Chapter Four: Out of the Frying Pan…

I could still remember the first time I had ever been in St. Paul's Cathedral, when I was very young, holding my father's hand as we entered the great church. I remembered my little mind being utterly boggled by the sheer size of it, the ceiling miles above my head, the pillars stretching up and up and up…and the calm, permeating silence all around.

Now as Sherlock and I entered we caught the faint echo of voices, the end of an evensong service as the last people – worshippers, pilgrims and tourists alike – walked around for the night. We pretended to examine the countless memorials along the outer walls, pausing before one, Sherlock examining the small group of people still listening to the choir.

I looked at the marble plaque nearest us, reading the inscription. "Well that's oddly fitting for us, isn't it?"

"Sorry?" Sherlock barely glanced at me.

"Until the day break, and the shadows flee away." I read. "That's the only time we'd really be able to be together, isn't it? Metaphorically speaking. You know, shadows standing in for crime…" I glanced back at Sherlock. He looked oddly appropriate standing there, palms pressed together before him in an odd parody of prayer. I swallowed and stuck my hands in my pockets. "Right, sorry, not exactly the best time to try and be romantic."

The chorus had stopped singing, and once again the cathedral filled with contemplative silence. The great windows were dark now, and tall candelabras threw a soft orange glow over the congregation. There was something sinister about it all as I knew that something terrible was getting ready to happen.

"On the contrary, John," Sherlock said. "Wasn't it you who said I get off on this sort of thing?"

I wrinkled my nose. "Actually that was Sergeant Donovan. And I said romantic, Sherlock, not weirdly kinky."

Sherlock chuckled, turning to survey the small crowd of people still in the seats, listening to the last words of the priest. I looked as well, trying to use Sherlock's methods to spot anyone suspicious. All that I realized, however, was that I recognized someone sitting in the back row.

"Oh no…" I muttered, starting off towards her. I completely ignored Sherlock's warning hiss behind me. "Donna," I said when I reached the young intern. She looked up, almost surprised to see me there. "Donna, you should get out of here. There's…something's going to happen, something bad, you really shouldn't…"

There come those moments in life when you realize all too late that you've made a terrible, terrible mistake. The last time it happened to be had been in Afghanistan, rising up out of my hiding spot and turning to see a man with a gun pressed against my best mate's head. And now, suddenly I got that same lift-gone-mad sinking feeling in my gut as Donna got to her feet, a slow, bored sort of smile spreading over her face.

"Oh, Dr. Watson, I really don't know why he puts up with you," she said, running her fingers through her hair. She waved her hand and some sort of commotion broke out around us, but I was too paralyzed with momentary shock to notice yet. "You're such an idiot sometimes."

"You can't do this!"

The shout broke through to me. I turned to see the priest trying to struggle away from two large armed men who were herding him in with the rest of the congregation. Looking over my shoulder I saw another two holding Sherlock.

"Oh, forgive me, father, for I'm about to sin. Badly," Donna said. Above us the bells began to toll. She looked around with a pleased expression, nodded once then began to recite softly,

" Oranges and lemons, say the bells of St. Clement's,

You owe me five farthings, say the bells of St. Martins,

Oh when will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey.

When I grow rich, say the bells of Shoreditch.

When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney,

When I am old, say the bells of St. Paul's..."

It took only a small gesture from her for the armed men to move the group of people – hostages, I suppose – over to the side, then another for them to bring Sherlock over. Donna began rolling up one sleeve to reveal the snake design twined around her forearm.

"Tell me about myself, Sherlock," she said, turning to look at him. "I've led you on enough, you should've figured something out."

Sherlock stiffened. "Judging by your not so carefully controlled accent, you were raised by Irish parents in the slums of South Boston. You were loyal to them, otherwise you wouldn't have the symbol of your father's particular branch of the mob tattooed on your arm. However, you did well in school. Well enough that you realized soon you were too good for his dirty work, you got admitted to Harvard, used that as your stepping point to break as far away from the life of your childhood as you possibly could. That is until you arrived here, saw the potential and realized you weren't as different from your father as you had originally thought."

"Oh good, very close," Donna said. "Except there was no sudden realization. I planned to do this all along, to bring London under my control. I never thought I was different from my father in any way except that I would one day do much greater things than him. The rest is true. I got where I am because I am so very smart and because everyone believed my pathetic sob story about wanting to make amends for and get away from my father's crimes."

"That's very ambitious of you. London is a big city."

Donna grinned. "You said yourself psychopaths like a flare for the dramatic. And I don't care what you say, you are one. Otherwise you wouldn't be here, and you certainly wouldn't have dragged your boyfriend into it to." She turned to smile sweetly in my direction. I glared at her.

"He's not the one that will bring you down," Sherlock said. "I will. And if you harm him in any way, I will ensure you do not leave here in one piece."

I blinked, staring at him, unsure whether to feel touched by the threat, or disturbed. The way he said it too, keeping his calm, level demeanor, certainly wasn't doing anything to disprove Donna's accusation of being a psychopath.

Donna rolled her sleeve back down again. "No, Sherlock, it's you that's not going to leave here alive, I'm afraid, but you already knew that, didn't you? As long as you make sure all these innocent people…" she gestured to the congregation, "and your lover are all right, then you'll be happy."

"Wrong," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes.

"Oh, right, excuse me, you don't care about them, or him." She nodded in my direction. A pair of strong arms grabbed me from behind, and another man stepped forward, bringing the side of his gun sharply against my head. Pain flared through my skull and my vision swam. Across from me, Sherlock remained impassive. Donna just laughed. "As long as you figure out what I'm really up to, that's all you care about."

"In a few moments police and government officials will have this place surrounded," Sherlock said. "Whatever it is you're planning…"

"What am I planning?" Donna pretended to be thoughtful for a moment. Outside police sirens were growing louder, and louder. Through the windows we could see flashing blue and white lights, which mixed on Donna's face with the candle light for an eerie effect. She smiled, then waved her hand at her men. "You can let them go."

With an immediate rush all the people ran towards the doors. Sherlock, however, remained where he was, even when the two men holding him stepped back. And of course, wherever Sherlock was, so was I.

"Now, I know you don't know much about literature or popular culture," Donna continued. "But I'll ask anyway…why do you think I picked that awesome little rhyme as my theme song?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, then he looked to me. I sighed, suddenly glad I'd paid attention in class.

"It's used in George Orwell's novel 1984," I murmured.

Donna clapped her hands together. "One point for Johnny! Yeah, I read that book in high school and it left such an impact on me. And you, Sherlock, should know even better than I do what I'm talking about. I mean, your Big Brother, literally, your big brother, Mycroft, watches everything in this city, doesn't he? Well, after reading that I realized that for control to work, it needs to come from the bottom up, not the other way around. But, I'm beating around the bush. The last two lines of the poem are really what matters to you, Sherlock." She turned to me once again. "Gold star to Johnny if he can tell us what they are."

My head was throbbing from the blow I'd received earlier. I could feel blood trickling down my temple and cheek. Thoughts didn't come easily. I shook my head.

"Think back to when you first met one of my people."

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed," I managed finally. "Here…here comes a chopper to chop off your head…"

"Bingo." Donna said with a grin.

I closed my eyes for two seconds, and in that time missed everything. A loud noise like splitting marble echoed through the cathedral, and when my eyes snapped open, Donna was gone, and Sherlock stood there with one hand pressed to his side. He looked at me, then promptly fell to the floor.

"Sherlock!" I rushed over to him, panic surging through me. His eyes were open, but beneath his fingers a dark stain was quickly spreading.

"John…" he gasped, coughing, and more blood dribbled over his lips and chin.

No, I thought desperately, kneeling beside him, bullet wound to the abdomen, internal bleeding, this wasn't good, there was no way… "Sherlock, just stay with me! Look at me!" I pressed my hand to the injury, trying to keep pressure on the wound, but all I could feel was his blood, hot beneath my fingers. "Look at me!"

He tried to, but those bright eyes were starting to glaze over.

Someone tried to pull me away from him. Through the chaos breaking out I realized with surprise it was Lestrade, and that Mycroft was bending over the prone form of his brother, looking very worried indeed. Paramedics were rushing in, and two of them moved to me, checking my injury then trying to escort me outside where the ambulances were waiting. Moments later I saw two more medics carrying Sherlock on a stretcher between them, Mycroft at their side bellowing orders.

Night had fallen, of course, but all of the emergency lights on the steps of St. Paul's created a sort of artificial daylight. Pain spiked through my head and I closed my eyes, leaning suddenly against the paramedic at my side.

Until the day break and the shadows flee away…

Except it wasn't over yet. I let myself be pulled into the back of an ambulance and have the wound on the side of my head examined. It wasn't over yet, but in such a foolishly simple way, Donna may have very well taken Sherlock out of the game.

I laughed at that thought.

"Dr. Watson?" One of the paramedics said, raising her eyebrows as she checked my pulse.

"Nothing," I said, still chuckling. "It's just…Sherlock being taken out of the game, ridiculous thought…" I closed my eyes, leaning back on the bed as the ambulance took off. This time I entirely missed the worried look exchanged between the two paramedics at the mention of my friend (now, lover, boyfriend, what?) as we sped off into the night.