Author's Notes: This is the second part of the last chapter - I really didn't want to end it without a resolution but the next chapter will deal with a different setting, thus I am publishing this slightly tiny chapter to end the last one. More up soon!
Please review.
John cursed under his breath as he struggled to get the air into his lungs, bent over, hands placed on his aching knees, in a secluded alleyway. He was able to hear the merry lull of the tourists lining up to see the Sagrada Familia a couple of streets down. What in God's name just happened?
Though slightly enhanced by Mycroft's tutelage, his mind was desperately failing to compute. He had walked into the supermarket to buy juice, for Christ's sake and instead ended up shooting a criminal. Nicola Pazos. John knew the name as he had memorized the striking features of the unfriendly Catalan just mere hours before their encounter. He had been going over the information Dorian had been able to get him, flipping over photograph after photograph of Navarra's associates. And Pazos was third on the list.
Just my luck, he thought to himself, irritated. Somebody had taken care of the rest - he hadn't stayed around to see who it had been as the risk of getting caught by any party was... It seemed as though he wasn't on either side now - good or evil. He killed people. People that hurt his friend. His best and only friend. He didn't do it for justice, either. He did it for Sherlock Holmes.
Well, I guess there's one thing left to do, he mused and, finally tucking the gun into the holster that was strapped to his chest, took off, running towards the street where the most notorious Spanish criminal lived.
STOP THIS
Sherlock stooped down to examine the deceased criminal. The bullet hole was quite small, placed perfectly right between the man's bushy eyebrows. Professional killer then, he thought. The shot had been intuitive, Pazos' killer had definitely been startled by the gun-waving madman. What were the chances of a trained assassin walking into a supermarket just in time to accidentally shoot a wanted criminal? It made no sense whatsoever.
The consulting detective shook himself out of his thoughts, knowing he had an hour at the most to get to Navarra before he escaped having heard about the deaths of his thee best men. It wouldn't be long before word would spread and Moriarty's whole network would go underground. Nobody had to live - a good cleanup job.
Without casting the body a second glance, he walked out of the supermarket, flipping the 'cerrado' sign over to face any incoming shopper. He then took off, turning to the left to get to Navarra's street when -,
A bloodcurdling scream echoed though the alleyway, making his heart jolt. Speeding up, he ran at the sound, stopping short when he saw the increasing crowd which stood around, gawking at something.
Sherlock looked up: the window of the building's third floor was broken, the shards of glass that stuck out were covered in blood. Arterial. Too much to be just scratches from having been pushed through the pane: he had clearly been in a fistfight. And a gunfight as well.
Sherlock elbowed his way through the onlookers, breath hitching and when he finally stopped short...
There he was. Francisco Navarra. Face-down, a great hole in the back of his neck oozing scarlet blood onto the pavement. Obviously dead. His shoulder bled profusely as well, - clearly he had been shot more than once before being thrown out of the window like a rag doll. Vicious murder. But neat. Very, very neat. No witnesses. Nobody to confirm the identity of the killer. Nothing to go on except for the fact that the battle had been rigorous but very uneven. Navarra had been at a complete disadvantage: caught by surprise.
They turned the man over - it was indeed him, El Rey del Crimen Español - The King of Spanish Crime. With a lingering look at the body which had turned into a spectacle for the gawping crowd, Sherlock straightened his back and pulled up the collar of his coat, uncaring if he looked completely ridiculous when everyone else wore light jackets. Plucking his phone out of his pocket, he strode away, knowing he would have to pack and get going soon, before the rest of Moriarty's crime syndicate started wondering about the killings.
He still had a lot of business to do and time was running short. Now, though, it looked like had an assistant.