Jim straightened, confused, wondering what his companion might mean.

Her eyes opened, wild hope burning futilely in their depths, as Sherrin raised the blade. He took one slice, parallel to the floor, across her throat, so deep and fast that Jim was able to see the spark drain from her eyes. For a microscopic fraction of a second, nothing happened, as if time was too shocked to move forward, then blood, a great rushing flood of it, poured from the wound in the smooth column of her throat, splashing over the eldest Holmes, his long arm still extended from the swing that took her life. It coated him from his eyes, down his throat, his chest and abdomen, and dripped over his groin and thighs. He looked like a pagan priest of old, sacrificing a virgin under the full moon.

"… I'll carve her from young pine and willow, lithe and nubile, forever locked in youth."

Steam rose from the blood, pattering to the floor, dripping from her feet, the rich scent filling the slow moving air, staining the marble. The blade flashed as Sherrin lifted it again, his elbow and wrist bent, the angle of the cut now exact and finely controlled, the tip parting flesh still warm from the life bleeding out on the stones.

Blood, deep in crimson color, so dark it was nearly black, crept along the thin lines of the marble blocks that comprised the floor, coming close to Jim's boots, the temperatures finally freezing the thick liquid mere centimeters away. Jim grimaced and backed up, checking to make sure no blood had landed on him from the initial cut.

Sherrin worked in silence, the blade rising and falling, the body hardly moving as he made cut after cut, following a design hidden in the depths of his mind, one Jim could barely follow himself, for all that he knew what the lines drawn in flesh were meant to be. If he was having trouble seeing the underlying designs, then Sherlock would as well, insuring an extension of the killing game to a highly satisfying conclusion.

January 16th

Vauxhall Arches

7:00 PM

"Are you certain, Billy?" Sherlock asked, mindful of the grime and seeping waste underfoot as he followed the squirrelly thin man through the darkened brick and stone tunnels, the sounds of evening traffic distant and muffled.

"Right certain as I can be, Mr. Holmes, and my source is reliable. She's back here, doesn't like the elements all that much," Billy Wiggins gestured a skeletal thin hand towards the deeper shadows, were the vaguest hint of a person could be seen, cowering at the base of the wall.

Sherlock heard the scrape of a match, the burst of sulfur accompanying the flare of light. Billy was leaning over a bundle of quivering clothing, scraps of mismatched dingy colors and types, all covered in a ubiquitous layer of dirt. A gray, round face with small eyes peered up at him, dull and seemingly lifeless, yet they moved quickly, sizing him up before eyeing the surrounding area, as if looking for threats hidden in the darkness. Billy lit a short candle that rested in a brick-sized void in the wall, illuminating the small alcove where his 'source' hid.

"This here is Gladys, ole friend of mine from Kent. Brought her back with me when I got your broadcast through the network. Found her in a community house, scarcely saying a sane word, only speaking of the devil and his fallen angels." Billy sat on the ground, pulling a candy bar from his pocket, the pile of cloth and mismatched garments named Gladys watching the snack in Billy's hands with great interest.

"Look 'ere, love, tell me mate what you told me, about the devil and his angels." Billy broke off a small piece of the chocolate bar, holding it out to the pile of dust and cloth, and a narrow hand darted out, snatching the piece, retreating quickly. "Tell Sherlock about the night you saw Lucifer and the bleeding angel."

"I saw the devil." She—feminine voice, American or Canadian accent—nibbled on the small piece, words hushed. "He carried an angel, covered in blood."

"What was he doing, with his wounded angel?" Another question, another piece of chocolate.

"Walking…. Walking from the darkness, an angel in his arms."

"Details, love, or I'll be eating this chocolate on my own," Billy chided, and he brought the bar up to his mouth, as if to take a bite.

"Okay! It was night, no moon. Lucifer had come before, always in the dark, to where I slept at night. He never saw me, or he'd take me too." Gladys whined, hand creeping out from under the garments that hid her body, nails long and broken, packed with dirt and capped on frightfully thin fingers. Sherlock could not tell her age, or really discern what she looked like, her features and body too laden by dirt and the trappings of her basic existence to be deduced.

"Start from the beginning," Sherlock asked, and she flinched back, cowering.

"Do as he says now, and start at the beginning." Billy offered a larger piece of chocolate, and she took it, nearly too fast to see.

"It was after the world ended," Gladys said, speaking between delicate bites.

"The world ended?" Sherlock asked Billy, crouching down along the opposite wall of the alcove, minimizing his size so as not to startle the excitable Gladys.

"Gladys was a sales rep for an international company of some kind about fifteen years ago. Had a husband, kids, the whole gilded lifestyle sold in magazines. She traveled between the States and Europe often, usually a few times a month. She was in the Netherlands on business when her family was in a car crash. All of them died," Billy informed him, offering another piece to the woman buried under her past and pain. She seemed oblivious to Billy's words, so intent on the chocolate she didn't react at all. "Apparently she went off her rocker as the Americans say, had a mental break. She went missing for a week before the authorities found her in a homeless community, and sent her home to Kent where she'd been living with her family. She didn't stay, buried the lot of them, and disappeared….sort of."

"The Netherlands?" Sherlock said, staring at the woman. "Were you in Amsterdam?" Gladys nodded, and went back to nibbling. "Is that where you saw the devil carrying the wounded angel?"

"Wasn't wounded," Gladys said sharply, sending him a glare, the chocolate finished. "Angel was dead."

"Dead? How do you know?" Sherlock asked as Billy offered her more of the treat. She took it, and seemed to relax.

"Throat was cut, ear to ear. She was killed in Heaven, and fell to Earth. Lucifer must have found her, and was taking her to Hell to be punished." Sherlock rolled his eyes at the nonsense, but understood what she was saying under the mythology. She must have seen a man carrying a woman he'd killed, most likely in the process of dumping the body.

"Tell me more?" Sherlock asked, Billy offering the last of the bar. "What did the devil look like?"

"Devil looked like Lucifer," Gladys stated calmly, "just like you do."

"She's right- you've been called the devil plenty of times mate," Billy snickered, and Sherlock glared at him.

"I've been called worse," Sherlock said, and looked back at Gladys. "Can you tell me more?"

"Always in shadows, so dark, like the night followed him. Handsome devil. Dark and tall. Never saw his face." Sherlock restrained himself from pointing out that she couldn't know he was handsome if she never saw his face. She went on, oblivious to her accidental wit and the contradiction in her recounting. "Saw the angel clearly enough…. Fresh from Heaven she was, naked and torn. Blood soaked brown hair, and pretty and young. Must have been teasing mortal boys, to be so badly punished."

"Possibly... Did you see what he did with her?" Sherlock asked, hoping to distract her from the last bite of chocolate left in her hands. She looked at him like he was the crazy one, eyes wide.

"Fed her to a demon."

"A demon?" Sherlock felt a thrill of excitement. Demon… or a monster?

"Stone demon, gnashing of teeth and sword-like claws. Lucifer gave the angel to the demon, and left. Went back to Hell, took her soul with him."

"Of course he did," Sherlock murmured, lost in thought. It sounded like his man, the demon a statue or picture of some kind, most likely of a mythical creature Gladys' warped mind twisted to that of a demon, and the killer was probably leaving her body at a preselected site, which explained Gladys' claim that she'd seen him before that night. If she was missing for a week before the authorities found her, then the killer had a short time frame devoted to his kills. Quick, efficient, and highly intelligent, to have been following the same pattern for so long and remaining unnoticed by Interpol or the local police in his hunting grounds.

"Where was the demon?" Sherlock dared one last question, the snack long gone.

"Where all dead things go," Gladys said, huddling under her pile of cloth, eyes shutting. Snores came out from the rags, and Sherlock stood from his crouch, muscles complaining at the time spent in that one position and the damp environment.

"A cemetery, then," Sherlock whispered, and he stood in the small alcove as the candle sputtered and died, leaving them in darkness.

Jan. 16th

Hyde Park

9:00 PM

"Is that all of it? Sure you haven't forgotten anything?" Jim asked sarcastically, standing on the spread out canvas sheet, the canvas bag at his feet and the psychopath up in the gazebo, inspecting every surface minutely. He was impatient to be going—his people would be secure in their positions around the stone building for another thirty minutes, and they needed to be gone by then.

"I believe I've seen to everything, but…." Sherrin said as he walked down the canvas sheet where it was draped over the steps, Sherrin gathering the end behind him as he came.

"But?"

"I seem to have a problem I need to sort out."

"What?" Jim looked around, not seeing anything of note, the older man seemingly over cautious in his search for random trace evidence, so he didn't know what Sherrin was talking about. He was oblivious right up until Sherrin came within arm's reach, and suddenly he was caught up in a tight embrace, his mouth captured in a bruising kiss.

He opened for Sherrin's tongue, the strong muscle owning his mouth, swallowing his gasping moan as the blood-painted man took what he wanted. Sherrin lifted his mouth, one hand buried in Jim's hair, pulling back his head so his neck was vulnerable to teeth and lips. Sherrin's other hand moved down between them, working at his waistband as his teeth nipped over the mark the eldest Holmes had left earlier. Jim cried out, hands resting on Sherrin's naked shoulders, torn between pushing him away, and pulling him closer.

"Such a mouth on a man so intelligent," Sherrin whispered in his ear, breath warm and sweet. Jim shivered, fingers digging into the powerful muscles under his hands. "Shall I teach you a lesson, my young Moriarty?"

"What…. What lesson?" Jim could scarcely speak, much less talk, the urge to escape the frigid winter air and their need to leave quickly buried under an aching want. Sherrin's hand breached his fly, dipping under his boxers, and Jim swallowed a soft scream as a cold hand wrapped around his cock.

He quickly hardened, despite the cold air, and Sherrin pulled him tightly to his torso, smearing blood that thawed and ran over Jim's face and neck as their body heat rose between them. He tasted blood, coppery and sharp, as Sherrin reclaimed his mouth, devouring him. He ended the kiss as quickly as he started it, spinning Jim in his arms, pulling him hard, so his back as flush against Sherrin's chest.

"The lesson, my dear boy… Is when to listen…." Sherrin whispered in his ear, hand returning to his groin, his long fingers working at his cock, hard tugs that bordered on painful. "When to speak…" Sherrin's free hand slid up Jim's chest, squeezing his neck before lifting to cover his mouth. "And when to obey…"

With those words Sherrin pushed hard at the back on Jim's knees, and he fell, falling to the canvas sheet, the large bag under his chest as the older man pressed him down. He could feel the contents of the bag digging into his chest, and he managed to get his hands under him, and he tried to lift up. A large hand slapped down on his back between his shoulder blades, pinning him, as another hand grabbed the back of his waistband, yanking his pants down his ass to his knees.

"Sherrin!" Anger battled with arousal, as Sherrin pushed hard on his back, forcing him over the bag, exposing his ass to the cold winter night. Knees worked between his, spreading his legs apart, and his boxers were gone, the cold touch of a blade cutting them free from his body. "Sherrin, I'll not be mounted in the damn park like a fucking mare!"

"Don't fail in this lesson, my dear boy, I'll only have to repeat it," Sherrin growled, and Jim was about to kick him off when a hot, wet tongue found the center of his body, piercing his tight hole.

"Aahhhhh!" Jim cried out, collapsing on the bag, all fight gone as Sherrin fucked him with his tongue. Sherrin removed his hands from his back, and spread Jim wide open, the stiff muscle working in and out of his ass, tantalizing and setting fire to the millions of nerves there at the entrance to his body.

"You're mine to mount whenever I please, James," Sherrin whispered, and Jim could barely hear him as he panted loudly, his aching and dripping cock grinding against the rough fabric of the bag under his body. "I'll fuck you however I want, whenever I want. And you'll never tell me no."

Jim tried to speak, to tell him off, but a wave of intense pleasure and pressure rolled over him as a long, thin finger pushed its way past the tight ring of muscles guarding his ass, and landed with unerring accuracy on his prostate. Jim shouted, his scream echoing through the deserted park, hips bucking as Sherrin took him to the edge again and again.

"Sherrin…..Sherrin…." he begged, hands grasping at the sheet, nails catching on the rough fabric, his hips moving on their own, as Sherrin finger-fucked him with a ruthless intensity he was certain was going to kill him.

"Yes, James?" a second finger joined the first, and Jim moaned, unable to think or speak. "What do you want?"

Sherrin stretched him, utterly without mercy, readying his ass, dipping in and out knuckle-deep, over and over, driving him mad. He tried thrusting back on the hand that was fucking him, wordlessly demanding more, but Sherrin's free hand landed on his waist, holding him still. Frustration drove him to speak, unaware of how he found the right words to ask for what he needed.

"Please.. Sherrin….."

"Yes?" Harder now, three fingers breaching his hole. Sherrin swiped them over that little bundle of nerves, sending excruciating pleasure shooting through his whole body.

"Mount me, dammit! Please!" Jim screamed, voice cracking, tears running freely from his eyes, seeking release as his hips tried to move.

"There's a lesson well learned, seems you were paying attention."

Suddenly, his fingers were gone, and Jim sobbed, achingly empty, and he jerked as Sherrin worked his hand and arm under him, digging through the bag. Jim paid no attention, lost in his want, but he heard the snick of a bottle opening, and the very cold, thick drops of lubricant slid down his crack.

"Please…" he begged again, lifting his hips, Sherrin's warm and wet hands coming to rest on his waist.

"Such a quick student….." and Sherrin took him.

Thick, hard, and long, Sherrin's cock stretched him wide as he thrust in, bottoming out in one smooth motion. One of Sherrin's arms wrapped under his, and lifted his upper body off the bag, pulling them both to their knees, Jim's head falling back to rest on Sherrin's chest. He was sitting on Sherrin's thighs, his own legs spread open, knees bent, exposed to the cold air and his lover's gaze, reduced to a helpless, wanting, desperate desire.

Sherrin began to thrust, short, deep jerks of his hips, never withdrawing completely, the broad head swiping over the magic spot deep in Jim's ass. Jim didn't fight the cries that each thrust drove past his lips, or the tears of pleasure that ran freely from his eyes. Sherrin's other hand smoothed over his hip, and grabbed his aching cock, stroking him off in time with his movements, in perfect sync.

The hand that held him tightly to Sherrin rose over his chest, still fully clothed, the other man completely naked, and that image drove him wild, needy cries filling the night air. Jim lifted his hands and wrapped them back behind him, nails digging into Sherrin's taut thighs as he kept thrusting, spearing deep, and Sherrin moaned, cock swelling.

Jim was close, and he blinked the freezing tears away, looking up at the inky black sky as Sherrin stroked his cock faster, tighter, driving his own thick length into Jim as hard as he could. Jim came with a harsh cry, and Sherrin angled his cock down towards the canvas sheet, thick ropes of white fluid landing with heavy splats. Sherrin roared his own release, cock swelled up in Jim's sore ass, as the bigger man rapidly bent him back over on his knees, thrusting hard and fast as he took Jim deep, bottoming out on each thrust. Jim sobbed as he felt the burning wet heat fill him, throbbing several times as Sherrin held him down.

Sherrin collapsed on top of him, both men breathing hard, sweat chilling fast. Sherrin was still semi hard and buried in his ass, but Jim knew better than to complain. His lover would move when he wanted, and no sooner.

Minutes passed before Sherrin finally pulled out and got up, dragging Jim to his feet with one arm. Jim was incapable of coherent thought or action, so he let the older man strip him down to his socks, putting his clothing in the bag. Jim shivered in the cold air, as Sherrin pulled out from his bag of tricks a fresh set of Jim's clothing.

"One would think you planned this little diversion in the park." Jim giggled, and let Sherrin dress him like a doll, boots and pants and suit jacket and all.

"Perhaps. Now stand over there, and be quiet."

Jim did as instructed, and he watched as Sherrin withdrew clothing of his own, dressing on the sheet, before wrapping everything up and stuffing it into the bag. He felt lightweight and free, heart thrumming at a delightful pace, the wind and the damp cold not as daunting. His whole body tingled, and Jim realized with a start that he felt as if he just planned the perfect crime, and got away clean as a whistle.

Sherrin took his arm, and guided him away from the artful tableau of death behind them. It was sublime, as was how he was feeling, and once Jim's part in the grand scheme went off tomorrow morning, then the last twenty four hours would indeed be perfection.