Thank you to everyone who has read, but special mention to:

Faelan, Melissa Jooty, Victoria, Manwithasqueegee, LOL, Nicetameetcha, Buyokitty, Eejitcat and Sarahpibworthlovesjohnnycade; all of you figured out that Tommy Jiriar is an anagram of Jim Moriarty! Smartie pants! You all get hugs :D

Special mention also to Mini Reyes who has followed all my stories from the start!


Chapter 4:

Walking through a hospital while frog-marching an assassin, with a very big, red, bruise on his head is always bound to attract attention. John sighed as the quiet conversations stopped altogether as he, Lestrade and the semi-conscious assassin walked past. "We're almost there," said Lestrade. On the way over, John told him all about Mycroft and his unknown government job, and Lestrade thanked the stars for Mycroft's connections in getting Sherlock the most accessible ward in the hospital, meaning that they didn't have to take the lift and endure even more stares.

The trio kept on walking until they reached room thirty and entered, making Sherlock and Mycroft look up. "Ah, so you caught him," said Mycroft getting to his feet. Both John and Lestrade exchanged a glance,

"What?" John asked, dumping the assassin in a nearby chair,

"You caught the assassin then," Sherlock put in,

'You knew there was an assassin?" Lestrade asked, more than little confused,

"Well yes. We, rather I, came to the conclusion that Moriarty is responsible for this whole charade, and wants Sherlock dead. Why he missed however, we are trying to figure out. He left you a note?" Mycroft looked enquiringly at the Doctor and the Inspector, the latter who nodded, 'Back at the office," Mycroft nodded,

"Just as I thought," He looked back at his younger brother, "We had a bet, you see. Whether you'd get the assassin before my men did. Unfortunately, I now owe Sherlock ten thousands pounds,"

"You bet ten thousand pounds?" John glared at Sherlock, "We are barely making the rent payments! For God's sake Sherlock! Where in heaven's name were you going to get ten thousand pounds from?" Sherlock had a sheepish look on his face, and was looking down at the floor, rather like a five year old being told off,

"Your bank account?" he answered, asking more than stating. John took a deep breath and let it out,

"My bank account," He repeated,

"Yeah,' There was silence in the room and Lestrade felt like laughing out loud. This was ridiculous.

'Alright, I'm going to take our assassin friend down to the yard," Lestrade pulled him up,

'Why'd you bring him here then?" asked Mycroft,

"Because I figured you'd want to question him. Seems you know all the answers already," Lestrade dragged the man up and turned to John, "Thanks for everything. Come down later," he said and John nodded, his gaze still fixed on Sherlock,

"I'll join you on your way out. Must get back to the office," Mycroft followed Lestrade out.

With that John and Sherlock were left alone in the room, the only sound coming from the heart rate monitor,

"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock muttered. He hated it when John was angry, and people seemed a lot less angry when they were apologized to. However, an apology coming from Sherlock was enough to make John forget why he was angry,

"I think you may have been hit on the head at some stage," he said, and Sherlock looked up at the lighter tone in his voice,

"So you're not angry?" he asked, and this time John couldn't resist the urge. He walked over to his friend and hugged him. Tensing first, Sherlock relaxed into his embrace, relishing the smell that he had come to associate with John. He wished John would hug him more often.


On the other side of London, however, there were no hugs to be given out, certainly not from the man pacing behind the desk, in an office, on the fifth floor of multi-story building, "The plan was simple!" he exclaimed, kicking his chair in anger. It bounced off a dirty wall, echoing in the silence of the room. The others, waiting on his ever word, cringed at the venom in his voice,

"He's at Scotland Yard now, sir," The bravest, and stupidest of the mercenaries spoke up. Their boss turned to face him - very slowly.

"I know," His voice was carefully controlled, "and since you've brought that up, you can go and get him," he said, leaning on the table, "If he cracks under questioning, I'm not the only one who'll go down. All of you will too," The man jumped to his feet. He was over six feet tall and his hair, which had once been black, caught the light that was filtering through the dirty glass, changing colour from white to a light blonde. He had a tattoo running down from his neck to his right arm, and a scar from a chainsaw blade on his neck that was hidden by the collar of his shirt, "How the hell do I do that?" he asked, his voice suddenly an octave higher, "The building is full of coppers!"

The bosses' eyes scanned the men,

"Well, you'll have everyone else with you, won't you," a deathly silence fell on the assembled. No one dared to breathe. The boss watched all their faces, "What are you all sitting here for? GET GOING!" he suddenly roared. Spurred into action, there was a scramble as the men got to their feet and ran for the door. The boss sat back in his chair and as the lights outside were switched off and the light of a new day washed over the dark office, it caught the piece of paper siting on the desk.

Wanted: Jim Moriarty


"Are you going to tell us anything? Or are we just going to sit here and go around in circles?" Lestrade leaned back in his chair, his face completely impassive. Outside, behind the one way window, John stood, watching the back of the assassin's head, who kept a silence as stony as the brick wall facing him. "Right well, we'll tell you something, how about that? You're name is Frederick Jones; you are forty-five years old and have ten different warrants on your head from sixteen different countries. One of them being the Untied Kingdom. Welcome home by the way," Lestrade added pleasantly, as if he were talking about the weather and not listing a highly classified fact file, "MI6 is after you and have been for rather a while. You are facing life in jail, fifteen times over," The assassin, Frederick, just kept on staring straight ahead, and Lestrade felt like bashing his head in, 'Alright. We'll continue this discussion soon" With that, he walked out of the interview room, shutting the door firmly behind him. He turned as John emerged from the viewing room, "Not good?" the doctor asked,

"No. Not good," said Lestrade, sighing, 'I might as well go and talk to my car for all the response I'm getting from this one," he said,

"What are we going to do then?" asked John as they started walking down the corridor, towards the lift,

"I think we should get Sherlock in on this," said Lestrade, and John nodded.

As they stood in front of the lifts, both men in silent contemplation, all the lights in the building went out, plunging them into total darkness,

"John?" Lestrade called, even though he was standing barely a foot away from the doctor, who replied by grabbing his shoulder,

"I'm still here," he sounded as calm as ever, 'is this a drill that we don't know about?"

"At seven forty-five in the morning?" There was silence for a minute,

'Ah," John was about to add something when they both heard running footsteps;

"This way!" a baritone voice ordered in hushed tones, 'He's got to be in one of these rooms,"

"But what if he isn't?" asked another voice,

'Then we're screwed," Yet another voice answered. Despite the fact that John and Lestrade couldn't actually see each other, they both came to the same conclusion – the men were here for Frederick. John started as Lestrade grabbed his arm and dragged him down the corridor, but followed him when he realised that it was the DI. They ran silently, until Lestrade stopped, as they reached a door he knew existed from memory, and after clutching around for the handle, he finally found it and led John inside.

Still pitch black, John felt around and realised that there were shelves, on all the walls. 'Night vision goggles are here!" Lestrade whispered, finding John's hand and placing the goggles in it. John pulled them on gratefully and finally could see where he was.

The room appeared to be a storage room, holding not only weapons, but dresses, suits, shoes, handbags, a motorised bike, several piles of books, and, for some reason, a massive polystyrene sun. "Where'd you get this stuff?" John picked up a Smith and Wesson semi-automatic and, after finding a suitable clip, clicked it into place,

"Confiscated," said Lestrade, smiling as he picked up a machine gun, "Let's go," he led the way out, and they silently slipped back into the hallway, John eerily reminded of Afghanistan night duty and the eerie green surroundings which turned white as a bomb blew up, sending him and his team running blindly.

Pushing the sense of déjà vu away, John registered with surprise that there were four male trespassers, all crowding around one door – the door which led to Frederick,

"We have to stop them," he whispered, sure he wouldn't be heard from this distance, thanks to the fact that all four of them were speaking at the same time,

'How?" asked Lestrade, 'we can't just go in there shooting. And no one can get down to this level because the lifts would have stopped and the doors on the stairs only open with a pass card – which requires electricity," said Lestrade and John thought for a minute,

"Right. Well then, we'll have to distract them," he said,

"How?" Lestrade whispered back. John looked the DI up and down,

'You've got the perfect figure," he said and Lestrade actually took a step back,

"What?" he asked, starting to catch onto John's idea and not liking it. John grinned again,

"How well do you think you can stand on heels?" with that he led Lestrade back into the storage room, the DI beginning to think that John was spending way too much time around Sherlock.


Lestrade in heels…what do you think? Lol. I hope you enjoyed it. Please review!

Aza