I flinched. The impact of the bullet had actually taken his head off. It rolled a few inches and settled, rocking gently, a few inches from my hand. I didn't dare breathe.

She cocked her head, sensing that something wasn't right; handguns didn't do that. She took a few steps forward, picked up the head, close enough that I could count her lashes-

I grabbed her wrist, covered her mouth, and forcefully shoved her back against the wall, dropping my gun (the safety was on, don't worry) and instead twisting hers out of her hand, flicking the safety on and dropping that too. She forced her other hand up, the one holding the head. Her eyes widened.

"Yes," I muttered, patting her down for any weapons she might have been hiding, "We can discuss that later. I'm calling the police. Stay where you are, please, they should be here shortly."

The door burst open , and I got my first good look at Sebastian Moran.

He was tall, grizzled, and had flinty eyes. Hard, cold, and distant. His face was marred by a single scar stretching from his right eye all the way down to his opposite cheek. I wondered how he had gotten it.

He put down the duffel bag, the far away look in his eyes replaced by a predatory, almost clinical viciousness. "I advise you to put her down."

"That's going to be a problem," I replied, straining to try and pick up the gun while still keeping my eyes on Moran.

"You don't know whom you are dealing with," he said, stepping forward, looking as though he could calmly snap my neck with his bare hands if I was so stupid as to grant him the pleasure. "Really. Put her down."

"Do you know who lives in the flat you're attacking?"

His expression twitched momentarily. "Someone knows a bit more than they're letting on."

"Sherlock Holmes," said my phone, answering my question. Moran actually took a step back. The color drained from his face. I didn't blame him.

Because the voice issuing from the phone was the voice of the man he had apparently just killed.

His eyes flicked back to the head in a sort of horrified disbelief, perhaps suddenly realizing the suspicious lack of blood. And the fact that it was made of wax.

"And Dr. John Watson," I added quietly.

"Exactly," said Sherlock gleefully. "I knew you would see only the obvious-even you have the grand gift of being depressingly predictable. Rather convenient. You looked for just a few seconds and thought you saw the whole picture. The figure in the window could only be a fake, no one sits still for that long, right? So where else, logically speaking, where else could I be?"

Throughout the whole speech, Monika had been struggling to escape, jerking her head to the window, trying to warn him that 221B's window was empty now. Too late.

Moran whirled around as he realized the voice was coming from two places now, both my phone and directly behind him.

Sherlock was leaning facetiously against the doorframe, his phone in one hand. He hung up and placed it in his pocket, straightened, smiled. Like a snake.

"Right under your nose. Funny how that happens, isn't it?"

I discreetly tried tightening my grip on Monika's throat-I didn't want to hurt her, I just wanted her unconscious as quickly as possible-but she brought her leg up and kneed me in the groin.

She caught me by surprise, so when I stumbled backwards she had time to sweep up one of the guns, which I promptly knocked out of her hand.

And then she punched me in the face.

Which was about when I lost any iota of respect for her I might have had before.

"Oh, less wrist!" yelled Sherlock, pulling a right hook and letting Moran spin with it. Quite good, he thought. But certainly not up to par. He would have to brush up on proper boxing and not just street fighting. Boxing was more of a challenge that wildly swinging one's limbs about, and it looked a lot more impressive. "I was actually quite looking forward to a proper fight, not-"

CRASH.

"John!"

"Move," said the doctor, aiming his gun at Moran.

He did, slightly dazed. John had hit her with a chair. He had hit her over the head with a chair.

"Did you….did you just…"

"Yeah. Don't start, she was trying to kill me. And you would probably have been next."

Moran blinked. "Going to shoot me, doctor?"

John stepped closer, dwarfed by him. There was a steely look in his eye. "Nope."

He slammed the butt of the gun into his face and Sherlock leapt forward to finish him off.

They stood there for a few moments, breathing hard, waiting for the adrenaline to wind down.

"I don't actually have any bullets," explained John, tucking it into his pocket. "Well, I mean, I do, but I took them all out Didn't think I'd need them."

"That…" said Sherlock, panting, "That was…I….do I know you?"

"Has it been that long?" said John all in one breath, and then they both started laughing. It was a while before they were able to stop, which was ridiculous, since it wasn't even funny. He didn't mind, though.

"I've…missed that," Sherlock said, after he had finally regained control enough to speak.

"What?"

"Having someone intelligent around to feel smarter than."

"Thanks…I think."

"You alright? You're bleeding."

John swiped at his split lip. "It's nothing."

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist as he took out his phone to call the police.

"Wait." He let go awkwardly. "Er…sorry. But…I wanted to say something. To you. In, uh, in private."

"Me, too," he replied.

There was a short silence.

"Okay," said Sherlock. "You first."

"No, you."

"Fine…I…I'm sorry," he blurted, fumbling for the right words. "I…didn't mean to…I…" He sighed. "You probably don't even remember, but on September 21st, 2011, you posted on your blog about Sarah's sister getting sick, and I couldn't do anything, and you sounded so worried. I couldn't…I just wanted you to know that I was there and I didn't mean…to make you think…that I don't trust you. Because it was never, ever about that. And…"

"Sherlock," said the doctor, cutting him off gently. "I know. I know, okay? I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have shouted, and I shouldn't have hit you. I was mad."

"I don't want this to go away," he continued. He wasn't even thinking about the words anymore. They just came. He had never felt this vulnerable. "I can't." Sherlock took a deep breath. "I can't do this, I can't…" He made a desperate circling motion with one hand, still lost for the phrase, or perhaps just unsure if he was ready to say it. "…lose you again."

There was a very long pause before John answered.

"I tossed the Prozac," he said quietly. "And…I'm going to stop seeing the therapist."

"Why?"

"I didn't need either of them. I mean, maybe I did, for a little while, but…not now, I think."

"I'm sure you'll be very happy with Sarah," he mumbled.

"I'm only going to be ten minutes away," said John, managing to look both faintly amused and deeply touched. "It's not like I'm actually going anywhere. I'm not leaving."

He allowed himself a half smile. "Six if you run."

"That's if you run, you twit, you've got longer legs than me. I swear you've gotten taller."

"Or you've just got short."

"Can I call the police now?"

"Oh yes, go ahead. I want to give them my version of the facts."

He raised an eyebrow. "You figured the Adair thing out?"

"I think so, yes."

"And you want an audience. Why am I not surprised…"

"Shut up and call."