So...hello again! I've been away for a bit. Real life happened, and so did The Lizzie Bennett Diaries. (They're still happening actually - I'm just taking a little break from them to post this!)

Thank you to Einvine's page for introducing me to the modern Lizzie Bennett and William Darcy.

Anyways, I hope you enjoy!

Chapter Eleven, In Which a Spark is Suppressed

Josephine Conners was uncomfortable, and that was putting it mildly. She was propped up against a wall, and she felt…heavy. There was something tight tied against her thigh, and her upper arm throbbed slightly. Neither of these injuries could compare to the pounding in her head. She felt as though she was one of the eggs she often dropped while cooking, cracked open on the floor.

Jo tried to open her eyes, but the light made her wince. She could hear…voices, and the clacking of a keyboard as someone sat typing frantically. As she gradually opened one eye, and then the other, the room began to blur in and out of focus.

Light streamed in through a large bay window to her left. The view outside was pleasant – it was a sunny day, the sky was an intense shade of blue, and it was that changing time of year when melting snow reflected every iota of sunlight. Her eyes moved away from the window, retreating from the harsh daylight.

It seemed she was in some sort of house, in the sitting room. A leather sofa, with a worn armchair beside it, and a wooden coffee table in between came into focus first. Down the hallway, she could make out several doors, probably leading to bedrooms or baths. To her right lay a small kitchen, with wooden floors, light cabinets, and modern appliances, and –

Oh. That was odd. One wall of the dining room off the kitchen had monitors all over it. Computer monitors, and television screens, and they were all filled with different things – empty rooms, hospital entrances, a news station, what looked like a canteen somewhere, Scotland Yard, and some sort of landing strip at an airport –

And there, at a long desk in front of the viewing wall, with a desktop and two laptops sitting on it, typing furiously on several different keyboards - stopping to occasionally move a mouse to adjust a screen or minimize a window - was Sarah Jane.

"Sarah?" Jo whispered, confused. What had happ – oh. Oh. OH! In one crystal moment of clarity, shining brilliant and blinding and painful as the sunshine off of reflected snow, Josephine remembered what had happened.

She began to move her arms, only to find they'd been tied loosely together at the wrists. Fighting panic within her, she tried to move her head – but gasped in pain when she did so.

"Tsk, tsk," someone above her shook his head. "Now, now poppet. Not time to wake yet. Go back to sleep."

And something smelling strong and unpleasant was placed in front of her nose, and she was lost in darkness for the second time.

Mycroft didn't swear – swearing is the manifestation of the inability to express oneself intelligently and precisely - but Sherlock could tell he was testing the taste and feel of one in his mouth. The British Government thought better of it and pressed his lips into a fine line as his quick eyes scanned the flat of Jo and Sarah Jane Conners.

Someone had taken them, that much was clear to even Molly and John. The door to their flat was locked from the outside, but the chain inside was cut cleanly down the center. Someone had picked the lock and cut through the security chain, then relocked the door from the outside. The radio had been playing, a little too loudly, and Mycroft had promptly switched it off as soon as they entered the flat.

Two culprits had been there, judging by the size of the bloody half-footprint in the kitchen and the oily indentations on the carpet. The Holmes brothers scanned the flat, occasionally glancing at each other, communicating as silently as possible with minute hand gestures, scowls, and narrowed eyes. Occasionally, they would talk, quietly and tersely, their thought processes a mystery to the two men and one woman who were standing silently, observing, just inside the entrance to the flat.

"One had a scar from a old knife wound-"

"Glass, more likely-"

"I'd say six feet, two inches, and five feet, ten inches-"

"One smokes – a cheap American brand-"

"Jo landed two blows with the frying pan, gave him a bad limp-"

"Left some of his skin behind-"

"Some of her own, as well-"

"Sarah is physically unharmed, but Jo fought back-"

"He didn't cut her on purpose; she did that herself-"

"Not deep, but substantial enough to leave the blood he stepped in-"

"Connected." Sherlock stated, nudging Sarah Jane's phone from under the table with the toe of his shoe.

"Mmm." Mycroft agreed, frowning. He stepped out of the room, giving quiet, clipped orders to the agent standing outside the door. The agent entered the flat across the hall, and returned seconds later with the news that the man across the hall – one of Mycroft's placed there for surveillance of the promising student recruit - was dead – shot through the head.

Molly looked to John and Greg nervously, then at the brothers, who continued stalking through the apartment.

Greg rubbed his face, and growled in frustration. "Holmes – I need to call my team in, for the kidnapping at least. One of your men is dead, and these girls – I know these girls. You can use us. I can't-"

"Detective Inspector – you will not call anyone. You will not call your team, you will not call your estranged wife – who has been out for some time today and is in no danger from our case here - you will not call anyone. You will leave this apartment, and forget what you saw here today. One of my men will escort you back to the hospital, where you will continue your investigation into Moriarty's return through traditional channels. Is that clear?" Mycroft's cutting voice left no room for argument, but Greg Lestrade argued anyways.

"But-"

"I will handle the extraction of the Conners sisters. In fact," he said, glancing down at the phone on the floor, "Sarah Jane has already secured their rescue. You are not needed."

Greg's face contorted in anger. He opened his mouth to reply -

"You are needed at the hospital, though," Molly said quietly, surprising the men in the room. "The news – people will be out of their minds with worry. They need you there." She gave Greg a weak smile.

Greg looked at her darkly for a moment, but his gaze relaxed and he returned Molly's gentle, nervous smile with a brusque nod. "Tell me when they're safe. And let me know – let me know if and when you need anything. We've got to work together, this time. No need to fake any deaths." He glared at the unresponsive Holmes brothers, and turned to go.

"Wait…shouldn't I…I mean – should I go with you? I can help you with the records-"

"Dr. Patel and Mike Stamford are more than capable of helping with the records, Molly. You didn't perform Moriarty's autopsy." Sherlock's voice cut through her stammering. He glanced sharply at the petite woman across the room, then refocused his gaze on the phone at his feet. "Besides. You are safer with us, at the moment. Until we know what is on that disk…" Until Mycroft's men finish sweeping your flat, and Baker Street…until we know Moriarty's game…

He didn't need to explain further. She swallowed noisily and nodded, then stopped when she realized no one but John was looking at her. She smiled sheepishly at him, and raised her shoulders in a sort of half-shrug. He offered her a tense smile in return, and then eyed Sherlock across the room. Sherlock was studiously ignoring everyone, bending down, and with careful fingers, prodding Sarah Jane's phone on the floor.

It had been odd, when Molly walked through the front entrance to the apartment complex. She had given Sherlock the disk and case immediately. When he saw the front cover, the note, his face was impassive. Then, in a strange and unnecessary gesture, he'd gently, firmly cupped Molly's steady hands in his own lean, gloved ones. He stared at the case, and his thumbs made small strokes on Molly's wrists.

He didn't pull her closer, or attempt to comfort her in any other way. He had simply stood still as a statue for a full minute, holding her hands in his own and studying her with all of the intensity his blue-grey eyes allowed. She had almost felt like he was…memorizing her. It was discomfiting, although she felt a blush creep up her neck and colour her cheeks as she relaxed into the feel of his slender, leather-clad fingers on her skin.

Then, just as quickly as it had begun, he'd tucked the offending case into a pocket in his Belstaff, ignoring his brother's demands to see it, and had smirked at her, once, cleared his throat, and headed for the lift. She'd looked away from everyone for a moment, thinking, and then looked back at John and Greg. Greg gave her an eye roll and a shoulder shrug, and John gripped her shoulder reassuringly, avoiding her gaze. "You'll be fine, Molly."

"I know," she'd replied, trying hard to believe her own words.

Sherlock regretted touching her. It was a moment of weakness, on his part. It must have been the chemical imbalance of adrenaline and fear and relief mixed in his body, because he wanted desperately to pull her close in an embrace and…and do what? He wasn't sure. But he felt something old and deep spin inside him, and although he tried desperately to repress it, he couldn't stop his hands from touching her – making sure that she was indeed alive, and present, and real, and ready to help him as always. He owed Molly Hooper – he owed her his life, several times over. It was almost as bad with her as it was with John.

So, admitting that he felt responsible for Molly Hooper, and that he owed her, he made a silent vow to himself that he would protect her, too.

Logic convinced him he wasn't being overly sentimental - he could return the favor of life-saving that she had bestowed on him on more than one occasion. Besides – on a park bench so many months ago, he did admit that he loved her. That he loved all of them.

There was no room for love, now. It needed to be tucked away and locked in the recesses of his mind palace. Perhaps, when this was all over, he could enter that room again – continue his observations and experiments. For now, he needed his thoughts unhindered by the chemical imbalance caused by love. Otherwise, he may not have anyone left to love.

With that out of the way, he studied Sarah Jane's phone on the floor, deciphering the distress call that Sarah Jane had started when she knew that she and Josephine were going to be taken.

Sarah Jane was furiously monitoring the screens in front of her. She had not slept for over twenty-four hours, and her eyes were rimmed red and felt raw with dried tears. She felt dizzy and sick from staring at the computer screens before her for so long. She'd only been allowed a few five-minute bathroom breaks, and had been give a single, small bottle of water to drink. Still, there was a part of her mind that felt the tiniest bit of comfort from the familiarity of the keyboard beneath her fingers.

She was seven, and she was smart. She knew the woman in the house with them was connected to something dangerous. The woman with pretty light brown hair and dark eyes and a pleasant, lilting accent, who apologized for her rough treatment but insisted that it was necessary – there was something wrong with her. Sarah had never met an insane person, but she suspected Ms. Brooks might be one. She was sweet and gentle in explaining exactly how Sarah Jane needed to hack into all of the broadcasting systems in London, and sweet and gentle as she gave Sarah Jane the video she needed to upload, and sweet and gentle as she explained exactly how she would have to torture her sister in front of her if she failed to supply adequate results in the time given her.

So Sarah Jane worked, broadcasting the image of James Moriarty to everyone in London when she was ordered to. After the broadcasting virus was released, she was told to monitor certain areas of London. She complied.

She blinked rapidly, trying both to moisten her dry eyes and to keep from falling asleep.

"Sarah, love – Jim's told me to tell ya you're doing a marvelous job. He's quite pleased with your work, yeah?"

Sarah didn't bother to face the woman standing behind her. She tensed her little shoulders as a thin fingernail traced its way across her back. Her voice was so light and warm – it was frightening. "Soon…very soon, love – Phase One will be complete. And then the real fun begins! And it'll be such fun, for us. Oh – not for you, dear. You'll be rescued by then, o'course. Don't worry, Sarah Jane. You and your darlin' sister will be safe and sound in a matter of hours. You really have done a marvelous job, dear. We just need one last thing-"

And then Janine 'Brooks' spun Sarah Jane's chair so that she was facing the woman. Janine had a needle in her hand, and she grabbed Sarah's hand so quickly Sarah didn't have time to react. Janine stabbed the pad of one of Sarah's fingers with the needle, and held a small rectangular piece of glass to her blood, drawing it onto the slide.

"Ah!" Sarah cried out, more of surprise than of pain.

"Now, sweetheart," Janine's voice was low and calming. "Here's some gauze – hold it to your finger like a good girl – and I'll get you a bandage and some ice for it, as well. It's a pity we've had to meet like this. You're such a doll. If I was ever to have a little girl, I'd hope she'd look like you." She winked, friendly, at Sarah.

Sarah pulled her hand close to herself, pressing the gauze hard into the little wound, and glared at the woman walking away from her.

It was then that the sound of breaking glass and gunfire made her hit the floor and crouch in a ball under the desk, clever eyes looking for a way to save herself and her sister in the chaos.

"You're wasting your time, brother mine." Mycroft said, sneering distastefully at the vegetable stir-fry Molly was attempting to clean up throughout the kitchen after getting the okay from Sherlock and Mycroft. John sighed, and began to help her.

Sherlock broke his attention from Sarah Jane's phone. "Who's receiving her distress call, then? How are you going to 'extract' them?" He already had his suspicions, but he needed confirmation from his brother.

"Her brother."

When Mycroft didn't elaborate, John looked up from the burnt onion bits he was scraping from the side of a cabinet. "He got her message, or he's going to rescue them?" he prompted.

Mycroft just rolled his eyes and stood primly by a window, thinking.

Sherlock took it upon himself to explain, knowing John and Molly would keep thinking too loudly about the whole thing until he illuminated them. "Ian Conners, and presumably his partner, will 'rescue' them. Her brother received her distress call almost -twenty-four hours ago – judging by when they were taken. The call was activated as she was apprehended, at which time she dropped it and it was kicked under the table…"

His voice trailed off as he looked up at his brother suspiciously. "Why did he take them?"

Mycroft did not acknowledge Sherlock's reply. Molly and John had finished cleaning the rotting food from the kitchen, and were sitting at the kitchen table, waiting to hear the answer.

"So, its…J-Moriarty took them?" Molly clarified.

"Yes." Sherlock stood, placing the phone on the table, then sitting at a chair, joining the tips of his fingers in thought. "As I said before, connected. I have no doubt 'Jim' was behind this. Although Sarah is gifted, why would he take her? He's more than capable of pulling off the 'Did you miss me' stunt himself. No…and if he's trying to affect me, he knows there are…stronger pressure points than they. In fact, I find myself emotionally unaffected by their absence at all."

He looked up at the sharp intake of breath from both Molly and John. He rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't very well do anyone any good if I was crying over it, now would I? And your own eyes are remarkably dry. Besides, the probability that they are both still alive is very high. The question remains – why take them? And especially, why take both of them? We've eliminated the idea that they were taken to affect me, and that Jim needed her for the broadcast high-jacking ordeal, though he could have had her help with that. Unwilling help," he clarified at John's glare. "I suppose I understand taking Sarah for her mathematical and technological abilities, but why take Josephine?"

Leaping up and pacing, Sherlock continued, barely pausing to take a breath. "She'd have been a bother to carry and has no skills that Moriarty would ever find a use for. He didn't want to kill her - she could be used as leverage to get Sarah to work for him, but he could accomplish that just as easily were he to simply knock Jo over the head and leave her here. So why take Josephine Conners? Why take her?"

He turned to his brother, who was still staring out the window. Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Impossible…"

John and Molly looked sharply at each other. Mycroft Holmes stating that something was impossible could not be a good sign.

"What?" Sherlock snapped impatiently. "What's impossible?"

"How could he have known?" Mycroft muttered to himself.

"Speak up, brother. What is impossible?"

Mycroft took out his phone and began dialing. He turned towards the others, face unreadable. Everyone heard the phone ring – once, twice, three times – before Mycroft smashed the "End Call" button in frustration. He immediately began to text, and after sending it, glared at the screen.

One minute passed by. No reply.

Mycroft breathed deeply through his nose. He began another call, and gave short orders to secure an address at all costs.

"Mikey," Sherlock warned, testing his brother. He spoke slowly and annunciated every letter of every word. "I can't slay the dragon if I don't have all of the weapons at my disposal."

After hanging up, Mycroft pressed two fingers into the kitchen table. He composed himself quickly, and then glared at his brother. "There is a…safe."

Sherlock leveled his gaze on his brother, holding them there. Molly and John stared at the two brothers, listening intently.

"A safe that contains a very important floppy disk. Yes," he glared at John, who was about to snort at the importance of a floppy disk, "a very important floppy disk. It was created a little over twenty years ago, and was sealed in a safe that has not been opened since the deaths of Robert and Evelyn Conners. It was created by Robert Conners, a top intelligence officer at the time of his death. It contains…" he stopped. "It's not for me to disclose what it contains. Suffice it to say that it is extremely important to our nation's security. The safe is…unique. It has a lock coded to open by a DNA match." He stared pointedly at John and Molly.

Realization spread across their faces simultaneously. "He kidnapped Jo and Sarah Jane because of their DNA? He wants to open the safe." Molly asked, voice low.

"That's why he took Jo, too." John stated grimly.

"Yes…convenient…he'll have needed blood, urine, hair, saliva samples…easier to just take them all at once than to sneak around and risk being caught by Agent Conners or Agent Long." Sherlock stared at nothing, thinking.

"And now their dear brother is on his way to rescue them, if he hasn't already, and he'll give James Moriarty the last piece of the DNA puzzle to unlock the safe. He's walked into a trap, and neither he nor Casey are answering any form of communication. I've sent my men to secure the safe, but it was always hidden in plain sight, because…it was quite impossible to move, and no one was supposed to know about it. No one but me." Mycroft admitted stiffly.

"What is on the disk?" Sherlock asked, feigning disinterest.

Mycroft glared at him. "It's of no importance to you."

Sherlock moved to stand facing his brother, noses mere inches apart. "Moriarty is back, and he is threatening the people I have vowed to protect. He's also threatening all of England, in case you've missed that detail. If the contents of that disk are important to him, they are important to me too." He emphasized every word slowly, dangerously.

Mycroft eyed his brother calmly. "I don't know."

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't play games-"

"I. Don't. Know." It was the closest Mycroft's voice had ever sounded to a growl.

"You're full of sh-"

"I hate repeating myself, brother." Mycroft's lips pressed into a thin line. "Although you may believe me to be omniscient, there are certain pieces of information that even I am not privy to. Primarily because…no one else knows, either."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You're telling me that no one knows what's on that disk?"

Mycroft frowned. "No one is supposed to, except for Robert Conners, and he died with that information still a secret. He was one of the top intelligence officers of his time – retired to our technology department. He was, by all accounts, a real-life 'Q'. He went to great lengths to protect that disk – obviously - even designed one of the first locks that require particular strands of DNA to open it. We're assuming that it is of national importance."

Molly was biting her lips in an effort not to speak. Sherlock glanced at her, and John, and then returned to glaring at his brother.

"What about-" Molly blushed as six eyes turned to stare at her, full force. "Sorry…what about the disk Jim gave me? We still need to look at it…don't we?"

"Yes…two pieces…two large pieces…two disks..." Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips and began thinking.

Mycroft did the same, although without moving his fingers or lips. John and Molly eyed each other silently across the table, and waited in silence for the other men to figure things out.

Ten minutes in to this, Mycroft's phone rang.

It was Ian Conners.

Josephine Conners met consciousness feeling a bit better. Her head was clearer – less fuzzy, though it still throbbed with pain. Her arm no longer burned, though the skin felt sore and tight, and the wrapping on her thigh was no longer painfully oppressive. She was lying on something soft and comfortable. She hadn't opened her eyes yet, but she could hear snatches of people talking around her.

"No…stitches - injection to fight infection – slightly dehydrated but stable – concussion made worse by – chloroform…" alternating male and female voices proclaimed.

"Hmmmmngh," she moaned. Painfully, slowly, she tried to open her eyes. She was met with the furrowed brow of Dr. John Watson.

Unfortunately, it took her a moment to recognize him.

Her fist connected weakly with his face.

"Oi!" He exclaimed, rubbing the side of his face good-naturedly, in surprise.

Sarah was at her side in an instant. "Oh, Jo!" She threw her arms around her sister awkwardly, avoiding her head but brushing painfully against the burn on her arm.

"Ah!" Jo cried, wincing.

"Sorry, sorry!" Sarah cried, tears pooling in her eyes. She brushed them away quickly with the back of her hand.

"Sorry," Jo replied, eyes narrowed at the light in the room. "Um…Doctor…John?"

"Yeah, all right?" He stared down at her.

"Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. You couldn't crush an ant with that blow."

"Ms. Conners, the program you're running is nearly done." A faintly familiar voice drawled from another room. Jo frowned, then stopped. She could practically feel the puckered lines in her forehead when she frowned, and it was painful.

Sarah squeezed her hand reassuringly and dashed out of the room, promising to be back very soon. "She's awake!" She cried to the others in the room, out of sight.

Jo took a moment to blink and focus on the room around her. Dr. Watson and Dr. Hooper were both watching her carefully. She closed her eyes to the light that was bothering her.

"No, no – none of that." John Watson jumped up, and lightly tapped her cheek. "You've got to stay awake, Jo. We'll transfer you to hospital as soon as Sarah's done – Mycroft's already got an ambulance waiting, yeah? You need an MRI to check on that bump on your head. Bit of bad business, there."

"You'll be fine, Jo," Molly added, smiling gently down at her, eyes filled with sympathy. She dimmed turned off the overhead light and turned on a lamp instead. The curtains were drawn, and the effect of the lamp was much more gentle than the ceiling light.

"Jujubee," a playful voice sounded at the doorway. Ian and Casey smiled at her, but their faces were tense. They both crossed the room. Ian took a seat next to her on the bed, and Casey stood next to her, gently brushing his fingers against her good arm. Jo noticed Ian had bandage wrapped around the palm of his left hand. It was stained with blood.

"What happened?"

Ian looked away, studying the blanket draped over Jo's legs. He squeezed her hand lightly. "I'm sorry, Jujubee. He never should have taken either of you." His voice was gruff.

"Who? Who took us?"

"James Moriarty," Casey answered. His voice was steady, but low. "The ba-"

"Casey!" Jo cut him off, elbowing him feebly. "Don't start. Isn't he dead? Are we - are we back in our flat?"

"Calm down, Jo. We…we're not sure how he's alive. Not even the great Mr. Holmes knows how that happened. He was supposed to be dead. He took you to…well, he - for a few reasons. While you were…out – well, he…" Ian fumbled over words for the first time in many years.

"He made me broadcast a stupid video of him all over London, and took a sample of my blood. Apparently he saved my water bottle and…some other fluids as well." Sarah Jane cut in, returning from the other room, crossing the room to lightly hold Jo's arm. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Except…well…it wasn't him – I never saw him. I heard him, but…there was a woman…"

"Janine Brooks. Turns out I'm not the only one who's a cold, lying, manipulative bas-" Sherlock smirked cheekily from the doorway.

"Again, with the swearing!" Jo interrupted. "Please! My ears are singing."

Everyone in the room stared at her for a moment. "Er …ringing? Right? Is that right?" Jo looked at the doctors across the room.

"Sarah, are you done yet?" Molly asked, nervously moving to check Jo's pulse. Ian moved smoothly out of the way so she could take it. "Jo needs a proper hospital. The concussion, combined with being in a chemically induced sleep for so long, is not doing her brain any good."

Jo blinked, confused. "I need an explication. Explant…explanation?"

Several mouths opened at once, and the group in the room looked around. Casey was the one who decided to speak.

"Moriarty and that…b-rainy woman," he continued, after receiving a glare from Jo, "sent some ridiculous low-lives to kidnap you. Sarah Jane activated the distress call on her phone – yes…she has one…and so do you, now. Suppose we should teach you how to activate it. But you were taken to a house in Manchester, really pretty, by the way, pity we had to tear it apart – and Sarah Jane was brilliant as always and broadcast that bloody video. Sorry. Anyways, she did that, and then they had her monitoring some politicians and this lot-" he gestured to Sherlock, John, and Molly, "and they took blood from your cut there," he nodded to her thigh, "and from Sarah's finger."

"Blood?"

"Yeah…and then, when Ian and I had figured out where you were, someone jumped Ian and sliced his hand open as well, and stuck his fingers in Ian's mouth-"

"Disgusting – but I bit him good-" Ian cut in.

Casey rolled his eyes "-and then he ran off with the knife."

Jo remembered in time not to frown. Evidently facial expressions were made painful after a concussion. "So…you just came in and grabbed us? And they took our blood?"

Casey nodded. "Yeah."

Ian frowned darkly, looking away from his sister. He crossed his arms. "It's what they wanted. They didn't really want you two at all…they used you to bring me out. They knew I'd save you, and they needed my blood as well. They're going to use it to open Da's safe."

"Dad has a safe?"

"Had. It's empty now." Sherlock's voice was curt and almost accusing. His expression betrayed his frustration that Moriarty had gained on him.

Ian and Casey explained that it may or may not have contained something important to national security.

"We don't know what was on it?" Jo asked, confused.

"No. And until Jim or Janine choose to unleash it, we may not know. I'm looking in to it now, but it will be…difficult." Mycroft had left as soon as he'd heard from Ian and Casey. He had business to attend to.

Jo shivered suddenly.

Suddenly, a chilling laughter filled the apartment, along with a loud fumbling noise, like someone moving cloth in front of a microphone. "Hey, Sher-…"

Everyone but Sherlock jumped, but it was Sarah who first realized that her program had finished scanning the DVD and it had started playing automatically. She leapt up and out of the room, and paused it.

John, Molly, and Sherlock exchanged glances. It was time to receive whatever clue Jim Moriarty had left for them.

Everyone was in the room, crowded around Sarah's computer – even Jo. She'd insisted on it. A madman had kidnapped herself and her sister, and she wasn't about to let it go lightly.

A close-up of Jim Moriarty's face was frozen on the screen where Sarah Jane had paused the video. His expression would have been comical, had the circumstances been different.

Sarah looked to Sherlock, who nodded tersely.

Sarah Jane unpaused the video.

"-lock!" Jim smiled crookedly at the camera. He shook his head slightly, and began to sing in a mocking voice. "You were leeeeaaaaavin', on a jet plaaaane – neveeeer to return again."

At this, Molly looked sharply at Sherlock. The look was not lost on him, but he did not acknowledge it.

In the video, Jim laughed slightly, a huff of air into the camera. "But now you're back. You're back!" He smiled widely at the camera. "I've been busy in your short absence, Sherlock. I've taken the liberty of taking Josephine and Sarah Jane Conners, though I believe they'll be back with you soon, if they're not already. You probably wanted sweet Sarah Jane to test this little note I left you."

He tsked, disappointment dramatized on his face. "Snap out of it Sherlock!" He yelled, angry, then rearranged his features into something calmer again. "I wouldn't booby-trap our first little chat in years! I need your head clear for this one, Sherlock. You've muddied it up the past two years by getting – what's that your brother says? - involved. With people. You're turning into an angel, Sherlock. A boring, boring, angel. Best man? Boring. And dancing? Really, Sherl." He shook his head again.

"And I was so impressed with the way you faked your death" – he began a slow clap, off-camera, but only his face was still visible " – but since then you've been slipping! So I've taken the liberty of taking the Conner girls off of your mind. Did you like how I killed their parents? Some of my earliest work. Pure chance that it connected to you. How lucky! Sometimes the stars just align, just right!"

At that, Jo made a strange gurgling noise from somewhere deep in her throat, and Casey caught her and wrapped his arm around her, holding her close. Her face went a sickly shade of pale, and she went cold all over. Sarah sat down, stunned, and as there was no chair for her to fall into, she landed on the floor with a muted thunk. Ian sat next to her, and she clung to him, wide-eyed.

A part of Sherlock's brain briefly catalogued the value of physical contact as a means of comfort, but he blinked and sharply reminded himself he was no longer interested in lessons in love or sentiment.

Moriarty continued, his face growing dark and dangerous on the screen. "And sometimes…they don't. I'm a little angry with you, Sherlock." He paused, and smirked. "Well, more than a little. Remember my promise, Sherlock? Well, that's where I'm going to start. The heart of it all." He grinned once more, devious and wicked, and a voice off screen in the video gave the viewers in the room chills.

"Well done, love. Sherl will love that." The camera moved, a blur of fabric and light and motion until it focused shakily on the person holding it.

Janine.

She smiled prettily at the camera. "Won't you, Sherl?" She winked, and the screen went dark.

Ooooh, what could the dastardly duo be planning?!

I love reviews, comments, and constructive criticism. Please and thank you!