AN: There appears to be a lot of confusion over the last chapter. I know I said it was an ex-boyfriend, but please guys, don't think I don't know the show's canon. I know that show inside and out; I know Harry's gay. I know she had a wife named Clara, and they were divorced. I don't mean to sound confrontational, but it wasn't a mistake on my part. This was written with the intention of the 'ex-boyfriend' being back from before Harry came 'out of the closet', so to speak. After all, just 'cause she's gay now doesn't mean she's been gay her whole life. Thankfully, some people picked up on that. THANK you.

Now that I've got that out of the way, here's your next chapter. It's a bit longer than most of the previous ones (I got a little carried away) but I hope you like it! This is part four of...well, you know the drill.

There will be two...no...three chapters after this.

4:

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

Sebastian Moran had been lurking in the same alley for two hours, still and silent as a statue, watching the masses. Now, as the sun began to set and the crowds to thin, suddenly, he was moving into action, quickly and methodically pulling out metal pieces and setting them up with practiced hands. Sherlock watched as a gun swiftly formed, and Moran set it on a tripod.

Something had prompted the sudden change.

But what?

What was his game?

He was staring at something, something out in the main road. Sherlock cursed himself for picking what had, at the time, seemed a good vantage point, when he saw now that it was limiting in one key factor: he couldn't see the street. So he couldn't see what had provoked Moran's sudden behavior.

He could deduce a little, at least.

Sebastian Moran was a sniper—he'd been Moriarty's right-hand man. His furtive behavior, coupled with the gun…most likely some kind of assassination. So his target was appearing within sight. So far, so obvious.

But that still left several large gaps to be filled: the target, Moran's motive, and how to stop him. Sherlock couldn't just attack him—it'd cause a scene, break his cover, draw attention. No, can't do that, then.

Sherlock was crouched in a window above Moran. Taking a calculated risk (because though he was very well disguised, he was sure Moran could identify him upon seeing him), he carefully, silently crawled out of the window and began to climb up the wall.

Moran did not notice, intent as he was on his prey.

Several moments later, Sherlock was on the rooftop, striding quickly to the precipice and looking over the edge into the street below, trying to single out the target.

Only a few people were about. Sherlock scanned first those in the immediate area, and began to move out.

A woman pushing a stroller. She walked right by the alley with no repercussions.

A man getting into a car. Again, no shot rang out before he closed the door

Several people underwent Sherlock's scrutiny before he heard a voice, getting steadily louder as, presumably, whoever it was drew closer.

"Yeah, I'm on my way back right now…No, I'm not catching a cab—I'm only a couple blocks away! No need to worry."

Sherlock's heart clenched.

"I also got the milk and that coffee you wanted…wait, you what? Wow…Sorry, I know…it's just that, it's been a year and a half since you moved in, but I think I still need to get used to someone else getting the milk…yeah, it's fine…I'll just give it to Mrs. Hudson…speaking of which, how is she? How is she coping?"

John.

"Good, that's good. I got her some tea, too…let me guess, you already thought of that…uh huh…well, we'll just have extra then. What didn't you get?" A moment of silence, and John laughed. "Too bad; would've been useful!"

John.

And it became exceedingly clear who Moran's target was.

After all, could it be a coincidence that Moran was setting up right as John was getting home from his job and, judging from his conversation on the phone, shopping?

Suddenly, Sherlock didn't care what kind of scene he would cause. John was going to pass by that alley in seconds, and if Sherlock didn't act, then John would really die—no coming back.

Moran didn't know what hit him. One moment his finger was tightening on the trigger—and then next something slammed into him from above. His flailing arm knocked over the gun—and set it off. It fired randomly with an ear-splitting crack that sent everyone on the streets into a panic.

As Sherlock knocked Moran to the ground, it occurred to him that he really hoped that bullet hadn't hit anyone.

The two went tumbling, the gun clattering across the narrow space. Moran immediately went into defense mode, lashing out with his foot and shoving Sherlock off of him. Sherlock, though expecting the move, was taken aback by the astounding strength of the ex-military sniper and sent skittering across the cement with a grunt of surprise and pain. At the same time, Moran lunged—for the gun.

Sherlock leapt up—only to feel something hard and cold press against his Adam's apple, pushing him down again.

"You should've minded your own business, Shirley Locks," Moran growled, cocking the gun. "And stayed out of mine."

Sherlock closed his eyes, realizing despondently that this time, he would die for real. Sorry, John. Guess I'm not coming back.

Moran's finger tightened on the trigger.

"Run!"

Startled, Sherlock's eyes flew open, to be met with an extraordinary sight: Moran, tumbling to the ground, John Watson on top of him—having tackled him.

"John…?" Sherlock mumbled in a daze, startled by the sudden shift from 'certain death' to 'one step behind'. Where had John come from?

He had saved his life.

Again.

But the victory didn't last long—with an angry shout and a great heave, Moran managed to displace John enough to get them rolling. Sherlock watched, still mildly stunned, as the two grappled for control, flipping over and over, shoving and thrashing about.

Finally, a clear advantage was taken—by Moran. Sherlock was snapped out of his daze as he registered that Moran had just managed to force John onto his back, slamming him violently against the cement. "Don't interfere," Moran growled darkly at the doctor.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, staggering to his feet.

John gasped and lashed out with his knee, aiming for Moran's groin. Unfortunately, Moran was able to dodge it without losing his grip.

However, the move brought Moran's face momentarily into the light, and for some reason, John seemed to recognize it.

"You!" he shouted angrily, lurching up and throwing a shocked Moran off of him. "You tried to kill Mrs. Hudson!"

What?!

Moran had gone after Mrs. Hudson? And John? Did he have a death wish?!

Moran glowered sinisterly at John for a moment, slowly wiping blood from the corner of his mouth with his wrist. Sherlock watched in interest as John and Moran seemed to have some kind of staring contest, their gazes locked. Moran looked menacing, dark, like a cornered rat. John, meanwhile, looked furious.

Then, suddenly, Moran shot from his position huddled at the base of the wall, going for the gun.

"No!" Sherlock and John both cried at the same time. Sherlock moved before he'd even thought about it, diving to the ground and snatching the gun from the cement just as Moran made a dive for it. Moran backpedaled instantly, fleeing down the alleyway, as Sherlock recovered from his dive and aimed almost without thinking.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Three gunshots, but Sherlock knew instantly that none would hit their target. Sherlock was a crack shot, but the sun had set too fast over the fight, and suddenly he couldn't see anything down that way. It was as if darkness had fallen quicker than usual, without him noticing.

Before he could even stand, the gun was wrenched from his hands. Sherlock was quick, so it didn't take him more than a millisecond of confusion to realize—John.

John was now sprinting after Moran, having grabbed the gun from Sherlock on his way past.

"No," Sherlock gasped, lurching to his feet. "John!"

And then he, too, shot down the alley, following the sounds of running footsteps and gunfire.

And then the footsteps ceased, silent as the echo of one final shot rang through the air.

Pleasenopleasenopleasenopleasenopleaseno, Sherlock prayed. He didn't know who the prayer was going to, since he didn't properly believe in any God, but he hoped that if there was anyone—anyone—out there who could hear his wish, they'd grant it. Please let him be alright.

However:

"You fool. Didn't think I'd carry an extra gun? I live for guns."

A clicking sound. Sherlock recognized it for what it was.

"Guess I get to kill you after all."

Sherlock rounded a corner—to see John leaning heavily against a wall, clutching his left arm and staring down the barrel of a gun.

Yup. It appeared that no one had heard Sherlock's wish. Brilliant. The one time he felt it worth praying—nothing answers.

"Who. Are. You." John forced out through gritted teeth.

Moran chuckled. "Let's just say I'm you. I'm just like you."

"I don't kill innocent people."

"But you're still me. We both lost someone, two years ago. I lost my boss to a gun. You lost yours to…gravity."

"Don't."

"Both, suicides."

"Shut up."

"Both, psychopaths who could care less."

"Shut up!"

Moran grinned. "But we care, don't we? Yes, John. That's why you're just barely getting over him. And that's why I still haven't." His finger tightened on the trigger. "That's why I'm continuing his work."

"I am nothing like you," John forced out through gritted teeth—gritted against the anger or the pain, Sherlock couldn't decide. Each was equally likely. Maybe it was both.

How was he supposed to stop this? One wrong move, and John got a bullet between the eyes—or somewhere more painful.

Then Sherlock had a thought. He pulled out his mobile.

John needs help.
SH

Where? ~Harry~

Track his mobile. His password is 'observe'. Quick; the bad guy has a gun.
SH

Risky signing them, but Harriett had to know that it was serious. Sherlock could break into the flat later and delete them from her mobile if he really had to.

On my way; calling Lestrade too. ~Harry~

Good.
SH

Now that help was on the way, it was time to act, before Moran decided that his and John's conversation was over and it was time to pull the trigger. As Sherlock had decided before, no obvious action could be taken, lest John die that night, but Sherlock had to make sure that help arrived in time. So—distraction.

He silently backed up several paces—and then started running again, swerving around the corner only to stop cold at the sight of John and Moran's face-off. His eyes flicked between Moran, John, and the gun, as if seeing them for the first time.

"Well hello, Shirley," Moran grinned in dark delight. "Speak of the devil. You're just in time."

Never had Sherlock been so glad for that stupid nickname of Moran's (in fact, usually, he hated it). If Moran had called him 'Sherlock' or 'Holmes' or 'Mr. Holmes' or any other of the recognizable names his enemies usually used, John would've known it was him. As it was, all John saw was the blonde man he'd previously rescued from this sniper. A man with a girl's name.

"Now, let's try and think this through," Sherlock tried in an appeasing tone, knowing perfectly well that Moran wouldn't listen. "He's not part of this, Moran. This is between you and me."

"Is it?" Moran hissed in rage. "It isn't! You took Jim from me—"

"He took himself from you," Sherlock interrupted, knowing the dangers of making Moran angrier but knowing that at this point, anything he said would make him mad. "It was a suicide, Moran—only, unlike the supposed suicide of Sherlock Holmes, it wasn't forced upon him. I didn't threaten Moriarty into sticking that gun in his mouth. In fact—I wanted him alive."

"You're lying," Moran hissed. "You shot him."

"Really? Look at the facts, Moran."

"No!"

"You may have considered yourself his friend, but he didn't consider himself yours."

"Liar!"

"You know that's not true."

Moran was now trembling with fury, and Sherlock could see an insanity in his dark eyes. Maybe, a long time ago, Sebastian Moran had been a respectable soldier. Maybe, a shorter time ago, he'd been a perfectly sane assassin. But with the death of his boss, he'd been shoved over an edge no one had known existed.

And he still had a gun in his capable hands.

He seemed to realize this now, and quickly swung it around to Sherlock, intent obvious.

But it was a mistake.

John had watched the conversation in puzzlement and alarm, realizing first that he'd stumbled upon something far more complicated than a mugger attacking an innocent man, then feeling a shock at the mention of Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty, then realizing that, whoever this blonde man was, he was playing for time.

Time for John to escape.

So John tensed, watching Moran, noting the exact point when his attention was completely grabbed by this strange blonde man. And then, when the gun swung away—Bingo.

But John didn't run. He shifted his weight just so, and threw himself at Moran, tackling him to the ground and knocking the gun from his hand. Sherlock, having seen it before it'd happened, lunged forward and scooped up the weapon. Before Moran could properly realize what had just happened, he found the gun aimed at his nose and John sitting on top of him.

"Stay. Down." Sherlock growled.

But Moran was crazy—insane, even—and the gun only startled him for a moment. Slowly, he reached behind himself, feeling through a pocket. Sherlock cocked the gun—a clear warning—but Moran didn't cease movement.

John saw the silver flash and instinctively recoiled, but the knife that had appeared in Moran's hand wasn't aimed at him. With lightning fast instincts, John took in the target, the angle of the knife—and lunged. "Move!" he shouted, shoving Sherlock out of the way.

Sherlock staggered into the wall—but barely noticed the dull ache as he watched the knife flash along its previous route.

John fell to the ground with a cry.

For Sherlock, it was instinct.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Three more gunshots split the air—but this time, all three hit their target. Moran slumped to the ground with a hideous moan—not dead, but not going anywhere.

Maybe he'd bleed out.

Sherlock hoped so.

Sherlock stood there a moment, the gun smoking in his hand, stunned. Two men were lying bleeding in front of him, and for once he felt that maybe he'd like a shock blanket.

Plip. A raindrop struck the cement.

Plip. Plip. Plip.

At the same time, Sherlock could make out sirens in the distance. Help was on the way. And, he realized, he needed to get out of the way. He couldn't be here when the police and ambulance showed up.

He watched from the shadows as the rain began to fall in earnest just as the authorities arrived. Harriett was at her brother's side immediately, and Lestrade was quickly able to identify Moran as, apparently, the man who'd attacked Mrs. Hudson and himself about a week back. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at this information, and once again he sent out the earnest prayer that Moran would bleed out. Now that the ambulance was here, this probably wouldn't happen, but he could hope.

John was loaded into one of the two ambulances and Harriett climbed in with him. Then they were out of Sherlock's sight.

Thank you. ~Harry~

How is he?
SH

None of the wounds are fatal or impairing. They think he'll be good as new, eventually. ~Harry~

Thank you.
SH

Yay!

Okay, um, food for thought, food for thought...

Nah, can't think of any. Oh well.