"I'm going to kill that moron." I mutter under my breath. This is now the second hour that I and Scotland Yard's finest had been searching for Sherlock in an abandoned warehouse, and not even a clue had been found as the where he was. Why an abandoned warehouse? Sherlock, who had been rattling off deductions at a million miles an hour about the latest victim of the criminal we'd been chasing for a week, had deduced by the victim's front lapel the he'd been in a warehouse off Butler Street and ran off. The rest of us followed of course, but we lost him once we got inside. The man was a trouble-magnet, so we switched from searching for the criminal, to looking for Sherlock. I had a bad feeling about this. It felt like we were walking into a trap, that Sherlock was walking into a trap. The bad feeling turned to dread as time dragged on. Sherlock called my "mother hen tendency." I called it my soldier's instinct. I nearly jumped out of my skin when a gunshot rang out. It sounded above me and to my right. "Lestrade!" I yelled to get his attention, and ran towards the sound. As I got closer to the racket, I could hear voices shouting and struggling. There were several more gunshots, more shouting, and then it went dead silent.