Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock
Baker Street
Sherlock was back at 221 B. Baker Street.
He had pictured this moment many times, he and John sitting in the living room, Mrs. Hudson fussing over them, Lestrade coming in to tell them that his police were ready to move.
He hadn't pictured the dusty, boxed up, unused flat. He hadn't imagined having to pick the lock because Mrs. Hudson was in Dublin on holiday. He hadn't thought he'd be going into his night's work alone because Lestrade was too much in shock to acknowledge his need for police backup. And John…
Well, Sherlock had worked alone before. He'd been alone for the past three years. He'd find a way to manage.
He stood from his place on the floor and walked outside, across the street, and into the empty building next door.
It's where he would shoot from if he were a sniper.
He had made a great deal of noise about returning to draw his shooter out. The dummy set at the window of 221 B. Baker Street would have been more effective if Mrs. Hudson had been there to reposition it every so often, but it would do. The murderer of Veronica Adair and the last member of Moriarty's crew would come to this spot.
Sherlock was alone, but he was ready.
It would all end tonight.