The Crownless Again Shall Be King

Chapter 2 – Turn of Events

Warning: minor character death (minor as in "character not yet seen in TV series") MANY MORE DEATHS TO COME :D (shh, the genre says "angst" so I think it's okay)

A/N: Second chapter finally up. I'll put up some warnings as I go, eventually this fic will become M rated because of reasons (ew no not graphic gay sex what nO. (maybe a little but...) We're speaking of a lot of blood and gore and cursing that's worth an M rating.)

Sherlock and Sebastian held their ground and simply stared for what seemed to be forever. „You've changed since the last time I had you in the cross hairs," Moran broke the uncomfortable silence. He must have meant the time at the pool, years ago. Despite the absence of little red laser dots dancing around, Moran might have set up fellow snipers in the warehouse too as he expected the detective to show up. „I'll take that as a compliment," Sherlock replied, his voice unwavering although he could be on some soldier's sniper scope the very moment. „Weren't you supposed to be dead, by the way," the mercenary casually added, folding his hands behind his back. He seemed suspiciously calm for a man being held at gunpoint, but he might have been bluffing, of course. „I am more alive than ever before, thank you for your concern," Sherlock was slowly growing impatient, his index finger caressing the revolver trigger. It'd take him a second to have Moran's brains all over the concrete floor, but there was the mystery of this situation nagging at him. Why had leads to Moran appeared out of the blue? Why was Moran appointed to work with the Mafia? The way Moran looked happy with himself was beyond unnerving. He looked as if he had accomplished something tremendous and was with nothing left to lose.

„Before I put a bullet through your head, why did you have an appointment with Aleksei?" Sherlock decided to prod at the unsolved questions. Moran started pacing around in a circle, somewhat resembling a tiger in its narrow cage. A kind of a nervous tick, everyone betrays their emotions in a different way. „Sherlock, we're not in an interrogation room, try to have a conversation," Moran sneered, shooting a clever look at the detective. Stalling, for some reason. „Judging by your behavior I'd say you were expecting me, not your drug dealer friend. Care to enlighten me now, before I find out all the secrets you're keeping by observing your corpse?" Sherlock snapped, his voice harsh. One more witty comment out of that bastard's mouth and he'd have quite a few extra holes in his skull. The sniper broke his pacing pattern and stopped. „Oh have fun with that," he said, giving a casual shrug. There was something about the way he held his posture stiffly, the confident look in his eyes, everything was off, but in what way- then it dawned to Sherlock. Indeed, stalling. This moment had been planned ahead, carefully calculated. Somewhat like a kamikaze attack. Moran probably knew he was leaving the place in a body bag. But why all that? He was the last person on Sherlock's list, the last one of Moriarty's men. With Moran dead, everything would be finally over. Wouldn't it? The cogwheels were turning at inhuman speeds in Sherlock's mind and the detective knit his eyebrows together in concentration. What was he missing-

„You poor dull detective, not as brilliant with John by your side, hm?" Moran continued, a wide mocking grin on his face. He looked right down the barrel of Sherlock's revolver as he took a step closer. Frustrated with such comments, Sherlock flexed the muscles in his arm and braced himself to be splattered with the sniper's blood. The shot never sounded. „Oh," Sherlock arched his eyebrows, „So that's your play." An involuntary twitch passed through Sebastian's body. That only confirmed all six theories Sherlock had managed to pose. „You're trying to extend your grip back to London, aren't you? To kill John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson? To destroy the ones closest to me in order to completely break me down?" Sherlock asked, even though the answer was crystal clear. Sebastian nodded. „Why, though?" Sherlock continued, „Why strike just now when you had all those years?" Moran's lips twitched in a smirk. „We needed time. You know, Sherlock, you were always in the wrong places, always with the wrong people. But right now, everything's ready and you're all alone, in a city where you have no power, no friends, nothing and no one!" Sherlock shook his head, and replied, „You're wrong about that. I'll have my brother dearest arrest your men before their feet touch the ground of England." A cold and pitying laugh echoed throughout the building. „Wrong again, Sherlock. How can you stop someone who's already there?" Moran's voice raised in pitch, given his desperate situation. Sherlock gritted his teeth, letting out a growl. „I'll have them killed." „No you won't. You couldn't have them killed three years ago… and you can't now," Moran lowered his voice to a whisper that sent icy tremors down Sherlock's spine. „You can't possibly be referring to-„ „…Moriarty," Sebastian finished for him and a victorious grin spread across the sniper's features. The purest form of rage uncoiled within Sherlock and in a moment, the air smelled of gunpowder. Sherlock's lips twisted in a vicious smirk and he looked down at the dead soldier. The gun was still loaded. Soon, two more holes decorated Moran's chest.

As the feeling of rage diminished, something dawned to Sherlock. He tucked the revolver into his coat pocket and bolted outside. Moran had been stalling. Stalling what? Sherlock's eyes flicked to the starless foggy sky above him. Blinking lights of red and yellow made their ways across the city, descending, ascending. Airplanes. Hair at the back of his neck rose and suddenly, he felt chilled to the bone. Airplanes… There was no way Moran could have worked his way into the Mafia himself. There was no way Moran could have come up with a plan to catch Sherlock's attention himself. He was as dull as a brick and served as a puppet. And the mastermind had been pulling the strings all the time, again. Sherlock wondered which one of those planes Moriarty was on. Staring at the air traffic, he knew it'd be a matter of hours until Moriarty reached London. Moriarty would soon be in London, and Sherlock was still standing in a Moscow port, watching all his plans fail without his content.

Sherlock left the warehouse at a frantic pace. He was feeling slightly lightheaded from fatigue and the sudden turn of events. As he walked towards the city again, he took deep breaths of cold night air that helped him clear his mind. Before he knew, he had switched on to some autopilot mode to find the nearest hostel, so he let his thoughts race. First things first: Moriarty was alive and about to walk the streets of London again, which posed a great threat to everyone Sherlock had ever known. For three whole years, even Sherlock hadn't heard of the criminal mastermind. Holding such a low profile must have been difficult, he probably lost his status in the progress and now, after getting rid of all his previous allies, no strings attached, he can finally reassemble his criminal army and rise as the Napoleon of Crime once again. He would probably have some fresh competition in the criminal world, but to him, it wouldn't be a problem to get everyone in his way blown to bits in one evening. And there's nothing Sherlock could do, not while he was in Moscow, dead to the entire world. Moriarty's timing was perfect. Even if Sherlock resurfaced, showed everyone he was alive, who would believe a liar and fraud like him?

It amazed the detective how Moriarty had the wits to choose a time like this. Sherlock had recently run out of money – something that could be easily deduced since he was forced to live with a drug dealer for days. No money meant no help from locals, not a single plane ticket, no means of safe communication with the people he had left behind in England. Other than that, Sherlock was strategically placed as well. He was in Moscow, a place lacking in intelligent people, or intelligent people that would speak coherent English and be ready to help a madman claiming to be a detective. If he was to save all of England, he would first need assistance in order to get on the next plane to London. There was a high probability that Moriarty had the whole Mafia under his paw, that would mean strict surveillance on Sherlock and disposing of everyone who wanted to lend a hand to him. For some sick reasons, it seemed as if Moriarty just wanted to watch Sherlock suffer and eventually wither, not die a quick death. Moriarty's mind remained an enigma.

It nearly made Sherlock trip and fall when he bumped into a smaller figure walking down the same street as him. He never realized how fast steps he had been taking. „Sorry," he said before he could consciously switch over to Russian. The woman jumped away from him and dispersed him with pepper spray. This made Sherlock topple over, hitting the concrete with his knees, spluttering and coughing. He raised his hand in a gesture to fend off the attack, but it resulted in him getting kicked in the stomach with an extremely pointy shoe. „Stop!" Sherlock managed, as he rolled over on the street, covering his face with his hands. He heard the clicking of high heels as the lady tip toed around him, finally bending over and helping him up. „Oh my god, a Londoner! What is a bloke like you doing on the streets of Moscow at night?! I took you for some bloody rapist! Are you alright?" she reached out for his arm in worry, steadying the detective as he rubbed his eyes. „How did you know I was a Londoner?" Sherlock asked, squinting at the woman. As his vision became less blurry, he made out her features. The street light above them made her ashen blonde hair gleam, looking beautiful next to her pale skin. Her blue eyes blinked at him. There was something about her that made Sherlock's heart skip a beat, but his hazy mind couldn't place the reason. She smiled in relief. „You might not have noticed, but you are wearing a Belstaff coat. Limited edition, everyone was crazy for those a few years back," she answered. Sherlock arched his eyebrows in confusion. „I study fashion and clothes design in Moscow," she said. That explained her observation skills. Fashionistas like her rarely miss a detail on clothes. Sherlock decided that she would make a brilliant friend.

A/N: okay there WILL be a HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGE time gap between all the chapters due to my awful schedule! Reviews much appreciated. Please point out mistakes :) Love ya all for reading! xoxo