Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock Holmes or the tv-series this story is based upon.

Chapter 9: Aftermath

A shrill ringing sound echoed between Sherlock's ears and it seemed to drown out all other noise in the detective's proximity. His eardrums felt pierced, too, as a sharp pain shot through the inside of his head, like a flash of thunder from one ear to the other.

He drew a sharp intake of breath at the unexpected pain and took a second to evaluate his conditon further. His chest hurt as well, possibly a broken rib, and his back was sore as hell. It at least beat being dead, Sherlock thought to himself. He drew another shuddering breath and as he did, dust and soot travelled into his lungs. He coughed at the sudden dry itch and the pain in his chest intensified.

"Sherlock? Oh my god, Sherlock? Are you there?"

Sherlock barely heard the voice and struggled to place it. It was familiar, but who could it be? It was a man's voice but not John's, and obviously not Moriarty's. Suddenly, he recognized the friendly, familiar voice and opened his eyes swiftly. He was grateful the light from the night outside was dark and clouded, and not bright and glaring, as pain filled his eyes. For a second he had a hard time focusing, like a microscope that needs to be adjusted to focus the lens.

As the foggy images cleared, the man made out a figure kneeling above him clad in a heavy robe and with grey hair atop its head. "L-Lestrade? Where's John, Lestrade? Where is John?"

He moved to sit but a firm hand atop his shoulder stopped him. "Take it easy, Sherlock," Lestrade said gently. "John's alive. He's a bit bruised up, but honestly, you seem worse for wear. Are you okay?"

"Fine," the dark-haired man assured shortly and determinedly sat up to look about him.

He noted that the bell tower seemed to be mostly ruins, as he gazed about. The entire floor was covered with debris, ash, glass or the remains of half a wall. Up above his head, there were several giant holes in the sceptre roof which allowed the moon light to shine through. The giant clock dial was almost entirely missing, glass and metal strewn about everywhere in the small space. Sherlock suspected the damage looked worse from the outside, however. Moriarty certainly had done a number on the great bell tower, and it seemed a miracle it was still standing. Moriarty was right in one thing, though, it would be a long while before the bell tolled after tonight.

Glancing about him, the detective quickly came aware that Irene was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's the woman?" Sherlock asked still somewhat groggy to the head. Lestrade's frown was the only answer the consultant detective needed.

"What woman?"

"Never mind," he muttered and struggled to stand up amid the debris. "Moriarty?"

"Gone," Lestrade's tone of voice was short and it seemed plain to the other man that the DI wished he had been able to give a more positive reply to this particular question. "Are you going to explain this, Sherlock?"

The tall man frowned. "Probably. Just not to you. Is my dear brother here yet?"

It was the grey-haired man's turn to be confused. "How did you know?"

Sherlock managed to throw the somewhat elder police an impatient glare. "Big Ben just exploded. Of course my brother wants part in the action. Take me to him."

Lestrade hesitated briefly before conceding to the younger man's request. "He's with John anyway. Come on. Careful, Sherlock."

Sherlock's hearing was still somewhat impaired and the ringing noise had yet to disappear when he and Lestrade finally exited the bell tower and entered the hectic streets of London. Outside, the entire street was lit up by the red and blue lights of police cars and fire trucks. People were running everywhere in an attempt to minimize the damages done in the night on the bell tower. Sherlock glanced up and saw the bell tower almost entirely clouded in the billowing smoke of recently extinguished fires and the smell of it all penetrated his nose.

Lestrade led the man away from the most hectic part of the crime scene and towards an ambulance parked close to the river. Sherlock's heart elated as he saw Mary's bright red coat amid the chaos. The blonde woman was standing beside the ambulance and the beaten up shape of John, the latter sat at the back of the ambulance with a blanket thrown about his shoulders.

"John," the dark-haired man breathed as they came closer. Lestrade patted Sherlock's back once and then made his exit to continue with his own work.

"Sherlock!" the short man called, portraying all the relief Sherlock felt inside. The doctor jumped off the back of the ambulance and the detective noted the other man limped as he hurried to meet him. John embraced him in a brotherly hug of immense relief. "Oh thank god…"

Sherlock smiled down at his friend's warm loyalty before he tugged himself free. He took hold on either of John's shoulders and forced the shorter man to meet his gaze head on. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," the blond smiled and the other man could see that although the doctor was beaten up, bloody and torn, he was telling the truth.

Mary waddled forward then and her concerned eyes gazed up at the tall man with her motherly affection shining through strong. "How are you, Sherlock?"

"Mary. You're getting rather large now, aren't you?" the man replied.

The woman grinned as one of her hands reached for her huge baby bump and her eyes sparkled. "See, John. He can't be that bad, when his mouth is that fast."

He flashed the pregnant woman a grateful smile. John frowned and looked around his friend and wife, as if expecting to see something. When his eyes didn't find what they were looking for, he turned back to the detective expectantly. "Where is, eh-"

The other man swiftly interrupted, not wanting the wrong pair of ears to overhear them, "Not here."

"Ah… I see," the doctor's face fell and he quieted at once, sharing a look with the blonde woman beside him.

"John… What happened?" Sherlock asked and guided his friend back to the ambulance, Mary close behind. The short man sat back down and a wave of relief washed over his face as he was allowed to unload the weight off his foot.

"Mary's been asking me about it, helped jog my memory. There's was a wire, Sherlock," he began and frowned to remember the details. "I didn't see it because of the dark. I was too busy trying to keep up with Moriarty. I ran straight into it and set off the bombs. Dammit."

Mrs John Watson placed an arm around her hubby's shoulders and leaned in close. "It doesn't matter. From the sound of it, Moriarty would have set off the bombs from a remote device, even if you hadn't run into any wire."

"Still…," John disagreed and glanced up at the moonlit remains of the bell tower. "I… I can't believe he destroyed Big Ben."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when another dry voice interrupted. "You had better believe it, John."

From the shadows of the night, Mycroft Holmes appeared, dressed in a flawless suit and an umbrella resting in his hand. The man's perfect appearance seemed a stark contrast to his brother's torn, bloody and beaten up look. Mycroft stopped by his brother's side. "It won't be easy to cover this up, I assure you. ...Sherlock."

The detective nodded stiffly. "Mycroft."

The elder man's face was impassive as he looked his younger brother once over and commented, "I see you're well."

"Just fine, thank you," Sherlock smiled grimly. "You're awfully sentimental today."

"Oh, shut up, brother," Mycroft sighed. "John said it was Moriarty. Where did the criminal escape to?"

It was Sherlock's time to sigh. "If I knew that, don't you think I would have already told you, brother?"

The elder Holmes boy glared at his brother with nothing but disappointment in his pale, cold eyes. "You let him get away again, didn't you?"

John interrupted in defense of his friend, "Hold on. Moriarty said he was going to blow up Big Ben if we didn't. Sherlock only-"

Mycroft spoke up before the doctor could finish, "He did blow up the bell tower. Sometimes, Sherlock, I think you're…"

The man's voice trailed off into the night. The unspoken words were clear as daylight to Sherlock, who merely nodded. Of course Mycroft would blame the destruction of the bell tower on his younger brother's inability to prevent the criminal master mind. The surprise to find out Jim Moriarty was alive, it seemed, also rested on Sherlock's shoulders. "I know, Mycroft."

"Well, I'd better do my job and cover up your mess. Again, one might add."

The detective smiled falsely and bit back, "Yes, one might."

Mycroft tilted his head to the side and his cold eyes were dead set on Sherlock. "Just one more question, brother… Was there just the three of you up there? You, John and Moriarty? The DI – Lestrade, was it? – told me you mentioned a woman."

Sherlock pretended not to understand. "What woman?"

"That's what I'm asking you."

The other man shook his head in mock confusion. "No, I'm sure I was the one who asked that question."

Mycroft rolled his eyes in his own brotherly way of exasperation. "Honestly, Sherlock…"

"Goodbye, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes sighed. He had obviously surrendered to the fact that he would get no better reply from his brother this time. "Right. Goodbye, Sherlock. I'll come around your place when I've dealt with this."

"Please do. We can have tea to go with your new-found sentimentality."

Mycroft acted as if he had not heard his brother's last words and turned to the other two at last. "Goodbye, John. Mary."

John seemed taken aback as he nodded shortly. "Uh-huh… bye!"

Without further delay, Mycroft walked off into the darkness of the London night once more in search of Lestrade. As Sherlock turned to look out at the Thames, Mary watched the elder Holmes man disappear into the smoke in the distance and huffed, "Could the stick up his butt rise any higher, you think?"

The detective snickered and turned back to his friends with an endearing smile, "Honestly, Mary... I doubt that's possible."

The smile on John's face faded quickly as he gazed up at the dark-haired man, "Sherlock, you're bleeding from the ear!"

The man raised a hand to his right ear and felt something warm touch his fingers. When he lowered his hand once more, his fingertips were covered with the red liquid. "I'm fine."

John refused to accept his friends reassurance. "No, you're not."

"Stop playing the doctor, John-"

The short man held up one hand to stop his friend and pointed out, "I am a doctor, Sherlock. I know you don't want to, but we're not going anywhere until the paramedics have a look at you."

Sherlock considered his options to maintain his stance, but as Mary shook her head behind her husband's back, the man caved. With a short intake of air he turned away from them and stiffly replied, "…Fine."

"Impossible," John remarked with a sigh and the detective rolled his eyes with his back still turned to his friends.

It was almost two hours later when the paramedics finally released John and Sherlock after a thorough check-up. Sherlock's eardrum had indeed been pierced the slightest, a few ribs bruised, but other than that and a concussion, he was well enough to go home. John, meanwhile, had been luckier with mostly bruises and a severe sprain of his ancle instead. Over all, the two had been lucky to get out of the explosions mostly unscathed, a fact Mary kept repeating.

Beaten up and bruised after the night's adventures, the duo and the blonde woman leaned back in the backseat of a cab as it drove them to Baker Street. As the street lights flashed by the window, the men sat silently next to each other, each man lost in deep thoughts of their own.

After a couple of minutes, John inhaled deeply and turned to gaze at his friend. The other man's eyes were lost in another dimension entirely. The doctor knew he was treading dangerous grounds, but still had to ask. He raised his voice somewhat due to the fact that he sat on the side of Sherlock's wounded ear. "Sherlock? Are you sure you're okay?"

"Shock," was the simple reply he got.

John frowned and looked about him as if he had missed some vital piece of information in the night around them. Mary shrugged from his other side and she leaned over to ask, "What?"

Sherlock gazed firmly out the window as he continued, "She was in shock. Visibly shaking, pale skin, short breaths, pupils dilated. All signs of shock."

The doctor didn't quite get what his friend was getting at. "…Okay?"

"She was in shock when we arrived, John. Before Moriarty's game of Russian roulette."

The blond man shrugged and recalled his own first encounter with the criminal. "She was under threat of death, Sherlock. Can put anyone in a shock. I was, when Moriarty strapped a bomb on me. Remember?"

Mary's head whipped in her husband's direction as her grip around his hand tightened. "He did what?"

"Oh... I hadn't mentioned that, honey?"

The woman sighed but plainly let it slide for now, as she commented, "No. It must have slipped your mind, darling. Then again, your past is your business, right?"

The detective by the window turned back to look at his friends. "This was different."

"How?"

Sherlock hesitated a beat. "I don't know."

Truth was, he had a theory about the woman, but it was none he cared to share with John or Mary at the current time. If this was because he didn't want to worry them if he was wrong, or if he indeed worried his guess was correct, the man wasn't sure himself. Despite his silence, the couple seemed to understand what went unsaid.

"You…" John cleared his throat and his eyes flickered to read the impassiveness in Sherlock's face. "… Do you think we'll see her again?"

The detective inhaled deeply and considered his friend's question. At length, Sherlock solemnly shook his head. "No... I don't know."

"There's a lot you don't know when it concerns Irene Adler," the doctor pointed out with a small smile.

The dark-haired man smiled joylessly. If only his friend knew how right he was. "That I do know."

Finally, after what felt like half of an eternity, the trio reached the familiar door of 221 B. John tiredly unlocked the door with his spare key and the three of them entered the house on weary legs.

John and Mary watched as the tall man wordlessly ascended the stairs without removing his torn coat first. The shorter man sighed as he removed his own jacket and hung it up, despite it being basically torn to pieces and beyond repair. With limping steps, John slowly made his own way up the stairs with his wife close behind. They two of them had decided earlier to stay the night in John's old bedroom, to not leave the detective alone.

As the blond man came closer to the top of the stairs, he noticed Sherlock's immobile shape in the living room. For a second, John's heart broke for the other man were he stood like a haunted figure illuminated by the lamp above. He figured his friend was more worried and upset about Irene's absence then he let on, especially considering what he had just implicated in the cab drive over.

However, as John reached the top of the stairs, he realized there was something wrong with the image before him. Sherlock's unblinking gaze was fixed on something on the floor and when the other man followed his line of sight, he realized just what had the detective transfixed and immobilized.

"Oh my God!" the doctor breathed and ignored the pain in his foot as he dashed into the living room, followed closely by Mary.

In the middle of the room lay Irene herself, sprawled out in a heap on her back. In plain sight upon the stomach of her coat was a large, red spot. Her still form sent fear rushing through John's veins. He watched as Mary knelt by her side and her fingers searched the woman's throat to find a pulse. The blonde woman exhaled in relief and turned to nod up at the two men. "There's a pulse."

The couple noticed the stiffness in Sherlock's neck and his wide eyes as he glared down at Irene. The detached look in his eyes made John doubt that the detective had even heard the good news.

The doctor jumped into action instead, turning back to the slim woman on the floor. As he, too, knelt beside her, he realized Irene's breaths came short and shallow. The blond doctor rolled up his sleeves before unbuttoning her coat to carefully examine the wound on her stomach. He drew a sharp breath and exchanged a look with his wife as he saw the stab wound on the side of her body. If Irene Adler was lucky, the knife had missed all vital organs, but if she wasn't… John decided to keep that piece of information to himself.

"Call an ambulance!" he breathed as he applied pressure on her wound.

"No."

Both Mary and John's heads shot around and with wide eyes they gazed up at the impassive man, who still had not moved a muscle of sentiment for the dying woman on the living room carpet. Sometimes, John couldn't understand his friend one bit, and sometimes he simply didn't want to understand. "What do you mean no? Sherlock?"

The tall man seemed to be drawn from his trance as he blinked and started to pace the length of the living room. "We can't take her to the hospital, John."

Mary still couldn't believe her ears and she frowned up at the man. "What do you want us to do, take her to the vet?"

Sherlock shook his head and stopped pacing. His piercing, blue eyes met Mary's across the small room. For a second, John thought the man allowed them to see a deep abyss of agony in the windows to Sherlock's well-guarded soul. Half-begging, half-ordering, the detective said in a deep, throaty whisper, "She has to remain hidden. For her own safety. You could tend to her, John. It's what you do, after all. Mary, you could help, couldn't you?"

The blond man shook his head and glanced down at his blood-covered hands. "Are you completely bonkers? I don't even have proper equipment here!"

Sherlock nodded distantly and then pulled out his phone from his coat pocket. John breathed in relief as his friend dialed a number, having finally come to his senses. The tall man pressed the phone to his good ear and once more paced impatiently across the carpet. After a few seconds he stopped and the words he uttered next had a baffled John drop his jaw in astonished fury.

"Molly?" Sherlock spoke into the phone. "Hi. Yes, it's Sherlock. Listen, I know I don't ask very often, but… do you want to come over perhaps? Right now. I know, it's late. Very late. … Really? Yes, the sooner the better. Yeah, no. Great… Oh, and could you be an angel and bring some medical equipment?"

John sighed and rolled his eyes in exasperation as he looked at his wife. This was going to be one of those nights.

To be continued.