Author's note: Hey, lovely readers! This is my first published fic EVER, please give me feedback! Not certain if I will ever completely finish this because of school. Bear with me, this will get a bit better as it progresses. Rating WILL turn to M later! Please enjoy!
Warning: random people being killed, nbd
Chapter 1 – Killing The Tiger
The streets of downtown Moscow smelled like the damp autumn night air and filth. It was not a place where one would imagine to find two neatly suited gentlemen, standing face to face in a dark dirty alley. Still, there they stood, their voices lowered to quick whispers on god knows what topic. As fuelled as their conversation seemed, neither appeared to make a move to physically assault the other. In fact, they almost looked like friends discussing an exciting football game. That definitely proved not to be the case as one of them suddenly pulled a revolver and pointed it at his companion. The man being held at gunpoint growled something in Russian, gesticulating frantically. Both men froze when heavy steps made their way into the alley.
The two men stood, dumbfounded. The figure approaching them stopped thirty feet away , pulled a cigarette and placed it on his lips. Surprisingly, the stranger didn't reach for a lighter, just held the cigarette between two fingers… and blew. A moment later, the man with the pistol fell to the ground, trashing around in a fit of cramps before going still. Faint light from the street outlined a small dart sticking out of his neck. Delicate and lethal, as mesmerizing as a murder weapon can get.
The stranger pocketed his blowgun again and shined a flashlight over the man still standing. In light, he was revealed to be short and stout. „Dear me, where did you pop out from?!" he panted. He was in his fifties, almost bald, little anxious pig eyes shining in his round face. „I thought I was a goner," breath hitched, his lungs were striking again. Not much of a threat, considering his prosthetic knee and lung cancer. Could never outrun anyone, barely exercised, a puppet for the Mafia he was, more used to manipulating people, hiring assassins and poisoning drinks. „What are you doing here, Dmitri?" he asked, turning to the stranger. Stupid questions, probably has developing dementia. Not a threat at all. At least not for Sherlock Holmes.
„You know, I didn't expect to see you here," the plump man said as he and the detective walked down a street, away from the crime scene, „I thought I told you to stay away from my private meeting, you curious kid! Guests should listen to their hosts, no?" his eyes flickered over the tall grim looking man trying to fall into step beside him. „You nearly got killed during that meeting," the Brit spoke, breath visible in the air. „Ah, bankers like me usually get into trouble now and then," the russian replied, a secretive edge to his voice. The man let out a squeal as the detective came to an abrupt stop, strong gloved hands forcing the man against the nearest house wall. „Now, Aleksei," Sherlock hissed, addressing the fat lying man by his real name, „It took me less than five minutes to figure out who you worked for when you took me in for the week." The fat little man shook with fear and struggled under Sherlock's steel grip. „How do I know you work for the Mafia, you want to ask me," Sherlock kept the conversation alive, „Obvious! The cigars you smoke – bought from underground markets, the traces of cocaine on your work shoes, the crest on your ashtray! Any idiot could have deduced that!" The detective's voice turned into a snarl as he continued: „I wanted to finish you off days ago, but guess who's your appointed bodyguard? Sebastian, that's who! A birdy read your mail this morning and told me you were having an appointment with him. I thought to follow you and kill you both, but this bloody idiot that I wasted a dart on got to you first. Got smugglers on your tail, huh? Now, we both know he would have turned you into a doorknob and Sebastian would have vanished like tin into ashes. Moran's waiting for you though, isn't he. Where are you meeting?" Sherlock gave the man a punch across the face for good measure. „Where?!" „S-south p-p-port, warehouse number six, s-southmost one," he spluttered, grabbing at Sherlock's hands, but the detective wouldn't yield. „Thank you, very co-operative for a drug dealer," Sherlock coldly replied. „Dmitri, you don't have to do this, please, I'll let your boss pay you tenfold, I-„ the man kept blabbering, trying to bargain himself out of this mess. Five inches of stainless steel flashed in the streetlight's glow and the man slumped, choking on his own blood. „Sorry to let you know I am Sherlock Holmes again," the detective sneered, standing over the gurgling man.
After dragging the body away and somehow fitting it into a nearby dumpster, Sherlock left at a quick pace. There would be a thunderstorm in exactly 47 minutes, nature would deal with cleaning up the crime scene. Sherlock hailed a taxi that was driving by him and let himself be taken to the port. At his destination, he got off, tossed the driver a bill and watched the taxi slowly disappear into the city centre again. When he was certain no one was around, Sherlock made his way to the lonely warehouse towering in the middle of a gravel and concrete field. He located the fire escape door and picked the lock, slipping inside with making as little noise as possible. Sherlock took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of coal and wooden crates stacked tens of metres high. The smell was repulsive, actually, but it cleared the detective's mind and allowed him to collect himself. After years of looking, an accidental clue had led him to Moran, Moriarty's sniper on the loose. It made his heart race, not the sense of danger, but the thought of killing the mercenary, preferably slowly. 'After all this is over, and everyone is safe, I can go home again', Sherlock thought, taking steady and silent steps into the open space that was the heart of the warehouse.
Sebastian Moran stood with his back to the detective stalking behind him. Sherlock instinctively adjusted his steps to meet those of an obese drug smuggler. It seemed to work as Moran impatiently tapped his foot, not even bothering to turn around. In a flash, Sherlock retrieved a pistol from his pocket. Smith & Wesson model 642, small but capable of leaving a clean hole through a thick mercenary skull. Sherlock's thundering heart in his chest was joined by slow mocking clapping. „Well done, you bloodhound, you," Moran's taunting voice sounded as the man turned, his silver steel eyes focused on Sherlock's, „I didn't expect a bit less."