Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

AN: This chapter was originally twice as long, but I cut it in two; partly for length and partly because it worked better as separate chapters. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and/or added this story to their favourites or alerts. :)

'How did I not see it before?' Sherlock exclaims in frustration. He leaps back from John and dives to the file Shinwell Johnson pointed out to them, flicking through it urgently and resuming his agitated pacing.

'What's wrong?' John asks, 'Sherlock, what –?'

'This is what happens when you jump to conclusions before you have all the facts! All along we've just been assuming – how can I have been so stupid? It's obvious!'

'Sherlock, explain. Now.'

'What?' Sherlock turns back to John, frowning. 'Don't you see?'

'Why don't you just tell me?'

Huffing impatiently, Sherlock holds up the file and taps it as he speaks, 'Who said Moriarty was involved?'

'I – what do you mean?'

'Who was the first one who suggested that Moriarty was behind this?'

'I don't know – I – we all just –'

'Assumed,' Sherlock finishes triumphantly, 'exactly as they wanted us to.'

'Who are they?'

'Not Moriarty.'

'Are you – you're sure about this?' John asks weakly, relief flooding through him. Even if Sherlock is right, that still means that someone...but not Moriarty. Not Moriarty. It won't quite sink in. Even though they never even had any proof anyway, the idea has taken such a strong hold in his mind…Are they really any better off now than they were? But – it's not him. That has to be good, it has to be...

'What does it tell you when an assassin can't shoot straight?' Sherlock parrots General Shan's words. 'Either; they're not really trying, or they're just really bad at their job. Does either of those sound like Moriarty to you?'

If I wanted you dead, you already would be …

Moriarty in his dream, that's why; that's what he was trying to tell himself. They've been blind all along. He's been blind; stumbling around in the dark and making stupid, premature assumptions. 'We're too quick to attribute every little thing that happens to him. A car crash? A building collapse? Come on; it's clumsy. Too much could go wrong. Too much has gone wrong, for them. Even with us making their job ten times easier by being nice and conveniently distracted the whole time, not even considering…If it had been Moriarty we'd both have died on the first attempt. Either they've managed to fool half the criminal world as well, or whoever it is packs one of hell of a punch. Johnson's an infuriating fool but he's good; he's never had so little to report before, never. If he's spooked by it then –'

'Slow down,' John breaks in abruptly. 'Just hang on a second – and for God's sake stop pacing! You're making me dizzy.' Sherlock pauses, mid stride, and looks up. His expression is startled, as though he had forgotten John was even in the room. 'You're saying Moriarty has had nothing to do with this?' John clarifies carefully, hardly daring to believe it and at the same time berating himself for making the mistake of taking Moriarty's involvement for granted in the first place. No one has ever said it definitively, he supposes. But every one of them, Sherlock included, has been looking much too closely in that direction to notice much else.

Sherlock shrugs, 'Nothing directly, though he probably would have known. I doubt much goes on in this city that he isn't aware of. It would have been a win-win for him anyway; either we're both killed and out of his way, or we're both too busy chasing our tails to notice him for a few weeks. Nice little smoke screen for him, don't you think? Oh, how can I have been such an idiot?'

Johns knows that the question is rhetorical and that to point out the fact that nobody else saw it either would be pointless. He ignores it and asks one of his own instead; 'so what now?'

'Data,' Sherlock replies quickly. He sits down and snaps his fingers, gesturing at the files strewn across the room. 'We need more data. Evidently there's some other organisation in this, or at least some sort of centre to it. I doubt it's even close to the size of Moriarty's but they must have left traces somewhere. If we can follow them back to the start –'

'We can find out who's behind it all,' John finishes for him, 'got it.'

'Remove anything we know Moriarty was involved in,' Sherlock instructs John, already peeling the blue stickers from the map. 'Get rid of those files. Keep the ones we aren't sure of. Move Ryder to the side. I suspect he isn't acting alone but Moriarty is the stronger player; if he's backed by anyone we can bet it's him...'

As he speaks, Sherlock shifts files around, adding and removing notes and stickers from the map so quickly John has trouble keeping up, and stops trying to. Instead, he concentrates on moving along at his own pace and tuning out the running commentary Sherlock keeps up.

Within twenty minutes over half of the files have been discarded. A good proportion of those that are left have been shifted to one side; those of criminals Sherlock is at least almost certain are acting alone. Sherlock is grinning.

'This is more like it,' he enthuses, 'this makes sense!'

'Does it?' John frowns. Admittedly there is far less information being presented to them now, but it's not information he finds any easier to make use of.

'Of course it does,' Sherlock responds disdainfully. 'Look here – and here –' he points at two different files, then pulls a third towards himself. 'Look at these transactions. Johnson was right; whoever this is has money but not a huge amount of sense. Who uses the same bank account for three different crimes? Surely they realise how easily that can be traced?' He sounds disappointed, which John can only take as a good sign. If he is already finding their pursuers boring, they must be onto something. 'And – oh,'

Sherlock glances up and John follows his gaze, which has fallen on the photograph that was beneath the third file. Sherlock's eyes have widened with recognition. The disappointment fades, to be replaced by a reluctant approval. He snatches the photo from the floor and studies it, but John still can't work out what's so impressive.

'Who is it?' he asks uncertainly, leaning forwards.

'Don't you recognise him?' Sherlock turns the picture around, holding it up for John to see. It's a headshot of a gaunt looking man with sunken eyes and dank, dirty blonde hair hanging down almost to his shoulders. A smattering of stubble covers his chin and his mouth is small and mean-looking. John stares for several seconds before shaking his head. There's something, just vaguely...but he can't place it. He's sure he's never seen the man before. But perhaps in the newspaper, or on television? Certainly not in person...

'Look, John!' Sherlock instructs exasperatedly, giving the file a shake.

'I take it you do?' John replies, bristling at Sherlock's impatience. Sherlock doesn't reply, but moves his hand awkwardly to cover the man's hair.

'My God!' John exclaims, seeing it for the first time. 'But that's – that can't be –'

'It is,' says Sherlock grimly. 'It's surprisingly easy to fashion a disguise out of just changing the colour of your hair, or growing a beard – or losing a little weight.'

'But that's the man from the hospital!' John gasps, 'we saw him, we both saw him and neither of us –'

'Yes, thank you,' Sherlock interrupts curtly, looking momentarily stung. John realises what he's said, too late.

'I didn't mean – I meant neither of us – I wasn't suggesting you should have –'

'You'd be right,' Sherlock sounds furious with himself. 'I should have seen; I should have known it wasn't genuine. He was right there in front of us!'

'You were still in hospital; you can hardly be expected to...'

'I should have seen it,' Sherlock repeats in a tone of finality. 'Shorter hair; dyed brown, clean shaven and better groomed – what difference does it make? Stupid, simple, brilliant disguise...' John watches as Sherlock rifles distractedly through the file accompanying the photograph. After a few moments he tosses it carelessly to the floor and whips around, striding quickly from the room without a word of explanation.

'Sherlock – Sherlock what are you doing?' John demands as he hurries to follow. He hesitates only a moment as he considers looking through the file himself before deciding it would be better to try and extract the details from Sherlock. 'What have you found out? For crying out loud would you bloody slow down?'

'Barney Stockdale,' Sherlock says, the words coming in a rush of excitement and adrenalin as he slings his coat on. 'His address is practically in the centre of the area Johnson pointed out and he knows almost as much of what goes on in this city as Moriarty. He's never actually seized power for himself, he prefers to manipulate from lower down; smaller circles, less attention. You can bet he's not the head of whatever's going on but I guarantee you he knows something, and he's probably several rungs higher in the chain than Dixie. He's probably relaying orders or organising or – I can't theorise yet. I don't have the facts and we've made enough of those mistakes already. The point is; we've got him. He's the key to this. I just need to go over there and question him –'

'Stop right there,' John orders. To his surprise Sherlock acquiesces immediately, cutting off a little breathlessly from his hasty narrative. 'You're not suggesting that we –'

'That I,' Sherlock corrects firmly, 'you're not coming.'

'That we,' John continues doggedly, 'go and interrogate him ourselves? Shouldn't we at least call Lestrade, or –'

'On what evidence? He was legitimately released from prison over a year ago and he only served two months then. He's hardly London's most wanted. So what if he was in the hospital? So were hundreds of other people. So were we.'

'But the girl – she was there too, she was murdered, he must have – it can't be coincidence –'

'Can't it? Legally, why not?'

'But if you tell Lestrade that you think –' John tries a little desperately, clutching frantically at straws to keep Sherlock from marching off, alone, into who knows what sort of danger this time.

'I'm flattered you think I really have that much influence, John, but even if he believes me what can he do? He has to work within miles of red tape and paperwork. I don't.'

'Well then – what about – what about Mycroft?' The look Sherlock gives him silences any further suggestions in that vein, and John struggles for another excuse.

'You can't...you don't even know...he's tried to kill you!'

'So did Moriarty. I met him. I survived.'

'Barely, and in case you hadn't noticed I wasn't all that happy then either. Not that you bothered to tell me before you wandered off to have your little meeting with him –'

'Oh for goodness sake, John! If I go now and question Barney Stockdale then I might end up with enough evidence to stop whoever is actually at the top of this, yes with a little risk in the process. If I don't then they'll keep trying and sooner or later they're bound to succeed. Comparatively I think this is the safer option, don't you?'

John is silent for a moment. Then, 'Fine,' he says grimly, 'fine.' He steps back and allows Sherlock to walk past, wrapping his scarf around his neck as he does. John picks up his own jacket.

'You aren't coming,' Sherlock tells him automatically.

'Then neither are you.'

'John –'

'I can argue about this all night,' John insists firmly. Sherlock scowls, quickly weighing the options in his head. It will be easier with John, but what if –? And yet if John stays here alone, or if he ventures out and tries to follow Sherlock afterwards, or – but at the same time...this is John.

Could be dangerous...and here you are.

Sherlock knows him too well to think he'll ever agree to sit this out.

'You're an idiot,' Sherlock affirms reluctantly.

'So I gather.'

John spends most of the journey in silence. He listens intently to Sherlock's animated explanation of Barney Stockdale's history, complete with frequent self-remonstrations for not having seen through the entire Moriarty-facade days ago. It seems clear enough now even to John that such clumsy crimes could never have been laid at Moriarty's door. He can't find himself attaching blame to anyone else for not seeing it sooner, though. Not that Sherlock will listen.

The taxi ride passes in a rush of blurred images and hurried plans, all of them discarded, until John finds himself standing outside the door to Stockdale's flat with no real memory of how he got here. His heart is thundering in his chest with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. He knows, from the curiously frozen expression on Sherlock's face, that Sherlock is feeling the same.

'Have we got a plan?' John asks, feeling a familiar sort of battle calm settle over him. It is invigorating and soothing at the same time. Sherlock shrugs vaguely.

'Follow my lead.'

John nods tersely, and Sherlock presses the doorbell. They exchange a glance as the sound of movement comes from inside; a look of part warning, part anticipation. John finds himself holding his breath. What are they going to do? This man, this Barney Stockdale, knows who they are. He has seen them. He will recognise them the instant he answers – if he answers. It seems ridiculously risky to approach him so baldly. What is Sherlock expecting to do? Just stroll in, ask his questions and leave? Does follow my lead mean that he has a plan himself, or that he's making it up as he goes along? John tenses, his hand poised to grab for the gun at his waist at a moment's notice.

The seconds are endless. Sherlock appears utterly calm. So does John, outwardly, and he wonders whether his own doubts are echoed behind Sherlock's mask or if Sherlock really is as confident as he looks.

He mentally catalogues the details of the street behind them. It's not busy, but not empty either. Whether the inhabitants are innocent civilians who will need protection should a fight break out (his hand twitches towards the gun, wishing he could have it ready) or whether they are lackeys of Stockdale's, remains a mystery. It is an unfriendly, imposing place, but a scattering of alleyways that look suitable for a hasty retreat are spread from one end to the other. John is confident that Sherlock will know exactly where each one comes out and which lead only to dead ends.

How he wishes he could see into Sherlock's head now; see what on Earth he is planning, so he could be ready...

They both get a shock when the door finally opens.

The woman on the other side is tall, but thin and elderly. She has a sort of proud frailty that takes John aback. She is standing at her full height, straight-backed and graceful, but squinting as though her eyesight is failing. She peers curiously at the pair on her doorstep with a nervous smile.

'Hello, dears, can I help you?' she asks, glancing between them expectantly. Sherlock immediately assumes a relaxed stance and a dazzling smile lights up his features. The warmth in his bearing throws John off balance, even though he knows he ought to be used to these rapid persona changes by now. He feels like an elastic band wound as tightly as it will go, then rather than being let go to spring outwards, simply cut and left hanging and useless.

'Hi, sorry to bother you – is Barney in?' Sherlock's voice is friendly and slightly higher than normal, softer. All of John's instincts are screaming at him in warning, and he glances at Sherlock in an attempt to silently convey his suspicions. Sherlock's eyes harden momentarily, though his expression barely changes; wordless confirmation that he has already reached the same conclusion.

Something is wrong.

'Oh, yes of course. Come along inside, he's just upstairs. I'll call him down.'

She ushers them in before they can protest, smiling and chivvying them along. She chatters about the weather or the holidays or some other nonsense John daren't pay too much attention to for fear of missing something in his surroundings. His eyes dart frantically around, too experienced to ignore the cold mistrust that's settled over him. He would have been more comfortable had Barney Stockdale himself answered the door with a gun already in his hand. It's the waiting, the unknown, that's the worst of it. It was the same in Afghanistan. If only he knows what he's meant to being doing, he's as focused as Sherlock. But something, something is not how they thought. Or not how he thought. Is that triumph he sees in Sherlock's eyes?

'Now you just wait in here while I fetch him,' the old woman shows them into what looks like a cross between a neglected attic and an abandoned sitting room. It's untidy, disorganised and dimly lit. There's a threadbare sofa pushed up against the wall next to the door they came in through and a mess of overflowing boxes littered across the floor. A television with a cracked screen is nestled in the corner. The curtains are closed, and as soon as the woman has shut the door on her way back out John darts towards them and pulls them aside to see thick blinds drawn down as well. They effectively obscure the view through grimy windows of a tiny, untended garden.

'Sherlock –' John begins.

'I know,' is the tense reply. Sherlock is moving quickly around the room, delving in boxes and scanning the carpet, the ceiling. He runs his hands along the base of the windowsill, looking for bugs or bombs or God knows what. John has taken out his gun and is holding it with both hands, pointed at the floor, adrenalin pounding through his veins. Sherlock is pulling aside a box blocking access to a second door, in the wall opposite the window.

'Do you think – she's not –' John's voice is low and hurried, his gaze darting between both doors as Sherlock gives the moved box a cursory inspection. 'Do you think she's employed by Stockdale?' he asks doubtfully.

'Oh, no,' murmurs Sherlock with certainty. Then he looks up with his hand on the door handle, and John doesn't doubt it this time; there is definitely triumph in his eyes. 'I think he is employed by her.' He pulls open the door.

'Well, you are a clever boy aren't you?' says the woman on the other side.

Lestrade is bent over a mountain of paperwork when the call comes in. He seriously considers ignoring it, sparing a disgruntled glance towards his mobile as he fills in the seemingly endless boxes. Whoever it is can wait. He's busy; he's got work to do...

Sighing loudly, he throws the pen down and grabs for the phone without looking. At least it would be a break in the monotony, he thinks, with a crisp 'Lestrade' as he presses the answer button. There is no reply – just a sort of rustling, and he presses it harder to his ear. 'Hello?'

Still nothing; he pulls it away to glance at the caller ID. John Watson. Well, for all he keeps a blog, Lestrade has seen John type. The doctor is hardly the most tech savvy person in the world. He probably left his phone unlocked in his pocket and dialled accidentally –

'– Gun down, doctor – '

Lestrade's grip on the phone tightens and his attention is immediately held completely by the unfamiliar voice coming through it. He waves a hand at the office window to get someone's attention, not looking up. He's too focused on listening to the call to dare shouting out in case he misses something –

'– Hired Barney Stockdale – '

Sherlock's voice this time, and then more muffled rustling. Come on, why is no one paying him any attention? He waves again, standing up and pointing frantically at the mobile. Someone, anyone, track the damn call – what on Earth are they doing now? Gun – Stockdale – where has he heard that name before? And gun and John and Sherlock and come on!

'– Not going to ask again – '

'– Wouldn't dare – '

Damn him, damn him, when will that idiot learn not to provoke presumably violent criminals? Lestrade's heart is hammering as people hurry at last into his office, gesturing for him to keep up the call as long as possible. They're setting up some machine or other he doesn't care to glance at more than once. For God's sake, he can barely hear over the rustling and the pounding in his ears. They're civilians for crying out loud. What are they thinking pulling stupid stunts like this?

'– All this has been for– '

'– Coward – '

'– Gun down...gun down, doctor –'

A loud rustle, a thud far too ominous for the gentleness of it and an odd scraping sound –

'– Now the phone...not stupid...throw it down – '

Movement, fabric shifting – silence and Lestrade is practically crushing the phone and – and a gunshot.

'John? Sherlock!' Lestrade shouts into the phone desperately. He springs to his feet and looks around wildly as if his surroundings might give some clue as to what's going on, 'John!'

There is no answer. The line has gone dead.