Whoa! Thanks for the lovely reviews! I really wasn't expecting such kind words for that dull chapter, but hey, as long as you like it, then I suppose I must as well. :)

Hope you all enjoy the chapter. X

~MistroStrings

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

"Keep up, old boy!" I shouted to Sherlock behind me as the wind swept through my hair. With a loud holler, I gripped onto the top of my hat to avoid it from falling off. Not that I cared if it did. Being a gypsy wasn't exactly my forte. The wind was stronger in the open valley than it had been in the woods, and I could sense the chill wrapping its way around my bones. We had been riding for nearly an hour, but Sherlock could never manage to keep up.

The whole time, he bobbed behind on his miniature pony. Literally bouncing up and down across the hills, forests and valleys of France, Sherlock was rewarding me with an endless sixty minutes of amusement. There was nothing as glorious as that scene replaying inside my mind when I had to face forward. And when I did not, I merely turned and watched it play out.

However, duty called and my feet tightened around the horse's stomach, kicking him into a full run. I passed the others with swiftness, my horse never once failing our momentum. The direction was a minor concern, but not a trace of worry could be found upon my face. It had been so long since the Earth had shown herself to me. Her beauty was buried deep within my memories, too far for touching and grasping. Now was the time to make new memories; new memories of a land that I never dreamed of exploring.

"Rena!" Simza's voice appeared at my side as she kicked her horse into full throttle. The pet name startled me a bit, causing my grip to lessen. "You've become a horse master in one day, is that it?" All I could do was laugh in response. I could not remember the last time I had been so happy, nor felt so brilliantly at peace with nature. "You laugh now, but it won't be for long!"

Could she be talking about Moriarty's plans? Before I had the chance to process her threat, Simza's horse was running before mine. I had to halt Misha, the black beauty that led my journey, in order to let her safely pass. "That's not fair!" I gasped against the loud wind. "You've got a head start! You never even…" She was far from a hearing radius. Almost a mile, to be exact. With another swift flick of the reins, my horse was rushing to her sidelines.

The mountains gave us shelter as the velvet grass crumpled beneath the hooves. We were not killing it, oh no, but in a way the grasses were bowing to us as we squashed them down to size. Bowing at our speed and lightness, our adventure and our gallantry. There had never been a more beautiful sight in my eyes compared to the mountains and hills stretching tall above us with eyes of brown and green. At the tips, a blanket of fog protected them from the late winter's bitter winds. You could hear the sound of the air singing all around you as it drummed into your eyes, and though it chilled to the core, it was a sweet sort of feeling that couldn't be passed up.

We stopped a few times, but Holmes never bothered to depart his new 'friend'. He was probably embarrassed with the fact that he was lagging behind and therefore continued on his journey whilst we warmed our hands and our stomachs. Yet, in the end, we always caught up to him and he always sunk back.

The day was ending when we finally came to the border. Lakes, streams, trees and mountains were no longer our companions as the lights of a weapons plant dawned upon us. Heilbronn was waiting to be taken by the clumsiness of an inventor, the hawk eyes of a detective, and the smirking of a doctor, but little did she know it. Perhaps because we were not yet so confident in ourselves.

Sherlock and Watson removed themselves from their horses, gathering their most vital belongings. The departure from my horse nearly broke my already weak heart, but I knew it was for the best. We were tossing ourselves in danger, and he could not be put at risk. As I stared into its black eyes, a farewell caught in my throat. "Goodbye, you beautiful creature." He turned his head the opposite direction, as if understanding my abandonment. "Hopefully our paths will cross again." No one had commented on my farewell, but Simza's eyes were sharp and she shot me a sad smile when I finally tore away from the horse.

John's voice managed to catch my attention shortly afterwards. My fuzzy companion was already forgotten with the remembrance of a more serious issue at head. "We'll slip in through the loading bay, find out what exactly is going on in there, and we get out. Hopefully safe and sound."

Sherlock's brows rose unsteadily. "Getting out might be tricky." His eyes darted towards the gypsies. They had become our entire cause of hope. Without them, we would still be back in Paris.

"We will get you out," Simza replied, as if she knew exactly what we had wanted to hear. Sherlock squeezed her rough hand in appreciation as she continued to sit highly upon her stallion. "If my brother is in there, get him out alive."

Sherlock and John nodded. I nodded as well, though I knew when it came down to it, I would probably not be saving anyone that day. Most of the time I could barely save myself. My companions gave the group a raised fist of certainty, and before I had time to process what was happening, we were heading towards the pathway. "Renadale!" My trek halted unexpectedly as Simza's voice carried over the brim of my hat. Simza was climbing down from her horse, something small clasped in her hand. "Take this," she spoke as something cold pressed against my palm. "It has brought me luck for many years. I can see the fighter in your eyes. She is buried somewhere deep within you. Let her come."

When I cracked open my fingers, as one would a locked treasure chest, the sight waiting me was certainly a gem indeed. A handsomely crafted knife stared up before me, my stomach dropping towards the rocky road beneath my scuffed boots. "This is the first weapon I have ever received," my whisper held shock. "This is far too old and beautiful. I cannot take such a remarkable thing from you."

"You can and you will," she said firmly. She pressed it further into my hand. "I just pray that you will never have to use it." Without any chance for a token of appreciation, Simza walked off and returned to fellow men. The gypsies rode off into the trees, their dark robes blending in with the horrors of the night's forest.

Simza's gift had been a tremendous sacrifice. Not only that, but it was a small sign of hope. Hope for me to be strong, safe, and brave. "I will not let you down," I whispered into the night sky. Though whom I was whispering to, I was unsure.

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

Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk. Chunk.

The hoard of soldiers passed us without recognition, their tailcoats long and dark like their sleepless eyes. They were as awake as could be, despite the new day approaching. Their buttons were sewn to perfection, and their boots as shiny as a new English rainfall. I held my breath inside of me as the storm passed by, waiting to come out until the thunder of their boots had passed.

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief as standing became acceptable. Our feet and arms were more than sore from the day's ride, but our personal pain was insignificant. That sigh was a signal to continue on, and continue on we would.

Not without a suddenly irrelevant and insignificant conversation, of course.

"Are you happy?"

Sherlock's hushed question took John and I both by surprise. His chocolate eyes were glued upon his doctorly companion, and I took a step back to let the boys have their random discussion. In fact, I couldn't remember talking at all since we had left the gypsies back on the border. My mind was entirely somewhere else, though I could not confess it's placing. Not to Sherlock Holmes anyway.

"What?" There was little toleration in John's reply. Without even so much of a glance towards Holmes, he continued fixing and cleaning the weapons in his jacket.

"At this moment…" Sherlock continued, trying desperately to make eye contact to a non-willing participant. "Are you as happy as you would be on your honeymoon in Brighton?" Sherlock's head fell to the side mockingly. I had to stop myself from scoffing in disapproval. Of course he's not as happy. He's covered in mud, tired, and sore. He could be by a warm fire with his new wife, but that had to be taken away from him. Well, it didn't have to be, but you made it so.

Watson's response was as strict as the one in my head. "I'm not going to grace that question with an answer." At least Sherlock had finally gotten his attention, but the sharp and furious look passing through the doctor's eyes was certainly not the one Sherlock was hoping for. And though John had declined his suggestion, there was a flicker of doubt passing his face.

Maybe I am wrong; the thought was quizzical in my head. Maybe he does love this more.

Sherlock said nothing. Instead he turned his frown a bit more and raised his brows as if saying 'so be it' without uttering a single word. However, the detective could not move on without an answer, and once again repeated himself. He was insufferable at times, but at least he was persistent. "Are you happy?"

"Aren't we here for another reason? I think we are." All of the patience that John held for his friend was quickly being tested.

"Okay."

"Shall we get on-"

"Simple question."

"Are we going to do something? Or wait here for them to come back around?"

Sherlock sighed with annoyance and turned his face away like a child. It was as if I had not been there the entire time. In fact, I think the men might have actually forgotten about me. Granted that was my fault, for I had been so quiet recently.

"What time is it?"

"Three-fifteen…" Watson answered hesitantly with a flick of his pocket watch.

"Over there in the residential part of the complex should be a telegraph office." Sherlock pointed to a brick building up ahead. I had seen it while we were breaking through the gates. There were German signs dangling from it, and thankfully the language was far more recognizable than French. Wanting to feel useful for once that day, I took a step forward.

"I'll go send the telegraph." My whole body had been shaking since we had snuck in, as easy as had been, but I could not help to think of my tarot cards. The future. The sudden catastrophe. Would it happen in this horrible place? Both of the men jumped upon my declaration, only solidifying the thought that I was all but unknown to them.

"Renadale," Sherlock did not try and hide his surprise. "Why yes, of course you would go, wouldn't you?" His hand fell upon my shoulder. "Always a good sport, you are." My shoulders shrugged in response. The faster we settled things, the sooner we left. That was my only motivation for taking on the task. But if I was a good sport like Holmes had said, then the compliment was warmly received. "However, John will be doing this alone and you shall be coming with me. I won't risk your safety." There was no point in arguing. Truthfully, I didn't want to be alone so I made no complaints. Sherlock turned to Watson with a small scrap of parchment. "Send this to Mycroft. Be back here on the hour."

Watson took the paper without a word. With a quick kiss to my cheek and a whisper of 'be safe', he was gone from my sight before I could even thank him. We were utterly alone in the darkness now, the only comfort being one another and our frayed jackets. However, Sherlock shrunk to his knees the second our third musketeer had disappeared, and began to scribble something. I crouched down to his level, inspecting the paper in his hand. "What is this for?"

"Oh, just something for Watson… When I said that he should be back here on the hour, that is because we most likely will not be." Sherlock muttered.

"Why is that?"

His eyes lifted from the parchment for a moment, as if he were about to speak. Instead he said nothing. He just turned up the corner of his lip and watched me for a second. I had seen that look before. He thought I was beautiful, despite my rugged state. In the darkness I blushed and managed to turn my face away without a proper answer.

I watched as he carefully as he continued to sketch the watchtower of the camp, it's dark lines smudging from the charcoal in which he used. Surprisingly, his work was beautifully crafted. I almost complimented him, but he began to write a message that took my attention before I could speak. "Come at once, if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same." He tucked it into the crack of a crate, waiting unobtrusively for Watson's arrival.

"What does that mean?" My voice was small as I spoke. There was fear in each syllable and I received no comfort from the look that was answering me. Sherlock's eyes flickered towards mine for a moment, his frown never wavering. "Can you tell me or should I not bother asking?"

We both followed one another's movements from off the ground. His body was inches away from mine, the coldness not stopping the sweat from oozing out of our palms. Nerves rattled through my stomach and brain, never stopping and never growing weary though my body only wanted rest. "Renadale… We must-" The sound of boots approaching stopped his words quickly. Sherlock's hand tightened around my upper arm and with a hushed whisper he spoke. "Run."

Little time to lose with little time to think. That was all I had as we made our way across the road towards a cluster of apartments. A large, sharp gate blocked us from going anywhere and with hesitation I turned to him. "What are we going to do? I can't climb this."

"No," Sherlock muttered heatedly. "You can't, but I can. I will lift you and them haul myself over." I often forgot of the masculinity that was always hiding under those baggy jackets and trousers. Sherlock was as strong as the next man and his fighting skills were incomparable. There was no time to waste and before I knew it, my body was raised in the air, my hands planted atop the sharp gate's spikes. "Can you climb down to the other side?" I heard him ask beneath me.

"I think-" My shouted response was cut short with a minor scream, my body tumbling over the edge. My back hit the ground with a thud, the pain shooting up my entire body like the bite of an Adder. I winced in pain, but in a moment's time, Sherlock's hand was there to help me up.

"Sweet girl, look at you." There was a prolonged sigh hidden somewhere in his whisper. He was sick of my inabilities. He had every right to be; I was sick of them as well. However, that was not how I wanted him to see me. I pulled myself together with a firm lift of my body from the cold floor, and brushed any remnants of gravel away from my dress.

"I'm perfectly well."

Sherlock's brows rose in amusement, but once he saw me crack a smile, that was all of the reassurance he needed. His fingers laced between mine without permission, though he never needed it, and he carried me off in the heat of the moment.

Though we were no longer running, our steps were fast and swift like soundless creatures of the night. We made our way under the rafting of a building, all the while keeping our eyes peeled in the darkness. With my large hair, large eyes and piercing gaze, I might have been mistaken for an oversized owl. "Stop." Sherlock's strict tone kept me in my place. Guards were surrounding us, though their eyes only focused on one another as their rotting teeth grinned. They took no notice of the 'gypsies' invading their factory, and even if they did, I wondered if they cared. "This way."

Sherlock pulled me off to the left and away from the guards at present. We were finally alone as we turned down a back alley, despite the shimmering moonlight guarding our way and the hundreds of bottles lined up beside us. "What are these for?" I asked, squeezing my fingers more tightly around his. His hand in mine was more of a comfort than he knew.

"Poison, bullets, anything they happen to need it for," he muttered darkly. Sherlock Holmes was a fighter, but he did it for justice. The thought of worldwide war was not something he was fond of, though I knew he was fascinated by the mind power of James Moriarty. And with good reason. I had been fascinated once too. Now I was just fascinated with the idea of his entire entity being erased from the Earth's memory. "Come quickly. It's in here."

I hadn't even noticed our halted feet. Perhaps because I did not wish to be where I was standing. A large, metal door stood before us with nothing but a warning sign written upon it. Poison was the only word I could recognize; a universal word for destruction. "We're going in there?"

"We have no other choice."

"Of course we have a choice!" My hand fell away from his with a scoff. "This is going to end us, Sherlock Holmes. If they catch us, this is the end." Drama was perhaps something I had always been good at. And yet, the hanged man. His strange grin. His tied feet. They were trapping me in a silent chokehold and I could not escape.

Sherlock's eyes met mine with seriousness. "If it ends us, it might just save the rest of the world." He was absolutely right. I could not argue with him or else I would look more monstrous and selfish than the man behind the blueprints. Suddenly, I felt selfish and greedy. My skin crawled with disappointment. My own life was nothing compared to the lives of others, and my foolishness had at once been summoned. "Shall we crack on?" He asked with a hushed breath. I could only manage to nod my head.

The door splintered open easily. It made sense: no one besides us would bother breaking into a poison cellar. And though we crept inside without a word and without notice, the feeling of eyes on my back was unmistakable. "Something isn't right." My confession echoed in the dark chamber once the door was locked. "I have a bad feeling about this."

"I've had a bad feeling about life since I was born," Sherlock muttered. "That's why I'm so quick to try and fix it."

We both walked carefully and slowly in the factory. Pipes of all sorts of shapes and sizes greeted us with whistles, bubbles and puffs of steam. It smells like the city, though we were far away from London. None of it made sense. The only thing that it echoed was warfare.

Sherlock was unscrewing the lid of a titanium bottle when he pulled out the contents. A smooth, golden liquid swished across the bottle as he turned it over in his hands. "Poison of every kind lays within these chambers. You name it and they have it here. You want it and they will supply it for you."

"You can tell what it is just by looking at it?"

"You forget who I am, Renadale Adkins." He tossed a smirk over his shoulder before putting the weapon back in its safe.

Though it was not the appropriate time, I cracked a smile at Sherlock's comment. "I would never forget you."

Sherlock stopped walking for a moment, turning to me with a worried expression. Something negative was going to fall from his lips, and before I had the chance to stop him with a much longed for kiss, he started to ramble as expected. "You've been rather quiet lately. Have I done anything to upset you? I'm terribly sorry if I have. You don't know how much it pains me to know that I have any cause in your discomfort, or rather, have or will give you any pain-"

"Sherlock, there isn't-"

"I'm just concerned for you is all, because I know that things have been stressful…"

"Honestly, I'm quite alright-"

"… and I just haven't been able to show you my affection as well as I would like to."

"We're in the middle of an upcoming war," I said firmly. "I don't expect you to run off and show me your regards when an entire world is depending on us. You, me, John and Simza. That's all there is left. That is all that stands between humanity and destruction. The four of us against James Moriarty." Sherlock's lips closed as my booming voice took over the room. "Please don't apologize for anything that cannot be."

Sherlock's face twitched in displeasure. "Cannot be?"

Not only can I not solve crimes, but I also can't be romantic. What am I good at, anyway? "I didn't mean it like that." My voice instantly shrunk in power. "I'm sorry." The hesitancy was returning to my bones and I flinched backwards in regret. "I just don't want you to be worrying about me when I'm doing okay."

Sherlock took a dominant step forward, this time unafraid to meet my eyes. His hand shot out towards my cheek, cupping it lovingly against his fingers. Something about the feeling of his skin against mine sent my body into a whirlwind of feelings, both physically and mentally. "I don't want to worry about you, because I feel the need protect you. And I don't. Having you here with me is…" Now came the struggle. "It's what I need."

My lips opened. I wanted to say those three words so badly. I wanted to tell them to him so many times that his ears actually grew weary from hearing it. I wanted to scream it to him, whisper it in his ear, and slip it to him on a piece of paper at dinner parties. I wanted to love him in every way possible and for every second that my heart beat.

And yet, I could not bring myself to utter the words again.

"Thank you," I said, turning my face. My lips pressed themselves against his palm. They did not leave after a minute, but stayed planted until he understood what I was trying to pass on. I love you. Yet, without any words attached.

"You have absolutely no reason to thank me."

"I have every reason on the face of the Earth."

Sherlock seemed intrigued with this. Even though I thought it impossible, Sherlock closed the gap between us even more. "Will you tell me of these reasons one day?" I didn't think he was asking because he wanted to get complimented. Sherlock Holmes believed himself to be a nuisance to even his closest friend. Many people did not care to have him in their lives, nor did they thank him on a regular basis. However, I would. I would show him how glad I was that he was there, and hopefully he would always feel the same.

"I will show you every day for as long as you live." My hands were pouring out sweat, though my face tried to keep its composure. "That is, if you asked me to."

Sherlock's composure faltered a bit, his eyes weary and nervous. "… I am asking you to."

There was no more time to speak. We said our affections through a few more moments of staring, and then we had to continue on. If we wasted any more time, our heads would pay the price.

And as I moved past him, none of that seemed to matter. He spun me around with a force that I did not recognize, his lips meeting mine with unexpected urgency. There wasn't a second where I did not know it was what I wanted, and without any hesitation, I kissed him back. His hands trailed over my neck seductively, and I could feel my cold body shivering beneath my dress. This kiss was not like the others. It was urgent, as if he truly did need it, as if it were the last. The kisses continued on and on, our bodies pressed firmly against one another. His fingers moved into my hair, playing with the soft curls that I knew he loved so dearly. I could feel my lips parting, wanting his tongue to meet my own. Wanting him to feel me everywhere, wanting his hands to touch me. Seconds ago I had been aiming for the survival of humanity. Now all I wanted was Sherlock Holmes.

He did not waste a moment when my mouth opened, and passionately I felt his kisses become deeper. A little moan could not help but fall from my lips, which somehow frustrated him all the more. His hands fell down to my hips, pressing me closer towards his warm body. I felt myself leaning backwards as he urged himself against me, both of us nearly tumbling onto the floor in a heated passion. Thoughts were running through my head. Why is this happening now? Does he know something I do not? Are we to be captured? It only made sense. Why else would he leave that note for Watson?

And yet, I did not care. I let myself drown in the beauty that was Holmes, and as our tongues and lips met, there was nothing so sweet in the world. He let loose a groan of desire, his heartbeat pumping through the opened hole of his jacket. I pressed my cold fingers to his warm chest, wishing that nothing stood between us except skin. The thought seemed monstrous and for a second, I grew ashamed. My lips parted his with a gasp as heat rushed onto my face. He only stared at me with wide eyes, his breath struggling to slow down along with his racing thoughts. He was about to speak, but I lifted a hand to silence him. He knew none of the thoughts I dreamt of, nor of the passions I desired. Even the idea scared myself, and I felt filthy as I thought of the phrase.

Making love.

Making love to Sherlock Holmes.

The expression made my stomach churn, and swiftly my hand flew over my mouth. Ashamed, I pulled away from him while heat flooded every part of my body. I felt him come up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist. His body was invisible to me, but I could feel him breathing on my neck with lust in every exhale. For a moment, I dreamt that he might want me too. And yet the idea was far too insane. I was Renadale Adkins. I could not even brush my hair properly.

"We can speak later," he whispered into my ear, his wet lips dampening my skin. His hot breath made my head spin as a shiver went rushing from my chest to the private spot between my legs. I whimpered again with the fear of the feeling and silently tugged myself away from him. He must have known what I was going through. When I finally gazed upon him, his eyes were downcast as well. He had to have understood, and the shame was enough to stop my breathing. A long silence filled the room before his voice graced me. "I won't touch you. We'll continue on."

I nodded quietly. His touches were what I longed for, but I knew that my selfishness was a hindrance to everything we had worked for. I kept my mouth shut until the strange feelings drifted away from me. Maybe my passions for Sherlock were like the poison in the tubes. Once you had them in your system, you would never be free.

As if it had not happened, Sherlock led us over to another large door, the only opening being a window of minimal size. It was just big enough for both of our eyes to creep over its ledge, the sight laying before us seemingly nothing of much importance. "There's a map on the wall. There are maps everywhere." Me pointing out the obvious was not just without reason. "All leading to…"

"Here," Sherlock muttered. His fingers brushed against mine without thought. However, I noticed, though my hand kept its place. "As well as small weapon pieces fixated upon specific cities."

"Cities he's going to bomb?"

"Most likely," Sherlock sighed. "There are weapon supply designs in the back left corner." I followed his eyesight. Sure enough, huge guns with many detailed parts were drawn out intricately on the parchment. Detailed guns, waiting to destroy the details of lives. "This is far more elaborate than expected."

"Is it?" I whispered fearfully. "Have we dug our own graves?" The question took Sherlock by surprise, but I was even more afraid when he did not properly answer.

"Come with me." He took my hand in his once again, completely breaking his oath of no touching. Where we were headed next could not prepare me for the boiling horror that was growing in my heart. This place was a tomb, but all of the coffins were empty. And we were just the right size.

The next door was small, but far less friendly with its rotten black wood. Sherlock kicked it aimlessly with his boot, but not before untucking the gun from his pocket. "Why do you need that?" My fingers held him back from entering the door. All he could do was look at me. There were no words that needed to be said. Danger was enveloping us inside and stamping down a wax snare.

We snuck our way over to a small ledge. Though the rest of the rooms had been traumatizing enough, the sight of that room took my breath away completely. Not in the way the mountains had. Hundreds and hundreds of bombs were lined up side by side like the soldiers that would use them. Flashes of the bombings flooded my head, tormenting me until a powerful ache washed over my body. Sherlock watched as my hands grabbed my skull, my teeth gritting like a cheese against a grater. He touched my arm carefully, trying his best to soothe. My eyes were glued shut. This was too much for even me. Destruction would soon be on us all, and seeing the amount of bombs made me realize there was nothing we could do to stop it. Not even Sherlock Holmes.

Before I could stop my head found pounding, four clicks drug me from my own misery. When my eyes finally flickered open, an unfriendly sight shone before us.

Light.

Lights?! They had turned on the lights! Our entire cover was blown, and the same feeling of eyes on my back washed over me. "Renadale, hide." Before I had time to argue, his rough hands shoved me behind a nearby crate, his legs kicking me into a curled ball. "Don't make a sound."

Tears began to flood the brim of my eyes, but I bit them back the best that I could. It was only when the voice came flooding over us that I was too frozen with fear to even weep.

"That's what you get, Mister Holmes, when industry marries arms."

Sherlock ducked in case someone was watching him from the other side. However, I saw the man before he did. Sebastian Moran. As ugly as a man could come on the inside, with the outside of a washed up soldier. He was worth nothing and the fact that he was trying to make something of himself was even more pitiful. He was worth nothing but the mud splattered across his shoes. Moriarty was worth nothing but the crumbled ash stuck in the crevices of his pipe. They were the most disgraceful human beings I would ever lay my eyes on. However, at that moment, my eyes flickered towards Sherlock's loaded gun, and for a moment I prayed that he would notice Sebastian more quickly with a bullet as a greeting.

"Now, put your gun down."

Damn it all.

Sebastian's face was hidden from me. I kept my cover as best as I could, though the chattering of my teeth probably could have been heard from miles away. Hopefully John would hear it and came save us. And yet, part of me should have expected this. Part of me felt as if this were all part of Sherlock's plan. "It's a bit old fashioned," Sebastian continued. Sherlock finally met his match. I could not see what was happening, but the sound of a gun sliding across the concrete floor did not help my hope. In fact, it shot away at it until it was nothing but a tattered cloth of despair. "What you need is one of these. Go on. Pick one."

Sherlock was standing now. I could see that much. He was like a puppet being ordered by the puppeteer, and with sadness I watched him snatch something up from the crate behind him. It was thin and black, with a sharp end like a rattlesnake's tail. Certainly it stung just as much.

"Machine pistol," Sebastian said proudly, though there was nothing to be proud of. "Self-repeating. Takes 7.63 caliber rounds in one of these." Something was sent flying through the air. Sherlock caught it with ease, almost seeming interested in the weaponry. Surely, it was the finest around, but that wasn't really the point of us being there. "A ten shot box magazine."

Each man clicked their guns together, one right after the other. My hands flew to my mouth to stop from screaming. My scar meant little to me. I had taken a bullet for him once. There was no doubt in my mind that I would do it again. The world could afford to lose Renadale Adkins.

It could not survive without Sherlock Holmes.

"Easy enough to load," my partner said with a fierce stare. "I'd imagine one would have to retract the bolt to engage the first round." He began walking forward, fiddling with the gun in his hands. Right away, it was a bad idea. And he paid for it with Sebastian's gun being aimed straight between his eyes. My hands suctioned themselves to my face as the screams bubbled up inside of me.

"Easier done than said," Sebastian tricked. Four more feet could be heard. I could see the men before Sherlock, the twins being utterly unmistakable. They were young, foreign and practically bowing at Moran's feet. The amount of sick-minded people in the world continued to impress me, and I knew I would meet many, many more.

If we managed to survive this round.

Check and…

Maybe not just yet.

It was not until a gagging noise was let loose that I genuinely began to fear. Tears came flooding over the dam, pooling down my face like an uprising river. Sobs were muffled behind my fingers, and though I tried to stop them, the emotions were too uncontrollable. I could hear Sherlock tumbling to the ground, having no choice but to make him bear the pain and misery. There was silence after a moment, but it did not last for long. He was unprotected. My body shrunk away in shame, hiding myself from the men as much as possible.

That did not last for long.

"Take him to the surgery." Sebastian's voice was devoid of all remorse. "I'll find the doctor." I had no idea where the surgery was located, but I was determined follow them there. Even if I got caught, so help me God, I would try and save the man I loved. I would tell him to his face when his eyes cracked open and I would never let him leave my side again. "Oh, but you only need one to carry him," Sebastian continued. I thought he had left, but instead his voice carried louder and more strongly across the room. "As for the other one… Get the girl. She's hiding behind the crate."

There wasn't a second to think. My mouth opened to scream. Rough hands pulled me up from the floor, the stench of wine and gunpowder lingering in their sleeves. My fists went for their faces, but they were too fast. I managed to let out a cry for a split second, images of my mother flashing before me, before a tattered white rag covered up my vision, filled my nostrils with a sour stench and all together cast me into hell.

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

Hello, my darlings. It's so lovely to see you all here. It really is a funny thing, this story. I know it can seem rather depressing, and trust me when I say it is, I won't lie to you about that, but it does have it's pleasurable moments. Though, I can never often find where they are… They might last for a mere minute before getting trampled on.

Somehow, I feel like I'm not helping. But, surely you must like our adventures? Or you wouldn't be reading it?

If you do enjoy the stories, please leave a little note in the box. We don't care if it's a single word. Just a quick 'hello' will suffice. The last review was quite pitiful, so hopefully things will be looking up.

You're all very lovely creatures, and I wish you all good health.

Your most loyal friend,

Dr. John Watson.