Greg Lestrade was quite disappointed. He had just spent 20 minutes in a men's room trying to question a complete idiot who insisted he knew his rights and was entitled to a solicitor. Annoyingly, he was right, so Greg went outside to call for someone to take him to the station. Mark followed him, leaving a bewildered Vincent in the bathroom.

"Hang on a minute," said Mark. "There were three of his mates sitting at that table over there. They're gone. Where did they go?"

"Who cares?" replied Greg, "Just make sure the kid doesn't escape."

Greg called for a car. About ten seconds later a car did arrive, but it wasn't the sort they were expecting. It pulled up outside the restaurant, all tinted windows and 21 inch chrome spinners and the like. Then whoever was in the front passenger seat wound the window down. Then they started firing.

The bullets came screaming through the window like wildfire at eight hundred feet per second. Glass smashed into a million tiny little pieces and people were running for their lives out the back door, directed there by the amazingly calm staff who had taken cover behind walls. Mark and Greg dived behind the front counter.

The gunfire continued. "Jesus Christ! Will he ever run out of ammo?" Yelled Lestrade. The two men were so busy staying alive that they didn't notice the man running from the toilets. As the shooter paused for a moment to reload, Mark stood up, produced one of his revolvers and aimed it at where the car's fuel tank would be.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three shots and the Lexus exploded in a flurry of blue and red flame. It shot up into the air and appeared to stay there for about five seconds before descending as a burnt wreck. Greg and Mark stood up to examine their surroundings. The wall behind them had been almost totally hollowed out by bullet holes, and the floor wasn't much better. No one else was around, so whoever was firing must have been a tremendously bad shot.

"Nice one." Said Lestrade with a degree of gratitude.

"No problem," Said Mark. "Just remember you owe me one."

Greg's mind turned to more important matters. "Jesus, check the bathroom! Vincent might have got out!"

Mark did so, but found no one there. "Damnit! Fucker must have escaped while we were being shot at. He's got some balls. In fact, I'll bet any money you like that he set that up. It were his mates in the car, I know it were." He ranted.

"Calm down." Replied Greg. "We didn't need him anyway, he was just small fry. But we have lost our only lead. Maybe it's time to check on our good friend John Watson again…"

John sat on his bed, sharpening the scalpel he had found against the metal bedpost. He remembered what Doctor Kohls said to him.

"Brooks! That was his name, I remember now. Seen him on TV a few times as a matter of fact. Told me that he met you in school and forgot to keep in touch, but he heard you were in hospital and decided to stop by. Poor you, you probably can't remember it. I'd show you the CCTV tapes, but strangely enough we had a bit of trouble with the cameras. Fixed now, but it's strange, huh? Anyway, he said he'd call back… well, today as a matter of fact. So you should expect him within a few hours…"

John came back to the real world. He stared out his window at London below, thinking about how small everyone looked. He was just one man with a vendetta against another. He was going to kill whoever came through that door next. Just then his phone rang. It was Doctor Kohls.

"John?" Said the doctor. "You have a visitor; I'm sending them up now."

John hid behind the door. About a minute later there was a knock on the door. No voice, just a knock.

Knock knock.

"Come in" Replied John.

The door opened. A figure walked through. John didn't even bother to see who it was. He just lunged with the scalpel.