The Call

        I heard footsteps running up the carpeted staircase. It was the muffled clap of a set of black Saint Laurent Oxfords taking the steps two at a time. I stood up from the bed. Even in this alarming moment, Sherlock didn't require any reason to comment on my relations with Greg.

        "Sherlock!" Dr. Watson's voice echoed downstairs.

        The woman walked past Greg, shoving the bedroom door open so far that the handle hit the wall. She strutted to the corner of the room and perched herself on the bench at my dressing table. Greg walked toward me, keeping his body between hers and mine. He placed his pistol at the back of his joggers, clearly now believing her claim of being unarmed.

        "It's nice to finally meet you, Mr. Holmes. You have quite the reputation," she said.

        Sherlock ran into the room as I considered possible responses, halting his momentum by grabbing the door frame. His face was polluted with the sort of anger only being intellectually slow could cause him. "Are you okay?" he asked, looking toward Greg and me.

        "He's fine," replied Greg, still claiming the role of my protector.

        Sherlock nodded at me, exhaling with relief. He shifted his attention toward the woman across the room. "Well. It's been too long, don't you think? How are you, Jeanette?" He spoke her name with extreme emphasis and diction lingering on the last consonant.

        "Oh, so you know my name now?"

        "It's been the only name on the tip of my tongue all day," chided Sherlock. "Teacher. I thought you were a teacher."

        She simply smiled at him in response.

        Dr. Watson finally arrived in the doorway, gasping for breath. I could see him slowly scan the room, checking for injuries. When he saw that everyone was alright, he clapped the heels of his shoes militarily and turned toward the woman. "So, how long have you been a criminal mastermind?" he asked his ex-girlfriend. John Watson had dated this young woman for a brief time several years ago. Greg had spent Christmas Eve with them and other friends. I recalled him referring to her as "grumpy." Apparently, even on Christmas, she never smiled. Sherlock was certainly not mistaken when he said that John had a penchant for the dangerous and the clinically insane.

        "Only since Mr. Holmes ensured that my brother was locked up for life in Wakefield Prison."

        John glanced in my direction before he spoke. "I'm sure we can all sit down and have a conversation about this."

        Amon Reluz had been on my radar for years. He was a serial predator. He had been incarcerated previously for various sexually-based offenses. Recently, though, he had been responsible for the murders of two prominent Lords Temporal. I had authorized his capture and imprisonment sixteen months prior. His sentence ensured that he would be held in the so-called Monster Mansion for the rest of his life.  "A conversation is certainly possible," I confirmed. "However, I can assure you that he will never be free again. I'm afraid I really can't help you, Miss Reluz - no matter what government secrets you believe to hold hostage."

        "Well, that's where you're wrong, Mr. Holmes," she contradicted.

        "Pardon me?"

        "I know. I'm sorry. You're probably not used to hearing that. I said you're wrong. My brother will be free again."

        "Miss Reluz, I will not negotiate with you, nor will any criminal justice office or intelligence agency in the British nation."

        "Oh, it's okay. You don't have to negotiate. He's already free," Jeanette explained.

        "What?" John's reaction was a reflex of his shock.

        Sherlock looked at me as his eyes widened with concern. What had we missed? The lower hinge on my washroom door was in need of oil. I heard it creak as it slowly opened. A tall, muscular man, clearly her junior, emerged from the door behind Jeanette. Amon walked past his sister, approaching Dr. Watson near the bed chamber's entrance. His build suggested that he was capable of doing significant damage without assistance or weapons. He, however, was swinging my umbrella in his hand as he moved. Dr. Watson reached for his gun, looking stumped as he touched his bare hip.

        "Sorry, John. I had a friend at the hospital make sure that you'd be unarmed when you got here."

        This woman had managed to set a bomb at Downing Street, blow Lady Smallwood's office, rig my entire property with underground explosive capacity, hire an assassin to chase us, disappear the Cabinet Secretary, nick Dr. Watson's gun, and arrive in my bedroom before even Sherlock Holmes could stop her. It was nearly impossible for Sherlock or me to know what else she had planned. Greg pulled his pistol from his joggers and pointed it at Amon.

        Jeanette spoke again. "Inspector, I remember you being quite the gentleman, but your vigilance where Mr. Holmes is concerned is overwhelming. Either you have a hero complex or an affectionate, personal investment in his survival. I'd bet on the latter. All clad in half done pyjamas with a disheveled bed during broad daylight," she observed. "Is there something you'd like your friends to know?"

        Sherlock cocked his head with empathy as he looked at me, apologizing with his eyes. Dr. Watson's mouth suddenly gaped open, clearly taking a moment to drink in my unbuttoned shirt lying atop the bedclothes, and the apparent fact that both sides of the bed had been used. I could see his eyes squint at Greg in bewilderment, considering his mussed hair and the shallow point at which the joggers rested on his hips.

        Amon tapped the umbrella across the wooden floor as he slid his feet, inch by inch, toward Greg. He lessened the gap between them down to approximately a meter.

        "You should know, though," Jeanette continued, "that Glock has been jammed for four days. You've been completely useless to him. And, sorry, by the way, if that's my fault," she finished, nodding toward the gauze covering his oblique.

        Greg's arm twitched. It was the first lack of steadiness with his weapon I'd ever witnessed. He inhaled, adjusted his shoulders, and recomposed himself, aiming directly between the fugitive's eyes. If the gun was fully functioning, it was a perfect kill shot. He rarely needed to use the skill, but he was well known for his unerring marksmanship. I moved closer to him as he pulled his trigger. Nothing. The gun was, in fact, jammed. Sherlock locked eyes with me. How could they have compromised a Scotland Yard issued firearm without us anticipating it? How was she eluding us?

        "Mr. Holmes," the young man began to speak, "they say you're very clever. You're a myth. A legend. The unmatched erudite living in his castle controlling all of Britain." He raised my umbrella, staring at it. "Given everything my sister has accomplished, I wonder if all that is true."

        Greg reacted by backing up closer to me, reaching behind his back to grip the side of my hip. He seemed to be trying to both reassure himself that he was guarding me, as well as offer comfort.

        "But this. This really is the brightest thing I've seen." He disassembled the contraption, removing the brolly and sword with one jolt. His finger caressed the pistol's trigger as he aimed it toward Greg.

        "You see, Mr. Holmes," Jeanette began, "we have control of all the Intelligence of the free world simply by nicking your laptop. But that was so simple. And it could make millions suffer. But we needed to find a way to make you suffer. Just like you've tried to do to my baby brother."

        "Your baby brother ," I mocked, "has brutally killed two significant men and caused suffering and trauma to countless other men and women for more than a decade."

        "Listen!" Dr. Watson's voice was loud and panicked. "There's no reason for anyone to shoot anyone," he insisted, walking toward Jeanette. He was lost without the security of his weapon. "Mycroft isn't fighting you. No one is resisting anyone. Let's just talk."

        "Actually, the D.I. here tried to shoot me in the head," said the prisoner.

        "But he didn't," reasoned Sherlock. "He didn't shoot you."

        "He didn't because my sister outwitted him. Not because he didn't want to."

        "We thought about killing you," Jeanette told Sherlock. "I wanted to cause as much pain as possible, and I do know what it's like to worry about one's little brother. Your relationship seemed a bit complicated, though, so we weren't quite sure." She paused. "Judging by the way the Inspector is clinging to your brother, though, he's definitely the more important target."

        I heard car doors slamming shut in the garden and a helicopter arrive overhead. The British Secret Service and Scotland Yard had my home under surveillance. Though Greg hadn't been able to call for back up, he was about to get it. Jeanette's body stiffened as she moved toward the window to find the source of the sounds. Her head whipped around quickly to make eye contact with her brother. "Amon Reluz. Surrender now!" called an amplified voice from the helicopter. "Release all hostages and surrender now!" I could hear shoes running on the checkered marble of my foyer.

        Amon's eyes rested on me with fury. He still had my gun focused on Greg. I watched as his knuckles curled just slightly. He was about to fire, but his arm was unsteady. The pattern of shaking suggested that his shot would hit Greg's abdomen, most likely his liver. The men downstairs would be too late.

        As the blast happened, I moved immediately toward Greg, pushing him out of the way. The impact of the bullet crippled me with searing pain. I heard Greg and Sherlock yell my name in unison as I dropped to the floor, head landing under the shadow of my bed.

        I had never been entirely sure that I'd sufficiently understood, let alone felt, love. Finally - finally, I was sure. This was love.