So… Sherlock's pretty messed up in this story. It gets kind of violent for the next few chapters. Deductions are formatted in bold and italic. Sorry about the delay...


Sherlock glanced around the corner.

*Two men standing on the front steps: one with pp7 in shoulder holster, other unarmed- civilian- hostage? No, scientist-acceptable collateral damage*

Sherlock came out of the alleyway and walked towards the house. It felt strange to be back in London after so long, but this is where Moran had finally landed, and capturing Moran and putting an end to these three long years was Sherlock's mission. He would think about what that really meant only after it was done. He couldn't let anything distract him now.

"Do you happen to have cigarette?" Sherlock asked the armed man.

"No, now shove off mate."

"Oh you know I'm not going to do that."

Sherlock slid his Army Browning L9A1 (ignore the sentiment) from where it was tucked in the waist band of his trousers.

"Inside shall we?"

Sherlock pressed his gun in the armed man's back and nodded towards the second man to lead the way. The man Sherlock identified as a scientist, a pharmacist to be exact, opened the door to the terraced house and led the way in. Once inside Sherlock kept the gun pressed into the man before him. He pushed him into the room on the left, a sitting room.

"Moran isn't here…" Sherlock quickly spun the man around and silenced him with the butt of the Browning across his face. There was a familiar crunch as the gun came into contact with the thug's nose.

"I'm sure you've figured out who I am by now, and by that you know that you're not going to make it out of this alive. So I suggest you just tell me where he is and I kill you quickly." As he said this he reached into the man's coat and grabbed the PP7 from the shoulder holster and tucked it into his waist band.

The now bleeding man had sunk to his knees, but he still wore a defiant scowl. Sherlock turned to the one he had identified as one of Moriarty's scientists, who was cowering in the corner.

"You! Run along and tell Moriarty's dog that I'm coming for him. I'm tired of our game. It's time to finish this. GO!"

The man tripped over himself as he ran to the door. Sherlock knelt before the bleeding man in front of him.

"So once again, are you going to tell me? Or do I have to persuade you?" Sherlock took out the knife he always carried, strapped around his calf. He knew this man was new to the organization and his loyalty didn't run as deep as most. He didn't think he'd have to rely on knife work to get this man to talk.

The sight of the knife shocked the man. The defiance in his eyes was quickly fading, being replaced by fear. "I… I don't…" the man stuttered.

He yanked the man up by the scruff of his neck and pushed him roughly into the chair that was sitting in front of the desk. He placed the L9A1 on the desk, then Sherlock brought his hostage's hands around the back of the chair and secured his wrists with a zip tie he had in his back pocket. The man was barely conscious; the amount of blood gushing from his nose would soon have him passing out from blood loss. Sherlock knew he needed to get whatever information he could quickly. He brought the knife to the tender part of the man's inner thigh and with a quick flick of his wrist cut through the man's trousers, only barely nicking the skin. The motion was just to bring the man to the room, just enough pain for his body to register the new threat. The man's eyes widened and he began to shake with fear as Sherlock continued to make the small cuts along his leg. It took only four shallow cuts.

"He's going after your…your friend. The doctor."

Sherlock saw red as he stabbed the knife into the meat of the man's leg. He hardly registered the man's agonized scream.

"That was not the right answer! WHERE IS MORAN?"

"I don't know! He didn't tell any of us!"

Sherlock could tell the man was telling the truth. He turned on his heel and grabbed his gun from the desk, pointed it at the man's head and pulled the trigger in one quick movement. He leaned over, pulled the knife from the thigh and wiped the blood off on his trousers. He searched the man's coat for a mobile. He had lost his in Portland two months earlier and hadn't bothered to get another. He had grown tired of Mycroft's constant contact. He had been underground in the States after his latest injury, a gunshot to the shoulder, a parting gift from his last run in with Moran. Sherlock located the mobile and a pack of cigarettes in the coats inner pocket. He tapped out a cigarette and lit it with his own lighter, bringing it up to his lips and inhaling deeply. His mind was racing. The anger that he felt at Moran was all-consuming. After all he had done to keep John safe, in the end it had failed. Moran had come back to his mission. The one mission in which he had failed his puppet master.

Colonel Sebastian Moran had been Moriarty's second in command. Mycroft had procured Moran's file in the ineffable fashion in which he always did such things. Moran had a long military career; he was trained as a sniper and word quickly spread of his talent with a rifle. He became a ghost, the assassin the government called in when they needed a clean kill, no mistakes and untraceable. Six years ago Moran had been on a mission deep in the Afghan hills where he massacred the entire family of an Al-Qaida general. The General wasn't in the village at the time. After that the Colonel never reported back to camp. He disappeared into Moriarty's web. The family had been Moran's first hit for Moriarty.

Moran was a man who enjoyed not only killing, but pain as well. Inflicting pain was his life's work, just as the puzzles had been for Sherlock and Moriarty. Sherlock knew that there had been more than just an employer/employee relationship between the two insane men. They had been lovers, a fact Sherlock had uncovered shortly after the Fall. Sherlock had taken Moran's heart and now Moran was here to return the favor.

Sherlock dialed Mycroft's number, and held his breath. He would break the self-imposed silence with his brother; for John. He'd do anything for John, had done things for him already that had transformed Sherlock into the executioner he was today. Somewhere along the way he had become judge, jury and executioner; he was nearly as talented at the killing as he was figuring out the puzzles that led him to his targets. His brother's voice snapped him out of his mind palace.

"This is Mycroft Holmes."

"Is he safe?"

"Brother how good of you to call, such dramatic timing, as per usual."

"Do you have him, Mycroft?"

"John has not been seen since approximately 6:13 Thursday evening."

Sherlock took a sharp inhalation. He knew he shouldn't have relied on his brother to keep John safe. Mycroft had let him down so many times before, why had he thought this would be different?

"That was three days ago Mycroft! What the bloody hell have you been doing? Do you know where he is?"

"I am sorry Sherlock. The GPS on John's phone was disabled at the same time he disappeared. I believe he did this on purpose, he didn't want me following him."

"Damn it Mycroft!"

"I think it's time we had a sit-down Sherlock. Where are you? I will send a car."

Sherlock gave Mycroft the address and added in a monotone voice. "Send a crew along as well, only one count."

"Yes, brother dear. I will see you shortly."