A/N: New chapter! Get ready for a plethora of deductions that make some sense, only not really. The crazy deductions are definitely my favorite part of the Sherlock Holmes stories and their adaptations. Anyway, please review! I appreciate feedback of any sort.

The Second Most Dangerous Man

Part 4: The Message

The body was lying face-up in the middle of the floor, feet pointing towards the door. He'd been there for a while, probably overnight. Long enough for the blood pooling around him to soak into the carpet and dry to a deep copper. His eyes were open, staring blankly at the ceiling, but John was more interested in the wall.

On the far wall, between two windows, was a smiley face painted in yellow, a single bullet hole between its eyes.

Lestrade glanced up from the corner where he was conferring with an unfamiliar officer. His eyes met John's and he blanched, as though John were the one who had mysteriously returned from the dead. He put on a grim smile and approached. Sherlock brushed past him with a nod and began circling the room, first flipping through a neat stack of papers on the desk, then getting on his knees and sniffing the carpet.

"Can't say I was expecting to see you here, John," Lestrade said guiltily. "But I'm glad. I wanted to tell you myself. I mean, I only found out a few weeks ago, but he insisted that I not tell you. Said that it would be safer to keep you in the dark until this whole threat thing was sorted out, that he could protect you and Mary from a distance. I think he fancied himself a bit of a Batman."

John grunted noncommittally and watched Sherlock shuffle around the perimeter on his hands and knees, nose close to the floor and snuffling like a bloodhound.

"How are you…uhhh…holding up?" Lestrade asked, once the silence made it sufficiently clear that John wouldn't be opening up spontaneously.

"Fine. I'm fine. I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yeah," Lestrade said with a grin, either incapable of noting or willingly overlooking the way his hand clenched on the cane or his back molars ground together. Things that Sherlock would never overlook, that he'd probably even noticed from his new position, torso and arms dangling out the open window. "Look at us, back together again. I never would have…You know, for days he had Anderson convinced that he was actually Sherlock's non-existent younger brother, Sherrinford?" Lestrade chuckled at this, and John couldn't suppress a smile.

"Lestrade," Sally called as she entered from the hallway. She did a double-take when she noticed who he was talking to. "John! I knew Sherlock would break eventually. Should have started a pool."

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"Housekeeper is finally coherent. Did you want to hear her statement?"

Lestrade nodded his assent and clamped one heavy hand on John's shoulder. "Welcome back."

Sally waved goodbye and gave him a little smile. John remembered that he hadn't spoken to her since that day in 221B when she'd gotten Sherlock arrested, turned them into fugitives, set them along that inevitable path. But he supposed that he had forgiven her. She was just another part of the game, and less a pawn than a victim of Moriarty's painstakingly-crafted manipulation.

Sherlock cleared his throat, and John noticed that he'd finally stopped his ministrations, settling himself into a chair behind the desk and steepling his hands beneath his chin. His attention was not on John, but rather on a group of officers still mulling around the room and very obviously avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "Trumwell," Sherlock said sharply. A young-looking officer with curly-red hair and a mass of freckles jumped and turned to face him reluctantly, shooting his companions a desperate look. They busied themselves with dusting the windowsill for fingerprints.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes," the young man said resignedly.

"What happened here, Officer?"

"Ronald Adair, a businessman, killed sometime last night by a single gunshot wound to the chest. Housekeeper found him this morning."

"Point of ingress?"

"The window was open."

"And the bullet?"

Officer Trumwell gestured to the bullet hole in the wall. "Went clear through him and into the wall. Ballistics already took it for testing."

Sherlock leapt to his feet, look of annoyance unable to entirely mask the glee on his face. "Wrong and wrong." He turned to address John. "My god, where do they find these people? Why don't you take them through it, John."

"Caliber's wrong," John said, going for the obvious first as he wracked his mind to try to see deeper, to see what Sherlock saw. "The bullet hole on the wall is from a small caliber pistol, but the shape of that wound, the fact that it was a through-and-through…Adair was killed by something much larger. A big game rifle maybe?"

"Precisely," Sherlock said, presenting him with a genuine smile. John straightened his back, chest filling with pride. Deeper, he told himself. Sherlock wouldn't look so eager if the solution were something simple.

"His chest is level with the window, so the shot which killed him must have come from outside. Then the killer could have come in through the window and left his message undisturbed. But…"

"Yes?"

"But the body hasn't been moved at all, or a blood trail would have been obvious. He was killed just there, on his feet facing the door, and fell backwards. That wouldn't have happened if he'd been shot from the window."

Sherlock took a few long steps out to the hallway and opened the opposite door with the flourish of a magician. It was Adair's bedroom, and on the far wall, directly across from the open window in the office, was a second open window.

"One bullet," Sherlock said. "In one window, out of the other, and incidentally through Mr. Adair along the way."

"A crack shot," John muttered.

"Indeed. Congratulations, John!" He said with a jovial pat on the back. "You have observed exactly what Sebastian Moran wanted you too."

"What do you mean?"

"All these clever little anomalies are really obvious to anyone with half a brain," He gave a pointed look to Officer Trumwell. "But what do they tell us? Nothing we didn't already know: that this crime was committed by Sebastian Moran. Then there's a message of threat, clearly directed towards us. But we knew that already as well. All purposefully placed, meant to mislead, meant to distract us from the bigger question."

"Which is?"

"Why Ronald Adair?" Sherlock moved to stand near the body, looking down at his lifeless face. John joined him, but found himself feeling unexpectedly queasy. He'd seen plenty of dead bodies, even without frequenting crime scenes, in the past three years, but they weren't usually so bloody, and John wished someone had had the decency to close his eyes. "I certainly wasn't friends with him, were you? His death means nothing to me, but it meant something to Sebastian Moran, or at least whomever he's working for. A targeted killing, disguised as a message. Neat."

"What happened then?" The question came from the doorway, where Lestrade stood, hands tucked in his pockets, Sally hovering over his shoulder.

"Really, Lestrade," Sherlock said, stepping over the body and approaching Lestrade at the entrance. "You need to train you're men better. I'm not sure how three officers managed to all miss the clear signs of a struggle."

"I don't see any signs of a struggle, either," Lestrade admitted. John looked around the room and similarly found everything to be in place. He shrugged his comradery.

Sherlock sighed, pointing to the desk. "Two stacks of paper on either side of the desk. The one on the right is in chronological order, but the one on the left isn't. Clearly it was knocked off the desk during the struggle and replaced, neatly but not correctly."

Sherlock crossed the hall to the bedroom and inspected the window. "Adair was in here when his visitor arrived. He opened this window, perhaps to let in some fresh air. More likely it was a message, that the visitor was free to enter. Yes, they knew each other." He answered the question just as Lestrade opened his mouth. "He greeted the visitor in the hallway and moved to the office. The visitor would have made sure the bedroom door was left open, but closed the office door. And the visitor would have opened this window." Sherlock crossed the room and knelt down close to the sill. "You'll notice that the wood has recently been wiped clean, unlike the window in the bedroom which has a few days build-up of dirt and oil. They sat at the desk, Adair dragging over this chair for his guest." He pointed out shallow impressions in the carpet at the feet of an antique wingback chair in the corner. "They sat, discussing business for a while, until finally Adair realized that something was wrong. He stood, knocking into the desk and scattering the papers. Or perhaps they fell when the visitor reached for him across the desk. Finally, though, the visitor drew his gun. Surely you noticed the unmistakable smell of urine in that corner, where Mr. Adair finally realized that the end was nigh? Still, he made a run for it, just as the visitor had expected, and when he opened the door." Sherlock gestured to the body. "The visitor left his message, and closed both doors but neither window, and went on his merry way."

He looked at John expectantly, and at first he thought Sherlock was looking for further input―some small detail that he though John, even with his ordinary brain, should be able to notice. Quickly though he perceived the wideness of his eyes, the expectant poise of his shoulders.

"Brilliant," John said at last, hardly able to keep the note of question from his voice.

"Yes, I like to think so," Sherlock said. He kept his mouth in a tight line and looked wholly unsatisfied.

"So that's the how, then," Lestrade said. "Any guesses as to why?"

"Four, at the moment," Sherlock replied. "I can say with confidence that Adair was involved in the same organization Moran is affiliated with. It is also abundantly clear that Adair had a serious gambling problem, which generally goes along with poor finances. The most apparent explanation of all the facts would be that Adair was planning on betraying the organization in a way which would benefit him financially. He though that the visitor was a coconspirator, but rather found himself turned upon. The only mystery remaining now is what exactly this organization is up to."

Sherlock knelt by the body, pulling specimen bags from the folds of his coat. He plucked a few hairs from the head and placed them in the bag. Then, without asking permission, he cut a piece of fabric from Adair's sleeve with scissors that appeared from nowhere and vanished just as quickly, along with the fabric in a separate bag. Sally made a noise of protest, but Lestrade silenced her with a look. Sherlock gave both hands a thorough inspection with his magnifier, prodding the cold flesh with one long finger. Finally, he rose, pocketing the magnifier.

"That's all we'll be getting from this crime scene, but I don't believe we'll have to wait long for another."

"Why's that?" Sally asked.

"Adair was hardly a mastermind; rather he was an opportunist, as most petty criminals tend to be. That's why empires such as theirs tend to fail, particularly after losing a figurehead such as Moriarty. Without being held at bay by their mutual terror, everyone is all too ready to stab one another in the back. The organization is cleaning house, which means their getting ready to make a big move. Ronald Adair won't be the only casualty. Let me know when the next one shows up. It'll be fairly obvious." He inclined his head toward the smiley face on the wall. "Come along, John."

They bundled into the cab just as the overcast sky erupted into a heavy rain.

Sherlock sat with his back straight and fingers tapping erratically on his knees, his mind obviously elsewhere. John let himself collapse into the seat, staring at the window. He hardly saw London nowadays, other than the familiar route between home and work. Not the way he used to. He felt like an explorer back then, somehow discovering new lands in places where millions of people tread every day. That was London with Sherlock, equal parts exotic and dangerous, and when Sherlock left he took that London with him. But it was back now, flashing outside the window of the cab, all shiny and slick with rainfall and Ronald Adair's blood and Moran's threat weighing on him like a blanket, heavy and warm and comfortable.

John stood with a foot in either London. He belonged to both of them and neither of them all at once.