There were urgent footsteps, now, pounding up the stairs. The door burst open.

"METROPOLITAN POLICE!"

Lestrade's coat was billowing impressively in the breeze from the open window. He had a baton out.

Sherlock slowly tilted his head. "Nice try, but no."

I strode over to the window and shut it. His coat, along with the rest of him, deflated.

"But…" He looked at the unconscious bodies on the floor, bewildered. "But…"

More footsteps. Into the room poured a mixture of Yarders, some who I had never seen before. Donovan was there, but the other three were new; a slim Asian woman with rectangular glasses, an amiable looking black kid who couldn'thave been over twenty, and a stocky, solidly built middle-aged man with a red face and a seemingly permanent scowl.

"Are we early?" said the kid.

"No," said Lestrade in a very small voice. Donovan pushed him forward to make room for everyone else.

The room was now getting rather cramped. Sherlock looked extremely annoyed at the arrival of all these extraneous people, most likely because he no longer had room to pace.

"Detective Inspector Alison Sato," said the Asian woman professionally. "And you are?"

"Er, John Watson. I'm…a doctor," I finished lamely.

"He's with me, don't worry," said Sherlock brusquely.

Donovan rolled her eyes and gestured to the two men behind her. "DC Stanley Hopkins-"

"Just Stan, please-" interrupted the kid.

"-and Toby Gregson,"

"Inspector Gregson, if you don't mind."

Sherlock smirked at him. "I believe we've met."

"Yes," he replied, just as icily.

"What happened in here?" asked Lestrade, still somewhat in a state of shock. "Is that…is that Moran?"

"Your observational powers are frightening," said Sherlock dryly.

"But who's the woman?"

"Not important," he said dismissively. "Let's get back to the Adair case."

"How does this have anything to do with that?" said Donovan.

"It has everything to do with it. Let's begin with the facts."

"We did that already," I reminded. "I don't think anyone here needs a recap."

"Okay, fine. The window was open, am I right?"

"Y-"

"Check the bag."

Donovan kneeled next to it and unzipped it, pulling out the strangest looking gun I had ever seen in my life.

"Oh," I said.

"Yes. See? He gets it! Come on, anyone else?" No one moved. Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "It's a sniper rifle."

"Well, yes," said Sato. "I can see that."

"But's what's he done to it?" asked Gregson. "Is that a silencer on the end?"

"Yes," I said, intrigued. I held out a hand. "May I?"

She handed it over. "It looks like…" I turned it around a few times. "It looks like he's modified it so he can shoot lower caliber bullets."

"So that it would look the shots came from a handgun," said Lestrade, nodding. Wow, mouthed Stan.

"It's actually…quite brilliant," I said, amazed. It was.

Gregson scowled. Well, scowled deeper, anyway. "Why Adair?"

Sato shrugged. "Who knows?"

"We could question him later…"

"If by "question", you mean coerce," interrupted Lestrade loudly. "Then I-"

"None of this is relevant!" cut in Sherlock, frustrated. "You don't need to question him, just look at Adair!"

"What?"

"Adair. His yearbook photos."

"His what?" asked Gregson emphatically.

"Yearbook. It's an American thing," I explained. "I think it's taking off here, too. It's like a…commemorative end of the year book for schoolchildren."

"Well, what about them?" said Sato, a fraction impatient.

"He was wearing long sleeves in all the pictures."

"He's doing it again," muttered Donovan. "Freak."

"Could you please not call him that in front of me?" I asked, suddenly fed up with her attitude.

There was a short silence, during which she looked like she would like to sink through the floor and never come back up. Oddly satisfying, actually.

"Thank you," I said quietly. "Continue."

"All right," he said, watching me with something akin to fondness in his eyes. "He lived in Australia, and the photos were taken around summertime. He went to a private school where the uniforms allowed a choice between short and long sleeves, so there is no logical reason he would choose long sleeves. Inspector, you said the parents were withholding information, didn't you? I found one photo with him in short sleeves. Guess what was on his arms."

No one answered.

"Track marks," he said emphatically. "All up and down his arms. That's what they were hiding. The rest devolves into speculation. We know Adair had a gambling problem, we know he frequented the International, and we know that he was quite good. We don't know for certain that Moran did as well, but the security footage could prove useful to pin some extra charges on him, for cheating and possibly assault."

Stan had been taking all of this down in a notebook, which he folded and put in his pocket. Lestrade nodded at him. "I'll expect a case report on my desk by Monday."

"Yes, sir."

Donovan was leaned over Monika, having already handcuffed Moran. She gave a little groan of pain.

"Shut up," said Donovan casually. "You're under arrest for assault, accessory, and conspiracy to murder."

"I'll get Moran," said Gregson, hauling him up. Moran didn't look fazed in the least. Not even resigned, just…tired. He led him out. Sato took Monika.

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched; he couldn't resist one last jab. "Well, at least we've answered the age old question of what you lot would do without me. If I recall from the papers correctly, you handled the Mosely murders better than usual."

Stan frowned. "But we didn't catch the…oh. Er," he muttered, embarrassed. "I'll…I'll shut up now."

"I think that would be for the best," said Sato, but she was smiling slightly. "I'll be seeing you two, Sherlock, Dr. Watson."

"No doubt."

"Wait a minute," said Lestrade. "Hold on. You two made up?"

"Er…yeah," I said.

"Ha!" he laughed triumphantly. "I told you! I told you! All of you owe me money!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow as Sato rolled her eyes and paid up. "For what?"

"I wasn't that far off," she grumbled. "I said three weeks, but…"

"I was closer," I said, handing over five pounds. "I said two."

"You were betting on how long it would take us," said Sherlock flatly. "You…John…you too?"

"And me," admitted Gregson. "Although I said a month."

Sherlock was looking at me in utter disbelief. "I…you…I'm unfriending you on Facebook."

"I was drunk!" I exclaimed, putting my hands up defensively. "And no you're not."

"I never did," he said quietly.

Lestrade jerked his head in the direction of the door. "Let's get out of here, then, it's late."

We fell behind the rest of the group.

"And I'm not coming to your wedding, either," said Sherlock, sulking. He brightened suddenly. "Oh, wait, yes I am, I've got to give the toast!"

"Oh, please, God no…"

He held up an imaginary glass of champagne. "Did you know that his middle name is not actually Harry? On his blog, that's a typo. It's not 'H', it's 'T', as in 'Three Continents'-"

I elbowed him. "Shut up."

It was about then that I had my own little epiphany. It was that I was going to be doing this for a long, long time. Solving murders, I mean. With Sherlock. Losing sleep, chasing criminals, almost getting killed every once in a while. When you put it like that, it sounds like a bad thing, but it's not.

He elbowed me back. "Dinner?"

"Yes, please. I'm starving."

"There's a good Italian place a few blocks from here…I hear they make risotto."

"Can't be better than mine."

"We'll never know. Thank God."

It really isn't. In fact, it's the best thing in the world.

So that's that. Thank you all for your support!
The sequel now has a title: The Slender Man.

MUAHAHAHAHAHA.

Sleep tight.