Previously: As they left the side lot where Jim had parked, the sound of gunfire erupted behind them; glancing in the rearview mirror, he saw two of Holmes' men running after them on foot. He grinned and accelerated, the car bursting through the chain-link gates he'd left in place after carefully cutting the lock holding it shut. He heard the whinge of a bullet hitting metal and ducked automatically, but a quick glance showed that no one had been hit, and shortly after that they were safely away.
Warnings for violence and death.
The drive to Smythe's lab – and presumably safety, although Molly knew better than to hope, even now – was a tense one. The silence was only broken by Lestrade's terse directions to Moriarty as they sped through London's congested streets, and Sherlock's equally terse explanation as to why they were headed to Smythe's lab – which, the last Molly had heard, was where Holmes had been heading. "Not that lab," Sherlock said when she protested. "That's the decoy Smythe set up. We're going to his real lab, where the actual, working equipment is located." He'd fallen silent after that, mouth set in a tight line and hands clenched by his sides, clear indicators of the pain he was enduring.
Molly spent the entire ride trying her hardest not to vomit with worry. She hated the fact that they were relying on Moriarty's computer skills to keep Holmes' goons from contacting him. If they had that hour he'd promised – he'd also done something to their vehicles as well as their mobiles and walkie-talkies – then they might, just might, actually pull this off.
It took less than half an hour to arrive at a narrow street lined on either side by a series of run-down shops and tired looking houses long since converted into low-rent flats. "That one," Lestrade said, pointing to a seedy looking sandwich shop wedged between a discount store and a boarded up used bookshop. There was an alley between the bookshop and a dingy brick building, and Moriarty drove down it about halfway before stopping the car. "Everybody out," he chirped, sounding very much like 'Jim from IT' at his most (fake) cheerful. Lestrade then led them all to a back door closed off with a padlock; he quickly produced a key and opened up the door, ushering them inside.
As he closed the door behind them, Molly and John supported Sherlock, who was looking a great deal worse for the wear. His bandage had been supplemented by John's tie, but as they exchanged worried looks, Molly knew the makeshift triage needed to be replaced by real medical attention, and soon.
They hurried down a narrow, cluttered hallway, Molly supporting Sherlock as best she could while John led the way, with Moriarty and Greg Lestrade bringing up the rear. The hallway ended in a sturdy metal door; John knocked, a particular sequence that must be a code, and eventually the door opened and their small group stumbled inside.
Smythe was the very picture of a B-movie professor; rumpled tweeds, walrus moustache, gray hair standing up in tufts, metal-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. His skin was an unhealthy pallor that spoke of stress and exhaustion, but his eyes lit up as soon as he saw her, and he hurried forward with his hands outstretched. Molly allowed him to clasp her hands in his, darting an uncertain look at Sherlock, now resting on a chair while John fussed over him. He merely shrugged, and Molly returned her attention to Smythe.
"My dear, I am so happy to meet you at last!" he exclaimed, his broad grin instantly turning to a frown. There was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, and he cleared his throat nervously. "No, I'm sorry, what I meant was that I'm happy that you're finally safe. I want to apologize," he continued, the words coming in a rush as he clung rather desperately to her hands. "I never meant to bring anyone here except your world's Sherlock Holmes, and I'm so very sorry that you were caught up in my experiment, and for everything that's happened to you because of it." He gazed intently into her eyes, and Molly could see the sincerity in his face as well as hear it in his voice. Which caught ever so slightly as he added, "So very, very sorry, indeed."
Later, Sherlock would claim that it was his injury clouding his deductive abilities that caused him to overlook the subtle nuances in Smythe's voice, the desperation that was driven by more than just the stress of their situation. Had he been himself, Sherlock claimed, he would have picked up on the man's choice of words, in the way he seemed compelled to apologize to Molly when they were so pressed for time. Neither Molly nor John would ever call him out on it, since the events that followed took them all by surprise. No one was holding a weapon except Lestrade – John and Moriarty had tucked theirs into the waistbands of their trousers, and Molly's was already nestled against the small of her back, held in place by the decorative crimson belt around her waist and concealed by her jacket. It felt odd, but she did her best to ignore it. If she'd known that hell was about to break loose, she'd never have let it out of her hands in the first place.
However, the truth was that none of them suspected what was about to happen; even Moriarty and Lestrade were focused more on Smythe's fervent apologies than their supposedly secure surroundings. All Molly knew for sure was that Smythe sounded sincere, and if she had one skill that she'd honed in the past year, it was learning to separate the emotional wheat from the chaff. She gave him what she hoped was a comforting smile and a gentle squeeze to his hands before pulling away from him. "It's all right, Professor. I know it was an accident."
Well, she knew it now, when she'd merely suspected it before.
"Yes, yes, this is all very touching, you've made your apologies to the lady, Smythe, can we get on with returning the three of us to our own universe now?" Sherlock broke in impatiently, making as if to rise from his chair. However, when Molly gave him a chastising frown, he backed down both literally and figuratively, sinking back into his seat as he cleared his throat and continued in a slightly more mollifying tone. "That is, of course, if you've finished your calibrations and are prepared to turn your equipment over to Inspector Lestrade as we agreed."
The sound of a gun being cocked caused everyone to freeze in place, and Molly shook her head wordlessly as a new voice – a chilling, all-too-familiar voice – drawled, "Oh yes, do prepare to turn over your equipment, Professor Smythe. But not to the good inspector." The shadowy figure that had apparently been lurking behind a bank of equipment the entire time stepped into the light, and Molly's nails dug into the palms of her hands hard enough to leave marks as she took in the figure now holding a gun on the group.
Holmes. Somehow, impossibly, he'd found them. But how? Had Moriarty's jamming device failed, had their adversary returned to the warehouse for some unknown reason and discovered that his prey had escaped? But even if he had, how had he arrived here before them, when he'd been off to the fake lab…
"Oh," Molly breathed as the truth came to her in a flash. She heard him chuckle, the bastard, that condescending laugh that meant he'd been waiting for her to finally catch up to him. She raised her eyes and met his gaze unflinchingly. "You never were going to meet Mycroft at the other location. You were coming here all along."
"Very good, Molly; nice to see that your intellect has benefited nearly as much from our intimacy as your bedroom skills have," he said with an oily, insincere smile. "After all, why should I allow the British government to have access to such a resource, when I can make much more profitable use of it?" He glanced over at the profusely-sweating Smythe. "It was child's play to figure out where the real lab was and 'convince' our resident genius to transfer his loyalty to me."
"Yes, of course, you threatened Smythe and were planning to double-cross your brother all along, boring, predictable," Sherlock snapped, but Molly could read his fury – at Holmes, at being out-maneuvered yet again, but mostly at himself – in the tight set of his lips and the slight narrowing of his eyes as he levered himself from his chair, shrugging off John's restraining hand on his shoulder.
"And yet you failed to predict it," Holmes said mockingly. He raised his gun and pointed it directly at Molly. "Put your weapons on the floor, gentlemen, and kick them over to me, quick as you please. Or my darling Molly will pay the price."
As John, Lestrade, Moriarty and eventually Sherlock slowly, reluctantly did as they were told, Molly kept her expression steady – glaring sullenly at Holmes, fingers balled at her sides, willing herself not to do anything to give away the fact that she, too, had a gun. Of course Holmes wouldn't expect her to; she was a woman, she was under his thumb, she was weak. He already knew she was willing to die for Sherlock, but if he hadn't yet figured out that she was willing to kill for him as well – well, that was his mistake.
As soon as the guns had all been slid across the floor to come to rest by his feet, Holmes quickly pushed them further behind him. "My men will be here soon to deal with the rest of you, but there are a few things I want to take care of myself first." His gun swung over until it was no longer aimed at Molly, but instead pointed squarely at Moriarty's chest. "Such as taking out this traitor."
"NO!"
The shout of denial came almost at the same time as the echoing crash of the gunfire. Molly had already begun to move forward, heedless of her own safety; as far as she was concerned, she was already dead, and nothing she did from now on could possibly make her situation any worse. But when she skidded to a halt in front of the bleeding body, it took her brain a precious few seconds to realize that it wasn't Jim Moriarty lying on the floor with blood gushing from his chest, but Professor Smythe.
She dropped to her knees and lifted the dying man's head onto her lap. He gazed up at her and, unbelievably, smiled. "I was weak," he said in a low voice, his breathing shallow and eyes already starting to glaze over. "I let him threaten me, but once I saw you…I knew. I knew I couldn't let him…" He laughed, a laugh that quickly turned into a gurgling cough. Molly gently turned his head to the side so he wouldn't choke on the blood now trickling from his lips.
"What?" Holmes snapped suspiciously. "Do please share with the class, Professor, what you find so damned funny!"
The dying man gestured weakly at the equipment. "This," he gasped. "All this. Only one person left alive now who…knows how…to work it. Notes...destroyed…" He coughed up more blood as Molly held his head. He managed a small smile for her before returning his gaze to Holmes. "And now you'll never…know…who it…" He fell silent, his head slumped to the side. Molly solemnly closed his eyelids, then gently eased the dead man's body from her lap as she stood up, feeling numb. A man had just died in her arms, but she could spare no thought for him now. Dead was dead; it was the living she needed to worry about. Especially the man standing in front of her.
"It should be easy enough to deduce," Holmes snarled, his gun pointing from one to the other as he flicked his gaze over them, coldly assessing them all.
Sherlock returned him gimlet stare for gimlet stare. "So?" he said, his voice an insolent drawl deliberately calculated to infuriate the listener. "Which one is it, then?"
Molly could see that Holmes refused to be drawn out; his eyes narrowed as he once again raked his gaze over the others. "It can't be Molly, she's never met Smythe before now, obvious, hardly worth stating. Dr. Watson could never retain such information, nor could our dear Detective Inspector, they're both idiots." John glared at him and Lestrade's fingers twitched; it was quite obvious to even the most casual witness that, given the chance, he would happily strangle the man with his bare hands.
Holmes ignored them both, staring once again at Sherlock before shifting his attention back to Moriarty. His weapon moved until it was once again pointed directly at the man he viewed as a traitor. "You. Computer genius, undercover cop, oh-so-conveniently the one to come to the rescue today. It's you."
To Jim's credit, he reacted just as coolly to the weapon being pointed at him as he had the first time. He shrugged, his expression bored. "Could be," he said. "If it is, then I know you won't shoot me." He grinned suddenly, a toothsome smile that reminded Molly of the Moriarty from her own world, and she couldn't stop the shudder the sight of that smile gave her. "Course, now we know you can't really shoot any of us, can you. In case you're wrong. Stalemate, I think."
Holmes grinned back at him, his nastiest smile, and Molly almost shivered again at the sight of it. Even before he moved his weapon to point at her, she knew what he was thinking. "Oh? Not even our dear, sweet Miss Hooper? My assessment stands; there's no way she knows who it is. So whichever one of you it is had better start demonstrating your knowledge now, if you want to save her life. It would be a shame if you'd gone to so much trouble to save her, only to lose her in the penultimate moment. And it won't be an easy death, a swift death, oh no," he said in a low purr, lips curling in a mockery of a smile. "I'll kill her in the most inventive way I can find. And Molly knows how very, very inventive I can be."
Before anyone else could do or say anything, Molly took a step forward, then another. "Please, Sherlock," she said, using her softest, most beseeching voice. "Please, please don't…don't shoot me." She didn't have to feign the shaking of her hand as she stopped directly in front of him and laid it on his chest. "I'll do anything, you know I will, haven't I already proven that you?"
She moved closer, letting her hand slide up the front of his chest, watching his eyes as she touched him. Being so close, he was forced to lower his arm, momentarily undecided as to where to point his weapon. She could see him thinking it out, his eyes flicking between hers as she gave him her best look of submission. He loved it when she looked at him like that, ready to do whatever he said. Ready to let her friends escape, to let Sherlock escape, and to stay behind if it meant they were safe. She was banking on him knowing she would do absolutely anything if it meant Sherlock would survive.
As seconds ticked by and he failed to raise the gun again, Molly knew she had her chance. As she moved smoothly up to caress his neck, her other hand reached across her body and grabbed his fingers, yanking backwards as quickly and powerfully as she could. Holmes let out an enraged howl at the same time that she heard the bones snap, and the gun dropped to the floor. She kicked it into the shadows near the wall and stepped back rapidly, pulling out her gun and pointing it at him.
He actually smiled at her in spite of his obvious pain, a cold, calculating and utterly dismissive smile that set Molly's teeth on edge. "You won't shoot me, Molly, and we both know why. For the same reason you let yourself enjoy our sexual encounters: because I'm him."
She looked at him pityingly, her hand steady on the gun pressed against his abdomen. He still didn't see her as a threat, even after she'd broken his hand. More fool he. "No," she said softly. "You're really not." She fired.
The look of shocked surprise on his face as the bullet ripped into his body was one she would cherish for the rest of her life.
"That's not for what you did to me, by the way," she said as he gaped up at her from where he'd collapsed to the floor, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Blood that matched the spreading bloom across his abdomen, that matched the blood now decorating her blouse and spattered across her face and arms. "It's not even to save the rest of us." Her voice was cold as she said, "That's for Sally Donovan, you son of a bitch."
Then she dropped the gun to the floor and turned her back on him, her body shaking in reaction. Sherlock placed a careful arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him, allowing him to lead her away from the body of the man who'd done so much damage to her in the past year.
It was finally over.
Things passed in a blur after that. Lestrade carefully entered the data into Smythe's machine while Moriarty assisted as needed; then she, John and Sherlock were standing closely together, arms around one another as Lestrade waited for the digital timer to give the signal for him to press the final button. "You'll make sure the equipment is destroyed?" Sherlock asked him as he seconds ticked down.
Lestrade nodded. "You have my word on it. Tempting though it is to keep it, there's no point in letting it fall into the wrong hands, like the government." Sherlock nodded, satisfied, and then no more words were spoken until Lestrade once again broke the silence. "Thank you," he said, catching each of their eyes in turn, but he was speaking to directly to Molly when he added, "For everything." Then the timer dinged, the button was depressed, and everything went black.
A/N: Whew, a lot happened in this chapter. Many thanks to moonmama for betaing skills par excellance, and to asteraceaeblue for invaluable hand-breaking skills. Tell me what you think as this saga finally begins to wind down to the conclusion!