Even though you may want to move forward in your life, you may have one foot on the breaks. In order to be free, we must learn how to let go. Release the hurt. Release the fear. Refuse to entertain your old pain. The energy it takes to hang onto the past is holding you back from a new life. What is it you would let go of today?

-Mary Manin Morrissey.

-/-

The news story of a hooded figure dominated both the news channels and every front page of every newspaper almost every day for a month. There was a video taken on a mobile and a few people recounting what she had done to save their lives. A reporter who had witnessed her rescuing a drowning boy from the Thames called her a hero. She scoffed at that. The last thing she was, was a bloody hero. When it wasn't the vigilante it was Sherlock and John and Sarah Braxton.

Her team had been unable to gather much about Mary that Syn didn't already know. On top of that Mycroft has assigned her to a few cases that required her to be out of London for a few days at a time. Of course Sherlock came with her, there was no stopping him either way but when the time came she would be the ones to get her hands dirty, not him.

There had also been a few times when she had been asked for specifically to do a job that required her and her alone. Sherlock knew what she was doing but it didn't stop her from feeling a bit guilty every time she returned back to Baker Street exhausted and battered more often than not. He knew what she was doing when she had left yet he waited up for her until she returned and continually let her stay.

This morning was a rare one for her considering her last week had been spent tracking down a drug lord that had one too many debts. Opposed to a dingy mattress with suspicious stains and broken springs she woke in a cozy bed with a steady thrumming heartbeat filling her ears, arms trapping her against a warm body, and fingertips ghosting across her arms in small circles. She attempted to drift back to sleep but her mind decided otherwise, kicking into gear and reminding her she had to be dressed in 10 minutes.

Who plans a wedding that's six months away? Why can't they just invite a handful of people, get a priest, and get married? It's all too…extravagant, in her opinion. The entire idea of marriage repulsed her but maybe that was because she had been forced through the process. Of course the idea of a relationship always seemed so farfetched but now…the shrill ring of her phone pulled her away from her thoughts as she blindly began reaching for the source of the sound. "Hello?"

"Are you awake?" Slash. "Yeah, what's going on? Is there another case?" "Mary just made a phone call to an unknown number about five minutes ago." She was out of the bed in an instant scrambling into the kitchen to retrieve her laptop. "Where did the call trace back to?" "Ghost, Birdie tracked it to Sebastian Moran." You never took his pulse. You glanced at him and assumed he was dead. "Reaper and Dragon have been running surveillance on Mary and while she was out on her morning run a car picked her up and dropped her off at the Diogenes Club."

"Shit!" The chair in front of her went flying across the room as her foot connected with the wood followed by a long string of curses and an overly detailed explanation on how she planned to gut Mycroft. "He lied to me, the bastard!" Sherlock shot her a questioning look as he appeared in the doorway, buttoning up a light blue dress shirt. "Numbers is working on surveillance for Mycroft's office but it may take a while considering we're literally dealing with the British Government." "Call me in an hour and we'll discuss what needs to be done next."

"What has my brother done now?" "What the hell hasn't he done!" She stormed upstairs, brushing by a very confused Ms. Hudson on her way. She couldn't leave now, it would bring up too much suspicion when Mary and John arrived. She would have to wait until after they left to get anything done. Muttering curses under her breath she peeled her pajamas off and settled on a light purple button up and khaki pants.

She collected herself before going back downstairs. She needed to look as if nothing had happened. Easy.

"Oh Syn, there you are. I've got something I want to ask you." Bloody hell she had barely walked through the door and Mary already wanted to talk. "Go on," she said as she poured herself a cuppa. "I was wondering, since I'm relatively new to London and don't have very many friends yet, I was wondering if you would like to be the maid of honor." Syn was sent into a coughing fit as she choked on her tea. This. Bitch. She purposefully asked in front of Sherlock and John so she would have no choice but to say yes. Arsehole.

"Yeah...of course." She said in between coughs. Mary smiled and gleefully returned to making preparations that would, in the very near future, rip out what was left of John Watson's heart.

Fuck.

-/-

As John and Mary left Baker Street Slash called Syn again. "He-" "Moran is working for Mycroft."

"Find him. Now."

-/-

The Ghost tore through the Diogenes club without a care as to who saw her. She threw open the door to Mycroft's office and pulled her gun from its holster at her side. "You," She pointed it at the man sitting across from Mycroft's desk not bothering to deduce the man who was currently trying not to cry. "Out." He shot up from his chair and stumbled out, closing the door behind him.

Turning back to Mycroft she pulled the trigger, a bullet whizzing by his left ear. "I am not in the mood to play games Mr. Holmes so I suggest that you give me the answers that I am looking for and I highly suggest they be the truth this time." Dilated pupils. Rapid breathing. Tense muscles. Flared nostrils. Body hair standing on end. He was afraid.

"Mary Morstan was brought here this morning by one of your cars. I want to know what her assignment is." She could see him mulling over whether or not to tell her the truth so she decided to give him a little extra incentive. Holstering her gun she unsheathed a dagger from her boot. "I learned there are certain spots on the human body that you can stab to prevent a person from bleeding out and passing out. I've been dying to test it and you, Mycroft, have put John Watson's life in danger. I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't mind once he found out. So, are you still considering lying to me or are you going to tell me the truth?"

"Agent Morstan was assigned to learn who Magnussen's contacts were, to learn what he is planning. And to learn what Magnussen knows about foreign governments and other important figures." Not completely satisfied she began twirling her dagger between her fingers. "Why allow her to continue her work when she has a pressure point…unless you purposefully gave her one to allow Magnussen to think he had her under his thumb once he figured it out." Mycroft smiled humorlessly at her. "You always were exceptionally clever."

"Moran is in custody." Reaper radioed in on the small earpiece she wore. Sheathing her dagger she decided it was better she keep her knowledge of Sebastian to herself for now. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Holmes."

-/-

Classified Location: England

The England 'Command Center' was housed in an abandoned warehouse miles away from civilization. Inside military personnel dashed back and forth between computers and various monitors and heavily armed guards with assault rifles kept a watchful eye on each person. Back in a separate room away from prying eyes and ears was a grey soundproofed room and sitting at a metal table with his hands uselessly handcuffed was Sebastian Moran.

In all reality she supposes she thought he would look different, sick or unkempt, maybe. But he didn't. He looked the same as when she had first met him, minus the huge shit eating grin that was currently spread across his face as he realized who had come to visit.

She used to trust him.

"I'm impressed," she finally said. "You actually fooled me. The whole scene at the pub and in the car before the fall; the hyperawareness, the desperation. You had the whole criminal community believing the great Sebastian Moran died protecting his love. What I don't understand is, why?" He wasn't listening to a thing she said, she could see it in the way he was watching her. Sebastian had his own way of reading people just as she did and even with her suit on she felt completely exposed in front of him. He knew her better than anyone. "You chose him. You chose the Detective over me. You did this, Syn. You always held me back but not anymore."

"But, even after faking your death, you still protected me. You brought in Alec, and Gio, and Spencer, and David to free me and kill the Queen's," she tilted her head to the side. "You were supposed to die out there. You weren't supposed to live, but you did." He smiled again, but this smile was twisted and cruel and it made chills run down her spine. "If you could only see the big picture. If you only knew what was really going on. It's wonderful."

She could hear shouting outside the door but it wasn't until it was too late. "This interrogation is officially over." Mycroft strode in, umbrella in hand and Anthea in tow. "Mr. Moran is to be released immediately and left alone." Her jaw was slack behind the black fabric of her balaclava. "What the hell Mycroft! You can't just let a wanted criminal go!"

"Mr. Moran has been placed under witness protection." Anthea smacked out as she typed away on her mobile. "He'll be moved to a safe house where he will be monitored day in a day out. Whatever it is you suspect him of I'm sure it's only a misunderstanding due to previous relations." If it wasn't for Mycroft she would've knocked the ditz out a long time ago.

She watched helplessly as Mycroft uncuffed Sebastian and led him out of the interrogation room. She watched the two interact as they walk away, a theory beginning to form in her mind as she watched Mycroft let Sebastian take the lead. "Was Moriarty's suicide a fake too?" The entire base falls silent at the mention of the name and she doesn't miss the look Mycroft shoots Sebastian. "Of course not," Sebastian throws over his shoulder without missing a beat. "If it was, you'd be dead by now."

He always was a good actor.

-/-

It was almost dark when Syn returned to London, sleep beginning to tug at her. Parking a few blocks away she effortlessly managed to slip into the morgue of St. Bart's unseen. Molly was filing paperwork over her last autopsies of the night when she stepped inside. She could see the split second of fear in Molly's eyes and maybe it would've been better if she would've shed her suit first but it was too late for that now. "Molly, it's me Syn." She pulled off her mask and balaclava to prove her point, Molly's shoulders sagging in relief. "I need to ask you a question about something. What happens to dead bodies when no one claims them? It's for a case."

"Well if the next of kin can't be found or doesn't want to take care of arrangements the body will be donated to a university. Once the university is done with the body it's cremated and taken to a funeral home where it will sit for a year. If the body is still unclaimed then the remains will be buried or scattered." She explained. "I could help you if you need me too."

Can you trust Molly? Of course she can. Molly kept the secret about her death and undoubtedly helped Sherlock fake his. She's loyal. She always has been. She dated Moriarty. She could be working for him. Molly working for Jim? She'll believe that when pigs fly. What about Sebastian then? Could he have her under his thumb? No of course not. That's ridiculous. Moriarty completely underestimated Molly's usefulness.

"I'm looking for Moriarty." Her hand froze above the paper of the report. "He's dead. Mycroft took care of it." She continued filing out the report, refusing to look at Syn. "I trust you Molly, I trusted you and Sherlock trusted you and you haven't let us down. If there's something going on you need to tell me. I can protect you." She shook her head, a forced smile spread across her lips. "I'm fine. You may want to leave though, someone's coming to pick up this body in a few minutes."

She was beginning to wish she would've paid more attention.

-/-

Syn's stripping off her hood and mask behind the door of Baker Street when her phone pings in her pocket. Unlocking her screen two picture messages from an unknown number are waiting for her. Clicking the first picture she sees the torso of a male victim, the skin covered in gouging wounds and a sheen of sweat, muscles straining. For a moment she thinks Sherlock used someone's phone to send her crime scene photos but the man in the photo was obviously still alive.

She flips to the next picture and revulsion is surging through her.

The victim was on his knees and bent forward unnaturally, arms cuffed behind his back, a booted foot pining his upper body down. He was naked, dirty trousers around his knees, what she could see of his back was bloody and bruised, and there, kneeling behind him was another soldier, fingers digging into the man's hips, body canted forward obscenely – Horrified she turned off the screen.

She took a few deep breaths to keep down the growing urge to vomit. Who was the man in that photo? Exiting out of the picture she sent a text to the number; who is this?

The reply was almost immediate: An interested party. Confused, she sent off another text; what do you want? There was a pause before she received another text, a picture message following it. Someone's been keeping secrets from you. This picture was a bit blurry but she could make out the victims lean figure, a white tank covering his abused torso, black trousers pulled up to his hips, shoulder length matted black hair covering the victims face from view, a gun held in front of him, and bodies lying dead at his feet.

She hit call but was disconnected immediately.

Another text came in right after, different number. I will contact you. This is a demonstration of just how much I know. Another picture message came through and with a pounding heart, she opened it. That same long, dark, matted hair, the same sweat and blood and bruising, but now the victim was looking straight at the camera; distinctive eyes staring at the lens, exhausted, in pain, defiant.

Sherlock.

She's up the stairs and tearing through the silent flat in an instant. He's dead. You let that happen. It's all your fault. You should've figured it out sooner. Your fault. A sweaty hand is fisted in her hair as the tears begin to stream down her face. She can feel that thing happening to her again, threatening to consume her and tear her apart, its coming and she doesn't know if she'll be able to stop it this time. She stumbles back to his (their?) bedroom and that's where she finds him, his back against the headboard, fingers steepled under his chin, his eyes closed, his chest slowly rising and falling.

"Oh god," he peaks open an eye and immediately sits up, his full attention on her. "What happened?" It all makes so much sense; the closeness, him letting her sleep in the same bed as him, sleeping at night. "I thought…s-someone sent me this," she hands him her phone with shaking hands and watches him flip through the images. His eyes give away the pain and fear despite the stoic expression on his face. "Sherlock-"

"Can we not?" he snapped, his fingers tightening around her phone. "I don't want, I can't bear your pity." He keeps his head hung, his gaze boring holes into the carpet. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it. But if you do, I'm here to listen. I didn't ask, you're my best friend and I didn't ask." She runs a hand through her hair as she mentally berates herself. "What do you want to know?" His voice was a razor. "Did they water-board me before or after the gang rape?"

She closes her eyes, a few more tears escaping. "Jesus…"

"Oh don't worry, they soon gave up on that when I didn't respond the way they wanted me to. Moved on, scraping my back open with a screwdriver was much more effective. Sleep deprivation, beatings, my drug habit seemed to amuse them the most." He returned to staring at the spot on the carpet.

"You should have taken me with you. You should have let me keep you safe, it was my job-" "And risk that happening to you instead?" he hissed, low and vicious, tears beginning to brim in his grey eyes. "Don't you see? That was not an acceptable outcome. I had to focus effectively. I had to know you were safe and if that meant you thinking I was dead, then so be it."

She stared at him dumbfounded. How could he be so blind? "You might've died." She bit out. "I'd never have known what a fucking idiot you were for jumping off Bart's to save everyone, you brilliant bastard." She was furious, so furious, because Sherlock, brilliant, amazing, vibrant, Sherlock Holmes, had put her, broken, meaningless Syn, had put her life and health above his own.

When he doesn't acknowledge her, she gets down on her knees in front of him and tilts his head up so she can see him. Her heart breaks at the sight of him, his jaw clenching as he tried to keep his composure, self-hate and pain evident behind the unshed tears. She holds his face in her shaking hands and gently thumbs away the tears that fall.

There's so much she wants to tell him, she wants to tell him how much he means to her, how there was a physical ache in her chest every single day during his absence, she wants to tell him everything but she can't. So, she wraps her arms around him and he only hesitates for a moment before wrapping his arms around her, his face buried in the crook of her neck. She could feel his breath against her skin, could feel his body tremor against hers, and finally, she felt him relax against her. She gently rubbed her hands over his back in the same places that she'd seen bloody and abused, feeling him shudder against her. "Shh," she whispered. "I've got you. Let me keep you safe."

He sighed and she felt his arms tighten in return. "You did," he breathed. "You were there, you were always there, in my head, telling me to hold on, to come back."

She thinks back to the night at the hospital when Sebastian had been injected and Sherlock had given her a name. Pulling back so she can look at him, her hands cupping his face and his arms still wrapped around her, she tells him what he told her. "You aren't alone anymore, Sherlock."

That night, long after Sherlock's breathing had evened out and his eyes flickered back and forth as he dreamed another picture message came through. Sleep had long ago evaded Syn and her mind refused to slow down but as she unlocks her mobile it still takes her a minute to register what she's seeing and another to convince herself what she's seeing is real.

She throws her phone against the wall (throwing things is beginning to become a habit when she's angry she notices) and begins to pace the length of the bedroom, muttering curses under her breath all the while. She goes back and finds her phone (thankfully undamaged) and looks at the picture again just to make sure she's really seeing what she thinks she is.

Looking through a sniper rifle at John Watson was none other than Mary Morstan.

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