-ooo-

'And John? Is John with you?' It wasn't the first time Mary pronounced those exact words to Sherlock, and yet how far ago it had been. Just before he had found out her secret, the one she had fought with all her might to keep from John, she believed he could never accept it. But John had, in the end. Accepted she had a violent past, one she had consciously chosen to leave behind her. Most people wouldn't have found the strength to do that, but she had, and John had found in him the admiration for her decision, fuelling his respect for her despite the deceptiveness.

'He's just back at Baker Street. He needs some rest', Sherlock answered truthfully. Mary looked behind him, to the window of that darkened empty flat, just across the street from Sherlock's place. He'd be the first to talk again: 'I calculated you'd come here, to see the place where the bullet was fired from. I gave you enough time to come here and back before John noticed it.'

She faked a brief smile. 'You pack terribly, Sherlock. I went home first, to make a real overnight bag. John is insisting to stick around. I'll let him do that for now.' But it weren't just clothes she had fetched, and he probably knew it. It was something entirely different, something Molly could not know about.

'You know he'd be worried that you'd go alone, Mary.'

'That's why you won't tell him where I went, Sherlock, you don't want to see him worrying like that.'

'You're calculating and cold, Mary Morstan Watson.'

'So are you, Sherlock Holmes. That's how we get along so well. We understand each other. You knew I'd go home and the danger in that was frankly minimal. You also knew I'd come here to check the shot on my own. You didn't come here to get me. You came here to hear me analyse the shot. You don't want to ask John to come here and do it himself, out of commiseration. He knows how to fire a few rounds as well. But I can do that analysis for you. I can stand here and observe John as he walks around 221B. I can take my gun...' and she did, raising it up at arm's length, locking the aim on John Watson, and calculating the trajectory to the apartment across and its occupant. 'I can tell you if it really was a crack shot.'

Sherlock turned away, disengaged. 'Now it's too late. John's there.' He faced her again. 'I'd like to have seen you try the shot. Was this your kind of a shot, Mary?'

She lowered the gun she had been pointing at her husband across the street. With a shoulder shrug she noticed: 'It's an easy enough shot with a rifle, Sherlock. The glass would cause some distortion, but not enough to significantly alter the bullet's direction after it... Does it bother you that I could take such a shot with a rifle, Sherlock?'

He hinted a smile, but she'd misunderstand it. She thought it was a compliment. But actually he had remembered another shot. A more difficult one. John had done that shot with a pistol, over two window panes, from across a similar distance, to protect him, Sherlock, they had just recently met. Mary had no real notion of John's capabilities under pressure because he wasn't the boasting type. That remained a secret only between the two of them.

Sherlock turned around to return, but he'd halt for one last question: 'Who'd you shot next, Mary?'

She pondered the question with no surprise. 'You, Sherlock. You're next.'

'Me', he repeated.

'The shooter was testing the method, Sherlock. Not the window and the view. He was testing the recipe for the bullet's coating. You know that. You don't need to hear me say it. You're the great Sherlock Holmes, you've figured that out a long time ago. Even John as probably figured it out even if he won't tell you. That's why he's not leaving you, that's why he insists in staying at Baker Street.'

They both looked over at the window. The empty flat in which they stood was dark and that's why they could easily see the lit interiors of Baker Street while John paced around worryingly, but he couldn't see them back.

'But you see now I know how he cooks up the bullet's casing, Mary. Now it can be fought from the start by a doctor.'

'If they also aim at your shoulder, Sherlock, and why would they do that when they could easily aim at your heart and let the poison be the security clause on your death?... Sherlock, whoever he is, he's pissed off with you. He's targeting you slowly, deliberately, making you suffer before the kill shot.'

He smiled coldly. 'That's his mistake. You should never mix revenge with emotion.'

She halted him before he'd leave the flat. 'Whatever you done to generate this anger, it was big. This is not a random hit, and this is not a bounty hunter. This is a signature move. The person after you, Sherlock, is doing this himself. He's always controlling the whole operation.'

Sherlock nodded slowly. 'I'll leave first, you leave in ten minutes time, so John doesn't suspect.'