Hello!

Thank you, so much, for all of you followers and favoriters and reviewers, who keep me motivated.

Thank you to the kind guest reviews - I'm very glad you are enjoying the story.

Black Night - Thank you! That is an excellent (and very encouraging) analogy. I'm slowly piecing the mysteries together. As you'll see in this chapter, Lissie's case is actually a vital piece to bringing the sniper in. Sorry that she's not a major player, in this chapter, though...she will be in the next one, however!

And to everyone - this chapter is a little...more sad, than the chapters I usually write. Still some nice Sherlolly to balance it out, but...a little sad.

Fair warning - the sniper's motivation is revealed in this chapter, and although it is not graphic, it has a lot to do with the kidnapping of children.

I do not own Sherlock, or "The Disappearance of Lady Carfax", the Doyle story that the Lissie case is based off of.

The sniper's character is loosely based off of the sniper (I forget his name...but the one at the end of season...5 or 6?) and Agent Booth in the TV show "Bones"...and I do mean loosely based. :)

The title chapter, and something I have Molly say later in the chapter, is based off of a quote I love from the movie "Howl's Moving Castle", a Disney/Studio Ghibli film that I also love - "A heart is a heavy burden." I don't own that, either. :)

Chapter Thirty, In Which a Heart is a Heavy Burden

Sherlock tossing plates across the room like Frisbees in a make-shift attempt at target practice, glowering angrily at her from the doorway.

Sherlock standing on the table, dropping glasses and teacups like so many little bombs onto the floor and watching the breakage for patterns.

Sherlock flinging microscope slides across the floor as though playing shuffleboard, attempting to hit the leg of the end table across the room.

Any of these were plausible scenarios that Molly sensibly expected to encounter when she crossed the threshold into 221B Baker Street.

So she was a little confused when she found him carefully, methodically breaking cheap ceramic dishes into boxes and rubbish bins strategically placed around his flat – which was a bit dark, since the curtains were drawn, and only a few lights were on.

He would pick up a plate from the kitchen table – obviously bought specially for the occasion – there was no way he'd have a garish, matching set of…still nearly twenty, like that – how many had he bought in the first place? - and –

Stomp stomp stomp – at the fireplace – crash – into a bin.

Back to the table – another plate – stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp – near the loo – crash – into a box.

Back to the table – another plate – stomp – crash – into the bin in the kitchen.

At least the mess was somewhat…contained.

She watched for a moment – he didn't acknowledge her presence – and after that moment had passed, she sighed, closed the door behind her, and turned on more lights so she could see more clearly.

Still no acknowledgement, from Sherlock.

"Sherlock-" she began, and he froze, and held up his index finger in the universal wait a moment gesture, with nothing but calm concentration displayed on his face, and completed another round of stomping and crashing.

After a moment, he paused mid-way to the bin at the fireplace, and performed a very strange sort of monologue.

"Molly – I am not a child. Don't look at me like that!" He said loudly, irritated – glancing somewhere off to her left, and then paused and winked at her.

He winked at her.

Her eyebrows knit together and she looked from side to side, seeing no one. "I didn't-"

" -think that I could ever be out-smarted? Well, you were wrong, Molly Hooper." His words were bitter and very convincing, however – the smirk and raised eyebrow a moment later encouraged her to play along.

"I…suppose I was," she said hesitantly.

"Yes, you were! That mysterious sniper" – all distaste and disgust in his mouth – "has slipped through my grasp, once again. I thought I could draw him out using the Singers as bait," here he paused, and she sensed just a bit of truth in his little act, and it was painful – "but he proved to be too quick and too clever for me. I am a failure. Because of me, two more people are dead."

He avoided her gaze, and she sensed again a fleeting moment of guilt, on his part, but he pressed on. "It doesn't matter that they may have deserved it. It doesn't matter, now, because tomorrow the police will have gotten a match from his fingerprint on the bullet fragments, and they'll find him then. I'm off the case. Lestrade has fired me." He laughed bitterly, and Molly's heart constricted just a bit, because…he was acting, but he was good at it.

Well, she could be good at it, too. After all…she'd put on a twenty-four hour, full-time performance for the two years he was away, hadn't she?

"Well, that was a mistake," she said, surprising herself with her own conviction. "Firing his only consulting detective from a case with the most confusing, elusive man since Moriarity?" She hesitated, and Sherlock nodded once to encourage her. She took a breath and continued. "But really, Sherlock – everyone's had off days at work, before. It's – it's no reason to go breaking - Mrs. Hudson's plates!"

Sherlock's grin told her she was doing well. She stared at the remaining plates on the table, obviously not Mrs. Hudson's, and triumphantly pressed on. "I mean, the poor woman, really, Sherlock! She's practically your housekeeper, no matter what she says – tea every morning – and biscuits – and dusting and vacuuming and laundry and – really, you know – you ought to clean this mess up and – and – apologize for keeping her up all night with your crashing and violin playing and ridiculous behavior."

She walked about the flat, flailing her arms and adding and embellishing her little tirade with details about admitting to mistakes and being a man and was doing quite well in her own little world until Sherlock suddenly grabbed her arm, eyes amused, and said quietly that she could stop anytime, thank you.

She paused, mid-sentence, and blushed sheepishly. "Er…right. Sorry. Got…a bit carried away?"

He grinned at her. "Quite all right. I think yours was the key role in convincing our eavesdropper that I really was off the case."

Molly looked around again, realization dawning on her. The drawn curtains. The carefully constructed sounds of destruction and frustration. "The sniper was listening in on us?" She whispered fearfully.

Sherlock's grin faded. "Yes. But he's gone now," he said, waving the mobile he'd had in his free hand in front of her in a vague effort to be reassuring, as though it explained everything. He then sat down in his chair, and looked between Molly and the couch, and she took the hint and took a seat.

"A…hmmm. Want to tell me what's going on, then?" She asked. While she was slightly amused at this strange turn of events, she really did need to know what was going on.

"Certainly. Just a moment," he said, and moved to the bookshelf, where he moved several pieces of clutter aside and turned something on – the beginning strands of something classical and urgent floating in the air after a moment, volume up just a bit too loudly to be considered background music, and returned to his chair. He sat on the very edge, hands moving, never quite completely still.

And so Molly crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap and waited expectantly for his explanation, watching him with patient brown eyes.

"Just to be on the safe side," he explained, gesturing to the origins of the music, and then continued his explanation in his trademark speech, punctuated by periods of precise annunciation and smug glances. "I received notification" –here he waved his phone, again – "that the listening device tuned towards 221B has left the area, via my homeless network and a clever little scanning device downloaded to their mobiles via Sarah Jane."

"A-"

"Listening device, yes," Sherlock explained impatiently. "I knew he'd been using one to locate his victims when I realized that he'd been following them from a Tube station near the bond and parole station based on the contents of four of the victims' stomachs. Easy to target kidnappers when you can easily overhear who has been convicted – or accused - of kidnapping. He's also been listening to police radios and receiving data that way. Of course, some of his victims were the result of paper trails and private sleuthing – the nurse, for instance, and the auto mechanic – outliers - but many of his kills have been opportunistic based on current police reports and radio activity. Sarah Jane managed to determine that the particular listening device he is using, based on his approximate distances from the origins of the broadcasts, is one favored by the United States Marines. Unfortunately, many of these devices can be bought relatively easily on the black market, so that was not necessarily a direct link to the sniper, but his skill in using it leads me to believe he's used it professionally, in the past. It gave us another look into our sniper's possible history."

Sherlock paused to make sure she was following – of course she was – and he continued, rubbing his hands together. "If he was a sniper in the Marines, he could have been posted at any number of specially selected places throughout the world. You know, of course, that I suspected that Ms. Carlson may have been a victim of Henry Peters and Miranda Fraser, and their last known heists were pulled in South America. He would have been aware of all of the notorious criminals in the area he was stationed in. If he suspected them – recognized that they were the con-artists-turned-kidnappers around the same time I did – he could have – and probably would have - killed them much sooner. However, it wasn't until the media got wind of the Yard's – primarily my – investigation into the Singers that they were killed – he was waiting for them right in front of the New Scotland Yard, getting his information from the media and police. So he wasn't stationed in South America, because he did not recognize the Singers."

Molly shifted in her seat, leaning forward. She always loved hearing him like this – spouting off facts about the criminals he was chasing as if he'd known them for years, as nonchalantly as if he were reciting the lines to a play or reading from a newspaper. She watched him with wide eyes and listened intently as he continued.

"There were two other high-tension zones he was likely to have been stationed at in the past few years – the Middle East and Central Africa. Based on the nature of the…forces he would have been scouting in each area, I would say it is most likely he was stationed in Central Africa. Kidnapping there is a common occurrence, with many victims being underage children. It is entirely plausible that he has been affected by the things he witnessed there, and is suffering from a sort of PTSD, and that he believes he is still fighting the kidnappers there. Motive. Now, I have narrowed down a list of trained snipers from the U.S. Marines that were stationed in Central Africa for several years, and whose whereabouts are currently unaccounted for. Fortunately – both for us and the sloppy American government – there are only three men on that list. The fingerprint results will be available to Scotland Yard tomorrow, but I already know, based on footprints found in the hotel room and my aforementioned deductions, that he is a 6'2", roughly 200 pound, graying, ex-military, ex-Marine, American Caucasian male. Foot imprint and stride spacing," he explained, dismissing the deductions quickly. He leapt up and began pacing the room, thinking aloud as he walked.

Molly blinked and pursed her lips, attempting to stay with his train of thought.

"Which means that Jacob Freeman – of African descent – is off of the list, leaving us with two suspects – Daniel Harding and Langston Mathers. My brother has informed me that we, in England, are the first to taste his particular brand of justice." He stopped and looked Molly over, obviously expecting her to contribute to the discussion.

" – in other words – um – he's - made England the - first stop in his mission to rid the world of - kidnappers?" Molly summarized as best she could.

He nodded. "Exactly. But why England? If he is an American sniper, why not root out the criminal underbelly there? He either has ties here, or is unable to return home, for some reason. We will discover that reason when we discover his identity, tomorrow."

Here he paused, eyes bright and faraway, and he frowned. "While we were in Brighton, after I confirmed the true identities of the Singers, I deduced his previous station - Central Africa - his motive, and his means of identifying his newest victims – surveillance and eavesdropping on the Yard being his preferred method. I knew that the media would be a large factor in this case, and so I publicly confronted Miranda Fraser, and informed the Yard of the Singers and their history, knowing…the media…" his voice trailed off, and he cleared his throat, and blinked.

"I warned the Yard to separate them. I…did not intend for them to die." He shifted uncomfortably. "Obviously, I knew there was a high probability that they would be targeted, and that one or both of them would die, even without my intervention - but I thought, if they were separated…"

He wanted to save one of them, Molly realized, and leaned forward, just a bit – but he shook his head and plowed on, pacing again and deadening himself to his feelings before Molly could move to take his hand in her sweet, burning sympathy.

"My plan was to draw him out. Sarah Jane accurately predicted that the sniper would target the Singers, although I'd already determined that myself, and she determined, based on my hypothesis that the sniper was using the media as a source of information, that the sniper would take his shot from a perimeter less than 2 kilometers from Scotland Yard. She was correct," he said, and again carefully studied the patterns on his carpet.

Now Molly was the one sitting on the edge of her seat on the couch. She bounced nervously, anxiety for Sherlock and for the events that had unfolded evident in the little pucker in her forehead and the way she bit the inside of her lip.

He looked up and away, and persisted in his explanation. "However, although my instructions were relayed both to Lestrade and to that other Leiutenant…Neal? Wilson?" He blinked and shook his head, dismissing the Leiutenant's name as unimportant. "We've since learned that our sniper apparently has the ability to intercept radio dispatch messages. The message was never received by the arresting officer, although the senders of the message received an affirmative from what they believed to be the arresting officer. So he ensured that they were both in the same vehicle, and he killed them both and fled the scene. However, because of his proximity to the Scotland Yard, he did not do as thorough a job of cleaning up after himself. He left his footprints, which enabled me to further deduce -"

Here Molly interrupted. "But John said that you didn't discover much about the sniper or Lissie's location."

Sherlock blinked, holding her gaze, and a smirk bloomed on his face.

And Molly sighed, placing an elbow on her knee and propping her chin with her hand, and stared at him searchingly from her place on the couch. "Is he acting too, or…did you…"

Sherlock snorted. "John's not much of an actor, Molly. You should have heard him when I…revealed that reports of my death had been exaggerated. He was shouting and giving away your part in it and after that I couldn't exactly trust him to be in character 'on the fly', could I?"

And Molly looked very pensive in return, and then took to studying the carpet herself to hide the small smile on her face. Her tone, however, was disapproving. "John thinks you have no clue who the sniper is - or where Lissie is."

"Correct," Sherlock confirmed, moving to open the curtains, his back to Molly. "As I was saying, his footprints enabled me to further deduce his description, which I explained to you earlier – which in turn enabled me to narrow the suspects down to either Harding or Mathers. Since I had already deduced that he was using listening devices to establish his next victims, it was logical to assume he was also listening in on the ongoing investigation into him. Although, it says something about his motives that he has not attempted to target any…innocents. He has not threatened any law enforcement, or myself, despite keeping apprised of the…investigation, on himself. Still, no use risking another gunshot wound. Learned my lesson with that last one. To throw him off, I simply made him believe that I was beaten. I was the only threat, as the police obviously have nothing to go on besides what I had provided. And the fingerprints from the bullet," he amended generously.

"It took some convincing, but John's believable frustration and your dedicated performance lent credence to my act of deceit." He turned around and his demure, self-satisfied smile fell a little as he noticed her expression. It was a smile – but – not. It was knowing, and hesitant, and just a bit…uneasy?

"So…you…deduced things about the sniper's identity, motive, and…means…and then – used the Singers as…bait in an attempt to catch him in the act. And it - sort of worked. You know more about the sniper, and will probably catch him soon, but the Singers are dead, and the sniper was onto you until you convinced him you'd failed. And…and you didn't mention anything about the Lissie Carlson case. You don't know where she is - do you?" She asked hopefully.

He inclined his head, and frowned. That was exactly how it had gone, but the way she phrased it…he moved to face the window again, and said quietly, "I have a few leads. My network is tracking down information from the bank withdrawal and from a postage receipt found at the Singer's flat."

And now she was beside him, standing by the window, looking with him at the busy London street. He was highly aware of her presence, although she was not touching him. She seemed to be on the verge of continuing, so he waited, peering intently at the bustle below.

"You were very convincing, Sherlock," she said softly, fiddling with a button on her jumper.

His eyes darted towards her before refocusing on the people outside. "As were you," he said lightly, as a compliment, and attempted a smile.

"No. I mean – you weren't just acting, were you? I mean – you were brilliant at deducing all that, I know, and you're…satisfied with that part, but…you're still unhappy. Not just pretend unhappy, but actually unhappy. Even – even if it's just a little bit." It was a fact, and she knew it, and he knew it, and he hated her and loved her in equal measure for pointing it out.

So he didn't contradict her, but he sighed, his expression tight. "But - why?" He asked, his voice low and tired and strained.

And Molly realized that he probably hadn't slept in at least two days, what with that taxi-cab kiss and resulting fiasco, and his apology and confession, and getting arrested and chasing down kidnappers and snipers.

She also realized that although he had done an excellent job of shielding himself from the pain of his clients for the majority of his life – his cracks were showing, so to speak. And her heart welled up with a strange sort of happy sadness because he'd begun to let people in – John, and Mary, and Maddie, and herself – and it was making him more susceptible to feeling other things as well, now.

She smiled to herself, and it was bitter sweet. "Because you care."

He snorted, but she pressed on. "You do! You care that two people are dead when – when maybe they didn't need to be, and you care that there is a possibility that more people will die and you care that there is still a missing girl out there who might stay missing because the two people who knew her whereabouts are dead." And the words were said in gentleness and truth, but they still stung, and Sherlock stiffened. She soothed the blow by tucking herself under his arm, her own arms wrapped around his torso and her forehead pressing lightly against him, just beneath his shoulder, listening to the reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. "A heart – is sometimes a heavy burden to bear, Sherlock."

He relaxed after a moment, and turned himself slightly so that he could return the embrace.

It was different. Her touch was different, this time. Less – invigorating, and more -holding him together, somehow.

And he knew, logically speaking, that none of this was actually his fault – he wasn't the one kidnapping young women, or the one shooting the kidnappers before their victims were found, after all – but he'd learned that caring, and feelings – they did not always follow logic. He shouldn't be feeling anything but grim satisfaction that his plan to lure the sniper out had played out, albeit not as smoothly as he'd hoped – human error, all around - and perhaps mild disappointment that the Singers had been killed. He could still find Felicity Carlson…there was just the slightly increased probability that he'd be finding a…body, now, instead of a person. And that disturbed him. Not nearly as much as it might disturb a normal person, but more than he had cared to admit, even to himself. Residual side effect…this, sinking feeling…or - the mirrored side of buoyancy.

Of course Molly would see through everything, and bare his soul again. It was equal parts infuriating and refreshing.

He did feel lighter, now, though. Almost as though he'd been absolved of some sort of error, on his part, and he could refocus on the cases at hand. Curious. But he'd take it.

After a moment, Molly turned her head so that her cheek rested on his chest, and spoke, her words echoing his thoughts. "But…it's a burden made lighter when you share it. I'm certainly willing to share it with you. And," she said, blushing a bit at the intimacy of what she'd just said – it was a bit more than she'd intended at the moment, to be honest, so she quickly moved past it - "just imagine how the sniper feels right now. I mean, if he's really doing this to stop kidnappers, or to get vengeance for something he's seen in the past – how must he be feeling, knowing that he killed the Yard's best shot at finding Lissie? Besides you, of course. I mean…the sniper will probably realize…that you don't…know…"

And Sherlock said nothing, and Molly assumed that she was talking too much, and let her voice trail off.

After a few short moments – mere seconds, really - he carefully extricated himself from her embrace, and stared at her, hard, his hands on her arms holding her at arms length.

She blinked, and stared back, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks. "Sorry…" she said, awkwardly. "Did…I…do something wrong?"

"No," he said slowly. "No, you didn't. In fact, repeat what you just said. About the sniper," he clarified, also embarrassed by the spontaneous intimacy of what they'd just shared. Funny, how she had a way of burying herself deeper and deeper into his newfound emotions.

She focused her gaze on something not Sherlock, and repeated her statement. "Imagine how the sniper feels, right now – if his motive is to avenge some past victims, or to finish his work in Central Africa – he must be feeling pretty…awful, knowing that he killed the only people who actually know – knew, Lissie Carlson's current location."

Sherlock's eyes were darting around, filing through some unseen data in his mind, and a knowing, victorious expression was replacing the former stony tension in his features.

"Unless he doesn't know – he doesn't know everything we know, Molly…he doesn't know everything I know. Unlike the fools at the Yard, I don't allow my inner thoughts on cases to spew forth at uninterrupted intervals. Molly - we can use this to draw him out! Even if it doesn't help Lissie, it could prevent him from killing again…" and he shook his head, a look something akin to…disappointment on his face. "Molly, you are brilliant, but if you are right – and I believe you are, as you have proven to be quite the expert in…sentiment - this will make for a very anticlimactic end to this case."

"Sherlock – don't tell me you're disappointed that he'll be-"

"No!" He protested, expression slightly offended. "The whole point of doing what I do is to tilt the game in favor of the…better team. And to engage my mind, of course. But this new development will not require me to sweep in, saving the day and dazzling everyone with my amazing intellect." He amended, giving her a cheeky waggle of the eyebrows and headed for the door, pausing to don his coat and scarf.

Molly couldn't help but laugh a little at his expression. "Are you trying to be charming?"

"No." He snorted, but looked up at her after fastening his scarf. "Am I? Charming, now?" He asked, his ego curious. He did like to the best at everything he attempted, after all.

"To any normal woman…no. Not at the moment." She said, raising her eyebrows, and then amended her statement. "A little. To me," she admitted, smiling at the floor again.

"Coming?" He asked, pleased, and she turned her smile on him, and his heart warmed, and he felt lighter, knowing that the sniper was soon to be drawn out, and his network was on the trail of Felicity Carlson. He was back on top again. Back in control.

Langston Mathers closed one eye, took careful aim, and released his ammunition.

Bulls-eye.

"Na zdrowie!" Cheers all around, as the locals at the bar took another round of shots, and patted him on the back, and he collected yet another pile of Euros and zloty.

He was making quite the fortune traveling around and using his marksmanship skills for something other than killing. Darts, in particular, he found to be quite lucrative, especially in this particular location in Poland.

"Na zdrowie," he said, lifting his glass in salute, and threw his head back as the liquor coursed down his throat in a smooth burn.

He slammed the glass down on the counter, and called for another round.

Daniel Harding sat in his latest motel room, one of the seedier places now, in East London. It had come to chain-smoking, now, and the air in his room was stale and nearly opaque with the smoke from so many packs of cigarettes.

He looked down at his hands – still shaking – and swore internally, cursing himself.

Why had he followed that detective? He hadn't actually considered killing him, had he?

He shook his head vehemently. He didn't kill law enforcement. He was on the same side – wasn't he?

Yes, he decided forcefully. Same side. Same goal – to rid the scum of society from the earth.

Although, he had to stay one step ahead of them, if he was to keep doing what he was doing.

A surge of anger and self-loathing caused him to pound the table beside him forcefully with his fist.

He had bags on his eyes, but even so, his cheeks were clean-shaven. Old habits die hard, after all. Still - he could practically feel his face drooping. He didn't want to, but he knew he needed sleep. Sleep, or he might actually shoot an innocent, next time.

So he dragged himself to the bed, and glared at it.

Squeezing his eyes shut and gritting his teeth, he lay stiffly on the bed, and succumbed to the nightmares that always plagued him, now.

Tabitha Fredy Jacobs. Thirteen, with skin the color of coffee, a passion for the color orange, and a smile wider than any he'd seen on any human being before. She wasn't the first to be kidnapped – far from it – and she wasn't the last – but she was the first child Daniel Harding knew personally.

She'd often greeted the soldiers walking home from school, her modest uniform adorned with vibrant orange accessories, and she was never shy about calling greetings and friendly, affectionate encouragements to them. She admired their backpacks and once even got a Sergeant Major to show her how it fastened around their torsos and chests.

During holidays, she would parade other neighborhood children past the military outpost, on their way to the local favorite swimming spot, scolding and shouting and singing, and the sight always lifted his spirits and the edges of his mouth.

He wasn't there when she was taken – he'd been scouting.

But when he'd come back to base, after nearly a week away, he knew immediately that something had happened.

Apparently, it was on a school trip to a nearby city. The students were meant to see the local university, and be encouraged to pursue higher education once they'd graduated from their local schools.

They were taken from the university grounds – just Tabitha, four other girls, and two boys – and loaded onto SUVs, and then disappeared.

Mothers and siblings and neighbors were mourning and angry in the streets, pleading for help, demanding justice, and though he'd seen it all before, and felt for the people, this – this was much more personal.

It felt…good, when he was ordered to take out the leader of the group blamed for her disappearance, and later, her death. It lightened a burden in his chest, somehow.

And she wasn't the last child, or even person, he avenged.

And so began his cycle of sanctioned vengeance, taking down the men (and even, occasionally, women) responsible for the ruined lives of so many innocent people.

Timeo – seven, with big, beautiful hazel eyes and a serious, quiet nature.

Kita – nineteen, with long dark hair and a talent for coaxing chickens out of their hiding places.

Matthew – fifty-four, with a voice like Morgan Freeman.

Naomi – age unknown, but appeared older than dirt, with squinty eyes and an uncanny ability to know exactly what people needed, despite the language barrier.

Until the day came when his vengeance was no longer sanctioned by the United States Government, and he was discharged, and he traveled to England, because the last woman he'd avenged before being forced to leave the country, at the risk of being found out – Hilary Detmer – had had a family there. She'd been working as a translator, and was killed after trying to prevent the women she was working with from being taken. She left behind a sister, a brother-in-law, and three nieces.

He only meant to look them up, return Hilary's necklace, and be on his way.

But the sister had died, and the brother-in-law was a broken man – apparently Hilary had made something of herself, because the surviving family's condition was not as well-off as he had expected, and the girls cried, because their aunt had been the one to encourage them to do great things. So by killing Hillary, the kidnapper had also killed the dreams and voice of encouragement for three other young women. And although he tried not to let it affect him – it did.

There were criminals everywhere – kidnappers everywhere – so why not continue his work, here?

And as he did, he became more and more proud – he was doing good work, wasn't he? Stopping the criminals, protecting the innocent, preventing the ruination of more lives.

And yet – the nightmares continued. An endless parade of victims, interconnected webs of lives affected by the loss of them, and the nagging suspicion that he was becoming the very thing he was fighting against.

Daniel Harding woke in a cold sweat, the fading laughter of Tabitha Fredy Jacobs ringing in his ears, and rolled over, burying his face into the smoke-scented pillow of his motel bed.

He breathed shakily for a few moments, and then calmed himself, and noted with pride that his hands were no longer shaking. He was fine. He was fine.

After washing his face and opening a power bar to quell his hunger, he flipped on the news. He wasn't surprised to find that it was a segment on himself.

…and is it true, Detective Inspector, that you have no leads on this mysterious mad marksman?

The man, a middle aged, graying man, straightened shirt collar and frowned at the camera. "Actually, we have several leads in this ongoing investigation."

"Some are saying that since his victims are always kidnappers, some who've even escaped conviction, this vigilante is actually a hero, securing justice for victims that fell through the cracks of the legal system. What do you have to say to that, Detective Inspector?"

Daniel smirked, feeling a slight rush of pride at the label of hero. That was what he was going for, right?

The man sighed heavily, but his voice rang clear with confidence as he looked seriously into the camera. "This man is no hero. A hero follows the law, and seeks justice and restitution fairly, without playing God. And a hero most certainly wouldn't cause the death of an innocent."

Daniel sat forward at that, frowning. He'd never taken the life of an innocent. He'd been very careful of that. He'd been…extraordinarily careful, hadn't he?

The man was continuing. "You've probably heard that he's most recently killed the Singers, otherwise known as Henry Peters and Miranda Fraser-"

"Yes! Con-artists, responsible for the theft of millions of dollars, rare artifacts, and jewels, and most recently the suspected kidnappers of socialite Felicity Carlson-"

"-yes, and up until he killed them, we had every hope of recovering Ms. Carlson alive. As it stands now, because he killed both of them before we were able to interrogate them, we may not find her in time. She is still missing, and though we have our best men and women on the case, our main key to finding her has been taken from us."

There was silence for a moment, as the interviewer took in the new information. "Are you saying that if Ms. Carlson is not found, that this sniper is responsible for her death?"

And Daniel Harding's heart dropped like stone to his gut as the detective from the Yard stared through the screen and bored a hole through his soul and answered with a resounding "Yes."

As always, please review, if you have the time. :)

Also, you may have noticed in the news, about the kidnapping of the Nigerian school girls. I had planned this part of the sniper's backstory before that happened, and decided to keep it, because horrible things like that have been going on there, and in places all over the world, for a very long time.

If you're interested in supporting women and children who have been victims of war, and/or human trafficking, I recommend looking into Rapha House or Women for Women International.

Thank you for reading!