A/N: This idea has been in my head for awhile, so I've been eager to get it out! There will be no attempted slash, but as the reader, you may interpret it anyway you wish. Also, chapters will be short(ish?) due to the author having no ability to write long, detailed chapters.


Three years. Sherlock Holmes had been officially dead for three years. For three years Sherlock had not been able to go back to his best friend. It took three years to destroy all of Moriarty's web, and Sherlock was almost done. He had tracked Sebastian Moran, the second in command, to an abandoned warehouse in the middle of France. Everything Sherlock wore had been specially designed for reconnaissance, but it had it's uses for blending into the dark. Every piece of intel gathered had told him that Moran would be in the warehouse that night. Sherlock found a dark corner and hide there until Moran made his way there.

A shadow came into the warehouse, and Sherlock quietly drew his gun out. The silencer was on, and the gun was fully loaded with life taking bullets. All he had to do now was see the face of Sebastian Moran.

"I have information regarding a certain detective," a deep, low voice echoed across the warehouse.

Sherlock stiffened, surely they didn't know he was here? The detective was sure that Mycroft had fed many of Moran's associates lies about his locations, for no one was smart enough to figure out where he was. There were only three people who were very close to that line, one of them was dead, the other was his brother, and the other was hopefully still an ally. Sherlock was 75 percent sure she was still an ally. Mycroft, on the other hand, probably thought Sherlock was in Poland.

A thick silence enveloped the room until the man continued, "He is still alive."

A loud crash vibrated around the building at the meaning of those words. Sherlock had faked several deaths on his quest, and a part of him was pleased how Moran had not suspected the latest one at all. The other part, however, lowered the percentage of trust he had in his ally to 37 percent.

"Anything else?" a deeper rumbling echoed across the damp room.

The voice was unmistakably Moran's. Sherlock easily pin pointed the sniper to be hiding somewhere in the rafters.

"Yes," the sharply dressed man suddenly pulled out a gun and shot the crate next to Sherlock.

The pieces of wood flew across the room and some were caught in Sherlock's hair. The detective pulled up his gun, pointed it at the man who shot at him, and quickly pulled the trigger. While Sherlock had dispatched the man, Sebastian Moran had pulled out his own gun and proceeded to fire at the dark haired detective. Sherlock quickly ran for cover as more and more bullets whizzed past his head.

"Come out and play, Sherly," Moran eerily imitated the high tones of Moriarty as he also slid into the shadows of the warehouse.

As Sherlock moved deeper into the shadows, he made sure to dip the gun slightly in order for a flash of the gun to be seen by Moran. He knew it was a dangerous move, but he was eager to go home. Sebastian saw the flash of the gun instantly. He raised his own gun and fired six successive shots at the approximate location of Sherlock. The sandy blonde dropped the empty gun and pulled out the spare from his holster. There was the sound of a body hitting the floor and a low grunt. A few minutes passed and nothing happened. The sniper stepped into the light to have a look at the man who has been chasing him for three years.

As the mop of curly hair made it into his vision, the gleam of a gun made itself known as well. With ease, Sherlock pulled the trigger and a bullet tore through Sebastian Moran's brain.

"I don't like games," he stated coldly.

If Sherlock had been asked to play a game before The Great Game, as John had dubbed it, Sherlock would've answered with a simple yes. If Sherlock had been asked after, he would've asked what type of game. Since his suicide, Sherlock hated all games, and especially riddles.

Grunting, Sherlock pulled himself up. He gingerly felt his broken ribs under the bullet proof vest. Two ribs were broken, and many more were bruised. John would be able to fix it. Sherlock smiled at the thought of being able to return to John. Then, he sighed as he thought of Mycroft's smug face. The annoying fat git had insisted upon wearing a bullet proof vest for the entire case, and Sherlock had grudging complied. The detective knew Mycroft would be gloating for many years to come.

Without jostling his ribs, Sherlock took survey of the scene. The two men lied in a dark pool of blood. Both of them were confirmed dead. He was thankful of the silencers each gun had contained, for if they weren't there, the police would've stormed the place by now and every minute of planning would've gone to waste. Speaking of planning, Sherlock placed a question mark next to the two allies. In order to make a firm decision, he needed to gather more data. Shaking his head, Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialed Mycroft.

"Ah, hello brother dearest. Care to explain why you weren't in Poland?" an irritated voice greeted Sherlock.

"It's time to go home," Sherlock answered with relief.