A/N:Okay here is the next chapter. I hope you like how it turned out.
Mars 2001
He was chasing a suspect, like literally chasing him, through the streets of London, like in one of those Bond films. They were running trough back alleys, small streets. Jumped over fences, pushed people out of the way screaming; Police, out of the way!
It was beginning to get dark. The sun was going down, the sky turning scarlet. The shadows was getting longer. The alleys almost as dark as night, as the high buildings reached up against the sky. Keeping the dim sunlight out. The lamp posts in the alleys didn't make very much different, their faint light wasn't enough to light the whole street up.
The suspect was getting ahead of him, turning around a corner. Lestrade lost sight of him for a moment.
This case had been a hard one. A double homicide, a woman and her daughter. Both were strangled and then shot in the head, bulls' eyes. They had been working on it for almost a month. They had really been needing Sherlock's help on this one. But Sherlock hadn't been in London. Not for almost four weeks now. It was unusual, but then, what was usual about Sherlock?
He had told Lestrade where he was going, four weeks ago from now.
"France?"He had asked."Why?"
Sherlock hadn't really answered him. He had said something about a case. But Lestrade didn't understand what he had meant.
"A case in France? What kind of case? Who did you get it from?"He had asked Sherlock, but the boy hadn't answered.
About an hour ago, he had got a text from Sherlock.
"Back in London. Arrest the brother – SH"
Nothing more, only that.
He had looked it up, hell he trusted the boy. Even as it felt weird, Sherlock hadn't even seen any of the crime scenes. Or had he? Lestrade wasn't sure, he never was with Sherlock.
But he had been right, as always, well almost always. But the times Sherlock had been wrong about something in his deductions was so few, that Lestrade cold count them on one hand.
When he and Sergeant Hopkins had gotten to the flat where the brother lived, they first hadn't seen anything suspicious. They had knocked on the door.
"Carl Wilson! His is the police! Open up!"
Then they suddenly had heard a loud bang, from the back of the house. They had run around it, just in time to see the brother of the victim rush away down the street.
Now they were chasing him. Lestrade was fast, but the brother was faster than him. As they dashed around a corner, Lestrade heard that Hopkins was far behind him.
'Great' He thought 'I am on my own then'.
They continued to run, deep into the alleys of London.
Lestrade began to get tired, not very strange, he had been running for at least fifteen minutes now.
Carl Wilson ran around an other corner. And Lestrade speeded up in order not to lose him.
He sprinted around the corner, and stopped dead.
It was a dead end. In front of him, a wall to high to climb. No door leading into a house, nothing.
The alley was empty, only a few containers, nothing more.
He turned around, looked around, confused. Where had Wilson gone?
He then doubled over, breathing heavily.
'God...that was a pain in the ass...' he though' maybe I should start to work out?' he chuckled silently.
Lestrade started to walk back the way he came, he needed to find Hopkins.
He suddenly heard a sound behind him. He turned around. Just in time to see a fist coming towards his head. He ducked. It was the suspect, Carl Wilson.
He drew his pistol, but before he had time for anything else, Wilson kicked him hard on his shoulder and the gun set of across the alley.
He dived for it, but Wilson did the same and the both men tumbled towards the ground.
He punched Wilson in the stomach, and tried to get up again.
But then Wilson threw himself upon him, pinning him against the ground.
Wilson clawed at his throat with his hands, beginning to strangle him.
Lestrade tried to fight him. He clawed at the hands, hit Wilson over and over again. But nothing worked. Wilson only squeezed harder. Smiling, a sick smile. Almost like he was enjoying this, seeing someone dying by his hands.
Lestrade's movements was getting weaker by every second. His sight began to get darker.
He would soon pass out.
Then, suddenly Wilson let go of his neck. He stood up an slowly walked towards the gun, which was a fey yards away from them.
Lestrade rolled over to his side, he tried to stand up. But he was too weak. Ha saw Wilson walking slowly, his vision was still dark, he saw nothing else. Only Wilson and the gun.
He tried to get up again, to scream, anything. But he couldn't.
He couldn't but watch as Wilson, as slowly as before, walked up to the gun and picked it up
Wilson turned against him, the gun in his hand. Aiming at him.
Wilson smiled, his finger on the trigger. He would shoot. Lestrade knew it, he would die.
He didn't want to die, he was too young. He wanted to have children, grandchildren. He wanted to grow old...with Alice.
But instead he would die here, in a dark alley. Alone, too young...helpless.
Then he saw a movement, behind Wilson. He heard someone screaming. He didn't hear what.
He saw how Wilson turned around.
The person behind Carl Wilson punched him on the jaw. Wilson almost fell, he dropped the gun.
The person tried to get to it, but Wilson stuck him on the jaw. The person straggled backwards.
Lestrade's sight was getting lighter again. He saw who the person was, Sherlock.
He tried to get up again. He had to help Sherlock.
Everything was in slow motion. The blood was pounding in his ears.
He saw how Sherlock attacked Wilson, as the man had tried to get to the gun again. The men tumbled to the ground, a dark mass of arms and legs.
They kept fighting. Lestrade finally got up. He began to walk towards them, but it felt like he was running trough water. He couldn't get there fast enough.
Wilson gave Sherlock a hard kick on the cheek and the young boy fell backwards.
Wilson dived for the gun again. Sherlock stood up. He had blood floating from his nose, his upper lip was split in half. A gash across his eye brown. Blood running into his eyes.
Sherlock threw himself at the man, just as Wilson picked up the gun.
They fought over the gun. Wilson was winning. He was turning the gun towards Sherlock, aiming it against his chest.
Time suddenly speeded up again. Lestrade finally got to them.
He punched Wilson at the side of his head. Wilson dropped the gun. It disappeared into the darkness at one of the walls in the alley.
Lestrade dived after it, he couldn't find it.
He heard a choked sound behind him, and then a thump, as if a body dropped to the floor. He turned around.
Wilson was strangling Sherlock. He sat on Sherlock's chest, pinning him to the ground.
The Boy tried to fight him of, but him weak attempts to get the hands away didn't make any different. He clawed at the hands.
Sherlock's face was turning blue.
Then, before Lestrade had time to do anything, Wilson suddenly released him, and he stood up.
He walked over to Lestrade.
They started fighting again, over the gun now. Both of them tried to find it. Everything else was forgotten. Whoever found the gun would win, the other one would lose. Carl Wilson his freedom. Lestrade his life, his wife...everything he cared about.
It was a fight of life and death.
Lestrade hit Wilson on the cheek. The man straggled backwards. Almost fell over.
Lestrade fumbled after the gun, he couldn't see it in the dark. He couldn't find it.
Wilson got up again. He kicked Lestrade in the chest. Lestrade fell to the ground. He landed hard on his back. Gasping for air.
Wilson picked up the gun again. He turned towards Lestrede, with the same sick smile as before on his face. He raised the gun, aiming straight at Lestrade's heart.
"NO!"
Both Wilson and Lestrade flinched at the sudden scream.
Lestrade saw how Sherlock jumped at Wilson. His long black coat fluttering behind him, his arms spread out.
The sound of a gunshot echoed between the walls of the alley.
A/N: Cliffhanger...Hope you liked it. Please review so I know if you liked it or not.