"Only lies have details"

-Sherlock Holmes

A few weeks have past since he last saw Mary. The figure in front of him, clad in orange, looks nothing like the person he had fallen in love with.

"Was it real?" John says, breaking the silence.

The first few moments of their visit were filled with meaningless pleasantries, ignoring the conversation at hand. It was almost normal, but not quite. It was empty and hollow, beautiful on the outside, and ugly on the inside.

"Of course," Mary replies. "Don't you ever doubt for one moment that I loved you, John."

Her voice breaks, and she sniffles, a few tears escaping from her eyes. Her entire world has crumbled around her, and all John can do is stare. It would have been better if she could have touched him, but no contact is permitted.

Not in Pentonville Prison.

"You aren't the person I thought you were," John says, his voice terse, as if he were talking to a turncoat soldier. "You lied to me."

"I didn't want you to know," Mary sobs, feeling her heart being torn from her body.

John huffs slightly, standing up abruptly, before sitting down quickly. He can feel the gazes of the guards intensifying, looking for the slightest sign of trouble. His reputation—more Sherlock's than his own—precedes himself.

"You lied!" John shouts, clenching his fists. His voice drops down to a deadly whisper. "I didn't fall in love with a psychopath who murders children!"

More tears pour out, yet not of guilt over the crimes she has committed. It is purely because John found out—she could have lived in perfect happiness had he never known. But because he knows, her life is ruined.

"I was ordered to kill her," Mary pleads, trying to change John's opinion of her. She had rationalized killing ages ago—why couldn't he?

Because he's pure, Mary reminds herself. He isn't like you. He's better and you've lost him.

"By who?" John frowns, his voice raising hire and hire. His thoughts are chasing each other around, colored with rage and emotions. Yet his mind, somehow, remains clear.

He can still recognize the facts—that Mary is the same person—yet he cannot accept them. It is a truth he both believes in and loathes. Belief is rarely complete.

"Magnussen," Mary explains.

"And why was he able to do that?" John seethes, grinding his teeth slightly. His blood is boiling, not so much at her, but at himself.

How could he have been so stupid to not notice his almost fiancée is a murderer? Surely, him, a veteran who works with Sherlock Holmes, would have been able to notice it.

"Because of the things he knew," Mary admits, casting her eyes down. "Please, don't make me say the things I did…Not now. I don't want you to think less of me."

"I'd hardly say that was possible anymore," John retorts gruffly.

Mary swallows thickly. Her training never informed her on how to deal with her lover. She was taught in how to kill, how to disguise herself, and how to win. The only skills she required to survive at that time.

"I killed people," Mary whispers hoarsely. "For money. And…I crossed the wrong people, so I came to England, and pretended to be Mary Morstan."

"And forced your way into my life," John states.

Mary waits for the outbursts, for the screaming and shouting over what she has said. John, for his part, sits in his seat with an incredulous look. He is almost amused by it all, she realizes with a chill.

Perhaps this is why she fell in love with him.

Mary musters up her courage, and attempts to continue. "Mary Morstan died years ago. A baby. Just picked her name off of a gravestone."

"That doesn't explain why you lied to me," John says, rising from his chair. The violent anger has cooled, like lava after an eruption. The calmness, the break in the storm of rage, is more dangerous.

An old poem echoes through her mind with a chilling effect—for her world does not end with fire. No, her world ends with ice—another method that shall suffice.

"You wouldn't love me if you knew," Mary argues. "No one could."

John doesn't argue. He merely nods, walking towards the door and tapping against it, signaling to the guards that he has finished speaking. Mary looks at him wordlessly, trying to think of something to persuade him to come back to her, to embrace her and love her.

"You're right," John agrees, his body completely still. "No one could ever love you."

She then realizes he never did love her. He only thought he did.

"Tell Sherlock…," Mary begins, but the door opens and the guards appear, whisking John away. He doesn't stop to heed her request.

But why should he?

It is a strange world, in which the doctor would stop to bend to the will of the murderer.

"Tanis, dear!" Miss Madison calls out. "We have company! Send them in, won't you?"

Tanis nods. "Of course, Miss Madison."

She puts on a bright smile, brushing her hair slightly. She sports a black pixie cut, with a shock of purple at the front—a new audition. Her previous employers wouldn't allow such nonsense, as they emphasized how she needed to appear responsible and mature at all times.

But with Miss Madison, she could dress however she likes. Sometimes, she would even give her clothing to wear. It isn't too much of a secret as to the reason why Ashley decided to give her the job—she is hot.

And beauty sometimes can speak louder than any qualifications—not to say that she lacks them.

Approaching the door, she peers out the window briefly, seeing a man dressed in a sharp coat. On the inside, she grins, quite aware of whom he is. But feigning surprise, Tanis pulls open the door.

"Miss Madison is expecting you," Tanis announces politely. "Will you be staying long, sir? I can take your coat, if you'd like."

Sherlock chuckles a bit, his own eyes flashing with recognition. "No, but some tea would be lovely."

He throws his coat off, letting it drop on the floor almost elegantly. Without needing her help at all, Sherlock heads towards Irene's study.

She giggles slightly to herself, picking up the coat and slipping the camera phone inside. Having accomplished this, she leaves for the kitchen, ready to make some tea.

Preferably without using any arsenic, of course. Tanis detests corpses.

Meanwhile, Sherlock walks into the study with charm, hearing the tinkering coming from the kitchen. He smirks a bit, imagining all of the pots and pans that must have fallen.

"Mr. Holmes, apologies for my assistant," Miss Madison says, sitting on the couch elegantly, exactly as she was the first time she met Sherlock. "You just can't find decent help these days—it's a shame Kate had to stop working."

"Irene," Sherlock greets coolly. "She died, didn't she? Kate?"

"Accident," Irene smirks. "And that's all I'll say on the matter."

Sherlock nods, hearing the sound of the kettle being set to boil. The kitchen is directly across the hall from Irene's study, allowing Tanis to hear every bit of their conversation.

"I've come to discuss terms," Sherlock says curtly. "I know that you were the one responsible for putting Arwen in mortal peril."

"Arwen?" Irene muses, smiling softly. "Oh, right. You mean the little monster. So glad to be rid of her—she wasn't worth the stretch marks."

Sherlock pauses, shaking his head slightly. Irene never fails to confuse him. He is eternally attempting to comprehend her, to appear to be something beyond helpless and confused.

"Name the price for her safety," Sherlock orders. "I'll pay it in full."

"I don't know," Irene cackles. "Perhaps I should ask for you to kneel at my feet and beg first, before I'll discuss terms, hmm? How's that sound?"

He glances her over, attempting to deduce. Since the first time he met her, his skills have improved, yet he can still understand hardly anything. The stretch marks are indeed there, but minimal—he already knows that she has a child. The rest of her is flawless and made up, in almost identical makeup.

Does she still want protection? Or is she truly simply after power?

"I could just walk out of here and leave you with nothing," Sherlock shrugs, rolling his eyes slightly in his bluff.

"Of course you could," Irene agrees. "But we both know that you won't, because you care, Sherlock, dear. You care about a child that you hardly even know. Why is that, hmm?"

Sherlock blinks. He has been asking himself this question over and over again. There is no logical reason for him to care for Arwen. She isn't really his child, and for all he knows, his sperm has been used to successfully conceive children before. He doesn't care about them.

So why now?

Is it some sort of basic instinct, to protect one's young? As much as he tries to explain it with science and logic, it continues to elude him. He cannot explain this.

It is impossible to make love logical.

"I never said I cared for the child," Sherlock mutters. "Clearly, you have something you wish to achieve from this. I doubt it's protection, and you aren't power hungry."

"I'm power hungry if I feel like it," Irene shrugs. "I've already got a very powerful friend in power, thanks to the lovely distraction of a child. What more could I want?"

"Money?" Sherlock suggests, tapping his fingers lightly against his leg. As if on cue, Tanis walks in, carrying his tea. She knows how he likes it.

"Thank you," he nods, taking the cup with care. It is ornate and beautiful, the finest bone china he has seen (with the exception of Buckingham Palace's set). He sips from it slowly, tasting the mint as it attacks his senses.

Fortunately, there is no hint of poison—he would have noticed if there were.

"I suppose that would be reasonable," Irene sighs, looking almost upset that she has won. "I really thought this would be more of a challenge, Mr. Holmes."

She glances over, seeing Tanis standing in the room still. Frowning, she waves her away, as if disgusted that her assistant wouldn't leave. Tanis leaves quickly, though Sherlock notices her stick her tongue out at Irene.

He grins a bit.

"I'm sorry?"

"I would accept your apology, but instead I'll expect you to play nicer next time," Irene smiles. "The game has just begun, after all."

"Has it now?"

Irene nods. "Very well. I see there's no point in dragging this out farther, and I have a President to ruin shortly. A million pounds, unmarked. That's my fee for the brat's safety."

"Very well," Sherlock stands up, brushing off the side of the cup of tea. His fingers stick slightly to it, yet he casually unsticks them, setting the cup down onto the table. "I expected this and have the funds ready."

Walking over to the door, he sticks his head out into the hall. "Tanis! My coat, if you wouldn't mind!"

Tanis brings it in quickly, having already brushed some of the dirt and dust off of it. She tosses it to him, grinning as she does—Scotland Yard couldn't tame her spirit, Sherlock deduces.

"Ah, yes, here it is," Sherlock mutters, pulling out wads of cash from every possible place in the coat.

"You'd have a real career in magic tricks," Irene murmurs, quite impressed.

She accepts the cash, feeling it all over and ensuring the amounts are proper. Once finished, she walks over to her safe, locking it away inside. Out of respect, Sherlock doesn't watch her.

He wouldn't want her to get the wrong idea.

"You shall leave Arwen alone, then?" Sherlock presses.

"Of course, I'll leave the brat alone. I do admit, I did enjoy ordering her death—I'd been looking forward to it for ages."

Sherlock smiles strangely. "Thank you. That's all I needed."

Pulling on his cloak, he nods at Tanis, before disappearing through the door. Grinning broadly to himself, he pulls out his phone, sending a simple text to Lestrade.

Got the evidence on Adler. Tanis, old forensic tech of yours, assisted. -SH

He couldn't wait to see the look of surprise on Lestrade's face, due to the fact that a member of his homeless network used to be in Scotland Yard. And perhaps one day, Irene will realize as well that Tanis is simply one of Sherlock's pawns.

One of his better ones, at that.

John looks up, hearing Sherlock enter the flat in his usual dramatic manner. He pounds up the stairs, emerging with a face flushed with excitement, his collar propped up in order to make him look even more mysterious.

"What's going on?" John muses, shoving his broken heart away. He mustn't dwell on it—nothing good can come from it. He has to hug himself and move on, to feel it briefly and then shove it away all together.

He has to be the soldier.

"Irene Adler has just been arrested," Sherlock announces.

Instead of stopping with John, he stalks towards his bedroom and opens the door. After a moment, a small child walks out.

John's heart stops.

"She's alive!" he exclaims. "You found her!"

Sherlock picks the child up, too impatient to deal with her slow walking pace. Carrying her into the living room, he sets her down on the couch, handing her his skull to play with.

To John's amusement, Arwen is instantly enthralled with it, muttering and squealing.

"She was never missing," Sherlock smirks.

"You…You bloody bastard!" John screams. "You knew where she was this entire time?!"

"I knew Mary was going to try to kill her," Sherlock frowns. "I merely prevented it from happening. Would you rather I hadn't?"

John pauses, taking a moment to let it all settle in. His fiancée to be did not kill Arwen—but she had admitted she was going to. And then, the countless number of deaths he has no knowledge of.

It changes nothing.

"The skull is funny," Arwen giggles, surprisingly articulate for her age. She flips it over, before knocking it against various objects, testing its durability.

Sherlock nods at her, before returning his attention to John. "Irene was working with Moriarty. She warned me, that this was only the beginning of the game."

"He's the British Government, now," John states sadly. "Hardly anyone can stop him but the Queen, and he's got her wrapped around his finger."

"Perhaps not," Sherlock smirks, pacing back and forth across the room. "No one ever ensured those votes were valid, did they?"

John frowns, his eyebrows creasing. "Are you saying…Moriarty cheated? That he changed the votes to get elected?"

"I doubt it," Sherlock admits. "But it's enough to convince the Queen to put my brother back into his position of authority, as much as I wish to spite him, it isn't in our best interests."

"Our?" John echoes, his cheeks tingeing a slight shade of red.

Sherlock glances at him, frowning slightly. He shoves his hands into his pockets. "John, when we first met, I told you that I wasn't interested—"

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, I know!" John blurts, yet feelings of shame are quickly building up inside of him.

"Allow me to the finish," Sherlock says, rather nervously. John's never seen him look so scared before. "I told you that I was married to my work, John."

"I know, I'm not stupid, Sherlock," John protests. "And I'm not actually…"

But the words die on his tongue. Is that really true? John ponders, biting his lip slightly. His mind brings up dreams he has long since buried, of Sherlock naked in bed, Sherlock beckoning him towards him, Sherlock dominating him…He shudders, trying to chase the thoughts away, but they persist.

"You are a part of my work, John," Sherlock says softly, letting the words hang in the air. "No—you are my work, John."

John unconsciously licks his lips, only to be startled by the squealing of the happy toddler.

"You guys are gross!" she squeals, hugging the skull like an ordinary child would hug a doll. "Can we play house?"

Mycroft smirks a bit, sitting on a sofa in Buckingham Palace. Sherlock's text message from earlier had been a relief, certainly. He never knew that people would actually help him—thus, he never asked for help.

It never crossed his mind that Lestrade and Sherlock, together, could modify the records to indicate a falsified vote. But he doesn't need to know more than that—the less he knows, the better.

Even he isn't perfect when it comes to deception.

"Mycroft!" the Queen greets warmly, smiling at him as she walks into the parlor. "It's so good to see you—I trust that this is important, as I am rather busy, I am sure you are aware."

He smiles, looking like a serpent in a suit. "Of course. I've brought some documents that require your immediate attention, Your Majesty."

The Queen nods, though frowns slightly. "This is highly irregular, Mycroft…"

"I imagine it must be," he agrees, pulling out the vanilla folder Lestrade had provided him from his bag. "But as it is a matter of national security, I would hope you would excuse me."

The Queen grabs the folder, opening it up. A guard steps forward and she shoos him away, reading it over carefully. Her brow furrows and her eyes widen in surprise, though for a brief moment, relief flickers over her old and majestic face.

"Anthony Thompson is James Moriarty," the Queen whispers.

"There's more," Mycroft states. "James Moriarty did more than fake his identity, Your Majesty."

She flips through more papers, becoming more and more appalled, the more she reads. Her repulsion is evident, yet she cannot put the document down. Only once she has read it in its entirety does she look up, completely aghast.

"You won the election, Mycroft," the Queen mumbles, lost for words.

"So it would appear, Your Majesty," Mycroft agrees, the lie feeling slimy. He welcomes the sensation—he is a politician, after all.

The Queen frowns, motioning for her guard to return. He walks over to her mechanically, leaning over as she whispers a few words into his ear. A moment later, he nods, signaling for a few more guards to come with him. And just as they leave the room, more guards appear like clockwork.

"I'll have you reinstated immediately, Mycroft," the Queen says. "I do apologize for all of this—I may need to contact the Prime Minister, but it should not be a problem of all."

"It is simply my duty to serve, Your Majesty," Mycroft says humbly, smiling his most twisted of smiles. "It is an honor to be reinstated into service of the British Nation."

"James Moriarty will be held accountable for his crimes," the Queen promises, rising from her seat. "Now, I have a public gala to attend—I'm so sorry we couldn't speak properly, Mycroft."

The odds you'll be able to catch him are slim, Mycroft muses sullenly to himself. He bows slightly to the Queen, going through all of the motions, and allows his composure to slip once she has left.

He shudders, wondering what Moriarty's next move would be.

"He can only be beaten when he wants to be beaten," Mycroft whispers to himself, grabbing his umbrella and twirling it as he leaves the palace.

The lawyer beams up at the pair of them, motioning them into his office.

"Sorry about the quick notice!" he apologies, flushing a delicate shade of pink. "This trial is rather high profile, with the Queen herself being involved…I want to get my best foot forward, if I can."

Sherlock nods, his expression made of ice. He sits forward simply, observing the fat lawyer in front of them. For a lawyer in such a high profile case, he is rather young—fresh out of law school, in fact. His hair is styled in an awkward pudding bowl cup, and his Christmas sweater is horrendous.

John is immediately at ease with this man—for a lawyer, he appears to be honest and genuine, rather rare traits.

"I understand," John smiles. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Selwyn."

"Please, call me Kenneth," he grins, shaking John and Sherlock's hands in turn.

"I need to ask if you two will agree to testify at the trial of Mary Morstan," Kenneth explains, looking at the two of them sheepishly. "I understand that you were rather close with Ms. Morstan, John—can I call you John?"

John nods, clenching his fists slightly. It doesn't escape Sherlock's notice, even if he imagines himself to be above the emotions coursing throughout John at the moment.

"We were almost engaged," John answers, feeling as if the air itself were strangling him.

"I see," Kenneth nods. "I'm certain you would be an excellent character witness, help get Mary off a bit?"

John doesn't move, wishing that if he stayed silent, the entire world would forget he was there.

"What did you need me to do, Mr. Selwyn?" Sherlock cuts in, sensing John's pain.

"Since you are a witness and the father of the child, I need to review your testimony. I understand that it won't favor my client, but I do need to be prepared for it regardless."

"Of course," Sherlock frowns, peering at John from the corner of his eye.

Kenneth doesn't miss John's hesitation. "Mr. Watson, you could help Mary avoid a lot of jail time. She deserves a fair trial."

John nods. "I know."

"Will you be willing to testify then?" Kenneth presses. "The court should respond well to your testimony, though I wouldn't do anything like propose to her during the trial!"

Kenneth laughs, grinning at himself for his own wisdom and humor. John reaches into his pocket, feeling the weight of the ring. He clenches it, feeling emotional shock travel through him.

"I don't think I'll be proposing to her," John says flatly. "She tried to murder my best friend's daughter, and who knows who else she has killed. Better she rot in prison."

Panic spreads across Kenneth's face. "But, come on, John, you can't mean that…Maybe you should take a few days to think things over? We all say things we don't mean…"

"She's a horrible person," John whispers, though his voice crescendos quickly. "She lied to me and tried to hurt someone I cared about. The person I fell in love with doesn't exist, and I'd appreciate it if you stopped trying to convince me to love a murderer."

Kenneth glances at John wearily, before nodding in resignation. "I understand, John. It must have really hurt, to have her do that…I apologize."

"It did hurt at first, but not as much now," John says, glancing at Sherlock with a smug grin. "You see, I've got myself a boyfriend."