Author's Notes: My dearest readers, thank you so very much for the support you've all lent me and for reading the story as it goes along. I think I'm doing quite famously, never have I ever felt such desire to keep on writing. Maybe it's the will of the writer to get the story to a turning point, maybe it's Andrew Scott's dark smoldering eyes... Whatever the case, here is chapter three.

Question answer: I honestly don't know who I'd rather have my wicked way with. Benedict Cumberbatches eyes and voice and oh God, those hands all keep me awake at night and intelligence is sexy... But something about Moriarty inexplicably draws me in. Maybe it's the promise of power or the maniacal genius...

Stop This Chapter III - Between Sand and Stone


"He came over last week, Sherlock. Told me he was going for a holiday. Not to look for him. Said he had to get as far away from 221B Baker Street as possible. I asked him why, he only sighed and said goodbye. Said he would leave the key under the flowerpot at Charlie's Sandwich Palace. Said to take care of Mrs. Hudson. Said he had left some money on the table, so that I could buy fresh flowers every week and bring them to the cemetery. He is not planning on coming back, Sherlock. You did this," Molly sobbed into the receiver, a hand half-covering her mouth. Before her eyes stood the image of a resolute John Watson, the army doctor, the loyal friend, the lost hero, whom she had only seen once after Sherlock's untimely departure - at his funeral. The man had been crushed by this friend's death, there was no other way of saying it - it was as if a huge burden had been laden onto his shoulders. And the worst part was that he had seemed all right with carrying it. It was his duty, just like army service. When she'd received the call from him not even a week ago, informing her of his going off to God knows where, his voice had sounded different. Calm. Gone was the slight tremble it had acquired after Sherlock's death, gone was the unsure sigh at the end of each thought. Something had changed within the man. Something only one Sherlock Holmes would be able to discover and rectify.

"You have to do something about it. Call Mycroft, ask him where John has gone. Sherlock, he is... he sounded so different, so... resigned. I think he is going to do something really, really stupid and we both know you are the only person in the world who would be able to persuade him not to... I can't even say it. Please, just... do something. I may have not known John for as long as I have known you but let me tell you this - there is no other person in the world who would do all the things John's done for you. I think it's time that you did something for him. Call Mycroft. Or, God help me, I will." Molly sighed, snapping her phone closed. Silly, she thought to herself, silly to think he would actually pick up. The unwelcoming mechanical twang of the voice mail lady had been met with silence before she had been able to gather her thoughts and convey to her friend what she needed to.

She still couldn't believe she had fallen for his subtle compliments, his little whispers of you matter and his insignificant glances. She had helped Sherlock Holmes save a man's life - his own, for that matter. What she hadn't considered when accepting his plea was that she would be digging a grave for another man - a good man, a wonderful man - so now, she stood there, in the middle of her mortuary, single and alone as before, feeling as though she had carved the name John Hamish Watson into white military marble.


JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK

"Un euro treinta. Gracias," the smiling girl squealed to him as he handed over the money, taking his purchases wordlessly and striding out into the street. Autumn was mild in Barcelona, yet for sentimental purposes he still insisted on wearing his coat. It was maybe the only thing that felt like home in the crowded, noisy city. Sparing no glance at the vast Sagrada Familia, he continued down one of the smallish roads, only turning his head slightly to the left when another gasp echoed from behind him - yet one more victim to the warmth and ridiculously large amounts of people in line, waiting to get into the cathedral. Had he been ordinary, he would have rolled his eyes in amusement - honestly, didn't every tourist guide book clearly state there was nothing to see inside? The wondrous creation of Gaudí's genius was only as beautiful as its exterior and yet people poured inside to take a peek at the ongoing construction. He supposed he was rather like that, digging into the unknown. Always. Always.

The door closed behind him with a soft thud and he murmured a quick Buenos días to señora Nuñez, he Bed and Breakfast innkeeper. She was short and plump, very unlike Mrs. Hudson, who had always been a bit on the skinny side, but her tea and biscuits were almost just as good. Of course, British tea was better, but then again, that wasn't? His heart gave a small tug in his chest as he allowed himself a brief remembrance of the quiet afternoons spent in 221B Baker Street with John amusing himself with crossword puzzles and looking proud every time he'd solved one even though Sherlock would help him with half of the words. No, he shook himself, that part of your life is over. For now.

It had been weeks since he'd left the Queen's domicile and embarked on his journey first to France, then to Germany, then to Italy, and finally to Spain, where he was now, had been for eight days. His target lived right across the road, in a completely inconspicuous block of flats just a minute's walk from the city's most famous landmark. Hiding in plain sight. How boring. Tugging his shoes off, he settled into the leather armchair, the only piece of furniture he had requested in his room. That and a small side-table for the occasional cup of tea was all the luxury he needed. Sleep had become even more of a routine than it had used to be in the last few months, without the reassuring knowledge that John would be there to wake him up should a nightmare invade his pontine tegmentum.

His phone beeped once, jolting him from his musings. New voice message received. Listen now? Yes. Steeping his hands in front of his face, he listened to the phone's loudspeaker distort Molly's distraught voice.

"Call Mycroft. Or God help me, I will."

For the first time in months, Sherlock Holmes allowed himself to weep.


JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK

"Яшчэ адну," said John to the barkeep, slamming the shot-glass onto the countertop with a definitive clink. One more. It had been a rough day, rougher, in fact, than what had been mere weeks before - the Ukrainian assassin had only been the beginning. After him came a Russian crack-shot, thankfully not as good as John was, then came the Turkish crime syndicate... And now this. A Belorussian sect who had been very keep on helping Moriarty out with his ploys, in return for financial backing. Thinking back to the horrendously tight security around a four-level mansion just a few minutes outside of the city of Gomel, with uniformed army man patrolling ever two meters of the several-meter high electric fence, John concluded it had been really good financial backing as well. Snorting to himself, he downed another gulp of whatever that burning concoction was, and, pulling out several banknotes whose value he did not understand, stood to his feat.

Walking out of the bar, he sucked in another fresh breath. Autumn in Belorussia was surprisingly warm this year and he considered shrugging off his light jacket for a moment before deciding against it. It would not do any good to fall ill. According to one consulting detective, sinus blockage inebriated some neural passages to the brain. Translation: with a stuffed nose, you're no good. Smiling to himself, he stopped short when his phone rang, startling the cool calm air around him. Who would...?

"Hello?"

"I got the intel you needed, John. Bloody 'ard, too, 'ave you seen the size of those blokes?"

"Dorian, good morning. Is it morning still in London?'

"Don' be smoothin' me up, John Watson. I nearly got shot 'cause of wha' you told me to do!" Dorian, one of the former homeless network, thundered into the receiver. John had needed someone back in London to keep an eye out for things and to run occasional errands and he had not dared ask anyone he knew closely, considering all the risks involved. He had ransacked 221B for Sherlock's notes about the homeless and had come up with an address, only to find a run-down alcoholic in an underground tunnel. After a little bit of haggling, Dorian MacMaughen was his new eyes and ears in the city of London, in exchange for a nice little studio flat and a stable income supplied from the pocket of Mycroft Holmes. All the right friends in all the right places.

"Dorian, you know I don't have much time for conversation and that phone you're using is not exactly payed for by yourself, so please, skip the prologue. I will see to it that you are compensated accordingly. Just don't think to wheedle a fortune out of my sponsor, he is a man with a very short temper and very good connections in very important government offices. Now, you said you had something to tell me," John breathed into the phone, already feeling the rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins. It was beautiful, this chase, almost as beautiful as those had had ventured on with Sherlock. The detective might not have been with him but all John was doing would be in his name and it felt so... good.

"Aye, mate, no need to shout. So your next man is Francisco Navarra, you gonna write it down?"

"No need to," John replied, already labeling a new closet drawer 'Navarra'. "Anything interesting I need to know?"

"Spanish drug lord, assassin, thief, whatever you 'ear about the crime world, he's done it. Lives in Barcelona with his wife and mistress. Bloke really knows 'ow to turn things 'round for 'himself," Dorian chuckled, earning an eye-roll from John. "Anyways, last time my friends 'ear, 'e was planning some sort of attack on the Caixa bank 'eadquarters and that's supposed to 'appen in a week or two."

"Any address?"

"Surprisingly, yes. 'e gone and got 'imself a flat right next to that big church of theirs, the Sengrade Familia or som'in',"

"The Sagrada Familia?"

"Yes, that's it. I will send you the details by text, kay? Can't pronounce 'em bloody Spanish street names."

"All right." John exhaled, looking up at the sky. He hadn't been in Spain for ages. "What about the other business I told you to take care of?"

"Oh yeah, 'e's fine. Got 'imself a new case, som'in' 'bout a robbery on Downin' street. That ought to keep 'im busy."

"What about the others?"

"The foul woman finally left that forensics guy, good riddance if ya ask me."

Wonderful.

"Thank you very much for this call, Dorian, nice to know there is someone out there who can help me."

"Ya know I don' care 'bout that, John. I'm in it for the money. And to find out who the bloody 'ell you woul' do so much for."

"Call me if you find anything, mate."

"Always, John."

Pressing the end call button, John brought the phone up to his mouth in contemplation. Spanish criminal mastermind. Just like the movies, he thought to himself with a grin. Well, Spain it was. After being on the road constantly for nearly a week, with nothing to do but eat and sleep in between wielding his army pistol, John was not worse for wear - there was plenty of energy left inside him. Suddenly, he had come to understand how Sherlock had been able to function for days on end without so much as a nap: it was the hunger for the chase that had him going. The very thought that soon you would be able to lay a hand on the solution to the problem (or onto the trigger) was better than any mattress and any pillow in the world. Still, sitting down might be a good idea, John thought, but who was to say he couldn't rest while working? Spain it is.

NEED 1 TCKT BCN AIRPORT 2NITE & AP SECURITY CLEARANCE, TOO MUCH AMMO.

-JW

Message Sent.

With a sigh, he shrugged up his backpack, full of ammunition and junk food, and made his way to the nearest bus stop. Mycroft had been amenable to paying for John's way through the world but it didn't mean it had to be in luxury.


JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK JOHNLOCK

"Shite," Sherlock cursed under his breath, tugging another clip from his coat pocket and slamming it frustratedly into the pistol. A few shots rang out sporadically around the room. Three people and they have no idea where I am. Wonderful. Taking another calming breath, Sherlock jumped out from his hiding place, not pausing but instead firing off several consecutive shots. Nothing. Well, it had been pretty improbably he would be able to hit anybody without so much as aiming but ordinary people were so stupid. Of course, one wasn't, but... Sherlock shook himself to settle back into reality, the reality in which murderers were chasing after him for coming after them.

Another shot rung out in the vast space and Sherlock slid soundlessly over to another block of shelves, hiding himself from view behind three meters of canned tuna. He had ventured into a chip 'n pin supermarket for the first time in his life and that was the experience he would get out of it - blood and gunshots. There isn't any blood yet, he reminded himself grimly, his hand sliding into his pocket to ready yet another clip. Oh, but there will be. And non spilt on my part. Clenching the now extracted clip between his teeth, he finally sneaked out from where he had been hiding, gun at the ready.

"Vamos!" He said into the emptiness sternly, not quite shouting. For some reason, he just wanted this over with so that he could track down another criminal in a country that wasn't so hot. The weather was clearly not suited to his tastes, his milky skin already having reddened over the past few days rather unattractively. It made him wish his skin was more like John's, who had survived the Afghan sun just fine. Oh, God Almighty, not John again. Snapping back to where he was, Sherlock took another precarious step towards his goal, the familiar weight of the gun settling into the palm of his hand comfortable. "No tengo tiempo para estos juegos! Llévadme a vuestro jefe! Nadie tiene que morir hoy!" I don't have time for these games! Take me to your boss! Nobody needs to die today. Cliché words rolled off his tongue easily, even though he was quite aware they were all disgusting lies. At least three people would be dead today. It was his mission not to become one of them.

"Ha! El pequeño británico quiere jugar de guerra!" A laughing voice echoed from behind a cornflake shelf, resounding unpleasantly throughout the hall. Sherlock gripped the gun tighter, turning slowly towards where the voice had been. The little Brit wants to play war. "Vamonos, si quieres morir aquí, sin amigos, sin tu dignitad, sin tu papi, maldito maricón!"

Sherlock stiffened at the last word, sending an unprecedented shot into the direction of the taunting voice. Let's go, if you want to die herer, without friends, without dignity, without your papi, damned faggot! It had been ages since anybody had called him that. And it still hurt.

What hurt more, though, was the bulled that had grazed his slack forearm while fumed over the bandit's words. Cursing silently, Sherlock looked down to see a meager amount of blood, not enough to cause any irreversible damage to his body. Transport, he reminded himself, and walked forward cautiously, sending a few bullets into what he hoped would be a human being.

"Ah!" Bingo. Hurried footsteps echoed from behind him and Sherlock turned on his heal to shoot another Spaniard right in the heart. The man staggered back with the force of the shot and fell down, his black eyes wide with surprise.

Two down, one to go.

Suddenly, a shot he hadn't fired resounded through the vacated supermarket, making Sherlock look up from his victim in surprise. What in God's name...? Running down the vegetable isle, making a sharp turn to the left behind the dairy and nearly slamming into the chip 'n pin machine, Sherlock stared at the body lying right between the security frames. Nicola Pazos. Assassin number three.

Somebody had gotten him before Sherlock.

End Notes: Chapter title from Charlene Soraia's "Wherever You Will Go".

Question: Who would play Mummy?