Was in the mood fo Sherlock apparently this week and finished up this episode! Things are definitely going to change though with all the stuff Sam has accomplished. So be prepared for some differences late on ;)

"Do you like sharks?"

Sherlock blinked at me in surprise—the return to London fairly uneventful as I sent a text to Mycroft.

It's not your girlfriend.

Stop being silly and think.

"What?"

"Sharks. Reef tip, mako, tiger, great white. Shame that last one can't really survive in an aquarium." My brows furrowed. "Maybe I should go diving…"

Sherlock sighed, reaching over and sliding the mug of coffee off the table and dumping the dredges into the sink. "This was your fourth?"

"Sixth," I corrected, body bouncing in both anxiety for what was going to happen and the caffeine pumping through me.

I hadn't been able to sleep and had just started to get tired, only to know that I couldn't rest now. Someone was about to get shot and—precautions or not—I wasn't about to miss out and risk something going wrong.

"We really need to get you another habit."

"Can't smoke, can't drink, can't have a cuppa, can't get high. What exactly am I allowed to do?" I said shortly, wincing immediately at the sign of my temper and quickly retracting my harshness. "Sorry."

"Don't apologize," he argued softly, pondering something before speaking once more. "Why sharks? And don't tell me it's because we're chasing a predator. You're rarely so poetic."

My lip twitched up at that. "London Aquarium. She spends her Friday nights there."

"Why?" Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose in disgust and sending a text to John and Mary as he grabbed our coats.

Like a gentleman, he helped me with mine as I looked at Mycroft's response.

I don't have a girlfriend, thank you.

Who is it then?

A small snort of amusement escaped me as I texted back and answered Sherlock.

"Sentiment and she likes to watch the fish."

Someone close to her with access.

London Aquarium.

I looked up from my phone as I climbed into the cab after him. "And the vests?"

He passed me one from a bag on the floor that we retrieved from Lestrade that morning. "John and Mary already have theirs. Mycroft as well, though he's not pleased. What girlfriend?"

I rolled my eyes, tucking my phone away. Of course, he was eavesdropping my texts. "Smallwood," I replied. "Though he won't ever admit it, he tolerates her more than… What's the word he uses? Goldfish?"

Sherlock smirked at that, adjusting his own scarf and coat to better hide the Kevlar vest. "I'll be sure to use that."

"Please don't. He already texts me more than I need to, and aren't you tired of his snide comments about us? Doing it back will only make him even less intolerable."

"But it will be funny," he argued. "Very rarely do I get to see my brother squirm."

I sighed, knowing I wasn't going to convince him otherwise. He'll always be a child at heart, won't he? "Fine. I'll allow it if you do me a favor."

He raised a brow in question, eyeing me curiously. It was rare I asked him for anything.

"Don't egg her on."

He frowned as we pulled up to the aquarium. "What?"

"You know what I mean," I grumbled, getting out and continuing as we walked to where we needed to be. "I've altered events enough that we'll have backup sooner than expected, and we're all protected, but if you push her to the edge and if—by some happenstance—she manages to notice the vests? Her anger could chance to a bullet to the head and nothing can protect anyone from that."

"You're not confident."

I rubbed my hand over my face, having tried to explain this to him on the plane trip home as well. "I believe there is a high chance nothing will happen, and everything will be fine. However, I'm not willing to doubt that there's a tiny possibility that something could change. Maybe she shoots someone in the head. Maybe the bullet managed to get all the way through the vest. Maybe the vest catches the bullet, but the damage it does causes a blood clot to kill the person three months from now. Anything is possible, Sherlock. I can't ignore that."

His frown deepened. "But they are actions out of your control. You can't focus on that."

"No. I can't, but I can worry."

He sighed, frustrated with me but there was nothing more he could say. Not with our killer finally within sight. She sat alone on a bench, staring at the fish as they swam around in a tank with sharks idly floating by as well.

"Your office said we'd find you here," Sherlock lied, drawing her attention to us.

"This was always my favorite spot for agents to meet. We're like them: ghostly, living in the shadows."

Sherlock eyed the shark that swam past the glass. "Predatory."

My lips twitched and I forced a cough to cover up the chuckle that wanted to spill out at our little inside joke. Sherlock's subtle wink in my direction nearly broke me, but thankfully the elder woman across from us—Vivian Norbury—didn't notice.

"Well, it depends on which side you're on. Also, we have to keep moving or we die."

"Nice location for the final act. Couldn't have chosen it better myself. But then I never could resist a touch of the dramatic. Sam can confirm that."

I grunted in agreement. A trait both him and Mycroft share that neither would admit.

"I just come here to look at the fish," Vivian mused, and I sent Sherlock an I-told-you-so look. "I knew this would happen one day. It's like that old story."

"We really are busy people. Might even be able to catch dinner if we're quick. Would you mind cutting to the chase?" Sherlock interrupted, surprising me with the prospect of dinner afterward.

O-or does he mean a date? No. No, he can't, right?

"You're very sure of yourself, aren't you?" Vivian scoffed.

"With good reason," Sherlock declared, sparing me a look that had me quickly looking away.

Vivian glanced between the two of us but went into her little story anyway. "There was once a merchant in a famous market in Baghdad."

Sherlock groaned immediately. "I really have never liked this story. Does everyone use this story?"

I blinked at the question aimed my way. "Um, not that I know of. Just her and your brother, I think. I'd honestly never heard of it up until recently."

Vivian again cut in, seeming to be getting tired of our banter when we probably should've been at least a little intimidated by her. Not my fault she's hardly terrifying with all the stuff we've gone through. Hate to say it, but she's really just a secretary. We've had far worse villains.

"I'm just like the merchant in the story. I thought I could outrun the inevitable. I've always been looking over my shoulder; always expecting to see the grim figure of—"

"Death," Mary interrupted, entering and coming up beside us as she frowned at the source of all our troubles.

"Hello, Mary," Sherlock greeted.

"Hey."

"John?"

"On his way."

"Baby and Ein," I reminded Sherlock.

"Ah, right. Mary, let me introduce Amo."

"You were Amo? You were the person on the phone that time?" She said in disbelief, looking to me for a confirming nod that I gave her.

"Using A.G.R.A. as her private assassination unit," Sherlock confirmed.

I may not have told him anything about her, but he was smart. He was picking up the breadcrumbs I'd let trail after me and connecting the dots.

"Why did you betray us?" Mary asked.

"Greed, like I said," I explained, eyeing Vivian as she stood and cracked a smile—though my gaze drifted to her small handbag, knowing what was hidden inside.

"Well, it would be churlish to refuse. Worked very well for a few years. I bought a nice cottage in Cornwall on the back of it. But the ambassador in Tbilisi found out. I thought I'd had it." Vivian glanced between us all before chuckling. "Then, she was taken hostage in that coup. I couldn't believe my luck! That bought me a little time."

"But then you found out your boss had sent A.G.R.A. in," Sherlock concluded.

"Very handy. They were always such reliable killers."

Mary flinched when I lightly touched the back of her clenched fist with my hand. I knew this was tough on her back when it was all still just a show. Being here now, I could see all the tells that brought about her frustration with the woman and—ultimately—what played a part in getting her killed.

"What you didn't know, Mary, was that this one also tipped off the hostage-takers," Sherlock said, as Vivian explained in a bit more detail as she sat back down.

"Lady Smallwood gave the order, but I sent another one to the terrorists with a nice little clue about her code name should anyone have an enquiring mind. Seemed to do the trick."

"And you thought your troubles were over," Mary snarled in understanding.

"I was tired," Vivian sighed. "Tired of the mess of it all. I just wanted some peace, some clarity. The hostages were killed, A.G.R.A. too. Or so I thought. My secret was safe, but apparently not. Just a little peace. That's all you wanted too, wasn't it? A family, home. Really, I understand."

"You don't understand anything," I bit out, allowing some of my own temper to show at her words. "If you wanted peace, you shouldn't have started this mess in the first place. God, were you really that jealous? That upset?"

"What?"

I'd rushed the plot a bit. I could see that, but it was hardly important. I, much like Sherlock, didn't handle people threatening those close to me well. Her treating herself and Mary similarly rubbed me the wrong way and all the stress that had been piling up on me because of her little stunt was finally coming to a head. Because that's all it was. Little. A tiny thorn in my side when I needed my full focus to be on Eros and the psychopath (Goddammit! What's his name!) who were the bigger threats to everything we'd built up. So, if anyone was tired, it was me.

"Sam," Sherlock said lowly, a warning because Vivian's hand was in her purse now and we all knew what rested within.

I still had my confidence though. The weight of the Kevlar vest making me feel that tiny bit safe enough to let loose. Just enough to get this over with so I could go back to our flat, have a nice meal and finally fucking sleep.

"I'd nearly forgotten about this bit," I complained, taking a step forward as Sherlock grabbed my arm—stopping me from getting too close as she whipped out the pistol. "The greed was the only part that stuck because the rest of your reasoning was just so damn dull."

Her grip adjusted on the pistol and her eyes were narrowed at me for my words. "I was never a field agent. I always thought I'd be rather good," she commented cautiously, making Mary scoff at the thought.

"Well, you handled the operation in Tbilisi very well," Sherlock grumbled, giving my arm a squeeze in an attempt to let me know he was questioning what was going on; his words just a distraction.

My blood was boiling though. I was angry and frustrated. I realized now how stupid I was, to have been so focused on saving Mary when the problem was just as easy as bullet-proof vests to prevent an idiotic secretary from completing her plan because she was bored. She'd caused me so much trouble. The panic attacks, the insomnia, the nightmares upon nightmares of Mary dying, John screaming, Sherlock beaten and empty. She had ruined me because she was stupid, and I wasn't about to let her hurt anyone without getting a proper ribbing for it first.

"You're just a bored, goddamn secretary," I spat. "Sitting there every day at your little desk just got too boring for you. Never getting anywhere, always being the coffee runner, the notetaker, the filer. Just clock in, get treated like dirt, then returning to your tiny little flat because you wasted all that money you got on some cottage you never actually use."

"You don't know that."

"Please. You work for the government and are the bottom of the totem pole. As if you get proper vacation days. And even if you did, who'd you spend it with?" I challenged. "You're obviously widowed. Wedding ring's ancient and you've moved it to another finger," I pointed out, having noticed it earlier and not actually remembering the small details of when Sherlock took her down a peg like the show. "You've got a ridiculous amount of hair on your clothes—cats probably because elderly can't upkeep that many dogs on their own."

"Sam," Mary said now, seeing why Sherlock had been trying to stop me.

I was on a roll though. I wasn't about to quit now. Not when she was looking at me like I was reading her soul for them to see. She deserves this and worse for what she could do—what she's done.

"And let's not even bother mentioning that you spend Fridays sitting here watching fish of all things while the rest of your nights are you stuck in front of the tele drinking yourself silly. You don't seem like the type to get high, after all, and I know hand tremors anywhere. So, go on. Deny it. Try to deny that you went off and manipulated people into killing each other out of jealousy and boredom like a goddamn fool," I spat as Mycroft and Lestrade stepped in; the Holmes brother pointing a clear frown at the secretary.

"Well, Mrs. Norbury. I must admit this is unexpected."

"Vivian Norbury, who thought she'd outsmarted them all," I huffed, allowing Sherlock to tug me back a bit as he gave the woman a look.

"There's no way out."

"So, it would seem," Vivian admitted. "Though, maybe I can still surprise you, Mr. Holmes."

The gun was lifted back up with steadier hands, aiming right for him as Lestrade groaned.

"Come on. Be sensible."

"No, I don't think so," she replied, and I didn't expect her to turn the gun and fire. "Surprise."

I hadn't even noticed what happened at first before my left shoulder throbbed and pain blossomed. I stumbled back as Sherlock called out my name and rushed over—Lestrade's men restraining Vivian as my knees buckled. I brought a hand shakily to my shoulder, grimacing at the red on my fingers and spitting a curse.

"T-That son of a bitch."

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief, dropping his head as Vivian looked surprised.

"What?"

"Did you honestly think we wouldn't expect you to come armed?" Mycroft scoffed, looking over to where I sat on the ground, still cursing under my breath as Sherlock pulled open my coat to reveal the vest and the chunk missing from the shoulder of it. "Should I call an ambulance?"

"I'm fine," I hissed as John knelt beside me and checked at my shoulder.

"She'll need stitches," he confirmed but gave Mycroft a small smile. "But she'll be okay."

"Stupid piece of sh—"

"Sam," John scolded, rolling his eyes as he pulled away my shirt slightly to get a better look at the injury.

I'd gotten lucky, or—depending on how you looked at it—unlucky. While everything had gone right (Mary's alive. She's alive. G-God, I did it. Mary's alive!) someone had still gotten hurt. Go figure, it was me. The bullet hadn't quite hit the mark, what with Vivian's shaky hands. Instead, it clipped the shoulder strap and slipped right off it only to skim part of my shoulder. It wasn't anything too bad, but the bruising from the impact had me doubled over slightly and would definitely be a nice vibrant shade of violet by the time we got back home. Not to mention the stitches needed for the gash. But Mary's alive and Sherlock's safe and Vivian is going to prison. A smile stretched over my face and a giddy chuckle escaped me, making the group eye one another in uncertainty.

"We did it," I said breathlessly, unable to help the tears coming to my eyes as a heavy weight slid off my shoulders. "W-We actually did it."

Arms wrapped around me, careful to avoid my shoulder, and I held tightly onto Sherlock's coat as a broken sob escaped me with our accomplishment.

Sherlock handed Sam her food, eyeing her for any sign of pain even though he knew John had given her something to help. Sam carefully placed the take-out between her knees, managing to get the chopsticks situated in her free hand—John demanded she wear a sling for now due to the bruising and injury, so she only had one hand available. Sherlock wanted to help but knew she wouldn't want it, and he honestly thought the little furrow between her brows was rather cute. It was definitely a large improvement in comparison to the stress that had been lining her face up until now, and he'd honestly been relieved when she'd laughed earlier—as hysterical as it had been at the time.

Their date had been reduced to a night in which Sam apparently didn't mind at all, but there were a few things he wanted to talk to her about. It just came down to how to bring it up. She was finally somewhat relaxed, and he didn't want to cause her added stress but what she had said before bothered him. And he also wanted to get a better idea of what was ahead of them.

"What, Sherlock?"

"Hm?" He hummed, turning to Sam innocently.

She always seemed to know when he had something to say, even when he knew he wasn't giving anything away. Sam ate another bite of her food, eyeing him steadily, though the exhaustion radiating off of her was apparent. She won't last the night, Sherlock mused. She probably won't finish her meal and will fall asleep within the hour. I won't have long to question her. So, begrudgingly, he gave in.

"You told me not to egg her on."

Sam's semi-stern expression fell into a sheepish one, turning her head away. "Yeah, well… I guess I'm a bit of a hypocrite, then."

"You were angry," he added, earning a nod.

"I was… frustrated. I've been so… I've been a mess and overthinking and everything. There was no reason. Not when it was such an easy solution. She is so… small compared to everything else. I don't know why I was so bothered."

"Because of Mary," Sherlock said, understanding.

"Yes, but all we needed was Kevlar. It was so simple, and I was just…" She ran a hand of frustration through her hair. "Being stupid."

"While you were overthinking," Sherlock started, earning a roll of her eyes that made him crack a slight smile (She would have been cringing in shame before.), "you were only concerned for Mary."

"Sentiment," Sam grumbled, sounding very much like Mycroft in that moment, which made Sherlock frown.

"A feeling that ensured her safety," he countered, taking her food from her since she'd stopped eating and stepping away to put it in the fridge. "You did your best to keep her safe and succeeded. I do believe that allows you some lenience in regards to snapping at her. You were the only thing preventing me from doing the same."

Sam yawned. "You give me too much credit."

"I give you all the credit you deserve," he countered, leaning over and kissing her temple, mildly amused by the pleased hum he got in return. Too tired to be embarrassed, though no witnesses could also explain it. "Anything I should know about what's coming up?"

He regretted mentioning it almost immediately, seeing the weight of the question drag Sam's shoulders down once more.

"Sorry."

Sam shook her head. "It's fine. I just… I'm not sure what I can say. I'm… forgetting things. It's been a while, so the details are… you know." She waved a hand vaguely at her head. "It's why I made notes. To try and remember as much as I could. I'd have to check them."

"Then…" Sherlock sat on the table, facing her and taking her hand to rub circles on the back of it with his thumb. "What have you changed thus far?"

Sam frowned immediately. "A lot. Maybe too much."

Sherlock sighed softly, not intending to upset her. "Sam."

She relaxed a bit with a small sigh of her own. "I'm… not sure of the consequences of my actions. John was supposed to get a new therapist."

"We can arrange—"

"No," Sam cut him off, eyes latching onto his seriously. "A specific therapist. I said things were going to get messy from here on out, and I wasn't joking. Someone has been trying to crawl their way into his life to get to you, Sherlock."

He frowned. "Who?"

She shook her head. "You know I can't tell you."

"A hint then?"

Sam's gaze became sorrowful, making Sherlock start to worry. The last time he'd seen that sort of pained look in her eyes was back when Moriarty was planning on killing him on that roof.

"They're close to you and you know them, but… they're not… right. Everything they did and are going to do, it's… traumatizing."

Sherlock was quiet, rolling these words through his mind and eventually tucking them away to think about later. There were other clues he could get about the future, and he best get them now before Sam closed herself off or fell asleep in her seat.

"What else did you change?"

"Mary's not dead, so we have an extra player, but…" She pursed her lips. "I want to keep her as far out of this as possible. She could be helpful to us but it's more likely that she would only end up getting hurt or being a hostage—as stupid as that sounds with her being an assassin."

"So, we keep Mary quiet and out of the way. Should be easy enough with Ein and Rosamund."

"And then, there's you," Sam grumbled. "For the next case, you were supposed to have been drugged. Distraught about Mary's death and John's hatred of you for allowing her to die, you started using again. A… client was supposed to show up and you were too high to take in the details you need to recognize them later. I… I think?" She rubbed at her temples. "I-I don't… It might just be a-a drug-induced hallucination? God, that show really was a mess."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "Show? Hold on. I thought we agreed on getting drunk?"

"It might not work," she muttered, her expression tired, heartbroken, dangerous. "Someone might have to… You might have to… I-I might—"

"No," Sherlock said sternly, keeping a firm hold of her hand that had shifted towards her arm ever so slightly. "I won't let you."

"And I won't let you," she hissed, eyes sharp and determined, grabbing his hand now.

Sherlock felt his heart swell, having missed this strength of hers while also wanting to see her mind working properly as well. All the stress had it tucked away in the back of her head, making deductions difficult. He'd seen the slightest hint of it when she was yelling at Norbury, but he wanted to witness the whole thing. She was finally calm and relaxed enough to do things properly, and he wanted to see it.

"So, how do we change things?"

For a second, the strength in her eyes wavered. "I-I don't—"

"Yes, you do, Sam." He turned his hand back around, clasping it around hers. "You like thinking about possibilities. Give me some and make your deductions."

A hint of hesitation, then the spark returned.

"They were going after John."

"Why?"

"He was close to you. He was family. He…" Sam's mind clicked. "He was an opening."

"And what does that mean now?"

"I've closed off the routes. Prevented them from being the therapist, from slipping in. They'll either try another path or—"

"Or come after someone new."

"Me," Sam concluded, unconsciously tightening her grip on his hand.

"Possibly," he admitted, not wanting to. "We can take precautions."

Sam shook her head, relaxing once more. "If we keep diverting them, they'll grow more unpredictable. I'd rather they come after me than—"

"Than someone else?" Sherlock said sharply. "Sam, you can't keep—"

"Sherlock," she cut him off. "This isn't like before. It's not a game like with Moriarty. This isn't a spider pulling the strings. They're not a snake sliding in the grass like Magnussen. Or a shark like Norbury. This is personal. Take the biggest, smartest predator in the world and take away its ability to feel, give it a present. Give it a scent—your scent—and then what?"

"What?" Sherlock asked, mind trying to tear apart the riddle.

"Wait, for the inevitable," Sam murmured, a chill running up his spine that made his hand loosen and slip away from her.

"You're afraid."

"Terrified."

"Of what?"

"Them."

"Who are they?"

"One person," Sam said, voice soft.

"Why use 'they,' 'them'?" Sherlock pressed, drawing her gaze up.

"Because I can't give away anything. Not gender, not identity, not who they are or what they're capable of. The smallest slip up could mean…" Her expression went tight, skin paler than before. "I'm sorry. I-I can't…"

"It's fine," Sherlock said, the both of them knowing it wasn't fine.

His curiosity was piqued and his sense of uneasiness doubling, tripling even. He'd asked for a hint and he'd gotten one. One that just made things even more terrifying. Sam was scared of a lot of things. Things he understood (Moriarty, Magnussen, death, the future, his death), and things he didn't (cockroaches that scurried out from under the fridge when Mrs. Hudson forgot to call the exterminator, driving a vehicle for some odd reason—past trauma? No, shut up. Not now). But this? This was different. A different sort of fear. Something more primal that neither Sam nor he could fully explain.

Sherlock reached out, making her wince and close her eyes as his fingers brushed her cheek. His thumb rubbed just under her eye, digit coming away wet despite her doing her best to hold back the tears.

"I'm sorry," she apologized. "I-I want to do something. I wish I could just… just stop what's going to happen, but I can't. I-I don't know how. I-I-I don't know if there was anything I could do, anything I can do! I want to just tell you. I do, but I-I don't want to hurt you like they will. I-I can't."

"Sh, it's all right," Sherlock breathed, pressing his forehead against hers and closing his eyes wishing for all his life that he could take away some of the burdens she was forced to deal with.

It was why he was so willing to be with her. Why he was so desperate to hang onto her. She had always been so far out of reach. Someone so simple, so seemingly ordinary. Someone who went to school, had a family, studied and went to work. Yet, she had been standing on the other side of some unseen line no one had managed to cross. He stood the closest, reaching over in the hopes of pulling her over to his side or managing to drag himself over to hers because she didn't want to be alone. He could see that. He could see how capable she truly was as she held herself back, and by keeping her around—by allowing himself the chance to reach for her—they ended up helping each other in more ways than he thought possible.

But there was still one thing she couldn't trust with him. One impossible thing that kept her just barely out of his grasp. Her burden of knowing too much. Of seeing things they couldn't predict. It was like a vice tightening its grip on her more and more, controlling her and smothering everything she was and what she tried to be. His only hope was that she would forget the rest of this future entirely. He wanted her by his side, not this fragmented, damaged version of her that was being tugged around by something out of their control.

He let out a soft sigh. "Will we be safe?" He asked quietly, feeling her stiffen under his fingers but not pull away. "In the end, will everyone be okay?"

A small subtle nod was his answer.

"But… not everyone will be happy," she murmured.

"And that's okay," Sherlock replied honestly. "Because even if we're not happy then, we can learn how to be later."

Sam let out a small snort. "How poetic."

Sherlock too, cracked a smile, both opening their eyes as he asked her his final question. "Will you help me? Will you, Sam Holmes, always stand by my side?"

"If you'll have me."

"Always," he murmured, leaning in and placing a soft, earnest kiss against her lips that she responded to in kind.

Things were going to get a lot harder now, and they were the only two who understood just how bad it was going to get. Change was coming and on its coattails… was the East wind.