Sherlock really should have realised that he was completely outmatched. Delia Fitzgerald was a professional and he was, well... Not.

With a forceful backhand and a well-placed kick to his wrist, the scimitar flew from his grip and clattered a few feet away. The opposing blade met the skin just below his Adam's apple, and for a long moment, neither moved nor dared to breathe. The battle silently continued in the connected gaze they shared, and before she even spoke, Sherlock had a spark of realisation.

'Mr. Sherlock Holmes. A smart boy like you should understand. So go on. Tell me how I managed it." The sharp edge pressed harder, but not enough to break the surface. Sherlock answered coolly.

"You lured me down here with that note at the aviary in much the same way as you had been threatening Stephen Richards. 'Meet me here or we poison your wife,' that kind of thing. He wouldn't comply at first because he thought it was a prank- the wife was at work, the kids in school, all completely untouchable. Until it got late into the night and he was alone in the house." He closed his eyes as if he were bored. "I'm disappointed to be honest, thought it might be a bit deeper. More elaborately planned."

The sword was just starting to draw blood, drop by precious drop. Delia smiled cruelly.

"It's a pity, really. That you don't get to watch my next game." She bowed her head slightly and pouted condescendingly. "Tell me, how's Dear John Watson doing nowadays?"

The detective's expression fell quite obviously at the mention of his friend. He moved unconsciously backwards and the madwoman snarled. "We can't leave it at just killing you. That would be way too fucking lazy."

With that she kicked him down, where he fell into a puddle of leaking sewage. Disgust distracted him momentarily before there was another blow to his stomach, then thigh. He was a crumpled mess of pain while the swordsman reached for a vial and needle from a pouch at her hip. She breathed steadily as she prepared them.

"I'm going to find him. He'll never know how you died. Poor, sweet John. How he'll scream."

An inhuman snarl rumbled from deep in Sherlock's throat, and with a burst of adrenaline befitting an athlete, he found the strength to roll out of range of any further blows. The scimitar was in his hands again in a matter of seconds, and he righted himself into a fighting stance as best he could with quickly forming bruises.

"Threatening to kill John is by far the most dangerous risk you've taken tonight."

She looked him up and down with disgust and pity.

"Give over. You're a fucking mess! You're no threat to me like this. Damn disappointing."

She made to step closer but found the tip of Sherlock's sword brandished just centimetres from her nose.

"I faked my own death to protect him. Don't think I wouldn't go further."

The pained expression Fitzgerald wore doubled into pure sickened horror. Her rapier swung upwards slightly.

"Leave your faggotty shit outside, Holmes. I already know you'd do some serious shit to save your boyfriend. That's why seeing you struggle is so much more fun."

The fight broke out again, a little slower than last time and twice as exhausting with his injuries, but this time he had to take the needle into account as well as a sword. The two raged at each other, grazing skin and throwing kicks around, but never managing to cut deep enough to draw much blood.

Sherlock was pinned to the tiled walls with only the scimitar between him and his opponent when distant shouts echoed down the tunnel. With a grunted effort, Sherlock found the breath to yell for attention.

"Lestrade! I'm here, hurry up!"

The woman immediately showed her frustration by pressing all her strength into breaking his barrier, but the attempt was sloppy and the blades slid in opposite directions, making her stumble sideways.

A single police officer came upon them at first, and his eyes widened in terror when Fitzgerald fixed herself and her stance. Her eyes were blazing at the realisation that she had been caught, and like a caged lioness, she bit. The junior officer slumped to the ground and his hands searched himself, finding only red, and lots of it. Unconsciousness hit him within seconds.

That gave Sherlock a window, and just as she turned back to him with fire in her glare, he grabbed the needle out of her hand and plunged it into her hip. It hung limply from her side as she shuffled backwards, worry plastered to her face.

"Sherlock? Oh Jesus Christ, Donovan, get an ambulance!" Lestrade dropped to his comrade's side the moment he spotted the scene and pulled another policeman down with him to help check out the situation. His gaze found Sherlock's and swept over his form to take in any damage.

"You look like shit."

Sherlock only nodded, but waved in the direction of the killer. Lestrade stood up with speed and joined Sherlock's side, surprise written all over his face as he pieced together what had happened only moments ago. Fitzgerald shuddered and bent over to the side, spilling the contents of her stomach onto a section of piping.

"Donovan, we'll need another ambulance!"

oOoOoOoOo

"It was self-defence, nobody's even gonna file it. No worries mate."

Blue and red lights blurred their vision when they exited the sewage system and finished up. Lestrade and Sherlock stood to the side as the body of Delia Fitzgerald and the Met officer- Peter Roche- were loaded into ambulances to be taken to St Bart's morgue. They spoke little for some minutes, until the DI offered him a cigarette. Sherlock grimly shook his head. "John would kill me."

He was stared at for a few seconds before Lestrade focussed on finding his lighter. The taller man sighed.

"She threatened to kill him too. John, I mean."

"I figured she would have." He was stared at again. "Go home, Sherlock. You've seen hell tonight, go on. No paperwork tonight or in the morning."

Go home and be with him, you bloody idiot.

"And tell John... I said hi."

Sherlock got into the back of a police car and was escorted back to Baker Street, hoping more than anything that he would fall asleep once he got home, and forget all this madness. John Watson made it difficult.

Lestrade! He knows.

Anyway I want to sincerely apologise for the wait. I was in procrastination station for feckin' ages. It sucked. Also this arch was annoying the hell out of me. Now everybody join in with me and in Frodo's voice, sigh with joy that "It's done!" We'll be moving back to the story's namesake. Finally.

BTW I have no experience whatsoever with sword-fighting of any kind, so if it seems weird, then hey. I probably should have researched more.

Reviews are always appreciated, and if there's constructive crit in there I will consider everything you say. Love you all.