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Norbury’s pistol steadied beneath the aquarium’s blue light.
Holmes watched her finger contract and completed the calculation before anyone else understood its terms.
Mary’s weight had shifted forward. Her gaze fixed upon the muzzle, not the woman holding it. She meant to cross the bullet’s path. Death had shadowed her since she chose blood and aliases; if it did not claim her tonight, another reckoning would. She knew it and perhaps welcomed it.
But John would see only Sherlock alive and Mary dead. He would never forgive him. Sherlock, who carried every failure beneath his skin, would accept the verdict and spend whatever remained of his life punishing himself.
The outcome was unacceptable.
When the pistol cracked, Holmes moved.
He struck Mary aside and stepped into the line of fire. The bullet entered below his heart. For one astonished instant he remained upright, black coat immaculate, then blood flowered through his waistcoat and Mycroft Holmes collapsed into Sherlock’s arms.
Glass glimmered blue and voices broke into panic. Sherlock lowered him to the floor, hands uselessly trying to contain the flow.
Mycroft had steered governments through wars. This had been simpler. One life exchanged for the only life he had ever loved.
His bloody hand rested on Sherlock’s cheek.
Sherlock bent into the touch, shaking. “I’ll be right behind you, my love.”