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

A/N: Ahh, romance. And drama. Love them both. This chapter is an interlude, a pause, the final breath before a plunge over a cliff.

Apologies for the delay and brevity. I'll be back soon, I promise, just trapped in the real life travails of moving house and home.

WARNING: I'm not spoiling anything. ;-)

Enjoy!

P.S- Credit to Lord Byron for the lines borrowed from his poem, "She Walks in Beauty."

Chapter 63

"Death, Love, and the Angel"

"Sshhh, relax. I'm here, my love, I'm here…"

She knew that voice. Every time she became aware, he was there. The voice, the man, spent time with her every day, speaking to her of many things, topics varied and delightful, charming and sweet and subtly seductive. Inescapable, and desired. He was there with her, in the darkness. His warmth, his touch, his scent.

Blood, smoke and seawater.

A hand caressed hers, so strong and firm. He handled her with confidence, reassuring and comforting. She was so lost, so hurt, that she clung to him, and the safety he gave her. He held her hand, stroking the back of it, fingers calloused from use and yet still smooth. An artist's hand.

"Ahhhh, there she is. Try again, my love, my angel. Just relax, and open your eyes."

She frowned, and tried to turn her head, but the pain held her still. She was so weak. Her thoughts registered his words, understood them, but trying to follow his orders was harder than he knew. She whimpered, and a warm hand cupped her cheek, a broad thumb lightly caressing under her eye.

"You can do it, my angel. Try again."

She leaned into his touch, sighing happily. He reminded her of someone she loved, and perhaps might even be he. There was nothing she would not do for those she loved, she recalled this much of herself.

Love. For love, she would live.

She opened her eyes, so tired, so weak, she couldn't keep them open for more than a heartbeat. She frowned, and borrowed strength from the man holding her so gently. His thumb gently rubbed her skin, waiting patiently.

She breathed in deep, and tried again. Her eyes opened, and the soft light that flared in them made her wince. She blinked, eyes tearing, and tried to hide from the light, closing them.

"Easy, lovely. Here, let me shield your eyes."

The man who held her so tenderly sat beside her on the bed, blocking the light from the window. She opened her eyes as his shadow fell over her face, and looked up. The light behind him obscured his face, a brilliant halo around his dark hair hiding his features in half-shadow. He gave her a smile, and she gasped, a faint sound that made him tilt his head to the side a manner so familiar her heart felt trapped in a vise.

"Hello, my love. Still foggy, are we?" He asked her, his hand brushing her hair back from her face, his long fingers graceful and precise.

She blinked, tears finally easing her dry eyes. Her head hurt, a horrible ache that sank deep through her skull, and she couldn't escape it. She groaned, and closed her eyes, swallowing back the urge to vomit.

"Easy, my love. Just breathe slowly, in and out," the man said, holding her hand tightly. "Your head will hurt for quite some time, I'm afraid. I'll give you something for it in a moment."

She followed his instructions, a quality in his voice telling her to obey. He sounded so familiar, his name, his face….it was all so close to her surface thoughts, and she felt like she could say his name any second.

She opened her eyes, and the light was easier to see through. He gave her a smile that cut through the fog, a glorious grin of what appeared to be joy. He was handsome, so handsome a new ache settled over her heart. She knew him, she must, to feel this way. Her heart raced, from terror or love, she could not tell.

"Who..." she tried to say, but her throat was dry, and the air strangled before the words could be spoken.

"Here, angel. Drink this," he let go her hand to bring a glass full of water to her lips, one hand gently cradling the back of her head to help her sip. She had the strength to drink a little, soothing her parched tissues. He put the glass back on a small nightstand, and went back to holding her hand in both of his.

"Who….are you?" she gasped, weak, even those three words almost too much. Her eyes were heavy, and she wanted to sleep, but the desire to know who her dark angel was kept her from succumbing.

"You know who I am, my love. You've seen my face before, you've heard my voice. I think, aside from my own family, that there is no one left in this world who knows me as well as you….Anthea."

"Anthea?" she whispered, eyes closing. That wasn't her name….her name was…..it was….

"Yes, my love, my fragile angel. My Anthea." He patted her hand, and she felt the warm brush of his fingers on her cheek. "Rest now, and I will see you again. I'm so glad you're getting better. You and I shall have so much fun together."

Someone once called her that….Another man once said that to her…. My Anthea.

She hummed softly in reply, already falling under sleep's hold. She was so very tired, and a part of her trusted this handsome stranger to protect her while she slept.

She didn't know how long she slept. She felt different now, enjoying the sensation of choice as she drifted back towards the surface of her mind. Nothing was holding her back now, nothing was keeping her away from the light. She felt her hands, her legs, her bare skin covered in fine linens. She was warm, and surrounded by soft comfort.

A steady, sharp but low beeping greeted her ears, and with each heartbeat that passed she was able to focus on it, her brow wrinkling as she tried to place the sound.

Vitals monitor. Hospital?

She floated, content, letting her senses fill in the blanks. She felt heat, falling across her hips and upper thighs, through the blankets.

Sunlight. It must be middle of the day or early afternoon. I never sleep this late, I'm always up at five in the morning…

The mattress under her was heavenly, extremely soft and welcoming, and far above standard hospital beds.

Private care? Expensive, but then Mycroft never spared money when it came to luxury…

Mycroft.

Anthea opened her eyes. Light burst brightly, stabbing at her head, and tears ran from the corners of her eyes. She gasped, sucking in a deep breath, and her hands clutched at the sheets.

"Look at you, all awake now. And he's not here to see it, poor Sherrin." She stilled as a man's voice reached her, drifting out from somewhere in the room. A deep chill ran over her, freezing her muscles, locking her whole body in fear.

He is dead. He can't be here. Am I dead?

No. I'm alive. The pain is too real for me to be dead. I'm dreaming.

"I'm dreaming," Anthea gasped, voice harsh from disuse. "This is a dream."

"No, don't think you are. Not right now, at least. Though, this would indeed be a wonderful dream…. Sleeping Beauty wakes up in the arms of her one true love, to live happily ever after, surrounded by her friends and family, miraculously healed and restored, not a scratch to be found…."

A man's hand came in few, wrapped around one of the bedposts at the foot of the bed, which held up a lace canopy above the bed. A ring glimmered, dark gold that flashed, set with a dark stone. He was too far away for her to see the design, but she had a feeling she knew what it was. He spun himself around the post, leaning wide, other arm outstretched as he swung, letting go before he hit the bedside and skipping up to her, grinning like a Cheshire cat. He was immaculately dressed in a dark gray and blue suit, pristine and pressed, handsome as the day he died over two years before.

"But this is not a dream, no fairy tale by which you are lulled into gentle sleep. You are not Sleeping Beauty, he is not your Prince Charming, and you will not be coddled like some insipid princess. He may call you his queen, Anthea, but in this game we play, you will be sacrificed to kill the king," James Moriarty sneered down at her, teeth bared as his eyes burned.

"You died!" Anthea gasped, and she struggled to sit up, hands digging at the mattress to push herself upright. Her head flared in pain, intense and crippling, but the nightmare in front of her refused to go away, and she fought to escape it.

"Death…..was boring," Moriarty lamented, buffing his nails on his suit jacket before winking at her. "But your death, Anthea…your death will be anything but boring."

She pressed herself back against the headboard, whole body complaining, and she was weak, too weak to fling herself from the blankets and run.

"My dear boy, always so dramatic," a deep and powerful voice spoke from the other side of the room, and Anthea turned her head fast, a burst of pain temporarily blinding her. "Don't over-stress her, I need her alive for this to work."

"Of course, of course…I was just saying hello," Moriarty pouted, and slinked away from the bed.

Her eyes swam with tears, and as her sight returned, Anthea cried out in denial. She must be dead, this was no dream. For two men to return from the dead, and be here, together, was impossible. They were dead.

"Ahhhh…. Hello, my love. I see you remember me, I was afraid you'd forgotten," Sherrinford Holmes purred, smiling at her as he prowled with lethal grace over the threshold. His black suit and white shirt made her thoughts jumble, as he looked so like his little brother she felt a stirring of fruitless hope. But the way he smiled at her, and the glint of his violet eyes made it very clear that he was the eldest Holmes brother, and he was far from dead and buried at sea.

He paused at the foot of her bed, and Moriarty danced in small steps to stand by his side, tipping his head back with a sweet and charming grin. The elder Holmes gave him a look that said the younger man was all that was dear to him, yet the hand he buried in the long brown locks betrayed his feral nature, holding Moriarty still as Sherrinford kissed him roughly.

Anthea tried to breathe, to keep air moving, she tried. All for naught, as her body gave up, and she fell into the darkness, praying that when she awoke next, that this nightmare would be over.

January 18th, Late Evening

London

St Bart's

"Sally, stop fusing with the IV!" Molly admonished, and gently slapped the sergeant's fingers away from the insertion site in the crook of her elbow. "Don't make me tie you down!"

Molly blushed as Sally gave her a pained but still wicked grin, but she let her hand drop to the white hospital blankets that covered her chin to toes. She tried to speak, but coughed instead, and Molly held her shoulders as she winced, pain draining the blood from her naturally darker toned skin on her bruised cheeks. Molly let her go once the coughing fit eased, and got a foam cup of ice water with a straw and helped Sally sip.

"Feel better?" Molly asked, putting the cup back.

"Yeah, thank you…." Sally whispered, voice harsh from the smoke and the heat from the bombs. "How long have I been out?"

"Umm…a while. But you're going to be just fine, don't worry," Molly hastened to reassure, taking Sally's hand in both of hers. "You broke some ribs when the blast threw you into the car, and the shrapnel got embedded along your left side and back, some spots on your shoulder. Biggest concern at the time was blood loss, but we're getting that sorted."

Molly gestured to the IV stand, where a unit of blood was slowly being fed into Donovan's arm. "They got all the shrapnel out, don't worry, and they had a cosmetic surgeon attending, so you'll have minimal scaring."

Sally peered up at Molly, and her lips twisted in a small, tight smile. "What's one more scar?" Sally whispered, her free hand waving vaguely in the direction of her neck. Molly recalled the large, long scar that graced the top of Sally's neck under her hairline, a parting gift from Jaime Moriarty months before.

Molly didn't know what to say, so she just gave Sally a small smile and brushed curls off her forehead. "I've got to get back to the morgue, got a corpse incoming."

Sally sighed, and tried to nod, but winced and held still. She narrowed her eyes at Molly, and whispered, "Another serial?"

"Sherlock says yes. Greg's working the case too, he's okay. Just some bumps and bruises from the bombing, he made out fine, considering," Molly told her, and patted her hand once before gently resting it on the blankets. "He'll be by in the morning once they allow you visitors. I kinda snuck in, lab coat has some perks."

"Okay…" Sally sighed out on a deep exhale, her eyes closing as sleep took her under. Molly hovered, waiting until she was sure that Sally was truly asleep before walking quietly out of the room. She nodded in thanks to the patiently waiting nurse outside the door, and headed for the morgue at a fast walk.

Sherlock was coming…with another victim. Molly set aside her worry for Sally, and focused on the task ahead. This is what she did; Sherlock and Greg brought her a body, she gave them what secrets the bodies held, and Sherlock solved it all.

Molly got in the elevator, and put her hands in her pockets. A crinkle of paper found her ears as her fingers met a small sheet of paper torn from a notepad. She pulled it out, and flipping it over, read the words written in flawless calligraphy.

"She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes;

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies."

"What? Who…?" Molly blushed, face burning, a silly grin curving her lips as she looked around. She was alone in the elevator, and felt foolish, and reread the poem. She grinned wide, and tried to figure out where it came from. The coat she wore now was fresh, the pockets empty earlier in the day when she put it on. The note hadn't been there before she went to see how Sally was doing after surgery, and she couldn't recall picking anything up. Someone else must have put it in the pocket of her lab coat when she wasn't looking.

Someone must be confusing her with someone else; Molly wasn't one to inspire anyone to quotes by Lord Byron. She recognized the poem; hard not to, as the Regency-era poet was beyond famous, especially in the UK.

Someone must be confused. Whoever wrote this must be, right? It wasn't from her notepad, as she never wrote scripts, but the space for the GP's name was blank. Just an address, and a mobile number. She pondered calling the number, but what would she say? "I found a few lines of a famous poem in my pocket, are they yours?"

Molly reread the lines again, and smoothed her fingers over the finely penned words. The elevator dinged and the doors opened, and Molly got a glimpse of Sherlock's lanky form at the end of the hall, John beside him. She tucked the note away, and exited the lift, walking to her friends with a smile on her face.

St Bart's Morgue

Same Night

The chill ate at his fingers, even through the fine leather of his gloves. He gripped the edge of the table as the lab assistants lifted the body of the serial killer's latest victim to the flat steel surface with a mild thunk. He saw John flinch at the sound from the corner of his eye, but the corpse Molly was carefully unzipping caught his full attention…for a short moment.

He'd done a full examination of the corpse at the kill site, and all he lacked at this point was her name. She was an upper class woman, rich and accustomed to living a pampered lifestyle. She should be missing in someone's life, even if it was only a maid, and the fact she hadn't been reported missing yet led Sherlock to conclude she was often unaccounted for, leaving her home or flat for short periods of a few days. Most likely liaisons, and frequent one-night stands. She may not be expected home for another twelve hours, if his estimation of when she died was accurate.

Molly worked around him, as Sherlock refused to vacate his proximity to the table or the body, and he noted her sidelong glances and tiny moues as she had to weave her hands around his arms to align the corpse better on the table. He caught the scent of flowers and tea and felt the warmth of her lithe body as she flitted about him, working without complaint as he maintained his stubborn spot.

The hesitancy of her usual behavior was gone; her cheeks were flushed, and the smile she'd sported when exiting the elevator just minutes ago had not been there as a result of her seeing them waiting outside the morgue. There was something in the way she moved, how her hands and her eyes were flustered yet oddly calm; when she looked at him, she saw him, but there was a thought in her pretty eyes that distracted her from her usual obsession with him.

Something was stealing Molly's attention from Sherlock, and he found he wasn't liking it, not one bit.

The dead woman held little of his considerable focus as he turned it all to Molly Hooper, even for the short heartbeat of time it took for him to determine she was doing better in his presence than she had been previously. Whatever it was that occupied her thoughts made it easier for her to be near him, and do her job. He didn't know how he felt about this, since it was alternately what he wanted and not, simultaneously. Molly drifted closer, tugging the black plastic bag out from under the corpse's shoulder, and she, in a briefest of seconds, leaned her bird-like frame on his arm. Her warmth stole into his body, and he dipped his head the slightest amount, eyes drifting shut halfway.

John coughed from the desk where he'd dropped himself and his coat, and Molly walked away with the body bag, throwing it in a white bin for it to be sterilized later. He blinked, trying to clear his head, and gave John a frown when that worthy eyed him speculatively from his seat in Molly's chair.

"Same cuts, same methodology to the patterns. Same hand made these cuts as the previous victim," Molly murmured, the hesitancy normally present in her voice and manner absent as she gazed at the corpse.

"Yes, it is the same man," Sherlock agreed, pulling his thoughts and eyes away from Molly with some difficulty before doing his level best not to deduce his pathologist's heart. "Molly, do you have the photos from the previous victim's injuries?"

"Yes, over on the desk. Hard copies and a thumb drive." John picked up the folder she pointed to, and began flipping through the pictures, grimacing as he went.

"I need photos of these marks too. I took some at the scene, but the body's pose in the ropes make them appear differently than they do here, with the body supine with arms down."

"Got it," Molly said, and walked to her desk, smiling at John as she got out her camera. John murmured a hello and gave her a smile in return, and while her eyes were busy on her task, John gave Sherlock a look he would be a fool not to interpret as "What the hell was that?"

Sherlock shrugged, not sure himself, and finally pushed himself away from the exam table. The body was on the middle table, and Sherlock backed away until his hips met the table behind him. He glared at the body, knowing what he needed was just out of reach. The marks were not random. They were placed with cold-blooded precision and skill, and that meant they had a purpose. Sherlock knew that if he figured out the secret of the markings, he would have his killer.

Unless their purpose was to appear to have purpose, and they were naught but a trap to keep his attention away from the real clues?

So Sherlock reclined on the table, alternating between watching the body, and deducing the merits of a serial killer leaving clues that would lead to his identity.

And doing his level best not to wonder why Molly's hand strayed occasionally to her pocket, as if making sure something was still there, a small smile gracing her lips and a glow on her cheeks.

St Bart's

Same Time

Jim moved through the small crowd outside the hospital, shedding the white coat and dumping it in the shadows beside the small garage outside the gates. He passed the spot where Sherlock supposedly died over two years prior, and grinned as he read "We believe in Sherlock Holmes" in yellow paint sprayed over a graffiti tag of the detective himself in silhouette.

No one ever sees past the first blush of expectation, he mused as he entered the deep shadow of the building, the taillights of the car waiting for him glowing in the black like two red coals. He checked over his shoulder, confident that no one had seen him as he navigated the halls of St Bart's, teeming with cops and government officials, one more faceless doctor in a sea of white coats.

The rear door popped open as he neared, a pale white hand holding it for him as he slipped inside. He shut the door, and the hand settled on his thigh, its weight a reminder of its owner's claim on his body.

"That was fast, my dear boy," Sherrin's rumble came out from the shadows beside him, and the car pulled away from the alley. "I assume it went well?"

"Perfectly. The units are in use, as I predicted. None of the dead were high profile, but enough of them were injured sufficiently to warrant transfusions. Three weeks before the first symptoms begin."

"Excellent, James, well done," Sherrin purred in his ear, a powerful hand climbing the inside of his thigh, stopping a hair's breadth from his crotch. Jim shuddered, and his head fell back, leaving his neck bared to the teeth that scraped along the long muscles, nipping just under his ear.

"And did your last task go as well?" Sherrin whispered in his ear as that hand glided over his groin, tugging at the zipper. Jim groaned softly as Sherrin opened his trousers, exposing his hard erection to the cool air. Long fingers tugged him free, wrapping in a secure and almost painful grip, stroking in full sweeps up and down his cock. Teeth bit until he whimpered, but he managed an answer as his eyes glazed over in lust.

"Yes….she got it. Her reaction was just as you predicted," Jim gasped, lifting his hips as Sherrin's strokes grew more demanding.

Jim found himself bodily lifted and dropped in Sherrin's lap, his legs spread wide and his pants down around his ankles, his boots the only thing keeping them on. Sherrin's big hand claimed his cock, as Jim was cradled in the curve of his other arm, Sherrin sucking on his neck, making him squirm.

"Women, no matter how practical, appreciate romance, my dear boy," Sherrin told him, tongue investigating the skin behind his ear, licking over the mark he'd left, the sharp ache now a dull throbbing. "Disarm his people one by one, and Sherlock will have fewer resources in the end. Very well done, James. I am proud of you."

Jim groaned again, unable to stop his hips from snapping upwards, Sherrin's hand milking precum and making his balls tighten, a tingle building behind his cock, shivers racing over his body in time with his heartbeat.

"Shall you be rewarded?"

"Yes, yesss please," Jim begged, and Sherrin stroked him harder, dancing over the edge of painful now.

"Let me hear you, let me hear your noises," Sherrin ordered, and Jim cried out, reveling in the pain and pleasure of his lover's grip, his cock flushed red and straining, the crown glistening in precum. He whimpered and moaned, Sherrin rewarding him by sucking on his neck again, a half-twist of his wrist making him sob into the older man's mouth.

"Come for me…Now," Sherrin ordered him, speaking his words against Jim's plundered lips.

Jim came, his cock pouring thick ropes of seed over Sherrin's slim fingers, his lover stroking every last drop of semen out of him, relentless. The stroke continued until he whined, oversensitive, cock softening.

Sherrin released him, and Jim lay limply on his lap, eyes drifting shut, breathing hard. He closed his eyes, head draped back over Sherrin's strong arm, and he tensed when fingers traced his lips, opening his mouth. Semen coated digits filled his mouth, and Jim groaned around them as Sherrin made him lick and suck his essence from his fingers.

Jim opened his eyes, and watched Sherrin past his hand, violet gems burning in the darkness, as Jim sucked and licked up every spilled drop.

Sherrin held the sleeping criminal in his lap, clothes back in order and curled upon his chest, face relaxed in slumber.

The limo cruised through London, heading north, towards Highgate Cemetery. The vehicle took a tight corner, inertia pulling them slightly, and Sherrin heard a muffled complaint from the trunk.

His final muse was awake.

Sherrin chuckled, and adjusted the young man sleeping so trustingly in his embrace, pushing strands of silky brown hair away from his eyes. He bore little resemblance to the stripling who'd pulled Sherrin from the sea decades earlier, faint traces of him visible in his darkness of his eyes.

They had time yet before Sherrin's final and last display in London, before he retreated to his studio and spent the next month crafting his art. Then, when his muses were resurrected in the golden hues and soft woods of their eternal youth, would he venture out and seek new inspiration. By then, London would be in a mire of confusion and fear, the structure of civilization beginning to fray around the edges.

And while Sherrinford crafted his art, James Moriarty would be unleashed on London.

Highgate Cemetery

Midnight

Sherrin lowered the knife, blood running down the blade, over his hand, the heat of the liquid cooling rapidly as the body jerked and spasmed in front of him.

The Angel of Death loomed above him, wings spread wide and tall as they framed the moon as it showered light down over Sherrin's naked form. Mighty hands outstretched, each holding a scythe and a coiled whip in the other, the stone limbs holding the now vacated body of Cressida E. Vaudeville, where it hung suspended by thick white ropes.

"Shame, I missed the good bits," James muttered as he stumbled out of the limo, wiping sleep from his eyes and yawning. He pulled his coat tight around his slim torso, and began to wander past the headstones, making his way towards Sherrin until he held up his hand, warning him to stop. James sat on a headstones, and shivered.

"Now for the work, just in time my boy," Sherrin called out as he watched the last light of spirit disappear from the young woman's eyes. She'd been a fighter, this one, and Sherrin applied the knife with judicious glee to her torso.

"When did you get that one, Sherrin?" James asked, and Sherrin spared his young lover a glance, the lithe form of the master criminal shaking in the cold night air.

"While you were flirting with your ex-girlfriend," Sherrin's lips twisted in derision at the foolish sentiment, clearly conveying his opinion on the matter.

"No need to play the jealous lover, Sherrin," James growled, shaking hard, tucking his hands under his arms. "You knew what my plan was."

"I've been watching this one since we came back. Caught my eye first," Sherrin said softly, answering the younger man's question and ignoring the jab. James leaned forward to hear him fully.

"Why's that?"

"Surely you can see," Sherrin told him, the body jerking with tiny movements as Sherrin added a flourish to the end of the pattern curving around the ribcage, ending over a slim hip.

The wind was his answer, Sherrin aware of the younger man getting to his feet and pacing behind him, staying a couple of grave-lengths away, and he kept to his task. James would see it soon. He held the blade securely, lest his grip slip in the warm blood, and guided the tip through the top layers of skin, the blemish free flesh parting like silk to a katana's kiss.

"Oh, you devil…" James snickered, which morphed into an infectious peal of delighted laughter, bouncing off the stone mausoleums and headstones. "Think anyone will notice?" James asked through his sporadic giggles, snorting and covering his mouth, breaking down every time he looked back at the corpse.

"I do hope so, or I may need to reevaluate the intelligence level of my siblings…"

"Sherlock hasn't deciphered the biggest clue yet, otherwise he would have gone running to dearest Mikey by now. I'll not hold out hope that either of your brothers are going to figure this out."

Sherrin stood back from the final piece of this month's phase, tilting his head, checking he'd left nothing out. Each cut, each gentle loop and swirl, every centimeter of bloody perfection was crucial to the grand design. When each muse was arranged together in the correct order, then the hidden message in the cuts and slices would become clear. All it would take was patience from the younger, forgiveness from the elder, and the final reckoning would come to pass in due time.

He had time though—James was right, and Sherlock had yet to see the bigger pattern. His youngest sibling's youth in the beginning days of Sherrin's artistry was appearing to be a handicap.

And if Sherlock couldn't solve the puzzle in blood and flesh? Then he would resume his art next month, every week of the full moon, until London was gripped in the throes of fear and panic, and Sherlock was at his wit's end. There was a surfeit of young women who wore the resemblance to Evangeline Hunter in either grace, form, intelligence or wit living in the throngs of London, and Sherrinford would continue his craft willingly until they all bled. Or until his brother came for him at last.

Genius and madness was their heritage, and there was no line dividing it in Sherrin's heart and mind. The truest vengeance he could claim on his siblings would be to destroy Sherlock's purity of conviction in his skill and abilities, and entice him to the madness to find succor.

"Is everything ready on your end, my dear boy?" Sherrin asked, as he stepped back through the brown grass, dampened by blood rendered black in the silver light. He carefully stood on the tarp waiting for him, his bag and tools and fresh clothing laid out already. He put away his knife, and proceeded to clean himself sufficiently to dress, and sought out James when he didn't receive an answer to his question.

James was sitting cross-legged on a flat and wide stone bench, shivering in his dark coat, eyes trailing over the tableau hanging in the Angel's arms. The delicate ping, ping of blood dripping on the metal of the bronze scythe's lower portion broke the quietude, and Sherrin threw on his white robe as he gazed at his young lover. He tied the robe closed, and began to peruse the scene, making sure he had everything accounted for.

"James?"

"How does it make you feel, Sherrin?" James asked suddenly, not tearing his eyes away from the corpse.

"What, my dear?"

"Killing in such a way?"

Sherrin paused, holding back the quick answer. He stood in the bright, cold night air, hardly feeling the frigid temperatures, watching James breathe frost into the shifting shadows as clouds raced over the moon above.

"Satisfaction." Sherrin smiled, and walked through the dead grass of the graveyard, stopping at James' side where he sat on the mourner's bench. James finally looked up at him, the light illuminating his dark eyes, letting Sherrin see the oft-hidden patterns in the irises. There was a hint of madness there, a wildness that peered back at Sherrin, and he felt an answering thrill reply to that insanity from his own heart. "I feel satisfaction, and contentment. An expression of who I am, at the most basic, and purest, level I can fathom. Where others struggle to know themselves, and spend their lifetimes battling themselves only to die with regrets and discontent, I know who I am, what I am. I am satisfied, fully, by what I do, and how."

"Then why seek vengeance?"

"I seek vengeance to appease the faint hurts and anger my brother's betrayals left upon my past. I will not die dissatisfied in myself, but I will die uneasy if I let them pass from this world without suffering as they should, as they must. My purpose is beyond their ken and their interference. So they must pay, in whatever method I desire, for daring to stop me, or attempting to sway me from my pursuits."

James gazed up at him, and Sherrin looked back. A quiet settled over them, and it hung suspended, as if waiting. Finally James smiled, and hopped off the bench, spritely and bouncing on his heels.

"You're bloody insane, Sherrin. Completely round the twist, aren't you?"

Sherrin reached for James, but the smaller man danced away, laughing as he darted through the headstones, smiling over his shoulder as he jumped into the rear of the limo.

Sherrin chuckled, and collected his gear, exercising extreme caution as he carried it all to the limo. He made sure with one last glance that he'd left nothing behind, and got in the limo. The engine purred to life, and Sherrin settled back into the rapidly warming leather with James curling up to his side, head resting on his shoulder.

They left the Angel of Death behind, but not alone. The grinning skull of the angel gazing down with a seeming fondness over Sherrin's offering. Blood froze in the weak wind, the moon searing the dead woman's body as it too froze, crystals forming on lashes, vacant eyes taking in the glory of Highgate at night.

"You done then, for now?" James whispered, sleepy, caressing Sherrin's chest through the open neck of his robe.

"If he fails to assemble the clues, I will leaving clues next month. But I am done killing, for now."

"Good," James giggled, before breaking out in a yawn and wrapping his arm over Sherrin's torso, snuggling deeper in his embrace. "My turn now."

"Yes it is, my dear boy," Sherrin replied, "And I cannot wait for you to set the world on fire."

"Then it's time, Sherrin."

"Time?"

"Time to bring my sister home."

"And so you shall, so you shall, my dearest James," Sherrin whispered as James fell asleep, lulled by the easy rocking of the limo and the warmth of Sherrin's body. "Family belongs together."

Sherrin reached into his bag, and his hand sought out his mobile. He opened it, the clicks faint, quiet enough not to disturb his lover, as he searched for the picture he wanted. He swiped past the pictures of Sherlock, past Mycroft, until he stopped. He took in the visage of a raven-haired beauty, amethyst eyes shining with a spirit unmistakably reminiscent of her mother's.

Her face, form and intelligence may be a gift from his blood, but Violet Hunter's spirit and soul were solely her mother's. The only woman to stop his blade and tame his bloodlust, Evangeline Hunter lived on in their daughter. Of all the women in the world, she alone among them had nothing to fear from his blade. Where he sought to recreate and render anew the perfection hidden in each of his muses, Violet, his child, was already perfect.

The finest piece of art he could ever give the world was already in existence, and she walked the same streets he hunted.

221B Baker Street

Early Morning, Just Before Dawn

Violet sat alone on the roof, the access panel open behind her, a soft glow of golden light flowing out of the square space. Her arms were wrapped around her knees, her uncle's Belstaff keeping her warm, and she gazed up at the sky.

The wind was dying, the clouds chased out to sea. The stars glimmered, truly bright to be seen past the air pollution over the city, and the moon took up the whole horizon. She breathed in her uncle's scent, feeling safe, even exposed on the roof for anyone to see, if only they thought to look. Mycroft's people knew she was up here, as her departure from the townhouse earlier was in no way a secret.

Her other uncle had offered her Anthea's old room, but the second the words passed his lips, they both knew it was a decision neither of them was ready to make. Anthea was still there, still with them both, both of them mourning her with an intensity that left them awkward and at odds. Yet it was her death that also aligned them, her purpose left unfulfilled, and Violet could not make herself walk away.

Mycroft needed her. And for Anthea, Violet would help him.

That's what family did, wasn't it? Even when hearts were broken, and lives destroyed, family stayed true until the end?

So for love and family Violet would do her best to live up to the legacy of a remarkable woman.

"Oh, Thea. I miss you."