"Sherlock, have you eaten today?"

The man at the window made no reply, but instead continued to stare out onto Baker Street, one hand holding open the curtain, the other in his trouser pocket.

"Sherlock," said John again, walking forward to lean on the back of his chair. "Sherlock, you need to eat."

The other man still did not reply, because he could not hear him. He was lost in his thoughts, wading through the facts, swimming through government scandals both old and new. Which one was next on the killer's mind? He had been so close the last time! But what was the specific pattern attached to her hit list?

John stared at Sherlock for a long moment, and then stood straight and grabbed his coat. "Right," he said. "I'm going to do the shopping and then I'll bring back dinner." He lingered for a moment, waiting for Sherlock to say something affirmative, but left when no attention came.

Sherlock squinted into the twilight. Everyone in government had a secret these days, even Mycroft (especially Mycroft.) Did she even have a pattern or a hit list? Or did she just go out as soon as she found a random scandal? No - someone who killed government officials, for any reason, usually had an anarchist or dictator type of personality, which would subsequently make the murders done in anger or a violent sort of judgment. Those types of murders were either quick or brutal, and these were neither.

These murders barely had any flavor to them at all. Stabbed and sliced across the chest to die of blood loss, cracked ribs and suffocation, and shot in the abdomen and head. Patterns? Not one had only a single wound; they always had two. One to hurt or incapacitate, and one to finish the job.

Sherlock's eyes widened, though admittedly not at the sight of John hailing a cab on the street (when had he left?)

"'The job'," he whispered to himself. "Jobs - they're jobs. She's a hired killer."

He left the window with a rush of adrenaline, turning about the room, thinking at a ridiculous speed. Of course, he thought. It explained why the killings were so cold, so bland - why they hadn't been done out of the typical reasons for murder: greed, anger, jealousy, revenge, accident. It also explained why, though the killer's signature was there, they never seemed to connect very much. The first was to hide a monetary conspiracy, the second to prevent an election, the third to keep a scandal from being revealed - the only things they had in common were government and corruption. And even then, the killer revealed no emotion, in what she left behind nor in her face.

The only reason she would have to do any of it would be for work - for money. So the question now was what government-related person would bring in the most money for her?

Sherlock clapped his hands together, standing still once more. The name danced in his head: Nickolas Underwood. Long-time sneaky embezzler. "Perfect," he whispered, and then grabbed his coat, shoved his arms in, and wrapped his scarf around his neck as he rushed out of the flat.

He researched the man on his phone, looking for an address, then growling when none showed up. He took a second to think. He then begrudgingly texted Mycroft as pedestrians snaked around him on the sidewalk.

Where does Nickolas Underwood live? It's urgent. - SH

He looked around for a cab while he awaited a reply, willing his brother to be quick about it. He hailed one as his mobile buzzed a moment later.

Why such a rush? - MH

Immediately after that came through, the address was sent to him from, presumably, his assistant's phone. Sherlock climbed into the cab and barked his destination to the cabbie. He needed to warn the man of what was coming for him. And then he needed to catch the assassin.

His fingers drummed impatiently on his knee until the moment he arrived at the modest address on the outskirts of London. He shoved money in the cabbie's general direction as he climbed hurriedly out of the car, figuring out the best way in his head to go about warning the man. As he knocked on the door with seven quick raps, he figured that the best way would be to just tell him as it was.

A stout, weedy, bald man opened the door, his face weary at the sight of Sherlock's intense gaze. The man quickly straightened himself however and looked him squarely in the eyes. "Yes?" he said.

"I'm here to warn you," said Sherlock. There wasn't much time left before the woman would come to do her job - night had already fallen.

"About what?" said Nickolas Underwood, frowning.

"Someone is coming to assassinate you tonight," he said bluntly. "They know about your embezzlements. As do I, as it happens."

Underwood was startled. He unconsciously opened the door wider and took a step back. Sherlock decided pointedly not to force his way inside as his instinct told him to do. "I-" the bald man stuttered, "I don't believe you!"

"How would you wish I prove it to you, then? Would you like me to inform you of each one of your twenty-one cases of embezzlement over the years you've been in office?" asked Sherlock, irritated at the man's obliviousness. "Or would you like me to enlighten you on the matter of the series of government assassinations that have occurred over the past few weeks? A series of assassinations, as I've hinted, that you may become a part of tonight?"

Underwood let out a string of started and failed sentences, before he finally settled on, "But why should I trust you? You're - you're not a cop!"

"I work for the police, but I'm afraid there's not time enough to call them."

Underwood seemed to appraise Sherlock's words, and he thought for a long moment, slowly steadying himself. "…Then what do you propose I do?"

"Leave," said Sherlock. "Go somewhere safe, perhaps a police station. Meanwhile, I'll await the killer here and turn her in."

Underwood seemed suspicious. "How can I trust that this isn't some trick to simply get into my house and steal from me?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the man, letting him find the potential threat of blackmail himself.

The man nodded after a terse moment. "Right. But if I do come back to find my things swindled, know that you will go to jail, sir."

Sherlock flicked his brows upward, unperturbed by the man's threat. "It would be in your best interest to hurry, Mr. Underwood."

The man disappeared behind the door for a moment with a huff, but then came out with his shoes and suit jacket, and phone in hand. He nodded stiffly to Sherlock, called up a cab, and left.

Sherlock entered the house, closing the door behind him (but without locking it, as it hadn't been locked before he arrived,) and finding his way to the other side of the house, which happened to be the den. He went to the furthest corner away from the entryway and stood there in wait.

The killer might come at any moment, or she might come hours later. Sherlock had figured out her window of work time, but she had no set pattern on when to do her jobs. She must have based them off the victims' schedules, which was, admittedly, the smarter thing to do. But Sherlock already knew she was clever. She had left deliberate marks wherever she went: first, the chemically burned hair in the student's flat; second, the blood on the floor that she had chosen not to clean up; and then, just the night before, a random shard of glass found on the bed next to the victim, with the sharp point angled towards the gunshot wound in Ms. Iverson's lower abdomen. She'd left nothing behind that would help the police identify her, but had instead left abstract messages that would mean nothing to anyone but herself.

Sherlock leaned against the recently cleaned piano behind him, drumming his fingers impatiently, once again, on the wood. She wouldn't be easy to take down, he knew. But he also knew that he could still accomplish it. Plus, he had the element of surprise with him - she wouldn't expect him to be there. She thought herself too smart to get caught, and she would probably take extra precautions this time to keep herself safe. No doubt being so close to getting caught the night before had instilled some sense of worry or weariness in her.

Sherlock was ready. And after fifteen long minutes, the front door to the house opened and shut quietly, and there was the distinct sound of heavy boots on tile. It was her.

She hadn't entered through the window, which was a little strange. Either she knows he's gone, or she expects him to be far enough away from the door that he wouldn't have heard that, he thought. He stood up straight, cautious not to make the slightest noise.

The killer walked lightly but casually through the entryway, closer and closer to the den. She paused where a hallway began towards Underwood's bedroom and stayed completely still for almost a minute. She was listening for sounds of life. When she heard none, she continued towards the den, her steps considerably heavier. She was no longer cautious - she knew he wasn't home, but she didn't leave, so she planned to wait until he returned.

She entered the den, unzipping her jacket as she approached a large chair. Then she paused and turned away from Sherlock, simply looking around the room, before she turned the other way. Her dark eyes met his light ones, and she froze completely.

Neither moved. Sherlock found that he didn't quite know what to do - he had expected her to immediately charge at him, and had planned to go from there. But she simply stared at him, as if she was in a similar predicament. She had one hand on her jacket, and the other was suspended outwards from her side. He knew her knives were barely inches away from her hand, but still she did not move - she didn't know what to do either.

So Sherlock moved first. He charged her with the intention of grabbing her, but as he moved, she reacted by withdrawing her switchblade and moving to slash at him. He dodged it and she tried again, but this time he caught her wrist, twisted it, and caused the knife to fall to the ground. As this happened, her other hand withdrew the KA-BAR and made to stab him, but his body twisted and he was able to do the same to this hand that he had done to the other. Both of her wrists were locked in his grip, and he knew that the only other weapon she would have would be her handgun. His eyes swept over her body, finding it to be out of his line of sight; either it was in the back of her pants, or she had come without it.

"Pervert," she hissed with a slight smirk and eyes wide, misreading his gaze, and then twisting her arms to break his grip. When she was loose, she made to dash out the front door.

Sherlock was too close, however, and tackled her to the ground. He struggled to lock her arms behind her back, but succeeded after barely a few seconds. She continued to struggle against him, but when she couldn't get free, she huffed and gave up.

"Done?" asked Sherlock, raising his brows at her though he knew she couldn't see him.

She was quiet for a moment. "…What now?" she asked him mockingly. "I know you don't have handcuffs, and you're not going to get very far with me if you have to take a hand off me to call the cops."

He squinted at her, and then swiftly replaced a hand with his knee, letting his body weight keep her in check. He reached for his mobile. "I wonder if you're smart enough to escape prison," he mused aloud.

"You're heavy for being so skinny," she commented quietly and almost bitterly. "You don't eat much. Must be muscle or heavy bones, then." She attempted to shove him off in a half-hearted effort, but failed. She spoke even quieter, "Screw you. I'm taking care of you next."

"Not a terribly logical plan, that," he said as he sent a text to Lestrade.

She was quiet.

He put his phone away then and gave his attention to her. It would take a bit for Lestrade to arrive, he knew, so he had time to peek into her head. "Who is it that you work for?" he asked her.

She laid her head on the tile floor, her face turned towards him, as her body relaxed. A small smirk was her response, and then her eyes darted towards him. "Who do you work for?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Give me a name."

Her eyes didn't leave his. "Mine? My boss's? Yours?"

"Give me his name."

"I can't."

He glared at her, but she only rolled her eyes. He lifted his chin and continued looking down at her. "Give me his name."

"I told you I can't," she said quietly. "Although, I could make one up for you if you want. For convenience. I'm sure you want to know all about him, detective, since it'll do you so much good."

He blinked. Then he narrowed his eyes again. "You don't even know his name, do you?"

"You're intelligent," she said simply, but he knew it was confirmation. "I know you know that I am, too, though. I've made that much obvious."

"Yes," he allowed. "Yet here you are."

She was silent for a moment, and her eyes closed. And then she laughed.

Sherlock raised a brow at her.

"This is all very ironic," she muttered when the laughing stopped. She glanced at him. "The idiots get caught, the intelligent ones don't. I suppose I'm proving myself wrong."

"Or perhaps you are an idiot," Sherlock said.

"No," she said, serious but casual. "I'm not. I'll just have to rework my theory. …By the way, what did you do with my target?"

"I warned him you were coming and told him to leave. He won't become your victim, I assure you."

"Hm," she said. "Not tonight anyways, no. That's too bad. I was looking forward to this one." She closed her eyes again. "I always like the bloody ones better. They're so boring otherwise. …I'd planned to slit the throat this time - I've never gotten to do that without having to hide the evidence, you know."

Sherlock sighed.

"Disappointed?" she asked him, opening her eyes and moving her gaze back to his. "Thought that might make you sick, but I see you've got a strong stomach. Used to dead bodies, then. Lots of them."

"Tell me - do you think it's genius or insanity, this mindset of yours?" he asked, though he knew she was psychotic. That much was clear.

She chuckled, but the laugh had no humor in it. "I'm not psychotic," she told him, and he blinked back in response. "I'm a sociopath, yes, I can admit that much. But insanity has nothing to do with my 'mindset'."

"You're a hired killer," he said. "You work for a man that won't reveal his name, and you get paid for every job you do."

"Why would that mean I'm insane? Murder is almost never a crime of madness."

"If insanity hadn't a thing to do with murder, then everyone would do it."

"You don't need to be insane to be willing to murder someone," she said, but paused. "…That's not what you're saying, though, I see. Think, then. You would murder someone, if you had reason to. I know you would - it's written all over you. Maybe not now, but if someone pushed you to that point -"

"But I don't need it," he interrupted her. There was an echo in her voice - something in her words that reminded him of a dark pool. He chose not to listen to it, not to relive the memory. "So why do you?"

She was silent. But Sherlock knew the answer: she liked it. She liked causing the mystery as much as he liked solving it.

"Who do you work for?" he asked her again, but this time with a renewed want for the answer. Her boss wouldn't give out his name, but he used people to do his work for him; the scenario was familiar to Sherlock, and perhaps it was him again. Moriarty.

"We've been over this," she said, her body tensing, and she tried again to throw him off. His knee shifted off a little, but he repositioned it so that she still could not escape. She continued to try.

He glared at her. "Is it Moriarty?"

Her movements quelled for but a moment. "Who?" she asked.

The front door opened then and in walked Lestrade, holding a pair of handcuffs. He assessed the scene with a questioning eye. "Alright," he said, figuring out a way to go about cuffing the woman. Sherlock looked up at him. "Do we have a name?"

"No."

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, but then shook his head and set to work. She struggled against their efforts valiantly, but eventually the cuffs were on and they got her standing. "A bit of cooperation would be lovely, yeah?" he asked her harshly, moving a hand to the gun in his holster pointedly. He kept the hand rested there as they walked her to the door.

John was just outside, arms crossed, to the side of the door. He stared at Sherlock as he crossed the threshold. Sherlock stopped, making the other two stop as well, and he turned to John.

"Could you please not do this anymore?" said John. He was angry.

But before the conversation could continue, there was a heavy thud behind the detective, followed by a sharp kick in the back of Sherlock's thigh. Then John was forced to stumble backwards. As Sherlock was driven to kneel by sheer force of pain, he watched as the killer swiftly stepped through the loop of her arms, moving her hands in front of her. With her hands came her handgun, which she proceeded to point at John. Sherlock distantly noted that it had been in the back of her jeans, but he hadn't been positioned low enough down her back to feel it when he'd had her pinned down.

She moved towards John and then side-stepped around him, the gun trained on his head the entire time, as his arms rose into the air at her command. Lestrade sat up behind Sherlock, but he was not able to retrieve his own gun before she spoke.

"Reach for your gun, Inspector, and there will be a bullet in his head." She paused, but then, in a sudden rush of movement, she had the chain of her handcuffs in front of John's neck with one hand on his shoulder, the other still pointing the gun at him. She took a step back, eyes impossibly intense and lips quirking. "And if you follow me, I'll put a bullet in his neck."

A/N: Let me know what you thought in a review!