Eric returned Sherlock's smile, then settled into a defensive stance, fists raised. "With haste, please. I don't want to miss breakfast."

Sherlock mirrored him, and they began to circle. "Breakfast already? It's not even 3am."

"Is it? We keep odd hours."

"I didn't realize The Wolseley served food that early." Sherlock stepped forward and sent out an experimental jab.

Eric's broad frame jerked back, barely avoiding the hit. "Perk of the job."

"Hmm. I prefer my freedom."

"Freedom is an illusion." Eric sidestepped another jab. "Everyone serves something, be it a person, organization, or ideal."

"I serve no one."

An amused chuckle. "You can't possibly believe that. You serve London just as I do." Eric's chin rose, revealing the smug slash of his mouth. "You're less free than you think."

Sherlock took full advantage of the opening and struck. His fist slammed into the other man's jaw with a satisfying thud. The force of it reverberated through his knuckles and up his arm.

Eric staggered back a few steps, then shook his head like a dog flinging off water. He bared his teeth. "Not bad. You pack a stronger punch than I expected."

"And you have an iron chin," Sherlock said. "You're also a swarmer who's pretending to be an out boxer." The man's build had been the first clue; his ability to withstand the knockout blow merely confirmed it.

"I thought I'd change things up a bit," Eric said, backing away again as Sherlock stalked toward him. "Keep things fresh."

"You're lying. You said you don't want to miss breakfast, but you refuse to engage, even going so far as to adopt a fighting style that doesn't suit you. The question is: Why?"

A frustrated cry rang out from the ground floor. "Get back here!" Vivian yelled. A quick glance revealed Katarina dancing out of Vivian's reach.

Understanding flared. They were doing it on purpose. Instead of taking the risk of an uncertain fight, the two agents had chosen to delay the altercation in exchange for certain victory. A victory determined by sheer numbers. They were stalling for reinforcements. And Mycroft.

Sherlock spun away from Eric and sprinted to the opposite wall. "Cover your ears," he shouted at Vivian. Without waiting to see if she complied, he pulled the fire alarm.

An ear piercing siren tore through the stairwell. The shrill, merciless sound drilled into Sherlock's brain, setting his teeth on edge. He rushed toward the stairs. If it was uncomfortable for him, it had to be excruciating for Vivian. Eric intercepted him, no longer smiling. He lunged at Sherlock, fists flying. There was no hesitancy in him now. Sherlock threw himself back to avoid the flurry of blows. A swarmer used rapid, powerful punches to overwhelm an opponent. Their weakness lay in their heavier build and shorter reach. Sherlock feinted left, then slipped past him, landing a sharp jab to the kidney. Eric grunted. He twisted to face Sherlock, then drove his shoulder into Sherlock's chest and bore him to the ground. For the second time that evening, Sherlock's breath was knocked from his lungs. He much preferred the first instance. For one thing, Vivian smelled a great deal better than Eric, and another, she hadn't been trying to smash his face in. Lightning-fire blows rained down on Sherlock. He blocked them with his forearms. One slipped past his elbow and glanced off his cheek. Pain flared across the spot.

Sherlock scowled, ire rising. That was going to leave a mark. It was time he returned the favor four-fold. Going against all instinct, he leaned up into Eric's oncoming punches and pulled him into a tight embrace. Keeping the man close denied him from the space and leverage to hit him with any power. Snaking his right arm between them, Sherlock braced his forearm against the side of Eric's neck. He applied pressure, forcing the man's head to the side. At the same time, he threw his own body in the same direction. Where the head goes, the body follows. Eric's resistance broke. Sherlock rolled them, landing on top. And now the other man was on the defensive. A chorus of shrieks and screams far above them suddenly rose above the blaring of the siren. Any second now, the stairwells would be flooded with frantic, half-naked hot tub cinema goers. Sherlock had to end this, and end it now. He and Vivian would have only a small window of opportunity to use the chaos of the crowd as a shield for their escape. Sherlock sent a chopping blow at Eric's throat, but the other man seized his arms in an unrelenting, meaty grip. Option two, then. Messier, but equally as effective. He slammed his forehead into Eric's nose. Cartilage flattened. Eric gave a strangled cry, and his grip loosened. Sherlock broke his hold and sprinted back over to the fire alarm pull. He opened the clear cupboard door there and removed the fire extinguisher. His peripheral vision caught Eric already stumbling to his feet. It was going to take more than a blow to the jaw or face to knock this man out. Nose a fountain of red, Eric ran at him. Sherlock pulled the pin and aimed the nozzle. He squeezed the lever, and white foam blasted into Eric's face. Eric's hands flew to his eyes in reflex, and he sputtered, stumbling to a halt. Sherlock strode forward and slammed the butt of the fire extinguisher into Eric's stomach. The man doubled over, chin perfectly exposed. Sherlock swung it again, and metal met bone with an audible crunch. Eric's head snapped back, and he collapsed onto the concrete, unconscious. Finally.

The shrieks and screams above Sherlock grew louder. The crowd was coming. Still gripping the fire extinguisher, he turned to the stairs. Vivian was kneeling on the ground, one hand clutching the side of her head, the other struggling against Katarina. Katarina grappled with her arm, pulling it taut. Light glinted off a band of metal, and in one swift movement, Katarina handcuffed Vivian's wrist. Sherlock couldn't allow the woman to finish the job, or worse, cuff Vivian to herself. He needed to distract her somehow, give Vivian a chance to break free. But he was too far away. There was no way he'd make it down there in time, and the fire extinguisher foam wouldn't reach that far. He tightened his grip on the red metal cylinder in frustration. An idea formed. Perhaps it hadn't outlived its usefulness just just yet. Bracing the fire extinguisher above one shoulder, he flung it over the railing at Katarina's back. The liquid inside the canister made it wobble off course, but it still clipped her shoulder. That was all Vivian needed. She ripped the cuff away from Katarina, caught it over her knuckles, then drove the unforgiving metal into the other woman's face. Katarina went down.

Sherlock smiled. Neither of the agents would be partaking in breakfast, nor any meal for that matter, for some time.

He scooped up his coat and Vivian's shoes, then hurried down the rest of the stairs. Vivian stumbled to her feet, palms pressed over her ears. Sherlock caught her around the waist and hauled her to the side of the exit. Face a mask of pain, she tried to pull away to escape through the door, but he didn't let her go. "Wait," he shouted.

Right then, the mass of dripping, bathing-suited cinema goers streamed down the stairs past them, blubbering and shrieking in their panic. Sherlock waited a beat or two, then inserted himself and Vivian into the chaotic flow. Keeping his head low and Vivian close, he followed the wave of people out of the building. Flashing lights and sirens announced the arrival of two fire trucks and an ambulance. Vivian shuddered beside him, head against his shoulder, and he tightened his grip on her waist, guiding her away from the noise. Her weight against him eased as the distance grew, and the clamor lessened. He paused in front of a bench near the entrance to Kennington Park and gave her back her shoes. As far as he could tell, there wasn't anyone following them nor any cameras tracking their movements. They had a moment to breathe. For now. Vivian slipped her shoes back on and stood. She still hadn't said a word.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

Her shoulders hunched, and she growled something under her breath.

"Sorry?" Sherlock said, looking her over. Was she still in pain? Had Katarina injured her?

Vivian's right hand suddenly flew up, and Sherlock jerked back to avoid getting smacked in the face by the free swinging handcuff.

"She cuffed me. I can't believe she cuffed me," Vivian said, green eyes ablaze with outrage. "And that bloody fire alarm! It shouldn't have incapacitated me like that. I've been doing the desensitization program. Why isn't it working?"

"You can't expect it to fix everything. That alarm was unpleasant, even for me." His ears were still ringing.

A seething huff. "You didn't get handcuffed."

"No, I got punched in the face."

Concern chased her frustration away. "You're hurt?" She stepped forward and tilted his chin up toward the nearest streetlight. Cool fingers probed the area just to the right of his cheekbone. He couldn't help but flinch, and she let out a hiss. "This needs ice. Come on." She pulled him down the street, steps purposeful.

"Where are we going?"

"My apartment. I'm going to get you some ice, we're going to have a cuppa, and then you're going to tell me what the hell is going on."

Sherlock sighed. As embarrassing as it would be to tell her who was really after them, she deserved to know the truth. "Fine."

Vivian led him around to the opposite side of Kennington Park, over to the next street, then headed for a ten-storey, red brick building. Stately letters spelled out Brixton Tower across the front. Warm light shone out from a pair of glass and brass lobby doors. A man wearing a bowler hat and a long, dark coat stood out in silhouette against the light. Sherlock paused, wondering if one of Mycroft's men had somehow intercepted them, but as they drew closer, his concern dissipated. The man was in his seventies, had a rose pinned to his lapel, and wore a pair of white gloves. He was a 24-hour porter, there to answer the door and provide concierge services. Interesting. Brixton Tower appeared to have more in keeping with a hotel than an apartment complex.

"Hello, Fred," she said, smiling as the man opened the door.

Bright blue eyes twinkled at them. "Hello, Miss Blythe. Enjoying an early morning constitutional, were we?" He eyed their muck-covered feet and bedraggled state with evident amusement.

She laughed. "You could say that." A nod at Sherlock. "This is my boyfriend, Scott Sigerson."

Sherlock blinked, startled by the label. He shouldn't have been. It made sense for Vivian to use her alias for her temporary place of residence. Less complicated that way. He wondered if he should be acting any differently, now that he was playing her boyfriend. Should he move closer to her? He assessed their body language. She was tucked against his side, arm threaded through his, handcuffed hand hidden in the pocket of his coat. If they were any closer, they'd have difficulty walking. Something told him that would draw more attention rather than less.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Sigerson," Fred said.

Sherlock nodded. "Likewise."

"You're welcome to let Scott in anytime, Fred. No need to buzz me," Vivian said, stepping forward.

"I'll make a note of it, Miss Blythe."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. She really did trust him. Permission notwithstanding, he still could have broken inside the building and into her apartment if necessary, but he supposed that was besides the point. His lips formed into a pleased smile.

"What's wrong with Beth?" Vivian asked. Sherlock followed her gaze to a woman wringing her hands behind the lobby desk.

"Politics," Fred said, grimacing like he'd caught a whiff of rotten cabbage. "Mr. Dickens just up and sold Brixton Tower without any warning at all. Beth said the new owner came barging in this evening, posh as you please, brandishing a pile of paperwork like he was God's messenger himself. She's terrified he's going to fire us all."

"That's awful," Vivian said. "Are you worried?"

Fred adjusted the flower on his lapel and winked. "They'd be fools to let me go. No one knows this building like I do. It'd fall apart without me."

"That it would," Vivian said, smiling. "Please let me know if there's anything I can do to help."

Fred tipped his bowler hat at her. "Will do, love."

With that, they headed through the lobby and into one of the lifts. It opened onto the top floor, revealing a thickly carpeted corridor with four doors. She pulled away from him when they reached the last one on the right, flat #902. The shining handcuff dangling from her slender wrist made for a rather amusing fashion accessory against the blue of her gown. He wasn't about to tell her that though. Especially not after seeing how hacked off she was about it. At least all he'd need was a hairpin to take care of it for her. She entered a key-code on the door, not bothering to hide it from his view, and the lock clicked open. Sherlock followed her inside, then promptly bumped into her back. She stood frozen in the entryway, spine stiff. Sherlock looked past her. The lights were on. A plush brown carpet partially covered the pale wood floor of a living room. Flames flickered inside a gas fireplace. Above that perched a flat screen television. The rest of the room was completed by a modern style coffee table, wingback chair, and a sofa. And sitting on the sofa like he owned the place was Mycroft Holmes.

"You two took your time," Mycroft said, not bothering to look up from a thick, open file folder. He perused a few more pages, then raised his head. "It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, Miss Walker. Or should I say Miss Blythe? Your list of aliases is rather lengthy. I could bounce between them if you find going by just one name too tiresome."

"Who are you?" Vivian demanded, striding inside.

"I'm Mycroft Holmes. You've no doubt heard of me."

Sherlock knew she had. He and John had mentioned Mycroft in front of her before, but only ever in passing. None of it had been particularly complimentary. Or detailed. She had no idea what his brother did for a living.

Vivian's eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

"Oh, merely some conversation. Think of this as a friendly get-to-know-you chat." Mycroft set the open file folder on the coffee table and folded his hands in his lap.

"Do you normally break into people's flats for a chat?" Vivian asked, tone tight with anger. Her fingers curled around the hanging handcuff.

Sherlock moved to stand beside her. "No, he usually just bugs them and listens in."

A thin chuckle. "Not this time, brother mine. I own this building. Purchased it this evening. It's always good to diversify." The placid smile on his face didn't reach his eyes. Then again, it never did.

Surprise flickered through Sherlock. Mycroft was showing off, flaunting his power. He was usually more subtle than this. "Why are you really here?"

Mycroft didn't spare him a glance, his calculating gaze fixed solely on Vivian. His brother could hide that blaze of predatory intelligence when he wanted. He usually made an effort to do so, often complaining that the brainless masses turned mute and dumb if he didn't. At the moment though, he wasn't even making an attempt. In fact, it rather appeared like he was doing the opposite. Was he trying to intimidate Vivian? If so, he was going to be gravely disappointed. This woman never responded to danger with fear, but with fury. And Mycroft had invaded her flat and purchased her building. He might as well have poked a surly wolverine with a sharp stick.

"As I said, I'm getting to know Miss Walker. It would behoove you to do likewise," Mycroft replied. "I think you'll find her history quite intriguing." He bent his head over the open folder.

All the color drained from Vivian's face, and her fists clenched. "No. Don't." Strangely enough, the words came out a harsh plea rather than a furious command.

Mycroft didn't listen. "She was born at Blandford Army Camp in Dorset. Brother drowned at eleven years old. Three years later, her parents-"

"Stop it," Vivian cried, louder now, almost desperate. Lines of strain bracketed her mouth. Her fists trembled at her sides.

She was afraid. Sherlock had never seen her afraid. Propelled by some primal protective instinct, his feet forced him forward until he stood partially in front of her. "Mycroft," he said, voice low in warning.

But his brother continued on like he wasn't even there. "Her parents took their own lives in a double suicide."

Shock rippled through Sherlock. She'd said her parents had died in a skiing accident. One glance at her agonized expression told him which version was the truth.

The onslaught continued. "An aunt took her in and died six months later from electrocution. Miss Walker was transferred into foster care afterwards, but never stayed anywhere longer than a few months. Arrested at fourteen for-"

Vivian lunged to the right and grabbed something off the kitchen counter. Her wrist flicked forward. There was a flash of movement through the air, then a thud. A letter opener quivered, its razor edge blade stuck clear through the middle of the folder and into the wood of the coffee table. It had landed barely a half inch from Mycroft's hand, directly beneath his nose.

"I said stop," Vivian said, breathing ragged.

Mycroft didn't even flinch. He raised his head, and dark knowledge glittered in his gaze. "You're in no position to make demands, Miss Walker."

The remaining defiance drained out of her then, like sand from a shattered hourglass. Her shoulders sagged, and her eyes fell shut. "You're right," she said, voice weary. "I'm not. But I refuse to stand here while you recite my personal history." She turned to Sherlock, and although her eyes were now open, she didn't meet his gaze. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Sherlock stared at her. What could she possibly be sorry for? If anything, he should be apologizing for Mycroft's behavior. His hand reached out of its own accord, but right before his fingers could brush her arm, she spun away and strode across the room to another door. She paused, hand on the knob. Her head bowed for a moment, then her spine stiffened. She glared over her shoulder at Mycroft. "Fuck you." With that, she stalked into the other room, and slammed the door behind her.

A sense of unreality descended upon Sherlock. Vivian had just conceded a fight. If he hadn't witnessed her retreat with his own eyes, he wouldn't have believed it. He could still hardly fathom it. She never backed down. Never gave up ground. Not even when beaten, broken, and bleeding. And while her final words to Mycroft had been fiercely defiant, she'd still fled, hidden herself away in her own home. The sheer wrongness of seeing her this way jarred through him like a dissonant chord.

He rounded on his brother. "What in the bloody hell are you doing, Mycroft?"

"Educating you." With a sharp tug, Mycroft prised the letter opener from the middle of the folder. The firelight glinted off the blade as he held it up. One eyebrow arched. "Tell me what you see, Sherlock."

"I'm in no mood to play deductions. I want an explanation."

"I'm giving you one." Mycroft's tone turned hard. "Tell me what you see."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "It's a letter opener."

"Bravo. What else?"

"The handle is lopsided."

"Very good. And what does that tell you?"

Impatience, and a strange reticence cut through Sherlock. "I'm done with this conversation. You need to leave."

A tutting sound. "The lopsided handle tells us this poorly made letter opener was never meant for throwing. Curious, don't you think?"

Sherlock's gaze flicked to the door Vivian had gone through. He found himself wanting to go after her, to escape like she had. He didn't want to hear anymore.

"The fact Miss Walker threw a lopsided letter opener with such accuracy is remarkable on its own. But she didn't do just that, did she? No. She threw it with a hand that was encumbered by a handcuff. Now, that, brother mine, is extraordinary."

"Is it? She's been taking special self-defense courses for the past few years. Knife throwing isn't that unusual."

"Don't be willfully blind. No one, no matter their natural aptitude, could attain that level of mastery in a few years."

"Do you have a point?"

A sigh. "You must have realized by now that she is not what she seems."

Sherlock remained silent. There was little point in responding. He knew she wasn't, and Mycroft knew he knew.

Mycroft's head tilted to the side. "Perhaps that's why you tolerate her company. A living, breathing mystery for you to solve." He crossed one leg over the other. "Did you know after her aunt's death, Vivian's remaining family shunned her? They blamed her, cut all ties." A grim chuckle. "That didn't save them though. They all died, too. Slowly, over time. Nothing suspicious. All easily explainable accidents or illnesses." He leaned forward, expression grave. "Death follows her, Sherlock. And it will follow you, too."

Silence fell, thick and suffocating, like that of a mauseoleum.

"You can't afford to be ignorant," Mycroft said. He slid the file folder across the coffee table toward him. "Read it."

Hello, my loves! So, what did you think of this chapter? Do you think Sherlock is going to read the file? Any theories on Vivian? Before I forget, I want to tell you the TV/Film references I made in the previous chapter. I made a Doctor Who reference and a Star Trek: Into Darkness reference. Kudos to those who caught them!

My baby girl is growing happily, and consequently so am I. My belly precedes me everywhere! Thank you for reading, for your patience, and for sticking with me. I appreciate all of you!