John stepped out of the building onto the pavement. Though he could hear Sherlock, he had difficulty processing the words. The world seemed in a spin, leaving him with a dull mind and heavy heart. He inhaled audibly and was refreshed. The crisp early morning air snapped his mind into full alert.

While speaking into his mobile phone, Sherlock hailed a cab. "Mycroft. She's at Heathrow, Terminal 5." In silence he paced. "I realise that." Another pause. "I am aware of that as well! I need full cooperation from airport security." He waited. "Thank you." Ending the call, he shoved the mobile into his pocket.

The cab skidded to a halt in front of them. Sherlock jerked the door open and dove inside. John scrambled in after him, wincing with sudden pain from the gunshot wound Careen had given him. He shoved a handful of pound notes through the partition. The money was pocketed in the blink of an eye.

"George, Heathrow. Terminal 5," Sherlock ordered.

"Right-o, Mr. Holmes."

The cabbie grinned, then stomped the pedal to the floor, jolting the passengers back in their seats. The car raced, its engine roaring. It swerved right, then left. The tires squealed in protest, passing a slower car. The cabbie remained silent, focused on the road. A loud horn blared as they blew through a stoplight. John's head whipped around to see the other driver make an angry "V" sign. He turned back and caught Sherlock smirking. In the rear view mirror, George's face was split with a toothy grin.

"How do you know?" John asked. "Terminal 5, I mean."

Sherlock looked at him askance. "She's American. Her perfect pitch led me to believe she was from Auckland, yet there was something..." His voiced trailed off. "Her identity exposed, the government hot on her trail, she needs a means of escape. Terminal 5 offers transatlantic flights. That and...she left me a note stating where she'd be waiting," he grumbled.

"It'll take us at least thirty minutes, if not more with traffic," John noted.

Sherlock laughed and gestured towards the drive. "He's a transplant, from Germany."

George laid on the horn as he sped through a junction, narrowly missing another car. Buildings and trees blurred as they passed by. The small vehicle whipped around lanes, at times driving up pavement. With the cab's violent movements, John clutched at the door in an attempt to remain in his seat. Though not typically sensitive, the car ride was turning John's stomach. Sherlock, however, seemed unaffected by the centrifugal force.

The cab shot out of a tunnel and over a pedestrian crossing. John tensed as a businessman jumped back, knocking a woman and child to the ground. Turn upon turn, they continued on the M4 towards Heathrow. What would have been a thirty minute drive turned out to be less than fifteen. George hauled on the steering wheel sending the car into a sideways skid that stopped when it met the curb outside the terminal. He looked back with a proud grin.

"Thank you, George! I'll be in touch!" the detective shouted as he leapt from the cab and ran towards the entrance.

John followed on his heels. Once inside, he paused, heart pounding fiercely. His hand pressed against his wounded side. He noticed Sherlock's chest heaving rapidly, his eyes sparkling with life. Sherlock was in his element.

A group of uniformed officers jogged to meet them at the entrance. "Mr. Holmes? Dr. Watson?"

"Gentleman," Sherlock gave a curt nod and turned to leave.

The head of security stepped in, blocking his path. "Sir, we have been briefed on the situation. Where shall we start looking?"

The detective answered crossly, "Looking? What I need from you is complete cooperation. You can accomplish this task by simply staying out-"

"Sherlock!" John interrupted sharply.

Holmes regarded his friend coolly. "Fine." He addressed the officers. "Canvass the area. Look for a Caucasian woman in her early to mid thirties, eight stones thirteen, approximately five feet seven, average build. Brown hair, though this could easily have changed. She has gone by the names Emma Herrington and Careen; however, I suspect she has a new one by now. Skilled in hand-to-hand combat. More than likely armed." He looked back at John. "Happy?"

The doctor smiled, "Yes."

The head of security nodded and turned to the men behind him. In quick murmurs, orders were given. The group took off running. Reminiscent of a game of pool, the officers broke, each running in different directions. Exits were blocked, ticket counters and baggage claims were searched, and entrances to Heathrow's pods, buses and shuttles between terminals were closed temporarily. Passengers, unaware of the situation, began to complain, their voices rising as the delay increased.

Sherlock was moving to the lift when John grasped his arm and pointed. The two men observed what looked like Careen. She had her mobile phone in hand, umbrella tucked under her arm.

"She's being followed," Sherlock stated, nodding towards a man in a black suit.

"Thank you, Mycroft," John murmured. He was surprised by Mycroft's involvement but grateful for it as he had been allowed to bring his firearm into the airport.

The dark suited stranger accosted the woman in green. Startled at first, she straightened, tensed for action. The man said something to her. In response, she shook her head sharply. He grabbed her arm. Despite his towering nearly a foot taller than her, she glared furiously and stomped hard on the instep of his foot with her high heel. Grimacing in sudden pain, the man released her and staggered back a step. Moving quickly, she followed, closing so that there was no space left between them, her umbrella inexplicably jamming into his gut. The color drained from the man's face, though his expression seemed stonily calm. His hands were raised slightly from his sides, a sign of surrender. From John's viewpoint, it looked as though she were grinning. But from the man's reaction, she must have been delivering unpleasant news. With his eyes locked on hers, the man shook his head, worry lines furrowing his brow. Careen pushed closer. He winced, shying away from the small umbrella. Careen said something else, then spun on her heel and stormed off. After a moment the man resumed his pursuit, now with a limp.

Sherlock's mobile phone rang. Follow her, he mouthed, as he answered it. John took off in the woman's direction at a brisk pace.

"Oh, I had hoped to speak with John," said the familiar feminine voice in feigned disappointment.

"Careen," Sherlock answered with a raised eyebrow. "You hoped John would answer my mobile?" he asked sardonically.

There was a brief pause before she responded. "What reaction do you desire from me, Sherlock? Kudos? Bravo? You figured out who I am and my true name. At least, the name your brother knows me by." She chuckled softly. "I'm aware you've spoken to Mycroft, so addressing me as Careen is really no surprise. Does that disappoint you?"

Sherlock's muscles tensed. His eyes darted towards John, who had not reached her yet. He clenched his free hand into a fist.

"Come now, is this how you are going to act, considering all we've been through? All of the fun we've had?" she asked, the grin on her face evident in the silky sound of her voice. In a whisper, she continued, "I know you've enjoyed it. Like me, you grow bored often. So, you're welcome for keeping you busy. I must say, most of the company you keep is quite easily fooled. Especially the interim inspector." She imitated the Superintendent's voice.

"You are correct. I have grown tired," he said with an undercurrent of hostility. "...of you. I told John from the very beginning. You. Are. Dull."

Sherlock watched as the doctor quickened his steps. The dark-suited man seemed to fall back the closer John moved to Careen. A group of people pushed by. His path interrupted, John lost sight of Careen for a moment. He darted left, then right as he tried to peer through the crowd. Finally, he was able to move around and continue on.

"Poor John, how is he holding up? He must be in pieces," she said as if lost in thought.

Sherlock did not rise to the bait.

"You don't believe me? Interesting," Careen mused. "You, such an intelligent man, should understand the fragility of the human mind."

Sherlock shook his head, about to argue.

"I know. John is different. He is a soldier, first and foremost," she agreed with the unstated point. "He is also a man. A man who is driven by the same motivating factor that most men are driven to fight for, and quite often suffer for."

"He is not that simple."

"True. He has skills that I was pleasantly surprised to discover." She laughed wickedly. "Regardless, it will take him some time to recover. Just enough damage done to cause an inconvenience for him and more of an irritant for you. How does it feel, knowing someone was so close to him? I could easily have disposed of him."

Sherlock scoffed. "John? Not likely. He is stronger, smarter."

"Stronger, I'll grant you. But smarter? Let's not lie."

"You would know all about that, wouldn't you?"

Her laughter had a musical ring to it. "Oh Sherlock, such wit!"

He did not respond.

Careen sighed deeply. "Tell me, Sherlock, are you interested in a face-to-face meeting?"

"Yes, where?" he asked, stalling until John could catch up to her.

She sniggered. "Sherlock, aren't you cute. You honestly will not find me unless I allow you to."

"Your confidence will be your downfall," he said plainly.

She laughed. "Do you even hear yourself? Your confidence has nearly been yours and that of your friends. I can easily predict that it will be in your future, though perhaps not by my hand. And if you haven't deduced it yet, the woman John is following. That. Isn't. Me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John had reached out and grabbed the arm of the woman he was following. He spun her around to face him. It was not Careen, but a woman roughly the same build and in a similar green dress. Her expression changed from surprise to confusion and finally to indignation. The detective recognized the woman's words, "Excuse me!" John turned back towards him, bewildered.

Sherlock tensed. "Enough. Turn yourself in."

"Sorry, but you and I both know that isn't going to happen. I have plans I haven't yet finished. Plans that involve your brother. Along the way, I have enjoyed exploring your mind, your psyche, to understand what drives you, what factors alter your decision and thought processes."

"Who is your sponsor?"

"Oh, I am going it solo. Though I do have one who is currently pursuing me, or at least thinks he is. Not interested at the moment." There was a click as she ended the call.

John eyes fell back to his friend. Sherlock's attention caused the doctor to follow his line of sight to the dark suited man. He gave a nod and broke away. His intent was to approach the agent for assistance, but instead the man took one look at John, turned and walked away. The doctor picked up his pace.

Sherlock watched until John was out of sight. Then, veering off, he headed up the escalator, taking two steps at a time. By the mezzanine railing, he scanned the people milling about the lower level. A brunette woman wearing a green dress and high heels gracefully slipped between passersby. Sitting down on a bench within the indoor park, she casually crossed her legs, leaned back and sipped at the coffee cup in her hand. Sherlock spun on his heel and headed down. He crossed the park, approaching his target from behind. As he drew close, Careen turned an ear towards him, setting her coffee down

"Sherlock Holmes. I expected you sooner," she stated. "Especially when I left you clues to my location."

"Careen," he answered back.

"But where's John? I had so hoped to-"

"What do you want?" he interrupted, stepping around the bench to face her directly.

"What is it I want? Why, it's what I'm sure everyone wants, Sherlock. To prove that the so called 'great' consulting detective is not infallible. Given the right circumstances, even you can be fooled," she answered.

"I've never claim-" he began, but this time he was interrupted by her laughter.

"You've never claimed to be superior? Let me see..." She paused, then continued, imitating Sherlock's inflection and tone, "Dear God. What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring. You were thinking. It's annoying. Look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." She chuckled.

He clenched his jaw. She had been doing more than just simple monitoring of the flat. She had managed to overhear at least one conversation at a crime scene. Eyes unfocused, his mind raced for the connection. Two possibilities came to mind: she had disguised herself as an officer, possibly the blonde who had questioned John, or someone could have been bugged. Her motivation and determination puzzled him.

"Speechless? Brilliant! That is a first for you. I'm honored. Truly," she said sweetly. "I'm sure you're dying to continue your observations and deductions." Discarding her coffee cup, she stood slowly with arms slightly spread in surrender. Her compact umbrella remained on the bench, minus the handle.

The detective met her challenge. "It's over."

Careen smiled menacingly. "Far from it."

She closed the space between them with a single smooth stride, her body nearly pressing against his. Sherlock could feel the tip of a small knife pushing into him, just below his ribs. For an instant, he stared down at her from his height. Then he grabbed hold of her wrist. A crowd of tourists chose that moment to walk through the indoor park. Some smiled at the embracing couple, while others looked away either in embarrassment or indifference. As people pushed past, Careen subtly strained to pull her arm away from Sherlock's strong grip. But the more she struggled, the more vice-like his hold became until his fingernails dug into her flesh. She clenched her jaw in a forced smile, softly hissing through her teeth as she exerted herself.

"You can't win, Careen," he said in a low tone, answering the defiance in her eyes.

He gave her one final squeeze and a sharp twist of the wrist. She winced. With a pained whimper, she dropped the blade on the floor. He kicked it under the bench out of sight. Her eyes darted back and forth with a wild expression. Sherlock gave her a look of self satisfaction. He had won.

The moment was shattered by an older man and woman. "Pardon me. You look like such a lovely couple. Would you mind taking a picture of us?" the woman asked. Her husband reddened with embarrassment for the interruption.

The detective looked disbelieving at the couple and offered a brief, if pained, smile. His prisoner took advantage of the momentary distraction. Yanking her arm from his grasp, she kicked his ankle and slammed her fist into his solar plexus. On release, she bolted. Careen shoved past one traveler. Hurdling over a row of seats, she squeezed through throngs of passengers. Using her momentum, she slammed into a group of flight attendants, sending one into the other like a row of dominoes. Careen grinned, glancing back at the chaos awaiting the detective. She turned to find a trash bin in her path, stumbled over the obstacle and fell to the floor. With a growl of impatience, she scurried back to her feet and darted down the terminal.

After a quick recovery, Sherlock turned in hot pursuit leaving the old woman gawking and her husband shaking his head. Down Terminal 5, they ran. Travelers were roughly pushed aside. Some were knocked down. Others shouted indignantly. Careen had kicked off her heels and sprinted across the floor. She yanked at a man's rolling carry-on and hurled it in the detective's path. She collided with a businessman. Tearing the laptop off his shoulder, she flung it to the ground. She flew past people, but as she turned a corner, she slipped in her stocking feet.

Sherlock narrowly avoided the carry on. He swerved past confused passengers as they gaped at the racing figures. The detective crashed into the businessman who had been recovering his laptop, sending them both sprawling. With a muffled curse, Sherlock scrambled to his feet, his coat tails flapping wildly. He accelerated in his chase, gaining on her.

His arm was outstretched reaching for her when a large mob of families, couples and businessmen entered the terminal. His pursuit was interrupted. Parents struggled to maintain control of unruly children and luggage. Pilots and flight attendants were busy chatting, unaware of the chase. Careen narrowly slipped by, leaving Sherlock to force his way through. When he finally made it to a less crowded area, she was gone. He slowed, his chest heaving as he regained control. He pulled out his mobile phone and dialed.


While attempting to contact the dark-suited agent, John realised he had lost Sherlock in the process. He knew, though, catching the agent meant he would be one step closer to finding Careen. He gritted his teeth, anger rising at the thought. Never again would he allow himself to be so vulnerable.

His shoulder knocked into a man, jarring John out of his mood altering thoughts and back into the present. His eyes darted around spotting the man in the dark suit. He quickened his steps. Once he caught up to the agent, he stepped in the man's path. There was a menacing glint in John's eyes. "Tell me where she is," he demanded.

"Pardon me, I believe you have the wrong bloke," the man said gruffly as he glared down. His face was worn, showing old scars and a broken nose that had healed at an odd angle.

"I haven't time for this," John growled. "I don't know what game you're playing, but one phone call to your employer and you're through."

"Who?" the man asked in feigned confusion. Sweat beaded above his brow. His breathing quickened. He shook his head.

"Mycroft," John bluffed, dialing the number.

The man stopped his protest and visibly relaxed.

The sudden change caused John to look at the man. "Your employer is Mycroft, isn't it?" he asked with some uncertainty.

"See here now, I'm looking for the woman, same as you. I saw her head down a corridor."

"Let's go," John commanded nodding in Sherlock's direction. The man complied. At that moment, John's mobile began to ring. He answered it and heard a breathless Sherlock say, "She's headed your way." Passengers, security and flight personnel passed by as Johnlistened. Pocketing the phone, he looked back to discover the agent was gone.

"Looks like I don't need you after all," he murmured ironically and took off at a sprint.

The man had carefully slipped away. The phone and people had served as a sufficient distraction to remain hidden this time. As John ran off, he followed a discrete distance behind.

Turning the corner, John froze. Not more than three meters away was Careen. The slender brunette slipped through an entrance marked "Employees Only". John's mouth pressed into a hard line. He followed with quick strides to the door. Unholstering his gun, he held it ready. With three measured breaths, he whipped open the door, stepped inside and paused. He could hear the light patter of footsteps. The corridor, littered with shelves and boxes, was cast in a green hue. Fluorescent lights flickered from above. In the distance, a heavy metal door slammed shut. A muffled cry echoed in the enclosed space. He bolted towards the sound, stopping just short of the door. A sign on it read "Baggage Tunnel".

Bracing himself, John turned the handle and yanked open the door. He found a security guard lying unconscious. Her holster was empty. John bent down and checked her pulse. She was alive.

John quickly texted Sherlock. Headed below terminal. Baggage tunnel.

Stepping over her, he descended a stairway leading into a large service tunnel beneath the terminal. Fluorescents illuminated tram lines running along the cylindrical concrete tube. He paused for a moment and held his breath. He felt a current of air drifting through. Closing his eyes briefly, he willed his heart to slow. Concentrating on his senses, he detected Careen's familiar scent and the faint footfalls of her stocking feet. His eyes opened. He knew exactly where she was headed. His hunt began. John could not see her ahead, but knew she was there. Now, he was more determined than ever to end this.


A short buzz and Sherlock glanced down to read John's text. With a smug look, he picked up his pace, running to the terminal's north side. Security met him near the end.

"Sir?" a stout man inquired.

"She's underground," Sherlock answered. As his mind started to formulate a plan, the man interrupted.

"In the service tunnel? How did she get past-"

"Quiet! I need to think!" Sherlock snapped.

Turning his back on the man, the detective began to murmur. The men nearby exchanged curious glances. They thought he was praying. Sherlock's breathing slowed. Images of the flat and the streets of London whizzed by. The airport halted in front of him. His mind's eye scanned the map, moving to Terminal 5. Slowly, he forced the picture to rise above him, exposing the underground. Mentally he spun the layout around until he could see down the tunnel, looking east. Zooming ahead, he found the adjacent section was Terminal 3.

"Terminal 3, lower level exit for the tunnel," he blurted out. He took in a sharp breath, his eyes bright with excitement. "We have her!"

Sherlock bolted through the exit doors. Pilots, baggage handlers and aircraft mechanics gawked at the slender man bounding down the tarmac. What looked like nearly the entire airport security force followed closely on his heels. The lead officer spoke rapidly into his radio, shouting about a fugitive and terminal junctions. The airport staff exchanged worried glances among themselves as the group of men disappeared in the maze of service equipment and aircraft.

Twenty two minutes passed. Alone, Sherlock reached the tunnel's opening. The security team, unable to keep up, had abandoned the race. The detective inhaled deeply. With impatience, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. With aching muscles, he paced.

Ten minutes later a horn echoed from the tunnel. Sherlock peered in and caught sight of a tram with luggage. The driver's face was bright red. He was shouting into a walkie about people in the service tunnel. Within minutes, both vehicle and man had disappeared up onto the main road. Five minutes later, the detective noted a slender shadow bouncing on the wall, growing larger. He stepped away and hid to the side. His ears picked up her steps. He waited.

Careen jogged into the open. Sherlock darted out, wrapped an arm around her neck, and pulled her into a choke hold. Careen drove a hard elbow into his stomach. He winced, but did not let go. She spun, wrenching from his hold. Sherlock sent a sweeping kick to her knees eliciting a surprised, pained cry. He lunged, his fist flying at her face. She dodged, her hand catching his wrist. His momentum and her expertise sent Sherlock flying over Careen's hip. She pounded him into the concrete, driving the air from his lungs. Careen dropped onto his chest, forcing more breath out. In a flash, her gun was in her hand, muzzle pressed to his temple.

"Don't move," she hissed.

Sherlock stared at her in calm defiance.

"I'm done with you, Sherlock. It's time you moved on as well." She glared down at him. "But I see from your eyes you will not." She clenched her teeth and pressed the gun harder into his skin. "Goodbye, Sherlo-"

Whack!

John struck the base of her skull with a satisfying crack. Careen cried out and fell, the back of her head slamming into the ground. His foot crushed her wrist to the pavement. Careen struggled. John shifted more weight onto her trapped wrist. There was a pop. She shrieked and released her gun. He kicked the weapon towards Sherlock. She flailed, about to escape. John's gun collided with her face. Blood sprayed from her mouth. Her head dropped back, a trickle of blood trailed down her cheek and dripped into her hair. Her eyes closed and opened as unconsciousness tried to claim her. Her grinned was streaked with red.

"I won't stop, John," she said hoarsely.

"Enough!" John shouted. "You. You! We trusted you. I trusted you. You've betrayed me. You have a lot to answer for."

She snickered.

"Stop it!" he yelled. He dropped onto her chest, his knees pinning her arms to the pavement. His fingers grasped her throat, while he pressed the gun to her forehead. The sight of faint marks on his wrist from the kidnapping fueled John's rage. He growled. "No more." Panting with wild eyes, his fingers clenched tighter.

Careen gasped for air. Her body arched. She thrashed to free an arm. Her hair splayed across face. She clawed at him. He ignored it. Through strands of hair, her eyes opened wide in realisation and horror. John was going to kill her. She attempted to grasp his throat, but he straightened and her fingertips slipped from his neck. Her heels beat the pavement. She strained to throw him off. He remained immoveable.

"John!" Sherlock called.

Using more pressure, John squeezed. He sneered as Careen struggled. Her lips, now purple, opened in a yawn. She thrashed frantically, but couldn't escape. He did not let go. His palm pressed even harder on her trachea.

John felt a light pressure on his shoulder. "John," his friend said softly.

The touch caused him to expel the breath he held. Slowly he peeled his fingers from her throat. Careen coughed and gasped for air, spitting out a wad of phlegm. The imprint of John's hand was a livid mark upon her fair skin. His shoulders visibly relaxed. Standing up, John continued to train the weapon on her, his breathing harsh but his hand steady. For a moment Careen stared at him, then she rolled to her side and cradled her broken wrist. She made no attempt to stand.

Soon after, airport security arrived. Flashing lights from emergency vehicles danced along the terminals and concrete structures. Both detective and doctor were led to an ambulance for assessment and treatment. Sherlock's vehement protests were largely ignored. In contrast, John said only enough to answer questions by the authorities or medical personnel. Otherwise, he remained reflective.

Careen's right wrist had been hastily splinted. She was surrounded by armed officers, her left wrist handcuffed to the gurney she sat on. After her evaluation, medics released her into police custody.

Careen's eyes fixed on John. He could feel her stare. Once she was moved to the police vehicle, he looked up. Their eyes locked. The last thing he saw was a smirk on her face. A suited agent pushed Careen down into the back seat. He nodded to them before entering the car and driving away. John watched the taillights of the car disappearing. A nagging feeling crept into his thoughts.

"Well, gentleman. It would appear your work is done," stated a familiar voice from behind. "Though I do believe this isn't the last we've seen of Careen. No doubt she'll be on the streets within the week." He sighed as if a great weight lay on his chest.

John turned to see Mycroft approaching, lips pressed into a slight grimace, his female assistant following closely behind. John nodded to her and was met with a blank stare. Giving a faint huff of indignation, he turned to address Mycroft. His hands involuntarily tightened into fists. "You're kidding. With all that she's done? Government tampering...killing an agent...kidnapping? And y-you don't think she'll stay locked up...for life?" he asked incredulously.

"She has a sponsor," Sherlock said in a subdued voice.

"Precisely," the disappointment evident in his brother's tone.

"So increase security. Make damn sure she never sees the light of day!" John snapped, the blanket once wrapped around his shoulders fell to the ground.

The Holmes brothers exchanged glances before facing John. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but quickly shut it. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and smirked at his brother. He addressed John, "It isn't that simple, I'm afraid. This individual has connections, high ones at that. There are many who can be bought, for the right price."

Sherlock continued, "In order to find the sponsor, we must allow Careen to escape."

John's mouth gaped open. "Unbelievable. All of this has been an incredible, horrible nightmare. And after all I've been through, that's it? Oh well, she goes free!" He paced frantically.

"John," Sherlock interrupted. John met his eyes. His friend's concern was apparent in his face and tone of voice.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Right then. If you two are ready, I have a car waiting to take you back to your flat." He turned to his assistant, murmuring instructions.

As they strode towards their ride, John stole a glance at his friend. The corners of Sherlock's mouth were nearly turned upward. "What," John said knowingly.

"Hmm?"

John sighed. "Really? I know that look."

"What look?" came the innocent reply.

"The one you're giving me right now," John growled back, more from exhaustion than annoyance.

"I'm not giving you a look," Sherlock insisted.

John expelled a long sigh before responding. "Fine. Well, whatever it is, I've seen it many times before. What are you so smug about?"

"I know who he is," he answered with chilling undertones.

"What? The sponsor? How could you possibly know-," John stopped talking, took in a breath and then rephrased his words. "Alright then. Who? Who is her sponsor?"

Sherlock paused before entering the car. He grinned, a hint of wicked delight sparked in his eyes. "Moriarty."