This building is a good bet. There's plenty of Johnson grass around, the bricks taste right, and the footprints behind the Cushings' house told Sherlock to look near water. He creeps into the old factory silently
He starts up the stairs, though several are gone or crumbling, so he's hopping and climbing as much as he is walking. On the third flight he spots something in a darkened corner. A few bricks stacked neatly, intentionally. Someone was using them as a table. Sherlock walks closer and see where dust and cobwebs were cleared away for a bedroll. A half-footprint, very fresh, matches the print at the Cushings'. And this is the first building he checked. Absolutely brilliant. John should be here to see this.
The angle of the print suggests the man could've gone for the window to Sherlock's right. He backs up against the wall and sidles over to the window. There's a fire escape there, but no sign of anyone. There's infrequent traffic noise, the occasional barking dog or distant yell or clatter, but there's very little happening in this part of town. No sounds of any significance originating within 50 meters in any direction.
He peers around the window frame slowly. Nothing. Below him, on the fire escape and the street below, nothing. Above, across the street, to either side, nothing. So close. The man was just here. The fire escape is mostly likely, might as well follow along.
Sherlock is just throwing one long leg over the windowsill when it comes, a gunshot so close it makes the edge of his coat flutter. In an instant he dives back into the building and wedges himself into the corner. Silence again.
His hands instinctively go to his pockets, though he knows there's no gun there. He doesn't have one anymore, since he traded it for the sniper rifle, which was hardly practical to bring with him on the train to Leeds. He hates carrying a gun, actually; hates having anything larger than a mobile in his pocket. Better to have a John Watson; he's a far better shot and carries his own gun. But he's not here, of course. Sherlock almost took John's Sig with him, but something pinched in his stomach when he reached for it. The idea of leaving John unarmed… Well, it's stupid, almost superstitious. John's not in any immediate danger now, but Sherlock hasn't broken the habit of protecting him from Moran. It's illogical. John's safe and cozy and doubtless sleeping like a baby in the hotel with the Sig by his side, while Sherlock's out here in Sheepscar, being shot at and standing stock still like an imbecile.
Sherlock leans forward, just a little, just a little more, until he catches it – the shadow on the sidewalk across the street. He pulls back in just in time, as another bullet flies past him. Time to go.
He makes a run for the stairs, and leaps down to the ground floor. Footsteps outside, the shooter is running closer, pausing, trying to predict if he'll go out the front or the back. With the back, he thinks, there's a better chance of catching him off guard, identifying him and possibly even apprehending him. Also, as a secondary matter, a better chance of survival due to the stream running behind it and under a promising bridge. He feigns to the front, hoping the shooter heard his footsteps, and then creeps towards the back. The door rasps as he pulls it open just enough to slip his wiry body through. There's no movement outside. He starts to walk round to the front, planning to sneak up on the shooter from behind when suddenly he hears him and flattens against the wall. The man is just around the corner; he didn't go to the front but has clearly been waiting for Sherlock to come in his sights. A bullet punches the brick three meters from his head. This is an annoying position. Another shot, about two meters on the other side. The man's aim is horrible now. He's in a poor position; just a little too far away and his vision is partly obscured by some vegetation and a piece of gutter hanging in just the right spot. But as soon as Sherlock steps away from the wall, the man will have a clean shot. There's only one thing for it.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and runs. He ignores the sound of gunfire as his long legs eat up the distance between the building and the stream – the sidewalk, the parking strip, the grassy bank – and throws himself forward and to the right, towards the bridge, and hits the water. Something knocks his head as he dives, but he drives the red flash of pain out of his mind as soon as he feels it and corrects the trajectory of his body. He lets his arms enter first to decelerate his impact and displace some of the water so it's able to accept him. It stings like hell, but he's extremely satisfied to see that the technique worked. He's never actually tried it before, but knew the water would be too shallow to accept him otherwise. He gloats face down, floating in the oily water. It smells wretched.
The gunshots continue but they're not hitting anywhere near, and the sound around him dulls and echoes. That means he's under the bridge, just as he planned. It's too dark here for the shooter to aim at him. Hopefully he'll believe Sherlock's already dead. Sirens approach, and that's just luck. Sherlock had no idea if people round here would call the police or not. The man's not going to waste time following a corpse under a bridge to make sure it's dead; he has to leave now. His footsteps pound away, to the south.
Sherlock stands up, gasping for air. The water only comes up to just above his knee. He wades through it the edge of the stream and allows himself a moment of rest, leaning against the graffiti-covered bridge to catch his breath, barely. His head is throbbing sharply, but he pushes that away. Then he's running south, following the footsteps he heard, the occasional footprints here and there, and a suspicion.
That suspicion is correct. Sherlock catches up with him at Leeds City Station. The man's business in Leeds was done, Sherlock just happened to run into him when he dropped by his temporary home to pick up his backpack, and he was planning to get on a train tonight anyway. The little shootout delayed him, but not by much. Sherlock looks up at the schedules. Yes, of course he's going to London, and then he'll be wanting to leave the country as soon as possible. His scheme bought him the time he needed to deliver his message, but once Siobhan has received it, he'll be found out immediately. Sherlock is scanning the station systematically, hoping the man isn't so unhinged that he'll start firing through a train station. It's late at night and there's hardly anyone here, but there are a few bystanders and security cameras everywhere.
There he is. Sherlock ducks behind a kiosk and watches a man wearing a black pea coat and a dark green beanie come out of the loo and walk towards the train. Sherlock still hasn't seen the man's face, but he recognizes the silhouette of the coat and the cadence of his steps. There's no question. But his back is turned and he still has no idea if he's looking at Daniel or Jason. Sherlock looks desperately around the station for any other place he can stand to see the man at another angle, but if he moves, he'll be totally exposed, and if he can see the man's face that means the man can see him. He recognizes his backpack – Jason wore it hiking in one of those Facebook photos – but that doesn't tell him this is Jason, since it could just as easily mean that Daniel killed Jason and took his backpack. The man is about to get on the train but the conductor gestures at him to wait just a moment. He shifts his weight anxiously from one foot to the other and reaches up to his face. His arms lower and he makes a familiar motion. He's wiping his glasses. Daniel Beecher wears glasses in 85% of the Facebook photos. Jason Franco never does. It's not enough, but it's close.
The man is on the train now and it will pull out in a couple minutes. Sherlock grimaces and clenches his fist in frustration. He could get on that train right now. He could corner the killer and solve it all. He could also get shot, and that would make John very, very cross. The pain in his head stabs suddenly as if to punctuate the thought.
He waits for the train to pull out of the station and then pulls out his mobile, fearing the worst. Amazing. It's that hideous, waterproof, supposedly indestructible case John bought for him the morning before they came to Leeds. Sherlock didn't want to use it, it's enormous, it looks like it would make a better weapon than a communication device, but he'd had a feeling tonight could be more eventful than others, so he decided to put it on. And look – despite being immersed in the toxic waste of the Meanwood Beck – the mobile turns on.
Ear man coming on Nat'l Express from Leeds, arriving Kings Cross 2:15 am. Caucasian, brown hair, glasses, 5 feet 11. Dark green knit beanie, black pea coat with standup collar, blue jeans worn at knees, brown Timberland boots. Probably Daniel Beecher.
SH
Cheers Sherlock! He's as good as ours! - Dimmock
