-ooo-

All day long Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson trailed Scotland Yard's corridors, ignoring the strange, confused looks that police officers and secretaries shot at them. The first had wrapped himself up in his long coat and puffed the collar up as if a barrier to their annoying looks. The other man was darting polite warm smiles around that all of a sudden seemed strangely misplaced in a man with the hidden army and medical talents that the press had exploited. Sherlock was about to warn John to quit the niceness when he realized that it was actually succeeding in making people shake their heads minutely when John turned away, clearly brushing away the stories they had read in the press as twisted lies. John's niceness was the perfect wall of privacy that social conventions could master. Sherlock was sure that in a week's time John would be back in the late pints and soccer matches reunions at the bar like he always had been. Little did they know that he could actually do a crack shot with steady hands to take a justified life, or immerse those same skillful hands in a patient's blood to save a person's life. And Sherlock wouldn't be the one to tell them that.

The sun was setting when the tip came in. A man matching the mastermind's description had been spotted entering the old industrial site where the old ammunition bunker had been sealed off by the police.

'I guess he ran out of bullets', said Greg, grabbing his coat. 'Wanna come along?' Sherlock and John just smiled dangerously. No one would have held them back.

As they climbed in the police car, Greg got more personal to the two men sharing the vehicle. There was almost a father-like tinge to his voice, even if the age difference wasn't significant enough to warrant the familial sentiment. 'I know you want to catch this guy, Sherlock, because of what he did, especially what he put John through. I know you want to make him pay, and I bet you've been bulking on the scenarios in which you can make that happen in the past days.' By his side, Sherlock visibly sulked at being deduced. Greg glanced at John to find out John wasn't going to be the voice of reason either. The dark look in his eyes offered more of a backup promise to Sherlock than a desire to pursue his own revenge, and neither of those reactions were the ones Greg wanted to enhance. 'We are not letting him fall through the cracks of justice, guys. But right now you need to mind yourselves first. You can't do anything stupid so shortly after the lies that were spread in the papers. Most of all, you two want things to go back the way they were. Baker Street on occasion, a shared mystery to solve, an adventure that has you both running the streets of London while I race as well to give you guys backup. Hell, even I want that. And if you do rush decisions this evening, it's all going to go away... Sherlock, I know you think of yourself too highly to trust fully in my police force, I've come to terms with that. But you've been fighting the last few days to keep John out of trial and jail, don't let him do anything stupid now. And John, remember your oath as a doctor, you have no excuses to walk out on it.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Aren't you telling John to keep me out of trouble as well?!' he seemed insulted, Greg noticed as he tried to hide a smirk.

'It felt redundant... Guys, if for no other reason than this, do it for me. Don't get me in deep shit.'

Greg heard the deep breaths both of them let out, in defeat. They had heard him, what he had to say, and they'd comply against their instincts. 'Ta... Sherlock, the glove compartment, there is my extra gun in there. Hand it to John, will you? John, this is a gun registered to me. I'm only handing it to you because you two can't go into this defenceless. Anything you do with that gun is officially my doing. Don't get me kicked out of the force, okay?'

'Yes, Greg', he said, respectfully, as he took the gun in his hands. Skilfully, almost as in an everyday event, he opened the gun, checked the bullets and lifted it slightly to check for the balance, before pulling it back down, still secured. 'So this is what the Yard uses', he stroke up conversation.

'Not enough fire power for you?' Greg noticed.

'Too much, if you only let me bluff tonight', John maintained, with a polite smile. Greg picked up on the emotion concealed.

'I'll be darned if I ever know how you became a doctor in the first place.'

Sherlock intervened: 'Don't read too many papers, Greg. John is a doctor first and foremost.'

'How would you know?'

(He keeps all that past bottled up in terrifying nightmares, for once...) 'I've lived with the man for quite some time. He never missed a chance to try to persuade me to eat and rest properly. And he's not stopped since either.' John glanced at him, with a surprised quiet smile. That was as a quiet thankful acknowledgement as he was ever bound to get out of Sherlock, specially in the presence of another living breathing human being.

Greg pulled the car to the old building, halting the conversation. 'No signs on the suspect', he noted, coldly, as they all looked over at the ruins of old industrial civilization tributes.

They were the first to arrive to the scene. Backup would follow swiftly if proved needed. They entered the building's enthrals with careful light steps and guns withdrawn. It felt cold, damp and empty for weeks, but the first impression wasn't to be trusted. They were dealing with a very dangerous man with a twisted revengeful agenda, out to get them.

'Guys, I'll secure the smaller rooms', Greg whispered, as he diverted from the pair. Probably they didn't really hear him, too concentrated on the darkened area and the possible hideouts.

It took a few minutes before one of them noticed something was wrong.

'Greg?! Sherlock, he's gone!' John's voice was understandingly worried. Sherlock turned to face him and the empty room.

'Greg's fine. The man isn't after him.'

'Are you sure? Because you won't tell me who he is, or why he's after us.'

'I can tell you he's not after Greg', Sherlock was adamant. John rolled his eyes to his friend secrecy act, but he looked relieved all the same. Greg must have just wondered off in his investigation.

Just then a small bust distinct metal noise erupted from the back of the building. Sherlock and John didn't even look at each other, they just bolted running towards the source of the noise. John pulled out the gun, as a safety precaution.

As they reached the main room in the back, it was immersed in darkness, and the pale light of the street lamps outside was hardly enough to discern the aligned rows of machinery and chairs where workmen had produced goods back in the days the factory was running. Plenty of hiding spaces between the ruins of the rusted machinery, plus an overhead balcony at the end, presumably where the manager's office had been located. John felt the hairs in the back of his neck stand up. It was eerily quiet, like a battlefield empty village waiting to be drenched in insurgent fight. It didn't feel right, and there were too many danger spots in there.

'Careful, Sherlock, this is a trap', he warned the obvious.

'I know...' his friend answered absent-minded. 'I wonder what he wants from us, why is he playing us like this?'

'What do you mean?' John couldn't understand. 'This is how it's done. You make a trap and you gun your enemies down. Trust me, I've been in enough traps in the war to know how they work...'

'This is still for you, John', Sherlock realized.

'What?!' John was shocked and for a second his attention faltered. Luckily, the first shot missed him by an inch to his right. As an immediate reaction he rolled out of sight of the sniper and raised his pistol into the end of the machine rows. By his side, Sherlock had taken cover as well, looking all around them, desperately trying to decipher the precise location of the man, and where he was heading. Because Sherlock was sure, the man was on the move.

'I think you can shoot now, John. Greg would have shot back.'

'I know. Still, I'm trying to avoid him having to explain why he came in with two official guns.'

'He was feeling superstitious!' Sherlock found an easy excuse, as he darted a dark look to John. (What are you waiting for, John, we're in danger here!)

'Calm down, Sherlock...' John said in a very quiet voice, the breathing under control, his pupils dilated in an effort to discern movements in the darkness, but to no avail. The detective shot him a heavy look.

'I can't see him either, John.'

'Keep a look out for me, will you?' he asked quietly, then he drew the gun down and, still crouching against one of the desk machines, he closed his eyes and held his breath.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, and he quickly had to catch himself before he called John. He trusted the ex-army doctor, even if he didn't quite understand what was the point of him shutting himself down in that dangerous scenario. Then John spoke softly: 'I can hear two sets of breathing in here, besides yours, Sherlock. Both at the back of the room. One of them was the person that just shot at us. I've got him.' In a swift motion John Watson got up from the floor, arm extended in front of him, exposing himself as he fired on single precisely calculated shot into the back of the room. A strange sound of a gulp followed by a blind thud echoed in the factory as John came back down into hiding immediately. John glanced at Sherlock and realized he had to vocalise: 'I hit his safety vest, and he fell backwards. Now all hell will break loose.'

Sherlock didn't bother asking how come John and him didn't have bullet proof vests on as well. The sounds produced at the end side of the room showed hurried footsteps of the man on the run. 'Hurry, we're not letting him get away!' Sherlock shouted, as a war cry.

John was racing as well, right on his heel. They crossed the industrial room in a couple of seconds after the man had escaped it through a back door. As they reached for the door, it wouldn't open. 'He bolted it somehow from the other side, John!'

'Right', John said with a smirk, and shot a bullet to the nearest window, crashing the wide window pane. 'This way, then.'

'I knew you couldn't help yourself from firing that gun some more', Sherlock mocked, as John was pushing himself over the window to the outside. It took a couple of seconds before he heard him hit the ground on the other side and by then Sherlock already knew why, looking out the window. They were one store high up. John was already getting up safely from the asphalt bellow and Sherlock jumped next, after him. He hit the floor with ease and reflexes provided by all the adrenaline rushing through his body.

'Down there!' Sherlock located, somewhere behind John. Then it all happened too fast for Sherlock to impede it. The man was aiming his rifle at John – how come it was always John? The instrumental rock for both Sherlock and Mary alike – and John had hardly spun himself around to face the man, let alone lock an aim for the gun in his hand. Sherlock's legs were protesting as he was trying to reach John, to protect John somehow, John was all that mattered now, but he knew deep inside he was too late. Finally the gunshot blast was audible, ending the cursed game.

A/N: I'm realizing this constitutes a cliffhanger. Oh. I was never fond of those, but sometimes it's the right way to end a scene.
(Suddenly) last chapter is next. -csf