Overview: Shannon 'Mac' MacLeod lives in Boston and is a member of the 1 % MC, The Saints of Boston. After the suspicious murder of her club's president, Mac is framed and leaked as the primary suspect in the murder. She runs from Boston to Charming to be with an old friend and hopefully get the hell hounds off her trail. OC-centric but all the boys appear. Rated for: violence, gore, language, drug-use and everything that The Sons of Anarchy has on a regular basis.

A/N: This is my first SOA FF that I'm publishing. The first few chapters take place in Boston, obviously, but don't worry all the boys we love will appear (although with so many damn characters that's a hard task to complete, lol). Please, please, please R&R. Constructive criticism welcomed and even asked for – because if I'm doing something wrong I can't fix it unless someone tells me :) .

Also, I am a huge fan of The Boondock Saints and there will be referrences made throughout, so any that resembles a scene or phrase from them is intentional. Let's get this show started!

Chapter 1: Saint Jude

She holds the gun in her lap with loose fingers, tracing the waffle pattern of the grip lazily. Her long, almost impossibly light blonde hair hangs around her bowed head like a curtain, obscuring her from the afternoon sunlight that streams in through the half-closed curtains. Her broad, muscular shoulders are slumped low, physically weighed down by her own crushing grief.

An empty bottle of gin lay forgotten on the pine kitchen table, next to the few photographs the 31-year-old woman cherishes. In all the pictures, two beaming blonde sisters look into the camera with remarkable resemblance. Each smiling sister has distinctive features of their own, for instance a vast different in height and eye colour but their sorority was unmistakable. They have the same blonde hair that is almost-white, the same creamy alabaster skin and the same sharp Swedish cheek bones. In the older pictures that have yellowed and bent from time and loving, the eyes of the eldest sister, the tallest one and the one who now sits in the empty apartment, appear worn and wrinkled on her youthful face. It was the all too telling sign of a past the woman struggles to forget and remember all at the same time.

A deep, heavy sigh falls from the woman's peach lips. She had made herself a promise long ago in the far away coastal town of Scotland that she used to call home, but now that the moment of truth is finally upon her she struggles to gather the internal strength needed to keep her own promise.

Her fingers, not at all delicate and dainty but rather with scarred knuckles and broken nails, roam over the piece of metal that has long since warmed up to body temperature. Her hand wraps around the grip of her gun and her index finger curves around the trigger.

She reminds herself of the promise she made when she was fifteen as she brings the muzzle to her temple. It was a deal she made with herself during her darkest of days; the second Sarah no longer needed her, she would end her life.

But as the metal digs into her temple she can't pull the trigger.

She puts the gun down on the table and buries her face in her hands. A small, dry sob rakes her curved body. The woman is so far past sorrow that the sobs are redundant but yet still her body shakes violently.

For all intents and purposes she was more Sara's mother than she was her older sister. Their mother was killed during a car crash 1988, on her way to pick up a birthday cake for Sarah. Shannon was nine and Sarah was turning five. On that fateful summer night though their mother was the only one to actually leave this corporeal world, their father died too. The loss of his wife completely shattered the Scottish fisherman. He crawled into a bottle of Whiskey and never returned.

Shannon filled her mother's shoes to the best of her nine-year-old ability. She cooked and cleaned and made sure Sarah got her bath. She helped Sarah with her homework and tucked their father into bed.

But there was so much more than that that Shannon did.

Shannon can remember her father in her early youth as a strong man who always smelled like the sea and took her to shoot cans with his Winchester rifle if she ate all her vegetables and got good marks. He was kind and gentle, and always loving.

Her father post-Whiskey was not that man. Her father post-Whiskey was composed of nothing but pure malicious intent. At first he just yelled a lot, throwing cruel insults at his daughter like they were comments on the weather. He resented Sarah most of all, vocalizing several times that he believes she's the reason that his wife Mary was taken from him.

Shannon would hold Sarah as she cried and coo gentle words into her ear. It sufficed for the time being.

But then… Well, then everything changed. He became increasingly violent as the months progressed. With most of his rage actually directed at Sarah, Shannon did the best she could to protect her baby sister just like her mother always told her.

Shannon would hide Sarah, locking her in away the bathroom or hiding her in the closet and then go forth and face her father alone. She accepted his wrath and dealt with the bruises and the vicious insults all in the name of keeping Sarah safe. Shannon sacrificed so much because she couldn't bear to see her sister hurt and scared. And in the end what good did it do?

None. Sarah was still murdered at 27 all because Shannon failed to keep her safe.

There's a knock on the front door of her small Boston apartment, the one above a pub in the heart of Southie that she has called home for eight years.

Like a robot she uses the table to hoist herself up with her fully tattooed arms and drags her feet to the door.

She winces when she opens the door and the apartment floods with the bright spring-time sun that she has been keeping at bay for so many days.

"Jesus, Mac. You look like shit." The visitor breathes. He is tall at 6'1 and only a hair taller than the blonde woman. He has shaggy brown hair that falls about face like wispy smoke. It flies into his honey brown eyes with the gentle breeze and he pushes it out of the way with a tanned hand so that he can see again. He wears a cut over a green shirt, the dingy ivory patches sticking out against the black leather of the vest. Boston is embroidered on the patch just above the left breast pocket, and on the opposite side his rank of Horseman is cryptically displayed.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" The woman asks. Her voice is velveteen dark with an obvious Scottish Highland brogue.

"Can I come in?" Sherlock asks his old friend. She begrudgingly steps aside and allows the older man to enter.

"It's like a fucking crypt in here." He comments as he looks about the small apartment. He spots the numerous empty liquor bottles scattered haphazardly throughout and the gun on the kitchen table among the pictures. The deep pit of worry he internally holds for her widens.

"Feel free to leave anytime." Mac grumbles. She gets a fresh bottle of gin from the cabinet and pours herself a drink.

Sherlock swallows his comment about her health and his worry because he knows she'll just wave him off and call him a pussy for caring so much. He takes a seat at the kitchen table. He picks up one of the photographs and looks at it for a moment. He then takes a look Mac, internally sighing at her appearance. Having been close with MacLeod for ten years, Sherlock is well rehearsed at understanding her body language. She's taking her sister's death very badly.

She leans against the beige kitchen counter with the full glass of clear liquid cuddled firmly by her pale hands with her emerald eyes listlessly staring at the checkered linoleum floor. Mac has an OCD-esque trait where she always looks someone directly in the eyes. It greatly adds to her overwhelming intimidation complex because her eyes always seem to stare right through a person and into their very soul. With one look she can tear down any wall and pick a person apart, brick by secret brick.

But with her eyes aimed on the floor she looks like someone else. She looks like someone who is fallible.

"Why are you here, Leon?" Mac again asks with utter exacerbation.

Sherlock sighs. Why couldn't she be easy, just once?

"I have some good news." Sherlock breathes. Mac perks up, her elegantly groomed eyebrows shooting half-way up her forehead.

"I found Roy. He's staying at some roach motel off the turnpike." He says hopefully.

Mac has been waiting to hear those words for two excruciatingly long weeks and as the words grace her ears the adrenaline shoots through her body like a lightning bolt. She places the glass of gin down on the counter with a quiet 'clink' as glass connects with tile. In the sudden stillness of the apartment it sounds like a gunshot signaling the start of a race.

"When are we going after him?" Mac asks as calmly as she can manage.

"Tonight."

She slides into the kitchen chair across from Sherlock and lights up a cigarette. Taking a long pensive drag, her eyes fall upon her own worn cut that hangs over the back of one of the kitchen chairs. She is a member of the same MC as Sherlock, The Saints. The club patch of large praying hands that are entwined with a Celtic rosary stands out from the back of the vest with formidable symbolism. Finally. Finally her prayers have been answered.

"Thank you for finding him." She says with an exhale of thick smoke. Leon didn't get the nickname Sherlock on a whim. The MIT graduate has the supernatural power to find anything or anyone with ease. Granted, he has had a hard time tracking down Roy, but all that matter to Mac is that he did.

"We've all been trying to find him." Sherlock says, referring to The Saints, "And we've all been worried. You haven't come around the pub or the station since…" His voice trails off because there's no need to actually finish the sentence. They both know the words that complete the fragment and it would be nothing but twisting the knife in the wound at this point to speak them.

Mac gets up from the table and for a moment Sherlock thinks she's going to deck him.

And secretly, he would let her if that's what she needed because that's how much he loves her and wants to help her.

However, Mac just pulls her cut off the chair and slips it on. In the same ivory background and Shamrock green lettering as Sherlock's dingy patches, Boston is also over her left breast pocket. But over her right, her different rank lurks. Hellhound, the patch rightfully warns.

It's inexplicable, the comfort that the vest brings to her. With the feminine cut of the leather hugging her curves it brings to her more sense of security than Kevlar.

"Drive me to the armory. I want to pick out a new gun." Mac states firmly, her vivid eyes finally meeting Sherlock's gaze. There's a deep rooted determination and controlled rage within her words that Sherlock is relieved to hear because that mean's she okay. As her shoulders overcome the crushing grief that previously weighed them down, they tense up and complete Mac's signature intimidating appearance is complete. There are no signs of the woman who sat contemplating suicide mere minutes ago. There's only Mac and her outstanding likeness to the Furies of ancient Greek mythos.

I don't like to beg - but I am. Please review!

Saint Jude - The Patron Saint of Desperate Situations