*Edit* Just added a few lines about John noticing Mary's wound later in the chapter...thank you to loveibirds413 for noticing that so I could fix it! :) *
Thank you, thank you to all of the reviewers, followers, and favoriters! (I think I just made that word up – favoriters? People who favorite? I don't know…)
Anyways, I'm so happy you're enjoying the story! (My eighth grade theater teacher would have said I'm 'skippy-peachy'.) Thank you to lovebird and Einvine and Cat Francis for the lovely, encouraging reviews. I can't thank you enough!
I'd especially like to thank Einvine for discussing Jim's movitations with me. It gave me some confidence and made me more sure of my story line. I LOVED writing this chapter, and I hope you love reading it.
I do not own Sherlock or the A-Team (short little A-team reference at the beginning, here…gotta love 80s television).
Buckle up, folks. This chapter is one heck of a wild ride. :)
Chapter 15, In Which Love is War
A young brunette woman in an impeccable business suit strode quickly down the hallway, her designer heels making pleasant clicking noises as she walked. She did enjoy the sound of her own footsteps – it meant action, movement – moving forward. And ever since she'd acquired the position of personal assistant to Mycroft Holmes several years ago, she'd certainly been moving forward.
She smirked to herself and she went over the files one last time – Mr. Holmes would be incredibly pleased with this new piece of intelligence. And no one had had to die for it, this time. She did love it when a plan came together.
She rapped smartly on the door to his office, and closed the file carefully.
"Come in, Anthea." She pushed the heavy wooden door open just enough for her to enter, and then shut it carefully behind her. Mycroft sat at his desk, papers and folders neatly stacked around his laptop – ever the organizer. He looked at her expectantly.
"We've got a lead on Robert Conners' floppy disk, sir. Ian and Sarah went over what we could salvage of his old files, and they realized that in it were formulas and schematics for a remote of sorts – one that could effectively turn anything on or off."
Mycroft raised his eyebrow incredulously. Surely she did not expect him to believe Jim Moriarty stole the code for a universal remote. She walked to his desk and handed him the file, which he immediately opened and began to flip through.
"Of course, after exhausting the files in the possession of the Conners family, we requested files from MI-6 and the British Armed Forces and discovered some credence to Sarah's theories. An experimental cesium battery disappeared from the Baskerville lab last year, and was never recovered. Sarah believes that the battery is the key to the remote – she says that following her father's notes, with a few minor adjustments, all she'd theoretically need are parts found in any new computer, GPS, or cell phone to build the remote, if she had the battery. Whether or not it would actually work…" She did not need to explain further.
Mycroft sifted through the last few pages of the folder and stared at it for a moment, deep in thought. "I see her point. Using simple reflection and refraction from the nation's satellites, in addition to disrupting the frequencies and signals from land units, could, in theory, 'turn off' all communications devices in a certain area. How large the area is…that depends on the strength of the signal and battery broadcasting it, and its proximity to important communications bases – cell phone towers, broadcasting stations, the like. Yes," he said, closing the folder and handing it back to Anthea, "this is the most plausible theory for the contents of the floppy disk that we have to work with at this point it time. Please advise Lady Smallwood, the Prime Minister, and the rest that there is a great probability that we will be working blind and deaf to the rest of the world very soon. Code Blue is in effect, as is Communication Level Twelve. We must prepare for the worst."
"Yes sir." She took the folder without hesitation and turned to leave. She stopped at the door, and looked back at her boss. He was already refocused on his phone, frowning at the text message that had just arrived.
When Sherlock and John looked up from the note, brows furrowed, Irene and her child were gone. Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair and growled in frustration. He pulled out his phone and texted both Mycroft and Lestrade about the note, and to send a unit to St. Bart's and to John and Mary's flat, all while telling John to call Mary and warn her to be on high alert, and not to let Molly out of her sight.
There was something…something about their meeting with Irene that did not fit. Sherlock always saw the world in black and white, but this case was full of greys. He had thought that either Irene would be working for Jim willingly, or she would be targeted, and in turn, would help Sherlock to work against him. But Jim had kidnapped her son and forced her to work for him…to get her to get Sherlock to give him what he wanted. And now that she had her son back – safe – she was gone.
What had he wanted?
What mattered most to Jim?
To destroy you, Sherlock, by destroying the people you care about.
What mattered most to him? What did he care about? Who hadn't been directly targeted, yet?
John, Mary, Molly – John was with him – Mary and Molly were together – he closed his eyes to concentrate.
Irene pops into his head. She's wearing her battle suit – and her hair is its proper length again, pulled back in her classic twist. She did disappoint him. She changed. And change…change is painful, and unpredictable…so many variables…She shakes her head at him.
"You didn't love me, Sherlock. I'm a game – a puzzle – and you've solved me. I'm as ordinary as everyone else, underneath it all – I bleed, I cry, I love. I'm just a little prettier and smarter than everyone else. Including you. But you can solve this puzzle, too, darling. We can always have dinner later, to celebrate." She smiles wickedly at him.
John frowned at his mobile. "Mary's not answering."
"What did we talk about, Sherlock? Think. What did I ask you? More importantly – what did you tell me?"
Sherlock ignored John, who was dialing Molly's number now, just to be sure Mary wasn't on the toilet or in the shower or something like that.
Sherlock closes his eyes, and when he opens them, he is standing at the tea table, half an hour ago, when the three of them sat down together. He stands between John and Irene, where he has a clear view of everyone's faces – including his own- and also a clear view of the room. He fast-forwards their conversation, pausing and rewinding every now and then, and thirty seconds later – he has it.
A woman at the table next to them has a hearing aid – but it's not a hearing aid; when Irene's child screamed and ran across the room; when he cried in her lap – she did not move to take it out, did not move to turn it down, although she flinched at his loud cries. Her head was always inclined towards their table, and never moved. It was a bug – a microphone – Jim had been listening in on their conversation.
"Yes, good, good – but what did you tell me, Sherlock?" Irene's frowning at him, and she has her arms crossed across her chest.
He frowns and plays through the conversation again.
John's frown deepened. "Molly's not answering, either. I'll try St. Bart's. Maybe Molly got stuck pulling a double shift."
Sherlock pulls out the pieces of the conversation – what he told her. That she was married, deductions – unimportant. That she looked better with long hair.
"Stop. Why long hair?" Irene asks, interrupting him, pulling out her twist and shaking her hair down around her shoulders.
Sherlock is confused. "It suits you better."
She smiles knowingly at him. "It suits me better? Or it suits you better?"
"You-" he begins to say, but then he realizes – most of the time her hair is pulled back in a fancy twist at the nape of her neck. Her new shorter style accentuates her jawline and cheekbones just as much as her up-dos used to. So no, it doesn't necessarily suit her better – he just preferred her with long hair. Why long hair?
There must be some sort of connection –
"Hullo! All right?" Molly appears, with her hair –long hair – in a ponytail, and her same silly jumper and lab coat on. She smiles nervously at Irene, eyebrows puckered together. "Why…are you naked?"
Irene opens her mouth to reply, but Sherlock stops her. Them. Himself. "Stop it. Go away – you." He tells Mind-Molly. She disappears. Mind-Irene turns to him, a smug smile on her face. "That's good, darling. Progress. So you like long hair. What else did you tell me?"
What else did I tell Jim?
He fast forwards through their conversation again – not giving Irene an answer – she gave him one, put words in his mouth – "you didn't love me…you love puzzles" – he agrees – he compliments her – 'an admirable adversary', but only as a friend – yes, she is – was – a friend.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows over his still-closed eyes as he realized that with that response, he had effectively confirmed – for Jim, listening in with that hearing-aid-woman – that Irene did not count…she had served her purpose, and he did feel something for her – he came to help her, didn't he? – but she'd gotten an answer out of him that saved herself and her son from further harassment from Jim. She'd been trying to eliminate herself as a pressure point.
"They're Mama's friends, Will."
"No, we're not."
She had succeeded.
"What else did you tell me, Sherlock?" Her voice is sadder now – gentler, as though she's leading a child to admit to something she knows he's guilty of.
Jim, Janine, faked death – .
John's moved on – yes – machine – yes –
Pathologist.
You do notice her.
You notice her.
John and Mary and Sherlock and Molly – Mary is John's pressure point, and Molly – Molly is –
He couldn't admit that Molly was to him what Mary was to John.
Molly is one of my greatest pressure points. Molly and John. Equal, and slightly above Mary –
No. Mary had to stay equal with Molly and John, because she was carrying John's baby.
He frowns deeply.
You've already given him what he wants, Sherlock.
Sherlock's eyes flew open. Molly. He was after Molly, now – for real, this time. And Mary…
"Hello, Sherlock! I said," John huffed, "that St. Bart's said Mary and Molly left about forty-five minutes ago. They're not answering their phones." His eyes pleaded with Sherlock to tell him that it was all right – that maybe Mycroft had taken them, or the D.I., or maybe Mary had hidden them away somewhere -
Sherlock pressed his lips together. "We may be too late, then."
"Too late? What the bloody – what do you mean, too late? We just left them a little over an hour ago! What about all those people watching them, hmm? Mycroft's men? Your homeless network? What do you mean, too late?!"
1 Hour Ago
Molly finished her shift shortly after the boys had said their goodbyes. Mary was always good company – she didn't come to the lab often, but every now and then, when she did, she never minded the corpses or body parts or the strong smell of disinfectant. She was cheerful and funny and Molly soon found an easy rhythm in their time together. Mary had a talent for making people comfortable, and Molly appreciated that – as most of the time, she felt anything but comfortable around Sherlock. She'd improved, the past three years, to be sure – and when they were alone, she was comfortable with him - but there was still always that tiniest prick of sadness, or embarrassment, when he said something cutting in front of their friends. Mary helped with that – with a sassy remark or soft laugh or swat to the back of Sherlock's head, she could turn the conversation around and make everyone forget about whatever it was he'd just said. They were different, in that way – Molly stood up to Sherlock by calling him out, and often, it made the situation even more uncomfortable for a few moments, until Sherlock awkwardly apologized. Mary stood up to him by slyly diverting the room's attention to something other than himself, giving him time to reflect on his poor word choices. She was cunning – Mary Morstan-Watson.
Molly smiled. Mary would be a good mother.
As the two made their way out of St. Barts, they discussed possible late lunch choices. Molly deferred to Mary's choice of Italian ("I just can't get enough carbs, with this girl!"), and they were about to hail a cab when Mary stopped them. She gripped Molly's arm, suddenly, on the last few steps of St. Bart's, and looked around. A few people milled around outside – it was a nice enough day – but Molly could tell by the warning in her fingertips that Mary thought something was wrong.
"What is it? What's wrong?" Molly asked.
Mary looked around, one hand on Molly's arm, one on her round belly. "No one's following us," she said, her voice low.
Molly was confused. "Well – isn't that a good thing?"
"No. Not good – we've had tails for the past two weeks, Molly, ever since Jim returned and started with his egotistic reign of terror…either police or Mycroft's men or Sherlock's homeless network. None of them are here now."
"Oh," Molly said, voice small, suddenly viewing everyone around with suspicion.
A taxicab stopped in front of the hospital. A woman, with dark hair, rolled down the window – was it – ?!
"Afternoon, Mary, Molly," Janine nodded to them, cheerfully. "Let me take you for a ride."
Both women took a step backwards. Mary looked around, carefully, noting their options for escape, and stopped when she looked at Molly. Molly had a little red dot on her forehead, and was staring at Mary's face in horror. Apparently she had a little red dot of doom on her forehead as well. Mary leaned in to whisper something to Molly, when a shot rang out, followed shortly by screams and sirens on the street.
Both girls flinched and Molly gasped, staring at her hands, then at Mary's face. Then, she looked around, confused. Ah – there –
An unfortunate bystander, killed, just a few meters down the street.
Janine had reached around and opened the back door for them. "It wasn't a suggestion, ladies. Get in." She smiled prettily at Mary. "We have some catching up to do."
As the girls slid into the taxicab, the red dots followed them. They sat stiffly in the back seat, where Janine pulled her own gun from the glove box and trained it on them. "Handbags, please, and phones, if they are not in the handbags."
The women handed them over. Janine checked through them, quickly, and recovered both of the mobile phones, setting them on the passenger's seat.
She also pulled out a clear box, with two pills inside, and two bottles of water. She tossed the ladies each a bottle of water, single handedly, and then deftly opened the pill box and placed them in the palm of her open hand. The gun never wavered.
"These are pills that will cause you to lose consciousness for approximately one hour. They are not lethal, and will not in any way harm your wee one, Mary. Take them."
Mary shot a glance at Molly. "And what happens if we refuse?"
Janine's smile froze for a moment, and then she fired her gun.
Mary woke up, with her wrists firmly tied to a wooden chair, which was in turn bolted to the floor, in the corner of a room. Quickly regaining consciousness, her sharp, trained eyes took in the room around her.
Second floor, bedroom – wait –
The walls were painted a mint green, with pink and lavender flowers stenciled around the top of the walls, near the ceiling. A white dresser and toy box sat next to and beneath the lattice window, respectively. A worn, woven rug sat in the center of the room, warming the old wood floors. To her right, a closet, filled with the clothes of a small child, sat partly open. A white crib sat in the corner, with a pretty pink quilt on it. In the center of the crib sat a teddy bear.
It was grotesquely out of place in the sweet, pristine room. The bear looked like it had been shot – dirty, fluffy stuffing stuck out of a hole in its chest. It was missing an eye, and – yes, that was blood spattered on the upper right side of its head.
Her heart rate began to increase. Mary recognized that bear. In fact, she recognized this room.
It was the night of her first…assassination. She was to sneak into the spacious home of a doctor in Germany working for a crime lord who controlled the black market on human organs and kill him. The doctor had been dipping into the profits, and it was her job to dispose of him.
He was supposed to be in the master bedroom, on the top floor of the house, sleeping. His wife was out of town for the week, and it would be the perfect opportunity for Mary to complete her job. She easily made it past the security system – standard, nothing fancy – and snuck in through the patio door that led to the master bedroom.
He wasn't in the room. Heart pumping out adrenaline within her, she checked under the bed, in the closets, in the loo. No luck. She smiled. A chase. She enjoyed chases.
She made her way through the upper rooms of the house, and stopped when she reached the third door on her left. It was cracked open, and standing there, looking through the crack the door made with the wall -, moonlight illuminated the figure of the doctor, bending over a…crib?
The muffled sound of shushing and crying reached her ears, and for a split second, Mary's wrist loosened.
Shaking unpleasant thoughts out of her head and stiffening her wrist, she stepped briskly into the room and pointed her gun at the doctor. He froze, cradling a baby – a little girl, a few months old – in his arms. The moonlight through the tree outside gave the room a dappled, ethereal feel, and the thought of fairies and Puck skipped through her mind.
"I'm giving you two seconds to put the girl back in the crib." Good; her voice was steady and commanding.
He hesitated, eyes pleading. The girl began to fuss.
One.
Two.
Mary fired.
He fell backwards, blood pooling from his forehead, just above and between the eyes. Dead.
Blood splattered onto the wall behind him, and a bear fell from a shelf behind him. Stuffing popped out of its chest, and the little girl screamed and rolled off of the body, wriggling in the blankets.
Mary ran.
Mary's heart rate increased again. A sudden warm, flowing sensation caused her to focus on her left arm. Ah. Blood. Janine had shot her through the arm, missing arteries and major veins but leaving a good-sized wound. The sudden spike in her heart rate had caused the blood to flow more readily. She felt her child move in her stomach. She needed to calm down, needed to focus.
She pictured home, with John, and envisioned him and Sherlock finding the clues that would lead them to her and –
Wait, where was Molly? Not in this room, certainly. Breathing evenly, looking for more clues around the room, out the window, in the sounds of the house where she was held - she tried to remember what had happened, where she was, where Molly was, and what she was going to do about it.
She let out a little huff of air, and grimaced. She didn't need this – not now, ready to pop – but she could do this. She'd been in much worse scrapes, before.
After Mary was shot in the arm, Molly quickly took the pill offered her, and though she fought it, could not stop her eyes from drooping and her breathing from becoming the even rise and fall of sleep.
Molly woke up in a similar fashion. Before she opened her eyes, she noticed her wrists were bound loosely to the chair she was sitting in – padded, relatively comfortable, attached to the floor somehow. The room was rocking slightly – but she couldn't tell if that was a side effect of the pill or if the room was actually rocking. Slowly, slowly, her eyes crept open. When the images in the room began to focus, she started, and her eyes flew open, fully alert.
She was in her father's study.
Sort of.
There was his chair – old, leather, worn and stained on one arm where Molly had sat, perched, next to him as he read to her.
His desk – yes – with the old green and brass lamp in the corner, and his things spread across it – organized chaos.
She looked at the shelves in the room – yes, his books, and on the wall – her childish, primary-school artwork, ribbons from the science fair, a copy of her degree, her doctorate, pictures of them all – himself, her mother, Molly. She swallowed as she craned her neck to look around the room. It was her father's study, but it also wasn't. There were the large drapes that had covered the windows, but…they pooled on the floor. The walls were too short. And the spacing was off…everything was too close together.
She heard the muffled sound of an engine in the distance, getting closer. As it passed by, the room began to rock again. Ah. Not a side effect of the pills.
Looking around again, Molly realized that she was probably on the boat she'd helped Sherlock discover yesterday. Or was it two days ago? She wasn't sure. If there were any windows in the room, they were covered. Craning her neck again, she could just make out the familiar rounded-rectangle shape of a door behind her. Twisting around again, she bit her lip, and searched the room with her eyes for anything she could use to escape.
She must have been deep in thought, because she didn't notice the sound of the door opening behind her. She did notice the rush of air, though, and turned quickly to see. A man, unknown, brought in a tray with…coffee? Biscuits? And placed it on the side table, near her father's armchair. He did not even look at her, and quickly left.
A moment later, the door opened again, and this time, Molly could guess as to who was entering.
"Molly! I told you we'd have coffee soon. I even remember how you like it – two sugars, one and a half creamers, yes? Sorry, no real cream today – profits have been a little slim the past few years, and this little ensemble" – he spread his arms, gesturing to everything that had been stolen from her father's study – "took some time and effort to accumulate." James Moriarty let his arms fall to his side, and strode into the room, limping only slightly, and settled himself in her father's armchair.
Her. Father's. Armchair.
Molly gritted her teeth, watching him, refusing to speak.
Jim smiled at her, the distortion and pull of his lips slowly spreading across his whole face, and she was reminded of the Grinch, in the children's cartoon, when he had an awful idea – a wonderful, awful idea. "We have quite a lot to discuss, Molls."
Sherlock stared at the note as he and John caught a cab. Mycroft had made a call, and they'd looked at the CCTV footage from the hotel's surveillance system. No Jim, no Janine – just the old woman taking her seat an hour before Sherlock and John arrived, Irene leaving her room, waiting, talking with them – and a man, bringing the little boy in through the kitchen service door in the alley, and pushing him into the tea room, then leaving.
They'd watched the full 24 hours, and caught Jim leaving the hotel yesterday. He must have met with Irene the day before. He walked, with a limp, but he did walk. One hand stayed curled by his side, though he was able to hold it up to hail a cab. And then they'd realized who'd been driving it.
Janine.
Lestrade confirmed that there were no signs of forced entry to John and Mary's flat – and Kate Hudson confirmed that they had never returned there, anyways.
So they were taken, from St. Bart's. A man had been killed outside the hospital roughly an hour ago – sniper fire – and Mycroft's men had found both the agents assigned to Mary and Molly and a homeless woman dead nearby.
Witnesses said they saw the women leave in a cab, and one had even gotten a part of the license plate. They were tracking the cab now.
Sherlock sat, staring at the replica of the Woman's phone, texts open. Now – now was the time to engage Jim in his game.
Destroying me, by destroying the people who matter to me. – SH
As if that would work. – SH
I will find them, and win your pathetic game. -SH
He pressed send, and waited. He didn't have to wait long.
Bravo, Sherlock. –JM
But see, I had to force your hand. Not fun, when you're not playing the way I like you to. – JM
But, since you guessed correctly, I'll tell you where evidence against Chuck Milverton can be found. Safe Deposit Box 1283 at the Bank of London. I keep all my valuables there. J - JM
The game's just started, though. - JM
So what will it be, fire or ice? – JM
Sherlock forwarded the information on Milverton to his brother (it was unimportant to him, now), and sat thinking. Fire and ice, fire and ice – how could his world end in ice? Fire – fire was obvious, Jim liked to blow things up, but ice? Ice didn't make sense. He couldn't very well freeze Sherlock.
And what had he meant – two if by land, one if by sea? That was wrong, anyways. The original poem was one if by land, two if by sea. He frowned and pressed his fingertips together. John sat staring out the window beside him, hands balled into angry fists, lips tense.
Irene Adler, completely and entirely Abigail Norton once again, held her little boy on her lap and stared out the large glass windows at the planes taxiing and taking off from the landing strip. They were to board shortly, and she never planned to return to England again.
She stared down at her son, sleeping soundly. She supposed she should be thankful that Jim had not done anything to him – no poison or torture, physical or psychological. Just fright, and loneliness, and a little neglect.
But of course Jim would know that if he'd harmed one hair on her son's head, she would have taken him down with Sherlock in a heartbeat. She'd have killed him herself.
But he had kept his end of his sick little bargain, and so she kept hers. It pained her, to leave Sherlock in the midst of one of Jim's games, especially when she had helped to trap him in it. Jim had clearly explained her part in the whole thing, though – if she could convince him that she did not matter most to Sherlock, and get him to reveal whom he did care about, then she and her son would be free to leave.
So she convinced him. She'd done a rather marvelous job, in her own (not so) humble opinion. And she really had tried to help him out, with the honey. She frowned.
One thing she knew about Sherlock was that he certainly was no genius when it came to emotions – they were foreign and easily misunderstood. She could tell, though, that he was beginning to feel. He just wasn't good at expressing it, yet. Sort of like Will. And if he was not used to controlling them, not used to their affect on his body, on his mind…
She smiled down at her sleeping son, but uneasiness for Sherlock pressed on her heart. Sighing, shaking her head, before she could regret it – she sent him one last text.
Then she dropped her phone on the floor, ground into the screen with a perfectly aimed heel, and kicked it beneath a row of uncomfortable plastic seats before hoisting her son in her arms and boarding the plane for D.C.
Sherlock's chin had sank into his chest, barely noticing the jostling of his body as the cab he and John occupied raced to take them to the cab Mary and Molly had occupied. His fingers drummed impatiently on his knees.
"John, tell me what you thought of Jim's message."
John had been pressing his knuckles into his teeth, elbow propped against the cab door, staring out the window. When Sherlock spoke, he carefully placed his hands in his lap, tendons straining in his arms. "He's mad, Sherlock. Completely mad. I don't – I don't know. Mary-"
"Mary will be fine, John. In case you've forgotten, she's had years of experience in this sort of situation."
John clenched his jaw. "She's pregnant now, Sherlock – in case you've forgotten – and even you should know that pregnancy sort of prevents women from – say – escaping prisons and shimmying down drain pipes and-"
"It won't prevent her from shooting anyone."
"And where do think she's going to get a gun, Sherlock? Mmm?" John glared at his friend, hating this – hating that his wife had been taken – hating that Molly was in trouble, too and – he made a strangled sort of noise in his throat – Molly Hooper – how on earth could she possibly fight back against Jim? Or Janine?
Suddenly, John looked beyond his own feelings – at Sherlock's face - and did a little deducing of his own.
"You're worried, too, aren't you?" And John paled, because the only time he'd ever seen Sherlock worried – fidgety, anxious - was when he was preparing to let John go – preparing to give him away to Mary – at the wedding. Sherlock was preparing to let someone go.
"No!" John roared, and struck the window of the cab with his fist. Sherlock looked at him expectantly. "Don't you dare, Sherlock. I know it's hard, yeah? To know Jim has people you care about. You do care about them, and you care about me – you care, Sherlock, and that's hard – but you're going to deal with that feeling, not turn it off. Think – think – it's motivation, yeah? You care about them, you'll find them. You're going to find Mary and Molly, and then you can go back to being a cold machine – but now, you need to just feel it, let it out, turn it into motivation, and refocus that brilliant mind of yours. So do it."
Sherlock tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. "A what machine?"
John's mouth opened in disbelief, but he recognized that look on Sherlock's face – the look of gears meshing, of pieces sliding into position – and so he refrained from berating him, and repeated himself instead. "A cold machine."
"Ice – fire and ice -" Sherlock leveled his bright gaze on John. Yes – this was better – John felt a little knot in his stomach release – Sherlock was into the game again – focused. "John, tell me – fire and ice – what do they represent? Tell me about the poem. Forget about Jim, tell me about the poem."
John swallowed. "Fire – um, yeah – explosions, I guess, maybe another bomb-"
Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "I said forget about Jim. Tell me about the poem. Pretend this is a piece of poetry you need to analyze in some horrid entry-level uni class. What do the fire and ice represent?"
John nodded, slowly, realizing what Sherlock was getting at. "Fire – fire is passion – in love, maybe, yeah – it can burn you? Fire is passion, and if you don't control it, it can end everything – you go to far, too fast – flames, sparks, I guess, metaphors used in love a lot. So, you can choose to end your world in fire-"
"-by choosing to submit to my emotions and feelings and sentimental tendencies and ruining myself if someone I love is killed."
John studied Sherlock's face, and continued. "And ice…ice is the lack of passion. It's the opposite. It's…cold, uncaring, detached…"
"…and not loving anyone or anything. A 'frozen heart', if you excuse the terribly cliché metaphor. Obviously I choose ice."
John's face softened as he realized Jim's game. Jim wanted to destroy Sherlock, but he'd realized he could do that in one of two ways – by outright, deliberately killing the people Sherlock cared about – or by allowing Sherlock to save them and push them all away on his own. "Sherlock…I know we're talking about the bigger picture here…saving Mary and Molly, first…but you do realize that choosing ice is just as destructive as choosing fire? Maybe you don't have to choose…I mean, love – loving – you can love someone, you know, without going up in flames. You-"
He was interrupted when Sherlock's phone received a text.
You've given Jim everything he needs – but I've given you all you need, too, Sherlock. Think. Good luck, darling. And thanks for your help. – xo
And so Sherlock thought – he had to choose ice, obviously. He would hurt his friends after he'd saved them, push them away, if that would keep Jim away from them. It would be painful, obviously – that was the point here, but if he could save them first, he knew he could deal with that aspect later.
So he sent his reply to Jim.
Ice. Obviously. – SH
He then returned to the Woman's text. No…not THE Woman anymore…just a woman. A woman who had bested him, and that had made her attractive, and so he saved her, and then…then she had used him to save her son. He wasn't bitter, he just…saw everything in startling clarity, now.
He and Irene Adler were far too much alike. Both ice – cold, calculating, minds with frozen hearts that had begun to thaw around the same time. He could never love her – and she could never truly love him. They made each other colder and sharper, and he realized that while he did feel...a thrill, being around her, it was the anxious, competitive kind. It wasn't the same low, warm thrill in his stomach he got when he was around people like….No. Stop it. He and Irene. Focus on her text.
They were connected, he and Irene – they did care about each other. She'd sent him a hint…he needed to use it to save what mattered most to him, now.
So, what had she given him?
Words, tea, honey, the note from her son, with honey –
And Sherlock sat up straighter in his seat, a smug smirk beginning to form on his face.
"What? What've you figured out?" John asked.
"The honey, John! The – Mrs. Norton – she kept emphasizing the honey – honey in the tea, honey from – Sussex. Honey on the note, this note!"
He frowned and sighed. "How foolish of me – of course – idiot – Janine said she'd gotten a place in Sussex, might start to keep bees – I should have remembered-"
And he grinned again – "Of course! Two hiding places – land – Janine's bees – and the boat – at 'sea' – two if by land, one if by sea." He smirked at John. "We can save two if by land, one if by sea. Mary – she's pregnant – that's two – she's with Janine on land – in Sussex. Molly – she's one – she's on the boat with Jim."
John nodded sharply. "Right. So, we are going to save them both."
Sherlock stared at John. "Of course."
"So we have to…split up?"
Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not. Jim would see that coming, and then where would we be? No, we stay together – we save Mary and the baby first, and then Molly, obviously. We've already been looking for the boat these past two days – someone's sure to have gotten a lead by now – so we focus on the honey, and signs from the cab they were picked up in, and find the place in Sussex where Mary is being kept. If Molly hasn't been located by the time Mary is free, then we find her."
Sherlock's other phone buzzed with a text from Jim.
Ooh, goody! –JM
Excellent choice, Sherlock. – JM
Tell me where the girls are, and I'll let you save one of them. – JM
John frowned as he looked at the text. "Sherlock-"
"Plan hasn't changed, John. Mary first, then Molly." He looked away from John as he said this, because he'd also realized Jim's game. Jim expected him to die – perhaps literally, definitely metaphorically – because Jim believes that he can't save both girls, and that he'll either die because of his emotions – fire – or he'll close himself off to emotions entirely and die to his remaining friends because he will become an Ice Man, just like his brother…
But what Jim didn't know was that Sherlock expected this, and the Scotland Yard was already hunting down his little boat.
As soon as the cab stopped, Sherlock leapt out and a few quick strides took him past police tape and to the cab that had taken Mary and Molly. It had obviously been driven here and dumped by an employee of Jim's. He quickly analyzed the cab – yes, three woman, look at the position of the driver's seat, John, there's blood – only a minor flesh wound from a gunshot to the arm, nothing to worry about, John – he looked at their handbags and phones - took samples from the seats, windows, tires, exhaust pipe – and they were off to Bart's.
Mary was working quietly, shifting minutely, working the ropes that bound her up and down her arms, stretching them, finding a weak point. She was also using her forefinger and thumb to scratch the bobby pin from her hair across the seat, shaping it into a sharp instrument.
She paused when she felt a cramp in her abdomen. No. Couldn't be.
She continued working, careful to use the arm that was not injured to prevent herself from loosing more blood.
About fifteen minutes later, another cramp – a tightening of her muscles – slightly stronger – a little painful – No.
"Not now, sweet pea. Not yet." Mary pleaded silently with her little girl. "Mama's working, right now."
Mike Stamford let the two men into the lab, and in no time at all, Sherlock had analyzed everything in the samples from the car and the honey. Janine was staying in a cottage – she'd told him that – and from the samples, Sherlock deduced that it was located near the cliffs, near a farm that used a particular sort of pesticide to protect its produce, and south of a more established beekeeper. Using all of the facts to triangulate a location, Sherlock was able to text Jim the rough area that Janine's little 'cottage' was located in.
Congratulations! -JM
You're going after the pregnant one, then. –JM
Oh, Molly will be so glad to hear it. – JM
She's such an angel, Sherlock. –JM
Sherlock's jaw tightened at Jim's text. Of course he'd tell Molly. He felt the tightness in his jaw travel down into his chest and settle there, and he wanted to tell Molly – of course I'm saving them first, two lives – two! – but I'm saving you, too, Molly – Scotland Yard and Agent Conners are on their way – but he couldn't tell her that. He hoped, just a little, that she knew – but of course she'd know – Molly Hooper always knew.
He didn't reply to Jim's text, and he and John were on their way to a little cottage in Sussex Downs to save John's wife and baby girl.
Jim smiled up at Molly. He'd spent the past hour questioning her about Sherlock's suicide, his mission, his relationships, and explaining his game – explaining how he was going to destroy Sherlock, how Sherlock had chosen to die by ice, how Sherlock had to choose between saving Mary and Molly –
And then Sherlock's text came. Jim read it, smiled, and replied.
He looked up at her, grinning. "He chose Mary!"
Molly smiled, sadly. She knew Sherlock would save Mary. It was logical, after all. Two lives, as opposed to one. It was just…nice, in a strange way, to know she'd counted enough to him to be ranked with John and Mary. And there was still a chance, you know. She wasn't dead yet.
Jim tsked, his face a mask of pity. "So sad, Molly. You do know why he chose Mary, don't you?"
Molly pressed her lips into a thin line and jiggled her leg, just a bit. She had to pee. After the water from earlier, and coffee with Jim – he'd untied one of her hands, and she did drink some – he drank it too, and he insisted - it was funny, really – you'd think she'd be more upset over the whole knowing she was going to die soon thing, but all she could think about was the fact that she had to pee. Badly. She at least wanted her bladder to be comfortable, before she died. She snorted just a bit, at that though.
Jim ignored her. "It's not because he's saving two people, Molly. It's because he loves you more, and that scares him."
Molly rolled her eyes. "He doesn't love me, Jim. I just count, that's all."
Jim laughed, long and loud, and ended it in a fit of barking, glaring at her. "Silly, stupid girl. You were listening to his meeting with Irene! He prefers long hair, he was glad you'd moved on from Tom – he notices you - he loves you. He loves you, he loves you not, he loves you, he loves you not –he loves you!" He threw papers from her father's desk, and books from the shelves, as he chanted the old rhyme. He shook his head sadly at her. "That's why I was so pleased he chose ice. It extends the game. He thinks he can save you both – of course he does! – but he can't. He can't, Molly Hooper. So he saved Mary first because he knows that if he failed to save you – if he lost – he wouldn't be able to focus enough to save her, and he'd never forgive himself for losing both of you. So he's saving her first so he can put all his energy into saving you, without worrying about anyone else."
He sat perched on the edge of her father's desk, swinging his feet back and forth like a child on a park bench. "He loves you." He beamed at her. "And to think, I missed it, the last time around!"
He leaned conspiratorially close to her. "I was so pleased when he killed Magnusson, Molly. So pleased. Because who gave me the list of people to place snipers on? Magnusson. And who failed to include you on that list? Magnusson. Sherlock did me a great favor, taking that failure out of my life. Janine's much better at this whole thing. Much, much better."
Janine sat in the parlor, with a table set with tea for three, when Sherlock and John arrived. She beamed at them from across the room, and stood up to receive them.
"Welcome! John, Sherl."
"Where's Mary?"
Janine laughed, lightly. "Oh, you waste no time in getting to the point, do you, John? But all in good time. She's fine, for now. If you go charging around looking for her, however, there's no telling what could happen. Jim's got a fancy with explosives, if you haven't noticed. Sit, first. Care for some tea?"
The two men sat, hesitantly, but neither moved to pick up their freshly poured cups. "We've actually just had some, courtesy of Jim. Thank you, though. Your hospitality is charming."
"Of course, Sherl. Had to be. I was going to be entertaining the one person who ever bested James Moriarty."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What a disappointment that must have been to you."
Janine's brow puckered, but her smile remained frozen on her face. "Not at all, Sherl. He didn't disappoint me. You did."
She leaned forwards, eyes fiery. "You didn't play fair, Sherlock. You were supposed to die, that day. And Jim and I, we would've continued our business and been extremely rich and powerful and invisible, just the way we preferred it. But you had to go and tempt Jim into playing games, and you ruined everything."
"Wait a minute – our business? You're not – together?" John asked incredulously, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
Janine laughed prettily. "Oh, John. What? Molly thought he was attractive. Is it that hard to think I found him a little cute?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "They're cousins, John. Not lovers."
Janine raised her eyebrows, pleased. "Bravo, Sherl! And here I thought you hadn't noticed. See the family resemblance, did you?"
"That, and he could have chosen any of my cases, any of our past interactions to create his alias – Richard Brooks, Reichenbach. Convenient, but not just for the sake of the name of the painting – he'd already had an identity as Richard Brooks, at one point. It wasn't that hard to resurrect that identity. You never bothered to change your last name."
She smiled. "Never had the need. Brooks is a common enough last name – ask your brother."
He smiled at her, his own lips pulled into a grin as false as her own. "Enough stalling, Janine. What do we need to do to get Mary back? We have a boat to catch."
Janine smirked – "Like that, did you? I knew the traveling bolt-hole would throw you off, a bit."
"You should know that the authorities are on their way to Jim's boat, right now. The game is nearly over, Janine. You've lost, again."
"Not quite, love." Janine leaned over to a strange-looking remote – it looked like junk, a silly, clunky thing, with only one button on it – and pressed it, once, firmly.
Cameron Vingren was bored. He'd been staring at this map of the electrical input and output of England for hours now. It was his job, so still he stared, but he couldn't help his mind wandering off to what his wife was cooking him for dinner tonight. He sighed, imagining roast chicken with slightly crispy skin, and mashed potatoes, and carrots and soup and bread and –
He blinked, then blinked again. He tapped the screen in front of him, and immediately began to search through records and find the source of the error in front of him. It had to be an error. No way the entirety of Sussex was down…
He shook his head, and called for his supervisor. "Blank spot on the map, sir…all of Sussex is off the map."
He looked behind him, and noticed another man, in a dark suit and earpiece, watching the screen as well.
"Hey, you're not - "
The man gave him a cool stare, then turned on his heel and left the room, placing a call as he did so.
"Sussex, sir. Point of origin 50o 55' N, 00.05o W. Shall we send reinforcements?"
He listened attentively for a moment. "Yes sir. We'll send the Conner girl. Of course."
Molly jiggled her leg. She was getting desperate – desperate for a bathroom. "Uh, Jim…not that you care…"
He looked up at her expectantly.
"…but I really, really have to use the loo. If you have one. Or I could just go on your chair here. Just wanted to let you know."
Jim smiled at her. "Good Golly, Miss Molly, I'm no fool, but I'm also not dirty. Of course you can use the loo. Celia!" He shouted.
A woman came in, gun trained on Molly, and untied her. Molly stood on shaky legs, and calmly allowed Celia to show her to the toilet.
Sherlock and John looked around the room after Janine had pressed the button. "Nothing happened," John stated dryly.
Janine smiled sweetly. "Of course it did, dear. Take out your phones."
The men did, and try as they might, the phones did not turn on. Sherlock attempted to flip the light switch on the wall, to no avail.
"With any luck, the entirety of southern England is off the technological map, loves. Of course, Jim chose my little retirement spot for a reason." She smiled brightly at them.
Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Why on earth would you do that? Now all of Jim's explosives are inactive. We could simply overpower you and rescue Mary, and be on our way."
Janine smiled. "Oh, you could. But then you'd never have a chance in hell of saving Molly."
Sherlock stared at her. "And why is that?"
Janine laughed. "Oh, Sherlock. Did you really think Jim would be foolish enough to use a boat with a leaky engine?" She laughed again. "And now you can't even call your reinforcements to change the direction of their fruitless hunt."
Sherlock stiffened, then strode so that he towered over her, their toes practically touching. "Where are they?"
Janine smiled. "Oh, Sherl. I'd tell you, but I don't know myself. In fact, Jim's put the responder for their tracker in my tooth-" she tapped on her front left incisor -
John gaped at her in horror.
"- which I was quite put out over, I assure you, but it can't be helped. I'm certainly not going to knock my own tooth out. And I know that the two of you aren't going to be able to hit me hard enough to do so. You'll try, admirably, I'm sure, but you're still men, and even Sherlock is too chivalrous to punch me in the mouth hard enough to knock out my tooth."
"Maybe so, but I'm sure as hell not," came a disgruntled female voice from the opposite side of the wall. Janine turned her head, surprised, and her pretty face met with the hard, angry fist of Mary Watson.
Of course they tried to disengage the 'killswitch' – that's what John called the remote, and it stuck – but to no avail. There was only one button, and apparently, it only turned things off.
Mary had admirable aim, and Janine's tooth was out in no time. She'd also done a bang-up job of bloodying Janine's nose and was not exactly gentle when restraining her. John had wanted to take over, noticing the blood through the makeshift bandage on her arm – but she glared at him, muttered something about it being a 'scratch', and a 'clean shot', and that she needed to vent some of her anger on Janine before she punched them in the face for taking so bloody long to get there. She winced and held her large belly, breathing deeply through her nose and mouth.
"Well, boys, we have two problems. One – finding Molly. Two – finding a bloody hospital. I think this girl is coming, whether I like it or not."
Sherlock growled in frustration. Of course he could try to make it outside the killswitch zone, wherever that was, but there was no way to tell where that was – of course the authorities were on their way here, too, but what if the automobiles stopped the moment they crossed the line?
There was only one option – he needed to leave on foot.
Too slow.
Ah.
They were in Sussex, still fairly rural – and surely someone had a horse. Or a bicycle.
But Mary was in labor and the authorities weren't here, yet. He looked at John, eyes determined and face stony.
John inclined his head towards the door. "Out then, mate. Go find Molly. I've got this," he inclined his head back towards his pregnant wife and a tied-up Janine, "under control." He gave him a small smile.
Sherlock smirked, and gripped John's arm, tightly, in thanks. "Good luck with that. And congratulations, by the way."
John grinned at him. "Yeah, yeah. You just better hope those 'authorities' get here soon. I was not planning on delivering my own child."
It actually took a shorter amount of time than Sherlock thought it would to steal a horse and thunder his way across the countryside. True to his prediction, everything that had anything remotely to do with electricity, or batteries, was out of order. Cars sat stalled in the roads, and stupid citizens walked around, attempting to find some sort of signal for mobiles that wouldn't even turn on.
He grinned when he saw a lorry trudging along in the distance. Jim's little killswitch didn't have nearly the range he thought it did. He pulled the horse up, tied it to a nearby fence, and flagged the lorry down.
Sitting shotgun, he immediately pulled the broken tooth out of his pocket and studied it. There was a tracker – tiny, almost imperceptible – imbedded in the tooth. Careful, careful – he pried it out – and – yes! He smirked in triumph. It was the same type he'd taken to Sarah Jane, so many cases, so many months ago. He could remember how to use his phone to connect them – yes – there!
He didn't stop the grin from spreading across his face as the blinking tracker showed up on his screen. He'd found Molly.
Janine awoke with throbbing lips, throbbing gums, throbbing nose – everything throbbing. She tested the place where her tooth had been with her tongue, and choked a bit on some blood. Spitting, she looked around. Still in her cottage – and there were Mary and her husband. Mary was walking around, breathing strangely, face dotted with perspiration. Ah – in labor. John was alternating between looking out the windows – probably for the coppers – and talking to his wife in low, soothing tones. Mary's makeshift bandage on her arm had been replaced with a proper one from the first aid kit in the kitchen. Probably John's handiwork.
Janine looked around for Sherlock – not here. She waited, listening – no, not here. She began laughing wildly, occasionally choking on her own spit and blood.
"Shut up," John said, glaring forcefully at her. "Shut up. Why are you laughing? You've lost. The game is over."
Cackling, she grinned at him, her mouth and lips smeared with blood. "No, it's not, John. No it's not. Because-" and she was laughing again – "because I altered that tracker."
John stared at her, confused.
"I know that little 'killswitch' didn't black out all of southern England. We – Jim and I – we both knew the battery was only powerful enough to black out an area of a few square kilometers. So he planted the tracker on me – it lets him know when Sherlock's getting close, as well as leading Sherlock to Jim. But Jim - Jim's messed with me for the last time, love. I've always been his partner, his closest ally - but imagine my surprise when I lost a whole day once, a year ago! Didn't take me long to figure out that he'd planted a tracker in my tooth. The nerve!" She shook her head. "And you know, ever since getting involved with Sherlock, he's lost sight of our true reason for doing this. For being criminals. He's gotten so obsessed with the game, he's actually given parts of our business away to Sherlock! Unbelievable!" She snarled.
"So I had it altered. Jim's always been the one to handle the explosives – he'd never suspect that I've been paying attention all this time. Blackmail, psychology – that's more my speed. Explosions were always too messy. But I paid attention, I did. And the second that tracker crosses the killswitch line, the second it comes online – it arms a bomb on Jim's boat. The boat he's actually on."
John's face drooped, eyes darting around, mouth agape, as he realized what Janine was implying.
She laughed, wildly, again. "The closer Sherlock gets to saving Molly, the closer he gets to blowing her up. As soon as he's within a hundred meters of the boat – KABOOM! And you can't even warn him, because we're inside the killswitch zone…"
Her laughter was cut off by John's fist connecting with her face.
He stared at his fist, afterwards, horrified.
Mary snorted, and her face distorted in time with another contraction. When it passed, she wheezed - "Don't worry about it, love. She had it coming. You could work on your form, though. That probably hurt you more than it hurt her."
Sherlock had stolen a boat. It was junk – old and dirty and its white paint had faded to the same brackish gray colour of the water and strangely enough, sky, today - and the engine sputtered angrily when he got it started – but it was easily stolen - commandeered, he corrected himself, he would return it – and he was closing in on Jim and Molly. He smirked, pride rising in his chest. He squinted down at the phone in his hands, staying the course.
He'd phoned Lestrade and his brother, told them about everything – John and Mary in Sussex, himself currently on the way to rescue Molly and confront Jim, with backup on the way.
His face was set in grim determination as he made his way up the river, coat and curls flapping dramatically in the breeze.
Sarah Jane and crew (of course Jo was there, too – of course) arrived at the house in Sussex approximately forty minutes later. It took Sarah approximately fifteen to disarm the killswitch, and everything – electricity, radio, phone – came back online.
John helped his wife into an ambulance, told Agent Long about the bombs in the boat, and texted Sherlock.
He hoped Sherlock had been held up somehow – that he hadn't found them yet. He knew Sherlock would never forgive himself, if Molly died like this.
Sherlock spotted Jim's boat – yes, it was definitely his – when he felt his phone vibrate, twice, quickly, in succession. Two texts. One from Jim, an hour ago, and one from John, recent.
He looked at the first – from Jim, sent an hour ago:
"You don't die of a broken heart – you only wish you did. – Marilyn Peterson
He snorted. Ridiculous. He certainly wouldn't be wishing he was dead anytime soon. In fact, having rescued Mary and about to confront Jim, he had never felt more alive. He slowed the boat as he approached, looking for signs of life on the boat. He knew Molly was still alive, knew that Jim would somehow want to use her to get to Sherlock, once Jim realized Sherlock was here.
Really, it had been a stupid plan, to use the killswitch. Janine hadn't been able to tell Jim she'd lost. Now, Sherlock had the advantage of being unexpected.
It was entirely unexpected when the boat in front of him exploded before his eyes.
Wow! Okay, so that was a really fun chapter.
Please let me know if it was confusing, or if I should change any parts around to make it easier to follow.
Also, I'm already done with the next chapter, but...I'm not going to post it until I finish chapter 17 as well, because...well...just because. Trust me. You'll want to read both of them together, or else throttle me. :)
Please review.
Thanks!