Disclaimer: 'Sherlock' belongs to all the important people that you know. Also, credit to Ariane DeVere for her series transcripts that had been extremely helpful.

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Sherlock let himself be guided to the ambulance, where a paramedic examined him and confirmed the absence of injuries. Usually, he would have been fighting all the way and verbally decimating pesky medics, but his mind was too occupied with processing the final act that took place. The serial killer getting killed. That was unexpected and unexpectedly delightful. Then, he even managed to get a name to put on the mysterious fan, and a big part of his thought process was busy filing through his database to identify any mentions of "Moriarty" in the past.

The sudden presence of an orange blanket on his shoulders distracted him from this important task. "Why have I got this blanket?" he asked no one in particular. "They keep putting this blanket on me" he addressed Lestrade who came over.

"Yeah, it's for shock" the DI replied unhelpfully.

"I'm not in shock!"

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs." Sherlock looked up sharply, ready to defend himself teeth and claws, but the friendly grin on Lestrade's face requalified the comment into light teasing. Human interactions. Tedious.

"So, the shooter" he deliberately changed the subject. "No sign?"

"Cleared off before we got here" the DI sighed. "But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but… got nothing to go on." It sounded like an invitation. He was damn well going to take it.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

"Gimme."

Evidence: Bullet. Estimating caliber from observed impact. Estimating distance from observed fire point. "The bullet the just dug out of the wall is from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of weapon? That's a crack shot you're looking for." Fact: the shot would have been impossible for an untrained individual. It was obviously not a lucky shot. "Not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence." Fact: Jeff Hope could have been shot at other points in time, where the angle was much better. "He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though," I wasn't "so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with history of military service…" He looked around, estimating if any of Yarders would fit the profile. Joan Watson was hovering nonchalantly behind yellow tape. "…and nerves of steel…" Fact: Joan Watson was a soldier. Fact: Joan Watson could have traced the phone to this place. Their eyes met for a moment, then she looked away, appearing like an incarnation of pure innocence. Fact: Joan Watson had just killed a man to save Sherlock's life. "Actually, do you know what?" he said, not tearing his eyes away from his new puzzle. "Ignore me."

"Sorry, what?"

"Ignore all of that" he ordered before grasping for a reason to such a turn-around. "It's just the… the shock talking." It was time for a strategic retreat, but Lestrade decided to manifest his tenacity at the most inconvenient moment.

"Where are you going?"

"I just need to talk about the… the rent."

The DI frowned at the second time Holmes searched for words. In five years of bumpy cooperation, he knew that Sherlock never stumbled in his speech, unless there was something going on. "But I've still got questions for you."

Time to play the emotional card then. "Oh what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" Finally that thing was useful. "And I just caught you a serial killer…" he reminded the audience, then added sheepishly: "…more or less."

The look on Lestrade's face was partly calculating, slightly worried, but mostly thoughtful. "Ok" he drawled. "We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go." Finally!

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Joan watched Holmes coming over with growing dread. He obviously figured it out. She was just surprised they weren't hand-cuffing her already. When the tall man towered over her with an unreadable expression, she started to babble, looking everywhere but at him: "Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful."

"Good shot" Sherlock said softly, making her freeze for a millisecond.

Better play dumb, advised her inner voice. "Yes, yes, must have been, through that window."

"Well, you'd know." The emphasis on the 'you' didn't escape her. But clearly, for whatever reason, Sherlock wasn't denouncing her to the police, and she finally looked at him properly. He seemed torn between concern and excitement, though most people wouldn't have noticed that. "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case." She started to have doubts about the non-denouncing part, because to her ears, he talked loud enough to alert everyone in vicinity. "Are you alright?"

Huh? "Yes, of course I'm alright" she protested, hoping there was no evidence left of her going through a minor flashback.

"Well, you have just killed a man…"

"Yes, I…" she trailed off, realizing how it would sound. "That's true, innit?" She allowed herself a small smile to diffuse the tension. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

There was a fleeting moment where Sherlock seemed to scan her with an x-ray, then… "No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

She pushed her advantage. "And frankly a bloody awful cabbie." And here it was again, the deep chuckle, real, human and warm.