Author's note: Thank you so much for the reviews. I'm glad you liked the first chapter – I wasn't sure about it.

I don't own anything, please review.

John was used to Sherlock's reactions by now, and knew that him being excited over a death didn't necessarily mean that he was happy someone had died; he simply enjoyed the puzzle, the chance to escape the stagnation that was threatening his mind every minute he didn't have anything to think about.

And yet – John couldn't help but think that Sherlock might have been a little less excited about Moran resurfacing and killing someone.

It was a normal day at 221 B – that was, John had opened the fridge in the morning and found four hands and a liver in plastic bags, and realized there was no milk – and Sherlock hadn't been home for quite some time; in fact, he had already been gone when John woke up. To be honest, he had woken up rather late – Sherlock apparently influenced his habits more than he'd foreseen – and the consulting detective was a free man; he could do what he wanted, when he wanted, without having to tell his flatmate anything. And, frankly, the thought that he should feel indebted to John, simply because the doctor had worked for his worst enemy and chosen his side was preposterous.

Still, John worried. Ever since he'd been allowed to leave the flat, Sherlock had barely stepped out of the flat without him. And now, suddenly, he was gone, without a note or a text.

Naturally, Sherlock happily bounced up the stairs an hour later, after John's third cup of tea. "John!"

He knew the consulting detective well enough by now to realize something big must have happened; Sherlock's eyes sparkled even more than usual, and he almost looked flushed.

"Yes?" he asked, trying not to let show that he was a little angry that Sherlock had left him in the dark and gone off to do God knew what.

Sherlock strolled into the kitchen, without taking off his coat or scarf. "Ronald Adair has been murdered!"

John swallowed, not really knowing what to think. "And this is apparently good because..."

"Think, John, think! He was a partner of Moran's – that is to say, he was working as a croupier in a casino and Moran used him to win most of the poker games, thereby financing his life style – I doubt Moriarty paid him a lot, and he wouldn't have cared, he was, after all, besotted with him, and after Moriarty died, Adair would have been his only source of "legal" money – while always taking care to lose small sums now and then, so it wouldn't look suspicious. Somewhere down the line, Adair must have realized that he was helping and taking money from a dangerous criminal, and he refused to keep working with Moran... So he killed him."

John nodded, although Sherlock couldn't see him. So a dead man with a conscience was good news. Then again, anything that brought them closer to Moran...

"And you can prove that he killed him?" he asked while walking into the kitchen. Sherlock was checking on his latest experiment – not involving hands or the liver, but a piece of a human kidney – and turned around.

"I know Moran killed him – no other possible explanation. Of course I will need evidence to prove it – we are going to the crime scene".

Naturally he had assumed that John would follow him, and he did. He had lost his job at St Bart's after he got shot and, because of obvious reasons, unable to make it to his next shift – it had only been locum work anyway, and he hadn't cared much for it. And Sherlock seemed to need his assistance, though John couldn't say why.

So he followed him into the cab and to the crime scene. They were both silent, Sherlock going over the facts in his head and John wondering if he could have prevented this from happening. He had shot Moriarty, and he couldn't really be held responsible for Moran escaping, as he had then been bleeding to death. But if Sherlock hadn't stayed with him, if Sherlock had chased Sebastian – he could have caught him. And Ronald Adair wouldn't be lying dead in his flat.

He had come so far in his thoughts when Sherlock turned his head around to look at him. He sighed. "John, while I am sure that your conscience, if it were known, would bring you nothing but sympathy, your logic is flawed. It is not your fault that Ronald Adair is dead".

"How did you – never mind". But John smiled as he said it, and Sherlock smirked.

They didn't talk again until they arrived at the apartment block Aldair had lived in. Sherlock jumped out the cab and rushed into the building while John – as usual – was left to pay. It wasn't like he didn't have enough money. Once, when he'd still been in hospital, he'd asked Mycroft to make sure that the money Moriarty had paid him was given to charity, and as far as he could tell, it had been; yet when he had checked his bank statements after he'd been released, he'd found a very generous sum on his accounts, no doubt courtesy of the older Holmes for almost giving his life for his brother. At least Mycroft was on the good side of the law – most of the time – and John had no scruples to use money that he had been given because of his connection to Sherlock.

He walked into the building and asked a PC where they were. "Third floor, apartment 307" he answered and John thanked him, taking the elevator.

Greg was waiting for him when he stepped out. "John. About time you showed up – Sherlock has already insulted Anderson twice."

The doctor couldn't help but smile. "And Donavan?"

Greg sighed. "Apparently she didn't even go home this morning to change. She should know better, by now".

They made their way into the flat, Sherlock standing over the body of a young man in his early thirties. He looked up when they entered.

"John?"

The doctor kneeled down. Adair had been killed by one shot that had entered his temple and gone through his head. It had been a good shot; John didn't doubt for a moment (if he could have doubted Sherlock's deduction to begin with) that it had been Moran.

"Definitely a sniper" he said. "I'd say dead for about fourteen hours..." "He was found two hours ago, and his mother heard from him the last time yesterday at about nine pm, so that sounds about right" Greg answered.

Sherlock nodded before announcing "I saved the bullet from Anderson" and waving the evidence bag in front of John's face. The doctor took a look at the bullet and frowned confused.

"That's not a bullet for a sniper riffle... That's what you would use in a small pistol".

"It confuses us, too" Greg admitted. "At first, I didn't think it could have been a sniper, but the door was locked from the inside and no one could climb up to the window. When I called Sherlock, he immediately insisted that the murderer must be someone called "Moran". Ex-soldier apparently." He turned to John. "Do you know him?"

John swallowed. He couldn't tell Greg that he'd met Moran while working for Jim Moriarty, but, if they caught him, and he let slip that he knew John –

"I met him once" he finally managed to stammer. "A... soldier's reunion. We talked only briefly, though. He wasn't in my regiment... I can't even tell you where he was stationed..."

"I think it's enough to know that he is currently the most dangerous man in London, Lestrade" Sherlock interrupted him, and the doctor shot him a grateful look.

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Are you finally warming up to your brother?"

"The most dangerous criminal" Sherlock corrected immediately, and Greg looked at John, shaking his head, but with a fond smile on his lips.

The consulting detective walked over to the window and looked out. "He has to have shot him from somewhere" he murmured. "Of course! John, Lestrade!" He was pointing at a faraway, higher apartment block slightly to the right.

"Sherlock..." John said "That is a very long distance. I'm sure a sniper could pull it off, but still – that's incredibly accurate, especially with this ammunition..." His friend turned around and John realized. "Of course – he must have built or have constructed his own gun."

Sherlock nodded. "Lestrade, we will check out the building. He most likely shot from the roof".

Greg looked as if he wanted to protest – or at least insist that they should take a policeman with them – but only for a moment. Then he shrugged and told John, "Just take care". It was clear what he meant; look after Sherlock as well as himself, and John smiled.

They left the flat and made their way to the building.

"Really, one could think I didn't know how to take care of myself" Sherlock mumbled.

"You don't. I have to force you to eat and sleep, remember? Greg is just worried because – "

"Who is Greg?"

John stared at Sherlock. "Lestrade? Silver hair, the only DI you get along with –"

"I know who Lestrade is, I just didn't know – "

"That he had a first name?"

Sherlock huffed and John smirked.

When they were standing in front of the apartment block, John opened his mouth to ask how Sherlock wanted to get in, when the consulting detective pressed several bells.

When a woman's voice came through the speaker, he told her that he had to deliver a package in the floor above her, and could she please let him in?

The buzzer sounded, and they entered the building.

"Some people trust too easily" John commented.

"Yes, but it makes it easier" Sherlock replied.

They took the stairs to avoid being seen – they were about to go on a rooftop they had no business to be, after all – and John realized that Sherlock was slowing down, mindful of his injury. He could by now take the stairs without much problems, but several flights of them were still a little bit difficult, and John was touched. Just when he thought he'd finally figured Sherlock out, the consulting detective surprised him again.

Sherlock picked the lock of the door leading to the roof and they took a look around. John was studying the small wall that was apparently supposed to keep people from falling down (although only a metre high) when he saw three circular spots on its surface and called out to Sherlock. "I found the place his riffle stood".

Sherlock was by his side in a moment, looking first at the spot, then over to Ronald Adair's flat. "Good shot".

"Snipers tend to be good at that, yeah".

"He hasn't given us much to work with, though" Sherlock sighed. "We'll have to catch him first".

John nodded and turned around, looking for clues that they might have missed, although it was unlikely.

And then he saw it.

In the middle of the rooftop there was a large lightning conductor. And someone had taped a piece of paper on its base.

John walked over and read it.

"Sherlock".

The consulting detective, who had been busy mumbling to himself about what sort of gun Moran could have constructed for himself, turned around when he heard the urgency in John's voice. He took a few steps towards him and came to stand beside John. He read the note and swallowed. The intention was clear.

Hello John,
IOU.
S

Moran might have shot Aldair because the croupier hadn't wanted to do his bidding anymore...

But his real target was John Watson.

Author's note: Finally I managed to update Ronald Adair... It took me embarrassingly long to realize I could just make him a croupier.

Strange voice: Hello.

Me: Who are you?

Strange Voice: Your mind is on holiday.

Me: I've noticed.

Strange voice: I'm the replacement. I'm your inner fangirl.

Me: I'm sorry what –

Inner fangirl: Omg Sherlock and John and slashy subtext and wonderful cases and annoying know-it-all brothers and squeeeeeeeeeee did you see Lestrade and...

Me: This is not going to be easy.

I hope you liked it, please review.