Sorry for the delay, I've had a lot to deal with recently. But I hope this chapter will make up for it :)

Chapter 10

Sebastian Moran was always a dangerous man; his younger self entering fights that he thought he had no chance in winning but just fighting for the hell of it to feel that adrenaline rush. He would normally win, getting fewer bruises than his opponents. The feeling of triumph and victory swam across his veins quickly every time.

He was a sniper with a perilous temper, shooting anyone who got in his way, ally or foe. He was a brilliant shot, could kill enemies from at least 700 yards in the distance with the desert sun in his eyes, or probably even with a blindfold on if the occasion had ever arisen. He was wanted for nearly every mission, his superiors knowing that Sebastian Moran was a guaranteed soldier – bringing results back with him. Many were envious of his natural talent, that even on his own side there were many that would do anything to 'get rid of' him. More than just a few.

When he was shot in the back by a double-crossing bastard, whose face he would never forget, and left at the top of a burning building, well somehow, he had a lot of time to reflect on his life.

Long story short, he was tired for fighting for the underdog, instead of the great and powerful favourite.

Essentially, he was tired of fighting for the good that did what they thought was right, when the bad side was so much easier and much, much more fun. The devil upon his shoulder grinned at the thought of fighting alongside the evil.

He was lucky enough to have been found before the building fell and saved by his comrades. Taken to hospital he was treated by nurses and doctors, and coincidently a doctor by the name of John Watson.

John was successful in being able to settle Sebastian's pain, and was able to save him from near paralysis but Moran had had enough of being the victim. Had enough of feeling vulnerable. He didn't want to be prey any more, he wanted to be the hunter. When he could walk on his own two feet, and his captain had reluctantly dismissed him from duty, he went back to the country that had never felt like home: England.

It was there that he fell into a pit of despair and self-pity and he could swear that life was just mocking him. He was threatened of being kicked out of his flat, he saw his money disappear with ever bottle and he had never felt worse. But with the alcohol rolling and stinging his throat, the pain of his life lessened and he became numb to the world.

But when Life throws you a hand, you have to play the cards. When the chips are still on the table, you have to keep playing. When gambling takes its toll, you have to ride the storm.

But that's when Jim Moriarty had shown his pale, sickly face. Moran was in for the ride... and no escape was visible.

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Mycroft was sitting in his bland office, away from the silence of the rest of the building, old, balding men reading the paper and not even being able to cough in front of others. Being in the company of his own thoughts was better for him. The lonely man in his big room, hiding from prying eyes, leafing through reports that apparently only he could monitor. Mondays always were the worst days of the week, not that the rest of the days were easy.

He held the glass of scotch steadily in his hands, swirling the liquid around. While staring out of the window he thought of his little brother. Could he even call him that anymore? Because Sherlock had changed, and Mycroft was not positively sure for the better. His thoughts drifted to that liar Doctor Watson, and the influence he had over his brother.

He moved his hand into his jacket and fished out his phone from the pocket. He dialled the number of his most trusted colleague, who called herself Anthea most of the time, and Mycroft knew better than to utter her real name.

"Find me the phone number for Harriot Watson, and send it to me. There is no time to wait."

He hung up on her without her reply, knowing she would do as asked. He replaced his phone back in his inside pocket and stood to pour himself another drink.

He sat thinking for a while, not thinking of a certain person who was taking a great deal of his mind recently. He was definitely not thinking of salt and pepper hair, tanned skin and the soft skin of his hand.

Nope. Definitely not.

He sighed deeply and walked out the door without a sip from his drink, looking forward to the promise of the file and what laid in their contents as well as a promise of another meeting with the detective inspector.

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"This is the fourth one in under a month and we're nowhere near to a killer." Lestrade rubbed his brow while another detective, Sally Donavon, proclaimed his mistakes. Thankfully they were enclosed in his office with a shut door.

"I know, I know; I have someone I can use to help."

"Please don't tell me it's that freak in that scarf. How can he help?"

Lestrade sighed. "You didn't see him when he was doing his 'thing.' It was amazing. He could see things that no one else could ever see. Even if you don't see it, he's what we need to solve this case!"

Sally raised an eyebrow in reply, her scepticism plain to Lestrade.

"Right, I'll show these to Sherlock, he'll know who the killer is straight away!" he knew he sounded childish as he collected the pictures and papers from his desk, but he didn't care at this moment. Sally was always telling him what he did wrong, what he should have done. But, annoyingly, she was good at her job, and so had to keep her with great reluctance.

"Sherlock? What is his last name?"

Lestrade stopped in his tracks. "Why?"

"I recognise his name, don't you?"

Lestrade thought hard. There was a bell ringing at the sound of the man's name. "Sherlock Holmes."

Sally's face crumpled in confusion. "Maybe I'm wrong then. It's not a normal name though, is it? Go and get the freak." Lestrade sighed at her, to which she shrugged.

Greg walked out of his office, out the building and into his police car. He loved that police car – he had little more lenience in parking which was is very helpful in London. He could also turn the sirens on if he needed, even if there were no real emergencies.

He dumped the files on the passenger seat before turning the radio on and drumming his fingers to the beat of a well-known pop song. He sighed deeply before revving the car and driving to Sherlock's recent accommodation.

His thoughts starts to drift while he sat in traffic and he began to ponder on the other smartly dressed Holmes he had met. He hadn't met Sherlock's brother since the day in his office. He had been popping round to check on Sherlock, with cold cases to clear his and Sherlock's anger and boredom with the case that was nearly unsolvable; but he never once saw the, self-proclaimed, Consulting Detective's brother. To which he was not happy about, especially since Sherlock's temper and childlike behaviour made Lestrade loathe their meetings, but damn that man was observant and, never telling the man himself, a genius.

He arrived in front of the building and parked as close as he could. Picking up the stacks of paper and the files in his hand, he walked up to the front door and pressed the buzzer.

"Yes?" It was Mycroft's slow purr, untarnished by the ever-present electrical crackling.

"Hey, it's me. I mean Greg. I mean D.I Lestrade. I mean – is Sherlock here?" Lestrade slammed his hand against his face. Eloquent as always!

There was a small chuckle before a buzzing let him through. He pushed the front door open and walked into a well-lit, cream hallway, leading to another door. He waited, not entirely sure on what to do when he heard the rhythmic tapping of an umbrella sounded in front of him and the door opened.

Lestrade stared at the man now in front of him and smirked, "do you always need that umbrella?"

Mycroft looked back at Lestrade with a matching smile, "do you constantly need my brother's assistance in your cases?" He retorted as his smirk turned into a full beam.

"Touche." Lestrade couldn't take his eyes off the man but he really needed Sherlock's help. However...

"How are you, Detective Inspector?"

Oh, just a quick conversation couldn't hurt? "It's Greg. And fine, thank you. Yourself?"

"Splendid. Having my childish, arrogant, younger brother in my home takes me back to our past. Hopefully he'll get out of his depressed state."

Lestrade's eyebrows furrowed in confusion, "What happened?"

Mycroft shrugged with a grimace now taking over his face. "He would never tell me. Although I try to get him to open up to me, he doesn't seem to recognise that I'm 'on his side'." Mycroft sighed, opening the main door and leading Lestrade into a long thin corridor. "He was fine until a few nights ago, since then he's hardly been anywhere but his room."

The concern in Mycroft's voice was pulling on Lestrade's heart strings and he hoped he could make light of this to cheer up Mycroft. "Well, this case will certainly help. There's been another one, and he loves the idea of showing of his observational prowess. And his frankly alarming happiness when it comes to deaths." Mycroft smiled graciously toward the inspector; knowing exactly what the man was trying to do and somehow it worked: seeing Lestrade's smile made his stomach twist in a good way and a real smile at the edges of his lips.

"I will get him." Mycroft excused himself with slight reluctance as he stared at the man in front of him. He hoped he could be more subtle but that wasn't working at all.

When Mycroft had left, Lestrade let a huff of air fly out of his lungs. He didn't even know he was holding his breath. He had only seen the man two times and yet there were nerves flying all around his body and the flutters of butterfly wings settled in his stomach. He was like a frigging teenager. He had not felt this way since his now-ex-wife; and now she had gone shagging their daughter's PE teacher and he had gone to fantasising about another brilliant yet old Holmes.

He berated himself – what the hell was he getting himself into? One Holmes was bad enough but wanting another was just plain stupid.

Although, Sherlock was always calling him an idiot...

Greg looked around the sections of the flat he could see. He was in front of the stairs, leading directly up to the landing and what seemed to be a study. On his right, past the stars, further down the corridor, he could see the kitchen diner. It looked modern and stylish, but not overly done. Adjacent to him was a living room with the door only just open, but he was able to see a brown sofa and cream coloured floors. In fact the whole house was painted in shades of white, making the space feel bigger than it already looked.

He heard loud voices nearly echoing down the stairs. He could definitely hear Mycroft's low rumble and the similar, yet no less irritating, baritone voice of Sherlock. But by the sounds of it, the younger brother was winning.

When there was a slight gap in their confrontation, Lestrade shouted: "I have the case files on the three murders. Oh, and of course – nearly forgot, the new one."

Within a few seconds, a hurrying Sherlock, forever wearing his scarf, ran down to meet him. He glanced up and nodded his head in greeting before pulling the files of out of Lestrade's hands and moved to the living room. Lestrade turned after him, facing away from the stairs, his mouth a gap.

"He means thank you, and so do I. Having 'conversations' with my brother seems to be his worst past time, but with you distracting him with these murders seems to be making an impact on him." Mycroft's monotone voice quietly whispered behind him. He could feel the other man's body heat and could swear his lips were round Greg's left ear. He tried to suppress the shiver that ran up his spine, but as a Holmes he saw it anyway.

"Does my voice affect you, Gregory?"

You can't say yes! Say no, say no, say no. "Yes." He slammed his mouth with his right hand as soon as that last word was muttered. There was a slight chuckle behind him, and an arm was just sliding over his right hip when Sherlock shouted for Greg.

With that as an excuse, Lestrade quickly pulled away and faced the other man with a blushing red face. "I-I better go. Don't keep Sherlock waiting, right?" Mycroft nodded solemnly in reply, though he was hiding it very well.

He began walking in the direction that he saw Sherlock head off in. Although, he didn't know whether to be happy or angry at the intrusion, he still felt like he had missed something important then. The feel of Mycroft's arm that was soon to be around his hip; the lips just casting breath over his left ear; the want of Mycroft so deep in his stomach... he didn't know what to do. He was getting in too deep here. Way to deep.

Distraction; he needed distractions.

Now he knew how Sherlock felt.

He found said man in the living room, with photos already pinned to one of the living room walls.

"Where had this murder taken place?"

"The Park where we found the first murder. He's repeating himself." Lestrade said, part of his brain focusing on Sherlock's questions, the other lost in Mycroft's voice.

"Why? What's the point?"

Lestrade remembered the conversation between himself and Sally earlier on, the seed of doubt now sewn in his brain. "Sherlock... oh, how do I put this? A colleague of mine recognised your name, have you done anything that she may have heard about?"

Sherlock was so glad he was facing the wall, away from Lestrade, as his eyes bulged out of his skull, and his mouth gaping under the scarf. Stupid! Stupid! Why did you tell him your true name! Stupid!

What could he say?

"Not that I can recall. Now, come on, Detective we have to find a killer!" That should work.

And it did. Lestrade just accepted it, mostly because of his anger in repeating his job was getting tiresome, but he hoped that if he repeated it then Sherlock would finally learn it.

"It's Detective Inspector, Sherlock! I worked hard getting the title, it isn't hard to get just one little word out!"

Sherlock dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. He was filing through the pictures and documents over the crime scene, and pinned the relevant collections on the wall. It was then that he noticed an A4 sized letter in his hands, a scrawl of words littering the page.

It had been scrunched up in the past but had obviously been scanned for prints – the killer was too smart for that. But it was interesting to Sherlock, as soon as he read the first sentence.

"Do you remember the nursery rhyme? This little piggy...

Well, piggy, you forgot who you are. Do not mess with me. This is too big for you and your brother. I have beaten you. I have taken something precious from you. Something, oh so precious to you. And I'm not talking about a ring…

I have your next victim. A John Watson. If you want to be the hero you always wanted to be, you can save him. And, just to prove that I am the fairest of them all, I will give you two days to find him.

But I've won, piggy. You saw me, you spoke to me, but you never observed me. I got you to come out of hiding; I managed to make the public search for a pig-nosed man. Your disguise is miserable at best; how long are you going to be able to keep this up? How long are you going to hide? How long do you need to admit you've lost? Answer one question, just one question.

Well, I best be off. My visitor is getting restless. Two days, piggy. Two days before I rip his face to shreds.

Goodbye. xxx"

Sherlock stared at the letter. He didn't want to admit it, but he was terrified and confused – which was not a good mix. Especially for him. He read it again and again, but that just made it all the more confusing.

He turned it over on the off chance there was something else. He saw a question – this must be the question to which he had to find an answer to.

"Why do I cut their faces?"

"Oh, you found it then." Lestrade's voice sounded distant in Sherlock's fazed mind. "We have no idea who 'Piggy' is. Sound familiar? Apart from Lord of the Flies."

"Lord of the Flies?" Sherlock asked confused.

"William Golding. It's a classic, Sherlock. Oh, never mind. Does any of that letter sound familiar to you?" Sherlock shook his head.

Of course he knew better in his head. The letter was addressed to him. 'Piggy' must be referring to his snout, and not that novel Lestrade was drivelling on about, the slur making him slink in on himself. 'You and your brother,' meaning him and Mycroft. The murderer must know him personally or must have talked to him which makes the statement 'you spoke to me' much more terrifying. Sherlock had talked to a multitude of suitors. None appearing to have a psychopathic streak in the personality although the letter does say that Sherlock had not 'observed'.

"Sherlock?"

Right, yes, job to do. If he is repeating himself that means there is a pattern.

"Get me a map."

Lestrade stared at him. "This is your house, Sherlock. How would I know where you keep things?"

"That cupboard there." He pointed behind him, now looking at the other murders.

"If you know where it is, why don't you-? Oh, forget it." He walks to get it, hoping he is not encouraging this sort of behaviour for another poor bugger, finds a book with maps of London and passes it to Sherlock.

Sherlock snatches it from Lestrade. "You're welcome, Sherlock."

The younger begins to flick through the folded maps, finds the one he is looking for and rips it from the book. "Sherlock!"

"It's either a book or a life."

"I know… but it's a book." The murmur is ignored as Sherlock pins the unfolded A2 map on the wall.

"So… first murder in a park. Lestrade, hand me the pen on the coffee table."

"Please?" Lestrade prompts.

"Lestrade, we have two days. If you could…" He points again at the table that is closer to Sherlock than himself. Lestrade sighs deeply and passes the pen to Sherlock wondering how one second to pick up a pen is really going to affect saving a life.

"Lestrade you weren't specific, what park?"

"Jubilee Gardens. I thought you were reading the files?"

"I was looking at something else." Truth be told he couldn't stop looking at the pictures, and now the question lurking at the end of that letter stayed with him. He shook himself off. "Second murder?"

"Warehouse. Specifically The Book Warehouse. Been closed a day before the murder and ever since." There was a pause of silence as he thought of the poor soul before laughing. "Ha, book store – 'Piggy', Lord of the Flies."

Sherlock circles it. "Would you stop that? Third was under the bridge, yes?

"Yep. Face near to shreds."

Sherlock supresses a shiver at the image that was in the file. The body could have only been identified through fingertips and dental records. The photos recovered from the scene were horrible, how anyone could have done that to another human being was unthinkable.

"Sherlock, do you see what I see? A triangle."

Sherlock stared at the map, and without asking Lestrade he moved over to a draw and pulled out a ruler. After drawing lines there was indeed a triangle.

"He must have been setting plotting this up. The murders have all been triangulating the position of his final murder."

"X marks the spot." Lestrade sighed sadly, hating the idea of having four lives killed just for being used like pawns in a game of chess. Fore-thought be damned.

Sherlock eyes furrowed in confusion. "It is quite obviously a triangle, Lestrade." Yet another slur upon my snout.

"You know what I mean."

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Sherlock, Lestrade and 2 police officers from the NSY stared at the building in front of them. It was a new day and Greg was seeing the tension in Sherlock's shoulders and higher back. Did the man sleep last night? Was the man thinking about this properly?

A cluster of houses lined Wootton Street but Sherlock pointed at the specific house. "This one, Lestrade."

"Are you sure? I don't want to startle a poor old fella and give him a heart attack."

"It's two residents, Lestrade, and they're both under 30." Sherlock said, directing police officers to open the front door.

"How do you do that?" He asked under his breath, following the mad man inside a hallway leading to one door or a flight of stairs.

"The man upstairs. Don't disrupt the woman sleeping in from her night shift." Lestrade tried to hide his smile at Sherlock's pointless deductions and just focus on the important information.

"How do you know it's a man?"

"Footprints on the stairs. He misses every other step which is a generally a manly thing to do and he has lived here a few years going by how the indents on each step are nearly engraved in to the wood. I would say, nearly 3 years. Go and arrest him Detective, that's what you do best."

"It's Detective Inspector, Sherlock!" He shouted, although he was already half the way up the stairs with 2 figures in light blue one-suits climbing after him.

"Shh." The younger pointed to the first floor door.

Greg grumbled something unintelligent under his breath and climbed the rest of the stairs while Sherlock waited where he was, hoping he would get to show off another one of his (amazing) deductions. That was, until he heard Lestrade's voice.

"Sherlock," he sounded amused as he called out, quite softly Sherlock noted, to the younger man, "you might want to take a closer look at this."

Sherlock huffed, wondering how these idiots move around without him when he came to the front door of the flat. There, in tight clothing, stood a young lady ready for a date. There was a line of lipstick adjacent to her mouth in a comical fashion – obviously when the officers barged in – and her eyes bulged out of her head.

"I may not be an expert," whispered Lestrade beside him, desperately trying to hide his laugh, "but I don't think that's a man."

Sherlock glared at the grey-haired man. Why is there always something he doesn't see?

"Excuse me, Miss." Lestrade said politely. "Police business. Wrong door. You have a good day." He pulled Sherlock out, a wide grin on his face, the other police officers on their tails. "Well, triangulating is not the answer."

"Stop smiling, Lestrade." He spat once they were once again on the first floor. "It really doesn't suit you!"

"Shh." Greg imitated the man from just moments ago. "Don't want to wake her." Sherlock turned away from him, storming out with a whisk of black coat while the Detective Inspector just spun to the officers behind him and winked. "Or him."

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Defeated and feeling completely useless, Sherlock stomped back to Mycroft's home walking the entire way. This John was going to die if Sherlock couldn't detect where he was being held hostage. Right now he was being completely incompetent.

When he walked up the stairs to the door he saw an envelope hanging from the numbers. He sprinted to it, the humiliation from moments ago slipping and the rush of adrenaline flowing through his system immediately.

He tore the envelope down and warily ripped the top open with careful excitement. Anything could be hidden inside and Sherlock wanted to be extremely cautious.

One metallic dog tag stared at him within. Sherlock cautiously pulled it out, using forefinger and thumb, and read it.

In case you didn't know, Piggy, John Watson is Jack Stamford.

His eyes began to blur. John is Jack? Jack is John?

The dog tags fell from his grasp. How did he not deduce that the man was lying of his past? How did he deduce that the man was lying about his dreams? How did he not deduce? What was/is happening to him!

He was seeing the man! That's why! He was distracted by his wit, by his charm, by his smile, eyes, freckles, grey/blonde hair, voice, stupid clothing, stories… oh, everything single thing about the man.

He looked once more at the envelope and saw a jumble of letters. A clue.

A clue to this John. To his John?

Rho Jinn You Ow.