AN: I don't own Sherlock.
London was quiet.
The rain was cold. Steady. Clear as an evening star.
drip…drip
The pavement was glass.
Of the hundreds below, not one glanced up. They saw but they did not observe.
Not the woman with the squalling children.
Not the elderly couple, walking aimlessly, hand in hand.
Not the man in the suit with the phone to his ear.
He looked down upon this man, cool metal chilling his hand.
He raised the long rifle, leveling it, aiming it, finger twitching against the trigger.
He paused as the man looked up, gaze boring into the gunman's eye.
The man lowered his mobile.
The eyes hardened in defiance.
Defiance.
Defiance of him.
Defiance of death.
The shot was lost in a peal of thunder.
The man fell back.
One hand dropped the phone, a low, deep voice on the other end still resonating through the speakers, contemptuous and bland.
A simple black umbrella fell from the other lifeless fingers, unused.
The baritone voice lost its hard edge as he was greeted with only silence and the steady beat of rain.
drip…drip
He called out for his brother.
drip…drip
The pavement was red and London was quiet.