Thanks for the amazing feedback for chapter three, it is very much appreciated! To those of you that reviewed anonymously, I obviously couldn't send you a private message, so THANK YOU SO MUCH :) This chapter, I feel, is a bit shaky-I've never been great at writing confrontation scenes, first of all, then, I'm not sure how the English law enforcement system works, since I don't live there, and I don't think it's entirely believable how it ends. But, I really don't care lol. Part of me thinks it makes total sense, part of me thinks it doesn't, but I figure when the next chapter comes, it won't really matter, lol! John is a bit pissed in this chapter, but hey, living on the streets probably does that to a person.

The taxi slowed to a stop in front of the Hazlitt Hotel. Sherlock paid the driver, and pulled himself out of the car. John followed. When John was out of the car, Sherlock put his hand on the shorter man's shoulder so that he couldn't face the direction of the hotel.

"Now," Sherlock told him, his voice lowered, "your name is Tony Reagan. You're a banker from Soho. You're here to purchase twelve ounces of heroin." He reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. "Here. Six-thousand pounds, the agreed upon price." Sherlock leaned in closer to John. His expression was very serious; no doubt, he didn't want there to be any mistakes in the transaction. "Now this is where it gets difficult, John. You have to get the name of the supplier. He knows it—I know he does. Tell him that, for what you're paying, you have a right to know. If he refuses, tell him that you'll take your business elsewhere."

John nodded. "All right. And what if he's fine with all that?"

"That," Sherlock said, as he reached into his coat again, "is where this comes in." He handed the sheet of paper to John, who glanced over it, expecting some miracle answer. He frowned at what he saw.

"Geoffrey Marks, Lisa Marquez, Harold Stubbs, Lance Fisher—who are they?"

"His top customers, he sells to them regularly."

"So?"

"So?" Sherlock spat, rolling his eyes. "How do you live on the streets and not learn a thing or two about drug dealing?"

Is that it, then? Is that why he's been so kind to me? He picked me to do this because he thinks I'm a druggie?

"I don't do drugs," John told him. "Nor do I know anyone that does them, or anyone that sells them. I don't get involved in…that stuff."

Sherlock stared at him blankly for a few seconds, before finally nodding and turning away, instead reaching into his pants pocket and pulling out the earpiece and wire. "Right. Well, that's…that's good. That you don't…do that." He handed John the earpiece, barely the size of his thumbnail. "Here. The left ear tends to work better."

John took the earpiece from him and looked at it cautiously. "So…I just…stick it in there?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and, with one hand on John's shoulder, twisted his body around and, moving his hand from John's shoulder to his jaw, cupped his face while the other hand plucked the device out of John's hand. "Let me," the detective mumbled. "The last thing we need is for this not to work simply because you didn't know how to wear a basic earpiece."

"Forgive me if I live a life free of spying and eavesdropping," John retorted. He tried to twist his head out of Sherlock's hand, but the man tightened his grip.

"Hold still."

"No, don't—get off me!" John grabbed Sherlock's wrist with both of his hands and flung his arm away with more force than he had intended.

Sherlock seemed to be genuinely surprised. He took a small step backwards from John and lifted his hands. "All right," he said, in a soft, slow voice. "Sorry. I'm sorry." He held out and outstretched hand, offering John the earpiece again. "Here. You put it in."

John snatched it out of his hand and grudgingly slid it into his left ear. I'm a doctor, he mumbled to himself. I don't need help sticking something into an ear; I've been doing it for almost twenty years.

"Well," Sherlock said stiffly, "that went…a lot better than I'd expected. Good job."

John settled for a curt nod. "Thanks."

"Do you have any questions? Any at all?" The right corner of the detective's lips quirked upwards—an attempt at a kind smile, perhaps? "Don't be afraid to ask. I would much rather you look stupid now than mess this."

Charming. John straightened up, standing as tall and ramrod as he could, and said, "No, no. Pretty sure I can handle this. Tony Reagan, a banker from Soho. Here to buy twelve ounces of heroin with this—" he raised the envelope that he was clutching in his left hand—"six thousand pounds. Before I do so, I insist that he tells me who his supplier is, and, if he refuses—which he will—I read off the names on this sheet of paper, and tell him that we've all agreed to cut our business with him until we get a satisfactory answer."

Sherlock stared at him, eyes squinted a little. "I didn't even tell you that last bit."

John shrugged casually. "Yeah, well, it doesn't take a genius to figure out where you were going with it."

Sherlock chuckled at this. "That's what I've been trying to tell the officers at the Met, and the ones that the Yard, but they have yet to catch on." He handed John the box and wire, never once moving his eyes away from John's. "Are you frightened?"

Grinning, John took the device from Sherlock and, reaching under his shirt, attached it firmly to his chest. That'll hurt coming off. He shook his head and answered Sherlock's question honestly. "No."

"No?"

"Nope."

The look Sherlock was giving him made it clear that the taller man didn't believe him—at all. "After everything I've told you about him, you're not the least bit frightened? He's more than likely going to be armed—in fact, he probably won't even be alone. You'll be up against two, three, maybe even more people with guns, and if they see that you're lying to them, they won't hesitate to kill you. How does that not frighten you?"

John continued to smirk. Two reasons. One, three people doesn't scare me. At all. I've been up against three thousand people will guns who wouldn't have thought twice about killing me. But, you don't need to know about that, do you, Sherlock? I'll just skip to reason two for you.

"Because," John said coolly, "I'm not afraid to die." He attempted to walk towards the hotel, but Sherlock stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

"He's expecting us, isn't he?"

Sherlock ignored him. "Why? Why aren't you afraid to die? Don't tell me you believe in some 'higher power'. That would be foolish and border on immature. Look at you. Homeless, alone, miserable. What has that higher power done for you lately? Nothing."

"No, no," John said with a wave of his hand. "It's not that."

"Then what?"

John chuckled, and the sound bordered on hysterical. "You're right," he said, nodding enthusiastically. "You are absolutely right. I have nothing to live for." Sherlock opened his mouth, but John didn't let him say anything. "No, no, really. It's just like you said—no friends, no home, no career. No one would care if I died. That, Sherlock, is why I'm not afraid of death. Because whatever happens after we die, it can't be any worse than what I've got right now." He pulled his blazer tighter around his thin frame, and went inside the hotel before Sherlock could say another word.

/break\

John got to McNamara's room without much trouble. Sherlock told him over the headpiece how to get there, and he'd been correct, right to the smallest detail of going past the potted plant at the end of the hallway with the purple carpet. He swallowed, which was, in itself, an ordeal with his nerves, and then knocked firmly and confidently on the door of McNamara's suite.

"I'm a-comin', I'm a-comin, keep 'yer pants on!"

John raised his eyebrows. American. From one of the southern states, no doubt. The door was pulled open roughly, with so much force that John was surprised it didn't rip from its hinges, and then he felt a large, stiff hand grab his arm and yank him inside.

"Git' in here, boy! What, you want every Po-9 in London to see you?"

John cocked his head as he stared at McNamara, eyebrows still up to his brow. "Sorry, what?"

The man standing in front of him was, to put it mildly, not what John had been expecting to see. He was only a few inches taller than himself, stocky, but not exactly fat, and very tanned. He was wearing jeans and a sky-blue button-up shirt. On his feet were brown leather boots that reminded John of the American cowboy movies he had watched as a lad. The man was older, probably in his early fifties, and his face held marks from every year of his life; John couldn't remember ever seeing a more aged face than the one staring right at him.

"Po-9 is an American term for the police," John heard Sherlock saying into his ear. The quality of the earpiece was astounding; it was as if Sherlock was standing right next to him and speaking. "Get out the money."

John reached into his jacket pocket and produced the envelope stuffed with six-thousand pounds. He flipped it out so that McNamara could see it. "Guess you'll be wanting this."

McNamara laughed loudly. "Well, you don't waste any time, do 'ya, Mr. Reagan?" He turned his back and motioned for John to follow him. "Come with me; 'yer stuff's in the bedroom."

John obliged. The bedroom was clean, as if McNamara had either just arrived or was getting ready to leave. A large suitcase was sitting on the prepared bed, zipped shut and obviously full of his belongings. John paused just outside the bedroom door and crossed his arms.

"John, don't follow him!" Sherlock was hissing into his ear. "There's a reason he wants to take you back there; do not follow him!"

John twisted his back and pretended to admire a large panting that was hanging on the wall. He coughed violently, barely managing to let the words 'too late' escape from his lips. As Sherlock had warned him, there were two other men sitting in the room, their eyes boring holes into him. They were sitting across each other at a small card-table beside the closet, where McNamara was currently, digging through small boxes.

"It's not in here!" McNamara growled. He stood up and brushed his hands on his trousers, then turned to the two men at the table. "Sam, Gale, where's the product for Tony Reagan?"

"The fuck

should we know?" one of the men asked. He was totally bald and had huge, rippling muscles in his arms, covered by tattoos of God only knows what. "Don't tell me you lost it."

"Lost it, no," McNamara was saying. "Misplaced it, though, maybe—oh no, wait, here it is!" He bent down and pulled a large plastic bag out of the closet, checking the tag on it only once before turning to John and smiling.

"Sorry for the scare, Mr. Reagan," he said with a wide smile. He held out the bag, and his free hand. "On the count of three, then?"

Both men sitting at the table chuckled. John didn't budge.

"I was hoping to get a few answers from you before we complete the transaction," John said solidly, fighting to keep his voice under control. Sherlock's voice once again entered into his mind, but this time, it was in his thoughts, no his ear.

You have to get the name of the supplier.

"I want you to tell me the name of the supplier," John told McNamara. "Who do you get this from?"

McNamara exchanged surprised expressions with the two men sitting at the table, and then directed his gaze at John. "I hardly think you need to know that, Mr. Reagan. I assure you, my product is of the highest-quality. That's why I have such a reputation."

"I understand that," John said, nodding, "but, for the price I'm paying you, I think I deserve to know."

McNamara laughed again, that same loud, obnoxious laugh from earlier. "Good man," he said. "You stand your ground; I like that." He walked over to John and, glaring down at him, smirked. "But, with all respect, you know my policy. Once an arrangement has been made, there's no refunds. I went through a lot of trouble getting this gettin' this Harry Jones for you."

"John, this was a mistake. Give him the money and get out of there."

Fuck that, John thought to himself, in response to Sherlock's orders. I'm not going to let this bastard scare me into something.

There's a fine line between brave and stupid, soldier. Don't do this. Just do what Sherlock says—give him the money and get the hell out of here.

John's hands clenched into fists at his sides.

Fuck that.

John stared at McNamara, then resolutely reached into his other jacket pocket and retrieved the list of customers Sherlock had given him. He handed it to McNamara. "I've spoken with those folk," he said as the other man took the paper from him and let his eyes dart over it. "Your top customers, if I'm not mistaken. We've agreed that we're not interested in your services anymore, unless you change your mind and tell us where you're getting your product from." He cocked his head casually. "Is that really such a problem?"

McNamara snorted. "I think, Mr. Reagan, if you knew my supplier, you'd be singin' a different tune."

John smiled genially. "I would love to. All I need's the name."

McNamara took a step back from John and, at the same time, the two men at the table, Sam and Gale, stood up.

"You're asking an awful lot of questions," the bald-headed man said. "Why is that?"

John looked at the man. "I could ask you the same thing."

The sound of a gun cocking took his cocky attitude down a few notches—he jerked his head around towards McNamara, who was standing less than five feet away with a revolver aimed at him. It was silver, probably brand-new, and had a silence attached to the muzzle.

"He's right," McNamara growled. "You are asking an awful lot of questions—too many. Gale, check him. Hundred bucks says he's wearing a wire."

Shit.

"John? Was that a gun? I'm—"

John didn't hear the rest of Sherlock's sentence. Sam and Gale were on top of him in an instant. He fought them, and even managed to punch Gale square in the jaw, but a searing pain in his left forearm made him freeze in his tracks. Instinctively his head lowered and his eyes focused on the spot that was now spewing blood—only a graze, enough to remind him who was in control.

Feels familiar, doesn't it? First your shoulder and now your arm—too bad it wasn't your right shoulder. Then, at least, you would have been symmetrical.

The two men ripped John's blazer and shirt off of him, then tore the wired box off of his slim chest. McNamara shook his head, disappointed.

"That's a shame," he said. "I liked you, Reagan. I really did. Why'd you have to go and get involved with the cops?"

John glared at him as Sam and Gale grabbed his arms. He didn't even bother trying to struggle. "I didn't."

McNamara smirked. "Yeah, that's what they all say. As if it's going to help you now." He twisted the silencer off his gun, just long enough to slap John across the face with the revolver. The pain from the blow was almost as bad as the burning sensation coming from his arm. He felt a warm liquid beginning to drip down his chin, and knew instantly that the cut in his lip had been re-opened by the gun. "Seems I'm not the only one you've pissed off lately," McNamara continued. He motioned to his own eyes. "Someone got to those pretty damn good, huh?" He moved his eyes from John's face to Sam's. "Kill him; the cops'll be here any second."

It all happened so fast. The next thing John knew, he heard two loud thumps!, and then the two men on either side of him were slumping to the ground. McNamara was looking at something directly behind John, his eyes widened a bit, but John didn't have to turn around to know who it was.

"Drop the gun," Sherlock said, in a composed, almost bored, voice. "You're right; the cops will be here very soon. If I were you, I'd get out of here while I still could."

McNamara didn't drop the gun, and he didn't leave.

He smiled.

"Sherlock Holmes," he said, nodding. "I ought to have known it was you. You've been trying to catch me since I stepped foot in London. Well done. Only took you five months, but, you know what they say—better late than never."

As soon as the words escaped his lips, John heard the sounds of police sirens approaching. He almost sighed with relief, but when he looked at Sherlock and saw that the man's face was as hard as always, he restrained it. Perhaps they weren't out of the woods yet.

"Here's what's going to happen," Sherlock said, right when the sirens stopped blaring, "you can either go to prison, or you can tell me who you get the drugs from. It's your choice."

John's chest clenched when he heard what Sherlock had said. Seriously? He's going to let him go? He almost killed me! Not to mention the fact that he's selling illegal drugs; why would he let him go free just for a—a name?

McNamara shrugged. "To be honest, neither of those sound good. But, I think I have a third option that—" The loud bang! bang! of gunfire interrupted him. At first John thought that the police had entered the room, but when he turned his back, there was no one. He heard glass shatter and had barely turned his head in time to see McNamara jumping out the window, suitcase in hand.

John made to follow him, but the first step he took, he tripped over something and stumbled. It was then he heard a weak cough and his name being spoken.

"John."

John looked down and instantly dropped to his knees. Sherlock was lying on the ground, bleeding profusely from his stomach.

Shit! You've got to help him.

But not too much, remember? You can't be too obvious. Sure, you could remove the bullet and sew him up right here with stuff you find in the room, but then what? Homeless people can't do that.

"Sod off," he grumbled to himself, eliciting an amused look from Sherlock. For being shot in the stomach, the man didn't seem to be in much pain.

"Me?"

"No," John said quickly. "No, no. Not you."

He leaned across Sherlock and picked up the blazer that Sam and Gale had ripped off of him, then pressed it to Sherlock's wound with as much strength as he could with only one arm—his left was hanging limply at his side; try as he might, he couldn't lift it enough to make the exertion worthwhile.

"There were two bullets," John remembered. "But…you were only shot once. What happened with the other? Did he miss?"

Sherlock gave him a slight, slow nod, and then swallowed forcefully before speaking. "Missed me. I blocked yours."

Well, John hadn't been expecting that. "Really?"

"Hmm."

John was, for once, at a loss for words. He wanted to lock eyes with Sherlock, but the detective had already closed his and was taking slow, shaky breaths.

"I…I don't know what to say," John said. "I mean, thank you, obviously, but…"

John felt a wetness on his hand that pulled him from his thoughts. Sherlock's blood had soaked through the blazer; the wound needed to be seen to in a hospital; where the hell was the squad?

"All right, hands up, now!"

Speak of the devil.

John looked up from Sherlock's body when he heard the voice, which was followed by the loud, hurried footsteps of at least a dozen other people. Some were wearing bright yellow jackets, other just black uniforms, but they were who John had been waiting for. He stood up and looked at the only person in the room that he recognized—Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"He shot him," John explained, pointing at Sherlock. "Mc-McNamara shot him. He was actually aiming for me, but Sherlock took the bullet. It's a stomach wound; you've got to get him to the hospital before—"

"Shut up!" Someone interrupted, the same someone who had told him to raise his hands. John's eyes fell onto the person whom the voice had come from. She was an attractive, slim, black woman, probably in her early-to-mid thirties, with long brown hair that fell to her shoulders. Despite her pleasant looks, she seemed to be very aggressive.

"Who are you?" the woman asked him, glaring at him the whole time. "You work for him?"

"What? No! No, hell no! I'm with—Sherlock asked me to come with him!"

The woman snickered at this. Smirking at him, she said, "If you're going to lie, at least make it believable."

"I'm not lying!" John retorted. "Sherlock, tell them!"

Sherlock didn't respond. The medical team was gently picking him up from the floor and putting him onto the stretcher, but his eyes were still closed.

"Is he all right?" John asked, momentarily forgetting about the accusing eyes of the officers standing before him. "Come on, dammit, answer me!"

Lestrade stepped forward. John had rarely met a person that made him feel insecure or insignificant, but this man was doing an excellent job of it. He loomed over John and spoke to him as if he were a child, slowly and forcefully, like he had to make an effort to keep his tongue under control. "That is not your concern," he told John. "If anything, we should be asking you that."

John cocked his head. "Wait, you—you think I shot him?" He scoffed and, supporting it in his right arm, lifted his left hand to show to Lestrade. "Look! Sherlock's not the only one McNamara shot. Or do you think I did this, too?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes and roughly grabbed John's shoulder, the left one. John had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing, lashing out, or both. "Forgive me if I don't believe you," he said sarcastically.

John shook his head as he felt the cold steel of handcuffs being clasped around his wrists. "No, I don't think I will." He spat. "You can't just go around arresting people because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time!"

"I'm not," Lestrade argued. "It's very obvious to me—to all of us—that you were working with McNamara. Sherlock Holmes doesn't work with anyone, ever. And that spiel about him taking a bullet for you? Bollocks."

"McNamara escaped out the window!" John tried again. "He shot at us, then he jumped out the window. I'm not lying; I'm telling you the truth!"

"I'm sure of it," Lestrade said, grinning at him with mock sympathy. "Donovan, Reisner. Take him back to the station and do the bookkeeping. I'll take a look around here and meet you there."

Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed!