A/N - Can we pls appreciate how phenomenol an actor Benedict Cumberbatch is? Your author's heart can't take this incredible talent 😫 such a skilled boi ❤

_____________________

Sherlock had followed John.

When he saw the car pulled up outside, and the woman who took only John and not Elizabeth, something didn't sit right with him. And he was right to follow. Part of him expected a trap - he wouldn't put it past Moriarty. Part of him expected to see Mycroft with him - he knew his brother always liked to stick his nose in his business. Part of him didn't know what to make of it at all. His mind hadn't been up to par since the The Woman had passed in such a violent way.

They had stopped at the old Battersea Power Station.

The dark, huge hulk of an edifice stood silent against the backdrop of ash grey clouds. He watched from afar as the stranger led John into the building.

He would follow from a distance.

But when he stood, hidden in the shadows beside the room John was in, nothing could have prepared him for the shock he was going to get.

The sound of heels clacked against the floor.

So it was a woman who had brought John here.

But why?

Perhaps one of the Forty Ele -

"Hello, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock's blood ran cold at hearing the voice of a dead woman walking.

It wasn't possible.

It couldn't be possible.

He had seen her body. It was her. The corpse was Irene's. The hair was the same, the teeth were the same, the measurements were the same. Even the DNA was the same! Or were they? He began to doubt his abilities. But she had given up her phone. The phone she said she used for protection. She would have only done that if she knew was going to die.

How could he have been so wrong?

His shock continued to drown out the conversation they were having, to the point of which he only caught onto odd words. Sherlock's mind raced with all the questions the world could have and yet also ran with stunned silence.

Alive...

Dead...

DNA...only as good as...records...

Mistake...

Flirted...

Outlive God...

Special...

Jealous...

Couple...

Not dead...

Dinner...

Sherlock's phone sighed and the echo carried into the other room.

Drawn out of his trance, he flashed a glance at the text:

~I'm not dead. Let's have dinner. - I.A.~

Realising they had heard him, he fumbled to turn off his phone and rushed out of the power station, truly shaken by the revelation.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

As he neared the flat, still processing Irene's faked death, he found that he didn't really feel like he was walking. Autopilot had taken over and he felt like he was barely there.

He felt lost.

Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.

He heard his brother's words echo in his mind palace. Perhaps he was right. Look at what little care of a stranger's death had done to him.

To himself and to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth.

He had blanked her the entire week and all for nothing. And it wasn't like he had intended to either but The Woman's death had just caused him to shut down. But their relationship? What had he done to them? What had his mental and emotional absence done to her?

He reached the door to the apartment building, attempting to mentally prepare an apology to her.

But before he even put his hand on the door, an impending sense of dread hit him.

His eyes narrowed as his gaze fell upon the keyhole in the door.

It had been forced open.

Sherlock's emotion drained from his face once again as his mind ran through the worst case scenario. He walked in, quiet as a cat stalking it's prey, taking the time to absorb his surroundings.

221A was open.

There was a bucket of cleaning utensils in the hallway.

Where was Mrs Hudson?

Black scuff marks marked the side of the stairs.

Someone found it difficult to walk up them.

Why?

There were nail marks in the wallpaper.

Mrs Hudson was the one who the attackers found difficult to carry up the stairs. She had struggled against them.

He knew nothing about Elizabeth's situation.

His gaze, now full of a cold fury, travelled up the stairs. If they were hurt, the people who had done this would pay in any way he saw fit.

Seconds later, Sherlock pushed the door open to 221B, only to be confronted with the men from the CIA that had also been after Irene. A quick glance at the three other agents and Sherlock could tell that Elizabeth had put up some fight when he saw the bad cut on side of one of the men's head.

Mrs Hudson had been sat in a chair in front of Neilson, who held a gun to her head. The old woman shook with terror and relief when she saw the detective.

"Oh Sherlock, Sherlock..."

"Don’t snivel, Mrs Hudson, it will do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet." He paused switching his gaze from the landlady to Mr Neilson, "What a tender world that would be."

He was glad to see that Mrs Hudson was alive, but where was Elizabeth. He didn't think she would have the heart to hide while Mrs Hudson took the brunt of their beating. His stomach turned. In his mind he prayed that she was alright.

"Oh please, Sherlock, sorry Sherlock." Mrs Hudson sobbed.

Neilson spoke, disregarding the trauma he had caused, "I believe you have something that we want, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock approached Mrs Hudson, "Then why don’t you ask for it?"

"Sher..." Mrs Hudson sniffled again as he moved the sleeve on her arm to see it had been bruised.

"Oh, I’ve been asking this one. She doesn’t seem to know anything. Neither did the other one."

Sherlock observed the damage they had done to his dear landlady. The tear of her cardigan and bleeding cut on her face only made the anger in him boil more. Especially when he was that Neilson’s ring had Mrs Hudson's blood on it.

"But you know what I’m asking for, don’t you, Mr Holmes?"

As Sherlock looked up to Neilson’s face again, he began thinking of all the ways he could exact his revenge on him. He pinpointed particular areas on him that he knew would cause the most pain if damaged. And he hadn't even seen what they had done to Elizabeth yet.

"I believe I do."

Mrs Hudson murmured again, "Oh, please, help."

"First, get rid of your boys." The detective demanded as he backed away from them.

"Why?"

"I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room."

"You two," Neilson motioned with his head, "Go to the car."

"Then get into the car and drive away." A bemused smile crossed his lips, "Don’t try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn’t work."

The three extra men left, the last throwing a look back into the kitchen. So, Elizabeth was there. Why wasn't she talking? What had they done to her?

"Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me."

"So you can point a gun at me?"

Sherlock raised his arms, "I’m unarmed."

"Mind if I check?"

"Oh, I insist." 

As Neilson approached, he patted Sherlock down in search for weapons of any sort. He searched his front and then migrated round to Sherlock's back but while he was there, Sherlock grabbed a bottle of spray and whipped around, spraying the substance in Neilson’s eyes. The CIA agent let out a cry of pain, but it didn't last long as the detective reared back and violently headbutted the agent in his face.

Neilson fell back on the coffee table and Sherlock flipped the can in his hand triumphantly.

"Moron."

"You’re all right now, you’re all right." He calmed Mrs Hudson down and looked in the direction of the kitchen.

"Please, check her, Sherlock." Mrs Hudson sobbed, "She hasn't said anything for so long now."

Sherlock's heart stopped and he swallowed. Look at that, he was scared. Just as scared as he was for her on the night Scarlett had stabbed her. He made his way over to her with an air of urgency.

Elizabeth was slumped forward in her chair, her brown hair wet. Her chair had been placed directly in front of the sink. Around her chair was a puddle of water. Beside the sink was a wet cloth.

They waterboarded her.

He crouched beside her, leaning Elizabeth back in the chair, checking for her pulse and for her breathing - both of which were okay. This gave him a little sense of relief. But the relief was drowned out by vexation once again when he saw the cut and bruise on the side of her head.

Neilson would pay for this.

"Elizabeth?" Sherlock gently rubbed a bit of diluted blood off her cheek and shook her gently, "Elizabeth, wake up."

She groaned, only coming round slightly. She slurred in a hoarse voice, "I don't know..."

"Elizabeth, it's Sherlock. You're going to be okay." He started to untie the bonds that had been used to secure her to the chair.

Her eyes opened slightly. She found her head still pounded and her sight a little disrupted. Again she groaned at the overwhelming brightness of the kitchen light. Once untied, she slumped forwards again but Sherlock caught her.

"The Americans..."

"Have been taken care of. Almost." He expressed the 't' sharply, knowing that whatever he chose to do to Neilson would have to hurt. Big time.

"Mrs Hudson..."

"Will be okay." He picked her up bridal style and carried her to the sofa in the living room, gently placing her by the landlady, "Can you look after her for a moment?"

The landlady nodded her head.

And then Sherlock got to work. He went to the kitchen to grab the rope that Neilson’s men had tied Elizabeth to the chair with, and old dishcloth and some duct tape. Then he maneuvered the CIA ringleader into the chair that Mrs Hudson had been sat in and bound him securely to it before he woke. Sherlock then proceeded to write a note:

CRIME IN PROGRESS
PLEASE DISTURB

And bolted downstairs to stick it on the door to the apartment building. He was sure John would see it when he returned soon.

Back upstairs, he found Elizabeth coming to a little bit more. She was sat up next to Mrs Hudson. Both women held each other reassuringly, even if Elizabeth's grip was a little weak. He paused, gazing softly at them both before turning to glare at the still unconscious Neilson.

Oh, there would be hell to pay.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

A short while later, John finally arrived back, practically tumbling into 221B out of concern at seeing the note on the door.

"What's going on?"

When he saw Neilson, now awake with a broken, bloodied nose, his brow furrowed.

"Jeez." John blinked in disbelief, "What the hell is happening?"

Sherlock was sat by the door in another chair, aiming Neilson’s gun at him while awaiting his favourite official detective to answer his phone call.

"Mrs Hudson and Elizabeth have been attacked by an American." Sherlock continued with a menacing statement, "I’m restoring balance to the universe."

Elizabeth, whose hair was drying in odd places, was even more aware now. She was sat in a chair, closest to Neilson, shooting daggers at him while sinisterly twirling the fire poker on the floor, teasing the whole world of hurt he would experience. Mrs Hudson remained on the sofa, still shaken by the events.

"Oh, Mrs Hudson," John headed over the poor woman, "My God. Are you all right? Elizabeth, what about you?" John glared Neilson as he asked this.

"I'm doing as well as one can be after being waterboarded." Replied Elizabeth croakily, not daring to take her eyes off Neilson for a single second.

John put his arm around Mrs Hudson as he took in this information, "Jesus, what have they done to the both of you?"

Mes Hudson covered her face with her hands, "Oh, I’m just being so silly."

John reassured her, "No, no."

Sherlock stood, still aiming the gun at the intruder and looked at John, "Downstairs. Take them downstairs and look after them.

And John got to it, helping Mrs H up, "All right, it’s all right. I’ll have a look at that."

"I’m fine, I’m fine." She muttered tearfully, making her way to the stairs.

John approached Sherlock, "Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?"

"I expect so. Now go."

John nodded and looked at the thief, "Elizabeth?"

"I'll stay."

"Elizabeth, you should go." Sherlock insisted.

"I said I'll stay." She looked at both men, a similar malevolent look in her eyes as Sherlock.

When John saw the worse cut and bruise on the side of her head he hesitated before leaving. He should really take a look at it...but her gaze said she was not up for an argument. Sherlock didn't push her either. So reluctantly, John left to go and tend to Mrs Hudson.

He finally got through to Greg, "Lestrade. We've had a break-in at Baker Street, send your least irritating officers and an ambulance...Oh, no, no, no, no, no, we're fine..." Sherlock walked over to the table, glancing out of the window as he put the gun down, "No, it's the, uh, burglar, he's got himself rather badly injured. Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull, suspected punctured lung..."

As Sherlock reeled off this injuries, Elizabeth smirked at seeing Neilson’s reaction. The fear in his eyes amused her. She could have sworn his gaze was actually attempting to wordlessly beg her not to let anything happen to him.

He should have thought about that before he tortured her and hurt Mrs Hudson.

She might have been a little more sympathetic then.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at Neilson, a vengeful glint in his eye as he said, "He fell out of a window."

He hung up the phone and placed it on the table, strolling over to Neilson and bending forwards until his face was right in front of the agent's.

Sherlock spoke eerily calmly but the fury was evident in his eyes, "I want you to listen very carefully: The people who reside here are under my protection. I will do anything to make sure they are safe. Today you breached that safety and now you are going to learn the consequence. See to it that after this, you don't come near us ever again. Are we clear?"

Neilson made no sound. Just stared.

Sherlock ripped the tape off of his mouth and repeated, "Are. We. Clear?"

"Crystal."

Sherlock stood up straight again and looked to Elizabeth and then back at Neilson, "Apologise to her."

"Why?"

"I'll give you the mercy of knowing you've done one relatively good thing in case you die. Some head traumas can be irreparable."

Neilson looked to Elizabeth, "I apologise, Miss Parrish."

Her tone was still harsh from the soreness of her throat, "Apology not accepted."

Neilson looked back up to Sherlock.

The detective shrugged, "I didn't say she had to accept it. You would have been extremely lucky if she did, considering what you put her through."

Elizabeth stood, albeit a little shakily, and looked around at the windows, "So which one?"

"I'll let you choose, least I can do." Sherlock said.

She looked at the two windows again and shook her head, "They're too low down. I'm afraid he won't get an punctured lung from here."

"Good to know we're on the same page."

"Great. From John's room?"

"From John's Room."

Elizabeth held onto the poker tightly as Sherlock grabbed the gun and went over to untie Neilson.

They would make him walk to his demise.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

John was dabbing a damp cotton ball on Mrs Hudson's cut cheek. The antiseptic would sterilise the small wound but even so she flinched.

"Ooh, it stings."

John remained in doctor mode, focused on his patient.

A sudden crash from outside 221A's kitchen window stole their attention. They heard a pitiful groan. Not that they cared too much though.

All Mrs Hudson could say was, "Oh. That was right on my bins."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

Sometime later, the sky grew dark early once again as it so often did in the winter. The ambulance zoomed away with a very broken Neilson in the back. Sherlock, Lestrade and Elizabeth all stood on the pavement, watching the ambulance go.

Greg felt the need to ask, "And exactly how many times did he fall out the window?"

"It’s all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector." Sherlock paused as he looked at him, "I lost count."

Lestrade sighed silently, not even daring to reply but did look to Elizabeth who shrugged, "You sure you don't want us to escort you to a hospital?"

"I'm fine knowing the intruder will be immobile for while."

Lestrade nodded, glancing back to Sherlock who continued to act clueless, before leaving for his car. The detective and thief shared a look before heading back into 221. They went in through Mrs Hudson's apartment's backdoor, where she was sat with John at her kitchen table.

"She’ll have to sleep upstairs in our flat tonight." John said when they walked in, "We need to look after her."

"No." Mrs Hudson disagreed with the suggestion.

"She’s fine." The detective said nonchalantly as he looked in her fridge, feeling a little peckish after all the excitement.

"No, she’s not. Look at her."

"Sherlock, you don't know what they were like." Elizabeth added, agreeing with John.

"I can see perfectly well what they were like." Sherlock noted, getting a mince pie out of the fridge, "And I saw to it that their ringleader was made an example of because of it." He kicked the fridge door closed.

"She’s got to take some time away from Baker Street." John prescribed, "She can go and stay with her sister. Doctor’s orders."

"Don’t be absurd." Sherlock frowned.

Elizabeth went to lean against the kitchen counter, her head still throbbing.

"She’s in shock, for God’s sake, and all over some bloody stupid camera phone. Where is it, anyway?"

Sherlock took a bite of the mince pie and looked at Mrs Hudson, "Safest place I know." 

"You left it in the pocket of your second-best dressing gown, you clot." Mrs Hudson dropped her worried expression, switching to a more fed up one as she pulled the phone out of her bra, "I managed to sneak it out when they thought I was having a cry."

Sherlock took the phone, flipping it in his hand before pocketing the item, "Thank you. Shame on you, John Watson." He went to hug the dear landlady.

"Shame on me?!"

"Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall."

The landlady smiled as she patted Sherlock's hand. Elizabeth was stunned. John was confused. And Sherlock was proud. Proud and also worried about the conversation that he, Elizabeth and John would have upstairs.