A/N: This is the (long overdue) sequel to my story 'Sherlock's Woman', so if you're interested I suggest you tackle that first.

Second, let me say a huge thank you to everyone's support and reviews and though I am late in the game, the sequel's been brewing for a while now. The reason for the story finally being produced, is quite simple: There's no better muse than a new season of Sherlock.

I hope I have a reader or two still out there. And for those faithful readers that wanted this to be written: Be careful what you wish for, dears…

Also, for those who have read Sherlock's Woman I want to inform you that I've made some alterations to it so that the story fits better with season 3 of the series. For instance, I loved Mary's interaction with both John and Sherlock, and decided I had done her a great disfavor in my own version of her. Hopefully it's a bit more true to her character and the show now.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Sherlock BBC, though I wish I did.

Spoilers: Post-season 3 (though perhaps with a few minor changes - nothing of major importance, I believe), and evidently everything that transpired in my other story.

I hope you enjoy the story to come!

The Good, The Bad and The Woman

1. Prologue

October

As far as weather went, it was an ordinary day in London. The drizzle had clung to the air since early morning and the skies remained a lackluster grey for almost a week. The mood of the people seemed reflected in the slow, steady rhythm of rain drops on the passing umbrellas in the streets. The sense of tiredness and contentment, with not a sliver of joviality, seemed to affect everyone in the major city, whether hopeful tourist from the States or Londoner seated in a nice, local pub.

No car in the street seemed stressed either, everyone taking their merry time and not bothering to jump on the car horn for small nothings.

It was in this bland afternoon that a black hackney carriage suddenly veered round a corner and ran a red-light. The speed of the unexpected vehicle caused quite the commotion in the street where a honking cacophony followed the dark cab through the remains of the day.

Inside the small cab, the taxi driver in the front seat did his best work behind the wheel, knowing what bonus awaited him if he reached his goal within five minutes. 500 quid. That could buy him a couple of beers, a few lottery tickets and that bracelet he'd been eyeing for his girlfriend. It was quite funny that those suggestions of spending the cash had been the same ones the customer had offered up when he'd made the deal. As if the man had read his mind! Impossible, of course, but impressive guesses nonetheless.

"Excuse me," the blond man in the back spoke up as he leaned towards the front seat. "Is there any way to go faster?"

John exhaled in irritation when the driver guaranteed he was doing everything he could to get to the address on time. The former army doctor glanced sideways at his company and noted the distressed frown had increased between the man's dark eyebrows. Dressed in his trusted long cloak and blue scarf, the man stared down at the cell phone in his gloved hands without a word.

"Why isn't he calling back, John?"

The blond shrugged and leaned against the back rest. "And you've no clue who Lestrade was referring to? Or why?"

"Clues? Yes. Answers? Nothing definite."

"That is disturbing," his shorter friend breathed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He opened his mouth to continue, when the shrill ring tone of Sherlock's phone interrupted the silence abruptly like a warning signal for evil.

The detective answered and pressed the phone to his ear at once. "Lestrade? Do you know anything-"

"Hello, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock felt his blood freeze in his veins as if touched by pure frost upon hearing the voice. "You're not Lestrade."

"What? Who is it?" John whispered from beside him but the detective waved for him to be silent.

"Who are you?" he asked into the phone and his low, dark voice vibrated in the air.

"Why don't you have a guess?"

The dark-haired man sighed and inclined his head. He inhaled and when he continued, his words came swift like an endless river, "Very well. Judging by your familiar tone of voice and the fact that there are only two options as far as I can tell: I'd say you are Sebastian Moran. We've never talked before, but clearly we both know a lot about each other. I do recall you ending up in jail after a failed terrorist attempt on Parliament about a year ago. How's prison been treating you?"

A soft chuckle erupted on the other end of the line. The sound was both mocking and haunting at the same time, and too calm for what Sherlock knew awaited.

"Now…" the detective continued. "That's enough chitchat, isn't it? Lestrade rang me about your scheme a little while ago. You won't succeed, you know."

"Ah, but time is of the essence in my scheme, Mr Holmes. Unless you can stop the clock, you can't stop me," Moran spoke in a slow voice. "Now, I had planned on waiting for you – to make you and Dr Watson the guests of honor with front row seats - but I simply can't wait. I don't have the time."

"Wait, wait!" Sherlock called hurriedly and his voice rose an octave. "We're almost there!"

John banged his hand on the small glass window to the driver seat and felt his pulse elevate to unknown heights. He checked his phone and once more tried to call his wife, but to no avail. For whatever Goddamn reason, she'd switched it off. He swore quietly to himself as he felt his heart beat out of control and he tried to calm himself as his fist rested against his knee. The hand trembled in the glow of the lights outside as the man waited on baited breath.

Moran's voice was once more strong and teasing on the line, as he asked, "Who should it be, Mr Holmes? Hmm? The charming wife, the sexy partner or perhaps the most loyal friend? You choose."

"Listen to me, Moran. I'm almost there," Sherlock implored with a dangerously calm tone of voice. In his pale eyes was a whirlwind of rage, but his outside demeanor remained impassive even as he made a deal with the devil's henchman. "You can take me down when I come. Don't do this. Don't-"

The voice that interrupted him was deceivingly collected, "That was a rhetorical question. You see, I already have my orders on which woman to kill. Orders from the highest level…"

As the Hackney Carriage ran a corner with impressive speed, nearly crashing into another car, Sherlock glanced out the window at the street sign that flashed by in a blur. As he recognized it, he shouted into the phone, "Moran! We're just a minute from Baker Street-"

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes..."

Bang.

Sherlock flinched away from the sound as the sudden, loud noise echoed in a flash on the other end of the line. The curly-haired man exchanged a glance with his friend before pressing his ear to the phone once more. Slowly, he wet his lips and asked, "...Mr Moran?"

"... She's already gone."

With those parting words, the phone went dead in the detective's gloved hand.

To be continued.