Disclaimer: I only own Melina.

Mel was annoyed. No. That was much too tame a word to describe the utter fury welling up in the pit of her stomach. She was infinitely thankful for her empty belly at that particular moment. The dancer attempted to quell the rolling, pitching, feeling that took over, the nausea gnawing at her intestines. She gagged as stomach acid bubbled up in her throat. Hot tears of anger pricked at the corners of her eyes as she yanked frantically at the unyielding cuffs encircling her wrists. The salty liquid blinded Mel's vision as she glanced about the room fretfully, trying to find any sort of escape.

How could Sherlock do this? How the man could be so amazing, yet so very idiotic, so infuriating, at the same time? It should've been impossible.

It was like fire. It burned through her veins, heating the blood until it boiled within her. Caught inside the rolling waves of the current, Mel allowed the tears to pour down her cheeks unbidden. She let out a terrible noise. It ripped through her small frame, thundering, echoing throughout the empty room. It frightened her, that noise. The helplessness of it. The frustration. It was not unlike the roar of a caged animal at some sort of demented circus.

Scarlet tendrils of hair stuck to her cheeks, dampened by wet trails, plastering them to her pale flesh.

She was nothing but sickened by the sudden twist to Sherlock's possessiveness. Her heart thumped like the fluttering of a bird's wings in her chest. That wasn't entirely true, she admitted. She was... Aroused. The signs were undeniable. The man himself had seen them. The lingering warmth in her lower belly, caused by her partner's kiss.

It's nothing but a chemical reaction, she snapped irritably to herself, shoving the evidence of her romanticized thoughts from her mind.

She could still feel his lips on hers, begging, pleading subconsciously to forgive him.

Sherlock Holmes knew what he had done.

I've warned him before. That if he continued to manhandle me without need or cause, I would leave him. That I wouldn't stand for it.

He was jealous. Mel knew that. Ever since the beginning, and the moment she met Lestrade. Greg was a flirt, certainly, but Sherlock's hackles raised. It was the first time he must've realized that she was not his; not his alone. He had pinned her up against the elevator in New Scotland Yard and took what he had wanted: her resistance.

And she hadn't, Mel realized for the first time. As the redhead reigned in her mind, she reminded herself of the small fact that had been nagging at the back of her mind. Sherlock, since the beginning of their relationship, had been calling the shots. He had gotten every little thing he'd desired. Her resistance. Her mind. Her body.

The woman swallowed shakily. Suddenly, something sparked deep inside of her.

It's time to stop this. I'm tired of being the pathetic girl that hides under the bed. That hides from her problems. It's time that I stand up for what I want. For Sherlock to stop getting everything he wishes.

Her lips flattened into a single, thin line. Closing her eyes, the redhead squeezed the remaining salty liquid from her sight. Letting out a lengthy breath, Mel went still on the silky bedspread.

Calm. Think. Get out of here.

Alright. Handcuffs. Standard regulation. Lock can be easily picked with two pieces of metal. Or...

Her lips tugged up at the corners, stretching into a wicked grin. The dancer shifted on the mattress, pausing when it groaned beneath her weight. Her eyes widened. When she heard no movement in response through the flat, The redhead sighed. Wrists protesting, she pulled and wriggled her body up the covers, capturing her bottom lip with sharp teeth. Twisting her arms, Mel strained against the manacles. She grasped at the air mere inches from her head, seeking the single bobbypin that was holding her hair in place.

Muscles and tendons protested in her shoulders. Back arching from the mattress, Mel fingers sought the elusive pin. A hushed breath of victory fell from her lips as she hastily warped the metal with her thumb and forefinger. It took several minutes until she heard the telltale click of the lock opening.

Nibbling her lip, Mel quickly unfastened both of her hands. Her heart thudded anxiously against her ribcage as she slipped from the bed.

Weight on the balls of her feet, the woman ran to the door. She tried the knob. It was locked. From the outside. She swallowed as another wave of nausea nipped at her stomach. Sherlock had locked her in.

"Hello?" John's voice called from the sitting room. There was a pause. He must be on the phone. "Alright, we'll leave now." Mel's heart stuttered uncontrollably. Sherlock had yet to dress for the day. He had to come into the bedroom. "That was Molly. She says that she's got something for us."

"Ah, good, if you'll give me a moment, I'll retrieve the redhead and a change of clothes, and we'll be on our way." Sherlock's rumbling baritone hummed through her ears as she staggered back from the door. Settling her nerves with a quick breath, the woman moved fluidly to the window.

Much too high...

Without a moment's thought, she rushed to the closet, seeking the small step stool shed seen there before.

Footsteps sounded in the hall as the dancer placed it in front of the high window. The windowpane was frigid against her touch as she slid the glass open, the tiny opening barely wide enough for her hips. Biting the inside of her cheek to conceal the grunt of pain and anxiety that threatened to sound through the room, Mel hoisted herself up through the small exit.

Just as the soles of her boots touched the cool metal of the fire escape, Sherlock's voice thundered through the air behind her. No going back, she mused half-heartedly. Mel slipped down the escape as fast as humanly possible.

Sparing a swift glance up at the flat, the woman ran into Speedy's, the small diner next door. Ducking inside the small cafe, the woman could hear her heart pounding erratically, blood pulsing vibrantly through tissue and arteries. She could feel a sheen of perspiration break out over her heated flesh.

"Can I help you with anything, Miss?"

Mel spared the elderly woman behind the counter with a fleeting sweep of her emerald eyes. "I'm fine, thanks." as the words left her lips, the redhead gazed out carefully at the street, watching for Sherlock.

"She'll take a vanilla bean hot chocolate, won't you, my dear?"

She froze instantly. Her blood ran cold. Small hairs at the nape of her neck prickled and raised as the familiar timbre washed over her. With fraying nerves, Melina straightened her back, attempting to regain some semblance of normality.

"Mycroft, how lovely... I thought you'd left already," she muttered through clenched teeth, grinding her molars together. She didn't turn round to face him.

The man chuckled lightly; the sound itself was odd and uncomfortable. The dancer felt a shiver travel from the base of her spine up to the wispy hairs on her neck.

"Not at all. Just because I removed myself from the premises, doesn't specifically entail that I removed myself from the vicinity," the elder Holmes lilted gleefully.

"She'll take that hot chocolate, if you would," the man stated as he waltzed over to the front counter, probably passing the woman his sleek black credit card.

The moment of familiarity washed over Mel. "You've turned me off of that particular drink, Holmes, when you poisoned me-"

Long, hot fingers wrapped around her wrist, yanking her away from the window. The redhead let out a noise of shock as she was pressed up against the adjacent wall with the length of Mycroft Holmes's torso.

"Pity. Now stay," he snapped as he pulled the woman into a small alcove which was consumed by shadows.

"Get off me," Mel hissed as she fought against his hold. He was surprisingly strong for someone who supposedly worked behind a desk all day. His hands weren't rough, though. In fact, the man was quite holding her gently, caringly, almost serenely. The perfect image of restraint. His fingers encircled her arms, yes, but didn't touch them. Thumb touched middle fingers, creating loose manacles that barely brushed against her already tender flesh from his brother's careless action.

Mycroft, who had been glancing out the window at something she couldn't see, peered down at her through his lashes. "What? You'd rather allow my beloved brother to chain you- against your will- to his bed, while one of you closest friend is about to be murdered? By all means, then..."

She didn't say a word. Or move. She gulped audibly and attempted to restrain the blush that threatened to rise up into her cheeks.

His answering smirk was blinding. "That's what I thought, my dear. Now..." he paused to look back out the window. Clearing his throat, the man finally pulled away, allowing the woman to move away from the column. "We'll take that drink to go, Meredith," Mycroft announced to the waitress, who nodded and flushed.

"Of course, Mr. Holmes..." The elderly woman tucked a strand of white hair behind her ear and busied herself making the drink.

"Are we going somewhere, Holmes?"

He rolled his eyes and moved to the back of the empty cafe to collect his coat and umbrella. "If you do not have the decency to add a title to my family's name, at least use my first name. It will cease the nagging... Ringing in my poor ears."

"I'll really make your ears ring-"

"Pardon?"

"Nothing, Mycroft," Mel hummed, smiling sweetly.

The older man rolled his eyes once more and set his pale lips in a single, prim line. "I've decided to aid you on this case."

Mel was taken aback. "Since when?"

His brow twitched. "Since I saw the young man that passed me in the stairwell." He twirled his umbrella irritably in his hands.

The redhead blanched. "Who? Wait... Henry? What about-"

Mycroft snorted. "Henry? Is that what he's going by now? Dear Lord. How... Pedestrian," he uttered, as if the conjunction of letters was a terribly dirty word.

She was suddenly finding it quite impossible to swallow. "W-What are you...? His name is Henry Ames. He's a forensic investigator from America-"

"Your drink, Miss," the old woman called as she placed the coffee cup up on the polished counter. The danced sighed and ran a hand through her hair, which had fallen from its bun, due to the absence of the bobbypin she'd used in her escape. She smiled in thanks at the woman as she grasped the drink in her hands and moved back to Mycroft. It was hard to hold the plastic cup as her hands had suddenly gone quite clammy.

"Come," the elder Holmes ordered sharply, taking her by the elbow. "I have a car around the corner."

"Wait, where's Irene?" Mel pondered as the man pulled her from the diner quite quickly. She attempted to glance up at the flat once more.

"Don't look around," he snapped, merging with a small group on the sidewalk. He kept his umbrella tightly against his chest, as to not reveal himself if there was anyone watching the street. Once they had turned the corner, Mycroft parted from her side.

He approached a compact, unmarked vehicle and opened it with a key, which he retrieved from his trouser's pocket. The car was painted a deep shade of red. Flecks and peels stripped from paint around the hubcaps and windows, showing the automobile's age and amount of use. "I sent Irene back to the airport," Mycroft said, answering her question from before. "She will be of more use to me back in Yugoslavia," he stated matter-of-factly before moving to slip into the car. The woman made no move to follow.

"Why would I get into a car with you, Mycroft?" Mel snapped, eyes hard, pinning him where he stood.

The elder Holmes seemed to be biting his tongue. "If you wish for me to drug you again, dear, just say so. I did enjoy our time together at my estate-" Without another utterance, he slid into the old car.

Expelling a sigh, Mel did the same. The interior smelled of dust and molding cheese. A pair of fuzzy, neon green dice were hanging over the dashboard. "I really hope this isn't your car," she drawled as she poked the dice, trying not to smile.

"Of course not, Miss McAllister," he sneered, "I... commandeered this vehicle from several blocks away. The driver was quite agreeable with the sum I provided him with."

"I bet he was..."

"Mumbling is not flattering, my dear-"

She turned to face him in her seat, leather squealing under her. "Why are you here, Mycroft?"

He sighed. The breath fled from his lungs in a hot burst of air. It had enough force to brush the hair from her cheek. "That man. The one in the stairwell. The man that you may even call your friend. Henry Ames is just an alias. His real name is David. David Spencer."

Mel chuckled humorlessly. "No. No way. His Captain called from Washington. His credentials-"

"Faked," the elder Holmes interjected impatiently. "Easily done if you have an inside source and a good forger. And no one has the time to actually look closely."

"A-Alright, I really don't want to know how you know how to do that... David Spencer? Who the bloody hell is that?"

Mycroft watched the woman carefully. He pursed his lips. Long, pale fingers worried the black material of the umbrella in his lap. "From my Intel, he's wanted in over twenty countries." The man expelled a frustrated breath and removed his mobile from his trouser's pocket. "Dave Spencer is wanted for trafficking, possession of illegal contraband- including the distribution of a drug known on the street as The God Particle, twelve counts of first degree murder, thirty-seven of second, obstruction of justice, and aiding and abetting the criminal by the name of-"

"Jesus Christ, Mycroft! What is going on?!"

"-James Moriarty," he finally finished, his tone cool and dejected.

The dancer felt sick. Her stomach pitched and rolled. Suddenly, she was thankful from the hot chocolate in her hand. Lifting the cup to her lips, the woman allowed the sweet liquid to soothe her aching throat and belly. "What... What are you saying-"

"David Spencer, known to only a select few as Dave Moriarty arrived in London early yesterday morning."

Mel's heart slipped and dropped from her chest, fleeing to the bottom of her belly.

The man rolled his eyes. "He's Jim Moriarty's younger brother. Half-brother, if you wish to be technical." He cleared his throat before continuing. "Now, If you truly want to get out of this car, just say the word, and you will be free to leave. But if you wish to save your little doctor, come with me Miss McAllister. If you want justice for the men he's poisoned and killed, help me put this man behind bars."

"I...," Mel started, face heating. She felt incredibly dizzy at that moment.

"I need an answer."

Her throat closed. After several lengthy beats, she took hold of the seatbelt and hastily dragged it across her body. The answering click as the metal connection locked into place was deafening. It resounded through the small space. Her eyes fell shut. She let out a shuddering breath. Mycroft smirked and started the engine. The car sputtered to life. With a sparing glance over his shoulder, he pulled the car out into traffic, melding effortlessly with the bustling life of London's late-afternoon.

"I-I... May I see?" Melina choked out, gesturing to the phone in his lap.

The older man chuckled airily and arched a brow. "It's not safe to take both hands off the wheel, Miss McAllister. But please, be my guest."

Despite her shock from their previous conversation, the woman snatched the mobile away from his crotch as quickly as humanly possible, taking care to only touch the hard plastic shell. Mycroft's snickers were rumbling through her ears like thunder as she glared down at the phone. She could feel his eyes on her profile. Mel flushed. Her face felt unbelievably hot.

"Alright, so this is it?" She stuttered out needlessly, glancing down at the smooth touch screen.

"Indeed."

Henr- David's criminal record was so long, the redhead had to scroll down for several minutes just to read it all. Kidnapping, robbery, larceny, aiding and abetting, distribution of 'The God Particle', Rape, Murder...

Mel turned the phone off and passed it back to the man next to her. She took another sip of her hot chocolate in an attempt to quell the sickness in her belly. I let that man touch me. I let him hug me. Kiss my cheek-

"You didn't know," Mycroft said, breaking the dancer from her disgusted reverie. "Don't be that hard on yourself, Melina."

"I trusted him, Mr. Holmes. I didn't even know him... but I... let him...," she stuttered, letting out a choked sob. The elder Holmes peered over at her, incredibly alarmed. "How did you not find him?" The woman demanding, covering her mouth with a single, shaking hand. "How did you not see him with Sherlock and I?"

Mycroft sniffed indignantly as he turned a sharp corner. "I've been... busy."

"With what?" Mel snapped angrily, almost slipping her drink with the man's frantic driving.

She watched as his jaw worked, muscles clenching as he started to grind his teeth together. "That knowledge is classified, Miss McAllister."

She rolled her eyes with irritation. "Then un-classify it, Holmes."

"It doesn't work that way," he growled out. The tone he used reminded the woman of how a parent would speak to a young child that was particularly getting on their last nerve.

Mel turned to face the man once more, eyes full of fire. "I'm tired. I'm hungry. I'm annoyed, and I'm seriously considering my relationship with your brother. If you want this day to go smoothly, Mycroft Holmes, you should really stop pissing me off," she spat out, tongue biting the words with a renewed ferocity.

Mycroft's eyes shot to hers. She realized what she'd just said about Sherlock. Her face felt so hot, it was the same shade of her scarlet hair.

The man cleared his throat loudly and straightened his tie, taking his hand from the wheel. "I wasn't aware... Yourself and Sherlock... I..."

She crossed her arms lividly across her chest. It was almost as if she was trying to hold herself together. "I just... don't know if I can be in a relationship with someone who can't even stand for me smiling at another man. I feel so... repressed...," she admitted. The words felt disturbingly tacky, almost tar-like on her tongue. She shivered.

"I apologize."

The statement was so quiet, so out of character, that Mel did a double-take. "Pardon?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I will not say it again. You heard me the first time."

The redhead bleated a laugh that lacked all humor. "Alright, alright. I just can't believe-"

"Stop."

"Fine," Mel hummed, allowing a small smile to lift the corners of her lips. She glanced out the window. "Why don't you just arrest him? David, I mean."

"Yes, cause I would really take my own brother into custody," Mycroft nagged, rolling his eyes skyward. "There's a taskforce who've been tracking Moriarty's brother for years. If we arrest him now, their operation will be ruined, all those hours put to waste-"

"So you're allowing him to walk free."

"Not free, per se. Just... on a shorter leash."

The redhead's lips pursed. "Did he kill these people?"

"Most likely," Mycroft stated.

Mel head was spinning as she watched the buildings pass through the glass. It was beginning to rain outside. Fat drops splattered over the pane. Gravity took hold, dragging the droplets down the glass, tracking thin, wavering trails down the surface. She brought a hand up and reached out, tracing the movement with the pad of her forefinger. "That must be some leash, then...," she sighed.

The biting sarcasm wasn't lost on the older man in the driver's seat. "We found the bodies of six undercover agents that'd been injected into David's organization. They had been decapitated and burned: David's calling card."

"The ritualistic murders in the States."

"Obviously. It was a message to us. And to promote the drug he's manufactured."

"The God Particle."

"Indeed."

Mel's fingers dropped from the window. She took a sip of her drink. "What does it do?"

"It can be ingested or injected into the system. Either way, the person taking it will receive intense religious-themed hallucinations. Most test subjects believe they've 'seen the Lord Almighty.' It's incredibly dangerous and even more unstable."

"Jesus..."

"Literally," Mycroft hummed in response. Suddenly, he turned the car into a parking garage. The parking garage of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, to be precise.

"No way," Mel grumbled, sinking low in her seat. "I'm not going in there."

The elder Holmes cocked a brow. "You may stay in the car, if you wish. Would you like for me to leave the window open? Just a crack...?"

The woman's emerald eyes narrowed. "Oh shut up, Mycroft."

They walked from the car together. The man took her elbow, linking their arms together. The dancer peered up at him in surprise but he didn't respond. She found that she was quite grateful for the support. She sipped at her hot chocolate as they walked into the lift. She watched the man as her pressed the button for the floor required with the tip of his umbrella.

The redhead snorted.

Mycroft glanced down at her questioningly. "Something funny?"

"No, nothing," she lied choppily as she attempted to wipe the humor from her face.

"Oh please, do share. I enjoy a good joke, here and there."

After several beats of silence, the doors to the elevator closed, and they were ascending. "You're so lazy, you can't even press the button with your finger."

The man hummed. "On the contrary, the amount of energy used to lift this umbrella is quite a bit more than what I would've used to press said button. Along with needlessly plastering my fingerprints and the ridiculous levels of unsanitary germs from the toilets, I believe my choice was much more... thought out, if you would."

The woman laughed lightly; the first genuine laugh of the day. It managed to lift the heaviness in her heart. She felt Mycroft's arm tighten around hers. Neither of them spoke of it.

"He loves you, Melina."

"Hmm?"

"Sherlock," he elaborated. "He loves you. Truly... he just wants to keep you safe. He just... doesn't know how to show you."

"I think he was quite obvious when he chained me to his bed, just because I greeted a couple... uh... He made his point clear, Mr. Holmes, but I thank you for the attempt-"

"-Obviously not in the correct way," he snapped, cutting the woman off. "But I've never seen him so enraptured by something before. By someone. He..." Mycroft stopped, as if he was attempted to search for the correct words. "He needs you, Melina. You make him easier to speak with."

"Not better?"

"Not specifically. I believe that romantic entanglements make us weak. But you do improve him in other ways, my dear. You make him more... human," he finally settled, allowing the breathed to finally escape his lungs in a single whoosh.

"I see."

"Please. Do not break his heart." Mycroft muttered as he gazed down at the woman.

She flushed. "I might not have a choice-"

"Take a break from him, if you must. Just, promise that you will not make any sudden decisions at the present moment."

Mel made the mistake of looking up into Mycroft's pleading eyes. The incredibly powerful man was begging her not to break things off with his younger brother.

She swallowed. "I don't want to stop seeing Sherlock. I-I warned him though. That I wouldn't allow for this to happen a second time. I can't stand it-"

"Promise me. Not now."

The lift doors opened with a startling ping. "Fine," the redhead breathed softly. "But I'm going to move out of the flat. I'll have to find somewhere to live..."

The elder brother nodded his understanding. He looked incredibly relieved with her acquiescence. "Understandable. Please feel free to move into my estate, if you so wish."

Mel sighed and walked out of the elevator, disconnecting their arms. Her boots made dull slapping noised against the cool tile. "I'll... let you know...," she hedged, trying not to blush once again.

Mycroft strolled calmly next to her, twirling his umbrella through the air.

"Why are we here, Mycroft?"

"To retrieve the evidence Miss Hooper has recovered before Sherlock does. Before he pieces this little puzzle together and becomes aware of Henry's true identity."

The woman's brow creased. "What evidence?"

He shrugged. "I haven't the slightest."

"Wonderful," Mel sighed, following the man as he turned the corner, making his way to Molly's lab. "Tell me," she started, "I thought you hated legwork. Why are you helping us?"

Mycroft didn't speak for several long minutes. "I'm helping you Melina. Not my brother. Well... not directly."

Her brows drew together, causing her forehead to pucker. "I don't understand."

"This is a delicate situation. If anything one thing goes wrong, John will die. Another, and it will be yourself. I'm protecting you from my brother and Moriarty at the same time. Also, I cannot leave this case with anyone but myself. The brother's Moriarty, they've infiltrated high ranking positions in the government. In law enforcement. There isn't anyone else to go to."

"I see."

They were quiet once more. "You have questions." It was a statement, not a question.

Mel paused just outside of the lab they were seeking. She took hold of the man's wrist and pulled him to a stop beside her. "Why is he targeting John? Why does Henry care?"

Mycroft crossed his arms over his chest, hooking his umbrella on his forearm. "This is about Sherlock. Jim contacted his brother. If David didn't hear from him in several months, then he was to execute this little plot. That's my theory, at least."

"Theory? Where's Jim?"

Mycroft's eyes flashed. His back straightened uncomfortably. "That's-"

"Classified," Mel finished for him, rolling her eyes. "Yes, I'm getting that. Thanks for nothing, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes chuckled. "Come. Let's see what Miss. Hooper's found for us."

Woot! Quick update, hey? Hope you're all having a wonderful weekend.