John insists that they not tell Sherlock they’ll be joining him in exile. They have a number of days to debate it, as Sherlock remains under lock and key -- no visitors allowed -- while Mycroft negotiates his future.

Mary assumes John doesn’t want to give Sherlock false hope, and she spends a while trying to persuade John that they will, without a doubt, succeed in tracking Sherlock down. Finally, she realizes that’s not it. “John Hamish Watson,” she says, “are you trying to give Sherlock Holmes a taste of his own medicine? Make him think he’s saying goodbye forever, then waltz back into his life one day in the future?”

“No! I --” John purses his lips. “Yeah, all right. Maybe a bit. He better not be getting engaged -- again -- when we turn up, though,” he grumbles.

She raises her eyebrows. “That’s not very nice.”

“Well, he won’t think we’re dead, at least,” John points out. “And we won’t keep him in suspense for too long. But I’d like to have a more specific plan before we tell him to expect us -- and for that, we’ll need to wait and see when you and the baby are ready to travel.”

He grabs both her hands, looking at her seriously. “Also, just so you know -- our daughter comes first. If she needs anything -- if you need anything -- if you change your mind --”

She smiles and kisses his nose. “You’re sweet. But we’re not going to let Sherlock run off on his own and have all the fun without us.”

He smiles and looks relieved. “Still. Let’s leave it as a surprise, yeah?” She shrugs and acquiesces.

* * *

Watching the two men together on the tarmac is painful. She hugs Sherlock briefly and promises to take care of John, but although Sherlock takes more time to say goodbye to John, the two of them barely touch. There’s a ridiculous amount of awkwardness and long stares and things left unsaid -- she can tell even without being able to hear them; the two of them are champions at leaving things unsaid.

Eventually, Sherlock extends his hand, proffering a handshake. Beside her, Mycroft sighs softly. “Oh, Sherlock.”

“I know,” she mutters. Even John seems stunned by the formality, but eventually, he takes Sherlock’s hand. “They’re the worst at affection. I wish they would just --” she pauses, remembering awkwardly who she’s talking to.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Hmm.” He says, noncommittally. Then, changing the subject, “You know, I could use someone with Eastern European expertise to watch over Sherlock. Someone with the rare capability of keeping up with him. I don’t suppose you’ll be coming back from your maternity leave for a while, but --”

She interrupts as she watches Sherlock climb the stairs to the plane. “Sorry, no. I think I’ll be leaving the service permanently, actually.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shoot higher. “Settling down? Who would have thought.” He sounds disappointed. And worried for his little brother. She fights a brief impulse to hug him.

“I may be able to help out with this mission in an unofficial capacity, though. John and I both might, after our daughter is born.”

Mycroft eyes her speculatively, but there’s no time to talk just now; her husband needs her. Mycroft gives her a nod and walks toward his car, and she joins John.

The plane is still visible in the sky, John still squeezing her hand painfully tight, when Mycroft gets back out of the car, saying, “...simply not possible.” John lets go of Mary’s hand and walks toward him. “What’s happened?”

Mycroft, phone still to his ear, says, “Moriarty.” Then he gets back in the car, leaving them standing in confusion.

“But he’s dead,” Mary says. “I mean, you told me he was dead, Moriarty.”

“Absolutely,” John answers. “He blew his own brains out.” He sounds very certain for a man who has witnessed both Sherlock and Irene convincingly fake their own deaths.

“So how can he be back?”

John turns and looks at Sherlock’s plane, which has circled around and started returning. “Well, if he is, he’d better wrap up warm. There’s an East Wind coming.”

Mary isn’t entirely sure what John means, but she’s too busy trying to think through Moriarty’s return to care. She wonders for a moment if all this is Mycroft’s doing -- a plausible reason to summon his little brother back from exile. But no, he was genuinely worried about Sherlock earlier when he was asking her aid.

“Is Moriarty really dead?” Mary asks Mycroft as he rejoins them, watching the plane approach.

“Unlike my brother, he truly did kill himself,” Mycroft answers. “After Ms. Adler, it became my policy to run a DNA test on all corpses to be certain.” He smiles humorlessly. "Someone else is using his image. But we will have to rely on my brother to determine who.”

* * *

She returns with Sherlock and John to 221B. Mycroft heads to his office to gather information, with a strict admonishment that Sherlock contact him before going anywhere. Mycroft posts men outside, ostensibly for their protection. But Mycroft has kept the Magnussen shooting out of the news so far, so they needn’t worry about being hounded by the press. Mary suspects the men are truly there because Sherlock is still a murderer and not allowed to wander free.

On the TV, Moriarty’s face continues its crazy chant. Mary sits quietly, thinking and nibbling one of the biscuits Mrs. Hudson brought by to welcome Sherlock home.

“If it’s not Moriarty, who is it?” John asks.

Sherlock, pacing around the flat, throws his arms wide. “Think, John! It’s someone who needs a distraction. A grand distraction.”

“Who? Who needs a distraction?”

Sherlock dons his manic grin. “I don’t know! Not yet!” he says, popping his ‘t’s. “But all we need do is await news of whatever is happening right now -- whatever it is they’re distracting us from.” He rubs his hands together.

Moriarty disappears from the screen, abruptly. Moments later, a new broadcast begins. Rather than the expected breaking news report, Mary is surprised to see the Prime Minister is giving a press conference in front of 10 Downing St. Mary and John share a confused glance as Mary settles herself in front of the television in John’s armchair to watch. John stands beside her, a hand on her shoulder, and Sherlock pauses in his pacing to observe.

“This is a grave moment for the nation,” the Prime Minister tells the press. “The terrorist, James Moriarty, has returned.”

“He has?” John says skeptically.

“No,” Sherlock says firmly.

“Moriarty has been in hiding since shortly after his high-profile attacks on three major UK institutions in the spring of 2012,” the Prime Minister continues. “But he has not been inactive. We’ve recently learned that he was behind the attempt to blow up Parliament last November.”

“What?” John asks. Sherlock hums interestedly -- almost excitedly -- and steeples his fingers beneath his chin. Mary can’t make sense of it yet and just watches.

“Moriarty is a terrorist of the highest threat level, and we take his return to London very seriously. In order to address this threat head-on, and to step up our protection of the people of the United Kingdom in this time of heightened threats abroad and at home, I will be advising Her Majesty on the formation of a Department of Counterterrorism. The new department will be working in close partnership with the Home Office to better protect our people.

“As well as appointing a new Minister of Counterterrorism, I will also be asking the Lord Chancellor, the Home Secretary, and the Foreign Secretary to step down in favor of new appointees who are more suited to this urgent effort. I thank my colleagues for their understanding and their past service. Thank you.”

“Jesus,” John breathes. Mary puts a hand on his -- still resting atop her shoulder -- and squeezes. He’s not the only one who’s shocked; there’s a moment of stunned silence from the press corps before they start competing for the Prime Minister’s attention.

Mary only half-listens to the questions from the press, which are remarkably friendly considering the magnitude and unprecedented nature of the Prime Minister’s announcement. Her mind is whirling, trying to find some sensible interpretation of it all.

“Is it Lord Moran?” John asks. When Mary looks at him, he says, “The Prime Minister said Moriarty was responsible for the bomb underneath Parliament -- but we know that it was Moran. Is he shifting the blame to Moriarty to gain a pardon?”

Sherlock, pacing again, doesn’t answer. So Mary does. “Could be… But this is far larger than pardoning Moran; this is about remaking much of the Cabinet. Why?”

John frowns. “I don’t know.”

Mary shakes her head. “I don’t, either. All we really know for sure is that the Moriarty broadcast was apparently intended to scare people rather than distract them.”

Sherlock pauses, frowning. “Perhaps both. Given that it’s obvious the Prime Minister was giving that statement under duress.”

“What?” John asks. “How can you tell?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Obvious, John. His intonation indicated fear. The patterns of mud at the edges of his jacket -- still fresh -- showed he’s been in a recent struggle; he removed his outer coat after, but the signs are still there on his cuffs and collar. And he kept glancing to the same offscreen person for approval.”

“Someone who threatened him while everyone was distracted by Moriarty,” Mary muses. “But --”

“Hush,” Sherlock says, holding out a hand, watching the television again.

John lets another inane press question go by before asking, “What is it?”

“That’s the fifth question asked by a reporter from CAM Global News,” Sherlock says. “The press conference is a sham; they’ve got the place packed with friendly reporters.”

“Why is CAM suddenly friendly toward the Prime Minister?” John asks. “That’s new.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, reaching for his coat. “You two, stay here -- monitor the news for other developments, and cover for me if Mycroft calls.”

John looks at him, startled. “Right. Where are you going?”

“I’m going to give an interview to CAM,” he grins, turning his collar up. “And see if I can turn up clues about their Prime Minister connection.” He turns to run up the stairs -- toward the rooftop, presumably to avoid Mycroft’s men.

“Sherlock!” John says. But he’s already gone.

John monitors the television as pundits speculate about the Prime Minister’s remarks and Moriarty’s reappearance. Meanwhile Mary borrows his laptop to look for clues online as to what’s going on. Neither of them turn anything up by the time Sherlock appears on the screen a few hours later. “Up next: Exclusive interview!” The teaser ad promises over an old image of Sherlock in his famed hat. “Detective reveals shocking secrets!”

“What secrets?” John asks nervously.

“I don’t know,” Mary says, filled with a peculiar dread.

The interview intro starts, and CAM’s most gossipy interviewer, Nina Wells, appears on camera. “We’ll be back with more coverage of today’s events soon. But now we have an exclusive interview with the man James Moriarty previously framed and attempted to discredit -- Sherlock Holmes!” She smiles and turns toward the detective, seated next to her and still wearing his iconic Belstaff coat, even under the lights of the cameras.

“Mr. Holmes,” Nina begins, “Thank you so much for joining us -- we’re such big fans of yours!” She gives him a huge, insincere grin. “But we know you must be very busy getting to the bottom of Mr. Moriarty’s mysterious broadcast.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock says with an equally large, equally fake smile. “But I always have time for my fans.” In 221B, John huffs a laugh.

“What can you tell us about Mr. Moriarty and what he’s up to?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock says, still smiling.

“Nothing?” Nina looks doubtful.

“I can’t say anything about a current investigation -- especially not one related to national security,” Sherlock says, raising his eyebrows significantly. “I’m sure you understand.”

“Right. Well,” the interviewer flounders a bit, “can you tell us anything about your past relationship with Mr. Moriarty?” When Sherlock says nothing, she adds, “It was a bit fraught, wasn’t it? He tried to discredit you, to frame you. Why did he hate you so much?”

“No, no. He didn’t hate me. Obvious.” Nina frowns at his dismissive tone. “If he’d hated me, I’d be dead. He was obsessed with me.”

Nina brightens. “Oh?” She asks archly. “And why was that?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I’m fascinating, apparently.” John snorts and Mary grins gleefully. Sherlock should do interviews more often; the interviewer’s discomfiture is great fun to watch.

Nina blinks several times and laughs. “Well! You certainly are, Mr. Holmes. The press was rather fascinated with you recently -- again! -- following some rather salacious tales told about you by Miss Janine Hawkins. Would you care to comment on those?”

Much to Mary and John’s amazement -- Mary didn’t know John’s eyebrows could go that high -- Sherlock responds, “Happy to.” He confirms all of Janine’s outrageous tabloid stories, elaborating on Janine’s sexual prowess as he does. (Janine must be laughing with delight... Mary feels a sharp stab of regret and sadness that she can’t text her.)

“Well, that is fascinating,” Nina says, looking like she can’t believe her luck. “But you and Ms. Hawkins unfortunately parted ways. Are you seeing anybody now?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Not currently. Being a detective is generally a solitary pursuit. But I do have the good fortune of possessing one of the most excellent crime-solving partners anyone could hope for. My best friend,” he says it proudly, enunciating, “John Watson.” Mary and John share a smile.

Nina raises her eyebrows. “Yes. There used to be rumors about the two of you, as I recall. Rumors that you were... more than friends.” She says it as if it would be the biggest scandal imaginable -- two close friends, in love. John heaves a resigned sigh, and Mary squeezes his hand again. “Care to address that?”

Sherlock smiles, unperturbed, and shakes his head. “Just rumors, I’m afraid. We were never involved, and he’s happily married now. To a woman I would like to spend a bit of time talking about, actually.” He looks straight into the camera, suddenly earnest, and Mary’s chest tightens.

“Not many people know it, but she’s a national hero. She’s worked as a British secret agent for many years to take down terrorists and keep our country safe, and she’s lived here in London these past few years, working undercover.” Mary can’t breathe. “On a case that would be of substantial interest to this particular network, actually,” Sherlock adds. She clenches the arms of her chair, but he doesn’t mention Magnussen and instead finishes, “But that’s classified, I’m afraid. Someone recently tried to besmirch her, though, and I won’t let that happen. Mary Watson is a great woman -- a government agent, a nurse, and a wife to the best man I know.”

“What?” John says, turning toward her. “What?!”

She stares numbly at the TV, where Sherlock is standing abruptly and ending the interview, ignoring Nina’s pleas to stay and answer more questions. Why did he --? How did he --?

“Was that --” John swallows, and she turns to face him finally. “Is that true?”

No point in denying it. “Yes.”

“So you’re --” he blinks “-- you’re working for the British government?”

“I was, yeah.”

“What about that, the rogue CIA agent bit?”

She shrugs. “Cover story. Though I did train with them a while.”

He purses his lips, stares up at her from under his brow. “So -- you’re a good guy?”

She gives a half-apologetic shrug, not really sure why she’s apologizing. “Basically. Yeah.”

John gets up, stalks into the kitchen, and puts the kettle on. A bit later, he returns with two mugs of hot water and hands one to her. “Are you going to keep surprising me?”

She wrinkles her nose, thinks about it. “Probably not this much, no.”

“Right,” he nods. “Right.” He takes a sip of his mug, then frowns down at it. “Forgot the tea.”

She smiles fondly. “Yeah, you did.” Then she asks, hesitantly, “You okay?”

He considers for a moment. “I think -- yeah, I think I will be. If I can get used to you as a murderer, I can get used to this, I suppose.” He shakes his head, but looks at her with a hint of a wry smile playing on his lips. “When did you tell Sherlock?”

She frowns. “I didn’t, actually. We’ll have to ask him how he deduced it.” Then she asks, “Where is Sherlock, anyway? He should be back by now -- that interview was pre-recorded.”

John frowns. “I don’t know. But I should probably go have a look for him.”

He convinces her to stay in the flat while he goes to look on his own. (She’s going to be so happy when she’s no longer pregnant.) She falls asleep waiting and is awoken by a knock at the door, downstairs.

She has only her grogginess to blame, she supposes, for what happens next. She goes downstairs as fast as she can, expecting Mycroft or his men, or possibly John propping up an injured Sherlock. She doesn’t even have her gun out. It’s for that reason that the people at the door, who do have their guns out, are easily able to overpower her. She has a moment to register that they’re two men, nobody she knows, before one hits her on the head with his gun.

* * *

“Mary?” Sherlock says softly as she groans into consciousness. “Are you all right? Is the baby all right?”

She assesses. She’s tied up in a moving vehicle -- some kind of empty truck trailer, from what she can tell from the slight echo, but there’s almost no light to see by. She’s lying on her side with her arms behind her and wrists fastened to the floor. The baby, apparently as uncomfortable as she is, shifts restlessly inside her. Her head hurts, but as far as she can tell, she’s otherwise uninjured. The small of her back feels oddly empty; they’ve taken her gun. She feels a need to defecate, which she does her best to ignore, seeing as how she’s nowhere near a loo. “Yeah. You?”

“A bit tied up at the moment,” he replies. She strains to see him in the dark, but can only make out his outline.

“No luck with the restraints?”

“Nope,” he answers sourly.

She shifts against the floor, trying to get more slack in the rope binding her wrists, or at least to get more comfortable. Her hip hurts terribly from being in this position so long, as do her arms. She can’t adjust much, though. “So where are we headed?”

“I believe Lord Moran’s estate,” he says.

“So it is Moran behind this, then?”

“It seems so, at least in part. I found evidence at the CAM network offices that he’s been collaborating with the reporters there.”

“Oh?”

“After my interview, I went through the files of the reporters who asked questions of the Prime Minister. I found a few articles -- including coverage of today’s press conference -- that were apparently passed to the reporters pre-written.”

“Oh my,” she says. “They were told what to ask ahead of time, then? That explains their friendly questions. How do you know it’s Moran who gave them the articles, though?”

“The other stories I found were also very interesting. Some were editorials casting doubt on the charges against Lord Moran.” Mary remembers reading those. “And the very first article was dated the fifth of November last year -- it described the destruction of Parliament by an underground bomb.”

“Moran’s plot!” She exclaims. “But it failed. So, that story --”

“Written ahead of time by someone who knew about the intended effects.”

She considers. “So CAM reporters have been working with Moran since last year -- were Magnussen and Moran in cahoots, then?”

“It appears so.”

After all this time, has she finally stumbled across Magnussen’s secret partner? The revelation -- if that’s what it really is -- is entirely unsatisfying. “That makes no sense,” she says. “They never met.” She would know if they had. “And why would Magnussen want a partner who’s working for North Korea?”

“I don’t know.” She can hear the frown in his voice.

Their conversation is interrupted as the truck takes a sharp corner and they’re both jostled. She grunts as the pain in her hip and the pressure in her abdomen increase during the sudden movement. Her daughter kicks her own displeasure. There’s nothing to be done about it, though, so she tries to set aside her physical experience for the moment and focus on the questions at hand.

“All right, Magnussen and Moran,” she says, thinking aloud. “Let’s simplify. Forget North Korea -- could be a red herring, yeah?”

“Yes,” Sherlock admits. “It was always improbable, but it seemed the only explanation at the time.”

“Assume Moran and Magnussen have been collaborating via a go-between since the bomb plot. What were they up to? What is Moran up to?”

“Sowing chaos,” Sherlock muses. “Disruption. Fear.” Then, almost to himself, “No... That's not what Magnussen was after. He wanted power, influence; that must be Moran's goal as well. Why those ones, though?” he mutters.

“Which ones?” Mary asks.

“Those Cabinet members. Why would Moran want to replace two of the three top positions -- aside from the Prime Minister, whom he apparently controls already -- but not the Chancellor of the Exchequer? Why the Lord Chancellor instead?”

Something is niggling at her about the particular set of people asked to resign, but she can’t quite think what. She tries to think about it from Magnussen’s perspective. If he really was working with Moran, why would he want this?

“Oh!” she gasps.

The silhouette of Sherlock’s head jerks sharply. “Tell me.”

“Those are the only three Cabinet members Magnussen never met with. Not in all the years I watched him.”

Sherlock gets it instantly, of course. “Magnussen didn’t have blackmail material on them,” he says. “Moran is trying to replace them with Cabinet members who are easily controlled.”

“Moran has Magnussen’s files, then,” Mary says. “So there really were vaults of secrets, after all?”

“Some,” Sherlock says. “I do believe Magnussen was carrying a significant amount of information solely in his head. But he also stored some physical records -- just not at Appledore. At Moran’s estate, presumably, where Moran has been under house arrest.”

“It almost makes sense,” Mary says. “But there are still so many missing pieces. Starting with, how did they start working together -- and why?”

“Mmm. Yes.” Sherlock is silent for a long time.

Mary wriggles around, searching in vain for a better position. The pressure in her abdomen is growing severe -- nearly cramping now. It’s going to be embarrassing if she has to relieve herself here in the truck. Doing her best to ignore that possibility, she says, “While I’ve got you here, then, tell me -- why did you feel the need to out me as a spy on national television?”

He pauses a moment. Then, “It was the only way to tell John the truth. For six months, he didn’t once look at the files you gave him. Then he threw them in a fire. He was always going to believe you were a much more horrible person than you truly are.”

She snorts. “Thanks, I think. But how did you know the truth?”

“You told me,” he says, a touch of a smile in his voice.

She thinks about it. “You read the flash drive!”

“Of course I did.”

“But -- if you knew all that, why did you think you had to shoot Magnussen to protect me?”

“I read the wrong drive at first.”

She frowns. “What? When?”

“Back at the hospital, before you made the switch -- nicely done, by the way. Silly me, thinking you came to visit me.”  His voice is tinged with wry humor.

“No reason I couldn’t have been doing both,” she points out.

“Well. Before you came, I’d already looked at the drive. I did it one day while John was out.”

“I didn’t see that happen,” she says dubiously.

He chuckles. “Ah, you were watching us, then?”

“Yes,” she admits without hesitation.

“Of course you were,” he says, sounding pleased -- far more pleased, she’s sure, than he is when Mycroft spies on him. “I nicked the drive from John’s pocket, as soon as I was able to move about. Took it into the loo later, along with my laptop, and I had a quick look before replacing it.”

“But when did you read the other version?” she muses. “Not until after you shot Magnussen, clearly. Except -- that’s impossible! John threw it in the fire.”

She swears she can can hear Sherlock smiling in the dark. “I predicted John might destroy it without reading it; his past displays have made it clear that he favors loyalty over information. I made a copy of the drive before Christmas, so that in the event of a rash decision on John’s part, I would still have the data. While I was awaiting exile, I decided to read up on your contacts in Eastern Europe and took another look at it.”

“You got a bit of a surprise, then,” she says.

“Indeed.”

She feels the beginnings of a charley horse and straightens her leg, flexing her calf and moving her toes -- she’d about kill for the use of her hands right now. As the muscle starts to relax she says, slightly accusingly, “You know, I don’t think that interview was truly the only way to get John to listen. You could have just told him. He does listen to you, most of the time.”

“Perhaps. But this also served the purpose of ensuring that you’ll stop working for my brother. That’s by far the most disturbing aspect of your history.”

“Sherlock!” she scolds, but she can’t keep a laugh out of her voice. “You blew my cover to get me to stop working with Mycroft? You might have put me in danger.”

“Most of the people who might have come after you are dead at this point -- I checked. Besides, you like danger.”

She laughs again. “I suppose I do.” Then she sobers. “I’m sorry you killed Magnussen because of my cover story.”

“I’m not,” he answers quickly. “He was a terrible man.”

It’s true, but she thinks it might also be a bit of bravado on Sherlock’s part. “Was he your first?”

He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “No. There were a few others, while I was away. Self-defense, mostly.”

“It felt different, the first time I deliberately killed someone,” Mary says softly. He doesn’t say anything.

“I’m not sorry Magnussen is dead,” she says, after a pause. “He deserved worse, actually; you’ve no idea all the people who he toyed with, and the people he hurt or killed indirectly by exposing their secrets. The world is better off without him. But I am sorry you thought you had to kill him for me.”

She hesitates, then continues. “I know what taking a life feels like. And I work every day with people who have killed someone and regretted it. As well as those who’ve killed and been horrified to find they enjoyed it. So if you ever want to talk about it, any of it -- or if you want shooting lessons for the future -- just let me know.”

Sherlock says quietly, “I have always found Watsons to be very reliable and efficient when it comes to shootings -- as with everything else. I think I prefer to leave that department to the two of you, in the future. And I’m all right, I think. But -- thank you.”

“Of course.” She drops the topic, for now. He may change his mind and want to talk, someday, about the Magnussen shooting, or other dark moments from his past. If he does, she’ll be here. And if he doesn’t, she and John will take care of him without making him talk about it -- the way he and John have usually functioned. That’s assuming they get out of the current situation successfully, of course.

The truck slows, then stops, and the engine turns off. She takes a deep breath, preparing for action -- her hands are bound, but her legs are still free, and despite her discomfort, she’s ready.

The door swings open, and she squints against the bright light at her captors. She’s considering her next move when a familiar voice says, “You’re late.”

The two men turn in confusion. “Who are you?” the taller man asks.

John, a few steps behind them, says, “I’m taking them from here. You forgot someone -- you’ll have to go back.” His tone is brisk, authoritative. “Hurry up and get them out of the truck.”

One of them climbs in and starts loosening her bonds.

The other one starts to argue. “We were only told to fetch the two of them,” he tells John dubiously. Then he says, “Wait a minute, aren’t you --”

Mary sees the man reaching for his gun as he speaks. She shouts a warning: “John!” At the same time, she jerks her knee swiftly upward and into the bridge of the nose of the man who’s untying her. He yells and falls backward and out of the truck, clutching his face.

John, with a few economical movements, has both their captors knocked out and on the ground. “I’m the one you forgot about,” he says with a tight smile at their prone forms.

Then he’s untying her and Sherlock, checking that both of them and the baby are all right.

“How’d you find us?” She asks him, rubbing her wrists and working her legs to get the blood flowing again. They’re at the end of a long private drive, among some outbuildings and trees -- not at all an obvious destination.

John shrugs. “Lucky. I was coming home from failing to find Sherlock, and I saw them take you. I hopped in our car and followed. Spent most of the drive wishing I’d had time to fetch my gun first.”

“You were brilliant even without it,” Mary says, pulling him in for a quick kiss. “And dead sexy.” Sherlock raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t disagree.

John grins. “Thanks.” Then he frowns and nods at the unconscious men. “I know these two. They kidnapped me -- put me in a bonfire.” He looks up at Sherlock from under his brows. “I suppose you’re going to tell me next that Magnussen is still alive and behind this kidnapping as well? Nobody stays dead these days.”

“Not Magnussen,” Sherlock says. “Moran.” He points toward a mansion in the distance, partially obscured by trees. “That’s the ancestral home of the Moran family.”

“But Moran was working with Magnussen,” Mary adds. “Probably.”

“The fact that he’s using the same men as Magnussen does seem to confirm the hypothesis,” Sherlock says. “But the answers to our remaining questions lie in Moran’s house.”

“Right,” John nods, accepting this calmly. “Well, I think I’m offended that I wasn’t considered enough of a threat for them to round me up.”

“One of us has to be the underestimated one who gets the others out of trouble,” Mary points out. “Besides, you always get kidnapped. It’s only fair that we get a turn.” She grins at him, and John smiles back, nodding in grudging acceptance of her logic.

“Mary and I have each threatened and thwarted Magnussen or Moran.” Sherlock says. “We have both proven ourselves formidable adversaries, likely to interfere with future plans. You haven’t.”

“Right, thanks for that,” John says.

Sherlock flushes. “I mean, what Mary said was in essence correct. Spot on, Mary.”

John and Mary exchange an amused glance. “We’ll fill you in on the evidence so far on the way to the house,” Mary says.

“You’re staying here,” John replies.

“You must be joking,” she says firmly. “I’m not missing this.”

“You’re due any day--”

“I’m due in almost three weeks,” she corrects.

“But --”

“John.” Sherlock says, stilling him. “We could use backup. A crack shot who stays hidden and ready to help if anything goes awry.”

John scowls at each of them in turn, then throws up his hands. “Fine.”

She tries not to slow them down, but it’s a lost cause. She soldiers on as best she can. Halfway to the house, her water breaks.

Oh! That puts her recent abdominal discomfort in a different light. She waits for the next contraction, then sets her watch to time the interval. She says nothing to the boys about the wetness trickling down her legs; they should almost certainly have enough time to wrap things up here before going to the hospital.

The estate is painfully large, and she struggles to just keep walking through the agony when another contraction hits, to not show signs of her pain to John and Sherlock -- fortunately, they’re both quite distracted at this point. Finally, they leave her behind, hiding ignominiously behind a garden hedge near the house, wrapped in both their jackets. She’s glad to stay and rest. Another contraction hits and she doubles over, watching through a gap in the greenery while John and Sherlock peer into various unlit windows, trying a few latches. The intervals are getting shorter. Hurry, John. Hurry, Sherlock.

Sherlock’s working on picking a lock when her contraction ends and she regains her focus. She’s apparently not the only one watching their efforts to break in. A tall red-blond man approaches them, holding a gun.

She recognizes him from the dossiers Anderson gave her -- it’s Sebastian O’Morain. Oh! A few things start to slide into place. She trains her gun on him.

Sherlock puts down his tools, and he and John turn to face O’Morain. Mary is tempted to shoot him right then, while she’s not in the midst of a contraction. (Oh, God. Please let her not need to shoot anyone during a contraction.) But they need information, so she waits.

“Hullo,” John says in a deceptively pleasant voice. “You wouldn’t happen to know the best way into this place, would you?”

Behind the hedge, Mary suppresses a laugh. Sherlock’s lip quirks; he sneaks an admiring glance at John. They both keep their hands at their sides, in spite of the gun pointed at them.

“My uncle’s house?” O’Morain replies in an Irish brogue, with a smile that doesn’t touch his eyes. “Oh, I think I do. He’d prefer I deal with you out here, though.”

“Sorry, you are?” John asks, still calm.

“Sebastian O’Morain,” Sherlock answers. “Moriarty’s close associate -- one of the few I was unable to eliminate before returning to London. A former member of the IRA, a bomber and a sniper, and apparently a nephew of Lord Moran.”

John cocks his head, studying O’Morain. “Can’t say it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

O’Morain continues to smile his cold smile. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you, though. Or that I’ve had a gun pointed at you. But usually I’ve been farther away.”

Usually? Mary guesses O’Morain is referring to the pool and Bart’s. Or are there other times John’s had a sniper gun trained on him from a distance, maybe without knowing? She can’t help shivering at the possibility, even though it’s in the past.

John blinks. “Right. That’s not creepy at all,” he mutters.

“Your surname change presumably worked to both your uncle’s and your advantages,” Sherlock observes. “It does your uncle no good to have apparent ties to Irish terrorists -- and you no good to have ties to the British government.”

“Jim always said you were a clever one.” He doesn't say it with admiration, though -- more like thinly veiled loathing. Mary sees Sherlock’s answering expression and sighs to herself; assuming they all get out of this all right, she really needs to have a talk with him about not smirking at people who dislike him and have guns.

“So,” John says, drawing O’Morain’s gaze, “after Moriarty died, you became a go-between for Moran and Magnussen? Why?”

O’Morain shakes his head. “You’re much less clever, aren’t you?” John glares -- behind the hedge, Mary glares on his behalf as well. “I’m afraid you’re not thinking about it right.”

John looks confused, but Sherlock gets it. “Of course. Magnussen was already working with Moriarty.” It’s the same theory Anderson and the fanclub proposed, but Mary still doesn’t see the connection.

John looks at him sharply. “What?”

“Think, John. How did Moriarty walk free after breaking into three of England’s most important institutions?”

Oh…. oh! Mary sees it a moment before John.

John tilts his head. “By threatening the jury?”

“Exactly. Magnussen supplied Moriarty with pressure points on each of the jury members. And later, I suspect, he also blackmailed Moran’s judge to keep pushing his court case back.”

O’Morain nods. “As you say, Magnussen was already working with Jim; I merely continued the relationship. And I recognized that he and my uncle shared some goals.”

“They both wanted to control the nation,” Sherlock says. “And you also benefited, didn’t you?”

O’Morain’s cold smile creeps back across his face. “Can you imagine -- an Irish nationalist pulling the strings of the British government? I could hardly resist.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. “It was the perfect partnership, I suppose,” he reflects. “Magnussen worked to get as many MPs as possible under your thumbs, and he also controlled a media empire to help disperse information as necessary. Moran supplied additional information on Lord Smallwood and some other peers. And you helped your uncle try to remove from power anyone that Magnussen lacked dirt on -- by bomb or by kidnapping or by whatever means necessary.” The arrangement Sherlock describes does have a certain elegance that Mary reluctantly admires.

“You helped him kidnap me, as well,” John adds sourly.

“Yeah, that was a bit of fun,” O’Morain says, smirking under John's glare. “Though mostly Magnussen preferred a more subtle approach.”

“Yes,” says Sherlock. “The Guy Fawkes Day plot was primarily your uncle’s plan, wasn’t it?”

“My uncle never has had Magnussen’s patience.”

“No, he preferred to burn down the whole system first and then rebuild it around people that the three of you already controlled, didn’t he?” Sherlock says. “In fact, you probably warned the MPs already in your grasp about the bombing ahead of time.”

“All of them just happened to have unavoidable conflicts and were regrettably going to miss the vote.”

“What a coincidence,” John says dryly.

“Magnussen was more willing to play a slow game than Moran,” Sherlock muses. “He never stopped working to gradually gain influence, did he?"

O’Morain shakes his head. “After the bomb plot was foiled, he continued to build up his files on as many MPs as he could. He persuaded my uncle that they needed to lay low for a while after creating such a visible threat to Parliament.”

Mary wonders if Mycroft would still have wanted to leave Magnussen alone (aside from spying on him and attempting to feed him information) if he had realized the extent of Magnussen's ambitions. She suspects not, but can't be sure; Mycroft is often willing to play complex and dangerous games.

“My uncle grumbled, but didn’t fight him on it,” O’Morain continues.

“But after Magnussen died...” John prompts.

Sherlock continues. “Neither you nor Lord Moran have the patience or ability to gather blackmail information on all the remaining members of the Cabinet. So you’ve brought back the threat of Moriarty, and you’re acting now.”

O’Morain smiles. “The people of Great Britain are so easy to terrify,” he says. “And it’s so enjoyable to do so.”

“And one of the first acts of the new government," Sherlock postulates, "will be to pardon Lord Moran of any wrongdoing and appoint him to one of the empty Cabinet positions, along with other people that Magnussen has dirt on.”

“A safe prediction,” O’Morain agrees. Then he says, “Well, this has been fun, but I’m afraid I need to go finish taking over Britain. And,” he raises the gun so it points at Sherlock’s chest, “I’m also afraid I don’t see any reason to keep you around any --”

A shot rings out.

O’Morain crumples to the ground.

“Nice shot,” John says as Mary emerges from behind the hedge.

“Thanks,” she grins.

“Imperfectly timed,” Sherlock says. “We could have found out so much more --”

“Ingrate,” she says, pulling a face at him. “Sorry to ruin the fun of him trying to kill you, but we’re on a bit of a tight schedule.”

“Why?” John asks.

“Time to go to the hospital. I’m in labor.”

John and Sherlock both yelp with alarm.

“Calm down,” she says. “We have some time. Labor takes hours, you know.”

Sherlock has his phone out before she’s finished speaking. A moment later, he says, “Hello, Brother. I’ve earned my pardon. Send a helicopter to the Moran estate, where you’ll find Magnussen’s remaining stash of secrets and two traitors -- one alive, one dead.

“Send a second helicopter as well. Mary Watson is in labor.” A wave of relief washes over her. She sounds much calmer than she really is; the fact that her water has broken and her contractions are coming every ten minutes or so means they really should get to the hospital. But there’s no point in worrying them further.

Another contraction hits, and she leans against John’s shoulder, groaning and panting now that she doesn’t have to hide it -- the pain is definitely getting worse, and all her attention focuses on the sensation. John holds her steady, and Sherlock moves to her side as well. She leans gratefully against both of them. After the contraction, they walk her over to a nearby bench.

Now the boys are definitely panicking. John’s a doctor and should probably know better, but he’s had no personal experience with labor. She ignores their fussing and Sherlock’s pacing and John’s mostly ineffectual shoulder rubbing for a few minutes, and then she puts a halt to it.

“Stop.” They do, instantly. “There is something I need you to do, John.”

“Anything,” John says. “Tell me.”

“I need you to talk to Sherlock,” she says.

John frowns. “Sorry -- what?” She raises her eyebrows at him and he jerks his head back, looking startled. He licks his lips. “What, you mean --?Now?” (He’d probably be turning pink at this point, except it’s December, and it’s freezing cold, so he’s already pink.) Sherlock looks back and forth between them, confused.

“Yes, now,” she says. “I’m not going to deliver this baby distracted by worry that he’s going to do something noble and stupid and run off again. Just say it,” she instructs. “Now.” He sighs and nods, then turns to Sherlock, who looks apprehensive.

“I, erm,” John stutters. “What Mary is trying to say is, erm.” He looks at Mary imploringly, but she’s not going to help him with this.

“There’s.” John continues, swallowing. “There’s room for three of us --”

“Oh, indeed,” Sherlock breaks in, “your flat is large enough for three, particularly when one is an infant -- but you’re wanting to move to larger one? Very well, I’m happy to assist in the search for a larger domicile.”

“No,” John says, while Mary hides a smirk. “No, that’s not it. If you put it that way, I suppose, it’s more that there’s room for four --”

“You’re having twins!” Sherlock exclaims. “Congratulations!” Then he eyes Mary’s abdomen. “It was the sign of four, then, at the wedding -- though I wouldn’t have suspected --”

“No,” John says, firmly. “No, just. Sherlock, just listen. Listen to me. Please.”

Sherlock goes quiet. So does John. He flexes his hands, and he glances off at the horizon. He looks at Mary. Mary smiles back but says nothing. She can’t do this for him. Or, technically, she could -- she’s tempted to, in fact; it would be so much more efficient -- but she can’t keep doing their communication for them forever. They’re going to have to learn to talk to one another eventually. So she just smiles and nods encouragingly.

“What I mean to say is.” John says quietly, looking, finally, at Sherlock. “That it was never a choice.” He licks his lips. “It was never supposed to be a choice. I didn’t tell you --” he shakes his head. “When I told you before that I had to sort things out with Mary, what I meant was, it wasn’t a choice --”

“I know,” Sherlock interrupts. “I understand, and I --”

“No, you don’t,” John says. “No, just. Just listen. What I mean to say, it was never a choice between you or Mary. It was a choice between you, or you and Mary.”

Sherlock blinks. And blinks again, repeatedly. John waits, but he doesn’t say anything. Eventually, John continues. “There’s something else I should have said to you before you --” he swallows, shaking his head. “Before you went away. And I should have told you after. So many times. I almost --” he shakes his head, and Mary wonders if he ever, ever is going to come to a point. She can just make out the sound of helicopter blades in the distance… he’d better hurry. Sherlock stands stock still, staring at John with a look of faint bewilderment.

“What I mean to say, Sherlock.” John looks at him, looks at her -- she gives him a quick thumbs up -- looks back at him. “Oh, sod this.” John reaches out and grabs Sherlock by the shoulders, and he pulls him into a kiss. Sherlock stiffens in confusion.

Mary lets out a cheer, then regrets it as Sherlock and John break apart. Sherlock looks slightly relieved by her response, but still baffled.

“I love you, Sherlock.” John says. (Finally! Finally.) “And I love Mary. And now that things are sorted between her and me, we would really like it if you would stick around and not try to get out of our way. Because you are very much not in the way.”

Sherlock still doesn’t speak. He looks at her, shocked into silence. She smiles encouragingly and says, “I’m in favor. And I would appreciate it if you would snog my husband to signal your agreement -- and if you would do it quickly, before your brother arrives and things get awkward.”

Sherlock grimaces, then nods. He looks at them both in turn, and he says, “John and Mary Watson. You both surprise me, like nobody else. And I will gladly --” he grabs John and pulls him into a long and thorough kiss. Mary laughs with delight and relief and exhaustion. When they release each other, she grins at them both, and they grin back, dazedly.

Inside, her body pushes and changes, and her daughter gets ready to be born. Outside, she feels ready for that moment, finally. The whole family is here, together, and everything is going to be all right.