HFTS: I have finally updated! Hallelujah. Sorry it's short, but I'm having a hard time motivating myself. Also, I'll probably be away for a while looking after my Nanna. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock at all.

The cabbie was leering at them from across the table. He'd taunted Sherlock for a few minutes, bragging about how smart he is and how Sherlock is not. John had tuned him out, focusing instead on the cogs turning in his mind. He felt slow, dulled, and out of time with the rest of the world. It was frustrating him to no end. Something was bothering him. He needed to think. 'Come on, John! If the army had known how stupid you were-' Wait. That was it.

Sherlock leant closer to John, though he was still staring at the cabbie. "This is all very interesting," he said sarcastically, "but I think I've heard enough. John, why don't you call Lestrade and tell him we've caught the killer."

"Have you forgotten about this?" the cabbie sneered, pulling the gun from his pocket.

John raised an eyebrow at him. "Do you really expect that to fool anyone? You talk about having done your research, and yet you seemed to have missed the fact that I was a soldier."

Sherlock grinned smugly as the blood drained from the cabbie's face. In a fluid movement that seemed to break several laws of physics, he had detached John's pistol from his waistband and had aimed it squarely at the cabbie's nose. "Perhaps you should study this one for a few minutes?" he suggested.

"He didn't tell me about the other one," the cabbie said through gritted teeth, staring at the barrel with nearly crossed eyes.

"He?" John queried, removing his phone from his pocket.

The cabbie stayed quiet, glaring at the two of them. Sherlock twitched, leaning forwards. "Oh, so there's a partner? Or are you someone's lackey? I should have known."

"I'm not a lackey!" The cabbie's cheeks were red and his teeth were bared. The gun pointed at him seemed to be the only thing keeping him in place. "I'll have you know, I came up with this all by myself."

"Oh, the method, I'm sure. But why would a simple man like you start drugging people? Where would you get something that could wipe out someone's memories? And I highly doubt you could make it yourself, which brings us back to the why?" The cabbie opened his mouth to make an angry retort, but Sherlock quieted him with a wave of the gun. "No. Shut up. It's my turn now."

"Er, Sherlock. You shouldn't wave-" John began quietly, but Sherlock ignored him and the warning died halfway out of his mouth.

Sherlock leaned forward. "You're a dead man walking, aren't you? So, what is it? Head, heart, both?"

"Aneurism." The cabbie tapped the back of his head. He seemed to have deflated, leaning on the table with both arms. "Could go at any time."

"Yes, you could. So, your wife didn't want the children to watch their father die. And you hate her for that, but you still love your children. Love them enough to kill?" Sherlock paused, staring at the cabbie without seeing him. "Oh. That's it, then. Did he threaten them? No… Some other incentive?"

"He payed me fifty-grand per person. To an account for my children."

"Huh. Is he taking applications? I could use a retirement fund," John mused quietly.

"I wouldn't take him up on it, John. I have a feeling employees don't last very long," Sherlock replied. He passed the gun to John and seized the two bottles on the table. He held them up to the light, his eyes flicking between them. Throwing one back onto the table, he turned to the cabbie. "This one. Am I right?"

"You'll have to try it and see," the elderly man scorned.

"Sherlock-"

"Go on. I'll take the other one," he continued, his hand moving slowly over the table. "I won't cheat, I promise."

Sherlock glanced down, considering the bottle in his hand. His grip tightened around it. Before he could make an idiot out of himself, John snatched the pill from him. He tucked it into his pocket, glaring at Sherlock. "Police should be here at any moment. Do me a favour and don't do anything stupid."

"I'm a genius!"

"That's what he said," John jerked his hand towards the cabbie, "and look how it turned out for him."

"I am nothing like him."

John shook his head. "No, of course not. I'm hoping you aren't crazy enough to go on a rampage and attack innocent civilians."

"Civilians?"

"People." The blare of police sirens filled the room and John let his head fall back in relief. "Thank god."

Sherlock sighed. "Too bad. I could have gotten information from him."

"I'm sure if you ask very, very nicely, Lestrade might tell you," John said sarcastically. He listened as the sound of running feet appeared in the hallway. The cabbie hadn't even made a token effort to get away. It didn't sit well in John's stomach. The door opened and a troupe of police officers, Lestrade and Donovan in the lead, marched in.

It happened in a split second. For a moment, everything slowed down. John was hyperaware of every little movement, every sound. Glass cracked. Something small sped into the room, its trajectory clear. It missed John by millimetres. The cabbie's eyes were closed, his body slumped back in its seat. Blood trickled from the hole in his forehead, across his eyelids and nose. John swung around, tracking the bullet path back. His eyes met the other man's dead on. There was no doubt. No fear. No mercy. He dived, pulling Sherlock down as the second shot was fired. The police scrambled, shouting orders. John's breathing was rapid as he fumbled to turn Sherlock over.

"Are you all right?" he demanded. When there was no response, he shook the man by his shoulders, harder than necessary. "Are you all right?"

"I'm- I'm fine," Sherlock stammered, his eyes wide. He was staring at John, less frightened and more confused.

"Sherlock? You right?" Lestrade asked.

"I'm fine! Why is everyone so concerned about me?" Sherlock snapped, getting to his feet. "The gunman?"

"Gone. No one saw him… except for your friend there," Lestrade replied. He held out his hand, helping John up. "Nice save, there. Great reflexes. Where'd you learn that?"

"Military," John grunted.

"Did you get a good look at him?"

"Uh, blue eyes, blond. Tall. He had- scars on his face. Shrapnel scars, I think. I- I didn't get that good a look," John said distractedly. Screams were rising out of his mind, shouts and death on dark wings. Bombs were going off nearby, people yelling in pain. 'Medic! John!' Bullets racing over the land both ways, finding stone and sand and flesh. Pain blossomed in his shoulder like a deadly flower, its thorns hooking into John's skin.

"Are you all right?" Lestrade asked. He reached out to put a hand on John's shoulder. "Go- Go get some fresh air."

John nodded mutely. He walked jerkily, somewhere between a soldier's march and a coward's run. He didn't limp, though. He kept going until the noises of the police had faded, their lights a mere twinkle behind him. Control was slow coming, but he won it back, leaning against a wall for support. The screaming died down, slinking back into the darkness to wait. It nearly rose again when a hand slapped down over his mouth. Another pressed a very familiar shape into his back. "If you're wondering, this one's real," a silky voice promised. "I want you to listen, and listen good. Can you do that?"

John tried to peer at the man from the corner of his eyes, but it was too dark to make out anything unique. Slowly, he nodded.

"Good." He could hear the greasy smile in the words. "My… boss, shall we say? Has a message for Mr Holmes. Back. Off. Simple, I know. But sometimes, simple is better. Now, my boss is very aware that, if they were to give the message to Holmes, their warning would go unheeded. Instead, I'm giving it to you. You love him."

John inhaled sharply, and the gun pressed harder into the curve of his spine.

"Oh yes. I'm aware of the time you and Mr Holmes spent together before his accident. I've seen pictures of the two of you cuddling on a picnic blanket. Very romantic. But the bottom line is: I know how you feel about him, how you'd feel if he got hurt. You care about him. You care about his wellbeing. If he gets involved in my boss's dealings, his wellbeing is going to take a sharp decline. You don't want this to happen. So, I want you to keep him off my boss's trail, or else he'll end up just like that cabbie. I'm a great shot. I don't miss twice. Understand?"

John nodded, a cold fury burning in his gut. He wanted to bite him, fight him off. He wanted to kill him just for daring to threaten Sherlock.

"Excellent. I'll be in touch, Watson. Keep your head down 'til then, all right?" The presence was gone, his back suddenly cold. He turned, trying to find where the mystery voice had disappeared to, but there was nothing. He'd vanished.

John bit his lip, the fight draining slowly from his body. There was nothing he could do, not now, not here. Squaring his shoulders, finding his composure, he marched back towards the lights. Back to Sherlock.