The night of the failed press conference, Greg Lestrade sat at his desk filling out what seemed like his 100th report of the day. If I'd known I'd have to do this much paperwork, I'd have become an accountant. A thorough search of Adair's flat had come up with nothing but the bullet that killed him. The neighbors didn't see or hear anything, the victim had been home alone, and he was a veritable saint with no enemies to speak of. Lestrade had never seen such a frustrating murder. He would gladly suffer any of Sherlock Holmes' insults if it meant that this bloody case would get solved!

The phone interrupted his mental grumbling. "Lestrade," he answered.

"Gregory, this is Mycroft Holmes."

"Mycroft! It's been too long. Again, I'm terribly sorry about Sherlock; he was a great man."

"Thank you. I understand that you are assigned to the Adair case."

"Correct."

"What if I told you I could deliver the culprit into your hands?"

Lestrade sat back in his chair, stunned. "I would say that you have my attention."

"Good," Mycroft said as he strolled into Lestrade's office, hanging up his mobile. "Come along; my associate is waiting at the crime scene."

"Now?"

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Yes, now. We've a long and dangerous night ahead of us."

When Mycroft and Lestrade arrived at Adair's building, Mycroft stopped the DI from entering. Instead, he paused just outside the entryway, explaining that his associate would meet them outside.

"And who exactly is this associate?"

"Nice to see you again, Lestrade," Sherlock said, stepping out of the shadows.

Lestrade gaped in silence. The coat was a different color, the hair was much shorter, and the clothes were from a thrift store, but it was definitely Sherlock and he was definitely alive.

Bemused, Sherlock said, "Is that your impersonation of a fish, or are you merely surprised to see me?"

The DI yelled, "You're not dead!"

"Your grasp of the obvious is astounding," Sherlock said dryly.

Why does my baby brother think that every moment is an opportunity for him to show off? Mycroft barked, "Gentlemen, we have only 14 hours to solve this crime and prevent another! Have your school reunion later!"

Lestrade looked from Mycroft to Sherlock and said, "What happens in 14 hours?"

"Adair's killer will strike again," Sherlock replied.

"Who's the target? I can send a team out to protect them."

"I have that under control," Mycroft said. "For now, take us to Adair's flat."

After the elevator ride, Lestrade and the Holmeses ducked under the crime scene tape and entered the room where Ron Adair was killed. He'd been up late working on a story about paleo diets – typical morning news show fluff – when he'd taken a bullet to the head. The bullet had come in through the window next to his desk and entered his head just behind his ear. Adair never knew what hit him.

"The neighbors don't know anything, and as far as we can tell there's no motive. Either of you have any theories?" Lestrade said.

Simultaneously, Sherlock said "four" and Mycroft said "three." Sherlock gave his brother a questioning look.

Mycroft tilted his head to the left. "The wallpaper."

"Of course. Three," he said, turning to Lestrade.

The DI was flabbergasted. Sherlock had been corrected? And he'd taken the correction graciously? That was more miraculous than Sherlock returning from the dead.

Sherlock snapped, "Lestrade, this is a crime scene, not your dentist's office! Close your mouth!"

Lestrade did as he was told. Sherlock asked the DI if he had the bullet; he did, and produced the evidence bag from his coat pocket. Holding the little bag up, the brothers studied the bullet for a moment.

"9 mm bullet, intended use in handguns," Sherlock said.

"But this one was not used in a handgun," Mycroft observed.

"Of course not! Even the Yard could see that! Right?" Sherlock glared at Lestrade, who looked at the floor and muttered under his breath.

Sherlock continued, "For God's sake! What have you people been doing without me? London's murderers must have spent the last six months rejoicing! 'Yes, don't bother cleaning up your tracks, the Yard will never catch you without Sherlock Holmes!' I thought London would be dull without Moriarty, but it seems that as long as Scotland Yard has your lot, I shall never want for work!"

"Enough, Sherlock!" Mycroft said, exasperated. "The bullet was fired from an air gun, which explains why none of the neighbors heard it."

"Wait a minute, air guns can't shoot anything larger than a .22!" Lestrade protested.

"Most air guns can't, but as a 'favor' a gunsmith designed one for Moran. And why did he want an air gun?" Sherlock said, mocking the DI. "Because it's quieter than a rifle and has a longer range than a handgun!"

Lestrade decided that from now on, he'd be a bit more careful of what he wished for. "So where was the shooter?"

Sherlock threw up his hands and sighed dramatically. "Do we have to do everything round here? Clearly, he was in the building on the other side of the park!"

Lestrade went to the window and surveyed the park. The closest building was almost 500 yards away. "That's a hell of a shot!"

"Indeed," Mycroft said. "There's only one man in Britain with that much skill."

"Yes, and he's going to get away with this if we don't prove he was in that building! Come along, before he covers his tracks!" With that, Sherlock flounced out. He'd reached the elevator and was on his way down before either Mycroft or Lestrade knew what happened.

As they rode the elevator down, Lestrade asked Mycroft, "So who's the only man in Britain who could make that shot? And why did he want to kill Adair?"

"In answer to your first question: Sebastian Moran, formerly of Her Majesty's Army and currently head of Moriarty's organisation – or rather, the remains of it. As for the second, this morning John had planned to hold a press conference to prove that Sherlock was not a fake. Adair's murder was merely a ploy to distract the media."

"Poor bastard."

Mycroft said coolly, "I can think of worse ways to die. Can't you?" The DI nodded silently.

Outside Adair's building, Mycroft said, "Gregory, I trust that you are capable of chasing after my baby brother for the remainder of the evening?"

"You're not coming with us?"

"No, I think Sherlock has this well in hand. I've another task to accomplish. I suggest you have the rest of the Yard on standby, as they shall be needed tomorrow. Moran will not go gentle into that good night." Mycroft shook Lestrade's hand and then slid into a waiting black Mercedes.

Seeing that Sherlock had already reached the other building, Lestrade bolted after him. When Lestrade caught up with Sherlock, he was talking to the security guard.

"Come on, mate, you've got to help me out," Sherlock said, affecting a Manchester accent and feigning tears.

"I told you, I don't know him," the security guard said shiftily.

"But Moran is the only one who can get me out of this mess! I know he did that for you and look at you now!"

"I haven't done anything!"

Turning steely, Sherlock said, "Not in the last six years, you haven't. But before that, you committed a bank robbery, and Moran helped you get away with it!"

Lestrade interjected, holding up his badge. "Listen, mate, we're trying to solve a murder here. We don't care what you've done. Help us out and I'll 'forget' about your crime until the statute of limitations is up."

"All right. Yes, Moran was here last night. He asked me to let him into Suite 1409, but he wouldn't tell me why."

Lestrade asked, "Mind if we go have a look?"

The guard took them up to the 14th floor and down a long hallway. As he unlocked the door, he said, "Sorry about all the dust. Housekeeping's had their budget cut, so they're not cleaning the unoccupied spaces. Let me know when you two are done and I'll lock it back up."

As the guard left, the detectives surveyed the room. Suite 1409 had been empty for months and a thick layer of dust covered every surface. Lestrade's nose started running almost immediately after he entered. The two men walked carefully through the small space, clouds of dust rising with each step they took. Choking on the dust, Lestrade said, "God! We'll need masks to search this place!"

"That's it!" Sherlock cried. "Lestrade, your mind may not be the sharpest but I have so missed the way it hones mine!"

"Huh?" Lestrade said before a sneezing fit.

Pulling his jumper up over his mouth and nose, Sherlock said, "Moran must have had a dust mask! If we can find where he disposed of it, we may be able to retrieve a DNA sample! You search the bins! I'll look here! We'll meet outside at sunrise!"

I never thought searching the rubbish would be the easier job, the DI thought as he made his way for the bins. The rubbish might have a horrific smell, but at least he could get through it without coughing and sneezing uncontrollably.

For his part, Sherlock methodically tiptoed through the office, attempting to disturb as little dust as possible. He first examined the window; it had an exceptional view of Adair's flat and there was a hole from a 9 mm slug perfectly in line with Adair's head when he was sitting at his desk. Sherlock took a closeup picture of the hole. Stepping back, he took another picture showing the hole lined up with Adair's flat. This was the location, but what ties Moran to it?

Moran had been careful and covered his footprints in the office, but he'd made the mistake of tracking some dust onto the hallway carpet, and the janitor hadn't cleaned it yet. Sherlock snapped a picture from just inside the doorway. Most likely from a man's size 13 shoe. The security guard's shoes are size 11, and judging by the dust on the ceiling fan in the hallway, the janitor can't be more than five foot six; no one that height has feet this large. Moran is a large man, so this is his footprint.

Just before dawn, Sherlock and Lestrade regrouped in the alley next to the building. Lestrade was tired, grumpy, and covered with… actually, he preferred not to think of what he was covered with.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was all too cheerful. "Good morning, my filthy Detective Inspector! What have you found?"

"Found three dust masks. You didn't say before, how tall is Moran?"

"Six foot four."

"Right, well, we can eliminate this mask," Lestrade said, tossing the smallest over his shoulder. "These two are both size XL and could be worn by a man Moran's size."

Sherlock studied the two masks closely before throwing one back into the bins. "Moran has broken his nose at least three times, and as a result, his nose is extremely lumpy and unattractive. He's proud of it, thinks it makes him look more menacing. I think it makes him look moronic, but then he is a moron and I approve of truth in advertising. The nose of this mask was contoured to the bridge of Moran's monstrous nose. And look – he sneezed in it repeatedly! Even Anderson could get a DNA sample out of this mess!"

"So what have you found?" Lestrade said as he bagged the mask.

"Hole in the window, definitely from a 9 mm round. Took pictures of it and a footprint – has to be Moran's, too large to be the janitor's or the security guard's and too recent to be anyone else," he said, holding up his small camera and displaying the pictures for Lestrade.

"Good work. I suppose you have a plan for catching this Moran bloke?"

"Yes. Mycroft's people have spent the night performing reconnaissance on Moran's hideouts. Mycroft will text me when he knows which one Moran is currently using and then you and your lot can apprehend him. In the meantime, I suggest you take this evidence to the Yard and then," Sherlock sniffed and wrinkled his nose, "have a bath."

"I suggest you have one too," Lestrade said. "All that dust in your hair makes you look like you've gone gray."

The expression on Sherlock's face caused the DI to double over with laughter.

Back at 221B, John awoke next to Mary. He couldn't believe how amazing she looked and that she was actually his. John kissed the top of her head and said, "Morning, love. Sleep well?"

"Like a baby," she yawned.

"You want to get brunch somewhere?"

"Sure," she said, smiling up at him.

John returned the smile and said, "All right, you stay there for a bit. I'll go shower."

"Mmm-hmm," she mumbled, flopping back onto the pillow. As soon as she heard the shower running, Mary climbed out of bed and found her mobile.

Went through his flat. He's not helping the Yard. Meet us at this address in 2 hours. – MM

I can't wait. – SM

A/N: If you saw this coming, I'm sorry.