((Author's Note: Based on Assassin's Creed and the BBC Sherlock, both of which I do not own. Will focus mainly on Sherlock and his actions Post-Riechenbach, if he happened to become a Assassin.))
Standing at the edge of St. Bart's roof was like seeing a whole new London. Sherlock had been to plenty of skyscrapers and the London Eye, but the ledge gave a feeling was completely different. Deep inside his head was a map of every street name and every shop corner but this time every detail was exposed and open before him.
It felt strangely satisfying to perch there, just before falling.
Sherlock tossed the phone away. John was watching and he didn't have any more time to waste or the snipers could perceive the hesitation as a chance to take an easy shot. He kept his head level and stepped off just enough to reach the target on the wet sidewalk below.
Molly shined a light into his face.
"Sherlock." She held the pen light carefully in her gloved hands like a priceless glass vial. "Please wake up, Sherlock."
Sherlock examined her face as she checked his pupils. Her light colored lipstick was worn. The edges of her eyes were cluttered with small mascara clumps. She had adjusted her makeup within the last hour but only superficially. She had not thought to erase all the tear marks on her cheek. Given the amount of shine still visible on the brand of lip gloss she wore, he estimated a ten minute interval in the women's restroom for her touch ups and another six minutes milling about her desk getting the nerve to wake him up.
"Did Lestrade and John check me?" He was still in the body bag but he could feel an IV needle sitting on the inside of his elbow and an expert suture job across his face. There was swelling and the cheek bones on the right side of his face felt broken; but Molly had done her task well and woke him after the pain medication was working.
"Yes. They came in and – Sherlock, they were devastated." Molly's voice wavered as she clicked the penlight off and pulled the metal examining table out further into the room.
"That only further proves they fell for the ruse." He unzipped the rest of the bag and eased himself up, finding himself stiff after blacking out from blood loss. Molly moved the IV drip closer and looked like she was going to utter something under the lines of "You shouldn't be moving."
"I'm absolutely fine Molly. You are an excellent pathology assistant." He quipped.
"Really?" Her face moved like it was trying to smile but also conceal her blushing cheeks.
"Yes. The way you stitched the open wounds closed with competence proves you are used to suturing shut autopsy incisions. However the IV drip you set is too high for someone of my weight and the swollen skin and bruising around the catheter indicates it will not last another hour the way you put it in. Fortunately for the living population, you stick to the morgue."
"Oh. Right." She moved over to clipboard and busied herself with his death certificate. Her handwriting was more legible than the average doctor and had the kind flowing slant from the way her pen was moving across the paper.
"I'm going to need you to get me a baseball hat, a different coat, and some jeans." When he stood the dizziness was not severe. His coat had been half removed so he quickly shed the outwear and adjusted his shirt sleeve. There was still blood on the edges of the collar and in his hair that was annoying his senses. He needed to get into his mind palace to plot the fastest way to get track down the three snipers. They were three wisps of the spider web that needed to be cleaned up while he was still in London.
He blinked several times and focused on all the collected terabytes of information held in the palace's invisible walls. Hired help, paid in full after the job was done. He couldn't afford to get too close to Baker Street or the Yard where he could be noticed. He started planning a route that would guide him through the most likely spots the snipers could be headed and cross referenced it with the zones where he would be noticed by associates and the press who would undoubtably be swarming after his 'suicide'.
"I'll be back with...your clothes." Molly said as she noticed Sherlock had lapsed into his customary silence and moved to push open the morgue's doors. Instead of a smooth exit, Molly bumped the door into someone. She gave out a sudden gasp and a flood of apologies. Normally her twitter was easy to block out if need be, but Sherlock needed absolute focus. The men he needed to murder were undoubtably blending into the night.
"Molly! Get out!" He hissed.
"She's staying here till we're done talking little brother."