A/N: Longest chapter so far! Hope it makes up for the wait :) Enjoy :)
The cab dropped the three men a few streets away from 221B and Sherlock strode quickly away from the road, silently disappearing into a dark alley. John and Lestrade jogged to keep up, their eyes straining in the pitch dark. Sherlock seemed to have radar vision, for he navigated the back streets and mews as effortlessly as he did in broad daylight. He finally halted at a high corrugated iron gate, and sprang with cat-like grace onto a dustbin and so over.
He stood and watched as John pulled himself up to the top and then helped Lestrade over as well, holding one gloved finger to his lips to indicate the necessity for their complete silence. He beckoned them over to stand in the shadows against the wall of the house, then spoke in an almost inaudible whisper.
"We are going to go up to the second floor of this house. Don't worry, Lestrade, it's empty; the last occupants moved out almost four years ago. Do you have any hand cuffs on you?"
"Never without them," Lestrade whispered back. He flashed them a glint of steel.
"And John, you have you gun?"
"Of course."
"Then we shall proceed. Follow me. Tread only where I tread."
Sherlock crept up to the mouldy back door, and unlocked it, then held it open, locking it again behind us. The house, like the street outside, was pitch dark, but evidently uninhabited. John's heavy boots creaked on the bare floorboards and Sherlock frowned, his brow thick in the dim light. He lead them slowly upstairs, pausing for a few minutes every time one of them made a noise, but finally they made it to their destination, the biggest room on the top floor, whose windows looked out onto the street below.
Sherlock motioned for John to join him at the window and whispered in his ear.
"Do you know where we are?"
John stared at the houses opposite.
"Isn't that Baker Street?"
"Exactly. We are in Camden House, which is directly opposite to our old flat."
"But why are we here, Sherlock?" Lestrade interjected, his whisper decidedly annoyed. "It's all a bit Scooby Doo for my liking."
Sherlock sighed. "Please try to keep your voice down," he admonished. "If you would care to cast your eye over the street, you will find your explanation."
Both Lestrade and John peered out of the murky window at 221B. John saw it first.
"What...?" He was staring at Sherlock Holmes's silhouette, clearly outlined in the window opposite. He touched Sherlock's arm to ensure that he was still standing next to him.
"Impressive, isn't it?" said Sherlock softly. "Within the next hour, there will be an attempt on my life, by none other than the man who killed Raj Al Dayr by shooting him through his bedroom window from a quarter of a mile away in Hyde Park with an air rifle adapted for hand gun bullets. Fortunately, due to a simple projection of my head and shoulders, I can be in two places at once."
Lestrade grinned, his teeth showing through the gloom. "And the murderer will walk right into the trap."
"Precisely. I suppose you'll need his name for the arrest; he is Colonel Sebastian Moran, the best sniper to come out of Catterick in the last fifty years. He was dishonourably discharged from the Paratroopers eight years ago, after which he became one of Moriarty's most trusted agents. He somehow found out that I survived my 'suicide' and has been trying to track me down for at least ten months. And now he thinks he's found me."
Lestrade nodded and John racked his brains for the name, but came up empty handed. What a coincidence it would be if he had served under the man who was currently plotting to kill Sherlock in completely cold blood.
Sherlock's ears suddenly pricked and his body became almost imperceptibly tense, as though he had heard something in the street. He pushed John into the darkest corner of the room and pointed Lestrade behind the door, then crouched down next to John.
All at once it became apparent that they were not alone in the empty house. Footsteps, intended to be silent, reverberated harshly as they came quickly up the stairs and into the very room where the three men crouched in the shadows. John saw that the doorway became blacker than black as a figure of a short, thin man stood there for a second and appeared to sniff the air, before making his way across the room and opening the window. His face, illuminated in the dull light cast by a street lamp further up the road was gaunt and twisted, his grey hair grizzled and his hands dirty.
John peered intently at the shadowy man, one hand clamped over his mouth to hide the sound of his breathing. The man pulled out a bulky object from inside his coat and proceeded to fiddle with it, setting it up so that it faced the window. Finally, with a long, sharp click, the man slid the barrel into place and twisted it, locking the mechanism. It was the air gun.
John watched as the man expertly loaded the gun, and lay on his stomach on the dusty floor. His eyes gleamed like stars as he stared down the sights at the shadowy target in the room opposite and he sighed gently as he cuddled the butt if the rifle into his shoulder and squeezed the trigger. There was a quiet hiss and the sudden sound of breaking glass as the bullet shattered the window across the street. The indistinct silhouette of Sherlock vanished.
The real Sherlock was instantly a blur of movement. He leapt onto Moran's back and pinned him to the floor, and in the next second, John's gun was at his temple and Lestrade's handcuffs on his wrists.
"Colonel Sebastian Moran, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder of Raj Al Dayr and for the attempted murder of Sherlock Holmes. You do not have to say anything, but it is my duty to warn you that any statement you do make may be used as evidence against you." Lestrade's voice held a smidgen of triumph.
Moran growled but held still on the floor. "You got me good and proper, Mr Holmes."
Sherlock acknowledged this with a smirk.
"How long did you know it was me that killed that bastard Al Dayr?"
"Since before you even fired the shot. I have been watching you, even as you have been following me, and although I tried to prevent you from murdering him, you would not listen."
"You were-?"
"I gave my name as Reverend Peters, yes."
"Fuck."
Lestrade, meanwhile, had been on the phone to Scotland Yard. "A couple of officers and a squad car are on their way over, Sherlock. You got anything you want to add?"
"No thanks, Inspector. If you can stand the draught from a broken window, I can give you all the remaining details of the case in a few minutes, comfortably situated with a cup of Mrs Hudson's best brew by your side."
John and Lestrade manhandled Moran down the stairs and out of the front door this time, on to Baker Street, the police car pulling up just as they reached the pavement. Two rather broad constables pushed him into the back of the car, then sat either side of him. In the light from the street, John could see his face more clearly; battle scarred and old, but with some strange kind of contentment behind the eyes. It seemed Moran was satisfied with defeat by Sherlock Holmes. The car drove off and John was left to ponder just exactly what war did to people. The answer that came from his heart was not one he liked.