Three Months Later

"I can save her."

It was windy. And chilly. Some things about London never changed.

The haggard man slowly turned to face him, agony etched in every premature line of his features. "What did you say?

"Your daughter. I can save her." Sherlock kept his face impassive. Not a hard thing to do these days.

"Who..." The man (his name is Frederick Harewood, father of Lucille Harewood, husband of Symantha Jones Harewood. Sherlock remembers from his research) blinked at him once, twice. "Who are you?"

A victim, Sherlock wanted to say. A slighted, innocent man who just wants his family back. Not John Harrison. I am not John Harrison.

But it was like he told John, eons ago: human error.

—•—•—

The cure was a simple solution of Sherlock's own making. His blood was the main ingredient. Sherlock wasn't exactly certain why, but somehow after years of pouring morphine and cocaine and other drugs into his blood, and then after decades of that same blood circulating around and around in his cardiovascular system, permeating other cells and mutating to survive, something on the base level had changed. The chemical/protein composition could do extraordinary things as proved by his tests.

He had been watching this broken family for a while now. His blood would definitely save that little girl's life. He tried to ignore how willingly the man complied.

He tried to ignore how much the man's morals and loyalty reminded him of John Watson.

He tried to ignore the strength of the mother, so much like Mary.

An innocent little girl, just like Charlotte.

No. By now, Sherlock was above grief.

—•—•—

Frederick Harewood met his eyes before he entered the building. Six minutes and twenty-three seconds later, the homeopathic bomb detonated. By that time, Sherlock was far away. Even so, he felt the vibrations, the tremors, even the screams—resonating deep in his heart. He was no stranger to explosives, either—but this. Something about this felt new.

He relished it.

—•—•—

In three months, Sherlock had done his reading. Never practice, because he was watched sporadically by Marcus' people. They would have already known it was him who directed the decimation of the archives. So they'd do what frightened normal people would do: lump their elected leaders together like terrified sheep.

Perfect.

Sherlock swung carefully into the jet craft. It was dark; the captains and their first officers—and Marcus—would be gathered at Starfleet Headquarters. Pulling up the blueprints for a standard police squadron jet in his mind's eye, he wrapped his hand around what would most logically be the thruster. He pressed the button, felt the smooth ignition of the clean engine (at least they'd figured out how to run vehicles without petrol) and methodically leaned forward. The intelligent sensors picked up his every movement, and then he was gliding towards Starfleet HQ like he'd been born flying.

There.

Sherlock's hands tightened around the gunners. The display screen to his left instantly highlighted architectural chinks in the armor of the Head Quarters, but Sherlock ignored it. He was aiming for pulses, not pillars.

Sherlock halted mere meters from the windows and opened fire.

It was almost beautiful in the way that the glass shattered like fragments of blazing fire, the multi-colored hard-light precision lasers burning the lives out of bodies as if snuffing out candles. Absolute calm washed over Sherlock's mind as he swept the craft in a controlled arc with eyes for Marcus, only Marcus, aiming for what could be Marcus. He spotted a masculine figure, rising above the hunched forms of the others and sprinting across the hall and Sherlock aimed for it, only just missing as the figure dove into an adjacent corridor.

A panel on the left side of the cockpit flashed purple and emitted several high-pitched beeps; Sherlock felt the minuscule jolts in the aircraft as return fire from Starfleet defense guards hammered the outer shell. However, the firearms were standard-issue stun-pulse moderate-shock weapons, meant for incapacitating assailants or human hostiles rather than Starfleet's own heavy artillery. Using those against him was like pelting a riled bear with pebbles—hardly a defense and more of an irritant. Sherlock still swerved lithely out of the path of harm on the off chance a pulsar hit an engine or vital, hard-to-reach component. His own fire hit home after perfect home, and Sherlock's very blood boiled with the energy, the power, the justice—

Sherlock saw it right before it hit. A standard Starfleet defense firearm with an emergency fire hose tied around it, jettisoned from one of the broken windows and sucked into the right engine with a sickening lurch. The fire of rage inside of Sherlock flared as he abruptly wrestled for control of the tilting aircraft, the spinning turbine reeling in the hose like fishing line—crash! The very panel was ripped from the wall and yanked directly into the engine, sending the jet spiraling into a wild tail spin. The wind and blaring alarms roared in Sherlock's ears with deafening decibel as he was jerked painfully against the harness, fumbling with the portable trans-warp beaming device, dialing in the coordinates while the whole world flipped to the side and spun like a top—

As he slammed the final button, tendrils of light starting to whirl around him, his eyes caught those of a man in the building. Yes, he had been the one who'd thrown the gun—the young man with the blue eyes and chestnut hair and the look of a man who'd seem far more than anyone his age should—

In a blast of light, Sherlock Holmes vanished.

—•—•—

He was deposited at the mouth of a cave on the planet of Earth's most vitriolic enemies; a planet named Kronos. The god of time. The race here, Sherlock had read, was volatile, corrupt, and ruthless. A perfect, near-identical match of the human race. The only difference between them and the humans was the emphasis on public sanitation.

There was no way to know if Sherlock's plan had been a success. All he could know was that he needed to stay here long enough to be presumed unreachable. Then. Then, he would return and see if his attempt had worked.

If not...perhaps next time, he would shoot Marcus on sight.

—•—•—

For three months, Sherlock had, for lack of a better word, fantasized about ways of killing the murderer of all he held most dear. Slipping a silent poison into the coffee he consumed every morning before work and looking down at the admiral while spittle foamed on his lips and his terrified eyes glazed slowly over. Hiring someone he knew to shoot him through the heart, and watch deadened betrayal replace the cold light in his eyes. Or more recently: targeting the daughter of the admiral that was somewhere out in the world and ending her life and giving the admiral oh-so-clear perspective on what it felt like to have you heart pulled out of you chest and carried in your hands.

Unfortunately, life (particularly Sherlock's) was very fickle about being as poetic as he would have liked. Vigilant security and advanced alarm systems alone prevented unwarranted entry to an almost unnecessary degree. He was forced to settle on attacking Marcus where he worked, degrading and defiling the safety and value of everything he worked for before snuffing his life out.

It wasn't much. But vengeance was all-consuming, and needed to be fed. Sherlock had no qualms about complying.

—•—•—

"Attention, John Harrison. This is captain Hikaru Sulu of the U.S.S. Enterprise. A shuttle of highly trained officers is on its way to your location."

This had not been predicted.

Sherlock immediately turned his eyes towards the muggy grey sky. There was no odd noise, no sign that any shuttle was coming at all.

A bluff? A farce?

"If you do not surrender to them immediately, I will unleash the entire payload of long-range, highly advanced torpedoes that are currently locked on to your location. You have two minutes to confirm your compliance. Refusal to do so will result in your complete obliteration." There was a pause. "If you test me...you will fail."

Sherlock hardly heard more than half the transmission. His brain, usually such a smooth, well-oiled engine, had jammed and locked onto a single word: torpedo.

—•—•—

The pulsar-gun, rigged by Sherlock to produce blasts of macro-spectrum power so charged that a direct hit could stop an average-sized heart, was more than enough to impede Klingons.

The first shot from the apex of the ridge hammered home into the leader's heart and the second sent one warship spiraling to the ground in a burst of red and black fire. Then, Sherlock's instincts overtook him. The towering black bodies of the Klingons became the bullseye of the target. Sound receded, and there was just calm, the calm that only killing could bring Sherlock's mind.

Shot to the heart, shot to the lung, both Klingons went tumbling down. One charged, but Sherlock's gun swept it's feet out from under it. Flash flash, flash, flash, and enemy seemed to dissolve underneath his force. His enhanced muscles and blood roared in his ears as he leapt down from the ridge with the agility of one who could fly, landing light and throwing his knives into the brains of the bodies that rushed him. A dark clot of them approached; Sherlock kicked, slashed, punched, blasted—

Then he scooped the gun back up in one fluid motion and nearly stumbled over to the Starfleet officers that were crouched upon the foul gray silt of Kronos, panting and coughing. As he approched, one of them—a male, and part Vulcan, some part of Sherlock's brain noted—straightened, firearm held in position.

"Stand down!" He called.

Sherlock ignored him. "How many torpedoes?" He croaked, voice hoarse from disuse.

"Stand down!" The Vulcan called more forcefully, and Sherlock lost control and pulled the trigger on his gun, the brilliant pulsar blast knocking the Vulcan's weapon to the ground in a shower of red-gold sparks.

"The torpedoes!" Sherlock bellowed, a distantly familiar sort of desperation clinging to his insides. "The weapons you threatened me with in your message, how many are there?!"

The Vulcan regarded him for a moment, glancing at the two humans on the ground before answering: "seventy-two."

Seventy-two.

A trick. A trap.

Marcus? Working for Marcus?

Statistical probability that those were the very torpedoes Sherlock had designed: 42%.

Those were the best odds Sherlock had in three months.

He threw his gun to the ground with the abandon of a high-functioning sociopath. "I surrender."

Hey guys! Summer is here! Okay so this will be more than a two-parter! Three, maybe four! I hope you guys enjoyed this, next one will come. It's kinda hard to write because I have to watch the movie while I write. Pretty strange, huh? Review! Review!