Sherlock stiffened, his arms tightening around Molly instinctively when he heard a scuffling sound. It wasn't the sound of John's cautious stride. Before he could properly react, a brown haired man stepped out from behind a piece of old broken down machinery. He had John in a choke hold, a gun pressed to the doctor's temple.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," the man said in a light conversational tone.

Moriarty jumped with glee where he was stood in the shadows. "You made another mistake, Shezza. You really are slipping."

Ignoring the spectre and taking Molly by the arm, the detective shoved her behind him, offering what little shelter his body could provide. He watched the man with the gun, taking in every nuance of his stance and expression. "You have no intention of shooting. Interesting." Sherlock gestured around the abandoned factory. "You've gone to elaborate lengths to get my attention. Well, you have it. Now lower the gun."

Shaking his head, the man shifted his aim, pointing the gun at Sherlock. "We're not here to talk. I have a delivery to make." He waved the gun briefly at the box the timer was sitting on. "Open it up." The gun was resting against John's temple again.

Despite what he had said, Sherlock knew the brown haired man would fire if forced to it, so he bent down and flipped open the box. Inside were a pair of handcuffs and a syringe. His eyes flicked up the the gun wielding man. "If you think..."

"I do, Mr. Holmes. You'll inject yourself then put on the handcuffs, but don't get too excited, it's only something to help you sleep."

Moriarty danced about, weaving in and out of the darkness between Sherlock and where John was held hostage. It was almost all Sherlock could do to ignore the distraction, but he managed it.

The detective stood and backed away from the box. He met John's eyes and saw understanding there, much as he had done so long ago by a darkened pool side. "No. I don't believe I will." There was flicker of motion in the darkness behind the doctor and the gunman.

John's eyes closed as the barrel of the gun pressed with more force against his temple.

"If I do as you say, you'll likely kill Molly and John anyway. I'm quite certain that whatever you have planned for me is quite distasteful. Given those facts..." Sherlock's lip curled in contempt. "Go ahead and pull the trigger."

Moriarty stopped his dancing. "Oh, that's bold."

Before the brown haired man could respond, Mary stepped out of the shadows and rested the muzzle of the gun against the base of his skull. "I would prefer you didn't, if it's all the same to you." She walked around the man, keeping the muzzle in contact with him the entire time.

The gunman glanced at her, taking in her pregnant form and he sneered. "You won't pull the trigger, a little thing like you. Mummy isn't a killer."

Mary smiled sweetly. "Lady Aurora is, though." The man blanched. "I see you've heard the name. Now, give me the gun and let my husband go." Shaking, he allowed her to pluck the gun from his hand. "That's a dear. Now let him go."

John stepped away from the man, massaging his neck where he had been gripped too tightly. He was torn between relief and anger. Mary shouldn't have endangered herself or the baby, but considering the alternative, he didn't want to shout. This wasn't the time or place for such a discussion anyway. Instead, he plucked his SIG from the other man's waistband where the erstwhile gunman had tucked it after disarming him.

"Thank you, Mary," Sherlock commented as he approached. He abruptly grasped the gunman by the the lapels of his jacket and slammed him up against a piece of equipment. "I've had a very bad week - killed a man just days ago. I could relieve quite a bit of stress by pummelling you senseless. So give me a reason. Please. Now tell me what I need to know."

In the background, Moriarty clapped his approval.

The man looked frantically from Sherlock to Mary to John. There was no mercy in any of their eyes. He caught sight of Molly standing in the shadows and directed his plea towards her, "Please, I can't tell you anything. It's as much as my life is worth if I do." Molly glared at him and silently turned her back on the proceedings.

Sherlock's fist flew, all his pent up rage and frustration behind it. The man doubled over in pain. "Again?" the detective asked coldly.

It wasn't the pain that broke the man, but Sherlock's clear willingness to inflict as much pain and damage as necessary that did it. Withholding information wasn't in the man's best interest, so he cut his losses. "What do you want to know?"

"A name," Sherlock snapped immediately. "Who's behind this?"

The gunman grimaced, but answered, "Walsh. Alexander Walsh."

The detective's mouth formed a silent 'oh' as he backed away and pulled his mobile from the depths of the Belstaff's pockets. He jabbed at the screen, then held it to his ear as he paced. He wasn't surprised not to get an answer. He wheeled about and, in a rush, slammed the gunman against the machinery again. "Tell me this. Is Mycroft still alive?"

John performed a double take. "What? Mycroft? Sherlock what's going on?"

"Walsh is Mycroft's chief rival. He's a piece of work comparable to Magnusson. But why is he acting now?" The last was a rhetorical question, but the gunman didn't take it so.

"He's operating on instructions, he said, from a dead friend." The gunman looked panicked. "I know it doesn't make sense, but that's what he said."

Sherlock's hands went limp and he backed away. His eyes drifted to the spectre, no longer trying to ignore it. "Moriarty." It suddenly became to much, and the detective bent over to retch. John was immediately at his side, his touch dispelling the hated vision. Sherlock looked up at the doctor, eyes pleading. "I'm tired, John. I can't do this."

"I know," John soothed, "but you really don't have a choice. I'm sorry. When this is over, you can rest then, yeah?" The doctor's hand was stroking Sherlock's back in a slow and steady rhythm.

The detective straightened up, gathering both his dignity and his determination about himself once more. Turning, he regarded the gunman. "For your sake, I hope you can take me to Mycroft."