Part 4

"Holmes, what is the meaning of this?"

"Sherlock, what has possessed you?"

"As I explained-"

"You know this man?"

"Shut up! Everybody just shut up." Sherlock took up a chair and swiveled it so he faced midway between the door and the general. "Sherlock Holmes, General," he offered a little half-salute with the gun; Mycroft rolled his eyes and put his head in his hand. "As I stated- shouldn't be too long now."

The general looked between the two men with a look of incredulous distaste. "Holmes," he repeated, turning his attention to Mycroft. "You're related to this mad man?"

"Only by blood," Sherlock muttered.

"Oh, for goodness sake," Mycroft stood sharply and stared down his younger brother. "I don't know what you've done, but I think it's high time that-"

A look flashed through Sherlock's eyes, a look Mycroft could not recall ever seeing there before. It was not annoyance or irritation, not even anger- it was complete and utter rage. "What I've done?" he repeated. "Me, Mycroft? I told you I could not return, you gave me no choice; this is on you, if something happens to the general here."

"Oh," a fourth voice broke in calmly, "it isn't the general you ought to be concerning yourself with, Mister Holmes." The stiff, lean man from the Gallery walked slowly into the room, pocketing the access card he'd used to open the door and quietly closing the door again behind him. "Moriarty was right about you; I'm impressed." He turned his attention to the Defence Chief. "General."

It took the general a few seconds to put a name to the face; the wait only seemed to enrage the would-be assassin all the more. "Moran?" The absence of rank made the ex-colonel go red in the face.

"You remember then, good." He very deliberately turned his back, a purposeful disrespect to a former superior officer, and smiled cruelly at Sherlock. "We've accomplished a good deal together, you and me. I'm sorry that you felt you must deny me this one thing. And I'm afraid you might have made one miscalculation."

"Oh?"

The cruel smile widened. "The Gallery was a convenient distraction, but not a false one; there really is going to be an attack there, any moment now."

As if on cue, a distant bang sounded from across the mall; the white curtains in the windows glowed briefly red and green, and cheers could briefly be heard from Trafalgar overtop the sirens and confusion from the street below.

"Fireworks," Sherlock smiled. "It is a celebration, is it not? The Queen's…" he glanced at Mycroft, who sighed again, "fiftieth…?"

"Sixtieth, Sherlock…"

"Sixtieth anniversary of the Queen's coronation. The royal family members who were present for the gala have been whisked away by now of course, after the attack attempt was uncovered, but ordinary people are so easily distracted when things might seem amiss." He gestured Moran back towards the door. "Shall we be moving along, then, before you find yourself accused of actually trying to commit domestic terrorism, rather than just an accessory to it?"

If any of them had thought Moran looked angry before, it was nothing to his ire now. "You dare…? I am a patriot, Sherlock Holmes. All I do- all I have ever done- has been in service to this country!" He rounded on Richards, apparently recalling his purpose there in the first place. "And you- you could never see that. I was a good soldier, and a good officer."

"You were a skilled soldier and officer, Sebastian. But even war has rules and you did not follow them."

"I killed bad men; nothing more."

The general looked surprisingly sympathetic- or perhaps it was merely pity. "It was never your place to make that judgment." He rose to his feet, and glanced skeptically at Sherlock. "Despite his unusual methods, Mister Holmes is correct; do not make matters worse for yourself."

Moran grimaced. "I am afraid it is not so simple as that. You won't be leaving this room alive, General, if I understand anything about Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh?" the former consulting detective looked genuinely curious at whatever insight Moran proposed to have gleaned. "Do tell."

"Why did you fake your death nearly two years ago? It wasn't so you could go running around the world after Moriarty's people, was it?"

"No."

"For all of your awkward aloofness, you do care about one or two people in this world."

"Your point?"

"My point," he stated slowly and silkily, "is that John Watson is an easy man to track down these days."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "So if I understand you, I- being the only one armed in the room at the moment, you're a rifleman and no offense, but it's clearly not hiding in one of your pockets- I kill General Richards or your man kills the doctor? No, that's too easy, and John's a soldier, too, and would still instinctively prioritize protecting a superior, so… oh!" His eyes widened in realization. "Oh! That's good, that's clever. What should I care about her, I've never met her, but if your man kills his… girlfriend, fiancée thing…"

"Then he won't even care that you're alive since you'll have killed her. It'd be worse than killing him, wouldn't it?"

For a moment, he actually appeared to think it over. "Sherlock…" Mycroft murmured warningly.

The sounds of heavy footsteps could be heard on the floor above them; voices working their way down the corridor on their level, possibly searching for an explosive device, possibly for the personnel who had failed to evacuate the building. "Better hurry," Moran smiled darkly. "Time is short."

"So it is," Sherlock agreed, turning the gun over in his hand. He'd killed people before, certainly; but never like this, point-blank and unarmed. "If I might take a moment to explain one, final miscalculation on your part. You're absolutely correct, I faked my suicide to protect the lives of three people I hold quite dear… but chasing after Moriarty's people- that was to protect someone else, someone who already owed me her life and was sworn to repay a debt in kind. I've never worried much after my own life, but I knew what a pawn John would be for my enemies if I returned to London."

His dire situation did not yet seem to have dawned on Moran. "Who?"

"Someone who knows you. Well," a half-smile quirked his lips, "someone who knows what you like."

"I don't-"

The buzzing of a phone made him pause; the sound of an indecent feminine sigh, muffled from his coat pocket, hung awkwardly in the air between the four men.

"The Woman." Sherlock's smile vanished; he raised his gun, and shot Moran straight through the chest. He was dead before he hit the floor.

X-X-X

Their captor had taken to silence while playing games on his phone, presumably waiting on a message from that boss of his as to whether they were going to die. Not that John was especially hopeful of living, but he was rather hoping he would have the opportunity to propose to Mary properly, and not have his last decent memory be describing the ring to her while bound to an uncomfortable wooden chair.

"Any chance we could watch telly or something?" The man looked up blankly. "You know, pass the time…" his gaze returned to the phone. "No, right. Silence is best."

"Oh," a soft voice called from a doorway to his right. "I don't know about that. What's the fun in being tied up if you can't make some noise about it?"

The phone fell to the floor as the man opposite jumped to his feet. John barely registered the motion, staring as he was, jaw dropped and eyes wide, at a ghost. It was her though, no mistaking it, looking just as mischievous as ever though nowhere near as coiffed and groomed.

"Oy! How'd you get in there?" His expression was more confused than alarmed, a hesitant recognition in his eyes.

"Window," she winked, slinking toward the agape man standing in front of his abandoned chair. "I have a message from your boss."

"Oh really? And what might thaaa…urghh…"

"Relax," Irene withdrew the syringe and pushed him back into his chair. "Idiot." She spun, a wide and charming smile on her face. "Hello, Doctor Watson."

"What in the bloody hell are you doing here?"

"Good to see you, too," she teased, kneeling behind Mary's chair and untying her bonds. "And you're welcome."

Mary murmured a confused thanks, but John just kept shaking his head as his own bonds were undone. "You're dead. And he has a gun! What if he'd shot you?"

"Or us," Mary added faintly.

"Or us!" John stood and worked out his arms and wrists, feeling tingling sensation return to his hands.

Sliding a small knife back into a leather sheath, Irene waved aside their concerns. "He knew me, I used to be acquainted with his boss."

"Of course you did."

"And anyway," she grinned, digging through the unconscious man's pockets for the handgun, "I unloaded it earlier. He never bothered to check."

John considered a moment, and then concurred. "Idiot."

"Quite."

"And how are you not dead?" She just gave him a look. "Sherlock," he sighed. "Sherlock goes to bloody Pakistan to save a woman who totally betrayed him. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're an idiot, too. Come on then. There's a car waiting out front to take you back into the city, to the Defence Ministry."

Mary more than eagerly started towards the stairs after Irene, glad to trust the unknown rescuer. John followed, but skepticism kept him wary and asking questions. "Why? Why there?"

"Because there, Doctor Watson," she gestured them ahead of her out the front of the house, "is where answers lie."

He was vaguely uneasy about blindly getting into a car at the behest of Irene Adler, but he saw little alternative. No money, no mobile, no clue where they were…he resignedly climbed in after Mary, who just seemed eager to get away from here quickly as possible.

"Until next time," Irene leaned on the open door. "Do have a better care after yourself, won't you?"

"Wait," he thought she'd be answering some of his burning questions, "aren't you coming?"

"I don't think my presence would be appreciated by some. But do tell Sherlock that I'll be in touch."

His brows furrowed and he shook his head. "What are you…? Sherlock's dead."

"Don't forget, Doctor," she winked again and blew a kiss, "so am I."

The door slammed shut and she tapped on the roof to signal the driver; they pulled away instantly, headed back into London.

X-X-X

Sherlock surrendered the gun as soon as the heavily armed guards burst through the door following the shot, but that did not particularly inspire them to be forgiving or gentle. He was quickly rushed into a corner of the room, a wall of guards between him and the other occupants, and frisked, his pockets stripped of his phone, gloves, cigarettes and lighter, and small bit of money he carried, as well as the identification card he had stolen from Mycroft's study.

Chief of the Defence Staff, General Richards, stared for a minute at the body on the floor, the blood spatter on the wall behind him, before turning to join the informal interrogation taking place in the opposite corner.

Mycroft cut him off. "Sir, if I may- about my brother…"

"I always thought you were a special kind of unique, Holmes," Richards pinned him with a searching gaze. "Is your whole family so crazy then?" He didn't wait for an answer.

"Mister Holmes?" Mycroft looked up wearily at a young guard before him. "There's a DI Lestrade here to see you…"

Of course. He'd entirely forgotten the fiasco at the National Gallery, though by now, he could predict well enough how MPS had come to be involved in the events there. "Let him in."

Lestrade was waiting in the hallway already; the guard beckoned him in, and he stepped gingerly around the body on the floor, a bewildered look on his face. One of his sergeants followed behind, looking around at the increasingly crowded conference room. "Lestrade," Mycroft nodded down at him. "I was going to ask how you found yourself in the middle of things at the gala this evening, but I think I have my answer after all."

The detective inspector looked at him like he was crazy. "You told me to be there, sir."

Ah- so Sherlock had hacked his computer as well. He opened his mouth to try to begin to explain, when Sherlock spoke up from between two burly guards who were frog-marching him from the room. "Apologies, Lestrade, that was me; ah, Sergeant Donovan! You remember how you told John that one day, a body at a crime scene would be there because of me? Well, let me assure you that finally, you are quite right."

"Jesus Christ," Lestrade stared. Donovan went pale. "You were…"

"Dead on a slab, yes. A magic trick, Detective. Just a magic trick. One that saved your life though, if you care to know; yours, Mrs. Hudson's, and John's." He glanced irritably at one of the men seizing him. "It seems though that my comeuppance is catching up with me."

Mycroft held up a hand. "Where are you taking him?" he asked the general.

"Up to my office." He nodded around the room. "Sort this out, Holmes, and meet us. I think we can work something out."

Sort this out. Mycroft was glad to interpret that as freely as it implied. "Yes, sir."

X-X-X