Greg woke up around seven and, unable to go back to sleep, went into the kitchen to make tea.
He would have liked to check up on the consulting detective, but didn't want to wake him on the off-chance that he had got some rest after all.
While the kettle was heating up, he sneaked to the living room window and looked outside.
All seemed peaceful; as far as he could tell, there were no loiterers on the sunlit street.
He'd worked long enough at Scotland Yard to know that this meant nothing, but he would take what comfort he could get.
Sherlock's life being in danger was nothing new – they had met when the younger man had still been taking drugs, and Greg couldn't say how many times he had had to watch over him on danger nights or keep him from running after criminals. More often than not, he hadn't been successful.
And then, he'd thought he'd failed Sherlock in every way possible, had believed him dead. He wouldn't make the mistake of not being at the consulting detective's side when there was a serious threat on his life again.
Because this – several hit men after Sherlock at once – was certainly more serious than the dangerous situations the consulting detective ran into on a daily basis.
He knew it was fruitless to hope that Sherlock would stay in the flat until everything had been dealt with. He could only stay in at his and John's side and try his utmost to protect him.
"The kettle is boiling".
Greg jumped and turned around. Sherlock was standing in the door of his room. The DI could tell he hadn't slept. He didn't mention it.
"Usually the person who notices first takes it off the stove" he replied.
Sherlock scoffed.
"You decided to make the tea".
Greg saw their conversation for the attempt of lightening his mood that it was and went to put the kettle off with a smile.
Sherlock looked on, apparently unconcerned, but the DI could see the tension in his shoulders.
"Any word from Mycroft?" he inquired, more because he couldn't bear the silence – Sherlock was never quiet, not really – than because he hoped for information. The consulting detective would have told him right away.
Sherlock shook his head and accepted the offered cup.
He took a sip. Without looking at the DI, he began "Greg – "
Sometimes, it still surprised him that Sherlock had decided not to delete his first name again, but he was glad that he had.
He knew what his friend was about to say and shook his head.
"I told you. I'm staying".
Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but he continued, "Don't. If John and I weren't fond of danger, we wouldn't be friends with you to begin with".
Sherlock smirked and said nothing.
"I'll get some clothes from my flat" Greg announced after he'd emptied his cup. "Stay here until I return. Please".
Sherlock could have pointed out that this plea was unnecessary since John was at home, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. He nodded and watched his DI leave.
He couldn't deny that he was glad Greg was there. Sherlock could keep an eye on him and the DI would be a support for John.
He would keep his promise to stay in the flat until his return; he wasn't going to search for clues until John had got up anyway.
Sherlock knew from experience that his blogger was unlikely to be woken up by his violin once he was asleep, so he picked up the instrument and started to play.
As always the music helped him think and calmed his mind down. Despite his efforts not to theorize without data, he had he had spent the night going through hit men of whose existence he knew and deciding which ones were likely to already be in London. Just like their attempt to figure out who had put the hit on him, it had left him frustrated and unable to reach a conclusion.
He lost himself in the piece and wasn't aware that John had entered the living room until he put his violin down.
"Where's Greg?" the doctor asked.
"Getting some things from his place. I had to promise I won't leave the flat until he returns."
"Do you have to leave at all?"
John was aware he couldn't keep Sherlock in 221B, but he had to try.
"I need to go through some files at Scotland Yard."
"Greg could get them" John argued.
"I am not going to lock myself in because someone wants me killed".
John had expected such a reply. He sighed.
"Just – " he interrupted himself and suddenly laughed. "I would say "BE carefzl" but we both know you won't be."
"It is not a quality I am known for" Sherlock answered, chuckling.
Greg returned half an hour later. John was trying to convince Sherlock to have a piece of toast when opened the door in a new suit, a bag in his hand.
"That should last me for a few days".
He put the bag on the sofa as Sherlock went to put on his coat.
John and Greg shared a resigned look and moved to follow him.
"Our biggest concern at the moment" Sherlock announced as soon as they were sitting the cab that had, as usually, halted immediately after he had extended his arm "are the hit men who operate from the United Kingdom. I need to look at their files – or the files Scotland Yard has on murders they have committed. We should be prepared for their preferred methods of killing".
John and Greg nodded. The former turned to the DI and asked, "Aren't you supposed to be at the Ministry of Inner Affairs?"
Greg shrugged.
"I have to look at some files. No one's going to bother checking which ones".
"With Mycroft behind it, I'd like to see them try" Sherlock commented.
Their DI smiled.
They arrived at Scotland Yard and were on their way to Greg's office when they ran into Donovan. "Sir". She hesitated before adding, "Sherlock. Doctor Watson".
Both the Sergeant and Anderson avoided Sherlock since he had returned, and neither of them had uttered a single word against the consulting detective's help on cases.
John tried not to feel a certain satisfaction – Sherlock didn't blame them, never had, because "Moriarty had been convincing" – but failed.
It was good to see Donovan looking at Sherlock with respect.
The consulting detective swept past her towards the office. John gave her a court nod and quickly followed him, Greg behind the doctor.
Sherlock was already pulling up files when they entered.
"These are all unsolved cases – " Greg began, looking over his shoulder.
"Of course they are unsolved. If they weren't, we wouldn't have to worry about the killers" Sherlock stated.
He showed them several cases the police hadn't even connected, murmuring to himself.
Eventually, he leaned back.
"There are three men we have to worry about. Michel Dubois – a French citizen who has been living in England for ten years. He is a sniper, and quite as talented as Colonel Moran."
John remembered the shot that had killed Ronald Adair and frowned. "
"Christian Mellowes slits his targets' throats":
At least he would have to get close, John decided. As long as he kept a close watch, he would eb able to shoot him before he got a chance.
"Tomothy Carew. An artist with the garrotte."
The sniper was definitely the greatest threat; John was confident that the three together could take down the other two should the need arise.
Of course, the best way would be to catch their employer and make the offer go away.
"Nothing from Mycroft?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head while going through more files. This was not a good sign. Normally Mycroft would have found the man or woman responsible by now.
After another half hour spent browsing, Sherlock leaned back and huffed. He was annoyed; not only did he have too little data to decide which hit man was the most dangerous or most likely to make the first attempt on his life, but his brother was getting slow. Once they found the employer, the hit men had no reason to target him or his friends.
Before he'd met them, maybe even before Moriarty, he would have been delighted at the distraction the case provided; now he couldn't afford it. He couldn't lose them. Mycroft would scoff at the sentiment, but Sherlock knew that the British Government cared , at least to some degree, about him. He would do what was necessary to ensure his and his friends' safety.
He would have to be patient. Sadly, patience wasn't one of his virtues.
"I suggest we head back to the flat when you're done" John said.
Sherlock looked at his friend and noticed how straight he stood. This was Captain John Watson from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, intent on his mission. Sherlock didn't think much of the precaution – a hit man might get into their flat or try and kill him on the street, no system was foolproof, not even Mycroft's – but chose to humour his blogger.
They made it back to the flat without incident. Mycroft's men were nowhere to be seen, but John didn't doubt they were there in the shadows, ready to strike at a moment's notice.
John realized he might as well have been thinking about the hit men and chased the thought away.
Mrs. Hudson came bustling out of her flat when she heard them come in.
"Boys – oh, hello, DI Lestrade".
"Greg" he corrected, and John saw with amusement the faint blush that appeared on their landlady's cheeks. Sherlock was right; she probably didn't like her new beau all that much.
"Greg" she beamed. "Why don't you go up, boys, and I'll bring tea."
"Should we tell her?" John asked once Mrs. Hudson's door had closed.
"Yes" Sherlock answered. "She might as well know who might be lurking around. I doubt they would be so obvious to let themselves be seen, but one can never know."
"Are you sure?" Greg inquired.
"She's stronger than she looks" John replied.
Mrs. Hudson came into the flat with tea and biscuits fifteen minutes later, happily chattering away.
Sherlock allowed himself to relax for a while; at this moment, everyone was safe. The hit mean might not even be in London yet, or they might wait for someone else to make the first move.
Finally he decided that it was time to interrupt Mrs. Hudson's story about Mrs. Turner.
"Mrs. Hudson, there is something we have to tell you."
"Is it about that bag on the sofa? Don't worry, Greg, you can stay as long as you need – "
"That's not the problem" Sherlock interrupted.
He gave her a brief account of what was going on. Mrs. Hudson reacted as he had expected.
"Oh, dear. You have to be careful, boys".
"Mrs. Hudson – " John began "You – "
She waved a dismissive hand in the air.
"Don't worry about me."
Greg stared at her, obviously caught between protesting and waiting for the landlady to elaborate, which she never did. She simply stood up, wished them a good day and took the ttray with the now empty kettle and cups away.
The DI looked at Sherlock and John.
"I told you" was all the doctor said.
They spent the afternoon waiting for news. Sherlock wasn't taking it well, and John was thankful that he no longer had a secret stash in the flat. Greg tried to get him to talk about some old cases, but it only made the consulting detective more impatient.
Sherlock had never taken well to being locked in, not even when it was for his own good – both John and Greg remembered danger nights they'd rather not – and he was trying to keep himself busy with experiments, but there was only so much he could do to human organs.
John was already fearing the moment he ran out, and Greg was contemplating calling Molly to get more, when something happened that made things interesting.
According to Sherlock. John didn't care for the development. Greg decided to wait before he formed an opinion.
Just as the consulting detective was adding another acid to a piece of lung, someone rung the door bell.
Mrs. Hudson let him in before John could even open the door of the flat, and they heard her converse with their visitor.
Sherlock stood up and walked into the living room, but didn't seem concerned.
"Mrs. Hudson is obviously not worried."
"He could be a hit man, they are good at – "
"I find it hard to believe that a hit man would simply ring the door bell."
A moment later, they heard a polite "Go right up" and steps on the stairs.
A man opened the door.
He looked at Sherlock.
"Timothy Carew is lying dead in an alleyway behind the house."
John and Greg stared; Sherlock simply nodded and took out his phone.
"I'll see that the body is taken care of."
"Sherlock..." John began, but before he could form a question, the consulting detective introduced their visitor.
"John, Greg, this is Tobias Marshall. He is the one who warned me about the offer on my head. He also happens to be a hit man."