Chapter Five: Deductions

Rain fell down like tear drops, dampening the already moist Earth. The rain hadn't been forgiving as it cast down over the weeks, causing people to hide within their homes. One person stood at the foot of the small grave, his tears mingling with the rain. His mouth was pressed into a thin line as he stared at the bouquet littered grave, his hands in fists. He said nothing, only staring quietly through the rain, trapped within memories.

Sherlock paced the flat with an angry air, his strides quick and long. He remained silent, though his mouth moved in silent, unsaid words. His husband watched him with wary eyes that were heavy with deep bruises. "Sherlock," he breathed.

The man didn't respond.

"Sherlock," He repeated, louder.

"What?" The detective snapped.

"Calm down."

The other man spun, his eyes wide and sparked with flame. "Calm down?" He echoed, though his words were clipped and his tone horribly cruel. "If you haven't noticed, John, our son is gone. Poof! Seemingly into thin air." His hands moved in wild gesturesd as he spoke, his body giving angry jerks. "No evidence other than the mysterious shattered plate and the open window…" He stopped mid-sentence and let out a long, oh. "Oh, John. John, thank you," he blurted, turning yet again.

He ran over, grabbing the hand the very puzzled doctor, and dragging him out of the chair. "Come on, John!" He shouted as they barrelled out the door.

"Wha-Sherlock! Sherlock what, what are we doing? Sherlock!" John stammered as he tripped over his feet, trying to keep up with the other man's long strides.

The detective didn't stop, continuing to run outside, and then around the building. It wasn't until they were bellow the window that they stopped and he bent, scanning the area and ground.

"The intruder came in through the window, using the fire escape," he began to deduct from his place on the ground, seeming looking for clues. John's mouth opened to reply, but only to be cut off. "And the fire escape has been broken and unusable for years. So he must've been tall, and physically trained."

Turning, he raced towards the fire escape, the latter cracked half way up, and groaning loudly, heavily painted with rust. John shouted at him not to, and that it was to dangerous and unstable, but he was ignored and Sherlock leapt, grabbing on to the last rung.

"He-ugh-climbed up and wandered up here," Sherlock grunted as he struggled to pull himself up. From there, he climbed towards the window. "And pushed open the window. So there has to be…" He stopped.

On the ground, John frowned, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked upwards. "Sherlock? Sherlock, did you find something?"

He was answered by a small red coat being thrown at him. The doctor picked it up, his frown deepening. "This is Hamish's coat. Must've dropped it when he was taken."

"Was he wearing a coat that morning, John?"

"Well, no, but…why leave a coat for us to find?"

"Do you really not understand? You were right. It's him."

"You mean…"

"Little Red Riding Hood. Who else?"

John's eyes went shockingly wide, his jaw and throat tightening. He took a shaky breath, the jacket knotting in his fists. "Dammit."

The man continued to stand there, not seeming to notice the rain soaking through his coat. His eyes remained on the grave, a tremble taking over his clenched fists. He didn't turn or acknowledge when a gentle hand was placed on his shoulder. The newcomer's hand tightened in a gentle squeeze, though he said nothing. Nothing needed to be said; the words of sorrow, of regret, had already been long been exchanged, leaving an empty hole within them. The rain continued to poor down, unstopping, unwavering. As though the skies themselves were overcome with grief.

"What now?" John asked quietly once they were both back in the flat, sitting down.

Sherlock held a cup of tea in one hand, though it was cold and untouched. "I should have killed him," he said as an answer.

"Jim? We all thought he was dead. You couldn't have known."

"No, not Jim," He replied calmly, setting his tea down. The curly head turned to stretch along the couch with his hands steepled together. His thinking pose, John knew. He sat back in his chair quietly, waiting for his husband to go on.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," Sherlock drawled, his tone deep and resonating. "Much like you, he was deployed in Afghanistan. Brilliant sniper. Many of those who know him say he's the best there is." He paused, his eyes moving as though seeing something John couldn't. "Which is why, I suppose, Jim employed him. Very helpful for him, an assassin. Or hit man. Whatever you wish to call what Moran does." Another pause. "Do you recall when I jumped?"

"Can we not talk about that? I still hate heights."

"I told you upon my return there was a sniper trained on you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade."

"That was him."

"I also told you I had been taking down Jim's web. He was the last on my list."

"So you didn't off him."

"I couldn't. There was a child with him. Barely a few months old. How could I take his life? Take that child's Father from them, and right before their eyes?" He shook his head. "And the child..they seemed to know. He never cried the whole time I pressed that gun to Moran's skull. Just…looked at me. As though they knew what was going on. I couldn't pull the damn trigger."

John sat up slightly. "I was wrong, then."

Sherlock turned, frowning. "About what?"

"To think you never had a heart."

That struck Sherlock into silence, and he turned away again, his eyes trained on the roof. With a sigh, John got up and went to the kitchen. He wasn't in there long before Sherlock was shouting loudly for him.

"What?" John demanded, running out, a half made tea in his hands.

"Get the door."

"It didn't even bloody ring! God, you scared me, Sherlock."

"It didn't need to. The door, John."

Grumbling, John descended the stairs and returned a few minutes later, throwing a sealed package at Sherlock. That earned him a weak glare, but the other man was too busy inspecting and opening the package to put very much effort into it.

John had returned to the kitchen, and was called on again. Though this time, Sherlock's voice was quiet and tight. The doctor returned, jaw clenched as he struggled not lose his temper. "What now?"

Sherlock lifted Hamish's shirt, the dinosaur one he had been wearing, the one sleeve torn and stained with a large amount of blood.

Night fell and the two men turned away, though the other man's hand never left his shoulder. As they left, darkness took over the skies, the stars coming out, protectively watching out over the small grave.

A/N: Yay! Finished in time! Been working on this one for a while. So glad I got to finish. Hope you like this one. Not much happening, but ah well. Should up load soon. Have a great rest of the week!