A bullet cracked over his head, and Holmes reflexively ducked, nearly diving around a tree though the lead was long gone. That one had come far too close. What would it take to lose his tail?

Nothing he had available. Moran had caught up to him over a month ago, when Holmes had failed to escape notice on the way back from that small, French post office. The unexpected splinters from the doorframe had prevented him from retrieving the last few things from his room, and he had been running ever since, seeking a place to leave Moran behind.

Light reflected off metal when he looked back, giving him just enough time to dodge behind the closest tree before another bullet struck. He was beginning to doubt he ever would. Moran never stopped. Driven by revenge, the tiger hunter never seemed to sleep, never paused to eat, and never gave Holmes even an hour to do either. That air gun fired over twenty shots on a single charge, and the man apparently possessed unlimited quantities of ammunition. Eventually, he would score a hit, and Holmes would be dead. He would never make it back to Watson if Moran had a say in the matter.

A gunshot echoed down the hillside, startling him with its volume before he bolted the other direction. Moran's air gun could not cause such a sound. Someone else was out here, and Holmes needed to lead Moran away. He would never forgive himself if one of Moran's bullets found a local.

A report echoed again, louder, followed immediately by the crack of another bullet. Could Moran have another lackey? Holmes had already dismantled the rest of Moriarty's network, but Moran had disappeared for about a month before the incident in France. Some people would do anything for money, even kill a stranger. Moran could have used the time to hire someone to help trap Holmes.

The next explosion startled a flock of birds, and their squawking flight covered Holmes' dive into a thick stand of trees. Whether the newcomer was with Moran or simply a hunter in the wrong place at the wrong time, Holmes needed to escape. Perhaps he could use the other person's noise as a cover.

The tree branch above him split on the heels of that thought. Or maybe not. He ducked and lunged between and around trees, aiming for the thickest groups, the widest trunks. The bush-covered valley bottom caught his eye as he changed direction, and two more bullets sought him before he reached his goal. He heaved a sigh. The underbrush would shield him from sight where the trees would not, and the other side might be too far for Moran to fire. The tiger hunter could not operate his air gun while moving.

Careful progress prevented rustling that would give him away, and he steadily crossed the clearing on his knees. Another loud gunshot sent him to his stomach in the middle, but utter silence reigned by the time he reached the other side. Had he lost Moran?

Unlikely, but perhaps for the moment. He needed to move, needed to widen that gap, and he started a quick jog down the valley, keeping to the trees. If he could reach the town ahead of Moran, he may be able to catch a train. Timed right, that would leave Moran in a large, German city with no idea where Holmes had gone, and Holmes would be able to update Mycroft. Between a dearth of letters after the new year and Moran finding him in early April, Holmes had not heard from his brother in months. Something had to have changed in that time.

His hand found his inside jacket pocket, fingering the picture he no longer needed to look at to see. Years ago, a case had taken them to a photographer's studio, and Watson had convinced him to sit for a picture. On a whim, Holmes had stolen the photo that last night in Watson's consulting room, never realizing just how important that picture would become. He distractedly wondered how long Watson had taken to notice the image missing.

Probably not long, considering the events in Switzerland, but that hardly mattered now. The picture had become a lifeline, a lone thread tying him to the life he had left behind. His journals and a change of clothes were the only other items he had salvaged from his belongings in France, and he knew better than to take it out of his pocket now, where it could be lost. After three years, he longed only to go home, to sit in the Baker Street sitting room with Watson and Mary. Perhaps they would have a child, and Holmes would get to watch a young Watson grow. Even if they did not, however, Watson, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson would be enough. He wanted to return to the three people he had left behind to protect.

He released the picture. Soon, he promised himself, but not yet. Not with Moran still free. Only ignorance kept Watson safe from Moran's air gun, and Holmes could not risk Moran's deadly aim targeting his friend. He needed to eliminate Moran before he could go home.

A stick cracked behind him, and he cut through a thick copse of pines to dart down the valley. Whether Moran or an animal, he needed to get out of the forest. He could reminisce when he was safe.

Trees passed in a blur, each threatening to tear his clothes as he lunged around them. A pine branch hung low over his path, and he ducked the sharp needles only to quickly avoid a small maple tree. The forest grew closer on this side of the valley. That would give him more cover to escape Moran.

"Sher—"

The name drifted through the trees, calling for him in an unrecognizable voice. He moved away. Moran had not attempted a trap like that before, but he refused to fall for it. Nobody else out here knew him. Aside from the local earlier, no one else was even out here.

"SHERL—"

The voice grew louder, closer, and he increased his speed again, sprinting as fast as he could through the thick undergrowth. If Moran was that close, it was only a matter of time before he found a clear shot.

"SHERLOCK!"

Surprise briefly checked his pace. That sounded like—

Not possible, and he resumed his sprint. Mycroft would never leave London. How Moran had imitated his brother's voice, Holmes had no idea, but it could only be a trap. Moran would do anything to kill him.

"Sherlock, slow down!"

No. He pretended not to hear as the town came into sight below. The telegraph office would have to wait, as would updating Mycroft. He would lose Moran in the buildings before hopping the train as it pulled out of the station.

"Riston—"

The quiet word faded with distance, but Holmes kept running. The wider he could stretch the gap, the more time he would have to catch that train. He ran for nearly five minutes before a shadow caught his eye.

"Mr. Holmes!"

"Mr. Holmes, stop! You're safe!"

Two men darted through the trees ahead, and heavy footsteps announced a third man behind him. He scooped a long, sturdy branch off the forest floor. Moran would have shot him by now, so either the tiger hunter had finally run out of ammunition, or these were hired lackeys sent to capture him. Either way, he would not go down without a fight.

He put the widest tree in the area to his back as the men quickly cut off the route into town. Such a large trunk would prevent more than two of them from reaching him at once, and he may be able to use the tree to subdue them. The two men kept coming as the heavier tail crashed through the underbrush.

"Sherlock?"

Breathing heavily from his sprint, Holmes held the branch at the ready, his attention alternating between the third man's approach and the two already in front of him. The men paused at the defensive stance, then one slowly took a step closer, displaying empty hands. "We have met, Mr. Holmes. My name is Harris. I lead your brother's guard."

Holmes merely held the wood a touch higher. Harris looked vaguely familiar, as did the other man, but he had met Mycroft's guards only a few times, and that years ago. Someone could easily create a disguise close enough to fool him.

"We will not hurt you, Mr. Holmes," the other man said. "You can drop the branch."

He said nothing, keeping them in his sight even as he watched for the third man to arrive. How could Moran imitate Mycroft's voice so perfectly?

He had not. A familiar shape appeared through the trees a moment later.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me?"

His defensive stance melted away in an instant, and the branch fell from limp fingers as he stared, unable to form a reply. What was Mycroft doing here? His brother should be in London, not the forests of southern Germany.

Concern sparked in watery grey eyes, and his brother moved slowly closer. "Sherlock?"

"Mycroft." Lack of use made his voice come out somewhat rough in addition to breathless, but the effort pulled Holmes from his surprise. He glanced back up the valley, watching for Moran. "Why are you here?"

Relief replaced the concern. "You did not receive my notes?"

Holmes shook his head. "I have received nothing from you since the new year." He checked the valley again. "You know we should not stay here. Moran was not far behind me."

"He is dead."

Shock halted Holmes' restless movements. Dead? How could Moran be dead?

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's large hand landed on Holmes' shoulder, and his brother studied him for a long moment. "How long has it been since you slept? Or ate?"

Holmes shook his head. He had no idea. Sleeping and eating both meant stopping, and with nearly a week since the last time he had escaped Moran for even an hour, he had not had time to do either. It would catch up to him soon.

Not yet, however. Not until he knew he was safe. "Moran is dead?" he repeated. "How? When?"

"Just now," Mycroft answered, skipping the first question in a way that suggested Holmes might find burnt powder in Mycroft's walking stick. "Are you injured?"

"You are sure?"

"Yes."

Dead. Moran was dead. Holmes was safe, and the knowledge washed over him with a force that left him leaning against his tree. He could go home. After three long years, he could go home.

"Sherlock!"

He waved away the hand aiming to grip his arm, aiming a bleary gaze at his brother.

"Are you injured?" Mycroft asked again before Holmes could form his own question.

He considered, then indicated a negative. Bruises did not qualify as injury, and exhaustion and hunger he could fix on the way to London.

"Why are you here?"

"A special should be waiting in town," Mycroft said in lieu of answer, still eyeing Holmes. "Can you walk?"

"Of course." He pushed himself off the tree, swaying slightly before gaining his balance. Mycroft would have plenty of time to update him on the train, and a special meant no chance of being overheard. He could save his questions for the trip. The sooner they left, the sooner he could see Watson again.

Watson. He had one question that could not wait for the train.

"How is Watson?"

Silence answered him, and he tore his attention from his feet, blinking the spots from his vision.

"Mycroft?"

His brother's arm appeared under his shoulders. "You are about to pass out."

He blinked hard but grudgingly nodded when the spots only grew larger. "Watson?"

"I will tell you later."

Worry shot through him. If Watson had been fine, Mycroft would have said so. The reply meant something was wrong, that Watson was not as alright as he should be. Holmes needed to stay awake, needed to know what had happened to his friend.

His body had other ideas. The spots merged to darkness, and a thinner arm supported his other side as his knees buckled beneath him.

Hope you enjoyed! and feedback is always very much appreciated :)