(A/N) The Science Of Seduction and SarahTee, thank you very much for reviewing. It keeps me alive. And thank you all for the additional alerts/favorites. Let's see what's in store for our duo.

A Rose on the Grave

Chapter 3: The Dragon Seal

Sherlock spent roughly the next thirty minutes unconscious. When he came to, the first thing he saw was John, unconscious beside him with an oxygen mask over his face. He tried to say something, finding a mask over his own face. When he tried to reach up to remove it, he found that his arms were strapped to the gurney he was lying on. Taking further stock, he found he was completely strapped down.

"Feeling better, sunshine?" a voice somewhere above him asked. Looking up, he saw Mycroft standing at the foot of the gurney. He narrowed his eyes, growling being the only effective sound he could make with the mask over his face.

"I had them restrain you because I figured you'd only harm yourself if you came to before we got to the hospital. That and you won't listen to anything I have to say unless I do this. So as long as you're just lying there, pay attention. John is fine. He's just sedated because they couldn't calm him down after you passed out and it wasn't helping his already damaged lungs any."

His brother knew him a little too well, Sherlock found himself thinking. The revelation completely arrested his attention, and instead of blatantly ignoring Mycroft, he turned to look at his flatmate again.

You were…worried about me?

"He should recover fine. He'll probably just need to take some antibiotics for any internal damage, and the cuts on his skin have already been seen to. You, though, are another matter altogether. Broken nose, stab wound, fractured collarbone, sprained wrist, lacerations on the arms and legs, superficial second-degree burns, not to mention the smoke inhalation. Tell me, Sherlock, how do you plan on finding Shay if you're going to be in the hospital for a year?"

Sherlock just rolled his eyes. It would be that Mycroft would only want to talk to him when he couldn't talk back. What he didn't seem to know yet was that Shay wouldn't be particularly hard to find. Moriarty would dangle her in front of them like a scrap of meat. He would make her suffer to make them suffer, but more specifically himself…because Jim Moriarty had somehow found out about Rosette. He had discovered the secret ache that had been carved into him all those years ago. Shay had been taken because of him.

"Hunter said you believe Moriarty's behind this. She didn't seem to know how you knew, but I imagine we'll get to that once they've stitched you up a little better. Don't know if you know this, but you were a right sight when Hunter dragged you back to the paramedics: blood all down your front, all the way down your right side, blood everywhere, really. I'm almost amazed you're awake now. I'd almost like to see how Robin Kirk looks right now."

Sherlock's eyes widened in interest at this.

"Yes. We know who she is. I had a dossier pulled together the moment you disappeared. An interesting bird, your little ballerina assassin. You can look at the files when you're feeling up to it."

Again, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, expressing his displeasure in the only way available to him. All he wanted was to sink his teeth into that dossier, but Mycroft held it just out of his reach.

"I know, baby brother, you'd much rather have those files than pain killers, and don't worry, I didn't let them give you any. I know how you feel about those. Only…Sherlock…I need you to do something for me real fast. Look at your right foot."

Sherlock raised his head as best he could, looking down. The charred remnants of the shoe and the sock had been stripped away. Some sort of ointment had been applied to it, but he could still see the skin underneath: red with patches of white and covered in blisters. Yes, he'd been burned. That was plain enough. What was Mycroft getting at?

"Now look at these," Mycroft said, moving to hold his phone up to Sherlock's face. "The police took these photos before allowing the paramedics to administer first aid."

The first was an image of Sherlock lying on his back, unconscious. As Mycroft had said, his front was covered in blood from his broken nose. The blood along his side was from the stab wound. The next picture showed just that: the jagged rip deep into his shoulder. Mycroft had said the clavicle was fractured. Injury followed injury in a macabre slideshow: his swollen wrist, his broken nose, the lacerations from crawling over the broken glass, his burned foot. There was no doubt he'd been seriously injured. The images and the pain in his body confirmed it. So what was his brother trying to say?

"Moriarty, Kirk, whoever it is that's really behind this…they mean business. This was just the tip of the iceberg, and you could have died a hundred different times over tonight. They'll hit you hard. I want you to find Shay, but I also want you to be careful. I don't think you're going to like what you find down this road."

Mycroft didn't know the half of it. The trouble was that neither did Sherlock Holmes or John Watson.

XxX

"Hello, Miss Holmes."

"Oh, hello. Have we met before?"

"We haven't, but that'll soon change. You might say I'm something of a fan of your uncle's work."

"Ah, he is brilliant, isn't it? I'm sorry, sir, but the intermission will be over soon. I need to get back to my seat."

"No…I don't think you want to be doing that."

That's when she sees the tiny pistol in his hand. Then she feels the cold metal against her stomach.

"Don't scream. Don't do anything except walk with me. If you do, I'll shoot your pretty little body guard."

So she follows, making no sound or indication that anything is amiss. The scent of chlorine hangs heavily in her nose.

"Get your satchel. You know what happens if you give the game away."

Once again, she plays, practically feeling the weapon aiming over her shoulder at the man fetching her bag. Then he wraps an arm around her shoulders and leads her away, the pistol jammed into her ribs with the free hand, completely invisible to any passerby. She feels she would almost rather be shot. Why is she letting this happen? Sherlock Holmes is her uncle! He would a figure a way out of this. What can she do?

"Who are you?" she asks when no one else is around.

"What I said, Shayla Holmes…a fan. I just love to watch your uncle dance…and you, my dear, are part of his next great performance. Don't worry; I won't hurt you," he tells her as he ties the blindfold around her eyes and spins her around to disorient her. "Well…not until it becomes necessary to do so, anyway, and who could say when that'll be. So come on, Miss Holmes, and we'll go wait for your uncle to meet my little bird."

Then…when she hears her uncle's voice over the phone, she feels the needle pierce her skin. It's quick. Already her body feels heavy, but she can still hear…movement. Someone else is near. As Dr. Watson tries to comfort her, she feels the pain.

The knife is like a bolt of lightning through her shoulder…pain…blinding pain.

"I warned you, Shayla Holmes. I wa-arned you."

Then the drug kicks in and she knows no more.

"Wake up, little Shayla. You're missing all the fun."

The words were trapped somewhere between waking and dreaming. She had no idea how long she struggled with them, trying to find her way to them in the dark. Where had she heard the voice before?

When her eyes finally started to focus through the haze, they found themselves locked on a man in a suit.

"Ah, she lives."

"How…long?" Shay asked slowly.

"About twenty-four hours now. Good job resisting as long as you did. That was a very potent cocktail."

"I'm…pretty drug resistant," she said, coming more and more out of the daze. As she became more aware, she realized she was sitting in a chair, her wrists bound behind her and her ankles bound to the chair legs. The pain in her left shoulder had diminished to a dull ache as opposed to the lightning it had been before.

"So you are. I've done my research, Shayla Holmes. I knew it would take more than the average dose to put you under, but he had to hear your voice at least once…to know that I do have you."

Shay groaned in slight frustration. Already, she had let this man use her against her uncle. "So this is about Uncle Sherlock, not my parents."

"Just so. Clever girl, but I suppose you'd have to be, being a Holmes and all."

"Why me?" she asked, looking her captor directly in the eyes. "If you wanted to get to him, there are more sensitive pressure points."

"Oh, I know that. You're just…a different kind of pressure point, my dear. After all, your uncle doesn't see you when he looks at you."

"You think I don't know that?" she asked quietly, finally looking away from the man.

"You noticed that, did you? There's…maybe one other person who can make Sherlock Holmes suffer as greatly as you can. He just doesn't quite know it yet."

"You're Moriarty, aren't you," she said, making a statement of fact rather than asking a question.

"Ooh, you are clever, aren't you. This is going to be fun."

"It's not that hard to figure out."

"My, but you're cute, Shayla Holmes…trying so hard to be just like him. Where do you suppose that'll end you? Probably in a swimming pool somewhere faced with another mad genius exactly like me….or…who knows? Maybe it will be me."

"You won't beat him," she said with certainty, the implications of his statement quite clear to her. "He'll find you."

"Heheh, you're quite the loyal little pup. Yet another addition to Sherlock's collection of faithful pets. Would you like to meet mine, Shayla? Would you like to meet my little bird?"

At his words, a figure stepped out of the shadows behind Moriarty. She was dressed in black dancers' pants and a camisole and orange red hair fell to her shoulders in loose curls. Her face was painted with a fantastic array of makeup, but the effect was somewhat marred by the black eye she was sporting.

"Say hello to Robin, Shayla. She had a bit of a run in with your uncle last night and came out the worse for it. I believe she's quite eager to take that out on you."

As he finished speaking, Robin pulled out a lighter, flicking it to life as she advanced on Shay. The youngest Holmes struggled briefly, but her bonds and her bandaged shoulder didn't allow for much movement.

She didn't scream. She hissed in pain and clenched her hands into fists until her nails drew blood from her palms, but she didn't give them the satisfaction of a scream. She did everything in her power to keep from crying out.

When Robin had finished her work, Moriarty came to kneel before Shay, who was breathing heavily, her body limp in the chair.

"How do you feel?"

"I…I am not…afraid of you," Shay groaned in defiance, barely managing to remain conscious through the pain.

"Oh, Shayla," he began, sounding slightly condescending as he lifted her chin to look her in the eyes. "You really should be."

XxX

John was discharged from the hospital after only one night with a bottle of antibiotics and a warning to take it easy. Sherlock's injuries, on the other hand, required a bit more work. The right clavicle needed to be set and the arm placed in a sling, along with ice applied to the wrist. The lacerations from the glass were easily bandaged, but the tear in his shoulder needed two sutures. The nose wasn't too badly damaged; it would heal well enough on its own. The foot was the real trouble, with the need to remove the damaged tissue and to properly dress the wound. Sherlock had, of course, refused painkillers throughout all the treatments, but Mycroft had insisted he be sedated once they were finished so his little brother might get a proper rest. Once John had been discharged the next day, he went straight to Sherlock's room to wait for him to wake from the drugged sleep. When he did wake, the two of them shared a brief relieved smile, but John cut right to the chase after that.

"Who was Rosette?"

Groaning, Sherlock closed his eyes in exasperation. "You know who she was, John."

"No, I don't…not really. Obviously, she's somehow important to this case. Moriarty's found out about her, hasn't he?"

"It wouldn't be all that hard…a consulting criminal. He's probably got his fingers in everything this side of the Atlantic, and even then, well…given his obsession with me, he would have found out sooner or later."

"If he already knows all about this…don't you think you might want to let me in on it? The more I know, the better."

"Perhaps. She was…well…she was…you…I suppose…is the best way I know to describe her," Sherlock said, his gaze sliding away from his flatmate as he spoke.

"Me?" John asked, now completely confused. "I don't…what do you mean?"

"She…put up with me…and she stuck with me…even when it wasn't in her best interest…"

"He means, Dr. Watson, that she was his friend," Kathleen said as she entered the recovery room, followed closely by Hunter. "Whether or not he likes the word, Rosette was his friend…his best friend."

"Only," Sherlock corrected, subtly owning up to the charge of having had a friend.

"Dr. Watson, if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to speak to you in private," Kathleen continued.

"Don't you dare leave me alone with her, John," Sherlock said, his gaze shifting suspiciously to the suited woman. "She'll kill me and my body will disappear into a university collection somewhere. No one will ever find it."

"Hunter promises to play nice," Kathleen assured them. "Besides, I thought you'd want to see her. She's got the dossier you wanted to see. Call it a peace offering from your brother."

Sherlock's interest was instantly piqued by this and Kathleen used the opportunity to slip John out of the room. They didn't go far, just a few feet from the room.

"What's with those two?" John asked, sounding slightly nervous as he glanced back over his shoulder. "Exes?"

Kathleen half laughed at this. "Hardly. Neither Hunter nor Sherlock has ever displayed sexual interest in anyone. I've never really understood why they don't get on. The only cause I can think of is Shay."

"Shay? Why?"

"Hunter's been with us for ten years now. She was hired to protect and teach Shay after a Korean terrorist group attempted to kidnap her to get to Mycroft and myself. There are few people who understand Shay better than Hunter does…and I think she dislikes Sherlock for the uneasy relationship he has with Shay."

"And why is their relationship uneasy?" John pressed.

"It's all to do with Rosette. It started with her. I sometimes think Sherlock resents Hunter her closeness with Shay…because it's something he can never have himself."

"That…that makes no sense. Mrs. Holmes, just who was this Rosette? I've been hearing her name everywhere for the past twenty-four hours," John said, feeling the beginnings of a tension headache. He was so damn tired of being in the dark.

"It will make sense. Only, Dr. Watson, I must ask you not to press Sherlock about her until he's ready."

"Until he's ready? It's been twenty-one years!" the doctor hissed in exasperation. "This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about. How is he not ready?"

"He took Rosette's death so hard. He never spoke of it, but he missed her. He still misses her, whether or not he wants to admit it. He won't talk about her; sometimes it seems like he's trying to forget she ever existed. He hasn't spoken of her once since she died."

"That's not true. He talked to me about her," John said.

"I know. I heard you just now, if you'll remember. Did he say her name?" she asked, suddenly seeming tense.

"No…not today…but he has done…twice before."

"What did he say?"

"The first time, he shouted it out in a nightmare…woke me up. When I asked, he said she was an old case…someone who'd died."

"More or less true. And the second?"

"Last night, the dancer woman Sherlock fought…she had some sort of recording…of what happened."

"Oh, God," Kathleen murmured. "What…what happened?"

"He said her name, and he just sort of…froze. He doesn't do that. He never freezes," John said, recounting the events with a trace of horror as he started to realize just how badly Sherlock had been affected.

"I know."

"You…seem like you know him pretty well."

"As well as his brother does. Rosette and I were there with them the day he was born, after all," she said, her expression going distant.

"So…Rosette was…your-"

"My little sister," Kathleen responded without hesitation, her gaze snapping back to John. "She would have been Shay's aunt. I don't think anyone knew Sherlock better than she did."

John wasn't entirely sure why…but he found himself feeling a twinge of jealousy at the statement, and before he could stop himself, the words were out of his mouth.

"Because he wouldn't let anyone else in."

"Yes," she said, her focused gaze shifting into something warm the doctor couldn't quite make sense of. "No one since her…except for you."

John didn't need to express surprise at this. He knew it was true. The only thing was there was something…different about the way Kathleen Holmes said it.

"I've been…praying you'll be the one he opens up to, Dr. Watson. Sometimes I feel like Mycroft and I…treat him like he's still a kid."

"What do you mean?"

"We treat him like he hasn't aged any since the night it happened…like he's still a fourteen-year-old boy…covered in his best mate's blood and barely comprehending he'll never see her again. God, it was awful to find him like that," she said, her attention drifting off yet again. John was starting to see that Kathleen was no less a sibling to his flatmate than Mycroft was.

"So what makes me so special?" he finally asked, drawing Kathleen's wayward thoughts back to the conversation at hand. Again, she gave him that oddly warm expression.

"It's like he said himself. You're a lot like she was. You don't take any of his bollocks, and you don't…shall we say 'change course' when the wind changes…at least, you haven't yet, and I don't think you're likely to."

"And is anyone ever going to tell me…just what happened that night?" John asked, coming at last to the answer he really wanted.

"If it becomes necessary to do so and Sherlock won't do it himself, then yes, but not now. It seems like something he should tell you, except that…"

"What?" he prompted gently.

"Last night…it seemed that this whole thing was just about Shay…but it looks like it's getting bigger all the time."

John simply nodded, glancing worriedly back at Sherlock's room. He couldn't agree more.

XxX

The hospital decided to keep Sherlock under observation for yet another twenty-four hours at Mycroft's insistence, which the consulting detective wasn't particularly happy about, but he at least had the Robin files to pour through during his imprisonment. When John came to visit again on the third day, bearing Sherlock's laptop, as he'd requested, he probably knew more about Robin Kirk than just about anybody on the planet, Moriarty being the only possible exception. With his mad deduction skills, he could make connections the agents who compiled the dossier couldn't. He could see the things that weren't written.

"So who is this woman?" John asked him as he handed over the laptop.

"Just the sort of maniac that's drawn to our good friend, the consulting criminal. She may have had the dedication to become a Royal Ballet ballerina, but her first and only true love is fire. It took some work, but my brother's agents uncovered the arson charges Moriarty had probably managed to bury. It all stopped right around the time she was being considered for the Royal Ballet. In fact, those agents might not have found the charges except for some notes from Kirk's various school councilors. None of them said so, of course, but they feared her. They all feared her," Sherlock said, an odd look coming into his eyes as he looked up from typing.

John was about to ask more when Lestrade suddenly burst into the room, followed by Mycroft, Kathleen, and Hunter.

"Lestrade, I'll have to ask you to leave at once. My brother is still recuperating," Mycroft warned.

"Sherlock, what's this bollocks Mycroft's been telling me about Moriarty being involved?"

"Just the truth."

"No! That's impossible! There's no way he could have survived that explosion."

"Perhaps not…but you never did find a body, did you? Not even a trace of one. Ergo, he's still alive."

"What's your evidence?"

"We heard his voice, John and I."

"That's it? That's really all you've got to go on? You were obviously under stress that night. Are you sure you weren't just hearing things?"

"Do I seem like I just 'hear things', Lestrade? Besides, one doesn't tend to forget a voice like Jim Moriarty's."

"Excuse me?" a new voice interrupted. They all looked to the door and found a young nurse sticking her head into the room. "May I speak to Dr. John Watson a moment?"

"Sure," the doctor said. Before he left the room, though, he shot both Sherlock and Lestrade a look. "Please don't kill each other."

When John stepped out into the hallway, he found the nurse standing with her hands behind her back, looking nervous.

"Something wrong?"

"I don't think so, sir. I'm just a little…confused."

"How do you mean?"

"Well…a woman came by and asked me to bring you this," she said, revealing what it was she had hidden behind her back. "She said it was important."

For a moment, John felt his heart stop. The nurse was holding the black satchel with the red Asian script…Shay's satchel!

"Who delivered this?" he demanded of the nurse as he seized the bag.

"I…I don't know. A woman…" the nurse answered, looking fearful at John's sudden outburst.

"Did she have red hair?"

"N-no. Brown. She was…tall…had a bit of a tan. She didn't leave a name. She just asked that it be delivered to you and left."

"Damn it. Stay right there," John ordered before heading back into Sherlock's room. He didn't really need to say anything to interrupt the three-way shouting match going between Mycroft, Lestrade, and Sherlock. He just held up the bag.

"Oh, my God," Kathleen whispered.

"How did it get here?" Mycroft asked.

"Nurse brought it. She said some woman dropped it off. You might want to get some people over here," John said to Lestrade.

"Absolutely," Lestrade said, pulling out his phone as he headed out the door to speak to the nurse.

"Mycroft, gloves please," Sherlock said quietly. None of them had taken their eyes from the satchel, but Mycroft managed to in order to get a pair of rubber gloves from one of the cabinets. Without being asked, John brought Sherlock the satchel.

Once he'd put on the gloves, Sherlock began to probe through the bag. A small makeup kit came out first, followed by a fan and a notebook. Next came a phone in a purple case.

"No wonder the GPS didn't work. He must have kept this moving all around town," Kathleen said, watching Sherlock's every move intently.

A few more odds and ends came from the satchel, but the last thing to come out was a DVD case with the same Asian symbol as was on the bag.

"What does it mean?" John asked.

"It's the Japanese Kanji for 'dragon'," Sherlock said.

"You read Japanese?"

"Not as such," Sherlock explained as he opened the case. "This I know because Shayla told me. She has a very strong affinity with dragons."

The DVD inside the case had only one word printed on it.

Shayla.

Sherlock looked up, silently asking his siblings' permission to play the disc on his laptop. They both nodded. Just as he was inserting the disc into the drive, Lestrade reentered the room. He was about to say something when he noticed what was going on.

"What is it?"

"There was a disc in the satchel," John explained.

Slowly, the program came to life. Sherlock entered a few commands and a video began to play. Shay was sitting in a chair at a table, staring blankly at the camera. Her left shoulder had been bandaged, but both arms were now adorned with neat little rows of burn marks.

"How do you like my little bird's handiwork, Sherlock?" she asked, her face remaining blank. "Robin really is quite talented with a lighter, but you already know that, don't you." At this last statement, Shay's eyes briefly looked fearful, but the look soon vanished. "I've waited a long time for this girl…waited for the anguish inside of her to ripen. Not her own, of course, but the anguish you have vested in her.

"She knows, Sherlock Holmes. Did you know that? She's not a kid anymore. She's a smart young lady…and you can't hide it from her…the reason why you can't look her in the face." Again, Shay's blank look briefly morphed into something pained and she gave her head a tiny shake, but as before, she quickly returned to the blank stare. "Who do you see right now? The girl…or the ghost?"

The words were coming from Shay's mouth, but Sherlock could just picture Moriarty saying them…just hear his voice…mocking.

"Really, I don't even know why I'm asking. We both know the answer. Are you surprised I know? You shouldn't be. I suppose you could say I…inherited the Yew Branch organization. It was a favorite client of my…predecessor. Although…I was there that night…twenty-one years ago…when you brought them down…when your little rose died."

When those words left Shay's lips, all eyes in the room turned to Sherlock. He hadn't moved. His only noticeable reaction was a slight widening of the eyes.

"They aren't gone, you know? You didn't destroy them. They've only been biding their time…and now who have they come to to put your head on a platter? Me…me and Miss Holmes here, of course." At this implication, Shay closed her eyes, shaking her head again. This break lasted a little longer than any of the others, but she was soon back to the blank slate.

"She's been very brave throughout all this. None of those other idiots were any fun, sobbing and begging. Only she and the good doctor have been remotely interesting. She says she's not afraid of me. What do you think, Sherlock? Should she be afraid of me?"

"Oh, Shay," Kathleen cried quietly. Mycroft took one of her hands in his. "She'll get herself killed."

"She didn't cry…not once. Even when the flames were against her skin, she didn't beg or scream or anything. She's too proud for any of that. She really is a rare specimen. Just like a Holmes. I think I can make her scream, though. Want to watch?"

Shay's eyes widened as she spoke these words; she twitched for a moment, as if wanting to look around her, but not daring to. That was when three figures burst out of the darkness of the room behind her. Two men seized Shay and forced her down on the table. The third figure they all recognized as Robin Kirk.

"Shay!" Hunter shouted, forgetting for a moment that this had already happened and couldn't be stopped.

Gazing into the camera lens as if she knew they were watching, Robin pulled out a pocketknife, waving it before them with a sadistic grin. Then, pushing Shay's hair to one side, she used the knife to cut open her shirt from the back. Throughout all this, Shay struggled violently, kicking the chair away.

Holding the blade right next to Shay's face, Robin draped herself over her back, holding her down as she wrapped her other arm around Shay's stomach.

"Don't struggle. It will only be worse if you struggle."

"Let go of me," the fifteen-year-old growled, still struggling.

Sighing, Robin pressed a kiss to Shay's ear before drawing back.

"Have it your way. You like dragons so much…be a dragon," she said, forcing Shay's head against the table and laying the blade against her skin.

They couldn't see what Robin was doing, but it took a long time. At first, Shay only hissed and gave small cries, but as Robin dug deeper, carved away more skin, the poor girl couldn't help but scream. Her fingers dug into the table she was pinned to as she screamed, releasing her agony in the only way available to her…and as Robin worked, the group in the hospital looked on, none of them able to look away. Kathleen began to cry as Shay's screams escalated.

Finally, when Robin had carved her last stroke and Shay had spent her energy screaming, Robin laid the bloody knife to the side and took out a lighter, taking it to Shay's back. When she'd finished with this, the camera started to move, coming around behind Shay to observe Robin's work.

There was blood everywhere, but Robin had cauterized the wounds with her lighter, so that burned and scarred into Shay's back was the same symbol as the one on her bag.

"Shay," Mycroft whispered, the shock in his voice tangible.

The two men holding Shay down backed away, but she didn't move. She remained draped over the table, breathing heavily and trembling. Robin gently turned the girl's head to face the camera. She closed her eyes in shame, her face streaked with tears.

"How do you feel now, Shayla Holmes?" Robin asked.

Shay shook her head weakly, refusing to play. "I…I'm not…scared. I'm…fine…Uncle Sherlock. Don't…don't play…"

As Shay struggled with her words, Robin slapped her hard across the face. "Oops. Looks like Shayla can't talk anymore. I suppose I'll have to finish things up here. Do you remember Champollion, Sherlock? Jim seems to think you will. Until you do, Shayla's mine…and she has such lovely skin."

With that, the screen went dark and the program shut down.

"That sick…twisted…" Lestrade muttered, not quite able to get the words out.

"Sherlock…are you all right?" John asked him, noticing the way his hands gripped the laptop.

"Jim," he said quietly. "Is that enough for you to go on, Lestrade?"

For a moment, the detective inspector looked torn, but finally nodded. "I'll take it. I'll need that disc, though…so some of the boys can start analyzing it. They should be here soon. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, if you wouldn't mind, I'll need you to accompany me."

"Keep an eye on him, Hunter," Kathleen said.

Sherlock mutely ejected the disc and handed it over. Lestrade gathered the case, the satchel, and all its contents before heading out with Kathleen.

"Don't try anything," Mycroft warned his brother before following them.

"You have to let me go," Sherlock said to Hunter the moment they'd gone.

"In this state? You're mad. You'd be dead before you could blink," she said crossly, her nerves still rattled.

"We all know that if Moriarty wanted me dead, I would be. This isn't about killing me."

"Weren't you listening? Yew Branch wants you dead."

"Except they went to Moriarty for help, and he doesn't want me dead. This is about getting information."

"Do you even know where he wants you to go?" John asked.

"I've got an idea."

"Even if Hunter does let you go, I certainly won't. You'd probably collapse before you got wherever it is you're going anyway."

"You're going to stop me then, John?"

"Absolutely."

"You seem to have forgotten you're outnumbered," Sherlock said, his gaze drifting back toward Hunter. When John turned to look at her, though, she just stared back at Sherlock, completely unmoving.

"You really think you can find something that'll help?" she asked.

"I guarantee it. If we want to see her alive again, we've got to play his game…for now."

"Sherlock, you can't just-" John's protest was interrupted by a sharp jab to the back of his neck. He was unconscious before he even hit the ground.

XxX

(A/N) And another one bites the dust. Hopefully, I've kept you interested enough to hang around for another week.