Hey guys! Great to hear from you! It's so nice to see all of those reviews. (: Hopefully you'll leave some on this chapter as well? I know the story is a bit dull at this point, but things will pick up. Obviously. You've seen the movie!

xRDJ: Thanks so much. Calling it a masterpiece really makes me feel like I've done something good. As long as you guys love it, I'll keep writing!

Starcrier: Emma Stone? Wow! That's really interesting, I never thought of that before… :o

Jillian: Well, hopefully this chapter won't disappoint… (;

Nanice: -hangs head sadly- Thank you so much for understanding.

Evanescence: Oh my gosh, thanks! I always get worried with Sim. She can be a bit feisty at times, but I don't want to make her TOO feisty. (:

Haliston: Ah, the gunshot wound! That took place in my second story, chapters 26 & 27. I hope this helps. (:

Thanks again for all of the other very sweet reviews. It really means the world to me, so if you would be so kind to tell me what you think about this chapter, I would love that. (:

Oh, and BRAVO on all of your casting choices. I'm quite fond of all of them, truthfully, and wish that Rena was actually real for me to cast her. ;)

XXOO,

~Mistro

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Crawling out from the ground. Running up stairs. Stepping around puddles. Running so fast that every part of your body hurts, even your ears, which doesn't make sense. I felt like a rat scurrying around. Nothing makes sense when an explosion is about to come. And in an opera house! This was Moriarty's biggest bombing yet and total number of casualties would by sky high. We knew where the bomb would be. We knew it was coming, but the playgoers didn't suspect a thing. There were seven minutes left to prove how fast we really were.

I prayed to whatever God was out there that we could stop it. If we did not succeed in our mission, regret would haunt us. What was the worst part? I knew that Sherlock would never be able to forgive himself.

Surely enough, the opera house square was packed. Men and women walked in the nighttime to some distant, romantic park. Others were finishing up their long days at work. Our feet were flying us through the open space with our gypsy costumes flying behind us, but no one seemed to notice. I wish they had. It might have given us more time if the people knew.

Up ahead, the theater loomed over us like a black cloud. Candles flickered from a few of the windows and though the street was busy with chatter, the theater was filled with music. Despite the dreadfulness of the situation, the Commendatore scene of Don Giovanni was no doubt the perfect time for a detonation. Everyone grew scared at the sight of the fatherly statue singing threateningly, and what was more important, it would have everyone glued to his or her seats.

Exactly the right position.

Check and mate.

We walked into the back entrance of the theater without any troubles. The cast and crew were too busy working on costumes, broken props and hair touch-ups to take notice of four rabble-rousers who happened to stumble inside. Sherlock led us down into the cold costume chambers where dresses and suits of many colors greeted us with limp waves. I presumed Sherlock knew where he was going, but I couldn't help to remind myself that we only had five minutes left.

As we turned a corner and trailed further into the costume room, a strange feeling washed over me. The others were marching ahead, but I could feel something.

Eyes.

I had known that feeling before, but normally it was just my imagination. This time was different. I had never felt so watched in my life. My feet slowly turned me around as the rest of my party disappeared. Though the costume room was dark, I could see him. It was a young man; a tall man with a thick beard and strongly scented cigar. He was looking straight at me and it was then that I realized we were alone.

He was puffing out smoke and staring at me like I was some sort of food he could pack up and take home. Something about his gaze looked familiar, but there was nothing about him that I recognized. Though I was quaking on the inside, I tried my best to keep a sophisticated exterior. "Evening."

He merely tipped his hat down in recognition. Our eyes were fixated only on one another. I thought we might stay like that forever; bird and prey, but his deep voice surprised me. "You don't look like an opera singer."

"No, I'm not. I'm not much of a singer at all."

His head slowly fell to the side. "I didn't know about you. No one ever told me. Such a shame that you're pretty, but I took note of it the first time."

The first time? "I'm sorry," I chuckled without any cheerfulness. "I can't say that we've met before. I don't exactly see it as something that you can just…" My voice began to trail off as my memory took me back. That man. I had met him before. He was at Mary and John's wedding! Yet, why was he in Paris? Something wasn't right, but I didn't have time to think. Not to mention… I was completely alone with someone who once admitted they wanted my head.

"Such a pretty young thing, but with the memory of a fish." He blew out a large cloud of smoke in my direction. I desperately swatted it away, but by the time I had opened my eyes, the man was out of sight. Who knew where he was going? Who knew who he was? There were too many questions that were left unanswered and I thought it best not to make things worse by chasing him down.

"Renadale, come!" Sherlock's frustrated voice swam into my ear. When I turned around to face the group, they were all running towards me with flushed faces and disappointed eyes. They weren't stopping. Something was wrong.

"What happened?" My voice was small as it got swept underneath the clamping of our shoes. We were back outside in an instant and the night was even darker than before. "Did something go wrong?"

"I've…" Sherlock's words were tangled. I didn't know if it was because we were running through crowds of people, or if it was because there was something he did not want to admit.

"You've what?"

"I've made a mistake!"

No more words needed to be spoken. We had barely a minute left. Sherlock needed to stay focused, not be called out on his mistakes. My lips were sealed in order to preserve Sherlock's sanity.

My head snapped to John. "Where is it?"

"The Hotel du Triomphe!"

And yet… as we ran, I could not help but doubt. We were not going to make it in time. Though the Hotel du Triomphe was looking us right in the face, I knew it was too late. We had all been mistaken.

And just before we heard it; the sound of that horrible burst, I could not help but hear the warning voice of Don Pedro, the Commendatore, singing in my head.

Boom.

Non si pasce di cibo mortale…

Screams.

… chi si pasce di cibo celeste!

So many screams.

Altre cure più gravi di queste…

The heat of a momentary fire warming my face and then disappearing into the night as if it had never happened.

…altra brama quaggiù mi guìdo!

Ashes were blowing out of the window.

La terzana d'avere mi sembra, e le membra fermar più non so.

No loose ends.

Who knew what lay inside? I watched as Sherlock ran towards the entrance, his arm holding me back. "No!" I shouted furiously, pushing my way up beside him. We all rushed inside of the grand hotel, our faces dirty from the smog of the bomb. Though everyone was running away, we were running into abyss.

We were never ones to make wise decisions.

I didn't have time to decide if my stomach could handle it. This was not the first time that death had met my eyes, nor would it be the last. My stomach would have to deal with the situation.

When we finally reached the gold-trimmed door, my head began to pound. The sight was enough to make all of my sense fail and all of the noise that once surrounded me was a single hum. The bodies were spread across the room like a tossed game of chess; it's noblemen broken, shattered and unmoving. The floor was checkered black and white just like a chessboard. However, the Queen was not there. The winning rival was still waiting.

Waiting for his Queen;

Sherlock Holmes.

A startled waiter on the side of the room began to weep. His hands were shaking tremendously and I watched as he stumbled his way from the room. His thin, young body fell to the floor when he made it out into the hallway. I could not stand to watch him any longer. Pain was something I experienced, but too much was always a difficult thing to bear.

When I turned to face the scene again with my stomach all in knots, Sherlock was not where he last was. His crouched body was on the ground with a telescope, viewing a broken window. "What is he doing?" Simza whispered in my ear.

I tried to make sense of it. When I squinted my eyes enough, I could see his line of vision. There was a bullet-sized hole in the glass, certainly man-made and clearly not caused by the accident. Sherlock had every reason to be curious about it. "There is a bullet mark," I said quietly. "It looks like this was a set up." The words churned my stomach. One man was wanted dead, but a handful of others had to pay for it. Was this violence what made the world turn?

"You're absolutely right, Miss Adkins." Sherlock's voice was serious as he retook his ground. His telescope clasped inside itself with frustration shown in the force of Sherlock's action. "We should go and inspect where he was standing."

My eyes flickered towards John and Simza. I pleaded with them to leave if only for a moment. Sherlock's voice was not natural. He needed comforting and I wanted to be the one to give it to him. The two of them understood my wishes and left the room and headed down the stairs.

When Sherlock finally turned around, he knew we were alone. His composure weakened. The stiffness in his shoulders diminished and his eyes began to sparkle from the hallway lights behind me. For a moment, I thought he would tumble to the floor beneath him; his knees were as weak as butter. "Renadale-" He started to speak as his body leaned forward.

I dashed around shattered glass to reach him, my arms just barely stopping his fall. His eyelashes tickled as he flickered them against my neck. Eventually they stopped; his eyes were shut. "Sherlock," I whispered, placing a warm hand on his head. "What have you done to yourself?"

"You know that I could have stopped it." The numbness in his voice was astounding. He felt nothing. There was hardly even regret; he was just stating the facts like normally, but I knew what his heart was feeling. His heart was shattering to pieces like the glass on the floor.

"No. You could not have stopped a bomb. Even if we knew where to go, where would we have put the people? Where would we have placed the weapon?" My lips pressed themselves to his mangled heap of hair. "You may have been killed."

Sherlock grunted and drew his head up from my chest. "Perhaps that would have been the best-"

"Don't ever say that again." My words were more than an order. They were a threat. "You are always doing your best. None of us would even know where to go if it weren't for you. If you were not here beside us, the world would be in chaos and a war by now. You are stepping on the hems of Moriarty's trousers and making him slip up. Not anyone can do that." My voice grew small as his eyes trailed over my face. "Only one person can do that."

Sherlock's forehead fell heavily onto my own, his nose and mine coming together. I heard him sigh heavily to himself. He was tossing my words over in his head, but I didn't want him to think about it. He needed to know that my words were the truth. "You would never lie to me," he said with his lips brushing past mine.

"I would never…" The words were hard to utter with his body to intimately close to mine. The setting was grim and unromantic, and I drug him out into the empty hallway. The door shut behind me, and we were in solitude. "… lie to you."

"Because you care for me."

"Because I care for you."

Sherlock's eyes cracked open. They were darker than I had remembered. Whether it was an illusion of light, or a strange change in character, I did not know. Truth was buried in Sherlock Holmes's eyes, which meant that his reality was a nightmare.

"We should go and find the others." Sherlock did not seem excited with this notion. His fingers found their way in mine, trailing over every knuckle, touching every piece of flesh he could find. His breath was shaky as he moved closer towards me, his lips moving desperately over my own. It was as if he needed me. As if I were air and he was beneath the surface.

Sherlock's whole body was against mine. The heat of his body was frustrating me to no end. My fingers lifted to hold his, as if when we let go the world would fall out beneath us. "You're right." My voice was weak as my eyelids flickered shut. My lips trailed over his dirty cheek, and pressed against his ear to send a quiet message. "The others are probably waiting."

I felt his head nod against mine, and though we pulled away for a moment, Sherlock did not manage to regain his composure. "Renadale Adkins… I-I need you."

I did not know what he meant by those four words. Did he need me at that moment? Did he need me forever? Did he need me for something literal? Or did Sherlock Holmes simply need me? I could have asked him, but instead I kept my tongue free from any inquiries. "Sherlock Holmes…" My arms found their way around him. "I have needed you my entire life. I just never knew it until I met you."

The words sounded a bit old-fashioned, but my heart was true. I could feel it racing as I uttered the words. Feelings were not just finding their way in my heart or my head, but everywhere. I felt it in places where it almost seemed like pain. His effect over me was like a tidal wave, a swirling wind, a volcano. It was too hard to control. It would just come and burst and send shivers across my entire body. I didn't know what to call it. Perhaps there is no word to explain.

Sherlock's hand trickled beneath my hand and planted itself around my neck. Gently, he pulled my head closer towards his, our lips meeting in the most eloquent of silences.

And I knew I loved him. I loved him so fiercely in that moment, and it wasn't because he needed me. And it wasn't because I was there to comfort him. It was because he had forgiven himself. He was a good and honest man that would make up for the lost lives in the near future.

His mouth was warm against mine, and as our lips spread against one another in desire, I could not help but that of one thing that remained true.

You did not get the chance to save those people. But, Sherlock Holmes, you have saved me.

~.~.~.~.~.~

"She's supposed to be a maid for Mister Holmes…"

"A maid? Why would he want a maid? He never lets anyone but Mrs. Hudson and the doctor go inside his room. I hear it's a mess in there, so what good would ever come of a maid?"

Renadale stood awkwardly on the doorstep of 221B Baker Street. She had only been working for Mister Holmes for a couple of days, and already people were suspicious of her. No doubt the man was strange, but there was something she liked about him.

Then again, people had never really considered her to be normal.

The two young cooks were discussing the new arrival in the kitchen. Little did they know that Renadale was listening in on the outskirts of the doorframe. "She's very pretty, but I don't think she has worked a day in her life."

"Pretty?" One girl whispered in surprise. "Is she? I only saw her for a moment and I figured her to be rather plain." Renadale's stomach twisted against her will. She was not used to compliments, but the criticisms still stung.

The other girl paused for a moment before she began to speak. "I suppose you're right. When you first look at her, she might seem that way. But she is quite charming if you speak to her a bit more. She has that reserved nature about her, but underneath there is something…"

"Something?"

Renadale was confused as well.

"I'm not sure," the girl sighed. "There must be something special about her though, otherwise Mister Holmes would not still have her come around."

"You don't think they're…?"

A gasp erupted from the kitchen. "Of course not, Amelia! How could you say such a thing? What a scandal! The idea would be unthinkable." The girl's voice dropped to a whisper, but Renadale had moved closer to get a better view. "Mrs. Hudson would never let two unmarried lovers fornicate in the house."

Renadale's hands flew over her lips in order not to scream. Her brows scrunched to the middle of her forehead in disgust. What an astonishing idea! She had just met the man! And though he fascinated her, he was no one she would kiss. Not ever! There was not a drop of affection for him in that way.

"You're right. It was foolish of me to even think so."

The other girl let out a quick laugh. "There might not be anything now, but who knows? Like I said, she's special. Different. So is he. And besides, if Sherlock Holmes has no friends, he must be interested in her."

Renadale could not hear any more of this. Her feet took her swiftly up the stairs before she was late for her boss. No doubt he would be displeased if she was. There was nothing about him that made her feel even remotely interesting. He did not view her that way, nor would he ever.

Renadale had sworn to herself that it would not be so. For his sake and for hers.

~.~.~.~.~.~

"He took the shot from here…" John explained. We were all standing atop the roof of a nearby building. It was where the shooter must have been. The more the gentlemen inspected the area, the more realistic the idea seemed. "… using a tripod and a shooting stick."

There were three small scuffmarks on the stone rooftop. How Watson noticed them in the darkest part of the night, without even bending down to look at them, was beyond my comprehension.

"And he realized…" Sherlock was crouched on his knees with his eyes fixated on the floor. "… there was a better position." He moved a bit to the right and took his ground more firmly. His spirits were lifting once he had put the past out of his memory. "It's scraped where he dragged his tripod and set it up here." Sherlock tapped a spot with his foot. We all looked out into the distance where he was standing and sure enough, Sherlock was right. Right across the square was the shattered window, staring us in the face. "Six-hundred yards."

"Six-hundred and fifty," Watson interjected.

"Not to mention the seven or eight mile-an-hour wind." Simza and I exchanged shocked looks. Shocked, but undoubtedly impressed.

John stared up at the sky. The winds were now still, as if resting for the dead. "He would have needed a wind gage." John's finger pointed to a section of the balcony railing. "In which he placed here."

"… And put a cigarette down there." Sherlock's spectacles moved towards a small opening in the artistry of the balcony. In between a flower's leaf and the railing, was a visible burn mark.

"That's incredible," Sim whispered.

My brows rose instinctively. "The mad thing is, they're not even finished yet."

"Can anyone shoot that far?" She asked quizzically.

John looked frustrated as he gave his answer. Whether he was jealous that he could not, or upset that we had not caught the shooter, I could not be certain. "Only half a dozen men in all of Europe."

Sherlock was scooping something up from the ground while the others continued to discuss. He held a small pinch of tobacco between his fingers before moving it under Watson's nose. "And how many of those men served in Afghanistan?"

John's war experience was nearly forgotten to me. It was just more proof that experiences in your life could come in handy at the moments when you least expected it. "Why?" He asked with a whiff of the plant.

"Must have fallen out when he was rolling up. Wasn't that the brand you all smoked?" Sherlock knew that he was right. He was only testing John and waiting for an answer. "Didn't I read something about a Colonel?"

"Sebastian Moran. Best marksman in the British Army." John raised his brows with amusement. "Dishonorable discharge."

Sherlock sighed. "He's likely now a gun for hire."

"Oh no."

The words fell from my mouth without me even realizing it. All three of my partners stared at me in confusion. They did not know. I had not known. "Oh, I'm such a fool… Such a foolish, foolish woman."

John's hand found my shoulder. Even such a simple touch made me feel guilty and I buried my face inside of my hands. "Renadale, what's bothering you?"

"It's him. Sebastian Moran." My voice was muffled against my palms and somehow I hoped they had not heard me.

"What do you mean, 'It's him'?"

"I met him."

John's hand slid from my shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was exactly the tone I feared it would be. Angry. "What do you mean you met him?! When was this?"

"First it was at your wedding. The next time was today."

"Today?"

"At the Opera House."

John was choking on his on words. "A-At… At the opera house?" My hands were still hiding my vision, but I felt John's rough ones tear them away from my face. "Renadale, why didn't you say anything? I thought I had picked up some familiar scent, but I hadn't spoken to the man."

"I was frightened! I did not know who he was. All I knew was that he wanted me dead the last time we spoke." John's composure eased up when I spoke these words. "When you met with me, you were in such a hurry that I didn't have time to explain myself. He was not someone I knew; he still is not. I did not know his plans, nor did I know what he was capable of."

Sherlock broke in. "She's right, Watson. Don't startle the poor girl."

"Damn it all. I'm sorry, Rena." John's lips turned into a frown. "You know how I can be."

My eyes darted towards my shoes. John was not upset with me, but I was had become disappointed in myself. "I know how you can be."

"But, Renadale…" Sherlock's voice made my head rise. It almost sounded worried. When I saw his face, my thoughts were confirmed. "What do you mean he wanted you dead?"

Splendid. You really can't keep your mouth shut, can you? "It's nothing," I mumbled. "If I said such a thing it was merely an accident. I must have been startled by John's sudden ferocity."

"Rena, I repeat my apologies."

John and Simza blew it off easily, but Sherlock held my gaze. He knew I was lying. He would squeeze the truth out of me sooner or later. Moriarty wanted all of our heads. Yet, Sebastian Moran had told me specifically that mine was a personal goal for the professor.

That was probably a very bad thing.

"At any rate…" Sherlock muttered. "This is the second victim of his that I have encountered."

"What better way to conceal a killing?" John scoffed. "No one looks for a bullet hole in a bomb blast."

I could not help but chuckle darkly. My whisper was only heard my Simza. "No one except Sherlock Holmes."

"Why do you think he did it?" She whispered as the boys talked over us. "I mean, what could that man have been doing that made someone want to kill him?"

I thought for a while before responding. When the answer came to my head, I knew it was the only thing possible. "He was asking questions." And then I said no more.

~.~.~.~.~

You're all so petty.

Rooting for these two lovers who are as dim as a broken light fixture.

Well. I'm not here to judge your decisions.

What you like to read is your business, I suppose.

That doesn't mean I like you.

Just leave a review and I might consider not killing you.

-M

(300 reviews, please? ^^)