-ooo-

The industrial thick concrete walls had a dark grey tinge to them, smeared with uneven patterns of mould and humidity spreading to the floor and ceiling. Sherlock, John and Greg descend a narrow claustrophobic corridor staircase that leads onto the main storage area. There's a railing by one side of the steps, but the narrowness of the corridor allows enough space for a person to outstretch their arms and reach either side of the walls, and it makes John wonder if it could only be there to ground the most affected by the sudden rise in the air pressure and humidity rate, to keep them from tumbling down the steps.

'This is the London that doesn't get shown to the tourists', Greg remarked, amused. 'On the other hand, they might actually enjoy it, the ones that pay to see the WWII bunkers...'

'Sherlock', John started slowly, looking all around, 'there doesn't seem to be a sign that someone has been here lately... Are you sure the bullets came from here?'

'Yes', and he reproached him with a look. John just trusted at once, he always did.

They finally reached a heavy bolted metal door at the end of the stairs. If they were expecting large key to match the lock on the vaulted door, there was none. Greg just twisted the knob and it opened. 'Some of my boys have been here already for the inventory.'

There was a small square room on the other side, filled with shelves from ceiling to floor with different sized crates. Some were already open, revealing rifles, guns, and ammunition. They looked at each other, worried. Police agents hadn't left it like that. The place had been accessed since.

'I may not be the only target of this sniper', said John out loud. Sherlock stared at him.

All of a sudden they heard a noise at the beginning of the stairs. Someone had come to the top, and hearing them, had set off. Both Sherlock and Greg lashed out running to the top, John followed them as best as he could, at a considerably lower speed.

'John, stay back!' he heard Sherlock shout. That made him just want to speed up, and he took his right hand to his pocket. The gun wasn't there. Sherlock had nicked it.

Sherlock lashed over the steps up to the entrance, coat flapping behind him, long strides of his legs that could hardly contain the restless energy within him. A fast motion at a distance alerted him that the man they were chasing was getting away through the main court yard of the abandoned factory. Greg called out 'Police!' and all of a sudden they couldn't see the intruder anymore, he must have hidden himself in that scenario.

A concrete paved patio where wild dry plants had come to nest, next to metal scrapes junk abandoned to rust. A lost gunshot was fired, halting Sherlock and Greg in their chase. The courtyard was a dangerous site, with plenty of places where a crouching man could hide with a gun and shoot back. They took cover themselves, close to one of the only erected brick walls left standing of the old factory.

'Do you see him, Sherlock?'

Sherlock shook his head, tense. 'Possibly there', he pointed at a distance corner, where one of the rubbish piles amounted higher. There and there, no. We would see his shadow, the sunlight is coming in directly from the east. And there we would have heard his steps on the gravel on arrival, which we did not.'

'You're sure about this?'

'Yes, I'm sure!' he replied impatient. Why express that doubt when in a few seconds he'd cave in and trust as always?

Finally the DI shouted out, in firm voice, across the patio: 'Police! Come out with your hands in the air!'

-ooo-

'Why would they still be here?' John wondered in a low voice as he hasted up the narrow steps. He wasn't talking to anyone in particular, they had all gone and left him behind. Useless sidekick was his new category...

Why come back and why hide in the courtyard of the factory above? It's a trap. They want to get Sherlock Holmes... He grabbed his shoulder tighter and hurried up the last steps.

That was when he heard the first gun fire playing above. John came up to the metal door separating him from the outside in furtive steps...

-ooo-

'Come on out! Police!' Greg insisted, tense, holding his gun by his side. Next to him, Sherlock was engaged in firing a few lost rounds into the distance, shots with no particular aim, perhaps to force the uncomfortable situation.

'You do know there are only a few bullets inside the gun, do you?!' Greg complained loudly as he covered his ears from the unexpected noise of the blasts. 'Do you have extra bullets?' he insisted.

'Not here', he stated, wondering how John would answer the question when he finally arrived.

Their almost casual conversation was interrupted with new gun play. Sherlock frowned. They couldn't leave their hiding place and they didn't know how many bullets the other side still held. It was a standstill, one that the detective inspector would try to resolve in his own terms. He phoned for backup in a few short, concise words over his phone. Now the situation was on a deadline.

Sherlock turned abruptly to face behind him, and Greg would immediately notice the gesture. 'What?!' he pointed his gun to the door behind them. 'What did you hear?!'

'Nothing at all.'

'Nothing?!' he couldn't understand what was the importance of nothing.

'John should be here by now...' Greg immediately lowered his gun. They would cross gazes.

At the distance there was a sharp harsh sound, as if some of the metals in the scrap pile unravelled themselves, rolling over the concrete floor. Sherlock eyes widened as a response to his understanding.

'Hurry!' Sherlock demanded, getting upright to run and cross the yard. Still crouching, Greg managed to grab him and pull him back by force. He was trying to protect the man next to him from his own insanity.

'What the hell?!'

'It's John, he went around', Sherlock explained fiercely, and he set himself free. He ran over the open courtyard with all the confidence in his partner. Greg hesitated at first, but he couldn't abandon him. He ran after Sherlock, though with a much lesser degree of confidence that the situation was safe.

As they reached the pile of scrap opposite, guns in hand, all the courtyard was eerily silent. Still, they knew, the armed man hadn't left, he was still lurking in the shadows.

They found him unconscious on the floor, a loose board by his side, and John bending over him calmly, making sure his vitals were alright. He'd look up at once. 'Yeah, he's fine... So to speak... Missed you guys, hm, must have taken a wrong turn somewhere', he pretended.

Greg was already handcuffing the man and he looked over at Sherlock, and was still able to catch the glimpse of a smile that he'd hid until John was looking back at the fallen man. Those two were equally crazy. For a long time Greg thought Sherlock was the energetic maniac instigator and John just followed him around in his quiet controlled mood. Now he was beginning to wonder if sometimes it just wasn't the exact opposite... balancing them as equals.

The first siren noises became apparent from afar, at last. John would frown. That was new. Hanging around Greg had its perks, he supposed.

'And what was the point of all this, Sherlock?' he'd still press his friend, out of habit. He eagerly waited for the answer.

'They were two of them, this one stayed behind, to grant the other time to get away with something they couldn't afford to let us catch.'

'Two?' Greg doubted. 'How do you know there were two of them?'

'Well, it's obvious, isn't it?' he asked, exasperated. 'The fresh muddy footprints of two people on that corner of the yard! And you call yourself Detective Inspector?! Besides, there was no reason for one to stay behind firing random shots on to our direction unless he had an accomplice trying to enter the bunker behind us, or trying to take something away from us without getting caught.'

'Take what?' Greg insisted.

'I don't know', he confessed, exasperated, taking his hands to his head. Then he focused his gaze on John. 'There will be a next one. I don't know who or when, but there will be another hit.'

John was looking back at him, heavily. Greg broke apart from the two of them to talk to the first officers on arrival.

'Sherlock', John would state, sternly, marking every word very clearly, 'we need to stop that from happening.'

'You won't be shot again, John', he promised, quietly restrained.

John was taken aback for a second. 'That's not what I meant. Somewhere out there, some victim is about to get shot, for god knows for what reason. You need to figure this out, so we can stop it... For all we know they might try to get you next.'

'Unlikely.'

'Why?!' John was frustrated with the mechanical emotionless answers Sherlock provided.

'Because they missed a perfectly good shot the night they shot you, John.'

John dropped his gaze, stunned, and Sherlock took the chance to step forward and exit the conversation.