A/N: Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. I decided to try my hand at a little bit of deduction (blimey it's hard!) Hope you enjoy, I've already started to write the next chapter which will probably be the final chapter for this story. Please review, and please be kind.

Disclaimer: Surely it goes without saying by now that I do not own Sherlock, but I've said it anyway, just in case people are unsure! :-)

Chapter Eleven – Bang! Bang!

An eerie silence filled the room as everyone waited with baited breath to see what would happen next.

'Well? Are you going to answer my question, or do I have to start shooting people Mr. Holmes?' demanded the young gunman as he tightened his hold on his hostage's neck.

Leaning forward in his chair, Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they swept across the man in front of him. His brain swirling with endless possibilities as he catalogued all of the information his eyes were seeing.

'Hmm, let's see ... you grew up in a run down inner city area, not London, at least not with that accent. It was however somewhere with a rather substantial gang culture. You're the eldest son of a single parent family with two, no ... three younger siblings. The brother who died is the one who was closest in age to yourself, and incidentally, the only one to share the same father. Your mother is currently working three jobs in order to make ends meet, though if she continues to consume alcohol as regularly as she is doing at present, that won't last. Your brother fell in with one of the local gangs, which ultimately led to his death. No great mystery. Rather boring in fact ... gang warfare. As to why the woman whose neck you currently have your arm around is still alive, I would have thought that was obvious. She has clearly never had a life threatening illness, nor been in an accident that was serious enough to kill her. She has not been murdered nor has she taken her own life. She is not in fact a ghost, which don't exist anyway. The only other possibilities are sudden death syndrome or a pre-existing undiagnosed medical condition, and as both of those scenarios are rare, I would say that I have answered your question in a satisfactory manner.'

Sitting back in his seat, Sherlock stretched out his legs with a sigh and crossed them nonchalantly at the ankles, while his all-seeing gaze flowed around the room.

As he looked around, he noticed that while he had been engaged in deducing the young gunman, John had surreptitiously removed the spare gun that Sherlock had given him earlier, from his waistband, and had subconsciously moved into a deceptively relaxed stance, his dark blue eyes flickering rapidly between the young man in front of them and Sherlock himself.

Returning his gaze to the young gunman, Sherlock realised that announcing his family history in such an uncompromising manner may not, upon reflection, have been the wisest idea he had ever had. It was clear to see (even for the detective), that hearing all about his mother's issues with alcohol in front of such a large crowd of strangers was not the quickest, or indeed best, way to diffuse the current situation. As he began to think off the various ways in which he could calm the situation down, he was a little surprised to hear the man standing at his side begin to speak.

'Hey, mate, what's your name?' John called, raising his voice slightly in order to be heard without needing the microphone which he had placed back on the table before reaching for the gun that was currently held behind his back in what he hoped was a casual enough manner so as not to draw undue attention to it.

Shifting his focus to the former soldier at Sherlock's side, the young gunman appeared momentarily startled as he saw what seemed to him to be an older man dressed like someone's granddad, with his 'trying to be cool' jeans and trainers, and a 'ridiculously uncool' knitted cardigan. Recovering his composure, he sneered at John as he replied.

'What's it to you, old man! I'm talking to the organ grinder, not the monkey.'

John blinked, his shoulders straightening as he tried to decide whether to find the whole thing amusing or be offended by the younger man's comments. Raising his eyebrows, he turned to Sherlock with a 'can-you believe-this-guy' expression on his face. Turning back before Sherlock's twinkling, amusement filled eyes got the better of him, and he began giggling in a less than professional manner (that would definitely fall within the realm of 'a bit not good'), he blinked again. Straightening his posture until his back was ramrod straight, John said,

'Old man? Is that what you're calling me?'

'Well, that's what you are. You're just some old bloke.' replied the younger man, feeling rather cocky as he waved the gun in his hand around in the air.

'Okay, I am trying to be nice about this. I really am, because when all is said and done, you are just a kid, and I really don't need the hassle that this is causing. I'm a bit busy you see. I've got a lot of stuff going on right now, and I really don't have time to be pandering to a kid like you.' answered John as his mind filled with thoughts of all the various wedding duties he had to fulfil, he still had to sort out the best man for Christ's sake. Taking a deep, and he hoped, calming breath he continued, 'Now why don't you do us all a favour and put the gun down. You're really not helping yourself by waving it around like that Someone could get hurt or even killed, and believe me, you don't want that on your conscience.'

'You can't tell me what to do, I've got a gun. I'm in charge here, not you, old man! You do as I say, or I'll shoot ya!' replied the youngster as he began to wave the gun in John's direction, his grip beginning to loosen around his hostage's neck.

Lowering his head and closing his eyes, John sighed heavily. Finally, after a couple of seconds of deep breathing, he raised his head up to it's previous position. Opening his eyes, he gazed calmly at the young gunman as he brought his hands from behind his back. Flicking off the safety catch, he raised the gun and aimed at the gunman in front of him.

'I said. Put. The gun. Down!' stated John calmly, neither his gaze nor his aim wavering in the slightest.

A deathly silence filled the room for several seconds, though some attendees would later say that it felt more like hours as time seemed to stretch and bend. Suddenly there was the sound of two gunshots, the second immediately after the first, splitting the air. The sonic boom echoing around the conference room, followed swiftly by loud piercing screams.