Author's Note: New season means its time to finish this. I did actually wait for the new season to start just to see if I got anywhere close to Mary's character/storyline. That awkward moment when you accidentally predicted some stuff in your fantasy AU. Oop. Please enjoy and thank you for your continued support!

Warnings for torture, violence, and general unpleasentness. Also unbeta'd, which I apologize for.

Chapter 12

Anticipation.

What sort of creature in Sherlock's long evolutionary line had developed such a feeling that had him tapping his foot on the carriage floor in impatience and excited anxiety? It thrummed within him, a beast of its own, having him glancing outside the window every few moments into the rapidly darkening sky. He knew this city as well as he knew his childhood home, have explored and sniffed down every nook and cranny during his long stay here in his fits of boredom, yet it did not stop him from wondering how long it would take to reach his destination.

Logically, he knew only five more minutes, but it ticked by at a dead pace, and Sherlock's insides squeezed as he begun to lay out the next hour, a simple exorcise to distract him. He would have half an hour with the criminal as Lestrade rallied his forces. Enough time to gloat, and coerce the man into answering anything Sherlock had yet to figure out. Simple. He'd have the case solved and enough information on Mary to get her back from where ever they had her and to finally close his curiosity on the woman.

Then he could be out of John's world for good, with any luck. He could go back to a normal boring life, and Sherlock would continue on elsewhere, possibly, if all went according to plan. The perfect ending to this disastrous charade. Mycroft would be infuriatingly proud.

The warehouse was a creaking monstrosity of a building as Sherlock arrived, large and menacing, though he hardly cared. All he wanted was what awaited him inside. There would be a trap, clearly, but Sherlock was confident in his own abilities. There was two ways this would end, one with Moriarty in chains and the other with the both of them dead.

Either way, Sherlock would be satisfied. He'd have his answers, and the head of a massive criminal network would be taken out. Mycroft could send agents to de-louse the rest of the worlds of his organization if tonight ended in ruin, which was enough to put Sherlock at ease. He kept his hand firmly onto the small glass vial in his pocket as he approached the warehouse, ready and willing. Everything was in place.

Tonight would be the end of it. That was for certain.

Sherlock, in his infinite knowledge of many things both great and small across the expanse of the realmverse, did not account for one single factor. He knew there'd be something to bar his way, and the enchantment that flares up under his feet within seconds of entering the vast warehouse's main hall is of no surprise. In order to harm him in any way, Moriarty would have to cross into the glowing ring of runes surrounding Sherlock, putting risk to himself as well. Sherlock hardly cared to be trapped.

What did give him pause, and throw, in a purely metaphorical sense, a boulder in the midst of his plans sat tethered to the ground across the room, surrounded by a similar enchant. Suddenly the vial in his pocket, which when opened and when the liquid inside met the oxygen in the air around, releasing a gas that would choke the life out of anyone unfortunate enough to breath, was null and void.

"Mary?" Sherlock asked, immediately striving to go to her, but the seal blocked his path. It veered to vibrant red life the moment he reached out, shocking him back into place. Mary opened her eyes, a soft look to her as she straightened herself and greeted him. There was a bruise blossoming on her cheek and blood ran thick down her split brow. He had expected her to be miles from here, hidden away to taunt Sherlock with one final puzzle. "You're hurt."

Clearly, he had been wrong.

"Well," She started, shifting gently against her bonds, which dug uncomfortably tight into her wrists. "I've certainly been better." She cracked a smile, placating, but Sherlock was having none of it. A chill ran down him at the sight of the binding words surrounding. His were loose but purposeful, glowing softly to keep him in place. Mary's were tight and thick, an ancient novel compared to his pamphlet, the runes so numerous and precise, it must've taken hours to perfect. The necklace in his other pocket now seemed completely irrelevant as well.

"I supposed so." He chokes out, and they stare at one another, one thing blatantly clear. Both of their plans, whatever her's may be, were useless. "Where is he?" Sherlock asks, ignoring the implications. A cog in the wheel, Mary here and tethered in place to the ground. The line was a sturdy rope, tied to her wrists behind her back and giving her just enough room to pace the circle if needed. "Has he-"

Mary shook her head, "No, no thankfully." She struggles to stand, stomach bobbing uncomfortably as she moves from her knees to her feet. Even here, she was proud, head high and eyes alight with trying to think of a way out. "Gods know what he's pla-"

"You wanted me here!" Sherlock shouts, and Mary is taken aback as he yells into the emptiness beyond them. "And here I am." Sherlock searches the room, leaving each of the four doors in front of him just as likely as its sibling. "Where are you? Not hiding, I hope." Taunting him seemed best. The man had pride, and that was a vice, something the push. Sherlock had more than enough personal experience with this.

"What's to be afraid of?" Sherlock continued, voice echoing across the walls, giving it a booming all-encompassing quality. He observed, waited, listening for a squeak of a boot or the intake of breath outside of Mary and himself. He couldn't let off the gas, not with her so close, but with enough pause, Lestrade and bluecoats would be trampling the door down- "Just me and a pregnant beaten metal-worker. Hardly anything to shy away from."

"If only." Came a delighted hiss from the back left corner, and Sherlock swiveled on the balls of his feet to search for a single sign of their host. "Seems like you've missed two details, Sherlock. Tragic, really." There's the woosh of a door swinging wide, and with a horrid clench of his gut, Sherlock sees John hobble out of the corner.

He's hurt, bruised and cut along his face, arms, legs, and even a few lacerations on his chest. John shivers from the pain as he steps dutifully into the middle of the room, one last seal coming to vibrant fiery life when he enters.

"John-" Sherlock tries, but stops himself as Moriarty comes crawling out of the doorway himself, dressed like a prince among peasants and ecstatic at the sight of his three hostages.

"Surprised to see me?" Moriarty asks, arms thrown wide. Sherlock had, for the last three annuals, thought this man, this mastermind behind the newest hardiest slave network, was Exemian. He had thought that one of his own was behind it all, but in front of him, with a reptilian tail flicking easily behind him, black sharp little claws, and just the peak of fangs behind his lips; he was like nothing Sherlock had seen.

He'd read about them, heard of them from his own family and from frightened realm-hoppers, but never physically set an eye upon the species. Serick. Endangered. Flesh eaters whose favorite dishes were mortals and lesser beings. Now under Exemian protection due to the collapse of their home, but if Moriarty's network was anything to go by, the man hadn't been in his home realm for decades.

Sherlock wants to blurt this out, accuse him. Show his disgust in more than just a wide eyed, wrinkled nosed facial expression, but Mary is screaming.

"You utter bastard!" She snarls as Moriarty runs a hand through John's sweat soaked hair with a fond hungry look. Sherlock jolts at the touch, the image of those claws tearing his friend apart all too suddenly possible. "What have you done to him?" There's a familiarity to her words and her anger, an old rage that's been simmering just below the surface for seven, possibly eight annuals by Sherlock's deductions.

"Oh, he's been such a dear, this one." Moriarty coos, pushing John down, down to his knees. As if scripted, John lets his wrists rest upon the floor, hunching himself over and clamps fall close onto him. It leaves him open, vulnerable, defenseless. And there's nothing Sherlock or Mary can do to help him. "Take a rest there, there's a good lad." Moriarty giggles and Mary nearly breaks her tether.

Rage has transformed her, no longer the easy going, smiling wife, but now a beast on a leash, red with anger, and seconds away from ripping their kidnapper apart. "Let me out of here." Mary demands, voice low, panting.

"And let you ruin my fun?" Moriarty sneers, tongue flicking out and tasting the air. "Hardly. I've got you both right where I want you! My old employee," He nods at her then points to Sherlock, eyes bright as his head swivels round to stare at him. "And my new toy." Sherlock has to hold back a gasp in his own right, everything clicking into place. Moriarty's face falls into a smirk.

"Finally figured it out, did you?"

"You were never targeting me." Moriarty giggles, tail flicking behind him.

"Go on."

"Everything, the chases, the puzzles, hurting John. It was to get to her." Sherlock gazes at Mary, pulling the necklace from his pocket. "The hiding, the secrets, your knowledge of places you should have went to... There's only so much an enchantment can hide, isn't there? But it's enough to make people ignore the scar on the back of your neck, which is all you thought you needed."

"Knew you'd get there. Granted, it only took a few weeks, but I can forgive you." Moriarty sniffs, scratching the side of his mouth. "Mary Morstan. Pathfinder. Wanted in seven realms for her unique and invaluable talents, who found herself in a bit of bind when they started looking for her all at once. Though you shouldn't give her all the credit. You were necessary, and very funny to watch run around like a headless bird." He promises, continuing on.

"I wanted to sell you at first. You'd be surprised how much a broken thing like you fetches on the markets these days. People pay oodles for something unique as an amputee with metal replacements. But then you took out my agent in Gueir all those annuals ago, and I was interested, I really was." He says, a teasing lit to his voice.

"But then I went to Exemia-" Sherlock says, trailing off, and Moriarty continues.

"And I can't touch you there, your lovely brother and mother made sure of that, and I almost forgot about you."

"Then John met Mary." There's a stuttered sigh from Mary, and they all wait for her expectantly.

"I worked for him." She finally said, after a moment, face steeled in her resolve. "I needed help. I had several different governments on my tail, and he offered a way to hide." Her voice didn't tremble in the slightest, though it pained her to admit it all, finally, with John listening quietly across from her. "I heard he was an enchanter, and could get me something that would make me all but invisible in plain sight. Just another person. Nothing special. No one would recognize me.

"But I had nothing to offer in payment other than my services, and so for two annuals I transported slaves and goods across the realm divides to pay off that damned necklace. But when my debt was paid, and I tried to leave-"

"He sent to have you killed." Sherlock finished for her, the story already mapped in his head. Mary nodded, a silent yes formed on her lips. Moriarty, having grown bored already of the tale he knew, clicked his tongue and spoke up.

"Yes, yes, so very sad and disheartening. But Mary fails to tell you that she left my organization because she had murdered several very valuable members when they had an altercation. Really, it was only fair I asked for her head. Unfortunately for everyone involved, your lovely brother dear, Mycroft Holmes found her before I did, and she disappeared off the map for ages.

"Then one fine day, guess who walks into a ward with a common flu, seeking help from a certain ordinary doctor I had been keeping an eye on?" Moriarty smirks, a simpering smile on his face as he stares Mary down. "Did you think I had forgotten about you? That you were safe? Must've been shocking when you read your husband's little fantasy diary with my name plastered all over it next to the great and enigmatic Sherlock Holmes."

Mary says nothing, just continues to glare at her captor, the venom and curses apparent on her face, her expression shouting them into the room. John stays silent, eyes to the floor and neutral, and Sherlock worries. John was the first to speak behind Sherlock, yet he hasn't said a word.

"Amazing how one boring, ordinary man can reveal so much when put in the right circumstances." Moriarty comments, already standing next to John again. John bows his head, guilt radiating from him and its obvious now what Moriarty had been drilling into his head for the past day. Something breaks in Sherlock, a tight snapping in his abdomen that has him momentarily breathless.

Sherlock reigns it, puts it under. He counts the minutes that have passed, finding he still had twelve to waste and Moriarty was growing bored. Spend enough time studying criminals and predators, and one learns the signs. Fingers furling and unfurling, twitching in odd spots, intent staring at one object, and slowed purposeful steps. He would pounce, in one way or another, and all three of them were likely targets.

"That can't have been it though." Sherlock blurts out, scavenging for something the distract Moriarty from the way he has fixated on John's bared neck, tracing it out of the corner of his eye. Sericks, like all carnivorous species, hunted the weakest of the pack. The young, the old, the sick, the physically untalented. It's why they could evolve in a world of mortals, whose only defense was their own inventions. "Just here to boast about your triumph."

Moriarty fixed him with a curious stare, before a grin began to write itself on his face. "No, of course not. I brought you all here to make a choice. I can't be bothered to make it myself, seeing how each result is just as delicious as the next." Moriarty didn't need to finish for Sherlock to see where it ended. Thankfully, he didn't bother. "I'll give you some time to chat. Five minutes should do it before your bluecoats show up. Choose wisely."

When he's disappeared behind the door, the room is static and Sherlock glances to Mary, hands clasping together in front of his face as his mind whirred yet forfeits no answers.

"You-" She started, resigned.

"Yes." Sherlock answered as he started pacing the small suffocating seal. He tried to break it again, shocked himself, and fought against the panic rising like bile in his esophagus.

"What does he mean, 'choose'?" John asked finally, the hoarseness in his throat both heart breaking and grating on Sherlock's ears. Tears were beginning to spring in Mary's eyes as she put on a comforting look.

"Oh John-"

"He wants us to choose who's going to die." Sherlock tells him, impatient. He knows this feeling, this dread and this anxiety. He hasn't been frightened in gods' know how long.

"It should be-" John pipes up, but Mary and Sherlock are quick to interrupt.

"No." They say firmly, together, and it falls to two. Mary is crying, silently, but she doesn't let it falter her resolve, or her unrelenting gaze. It clicks, and Sherlock nods to her, and Mary breaks the contact to turn back to her husband, who is putting up a valiant protest, alive for the first time in twenty minutes.

"No, you can't- The baby and Sherlock- Please, Mary…" He tries, weakly, and Mary hushes him gently, her affection crossing the divide between them.

"Settle down, love." And John's head snaps up, wet with tears and snot, and its ugly yet Sherlock has to glance away for much different reasons. "It'll be okay."

"I don't want to lose either of you. I, hm-" His voice cracks, and Mary shakes her head.

"Please John, just tell me. Please tell me you forgive me for lying all this time." She pleads, and John finally sees, finally understands what she's getting at.

"Gods no, I mean, I do, I could never- never hate for-" He has to stop, his throat catching and the silence is so nearly too much to bare. "Mary, don't. Let me- let me instead-"

"Hush now. I've lived more lifetimes that I could count, and its selfish, but I know neither me or Sherlock could live with you gone." John sobs at this, shaking his head, and shaking at the effort to strain against his bonds. "I just want your forgiveness."

"Of course I forgive you." John forces out, "There was never anything to forgive." The relief on Mary is a physical thing. It fills the room as she closes her eyes, revels in it for the few precious seconds they have before Moriarty slithers back in. In that moment, Sherlock has to wonder at what he's caused, what he's done by coming back here to this godforsaken capitol.

Could it have been different? If he had left John to Mary and done this one his own? If he had let it be and refused? Would Mary have been captured still and would John have been saved the horror of watching his wife be murdered in front of him? He wants to apologize, he wants this damn pride to let him. But he only listens, knowing that John and Mary share one final moment, one that John will likely never forget.

"Hope we've come to a decision," Moriarty called, reentering the room with a swagger while clapping his hands together. Everyone waited as he peered around at them, staying quiet for the inevitable question. "Well, John?"

"What?" John blurted, horrified.

"Your choice. Which of your two favorite people do I get to sink my teeth into?" John swallowed, blinking slowly as he had to visibly force the word out.

"Mary." He said, finally, painfully, and the glee on Moriarty's face slid off. Bemusement takes its place.

"Hm, not what I had thought, but, there you have it." He turned then, to her, satisfaction slotting itself firmly in his posture. Mary straightened at his approach, and Sherlock held himself still, a taxing effort.

"To think, you'd actually throw yourself in harm's way. Amazing how chemical responses in your skull change a person." Moriarty sneered, fangs extending in his silent mirth. Mary flinched away from his wandering tail, gaze bright and determined as Moriarty crossed the seal's containment.

"About the same changes as your extraordinarily inflated ego." Her arm swung out, the ropes binding her having been cut away as she rammed a small hidden dagger into Moriarty's leg. He screamed, jolting away out of the circle just as Mary made another swipe at him to take back her blade. With his tail, he smacked her down, Mary's head hitting the poured concrete floor with a violent thud that had John screaming her name.

Moriarty had her then, dazed and limp as she struggled to regain some semblance of self before claws gripped her round the neck. "I don't like getting my hands dirty," Moriarty says in a low voice, his fingers slicing into her the side of her throat. "But I can make an exception."

"Oh, you poor thing yo-" She splutters, words caught in a wet noise when claws plunge into her chest like a knife through fresh butter. Her hands scramble against Moriarty's wrist, weakly trying to pull him out as he violently rotates his hand, an unparalleled glee oozing off him.

Sherlock can hear John yelling, cursing, distant, as if through a wall while Moriarty flicks his fingers free, letting Mary slump onto the floor, choking on her own blood that begins to fill her punctured lungs. Moriarty observes her for a second, head tilting in a reptilian fashion in his monstrous curiosity, tongue flicking out in the air once more. Sherlock can see his next move in the swish of the tail, in Moriarty's reach for the blade still stuck in his calf.

"Please." It's simple, hoarse, barely a whisper but a plea all the same. If Moriarty hears him, he doesn't acknowledge it, swiveling back to him two remaining prisoners with a grin and a dirtied dagger in hand. His sight is set on John now and he walks, undeterred by his minute limp.

"I was going to let your husband leave in one piece," Moriarty starts, goading the struggling Mary behind him as he slithers up to John, hungry and eager. "Thought about taking him with me then setting him loose in a forest before hunting him down." John's too weak to fight, face reddened and wet with tears and spittle and snot as he all but quakes with rage and despair.

Sherlock wants to beg, but his mouth has finally run dry of words, the time forgotten as he goes blank. There's a moment, in every logical creature whose mind has risen above instinct, where they will freeze and watch in a detached manner if they have realized in their core they can do nothing about the situation at hand. Sherlock finds himself in that state, blinking numbly as Moriarty's foot presses John's wrist to the floor.

"No-" John starts, his eyes darting from his arm to the knife to Moriarty's blank dangerous expression. "Oh gods, no. Please." He starts to tremble, pleas falling form his lips. "You've already killed- You don't-" John glances at Sherlock, who stands forcing himself not to yell in frustration. "Please, Sherlock do something!"

"Oh, he can't." Moriarty teases, and Sherlock closes his eyes, not wanting to see what comes next or the pure helplessness in John's face. "He can't help you this time, Johnny boy." The crack of bone has Sherlock flinching, and bile rises in his throat as the sound of flesh rendered by a too sharp blade rings in his ears. There's screaming, so much that Sherlock wants to cover his ears to block it out, but he's already shown his cowardice. No reason to cement it further.

How horrible is it to be reminded that something you care for is nothing more than meat? Something that can be hacked apart by a mad creature with too much power and no empathy to quell it?

John is white on the cement, passed out from the pain and blood pouring out from his arm and Sherlock can feel a ghost of it in his own hand. Moriarty straightens, happy with his prize clutched in his bloody claws. He glances at Sherlock, smirks in a smug triumphant manner, before giving Sherlock a mock salute with the amputated digits.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." Moriarty coos, sauntering from the room for the final time as Sherlock's ears picked up on the sputtering of engines just beyond the walls. There's a click of fingers as Moriarty exits, and the seals die as a flame in a strong wind, leaving Sherlock standing on precarious legs with two people dying around him and not a single ounce to show for it.

AN: I feel slightly bad about this, but it had kind of been the plan for a year and a half now so... To clear things up, Mary is literally my favorite character right now in the show, and I've always loved her in the ACDcanon and in the dozens of retellings, so this rather brutal chapter here is not reflecting any hatred on her whatsoever on my part. Seriously, my tumblr is basically a love letter to her right now.

Anyways, thank you for reading and I'd love any comments, questions, or concerns! Seriously, you guys yelling (politely of course) at me to update actually reminds me to take some time to finish these chapters. Next chapter is coming and it's the last one (save for a short epilogue)!