"Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong."

Sherlock Holmes was a murderer. Most would say a fitting end for a murderer was death. A life for a life. In fact, if Sherlock had to choose, he'd take death over being trapped in a cage.

Mycroft knew that, of course, hence the mission, aside from utilizing Sherlock's skills for the last time. Sherlock was grateful. If one could be grateful when sent out to be executed.

It was June. Just over five months after he'd left England. His mission had been complicated, intricate, and specific. Eastern Europe had been overrun with a gang that had taken the place of Moriarty's network that Sherlock had dismantled a year previous. This group had stolen, bought, and otherwise acquired a massive amount of dangerous information. Relative to not only the governments of several major players in the world, but also to the safety of British citizens. Sherlock went in to dismantle and get rid of that information. Again.

Sherlock Holmes was a hero, a dragon slayer, one who would finish the job no matter the cost. Because it was the last thing he was going to do.

His five and a half months had left him exhausted, underfed, and broken. But a success. The first four hideouts had been infiltrated and the information deleted, destroyed, or otherwise prevented from being transmitted or copied. His body count at this point was thirty-five. Thirty-six including the murder that had saved his best friend and the only other person that made him happy. The murder that had put him here.

If anything, Sherlock would die knowing he did the right thing. He supposed that might have been a comfort. Especially now.

The fifth location had been the last one, and like the others he'd spent time infiltrating their operation. This one was in Paris, and had been the main European center for this network. Going undercover always had its risks. The information had disappeared in a flash drive thrown into the fire after everything on the computer systems had been deleted. He'd succeeded, the mission was over. And while he'd done what needed doing, he'd been caught.

That had been almost a week ago. Five days of no food, and nightly beatings. Pain and torment as his captors took out their frustrations at losing the vital knowledge. Revenge, compensation, whatever it was. It wasn't enough to kill him, but it was a pretty good taste for when they actually did plan on it.

Still, he was sure they'd finish him off soon. His deductions would only do so much more. There'd be no escape from this one, it was too heavily guarded and he'd been through the options based on his strength level. The people were getting ready to move again, their leader - a Frenchman named Moreau - was making a calculated decision based on what Sherlock had done. So when they came to fetch him for the sixth night, he'd resigned himself to the fact that he was probably going to die that day. It was the 10th of June, seemed like a good a day as any.

He hoped someone found his body. That Mycroft would come swooping in and take him home, even if it was too late. Proof that Sherlock Holmes had laid down his life and given away his freedom for John Watson, Mary Watson, and their daughter.

Sherlock had gotten a text from Mycroft that morning in February. It had been short and to the point. Josina Marie Sherlock Watson. Born the 7th of February. Family is healthy and well. -M

Sherlock didn't respond anything more than a statement of gratitude as a note to say he was still alive.

Maybe they'd just put a bullet in his head and be done with it. That's what he'd done for Magnussen. Merciful: a scalpel instead of a hammer. But there'd be no such mercy for Sherlock, no brother venturing into the Serbian wilderness to save him, no army doctor to protect him, no clever deductions.

The first half hour had started as it usually did, stringing him up by his wrists, blows with a fist and threats to get information. Who sent you? What's your name? Do you have a partner? Then they got creative, a metal pipe was next. His mind unable to not turn through all the problems his transport would be experiencing: massive bruising, broken ribs, abrasions, sleep deprivation, dehydration, infections, lack of nourishment.

He'd kept his cries and vocalizations to a minimum. But was unable to contain them all. Eventually, his head dropped, lulling onto his chest. He'd lost the feeling in his hands, as well as the strength to hold himself up on the balls of his feet. He'd been stripped down to his dirty boxers days ago. He was the picture of vulnerability…a victim at the hands of a merciless oppressor.

Please God, let me die…

When they stopped, he was still alive. But there was something, they weren't done…his exhausted brain couldn't figure it out. And the three people in the room disappeared out the door, leaving Sherlock hanging. Quite literally.

A modicum of hope surged through him. He was alone, which means he could escape. Escape to be shot on the street, of course, but at least there was a chance. He'd rather be shot than beat to death. So he started working frantically, pulling with the little bit of strength he had left.

Finally and almost miraculously, the rope loosened. Sherlock collapsed. He landed with a soft grunt when his broken body hit the cement floor of the abandoned building. It took a few seconds to get orientated, but he lifted himself off of the ground as adrenaline surged through him and he headed to the door.

Later, he wouldn't remember the escape. Whatever was happening with the people holding him captive was enough that they just weren't around to stop him. He didn't care. For right now…all he had to do was get out of there, find somewhere safe, and collapse.

He made it outside, running nearly naked through the dirty underbelly of Paris' ghetto. But, he didn't get much farther before his transport ultimately gave up on him.

Sherlock Holmes was an abused man, a nobody, a nameless face, and currently marked for death. He collapsed in the back alleyway of nowhere, betting on either dying there or being found by the gang again and killed anyways. The latter seemed the likeliest, they couldn't be that far behind. It seemed like a good a spot as any. He simply couldn't continue.

His mind provided him with the next steps. He couldn't hide, and the mercenaries would eventually find him. They'd be quiet, silencers, no shouting. They'd keep him there, or maybe drag him into a building as they waited for Moreau to show. Then they'd kill him. Hopefully just a silent shot to the chest or head. They might be angry enough to beat him to death, he couldn't deduce that for sure. Hard cold metal would meet vulnerable flesh, over and over again. Internal bleeding, broken bones, blunt force trauma...Death.

Death was unavoidable. He'd been running from it for too long already; he cheated the grave over and over again with the help of his best friend. The one he died for.

No, he wasn't dead yet, but balance of probability suggested he would be. Maybe it was time. There was a proper time to die, after all.

So the broken man slumped against the brick wall next to a door, fading in and out of consciousness as he prayed for the bullet to take him as painlessly as possible.