All right everyone, here's your chapter. Bear with me, I'm experimenting with a bit of a new style here, and I'm not sure how well it's going to work. However, I aim to please- if it sucks, let me know and you won't see it again. That being said, enjoy the chapter. This time: Sherlock and John vs. Scary Italian Assasins, Part 1!

…

The Thirteenth Hour

Present

The warehouse is damp, cold, and filled with the customary crates and oil drums that are found in every warehouse in London. The few lights that still work flicker dimly, shrouding the corners in shadow and seriously impairing John's ability to check how everyone's armed.

Sherlock's Russian is cold and fluent, and he's even managed to speak Italian with a Russian accent to keep up the charade.

Even with that, they both know that their plan is foolish at best and suicidal at worst- it depends on several people they've never met before coming to several conclusions that they cannot force. It depends on them being good actors and better crooks, and it depends on them being able to stay in control.

And all of London depends on them to avoid some serious property damage.

…

An hour earlier

Unknown to the two of them, Dinaploi had been using the same bank as they had to store his valuables. This wasn't unknown to the sicari, however- they'd been more than happy to blow up the entire place.

Sifting through the wreckage and concluding that they were several sniper rifles short of a god plan, Sherlock had remarked that "They're very psychologically oriented, Alrigio's crew."

John's attention is drawn back from avoiding the police to his flatmate long enough to catch the tail end of the man's sentence, and he replies with a noncommittal Hmmm?

Sherlock sees it as an opportunity to continue his exposition. "They've attacked his bank- the place where he keeps his things, his valuables. I've no doubt they'll go after his home next, or the place where he does business. They're making him feel scared and removing control from the situation. By the time they're through, he'll be on the verge of a nervous breakdown." He smiles wryly. "It's their standard MO, really- once they've isolated and unsettled the target, he's rather easy to pick off."

John is suddenly glad that they're still (mostly) anonymous in this situation. Though this does bring up a rather pressing issue…

"So how in the blazes are we going to outsmart them?"

Sherlock grins, and John recognizes that grin. He's seen it several times, and each time preceded something absolutely insane.

"I have a cunning plan."

They are, without a doubt, absolutely screwed.

…

Forty Minutes Earlier

Sherlock heads for a local hardware store while John scouts out the warehouse where they've arranged to meet. He counts several snipers. They're actually easy enough to subdue; too busy watching for the two mobsters they're supposed to be meeting to pay attention to someone coming up behind them. He recognizes a few of them; Apparently, the sicari aren't above hiring some of the local colour when the need calls for it.

And after his fist connects with their skulls, they're not really watching anything.

It's when he encounters the third sniper that he thinks they may just have a shot.

Said sniper is staring at him with an expression that's a mixture of anger, disbelief, and pants-wetting fear, and it only takes John half a second to recognize him.

He grins. They might just be able to pull this off.

"Hello, Barry. Thought you said you were going to keep your nose clean?"

(A bit of background: they had met Barry during a case involving an antique tea-set, an egyptian cult, and forty-three salamander figurines. Barry had been a sniper working for the Irish Mob, who were quite keen to get their hands on the tea-set. John still wasn't sure why. Anyway, he'd seemed like a nice enough bloke and had been blackmailed into the whole mess, so they had been willing to let him off with a warning.

Which, evidently, he hadn't heeded.)

Barry begins to stammer an explanation, but is cut off when John raises a hand. "No, I'm not going to ask why you're here, and I'm not going to turn you into the police- that is, I won't turn you in if you're willing to help me with a small matter."

Barry nods so enthusiastically that, for a second, John's worried his head might actually fly off.

"Now, here's what I need you to do…"

…

Twenty Minutes earlier

Sherlock meets up with him several blocks away, carrying a box under his arm. After John assures him that Barry is now rather firmly on their side, he outlines the rest of the plan. It is, to put it bluntly, completely mental. He informs Sherlock as such.

"-And not in the just-crazy-enough-to-work way, either! We're going to get killed, you know. Anyway, how of you know that Alrigio's going to show up in the middle of the job?"

"Professional courtesy, John. One must always be willing to meet with new clients. Since he's busy, however, he won't arrive until jut before the arranged time- hence the snipers, for security- so we've got a chance to get set up. And it's during that meeting that we'll catch him"

And with that, they head back to the warehouse. They've got work to do.

…

A few minutes ago

They are standing in the middle of the warehouse when Alrigio and several of his bodyguards arrive. The assassin is a slight, with outrageously pale hair and a spotless white suit; John would be tempted to laugh if he didn't know that the man had killed more men than anyone else they'd faced. The bodyguards are standard muscle, clad in suits tailored to fit their refrigerator-like frames, and they stand on either side of their employer like silent monoliths. They're all wearing fedoras, for some reason.

That settles it. Alrigio is insane.

John grits his teeth. An office building has just gone up in smoke, injuring at least a dozen people. It's only a matter of time before someone gets killed. They have one chance to do this. Their plan is suicidal, they're outnumbered four to one, and Sherlock's hair is starting to frizz from the damp.

Sherlock (calling himself Nicholas, here) and Alrigio shake hands with the sort of icy politeness that only mobsters can pull off. Then Sherlock takes out a picture and the negotiations begin.

Craning his head, John starts. It's a picture of Mycroft.

He steels himself. Unless they play their parts perfectly, this could all go very, very badly.

And here's a cliffy. Don't worry, I'm updating the next chapter shortly- and not my usual shortly, I've already got it written!