A heartfelt thank you goes out The Lord Writer, dana-san, Agar Loki, EJ 12212012, 8of9, oatniel, JGHB, ENTWolf, snapletonius, theivydaggers, Drunken Strawberries, TakingItOutOnTheWall, Sherlock'sLisbeth, and all those who have favorited/followed this story. Your support and enthusiasm has helped make this story what it is. ^_^

I would also like to thank my Beta, Helena Chauby, for her help and tolerance of my technology-inept self. Many thanks also goes to my faithful and tireless Brit-picker, the Lady of Clunn.

One more shout out to my flat-mate/sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff.

I hope you enjoy!

Chapter 21: The Chase

"This is important then?" Carlos asked them, gesturing to the picture. "We've found something?"

Sherlock and John's heads snapped around to look at Carlos. Sherlock probably hadn't cared that they'd had an audience; John had just forgotten. It was easy to do that when Sherlock was around.

Sherlock stood, straightening his long legs, and the others followed suit. "Yes," Sherlock said in a calm, quiet voice. "I believe we've found something very important to this case. You have been very helpful, but I must ask that you speak of this to no one. Do you understand? This information is very sensitive."

Carlos nodded, beaming. "Sure thing, Mr. Holmes. I am studying to be a lawyer, for one thing, so I know how to be discreet. Also, you never told me anything about a case to start with, just started giving orders. I'm familiar with your husband's blog, so I figured you must be working a case. I won't say a word, and neither will Traci." Carlos paused to grin at his girlfriend. "We'll just watch for the full explanation on the blog."

John flushed at the reminder of how well Sherlock and he were recognised. He'd nearly forgotten the wedding announcement he'd made in his blog just after detailing the 'arrest' of the very killer they were now trying to catch. He hadn't felt very good about lying on his blog, but, as usual, Sherlock had been very persuasive. It had strengthened their story that this was 'just a honeymoon', and, right now, John would take any advantage over the killer that they could get. A killer who may or may not be on to them, depending on how much he had known when he'd sent the black roses.

John was jarred back to the present moment when he heard Sherlock say, "Thank you for all of your help Carlos, and you Traci." There was a chorus of 'you're welcome's' as Sherlock shook both of their hands and started for the door. John stared after him a moment, surprised.

"You must be a good influence on him," Carlos murmured at John's side.

John allowed himself a small smile. "Yeah, he doesn't normally behave that well." Then again, there was still a chance he was being charming to ensure Carlos and Traci's silence. Still, John would take what he could get.

"John!" Sherlock called over his shoulder, not breaking stride.

"I've got to run," John said, turning to Traci and Carlos for a moment. "Thanks again for all your help." John broke seamlessly into a run to catch up with his husband.

Sherlock had already hailed a cab by the time John had made it outside.

"How do you do that?" John asked as they tumbled into the back. "This isn't even England and cabs still stop for you out of thin air."

Sherlock turned to face John, having just given the cabbie directions to their hotel, and fixed his husband with a sardonic look. "I have been told I can be charismatic when I want to be."

"Is that what that was about in there?" John asked, gesturing to the building of the art show, which was rapidly fading from sight as the cab picked up speed. Sherlock, however, was bent over his phone, tapping it furiously, ignoring him. John tried again. "Sherlock?"

"Irrelevant, John, we have a lead."

John leaned back into his seat and crossed his arms. He was annoyed, but in the greater scheme of things, Sherlock was right. He usually was.

"What is it? What's happened?" Greg asked leaning over the desk towards Mycroft.

They had been working on the case as best they could from their usual positions. Mycroft had sat behind his desk reviewing security footage, and Greg had sat in front of it with a small pile of police reports. They were working in companionable silence until Mycroft's phone buzzed. That, in itself was not unusual. The slight stiffening Greg had noticed in Mycroft's body after he read the text, was.

"My brother's found a lead," Mycroft murmured, his eyes still scanning the screen in front of him.

Greg practically leapt out of his chair and around the desk. "What?! Really?"

He leaned over Mycroft's shoulder to look at the screen, and the elder Holmes did nothing to hide it from him, absorbed in reading Sherlock's rapid-fire texts.

I have new information. - SH

There was another murder ten years ago. Patrick and Mathew Brennan. -SH

They were married at All God's Children United Church. -SH

Mathew's single, or maiden name, was Walker. - SH

Their murder fits the modus operandi we are looking for. -SH

Greg and Mycroft were silent and still for the next minute before Mycroft put down his phone and began frantically typing into his computer.

"What? Is that it?" Greg asked, glaring down at the phone. "Not that I'm not pleased, it's a lot more than we had to go one a moment ago, but with that much to go on he must already know more. He's Sherlock Bloody Holmes!"

"Actually, his middle name is Alexander, and we're lucky he gave us this much," Mycroft replied, his finger's never slowing on the keyboard. "I guarantee you that, as we speak, he is combing the internet and his mind palace. In all likelihood, he's also hacking some high-clearance databases for the information he needs."

"Still, he did stop to tell you." Greg offered, "Perhaps John is having a good influence on him."

Mycroft snorted. "More likely he considers this a race to see how can follow the lead to its logical conclusion the fastest. Sherlock will be Sherlock. Dr. Watson does not hold that much sway over my brother."

"It's Dr. Holmes, now," Gregory corrected.

"Gregory, this is hardly the time," came Mycroft's clipped reply.

Gregory nodded. "Right. How can I help?"

"I've dropped the video feed of them to follow up on this lead," Mycroft said, never looking away from this screen. "Have Susan and Ryan maintain visual contact through the security cameras. Anthea can get us a copy of the police report."

"Done," Greg said picking up the phone on Mycroft's desk and dialing the lab-or whatever they called the technology center they'd set up a floor down.

"Hello? Ryan here," came a steady, alert voice on the other end.

"Ryan, this is Greg," the detective inspector began, turning away from Mycroft so that he might be less distracting. "Pull up a visual on Sherlock and John over surveillance."

"On it," Ryan said, follow by the sounds of furious typing. Greg waited, alert and silent until he heard, "Found them. They're pulling up to their hotel now."

Greg let out a small breath of relief. "Good. Keep eyes on them, Ryan. In about two minutes Sherlock's probably going to tear out of the hotel after someone. He's faster than you think. Do not lose visual. Have Susan track them as well. Confirmed?"

Greg could almost hear the nodding on the other end. "Confirmed." A small, muffled chuckle and then, "I do have some experience tracking Sherlock Holmes, sir."

The set of Greg's mouth grew hard and straight. "I do too; I'm not about to underestimate how quickly he can slip away. Keep eyes on him."

"Yes sir," Ryan replied, all serious now. Greg heard him call Susan over before the connection was severed.

Anthea strode into the room just as Greg was setting the phone down. She carried two small paper bags that probably held the take-away that was meant to be their dinner. When Greg moved to meet here in the middle of the room, her gaze snapped up, focused, and ready.

"Anthea, I need you to track down the police report for the murder of Patrick and Mathew Brennan," Greg spoke softly because 1) he knew he had Anthea's undivided attention and 2) he was still being mindful of not interrupting Mycroft. "Mathew was known as Mathew Walker before he changed his name."

Anthea nodded once, already shifting her weight. "Will do." She pressed the paper bags into Greg's hand as she turned. She was nearly at the door when Greg spoke again.

"And Anthea," Greg began, waiting until she had turned to face him. "Thank you," Greg murmured, hoisting up the brown paper bags, gesturing with them.

Anthea smiled and replied, "You're welcome." And then she was gone.

It took Greg a moment to realise he was smiling. Mycroft really had a well-oiled team. Greg grimaced to himself when he thought they were almost better than his own team. In addition to their discipline and impressive skill set, they didn't grouse about Sherlock showing them up. He would really have to put an end to that when he got back to London. For the moment, however, they still had a case to work. Feeling every bit at home, Greg rounded the desk and leaned in close over Mycroft's shoulder to observe his computer screen. "What've you got?"

Mycroft paused, turning his head slowly to shoot Greg a look with a raised eyebrow for the question/order.

"What?" Greg sputtered. "This isn't a time for egos, and I know you're just as good as Sherlock, if not better, therefore, you have something."

Looking slightly mollified, Mycroft turned back to the screen and gestured at a file he had just pulled up.

"Sherlock has speculated the killer is a father motivated to revenge himself on the LGBT community for a harm to his son. He's also speculated this man has a military background. Patrick's parents are United States natives, so I focused on Matthew's parents. Matthew's father, Frank served in Her Majesty's forces for over a decade."

On the screen, Greg could see a stout, muscular man with dark hair in a close buzz cut with piercing grey eyes. His stat sheet showed excellent service until he was honourably discharged to care for his two sons, Luke and Matthew.

"After going to the register office, he was married in the Catholic Church to a woman named Martha, who died in childbirth with their second son, Luke," Mycroft continued, seeing that Greg was following along. "He's kept a fairly low profile since then."

Greg watched as bank statements, pictures, driving license, and other important information flashed across the screen. "He's been careful?" Greg asked, mindful not to be too excited about a lead just because he wanted the killer caught. It had to make sense; they had to be sure they had the right man.

"Insidiously so," Mycroft replied, bringing up more bank statements. "About ten years ago, two months after the death of his son, he began pulling regular amounts from his bank account. Not enough to look suspicious, but enough to help finance his current plan entirely in cash."

"So that he's untraceable," Greg murmured, understanding. "Christ, you think he's been planning this for ten years?!"

Mycroft shrugged, still focused on the computer. "Not this exactly, but something. He took time to decide on his current course of action. He planned this in detail. Sherlock mentioned the first double murder was somewhat impulsive but also showed signs of a long ruminated fantasy lived out. He's known what he was going to do for years, just not exactly when. While he was figuring out what to do, and waiting for the right time to do it, he made sure he'd have the resources he needed, in a way that wouldn't draw suspicion. It's the kind of planning I'd expect from someone in the military. He's been trained to be prepared, no matter what."

"We know he's already here because of Dylan and Kyle. It might be worth it to check with hotels in the area," Greg offered. "Most require a credit card on record even if their guest pays in cash. Although not the seedier establishments."

Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. "Waste of time. Too much risk of someone remembering him. No, he's got a better option." A few more clicks and the image of a rustic looking cabin appeared including blueprints and real estate information. "Frank inherited this cabin from a cousin who immigrated here in the sixties."

Greg squinted as he read the details on the property. "It's a little out of the way from the Hamptons. I think he'd want to set up base camp closer to his intended targets."

Mycroft nodded before holding up a single index finger as he replied, "But he knows, at least in some capacity, that Sherlock and John are dangerous to him. I'm still not sure if he knows they are on the case, or if he's just angry at them for getting married, but he knows they are here. Dr. -Holmes's blog has made my brother's exploits, and his participation in them, well known. He has even mentioned myself once or twice. Frank has been careful and patient for a long time. Perhaps he is waiting for the right opening."

"Still worth a once over, with back up," Greg agreed, already pulling out his phone when it began to ring. Greg swiped to answer and heard Susan's voice come through.

"Sir, John and Sherlock are on the move again. They just stormed out of their hotel room and hailed a cab."

"Thanks for the update, Susan. Continue to follow them." Greg paused, thinking about the remote location of the cabin they were probably speeding to. "Let me know the instant you lose visual."

"Yes sir." There was a question in Susan's voice, but she still sounded determined. She might not be on the same page at the moment, but she trusted Mycroft and, by extension, Greg.

Greg hung up and turned to face Mycroft. He could explain to Susan later. Right now, he needed all eyes on the younger Holmes brother.

Mycroft was just reaching to shut his laptop when his own phone buzzed. Pulling his phone from his pocket, Mycroft tapped the buttons a few times, scanned the message, and let out a derisive snort. Greg was about to ask what Sherlock had sent, because Sherlock was excellent at getting just that reaction from his brother, when Mycroft lifted the phone to his ear.

"Hello? Dr. ...Holmes." This time Greg allowed himself a small smile at hearing John's new name. Mycroft was still stumbling over it a bit, but he would come around, just like Sherlock and John had. Or, Greg hoped they had. Didn't Mycroft imply they'd slept together? It would be pretty hard to misconstrue something like that, but if anyone could manage it, it would be those two.

"Yes, he just did. We're on our way. Do not go in the cabin alone."

Greg couldn't make out John's words, but he heard the incredulous tone of his voice before Mycroft pressed the 'end call' button. "What did Sherlock's text say?" Greg asked, curious what, specifically, had gotten under Mycroft's skin.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned his phone so that Greg could see the screen.

John told me to text you. - SH

Greg chuckled before he could stop himself. "God, he is incorrigible! You should send that text to John, he'll give Sherlock a lecture for you."

Mycroft tilted his head for a brief moment as if seeing potential usefulness on John's part for the first time. "Later," Mycroft said as he stood.

Greg nodded, following Mycroft at a swift pace out of the room. They had a team to mobilise.

"I swear to God, Sherlock I will put you in a sleeper hold if I have to." John's voice was terse and serious.

"You know I can remain conscious in that hold for over twenty minutes," Sherlock quipped, crouching low in the underbrush. John could see the cabin in the murky gloom of the early night. They couldn't be more than one hundred yards from it.

"I mean it!" John hissed, reaching forward to yank the curls at the back of Sherlock's neck, bringing the consulting detective's body lower and closer to Johns. "You are NOT going in there alone, Sherlock!" He might not be able to help being in love with his crazy flatmate, but John would be damned if he let the idiot run into reckless danger when John could stop him. Not this time, not with this much at stake.

Sherlock must have read something in John's tone that gave him pause, because he went limp under John's hand, unresisting. "Alright John. I'll stay," he murmured.

John relented his vicious grip on Sherlock's hair, allowing him to sit up. Sherlock met John's gaze and held it softly. The hard edges of John's expression relaxed as he looked into the calm face of his husband. Sherlock wasn't going to bolt, this time.

Sherlock looked down at his ex-army doctor, surprised by this rare show of force. John was usually polite, charming, and easy going. Simple minded people often forget how quickly and fiercely John could act when the situation called for it. Sherlock was briefly reminded of when John pulled rank during the Hound case. That duality made him a good doctor, and a good soldier. In that moment Sherlock wanted to tell him the truth, wanted to be honest with him.

Sherlock had never made a habit of feeling badly for being dishonest, manipulating others was required in every case he'd ever worked. Until John had begun to lecture him for manipulating people unnecessarily, Sherlock had considered it a perk of his career choice. But, as he was in most cases, John was different. Nothing felt right about manipulating John.

"John, I..." Sherlock reached out his hand as if to lay it over John's shoulder, when John's phone buzzed and his blogger glanced down, breaking eye contact.

John looked up again a moment later with a grin. "See? You didn't have to wait long. Greg says they're in position, we can go in. I'm going to leave my phone on so it transmits what we say to Greg and Mycroft, just in case there's any trouble."

Sherlock nodded mutely, not trusting himself to speak. Just as well they were interrupted. What would he have said anyway? ...Nothing that would have done any good.

John and Sherlock skirted closer to the cabin, keeping low and silent. They crept up to the corner of the cabin to the left of the front door. They paused here, Sherlock's eyes flitting back and forth as he took in God knows what data, and analysed it.

John closed his eyes and focused on what he could hear. Mostly it was the wind, the chirps of birds, and the rustle of leaves. John tilted his head towards the wall of the cabin and strained, but couldn't pick up any sounds from inside. Glancing up, all the windows John could see were dark.

Sherlock touched his arm then, to get his attention, and John nearly jumped... nearly. Sherlock pressed a slim finger to his lips and jerked his head to indicate that they were going to move towards the door. John nodded, and they began to move once more.

There must have been a lake or stream nearby, because a cool mist had crept in along with the growing dark; it crowded in around the edges of the cabin. The stayed low, inching towards the door, hardly daring to breathe. Sherlock pressed an ear to the door, slowly reached up, and loudly jiggled the handle. John's heart rate ratcheted up a gear and he bit his tongue to keep himself from chastising Sherlock.

A moment later, when Sherlock stood, John understood his reasoning. If there was someone in the cabin, they would have heard that and moved to see what it was. John hadn't seen or heard anything. If he felt comfortable enough to stand up, it was likely Sherlock hadn't either. They were going in.

Never one for subtlety, Sherlock reared back and kicked the door open. It came away from the wall with minor wood chips flying from the latch by the handle. Sherlock loomed in the doorway, scanning, with one hand pressed to the door to keep it wide open.

John stayed close, peering at the cabin around Sherlock's outstretched arm. It appeared to be a simple, one story, open floor plan. It was difficult to make out in the murky light, but the cabin appeared to be a mishmash of boxes and bric a brac lying about.

Sherlock swept into the cabin, keeping close to the walls, with John right on his heels. Sherlock pulled a small torch from his coat pocket and held it above his head, sweeping the stream of light slowly back and forth.

Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust, dirt, and cobwebs. Objects leaned at awkward angles against each other, cardboard boxes wilted with age and moisture, and the wind moaned in the chimney, kicking up small swirls of dust and ash. It didn't look like much in the way of accommodations. It didn't look like anyone had been here in years. There would have to be marks in the dust on the floor if they had been, and it was undisturbed. Noting the tension slowly drain from Sherlock's shoulders, John let out his own long-held breath. Sherlock must have come to the same conclusion: Another dead end.

"Damn!" Sherlock muttered under his breath, still scanning the cabin, but this time looking for something, anything to give them another direction to go in, any data that might be useful.

John remained still by Sherlock's side, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking for anything that might seem out of place. Unfortunately the entire cabin seemed as common and muddied with useless details as the killer they were trying to track down. Still, there had to be something...anything...

John's head snapped to the left before he'd even properly registered the sound...shuffling, movement, unhurried. Aware that they may have walked into an ambush John reached out and grabbed Sherlock's arm to get his attention. Quick on his feet, Sherlock moved to crouch beneath a heavily laden table, close to the door. John just crouched where he was, they'd be able to attack from two different angles that way.

Breathing stilled, heartbeats thrummed, and they waited. It was almost poetic, really, a killer using a 'hide out' as bait before closing off the way out. What was he planning? Would he set fire to the cabin? Try to smoke them out? Did he know he was surrounded by Mycroft's operatives? Considering the roses they'd received at their wedding John wouldn't be surprised if the killer had been following them while they followed Albert and Trevor, waiting for an opening. He could have seen where they were heading and gone ahead to lay in wait..

The footsteps were steady, calm, unconcerned. Did he really feel that confident? John's eyes flickered to Sherlock, who was also glancing at him. John gave a brief nod, they were in this together. John hunched lower, coiling his muscles, putting himself on an all too familiar, hair trigger. Gravel shifted underfoot as the person outside grew closer, almost...almost at the doorway now. Wood groaned as weight settled against it and the shadow of a hand pressed against the half open door.

John sprang with Sherlock, pile driving the stranger into the threshold of the cabin. John pressed down into the man's shoulder, jerking his head up to search for any accomplices he may have.

"Get OFF me you louts!"

John froze, then flinched, pulling away from Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

"Greg..." John started, "Why didn't you announce yourself?"

"I didn't know what you two were dealing with in here! I thought I might, I don't know, help! Mycroft said he thought you might be alone in there so, silly me, I figured it would be safe." Greg's head snapped around to glare at Sherlock, who was still somewhat pinning him to the ground. "Oi! I said, get off!"

Sherlock let out a cheeky grin as he stood, leaving John to help Lestrade to his feet. "I was just savouring the moment," Sherlock explained. "It turns out that tackling you to the ground is almost as satisfying as pick pocketing your identification. I shall have to keep this in mind for future reference."

Greg made a sour face and looked about to hurl some vicious diatribe at Sherlock, when Mycroft broke in, approaching the scene from the mist of the woods. "You are here to catch a serial killer, dear brother, not injure an officer of the law," Mycroft drawled.

Sherlock crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "I barely touched him. Your boyfriend is fine Mycroft."

Greg sputtered while Mycroft and John let out twin exclamations of, "Sherlock!"

"Enough," Mycroft pressed, "I presume you surmise the killer is not here?"

"No," Sherlock scowled petulantly at the ground. "I doubt anyone has been here since its previous occupants died."

Mycroft nodded, tapped something into his phone, and the woods became alive with men and so many torches, it was almost easy to see their surroundings. Mycroft looked up, glanced around, and sniffed. "It'll be dark as pitch before long. We should move in some flood lights."

"Yes sir," Anthea's soft, steady voice came from slightly behind Mycroft. John could just make out her silhouette as she looked into her own phone, tapping furiously.

"Come along, Sherlock," Mycroft muttered as he swept towards the doorway of the cabin. "Even if it's all untouched, it is worth a going over."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and remained mute, unwilling to verbally acknowledge that his brother was correct. He followed him anyway.

John caught Greg's eyes with his as Sherlock brushed past, and they shared grim expressions as they braced themselves for the long night ahead.

Greg leaned back into the leather seat of the car and pressed his hands to his face with a sigh. Sherlock and John had left moments before in one of the many cars on scene. It was high time they all got some rest.

"Tired, Gregory?" Mycroft asked beside him.

Greg nodded and groaned. "My head's spinning, even though that went faster than it had any right to."

Mycroft glanced out the window briefly, before returning to his phone. "It is nearly dawn; I'd be worried if you weren't tired." A brief pause and then, "Sherlock was more helpful than usual, when he wasn't glaring daggers at me."

Greg let his hands slide into his lap with a chuckle. "He just wants to blame someone for the fact that things aren't going as fast as he would like, and you're his favorite target. I have a great deal of respect for your brother, but sometimes, I think we all should be nominated for sainthood."

Greg's saw the curl of a smile on Mycroft's lips as he typed into his phone, and felt an answering smile of his own forming. "As difficult as this may be to believe, not harming my brother for being the arrogant man that he is, is not a miracle."

"More the pity that, I'm sure you have the necessary contacts in Rome to fast track the process if those were miracles."

Mycroft chuckled softly, and paused to look up from his phone. "Go to sleep, Gregory," he murmured, tapping the seat between them. "The car is more than wide enough to accommodate you lying down and me sitting up."

"What about you?" Greg asked, stifling a yawn.

Mycroft gestured with his phone. "Paperwork will keep me busy until we're back at headquarters."

"Are you sure you don't mind?" Greg asked, even as he began to lean down; he was really too tired to argue.

"Not at all," Mycroft replied, not bothering to keep the smile out of his voice.

Gregory's breathing pattern evened out almost immediately and Mycroft found himself staring down into Gregory's salt and pepper hair. At least once this past week Greg had fallen asleep with his head on Mycroft's desk as they worked late into the night. He would really need to convince Gregory of the benefits a traditional bed held in promoting a restful sleep. Mycroft smiled to himself and shook his head. Sofas, chairs, desks, was there anything this man wouldn't sleep on?

Mycroft glanced down at Gregory once more before forcibly turning his attention back to his phone. He was not, even for a second, tempted to run his fingers through Gregory's hair. That would be ill advised and, worst of all, sentimental.

Upon exiting the car that had dropped them off outside their hotel, John stretched, leaning up on his toes and reaching for the sky. John realised too late he'd stood up too quickly and stumbled back into Sherlock's waiting arms.

"I thought you might do that," Sherlock said, sounding amused. "You're almost asleep on your feet."

John grumbled and leaned back into Sherlock until the car Mycroft had sent with them pulled away. Standing straight once more John said, "Little wonder, considering how long I've been up. Listen, I'm going to grab a kip once we get back to the room. Wake me up if you pull something together while you're in your mind palace, okay? "

"I will John," Sherlock promised, slipping an arm around him as they walked towards the hotel entrance. It was late, or perhaps early enough that there almost wasn't anyone around to put on a show for, but then again Sherlock had stopped caring about the 'show' of their marriage a long time ago. Trying to fight off returning feelings of guilt, Sherlock gave John a little squeeze. "Besides, you'd never let me hear the end of it if you woke up to an empty room."

"Damn straight!" John agreed emphatically, before stifling a yawn behind his hand.

Sherlock smiled and pressed a kiss into John's temple. He nodded to the lone smoker huddled to the side of the entranceway. "Have a light?" the older man asked, gesturing with his unlit cigarette.

Ugh, how dull. This was why Sherlock didn't normally bother with niceties like nodding to a stranger. He should have remembered that Americans were pushy. "No I'm-" Sherlock snapped his head around as John jerked from his grasp in conjunction with the sound of an impact. There was barely time to register John crumple beneath the blows of a masked young man, before a sickening impact jolted against his own skull, sending his senses reeling. "John!" Sherlock slurred, scrambling to reach his husband when two rapid strikes to his temple brought darkness upon him.